#hollywood fucking hire me

[alicedrawslesmis]

Again. When will they adapt les mis as a christmas movie about a mall santa with a checkered past and a security guard falling in love.

#WHEN. #hollywood fucking hire me #will I have to write this script myself #like the first half is set in the late 80s and then theres a time skip to an early 200s hot topic where cosette hangs out in #I swear. it will be good #2000s***

[cozylittleartblog]

if star wars was pitched for the first time in today's entertainment industry it would be turned down. and so would any other thing that's currently a "big IP". where do idiot executives think the IPs come from to begin with???

#entertainment industry #animation industry #hollywood news #not art #this isn't common knowledge to most people so it's my mission to let people know just how bad it is out there #if its original its not getting picked up. if it does get picked up somehow it'll be cancelled by the second season. #unless its a shitty celebrity nepo project or the gazillionth generic Edgy Adult Animated Comedy with the fugliest art style you've ever se #n. how do we Great Chicago Fire all of hollywood. anyone got a cow and a lantern? we can do it. #maybe TWO cows and TWO lanterns #god the industry makes me sad. especially the animation industry its basically fucking dead #it literally IS dead actually. like. we lost cartoon network guys its over. indie is the future and the only future i guess #do you know how many animation folks are out of a job rn??? nobodys fucking hiring there aren't any jobs to begin with #nothing good will be coming out soon. i fully expect the animators to strike this year #capitalism kills art the CEOs are minmaxing profits to the extreme etc etc burn it all

[never-forget-viva-la-pluto]

The Phantom Menace is a Menace to my sleep schedual

The beginning of this video is a scene from the movie that had plagued me for years

A droid.

A robot. Metal, no eyes. It is designed like the ones in the thumbnail.

Was holding up Binoculars to see something in the distance.

BINOCULARS!!!!

IT DOESNT NEED BINOCULARS TO SEE!! ITS A ROBOT!!! BINOCULARS SHOW IMAGES IN REVERSE!!!! THAT DOESNT WORK FOR ROBOTS!!!! ESPECIALLY IF THAT ROBOT HAS NO FUCKING EYES!!!!!

THIS MOVIE COST MORE THAN I WILL MAKE IN MY WHOLE LIFETIME AND GOD ONLY KNOWS HOW MANY PEOPLE WORKED ON THAT MOVIE!!!!

I'm supposed to be sleeping but instead I'm ripping my hair out over how no one talks about this being the worst laps of logic displayed in media.

I could be making so much money as a script supervisor, but alas I am disabled and I hate Disney.

Yes this movie is 24 yrs old, no I am not over this stupid ass moment.

#hire me as a script supervisor and i could fix Hollywood #the phantom menace #im so tired #it was the worst one #it doesnt even have the sand meme #its just terrible #it was written by lucas and began filming in less than a year #how many people misses that #fuck disney #disney jumpscare #disney tw #disney warning #anti disney #george lucas #this never would have happened in the og trilogy #Youtube #update tag: i am not saying you should hate this movie damn Maul was the coolest villian im saying i the money spent could feed families #update tag: and they still dont pay attention to it enough to fix little mistakes

[periprose]

Sweet as Nuka Cola

Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Reader

You're an upcoming actress who has a constant flirtation with Cooper Howard. But even if things seem to be off to a good start, a nuclear bomb, a cryogenic pod, and two hundred years of carnage ruins all of it. Is there something to be salvaged from your relationship with Mr. Howard?

Genre: Mutual pining, flirting, slow-burn, angst, friends to kind-of enemies to lovers (no cheating but maybe it's a little murky?)

Word Count: 11k

“Action!”

“Hello. Yes, it’s me.” You wave at the camera, adorned in a classic-red sweetheart neckline dress. “You might know me from ‘Girls Want It All’ or ‘Next Door Babe.’”

Here, you play up your recent bombshell status. As Ed, the director of this advert, keeps reminding you, you need to sell yourself to make customers listen.

You sway in your dress, squeezing your arms and throwing your waist back to plump and push out your chest. The implication of the sex appeal in your movies keeps people watching.

But you’re still a rather new actress, so America might not know you so well. You’re glad Nuka Cola has hired you– if you want to be a star, you need more exposure.

“Do you enjoy feeling refreshed?” You cock your head to the camera, pursing your red lips. “Well, golly, what a silly question. Who doesn't?”

“That's where Nuka Cola comes in.” You lift a bottle out of the cooler next to you, all gentle in demeanour, showing off the logo of the bottle to the camera, in your perfectly manicured hands. “With triple the amount of caffeine found in competitor's bottled cola, it's sure to keep you feeling up for a long, long time.”

“And it's good for you.” Ed whispers, a last minute adlib you did not agree to, but you're a professional, so you add it on with a little wink.

“And it sure as heck is good for you.” You smile, the infamous smile that's won you notoriety to Hollywood execs for being the newest bombshell on the block, and you throw your shoulders back as you really lean into your image. 

“Cut! That's a wrap, everyone!” Ed, wanting to finish early, quickly starts ushering everyone out so not a cent more gets spent. 

You immediately relax out of your practised, professional smile. “Any ADR needed?”

“Don't think so, but we'll let you know.” The director is already moving onto whatever his next project is. Advertisements make more money than anything else these days.

You head over to catering, where you're craving– not a Nuka Cola, considering how much sugar is in that thing it's hardly refreshing at all– but an iced tea. 

You stretch out your ankles in your kitten heels as you prepare it. If you told your Ma back in Mojave that the worst thing about fame would be the uncomfortable outfits, she'd smack you. So you keep it to yourself– you're grateful, you're humble, you'll never be an entitled asshole like those fucking execs.

“Watch out, I'm behind ya.” A man gently presses your shoulder as he walks next to you.

You know that voice. Famous movie cowboy, devilishly handsome, easy to admire. A career worth emulating.

“Mr. Howard?” You turn to look at him, and it is him. Wearing a tuxedo suit, smiling his classic, rugged grin at you.

“The one and the only.” He laughs in a self-deprecating way, as a man tired with his fame and used to mocking it. “Hey, wait, don't I know you?”

You immediately feel your face heat up. “Probably not– lots of people have mistaken me for Lucky Yates so far…”

“No, I do know you.” He points a finger at you, while pouring himself a mug of black coffee. “I told you mister, I'm not here for a long time. Just a good one, and if you can't provide it for me, I'll be inclined to look elsewhere.”

Cooper Howard does a perfect impression of your girly, haughty tone from “Girls Want It All”, and it surprises you that he even knows your dialogue that well. You're not used to this much attention, especially not from one of Hollywood's most notable movie stars.

He says your name.

“Yeah, that's me.” You say sheepishly– even though you know you have to fake that confidence, it's hard when you've been caught off guard. You're starstruck– you don't know how to operate, now realizing that even celebrities are noticing you. “Just shooting an ad for Nuka-Cola.”

“Ah, that’s smart of you.” He leans in– about to give you a bit of Hollywood advice, no doubt– and you feel yourself turning warm at the attention he’s giving you. “I wouldn’t expect any less from one of Hollywood’s upcoming stars– residuals aren’t enough to make the world go round.”

You know he’s admiring your street smarts, but you have to ask. “Upcoming, really?”

“Miss, I’m not sure many other actresses could’ve delivered that little monologue I just did without, er, pardon my language,” Cooper takes a sip of his coffee, his eyes peering down at you over the perimeter of the cup. “Fucking it up. Pantomiming too much wily, feminine shit  that execs love, without that little edge of real, subtle emotion. I’m not the only one who thinks so.”

You giggle a little. “C’mon, really? I hardly got to act the way I wanted to.”

