#burn half of hollywood down at least

[asherlockstudy]

WOAH Thanks for the explanation!! I knew some of the stuff about P Diddy (fuck P Diddy). I didn't know so many people were involved, though. Damn.

I had heard the rumors about Justin Bieber and I am fully of the mind that all that shit rumored to be happening behind the scenes is legit, especially with minors. I mean, look at how the nickelodeon shit got covered up for so long. And say what you want about Taylor Swift, but even she has alluded to some shady stuff happening to her when she was young.

Beyonce losing that many followers though?!?! Dude, that's crazy.

~Say goodbye to Hollywood~

It's not like I feel disillusioned but the level of unapologeticness, the sense of being above justice and persecution these "celebrities my ass" (and his politician friends) have... it's terrifying. (BTW the mayor of New York City had once given P Diddy the citizen award or something... coincidence? I think not.)

This could totally just be conspiracy theory at its finest but people are talking about how it is also no coincidence that every female artist that gets big awards instead of Beyonce - at least some years ago - then makes some mention or praise to Beyonce in her acceptance speech. Adele broke her Grammy award to give half to Beyonce and Taylor Swift's first VMA acceptance speech was interrupted by Kanye West who got up to the stage and screamed Beyonce should have won because she made one of the best videos "of all time". Wild. By the way people now are saying Kanye West was trying to protect Swift from Beyonce's fury by embarrassing her, however this seems a tad too much to me. I believe it was more like West was at the side of the P Diddy camp at the time and just embarrassed Swift on Beyonce's account and he has switched sides / has regretted it since then. But the way you can tell the whole thing is shady is from Beyonce's reaction. Instead of looking uncomfortable or diplomatic due to how poorly chosen the moment of West's praise was, she lowkey celebrated him for interrupting and ruining her colleague's acceptance speech. She's like "ah my gahd" *looks at everyone around*. I don't care for any of those artists but I feel so much for Taylor here that was GROSS

[dazed-and-confused23]

Dear Hearts and Gentle People 16

Summary: While out exploring and scavenging the wasteland, you come across an old world object in remarkable condition. You go to Cooper and find out exactly what it really is.

Pairings: The Ghoul | Cooper Howard x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut. Sex toys. Vibrator. Rope play. Edging. Cooper is a menace. Body worship.

Masterlist

You frown down at the pale pink object that you'd found in a drawer beside the bed. You and Cooper were inside an old apartment building in the "rich side of town" as Cooper had put it when they two of you had arrived in Hollywood. The building was sturdy despite the time and the damage done from the atomic bombs, and you had made the decision to bunk down inside for the evening since it was relatively safe.

The object gets shoved in your back pocket, and you go about raiding the rest of the bedroom before going to find your ghoul. He is kicked back on the couch in the living room, feet propped up on the table and watching a static laced cartoon. You tip toe forward, but the ghoul hears something crunch under your feet and turns around to smirk at you, his ruined brow twitching up.

"Gotta do better than that to try and get me, Baby."

You scrunch your nose at him, then round the couch to stand by his legs. Cooper drops them to the ground, and you step between them, a grin on your face as you move to straddle his lap. His hands land on your waist, pull you forward, and your knees his the back of the couch. The seat of your pants is flush with his own, and you can already feel his cock hardening under you.

Cooper grins, "Comfy Sugar?"

He rocks under you, and you nod as you bite your lip to keep the sigh of pleasure from falling. The ghoul smooths his hands up your sides, roughly digging his fingers in, before slipping to your back to grab your ass, only to come in contact with the object you'd shoved in your back pocket earlier. Coop's brow furrows and he grabs it.

"I wanted to ask you about that," you begin and look at the faded pink object, brows furrowed when you notice the excited gleam lingering in Cooper’s golden gaze, "What is it?"

The ghoul recognizes the toy immediately, shaped vaugly like a microphone with three buttons on the side and covered in a soft silicone. The company who made the vibratior assured their buyers that the product was "guaranteed to last forever." Cooper wanted to find out if that was true or not.

"This," He says with a mischievous grin, "Is a sex toy."

Your eyes go wide, and you reach for it, turning it this way and that as you examine the object. You find one of the buttons and press down, jumping when the toy comes to life and vibrates violently in your palm.

