#it's one of the most powerful and universal things ever said in a drama so

[hotasfahrenheit]

[The Sign, 1.09]

[lazysoulwriter]

golden hour at cannes - Pedro Pascal.

requested! thank you. ♡ content: Pedro Pascal x famous!Latina actress!reader, Cannes Film Festival, emotional connection, mutual admiration, red carpet chemistry, “she’s my comfort person” energy, unspoken softness, celebration of Latina identity and glamor.

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She wasn’t new to the game.

You’d been acting for two decades — quietly conquering every room you walked into. From award-winning dramas to crowd-pleasing romantic comedies, you were herself, entirely. Effortless. That Latina softness edged with sharpness. Comfort in heels and a thousand-dollar gown, but soul-deep grounded. Like a late-summer evening in a woman’s body.

People called you the "Sandra Bullock for this generation" — or “Cate Blanchett, but warmer.” You smiled at the comparisons. But truthfully? You were just you.

And Pedro knew it.

He’d known it from the second you showed up to the first table read for Eddington — hair in a low bun, reading glasses on, laughing easily with the crew, switching from English to Spanish with the kind of rhythm that felt like home.

He’d worked with greats. Talented, powerful, unforgettable performers.

But he’d never felt like this. Never walked away from a day on set lighter, like he’d just spent hours with someone who saw him.

“She’s a dream,” he whispered to Emma once. “Like… she makes you feel safe. But in a way that’s exciting too.”

Cannes was your first time reuniting after the shoot. Everyone was there — Austin, Emma, the director — but Pedro’s eyes found you immediately.

You were wearing a deep red gown, something classic but bold, with your hair swept to the side and that smile that made everyone feel like you were already friends.

When you hugged him, it lingered.

“You look beautiful,” he said, close to your ear.

“You clean up nice,” you teased, smoothing his lapel.

The cameras were already snapping — catching the way his hand settled on your lower back like it was instinct, how your faces turned toward each other more than the press. How you gravitated.

Later, during a panel, a journalist asked Pedro about the experience working with such a stacked cast.

He spoke about everyone. But when your name came up?

His voice changed.

“She’s…” He exhaled. “She’s the kind of person who makes you better just by being around. Not just as an actor. As a human.”

You looked over, brows raised playfully. “You getting sentimental, Pascal?”

The audience laughed.

He smiled at you — soft, boyish. “It was the most comfortable I’ve ever felt on set. Ever. And I mean that.”

The crowd “awww’d.”

You looked down, clearly a little flustered. Not by the compliment — you’d heard thousands — but by his. Because it was real. And warm. And from a man who wasn’t just talking. He was feeling it.

At the afterparty, under the Cannes night sky, the two of you ended up on a balcony with champagne glasses and tired smiles.

“You know,” you murmured, swirling the bubbles, “I don’t get that kind of softness from people often.”

He looked over. “You deserve it. You give it.”

You bumped his shoulder. “You always this sincere with your costars?”

He smirked. “Only the ones I never want to stop working with.”

And that was the thing — it wasn’t just about the film. It was about how you felt like home. How your Spanish was the kind that sang when it curled around his name. How, standing next to you in the glow of flashbulbs, he didn’t feel like a character actor or a meme or a man still learning how to belong in these rooms.

He felt seen.

And he knew — from that night on — that if the universe let him, he’d do a thousand more red carpets with you.

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✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

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taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @kellyxo1 @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure @barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512 let me know if u want to me on the taglist!

[pixel-percy]

🎬 Newly divorced actor, Cooper Howard, finds comfort in his personal assistant when he needs it the most. 🎬

🎬 Word Count: 19.6k 🎬 Music Vibes: West Coast Love by Emotional Oranges 🎬 Warning(s): Smut (piv/unprotected, brief mention of others), very light exhibitionism, make-outs/heavy petting, semi-canon universe, post-divorce drama (+ the angst that comes with it), brief alcoholism, accusations of infidelity, age gap (consensual, reader mid-20s), workplace power imbalance (consensual), & brief mention of blood 🎬 A/N: Holy shit. I did it. This is the longest fic I've ever written & it's complete! Pretty sure I started this back in June or July & have been working on it on & off ever since. I'm dropping this with a light proof read so if you spot any mistakes, no you don't lol May also add to the warnings if I feel like I missed any, but, yeah. I had such a blast writing for pre-Ghoul Cooper so I hope you enjoy it as much as I do <3

The moment you stepped into Cooper’s house, the scent of cigarettes washed over you and the steady sound of idle chatter filled your ears. Most of the attendees ignored you in favor of rubbing elbows with potential business partners and movie deals and, those who did recognize you, greeted you with warm smiles and sometimes exuberant shouts of your name. You did your best to return each greeting—a cheek kiss here, a handshake there, a narrow dodge of an errant hand guided by booze—and maneuvered through the crowd expertly. You hadn’t spotted him yet.

A hand on your elbow called your attention toward the feeling and you managed to catch a glimpse of Sebastian Leslie, one of Cooper’s close friends, as he leaned close to your ear. You smiled, mostly for the attendees, and leaned into him a bit, hand against his forearm. Curious eyes passed over you both momentarily but moved on just as quickly when they realized who you two were.

“He gave her the divorce papers before the party,” he whispered loud enough for you only to hear. “It’s been an hour and he hasn’t shown his face once.”

Your smile hadn’t faltered for a moment, adjusting his ascot and squeezing his upper arm reassuringly.

“I got it,” you said and turned away from Sebastian. Truthfully, you didn’t know if you did have it, this entire thing with Barb had him acting distant and slightly cold to everyone that wasn’t Janey.

You’d done your best to just stay out of his way, handled anything that was asked of you without much complaint, and generally just tried to make his life easier while he navigated the treacherous terrain that had become his home life. Which is what made this all the more difficult—the Vault-Tec deal, his new movie, and the party at hand at the result of them both. Hollywood stars and scientists mingled all in the same space awaiting the man of the hour… unaware of what was happening behind closed doors. But that was a problem for tomorrow you and tomorrow Cooper.

“Nice dress, by the way,” Sebastian commented. It was, in fact, the nicest thing you currently owned, even if it had been the very thing you wore under your college graduation gown a few years prior. White and gold, with swirls and florals, no sleeves, a modest front, and a deep v in the back that stopped at a bow. The skirt was asymmetrical, showing off your legs and a pair of cute heels you saved for parties like this. You were a P.A not a starlet after all. You did a little twirl for Sebastian which earned some laughter from you both before you left him completely.

The greetings continued on your path toward the stairs that you knew would lead up to his bedroom, the most likely place he’d be holed up in. Glasses clinked and boisterous laughter carried over the soft music, while you made your way up to the second floor where the partygoers hadn’t dared tread. The sounds of the party muffled with every step into the dimly lit hallway, framed movie posters lining the walls toward the door at the end of the path, ajar enough to let a sliver of light pour out. You reached out your hand to rap lightly on the wood.

“Mr. Howard?” you tried. A small, familiar woof hit your ears and soon you spotted a curious nose, sniffs loud, and tail wagging furiously. “Hey, Roosevelt,” you said affectionately, the door opening naturally as you offered him pets. “Where’s your dad at huh?” Roosevelt pulled away and went back into the room as if requesting you to follow. You did so cautiously, not wanting to intrude if Cooper wasn’t decent, and closed the door behind you. “Mr. Howard?” you called again.

“In here!” he finally answered back.

You moved further into the space until you spotted him in front of the large mirror beside his bed, a deep blue shimmery tie dangling from his neck and a yellow one with polka dots that he was holding up for comparison in one of his free hands. He sighed.

“So you’ve been stuck in here for an hour picking a tie?” you asked lightly, a soft smile on your lips. He spotted you in the mirror and gave a halfhearted chuckle.

“I guess so,” he said. You could tell he was deflated, and rightfully so. The blue of his attire was so deep it was almost black—on brand as always but subtle enough to feel like he was mourning something. Appropriate but in combination with his tone, it made you feel sad. He wasn’t just your boss for the last couple of years, he was your friend, and you cared about him, about his family. It hurt you to see them being torn apart like this but you knew it had to be for a reason… a world-shattering one to bring divorce into it.

You stepped a bit closer, smile and tone still soft.

“May I, Mr. Howard?” you asked and held out a hand. Cooper turned to you with heavy eyes, lingering on your face in a way that made you want to pull him into a tight hug, but you resisted. He held out the tie for you to take and you did so, approaching him and laying the fabric gently against his shoulder to compare. You could feel his eyes on your face as you contemplated between the two items that had supposedly kept him in his bedroom this long.

“Be honest with me…” he whispered. “Did I royally fuck this all up?” Your eyes tilted up to his, a tight-lipped smile growing as you considered him. It was a vulnerable question. He was hurting, you could see it in the way he held himself, the slouched shoulders, semi-puffy eyelids, and the tone of his words. Meaningful conversations were not uncommon for the two of you, especially when he felt out of his depth about something or needed reassurance, but you hadn’t expected him to even mention the divorce to you right now.

“I think…” you started, cautious again. “You love Janey and Barb, so so much.” Your fingers wrapped around the tie that’d been hanging loosely around his neck so you could gently remove it. His eyes flicked to your movements briefly before returning to your face. You tossed the pieces of fabric onto the dresser. “And if whatever made you feel like this was the right course of action… Well…” You adjusted the collar of his shirt—the top two buttons were undone already in that casual style he liked—and brushed the shoulders of his deep blue, velvety blazer. You looked him directly in the eye. “I think you should trust your gut.”

Cooper returned the gaze. He nodded slowly, your words absorbed like water in limestone. You stepped back and removed your hands from his shoulders, but stopped when you felt his fingers wrap around your wrist, just enough pressure to keep you from turning away. He gave you the biggest smile he could muster and put both his hands over yours.

“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for being here. For everythin’ lately.”

“Of course,” you replied and squeezed his hands back with yours. It felt like he was tethering himself back to reality in a way, the veil of his pain and heartache lifting enough for him to feel a little closer to normal. Only a little though. “You sure you want to go out there? I can tell ‘em all to scram if you really want me to,” you offered, tone playful though you fully meant it. That earned an amused huff out of him and he released you, the warmth from his palms lingering on your skin.

“Nah, s’alright,” he said. You reached for the whiskey glass on the dresser that he looked to have been sipping from before you arrived; it was just under halfway full. The ice clinked against the sides of the glass as you handed it to him.

“I guess you’d better get out there, Mr. Howard.”

“It’d seem so,” he said, taking the glass from you. You watched him close his eyes and inhale deeply, finding his center again. Roosevelt whined softly from his dog bed. “Alright,” he muttered a little reluctantly. Cooper took a couple steps past you and you were content to follow behind him had he not stopped, your name leaving his lips as a question.

“Yes?”

“Just…” He nibbled at the inside of his lip and offered you his elbow. “Just Cooper tonight, alright? I need somebody to treat me like a normal person.”

“Sure thing, Cooper,” you said with a smile, taking the offer and giving him a reassuring squeeze.

“Thank you.” Cooper shifted his shoulders beside you, no doubt holding all of his tension there, and you made a mental note to schedule a spa day for him. You both walked toward the door. “You look lovely by the way, m’sure Sebastian was makin’ eyes at you.”

“Sebastian Leslie can keep his eyeballs to himself,” you said with a roll of your eyes and a smile. “I’m not interested.”

“Look at you, breakin’ the hearts of Hollywood’s most eligibles,” he said. You dug your elbow playfully into his side. “Come on, back to the wolves we go.”

“Last chance. I can still run ‘em off,” you said.

“You’re a terrifyin’ lil’ force of nature, but, unfortunately, these investors' pocketbooks are what’s gonna keep the lights on.”

“Then let’s put that movie star charm to good use,” you said.

“You think I’m charmin’? Psh. I remember distinctly hearin’ you call me a pain in the ass on set the other day,” he joked, sipping his whiskey.

“That’s because you were being a pain in the ass,” you responded coolly.

“Yeah… Yeah, I was,” he laughed—a genuine sound you were happy to hear given the circumstances���as the two of you left the room and traversed the hallway decorated in Cooper’s accolades back toward the bustling party.

Months had passed since the night of the party, tension inevitably brewing between Cooper and Barb every time he’d double or triple down on the divorce. You’d stayed out of their way, performing the necessary functions asked of you like you had already started to do, and offered an ear when asked of you. Barb never did though. In fact, it felt like she avoided you completely, probably because you were essentially an extension of Cooper by job, even when you did your best to show you held no animosity toward her.

You still didn’t know why Cooper even wanted the divorce. It wouldn’t have been fair to him, her, or Janey if you treated her differently. So you stayed quiet and offered pleasantries she often barely acknowledged. The day the divorce was finalized you had been waiting outside of the courthouse for Cooper, an unpleasant backdrop of paparazzi waiting for them to depart so they could prey on their misery.

Barb was the first to exit, sunglasses covering her eyes, but they didn’t block the passing look she gave you that felt like you had been stabbed in the chest. You’d learned that you were just another ‘casualty’ of the divorce, because not only would Cooper have gotten you regardless, but he also got primary custody of Janey too. So she was probably pissed. Even Cooper didn’t offer much, understandably so, requesting to be taken home immediately and to be left alone for the rest of the day.

All you could do was frown and try not to take it personally… but it was certainly hard not to at times.

Now, you felt your nerves ignite as you turned the engine of the car off in front of Barb’s new house. It was a deep feeling in your chest but one you couldn’t let get the better of you. So, you climbed out of your car, went around the other side, and opened up the back door for Janey whose expression had been sunken every day since the divorce.

You did your best to give her some normalcy when you could, to ease just how bad the divide between Cooper and Barb actually was, but no amount of ice cream, roller rinks, and other well-intentioned distractions could do that. Especially when her parents had both dived deeply into their work as their way to escape the pain.

“You want me to carry your backpack?” you asked, watching as the young girl fidgeted with her fingers.

“I don’t wanna go with, Mommy,” she muttered, practically a whisper. Your expression shifted into a frown but you expected this to happen at some point. Using the door to keep your balance in your heels—opting for a more casual pencil skirt and button-up combo today—you squatted beside her.

“Why not?” you asked. She shifted again, hesitating.

“I dunno, she’s just, never really home so I have to stay with Miss Leah most of the time.”

“But Miss Leah is nice though, isn’t she?”

“I guess,” she said. “But… But I have more fun with you and Daddy.” Your heart dropped a little. “Miss Leah doesn’t take me to the roller rink like you do.”

“It’s not a competition hun,” you said softly, which only made her frown. You held out your hands, palm up, and waited. Despite not being a child of divorce, you’d seen the repercussions of it in your friends growing up, and you could certainly empathize with her. After a few moments, she placed her hands into yours and you gave her a comforting squeeze, a tight-lipped smile on your lips. “Your parents are trying their best. I know that’s not what you want to hear right now, but I promise you it’s true.”

“Why did they get divorced?” she asked, small tears building in her eyes. This wasn’t a conversation you’d expected to have right now but, honestly, you couldn’t blame her… Your hands squeezed hers again.

“Unfortunately, I can’t answer that for them,” you said.

Janey’s mouth opened to say something else but her eyes flicked behind you and it closed immediately. You had a feeling you knew why so you gave her shoulder a little rub before standing, guess confirmed by the sound of a pair of heels behind you.

Barb, who’d left her porch to make her way down the walkway toward you both, eyes on her daughter.

“Janey, baby,” she said, arms open and waiting. Janey’s eyes flicked to you for the briefest moment as she hopped out of the car and embraced her mother. 

“Hi, Mommy,” she responded.

You closed the door behind her, a little terrified to face Barb fully just from the general feelings you were getting, but you did so with hands on your hips and a smile.

“Hello,” you said. Her gaze turned to you, your name leaving her mouth in such a way that you could feel your nerves surge for a moment and a knot twist in your stomach. You cleared your throat. “Uh, Cooper said he’s going to pick her up next Sunday once his shoots are done—”

“Cooper?” she asked, smile twisting in a way that felt dangerous. You furrowed your eyebrows in slight confusion. “No more ‘Mister Howard’?... Interesting.”

Oh.

Oh no.

“Barb,” you tried, cautiously casual as you tried to deflect whatever she was trying to say.

“You can tell, Cooper,” she said and you took a deep breath. “We agreed on Friday.” Janey looked between you two. Your heart pounded. Nothing had happened between you two, where was this coming from? You’d never even entertained the idea of something like that nor had Cooper ever tried. He was your boss, this was his family, and your function was to make their lives as easy as you could.

“Yes, but he’ll be on set every day and I have to be there too, so he was hoping—”

Barb held up her hand. Your jaw clenched.

“Next time he needs to change his mind about our agreed schedule, he can call me himself instead of sending you.”

“He tried, but you didn’t pick up,” you said. Janey looked up to her mother before leaving her grip and making her way inside. Barb’s gaze followed her until she heard the door close and then turned back to you. Before she could say anything else, it was you who held up a hand. “I have nothing but respect for you, Barb. I always have. I’m just trying to help.”

“I’m sure you are,” Barb said, venom in her tone.

“Barb, please—”

“Just let him know I’ll figure it out. I always do,” she said and promptly turned away. You didn’t say anything in return, simply watched her disappear into the house, and you took a long, steadying breath. Your hands were shaking still when you climbed back into the driver’s seat.

The set was abuzz when you arrived, a stack of papers—a new version of the film’s script for Cooper to review—in the crook of one of your arms and a black coffee in your opposite hand. You weaved through all the busy bees, giving a few friendly nods, and headed directly for the trailers.

It was just before midday when you arrived on the lot, less shaken than your initial drive over from Barb’s, but still haunted by her words and expressions. You were completely innocent, never sparing a glance in Cooper’s direction in a way less than professional. He was never uncouth and never made an errant comment in your direction, his eyes were always on Barb. It wounded some part of you to know she thought you would do that to her.

Cooper Howard was your boss. That was that.

Your knuckles rapped at the door, the contents of the cup sloshing.

“Mr. Howard?” you tried over the sounds of all the bustling workers. Your knuckles hit the door again, this time so hard the coffee slipped out of the lid and almost threatened to stain the script gripped opposite of it. “Cooper?”

Still nothing.

An impatient sigh left you and, instead of waiting for his reply, you expertly utilized your fingers to open the door and stepped inside. The trailer was cool enough to combat the heat outside, a welcome reprieve, and it didn’t take you long to find Cooper. Your jaw clenched.

He was sprawled out on the dark leather couch, head propped up on the arm, and half-dressed in his costume for the movie. The spurs of the boot he had up on the other arm dug into the material, pants on with the top button popped, and his shirt completely undone which exposed his chest. It was like he’d made an attempt to get ready but never finished. His signature white cowboy hat was tilted down over his eyes.

“Cooper,” you said, trying to be firm enough to get his attention. His chest moved steadily up and down and when you took a step toward him, the distinct smell of whiskey hit your nose. Then you spotted it, a glass on the floor with his fingers loosely around the edges as though forgotten in his slumber. A tinge of frustration rippled through you and if you were honest with yourself, some disappointment, and it took all of your willpower and respect for Cooper not to just rip him off the couch and onto the floor. “Cooper.” Your voice was louder, tone much firmer, as you gave the boot dangling to the floor a nice kick.

“What the hell—” Cooper’s words slurred a little as he fixed his hat. “Oh, hey sweetheart.” The nickname fell on unappreciative ears and tumbled into the tension building in the space.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you said, irritation rising in your chest. “Are you drunk right now? When you’re supposed to be on set in 45 minutes?”

“Just had a coupl’a sips of whiskey s’all,” he responded, accent thicker than usual and riddled with sleep. With a controlled but frustrated sigh, you slapped the script onto the nearest surface—a little more gentle with the coffee—and stood next to the couch with your hands on your hips.

“Just a coupl’a sips,” you mocked. Cooper peaked out from under his hat.

“Hey, now, that ain’t nice,” he said as he pointed one of his index fingers at you. You moved the whiskey glass next to the coffee.

“Nice?” You gave an indignant huff, reaching down to grab onto his forearm. “You’re making my job a lot harder than it should be right now.” Cooper’s head lolled lazily, just like the rest of him, but he made what appeared to be an effort when you pulled him off the couch and to his feet. He wobbled, chest hairs tickling your hand as you tried to steady him. “I don’t have to be nice. I have to get you out on that soundstage.”

Cooper chuckled, the smell of liquor wafting over your nostrils, and said, “There she is. My own personal force’a nature.”

You looked up at his face finally, intending to show him just how much destruction you wanted to cause, and felt something unfamiliar pang throughout your body. It sat uncomfortably in your chest.

“Could topple’a building with that damn look,” he muttered.

Your heart thundered in your chest. This was the closest you’d ever been to Cooper for more than the few seconds a hug required—and you were hyper-aware of your hand still on his chest. You didn’t know what to do. You’d never seen him drunk like this, messy, let alone on set. He was always so professional, polite, and just generally kind to most people. You could almost always count on him to be in his right mind.

You pulled your hand away from him, only to feel him place his own over yours to keep it against his chest. Your entire body tensed.

“Cooper,” you warned, eyes holding his. The rich green-brown of his were muted by the shadow of his hat and minimal light in the trailer, but nothing could hide the way they searched your entire face and lingered on your lips. “You’re drunk.”

“Only a couple’a sips—”

“Your demeanor would beg to differ—”

“What’s it to ya, huh? Why do’ya care if I am?” he asked, drunken defensiveness in his tone. That struck you in a way that snapped you out of the haze you were teetering on the edge of. You pulled your hand away from him and took a full step back. A long breath released from your lungs, nostrils flaring. “Cooper Howard needs to be the prize fuckin’ horse all the time, huh?”

“Sugarfoot is the prize horse,” you responded in the same dry tone you’d provided Barb earlier in the day. Cooper swayed in place and chewed on the inner part of his lip while he considered you. Your dismissal wasn’t meant to be hurtful but you’d dealt with enough of the shockwaves of this divorce for one day. 

“Then make the horse say the fuckin’ lines.”

“Maybe we should if you’re going to be drunk in your trailer—” You checked your watch, a gift for your first anniversary of working for him. “—Now 30 minutes before your call time.” Cooper sucked his teeth in response. “What happened to make you do this? Was it the director? Vault-Tec?... Barb?”

“Watch it now,” Cooper warned as he pointed at you again and took a step closer. You stood your ground.

“Or what, Mr. Howard?” you asked with a bit more venom, your frustration starting to boil over. “You're gonna fire the only person aside from your daughter who’s been truly looking out for you? Especially since the divorce?” Your hand moved, smacking his index finger away from you. His expression shifted momentarily, taken aback by the gesture. “I’ve already had to dodge Janey’s unanswerable questions about her parents and deal with Barb’s accusations today. So if you want to make an ass out of yourself on set, you sure as shit can do it on your own.”

You turned to leave. Cooper said your name and reached for you.

“No,” you said sternly with a face contorted in anger. “Sort your shit out and maybe I’ll see you on set tomorrow.” You opened the door but stopped just at the bottom of the steps when you heard your name again, turning ever so slightly to look at him. Cooper’s expression had shifted into one that was difficult to parse. A mixture of sadness and anger if you had to guess.

“Please… Don’t go,” he pleaded. The words hit you in the chest, posture straightening reflexively, and a frown on your lips as you shook your head.

“I won’t be your emotional punching bag,” you responded.

With that, you left the trailer and made the trek back through the set. A few eyes followed after you, confusion evident on their brow, but no one said a word. Except for the director who asked where Cooper was and where you were going.

“He’s still getting ready. Give him an extra 15. As for me, I’m taking the rest of the day off,” you said. The tone of your response must have made him think twice about pushing for more information, especially with the way your heels thudded against the ground with every purposeful step you took across the lot.

The heat was becoming unbearable for a reason that had to be solely influenced by your heightened emotions. In the back of your mind, Barb’s accusations rung loud and clear. Your fingers tingled with the memory of being on his chest, the thin sheen of sweat that had built up in his sleep dampening your skin… you rubbed the pads of each finger together subconsciously. 

Cooper Howard was your boss. That had to be that.

The silence in your home was broken by the television and the soft snores of your golden retriever, Oliver, who’d cuddled up against your legs once you’d settled in for the night. You were half paying attention to the game show you’d landed on, mostly providing background noise as you scribbled notes in a book about screenplay writing.

It was a pastime of yours, a comfort really, something reserved for the quiet hours of your day. Some didn’t understand, like your parents, why you worked for a movie star daily, helped with movies and scripts, and still came home to read books about it all.

Thankfully, you didn’t have to deal with their questions often now that this was considered ‘your’ house. It was the one you’d grown up in and returned to after college. They thought about selling it numerous times, but since it was so close to Cooper’s—and many other Hollywood elite—they thought it better if you occupied it for now. Retirement was one hell of a paycheck for them and their sun tans were evidence of it every time they came back for the holiday of their choosing. Or sometimes… just not at all.

But you were okay with that.

Your eyes started to get heavy, words blurring on the page, and fingers loosening around your pen. You’d have succumbed to it if a sudden knock on your door didn’t startle both you and Oliver, who barked at the sound. The possibilities of guests this late were slim to none. Solicitors? At this hour? Your home didn’t have a gate like the movie stars around you so it sometimes made them feel bold…

Your eyebrows furrowed but you got to your feet as quietly as possible, adjusting your silk sleep shorts and matching camisole, and tiptoed into the entryway. Oliver followed close behind but stopped just behind you to observe. You moved up onto your tiptoes to gaze through the peephole, loose braid swaying against you with every movement. The person beyond it—

With a quick flick of your wrist, you unlocked the door, inhaled deeply, and pulled it open.

“Mr. Howard,” you said evenly through the medium-sized crack in the door. His lips tightened a little at your intentional professionalism. 

Your eyes floated over him enough to see he was dressed down—the sleeves of his half-untucked blue button-up pulled up messily with the top three buttons undone, worn jeans you rarely saw him in, some even older-looking boots worn with dirt, and hair partially disheveled. In one hand he held a fast food bag with the logo of a chain you loved and in the other, a simple bouquet of your favorite flower.

“What can I do for you?” you added. The same flame you’d felt earlier in the day when you found him in the trailer was a fizzle of embers, barely a wisp of the same feeling. So you’d hear him out at the very least.

“I know it’s late,” he started, taking what you could only assume was a steadying breath. “But… I wanted to say I’m sorry for… earlier.” Cooper wiggled the bag a little in his hand. “If you don’t wanna hear my bullshit tonight I get it, I just figured apologizin’ face to face was better than a phone call—”

You pulled the door open more, wide enough to let him in the house, and he held your gaze for a long moment. The weight of it made you shrink a little, given your attire currently, but you stood as firm as you could beside the door waiting for him to enter.

“Alright,” he whispered. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He finally removed his eyes from your face once he’d stepped inside and Oliver, who’d waited so patiently despite the loud thumps of his tail, bolted to greet Cooper. His entire body wiggled with excitement as he sniffed the man’s legs. “Hey there Ollie,” Cooper said in a slightly higher pitch. “Kitchen’s through here right?” he asked, pointing to a room to the left of the staircase. You nodded as you closed the door. “Don’t worry, I got you a small fry too,” he said to Oliver who eagerly followed beside him to the kitchen.

Once he’d moved out of sight, you rushed back into the living room to grab the silk robe that you’d tossed off of you hours ago, fastening it tightly. You felt some of the self-consciousness dissipate and when you finally entered, you found Cooper opening up the bag of food and pulling out what looked to be two burgers and some fries, which he quickly rewarded Oliver, who’d been sitting patiently next to the island where Cooper had set the food.

“You, uh,  got a vase I can put these in for you?” Cooper asked, nodding toward the bouquet. He seemed a bit timid, eyes on you, almost as if he thought you would regret your hospitality at any moment.

“I got it,” you answered and moved past him to open up one of the cupboards. Upon reaching in, the tips of your fingers grazed a clay vase that you knew. You pulled it down, gently placing it on the counter, and the lights of the kitchen reflected off of the carefully placed recycled pieces of colorful glass shards. It was a little project you’d done alongside Janey, who opted for recycled bottle caps for hers, and was an entire day of work—careful work—while babysitting her the year prior.

“Janey still has hers,” he commented as he placed a fry in his mouth. A smile tugged at the corner of your lips at that, always touched that Janey appreciates the little gestures you do for her. “She made some paper flowers for it, different colors for the people she loves in her life… Your favorite color’s in there too.”

You turned to him then and found him chewing on another fry, eyes flicking up to you. Your hand moved to the side of the vase, gently running your fingers against the material.

“That’s… so sweet,” you said softly.

“She’s real attached to you,” he added, just as soft. You believed that sentiment, you loved Janey, but you couldn’t help but feel how weighted that statement felt. Something was hovering behind it, like a shadow that danced on the edges of the light. His gaze stayed on you, expectant in a way, and that heat from earlier started to return. That tingle on your fingers…

Actual tingles. Pain.

“Ow!” you winced, pulling your hand away from the vase. You raised your hand to your line of sight, deep red trickling down your shaky index finger.

“Shit,” the two of you said in unison. Cooper was next to you in an instant, fingers pulling your hand toward him so he could inspect. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, you’d always known him to be a wonderful, attentive, husband and father, so why wouldn’t he be the same for his friends? But you still found yourself blinking in surprise, watching him intently.

“The hazards of artistic innovation,” you tried to joke. He huffed a laugh while still examining the cut.

“Don’t look too bad. You got a med kit somewhere?”

“Uh, bathroom, upstairs on the right.”

“Alright, go ‘head and wash it off, be right back,” he said and disappeared from the kitchen. Oliver followed him but didn’t leave the entryway to the kitchen, opting to wait within the line of sight of his small bag of fries.

You did as you were instructed and took a few steps toward the empty sink. The water flowed from the faucet onto your finger, blood clearing and flowing into the drain. It stung but your mind was elsewhere, occupied by Cooper’s energy tonight. His apology seemed genuine, the flowers and food thoughtful… 

Maybe you were just in your head about what had happened in the trailer, but you couldn’t put your finger on it. Cooper was your boss so it was usually you doing things like this for him, Janey, hell, even Barb when they were together. Taking care of them. Maybe that was it… Yeah. That was it.

You finished rinsing the cut just as Cooper came back into the kitchen, placing the supplies he’d grabbed on the counter next to you—some rubbing alcohol, ointment, a bandage, and one of the hand towels from your bathroom. He reached for your hand, holding it gently in the palm of his over the sink. The solution hit your finger and you winced a tiny bit.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“It’s alright,” you reassured.

He took the washcloth next and dabbed thoughtfully, eyes on your finger like it was the most important thing in the world.

