#I feel like a should have written a post about all this but no it’s staying in the tags of my screenshot blog
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Trial By Combat - 6
Requested By: No one. Original Work
CW: manipulation?
Summary: Arlecchino’s got a secret…
Note: You all asked and I will provide! Here’s part six <3 this chapter is a bit slow but I promise it’s leading up to something great!
Part One —> Part Five
-
Fontaine, for the most part, had finally begun to go back to normal. Although no trials have been held since the Creators trial, many shops have reopened their doors to the public once more. It’s as if Fontainians want to disregard the event entirely, treating it as a work of fiction like the Prophecy. However, this doesn’t stop The Steambird from posting every single update regarding the Creator, nor does it stop every copy from selling out.
Despite the lack of trials, it hasn’t prevented the Chief Justice from sending criminals to the Fortress of Meropide, and only hours from now, Paimon and Aether would be a part of the group sent there. The two were the only customers dining at Cafe Lutece this afternoon, the owner seemed almost eager to provide the gluttonous amount of food the duo had ordered.
“Oh Paimon is feeling a bunch of nerves right now and it’s just making her more hungry.” She whines while rubbing her stomach. “I’m just hoping that the food in the Fortress is actually tasty.”
Aether lets out a soft chuckle, “it’s a prison Paimon. I doubt that the food will be any good”
Paimon pouts crossing her arms. “Hopefully will be rightfully compensated for our due diligence. Oh! Maybe even something from the Creator themselves!”
The traveler gives her a look, “you shouldn’t think like that Paimon, not when they are currently missing right now.”
The travel guide immediately covers her lips, muttering out a small apology.
“Speaking of the Creator,” Paimon says, “do you really think Childe might know something? I mean, we’ve heard how he’s talked about them before.”
It was true, during their time in Liyue when they had met Childe, he had expressed how heavily he revered the Creator. Not just him, all of the harbingers they’ve met have mentioned the Creator in a positive light. Aether even recalls when the Wanderer told him that the only thing all of the harbingers could agree on was their ultimate respect for them.
“Based off our interactions with the Fatui before, they might have some respect for Their Grace. But we still have no idea why they want the Gnosis, maybe it’s connected to the Creator.”
Paimon nods in agreement. “You’re right. If the gnosis are what connect the Archons to Celestia, then maybe the Creator has something similar?”
“Hopefully if the Fatui got their hands on Their Grace, they haven’t left Fontaine yet. We should still be able to rescue them.” Aether adds.
“Paimon hopes so too! Oh I can only imagine the type of horrors they could be putting them through!”
“Are you talking about Their Grace?!”
A familiar girl with a pink bob holding a camera in her head pops out of a bush quickly approaching the table. It was Charlotte, and she had a large smile on her face.
“Do you two have any nuggets of information about Their Grace? Oh please share it with me, I’ll make it worth your while!”
Paimon and Aether share a look before looking back at the journalist.
“We don’t have any new information on The Creator.” Paimon explained, “we didn’t even know they had returned until Monsieur Neuvillette told us.”
Charlotte makes a look of surprise, “wait seriously? It was such big news! I’m sure everyone in Teyvat wrote the piece I had written.”
Charlotte places her camera on the table taking a seat across from them. “I’m just hoping for Their Grace to have a speedy recovery. I would love to interview them if they let me, it just seems like all of the big names in Fontaine never have the time for an interview. Monsieur Neuvillette and the Duke of Meropide have been on the top of my list for ages now!”
“Oh right, you’re a journalist Charlotte! ” Paimon exclaimed, “do you have an information about the Duke?”
Charlotte ponders for a moment, “not really, just the same regurgitated information I get from people who leave the Fortress. Why do you ask?”
“We actually are going to the Fortress later today.” Aether answers.
Charlotte’s eyes get as big as saucers as she’s jumping in her seat. “You two are going to the Fortress?! Will you two please get some information about the Duke for me?
Noticing the restrained looks on their face, Charlotte quickly adds, “I’ll pay for your meal! Yeah…! Let’s make it a deal, you get information on the Duke for me and this meal of yours is on me!”
Paimon grins, “it’s a deal!”
Charlotte shares Paimon’s enthusiasm as she pulls out a small bag of mora ready to pay for the meal. At that moment, the owner returns with multiple plates and bowls filled with various amounts of entrees and desserts wheeling it to the table.
“H—how much did you order…?”
———
Many journalist stood outside of the Palais Mermonia demanding answers from their Archon who had entered the building earlier that morning. Luckily, gardes stood outside preventing anyone from entering.
Inside of the chief justice’s office was him, the God of Justice, and the Champion Duelist whose hair was damp with sea water.
“I checked the surrounding area,” Clorinde says, “there is no traces of Their Grace anywhere. The only logical conclusion is that the Fatui must’ve done something with them.”
Neuvillette nods. “Thank you for looking Clorinde, your help is appreciated.”
Clorinde nods, “it’s no trouble. We all want Their Grace to be found safe and sound.”
Furina had a worried look on her face as she paces back and forth in the office. “W—what are we supposed to do now? We looked all over Fontaine and they aren’t anywhere.”
“Lady Furina.”
Furina stops pacing, turning her gaze over to Neuvillette who looked calm considering the situation. “I think it’s time to meet with the Kanve, wouldn’t you agree?”
“T—that Knave?” Furina stammers, “ha, why would we meet with her? Don’t we have more important things to worry about?”
Neuvillette clears his throat, “until we find Their Grace, we must operate like normal. If the others find out that we lost Their Grace—“
Furina lets out a breath putting on a confident stance, “yes! Right of course!” She interrupts, “I was thinking the same thing… I will prepare for the two of us to discuss relations with her as soon as possible.”
“Who said that I would be joining you?”
Focalors lets out a short gasp as she quickly approaches his desk, her gloved hands balling into fists. “Y—you expect me to attend the meeting alone! No! You must go with me!”
Neuvillette closes his eyes as he shake her head, “I must focus all my attention on the Creator, we must locate them before the rest of Fontaine and Teyvat begin asking questions. As the Archon, this is something you should be able to handle. Correct?”
Furina tenses slightly but lets out a sigh. “But… wouldn’t attending the meeting be the best thing for Their Grace?”
Neuvillette furrows his brows, “What do you mean?”
Furina’s confident flair was back just as quickly as it dissipated, “Attending the meeting will give us the chance to indirectly interrogate the harbingers before she even knows that we suspect her.”
Noticing the look on the chief justice’s face, Furina lets out a boastful laugh. “Naturally I, the God of Justice, would be the first one to think of this! Worry not Neuvillette, I believe that after this meeting, the truth shall be revealed!”
Clorinde mutters how she needed a towel and Neuvillette lets out a sigh.
“Very well... I will participate in the meeting.”
In between Fontaine’s Lumidouce Harbor and Chenyu Vale, a large ship was anchored the familiar insignia imprinted in the sail. There was a plethora of Fatui agents stationed on the ship that it was overwhelming, it would be impossible to infiltrate the ship without being spotted.
Many of the agents weren’t even aware why there was such an urgency to return to the homeland. Curious glances and whispers spread throughout the ship like wildfire, wondering what could the Knave possibly be doing in the lower deck that no one else was allowed to enter unless they brought news from Fontaine. All of them knew better than to question their harbinger, but she hadn’t been seen since the night before.
“Your Grace.”
Arlecchino’s soft voice cuts through your thoughts. Fontaine was in danger and you were the only one who could help, at least that’s what she believed. It was only a matter of time before the nation was completely wiped off the map, Lady Furina has done nothing but bury her head in the sand.
You glance at her face, despite her sharp features she still had a soft yet powerful air around her. Maybe that’s why the children from the House of the Hearth trust her so much.
“Are you hungry? I have chefs on board, they can prepare anything you desire.” Her hand rested on top of yours, her long nails rubbing against your knuckles in a comforting way.
You were famished. You knew she was capable of, but she was making you feel so welcomed. It felt as if you could trust her, tell her anything and she would understand.
You nod slowly and she smiles.
“I’ll be right back.”
She stands up from her spot next to you leaving the room. Her luscious black and white hair that was pulled into a low ponytail flowed behind her. Arlecchino returned quickly letting out a soft sigh.
“They are preparing a Snezhnayian specialty, the food is quite delicious. I hope it’s to your liking” She commented placing her hand right back on top of yours.
“We will be heading towards Snezhnaya at sunset.” She says. “Although leaving Fontaine wasn’t originally apart of my plan, but considering the circumstances, changes had to be made.”
You furrow your brows. “The circumstances?”
Arlecchino nods. “Your power…or rather, lack there of.”
“I have a colleague, I do not trust nor like him very much but I cannot deny his intelligence, I believe he may be able to figure out the answer… or even Her Majesty may know.”
So there was a colleague within the Fatui who had extreme intelligence that might be able to help you. Maybe he would even know why you were healing so quickly? Or does that tie into your “godly” abilities too?
“Is that why we are leaving so quickly? Because of my supposed amnesia?” You ask.
The Knave shakes her head, “not necessarily. It’s mainly for your safety, you don’t wish to stay in a nation that tried to kill you, right Your Grace?”
You were forced into a corner with that question. Wanting to stay in a nation that almost killed you was bad, but wanting to go to a nation that had the capability to kidnap you wasn’t any better. Yet you had to pick your poison, and in that moment you decided—
“Right.” You reply. “Leaving Fontaine is the smartest option.”
“I knew that you would see it my way,” she praises, “I only want what’s best for you and all of Teyvat.” She gives your hand a squeeze a small smile spreading on her red lips.
A small knock on the door interrupts the moment, Arlecchino looks at the door her gaze becoming icy. “You may enter.”
The door opens and a young lady whose face is obscured by a mask enters and she immediately kneels.
“Y—your Grace… Lady Harbinger.” Her voice was almost breathless, her gaze transfixed on you. “I have news from Fontaine.”
Arlecchino lets out a sigh crossing her legs. “News? What is it?”
“Focalors has agreed to have a political meeting with you. The chief justice Neuvillette will also be attending.”
The Knave doesn’t even try to hide the smirk that spreads on her face, “Very well then. Was there a time mentioned for this meeting?”
“In the next few hours Lady Harbinger. We’ve already got a boat ready to return back to Fontaine’s harbor.”
Arlecchino stands, her gaze becomes soft once more when she looks back at you. “Your Grace, I will return as soon as I can. If you have any needs anyone on the ship will be more than happy to serve you.”
She exchanges a few whispers with the agent before giving you one last smile leaving the bottom deck. The agent looks at you one last time before stuttering out.
“I—I’ll go get your meal immediately Your Grace!” She rushes out of the door leaving you alone once more.
The Fortress of Meropide was more grand than Aether had anticipated. Surrounded by Fontaine’s sea, there was no escape from this prison besides the path they embarked, which was at the rear of the Opera Epiclese.
After heaving their mugshots taken, Aether and Paimon are escorted onto a ship where they meet their tour guide, who is also just another prisoner within the Fortress. The entire tour he was standoffish and dry only giving the required amount of information. If the two asked for more information about credit coupons, secret rules, or about the Creator, he would say they’d have to pay for that.
The prisoner leads the two down the large hallway of the Fortress when multiple gardemeks came around the corner. The traveler immediately takes a stance ready for a fight when a voice eases his worries coming around the corner with the machinery.
“Welcome to the Fortress of Meropide,” the man greets. He had dark clothing and dark hair with a scar under his eye.
“Y—your Grace!” The tour guide quickly says, his standoffish nature immediately disappears. “Lovely weather we’re having!”
The man glances over at the tour guide, “Hm? Oh yes, I guess the weather is nice. If we could see it.”
The prisoner lets out an awkward laugh as the Duke looks back at Paimon and Aether. “I’m Wriothesley, but you can call me Your Grace.”
“You’re the Duke of Meropide?” Paimon asks in a shocked tone. Wriothesley nods.
“So, how was your tour?” He asks, “was everything up to standard?”
Aether glances as the tour guide for a moment before giving Wriothesley a firm nod. “Yep. No complaints here.”
“Wonderful.” Wriothesley smiles, “I think we should be able to reward you with more credit coupons then?”
“T—thank you Your Grace! Thank you!” The tour guide says. He then looks over at the traveler, “and thank you for such kind words! If you ever need anything! Anything at all! Please come find me!”
Once he rushes off, the Duke turns his attention back onto the newcomers.
“So, is it normal for you to greet all newbies in person like this?” Paimon asks.
Wriothesley lets out a soft laugh. “No it’s not. I just heard that you two were friends with Neuvillette so I figured I finish the tour myself.”
“Wait, how do you know that?” Aether questions.
“The Fortress might look like it’s cut off from the rest of the world but word still travels fast. Just like what happened to Their Eminence.”
Paimon glances at the traveler briefly. Wriothesley continues, “Many people in the Fortress were ready to leave just for a chance at seeing the Creator. But since they are still in the hospital recovering, I managed to keep them under control.”
“What else do you know about the Creator?” Aether asks.
“Nothing really.” He responds, “I haven’t had the time to leave the Fortress and go visit them myself. Unless you’re talking about the basic information, there’s books all around the Fortress that can tell you that.”
Wriothesley continues on with the tour, showing the where the so-called cafeteria was, the Pankration Ring, and where they would report to work everyday. He also mentions Sigewinne, the nurse who looks after anyone who gets hurt or sick.
Lastly, he shows them where they’ll be sleeping. As he explains the procedures for their room, Aether gazes falls onto someone walking nearby. An oddly familiar magician.
Lyney stops walking and looks back at him, but once Wriothesley notices, Lyney lets out a soft laugh doing a dramatic bow.
“Well hello there Your Grace! It’s lovely to see you out of your office!”
Wriothesley crosses his arms, “it’s good to see you too, but shouldn’t you be reporting to work?”
The magician gives him a cheeky smile as he stands back up, “of course! That’s where I was heading right now! But these two must be very important to get a personal tour from the Duke himself.”
Wriothesley says nothing in response but Lyney quickly excuses himself, his gaze falling onto Aether once more before walking out of sight.
“Come on,” Wriothesley says, “there’s one last stop I’d like to make.”
———
The three sit at one of the tables in the cafeteria, the chef bringing over three welfare meals. They remove the lids revealing the delectable meals inside causing Paimons mouth to water.
“Oh is this what the food is like in the Fortress?” She rubes her hands together, “Paimon could get used to this!”
“Actually, I managed to pull a few strings to get this meal, after today, you might not get another meal like this.”
The fairy didn’t seem to be paying attention as she keeps shoving more food into her mouth. The traveler rolls his eyes at his companion, looking back at the Duke.
“So you said there was books in the Fortress about the Creator?” Aether asks, his fork pushing around his meal mindlessly.
Wriothesley nods. “There are groups within the Fortress to make people feel more welcome or comfortable. There’s quite a few revolved around Their Eminence. Prayer groups, wanting a stronger relationship, or just normal worship in general, they’re actually pretty popular.”
Paimon swallows the food in her mouth, “How do you feel about them?”
Wriothesley ponders for a second, “I don’t know anyone who has a negative view on Their Eminence, including myself. I would be honored to go up to the surface soon and share a cup of tea with them.”
Aether didn’t say anything in response, but he had a feeling that Wriothesley knew more about the Creator than he let on. He did say word travels fast from the surface, is it possible he already knows the Creator is missing?
“Anyways,” Wriothesley says, “I have other things to attend to, enjoy your time in the Fortress and try not to cause any trouble.”
The Duke gives one last farewell, leaving the table without another word. Aether and Paimon continue eating their welfare meals preparing themselves to adjust to their new situation and figure what exactly Childe may know about the Creator.
———
“You were right.”
In a dark corner of the Fortress, the twins from the House of the Hearth spoke in quiet whispers.
“Paimon and the Traveler, I just saw them.” Lyney explained.
Lynette’s ear lay flat on her head, her tail swaying slightly. “Monsieur Neuvillette must’ve told them and they’re here to investigate.”
“We have to do what Father told us to do.“ Lyney adds, “although playing ignorant to figure what they know won’t hurt either.”
Lynette lets out a sigh. “…and what about Tartaglia?”
Lyney shrugs, “what about him? He’s not here. We have to focus on the Creator. Without Their Grace, the Fatui won’t be able to—“
“I know.” Lynette interrupts. “Let’s just focus on the traveler for now.
“I must say, the timing of this meeting seems almost convient…” Arlecchino narrows her gaze as she brings her teacup up to her lips.
“I’ll just cut straight to the chase. I’m here about my colleague, Childe and of course, Their Grace.”
The table inside of Neuvillette’s office was covered in sweets from Snezhnaya, something the Kanve brought to ease the tensions within the meeting. Yet, it doesn’t seem to be working.
“Childe was declared innocent by you, the Iudex, yet was still given a guilty verdict by the Oratrice…” Arlecchino explains, “and only days after that, you declare that Their Grace is an imposter and almost kill them.”
Furina shifts uncomfortably in her seat, “Y-yes… we are aware of our… transgressions. The Creator is being well looked after and is healing quite quickly.”
Arlecchino perks up, “Oh? They are? So is it possible for me to see them for myself?”
“That won’t be possible at the moment, I apologize.” Neuvillette quickly adds in.
Arlecchino brings a forkful of cake up to her mouth as she lets out a scoff. “An outright refusal? I must say, I am surprised…”
Neuvillette crosses his arms, “this meeting wasn’t called to talk about Their Grace, but rather Mr. Tartaglia, correct?”
“That is correct. Then am I able to enter the Fortress to check on the wellbeing of my colleague?”
“That also won’t be possible.”
Arlecchino sighs, “so I cannot see Their Grace and I cannot see Childe. What exactly will this meeting accomplish?”
“We already have a course of action for Their Grace.” Focalors adds, “but we cannot share it with you or any other nations for now. This meeting was just a… common courtesy”
“And as for Mr. Tartaglia I am investigating matter.” The chief justice adds.
“A common courtesy?” The Knave questions, “everyone in Teyvat is wondering just what exactly will Fontaine do after committing the biggest sin known to man… and all you can say is that it’s confidential? Not to mention the prophecy you refuse to address.”
Furina shoves another bite of cake into her mouth, scooting her chair closer to Neuvillette.
“As long as Their Grace is in our nation, they are under our jurisdiction.” Neuvillette explains.