“That’s how it starts. Little moments, little subtleties where you’re letting your real character shine through– it’s noticeable to the industry. More opportunities come that way. But it’s smart to use, uh…” Cooper swallows, a tiny, imperceptible thing that reminds you of your bombshell image, that he must be thinking about it. “Smart to use such attractive imagery, if you get my drift. The public will eat you up.”

The way he drawls that latter part makes you feel excited, but you keep it down– it’s well known Cooper Howard is a married man, and you are not about to be ruined by an affair. Even if he does sound sort of flirty, this sort of complimenting is so common in Hollywood.

“What are you doing in the advertisement shooting lot?” You ask, changing the subject, and Cooper shrugs, a nonchalant ripple of a movement that tells you his general cool demeanour isn’t just acting.

“Promised my wife I’d shoot an advert for her. Vault-Tec, you know?” He admits, telling you he hasn’t forgotten about his wife, either. “Gotta head to the experimental Vault they’ve set up next door.”

“Yes, of course.” You, like anyone else, have seen the ads of Cooper in the Vault-Tec suit– it’s a rather controversial thing to be partaking in, but you think he knows what he’s doing.

“Well, Nuka-Cola.” He hands you an iced tea– one you didn’t even notice him making for you as you were talking to him. “I’ll see you around.”

/

The Ghoul walks around the wasteland, two hundred something years into the future.

He’s searching for a bounty– Leopold St. West– worth at least 1000 caps, and it’s terribly difficult to find him when every single person claims he’s in all these different locations, not a single one correlated to each other.

So he’s walking around a destroyed neighbourhood, where Leopold was last seen a day ago, if his fellow ghouls are to be trusted. If he had to guess, these are the remnants of China Town– the faux Asian-esque details, the cheesy red colouring, the false authenticity Hollywood loves to portray as “good as the real thing”. God, Coop does not miss some parts of the fame.

He suddenly stumbles over a piece of the broken sidewalk. Coop’s usually pretty agile, nonchalant on his feet– he knows this feeling. He’s going through withdrawal.

“Shit, I need a minute.” He mutters to himself, feeling a bit woozy.

He's only got a couple more vials of drugs, so he can't be using them all willy-nilly. No, he needs to recoup things and go through this carefully.

Shelter is necessary– the longer Coop is out in the sun, the harsher the effects of withdrawal feel. And, if he’s lucky, one of these buildings might have something for him to loot– more drugs if he’s extra, extra lucky.

Coop enters a nondescript building– where a radroach is waiting, and he immediately fires at it without even looking, killing it in one shot– and he sees the sign over the entry way, marking the lobby.

This is some Hollywood executive-owned club. It’s hard to tell– two hundredyears of wear-and-tear will do that for you– but Cooper Howard distinctly remembers this place, maybe in some conversation back then, maybe when he was networking. 

Every single thing has a distinct, thick layer of grime over it. Coop thinks of sweaty strippers dancing, actors cheating on their wives– they’re all probably dead now.

He reaches into his satchel and takes a hit of one of his vials– and hopes he can replace what he uses with something here.

There’s not a single bottle behind the bar, and he jostles through, not seeing a chem or a drug left behind by anyone on the floor or behind the counter, and he’s mildly disgruntled over how every place has nearly everything picked clean by raiders, wastelanders– just other people. Coop will always loathe these other assholes.

He climbs the broken stairs with a lanky, languid stretch, making it over a fairly large hole where a corpse waits on the floor below. A raider who didn’t watch where he was stepping. That tells him there should be loot up on this upper floor– at least a bit of it.

He walks to the one closed door in a less-than-discreet hallway, gold sconces and railings marking the way.

“Ah… private office.” Coop jiggles an ostentatious handle to a mahogany door, that is surely leading to an even more pretentiously ostentatious office, and he finds that it’s locked.

A good sign. Most likely no one’s ever been in there, because it’s probably a difficult lock to pick. 

It surprises him that no one’s ever just forced their way through.

Coop doesn’t waste time on this though– he just takes a teeny gun out of his bag, fires it, and admires the hole in the door where the handle used to be. The door creaks open on it’s own, and he saunters into a well furnished, dusty office room.

“Nope, nope, nope…” He pushes box after box in the shelves next to the wall, and they fall with loud clatter– loaded with panicky, nuclear-war-on-the-horizon type shit, like canned meats and beans and preserved jams and pickles. “Fuck no.”

He pushes off a toy figurine of Vault Boy down with extra gusto.

Coop looks behind the desk, where there’s a dusty placard reading Adrian Amos II. He grins– one of the worst producer bastards of all time is not someone he’d feel bad about stealing from, even if there was still some conscience left in him. No, sir, Adrian Amos the second did not deserve any sympathy, especially after the way he was known for bitching about salaries, abusing PAs, and having a predilection for going after less-than-consenting women.

Coop grits his teeth, remembering that asshole and how terrible and gaudy this club was back then. Not that it was better now– but he’s grateful for one man’s deserved death, at least.

He jostles open where the second drawer is filled with the glass clinking sound of many, many vials.

“Fucking jackpot, Jesus.” Coop stares down at how many there are– at least 40 or 50– a hell of a lot to just be left behind.

Well, based on the other supplies, Adrian Amos got fucked over and either didn’t make it to his vault in time, or forgot to run to his private club before heading in.

Coop doesn’t give a fuck, though. He starts piling the vials into his cases, and then back into his bag.

There’s a sudden whirring sound near him. “Huh?”

To his left, an imperceptible secret door has pushed itself outwards, decorated in the same dark brown wallpaper as the rest of the room.

Coop looks down and under– he’s accidentally pressed a secret button on the underside of the drawer. “Fuck.”

He doesn’t know what would be inside the secret room– assassins, raiders waiting on someone to dupe? Maybe even synths, just meant to protect Amos when he needed it.

Inside the room, it’s dark, and he can’t make out anything. Coop can only draw his gun rapidly when there’s a blue light suddenly emitting out from the inside.

He’s careful as he approaches– last thing Coop wants is an ambush– and as his vision improves, he sees it’s a cryonic pod, all frosted over so he can’t make out who’s inside.

Coop sighs, ready to leave it behind– he’s not interested in waking up Amos– and instead, the thing whirs, heating up it’s insides with extremely hot steam, and then opens up with a mechanical flourish.

Coop instinctively steps back, coughing “Holy shit!” as the air whooshes past him.

A body falls out, just looking slightly frosted– mostly thawed by whatever the cryo tank just did. 

/

You're on set again, sitting in a free lawn chair while others get ready for their take– it's not for a Nuka-Cola ad, it's just a guest appearance on everyone's favourite sitcom, The Grady Group, where you play an overly promiscuous babysitter who has no sense for watching over kids.

It's comedic, it's an easy way to get laughs– plus it actually boosts the shows’ ratings since you've been in movies and all. You’re done filming already, you’re just sitting here watching the rest of the shoot, dragging out your return to your car, and then back home. 

Something about the fictional family you wait on, Gill and Gina Grady, and their kids Gideon, Gessica, and Gwen, it makes you miss having a family of your own. In fact, you have half a mind to call your mother, despite all the bitching she’ll give you about the things you haven’t done yet.

It also doesn't help that Gill and Gina are a couple in real life– named Arthur and Bea Smith, they really, really are in love, and in between takes they're often canoodling with each other.

You're happy for them, if not a little– jealous, despite the fact that you're not interested in dating anyone right now. At least, you thought you weren't, but you find that lately, when you return back to your apartment all lonesome after a shoot, you feel like something is missing.

“Hey. Nuka-Cola.” Cooper Howard strolls over to where you're sitting, and you smile up at him, covering your eyes from the sunlight streaming through the windows.