“I spent some time with Sugarfoot after the shoot. Tried to, uh, clear my head,” he started. You mumbled an ‘mhm’ as you watched his movements, the ointment sliding from the tube to the cut effortlessly. “It felt… wrong, without you there today.” You hummed, still feeling a little strange about seeing him that way. It wasn’t the Cooper you knew and from this talk, it felt like he knew that too.

“I think I might’a…” He sighed, wrapping your finger in the bandage. “I might’a been takin’ advantage of just how much you do for me every day. Keepin’ me on track, takin’ care of Janey…”

You noticed he was done tending to your wound but his hand didn’t move, yours lying in his palm as his fingers gently flexed around it. Your gaze turned up and caught his eyes searching your face for any objections. You surprisingly had none.

“I don’t appreciate you enough,” he said, tone sincere as the words panged in your chest. You couldn’t remember a time when Cooper had done something like this. Minor apologies occurred here and there, of course, but never like this.

“Cooper,” you said. You reflexively turned to look down at your hands, unsure how to react to the intensity of his stare. This was more than the casual breezy times you shared together as his assistant. Especially when you felt his fingers touch your chin to return your gaze to his. It was gentle enough for you to refuse the motion, to pull away, but you found yourself allowing it. That heat was back. It crept up the back of your neck into your cheeks the longer Cooper’s fingers remained on your chin.

“I apologize for my behavior earlier,” he said and dropped his fingers. The places they’d been felt like they’d lost something and you weren’t sure if you were disappointed or not. “You’re not my emotional punchin’ bag. You’re one of the most important people in my life and I don’t want my stupid fuckin’ decisions when I’m upset to drive you away.”

You nibbled on the corner of your lip and considered his words. You’d known him long enough to see through his bullshit and this… this was the furthest thing from that. It was a vulnerable moment for him and you could tell not his proudest either.

“You’re not going to miss your call time tomorrow, right?” you asked. You hadn’t realized just how close you’d been, neck craning a bit to look up at him. He chuckled which instinctively made you smile.

“Yes ma’am,” he said. You rolled your eyes as you finally removed your hand from his—which had remained curled around yours almost the whole conversation—and approached the island. Oliver had fallen asleep while you two were conversing but his head perked up the moment he heard you open the food bag.

“Well, Mr. Howard, we should eat this before it gets even colder,” you said.

“Damn, still in the doghouse then, huh?” he asked, stepping up next to you, shoulder brushing against yours.

“For now,” you joked, looking up at him for a moment. “We’ll see how I feel after you make it to that call time.” You held up his burger and he chuckled, taking it from your grasp.

“Bright and early then,” he conceded. You smiled and took a nice, hearty bite out of your apology burger.

“Lookin’ awful hard at that,” Cooper said from the other side of the hot tub. “Somethin’ I need to worry ‘bout?”

You spared a glance away from the script atop your knees—you weren’t in the hot tub with him, instead perched on the wooden stairs that led down from it. Since filming had wrapped for his most recent movie, you weren’t due on set with him today and opted for a more casual outfit; some shorts that had migrated a bit further down from your knees when you sat, a strapless top that tucked into them, and your hair tied up in a scarf. Your free hand fiddled with the chain of your necklace as you tapped a bare foot against the stairs. 

While the luxuries of the Howard household were open for you to utilize at any point, per Cooper’s explicit reminders as of late, it was too warm and you had business to conduct with him and this script.

“Aside from the fact that it’s pure Vault-Tec slop?” you asked, distaste evident in your tone. He let out a breath of laughter as he took a sip from the gin martini you’d prepared for him. Your own martini glass sat on the tray next to the cup of olives, untouched, as you sat bewildered by the script in your hands. Your voice turned almost sing-songy as you lifted the script up to read, “‘Strong enough to keep out the rads and the Reds’...” Your face scrunched into distaste. “Who wrote this? An intern?”

“Someone named Bolt Ass-skins or somethin’, I don’t remember,” he said and sipped more from his martini. You snorted a little in response.

“Well, it does exactly what it needs to, unfortunately,” you sighed and tapped your pen against the papers. “Peddling safety and exclusivity from a make-believe nuclear nightmare…” You stared down at the paper, teeth gently nibbling the inside of your cheek absently. “Because who should be saved but the rich and elite.”

There was a small moment of quiet after that, your mind taking you elsewhere, a place where Vault-Tec’s fear-mongering might be true and you and your family were left in the nuclear dust, lost to time and dispersed to the universe with every gust of wind that passed over your bones. Forgotten.

The water sloshed a bit as Cooper moved toward your side of the tub and you snapped back to the present. Your assistant mode kicked in and, though Cooper looked to be reaching for the olives, you got to them first.

“You’d have one too, you know,” he said casually. Your brow furrowed as you turned your eyes down to him, olive plopping softly in the glass he held out. “You & Ollie—right next to me and Janey… or with us, if you wanted.”

“That’s… That’s kind of you, Cooper, but I could never ask you to do that—”

“I know, but you don’t need to,” he said. The sun caught the green-brown of his eyes, the salt in his pepper hair glistening as he looked up at you. “Hell, I’ll even put some money down for your family if you want them there too.”

“As long as you put them on the other side of the vault,” you joked, which earned a laugh from him and made you chuckle.

“Consider it done,” he said, with a smirk that you rolled your eyes at. You didn’t doubt Cooper’s sincerity about that offer but it was so grandiose, so out of your ballpark of realism, that you couldn’t truly consider it. “What time is it?” he asked suddenly. 

You rolled your wrist enough to see the time on your watch and said, “Just after one.”

“I should go shower real fast so I can get Janey from school,” he said and drank the rest of his martini, and the olive, in one motion. “Maybe later we’ll go grab some ice cream at that place y’all like. Forget about that Vault-Tec stuff for a little while.”

“Hard to forget when you’ve got that photoshoot coming up in a couple of days and they still haven’t given you the dress code,” you said.

“Suit and tie until otherwise notified,” he commented nonchalantly, proud of his rhyme. You watched as he stood, just long enough to see his exposed chest, and turned away when the top of his small cobalt swim shorts—practically a speedo—peaked over the top of the water. You reached behind you for his towel and offered it to him without looking. He made a noise, something like a chuckle.

“Come on, up with ya.” Cooper gave your exposed thigh a little tap, water trickling down your skin, signaling he was headed for the exit of the hot tub. You moved instantly, making your way down the small wooden staircase attached to the adjacent tub, and focused back on the script. He joined your stride back up to the house, still dripping wet and with the towel around his neck now, but you kept your eyes on the words in front of you.

“So, any edits then? Or is the slop good enough?”

“Even if I did, I don’t think Vault-Tec would give a damn about them,” you said. Cooper held the backdoor open for you, the cool air of the house a welcome reprieve from the hot tub’s steam and the sun’s rays. “I’ll give this another once over while you shower. Just for posterity.”

“You’re gon’ have that memorized before I do.”

“I usually do,” you said with a wide smile intended to ooze playful sarcasm. This time he rolled his eyes. “Now go.”

“Alright, alright,” he said, hands up as he walked toward the staircase, Roosevelt in tow. You resisted the temptation to peek up at him, eyes rereading the same line over and over until you heard both of them disappear fully upstairs. An exhale left you, a tinge of heat on your cheeks, and you found yourself slapping the papers onto the nearest surface to get yourself an ice-cold glass of water. It hadn’t been that hot outside, but you felt like you were slowly burning up on the inside… or at least your face did.

You had found a place on the couch to wait for Cooper and reread this script for the millionth time, two full glasses of ice water downed, when the doorbell rang. Cooper hadn’t told you about any guests paying a visit. You placed the script on the coffee table and padded toward the door. A quick peek through the peephole revealed a man in a suit, who looked a tad nervous and carried a medium-sized box in his hand branded with the Vault-Tec logo. You opened the door and put on your friendliest smile.

“Hello, how can I help you?” you asked.

“Oh, uh, hi, I’m… Is Cooper Howard home?” the man asked.

“I’m his assistant, how can I help you?” you repeated, your tone sickeningly sweet in the face of this man. He chuckled nervously.

“His assistant, right, right,” he said like the information had just dawned on him. “I’m sorry to, um, bother him here, at his home. I’m actually an assistant too—Miss Howard’s—and I was told to deliver this to him.” Miss Howard… Your eyebrows rose slightly at the mention of Barb having her own assistant now, but you staved off your curiosity and nodded along.

“Nice to meet you, Mister…?”

“MacLean. Hank MacLean,” he said with a big smile.

“Nice to meet you Hank,” you said, reaching your hand out to shake his. He obliged, despite fumbling with the package for a moment. “Can I ask what this package is for…?”

“It’s Mr. Howard’s suit for the upcoming photoshoot. Custom made for him,” he clarified. Hank offered you the box and you took it with the same smile you’d given him originally. “Between you and I, I’m a big fan of his, and I’d love to meet him at some point.”

You gave your business laugh and nodded your head before saying, “I’m sure you’ll get the chance. I’ll get this to Mr. Howard right away. Nice to meet you, Mr. MacLean.” You slowly closed the door, a bit of surprise on his face.

“Nice to meet you as well! I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other a lot in the future. You know, assistants and all.”

“Looking forward to it,” you said before you fully closed the door and promptly locked it. The smile disappeared from your lips. The Vault-Tec logo felt obnoxious, as was most of what they did, and the box felt like it had a bit of weight to it. Despite your immediate curiosity, you made your way upstairs and approached Cooper’s bedroom.

“Cooper?” you called into the space.

“Still in the shower!” he called back. “Everything alright?”

You moved further into the room and approached the bathroom door, which was cracked. The steam trickled out like a fog, dissipating into the cool air of the rest of the house. Roosevelt was asleep in his dog bed.

“Yeah, you got a package from Vault-Tec!”

“Vault-Tec? What’s in it?” he asked over the running water.

“Dunno, haven’t opened it yet. Barb’s new assistant delivered it though. He seems… nice.”

“New assistant?” Cooper laughed.

“Yeah, he was real keen on meeting you, Mr. Howard,” you said and he responded with an amused noise.

You moved into the room, looking for something sharp to open up this package, and settled on the pocketknife Cooper had sitting out on his dresser next to one of his signature white cowboy hats he’d kept from set. It opened with a click, and you slid it over the packing tape, right through the Vault-Tec logo, and opened the box up. Inside was a suit, but not a classic suit, more similar to a jumpsuit in his signature cobalt and trimmed with yellow. You were intrigued, but also, confused, as you closed the pocketknife and placed it on the sheets. The water in the bathroom cut off.

“Well, it’s a suit but not— OH!” You had turned to shout back to Cooper when your eyes found him emerging from the bathroom and approaching you, with only a towel around his waist. You’d glimpsed a bit of his leg as he walked, peeking from the material, all the way up to his hip. No undergarments in sight. You instantaneously spun around, back toward him, and fire blazed in your cheeks. Picking out ties was one thing, but this… This was new. “I’m so sorry, I can leave.”

“Ain’t much different than seeing me in that hot tub,” he said.

You clenched your teeth, throat bobbing as you contemplated how to best remove yourself from the situation. There was a small part of you, one you didn’t even realize existed, that wished you’d turn around. It yearned for it… Yearned. No. You stifled the feeling with embarrassment, stomping it out the best you could.

“I don’t want to be disrespectful,” you managed.

“Y’ain’t,” he said, so instantly, so certainly, that it made you hyper-aware of your rising heartbeat. You heard movement, both exhilarating and nerve-wracking for a reason you couldn’t place. The hair you’d released from your scarf earlier framed your face, nurturing the heat in your cheeks.

You practically jumped when you heard Cooper’s voice right next to your ear.

“If you’re so concerned about it, why don’t you hold onto this for me, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice low and breath tickling your ear. The heat from the shower radiated from his bare chest and settled gently against your back, his body inches from yours, you’d realized. Your breath hitched.

Before you could indulge in any further self-examination, you felt a pressure on top of your head, and through your eyelashes, you could make out the brim of Cooper’s cowboy hat. He’d leaned it far enough forward that it blocked anything that wasn’t directly below you.

“There. Good now, darlin’?” he said in the same tone as before. Your body felt as though it wanted to melt, but whether you wanted to melt into Cooper or the floor was the concern you were met with.

“Yes, sir,” you said, professionalism tainted by the breathiness of your response. A sound of acknowledgment left him, some sort of ‘mm’, and your shoulders tensed even more. The sun’s beams had nothing on the heat you felt trickling down your throat and pooling all in your gut.

“At least it’s in my colors,” he said, neutral, from behind you. You heard the shuffling of material like he’d pulled the suit out of the box and promptly dropped it back down without much thought. Then you heard his footsteps move away from you. “Ice cream tonight, right?” he asked.

You turned, finally, and lifted the brim enough to see him walking away, water trailing down his broad shoulders and back.

“Right,” you said.

When he reached the bathroom door he turned his face enough to see you watching him. A smirk crept onto his lips.

“Looks good on you,” he said, words genuine but laced with a bit of smugness like he’d proved something to himself. Or maybe to you. Without much else, he slipped into the bathroom and left you there with that pool of lava in your stomach. Even a gallon of ice cream wouldn’t be able to fix that.

“So, has he said anything about the script? Any notes?” Bud Askins asked you, voice full of that corporate confidence that only a pressed suit and a 401k could exude. Your arms were crossed and your eyes remained on Cooper who stood before the camera. He’d just found his stride with a charming thumbs up that had everyone exhilarated like he’d invented the damn gesture in the first place. Even Barb, who stood a few feet from you, on the opposite side of the camera, was sporting a smile. One that she probably thought no one would see except Cooper; he hadn’t spared a single glance at her. If he wasn’t looking at the camera… he was looking at you.

You caught the corner of your bottom lip with your canine to resist returning his smile.

Bud addressed you again.

“Hm?” You tore your eyes from Cooper to look up at Bud who was all smiles and borderline insufferable puppy dog eyes. His endearing allure was stifled by the knowledge that he was some sort of head honcho at Vault-Tec. “Oh, no notes,” you whispered back with a smile. He nodded back as the photographer shouted something out to Cooper that sounded encouraging.

 You naturally looked at the photographer and caught Barb looking over at you. The two of you locked eyes for what felt longer than it was before she turned away from you, expression slipping to something you couldn’t recognize. A frown tugged at your lips that you didn’t hide fast enough, Cooper’s eyes on you again while he adjusted to a new pose. So quickly you might not have caught it if you didn’t know him as well as you did.

The photos carried on for another ten or so minutes, Bud Askins desperately trying to converse with you about Cooper and his opinions, to which you answered most with ‘I’m not sure’, despite knowing the answers to everything. Once the photographer called a wrap on the shoot, Cooper exhaled and started to head toward you. He shook a few hands along the way, flashing that Hollywood smile at everyone.

“Man–” he started, reaching out to grab your arm. Barb intercepted it, hand gripping his upper arm while simultaneously stepping a bit between the two of you. It was so swift that you had no time to react.

“Cooper, we’ve got some business to discuss before you go,” Barb said. The tone of her voice sounded just as insincere as Bud’s. All corporate with a tinge of bite that was likely reserved specifically for you. You smiled at Cooper.

“I’ve got scripts to review, I’ll just meet you back at your trailer,” you said. Cooper looked between the two of you but understood, giving a small nod. “Barb,” you said respectfully. She said your name but it held nothing. 

Cooper gazed back at you as she led him away, gaze apologetic. While you absolutely could have been part of that conversation as his assistant, there was a sort of guilt eating at you for the other day with the cowboy hat. Guilt that you were almost sure Barb could sniff out and exploit if she wanted to. Despite being fully capable of standing up for yourself, the last thing you wanted to do was cause more problems for Cooper and Janey.

So you walked back to his trailer and settled yourself on the couch you’d found him passed out on weeks ago. A deep exhale left your body, the heaviness of being around Vault-Tec wasn’t the same as being on a movie set. The egos could rival each other of course but you’d take arguing with a director over one of those suits any day.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed when you finally heard the trailer door swing open. The force of it immediately drew your now widened eyes and you caught Cooper’s crimson-kissed cheeks and scowl as he slammed behind him. He walked past you with a muttered ‘sorry’ and to the room at the back he used to get dressed. He didn’t close that door. You peered to the front door, half expecting Barb to charge in behind him, but nothing.

“Cooper?” you tried loud enough for him to hear. Silence, only the faint sound of him fussing with the suit. Your brows furrowed, concern building as you placed the scripts to the side and moved toward the room he’d disappeared into. From the short hallway you could see Cooper with his back towards you, hands pressed against the vanity and head hung low. “Coop,” you said again, softer. He took in a steadying breath.

“Help me get outta this thing, would’ya?” he replied loud enough for you to hear. “It’s hot as shit.”

“Sure thing.”

Cooper turned to face you, the tinge of red you’d seen color his face was now a light pink. He’d already brought his zipper down to his waist, a thin white undershirt peeking from beneath. Curiosity danced across your mind as he reached out one of his arms to you, your fingers hooking into his sleeve securely. He tugged and wiggled to free himself.

“What’s bothering you, Coop?” you asked. You looked up at him but he didn’t look at you.

“Nothin’,” he attempted. You answered with a deadpan stare.

“Try again.”

He ran his tongue over his teeth while he contemplated. It could’ve been a handful of things with him, but there was only one person here who could get under his skin like this. You just weren’t going to say it.

He hummed an irritated noise, giving up on freeing himself from the suit, and ran his free hand through his hair. His eyes finally settled on your face.

“You got plans tonight?” he asked suddenly.

“Why?”

“Just–” He looked like he’d bitten back some frustration that was threatening to spill over onto you. “Do you want to get outta town with me? Just for a little while?”

The way he looked at you made your heart sink. Cooper and Janey meant the world to you and you hated to see him so rattled—it made you want to do anything in your power to resolve or ease it.

“I don’t need my assistant, I just…” Cooper’s free hand reached up and, for a moment, you thought he’d touch your face. You found yourself unopposed to the idea. Instead, though, you caught his hesitation, another fleeting moment, just before he redirected himself to your upper arm. It was a gentle touch, but one that felt like it meant more than either of you would admit. Grounding. “I just want your company.”

You gave him a slow nod.

“Where’d you want to go?” you asked with a gentle smile that he tried to match.

Not as an assistant, but as a friend… You could do that.

The sun was setting by the time you’d left the city, the Hollywood sign had long since faded into the distance behind you both. You’d been in Cooper’s Kaiser Darrin before, always enamored by the convertible with its sleek pastel yellow design and the quiet cruise it offered wherever it arrived. Typically, the subtle hum of the radio or idle chatter kept any empty air from feeling awkward or strange, but tonight this two-seater never felt more suffocating. 

You couldn’t tell where the nerves were coming from. You had no idea where he was taking you, but you trusted him so it couldn’t be coming from that. Years, you’d spent years as Cooper’s assistant and accompanied him to plenty of places both professional and casual, even with Janey. There was no reason you should’ve felt as tense as you did during the drive.

Whether Cooper noticed or not, you had no idea. Since leaving his house—after dropping off Oliver to keep Roosevelt company and pester the dog sitter for fries—he’d been quiet, though his interactions were brief but not mean. Whatever happened at the photoshoot had him tangled up in his mind.

The radio remained off for at least the first hour, sounds of the city filling your ears, including the loud comments people considered whispers as they ogled the movie star temporarily halted by the stop light. You did your best to avoid their stares, big sunglasses and a headscarf were barely a comfort. People who cared about that stuff knew you were his assistant but all it took was one rumor to sweep through and potentially ruin everything. Cooper remained unbothered about all of that too.

When he finally turned on the radio, the sunset was casting all of its hues of tangerine, gold, and violets over the highway. The tinkle of the opening piano keys to ‘Don’t Fence Me In’ played loud enough for you to recognize and suddenly the sunset was no longer your focus, it was Cooper’s voice.

You’d heard him sing a tune before, especially at home dancing with Janey, or even Barb, but you never gave it much thought. Never really listened. He was no Sinatra, but he didn’t need to be. He sang for himself, effort elevating with every word, voice piercing through the wind to reach you. Despite not sparing a glance at you and his casual demeanor—one arm propped on the car door while the other handled the wheel—you could sense an underlying context. Something deeply personal seeping through. You wouldn’t pry, not right now anyway, so instead… you sang too.

Cooper finally spared a glance at you then and you did the same. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips but he hid it with his free hand, both of you returning your attention to the road ahead of you. 

“Oh, give me land, lots of land under starry skies… Don't fence me in,” you both sang.

The tension you’d felt began to ease, continuing your duet and releasing the pressure that’d built up in your shoulders. You sang for the wind too, let it dance on its wisps to twist and mingle with Cooper’s, released into the evening air.

It took another hour or so before you left the highway and the hills started to have tall trees, until eventually, the tree-lined road led to an imposing gate for a community you couldn’t quite make-out. Your curiosity peaked further as Cooper slowed the car and approached a booth with a security guard already leaning out to greet him.

“Coop!” the guard greeted, a big smile on his face.

“Hey, Henderson,” he answered. The two exchanged a handshake before the guard’s attention turned to you. Immediately you felt a wave of unease wash over you, that paranoia you’d felt earlier in the city with the fans on the street.

“Hello,” you greeted. To your surprise, the guard greeted you by your last name and a friendly nod.

“What brings you both out here?” Henderson asked. There seemed to be a genuine curiosity about him, nothing nefarious, but your worry was gnawing at your psyche again.

“Needed some quiet,” Cooper said. “City’s too loud.”

“Tch, I think that every morning when I have to drive home,” Henderson chuckled. He reached back into the booth to write something down on a clipboard before he pressed a button that began opening the gate.

“Jim still outta town filmin’ that movie?” Cooper asked.

“Sure is,” he responded. “But you know you and yours are always welcome here. Glenda will clean up in the morning like usual.”

“Thanks, Henderson,” Cooper said and, without you even realizing, had pulled a hundred dollar bill out to hand to the man, which he promptly took. “Say hi to the wife and kids for me.”

“Will do,” he said with a salute, bill still between his fingers. “Enjoy your time away from the big city.”

Cooper waved casually and moved the vehicle forward into the darkness, headlights illuminating the paved road and trees around it. Some roads led to obvious houses in the distance, while others remained out of sight, and it only took a couple of minutes before a charming cottage came into view. While it was undoubtedly expensive, it wasn’t too over the top, surprisingly quaint. Two stories, modest windows, rich brown wooden sidings with dark trimmings, and lovely greenery partially illuminated by the front porch light.

The car came to a slow stop just below the porch.

“Where are we?” you finally asked as Cooper turned off the engine.

“Somewhere quiet,” he repeated, voice quieter than you’d anticipated. You didn’t push, instead turning your attention to your seatbelt as he got out of the car. Before you could reach for your door handle Cooper was already sliding your door open and offering his hand to you. “C’mon.” You nodded and placed your hand in his, legs aching from the long car ride when you finally stood. He didn’t hold on for very long, the feeling gone as quickly as it started, so you followed him to the front door.

Cooper caught your apprehensiveness, probably in your body language alone, so while fiddling with a set of keys, he said, “No one’s home. An old actor friend’a mine barely uses it, stays empty when it’s not summer, so he lets me stop by whenever I want.”

“Jim…” You tried to recall the name and the face but there were no bells ringing up in the tower of your mind. Cooper chuckled and finally found the key he’d been searching for, inserting it into the keyhole, and opening the door.

“You know most of the people I work with, but not all of ‘em,” he said. Your unamused expression dissolved rather quickly into a smile as he stepped inside of the home to flick on some lights. You followed behind him, the smell of cleaner settling into your nostrils—Glenda’s doing if you had to guess—and the shine of picture frames, tables, and well-kept knick-knacks, pulling your eye every which way.

It wasn’t until you reached one of the back rooms that you noticed the modest windows at the front were not the same as the back of the home where almost every wall had one. This room in particular had a beautiful stone fireplace with plenty of seating surrounding it and the view from the window was limited to the well-lit backyard, nothing but darkness beyond the hill.

You heard the door close behind you and turned in time to see Cooper approaching. He set a duffel bag on the floor by the fireplace, one you didn’t realize he’d even packed and stood with his hands in the pockets of his grey dress pants. He ran a hand over the front of his sweater, almost like he was nervous.

“Not sure what’s here by way of food, should’a probably thought of that before leaving, but Glenda usually likes to keep the basics anyhow,” he said. “And I do make a mean PB n’ J. Rave reviews.”

You chuckled.

“Janey’s reviews are critical,” you said. “I wouldn’t mind trying that.”

“Consider it done,” he said and turned to head toward where you assumed the kitchen was. He added, “Make yourself comfortable.”

You heard the sound of Cooper exploring cabinets in the kitchen and did some light exploration of the rooms around you. It was a nice home, but not egregious, you could understand why this would be a nice getaway space. All the fixings for comfort but nothing that reminded you of being back in the city. No glitz or glam that took you out of where you were, just happy family portraits, mementos, and a warmth only good memories could fill a room with.

It wasn’t long before you found your way outside again, the backyard as well kept as the rest of the home. There were chairs to sit on and a small fire pit for those lucky nights that actually carried a chill, where you could roast marshmallows and share intimate secrets and laughs with friends. It’d been a while since you’d experienced that, college a few years back if you had to guess, and while they were fun, you didn’t yearn for your college days like so many others. You liked your life right now, even if it felt a little complicated at times.

“Order up,” Cooper’s voice said from behind you. You turned to see him set a plate down on one of the tables accompanied by a glass of water. “If you hate it, don’t say anything.” A chuckle left you as you approached the table, fingers wrapping around the sandwich and eyes locked on Cooper’s face. He was waiting. So you took your time overly examining it, twisting and turning it, and adding little ‘hmm’s for effect. He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. Just as he was about to say something you finally took a bite… It was good, of course it was. The perfect ratio of ingredients.

“Not bad,” you teased.

“Not bad?”

“I’m a harsher critic than Janey.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” he joked.

You huffed a laugh again as he turned back inside, returning a moment later with his own sandwich. You turned to look out at what you’d gathered was a lake, a dock at the bottom of the incline this home was on, a singular lamp post at the end of it. On either side of you there were darkened homes and unlit docks, probably also abandoned outside of the summer, and the rest was the dark lake. It made you feel a bit more at ease, the chance of paparazzi or nosey neighbors dropping drastically, so you let yourself breathe a bit more and wiggled the tension that had built up again in your shoulders. The two of you ate your sandwiches in silence for a few moments, enjoying the light breeze coming off the water and the stillness of it all.

“A shame he took the boat,” Cooper said as he took a large bite.

“I don’t think I’d want to be out there at night anyhow,” you said.

“No?”

You shook your head.

“I’ve never been in or on a lake, they make me uneasy,” you admitted. “I’d take the beach instead any day.”

“How local of you,” he teased, finishing up his last bite.

“Hey,” you said. You tossed the last bit in your mouth and turned to him to point your index finger at him. “I don’t appreciate all the jabs you’re taking at me tonight, sir.” Cooper turned to you and matched your energy. Instead of addressing your comment though, his eyes dropped to your lips and he leaned down a little bit. The unfamiliarity of the motion made you reflexively lean away a bit but he remained.

“You got something—” He reached up his hand before you could try to rectify whatever situation he was indicating and you felt his thumb press against your lip. You stopped, eyes on his face, but he was focused on your mouth. Your heartbeat increased at the simple motion, soft but just enough pressure for you to feel, and when he swiped it along your lip, it felt like minutes had passed. Cooper held up his thumb for you to see the culprit. “Jelly,” he said.

You touched your face self-consciously and half expected him to wipe it on his sweater, so the surprise in your expression was genuine when you watched him put that same thumb up to his mouth. His tongue dragged along it, slow, like a show, watching you. A smirk settled onto his lips when he finished.

“Can’t waste Glenda’s supply,” he said. You had nothing. Cooper looked like he was resisting the urge to laugh as he started down the incline toward the path. He offered his hand to you. “C’mon, I wanna show you somethin’.”

It took you a second to snap back to this moment, mind wandering to incredibly inappropriate places where his tongue was running along—

“Sure. Sure,” you said, placing your hand in his.

Cooper carefully led you to the stairs that brought you to the bottom of the incline as opposed to the slick grass you’d almost slipped on. The dock itself was sturdy, but you were still cautious with every step you made, especially after Cooper turned the light at the end of the dock off. He didn’t let go of your hand the entire time, grip reassuring and helpful, and when you reached the end, he released you—to your disappointment—and pointed up.

“This is it,” he whispered.

You turned your eyes up to the sky and felt the breath leave you for a moment. It was a clear night, the moon beautiful and waning within the blanket of sapphire and surrounded by twinkling stars. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen the sky as clear as this, been able to take in the majesty of it all without the flood of Hollywood lights. It calmed you, made you feel as though you were weightless, so much so that you could feel a well of emotions building within you.

Silence overtook you both again for a while…

Cooper sighed.

“It was Barb,” he managed. Your brow furrowed in confusion. He pulled a cigarette carton and lighter from his pocket, slid a singular one out, and put the pack away again. “She…” He sighed again, finding it difficult to formulate the thought he wanted to say. “She’s got me on this leash with Vault-Tec. She knows it’s all I got going for me right now. If I lose this… There’s a chance she’ll try to take Janey from me completely.” Cooper lit the cigarette and took a long drag before pocketing the lighter too. You turned to him slightly.

“I’m so sorry, Coop,” you said with deep sincerity.

Cooper huffed a laugh, one that held no amusement or warmth, just irritation. He didn’t look at you.

“On top’a that, she keeps throwing you back in my face,” he said. “Like I’m not allowed to move on or be happy in any way with anyone. But ‘specially not you.” His voice had dipped into a whisper but you heard every single word.

Your confusion deepened. What was he saying? You knew Barb was strange when it came to you, had been since the divorce was finalized, but you never thought she would weaponize you against him. Not like this at least. You, of all people… It made you feel awful.

“I shoulda known she’d stoop this low eventually. I knew she was capable of it. If it wasn’t you, it’d be someone else, you’re just the closest to me and…” Cooper spared a look at you then, but it was brief like he couldn’t take more than a few seconds, such a contrast to earlier.

“But we’re not…” you tried, but couldn’t even find the words to finish. “You don’t want me like that.” It was all just Cooper Howard being a charming movie star… right?

“Well that’s just it, ain’t it, sweetheart?” he asked, blowing smoke into the night air. You watched Cooper intently. He sighed, ash tumbling from the cigarette twitching in his fingers. “I dunno what you’ve done, or how, but I can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout you. Not for one damn second.” He finally looked you in the eye then. The moonlight did no justice for that beautiful green-brown you knew all too well. Your heart hammered against the cage of your chest as you resisted the urge to fold under the weight of his gaze.