Cooper feels his cock swell, and he takes it away from you, eyes half-lidded as plans swirl into reality, "Get undressed, Sugar. I'll show you what it can do."

~~~

A ragged moan rips from your throat, and you thrash in your bindings. Cooper has strung you up on the bed. Wrists lashed together and tied at the headboard while your ankles remain free, for now at least. Your stomach clenches again when Cooper presses the head of the vibrator against your clit, and curses tumble into the air. The rope burns against your flesh, but the minor pain just turns you on even more.

It feels like it's been hours since Cooper ordered you to undress and then tied you to the bed. The ghoul sits between your legs, one hand keeping the toy pressed to your swollen clit, his other hand plays with your soaked folds, gently swiping them back and forth. His middle finger ghosts over your fluttering hole, and you grit your teeth, hips jerking.

"Ah, uh," Cooper admonished, "You don't get to come until I say you do, Sugar."

He leans down to press sweet kisses to your inner thighs, smirking at the way they tremble and twitch. Your body is like a live wire, sensitive to every touch and press of his lips. Up he goes, worshipping you to his hearts content, and his fingers flex against your cunt. You groan when one finally slides inside of you, the stretch making you see stars.

You can feel the crest coming, heat pooling down, and you're so close until you suddenly aren't. Cooper stalls his gentle thrusts of his hand and takes away the toy, and you glare at him through your sweaty bangs. He grins meanly right back, and you drop your head back down to the pillow with a sigh.

"Are you not havin' fun, Sweetheart?" Cooper coos below you and leans down to presses against your hip, peaking up at you with mischievous golden eyes, "Can't take it anymore?"

He loves having you like this, all strung up and open just for him. Your thighs shake against his face, and he nips your sensitive flesh. You look beautiful, skin flushed, and covered in a fine layer of sweat from the pleasurable torture that he's put you through. Your cunt flutters and twitches, and Cooper can't help but lean down and kiss your lower lips.

You moan when his tongue sweeps across your folds, gathering slick and slurping it down with a sigh of content. He stays there, drinking straight from the source like a man who'd wandered the desert for days. You jerk against your bonds, and the rope burns, leaving behind red marks that Cooper would sooth later on.

"Cooper," you grunt and flex your stomach, looking for that crest again and finding far away. You want to come so badly it hurts, "Cooper, please finish me."

The ghoul ignores you for a moment, content with his fun, before he stops with a soft sigh and raises up, his face coated with your slick. You watch him lick his lips and grin down at you.

"Beg a lil sweeter, honey," He drawls, "I know you can do it."

You blush and roll your eyes at his demands, but you know an order when you hear one.

"Will you please let me come, Cooper? It hurts," you plead and send him your best pitiful, woe is me look, "You're the only one who makes me feel this way."

Cooper hums lowly, appeased with your begging, "Mhm. That's a good girl."

A shout rips through your throat when he presses the vibrator back to your clit, and the powerful sensation explodes through your body. Your legs jerk, and you bite you lip hard enough to draw blood. His fingers pump again, and you bare your teeth in a silent snarl when his longest finger brushes up against that spongy spot hidden inside your cunt.

"There it is," Cooper rumbles, and focus on that spot, the tips of his fingers massaging harshly, and you throw back your head, hips jerking as the crest gets closer and closer. However, there is another feeling gathering in your lower stomach, a pressure near your bladder that makes panic zing through you.

"Relax, baby. Let it happen," Cooper orders, and you struggle to do so, that pressure building with pleasure until you break. Tears stream down your face when your pussy clenches tight around his fingers, gushing around him and soaking the bed below you.

Your body feels rung out and exhausted when you come back to yourself. Cooper has already stowed away the toy and untied your wrists. He kisses the burns left behind and slips onto the bed with you, tugging you close and curling an arm around your waist. You snuggle into his side, eyes slipping closed before a thought comes to mind.

"...we're keeping that thing, right?"

[chalkrevelations]

Further to this :

I’m posting one more time on this, and then I’m hoping I’m done. But I continue to see bad-faith takes on the settlement statements that were released this week, and I’m so done with the double standard from so many people in Kinnporsche fandom who have spent the past three+ months engaged in hypocritical bullying and victim-blaming and/or remaining damningly silent in the face of actual, public and visible abuse of Build Jakapan.

This wasn’t even a he-said, she-said situation. This was a months-long campaign of cyber-bullying, harassment and abuse – verbal, emotional and psychological – that Poi carried out against Build online, in the open, with no attempts to hide it. We saw her abuse him, repeatedly. We saw her be homophobic toward him, and not only did everyone who was ready to rush into battle against Build for supposedly being homophobic while making money off the queer community now stay silent about it, Poi got almost 10K retweets of it, so all those people who’ve wanted to cancel Build since last summer? We can see how much their allyship is actually worth. We saw the release of the VP novel with his bruised, bloody and battered face on the cover like some kind of disgusting revenge fantasy splayed out in public. We saw her release messages about sexual matters that were insinuated to be his private messages – which, like everything she’s ever posted, have not been verified as real and correct, in the setting of her admission of lying and faking and making false accusations with other material she released. But if they were real, the release of those messages would be on the same spectrum as revenge porn. We watched her commit outright theft of his belongings, and we watched her lie about his words and actions in an attempt to drive a wedge between him and his fans, we watched her punch down at those fans by invading their privacy as surely as she invaded his, we watched her make it all as filthy and gross and mercenary as she could in order to besmirch it as much as she could, watched her laugh about how much fans cared about him like he doesn’t deserve any kind of care or concern, like he’s a dog she can kick around without repercussion.

And antis joined in that abuse, plenty of people in the fandom were complicit in it – lies were collected and reblogged and spread around as supposed receipts of what a terrible person he was, by people who repeatedly represented themselves as “neutral,” without the least bit of concern for the provenance of those rumors, which were already in unbelievable supervillain territory and sure enough, turned out to be actual legal slander. People posted things like “burn in hell,” or made and spread vile memes when he left BOC like the whole thing was something funny, to laugh about, rather than a serious issue like accusations of intimate partner violence. He was called trash, garbage, an incel – at the same time people were vilifying him for supposedly cheating on Poi, so which is it? Is he an incel or was he fucking half of Bangkok? In one of the most breathtaking instances of victim-blaming I’ve seen in a long time, people amplified and spread the lie that he slept with Poi to get his role like it was some kind of gotcha, as if – had it been true – that wouldn’t have been evidence of Poi’s harassment and sexual abuse of him. The casting couch isn’t any less abusive when a man is subject to it than when a woman is subject to it. If it's gross and abusive for Harvey Weinstein to do it, then it would be gross and abusive for Poi to do it, and the way some people acted like it would somehow be Build’s fault? I’m sure every actress in Hollywood would love to hear that. Or would it be OK because he’s a man? Because that sounds awfully close to those creeps who say that teenaged boys should think they’re lucky when their female teachers molest them. (Or maybe when women in power over them on the filming set coerce them into giving massages?)

And as we saw all this happen – even as people patted themselves on the back and reassured each other that this wasn’t a witch-hunt, that it wasn’t an online mob working itself into a frenzy - 99.5 percent of the people who had been so very concerned with compiling and spreading everything and the kitchen sink during the initial feeding frenzy on Build went aggressively silent in the face of Build’s legal claims, including defamation, coercion and other abusive behavior by Poi. Suddenly, we started getting calls for circumspection and civility - aka silence - now that Build and his reputation and his career already had been savaged. Now that it was becoming evident that these same people were complicit in her abuse of him and had helped create the very scenario he said that she had threatened and kept him under control with. Now that they had helped an abuser get their satisfaction during what is traditionally the most dangerous time for abuse victims – when they try to leave.

Suddenly people were just done with all of this, just so very tired of it - now that the damage was done, and what was left was clean-up of the havoc they had helped wreak.

This fandom has done nothing to change my opinion that this whole debacle was never actually about genuine concern over intimate partner violence, but was rooted in shipwars - going all the way back to last summer, when someone went digging back through Build’s socials to find comments eight years old that could be blown up by Twitter cancel culture just as the Vegaspete storyline kicked off, VP was increasingly pulling attention, and BBB’s facetime was increasing. Not a single thing I’ve seen since then – since Build was identified as the soft target of the VP ship and discourse around him was poisoned by purity cancel culture – has convinced me otherwise.

People in this fandom took a deadly serious issue like intimate partner violence, and they used it as a tool for their petty shipwars, and they used it to get a little hit of self-righteousness, as a little “moral” crusade that allowed them to get their Two-Minute Hate on in a way that was deemed socially acceptable and gave them a taste of blood because it was wildly successful in the real world in a way keyboard slacktivism rarely is. It’s very telling, though, how much concern they actually seem to have for abuse survivors when they won’t even call out abusive behavior happening publicly, right in front of their faces. I guess some abuse victims do have to be perfect, or maybe it’s that some people do deserve to be abused, despite the claims when people were simping for Poi?

It’s very telling when their biggest concern appears to be using abuse claims as a cudgel to make themselves feel righteous - because it appears that’s all Poi ever really was, a tool for some people in KP fandom to beat Build with. If they actually, honestly gave a shit about her, someone would have shown concern about her mental health and whether she has any kind of support network at all, rather than egging her on, encouraging and amplifying her abusive and out-of-control behavior online. I’m not going to deny that I dislike Poi, that I’ve found her distasteful and incredibly off-putting since watching her behind-the-scenes behavior with the KP cast, including trying to yank Build to the edge of a balcony on a high-rise building as he tried to resist and laughing about being called out by Jeff for sexual harassment of a minor. But one of the things that I also found disturbing about this whole debacle was the way people encouraged and enjoyed - relished - behavior that ought to be concerning for her mental health.

And even now, I’ve seen people act as if the behavior that Poi and Build have admitted to in their statements was equally bad. Sorry, no, him secretly recording a conversation that was evidence of her abusive behavior is not equivalent to her faking pregnancy claims against him and insinuating that he was the reason she got an abortion or miscarried. I’m sure all abusers would love it if conversations in which they talk about their abusive behavior were kept private and secret, but I'm extremely suspicious of anyone who wants to act like that recording shouldn't be released - they should ask themselves why they're ok with abuse being covered up.

Would they call a woman who secretly recorded evidence of being abused a liar?

   (ETA 5/15, 1630 - Several people have messaged me to let me know this post has breached containment and is loose on Twitter. I would respectfully request that everyone follow Build’s own expressed wishes - and mine - and do not engage with antis. This includes @ing specific people with links to this. I could have attached individual names to many of the bad-faith behaviors I talk about in the post, but there are reasons I didn’t. People have already spent three months punching down at Build’s fans, as well as at him. The behavior of his fans reflects on him - however unfair that may be - and must remain above reproach. That includes not picking individual fights. If someone is encouraging this, consider that they are likely a plant, a fake fan trying to goad others into bad behavior to try to make Build look bad. If I find out anyone has done this, I will block you. Thanks.)

[theperfectawful]

Blind Item / Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Malibu Rating: Mature

Chapter Summary: You check in to rehab and run into a familiar face.

Word Count: 11.1k

Content/Warnings: Descriptions of drug use/overdose, detoxing/coming down, talk of sex, Hollywood misogyny, angsty angst.

Notes: Hello! Thank you guys again for the warm reception to Chapter 1, it was very encouraging. If you're not familiar with what a blind item is, it is a gossip column with any major identifying details about the subject removed. Every now and then this story will be broken up by excerpts of blind items and other gossip columns about Dieter and our reader. Enjoy! Sorry it's so long!

You felt like you slept for an hour and a half. If that. Your head was pounding when you woke up, the muscles behind your eyes searing red hot when they opened. You snapped them closed again right away, the room blindingly white, bathed in the early morning sun.

To your left, you could hear a soft beeping and the murmur of muffled voices. Your mouth felt as dry as a bone as you propped yourself up on your elbows, blinking your eyes open and squinting to look around the room. Instantly, recognition flooded in. 

With a jolt, you sat upright, the pace of the beeps increasing as you grabbed at the tube attached to your arm in confusion. Your eyes darted around the hospital room, looking for any indication of where you were or how you got there. The hum of a news show on tv drew your attention to the upper corner of the room. 

“She’s now upped the ante from alcohol to alcohol and cocaine and accelerated, uh, frequency of incidents. Alleged– Allegedly, uh, alcohol and cocaine. This isn’t her first drug related incident and the judges in Los Angeles won’t look favorably on a DUI like this. This is not the atmosphere, after Paris, after Lindsay’s, uh, debacle, to be playing with these judges. They have a strict no-nonsense policy for these little starlets and she’s going to be looking at 30 to 60 days, at least, minimum in jail, and three to six months in a drug rehab.”

On the screen, footage of you and Natalie running frantically into the intersection after your car played on a loop. You, snarling at the camera. You, spinning around. You, hauling ass towards Sunset and Fairfax. This was a dream. This wasn’t happening.

You felt it first in your jaw, a blood-draining feeling, spreading and burning hot across your face. Your heart was pounding, panic surging through your nervous system and tightening in your chest.

“Hello?!” Your voice cracked as you called out, unsure who you were even looking for. Your fluorescent dress and your shoes from the night before were in a plastic bag on the chair across from your bed. The voices in the hallway quieted for a moment and then started up again, the conversation quickly wrapping up.

The door opened and a woman in scrubs entered, greeting you with a smile that felt fucking inappropriate, all things considered.

“Well, good morning!” The nurse loudly greeted you, rolling a stool in from the doorway.

“Why am I here?” You answered harshly. “Sorry, I… Hello. How did I get here? Is anyone here with me?”

“You’re at Cedars,” She answered, her tone still a little too casual for your liking. “And you’re lucky. If that young lady hadn’t brought you in when she did, you could’ve been in a lot of trouble.”

You’d kill that bitch Natalie. She freaked out and called 911, no wonder it was already on the news. Corinne must be somewhere having an aneurysm. A wave of nausea washed over you and you swallowed hard, desperately trying to calm your racing heartbeat. You should’ve just left without her.

A reporter on TV used your name and you looked back up, the nurse following your gaze and chuckling. On the screen, you were a spectacle, struggling to climb back into your car, limbs and glittery heels flailing out the door as you clumsily clamored into the driver’s seat.

“Look at that. Boy, imagine ending up on the news on a night like that,” she remarked, her hand on her hip as she watched. “The whole world seeing it...”

You shot her a glare as she turned off the TV, recognition dawning on her face when she looked back at you, chuckling once more.

“Ha! Well, I suppose you don’t have to imagine it, do you?”

This was unbelievable. This was a joke. It had to be. You were being Punk’d. Incredulously, you began looking around the room for hidden cameras.

“Well, now that you’re up,” She says, sitting down on the stool she brought in and rolling towards your bedside. “Can you recount your night for me? Where’d all the fun begin?”

Your brow furrowed, your attention suddenly snapping back to the nurse. You squinted as you looked at her standing with the window behind her - this room was way too bright.

“I don’t know.” You mumbled, pinching the skin between your eyes. “What do you want to know?”

“Give me the highlights.” She said. She was peeling off and replacing a piece of tape keeping a tube fixed to your arm.

After a long pause, you recounted the evening to her as you tried to remember it. Don Antonios. God, you were there forever, your table was completely packed with people you barely knew. It was always like that in LA - an exponential group of people attached themselves to you and everyone just shrugged when you asked who someone was.

One of the guys who showed up kept insisting you try all these different flavors of some vodka company he worked with. Cherry, Grape, Caramel. The nauseating memory of a shot of Blue Raspberry chased by a shot of Peppermint bubbled up in your throat and you choked down a dry swallow.

“Caramel vodka and tacos?” She prodded. “What sommelier came up with that pairing?”

Jesus, what is this lady, a comedian? You glared at her to keep from rolling your eyes. 

“Had you taken anything at that point?”

“What?”

“Any pills, marijuana, cocaine…”

You mustered your best offended expression.

“I don’t know. No. I just take the stuff I’m prescribed.” You answered defensively. This was none of her business. Were you seriously here all alone?

“How much had you been you drinking?”

“Not much. Only a little.”

She hummed, not satisfied. “Was that everything?”

You let the question hang. “Yes.”

You really didn’t remember. You remembered texting Andy. You remembered him never fucking answering. There were shots at Don Antonios. That girl gave you some Xanax, which did nothing. You didn’t even drink that much at Lush, just some champagne and tequila and…

Oh, shit. And Dieter Bravo. What the hell had he given you? You knew it was something, but the night was a blur after you got up from his booth. You went to the bathroom with him and… oh, my god, wait, did you have sex with him? Please say you didn’t fuck Dieter Bravo in the bathroom at Lush. Corinne might literally, actually kill you if anyone finds out that happened.

The nurse cleared her throat and you blinked and looked up, feeling her scrutinizing gaze.

“I don’t remember. That was it. I don’t do drugs.”

“At all?” She was so condescending with her stupid clipboard.

“No, not at all,” - bitch, you continued in your head. Impatience now replaced the panic in your voice. “Hey, listen, is anyone here with me now? Like, is there someone in a waiting room somewhere? I really don’t feel like talking to you about this.”

She stopped writing, making a big deal of clipping her pen and putting down the clipboard and looking at you with her lips pursed, her lingering stare irritating you even further. You hated when people did that - nothing closed you off faster than someone trying to make a big show of how serious they are about getting information out of you.

“Did you deliberately try to kill yourself last night?”

What the fuck? Was this bitch serious?

“Excuse me?”

“We ran tests and pumped out the contents of your stomach last night. We found a combination of opioids and amphetamines in your system. That, in addition to the alcohol, is a very dangerous combination.”

“No, I did not try to kill myself.” You spat, your voice much louder. “I was out with friends and I messed up. Someone gave me something and I had a reaction. I don’t know. I’m not suicidal. That’s insane.”

You had to get out of here. You needed to figure out who the hell dropped you off at the hospital and then went home. You shuffled in the hospital bed, weakly trying to remove whatever tubes were attached to your body.

There were two quick knocks at the door, followed by Corinne hurrying into the tiny hospital room, concern pulling at her Botox-frozen forehead.

“Oh, god, honey,” she said, sitting at the edge of your bed. “Thank god you’re alright.”

Oh, this was too much. It was just a night out. You may have blacked out but it wasn’t the end of the world, Natalie must have just freaked out and brought you here. Why was everyone acting like you almost died?

You rolled your eyes, frustrated with all the fuss and the concerned act Corinne was putting on for the hospital staff. Your voice softened and heightened in pitch. "I'm fine, Corinne. I just want to go home. Please tell them to let me go."

Corinne paused, grabbing your hand and looking into your eyes.

“Honey…” she started, cupping your hand with both of hers. She looked over at the nurse, who was still staring at you with that stupid, serious expression.

“Could you give us a moment, please?” Corinne asked. The nurse obliged, seemingly just now realizing that she wasn’t part of this conversation. She quickly gathered her things and left the room.

Once she was gone, Corinne’s face fell immediately, her tone shifting to something much angrier.

“Are you out of your mind?” she began, whispering harshly. “Do you remember a single thing about last night?”

“Oh, my god, what?! What does everyone want to know about last night?! I went out with Natalie. We danced. I drank a little and I guess I blacked out. It’s that stupid antidepressant they put me on.”

“You don’t remember driving home?”

“I didn’t drive, Natalie drove”

“Oh,” Corinne scoffed, her patience with you clearly nonexistent. “Oh, you drove. You drove your car through three red lights and straight into a BMW.”

She was fully whisper-yelling now, recounting the evening for you. The runaway car, the speeding, the swerving, the driving with your eyes closed. Your stomach sank, Corinne successful in jogging your memory. 