“Mr. Howard. Shooting today?” You ask, and he shakes his head.

“Not at all. Just lounging around, waiting for my kid.” He sits in the lawn chair next to you, leaning back, crossing one leg over the other. “Janey is on a field trip at a museum next door– I thought I’d kill some time before picking her up.”

“Ah, cute.” You grin. Janey Howard is an absolutely precious kid– she shares her dad’s smile, but has a curious nature that you admire. “Is she well?”

“As well as kids can be at that age, running around all the time.” Cooper shrugs. “You know how it is.”

“Kind of. I actually did used to babysit kids, so I know– they can never sit still or mind their business.” You laugh as Cooper grins. 

“So you went method for your guest appearance, huh?” He asks, and you’re mildly baffled.

“How do you know about that?” You squint at him, just being jokingly suspicious.

“Oh, I saw a few clips of your footage. While I was walking over here.” He points over at Stu, the director, standing on the living room set, watching clips on his viewfinder. “Seemed pretty natural to me.”

It almost bothers you that he seems so interested in you and your work, that he always voices support– but he’s well-known for being happily married, for being content in general, unlike you.  

Still, better a friend than nothing at all, that’s what you always tell yourself.

“Thanks. But it’s not hard being around kids, is it?” You reminisce being a kid in Mojave, playing with your friends on your street– and then as a young adult, babysitting new kids that still wanted to play with you. “I still sometimes feel like I’m just a kid pretending to be an adult.”

“That never goes away, darlin’.” Cooper laughs, and you blink. “Being an actor, especially, you’re never losing that childhood sense of wonder, you get my drift?”

“Yeah, of course.” You nod. “I just don’t feel complete, I guess. I’m still waiting for the moment I’ll know I’m an adult– like maybe if I get married or something like that.”

“Being married didn’t change that for me either. Neither did being a dad.” He winces, and scratches at his stubble. “Just don’t tell anyone I said that, but I think it’s all apart of being a human person.”

Your face turns a little more glum at that, and he wonders what he said that bummed you out. It’s not his intention– he wants to cheer you up.

“What’s with the sad, forlorn, ‘I’m-a-pretty-girl-come-comfort-me’ look?” Cooper utters as he leans in, and you laugh a little but silence yourself, recognizing his compliment.

It’s dangerous to flirt with this guy, this taken man who has nothing to gain but a bit of affection he may be missing, but you see that he knows his compliment had effect anyways– and he definitely likes that.

You just choose to assume it’s entirely friendly.

“I just… I like the thought of having a family.” You suck in air,at how foolish and girly this sounds, hardly the cutthroat businesswoman you need to be out here. “This is stupid, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it isn’t.” Cooper taps his arm rest, thinking. “You’re hurting, I can tell. You got that same pissed off look most ladies get when they ‘don’t wanna talk’ but they’re holding tons of shit inside.”

Damn this guy, you think, but you decide to be honest.

“I just didn’t think it’d be so lonely out here. In Hollywood.” You press your palms together. “Like, everywhere I go, I’m surrounded by classic Americana, the nuclear family– and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m jealous.”

“As a bachelorette, don’t you got plenty of options?” Cooper grins. “I mean, are men not lining up to court Nuka-Cola girl?”

“Ah…” You hum, thinking of dates you’ve had here, settling back in your seat. “I don’t know– it’s cheesy but I want more sincerity.”

“In that case, don’t be jealous, marriage ain’t all that.” Cooper tuts, knowing that you of all people should hear about how it doesn’t complete you. “It’s not perfect, it’s not a magical fairy-tale where everything gets solved, it’s a hell of a lot more work than people let on.”

“Oh.” You knew that, deep down– but hearing it from him really solidifies that for you. It’s a silly dream.

It sounds like he’s speaking from experience, so you quiet down. But you’re not trying to get your hopes up about that or anything.

“And you’re not an idiot, Nuka-Cola. Don’t get into something you’re not a hundred fucking percent sure about.” Cooper clicks his tongue. “If you really feel the urge to suddenly go and play wife with someone, just for me, make sure he’s absolutely worth it.”

“For you?” You raise your eyebrows at that.

“I figure you won’t do it for yourself. Love is blind and all that.” He points at himself. “But if I, as your buddy Cooper, hold you to that? I’ll bet that you’ll vet every single guy.”

“Oh, really.” You smirk at him, your nose scrunching a little. “Is that for my benefit, or yours?”

“Uh…” Cooper is truly caught off guard here. He knows he didn’t intend anything by what he said, but it does feel like… he won’t enjoy the fact that if the next few times he talks to you, continuing become close to you, he’ll have to get the approval of some man.

Some man who wouldn’t even know you as long he has known you. He always likes his chats with you, and there’s an urge inside him not to let you go.

He thinks again that you’re a little too spontaneous. Not easy to dupe, no– he can’t just flirt with you for fun because you’ll always pick up on it, even if he did it by mistake.

“No comment.” He finally answers with a raspy, low tone, one that you barely hear but are satisfied by.

/

A few months later, you check your face in your little compact mirror before stuffing it in your purse and heading inside Sebastian Leslie’s home. Exciting, yes, because this is the first time you’ve been invited not just to network, not just because a big name has seen you in the movies and wants to flaunt that they know you tangentially.

No, this is the first time you know someone, you’re actually in with a crowd– you’re friends with the host. You don’t feel nearly as awkward walking into Sebastian’s comfortable home and seeing familiar faces that you’re close with, decor that you already recognize.

“There she is.” Sebastian greets you with a tight hug– for a massive flirt he’s actually rather protective of you sometimes. “Love the dress, by the way– is that a vintage Chanel? Black is very flattering on you, my dear.”

You get the sense he didn’t want you to be involved in this industry sometimes, but other times– he likes that you put work in.

“I saw your newest advertisement on TV yesterday.” He comments, and you giggle.

“Was it good?” 

“Yeah, amazing as usual– but you gotta do more than that.” Sebastian holds your hand as he pulls you into the crowd of other low-level actors, people who could risk showing up, really, and you fix your dress, a black one with a low square neckline. “Look into Vault-Tec– I’ve been telling Cooper here about how our futures are totally going to be surrounded by their products, even though that fucker does not want to listen.”

Cooper’s lounging in a low sofa in the pit of this living room, holding a crystal glass full of amber liquid, black button up shirt half open– he looks dishevelled, hair slightly askew, jaw off-kilter as he presses his tongue into his cheek, thinking. Lost by something, but still put together as celebrities are. Geez, you really need to temper your attraction to him.

It doesn’t help how he looks at you, either– there’s something deep and reverent about his gaze, like he wants to believe whatever he sees when he’s looking at you– but you have no idea if it’s real, or if it’s just an act like with most of these celebrities.

You used to see him a lot more frequently too, over the last few months. Either at set, or at more fancy parties– most of which he’s been perfectly pleasant and kind to you.

“Of course you’d label me as some fucking chairman for them, Seabass.” Cooper slams back half a pint of whisky, and pours himself some more. “Hey, Nuka-Cola.”

“Hey, Mr. Howard.” You smile gently. You’ve heard about his divorce– everyone has, but you’re not 100% sure why it’s happened, why now when things seemed to be going so well for him.

Well is relative, though. You know loads of actors have decried him privately– no one wants to hang out with the man promoting the end of the world, apparently. It must be a tough thing to only be hired for your wife’s advertisements– and even then, you don’t exactly agree with what they’re marketing, either.

You don’t feel so strongly against Cooper, though. Maybe because you do like him– but also because you know what it’s like to have your image connected to something you don’t really promote. Nuka-Cola isn’t healthy, it’s got enough sugar to induce instant death when drank regularly. But you do it for the connections, the money– and you’re sure Cooper did too.

