#but so deeply loving and unphased by everything

[blueaetherr]

past is prologue (onward)

pairing: jude bellingham x fem!reader [she/her]

warning(s): the idea of blue, fic more lengthy than usual, angst?

summary: the one where two disasters realise that things could have been drastically different between them

Sitting out in the back patio Y/N let herself relax on the couch, controlled deep breaths and a hat over her face to block out the late evening sunset. She had done more than enough to warrant a break from everything. From bringing her younger siblings to and from school, to also cooking and cleaning for the afternoon that just came around.

All she wanted to do was indulge in nothing and just rest— that's all she could ask for. Still, it remained so hard to receive when others were out to disrupt her calm.

When the hat was removed from her face she opened her eyes, rubbing the fatigue out of them. Realising who had stolen the hat, she sat up quickly. Her voice came out small and groggy when she began to speak. "Hey! Jobe gave it to me—"

Jude let out a loud laugh, one that stemmed Y/N in her sentence. "And it's not even his. He took it from me." Rounding the couch he took a seat on the other end of the couch, lifting her feet on his lap so he too could be included under the blanket. He chuckled again when she remained unphased by his actions; it had happened way too many times before for her to care, especially knowing that she wouldn't get her way in the end.

Due to being neighbours—whether this was reflected in the interaction or not—the two have known one another since their young days. Only, they weren't friends; instead Y/N was friends with Jobe while Jude was friends with her older brother. Y/N and Jude, on the other hand, were only conditional and slightly familiar. Their friendship (or the lack thereof) failed to exist beyond their families.

So whenever their families came together to share Friday dinners, whenever their families had outings together– times that were meant for happiness and laughter– they could be around one another for so many hours without actually hanging out or conversing. For the sake of their families, the farthest they could and would go together was being friendly and accommodating within reason.

"Why are you even here anyway?" Y/N huffed out a breath. She waved towards the garden, where her older brother, younger siblings and Jobe were playing football together. "There's plenty to do, you know, besides occupying my space." It's not that she didn't want to be around Jude (or maybe that's exactly what it was). It's more that they had spent a lot of time together that day and besides going to bed, she wanted a moment alone to allow herself to dwindle down from the long day she had had.

Leaning his head back Jude wore his hat backwards. "Yeah, it's just— well." He wore a smile, one that was mild yet overtly sarcastic. "I know if I go inside, your mum will start asking me about my love life, and I'm resting for when I go back to Madrid so..."

"Right, right. So then your only remaining option is to follow me around all day?" For two people who didn't identify themselves as friends, they had spent a lot of the current day in each other's spaces. Jude had accompanied Y/N to bring her younger siblings to and from school, he had somewhat helped her to prepare dinner for that afternoon and he had offered to help with the dishes after everyone had finished eating.

"No, of course not," Jude shook his head before pointing to Y/N, "You just find yourself in places where I want to be too."

She took a moment to simply stare at Jude, slightly bothered and dazed at his words before pushing herself further into the couch and sighing deeply which only encouraged Jude to laugh more. Truthfully, she didn't have the energy to debate him. She could definitely win against him but Jude would never view it as such. It was something Jude and her older brother could do without getting exhausted; that was something she would have to leave for them to do with each other.

Letting his laughs falter he decided to give Y/N some peace. Given how her day had gone, especially since he had been with her for most of it, he could admit that she deserved some moment of rest. So he chose to keep to himself.

Or, at least, Jude tried to keep to himself. He tried to remain occupied on his phone, he tried to remain secluded in his mind and thoughts, he tried to keep his eyes solely on those playing football in the garden. So much for prevention yet his eyes eventually wandered back to Y/N. Somehow, they always did.

He wasn't aware of all of the attributes that made up Y/N but one thing was for sure; she was people-orientated. She loved community—creating it, embracing it and contributing to it. Always did she make herself the sender. And whenever she did receive something, she would find a way to send back more. She was selfless and outward, always extending herself to others whether they were in need of something or just in want of her company.

It wasn't hidden knowledge or anything, he saw it well with everyone she interacted with. She never displayed any signs of annoyance when dealing with her younger siblings, always showing them grace when they would ask overwhelming questions that would stump the average person. She had a healthy mix of banter and genuine friendship with her older brother. She got along well with the parents, so much so that he wouldn't be surprised if they viewed her as the pride and joy between the two families.

And of course, there was what she had with Jobe.

"Blues," he whispered before repeating with much more voice, "Blues." When Y/N finally looked away from her phone, he continued, "Jobe calls you that."

She let her eyes drift around before turning to Jude, nodding slowly. "He came up with it, yeah."

Jude tilted his head to the side. "What's that all about?" Suddenly, his curiosity was ignited. He knew that's what only Jobe called Y/N on the regular. Blues had been established as a nickname for years yet Jude had no insight as to what it meant.

"Well..."

"Blue like the oceans and the sky... fairly common yet unique. You are ordinary and extraordinary all at the same time."

A touch of a smile reached her lips at the mention of the memory. There was nothing remarkable about it. It was simple and nice and mundane yet Jobe made it so much more for her, and she would never find herself ever forgetting it. But while it was all simple and nice and mundane, the next thing Jobe had told her was to not tell Jude the meaning behind her nickname. So she had to improvise.

"Blue – it's my favourite colour. But I also like all different shades of blue, hence Blues and not Blue," she explained briefly. A half-truth she told. Blue, indeed, was her favourite colour, that was partially why Jobe found the nickname so fitting for his friend. The lie was that it was his main reason behind the nickname. Instead, her favourite colour being blue was simply just the inspiration.

He hummed, nodding. "I like that, really. I do," Then there it was, his face grew timid with delight towards Y/N. He wasn't mild or sarcastic about it like previously, just genuine. Jude continued to broaden the scope of the conversation, something beyond the norm for the two. "That and what you have with Jobe. It's not hard to tell that you're really good for him."

Jude didn't know everything about Y/N and his brother, Jobe kept their friendship relatively exclusive. But from what Jude saw and from what the two allowed him to see—their pictures together, watching them hang out from afar, their conversations during car rides—he knew that Jobe and Y/N were vibrant, comfortable, and lasting. But above all, they were them. Whatever type of friendship they shared was inconsequential; all they needed to function was for one another to be present and everything else about them would work out perfectly.

"Is that a compliment I'm hearing?" You couldn't see it at first glance; her eyes were low and tired, and her voice stumbled but Y/N meant to be irritating towards Jude. It was rare for her to ever have a victory like this to hang over his head.

Jude leaned his head back against the couch and groaned, placing his hand over his face. It was then he remembered why he rarely ever let her have any sort of win over him— having even the slightest wins against him only built her ego up for when she did win against him. "Can I take it back?"

"Oh, absolutely not," she shook her head and laughed slightly. In that moment, weirdly, she found her body easing. Her shoulders were slacked, and her breaths were moderate and easy. She was relaxed, something she hadn't been able to get a hold of in a minute. "This might be the highlight of my day."

"I'm just saying, yeah," Jude emphasised, his voice slowly overriding her laughter. "What you have with Jobe—with everyone—really has me thinking about what we could have together."

She paused her laughs as her face crunched up. "What?" Y/N would never admit it, but she had been enjoying the conversation with Jude up until now. It made sense to talk about her and Jobe, that was a given. But her and Jude? She didn't see the point of centring a conversation around the two. Besides, she couldn't really imagine having one if there wasn't much to them besides their families' ties to each other.

His eyes widened when he noticed her change of expression. "Not like that—" Jude huffed out a breath, "I mean, like, I wonder what it would've been like if we had become friends, you know, back when we were kids."

While Y/N always rid her thoughts of Jude, he failed to do the same for her. In his own time and place, he thought about her and him. From time to time, Jude did wonder about what it would be like if the two had become friends. About how it would be like if it had been Y/N and Jude instead of Y/N and Jobe. For all the time they spent in the same space but not together, for all the times all the older siblings would go out together but they would never speak a word to one another—what if they actually spent all that time as friends rather than as friendly?

They were weird, awkward and often out of place with each other; that was their dynamic unapologetically. Still, it remained something that Jude wanted to explore more. There wasn't much to them yet he took his time wondering about the endless what-ifs of their relationship. Did they actually amount to something significant beyond their mandatory hellos and goodbyes?

"Yeah, obviously." Y/N narrowed her eyes at Jude for a moment. She failed to understand what he meant by not like that. Nonetheless, she continued. "Well, you never made it appealing to be friends. Still don't too." While there was joke behind her voice, her words upheld common truth.

Even during their earlier years together, there were times when she tried to be friends with Jude. I mean it made sense, seeing how their families quickly grew close to one another. But every time Y/N gave Jude her attention, every time he ever gained her attention, he would only respond with unfunny and dense jokes—something that he exclusively only did to her and no one else. It was because of those memories that Y/N consciously avoided Jude. She just wanted to protect her peace.

Focusing her glance on Jude, she quickly noticed the awkward expression settled on his face and scoffed out a small laugh. Good. And even though he didn't deserve it, Y/N decided that she would try to brighten the mood for a second. "You technically— we should have to be honest."

"Yeah..." Jude nodded absently before pausing. He realised that he actually didn't know what he was agreeing with. "Wait, what are you on about?"

She raised her eyebrows at him. "What— your brother hasn't told you?" From talking with Jude and her conversations with his brother, she knew that Jobe wasn't secretive about his business with Jude. But then again she also knew that he didn't speak about her to Jude either.

Jude looked around in thought before shaking his head. "No. I don't even know what you're talking about."

"Oh. Well, I might as well tell you." Y/N sat up properly before continuing. "Basically, when we'd first moved over here my mum told me to make friends with the neighbours' kids—you and Jobe. She told me your names and ages, and I'm thinking cool I'm going to become friends with the older brother. But by the time I was standing at your front door I'd forgotten who was who." It was then that Jude's eyes flickered with realisation. "... So when your mum answered the door I was too shy to ask who was who. So I just introduced myself, gambled it and said, can Jobe come out to play?"

"Wait—" Again, Jude had to pause before speaking. He didn't want to stumble on his words. "I was your intended friend and not Jobe? Wait. So what were you thinking when you found out you were wrong?"

She shrugged. "Nothing. Jobe told me his age, I thought oh and that was it. I didn't really mind 'cause I found out that we were similar in a lot of ways. Besides, you'd become friends with my brother and literally all you guys did was play FIFA so I didn't stress trying to be friends back then."

His face scrunched up as he placed a hand over his heart. "Ouch."

"I promise. I meant no harm with it," she said rolling her eyes, but it wasn't from annoyance. Instead, it was from unknowingly sharing banter with Jude—an interaction fairly uncommon for the two.

Jude hummed lowly and bit the inside of his cheek, nodding. He didn't want his broadening smile to be so evident. "So you came to my house that day, intending to become my friend?" Truthfully, Jude didn't care that he was being forward, or that he was repeating a question that had already been answered with more than enough clarity. He was excited and shocked and wanted to uncover more where his knowledge previously lacked.

"Yes, Jude," Y/N affirmed, "I came to your house that day intending to become your friend." The statement made Jude beam so hard, showcasing a grin so familiar to Y/N, one that she found herself admiring and hating all at the same time. "It made more sense for me to since we're the same age. But that's not to say that I didn't want to be friends with Jobe 'cause he was younger. I think even if we had become friends, I think me and him would've still become friends. Probably even better than if you and I did."

Jude let his mind wander. All this time he thought that he and Y/N were naturally incompatible in every single way, that she could only have something meaningful and wonderful with his brother, that they were confined to the bounds of their current dynamic. I mean he was right to think so, it pained the two to go beyond their hellos and goodbyes.

But it turns out when you went back far enough—when you returned back to their origins—they were supposed to be friends, to have everything she shared with his brother. After all, she initially had sought out friendship with him. He could've been the one to give her the nickname Blues. They could've been the pair who had a dynamic that was vibrant and comfortable and lasting. He could've been the one to have Polaroids of him and her hanging all around his bedroom. Jobe had unknowingly taken his intended best friend.

"I'm gonna remind him of this every day now," Jude clasped his hands together as he hung his head back, soft laughter escaping into the evening air. "It's only right."

"Be easy on him. He's sensitive like that."

"I don't think he'll mind. Like you said, he shouldn't have been your friend in the first place." There was a curt moment of silence before Jude continued, suggesting, "I take that as a sign for us to become friends. You know, like you had intended."

"Yeah... I don't know if I would want to," Y/N strung out a long breath. Her enjoyment for their discussion was slowly drifting away. Something about it just felt inappropriate and misplaced, like she and Jude shouldn't have been having it in the first place. He was reaching, and all she wanted to do was pull away. "Besides, life didn't end 'cause we aren't. In fact, I think it's thriving just fine."

"I'm just saying, I think we should give it a try—"

"Jude," Y/N said with a blank stare, "No."

Jude paused in his movements. The seriousness in her body language and voice wasn't difficult to catch onto. "No, what?"

She let out a light scoff, shaking her head. "I just don't understand you. Now— now because I give you some revelation about how I did intend to be your friend some years ago that now you want to be friends? I've been trying to be your friend for such a long time and you rejected me every single time. My intention to be your friend didn't just stop after I became friends with your brother. You're some many years too late."

So much feeling, so much pent-up anger and hostility and distrust, and Y/N didn't even realise it until now. At some point, she was having fun with their conversation—it was laid-back and easy-going, something she needed after a long day. But the more she let Jude rant, the more she realised she needed to sober up and quick.

There was something about the way Jude was talking that she couldn't bring herself to like. Discussing the pair like he needed to know that hidden fact to consider being her friend. Talking like the idea of her being friends with Jobe and him was mutually exclusive when in fact, it wasn't. When all of this time Y/N would have liked to be friends with Jude regardless.

They could have been friends. That's what Jude kept mentioning over and over again. Mentioning all these what-if-isms like they were a missed opportunity by the fault of the universe. Though in reality, only Jude was at fault. Y/N had wanted to be friends with Jude for the longest time yet he always managed to push her away over and over and over, until she chose to give in and eventually walk away.

Jude and Y/N weren't friends because of his own mistakes and she didn't like that he was acting ignorant to that.

"So yeah Jude, I'm annoyed at you for that! But I'm also annoyed at myself 'cause somehow I still want to be your friend." Y/N frowned as she felt her anger deflate. The anger was slowly fading, leaving only dismay to settle. "I see you how are with your brother, my brother, the kids, your fans, your teammates—everyone! I only hear good things about you. I only see good things about you and so that's my perspective of you. But you never offer me that perspective of you so clearly I did something wrong, right?"

The way Jude was interested in his brother's friendship with Y/N was the same way she was interested in Jude's relationship with everyone else; weirdly, she wanted a part of it too. He was overly helpful with her mom, a mature young man around her dad, playful with her younger siblings, boyish with her older brother. So many desirable aspects for an individual yet she never witnessed any of it for herself, not even by accident.

So Jude counted Y/N out— made her the odd one out. So much so that there was that one wonder on her mind: what did I ever do for you to act like all I have to extend to you is misery?

Opening his mouth he stumbled on nothing before he found his voice, now small and careful. "Can I tell you something?" There was no pride in it but for once, Jude saw Y/N. For once he saw her vulnerability, her anger and her frustrations—and all directed towards him. She was on edge because of him, and he knew that everybody would be on his case if it came to their attention so he proceeded with caution.

Y/N sat back a bit as she folded her arms. "Can't be anything worse than what you've already told me before."

"Okay, I— uh." Despite the demanding pressure on his shoulders, Jude knew that he had to take his time with his words. He cleared his throat. "Jobe doesn't talk about you two a lot, but he likes to talk about you though still not enough that I would know a lot about you. And when he talks about you he likes to brag about you being friends with him instead of me, kind of suggesting that you know... you've never wanted to be friends with me. So I kinda spent growing up thinking you disliked me."

"I've always wanted to be friends," Jude exhaled the confession, and quite shamelessly. He couldn't afford to lie anymore. A hint of a sad smile surfaced across his lips. "That's why I was excited when you told me that you intended to be friends with me instead of him. That at some point you wanted to be friends with me... and now I know you still do."

For a moment there was discomfiting silence between the two. There was a lot that Jude spoke—a lot of talk that Y/N hadn't previously been aware of. So much talk to continue discussing, so many wonders to be stuck on, so many questions to ask yet she didn't. There was one thing he had said that stuck out to her. "And he still brags to you about me?"

"Yeah," Jude confirmed, "More now than when we were younger."

She cocked her head towards him. "Why though?" Y/N could understand Jobe speaking about her to Jude but to brag? It seemed like a bit of a stretch from what she knew about her friend. Besides, Jude always made it apparent to others that he and Y/N were strictly friendly, so what was there to brag about?

But the thing was, there was something for Jobe to brag about. Jude had the answer; it was clear in his head but he knew he couldn't pronounce it. To acknowledge the answer right now would be misplaced and careless, especially with so much anger and regret going around. So he shifted his gaze away from Y/N, sighing. "I don't— I don't know."

She felt like there was more for him to say, but she had nothing to justify her intuition. She gave Jude a pointed look but his glances indicated I have nothing else to say, so she let to conversation falter. "Okay."

And when the conversation faltered there was only calm and stillness between them, only background noise occupying the time. Familiar and common background noise—excitement and kids' laughter light in the air, footballs hitting football nets with ease, distant chatter and debates among their parents. Still, Jude and Y/N remained in silence.

They had to sit with themselves and with one another for a quick second. For some time there hadn't been much to Jude and Y/N, almost like they were destined to never share any genuine friendship. They never allowed for anything to happen between them, attraction always working against their favours. They weren't friends but simply friendly for the sake of others. 'Cause behind all of that were two individuals who carried so much mal feelings for one another, whether those same feelings could be justified or not.

Jude disliked Y/N just to dislike her, while Y/N disliked Jude because of his dislike towards her—that's what it seemed from the surface.

But in reality, by the fault of each other, their feelings for one another were misguided and narrow. Somewhere in the beginning there had been a misreading of feelings. It started with Jude, continued with Y/N and it ended in their devastation. The devastation in the fact that they could have been something. Maybe not Y/N and Jobe something or Jude and her brother level something, but something much better than what they currently were.

Jude was right to emphasise over and over that they were supposed to be friends. That's what was intended by Y/N and by extension, intended by the stars and the universe. Everything about them was predetermined. Their foundation was there and all they had to do was settle in it. But because Jude had been so guided and moved by Jobe's words, because Jude had made Y/N feel unsure about herself, because Jude and Y/N only held feelings of anger, dislike and distrust towards one another—all misplaced and unwarranted—they were never allowed to develop a true friendship, something beyond just being friendly and cordial.

Fault didn't equally fall on both of them but it was still shared between them.

Soon, Jude returned his gaze back to Y/N. With a kind tone he expressed, "I'm so sorry, Y/N, for everything. I made assumptions and I took it all out on you. I was wrong to make you feel that way for so long over something I thought was right. I'm sorry, really."

Just as Y/N was about to respond, the pair's attention shifted towards the youthful voice calling out to Jude. It was her younger sister who came running towards him in pure excitement and laughter, the emotions only really found in kids. As she settled into his arms Jude and Y/N shared a look—let's hold this conversation for a second—before Jude let his attention solely focus on the young girl in his arms.

He let the young girl drive their conversation. Her eyes were wide from childish amusement, hand gestures offering both realism and exaggeration to her words, the conversation moving faster than the words she was pronouncing. And still, Jude kept up. Exclaiming a wow and really! here and there, finding interest and curiosity in her interests, agreeing with almost every point she made, making her laugh whenever he felt like she lacked some happiness in the slightest, being patient whenever she struggled with her words. In their short time together, Jude was there to encourage her to lift up her voice and speak with liberty.

And for that Y/N was grateful, truly. For always validating her younger sister, for not counting her out over the small mistakes she made. Maybe it was unwise and careless of her but it made Y/N wonder if that would be them soon enough.

Noticing that her younger sister had fallen asleep– who had been so taken by Jude's mumble singing and humming– Y/N took that as an opportunity to resume the conversation. She offered Jude a gentle smile. "Thanks, Jude."

"Yeah, it's fine," he said absently as he pulled the blanket over her sister, making sure she was comfortable curled up in his embrace.

Realising his focus was solely on her sister she let out a small chuckle. "No I mean thank you for the apology." It was then that Jude's attention shifted towards Y/N once again. Her fingers toyed with the blanket as she continued. "I didn't realise I needed it that much." Reserving so much anger and hostility towards Jude for such a long time when those feelings had nowhere to go or to be truly expressed left Y/N drained. Now that they were in the process of moving on (?), for once in her life when it came to Jude, she felt heard and justified in her feelings and thoughts.

"I owed it to you," Jude admitted with ease, his eyes pouring into hers. They were vulnerable and honest. "I owe a lot to you, starting with that apology."

"And I'm sorry too—"

Jude shook his head quickly. "Don't. You don't have to." While the fault was shared between the two he didn't feel like she needed to apologise. Everything wrong about them ultimately traced back to him and his wrongdoings.

Y/N nodded in silent agreement. She wasn't trying to get them back to their previous ways. "Well then," she inhaled softly, "I know you're going back to Madrid tomorrow but I would like to try something, you know, for us? Let's try to give ourselves a real start. The next time you're back, hit me up and we'll see where things go." Y/N curled up more in the blanket, bearing a smile that was nervous yet excited while her voice became smaller and timid. "If that's okay with you."

For some time Y/N and Jude hadn't known rest, between themselves and individually. They were nothing but mismatched feelings—some of that anger and hostility and occasional misplaced humour—and that left them with all but a chance of ever developing something that was intended for them. There had never been anything good about them and for the longest time, it made them inwardly reject what they could have been.

But now forgiving one another, leaving previous feelings behind them, now wholly understanding where their wrongs lay all these years– they wanted to find all that was hidden in between the lines. After all, when you returned to their origins all unfiltered and untouched by their recent problems, the potential for them was there. Y/N always wanted to be friends with Jude and Jude always wanted to be friends with Y/N, a friendship that had been hidden for the longest time yet forever destined to come to fruition.

And for that Jude and Y/N would only choose to look onward, let their past become their prologue. It was objective and set in stone, but they would shape their time after today to be theirs alone.

"Well," Jude tilted his head back, almost like he was in thought. But from the unwavering happiness he was experiencing, far too evident with the animation in his voice, it was clear that he already had his mind made up. "Of course. I would like that a lot."

part 2

[angyo]

HOT DAMN ik i already said a bit abt csm 167 but i keep thinking of more extremely interesting shit here and the sheer inner turmoil in the shared body of asa and yoru

I was wrong, it's not yoru masterminding this. Maybe she is, but we've already got so many hints that yoru and asa are starting to rub off on each other, w/ yoru feeling asa's emotions and asa getting more nonchalant about death and killing. Everything until now has been a relatively clean merge, something neither of them even notices too much.

But denji is a jagged edge. Asa and yoru have very different approaches to love and interpersonal relationships. Asa being a sex repulsed and desperately lonely romantic and yoru being the embodiment of war, uninterested in love, & intimacy only being violence (because war).

The merging can't go unnoticed anymore, it's not just massaging red play doh into blue play doh anymore. Their feelings regarding denji and chainsaw man are so different and entirely irreconcilable the merge is hacking off a hand and painstakingly sewing each individual nerve and vein to the end of a fraying rope.

Here yoru is her usual uncaring self. Denji wants to lose his cock, so be it. Who cares, she's war, she's done worse and feelings never got in her way before.

When denji knocks the knife away that's a very asa face and reaction despite the scars showing it's clearly yoru. Yoru isn't this clumsy. It's not like denji peeled her hand open, he knocked it away and yoru wouldn't have such a loose grip on a weapon.

Yoru is shocked. This shouldn't feel too different from any other fight for her, why is she so shocked? I thought she was unaffected by emotion, so why would she feel even a second of confusion about hurting denji? It's like she's shocked at herself, and she reasserts herself by doubling down on the violence and gripping his balls. Doubt isn't like her, it must be a fluke. She'll finish it quick.

Once again, that is an Asa face with the yoru scar, immediately followed by yoru attempting to regain herself

And failing. This is yoru, why is she so confused? If she wanted to assault denji it wouldn't be unwarranted from War, but there's emotion in that kiss. She looks so shocked when she pulls back, this isn't yoru's idea nor is it asa's. Again it wouldn't be surprising if war decided to idk assert dominance by assaulting denji, but if that was her goal she'd be as confident and unphased as she usually is in fights. At worst she'd be angry if he didn't go along with it, but panicky? Confused? That's not like her

She's too emotionally involved to be yoru, but too sexual to be asa. This is the ugly joint of fraying rope and nerve endings. A girl neither asa nor yoru recognize as themselves and one they can't control as individuals. They are merging, but they can't merge into 1 whole person, they're so diametrically opposed in their views of interpersonal relationships that they can't fuse cleanly together and instead their jagged edges get smushed together with such force it makes a 3rd person they mutually hate and are unable to control.

