#did i really got emotional over my old banner?

[lovieku]

TRUE LOVE ⋆ 정국

when you and jeon jeongguk's paths cross again, you question if having a crush on the school's emo and alternative boy was really just a phase, or if it was true love after all.

⋆��₊❅. 5/6 from christmas & chill

pairing tattoo artist!jk x fem reader

genre fluff, smut, grumpy & sunshine, somewhat f2l

warnings jk 24 | oc 24, jk thinks he’s too cool for love, oc suffers from a chronic case of “i can fix him”, she eventually does, oc simps HARDDD and jk only pretends to be unaffected, yea he’s a bit of a dick sometimes but he’s also Very funny, brief description of panic attacks, male masturbation, kissing, idk what else to add i just rly rly love them and will think of them for the entirety of xmas season

word count 10.2k

author’s note hi lovies 🩷 it’s my last time with c&c 🙁 i’m kinda emotional omg… it’s been such a fun, warm and lovely week, and i love each one of you for showing endless support to this project <33 i’ll keep trying to not disappoint… please tell me if you like this!!! thank u always and always 🩷 luv u <3

banner by the gorgeous @awrkive ⊹₊⟡⋆

On the first day of December, your path crosses with thee Jeon Jeongguk’s after enough years for your brain to trip slightly before recognising him. But it would have been impossible not to—there’s likely a whole, well-preserved section of your thinking organ dedicated to that mortifying phase of high school, when your hormones turned life into an endless internal tug-of-war.

The moment your eyes widen at having him stand in front of you, you’re yanked unceremoniously into the past, brought back to buried, locked and left to gather dust feelings that have your teenage self’s screams echoing within you in a chorus of delight and cringe.

Jeongguk, on the other hand, is simply following his duties as a tattoo artist. When he catches sight of you next to his appointed client on such a breezy day, the cold December air starting to find its space even in the confines of his studio, he only nods his chin upward at you in slow recognition.

It’s awkward, at first. Only because you make it.

You’d volunteered to accompany Eunbi, your best friend, to get her first tattoo as an early Christmas self-gift. Your mission was clear: support her, hold her hand if the pain became unbearable (though you’re probably the least dependable person when it comes to making clarity in situations of panic, as seen right now), and be the first to bask in her excitement as she finally sees what she’s always pictured to be inked on the skin of her forearm. A blue whale tattoo, large enough to make you wince just thinking about the needlework.

You’d never go through something like that. Never.

And that’s exactly what’s showing on your face when you’re met with Jeongguk’s full sleeve of tattoos, leaving you rooted to the spot.

You’d always known him to be the different kid, the quiet one with forced sharp eyes that canonically listened to alternative rock and glared at anyone who dared approach, whether to tease him or befriend him. He’d convinced himself that no one could ever understand him.

See, you’d instead fooled yourself into thinking you were the exception. That you did understand him.

Fourteen-year-old you had gone through some weird phases, and the one that resurfaces now at the vision of his adult self is the one centered entirely around him. You unashamedly had the biggest crush on Jeongguk. To you, he was mysterious and edgy—in an effortlessly cool way.

You’d tried everything. Offered him your lunch more times than you were left with any for yourself. Even cut your bangs to have them fall over your eyes to mimic his fringe, dyed a strand in blue, overhauled your wardrobe to align with his back-and-grey one. None of it worked. He never noticed.

But, thinking of it now, there’s no way he didn't. He definitely did. How could any boy turn a blind eye to a lovesick girl’s heartfelt Valentine’s letter, a hopeless romantic girl who almost cried on the spot when she got rejected? Jeongguk just chose to willingly ignore it.

These are all valid reasons as to why your functions seem to slow down in his unexpected presence. And you’re not going to deny nor fake that his calm, almost detached demeanor doesn’t flow through your body and right to your left eye, making it twitch with a slight tremor.

Yet, you must also admit that your teenage self was onto something. Jeongguk has changed drastically but he’s also stayed the same. You think fourteen-year-old him would be proud of where he is right now. Two piercings on his lower lip and one on his eyebrow, intricate ink tracing up his muscled arm, his… muscled arms. Wow. And then, his studio. His own studio, a place for him and his passion, one that he made into his job. That’s undeniably cool.

Maybe just not cool enough for you to be gaping like an idiot as he moves with purpose, adjusting your friend’s arm to position the stencil he had prepared, perfectly fitting in the space she had chosen. His muscles flex with every shift, and it’s impossible for you to go past that with the way the black beater he’s wearing is loose on his torso, but still clinging on his chest.

Eunbi notices, of course. You don’t have time to feel embarrassed and in return she doesn’t even try to hide her amusement when your usual chatter dries up entirely, only gulping obnoxiously noisily and alternating that with nervous silences. Jeongguk, too, catches on.

He’d always known you as obnoxious and noisy. In, huh, a good way. Or whatever.

Jeongguk just agrees that you were (and probably still are, if the pastel yellow skirt softly flowing down your legs paired with a cozy cream sweater and the full toothed grin you shoot at your friend are any indicators) the pinpoint embodiment of his opposite. You’ve always been talkative, smiley, and friendly, eager to help and to receive help, not in the slightest ever turning down the opportunity to blabber on, and on, and on.

Honestly, Jeongguk doesn’t think he ever truly listened to a single word of your rambling back in the day, especially during those times when you’d bounce up to him and launch into enthusiastic rants about obscure alternative bands he himself hadn’t even heard of. He respected the hustle, though. He’d always wondered where you found the time and energy to immerse yourself in music like that.

He much preferred when you were less trying so hard to be him and mirror his tastes, more when you gave up on impressing him and simply stayed true to yourself, the girl whose heart belonged to Justin Bieber and One Direction. Truthfully, he fucked with them. Not that he’d ever admit it, of course. His quiet, brooding image wouldn’t survive that revelation.

What he respected the most was your resilience. After all the times he rejected you and your awkward blurts of confessions, you still didn’t think it was enough of a reason for your villain origin story to take off, and instead remained the same frustratingly positive ray of sunshine you’d always been.

Now, as Jeongguk works on the tattoo in front of him, the very design that caused all these long-buried memories to rise back, his dark eyes flick toward you sitting on a stool in a near corner every now and then, a hint of confusion in his expression each time you take more than five seconds to reply to his small talk.

It’s just, you’re a bit taken aback. Since when does he do small talk? The foreign smoothness with which Jeongguk handles interactions is so far removed from the sullen boy you used to know. You’re not prepared for this version of him. It’s disarming, to say the least.

Enough time has passed for you to settle into the odd scenario, your current best friend and your long-standing high school crush in the same room. Slowly but surely, your curiosity sparkles again, and the signature tendency to let thoughts tumble out of your mouth unchecked returns to you naturally.

“Ouch, that looks painful.”

Jeongguk snorts, eyes trained on Eunbi’s arm as he glides the tattoo needle with precise strokes that have his brows pinching and the tip of his tongue peeking out from the corner of his lips, a habit you remember from the past but one you’ve never found quite so distracting before.

Still, he multitasks and responds without missing a beat, “Wanna try?”

Wow. This is, like, the longest conversation you’ve ever had with him. It spurs you on to do anything it takes to hear more of his voice, the sound of it definitely deeper than the shy tones you struggled to coax out of him ten years ago.

That is probably why you literally lie, “Hm. Maybe. I was thinking of getting one actually. In the future.”

Eunbi chokes on her spit, her chest coughing with the sudden, blatantly fake revelation, and Jeongguk promptly pauses, lifting the needle from her skin as his tattooist reflexes kick in. While your friend apologizes between a clearing of her throat and sinks back into the chair, she doesn’t keep from glaring at you, her expression screaming What the hell are you doing?

You deadpan. You’ll explain everything later and it’ll all make sense. And you know this will inevitably end up being added to the list of the many embarrassing facts she knows about you and threatens you with when she wants to go clubbing and you don’t.

Jeongguk uses the brief interruption to glance up at where you’re perched in the corner of his peripheral vision, just to square you up and down with a skeptical arch of his brow, “Really?”

You scoff, smoothing out the creases on your skirt as if the fabric is somehow responsible for the lie you just told, “Is that shocking?”

He hums, returning to his work with the buzz of the needle filling the studio again, his voice padded the more he gets closer to Eunbi’s forearm, “I just find it hard to believe such a princess like you could handle any pain.”

You gulp.

What you’re getting from this conversation is that Jeongguk has always had an idea of who you are in his mind all along. That he’s always perceived you in some way. As much as your inner fourteen-year-old is swooning at the attention, gobbling up each of the tiny crumbles he’s giving you, it doesn’t sit right with you. What exactly does he think of you?

“Test me.”

He shrugs, eyes fixated on the shade he’s perfectioning with black ink, “Busy now.”

“I’ll go pay for mine. I saw you have one last free spot today,” you announce, the words tumbling out with more confidence than you feel. You’re already on your feet before the sentence is fully formed, betraying the fact that your nosy tendencies had gotten the better of you earlier. You’d discreetly glanced at his appointment book when Jeongguk and Eunbi were finalizing her tattoo details and negotiating the final price at the desk.

He hums, head tilting slightly, “And I wanted to spend it bumming around.”

“Too bad. You’ll have to postpone that.”

You walked into this studio swearing you’d never let a needle even brush you.

Now you’re stretched out on a leather bench, Jeongguk leaning over you with a stencil in hand, gloved fingers moving with careful precision.

The design you’d chosen came from his portfolio—a delicate illustration of two butterflies in motion, their soft threads intertwining. You’d flipped through countless pages of bold skulls and intricate linework before settling on this.

The spot you’d chosen for the tattoo was the flat, firm plane between your breasts. It wasn’t a conscious decision, just a place you’d always liked. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that nature hadn’t exactly blessed you in the cleavage department. Subconsciously, perhaps, you thought that adding something there might give the illusion of more.

“Tehe,” you can’t stop the breathy giggle that escapes as the cool paper brushes against your skin. Your hand is pressed to your bra, holding it in place as best you can, though the situation feels so surreal it’s hard to focus on anything but the ridiculousness of it all.

Jeongguk glances up at you with a glare that’s more exasperated than angry before returning to the delicate task at hand, “What’s funny?”

Your voice wobbles, “I just— I tend to laugh during serious moments.”

“Oh. Weird.”

“Sorry.”

With a small sigh, he smooths the stencil, and once it’s transferred he hands you a square mirror, waiting for your approval. You nod, the butterflies now perfectly poised in their eternal dance, and Jeongguk doesn’t waste a moment.

The buzz of the needle fills the room as he leans closer, one gloved hand resting on the upper part of your chest to steady himself. He’s mere seconds from beginning the inking process when another laugh bubbles out of you.

Jeongguk sits back abruptly, dropping his pen onto the metal tray with an audible clink. Tilting his head, he levels you with a look of thinly veiled irritation. “I really can’t work if your chest keeps moving.”

“Sorry,” you blurt again, turning your head to face the wall. You clamp your lips together tightly, mentally scrolling through every sad memory you can conjure. Think of something awful. Your childhood dog dying. Okay, maybe not that sad—

“You haven’t changed a bit since high school. Always smiling like you live surrounded by flowers and rainbows,” Jeongguk’s mutter vibrates against your chest, warm breath fanning over the cold skin, distracting you from your no-giggling mission.

The unexpected observation has your brows furrowing in a mildly offended frown, and banter is ready on your tongue. “You’re just the same too, Gguk. The emo boy who thinks he’s too cool for a smile.”

“I’m not an emo boy. The fuck,” he scoffs, kissing his teeth and murmuring more of his indignation under his breath.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night. I can teach you.”

The whirring needle glides across your skin with a slightly firmer touch, making you hiss softly under your breath. He seems unbothered by the reaction, and instead bothered by your words, “Teach me what.”

“How to smile a bit more,” you reply, your voice laced with mockery as you keep your gaze firmly fixed on the wall. The smirk playing on your lips is triumphant; he walked right into your little jab, hehe.

Your mind is already racing, piecing together the beginning of a sarcastic rant about how his perpetual scowl probably contributed to his mysterious high school persona. For the sake of his ego, you won’t add how it worked in his favor, how more than one girl (your own self) found his untouchable vibe completely irresistible.

Even though, thinking back, he looked ridiculous. His big, round, slightly scared-of-the-world eyes truly didn’t belong with the heavy black eyeliner.

But before you can get a single word out, Jeongguk straightens his posture, pulling away from your chest. With a practiced motion, he tosses one of his gloves onto the counter behind him, his expression cool and indifferent. “It’s done.”

“Done?!” you exclaim, tilting your chin down to look at your chest. You go slightly cross-eyed trying to catch a glimpse of the design now inked onto your skin. Forever.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t even feel it.”

Jeongguk seems equally done with small talk, transitioning into a professional explanation of the tattoo’s aftercare step. His tone is calm but clipped, and you can’t tell if it’s his usual demeanor or just reserved for you. He also hands you a small tube of cream of which you’re not sure the use of, too enthralled by the vision of his colored sleeve this up close.

And still laying on the leather bed, you almost reach to trace one of the many lines with your finger before he interrupts, “You can pay with Yoongi at the entrance.”

Clearing your throat, you sit up, brushing imaginary dust off your skirt as Jeongguk turns his back to you, his focus already back on cleaning his tools. You still are not over, “Thank you, Jeongguk. Can I— huh. Can I get your number?”

He pauses mid-motion, just long enough for the silence to stretch thin and taut. Turning around to study your features, he stares you up and down with knitted brows and a hostile kind of confusion painting his expression. “… For what exactly?”

“In case anything happens with the tattoo.”

Jeongguk stills for a second, eyes narrowing slightly, then turns back to what’s keeping him so occupied with a noncommittal grunt, “Huh. Sure. Yoongi has my business cards at the desk. You can ask him. Have a good day.”

With Eunbi practically dragging you out of the room, you don’t have the chance to say anything more, though your chest burns with indignation. It’s not that you expect him to fall over himself at the chance to catch up, but the sheer indifference is maddening.

Should you pretend you don’t care either? You could. But really, who are you fooling? You still have those old diaries buried somewhere in your closet, their pages crammed with his name written in looping, lovesick cursive. That little girl in you never truly died.

On the fourth day of December, you finally text him. It’s about your tattoo, of course. There’s not much else to say to him, but when his only reply to your picture of the healing process is a yellow thumbs up, you find your fingers hovering over the keyboard. Words start forming before you’ve fully processed them, and before you know it, you hit send.

You [3:39 p.m]: btw u still friends with kim tae?

jeongguk [3:42 p.m.]: Yes

jeongguk [3:42 p.m.]: He’s my best friend

You [3:43 p.m.]: ohhh, cool

jeongguk [3:45 p.m.]: You want his number?

You [3:46 p.m.]: no… i’m good with yours ☺️

You can’t help but giggle at how his typing bubbles appear and then fade for a whole minute, biting your lower lip with a sheepish grin, savoring the silent victory. You’re doing this for your fourteen-year-old self, who would’ve squealed at the thought of making Jeon Jeongguk flustered. But you’re a different girl now. You’ve changed. No man could ever reject—

jeongguk [3:48 p.m.]: If there’s nothing else about the tattoo then 👋

“Hmph,” your frown is so pronounced that you feel your chin aching and your wrinkles prematurely deepening. Well, this is not the first time you come face first with his sour antics. Only now, you’re prepared.

You [3:48 p.m.]: yall hanging out soon? let me join

jeongguk [3:49 p.m.]: Why lol

jeongguk [3:49 p.m.]: He barely even remembers you probs

You [3:50 p.m.]: who would not remember me

jeongguk [3:50 p.m.]: The only thing i’m now remembering about you is how I couldn’t stand your ass

You gasp, hand coming up to brush against your parted lips. With a huff, you hastily click at your keyboard, “Mean. Sent. Ugh.”

On the sixth day of December, your persistence pays off, and you find yourself at a random bar you’d never been to before, seated with both Jeongguk and Taehyung.

Between Jeongguk’s cigarette breaks—forcing the three of you to brave the cold outside—and brief moments in corners of the cramped place where the music feels muffled against the walls, you manage to catch up with Taehyung. The rest of the time though, the noise inside is so deafening that it makes any kind of meaningful conversation impossible.

Even more when a random girl slides into the booth next to him, capturing his attention entirely, leaving you and Jeongguk in paradoxical silence.

The tattoo artist has been glued to his phone with his head down for the last 20 minutes, and now you alternate between observing his side profile, roughened by the piercings and a more defined jawline, and analysing the weird dynamic that is beginning to form between Taehyung and the girl, sitting in front of you.

Alone with your thoughts and, well, the pulsating music, you feel yourself getting unreasonably closer to symptoms you know all too well, that threaten to have you spiraling. You shake your head, forcing it to stop. There’s no reason for anxiety to visit you at such an inconvenient time.

But of course, the little voice in your head starts listing all the totally valid motives why this is indeed the perfect time for it to visit you.

The bar feels suffocating on your skin.

Your dress clings too tightly.

The couple facing you is shamelessly close to making out.

Jeongguk sighs in visible boredom.

You shouldn’t have come. Hell, you shouldn't have suggested it in the first place. A smarter version of yourself would have brought Eunbi for balance, for comfort. But in your foolishness, you thought this could be an opportunity for you and Jeongguk to catch up. Instead, you feel foreign to him, foreign to this pub booth, and the air begins to feel foreign to your lungs. You’ve never liked bars, clubs, or places with loud music.

You sniffle, looking down at your lap. Then up at the ceiling. Then around the room. It keeps spinning and booming with volume that only adds to the feeling of helplessness. Quick, quick, quick.

What are five things that you can see?

Five. Your gaze falls on Taehyung and the girl, their lips and tongues clumsily entangled as they laugh between sloppy kisses. No help there. The air catches harder in your throat.

Four. Your empty glass, its smudged rim a reminder of the single drink you had, now sitting uncomfortably in your stomach.

Three. Your scuffed heels, their tips worn to the nub despite your best efforts to hide it with a marker.

Two. The swirling lights above the bar, dizzying as they flash brighter and brighter.

One. Jeongguk’s tattooed hand on your thigh.

His fingers dig into the skin, shaking you alarmedly, with a force you’ve never known from him, not even when it came to stopping your shaking stomach as you were laying on the studio’s leather bed.

Head snapping up to face him, you’re met with a perfect resemblance of how you must look right now. Wide eyes, knitted brows, nose flaring and exhaling, and you try to follow the movements of his mouth, but they jumble together annoyingly in your brain. You lean closer, narrowed orbs still fixated on his lips to try and read them. Are… you… ok—

“___, you’re scaring me. Hey, hello? Are you okay?”

Jeongguk moves from your thigh to your shoulders, jolting you gently but firmly from the fog that is threatening to cloud up your brain. The sudden clarity hits you, but you still stumble forward, your weight toppling over his chest. With it, your head dips rapidly, hurtling toward the sharp edge of the table, and before Jeongguk knows it his instinct snaps and he catches you promptly.

The next steps blur together. You vaguely register the boy next to you standing up and pulling you along with him, his broad shoulders supporting one of your arms while his inked one secures around the small of your waist, holding you firmly against him.

Then, it’s nothing but brief flashes. Jeongguk pressing a water bottle to your lips. Sitting you down on the stairs outside the pub. Holding your hair back as you double over, emptying the contents of your stomach onto the pavement. Cracking a smile to make you laugh, showing off his tattoos in exaggerated detail like it’s the grandest tour of your life. Opening the door to his car and gently easing you into the passenger seat, ensuring the seatbelt clicks into place.

Inside his car, you slowly feel your senses come back to you.

At a redlight that you recognise as the one near your apartment complex, you muster a small and hoarse thank you. Jeongguk only hums low, eyes fixated on the road and fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel.

Before a sheepish smile can make its way on your lips and spread across your face, your head twitches back as your brows furrow. Your thoughts suddenly catch up with you, “Hey, how do you know the way to my flat?”

His gaze briefly flicks toward you in annoyance, then back to the road. “You literally just told me.”

“Oh.” A beat passes before you giggle softly. “Don’t remember.”

Jeongguk mutters something intelligible under his breath, and next thing you know he’s turning down your street and slowing in front of the building that matches the number you gave him. Given your current state, he begins to question if that is even the right one.

“This one!” You point at the tall front gate with an almost childlike excitement, back shifting slightly from the seat as your grin stretches wide. Jeongguk grimaces. Why the fuck do you look like you’ve been reuinted with your home after years apart, as if you weren’t there just a couple hours ago?

“Right. Huh, you good with going back on your own?”

“Yes. I’d hate to bother you further. I’m sorry for this, I… was getting better, I guess.”

The sad confession doesn’t land with the weight it should, softened by the smile painted on your lips and the chuckle you let out as if it were nothing. Jeongguk’s eyelid twitches, unsettled by the unnecessary happiness that always seems to drip from you, even when it doesn’t belong.

“‘S okay. Have a good night,” he awkwardly bows his head, waiting for you to exit the car. When you stay still, he clears his throat, adding just to fill the silence, and perhaps because he means it, “Huh, and make sure to rest a lot.”

You take a moment, maybe longer than you should, to study his features up this close. You particularly fixate on the way his eyes dart everywhere but never land on yours. Then, with your signature toothy grin, you bow back and open the car door, leaving with a string of thank yous, and get home safe, and I’ll text you, and please, reply to me, and bye.

Jeongguk has to fight a smile of his own.

On the tenth day of December, you realise you want him. Even more badly than your fourteen-year-old self ever did. Which is frankly insane.

You don’t know if it was the natural way he looked after you during your episode, or his dry sarcasm as he actually started replying to your random updates throughout the day.

But no, it was definitely the selfie he sent you after what he said was a long day. Messy hair, tired eyes, a hint of a smile. You’d struggled to even gulp down your saliva when the picture popped up in your chat, and maniacally stared at it with eyes glued to the bright screen before sending one of your own. He had replied with Cute. followed by Your hair pin is cute.

That is why you find yourself facing… Yoongi? If you remember correctly. The guy at the front desk of Jeongguk’s studio.

You beam at him, and what you’re met with instead is a confused stare. You inhale, “Hi. Is Jeongguk in?”

Yoongi scratches his head, muttering, “He’s busy with a client.”

“Oh. It’s okay,” you wave off his concern. “Can I wait here?”

The boy hesitates, looks unsure the more your interaction develops, and he glances between you and the empty waiting area. He relents with furrowed brows, “Sure… Huh, It’s a back tattoo, so it’ll take him a while.”

You shrug and plop yourself onto the leather sofa, seemingly unfazed, “I like waiting.”

Crossing your legs, you take in the studio’s atmosphere, eyes drifting to the dark walls lined with framed artwork and certificates. You spot Jeongguk’s name on many of those.

For the next fifteen minutes, you try distracting yourself by flipping through the stack of tattoo magazines on the coffee table. You wince at inked heads, faces, butts, and even… more private parts. Deciding this world is definitely not for you, you slam the book shut.

By the time an hour passes, you’re fighting a battle with your lack of sleep. The third yawn you manage to stifle, but the fourth escapes before you can stop it. Yoongi, seated at the desk, doesn’t bother hiding his unimpressed stare. Still, he’s polite enough to offer you a glass of water, a coffee, or even a chance to join him for a cigarette break.

You decline all of it, though your throat does feel dry.

Maybe you should have planned this with a bit of rationality. Or at least gotten more sleep. Now, your every blink is slower, eyelids batting to shut and taking longer to flutter open again. Hm, this feels nice. You’ll just let them rest for a bit longer. And longer. And a bit more.

The next time you open your eyes, Jeongguk’s face is inches away, his warm hand resting firmly on your arm. You jolt upright with a startled yelp.

���Jeongguk.”

He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth quirking up in an unmistakably mocking smirk. “Hey. You don’t have a bed?”

You sit up, forcing Jeongguk to step back and straighten to his full height. Your neck cranes upward to glare at him, brows furrowed in what you hope is an intimidating glare, though you sport a pout that is all but menacing, “Shut up.”

He clicks his tongue, turning back to round the desk and fiddle with the appointment book, clearly unbothered. You take the moment to rub your eyes—only to remember, too late, that you’d worn makeup. A quick glance around reveals how much has changed since you last let your eyelids flutter open. The lights in the studio are dim, the hallway is dark, and every door is shut. Yoongi is nowhere in sight. It’s just the two of you in the deathly quiet space.

You gasp, pressing a hand to your parted lips, “Did I fall asleep? I'm so sorry. I was probably really tired from yesterday.”

Jeongguk hums, focus still locked on the book in front of him, eyes narrowed. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t ask why you came here in the first place, and doesn’t acknowledge your apology. Ugh. This is humiliating.

Before you can stand, you feel something heavy draped over your body. It’s a jacket. Definitely not yours, since you never took it off. At least not consciously. No, this is a worn black leather one on which his scent lingers. You tug it closer, puzzled, and then look up at him, holding it out. “Did I steal this in my sleep?”

Jeongguk scrunches his nose, “Ew, are you a sleepwalker?” Locking the till, he strolls over to you and plucks the jacket from you, casually slipping it on. “No, I put it on you. Wanted to see how long someone could feel safe enough to pass out in my studio. Thinking of turning this place into a daycare. I’ll have you play in the morning, get some lunch, nap time...”

There’s a beat of silence in which his sarcasm lingers in the air, and you stare at him, unamused. He shrugs, smirk unwavering.

You huff, “I regret coming here.”

“Yeah, why did you come here?”

Smoothing down your pink wool sweater, you stand up to stretch with zero shame. Then, fluttering your lashes at him, you assert with a smile, “You’re coming with me to the Christmas markets. This Sunday.”

Jeongguk groans like the idea physically pains him, “Oh, I would fucking hate that.”

Ignoring him, you zip up your puffer jacket and rock on your toes, “Pick me up at seven, okay?”

He glares, unimpressed at your excitement, before heading toward the entrance and pulling a hefty set of keys from his pocket, “I don’t even remember where you live.”

You hurry after him, following him outside and shuffling closer in your coat at the cold air hitting you. Watching as he locks the door and pulls down the rolling shutter with its red-and-black skull graffiti, you chirp, “You’ll have to text me for that.”

Jeongguk rises up again, giving you a slow once-over. He seems distracted by your hair before snorting, “You’re talking like I’m the one who spent their afternoon napping in my studio just to drop this bomb and leave. Couldn’t you just text me this?”

You shrug innocently. He sighs, reaching out for you, “Do you need a ride hom—”

“Bye!”

You spin on your heel and skip off in the opposite direction before he can let his own greeting out, waving a gloved hand behind you. Jeongguk stays where he is, arm still held out.

Do you even have a car? He hopes so—it’s freezing out.

With another sigh, he shakes his head and tugs his jacket tighter around himself. Why are you so fucking weird?

On the fourteenth day of December, your arm is looped tightly through Jeongguk’s as you stroll through the Christmas markets, burying your face further in your scarf to shield against the icy air, and with each few step you gasp at things that the boy next to you finds utterly unimpressive.

You stop at nearly every stand, eyes glowing with the warm Christmas fairy lights strung all around, effortlessly picking up conversations with the vendors and melting even the most stoic faces with the scrunching of your nose at every grin and the exaggerated nods following descriptions of their crafts.

Through all of it, Jeongguk remains put at your side, his arm linked with yours and a subtle pout on his lips. When you tease him about it, he simply shrugs, and you figure it’s just his natural expression. You find that oddly endearing.

He still humors your enthusiasm, offering low hums or murmured praise whenever you exclaim you’ve finally found what you’ve been searching for everywhere, and he offers to pay every time, the gesture so casual that he doesn’t seem bothered by it in the slightest.

When you bow to the nth seller, clutching yet another bag of sweet treats tightly to your chest, Jeongguk exhales and resumes slow walking beside you, “I don't like these places.”

You glance up at him, fluffy hat almost slipping off before he promptly secures it back on your head with a gesture so smooth you hardly notice it. You instead wonder, “Then why are we here now?”

He slips his hand into his pocket, “Because you threatened me.”

“With a really good time.”

“If this is your version of a good time, you might as well kick me in the balls. That probably feels better.”

You gasp, halting in your tracks to glare at him. When he lets a small chuckle topple out of him, you think you might forgive him. No, you’re more than sure with the way his smile lingers. You sheepishly look away, muttering, “Don’t tempt me, emo boy.”

“I’m not—”

“Oh yes, you are,” you interrupt, snapping your face back to his. Clearing your throat, you prepare your best imitation of him, exaggerating a frown and lowering your voice, “I’m so different, I hate Christmas.”

Jeongguk scoffs, pulling you tighter to him when a scooter unexpectedly zips past you. You yelp, instinctively shuffling closer to his arm. He continues the conversation casually, unaffected, “That’s the worst impression of me I’ve ever heard. And also, I never said that.”

Releasing the breath you held for a moment too long, you uncertainly keep your slow stroll going, only narrowing your orbs at him, “It’s written all over your face.”

“I love Christmas.”

The admission is small, his voice soft and almost reluctant, like it pains him to reveal something so simple and obvious as loving Christmas. When you lean your chin on the puffed arm of his jacket, he doesn’t look down at you, his gaze fixed ahead, guiding the two of you through the chaos of the busy street.

You chirp, your steps stumbling, “Really?

Only then he shifts his attention to you, steadying you with his other arm wrapping around your figure in what seems like a hug, before he lifts you up by the neck of your coat and retreats just enough to face you. His lips press into a straight line as he nods, a flicker of vulnerability in his eyes the more he stares in yours, “Yeah, really. I just don’t like… crowded spaces.”

You can’t help but think back to what happened just a week ago. The exact reason why the spirals in your brain wouldn’t stop twisting and tangling is now slipping from his lips in a voice that quietens as he seems to grasp the delicacy of his own confession.

He doesn’t like the way you’re looking at him. Drawn-up brows over wide and sparkling eyes—the only part of your face visible beneath your scarf—stare at him with something too tender, too focused, that makes him uneasy. He turns his head to the side, the tips of his ears red not only from the cold, and pulls you along toward another stand, an almost nervous distraction.

It’s your turn to frown. Maybe the one that’s permanently plastered on his face tonight isn’t just a reflection of his usual sullen demeanor. With a knot tightening in your chest, you can’t help but feel like you dragged him into something he truly hated, and that he wasn’t just pretending to.

What if this isn’t just your evil inner voice talking? What if this isn’t just overthinking, but the factual truth of your current reality? He’s hating every second of this but still enduring it because— you catch your breath with a long and strained inhale, because—

“Hey, dimples. You okay?”

Jeongguk moves to stand in front of you, his hands settling gently on your shoulders, a stance eerily reminiscent of that night you were just thinking back to. He nods at you, “Breathe with me, hm?”

You find yourself quickly adjusting to his comforting aura, drawn in by the reassurance in his eyes trained on you, never wavering, watching closely as you begin to mirror the measured rise and fall of his chest, your breathing gradually syncing with his until the tightness in your chest starts to ease.