She explained how you passed out on your bathroom floor and Natalie couldn’t wake you up, how she went to wake up Rhea and Rhea had to drive you to the hospital at four in the morning. You waited for her to bring up your hooking up with a notorious movie star at least ten years your senior in the bathroom, but, somehow, it didn't come up. 

Her Blackberry was vibrating near-constantly, and she quickly glanced down to silence it before looking back at you. The Botox in her forehead was dissolving in real-time, a crescent-shaped wrinkle emerging between her eyebrows.

“Thank God Rhea called me and told me what was happening or you might be in jail right now instead of here.”

Your face sunk, horror washing over you remembered what you’d just heard on TV.

“Corrine, they’re not going to arrest me, right?”

She sighed, the look on her face not inspiring reassurance in you.

“I’ve been on the phone with the chief of the LAPD since 5 trying to work this out for you.” Corinne explained. “You apparently totaled that car, although I’m not sure how a car with no driver is even capable of that. The owner has already gone to the press saying they’re going to press charges.”

She craned her head to the side to confirm that the door to your room was shut, then her voice sank even lower as she leaned in closer to you and whispered. “The police searched your car and found a gram of cocaine in the cupholder.”

Oh my god, Dieter’s cocaine.

“That wasn’t mine!” You blurted out. The cliche felt pathetic on your tongue. “It doesn’t matter.”

“But it wasn’t! I don’t even do coke anymore! They can test me!”

Now, why the fuck would you say that?

“It was in your car. Your car that you drove, that you sent careening into an intersection. It doesn’t matter whose it was, honey.”

You covered your face with your hands, your headache intensifying. This wasn’t fucking happening.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” You felt like you were going to cry. “I messed up, Corinne, I’m sorry. Tell them to let me go home and work and I’ll be fine. I’ll focus on the reboot and I won’t go out.”

She didn’t speak right away, and you couldn’t get a read on whether she was furious with you or scared shitless.

“You’re not going back to work,” She finally explained. “Production has told me that they can’t take the risk on you. This is already out. We can’t even say for sure yet that we’ve avoided jail time here.”

The room was spinning. Your stomach felt like a brick. You rolled your eyes - a reflex you immediately regretted - and blinked over and over as fearful tears rolled down your cheeks.

“It’ll be fine, Corinne, we can talk to them. We can renegotiate,” you offered, your voice breaking despite your attempt to remain stoic. “I can be good.”

“The studio won’t take the risk. I’m sorry, honey.”

Tears streamed down your cheeks, hot and shameful, blurring the room around you. This would be the second production you’d been fired from this year. 

It felt like a testament to your failure. You, weak and out of control, sobbing in bed like a pathetic child.

The world would love you like this. Defeated, ashamed, exhausted. A cautionary tale, a trainwreck. You could already hear the chorus of “I told you so”’s, of “stupid girl”’s. Any hope you had of establishing yourself as a serious actress was crumbling right there in front of you - no, you were tearing it apart with your bare hands.

A disheveled Dieter Bravo checked himself into rehab Tuesday morning, looking solemn and despondent following a life-threatening overdose over the weekend.  The veteran actor reclined in the passenger seat of his vehicle on the drive to Malibu, sporting dark sunglasses and his signature messy mop of curls. LAPD responded to a call from his housekeeper on Saturday morning. The actor was found unresponsive in his Hollywood home, and was quickly attended to by emergency services. “I respectfully ask that the media allow me to receive care and heal in private during this difficult time,” the Cliff Beasts star said in a statement released by his representative. Bravo, who won an Academy Award for his performance in 2004’s Fragile Bonds, has recently been plagued by personal and professional struggles, including a failing marriage to actress Heidi Alcott and an arrest for a violent altercation earlier this year. This will be his third stay in a rehab facility since 2005.  Hours before the overdose, the actor was rumored to have been forcibly removed from Hollywood’s Lush nightclub, allegedly ejected by the club’s owner for canoodling and using drugs with another young actress in a staff restroom. Dieter will spend 90 days at Promises Malibu, a swanky rehab facility where daily activities include yoga, meditation, horseback riding and acupuncture.

The next week was exactly as bad as you’d feared it’d be.

You were arrested in the hospital, which you didn’t even realize was possible. That same, horrible nurse took your blood pressure again and again as two police officers read you your rights. Hospital staff lingered in the hallway outside of your room, just far away enough for them to think you wouldn’t notice, their murmurs were complemented by the cops’ walkie talkies, staticky voices discussing what to do with you.

Corinne wasn’t allowed to come with you for processing. You traded your hospital gown for the dress you’d worn the night before along with a hoodie Corinne gave you, slipping your stupid, clunky heels back on to follow the cops into the parking garage. Corinne used the contents of the makeup bag she’d brought with her, wiping mascara smudges from your cheeks and tapping powder under your eyes to try and make you look somewhat presentable for your mugshot. She walked with you to the police van, all the while assuring you that she’d arrange representation, that this would all be over as soon as it possibly could be.

Faces and cameras pressed to the windows of the car and didn’t let up for the entire drive to the station. You squeezed your eyes shut at red lights, letting the tears run down your face and sinking as far as you could into the back seat.

Fluttering camera clicks and flashing lights surrounded you on all sides as you were led up the stairs of the police station. You were processed, fingerprinted and booked. People gawked at you from holding cells. A security guard asked for an autograph for his daughter. Your bail had been posted by the time you’d taken your mugshot.

You were allowed to go home and detox while you awaited next steps, but, as Chateau staff had politely requested you not return for the time being, Corinne insisted that you stay with her. You spent the next week in Corinne’s guest bedroom, sleeping through headaches and shakes and waking up to change the channel when your name came up on late-night talk shows.

The come-down from amphetamines was not for the weak. You cried and cried for days. Any time you were conscious, you were sobbing. You’d had a taste of this before, long weekends leading up to busy weeks with minimal opportunity to refill prescriptions, but nothing like this. Never this uncomfortable. Never this helpless.

After a couple days, Natalie called. She told you she was sorry. She wouldn’t say for what. Tears tore from your eyes, burning hot and angry down your cheeks. When you hung up she didn’t call back.

You tried to talk to Corinne, but all that came out was a tearful slew of apologies for what you’d dragged her into. You soaked in her giant bathtub, running the water scalding hot and trying to focus on anything but the fear tearing at your mind. 

Her home was perfect - a shiny, ultramodern thing tucked in the hills of Beachwood Canyon. Her guest bedroom looked like something out of Architectural Digest. Your place in it was chaotic, your belongings haphazardly packed up by Chateau staff and now piled in a corner of the otherwise extremely chic bedroom. Club dresses, hair straighteners, bedazzled clutches. You, in her bed, sobbing until your face was puffy, dripping tears and snot onto her 800 thread count sheets. You and the wreckage you carried with you were out of place in a home like this.

When your body wouldn’t let you sleep anymore and your tears slowed down, you stared at the ceiling, clammy and anxious. You peeked out the windows, watching conspicuous vans circle Corinne’s home, big camera lenses perched and waiting for a glimpse of you. You tried to sleep. You rifled through your things, organizing and reorganizing clothes and accessories. You were going nuts.

Rhea spent a lot of time with you - when your schedule was wiped clean, hers was, too. She sat next to you in bed while you watched her play her Nintendo DS for hours.

“You’re all they’ve been talking about on The View for three days,” she told you one morning as she made her Animal Crossing character catch fish over and over. “Joy Behar is veeeerrrry concerned about you.”

“Is she?” You asked. “That’s so nice.”

“Mmhm,” Rhea replied. She cast her line, reeling it in too soon and spooking the fish. “Damn.”

Silence hung between you for a moment as she made her character walk up and down the beach.

“Can you give me something, Rhea, please?” You looked up at her, pleading softly. "No," she answered immediately. “Please, Rhea. I can’t sleep. I’m going insane. I think even just an extra antidepressant would work.”

She put the device down in her lap and gave you a look that told you you should know better. It had always been a not-so-secret secret that Rhea was the one who brought you drugs when you couldn’t get them yourself. She was still in college when you hired her and seemed to know how to get her hands on whatever you wanted.

Corinne was never supportive of your drug use, per se, but she was aware of how your engine ran, and you were certain that she knew Rhea supplied them to you. Under her extremely watchful eye since you’d been discharged from the hospital, you figured Rhea’d been instructed to cut that shit out, but it was worth a try. Plus, she was kind of your friend.

“I’m allowed to give you melatonin,” She answered. “And it wouldn’t, by the way.”

You sighed, defeated. “I was prescribed Xanax before.”

“You were prescribed a lot of things before.” 

She wasn’t wrong. You picked at the skin around your thumb nail, rolling onto your back and staring up at the ceiling, watching the fan spin.

“You know, people die this way.”

She scoffed, looking back at her game.

You weren’t dying. You were just excruciatingly bored. More bored than you’d been in years. Maybe in your entire life. The hours were unbearable, but soon they turned to days, then a week. You weren’t in a good mood, but you could at least say you’d gone from negative to zero. 

The ache didn’t go away, but you got used to it being there. You wanted drugs - hard ones. You fantasized about them when Corinne would wake you up at 6am to go on neighborhood walks with her. As you laced up the running shoes she let you borrow, you reminisced on doing angel dust at warehouse parties in Miami and about the time some rock star from the 80s showed up at your 20th birthday party and showed you and your friends how to freebase heroin. You’d spent the morning after that throwing up and had vowed to never touch it again, but even that morning sounded preferable to wearing lycra leggings and enduring the big, goofy smiles Corinne’s neighbors gave you as they jogged by.

You woke up early one morning to the sound of Corinne’s excited, unusually high voice outside your door. In her usual fashion, she knocked quickly, opening the door without waiting for an answer. She held a finger up to you as she wrapped up her call.

“Uh huh. Uh huh. Okay,” she looked at you, lifting her finger up slightly higher in response to your questioning expression. “Oh, I can’t tell you how great this is. We’re so excited. Uh huh. Okay. Thanks. Okay. Bye, now.”

“What’s happening?” You asked as she hung up.

“This is a best case scenario,” She answered. “This is fantastic.”

You sat up straight in bed. “Is the show back on?!”

Corinne’s smile faltered as she settled on the bed. “Oh, honey, no.”

You deflated slightly. “Then what?”

“You’re not going to jail.”

“Yaaaay,” you cheered weakly.

“That’s a miracle, by the way.”

“Yay! I mean it.” You tried again, a little more convincingly this time.

Her phone buzzed, and she quickly glanced at the name on the screen and silenced the ring. She sighed again, her demeanor turning serious.

“You’re going to rehab.” She continued. “You’re going to the best facility, it’s the Four Seasons of rehab centers, it’s going to–”

“Excuse me?” you interjected, disbelief in your voice. There was that feeling again, the same one you got at the hospital. Tingly jaw, burning hot cheeks.

“Rehab,” she repeated. “You’ve been given the option to complete 90 days in rehab and avoid all jail time. Most people do not get that choice. You should be thanking me right now.”

She paused, presumably expecting you to stand up and start doing cartwheels. The lid of your coffin was in place - it had been for days now - so you should have expected the nails. 

“Where?” You asked after a moment.

“Promises - it’s in Malibu. You’ll do yoga and meet with lifestyle coaches who can help us figure out what you need to get everything back on track. It’s going to be great, honey. It’s where Lindsay went!”

You groaned, throwing yourself backwards onto your pillow.

Which fading starlet is trading red carpets and VIP sections for rehab? This former child star recently checked into a luxurious Malibu facility, not for a rejuvenating spa weekend, but as part of a plea deal to dodge jail time. At least she's in good company! Perhaps she and a fellow famous patient at the swanky rehab facility will find solace in ‘growing together’ during their time in recovery. Hopefully, this stint helps her avoid following in the footsteps of fellow socialites.

Promises was impressive. You could give Corinne that. You told her as much when she dropped you off at intake. 

“You’re going to be okay,” she told you, giving you a tight hug in the entryway. “I’ll call you soon.”

It was a huge, sprawling property with a big Spanish-revival monstrosity smack-dab in the middle of it. You’re sure she was thoroughly impressed by the tennis courts and meditation studios and panoramic ocean views.

Intake was less glamorous. You were instructed to remove your clothes and put on a paper gown, and then to open your suitcase and put it on this big, metal table at the back of an office. The woman checking you in gave you a full pat-down, making you bend over and cough to check for contraband before giving you an outfit to change back into. It occurred to you that you should have been humiliated by this whole ordeal, but at this point, you were so beyond that. Humiliation was for the version of you from a week ago. This was just your life now. She then proceeded to take a TSA-level look at all of your belongings.

“We’re a strictly cell phone-free facility,” she explained, removing your Sidekick from your purse. “If you’re caught with a cell phone in your room, we’ll do a full search of your property - if you’re caught again, you’ll be discharged. Phone calls can be made at the booths in the hallway.”

You nodded, not having the willpower to argue with their stupid policies at the moment. You crossed your legs and tried to warm yourself by rubbing your hands up and down your arms.

“Can’t bring these in,” she said as she took three bras out of your suitcase. “Underwire. You’ll get them back when you leave.”

Sure. Whatever.

“You’ll have to hand these over, too,” she held up a pack of cigarettes. “Smoke-free facility.”

“Wait,” you started, interrupted by another staff member entering the office.

“Well, well!” He said, his voice booming in the tiny room, glimmer-white smile beaming at you. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Todd.” He paused, taking a long moment to stare deeply, creepily, into your eyes. “I’m so happy you’re here to grow with us.”

You limply shook his hand. 

“Hi.”

“Hi. I know it’s been quite a journey getting here. I’m sure you’re ready to relax,” he replied, his giant smile not faltering for a second. He broke his unblinking gaze and looked over at the woman zipping up your suitcase. “If you’re finished, I’d like to show our movie star to her room.”

“Oh, another movie star,” she said dryly as she zipped up your suitcase and put her hands up, finished.

“Yes, yes,” Todd said, still smiling like a maniac. He looked like he had more teeth than a normal person, and for a moment you tried to count them before he turned back to face you. You flinched slightly at the intensity of his expression. “Shall we?”

The entire facility was co-ed - a detail that Todd told you repeatedly, each time with a slightly more discernible degree of warning in his voice, like he was a parent instructing you not to throw any parties when they left for the weekend. He walked you across the property, pointing out various amenities to you on the way to your room.

The gym, the pool, the zen garden, the library. The various meeting rooms - men’s meetings, women's meetings, family meetings. The kitchen, the internet cafe. The saltwater pool. It was like a resort, except that there wasn’t any alcohol, and there were copies of The 12 Steps & 12 Traditions all over the place.

“You’ll attend workshops here,” he said, gesturing to the deck on the far end of the swimming pool. “Journaling, vision boarding, knitting. Anything you want. We’re even doing an acting workshop this month - maybe you could help us with that. We have some fantastic facilitators - just fantastic.”

“Juuust fantastic…” you repeated. 

You followed him back inside, walking through a long corridor towards your room.

“Ah, this’ll be our noon men’s meeting,” he explained as you approached an open door to your left. He took a look at the oversized silver watch on his wrist. “They should just be getting started now.”

Peeking into the room, you observed the setup - a classroom-like setting with a whiteboard, low, tan carpeting, and a circle of wicker chairs. Men milled about, chatting as they waited for the meeting to begin.

Just as you started to turn your head away from the door, you caught a glimpse that made you snap back immediately. In a fraction of a second, even though they were hidden halfway behind dark wayfarers, you instantly recognized the deep, brown eyes that locked with your own. You slowed down slightly to confirm your suspicion, but quickly looked away when he craned his neck to follow you.

No way.

There was no way.

You sped up, now walking in step with Todd.

"Hey, Todd?" you interjected, cutting off his explanation of the gym or the pickleball court or whatever it was. "Did the lady at intake mention another actor being here?"

“Oh, yeah,” he chuckled. “Lucky us!”

Your eyes darted to the ground, then back and forth as you tried to process what was happening.

“Who is it?”

“Sorry,” he answered, his smile faltering into something more serious for the first time since you’d met him. “I can’t share that with you. But we’re a friendly bunch here - I’m sure you’ll run into each other soon enough. Here we are!”

You’d arrived at your room, the last door at the end of the corridor.

“I’ll give you some time to settle in, but please don’t hesitate to call if there’s anything you need,” he said, smiling and staring unblinkingly. His spray-tan was extra orange around the corners of his mouth. “We’re so glad you’re here.”

You broke his intense eye-contact to look back down the hallway towards the meeting room. An arm extended from the doorway, pulling the door shut as the meeting began. You bit the skin on your bottom lip, looking back at your door.

“Yeah, thanks,” you mumbled, quickly shuffling into your bedroom and shutting the door behind you.

It probably wasn’t Dieter. I mean, most likely, it wasn’t him, right?

It wasn’t like he was the only wannabe-bohemian, homeless-looking, disheveled-just-so actor in this town, let alone the only one who’d end up in rehab.

It probably wasn’t him.

And even if it was him, what were the odds he remembered you, anyway? A guy like him slept with so many people, it had to just be a huge blur for him. You probably weren’t even the only one fucked that night.

It wasn’t him. You laughed to yourself as you unpacked, feeling silly for getting so worried.

You shoved your clothes into the dresser that stood across from your bed. Your room was nice, and only reaffirmed your feeling that this was more resort than rehab. The bed was huge, an actual bed with crisp white sheets and big pillows. When you sat in it, you had a beautiful view of the pacific ocean from your window. You also got it to yourself, one of the only single bedrooms in the entire facility. You’d have to remember to thank Corinne for that. 

On top of the dresser was a schedule detailing the week’s activities:

10/03/07 - WEDNESDAY

6AM - SUNRISE HORSEBACK RIDE - EAST HILL

6AM - SUNRISE YOGA - SALTWATER POOL DECK

7AM - OPEN GYM

8:30AM - WOMEN’S MEETING - ROOM A

9AM - SPEAKER SERIES - WE DO RECOVER! - ROOM C … But what if it was him?

Rehab was not like detox at Corinne’s. Here, you were expected to be up early, to follow a strict schedule of meetings and activities, to act like a functional adult. It felt kind of like summer camp, if at summer camp you were constantly under surveillance and forced to confront your deepest insecurities instead of making friendship bracelets.

You thought that you'd have a late start on your first morning at Promises. You figured you’d sleep in, go get breakfast at the cafe, then maybe hit up the 11am meditation session. Instead, you were woken up at 7 sharp by a cheerful staff member gently knocking on your door, reminding you that you were to be in the cafeteria no later than 8, and that a nurse would be in shortly to take your vitals.

After groggily going through the motions of having your blood pressure taken and your heart rate checked, you threw on an outfit and headed down the hall to get breakfast.

You were excited. That was one thing about being sober - you actually had an appetite for the first time in forever, and you were constantly hungry. As you made your way towards the cafeteria, you began to fantasize about omelets and bagels and pancakes and…

“Morning!” A voice called out to you as you padded down the hallway. Emerging from the room next to yours was a woman who looked to be slightly older than you. She had a cute, cropped pixie cut and was wearing a stack of bangles all the way up her arms.

“Morning,” you replied, smiling at her.

She introduced herself as Sadie. She’d been at Promises for a month already, so she practically owned the place. You had a lot in common - including what brought you here.

“God, I’m obsessed with Adderall,” she said, stabbing her fork into the fruit salad on her plate. She popped a piece of cantaloupe in her mouth and kept talking. “There’s just nothing better for getting shit done. Did you know it’s literally meth? Methamphetamine! And they give it to kids.” “Really?” You asked. Honestly, this was how you knew you didn’t belong here. You didn’t know anything about drugs. You liked adderall, too, but these people were drug addicts.

She nodded.

“God, no wonder.”

“I was a writer. Am a writer,” She continued on. “In the real world.”

“Right,” you laughed. “I’m an actor in the real world.”

“I’ve seen you in things,” she nodded. “The 80s show with, uh… Bob Saget?”

“That’s Full House. I was on Growing Together.”

“That’s it!” She snapped her fingers and pointed at you. “Hey, so do you know Dieter?”

Your cheeks went hot, stopping mid-chew when she mentioned his name. You were having so much fun with Sadie that you’d almost forgotten all about yesterday.

“Dieter Bravo?” You asked, mouth full of food.

“Yeah, him. He’s been here for, like, a week now,” she confirmed. “You know him?”

“He’s here?”

She nodded, giving you a funny look.

“No, not really.” You answered. Which was true.

She hummed in response, moving on quickly to tell you more about the magazine she wrote for, but you fully stopped listening. Oh, shit, it was him. You scanned the faces gathered around the tables throughout the room, looking for him, suddenly paranoid that he’d be watching you from somewhere. You weren’t all on the same schedule here, right?