Arlecchino clicks her tongue. “A disappointing outcome indeed… but I cannot say I am shocked.”
Arlecchino finished her tea, “the Fatui is willing to extend our help if you need it. You all seem to have a lot on your plate at the moment. Maybe it’s best to pass some of the responsibility onto someone else?”
“That won’t be necessary.” Neuvillette states.
The Knave stands from her seat, brushing her bangs out of the way, revealing her red X eyes. “I think it’s safe to say this meeting is concluded, I have to return back to Snezhnaya immediately.”
Furina raises a brow, “returing so soon? W—why such a rush to leave?”
It falls silent in the room for a few seconds.
“Her Majesty cares very dearly about the Creator, I am expected to report any and all news directly to her.” Arlecchino explains, her back facing the two.
“Snezhnaya as a whole cares deeply about Their Grace, and once they heal completely we will welcome them with open arms… not a trial.”
Focalors looks down at her lap as Arlecchino leaves the office returning to her ship anchored near the border of Fontaine and Liyue. A sinister smile spread on her lips while Neuvillette and Furina sit in the office in silence, a sour taste lingering in their mouth even with the baked goods in front of them.
-
© avocad1s 2024
Note: Good luck to all my Arlecchino wanters! I got her and her sig weapon so I give all my luck to you <3
Tagging: @bittersweetorpheus @esthelily @tempestlart @angelofdarkness2 @mmeatt @dxprived4-starboys @Itm-acct @honey-lemonz @ymechi @nervouseaglelover @livelaughlovekuni @vianitry @vvyeislazzy @kbar1013 @ichiraku-verse @chaoticfivesworld @mabvo @noahrandom @haunts-gh0st @pix-stuff @riiriin @emmbny @shiki-jin @ra404 @leekingsman @ash1 @mahi-does-some-art @bitchyfanfics-posts @emilymikado @sarah22447 @swagbucksjester @nex-crowley @iruiji @cloise @scalyalpaca @game-savvy @dreamlessnight @myluckymoon @luxie963 @spffldlbrnf @missnella-nova
I know it’s been a while so if you want to be removed let me know!!
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My husband finally put into words for me something that has been the main problem with this whole Anti Gwynriel because of Gwyn's past narrative.
According to Anti's, it's not ok to ship Gwyn with Az because she's not healed enough and hasn't shown that she's ready for a relationship.
According to Anti's, fanart of Gwynriel in provocative positions are not appropriate because it's disrespectful to Gwyn due to her SA, that she needs to first give verbal consent before we're allowed to imagine what a HEA for Gwynriel might look like.
And at first, it almost feels like a gotcha for them because you question whether you're disrespecting real survivors by saying, "she doesn't need to give consent for us to ship them since it's a book." This statement is true, I don't think readers should be forced to abide by real world morals when it comes to possible paths a characters arc might take, however it makes you pause for a moment to question whether what you're saying is disrespectful to those who have been victims.
But he actually flipped that entire thing on it's head when he said, "if the issue is about consent, then why is only being applied to a SA victim? Shouldn't consent be applied to everyone?"
It was kind of a lightbulb moment for me because those Anti's never vocalize how it's wrong for people to ship Eris & Az, Mor & Emerie, Vassa & Lucien (SA victim), Lucien, Jurian & Vassa, the LoA & Helion (because at this point they are not a consenting pair), Nesta & Eris. There are a bunch of non canon, non consent ships in this series and nobody has an issue with those. Nobody takes up the crusade arguing that it's wrong for people in the fandom to imagine those pairings together or drawing fanart of them in NSFW positions. Most of the time they're celebrated but has Emerie consented to having a sexual relationship with Mor? All she did was call her beautiful and Feyre had done the same in ACOMAF. Why do they never call out fanart of that pairing? Or Neris after Nesta harshly rejected him? Where Eris is currently suffering torture at the hands of Beron and we've got no clue as to his sexual preference. Also, Elain only consented to a fully clothed kiss in the bonus (remember, she grew up with human morals which she still holds fast too, she didn't jump right into bed with Graysen), we have no evidence she wanted more yet there's plenty of NSFW E/riel artwork out there and I'm betting some existed before SF, before she even consented to a kiss.
The only time I've ever heard anyone argue for consent or argue against NSFW art is in relation to Az and Gwyn and the message they're sending is that only female characters who have been SA need to give consent before fans should be shipping them.
That's when the shipping agenda makes itself known because if no other non-canon / non-consenting pairing disturbs them to the point they need to create post after post surrounding how wrong people are for shipping them, then it's clear to see that it's only Gwyn being shipped with Az that they take issue with and when only E/riels make these arguments, it seems highly suspect.
Gwyn's SA is irrelevant in terms of consent because EVERYONE should have consent before engaging in physical acts with others no matter their past. However, Gwyn's SA should not be the weight dragging her character down, the scarlet letter on her chest that means the fandom isn't allowed to give her the same treatment that all other characters receive. Where we're free to imagine and create fanart / fanfiction / headcanons (even the NSFW variety) for any pairing that we desire, regardless of their past or preference, even those who have never expressed romantic interest towards one another, except for Gwyn.
Consent in the actual book will be important but consent having already been given in our imaginations so we can imagine possibilities beyond what is currently written is the right of any reader.
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20 Questions for Fic Writers
Tagged by @tizniz @diazsdimples @wikiangela @hippolotamus @bi-buckrights @exhuastedpigeon Thank you lovelies 💖
How many works do you have on ao3?
89 that’s not too shabby is it. Three years of writing this summer.
What's your total ao3 word count?
902,255 that is quite a few words isn’t it.
What fandoms do you write for?
911
Top five fics by kudos:
If You Break It 3.2k Chris overhears a something and gets upset, then he tells Buck who gets upset too.
They say the Truth will set you free 2.3K Buck get a dose of something at work and gets emotional and chatty
Could Have Should Have Would Have 3.2k an unexpected“I love you” but it’s too late. Isn’t it?
Just Ask 1.7K Eddie's having thoughts, he wants to touch. Buck's ok with that, all Eddie has to do is ask.
Looking from the outside 2.4K TWhat happens when everyone you meet thinks you’re married to your perfectly platonic best friend.
Most of these are quite old now, I think I’ve written some just as good or even better but fics don’t seem to get as much kudos these days
Do you respond to comments?
yes everyone is really important to me
What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?
No fics really end angsty round here but this one’s pretty emotional along the way.
Alone With Your Thoughts Buck gets very badly hurt (for plot reasons) and trying hard to stay alive he realises he’s not as alone as he thought.
What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?
See above! All happy can’t choose the happiest.
Do you get hate on fics?
Not yet- think I’m too small to get noticed maybe!
Do you write smut?
Um yes I certainly do 😏 and quite well I like to think 😉 in fact an example will be popping along in FIF shortly
Craziest crossover:
Nope - now AUs is a different story
Have you ever had a fic stolen?
Not that I know of! Can’t imagine anyone noticing my fics enough to steal them
Have you ever had a fic translate
Someone asked to once but who knows!
Have you ever cowritten a fic before?
Nope
All time favourite ship?
Gotta be buddie hasnt it. They just inspire me
What's a wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will?
All of my wips languish right now and are crying out for attention but I fully intend to finish them all. I do!
What are your writing strengths?
Not sure?! I think my more canon style fics are quite consistent with the characters in the show. Think that I’m pretty good with a complicated plot but you tell me?? I like the way I can wrap a bit of humor around the more tense bits too.
What are your writing weaknesses?
Long sentences? An over enthusiasm for the comma? Too long? Poor tagging?
Thoughts on dialogue in another language?
Maybe controversial but I’m not a huge fan of eddie using Spanish terms of endearment in fics. If he ever does it in show I’ll feel better about it, but it doesn’t actually feel very him, apart from that I don’t mind
First fandom you wrote in?
911
Favourite fic you've written?
How can I chose!! But these old chestnuts I’ve gone on about before but I, very proud of them actually
The Lost and The Found werewolf/shifter au
Good Knight Sweet Prince Prince/knight au
Tied To You From The Start smutty paranormal shenanigans
And obviously dragonriders au… see FIF post shortly
Thanks for tags you lovely lovely people you’re all so so talented I adore you you make my days so much brighter ☀️💜☀️
@rogerzsteven @hoodie-buck @thekristen999 @loserdiaz @weewootruck
@shipperqueen6 @stagefoureddiediaz @underwaterninja13 @steadfastsaturnsrings @daffi-990
@bidisasterevankinard @bekkachaos @elvensorceress @rainbow-nerdss @honestlydarkprincess
@saybiwithme @loveyouanyway @lover-of-mine @watchyourbuck @jesuisici33
@monsterrae1 @eddiebabygirldiaz @shortsighted-owl @fiona-fififi @the-likesofus
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Fuck it. Invincible Tumblr
💥 explosionsbaby Follow
Wake up to see the aliens attacking again. God fucking damn it.
❤️ justamonstergirl Follow
Imagine how the aliens feel after seeing you
💥 explosionsbaby Follow
Get better insults. You won't be insulting anyone that way
❤️ justamonstergirl Follow
Nahhh. Don't need to. You already humiliate yourself every time you open your mouth
💥 explosionsbaby Follow
Your entire existence is an insult
☪️ superherofan Follow
i forget that superheroes have social media and regularly use it.... invincible has Tumblr holy shit
🌟 notsovinciblenow Follow
Boo.
☪️ superherofan Follow
OMG??
#HI MR INVINCIBLE SIR #I SWEAR ALL MY A/B/O FICS WERE WRITTEN OUT OF LOVE
🌙 artemislover Follow
Can't believe I have to say this, but can you guys please stop making Omni-Man x Immortal theories?!?!
Ik you think the idea of them having been romantically involved is funny, but c'mon, people
It is true that there should be more openly queer superheroes, but the fact that there are people who genuinely believe they fucked is wild...
Besides, we have to stop following the lives of superheroes that closely. They deserve to get some privacy too! They're still people
Also, didn't Omni-Man once mention his wife?? And son?? Shipping him w a man when he's clearly straight and in an established relationship is stupid
🌟 notsovinciblenow Follow
These are all great points but they've definitely fucked
🌙 artemislover Follow
INVINCIBLE?????
🌟 notsovinciblenow Follow
Godddddd. My parents just do not know what privacy is, PLEASE STOP HAVING SEX WHEN I MIGHT BE HOME... please you're killing me
🌟 notsovinciblenow Follow
Wait, shit, wrong blog...
🌭 hotdog Follow
shocking revelation: invincible has parents
🌟 notsovinciblenow Follow
??? Of course I have parents. Where'd you think I came from?
🌭 hotdog Follow
Honestly i thought you were from mars
🌟 notsovinciblenow Follow
from MARS????
#i'm not martian??? i don't even look martian #do i look martian?
💃 thedancingquinn Follow
ATOM EVE LIKES MY FAVORITE BAND????
🚫 ohgodpleaseno Follow
really? How do you know?
💃 thedancingquinn Follow
Okay quick storytime
My friends and I wanted to go to see this band live for a LONG time, so we saved up money for years until we could finally afford it, right?
Well, the day we finally get to see them live, I look up and I see Atom Eve, just. Flying there. Above the crowd
She was singing, apparently very loudly and she looked like she was having sm fun. She saw me and waved!!! Atom Eve!!!! Waved at me!!!!!!!
🧬 atomevesss☑️☑️ Follow
:)
💃 thedancingquinn Follow
WAIT R YOU THE ACTUAL ATOM EVE
🧬 atomevesss☑️☑️ Follow
Yeah. Check my Insta, there's a link to this blog!
💃 thedancingquinn Follow
AFKFHFHFHFJDJDJDJDDJDHFHSUEUEJEJ
#ATOM EVE TALKED TO ME!!!!!!
🤖 officialrobot Follow
Today, Monster Girl told me to download this app and create a blog — I did not think it was necessary, but she insisted.
I decided to listen to her. She was very persuasive.
I will be sharing things about my day, as she has told me to do. Expect to hear from me after this.
👀 eyaseyaseays Follow
you really think we're gonna believe you're the real Robot?? C'mon.
‼️ notafurryyet Follow
Dude, RP exists. Let people live their lives in peace
❤️ justamonstergirl Follow
This is so funny
‼️ notafurryyet Follow
That's... The real monster girl. Replying to a fake Robot post...
Dude I think he's real
🎉 partyshitter Follow
The new Guardians are a fucking shit show. Are we seriously meant to believe they're going to protect us? Really??
💥 explosionsbaby Follow
Oh Id like to see YOU almost get killed every single fucking day without one fucking break only for asholes like you to shit on us like that. We almost die every single day!!! Were the ones geting our hands dirty not you
🤖 officialrobot Follow
I'd* assholes* We're*
💥 explosionsbaby Follow
Your supposed to be with me in this one
🤖 officialrobot Follow
You're*
☪️ somanykates Follow
The Immortal kinda... 👀
💥 explosionsbaby Follow
WHAT
💥 explosionsbaby Follow
I cant believe she cheated on me... what a bitch
🧬 atomevesss Follow
😐
☪️ somanykates Follow
We're going to have a fucking talk, Rex.
💥 explosionsbaby Follow
Shit
🍐 shrinkshrek Follow
You had this one coming buddy
🌟 notsovinciblenow Follow
The fact that Miles Morales canonically reads JJK, though...
🔫 shootmeplease Follow
INVINCIBLE LIKES MARVEL?? AND JJK???
🌟 notsovinciblenow Follow
Why is everyone always surprised when I like something? I don't get it
🌟 notsovinciblenow Follow
:(
🧬 atomevesss☑️☑️ Follow
I cannot have just found out you're still alive through Tumblr...
🧬 atomevesss☑️☑️ Follow
Seriously though. Are you okay now? I know you're not mentally, after the whole Chicago thing w your dad, but at least physically?
🌟 notsovinciblenow Follow
I'll survive, I guess
💔 thisishowtobeah Follow
INVINCIBLE?? It is such a relief to see you're still here after the whole Chicago ordeal Mr Invincible
📸 definitelyinsanebaby Follow
Yeah maybe don't remind him of that rn??
💔 thisishowtobeah Follow
OH SHIT I'M SO SORRY
#I AM SO SO SO SORRY #omg i hope you're doing good mr invincible :(((
#invincible#invincible series#invincible comic#mark grayson#atom eve#rex splode#kate cha#shrinking rae#robot invincible#monster girl#unreality#fake tumblr#fake social media#this is fun#avis' post
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this is what it looks like, right before you fall
➔ Dieter Bravo x nonbinary!reader-insert!oc - series masterlist
➔ 5.3k words
➔ CHAPTER ONE // You meet the cast and vow yourself to professionalism as filming starts, but one particular costar tests your willpower.
➔ Chapter rated PG-13 for age gap (reader is 21, dieter is 45), kind of pervy!dieter but not in a malicious way/reader reciprocates, some impure thoughts on reader’s part, written with basically no knowledge of how the film industry actually works. [please let me know if i missed any warnings that should be included :)]
➔ this reader insert character is: unnamed, afab and nonbinary (has female anatomy and uses they/them pronouns), neurodivergent, latinx, 21 years old, an actor playing a female character. I’m trying to keep them a physically blank slate but it is mentioned that they have longer hair (past shoulder-length) for the role and they wear a bikini for the role at one point as well. They are mentioned to be shorter than Dieter.
Everyone in this room is a seasoned professional. They move with poise and calculation, like chess pieces assessing their next best move. It’s reminiscent of a muster of peacocks—plumage spread as they strut around and size each other up, each wondering who will win the desperate yet subtle battle for dominance. They mingle amongst themselves and make small talk; all of it is utterly meaningless.
This is your first professional cocktail party, and if this is how they’re all going to be you definitely won’t be attending any more.
But then again, maybe it isn’t always like this. Maybe this is just the mania of the world being deemed “post-pandemic” despite the very real crisis still lurking in the shadows. You can’t blame people for how they cope with isolation and despair, even if it seems a little over-dramatic to you personally.
There’s maybe one other person in this room who seems to realize how ridiculous this whole game is, but you’re too nervous to go over and talk to him.
He looks comfortable amongst the chaos. He doesn’t strut around seeking conversation like the others—he lets them come to him. And they do; despite how formidable he appears to you, they’re all drawn to him like magnets. His presence has its own center of gravity, and everyone around is merely a lost orbiter. He reels them in one by one, chats with them—maybe even insults them a little–and then spits them back out into the stratosphere of the room. And they keep coming back for more, because he’s intoxicating.
Dieter Bravo is fucking terrifying for a man who’s shirt buttons aren’t aligned to the proper holes.
“Hi.”
You hadn’t even noticed him approaching, as focused as you were on looking anywhere except him. His raspy voice makes you jump–makes your stomach lurch like a phantom step on the stairs. His dark eyes are penetrating in the way they stare at you over the rim of his sepia-tinted sunglasses. He’s looking through you, not at you. There’s something so thoroughly appraising about his gaze, as if he’s sizing you up.
“Hi,” you whisper back. You wonder if he’s like a bear, if you need to make yourself look bigger and scarier in order to appease him. But instead, you shrink–he makes you feel so small. Like you’re nothing but a speck of dust on the underside of one of his well-worn crocs; and maybe you are. Maybe you’re in way over your head here.
“I dunno if this is gonna work,” he hums, eyes lecherous and languid in the way they drag over your body. “You’re too hot to be my daughter.”
You choke on your drink, legitimately splutter and cough; of all the millions of things you imagined him saying in your mind, that wasn’t even in the realm of possibility. But he seems completely unfazed by your outburst, waiting patiently for you to regain the ability to breathe like a normal human being.
What can you even say to that? The hottest man in the room–albeit a man who’s more than twice your age–is passively hitting on you. And if he were anyone else, you would be outraged by how casually he does it. But he’s Dieter fucking Bravo, and you think you’d let him get away with just about anything; which says way more about you than it does about him.
Thankfully, he saves you from your swirling mind–redirects as if it was the most casual of passing comments. “Is this your first meet and greet?”
“No, I’ve left my house a couple times before.” It’s an unintentionally snarky comment, the kind that would normally get you in trouble. But Dieter actually laughs–well, it’s more of a snort than a laugh, but its purpose is clear–and you wonder if maybe this whole situation isn’t as bad as it seemed a few short minutes ago.