When you feel your feet touching the ground again, you offer a small, apologetic smile. “I’m okay. Sorry. Just…” You quickly scan your surroundings, eyes landing on a colorful stand, “Wait here a second, okay?”

Jeongguk lets you slip away, fingers twitching slightly at his sides. He takes a few hesitant steps closer, careful not to crowd you but unable to tear his eyes away from your next actions, how your grin comes back on your lips with unpracticed ease, lighting up your face as easy talk flows between you and the seller. A few coins trade hands, and soon you’re holding two churros, their chocolate-dipped ends threatening to drip onto the ground.

You don’t hesitate, biting into one of them before it has the chance to make a mess, and with a quick nod of your head you motion for Jeongguk to follow. He does so, only after taking the churros from your hands, and letting you seek his warmth again with an arm snaking under his. He’s only letting you do this because it’s fucking cold, no other reason.

You walk, and walk, guiding him along until you find a quieter corner, away from the bustle, where you two stand isolated from the rest. The dim lighting casts a softer glow, and the distant hum of chatter and music fades into a gentle background noise.

Glancing up at him, you flash a playful smile before leaning in to bite another chunk of the churro he’s holding, your laughter spilling out as he grimaces in exaggerated disgust and pulls the sweet out of your reach. You settle onto a nearby bench, patting the empty spot beside you invitingly.

Jeongguk is unsure of what this means. He takes slow steps towards you, handing you your churro—which you take eagerly, already chewing on it—before tilting his head back in mild confusion, “But… you wanted to visit the markets.”

You shake your head, your bug eyes meeting his as you speak around a mouthful of sugar and chocolate, “There’s no point if you’re not going to enjoy it.”

The look you’re giving him is one he’s seen countless times before—familiar, and annoyingly reminiscent of ten years ago. It’s the same look that, he’s convinced, is solely responsible for making his knees weak and his fingers jittery, no longer something he can blame on the cold. You’re unbelievably frustrating.

He clicks his tongue, looking away, “You’re fucking weird.”

You giggle, humming, “If weird is a synonym for whipped, then sure.”

He has to fight the twitch of his lips. Fakes a gag instead. You chuckle louder. Only then, he hints at a smile, “C’mon. Let’s go check out some other stuff.”

“But—”

He interrupts, pulling you up by your forearm, “I’m hungry.”

The next hour you spend wandering around is made of Jeongguk’s small, imperceptible ways of cracking: his pout less prominent, more replaced by lips pulled into a tight line or in a mildly pursued scowl as you ask him which beanie looks better—the pink or purple one; his so evident sarcasm as he comments on how the old vendor was totally flirting with you, or when he mockingly adds to your over-the-top excitement every time you spot a dog. All in all, he’s more relaxed. More himself.

You then find yourself standing in front of the churros stall from earlier, the warm scent tugging you closer. Without hesitation, you ask the lady behind the counter for another four churros—this time with extra sugar. You add two thank yous.

To fill the waiting, you pick up casual conversation with the woman, until she pauses mid-sentence, wrinkled hand coming to rest over her heart as her gaze flits between you and Jeongguk, her crinkled eyes lighting with a sudden fondness and a quiet, content smile finds its space on her chapped lips, “You two look perfect together.”

Jeongguk snorts, “Oh, we’re not—”

“Thank you, auntie!” You chirp, and your grin is so wide it squeezes your eyes into crescents. You accept the first churro she hands over, biting into it and talking through it, “These are delicious. Is the recipe a secret or can you share it with me?”

The woman laughs, clearly flustered by your energy, and leans in with a conspiratorial expression, though she gives in pretty soon, “It is a secret, but… Oh, c’mon. A pretty lady like you deserves to know.”

You burst into chuckles, joined by auntie’s own rolling and carrying a contrasting warmth to the cold air. Jeongguk, for his part, stands slightly to the side, observing. You still cling to his arm, even as the vendor reaches over to gently smooth her fingers through your curls, complimenting the way they frame your face. You roll your eyes, feigning exasperation, but there’s a dimpled smile stretching on your cheeks that gives you away.

Before you leave, the lady points to Jeongguk, voice growing earnest, “You, handsome. I can see you’re a good guy, so you probably don’t need my advice. But treat her right, yes?”

Jeongguk stills for a second and stumbles over an awkward nod, managing to force a smile that has you stifling a laugh under your scarf. You tug him away with a cheerful wave to your new friend, promising her you’ll come visit again before Christmas.

Once you’re at a safe distance, he mutters, “Why did you not tell her that we’re not together?”

You tilt your head considering his question, “It’s not like she knows us. She looked like she adored you. I didn’t want to ruin that for her. Maybe seeing a young couple like us really means a lot to her.”

Jeongguk observes how the more you explain, the more you’re convincing yourself as much as him, eventually solidifying your reasoning as you nod, muttering some more under your breath. He scoffs, looking away to hide his lips twitching.

When he turns back he’s frowning, though it doesn’t quite match the way he lets you hook arms again, your pastel pink bag hanging from his shoulders. Still, he sulks as though the mere thought of your observation has him shivering, and not with the cold, “We’re not a couple.”

Jeongguk barely gets to let his unnecessarily petty comment out before you drag him with an unusual strength over to another stand, his voice not even touching your ears, “Oh, let’s go over there, Gguk!”

On the twenty-first day or December, you send him a picture of your tattoo.

You had been talking non-stop ever since your… date? Or was it just a hangout? Whatever it was, it’s been a week, and Jeongguk finds himself smiling at a fucking screen too many times a day for his linking. It’s irritating. Even brings his phone with him to the bathroom in case you text him. Not because he cares. No, it’s practical. What if you ever had an emergency and he was the only one who could help?

Most of the time it’s just you sending TikToks, but he clicks on the links with the same urgency he’d reply to a genuine plea for help. He doesn’t really want to think of the reason why.

Now, this picture—it catches Jeongguk off guard.

It doesn’t even look like it’s about the tattoo. Not really. It feels like an excuse, a flimsy pretext for you to show yourself to him. The tattoo—the one he himself inked—is there, yes. But it’s not at all the main focus of the photo that tightens his grip on his phone.

You’re wearing a thin, pink tank top with delicate lace trim, the straps barely clinging to your shoulders. Your fingers hook under the neckline, tugging it down just enough to expose the tattoo nestled between the soft curve of your breasts. The angle of the shot is deliberate, he can tell. Your back arches slightly off what he assumes is your bed, and your face is cropped out, save for your glossed lips, full and slightly parted, catching the dim light.

Jeongguk blinks, hard. Then again. His throat bobs as he swallows thickly, the low light of his phone screen doing little to soften the image burning itself into his mind. His eyes dart upward, scanning his surroundings, just to make sure everything is in place. The shop is empty, the door is closed, the hum of quiet settles over the space.

Looking down, the picture still stares back at him paired with a single message.

Annoying [11:39 p.m.]: do you think it’s healed? idk about this stuff, need your help 🥺

He’s not stupid. He knows exactly what this is. He alternates between the photo and your words, jaw ticking and tightening more with the seconds flowing.

It’s almost cruel, the way you’re testing him like this. He tries to push the feeling down, to reject the buzz of heat pooling low in his stomach. You know him well enough to be aware that he won’t reply to something like this. A stupid, unnecessary message. The tattoo is healed—he told you that a week ago, clear as day. There’s no reason for you to ask again.

What’s the purpose of this?

He gets a distorted idea when he shifts uncomfortably in place, the dull ache tightening his pants almost unbearable now.

Jeongguk groans and locks his phone, tossing it onto the counter as if that will put an end to this. He tries to refocus on his tasks, the last ones before he clocks off. Cleaning needles, tossing used stencils.

But his heavy balls keep sending desperate, silent prayers to his brain, to please let them have this. Just this once.

It’s been a bad day. Two of his appointments canceled last minute, leaving him to sit around bored. The last client showed up drunk and wouldn’t stop trying to flirt with him. His coworkers were loud and distracting, and to top it all off, the heater broke, leaving the studio freezing cold.

It’s been such a bad day.

So, would there be any harm? It’s not like anyone will know. Not you, not his friends. He’s the only one that will. And he’s far more willing to live with this dirty secret rather than with his hard dick straining achingly in its confines.

Jeongguk abruptly snatches up his phone again, unlocking it to the same picture that caused him to brush the device aside just minutes ago. He lets out a shaky breath, thumb hovering over the screen. You won’t get no reply to him. But if you knew what he was up to right now, you would probably geek. Tease him, with your warm smile that digs dimples in your cheek, hopping on your toes to poke at his chest playfully, with those perfectly manicured hands of yours.

“Shit,” his free hand is already pushing the jeans down along with his boxers, and he drops his weight onto the nearest stool as he grips at the base of his thick cock, eyes devouring the image of you in the empty chat.

He doesn’t zoom in. That would feel too shameless. But he finds it oddly better like this. Is it weird that your text, so innocently worded, is turning him on? That the simple idea of you needing his help is enough to have his hips jerking?

What could you possibly need his help for? Fuck. The different ideas that pool his mind have him squeezing harder at his stinging tip.

Jeongguk focuses on your dainty hand, slim pointer finger snaking under the collar of your flimsy shirt to show yourself to him, and your small boobs spill from the sides with a delicious, soft swell. He hisses when he pictures that same hand working on him instead, his warm mouth stuffed with your stiff nipples, visible through the sheer material.

He can’t help the loud groan leaving his lips, wrist flickering up and down in a motion that feels sloppy way too soon, hips jutting up to fuck into his tight fist. Throwing his head back, he sees you even behind closed eyelids.

He pictures your delicate figure sprawled on his bed, long lashes batting up at him as you sheepishly hide with your cheek to your shoulder. Can clearly make out how you’d sit on his lap instead, unsteady breath fanning over his lips, using his long shaft to make yourself cum. The whole time, he sees the tattoo on your chest, the one that is forever on you, eternally a reminder of him.

When he lets his head topple forward again, his bright screen still stares at him, only because a new message pops up in the chat. He startles, and his cock throbs in his hand.

Annoying [11:52 p.m.]: oh, and i miss you.

“Oh, fuck,” the curse is strained through a loud whine, and only followed by more of his full moans filling the room. His brows knit as his hand moves rapidly, palm collecting the precum spreading embarrassingly fast on his tip and rolling it down his length.

He focuses on your parted lips, the soft curve of your breast, your hard nipples begging to be sucked and spit on. Your last text has flashes of your bug-like eyes staring up at him seizing his mind.

That’s what undoes him. He’s delirious as he lets out his every sound, freely, unchecked, not caring about how loud he is, whimpering as he gets closer to his climax. When he thinks of those eyes locking with his, kneeling before him, eager and willing to swallow his every drop, he cums. Hard.

Jeongguk pumps everything he can out of him, and it’s messy—spilling over his hand, staining his clothes, pooling on the floor. His chest heaves with the effort, and the sensation of abandon he feels is so pleasurable, energy drained but leaving him with a lightness that threatens to make his cock hard again.

Fuck. He can’t afford that happening if you’re not the one attending his needs. This won’t be enough, not until it’s you. He’s insatiable.

Jeongguk needs to hear your voice.

It’s an instinct, and he bends to it. He’s careful, making sure not to tap on the FaceTime option, because if you were to see him right now it’d be glaringly obvious.

When he looks to the side, he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the long mirror, and he visibly grimaces at the way his cheeks are flushed, the pearls of sweat coating his forehead causing his bangs to stick uncomfortably to the skin.

Guilty doesn’t even begin to cover it.

With the phone to his ear beeping to eternity, he hesitates, contemplates ending the call before you can answer. But just then, you do.

“Jeongguk! Is everything okay?”

Your voice is familiarly soft, but there’s a trace of concern. Blinking, he brings the device closer again and gulps thickly when he can make out your panting breaths. He clears his throat and puts on his best nonchalant act, “Huh— Yes. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know… You just never call. Or text first. This is weird. You sure you’re okay?”

Oh. Is that really what it is like?

Jeongguk never realized this was how he came across—so detached that a simple phone call feels out of character. Your naive honesty hits him square in the chest. God, he needs to get better at this. The irony stings: he just fucking jerked off to your picture and the simple thought of you, while you’re on the other side thinking he’s just a careless piece of shit who doesn’t even know how to call.

The long stretch of silence registers in his brain, and he coughs to buy time, “Yes, I’m sure. I— huh,” he thinks of stuff you usually ask to keep the conversation flowing. Not out of courtesy, but out of genuine interest, the curiosity that makes people want to open up. He’s still not used to that. Still finds it weird.

“How… How was your day?”

It must be equally weird for you because it takes you a longer beat to reply. In that quiet moment, he clenches his eyes shut and feels his jaw tick with shame. And embarrassment. And this icky feeling that makes him feel too mushy for his liking. Hell, what is he doing? He’s never been like this, he’s not supposed to be like this.

But you recover quickly, as you always do, and you smooth over the moment. Fix it all for him like you were born to be just that. Make him feel like he fits in ways that have him exhaling shakily.

Jeongguk senses a foreign drumming in his stomach, and it’s warm but odd, and he loves it but he doesn’t want to.

On the twenty-fifth day of December, cheekily under a mistletoe, Jeongguk realizes he wants you. There’s parts of him that probably knew way sooner. But the parts of him that didn’t, fighting tooth and nail to suppress the mere thought, are just now finally surrendering.

Jeongguk has always found you admirable, back in high school. You had this determination to you. Not only when it came to him. It shone particularly when you catered to others, always finding ways to help, to mend, to offer yourself with nothing less than a fully toothed smile.

But he’s also always thought you two were—and still are—too different to work. He can’t be what you want, let alone what you deserve: someone who can match your enthusiasm and unwavering smiles, your frustrating positivity; someone who sees the world the way you do. No black, no grey, no shades in between. Just bright, hopeful white. Blinding white.

It’s the white making him dizzy, shifting his perspective, having him believing the opposite of what he’s always known. Pushing to be a little more egoistical, deceiving himself that he’s right for you. Because he wants to be. He oh, so selfishly wants people to know he’s the one who finally gets to have you, the one gifted with such a light, unfairly deserving of all the love you carry into every room you walk into.

Just a few days ago, during another one of your increasingly frequent phone calls, you asked him what he was doing for Christmas. He could have lied, come up with something on the spot.

But with how you so easily, and always coax the truth out of him, he let it slip. He told you he’d be alone, words subtly heavy. But they didn’t have the chance to even drop their weight before you were already inviting him to your friend’s party, insisting that he would be the most welcome.

And he’s here, and he sits beside you, and every time you laugh you lean your weight over him, and the room vibrates with the energy you fill it with, and each one of your friends is so enamoured with you, and for reasons he can’t fully understand it fills him with a sense of pride that shouldn’t belong to him. But it does, and it comes with so many other feelings.

You don’t push him to talk. You never force him into the spotlight when he takes a step back, quietly observing, choosing to stay in the background. Because you read him like it’s in your nature to do so, your soul seems to intuitively melt with his, and it intertwines in such a tight knot that he feels it constrict his throat. He knows he’s still alive because his heart is beating, just a little faster with each time you flash your dimples at him.

“Dimples. What are you doing, hm?”

Now, he’s in front of you, a small smile on his lips as you stand on your tiptoes, trying to dangle the mistletoe over both your heads. You’re struggling just a little, your hand unable to reach high enough, and the fake plant awkwardly brushes his hair, the tickling sensation causing his nose to scrunch. You laugh.

Looking up at your swinging movements, you lose your balance for the slightest second. Jeongguk’s hands move instinctively, catching you promptly by the waist to steady your body. But even after that, he doesn’t shift, his warm palms stilling. And when you face him, he’s closer and his chest brushes against yours. From this proximity, he witnesses the Christmas lights painting a galaxy of their own in your orbs.

You beam, “What does it look like? We have to kiss now.”

Jeongguk stares in your expectant eyes, brows wiggling and all. The more his mouth keeps in a straight line, the more the wiggling slows. You eventually come down from your tiptoes, letting the mistletoe fall to the side, tilting your head.

He snorts, looking away briefly to hide an embarrassingly wide grin behind his hand. When he turns back to you, your pout is enough to have him scrambling to meet your gaze.

“On one condition, though.”

You chirp, “Yeah?”

He licks his teeth, reserving you with a smug look, “Admit that you were scared to get your tattoo.”

Your smile vanishes in an instant, your expression falling into mock offense. With a dramatic roll of your eyes, you turn on your heel, pretending to walk away from him. Pretending, only because you know he won’t let you. And you’re proven right when his fingers wrap around your arm, tugging you back with enough force to spin you into him. Suddenly, you’re pressed so close you can feel the heat radiating from him. Your chin nearly touches his chest as you glare up at him, narrowed eyes meeting the mischievous glint in his.

He bites a smile, lips twitching, “C’mon, princess. You wanted to act all tough and shit, but I could feel you shaking.”

Your scoff is loud and incredulous, “You’re such a bitch.”

He only shrugs, “You want my kiss, no?”

“Oh my god,” groaning, it’s your turn to face the side to hide a grin, “Are you always this cocky?”

His chin tilts upward slightly, and you can tell he’s enjoying this, “Say it.”

You whip back around to meet him with a seriousness he hardly ever sees on you, and you even clear your throat, channeling every ounce of the determination he knows you for, every drop of resolve that makes you you. “Yes. I was scared shitless, Jeongguk.”

Foreign excitement brims out of him, not before his eyes widen just a fraction, and his nose scrunches the more he leans closer to you, inches from you, swinging side to side with exaggerated mockery and a grin splitting his face, “See! I knew—hmph.”

There’s no other second to waste.

The condition has been met, and now all the requirements for you to claim what you were promised, your reward, are there. Even more when kissing him means catching him mid-taunt and silencing whatever teasing remark he had ready.

Your lips touch his in effortless ease, breaking the air as they press together. It’s tentative at first, almost uncertain as you feel Jeongguk remain still.

But it doesn’t take him longer to move, mouth molding against yours in a sickeningly sweet hug, tasting each other with quiet curiosity, taking your time to adjust and melt, instructing your bodies to imitate the dance.

Your arms lock around his neck, his stronger and tattooed ones circle your waist, and the way you click together feels so right, almost too perfect, so perfect it scares you. When you arch yourself further into him, even the non-existent space between you unbearable, he accompanies the motion with his wide palms gliding along your back, squeezing you into him, feeling the curve of your hips.

The soft whine that scratches your throat and vibrates against his lips betrays you, along with the useless effort to contain the intensity of what you’re feeling. The emotion disarms you, the sound gasping in your chest, but in Jeongguk’s arms it feels safe to let go.

On Christmas day, you crown a youthful fantasy, the kind you’ll look back to even when you’re older. Jeongguk feels like he’d be the right person to stand by you to do so.

When he reluctantly detaches from you, his face keeps at a safe distance that’d allow him to go back and taste you, not before resting his forehead on yours and whispering, “Merry Christmas.”

You giggle. “Merry Christmas, Gguk.”

[juniperberrypipebomb]

Decided to log into twitter (hell) and outside of everything going to shit as always i found this piece of shit as my banner

I dont even remember when i made this but i do remember that i did and i remember how i made it

I saw a picture on twitter w some kind of caption and decided that i could make it look like a banner

i tried to add the fire flaming text that i saw on some reposted to twitter tumblr posts where someome makes a grammatical error and someone corrects them in a form of flaming (sometimes animated) text (never change guys, gals and all of you magnificent pals lol) but at the time i didnt know the website that you all used so i tried to improvise and google

I remember half way thru the making of this text being so upset that it looked like shit but after taking a break for 20 minutes i said "fuck it, it is way funnier this way" and i kinda glad that back then i decided to "fuck it we ball" it

It looks disgusting and i love it

[roosterforme]

Always Ever Only You Part 34 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Without you at home, Bradley's big mouth is about to get him in trouble. As he counts down the hours until he can pick you up from the airport, you wrap up your trip to Maryland with a visit to your childhood home. However, you're not as smooth as you think you are. By the time you get back to San Diego, you are an absolute train wreck, and some secrets have been revealed.

Warnings: Swearing, pregnancy topics, angst, fluff

Length: 4500 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

This was written to accompany my series Is It Working For You? along with a bunch of my one-shots and other series, but it can be read on its own! Check my masterlist for the reading order. Always Ever Only You masterlist. Gorgeous banner by @mak-32

On Thursday morning, Bradley got to work a little bit early. He just needed to make a tiny detour to one of the database computers. He really wasn't sure if you realized that you told him Commander Patterson's first name last night, or if you let it slip by accident, but now that he knew it, he just wanted to check him out.

Every trip you took to Annapolis turned into some sort of disaster at one point or another. He couldn't imagine you were out there looking for trouble, but it sure did find you in the form of Derek or Josh. You were the most capable person Bradley knew, but he loved and respected you enough to know that sometimes you needed a break. Right now, he just wanted to bring you back home and take care of every tiny need or want that you or the baby might have. He'd honestly fucking delight in that.

As soon as he logged into the system, Bradley typed in your full name, complete with Bradshaw hyphenated at the end. A second later, your image appeared on the screen complete with lovely smile and gorgeous eyes. "That's my Baby Girl," he muttered, still captivated by this photo of you. 

He forced his fingers back to the keyboard, but no results appeared when he looked for Derrick Patterson. He tried Paterson. Then he tried Derick. Then he tried Derek Patterson and saw the face of the asshole who made his wife cry over a steak dinner. Were you more emotional right now than perhaps you would usually be? Absolutely. But that was only because you were pregnant. As soon as you told him you had a positive pregnancy test, Bradley's number one concern in this world simply switched from his wife to his wife and his child. 

This guy looked like a real tool. Forty-four years old. Ranked up to Commander two years ago. Worked in a simulation lab. Had the same degrees from the Naval Academy that you earned. "Yeah, well I can guarantee you're not as smart as her, you motherfucker."

He took another minute to memorize what he saw there before logging out. Maybe he'd ask Maverick about him. Cyclone and Warlock would be good resources, too. Bradley just hated that he wasn't able to make you feel safe and comfortable at the moment, but as soon as he picked you up tomorrow, he'd take care of everything. 

When he started to head out to the tarmac, he literally ran into someone while he was adding steaks to the grocery list he saved in his phone. He didn't know how to cook a steak, but he'd get them just in case you were still in the mood for one. "Sorry," he muttered, not really looking up, too concerned with what else you might want.

"It's okay, Bradley."

Then he did look up into the dark eyes of Maria Wilson. "Hey," he said with a smile at your good friend. "I've been meaning to ask you... how's rooming with Bob going for you?"

"Great," she replied with a little shrug and a completely neutral expression. "He's clean and courteous, and I think the arrangement is going to work out really well." 

If he didn't know better, Bradley would have believed nothing was going on. She was that good. But he did know better. He wasn't going to do Bob dirty, so he just nodded and said, "I hope it does work out. I've always felt a little bad about stealing my wife away from you."

She just laughed and said, "Like we didn't all see that coming a mile away."

He wandered off with a grin on his face after he said goodbye. He was planning on making a few stops on the way home before Jake showed up to workout together later. Bradley just had to get through one more night and then you'd be back.

----------------------------

You were an idiot for eating two steaks and seventeen pounds of sides and then passing out for the night. Sure, at the time, it seemed like the best idea you'd ever had. Derek's porterhouse hit the fucking spot like nothing else. The potatoes were creamy and delectable. The brussels sprouts? A thing of beauty.

But Thursday morning, you were back to your normal routine of throwing up as soon as you got out of bed. "I get it, okay?" you gasped as you sprawled out on the bathroom floor. "I understand," you added, letting your hand settle on your belly. "You miss your Dad. Well guess what. I miss him, too. Now will you stop acting out if I promise to take you home tomorrow?"

A soft gurgle as your stomach started to settle was the response you got, and that was actually better than you could have hoped for. When you heard tapping on your hotel room door, you knew it was Cat, and you wanted to cry. You were wearing Bradley's UVA shirt and a pair of your ratty underwear and nothing else, and she'd just keep knocking until you answered. 

"I'm coming," you moaned, actually crawling most of the way there. You pulled yourself up and then cracked the door open a few inches, and you were met with Cat's appraising eyes. "Hi."

"I just wanted to know if you wanted to get breakfast with me," she said cautiously.

"No, I'm good, but thanks for asking." You tried to close the door, but her foot was immediately preventing that. 

"Are you sick?" she asked. "I can bring something back for you."

"No, I'm okay," you told her. Your stomach lurched, and your eyes went wide. You had about ten seconds to get rid of her and make it to the toilet. You didn't know what to do as saliva pooled at the back of your tongue. You started to gag as your eyes filled with tears. 

"Hey," she said softly. "If something's wrong, you can tell me."

But you shook your head and let go of the door, making a mad dash back into the bathroom. You barely made it to your knees in front of the toilet before you barfed again. "Why?" you moaned, wiping your mouth with toilet paper before rolling onto the bath mat which had become your best friend.

"Oh my god," Cat muttered as she walked right into your hotel room bathroom. She flushed the toilet and then turned to the sink and started to fill one of the disposable cups with water. "You're pregnant," she stated plainly. "You could have told me, you know. Congratulations, by the way."

As she knelt on the floor next to you, she helped you sit up. You accepted the cup from her and said, "It's just food poisoning." She blinked at you a few times, giving you no wiggle room to lie to her. "Fine," you admitted with a little smile, "I'm pregnant."

She ran the backs of her fingers along your forehead while you sipped the water. "How far along are you?"

"About nine or ten weeks," you whispered as you closed your eyes for a few beats. "I'm just really tired and really fucking sick. I felt good last night, but now I feel terrible again."

Cat took the empty cup from your hand and wrapped you up in a soft hug. "Thank you for holding it together for the presentation. Now you need to get back into bed."

You shook your head and said, "I need to get up and moving so I can go see my parents later."

"No," she said firmly, guiding you back to the bed. "You need to rest right now. You'll feel better if you do." 

Part of you wanted to make sure your suitcase was closed so she didn't see your vibrators, but mostly you didn't even care. She had a certain way about her that was calming you down, and as soon as you were in the bed, she tucked you in. You almost believed her when she told you that resting would help you feel better. 

"Where's your room key?" she asked once you were curled up on your side.

You let one hand sneak out from under the covers and pointed. "Next to the TV."

She patted your shoulder and promised she would be back soon, and then she was gone. You dozed on and off while your stomach gurgled, and you missed a few texts from Bradley. When Cat eventually opened your door and let herself in, you were actually feeling hungry. And that's when you noticed two bags and a cup carrier in her hands. 

Quietly, she set everything down on your nightstand including some orange juice that almost brought a tear to your eye. Somehow she knew that was what you needed when you didn't even know yourself. You sat up as she poked a hole in the lid and handed it to you, and you drank half of it down in one sip.

"You need to eat something," she whispered, taking the cup away again. "I got you a bagel with cream cheese, an egg sandwich, a few different kinds of donuts and a muffin."

You reached for the bagel, and she unwrapped it for you. "I'll pay you back," you rasped, but she shook her head.

"Don't worry about it. Just make the baby happy, and we're square," she replied as she sank down into the chair beside the bed.

But you were definitely going to worry about it. Money was very tight for Cat and Jeremiah, so you would have to figure out a way to make it even. She probably spent about forty bucks on all of this for you, and somehow she knew that a sesame seed bagel with cream cheese would go down as happily as the steaks did. You devoured the whole thing and then took some bites out of the egg and cheese sandwich before finishing the orange juice. 

Then you drank some of the hot tea as well and nibbled on a muffin, and you felt so much better. Cat asked you a few questions, but she didn't pry. "Bradley must be over the moon," she said softly with a sad smile. 

"Oh yeah," you told her, knowing that her ex-husband did not have a relationship with Jeremiah. "He dubbed the baby the chicken nugget." When she laughed, you added, "He's very excited to be a dad."

"He'll be a good one," she confirmed with a nod. "Now why don't you rest for a few more hours, and then I can drop you off at your parents' house so you don't have to drive."

"You don't have to do that."

"I'll drop you off and then go to the outlet mall. There are some things I want to get for Jer, and then I can pick you up again." She probably knew it wasn't a good idea to let you drive like this, and you were honestly kind of thankful that she offered.

"Alright." You fell asleep again as soon as she was gone.

--------------------------

When Bradley left work, it was blazing hot out, and he had his aviators on while he walked to the parking garage. It was already late as hell in Maryland, and he was a little afraid you had already left your parents and gone back to the hotel for the night. But your phone only rang briefly before you answered his FaceTime call.

"Bradley," you sighed, looking better than he'd seen you in weeks. "Here, say hi to everyone."

You turned your phone to reveal both of your parents along with Cat, sitting around the dining room table in the house where he was finally getting used to spending his holidays. They all greeted him warmly before your mom took the phone and asked him at least a dozen questions.

"Are you eating enough without her at home? How's work? How's Tramp? When can we come visit again, because she's not giving us a clear answer?"

She said nothing about the baby, so Bradley assumed you were holding yourself together well enough that it hadn't been mentioned. "I've been subsiding on cereal. Work is great. Tramp is great. I've been thinking about starting a project to expand the upstairs into another bedroom or two, so hopefully after that's finished, you and dad can stay as long as you want."

Bradley knew they would feel like a handful for him if they stayed at the house again, but that was only because he liked being alone with you. He really wanted to take a minute to talk to you privately, but your dad took the phone next so he could show off his latest painting project. When he finally got handed back to you, apparently it was time for you and Cat to head out. 

"I'll let you know when the flight leaves tomorrow," you told him. "Love you, Roo."

And that was it. With a deep sigh, he started up the red Bronco and headed to the store on his way home. He hated shopping in his uniform; he always got a bunch of looks from people, mostly women. He tried to make it quick, but it took him a little time to gather up steaks, potatoes, garlic, your favorite coffee, and all of the yellow flowers in the floral section. 

He barely had all of the food put away at home when Jake knocked twice on the front door before letting himself in the house. "It's like he fucking lives here," Bradley muttered to Tramp who had been waiting for his scoop of dinner before he ran to see Jeremiah.

"Hey, man," Jake called out. He had Cat's son tucked under one arm and some weird contraption under the other, and he was wearing gym clothes. "Did you just get home?"

"Yeah," Bradley replied, unable to keep himself from smiling when Jeremiah reached out for him. He took the little boy in his arms and told him, "I had to get some stuff for my wife. You remember her. She's your favorite babysitter. She read you some books while you fell asleep, because her voice is the sweetest thing in the world."

Jake rolled his eyes. "Angel made you soft, old man."

Bradley pointed to Jeremiah. "And this little thing made you soft, so you don't have a leg to stand on."

He just kind of shrugged in response and took the child back as he said, "Go get changed. I'll meet you in the garage."

As Jake disappeared through the sliding glass door, Bradley headed to the bedroom. He stripped out of his uniform and put on some shorts and a Top Gun shirt that was starting to fit a little snug across his biceps and chest again. This was a good sign, because he wanted to bulk up as much as possible. He'd be ready to haul the baby and all of the gear around so you didn't have to. 