“Cooper is fine.” He grumbles, and you remember his last name is maybe a sore subject right now.

“Sorry.” You do your best to be delicate as you sit next to him, and Sebastian sits on the other side of you. “How’re you, Cooper?”

“Not bad. If you count being divorced as being alright.” He sighs, and you feel terrible that you even asked. “It’s like I never knew her, man– I thought Barb was different. Or they changed her, I don’t fucking know.”

“She had her eyes set on the prize. As did you, Coop.” Sebastian states, and Cooper turns, affronted.

“We’re all interested in money and glory, Seabass. Fuck you if you think otherwise.” Cooper tenses, and you feel a bit awkward listening in on this conversation.

“What did I say that negates that? I’m as money hungry as they come.” Sebastian shrugs. “I only meant that– despite it all, making money was what you had in common, evidently not the world-going-nuclear shit. Maybe you’ve got a heart of gold, a change of mind, I don’t know, Cooper. But throwing away an easy life just to pay alimony must be fucking awful, so I just don’t think you’re in it for the money anymore.”

“You’re fucking telling me.” Cooper sniggers. “I don’t think Barb cares. I’m here with no career, and she’s out there getting promoted in Vault-Tec. As for the heart of gold… any former marine would’ve been against that shit.”

You want to ask what shit, but you don’t want to overstep your boundaries. You get the general fear of nuclear war– but Cooper sounds more personally affected by it.

Cooper glances over at you. “What do you think? Better to be richer than you can spend in a lifetime, or to be out with a good conscience?” 

“I don’t know if I’m that interested in money.” You say honestly, and Cooper raises his eyebrows.   

“Really? Nuka-Cola’s a saint, huh.” He chuckles– he’s clearly a bit buzzed.

“No, I’m not. Of course I want to have a career.” You think about this carefully, so it doesn’t sound insincere. “Making money is nice– but I don’t think I have the right to say it should come at the cost of human lives. You know Nuka-Cola is terrible for you, right? ”

Cooper stares at you for a moment too long, and then looks away. “Yeah… addicting.”

He’s definitely not talking about Cola, but you continue on. “Yeah, so just in that way– I disagree with how much power marketing has. We’ve convinced America that they need this– just so some chairman can make an extra dollar.”

Cooper looks at you, renewed by whatever you just said. “Hell, woman after my own heart. That’s damn true.”

“Yes, yes, you two oblivious flirts– there’s no art in filmmaking anymore, just commercialism. Not like it hasn’t been the case for a century.” Sebastian chimes in, and you bite your lip, pretending not to notice how Cooper’s face is smirking bashfully. “But, babe. You’re going to want to make your money before the world fucking ends.”

“What’s that?” You startle, and Cooper laughs sardonically at your surprise, while Sebastian gets up.

“Let me get myself a drink– I hardly want to tell this story sober.” He leaves, and Cooper has half a heart to glare at him– he knows Sebastian is leaving the two of you alone so he can do the dirty work.

Not like his reputation can ever get better, especially by telling this story again with it’s lurid details, but at least it doesn't hurt that he's with you. 

“What does he mean by that, Mr. Howard?” You wince at your use of that. “Sorry– I meant Cooper.”

“Ah, call me what you’d like.” Cooper takes another sip of his drink, leaning back in the couch to the point where he is practically lying down and against you. “It sounds good coming out of your mouth no matter what you pick, Nuka-Cola.”

Now that’s a suggestive, loaded line, and you feel a little more comfortable flirting with him even if it’s a bit of a rebound for him. The end of the world is approaching, right?

“The end of the world?” You prod at him, and he sighs, leaning against your shoulder. 

“It’s fucking ridiculous, what it is… probably never going to happen anytime soon.” Cooper’s tone of voice is hazy as he examines his last sip of whisky in the glass. “No, no. Just something those fucking commies put in my head. I guess they’re not really commies, are they?”

“Unless you elaborate, I can’t say.” You utter back at him, and he pushes down a smile.

“Alright. Vault-Tec’s been selling this nuclear protective stuff, right?” He says, and you nod, your cheek brushing against the top of his hair. “All I can say is that a few… radicals, if you will, think that Vault-Tec might actually be more involved with it than they say. Like, they might be…”

“Not just protective, huh? More offensive? Everyone’s got that feeling, Mr. Howard. And that doesn't sound like a particularly commie-train-of-thought to me.” You hear the sorrow in his tone, even if he’s trying to make it sound like a rumour. “Did you hear this from your ex-wife?”

Cooper winces here. He still feels slightly guilty about spying on her. A part of him thinks they might’ve not divorced if he hadn’t found out– but he knows he was bound to find out eventually, and he would’ve just delayed the inevitable.

“Maybe, Cola. Maybe you’re just sharp.” He whispers, and you smile and he feels it– your skin is intoxicatingly close right now.

“So, odds are?” You ask, just curious, and he exhales.

“Bad. I have to agree with them.” He admits, and it feels exhilarating to admit this– that Vault-Tec is gonna nuke the world at some point, that the radicals are more like minded to him than he’s wanted to believe in the past. “Even if it didn’t cost my movies, I regret partaking in what they were selling.”

That’s a big thing for him to say– you know Cooper loves acting, he absolutely adores playing a hardened sheriff, the last vestige of goodness in the wild, wild west. All the times you’ve visited him on his set– probably during his last contractual movie, now that you think about it– and he was always so excited to show off the architecture and intricacies of the fictional western town they’d set up, share script details and little character quirks so you could have an insider’s viewpoint. He even donned his cowboy hat on you, saying you wore it like a natural.

He loved being the hero, really.

He lights a cigarette, and takes a puff.

“Most big-name connections refuse to talk to me because of this stuff– I’ve basically been dropped out of phonebooks all together. They think I’m still in on it, they think I’ve only stopped because of backlash–” He stops as you begin to scratch his scalp, still leaning against your shoulder, but getting progressively into your neck area.

Jesus, that feels good. He thinks. He hasn’t been intimate in a while– Barb became increasingly more cold to him over the last few months, as their marriage kept falling apart.

“Backlash, really?” You whisper. 

“Yeah.” He stutters for just a moment, because your eyes are peering into his, and for a moment he thinks you could really make it as just a bombshell if you wanted to– then he takes another puff. “When really, I was just backing out of what I thought was really a massive crime against humanity.”

“Are you only telling me this to validate your poor conscience? Remedy that reputation a little?” You ask, and he presses his lips together. 

“Well, I'll be honest, yeah. Of fucking course I'd tell the one woman who seems to be like me on this.” He sounds so certain of you, sounds so sure that you're on his side.

And you absolutely are.

“The world’s about to end, Mr. Howard. You're not a bad man for not wanting to support it. I'm inclined to agree.” You inhale deeply, and Cooper stares at you– something stirs inside him as he does. 

“Kiss me, then. Humour me– since none of this will matter soon.” Cooper murmurs, lying on top of your chest now, the smoke from his cigarette enveloping your face.

He’s so close you barely have to move to oblige to what he’s said– you're second guessing yourself for just a moment, because it feels like a dream that he'd ask you to do this, so out of the blue, such a picture perfect fantasy that you almost don't care about the impending doom, and you press your lips gently to his in an upside-down kiss, his hair brushing against your open cleavage, but Cooper is insistent and leans upward, kissing you with such intensity that your head is spinning afterwards.

God, now that's a movie star kiss. You think.

He kisses you again as Sebastian returns, drink in hand.

“Oi! You two. Jesus Christ, can't keep your hands off each other, can you?” Sebastian pretends to vomit. “C’mon, if I want to talk to you at my party, I should have that right.”