You couldn’t avoid him. Todd said there were something like 30 residents here right now. There was no shot. You tried to tune back into what Sadie was saying - something about Hearst, something about a blog - and immediately dropped her again. 

You could avoid him. You could stick to womens meetings. God, why was seeing him making you this anxious? This was so unlike you.

The idea of running into anyone you encountered in the state you were in that evening was humiliating. Maybe that was it. How were you supposed to get a fresh start if there was a reminder of the worst night of your life creeping around the halls here? It was unsettling. Corinne and Rhea were practically family, so that didn’t matter, but the idea of even seeing Natalie at this point made your stomach turn. You needed one of those things from Men In Black to zap everyone who was at Lush that night and make them forget that they’d even seen you.

“Sadie,” you interrupted. “Sorry. Do you see him around a lot? Dieter?” She thought about it for a moment. “Yeah. He’s all over the place, if that’s what you mean. I think he’s been here before. He's like the mayor.”

You scoffed, leaning back in your seat. Of course this is no big deal to someone like him. It probably didn’t even get reported on.

“And you said he’s been here for a week?”

“Mmhm,” she nodded.

That meant he’d checked in here right after that night at Lush. He seemed fine that night, though - he was at least with it enough to hook up with you. He wasn’t even really partying - you remembered him sitting alone in that chair when you noticed him. He looked bored. Why would he even need to come here?

All morning, you looked for him in the corner of your eye. You peeked around during your yoga class, scanning the room through your legs during downward dog.

Your first full day was consumed with resident onboarding tasks, which, fortunately, gave you a lot of opportunities to hide. You tried your best to forget about him during your first one-on-one meeting with your counselor.

Jane, your counselor, was nice enough. She at least seemed more normal than Todd - she smiled less, anyway - so it was reassuring to know that not everyone here was straight out of The Twilight Zone. You went through your story with her - how you got started, what happened that led you here. Blah, blah, blah.

“Growing up in Hollywood, that must have been challenging. Were your parents supportive?”

“I guess so. My mom was really into the whole acting thing,” you told her. “Maybe too into it.”

“Tell me more,” she encouraged.

You shrugged. “I don’t know. She liked that I was good at it. It was all we really talked about.”

She nodded, clearly expecting you to tell her more. Suddenly, you really didn’t want to talk about your mom.

“I don’t know. The usual stage mom stuff. That’s all.” You paused, shifting uncomfortably in your seat. "It's not like it matters now anyway." She nodded again, jotting something down. "It's okay if you're not ready to talk about it. We can focus on what's happening in the present and how we can support you moving forward."

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you mumbled.

Fortunately, she let it go, taking a few more notes.

“When did you know you were an addict?” Your eyebrows shot up, shock rippling through you at the audacity of her question. A drug addict?

“I am not a drug addict. That’s insane. I’m twenty-two years old.”

She eyed you skeptically, which only made you angrier.

“You can’t just call people that,” you continued.

“It’s not my intention to offend you,” she replied calmly. “And it’s nothing to be ashamed of. It's important for us to address the behaviors and patterns that led you here.”

You crossed your arms in front of you defensively, looking out the window at the ocean. Several moments dragged by, Jane patiently waiting for you to break your stubborn silence. 

“You could start by not calling me names,” you finally said.

“I apologize,” she said. She talked like a robot. You were wrong, everyone here was a freak.

Despite your best efforts, tears were beginning to roll down your cheeks. Your eyes darted up at the clock for the hundredth time since this meeting began.

“That’s time.”

Dieter recognized you right away, too.

It didn’t take long for confirmation - word about you checking in traveled very quickly. Suddenly, he was no longer the most famous person in rehab. Shame.

The story was that you’d had a bad night after you’d crossed paths at Lush - something that only made him feel worse about his role in the whole thing. He had a lot of time on his hands to feel guilty these days, and he spent most of it reflecting on that evening.

He was sure you didn’t remember him. At least, he hoped you didn’t. 

That night had been a low point for him. The realization struck on Wednesday afternoon, shortly after his intake process, when that post-overdose glow had finally worn off and he slowly readjusted to reality. With each passing day, the picture of what he’d done only grew clearer.

He had no business pursuing you that night. He may have been pretty far gone himself, but the image in his memory of him attempting to shake you awake so he could try to fuck you was something that made him feel a kind of shame he hadn’t felt in years.

He remembered waiting for you for a while after you’d both been kicked out of the bathroom, lingering around your table trying to figure out where you went. It wasn’t long, though, before Clint was urging him to leave. Apparently the owner of the club was not happy with the commotion he’d caused and wanted him out. Not that it was a major disappointment - he’d been ready to go since he’d arrived.

Following the lead of Clint and the two models from his table, Dieter climbed into the backseat of the SUV parked outside and promptly pulled a tab of acid from his pocket, slipping it onto his tongue when no one was looking. During the drive home, he remembered the black-haired model climbing onto his lap, her whispers in his ear barely registering through the haze he was in. He wasn't in the mood for any of it. He peeled her off of him once they arrived in his driveway, climbing out of the car and saying goodnight without any invitation to keep the party going.

He was restless. The coke, the alcohol, the acid - none of it made any difference. He shuffled around the house - the enormous, Spanish-style place he’d bought when he was still a bachelor. Or, the last time he was a bachelor, he supposed. It felt so empty, so staged, like it was perpetually about to be put on the market. The feeling that he didn’t belong here anymore gnawed at him. Maybe it was time to go back to New York for a while.

He decided to go to bed, at that point completely uninterested in trying to get anything else out of the evening. Sifting through the medicine cabinet in his bathroom, he mixed up a cocktail of Valium and Percocet and climbed into his empty bed, his curtains wide open to watch the city lights swim as he waited for the curtain to fall. 

The next thing he remembered was waking up with a gasp that rattled his entire chest, coming to life to see his bedroom full of paramedics. There was a crust on his cheek and pillow and he was drenched in sweat. His housekeeper stood in the corner, clearly shaken, clutching her hands to her chest.

And now, here he was, back in rehab. It marked his second stint at Promises, returning to confront the shitshow that his life had become through the routine of Pilates classes, group therapy sessions and journaling. Kumbaya.

His agent wasn’t happy with him. This little holiday of his interrupted production of Cliff Beasts 4, the project he was currently working on. He was set to begin shooting in a week - that date now pushed back indefinitely. 

Dollar amounts were something that was discussed in meetings he didn’t care to go to, but he figured this interruption cost some producer somewhere a pretty penny. Good. Fuck those guys. It wasn’t that he wanted to make a habit out of nearly killing himself, but he’d be lying if he said the idea of making one of those suits sweat didn’t bring a smile to his face.

So, here he was. His afternoon yoga class was ending. He decided to skip out during shavasana, looking to avoid any post-vinyasa mingling. He returned his mat and block to the table by the door and headed inside. Pushing the door open with a huff through his teeth, he headed straight towards his room, needing a shower before taking on the rest of his day. When he heard the door at the end of the hall thrown open, he looked up to see you storming out, tears running down your cheeks. Shit.

You both stopped when you noticed one another, frozen in an unexpected moment of mutual recognition. You definitely remembered him, he quickly realized. Dieter’s gaze lingered on you, caught off guard by your emotional state. Why were you crying? He hesitated, unsure of what to say or do, while you stood across the hall and debated whether to say something or retreat to the safety of your room.

Finally, Dieter managed a tentative nod in your direction, attempting to break the ice. You blinked rapidly, hastily wiping tears from your eyes. Before he could utter a word, though, you abruptly turned and hurried away, disappearing around the corner without another glance back.

He sighed, continuing down the hallway towards his room. The message from God or the universe or whatever all-powerful being was orchestrating this mess was clear - he hadn’t just fucked up his own life this time. He’d managed to drag you down with him.

“I’m glad it’s working out, honey,” Corinne said, her voice coming in staticky through the receiver.

“It is…” you tentatively agreed before putting on your best sales-pitch voice. “I think I’m going to do well. I might not even need to stay three whole months.”

“Nice try.” Worth a shot.

“Have you talked to the producers at all?” You asked, tapping a pen on the desk.

“I’m going to meet with Kevin on Friday,” she said, uncertainty in her voice. “Let’s not get our hopes up about Growing Together, honey, but if this doesn’t work out I do think another series down the line might be a good path out of this. I think the–” “I just don’t understand how they think they’re going to make it without me,” you interrupted, your voice growing louder and attracting the attention of a group of residents at a nearby table. Embarrassed, you turned your head away from them, scooting in closer to the desk. “It doesn’t make any sense. How are they going to write off their daughter?” You continued, voice lowering. 

“They don’t like the optics of the reboot drawing any negative attention. It’s not what they had in mind,” she explained. “We’ll discuss it.”

“I mean, Jesus, it’s not like I’m the first actor in the history of the world to get a DUI,” you continued, your tone hushed. “I’m not even the first actor on Growing Together with a DUI! What about Peter?”

Peter Moinihan played your uncle Bobby on the show. The man had a reputation that put yours to shame before you were even born. He was constantly partying and constantly hungover, which was a running joke among the cast and crew that you didn’t understand until you were much older. 

During the show’s run, he went from hiding his weed-smoking from you, to sneaking you weed, to smoking with you, to, by the final season, asking you where to buy it. Last you heard, he was a cast member on The Surreal Life. Despite all of that, there seemingly wasn’t any question about whether or not he’d be returning for the reboot. So why were they making such a big deal about having you back?

“Believe me, I’ll be bringing that up. You know I’ll fight for you, honey,” Corinne said. “So you fight for you too, alright?”

“Okaaay,” you agreed, rolling your eyes.

“I know you just rolled your eyes. Are you sick of all the Hallmark-ism’s yet?” She asked with a smile in her voice.

“I think if I can’t get any more work, I’ll have a promising career in motivational posters…” you laughed. 

After a pause, Corinne’s tone got all serious and sincere. “Are you okay, honey?” You thought about it. No, I’m not. I’m unemployed, I’m a national punchline, and I have to spend the next three months airing my most vulnerable secrets with a guy I had an awkward one-night-stand with a week ago. I’m stuck in this place with a bunch of drug addicts and therapists from Stepford. I want to snort a line of cocaine the size of my middle finger. I want to drink a bottle of Grey Goose alone in my bed. No, I’m not fucking okay.

“I’m fine,” you answered. “Really.”

“Good.” She said.

With a promise to be good, you hung up the phone. Your face fell quickly, though, the absence of Corinne’s voice reminding you where you were and how much longer you had left in this place.

Optimistically, after a couple of days of successfully avoiding him, you found yourself believing that the people in charge here might’ve actually had the sense to keep you and Dieter apart. Surely, having to celebrities in an AA meeting together would be too much of a distraction - they had to keep you apart somehow.

You were wrong. When you and Sadie walked into your Sunday afternoon meeting, there he was. He sat in a chair at one end of the room, in a thick, hole-y wool sweater, nursing a paper cup of coffee and wearing those stupid dark sunglasses indoors like always. God, everything about him was so typical Hollywood bro-hemian. He probably lived in Venice.

Still, when your eyes fell to his lips, you flashed on a memory of how good they felt peppering kisses along your neck, how his hands felt on your thighs. The way the flashing lights accentuated his hooded gaze as it drank you in when you were in his lap. You snapped yourself out of it, shaking your head and focusing on pouring yourself a cup of coffee before sitting down as far away from him as you possibly could, directly across the room.

Truthfully, you zoned out for the first half of the meeting. The loosely defined topic of the afternoon - fear - was, frankly, not something you were interested in diving into at the moment. 

You fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, agitated. Inevitably, your mind wandered back to your career, to the reboot you didn’t even care to be associated with a week ago. How could they even consider making it without you? You had poured years of your life into playing Courtney, your entire childhood. The show was practically synonymous with you and your character. It was ridiculous. What, were they just going to say Courtney died or something? They wouldn’t replace you, would they?

“I feel like my family is disappointed… not so much in the behavior, in me being an alcoholic, but… in the way I’ve hidden, the way I’ve had to hide everything from them,” a man to your left shared. You managed a sympathetic nod.

If they wrote you off, it wasn’t like you’d just disappear. People would know why you weren’t there, and if they didn’t know, they’d look for the reason why. Their wholesome little reboot was tarnished whether they liked it or not, so they might as well have you back.

The room went silent as the guy to your left finished up his share. You crossed your legs and picked at the distressing on your jeans. Across the room, Dieter cleared his throat. You snapped your head up immediately, then looked back at your pants, trying to play it off.

“Hi, my name is Dieter Bravo, and I’m an addict,” he recited.

“Hi, Dieter,” the room answered back.

“Uh, yeah, fear,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fear has kind of, uh, been in charge here for a while now, I think. I’m afraid of a lot of things. Afraid of failing, of losing what little I have left. I think I’ve spent the majority of the last, I don’t know, twenty years, just afraid – scared shitless – and operating from that place.”

You glanced up, surprised by the vulnerability. He leaned forward, his forearms settling on his thighs. As his head tilted down you could see his eyes behind his glasses, fixed on the ground in front of him.

“I know it’s me, you know, making the decisions, ultimately,” he continued, his voice unsteady. “But the filter that every thought and every decision is going through is just afraid. Before I came here, I was working on a project, a project that a lot of people are counting on, people who have been very good to me. And now I think I've fucked that up.”

You perked up. That sounded like you. For a minute, you forgot who was speaking, instead caught up in hearing your own experience validated. 

“And when I think about how I’ve messed that up now, how I’ve delayed that project indefinitely, it’s tempting to get caught up in the guilt… like, feeling guilty is, I guess, easier than admitting I was afraid. I can – uh, I’ve gotten very good at figuring out how to treat guilt, if you know what I mean.”

He tapped the side of his nose, eliciting a few knowing chuckles from around the circle. Wait – ‘delayed indefinitely’? As in, ‘resuming eventually’?

“Anyway, that production is very upset with me, and knowing that I’m holding that up puts the pressure on me to find something that works. So I now have the next three months to do something, anything, other than reacting in fear. I think–”

“You’re going back to work?” You interrupted. Heads around the room turned in unison to look at you.

“No cross-talk, please,” the meeting facilitator said.

“Yes, I am.” Dieter answered, his brows raising, eyes meeting yours and lingering there for a moment before continuing. “I think - I hope, that I’m in a position this time around to do something differently, and that maybe examining those, uh, fearful reactions will help me do that. But even saying that kind of makes me worry. In the last few years, I’ve become an tolerated eccentric at best, and a liability at worst. I almost feel like I’ll let people down if I take away the behavior they’ve grown accustomed to disapproving of.”

Unbelievable. He was going back to work. Here you were begging to be allowed back onto a stupid reunion special and he had a production waiting for him when he got out of here. A movie, too, probably - he didn’t do TV. You huffed quietly, crossing your arms and leaning back in your chair. Sadie tapped your knee with hers, giving you a questioning look. You shook your head and turned your attention back in front of you.

“I was sober for months when I was married - really, for a long time, longer than I’d ever been off anything. This summer we started shooting, everything was going great, then I got home and… I just imploded. I don’t know what happened. Even I wanted to stop. It was like I was on a plane that was fuckin’ nosediving and I had no idea who was in the cockpit."

You snorted. You couldn’t hold it in anymore. This was unbelievable.

Dieter, along with everyone else in the room, turned his head to look at you. He was leaning forward in his chair with his forearms on his thighs, raising his eyebrows at you inquisitively as his glasses rode down his nose.

This was interesting, he thought. It wasn’t ideal, but he liked that you were finally talking to him. His instincts told him to push.

“Something funny?” He asked.

“So, what is this, a vacation to you?” You spat. “I mean, what, you’ve been to rehab, like, 6 times now, right? You summer in Ibiza and winter in Aspen and spend a few weeks somewhere like this whenever you need a little damage control, then it’s back to work.”

Aspen? You thought he was an Aspen guy?

“It isn’t exactly that simple.”

“Guys,” the facilitator attempted, unsuccessfully.

“But you go back to work, right? Everyone on that project is just waiting for you to finish up here?” The resentment was spilling out of you.

Fuck, you were mad at him. He raised his palms outward slightly, half-shrugging.

“It doesn’t even matter to them that you’re in rehab and that everyone knows?”

“It’s a project I’ve worked on before,” he clarified. “A sequel. So I guess they’re being easy on me.”

“Unbelievable,” you scoffed again, shaking your head. “That’s not fair.”

A woman seated to your left chuckled, and you whipped your head around to glare at her.

“What?” You snapped.

“You’re one to talk, princess.” She replied coolly. “You know, most of us ‘little people’ would’ve been arrested for a DUI, not in a luxury rehab.”

You froze, jaw dropping open as you stared back at her.

"Alright, everyone, let's settle down," the facilitator interjected, trying to regain control of the room. "We're all here with the same goal, remember? ‘Restoring ourselves to sanity’?"

You slumped back in your chair, pulling your knees up to your chest, while she continued. Dieter adjusted his glasses to cover his eyes but maintained his posture, watching you for the remainder of the meeting.

The veneer of Promises had worn off quickly. You were frustrated, you were restless, but now more than anything, you were humiliated. If they didn’t have the sense to keep you and Dieter separated before, hopefully they did now.

It didn’t help that the main thing that occupied your time here was a nonactivity - not doing drugs, not drinking alcohol. That’s what you did in rehab: not drugs, not drinking. So on a night like tonight, after a day like today, during which you normally would’ve called someone up and took shots until you blacked out, all you could do was ruminate on what happened.

You snuck out the meeting early, sulked through a therapy session and then immediately headed to the gym to get on the treadmill and run for as long as you could - which admittedly, wasn’t very long. Turns out long-term drug use affects your stamina. Who knew.

You slowed down to a walk, huffing and bracing yourself on the arms of the machine.

You regretted snapping at him, but still - it wasn’t fair. It was bad enough that he was here. You felt embarrassed even being in the same room as him, knowing the condition he saw you in the last time you met. There was no way you were going to be able to reap any of the benefits of rehab because there was no fucking way you were going to share anything personal with a dude you hooked up with when you were wasted. Now he had to rub his flourishing career in your face, too?

How was it so much easier for him? What was he doing differently? Dieter was as famous as you were, you figured, if not more. He was a bona-fide movie star. Why wasn’t it a massive scandal that he was here? That it wasn’t even the first time?

You slowed to a stop, stepping off the treadmill and wiping the sweat from your face. The gym was quiet at night, which you liked. You wiped down the machine and threw on your robe, heading back towards your bedroom to shower and turn in.

As if it couldn’t get any worse, this entire facility had a 10pm curfew. You stared at your feet as you walked, counting tiles aimlessly. You had to get out of here. In your head, you devised various plans to escape. Jumping out the window and making a run for it wasn’t totally off the table, but you might need to get more creative. 

You could call Corinne in the morning and tell her about Dieter. It’d be embarrassing, but you could explain what happened at Lush, tell her that he’s a reminder of your past that’s hindering your recovery. Some bullshit like that.

It’d been almost a week, anyway. That was an eternity in a place like this. Maybe if you really sold it she’d even let you off the hook and you wouldn’t have to go to another rehab, either - you could just go back to ‘house arrest’ at her place until someone decided to hire you again. It could work.

You rounded the corner, looking up and immediately stopping short. Dieter was headed down the hallway in the opposite direction, his gray t-shirt, thick cardigan, and soft pajama pants complemented by a pair of Crocs that squeaked on the linoleum. When your eyes met his, he looked weary, like he had just been roused from sleep for the last nightly check-in, but the glimmer when he saw you was unmistakable. 

You furrowed your brow, shifting your gaze back down to the ground and shuffling past him quickly.

“Hey,” he called after you. “Wait a minute.”

He followed you, footsteps growing closer behind you as he rounded the corner, and just before he could put his hand on your shoulder, you turned around to face him.