“Coop,” you whispered. There was no string of thought you could find for this moment. You couldn’t say there weren’t signs—ones you may have chosen to blatantly ignore. Truthfully, there was a part of you that wondered if you were just a placeholder until some starlet strolled up to him one day and took him off the market again. A familiar distraction. That platonic piece of his life that would never be anything more than a casual flirt… But you knew each other. He’d never shown interest before these last couple of weeks. When he was with Barb, he had eyes for no one else, especially not you.

And yet.

Here he was now showing you the heart on his sleeve, beneath the stars, in a place where he felt safe enough to do so. For you and only you.

The way he said your name was unlike anything you’d heard from him before. So soft it could have been a breath. It made your heart flutter. He stamped out the last of his cigarette and turned to fully face you. You looked up at him. Cooper took a step forward. There was barely an inch between you.

A cool breeze passed over the bare part of your legs, sending a shiver through you. Cooper reached up then and gently placed his warm palm against your cheek. Even in the moonlight, you could tell he was searching your face for any sign of rejection, ready to pull away at a moment’s notice.

He inched closer to you with every second that passed. One of your hands found his chest, halting him for a moment, but the other glided up his arm until your fingers wrapped around the hand he’d placed on your cheek. There was a brief moment you considered pulling away, to not solidify this potential problem in Cooper’s life, to add fuel to the fire that Barb was already igniting.

“I thought you just wanted a friend,” you said quietly. The tension in the air was palpable. You could practically swim in it.

Cooper took a long moment, a deep inhale through his nostrils.

“Who the fuck was I kiddin’.”

His lips collided with yours, a cocktail of desire and residual nicotine—a concoction so intoxicating that you melted into him instantly. Your hatred of cigarettes was overpowered by the way Cooper’s lips moved against yours. Everything you’d known before this moment felt like a world away, magnetism finally colliding with one another after narrowly avoiding each other’s pull for weeks now.

Cooper’s hands shifted, gliding over your ribs until they settled on the back of your shirt, and stopped.

“This alright?” he asked and pulled away enough to look down into your eyes. “Can I touch you like this?” He was respectful, but you could tell he wanted more. The way he flexed his fingers and tugged on the fabric and hovered just above the waistline of your skirt drove you mad. Feelings you hadn’t acknowledged were cascading and reverberating throughout your body—electric.

No longer surprised, you found yourself saying, “You can touch me however you like.” Cooper hummed at that and pulled you as close to him as he possibly could.

“Those’re some dangerous words…” he breathed, a small kiss on the corner of your mouth.

“I work with a cowboy for a living, I think I’ll be fine,” you replied, both smirking against each other's lips. Cooper’s hands dipped down to your ass, cupping it tightly through your skirt, a gasp-moan escaping you only for him to swallow it. He returned it, a sound deep in his vocal cords, and it spurred him on. You stumbled a little and immediately grabbed his upper arms to steady yourself, a burst of giggles tumbling from your lips.

“Y’alright?” Cooper asked amusement in his voice.

“Never made out on a dock before,” you admitted.

“Mmm,” he breathed, nose against your cheek. He pressed a kiss there as he ran his hands up your arms and intertwined your fingers. “Sit for me.” Your eyebrows furrowed, unsure about the request and feeling a tad defiant at it outside of your previous professional dynamic. Even then he didn’t ‘order’ you around. He knew better, just like now, tacking on a, “Please.”

So you slowly lowered yourself—with Cooper’s aid—onto the well-preserved wood, the slight sway of it less noticeable the moment you sat down fully. Cooper brought himself down next to you, hand instantly on the back of your neck and fingers tangled in the bottom of your hair. He pulled you to him with ease and you grabbed his sweater to ground yourself. It felt like you’d float away if you didn’t.

 You weren’t sure where this was going if this was meant to lead to anything, but you could still feel those nerves bundled in the pit of your stomach. Were you actually comfortable or was this just the rush of being in Cooper’s orbit? That magnetism that could shift an entire room’s attention to him effortlessly?

Cooper pulled at your hip lightly and, after you managed to hike up your skirt, you swung your leg over his lap to straddle him. This time it was his breath that hitched, lips detached and breath heavy. You braced yourself on his shoulders and he immediately found your hips, fingers digging into the skirt like he’d rip it off you if he could.

“Oh, Cooper,” you whispered shakily. Nothing made sense, the world was spinning, and it felt like a tether was pulled taut between your chests.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asked. It was a tad raspy, a calculated question that took concentration—like his mind was focused on trying not to ravage you completely.

You glided your hand over his hair, moonlight catching on his greys and twinkling like the stars above.

“I…” you hesitated. “I’m not… Should we do this? I don’t… I don’t want to complicate things more for you.”

“You’re the least complicated thing in my life right now,” he said so definitively that it shut you up entirely. “We can slow down if you want…” Cooper took your hands in his and pressed his lips to them. “Honest, I just wanted to kiss you. Didn’t have much of a plan after that,” he said with a laugh. You could feel him under you, dress pants doing nothing to hide it, but you took a steadying breath.

“Is this—” You took a breath. “Is this just a distraction for you, Coop?”

Cooper said your name, tone laced with a tinge of sadness, and instead of pulling you closer, he grabbed your thigh to help you slide off his lap. You were a bit confused but you obliged. Did you ruin it? Whatever this was? The thought bounced around the walls of your mind as you searched his expression for any sort of negative emotion… There was none. It was soft and understanding with something lying underneath it all.

“I’m not interested in distractions,” he said. “I thought Barb was it for me… I thought I was done after the divorce. But you—” Cooper sucked air through his teeth. “I don’t know how to explain it. You ain’t some sort’a toy.”

“But I’m your assistant… It’s so… Grey.”

“You want me to fire you?” he asked lightheartedly. 

“Cooper,” you sighed. You pushed his shoulder with the hand you weren’t leaning on for balance and he reached up in time to grab your hand before you pulled away, practically enveloping it in his.

“Point I’m tryin’ to make is, if you want me to, we can stop right now. Cold turkey. No skin off my nose,” he said. As well as you knew him, you were pretty sure that wasn’t true. If he felt like you felt to any degree, it would devastate him. “But…” The grip he had on your hand tightened as he scooted closer to you, inches from your face again. “If you want to… figure this out like I do… I’ll do anything to prove I mean what I’m sayin’. Every single day you want me to, until finally you get sick of me.”

You chuckled and ran your thumb across his skin, considering his words. A one-night stand would have been hurtful in the long run but at least it was cut and dry. Feelings didn’t usually come into play or at the very least didn’t matter. This was something you were unprepared for. The way things evolved so naturally, so quickly, was terrifying. One moment your boss is just your boss, nothing more, and the next you felt yourself falling into the deep end.

“I think…” You took in a steadying breath, closing your eyes like it’d help. What might this be? Would it be something you’d regret? You weren’t sure but… “I think I might like that.”

When you opened your eyes again, Cooper’s relieved expression was the first thing you saw and you couldn’t help but smile. He kissed you again, but this time it was slow like nothing in the world mattered but your lips against his. A steady rhythm, like the light waves of the lake against the shore, and a passion you’d never known. You weren’t sure what any of it meant, but at least for now, this was a secret between you, Cooper, and the stars.

The night spent at the lake house was soft, sweet, hands kept in respectful places even when sharing a bed. It was a side you knew Cooper had, but one that was strange for you to experience. You spent the time before bed shyly shuffling around each other, Cooper offering you an extra sweater and some too-big sleep pants that didn’t match. You hadn’t realized you’d be staying overnight somewhere, but by the time you both returned to the house, lost in the quiet and comfort of each other’s embrace, it was well past midnight.

So you both laid there, quiet for the most part, facing one another, and just listening to the sound of your breaths as sleep tugged at your eyelids. Your hand had settled on Cooper's cheek and his hand found purchase on your hip.

“What’re you thinking about?” he asked you, eyes closed and voice riddled with sleep.

“You,” you managed. Sleep also tugged at you. “This.” You gently rubbed your fingertips on his cheek and he hummed a ‘mmmm’ in response.

“We can take it as slow as ya like,” he said, accent thicker. It made you smile a little, that rugged cowboy slipping through the Hollywood facade, charming and down to Earth. “I ain’t forcin’ you to do anythin’ you don’t want.”

You leaned forward and pressed a soft, sleepy kiss to his lips.

And slow it went.

The next morning was spent driving back, Cooper’s hand on your leg the entire cruise down the highway. It was nice, simple, and you placed yours over it, liking how it felt—such a simple gesture. It only lasted until you returned to the city, both of you instinctively pulling apart. No one needed to know. Not yet. This was yours to cultivate as you both pleased.

Any business you conducted, like being on set, was professional, as always. Barely a glance out of place and strictly kept what needed to be accomplished—business as usual.

When Janey was around, nothing, the same as before. It made you feel a bit strange, wary of potentially hurting her and making her home life even more complicated. You struggled with that for a bit and you’d probably struggle with it for a long time regardless of the outcome of whatever this was.

You avoided Barb as much as possible. Cooper did everything he could to drop Janey off himself or have Barb, or her assistant, or babysitter, come collect her for her shared time with her Mom. If you had to, you did so and kept any interactions brief to none at all.

But when you finally had time alone, away from all the eyes, just you and Cooper, it was extraordinary. Stolen pecks in the trailer before a scene, soft touches cooking dinner together, long, drawn-out kisses after lifting you onto his work desk, conversation by the pool with fingers intertwined and splashes of water. No matter your previous experience romantically, this was on a completely different level. Despite that nagging part of your mind that wouldn’t quiet about ‘starlets’ and ‘secrecy’ and ‘getting tired of you’, you persisted. 

Cooper was nothing if not reassuring. His sass and snark didn’t let up, but he tried his best to never be mean, even before all this, and doubly so now. An occasional present or two like flowers or something small because he knew how you loathed large gestures. Not once did he pressure you to have sex with him, though the hints were there. A slide of his fingertips just under the hem of your skirt nibbles at the top of your breasts after popping the top few buttons of your blouse, or the way he pressed up against you from behind, an innocent hug now charged as he nibbled your ear and the natural way you arched into him. But never pressure. That decision was on you, and you weren’t sure when you’d be ready for that to change.

You wanted Cooper. There was no doubt about that. It was more so Barb that kept you at bay. No matter how you two spun this story, it would never be good enough for anyone, but especially not her.

It was always going to be the ‘classic’ tale of infidelity with the woman that he spent the most time with, no matter how recent of a development those feelings were. The added pressure of her potentially wanting to take Janey away also weighed on you, and despite how clearly stressed he was because of Barb—especially with his final commercial for Vault-Tec due for filming the following week—you still relished in the quiet, gentle moments on the couch in your embrace, fireplace crackling and dogs snoring at your feet.

You wanted Cooper Howard, but you had a sinking feeling it wouldn’t come without a cost, and you weren’t sure how steep it would truly be.

“CUT! RESET!” called the director from his comfortable chair. A bell rang twice and you watched from the refreshments table as everyone on the crew sprung forward to reset the stage & fix up the actors.

You still couldn’t shake the feeling of being in one of these vaults, a big number four on the door behind Cooper where his first scene was set. It felt… unreal. A big metal fortress underground meant for a nuclear fallout felt so outlandish that if you hadn’t been here yourself, you’d have thought it was just a set built up on a soundstage. An uneasiness tugged at you when they gave you a tour of the living spaces, watching the camera crew set up in one of the rooms and a family—whose two adults were scientists—sat in makeup chairs until it was time for their scene.

Cooper was your only grounding force. During the tour he’d gently touch your back for a brief moment, pretending to just pass by you or urge you in front of him. He only lingered a little longer once when he heard you take in a shaky breath while Bud Askins and company rambled about how amazing this place was. It didn’t help that Barb was here as well to oversee the shoot. She barely acknowledged you and focused entirely on Cooper like you were a set dressing. You tried not to think about her too much though or else your shaky breaths might turn into a full on breakdown.

It was just a shoot in a location you weren’t familiar with. Everything was safe. Everything would be fine.

So when the director called for a reset, you quickly approached Cooper with a cup of black coffee for him to grab as people fussed with his hair and suit. A grateful expression crossed his face as he took a sip.

“Thank you so much,” he said, Hollywood charm still turned up to the max. While you were used to how he was on set, you couldn’t help realizing now just how much of a mask he wore for his work. Not that he wasn’t always authentically himself, but he did carry himself in a way that you didn’t see when you were alone.

“Need anything else before the next take?” you asked.

“Not anythin’ I can have right now,” he responded with a tinge of flirtation in his tone. You tensed a little, the women who were fussing over him didn’t even bat an eyelash at the comment. It was just you. He knew you were a little anxious before and was likely just trying to lighten the mood, but with him looking so dashing in his gray suit and his ex-wife was standing just at the edge of the room, eyes flicking over while she conversed with her colleagues, it was difficult to relax.

Cooper finished his coffee—the women dabbing his face and reapplying touch-ups—and you took it from him. Your fingers grazed his as you did so, a small gesture to let him know you were still there with him despite the circumstances.

“I’ll make sure to set up a reservation for you at your favorite restaurant,” you managed with a smile that he returned instantly.

“You know me so well.”

“It’s my job to,” you responded, gazing up through your eyelashes before you turned around fully to leave the shot. For the briefest of moments when you turned, you thought you caught his gaze moving downwards to your ass, but he’d returned to a recording-ready stance the moment you began to walk away.

“Alright, next take!” the director called. Everyone scattered out of the way of the cameras. “Quiet on set!”

You moved just out of frame, Cooper’s empty coffee cup in your hand, and watched him work his magic. The lights went out and once the cameras were rolling again, a singular spotlight lit on Cooper who had a fresh cigarette in his hands.

“Oh. Hello there. Yup, it’s me, Cooper Howard, star of stage and screen.”

Recording continued and, while the vault still unnerved you, you did your best to focus on Cooper. You watched between each take and tended to anything Cooper might have needed while keeping your space. The takes flew by despite how many there were and by the time you reached ‘Sycamore Street’, specifically room number 429, which was printed on a pristine mailbox, you could tell Cooper was starting to feel a bit drained by it all. So when they called for a cut, family of scientists at the table next to Cooper, you approached him with some water and a smile.

“Almost outta here, tiger,” you said to him as he took the cup of water and chugged it. He breathed out a sigh and handed it back to you.

“Kinda wish it was whiskey.”

“I’m sure they’ve got some around here somewhere if you really want,” you said.

“You’re the best,” he returned, a charming smirk on his lips. You couldn’t help but feel yours brighten at the sight and as you were about to turn and walk away from him, a voice chimed in that made your blood run cold.

“Are you done being distracted by your plaything? I’d like to get everyone out of here on time,” said Barb from the doorway, arms crossed. Silence bellowed into the room the likes you’d never experienced. Not even a breath. You felt as though someone had punched you in the chest as a deep-seated mortification rippled through your entire being.

“What was that?” Cooper asked. While his voice was a whisper, you could hear the lethality dripping from every syllable. Even his calm, cool, and collected movie star mask slipped a bit, brow furrowed and jaw locked.

“Cooper,” you warned, also in a whisper. “It’s fine, I’ll just—”

“No.” The firmness of his voice took you aback, but it wasn’t directed at you, he was locked on Barb. “Say it again.”

This man was going to burn down everything in this very moment with a camera crew and innocent bystanders to witness it. Barb adjusted her stance to match his challenging energy. One look around the room and you felt like you wanted to simply disintegrate.

“I said—” Barb tried.

“Enough!” you declared firmly. Once again you were in the middle of them and their drama, their loathing, everything. It didn’t matter though. You stepped in front of Cooper fully, not even looking at him but at Barb with a forced smile on your lips and said, “I’ll go. No problem. I think my work is done for the day anyhow.” 

Cooper said your name but you held up a hand. This was awful enough as it was, you didn’t want to give Barb any more fuel and destroy what he had going for himself today. You took a step forward and felt the graze of Cooper’s hand as he reached out for your wrist, which you promptly pulled away. Your hands were shaking at all the eyes on you but they parted as you approached the door Barb was posted by. She watched you approach and, for a moment, you considered just walking by without a word… but you heard her huff an amused sound, you decided not this time. You stopped right next to her in the doorframe, stood as tall as you could, and stared straight into her eyes.

“Barb, I want you to know that I have always had a lot of respect for you,” you started softly. “I don’t know what happened between you and Cooper, and quite frankly, at this point, I don’t care.” Barb smirked a little, like she was about to say something. “It’s your business. What I do care about is you dragging me into it and trying to make my life hell when all I wanted to do was help.” You took a step forward. “I’m not the source of your problems, Barbara. You are. So keep my goddamn name out of your mouth.”

Your heart pounded in your ears. Barb’s face was professionally cold but you knew there was anger simmering beneath her exterior. You’d embarrassed her, just as she embarrassed you, in front of all of her colleagues whose opinions she seemed to hold above everyone else’s if she thought this stunt would be cute. Jaw clenched, you turned away from her and made your way through the crowd of her coworkers. You didn’t know if Cooper was going to be upset at you, if you’d just blown up his life, or if you even had a job, all you knew was that you needed to get away from whatever the hell was back there.

So you explored further into the vault with no goal aside from getting away.

COOPER

To say Cooper was upset would be an understatement. Even with years of practice, he found it more difficult than anything to put himself back into the scene when everyone finally unfroze from their goddamn shock. He’d stared down Barb, who didn’t do the same, and instead exited the room once you’d left. If you hadn’t stopped him, he would have probably destroyed any sort of tenuous work agreement that was left between him and Barb… but he had a contract to finish.

So he did.

He shoved down all of his radiating anger and put on that showbiz smile everyone knew him for. The crew eased almost immediately once he’d done so and said, “Shall we?”

The rest of the shoot went by without a hitch and once his scenes were wrapped, he gave out handshakes and compliments until he’d finally made it out of the room. In the hallways were all of the men who’d been watching, eyes cautiously avoiding him after the fiasco with Barb, who was chatting with someone at the other end of the hall. Cooper made a b-line for her but stopped just short by—

“Mr. Howard, great work today,” the man said and reached out his hand.

“Oh, thanks. Thanks, man,” Cooper responded.

“Bud Askins. I oversee our Southern California operations—”

“Hey, sorry, could you just hold on for one second?” Cooper asked. The man blinked but nodded.

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” he answered, a bit taken aback.

Cooper’s attention immediately moved back to Barb, who hadn’t bothered looking at him despite likely hearing his approach, and he stepped between her and the person she’d been conversing with.

“‘Scuse us,” Cooper said to the man. It was firm enough that he simply nodded and moved away from the both of them, but Bud Askins still hovered nearby. Barb’s shoulders straightened once he’d left and she barely managed to look up at him. There was disdain there, something that would have hurt him to see not too long ago, but now? Now, he was pissed.

“I thought I’d been disgusted by you enough to last me a lifetime, but you just keep pilin’ on don’t you?” Cooper said. He did nothing to regulate his voice and knew that her nosey little pack of rats here in the halls would be listening.

“Coop—”

“No. Enough of this bullshit,” he said, rage hovering beneath his words. Barb’s jaw tightened, stance combative.

“You brought her to set,” she said with an empty chuckle.

“She’s my fucking assistant,” he bit back. Barb looked at him incredulously as he took another step forward. “And if she were anything else, it still wouldn’t be your business. You’re not my wife. You made that choice for us both when you chose Vault-Tec and this future—” Cooper gestured at the vault around them. “Over your family.” The room quieted again. Despite the tears welling up in the corner of Barb’s eyes, he didn’t feel sympathy. No remorse. He was too angry for any of that. “This commercial is the last of our business together, Barbara. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got someone I need to find.”

Cooper moved past Barb and further into the vault. The weight of everyone’s gazes fell on his back. He shook out his arms like it’d help release all the pain, anger, and exhaustion from his body, help him navigate this mess, but truly he just wanted to find you… Wherever you’d gone.

YOU

It was surprising just how quiet everything was in this room, unnerving if you were being totally honest. The teals and whites and pastel yellows and colorful abstract paintings gave it all a home-y feel but it couldn’t have been anything further from it. You were hyper-aware of the underlying lead, the bones of this vault, and it all just felt so… cold. Just like Vault-Tec.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been in this room, examining every little thing until your nerves finally calmed from your very public confrontation with Barb. You didn’t even know if you could face Cooper. He had to have been upset with you and your behavior, it wasn’t the time or place to confront Barb like that, and you were sure you’d sealed your fate with everyone, including him, when you opened your mouth to her.

So you sat at the shiny white dining room table, upon the brand new yellow chairs, and sobbed into your hands. Your tears dropped onto the surface, the faintest of sounds in this secluded space, and it spurred you on. Everything in your life was about to be turned upside down. Not only were you probably going to lose one of the best men you’d ever known, but your name was likely going to be the talk of the town if Barb had anything to say about it. 

The part of you that wanted to be understanding and sympathetic, wanted to excuse her actions as someone acting out of grief for her lost marriage, kept gnawing at you and imparting guilt onto your conscience. Even if you knew she was wrong for that, you still couldn’t find it in yourself to hate her. You just felt… bad for her. Even though you’d meant every word you’d said and still felt that residual flickering anger in your chest.

Now Cooper was going to lose everything because of you…

The sound of the door opening sent a jolt through you as you immediately got to your feet, fingers wiping away the tear streaks along your cheeks.

“Color me surprised when the janitor told me you were still hangin’ around down here,” Cooper’s voice rang from the doorway. You couldn’t tell if you were relieved or even more tense than before, jaw clenched.

“Cooper,” you breathed, a sad sound. You cleared your throat and adjusted your dress with shaky hands. Cooper had taken a few steps forward, as though he were testing the waters, if you wanted him to be close or not. “Sorry, I just… started walking and didn’t know where to go so I just… stopped in here to collect myself.”

“I see,” he said and inched closer, hands in his pockets. “What you think?” Cooper’s gaze shifted upwards to indicate he meant the vault. You knew he was trying to ease into a conversation with you about what happened, which gave you a bit of hope since he didn’t come in here screaming and shouting about how unprofessional that was or how everything was screwed up now. It was a relief, no matter how small.

“Cold,” you admitted. “Living behind lead walls when you’ve seen the sky is a tragedy.” Your arms folded over your chest, protective, nervous.

“That’s one way of puttin’ it,” he whispered back.

“Did I screw everything up, Cooper?” you asked suddenly, voice cracking a bit with the emotions that bubbled with every word.

“Oh, hey,” Cooper closed the distance, hands cupping your face so you’d look him in the eye. “No. My business with Barb is done, whether she likes it or not. I don’t give a damn about what she said.”

“But what about, Janey? And your contracts—”

“I’ll manage,” he insisted. “Like I always do.”

“I don’t want to be a distraction for you,” you said and tried to pull your head away, but to no avail. Cooper’s gaze intensified slightly as he pulled you back to look at him. You swallowed hard at the motion.

“I told you already, this ain’t a game for me,” he said firmly. “I don’t want to lose you because of stupid shit my ex-wife said. I can’t… You’re one of the most important people in my life.” You didn’t know what you had expected from Cooper, but it certainly wasn’t this. There was no waver in his speech, no indication that these were falsities, nothing, simply pure truths. “Until you’re sick of me,” he repeated, the phrase plucked from your memory of the lake house.

“Coop—”

There was no arguing, not with the way he kissed you. Intentional, powerful, deep, it was all present in the way he moved against you, the way one of his hands shifted to the nape of your neck and the other pressed against your lower back so that you were flushed with his own body. Your breaths floated into the quiet of the room, lost in the way you both touched and held each other, the temperature rising by the minute.

“Wait, what about—” You tried to gesture to the door that was still wide open, and, without even looking, Cooper backed you both up until his back hit the override button. The door dropped down instantly and he continued devouring your lips. Everything was spinning. “Cooper,” you gasped. His lips traveled down from your lips to your jaw, then to your neck where he bit down greedily. It earned him a moan that you couldn’t help, a blush immediately pooling on your cheeks.

“Keep making sounds like that and I might lose what little control I got left, sweetheart,” he said, all tongue and teeth against your collarbone.

“Should we? Here?” you asked breathlessly. Cooper picked his head up to look at you then, eyes glazed over and a pink tinge over his own cheeks.

“I don’t think you understand,” he said and hovered his mouth over yours. “I’d do just ‘bout anything you asked. Even here. Especially here.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at that. Barb had sufficiently pissed you both off enough that you were willing to desecrate a future residence for a family you didn’t know. Any other day you’d have been the responsible one, insisted that it was inappropriate, but today, a more defiant side seemed to be in control, one Barb had conjured earlier. Even with all the guilt and sympathy you felt, your feelings for Cooper superseded them all and that flickering anger within you had settled into a spitefulness you would have never typically acted on. Until now.

Fuck being his assistant.

Fuck being just his friend.

In this moment, you wanted to be his. Entirely his.

Whatever that meant.

“What’re we waiting for then?” you asked as you gazed up through your eyelashes at him. His breath stuttered, eyes searching yours for any sign of second thoughts, but quickly cut short by the way your fingers found his belt and began undoing it.

“Don’t gotta ask me twice.”

Cooper walked you both back to the bed on the opposite side of the room, just as pristine as the rest of the unit, until you fell back onto it. You watched him as he slid off his jacket, setting it on one of the dining chairs, and undoing his cufflinks. While he rolled up his sleeves, you wiggled off your underwear, giving them a small tug when they got stuck on your heels—which were a little too difficult to take off at the moment. Cooper let out an exhale at the sight, just watching you work. So you slowed down a bit, grabbed the hem of your dress, and dragged it down your thighs.

“Goddamn,” he said with a whistle. Your heartbeat was wild, your breath uneven, and everything about you craved him. He looked so goddamn delicious in his white button-up, loose tie, and grey dress pants that were doing nothing to hide his erection. Cooper approached again but stopped just at the edge of the bed to look at you, the mess you were becoming.

“What?” you asked. Self-consciousness had started to creep in, despite knowing you didn’t need to be. Cooper gestured to you like he couldn’t believe you were there, dress hiked up and eyes expectant.

“Just… Damn,” he said. “What a sight.”

Your cheeks heated up again.

“Well, don’t leave a girl waiting,” you said. He laughed at that.

Cooper dipped down, kissing your propped-up knees, down your thighs, and nudging himself between them. Your head lolled back, heat radiating through your body. The shakiness of your hands had lessened but not gone as you reached up to undo his pants. Cooper shifted back to your neck then, grunting when you finally freed him, tugging his boxers down over his bulge.

“Shit,” he muttered, looking up at you in your eyes again. “Still sure?”

You answered by capturing his lips with yours and guiding him down to your entrance. Without hesitation, he pushed himself in and your gasp turned into a moan as he moved into you, inch by inch. While he wasn’t some egregious size, it’d been a while for you so it took a moment to acclimate, gripping his shoulders tightly until you felt his pelvis against the back of your thighs. You both stayed there for a second, drinking in each other’s presence and the sensation of him inside of you.

Cooper took a deep inhale before he pulled back a couple of inches and slammed back into you. The breath you’d taken was cut off, a beautiful sensation of pleasure trickling through your lower body and dancing upwards, setting your nerves alight. You nodded at him to continue and so he did. Sweat beaded by his brow while pleasure contorted his face.

He thrust back into you a bit harder this time. A moan tumbled from your kiss-swollen lips as you two got lost in one another, grasping at every piece of each other you could get.

Any time before this felt like ages ago, like this was where you were both meant to be and any doubts or reasons against it were out of the window that was still open for anyone to see you. As much as you still cared about being discovered like this, you were too far gone, lost in Cooper’s embrace. Vault-Tec was despicable, Barb was acting horribly… Neither of you deserved that shit.

With a bit of effort, you guided Cooper onto his back, belt jingling against the floor and bed creaking at the movement. He was just as gone as you were with your disheveled hair tumbling over your shoulders and dressed jumbled up to your hips where Cooper’s thumbs pressed into. You settled yourself over him, eyes locking, and he placed his hand on your cheek, caressing it.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he managed.

You smiled as you slid yourself back down onto him. This time, it was him who moaned, a drawn-out, deep-in-his-throat type of sound that you’d never heard from him before. The grip he had on you tightened like he was holding onto the reins of a horse, attempting to be in some sort of control, but when you moved your hips, it was more like he was desperately trying to hold on.

Curses and gasps and moans filled the room, a language all your own. It felt so good that it made you delirious. One of Cooper’s hands slid up to grab your breast, kneading it through the material of your dress and bra, desperate for a new handhold. For a small moment, you could understand the appeal of this pieced-together life. This small slice of life perfectly catered for survival, the preservation of humanity through an act like this, all of it. You could understand the appeal for those who already coveted the white picket fence lifestyle. You didn’t know if this was something that could work for you, but for now, it served its purpose.

You continued to ride him and absorb the sounds that escaped him—all for you.

“Shit,” you whined just as the pressure building within you released, clenching around Cooper who groaned at the feeling.

“Y-You gotta… I’m…” he couldn’t form words but you knew. You removed yourself from him and laid beside him as he pumped one, two, three times, and released all over his hand. His chest was heaving just as much as yours. “Holy… shit…” Cooper used his free hand to rub his brow.

“Yeah,” you breathed.

There was a quiet few seconds between the two of you that was broken by Cooper’s chuckle.

“Just so you know, this ain’t how I thought this would happen,” he said.

“You and me both,” you said with a chuckle. You reached toward the bedside table to grab a tissue, an attempt to help, and he obliged, taking it from you to clean up the mess he’d made.

“I got an idea for next time.” Cooper got up and brought his pants back up, getting himself together again.

“Next time?” you asked in a playful tone, eyebrow raised.

“Sick of me already?” he asked. While he also matched your playfulness, there was something about it that sounded a tad insecure. Unusual for the Cooper Howard. You smiled at him and took the hand he offered to help you up.

“I don’t think I ever could be,” you said. He returned your smile, a sheepish boyish little thing, and placed a sweet kiss on your lips.

The moment you stepped downstairs of the Howard residence, the scent of cigarettes washed over you and the steady sound of idle chatter filled your ears. While the man whose arm you were on would garner attention naturally, it was the togetherness of your body language that drew it this time. Almost every attendee greeted the two of you, even those there to rub elbows for business, niceties and compliments abound. Even the Vault-Tec individuals that had been on set that day played nice. If Barb was there, she didn’t make it known and avoided the both of you for the entire night.

Despite being nervous about the decision to be public tonight, you found it rather easy to do. Cooper did most of the greeting and talking, refusing to stop touching you in some way unless it was for a good reason. It was sweet and you were thankful for the amount of, at least surface-level, respect that was offered to you by everyone. Of course, there was plenty of side-eye and blatantly ignoring you, but Cooper made it a point to introduce you to everyone who wanted to say hello to him unless you knew them.