You attempt to pull away– but Cooper, being a little mischevious, perhaps wanting to show off in a way he hasn’t been able to, sits up right and kisses you again, this time normally, just very slowly and passionately though, slithering an arm around your waist in a way that has Sebastian rolling his eyes. 

“Okay, present.” He says, not pulling his arm off your waist. 

“Thanks.” Sebastian shakes his head. “I was thinking we should take the mood off with some party games…”

/

It's about 2 AM when you've finally left the party. Cooper didn't want to let you go– he's crashing at an apartment for the time being, but you really don't want to waste yourself on being his rebound, if he really likes you.

You tell him as much, and he likes that– you really are rather sharp about things. 

“Well. Gimme a call when you realize I'm not kidding around with you.” He says unabashedly, holding your hand, kissing it as you leave.

You’re absolutely sure he's drunk, and he's being a little too clingy– but you want to believe him anyways. 

You walk back to your car, alone. Thinking about if Cooper is worth the damage it could have on your potential career. But then again– the end of the world is coming, right?

So maybe it won’t matter. And you find that you like this, the secret potential of this option, just hanging out with Cooper in a place that used to be America, no more expectations on you both. There’s also the chance you just both die, though.

You shudder.

You don't notice that there's a man in the backseat of your car when you get in, brandishing a chloroform stained cloth.

/

The Ghoul prods at the body that's just fallen out of the cryo pod.

Oh fuck. 

It's starting to stir, whoever it is, and Coop knows he's ready, if this is really some synthetic android-clone thing, to make their life hell. Get some of his anger out on something that doesn’t matter.

Wait– he recognizes that cherry red fabric. That coiffed hair, frosty after being inside the pod. Oh, Jesus… even the makeup is the same as when he last saw you. 

“Ah… shit.” He chuckles to himself in exasperation, because this is beyond belief. “Nuka-Cola, is that you?”

You tilt yourself to the side, eyes bleary, unable to see clearly. Everything’s dark. But you know that voice, you just heard it a couple of days ago.

“Mr. Howard?” You croak out, and he hisses inwards– nobody has called him that in centuries. Nobody knows who he is… except for you, of course. 

“The one and the same, baby.” He licks the side of his gums, deciding to stick with his identity for now. “Well, maybe a little different. You wouldn't happen to know what a Ghoul is, huh?”

“What?” You don't know how long your vision is going to stay black for, but you don't like the sound of that. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Eyes haven't been opened for… two hundred years. I'll give you some time, Cola.” He sighs; cracks his neck, while you sink back into the floor. “Just imagine the ugliest horror-picture monster you can imagine. Zombie, no nose. That paint a picture for you?”

“...”

“What was that?” Coop can't hear you when your voice is muffled into the tiles of this secret room. He grasps your hair gently, from the root, pulling your head upwards so you'll speak– clearly you don't have the strength to lift up your body. 

“I said, how is that any different from before?” 

“Oh, she's still a jokester.” Coop scoffs– despite himself he snorts– and he lets go of your hair so you land back on the floor with a thump.

“–Ow!” You flinch, and then turn over so you’re on your back. “Still an asshole, huh?”

“Me?” He grins maliciously. Ooh, maybe he can use some misplaced anger on you. “You're the one who didn't call back for several weeks.”

“How could I? You can see I've been trapped in a cryo thing for… however long. Did you say two hundred years?” You flatly ask, and Coop still thinks you're lying.

“Yes, and bullshit. You probably had a couple weeks since I last saw you to call me.” He states, and he doesn’t actually hold a grudge, at least not that much of it in comparison to all the other horrid shit that’s happened to him– he just thinks it's funny to push your buttons after all of that, like looking into a mirror of the past– and you groan.

“No, I didn't. I got in my car after Sebastian's party, and some goon sprayed something in my face, I passed out, and he drove me here.” You start, and you begin frowning in such a way that Coop almost feels bad. 

“Why you, sweetheart?” He shakes his head. “You weren't exactly high up in popularity yet.”

“Exactly. No one would miss me.” You spit out bitterly, remember the end to that night, where you were so unaware of your surroundings, and terrified of being assaulted as you were pushed around into this room, blindfolded.

“Adrian fucking Amos, the fucking Second, thought it would be great if I just became his permanent doll during the apocalypse.” You swallow, and Coop sits down next to you, to listen more clearly. You shift towards his body heat– and to his surprise, he still likes that. “See, his daddy has shares in Vault-Tec, so he decided before nuclear fallout happened, he wanted a guaranteed sex slave from his favourite advertisements.”

“Nuka-Cola.” Coop utters with the slowest drawl, concluding your statement– and you like that.

“Yeah, Nuka fucking Cola.” You grimace. “Then he undressed me, put me in this little number, and threw me in the pod. I barely remember this shit because I was so out of it.”

“Shame. I always wondered why you never called me back.” Coop circles back to his little grudge– but he also feels bad, feels some level of guilt that neither he nor Sebastian had the sense to look out for you back then, and you were practically assaulted (maybe actually so if you didn't remember). 

“Yeah, because I wanted to miss out on that piece of ass. Sure.” You joke feebly, and Coop laughs despite himself. 

“Honey, you're gonna run away screaming when you finally see me. Don't worry about it.” He shakes his head. “The real world's a lot more fucking difficult than would'ves and could'ves.”

“Okay, explain. If you're willing to owe me that much.” You start, and Coop gets reminded of that fateful night a couple hundred years ago, where he was the one to clue you into the impending nuclear war.

Not even three months later, it was all over, and you were nowhere in sight– if his mind ever did drift to you, the what-ifs and who-knows that still persisted– he would always assume you were dead.

Now he thinks you're just unfinished business. 

“Fine.” He taps your shoulder, and you lean a little closer towards him– you touch his hand, and instead of flinching as many people have in the past– you trace the tough, callused skin there.

He thinks there’s something wrong with you. Why do you seem drawn to him anyways? You’re completely fucking up his tough guy, lone-wolf persona by being here, and he wants you gone. He pulls away his hand, ignoring how your face falls for a moment.

Coop inhales, and then starts. “In October 2077, they nuked America, bombed it all to hell. By they, I think we both know what I’m implying.”

“It wasn’t the Chinese.” You interrupt, and he shushes you.

“Yeah, Cola.” He starts playing with his fingers, feeling like you don’t deserve to be here right now. That you should’ve just stayed dead. “Vault-Tec destroyed it all.”

It’s no good. He’s an old man, and you’re still as soft and young as ever. He’s always haunted by his past, like with Barb and Janey, and then Sebastian’s voice in every single Mr. Handy robot he comes by, and then finally, his last couple memories with you.

“The last two hundred something years have been filled with carnage, death, unspeakable horrors that your pretty little mind could never comprehend.” He grits out, pushing past the past and remembering that this is who he is now– a killer– and you stare at him vacantly, because his tone is so much more serious suddenly. “Nothing is the same. Everyone has blood on their hands, water is a fucking commodity, if you’re not watching out for humans to betray you, hideous creatures like me roam the ground, and that ground? Sands, deserts, barely a hint of green. It’s nothing worth coming back to.”

“So you’re saying I’m in hell.” You suddenly inhale harshly, and Coop ignores the urge to check on you.

The last thing he needs is an extra person to take care of– especially someone who doesn’t know the Wasteland. So it’s better now that he just weans you off and leaves you here.

“Yeah, sweetheart. And I'm the devil.” Coop sucks on his teeth again. “If you had any sense, you’d go back into that fucking freezer until some utopia is born four hundred years from–”

You flinch, and he stops. 