“What do you want?” You asked, your tone sharp.

He stopped just short of where you stood. When your eyes darted at his outstretched hand he pulled it away, raising both hands up before shoving them into the pockets of his sweater.

“Look, I understand if you don’t want to talk to me,” he began, exasperated. “You don’t have to. Really. But we’re both here for the next ninety days, and as–”

“Eighty-four,” you corrected.

“Eighty-four,” he repeated. “As long as we’re both here, I think it’s gonna make things easier if we can at least be friendly. You can hate me, that’s fine, but in the interest of making this worthwhile, and, uh, step 9, I just want to apologize to you.”

You lifted an eyebrow, your arms crossed at your chest inside the oversized terry cloth sleeves of your robe. He did?

“You do?”

“I do.”

“For what?”

“For…” He hesitated, confusion apparent in the tilt of his head. “For the last time I saw you. For taking advantage of you at Lush.”

He paused for a moment, trying to get a read on your expression.

“Oh, man, if you were too drunk to even remember meeting me, I really have to beg for your–”

“I remember,” you interrupted, shaking your head. “I wasn’t that fucked up.” Three-quarters of a lie.

He nods. “Anyway, I’m sorry for taking advantage of you like that. I know better,” he pauses. “It was, uh… a dark time.”

You let it sit for a moment. He really seemed sorry - or at least he looked it. Big brown eyes finally free of dark sunglasses and looking into yours, searching for your mercy. It was strange. It hadn’t even occurred to you to be upset with him for that - you were just embarrassed. Most of the hook-ups you’d experienced as an adult had taken place under the influence to some extent, and nobody had ever apologized to you afterwards.

“It’s okay. Thanks.” You finally said. “Although, really, I guess we can just call it even.”

His eyebrow cocked upwards, the shadow of a smirk and tilt of his head silently requesting an explanation. 

“I stole a bag of your coke that night, that's what I was after when I went to your table,” you explained, amusement growing on his face at the confession. “If it makes you feel better, I got a DUI that night, and when the police searched my car they found it. That’s why I’m here. If it hadn’t been for that, I probably could have just spent the weekend in the hospital being treated for ‘exhaustion’ and been back to work Monday morning. So, I guess I took advantage of you, too.”

“Yeah, well, it’s what we do,” he laughed, vaguely gesturing at the hallway before planting his hand on the wall behind you.

Only now did you realize that he had subtly cornered your body into a doorway. He smelled the same as you remembered, minus the alcohol, and the way his broad frame was caging yours felt familiar and comforting. You caught yourself staring as you let the silence hang, taking in the lines around his dark, soft eyes, and you fought the urge to drag your thumb along the patch in his beard. God, he was handsome. You might not have been completely out of your mind that night.

Encouraged by your big, beautiful eyes gazing up at him and against his better judgment, he leaned down to purr lowly in your ear.

“I was disappointed that you didn’t come find me, though,” his said, the hair on his chin barely grazing your cheek and sending goosebumps down your spine. “I should be apologizing for not finishing the job.”

On a reflex, you giggled, but then the thought caught up to you.

“Wait a minute,” you put your hands to his chest and pushed away slightly to look him in the eye. “You mean we didn’t…”

He shook his head. “No, we didn’t.”

“Oh, my god, thank god!” You exclaimed, throwing your head back, unable to contain your laughter. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, relief that you hadn’t slept with this man (who you, admittedly, really wanted to sleep with) flooding through you. Tentatively, he hugged you back, wide palms going flat at the small of your back. 

“Sorry, not ‘thank god,’ no offense, just… that wasn’t exactly my finest hour,” you explained as you pulled away.

“Yeah, I heard,” he started to respond, but he’s cut off by a staff member at the end of the hallway.

“To your rooms, please,” she ordered, firmly.

He turned to acknowledge her, then back to you, following as you made your way toward your bedroom.

“So, we’re okay?” He asked as you reached your door. “Promise you’re not going to yell at me at any more meetings?”

“I promise.”

“Good. ‘Cause I think people are starting to choose sides, and I’m not sure I stand a chance against you.”

“Yeah, right, they hate me,” you said, dipping your head to laugh. The two of you stood there in your doorway for another moment, hand lingering on the door as you stood inches from one another.

“Goodnight, Dieter,” you finally said, all low and decisive.

“Goodnight.”

You peeked out at him until the door shut completely. When it did, you folded against it, clutching your hands at your chest and smiling wider than you had in weeks.

[mondaysamiright]

Falling Into You (Part 3)

Pairing: Emilia Clarke x fem!reader

Summary: Three weeks later Y/N finds herself running into a familiar face. This time, everyone stays upright and keeps free of a tea-drenched jacket.

Word Count: 2k+

Part 1 Part 2

The pub thrummed with Friday night energy, the buzz of laughter and conversation filling the space with a familiar warmth. Y/N sat alone at the bar counter's far end, her hands wrapped around a pint of ale. It had been one of those weeks that seemed to stretch forever, and she was more than ready to enjoy a moment of peace. 

She felt a light tap on her shoulder, and she turned, her eyes landing on a familiar face. Emilia, clad in a leather jacket and dark jeans, gave her a sheepish smile. Y/N stared for a moment, her mind struggling to catch up to the fact that this was the second time she had run into the actress. 

"Emilia?" she finally managed, a grin spreading across her face.  

"Hey." Emilia gave her a shy smile back, "It seems we have a knack for running into each other. Although at least this time no one is spilling tea all over your jacket."

"No, thank god," Y/N chuckled.

"Do you mind if I join you?" Emilia asked, gesturing to the empty stool beside her.

"Sure, please." 

Emilia slid onto the stool, her eyes meeting Y/N's. "I wanted to apologize. About the whole Daily Mail thing. I feel terrible."

"Oh, don't worry about that. It was entertaining if anything. Well, my coworkers still haven't let me live it down but I'll manage." 

"Still," Emilia sighed. "It was an invasion of your privacy. You were just out enjoying the park and having a nice conversation and-" 

"Emilia, seriously, it's totally fine." Y/N interrupted, giving Emilia her best reassuring smile. "I'm not upset, I promise." 

Emilia smiled, seeming to relax a bit. "Good. That's good. I'm glad." The bartender approached, and Emilia quickly placed her order before turning her attention back to Y/N, "Let me make it up to you. I’m here with some friends,” she said, motioning to a group of people at a nearby table. “Why don’t you join us? Drinks are on me.”

Y/N glanced over at the table where a handful of people were chatting and laughing. Unlike the Hollywood crowd she half-expected Emilia to hang around with, these people seemed… normal. Y/N hesitated for a moment, but the warmth in Emilia’s eyes pulled her in. 

“Alright, you’ve convinced me.”

Emilia’s smile broadened and the last of Y/N’s hesitation melted away. Without a second thought, Emilia reached out and grabbed her hand. 

“Come on,” Emilia said softly, her fingers gently curling around Y/N’s as she led her through the crowd. 

Y/N followed, her heart hammering in her chest, unable to stop her mind from helpfully pointing out that Emilia was holding her hand. As they made their way through the crowded pub, Y/N caught a few curious glances from the table of Emilia's friends. Emilia made quick introductions of her friends; Tom, Lily, Annie, and Paul before moving to her. 

"Guys, this is Y/N," Emilia announced, her hand still clasping Y/N's as they reached the table, “My ‘mysterious woman’.” She added, air-quoting the phrase with her free hand. Emilia gestured for Y/N to take a seat before sliding into the empty chair next to her. 

Tom was the first to speak. "Oh, so you're the infamous Y/N," He said, his expression mischievous. "Emilia hasn't shut up about you since the Daily Mail article."

"Tom!" Emilia protested, her cheeks flushing a delicate shade of pink. "I have not."

Annie giggled, leaning forward to rest her chin in her hands. "Oh, he's not lying. We've heard all about the cute American girl she dumped tea all over."

Emilia buried her face in her hands, groaning while Y/N felt her cheeks start to burn. "Can we please talk about anything else?" Emilia pleaded, her voice muffled behind her palms.

But Annie wasn’t done yet as she leaned in with a wicked grin. “Oh, but Emilia, we still haven’t heard the full story. I mean, you tripped, dumped tea all over her, and now you’re buying her drinks? I think you owe us some details about this, what did the tabloids call it again? Oh yeah, a ‘whirlwind romance’.” 

Emilia groaned louder, her voice still muffled by her hands. “Annie, I swear...”

Tom leaned back in his chair, grinning widely. “Yeah, I think it’s time for the ‘whirlwind romance’ details. Did you two lock eyes as the tea spilled? Was there slow motion involved? Music in the background?” 

“You guys are the worst.” 

Paul laughed, “Come on, Emilia. Tea dumping, mysterious walks in the park… this is like something straight out of a romance novel. You’re giving us all the feels here.”

Lily nodded dramatically. “Exactly. I mean, I expected something like, ‘I’m Emilia Clarke, an international actress, can I buy you a drink?’ But no, instead we get a classic rom-com stumble. Bravo.”

“I’m just saying, Emilia, if you’re going to keep going with the rom-com vibe, you need to plan something grand next—like, I don’t know, tripping again but this time with a bouquet of flowers in your hands.” Tom chimed in. 

“Alright, alright, enough!” Emilia finally said, dropping her hands and waving them in surrender. “I’m never bringing her around you guys again if you don’t knock it off.” 

The table erupted into good-natured laughter, and Y/N couldn't help but join in. She looked over at Emilia, who was still blushing furiously, but her eyes were crinkled in the corners with amusement.

Paul chuckled. “Alright, we’ll give you two a break before you both turn into human tomatoes.” 

And luckily they did. The group launched into a new conversation, the topic shifting to a recent concert someone had been to, but Y/N felt Emilia lean closer, her breath brushing Y/N’s ear as she whispered, "I'm so sorry about them. They can be a lot."

Y/N turned, finding herself mere inches from Emilia, close enough to see the faint flecks of gold in her eyes. Y/N swallowed hard, forcing herself to focus, "It's fine, they're entertaining," 

Emilia smiled, her gaze dropping for a moment before returning to meet Y/N's. "Well, I'm glad. I'm really happy we ran into each other tonight."

Y/N's heart skipped a beat, and she prayed that Emilia couldn't feel it hammering away in her chest. She nodded, a shy smile pulling at her lips. "Me too.”  

The conversation flowed easily between them, their bodies shifting closer together until their knees brushed beneath the table. The rest of the group was engrossed in their discussions, and Y/N was content to sit back and listen.  Every so often, she'd glance over at Emilia, and she'd catch her watching her, a soft smile on her lips. 

Before Y/N could think any more about it, Tom returned from the bar, carrying a fresh round of drinks. “Hey, I just talked to some people by the pool tables. They’re short a couple of players and asked if we wanted to join in. What do you say?” He said, gesturing towards a group of three people.

A chorus of agreement went around the table, and Emilia turned to Y/N, her expression hopeful.

"Do you play?"

Y/N grinned, nodding. "Yeah, I do."  

"Oh thank god because I'm pretty awful."  

"How bad are we talking?" 

"Like, embarrassingly bad," Emilia replied with a grin, leaning closer. "But I make up for it with charm."  

They teamed up, along with a few random players from the bar, spreading across three tables. Y/N quickly realized that Emilia wasn’t joking about her lack of skill. Every shot Emilia took seemed to miss by a mile, while Y/N effortlessly sunk her shots with precision.

“You’re really good at this,” Emilia said. “I feel like I should be taking notes.”

Y/N laughed. “Or you could just keep distracting the other team while I win us the game.”

Emilia smirked, leaning on her pool cue with a teasing glint in her eyes. “That’s a solid plan.” 

As the game went on, their playful banter turned into gentle flirting.  Emilia would nudge Y/N after a good shot, or purposefully get in her way, pretending to offer "helpful tips" that ended up with them standing far too close. 

At one point, Emilia leaned in over Y/N’s shoulder, pretending to show her how to line up a shot. Their faces were inches apart, and Emilia’s breath warmed Y/N’s neck.

“And then, put your hand just like this," Emilia said, guiding Y/N's hand down the length of the pool cue, her body pressed flush against her back. "You got it?"

Y/N's heart thudded in her chest as she nodded…and then proceeded to miss the shot completely.  

“Are you sure I’m not distracting you?” Emilia said, her voice low against Y/N's ear. 

"Maybe a little," Y/N said, her cheeks burning.

Emilia laughed, and her hand trailed lightly across Y/N's shoulders. "Sorry, I'll behave." She teased, as she finally stepped back.

Finally, they won a round, thanks mostly to Y/N’s skill, but Emilia sank the final ball.

"Oh my god, we did it!" Emilia squealed, throwing her arms around Y/N's neck and pulling her into a tight hug. Y/N stumbled back a bit, but her arms automatically wrapped around Emilia's waist, steadying her.  Neither let go right away, holding each other a bit longer than expected. Y/N felt the warmth of Emilia’s body against hers, the soft press of Emilia’s cheek against her neck, and she had to remind herself to breathe.

Emilia’s lips brushed close to her ear as she whispered, “Maybe I’m not so bad at this after all.”  

Before Y/N could answer, a loud cheer rose from the nearby table, pulling them back into the present. They laughed softly as they stepped apart, but Emilia kept her hand on Y/N’s arm.

"I think we deserve a drink after that win," Emilia said, her hand trailing down until it found Y/N’s.  

“Lead the way.” 

Emilia’s fingers slipped easily between Y/N’s, their hands fitting together as if it were the most natural thing in the world.  As Emilia tugged her through the crowd, Y/N’s heart hammered faster, a giddy rush of nerves building inside her. Emilia still didn’t let go when they reached the bar, her hand lingering in Y/N’s as though neither of them was ready to break the connection.

As they stood waiting for their drinks, the reality of the moment caught up with Y/N, and a small nervous laugh escaped her lips. “You know, if the paparazzi catches us like this, holding hands… they’re going to have a field day.”

Emilia’s gaze didn’t waver as she replied. “Let them.” Her thumb brushed against the back of Y/N’s hand, and her eyes twinkled with a mixture of amusement and something warmer.

Their drinks arrived and Emilia led her away from the noise of the bar. But instead of heading back toward the pool tables, Emilia surprised Y/N by guiding her toward the back door of the bar. 

The air was crisp, biting with the chill of the evening. It was a stark contrast to the warmth of the bar, and Y/N immediately noticed how empty and still the courtyard was. There wasn’t a soul in sight, just the quiet hum of the city in the distance. Y/N shivered slightly from both the cold and the sudden shift in the atmosphere, her confusion bubbling up as she glanced at Emilia.

“Why are we—?” she began, but before she could finish, Emilia stopped walking and placed her drink down on a nearby table. Her expression had changed, a nervous energy settling into her features as she turned back to face Y/N.

“I brought us out here because…” Emilia hesitated, her hand still holding Y/N’s tightly. “Because I just wanted it to be us.”

Before Y/N could react, Emilia closed the distance between them, leaning in to press her lips against Y/N’s in a soft and tentative kiss. Y/N’s eyes widened in shock, her mind scrambling to process what was happening.   

Emilia was kissing her.

For a heartbeat, Y/N froze, too stunned to respond. But then she felt the gentle pressure of Emilia’s lips start to withdraw, and it snapped her out of her daze. Realization hit her like a wave, and Y/N surged forward, closing the gap once more. She kissed Emilia back, slowly, letting the warmth and sweetness of the moment wash over her.

The kiss was soft and unhurried, a tender exchange of affection that sent sparks fluttering through Y/N’s chest. When they finally broke apart, both were smiling, breathless from the moment. Without saying a word, Emilia nestled closer, burying her nose against the crook of Y/N’s neck as her arms slipped around her waist. Y/N wrapped her arms around Emilia’s shoulders, holding her close as they stood in the chilly courtyard.

Emilia nuzzled closer, her nose brushing the skin of Y/N’s neck, and after a moment, her soft voice broke the silence. “You know maybe the Daily Mail was onto something.”

Y/N chuckled, “It has been quite the whirlwind romance. Tea dumping and all.”

Emilia giggled, her warm breath tickling the side of her neck. Y/N tightened her arms around her, savoring every second of this closeness, the way Emilia seemed to melt into her arms. 

"It has," Emilia said, lifting her head to meet Y/N's gaze, her smile turning a bit shy. "And maybe…maybe you are my mysterious woman. Or could be?”

Y/N’s heart swelled, a rush of affection surging through her for the woman in front of her—this famous actress who had tumbled into her life quite literally, spilling tea all over her in a park. And yet here they were, standing together, Emilia gazing up at her with an endearing mix of hope, nerves, and unmistakable affection in her eyes. Y/N smiled, her hands moving to gently cup Emilia's cheeks, her thumbs brushing over her skin.

"I'd like that."

The smile that spread across Emilia's face was breathtaking. "Good. Because I'd really like to kiss you. A lot," She whispered. 

Y/N laughed. “I think that can be arranged.” 

She leaned in, capturing Emilia's lips once more. This time, the kiss was deeper and more passionate. Y/N's fingers tangled in Emilia's hair, drawing her closer as Emilia's hands trailed down her back, tugging her against her body. 

"Hey where did—oh! " Tom's voice startled them, and they broke apart. He stood at the door, his cheeks reddening. "Shit, sorry guys, didn't mean to interrupt," he said, holding up his hands in apology.

"Interrupt what?" Annie said, pushing past him, "Oooh did you two finally kiss?!"

"Oh my god," Emilia groaned, dropping her forehead to Y/N's shoulder in embarrassment.

Y/N chuckled, her arms tightening around Emilia's waist as she rested her chin on her head. "Maybe."

"Yay!" Annie squealed, clapping her hands in delight.

Tom rolled his eyes, "Alright, come on, leave them alone."

Annie ignored him, "Can I take a picture? This is so cute."

Emilia lifted her head from Y/N's shoulder, her cheeks still flushed pink. She glanced at Y/N, and when Y/N gave a small nod, Emilia grinned, "Yeah, go ahead." 

Annie squealed again, practically bouncing with excitement as she pulled out her phone and snapped a photo. Tom shook his head, but his smile was warm as he glanced at Y/N and Emilia. 

"Trust me you'll both love having this moment documented for your future wedding," Annie said with a cheeky grin. Y/N immediately blushed, and Emilia's eyes widened in surprise, her face flushing an even deeper shade of pink.

"Annie! " Tom said, grabbing her by the arm and dragging her back inside, "Leave them alone." 

"Bye, girls! You're adorable together!" Annie called out over her shoulder.

Once they were gone, Y/N let out a long exhale, her cheeks burning. Emilia was blushing furiously as well, but there was a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. 

“You know,” Y/N said, her voice soft, “this isn’t exactly how I imagined my night going.”

Emilia looked up at her, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “Better or worse?”

“Definitely better.”

“Good answer,” Emilia murmured, stepping closer, her arms wrapping around Y/N’s neck, “Now, where were we?” 

[thepringlesofblood]

so. i watched the trailers for the A:TLA live action netflix series. i went in expecting nothing, and I gotta admit some parts look intriguing. the casting, the set, the bending, the costuming, all look pretty cool. not a big fan of the cgi or how it always seems to be the dead of night in the fire nation, but i was considering watching the first episode at least, out of curiosity and mild respect.

then I saw Zuko's scar.

I thought well, it is really dark, I should wait to get a better look at it before totally freaking out.

are. are you kIDDING ME?

[important: I know nothing about this actor, this aint a dunk on him, I doubt he had a lot of input into his makeup.]

for reference, here is zuko in the OG show.

zuko’s scar isn’t a fucking bad eyeshadow job. His ear is half-melted. It takes up like 1/4-1/3 of his face. It’s not just his eye - it’s his cheekbones, it’s his forehead, it’s all down the side of his head, boy should not have a second eyebrow! I swear to god if they spend their money animating each individual hair on appa but don’t bother to get something as iconic and central to the series as zuko’s scar right? it'd be like messing up Spock's ears, except real-life people don't have Spock ears and struggle with how they are perceived by society because of it.*

*that I know of. maybe there's a secret Spock ears genetic condition I don't know about in which case I apologize

also... there was this bit. we get a quick flash of this shot

ok, we know this shot. we've seen this shot. it's the agni kai where zuko gets his scar. note the relative positions of the two people, and what the floor looks like.

then a little later, we get this shot

it's clearly the same scene. it's ozai burning zuko. but. why is there fire on both sides of zuko? it looks like he's deflecting it. like he's fighting back.

it. it is so so so important for zuko's arc and character growth that he refuses to fight his father in his first agni kai. he shows mercy when ozai does not. he is a child - he does not think to defend himself against his own father. throughout his whole arc, the whole show, but most especially season 1, it is so important to remember that the last time he showed mercy and humility, he literally got burned. that's why he's so aggressive and angry and scared and defensive.

so. why is he defending himself? is this why his scar is less pronounced? because they decided to mess with established history?

maybe we can give them the benefit of the doubt and say this is a different agni kai, or zuko re-imagining how it could've gone, or something, but like. why choose to show this then?

further rant below the cut bc its very long I haven't felt righteous fury this strong in a while

I just. I personally don’t have a facial scar or birthmark or anything, but when Hollywood sugarcoats or makes them look less “gross” or “obvious” it’s a real fuck you to people out there who do have obvious scars, birthmarks, differences, that don’t fall into the neat lines of what is considered “presentable” by the film industry. It’s important that it’s not downplayed bc then the people who see themselves in the original get betrayed by the adaptation that tells them they’re not pretty enough or that they’re “too much” to be seen on tv in live action.

Excuses I have seen thus far (mostly on reddit admittedly)