Finally they split again and asa is so deeply fearful she takes over again. But despite losing the scar she keeps the horseman eyes, and the paneling splits her in half implying we are seeing both of their reactions here. And despite having seemingly been in control and making the decision to assault denji, asa and Yoru are equally terrified by what just happened.

This wasn't yoru raping denji then leaving asa to handle it. God that'd almost be better since at least then asa could blame her, but she can't. This was the ugly frankenstein joinery of yoru and asa acting here. Both individuals lost control of their shared body entirely while their desires were mangled and reshaped into something they find mutually disgusting but are forced to feel as enjoyment. Yoru experiences sensation and emotion she considers so far below her and is terrified by this loss of her devil nature. And asa is lost in indulgence of violent sexuality the likes of which she never could've previously imagined enjoying, let alone forcing onto the only person who ever gave a shit.

As a person she is so deeply concerned with morality and righteousness she won't even cross a red crosswalk with no cars around at night, but she's been forced to commit a crime so heinous as rape against the boy she likes and gain enjoyment from it.

It's so deeply violating not just of her agency but her existence as an individual it's hard to define in words, but i can only imagine asa scrambling away. Frantically she screams at yoru for fucking it all up so badly, only for yoru to be equally as scared and disgusted. This wasn't yoru's doing. This devil that has had such tight control of her for so long is completely clueless as to what the fuck even happened or why and points at asa because if it's not yoru it's asa yeah? But if they look deep inside themselves, they'll see that their reflection isn't them. Neither of them know who this is, and they can't talk to her or control her even as they get sucked into this singularity.

[shesmore-shoebill]

As of episode two i am once again obsessed with the duo dynamic betweeen savannah and gracie because its soo fucked up (affectionate). in the same ep they have a conversation thats like "are you CHALLENGING me?" with a clear threat and the answer from Savannah is "no, no, no, no i would never" and later Gracie is talking about her future and italy, and Savannah's only vision for her future is, well, Gracie, what are you doing? And Gracie is unphased its just a- we're going to italy.

But its not really affectionate or loving, its just. Of course Savannah is coming along wih me? We're going. Its my future, but of course she's there. Carrying my bags. At one point I think Gracie straight up says "It would be so much work to replace you" but its not REALLY a sweet statement, is it? Its. That it would be sooooo much work to replace her. If she died. If she was gone.

Like the dynamic is soooo deeply fucked up i love it. Everything about Savannah is oriented towards serving Gracie. Gracie is so used to having Savannah around that she just takes it for granted she's always going to be there, always subservient, always present, always available, always obedient.

But this is an apocalypse, and more and more- Savannah is doing things for Gracie but it could get her killed, and if it did, Gracie wouldn't have Savannah anymore. But that knowledge isn't enough to make her deviate from the norm- of Savannah doing everything for her, embracing the danger and grossness and unpleasantness.

Gracie is so used to having the power and the leverage between them, and she takes it completely for granted, can't seem to function without it. And now? Savannah is, frankly, the most survival-equipped of all of them, with Brodie close behind her. Gracie is quickly becoming the liability between them and I don't think she even realizes it.

And she's coughing up bloodworms and Brodie and Savannah are both absolutely saving her a ton, with Savannah already saving her life twice. But that's not impressive to her, that's just how things are. At least with Brodie, you can tell Gracie wants to impress him, so she'll appreciate some of the nicer things, she'll say nice things to him.

But Gracie treats Savannah like a fixture in her world, where she vaguely acknowledges that it would be so bad if she was gone, because who would carry my bags? Who would do all this gross stuff? But there's no actual fear there. Imagining Savannah gone is like imagining gravity turning off. It would be bad, but it couldn't happen.

So I wonder. What would happen the moment Savannah does leave - either by dying- or because she realizes that she can. Brodie knows already- keeps asking Savannah if she's okay doing these dangerous things. I wonder what happens once Savannah realizes. Or if she ever will.

[the-s1lly-corner]

alright, so i completely understand if you don't wanna do this since you have been getting a lot of tadc requests, so feel free to leave this in your inbox for a while but its worth a shot i guess.

tadc x angel reader? but im not talking about the cute and adoring ones, moresore the bibical angel type. kind of like principalities angels if you know what that is. scary stuff.

thanks for all that you do btw, i love your writing and as a fanfiction writer myself im amazed at how quickly your able to pump out requests

thanks for reading

TADC cast x angel!reader !

took me a hot minute to find it but someone asked for the same/very similar request for zooble so!! that post is going to be linked in place of their segment! yahoo! uhuhuhuh!! admin must admit, he does not know much about actual angel lore so hes gonna be real loose with this </3 aaaand to the last part!! its the silliness... i cant contain it... sobs...

CAINE:

now i dont know what kind of personality the reader has, but imagine your wings stick out and fluff up when he decides hes bold enough to compliment, or even flirt with you... has probably led to him getting smacked by your wings and being sent flying... the price of being small, sadly... though he did kind of have it coming for standing where he was/j

sometimes, you guys fly together, since caine very rarely walks around on the ground and kind of just glides around... its nice having someone who can accompany him around... doesnt think your intimidating, if anything he thinks you look interesting... hes probably unphased by most of the forms circus members may take, though its rare you get someone who does look unsettling... shrugs

POMNI:

honestly probably a little intimidated, and perhaps even unnerved in the beginning. like not in the "im deeply uncomfortable" way but more like "oh. so thats a thing" if that makes sense? does try to be nice and kind to you, though, since she does understand that this isnt what you really look like and you cant really... control it... probably has sneezed from the feathers of your wings, if you have any.. in fact you might have accidentally smacked her with them, since shes so small.. you didnt mean to..! honest! caine and pomni just got cursed with the shortness... no thoughts, only angel reader protectively shielding someone with their wings, this can apply to any of the characters... probably one of my favorite tropes for characters with large wings tbh

RAGATHA:

if you can swap out your clothes or have clothes that are detachable (since clothes are canonically stuck to the bodies) shes definitely going to make you some clothing that you can easily slip over your wings, and still have them out! plus spending time with you making the measurements and trying out patterns and fabric is nice! thinks your wings are soft... probably a little put off by your appearance and vibe at first, but ragatha being ragatha shes not going to let it bother her for long, and she makes sure youre welcomed to the circus with open arms... i mean its not like you have a choice to leave... may as well be as inviting as possible..!

JAX:

drum roll please! its the admins favorite jax headcannon that always rears its head in whenever the admin writes a reader who has some extra body part or fluff or accessories or a combination! the fidget/fiddle headcannon! this man is likely going to stroke and mess with your wings, a lot. congrats, youre his new fidget toy/j. has probably accidentally, or perhaps no so accidentally, pulled a feather out. granted im not sure how much it would hurt, i think it would be akin to plucking hair with a tweezer, but the point still stands..! has probably asked you to fly him up somewhere... totally not so he can do some mischief... probably doesnt know much about angels (like the admin LMAO) and probably labels you as like. sterotypical cartoon angel personality (forgiving, kind, good, ect. basically everything that isnt jax/j) but whether or not thats true its up to you... though it would be a little funny for the person who looks like an angel being a trickster... shrugs

KINGER:

FEAR!!! okay... well i think thats a given when theres a new circus member around, since kinger is a little... eh... you know? probably takes some time to warm up to you, but given how he speaks to pomni in the pilot within the first few minutes of her being there, i dont think it would take long for him to approach you. definitely polite, probably even more so thanks to your angelic appearance. mmngh.. soft feathers... shares the jax fidget headcannon with the silly chess piece... bonus if you actually are really kind and protective, this man would be hovering around you since you kind of represent comfort to him... thinks...

ZOOBLE:

right here!

GANGLE:

while most of the others are a little intimidated i think gangle actually likes the aesthetics of angels. maybe thats just the artist in her; like every artist ive met either has a soft spot for angel or demon characters... sometimes both.. admins no exception, its like. mandatory artist trait/j

i had a winged reader request somewhere, where gangle puts the readers fallen feathers into art work and gifts it to them. kind of like how people used to put the hair of their loved ones in jewelry... i think that would also apply to an angel reader! similar to kinger, if youre protective shes going to gravitate towards you... given that shes made of ribbon and fragile... and because of SOOOOOMEONE (glares at jax)... very nice dynamic/relationship material here, me thinks

[wrr000]

Van Der Linde gang when you randomly kiss them - short headcanons PART 2

AN: I'm posting this as fast as I wrote it 'cause I'm afraid of burning out AGAIN. Hope y'all like this! Feedback appreciated :]

»»————-　♡　————-««

Featuring: Dutch, Sean, Kieran, Micah (KIERAN STANS ASSEMBLE!)

Summary: pure fluff (and I mean a BIG FLUFF), kissing on the cheek (just to clarify)

Warnings: none, just really short

✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈«

--Dutch

On one hand he is paranoid and bounty for his head is always on Dutch's mind so it would be normal that he's on high alert even in the camp

On the other hand he's usually reading a book and his thoughts are drifting in the fantasy/idealized worlds from the novels

When you came from behind with a gentle kiss on his cheek he immediately wanted to drew a gun

Luckily he quickly realized it was you *sigh of relief*

"Oh dear-- If you want a kiss just ask, I could have shoot you!"

But he isn't angry, just stressed and tired

After a while he pulls you closer to him into a tight hug and kisses your forehead

Don't feel bad! He knows that you didn't mean no harm and finds it kinda sweet

His little lover wants his attention which means you love him and think about old Van der Linde in your free time

Dutch is sure happy to have you and he's all for your kisses, but would appreciate if you changed the form of affection

You can always surprise him in other ways! Sneaking from behind leave for more peacful times

--Sean

He did not saw it coming, you got him there

BUT Sean would pretend like you didn't 'cause you know--'everybody loves him and he always expect affection' (you know that talk, we all heard it, right)

Inside he's so fluttered and happy and you can tell that by a stupid grin on his cute face

"Oi beautiful, you love me that much that you can last a minutes without me?"

He wraps his arms around your waist, kissing you back

One kiss on the cheek, one on the lips, one on the nose... And there's no end

Boy is just so in love with you that he doesn't want to let you go, not now at least

Little attention seeker will make the most of the opportunity to spend a sweet time with his beloved

Sean adores everything you do and especially when it involves him so please do it more

You trying to surprise him and make him feel loved it's what melt his outlaw heart!

He's always up for your kisses and hugs :>

--Kieran

HIS SOUL LEFT HIS BODY--HEART ATTACK--THE BOY JUST DIED

Everyone is threatening him in the camp so Kieran is constantly very stressed

It wasn't much of a surprise, but he isn't upset with you! He knows that you mean no harm

More like glad that wasn't a Sadie or Bill coming for his head

Big sigh of relief from him, but you felt kinda bad anyway

"Ah--! You scared me, babe! But it's glad to see you"

Smile crawled on his pale, but slighly red face as he gently returned a kiss

This sight broke your heart, so you embraced him, pressing your lover tightly to yourself

He hugged you back of course, it makes him feel loved and he doesn't want to let you go (your body feels so safe to him)

Kieran is really REALLY happy to have you a walking sunshine in this waking nightmare

I can asure you that this boy loves you very much and deeply

He's so happy when you two are close and you're showing him affection, but maybe try not to scare him next time

Try anything but that, you can even surprise him with a nice flower and he would be grateful!

JUST GIVE HIM ANY LOVE AND PROTECT HIM AT ALL COSTS, HE NEEDS IT

--Micah

You gave him a goosebos, but he would act like the knows you're coming to surprise him

Acting all tough, unphased and irritated just to fool you

Or maybe he was a little scared that he let his guard down and you managed to sneak to him from behind? Guess we will never know

"I knew it was you. Why are you even tryin', cutie pie?"

But on the inside he's kinda fluttered 'cause he can't hide it that your kisses are good

Not to mention that in some way he enjoys you crawling for his attention

He may not kiss you back (maybe in private) , but he pulls you closer to him, placing one hand on your waist and the other on your thigh

Ignore his words and try it next time

In fact, Micah wants you to surprsing him like that more often, but for his own peace of mind he acts like nothing in this world can surprise him

He is an attention seeker and a touch starved bastard after all, he needs to know that you still love him as he loves you

So more random kiss are welcome!

[goodolddumbbanana]

I just realised something...

If not because of Ruin, Sun would have died due to how isolated he was (unintentionally) and with the enormous number of Creators around being threatening.

But... Then why would Dark Sun keep implying Sun would die if Ruin's plan succeeded to Moon while in fact, it is the opposite? And how he sounded so nonchalant about it when in the latest episode, he revealed our Sun has some special role in his plans? That he did everything because of Sun?

Because isn't he did all that to get Nexus, he did all that to keep Sun alive?

And thanks for one post that I don't remember their name (really helpful if some @ it for me), Dark Sun's toned voice shift becomes bitter and hatred when he mentioned Sun as Nexus's brother, while when he was being ominous with Nexus in the past, he is so casually throwing the fact that your brother would be dead.

Then it just hit me. Dark Sun was lying. Not technically because Sun's death is like a canon event ever but he twisted it. He twisted the truth into what he wanted and manipulated Nexus.

The brother, the Sun he mentioned was Solar, not Sun. Because it seems like you can only pick Solar or Sun in that event. If Sun lives, then Solar will die. And if Solar dies, then Sun will live.

Because we see in the simulation, Solar and Nexus would become closer, in different stimulation, Nexus yelling 'don't let me kill you, brother' to Solar, and he seemingly accepts that Sun is dead so quickly, (due to his hallucinations dream about the world similarities like that), not like with Solar, when he even not believing it is happening.

And for now, Nexus only calls Solar as his brother, even if it is just some mocking terms.

So according to Dark Sun pov, it is Solar Nexus's Sun, it is Solar Nexus's brother. And he gladly says that, because He hates how Sun is just a brother, for Moon, for Nexus.

(I am not saying it like Nexus doesn't care about Sun. I say it because he cares so deeply about Sun and the love he has for Sun always hurts him deeply, and he feels like he needs to live up to some expectation because of it.

He feels like he is a monster because he is Moon, but he also wants to be the Moon who is totally unphase of anything and so cruel and smartass.

The term Moon is like a chain for Nexus so when he gets rid of it, he prays for his feelings about Sun to go as well.

But he can't.

He called Solar his brother, Earth his sister, but Sun is like a bleeding wound for him that he couldn't mention Sun as anything if not family.

Like Moon, Nexus? These creatures. The little good boy, little jester. Lunar, he straight up says Lunar never cares about him and daydream about ripping that boy apart, draining his star power. He doesn't even care if Lunar has friends from the other side, he doesn't even care about the Astral Bodies.

Earth? Solar? He would hurt her again and he will kill Solar if he sees that orange boy on sight.

But when Dark Sun asks about kidnapping Sun, Nexus just shrugs his head and says Moon might track him if that happens and how is it too much work to do?

While that emo boy just shows up and tortures the shit out of Moon and leaves with no trace, and rather cracks Sun's code for weeks than just straight up tearing Sun apart like what Creator would do if he captures Sun?

Nexus not only wants Sun gone when he mentioned he would kill Sun and Moon. He wants Sun to go off sight, he wants to never see Sun or hear Sun's name anymore because he knows how much it hurts when actual interact with Sun.

He is no longer Moon, so what is he with Sun when the old one has come back, when all the strings are gone but Sun is still there?

He is in his identity crisis, and Sun is the centre of the eye of the storm. )

MF Just lying for himself and that is so sad.

And... I feel like Dark Sun wants Sun to go with him. Into his lab willingly. Because the sound of him is so interesting when he asks Nexus if he will kidnapped Sun and how he said he did all that for Sun giving me Sus.

[sykonakairu]

All for you

Yandere S. SNAPE X Fem!Reader

Warnings: Yandere, Implied Violence, Implied Hexing, Obsession, Marauders era, Senior Severus, Not proofread.

wc:2.3k

Severus Snape falling in love with someone other than Lily? How absurd. Almost everyone knew how big of a crush he had on her, especially James Potter and his gang. This made him a target of their bullying, which he had to endure for her. Not even he himself knew he could fall in love with someone other than Lily. Yet he did. He fell in love with an angel (Name) (last name).

He was scared to love her. His crush on Lily was well known, and he felt guilty for being attracted to someone else, even though his feelings for Lily had changed. He tried denying it, but the more he tried, the harder it became to deny his true feelings. He loved her deeply, and she filled a gap that Snape never knew existed in him. She was everything he could ever want and more.

Severus remembered their first encounter crystal clear.

●

“Snape!” James yelled at him as he walked by. Severus turned to him, squinting his eyes in confusion.

"What do you want?" He asked James, not in the mood to be bothered by Potter's silly antics.

“Just stopping by.” James smirked, looking down at Severus, who just wanted to have a peaceful reading under a tree.

Severus rolled his eyes, wanting to get back to his book. That's when he suddenly felt himself levitating in the air. His eyes widened in surprise, and he tried to push himself back down, but it was no use. James had been using his spellwork, and now Severus was floating in the air like a feather.

"Put me down!" He ordered fiercely, blushing from embarrassment.

James only laughed along with his friends as he stood below him with his wand outstretched, still pointing at Severus' pants. Severus made an attempt to cast a spell at him only for James to cast the Expelliarmus charm at him, causing the wand to fly out of his hand and landing on the ground. And then crowds of students started to gather around the scene, a mocking smile on each of their faces.

Severus was panicking now, uncertain what to do as he continued to hover in mid-air. He had no way of getting his wand back and was starting to feel powerless by how easily James had ensnared him in this prank.

“Put me down!” Pleaded Severus.

“What ya gonna do, Snivellus?” James laughed, receiving a nudge on his shoulder and a compliment.

“Now, who wants to see me oull down Snivellus’ trousers?” James spoke, receiving a chant of his name as his smirk widened. Severus, who was now starting to grow angry, glared fiercely at James. He had never felt so powerless and embarrassed in his life.

“Hey! Put him down!” They heard a voice from the back of the group, and everyone turned to see (Name) standing there with her arms crossed. She looked indignant as she glared at James, who was stunned at her sudden intervention.

She strode forward and stood in front of James, making sure he made eye contact with her. “You heard me! Put him down right now.”

“Aww…how cute.” James cooed. “Someone's standing up for Snivellus. Never knew you had a girlfriend.”

"I'm not his girlfriend," (Name) snapped. She turned to the crowd and addressed them all, “You know what? Bullying is wrong. You all should really be ashamed of yourselves for standing by and watching it happen.”

The crowd was taken aback; no one had ever stood up against James before, but here was (Name) defending a person none of them liked.

James, however, was unphased by (Name)'s rebuke and pushed her away. "Don't tell me what to do," he spat as he took a step towards her, flexing his muscles menacingly.

"I'm not scared of you," (Name) said, though her voice began to shake as fear took hold. James paused before letting out a cackle.

“How adorable-”

(Name) narrowed her eyes at him and pointed her wand at him, casting a transfiguration spell that turned him into a rat.

"That's better. It suits you, you know?" she said firmly, waving her wand again to send him out of the room. The other students stared in wide-eyed shock at (Name)'s display of power, and some stepped away in shock while others stared in awe. James scurried away in embarrassment along with the others as (Name) turned back towards Severus and put him down.

“You okay?” She asked Severus, who was staring at her with shock. Unhappy with silence, she noticed the crowd of students still staring at her.

“The show’s over! Get outta here!” She yelled at them. The students quickly rushed and left the area talking among themselves about what had just happened.

Once the area was cleared, (Name) turned back to Severus, who still had a look of shock on his face. She tried her best to look reassuring despite her own fears rising in her chest, “I’m not gonna hurt you.." she started.

“Are you o-”

“Why did you do that?” His question made her pause.

“Because I needed to?” She raised a brow at him. He sighed, his eyes trying to search her face for the truth. “It’s complicated” she muttered. “But hey, I hope you're fine.”

“You made me look like a fool.” Severus snarled at her, glaring her with anger and slight relief. You raised a brow at him.

“Excuse me? I saved you! At least you didn't get your underwear exposed!” She retorted, and it only made him angier. Severus stood up and loomed over her.

“I didn't need your help.” He snarled at her, and she huffed.

“Deny all you want, but I will always have saved you.” (Name) rolled her eyes before trudging away.

×

Oh, how he was grateful that their paths have crossed. With a deep breath, Severus collected himself before walking to where (Name) was. She was the complete definition of an angel. Kind, caring, and brave. On top of all that, he saw her like a goddess in his eyes. Something to be cherished and protected. He would and will gladly take care of her no matter what. Severus will do anything and everything to make her stay by his side.

Imagine his shock and surprise when he saw (Name) with another male student that was not him. He tried to control the strong emotions brewing inside him as he watched them laughing and chatting.

Severus felt his heart clenching and the anger boiling within him. It's irrational, he thought to himself, but it didn't stop how he felt any less real. He knew that nothing should matter but her happiness, yet here he was unable to contain his jealousy. As selfish as he may sound, all he wanted was to snatch her out of there and drag her along with him.

Eventually, the said student left. Severus watched him go with a dark glare before turning back to her. He seemed to be seconds away from voicing his thoughts when he was interrupted by her voice.

"Oh. Severus! There you are.” (Name) chirped before her voice was laced with slight worry. “Uh. Are you alright? You look…mad.”

At first, Severus didn't know what to say. He wanted nothing more than to ask who the blood hell she was talking with and why - but he didn't know how those words would be taken. Instead, he took a few steps closer and sat himself down next to her on the bench.

"Yes," he said finally, "I'm perfectly fine. It's nothing. I've been thinking about something and it made me stop for a moment."

She nodded her head in understanding, grateful for his honesty. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asked softly.

Severus shook his head and said, "No, not really, but thank you for asking."

He could feel the tension between them. “Who was that?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Who's what?”

“You were talking to earlier.” He didn't mean for his voice to be snappy.

“Oh. That was Jaedin, we're partners in one of our subjects.” She said, her voice was gentle and understanding.

It only made him more jealous with a sense of slight relief. He didn't know why he felt this way, but he couldn't help it.

“What subject? And why.” He got a bit too interested now.

“Interested much?” (Name) giggled lightly, expecting at least a small smile from him only to be met with his usual stoic expression.

“It's a history project,” she said. “We're exploring the concept of nationalism and how it affects the modern world." She paused for a moment and looked deep into his eyes as if searching for something. "Is there something wrong? You seem distant today."

“How long are you partners for?” Severus kept pushing, ignoring her comment.

“Until we finish the project…” (Name) said slowly, starting to get frustrated. She was getting mixed signals and wasn’t sure what he wanted her to say. “What is this about?”

Severus tapped his textbook before clenching the spine in frustration before finally speaking again. “Nothing. Just looking out for you, I am your senior, after all.”

Severus Snape looking out for someone? That's new.

■

She said only until they finished their project. So why were the two of them spending so much time together? Why was she spending so much time with that one boy? Severus was fuming every time he saw the two together. In the library, Walking down together in the hallways to class, and even at supper! He felt like he couldn't control his emotions any longer.

He can feel her slipping out of his reach…and into another man's hold. He couldn't let that happen. Severus had to do something. He had to make her stay with him. And that does not exclude such drastic measures.

He thought of the potion he was working on. A love potion, one that when taken by his beloved, she would only be able to feel and think of him. And only him. It was just a few steps away from being finished, and it could help him in his situation.

But then he stopped himself, no...he didn't want to use magic for this problem. Or…maybe he could. He looked down at his wand and smiled devilishly to himself. Anything to keep her safe with me.

□

(Name) rushed to the hospital wing the moment the word got to her. She had heard that her partner was in trouble, and she'd come as quickly as she could. But when she saw him there, pale and barely breathing, a wave of heartache nearly swept her away.

She rushed to his side without hesitation and silently prayed for his life to be spared. She grabbed his hand firmly between both of hers and held it close to her chest.

“Jaedin…” She spoke softly, hopeful that he could hear her. “What happened…?”

Jaedin's eyes fluttered open, and he weakly squeezed her hand. “(Name),” he whispered hoarsely. “Help me…”

Tears began to stream down (Name)'s cheeks as she heard his plea.

“Be careful please…” He continued. “Please get away from Snape…He's a freak.”

You furrowed your brows. “What? What are you talking about?”

Jaedin gasped for breath and coughed. Before he could answer, Madam Pomfrey came close and told (Name) he had to rest. Looking back at him with furrowed brows, she bid him farewell and hoped his recovery would be fast.

□

“You look down. What's wrong?” Severus asked (Name) as they both sat down beneath the shade of a tree. (Name) remembered Jaedin’s warning and cautiously explained the situation. “Jaedin's at the hospital wing…”

Severus had to restrain his smirk as he listened to her mumbling. Scooting closer and wrapping a friendly arm around her shoulder.

“He is injured severely. I'm worried about him.” (Name) said her voice meek.

"Ah, of course you are." Severus said softly, and (Name) couldn't help but bask into his body warmth.

“Is that all? I pressume not.”

“There was a boy in the hospital wing. He said something about how I should be careful around you… I don't know why he would say such a thing."