“Oh, God, my eyes–”

The sight comes back slowly then all at once. Light everywhere, overwhelming your senses. 

You blink, tears rolling down your face. 

“Maybe it would’ve been better if you stayed blind, Cola.” He stares at you as you rub your eyes, taking in the state of the room. 

It’s a warning, but you look up at him again anyways. And Coop waits for the utter horror, for the sign that he really has transformed into a monster, so he can hurry up and leave– this entire conversation with you is just him finishing Cooper Howard’s past with a bow. A shiny, Nuka-Cola-red bow.

“...” You swallow, and then bite your lip, tilting your head up at him. “Couldn’t let go of the cowboy identity, huh?”

Coop furrows his non-existent eyebrows, disliking how hard you’re making this, how clever you still seem to be– you also seem way too relaxed with him. He has half a mind to fire a warning shot at you. “Yeah, okay, darlin’. You’re just avoiding facing that horrific, bile-inducing sensation in your throat, aren’t you?”

You shake your head, disagreeing immediately. “You might look– a little less like how I remember you, I guess… but you’re still you. I see it, and apparently so do you.”

How dare you? Coop thinks, how dare you intertwine his two images together so easily when he could never be the same man again, when just seeing an old VHS tape of one of his movies pains him?

“Yeah, no thanks. If this is your way to get me to valet you around, I’m not that man anymore, Nuka-Cola.” He resents the way you think he could still be good– just because his western image brings him a little comfort nowadays. “Not a sheriff anymore.”

Your face drops, but you seem to take that information readily. “Yeah, I figured that based on your outfit, the little blood splatters on your pants… if that’s how the world is, then so be it.”

You’re saying things that on paper should be right– but Coop is getting more and more disgruntled with you, and you feel like you need to separate yourself from him. Yes, tough, because to you it’s been all of forty-eight hours since you kissed him– but you can see, no matter how deep the original Cooper Howard is inside this new Ghoul, you’re not going to be able to bring him out.

You stand up, on shaky, bare feet, and motion for Coop to move out of the way. Independent woman to the end, you are, and you want to get your bearings without him.

Coop internally sighs. He doesn’t believe for one second you’ll survive out there– and he really doesn’t need to spend the time seeing you die, so he turns around, and leaves you here.

/

He never did find Leopold St. West, much to his chagrin– you really, really messed up his day. 

It happens. Sometimes he’ll see Janey in another person’s eyes and freak out, and have to boil it down by murdering random raiders. 

But now Coop is just spiteful. He’s always figured that a lot of what happened to the world was just a bunch of rich people picking and choosing a destiny for themselves to the detriment of everyone else, and now he’s aware that included you, too. To casually be grabbed away by some man, just because he was rich… Coop isn’t unsympathetic to how you ended up, even if he treated you quite poorly. It’s sickening.

Two hundred years of quiet, always-dwelling agony, the first few years out of fear for being alone, and the next few years spent conspiring about what could’ve happened to his family– and then here you are as confirmation of his worst theories.

No wonder he enjoys his casket time.

/

Coop sighs.

Vaultie is hard to keep track of. She got away with murder this time at the organ harvesting clinic– so Coop finds it easier to stop working with her, to move when he wants to.

The Govermint (really just Booker’s shitty gang) was rather easy to dismantle. The two sheriffs that he killed required no expertise on his part.

He’s thinking about the fact that since Moldaver is still alive, and apparently that fucker Hank MacLean, then that means there’s a good chance Barb and Janey are too– perhaps he could go and find them.

It’s an odd urge, though. Everytime he thinks about it, he wonders how he’s actually supposed to connect with them again– they’ve been fractured for so long, and he’s changed, and there’s a good chance neither of them would accept him like this.

But you did, didn’t you? You were on the verge of saying yes, you’d accept him– as if nothing had changed.

Coop grumbles. The big, significant difference is that you were infatuated with him, but Barb divorced him, and Janey was too young to make that choice. He considers that it could be a pipe dream, but he still has hope– for Janey, at least.

He thinks you’re probably dead anyways. He hasn’t seen you in several months, since that day where he unceremoniously woke you up– and he hopes it stays that way.

He's chilling in another small, scrappy area of the wasteland. Nobody bothers the Ghoul, not when he's casually fiddling with his gun and and chewing on a toothpick.

A man runs past him, holding a significantly valuable piece of Brotherhood equipment. Maybe worth thousands of caps if he knows his shit, and he does. That’s a fusion core, and they’re not exactly mass producing those anymore during the apocalypse.

Coop points his gun at him, finger on the trigger, seconds away from creating a bloody mess–

A blade thwacks into the guy’s neck, blood spurting as he falls and chokes. A person– a woman– jumps on his back, her face obscured by a deep green bandana . She yanks out the knife, stabs a few more times for good measure– and Coop knows the game, he’s not surprised he’s not the only one to go after this guy.

He’s pretty good at killing casually, and he barely even moves from where he’s standing, aiming the gun at her.

No way is he letting easy money pass by him.

He’s about to pull the trigger extra-quick when she yanks the bandana down, taking a deep breath as she sweats, and Coop actually misses.

It’s you. You stare up at him from where you’re squatting over the body, and your gaze hardens, furrowed brows, dark lashes, intensely dark pupils. You purse your lips, press them together, jaw set in a stern fashion, recognizing him but refusing to hear him out– and Coop doesn’t know why he’s not firing, but he’s almost… enamoured with how you are now, almost taken aback by your new nature.

Not so taken aback that he doesn’t immediately start firing when you take the fusion core and start running.

And Coop doesn’t want to actually kill you, he just wants to incite some damage. See how far you can take it.

You interweave through random gaps in the metal scraps of this little abode, seeking shelter as you do so, and Coop’s gunfire only ricochets off them with cartoony sounding “pings!”

He manages to graze your left thigh through a small window, and you inhale sharply, stopping as you grit through the pain.

Coop grins to himself. This little cat and mouse chase is what he expected, what was predictable from you– you’re smart enough to stay on the defense, but you would probably never attack him, avoiding him because of your sad feelings of the old times, never resort to carnage unless you needed to–

You shove past the walls where you’ve been roaming, and manage one kick against his stomach and he manages to grab you and restrain you, your back against his front.

You grab his own jacket for purchase, and instead of pulling forward– you push back, landing on top of him with a thud that surely hurts him. Coop clenches his teeth, back against the ground now, but you scramble, straddling him. Hands around his throat, knife pressed against one of his tendons. Not outright strangling him, but just enough pressure that he knows you’re seriously threatening him.

Holy fuck, have you changed. Just like Vaultie, maybe you’re showing your honest self– and Coop supposes it may have been his mistake to underestimate you.

“Got a whole new outfit… I like it.” He admires your new leather jacket, cargo pants around your thighs pushing his arms down, a blouse fashioned out of your old Nuka-Cola dress. Tough combat boots dig into his thighs as you push against him. “Don’t fucking start–” You squeeze a little harder and he groans, the tip of the knife pushing in. “With your on and off, hot and cold bullshit.” 

Ooh, it sounds like you have a little bit of a grudge over how you were treated.

“Get over it, Cola. It was centuries ago, whatever we had.” He spits out, and you have a glint of sadness in your eyes.

He knew you were a little too gushy for your own good– not even he adapted that quickly to the wilderness of the Wasteland. He waits for you to make the mistake, apologize, break down– and then he can take the core and get out of here.

But you’re still firm in your grasp of him, your weight pushing him down, blade against him.

You’re not angry about back then. You’ve come to terms with that.

You’re angry at the state of the world. 