His thoughts were on you and the baby. You. Baby. You. Baby. He couldn't wait until both of you were home tomorrow. When he walked out to the garage, he found Jake doing a few pushups while Jeremiah played with a stuffed tiger while he sat in some sort of portable crib.

"What is that thing?" Bradley asked as he reached for his lifting gloves. "A mini crib?"

Jake jumped to his feet as he said, "It's called a pack 'n play, but yeah, it's kind of a mini crib that folds up."

"Huh," he replied, eyeing it up so he could search online for that kind of thing later. "Looks handy. We're definitely going to need one of those."

Jake was frozen in place, eyes wide and jaw hanging open. "Is Angel pregnant? I knew her ass looked bigger." A grin curled along his lips, and that was when Bradley realized he had fucked up.

"Oh, shit," he muttered as his heart rate sped up and he started to sweat. You were going to be so upset. Your own parents didn't even know yet, but now Jake did, and it was all his fault.

"She's pregnant!" Jake practically shouted. "Congratulations, Rooster," he said, pulling Bradley into a hug and slapping him on the back. "You finally figured out which hole to put it in, huh?" he asked with an absolutely obnoxious grin.

Bradley glared at him. "Seriously. Nobody else knows about this yet. She might murder me if she finds out you know."

"I won't say shit about it," Jake promised, cuffing him on the shoulder before releasing him. "Damn, she must be excited. I know you both wanted this."

"Yeah," Bradley rasped, just knowing his face must be flushed pink. He ran his fingers through his hair. "I'm so fucking happy and scared and nervous, I can barely make it through a day without her here, you know?"

Jeremiah roared and held up the tiger for Bradley. He took it and made it roar back before pretending it was kissing Jeremiah all over his face. His laugh was infectious, and it left Bradley smiling. 

"Damn," Jake drawled. "I think you're ready for the parenting thing."

"I know I am," he replied, fixing him with a serious look. "I'm ready."

Jake sighed and nodded. "But you still have a lot to learn. Do you know about outlet covers?"

Bradley's eyes went wide. "No. What are those?"

"How about white noise to help a baby sleep? Do you know what a convertible car seat is?"

"No," Bradley whispered, "No, I don't."

Jake settled back onto the bench and reached for the barbell. "Spot for me, and I'll tell you everything I've learned."

------------------------

It was finally Friday morning, and Cat was knocking on your door with another round of food and orange juice before you were even out of bed. When you let her in, she set everything up on the nightstand while you went to use the bathroom, and you were pleasantly surprised that you didn't need to throw up while you were in there.

"Eat as much as you can," she told you. "I asked them to give you a late checkout, so you can stay here until noon, and then we'll head to the airport."

"You're a saint," you told her with a mouth full of bagel. "I owe you so much money for this, you have to let me pay you back."

She just shook her head. "I'll let you babysit Jer so Jake and I can go out one night. Assuming I'm still in a relationship after we get bad to San Diego later tonight."

"You will be," you told her as you sipped the orange juice. "Jake isn't stupid." You paused before you set the juice down in favor of a donut. "Well... he's kind of stupid, but not when it comes to this."

Cat reached into the bag for another donut. "Seriously, if he and Bernie can't figure their shit out, I'll pull the plug and never look at another man again."

"Sometimes they really aren't worth the aggravation," you remarked, thinking back to every guy you dated before Bradley. "But sometimes they surprise you."

She didn't say anything else as she finished her donut. Then she let you take a nap, and when you got up and got dressed, you felt pretty amazing. Your stomach was gurgling quietly, and you looked okay enough to skip the makeup today. 

You dragged your suitcase out into the hallway and texted Bradley, letting him know you were going to be heading to the airport soon, and he responded almost immediately. 

Bradley Rooster Bradshaw <3 <3 <3: i'll meet you in baggage claim sweetheart. i can't wait to have you and the nugget back home with me

You practically moaned, and also started tearing up as Cat met you in the hallway. "When willI I be normal again?" you whispered. "All I want to do is have rough, frequent sex with my husband, but every time I think about how sweet he is, I start crying."

She laughed and said, "You won't feel normal until about six months postpartum. Just have fun running that man ragged."

You nodded and wiped at your tears. "Where's our equipment bin?"

"Already in the car."

"You weren't supposed to move it alone! It's so heavy."

"And you shouldn't be carrying anything like that at all," she scolded, pushing you gently toward the elevators. "I took care of it. I'll take care of it all day, and I'll get your suitcase when we get to the airport, too."

You sobbed the whole way down in the elevator and most of the ride to the airport. When you said thank you, Cat told you to be quiet which made you smile and also cry more. You'd get Bradley to agree to watch Jeremiah for a whole weekend. It would give the two of you some practice, and it would give Cat and Jake time alone. There was no way he was going to mess anything up.

--------------------------

Bradley parked the red Bronco at the airport with a vase of flowers in the cup holder and an ultrasound picture tucked into the visor. Your flight had been delayed a few times, and he figured you were probably starving now. He picked up the container of peanut butter crackers he prepared and started to head inside, still a little too early but with nothing better to do.

He found an empty bench, and it wasn't long before Jake came strolling in with Jeremiah in his arms. Bradley stood up, jostling the snack container as he muttered, "You're not going to say anything to her, right?"

"Relax," Jake replied as Jeremiah reached for the crackers. "I won't say a word about her being pregnant. You can count on me."

That actually made him feel a lot more nervous as he opened up the container, broke a cracker in half and handed it to Jeremiah. "Okay. Just pretend you don't know a thing about it."

He watched Jeremiah get crumbs all over Jake's shirt as Jake checked his phone. "Sure. Hey, they landed. Cat said they're walking off the plane now."

Bradley checked his phone, but there was absolutely nothing from you, which was really strange. "Huh." He stood there awkwardly as he'd been left out of the loop, handing the other half of the cracker to Jeremiah when he reached for it. 

He watched Jake typing one handed, and then he said, "Apparently there was a ton of turbulence. Angel got pretty sick." When he met Bradley's eyes, he kind of shrugged. "Sounds like she's in bad shape."

Bradley ran his fingers through his hair until it was sticking up at an odd angle. "What's that supposed to mean? How is she in bad shape?" He looked over toward the partition that blocked off the area he wouldn't be able to get past without a boarding pass while he started to panic. Was he going to have to take you to the hospital or something? The cereal and potato chips he had for dinner started to sour in his stomach as he started walking in that direction. 

Then he saw you, and he started running. Cat had her arm around you, and she was carrying your tote bag along with her backpack while you sipped a can of ginger ale through a straw. Bradley could see fresh tears in your eyes as they met his. "Oh, Sweetheart."

"Roo," you croaked, and he closed the rest of the distance to you and carefully took you in his arms. "I was horrible."

Cat took the ginger ale from your hand, and you collapsed against him, a sobbing, shaking mess. "It's okay," he promised you. "You're home now, and I will take care of everything."

You nodded against his chest, and he let you cry. "I threw up so much. I was fine, but then it was really rough, and the baby hates me anyway." You cried harder, and then Jake was there with Jeremiah. He took the container of crackers so Bradley could rub your back with both hands. You hiccupped against him and mumbled, "You can say what you want. Cat knows. She guessed it. Then she took care of me."

Bradley wasn't surprised in the least that someone who had been pregnant before was able to tell that you were now. "Okay," he whispered, kissing the top of your head. He held you close and gave both Cat and Jake a stern look. "Do you want to go ahead and tell Jake?" he asked carefully. 

"Yeah," you groaned, leaning toward Jake slightly. "I'm pregnant."

If Jake didn't get Bradley out of this debacle safely, he was going to ban him from the home gym. But he should have known that above anything else in this scenario, Jake was going to have your back.

"Aww, Angel," he crooned as Jeremiah climbed into Cat's arms. "I'm so happy for you, mama." Then he kissed your cheek and winked at Bradley. "You'll be a natural, and ol' Rooster here's gonna be a class act. Now why don't you let him take you home? I can get the bin of your work stuff."

"You sure?" Bradley asked, giving Jake a discreet fist bump as you buried your face against his chest again. You were half burrowed inside his tropical print shirt at this point, and his undershirt was damp; he just wanted to get you home.

"We'll take care of it," Cat promised. "She's dehydrated. Make sure she drinks water or gatorade. And she needs to try to eat something." Jake handed the crackers back to Bradley. "Yeah, those might work, but she really needs to keep drinking."

"Got it," Bradley replied, kissing your forehead. "Thank you, Cat."

"It was my pleasure," she said with a smile as she cuddled Jeremiah. 

"Let's go, Baby Girl," Bradley whispered, leading you to get your suitcase as you sipped the ginger ale and nibbled on a cracker. He kept his hand at the small of your back as you sucked in deep breath after deep breath. "I'll get you home and into bed as quickly as possible."

You sniffed and looked up at him. "I just want you with me. That's all I wanted all week." 

Your lips quivered, and Bradley leaned in to kiss you as softly as he could. "That's all I wanted, too. I'm not going to leave your side." He kept you right there with him as he scooped up your luggage, and then he had his arm around you until he got you to the Bronco. With a kiss to your perfect cheek, he opened the door, helped you in, and buckled your seatbelt.

"Thanks, Roo," you sighed, eyes closed as you leaned back against the headrest, already looking more serene now that you and he were together.

"I would do anything for you." He stroked your belly with his fingertips. "Both of you."

Five minutes into the drive home, you were sound asleep, your fingers laced with his.

------------------------

I can already feel how much calmer she is just knowing she doesn't have as much to worry about with Bradley by her side. And he's going to be so much less stressed with her at home. It's looking like next chapter could be the last one in this series!!!! I'm hoping to do some one-shots for them and then pick up with another series? Please let me know what you'd like to see during and after her pregnancy. And thank you for reading! Thanks @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 35

@hotch-meeeeeuppppp

@chassy21

@solacestyles

@daisyhollyxox

@wintercap89

@blog-name6996

@bcon24

@chaoticassidy

@avada-kedavra-bitch-187

@katiebby04

@marantha

@averyhotchner

@abaker74

@heli991113

@k-k0129

@noz4a2

@shanimallina87

@little-wiseone

@ccbb2222

@xoxabs88xox

@thedroneranger

@cherrycola27

@fanboyswhore9

@xomrsalliej4787xo

@desert-fern

@sylviebell

@wkndwlff

@horseslovers2016

@gennyanydots

@mattyskies

@hookslove1592

@blahehblah

@sadpetalsstuff

@local-spidey

@schoollover

@lex-winchester

@magicalmorg

@nicole01-23

@jessicab1991

@happyrebelruins

@samsgoddess

@ughthisisntright

@bellaireland1981

@sagittarius-flowerchild

@mygyn

@yuckosworld

[ellethespaceunicorn]

Some Things You Just Can't Refuse

Title: Some Things You Just Can't Refuse

Rating: Explicit, 18+, Minors - DNI

Pairing: Dom!Clark Kent x Sub!Reader

Word Count: 4.7K+

Summary: A collection of first times with Clark Kent, and one last time.

Warnings: dacryphilia, unprotected p-in-v sex (wrap it up babes), creampie, spit kink (for like two seconds), Reader being a brat

A/N: This has been a plot bunny that sat in my Google Docs while all my other works got attention. Did I really just write a 5+1? Unbeta’d, we die like people who tried their best. 

Dividers by: @firefly-graphics

Support/Reblog banner by me

Cover Art by me

My Masterlist 

Clark Kent was a simple man, for the most part. He had preferences, sure. But he knew what he liked, and went for those things more often than not. One of his preferences was a certain kind of woman. 

And you were that kind of woman. His Sunflower.

The perfect combination of submissive and strong-willed. What others may call bratty, Clark would call “a little feisty” and he wouldn’t change it for the world.

And that is where Clark was anything but simple. He was your Dominant, you were his submissive. He loved you, he provided for you, and he kept you safe. He kissed the ground you walked on, he broke you, and he put you back together.

The first time you met Clark Kent was in the break room of the Daily Planet. 

You were an intern for the summer, just working to get some credits toward your journalism degree. You weren’t all that interested in going to warzones and reporting on drug lords and shit. You wanted to tell stories about starving artists and activism. You wanted to surprise people with your ability to capture the essence of someone’s emotion and relate it to the reader’s own experiences.

While doing your writing at work, while you were supposed to be doing whatever Lois Lane threw at you this morning, you decided to take a break to recharge. Since energy drinks gave you the jitters, you opted for a warm-ish mug of hours-old coffee.

As you reached up to the cabinet to get a mug, you watched as a hand appears above you to grab the handles of two mugs. You turned, following the hand, to see who reached over you. Eyes blue like the Atlantic Ocean behind a pair of plain black rectangular frames looked back at you. You can’t help but smile at him as he beamed, bright enough to illuminate your entire day.

And your writer’s brain was getting way ahead of itself already. Who the hell was this mountain of a man? I wonder what his lips taste like. Should that tie go with that shirt? Fuck, did he just ask me something?

“I’m sorry, what?” You shook yourself out of your thoughts.

“I asked if you wanted the black or the flower mug. I was gonna offer the flower. But I’d rather not assume you didn’t wanna just take the plain one. So, I’m gonna stop talking and let you answer.” 

Fuck, he’s cute when he rambles.

“Sunflowers are my favorite.” He offered the mug and your fingers touch and you’re glad that you are the only two in the break room.

“Clark,” he says, as he poured himself some coffee, “Clark Kent.”

You gave your name and he put out a hand to shake yours. With your hand in his, you notice how it engulfed your own. You thought to yourself about that hand around your throat. Just lightly squeezing the sides of your neck, as a warning.

“Nice to meet you. I hope Lois has been easy on you. She can be a little…much.” He said it in a way that lead you to believe he’s been on the demanding end of Lois more than once.

“Eh, she’s alright. I mean, Ms. Lane is just fine.” You tried to cover your disdain for Lois. In reality, you saw her as a ‘Pick-Me’, but you tried to give her the benefit of the doubt.

“Yeah, sure she is. I dated her, so I know her pretty well. Not that I should be saying anything. But, don’t let her try and get in your head. She’ll use whatever she can to get a scoop, whether in the field or the workplace. She’s a great journalist, but-” You cut him off, not wanting to take part in putting down another woman.

“I think I get the hint. Watch my back around her.” You assure him you understood as you poured your coffee and put in some cream and sugar.

“Yeah, sorry. I shouldn’t talk about her behind her back. That was rude of me. My mother would be disappointed in me for that.” He looked into his mug, and you saw that he was not proud of himself for putting down his ex.

“It’s all good, Clark. I can tell you didn’t mean anything by it. Emotions are tricky, ya know?” You don’t know why you wanted to give him an ‘out’, but you did.

“That, they are. I better get back. See ya around,” He gave a cute little wave and exited the room.

The first time Clark Kent called you Sunflower happened about a month after your first meeting. 

The two of you ended up together on a test run for Perry to see how you go about working with other reporters. He probably just wanted to see if I could share a byline.

You could tell that Lois saw a tenacity in you that reminded her of her younger self. While that was great, you wanted to be seen for your ability to get people to talk to you without making them feel like they were in an interview. Just a conversation between people.

When you asked Clark to work on the assignment with you, he jumped at the opportunity. In truth, he wanted the chance to see you at work. He’d listen to Lois talk about how you just saw things differently. Almost like she was jealous, but she would never admit to that.

“So I was thinking we could go to Gotham. Before you say anything, I know it’s dangerous there but we’ll be going during the day. And I finally got the go-ahead from Wayne Enterprises to shadow one of their board members. A Day in the Life kind of piece. What do you think?” You rambled out, arms crossed as you leaned against Clark’s desk.

“I think I can get you an exclusive with Bruce Wayne if you wanted.” He stated nonchalantly.

“I would owe you big time. Wait, how the hell do you know Wayne? What, were you boy scouts together or something?”

“We just end up at a lot of the same places.” Clark offers no other explanation.

“Right,” you nodded at him, not letting it go, “So, I run point on this and you back me up?”

“Sounds perfect. You’ll do great, just know he will try and flirt with you so don’t make it easy for him, Sunflower.” The nickname caused heat to rise to your face, remembering that first time you met him.

“Sure, like the most eligible bachelor in Gotham who can buy whatever he wanted would look at me twice?” You weren’t being down on yourself too much, more like you were being realistic. The man had dated supermodels and heiresses, not chubby junior reporters.

“Without sounding unprofessional, trust me when I say Bruce will look at you more than twice. You say the word and I’ll set him straight.” Was that flirtatious? No way.

“Um, if you say so, Clark,” you tried to laugh it off and walk away but Clark caught your wrist, your eyes locked with his and you felt…something. 

“I do say so, Sunflower,” he lowered his hand from around your wrist, “Just prepare to shut him down more than once. He’s, uh, persistent.”

“You trying to save me for yourself, huh?” You couldn’t help yourself. If he denies it, you could say you were joking. If he confirms it, then…

He simply smiled and tilted his head, neither confirming nor denying. 

During your interview with Bruce Wayne, you were surprised that he indeed did flirt with you as Clark said he would. You managed to steer the conversation back to Wanye Enterprises each time he would stray to learn more about you. You would give him a detail here and a tidbit there, but you kept it professional. Clark was there to take notes, letting you take the lead. He was impressed by you. You kept Bruce flirting with you to get him to spill details about new things he was working on for Gotham.

The first time you kissed Clark Kent was three months into your internship. 

Lois had taken a shine to you, loving what few pieces you were able to get past the intern pool and into an issue. You figured it would be in your best interest to go to her with any journalistic questions you had. You may not like her very much, but she was still a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist and you would be an idiot not to take a few pointers from her.

There was one thing you didn’t talk to her about, and that was the massive crush you had on her ex. It just seemed too messy, and honestly, you didn’t need her permission to do anything. 

That’s why you accepted Clark’s invitation to make you dinner. Frankly, you weren't surprised he asked you. You had been flirting with each other, exchanging glances and smiles across the office. Spending hours a night talking on the phone and texting back and forth naturally lead you here.

Armed with a bottle of wine and all the courage you could muster, you make it to Clark’s apartment just as he is finishing dinner. He answers the door in jeans and a grey long-sleeved henley, looking so comfortable and so different without a tie on. He thanked you for the wine, took your wrist to pull you behind him, and shut the door with a socked foot.

Pouring you both a glass, he congratulated you for completing half of your internship. It completely slipped your mind that you had reached this milestone, but he remembered. And that was saying a lot. You clinked your glasses together and took a sip of the pinot noir. 

“This is going to go great with dinner. Thank you again for picking up some. I can’t believe I forgot to,” Clark bantered, setting his wine glass down to check on the pork tenderloin and roasted potatoes.

“You were too busy trying to impress me,” You insisted, smiling when he gives you a stern look.

“Watch it, Sunflower,” is all you hear and you shifted from one foot to the other to hide your search for friction. You barely had two sips of wine in your system before this man had you feeling drunk.

“Time to let the pork rest while the potatoes finish up. Should be done in a bit,” Clark picked up his wine glass, settling his other hand on your lower back to guide you to the island counter. He didn’t expect it when a shiver ran up your spine and caused you to giggle, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like it.

You sat and chatted during dinner like you’ve known each other for ages and it just felt very comfortable. He told you about his mom, growing up in Smallville, and how he came to work at the Daily Planet. You spoke about your schooling and how you’d one day like to write for the Planet and publish a book of short stories. He was stuck on your every word and it made you feel important to have his undivided attention.

After dinner, you retired to the living room to watch some tv. It was more just on as background noise as you conversed with each other. When you both reached for the wine bottle at the same, you both laugh and then look at each other. And it was all you could do not to melt into a puddle as those blue eyes stare longingly at you.

Clark reached up and took off his glasses before tossing them on the coffee table. Fuck. But, he does nothing more. For what seems like minutes, you sat in silence just staring into each other’s eyes until you speak up. 

“Clark, please?” You whined, growing more frustrated with every second.

“Use your words. Tell me what you need, Sunflower.” The way he said it had you shifting in your seat.

“I need you to kiss me, please?” You pleaded, the little crack in your voice not missed by Clark.

He cupped your face with one large paw, his touch so soft that you leaned into it to feel his warmth. His thumb moved over to wipe across your lips, followed swiftly by his lips.

Your lips met and you felt the warmth radiating from him. You could taste the sweetness of the wine on his tongue as he begged for entry. You let him in, moaning into his mouth. Clark grunted in return and pulled away to rest your foreheads together.

“I have wanted that for far too long, Sunflower,” Clark groaned, licking his lips.

“Me too,” you whisper, scooting closer to Clark to lace your fingers together, “Can we do it again?”

Instead of answering you, he pulled you into his lap and attacked your mouth with fervor.

The first time you tell Clark Kent you love him is exactly two months after your first kiss.

It was completely by accident, but no less true. 

Clark invited you over for dinner and a movie. The two of you were in the middle of watching 10 Things I Hate About You. Patrick was dancing on the bleachers and singing to Kat. The most romantic scene in the movie apart from the poetry scene.

“Ya know, if we went to high school together and you sang ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’ to me in front of the whole school, I would have melted,” you say, stuffing popcorn into your face, “But then, I already love you, so you wouldn’t have to do the whole singing thing.”

Clark’s head whipped around so fast that you can feel the wind coming off of him. “What did you just say, Sunflower?”

You look to Clark and you realized what you had said at the same moment and your eyes went wide. “I think I just confessed love during a ‘90s romcom.”

“Yeah, I think you did,” Clark looked at you with that look in his eyes, “Good thing I love you, too.” He says nonchalantly, trying to not freak you out, and went back to watching the movie.

“Clark, I love you.” You wanted to feel the words on your tongue again.

“I love you too, Sunflower.” Hearing the words come from him was like a cozy embrace that coated the night in warmth.

The first time you had sex with Clark Kent was at the end of your internship.

Clark wanted to wait- 

No, he didn’t want to wait, but he chose to wait until your internship was over and you were offered an actual job at the Daily Planet to not seem like he was cruising for tail in the intern pool. 

Little did you know, but Clark had it all planned out. Candlelit dinner, romantic music, wine, and chocolates. The whole nine yards. But you didn’t get to experience that version of lovemaking. 

At the same time Clark was lighting candles, he heard your heartbeat spike across town. He sped away to your location, without putting on his suit. He flew above the city before he found you being held up at gunpoint in an alleyway and his blood boiled. He watched you comply with your attacker and hand over your purse before flying down behind the man quietly. The man had no idea what hit him when Clark flicked his temple and the assailant falls over unconscious.

He didn’t even think to keep his identity secret anymore. He steps over the man to get to you and check you over for injuries, both external and internal. When he sees nothing, he questions you, “Are you alright, Sunflower?”

You look almost through him because there he is in a sweater and dark-wash jeans, glasses slightly askew. You step back an inch as he reaches out to you. He can see it in your eyes that you are piecing together little moments. 

How he got across town in what seemed like seconds. How he never got sick. How it felt like he was always hiding something. This is what he was hiding from you. For your safety? For his?

“There were so many times I wanted to tell you I was Superman, I just didn’t know how. Do you forgive me, Sunflower?” Clark’s pleading ultramarine eyes burned into yours. 

“I mean, I guess this is as good a time as any to tell me. I have so many questions. Of which, you will answer all of them, Clark. But, all I need to know right now is how the hell you found me?” Your breathing was starting to speed up again and you tried to calm down but given the circumstances, you were acting pretty normal.

“I kind of, know your heartbeat. I can hear it at all times. Wherever you are, I can hear you,” Clark makes an odd face and then forces out an embarrassed laugh, “Now that I say that out loud, it sounds weird.”

“Yeah, it’s a little weird. But it’s also super romantic, too,” you reach to Clark and pull him to you, “What’s my heart sound like now?”

“Sounds like you’re excited,” he let his hand drag down your body, “Smells like it too. Now, why would that be?”

“I mean, I did just find out my boyfriend is a superhero. That’s sorta hot. Sorta, I mean, he hasn’t taken me flying yet.”

“Brat! How hard is it to ask for what you want?” He picked up your purse from the unconscious attacker and handed it to you. When it is secured around your shoulder, Clark picked you up and you wrap your legs around his hips. “Hold on, Sunflower.” He took off so fast that the world blurred around you.

As he got closer to his apartment, he slowed down and flew a bit higher near the clouds. He rolled over onto his back so that you are straddling him. His hands found each other behind his head as he floated above Metropolis, all attention directed at you. Your eyes wandered around the city as you adjusted your seating which stirred his arousal.

Clark tried to adjust himself under you without you noticing but instead, you took the opportunity to grind your clothed sexes together. The groan that escaped Clark’s mouth is enough to spur you on to continue your ministrations. His eyes are already rolling back in his head and you feel quite proud of yourself. You reached under Clark’s sweater and ran your fingers through his chest hair as you continue to work your hips over him.

“Clark?”

“Yes, Sunflower?” He opened his eyes, pupils were blown wide with lust, breathing becoming unstable.

“Take me to your place so we can get more comfortable?” You flirted with him, wrapping your arms around his neck and shimmying up his body.

“Yes, Ma’am.” He grabbed under your thighs to have you wrap your legs around him once more and began to descend to the balcony of his apartment. He let you inside first but is quickly behind you following you into his bedroom as you start to shed your layers.

You spun around and gave Clark a show of your skin becoming visible in the moonlight. When you are fully undressed, you knelt in front of him with your head down and your hands on your thighs. 

He walked over to you and kissed the top of your head. He listened for your heartbeat, and it was steady, if not a little heightened. You were awaiting instruction, as far as he could tell.

“Sunflower, I want you to pick a safe word.” He stood behind you and undressed down to his underwear.

“Unicorn is my safe word.”

“Good girl,” Clark caressed your shoulders and squeezed them, “Are you okay with calling me Sir?”

“Yes, Sir.” Your heart rate evened out, Clark noticed. You’re happy. He beamed down at you.

“Good girl, now turn around and take out Sir’s dick.” 

You turned around and reach up to Clark’s boxer briefs, cupping him over the fabric before hooking your fingers into the waistband and pulling the underwear down and off. His length sprung up to bounce in front of your face and you lick your lips in anticipation but don’t go any further without direction.

“Such a good girl, Sunflower,” he grabbed your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your face up to meet his eyes, “Come lay down so Sir can taste you. I can already smell how wet you are.”

You took his hands as he helped you up. Clark pulled you close to his body, your back against his chest. He attacked your neck, nipping and sucking marks that would show in the morning. His length on your hip has you testing your limits. 

As if reading your mind, Clark reached down and cupped your netherlips. You instinctively clamped your thighs around his hand and he used a foot to kick your legs apart. With one hand exploring your cunt, the other slides around your throat as a warning.

“Don’t ever block me from my pussy, Sunflower. This belongs to Sir now, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, Sir, it belongs to you.” You were sure Clark could feel you clench around nothing and you didn’t care. You wanted him to know he was doing everything right.

“Good girl,” He dipped a finger into your wetness and pulled it back out to wipe across your bottom lip, “We’re both gonna taste your sweet honey.” He used the hand around your throat to turn you around so he could claim your lips.

You tasted yourself as his tongue invaded you, whimpering into his mouth. His answering groans had you trembling. He walked you backward until your legs hit the edge and he pushed you down. Leaning over, he knelt and pushed your thighs back as far as they would go, marveling at your glistening slit.

With the flat of his tongue, he licked from your entrance to your neglected nub, pausing to suck on it lightly. He ate with the hunger of a man starved. He steeled his tongue, probing your core and tasting you from within. He made out with your pussy, pulling back to spit on it which drew moans from you and had you squeezing your breasts in response.

Clark was good at this, not that you were surprised because of how good of a kisser he was, but fuck! The way he fingered your pussy, making sure to curve his fingers to hit that sensitive bundle of nerves inside was heavenly. 

When he sped up his fingers and pushed down on your lower stomach, you gasped and realized he understood the assignment. He was rewarded with you squirting over his hands and chest.

“Such a good girl for me, Sunflower,” he said, before sucking your juices off of his fingers and moving your limp body up the bed, “Now, you’re going to be an extra good girl and take Sir’s dick.”

That was all the warning you received before Clark was pushing in, stretching you wide over his thick hardness. With every inch, he would pull out and press in an inch more than the last thrust. He made sure to stretch you slowly, keeping your tightness while allowing you to get used to his girth. 

“That’s right, Sunflower, open those sweet petals for Sir,” Clark soothes your whines as he fucks into you, “I promise I’ll make it all better when you let me all…the way…in.” He punctuated his words with jolts from his hips. 

When he is finally seated inside you, he pauses. The sudden stop has you reaching for Clark and moving your hips to gain friction.

“Look at you trying to fuck yourself on my cock,” he leaned over you and watched as tears flow from your eyes, “These tears are gorgeous, but use your words. Tell me what you want.”

“Sir, please,” you whined, looking into his eyes, “Need you to fuck me, please.” 

The smile on Clark’s face is brilliant, he’s got you right where he wants you. He kissed your face, stopping to wipe away your tears with his tongue. Pulling back, he secured your legs around his hips before he leaned down to wrap one hand around both of your wrists, holding them above your head.

When Clark fucked you, he paid attention to every aspect of your body. He looked into your eyes. He kissed and nipped at your neck. He pinched and teased your nipples. He rubbed your clit while he pounded inside you. 

Clark just did it better than any of your partners before. Maybe because you allowed yourself to be vulnerable around him? Or maybe because he was just…better. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that you were with him and he was inside you and you were all his.

You lost track of how many times you came, but Clark remembers every time. He committed them to memory, seeing you arch your back and feeling your walls flutter around him. He could tell by the sheen of sweat on your body and the way your body is vibrating that you were beyond spent. Possibly even a bit overstimulated. Perfect.

“You ready for my cum, Sunflower?” He licked his thumb and pressed on your clit as you keen, “Do you think you can hold on for me for just a bit longer?” 

“Yes, Sir,” you moan as he slid his hands to your hips.

“There’s my good girl,” he groaned and began his assault on your pussy. At this angle, he can stimulate both your hooded center and your G-spot. A punishing pace that set you ablaze. While you held onto his biceps, you looked into his eyes. Where there used to be blue irises, only dark pupils remained. His curly hair was a sweaty mess on his forehead. He was barely a man now, more like an animal rutting into you.

Before long, his hips stutter in their onslaught. Breathing erratically, he squeezed your hips so hard you knew there would be bruises tomorrow. He moved to kiss your neck and latched onto your shoulder with his teeth as you feel every twitch of him releasing inside you. You know there will be bite marks in your shoulder for days but you don’t care.

Clark’s teeth left you, followed closely by his tongue soothing your almost-broken skin. Sometimes, he didn’t know his strength. And it was a close one this time. He was still inside you semi-hard before he decided to pull out slowly causing you to whine at the sudden feeling of emptiness.

He moved from the bed for a moment. You closed your eyes for a millisecond before you feel warm wetness between your legs.

“Just cleaning you up, Sunflower,” He wipes your delicate folds softly and throws the towel in the clothes hamper before crawling in bed beside you, “You go right to sleep, you deserve it.”