“First time in front of a camera?” He asks, absentmindedly swirling the neon green liquid–absynthe? antifreeze?–that resides in the crystal glass his right hand cradles. “I tried to find you on IMDb but nothing came up.”
“I’ve done some commercial work,” you admit, feeling a little sheepish; and a little caught off guard, flattered even, that he’s been researching you. “Nothing like this, though.”
“How’d you get the role?” The question sounds deeper than it really is–distrustful, in a way.
You simply shrug. “I guess my audition was good.”
“I guess it was.” You don’t know exactly what he’s insinuating, but you feel like you should be offended. There’s no malice or aggression left in his dark eyes, though–whatever you’ve shown him, he’s liked it. “We’re going to have fun.”
“We are?”
“Mhm.” He takes a sip of his drink, and you can tell he’s trying not to make a face as the radioactive-looking liquid meets his tongue. “We should rehearse lines. In your room. Build our chemistry.”
There isn’t a singular cell in your brain that believes there’s no underlying motive to the invitation. And even yet, you accept. You kind of get the sense that he wouldn’t accept no as an answer, anyway.
He nods his acknowledgement, and then just as quickly as he had appeared, he’s melting seamlessly back into the buzz of your fellow costars.
You don’t realize how hard your heart is beating until he’s not standing over you anymore. With a sip of your drink, you do everything you can to will your breathing back to normal. There’s no reason a simple man should have such an effect on you.
But there’s really nothing simple about Dieter Bravo. He’s imposing. He’s been in this industry for as long as you’ve been alive and it shows in the way he carries himself. There’s confidence in his strut, an undeniable carefreeness to his appearance. He’s a professional; he’s everything you hope to someday be.
You promised yourself that you wouldn’t act up over the star-strewn cast, and you’ve held true to that promise as of yet. But Dieter Bravo poses a challenge. Especially with the shameless flirting and the way his eyes linger on your body, you feel yourself becoming more and more starstruck with each passing moment you’re in his presence.
You’re suddenly desperate for this thing to be over with so you can go back to your room and unwind. Your nerves are taught like an over-tuned guitar and liable to snap at any moment.
Dinner goes as smoothly as it can, albeit slowly. You’re stuck at the end of the table, sandwiched between two other actors who are around your age and clearly know each other from the way they keep talking to each other through you; and Dieter is at the opposite end, which is both a blessing and a curse. At least you’re not close enough to smell the warm, woodsy spice of his cologne—it lingered in your nostrils for a solid five minutes even after he walked away from you earlier—but you’re far enough away that he has a good angle to stare at you.
And stare he does. You can feel his eyes tracking every move you make. He doesn’t even look away when your eyes catch him; the cocky bastard smirks. He looks you right in the eyes over the rims of his sunglasses while the corner of his mouth tilts up and he has to know that it goes straight to your core.
The minutes pass like molasses with his attention on you, and it feels like a weight’s been lifted off your shoulders when it’s finally time to turn in for the night.
You didn’t get a chance to introduce yourself to half of the cast because you were so busy being an unimposing wallflower, but you’ll worry about that tomorrow. For now, you’re walking to your room as fast as your legs can possibly carry you.
Shooting starts in the morning, and you really need a good night’s rest. You want to start strong and prove yourself. But you stay up into the wee hours of the morning anyway, laying in your oversized hotel bed and staring at the ceiling, wondering if Dieter’s going to come knock on your door to “rehearse lines” like he suggested.
He doesn’t, and you don’t know why you feel so disappointed about it.
You wake up from your four hours of sleep with a little bit clearer of a mind, surprisingly. Dieter’s hot and he’d be a once-in-a-lifetime lay, but you’re playing his daughter in this show. How seriously do you want to be taken in this industry? Because banging the actor who plays your father in your first serious project is decidedly not the route to being taken seriously as a movie star; in fact, it’s the kind of scandal that could end your career before it even starts.
You shower, do your basic morning skincare routine, get dressed, and head to set. All the while, you chant your new mantra: Dieter Bravo is off limits no matter how badly you want to play right into his hands. His big hands. His big meaty hands that you want all over your–
“Well hello!”
The woman who greets you as you walk into the hair and makeup tent is way too chipper for 7AM.
“Hi,” you say, a little shyer than you mean to sound; at least you can blame it on the early hour and the fact you haven’t had any coffee yet.
“I’m Cynthia, I use she/her pronouns. It’s nice to meet you.” Cynthia is blonde and tall, almost imposingly so. She’s sturdily built and graceful–there’s an almost feline quality to her movements. She’s gorgeous, and not just because of her perfectly styled hair and makeup.
You take a deep breath before giving her your introduction. This is something you’ve contemplated a lot prior to arriving, and even more so in the long, isolated hours of quarantine in your room. She/her doesn’t do the job, and you’ve known it for a while; but you let people use them anyway, because it’s easier to appease them than to constantly be correcting everyone. After intensive consideration, though, you want to go into this new chapter of your life as your true self.
You take another deep breath and then you give her your name, followed by “they/them.”
She smiles so warmly, but she doesn’t comment on it. No, “oh!” or “that’s so brave!” or any of the other thousand responses you’ve gotten to providing the pronouns you’re most comfortable with.
She guides you to her chair and she starts chatting away about anything and everything but your gender identity; that simple, wordless acceptance is such a refreshing change of pace from what you’re used to that you choke up a little bit.
You manage to swallow it down without her noticing, thankfully. You’re going to be dealing with Cynthia every day for the foreseeable future and you really don’t want her thinking you’re a loser.
You look like a completely different person when she’s done with you. Your entire face is coated with a thin layer of makeup that evens your skin tone and shrinks your pores. There’s thin, symmetrical wings of eyeliner on your eyelids, and your hair is curled in perfect blow-out waves. The outfit pulls the whole thing together: a Guns & Roses t-shirt underneath an unbuttoned long-sleeved flannel and jean shorts that hug your waist tightly but taper off around your thighs.
Cynthia’s a miracle worker, truly. You look exactly like the freshly-graduated, soul-searching, 1970’s time capsule misfit teen you’re supposed to be playing for eight episodes worth of HBO drama. It’s like meeting Charlotte “Charlie” Herrera for the first time, except you are her.
It’s a lot easier to get into character when you look the part; although becoming someone else has never been something you’ve necessarily struggled with. You take a deep, steadying breath; and then suddenly, you’re a different person. It’s that simple.
You’ve had some minor success with acting prior to landing this role. You always landed leads in school plays, and you shone in the silly little YouTube videos your high school friends liked to make. Acting comes naturally to you, and when people ask how you do it, what’s your method, you don’t really know how to answer. You just do it.
You’re not humble enough to try to deny the fact that you’re talented. The executive producer called you within half an hour of you submitting your audition tape for this role, and he didn’t stop complimenting you for another half an hour. There’s just some kind of special compartmentalization your brain accomplishes when you have a character to play; you flick off your “you” switch, and flick on your “character” switch.
You’re sure your therapist would say that it’s easy for you because of your natural proclivity for escapism. Your parents would probably just say you’re a psychopath. Whatever it is, you have a knack for acting, and it shows. It’s as easy and natural as breathing.
There’s a flurry of activity around you as you settle on your mark: an unevenly-stuffed floral print couch in the living room of your character’s shoebox home. It’s small, but it feels lived in. There’s photos in mismatched frames of you and Dieter on the walls and it puts a weird sensation in the pit of your stomach; it takes you aback how realistic and natural the photoshop is for set pieces that probably won’t even be in most frames of the show. There’s eclectic trinkets and pieces of period-accurate paraphernalia on shelves and side tables. You could almost believe you’ve been transported back in time if you ignore the huge cameras and empty windows.
Your costar walks in and suddenly the nerves hit you in full force.
This is it; this is your big moment. This needs to be flawless because first impressions stick. Especially to someone like Dalton Amari, who’s been acting since he was in diapers. Even though he’s barely a year older than you, he’s a bonafide star. He’s got an IMDb filmography that’s a mile long and he’s won countless awards. You need to be on your game because you’ll be damned if you’re going to disappoint someone like him.
He’s handsome and imposingly tall as he towers over you, dark-haired and dark-eyed with blindingly white teeth that contrast the light brown tone of his skin. You have friends who swoon every time he posts on Instagram; it’s surreal, being in the same room as him like this, with him smiling at you like you’re important.
“Hi again,” he greets as he sits next to you, body moving closer to you at the instruction of the director.
You feel a little more at ease like this, despite how formidable a scene partner he is career-wise; he’s the kindest of all the costars you met last night. He was one of the few people who actually made an effort to approach you, after all–introduced himself with that charming smile and everything.
“Hi.”
“You look great,” he says with a noticeable scan of your figure. “Just like my grandma used to.”
It’s the exact kind of icebreaker you need to completely melt the tension; you laugh, and he laughs with you.
The director–a man named Jeff with a graying beard thick enough to clothe a family of four–walks over with a smile on his face. “This is the exact kind of chemistry I want onscreen, okay? Nice and light, make it look effortless.”
“Sure thing, boss man.” Dalton’s long, blown-out hair flops into his face when he nods, and you can tell it irritates him. “God, how do people put up with this shit? Remind me to never grow my hair out again.”
“You’re telling me,” you respond with a laugh–your hair is even longer than his.
This first scene is surprisingly easy. He’s so talented that it rubs off on you and builds up your confidence until you’re commanding the scene effortlessly. You lounge on the couch with him and lament over approaching adulthood, recounting the glory days of your characters’ shared high school experiences now that they’re over for good. You feel like you’re really there, in that time capsule moment of late May 1976, shooting the shit with your high school sweetheart boyfriend. It’s easy to forget that you know what happens between Charlie and Trevor, Dalton’s character; that the story has already been told all the way through. Right now, in this moment with his arm around your shoulders and your hand on his thigh, it’s just beginning. You’re three years younger than you really are, and you’re in love with this boy who’s looking at you like you hung the very stars from the sky.
“Cut!” Jeff calls, and you pull away from Dalton’s loose grip. “That was perfect you two, keep it up!”
Just like that you’re you again–not Charlie, not Trevor’s girlfriend, not anyone else. The transition is that simple and seamless.
You catch a glimpse of your smiling face next to Dieter’s in a brass-framed photo, and you feel that weird, twisting sense of complication again. For a blissful moment in time, as Charlie, life was without uncertainty. When you’re her, there’s a script and a set destiny that you know will play out exactly how it’s supposed to. When you’re you, you don’t know what’s going to come next. Maybe that’s why acting has always been easy or you. You crave the predictability and certainty that comes with a scripted ending. You know how the final page plays out, and you know exactly what happens along the way.
Life, unfortunately, isn’t that simple.
“Hey,” Dalton says, voice a little softer than the voice he uses when he’s Trevor. “You did great. Don’t be nervous.”
You don’t know how he knows you’re so lost in thought–probably the incessant bouncing of your left knee.
“Thanks,” you murmur in return, but you can’t meet his eyes. You’ve never been particularly good at taking compliments, even if they’re deserved.
“Alright, it’s class time!” Jeff interrupts with a clap of his hands. He’s notorious for his strict scheduling. “Wardrobe!”
You have two more scenes today and they somehow, miraculously, go just as well as the first. There’s no sign of Dieter, but you knew before you even got out of bed that he wasn’t on the call sheet for today. Tomorrow, however, is a different story. There are four scenes on the schedule, and the last one of the day is just you and him.
You’re glad you have some time to prepare for it, because you know that no matter how hard you try, you’re going to be self-conscious around him. He’s not just attractive or charismatic or any of the other things you’ve come to view him as; he’s something of a role model. You want to impress him, but you also want to learn from him; and you really, really don’t want to make a fool of yourself anywhere in his general vicinity. It might be easier said than done with those big brown chocolate-chunk eyes of his following your every move.
You adjourn to your hotel room and order room service, “untitled episode one” script in your lap. You’ve read it through about a million times, but tonight you pay special attention to your first scene with Dieter. You need it to be as flawless as today’s scenes went. You need him to be as impressed as Dalton was, because his opinion means more to you than anyone’s.
You also pay special attention to that particular scene because it’s going to be a real test of your abilities; looking up into that handsome face and remembering your lines the way you’re supposed to is going to be your crucible.
You check the time around midnight and decide it’s late enough; pushing yourself any further could just serve to undo the effort you’ve put in. A certain Instagram notification on the screen catches your eye: “@bravo69 started following you”. It’s Dieter’s verified Instagram account, and the notification is from two minutes ago.
You stay up for longer than you care to admit ruminating on the fact that Dieter Bravo is scrolling through your Instagram at midnight. Maybe, just maybe, you’ve gotten under his skin the way he’s gotten under yours.
You’re trying so desperately not to get your hopes up, but it’s hard not to.
Cynthia in hair and makeup can tell you’re not sleeping well, even without the way you keep drifting off and jolting awake in her chair. She slathers caffeine under your eyes and does her best to reverse the zombie state you’re starting to transform into.
She gives you a look a lot like a reproachful mother might. “Are you really losing sleep over this? You were fantastic yesterday!”
There’s just something about her that makes you so comfortable–like she’s been a friend you’ve known for years rather than a coworker you only just met yesterday.
“Yeah, but what if it was a fluke and I do horrible today?”
She actually scoffs, like it’s the most impossible thing she’s ever heard, and her smile is so wonderfully disarming. “If you always think like that, you’re never gonna get a damned wink in your life.”
“I’ve never been very good at sleeping anyway,” you admit with a scornful little huff.
“Well, you’d better try your best. There’s only so much I can do for you.” She gives you a cartoon-worthy wink as she looks at you in the mirror, and it makes you loosen up considerably.
She’s right. You’re here, and confidence is key at this stage. If you act like the crew is taking some big chance on you because you’re a new talent, they’re going to see it that way too. If you act like you belong here, it’ll make the whole thing that much easier.
Fake it ‘til you make it, they say. You suppose whoever “they” are, they’re actually right in this situation.
Today’s scenes are a little more important to the plot of the show. Yesterday you worked on character establishment and setting the environment; today is all about the inciting incident. It all starts with pool party part two.
Wardrobe stuffs you in a period-typical orange patterned bikini, carefully selected to not be too revealing while still giving the audience something to appreciate; it’s eye roll worthy, but underneath the corniness of it there’s something kind of exciting about potentially being a sex symbol.
It’s the beginning of summer in the Midwest–at least on screen. In reality it’s late July, and it’s sweltering outside at the little time capsule brick house production rented for this scene. There are teen-aged extras all over the place pretending to be celebrating the end of another school year, all perfectly styled to 1976 as they splash about in the pool or grab vintage-looking Coke bottles from a cooler next to the property’s backyard shed.
Dalton is here, bare-chested and abs gleaming, draped over a poolside lounger. You’re directed into his arms, and the press of his skin is a little uncomfortable. You’ve never particularly liked being this close to strangers, especially when wearing so little, but there’s no backing out now. Every scantily-clad inch of your skin is pressed against his, his arm wrapped around your waist to keep you close.
Charlie’s best friend, Amara–played by none other than Kelsie Burton, an actress who’s been in just about every coming-of-age flick in the past five years–sits on the lounger next to yours. She’s drop dead gorgeous, with freckled pale skin and long, shiny black hair. She’s the archetype, and you feel like a complete foil in every way. You have to take a deep breath and remember that it’s not a competition–and even if it was, you’re technically winning.
The dialogue is a little awkward in this scene, but it’s on purpose. The three characters have been close friends since middle school, but things have shifted ever since Charlie and Trevor started dating. Amara feels like a third wheel, and it’s not exactly unreasonable.
This is the beginning, the first push of the boulder down the steep hill of plot. The three of you sit together pondering what life will be like now that high school is over and discussing ways to make the summer the most memorable it can be. A challenge is made, an oath taken. This summer is going to be the most unforgettable one of all.
You shoot a few takes of the inciting conversation, and then it’s on to the fun part–shooting some filler scenes of pool party revelry.
It’s easy to forget you’re not a fresh-faced teenager anymore like this. The three of you splash around in the water with your “classmates” and laugh and play games and have fun. It doesn’t feel like there’s cameras or crewmembers or anyone else around but you and your friends. And that’s really what they feel like–friends. Maybe they’re both just good actors, but a hopeful little part of you wonders if you might actually be able to build meaningful relationships with them.
The fun can’t last forever though, and the scene wrap comes before you’re ready for it–partially because you’re enjoying yourself and don’t want it to end, but partially because you know what comes next. Dieter.
You’re shuttled back to set wrapped in a towel, still soaking wet but smiling despite the nerves twisting in your gut. Even if this last scene for the day goes to shit, at least you had an incredible morning.
You’re turning a corner on your way to wardrobe when you run smack into someone tall and sturdy. There’s a force to the sudden collision that makes you grunt and lose your balance (and towel), but big, strong hands quickly come to steady you.
You look up, ready to fumble out an apology, when you find a set of deep brown eyes and a handsome, smirking face.
Whatever you were going to say dies at the base of your throat when you notice the way Dieter’s eyes drag over your soaking wet, bikini-clad form. You can’t help but let yourself do the same; this is the first time you’ve seen him in character, after all.
He seems even broader and bigger than the first time you met him, decked out in this khaki-colored sheriff’s uniform. It hugs his soft yet sturdy frame perfectly, only complemented by the heavy duty belt and the star-shaped badge pinned to his chest. His shaggy hair has been trimmed down to a respectable length, and his signature patchy-stubbly beard has been reduced to a simple, handsome mustache. He’s a time capsule of a man, and he looks so fucking good.
“Is that what they’ve got you wearing for our scene?” He asks, interrupting your moment of observation. His hands are still firmly on your waist despite the fact that your balance has long since been regained.
“N-no,” you stumble over your own tongue. “I’m on my way to change right now.”
“Damn,” he mumbles–he actually sounds disappointed.
It’s been long enough, and his hands are still on your waist. They’re so warm, so big. You hate having your bare skin touched like this, but… it’s nice. His hands are firm and strong and capable and you’re not thinking of him in a very fatherly capacity at all right now. He’s so close you can feel the heat radiating off of him, so close that you could just–
You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing until he finally takes his hands off you and you have to practically gasp for breath. Even as he backs out of your personal space, he knows the effect he’s had on you–if the smirk that takes over his face is any indication, at least.
“Orange is a good color on you,” he murmurs as his dark eyes give you one last once-over.