Severus stiffened as his face fell. He knew that little punk would snitch on him. He would, too, if he too got hexed by a senior. Severus slid his palm up and started to stroke her hair.

“I don't see why that's any different. They always say that about me.” Answered Severus. (Name) sighed and nodded timidly.

“I'm just worried for him.”

“But why?”

She looked at him surprised as he continued. “I was told that the two of you were only partners for a project. Nothing more.”

“Well I...” (Name) bit her lip nervously, searching for the right way to explain without giving away too much.

“I don't like it when you get too close to him.” He told her. “Whatever you may feel towards him - even if it's pity - he's bad news, Darling.”

(Name) felt herself blush at the nickname Severus gave her. She had never really noticed that he used it to show affection until now. “Severus, he isn't a bad person,” she said quietly. “He's just... misunderstood."

The man sitting beside her shook his head in disagreement. "I don't care if he's misunderstood or not,” He said firmly. “He's bad news, and I don't want you getting too close to him, understand?”

Looking into his eyes (Name) could see the intensity of his words. She didn't have the heart to disappoint him, but she knew that Severus needed help in order to make something good out of himself. Taking a deep breath, (Name) slowly nodded her head. “I'll keep it in mind.”

“Good girl…” Severus gave her a smile and pecked her forehead. (Name) is the only thing he has left, the very reason why he kept going. He'd be damned to let his precious be taken away from him.

[rambleonwaywardson]

Clegan Astronaut AU - Part 7

Masterpost

AU Summary: the boys as modern day NASA astronauts. Taking place in 2025, Bucky is about to head to the moon as mission commander of Artemis III while Buck is CAPCOM at NASA. Established relationship (obnoxiously in love).

Author's Note: the next chapter will be launch day! (I'm excited). For now, some mission prep, some quarantine shenanigans, some Gale pining for his husband (as usual).

---

November 4 Nassau Bay, TX

Gale’s life is about to go haywire. 

He has just about 48 hours before his days stretch longer than ever, including 8 hour shifts as CAPCOM, reviewing Artemis 3 mission protocols, keeping up with Artemis 4 mission protocols, the odd media interview, and the occasional training exercise when NASA figures they can squeeze just a little more productivity out of him. Plus the added emotional weight of having a husband in space. 

Which he should be perfectly capable of coping with.

For over a decade, he’s had a boyfriend in the service, flying fighter jets, or orbiting the earth on a massive and yet isolated space station. He’s also done all of those things himself and never batted an eye. The only difference now is Bucky is no longer his boyfriend. He’s his husband. 

He’s his everything.

And this time, he’s not going to be even within the gravitational pull of the planet that Gale is stuck on. No rescue operations if something goes wrong; just the redundancy of a small space capsule and appropriately over-engineered suits and equipment to protect his fragile human body until he can make it home. Home to Gale. Where he’ll be waiting. Totally not an anxious mess.

Because he’s fine. He’s Major Buck Cleven. Not only is he a devoted husband, but he’s a professional adrenaline junky, a competent capsule communicator, a good engineer, and a skilled astronaut. He’s known across the agency as calm, cool, and collected. Level-headed. Aloof. Generally unphased. Always has everything under control. 

That’s the image that he has constructed, the little self-portrait puzzle that he’s been putting together piece by piece since he was a child. Buck Cleven is fine. Will be fine. Has always been fine.

Buck Cleven wakes up alone in the morning, his eyes blinking open with the sunrise, and every day that Bucky isn’t here, he misses the warmth that should be at his back. He breathes deeply, rubs his eyes, turns onto his back, stretches his arm out across the empty side of the bed. Pepper, who was lying curled up at his feet, pops up excitedly and moves up beside him. She licks his face, making him laugh and scrunch his nose at the same time, and he scratches her behind the ears and under her collar where he knows she likes.

Then they start their day. Gale forces himself out of bed, throws on some joggers, a plain tee shirt, and his running shoes, and he shoves a protein bar down his throat. Pepper jumps around at his feet, nearly tripping him, as he grabs her leash from the hook by the door, and they head out into the crisp morning. 

Gale has always liked quiet. A funny thing for a military pilot to say. But flying a plane is its own kind of peace, even when it’s not peaceful at all. He’s always felt calm and in control up in the air. But on the ground, he needs to force himself to slow down. There’s too many things to do, too many people that need him, too many problems to solve. Too many worries. Not enough air. 

Sometimes Bucky – laughing, dancing, drinking, gambling, foot on the gas and not slowing down Bucky Egan – is his peace. Somehow, against all odds, Bucky makes him breathe easier and think clearer, letting him be vulnerable and tired and shy when he isn’t allowed to be any of those things to the rest of the world. But Bucky isn’t here. So a morning run is the only thing Gale has to clear his head. 

No music. Few other people out and about this early. Just him and Pepper and the morning breeze. They first run around their neighborhood, and Gale focuses on the feeling of his feet pounding on the pavement, air being pulled in and out of his lungs, sweat dripping down his neck. He focuses on Pepper bounding along excitedly at his side and laughs when she gets distracted by a bird or tries to playfully jump up on him. They end up at the narrow boardwalk along the bay, run along it for a few minutes, and it’s here that they stop.

Gale lets himself collapse down onto the wooden boardwalk, his legs dangling over the edge, feet hovering above the water’s surface. Pepper lays beside him, her head in his lap, and they breathe in the salty air as they watch the water ripple in the early-morning sunlight, sending up dazzling reflections that Gale could stare at for ages. It’s one of those peaceful moments that reminds him of how special their little blue planet can be. 

“Just a few more days, Pep,” he says, and she smacks her tail happily against the ground. “A few more days until John heads to the moon.”

—

By the time he’s stepping out of his car at JSC, Gale has showered, shaved, eaten breakfast, changed into his flight suit, and is carrying a travel mug full of black coffee. Everything he felt when he woke up, the loneliness and the apprehension, gets shoved into a mental bin labeled ‘off limits’ the moment he gets to work. Those things have no place here.

As he walks across the parking lot, looking down at his phone as he runs through his schedule for the morning, his coffee is suddenly plucked right out of his hand. He looks up through his dark aviator sunglasses to see Marge walking beside him, matching him stride for stride in her skirt and pumps. She’s scrunching her nose in disgust as she swallows. “This dark enough for you?” 

“Could be darker.” He snatches his coffee back and takes another sip, looking at Marge pointedly over the rim of the mug. 

“Have you talked to John?” She asks. 

“A couple days ago. Why?” Gale has only gotten to speak with his husband a handful of times since he started quarantine. Every time, it manages to lift a weight off his shoulders and stir up his nerves all at once.

“He’s about to launch himself off the planet at hypersonic speeds. An emotionally healthy person might be a little nervous.” She tilts her head and makes a tsk sound. “An emotionally healthy spouse might be a little nervous for him.” 

“He’s ready,” Gale says simply. “I’m ready. I’m fine, Marge.”

Marge sighs and narrows her eyes at him. He might fool everyone else, but after a lifetime growing up together, Marge can read him like a book. Something as small as the way he flicks his eyes away from her as he says it, the way he works his jaw the littlest bit, tells her all she needs to know. “You’re lying.”

“Hey, at least I’m good at it.” Gale takes off his sunglasses and props them on top of his head, smirking at Marge in that cocky way that says I’m charming and I know what I’m doing and you just need to trust me. Even though he knows that look doesn’t fool her. “You’re the only one who needs to know,” he tells her in a hushed tone. 

The only one that needs to know that breathing is getting harder the closer we get to launch. That I wasn’t prepared for how much more difficult this would feel than every other mission we’ve ever been on. He can’t afford to let that type of emotion show. He has a job to do and he’s going to do it.

“I’m gonna talk to him tomorrow, after the press conference,” he assures her.

“Yes, the press conference.” She sighs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. They’re at the door to building 1 now, the JSC headquarters, and Gale holds the door open for her. “Really hoping it’s less of a disaster than last time.”

“It’ll be fine,” Gale insists. “The crew will be over video call. So Curt can’t try to fight anyone this time.” 

The joke falls flat on the Public Affairs Officer, and she shakes her head. “Right, it’ll be fine. Listen, remind the rest of your crew that we have the Today show interview this afternoon.” They stop outside the small conference room where Gale is starting his day, and Marge straightens up with a hand on her hip, pointing a finger very close to his face. “It should be a fun one, but I want everyone on good behavior.” 

Gale chuckles as she spins on her heel to head back to her office in building 2. “I don’t think it’ll be a problem,” he calls as she walks away. He’s right, for the most part. The Artemis 3 and 4 crews are like night and day, despite being equally qualified professionals. Artemis 4 is a good group of young men and women who love to have a good time, but they’re nothing like Bucky’s rambunctious crew.

Gale, Sandra, Helen, and Macon. That’s who’s hitching a ride to the moon on Artemis 4. Gale and Helen will also both serve CAPCOM shifts for Artemis 3 starting in a few days, and they have been working tirelessly to make sure they know that mission inside and out. But today isn’t about that. Today is all about A4.

After a morning meeting discussing some updated mission logistics, the crew heads over to building 9, the Space Vehicle Mockup Facility, where full scale mock-ups of the ISS and Orion are housed for training. Gale can feel his whole body thrumming in anticipation, because for the first time today, they get to see the in-progress mock-up of Gateway, the first space station to orbit the moon. One of the main goals of Artemis 4 is to rendezvous with the Gateway modules that will be separately launched and already in lunar orbit, just waiting for a crew to add the habitation module and activate its systems. They will spend several days on board the station before Gale and Sandra descend to the lunar surface in the Starship lander, and Helen and Macon will remain on the station to conduct research and continue setting up.

Wandering through the Gateway mock-up is like getting to go on an exciting field trip. Unlike much of the other Artemis experiences, which are more like survival training. The mock up is still a bit rudimentary, but they can see all of the important things: where they’ll enter after docking Orion; where the Starship lander will dock; where they’ll sleep, eat, exercise, use the bathroom, perform basic medical procedures; the work benches where they'll be able to run experiments; and where all of the life support functions will be located.

“Welcome to paradise, crew,” Gale says as the other three follow him through the various sections. He points at a window in the HALO module. “Just imagine through that window you can see the surface of the moon. And in the distance, sunrise over the Earth.”

“You know, it hurts a little to be so close and not be able to touch down myself,” Macon laments as he looks around. “But this ain’t bad.”

“Not at all,” Helen agrees.

“I can feel it,” Sandra grins, patting Gale on the back. “It’s gonna be good.”

They just have to get through Artemis 3 first. 

–

November 5

Cape Canaveral, FL

The final pre-launch press conference takes place mid-afternoon the day before the scheduled launch. Bucky, Curt, Rosie, and Alex sit together on one of the couches in their flight suits, mic'd up with a camera in front of them. Projected on their TV screen is the JSC conference room, packed with reporters. At the front of the conference room is a big screen projecting their video, so the reporters can see them as well. Marge is there moderating, along with Harding and some of the other Human Spaceflight team members.

Once the team at JSC has finished outlining the launch expectations and mission timeline, Marge opens it up to reporters. The crew gets the typical questions: are they ready?; how are they feeling?; what will they be doing during this or that part of the mission?; what are they looking forward to the most?

The first reporter to direct a question at Bucky starts by congratulating him on his marriage. Bucky thanks her even as he braces for an onslaught. But she goes on to ask him if he’s given any thought to what his first words will be as he steps onto the lunar surface, as the first man to step foot on the moon since the 70s. He laughs and says “Not as much as I should. I have some big shoes to fill, but I’ll give ya somethin’ to write about.”

Questions about him and Gale find their way into the conversation, and they’re generally innocent but they still have Bucky fidgeting and clenching his jaw. Curt can feel him tensing and leans over, covering his mic with his hand. “These fuckers are just jealous cause every one of ‘em has a crush on your husband,” he whispers, and Bucky has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing as Alex answers a question about the observation tasks he and Rosie will carry out in orbit.

“Bucky and Rosie,” one reporter says at some point. “I know you’re both big Yankees fans. Have you seen the clip of Aaron Judge talking about you during an interview yesterday?”

Bucky and Rosie share a quizzical glance before shaking their heads. A few days ago, they had enthusiastically celebrated a Yankees World Series win, the first since 2009, beating the Dodgers in 4 out of 7 games.

There’s movement and muffled voices as the reporter leans over to talk to Marge, who is nodding her head and grinning. One of the staff members takes the reporter’s phone and puts it up close to the camera, so the crew can see the video playing on it. Aaron Judge, Yankees outfielder and MLB All-Star, is nodding as a reporter mentions the two astronauts about to head to the moon, celebrating the Yankees victory in quarantine. She asks if he has anything he’d like to say to them.

“For sure,” he says. “I’m really excited about the Artemis program myself and look forward to following along with their mission. Even better that we’re sending two Yankees fans up there.” He looks into the camera. “Bucky and Rosie, wishing you all the best. Good luck up there, doing amazing things that just blow my mind. We wish the whole Artemis crew a safe mission, and we’d love to have you guys out to a game next season.”

Bucky laughs in amazement, star-struck, and he and Rosie high-five over top of Curt. They’ll be talking about this for days, no doubt. Marge makes a mental note to engage with the video on social media.

They’re almost home-free when one of the last questions of the day once again gets pointed at Bucky. “Major Egan,” the reporter says. “You’ve been getting a lot of attention around this mission due to your sexuality. I know you’ve spoken on it at length before, but do you feel any extra pressure as discourse heats up ahead of launch? How do these comments, especially the negative ones, impact your mindset?”

Bucky bites his cheek and nods, takes a deep breath. “It can be disheartening, seeing people get so wrapped up in the wrong things sometimes,” he says honestly. Then he all but lies. “But no, it hasn’t really affected my mindset too much. In this line of work, I can’t afford to let that kind of thing get to me. I know who I am, and who I am is a damn good astronaut focused on my mission.” At least that last part is mostly true. All the turmoil around his sense of self can weigh on him all he wants in his daily life, but once he’s locked into his spacesuit or strapped into a fighter jet, it all has to go out the window. That’s how he’s always been. That’s the only way to survive. 

–

“God, I just want to fly,” Bucky groans in exasperation once the cameras are off and the others have moved off the couch, letting him stretch across the whole thing as he covers his face with his hands. “I just want to fucking do my job and fly. Why does it all have to be so political?”

“At least this was more… controlled,” Rosie points out as he hands one of their support team members his mic. He carefully unclips Bucky’s as well.

Bucky rolls his eyes behind his hands. Not at Rosie. Just at… the whole world. “Why does it even have to be an issue. Why does it fuckin’ matter.” He rubs at his cheeks, his eyebrows, grips his hair, and then rests his hands over his chest as he stares at the ceiling. “I’m a pilot. Why does it have to matter who I married? I serve this country, and no one ever gave a damn before. People callin’ me a fag and all. What is this? The fuckin’ 60s?”

“You could… I dunno, like, reclaim it,” Curt says as he plops onto the opposite end of the couch, lifting Bucky’s feet and letting them rest across his lap. 

Bucky lifts his head to look at him, his eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Ya know, the word fag,” Curt tries to explain. “If they’re gonna call ya that anyways, just own it.”

“I-“ Bucky doesn’t even know. He shakes his head. “What- How would I even do that?”

Curt is quiet, resting his chin on his hands as he leans his elbows on top of Bucky’s legs and stares off into space. He’s quiet for so long that Bucky thinks he’s not gonna follow up with that thought after all. But just before Bucky is about to let his head fall back to the cushion in despair, Curt giggles. In a concerning kinda way. And grins to himself. “Astrofag.” The word bubbles out of him in a laugh, like he barely meant to say it. 

Bucky’s face could not contort into more of a ‘what the fuck’ expression if he tried. “Astrofag?”

Alex and Rosie are laughing uncontrollably, but Curt just nods seriously. “Yeah. Astronaut. Fag… astrofag.”

“You drunk?” Bucky asks. 

Curt shakes his head slowly, still staring off towards the wall, chin still propped on his hands. “Haven’t had alcohol in days.”

“Hmm, must be withdrawal then.”

Alex shrugs. “It’s not the worst idea.”

Bucky looks at him, betrayed. “Oh fuck off,” he says, and he drops his head back to the couch cushion, throwing his arm over his eyes. 

He must pass out for at least a little while, cause next thing he knows he’s being woken up by a rubber football hitting him in the stomach. His eyes shoot open as his hands automatically scramble to catch the ball. “Hey astrofag,” Alex calls out. “Your boy is on the line.”

Bucky squints at the bright lights above, but is vaguely aware of a ringing noise coming from his phone. The clock on the wall says 6pm. The time he scheduled with Gale. “Oh god,” he mumbles, half tumbling off the couch as his long legs try to stand him upright. He makes it to the table, where his phone is sitting face down, on the final ring. He nearly misses the accept button in his haste to answer the FaceTime call. 

“Hey,” Gale says, his eyes lighting up when he sees Bucky. The corner of his mouth quirks up in a small, fond smile as he chews on a toothpick, sitting at the desk in their bedroom. Bucky recognizes the historic plane prints on the wall behind him: A B-17 Flying Fortress, a P-51 Mustang, and a Bell X-1, the first aircraft to exceed Mach 1. 

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” Bucky grins, immediately feeling better as he sits in one of the chairs at the table. Gale looks tired and soft, his hair messy and hanging over his forehead, no doubt from running his hand through it too many times today. Bucky wants to wrap him up in his arms so bad. “You playin’ hooky, Buck? Tomorrow’s launch day. Shouldn’t you be at the space center scrambling around like a crazy person?”

Gale doesn’t answer but instead suddenly looks downwards, laughing, and the camera gets jostled around as he repositions his phone. Bucky catches a glimpse of Pepper trying to insist she’s a lap dog, half climbing over Gale’s legs. He gently shoves her off with a faint “no Pep.” She whines loudly. “Don’t you start.” Now is not the time for a screaming Husky. He pauses, though, looking down at her, and he must decide that she looks pitiful enough because he sighs deeply and relents. “Okay, fine.” Then the phone camera is shaking again as he leans it up against the back wall. Next thing Bucky sees is a camera full of excited Husky leaning across the desk, her nose bumping against Gale’s phone. 

“Hold on, girl, come back here.” Gale pulls her away, and Bucky is graced with the hilarious sight of his husband, mostly covered by a husky that’s half as big as him, peeking over Pepper’s head. His voice is muffled by her thick fur. “Say hi do Daddy, Pep.” 

Bucky grins and says “hi Pepper,” but all of a sudden his stomach is doing weird somersaults at the sound of Gale saying that. ‘Say hi to Daddy.’ Some weird feeling he can’t explain wells up in his chest. Some sort of longing or loss or nostalgia or hope for a future that he isn’t sure they’ll ever be able to have in this line of work. Too busy. Too dangerous. Too unreliable. Next day never guaranteed. A future Bucky has never even been sure he wants, but one he might’ve liked to daydream about. He breathes deeply, pushing the thought aside. Who knew that sending yourself into danger as a married man made you feel things. 

But Gale is shoving Pepper back to the floor to lay at his feet, and he looks back up, completely unaware of how his words are sticking in Bucky’s brain like pins in a cushion. “I watched your press conference. You did a great job.”

“Oh. Yeah, thanks.” Bucky huffs, trying to mentally shake himself off. “I just wish they’d stop askin’ about… things that aren’t about the mission.”

“I know, darlin’. I-” Gale pauses, squinting at Bucky as he raises a glass of water to his lips. “You’re still in your flight suit?”

“Mmm,” Bucky nods, thankful to have an out. It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk to Gale about his media problems. He just doesn’t have anything left to say. And pity isn’t what he wants. “Fell asleep on the couch and no one bothered to wake me. Hey, you had an interview with the Today Show right?”

“Yeah. It was a good time actually.” A small part of Gale always wanted to be a teacher of some sort, and he loves sharing things he knows with people who are interested. “We got to show them the simulators. Let them try the controls. Scare them with the alarms.”

Bucky remembers when Artemis 3 got to do something similar with Today the previous year. How he missed the fun and simplicity of those types of interviews, when reporters mostly just wanted to know about the mission and the rocket and the capsule. “Better days,” he sighs.

“Oh! And we got to show them around the new Gateway mockup,” Gale adds. “Which is incredible, by the way.”

“Can’t believe you get to set up Gateway,” Bucky pouts. “God I’d love to see it.”

“You get to be the first man on the moon in decades. Stop whining.”

“Astrofag!” Curt suddenly yells as he walks into the common room. Bucky hears Gale choke on a sip of water, but he doesn’t see it because he’s already covering his face with one hand in embarrassment. “What are- Oh, Buck, didn’t see ya there.”

“Hey, Curt.”

“I’ll just be over there,” Curt motions to the couches, where Alex is drawing in his sketchbook and Rosie is quizzing him on protocols. 

“Astrofag?” Gale is arching his eyebrow higher than Bucky really thought it could go.

He waves his hand dismissively. “Curt thinks I should reclaim the word fag or somethin’. Since people wanna throw it around like it’s 1964 and not 2024.”

“Not his worst idea.”

“Alex said the same thing.”

“Not sure I’d say it in front of the press, though.”

“Oh believe me, I will never be saying it in front of anyone.” Bucky is gay. Everyone knows he’s gay. But he is not that particular kind of gay, whatever that means. He takes a deep breath, ready to move on.

“So, big day tomorrow,” Gale says. And immediately regrets it. Obviously tomorrow is a big day. Bucky does not need to be told that tomorrow is a big day when he’s the one strapping himself onto the top of one of the world’s largest explosives. Gale shakes his head at himself, feeling like that awkward teenager again that doesn’t know how to flirt.

Bucky just bites at his bottom lip and half smiles, though, amused that his husband, who is known across the country for being charming and so sure of himself, doesn’t know how to carry on a conversation.

“Ya know, I was thinking,” Bucky replies. “You’re basically the reason I made it this far.”

Gale does this thing where he tilts his head just the littlest bit and licks his lower lip, and it makes Bucky want to kiss him. “Yeah? How’s that?”

“Woulda failed differential equations without you.”

Gale can’t help but laugh. “John, you would’ve failed every math and physics class without me. Some of our professors had to go out of their way not to fail you.” 

This is arguably true, but it can never be proven. Bucky Egan was not a stellar student. Buck Cleven spent countless hours tutoring him, or at least trying to. Trying to convince John to pay attention long enough to actually be tutored – ‘no Bucky not in a dirty role play kind of way.’ – a task that became both far harder and far easier – ‘study with me for 30 minutes and I’ll give you a kiss’ – once they started dating. Arguably, Bucky started improving significantly with Gale’s help, and arguably, Gale dragged him along with a white-knuckle grip and a sometimes concerning level of loyalty that could in fact be referenced as the reason Bucky got his B.S. in engineering at all. 

But Bucky was also the exact right mixture of decently intelligent and flat-out charming, with an excitable and distracted air about him that made his professors think that if he’d just apply himself properly, he could do amazing things. Bucky was always good at getting on people’s good sides. He was good at getting extra chances. He didn’t always need it, but here and there, those qualities may have saved him from having to retake a course or two.  

And it turns out they were right anyways. If he applied himself properly, he’d fucking soar. 

Bucky shrugs smugly. “Well now I’m going to the moon and my professors are stuck teaching calculus to idiots who can’t tell a sequence from a series.”

“So, idiots like you,” Gale clarifies.

“Yes,” Bucky agrees. “But I’m going to the moon so it doesn’t matter anymore. Ain’t gonna be no sequences and series up there. That’s what we got mathematicians and engineers for.”

“You are an engineer.” According to his degree, at least. 

Bucky shakes his head though. He hasn’t thought of himself as an engineer in years. “I’m actually the best damn pilot this town has ever seen.”

“And so humble,” Gale snickers. 

Curt pipes up from across the room. “Gotta fight me for that title, Egan.”

“Alright, let’s have it out on the moon then.” Bucky turns to look at him, motioning between them as he stands up so fast that the chair he’s sitting in falls over backwards. He sets his phone face-up on the table so Gale is looking at the ceiling and raises his fists. “Me and you. Landing a tin can in one-sixth G.”

Curt hops over the back of the couch and puts his hands up in front of him, throws a fake punch in Bucky’s direction as he steps closer. “You’re on.”

Gale’s voice interrupts from the phone speaker. “I believe I was the first to outrank both of you, so doesn’t that make me the better pilot?”

Curt leans over top of the phone and points a finger at the camera. “Stay outta this Gale. This is between me and ya bitch ass husband.” He throws another fake punch that lands softly on Bucky’s shoulder, and Bucky flinches backward dramatically. 

Alex and Rosie are chanting “fight fight fight fight” in the background.

“You’re just mad cause you both know it’s true,” Gale asserts. 

Bucky picks up the phone again. And the chair. He spins it around backwards in front of him and sits in it with his legs straddling the back. He smirks at his husband.  “Excuse me but are you gonna be the first gay man on the moon?”