“You know what I fucking hate, Ghoul?” You spit in his face, and he blinks, spittle now on his chin. “You are all so selfish. I got left behind, likely for dead, right, and nobody gives a shit, whatever. But instead of me hoping that the leftover crumbs of society would at least try to be, I don’t fucking know, more hopeful and kind, or at the very least, not be so fucking greedy and transparently trying to be the new party in charge.”

“You’re living in a dream world.” Coop interrupts, and he’s rewarded with you carving a small, little cut on his cheek, a rapid movement you hardly think about, and it causes him to inhale sharply, a drop of blood smearing across his face.

“Oh, no. I’m not asking for everyone to hold hands and play family.” You laugh suddenly, and then somehow lean in closer, and Coop finds that in some fucked up way he enjoys the pressure against him. “It’s bullshit, that kind of image making– you and I both know that. But for all this supposed talk against the rich billionaires who ruined our lives, how are we not just emulating them?”

Coop is actually drawn to silence.

“Maybe you actually got fooled by self-image, Cola.” He murmurs. “Or maybe that’s just people’s true nature.”

You don’t like that answer. You don’t actually want to believe that, but the more you think about it, the more it’s probably true. People lie all the time, but the amount of outrage you’ve heard from people the last few months, bemoaning Vault-Tec and all those rich fuckers, you were inclined to believe they wouldn’t act the exact same way.

Just at a different level. Power corrupts all, you guess.

You loosen your grasp a little. “Thank you.”

It’s honest, and Coop doesn’t like how much he does like your nature of trusting him– how even as this new, terrible version of yourself, you still trust him, and you still ask for his advice.

He doesn’t know what to make of this, but he thinks maybe he can get some use out of you yet.

Coop wrangles his arm from out under your thigh, where you’ve accidentally let a gap through, and shoves you over.

You fall with a gasp, hitting the ground, and he stands up and kicks you for good measure, while you screech in pain. 

Coop picks you up by your throat, and you instantly move to fighting– your blade against his stomach, teeth gritted in resolute urge to kill– but he’s got his pistol at your neck, and the way he brushes it against you is almost like a lover’s embrace.

“One thing I hate is a fucking liar, Cola.” He grumbles, and you glare at him. “You’re not some innocent– why else do you got a fusion core in your pocket?”

“I never claimed I was a good woman.” You shake your head. “I just wonder why the Brotherhood, the Enclave, hell, even some of the Raiders… everyone wants the ultimate piece of the pie.”

“Besides, you’re the one who kept saying to survive out here I’d have to be a killer.” You remind him, and he looks down at you, thinking. “The world’s grieving– I don’t blame it for that, I feel the same way.”

You’ve still got a way with words, he thinks, and he was right. He can use you for his benefit.

“Say, Nuka-Cola. Why don’t we take some of those fuckers down?” He stills. “Not randoms. The power-hungry pie-eaters, like how you so eloquently put it.”

You don’t fully trust him again, but you’re into the prospect. You don’t want power, and you know he doesn’t either, but it’s not just looting. No, no, this is something akin to revenge.

“Alright.” You whisper.

“Alright. Okay, I won’t shoot if you don’t cut me.” He speaks softly, slowly, trying to cajole you out of attacking– and you move as he does. 

The threatening air of before is gone now, and the Ghoul has only a odd stare for you, something that makes you feel watched, almost reminding you of two centuries ago. It could be that he doesn’t trust you either– and so you walk onward with a gap between you two, heading to wherever a faction that needs fucking up could be.

/

Coop strolls inside the makeshift bar as you make conversation, staying within the shadows. It’s not on official Enclave grounds, it’s simply a nearby bar where members have been known to hang out. 

He doesn’t exactly mind being the one to pick up the slack of killing people– he can tell you’re good at charming people what with your former bombshell acting techniques, your silly, soft blinks, the way how your skin still looks smooth and untouched.

Was it all a lie with him? Aw, shit, why does he care? He really doesn’t have time to wonder if he’s been manipulated by you– he won’t be manipulated by you now, when he gets rid of many the people who represents obstacles in his way to finding still-existing Vault-Tec members.

Yes, that’s all this is to him. Another step to finding Moldaver, Henry MacLean, then his family if he’s lucky. And you’ll get some rage out of it, so he doesn’t even consider this to be that bad of an evasion of his. 

You laugh at something the guy next to you says. Coop catches a bit of it, of him asking how you look under that big jacket– and you mentioning you’d like to see him without that government get-up, too.

He grits his teeth. He’s not fucking in love with you, or anything stupidly juvenile like that– but he definitely felt something before when the two of you were fighting, or when you had conversations during the long, arduous talk here– you bit into a piece of his jerky when he offered it, and he laughed in surprise that you didn’t spit it out after he revealed it was feral ghoul ass jerky.

He also found that his gaze kept being drawn to you, too. You kept up with him, you were capable of hunting and searching on your own, you took lives when the need arose, and you had his back, even if he didn’t ask for it.

You made him subconsciously draw from the past, reminiscing about a time with you and a future he never thought he’d revisit. And now he can’t ignore that, so he needs to let off some steam.

There’s a splatter of blood across your face as the guy in front of you splutters, a bullet hole shot through his forehead. Little pieces of flesh hit the bar counter as he falls, and you gasp.

Coop is kind of quick with it now– he fires off, and because these “politicians” are unprepared, he’s able to kill off more than half.

You get over your shock quickly and fire your own tiny pistol at random, managing a few kills, but the Ghoul takes the last one and looks back at you, with an intrepid glance that you can’t figure out.

“What the hell was that?” You call out, and he doesn’t respond, instead beginning to pilfer the bodies, looking for shit to take. “Hey, Ghoul…”

“We came here to kill off those guys.” He answers you, but it’s not really an answer.

“Yeah, but I thought we agreed on discussing this shit as we were doing it. What happened to signalling?” You approach him, and as you get close enough, he turns around and stares unnervingly into your eyes.

“I did signal, sweetheart.” He clicks his tongue, lying through his teeth. 

“Bullshit.”

“No, I did.” He points at you. “It’s not my fault that you were too busy schmoozing and flirting to notice.”

“Wow.” You laugh exasperatedly at his antics, while he tilts his head. “You’re really obtuse, you know?”

“Nah. I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You’re gonna say you’re not jealous–” At that word, the Ghoul snarls, ready to tell you exactly how little he cares for you, and you motion for him to zip it. “But at the very instance of seeing me flirt, mind you, in the most fake way possible, you lost it. You can’t even tell the difference between my genuine flirting and the fakest, schlockiest shit?”

“...” Coop frowns, because you’re right– he did kind of let his mind go wild over nothing in particular. 

Even worse, it means he’s made it apparent to you that he still harbours some feelings for your long-ago relationship. And that’s definitely a potential weakness– he does not want you to believe you can just work him around.

“Fuck you.” He spits, and instead of your face flinching in hurt, you stay neutral.

“I know you think you can come close and then shove me off every once in a while, because you’re fucking terrified of what it means that you’re not as hard as you pretended to be, that you still have a bit of human emotion inside you.” You tiptoe up to his face so he can’t avoid you. “I don’t care. That’s your problem.”

You turn to leave, to continue looting the bodies– and Coop’s hand wraps around your wrist. 

He hates what you’ve said, because it’s absolutely provoking the worst issue he has– he can never just let go. Two hundred years of this has made him a different creature altogether, spiteful; evil, but Coop knows as well as anyone that his transformation doesn’t negate his original nature, buried deep down.

It was a lie on his part– people are not as evil as he made them out to be, it’s the cycle of this situation that perpetuates that shit. Violence begets violence and all that. He can’t seem to say this to you, though, because he can tell you already probably knew that.

What is this fuckery, that you’re able to generate such a sense of guilt in him?