At some point in the night, Sebastian approached the two of you—a kiss on the cheek for you and a firm pat on the back for Cooper. His eyebrows raised in surprise when he saw your arm looped with Cooper’s, hand resting on his bicep.

“So, finally promoted from assistant to lover—”

“Manager,” the both of you corrected. Sebastian chuckled at you both.

“She’s the only person I really listen to anyhow,” Cooper said, sipping his drink in his hand.

“Aside from Janey,” you corrected.

“Of course,” Cooper said and, to your surprise, placed a kiss on your cheek. You did your best to ignore the nosey side-eyes and smiled at Sebastian.

“Well, congratulations on your successful run with Vault-Tec, and endless happiness to you both,” Sebastian said. He and Cooper clinked their glasses before you all went back to mingling.

The wrap party continued without a hitch, which you were incredibly thankful for, and aside from the small bits of uncomfortableness, you both made it to the end of the night. Once the last guest was out of the door, the two of you retired to his bedroom.

A shared warm shower later—both in temperature and in the way Cooper pinned you against the wall with his own body to run kisses along your shoulders and upper back—you two tumbled into his bed. Your naked bodies slowly writhing against one another, Cooper enjoying you in any way he could, tongue against your clit, fingers deep inside of you, kisses along your stomach… You came undone so many times you almost forgot what century you were in.

Once you had your fill of one another for the night, you laid there like you did in the lake house, and shared soft touches and kisses. That was how you spent most of your nights now, in the comfort of each other’s embrace. Maybe the world would end one day, but as long as you had Cooper Howard, you felt you could withstand the fallout.

[reynaisbetterthananyman]

Star Light, Star Bright.

nico diangelo x male!reader

wc: 18.6k

warning: kinda graphic descriptions

a/n: i recommend reading this chapter on a03. It’s so long that the whole thing doesn’t fit on here (oopsies?) most of the chapter is written here but the ending is on a03!

previous, orginal version here, masterlist, ao3, next

It was safe—except maybe around Thalia—to say your team had been utterly wrecked by the Hunters. Not only had Zoë Nightshade single-handedly annihilated your defensive line with alarming elegance, but the rest of her squad brought psychological warfare to a whole new level.

You and Nico had been running—bravely escaping—when they unleashed their most feared weapon: the Fart Arrows.

You weren’t prepared.

The moment the gas hit, you staggered to a stop, gagging. It was as if a thousand gym socks had died, fermented in a sewer, and come back for vengeance. Your lungs burned. Your eyes watered. Your will to live wavered.

With a dramatic wheeze, you dropped to your knees.

“This is it,” you rasped. “Tell my story.”

Nico spun around, panicked. He crouched beside you, grabbing your shoulders. “What happened? What’s wrong?!”

He looked perfectly fine—of course he did. His helmet, too big for his head, had slipped low enough to cover his nose. He was protected.

Lucky him.

You coughed again, weakly gripping his collar. “Nico… don’t forget me.”

Nico blinked. “Are you seriously—”

“I said tell my story!” you groaned, flopping to the ground.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Nico sighed and, despite himself, muttered, “You died bravely. Death by stench. I’ll etch it into your gravestone.”

“Make it smell-proof,” you croaked.

“I’ll ask cabin nine,” he smiled, tugging you back onto your feet. “Come on, drama king. We’ve got to regroup.”

You staggered forward, leaning on him with a groan. “I see the light, Nico…”

“That’s the moon.”

“Tell it I love it.”

He kept dragging you along.

Thalia was yelling at Percy for leaving your base undefended—which, frankly, you found personally offensive. Sure, the defense had crumbled in record time, but that wasn’t the point.

Still, you weren’t about to argue with the girl who had literal sparks crackling from her fingertips and lightning practically simmering in her irises.

Luckily, Percy handled it himself, standing his ground and—rightfully (why wasn’t he captain?)—defending his decision.

Unfortunately, it didn’t end there.

Thalia, never one to back down gracefully, shoved Percy—okay, flung him—straight into the creek. Percy, to no one’s surprise, responded by sending a wave crashing into her face.

A weird, tense power standoff commenced. Sparks crackled in the air. Water rippled at their feet. The temperature dropped by about ten degrees, and your skin prickled like you were standing between two natural disasters.

You sighed internally. Great. Everyone’s going to die because these two are asserting their dominance.

Then Nico tugged your arm.

You turned, and his voice came in a low, uncertain whisper.

“Hey…what is that…?”

You followed his gaze—and immediately your stomach dropped.

Something was moving in the woods.

A shape, half-obscured by a curling green mist, drifting like smoke through the trees. The air around it shimmered strangely, like the space itself was warping. Goosebumps erupted across your arms.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t part of the game.

“This is impossible,” Chiron said, his voice trembling. “She… she has never left the attic. Never.”

The smoke swirled and parted, revealing a withered, mummified figure—and you instantly paled. You’d heard about the Oracle in the attic, the dried-out woman who did nothing but spew ominous prophecies from her cobwebbed corner of the Big House.

But you always assumed you were safe from ever having to see her, so long as you stayed far, far away from the attic.

Clearly, the universe had other plans.

Beside you, Nico suddenly clutched his ears, and you turned to him, ready to ask what was wrong—until a voice echoed inside your skull, sharp and echoing like it was bouncing off the walls of your brain.

“I am the Spirit of Delphi. Speaker of the prophecies of Phoebus Apollo, slayer of the mighty Python.”

You covered your ears, but it didn’t help. The Oracle turned to Zoë, its hollow voice echoing: “Approach, Seeker, and ask.”

Zoë stepped forward. Her jaw was set, but her eyes wavered. “What must I do to help my goddess?”

Your brow furrowed. Her goddess? What was she talking about? What happened to Artemis?

The answer came fast—and unpleasant. The sharp stink of sulfur hit your nose, making you gag and raise a hand to cover your face. The mist swirled and reshaped, revealing an image of a young girl.

At least, she looked young—but the power rolling off her form was ancient and wild.

You leaned toward Nico and whispered, “Is that Artemis?”

He nodded slowly, his expression tight with concern. “Yeah… but what happened to her?”

The vision sharpened. Artemis was bound in chains, tethered to a jagged mountainside, straining against her restraints with raw defiance. She was in pain—but even so, she fought, glowing with that fierce, untouchable light.

The oracle’s voice boomed, “Five shall go west to the goddess in chains,

One shall be lost in the land without rain,

The bane of Olympus shows the trail,

Campers and Hunters combined prevail,

The Titan’s curse must one withstand,

And one shall perish by a parent’s hand.”

And just like that, the green smoke drifted back into the Oracle’s mouth. Its body stilled, joints locking in that unnatural way, and it settled once more on the rock—like it had never moved at all.

A heavy tension coiled through the clearing. No one spoke. Not Chiron. Not Zoe. Not even the Stolls, who usually couldn’t stay quiet for more than a few seconds.

For once, you didn’t feel the urge to crack a joke or ease the silence with a snide comment. The air didn’t feel breathable enough for humor. What you’d just seen… it wasn’t like anything you’d encountered before.

You’d seen monsters before—been attacked, even, on your way to camp—but this was different.

You had never seen a prophecy spoken aloud, never imagined what it would feel like to watch the future unravel in cryptic lines and haunting images.

And you definitely hadn’t anticipated the silence it would leave in its wake—the kind that felt less like peace and more like pressure. A storm on the horizon, waiting to break.

“[Name].”

Nico’s voice cut through the fog in your brain, grounding you just enough to blink out of the beginnings of a cold sweat.

“Huh?” you mumbled, still dazed.

He frowned, worry etched deep into his face.

“Everyone’s leaving,” he said gently. “Percy and Grover are taking the Oracle back up to the attic.”

You hadn’t even noticed the others moving. Your eyes flicked toward the path, where Percy’s shoulders were tense as he and Grover carried the motionless figure away.

Nico’s hand found yours, his thumb rubbing slowly across the back of your knuckles. The motion was soft and careful. It was the same gesture Bianca used on him whenever he was afraid.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked quietly. “You look like you’re about to hurl.”

You swallowed hard, the pressure in your chest stubborn and unshakable. “Yeah… I just…” You trailed off, unsure of how to explain the lingering weight in your ribs. The way the prophecy still echoed in your bones.

“Come on,” Nico said, tugging you gently toward camp. “We missed dinner, but maybe we can still find you a snack. You’ll feel better.”

You didn’t argue. Your legs moved on autopilot, following his lead like a rag doll while your thoughts swirled uselessly in a fog.

You’d just made it to the edge of the woods when—

“Nico, wait!”

Both of you froze and turned at the sound. Bianca was sprinting toward you, her brows pinched.

Nico’s face hardened instantly. Without a word, he turned back around and tried to pull you along faster. You barely had time to process the change in pace before Bianca caught up and grabbed his arm.

He recoiled like she’d burned him.

“Move, Bianca,” he demanded, his voice low and sharp in a way you weren’t used to hearing. Bianca huffed, her grip on his arm tightened, and her feet remained stubbornly in place. “I’ve been trying to talk to you, but you’ve been avoiding me!”

“You’ve got a whole cabin full of new sisters—go talk to them!” Nico snapped, his voice rising. “You don’t need me anymore. You chose them. You left me. Now let go!”

Bianca let out an exasperated sigh. “Nico, that’s not true. I didn’t leave you. I’ll always be here. But I can’t take care of you the way you need. The way you deserve to be cared for.”

“That’s such garbage!” Nico snapped. “You joined the Hunters because you were done with me! You saw them as your way out. We were fine before they ever showed up!”

His voice wavered near the end, and you felt the tremble in his hand where it stayed locked with yours. In the faint glow from camp, his eyes shimmered with unshed tears, which he stubbornly blinked away.

“Just admit it, Bianca,” he said, quieter now, but no less raw. “I’ve only ever been a burden to you.”

The words sat heavy in the air, like a weight no one could lift. That kind of pain—gods, you knew it.

The ache of believing you were too much for the people you loved. Too loud. Too sensitive. Too complicated.

You remembered the way your mother’s eyes used to tighten when you asked too many questions. The way she’d sigh, exhausted, like even your presence was something she had to manage.

You weren’t stupid. You’d heard the whispers at family gatherings—before she cut them off completely. Heard how they talked about you like a burden. How they wondered why she “put up with all that,” like loving you came with a manual she’d chosen not to read.

You didn’t know exactly what happened, only that one year, the holiday cards stopped arriving and the phone stopped ringing. Your mother said it was better that way, that they didn’t deserve you—but a part of you still wondered if she was just tired of defending you.

If she wished you’d come out quieter, easier.

Normal.

And now, watching Nico—shoulders tight, voice cracking, hand trembling in yours like it was the only steady thing left—you recognized that pain like an old bruise. The fear of being someone’s reason to leave.

Bianca stood just a few feet away, but it might as well have been miles. And you, caught between the girl who raised him and the boy who was breaking right in front of you, didn’t know what to say.

What could you say, when every word Nico spoke sounded like something you might’ve said once, too?

So you stayed where you were. Silent. Steady. Trying to hold together what little you could—your hand in his, your presence the only offering you had—and wished that love alone could be enough to undo this kind of hurt.

“Nico,” Bianca said, barely more than a whisper. Her voice wavered, eyes wide with hurt. “How can you say that? I do love you—but I… I need space to live my own life too. I have a right to.”

Nico’s face went still.

“Then go,” he said, voice cold and brittle. “Go and don’t come back.”

Here is when you decided to open your mouth, ready to say something—anything—to soften the sharp edge of Nico’s words. But before you could speak, a faint jolt pulsed from the chain around your neck. It was subtle, like static against your skin, but enough to startle you.

Your hand flew to your chest, where the glass dome lay, and you noticed the small flower inside beginning to tremble, its petals quivering unnaturally.

Confused, you blinked down at it—only for a wave of sorrow to slam into you like a tide. It filled your lungs like water, thick and drowning. The ache was overwhelming—grief that didn’t have a name, sharp and endless.

Your knees buckled slightly, and the world tilted, the conversation around you slipping into a distant hum.

Bianca paused, the instincts of an older sister kicking in as she caught sight of you swaying. She stepped away from Nico, quickly closing the distance to steady you by the arm.

“Nico, what’s wrong with your friend?” she asked, voice sharp with concern. You blinked at her, but her face was already starting to blur, smeared at the edges like a painting caught in the rain.

“Hey,” she said more gently. “Are you okay? Do we need to get someone?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The weight in your chest had become unbearable, grief pressing into your ribs until your lungs forgot how to breathe. Then your legs gave out.

Nico lurched forward with a panicked shout, catching you just before you hit the ground. “Bianca—go! Call for Chiron!”

But his voice was already drifting away. The last thing you saw was his wide, frightened eyes staring into yours. Then the world slipped out from under you like the ground itself had vanished.

And everything went dark.

Tick. Tock.

“Psst…”

Tick. Tock.

“Hey, kid.”

Tick. Tock.

“D’aww, well, isn’t he a sweet little thing!”

Tick. Tock.

“Should we pinch him?”

Tick. Tock.

“No, that’s rude!”

Tick. Tock.

“Well, got a better idea to wake him up?”

Tick. Tock.

“He’s fine. Sleeping like a baby!”

Tick. Tock.

“We don’t have time for this. Wake him up now.”

Tick. Tock.

“Well, I would’ve if I was allowed to pinch him!”

Tick. Tock.

“No pinching!”

Tick. Tock.

“You—!”

Tick. Tock.

“Enough. Look—he’s stirring.”

Tick. Tock.

Why was it so loud?

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Was that a clock? Who buys a clock anymore?

The sound gnawed at your ears like a slow, deliberate countdown. Your eyes snapped open—but the world didn’t greet you like it should’ve. Everything was warped. Soft. Like you were staring through water or frosted glass. Shapes hovered at the edge of your vision, twisting and settling with every blink.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

You flinched. That sound again. Close—too close. Embedded in the walls, maybe. In your bones?

As you lay there trying to orient yourself, you realized you weren’t alone. There were voices—quiet, hushed whispers, just above your head.

“Is he awake?”

“No, no, look at his face. He’s still got drool. That’s the face of someone deeply asleep.”

“Should we poke him?”

“Do not poke him. We’ve talked about this.”

“Look at him. He’s taking ages just to focus.”

It wasn’t a voice you recognized. Smooth, but sharp around the edges—like polished glass with cracks underneath. It had the kind of hostility you’d usually expect from an Ares kid right before a fight.

Then came a second voice, bright and airy with a scratch of rasp like laughter after a cold. “Would you quit being so hard on the kid, Phobetor? Oh, I just want to pinch his cheeks!”

Phobetor. The name was unfamiliar.

The first voice—Phobetor, apparently—hissed in annoyance at the scolding but fell quiet. You blinked slowly, trying to will your vision into focus.

Were they new kids?

That was your first thought. Maybe after you passed out and they dragged you to the infirmary, this was some weird welcome party for new campers—though the ticking and phantom voices didn’t exactly scream hospitality.

Your vision finally cleared, revealing a ceiling you didn’t recognize.

The ticking—constant and sharp—seemed to echo louder now, pressing in from every direction. You shifted, expecting the familiar comfort of your cabin bed, but the surface beneath you creaked ominously.

It was stiff, unforgiving. Definitely not a mattress.

And it wasn’t just the bed that was missing. You shivered, suddenly aware there was no blanket draped over you, no pillow under your head, just a thin chill crawling up your spine.

Did I fall out of bed? You blinked, trying to piece things together. That didn’t explain the aches pulsing in your back or the growing unease in your gut.

You slowly sat up—and froze.

This wasn’t the Hermes cabin. It wasn’t any part of Camp Half-Blood at all.

The walls around you were lined with clocks. Dozens of them. No—hundreds. All cuckoo clocks.

They ticked in a discordant symphony, out of rhythm with one another. None of them matched.

One was shaped like a cathedral with golden spires. Another, like a lily pad, had a frog tongue swinging in and out with each tick.

You turned to the nearest one, squinting. A figurine of a boy tugged endlessly on a girl’s braid, over and over in a loop.

“…Is this a prank?” You muttered, unsettled. The clock boy gave another mechanical yank, the girl’s painted face forever frozen mid-scream. Weird didn’t begin to cover it.

Turning away from the bizarre clock, your eyes landed on a nearby shelf. Toys were scattered across each tier, huddled together like they were whispering among themselves.

But they weren’t modern toys—no bright plastics or screen-faced gadgets. These were vintage.

One in particular caught your attention: an antique porcelain doll that looked uncannily similar to the one your mother kept on her bedside table when you were younger.

Your breath hitched. You hadn’t thought of that doll in years.

Carefully, you reached out and picked it up. Its skin—if you could call it that—was smooth but fragile, and the slightest pressure could’ve cracked it. The doll wore a delicate Victorian dress with hand-stitched lace, and a glassy, unblinking gaze stared straight through you.

Then, a sound reached your ears. Faint, distant… music?

You turned, drawn to the source.

A wooden dresser stood tucked into the corner of the room, its surface lined with ornate music boxes. Like the dolls, they were clearly vintage. Each one handcrafted, with the same intricate care you remembered seeing when you had to bunk in the Apollo cabin for a week.

Back when Connor had accidentally let in a swarm of stink bugs, and you’d ended up watching Lee Fletcher fiddle with the tiny gears of his latest project.

With Beckendorf helping him, the two of them had built something beautiful from scraps. The craftsmanship now in front of you reminded you of that—only these music boxes felt more… haunted.

Each one was unique. One featured an angel suspended mid-spin, surrounded by tiny, gleaming stars that winked in and out like real constellations. It was almost mesmerizing.

But then you caught sight of the next one—and snorted.

A baby Eros, all pudgy cheeks and wings, sat in the middle of a pink pedestal, wearing nothing but a golden diaper. Typical mortal interpretation of the gods: either eerily accurate or hilariously off the mark.

“Oh, Figaro! Would you look at this hat!”

The sudden voice made you freeze. You'd been so absorbed in the music boxes and the strange trinkets around you that you hadn’t heard anyone enter. That didn’t alarm you at first—because the voice was familiar. Comfortingly so.

You turned with a smile already forming. “Hey, Chiron—”

But the rest of your sentence collapsed the second you laid eyes on him.

That wasn’t Chiron.

Or at least, not your Chiron. The figure before you looked like a discount version—an uncanny Chiron knockoff fresh off a thrift store shelf.

He had two human legs instead of hooves, no sign of his horse half anywhere.

And he was dressed like someone’s fashionably confused great-grandfather: high-waisted trousers, stiff suspenders, and a pinstripe vest that screamed 1920s.

You blinked, trying to make sense of it. Had the Mist scrambled your brain?

“Oh, he’s even cuter when he’s confused!” said a voice, smooth and teasing.

Your head whipped around, scanning the room. “Who said that?!”

“We’re right next to you,” came the raspier, growling voice—Phobetor again, and clearly still annoyed.

“I don’t see you.” You crossed your arms, deadpan.

“You don’t have to,” he replied coldly. The chill in his tone made it sound like you’d stepped on his dreams, or possibly his dog.

Rude. You’d never hurt a dog. Unless it was the Stoll brothers’ mutt, but that thing probably would’ve had it coming.

Then a new voice spoke—soft and warm, completely different from the others. It drifted through the air like silk, wrapping gently around your ears. “You are confused. I understand.”

You swore you felt a hand settle lightly on your shoulder. There was a calm power to it—soothing but impossibly deep, like lullabies sung in forgotten languages.

“Yeah,” you muttered, your voice quieter now. “Apparently I’m missing a lot lately.”

Your thoughts flickered, uninvited, to your father. To everything you didn’t understand, everything that hadn’t been said.

And to the growing sense that none of this was random.

As expected, the dreamy voice turned cold and unhelpful.

“Now is not the time for questions,” he said. “We will explain—but first, you must pay attention.”

And just like that, something shoved you—not physically, but with enough force to spin you back around to face… Grandpa Chiron.

You scoffed under your breath. The voices had gone silent.

No guidance. No explanation. Were you going crazy and hearing things? Or worse—was this Kronos messing with you? You grimaced.

The world didn’t need another power-hungry psycho. Luke already filled that role. You hadn’t known him personally, but from what you’d heard, he wasn’t exactly Camp’s pride and joy.

Only an idiot sides with the guy who ate his own children?

Still, something weird was obviously going on. Even if this Chiron was some imposter in your grandfather’s closet, he might be the only one around to help.

Swallowing your pride, you marched over and raised your voice:

“Chiron, I’m being haunted!”

He didn’t react. Just strolled right past you like you weren’t even there.

Your jaw dropped. Rude. How could he ignore you? You were, like, obviously his favorite camper.

Who else willingly spent time listening to his longwinded Greek history rants?

You waved your hand in front of his face, annoyed.

“Chiron! It’s me—[Name]! I tried to dye your tail pink last month, remember?!”

Nothing.

He kept moving forward, lost in his own little world.

…Wait. Was he walking through you?

Oh gods.

Your stomach dropped.

Were you dead?!

This was horrible. Chiron was dressed like someone’s great-uncle Larry and you were dead. And those voices? Probably other ghosts, doomed to hang around creepy doll rooms and cuckoo clocks.

Panic began to simmer in your chest.

No one to talk to. No one to see you. Just you, some haunted furniture, and the terrifying possibility that you were stuck in this dream forever, cursed to watch Chiron in suspenders.

With a long, defeated sigh, you sank onto the floor and stared blankly at a nearby trash pail.

“Guess I’m dead,” you mumbled.

Your shoulders slumped. “When Drew dies, she is so making fun of me for this.”

Just as you were contemplating your ghostly afterlife, your eyes caught on the cat weaving around Chiron’s feet. Something about its face made you tilt your head. It looked weirdly familiar.

...Was that Percy?

Before you could fully process that horrifying concept, the Percy-cat leapt onto the workbench Chiron had been fiddling with.

“Figaro!” Chiron scolded lightly, though his voice was full of fondness. “What did I say about jumping on the workbench?”

He reached out to scratch behind the cat’s ears. You watched, dumbfounded.

Figaro.

That name. You’d heard it before.

But where?

Figaro purred beneath Chiron’s smooth strokes, nuzzling into his palm like he’d just been given the world.

“Okay, okay,” Chiron chuckled. “I’ll excuse it this one last time.”

The cat’s purring only grew louder as he curled tighter around Chiron’s hand, tail flicking contentedly. With one final pat, Chiron nudged Figaro aside and pulled something small from his pocket—a child-sized hat.

You frowned. Maybe it was meant for the other dead kids. Even in the afterlife, you were doomed to suffer Chiron’s horrific fashion sense.

Chiron—Geppetto, you guessed now—placed the tiny hat on something resting on the table. You leaned to get a better look, but his body blocked your view.

“Oh, doesn’t he look great, Figaro?”

The cat’s tail twitched as if in agreement.

“Let’s give him a name,” Chiron murmured, stepping aside at last.

There on the table sat a puppet. A wooden one. Plain, but detailed. Hand-carved.

Huh. A strange old man, a cozy cluttered shop, a puppet...

Something in your memory stirred.

You tilted your head. “This is… familiar…”

You squinted at the hat-wearing puppet. A name danced at the edges of your brain. Pinok? No. Piney? Definitely not.

Then it hit you.

“Pinocchio!”

“Oh yes,” Chiron echoed with a wide grin. “His name shall be Pinocchio.”

He swung the puppet gleefully in his arms, completely unaware of the existential crisis you were now having.

This had to be a joke. A dream. A punishment?

But as Chiron twirled around with the puppet, you caught a better look at its face—and your heart stopped.

It wasn’t just a puppet.

The carved brows, the cheeks, even the upturn of the mouth…

Your breath hitched. “Nico…”

This was the afterlife? Living a twisted and reimagined version of a fairy tale?

Fairy tales used to be your escape, back when you were a kid. Your mom would read you every single one.

But now? You were in one. Literally. And with no sign of escape, it seemed like you were stuck here... forever.

Figaro hissed, snapping you out of your spiraling thoughts, as Geppetto chased him across the floor with the puppet in hand.

You couldn’t help it—you snorted. Percy, scared of Nico? That was rich. Nico wouldn’t hurt a fly. Maybe glare a fly into oblivion, but still.

“Oh, he’s a cheeky boy, isn’t he, Figaro?” Geppetto cackled.

Figaro did not agree. The cat darted beneath a stool in protest, his ears flattened with clear disdain.

Before the puppet parade could continue, a deep bell rang out.

The sound echoed once—twice—then multiplied.

Every clock in the room began to chime, one after the other in rapid succession. It wasn’t just a ring—it was an overwhelming, chaotic chorus of cuckoo-clock cacophony.

You clapped your hands over your ears, wincing as the sharp peals swallowed the room whole.

This was no choir. This was a clockocalypse

Geppetto pulled out a pocket watch—because apparently, the orchestra of clocks ringing wasn’t enough. Still, he frowned as he checked the time. “Looks like it’s time for bed, Figaro.”

The small cat let out a meow and crawled out from under the stool, looking thoroughly unamused.

But before anything else could happen, your vision abruptly went black.

“AH!” You stumbled back, clutching your face. “Am I blind? Oh no, no, no—”

You’d take being stuck in this bizarre puppet play over blindness any day.

Thankfully, your sight returned just as quickly as it vanished. Light filtered in again, and once everything stopped spinning, you realized you weren’t in the workshop anymore.

Now you were in a bedroom.

Compared to the crowded, whimsical chaos of the workshop, this room was calm—almost too calm. Just two beds: a large one in the center, and a smaller one beside it. “Figaro” was carved on the tiny headboard of the small one.

Which meant this was Geppetto’s bedroom.

The abrupt darkness made sense now. You were transitioning scenes. Like flipping pages in a storybook.

Yes. That was the explanation you were sticking with. It was simple, it was logical, and it prevented you from spiraling further into the “am I actually dead and hallucinating?” debate.

Geppetto entered through the door, Figaro close behind.

Still carrying Pinocchio, he crossed to the dresser and propped the puppet upright against the wall with a gentle pat to its head, like a father tucking in his son. Then he turned to get himself and Figaro settled into bed.

Figaro was already halfway to dreamland, his limbs limp, tail flicking lazily over the blanket.

Geppetto paused, eyes drifting back to the puppet sitting upright, facing them with its lifeless wooden stare.

“Look at him, Figaro,” he murmured, lying back on his pillow. “He almost looks alive.”

The cat meowed in drowsy agreement—or maybe just protest at being kept awake. Either way, his eyes were already closing again.

Geppetto smiled faintly at his sleepy companion, his gaze softening as it returned to Pinocchio. “Wouldn’t it be nice,” he whispered, “if he were a real boy? A boy who could talk and play without strings…”

His voice trailed off, the sentence unfinished as he slipped into a quiet daydream. For a moment, he looked impossibly hopeful, like someone hanging on to the last edge of a forgotten wish.

Then he blinked and shook himself out of it. With a sigh, he turned and blew out the candle beside his bed, plunging the room into gentle darkness.

But not even a full second passed before he spoke again.

“Figaro,” he said suddenly, “I forgot to open the window. Would you mind?”

The cat lifted his head slowly, his face practically screaming yes, I do mind, but he still got up—reluctantly, dragging his paws—climbed onto Geppetto’s bed, and leapt to the windowsill.

With a bit of feline finesse, Figaro slipped through the small crack and tugged the window open with his back legs. The moonlight spilled into the room, bathing everything in silver.

Then Geppetto gasped.

“Look!” he exclaimed, sitting up and pointing skyward. “A wishing star!”

You looked up too, and sure enough, there it was—the highest, brightest star in the sky. You'd never seen one glow so intensely. It shimmered like it had something important to do.

Geppetto clasped his hands, and in a voice full of innocent wonder, began to speak.

“Starlight, star bright,

First star I see tonight.

I wish I may, I wish I might,

Have the wish I make tonight.”

Without meaning to, you whispered along with him.

It was a reflex—muscle memory from your childhood. Back then, you used to whisper that same rhyme to the stars outside your window, thinking maybe they were listening.

Geppetto turned to Figaro and hooked a finger under his chin. “Do you know what I wished for?” he asked.

Figaro, basking in the attention, gave a slow blink.

Geppetto’s eyes drifted to the puppet, then back to the cat. “I wished for my Pinocchio to be a real boy. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

He sighed and let himself fall back into the pillow, clearly drifting. Figaro curled up at his feet without complaint.

“Goodnight, Figaro,” Geppetto murmured.

A pause.

“Goodnight, Pinocchio.”

Once Geppetto’s eyes shut, he started snoring immediately—and was that a horse neigh?

You had half a mind to go shut his mouth for him… but you didn’t want to risk suffocating the old guy in his sleep.

Then, a soft twinkling echoed through the room. Moonlight poured through the open window, growing brighter by the second. A white-blue shimmer blanketed the bedroom, and the highest star in the sky began to descend, pulsing with light.

You recognized this part—it was the Blue Fairy’s grand entrance.

You watched without much enthusiasm… at first.

The glowing silhouette forming in the center of the room wasn’t tall and graceful like you remembered. No elegant, adult figure in a flowing dress.

No… this one was shorter. Younger. Suspiciously familiar.

As the light dimmed and revealed the figure underneath, your jaw hit the floor.

Standing in the middle of the room, drowning in a dress several sizes too big, was—

“Drew?!”

You barely managed to choke back the laughter, though giggles still slipped out, bubbling up uncontrollably. Of course your borderline evil best friend had been cast as the Blue Fairy.

The Stolls would've lost their minds over this. Why did you never have a camera when you needed one?

Fairy Drew strutted into the room, wand in hand, shoulders squared, her face already bored out of its mind.

She stopped beside Geppetto’s bed and cleared her throat. “Good Geppetto, you have given so much happiness to others—” she paused, lifting her palm and squinting at badly scribbled words, “you deserve to have your wish come true—blah blah—let’s just get this over with.”

Watching her stomp over to Pinocchio made the whole thing even more absurd. Your friends were fairytale characters now. Incorrectly cast, sure, but that somehow made it even better.

You turned your eyes toward the puppet—Nico, or a wooden version of him.

Still, unmoving, dull-eyed. It creeped you out more than you expected. Seeing him like that felt… wrong. Like he was lifeless. Dead. The thought made your stomach twist, and you quickly shifted your gaze back to Fairy Drew.

She lifted her wand, clearly uninterested in dramatics.

“Little puppet made of pine, wake.”

With a spark of blue light, her wand tapped the puppet’s head. The glow pulsed once, and suddenly, his eyes blinked open.