Gale smirks right back, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his desk. “As you said, you’re just an underpaid guinea pig.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, as Curt gives Gale the middle finger over his shoulder before wandering back over to the couches. “The first gay underpaid guinea pig to land on the moon.”

Gale pulls the toothpick out of his mouth, using it to point at Bucky. They may be married, but they have never been above a little competition. “And you really think that’s because you’re the best pilot around?”

“Damn right I do.” 

“If that’s what gets you through the day, darlin.’”

“Buck’s sassy today,” Curt loudly whispers to Rosie and Alex. 

“Oh it gets me through the day alright,” Bucky says cheekily. “It’s getting me to the moon after all.”

“Send me a postcard, would ya.”

“Anything for you, angel. I’ll sign it ‘best pilot at NASA.’”

Gale rolls his eyes. “Your call sign shoulda been PITA.”  

“What?” Bucky scrunches his nose in confusion.

“Pain In The Ass. P. I. T. A.” Gale enunciates each letter and blinks at Bucky innocently.

Bucky nods thoughtfully, propping his elbow on the back of the chair and resting his chin on his hand. “Yeah, but I’m a pain in your ass.”

“We’re all screwed aren’t we,” Alex sighs as he scribbles in his notebook. 

Rosie hums before saying, with an incredible nonchalance, “Actually, I believe Gale is the only one getting screwed.”

“Actually,” Alex counters, not even looking up. “He’s not getting screwed cause Bucky is here. So maybe that’s why he’s cranky.”

“Gale’s cranky a lot anyways,” Rosie rationalizes. 

“Maybe you should do something about that Bucky,” Curt says, far too loudly. He leans over to look at Alex’s drawing, but Alex tilts it away, making Curt fall across his lap as he tries to follow it.

“I’m right here guys,” Gale cuts in, and Bucky glances at him, almost bursts out laughing when he sees how hard he’s blushing.

But messing with his husband is a favorite pastime, so he looks Gale dead in the eye when he replies, “Oh I plan to do something about it. It’ll be the first thing I do as soon as I get home from the fuckin’ moon.”

Gale hides his face in his hands and groans. A month from now. That’s a long time to wait. For anything.

A lot can happen in a month.  

“Alright,” Gale says, pulling his hands away. “That’s enough humiliation for one day. You better get some sleep, astrofag.”

“I know you are but what am I?” Bucky sticks his tongue out, and Gale just shakes his head in exasperation.

They bring themselves back to reality, composing themselves, and the moment lingers. “Well,” Gale finally sighs. “I’d say good luck now, but I’ll be right there with you tomorrow.” He starts his shift as CAPCOM during the launch countdown. He’ll be the one communicating with the crew as they shoot into orbit.

“Lookin’ forward to it, angel.” Bucky takes a deep breath, taking in the sight of his husband for the last time before leaving the planet. “Guess I’ll see you in the stars.”

…

…

Part 8

[sparkling-nov]

I love that Asha has a big friend group, both because they’re fun characters, and I think they're really important to highlight the difference between her and Magnifico. Because honestly, I don’t think Magnifico tends to like people. He likes the idea of a thriving kingdom under his rule, and he obviously enjoys being up onstage with an adoring crowd down below him, but he starts losing his temper almost immediately whenever someone tries to actually discuss anything with him. And considering Dahlia has to introduce herself when she’s trying to stall him, it doesn’t seem like he’s even bothered to say hello to his staff once in a while. Not to mention, Asha’s clearly not the first time things have gone south with an apprentice, considering Amaya has a whole ‘how to not anger the king’ speech prepared, and she’s pretty unphased when the previous interview ends with the guy fleeing the palace sobbing.

Asha, however, just seems to love being around other people. She’s full of life and energy while giving newcomers tours around the kingdom, and she’s happy to patiently answer their questions and reassure them when they’re worried. And as her friends demonstrate, she can take a large group of vastly different people who don’t always agree with her on everything, and still get them to trust her deeply enough that they’ll stand by her side while facing nearly impossible odds. I think it’s very telling that when we see Magnifico getting stressed, he’s not cheered up until Amaya starts praising him as the “Handsomest, most beloved king,” (and he only chooses to focus on the handsome part), but when Asha is stressed, Dahlia knows to comfort her by reminding her “You’re surrounded by friends.”

Basically, Magnifico loves the kingdom, and Asha loves the people in kingdom.

Oh my god yes! Finally someone who understands the differences between asha and king magnifico!

These are some differences between asha and king magnifico that i really like!

Their Colors. King magnifico wears colors that are usually associated with goodness (White/Gold) as an way to make you think he is benevolent when he really is malevolent, as with Asha she wears colors that are usually associated with evilness (Purple/Red) Which makes sense because king magnifico will later on paint asha as a criminal when she is not.

King magnifico has the forbidden book, Asha has star. We all know the forbidden book represents pure evil, like nothing good came for it at all, even magnifico kept it lock up but able to easily access it when ever he wants and went straight to it when people started to ask him questions about his rules, However Asha on the other hand has Star who represents pure positive energy when star came down to earth and spread their light all over rosas, everyone felt happy and hopeful, both the forbidden book and star have been with magnifico and asha for a long time, asha has believe in the power of stars since she was very young thanks to her father, and magnifico who im assuming has had the forbidden book ever since he was building rosas.

'This Wish' and 'This The Thanks I Get?!' The difference between how asha and magnifico react to people doubting them is shows in their songs, when sabino yelled at asha she wasn't mad that she got yelled at, no asha was upset and sad cause she thought she actually hurt sabino rather then trying to halp him by telling the truth, asha storms out the house and starts singing about how she wishes the people had more then just this, "isn't truth supposed to set you free? Well why do i feel so weighed down by it?" Ever since asha has got back from the interview with magnifico she has been torn apart by the truth, The truth that many people in rosas will never get to live out their dreams Which is something the people don't know making it more harder on asha, "if i could show them everything i've seen Open their eyes to all the lies then would their change minds like i did?, but when i speak they tell me 'set down'" Asha has tried convincing magnifico and sabino that this is wrong, that its not right magnifico strips people of their wishes never to be granted or given back but she is told to "set down" by both magnifico and sabino, even though sabino is a victim, "So i make this wish to have something more us then this" 'This Wish' is about asha making a selfless wish to a old belief that her father has taught her, However magnifico on the other hand just sings about Himself and only himself and how people don't respect or show gratitude to him when in Reality the people DID love magnifico they made Statues, Chalk Art, Flags and Banners, THE MAGNIFICO COOKIES!, but even with all of that we still got 'this is the thanks i get?!' the only reason magnifico want to use the forbidden book is because people asked simple questions that he provoked, he told people that their wishes were in danger and got mad when people started worry about said wishes! And thats the difference between magnifico and asha, When magnifico is ask a simple question he gets Angry and Paranoid and wants to hurt someone, but when asha is bombarded with questions she doesn't seek to hurt someone no she wants to help not Control and Dictate.

[chronic-ghost]

Chapter 10 of Recovery Road

chapter rating: E (18+)

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 31K (part 1: 14K + part 2: 17K)

chapter summary: how they find each other again . . . and everything else

chapter warnings/tags: discussions of mental health, medication discussions, therapy (so much therapy), everything about theater and theatre production is nothing but fake lies, and yes lots of smut

a/n: there's a longer, sappy-er reblog coming but i just wanted to say thank you to everyone who came along with me on this journey. this wouldn't have been possible without you and i hope to see you again soon!

▲ Series Masterlist | Previous | Part 2 + Epilogue

▲ AO3 Link (posted there as a single chapter if you like to read it all at once)

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“Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever.” - Jane Austen, Persuasion 

SEPTEMBER 

“And so we can see that with the abstract paintings, color theory, as well as a fundamental understanding of color under light, is more important than ever. We can have a more immediate reaction to abstract art precisely because it digs at our unconscious thought. We see what we want to see and that can give us perspective on our own lives as well as that of the artist.” 

One hand jumps up from the back of the crowd. 

“Yes?”

“Is it true that Van Gogh ate yellow paint because he thought it would make him happier?”

You nod. “He did. But Van Gogh was a deeply disturbed man and while many of his best works come from his Yellow period, art historians have debated for decades about whether or not the madness was worth the beauty.”

The same boy in the back, blonde, lanky, frowns out of frustration, not boredom. 

“So he ate yellow paint and then painted yellow things?” 

“It could be said that he wanted to literally take what he was feeling inside and put it on the canvas.” 

Another boy, bigger than the first and clearly used to all eyes on him, snickers. He points to a frame at the end of the salon wall. 

“So, what, the artist who did that one wanted to get their blood all over everything?” 

You cross your arms, unphased by yet another teenage smartass. “What does color theory tell us about the color red?”

“It’s associated with anger,” a young girl at the front says with confidence. “Or more often, love. Intense emotions.”

The same jokester in the back chuckles, louder this time. “Wow, so that guy must have really been in luuuurve to paint that.” He pinches the waist of a girl next to him and she wriggles away, giggling. 

“Actually,” you say, straightening up, “I had just come out of a horrific break up and was trying to process grief, trauma, and heartbreak unlike anything I’d experienced before.” 

That successfully manages to silence them all. It usually does.

“You painted that, miss?” The girl at the front asks again, her eyes wide in awe. 

You smile at her. You remember being her age, fourteen, and thinking the world of art, theater was all so exciting. 

“I did. Am I a vain bitch for putting my own paintings in my gallery? Probably, but for some reason, people like to buy them and I’m not going to turn down an opportunity to fund another kitchen renovation in my home.” 

There’s a surprised chuckle amongst the students. Nothing endeared you faster to teenagers by some light cursing. 

“What other paintings are yours, miss?” The blonde boy asks, eyes suddenly leaping from wall to wall, trying to spot similar brush strokes. You don’t miss when the girl looks at him, her cheeks red. 

“Miss Lorraine only has a handful of her paintings in this gallery.” Marie steps forward from around one of the salon walls, her trusty iPad clutched against her chest. “If you are really interested in her work, I highly recommend going to see her charcoal sketches upfront. But this is the end of the tour. Your teacher has given you fifteen more minutes to view any last pieces or purchase a souvenir, but then it’s back on the bus. ” 

The gaggle of high school students disperses, an excitement buzzing as a few surge towards the charcoal exhibit. 

You roll your eyes, as bodies flow around you, and flick your best friend of the past ten years on her earlobe.

“That was supposed to be a secret.” 

“Oh, whatever.” Marie bats your hand away. “It’s honestly some of your best work. You should be proud.” 

“This is meant to be a business, not a housing facility for my ego.”

“Well, the second your ego starts to suck money out of this place, I’ll let you know.” She taps her iPad with her stylus. “Speaking of which, Andrew should be by in about ten minutes to discuss that piece he wants for his new show.” 

You groan, falling behind Marie as she leads you to the front desk, where some of the students are purchasing posters of the art they liked. You watch as the sales girl rings up a few posters and some postcards, as Marie continues to scroll through her tablet, always thinking of the next thing, the next move. 

“This had better be the last one,” you sigh, particularly pleased when you see someone buy a postcard of your red painting. “Why am I starting to think this damn show is going to be the death of me?”

Marie scoffs as she leans forward onto the corner of the sales counter, your bark always worse than your bite. “If you’re so concerned, think about what the notoriety of designing a set for an off-broadway production will do for this gallery.” 

“Does it always have to come back to this dump?” You smile at her, knowing you are the only one who is allowed to tease her precious child. 

“Duh.” Marie sticks out her tongue at you. 

Despite the absolute horror you felt about starting your own gallery three years ago, you can’t say it hasn’t been a success. A reasonably-priced gallery in Brooklyn, you worked to showcase small local artists who needed a leg-up in the industry. Not that breaking into the art world yourself had come easy, but with your old connections in Hollywood and Marie’s in the music scene, you recognized the sheer number of doors open and available to the both of you. The community received the opening of the gallery better than expected, given that it was occasionally used as a center and study hall. It was small, quiet, and unassuming, but it was yours. Yours and Marie’s. You wouldn’t be here without her. Quite literally.

“Once you’re done sulking, we have a meeting with a local council member about expanding the property at two, then that new artist from the Bronx is coming by to measure his space.” She scrolls through your day, with the sharp eye of someone who never missed a beat. You told her she didn’t have to wear that crisp white shirt and pleated black pants, but she rolled her eyes at that: “I’m going to be thirty-three in two weeks. I cannot wear plaid shirts to work every day.”

Same old Marie. Using any small excuse to dress up. Unlike her, you had zero compunctions against wearing old concert shirts and paint-splattered jeans to “the office”. Except, you conceded, on days like this where it was tour after tour, client after client. You attempted something “professional” for her sake, but these heels pinched your feet and the emerald green top seemed to draw the eye of every teenage boy who walked by you. 

“Ah, shoot,” Marie says suddenly, standing up right from her iPad. She glances at her watch. “Andrew asked to see a print of King Square and I totally forgot to grab it.”

“Want me to get it?”

She waves you away. “Nah, mingle. I’ll be out in a second.”

You smile as she struts away. Again you wonder what you possibly did to earn a friend like her, what you did to earn her devotion for a decade of friendship. It was as if the universe had been steering you away from all other friendships, keeping you a friend-virgin, until you met Marie. The One. The girl, now woman, who had saved your life more times than you could count, even before she became the manager of the gallery. You hoped to spend the rest of your life proving to her that she had chosen well. 

The class of teenagers has thinned. Only a few remain to chat with friends, or check out one last piece they might have missed, a plastic bag with a rolled-up poster in their hands. The noise in the gallery dulls, as the patter of feet against the wood grain and the sound of eager voices falls away. You hear the front door swing close and the room goes silent. You inhale, the saw-dust smell of the space always soothing to you, even before you turned it into a gallery.

This place felt like a destination, a culmination, a breakthrough after so many dark nights. You poured your heart and soul and nearly every dime you had into building this space and its community. You could wander through the salon walls, easily identifying the artwork done from different points in your life, what each of them meant to you, by the colors or mediums used. You experimented a lot after rehab, trying every creative outlet you could find until something stuck. Hell, you even attempted cross-stitching – Marie still laughed herself silly every time it was brought up. 

Early on, you processed a lot through clay, through sculpture. It wasn’t very good, but it gave you somewhere to put your rage, your frustration, those hot emotions that made you want to squish warm goo. You could never make bowls or vases – instead just absurd creations with teeth and wide eyes. 

Next came the paintings that covered entire walls. You’d come home after spending hours in a rented workspace, covered in paint, hot and tired and teary, but relieved. The scratchy ball in your chest loosened after those hours of working yourself into exhaustion. That was also around the time when you had started to process decade old feelings and memories regarding your parents with your therapist. It all went hand in hand. 

It was only recently that you’d turned to charcoal and your canvases shrunk. There was something hypnotic about charcoal as a medium, the stark contrast of black and white, of the delicate shading required to give depth and offer light, the way it stuck to your palms, your forearms as if the subject you sketched lingered on you. 

You turn a corner and are welcomed by the sketchings of dozens of artists who also worked in charcoal. The exhibit is called The After Effects of Flame and the artists had completely risen to the challenge. The soft paper, the light etching, it makes the space beautiful, quiet, warm. 

But your eyes fall to a single piece across the room, your heart thrumming in your chest. 

He had shown up in your work in prior years, of course, as much as you tried to swallow him and the memories down. A flash of the curve of his chin, the sharp angle of his nose, the endless brown of his eyes – they were there as you sorted through the cracked pieces of your life in rehab and continued on in therapy. As you moved on from that night in the hospital. 

As you moved away from him.

But you still found slivers of him, splinters that dug into your skin against the wood grain. Marie said it wasn’t noticeable, that only you saw those flashes because of what you had been through, what he had meant to you. But he was there, inside you somewhere, after ten years, and he became a different sort of ache. What he had been to you was never clear, never given structure or form, and perhaps that was why closure had been so hard to find: there was no road map to moving past whatever Dieter Bravo had meant to you. What he had become. What he still, in the fitful state between dreaming and awake, was to you. 

He wasn’t haunting you; you had never known a silent ghost. But he lingered, like the remnants of last night’s perfume or the body warmth of a loved one after they’ve left the bed. You saw him in everyone and in everything and, simply put, Dieter wasn’t going away. 

Much like with grief, you learn to hold this part of you that held him and let the memories, the good and the bad, pass over you without judgment. 

The world is hard enough on you as it is, your therapist told you, don’t add to it by beating yourself up.

So you let him stop by, hang around if he wanted to. He kept you company as you sketched and drew and created in a way you had never experienced as an actress. This is what you were meant to do. It just took you twenty-two years and a decade of heartbreak to get here. 

You stepped closer to the centerpiece of the exhibit. 

A simple sketch, nothing outwardly advanced or difficult, but it is detailed. Thoughtful, introspective. It comes from an image that appears to you in the morning light of your empty bed, or as you fade into the welcoming arms of sleep. It feels like it should be a memory, but if it is, you don’t know when or where it sits in your history. Sometimes, it doesn’t even feel real. Other times, it’s too real, the added weight in your bed almost palpable – you can smell him in the air, you could reach out and touch the curve of his shoulder – and you blink, the image is gone and you’re alone. Your outstretched hand floats through empty air, the tears stinging so sharply in your throat you can’t breathe for a moment. 

To anyone else, the sketch is that of a man, naked, sleeping partially on his stomach, partially on his side, turned away from the viewer. His arm curls beneath his head, under the pillow, and the sheet slips low on his hips, the turn of the light dictating whether or not the exposure is playful or sensual. The waves of his hair fan out across the pillow, tuck around the back of his neck in a way that begs to be teased, tugged on. To everyone else, it’s a loving image of relaxation, of peace, of quiet, joy. 

To you, it’s the image of Dieter that visits you most frequently.

You stand before it now and try to find that solace, that imaginary morning where domesticity dripped into your bed with him, the tension it takes from your bones. But you can’t find it. The day is coming up again, the first blush of fall breathing down the New York streets, and like a thready hangnail you forget to cut, you find pain with every movement. 

He sits, melancholic, in your heart. I know, darling, I know. 

Unconsciously, you rub a hand up your shoulder, unease mounting. You rub again, and something catches in the corner of your eye.

Someone is still here. 

Tan coat nearly the same color as the floorboards, the man somehow blended in amongst the cream paper of the charcoal sketches. His knee-length coat looks expensive, the white Converse do not. His head is tilted back, looking up, inspecting one of the pieces. 

Okay, yes, you saw him in passing on the streets – a flash there, a blur here – but this is getting ridiculous. 

You stare, immobile and silent, at the dark curls that catch against his collar. At the broad shoulders that curl inwards. This is not a ghost, a specter. This is not a haunting. He even stands, holds his weight, just like – no, no, this is just desperation, you’re overworked and tired and – 

Oh, fuck, the black rings –

“Darling!”

Your head snaps to the front of the gallery, seconds before you are nearly tackled to the ground by your friend and long-time benefactor Andrew Young. He had started to go gray at twenty-five, and never to be outdone by the ravages of time, he dyed his entire head silver. It’s been this color for years, blinding and shining, the only thing he changed was how it was styled. Nearly forty, he’s shaved the sides and let the top grow long. It flops in his face as he pulls back, grinning from ear to ear. 

“This looks fantastic!” He beams around your latest exhibit. “Baby girl, I am so proud of you!” 

You drag out a smile, your lips catching on your teeth, the buzzing in the back of your mind at a low hum.

“T-thank you, Andrew. I– uh,” you blink up at him, “sorry, it’s been a day and I haven’t eaten. I’m just a little dizzy.”

Andrew frowns and throws an arm over you. “You work too hard – has anyone told you that? And that, quite frankly, I simply cannot have. You see, I can’t do the set without you, and then I can’t do blocking and stage production, and then the damn thing itself is off the rails. Do you see my problem?” The designs you had been planning are back in your office, some initial sketches drawn up and laid out based on Andrew’s requests over the phone. You smile, settle, that gnawing sense of panic easing. Andrew watches you visibly relax in his arms and he taps your nose with a bright blue nail. “Besides, it’s up to you, you New York native, to help me show my star a good time around town.”

He steps back, arm thrown out wide, and your heart plummets. 

You know who he is before he turns that thick head of hair, before you see that aquiline nose in his profile, before you are swallowed up by those endless, warm brown eyes that flicker in the corners of your heart. 

“My dear, I’d like you to meet –,”

“Natalie?”

The noise is barely human, a punched out groan from a hit that maybe broke a rib, popped an organ loose. 

The gallery has gone silent, or maybe it’s just you’re so suddenly stuffed full of memories, of rage and joy, grief and giddiness, that there’s no room for any sound. 

He’s not a ghost, not a haunting, but he is pale, the whites of his eyes bright and round and staring. 

He is not the Dieter that curls up against your neck at three in the morning when you can’t sleep, no, this one’s different. The lines marking his eyes are deeper, more pronounced – laugh lines, you remember, he’s clearly laughed a lot in the time that he’s been gone. His beard is speckled with gray, here and there, drawing your gaze to that lovely bare spot where the hair refuses to grow. His hair is longer, unkempt, and wild, and in his ear sits a small silver ring. This is not the Dieter you remember. 

He’s older and so are you. 

The coffee cup drops from his loose fingers and splatters against the ground, light brown liquid splashing everywhere. It rolls towards his shoes, but he doesn’t move. Neither do you. You couldn’t, really, even if you wanted to. 

To cope, in the beginning, in the cold, sick days in the hospital, you told yourself that he had died. That’s why he left you, why he abandoned you to get the drugs out of your system alone. To get him out of your system. It was childish and petty and completely irrational, but it soothed you in a way that made living manageable. You could walk around those long white hallways, talk, eat, exist without a giant gaping bloody hole in your chest. 

Consciously, you knew he was out there, somewhere, but in all the chunks inside of you that made up his lingering presence, the old idea, the old comfort, embedded itself. 

Seeing him now, seeing him ten years older, it’s like he had come back from the dead. You could not have made up a more surreal dream.

“Oh, hey, Andrew, I got your print and I –,”

Marie stiffens the instant she sees who’s in your line of sight. Her mouth drops open and the poster joins the spilled coffee on the ground.

“Holy fucking shit.”

Andrew’s perfectly manicured eyebrows eject into his hair. “What? You’ve met before?”

“W-we . . .” the rest of the sentence dies in your mouth, catches fire and turns to ash. “We – I . . .”

“We used to . . .” his voice is raspy, deep, as though scraping through a wet crevice. “We used to work together.”

It doesn’t sting, the casual distance in his words, because he’s right. All of you met a decade ago for work.

Marie swallows as her eyes slide to you. 

His have traced every line of your body, once, twice, and three times over. They stay on the bridge of your nose, the crook of your neck, the arch of your cheek. He’s not looked at Marie once. Given the circumstances of your last meeting, perhaps it should have been you to appear as a ghost from beyond the grave. 

“Uh, Andrew, do you mind if we give Dieter and Natalie some time alone to –,”

“No!” You both bark, a sufficient reason to tear your gaze away from the other. 

He sounds genuinely frightened. Your stomach twists. Your gaze flickers to the spill at Dieter’s feet. 

“Marie, would you get some towels for that?” She nods, completely forgetting the print and nearly sprinting for the bathroom. You swallow, set your shoulders, and turn to Andrew. “I’ve got the designs in my office. If you’d – if you’d both – like to–,”

“Natalie.” He tries again and you flinch as though his voice is a physical force that has pressed roughly against an internal bruise. At his side his hands clench over and over, mouth opening and closing, brow furrowed as if he’s scrambling through every word he knows and can’t find the right one.

Your chest suddenly squeezes so tightly you have to put a hand over your sternum to keep your ribs from collapsing into your spine. You can feel the blush breakout across your cheeks, down your chest, and you’re so confused as to why, a hot bloom of anger overwhelms everything else. 

Andrew’s eyebrows are in danger of falling off his forehead. Dieter still hasn’t looked away. 

“Okay, what am I missing here?”

“We dated.” You say. You keep your gaze on Andrew, knowing your knees would buckle if you look anywhere else. “While we worked together. We dated about ten years ago on the set of one of our movies. But,” you swallow, your knees shaking in these stupid fucking slacks, “that was a long time a-ago.” Your voice cracks and you hate it. You want to hear him say your name again, just to make sure he got it right.

“Are you sure you don’t want a second?” You nod. “Then, uh, let’s see this design.”

Dieter doesn’t follow you and Andrew. Small miracles, you suppose. As you walk Andrew through the designs, you can see out the clear office door that Dieter had taken off that rich tan coat and is using it to soak up the spill. You can’t tell by the twist in his mouth if he’s regretting that particular decision, or regretting something else, but Marie appears a moment later with a rag. His expression changes as she hands it to him, softens, that wind-swept, knocked-back-on-his-ass surprise creeping into the opening of his mouth. She says something to him – her back is to you – and his mouth flatlines. He nods and Marie turns on her heel towards the office. 

You avert your eyes from her and look back at Andrew.

“So what do you think?” 