The last time you refer to yourself as Clark’s girlfriend is a year and a half into your relationship.

Clark proposes to you over dinner in the house you bought together. He bought the ring after you talked about marriage just two weeks ago. Well, technically, Bruce helped him buy the ring. As in, Bruce bought the jewelers store and had them design the perfect ring for you. 

A smoky quartz center with marquise and pear-shaped citrine petals around it. You had mentioned more than once that you didn’t want a diamond engagement ring, you wanted something that matched your style.

Clark presented the ring to you on one knee, ever the traditionalist. You said yes, of course.

This man was your life, your hope, and your future. You looked forward to every minute of every hour of every day with him. 

He is your light in the darkness, and you are his Sunflower.

A/N: Yes, the title is from "Sunflower" by Post Malone/Swae Lee. Yes, the song was for a Spider-Man movie. So, what? It's a good song.

**Tag List**

@brattymum96 @ambinxe @avengersfan25 @kebabgirl67

@astheskycries @enchantedbytomandhenry

Let me know if you wanna be added and for what plz  😁 Also if you want to be removed from tags, lemme know!

[decorativetrashbag]

Prompt by @vespidphoenix

Did read the ficlet they mentioned, LOVED IT, VERY CUTE. i reblogged it, so it'll be a post or two down from this one on my blog if you wanna read it

As for your prompt, *rolls up my sleeves* I gotchu bestie, I'll try my best. Let's place us on the day of the wedding, at the reception. Let's get those romantic feelings rolling 💛🩵

The day had felt like everything moved in slow motion, but it also felt like it had gone by so fast. Either way, it was a day you'll never forget. It was a day you thought would never happen either, but you were living it. It felt like just yesterday Sanji had asked you to marry him, a whole lavish thing, really. Brook playing music and trying not to spoil the surprise, roses everywhere on the deck of the Sunny, and when he asked, and you of course said yes, the entire crew came out crying, well everyone but Zoro but he did give a small smile to you in approval.

Of course, months passed, and Nami, Robin, Franky, and Ussop offered to help plan the wedding, and you had to admit, it went pretty swimmingly. The ceremony was beautiful, emotional, and full of joy. The reception was lining up to be even more so. Lively music, Luffy, Ussop, Chopper, and Franky dancing with the crowd as Nami, Robbin, and Zoro drank and laughed watching on. Dinner had gone over well. Of course, there was still more food knowing Luffy's appetite. Sanji was most stressed about that. He worked hard to craft that menu and made sure everything was just right, but no cooking for him today. His old friends from Baratie said so.

You and Sanji sat at the sweetheart table, watching the party carry on as you finished up your dinner, and Sanji put out his cigarette to sip his wine. He leaned over to you, putting his arm around you and setting his glass down. You set down your fork and leaned towards him as well, smiling on both your faces as you looked at one another.

"Are you having fun?" Sanji asked over the music.

"Of course! It's our wedding day! It's been one of the best days of my life!" You beamed. Sanji kissed your cheek and smiled.

"I'm having a ball," he then put both hands on your face and sighed lovingly.

"You look… beyond beautiful," He purred, making you blush.

"You look stunning," you smiled back, "You've told me maybe a hundred times today that I look beautiful," you laughed. Sanji laughed in reply.

"Well, for the one hundredth time, you look gorgeous," He smiled, and you kissed his lips gently. His left hand meets yours in your lap, your wedding bands gently rubbing together. After a moment, you pulled away, looking at your new husband, and took his hand.

"Hey, you wanna get out of here?" Sanji asked with a smirk.

"And leave our own wedding reception?" You laughed with a raised eyebrow.

"Just for a minute, no one will notice," he said, standing.

"I think people will notice we're gone. You better not be whisking me away for anything scandalous," you teased, standing with him, his hand in one and the skirt of your dress in the other.

"Is it scandalous if we're married?" Sanji smirked, pulling you close by the waist.

"Sanji!!" You squeaked as he laughed and picked you up bridal style.

"That's not why I'm whisking you away, I just want a little quiet with you," he said, looking back at Nami, giving her a nod. She nodded in reply as if to say, "I'll hold the fort," as Sanji carried you to the Sunny. The Sunny was still decorated from this morning. All the chairs were put away from the ceremony, but the archway, banners, and flowers all still gently swayed in the wind. Sanji set you down on the deck as you looked around.

"I can hardly believe we got married here, just what? Hours ago?" You said, walking to the archway and admiring the flowers as Sanji followed close behind, hands in his pockets.

"I know. It feels like it was days ago," he said, standing next to you. "But with you, I'd go back and do it over and over again." He smiled.

"Oh? Why's that? Everything went well this morning," You said, looking up at him.

"Oh yeah, no, everything went perfect. I just wouldn't mind marrying you all over again," He smirked, and you chuckled. You picked off a flower from the archway and put it in the chest pocket of his blazer.

"I wouldn't mind it either," you smiled, "I could live this day forever. But then we couldn't be excited for the married life after."

"That's true," Sanji said, pulling you in by the waist and leading you in a dance across the deck. "Our honeymoon will be amazing."

"I look forward to it. Do you think the crew will be okay without us for that long?" You chuckled, dancing along with him.

"Oh, they'll be fine. Took the necessary steps and made food and recipes for the time we're gone." Sanji chuckled.

"Clever, Prince," you teased, and he smiled back.

"Well, every prince needs a princess," he purred, leaning down and peppering your cheek and neck with kisses.

"Sanji," you swooned, "I thought this wasn't the main reason we snuck away." Sanji laughed against your skin, and it made a chill run up your spine.

"It isn't, but you're my wife, I have to shower you with love and affection," He purred, kissing along your jawline.

"Well since you're my husband, shouldn't I give you the same showering of love and affection?" You teased as Sanji blushed a little as he stood back up to look at you.

"I guess you're right," he said with a smile. "But I thought we weren't sneaking away for that," He teased, pulling you closer as you both laughed.

"I never said we couldn't sneak away to make out," you said, throwing your arms around his neck. "I'm sure no one wants to see that anyway."

"So.. we'll save that for later," he said, and you playfully rolled your eyes.

"We have a whole week ahead of us to do anything like that. What happens happens." You say.

"Good point." Sanji said, putting his hands on the small of your back. "Whatever happens, as long as I'm with you."

"And as long as I'm with you," you whispered as the two of you met for a passionate kiss. Your fingers play with his hair at the base of his neck, his hands moving to your hips and giving a gentle squeeze. The kisses kept becoming deeper, heavier, and hotter, to the point where you had to pull Sanji off you as he had pinned you to the wall next to the kitchen door.

"Okay, it's been like maybe 15 minutes. And as much as I love…this." You trailed off, panting a little, both your lips feeling a little raw.

"We should get back to our wedding party," Sanji finished.

"Exactly, we still have to cut the cake, do our first dance, throw the bouquet..." You listed as you and Sanji walked back to your reception, hand in hand as you'll be til death parts you both.

My ask box is open, so if you have a Sanji x reader prompt, I'll do my best to write for it!

If you're looking for more Sanji x Reader stuff, check out my Prove You Love Me series on Wattpad and Ao3!

[dontcallmecarrie]

ye olde Stress(TM) Reaction strikes again, aka the start of this was sitting in my drafts for weeks because my brain hates me apparently:

.

“So...considering how last time went, why are we being dragged into this?” Steve Rogers heard Clint ask, and he tried not to freeze or blush, and, if Natasha was anything to go by, failed miserably at both.

“I mean,” Clint continued and it took far more willpower than it should have to not glare at the teammate who regularly ate whipped cream out of the can because he should not be sounding so amused, “after what happened, why are the Avengers being invited, again?”

Alright, that did it— but before Steve could do more than turn to give his teammate the same glare he normally reserved for when Loki destroyed the top part of his uniform again, Agent Coulson gave a very tired sigh and spoke.

“Partly because multiple ambassadors liked your response time when the pink elephants made an appearance on the premises, partly because von Doom specifically requested you all. By name.”

 Across the table, Tony gave an incredulous scoff as he leaned back and crossed his arms. “And what, you’re letting a literal dictator call the shots?”

“Grumpy because he mentioned you too, aren’t you.” Clint smirked before Agent Coulson could say anything else, and Steve really, really tried not to scowl. Honest.

However, he couldn’t help but notice the way Tony’s expression went suspiciously blank, and something in the pit of his stomach clenched as Tony shifted in his seat a little.

“Okay, so maybe we weren’t finished before Loki interrupted. I didn’t hear any of you guys complaining.”

“That was you ‘gathering intel’?” Natasha asked, and Steve pointedly ignored her sidelong glance, “I thought you were looking pretty friendly there. Way more emotion than we’ve ever seen from von Doom before, anyway.”

Steve couldn’t help but snort. Understatement of the century, Steve hadn’t missed the venom in von Doom’s glare. If not for Loki barging in when he did, there would have been an international incident, and Steve wouldn’t have regretted it one bit.

“As... controversial as he is,” Agent Coulson rubbed his temples for a moment, “Latveria’s a very hot commodity right now, and State Department’s pushing for trade agreements. We can’t afford to alienate him.”

Everyone looked at him, and he fought to keep his shoulders from rising up. “If he’s got a problem with one of my team, don’t expect me to play nice.”

“My hero,” Tony rolled his eyes and so missed the way Clint’s shoulders shuddered, “Steve, I had it under control.”

“Nay, lord Stark.” Thor cut in, and Steve did not miss the way Agent Coulson’s eye twitched even as Clint got a very sudden and convenient coughing fit as the resident alien continued, “I am afraid you did not. I may not be familiar with Midgardian politics, but I do not believe duels are as acceptable here as they are back home.”

Everyone paused at that, and the silence was abrupt enough to startle Doctor Banner out of his reverie.

“Wait, what happened?” He asked, looking up from his tablet, and Steve couldn’t help but envy the fact that he was exempt from this. Sure, the risk of having the Hulk at a UN function would have been nothing less than a recipe for disaster, but at least Steve wouldn’t be suffering though this alone— case in point, this entire debrief.

“Oh, just how Tony almost caused an international incident last time.” Natasha said and Bruce made a strange face for a second before he peered over his glasses to look at everyone else around the table.

“Well, is Justin going to be at this next one?”

All eyes were now on Tony, who scowled and looked away even as he replied, “It’s one of the annual year-end fundraisers, of course he’s going to be there.”

Agent Coulson let out a slow breath. “You are certain you cannot convince him otherwise?”

Tony’s shoulders hunched almost imperceptibly. “It’s tradition at this point. Everyone knows I’m going to be there, so he’s going— and I’ll save us both the time, the man’s about as stubborn as I am.”

“You’re sure about that?” Clint asked, gaze suddenly sharp and the look he shared with Agent Coulson and Natasha abruptly reminded Steve of the exact circumstances in which Iron Man was born.

“The number things I’ve seen him accomplish out of sheer spite is...” Tony trailed off, before he shook his head and looked around the table. “It’s something. Pretty sure the only reason Hammer Industries didn’t come out with another element after I did is because it’d be breaking the laws of physics, and even then part of me was half-expecting otherwise.”

[umbracirrus]

HEEHOO. For the firsts asks: 14, 21, B, T, 🥹 and 🤩!!

Hello Senu-!!! :) I'm going to answer this for the obvious idiots of mine :3

14. First time facing their fears

So, the very first time Elyse faced a fear of hers was when she was young, probably no more than five or six years old at the time. She'd cling to her father at night, scared of things which which could lurk in the dark. Of course, all it took was a little bit of bribery in the form of a few books of her own, and she took the first steps to try and get over her fear of the dark.

However, in the fics I've written... the first time Elyse faced her fears in The Perfect Storm was when she went to Windhelm to tell Ulfric a good old 'no', she wasn't going to join him nor the Stormcloaks. Of course, that had also taken a bit of nudging too, but this time in the form of Balgruuf reassuring and encouraging her out of his concern.



21. First major change in their life, and how they dealt with it

In the same manner as the previous question, the first major change in Elyse's life was when she and her parents moved to Chorrol. She was used to never staying anywhere for long all over the place in High Rock, so had no idea what Cyrodiil was like. She did, however, cope with it quite well as she was used to moving about - what she had trouble dealing with was the realisation that she didn't need to worry about when they were going to move next or where they were going to move to, but doing simple things like setting out her room how she liked it, and exploring Chorrol, got her used to things quite quickly.

This also ties in to the first major change she experiences in the fics I've written... as the first major change she goes through in them is leaving Chorrol. And she is still dealing with it because I've not worked on Seeking the Sun in a short while lol.



B. First Impression of each other

Oh my god. I was actually looking at a scene I've wrote for in the future of The Perfect Storm where Elyse and Balgruuf were discussing just this earlier today lol-

So, they first meet when she has escaped Helgen and the residents of Riverwood asked her to talk to him, you know, the usual early Skyrim quest stuff. But Alvor and Gerdur managed to terrify the poor girl, making her think that Balgruuf was an intimidating man with a short fuse. She was petrified of meeting him, to the point that even though she hurt herself between Whiterun and Riverwood, she skipped healing and went to let him know about what happened straight away. And she was surprised to learn that he really wasn't as scary as she expected, that he seemed to care for his people and was quite thoughtful, and that impression stuck. She knew straight away that she could trust him.

And Balgruuf, his first impression of her was one of awe. He could tell that she was hurt, that she was frightened, but he admired her courage to bring the concerns of the people of Riverwood to him. He also worried about her, so he directed her to the temple of Kynareth to get herself healed and even paid for a room for her in the Bannered Mare. But his admiration from this first impression was much stronger than his worry, and it only grew stronger over time.



T. First time dancing together

So. Elyse has just returned from Sovngarde after defeating Alduin, and decides to have a little celebration with Lydia in Breezehome. Balgruuf gets told by the guards who saw her return, so he goes to congratulate her on her victory and check that she is okay, and sticks around for a while.

They get drunk. Very drunk. Neither of them even remember it. But they danced together that night, with Lydia being the only one aware of that fact which also leaves her internally screaming at the pining between them until they finally get together over two years later.



🥹 - First time describing strong emotions, and how you've improved since then

This is a hard one-!!!

So, the first time which I described strong emotions, at least since I started writing again, was Elyse's confrontation with Ulfric in Windhelm.

"You are an absolute swine!" she yelled as her heart began to race in panic, before kicking as hard as she could to make distance between them both. Ulfric let out a pained hiss as he let go of her and stumbled back, though that wasn’t the only result of her action. Technically, she had assaulted the Jarl… And now the guards who had witnessed it were drawing their weapons and approaching her. She was nearly hyperventilating as she conjured forth her sword, pointed it at him, and frantically shook her head. "No! I will never, ever marry you! Y- You hear me?!"

And honestly, I quite like this scene in terms of strong emotions (not so much the paragraphs at either side of the snippet, I intend to go back and edit again at some point soon though). But I've found that I like using sentence and punctuation structure to convey emotion. Overusing ... in tense scenes. Try and have short, snappy sentences or even one sentence paragraphs when things are really strong. And trying not to rely on dialogue as heavily as I normally do, and try to let actions convey things a bit more.

🤩 - First big inspiration for writing (an author? a piece of media? a plot idea?)

So, going back many years ago, I was probably about... 12/13? or so, the first inspiration for writing, for me, was the fact that I was disappointed that an NPC that I liked in a game I was playing didn't have much screen time. And I really wanted to see them have a redemption arc which never really happened. So that made me start writing, honestly-!!! For context, this was Red Eyes from a Pokemon Ranger game I'm talking about here. Lol.

As for my recent bout of writing...? It's because I started trying to add depth to my Skyrim characters. I hadn't written for a few years thanks to Covid at that point, but work seemed to be starting to ease for me in relation to that, and less tension allowed my imagination to finally start coming back to me.

[maple-the-awesome]

We'll Meet Again...I Know When || Chapter 25

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x GN Reader

Words: 2,223

Overview: Given your old-fashioned personality and obsession with all things 1940s to 1980s, it’s no wonder that most people refer to you as an ‘old soul’ who would’ve rather lived back then than in the modern era. Little do they know, you already did, but with your previous life as Hollie Stark cut short, you’ve been left with some…unfinished business, to say the least. Top of your list? Finally getting to marry your thought-to-be-lost fiancé.

Series Masterlist 🤎 Marvel Masterlist 🤎 Fandom Masterlist

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT

The most stressful part of your week was supposed to be helping your cousin move today because that's what 'good family members do'. Aside from that, the forecast predicted easy sailing with wedding dress shopping with Pepper on Wednesday and binging your favorite TV show starting Thursday, but apparently, the universe decided to offer some friendly constructive criticism towards that plan.

When Pepper called you frantically explaining what had happened with Tony, you abandoned your plans with your cousin and raced to your future niece-in-law's side. You did your best to comfort her, although that was difficult considering your own anxieties over the matter. Nevertheless, you lied to keep the two of you sane, insisting that Tony's a trouble magnet yet clever and determined: he'll be back by dinner a little banged up, but sassy as ever. He has to because Stark's always bounce back somehow...You refuse to believe otherwise...

You returned home exhausted from moving boxes and feeling heavy emotions all day, however that's when this entire situation really got started. You about broke your hand punching Steve's face when he suddenly walked up on you in the hallway, scarring you half to death before you jumped into his arms crying your joy at seeing him again. You should've known then that he wasn't there at the Avengers compound for any good reasons, not after Berlin and Siberia...

Now you're here, slouched forward with your elbows on your knees and nails digging into your scalp as you wait anxiously on the Quinjet. Natasha, who's leaned back in her seat beside you, frowns empathetically as she counts each time your foot taps the ground. She explained everything to you already, yet none of it has made you feel any better. At least your stress isn't isolated, though.

The Quinjet's filled with an eerily silence, most keeping to themselves or in lone pairs like the two of you. It's suffocating to see everyone - Earth's mightiest heroes and protectors - so down and afraid. Sure, most of them had already been wary after Vision and Wanda were attacked in Scotland, but Banner showing up to warn them about this 'Thanos' guy didn't help. He's clearly been traumatized, so much so that even the Hulk is too fearful to appear, which means this is serious....reeeally serious...

"...You really don't have to come. We can turn around and drop your off somewhere safe with a plane ticket back -"

"- It's too late for that...This is a time-sensitive task. No one can afford to backtrack," you're quick to shake your head at Natasha's offer, sitting up straight with a heavy sigh, "Besides, what am I going to do at home? Pacing a hole into my carpet worrying about you guys? No, I'd rather help. If there's any way you think I can help, I'll do it."

Although your determination is respected, Natasha can't bring herself to smile - not when you aren't. Crossing her arms, she gives a sigh of her own, "Originally we weren't going to involve you. We didn't want to risk getting you in trouble or hurt, but your judgment might come in handy here. Your nephew's the one who made Vision. Who knows? Maybe you'll be able to figure out a solution for us."

"I'm offended, Nat. Using me for my assets? And here I was thinking you actually enjoy my presence," you nudge her arm with your elbow, your smirk obviously worn, however it's enough to make her own lips twitch.

"Well, that too. We've risked our lives together a few times before. It feels wrong facing danger without you anymore."

"I'm honored."

"How have you been holding up, (Y/n)?" Looking up at Steve as he approaches, you still can't get over how much he's changed without necessarily changing at all. The only big difference is his full beard, but it sure makes him look different compared to his normal baby face, "With Tony and everything? How's that been?"

You roll your eyes, "Maybe if you called him once in a while instead of acting like a pair of angsty teenagers going through your first break up -"

"- (Y/n), he's in space, isn't he?"

"Oh...Yeah, that..." You shuffle uncomfortably, wanting to curse him for reminding you, "Well, it's Tony...I'm just trying to trust that he'll be okay because really, I'm under too much stress right now to think otherwise."

Natasha and Steve share a concerned look, the former setting a hand on your shoulder with her best smile, "You know, on the bright side of all of this, at least you're getting to see Bucky again...Unless you're already taken by someone else, that is?"

She lifts your hand in front of her face, gazing over the diamond ring with her smile turning into a smirk. You beam proudly, "Nope, still loyal to my one true love. This is the ring he wanted to propose with - the one I told you about way back when."

"You were able to get it back?" Steve blinks in surprise, taking your hand gently to look it over himself.

"Yep! Turns out Howard and Tony had been holding onto it."

"Gotta say, Barnes has good taste," Natasha compliments.

"Doesn't he?" You play with the ring slightly, unable to wipe away your grin, however it does become a bit sad the more you study each diamond and stretch of silver, "...Say, what's our chances of dying anyways? 'can't say I'm looking forward to doing that again."

"Hopefully zero...but I can't make any promises," Steve answers honestly, "As the plan stands, you won't be involved in any battle yourself. I think your specialties are better suited helping the Wakandans figure out a solution for Vision instead."

Natasha leans against you playfully, trying to lighten the mood, "Although if you do decide to partake in the fun, I promise I won't let you die a virgin again."

You push her away, continuing to mess with your ring with a stubborn mumble, "I'll have you know I never died a virgin the first time."

"What?! With Barnes?!"

"Of course with James! ...We, uh...didn't wait for the wedding night, let's just put it that way and drop it."

"Nope! Too much information for me!" Steve puts his hands up, turning on heel to quickly escape the situation with a completely different - and more mortified - expression on his face in comparison to Natasha's mischievous grin.

"Oh my god! Where? When?! Ooo, was it good -?"

"- Nat, drop it!" You hiss while covering her mouth. Glancing around to ensure no one else had overheard the conversation, you sigh, "...Yes it was good..."

Closing your eyes, you lean back and echo out Natasha's laughter, your cheeks aflame. This is going to be a long flight...

You've seen some of Wakanda through the 'tours' Bucky would give you during your weekly video calls. You loved whenever he would introduce you to all his goat friends and their names or take you for 'walks' around the little village he's been staying at while pointing out landmarks, however being here in person makes you realize that those were all just sneak peeks of this magnificent country's true beauty.

You had thought the barrier surrounding Wakanda and keeping it hidden from outsiders was impressive, yet you feel like a child in a candy store now, trying to take in every detail of the massive buildings around you as well as the impressive aircrafts parked around the Quinjet. You know Bucky's friend and Wakanda's princess, Shuri, is clever because he's commented on it before, not to mention you've seen some of her tech in the background when he's done video calls in her lab, but surely one teenager didn't do all of this. Wakanda must be filled with geniuses which is a very exciting thought for yourself considering the idiots you've grown up around.

You're honestly hurt that no one seems to be sharing your enthusiasm. Yes, some of them have been here before, but how can they still not be amazed? If the outside is this grand, imagine what technology awaits inside or even right in front of you without your notice? That kind of buzz is nearly enough to sidetrack you from your reasons for coming here at all...nearly.

"How are we looking defense wise?" Steve goes right to business, following King T'Challa off the tarmac with the other Avengers in tow including yourself as you multitask between walking and admiring.

"You'll have my King's guard, the Border Tribe, the Dora Milaje, and..."

"One semi-stable, hundred year old man."

You're officially snapped out of your daze, more awestruck by Bucky than you ever could be anything science related (as much as you love your science). You weren't exactly sure when your paths would cross here, but the sooner the better, so you won't complain. How could you when he looks so good! His hair isn't in the typical bun he usually has it in, but it's clearly been washed recently and he's wearing a brand-new uniform as well, one you're guessing is for the 'occasion'.

Steve's the first to embrace his friend, although once he steps aside, Bucky's eyes seem to find yours immediately as if attached to some kind of magnet. He had been happy to see Steve yet lights up upon realizing that you're here, too. Within seconds he's stepping towards you, not having to go far since you're already rushing to him, filled with giddy laughter as you leap into his arms and let him spin you around with a laugh of his own.

Unlike his quick hug with Steve, Bucky holds onto you tightly, extending the moment for as long as he can because even though you guys just talked last week, he hasn't held you in two years; an unacceptable amount of time, if you ask him.

"...I've missed you..." He mumbles and you swear you can feel his smile against your shoulder; it's contagious.

You hold onto him tighter if that's possible, "I've missed you sooo much, James!"

"Okay, okay. Break it up, you two. The universe is in danger here and I don't know if this Thanos guy will find your puppy love as cute as we do," Natasha rolls her eyes, amused as you both break apart with tinted cheeks and bashful smiles, although a keen eye would notice you're still hand-in-hand.

"I didn't think you'd be here - why are you here?" Bucky whispers, the two of you following at the back of the group as it continues onward. He had been so taken back by seeing you that it didn't process in his mind right away that you have no need to be in Wakanda right now - not that your presence isn't a welcoming surprise, but this place could possibly turn into a war zone at any moment. Why the hell did Steve bring you here when you were perfectly safe in New York?

"I wanted to help," you reply simply with a shrug.

"It's dangerous -"

"- James, I'm an adult and smart enough to know what this situation entails. I'm also an honorary Avenger, therefore making it my job to protect the Earth and universe in whatever way I can," you stop walking temporarily to stand up on your tippy-toes and press a kiss to his cheek, "Plus, it was a good excuse to see you again."

"S-Still, you don't...- You don't even like fighting?" He blushes, forcing himself to keep walking in hopes that it will wear off his embarrassment.

"Well, luckily for you, I don't think I'm going to be fighting. The plan is for me to stick with Vision and get that pesky stone out of his head without it being fatal," you squeeze his hand, sending him your softest and most reassuring look, "...So don't worry, Bucky. I promise not to go chasing after you into danger this time, leaving more stupid for Steve and you to share."

"Thanks, darling," he replies sarcastically, swinging your arm slightly and running his gentle thumb over your fingers.

Although he doesn't say anything else on his own, you notice his steps get slower, almost stalling suddenly as he begins to fall out of line with you. Looking back, you also notice that his head is hung low, his eyebrows furrowed into an expression you can best describe as being...complex.

"...James?" It takes a moment for him to realize you said his name, merely giving a hum of acknowledgement once he does, "...It's not bothering you that much that I'm here, is it?"

Bucky hesitates before shaking his head and all those dazed thoughts inside it, "...N-No, I..."

You stop completely, not caring if you lose sight of the others. Instead, you take the time to face Bucky, silently holding both his hands in yours. He keeps his head down, thumb continuing to run along the soft skin on the back of your palm before lifting his gaze to meet yours with a bittersweet smile, "...I just never thought I'd get to see you again - in person, that is. I know we've kept in touch, but this is much better...even if I would've rather it be during better circumstances."

You return his smile, moving your hand to his cheek which you crest sweetly, "Let's hope we can stick together this time, after all, I like that little plan we drew up for our future house. I'd like to see it put into motion."

"...O-Of course."

NEXT CHAPTER ->

<- PREVIOUS CHAPTER

[estrellami-1]

@fiversdream said “do it” so really. What was I supposed to do? Not write it?

They find him under the ice.

He learns, later, that he woke up much the way Steve did: far too quickly, and more violent than anyone wanted, though they understood why.

Once he’s awake and calmed down, a woman enters the room. “Sergeant Barnes.”

“That’s me,” he agrees. “Is anyone gonna tell me the hell I’m here for?”

“That would be my job.” She smoothes a hand down her skirt, flicks a lock of auburn hair behind a shoulder with a skilled hand. She offers him her hand. “Natasha Romanoff. I’m with S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Sure,” Bucky shakes her hand, bemused.

“You’re here because you’ve been asleep for a very long time. Seventy years, to be exact.” She sits in the chair by his bedside, crosses her legs. Even seated she’s poised like a panther, ready to strike. She nods at his left side, the empty space where he should have an arm. “The bright side is, technology has come far. Howard Stark’s son, Tony, works in robotics. We can have him draw up some designs, if you’d like a realistic prosthetic.”

“Ain’t no such thing as a free lunch, if you don’t mind my cynicism,” Bucky says. “What’s the catch?”

Natasha hums. “You’d work with us. I’m an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., yes, but I’m also a member of the Avengers.”

Bucky raises both brows. “The Avengers.”

“I’m known as the Black Widow. There’s Iron Man, who’s Tony Stark. He’s got a metal suit that lets him fly. The Hulk, Doctor Bruce Banner. Experimenting with gamma rays. Nasty stuff, but the big guy’s helpful, and Doctor Banner is a sweetheart. Clint Barton, a.k.a. Hawkeye, is an expert marksman with a bow and arrow.” She nods at his look. “I know, but he really is talented. There’s Thor, the Norse god of thunder—yes, the Norse gods are real—and the last one. The reason I’m here, instead of another agent.”

Bucky shuts his eyes. “Don’t say it. Don’t you tell me he did some boneheaded-”

“Unfortunately so,” Natasha nods. “Captain America. Steve Rogers. We’d like to have both of you. Steve’s already agreed, though he may rescind it when he gets wind that you’re alive. His choice, of course.”

Bucky sighs. “When can I see him?”

She pulls a sleek, black rectangle from her pocket, taps it a few time, and slips it back into her pocket before standing with a smile. “Right now, if you’d like.”

“And I really don’t like how reckless you were, Tony. I know your suit protects you but that’s only going to go so far.”

“Wow,” Bucky says, “you’re talking about reckless?” He puts his hand on his hip, cocks a brow when Steve spins around, jaw basically on the floor. “And do you wanna tell me what you’ve been doing while I’ve been gone?”

He sees Steve go through all the stages of grief and invent new ones, but his voice is mostly steady when he answers. “Oh, y’know, just the same old things. Plus a dive into the Arctic, but I was tryin’a follow you.”

Bucky narrows his eyes so he doesn’t smile or burst out in tears. “That’s it,” he says, “I don’t think you deserve the shield anymore, hand it over.”

“Legally I don’t think you can ask that,” Stark Junior asks.

“Legally it’s been mine since ‘44,” Bucky answers him. “Cough it up, Rogers, you and I’re gonna have a talk.”

Steve works his jaw, also to keep from showing emotion. “I dunno, Buck, I mean, you did die, I think that legally makes it mine again.”

“Yeah, then you died too, shithead, so we’re back at square one.” He hoists the shield up and puts his arms through the straps in a practiced motion that he knows looks cool as hell. He puts his hand on Steve’s shoulder. “C’mon, pal.”

“Sure, Buck,” Steve murmurs. “I still think I should get the shield.”

“You’d be lucky if I don’t put you in a bubble, punk.”

They walk out, and Tony’s left there, utterly flummoxed. He’s never been flummoxed before. “What,” he says, “the actual fuck was that.”

Natasha grins a Cheshire grin. “That would be Sergeant James Barnes.”

I know Steve is really talented with his shield and is like an expert with it 

but just imagine him smacking it in his face 

or tripping over it

or waking up in the middle of the night and he shuffles off to the bathroom only to step on the edge of the shield and it smacks him in the shin and he curses loudly enough to wake up the other Howling Commandos who just sit up and start laughing at the way Steve is holding onto his leg and swearing 

[exosupport]

(cw: source death, depersonalization because of that, possible unreality warning, and murder. I'm just getting this off my chest)

I had the misfortune of splitting pretty canon compliant. I'm a Dangan Ronpa fictive, so you can only imagine how this went.