“They didn’t want to make it look too gruesome so that kids would want to watch it too" Think about that sentiment for 10 seconds, and tell me what it says to people out there who have scars like this. Are they too “scary” to be seen by children? Is their existence automatically PG-13? Something horrible and uncontrollable happened to zuko, and because of that, his life and body are irrevocably changed. People with scars like his who related to and felt seen by his representation and the way he struggles with acceptance, both by himself and by others, will receive the message that can only happen for people with less “gruesome” scars than that. Seriously.

“Of course it’s going to look different in real life vs in animation” Yes, it will. I’m not talking about the appearance of the burn necessarily, but the extent of it. The new series has it limited mostly to his eye. His ear and eyebrow are unaffected, as are his cheekbones and forehead. That is not the case in the animated show. I’m not expecting a big monochrome pink and purple blotch like there is in the OG show - animated visual shorthand is different from live action. But it should look like burned skin. And it should be as extensive as it was - it goes over his ear and eyebrow, and partway down his cheek. the whole point of it is that it’s big and unavoidable and horrifying, and that zuko was a 13 year old kid who didn’t deserve it, but now is stuck with it. That’s war. That’s what ozai is capable of.

“The makeup would be too hard” It really wouldn’t, especially not for something as important to the series as this. Zuko’s scar is central to ATLA as a whole - a symbol of the cruelty of his father and the fire nation, and more importantly his survival and eventual resistance to it. Even if it did take extra time to apply, which I don’t think it would, I’d say it’d be worth it. I’ve seen cosplays and Halloween costumes [and this excellent fan film] without access to a professional makeup and prosthetics team that looked closer to show accurate than what they’ve currently got going.

Let me also point you to examples of both comparable and much more dramatic makeup/prosthetics used regularly (as in every episode, every week, for many years) on 2 shows with smaller budgets, older technology (as in, from the 1990s), and many more seasons: Star Trek: the next generation & ds9

trust me. they can do it. this is a choice.

“What it if made it hard for him to act?” See above for examples of other actors in much more dramatic prosthetics crushing it.

"Well at least it's better than the other live action adaptation"

that CANNOT be the bar we measure things by. standing still and doing nothing is also better than getting brained with a shovel: that doesn't mean it's good.

"He has darker skin than the animated Zuko. the burn probably blends in more."

that's not how burn scars work. it's not just a darkening of the skin - the skin itself is fundamentally changed in texture and color. and again, even if the burn has a different general appearance, it should at least be as big and extensive as it is in the OG show, and it's clearly not.

“They probably didn’t want to shave his eyebrow” No, really I saw this as a point on a Reddit post. Drag queens and cosplayers have been making their eyebrows disappear and reappear for decades without access to a professional makeup and prosthetics team. He’ll be fine I swear.

[blazingstar29]

It fucking sucks for everyone involved. Mav knows that and the longer this apocalyptic (that's how it feels, at least) goes on he also knows the harder it is to follow the rules. But he knows that it means it keeps Ice safe, that's all that matters. The treatment is rigorous enough, but their self-enforced isolation abolishes their creature comforts. No late night cuddling, morning forehead kisses.

Taking leave for treatment cut out a lot of Ice's contact with the general public, but for Mav his world keeps ticking. The Darkstar is a year away now, from being finished and it's all coming down to crunch time. The supply chain market is affecting even military orders from suppliers, the dead line feels like it's getting extended every week. It means that every day he's out dealing with people whilst the rest of the world is locked up. He's metres away from people, masked to the nines and face shielded.

He's this close to showering in Dettol. Because of his exposure, he and Ice made the decision three weeks ago that whilst Ice underwent another round of treatment it's better that they not risk Mav carrying something into their home. It's left Maverick confined to his barracks. The mess hall is...other wordly. He's never seen it so empty. Every where is empty, sectioned off.

It's wearing his patience thin. Maybe that's why he lost his shit.

They're young, maybe with young parents and young grandparents and over all boringly healthy family. Maybe they just couldn't take the dystopian world anymore and just needed to talk to someone without a mask. Maverick doesn't care.

Two of them in the common room, masks down. A half metre apart. Maverick walks past, tired, missing Ice and just at the end of his tether. He falters, doesn't recognise them. Maybe the anger forces their identities from his mind.

"Are you fucking stupid?" He spits, feeling his breath fill his N95 mask. "Are you fucking stupid?"

The ensigns jump apart and pull their masks up but it's too late.

"If I see you doing that shit again you are gone. Do you understand me?"

They nod joltingly. But it's not enough. He's angry.

"We are the gold standard. The fucking NAVY. I'm on the phone every fucking night with Admirals, congressman. The country is looking to us to see their patriotic fucking aviators doing the right thing. I get this is hard, believe me. I'm here, protecting my husband by isolating from him as he undergoes cancer treatment. I don't want to see this shit ever again. You transmit the virus, and they die, it's on you. You carried it, you killed them. Get to your fucking barracks."

The ensigns scram and he's left breathing hard, tears pricking his eyes.

That night he's sending a voice message to Ice when his husband sends a message first.

I: I heard you lost it today.

"...The supply- Yeah I did," he continues in the voice message. "Couple of ensigns standing close without masks on in the common area. Told them they'd be gone if I caught them doing that shit again."

He sends a message and waits for Ice to hear it and text back.

I: Yeah no, Hollywood caught wind of the whole thing. Test, isolate, come home. Just for a while. We can forget the word for a while.

M: I will when you finnish immunotherapy. I'll take leave, let Hondo watch the darkstar for me.

I: We'll watch the world burn together

--

inspired by this post by @fist-of-the-fleet

paraphrased quotes from tom cruises covid rant if yal couldn't tell

[talktomeinclexa]

The Royal Guard

By: TalktomeinClexa

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Gun violence, Blood and Injury

Status: WIP

Summary: Princess Clarke of Arkadia is kidnapped by mercenaries while on a visit to one of the kingdom's cities. Her abductors treat her well enough, but everything becomes more complicated when their client orders them to execute her. Lexa thought this was just another job. High risk, high pay. But when push comes to shove, will she betray her orders or her heart?

***

Chapter 3: Complications

The servants stepped aside as King Jake strode down the corridors on autopilot, an ashen look on his face. A valet, too focused on moving a precious vase so it stood exactly in the middle of an 18th-century marble dresser, almost bumped into him before jumping as if he had been burned.

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” he stuttered, his tomato-red face angled toward his feet.

But the king’s mind reeled with the news whispered in his ear by one of his advisers a few minutes before. Already ten steps away, he waved dismissively without turning back to acknowledge the apology. Or his fault in the matter.

He stormed inside a well-guarded room on the second floor of the Palace, where part of his Council had assembled.

“What do we know?” he asked, the door still ajar behind him.

If he had had any hope the whole situation was but a mere sick joke, it died at the sight of the faces looking back at him, suffused with gravity.

“My men are going through the scene as we speak,” Charles Pike said. Once the king had taken his place at the head of the table, the Chief of Intelligence continued. “We know Her Royal Highness Princess Clarke was kidnapped half an hour ago while she was leaving Reim’s Art Museum. At least five masked individuals entered the museum, subdued the guards, and opened fire. Two of the princess’s bodyguards were critically injured. Major Byrne also is in surgery, although her wounds are not life-threatening. She reported that the Princess wasn’t hurt during the attack and bravely surrendered so their lives would be spared. The curator, Mr. Wallace, is still in shock but suffered no harm.”

King Jake nodded at the unimpassioned report, his jaw clenching when Pike mentioned his daughter surrendering. Regardless of what the Geneva Convention said, if he caught the people who had dared to go after her, there would be hell to pay.

“Have the kidnappers contacted us? Asked for a ransom of any sort?”

Pike shook his head, his brows furrowed. “Not yet, Your Majesty. We are monitoring all channels for contact, either with us or between them and possible accomplices.”

Nature had blessed the Arkadian monarch. Tall, intelligent, with deep blue eyes, flaxen hair, and a strong jaw worthy of a Hollywood actor, King Jake had spent years in the Army before ascending to the throne. Even at 50 years old, he remained fit and handsome, but the news hit him hard, making him suddenly look every bit his age.

Everyone knew the king and queen adored their daughters. Few royal families were as united and warm, in public and in private. If anything were to happen to Princess Clarke, her parents and younger sister would never be the same again.

Keep reading

[arc-misadventures]

The kingdom of lunaris link keeps sending me to the tumblr website when I’m on the app

All of them are messed up!

Half of the links are gone! I have to do a ton of work to fix it all! It may take me days to fix everything!!

Make back ups of every posts, categorize them by story, pairing, or whatever damn thing I can think of.

And, then I have to make sure I get them in the right bloody order on the master posts!

At least I can whittle them down via the tags, but that's not really going to work considering I never did more than basic tags.

If you don't hear from me; assume I've gone mad, and gone to burn, Hollywood to the fucking ground.

That, or I've lost myself playing, Frostpunk for several hours straight again. Either one works.

[sa7abnews]

'Twisters' whips up lessons for Disney and far-left Hollywood

New Post has been published on https://sa7ab.info/2024/08/12/twisters-whips-up-lessons-for-disney-and-far-left-hollywood/

'Twisters' whips up lessons for Disney and far-left Hollywood

With then-Tropical Storm Debby moving off and up the west coast of Florida, I convinced my wife that it was the perfect time to see the movie “Twisters” again. I surmised that with wind gusts consistently over 40 mph and torrential rain, we would have the movie theater to ourselves.Boy, was I wrong. A full two weeks after the movie’s release, the theater was sold out. What?As we quickly grabbed two seats with more people flowing in by the second, I began to talk to the people around me as we waited for the previews. I spoke with two families and three couples. My question being: “What brings you out to this movie in this weather?”NYT CONTRIBUTOR ARGUES ‘TWISTERS’ TORNADO MOVIE ‘FAILED US’ WITH LACK OF CLIMATE CHANGE MESSAGINGFive of the people gave me a variation of the same answer: “No politics. No lectures from the left. Just word of mouth that it is great entertainment.”All true. Again, my wife and I first saw the film two weeks ago when it premiered. Like millions of Americans, over the last number of years I have come to dread going to the movies because many are infused with far-left taking points and lectures. Worse, many will openly insult those who don’t agree with their leftist or “woke” narratives. The last time I checked, lecturing and insulting potentially half of your viewing audience was not the best way to create a hit movie or make a profit for your investors. And as we have seen over the last few years, Disney and other liberal to far-left movie studios have seen film after film crash and burn at the box office as they have collectively lost billions of dollars.COUNTRY MUSIC STARS RECORD SONGS FOR ‘TWISTERS’ SOUNDTRACK, SOME MAY ALREADY BE ON YOUR PLAYLISTWith “Twisters” being a film dealing with adverse and dangerous weather conditions, I was, at the very least, waiting for the tiresome lecture about “climate change” from those behind the film. It never came. The film has a racially and ethnically diverse cast. Which is wonderful. Not only did I see that as a reflection of America, but of my own greater family which is racially diverse, spiritually diverse, sexually diverse, and even home country diverse. A true and wonderful melting pot of Americans. But Americans who choose to go to the movies to be entertained. Americans who work hard, face constant struggles, and don’t want to pay precious money to see a movie that lectures them or tells them they are intellectually inferior to the far-left directors, actors, producers and writers behind the movie.’TWISTERS’ DIRECTOR REJECTS CALLS FOR CLIMATE CHANGE LECTURE IN NEW TORNADO MOVIE: WON’T ‘PREACH’ TO AUDIENCELee Isaac Chung, the exceptionally talented director of the film, pushed back hard against far-left criticism that his movie didn’t pound “climate change” at every opportunity. Said Chung, in part: “I just wanted to make sure that with the movie, we don’t ever feel like (it) is putting forward any message. I just don’t feel like films are meant to be message-oriented.”Amen, brother. Glen Powell – the co-star of the film led by Daisy Edgar-Jones – addressed some of that counter-productive trend by some in Hollywood in an article for The Telegraph. Said Powell, in part:  “Having grown up in and around Texas, I’m aware there are vast parts of America that have been underserved in terms of movies that they want to see. You sort of have New York and Los Angeles making the decisions about what gets made, but there’s a whole lot more audience out there you need to think about.”CLICK HERE FOR MORE FOX NEWS OPINIONHe then very politely cut to the chase with regard to some in his business lecturing or speaking down to their audience: “First and foremost, because if you’re telling people what to think, you’re not allowing them to feel. You can’t put people into that heightened state if they’re thinking, ‘Hmm, do I or do I not agree with this message?’”From his lips to the far-left and “woke” ears of Disney CEO Bob Iger and others in Hollywood who seemingly can’t stand half the people in the United States of America. To his great credit, legendary director and producer Steven Spielberg – who is the executive producer of “Twisters” – does seem to understand Powell’s subtle warning to his industry.And as for Powell and director Chung being on to something, I give you a packed theater showing “Twisters” as a tropical storm played havoc with the weather. A theater that was full because of the word of mouth was: “No politics. No lectures. Just great entertainment.””Word of mouth.” Now there’s a concept.We will soon see if far-left Hollywood learns that valuable – and profitable – lesson. As they process some unassailable truths, go see the movie “Twisters.” It’s made for you.CLICK HERE TO READ MORE FROM DOUGLAS MACKINNON

[seitmai]

Ok these two always make me cry so obviously I have a lot of things to say...

You spent more time at Jake’s side than you did in your own hospital room. It often got you in trouble. There was even one particular time when you were still in a wheelchair, where you’d decided to take yourself down the hall to see him. It didn’t go over very well with the orderlies. Your team of doctors and nurses alike were furious with you. But they understood the burning desire to be with the one you loved. They understood and could recognise the early stages of post-traumatic stress disorder. They could see the signs of codependency. They could see that you were more at ease by Jake Seresin’s side than you were by yourself.

That's rough 💔 but after all they have been through together, this is the least thing to worry about imo

Once he asked he couldn’t take back such a charged question. “Was there ever a moment where you wished–” He didn’t have to finish his sentence for you to know what he was asking.  “Every day,” You interrupted as you sat perched in the world’s most unsupportive, uncomfortable hospital chair known to man. “I prayed for death more than I prayed to be rescued, Rooster.” You knew Bradley was prepared to hear you say that, he wouldn’t have bothered to ask if he didn’t already believe to some extent that you would have prayed for the sweet release of death.

Bradley probably had a hinge on what the answer would be, but I think it's important that he heard it, to truly understand better why she is clinging to Jake's side like a lifeline because to her all these months it has been and still is

Again you couldn’t help but to laugh, this time with more intention. Bradley could see it in your eyes though, you wished Jake was awake to laugh at his own stupidity with you. 

🥺🥺🥺

“He even hated the way she ate her food, with purpose and intention.” Bradley laughed to himself as he looked down at where Jake was lying unresponsive in his hospital bed. “Mother fucker had hate confused with love though.”  “What do you mean?” “He loves everything about you Hollywood,” Bradley sighed as he tried to keep the tears in his eyes from welling too much. It wasn’t his time to cry. No. For you, he had to be strong. “I can remember giving him so much shit for it, he was droning on about how he hated the way you always beat him at his own game.” You could feel the heat in your cheeks rising as Rooster crouched down before you. His hands were gentle atop your blanket-covered knees. “Han–Jake, loved you before he even knew he loved you.” 

They were just meant to be... in another universe they might just have been enemies to lovers, slowburn, a drunk hook up after an evening at the Hard Deck and Jake figuring out that his hate is love and reveal it. But after all and no matter what, ending up together, as they should be and are in every universe 🫶🏻

“Uh, I really think you should just get maybe like, a solid half an hour at the minimum?” Bradley replied as he stood with his hands resting slightly cunty on his hips. “Jake would–” Before Rooster got the chance to finish, you deadpanned him. His blood ran cold when you glared his way. A look he never wanted to be on the receiving end of ever again. 

That look just sounds haunting, so there is no comparison to receiving it

“They made Jake watch a lot of things happen to me,” Bradley had no idea where you were going with this. But he chose to listen regardless. “They made him watch them rape me, over and over again.” You paused just to listen to Jake’s heart rate monitor. The rhythmic beeping soothed your troubled heart in a way you felt ungrateful to experience. Sure Jake was in the hospital after being held as a prisoner of war…but at least he was alive. 

But are least he was alive 😭💔🥺

“They forced him to hurt me, they used him against me in ways I wish I could describe to you right now,” You began to shake your head as your tears ricocheted down your heated cheeks. “‘Don’t look away. Don’t look away Seresin’–on goddamn repeat, while I was cut and used and beaten until I could barely breathe and without fail after everything was said and done he was still there.” Bradley could very much see you unraveling right before him. He didn’t recognise the look in your eye. He chose to take a few cautious steps back towards the door, giving you some space and himself some distance. “He was there for me to crawl home to even when I couldn’t see,” Your voice softened as you looked over at Jake. Bradley saw it, the moment your eyes caught the rise and fall of Jakes chest. God, it broke his heart. All of this did. 

Not just Bradley's 💔

“So no–” You hissed. “I will not be leaving his side and I will not sleep until I get to tell him that I love him and not until I get to see him wake up,” You explained for the last time. You were sick and tired of people telling you to rest. To sleep. To take care of yourself. They didn’t know what you had been through. They didn’t understand what you were going through. They didn’t understand what it was like to witness torture, to experience hell day in and day out. “Do you understand?”   

Oh no this is not good..

“Let go of me!” You cried out as a handful of nurses approached Jake’s room. They saw the look of utter shock plastered across Bradley’s face. “LET ME GO!” You shouted again as you violently kicked and thrashed against Rooster as your feet left the ground. “I don’t know what I said to set her off like this?” Explaining himself to the nurses, Bradley held you tight as you fought against him. “JAKE!!!” You cried out in unimaginable terror. 

Bone chilling and heartbreaking at the same time 🥺💔

“She’s in a bad way, they both are.” Rooster groaned in frustration. Not at you or Jake, but at the situation as a whole. “Someone needs to be held responsible for all of this.”  “I’m just the night nurse, Lieutenant Bradshaw,” One of the nurses replied much to Roosters’ shock.

Lol what did he expect she would say

He was venting more so than looking for a response. “But if I were gonna start somewhere, I’d start with having a conversation with her father.” 

Uhhh I wanna know more about this 🤔🧐

Day Twenty Two [Do Not Look Away]

Summary: After the events of Bruises, Bradley comes face to face with his new reality. You’re experiencing a physical manifestation of PTSD and Jake’s still in a coma.

Warnings: Jake Seresin x F!reader. Mentions of death. Mentions of Sexual assault/rape. Mentions of torture/violence. Bad medical portrayals. PTSD induced psychosis

Word Count: 2.7k

Whumptober Prompt Day Twenty-Two: Forced (to kneel/watch/hurt somebody else), whipped, “Do not look away.”

Author Note: Please make sure you read the warnings provided. Disclaimer: I do not condone nor endorse the actions that are written about during the month of October. These works of fiction are just that, fiction and should be treated as such. Thank you to @ailesswhumptober for this year's prompt list.

Whumptober Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Bruises Masterlist

In a recent experiment, scientists observed that single human cells in a petri dish will seek each other out…and adhere to each other to form new connections. When cells team up, they become stronger. They thrive and evolve and eventually become something that their single selves ever could have been alone. 

“I don’t want to pry,” Bradley’s voice broke through the deafening silence that lingered between the two of you as you sat at Jake’s beside. The only other sounds that filtered through were the humming of life-saving machines and the incessant beeping of medical equipment. “I can’t even begin to relate to what you’ve both been through,” Bradley continued as you looked over to where he was standing. Right at the foot of Jake’s hospital bed.

You spent more time at Jake’s side than you did in your own hospital room. It often got you in trouble. There was even one particular time when you were still in a wheelchair, where you’d decided to take yourself down the hall to see him. It didn’t go over very well with the orderlies. Your team of doctors and nurses alike were furious with you. But they understood the burning desire to be with the one you loved. They understood and could recognise the early stages of post-traumatic stress disorder. They could see the signs of codependency. 

They could see that you were more at ease by Jake Seresin’s side than you were by yourself. Once your primary doctor had signed off on it, you were essentially treated at Jake’s bedside permanently. Screw hospital policies and politics. 