“R-really?” It’s never been a color you’ve particularly favored, but flattery goes far with you.
He hums in response, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Have you really made this much of an impression on him, or is he just really desperate? Surely he can’t be that deprived–he could have anyone he wanted at the blink of an eye.
“I’ll see you on set,” he vows. And then, just as quickly as he appeared, he’s gone.
It’s so fucking difficult to get a read on him that you feel like you’re in a tailspin. Nevertheless, you try not to let it bother you too much as you get to wardrobe and finally change into some real clothes. Dieter Bravo is off limits, you remind yourself; but it doesn’t sound nearly as convincing this time.
“Where have you been all night?” His voice is stern, commanding despite the softness to his tone. He sounds almost dangerous–exactly like a cop and a protective father should.
“At that end of the year pool party over at the Clevelands’, the one I told you about,” you answer easily, gently. You’re on thin ice, and you’re stepping lightly. “With Amara.”
“And Trevor.” There’s accusation in his voice–Charlie hasn’t told him about her relationship, but fathers always know.
“He was there, yeah.”
“How many times have I told you I don’t want you around him?” Dieter looks up at you from where he’s spread lazily in his cozy living room armchair, eyes even darker than usual in the low night-coded lighting of the living room set. His suspicion of Trevor isn’t unwarranted–you’ve read the script in its entirety, you know every little facet of every single character. But Charlie doesn’t know what you know, so you have to take Dieter’s caution as nothing more than the helicopter parenting typical of a teenage girl’s single father.
“I’m an adult, dad,” you remind him. “I can make my own decisions, choose my own friends.”
“You’re still a little girl,” he murmurs. The fight’s gone from him–he looks now as if a long day of law enforcement has caught up to him all at once. “You always will be.”
It sparks the exact kind of anger within you that the script calls for, and most of it isn’t even fabricated. You don’t want him–Dieter, not Sheriff Herrera–to see you like that. What if that’s all this is now? What if he can’t see you as anything else but a child to him? Not that it matters. He’s off limits, you’ve reminded yourself of that a million times. What he thinks of you shouldn’t matter.
“You have to let me grow up eventually,” you growl before storming down the hall to your final mark.
Jeff calls the scene, and you reemerge a little flushed and feeling silly for how real your emotions were in that moment.
“That was perfect!” He tells you with a beaming smile on his face. “Keep that up and we’re gonna get ahead of schedule. Dieter, you were great too.”
“Not as great as them,” the older actor says with a nod of his head in your direction. “You’re a generous scene partner.”
“How so?” You’re still a little flushed, but you’re praying he can’t tell.
“You give off a lot of emotion,” he explains. “Gives me a lot to work with.”
“Oh.” You’ve really got to get better at taking compliments. Was that even a compliment?
You’re so far in your head that you don’t notice the awkward pause until he takes it upon himself to start leaving the soundstage. Desperate for any way to salvage the moment, you address his broad, retreating back and say, “thanks, Dieter.”
He turns his head, looks at you over his shoulder, and fucking winks. “Anytime, honey.”
And then he leaves, like he didn’t just put a fucking puddle in your underwear.
Dieter Bravo is off limits. Dieter Bravo is off limits. Dieter Bravo is off limits. You chant it to yourself the entire way back to your hotel room, but it gets less and less convincing with each repetition.
Would it really be so bad if he wasn’t off limits?
➔ beta: @futuraa-free, @ozarkthedog, @beskarandblasters, and @fhatbhabie (thank u so much my loves <3)
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#dieter bravo#dieter bravo x reader#dieter bravo fanfiction#dieter bravo x you#the bubble#the bubble fanfiction#pedro pascal#pedro pascal characters#cece writes#series: free falling love addict
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A project of love | ls2
Summary: where you have to do a project with your crush and you try not to fall for him.
Warning: none.
a/n: requested and dedicated by @bananaleclerc I hope you like it!! And yes, I need a break from posting so much 😂😂
You're hunched over a textbook at a library table, surrounded by scattered notes and a half-eaten granola bar. Just then Logan enters the library, a whirlwind of energy and a backpack overflowing with what looks like every microbiology textbook ever written.
He slammed his books down next to you. “Hey there, study buddy! Ready to conquer the microscopic world?”
You jump a little, startled. He flashes a dazzling smile. “Uh, yeah, hi Logan. I was just... uh... reviewing.” You say, trying to sound casual.
“Awesome! Me too. Though, to be honest, my brain feels like it's about to explode from all these bacteria names.” He pulls out a chair dramatically and sits down. “Did you get a chance to look at the project outline Professor Davies sent? Apparently, we're germ-fighting partners!”
Your stomach flips. Internally screaming, you manage a smile. “Yeah, I saw it. Partnered up, huh? Makes sense, I guess.”
“Definitely! We balance each other out, right? You with your quiet genius vibe, and me... well, I bring the enthusiasm.”
You laugh nervously, a blush creeping up your cheeks.
“I wouldn't call myself a genius, but hopefully, I can keep up with your... enthusiasm.”
“Oh, you will, trust me. So, what do you think? Should we start with some foundational stuff, or dive straight into the exciting world of, like, antibiotic resistance?” he grins.
You take a deep breath, trying to focus. “Maybe foundational stuff first? That way, we're both on the same page when we get to the more complex topics.”
”Sounds like a plan! But hey, don't worry about keeping up. Like I said, I'm basically a walking microbiology encyclopedia. Just ask away if you get lost.”
You nod, but your mind is racing. Trying to focus on the project feels impossible now that you're so close to him.
You clear your throat. “Okay, so... cell walls of bacteria... what were we talking about those in lecture?”
Logan launches into an explanation, peppered with jokes and pop culture references. You try to concentrate, but all you can think about is the way his eyes light up when he talks about something he's passionate about.
Later, after a productive study session, you're packing your things.
“So, should we meet again tomorrow? Same time, same place?”
You feel your heart pounding. “Uh, yeah, sure. Sounds good.”
“Great! Hey, you seem a little quiet today. Everything alright?” he asks softly.
You force a smile. “Yeah, no, I'm just... tired, I guess... All this studying.”
“Studying can be draining! But hey, at least we're suffering together, right?” He winks at you. “See you tomorrow, germ fighter!”
He flashes another smile and throws you a peace sign before walking off. You sigh, a mix of frustration and a secret thrill bubbling in your chest. Studying with Logan might be the most nerve-wracking, yet strangely fun, experience of your university career so far.
You watch him disappear into the library crowd, a bittersweet pang in your chest.
You mutter to yourself. “Germ fighter, huh? More like heartbreaker.”
You gather your things, a sudden wave of determination washing over you. You like Logan, a lot. But you can't let that distract you from the project. You take a deep breath and head out of the library, a plan forming in your mind.
***
The next day, you arrive at the study table a few minutes early. You've spent the morning making flashcards – not just on microbiology, but also on Logan's interests you've gleaned from his conversation snippets. Genetics? Check. Obsession with the movie "The Andromeda Strain"? Double check.
He bursts in, a little late and slightly out of breath.
“Sorry I'm late! Professor Davies got us sidetracked talking about her research on bioluminescent bacteria. Apparently, there's a kind that glows neon green – can you believe it?” He says hurriedly, making you laugh a little, just then he notices the flashcards on the table. “Whoa, flashcards? You serious?”
You nod smiling, not as nervously as yesterday. “Just thought they might help us remember all this complex stuff. Besides, I found some fun facts related to the topics we need to cover. Maybe a little trivia can keep things interesting?”
His eyes wide at your words. “You got fun facts about bacteria? Okay, you officially win coolest study partner ever! Shoot, let's hear one.”
You pick up a flashcard and grin. Maybe studying with Logan won't be so bad after all. Maybe you can find a way to balance your academic focus with a sprinkle of something more.
***
The following week becomes a whirlwind of flashcards, late-night library sessions fueled by takeout, and a slow, simmering tension between you and Logan. Your knowledge of bacteria trivia becomes legendary, earning you surprised yet impressed glances from Logan. He, in turn, starts bringing coffee (with extra whipped cream for you, which you secretly adore) and peppering the study sessions with personal anecdotes, revealing a surprisingly deep and caring side beneath his bubbly exterior.
One rainy afternoon, hunched over a microscope analyzing bacterial cultures, Logan asks. “Hey, you ever wonder what those bioluminescent bacteria actually look like in real life?”
You glance up, surprised by the sudden seriousness in his voice. “Not really.” you admit, “but Professor Davies said she has some under a special microscope in her lab. Maybe we could ask if we could take a peek after our next class?”
He grins, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Perfect... We can make it a little research adventure.”
The stolen glance you share sparks a warmth in your chest, a silent acknowledgement that this is more than just a study session. The next day, after you convince a hesitant Professor Davies to let you glimpse the glowing bacteria, you find yourselves alone in the dimly lit lab.
As you peer through the microscope, Logan leans closer, his shoulder brushing yours. “Wow.” he whispers, “they're incredible.”
You hum in agreement, captivated by the tiny emerald lights dancing before your eyes. The silence stretches, charged with unspoken emotions. You can feel the heat radiating from him, his breath tickling your ear.
Suddenly, the lab door bursts open, revealing Professor Davies returning from her meeting. You and Logan jump apart, both cheeks flushing a deep red.
“Did you get to see them?” she asks cheerfully.
“Yes, Professor,” you stammer a little bit, “they're amazing!”
As the week progresses, the air between you crackles with a new awareness. You find yourself stealing glances at Logan as he talks, your heart skipping a beat when he laughs at one of your jokes.
During a particularly frustrating attempt at culturing E. coli, you blurt out, “Ugh, these bacteria are so stubborn!”
“Hey,” Logan says softly, placing a hand on yours, “we'll figure it out together... Like always.”
His touch sends a jolt through you, and you meet his gaze, your eyes locked in a silent conversation. In that moment, you both know this partnership has become something more, a budding connection waiting to bloom amidst the petri dishes and microscopes.
The shared look hangs heavy in the air, the frustration of the stubborn E. coli forgotten. Logan's hand lingers on yours, his thumb gently brushing against your skin. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, and a blush creeps up your neck.
“Maybe,” he starts, his voice a low rumble, “we should take a break from these little buggers. Grab some coffee, clear our heads?”
You nod mutely, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. Stepping out of the lab, the rain has stopped, leaving the air fresh and clean. As you walk side-by-side, a comfortable silence settles between you. You steal a glance at Logan, his profile sharp against the setting sun.
Reaching the familiar coffee shop you frequent, you order your usual, Logan opting for his favorite with extra whipped cream (a detail that makes your stomach flutter with a strange mix of amusement and affection). Settling into a quiet corner booth, you both sip your drinks, the tension still simmering beneath the surface.
“Thanks for sticking with this project,” Logan says, his gaze fixed on you. “It wouldn't have been nearly as fun without you.”
A shy smile graces your lips. “It wouldn't have been so bad with you either.”
He leans closer, his eyes searching yours. The air crackles with unspoken desire. In a voice barely above a whisper, he asks, “Can I do something?”
Your breath catches in your throat. You nod hesitantly, a shiver running down your spine. He closes the distance between you, his hand cupping your cheek. His touch is soft, sending a jolt of electricity through you.
The kiss is tentative at first, a brush of lips that sends a wave of heat through your body. But then, something shifts. He deepens the kiss, his hand moving to cradle your head, tilting it for better access. You melt into him, the taste of coffee and something uniquely Logan swirling on your tongue.
The kiss is brief, broken by a gasp for air. He leans his forehead against yours, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. Your eyes flutter open to meet his, a goofy grin plastered across his face.
“Wow,” he breathes, a mixture of awe and amusement in his voice.
You can only manage a shaky smile, your heart overflowing with a mix of exhilaration and nervousness. The world seems to tilt on its axis, and for a moment, only you and Logan exist in this small corner of the coffee shop.
As you pull back and smile, a newfound confidence sparks within you... Maybe this partnership, born amidst bacteria and microscopes, could blossom into something more. And you, for one, are eager to see where it leads.
#formula one x reader#f1 x you#logan sargeant#logan x reader#logan sargent x reader#logan sargeant imagine#logan sargeant x you#logan x you#logan x y/n#logan sargeant fluff#mariclerc fics
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I saw the ask you answered from another anon about cloneshipping, and I balled my eyes out. I'm a closet cloneshipper too. I came into the fandom about a year ago and ended up with the antis before I even knew what that meant.
I've started to secretly follow cloneship blogs, but I'm a decently popular fanfic writer in the anti group, and I really don't want to lose my readers by coming out 😭
I've never written a cloneship fic, and I mostly write x reader, which I know is a whole different topic for another day, but I love the content you all put out!
I put a short, non-aggresive blurb on my blog that I don't cloneship to appease the masses, and several cloneship blogs blocked me. It's sad, but I don't blame them. I've seen the hate spewed out by antis, and it's just disgusting.
Well, thanks for that list of friendly cloneship blogs, and thanks for being so nice to us in the shadows ❤️
👤 Incognito Anon
i'm really glad that post was able to help you in some way, friend. i'm gonna be honest, i had no idea it was so common for people to feel trapped in anti circles, and it makes me so sad. we should all be having fun - that's what it boils down to.
being a writer myself, i understand the fear of losing your reader base. i only have one non-shipping work, but i have at times wished it could be separated from my cloneship writing because i'm really proud of it and i know that shrinks the amount of people who will interact with it. however, i'm proud of ALL of my work. all of it brings me joy - and not just that, but it brings other people joy. it's meaningful to them.
all that to say.. i think sharing my work with a small group of people who cherish it feels better than having a larger audience. but i know that's just me personally.
if i may, i'd like to encourage you to make a side blog where you can interact with fandom in a way that brings you joy, and an alternate ao3 if you ever want to dabble in cloneshipping fic. maybe you’ll always stay in both places separately, maybe you’ll find that one feels better than the other and make the leap eventually. regardless, the option is there, and we'd love to have you.
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Blind Item / Chapter 1
Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC
Chapter 1: Gimme More
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Series Summary: 2007. Hollywood, CA. As a former child star, you face the harsh reality of growing up in the unforgiving spotlight. A car crash on Sunset Boulevard and a cocaine scandal give you one option: Rehab. Reluctantly agreeing, you embark on a 90-day stay at Promises Malibu to attempt to salvage your career. But when Dieter Bravo arrives, your journey takes an unexpected turn. Drawn to each other, you navigate sobriety and the wreckage of your reputation. As the double standard of Hollywood's treatment of troubled stars becomes evident, you question if redemption is truly possible in a world of unequal consequences.
Word Count: 11k
Content/Warnings: Age gap (~10 years, Dieter is in his mid-thirties), alternating POV, heavy drug use, illegal drug use, alcohol use, driving under the influence, frenemy dynamics, oral sex (f!receiving), dubcon/noncon, it is neither reader nor Dieter's finest hour when we meet them. Period-typical language and behavior, Hollywood assholes.
Notes: This is my first fic - I've never written or posted anything like this before, so please be kind and feel free to share any feedback or suggestions. I never would have been able to write something like this, let alone work up the nerve to post it, if it hadn't been for the kind and gracious support of @pennyserenade, @whatsnewalycat and @frannyzooey all lending me their advice when I slid into their DMs. They all inspire me endlessly with their work and talent and it’s because of their work that I was inspired to write something of my own.
Our reader is, for now, and unnamed OC. While I’ve done my best to avoid using physical descriptors of her, it should be noted that this story is a period piece that takes place in early 2000s Hollywood. The main character would have been a contemporary of stars like Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan and Nicole Richie, and there are certain assumptions I’ve made about what she looks like based on that factor of this particular story. The early 2000s could be dark, ruthless times, y'all, especially for young women in and effected by Hollywood. My intention is to examine that. Thank you for reading!
Desperate times call for desperate measures: sources say that this former child star’s team is working overtime to keep her employed. When she made her not-so-graceful exit from her latest film, the star cited conflicting schedules as the reason for her departure. The film’s producer has a different story: the Hollywood juggernaut has been heard around town calling the star unprofessional, accusing her of being late to her call times and using drugs in her trailer. She’s got a shot at a last resort: a return to television. Word is, the bad publicity has her team bargaining and drawing out sober contracts just to get her hired.
Whenever you were in town for work, you stayed at the Chateau Marmont. You were in Los Angeles often enough and long enough to justify buying a home there, but you refused, the idea of actually owning a home in LA never quite sitting right with you. Instead, you rented the same room each time you visited. You loved that little bungalow. The thick, lush landscaping shaded the windows and kept it nice and cool inside, and your front door was only a stone's-throw from the swimming pool.
It felt like home after a few years, anyway. These old, tucked-away places were what you liked most about Los Angeles, unlikely, quiet havens hidden between sky-high condos and overly sleek offices. The building breathed old-Hollywood luxury, vintage tiles and original hardwood floors and the ghosts of silent film stars wandering the hallways. The staff knew you well. The same breakfast was delivered to your door at noon every day. The top-tier maid service employed by the hotel kept the living room, kitchen, bathrooms and second bedroom impeccably tidy, though they were given clear instructions not to enter your bedroom.
Your bedroom did not inspire the same glamorous aesthetic as the rest of the hotel. Clothing was piled high against the walls and pouring out of dresser drawers, tags and receipts discarded in the wake. Empty bottles cluttered the hardwood floors, clear, crushed water bottles and rattly orange pill canisters. A full ashtray sat on a side table, a makeup mirror and various products scattered next to it.
In the middle of the room was a king-sized bed, an antique walnut headboard sprawling against the wall with a mountain of sheets and blankets layered atop a deep mattress. You laid swaddled in those sheets, rubbing your palms into your shut eyes and groaning as you rolled over, dragging your hands wide across your face to peek out at the clock on your nightstand.
4:41pm. You blinked, straining your eyes to focus and confirm you read that right. 4:41pm. Fuck.
Bleary-eyed, you reached for your phone, met immediately by a barrage of missed calls and unread messages when you slid it open.
MELANIE [3:21 AM]: Bathrrom
PETE [3:36 AM]: Did u leave
CORINNE [9:00 AM]: Call with NBC @ 1. Please be available. Corinne Roxford.
MISSED CALL: CORINNE
CORINNE [11:30 AM]: Confirming availability at 1pm. Corinne Roxford.