He grins, completely obvious to the exchange outside, as he shuffles through a few papers. “As always, darling, you’ve managed to somehow crawl into my brain and recreate exactly what I’ve been looking for.” 

You won’t be designing the actual set pieces, but more of the backdrop, what the audience will see through the open windows and around stairs. Most productions use lights to fill in their backdrop, but Andrew described wanting to make the stage feel as claustrophobic as possible. “Nothing breathes in here,” he had said over the phone. “We need something sturdier than lights.” 

You have never felt claustrophobic in your office, but staring at Dieter, an older Dieter, a different Dieter, absurdly scrubbing your gallery floor spotless, the walls nestle tighter, the air stagnant and stale. You feel like you’re seeing the entire place with new eyes and you realize how dingy it is. You can’t look Marie in the eye as she opens the office door. 

“How goes it in here?” She says, surprisingly breathless. 

“Fantastic!” Andrew claps his hands together. “The theater has given us access to the space starting Monday, so I’d like to get to building this as soon as possible. The back lot is huge so I’m hoping to do all painting onsite.”

You nod, the request somewhat expected – Andrew was a bit of a micromanager. 

Behind you, Marie is humming with unfocused energy, but only in a way you can pick up on after ten years of knowing her. To Andrew, she calmly asks,

“Would you like us to bring out those other pieces you won at the fundraiser? We can have them loaded up, if you’d like.”

Andrew’s eyes widen. “Oh god, yes, please. I’m so sorry – I told you I’d pick those up weeks ago! I’ll go get the car.” 

Marie’s gaze latches onto you as he jogs past her. 

“What do you want me to do with . . .” 

You can’t find him through the window, but the floor is spotless. 

You shake your head, that slightly dizzy feeling returning. “Go help Andrew. I’ll . . .” you shrug. “Actually, I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to be alone with him if you don’t want to.”

You feel your back muscles tighten. “No, no – I want – I mean, it’s fine. If I’m going to help Andrew with the designs, then we’ll have to see each other, right?”

Her look is apprehensive but she gives in. “Alright. I’ll be just a minute.”

The second the door closes, you push your palms into your eyes and groan. What the fuck is happening?

You spot him again in the charcoal exhibit, as if this is the area he is confined to. He holds his coat over his arm, the bottom half of it damp and a different color, as he slowly roves from piece to piece. He’s on the opposite side of the room from your contribution, but a part of you wants to yank it down and shove it under the floorboards. A very large part of you.

“Dieter,” you say, hands up, but your voice startles him anyway. His stark white t-shirt matches his converse, and you vaguely think, he’s going to be cold without a jacket. 

He physically steps back the closer you come. You don’t know if that hurts or if you feel relieved.

“Andrew went to get the car,” you say, your focus going in and out as you stare at his earring. “He has some paintings he won at an auction here and he hasn’t picked them up so Marie is bringing them out to the curb to load up.”

“Oh. Okay.” 

“Yeah.” You lose track of the earring as you meet his gaze. Terror, in his eyes. Concern, worry. 

Sadness. Yeah, you definitely know that one. 

Without a single coherent thought in your head, you head for the front doors, feeling him fall in step behind you. 

You can almost hear the storm brewing in his head.

“Natalie, wait.” 

Just in front of the glass doors, you stop. On the other side, Marie and another backend worker load wrapped canvases into a Black Escalade. Even without the faint howl of wind, it looks cold outside. 

He stands in front of you, older after ten years, but no less beautiful. He’s thickened over the years, more solid, an oak instead of a stretchy willow. The thought of what it would be like to wrap yourself around his chest, feel the warmth of his stomach against yours, comes crashing down on you. The inclination is to yank it back, submerge it, but you don’t do that anymore. 

You look into his eyes and the old ache hums. You thought it was gone, despite the many times you think about him, the many versions of him that live in your memory. But it’s there. You’ve missed him.

“Look, I’m sorry – for, um, the surprise visit.” Voice low and quiet, like trying to pass on a secret, his thumb spins through his rings distractedly. “Andrew said he had some errands to run around the city a-and the names didn’t register with me . . . a-after all this time.” He swallows, glancing at your shoulder for a second before finding your eyes again. “Had I known it was yours, I would have . . . I’d . . .” 

“You’d what?” You want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Shake him until he speaks, until he explains himself for showing up and cracking your world in half. 

His mouth crumbles, stricken with regret, and he shakes his head. “I – I –,”

Someone taps on the glass beside you and it’s your turn to jump ten feet in the air. Marie waves to you and Dieter, her arms wrapped around her chest to stave off the cold. On the street, Andrew gets into the Escalade as the worker heads for the warehouse around back. 

“For what it’s worth, it was really, really good to see you.”

Your head snaps back to him. No stutter, no unease. Confidence. This is what he feels. This is what he means to say. 

And then Dieter Bravo smiles at you. Genuinely, gently, full of wonder. He is . . . relieved.

You nod, dumbstruck, as he pushes through the glass doors and you’re following him before you know what you’re doing. The air has a bite to it, the threat of winter swirling in the gray clouds above the city streets. A particularly rough gust of wind barrels down and Marie staggers into you. Wrapping her up in your arms, you watch as he climbs into the Escalade and the passenger window rolls down.

Of course Andrew hired a driver. He leans out, his silver flop fluttering in the wind. 

“We’re having a party tomorrow, my place. A little kick-off party before production and rehearsals begin. You two should come.” 

You can’t see Dieter behind the tinted glass but you know for a fact he just tensed up. Beside you, Marie is shivering, the little thing.

“Maybe, you know? We’ve got a lot to do around the gallery before the weekend,” you say as you rub her shoulders. “It’s kind of a bad time.”

“Well, the art director is going to be there, so it might be nice to get to know him before we get started.” Andrew shrugs, seriously, unaware of the consequences of his simple request. 

Nothing about this feels like a good idea. You nod. “Lemme get Marie here back inside before her lips go blue. I’ll text you tonight about it.” 

You both step back from the curb as the Escalade eases its way into New York traffic. Your eyes stay pinned to the window until you can no longer see it in the distance. Holding her close, you kiss Marie’s cold forehead. 

“C’mon, Frosty, I think we both deserve the biggest cup of coffee our Kerig can make.” 

The hum of the potter’s wheel is loud in your concrete basement. Cold air curls in from the small open window at ground level, chilling the floor and the walls. It stings your bare toes just a bit to keep you awake and focused, your arms and hands already chilled by wet clay. You pump the wheel a bit faster as you try to thin the edge of this bowl – or what may be a bowl. This rarely ever works out, but at least the concentration forces out everything else in your brain. And, as an added bonus, the sound of the wheel also blocks the incessant buzzing of your phone.

Andrew and Marie had not stopped trying to call or text you since the gallery closed. Marie was not above simply barging into your brownstone if you had been quiet for too long, but this was a special case and she knew it. 

Hands wet, back aching from your hunched position, fingers as steady as they’ll ever be, you smooth the rippling clay as it spins. You pump the pedal steadily – too fast and the clay will spin off, but too slow and you’re basically playing with playdough. 

To your enormous surprise, the clay curves, molds between your finger tips. With every rotation, there comes a clear, distinct solid edge to this unfinished ceramic. 

Yes! Okay, just a little bit to round things out and –

Your phone alarm goes off, you jump, and the maybe-bowl deflates into a pile of squishy goo. 

“Damn it,” you mutter, even though you have only yourself to blame. You set this alarm because you needed two extra minutes to clean off before accepting the incoming Facetime. 

You just finish rinsing clay out of your nails when you hear the familiar chimes from your phone. Switching between your phone and a dry rag, you accept the call and smile into the face of a sixty-five year old woman. Blue tips on the edges of her gray hair, oversized cat-wing glasses, Dr. Carla Holstein always reminded you of Ms. Frizzle’s evil twin sister, in appearance only.

“Natalie, how the fuck are you doing?” 

Her non-existent brain-to-mouth filter was one of the things that initially endeared you to her. Talking to a shrink about your childhood trauma felt less embarrassing when the woman taking notes had electric blue nails. 

“I’d say I’m good, doc,” you smirk at her as you head up the wooden stairs of your basement, “but then I probably wouldn’t be calling you.”

“It’s like you only wanna talk about the bad things with your therapist,” she shakes her head mockingly. “As if I wouldn’t appreciate you calling with good news.” 

You chuckle as you drop onto the floor of the living room, mindful of any furniture that might get smeared with errant clay from you overalls. “I’ll save those for our weekly meetings, alright?”

“Which brings me to my next question – what the fuck is going on? You haven’t made an emergency appointment in years. What gives?” 

You set your phone up against a stack of books on the wooden table you lugged here all the way from 42nd street. Frowning, you lean against the redbrick fireplace, in a home you decorated with ugly little trinkets and overused furniture. Tidy and messy, this place holds everything that over-spilled from your brain, a place that feels like what the inside of your heart might look like, if you could see it.

“Seriously, Natalie, what is it? You’re kinda freakin’ me out.” 

“It’s Dieter.” 

Those perfectly drawn on eyebrows arch into that silvery hairline. “What? He called you?”

“He showed up at the gallery this morning.” A motormouth when left unchecked, Carla is a fantastic therapist, first and foremost. She knows exactly when to shut up and let everything pour out of you. And you hated when she did that. You scrubbed your face with your hands, groaning. “Not like that, but he’s the lead role in Andrew’s new production. I don’t know how the fuck he even found out about the part in the first place, but he swears he didn’t know that Andrew and I know each other. I know it wasn’t an intentional ambush but . . .”

“But it still feels like one?” You nod, your bottom lip snagged between your teeth.  

“It’s just . . . it doesn’t feel real, you know? Like, what are the fucking chances that everything has to line up perfectly in the universe for him to come stumbling into my gallery after ten years?”

I really thought I’d never see him again. 

“Was he actually stumbling? Is he sober?”

“No to the stumbling part, but I have no idea. I mean, I don’t think Andrew would hire someone so coked out they couldn’t remember their lines . . . but he was always so good at hiding it.”

The desperate anger in your voice makes you cringe. Even after all these years, you hate when you confess something you didn’t mean to. Dieter’s ability to mask how high or drunk he was used to scare you. Like you were never quite sure which version of him you were going to get. But then again, you were also so high and drunk you never really cared. Which was entirely the point.

“Well, that’s his shit to work out,” Carla scoffs. “I wanna talk about you. What did you feel at the time?”

“Nervous. Shocked. Surprised. Angry.” 

“Talk to me about the anger.” 

“I’m angry that I couldn’t think of a single fucking thing to say to him. Not even a good ol’ ‘fuck you’ or a ‘hello’. I’m angry that he’s back in my life in a way where I’ll have to see him again and again. And I’m fucking pissed that after all these years, after all this work, I see my ex for thirty minutes and I’m running scared to my therapist.”

Carla’s face softens. If you were in person with her, this would be the part where she lowers her clipboard and looks at you with warmth you are barely accustomed to. 

“But did you run for a drink?”

“No.”

“Did you run to the nearest street corner and pick up a bag of coke?”

“No.” 

“Then the process is working. The tools we built to manage your anxiety, to find healthy outlets for your emotions, they held up under scrutiny. You can be pissed all you want but you should also be fucking proud as hell.” 

Something hot and sharp threatens to choke you, your cheeks flushing. The word “pride” and you in the same sentence always fucking did that to you. You cough, clearing your throat.

“Okay, then what do I do?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how do I act around him? Do I treat him like a stranger? A friend? Can I be his friend? Should I?”

“Is that what you want? Don’t forget you always get to set the boundaries of any relationship you have. He doesn’t get to decide that for you.” 

Your toes squeeze into the plush forest green carpet beneath you, thumb pressed into your palm. 

“I . . . don’t know.” The truth of what you want sears the back of your throat, a vomit-burn on your tongue, but you keep it to yourself. “But I shouldn’t be around him, at the very least, right? Isn’t rule number one for ex-addicts to keep away from contacts in their past lives?”

“Sure,” Carla nods sagely. “Old friends can bring back old patterns. But are you saying that because you are genuinely concerned about what would happen if you reconnect or because you feel like it’s what’s expected of you as a recovering addict?”

You bite your lip harder. “I don’t know, Carla. It just seems stupid to willingly let someone like Dieter back into my life.”

“And I’m saying you don’t have to. This is a hard case because not only is he an ex, but he was also your dealer and fellow addict.” Carla leans into the camera – this is the part where she put away her clipboard entirely. “But whether or not you let Dieter back in is irrelevant. I want you to go through life with the security in yourself that your past doesn’t have to own you. You have come so far and done so well. You’re on medication and in therapy. You’ve built a great life for yourself, in spite of everything. There will always be temptations, cravings to go back, and I’m not saying you should be overconfident and assume nothing can go wrong, because it absolutely can. But you are not the old Natalie anymore, have faith in yourself. You get to decide your life.”

Once again, you are reminded of all the people who let you forget that. The anger, the hurt, decades in the making, it’s still there. But its bite is no longer cruel. 

You nod. “Thank you, Carla. I needed to hear that.”

“I know that,” she smirks. “I’m a damn good therapist.” 

“As if you’d let me forget.”

You thank her and end the call. With a sigh you lean back, staring into your living room. Back then, you grew spikes to keep back a world intent on consuming you. Dieter had been the only one to not mind the spikes, even mold around them. 

If he’s still a fuckhead, I’m gonna kick his ass.

Your stomach makes a displeased noise, irritated at being empty for so long, so you stand, taking your phone with you as you head for the kitchen.

You bring up his contact and type out your message:

Hey Andrew! Would love to come to your party. What time?

Marie did not want to go to the party for a variety of reasons.

Too busy at the gallery. Invoicing. Nothing to wear. Straight up tired. 

All valid reasons. Except they weren’t and it was bullshit and you made her go anyway. 

Groaning all the way on the subway, she won’t even look at you as the elevator doors open to Andrew’s hallway. She’s gone uncharacteristically silent as you near the party. This is not her usual “I’d rather be in my Snuggie” scowl, but something else. Her eyes are sharp, hard. 

“What?” You bump her with your elbow. “You look like you’re plotting murder.”

“Maybe I am.”

You still and she does too. It’s like you can see inside her brain. “This is about Dieter?”

“Andrew’s a good guy,” she huffs, waving at the shut door. “He doesn’t deserve Dieter’s drama and bullshit . . . and neither do you.” 

About a foot shorter than you, Marie carries enough spitfire to fill someone twice her size. You’ve never actually seen her in a fight, but you really don’t want to. Her cold pink nose from the wind outside does nothing to deter her rage.

“If it makes you feel any better, I was cleared by my therapist to be around him.” 

She harumphs. 

“Look, if I can make this much progress, this much change, shouldn’t we give him the benefit of the doubt? Maybe he can too?” 

Her scowl deepens, but the murderous glint in her eyes fade as she knocks on Andrew’s door. “You are too nice for your own good.”

You mock-gasp. “You take that back!”

Just like every other party you’ve ever been to hosted by Andrew, the vibe is intimate, warm, and friendly. You run into and greet a few of the costume designers and lighting techs he’s used in the past, ones you’ve met before by way of just hanging around Andrew during rehearsals. Andrew is very fond of adopting creatives like pets and if he likes your work, chances are he’ll use you again – something uncommon in the industry, but very welcome to those whose paychecks are never steady. However, you notice how small the gathering is. You’ve seen this open-floor plan apartment full of people, partygoers nearly stacked on top of each other during Halloween parties or on New Years Eve. But this production team is a fraction of that size. 

Private. That was the other word Andrew mentioned over the phone for the backdrop design. He wanted the space to feel private, as though you were staring into something that was none of your business. 

That feeling doesn’t persist here. Here, everyone is welcome. 

Everyone, including –

“So, are you going to tell me what the fuck is up with you and him, or am I going to have to think up a very elaborate con to get you to confess?” Andrew snakes an arm over your shoulder, a glass of sparkling water in his hand. His green eyes are full of mischief, the faint lines around his eyes crinkled with glee, as he watches for any change in your expression. Dieter sits on a chair across the room from you, leaning in to listen to a story a man on the center couch cushion is animatedly telling with his hands. To his right, and nearly touching Dieter, is a blonde, beautiful, twenty-year old actress who everyone is telling you will be on Broadway any day now. You know someone told her your name, but you can’t remember it. You swat away your annoyance.

“C’mon, I’ve never seen you look at someone like that. I’m dying to know –,”

“Is he sober?” Your frown falls on Andrew who takes a step back, his own thick eyebrows scrunched together.

“Who, Dieter?”

“No, the man on the moon.”

Andrew shrugs, the lilac pullover he wears looking soft enough to eat. “As far as I know, yeah. We met when Toby and I went to that yoga retreat in Oregon last year. It was a substance-free commune so unless he was getting drunk off the atmosphere –,”

“You’ve known him for a year?” You gape at him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Why would I tell you about some actor guy I met out on a co-op in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere? I didn’t know you knew him! We didn’t reconnect until I asked him to come read for the part.”

“And why did you ask him?”

“I . . . dunno,” Andrew says, clearly ruffled. “I liked his vibe. Matched what I had in my head for the role of Sam. And he’s got the best puppy dog eyes of anyone I’ve ever seen.” 

It’s not like you can disagree so you turn away from him, scowl on the verge of pouting. 

“Oh, no, the conversation does not end here, not after you’ve given me the third degree. Who the fuck was this guy to you?”

Across the room, the blonde’s knee knocks against Dieter’s and something acidic like bile claws the back of your stomach. You take the cup of water from Andrew, other hand digging into your purse.

“We dated. It didn’t end well. In fact, just watch Recovery Road – kinda says the whole thing.” You know Andrew doesn’t deserve your ire and you’ll apologize with coffee and a biscuit from his favorite bakery, but right now, if you don’t leave right now, you’re liable to pop something. “I heard it even won an Oscar.”

It’s stupid and childish and wrong to get jealous every time he talks to a woman. 

Okay, notice the thought. Observe it. And let it go. 

You inhale, the orange ring immolating the paper around the tobacco, and exhale smoke over the railing of Andrew’s balcony. It’s a nice balcony, as far as metal balconies go in New York. It’s private, sturdy, and a perfect place to contemplate the insanity of your own life. The sunset bleeds rapturous colors, bright and loud, across the city, light reflecting like stars in the glass windows of the buildings. The sight and the smoke is enough to ease the burden in your chest, just for a moment.

It’s not like you are even really jealous. You know that feeling and this isn’t it. The pain is farther away than the immediate nip of jealousy. You follow the feeling, careful not to nick yourself too hard on old memories as you use your toolbox to sort through the undulating waves of feeling. 

But therein lies the problem. You remember.

You remember when that girl curled up next to Dieter, eyes full of adoration, used to be you. 

You tap the ash against the metal railing, feeling terribly sorry for yourself, when the door to the balcony slides back. A few people had come and gone, shared a smoke, then went back inside. You know you are probably being a party pooper, gazing alone and wistful at the sunset, and you promise yourself this is the last one. It’s officially getting cold the lower the sun falls. But then you turn to the person who just came outside. 

“Ah, shit.” He blinks at you as the noise from the party inside is muffled behind the closing door.  “I mean, uh. Hi. Um. I didn’t know . . . look, I’ll just come back later –,”

“Andrew says you’re sober. Have been for at least a year. Is that true?”

Maybe you should have just brought a police hat and badge if you were going to grill everyone like this. You lean your hips back against the rail, the burn of the smoke forcing you to breathe slowly. 

The autumn wind tugs at his hair, threatens to pull that black sweater out of his pants, as he stares, a lighter and a packet of cigarettes in his clenched fists. 

“Um, yeah. He’s right. I’m . . . I’m sober. Have been, for a while.” 

You nod, reeling in that invisible electric fence you kept him at the edge of. He senses it and hesitantly, cautiously, he takes a few steps forward and joins you at the railing, but at least two arms lengths away. Eying you, he taps out a cigarette and lights it. He smokes, a full inhale and exhale, before continuing.

“Going on about ten years now.” 

The way he says it knots your stomach. His tone of voice. You know exactly what he means. How could you not?

You sip slowly, unable to look at him. 

“You haven’t had a drop of alcohol or smoked a single joint in ten years?”

He shrugs. “Doc says weed’s actually good for unfucking my brain.” He swallows and props himself up against the railing. “But, uh, I did go to therapy in rehab again and for the first time, I continued going after I got out. Turns out risk taking behaviors and mood swings are not things normal people experience. Looked lot at my anxiety around self-acceptance too. Triggers included feelings of inadequacy. I even got a new syndrome named after me in the DSM. Baffled my therapist for months.” 

“Really?” You stand up right, mouth parted. 

“No.” And there’s that Dieter grin. After a decade, it blooms across his face without any hesitation. Your heartbeat pounds rough against your throat for a second. But then his expression grows heavy. “But, uh, I was serious about the therapy part. It’s helped with the depression and anxiety attacks.” 

You roll your cigarette between your forefinger and thumb as another wind blows by. You nip at your lower lip. 

“Personally, I found Buspar was really good at keeping me from wanting to claw my skin off. Anxiety’s never been better.”

His eyebrows jump and he shuffles a bit closer. 

“Oh, yeah? Used to give me the worst headaches, but we fucked around with the dosage and it helped.”

You nod, remembering those weeks of trial and error. You don’t know what to say, what else to admit. His gaze flutters up your shoulder to the side of your jaw and he leans forward with you.

“Did they, uh, put you on Campral too? Wish they had that the first time I went to rehab.”

You shift your weight as you glance over your shoulder. “Yeah. Makes coming to shit like this easier. I, um, don’t feel so overwhelmed to fight the urges, you know?”

“Yeah. I fuckin’ do.” 

You blame the catch in your breath on a particular rough gust of smoke. He taps out that cigarette and eagerly lights another one. Yours is barely holding on. He must think of something, remember a joke, because he smirks again. 

“They also tried to put me on Metoprolol, but I told them to fuck off.”

You frown at him. “What’s that for?”

Dieter shakes his head, barely containing the smile on his face. “Fucking blood pressure medication. You turn forty-five and they wanna put you on Centrum fucking Silver.”

“Centrum? Isn’t that for –?”

His look dares you to tease him for it, all low eyes and curling lips, but you can’t swallow the fit of giggles. You snort, which makes him laugh, and then you do too. 

You laugh with him, until you remember you shouldn’t. You swallow your giggles, sipping more fervently on your cigarette, hoping your abrupt end wasn’t too obvious. 

But if Dieter notices, he doesn’t say. He watches the city skyline, contemplative.

“But of all that, therapy seems to be the thing that sticks the best.” 

You groan, smacking your palm against the railing, hunching your shoulders. “God, doesn’t that fucking suck? The one thing that actually helps is talking about your stupid fucking feelings?” 

“Yeah,” he chuckles, “yeah, it really does.”

Grinning, you flick your cigarette into the concrete pot Andrew has specifically out here for that sort of thing and go to light another one, but your packet is empty. You both stare at the empty box and then each other. 

Dieter pulls on his cigarette, with a big inhale. “Well, I guess you, um, gotta go back –,”

Your past does not own you. You decide what you want. 

“Do you wanna get lunch sometime?” That is not how you should have asked that question. His eyes go wide and he’s consumed by a coughing fit. You realize your mistake only seconds too late. “That’s not a line, I swear–,”

He bats your concern away, eyes watering, shaking his head. 

“No, I know–,” he croaks. “Yes, I’d like — to catch up. No – I didn’t think it was – a line.” 

He barely gets his breathing right, your own hands knotted together, as the balcony door opens for a second time. 

“There you are!” Marie tsks. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere and –,” 

She frowns at the hunched-over coughing man in the shadows. He tries to smile at her, cheeks red, eyes wet. 

“Hi, Marie, how are–,”

“Andrew wants to make a speech.” She talks like she didn’t hear him. “Come on.” 

She all but takes you by the scruff of your neck and hauls you back inside. You wave over your shoulder to Dieter and realize you don’t have his number anymore. Haven’t had it for years. You no longer have any way of contacting him, even if you wanted to.

As speeches go, Andrew was always very good at them. Short, sweet, and to the point. He thanks everyone for coming as he stands on his dining room table, thanks the caterers and the staff. You stand in the corner with Marie, chatting with the art director you finally met until Andrew started his speech. You focus entirely on Andrew, resolutely not searching the crowd or the balcony, as he continues to welcome everyone to New York, cracking a few jokes here and there. But then the perfunctory part of his speech is over, when something thoughtful comes over his face. 