Rooster’s hands gripped the railing at the end of the bed with such a force you thought his grip alone might crumple the metal. But it never wavered. The metal held strong under the pressure Bradley was putting it under. Much like Jake who never gave up on you. 

“But–” Bradley paused one final time before the question left his mouth forever. Once he asked he couldn’t take back such a charged question. “Was there ever a moment where you wished–” He didn’t have to finish his sentence for you to know what he was asking. 

“Every day,” You interrupted as you sat perched in the world’s most unsupportive, uncomfortable hospital chair known to man. “I prayed for death more than I prayed to be rescued, Rooster.” You knew Bradley was prepared to hear you say that, he wouldn’t have bothered to ask if he didn’t already believe to some extent that you would have prayed for the sweet release of death. “But Jake kept me going even when I wanted to die.”

“I–” Even though Bradley knew that answer was coming, it didn’t make it any easier to hear. “I’m so sorry, Y/n,” Bradley sighed as he shook his head in disbelief. “It should have been me.” 

“I wouldn’t wish any of this on my worst enemy, Bradshaw,” You replied as you shivered in the cool of Jake’s bleak hospital room. Rooster saw and quickly made his way over to where spare blankets and pillows were thrown haphazardly. They sat crumpled in a pile on a forgotten chair never used by the neverending list of visitors that cycled through. 

“Oh, you don’t have to do that.” You tried to tell Bradley as he collected a spare blanket. “Rooster–” 

“You know, I remember not long before the mission rolled around,” Rooster explained as he placed the blanket over you. Covering your legs enough to maintain some warmth. “Jake got obliterated one night at the Hard Deck, so much so that Penny actually got a few of us to just drag him out to the front deck by his ankles.” 

You couldn’t help but to chuckle. You were mourning the loss of the version of Jake Seresin you hardly got to know before the mission. But you would have liked to bear witness to some more of his antics. However, you had tried your best to stay clear when you didn’t need to be in his direct vicinity. 

“Sounds like something he’d do.” You smiled softly all the while you looked over your shoulder to where Jake lay still heavily sedated and comatosed. “I miss him so much.” 

“I drove him home that night,” Bradley continued on as he made sure you were warmer than you had been moments before. “He was rambling about some woman, you know, in between when he had his head out the window of the Bronco pealing the paint off with his bile.” 

Again you couldn’t help but to laugh, this time with more intention. Bradley could see it in your eyes though, you wished Jake was awake to laugh at his own stupidity with you. 

“He told me about this woman, how he couldn’t stand her,” Rooster explained as a frown plastered itself across your face. “He couldn’t stand anything about her really, from her smile to the way she laughed without fear of ridicule to the way she just knew how to call him on bullshit before anyone else could,” 

“Why are you telling me this?” You asked with a tone laced with something you didn’t recognise. Rooster knew exactly what it was though. It was jealousy. It was the all-consuming green goblin called jealousy. Who was this other woman Jake was talking about in his drunken rambling and why was she on his mind? 

“He even hated the way she ate her food, with purpose and intention.” Bradley laughed to himself as he looked down at where Jake was lying unresponsive in his hospital bed. “Mother fucker had hate confused with love though.” 

“What do you mean?��� 

“He loves everything about you Hollywood,” Bradley sighed as he tried to keep the tears in his eyes from welling too much. It wasn’t his time to cry. No. For you, he had to be strong. “I can remember giving him so much shit for it, he was droning on about how he hated the way you always beat him at his own game.” You could feel the heat in your cheeks rising as Rooster crouched down before you. His hands were gentle atop your blanket-covered knees. “Han–Jake, loved you before he even knew he loved you.” 

“What if he doesn’t wake up, Roo?” tears rolled down your face through a pained smile. It was nice to know Jake truly did love you before he saw hell’s most horrible torture performed against you. But it made the fact he wasn’t awake so much harder to handle. “What if he–”

“He will,” Bradley replied as he reached up to wipe the stray tears streaming down your cheeks. “He wouldn’t leave you behind, not after everything you’ve been through, alright?” Rooster wanted confirmation from you. He wanted you to nod. He wanted to see that you were listening to what he was actually saying. “He loves you too much to leave you now, he wouldn’t do that to you, not after fighting every day to keep you two alive.” 

“I wanna be able to tell him that I love him too,” You sobbed in your chair all the while Bradley did his best to comfort you. He looked up at your own monitor. The one that told all the doctors and nurses what your heart was doing. What your stats were. You were still hooked up to IV fluids. “I just wanna hear his voice again.” 

Bradley let the silence linger for a moment as he stood. He couldn’t deny how tired you looked. How weak your movement pattern was. He saw the exhaustion written in between the lines on your face. You needed to rest. You needed to sleep. But getting you to agree to head back to bed even just for an hour would be a battle Rooster wasn’t sure he’d win. 

But you were the woman Jake Seresin loved. A title Bradley would never have but would envy from a viewpoint just shy of the front row. He would forever force himself to watch the man he loved love another human with all the fire and grace he had to offer. Bradley swore that he’d never look away from the gift he’d been given. The gift of witnessing his best friend fall in love. Get married. Have children perhaps. He wanted to be right there in the thick of it. 

So he needed to be your person, even just for a little while. For Jake. For Hangman. For the sandy blonde with the emerald eyes across the bar. For the aviator who knew how to get on his last nerve. For the man who’d risked his life to save his. For the best friend, he never realised he’d lost and subsequently found again. 

“I want you to know I suggest this with so much respect,” Bradley sighed. He tensed a little as if he was bracing for impact. “But I reckon Jake would want me to tell you to get some rest.” 

You listened to what Bradley was saying. His words were something comforting amidst all the pain and suffering you’d endured. He was, if anything, a good friend. You knew that Jake would never truly regret his decision to put his life on the line to save his wingman. But it would be a decision that haunted him every night. Every morning. Every second that passed him by where he had to live in a world where he’d seen you experience the worst of what humanity had to offer. 

And you understood why he was telling you to get some rest. But you couldn’t sleep when your mind would get stuck on a loop. Replaying all the hurt. The pain. The suffering. All in HD while your body tried to recover. 

The mind is dark, wonderful and weird. But the last thing you wanted was your subconscious at the helm. 

“No.” It was a complete sentence. No follow up required. But Rooster thought otherwise. 

“Uh, I really think you should just get maybe like, a solid half an hour at the minimum?” Bradley replied as he stood with his hands resting slightly cunty on his hips. “Jake would–” Before Rooster got the chance to finish, you deadpanned him. His blood ran cold when you glared his way. A look he never wanted to be on the receiving end of ever again. 

“They made Jake watch a lot of things happen to me,” Bradley had no idea where you were going with this. But he chose to listen regardless. “They made him watch them rape me, over and over again.” You paused just to listen to Jake’s heart rate monitor. The rhythmic beeping soothed your troubled heart in a way you felt ungrateful to experience. Sure Jake was in the hospital after being held as a prisoner of war…but at least he was alive. 

“They forced him to watch every time, and said it was always his fault.” Bradley’s heart sank at the thought of having to go through that, let alone watch it unfold. The levels of physical and psychological torture you were describing were almost unbearable to listen to. But for you, he would. “But he never gave them what they wanted. Jake never gave up on me even when he could have.” 

“Y/n–” Again Bradley tried to speak. But you kept talking over him. Just trying to get your point across. 

“They forced him to hurt me, they used him against me in ways I wish I could describe to you right now,” You began to shake your head as your tears ricocheted down your heated cheeks. “‘Don’t look away. Don’t look away Seresin’–on goddamn repeat, while I was cut and used and beaten until I could barely breathe and without fail after everything was said and done he was still there.” Bradley could very much see you unraveling right before him. He didn’t recognise the look in your eye. He chose to take a few cautious steps back towards the door, giving you some space and himself some distance. 

“He was there for me to crawl home to even when I couldn’t see,” Your voice softened as you looked over at Jake. Bradley saw it, the moment your eyes caught the rise and fall of Jakes chest. God, it broke his heart. All of this did. 

“So no–” You hissed. “I will not be leaving his side and I will not sleep until I get to tell him that I love him and not until I get to see him wake up,” You explained for the last time. You were sick and tired of people telling you to rest. To sleep. To take care of yourself. They didn’t know what you had been through. They didn’t understand what you were going through. They didn’t understand what it was like to witness torture, to experience hell day in and day out. “Do you understand?”   

Bradley didn’t respond right away. He simply looked at you with a look you didn’t want to be on the receiving end of. One of sympathy. One of pity. So you snapped. “I said DO YOU UNDERSTAND!?” Your voice echoed down the hall as Rooster backed away even more. He placed his hands where you could see him as if he wanted you to know he wasn’t there to hurt you. 

“Hollywood, take it easy.” Rooster cooed. “It’s me, Rooster.” 

“Get me out of here!” You screamed all the while clawing at the wires and tubes attached to various parts of you. Your arms, chest, stomach. “Let me go!” 

“NURSE!” Bradley called down the hall towards the nurse’s station. He turned his back for five seconds only to turn around to witness you trying to pull the vent from Jake’s throat. The one helping him to breathe. The life-saving piece of equipment you were now messing with. “Fuck! Y/n!” 

“I’ve got you,” You cried as you tried to save Jake. Not understanding you were in the middle of a panic attack mixed with exhaustion. “I’ll save you, I’m here.” 

“Hollywood!” Rooster wrapped his arms around your torso from behind. “Stop it, you’re in the hospital!” 

“Let go of me!” You cried out as a handful of nurses approached Jake’s room. They saw the look of utter shock plastered across Bradley’s face. “LET ME GO!” You shouted again as you violently kicked and thrashed against Rooster as your feet left the ground. 

“I don’t know what I said to set her off like this?” Explaining himself to the nurses, Bradley held you tight as you fought against him. 

“JAKE!!!” You cried out in unimaginable terror. 

“She’s having an attack again,” One of the nurses explained as she jabbed you with a sedative. “Anything will trigger her right now.” 

Bradley listened to your screams get weaker as your body grew heavier in his embrace. He knew you were gone the second your head lulled to the side. 

“She’s in a bad way, they both are.” Rooster groaned in frustration. Not at you or Jake, but at the situation as a whole. “Someone needs to be held responsible for all of this.” 

“I’m just the night nurse, Lieutenant Bradshaw,” One of the nurses replied much to Roosters’ shock. He was venting more so than looking for a response. “But if I were gonna start somewhere, I’d start with having a conversation with her father.” 

Rooster took that note onboard as he carried you back down the hall towards where your empty hospital bed was. A room just as bleak as Jake’s. 

“I got you alright?” Bradley sighed as he laid you down, taking notice of how at peace you looked. So content. So…Sedated. “I’ve got you and I’ve got Jake.” As the nurses followed him in to fix up your machines and copious wires, Rooster took a moment to sit in his torture. Reminding himself of the promise he’d made. “Always.” 

We are an extension of our cells. Just like them, we are programmed to find others…to reach out to one another and find nourishment and love. Much like our cells, we’re not meant to be alone. So once we find each other…

We try our best to hold onto what we’ve got. Even after horrific petri dish experiments.

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

[porchlightfairy]

𝕋𝕙𝕖 ℕ𝕖𝕨 𝔸𝕡𝕒𝕣𝕥𝕞𝕖𝕟𝕥

summary: You and Eddie make it to your new apartment and spend the first and second night there.

a/n: a shorty but a goody it’s the first chapter of a mini-series.

New Life Fresh Start masterlist

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──

It was nearly three and a half days of driving from Hawkins, Indiana to sunny Los Angeles, California for you and Eddie. You would drive during the day and Eddie would drive at night. Several pit stops, one flat tire, and a motel night stay, you couldn’t wait to arrive.

You are nudged awake by Eddie and you open your eyes to see it was still dark out. You look at him with a pout of confusion. He looks over at you and smiles, “Hey,” he whispers, “We’re here.” You sit up and see out the window several highway signs showing Hollywood and Los Angeles. You smile and open up the map you had marked for the trip, “Get off at the next exit.” Eddie listens to your instructions all the way to the apartment that you would be renting. It was rather dingy in the dark and near the highway overpass.

You both get out of the truck and stretch your limbs before going into the building to find your apartment. You arrive at the door and dig into your pocket and dangle the keys in front of Eddie, “You ready?” He smiles down at you before holding out his elbow to you, “As I’ll ever be.”

“Welcome to the new chapter of our lives.” You say as you unlock the door and throw it open. You flick on the light switch and a single bulb buzzes to life in the center of the room. Inside was a bit underwhelming, to say the least. There was a table and a single chair in the corner, and a couch in the living room area but it was bursting at the seams of the cushions. The kitchen had a yellow tinge when the light was on and all the burners were crooked on the stove.

“Okay, I know it’s pretty bad, but we did get it on the real cheap. I thought it would be nice to have and fix up together.” You say as you hold Eddie’s waist. His face looked between the stages of disgust and concern. You pout a little. “It’s not that bad, is it?”

He takes a deep breath, “No, but you’re right, we can figure this out together.” You squeal and hug him tightly, “Good! Now let’s check out the bedroom.” You tug him to the single bedroom revealing a fairly clean bare mattress on a wooden bed frame. “The landlord gave it to us for free!”

Eddie looks down at your giddy face, “It’s perfect.” He then pulls you onto the mattress and lays down, “Now, let’s sleep. Tomorrow we can unpack.” You snuggle against him and close your eyes. You hear his heartbeat and the sound of his breathing. You’re happy to hear it. You notice the scars around his neck and the side of his face. You let out a sigh of relief. You’re so glad that he’s alive and here with you now. After he sacrificed himself nearly dying in the upside down in the process, you were terrified. He was put in the hospital for a few days afterward, but now he was safe back in your arms again.

The next day, you and Eddie unload the truck and unpack into the apartment. It was sweltering hot outside and it was no better in the apartment. You were on the third floor and were burning up in front of a single small oscillating fan and an open window.

Eddie groans as the fan move from him to you, “It’s hot as hell.” He pops the bottom of his shirt to let a breeze in. Unfortunately, due to the portals opening and spreading in Hawkins, Eddie’s trailer was destroyed with all his stuff. You had to go to the donation boxes and fish out as much as you could for Eddie. None of it was his style and it was a miracle to find his size. He was wearing a white tank top and some blue jeans. You liked the way his arms look in the shirt. You sit and stare admiring him in the glow of the sun. Sweat gleaned over his face, he lifts the shirt to wipe it off and you look down to see the tender scars down his torso.

He notices you staring, “Like what you see?”

“I do actually.” You laugh, “Oh yeah.” You crawl to his side and kiss him gently. Eddie’s smile grows as you kiss. He touches the small of your back and then laughs. You pull away and tilt your head, “What’s so funny?” He leans back and moves some strands of hair that were stuck to your face and neck with sweat.

“You’re all sweaty.” He chuckles. You scoff and shove him away.

“Not like you aren’t any better. Your shirt is soaked.” You point to his shirt. He looks down and you flick his nose with your finger. He looks at you taken aback before tackling you to the floor. He flutters his fingers up and down your sides, tickling you to death. You screech and writhe underneath him, “Eddie, it’s too hot for this!”

“Oh, can't take the heat now?” He chuckles at the sounds you were making. He then grabs the sides of your face and rubs sweat from his face onto yours.

“Eddie!” You squeal and claw at his shirt, “Uncle! Uncle! I give up you win.”

With a look of triumph, he sits up satisfied. You lay underneath him out of breath but still smiling. It was nice to see him being his normal self. Just days ago, he was on death's door and now he was smiling. You sit up and kiss him again. “Let’s take a cool shower, Get this stinky sweat off.” He nods and stands up first before helping you off the floor. Then he follows you to the bathroom to shower.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──

Later in the night, you lay in bed with Eddie who was now fast asleep. He did most of the heavy lifting so it was well deserved. He had his arm around you, strapping you to the bed like a rollercoaster bar. You were still awake, reading over your college’s booklet. School life, the different majors, and things of that likeness. You feel Eddie’s arm around you flex a few times. You think nothing of it until he jerks you closer.

You look over to see his serene face has changed to one of distress. His breath quickens and his rows furrow. He twitches and clenches harder around you. Quickly, you set down the book and lay down next to him, petting his hair and rubbing his face. “You’re okay, Eddie, you’re okay.” You gently kiss his forehead, “You’re safe, baby, you’re safe.”

He relaxes under your touch. His grip loosens. You turn off the light and lay down next to him continuing to soothe him. You snuggle closer and rub his back, “I’m right here.” A faint smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. You kiss him gingerly before falling asleep in his arms.

[imtheiliad]

No. 10 "please. please just listen to me." For Buddie for the romantic confession prompts 🥺

also for @xjustonemoremiraclex who requested #26 as well :) coma!buck is real to me, hollywood coma/ medical inaccuracies, and i promise it's not as angsty as it could be~enjoy~ 10. "please. please just listen to me." 26."please...say something."

Eddie never thought he'd come that close again. Sure there was the truck, and the embolism, but so much has changed since those things. And he knows that Buck has been in his shoes three too many times since then, well, not exactly in his shoes he doesn't think. Unless his best friend had been in love with him for the past 3 years. Yeah, who's he kidding himself with that one. So he sits in the hospital for far too long, Maddie and Bobby are the ones that force him to go home the most often. He brings Christopher a few times. and sometimes life cannot be avoided. And he hates that. It feels weird to be navigating the world without Buck at least smiling brightly somewhere in it. But he sits in the chair, and the nurses know him by name, and they never question who he is to Buck. And he talks to him. Tells him about the calls they've been on, what Christopher's science projects are, and the grade he got on the short story for English class. It's been three weeks, and Eddie is getting desperate. "Please. Please just listen to me. We need you. Not just all of us as a unit, we do, but," he pauses and swallows past the burning lump in his throat, "I need you, Buck. So please, if you can hear me, come back to me, listen to me tell you that you don't need to go. The world is so much brighter with you in it, we are better off because of you. I am. Please, I can't do this again. I can't lose another person. Not you. Especially not you. And I can't regret not saying this to you at least once, so I-" Buck's hand twitches in his, and he snaps his head up to Buck's face where his eyes land on blue that is dulled but still holds that sparkle that is indelible. "Please...say something. I'm not gonna believe it until you do." Buck just stares past him at the tray where the water pitcher and glass have been waiting. "Oh! I, yeah. I got it." Buck pats his hand to tell him it's okay and thank you. Eddie waits nervously as Buck downs the entire plastic cup, asks for another one and finally clears his throat. "Were you really going to just do what I thought you were going to do?" his voice is fragile and a half raspy whisper. "What do you think I was about to do?" Eddie does not squeak. "I think you were going to do something ridiculously stupid. So stupid in fact it pulled me out of a coma because I know we deserve better than a cold, artificial hospital room. You deserve better. And I want to be wearing better clothes." Eddie sits there processing each word carefully, "So you..." Buck nods, "and you want to..." Buck nods again. "Turns out coma dreams can be very enlightening." Buck smiles and Eddie smiles back holding Buck's hand like he's afraid to let go.

[thepringlesofblood]

Major ACOC Spoilers

so, there are a few posts out there pointing out two math errors in acoc ep9 - Liam’s damage to Ciabatta being miscounted as 67 instead of 77, and Jet’s riposte for 13 damage not hitting Ciabatta when it should’ve. this is true. this might lead one to wonder, “well, if those extra 23 points of damage were counted, would Ciabatta be dead? would Jet have lived?”

I wanna clear things up for all of yall who are watching ACOC for the first time after the ravening war, so i did the math (under the cut) by counting his hp in the finale as he took damage.

Ciabatta had 118 hp

it wouldn’t have made a difference. if both errors were fixed and he was dealt the full 77 + 13, he’s still walking out of there with 28 hp.

to be clear: absolutely no shade on the intrepid heroes/brennan. no one clown on this post about whether they should’ve done this or that. it was 3am in a warehouse in Hollywood on a wicked messed up shooting schedule. Jet’s death was a beautiful, emotional scene, and it’d be weird and narratively dissonant to go back and redo it bc some math was wrong.

i did this math bc my logic brain just needs to know how the numbers do for my own personal peace of mind. given the several other posts I’ve seen trying to calculate this same thing, others have the same problem. so. enjoy.

Ciabatta doesn’t physically appear in the finale until pt 2