(212) 555-4325 [12:06 PM]: Hey gorgeous ;)
MISSED CALL [12:30 PM]: CORINNE
MISSED CALL [12:45 PM]: CORINNE
MISSED CALL [1:00 PM]: CORINNE
CORINNE [1:03 PM]: ??? Corinne Roxford.
MISSED CALL [1:05 PM]: CORINNE
CORINNE [1:07 PM]: Call immediately. Corinne Roxford.
“Hiiiii,” a soft, tired voice called from across the room. You looked up, squinting, at your best friend Natalie leaning in the doorway to the bathroom.
“Mmmm,” you hummed in response, peeking out from where you lay buried in the sheets. “Hi.”
She crossed the room, kicking piles of clothes out of the way and perched herself on the corner of the bed, her toothbrush hanging out of her mouth. You cracked open one eye, locking eyes with her. In an unspoken acknowledgment of your situation - what you got into last night, the state you’re currently in, the splitting headache you’re certain she has, too - you raised an eyebrow at her. She smirked back at you and the two of you erupted into laughter. You lifted yourself up to sit, pushing your foot into her side from under the covers.
“You were insane last night!” she accused, still smiling as she resumed brushing her teeth.
“Me!” your voice was raspy and you coughed. “Me? You were the one making out with the bartender.”
“He wasn’t a bartender. He said he was with the DJ or something.”
“Yeah, ‘cause that’s better,” you snorted, the sound muffled by the plush pillows that cradled your head. You rubbed your palms across your face again, feeling the coarse texture of your own tired skin. The room was dimly lit, with the soft glow of morning seeping through the half-closed blinds.
Your phone vibrated on the nightstand, disrupting the quiet ambiance. You picked it up, groaning when you saw your manager’s name blaring across the bright screen. With a sigh, you slid it open.
“Hi, Corinne,” your voice was a hoarse whisper as you did your best to sound alive. Natalie stirred from her spot and crossed back to the bathroom, old floorboards creaking underneath her feet.
“I needed you on that call this morning. This is your career I’m trying to save here. Do you think I’m doing all of this for my health?”
“I mean… you’re not not…” It’s out of your mouth before you can stop it. She is on your payroll.
“Very funny. I don’t think I need to remind you that you’re running out of friends and favors here, hun. I don’t think you want me to join that list.” Her sentence was punctuated by the sound of her horn honking and a muttered expletive. She sighs. “NBC still wants to speak with you, and soon, but they want to do a four-episode Growing special. The rest of the cast is on board, and they think if we play this right we can turn into a full-on reboot. But you have to straighten up, do you understand? I need you in the Santa Monica office first thing Monday to sign the paperwork.”
“I’ll be there. I promise.” Your eyes closed again, and you sunk into the plush embrace of the king-sized bed, the soft cotton fabric soothing against your skin.
“I don’t know how to make it any more clear to you how much trouble all of us are in. This is your shot at a comeback.”
“I understand.”
There’s a bit of silence, the noise of New York traffic floating through the airwaves and into your ear. You insisted on total honesty from Corinne, unable to tolerate your team coddling you, so her words might have hurt more if this was the first time you’d heard them. Or maybe if the haze you’d woken up in were a bit thinner.
“Tomlin and the team will be in on Thursday night to get you ready for the VMAs. I’ll see you then, too.” Corinne changed the subject, her voice a mix of stern professionalism and genuine concern.
“Okay. I’m sorry.” Your voice was sickeningly sweet, a defensive baby voice you switched into when you were nervous, a trademark of yours that had been mocked by everyone from ex-boyfriends to the cast of Saturday Night Live. Corinne said goodbye and you felt Natalie’s weight return to your side.
You groaned, long and drawn out, tossing your phone into the labyrinth of sheets and blankets surrounding you. The show she referred to was a reboot of the sitcom you spent your childhood working on - Growing Together. It's one-half cast reunion, one-half desperate, nostalgic cash-grab. The producer you sat across from at the pitch meeting was almost delirious with excitement - explaining what a smashing success it was sure to be, a “televised homecoming for America's favorite family.” It took so much strength not to roll your eyes right in front of him that you thought you’d pop a blood vessel.
“Are you in trouble?” Natalie asked, a teasing tone in her voice.
"Yeah, almost always," you replied, casual in your admission. As you sat up, fully awakening, you stretched and planted your feet on the floor. You chugged the warm Vitamin Water on your nightstand before reaching for your bag on the floor and digging through its contents. Gum, a fluorescent orange paper wristband, a baby pink Juicy Tube, a black and white photobooth strip of you and Natalie with your tongues out. Not finding what you were looking for, you dumped it out onto your bed and continued rummaging through the items and garbage inside. Your iPod, a receipt from the drugstore, 3 loose cigarettes and half a dozen empty quarter-sized plastic bags. You sighed, shoving everything back inside carelessly.
“Did we finish everything last night?” You call out, patting the bed behind you, your gaze darting around in search of your phone.
“We?” Natalie’s laughter rang through the room. “I don’t know about ‘we!’”
“God, no wonder,” you muttered, the realization of this morning's particularly splitting headache dawning. Locating your phone again, you typed out a text message to your dealer, padding out of your room to the kitchen.
[5:13 PM]: Andyyyyyy. U going to Lush tonight?
You tapped the side of your phone restlessly for a beat, then texted again.
[5:13 PM]: Can you bring what u brought last night
In the kitchen, you opened the cabinet, revealing an array of neatly arranged pill bottles. Without looking, you pulled out a bottle of Advil and an empty glass. Seated at the kitchen table, engrossed in her Macbook, was your assistant, Rhea.
“Corinne’s pissed.” She said before she even looked at you, focused intently on the screen in front of her.
“Good morning,” you responded, filling your glass at the sink and beaming an exaggerated, pageant-queen smile at her. She scoffed in response.
“The sun is going down in… 40 minutes.” she retorted, her gaze flitting momentarily to the clock on the wall, then back down. You made a mockingly offended expression, hands lifting with dramatic flair.
“Time is a social construct, Rhea,” you declared, tossing back the Advil and chasing them with the full glass of water.
“Yeah, for you, maybe.” She muttered, still typing like a maniac.
You were fired six weeks ago.
The movie was meant to signal a departure for you, a leap into serious territory - a drama marking an overdue graduation from the teeny-bopper films you’d spent the last decade of your life making. You’d been lucky a year ago - a really excellent writer took a chance on an elevated high school comedy with you at the helm that had people in the industry, finally, taking you more seriously.
Seriously enough to get you in the door, at least. Being on set gave you a different impression. You felt as coddled as ever, still treated like an unqualified child star whose presence was more of a slightly annoying novelty than a creative asset.
You wanted to be treated like an adult - a real actress, a professional. This movie was supposed to accomplish that. Despite the fact that this project had a huge, award-winning director attached to it, it was subject to the same issues you’d experienced on countless, lower-tier productions. Poorly communicated call times, technical issues, handsy producers hanging around your trailer. The latter issue caused you to insist on Rhea being by your side whenever possible - power in numbers in an attempt to keep greasy Hollywood exec’s hands away from you.
You weren’t going out any more often than you usually did. Now that you were old enough to not have to sneak into clubs anymore, you were having fun. Though your evenings often bled into mornings, occasionally pushing the limits of your call times, it felt manageable. However, Corinne was relentless in reminding you of the stakes and your professional expectations: show up, behave, perform.
That morning, exhaustion hung over you more heavily than usual. The night before, you’d been out celebrating Natalie’s 23rd birthday. A friend of hers had just returned from Amsterdam and brought with him a bag of European ecstasy as a souvenir. After Le Deux closed, you threw an after party at the Chateau’s pool, you and Nat drank champagne on your floaties as the chemicals rushed through your systems. Your fingers dipped in and out of the heated pool, the two of you gossiping and giggling and floating along until the sun came up.
You were on set on time - early, in fact - but the MDMA had worn off and your energy was plummeting fast. You’d run through the scene several times with Rhea, but it didn’t seem to have helped much.
“Cut,” the director called out, sighing and stepping out from his position behind the camera. Your costar groans softly, standing up from his spot across from you and stepping away as the surrounding crew moves quickly to reset the scene.
“I’m sorry Alan,” you offered immediately as the director approached your mark. A makeup artist swoops in, tapping a brush to your under eyes.
“You’re furious with him, remember,” he coached you. “I understand it’s early, but I need you to manage to muster up some energy.”
You nodded, trying to focus despite the persistent buzzing in your head. “I’m really sorry.”
“I don’t need you to apologize to me like a punished child, I just need you to perform the way I’ve asked you to. Can you do that?”
"I'll get it right this time, I promise," you assure him softly, swallowing the lump in your throat.
He eyed you skeptically, his weaning lack of patience with you made clear by his expression.
“We’ll break for five.” He called out to the room, still staring at you as you stood up and shuffled off behind him.
Rhea arrived at your side with your cell phone and a Red Bull. You flip open the screen as you walk, quickly scrolling through your text messages and trying to distract yourself from your dull, nagging headache.
“That was okay, right?” You asked, trying to sound casual but unable to hide the uncertainty in your voice. “Is it as bad as he says?”
“You were fine,” Rhea’s voice was uncharacteristically high-pitched as she held out the straw of your energy drink in front of you. Her eyes flit back and forth, scanning the area, and her voice lowers into a whisper as she continues. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m tired,” You brushed her off, shaking your head and handing your phone back to her. “I’m fucking exhausted.”
Rhea nods, a concerned eyebrow lifting as you arrive at your trailer. Everyone in your life was looking at you like that lately - as if doing anything less than completely coddling you would cause you to fly off the handle. The cautious glances, the careful choices of words, the subtle tiptoeing around your every move - especially from Rhea, who never gave a fuck about your feelings - it all grated on your nerves like an itch beneath the surface.
She held out her hand and you took it quickly, grabbing an orange bottle from her and slipping through the door of your trailer.
In your trailer, you sat at the vanity and closed your eyes, taking a couple of deep breaths before opening them and gazing at yourself in the mirror. You opened the bottle, pouring out two small pills on the counter in front of you. Scanning the surface quickly, you located a plastic card and pushed it against the pills with the ball of your hand. You pushed it again and again, finally finishing and scraping the excess powder from the card onto the table. Dragging the powder into two lines, you leaned down to inhale them and stood straight back up. You licked your finger and picked up the excess residue, pushing it into your gums and taking a couple more deep breaths to re-center yourself.
The acrid taste of the pills gave you a Pavlovian surge of energy, the anxious buzz in your chest subsiding and easing into a steady hum. You sat at the mirror, dragging a finger underneath your eye to wipe smudged eyeliner from your face. You sniffled, forcing the action into another deep breath and staring at yourself in the mirror. You belong here. You do. You know what you’re doing.
A sharp knock at the door pulled you back to reality with a jump.
“Jesus,” You called out “Alright, Rhea, one second!”
“It’s Alan. Open the door.”
Fuck. You frantically began cleaning the counter in front of you - slipping the credit card into your pocket and brushing your hands across the surface.
“Now!” Alan boomed from outside.
“Okay, okay!” You moved to the door and turned the lock, opening the door just enough for him to see you. You sniffled again, trying to camouflage the reaction with a cough. “Yes?”
Pushing the door firmly, Alan moved into your trailer, his body dwarfing yours in the small space.
“Listen to me,” he said, low but firm. “I’m done. I’m not doing this with you. I am not letting you fuck up my movie.”
“What?” You were dumbstruck.
“Don’t play dumb. Not now. You know exactly what I mean.” He was inches from your face now and getting angrier by the minute. You swallowed, desperately looking around for Rhea. Tears stung the corners of your eyes and you fought them, willing yourself not to blink.
“They’re prescribed,” you attempt. It doesn’t work.
“I don’t care what you do on your own time,” he continued “But this is mine. This is important to me and to everyone else out there whose livelihoods depend on this project, and I’m not going to let some spoiled, coked-out little actress spoil it.”
Your face burned with humiliation.
“Corinne fought hard to get you on this project. This was more of a fucking favor to her than you. But this movie does not live and die by your actions, do you understand me? You can kill yourself if you insist, but you will not pull my movie down with you. You’re fired.”
Your jaw dropped. You were unable to find words let alone choke them out. Rhea’s face was stark white when you spotted her just outside the door of your trailer, her cell phone firmly against her cheek, whispering into the receiver with her eyes wide.
“This is no longer viable for me or anyone else on this crew. I want you off my set now.”
You couldn’t move, your heart pounding in your chest. He stood there for another moment before exiting the trailer and slamming the door behind him. The force of the slam caused the door to open slightly, revealing Alan standing in front of Rhea.
“I don’t want to see you here again.” He said to her, loud enough for you to hear, his voice stern and uncompromising. “You’re lucky I don’t call the cops on you for bringing drugs on my set.”
You hung in the doorway as he stormed away, and as the room swirls into focus you see the eyes of the crew on you, their faces filled with curiosity and concern. Turning your head, you quickly blinked away your tears and wiped your eyes with the back of your hand.
Officially, you’d been let go due to ‘scheduling conflicts’. It was flimsy, Hollywood jargon for your star showing up fucked up, and unfortunately, the euphemism did little to quell the relentless scrutiny surrounding you.
Rhea had shown you the footage of you that began making the rounds after your firing was announced - a creepy, shaky video leaked by some PA of Alan berating you on set, cut with another clip of you walking around the soundstage. It was embarrassing - your hair was disheveled and you were pacing around in a way that looked strange out of context, but there wouldn’t have been anything interesting about it at all if the rumor hadn’t gotten out that you’d been fired for your drug use. Since then, the attention on you had been relentless.
The paparazzi had been a regular part of your life since you were a young teenager. It, generally, wasn’t as bad in New York, which is part of the reason why you preferred to stay there, but in LA it felt as if you were never more than a few feet from a camera.
When you were 16 and working on your first film after Growing Together ended, you started going to clubs with your coworkers. No one ever gave you any trouble, and you didn’t even start drinking until you were 18, but despite that, the mere optics of a child star reveling in nightlife proved a lucrative angle for the media to exploit.
Since then, you were followed almost constantly. Leaving home, returning, getting groceries, getting your nails done, driving through McDonald’s - flashing lights in the corner of your eye were such a regular thing that you barely even noticed it anymore. There were photographers you knew at this point, friendly ones who knew your angles and creepy ones who constantly tailed your car.
It’d never been like this before, though. Literal throngs of photographers showed up anywhere you went, watching you like hawks, all waiting to swoop in on the slightest slip up. Going shopping was an event that needed to be scheduled in advance, boutiques needing to be warned that you’d be coming in so that they could prepare to lock doors behind you. Every step, every breath, felt scrutinized and captured for public consumption, leaving you suffocated beneath the weight of it all.
You were so angry about being let go - your behavior, truly, was no different from what any other actor your age was doing. You partied with your friends, you were out late sometimes, but you knew you were a good actress. It had been your passion since you were a child, and it was beyond frustrating to hear people tell you they loved you and wanted to see you win and then have them turn against you the moment you made a mistake.
So, although you’d behaved and spent the first week or two lying low at the insistence of Corrine, you were over it now. You stayed in LA, uninterested or unwilling to go home to your family and friends in New York and explain to them what's been going on. You were going out with Natalie every night, usually to Le Deux or Lush or Teddy’s. You stayed out late and slept in late and generally just did your best to avoid confrontation with any paparazzi or journalists or producers you’d pissed off.
You weren’t lying to Alan when you told him you were only taking what had been prescribed to you. It just happened that a lot of things had been prescribed to you. Lately, you’d been alternating between Adderall and MDMA for the last week or so, making you too speedy and anxious to really dwell on the current state of your career. You were, admittedly, running through your prescriptions more quickly than usual, causing you to need to make some calls in order to fill in the gaps.
Throughout dinner, you anxiously slid the screen to your Sidekick open and shut, open and shut. You thumbed through the wheel of apps, trying to will into existence a text from Andy that didn’t seem to be coming. It’s not exactly like you expected rigid punctuality from the guy who sold you drugs, but his radio silence was making you antsy.
[9:05pm]: Hellooooooooo
Natalie exclaimed as a tray of shots was delivered to the table, echoed by the group of acquaintances that you met up with at Don Antonios, the restaurant you always went to before a night out. Eagerly, you took one off the tray, blindly grabbing another as you knocked the first one back. You chased that shot with the other, the warmth of the liquid making you feel more like a human being and less like a raw nerve.
Seated to your right in the booth was a girl you kind of knew. She was always hanging out on the fringes of your group, some friend of a friend of a friend who was for sure going home and telling everyone she partied with you. She’d been gawking at you all night, beady eyes locked on you since you sat down, craning her neck and sitting uncomfortably close to you, your dress pinned under her studded jeans. You’d been resisting the urge to ask her what the fuck her problem was for the better part of an hour. As the group around you became distracted by the arrival of the shots, you seized the opportunity to confront her.
“Can you please get off of my dress?” you spat.
Her eyebrows shot up as she took her eyes off of you for what felt like the first time that evening to look down, apologizing and scooching over. She had tall red stilettos on and, when she looked back up at you, you could see the smudged mascara on her eyelid. Just as you were going to take the opportunity to move away from her, she leaned over to talk to you over the noise that surrounded you.
“Sorry. Hey, I’m Katie.”
You grimaced, not in the mood to talk to this person.
“Hi.”
You turn away for a beat, but your attention is grabbed again by Katie’s voice lowly in your ear.
“Hey, I have Xanax, if you want one,” the offer took you by surprise, the prospect lighting you up immediately.
“Oh, my god, I love you,” you said, quickly turning towards her and extending your palm. “Please?”
Downers really weren’t your thing, even booze wasn’t your favorite, but this evening was going to turn from boring to maddeningly insufferable fast if you didn’t get your hands on something.
“I know someone who needs one when I see them,” she laughed, discreetly dropping two pills into your palm.
The clubs in LA were the same thing every time. You showed up in big black SUVs, posed and made nice for the photographers outside for a moment and then clamored inside towards the booth that was waiting for your party.
It felt like high school. Well, you assumed, since your high school experience took place entirely on set. You saw the same people everywhere, all scattered around the room, broken up into their own little cliques. All gossiping, the room alive with murmurs and whispers. Who’d just shown up? Who was fighting with who? Who’d stolen whose boyfriend? It all felt so juvenile, but not being here was worse, so you put up with it. The people changed, but not really - you usually ended up surrounded by the same cast of promoters, wannabe socialites and greasy LA club dudes, swapped out every couple weeks by stand-ins and understudies and new arrivals. They circled your table like vultures, mingled with one another and made use of your tab while you sat engrossed in your Sidekick.