He looked around in wonder, slowly lifting his arms. “I can move!” he exclaimed.

Then, he gasped and pointed at his mouth. “I can talk!”

Drew grabbed his hand and helped him wobble to his feet, more out of obligation than compassion.

“I brought you to life because Geppetto wished for a real boy,” she said. Then under her breath: “For some reason.”

Pinocchio didn’t hear her—or didn’t care. He was too busy spinning around and admiring his arms like they were made of gold.

“Am I a real boy?” he asked eagerly.

Drew blinked. “No.”

The puppet’s smile faltered. “Well then, how do I become one?”

“You have to prove yourself brave, truthful, and unselfish to make your father’s wish come true.”

Then Drew’s expression shifted.

“Or,” she added, lowering her voice, “I’ll turn you into a ghost.”

Pinocchio’s eyes widened. “Oh no!”

“You’ll be stuck in this workshop forever,” Drew continued, tone dead serious. “Haunting your dad. Wandering the halls. Crying wooden tears. Forever.”

He looked horrified. You couldn’t blame him.

She stood back, letting the horror set in, then burst into laughter. “I’m kidding! You should’ve seen your face!”

She tossed her head back and let out another loud laugh, hands thrown up in mock fright. “Oh no!” she cried, mimicking Pinocchio’s earlier panic. “I’m a ghost now!”

You arched a brow, watching as she practically doubled over from laughing at her own joke. No doubt in your mind: this was Drew in all her chaotic glory.

What shocked you more was that Pinocchio started laughing too. Like, really laughing.

You cringed. The poor boy was too innocent to know he was being emotionally terrorized.

Still, Drew kept laughing. And somehow… so did he.

After what felt like forever, the fairy’s laughter finally subsided, her smile dropping. She pointed her wand back at the former puppet, frowning. “But I will turn you back to wood if you misbehave.”

Pinocchio hastily nodded, clearly not wanting to go back to being a lifeless puppet. “I’ll be good, I promise!”

Fairy Drew patted him on the head, her not-so-comforting smile hovering above him. “We both know that’s not true. You can’t tell right from wrong, silly Pinocchio.”

She turned and walked away, her oversized dress sparkling more with every step. Reaching the window, she stuck a hand outside, searching for something. When her hand came back in, it held a small cricket perched nicely on her palm.

“This’ll do,” she muttered, nose scrunched as she carried it back across the room and placed it down on the dresser.

That’s when you realized—someone important had been missing.

With a twirl of her wand, the once-chirping cricket shimmered in a flash of indigo light and transformed into a furious little bug in a miniature pinstripe suit. He adjusted his lapels like he'd been rudely summoned from a high-stakes meeting rather than a moonlit leaf.

“You’ve got some nerve yanking me out of my late-night stroll!” he barked, pacing in erratic little circles and waving his arms like he was trying to swat away the indignity. His antennae twitched with irritation, and his bulbous eyes narrowed on her as if she’d committed some unspeakable offense.

His voice—sharp, dry, and dripping with disdain—sounded suspiciously like Mr. D on a bad day. You know, the kind of tone that could make a satyr cry and a camper rethink every decision they’d ever made.

Pinocchio gasped, hands flying to his mouth before scooping the bug up with all the gentle awe of someone handling a sacred relic.

“Hey! Put me down! You’ve all got sweaty hands!” the cricket shrieked, kicking his tiny legs.

Fairy Drew rolled her eyes and flicked the bug lightly. “He’s not a real boy. He can’t have sweaty hands. And quit complaining, or I’ll zap your mouth off.”

That ended the cricket’s tantrum real fast.

“What’s your name, cricket sir?” Pinocchio asked, lifting him closer to his face with wide, hopeful eyes.

The cricket turned to shoot one last scowl at Drew, who returned it with an exaggerated, sugar-sweet smile and a sarcastic little wave.

The cricket sighed deeply before crossing his arms. “It’s Jiminy,” he muttered. “Jiminy Cricket.”

And that’s when it hit you. Jiminy Cricket. The wise, moral compass. The voice of reason. That Jiminy Cricket was Mr. D. Grumpy, snarky, passively-hostile Mr. D. The one who ran Camp Half-Blood like he wished it would burn down so he could finally take a nap.

This version of Pinocchio had to be completely deranged.

“Well, Jiminy,” Drew sneered, dragging out his name like it physically hurt to say it, “you’re going to be his conscience. He’d be a menace without one.”

“What is a menace?” Pinocchio asked, tilting his head like a confused puppy.

“It’s what you’ll turn into if this bug doesn’t take the job,” she said plainly.

Jiminy grumbled something under his breath, his whole body shaking with irritation as he stomped across the top of the dresser. “If you think I’m going to be the conscience of a walking bobblehead, you are seriously mistaken.”

Pinocchio frowned and gently touched his head, suddenly unsure if it really did wobble like that.

Before Jiminy could jump off the edge, Drew flicked her fingers, blocking his path with a sparkling hand. “You don’t get a choice, bug.”

The tip of her wand lit up, casting a warm glow that made it clear she wasn’t bluffing.

Jiminy froze. He looked at the wand, then at Drew, and immediately took a few shaky steps back toward Pinocchio. “Alright, alright, fine!” he snapped, glaring up at the glowing wand like it had personally insulted him. “I’ll do it, okay?”

The light on the wand faded.

“Good!” Drew said, all smug and satisfied.

At this point, you’d completely zoned them out—your eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the room, beyond the glitter and puppet strings and cartoon morality. They were going through the motions like actors in a play you’d seen one too many times. The plot spun on rails, predictable as clockwork.

You knew this story. Every twist, every beat. All the characters were here—rearranged, sure, twisted in tone, some more unhinged than you remembered—but the story was the same.

“Didn’t I tell you to pay attention?” a voice hissed suddenly in your ear.

You jolted like someone had dumped cold water down your back. Your head whipped around, scanning wildly for whoever was behind you—but no one was there.

“You already know you cannot see us,” said the chirpy, singsong voice from earlier—the one that somehow managed to sound both smug and deeply annoying.

You scrunched your nose. Of course. Them again.

“Oh, it’s you,” you muttered, rubbing your temple. “Because this wasn’t annoying enough already.”

A sudden breeze brushed across your face, cold and too deliberate to be natural. You flinched, instinctively folding in on yourself like it could protect you from something invisible.

“Now, now, don’t be rude. I do have a name,” the voice said with a lilting laugh, like this was all some kind of game.

“Yeah? Then maybe try introducing yourself next time instead of creeping around whispering in people’s ears.”

Silence.

Typical. Couldn’t even give you a name. Just a voice and some cryptic nonsense, like that was supposed to mean something.

The background noise of Fairy Drew’s glitter-fueled threats and Pinocchio’s head poking continued like nothing had happened. The havoc hadn’t paused for your moment of discomfort.

You sighed and tried to shake it off, turning your attention back to the scene—just in time for a piercing, high-pitched screech to explode through the air.

The sound was sharp and immediate, like a siren made of nails on a chalkboard. It slammed straight into your ears, making your whole body tense.

You clapped your hands over your ears, teeth clenched. “What now?” you shouted, voice half-lost under the screeching.

No answer.

Then, with a sharp snap, the sound cut off.

“I’ll ignore your attitude this time,” the voice said, cold and clipped, “but consider this a warning.”

You didn’t respond right away. You were too busy clutching your ears, the ringing still bouncing around your skull like someone had struck a tuning fork inside your head. Your vision swam at the edges, your balance slightly off.

“Next time, make his ears bleed,” someone else snickered, voice full of glee.

You winced. Next time?!

If these were the ghosts you were stuck with in the afterlife, you honestly wouldn’t mind dying again—preferably into the company of someone quieter. Or at the very least, less sadistic.

An irritated groan slipped out before you could stop it. “Look, all I want to know is what’s going on. Why am I in Pinocchio? Who even are you three? And am I dead or what?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then a loud, wheezing snort came from somewhere off to your right. “Kid thinks he’s dead!” the voice howled with laughter.

You could practically see him doubled over, wheezing like it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard, completely delighted by your confusion.

You took a slow breath. Inhale. Exhale. You were not going to lose your temper. Not with whatever these things were. Instead, you forced a tight smile onto your face and kept your voice as calm and polite as possible.

“I am so sorry for my brothers,” came a third voice—this one soft and clear, like chimes in the wind. It had an elegance the others lacked, layered in a kind of practiced grace.

“Allow me to introduce myself properly,” the voice continued. “I am Morpheus. The one who nearly shattered your eardrums is Phantasos. And the one you probably want to strangle is Phobetor. We are the Oneiroi—spirits of dreams.”

“…So I’m not dead?” you asked slowly, still half-expecting someone to scream welcome! and yank you into a tunnel of light.

“You are not dead,” Morpheus confirmed, calm as ever. Then, after a pause, added dryly, “Although with how often you bring it up, one might think it’s something you want.”

“No!” you yelped, clearing your throat and glancing around. “No. I don’t want to die. I just… thought this was the afterlife.”

Phantasos’s laugh came sharp and unsettling—just as high-pitched as before. “Either way, we’re not here to kill you—”

“Unfortunately,” Phobetor muttered darkly. “

We get it, Phobetor, you’re edgy,” Phantasos said with a groan.

“What’s being edgy got to do with me wanting him dead?”

“Can you not? All you ever spout is nonsense.”

“Nonsense? You’re the father of nonsense!”

“Lalalala, not listening!”

“Oh, wait till I get my hands on you—”

A loud, deliberate cough snapped them into silence.

“Now… where was I?” Morpheus asked, sighing tiredly.

You raised a finger. “You were about to mention why I’m being harassed in my dreams.”

“Ah, yes,” Morpheus said. “As I explained, we are the Oneiroi. Think of us as… guides.”

“Guides?” you repeated, doubtful.

But before he could explain further, everything around you shifted.

Frozen.

The air stilled. Sounds dropped out like someone had hit mute. Fairy Drew was stuck mid-eye-roll. Jiminy’s foot hovered above the floor, never landing. Even the clouds above had stopped drifting—painted on the sky. Geppetto sat statue-still, eyes blank, chest unmoving.

“Wait—what’s happening—?”

Then you felt it. Something behind you.

A presence. Cold and close. A shadow pressed against your back like it had always been there, just waiting for you to notice.

And then—a hand.

Fingers settled gently on your shoulder, cool and precise.

You went rigid, breath caught in your throat.

A low, teasing snicker curled around your ear.

“Don’t be afraid,” the voice whispered—soft and smooth.

Slowly—every nerve in your body screaming—your eyes trailed down to the hand on your shoulder, then followed the arm upward.

And then you saw the face.

Morpheus was not what you’d expected. He wasn’t horrifying or monstrous—he was... ethereal. Calm. His skin was pale like moonlight filtered through gauze, with a faint shimmer beneath the surface, as if dusted in sleep-sand.

His eyes glowed faintly lavender, drowsy yet all-seeing, like someone who had just woken from a long, prophetic slumber.

Waves of soft black hair fell around his shoulders like velvet curtains, and his robe flowed around him with the slow grace of drifting clouds. He looked like someone you could trust—someone who had lived in dreams for so long, he had become one.

Your body relaxed the second you got a proper look at him.

“Huh,” you muttered. “I thought you’d be… you know, hideous. No offense.”

His smile faltered and the glow in his eyes dimmed ever so slightly, narrowing with restrained annoyance.

“None taken,” he said, voice cool but clipped enough to say some offense was definitely taken.

He cleared his throat with a half-hearted cough. Then he withdrew his hand from your shoulder and gave a sharp snap of his fingers.

“Brothers, you may come out now.”

The room shuddered, like something had tugged at the edges of the dream itself. A tremor ran beneath your feet, the air vibrating with anticipation—but nothing else moved. Nothing except you.

Your knees wobbled suddenly, your balance thrown off by the unnatural pause in gravity, time, whatever this even was. You stumbled, reaching out on instinct—and grabbed hold of Morpheus’s sleeve.

He flinched at the contact, startled—but his hand shot out by reflex, steadying you. For a second, neither of you moved—his arm tense beneath your grip and your hand clenched tighter than you meant to.

“Finally! I was getting claustrophobic!” A voice shouted, loud and chaotic.

“I hate you,” another voice rumbled darkly—low, dry, and bitter as thunder crawling through stone.

The shadows thickened in a spiral. And then they emerged.

Still steadying you, Morpheus let out a long-suffering sigh, eyes fixed on the scene past your shoulder. “This has been the longest introduction ever,” he muttered, and with a light push on your shoulder, gently turned you around to face the others.

You blinked—and immediately wished you hadn’t.

The two gods towered over you like opposing halves of a dream gone wrong.

Phobetor was shaped like fear itself. Tall, broad-shouldered, and sharp around every edge, his entire form seemed sculpted from dark stone.

His skin had the grayish-blue hue of midnight shadows, and his hair hung like black smoke, constantly shifting. His eyes were pitch-black with pinpricks of glowing red in the center—like the eyes you imagined monsters had under your bed.

His lips were pressed into a deep scowl, his brow furrowed like it had never known rest. There was something very not okay about the way he looked at you—like he was scanning for weaknesses just for fun.

Phantasos, by contrast, looked like a dream wrapped in a nightmare’s grin.

He had deep, smooth skin the color of polished obsidian—rich, dark, and radiant like the surface of a still midnight lake. It shimmered subtly under the strange dreamlight, not with sparkle, but with an inner gleam, like the memory of starlight caught in a shadow.

His features were striking, otherworldly even: high cheekbones, a narrow nose, and lips curled in an ever-shifting smile that danced between warm and wicked.

His hair was a dense halo of soft coils, the same dark hue as his skin, though streaks of dream-dust clung to the strands like dew on grass. Feathers—silver, gold, violet—were threaded sporadically into his curls, and they shimmered when he moved, accentuating the bounce of his unpredictable energy.

His eyes were full moons of pale violet, round and far too wide, like he was always seeing something no one else could.

There was beauty in him. Beauty that made you want to look longer than you should. But the longer you looked, the more your stomach curled.

Not because he was ugly—far from it—but because his elegance had edges, like a painting where something’s always just slightly off. A living paradox: comforting and uncanny. A lullaby sung in reverse.

“He looks terrified,” Phobetor noted with dry disdain.

Phantasos scoffed and rolled his eyes so hard you were shocked they didn’t fall out of his head. “Because you scared him with that ugly mug of yours.”

Shoving past his brother, he practically skipped toward you.

“Don’t worry! Phobetor’s just a grump,” he sing-songed, leaning in far too close for comfort. “I’ll protect you~!”

You flinched, instinctively pulling back.

Somehow… this was worse.

Sure, Phobetor looked like he wanted to skin you alive—but at least he was consistent. There was something unsettling about Phantasos’s unhinged energy, the way his expression flipped from joyful to menacing in a blink. He looked like he might hug you or vaporize you, and honestly, you didn’t want to find out which.

He bent down to your level, grinning widely “Anteros sure made a cutie! I could just eat you up!” he squealed, then proceeded to squish your cheeks with both hands.

Eyes wide, you leaned hard into Morpheus, silently cursing your father for passing on whatever trait made you so tragically pokeable.

Morpheus, visibly fed up with the whole performance, reached over and pushed Phantasos’s face aside with one hand. “You both scare him,” he muttered, voice thin with irritation.

He straightened your shoulders with a small sigh, then moved to stand between his brothers, swiftly taking charge before one of them sent you into shock.

“Now. Proper introductions,” he said, laying a hand on Phobetor’s shoulder. “This is Phobetor; he is the personification of nightmares. Every horror, chase, monster, fall—you name it—was him.”

Oh. So he was responsible for the giant rat dreams. Rude.

Phobetor barely spared you a glance. “Ironically, this is a nightmare.”

Morpheus turned to his other side, gesturing toward Phantasos, who wiggled his fingers at you. You averted your gaze immediately.

“Phantasos is the personification of fantasy dreams. Think surreal. Dreams that are strange, metaphorical, and often prophetic. His visions may hold glimpses of the past, present, or future.”

You pointed vaguely around at the frozen, uncanny dream version of the Pinocchio cast . “Weird, like… this?”

“Correct,” Morpheus said.

You squinted at Morpheus. “And you?”

He stood tall again, folding his hands behind his back. “I am the personification of dreams. I serve as a messenger of divine will—passing along information from the gods through dreams. Prophecies. Warnings. Visions.”

Cool. So… dream mailmen. Invasive dream mailmen.

“Alright, that’s neat and all,” you said, hands on your hips, “but why now? I’ve had dreams before—none of you have ever shown up. So why this time?”

That ticked Phobetor off. He blew a sharp breath through his nose, and you swore the air temperature dropped five degrees.

“Careful, kid. Curiosity killed the cat.”

But you weren’t backing down. Not after the rat dreams. Not now.

“Satisfaction brought it back,” you retorted with a shrug and a smirk.

Phobetor’s fist twitched. You grinned.

You: 1 — Phobetor: 0.

Phantasos let out a wild snort and slapped both hands over his mouth to muffle his laughter. Morpheus just sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with visible regret.

“You know what,” he muttered, dropping his hand with a tired flick. His gaze snapped back to you, suddenly sharp. “We’ve wasted enough time. The story has to move forward. We can’t tell you everything now—but next time, we’ll explain more. Just…”

He stepped closer, voice suddenly firm.

“Pay attention.”

“Wait, hold on—” you tried, but he clapped his hands.

And just like that, they were gone.

Figures. Some guides they were.

You huffed, arms crossed. “Fine,” you muttered. “Didn’t want answers anyway.”

You turned back toward the frozen dream-world with a pout. You were a growing, independent ten-year-old man who didn’t need the help of three ancient gods who know more about this than you do.

...Probably.

The sound of chatter pulled you back toward the now-unfrozen scene. Everyone was moving again like nothing had happened.

“...And now I’m done here,” Fairy Drew announced, dusting glitter off her skirt as she headed for the window.

She paused just long enough to give Pinocchio a once-over. “Remember—follow the rules and you’ll be fine.” She ended with a dramatic eye-roll aimed straight at Jiminy. Her wand sparked blue, and with a shimmer of light, she vanished.

“Good riddance,” Jiminy muttered, folding what counted as his arms—legs? limbs? He spun around and nearly jumped out of his tiny bug skin when he found Pinocchio staring at him.

“Oh, you’re still here.”

Pinocchio tilted his head with a big, wooden grin. “Of course I am! I don’t have magic like the Blue Fairy, silly Jiminy.”

“You sure don’t. If you did, maybe you wouldn’t be such a bobblehead.”

“I do not have the bobblehead that you keep speaking of.”

Jiminy sighed and started pacing across the table. “Your head’s empty enough to be one.”

The back-and-forth was already starting to wear thin. You’d seen this act before—and besides, you had better ideas. What better way to pass the time than by doing something absolutely not allowed?

Grinning to yourself, you grabbed a plain white sheet draped over a nearby chair and threw it over your head like a ghost.

Sure, they couldn’t see you. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t make your presence felt.

And hey—no harm in having a little fun with it, right?

You spotted a plain white blanket sitting in the corner. Perfect.

Grinning, you threw it over yourself and crept behind Jiminy, who was stomping across the tabletop, muttering incoherently under his breath. Pinocchio trailed him with his gaze, eyes flicking back and forth.

But his attention didn’t stay there for long.

His gaze shifted—past Jiminy, to you.

To the floating sheet.

He blinked. Curiously. Then again.

“Jiminy,” he called out, pointing subtly.

But Jiminy, still wrapped up in his muttering, didn’t even hear him.

The sheet was thin enough for you to see through in patches. Peeking through the fabric, you caught Pinocchio’s wide-eyed stare. You slowly raised one arm under the blanket and gave a gentle wave.

Pinocchio jumped slightly—then smiled. He waved back.

Encouraged, you leaned in closer, directly behind Jiminy now, and began mimicking his exaggerated movements. Pinocchio giggled, hand over his mouth, as he watched you give the cricket a pair of bunny ears.

Jiminy paused and squinted up at him. “Are my struggles amusing to you?”

Pinocchio shook his head quickly, pointing. “No! There’s—”

“Listen, kid, you don’t make fun of adult struggles.”

“But look—”

“No no, I get it. You’re still green to this whole life thing. I’ll let it slide—”

The wooden boy huffed, spinning Jiminy around to face you. The cricket froze. Solid.

Not a twitch.

You blinked. Oh no. Did you actually scare him stiff? You hadn’t meant to traumatize him. Just mess with him a little.

You reached forward and gently poked his head.

Nothing.

Another poke.

Finally, Jiminy twitched, followed by a horrified scream as he thrashed around screaming, “GHOST!!”

He landed on Pinocchio’s shoulder, clawing at the puppet's shirt. “RUN, KID! GET US OUT OF HERE!”

You burst out laughing. Loud, unfiltered, delighted laughter. If Mr. D could see this—if Nico could see this—you’d never live it down. But still. Worth it.

Pinocchio scrambled down from the dresser, almost colliding with you. Jiminy was practically steering him like a horse, shouting, “THE DOOR, KID! THE DOOR!”

You watched, wheezing, as the two of them tore across the room, skidding on the floorboards, only to trip spectacularly over the rug beside Geppetto’s bed. Pinocchio went sailing. Dolls clattered to the ground in a dramatic heap. Jiminy let out a shrill scream that could’ve belonged to a cartoon cat.

Geppetto bolted upright. “What was that?!”

“IT’S A GHOST!” Pinocchio shouted, flailing on the ground.

Geppetto turned toward your corner of the room.

You dropped the sheet.

Silence.

“There is no ghost, Pinocchio,” he said calmly, rubbing his eyes and lying back down. “You must’ve imagined it.”

Three seconds later (you counted), he bolted upright again, realization crashing in hard.

“Pinocchio!”

He dove off the bed, scooping the puppet into his arms.

“You’re alive! My son! My wish—oh, my dear boy!”

The scene melted into instant sap. Geppetto sobbed. Pinocchio giggled. They spun around in a slow, clumsy circle that nearly ended in disaster as they stepped on Figaro’s tail. The cat yowled and launched off the bed like a missile.

Eventually, the pair collapsed into the sheets again, Geppetto tucked around the little wooden boy like a security blanket.

“Why do I have to go to bed?” Pinocchio asked, wide-eyed and confused.

“Because you have school in the morning,” Geppetto replied gently.

School? Already? Pinocchio had been alive for, what, fifteen minutes? Was there no puppet pre-K? No wooden toddler phase?

The scene dissolved and reformed around you again.

Now you stood in the sunshine, outside Geppetto’s workshop. The door creaked open behind you as Pinocchio stepped out, a book clutched to his chest.

“Are those real boys?” he asked, watching the group of children pass by.

Geppetto hummed, turning Pinocchio’s head in his direction and fixing his hat. “Yes, those are real boys. They’re your classmates.” You watched as he stood up, urging his son to follow the rest of the kids. “Go on, follow them to school.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Pinocchio ran down the steps of the workshop, cheeks stretched wide in a smile.

Geppetto chuckled as he watched Pinocchio run off, going back inside of the workshop after his son had left his sight.

You followed behind the puppet-boy, not exactly eager but keeping your situation in mind. Just observe the dream. Don’t interfere. Let it play out. Just another weird, nonsensical sequence—like a free movie, if that movie came with zero logic and questionable casting choices.

Pinocchio was closing in on what looked like the schoolhouse now, humming and skipping along the dirt path with all the carefree energy of someone who didn’t notice when he was being preyed on.

You, however, weren’t nearly as oblivious.

You spotted them instantly—two shapes hiding behind a very skinny tree. Big guys. Broad shoulders. Not exactly subtle. Even dream logic couldn’t cover for that terrible camouflage job.

Their backs were turned, but something about the way they moved—especially the one fiddling with a cane—set off alarm bells. Then came the voice.

“And that’s when I told her…”

You narrowed your eyes. That voice. You knew that voice. That smug, irritating tone could only belong to—

Pinocchio, meanwhile, walked right into the cane that had been conveniently “forgotten” in his path and promptly faceplanted.

The two figures gasped in unison—very theatrically, might you add—and scrambled to help him up. One of them nudged the other aside as he reached for Pinocchio’s pockets.

And that’s when you caught a glimpse of his face.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Travis Stoll. And, of course, where Travis went, Connor was never far behind.

Sure enough, there he was—Connor Stoll—getting knocked back with an exaggerated groan, holding onto his hat.

No surprise here. The Stoll brothers, cast as the con men in Pinocchio. Honestly, dream logic had never been more accurate.

“A man of letters, I see,” Travis said, picking up Pinocchio’s book and holding it upside down like it was a foreign object. Somehow, he managed to sound both impressed and illiterate.

Pinocchio, of course, beamed. “I’m going to school!”

Travis snorted under his breath, but Connor swooped in smoothly, wrapping an arm around Pinocchio like a seasoned salesman who smelled fresh meat. “School? Pfft. Let me guess—you haven’t heard about the easy way to success?”

“Easy way?” Pinocchio echoed, wide-eyed.

Connor spun him around with flair. “A theater!” he declared, throwing his hands into the air. “Bright lights! Music! Applause! Fame!”

“Fame?” Pinocchio repeated again, completely hooked now.

Connor leaned in, smiling wide. “Oh yeah. With that physique and profile? You’re a natural-born star!” Behind him, Travis nodded along like a bobblehead.

“You’re going straight to the top, my little wooden boy! I can already see your name in lights—” Connor paused. “Wait, what is your name?”

“Pinocchio!”

“Pinocchio!” Connor repeated, recovering with a flourish. “In big, bright letters! P-I-N-O-K-I—um... Yeah! A star is born!”

You dragged a hand down your face. This was just embarrassing. Nico would never fall for something this dumb. Pinocchio was single-handedly tanking your new friend’s reputation.

You sighed heavily, watching as Pinocchio lit up like he’d just been handed a trophy. He practically skipped into the arms of the con artists, swept away in their fantasy of stardom without so much as a second thought.

Part of becoming a real boy should include developing basic common sense, you thought grimly, trailing after them as the trio disappeared down the road.

This was when you noticed something—or rather, someone—was missing.

Where was that deranged cricket? Jiminy should’ve been hovering somewhere nearby, nagging Pinocchio about responsibility and school bells. In the original story, he’d followed the puppet all the way to class. So where was he now?

Weird. But you didn’t have time to dwell on the bug’s mysterious absence.

That now-familiar pull returned, the world dimming like a spotlight fading to black. When your vision cleared, you were somewhere new—facing a large, looming stage.

Right away, you could tell something was off.

The audience was packed, but they sat in perfect, eerie stillness. Rigid spines, unmoving heads. Their faces looked blank—smooth, expressionless, like porcelain masks staring forward without focus. Not a blink. Not a breath.

A big, bulky man stood in front of the stage, mic in hand. Unlike other characters, you knew who this was as soon as you saw him. It was Stromboli, the puppeteer. He wasn’t someone you knew in reality. Strangely, he was the same person he was in the original story.

Although it was weird seeing your friends throughout your dream, it was fun. You couldn’t help but frown when you saw his face.

“Ladies and Gentlemen! I hope you’ve enjoyed the show so far!” His voice boomed, a thick Italian accent going into the crowd. His words caused a chain reaction of cheers and clapping.

Looking around, your brows furrowed at the lack of movement from the surrounding images. There was noise—music, cheers, the hum of stage lights—but none of the audience members moved. They were just still images. Photos with sound. Which, yeah, okay, dreams were weird, but this was weird even for dreams.

It didn’t seem to bother Stromboli. He stepped into the spotlight like nothing was wrong, his shadow stretching long behind him. “Today,” he boomed, sweeping his arms wide, “to conclude this magnificent show, I present a miracle! The only puppet who can sing and dance without strings—PINOCCHIO!”

The red curtains peeled back like they were alive, and there was Pinocchio, standing stiffly on a narrow staircase set in the middle of the stage. He blinked at the frozen crowd, visibly uncertain—but when the music started, he forced a smile and took his first step down.

And immediately missed it.

He tumbled in a clatter of limbs and painted wood. You winced, secondhand embarrassment .heating up your cheeks.

Stromboli was on him in an instant, yanking him up by the collar like a dog that had peed on the rug. His face turned tomato-red as he launched into a tirade in angry, rapid Italian—words you couldn’t understand but didn’t need to. His spit practically steamed.

Then someone in the audience let out a snort.

And just like that, the tone flipped. Stromboli froze, dollar signs practically reflected in his eyes. His face smoothed into a grin like someone had pulled a lever. “Such a cute kid,” he laughed, patting Pinocchio’s head with sudden affection, like the tantrum had never happened.

The music swelled, and Pinocchio—ever the good puppet—bounced back into a dance, eyes glittering like painted glass.

Now this was more your speed. A performance. Something to actually enjoy. No scamming, no sappy father-son bonding—just a musical number. You could vibe with that. You even caught yourself humming along. And, well… Pinocchio did look like Nico. That alone made it hard to look away.

“Oh, I love music. Don’t you?”

You jolted as a hand brushed yours. You nearly punched whoever it was out of pure instinct—but they caught your arm gently, before contact was made.

“Was that your attempt at assault?”

Your heart sank.

Of course. Him again.

Phantasos lounged next to you like he’d always been there, one leg hooked over the other, wild eyes aglow with unreadable delight. He was smiling—not maliciously, but with the loose, unpredictable air of someone who might gift you a rose or set your house on fire, depending on how bored they were.

You snatched your arm back. The skin tingled where he’d touched you. “You scared me.”

His smile dipped, just a little. “I’m not Phobetor,” he said softly. “I’d never scare you.”

You stared at him. “I’d rather him than you.”

He clutched his chest like you’d shot him. “Truly, you wound me, young one. Such a tragic little attitude, wasted on such a beautiful face. But I suppose that’s puberty for you.”

With a long, dramatic sigh, he melted into the seat beside you. Then crossed his ankles and clasped his hands. His gaze slid back to the stage, where Pinocchio was dancing under golden light.

“I meant what I said before,” he said. “About music. Especially when the lyrics wear two faces.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You mean… double meanings?”

Phantasos grinned, nodding slowly. “Exactly. Hidden truths. Wrapped in melody. The best lies always sing sweetly.”

Onstage, Pinocchio twirled as the lights started to glow brighter around him.

“I’ve got no strings

To hold me down

To make me fret

Or make me frown…”

“Pretty literal,” you muttered. “He’s a puppet. No strings. That’s kind of the whole thing.”

Phantasos made a tsk sound, wagging a finger an inch from your face. “Are you sure? This is a dream, sweetheart. Nothing is ever just what it seems.”

You sighed, exhausted already. “So I’m supposed to interpret it like a riddle?”