“I know you’ve all got better things to do than listen to me rant and rave, but I know each of you personally, and I’d like to say I’m so happy you’re in my life. I’d like to think everyone touches each other’s lives for a purpose. Not to sound utilitarian, because those purposes can be healing an emotional wound, or filling a hole you didn’t know was there. Or, in Jack’s case, the best damn audio technician I’ve ever seen. Thanks, Jack.” He holds up his glass as the crowd laughs. Andrew smiles and shifts his weight. He had never done any sort of acting himself, always more content to be the conductor of the chaos, but you always think he would have done well. He has a presence and it’s comforting. “Every day we interact with each other in ways that we can’t foresee and leave lasting consequences we can’t explain. That’s what’s at the heart of this story, this play we’re about to create. The effects we have on each other, how those chance meetings can have lasting consequences.” He grins across the crowd, to where you know his husband, Toby, stands. “How love is the only thing that matters in this fucking world. I really hope you remember that as we start production. If nothing we do matters, then love is the most important thing we’ll ever do.” He holds his glass high and everyone follows. “To love.”

“To love,” the chorus chants.

You’ve never been good at sitting still but this is getting ridiculous. Beneath the table, your toes curl and uncurl in your boots, rubbing blisters with your thick socks. Your teeth nibble the thinnest piece of skin behind your lip, chomping constantly like an uneasy horse chewing at its bit. You stare at the menu and read absolutely nothing. It could be written in French for all that you retain. 

This is such a dumb fucking idea. 

The restaurant is nice. Too nice for something like this. They have glass cups and plates that clink together when stacked on top of each other. The lighting feels low, even for the middle of the day. The paneled wooden walls are too stuffy, too old money. When you asked Andrew for a brunch suggestion, you never should have trusted the recommendation of someone whose idea of loungewear is a pair of hot pink Puma track pants. You loosen your grip on the leather-bound menu out of fear of breaking it in half. 

“This is so weird.” 

Your eyes snap across the table to your lunch companion. Sunglasses pushed up and nestled inside his long hair, Dieter distractedly tugs at his earring, frowning at the cream-colored menu. Everything about this is wrong. The location. The vibe. The white fucking table cloth. The fact that he’s here, sitting with you, like this is some chat with a business acquaintance –

“This is so fucking weird,” he says again, slowly. “Not a single thing on this menu looks good.”

He pauses for a moment, letting it settle, before he grins up at you. With a sigh, all the air rushes out of your chest. You smile back.

“There’s this really good hot dog cart down the road.”

He snaps his menu shut with glee. “Lead the fucking way.”

Ten minutes later, Dieter groans into a steaming chili cheese dog. You’ve found a concrete bench overlooking a small nearby park. It’s Saturday so the park is full of children and their parents, dogs and their owners. It’s . . . normal. 

“Holy shit, this is good.” He licks melted cheese off the space between his thumb and forefinger and goes back in for seconds.

You suck a drop of chili off your thumb and grin. “Found this place when Marie and I first moved here. We lived just down the road and Tony with his cart became our guardian angel. And even now, even though I live across town, I’ll still come by just for his hot dogs.”

The man, round as he was tall, waves over his shoulder, heat rising from his chunky yellow cart, and you both wave back. 

“Can Tony adopt me? Please? I clean the dishes every time, I swear.” 

You chuckle as Dieter continues to slurp every errant stream of meat juice careening down his wrist. 

“I think his other kids would object, but you can try.” 

He chews slowly, suddenly thoughtful, glancing over the cold autumn air at the vendor. “You told me once you felt like it was hard to make friends. Guess that’s not the case anymore.”

He glances at you and you finish off your hot dog in two bites, your mouth dry. You shrug. “I do a lot of things now that I didn’t back then.” 

He nods – rather, moves his head up and down rigidly – and finishes his lunch as well. You hand him a napkin and he takes it gratefully.

“But, uh, speaking of friends, how’s Heidi? Do you still keep in touch?” 

Dieter’s eyes light up. He tosses away the napkin as he takes out his phone. “They just adopted another little kid.” He scrolls through his pictures before handing it off to you.

And once again you’re struck with the weight of memories that had been at the bottom of the box for years. Heidi’s older too, her hair now completely sheared off, cut shorter even than Dieter’s, but she’s smiling. She and another woman hold up a boy who looks to be about six, while two others, another boy and a girl, sit in front of the couch. All of them smile up happily for the camera. It tugs at a soft place inside of you. 

The thing that’s been circling your mind for days lifts its head out of the churning mixture of your thoughts, sniffing the air, knowing it’s almost time. 

“Oh wow! He’s adorable!” You grin genuinely. 

Dieter smirks as he closes his phone. “Carlos. Heidi asked me to help him practice his Spanish, but I’m pretty sure he knows more English than I do.” 

“So they’re happy?”

His brown eyes fall on you like autumn leaves and your toes curl again. “Yeah, they’re happy.” 

“And Mark? Do you still keep up with him?”

Dieter glances away, biting his lip. “Um, no, actually. It’s kind of hard to hang out with someone after you’ve punched them in the face and called them a liar while being so coked out you’re hallucinating.” He picks at a callus on his palm. “Wouldn’t be the first time I lost a friend because I did dumb shit while I was high.”

You nod, the shame and embarrassment all too familiar. Plus, every memory you have of that hotel you handle with radiation tongs and chemical-resistant gloves. 

“But, uh, what about you?” He leans back against the bench, hands in his lap. Behind him, children run and scream in the cool sunlight. “Were you and Marie always friends, even back then?”

“That’s a complicated question.” You sigh and tuck your hands up into your jacket pocket, matching his position on the bench. His legs sprawl out far longer than yours. “I wanted to be her friend back then, and I tried, but then things got . . . intense, with you, and the drugs, and I stopped responding to her calls and texts. For weeks at a time.” His gaze flickers to you as you talk, between your face and your pockets. “But she was also there for me . . . afterwards. She says Heidi called her and told her what happened and she immediately came to the hospital. She just fucking forgave me. Forgave all the shitty things I had done to her, just like that. To this day, she doesn’t hold it over me and I don’t know why but I’m so grateful for her . . .” Your voice cracks and you squeeze your eyes shut for a second. You can feel the wind on your cheeks, your unspilled tears sitting in your eyes. 

You have to get this thing off your chest.

“Dieter, I’m so sorry.” With a gasp to stifle your tears, you turn to him to look him in the eyes. “For the first two years of my rehab, I thought about writing to you, or calling you. Just to say how sorry I was. I had no idea what it was like on the other side of sobriety, how every day is a such a fucking struggle, and I rubbed that in your face, over and over again until you snapped. I’m so sorry.” 

He studies you for a moment, arms crossed, dark eyes almost black in the thin light. You can hear children yelling and shrieking with glee. Faint, distant. He taps his teeth together twice before finding his answer, his jaw tight.

“That’s not why I snapped and you know it.” 

His voice holds like iron in the wispy wind. Everything blurs around you but not that. Not him. He shakes his head gently, eyes falling to the scarf around your neck. 

“And please don’t apologize to me. I don’t think I’ll be able to stand it.” 

He meets your eyes and you swear they’re damp. A shade brighter than they were before. You stare at each other, on that park bench in Brooklyn, on a cold autumn day, for a long, long time.

You have to ask it now. You can’t avoid it any longer.

“You wanna get coffee?” You pass the tremble in your hands off as a shiver. He nods, still chewing on his mouth, and you gather your trash. 

It slips out of you as casually as you slip your napkins into the trash bin. 

“How’s Chloe?”

You barely have turned around when his hand seizes your upper arm. His grip is almost too tight, his eyes wide and manic.

“Oh, shit.” He blinks as though he’d been slapped. “Natalie, I never told you – I didn’t even think – fuck –,”

“What, Dieter?” You want to pull away, but the touch around your arm is warm, thick. You peer up at him from furrowed eyebrows. “What didn’t you tell me?”

He swallows.

“The baby – it’s not – it wasn’t mine.” 

Your entire body goes slack as your mouth drops open. The hold he has on you is welcomed; the entire park is in danger of spinning sideways. 

Somehow he has the good sense to pull you both back onto the bench. Your knees buckle the second you move and you all but collapse into the concrete. Dieter releases you and rubs his hands together, leaning forward on his elbows, eyes still wide and blank. 

“How do I say this?” He murmurs and that old hurt turns to panic, to anger. 

“How to say what, Dieter?” You snap, hotly. “Just start at the beginning. Please.”

He shakes his head, tongue up against his molars, finally turning to look at you. “Chloe and I got divorced. Years ago.” He takes a steadying breath, thumbnail absent-mindedly against the black ring on his third finger on his left hand, as if to remind himself what was there. This is why no one over the age of twenty-five needs to wear this many rings, Dieter!

“Look, Chloe and I – our marriage was shit from the get-go. I didn’t want to admit it back then, but it’s true,” he says, still soothing himself with gentle strokes. “I used Chloe, like all the people in my life, like a crutch and she felt it. I was smothering her and she couldn’t get far enough away from me, even halfway around the world. She started seeing someone in Portugal and I think she was happy there. I hope so. But, uh, she didn’t want it to get to the papers that she’d cheated on her movie-star husband and got knocked up as a result, so she passed the baby off as mine. We were about seven months in when she finally told me. I don’t know if she could tell I was coming apart at the seams or she was finally ready to be happy, but she confessed. And I confessed to her – the drugs, the affair with you – all of it. I think I just wanted it to be over, done. We weren’t going to come back from something like that and I think we were both okay with it.” He stops spinning the ring and, against all expectations, grins. “This is probably kind of fucked up of me but we kept in touch for a while. She married the baby’s dad about a month after we divorced. He’s actually a really nice guy. I was even invited to the wedding, if you can imagine.” 

There must be something wrong with your hearing. He’s stopped speaking but there’s a high pitched whine nestled between your ears. 

“So you don’t . . . you aren’t . . .”

“No, I don’t have some ten year old kid running around out there,” he huffs, shaking his head. “And no, I’m not a father. Or a husband. Not anymore.” 

You say the first thing you think of. 

“Dee, that’s fucking crazy.” His old nickname slips out while your brain is offline. “That’s, like, soap opera levels of insane. That’s . . . I can’t believe . . .” 

With a massive inhale, where you can see the hot steam of breath enter into his mouth and nostrils, he sits back, hands limp in his lap. 

“I don’t blame her, you know. After what I had done, to her, to you, I didn’t have the right to be angry that she cheated on me. In some fucked up way, it made sense and it wasn’t just my paranoid, druggy brain telling me something was off. I was never a good husband, was never going to be a good father. When I think about it, the kindest thing she ever did was agree to leave me, even when that seemed impossible.” 

His massive palms smooth across his thighs, his soft hair tugged on by the wind. His fingertips stop just short of touching yours, inches from your own lap. 

“Natalie, I’m sorry I never reached out after that night. Or even years later. I lost hours of sleep thinking about what I was going to say to you if you ever let me see you again. I had all these grand plans of finding you and showing you how sorry I was. But then,” he swallows, “I realized what damage that would do and I . . . I thought it would be better if we just never saw each other again.” 

Your ribs expand out into your chest, just once, just enough for it to hurt, before everything settles.

“I didn’t try and find you for the same reasons. I wanted to, though.”

If that counts for anything.

Back then, Dieter always had a fascination with your hands. Holding them, inspecting them, drawing invisible artwork across your palms and over your veins. He even sketched them on notebook paper and post-it notes from time to time, when you sat still long enough to let him. 

You can see it in his eyes that he wants to touch you, to hold your hand, but he doesn’t. Instead, he puts his own back into his pockets. 

Anxiety churns in your stomach. There’s more he wants to say and so do you, but for now, you’re content to let the confessions of the day settle. 

It’s funny, the little things that you pull together in your mind to create an image of someone. You didn’t think of it often, but when you did, you tried to imagine him happy, with his wife and child. And now you know that’s all they were, imaginings. You wonder if you thought about it more than he did. 

The label of father for Dieter was gone, after ten long, insufferable years. You had no idea what would take its place.

“Can I ask you something?” 

When you look at him, the intensity in his gaze is lifted. Something lighter has taken its place.

“Sure.”

“Why were they called The Sixers?” 

The whiplash between conversation topics is colder and sharper than the air around you. You suddenly remember you’re in a park full of children with Dieter Bravo inches from you.

You grin at him.

“Because it sounds like the sex-ers. Like sex-havers but said fast.”

That press of skin, the dimple on his right cheek, deepens and he smiles. “Nick came up with that one, didn’t he?”

You giggle. “Yeah, but the rest of them signed off on it.”

He nods, eyebrows arching as he shrugs. “But I actually meant why are they called The Sixers when there’s only five of them?”

Not once, after a decade, after millions of memories you shifted through, pulled out and examined and held up to the light – after shifting weight and blame and shame, putting your entire life under scrutiny – after sobriety and founding the gallery and finding Marie as the best friend in your whole world – 

Not once, had you ever stopped to consider that. 

It starts low in your stomach, expanding rapidly, arching up your spine, pulling your lips open, your head back until it bursts out of your mouth so absurdly loud, you clap a hand over your lips to keep from drawing attention.

You laugh so hard, you cry. 

Dieter is bent over, howling alongside you.

When he orders your coffee, he remembers how you take it.

“Cream, no sugar, right?” He smiles as he hands you the steaming cup.

What else of you still lives inside of him? You hesitate to wonder.

You nod, thanking him, and follow him down the street. 

A brisk evening settles between the high rises and rows of brownstones. The air has a mean bite to it now, a chill that nips at the bone. But you don’t really notice it. Not with his warm shoulder pressed up against yours, the warm styrofoam keeping your fingers from numbing. You’d brought up Andrew and the discussion quickly turned to the play. Dieter gestures wildly, chatting about this role, something so different from Hollywood.

Not that he had done much in the way of the public eye after Recovery Road. Smaller stuff, indie films, a few local LA plays. Then when all that became insufferable, he wrote a few treatments for some films, scripts to movies that never saw the light of day, and sold off the rights of those scripts to keep himself busy. He even directed a short film or two, but still felt a restlessness you were all too familiar with.

“So when Andrew called, I got the next flight out. This is the first part I’ve been excited about in years.” 

You smile at him as you sip your coffee. “I’m really glad to hear that. Andrew’s a great director, I think you’ll have fun with him.”

As you led him near and nearer to your street, the conversation wove between artistic inclinations, production management, set design, character work – things you thought you’d forgotten about for the most part, but came back all too easily. You laughed easily too. 

You were laughing when you stopped in front of your brownstone, but then instantly sobered when you saw who was waiting for you on the steps. Which was intentional because she absolutely had a set of keys.

“Oh, uh, hey, Marie.” 

“Dieter.” But she’s looking at you, her jaw set and eyes blazing. “I just came by to get those invoices. Did I interrupt something?”

The back of your neck warms and you put more space between your shoulder and his. “No, i-it’s fine. Dieter was just walking me home. The invoices are in my kitchen.”

The chill of the air settles around you, tapping against the bubble you’d found yourself in after the park. You have him at arm’s length and you don’t know whether to shake his hand or give him a hug. You go with neither.

“It was good catching up. I’ll see you Monday?” 

He nods, grinning in that silly way that makes him look like a fourteen year old dumbass. “For sure. See you Monday.”

It’s not the way you wanted your afternoon with him to go, but in honesty, it was probably the best way it could have gone. Dieter waves at Marie as he heads back the way you came, towards the subway station. 

He’s not entirely out of earshot when Marie turns on you.

“So, what the fuck was that?”

You don’t meet her eyes as you fumble for your keys, your fingers numb from the cold. The door to your brownstone creaks as you stumble inside, as if irritated with you that you’re letting all the warm air out. 

“What are you talking about? We were just catching up.” 

She’s hot on your heels as you slide off your jacket, almost running for the kitchen. 

“You don’t just catch up with someone like Dieter Bravo. He knows all your weaknesses, Nat.” 

You scowl as you toss your purse onto the kitchen island. You face off with her, your hands on your hips. “And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means he’s your blindspot,” she says, carefully watching your face. “Always has been. He’s not just some guy and you know it. He broke your fucking heart.” 

It had been all smiles and laughing and remembering the good this afternoon. But she isn’t wrong. She rarely was. 

She can see the understanding cross over your face. 

“Where’s his wife anyway? Chloe?”

“They’re divorced, okay?”

Marie’s mouth falls open in disgust and you cringe. Probably shouldn’t have mentioned that. 

“So he’s back in your life for five minutes, single, and you’re getting coffee with him?” 

“I didn’t know he was single when I asked him — you know what, it’s fine. I asked if he wanted to get lunch and that turned into coffee and we spent a lot of time talking about the play. That’s it.”  

She crosses her arms, reading every line in your body for secrets, as if he might have slipped you a bag of Oxy. You stare back. You have done nothing wrong and neither did he. 

(You store away the fact that this was the first time you hung out with Dieter Bravo in a capacity that didn’t have you both hiding in shadows, ready to examine later alone in bed.)

“And you can honestly say you didn’t feel anything for him?” Marie arches an eyebrow, waiting for your stony face to crack. “No flicker? Nothing after ten years of radio silence?

“It’s not like it was before,” you answer as honestly as you can. “Even if it was, I can’t imagine he feels anything but guilt over me, which isn’t a great starting point for a relationship. You saw his face in the gallery – he looked petrified, not in love.”

When she nods, it stings, just a bit. She eyes the paperwork, knowing the income and good word coming from Andrew’s production would benefit the gallery for years to come. And of course she knew – she was the one who came up with it. Would she have said yes if she knew Dieter was attached to it? Would you have?

“Are you going to see him again?” 

You wave a sweeping hand at the invoices, as if to show how the gallery and Andrew’s show are completely intertwined. 

“I have to, right?” 

Marie frowns at you, angry but not at you, and then her face softens, all fight gone, and she goes around the island to hug you. This is what saved you. This is what kept you going. 

“I know my boundaries, Marie,” you say to the crook of her neck, unwilling to look her in the eyes while you say this. “And I know what happened in the past. I’m not going to make the same mistakes.” 

She kisses your cheek. “Good because I really can’t run the gallery by myself.”

You laugh, pulling apart, and you shuffle the invoices together. “Yeah, who would you have to cart all this paperwork around?” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Bright and early.”

You wave her goodbye from your porch, locking the door after her. 

You want to google his name and “divorce” to see if it’s true. If anything he told you today was real. You want to curl up in bed, with your head under the sheets and try and piece his life without you together. But you don’t. 

That was the thing with Dieter. You want things, but you can’t have them. You have this indescribable urge, but it must be tempered. The obsession is lesser, a blindspot more than anything, now that you know your next hit and how you felt about him had been horrifically tied up into one, incessant, painful need. It would never be as bad, you assure yourself because now that you don’t have that overwhelming urge to get high; whatever you would be feeling is just good plain old human brain chemicals. And if you survived being coked out for nearly a year straight, you’d probably survive your own stupid emotions. 

You would survive Dieter Bravo. All you have to do now is be his friend.

OCTOBER

A sharp chill had descended over the city, bringing with it an explosion of color. A consolation prize for the painful nip in the air. It was too early in the season for snow, or anything to prevent the wind from being so cruel, so everyone had to bustle from one structure to the next, careful to avoid the cold that hounded them like dogs. Teeth clenched, hands clutching scarves, the streets were filled with scowls and pink cheeks, raw knuckles and frozen ears. The crowds moved faster, eager to get where they’re going, out of this cold, out of this wind that pressed unsuspecting bodies together with the force of it. It made getting out of bed, leaving the cozy warmth of duvets and covers, planting your feet on the freezing wood, almost a monumentally impossible task. Especially for those who hated mornings anyway. 

As much as you tried – really, truly, desperately tried as you sorted through the mosaic of your life, shining up as much as you could – you simply could not turn yourself into a morning person. Yawning widely, you stirred the cup of terrible coffee aimlessly, as if with enough glaring it would not only taste better, but startle you awake. 

No such luck. 

“Hey, miss, where would you like us to put these?” 

You grimace as you choke down the black sludge, pointing the workman to a far wall at the back of the stage. Six in the morning and you already know it was going to be a long day. There are supplies to organize, materials to sort out, work to delegate, but you can’t seem to climb out of that sleepy haze. It had been a while since you’d been on the set of a production but if you don’t plant your feet now, you are liable to get swept up into the chaos. 

You shake your head and blink. Focus. 

Your designs had mapped out six separate moveable pieces of extra thick balsa wood. Attached to wheels, stage hands could rearrange the pieces as needed, depending on the scene. The “walls” are light enough for Andrew’s skeleton crew, but with some shadows and shading, you could give them depth and visual weight. You just had to build the damn things first, but Andrew assured you that all of his stagehands are basically master carpenters. By the confused but eager looks on their faces, you doubt that’s entirely true. Maybe by the end of this you’ll all be master carpenters. 

Smiling to yourself, you go to help them unpack the planks of wood, but freeze when you hear Andrew’s voice unexpectedly. Assuming he’d come by when most of the work is nearly done, you poke your head around the thick black curtains. 

Andrew stands facing the house, his arms wide and mobile. You smirk at the Lululemon sweats – his version of dressing down – as he addresses the small crowd in front of him. It’s the cast, you realize, only about seven of them and in the center is, of course, Dieter, with dark circles under his eyes. He’d never been a morning person either. He has his arms crossed over a thin black shirt and he’s focused entirely on Andrew, thick brows furrowed. 

And focused entirely on him, is Emily (you finally remember her name), the cute blonde twenty-something. 

Friends help friends get dates, right? Maybe this would be a good first step.

Getting Dieter Bravo laid.

Lunch arrives well past noon, leaving everyone tired, hungry, and a little irritable. Cast and crew go off into their separate corners, looking for peace and quiet and somewhere the pounding of hammers isn’t audible. 

You’re deciding between a ham or turkey sandwich when he sidles up next to you. His plate is half a sandwich, three strawberries, and four cookies. Good to see his voracious sweet tooth hadn’t dulled even a little bit. 

You glance over your shoulder. Emily sits on the edge of the stage, munching on a bag of chips and reading over her script. With your elbow, you nudge Dieter and he turns to look. 

“She likes you,” you grin. 

He frowns, glancing back between you and the girl on stage. “Who? Emily?”

“Duh. She has eyes, doesn’t she?” 

Dieter’s mouth goes tight and he turns back to the craft’s table, suddenly interested in adding something healthy to his plate. 

“She flirts with everyone. Besides, I’m kind of out of practice.”

“What do you mean?”

He picks at a melon, noses through the box of chips. “Rehab makes dating kinda hard. Unless . . .” he pauses and puts down his plate, “unless you’ve figured out the secret to dating in rehab.”

Your neck heats again. “Um, no, definitely not. It’s been a while, for me too.”

“How long is a while?” His eyes darken as he asks. 

You are completely baffled at how quickly this conversation spiraled out of your control. 

“Dieter – I – it’s been – you —,” 

He spares you and bites the corner of his cheek. He glances over to Emily as she swings a long, bare leg over the edge of the stage. 

“I’m not sleeping with her.” You nod, dumbstruck by this complete and total opposite reaction you thought he’d have. He works his jaw before looking back at you. “Her or anyone else. Okay?”

Andrew calls the cast to the stage to review blocking before the buzz saws start up again, so Dieter is pulled away before you can sputter incoherent consonants at him. He leaves his plate with you.

“Don’t let anyone steal my cookies,” he says very seriously before wiping his hands on his jeans and heading back to work. 

What you said is true. You didn’t date anyone in rehab, the practice actually rather forbidden, and didn’t really have the inclination once you got out. It had been years before you actually tried to date anyone, but most of them ended after the first awkward hug goodbye or when he tried to put his hand up your skirt at dinner. 

You hadn’t been a nun this whole time – you weren’t a fucking saint – but there hadn’t been anyone, anyone who really mattered in, years. For the first time, that struck you as odd. There wasn’t time, you reason with yourself as you watch him cross the stage on Andrew’s direction and jot notes in his script, his hair sticking up in all directions as if a cat’s tongue had licked him up the back of his neck. With moving to New York and starting the gallery and then running it, expanding it, there just simply wasn’t time to find something to fill that giant, gaping hole in your life. A hole you didn’t seem to mind or even notice, until Dieter came back. 

Okay, maybe, friends didn’t need to help friends pick up dates. He didn’t seem interested anyway. 

You pick up his plate, careful to not spill his precious sweets, only vaguely aware that his first inclination after loading up his lunch was to come find you.

🤍 Next: Part 2 + Epilogue

[chainofclovers]

(apparently i will never stop having) ted lasso s3 thoughts

It was such an interesting and weird experience to mostly really like TL s3 because it kind of felt like agreeing to go on a vacation with a large group of people and at the end I was like "well there were some ups and downs but that was a good time and I'm going to put together a scrapbook of this special vacation that broke my heart in ways I kind of appreciated" and then many fellow travelers were like "I can't believe I was stupid enough to get tricked to go on this shitty vacation and that we're all having such a bad time." And also it was like that at every checkpoint throughout the travels. I obviously wasn't alone in loving plenty of things about the season; I feel lucky that there are people who feel similarly enough to me that it wasn't totally lonely, and also of course it doesn't truly matter that everyone has different opinions about the same thing. I don't need a bunch of identical opinions to feel like I've earned the right to my own. It's more that there were multiple points where I was genuinely questioning whether my brain was just working totally differently in a way I should actually explore more because of how I felt about the intentions/intentionality and execution behind certain things on the show. Things that if I'd been watching sans fandom experience but with a similar level of obsession, I think I'd have been pretty unphased by and peaceful with. And it made me genuinely sad to feel like so many people I care about were having such a bad time with something that I, for whatever reason, was just having a mostly good time with in ways that I wish I could have transferred over.