The night became slightly more tolerable once you’d taken one of the bars Katie gave you, but you were still desperately trying to get a hold of a dealer. By the time you left the restaurant and were climbing into the backseat of your car to head to Lush, you’d even resorted to texting backup options, people you’d partied with once or twice who you suspected might be around.
Sinking into the plush booth, you let your head loll to the side, eyes shutting against the assault of strobing lights. The steady, pumping rhythm of the bass sent a rattle through your bones.
After a minute, Natalie's hand landed gently on your knee, snapping you back to reality.
“You okay, girl?” She asked. Her voice felt distant, barely audible over the pounding bass reverberating through the room. The glitter on her eyelids shimmered in the blue light, the only part of her face you could clearly make out in the shadowy corner of the booth.
“I’m fine,” you answered impatiently, kicking your feet up into the seat next to you. Just then, your phone finally buzzed, your heart skipping a beat as your dealer’s name flashed across the screen
ANDY [11:03PM]: not goin tonite
You scoffed, pausing for a second before furiously tapping out a response.
[11:03PM]: FUCK U ASSHOLE
You hit send and threw your phone into your purse with a huff. You were going to have to come up with something else. Or maybe just slit your wrists right here at the table instead.
You surveyed your group as bottle service brought two large bottles of tequila to your table along with a tray brimming with shots. knew all it would take was a couple hundred bucks from a photographer outside for them to spill about how you’d begged them for coke. They'd probably do it for free just for the attention. You'd already asked Katie, but all she had was Xanax and a joint, and Natalie would've let you know if she got a hold of anything else.
You started scanning the rest of the room, looking for anyone you knew. The club was packed, some sort of launch party that’d booked a huge DJ filling even the VIP section from wall to wall.
Suddenly, your attention was grabbed by the sound of a man shouting at the booth directly across from yours. He was the typical guy you'd find in places like this: a douchey-looking producer type, each of his arms wrapped around two miserable-looking models to his left and right. Intrigued, you followed his gaze to see who he was yelling at.
Oh, bingo.
Dieter Bravo. You recognized him instantly. An actor like you, you knew you’d seen him around at award shows and parties, but you’d never met. His reputation preceded him, though; you knew he partied, knew that he, too, had been let go from movies due to 'scheduling conflicts' more than once. You knew he’d been in trouble for drugs. Last you'd heard, he'd been in the news for cheating on his wife or something. You were certain that all it’d take was a little bit of flirting and buttering him up to get him to share whatever he had with you.
Without a word to anyone, you rose from your booth, ignoring Natalie's questioning as you strode towards Dieter's booth. Immediately, though, you lost your footing, lightheaded from standing up too quickly. You brushed it off, saved from a fall by someone at your booth. Straightening your dress, you grabbed a bottle of tequila before pivoting on your heel and starting back towards Dieter.
Dragged out against his will, Dieter was a guest of honor at a launch party for Elysium Fragrances, the cologne brand he’d shot a campaign for last year. His presence was requested tonight as a make-good for being a no-show at the launch of his own campaign, instead being spotted that evening by the California Highway Patrol speeding down the Pacific Coast Highway with a model in the passenger seat.
He’d been stopped by a cop as he attempted to pump gas, some asshole photographer seizing the opportunity to swoop in on the interaction and hurl all sorts of insulting names at his date. Dieter lost his patience, blowing past the cop to shove the paparazzo to the ground, shattering his camera in the process. He was arrested that evening on five charges - assault and battery, destruction of property, drunk and disorderly conduct, assault of an officer (come on) and, thanks to a thorough search of his car, possession with intent to distribute.
As his smug-faced mugshot circulated the tabloids, it eclipsed the glossy editorial photos that the brand had invested millions in. The extravagant campaign was reduced to a joke, its over-the-top glamour juxtaposed with candid snapshots of Dieter’s angry face shouting at the photographer.
Unbelievably, the brand hadn’t thrown him out then and there. He almost wished they had - he preferred the couple of nights he spent in jail to the following days spent in meetings, his team arguing with Elysium over their ability to sway this and use his reputation to their advantage. Ultimately, they maintained his status as a face of their brand as well as his 6 million dollar contract, with the stipulation that he shoot another campaign and make himself available for any event, launch or party the brand requested for the next year.
Being asked to party in exchange for six million dollars was a sweet deal - he understood that - but the reality of being a cosmetics brand’s puppet meant that he ended up at the same fucking parties week in and week out, always babysat by an appointed employee of the brand or, failing that, someone on his payroll.
Tonight was particularly torturous. The tabloids had latched onto the whispers of his crumbling marriage - rumors that were, fortunately or unfortunately, completely legitimate. Heidi was meant to be the one to tie him down, set him straight, clean him up. Their wedding photos looked like a fucking editorial, glossy photos ran with headlines predicting their domestic bliss. But a year and a half, a relapse, a DUI, and a string of affairs - all on his part - had shattered those illusions.
Last week, Dieter returned home from a 3-day bender to Heidi’s mother on the landing at the top of his stairs. She was screaming and hurling the contents of his closet at him, plus whatever else was within arms reach. Heidi, her once-bright eyes now dull with tears, cowered in a doorway behind her mother, slamming the door behind her when he called out in an attempt to reason with her. Her mom located his Oscar, hurling it towards his head with a warning to leave the house before she called the cops. He’d ducked just in time to avoid the statue concussing him, it instead crashing through the glass window of the door behind him.
The stories spread like wildfire, his team scrambling to reshape the narrative, casting Heidi as the cold, unfeeling spouse who couldn't handle his demons. They painted her as the villain, accusing her of rejecting him for his vices - after all, she knew who she married - all the while conveniently forgetting that she had stood by him through more than most people would be able to tolerate. It was an angle he wasn’t happy with; He may have been hedonistic but he wasn’t cruel. In the interest of giving her space and avoiding any additional negative attention sent her way, he moved out. He kept an apartment closer to town, and staying there made it that much easier to avoid any reminders of his failures.
The word on the poor, dejected husband had spread, causing every asshole he ran into tonight to look at him with the same pathetic, sympathetic expression. He resented their pity. He resented this party, this club, his obligation to be seen holding some stupid bottle of cologne in order to maintain his career. The four whiskies he'd downed had done little to numb him from it, and even the lines he'd snorted on the way over had failed to dull the edges of this evening.
You’d stumbled in about an hour ago, perching yourself in the booth across from his own. Your eyelids were heavy in a familiar way, his dirtbag instincts making him suspect you’ve popped a painkiller in addition to whatever you’ve been drinking. A group of giggly, hungry hangers-on swarmed around your table like flies, posing for pictures and parting only to let bottle service in and out.
Dieter knew you - or at least, he knew of you. The cute little starlet who always popped up next to him in the tabloids. He’d seen you in enough movies and on enough billboards to recognize your face, and he’d lurked around clubs like this often enough to have seen you before. Before you’d walked in, he’d resigned himself to an armchair as far back in the VIP section as he could find, determined to wait out the evening before bringing home whatever model ended up in his car. The whiskey he’d been drinking was only just beginning to kick in and he didn’t fight it, leaning back and willing the time to pass faster. But you… you were interesting.
Your gorgeous legs were stretched out along the booth, climbing up to the hem of your dress, a pink silky thing he imagined he could tear off of you with the smallest amount of force. Glossy lips pouted at your phone, eyebrows furrowed in a sweet little frustrated expression. When you looked up he didn’t look away - he kept his eyes trained on you as you looked around the room. You were looking for someone, obviously restless. A boyfriend? The thought twisted at his stomach uncomfortably and he willed himself to stop watching you, putting his glass to his mouth and draining it with a single swallow.
“Bravo!” a voice bellowed from his left, snapping him out of it. Clint - some hack from Elysium Fragrances and tonight’s designated narc waved enthusiastically from the booth next to him. “You gonna sit there and fuckin’ mope all night, bro?”
Fuck this guy. Like most of his brand-approved chaperones, he was content to accept the babysitting opportunity and spend the evening running up Dieter’s tab and shamelessly hitting on the girls at his table. The least he could do would be to leave him the fuck alone.
His attention returned to you when he heard a commotion from your direction. There you were, knees buckled, held at your elbow by one of the guys surrounding your booth. A couple of cell phone cameras lift and snap photos behind you as you attempt to compose yourself. He can’t take his eyes off of you as you stand back up, adjusting yourself, your little dress riding up for just a moment before you smooth it back into place.
The bottle he’d finished had begun to cloud his vision, so it took him a moment to realize you were stumbling towards him, your plush lips slightly parted as you swung a bottle of tequila at your side. Despite the haze, your smile was unmistakable as you arrived at his chair. When you held up the bottle with a subtle lift of your eyebrow, he nodded in agreement.
He wasn’t entirely sure if you climbed into his lap or if you simply floated there, an ethereal presence that captivated his senses. You were such a gorgeous little thing, soft legs draping over him effortlessly, while your electric fingertips traced delicate patterns along his arms.
“Where’ve I met you before?” You slurred, fingers playing with the buttons on his shirt as you settled in his lap.
You were fucked up. If it wasn’t obvious before, it was now. Good - he was, too. His plan had been to leave, get one of the models at his table to come home and roll over for him without much effort, but passing the evening with someone in his same state of mind would spare him from having another dull fucking conversation tonight. Plus, you were so pretty, big black pupils dilated and fixed on him beneath the lazy black fan of your eyelashes.
“You tell me,” he answered, running his finger along the rim of his glass.
Did you know who he was? He goes along with your guesses as to where you’d met before. Miami, London, the Met, whatever you said, as long as you didn’t piece together that you know him from a TV show that aired when you were still in middle school.
Music blasted through the speakers surrounding you, strobe lights flashing and highlighting flecks of glitter on your shoulders. He lifted his hand to run his finger along the thin strap of your dress as you lifted the bottle up between you and raised your eyebrows in question. He nodded, holding up his empty whiskey glass.
“Glastonbury?” You asked as you filled his glass.
“That must be it,” he agreed, knowing he hadn’t been to Glastonbury since 1995, and clinked his glass against your bottle. He watched as you took a long draw from the mouth and could see the grimace you were holding back as you squinted, your throat bobbing as you swallowed. He followed your lead, emptying his glass in three big gulps. Your eyes flitted over momentarily to the group he came with, crowded around the booth to his left, then back to him.
“You alone?” You asked him, glossy lips smirking.
“Just like you.”
You let out a knowing chuckle and leaned in closer to him, tequila and lime and smoke on your breath as it mingled with his own. The way you dragged your lower lip through your teeth had his cock twitching, the combination of the chemicals in his system and you purring in his lap like a kitten destroying any shred of inhibition he had left.
There’s an acknowledgment between people like you and Dieter. It’s one of those things that doesn’t lend itself to description, but he knew it when he saw it - in the mirror, in friends and acquaintances and enemies, in blown-up photographs on the covers of tabloids, suicides and DUIs announced in newsstands. Raw nerves covered in glitter, celebrity or civilian, death drives winning over life drives every time. He saw it in your dilated pupils and the way your thighs were rubbing together, the silk of your dress doing nothing to hide it. You’re like him, too, and most importantly, you know better than to ask why.
His hand cupped your face before he realized he’d done it and he closed the space between you, your lips soft against his the next sensation he was aware of. You tasted good, and he wanted more right away, deepening the kiss and digging his fingers into your thigh forcefully. He ran his tongue along the seam of your mouth, his own lips going numb as he licked into yours. He pulled you up to straddle him and you moved easily, hips lowering onto him immediately and settling, the lace of your panties brushing up against the thin fabric of his pants. His mouth trailed to your ear, worrying your earlobe between his teeth and guiding your hips to roll against his crotch again and again.
“You don’t give a fuck, do you?” He said, his voice low and hoarse in your ear. He knew you had the attention of his group and your own, not to mention anyone else who happened to look over, but it didn’t seem to matter to you. He knew you’d been in trouble lately - the same limelight, coming-of-age growing pains he’d been through himself several years ago - and his own instincts threatened to kick in and shield you from the excess attention.
You laughed with a shake of your head, tossing your hair over your shoulder and, without looking away from him, lifted his hand from your thigh to your lips, dragging your tongue across the length of his index finger and popping it into your mouth.
Oh, you were fun. You were already making him hard, and he knew you could feel it as you grinded into him again and again, letting his finger drop from your mouth when he pressed his lips back to yours. He needed to be careful - the linen lounge pants he’d thrown on to come here would betray nothing if you kept it up much longer.
It’s a noticeable absence when you hum and pull away from the kiss, the urge for more of you rolling over him and causing his fingers to dig into your thighs possessively.
“Do you have anything… funner?” You asked, big, blown out eyes pleading as you lifted the tequila bottle up again. Aha. It just so happened he did - a baggie of coke he’d brought along just in case sat in his pocket, along with two tabs of acid. It didn’t seem like that kind of night, though, at least not yet. He’d stick with the coke.
“I might have something,” he replied, a genuine smirk spreading across his face for the first time that evening. He sat up straight, smacking your ass and biting your jawline at the same time, the yelp it pulled from you quickly transforming into a wild giggle and sending a rush of blood to his cock as he peppered kisses and bites down your neck to your collarbone.
Quickly, he helped you to your feet and guided you through the crowded room, following you across the floor, his index finger linked with your pinky, prying eyes and pointing fingers meaningless to the both of you. You may have been stumbling, but you were confident. Or at least not at all concerned. A camera phone at the bar flashed and Dieter instinctively ducked his head, moving a hand to your hip to rush you forward and out of sight.
Tucking into a hallway at the back of the club, he kicked a door open and hurried you inside a small, dark room. It was clearly an employee restroom, high piles of backstocked paper towels and toilet paper toppling over when he pushed you up against the wall harshly, his hands cupping your face, the cool metal of his rings pressed against your cheek.
He pulled a pink baggie out of his shirt pocket, opened it and tapped a bump of white powder out onto the skin between his thumb and index finger. He held it up to your nose and, without any question about what it was, where he got it or if he’d already tried it, you’d inhaled, one hand holding his steady while the other held your nostril closed.
Fucking finally. Your head lit up immediately with euphoria and relief as the amphetamines rushed through your system and you melted against Dieter as he lifted you to perch you on a stack of cardboard boxes.
You let him move you like a rag doll, smiling as he propped you back and tapped out two more bumps onto your chest and snorted them, running your fingers through his messy curls as he dragged his tongue along your cleavage, licking up what was left.
His lips found yours again, and the pungent taste of the powder on his tongue mingling with his taste drew you in closer. Looping your arm around his neck, your free hand clutched his bicep. The acrid taste turned pleasantly tingly on your tongue, a numbness spreading as it explored his mouth.
“Here, baby,” he urged, breaking the kiss breathlessly, and you hummed in response as he tapped out another bump on the back of his hand. You inhaled it again, then he used his finger to gather the remnants of the powder. Cupping your cheek firmly, your jaw relaxed under his touch as he rubbed the excess powder into your gums. You reacted instantly, closing your eyes and drawing his finger deeper into your mouth, succumbing to the rush of sensation.
He groaned in approval, your lips already open when he kissed you again, drawing him in for more, thighs parting to wrap your legs around him. The flimsy strap of your dress fell off your shoulder, the fabric across your chest following shortly after.
Blissfully content with the relief of the chemicals rushing into your bloodstream for the first time today, you went numb, rolling your head back and watching patterns dance behind your eyelids.
You allowed Dieter to touch and move you at his will, his hands skillfully brushing the other strap of your dress off your shoulder, exposing your chest completely. A throaty moan escaped him at the sight, the gentle sway of your breasts moving with the rhythm of the rough push of his hips into yours. He drew you closer, his lips finding purchase on your skin. Roughly latching onto you, he drew your breast into his mouth, his tongue drawing circles around the peak of your nipple before switching to the other side of your chest.
Sparks shot down your spine and your mind went blank for a second, lost in the feeling of him against you, the synapses in your brain firing and lighting up. You snapped back into the moment when you felt him grasp your hand with his own, his fingers intertwined with yours. He guided you down to press your hand into his crotch, grinding the firm length of himself into your hold again and again.
A soft moan escaped your lips, surrendering to the warmth and pressure of his body against yours. You tightened your grip around his neck, allowing yourself to fully yield to his control, your body pliant and responsive to his every move.
You’d fuck him, you figured, as you moved against him. He was good looking - now that you were feeling a little less edgy, you could appreciate it. Corinne would kill you if word got out, but he seemed like someone who knew a thing or two about discretion. He stiffened even more as he firmly thrusted into the cradle of your hand and you cupped your fingers around his length, the soft fabric of his pants allowing you to feel him completely. You walked your fingers up to his waistband, nails dipping under the fabric and pulling at it slightly. You’d go home with him. Whatever. You’d bring Natalie with you and you could leave by morning. He probably wouldn’t even notice a missing gram or two.
You followed the thought as he trailed kisses up your chest and neck, finally settling at your ear. His hand rose up your thigh, thick fingers dragging along the lace fabric at your center. The bundle of nerves there erupted at his touch and your thighs instinctively squeezed around him.
“Let me taste you, baby, please,” He growled just above a whisper into your ear. You arched your back into his arms, moaning and nodding in agreement, the cool porcelain of the sink underneath you causing your skin to goosebump as your dress rode up further. You opened your eyes, peeking at the chestnut brown curls, the color blending into the dark room surrounding you.
Your eyelids felt heavy, and you fought to keep them open, wanting to stay present with him. But the warmth of his breath against your skin and the gentle touch of his fingers on your cheeks were lulling you somewhere else. You felt like you were floating, your vision blurred at the edges and you fluttered your eyes shut again, feeling his fingers curl around the waistband of your panties and stall there for a moment.
Your fading in and out like that threatened to spook him away. You couldn’t be too fucked up. He lightly tapped your cheeks a couple of times, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "Stay with me, baby," he whispered urgently. "Gotta hear you say it."
“Mmmm,” Dazed, faraway eyes looked up at him, your blown-out pupils mirroring his own. You nodded again, dragging your teeth along your bottom lip. Your pulse raced between your legs, and you felt your hips moving towards him, trying to ride something that wasn’t there yet. “Do it, Dieter, please.”