“You’re supposed to see, not just look,” he said, smiling again. “It’s not that hard, really.”

“You’re unbearable.”

He beamed. “Thank you.”

You rubbed your face, deciding, against your better judgment, to actually try. The song kept playing as the lights flickered. The audience was still frozen, masks grinning wider than before.

“I had strings

But now I’m free

There are no strings on me…”

You frowned. The word free didn’t sound triumphant—it sounded forced. Like someone had shoved the line into his mouth and told him to mean it.

That’s when things got… stranger.

The stage began to stretch, the floorboards curling upward like paper caught in wind. The stairs behind Pinocchio multiplied, spiraling upward into nowhere. A second Pinocchio appeared. Then a third. All dancing in sync. One blinked wrong. One smiled too wide.

The music sped up.

Then slowed.

Then reversed.

You recoiled. “What—” you choked out, clutching the edge of your seat.

Then reversed—violins shrieking backward like they were screaming in a language you couldn’t understand. The beat stuttered, repeating the same broken bar of melody over and over until it felt like your brain was skipping like a scratched record.

The spotlight split. A thousand tiny beams like a thousand tiny eyes—all blinking, all watching. They swept the crowd like searchlights, but the crowd didn’t move. They weren’t even people anymore. Porcelain masks shattered under the light, leaking nothing but black ink and static.

The confetti stars above began melting, dripping into the stage and sizzling on contact.

Stromboli laughed—but his face was gone. A blank void with teeth. A soundless howl beneath the music.

The curtain behind him bled ink.

You stumbled out of your seat, breath catching in your throat. Your body wanted to run—but the floor was soft now, too soft, like foam or carpet underwater. You wobbled, knees buckling, balance tilting with the shifting geometry of the room.

One of the audience’s masks slid off, clattering to the ground.

Behind it: a mirror.

Another fell off.

It showed your face.

Then another—blank. No face at all. Just smooth flesh, like clay waiting for a sculptor. Your stomach dropped.

“I—I don’t—what is this?” you gasped, your voice small, barely heard over the distorted music. The air was too thick. Everything felt wrong.

He looked at you like a teacher waiting for a student to finally get it. “You poor, precious thing,” he said, with something almost like fondness. “Still clinging to the idea that freedom means no rules.”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast. “Can you just tell me what’s going on?”

But Phantasos only sighed and leaned in, tapping you lightly on the nose. “I’m not here to carry you. I’m here to nudge.”

“No wonder demigods die young,” you muttered. “The gods talk in riddles when they could just warn us.”

That, at least, seemed to amuse him. His smile curved, dark and knowing. “Oh, I have warned you. You just weren’t listening.”

Then his expression dimmed, snuffed out like a candle in wind. “Farewell,” he said quietly. “Maybe one of my brothers will get through to you.”

He raised a hand. Snap. Gone.

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was empty. Pressing. Like something had been yanked out from under you. A warmth, a presence, a thread you hadn’t realized was holding you steady until it vanished.

You stood there, alone on the surreal stage, surrounded by melting stars and blank-eyed audience members—if they were even still there at all.

Were you supposed to be relieved?

Or was this sense of dread—tight, gnawing, like a pulled string on the verge of snapping—your sign that you’d just missed something important?

Your head spun. This didn’t feel like a dream anymore. It felt like a message with most of the letters blacked out.

The song. Was that the key? A warning hidden in a child’s lullaby?

You didn’t want to think about it too hard. If you did, you'd start spiraling—and once you fell, you weren’t sure you could climb back out.

Luckily—or maybe not—something small and green hopped past your feet.

Jiminy Cricket.

He came to a halt and looked toward the stage with an unimpressed glare. “This kid gave up school for fame. How cheap.”

His frown deepened when he saw Pinocchio basking in the applause.

“I guess the bobblehead doesn’t need me anymore,” Jiminy muttered, deflated. “Time to exit stage left, I suppose.”

He turned solemnly and began hopping away, shoulders slumped.

You stared after him, baffled. “Seriously? You’re ditching him because he can sing?”

The applause on stage faded as Pinocchio took his final bow. Then the scene melted.

When it reformed, you were somewhere else: inside a lavish carriage. Velvet-lined walls. Gilded trim. The heavy scent of wine and sweat. A table overflowing with coins.

Stromboli hunched over it, counting money like it was oxygen.

“Two hundred…”

Across from him, Pinocchio beamed, eyes wide as he held open a sack. Stromboli shoveled coins inside, muttering feverishly.

“People love me!” he barked, ecstatic. “Three hundred!”

“You were amazing, Pinocchio!” he shouted, half to the puppet, half to the heavens. “A natural! An icon! A goldmine!”

Pinocchio lit up. “Does that mean I’m an actor?”

“Yes! A star! Your name—on every tongue!” Stromboli crowed, puffing out his chest.

Then, with theatrical flair, he pulled a fake gold coin from behind his ear and dropped it into Pinocchio’s hands. “For you, my boy!”

Pinocchio clutched it like a sacred relic. “Gee, thanks! I’ll go straight home and tell my father!”

Stromboli, mid-swig of wine, choked.

He spat everywhere. (You recoiled. Gross.)

“Home?” he wheezed, wiping his chin. Then he started laughing. Loud. Booming. Mean. “You are a comedian, too!”

Pinocchio blinked. “You mean it’s funny?”

“Hilarious!”

Pinocchio laughed along, still trying to read the room, still trying to fit in—like a kid mimicking emotions he didn’t fully understand.

And suddenly, it hit you.

Maybe you and Pinocchio weren’t so different.

He thought he was free. No strings. No rules. Just applause and promises. But his conscience had already walked out. And he didn’t even realize he was trading one master for another

You, too, were following something you couldn’t quite name. Something older, deeper, harder to untangle. Dreams, omens, gods in half-shadow. You told yourself you were in control—but were you? Or were you just dancing, too?

The song hadn’t been about freedom.

It had been about illusion.

No strings didn’t mean no control. Sometimes, it meant the control was invisible. The hand pulling the strings was just clever enough to hide.

And before Pinocchio could even process his so-called triumph, Stromboli grabbed him.

The man’s grin had vanished.

He held the puppet tightly by the collar, muttering something low and venomous, then threw him—hard—into a small iron cage bolted to the corner of the carriage.

The door slammed shut. The lock clicked.

“This will be your home!” Stromboli bellowed.

Pinocchio scrambled to his feet, clutching the bars. “No!”

Stromboli didn’t flinch. His voice only grew more triumphant. “We’ll tour the world—Paris, London, Moscow! Your name on every billboard, every tongue.” He swept a bag of coins off the table, turning with a glint of greed in his eyes. “You’re mine now, little puppet. The show goes on.”

He stormed out, the door slamming shut behind him.

Pinocchio rattled the cage, frantic—but it was no use.

“Let me out!” he cried. “I want to go home! I don’t want to be famous!”

No answer.

He rattled the cage harder, calling out for Geppetto, for Jiminy, for anyone—but the only thing that answered was the muffled creak of the carriage rocking slightly with movement. The wheels were already turning. They were leaving.

He slumped back, wooden knees hitting the floor with a hollow clack. His hands fell from the bars, limp and trembling.

The reality sank in.

No cheers. No spotlight. No applause. Just four walls of cold iron and the echo of a promise he hadn’t understood.

And then, finally, he wept.

Not like a puppet. Like a child.

Sympathy was such a pain in the butt. You wanted to be mad at him—call him stupid, yell “you should’ve known better!”—but he was just a kid. A wooden, naive, hopeful kid who trusted the wrong people. He didn’t know any better.

While Pinocchio cried, a faint rustling came from the carriage door. His head shot up, eyes wide with hope. “Jiminy!”

“Oh, you wooden idiot,” the little cricket huffed, running to the cage. “What did he do to you?!”

“He locked me up! He said he won’t let me go home to my father!”

“Did he now?”

“Yes, and he said he’d put my name on everyone’s tongue!”

“Really?” Jiminy deadpanned.

“Uh-huh!” Pinocchio pointed desperately at the lock. “Please, Jiminy, please help me!”

Jiminy let out a long-suffering sigh and cracked his knuckles. “Oh, I’d love to strangle that fairy right now.” He launched himself at the lock.

From inside came muffled mumbling, the occasional metallic clank, and a few PG-rated curses. Eventually, Jiminy popped back out, covered in soot, antennae frazzled.

He glared at the lock. “Must be one of the old ones.”

“You mean you can’t open it?” Pinocchio asked, horrified.

Jiminy shook his head, brushing ash from his coat. “It’ll take a miracle to get us out of here.”

“Gee…” Pinocchio deflated. He sank down again, his wooden shoulders drooping.

The two of them sat in silence, the carriage wheels clattering beneath them, hope bleeding out like sunlight through a cracked window.

“Wow,” you muttered, arms crossed as you watched them mope. “They give up faster than I do during capture the flag.”

Still, you weren’t that worried. This was the part of the story where the Blue Fairy showed up, right? All sparkles and salvation. That was the pattern—Pinocchio cries, Jiminy whines, and then poof: wish-granting lady descends.

...But what if she didn’t come?

The thought slipped into your mind like a drop of ink in water, slowly spreading. You blinked, suddenly less sure. What if the story didn’t unfold like it used to? What if the dream wasn’t just a retelling, but a test?

What if you were meant to be the one who saved him?

Your gaze drifted back to Pinocchio, his wooden hands gripping the bars like they might bend if he just believed hard enough. Yes, he was a dumb kid—naive, unlucky, easily led—but that didn’t mean he deserved this. And Jiminy, annoying as he was, clearly cared.

You straightened up, a new energy building in your chest.

This had to be it. The reason the dream spirits brought you here. Not to be an observer. Not to be some passive background character. You weren’t here to follow the script. You were here to rewrite it.

This was your moment—your chance to do something.

To be a hero.

With new resolve, you scanned the carriage. It wasn’t much—just old boxes, rotting wood, and the smell of something sour—but you weren’t the one stuck in a cage. You could make something happen.

As you paced, ideas forming, you remembered what happened next in the original story. Geppetto should be nearby, calling for Pinocchio—just barely missing the carriage as it passed.

Unless… you changed that.

“[Name], you genius,” you whispered, already heading to the door.

You swung it open and jumped out, completely missing the wide-eyed stares of Jiminy and Pinocchio as the door moved seemingly on its own.

“Ew, ew, ew!” you yelped, hopping around the mud. “Not the shoes, not the shoes!”

Amid your panicked dance, you caught the distant sound of Geppetto’s voice, calling for his son. Your head snapped up, heart racing. There—just at the crossroads.

You ran, boots squelching, until you were close enough to shove him—not gently—right in front of the moving carriage.

“Whoa!!”

The carriage screeched to a halt. Stromboli leapt down, livid.

“Are you blind, old man?! You trying to get yourself killed?!”

Geppetto raised his hands defensively, scrambling to his feet. “I—I didn’t mean to! My apologies, sir. I want no trouble.”

Stromboli sneered, looming like a villain. “You look weak.”

“I’m looking for my son. He’s gone missing.”

“Your son?” Stromboli’s eyes narrowed, a wicked gleam flickering to life. “You mean… Pinocchio?”

Geppetto stepped forward, hope lighting up his face like dawn. “Yes! Have you seen him?! Is he alright?”

Stromboli threw his head back and laughed, a dark, booming sound that shook the air like thunder. “Seen him? He’s mine now! My little puppet star!”

“He is not a puppet!” Geppetto shouted, his voice cracking with fury and heartbreak. “He’s my son! Give him back, you twisted monster!”

Stromboli sneered. “Son? He’s made of wood, old man. He’s not meant to be free. He’s meant to be controlled. That’s all puppets are good for.”

Something inside you snapped.

Who the heck did this guy think he was? Who gave him the right to decide what Pinocchio could be? He wasn’t a guardian or a father. He wasn’t kind or wise or even decent. He was just a big, hairy tyrant with a god complex and no heart.

And you were done watching him get away with it.

Without even thinking, your hand closed around a rock on the ground. It was rough, cold, and solid—exactly what you needed.

You hurled it.

The rock soared through the air and smacked Stromboli square in the temple.His eyes bulged in surprise—then rolled back like curtains closing. One beat passed. Then he crumpled like a sack of potatoes, hitting the dirt with a satisfying thud.

You let out a breath. “Take that, loser.”

Unable to help yourself, you stuck your tongue out at his unconscious body and did a little victory shuffle. “Gods, I’m amazing.”

Geppetto flinched at the sound of Stromboli’s fall but quickly shook off the shock and bolted toward the carriage. You followed close behind, pausing only to dig through Stromboli’s pockets. (Ugh. Greasy and linty. Gross.) Still, you managed to snag a set of rusted keys. Score.

“Pinocchio!” Geppetto’s voice rang out, breathless and panicked.

“Father!” Pinocchio’s face lit up behind the bars, eyes wide and glistening.

Geppetto rushed forward, clutching the iron cage. “I’m here now, my boy. I’m here. Let’s get you out of there.”

“We tried!” Pinocchio said, voice high with urgency. “There’s no way without a key!”

“We?”

“Me and my friend Jiminy! He’s really nice!”

Jiminy, now perched proudly on Pinocchio’s shoulder, gave a shy little wave, his cheeks tinged pink. “Aw, go on…”

Geppetto gave a grateful nod, his eyes warm and full of relief. “Thank you for looking after him, Jiminy.”

The cricket rubbed the back of his neck with mock humility. “Ah, just doin’ my job.”

You rolled your eyes. Doing his job? Please. He only showed up after things hit rock bottom. More like the world’s tiniest supervisor.

“Father, the key!” Pinocchio reminded, practically bouncing inside the cage.

“Ah—right, right…”

You “accidentally” tossed the keys in Geppetto’s direction. They nailed him in the forehead with a solid clonk.

“Papa, the sky is falling!” Pinocchio yelped, hands to his cheeks.

Oops. Wrong story

Geppetto blinked, rubbing his scalp with a frown as he glanced suspiciously at the ceiling. “Must’ve fallen from one of the hooks,” he muttered, scooping the keys off the floor like this kind of thing happened to him regularly.

He turned his attention to the lock. It took some fiddling, the keys scraping and jamming a few times, but then—click. The metal creaked, and the cage door slowly swung open.

Pinocchio didn’t wait a second. He threw himself into Geppetto’s arms, wooden limbs wrapping around him with surprising force.

Geppetto let out a breathy laugh, holding him close. “It’s okay, Pinocchio. I’ve got you now.”

It would’ve been a perfectly sweet moment.

If the world hadn’t gone pitch-black.

Another shift.

The world flickered.

Light returned—but colder now, flatter. Like it had passed through frostbitten glass. You blinked, squinting against the dimness, heart ticking in your chest like the rows of clocks around you.

Geppetto’s shop.

But not quite.

The wooden walls leaned inward, warped and sagging like they were made of wax. The floorboards groaned with every shift, like the house itself was holding its breath. Shelves drooped, their contents slouched and slumping: puppets missing eyes, tools rusted in place, spools of thread tangled in impossible knots.

The clocks ticked on, but not together. Some sped up. Some lagged. One let out a soft, high-pitched chime—just one note, sharp and flat—then fell dead silent.

You frowned. No. You’d done everything right. You freed him. Stromboli was gone, the cage was open, the boy was safe.

So why were you still here?

“Good morning, son!”

You turned, startled.

Geppetto sat at the table, smile painted on like a mask. His eyes gleamed with artificial warmth.

“Morning!” Pinocchio chirped from across the room, bright and sunny, as if the last hour of terror had never happened.

Geppetto handed him an apple. “Now, why don’t you tell me what happened yesterday? Why didn’t you go to school?”

Pinocchio hesitated. His small hands turned the apple over and over—it glistened wetly, redder than any fruit had a right to be. Too shiny. Too perfect.

“I… I met somebody,” he began. “Two enormous monsters.”

SNAP.

His nose shot forward like a spring-loaded blade. You flinched. Jiminy gasped. Pinocchio froze, hand flying to his face.

Geppetto leaned in, concern creasing his brow. Gently, he tilted his son’s chin to examine the growing wood.

“Oh no… your nose,” he said softly. “Did they do this to you?”

“I wasn’t scared!” Pinocchio blurted—rushed and shaky, the words tumbling out in a panic. “But they tied me up in a big sack!”

CRACK.

His nose jerked forward again—longer, thinner now, curling faintly at the end like a creeping vine. The tension in the room twisted tighter. The clocks ticked faster.

“What about Sir Jiminy?” Geppetto asked.

Jiminy raised both hands and started inching back. “Oh no. Don’t drag me into this—”

“They tied him up in a little sack,” Pinocchio added, wide-eyed with forced sincerity.

SNAP.

The nose lengthened again. It stretched past the edge of the table now, an awkward wooden bridge he couldn’t undo. The room seemed to lean into it, shadows gathering around its base like mold creeping along a wall.

“My nose!!” Pinocchio wailed, gripping the length of it like it might detach. “Make it stop!”

Geppetto stood abruptly, grabbing his coat. “Don’t worry, my boy! We’ll get the doctor. Just sit tight.”

He didn’t wait for a response. The door opened with a low creak—less like hinges, more like something groaning and alive—and then he was gone.

As the door shut, Jiminy hopped down, arms crossed.

“Why did you lie, Pinocchio?”

A new voice answered.

“That’s an interesting question. Why did he lie?”

You froze. That voice—smooth, cold, curling out from the shadows like smoke.

Phobetor.

Great. Another dream spirit. At this point, their surprise entrances were starting to feel less like divine intervention and more like bad customer service.

Without turning around, you kept your eyes on the puppet and the cricket. “What do you want?”

He strolled up beside you, arms folded behind his back and chin tilted slightly upward.

“To torment you,” he said breezily. “But, unfortunately, I’ve been ordered to”—he gagged, visibly repulsed—“help you.”

You didn’t bother hiding your eye-roll. “You sound very enthusiastic.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. The excitement’s just radiating off you.”

He chuckled, puffing out his chest. “Well, I have been working on my temperament.”

You squinted at him. “Right. Anyyyway. What are you actually here for? Because—no offense—you guys suck at your job.”

His expression twitched—just for a second. A flicker of irritation cracked through his polished facade, his jaw tensing like he wanted to smite you into next week.

He muttered to himself through clenched teeth, “Patience, Phobetor. Patience…”

With a sharp exhale, he refocused on you, eyes narrowed but voice still smooth.

“Why did he lie?” he repeated, nodding toward Pinocchio, who was now quietly sobbing over his grotesquely lengthened nose.

Then he began to circle you—slow, deliberate steps, like a predator sizing up its prey. “Why do people lie, do you think?”

You narrowed your eyes. Was this a test? Did he think you were stupid?

Please. Everyone knew why people lied.

“Because they’re scared,” you said.

Phobetor paused in front of Pinocchio, thoughtful. “True.”

He raised a hand and laid his fingers gently—almost tenderly—on Pinocchio’s wooden shoulders. Time froze. Jiminy hung mid-gesture, face locked in worry. Pinocchio’s eyes stayed wide and glassy, caught between guilt and confusion.

Phobetor’s voice dropped—low and cold.

“Do you know what most people fear?”

Your first instinct was to say you, but you bit it back. Snarking your way into Tartarus wasn’t on your to-do list.

And truthfully… you weren’t sure anymore.

You thought about answering seriously. You tried to picture it—other people’s fears. But the only fears you truly knew were your own: the fear of being left behind, of never being enough, of loving too much or not at all. The fear of being forgotten. The fear of knowing exactly what you are.

You stayed silent.

Phobetor didn’t seem surprised.

“Most people,” he continued, circling slowly, “fear the truth. Not the monsters. Not the dark. The truth. The shame it carries. The way it strips you bare and leaves you exposed. It changes how people look at you. How you look at yourself. Truth doesn’t comfort. It doesn’t reassure. It takes, and it leaves.”

He stopped in front of you, close enough to make your skin prickle. His hand reached for yours before you could flinch away.

“When you’re afraid,” he said softly, “fear starts making your choices for you. It whispers in your ear, changes the shape of the world. You doubt your memories. You doubt the people you love. You lie—not to protect yourself, but to preserve the illusion that you’re still in control.”

His grip tightened just enough to sting. “You start to believe that lie. And then… you live by it.”

You yanked your hand back. His cold lingered, like winter buried in your skin.

“Why are you telling me this?” you snapped. “Pinocchio’s the liar, not me.”

Phobetor didn’t flinch. He just tilted his head, eyes sharp as glass. “Oh, child. There are liars all around you.”

He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. Only a kind of ancient pity.

“One day, you’ll see the truth: the bravest ones...”

He leaned in, breath cold against your cheek.

“...are often the biggest cowards.”

Then he stepped back and turned you gently toward the frozen scene—toward the unmoving boy, the trembling nose, the ticking silence.

“Heads up,” he murmured.

You blinked. “Wait—what does that—”

But he was gone.

Just when you might’ve actually needed him.

Seriously, what were these gods good for? Besides showing up uninvited, speaking in riddles, and spinning your brain like a carousel powered by dread?

The dream resumed.

Pinocchio and Jiminy picked up mid-conversation like nothing had happened. But before Pinocchio could answer, the front bell chimed—a tinny, broken sound, like windchimes underwater.

In stepped a man. Or something like a man.

He was dressed head-to-toe in black, movements too smooth, limbs just slightly too long. His face was hidden by a ski mask, but the eyeholes were wide, dark. Deep. Not just shadows—depthless. Like staring into the mouth of a cave and hearing it breathe back.

Classic robber, you told yourself. But it felt wrong.

“Father—?” Pinocchio began brightly, still beaming with naïve hope. Then he paused, tilting his head at the newcomer. “Oh, hello! I thought you were my father.”

The figure didn’t answer immediately. His stare bored into the boy like he was measuring something inside him. His voice, when it came, was as flat and cold as polished marble.

“Your father?”

It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation wearing the mask of curiosity.

He wasn’t from the story. Not Stromboli. Not Connor or Travis. This man—this presence—was something else entirely. An intruder.

Pinocchio gestured innocently to the empty coat rack. “He went to get the doctor. My nose won’t go down.”

The figure gave no indication he’d heard. He was already moving, gliding across the warped wooden floor, fingers dragging over the counter. Wherever he touched, the wood darkened, warped—like his touch was spoiling it.

You took a step forward instinctively, but didn’t intervene. Not yet. Something about the scene rooted you in place. But it wasn’t real—it was performance, with stakes that felt all too personal.

“I’m an old friend,” he said smoothly. “Your father owes me.”

“Owes you what?” Jiminy asked sharply, stepping forward.

The man ignored him.

He crouched to Pinocchio’s eye level, and suddenly, the walls seemed closer, the room too small. His voice dropped to a murmur.

“He took something. Something precious. A name, maybe. A promise.”

Pinocchio shifted uncomfortably. “Why would he do that?”

“Because he lies.” The man rose again, drifting toward the cluttered shelves. “Not with words. With love. That’s the most dangerous kind.”

You felt your own pulse falter. The shadows behind him seemed to breathe.

Pinocchio tilted his head. “But… he loves me.”

The masked man laughed—low and almost pitying. “Does he?”

He reached for the register and pried it open. The drawer coughed out coins and bills like it wanted to be rid of them.

Jiminy flailed. “Hey, hey! Hands off the till!”

“Just collecting what I’m owed,” the man said, slipping the money into a black bag that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “But I can offer something in return.”

He turned, stepping forward again. A glint in his palm.

A diamond.

Huge. Flawless. Not shining—glowing, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.

“Here,” he said. “For your honesty.”

Pinocchio stared, mesmerized. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s truth,” the man replied. “And it’s heavy, isn’t it? Isn’t it strange, how you’ve never received anything so lovely… from him?”

Pinocchio’s expression dimmed.

“He makes toys for everyone else. Repairs clocks for strangers. But when was the last time he carved something just for you?”

Jiminy’s voice cracked. “Kid, don’t listen to him. He’s twisting you around.”

“Is it twisted,” the man asked softly, “to notice when you’re not wanted?”

Pinocchio flinched. His nose grew another inch with a jolt that made him wince. But he didn’t respond.

The masked man kneeled again, that pale stare burning through the holes in his mask. “You are made of lies,” he whispered. “And every time you try to be good, you only become more false. Do you know why?”

Pinocchio shook his head.

“Because he made you in his image.”

Silence.

Then: a snap—the long, hanging clocks on the wall all jerked to midnight at once. They rang with no chime. Just dull, metallic thuds, like teeth snapping shut.

“I should go,” the man said, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “I’ve already said too much.”

“But—” Pinocchio clutched the diamond. “Wait. Was it true?”

The man tilted his head as if listening to something far away. Then, with the faintest smile, he murmured:

“Truth is just a beautiful lie we all agreed to believe.”

The man turned to leave out through the door—but it didn’t open normally this time. It simply folded away, like paper curling in firelight. Halfway through the threshold of that flickering, flame-eaten doorway, the man paused.

Your breath caught.

It had already been a nightmare.

But now the nightmare saw you.

He turned.

Right toward you.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

No one in these dreams was supposed to see you. Not the characters. Not the illusions. Only the dream spirits.

You were a visitor. An observer. A ghost moving through someone else’s grief.

But this man didn’t just see you.

He looked through you.

His pale eyes locked with yours, and in them—something powerful stirred.

Something that reminded you, with chilling clarity, of your age.

Small.

Powerless.

Exposed.

The air in the room shifted—grew sharp, like it had been threaded with glass. He tilted his head. Then—slow, deliberate—raised a hand and waved.

Not friendly. Not mocking.

Intimate. Like he knew you.

Something cold unspooled in your gut. But he was gone in the next second. He stepped through the burning-paper door, vanishing like smoke behind a candle. The world didn’t ripple. It twitched.

And that’s when you realized— You weren’t breathing. You drew in air slowly, carefully, like it might cut going down. Around you, the dream had resumed, unbothered. Pinocchio sobbed quietly, his nose curling like a brittle vine. Jiminy trembled, visibly shaken, his antennae twitching like nerves in a lightning storm. But you stood apart. Frozen.

Because he had seen you. He knew you didn’t belong here.

And he’d acknowledged it.

Which meant one thing: This wasn’t just a dream. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t symbolic. It wasn’t stitched together by your subconscious.

It was pointed. You were being watched. You wiped your palms on your pants, but they were still clammy. Your mouth felt full of ash. Like a fire had been lit inside you.

Pinocchio turned to Jiminy. His voice was small, cracked.

“Jiminy… was he right?”

“Of course not!” Jiminy barked—but his voice wavered. “He was just trying to scare you. Twist your strings.”

Pinocchio nodded slowly, but his eyes didn’t follow.

“I never know who to believe. I try. But it’s always wrong. I’m always wrong. I’ll never be the boy he wants.”

The diamond shimmered in his lap like it was listening.

He sobbed—harder than before. His nose hung down past the table’s edge now, curling like a dead branch. The clocks ticked again, but none in rhythm. One bled ink. Another spat sawdust.

Then the door creaked open, stuttering like a skipping heartbeat.

“Pinocchio, I’m home—”

Geppetto stopped cold at the sight of his son crumpled in tears.

He rushed over, dropping to his knees beside him.

“What happened? Are you hurt?”

Pinocchio looked up through the veil of his own crying. His voice came out cracked and distant, as if spoken through water.

“Father… are you a liar?”

Geppetto blinked. “What? Of course not—!”

“Where’s the doctor?”

“He… couldn’t make it—”

“You went to give toys to other kids, didn’t you?”

“What? Now, Pinocchio—”

“No!” Pinocchio shoved his hand away and stood, fists balled at his sides.

“You lied! You said you’d get a doctor, and you didn’t!”

“If you’d just let me explain—”

“Liar! Liar! Liar!”

The word struck like glass each time.

Even the house reacted—lights dimming, walls groaning, a chair leg snapping under invisible weight.

Wow. Who knew Pinocchio had it in him?

Even Figaro peeked out from the stairs and darted back immediately, tail low.

“I hate you!”

You could almost hear Geppetto’s heart crack.

And honestly? Pinocchio was seriously starting to get on your nerves.

You stepped forward, half-tempted to snap him out of it—

when a knock echoed from the door.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The room shivered.

Geppetto sighed and stood. He looked older. Dimmer.

He opened the door.

“Officer?” he asked, confused. “What’s wrong?”

The man on the threshold wore a uniform, sure. But it didn’t fit right. Too crisp. Too still. Like it had been cut from paper and folded onto him.

“There was a robbery at the jewelry store down the street,” he said. His voice was monotone. Unnatural. “We received a tip. Said the stolen diamond is here. With you.”

Geppetto chuckled nervously. “Me? That’s ridiculous. There’s no diamond here.”

“I’m going to have to search the shop.”

Geppetto stepped in front of the door. “You’ll need a warrant.”

The officer’s eyes narrowed. They didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

[kishimotomasashi]

Alright, Uchiha Clan oppression longpost

This is the unavoidable, and often central, topic people tend to surround their Naruto politics takes on, and is as a result a big, ugly discourse-generator. It's also a subject I'm definitely always thinking about when it comes to Naruto as a noted Sasuke stan, and my thoughts on it have changed gradually over the years. I'm making this post to share what my current interpretation on "how and why the Uchiha Clan were oppressed" is.

Before I do that though, notice on what this post is not:

I'm not writing a "discourse ender", a take meant to be spread around with the claim of being the only correct interpretation of events. This is a post I wrote to share the exact way I rotate an aspect of the manga in my mind, and to convince people that looking at it from this angle is interesting. Basically: it's not that serious, I think about this because it's fun.

This isn't a "character-bashing" post or whatever either, so like if you agree with what you read here, I suppose I can't stop you from using those infamous "anti-[X]" tags, it's just that making a post that warrants them has never been my intention.

Along with that, I do want to address the by now very well established fact that Naruto the series is Not Very Good, and has glaring inconsistencies in its writing. The Uchiha Clan drama is definitely not exempt from this, and in its case the failures in Kishimoto's writing usually show in inconsistent power-scaling, in which we're made to accept weird leaps in logic (how does a 13 year old get rid of what we're told is one of the most powerful and feared clans internationally?) That being said, those particular inconsistencies are kind of irrelevant to this particular post, and don't much change the fact that the Uchiha Clan Massacre did happen. I'll be taking it as a given that if you're reading this, you're accepting to suspend your disbelief of those events on a technical level, and are more interested in how I make sense of it all more on the in-universe social/political level.