“The last Ceresian force musters, appears at the front of the wall with Imperator Ciabatta” is at 1:33:00ish

first damage done to him is by Saccharina, when she Cone of Colds his whole force in front of the castle for 41 damage (1:37:08). it hits him and the forces he was leading, and they do not save for half.

after that we have this exchange:

Zac: Ciabatta's-

Brennan: Ciabatta is still very much alive.

Emily: Okay. He's very much alive though, he's doing really well?

Brennan: Yes.

Emily: Okay. Then just to fuck with him, I'm gonna fire breathe on him.

and she does. Cinnamon uses his breath weapon to deal 57 damage, demolishing the rest of the forces

Brennan: He does not save for half. He goes from looking wounded but okay to injured, badly injured.

then of course the final damage is done by Ruby w the water-steel dagger

Siobhan: It's 4d6.

Brennan: 4d6, he just rolled a natural 4 on his Constitution save.

Siobhan: Great, it's actually three Constitution saves. It's 12.

Brennan: 12 damage, but you also add your sneak Attack.

Ally: Oh!

Brennan: Yeah.

Siobhan: 12, 14, 16.

Brennan: More than 20?

Siobhan: Yeah.

Brennan: Standing in the burned and frozen remains of his soldiers, what happens to Imperator Ciabatta?

[as a 7th lvl rogue, Ruby has 4d6 sneak attack dice]

so, presumably, Ciabatta had 20 hp left before being stabbed.

41 + 57 + 20 = 118

now, I highlighted those exchanges for a reason. It is technically possible that Brennan was using a similar mechanic for Ciabatta leading his troops as the PCs leading theirs- being attacked as a troop by another troop does deal the commander as an individual some of the damage, but not all. so, the Cone of Cold may not have dealt all 41 points of damage to him. here’s how he’s described after the Cone of Cold

“very much alive” “doing really well”

after breath weapon “He goes from looking wounded but okay to injured, badly injured“

so it is possible that the Cone of Cold did not do full damage bc of troop mechanics. however. personally I feel like since Saccharina is not attacking as a troop but as an individual (with a dragon), it’s not troop v troop action.

fun fact: Saccharina’s breath weapon attack + Ruby’s finishing blow is 77 damage - the same amount of damage Liam (should have) done to Ciabatta in episode 9 (that didn’t take him down)

so as long as Saccharina’s Cone of Cold did more than 13 damage [Jet’s riposte] to Ciabatta (which I’d fucking think it would even w very unlikely troop mechanics), then it wouldn’t have made any difference.

and bc we know he took at the very least a non-zero amount of damage from the Cone of Cold (“wounded but okay”), nothing would’ve saved Jet. the other assassins had already hit, and even with the math fixed on Liam’s damage 77 would never have taken him down. the only difference even possible is that her 13 damage riposte might’ve downed him, but even that is extremely unlikely - Ciabatta would’ve had to take less than half damage from Cone of Cold, and he did not save.

[heliads]

All By Design Chapter Two: you don't ever say too much

Y/N L/N is Icarus incarnate, a falling star of a singer who only feels bliss when she's burning down. Nikolai Lantsov is what becomes of golden youth when finally forced into harsh reality. Both of them need something to save their reputations. The solution? A relationship to turn the tide of the tabloids. The only problem is that they really, really can't stand each other, and that makes faking endless love impossible to bear.

this chapter's song: lavender haze

chapter one / series masterlist / chapter three

This has only been going on for a week and a half, and Nikolai Lantsov can already tell that it’s not going to work out. Nine days; that’s all it took. Anyone with a brain could figure that out from the start. He certainly did. Why in the world would dating Y/N L/N of all people ever be able to solve a single thing?

He’s still infuriated about it, but at least he manages to keep his cool on the outside. Nikolai has long been used to following the script, sticking to the story until the words written for him become indistinguishable from his innermost thoughts, but this time it’s wearing at him like nothing else. Y/N L/N. Saints, if he’d heard about this even a year ago, his past self would never have been able to let him forget it.

It makes no sense, this plan. The idea is decent, but the execution is terrible. A good PR relationship never hurt a soul. It’s a classic tool, one that’s been pulled out in cases of distress about a hundred times before. Nikolai’s reputation may live and die as long as he’s still around, but even millions of years in the future, there will still be celebrities faking love to keep themselves relevant.

After all, isn’t that what Nikolai is doing? He grew tired of the way the headlines talk about him and he wanted something to change. He has always been Hollywood’s golden boy, and the moment he started to fade towards something as secondary as silver, he couldn’t take it anymore. It is dreadfully conceited, but at least one person in this fake relationship is thinking about the consequences of their actions. He doesn’t think Y/N has cared what the press thought about her since the day she was born.

She’s the polar opposite of Nikolai, to put it concisely. Few people on this earth were raised in the Lantsov household, he gets that. The first words he ever spoke were probably coaxed out of him with the sole purpose of being immediately sent to the nearest reporter. There are expectations that he has always met. His parents were famous in their own right, old world superstars who could never adequately deal with the changing of the times. They invested in Nikolai so he could handle the passage of the decades for them.

Ever since, he’s been fighting a losing battle trying to keep his family name out of the mud. If the rest of the world were content to just prop his parents up on a pedestal and let them desiccate there forever, he’d probably be far better off. Instead, Nikolai has to run himself ragged trying to make enough good decisions that the press focuses on him instead of whatever has become of his parents’ delusion of keeping the past alive.

Needless to say, it’s a lot of work to keep his ledger clean. Nikolai doesn’t know what people really think about him– do they hate him, for example, for trying so hard when they’ve given up– but he knows what they say, and that’s enough. They praise him over champagne at crowded parties and curse him over wine alone at night. It is the only thing he has ever known and it will be the only thing he will ever know. His life will stay the same until the day his heart can’t take the stress anymore and finally gives out.

Nikolai had assumed that the rest of the rich and famous would feel at least half the desire to keep his streets clean as he does, but he is quickly learning otherwise. If there was one person in the world who has an outlook on life as far removed from Nikolai’s as possible, it would probably be Y/N. Of course, she’s the woman he has to date for camera purposes. It’s as if everyone wants them to fail.

In all honesty, they probably do. He can count on a few people in this mess, but not many. Y/N has her PR officer, that relentless weapon of a woman affectionately referred to as Zoya Nazyalensky, and Nikolai has his two agents. Twins Tolya Yul-Bataar and Tamar Kir-Bataar have been at Nikolai’s side for quite some time. He doesn’t know what he’d do if they were to abandon ship, but they’ve sworn to stick by him quite a few times, so that’s at least one front on which Nikolai can rest.

Tolya and Tamar are deeply needed. There was a time in Nikolai’s life in which he was certain that he couldn’t do this, he couldn’t be his parents’ little prince with the weight of the world on his shoulders. He tried to run away, or get as far away as he possibly could given the fact that his every movement is closely followed by a sizable portion of the population. The twins found a way to keep him steady, and in the end, Nikolai is here again, still smiling at the cameras, still finding ways to stick together all his cracked pieces before someone notices.

That’s another reason Nikolai deeply needs this relationship ruse to work. If the tabloids get bored, they’ll start digging. They might even find a reason to look into why no one had heard much of him during a select period of a few years in the past. There are things that he would like to keep private, and if dating pop superstar Y/N L/N means that those secrets stay buried, well, he’ll do as good a job as any of feigning love. Nikolai has been acting his entire life. He could make anyone believe a lie, even himself.

That would make one of them committed to the act, at least. Nikolai isn’t too sure about the other party involved. He saw Y/N’s reaction firsthand to the idea of dating him, and although he can’t blame her for not being too excited about it, he needs her to get on board with the idea. She has to do this as much as he does. It would do her some good to at least try and make it work.

It’s easy to blame her for the fact that they can’t stand each other, of course. In reality, it’s not as simple as that. Nikolai is deeply biased against her, perhaps just as much as she seems to dislike him. They’re both sprinting in the other direction as fast as they can, but when their hands are tied like this, neither of them can escape for long. They’re going to be together, Saints damn it, but that doesn’t stop them from trying to fight it.

It’s been nine days of this, and already that’s nine days too long. They’re just too different, that’s all. Y/N sees Nikolai as some sort of monolith standing in the way of her own freedom. He sees her as a thunderstorm descending upon his carefully laid plans. They’re both going to wreck this thing unless they just get it together.

Unfortunately, the act of getting it together is far too hard for either of them to bear at the moment. The ruse has already gone public; they were seen together once, twice in the public eye. Enough paparazzi cameras have snapped their photos for the rumor to go viral. A few carefully staged photos later and the world is head over heels for the least likely couple to ever strike the fame scene in years.

At the start, everything was going to plan. Reporters and podcasters, talk show hosts and bloggers were all going crazy trying to connect the dots to make their story make sense. Everyone thought it was damned brilliant– two people who could never be more different managing to fall in love because at the core, they’re the same sort of soul. It’s enough to make anyone choke on the saccharine purity of it all.

The problem is that Y/N and Nikolai just cannot act like they’re in love for the life of them. Nikolai has always played a false part in whatever room he was in, but this role might be his most challenging one yet. He sees her and he wants to put up a fight. They can’t lock eyes without exchanging a glare or two. It’s impossible to do anything else.

At first, they were able to disguise it fairly well. No one on the other side of the screen had any idea how long it took to get a few usable selfies of Y/N kissing his cheek that they could post as a confirmation. Nikolai was a few strikes away from holding a solemn funeral for the jacket he was forced to give to her so it seemed like they were sharing clothes. They had two ‘dates’ out in the public eye, one on the beach and one in a crowded restaurant. It took every fiber of strength in Nikolai’s body to make it through both.

Those were only the first outings, though, and at that point the rest of the world was so caught up in trying to figure out how they met and who must have asked who out first to really think about what was going on. Whatever questions they initially asked have been buried under more pressing information by now, such as why in the hell they would ever be able to tolerate each other long enough for this to work out.

Everyone’s starting to realize it, though. They can tell now how little Nikolai and Y/N like each other. He’s already seen countless videos of self-proclaimed body language experts analyzing the stiffness of Nikolai’s arm around Y/N’s shoulder, the way she’s always turned away from him whenever they walk together. It is obvious to anyone paying decent attention that they cannot stand each other for a second. This is, of course, the truth, but the truth isn’t what they’re after here.

No, the whole point of this is to make it convincing, and if they only last two weeks, it’ll be the sorriest story to ever hit the papers. Nikolai is not in the mood to fail, and if he could ever claim similarity with Y/N in any way, it’s that she isn’t the type to give up, either. They both need this to work, even if what they want more than anything is for this to be over already.

They both agreed to it, though, and that means they have to stick it out until the end. The nice thing is that the ruse was never meant to be permanent. Nikolai was given a date when he’ll finally be able to break this off for good:  two months from now, a Friday so they can get the full press swarm to descend just in time for the weekend. He’s already marked it on his calendar with bright red ink and perhaps even a smiley face or two.

Until then, he’s going to have to suffer through it. That’s what he was trying to do already, but evidently his torture was evident enough to anyone with a decent pair of eyes. Nine days pass by from the first meeting and Nikolai finds himself dragged back before his PR team once again. This time, they’re hosting a joint session. Tolya and Tamar sit on either side of Zoya. Y/N arrived before him this time, and as he takes a chair next to her, he can’t shake the feeling that they’re both misbehaving schoolchildren about to undergo a lecture from a disappointed principal.

Zoya starts off on the tirade of how they’ve both deeply messed up by hating each other and letting the world see it. Although the chastisement is directed to both of them, Nikolai can’t help feeling like he’s unfairly getting the brunt of it. That could just be the fact that he has both twins glaring at him instead of just Zoya. Then again, Nikolai is fairly certain that Zoya’s glower could make up for the combined fury of a small nation.

Zoya’s fingers are steepled in front of her. “I don’t even know why I’m bothering to list out all my grievances, both of you are well aware of why I’m upset. The whole point of this was that you were going to act like you were in love, so act like it. You’re not supposed to hate each other, or at least not in public.”

Y/N arches a brow. “It’s a little difficult to act like I’m head over heels for someone I just met a week and a half ago.” The second part of her complaint goes unspoken: especially when that someone is him. Nikolai, demon incarnate.

Zoya looks like she’s fighting to not roll her eyes. “I don’t care if the two of you want to kill each other in private. Do what you want, but don’t do it in front of the cameras, for the Saints’ sake. I shouldn’t have to tell you this. Are you this unfamiliar with the concept of a PR relationship? We’re not trying to set you up for happiness, just a chance to redo your reputations. Which are falling apart, in case you’ve forgotten. Your little lovers’ spat isn’t exactly helping that.”

Nikolai chuckles. “Well, it’s good to know that even when we mess up, we can count on your startlingly good humor to encourage us towards success once more. Everything makes sense now.”

He says the last bit with a knowing glance towards Y/N. Her face twists in a scowl. She looks as if she wants to fervently deny ever having talked to him in her life about Zoya or anything else for that matter. How dare he make it seem as if they’ve been so much as forced acquaintances! The sheer force of her indignation makes him smile. He’s cruel like that when it serves his fancy best.

The twins exchange looks and Tamar speaks up. “Listen, everyone here knows what we need to accomplish. All we’re asking is that you put your personal feelings aside. This has to work or you’ll be in a worse spot than before because they’ll know you’re trying to save your respective reputations.”

“And nothing could be worse than admitting weakness in public,” Y/N mutters. For once, Nikolai agrees with her.

Zoya claps her hands together briskly. “Alright, then. This was a warning, I don’t want it to happen again. If you need another warning, it’ll probably be too late anyway.”

She stands up. Nikolai moves to follow suit but Tolya holds up a hand.

“Actually, how about the two of you stick around a little longer? I feel that it would be good if both of you really talked about this. It’s important that everyone is of the same mind in a matter like this.”

Nikolai can feel himself sparking with irritation, but before he can argue his way out of this, Tamar nods along. “Yes, I think that sounds good. You two have been avoiding each other for long enough, this might actually lead to some breakthroughs.”

Despite Nikolai’s best attempts at telepathically screaming his lungs out at her, Tamar just smirks at him and leaves the room alongside her brother. Zoya shoots Y/N one last dangerous look, then sweeps from the room. Just like that, they’re alone.

Tamar isn’t wrong, Nikolai has been doing his best to spend as little time as possible with Y/N as he can. Can he really be blamed for that, though? Every time they speak, they fight, and that’s surely just as bad for the press to see as them forcing themselves to endure each other’s company.

Y/N folds her arms across her chest and looks at him dourly. “I thought you’d be better at this. You know, seeing as pretending you’re something you’re not is literally your job.”

Nikolai forces himself to grin at that, even if he feels more like baring his teeth in a snarl. “I assume that’s a reference to acting and not anything else. I would hate to think that you’d want to hurt my feelings.”

Y/N’s smile is incredibly bitter. He’s almost impressed by the sheer quantity of resentment that she’s able to pack into a slight twist of her lips. “And who could possibly want that? Then again, if I wanted something to hurt you, I’d probably just stay here a little longer. After all, we’re both so awful for each other that even the podcasters are starting to pick up on it.”

“Obviously it’s a problem,” Nikolai replies, “but if you’re calling my acting skills into question, believe me when I say that I can give a legendary performance. As for you, though, I’d be a bit more concerned. Music videos aren’t exactly the pinnacle of a dramatic showcase.”

Y/N’s eyes widen. “Oh, you think you know anything about performance? I’ve moved entire stadiums to tears. Trust me, Nikolai, if there’s one thing I can do it’s put on a good show. If you have no script to walk you through every syllable, though, I don’t know how well you’d do.”

Nikolai laughs. It might be even half genuine. “I’d like to see you prove that.”

“You’re on,” Y/N returns, and the fire of competition in her eyes tells him that she might finally be convinced.

So is he, as it turns out. If he can’t be brought to act like he’s in love with her for the sheer purpose of saving his legacy, he can at least do it to beat her out. Nikolai is about to put on a performance worthy of at least an Oscar or two. He’ll be so good at it that even the twins will be impressed.

He stands and offers Y/N a hand in mock solemnity. She shakes it with equal fervor. It’s on, then. Whatever happens next, at least they won’t go down for lack of effort. If Nikolai didn’t know better, he’d say that he’s almost looking forward to seeing what becomes of them. Certainly the rest of the world will agree.

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[innytoes]

Happy birthday @invisibleraven

The problem with soulmate dreams was that they could be so damn vague. Reggie dreamed of stars. Stars, and sparkles, supernovas he could get lost in, warm sparkling glitter he could trail his fingers through, that tinkled like piano notes when he touched them. He always woke up feeling warm, and happy, and loved.

Well, at least it was better than Alex, who dreamed of crashes. No wonder the poor guy had anxiety.

Sometimes, Reggie wondered if his true love was an astronaut. But then, what astronaut would want a schmuck like him, walking dogs while trying to get their band off the ground. For a short while, he thought for sure the handsome baker at the coffee shop was his true love, his soulmate. Why else would he always put little star sprinkles on his donuts? Until he introduced Reggie to his wife, Estrella.

Reggie kind of gave up after that. He didn’t want to mess up again and lose something more important than a great coffee shop because he was too embarrassed to go back. What if his next not-soulmate worked at the music store and he got it in his head they were the one because they got a tattoo with a star, or something?

It was going to happen when it was going to happen, he thought. That’s how soulmates worked. No point worrying about it.

So he wasn’t looking anymore, that New Year’s Eve. They’d booked a killer gig in the Trevor Wilson’s mansion. Sadly, as Reggie discovered on Instagram, Trevor Wilson himself wasn’t going to be there, off at some Hollywood party, but his daughter’s band was doing a thing too and Alex loved them from the second Reggie showed him the videos.

So they played their gig, and Alex danced along to Dirty Candi, and apparently he was so enthusiastic they were invited to stay instead of having to scram before midnight. Hey, who were they to turn that down? So Alex got to dance and Luke got to gape at all the pretty guitars hung on the wall and Reggie got to... well, he wasn’t sure yet. He avoided the drinks stations with actual real life mixologists, though he did score some wicked awesome snacks. There didn’t seem to be a dog or a cat he could befriend (his go-to at parties), so he made his way outside. He bet the view of the fireworks would be killer out here. Rich people probably had all kinds of illegal stuff, and you could see pretty far along the coast from here.

Two girls were messing around with sparklers outside, trying to make a heart with them while the other took their picture. Then they swapped. Reggie tried not to be a creep, but he did crane his neck just a little to see how it had turned out on the girl with the braids’ phone.

Except she caught him, and pointed at him. He was about to stammer an apology, when she said: “Hey, pretty boy, can you take our picture?”

“Oh, uh, sure!” he said, fumbling as she shoved the phone at him. He waited until they both lit their sparklers again, and grinned when they each made half a heart. “That was awesome!” he called, showing them the picture. “You nailed it on the first try.”

The girls high-fived. The one with the curly hair bit her lip, smiling. “In that case, we have some sparklers left over. You want one?”

Alex would kill him for playing with fireworks. He wanted to say he was banned after The Firecracker Incident when they were fourteen, but it was just a sparkler, right? Besides, he wanted to look cool in front of these cute girls. “Sure!”

He took a sparkler, beaming when the girl lighted her own first, holding it out for Reggie to light his.

When their sparklers touched, Reggie... well, later he would say that he saw stars. All of a sudden he felt warm, and happy, and loved. All of a sudden, he understood all his soulmate dreams. All of a sudden, he didn’t just see stars, he felt them, inside of him, sparkling and shining and burning bright like a supernova. 

He looked up at the girl in front of him, so beautiful in the fading glow of their sparklers. “It’s you,” he breathed.

“You’re... you’re my soulmate,” she whispered, before flinging herself at him, catching him in a hug. He hugged her back, laughing, spinning her around, feeling the stars bubbling up inside him, dancing around them, her giggle tinkling like piano notes.

Now that he understood his soulmate dreams, he wouldn’t have them any other way. Julie was his star, burning bright, guiding him home, making him feel warm, and happy, and loved. She was his soulmate.