There we go. He smirked, lifting you from the stack of boxes to push you up against the wall and sinking to his knees. He bunched up the fabric of your dress at your hips, roughly pulling your panties down your legs, the black fabric hanging loosely at one ankle as he lifted your leg to hang over his shoulder.
You shrieked when he slid his tongue through your folds, your knee buckling when he repeated the motion, his strong hands moving up to your hips to support you. His tongue pushed wide against you, him tasting and exploring you as his fingers dug into your hips with bruising force.
He felt fucking amazing. You typically hated when men touched you, especially when you were high, but he felt incredible. You’d give him anything. Despite your rapidly dulling senses, the feeling of his tongue working your clit back and forth was at the front of your mind. He pushed his tongue wide against you again and again, fucking two thick fingers up into you without warning.
You gasped, your mouth opening wide as you root your fingers into his hair to ground yourself. He wanted to wreck you completely, to smear the dark makeup around your eyes and watch that glossy mouth of yours stretch around his cock. His lips locked around your clit, and as the blood rushed to the bundle of nerves there you threw your head back, chest heaving, loud, wretched moans spilling from your throat.
With your senses dulled, he knew it’d take a little more to send you over the edge. A third finger pushed into you with a stretch, starting slow and working up to get in and out of your tight, soaked cunt. You moved your hips to match his rhythm, your pace hiccuping as he began working you faster and faster, working your clit between his teeth with a pinch.
Your moans were frantic, hitching higher and higher as he confidently worked you towards an orgasm, your surroundings blurring and swirling around you.
THUD, THUD, THUD. Just as you neared your release, a loud pounding at the door shattered the moment.
He groaned in frustration, pausing briefly before attempting to resume. You struggled to regain your focus, your chest heaving with heavy breaths, nerves coiled tightly at your core.
The knock was followed by a muffled argument and the clanking of keys from the other side of the door. Reluctantly, Dieter's head emerged from between your thighs.
“Fucking assholes,” Dieter grumbled in frustration as he stood up, moving the straps of your dress back up your shoulders and quickly adjusting himself. You steadied yourself with a hand on his shoulder as you pulled your panties back up, frustration pounding angrily between your legs.
“Find me, alright?” He breathed, smoothing out your dress, his hand lingering on your ass and eyes slowly moving up your body. “I’ll take you home.”
You nodded as the door was thrown open, the bright, white light of a flashlight shining into the small room. You stood up straight, quickly fixing your hair in the mirror and sneakily grabbing the small, plastic baggie Dieter left on the counter, hiding it in your fist behind your back.
“Let’s go. Knock this shit off,” a voice bellowed from behind the light, which darted back and forth between you and Dieter. “We’re not doing this in my fucking club, get the fuck out, let’s go!”
“What the fuck is this?” Dieter asks, moving to stand in front of you and block you from the bright light.
“I’m sorry, man, I tried to stop him,” Another voice followed from outside the room. You squinted and peeked over Dieter’s shoulder, annoyance showing on your face. A large bald man in a suit held the flashlight and to his right was the small, douchey-looking guy you recognized from Dieter’s booth. Natalie’s head popped up behind the both of them, looking relieved to have found you.
“You’re not doing drugs on my floor and fucking little girls in my bathroom. That’s it, Bravo. Get the fuck out of here, let’s go,” the angry man repeated. Dieter raised his hands and murmured an apology to you as he shuffled out, one hand poised defensively in front of his face. He pushed out of the room past Natalie, her brows furrowed at him in confusion as he passed. His counterpart flocked to his side, immediately rushing into what sounded like a flurry of explanations and reassurances. Natalie slid into the room smoothly, wrapping an arm around you to usher you out. You stumbled at her side, annoyed and disoriented.
“I’m TWENTY-TWO, ASSHOLE!” You screamed at the man with the flashlight, attempting to shove him with your balled-up fists. He raised his eyebrows, bald head wrinkling and frown deepening. Natalie pulled you away from him quickly and you could hear her apologize behind you. “Don’t tell’um sorry, Nat, ’m not fucking sorry, I was in the fucking bathroom!” you slurred, your voice disjointedly raising and lowering in pitch.
“C’mon, babe, let’s go,” Natalie urged you.
“Yeah, ’s get the fuck outta here,” you agreed, stumbling as she shepherded you out. She handed you your purse and you quickly shoved your hand inside, dropping the half-empty baggie into the side pocket. One or two flashing lights from the crowd gathered at the bar stole your attention for a moment, but it quickly returned to the big, bald, interrupting gorilla with the flashlight. “This place SUCKS!” you screamed as you began to turn back towards him, leashed by Natalie’s grip around your arm.
“Let’s go,” she repeated firmly. You followed her through the crowded bar, stomping across the floor and ignoring the unending stream of heads turning towards you. The two of you shoved out the heavy metal doors of the club, clicking and flashbulbs immediately erupting around you as the cool evening air breezed across your skin. Your name was shouted from your left and right as Natalie dug in her bag for the valet ticket.
“Having fun tonight?” A photographer asked. You rolled your eyes. “Alright, over here, honey,” the same voice continued. With a resigned sigh, you turned to offer a practiced pose, your mind ticking through your media training despite how fucking annoyed you were. Stumbling a couple of times as you attempted to maintain your balance, you moved through a lazy pose or two. You knew the routine - let them get their shot and maybe they'll back off.
“Partying tonight?” Another voice interjected. Moron.
Natalie finally located the ticket and the valet handed the keys over immediately, your car already parked and waiting curbside. Impulsively, you decided you’d drive, intercepting the keys before Natalie could take them and nearly smacking them out of the attendant’s hand before stumbling towards the vehicle.
“She’s not getting in the driver’s seat. No way,” reasons the voice of a man with a video camera to your left. “There’s no way!”
Another blinding eruption of flashing lights emerged around you. You stared down at your feet as you stumbled forward, trying to see where you were walking through the relentless assault of flashbulbs. Natalie called out your name from behind you. You struggled a couple of times with the handle before throwing the car door open heavily.
“Hey, you can’t drive, honey,” Another voice called out. You rolled your eyes.
You climbed into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut, exhaling loudly as the noise of the chaos surrounding you finally muffled. Flashing lights continued, your windshield now completely blocked by cameras. The volume raised again for a moment, a cacophony of voices and camera clicks, as Natalie scrambled into the passenger seat beside you.
“Are these people serious,” you asked, angling your head in towards Natalie and shielding your eyes from the barrage of flashbulbs pointed at you, frustration mounting with each flash. “How’m I supposta drive when they’re fucking blocking me?”
“Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t.” Natalie said, concern in her voice. “Let me, okay?”
You shook your head adamantly. “’M not going back out there.”
“So climb over,” She suggested.
“Not in this!”
Natalie let out an exasperated sigh, her fingers tapping anxiously on her thighs.
“Hey, since when do you know Dieter Bravo?” She asks, momentarily changing the subject.
“Who? Oh,” you replied, the question registering with you once you answered. The reminder of him sent your attention between your legs and you shifted slightly in your seat. “I dunno. I know’hm from an awards thing.” You offered. It was an unconvincing lie, but Natalie didn’t fight you on it.
“He’s so random,” she laughed. “I can’t believe you hooked up with him. I think my older sister had a poster of him in high school. Right next to River Phoenix.”
“Whatever,” you huffed, everything about this evening now pissing you off. The incessant clicking of the paparazzi's cameras only added fuel to the fire, and you narrowed your eyes in irritation, slamming your hand down on the horn for a solid ten seconds in a futile attempt to disperse them.
“MOVE!” you yelled, only inciting more flashing lights.
“Let me drive, babe,” Natalie tried again.
“Oh, my god, fuck this,” you snapped, frustration finally boiling over. With your hand still shielding your eyes, you shifted the car into drive. “You're my eyes now.”
“What?! No!” She replied, her voice rising in panic.
“Be my eyes. I’m going.” You repeated. Very slowly, you eased your foot off the brake, the car beginning to inch forward. Voices clamored outside the vehicle.
“Oh my god, um, okay. Go slow. Turn left. Slow!” Natalie began to guide you. The crowd cautiously parted around the car, photographers scrambling to avoid being flattened while still unwilling to sacrifice this shot. “Oh my god, this is so stupid. Slow, slow, slow.”
“They’re fuckin’ stupid! What am I supposed to do?”
“No, yeah, okay, just slow, keep going left.” Natalie's voice trembled slightly as she continued to navigate. The relentless barrage of flashing lights illuminated the interior of the car, casting everything in stark, blinding brightness. “Okay, cut it! Cut it and keep going straight.”
You cut the wheel to the right and straighten it out, cautiously peeking through the gaps in your fingers to confirm you'd cleared the throng of photographers.
“Haha!” you exclaimed, your laughter echoing through the tense air as you slammed the gas pedal to the floor once the street ahead is clear. With a screech of tires, you peel off into the night, Natalie's nervous chuckles mingling with your own laughter. “Bye, assholes!”
You rocketed down Highland with reckless abandon. A couple of familiar vehicles creeped up behind you - regular photographers who paid their bills by stalking you. The driver to the left’s hand hung out the window, a digital camera pointed squarely at you. The light was yellow at the intersection in front of you and you smirked, not letting up on the gas and rolling your window down to flip off the camera as you raced through the intersection just as the light turned red.
“Slow down!” Natalie yelled, panicked, her hand clutching the door handle in a white-knuckled grip. “What is your problem?”
“My problem?! These guys are the ones with the problem,” you fired back, your tone frustrated. “I can’t do anything without getting fucking cornered!” Your car veered dangerously across the yellow lines and Natalie yelped. You overcorrected, the vehicle lurching back into its lane just in time to avoid a collision with an oncoming car, its horn blaring in warning. Natalie’s body stiffened further in her seat as you took a wide right turn onto Sunset. You turn on the radio, a Rihanna song picking up midway through.
“Did he give you something?” she shouted, her tone urgent. You furrowed your brow, shooting her a confused look. “Dieter,” she clarified.
“Oh, right!” you exclaimed, mood shifting as you suddenly remembered the baggie tucked in your purse. “Look what I got us!” You reached for your bag on the passenger floorboard, swerving again. Natalie lunged across the seat, her hands fumbling for the wheel to correct your course, while a chorus of horns blared from the vehicles behind you. Finally retrieving your purse, you fished out the baggie from the side pocket and held it up between your fingers for Natalie to inspect. She grabbed it from you quickly, examining it in her lap.
“What is it?” She asked. You shrugged.
“Coke, I think. Shit, hold on,” you floored the gas to race through another newly red light.
“Stop!” Natalie shrieked. “This is so fucking stupid, dude, let me drive!”
“Jesus, Nat, fine,” you groan, slamming on the brakes. You both jolted forward as the car came to a stop in the middle of the road. “You wanna drive so bad, fine.”
You unlocked the car doors, opening yours slightly and reaching down to unbuckle your seatbelt.
“Are you serious?” She scoffed, disbelief etched across her features as she surveyed the chaotic scene unfolding around you. You nodded in affirmation, a defiant smirk playing on your lips. “You’re such a bitch.”
With a surge of stubborn adrenaline, you stormed out onto Sunset Boulevard, Natalie following suit. The gray Honda belonging to one of the persistent photographers tailed you, coming to a halt beside you as the driver scrambled out, camera at the ready.
“LEAVE ME ALONE” you shouted. “I gave you your shot at the club, I’ve been nice to you guys, what more do you want?!”
You considered what it would take to get him to go away. Words weren’t working. Should you kick his car? Throw something? You began to stumble towards him, interrupted by Natalie yelling your name again. You turned around to see Natalie standing in the street, gaze fixed on the intersection ahead. Your car - which you apparently failed to put into park - was rolling into the intersection on its own.
With a frantic surge of panic, you and Natalie sprinted after the runaway vehicle, the strobe of camera flashes behind you incessant. Arms flailing, you both desperately signaled to other drivers to stop, your heels clattering against the pavement as you raced towards the car.
As the car veered left, you were powerless to stop it from crashing into a parked BMW at the corner. Rushing to catch up, you flung yourself into the open driver's door, slamming on the brakes and throwing the gear into reverse. You leaned across the cab to fling the passenger door wide open.
“Come on!” You shouted at Natalie as she climbed back into the car. With a tense exhale, you navigated the car backward, turning wide in the intersection before screeching forward.
Your mind was completely clear with pure adrenaline. You were only a few blocks away from the hotel now, the castle-shaped outline shrouded in trees just ahead on your right. You floored it, a tense silence hanging in the car, both you and Natalie’s eyes locked forward on the road in front of you.
Only slowing down to make a right turn into the hotel driveway, you didn’t bother waiting for the valet. Tossing your keys onto the driver’s seat, you left the door ajar as you stormed through the garage toward your room, ready to put this evening behind you.
#blind item#dieter bravo#dieter bravo x ofc#dieter bravo x reader#putting this out into the world and definitely also shitting bricks
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I heard people are mad because they feel like August should be apologizing to Simon also, and I think that’s like, a no-brainer because of course he will – – he’s changed now. He’s not the same person who did that thing so – – we saw him suffer and now he apologized to Wille whom he knows and then – – I’m sure when [August and Simon] meet, he’s going to talk to [Simon] about it too.
Linnéa Roxeheim, director of S3 eps 5& 6, PRP interview
59:00-59:22
(– – used for legibility, the redacted phrase is 'you know')
So...this kind of seems to confirm something I've been thinking since I watched the season: the lack of apology from August to Simon feels less like an intentional, character-defining writing choice and more like a mishap overlooking or even retconning the August-Simon conflict.
Some thoughts under the cut.
That conflict was one of the central building blocks and driving forces back in S1. Simon wouldn't have ended up selling drugs if it wasn't for August looking to buy, Wille wouldn't have found out about August's finances and been able to use them against him, and Alexander would not have been framed to save Simon. And for that matter, August's eagerness to pin the blame on Simon was likely fuelled by the fact that he wasn't just a sosse sleeping with Wille, but also a constant thorn in August's side. Someone who had even physically roughed August up at one point.
Still, I do believe August's decision to post the video mainly concerned Wille. I've written about that too many times to rehash it again; let's just take his dismissive reaction when Sara says Simon is distraught in S1E6 at face value. And that made perfect sense for his character, considering his only moral code at the time was (elite) loyalty.
However. From S2 on, the history between August and Simon has been sidelined, and the focus has been on the conflict between August and Wille.
We didn't see Simon suffer any more daily consequences from the video in S2. He could already sing karaoke in Bjärstad without people giving him dirty looks, and both the rumour mill at Hillerska and the hate comments online had stopped. Not being allowed to sing his song at the Jubilee was a concrete consequence, but even that felt more like an obstacle for Wilmon and an opportunity for Wille to stand up for them. Simon and August barely even interacted over the season - but at least Simon did refer to Sara knowing everything August had done to him in the gun range scene, so that was something.
I had hoped for the August-Simon conflict to be picked up again in S3. Even if the writers wanted to focus on other relationships and tensions, to me, it felt too essential to pass up. It would have been a clear sign of August learning the accountability and empathy that he needed to grow, and it would have also provided some much-needed closure for Simon (and tied the series together as a whole). I guess the writers felt differently.
Even though the focus on Simon getting hate on social media again could have provided an easy tie-in, the vile hate messages focused on his and Wille's relationship, as well as him being a POC. Apart from Linda's comment in the settlement negotiation, I don't think the video was even mentioned once in all the hate comments we saw. There was no indication of the media or the public having dragged it back up either (or asked who filmed and leaked it, but that's another matter entirely). Nor were there any references to Simon having already received some hate after the leak - on the contrary, it seemed like he was completely blindsided by all the vitriol. I do realise that the scale was much bigger this time around, but still.
Circling back to the August-Simon conflict, there's also another aspect that is easily overlooked. Namely, that Simon himself actually seemed pretty content to just put all his dealings with August to rest after the settlement was finalised. The only time the two of them even interacted after that was all about Sara. It could have also been an opportunity to show Simon's own feelings, but that didn't materialise.
Don't get me wrong, I'm sure Simon could still use that apology, but I never got the impression that he needed it the way we fans needed to see it. Based on S3, you might even think their only source of conflict was Simon coincidentally being on the video, and when that was settled, Simon was okay just moving on with his life.
Which brings me back to the ending.
I always figured that August was portrayed as genuinely remorseful towards the end. Yes, I would have liked to see more of his growth and development (even just showing his reaction to the sale of Årnäs instead of having Simon say that Wille said it was a fitting punishment would've worked wonders)... But the authorial intent seemed to be that he had already taken enough steps. His and Wille's reconciliation was as sincere as anything could get, with Wille not forgiving him as such but agreeing to move on, start healing, and even wish each other well. Wille was sincere when he congratulated August upon graduation and tapped him as the next king, thinking he was well suited for the job (it's the narrative that frames it as a sort of punishment, not Wille).
Crucially, Simon doesn't seem bothered by this. If both Wille and August had truly just ignored the harm caused to Simon and reconciled amongst themselves, with Wille essentially giving August the position that everyone but August still thought was all August ever wanted...while Simon was still hurting and needing the closure of an apology...well. That would actually make Wille look like kind of a terrible partner even right at the end, which clearly wasn't the intention.
We can't be sure if Wille told Simon about the reconciliation when they talked at the lake, but Simon will still know that Wille stepping down means August stepping up, and he is happy about it. Wilmon are off to start a new chapter in their lives, and we don't get the feeling that the lack of an apology to Simon is left as an unresolved issue between them (or between them and August).
So...yeah. I guess I'm just trying to point out that this seems to be another example of a previously important plot line being dropped from S3, and to a lesser degree, also another example of execution vs. authorial intent.
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DICK KNUBBLER MAYE STILL BE ALIVE
Kinda
Alright before I do anything take this with a grain of salt, cause it’s probably a continuity error / can be easily explained away BUT if you all would like to hold onto some hope please just hear me out. And also it offers a question for yall.
Alright! So!