With that settled, we can get to the important part now:

The most popular take (as far as I've personally seen) on the events that led to the Uchiha Clan's downfall is the one that takes Madara at his word: the Senju have been oppressing the Uchiha since Konoha's conception, and Tobirama becoming the 2nd Hokage gave him the opportunity to put the Uchiha in a more socially disadvantaged position (police force), gradually earning them the villagers' ire, which was the catalyst for their eventual genocide.

This interpretation works if the end goal of your analysis is to say "Tobirama really fucking sucks". I don't think this conclusion is an unreasonable one, since Tobirama's hostility towards the Uchiha is great enough that he can callously tell a 16 year old genocide survivor that if his clan "self-destructed for the sake of the village, so be it". However, to me, the circumstances surrounding the Uchiha Clan are much wider-encompassing and more fascinating than narrowing their fate to a single man in fan meta written to convince you to hate him, so it goes without saying that I don't think "this is all Tobirama's fault" is a very interesting lens to look at this from.

I also don't buy the argument that making the Uchiha cops was (originally) to their detriment. We'll get back to that in a bit. I suppose this depends on how you look at Tobirama's character, but I think that when he said he made the police force as a sign of trust and to give the clan something useful to do in Konoha, he was being genuine. Arguing the opposite requires you to either believe that a law enforcement order could ever be in an oppressed position by default, or that Tobirama created a fundamentally useless new institution because he just hated the Uchiha that much. I think the former is a weird thing to argue if you're trying to be Leftist about all this, and the latter is a very ungenerous interpretation of Tobirama's character in which his own "racism"/pettiness overshadows his more utilitarian instincts to ensure that the village his brother built was safe and functioning. Obviously you could interpret that, but that leads us back to the "everything is Tobirama's fault" take, that I already mentioned I find lame as hell.

So then, how do I think the Uchiha Clan was oppressed? Because I think they indisputably were, or I wouldn't be making this post. Well, I think it was less "The Senju/Tobirama have always wanted to lord over them and wanted them dead", and more: they became gradually more socially disadvantaged during the era of Hidden Villages, with the consecutive world wars creating a souring global opinion on kekkei genkai clans.

(I'm gonna base my arguments primarily on what we see happen in the manga, and I'll add in some information from the fanbooks/databooks that weren't contradicted by what we see happen in Kishimoto's canon)

Let's start with what we know, definitely, that canon tells us:

Kekkei genkai clans are discriminated against to a very high extent, leading to things such as their mass slaughter (eg, the Uchiha Clan obviously, but also kekkei genkai clans like Haku's clan in the Land of Mist), and a vulnerability which puts them in positions where they're likelier to be targeted and kidnapped (eg, Hinata, but also Orochimaru having a whole criminal entreprise built on kidnapping and experimenting on people possessing kekkei genkai).

The trend for their discrimination is in being scapegoated. When Haku talks about the genocides in the Land of Mist (I refuse to call it the Land of Water sorry it sounds so stupid), this is how he describes them:

(chapter 59)

basically, it's not shinobi as a whole who are badly seen even though all sorts of them were likely participating in those wars: it's kekkei genkai clans in particular. Compare this to the Uchiha Clan being blamed for the Nine Tails attack (I mean one of them certainly was responsible, but was entirely unaffiliated with the rest of the clan) and being roped off to the edge of the village as a result.

Kekkei genkai clans are also frequently described by characters as being a bit "wilder" and more violent than usual shinobi. Tobirama calling the Uchiha "cursed", Kushina describing the Uzumaki as being "a bit savage", and Kakashi introducing us to the concept of kekkei genkai initially with these fun visuals:

(chapter 25)

The thing that's interesting about all this is the context in which it exists: the shinobi villages aren't technically "nations", but I think it would be accurate to liken their possessiveness of their secrets and paranoia regarding outside intrusion + conception of themselves as unified cultural entities + incredibly harsh treatment of dissidents (becoming a rogue is essentially a death sentence) to nationalism. There's an intense "in-group vs out-group" feeling here.

Not to mention that canonically that shinobi have always been tools of imperialism for greater powers. While Hashirama's initial dream was to put an end to that, it eventually became corrupted; there was already discontent regarding land and resource allocations during his tenure as Hokage, and while we have no idea why the 1st War started, we know that by the time we're on the 2nd one, Konoha had become a tool for the Land of Fire's imperialist expansion (and was apparently was expanding its influence as a military village, too).

(chapter 436)

Basically, the "in-group vs out-group" conception that had once solely been clan-centric widened, and became this new concept of shinobi villages.

This is important because nationalistic sentiment inevitably rises during war; as a result, there'd be a sharper eye for who'd turn traitor, who wasn't supporting the military effort, who would endanger their nation/village, etc. With this, there would be greater suspicion directed towards kekkei genkai clans, because they're more "genetically predisposed" to being unpredictable, because they would appear more loyal to their own than to the whole of the village, because they were the likeliest to turn traitor, and so on.

This would be a gradual process going on since the 1st War, but I believe that the 2nd War was where this kickstarted into becoming so much worse, because that one saw the destruction of Uzushio. It was a village composed entirely of a single clan, didn't bend to any of the big 5, and the Uzumaki were "savage" and had abilities that were greatly feared. It would be interesting to consider the idea that their associations with Konoha would have done them more harm than good here, too, given that Konoha was the Big Bad in the 2nd War and an alliance with them would not have been viewed positively.

It's thinking about all this in context, where nationalism was at its peak, where there's an idea that genetic chakra abilities impair swathes of people from being regular functioning shinobi like everyone else, is how we can imagine the Uchiha were discriminated against. They had another disadvantage to them as well, given that one of the first deadly attacks committed on Konoha was done by one of them. If we want to go back to the police force argument, it would be interesting to consider the idea that while it had been a good position for them at first, the utility and influence of the institution gradually eroded over time, and by the time the era where the massacre happened came along it became nearly meaningless since most of its original functions had been assigned elsewhere; as the kekkei genkai clan discrimination rose, the Uchiha also fell victim to it and their influence within the village significantly reduced out of fear of them.

The surveillance and the sequestering of the Uchiha Clan came after two important events; the first being the 3rd Great Shinobi War, and the second being the Nine Tails' attack on Konoha which happened barely a year post-armistice. Konoha was barely recovering from global armed conflict when half of it was destroyed in that attack; tensions are high, the Hokage is dead, and so the village saw an incredibly convenient scapegoat in the Uchiha clan.

So... yeah, that's how I see it! I find this a more fun interpretation than just pointing fingers at individual characters, because it allows me to consider the wider worldbuilding of the Naruto world, and also doesn't assume the Uchiha's position was especially unique and the end-be-all of all the problems with Naruto's politics. It's certainly important, but it's part of a greater network of problems too!

[absolutebl]

Best Angsty BLs with Family Drama & Bad Home Lives, or Past Trauma

That still end happily. Requested by the incomparable @winterswhumpblr (Warning these all have tiggers in them mostly suicide, rape, and/or child abuse.)

Until We Meet Again

Thai 2019 YouTube

UWMA is, without question, a work of narrative genius with a powerful and cohesive romantic backbone driven by family drauma and betrayal and stellar performances. It is (to date) the only Thai BL that I’ve rated a 10/10 predominantly on the basis of story structure. That said it is also very well cast (and it’s a BIG cast), with solid production values, and enduring pair branding. Discussion here.

Spin off, Between Us, also satisfies this criteria.

Blueming

Korea 2022 iQIYI

Hwang Da Seul directing this angsty BL that's a tiny bit dark and a tiny bit bittersweet, almost too honest to a university experience and first love. But if you want your mind ever-so-slightly messed with and your intimacy hellishly sweet, this BL will do it for you in a coldly distant manner, while bitch slapping you with self worth issues. I wasn’t into it at first, but the leads are solid and by ep 5 it got really good, becoming a narrative about self discovery meets understanding and accepting others people’s flaws without hurting them. Ultimately we witnessed two characters maturing because of each other and their mutual affection, without that affection becoming the conflict point. Instead, tension was built around other aspects of identity, popularity, and childhood trauma.

Tokyo in April is AKA Shigatsu no Tokyo wa

Japan 2023 Viki

Two young men with a shared tragic past reunite and fall in love all over again, but the past will not stop hunting them. Based on a manga, this office set reunion romance is GREAT… damn it. It’s Japan in full on soft focus which means it gets emo, abusive, and chewy. These two characters are giving parts of their souls away in a desperate attempt to shape themselves to the expectations they have of each other.

The Eighth Sense

Korea 2023 Viki

This feels more atmospheric gay coming of age romance than strictly BL. It’s got a bit of an age gap, country boy/city boy, stellar acting, complex characters, and leads with great chemistry and tension. It’s a bit chewy and sticky and less perfect than most KBLs (do I detect a touch of Taiwan?) This one deployed BL tropes (messy eater, shoulder sleep, protective seme, there’s even some hyung-slinging) but front loaded them with painful backstory and tons angst drives the 2nd half. This isn’t in the KBL bubble, there’s sharp edges and lots of triggers. For a BL the darkness of the content left me feeling unsettled (which is the only reason it didn't get a perfect score) but it does have a glorious ending and that counts for a lot.

Bad Buddy

Thai 2022 YouTube

This was GMMTV’s flagship BL and it started 2022 on a BANG (okay no actual banging but you know what I mean), starring heavy hitters Ohm & Nanon in a pitch perfect university Romeo & Romeo masterpiece that will give you domesticity meets pain whiplash throughout and jet lag at the end. Some of the friendship and family dynamics are overworked, but it has great production values, killer acting, and some conscious effort to correct for half a decade of Thai BL’s anti-queer mistakes. The whole set up is build on family drama so, yeah.

Bed Friend

Thai 2023 YouTube

Office frienamies transition a flaming hot one night stand into a f-buddy relationship that is built on a puppy/cat dynamic (and kinks into it at one point). Our puppy is loyal, smitten, and protective with endlessly longing eyes, while our cat is snarky, prickly, and deeply damaged. NetJames give lovely high-heat with excellent chemistry and tuned-in performances of surprising depth, could have been spectacular but was the story is overworked, especially at the end. Still if high heat is your thing, this one will not let you down.

Lovely Writer

Thai 2021 YouTube

What Lovely Writer does, at heart, is reexamine Thai BL has done to queerness, but in a very gentle way that has more to do with Thai BL growing up than any actual queer authenticity. It’s not parody or pastiche, but it is self reflective and trying to correct for some chronic mistakes. Whether it is ultimately successful in this matter is going to depend on the watcher’s relationship to BL and queer identity. But that’s what makes this show beautiful, interesting, and thought provoking. And I, for one, applaud the effort even if I didn’t personally connect to the characters. There is both family trauma and dram and childhood stuff.

Happy Merry Ending

Korea 2023 Viki

Stars Lee Dong Won (KNK) as an ex-idol turned wedding singer with an abusive ex and a panic disorder + the sunshine pianist who falls in love with him. Timid tsundere & sweetheart gay is an interesting match. They’re gentle together, almost kindly, and there is a calm ache to their pairing. However, it lost its way as a BL, being more about the main character’s struggle than the romance. It had a strong finish but ultimately the premise & characters meant this was never going to be one of my favorites. But if you like angst, well...

Given

Japan 2021 grey

Boy joins band, falls in love with other boy. The singing is terrible, fast forward through that but with the possible exception of the hair styles, this BL could have been made in 2015 and no one would be surprised. As such, it wasn’t ground breaking, but it didn’t disappoint either. Very much a tortured past for our singer. (More here.)

The Eclipse

Thai 2022 YouTube

GMMTV does gay Blacklist with a good boy/bad boy pairing. This is a good show but the cast is excellent and the leads are absolutely flawless, which elevates it beyond just good. We got a nuanced and multifaceted burgeoning relationship: philosophical (and socio-political) conflict contrasted to moments of empathy; flirtation contrasted to moments of genuine affection, plus plenty of angst. This narrative is less about love than it is about courage and tenderness. However, near the end the pacing was off and the plot frustrating. Still, this is an enjoyable watch, with a finale that features verbal consent and a fun blooper reel.

Love Class 2

Korea 2023 Viki

3 couples form within a semester of university: 1. a hyung romance reunion of exes, one of whom has a dangerous past, 2. a friends to lovers romance, and 3. a one night stand between a mature student and a TA (many aspects of which had me laughing). I enjoyed the characters and dialogue of this show immensely. It was a little bit more breezy and friendly than I was expecting after the first installment, Love Class (to which this bears little resemblance and no connection). I’m not entirely sure Korea can handle multiple couples like this because it definitely felt disjointed, especially with the 3rd more mature couple (also my favorite) who probably should’ve had their own series. But I enjoyed something different from Korea.

About Youth

Taiwan 2022 Gaga

A truly lovely little coming of age high school BL with a classic YA low drama but high angst and an earnest depth. I didn’t even mind the singing, and that’s saying a lot. A weak seme/uke dynamic but tons of BL tropes (both rare in a high school setting but common for Taiwan) makes this one feel both sweet and colored by an almost real world authenticity and grit. More here.

Restart After Come Back Home AKA Risutato wa tadaima no ato de

Japan 2020 Gaga?

Atmospheric study in rural Japan meets complex family dynamics built on a romance framework of city boy meets country boy, grumpy/sunshine. It’s beautiful and icy sweet. Slow moving in places but ultimately worth the patience, low heat, low angst, and stunning.

DNA Says Love You

Taiwan 2022 Gaga

DNA deserves extra marks for an upbeat approach to a queer story arc that other shows have systemically mishandled with sadness (in the guise of realism). There is a twist, which I found predictable, but knowing what would happen didn't spoil this show. The leads are luminous and engaging, and it’s full of queer found family representation and an unexpected amount of domesticity, plus it’s Taiwan, so the kisses are great. The first few eps are rough going but have patiences, it's worth it as the last ones really are special and life/love affirming - and the end is big-grin charming.

My Tooth Your Love

Taiwan 2023 Viki

Earnest dentist hottie with sad eyes who worries too much is smitten by an adorable sunshine neurotic bar owner with serious anxiety issues. They fall madly in love while courting each other with food, plushies, and naps. Then, shocker, talk about their feelings and try to actually sort out their problems so they can have an adult relationship. Bonus crumbs = 18 year old poor little rich kid in mad crush with a much older man. I really enjoyed this show, it had a unique premise, killer dialogue, there was a solid lead pair with charming chemistry, soft flirtation, delightful smiling kisses, and stinkingly cute domesticity.

Where Your Eyes Linger

Korea 2020 Viki

Ostensibly high school set about a poor kid whose been raised in a mafia kid’s family specifically to protect him (whipping boy trope, attack dog variant). Themes of codependency and survival with pretty classic Korean style romance ending.

TharnType

Thai 2019 Viki

This Thai BL has everything: university setting, great acting and complex characters, interesting friendship groups, enemies to lovers, angsty coming out, high production values, AMAZING chemistry, and multiple BL side couples with all the issues. But when I said everything I meant it because there's also: damaging queer rep, strong seme/uke and husband/wife language, classic tropes and lots of them, child abuse, bullying, mental illness, rough play, dub-con, non-con, and statutory rape (by the seme/gay character).

and its spin off: Don't Say No also qualifies for this post.

In fact most Mame stuff will involved trauma & drama, specifically.

Love By Chance 2

Love in the Air (Part 2)

Wedding Plan

Some others but I'm getting tired:

I Told Sunset About You et al

You Are Mine

Dear Doctor, I'm Coming for Your Soul

Ghost Host Ghost House

But frankly there are a ton more depending on how you look at it. I mean, what about Why R U? FIghter's dad is the issues with him coming out, but it's not really in the plot until late so ?

Lakorn BL drama llama soaps & similar

Moonlight Chicken - review here

Laws of Attraction

To Sir, With Love - review here

Sirs not appearing on this list

Our Dining Table is driven by childhood trauma but not angsty, similar to Oxygen. Not Me is angsty and dramatic and family stuff, but that's not really the driver of the plot. Life Love On the Line is all angst but he brought it on himself.

(source)

Updated Nov 19, 2023, no intention of adding to this so if you want more, look at the comments. Someone is bound to get annoyed their favorite isn't on the list.

[wordyneonlights]

'And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like I love you'

Welcome back to the inner workings of my mind!! This has been STUCK in my head since yesterday and I've finally gotten it all out. UGH.

Anyways, hope you enjoy this... whatever this is.

1.3k words by the way

You've made a mistake.

No... mistake is too small a word. Mistake is using salt instead of sugar; using the wrong 'there' in an essay; texting the wrong number; telling your mother anything about your love life

This was not a mistake, it was more accurate to say that you had royally fucked up.

Like the ginormous idiot you are, you'd gone and fallen in love.

And even that wasn't accurate enough, falling created the expectancy that you were going to be caught. You had crashed and burned into love if you wanted to get specific with it.

It hit you last week, when you were washing the dishes with him, hips bumping, silence you could sleep in surrounding the both of you.

You thought to yourself: 'I really wouldn't mind doing this everyday forever,'

Then you dropped your plate in the sink at the shock of your realisation.  Eliciting a laugh from him as he poked you with his elbow.

'You all right there?'  He had asked

And you laughed and nodded

'I've got an essay due tomorrow is all,'

'We can always pull an all nighter, run to the corner-store, put something scary on and speed run it,'

'My knight in shining armour,'

'And my favourite dragon,'

You'd rolled your eyes and he laughed making you laugh too and it had just been such a comfortable moment. So warm and safe, and you'd gone and ruined it all by falling in love.

The thing was, you wouldn't have minded as much if it hadn't taken you this long to even be friends with him.

He wasn't necessarily the most open person. A lot of people thought he was hostile, mean... you didn't think that.

OK fine that was a lie you had thought that, but you'd also bothered with getting to know him and he turned out to be the most sarcastically funny, kind, sweet, annoyingly handsome, person you'd ever known. But it had taken you two years to get to that point. And he hadn't dated anybody in the time you knew him.

You'd asked him once, if he was interested in romantic relationships, and he'd looked at you funny.

'Yeah,' he'd said, ' I'm just not looking right now,

'Aw, why not?'

'Tryna graduate first' he'd said poking your nose and shifting your face away from him

'Darn it, I thought I'd have a shot,'

Your heart had been hammering at that point, you had a crush on him by then but it wasn't exactly love, not yet.

He had given you a look but had been interuppted before he could say anything. You both didn't talk about it again.

You wished wholeheartedly that you had never met him (lies) or that you had at least, never fallen for him (more lies).

You were scheduled for one of your routine hangouts, at the local bar. Usually some of your other friends would have joined you but they had all bailed.

Maybe the universe was giving you some sort of sign? Maybe this was your chance to confess. You were quieter than usual as he drove you to the bar, staring out of the window.

"You alright?" he asked

"Uh huh," you responded

"We could always watch a movie or something, we don't have to go out,"

You nodded not really registering, his cologne smelt nicer than usual today, but then he always smelled nice.

"Are you sick or something?"

' Lovesick maybe,' you thought in your head.

"I mean don't get me wrong I appreciate the silence, but it is weird when you’re not annoying me about something,"

You rolled you eyes before smiling coyly, "Just admit you like hearing me talk," you said and he scoffed

"Never mind actually I preferred the quiet,"

You took this as a challenge obviously, and began chattering to him about the latest drama surrounding your favourite comic.

"So the fight's getting tense right, but he's got this super powerful being on his side but then his legs get sliced off and he has to jump into the god he's fighting and he almost gets devoured but then it gets eaten by his wall but then the wall eats his mom and-"

You rambled on before your voice fizzled out. You wanted to stop talking before you said something you'd regret. Besides, you were at the bar already.

You walked inside and sat on one of the outside tables. You sat in silence for about ten minutes, absently sipping your drink so you wouldn't talk.

Maybe if you confessed while drunk you could play it off as not that serious, at least it would be out there.

"Ok, what's the problem," he asked finally, and you raised your eyebrows

"What?"

"Are you sick? Did one of your 'faves' die again?"

"What, I-"

"Did that couple you were rooting for break up? Did you fail another paper?"

"Hey-"

"Are you-" his face blanched and your stomach dropped. Had he somehow figured it out? Your mouth went dry and you tried your best to look normal.

"Are you pregnant?"

...

...

Your mind went completely blank as you registered his face before you burst out into laughter.

"Pregnant?" you wheezed doubling over, "You think I'm pregnant!!"

Your laughter was so obnoxious you were getting weird looks but you didn't care. The absurdity of it all had you rolling.

"This is what i get for caring," he'd said blushing slightly after you had calmed down save for a few giggles every few minutes

"I can't believe you thought I was pregnant,"

"You weren't giving me much to work with," he muttered, "I was getting worried,"

"Rest assured i am not pregnant,"

Just hopelessly in love with you is all.

"Then what's wrong?" he asked, tone more serious

You hesitated, he was annoyingly perceptive. Maybe there was a possibility he already knew you were in love with him and was waiting for you to confess. Were you willing to take that chance?

"Just got some unexpected news is all," you said picking your words carefully

"Good news or bad news?"

"I'm not sure yet,"

"Well... as long as you’re not pregnant,"

"Why do you care so much?"

"I can barely deal with you and your period hormones," he teased rubbing his arm when you smacked him, "Pregnancy hormones would be a whole different beast,"

"Whatever, you’re stuck with me anyway,"

"Stuck with you huh?"

Your heart was drumming in your chest and you took another sip of your drink.

"You know... " I started, "There is actually something I wanted to say,"

"I think we've already established that,"

You felt queasy, and cleared your throat. You could feel yourself sweating as you built up your courage.

You have to say it, if not now then when? You can't be the sort of person who lives in regret, you can't be the kind of person who's scared of big conversations.

You steeled yourself, bringing your head up and looking him firmly in the eye.

"I love you,"

There, it was out, you'd said it, it was in the air, out in the open, the frequency of your voice had been registered as vibrations in his ear, he had heard you. You could tell because of the slight raise of his eyebrows.

"Yeah, I love you too, is that what you were so worked up about?"

You should have been happy, relieved almost but you weren't, your stomach twisted itself and you let out a shaky breath.

"No I mean I love you love you. I think you're one of the most amazing people I've ever met, you make me laugh, you make me feel seen and I want to be with you as more than just friends. I love you in the way that they talk about in poetry and I can't keep hiding it from you anymore,"

You stopped talking eyes still on his.

You couldn't read his expression, his face had gone pale and his eyes were wide.

"I'm sorry," he started and your heart clenched, "I don't feel the same way,"

Oof, glad I am done with this. Just wanted to put it out there I suppose. Not sure I had a person in mind for this when I wrote it so I'll probably just tag a bunch of fandoms or whatever. Hope you enjoyed!!

Title is from the song: 'Something Stupid' by Frank and Nancy Sinatra

[felixravinstills]

i have asserted that i am the felix/livia failmarriage anon.

but here's a thought i'd love to hear your thoughts on - what if they had a healthy marriage, happy household where their children grew up without ever seeing their parents yell at each other?

felix/livia failmarriage <3 but what if it wasn't a fail? (aka the nicer version of this)

honestly, I think it would work (considering that I do imagine if Coriolanus married Livia that she did somehow get charmed by him. I imagine that she could find herself getting over the childhood dislike? that I gave her and Felix), but it would be a slow burn.

For the slow burn to work, it would rely on Livia not falling for Coriolanus in the intervening time, Felix not dying, and no drama to start up that would get both of them to sour on each other.

Assuming the conditions are met, they aren't forced into a marriage, and they're feelings grow organically, Ravindew child probably grows up relatively fine. They're probably a bit spoiled, and I do think that there will always be some growing pains when they reach a certain age. Livia will have some expectation that the child doesn't meet, and Felix will not and it will seem like he's more distant. But it'll be so much less than in the failmarriage universe, and we all struggle with our parents on occasion (or at least, I imagine most people do).

It's not insurmountable, and I imagine Ravindew child and their parents love each other a lot but get into the occasional argument.

(More under the cut but it's less happy):

Being married to a Cardew does put him higher on the list of targets (for Snow but other politicians looking to seize power from the Ravinstills are included). Honestly, I can see Livia pushing and supporting him to try more in politics and maybe even try and replace his cousin (in my worldbuilding) as Ravinstill heir apparent.

Then, of course, because I always kill Felix. Felix dies. (If he doesn't die, then he's even more miserable somehow and/or following my other trend, he raises a future dictator of Panem...)

Livia's beside herself with grief (if she survives whatever assassination took her husband. It's 50/50 , but she'd potentially have her uses (to Snow? another politician?) so I imagine she doesn't die)

Ravindew child's down one parent (although they might have siblings in this universe but to keep it simple, I'll refer to only one child). Livia probably has a grief spiral but imagine she crawls out of it

Livia Cardew on the warpath for a lost love is probably a very terrifying thing. She's out for blood. I imagine her relationship with Ravindew child gets very strained at points, because Livia is very much focused on the past and revenge.

Ravindew child might start getting raised to avenge their father or get really coddled by a very overprotective Livia. Honestly, probably both in my mind.

They're a loving family but through this, I think this also seeds resentment. The coddling seems counterproductive to the first point which frustrates them both and neither communicate about it well (probably). In the end, it's memories of the better days holding them over from having frustrations erode away at the love mother and child still have for each other.

Bonus: I think it would be funny (and by funny, I mean cool and tragic) if Livia did get together with Coriolanus in this AU not knowing he killed Felix, and their child finds out and kills Coriolanus fulfilling their goal of avenge their father that their mother impressed upon them since the death of said-father only for this to actually make their relationship with their mother worse. Livia can't help the resentment of "I was finally happy again, only for it to all fall apart again." Yes, her anger should be directed at Coriolanus in this situation (for killing Felix and lying to her), but he's not here anymore... you know who is? Ravindew child. And through it all that's still her kid, she still loves them. But it's hard. and it's gotten so much harder.

...

Thanks felix/livia failmarriage anon! <3 I feel like I'm normally bad at expanding on stuff (that isn't in a fic and hidden in subtext), so let me know if you have any other questions!

[majachee]

HIIII ok so I have a question about the power ranger TD au!!

Are there gonna be any ships? (I’m mostly interested in Noah ships (totally not my favorite character)) likeee is there gonna be Noco? Nowen? Is duncey gonna be canon?

(Also is Gwen gonna show up? IF SOO will there be gwourtney or gwent instead? Is the Duncan, Courtney and Gwen triangle gonna come?)

ALSO I CANT WAIT UNTIL THE DRAMA BROTHERS SHOW UP GANSNKSBAKAKAAH

ok that was all thank you very much good person 🫡

CRAWFISH SPOTTED YEAHEAHHHHHHHH

As for relationships... 😈

Since this is a self-indulgent AU made primarily for enjoyment, I'm pretty lenient when it comes to romantic pairings! If someone suggests a ship and I feel fine towards it, I'll give them some crumbs to work with lmao

Focusing on the pairings you brought up, though...

Noah - I headcanon Noah as being on the aroace spectrum, meaning he rarely feels attraction towards others. This identity is brought up several times in the AU, though not exactly by name (I don't think Noah would use specific labels, tbh)...

HOWEVER, he is not immune to the ship-bait crumbs! Noah and Owen are close in this AU, and can be read as romantic or queerplatonic. Nowen is explicitly canon in this AU, and most TD related things I'll write or draw! But, whether they're romantic or queerplatonic is up to the readers, I've decided. I love both interpretations equally, and I love Nowen because of how both interpretations work almost perfectly!

As for NoCo... I have mixed feelings towards this ship, but that's usually because nobody ever interprets it the way I interpret it: and that's Cody fucking sucks /aff /derogatory.

He had a weird one-sided situationship with Noah for 3 days in October of freshman year, said something FOUL and KINDA CRINGE about rizz and women, and Noah just got up and left. No hesitation.

Let Cody be a loser... genuinely. He gets mauled by a bear at least once. Other than that, no hints of NoCo in the main plot. Cody's out there freakin it loser style, and Noah is gay married to Owen in every universe.

Now for the questions about Gwen and Courtney - No for the love triangle, I felt that entire thing ruined all three characters. Like, Duncanis suppose to be a "punk with a heart of gold" and yet he's down to cheat??? Gwen, the anxious yet very progressive goth who's like... genuinely nice??? And bro what'd Courtney do to deserve that??? ... She did help carry WT tho

As for Duncey and Gwent? I'm on the fence. I don't think Duncan and Courtney are good for eachother. And Gwent was really cute in season 1, but the way they handled Trent's breakdown in Action just felt... off. I think I prefer both of them being single, unfortunately. Might have Trent and Gwen be exes on really good terms though? For world building and lore? Because both characters are revelant to the plot due to their connections with Courtney, Duncan, and Harold (primarily Trent for that last one but yk)

Qwourtney is a maybe, I did promise some Heather/Courtney crumbs for an anon so I'm down for that lmao

Honestly, if you wanna write or draw ship art for this AU, even if ifs not explicitly "canon" then go for it. I'd love to see it! This is a self-indulgent AU, and I'm chill w/ letting you guys get self-indulgent with my self-indulgent AU lmaoooooo

And to finish this off...

I'M GONNA USE THE DRAMA BROTHERS AS AN EXCUSE TO REFERENCE BUFFY, LET ME TELL YOU... DUDE. THE SCENES AT THE BRONZE AND THE COLLEGE HOUSE PARTIES WHERE INDIE/ROCK BANDS ARE PLAYING LIVE AND SMTH INSANE HAPPENS... CHANGED ME FUNDAMENTALLY. Omg i love buffy the vampire slayer hashtag feminism

[whitewolfofwinterfell]

hi, shannen. so i've been going through some meta i've had saved in my likes, and omg your cole turner meta. so. i still have (and always will have tbh) a lot of conflicted feelings about charmed. both due to my own personal trauma (which don't worry, we won't get into here 😂) and the drama behind the scenes, so it's really emotional for me to talk about. anyway, a few years ago, one of my favorite youtubers did a massive review series of the whole show. while i disagreed with some of her analysis, the thing she had absolutely *on point* is how the show was *constantly* punishing cole for things that weren't his fault.

and when you're a kid watching the show for the first time, the obvious direction to follow is the sisters. and because they see him as irredeemable, the audience is meant too, as well. but looking back, as an adult (and a kid who thought phoebe helping cole fake his death was the most romantic thing ever, after the sound of music 😂), it is genuinely infuriating the degree to which they decimated cole's character.

the youtuber i mentioned above mentioned that the sudden swerve from season 4 to season 5 may have had more to do with alyssa milano wanting phoebe to come through blameless. and honestly, for me, that explanation tracks. phoebe SAW WITH HER OWN TWO EYES that cole was possessed at the end of season 4, and she *still* blamed him for killing an innocent while under possession. for me, that's the moment phoebe turned into alyssa's self-insert. and it's bizarre because charmed had done episodes before and after that point that showed demonic powers =/= evil (the firestarter episode, the lil manticore baby etc.) and the thesis was basically "it's not the power but how you use it." why didn't this also apply when it came to cole? why is the audience supposed to accept that cole is inherently evil, when, as you said, if it had been any of the sisters going through this shit, the situation would be wildly different. and honestly, this speaks to charmed's overall problem re: good vs. evil being innate and unchangeable, but cole is like...the walking example of that.

and seeing these horrible writing decisions from an adult perspective...it just really hits emotionally. because despite how much alyssa (allegedy 😒) wanted cole out of phoebe's life, to this day, she acknowledges what he all know is true. that what happened to cole wasn't the original plan "c is for coop" was bullshit, and that cole was supposed to be *it* for phoebe. all that having been said, i would love to get an updated take on this if and when you have the time, because i still can't bring myself to watch any of the cole deep dives in my youtube watch list without exploding in anger 😅

i hope everything is doing well with you and i look forward to discoursing with you once more lol

Hey Fatima, it's good to hear from you and I hope you're doing okay 😊

For context for anyone else reading this, I've previously spoken about my thoughts/feelings on Cole here and here.