I had to make sure I made it out. I had to make sure that my cousin was okay, even my relationship with the rest of my family was rocky at best. I hated my baseball team, I hated my dad who told me I'd never make it as anything but a sports star, I hated my ex who said my music was shit. But I did love my cousin, almost like she was my sister. She was the only part I ever liked about big games. Just going out and talking to her after matches, hanging out in the summer playing fighting games and binging American movies.

I had to kill in case someone got to her. I had to save her, because what other option did I have? I still know how it felt. I still remember how it happened. It freaks me out to think I just did that, manipulated or not. It's fucked up, and I can't help but wonder if I'm a bad person for it? It was self-defense, but was it really?

Right before I was executed, I started to remember everything before the game. Remembering high school sounds awful to people, but I remembered my friends. I remembered all those late nights staying over at my good buddy's dorm reading shounen manga as I told him about American comics.

I remembered that the girl I killed was my girlfriend.

For the first few months when I split, I couldn't even live with the fact I was alive. I died. It was a really long and painful death. If I was alive, I wouldn't even be able to move with how intense it was. If I was dead, than how would I be here? I didn't get it. I couldn't get it. I didn't feel real. Everything I experienced was "from a game" anyway, and I was supposed to be dead, so...

I'm still not really over being alive. I'm still not over the fact I'll never have my own body back, or the piercings and goatee I had, and whatever. I'd say that it doesn't matter but I'd be lying. I just hope that I can get over it someday? So I can just be normal again, instead of a sap.

Sorry if this is a lot. It's been a rough time for me for a while.

Yeah, it can be really hard to process with the emotions you have after killing someone. In a situation like that I don't think it means that you're a bad person so much as a flawed person in a traumatizing situation. I'm not going to tell you what you did was wong or right, because I don't know, but I will say that you're allowed to forgive yourself and try to move on from this.

Not having your old/real body can be really exhausting too, yeah. It's hard to make peace with a whole new body and life while you're still processing everything that happened in the last one, but you're definitely not alone in this experience. Wishing you the best/that you'll feel more comfortable in your body.

[ID: A banner with a Pokemon theme. It says, "You'll feel better some day" in a decorative font. The background is colored with a sky-blue to pink to purple gradient with the texture of square tiles over it. There's two images, one at the either side of the banner.

The image on the left has a Chansey, a pink ovl shaped pokemon, holding its egg and smiling at the viewer.

The one on the right has a Slowpoke, a medium sized pink pokemon that resembles a hippopotamus, is snuggling a Pikachu, a bright-yellow vaguely mouse-like creature. They're both happy and smiling. End ID]

[lokilysolbitch]

hello i would like to add

i'm an age regressor it's just that instead of me regressing it's more like a completely separate child with a separate consciousness and separate memories and likes and dislikes taking over

looks at things they just got from a store right after leaving the store bc i don't really remember what i got and it's like seeing everything with a fresh set of eyes

yeah i get that thing where you enter a room and forget why you went there, it's just that i get it all the time when i do anything. like i open the fridge and forgot what i needed and what i was doing and how i even got to the kitchen

how old am i? uh eightee--twent--forty--seventee--twentyyyyyy uhhh i mean i remember there was a lot of talk of alcohol my last birthday. so 21? yeah

my pronouns are ____. except when i'm in a mood. then don't use that. actually just never use it. i don't like it. nvm it's perfect. ew don't call me that actually. wait no that's the perfect pronoun actually

im actually really impulsive internally and it just doesn't look like it bc when i make major decisions i wait several weeks while my brain keeps switching between completely differing priorities and opinions and then i go off of what opinion came up the most often in that time

why does my self perception change so drastically when i _____. it's almost like. it's almost like i Become A Different Person

i forget what happens in a movie or musical right after i watch it. i have to study it if i want to be able to talk about it

i hate baking but idk it's like i start getting out the baking stuff and then a few seconds pass and it's like already over and a desert is sitting there. so at least there's that

hold on, i can't figure out if i like this thing i just got, give me a minute to settle in my brain. like it's definitely my taste but i don't,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,yeah okay yeah i love it lol this is the best

why am i talking like this, this isn't on purpose but i can't stop

why can't i feel a mix of emotions like in the movies. i just flip between two really fast but they never mix

i don't understand this class at all. got an A on the test tho. idk how tf i did that like i still dont understand the concepts at all

*reading texts i sent an hour ago* this sounds nothing like something i'd say but it's funny as hell

one of my mental illnesses just like. turns on and off like a switch. it's so weird. i don't even feel like i'm in control when it's switched on

i kinda relate to the hulk/bruce banner idk. you know, like how they share a body but not the same mind?

my body is having a panic attack without me. also so is my brain. like. it's not my panic attack. i'm just in here.

hold on i'm waiting for my brain to give me my memory of that. no, i'm not remembering it, my brain is just giving me the memory. it's like someone else is telling me but in my brain

Things from Before the OSDDID Realization that now make heaps of sense:

Taking personality tests multiple times because even when I answered them completely honest they’d always come out different

Orientation impossible to pin down (simultaneously aroace/pansexual/lesbian/gay trans guy/queer fucking mess)

Same with gender

Conflicting opinions that somehow exist at once (I love weed/I fucking HATE all drugs and don’t want to be anywhere near them)

Frantic desire to run home and change into something totally different out of nowhere because the clothes I loved this morning are suddenly Awful

Keeps changing name every few months

If I do not journal/scrapbook/take photos of EVERY DAILY EXPERIENCE I WILL FORGET and my whole life will be a blank empty space!!!

“That’s not what you said last time I asked …”

Idk sometimes it’s my Favorite Thing and sometimes I couldn’t care less 🤷

I actually handle trauma really well because right after it happens I don’t even remember! 😇

Hate hypothetical questions because I have no clue how I’d react to any given thing until it happens and any answer feels like a lie

There’s def more but y’all should add your own 💖

[roosterforme]

Always Ever Only You Part 10 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Does absence make the heart grow fonder or more frustrated? You and Bradley aren't quite sure where you stand with each other, and you're both apprehensive about how it will feel to open up communication again. And while it's hard for you to stop blaming yourself, Bradley is becoming aware of all the ways he hasn't done enough.

Warnings: Angst, swearing

Length: 5400 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

This was written to accompany my series Is It Working For You? along with a bunch of my one-shots and other series, but it can be read on its own! Check my masterlist for the reading order. Always Ever Only You masterlist. Gorgeous banner by @mak-32

Bradley picked at his dinner for the third night in a row. He sat between Nat and Bob, and both of them clearly knew something was wrong. But Bradley hadn't been able to talk about it. What was he supposed to say, anyway? Admit that he had been acting like sex with his wife was a chore? Tell them that he had made you cry the night you got promoted? Disclose that you had slept on the bathroom floor to get away from him? Announce he was that asshole who got his sperm tested without telling you?

As if that wasn't enough, Bradley could still hear the hurt in your voice when you yelled at him about the test results in the kitchen at home. The memory of it caused him a physical pain in his chest. It was an ache that he knew would be there until you spoke to him again. If you spoke to him again. 

"Pass the salt?" Bob asked softly, and Bradley did it automatically and without any emotion. It wasn't Bob's fault that things went down so badly at home. And it wasn't Nat's fault either. But he could barely look at them or talk to them, and he knew he was going to need to start. Because whatever this mission brought, all of them would be doomed with Bradley in this kind of headspace. 

He cleared his throat and said, "This meatloaf is pretty good."

"It's okay," Nat replied. "Nothing's as good as what your wife makes. Think you can talk her into another dinner party when we get home?"

He could only grunt in response before he had to cover his eyes with one hand. 

"Hey," Nat whispered, wrapping her arm around his shoulders. "You're kind of scaring us, Soul Sister. Wanna talk about it?"

He shook his head. "Not in the middle of the mess hall, but thanks, Nat."

"Maybe later? We can sit in the lounge and eat all the candy I brought."

Bradley had to close his eyes against the pain he felt over being an inadequate husband. But he loved his best friend, and he knew he'd probably feel better if he confided in her. "I'll think about it."

Just when he started poking at his dinner again, three young aviators sat down on the other side the table, the biggest one directly across from Bradley. "Hey, old timers," he said in an annoying accent that immediately reminded him of Jake. So these must be the young recruits out of Lemoore. The hotshots that all the admirals were talking about. Bradley just wanted to poke at his food and think about his wife. He didn't really feel like babysitting right now. 

"Hi," Bob responded cheerily, and the three of them laughed. Bradley wanted to tell Bob not to engage with them, but it was too late. The big one, who introduced himself as Slayer, was subtly making fun of Bob's glasses, and Bradley's nerves were already too frayed. 

"Hey, Nat, how about we hang out in the lounge now," he said as he stood with his mostly uneaten tray of dinner. Bradley was exhausted, all he wanted was to be able to fix things with you, and training was starting early tomorrow morning. And he needed to get away from these morons as soon as possible. 

Nat and Bob stood, and followed him to get rid of their trash and trays. "I didn't think you'd actually take me up on my offer so soon. Usually you need a full week to stew in your feelings before you say anything."

Bradley rolled his eyes. "I didn't like the way Slayer was talking to Bob. You know he was making fun of you right? He literally said he'd never fly with a WSO in glasses," he said. 

"Oh. Yeah. I know," Bob replied in an even tone. "Doesn't much matter. I don't have to fly with him. I get to fly with Phoenix. And I always pass my eye exams."

Bradley was in a constant state of inner panic right now. He didn't understand how his two friends could be as calm as they were. Nat was listing off all the candy she had brought with her while Bob nodded placidly and told her that Starbursts were his guilty pleasure. Meanwhile Bradley couldn't decide if he wanted to cry or jump into the ocean. When he thought about you back at home in the craftsman with Tramp, it was hard for him to breathe. You were forgiving, patient and caring, but he wasn't so sure he deserved any of those things from you right now. 

The three of them stopped by Nat's bunk to get some of the candy, but after Bob snagged a few Starbursts, he turned away from the lounge.

"You're not coming?" Nat asked. 

"Nah," Bob replied as he unwrapped a candy. "I'll turn in early. Good night."

Bradley just shook his head. Even though he'd be up all night, typing up email drafts to you on his phone without any wi-fi, at least Bob didn't snore. So he could be miserable in his bed with some peace and quiet. 

"Come on," Nat told him, wrapping her smaller hand around the crook of his elbow and guiding him down the dim, gray corridor toward the lounge. "You'll feel better after we talk."

"I don't know," he replied, swallowing past the pain he felt. When he got into the lounge, he flopped down on his back on the narrow couch, leaving a tiny bit of room for Nat to sit next to his head. "I fucked up."

"I'm assuming by just how fucking miserable you look that something happened with your wife?" She opened a package of Twizzlers and handed him a few strands. 

"We were trying to have a baby," he said softly as he spun the silicone ring around on his finger. It felt weird. It looked weird. He didn't really like it. He missed his gold band that he left at home with you. But this one would be safer; that's why he ordered it with all of his deployment supplies from Amazon. And if anything happened to him, you'd at least have his wedding ring. 

"Yeah," Nat replied, shoving some gummy worms into her mouth. "I know. You already told me that. You're glued to your wife most of the time anyway. If you have a baby, you'll be insufferable." 

"I don't know if she'll let me touch her again let alone have sex."

She paused with more worms in her hand and looked down at him. "Bradshaw, what the hell did you do?"

He rubbed his hand over his face and took a deep breath. "I think I put too much pressure on her. On both of us. We've been trying for five cycles, and I know when her period is due and when she's ovulating...and I realize how bad that sounds when I say it out loud. Because yeah...I kept talking about it nonstop at home. I ruined her fucking promotion night, Nat."

"Oh," she whispered. "You made her feel like she only serves one purpose for you."

"Fuck," he moaned, covering his eyes with his bicep, his Baby Girl paper airplane tattoo pressed to his face. Nat was completely right. In one short sentence, she put all of his wild, rambling thoughts into perspective for him. That was exactly what he had been doing. And when he thought he was being helpful, all he was really doing was reminding you of what wasn't happening. "Nat, I had my sperm tested, and I didn't tell her. She found the paperwork with the results."

She gasped, and he immediately felt a million times worse. He had disappointed his wife, and now his best friend was disgusted with him on your behalf. "Why?" she demanded, tossing the candy bags aside and tugging on him until he was sitting up. "Why didn't you tell her?"

"Fuck, Nat. I thought it would be helpful information to have, you know? If there was something wrong with me, then we could talk to a doctor right away."

"There's nothing wrong with you, is there?" she asked in a monotone voice.

"No," he replied softly, looking at the floor. "And then I didn't want to tell her about it. But she saw the paper, and she blamed herself for everything. Which I somehow knew was exactly what was going to happen. And I should have just fucking told her I was thinking about getting the testing done!"

When he turned to look at his best friend, her eyes looked sad, and her lips were set in a frown. "Oh, Rooster. You're such an idiot."

"I know that!" he snapped back. "I don't need you to say it!"

"Yes, you do," she replied calmly. "You need me to say it. You should have come to me with this weeks ago. Next time you have a dumbass thought, like how you're going to jerk off into a cup and not tell your wife about it, you come talk to me. We'll sort it out."

"I don't know how to fix this. We could barely even look at each other when I left." He closed his eyes and added, "And now I'm here, and she's there."

"What's more important to you? Having a child or loving your wife?"

Whether or not Nat really needed to hear what his answer to that question was, the words made him so physically sick, he had to stand up and walk around the room. "If she's not happy, then nothing else matters," he managed around the tightness in his throat. "It's not worth it. Nothing else is worth it if she's not happy with me."

"Then I think you need to start with that and work from there," Nat told him, standing and wrapping him in a hug.

------------------------------

You skipped work on Monday. You didn't call in. You didn't tell anyone. You just didn't go. You just stayed in bed most of the day with Bradley's wedding ring and a sinking feeling in your heart. Your parents called you on Monday night, probably to see how you were doing without Bradley at home, but you couldn't answer their call. And you weren't honestly sure if things were better or worse without him here. All you knew was you didn't want to go back to work, because you couldn't stop crying. 

But on Tuesday morning, you felt more angry than sad, and that seemed to be the motivation you needed to take a shower. You vigorously scrubbed at your Rooster tattoo until the skin felt fresh and raw. Then you dressed in your uniform and headed out. You hadn't eaten anything since before Bradley left, but it didn't matter. 

You couldn't even decide if you wanted to talk to him or not. He could call you tomorrow, or it could be weeks before you heard from him. But you kept your phone on you just like you always did when he was away. The sickening feeling of what if washed over you. What if something happened, and they needed to reach you. What if Bradley was injured again. What if you never got a chance to talk to him again.

As you made your way to your lab, you already had tears in your eyes. By shutting each other out, you and your husband had only made things worse. You had to stop thinking about him. He probably wasn't even thinking about you at all. His goodbye speech was echoing in your mind, and you could just picture his ring on your nightstand. 

"Fuck," you croaked as you sat down in your usual seat. You thought you were alone, but then you heard Cat's voice behind you.

"Something wrong?"

"No," you muttered, wiping at your eyes. "I'm fine." You didn't even bother to turn and face her, but a second later, she was pulling her chair closer to you than she normally sat. Great. "I told you I was fine."

"Yeah," she replied casually. "And I heard you. But you're terrible at lying. You're too nice to be able to pull it off. Where were you yesterday?"

You stared straight ahead and took a few deep breaths. You weren't feeling particularly nice these days, and you weren't too fond of the way Cat had been treating Jake. Your heart rate was up. The desire to hurt someone, to make them feel miserable like you did, was pulsing through your body. 

"You know what, Cat?" you asked, turning in your seat to face her. You got to watch her neutral expression melt away as you said, "Maybe we should cut the shit."

"What are you talking about?" she asked, very subtly moving away from you. That should have been you cue to cool yourself down, but you just couldn't. 

"I'm talking about the way you're treating Jake like he's trash. Did you make out with him in secret again yesterday? Turn him down for another date?"

"I can't go out with him," she snapped back. "I can't have him around Jeremiah. He's exactly like what I left behind in Maryland."

"You like him!" you nearly shouted. 

"Of course I do," she replied, dark eyes flashing. "But not seriously. He'd be a terrible fit for me now. He's a womanizer. I know he's your friend, but why can't you see that?"

"He wants to change! And he'd probably just adore Jeremiah!" you insisted with narrowed eyes. "For some unknown reason, he really likes you, even though you and your Uncle Hondo are putting him through the fucking ringer!"

Your fists were clenched, and it felt so good to be upset about something other than your relationship with Bradley. But you watched Cat's expression turn to panic. 

"You know about Hondo?" she asked softly. 

You laughed darkly. "Are you referring to the fact that he's your uncle? Or that he's been giving Jake extra push ups and laps around the hangars as extra punishments for weeks now?"

Her lips parted, and she looked like she was going to be sick. "He saw us. He must have."

"Yeah, no shit. I saw you, too, remember? You're not doing a very good job of hiding the fact that you think Jake is good enough for you to lead him on physically but not good enough to have dinner with him."

"Uncle Bernie is trying to scare Jake away. Because Jake is exactly like Chris, and he doesn't want me to get hurt again. I didn't know-" she started, but you cut her off. 

"Well now you do. And if you truly don't give a flying fuck about Jake, then let him rot out there on the tarmac, doing a million extra push ups every day instead of eating lunch. But if you care about him even a little bit, please stop leading him on. Just tell him you're not going to date him once and for all, and tell Hondo to knock it off!"

Cat turned toward her computer and went silent for the rest of the morning. Which was fine with you. There was a lot to catch up on since you skipped work yesterday. There was no point in going to lunch since Bradley was gone. And if you did go, you'd just end up arguing with Jake. So instead you pretended to do some work while you thought about how many things needed to change between you and Bradley until you made yourself nauseous. 

------------------------------------------

"Before we get started today, I'd like to just take a moment to point out that our fresh recruits from Lemoore have been doing an excellent job both in the air and in the classroom," Admiral Dean announced to the room full of aviators. Bradley rolled his eyes as Slayer and his buddies sat up a little straighter. "You're really earning the spotlight," he told them before continuing with some of the mission details. 

Admiral Dean had been showing favoritism to the group from Lemoore all week, and Bradley cringed knowing he had seven more weeks of this to go. He didn't want to be here. His mind kept wandering back to San Diego. Back to you. 

After a week away, he didn't even know where you and he stood. He felt numb. Desensitized. Almost like nothing could hurt him or fix him except you. Were you sleeping and eating well? Were you worried about him? Was there any way you could forgive him for the way he'd behaved and the things he'd said? Did you even want to?

It was a good thing he already had these mission parameters memorized; two teams would be working in tandem to eliminate a communications tower and a newly constructed military base. He knew it by heart, and now all he could think about was what he wanted to tell you if you accepted a call from him. He'd been talking to Nat all week, and it was clear to Bradley now that you should be his top priority. Not a baby, not having sex to try to get pregnant. Just you. 

But there was so much he wanted to say to you, and he was afraid he was going to stumble over his words and just make things worse. It could be another week or two before he was allowed access to an iPad anyway. He'd put his name in to try to get chosen for an early FaceTime slot, but there were no guarantees. 

"Bradshaw, Trace, Floyd," barked Admiral Dean. "Get out to your aircrafts to run some practice formations. And try to keep up with the rest."

"Yes, sir," Bradley managed to say with a perfect salute when really all we wanted to do was flip this guy the bird and then hijack an iPad for the rest of the day. 

"You look so distracted," Nat whispered as they exited the classroom. 

"I just need to talk to her," he replied softly. "If I can just have a real conversation with her and tell her how I feel, I think I'll be able to focus."

She nodded. "I know. I already told you that if I get selected first, you can trade time slots with me."

He just nodded, because the tightness in his throat made him more than a little nervous for how he was about to perform in the air for Admiral Dean and the other officers. Once they were all out on deck, the sun was way too hot, and Bradley could feel the sweat trickling down his back. He handed his helmet to Nat for a second so he could remove his silicone ring and wipe the sweat from his hand. 

"Whoa, wait. Are you two old timers married to each other?" asked Slayer's large and annoying buddy. From the font emblazoned across his helmet, his call sign was Charmer. Oh, the irony.

"No, dumbass," Nat replied coolly. "Flying together would be disallowed according to the misconduct handbook."

Charmer looked confused by her words, and Bradley wanted to laugh. But now Slayer was referring to Bob as "four eyes" which made him want to punch something.

"How can I guarantee that you can see correctly in the air?" Slayer asked him. "I shouldn't even have to fly with you at all."

"Oh," Bob said with a good natured chuckle. "My corrective lenses make it possible for me to see just perfectly. I passed my eye exams last month."

But Slayer just snickered. "The only thing worse than flying with a guy who can't see is flying with a woman." 

Bradley was about to take his helmet back from Nat when he felt his hands curl into fists. Suddenly it seemed like he had nothing to lose by leveling these assholes. 

"You need to learn some fucking manners and put some respect on her name," Bradley growled closing in on Slayer.

But the other man didn't back down at all. "I'm sure Phoenix here can't fly for shit, but at least she's alright to look at. I'll bet your wife is a dog, old man."

That was it. Bradley was actually going to be dishonorably discharged from the navy for fistfighting another officer. But just as Bob managed to kind of wedge his arms between their bodies, Admiral Dean started calling for everyone to get in their aircrafts. 

"Woof woof," Slayer called with a laugh as he strutted away. He sounded like a fucking child. He essentially was a fucking child. But Bradley still had to fight the desire to pound his face in.

"You need to relax," Nat hissed. "Dean already has it out for us, and you'll just make it worse."

"I know," Bradley growled, putting his helmet on. "But he insulted both of you."

"Bob and I are used to it, Rooster. You need to tuck your feelings way down deep inside until later tonight. I'll get out more candy and can you lay on the couch in the lounge and mope. But now is not the time!"

His friend was absolutely right. He needed to chill. So Bradley tried to clear his mind of all extraneous material, keeping only the mission details and his perfect wife at the forefront.

----------------------------

On Saturday evening, you managed to call your parents back. They sounded concerned when you lied and told them that you had a migraine and you were going to try to catch up on sleep for the rest of the weekend. You tried to engage in conversation for a few minutes more, but as soon as your mom mentioned future grandkids, you had to end the call. 

The throbbing pain in your heart just wouldn't go away. You missed Bradley. It hurt to breathe as you curled up in bed wearing your husband's UVA shirt with Tramp next to you. 

Jake kept texting you constantly, trying to see where you were. He tried calling a few times today, but you were ignoring him pretty successfully. Maybe you could just take some melatonin and pass out until tomorrow afternoon. 

As you climbed out of bed to dig around in your nightstand, a thought occurred to you. Had Bradley left you anything this time? You'd been too consumed by your wayward thoughts to even register that maybe there was something in here for you. When you opened the drawer, you sank all the way down onto your knees on the floor. 

There was a pretty, professionally bound album with one of your wedding photos on the cover. You and Bradley on the beach. He was looking at you like he couldn't believe you were real, and his fingers were resting gently on the side of your neck. 

You had to squeeze your eyes closed against the tears, because you could remember that moment perfectly. You could almost feel the weight of his hands on your body and hear his voice. When you reached into the drawer to remove the album, a tiny paper airplane that was tucked in the corner fell out of it.

Thanks for the memories, Baby Girl.

You couldn't stop crying. There were photos from when you were dating and the day he bought the craftsman. There were photos of Tramp and some from the Hard Deck. There was one of you at the beach just before a crashing wave soaked you through your clothing. There were some with your parents and some at Goose and Carole's gravesite. And he had chosen the most beautiful wedding and honeymoon photos as well. Everything was in order, and they were all perfect. And each one had a handwritten sentence or two underneath.

I can't believe how beautiful you are.

How did I get this lucky?

Let's stay together forever. That's all I want.

You are my perfect wife.

You were laying flat on the floor, staring at the ceiling with tears leaking from your eyes when you heard your doorbell ring. "Fuck," you gasped as you sobbed. Tramp launched himself off the bed and ran through the living room barking up a storm. 

They would go away. Whoever it was would just leave when nobody opened the door. But then the pounding started. "Angel! It's me! I see your car in the driveway."

You didn't want to talk to Jake right now. You didn't want to talk to anyone right now. You just wanted to look at the album of photos from your husband and wonder what he meant by Thanks for the memories, Baby Girl.

"I brought my spare key from Rooster, and I'm about to use it," he called through the door. Even Tramp's barks had turned to a pathetic whimper by this point, so you just got yourself up off the floor. 

You almost made it to the door by the time Jake was opening it. And then he took one look at you, softly closed it behind him, and wrapped his arms around you. 

"Oh, Angel," he crooned as you sobbed and shook against him. "What the hell happened?"

"Everything," you cried, burying your face in his shirt. "I don't know."

Carefully and very slowly, he guided you toward the couch as he told you that it would all be okay. But you didn't believe him. And when he suggested you sit down while he got you something to drink, you shook your head.

"Okay," he whispered, keeping his arms tight around you, holding you in the middle of the living room. You had no idea how long it took until you were able to stand on your own again, but when you finally pulled your face away from his shoulder and met his eyes, he looked very concerned. 

You just sniffed and wiped at your tears as he kissed your forehead. "You ready to tell me what's wrong?" he asked, and you just shrugged in response. You knew that as soon as you started talking, you'd be sobbing again. "You ready for some tea and a snack?"

This time you nodded and plopped down onto the couch with Tramp at your feet. You could hear Jake opening and closing the kitchen cupboards, looking for mugs and tea bags. But it felt nice to have someone in your house with you, so you curled up against the throw pillow and took some deep breaths. When he set down some cheese and crackers next to a mug of hot tea, you realized you hadn't eaten all day. Your stomach growled with hunger, and then you thought you might be sick. 

He sat next to you and blew on his own mug of tea. "Figured you hadn't eaten dinner," he mused, petting Tramp on the head. 

"I haven't eaten all day," you whispered, reaching for your own mug. 

Jake gave you an appraising look. "I think it's time to tell me what's wrong."

You tried to sip your tea, but it was too hot. "You already know I can't seem to get pregnant," you said with an awkward shrug. "It's the only thing Bradley wants, and I can't get it right."

"Angel. That's not the only thing he wants," Jake insisted, but your eyes were blurry with tears again. 

"Just because he'd never admit to it doesn't mean it's not true," you whispered.

"He'd never admit to it, because it's not true. Jesus, do you hear yourself? Trying to talk in circles to reach an incorrect conclusion?" he asked, shaking his head. "Bradley would walk through fire for you. He would tame a lion, or defy the laws of physics or some shit."

You snorted in spite of yourself. But then you admitted to Jake that Bradley had gotten his sperm tested behind your back. And you told him the things he had said recently that made you cry yourself to sleep.

"He's just stupid," Jake insisted. "Doesn't mean he loves you less because you're not pregnant. Yet. Just give it a few more months. And it sounds like you both want the exact same thing, and you both want to find a way to blame yourself so the other one can be let off the hook."

"Huh." You hadn't really thought about it that way. The self blame crept in every day for you. But maybe that was part of the reason why Bradley gave a sperm sample. Blaming yourself was easier than blaming the person you loved. 

Then Jake asked, "Did you skip lunch all week? I saved you a seat every day. I saw Maria, and I asked if you'd been eating with her." 

You looked at him and knew you couldn't lie. "I haven't really had an appetite since Bradley left."

"Have you been avoiding the dining hall because of me?" 

Maybe you had been a little bit. You didn't want to go down there knowing you wouldn't see Bradley, not with the way you left things. But you felt like things with Jake were a little off kilter too. "I don't know. Maybe."

He sat in silence for a minute before reaching for the plate of cheese and crackers and holding it out to you. With a sigh you took some of the food and started to nibble on it. 

"What's going on with you and Cat?"

"Nothing."

You rolled your eyes and bit into the cracker. "I've heard that before."

He lounged back against the couch and stared at the ceiling. "I really like her. There's something about the way she looks and her smile and her voice. I don't know. But she told me a few days ago to just stop asking her out. So I did. And I've barely seen her since."

You felt like maybe this was your fault. You also felt like maybe this is what Jake actually needed. "Is Hondo still riding you?"

"Nah," Jake sighed before he drank more of his tea. "He backed off. Kind of miss it though. Make me feel like I was getting somewhere, you know?" he asked with a tiny smirk. "It's hard to get under that man's skin. But I guess making out with his niece will do the trick."

You laughed, and then you realized you had eaten most of the cheese and crackers. And then you finished your tea while Jake took Tramp out for a little walk for you. 

Once he was gone, you texted Maria and Cam about potentially going to brunch tomorrow morning. Then you sat in bed and took your time with the photo book from Bradley. Every page made you smile or feel like crying because you missed him. 

When you tried to put his wedding band on your thumb, it was still too big. So you unclasped the chain holding the charms he gave you, and you added it there. Then you took your melatonin and went to sleep.

----------------------------

Bradley was in line for dinner on Monday after a day of being roasted by Admiral Dean when he heard his name. "Bradshaw." He turned to see a man heading his way. "There's a free slot with an iPad if you want it."

"Now?" he asked, tossing his tray down and stepping out of line. 

"Yes. Your name was at the top of the list."

"Okay," he said, heart racing as he headed for the room onboard the aircraft carrier where he could finally talk to you. He was nervous. There were a million things he wanted to say, and he wished he had written them down. But it didn't matter. He was going to get to see your face. He could finally tell you the truth about how he had been feeling and how he was going to make things up to you. And he'd beg you to be honest with him, too. 

"Thanks," he muttered as he took the offered iPad and found an empty seat. He could hear other officers talking and laughing with their loved ones, and he smiled as he entered your phone number. The first thing out of his mouth was going to be how much he loved you. The second thing was going to be that the two of you would figure everything out when you were together again.

But Bradley counted each time your phone rang unanswered. Three... Four... Five.

You always answered when he called. Every single time. You answered when you were at work. You answered in the middle of the night. You answered when you were taking Tramp for a walk. 

Six... Seven.

And then the line went dead. You had ignored his call. 

-------------------------------

He bought that ring weeks ago. And I don't even know when he managed to sneak the gift into the drawer. And I don't know how they can fix this. Thanks to @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 11

@hotch-meeeeeuppppp

@swthxrry

@chassy21

@yaboid19

@solacestyles

@avoirlecoupdefoudre

@daisyhollyxox

@throwinsauce

@awesomebooklover17

@wintercap89

@whosyourgnomie4

@rosesinmars

@blog-name6996

@bcon24

@wishfulwithwine

@backinwonderl4nd

@tetragonia

@gingerbreadandpaper

@emptyloverofmine

@chaoticassidy

@missmirandafe

@changlingkhat

@sugarcoated-lame

@avada-kedavra-bitch-187

@katiebby04

@marantha

@averyhotchner

@abaker74

@heli991113

@k-k0129

@noz4a2

@tallyovie

@shanimallina87

@teddyluvs2sing

@little-wiseone

@ccbb2222

@lilyevanswhore

@o-the-o-grim-o-reaper-o

@hecate-steps-on-me

@xoxabs88xox

[ryanjdonovan]

DONOVAN’S OSCAR PROGNOSTICATION 2023

These are my 24th annual Oscar predictions, which don't mean much, except that the Oscars turn 95 this year.  So that means that I've been writing this article for more than a quarter of the entire existence of the Academy Awards.  That's an institution that started in 1929 and predates mainstream movies in color, World War II, the Great Depression, the Empire State Building, the end of Prohibition, and the Star Spangled Banner as the official national anthem, and is nearly as old as talkies.  It's older than nonagenarians Client Eastwood, James Earl Jones, Gene Hackman, and Robert Duvall… and almost as old as Everything Everywhere All at Once's James Hong. 