On twitter someone had asked Brendon and Gene about Murmaider III and its placement on Dethalbum IV ( which btw shoutout to Gene’s wife that was brilliant ) and Brendon had mentioned that what sets 3 apart from the other two was that it was more dreamlike, and that it was made AFTER Army of the Doomstar. Now since Brendon and Gene weren’t the ones to make the order on the Album we can’t set a timeline for the songs ( though they are set in Brutal to Dreamlike order once again shoutout to Genes wife you goddess ) we can at least say that some songs were made post Army. In fact we could also make some assumptions about what songs were made DURING army. So I’ll separate that list here.
NOTE : YALL DONT NEED TO READ THIS PART THIS IS JUST ME RUNNING WITH “ some songs were made post AOTD which ones could they be teehee “ JUST KNOW MURMAIDER AND SOS WERE AFTER KUBBLER DIED OK SORRy I’m not deleting that whole thing I like it
Songs with “ * “ are canon, the rest are personal interpretation.
DURING ARMY OF THE DOOMSTAR:
* Aortic Desecration ( the first song of salvation but obviously not )
* SOS ( song of salvation )
Gardener of Vengeance ( Nathan directly references this during the scene where he confides in the band and Knubbler that he doesn’t write songs about hope and he’s just doing what he knows. I believe he wrote and recorded this but felt it wasn’t good enough to be the song of salvation and moved on. HOWEVER the language he used could place this as post AOTD because it sounds more like a thrown out there example kinda like how he figured out SOS in the cave )
Poisoned By Food ( Again I think this is a scrapped song of salvation since besides the actual poisoning of food a lot of the imagery feels like the what the metalocalypse was described like )
BLOODBATH ( guess what another scrapped song of salvation. This one feels like a ‘you don’t scare me I’m going to confidently stop you because if I go down you go down with me’ song. Also it could be Nathan trying to reach out to Magnus since he was one of the people on his list. Also quick note I’m going song by song so I don’t know if I’ll notice if any other songs would reflect the list I just got out of work so I’m not gonna catch it all rn )
Horse of Fire ( this is tricky because lyrics like star still blazing allude to this being written before aortic desecration but also Nathan didn’t have the talk with the whale until the deadline came up in which he had to go with aortic desecration <he wouldn’t have had time to write about the fist or the hand.> But the lyrics don’t have the <we should reach out to the fans> revelation that SOS has. Maybe this was a draft for SOS but I think once Nathan figured out what SOS was meant to be it just came to him naturally. I’m not sure. HOWEVER since the doomstar is referred to as a star that is still blazing and not a portal that’s been destroyed it’s safe to say this is not post AOTD. Either way this is an important song to keep in mind if you look at this speculating )
POST ARMY OF THE DOOMSTAR:
* Murmaider III ( stated by Brendon Small in the interview. He said he feels that the boys would have written this after AOTD and based off of interviews he’s had in the past about his songwriting process it’s hard to not take this as canon so. )
DEADFACE ( I think this is post because while the song plays during the movie only Skwisgaar knew about the possession so the lyrics wouldn’t quite make sense yet. It’s a tricky placement but I can see Skwisgaar playing around with it since he does play the notes during the movie )
Mutilation on a Saturday Night ( this feels so much like a we survived so now we’re gonna party song I can’t see Nathan Skwisgaar or Pickles make an argument for this being a Song of Salvation. Also all the fucked up shit they talk about references what happened during the metalocalypse but it’s spoken in past tense like a ‘hey we fucked shit up but we fixed it so now we’re just gonna keep fucking around haha’)
I am The Beast ( simply cause I don’t see this as something Nathan would write during AOTD but the ‘ I am a beast this is my domain and when I speak you scream my name ‘ could work as a salvation line but it feels too much like a Mutilation Saturday Night ‘I can write whatever I want cause I lived and I’m not gonna hold back’ vibe )
Satellite Bleeding ( this feels like the first song they would have written and recorded after the doomstar died. Kinda like watching the sky clear up after a storm. )
Now despite me rambling on about this I would like to draw attention to what’s canon. Specifically SOS and Murmaider III. These songs came out after Knubbler died. Yet Dethalbum IV credits Knubbler for production.
Drawing your attention to how crediting in the Dethalbum works, each album has a little section for Dethklok to get musical credits and thank whoever and whatever. There’s also production credit and location credit. On ALL of the Dethalbums Knubbler is credited as producer. Cause he’s the producer makes sense yeayeyaeyah. But whenever there’s a change in location or production, there’s additional credits.
ANOTHER NOTE: I DONT HAVE THE KLOK OPERA CD I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THE CREDITING SYSTEM LOOKS LIKE ON THERE but if someone happens to be selling that cd outside of eBay please let me know
Let’s look at them.
Dethalbum I ^
Shit ton of credits right, and on the other page which I didn’t take a picture of and can’t because I’m not home at the moment there’s credit to Snakes N Barrels for “Kill You” with each member listed. Take note that songs that are considered exceptions are credited differently and locations not at Mordhaus are credited.
I lied I have the other page. For those without the dethalbum cds the actual credits are usually on another page and “Kill You” got mixed in with it
Anyways
Dethalbum II
Hey Knubbies gets to thank someone this time! Anyways once again Knubbler is credited for production, but also Dethklok. Keep this in mind. Also the fact that different location credited for Murmaider II but it’s recorded at Mordhaus
Dethalbum III
Knubbler credit AND Abigail credit along with Dethklok AND once again location credit is Mordhaus and another fuckass place. Only thing that’s not really credited is Magnus with The Hammer but idk if he was like Toki and William where they play the songs but don’t really write or if he actually wrote The Hammer. I’m not a HammerHead, I’ve seen people interpret him as both, but at the end of the day idrk.
So what about Dethalbum IV
Knubbler is credited. At Deus Keep. Only Knubbler. Only at Deus Keep. “But he’s not credited as a Producer” True! If the album was released in universe it would probably be a producer credit. Especially since Brendon and Ulrich have Producer credit on the page prior. Maybe it’s because Knubbler didn’t make it to the final production stage. Or maybe he’s staying hidden undercover..
Remember earlier. He canonically was not around for two of these songs on this album. He could not have recorded OR mixed SOS or Murmaider III. Even if you don’t fully think that Murmaider III was made Post AOTD, SOS was done post Knubbler death. Hell, the song was dedicated to him by William! But there’s no separate credit for SOS.
If we went on the same basis as previous albums SOS would have been credited to that part of Norway where they traveled to that I forgot the name of and I’m not gonna look up but you get the point. Or even Dethklok would have been credited as production. I could also say something about how Murmaider III wasn’t recorded in the Mariana Trench and how the whale isn’t calling to Nathan anymore but that’s for another day. Right now though, it’s just Knubbler. Just Knubbler and Deus Keep.
Which leads to 3 possibilities.
Knubbler Lives: Knubbler survived ( the flashing things on the ground were teleporters ) and Deus Keep is rebuilt. To celebrate their survival they make Dethalbum IV but don’t release it
Knubbler Died: The band recorded the last few songs on the album at the remains of Deus Keep. Knubblers presets aren’t changed so credit remains to him. Once again not releasing it.
It’s not an album: Dethalbum IV doesn’t exist in universe. That’s why there’s no producer credit. That’s why Nathan doesn’t thank the klokateers ( he thanks the army of the doomstar which is just him thanking fans ). Dethklok recording it post AOTD is more to do with how Brendon records dethalbums than in universe writing.
I like to think that this is just an unreleased album in universe since the record label is more than likely destroyed, but it has the possibility of releasing one day if society is rebuilt to what it once was. But it really depends on if you think the album is canon to the universe. Cause there’s no Mordhaus credit on Dethalbum IV and there’s no way for SOS to have been recorded at Deus Keep and blablabla
something fun to think about tho yk?
TLDR: two songs on dethalbum IV were made after Knubbler death yet the credit doesn’t change for him in the dethalbum so there’s a chance that he recorded and mixed those songs cause he is alive and well horray
#metalocalypse#take this with a massive grain of salt#take it with a rock of salt tbh#dick knubbler#I’m rambling like crazy but :(#also I just noticed on dethalbum IV it’s the first time Murderface isn’t placed last in credits#I’ll be honest if Knubbler wasn’t credited at all on dethalbum IV I would have cried very much#I FORGOT TO SPOILER THIS I AM SO SORRY#ARMY OF THE DOOMSTAR SPOILER#SORRY#ARMY OF THE DOOMSTAR
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Zero context WIP game ! Thank you @clawbehavior for the tag, excited to do this because I've got like 10 different wips and kept resisting the temptation to post snippets. These fics don't have definitive titles yet so the ones here are approximative descriptions
1. Ms Ji & the Kangs
“Yohan-ah, I love you, don’t cry” Isaac says, patting his baby brother’s stomach when he fusses. They’re both laying on Isaac’s bed after lunch, a bit drowsy in the early hours of the afternoon. Young-Ok watches the two as she folds laundry.
“Nanny, why does Yohan have no eyebrows ?” Isaac asks curiously.
She chuckles at the question, taking a tiny pair of socks out of the basket and folding them together. “Most babies are born without much hair, he’ll grow them later on.”
2. Conversations
Gaon swipes ‘accept call’ and props his phone against a utensil holder as Elijah’s lovely face comes into view. She has cut her hair into a bob, even bangs forming a curtain on her forehead.
“Gaon, it's an emergency ! You need to come to Geneva and do something !” Elijah’s voice immediately comes through the phone speaker, loud enough to be heard over the sound of meat sizzling on the stove. “Yohan is serious about growing that ugly mustache and the clinic receptionist keep trying to hit on him !”
3. Yohan through Isaac's photography
October 1991, Yohan showing me his teeth
Gaon chuckles at the photo. It’s blurry like the objective had gone out of focus at the last minute. Yohan is giving the camera a smile and scrunching his nose, eyes closed under his fringe like he’s shielding them from the flash. Some milk teeth are missing from his gums, two permanent ones just peeking above the surface. He must have been no more than six or seven here.
4. Gaon scrolls online forums
"Judge Oh, I have this file I wanted discuss with you"
Jinjoo comes up behind him to see just as he is about to unlock his computer. What greets Gaon after entering his password is the previous night's research topic brightly displayed on the screen. Shit. Carelessly, he had simply shut the laptop before going to bed, instead of closing the tabs and erasing his search history.
Panic and embarrassment seize Gaon on the spot. He's about two hundred-percent certain that Jinjoo got a glimpse of what was written on the screen. Omegaverse fanfiction of him and their boss. Gaon wants to explode.
"You have…a lot of open tabs, Judge Kim."
5. Another snippet from Conversations
“You have something under your eye”
“Hmm ?” Yohan hums, closing said eye when Gaon’s thumb gently swipes across his skin.
“Eyelash.” Gaon flicks it away “crap I should’ve told you to make a wish”
They’re laying on the couch in a tangle of limbs, Gaon on top of Yohan like a weighted blanket, chest to chest, book long abandoned on the coffee table. Kkomi is on the armrest behind Yohan’s head, sniffing at his hair. Gaon yawns into Yohan’s collar.
“We should go to bed.” Yohan says, voice hoarse.
6. Sunah lives
It is routine until her ears catch familiar voices, ones she thought she would never hear again, along with the cries of a fussy child.
“Gaon-ah, give her to me”
Sunah turns around to see, to her surprise, peering over the café’s balcony, Kang Yohan, his niece, his former associate, passing over an agitated toddler.
“I told you we should have brought her stroller,” Kim Gaon’s reprimands are a refreshing thing to hear “She gets tired.”
“It would have been inconvenient though, with all the stairs and narrow streets.” Kang Elijah chimes in. She is on crutches now, standing just a few centimeters shy of her uncle’s height.
“That’s fine” Kang Yohan hauls up the little girl against his chest so that her head rests on his shoulder, pats her back. “Appa will be the stroller today."
Tagging @thedeviljudges if you feel like doing it !
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#sl#desert duo#im so glad Scar is living his best life being the specialist guy on the server and wearing a helmet#but as a screenshot blog that loves the helmet rule for nicer screenshots please someone call him out on it I’m crying#LITERALLY Tango even was like we can’t wear helmets right? expect Scar cause he’s a special little snowflake in etho’s episode#WAIT it’s even funnier that TANGO said that cause didn’t he get shot and lost a life for breaking that rule in 3rd life?#crying#I feel like a should have written a post about all this but no it’s staying in the tags of my screenshot blog#anyways
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into the deep end - 30k T orufrey fic, focusing on memory trauma, disability, and romance.
the sweet oblivion of the victim, the poisoned freedom of the other.
for one moment - it had felt like two parts returned - the needed reunion of two disparate halves. no more secrets, no more pain.
the moment you get to give back what you never wanted to take. that moment, under the night-blooming flowers, when they had both let out the same single broken sigh of relief.
but they were never whole to begin with, were they?
qifrey swore he wouldn't say 'sorry' to this man any more if he could help it - sorry is cheap now. he didn't want to be in a position ever again where you only have 'sorry' left. so he just looks down into the threads of his blanket, strains his eye until it hurts, feeling his insides - his throat, heart and head - burn with pain. he expects more, but olly says nothing.
olly says nothing.
#witch hat tag#orufrey#sorry i wanted to make a new post for my fic since the first illustration is new.#*stands in the middle of a desolate field in the pouring rain* Please Read My Tale...Blease..Oh god please..*collapses to the ground*#someone asked if there's spoilers in it. Um...yes. Sorry...it's about everything#maybe i should describe it more? it's about qifrey becoming more and more disabled - as i feel is his canon trajectory#and both of them processing the choices that have been made. it was necessary for me to explore this in order to fully understand orufrey#and for them to have the cathartic conclusion-that's why this is important to me for my witch hat fanwork making life. this connects it all#and having dived into qifrey's mind and lived through oru's feelings i was able to get to a place that is possible for them.#the hit/kudos ratio is so pathetic idek what happened. ppl opening it realising its long and saving it for later or just bailing lmfao#idek any more i hate advertising my writing i hate trying to get more ppl to read my long fics it's so hard 🥲#i'm so much prouder of this than my art...i was able to sink deeply into the orufrey feelings i had always wanted to fully explore#so. it's there lol.........i reread the date/kiss segment today after trying to forget about it thinking maybe the fic is just BAD lol#and like.....nope! i like it very much and this is what i was trying to get across. and it's always there to be read by anyone who wants to#and i will always remember the bliss i felt while writing when i was just lost in their world and living as them. dear GOD i love them.#i'm grateful to myself that i put in the work and love to make this so that i can always come back to it. i wanna illustrate scenes properly#but i'm never satisfied with drawing things i've written because i just can't capture the vivid experience in my mind. maybe one day.
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hate when i see a post and i just Know it’s gonna majorly prevent me from writing anything for like. a solid week.
#gav gab#another ‘stop making characters understand or communicate their feelings’ post!#with additions about how#‘consent posturing’ and asking if they can touch someone and negotiating boundaries is Boring And Bad#and Nobody Knows Identity Language This Character Doesn’t Know What ‘Asexual’ Is And Could Never Navigate Wanting A QPR With Someone#That’s Too Self Aware And Where Did They Learn That!!#‘you’re all RUINING STORIES with your stupid THERAPY SPEAK and characters TALKING about things’#‘stop making characters know how to help someone through a panic attack they should be making it WORSE’#I never know if im guilty of doing what these posts are so pissy about#but they’re always out here with tens or hundreds of thousands of notes#and it’s like well! this must be a major consensus opinion I guess!#and everything i write must be boring and cringeworthy and feel entirely fake and stupid!#and then i fight with myself not to delete everything I’ve ever written and scrap every project i have#because if this is how people feel about them what’s the point
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yall mfers need to stop
#gay characters written with a straight audience in mind are a thing im not denying that#like 95% of one-off queer storylines in the early 2000s were just#''hello i am a gay. i have just enough personality to pass as human in the eyes of the audience.#now let me explain why you should treat me like a person''#but my god have people taken this phrase and run all the way into hell with it#if i see one more person saying heartstopper is for straight people im gonna start biting throats out#it was created by a queer person first of all#and second of all they did not write an entire subplot about there being no age limit on discovering who you are#for STRAIGHT PEOPLE#that wasn't for them!! it was for all the people in their 30s who watched the first season#and cried their eyes out because they were seeing all the things they never got to have#im so tired yall#i stg any queer media that's even remotely lighthearted or optimistic#is immediately called ''sanitized'' or rejected as some fantasy aimed at straight ppl who dont want to deal with harsh realities#when that just isnt fair at all#also side note the post i saw that prompted me to make this also put ''pretty much all queer media made in asia'' on the list#of queer media for straights#which. feels racist.#i really dont have much of a frame of reference for queer anime/kdramas/cdramas etc. but the generalization feels sketchy#idk man i feel like there's a certain segment of the community who will just say anything they dont like is not For Us#like just because it isn't for YOU doesnt meant no one in the community can relate to/enjoy it ffs
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*wheeze* slowly, but surely, working on art of them all
#bg3#myart#wip#I want to make every tav/companion pairing I have a dedicated. fancy piece.#these started with a concept for a wyll drawing that was very...storybook! inspired.#I would have been done all the linework for these two pieces by now had my weekend gone better :/#I was violently unwell for...about a week and a half? chronic illness bullshit. had started to feel better friday of last week...#...unfortunately fate had it that the weekend ended up being particularly stressful. so the pain returned anew.#it was. somewhat better today. but still not enough for me to really be productive in my free time :(#I will try to complete the linework tomorrow if all goes well. I really would like to start colouring them!#I have delightful colour schemes chosen...#gale/illamin piece has already been sketched in a notebook. once I finish these two- I will begin lining theirs!#illamin's connects to cadence's because they're intertwined like that. but I have yet to finish planning out cadence's piece.#I've gone back and forth on who I should romance with him...the thing with any of the companions is that they are all written to be-#-immensely compatible with each other. so writing a tav FOR a specific companion is a bit hard. often the tav could fit with any of them.#hell. I'm STILL working out details of jantar and corydalis' story & characters. because I can't be normal about this.#that aside- I DO have other. finished pieces...finally.#well. I had some long before... but I didn't want to post them because I wasn't happy with them.#so I went and finished new stuff that I DO like.#4. technically 5 drawings. all horror/horror adjacent in theme.#my extremely detailed hux painting is also NEARLY done. after months upon months of work.#and I continue to slowly chip away at the big scifi themed dbd piece I've had in progress.#I really never run out of things to draw and it's a bit torturous because I never have the time or energy to draw everything...
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