I have to admit, I don't have much more to add, so this time I'm going to focus more on how I think Cole's character was impacted by external factors (behind-the-scenes issues and constraints etc.) because I've covered the treatment of Cole in-universe quite in-depth already.

Just like you, when I was younger, I accepted what the show told me which is that Cole was evil and needed to be vanquished. As adults, we can now look at things with a more critical lens and see the nuances, and for myself, I especially see the ways in which the storytelling of Charmed (and all shows) is impacted by what happens off-screen.

There are a lot of continuity issues in Charmed with the lore, plot and characterisation and I think Cole is one of the characters who took the brunt of that. I don't know much about the context and behind-the-scenes goings on, but I do know that Julian McMahon wanted to leave the show and the writers probably had to work around that and chop and change things. There were likely also other factors such as the one you mentioned about Alyssa wanting Phoebe to go in a new direction and move on from Cole.

Sadly, it's inevitable that the storytelling and direction that a show takes is impacted by the real life things going on behind the scenes and it's something that a lot of us as viewers and fans will never quite understand or appreciate.

I think a lot of the initial plans for Cole's character in season 5 were axed because Julian wanted to leave (although there was a plan for a Cole-Paige affair which perhaps indicates that the writers had lost their way where Cole was concerned by season 5 lol). If Julian had stayed on the show, I think there would've been reconciliation later down the line for Phoebe and Cole but as soon as Julian decided to leave, they had to come up with a logical exit for Cole and his death was the only way it would work.

There was no way that Cole would've left Phoebe forever of his own volition. He might've left for a while to give her space, but he was too devoted to Phoebe to stay away forever. She was the only person he loved and his only human connection in the world. So what did they do? They made Cole the villain (again) so that they could kill him off in an epic battle against the sisters in the 100th episode.

Based on the constraints, I do understand why this decision was made and it was the most logical way for Cole to exit based on the assumption that Julian was leaving the show and never returning. But from the perspective of us as fans, it's disappointing because it's such a disservice to Cole's character and his and Phoebe's relationship.

I don't think there's ever really a way to resolve that sense of injustice when a character is mistreated and it's unacknowledged. I've experienced it with a lot of characters over the years and it's frustrating. I mean they did try to redeem Cole by bringing him back later on in season 7 but by that point it was too little too late 😂

It helps me to try and focus on the parts of Cole and Cole/Phoebe that I enjoy. Like the fact that Centennial Charmed is one of my all time favourite episodes and his season 4 arc (prior to The Source possession). I also like to pretend that A Witch's Tail is the true end to his and Phoebe's relationship because that feels like the most satisfying end point for them. But it can be challenging when we feel so emotionally attached to a character and they've suffered an injustice within the narrative.

I'm not sure if I really answered your questions amongst all this, but hopefully I did and as always, it's a pleasure to discuss fandom related things with you 😊

[utopianparadoxist]

Hi! I'm most interested on reading your version of HS extension(?) continuation? re-adaptation? Ever since I first saw your analysis on Dirk and Jake I've considered you with amazing grip of the characters and the HS universe over all, Dirk is one of my fav characters of all time (if not the), and there is nothing I'd want more for him than a happy ending, the epilogues were truly heart breaking for him (even though I was more than willing to see where they were going with him in HS^2 in hopes of seeing him reach a happy end) Homestruck was and still is one of my fav properties ever and I'd love to see more from you, I'm sorry you had a hard time but I'm really glad you're back, here and in a better headspace. That said, I guess I'm just somewhat confused on in you have something written already or if it's in the works or from where in the timeline you're continueing from ? Maybe you have like, a master post with your list of essays and fics?

I also loved your youtube videos btw

Thanks! It means a lot to read this. As to your question:

The main project I've been managing since the Epilogues got posted is Pumpkin Path/Pumpkin Track, a sequel to the Meat and Candy epilogues focused primarily on Pumpkins and Vegetables as an alternative form of fan consumption.

The first installment of this arc is THE APOCRYPHON OF JAKE ENGLISH (2019), which follows Meat Jake immediately following Ultimate Dirk's desertion of Earth C. Brain Ghost Dirk declares Dirkjake cancelled and (trigger warning) self-destructs, unleashing the inner barriers in Jake's psychology that he always used his inner Dirk voice to maintain.

Thus Jake's own mind begins to lead him down a rabbit hole of speculatory metaphysics, esoteric spiritual symbolism, and esoteric magic theory that ultimately leads to his ascension to Ultimate Self as Prince English: Himself wearing Dirk's shades and orange hat and essentially larping as a Prince in imitation of Dirk proper.

Through the power he gains from this, he blasts off from Earth C and tracks down Ultimate Dirk for a no holds barred 8eatdown in which he reclaims their lost love and makes Dirk his prisoner with chains of love and mercy, cancelling his ability to die and comitting to becoming the vill8in of Homestuck, as well as its Her8, if it means he can keep Dirk safe and alive.

In the process he finally establishes Dirkjake as indisputable endgame canon, and becomes the equivalent of the I AM Christian God, the new existential equivalent to Lord English himself, with a will that predominates completely over everything else in Paradox Space. There may be some surprises that happen along the way, too.

Now, That much of the story has been written and published since 2019. You can read it on A03 right now and always could. In fact, I'd encourage you to do so and @ me, as well as maybe tag it with #Pumpkin Path, #Pumpkin Track, or just straight up #Homestuck for all I care. I want eyes on this thing, and I wanted them 4 years ago.

That said:

I am now nearing completion on the follow-up to the Apocryphon as an intermission piece between the Epilogues and Pumpkin Track proper, with what is essentially ACT 1 of Pumpkin Track: W(1)LDSCR1PT-B4R0QU3STUCK, a high-drama spectacle driven continuation of the plot of the Epilogues centering on a confrontation between Ultimate Jake English and Meat Jade Harley, who must duel for the right to decide if Dirk Strider dies.

In the process of their battle and Jade's necessary Ascension to Ultimate Selfhood in order to Rise uP to the level necessary to compete against a being like Prince English, deeply hidden truths will be unveiled; about the lives of Jade and Jake, about the moral logic that rules Earth C, and about the very nature and purpose of Paradox Space itself.

If I have it my way, if all goes as I Hope, then nothing in Homestuck will ever be the same once it's posted. The Apocryphon was setup. Now it's fucking Sh8wt1m3, and I can't w8.

The first half of Wildscript is written and has been being beta'd for several months, and I have a full outline written for the rest. Anyone who gets their eyes on the thing seems to come away pretty excited. Sometime in the near future, I'll post the first four Chapters of Wildscript on Ao3 or some other platform, and update the rest as I go. And once Wildscript is finished, I have future Acts and Intermissions planned for the foreseeable eternity, tackling off the top of my head: Ultimate Ascensions for Rose and Kanaya, Vriska and Terezi, Roxy and Calliope, Jane Crocker, and Nepeta Leijon and Tavros Nitram as they lead the twin charges of Nepetaquest 3033.

There is no endpoint to my ambition for the future of Homestuck save simply: 8. The only question is whether the fandom wants to come along for the ride with me in the long run. I think Hope Remains that we'll have a great time here if they do.

If not, I hope they have even more fun elsewhere.

Let's rise.

[krisbianbitchface]

Ok so to warm my heart a little from the coldness of knowing I will have to wait 2 years to see dear Rhaenyra again I have started watching Game of Thrones,I was not very fond of it when it came out however now I am older and just desiring to binge watch anything to get myself to sleep and I have a few thoughts I need to get out of my head or maybe opinions,it might me a little over the top since of course I am a lesbian drama queen and I live to complain,im only in season 3 almost ending the season...

I fucking hate that kid bran,he takes soooo much screen time just to retell dreams and look like that snarky kid that throws random stuff on the ground in Walmart with a stupid look on his face (I really Wish Jamie would have killed his ass)

Melissandre is the most interesting character of the series,so witty and cruel in the best way,I was shocked when she killed that king with her baby demon and absolutely smitten,I love cruel women.

Jon Snow is the most boring character I have EVER witnessed in the story of television and trust me I've been there since Xena Warrior Princess graced the screens,just no goals,no path,no big dick or small dick energy,no energy AT ALL,just a big fat ugly Hero complex that I just can't stand because the actor has the same expression everytime no matter what happens,even having a boner with a cute girl cuddling his dick he is 😐 like gtfo of my face

Cersei is second to Melissandre in the scale of bad bitches,she is just so fucking resented and hot,everything she says sounds like wind chimes even if she is sending a child to his death,I cant help but want her to hate fuck me and call me a fagg0t and then tell me Im the worst fuck she's ever had and just use me again.

Dragons...Should I say more? I started the series of House of the Dragon because I just love dragons,and a particular scene is just edged in my mind like iron,Daenerys saving her little dragons from that sorcerers dungeon and their cute little faces watching her almost like trying to say "Momma! You're here! we missed you!" I think is the cutest scene ever.

Daenerys...She serving cunt,she ate and licked the plate,she served and left no crumbs,the director said cut and she heard CUNT and went with it, she caused a motherquake of 9.99 in the cunt scale,she's mother, and no other than the Mother of Dragons, I just love her,she is what Cleopatra VII was before hollywood found her and turned her into a makeup propaganda fashionista, a true strategist and conqueror.

Kal Drogo,I just mourned his death,he was so cute and murderous, i wept real tears for sweet Daenerys, I think the actor was really good and he needed more screen time, his scenes were charged with masculity and power,something we really lack these days in television.

Sansa, she is a beauty,the kind of beauty fantasy writers try to describe and there is just no way that human exists and then there is her...But she is so fucking traumatized and set aside just like every other woman in that universe,hell,even in life,I feel for her...And also wanna date her,i won't lie

Aria is a tough little woman,I think they really need to step up her action scenes because I think she serves well as a hope in the darkness kind of character however I do wish the actress was more prone to make a proper action sequence ala Eleven from Stranger Things,you can say what you want about miss Millie Bobby Brown but she is one of the few actresses willing to make many changes ln television for years to come with her characters.

Jamie Lannister is an interesting fighter and I wish it was possible to swap his fight scenes with Aria since i think it was proper giving the context,anyway he has good fighting sequences that I think were ment for someone else.

The sex scenes... This was a series HBO really set the bar high for nudity,there is so much nudity,sometimes unnecessary and cruel for the actresses involved and at the same time, is not surprising considering this series was made by two straight men,this always happens in the industry although these days is harder due to the constant intimacy coordination, but yeah in those times I can't imagine how unerving it was for actresses to bare it all for a couple of coins in a popular series.

Enough with my ramblings,I declare myself a fan of game of thrones only for Daenerys and her cute little dragons 💖

[ingek73]

How we made

Culture

‘I was attacked by a bloody rabbit’: how we made Xena: Warrior Princess

‘The studio was hesitant about suggesting Xena and Gabrielle were in a romantic relationship. But as time went on, they decided to look the other way and just let us get on with it’

‘Somebody once asked me if they had ever had sex’ … Lucy Lawless as Xena and Renee O’Connor as Gabrielle.

Interviews by Chris Broughton

Follow Chris Broughton

Mon 1 Jul 2024 16.19 CEST

Steven L Sears, writer and co-executive producer

I was in a meeting with an executive from Renaissance Pictures when he mentioned a series they were going to do: “A hip, updated version of Hercules.” Xena was a character in that, compellingly brought to life by Lucy Lawless. When Hercules: The Legendary Journeys became a big hit, they decided to spin her off into her own series. That’s when I became involved.

Building on Xena’s backstory, we developed a character who has been turned into a feared warrior because of things that happened during her childhood and early adulthood, but at heart she is a good person keen to help others. The common take was that she was on the path to redemption, but my belief was that she felt she could never redeem herself for the thousands she had killed.

Gabrielle, meanwhile, is a simple village girl given the chance to realise her dreams of adventure. Since she recorded the duo’s escapades on scrolls, fans started calling her the battling bard. Right from the start, though, we refused to make her just a sidekick. She offered a beautiful innocent perspective on Xena’s darker, more barbaric character. Ultimately, she became Xena’s saviour.

Steven L Sears in 2022.

‘We went from drama one week to satire the next’ … Steven L Sears in 2022. Photograph: Paul Archuleta/Getty Images

The show’s co-creator Rob Tapert would present us with wild ideas and leave us to make them work. I can’t think of a regular show that did a musical episode with original songs before we did The Bitter Suite. One time, Rob wanted me to change the word “camouflage”. He said: “It’s a French word and this is not a French show.” I said: “You’re having a problem with a French word in a series set in ancient Greece with a protagonist played by a New Zealand actress using an American accent?”

Later, we expanded our universe quite a bit. In one episode, clones of our heroes interacted with Xena fans in the present day. Another, set in an alternative reality, saw Xena ruling over the Roman empire with Karl Urban’s Julius Caesar after their marriage. Xena offered the opportunity to go from drama one week to satire the next and, more importantly, had a cast and crew that could pull it off.

People called Xena a sword and sorcery show, even though our universe had swords but no magic. There were mythological creatures and entities with powers, but those powers had restrictions. Most of the gods echoed the pettiness of mankind, with all their egos and desires.

Back then, the studio was very hesitant about suggesting Xena and Gabrielle were in a romantic relationship. They even objected to a moment in the title sequence where Xena is seen walking seductively towards the warlord Draco, because he was shot from the back and had long hair, so could be mistaken for a woman. But as time went on, they decided to look the other way and just let us get on with it. Somebody once asked me if Xena and Gabrielle ever had sex. I said: “It’s none of my damn business. They do social and domestic duties together, they have fought for each other and died for each other. If you’re defining the relationship just on sex, you’re really missing the whole point.”

We had a very varied following, from children to students to older people. My dad once spotted a neighbour, in his 80s, waving a stick in his front yard as if sword fighting. “I’ve been watching my favourite show, Xena: Warrior Princess,” he explained. “You should see it – there’s a guy called Sears who works on it.”

Renee O’Connor, played Gabrielle

My focus with Gabrielle was how to make her feel empowered and not just the damsel in distress. The time I’d spent doing gymnastics at school probably helped with some of the moves I had to perform: handstands, backflips and so on. I loved working with weapons and dancing around stunt people. During one fight, my stunt double was standing in for the antagonist and, as we were twirling around, we stepped too close to each other and she ended up with a broken nose.

Even in the first season, we started to hear from people who thought Xena and Gabrielle’s relationship was more than just friends. Later, that subtext started to develop. We didn’t get a sense of how big the show was becoming until Lucy came back from a convention in the US and said: “Oh Renee, it’s like you’re a rock star!” At that point, the show hadn’t started airing in New Zealand. So, as we filmed in our little sacred space in Auckland, we could still walk around anonymously.

I tried showing Xena to my kids when they were young, but my daughter was terrified, seeing her mother repeatedly getting beaten up – or even attacked by a bloody rabbit. I kept the weapons Gabrielle used and still have a few boxes of costumes. My daughter’s 18 now and I know she’ll end up wearing them on a date or something.

I can relate to the young Gabrielles I meet at conventions who appreciate that kindness doesn’t mean you’re weak. Being able to live through my character emboldened me, helped me stand up to the bully. That’s definitely carried on for the rest of my life.

[qland]

15 Day BL Challenge (The Quadriquel) - Day 51

Top 3 BLs that you'd never want to explain to your parents.

It’s Complicated

To be honest, I don’t have an answer for this.

Almost every drama I’ve ever seen—which is a lot—has come up in conversation with my close relatives at least once. So to say I have watched series that I’d never want to explain to my parents would be a lie; because knowing me, I’d probably still explain it to my family anyways.

I love media, I hope that’s obvious, and I take extra joy in getting to talk about said media—and thus 5 years ago I opened my mouth and talked to my mother about something I’ll never be able to take back (and frankly I’d never have it any other way): Thai BL.

I had recently come out as transgender to my family and used my newfound appreciation for the industry as a way to explain just how important it was for me to feel represented. Sure, the series were mostly about cis gay men falling in love with other cis gay men but I, a agender aroace, particularly resonated with them.

And thus I did what I do best, and gave lectures upon lectures about the series and their messaging—and I’ve never stopped. So long as there are people to listen, I won’t stop talking about these series that mean the world to me, no matter how embarrassing or strange they may seem.

I mean heck I watched Sotus and Tharntype with my grandmother!! That’s the kind of relationship I have with my family, one where we truthfully do not judge what media we watch, so long as we’re willing to have productive conversations about the messaging! So many of my favorite moments have been talking to my mother over the phone about the latest episode of Only Friends, and how Boston just keep on getting messier!!

So unfortunately this is is the only one so far that I don’t have any answer for. I guess that’s a good thing in this case; that I feel so comfortable in my relationship with my family that I can talk about any series and not be judged for it.

So I’ll ask a new question,

Top 3 BLs that the average viewer wouldn’t want to explain to their parents, but I’ve done so anyways.

1. Kinnporsche

I had complicated thoughts about Kinnporsche when I originally watched it—particularly with its depiction of sexually violent content. And so I turned to my closest ‘book club’ and we discussed the ways the series uses it’s content to push messaging—both productive and negative, and what that can say about the larger text.

The conversation we had was incredibly enlightening; especially because we went in depth exploring what we both believe in the intent vs. impact debate in a really interesting way. This was a prime example of how engaging with media on a more personal scale can cause introspection in a really unique way!!

2. Pitbabe

This was a fun conversation. It started as I explained how I was unfamiliar with a lot of the series’s tropes, and that the omegaverse elements really read as a magic system to an outsider. Funnily enough, as I continued to talk about how the world of Pitbabe has a really interesting ‘magic system’—we both came to realization that we’d seen this kinda stuff before in other books and shows, parsing out what exactly makes this a trope and not an in universe magic system. The power of semantics and all that.

3. The Heart Killers

I posted a FMV of The Heart Killers to my public youtube account, and received tons of constructive feedback from my family about what worked and what did not in the condensed form of the story found within the FMV. I find feedback like that to be so crucial in practicing my editing skills—especially showing those projects to complete outsiders. The Heart Killers is certainly not the most accessible series for outsiders to enjoy, however it was that alienable quality that made that discussion so important and impactful for me!!

So yes!! Moral of the story: Community can be found in the most improbable of places!!

[marquis-of-fate]

Break me, make me Change everything I am Take me, wake me Before I'm forever damned I don't know what it is like to feel Anything other than what I'm feeling Take me, wake me Before I'm forever damned - Indie Blog for Hazbin Hotel OC - Mun & Muse Are 21+ - Multiship - Semi-Private - Minors DNI - Penned by Yeen

Sideblog, follows from @visage-of-hell Rules & Bio below the cut, for the convenience of mobile users! <3

DA RULEZ 1) I have zero direct affiliation with the Hazbin/Helluva fandom, I’m just here to write stories with like-minded peeps and have a good time. VERY anti-drama, keep it off my blog, please. 2) Absolutely NO minors, under ANY circumstances. If I find out that you’re lying about your age, it’s an instant block. This is non-negotiable, Hazbin and the Hellaverse are NOT intended for under-age audiences. 3) Though I’m an OC blog myself, I’ve had a lot of negative encounters with other OC blogs over the years, so if I don’t follow or reply to your OC blog, I promise it’s nothing personal. I’m just EXTREMELY selective with which ones I interact with, based on previous history. 4) I’m very open to shipping with this fella, so if you’re interested in shipping somethin’ … come yell at me about and let’s see what happens! 5) Smut will always be under a read-only, but I don’t require the same of those I write it with. -- CHARACTER BIO

Name: Orias (goes by Vega while disguised) Species: Ars Goetia Age: 32 Gender: Cis Male Orientation: Pansexual Occupation: Formerly the Marquis of Fate/Goetian Royalty, Currently a Performer at Overlord Visage's Club Residence/Place of Business: Pentagram City (Pride Ring)

– "Vega" Reference Art: Casual Attire Work Outfit Nude (SFW Version) Nude (NSFW Version) True Form Reference Art: Formal Attire Casual Outfit Nude (SFW Version) Nude (NSFW Version) –

Bio:

Born within a position of privilege and prestige like most of his Goetian ilk, Orias once reveled in his role as Marquis of Fate and Master of Prophecy, communing with the ordering of the stars and the cosmos to assist others in finding their place in the world and their true purpose. Always a vain creature, his motivations were less driven by a sense of duty and more as a means to pad his own ego by acting in ways that would serve to directly benefit him in some way. Be it elevating the stations of lesser beings that were favored by those in positions of greater power or casting down the enemies of those he wished to befriend, it was all carefully orchestrated for the purpose of political maneuvering. Fate was a malleable thing, so easily twisted and bent any way he wished ... so long as it catered to his whims and desires. The chiefest of his desires, however, was his wife Demora. Though an arranged marriage, Orias fell for her quickly and deeply, lavishing her with affection and gifts and making her the center of his entire universe. Indeed, much of his 'wheeling and dealing' was in pursuit of her desires to keep his beloved happy. Orias was a demon obsessed. There was nothing he wouldn't give her ... save for the one thing that he seemingly couldn't, regardless of how hard he tried--an heir. Years passed and the royal couple never successfully conceived, and yet despite the shame of this ever-present societal pressure to continue his legacy, his love for Demora never wavered. The same, however, could not be said for her. In her desperation to maintain her position of privilege within Goetian nobility, Demora began having covert affairs with multiple members of the royal family in an effort to finally conceive an heir and pass it off as belonging to Orias. Eventually, however, he would discover her dirty little secret and confront her. Assured that he valued his position too much to expose her and annul their marriage, she brazenly carried on with her forbidden dalliances for several more months, all the while the unwavering love Orias had held for her slowly withered into resentment. Eventually, none of his prestige and power seemed to matter anymore ... and the Marquis of Fate did the unthinkable--in the middle of a grand ball, in front of all their peers and betters, Orias finally outed Demora as an adulterer and declared their marriage null and void. Enraged, Demora soon managed to turn several of Orias' own legions against him and began wielding them with the intent of violently overthrowing the Marquis and seizing the entirety of his estate for herself. Those still loyal to Orias clashed violently with the betraying legions. Despite their valor and fealty to their Marquis, they were savagely beaten by those pledged to Demora, leaving Orias' forces in shambles. In fear for his life, he assumed a new false identity as a sinner and went into hiding. Stripped of his titles, influence, wealth and a great deal of his demonic power, Orias (now calling himself Vega) exists as but a shadow of his former self as he struggles to reconcile who he was with who he has now become. Only a trusted few know his secret and true identity.

[bluejaysandblackbats]

Daily Planet Classifieds

Fandom: DC Comics, Superfam, Young Justice 98, Titans

Summary: Laney Hausler is currently attending classes at Metropolis University when he sees a boy with his face in the library. At first, he thinks he's seeing things. Later, he starts to realize something strange is going on.

Conner Kent lives off-campus with his friends, but he sees a boy who eerily resembles him, and he hires a private investigator to look into the life of his doppelganger.

Chapters: 13/?

Characters: Jonathan Lane Kent, Conner Kent, Eddie Bloomberg, Rose Wilson, Bart Allen, Cassie Sandsmark, Cissie King-Jones, Clark Kent, Lois Lane, Meloni Thawne, Vic Sage, Slade Wilson

Relationships: Past KonBart, Clois

Additional Tags: Father-Son Relationship, Father-Daughter Relationship, No Powers AU, Found Family, Family Secrets, No Powers AU, No Capes AU, Complicated Relationships, University AU, Roommates, Private Investigator, Twins, Multiple POV, First Person POV, Psychological Drama, Complicated Relationships, Unrequited Love, Platonic Relationships

Chapter Thirteen: Open (Laney's POV)

Eddie and I slept in the same room most nights, but he seemed kind of different after a party we went to. His friend was there. So instead of inviting me to his room, he asked if I could sleep in my room alone or sleep in Rose’s room. I tried to sleep alone because I felt odd about being alone with Rose after our exchange. But, I tossed and turned all night. It was awful. I’d grown accustomed to sharing a bed. Rose knocked on my door around two, telling me she couldn’t sleep, so I let her in. “Is Eddie mad at me?” I asked. 

“Oh, no… Lane, his friend isn’t sleeping in there . You—. They’re being discrete,” Rose whispered. 

“About what?” I asked. 

Rose lay back, staring up at the ceiling. “They’re being intimate, Laney,” Rose explained.

A long silence followed before Rose spoke again. “Laney, did you see anybody at the party that you wanted to—.” I turned on my side to look at her. “Do you ever think about it?”

“Um… Not really. I’m starting to think attraction is far more than just seeing someone as beautiful,” I replied.

“Yeah. That’s how it works… And you might not be the type to meet someone at a party. Maybe you need a more lowkey event. Are you interested in dating?” Rose asked. I wasn’t sure. I’d never had friends before Eddie and Rose, so I couldn’t really imagine navigating dating life when I barely understood the inner workings of friendship. 

“I don’t know… I think I want to figure out friendship a little more first,” I answered. Rose turned to me. 

“Have you thought about your mom lately?” Rose questioned. I nodded. 

“All the time now,” I whispered. And we didn’t say anything else. I can’t remember which one of us fell asleep first. 

**

Rose made me go to the mall with her the following morning to pick up clothes for homecoming. She was adamant that I go because I’d never been to a school dance. Eddie agreed, and he said he’d meet us after he got off work. We split up around noon, and Rose told us to meet at the food court at two. I hadn’t had a run-in with the mysterious cameraman for a few weeks, so I thought it’d be fine. I went into a store to buy soap, walking around quietly, smelling things that caught my eye. I bought a few things that smelled like coffee and a soap that smelled like honey before I noticed a toy store. I’d never been to a toy store before, and my curiosity drew me near it. “Conner!” a woman shouted. “Conner!” 

The name sounded familiar, but I kept walking until I saw something that triggered a memory. It all felt like a dream. I remember holding my mom’s hand, searching for a stuffed giraffe. I remembered feeling a pain in my head as my ears rang. I passed out in that very same store. I sank to the ground in the present day with tears in my eyes. I had a mother, and she was in the city with me. My phone rang, and I answered. “Hello?” I asked in tears. 

“Lane? Are you okay?” Rose asked. 

I couldn’t catch my breath. My head was spinning, and I felt like the world was coming to an end. “I think I’m—. I can’t breathe,” I whispered. 

“Lane, where are you right now?” Rose asked. 

“Is Lane alright?” Eddie questioned in the background. I tried to focus on their voices. 

“The toy store,” I answered. 

“We’re right by there,” Rose replied, “It’s okay.”

**

Rose and Eddie dropped me off on campus, and my dad called to tell me he’d be in town for the end of the family week. So, I took that as an opportunity to ask about my mother. “Father, I��. I had a memory of my mother today… Of her taking me to a toy store. I think I—. What I mean to ask is—? Father, what happened to my mother?” I questioned as I walked around campus. 

“Laney, we should speak about this in person,” Father replied, “I’ll see you on Friday. Goodbye.” 

“Goodbye, Father. I love—.” He hung up on me. I was used to it. Sometimes, he was in a rush or something important happened that I couldn’t see. 

I felt someone run into me, wrapping their arms around me, and I almost dropped my phone. “Sorry, baby,” he whispered, “I just missed you. How about we go back to my car and…” He kissed my neck. I flinched away.

“What are you doing?” I asked. I have to admit I felt strangely warm all over when he kissed my neck. He looked into my eyes. 

“Are you still sick?” he asked. I squinted at him. “I just figured the way you talked to me on the phone the other day… I thought that you would still be in the mood. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t think I’m the person you’re talking about… Everyone’s been mistaking me for someone else. I guess we must look a lot alike,” I explained. He leaned forward, almost studying me. 

“It’s uncanny… I um—. I’m so sorry about the misunderstanding… And thanks for not—. It must be kind of tough,” he stammered. I shook my head. 

“It’s not that bad… Is he your boyfriend?” I questioned. 

He shook his head. “We’re not serious. I wanna be, but I get the vibe that he’ll stop seeing me the second I start talking about commitment. You get it. Don’t you?” he asked. 

“I’m afraid not… I’ve never been in a relationship. This is actually my first time being around people my age,” I answered, “I’ve never had friends before or anything like that.” 

“So… You’ve never been kissed before?” he asked. I shook my head, almost holding my breath. “Would you like to be kissed?” My breath hitched, and I couldn’t speak. He was attractive. I watched his lips curve into a soft ‘o’. His lips were pretty. Thick and pink. I imagined they were soft, and I found myself nodding slowly as he touched my face and leaned forward. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears as his lips brushed mine. “Part your lips like you’re whispering the word, ‘open’.” I kept my eyes shut as I obeyed him. His lips were hot and wet against mine. My lips were clumsy, but I started to catch on to his rhythm. He kissed me until I was breathless. 

I pulled away and whispered a weak, “Thank you.” He laughed. 

“I’m Reed,” he smiled as he reached out to shake my hand. 

“My name is Laney Hausler… I know I’m not the boy you were looking for, but I think the taco truck is behind the science building today. Would you like to split a burrito?” I offered. Reed nodded as he took my hand. I almost felt weak after that. I squeezed his hand, and he looked at me. 

The quiet was pleasant, but I took him behind the science building where we split a burrito and talked about books. He was an English major. I thought he was so interesting. “You know, there’s a little book club that meets off campus every Thursday night. I don’t know if you drink or not, but they have pretty good alcohol there. If not, they’ve got sodas and juice. If you want to branch out and make a few more friends, that’s a good place to start,” Reed suggested, “Here. Give me your phone. I’ll text you the info.” The speed with which I fell for him was dizzying so much that I didn’t stop to think about his confusing relationship with the boy who favored me.