Also, I'm clearly still trying to figure out how I feel because I did have an extremely emotional reaction to the show ending, more akin to something deeply earth-shattering happening in my own actual 3d life. There was a 72-ish hour period in which I cried more than I had in probably a year or two combined before that. I cried in the bathroom at a baseball game because baseball >>> sports >>> Ted. I cried about things I wanted to see on my screen that I did not get to see. I cried about the absolute unfairness of a human being only being able to exist in one physical space at a time. I cried about having a community that was centered around a shared interest and the sheer stress that goes into that. All through the summer and even now, although I am no longer crying about Ted per se, I feel like my ability to cry is way more close to the surface than it used to be.

So it's not that I had some kind of super simple reaction to the show that just made me willing to bop along to everything, even if some of my crying was just about mourning the end of something and appreciating it. There are definitely things I'd change if I'd been involved, including:

Zava's presence would have been a far more short-lived dalliance with the team that would allow them to do the same exact stuff in terms of Zava's recruitment allowing the show to more explicitly discuss Rupert's manipulation of both Rebecca and Nate (I loved that Zava initially felt like a device that would allow Rebecca to make those observations with full awareness that this is what was happening to Nate, and I thought her backstory coupled with Nate's scenes with Rupert were super well done)...but it would not have dragged into so many other episodes (and this would have freed up time for one of the main things I felt was missing, which was a more explicit discussion of the legacy of coaching, which Ted and Roy [and also Beard and Trent via the book and eventually Nate] all needed more room to discuss)

Shandy's role in KJPR would have been more explicitly about mentorship and its limitations and would have afforded Keeley more onscreen contemplation time

Instead of backtracking into raging out with jealousy over Keeley in the final episode, Jamie and Roy would have had their fight sooner in the season and would've spent the finale navigating the ambiguities of simply not knowing what was going to happen with all their relationships (which is what we basically get in the montage, and I believe those characters would get there, but even as a non-linear progress enthusiast I found their final scenes together annoying after having really loved most of their scenes together throughout the entire series...I have no trouble believing that Roy and Keeley would likely reunite in the future, or that they might really pull off the throuple, and I didn't personally need to see that happen on my screen, but I did want a more concretely sunk in growth moment for Roy)

One (1) fewer ambiguous facial expression from Michelle Keller, please, mostly because of how much I've hated talking about it

Ted and Roy would have gotten a goodbye(-for-now) that alluded to their overlapping traumas and things they had observed about each other and appreciated in each other

BUT. In general, I felt like the characters were never unrecognizable (including Ted in 3x12, who was not emotionless and dead inside and cruel and would not need to grovel if/when he returns to the UK and I will totally die on that hill), and the various missed opportunities and unfinished business and open-ended trailings off into the future did nothing to ruin the perfect beauty of s1 (which will always be soooo special and great) or the (often more clunky than s3 in my opinion) complications of s2 (which I did love in its way).

I think I'm just basically at my core someone whose favorite show is this one? So I'd rather, when my brain presents the options, take the more generous interpretation of certain things in a way that allows me to engage more fully than I would otherwise, if disappointment was ruling my viewing experience. And I think a kitchen metaphor is the only way I can make sense of this whole experience and why I'm kinda here for it and find post-canon a compelling place to explore.

I think of a cook performing mise en place to get a dish ready to cook. Or a baker getting all their ingredients out on the counter so they can more easily assemble the cookies or whatever. But if you're making more than one thing, which I think Ted Lasso the show was doing (and your mileage may vary on how well that went), you've got your assembled thing in the oven and then you're also doing prep for the next thing and you're loading the dishes in the sink from the old thing and it's kind of a constant state of prep and action and clean-up. And agree with it or not, s3 ends when pretty much every character has a messy kitchen. I absolutely include Ted in this. The montage at the end feels like Ted's attempt to neaten up the kitchens of every person he knows so that he can survive making his choice to take a long physical break from actually being in those kitchens. (Linked post describes how I feel about that scene, which I do think was reality rather than a dream, but highly filtered through one person's consciousness.)

(((Whispers: and the thing that mystifies me the most about fan reactions--other than the literal threats of violence against creators--is the whole "I guess Ted and Rebecca didn't have any meaningful connection after all and the parallels were just accidents or cruel jokes" thing...which is not something I have really read or seen online much recently at all if you're wondering. Because their parallel journeys matter so much! And the main way I can make sense of it all is by feeling like they did have all the ingredients out for the meal that would allow them to have gotten together during the 3 season arc, and because of Ted's very necessary choice they could not do that, and that doesn't mean the ingredients and their particular arrangement are meaningless even if hurts. That is genuinely what I see. And I completely understand why the missed opportunities or lack of acknowledgment of certain parallels is frustrating, but what i don't understand is the belief that the things we actually did get shouldn't have even been there if they weren't gonna kiss. I feel similarly about where Ted and Beard end up, actually, but that may be a post for another time [or the inside of my brain only] because I'm already very self-conscious about how long this is. The "Jason I am in your walls what was the reason for any of this" stuff just makes me feel so. Incredibly. Tired. The reasons were in the show!)))

Ted Lasso's finale attempted to put one last dish in the oven and bake it and bring it out, but just behind the outstretched arms with the neatly presented dish is a kitchen (a whole ensemble's worth of kitchens) in absolute disarray, no matter how much good stuff the characters have learned about mise en place and being a loving person and all that. Because the dishes literally never stop when you're a person, and neither does the hunger. I am not necessarily interested in analyzing how other shows whose endings I've loved or hated handle their character's figurative kitchens, but I do think that the way this show handled it is a big reason why the finale (and whole final season) was so divisive. I would love to remain as happily obsessed with it as I am while figuring out how to feel less intense feelings about how much some of the communal elements of it stress me out! I am an adult! I get how opinions work! I just have lots of feelings, I guess. :/

[creativepawsworld]

Just Like Magic

Pairing = Neil Lewis (Watching The Detectives) x Reader 

Summary = Neil is following along with another one of Violets adventures. He is getting married. Can Y/n stop it before it’s too late. 

Warnings = Language, Grammar...

Word Count = 1264

Note- One shot that has been sitting in my drafts for a bit. This place is lacking in Neil Lewis content lol so here is a one shot... Enjoy

“Lucien where is Neil?” You asked rushed, hurdling through the glass door of Gumshoe Video. Lucien looking up from his spiderman comic book to look at me with wide eyes before returning to his relaxed state, eyes returning to the book in front of him like this was a daily occurrence for him.

 “He’s not here, Violet whisked him away. Leaving me in charge, again.” He muttered, lifting his right index finger to his tongue, dampening it and turning the to the next page, careful not to damage any corners.

 “Where did they go Lucien? Don’t you check your messages?” You question rummaging through the cash desk in hopes of finding something, anything that would tell me the address of the where they were heading but only finding old receipts, posters and mail that had been left unopened for some time.

 “No why?” He replied, completely unphased by my sense of urgency. A white brochure catching you attention next to his foot, bending down, your breathe hitched in my throat as you read over the tiny writing, finding the address you were looking for.

 “I need to take your car” You inform him standing to your feet and taking his car keys from beside the cash register.

 “NEIL’S GETTING MARRIED” You heard Lucien yell just as you ran out the door. The door closing with a bang as you jumped into Lucien’s beat up Ford Mondeo out front, speeding to the little church at the end of Maple drive.

 You had ran into every red light on the way here, the tears were falling from your eyes as you parked close to Neil’s car, hoping and praying you wasn’t too late.

 Running towards the wooden door, you inhaled deeply pushing it open but due to how light the door was, it flew from your hands, smacking off the concrete wall behind it alerting everyone, including the church mice that you arrived.

 “Oh god, I’m so sorry” You called to the pastor who was standing at the end of the altar, bible opened in his hands with an annoyed expression on his face as he looked at you. “You have really oiled them door huh?” You tried to joke lightly only for it to fall on deaf ears.

 “Y/N what are you doing here?” Neil asked wide eyes as he walked towards you, a shocked expression on his face. He was wearing that dorky light blue shirt with the ruffles down the front, accompanied with a blazer and navy pants. His statement converse on his feet.

 “You can’t do this Neil” You sigh, eyes pleading with him not to go through with this crazy charade.

 “And why not Y/N? I love Violet, she loves me we want to do this”

 “What about me?” You ask unsure of the words leaving your mouth but this was your last chance. Neil’s eyes slide over towards Violet and the pastor before returning to your gaze, bewilderment obvious. “Why do you think I stayed late with you all those nights after work? Wore those stupid costumes with you Neil? Watched those terrible movies”

 “Because that’s what friends do?” He asked, shuffling between his left and right foot as he scratched the back of his head.

 “No because I fell in love with you. Don’t you see that?” You asked practically pleading with him at this point to at least acknowledge your feelings.

 “Everything alright here Neil?” Violet asked stepping towards us, a hop in her step as she linked her hands around his arm.

 Jealous coursed through your veins as you looked at the woman in front of you, she had given him countless heart attacks and almost got him shot, literally shot to breaking his heart all for her sick twisted messed up fantasy world and yet he stuck by her.

 “You what?” Neil asked, a concerned look on his face like he was trying to solve the worlds hardest maths puzzle. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

 “Because I’m a coward. I was afraid you would reject me” You tell him, leaning your feet outward no doubt ruining the sides of your converse as you stood in what many considered an uncomfortable position.

 “Neil come on the pastor is waiting” Violet began to tug on his arm now, her gaze flicking to yours with a glare.

 “I’ll be right there” Neil muttered towards her, shaking her hands from his arm before running a hand down his face. “You should have told me before now Y/N”

 “I know, I’m sorry” You retreated, heart breaking at his choice of words. You didn’t want to stick around and here the actually rejection, it would hurt to much so you began to back out of the small church. “Sorry again, about the…about the door” You called to the pastor again who this time, returned your gaze with a sympathetic nod, no doubt hearing what just happened.

 Nodding to no one in particular, you opened the door, gently this time waiting for it to close before you took off running towards the car. Inside where it was safe, you allowed yourself to lose it. Your hands slapped against the steering wheel and sides of the seat. You were too late.

 Deciding you didn’t want to stick around for them to leave, you put the car into drive, hitting every green light this time on your way back to the video store to return the cars to Lucien. The lights were clearly a sign from the universe that you shouldn’t have ignored, the red lights before clearing telling you not to do it but you didn’t listen.

 “Did you find him?” Lucien asked when you walked through the door, instantly clocking onto your tears. “I’m sorry Y/N, I honestly didn’t think he would chose her. He never shut up about you”

 “Don’t, don’t do that. It’s over I was too late” You huff putting the cars into his open expected hand. “Um I probably won’t be around for a bit, you know…with everything so see you around?” You stated, holding up your hand unsure of what to actually do with it.

 “You don’t have to do that, we are still your friends”

 “Yeah I know but it will be weird with her around. For me at least, I just need to lick my wounds” You reply backing away towards the door, opening the single glass door planning to make your escape for the foreseeable future when a car’s tyres screeching had you looking out to the street.

 “Y/N, Y/N” Neil shouted climbing awkwardly out the car door, almost falling out to the road with his clumsiness. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that”

 “It’s fine Neil, I’m happy for you. Truly” You respond willing the tears away to send the newly wedded grown your best.

 “Why?” He asked, an almost disgusted look on his face as he stared at you.

 “For your marriage, to Violet”

 “I didn’t marry her Y/N. It’s always been you”

 “What? No, Neil no, don’t say things you don’t mean”

 Instead of replying with words, he took two long strides forwards making his way to you and clasping his hands over your ears pulling your face close to his and placing a searing kiss on your lips. You had no idea so much passion and want could be construed through a kiss but somehow Neil managed it.

 “Does that prove what I mean?”

 “Not really, maybe one more” You grin wrapping your hands around the back of his head holding you close to you, lips working together just like magic.

[ruthlesslistener]

grimm, 8, 9, 24~?

8. What's something the fandom does when it comes to this character that you despise?

-I feel like there are usually two interpretations to Grimm: either he's seen as the evil ominous guy that people take him to be at face value, or he's painted as the fandom gay uncle. There's no in-between. This isn't something that I despise as much as I feel like its kinda flat and boring. I'm much more interested in the idea of someone like Grimm- whose domain is, well....grim- being an entity who is entirely capable of doing a great deal of evil things, yet simply chooses not to because he doesn't see the point of it. Why hunt when others can do it for you? Grimm is, out of all of the Higher Beings we see, undoubtedly kinder than all the rest- but he's still a god. One who plays at mortal cycles of death and rebirth, yes, but still a god. Still alien and deeply capable of cruelty because of it nonetheless. I'd like to see that side shine a bit more in fandom than just 'funny gay uncle'

Also, he always seems to take the sidelines in like...everything. I'm certainly also complacent in this, but I just find it kinda odd that a character that's so well-liked doesn't seem to get the focal point very often.

9. Could you be roommates with this character?

-oh god. oh hell to the fuck no. are you kidding me. no.

24. What other character from another fandom of yours that reminds you of them?

-I'm not so much in the Howl's Moving Castle fandom but I'd be amiss if I didn't point out just how much he reminds me of movie!Howl lmao. I'm sure there are other characters out there that I love who'll also fit him quite well, but I can't think of anyone other than movie!Howl atm

Oh wait, no. I can. Riven of a Thousand Voices from Destiny 2 reminds me of him, in a way. Mostly just in the 'ahahaha I'm in danger with a paracausal being that knows more than it lets on and is unphased by death and is also toying with me rn' sorta way. Also also the 'make a deal with the devil but the devil's only playing nice because its kids are on the line' sorta way

[fantasies-fairytales-n-fics]

Thranduil and Josie Pt. 116- Cruel Intentions

Summary: Narcisse has dinner with Catherine that leaves him quite sick to his stomach. Legolas and Josie share a sweet moment. Garrett receives an unexpected and unwanted visitor. The enchanted sorcerous Raven is up to her dirty old magic tricks again. Garrett makes a huge mistake that will soon cost him the one thing he holds most dear.

*Warnings* SUPER DARK...Angst, mentions of animal death, violence, language, smut, strong sexual content

Stories Stories Stories Masterlist

Narcisse reluctantly entered his private dining chamber to find Catherine already seated, drinking her wine awaiting his arrival.

"So what is the meaning of this private dinner invitation in my quarters and so late at that?"

"I prefer to end the evening with a fine meal in my belly." she said with a smile and raised her glass to him as he sat down, unphased by her gesture and dug right into his steak that surprisingly tasted rather delicious compared to what his staff usually prepared.

"I appreciate the gesture, but there are many things here that need my attention."

"It seems you have everything here under control."

"I have led armies. Surely those skills count for something. Something more than just occupying you." Narcisse barked in frustration of his time being wasted.

"Perhaps your annoyance stems from not missing out on your duties but from missing your precious lady Josephine and being the grieving widow's hero, fighting her battles?"

Narcisse stopped chewing for a moment to look at her and then continued on.

"I thought we put that particular brand of jealousy to bed."

"I've been watching you Stephane." she said with a devious smile.

"Oh you mean you've been having me followed." he retorted.

"My spies, they saw you and Josephine at your...sanctuary.'

"That was weeks ago and it was nothing more than just tea and conversation on a nice day."

"And just today, you were seen embracing her, near feet from your chambers that I used to occupy with you, but now she sleeps in your bed." she snarled.

(Watch the short video clip of 2:19 below to see what happens or you'll miss out on some good stuff. I thought it was a great scene that should be seen and heard.)

Narcisse leaned on the table to take in what he just learned and encountered. This woman was of pure wickedness which is one of the reasons he was trying to rid of her, but it was no simple task to complete as no one leaves Catherine de Medici, and after the revelation of what Catherine had done to hurt him, he desperately worried for you. There was only one thing he could do to keep you safe from her jealous rage and it would hurt you deeply and possibly make you hate him, but that is the price he was willing to pay when it came to Catherine's wrath. For Narcisse, the fear was not to be hated by her, but to be loved by her.

You laid down on your bed, clutching your moonstone pendant in your hand and cried. To have it back meant everything to you for you now had another part of Thranduil, but what good would it do you without his ring. The two were connected as one, just as you and Thranduil, and each did not have the other. Although the stone had reacted to your touch, you still felt no powers inside of you. You should have been thrilled beyond measure for this gift, but instead, you felt hopeless, defeated.... and so hollow inside.

A knock came to the door.

"Josie...it is Legolas. May I...please come in?"

You looked at Lola and nodded.

As soon as he saw you, he knew something was wrong and came right to you, kneeling at your bedside.

"Josie...I...I had to see you...I do not have words for my behavior. I never meant to hurt you. Please tell me you believe that."

"I'm numb. I feel nothing right now, so it don't matter."

"Of course it matters. You matter to me and I am so sorry for..."

"Legolas, it's not you alright? It's...that."

You looked down at your hand the held the gem.

Legolas eyes widened and then they darted to yours.

"Your moonstone...where did you get this? Was it not in Mirkwood?"

"It was, yes. The crow, that's where he went...and he brought it to me tonight after I had just asked Thranduil for a sign that he was still with me."

You pushed your face into the pillow and began to cry. Legolas laid his hand on your face as he felt his heart break.

"He will always be with you and will always be a part of you as well. I know my words offer you no comfort but I do not know what else to do."

"You don't need to do anything. You lost him too. You shouldn't be trying to comfort me when you're hurting just as much."

"Yes I should. We can comfort each other."

"I haven't been doing a very good job of that have I? I've been selfish as if I am the only one you bears his loss....and even Haldir. They were best friends at one time and when Thranduil had lost his memory, believing that Haldir and him were still that close, that really did a number on them both when his memory returned....where is he? Is he alright?"

"Yes, he is sleeping off the wicked ale." Legolas said with a soft grin.

You lightly chuckled. "Well, I cannot blame either of you for trying to find a temporary escape. I will have to spend some time with Haldir and maybe you two could try being a little nicer to each other. We're all family."

All you could think of in that moment is what your disgusting mother did to Haldir and felt guilty for not being there for him because he certainly wasn't going to talk about it with anyone else. No one knew what happened but you, although you believed Thranduil did.

"You are right Josie. I will try to do better....in fact, I will go check on him when I leave. Try to get some rest if you can and...I am only across the hall. Please...if you need me, come to me. Pinky promise?"

This time you belted out a laugh.

"You remember that huh?"

"I have forgotten nothing you have taught me of your human life."

You raised your hand. "Ok, promise."

Legolas wrapped his hand around your wrist and with his other hand, he curled his little finger around yours, then smiled so sweetly.

"Goodnight Josie."

He stood up, then bent down and kissed your forehead as his palm laid upon your cheek. You stared at each other for a moment, then he smiled and left.

You sighed and kissed the moonstone, then closed your eyes wishing for a better day tomorrow.

Although Raven had told Thranduil she had people to visit, she only had one in mind as she landed on Devil's island. Garrett. She was taking one hell of a risk coming to see him when he hated her guts and could easily take her on with no effort in a battle, but he still had her heart, her one true love and King that she so desired... she had wished for a King like him with the spell she used but had went terribly wrong and delivered her Jareth instead. Definitely karma she supposed but now she planned on getting what she's always wanted, one way or another....and it would hurt you too. Killing two birds with one stone she figured and giggled.

She glided up to the roof and went in through a window that was ajar, then followed Garrett's scent to locate his chambers. It was the witching hour and she knew him and his clan would be out getting their dinner. Her plan was to surprise him when he returned, knowing he would be less grumpy on a full stomach which made him more manageable. She also knew he wasn't getting laid and that could also be a bonus for her if she played her cards right.

Raven found his bedroom and walked around studying his belongings. One thing that caught her eye were pictures pinned on the wall that appeared to be Garrett when he was a child. Garrett never spoke of that life to anyone, not even her. He didn't want to remember it so to see that he had photos and kept them out in the open blew her mind. The one with the guitar was interesting because he still played, so that was one thing he carried over with him in his rebirth. He tried to teach her when she was a child but she could never grasp it, nor was that of any interest to her. Back then, he cared about her and she believed he was trying to show her what it was like to be a child and not just a cold blooded killer. That was another thing Garrett took with him, his good heart, which is why he butted heads with her father, Craven, so much.

She then moved on to a bookcase filled with old hardbacks. Garrett used to read to her all the time, which that part stuck with her as she got older, but what else did she have to do while being locked away in Lestat's mausoleum for nine years. She missed those days, when she actually meant something to her G....but that all changed when he met and fell in love with you.

The next thing she saw left her frazzled. On the wall, over his bed was the painting Marius did of him that you asked him to do. She figured Marius must have brought it to Garrett way before the fire ever took place. She couldn't believe her eyes because she was there when Garrett first saw it and his reaction was none other than despair, which was what she had intended to happen. Garrett hated it, so why was it hanging in his bedroom?

As she moved on, boom! She was flung through the air and pinned up against the wall by her neck.

"Well well well, look what the cat dragged in. You are one useless dhampir. You should have smelled me coming. I picked up your foul stench at the bottom of the mountain." Garrett snarked as his eyes burned of fiery lava.

"G...let...me...go..." Raven coughed out as she gasped for air.

"And if I don't? What are you going to do about it? Set me on fire? You wouldn't do that to your good buddy G now would you Clover?"

"Whh...why n..not? You..have no..p..problem choking..m..me all the...f...fucking...time."

Garrett grinned and threw her to the ground.

"Old habits die hard."

"Now..you have three seconds to tell me what the fuck you are doing here before I finish what I started."

Raven cautiously stood up and regrouped herself.

"Jesus G, have you lost every bit of feelings you ever had for me? We used to be so tight."

"Every...single...ounce." he quipped.

"That's just cold."

"And that is what I am, am I not? Cold, dead and heartless....kinda like you." he said in a grizzly tone as he slowly walked towards her.

"No G, you're not! Remember?" she shouted as she became backed against a wall, then played on his human emotions. "This is not you. The real G is not a murderer."

Garrett bellowed in laughter. "Is this really how you are going to try to save your pathetic little life? You know damn well I don't care for you anymore and you also know damn well why. Remember??? I don't kill good people, only bad ones and everyone knows there isn't a good bone in your scrawny body. After what you have done to Josephine, I would snap your neck like a twig and feed you to the wargs piece by piece. or maybe just return you alive back to your ever so loving goblin King."

"NO!....Please...no. I...I can't go back there." Raven whimpered in fear.

Garrett tilted his head. "Well now, this is interesting. The fierce and heartless dhampir is truly scared. Now why would you ever fear Jareth? Tell me, what was your first clue Velma? I mean, you obviously must be blind as a bat to take up with a King who is deader than I'll ever be and by far, more evil than you. Can't get any worse than that."

"This is where Raven knew she had to do something to find Garrett's G spot, per se...his human side.

'Yes it can..." she snapped and ripped her shirt off, then turned her back to him.

Garrett's eyes widened...not from pity, but just plain shock at all the scars on her back.

"Please...please don't make me go back there. This is only one of the disgusting things he has done to me."

"Are you really attempting to make me feel sorry for you? You have brought all of this on yourself. Are you forgetting the disgusting things you do to others?? Karma is the only friend you have and even she hates your fucking guts...and why?? because you're just a shitty ass person with no soul."

Raven dropped to her knees and began to sob.

'Oh please...Get...up! You're making me sick and I just ate."

Raven jumped up and turned to him with her bare breasts in plain view.

"You know what it's like to be scarred! I have seen them! When I was a child...on your chest!" she shouted with a tear streaked face as she pointed at him. "So now who's a shitty person??"

"Don't play this game with me....and do not compare me to you....ever! You see, the difference between you and me on that aspect is that mine came from an accident. What's your excuse?? I'd like to hear how your scars were an accident too!"

"Wellll....um...because...because I conjured Jareth....by ACCIDENT...I...I was trying to stupidly find me a King like......like you."

Garrett stared at her for a few seconds and then burst into laughter. "Yep, karma most certainly and absolutely one hundred and fifty thousand percent hates you."

Raven began to huff through gritted teeth and her eyes glowed orange as she began to shake.

"Stop laughing at me!!!!"

She whipped her arm up and hurled Garrett against the wall.

"Ohhh, you shouldn't have done that." he sneered as he whisked back up, glaring her down, his red eyes now bursting at the seems for her blood.

He too whipped his arm out and sent her catapulting into his night stand, shattering the vase that you had thrown at him while practicing your magic.

Raven was stunned by the blow and Garrett was now beyond livid because he was saving that vase for sentimental reasons.

"Now look what you've gone and made me do!! This ends now!"

He began to grab a dagger to cut her heart out because he truly did not want to taste her wretched blood, when suddenly Raven spoke...but not in her voice....but yours.