When I think of the effort and dedication that have gone into crafting these articles over the past 24 years, I can't help but feel… not proud… what's the word?  Pathetic.  Yes, pathetic.  And regretful, and depressed, and wasteful.  All those years… it's sad, really.  Had I applied myself to some fruitful endeavor, I probably could have made something of myself.

And you… If you’ve been reading these since the previous millennium, you have my sincerest apologies.  I feel bad about all the goals you may have been able to achieve, had you spent time nurturing your passions instead of reading my indulgent, hacky, blathering write-ups.   Honestly, I had much higher hopes for both of us. 

But, there's no sense in stopping now!  Please squander more of your precious life and read on for my fearless predictions.

Also, you can follow me on Letterboxd: https://letterboxd.com/ryanjdonovan/

BEST PICTURE:

SHOULD WIN:  Everything Everywhere All at Once WILL WIN:  Everything Everywhere All at Once GLORIOUSLY OMITTED:  Empire of Light INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED:  Glass Onion

I thought this day would never come: The movie that I think is the best movie of the year is going to win Best Picture.  That film, improbably, is Everything Everywhere All at Once.  The concept of this movie winning the big prize last spring was laughable, but it's steadily gained steam, and is now the heavy favorite.  I couldn't be happier, or more surprised.  Sure, there have been years where the film that I thought Should Win did in fact win; but those were limited to just the nominees -- and usually, my favorite film is not nominated.  We can finally all rejoice and celebrate the fact that the Academy got this one right.  (Well, let's not congratulate ourselves too much.  There's plenty of other things the Academy will get wrong this year.)  Everything Everywhere isn't just the best film of the year, it's the one that you feel the most.  That's its superpower.  Somewhere in the overstuffed cocktail of alternate realities, genre mash-ups, laundromats, and tax returns, it's infused with basic, grounded emotions, which shine through in every single scene.  Even a scene with two rocks is emotional.  But more than that, the sentimental swells don't feel manipulative.  The film somehow manages deal with so many different themes and dovetail them in without feeling forced, by hiding them inside subverted genre set-pieces.  Trying to overexplain why I love the movie will only serve to undermine it.  What's great is that no two viewers have the same experience; everyone hones in on different aspects and themes that resonate with them.  Each person finds different things to love about it.  Fanny-pack bludgeonings are not your thing?  Then maybe you'll like a toy-poodle-whip attack.  Or a vengeful robo-grandpa.  Or flapping hotdog fingers.  (See?  I shouldn't overexplain it.)  The best I can do is say is that it's simply a modern masterpiece. 

I love Top Gun: Maverick, but let's get this out of the way right off the bat: It is not better than the original Top Gun.  It isn't.  So just stop.  (I swear -- while choking back tears for Goose -- this isn't just the nostalgia talking.)  But the real question: Can it win Best Picture?  You know, the Academy Award for the most prestigious movie of the year, joining the upper echelon as One of the Greatest Films Ever Made, with the likes of The Godfather, Schindler's List, Lawrence of Arabia, Casablanca, and Gone with the Wind?  Well, if you had told me back in June that it would be nominated for this award, I would have said you were crazy.  Yet here we are.  And yes, there is a decent chance it will win.  Why?  One: It's awesome.  Two: It has the benefit of being a movie that everyone has loved, and you can't say that about any of the other nominees.  (Even people who dislike action movies, fighter jets, or men with mustaches like this movie.)  Three: It may not be any voter's #1 choice, but it will probably be #2 on almost every preferential ballot, and if there's no other clear favorite, that could be enough to win.  Four: It's a sneaky way to give Tom Cruise an Oscar without giving him one for acting; the self-perpetuated, self-serving narrative that Tom Cruise Saved Hollywood -- Nay, Saved Democracy! -- is oddly pervasive and shamefully compelling.  Five: It's okay to hate the bad guys in the movie!  Because they're… well… nameless and faceless and country-less.  If we can all agree to hate the same generic enemies, then everyone is happy and everyone wins… especially Tom Cruise.

I’m a little leery of directors making semi-autobiographical 'this is why I became a filmmaker' movies -- especially ones that have a variation of the word “fable” right in the title.  The risk is that it's going to be effusive and self-indulgent.  And The Fabelmans, from Steven Spielberg, is those things, frankly.  (Though, thankfully, not as indulgent or unnecessary as his West Side Story remake -- now that was a movie I didn’t need in my life.)  But The Fabelmans is an enjoyable peek into the maestro's psyche, and it's been a huge hit with critics, audiences, creatives, and people with crazy uncles named Boris.  (And the cameo encounter at the end is inspired, and apparently 100% true.)  However, I can't help but be underwhelmed.  Maybe it's because, for me, coming-of-age stories either resonate or they don't.  Or maybe that it's a fairly trite, low-stakes movie, lacking the gee-whiz-ness that we've come to expect (unfairly, perhaps) from the master of spectacle.  Either way, for a Spielberg film, it somehow feels pedestrian.  (Though I think many will argue that's the point -- identifying the humanity in the filmmaker we've all built up as being super-human.)  As for the film's Oscar chances, in the fall, it was a slam-dunk to claim Best Picture.  It's been slipping back over the past couple months, and is now considered a long-shot, but can't be counted out completely.

Surprising as it may seem, I was not yet writing my annual Oscar article when the original version of All Quiet on the Western Front won Best Picture in 1930.  With a new version nominated this year, could it be the first title to win Best Picture twice?  The film won the top prize at the BAFTAs (British film awards), has nine total Oscar nominations, and has the muscle of Netflix behind it, so it's not out of the realm of possibility.  The easy comparison is 1917 -- same war, same horrors, similar lone-soldier perspective, but different side of the battlefield (1917 also had most of the same nominations as All Quiet).  But they have different trajectories: 1917 was an early front-runner that faded late in the race (eventually losing to Parasite), while All Quiet was a bit of a surprise on nomination day, but has been surging since then.  Ultimately, war films these days are a tough sell for Best Picture (looking at you, Saving Private Ryan), in part because they tend to be bombastic testosterone overload, and in part because of the argument that any depiction of war glorifies it (which I don't understand; I doubt anyone that's watched All Quiet or 1917 can be anything but horrified).  I expect All Quiet will make some, ahem, noise (sorry, couldn't resist) in other technical categories, but won't threaten Everything Everywhere for Best Picture. 

If you've ever been to the Aran Islands off the western coast of Ireland, you know the deal: beautiful land and lovely people, but cold, rainy, and bleak (not to mention terrible cell coverage).  And after visiting, it might not surprise you that boredom on those remote isles could drive people to: harbor grudges against lifelong friends, make irresponsible predictions about neighbors dying, talk about horse shite for two hours, or cut off their own fingers and throw them at someone's front door.  Welcome to The Banshees of Inisherin.  There is a lot of support for this film with critics, but with the Academy, I don't think it will be enough to sway a victory.  The film, set in a fictional part of those islands, seems like should be a fun, chatty little film about fellas repairing a fractured friendship in the Irish countryside during a bygone era.  It is not.  It certainly starts out charmingly enough, but devolves into an increasingly spiteful contest of acrimony and one-upmanship.  There's a distinct sense that the filmmaker isn't just being cruel to the characters, but also has disdain for the viewer.  And most irritatingly, the ending feels like a slap, because the whole movie seems to be driving toward some kind of finality (absurd as it may be), but it just… doesn't.  Thematically, I suppose it makes sense.  Writer/director Martin McDonagh has talked about this being an allegory for the Irish Civil War in the 1920s (which is happening over on the mainland, where the characters are barely aware of it), so he's clearly not aiming for a simple or definite resolution.  'What was the point of all that?' might just be the point.  Though personally, I think the overall story (ceaseless frustration, confounding escalation, and taking drastic, irrational measures which ultimately have no effect) is a better allegory for parenting: "Please don't poke your brother."  Poke.  "I'm telling you, don't poke your brother."  Poke.  "This is your last warning, don't poke your brother."  Poke.  "There will be consequences if you poke your brother again."  Poke.  "FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, I WILL CUT OFF ALL MY FINGERS IF YOU POKE YOUR BROTHER ONE MORE TIME."  (Guess what happens next.)

I feel bad for not loving Tár -- a film about a world-famous conductor, played by Cate Blanchett, slowly (then quickly) unraveling -- partly because it's gotten the highest critics scores of any nominated film, but mostly because I've been shamed by my favorite podcasters, who have unanimously declared this the best film of the year.  Why don't I adore this film?  What am I missing?  What's wrong with me?  Ahh… that last question -- that's probably the one that writer/director Todd Field wants you to ask, as he squeezes his protagonist through a crisis of the soul.  It's potent stuff, so why didn't it fully connect with me?  Don't get me wrong, despite my lack of enthusiasm, I want movies like this to exist, and continue to get made.  I guess I just want them to be more accessible, or feel like they've actually gone somewhere with the story.  There are a dozen things are dropped into the story, that remain too vague to really put a finger on, or that completely disappear altogether.  Without saying too much, I felt like I was curiously watching every corner of the frame, catching fleeting glimpses of things that never return.  (I never thought I'd compare this film to Three Men and a Baby, but I'll be damned if I wasn't searching for the boy in the curtains.)  Trying to explain this all to my wife, she skeptically asked, "Is this movie like Black Swan?"  "No!  I mean… okay, it's a little like Black Swan."  But where that film has a tangible payoff, Tár, for me, does not.  (To be fair, acolytes claim that you need to watch the film twice, perhaps three times, to fully appreciate it -- which is great if you have six or nine hours on your hands.)  Tár will be the top choice for some Academy voters, but for most, it's too cold and bewildering to contend for the big prize. 

For a few months, a big argument for giving Best Picture to Top Gun: Maverick was that it was the highest grossing movie of the year, and therefore the most beloved.  Well, people shut up about that pretty quick as soon as Avatar: The Way of Water passed it at the box office.  Yes, it's brought in the most money, but it's far from the most loved film of the year.  In theory, there should be plenty about it to love; after all, it's basically a collection of director James Cameron's greatest hits: take the previous movie (Avatar), mix in more deadly creatures from another planet (Aliens), add mysterious underwater things (The Abyss), blow up a bridge (True Lies), throw in Kate Winslet (Titanic), and -- I wish I was making this up -- trap our heroes on a gigantic sinking boat.  Voila!  Avatar 2: Even More Stuff.  (I assume we can expect killer cyborgs, flesh-eating piranhas, and Tom Arnold in next three sequels.)  To be fair, the movie is a fun ride, and the technical advances are admirable.  But when you combine the computer graphics, the jerky 3D, the high frame-rate, the questionable acting, and the basic plot from an episode of The Smurfs, it often just looks like one long video game cutscene.  But on the plus side, all parents are happy to see that even with a different species on an alien planet in another galaxy, kids are still disobedient back-talkers.  P.S. -- My kids thought the movie was called Avatar: The Wave of Water… and now I think that would be a much more logical title.

The story of Elvis Presley has been told on-screen ad nauseum, especially his early rise when his gyrations sent many schoolgirls (and a few schoolboys) swooning in the aisles.  And the latest adaption got the blessing of his family, which means he'd have to come off as fairly saintly and misunderstood.  So Elvis needed something extra to make it a unique experience.  Enter notoriously bombastic director Baz Luhrmann.  What he gives us is a movie that is more of a visual spectacle than an accurate representation.  The film is a series of impossibly-heightened life-altering decisions, intercut with soaring musical numbers so dizzying that we quickly forget that the facts presented may be muddled with fiction.  We can't really take anything at face value; but then again, the music is so good, we don't really care.  It's also the kind of rags-to-riches-to-Vegas story that's easy to make fun of.  (I mean, the preposterously bag wigs alone.  And Tom Hanks… oooo, Lordy… we'll get to him later.)  At its best, it's fascinating and sad.  But ultimately, it's an average movie gussied up in glitz and glamour -- a bloated Vegas act meant to charm the masses.  Colonel Tom Parker, for better or worse, would be proud.

Women Talking is certainly the most accurate movie title of the year.  The film, written and directed by Sarah Polley (adapted from the book of the same name, and inspired by a real event), tells the story of women living in a remote Mennonite colony who band together to discuss how to collectively handle a series of rapes by men in the village.  It's tricky, delicate, abhorrent subject matter.  But the film focuses not on the horrifying events, nor on the response, but instead shows the decision-making process in between -- frankly, the part that most movies would skip over.  In doing so, the film becomes a story of how to survive, how to come together, and how to thrive.  Once upon a time, this film was a leading contender across most categories; there was even talk of it sweeping the Supporting Actress category (on the strength of performances by two former Girls with Dragon Tattoos).  But critical and audience responses were tepid (for the few that actually saw the film), so it only ended up with a couple nominations.  It won't factor into the Best Picture race, but with its other nomination for Adapted Screenplay, there's a chance Polley won't go home empty handed.

How would you like to be trapped in a life-or-death situation with the dumbest, most selfish people from around the globe?  That's Triangle of Sadness.  It's a fun satire, to be sure, but its aggressive eat-the-rich (or is it throw-the-rich-to-the-pirates?) rhetoric is also preachy, unoriginal, tiresome, intentionally frustrating, and simply too long.  (Not surprisingly, it's the worst-reviewed film up for Best Picture.  Also not surprisingly, it won the Palm d'Or at Cannes.)  To give you an idea of what you're getting into, one sequence includes both a spirited discussion of American Communism versus Russian Capitalism, and a barf-o-rama that would make Lardass from Stand By Me proud.  It aims to please the Parasite crowd, but does so with the subtlety of a sledgehammer (or, literally, a hand grenade).  What it boils down to is this: rich or poor, old or young, beautiful or ugly, left or right -- stupidity trumps all.

I'm still a little surprised that Glass Onion didn't make the cut here.  (But obviously having more than two "fun" movies would be too many.)  I also would have put The Woman King, The Whale, and maybe The Menu into the ten contenders. 

One transparent awards-bait film that everyone agrees shouldn't have made the cut is Empire of Light.  I don't know what the film is trying to say, other than going to the movies is the best way to cure vague mental illness. 

Because nobody asked for it, here's my list of the Best Picture nominees in order from best to worst.  (Consider this my preferential ballot, since the Academy for some reason won't accept mine.)

1. Everything Everywhere All at Once 2. Top Gun: Maverick 3. All Quiet on the Western Front 4. Tár 5. Triangle of Sadness 6. Women Talking 7. Avatar: The Way of Water 8. The Fabelmans 9. The Banshees of Inisherin 10. Elvis

BEST ACTOR:

SHOULD WIN:  Brendan Fraser (The Whale) WILL WIN:  Brendan Fraser (The Whale) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED:  Will Smith (Emancipation) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED:  Felix Kammerer (All Quiet on the Western Front)

I realize that picking Brendan Fraser for the best male lead performance is no longer cool.  It's a very 2022 opinion.  Since then, Fraser's performance in The Whale has gone out of style, replaced by Austin Butler.  And then replaced by Colin Farrell.  And then replaced by Butler again.  And then came Paul Mescal.  And now Butler again.  But I'm sticking by my choice for Should Win (and Will Win).  This roller coaster is nothing new to Fraser.  Over the course of this Oscar season -- and over the course of his career -- he has been cool and uncool, popular and unpopular, in demand and out of luck.  There's been backlash, and backlash to backlash, and reclamation, and re-examination, multiple times over.  So while it's completely surprising, maybe it shouldn't be surprising at all, that he's at the center of the Best Actor race.  For my money, I think he gives an overwhelmingly powerful performance, one that would come through even without all the prosthetics and makeup.  And I like the movie a lot too, which almost feels like a hot take these days.  I prefer it to most of the Best Picture nominees.  This latest Darren Aronofsky film is the kind of "dark" movie that works better for me than The Banshees of Inisherin or Tár or even frankly Elvis; it has a tenderness that I find missing in those films (and missing from most Aronofsky movies, actually).  The Whale is challenging, that's for sure; it's full of contradictions and paradoxes, that are difficult to articulate and even more difficult to reconcile.  But there's also something beautifully simplistic about it, and that stems directly from Fraser's performance.  Whether you think Aronofsky has compassion for the character has been hotly debated (I think he does); but it's clear that Fraser -- the man and the actor -- definitely does.  And that compassion is what I think voters will respond to the most, giving him the edge.

But only a slight edge.  In fact, if you're betting, you should probably pick Austin Butler, for the oh-so-creatively-titled film Elvis.  He's the one more oddsmakers are picking.  Butler is the first person to be Oscar-nominated for playing Elvis Presley.  But is he the best ever?  The coolest?  The smoothest?  The most inspired?  I'm not sure he can lay claim to any superlative.  A small sampling of former Elvi includes: Kurt Russell, Don Johnson, Jonathan Rhys Meyers, Ron Livingston, Val Kilmer (!), Jack White (!!), Frank Stallone (!!!), and of course, probably the most superlative of all, Bruce Campbell.  (For my money, the best may have been lesser-known Drake Milligan.)  Butler is good, but he's not Oscar good.  Especially early on, his impersonation is more John Travolta than Elvis Presley.  But his performance really takes off in the second half of the movie, during Elvis's decline (though he can never quite summon the deep baritone that Presley had during the Vegas years).  We will debate the 'Best Elvis' forever (actually, other people will debate it; I don't really care).  But there's no disputing the 'Most Intense Elvis': Michael Shannon in Elvis & Nixon.  Disagree and he'll put his blue suede shoe right up your a--.

Maybe for the intelligence-impaired like me, they should have called it "The Wailing-Spirits-that-Foretell-Death-in-Irish-Folklore of Inisherin".  Take my advice: If you go see a movie with the word 'banshee' in the title, make sure you know what it means ahead of time; the movie will make a lot more sense.  We're talking, of course, about The Banshees of Inisherin, and the lead, Colin Farrell, has a strong case for taking the Best Actor prize.  While he may not have the genuine goodwill or performative audacity of Brendan Fraser, his boyish likability has gone a long way with voters, and unlike Fraser, he's headlining a widely acclaimed film (both he and Austin Butler have the advantage of anchoring films up for Best Picture).  Farrell has found another gear, doing the best work of his career recently (The Lobster comes to mind; Dumbo does not).  In Banshees, he wields an effervescent charm, comfortable with the unnaturally lyrical, playful dialogue, (mostly) tempering what could be an annoyingly theatrical role.  He treads the line between lamentable and pitiful.  He's the naïve voice of reason; he is all of us in recent times, just trying to ignore bad news and get through by having a beer.  That said, this performance is not quite my cup of tea -- or my pint of Guinness -- especially when paired with a flawless seasoned pro like Brendan Gleeson, so Farrell wouldn't get my vote.  There are plenty of far-fetched things in the film, but Farrell effortlessly lifting a 350-pound dead animal like it's a pillow takes the cake. 

Many people think Bill Nighy's nomination for Living is a make-up for Love Actually.  Those people are wrong.

I'm not seeing what the Academy is seeing in Paul Mescal's performance in Aftersun, a film that's long on subtext but short on actual text.  I would describe his performance -- as a doting (and mysteriously troubled) dad on a vacation with his pre-teen daughter -- as capable, even tender, but not necessarily award-worthy.  I can see why people are praising the film (which ambitiously attempts to capture the undefinable moment when kids start to see their parents as real people, especially their flaws) but it just doesn't reverberate with me.  (That's probably because, as a parent, I have no flaws.  I also don't allow my 11-year-old to hang out unsupervised with drunken, horny young adults late at night.)  Frankly, the most relatable part for most parents is when another dad carts off his screaming child from the water park, chiding the boy for "ruining everything for everyone as usual".  And, is it just me, or when the daughter starts talking about being under the same sun as her distant father, is she ripping off the song lyrics from An American Tail?

There are several other actors that I'd slot into this category ahead of Mescal, chiefly Felix Kammerer (in All Quiet on the Western Front); but also Gabriel LaBelle (as the young Spielberg stand-in from The Fabelmans), Ralph Fiennes (in The Menu), or even Adam Sandler (in Hustle).  (The prospect of Sandler doing another acceptance speech in his Bobby Boucher voice would be reason enough to nominate him.)

Tom Cruise is a very strong second place for Gloriously Omitted.  (For a hot minute, everyone was certain that he would actually score an acting nomination for Top Gun: Maverick.  We dodged a bullet there.)  But in an absolute shocker, Will Smith is the top choice, for Emancipation.  Of course, Smith was never going to get a nomination this year.  Obviously.  Right?  I mean… is it obvious?  Let's think about this for a minute.  (Why are we still talking about him?  Hear me out.)  Pretend, if you will, that last year's ceremony didn't have all the hullabaloo.  (I'm trying to figure out how to write about Smith without using the word "slap", so I settled on the word "hullabaloo".  You're welcome.)  In the months following, Smith would have been riding high, the reigning king of Hollywood, with several high-profile projects making headlines (starring in Bad Boys 4, producing Cobra Kai and Bel-Air, unwillingly appearing in Jada's never-ending social media feed).  Then late in the year, Emancipation would have been released, a dramatic opus with massive prestige appeal, featuring Smith attempting a superfecta: portraying a real-life figure rebelling against slavery, playing a pivotal role in the American Civil War, taking on a difficult (iffy?) Haitian Creole accent, and -- the pièce de résistance -- wrestling an alligator underwater.  In other words, textbook Oscar fare.  Honestly, it's not hard to imagine a world where Smith would have gotten another nomination for this role, and maybe -- I truly believe this -- a second consecutive Oscar.  The real shame is, Smith's specter overshadows the fact that Emancipation is a legitimately good film, with quality work done by many people.  Why oh why couldn't Smith have just taken a year off??  So close to the fallout, the film was tainted, and nobody was going to vote for this film on principle alone.  But a year from now, with a little more distance (and Smith tucked away out of the spotlight), the film could have realistically been recognized for, say, Antoine Fuqua for Best Director.  Or cinematography.  Or production design.  Or any of a number of craft categories.  But by releasing the film this season, any chance of Oscar attention was torpedoed. 

Also, I can't help but call this out…  In case you're wondering how many people Will Smith needs around on set to help him try to win an Oscar, here's a sampling of his entourage on Emancipation (and these are just the ones with official credits in the film): Assistant to Mr. Smith, Executive Assistant to Mr. Smith, Production Assistant to Mr. Smith, Acting Coach to Mr. Smith, Acting Coach Assistant to Mr. Smith, Dialect Coach to Mr. Smith, Hair Stylist to Mr. Smith, Assistant Hair Stylist to Mr. Smith, Makeup Artist to Mr. Smith, Special Effects Makeup Artist to Mr. Smith, Makeup Production Assistant to Mr. Smith, Costumer to Mr. Smith, Trainer to Mr. Smith, Driver to Mr. Smith, Security Guard to Mr. Smith (x2), Historian to Mr. Smith, Chef to Mr. Smith, Chef Assistant to Mr. Smith, Religious Consultant to Mr. Smith, and of course, Wilderness Survival Expert to Mr. Smith.  (I swear, I did not make any of these up.)  Maybe these are the people that really deserve the Oscars.

BEST ACTRESS:

SHOULD WIN:  Michelle Yeoh (Everything Everywhere All at Once) WILL WIN:  Michelle Yeoh (Everything Everywhere All at Once) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED:  Natalie Portman (Thor: Love and Thunder) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED:  Viola Davis (The Woman King)

Michelle Yeoh and Cate Blanchett have been trading the lead back and forth, based mostly on the insights of "experts" who don't actually know anything.  (Hey, don't look at me.)  As the precursor awards (the most accurate predictors) roll in, Michelle Yeoh is emerging as the favorite, but not by much.  It's still up for grabs, but I think the Screen Actors Guild award tips things in Yeoh's favor.  Personally, I don't have a strong preference; they both do incredible work in very different roles.

But since I have to pick one, Michelle Yeoh is my Should Win pick by a narrow margin; she's also clearly who I'm rooting for.  In Everything Everywhere All at Once, Yeoh is doing more than we (uncultured Americans) have seen her do -- especially comedy.  She plays somewhere between six and six hundred roles in the film, and even within a single role, she tackles sci-fi, romance, action, adventure, slapstick, gross-out, martial arts, fantasy, superhero, and drama, as well as comedy.  She quite literally does everything everywhere.  Maybe Yeoh will compare notes with fellow nominee Ana de Armas, both having played ass-kicking allies of a certain martini-drinking superspy.  Will they debate which co-star was a better James Bond -- Brosnan or Craig?  (Hopefully they both say Connery.)

One of Cate Blanchett's biggest hurdles is herself -- or more accurately, her Oscar history.  Having won twice already, voters will take a long look before giving her a third one, which would put her in the company of only seven other actors.  (Even Blanchett herself seems to be suggesting that she doesn't need another trophy, instead talking up others actresses while on the publicity tour.)  Victory or not, her role in Tár will go down as one of her best.  Say what you want about the movie (I probably would have been very underwhelmed were it not for her), it's Blanchett doing what she does best -- cold, wiry, in command (with a haughty accent to boot) -- in every single scene.  As an orchestra conductor, her expertise is sound, and she's obsessed with things that don't sound right (real or imagined).  It's weirdly relatable: I zero in on every stupid little creak and hum in my house and assume the ceiling is falling down or an appliance is breaking or a pipe is leaking (and I'm right more often than I care to be).  Her austerity is an organic extension of the movie itself, and her paranoia makes it difficult to tell where the real world ends and her mind begins.  In a movie that probably won't win any other awards (compared to Yeoh's Everything Everywhere All at Once, which is a heavy favorite across the board), will Blanchett's performance be enough to win?  One more thing in her favor: She also voiced Spazzatura the monkey in the animated nominee Guillermo del Toro's Pinocchio. 

What to make of Andrea Riseborough's nomination for To Leslie, a tiny film very few people had heard of, let alone seen, that made only $27,000?  (That's literally one theater for one week.  If you saw the movie before the nominations were announced, and you are not Riseborough's cousin, I am officially impressed.)  If you want hot takes, Twitter has mountains of them.  And if you want all the tawdry details of exactly how this happened, there are plenty of online articles out there.  But basically, her indie film had no publicity budget, so instead a no-cost social media campaign was launched on her behalf, and it shockingly resulted in an Oscar nomination.   Personally, I'm conflicted.  On one hand, it's impressive to see a tiny film get rewarded without spending millions on a slick campaign like the studios do.  It's like the ultimate grass-roots, word-of-mouth success story.  Wouldn't it be nice if all nominees had to do it on their own, without the corporations and publicity machines pumping endless dollars into what is essentially a shamefully political popularity contest?  Imagine a performance being recognized -- gasp! -- based solely on its own merit.  It's remarkably refreshing.  On the other hand, this wasn't exactly organic.  People didn't just happen to stumble upon this film and good-naturedly recommend it to their friends.  This was much more calculated (and yes, publicists were heavily orchestrating this plan, too).  Basically, the filmmakers and the "team" (I'm not singling out Riseborough, because I don't know how much she actually had to do with it) figured out that with roughly 1300 people in the Actors' branch of the Academy, you only need about 200 votes to secure an acting nomination.  And so they enlisted some famous friends to host screenings and throw parties and post about it (all using lazy copy/pasted text) -- and effectively wrangle a couple hundred of their colleagues to vote.  Looking at the number of recognizable faces they got to post about it, it was probably very easy to get 200 votes.  If influential, Academy-friendly celebs like Gwyneth Paltrow, Charlize Theron, Edward Norton, Jennifer Aniston, and Kate Winslet each get 20 people, they're half way there.  If you're a pessimist, it's nothing more than Tinseltown cronyism.  It's basically the same (but weirdly inverted) tactic employed so successfully by Miramax years ago, with social media instead of advertising dollars.  Is it better or worse than the big-studio tactics?  Debatable.  But it does show that in a post-Harvey, new-media, international Hollywood, a few powerful people can still move the needle.  And A-Listers can essentially pick their friends.  Now, are we reading into this too much?  Probably.  Sure, it's neat that a little indie movie can muster the support to get the awards recognition that it (may) deserve, but ultimately, I don't think I want Paltrow, Norton, and Winslet manipulating the Oscars and handing nominations to their pals.  (By the way, the Academy loves this stuff, despite the fact that they say they don't.  Controversy generates conversation, which generates interest, which keeps them relevant.  If everyone agreed on everything, and nobody ever freaked out (and nobody wrote long, tedious prediction articles ever year), the Academy would become unnecessary.)  As for the film and the performance themselves: The film is not great, but Riseborough is.  As an addict and a mother trying to get her life on track, her character feels very familiar and very real; she's like someone we've all interacted with, tried to help, or relied on -- for better or worse.  But is it worthy of an Oscar?  The performance doesn't strike me as that much different from similar roles in other movies, so I'm not sure I would single her out.  And the backlash won't help her in the voting (unless… there's a backlash to the backlash… which is probably inevitable).  For Riseborough's sake in the long term, I hope she's remembered for the performance, and not the noise that's overshadowed it.

Michelle Williams is another great example of the chaos and unpredictability that is the race for Oscar nominations.  If you're smart, unlike me, you'll ignore all the drama and wildly inaccurate predictions until the nominations are announced.  For her work in The Fabelmans, Williams raised a few eyebrows when she campaigned for Leading Actress instead of Supporting Actress (it's not a trivial decision; establishing yourself as a Lead instead of Supporting, whether you win or not, is extremely important in future casting and contract negotiations, especially for actors over 40).  Regardless, she was a front-runner early in the season (Spielberg + drama + eccentricity + four previous noms + a striking haircut + Dawson's Creek cred).  As Michelle Yeoh and Cate Blanchett emerged as critic and fan favorites, the buzz on Williams died down.  Then, after precursor awards and other strong performances, word was that she had fallen out completely.  Finally, when nominations were announced, Williams had somehow avoided the Andrea Riseborough shrapnel and claimed a spot.  (Viola Davis and Danielle Deadwyler were not so lucky.)  For me, the film is melodramatic, and the characters (Williams's in particular) largely serve to amplify that, probably to their detriment.  For voters, her competition is extremely strong (and she has the added obstacle of viewers not really liking her character), so it's clear she won't win.  But… could she have won in Supporting Actress?  Yes, I think she probably would have.  On the other hand, did you see the scene of her buttering the toast??  The worst toast-buttering I've ever seen.  I can't endorse an award for that.

Ana de Armas is probably the most polarizing nominee in any category, for her searing portrayal of Marilyn Monroe in Blonde (which was supposed to be Netflix's big Best Picture show pony).  Reviews for de Armas have been positive, but reviews for the film itself have been… decidedly not.  Personally, I'm not sure this film says anything that Elton John hasn't said already.  As a historical document, this movie is probably a waste of time.  But as an exploration of the anguish of a mental prison, exacerbated by being on public display and exploited by countless stakeholders, suitors, husbands, and hangers-on (not to mention a President of the United States of America), the film can be quite compelling.  But, for most of us, probably not enjoyable.  Marilyn learns early in acting class to picture herself outside her body, and uses that tool to externalize and dissociate trauma.  And there's plenty of trauma.  If the movie is successful, it is mostly due to the fervid performance by de Armas.  She's fantastic in the film -- and not just her ankles, as Colin Farrell would have you believe.  Trying to judge how "realistically" she portrays Marilyn falls apart pretty quickly; plenty of impersonators have had a closer physical resemblance, and the voice becomes less believable as the movie goes on.  But that's beside the point.  She's going for a hyper-stylized version of Marilyn, a play on what we've seen and how she might have felt -- a composition of imagery and memory, not reality.  It's a commentary on the enigmatic nature of Norma Jeane Mortenson and the cult of Marilyn Monroe.  And it's effective… the way a root canal is effective.  (If you're looking for a good time at the movies, you should probably stick to Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.)  de Armas was an early front-runner in the fall, but as reviews shredded the film, she seemed to slide out of contention altogether.  But after some late awards attention, I was happy to see her sneak in as a bit of a surprise.  But don't expect her to contend for the prize.

So if the ploy hadn't worked for Andrea Riseborough, who would I like to see here?  I'd vote for Viola Davis, who anchors The Woman King as a fierce and compassionate warrior, which features fight choreography as good as any Marvel movie (and whose real-life soldiers helped inspire the Dora Milaje in Black Panther).  I would also mention Zoe Kazan in She Said, who hasn't gotten the same attention as her co-star Carey Mulligan, but is very much the emotional driver of the film.  And Olivia Colman is one of the few bright spots in Empire of Light (but she's had plenty of recent awards attention, so she can afford to take a year off). 

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR:

SHOULD WIN:  Brendan Gleeson (The Banshees of Inisherin) WILL WIN:  Ke Huy Quan (Everything Everywhere All at Once) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED:  Tom Hanks (Elvis) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED:  Paul Dano (The Fabelmans)

When Ke Huy Quan wins Best Supporting Actor Everything Everywhere All at Once, it will probably be the feel-good moment of the night.  When the film came out last spring, there was plenty of buzz about his welcomed return to the screen, his youthful buoyancy still shining through.  (His last Hollywood role had been Encino Man (!) 20 years ago.)  Any awards chatter was for co-star Michelle Yeoh; an Oscar nomination for his quirky performance seemed like an impossibility.  As the year wore on, and the film remained in the conversation, his nomination felt possible, then realistic, and then inevitable.  Now he's the heavy favorite to win, against seemingly the longest odds.  It's the kind of underdog story we all love, and is practically the plot of the movie itself.  And he's not just trading on nostalgia; initially his performance hits us with the familiar (he still sounds a bit like Shorty and Data), but soon it shifts as the role expands, and the brilliance of his casting becomes apparent.  As the emotional center of the film, he's clearly the one I want to win the most.  But I admit he's actually not my pick for Should Win (though it's very nearly a toss-up).  Which brings me to…

Has there ever been anyone more perfectly suited for a role than Brendan Gleeson in The Banshees of Inisherin?  (Other than perhaps Shelley Duvall as Olive Oyl in Popeye.)  Instead of being cast, it's as if he existed fully-formed, sipping a pint in the Irish countryside (woolly vests and all), and the movie was created and filmed around him.  (That may not be much of an exaggeration -- writer/director Martin McDonagh wrote the part specifically for him.)  He seems to simply live this performance, my personal pick in this category.  A consummate character actor for decades -- while also playing roles as varied as Winston Churchill, Mad-Eye Moody, and Donald Trump -- this is, in my humble (yet correct) opinion, a career best.  He effortlessly conveys a lifetime of baggage that he doesn't need to (and refuses to) explain to us.  His character is confounding and selfish; his motivations that are inscrutable and illogical at best, cruel and dangerous at worst.  Like the landscape around him, he is harsh and unforgiving.  And yet we still want to spend time with him, just as his puppy-like best friend does.  (Gleeson gets extra credit for actually playing fiddle, and even composing the titular song.)  Unfortunately for me, his brilliance gets overshadowed by the muck of the final act of the movie.  As the story becomes repellant, his character almost literally cuts off his nose to spite his face.  (Maybe 'cut off your fingers to spite your frenemy' was a common phrase in 1920s Ireland, I'm not sure.)  As playwrights are often wont to do, McDonagh doesn't go easy on his metaphors.  Gleeson's biggest hurdle in claiming Oscar gold isn't, however, the unpleasantness of this movie, nor is it front-runner Ke Huy Quan; it's his costar, Barry Keoghan.  While voters adore this movie and its performances, Gleeson and Keoghan will inevitably cannibalize each other's votes, each boasting vocal supporters.  As much as I adore the performance, when it comes to the film itself, I can't help but channel Gleeson's plainspoken character: "I just don't like it."

So what to make of Barry Keoghan as Dominic, who's repeatedly dismissed as the "dim" one on the island in The Banshees of Inisherin?  Well, much has been made of his performance, by critics and moviegoers alike, but I'm not totally on board.  By way of comparison, Keoghan amps up the affectations and mannerisms, while Brendan Gleeson gives a much more naturalistic (and for my money, impactful) performance.  On my first viewing, I thought Keoghan was aggressively hammy, leaving no line of dialogue un-goosed, whose presence I felt was a little manipulative and mostly unnecessary.  Without question, he was taking an awfully big swing.  (I also spent a disproportionate amount of the run-time trying to determine if he has eyelids.)  But I'll admit, upon a second viewing, I saw there was more to it; not nuance exactly, but an additional layer.  Much of that is in the writing, but Keoghan taps into it in unexpected ways; he knows where he's going, and he doesn't necessarily care if the viewer goes there with him or not.  It's the fate of the character -- and of the performance -- to be misunderstood, at least initially.  But when you see that Dominic possesses a sort of invisible, simplistic wisdom, and is feeling things he can't express, the performance comes alive.  (It doesn't hurt that he has the most acrobatic dialogue in the film.)  That said, he's near the bottom of this category for me.  He has no shot of winning of course, but he'll do plenty to wreck Gleeson's chances.  Feckin' Dominic.

Brian Tyree Henry was a bit of a surprise nominee for his role in Causeway, an Apple+ movie very few people have seen, and even fewer have been talking about.  Its lack of notoriety is a bit of a shame; for talky character dramas, I'd take this film over The Banshees of Inisherin any day.  And Henry is a significant part of why it stands out.  Not unlike Brendan Gleeson's, it's a comfortable, lived-in performance that doesn't call a lot of attention to itself.  Unfortunately for Henry, he doesn't benefit from having the One Big Scene he'd need to truly contend for the prize.  Oddly, that's probably the film's biggest strength: its measured, realistic feel.  In a story that could easily drive straight into the melodramatic, the film remains restrained.  (Jennifer Lawrence plays the main character, home after a severe injury in the military in Afghanistan, who meets Henry, a local mechanic, and they go on a journey of physical and mental healing together.)  It's a slow burn.  There aren't otherworldly stakes; sure, the characters have health issues, but the real stakes are friendship.  (To which the marketing team undoubtedly said, "Are you kidding me?"  I'm sure the filmmakers had to fight off all kinds of pressure to juice up the drama.)  Unfortunately, it's a double-edged sword: The ending is probably too restrained; the final act doesn't quite come together, and the film feels largely unresolved.  

How often do you hear someone say, "This movie could use more Judd Hirsch?"  Well, that's the most definitive thing I can say about The Fabelmans.  As someone who saw every episode of Dear John during its original run on TV, and counts Ordinary People as one of his favorite films, I'm definitely cheering for Hirsch.  But he's only in two scenes!  Dammit, Steven Spielberg, let the man cook!  It would be a gas to see 87-year-old Hirsch collect the award (notably, he's the only former nominee in the group), but if I'm being honest, this is not an Oscar-worthy performance.  I mean, he's in the movie for all of five minutes, and mostly yells and stomps around and dispenses unrealistic and irresponsible life advice.  (And might be… a ghost?)  It's a little silly.  But also, I wanted more of it.  And the best part of it is, supposedly the hallowed movie that made the legendary director think of Hirsch for the role was… Independence Day.  Simply incredible.  (Meanwhile, erstwhile fugitive Randy Quaid is still waiting for his Spielberg call.)

But as much as I dig Judd Hirsch, they nominated the wrong guy from The Fabelmans!  Did they see the same movie I did?  Paul Dano is clearly the more meaningful performance.  With an understated performance (especially when compared to his other 2022 role, as the Riddler -- who's actually more of a yeller than a riddler), he moors the film emotionally and narratively, a welcome counterbalance to the louder performances in the film.  Other standouts this year include: Eddie Redmayne (The Good Nurse), Micheal Ward (Empire of Light), Adrien Brody (Blonde), and Zlatko "The Croatian Burt Young" Buric (Triangle of Sadness). 

In Elvis, Tom Hanks does a fantastic impersonation of Jiminy Glick; but of Colonel Tom Parker?  Not so much.  Other Glorious Omissions include Ray Stevenson in RRR, Ben Foster (who's trying to corner the market on adversarial sh-theels) in Emancipation and Hustle, and Miles Teller (or pretty much any of the lifeless clowns playing fighter pilots) in Top Gun: Maverick. 

BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS:

SHOULD WIN:  Kerry Condon (The Banshees of Inisherin) WILL WIN:  Angela Bassett (Black Panther: Wakanda Forever) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED:  Alison Doody (RRR) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED:  Janelle Monáe (Glass Onion)

But how will Martin Scorsese feel?  That's a question that nobody is asking, regarding the Best Supporting Actress race.  Angela Bassett is the favorite to win for her performance in Black Panther: Wakanda Forever, and if she does, she'll be the first person to win an Oscar for acting in a Marvel movie.  (As it stands, she's the first acting nominee.)  I only bring up Marty because someone inevitably will, after the much-ado-about-nothing feud that he unwittingly sparked a few years ago when he off-handedly opined that comic book movies were not cinema.  (The controversy is so stupid that it makes me nauseous, but on the other hand, I do like stirring the pot.)  Bassett is certainly the fan favorite here, not just for the comic-book devotees, but for movie-goers in general.  The only previous nominee in the group (for What's Love Got to Do with It almost 30 years ago), she's been doing undeniable work for decades.  In Wakanda Forever, she achieves many of the hallmarks of an Oscar-winning performance, nailing a pivotal role in acclaimed movie that has significant heft and poignance, where she is largely the emotional center.  If I'm being honest, it's not a career-best performance, but I'll be more than happy to see her claim the prize. 

Speaking of fan favorites and venerable veterans, Jamie Lee Curtis scored her first nomination for Everything Everywhere All at Once.  It's probably a bit of a career achievement recognition, but not an unwelcome one.  She's clearly having a blast, both in the movie (as a ridiculous, curmudgeonly, dragged-up tax auditor slash alternate-universe mutant love interest), and on the press/awards tour (whooping it up as her co-stars rake in the accolades).  She even has the year's most fun character name, Deirdre Beaubeirdre.  In terms of winning, it's never a good thing to compete against someone from the same movie; it's even worse when your competition is as unforgettable as Stephanie Hsu.  Fortunately, Curtis isn't here to win, she's here to party. 

Somehow, Stephanie Hsu's character in Everything Everywhere All at Once is even more ridiculous than Jamie Lee Curtis's, but much more of the film's central conceit and  emotional heft revolve around her.  She's the beneficiary of some of the film's most gonzo gambits, and steals every scene that Michelle Yeoh and Ke Huy Quan don't.  When she's not using sex toys as deadly weapons (a certain pair of clubs comes to mind), she's tapping into a heart-wrenching ennui that feels very grounded and real.  Despite being the least known of any of the nominated actors prior to this film, her versatility, costumes, and choice of breakfast food have made her one of the most memorable.  I expect her first nomination is just the beginning. 

My personal pick is Kerry Condon, the put-upon (but decidedly not dull, despite her reputation) sister in The Banshees of Inisherin.  Critically, she's our proxy, our way into the confounding quarrel between men and the idiosyncratic goings-on in the town.  The film, via Brendan Gleeson's character, explores the themes of legacy (creating art, late-life crises, having purpose in one's life, leaving something that will last, etc.) in an inelegant way, which by the end hinders the viewing experience.  Condon's character, on the other hand, explores the same themes in a much more elegant (and subtle) way; and as such, Condon makes great strides toward (almost) rescuing the film.  Her character, unlike so much of the film, has clarity of purpose.  I credit the story for that, of course, but Condon's performance is also largely responsible.  It makes her scenes, which are too few, immensely refreshing.  It doesn't hurt that she's the only sane one on the island.  And the only wise one.  Her wisdom is never more evident than when she exits the film well before the ending -- a valuable lesson for all of us.

There are plenty of things about The Whale that have been criticized: the story, the casting of Brendan Fraser, the performances of minor characters, the melodrama, the believability, and the ending.  But the one thing everyone praises is Hong Chau, who plays Fraser's nurse and confidant.  She brings a strong sense of humanity to the story -- not just kindness, but anger, frustration, humor, resentment, and heartbreak, too.  She's not exactly the audience's avatar, but she enables us to tap into the many conflicting feelings from scene to scene, and the film is much better for it.  She's also gotten a boost from double-dipping -- playing a fun, pivotal role in The Menu as well.  She has a lot of supporters, but in this stacked category, she was probably the last one to make the cut. 

One actress I would have liked to see make the cut is Janelle Monáe, for her sneaky performance in Glass Onion.  Another standout this year was Thuso Mbedu in The Woman King.  And what about Kelly McGillis and Meg Ryan for Top Gun: Maverick??  They should be the top choices as Ingloriously Snubbed -- not from the Oscar race, but from the movie completely!  #JusticeForKellyAndMeg

Alison Doody's cringeworthy performance in RRR just makes me nostalgic for her character Elsa in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.  Sigh. 

BEST DIRECTOR:

SHOULD WIN:  Daniel Kwan, Daniel Scheinert (Everything Everywhere All at Once) WILL WIN:  Daniel Kwan, Daniel Scheinert (Everything Everywhere All at Once) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED:  Baz Luhrmann (Elvis) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED:  Joseph Kosinski (Top Gun: Maverick)

The unlikeliest prestige film of the year is helmed by the unlikeliest directing duo.  Daniel Kwan and Daniel Scheinert (often credited as the single entity "Daniels"), bring an usual sensibility and playful DIY aesthetic to their brilliant opus Everything Everywhere All at Once.  I can't tell if they share the same brain, or if they each bring completely different and unique sets of perspectives that somehow mesh into a cohesive (yet deliriously messy) vision.  However they do it (and I don't think even they can explain it), it works.  (For a primer, watch their early music videos and short films, like Pockets and Dogboarding, most of which are under three minutes long.)  Emotional absurdity -- or is it absurd emotionality? -- is their specialty.  With Everything Everywhere, by far their most ambitious undertaking to date, they make the preposterous relatable, endearing, intimate, and sentimental.  In doing so, they craft the best movie of the year, with the best directorial effort of the year.  And so the unlikeliest directing duo will soon be known as the unlikeliest Oscar winners.

The Fabelmans is, in part, Steven Spielberg's apology to his father, who he blamed for his parents' divorce for many years -- which is why the father in so many of his early films is absent, irresponsible, or a child-eating shark.  Which begs the question: Had he known the truth, would Spielberg have been a lesser, perhaps terrible, director?  Maybe E.T. would have stayed home; maybe Richard Dreyfuss would have just eaten his mashed potatoes; maybe the Ark would have remained unraided; maybe Jaws would have stuck to seafood.  Thank goodness for childhood trauma, I guess?  (Humorously, and tellingly, he said of making The Fabelmans, "This is like a 40 million dollar therapy session.")  Until recently, giving Spielberg the Best Director Oscar seemed like a perfunctory exercise: A career-capping reward for his most personal movie (about making movies, no less) seemed like too good an opportunity for voters to pass up.  But now, not only is he not the unanimous choice, he's not even the favorite.  And I'm helping lead that charge -- I don't think this is even in Spielberg's top 10 directorial efforts.  I realize that I sound like an underqualified a-hole troll trying to impress online idiots with a contrarian take: "Meh, Spielberg isn't that good".  But the point is that he is that good, and this movie should be better.  In this story, his avatar learns he can tell the truth with the camera; then he learns he can bend the truth with the camera; finally, he learns he can create magic with the camera.  I just wish he had created magic when making this movie.

Many have viewed Tár as a commentary on the famous and the powerful -- using an orchestra conductor as the conduit to a world most of us know little about, but reflecting a hierarchy that feels disturbingly familiar.  That's all valid, but I'm actually fascinated by the allegory to filmmaking itself -- the conductor as a stand-in for the director.  (Not surprisingly, the director and the writer of the film are the same person, Todd Field.)  In a profession where the credit "a film by" is often used in place of "directed by", the portrait of a megalomaniacal conductor is fairly apt comparison.  Seen through that lens (pun partially intended), it's interesting to see Fields's thoughts (or fears?) on the matter.  (As a filmmaker, the parallels must not be lost on him.)  In the movie, the conductor is theoretically controlling everything -- at least she believes she is -- but the further we probe, the less we see she's actually in control of.  The control is an illusion, an instrument of a rigid but brittle power structure.  Ultimately, the true lack of control is exposed, and all hell breaks loose.  I'm guessing Field, or any director, could relate.  (And we've all seen movies where that's clearly happened to the director.)  Would Field suggest that this is a truism of directing any film?  Or a cautionary tale of what could happen (and what has happened) to other directors?  Or would he simply say, "It's about a conductor, you idiot"?

I'm out.  I'm out on Martin McDonagh.  I've tried, I really have.  In Bruges.  Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri.  I even watched his 2006 Oscar-winning short film, Six Shooter.  My reactions have ranged between unimpressed to downright repelled.  I thought his latest, The Banshees of Inisherin, would turn it around for me.  And for the first half of the film, it did; I was ready to repent and declare that McDonagh had finally won me over.  But then the chopping began.  And I realized it was all a trick.  While the film is more palatable than Three Billboards, it's still mean-spirited and off-putting enough to make it official: I dislike his films.  He's so deft at writing rich characters and compelling scenes; wouldn't it be grand if he just told a nice, pleasant story?  Or if another director made a more conventional film out of one of his scripts?  Of course, McDonagh has no interest in doing those things.  I can only imagine that his mind is filled with the dark stuff, and the film would be impure if he filtered any of it out.  Damn him and his artistic integrity.  Critics are doing backflips for this guy, and I can't figure out why.  I suppose it could be his ability to imbue his films with the sense of holding opposing opinions in one mind.  More than likely, each viewer believes they identify with one of the main characters -- the one that values today, or the one that values tomorrow.  Frustratingly, I think that McDonagh is saying that each of us is really both at the same time… and there's no painless way to reconcile that.

The increasing internationalization of voters in the Academy has resulted in more nominees from overseas, especially in the Director category.  This year's big beneficiary is Ruben Östlund, a semi-surprise in this group for Triangle of Sadness (which also scored noms for Picture and Original Screenplay).  He has a strong Nordic sensibility, but also takes lots of cues from American filmmaker Robert Altman.  Much more popular abroad, Triangle of Sadness hasn't really struck a chord with North American audiences.  Perhaps this is because Östlund largely treats his characters as generic stand-ins for classes and stereotypes, rather than treating them as individuals.  By the same token, the film strikes me as less malicious than, say, The Banshees of Inisherin, because it is more blunt and broad, and takes aim at groups instead of unique people (and as a result, I find it a bit more palatable).  His filmmaking style is often overtly combative, using techniques to restrict what the viewer is able to take in (scenes shot from a great distance, muffled dialogue, characters partially or completely out of frame).  The general consensus is that Östlund's nomination is more of a reward for the culmination of his last three films (a trilogy of sorts) -- the previous two, Force Majeure and The Square, were much more highly regarded -- so don't expect a victory for him here. 

Why no Best Director nomination for Joseph Kosinski, the technical force behind Top Gun: Maverick?  If you ask me, he's the one we should credit with rescuing the theatrical movie experience.  (And maybe his team of digital artists who magically de-aged Tom Cruise by 30 years.)  Kosinski is my narrow Snubbed choice over All Quiet on the Western Front's Edward Berger (I had predicted Berger would grab the typical international director slot over Ruben Östlund).  There are plenty of other directors worth mentioning, including Antoine Fuqua (Emancipation), Sarah Polley (Women Talking), and Robert Eggers (The Northman). 

Can a movie be over-directed?  Based on Baz Luhrmann's Elvis, the answer is a resounding yes.  Baz never met a shot he couldn't muddle up by shaking the camera, zooming and whip-panning, superimposing junk on top of it, and generally loading it up with artifice.  My hands down pick for Gloriously Omitted.

BEST ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY:

SHOULD WIN:  Daniel Kwan, Daniel Scheinert (Everything Everywhere All at Once) WILL WIN:  Daniel Kwan, Daniel Scheinert (Everything Everywhere All at Once) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED:  Sam Mendes (Empire of Light) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED:  Robert Eggers, Sjón (The Northman)

What a loaded category.  In most other years, four of the nominated films would probably be the favorite.  (Apologies to Triangle of Sadness.)  This year, it will realistically come down to two films: Everything Everywhere All at Once and The Banshees of Inisherin. 

Mystifyingly, the award that Everything Everywhere All at Once deserves the most is the one it's least likely to get.  The screenplay categories are the ones that are often used to spread the hardware around -- especially if the Picture and Director winners are expected to align, and the directors are also the writers. So while Everything Everywhere (written by Daniel Kwan and Daniel Scheinert) is the most original screenplay, and the best screenplay, and the most fun screenplay, and the most emotional screenplay, there's a strong chance The Banshees Of Inisherin will win here as a consolation prize.  And that would be a goddam, low-down, filthy disgrace, I tell you.  The films couldn't be more different, but they surprisingly take on some similar themes.  Specifically, I think Everything Everywhere deals with midlife crisis more interestingly, complexly, and elegantly than Banshees.  (Admittedly, the one thing Everything Everywhere is missing is a donkey.)  Who will actually win?  It's coming down to the wire, so it's pretty much anybody's guess.  But I'll say that the Everything Everywhere's unique blend of reverence and irreverence will tip the scales. 

I really don't know what to make of the script for The Banshees of Inisherin (written by Martin McDonagh).  I can't say that it's bad, but I also can't get past the unpleasant experience of the final act (which is, of course, completely intended).  McDonagh is undoubtedly a gifted scriptwriter; I've said before that while I don't like his films, his scenes are impeccably crafted, and his lyrical dialogue simply hums.  This script in particular has a purity to it, as well as a commitment to themes that feel true to the author (even if the story's contours and destination don't suit me).   But I don't know what he's trying to achieve.  Sure, it's a war allegory.  But there has to be more to it.  Is it a grief metaphor?  (I have some theories on the ending -- or non-ending -- that are a little far-fetched but seem logical to me; however, the Internet tells me I'm wrong.  I won't do any spoiling of the ending here.  But buy me a beer, and I'll give you an earful.)  Is it saying that man can't escape his nature?  (The characters on the island are literally and figuratively removed from the Irish Civil War on the mainland.  But they’ve got their own little interpersonal civil wars, which seem just as important, just as trivial, and just as confounding.  Their tiny haven seems like a deliberate microcosm of the greater population, despite being completely isolated.  After all, Inisherin translates to "Ireland island".)  Or simply that the Irish are drunkards that like to fight and swear?  (The film doesn't exactly offer evidence to the contrary.)  I just don't know.  The best way I can reconcile it is to consider it a folktale, one that's been retold and exaggerated and reinterpreted over the course of 100 years, with an absurdist ending that can be customized to whatever the storyteller wants to convey.  "Let me tell you the sad tale of the rowin' Irish lads and the Banshees of Inisherin…"

Todd Field has written three feature films in his lifetime (including In the Bedroom and Little Children), and all of them have been nominated for Best Screenplay.  When he finally writes one that isn't, just imagine how disappointed his family will be with his failure.  Like his previous nominations, this one for Tár won't result in a victory.  But it won't be for lack of effort.  Critics can't stop praising this screenplay, even if they can't agree on what it means or what it's saying.  I'm not able to agree (or disagree) because I haven't got a clue what it means or what it's saying -- and that's perhaps my biggest problem with it.  It's a mystery that remains a mystery (for reasons unknown, or maybe just unclear); instead of a reveal, we get shadows and ripples, mostly.  It's a little frustrating.  Despite the overarching narrative, to me it feels more like a series of essays than a complete story.  It doesn't every really crescendo (at least, not in a way that feels earned); it feels like it's missing a critical coalescence in the final act.  This is all completely intentional by the writer, no doubt.  It's all there, I'm sure; he just doesn't want us to find it, at least not in the conventional way.  Are the characters discussing music and composition, or sex and orgasms?  Are we seeing things objectively, or from the main character's perspective, or someone else's?  Will our conductor be haunted for the rest of her life, or has she paid her penance and will now be at peace (despite living in professional purgatory)?  "You're just stupid," the fervent supporters would certainly tell me, right after Googling what the story really means.  Despite my misgivings about this film, I loved Fields's previous films, and am eager to see what he tackles next.  (I just hope he dumbs it down for me.)

They say 'Write what you know'.  Maybe The Fabelmans, Steven Spielberg's autobiographical coming-of-age story, should be an argument against that.  I can't help but question whether Spielberg is the right person to write and direct his own biopic.  The script (co-written by frequent collaborator Tony Kushner) is, disappointingly, a very conventional drama; but it also gets too cute and corny when it shouldn't, and gives some very young characters some very unrealistic dialogue.  It's like a long, mediocre episode of The Wonder Years (but with fewer uses of the word "butthead").  It's fictionalized, but not as much as you might expect.  (Maybe it should have been more fictionalized.)  Ultimately, I'm not sure what the script is saying, other than 'My parents got divorced so I became a filmmaker'.  Believe it or not, it's Spielberg's first Oscar nomination for writing, but alas, it won't be his first win.

Reactions have been mixed to the script for Ruben Östlund's Triangle of Sadness.  What the story seems to strive for and what it actually achieves are, unfortunately, very different.  What it aspires to: a clever, incisive examination of class and classism -- society's inherent flaws laid bare, pitting capitalism, socialism, Marxism, sexism, elitism, and all the other -isms against each other, under contrasting sets of circumstances.  What is actually is: White Lotus meets Below Deck -- with more arrogance, less subtlety, and the same amount of feces -- playing out in hyper-speed to a logical, imploding conclusion (which is, of course, Lord of the Flies). 

My pick for Ingloriously Snubbed, the electric script for The Northman (written by Robert Eggers and Sjón), has a lot going for it: revenge, destiny, and naked sword-fighting inside a volcano… but mostly deadbeat dads.

My Gloriously Omitted choice: Sam Mendes usually doesn't write the movies he directs; Empire of Light is a good example of why. 

BEST ADAPTED SCREENPLAY:

SHOULD WIN:  Edward Berger, Lesley Paterson, and Ian Stokell (All Quiet on the Western Front) WILL WIN:  Sarah Polley (Women Talking) GLORIOUSLY OMITTED:  Andrew Dominik (Blonde) INGLORIOUSLY SNUBBED:  Dean Fleischer Camp, Nick Paley, Jenny Slate (Marcel the Shell with Shoes On)

Women Talking (written by Sarah Polley) is heavy, heady stuff, dealing with the philosophical, the theological, the moral, and the ideological… but not necessarily the practical.  While the central deliberation is fascinating (it's like 12 Angry Men, but with characters deciding their own fate), I tend to focus on the logic in movies (always a dumb thing to do), so I'm very curious about what would happen next.  Where will the women go?  How will they live?  Will they find income, or try to live off the land?  How far could they possibly get before the men track them down?  Will they get double-counted in the census??  (You know, important stuff.)  Since the film is primarily dialogue, and the subject matter is so weighty, the film feels very "written", and as a result is getting a lot of attention for its screenplay.  It's the favorite to win, but its lead is shrinking by the day.  We'll see if it can hang onto the lead come Oscar night.

Spoiler, for those who have never heard of World War I: All is not quiet in All Quiet on the Western Front.  The German film (written by director Edward Berger, Lesley Paterson, and Ian Stokell) is based on the classic novel of the same name, penned by a German combat vet.  Some updates have been made to the new film version, making the tale of a young Central Powers soldier at the end of the war even more harrowing and heartbreaking.  The attention to detail is captivating -- especially a remarkable sequence about the cycle of a soldier's uniform, hauntingly symbolic of the systematic, unending death.  If anything has a chance of beating Women Talking in this category, it's this script; if you ask me the day before the ceremony, I might well predict this as the winner.

Let me get this straight: Top Gun: Maverick, a masterful and pioneering technical achievement in aerial filmmaking, is not nominated for Best Director or Best Cinematography, but despite banal characters and a wafer-thin plot, it is nominated for Best Screenplay?  That's the Oscars for you.  Maybe I'm not being fair.  Maybe I'm holding screenwriter Christopher McQuarrie's pedigree against him -- after all, he won an Academy Award for writing The Usual Suspects, one of the best scripts of the last 30 years.  (Alas, he wrote that solo; he teamed up with a cabal of writers for Maverick.)  But then I think of how the Maverick script oh-so-subtly informs us about Rooster and who his father might be… while he's sporting a mustache, shades, Hawaiian shirt, and white t-shirt, using an avian call sign, literally playing 'Great Balls of Fire' on piano.  We get it; they probably could have stopped at the mustache.  And for those of us dummies who are still unclear, the script throws in flashbacks, old photos, and Maverick looking traumatized for several minutes.  "Ohhh, I wonder if that guy is related to Goose…"  Then there is the huge missed opportunity for fun dialogue.  "I feel the need… the need for speed", "Take me to bed or lose me forever", "The Defense Department regrets to inform you that your sons are dead because they were stupid", "Negative Ghost Rider, the pattern is full", "Yeehaw, Jester's dead", and "Bullsh-t, you can be mine" are all fantastic lines that are not in this movie.  And no dialogue in it comes close to the original film's.  Forget about an all-time classic like, "Your ego is writing checks your body can't cash."  (Though to be fair, I've spent years trying to figure exactly what that means.)  I just don't think "I am good, I'm very good" is catching on.  Oh also, the story manages to work in Penny Benjamin, the admiral's daughter that Maverick slept with years ago, mentioned in the first movie.  Penny is now played by Jennifer Connolly, age 52.  That means that she was 16 during their first romance in 1986.  Congratulations screenwriters, you've made Maverick a pedophile.