"Garrett, it's me! please don't hurt me. You...love me, remember?"

His head spun to her so fast, his neck cracked.

Raven stood up and as she did, she morphed into you.

Garrett stumbled backwards and gasped. "You stop this right now! I know who you are you evil sadistic witch!"

"Well, if you know so much, why are standing there frozen?" she said as she walked towards him seductively, her breasts full and her nipples hard. "It is I...Josephine. Are you blind as a bat?" she giggled. "Garrett....I love you. Don't you love me too?"

"Stop! Don't you say that!" he shouted as he began to tremble.

"Why not? Isn't it what you have longed to hear? I love you Garrett. You are my true King. Take me Garrett, make me your Queen....right now."

Raven now stood before him and took his hand. "Touch me...then you'll know the truth."

She brought his hand up and placed it over her breast. He gasped heavily and couldn't move as his eyes turned to his human blue and filled with tears.

"J...Jos..Josephine?"

"Yes my love. It is me. Make love to me Garrett. I have waited so long for you. I need you. Please Garrett. Kiss me...." she said as she stretched her body up against him, begging for his lips.

He brought his shaking hand up to her cheek, almost afraid to touch her and desperately trying to focus.

"Here...let me help you."

She pulled his head down and planted a passionate kiss on his lips, then slowly slid her tongue into his mouth.

Garrett swiftly pushed her back with remembering eyes. "You....you taste like..."

"Like what baby?" she smiled with your smile.

That did it. He pushed her against the wall and kissed her hard and deep, grinding his full attention cock against her. She lifted her leg up his thigh and he grabbed it, then grabbed her other one and hoisted her up. She wrapped her legs around him and began thrusting against his cock.

"Now Garrett...I want you now!"

She tore at his belt buckle but couldn't get it undone.

"Move." he snapped as he jerked her hands away and aggressively unbuckled his belt. He put her down and yanked her pants to her ankles in which she quickly stepped out of. Garrett then lifted her back up and began slipping his pants down.

"That's it baby...fuck me G..."

Garrett halted as if he had been tased and stared at her, dead in the eyes.....then dropped her.

"You..." he snarled. "You repulsive parasite."

Both of his hands gripped her neck as he slowly lifted her off the ground.

"G...Garrett....n...no....d...don't." she sputtered as she kicked her legs. "It's me. Josephine!"

"Don't you speak her name! First and foremost, she is nothing, NOTHING like this, a bitch in heat....and second, I would never take her in such a manner. I would make LOVE to her."

Raven choked out a laugh. "Is that w...what you're c...calling it..n..now when the mm...manner you t...took her in b...before w..was against her w..will."

Garrett released her in shock of her statement and turned away.

"That...is not how it was!" he barked.

"Oh? Ohhhh, that's right. You poisoned her with your blood and made her want you, so that makes it legit?"

Garrett spun around so fast, Raven screamed and jumped back.

"You mean like you what you were just doing to me?! Poisoning me with your black magic, making me believe you were Josephine??"

"Oh stop being such a big baby G! She is never going to want you. The only way you would ever have her is to do the same thing to her all over again. She will always pine for that perfect King of hers which isn't you. You're nothing like him....but you're just like me. We are kindred spirits, don't you see that by now? I don't judge you like she and her entire little fucking elven clan do, even after what you do to me....I actually love you G!!....and I am here and I want you, no strings attached. Isn't that what you want? To be loved? You'll never be good enough for her and you know it. She will never get over Thranduil and if by any chance in the world, she ever did want you...you would always be second, never first in her heart, even with him dead and gone....she will NEVER love you..."

"Shut up!! Shut your mouth! I would rather live all of eternity than to ever be with you. You don't know a thing about love! In fact, you're not even capable of it. You killed children and have no remorse!! I am just an obsession of yours and you can't stand the fact that I do....not....want...you!!"

"Is that so? Then why is your cock still raging hard and what are you going to do about it? The usual? Rosy palm and her 5 sisters?" She quipped as she grabbed it over his pants. "God, G...just live a little and have some sex, nothing more. It will do you good because you're wound like a fucking top."

His nose was flaring as he breathed like he had ran a mile, then shoved her back against the wall, stripping his pants down.

"This means nothing." he reeled and spun her around so he didn't have to see her face. He spread her legs as she grinned from ear to ear, then thrusted into her.

"Ahhhh yes!!! Yes G....yes!!"

He slammed his hand on the wall and groaned as he slid into her fully, then began pumping her hard and deep, making her pant and scream with every inward stroke.

"That's it G, I...I'm almost there....keep...going..."

Garrett sped up with only the intention of his own release and he certainly wasn't going to do so inside of her. He began to unravel and withdrew before she could climax, expelling his fluid onto the floor as he grunted deeply through every vigorous pulse.

Raven spun around completely dumbfounded. "Garrett what the fuck?? I wasn't done...keep going! I need to finish too!"

"Finish by yourself." he smugly smirked.

"You ASSHOLE!" Raven screamed and whipped him hard across the room into a pillar, knocking him out cold.

She stood over him, glowering down. "I suppose it's better this way because I am sure you would have tried to kill me afterwards anyways....and unfortunately, I do have to go back to hell on earth before Jareth knows I am gone. You'll pay for this G....soon."

She knelt down, kissed his lips, then dressed and took off, purposely leaving something behind.

One thing Garrett wasn't thinking of during his bout of pleasure was the fact of his blood that's in you, which he had reminded you of during his last visit with you. It was how he entered your dream and fended off Jadis....but it also meant you had access to his mind as well....and his thoughts of you had been loud and clear during his play time.

As the sun was rising, you awoke in a panic, calling out only one word.

"Garrett!"

@redeemer46

[toastandjamie]

Project Sekai DSMP AU Units and their Sekai’s:

Insomnia Lite (Based on N25):

Tommy: raised in a family of musicians and always dreamed of being one himself. When Wilbur’s band fell apart Tommy attempted to cheer him up by writing him a song. Wilbur reacted coldly to the song stating that Tommy’s song were “shallow and soulless”. This crushed Tommy but the boy resolved to write a song that would make Wilbur feel something, positive or negative. In order to follow this pursuit Tommy ended pushing away his best friend Tubbo so he could solely focus on music. After posting one of his songs online for criticism he connected with one of his upperclassmen Dream and formed Insomnia Lite.

Dream: an overachiever and perfectionist Dream is obsessed with creating the perfect song. When he discovered Tommy’s music he felt that it had potential and reached out to his underclassman. Dream’s harsh and often dismissive personality led to him becoming isolated after a falling out with his friends Sapnap and George.

Jack: an artist and musician, Jack always had a knack for artistic and scholastic pursuits. However he struggled with making friends and found himself ostracized by his classmates. His only friend Niki ended up drifting away when they hit highschool to focus on her schoolwork and ballet. He became part of Insomnia Lite after making a fan MV for one of their songs on a whim and was contacted by Tommy. Jack cares deeply for the members of Insomnia Lite but he’d sooner die than admit that.

Eryn: Tommy and him were once childhood friends but the two lost contact when he moved away before the start of middle school. When he returned to the city after a family friend gained guardianship he appeared unphased by Tommy not remembering him. Instead he never even brought up their connection and through sheer force of will worked his way into Insomnia Lite. Despite his bright and mischievous demeanor underneath it is a far colder version of themself.

Insomnia Lite’s Sekai born out of their feelings loneliness and desire for companionship is called Void Sekai. An vast black void with floating computer monitors that only show static, a single grand piano sits at its center.

Wish Star(based on Leo/Need):

Tubbo: After Tommy began avoiding him(and everyone else for that matter) he became determined to find out what happened and help Tommy. Tommy of course was unwilling to even speak to Tubbo let alone tell him what was wrong so Tubbo took to some ‘light’ stalking to get to the truth. After learning about Wilbur and Tommy’s fight Tubbo resolves himself to get Wilbur rediscover his love for music and hopefully get everything back to normal. Tubbo plays the keytar and piano.

Wilbur: a messy falling out with his previous band Wilbur found himself not only unable to enjoy music but completely incapable of writing it as well. Wilbur feels guilty over lashing out at both Tommy and Techno but can’t bring himself to apologize in fear of them not forgiving him. When Tubbo asks him to join his hand Wilbur initially refuses but with a quick visit to Sekai and some urging from Miku Wilbur agrees to give it a shot.

Quackity: the bassist of a rival band to Wilbur’s, Quackity is very competitive with Wilbur and exceptionally talented. An argument with his manager about the bands future leaves Quackity going solo. Out of options and miserable when Tubbo and Wilbur show up to ask him to be their bassist, his only caveat is that Tubbo proves himself a capable musician. Quackity is determined to outdo his ex-manager and ex-band mates.

Purpled: his older brother was the golden gifted child of his family. Seeing all of the expectations and pressure his older brother was under Purpled decided to be completely average. He did so to great success getting average grades and doing average at all activities he did. This calculated averageness has made him near invisible to his classmates, with many forgetting that he was even there. Purpled insists that he doesn’t mind but everyone wants some praise and spotlight sometimes, so when Tubbo asks him to be Wish Star’s drummer Purpled accepts.

Wish Star’s Sekai is born out of the desire to find their true selves, and is called Neighborhood Sekai. The Sekai is small culdesac, with a large garage filled with instruments and amps.

Syndicate(based on Vivid Bad Squad):

Ranboo: a first year high school student who’s finally attending public school after being homeschooled his whole life. They are prodigy in academics but have a love for music and a knack for singing. His low self esteem keeps him from following through with this dream however. When they first discover untitled Miku convinces them to give music a shot.

Techno: a musical prodigy from America, he was invited to live and study music under Philza, a famous producer and composer. Techno excels in almost everything he tries and has a great work ethic. Unfortunately his aloof and standoffish personality isolates him from his peers leaving Techno often on his own. He stumbles upon Ranboo practicing and gives him some pointers, eventually becoming the second member of the Syndicate.

Niki: a ballet prodigy Niki spends almost all her free time practicing and studying leaving her feeling lonely. She loves dance but wishes her overbearing instructor would let her express herself more through it. She joins Syndicate when Techno asks her to choreograph for them.

Sapnap: consistently second best to his childhood friend Dream, after a messy falling out Sapnap is determined to prove that he’s better than Dream at everything. After finding out that Dream was part of a music group he insisted on joining Syndicate to compete with him.

Syndicate’s Sekai is a cyberpunk abandoned office building turned hideout created from a drive for success and a desire to be seen for more than their successes. It’s called Cyber Sekai.

Knights of Hope(based on More More Jump):

Aimsey: tw! The summer before their second year in highschool, Aimsey’s girlfriend Gucky committed suicide leaving Aimsey feeling hopeless. Since that day they are determined to bring hope to those who need it.

Eret: their attempts to protect his former band mate Wilbur from himself backfire after a sabotaged competition. The fallout left Eret desperate to make amends. After meeting Aimsey the two team up to bring hope to everyone.

Fundy: as Eret’s former bandmate Fundy was hesitant to forgive Eret for sabotaging them at the competition but was willing to give him a second chance. After his former band fell apart Fundy had felt lost and unsure of what to do from there, so he was a bit thankful to be given another group to perform with.

Puffy: a popular and caring third year that is well respected by her peers. Puffy is always willing to lend a hand or an empathetic ear for her schoolmates. However underneath the surface Puffy finds herself struggling to find much happiness for herself. After hearing about Aimsey and Eret’s plan Puffy decided to join in hoping to find just a little bit of hope of her own.

The Knights of Hope’s Sekai was formed from feelings of desperation and love and is called Castle Sekai. The Sekai appears as a large throne room with a round table at its center that doubles as a stage.

White Rabbit Troupe(Based on WxS)

Charlie ‘Slime’: having grown up incredibly sheltered because of his weak constitution Charlie’s health is good enough to convince his over protective brother Quackity to let him get a part time job at the local outdoor theater. Charlie’s one desire is to make up for lost time and experience as much as possible.

Karl: diagnosed with early onset dementia Karl realizes that he only has a few years before his memories are completely gone. Determined to live the remains of working memory to the fullest Karl starts a small theatre troupe to give himself some fun memories before he forgets it all.

Foolish: a former gifted kid who’s being faced with the mounting dread of falling behind his peers, Foolish struggles with finding his place in a world that he seemingly has no place in. He’s invited to join the theatre troupe by Charlie and decides to give it his best effort while he figures out what exactly he wants out of life.

George: wanting nothing more than to sleep all day George reluctantly joins the White Rabbit Troupe at Karl’s behest with the hopes of earning money to help pay for university. George insists he’s only here for the money but in reality ever since Sapnap and Dream had their falling out George has been looking for something new.

The White Rabbit Troupe’s Sekai was born out of the desire to live life to fullest everyday and is called Fable Sekai. it appears as an enchanted forest with a hand carved wooden stage.

[redvdress]

ELLIE THAT WAS JUST SO GOOD OMG YOUR WRITING IS EVERYTHINGGGG NEVER ACTUALLY LIKED AN ANGST BEFORE

so, so!! any thoughts on bakugo x a reader that's so gentle it's sickening? how he feels bothered over how sweet you are, but still blushes when you compliment him? how his gaze softens up when you step into the room with that peaceful energy of yours? how he breaks the nose of some stupid guy for making you cry ?! (⁠*⁠˘⁠︶⁠˘⁠*⁠)⁠.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡

again, thanks for writing down my requests (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠) i'm glad you like 'em! and don't worry, i'll send you every thought i have!

- blue 🫐

SOFT SPARKS

A/N: blueee i couldn’t wait for one of your requests, i guess bakugo is y’all favorite and i’m so glad of that. i’m so glad you liked my work btw, that’s all that matters to me!!! and this bakugo x kind reader was such a good idea, it’s so fun picturing them because they’re so different soo i tried my best picturing him, i hope y’all like it!! please send as many requests you want, love your prompts and ideas!!

Bakugo was marching down the hall, his scowl more prominent than ever. Class had been intense today, and everything from his quirk training to his usual sparring had him in a bad mood. His hands twitched with restrained explosions, and the glare in his eyes warned anyone nearby to steer clear. But then again, most people already knew better than to mess with him when he was like this.

Except for you.

You, with your unfailing kindness and gentle spirit. Everyone knew you as the soft-spoken, supportive student.

No matter how tough things got, you always found something positive to say to everyone, no matter how small the moment.

Even Bakugo, the walking embodiment of fury and chaos, couldn’t escape your warm compliments and bright smiles.

“Hey, Bakugo!” you called out from behind him.

He flinched. Great, just what he needed. Someone trying to talk to him.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to shoot you a death glare over his shoulder.

“What do you want?” he snapped, not even bothering to stop.

You hurried to catch up with him, walking by his side as if the seething aura of rage wasn’t even there.

“You did amazing today in the combat drills! Your explosions were so precise”

Bakugo stopped in his tracks, slowly turning to face you fully now.

His red eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, brows furrowing in disbelief. Was he hearing this right?

“What did you just say?” he growled, leaning in slightly. “Are you messing with me?”

You blinked up at him innocently, completely unphased by his aggressive stance. “No, of course not! I mean it. Your control has gotten so much better, it’s impressive. You’ve been working really hard, and it’s showing.”

His eye twitched. Compliments? Him? From someone who wasn’t either trying to suck up or being sarcastic? What kind of game were you playing?

“Shut up!” he barked, stepping back as if your kindness was something dangerous.

“I don’t need you pitying me! You think just ‘cause you’re all sweet and nice that I give a damn about what you say?”

Your smile never faltered.

You understood Bakugo better than most people did. Beneath that fiery temper, you knew he was deeply driven, always striving to be the best, and that came with a lot of pressure. It wasn’t that he didn’t care—he cared too much.

“I’m not pitying you, Bakugo. I’m just telling the truth,” you said, your tone as calm as ever. “You’re an amazing hero in the making, and it’s obvious that you’re pushing yourself to get stronger every day. That’s something to be proud of.”

His hands clenched into fists, little sparks of explosion energy crackling between his fingers.

“Tch, whatever,” he muttered, turning on his heel and stomping off again. “I don’t need your compliments, so back off!”

You watched him storm away, his frustration nearly palpable in the air.

But instead of feeling discouraged, you simply chuckled to yourself and continued on your way.

Bakugo didn’t get it.

He didn’t get you.

You weren’t like the others who flinched when he so much as looked in their direction. You never avoided him like he was some damn ticking bomb, like everyone else did. And it pissed him off.

But at the same time… it didn’t.

He was sitting in the common room, arms crossed, glaring at the wall like it personally offended him. The day had been long, the usual grind of training with those idiots in class wearing him thin.

He was tired, but no way in hell was he going to let anyone see that. His mind was already racing, planning out his next moves for tomorrow. He was always thinking, always pushing.

Then the door opened, and without even looking, he knew it was you.

He could feel it—the whole room shifted, like the air was lighter all of a sudden.

Everyone relaxed, even that nervous wreck Deku, who’d been pacing the room. He stopped immediately when you stepped in, like you were some damn calming breeze that just blew in and made everything peaceful.

It was annoying.

Annoying how everyone seemed to instantly chill out around you.

But the thing that really got under his skin? He could feel his own shoulders loosening up too.

What the hell?

He stole a glance at you, and his scowl wavered—just for a second.

Just enough for someone with half a brain to notice.

You weren’t even doing anything special, just your usual thing: smiling, saying hello to everyone like you weren’t stepping into a room full of future pro-heroes who were either anxious wrecks or ticking time bombs. But the way you moved, so calm, so sure of yourself—it was like nothing fazed you.

He hated it. But also… didn’t.

His gaze softened, just for a second, as you crossed the room.

There was something about the way you carried yourself—like you weren’t trying too hard to be kind. It was just you, like breathing. And for some reason, that made everything around you feel less suffocating.

“Tch” Bakugo grunted, trying to shove the stupid feeling down as you approached him. His fists clenched on instinct.

“Hey, Bakugo” you said, your voice soft, not that fake crap others tried with him, but the real deal. Genuine. “You good?”

Why did you always do that? Ask if he was okay like you actually gave a damn?

Most people would rather run for their lives than check in on him.

Yet here you were, every damn time, showing up with that peaceful energy that somehow… didn’t piss him off as much as it should.

“‘Course I’m good!” he snapped, louder than necessary. “Why the hell wouldn’t I be?!”

You didn’t even flinch. Of course, you didn’t. Instead, you just gave him that small smile, the one that made his chest tighten in ways he refused to acknowledge.

“Just checking. You looked a little tense.”

Tch, as if. He was always tense.

He had to be. You didn’t get to be number one by taking it easy, by being all soft and peaceful like you.

But damn, the way your presence changed the whole room—it almost made him feel like he could, just for a second.

He glared at you, eyes narrowing, but it wasn’t the same sharpness he usually threw at everyone else. He couldn’t help it—his gaze softened again. Just for a second.

Not that anyone would notice.

Except maybe you.

You lingered for a moment longer, before heading off to talk to someone else, probably Kirishima or Uraraka, making the rounds with that annoyingly kind vibe of yours. And as you left, Bakugo found himself staring at the space you had just been, the room now feeling… colder, heavier again.

He clicked his tongue in irritation. Stupid. Stupid how your presence could get to him like that. He shook his head, trying to snap himself out of it.

Next day you found yourself and your class training with 1-B, they weren’t that bad, except for Monoma, because Neito Monoma never knew when to shut up.

That was pretty much a universal truth around U.A., especially for Class 1-A.

Every time there was even a hint of interaction between the two classes, Monoma would seize the opportunity to talk down to them, puffing out his chest like he had something to prove. And today? Today was no different.

You had just finished training, the sweat on your forehead barely dry when Monoma strutted over, that infuriating grin plastered on his face. His classmates hung back, probably already knowing he was about to run his mouth again. But this time, you weren’t the only one in his sights.

“Oh, look who it is. Class 1-A’s golden children” Monoma began, his voice dripping with mockery. “Still thinking you’re better than everyone else, huh?”

You sighed internally at what he said to Midoriya, already bracing yourself for whatever nonsense he had lined up. It was exhausting how he always seemed to have something negative to say.

Still, you kept calm, like you always did. After all, it wasn’t in your nature to rise to the bait. But then Monoma’s eyes flicked over to you, and his smirk widened.

“And you—honestly, it’s a wonder you haven’t been chewed up and spat out yet. I mean, someone with a personality as soft and kind as yours? You must really be banking on those amazing friends of yours to keep you from getting crushed.”

You blinked, your heart sinking a little at the jab, but before you could even think of a response, Bakugo’s growl cut through the air like a thunderclap.

“You wanna say that again, you bastard??!!”

Bakugo stormed forward, his hands already sparking with small, threatening explosions. His eyes were practically glowing with fury, and Monoma had the nerve to laugh.

“Oh, Bakugo!” Monoma taunted, not backing down one inch.

“The big bad explosion boy. Tell me, how does it feel to know you’ll always be in second place? Maybe third? Or fourth, depending on how Midoriya, Todoroki, or even Shinsou do in the rankings?”

Bakugo’s eye twitched, his entire body stiff with barely-contained rage. But Monoma wasn’t done.

He had to push further, like he was begging for a one-way ticket to the hospital.

“And the way you fawn over them,” Monoma’s grin grew even wider as he pointed toward you. “It’s cute, actually. Never thought I’d see the day when Bakugo—Mr. ‘I don’t need anyone’—would turn into a guard dog. Or is it a lap dog? Which do you prefer?”

BOOM!

An explosion went off so close to Monoma that it sent him skidding back, dust kicking up around him. Bakugo stepped in front of you, fists clenched so tightly that his palms were practically trembling with sparks.

“The hell did you just say? Say one more thing-one more—and I’ll blow your smug face off your skull!” Bakugo barked, his voice low and dangerous, like he was barely keeping himself from launching Monoma into orbit.

Monoma blinked through the dust, his smug grin faltering for a split second before he chuckled again. “Oh, come on, Bakugo. Really? We’re resorting to violence now because I made a joke? You sure you’re not getting soft?”

Bakugo was inches from him, his face twisted into a furious snarl, teeth bared like he was ready to tear Monoma apart right there and then.

"You got some kinda death wish, huh?!"

But Monoma didn’t back off. “But let’s be honest, Bakugo. All that yelling, all those explosions, and yet, when it comes down to it? You’ll never be number one, no matter how much you huff and puff. That spot’s reserved for people with brains, not just brawn. Maybe try calming down and learning a little humility from your precious little friend here. It might help!”

Bakugo didn’t even think. The next explosion was so fast, so precise, it was like a cannon shot, aimed perfectly to miss Monoma but close enough to make him feel the heat. The ground at Monoma’s feet cracked, dust flying into the air. Bakugo advanced, rage rolling off him in waves, his eyes burning.

“I don’t give a damn about your stupid rankings, and I sure as hell don’t need some washed-up copycat telling me where I stand”

Monoma, now clearly shaken but too proud to back down, tried to recover his smirk. “Oh, did I hit a nerve? Funny how—”

“Shut the hell up!” Bakugo shouted, his voice nearly cracking with intensity. “You don’t get to talk about me, and you sure as hell don’t get to talk about them. You’re nothing! You hear me?!”

Kaminari, who had been watching from a distance, finally decided to step in, looking between Bakugo and Monoma nervously. “Hey, man, maybe we should all just—”

Bakugo cut him off, his focus still locked on Monoma. “You wanna talk about ‘soft’? You’re the one hiding behind your stupid mouth because you know you don’t stand a chance. You wanna make fun of me, fine. I’ll blow you up any day of the week. But you don’t say shit about them, got it?”

The quiet that followed Bakugo’s words was deafening. Even Monoma seemed to realize he’d gone too far, his grin now completely wiped off his face. He didn’t say anything else—maybe because he didn’t want to be the target of Bakugo’s next explosion.

Bakugo took a slow, deliberate step back, the air around him still crackling with leftover energy. His fists unclenched, though the anger in his eyes didn’t fade.

“Next time you wanna talk crap” Bakugo said, his voice low and venomous, “make sure you’re ready to eat it.”

Monoma, for once, had nothing to say.

He just nodded, albeit stiffly, and walked off, probably realizing he was lucky to still be in one piece.

Once Monoma was out of sight, Bakugo turned to you, his expression still tense, but softer than the fury he’d just unleashed.

“Tch. Idiot doesn’t know what he’s talking about” Bakugo muttered. He turned to leave, clearly still fuming, but you could see the way his shoulders stayed tight, like he was still on edge.

You smiled softly at him, stepping forward. “Thank you, Bakugo. You didn’t have to do that.”

Bakugo glanced back at you, his red eyes still intense, but now with a hint of something else—something more protective. “‘Course I did,” he grumbled, his voice quieter than before. “I’m not gonna let some dumbass talk down to me. Or you”

Kirishima clapped Bakugo on the back, grinning. “That was so manly, dude! Seriously, you’ve got their back, huh?”

Bakugo clicked his tongue, his face heating up. “Shut up, shitty hair! I don’t need any of your dumbass comments right now!”