Remember those times in college or early adulthood when you hang out in cheap bars with pals that you spend all your time with, bond with, confide in, make plans with, and share big dreams with?  You know, the ones you're certain will be your best friends for life?  And then you get a little older, and you realize that, in fact, those people have become pretty irritating and annoying?  Like, it turns out they're just the worst?  And you feel like you want to kill them in a highly premediated, theatrical, convoluted, yet somewhat comedic kind of way?  Uh, no?  Well, someone in Glass Onion does, so I'm officially not alone.  Welcome to the confusing Adapted Screenplay category, where two original stories are officially considered "adapted" instead of "original" solely because they are sequels.  This tale of treachery and murder (written by Rian Johnson) is one of those non-original original adapted screenplays.  It might not be quite as dazzling as the predecessor, Knives Out (also a screenplay nominee, my snubbed choice for Picture and Director, and one of the best films of 2019), but it's a worthy heir, very clever and extremely fun.  It's maybe not so much a mystery as, well, an onion, revealing layers and new information as the movie progresses.  (Some argue that it irritatingly eschews the rules of a whodunnit by withholding necessary information from the viewer.)  I just have one piece of advice for those who are fed up with their friends: If the world's greatest detective is with you, maybe wait until, you know, after he leaves before you murder one of them.

Living is an adaptation of a story that's already been told by Akira Kurosawa (in the film Ikiru) and Leo Tolstoy (in the novella The Death of Ivan Ilyich), so it has some pretty big shoes to fill.  It doesn't hurt that the writer is Kazuo Ishiguro, who's no slouch himself (Nobel Prize winner, author of books like The Remains of the Day and Never Let Me Go, and screenwriter of several movies).  Living probably won't have quite the legacy that Ikiru does; but then again, that film didn't get any Oscar nominations.  Take that, Kurosawa!

I'm picking Marcel the Shell with Shoes On (written by Dean Fleischer Camp, Nick Paley, and Jenny Slate) for my Snubbed slot.  It's a wonderful, simple story about the wonders of simplicity, about connections past and present, about people loved and lost, and maybe -- just maybe -- the meaning of life.  (Honorable Mention goes to the script for She Said, written by Rebecca Lenkiewicz.  But honestly, I can't believe they didn't get Ben Affleck to do the voice of Harvey Weinstein; his impression -- which is not as much of a hit at parties anymore -- is uncanny.)

In 10 years' time, will Blonde (written and directed by Andrew Dominik) be considered shameless exploitation or high camp?  Right now, it's really hard to tell.  The harrowing portrait of Marilyn Monroe is very serious subject matter, but is also highly fictionalized and shellacked with glitzy flourishes.  It has the schlock of a Russ Meyer film, but the prestige of being an adaptation of a revered Pulitzer-finalist book by Joyce Carol Oates.  (It's actually not even the first adaptation of the book -- there was a barely-remembered CBS mini-series in 2001 starring Poppy Montgomery.)  The film is leaden with symbolic imagery; the NC-17 content is meant to evoke the dizzying, gut-wrenching experience of being Ms. Monroe, but often comes off as either vile or silly, including (but not limited to): facial and genital body horror, drowning children, scary mommies, domestic abuse, living photographs, unabashed nudity, national monuments as giant phalluses, Hollywood as a literal burning hellscape, kneeling in the Oral -- ahem -- Oval Office, and of course, a talking fetus.  Subtle, this script is not.  (Dominik even said prior to its release, "There's something in it to offend everyone.")  I'm sure there will be an online reclamation of this film at some point, but for now, it will have to live with my Glorious Omitted commendation. 

[ghosttownwherenoonegoes]

eri, my darling 💗 i bring more eddie thoughts, sprung from my brain around the time of your birthday actually 🎉 a tiny bit sad, but ultimately happy i promise 💕

i imagine that eddie moved in with wayne around when he started middle school, so maybe aged 10 or 11. he obviously did not have good parents or the best start in life, and things like birthdays tended to fall to the wayside.

but when eddie moved in with him, wayne was determined to make up for all the missed birthdays. he always made eddie breakfast (something special like waffles or pancakes) and decorated the trailer with those paperchains and birthday boy banners and balloons. he saved up for months for presents and they had birthday cake for after dinner 🎉

even as eddie got older, wayne kept up these sort of childish birthday traditions for him. even when eddie his 16, then 18, then 20 even, wayne always made pancakes and put up banners and bought a birthday cake. to be honest, wayne does it to make up to eddie all the birthdays he didn't get as a child, and eddie loves him for it. he knows it might seem a bit silly and childish but it's not really about the cake or baloons, its about the love and attention wayne is willing to give him that his parents never were 💗💔

ANNABEL MY BELOVED😭😭😭😭 aaaaa more Eddie thoughts???? You're blessing us😭😭😭 I've read this so many times omg it made my heart ache to think about, but god, you're so so RIGHT.

-

Wayne loves Eddie like he's his own, and though he refers to Eddie as “my nephew” to people like Dustin, I think he considers Eddie his son. I mean, shit, the trailer has one bedroom and it's Eddie's; Wayne has a pull-out bed which we see folded in the corner when Chrissy is there. Wayne does his best for he and Eddie; he opened his trailer and his home up to the kid and loves him a lot.

I agree; tbh I think Eddie's mum is dead and dad's in prison, so when he was a kid, there was no one but Wayne to take him in and Wayne snapped him up immediately. He just didn't have it in him to turn those big brown eyes away, and who could blame him??? Eddie turned out beautifully, all things considered, and Wayne couldn't be prouder. He might not approve of everything Eddie does, but he's obviously and canonically supportive of his nephew in all the ways which count.

YES YES YES OMG PLEASE😭😭😭😭 when he gets home from work. Wayne is dead on his feet but goddamn, he's gonna wake Eddie up on his special day with some waffles AND pancakes (pulled an extra shift so he had the money for it), and every week for months he's put money aside, denying himself things just to give Eddie something he never had before he came to live with Wayne (on special occasions or when life is too rough or when Wayne just thinks Eddie needs it, Wayne lets Eddie call him dad if he wants to – you can't tell me that when Eddie is all soft and emotional and in need of comfort that he doesn't let himself have that one indulgence... that one truth).

Eddie never had a birthday before Wayne, didn't even realise it was something which most others celebrate, so Wayne always always pulls every extra shift he can, pulls out all the stops, recruits Eddie's friends to help him to give Eddie the best birthday. Every year, Wayne tries to one-up himself. Whenever Eddie walks in to see the sight he knows he's going to see – but he never takes it for granted – he tilts his head to the side with a wide grin, his dark eyes soft as he looks at his old man, before looking at all the decorations.

“Happy birthday, kid.”

“I...” Eddie has three words on the tip of his tongue but he doesn't say it until Wayne gives him a tiny nod. If Eddie wasn't looking for it, he'd miss it. “Thank you, dad.” He runs his hands over his face, his hair, and saunters forward, his hands lightly trembling as he comes to a stop in front of Wayne.

The two men stare at each other, Wayne with fatherly affection written all over him and Eddie is almost beside himself even though this has happened every year without fail since he was taken in by Wayne at ten years old – he's twenty now, and it still knocks him for six every time that he's loved by his uncle.

“C'mere, you,”

They grin, they hug, they squeeze, clap each other's backs, let go, and eat breakfast. Wayne got Eddie some new patches for his vest, a small sewing kit because Eddie stabbed himself so many times with the last set of needles and patches that they got dulled and Wayne had to wash all the blood out of the patches (luckily for him, Eddie favours patches with a black background).

On this birthday, Eddie's twentieth, he clears his throat, fixes his uncle with a solid gaze. “Can I level with you?”

Wayne clears his throat, swallows, puts his fork down. Shows Eddie he's 100% fixed on him. Nods to show he's listening.

“You're, uh, more of a parent to me than the pieces of shit who made me. I just, uh... I fuckin' love you, man. Thank you. For - ” Eddie gestures vaguely and Wayne melts just like the butter he put on his waffles. Eddie puts a hand on the bridge of his nose, fingers squeezing. He wants to cry and if Wayne sees Eddie brush a few tears away, then who is he to say anything?

He can only reaffirm what Eddie already knows:

“Anything for you, kid.”

And Eddie believes him, because for the last decade, his uncle has shown up for him day in, day out. He decides there and then that when Wayne's birthday rolls around in a few months, Eddie's gonna return the favour. He'll recruit his friends, Wayne's co-workers, and he'll try to say thank you for the last decade, and the one in front of him and his uncle, too.

[no-name-nacho-cheese]

IT WAS THE MORE FUN STUFF VERSION!!!

Okay play by play thoughts under the cut bc it's a lot. But overall I still love this movie especially because it hurts. Love the actions and emotion in this movie, I feel like everyone is given a chance to really show off their range of emotion in this at some point. I love a good show that shows off an actors ability to do their job well. I don't really understand why we never got an ASM-3. But also I never watched those movies until before I saw No Way Home the first time.

Everyone is laughing at the expected parts still 2.5 years later

Small claps and cheers for Matt Murdock

I can't stand Stephen strange in this

What gets me SO MAD is that strange just starts casting the spell at a minors will. Also, this man is a 40-50 year old in a MEDICAL FIELD. He should know to take a CASE HISTORY before casting the spell!!!! Then he blames the kid. Count your days Stephen strange. You probably got sued and saved by professional liability insurance at the hospital.

Why does strange still have the eye of agamotto if he doesn't have the time stone?? (Accessorizing)

Clapping for Doc Ock!!!

The admissions lady from MIT had SO MUCH TIME to unbuckle and scooch over to the other side of the car and get out.

Giant cement cylinder: 1

Spidey sense:0

Bluetooth-ass nanotechnology pairing to a new device

People clapping for green goblin!!!

Do you guys think that Columbia alumni otto octavius and curt Conners feel irritated with the trio talking about how great MIT is lol. I can imagine during the montage them going "you know... Columbia is a very good school"

I love the obvious similarities between Norman Obsorn and Bruce Banner, fight me and also ask me more

Conners and doc ock ABSOLUTELY sat and watched as the trio duck taped Peter's smartphone to his suit.

Green goblin's mask eyes being sepia to match the 2000s movies he came from *chefs kiss*

After playing the ps4 spider-man game, I should have known may would die since she works at FEAST

It is absolutely mays fault that she dies and no one remembers Peter. Fight me

The JJJ cutaways following the same pattern as the ps4 podcast is yes

Otto having nothing to do but stand dramatically facing away in his cage

Max would love reddit, specifically the AITA page

Strange talks a lot about sacrifice for others when the most he's sacrificed in his movies is his girlfriend that didn't love him.

HATE strange for destroying the iron spider armor

Seeing the spisey sense wiggles !!!

HOW did they get from greenwich to central park and upper east side in 2 seconds in the mirror dimension

Peter parker 🤝 wanda maximoff "I have it all under control" (while having no clue what they're doing and making things so much worse for themselves)

Sinister 5 wondering why MJ is wearing half a shirt bc they've got no experience with crop tops being popular yet

SANDMAN LOOKING AT THE PICTURE OF MORGAN STARK AND THINKING OF HIS DAUGHTER

Sandman "I don't trust anyone" who trusted Peter immediately and helped him stop max

Otto gets the new chip in his neck and starts singing "If I were a rich man" from Fiddler

Intro to the hybrid nanotechnology suit, my favorite suit to use in the PS4-5 GAMES

Happy Hogan I could never hate you

"Something feels off" Max that's anxiety.

THE APARTMENT BUILDING FIGHT SCENE TAKING CHOREOGRAPHY FROM THE PS4 GAME

Happy hogan crying out for Peter will always get me

Conners only getting one liners lmao

Me hoping May gets out anyways

Sure is a good thing those pumpkin bombs don't turn people into skeletons anymore LMAO

sm nwh, or as I like to call it, the longest and worst 24 hours of Peter parkers life

Sorry, did Ned WATCH strange do that movement

Clapping for Andrew!!!

THE WEBB THEME SONG FOR ANDREW IN THE BACKGROUND

Clapping for Tobey!

ELFMAN THEME SONG FOR TOBEY

In another universe I can see Avengers tower being Peter's safe space but whatever

I can't stand MJ as portrayed by Kirsten dunst. Just yeah

Lmao Ned will be hobgoblin in the future mark my words

Andrew "I want to see the holes" Garfield you will always be famous

Every conversation between the 3 Peter's

Rmemeber when they tried to get people to think it was only Tom Holland in the fight scene in the trailer? Lol (what hit the lizard? Must have been debris)

WHAT IS CONNERS TRYING TO DO TO ANDREW? LICK HIM????? PUT THAT TONGUE AWAY

MICHAEL GIACCHINO FLAWLESSLY COMBINING HIS TWO SCORES FOR DR STRANGE I LOVE YOU

Miles morales mention I love you

Does doc ock have transitions glasses or did he just change sunglasses to signify him not being evil anymore

Andrews Peter dropping it low when landing in front of strange

CLAPPING FOR ANDREW CATCHING MJ

MULTIVERSE!! BLACK CAT, SCORPION, RHINO, KRAVEN, MYSTERIO

this movie is so Stephen strange's fault

The fight being on captain America's shield, another morally righteous hero who will fight people to near death when his loved ones are threatened thank you civil war character foil, I could so talk more about this someone please ask me to.

Nothing I love more than watching a morally good hero fall into hatred and revenge and almost kill someone on a rampage

Tobey let Tom murder green goblin 2k24

Did all the other villains just sit and watch Osborn get the crap beat out of him lmao

Why does Tobey give me Steve from blue clues vibes. Anyone else? No? Okay

Always tempted to leave the movie before the final spell is cast

Wong wouldn't have let this happen if he was around...

The final handshake gets me every time.

People audibly crying at goodbyes

Bye villains! Have fun being cured but going back to right before you died so you die anyways!!!

WHY DIDNT PETWR STAY THERE??? He knew from the get go that he wasn't going to tell them

Whelp time to go read fix it fics!!!

May having the same gravestone as the video game.

I love this movie. Love the end credits scene that WASNT a trailer.

Once again in theatres to watch Spider-Man No Way Home (this will make it 5 times I've seen it in theatres)! Hoping that this is the more fun stuff version!!!!!

[casuallyimagining]

Fix You (1)

hybrid!Min Yoongi x female!reader

Summary: When you take in a stray cat, you have no idea he’s secretly a hybrid trying to escape his past. Can you help him heal?  Genre: hurt/comfort, angst, slow burn, fluff Word Count: 3,660 Rating: M Warnings (may not appear in every part): minor character is a dick to animals, mentions of a gun, main character injury (non-serious), discussion of physical abuse, emotional abuse, discussion of sexual abuse, discussion of self-harm

Notes: This is for the March project for @thebtswritersclub. The prompt word was ‘adventure’ and I mean, what’s more of an adventure than adopting a pet? Banner by @birbdae; thanks to @voiceswithoutlips, @taetaesbaebaepsae​, @hoebii​ and @aroseforyoongi for editing various parts of this for me.

Previous | Masterlist | Next

“That cat got into Rick’s chickens again. Killed a couple chicks. He said he’s going to kill it if he sees it on his property.”

Your dad had said it nonchalantly, barely glancing over his newspaper. Without a second thought, you were out the door. There was no way to be sure, not really, but the sinking feeling in your stomach made you run a little faster down your parents’ driveway.

You could have sworn you saw that cat slinking under Rick’s fence on your walk earlier.

Rick’s property neighbored that of your parents, but you wouldn’t necessarily consider him their neighbor. If you stood on their front porch, you could just barely make out Rick’s house through the stand of trees that served as the property line. Your parents had chosen to let their piece of the world be natural, carving out just enough space for a house and a decent sized yard all those years ago. It had made for some great childhood adventures in the woods: pretending fairies were real, living out your childhood fantasies of being some sort of wizard, making friends with the trees--normal kid stuff.

Rick, on the other hand, had turned his land into farmland, even though he neither farmed nor cared for the land. The vast rolling fields of Rick’s “farm” were mostly bare. He had a pond in one corner on the other side of the property, and he had a small cabin for hunting when game season started. Mostly, though, Rick raised chickens. Annoying things, the chickens were, not unlike Rick himself. It wasn’t uncommon to hear the hens’ incessant clucking from your parents’ house, and the roosters never seemed to shut up.

When you moved to the city to attend college, you were elated to get away from the chickens.

According to your dad, the cat had showed up in the woods a few weeks ago, and it had made an enemy out of Rick almost immediately. The poor thing was skinny--too skinny, like it had been living on the streets for a while--and though its dark fur was ruddy and matted, you could tell it would be a beautiful onyx if taken care of.

As you got closer to Rick’s farm, you heard barking and a sharp yowl, and you hurried in the direction of the sounds, afraid of what you’d find. Rounding the corner of the chicken coop, you gasped in horror.

Rick stood with his back to you, shotgun in his hands. His dog, an old bird hound with caramel spotted fur, had the cat clutched in his mouth, the dog’s teeth sunk directly into the cat’s shoulder. The cat, to its credit, had puffed itself up greatly, its tail nearly double its normal size. It was growling and hissing, and, despite the pain it was almost certainly in, was swiping at the dog with its front claws.

“Call your dog off, Rick.” Your voice was steadier than you thought it would be. You were out of breath from the run over there, and being anywhere near Rick with a gun and his snarling dog made you a little uneasy.

“Fuck off.” The man barely turned his head to you. “Damn cat’s been a pain in my ass since someone dumped it here. It killed four of my chicks.”

“Look at it. Of course it’s going after your chickens. You don’t keep them in their coop. It’s starving.”

“Damn thing should stay at your soft-ass parents’ house if it wants handouts.” Rick cocked his gun, pointing it at the cat. The cat’s copper eyes flashed to Rick at the sound. It looked terrified.

The fact that it knew what a gun was and knew to be afraid of it broke your heart a little bit.

“Call off the dog,” you said again, taking a step toward him, hands splayed out in front of you placatingly. “Calm down. I’ll get the cat out of your hair, and you won’t have to worry about it again.”

“Ain’t going to replace my chickens.” Rick’s voice was gruff, but he lowered the gun.

“I’ll pay for your chickens. Just call off your dog.”

He stared at the cat, the gun clutched in his hands but no longer pointing it at anything. For a second, you thought he was going to sicc the dog on the poor thing just to spite you and make a point. You had a feeling he was the type of person to do that. But after a tense stare down, he whistled through his teeth.

“Drop it,” he commanded the dog. The dog looked to its owner, and he repeated the command. It took a second, but the dog released its bite, and the cat slumped to the ground. Rick regarded the cat with a sneer before turning to you. “Take care of that thing. If I see it on my property one more time, it won’t be so lucky.”

You nodded tensely, and he whistled again. The dog trotted over to Rick’s side and the two walked off. You stared after him for a moment. A pained yowl drew your attention back to the cat.

The cat looked angry, and you didn’t blame it. Its tail was still puffed up, and you could tell that if it hadn’t just been attacked by a dog, its hackles would be straight up. Its copper eyes glared at you, its ears flat against its head. You approached cautiously, and it growled deeply in its throat.

“Hey, it’s okay,” you soothed, crouching down to make yourself less threatening. “I’m going to get you help. Is that okay?”

The cat hissed at you and attempted to back away. It made two limping steps before collapsing into the mud around the coop.

“That’s alright. It’s okay.” You sighed, unsure of your next steps. You didn’t want to traumatize the cat by coming any closer, and you really didn’t want to risk injuring it further by picking it up and having it fight you.

You looked at the cat, blinking slowly when you accidentally made eye contact with it. You had read somewhere that blinking was a way to show a cat that you weren’t a threat, and though you felt kind of silly, at this point, you were willing to try anything.

“What am I going to do with you, kitty?” you questioned, sitting down in the mud. The cat looked at you curiously, as if asking what the fuck you were doing. “I don’t want Rick to hurt you,” you confessed. “I’d like to take you somewhere safe.”

Truthfully, that was part of the reason why you were even visiting your parents. Your mom had told you about the cat, and how it didn’t seem to be wearing any collar, and while you were visiting them you wanted to try to trap it, either to bring it to live with you, or to take it to a nice shelter where it could get a good meal and hopefully find a nice family.

“Can I take you to the vet, at least?” You really were desperate, talking to the cat as if it understood what you were saying. The cat, to its credit, looked at you, copper eyes staring into your face before it blinked, just once, slowly and deliberately.

When you reached out to it, it didn’t growl.

You stood and approached the cat, doing your best not to make any sudden moves. You scooped it up gently, careful not to jostle his left shoulder too much, and cradled it close to your chest.

The walk back to your parents’ house was slow, but the trip to the vet was even slower.

It was a weekend, so the vet in your parents’ sleepy little suburb was closed. You had no choice but to pack your bags back up and make the trek home to the city to take the cat to the 24/7 emergency veterinary hospital.

You tapped your hand on the steering wheel. Traffic wasn’t usually this terrible on a weekend, but there was some sort of sporting event happening, so of course, all the roads into the city were clogged.

Stopped at a red light, you spared a glance toward your passenger seat. The cat laid on his side--it was a him, your mother had confirmed--his breathing labored. You could tell he was still on edge. His tail was still puffed up like a cat-of-nine-tails, and he kept eyeing you warily. But he had let you wrap him in a blanket and carry him to your car, and he had stayed on the seat, almost like he knew it was the safest place for him.

“Almost there, kitty,” you mumbled, changing lanes, finally free of the congestion. “Hang on just a little longer.”

Thankfully, the vet wasn’t busy, and you were able to get in with the assistant almost right away. You explained everything that had happened to her as she examined the cat, tutting slightly as she checked his shoulder.

“There are some punctures, but nothing that’s too worrying. I can bandage it and give you some antibiotics.” The assistant pulled her hand back as the cat swatted at her for touching his shoulder a little too forcefully. “Do you know if he has an owner? It would be helpful to know his shot records.”

You shook your head. “He just showed up in the woods one day.”

“We’ll get him a full round of vaccines, then, too.” Copper eyes met yours, and for a second, you thought you saw a look of concern cross them. But then he blinked, and it was gone.

The vet ordered an MRI, and thankfully, because it was a large veterinary hospital connected with the local university, they were able to do it the same day. So you ended up staying at the vet for two hours as they anesthetized the cat and did the scan. While the cat was waking up, the vet called you into the exam room.

“We checked for a microchip, and there was none,” the vet--Dr. Jung--informed you, his brow furrowed. “Based on the cat’s malnutrition and the condition of the coat, it’s likely he was a stray for at least a few months.” You nodded. The poor cat. “We should have the MRI results soon. I’ll give you a call in a few hours once I get a chance to read them. Normally, since he’s a stray, we would contact our foster network to see if anyone would be able to take him in. But since you brought him in-”

“I’ll keep him,” you said quickly. You were planning on it anyway. Just because he was hurt didn’t mean you were willing to give him up.

“Good.” Dr. Jung smiled at you. “My assistant is wrapping his shoulder now, and we’d like to just monitor him for a few more minutes to make sure he’s coming out of the anesthesia well, but you should be clear to take him home after that.” He placed a box on the table between you. “This is Clavamox. One millilitre twice a day for seven days. I don’t think he’ll develop an infection, but since he was so dirty, I think it’s probably better to be safe.” You nodded and pocketed the box. “We also gave him a rabies shot while he was here. It’s standard because he was bitten. If you notice any symptoms, please call us immediately. Once he’s feeling better, we can get him the rest of the vaccines he needs.”

You nodded. This was a lot all at once. And you didn’t even know what you wanted to call the cat yet.

Dr. Jung seemed to be able to tell you were feeling overwhelmed, because he offered you a comforting smile and patted your shoulder. “I’m going to go check on him. You can come if you want.”

As soon as you entered the room, groggy copper eyes were on you. The poor thing looked stoned out of his mind, but there was recognition there, and that gave you some comfort. At least he wasn’t glaring at you anymore. Dr. Jung’s assistant had wrapped his shoulder, so he had a bandage from his upper left front leg wrapped all the way around his chest and up around his shoulders.

“What are we going to do with you, kitty?” you questioned softly, reaching out and gently placing your hand on his head.

After checking the cat’s vitals one last time, Dr. Jung let you leave.

He was limp in your arms as you carried him into your apartment, still a little drugged up from the anesthesia. The whole way back to your apartment, he had sat in the passenger seat and looked out the window like a drunk, moody college student.

“It’s up to you if you want to stay, kitty,” you told him, gently laying him down on your couch as soon as you kicked your shoes off. Of course you wanted to keep him. You had grown attached to him in the few hours you had been with him. But if he was miserable, you were willing to help him find somewhere that was more suited for his needs.

He tried to stand, succeeding only long enough to give a dramatic wobble before collapsing back into the overstuffed cushion. While he was completely recovered from the anesthesia, Dr. Jung had warned you that the cat might be feeling the side effects for a day or so. You reached out to pet him, but his copper eyes slanted into a glare, and you pulled back.

Assuming the cat was hungry, you left him alone and headed into the kitchen. You had some chicken in the fridge, and you thought maybe he would enjoy some fresh meat he didn’t have to steal. You weren’t sure when his last real meal was, so you wanted to go easy on his digestive system until you knew he was feeling better. You’d have to stop and get cat food at some point, but for now, chicken would do.

You did your best to trim off all the fat from the chicken breast. You knew he wouldn’t mind eating it--cats ate weirder things from fresh kills, after all--but you figured with how thin he was, lean meat would probably be better. Carefully, you cut it up into small, easy-to-chew chunks and put some on a plate, wrapping the rest and putting it into the fridge for later. You used a dropper to evenly spread the required dose of the antibiotics onto the chicken in hopes that it would make it easier to give him the medicine.

Returning to the living room, you noticed that the cat hadn’t moved aside from doing his best to curl up as small as possible in the corner of the couch. You tried not to make eye contact with him as you pulled the blanket from the back of the couch and draped it on the cushions. You weren’t particularly keen on having raw chicken all over your furniture, but you sat the plate on the blanket anyway. There was no way you trusted the cat to be able to jump down off your couch at this point.

“Here’s some chicken, kitty.” You gestured toward the plate, and he eyed it warily, unmoving. You supposed he would feel more comfortable eating if you weren’t in the room. “Don’t leave it too long--it’ll go bad. I have to go do some work. I’ll be in my office if you need me. It’s just down the hall.”  As you stood up, you paused. You were talking to a cat. You were talking to a cat as if it could understand exactly what you were saying.

Maybe your parents were right. Maybe you had been living alone for too long.

Your mother had suggested you get a hybrid when you first moved to the city--a nice, loyal, protective one, like a German shepherd hybrid or a golden retriever--but you had never gone further than passively looking.

You were happy for the hybrids. A majority of them were still owned, but they could move about their lives freely and without question. It was illegal to treat them as servants, and all ownership had to be consensual, though you weren’t sure how well those rules were enforced. You didn’t really understand how someone could just own a hybrid--they were people, after all, even if their DNA was a little altered. It was weird to you, owning another sentient being like that.

Their lives were certainly much better than they had been. Some hybrids were naturally occurring, but others--a majority of them--had been created by rich and powerful individuals and the government in secret during some shady human experiments in the early 20th century. And, of course, because they were experiments, it created a whole host of problems regarding rights and discrimination.

But despite all the improvements, there was still a long way to go. There was nothing wrong with owning a hybrid if it was consensual, but that didn’t mean you were necessarily comfortable with it.

After a few hours of sitting at your desk working on your most recent graphic design project for work, you turned away and stretched. If you had to stare at the color chartreuse for ten more minutes, you thought you would go blind. It was time to check on the cat anyway, and you wanted to make sure you threw away any chicken that was left on the plate you had given him so he wouldn’t get sick.

When you entered the living room, you were immediately confused. The cat was gone, but so was your blanket. The plate was still on the couch, almost exactly where you left it, but it was entirely empty. Wonderful. You had taken in some sort of Houdini cat.

You grabbed the plate and put it in the sink, trying to look for your blanket as you went. You found it when you returned to the living room, the corner sticking out from under your TV stand. There was just enough space between the bottom shelf and the floor for the cat to fit under, and apparently he had taken the blanket with him. You couldn’t really blame him--it was April, and it was late evening, and your floors were still a little chilly.

“Hey kitty?” you called, bending down to see if you could see him under the shelf. You had thought about it while working, and at this point, you were just going to lean into the whole ‘talking to the cat like he’s a person’ thing. “It’s starting to get late. I’m going to go get ready for bed, okay?” You could just barely see his copper eyes hidden all the way under the TV stand. His pupils were blown wide to capture all the ambient light they could. “You can explore or whatever you’re comfortable with tonight, but please don’t ruin my stuff. Please be a good kitty.”

He blinked once and continued to stare blankly at you.

“Okay, well… if I don’t see you, goodnight.”

You stood and headed off to your bathroom to start your nightly routine. It only took you about a half an hour, but you were soon laying down in bed with your book. You had started it a few days ago, but you were hooked, and you were already almost done with it. The author had managed to somehow insert a space alien robot into today’s modern digital age, and you found it fascinating. You would never look at social media and influencers the same way after reading this book.

It was cozy in your room with the little bedside lamp on, snuggled up in your blankets. Your bed was soft--it was one of those that you could change it using a remote to fit your mood and preference, but you almost always preferred it soft--and you had plenty of blankets and pillows to make it comfortable.

You only had a few pages left when you noticed it, the shadow lingering in the hallway, slowly getting closer to your open bedroom door. It started out against the wall across the hall. When you next looked up after glancing down to your book, the shadow had moved to your doorway. He even had turned his head away like he was pretending it was a coincidence that he had ended up in your room.

He was walking with a slight limp, which was unsurprising given the bandage and the fact that he was attacked not even 12 hours before. He was much more lucid than he was when you first brought him home, though you could tell he was still a little groggy. You didn’t say anything to him--you figured if you did, he would bolt, so you let him do what he wanted.

After a few minutes--maybe 15 or 20--you closed your book quietly, careful not to startle the cat. You glanced at the doorway and didn’t see him, so you put your book on your nightstand and turned off the light. It took you a second, but you snuggled down into the blankets, pulling them tightly around you. You were just about to drift off when you felt it.

Something landed gently on your bed by your feet. It paused for a moment before slowly making its way up the bed to your head, its gait uneven. When it got to the other pillow, it laid down. You risked opening an eye then, and were met with copper eyes staring back at you.

He watched you warily, as if waiting for you to yell or kick him off the bed. When you didn’t, his eyes narrowed, and he slowly allowed himself to lay down, his head on his paws, curled up as best as he could be.

You fell asleep to the sound of him snoring lightly.

As always, your feedback is appreciated. Feel free to pop into my ask box with questions or thoughts about the series. I’d love to hear from you!

Previous | Masterlist | Next