“Show it to me again. Genuine flirting.” he says instead, and he knows it’s stupid as hell to say something like this. “It’s been hundreds of years, you can’t expect me to fuckin’ remem…”

You grasp his arm back, making him quiet.

He’s half expecting you to punch him, but you see something you like– something that finally satisfies you, and you kiss his cheek, where you cut him much earlier in the day. It’s a soft bruise, mostly healed over in the way ghouls heal– but it’s overwhelmingly, embarrassingly hot there now as you pull away.

“I won’t forget the difference next time, Nuka-Cola.” He tips his hat at you in a mockery of his acting as a dashing cowboy once upon a time.

“Won’t be a next time.” You shrug. “I would hate to have to flirt with someone again just to get you to notice me.”

This severely bothers him, like you haven’t been an annoyance in his mind this whole time. And then he wonders if you’re an idiot, like you have no idea the effect you had on him back then, and even now. Hell, even that overly-chaste kiss has him remembering how he felt at Sebastian’s party when you humoured him the first time.

Do you think the only thing he’s burying is some empathy for the human race?

He can’t just let you be this wrong about this, no fucking way. And it’s with this in mind that the Ghoul feels his reserve melt as he tightly grabs your face and kisses you. Not a soft, movie-star kiss of the past, but one more hungry, his lips swallowing yours, pressed sternly, firmly, like he’s not gonna let you go. He parts his mouth ever so slightly, trying to catch a reaction from you.

You’re caught off guard, and he’s glad. He likes that you don’t know what to do with yourself, that for once you’re floundering rather than him, and you barely remember to kiss back until a couple seconds later when your hands grasp the base of his skull. You’re tracing grooves, calluses, skin that’s been eroded by his ghoulishness. You feel like he tastes ever so acidic– perhaps from the radiation emitting from his body– but some weird part of you loves it, and you part your lips as you kiss him harder, wanting to feel his tongue.

Your lips are just as soft as he remembers– but there’s more excitement now, more of an urgency as you kiss him, so he takes your invitation and swirls his tongue around on yours, disgustingly vulgar and perversely fast, yet lingering to enjoy the sensation, and he kinda loves being a corrupting force, being the ghoul who eats up this sweet human girl, and he tightens his grip– it almost hurts you, how tightly his hands weave around your waist suddenly– and then before you know it, he pulls away.

He wipes his mouth, never taking his eyes off of you.

“So. Did I taste like Nuka-Cola?” You joke, and he laughs in your face.

“Nope. Darlin, you haven’t been the Nuka-Cola girl for hundreds of years. They replaced you not long after you vanished.” He smiles widely at how your face drops. “I can show you some of the new girl’s billboards, if you’d like.”

“That would explain the lack of revenue.” You raise your eyebrows. “Then why do you still call me Nuka-Cola, Cola, etcetera?”

“That’s how I remember you.” It sounds too sweet, too nice that he keeps your nickname on tabs, so he twists his lips in a sneer. “Plus I don’t remember your name.”

“Oh.” You bite your lip, finding his insult more funny than anything else, and turn around to take items from the bodies around you. “Okay, Mr. Howard.”

It was the optimal moment for you to joke back, calling him the Ghoul, but in classic you-fashion, you decided to extend an olive branch to him– reminding him that he’ll never just be the Ghoul to you. And even if Coop knows he’ll always remember you by Nuka-Cola, he has a fondness for you that he doesn’t neglect anymore– and he murmurs your name so softly, but just enough that you turn back and look at him, and smile with pleased recognition. 

#cooper howard x reader #cooper howard x you #the ghoul x reader #the ghoul x you #the ghoul #cooper howard #fallout #fallout tv #fallout x reader #fallout x you #ghoul x reader #ghoul x you #fallout show #fallout 2024 #fallout tv series #fallout amazon #fotv #fallout series #fallout prime #the ghoul angst #the ghoul imagine #the ghoul fallout #the ghoul fluff #cooper howard imagine #fallout imagine

[lacebird]

i just think that enver gjokaj as jack kerouac >>>

#fucking hire me hollywood as a casting director #enver is like a head taller than jack was buT NOTHING ANGLES Could fix #they also sound kinda similar likeeeeeee #just wait i have a wholeass pitch in my head

[certified-bi]

Okay all my thoughts because some people have been saying that not supporting this change is not supporting artist and creators and as an artist fuck that.

1. Audiences owe you nothing. You have to convince them to engage with your creation not the other way around. This is something both the nonprofit theatre I work with recognizes and huge companies realize. It's just part of life. There are so many talented people in the world making amazing art, videos, music, writings, and on and on, and there's only so much time in the day. I'm not saying you shouldn't know your worth, just that being flippant about how little you care about those who can't pay isn't a good move. On that note...

2. PR is everything. If you haven't made a visible effort to push patreon, channel memberships or other avenues of making money, don't be suprised that your creation that was previously accessible to those without extra cash and to those who can't support foreign subscriptions due either to conversions or because it simply doesn't work, being made private isn't popular. There's a big leap from "We want to have more artistic control" to "We can't afford to make our content accessible to most of our audience," and people are smart enough to see this. You either have to make budget cuts or give into sponsors. This isn't unique to Watcher, it's part of literally every production from broadway, to Hollywood, to YouTube. Unless you can fund it yourself or get viewers to pay(which given how many are already strapped for cash...) that's life.

Not to mention they simply do not have enough followers to make the switch to a paid only site(dropping the first epsiode only on YouTube isn't going to draw people in, they're just going to say "oh why start if I'm not going to see the rest" and not watch) especially not one that is buggy and a security risk. Even if the switch had been supported its not going to end well. The only reason services like nebula and dropout work is because of the large amount of series and creators and the fact those creators still are partly on YouTube so new people are drawn in.

3. As for the price, 6 dollars a month is a not a good starting price for only their content and that's as someone who pays for nebula. I'd be paying the same amount for a fraction of the access to others work. Actually it'd be twice as much. And before someone says "it's only a coffee-" that's for you. Not everyone has your lifestyle. And with every other patreon and subscription service that says the same thing, it all adds up and I simply don't think 60 dollars for 48 videos a year on a subscription basis where you don't get to keep the videos if your situation changes, some of which don't appeal to every viewer is a good move. If you were able to buy physical copies of your favorite series they've made that'd be different, but that's not what this is.

4. I do believe that the employees deserve a livable wage. I also did not hire them. It is not on the viewers that they hired more people than they could afford to. They can charge that much if they want to to try and balance this out. They also shouldn't be suprised if not many can or will sign up. They also don't have to be based in L.A. L.A has ridiculous costs associated with it, and quite honestly it doesn't really add much to the content. I'm not saying they need to move to the middle of nowhere Kansas. Simply that living and basing your studio in a super expensive city and then being suprised money is tight is just weird.

5. Something that occurs to me is that they might get more views if their playlists were better set up. Only some series are given playlists. It'd be easier to find all of the series and binge them if they didn't just show off their more popular shows. Honestly the only draw the streaming site has to me is that the series are actually labeled well.

Do I think the weird ass energy towards Steven is necessary? No. He's not the only one at the company and they're all adults. I actually liked grocery run and homemade, and like to see them back. The parascoial attachment to Ryan and Shane is annoying in people's criticisms, but that doesn't make them completely wrong. If you're going to brand yourself as the anti capalist underdogs you can't get away with being dismissive of your poorer fans. The dissonance is what is causing this backlash and makes you look like hypocrites. I definitely think Steven is turning into the fall guy which is fucked up, his statement and the fact dish granted is one of those shows that make people uncomfortable about wealth flexs doesn't help matters.

#watcher #they really need a CEO who has business experience first and foremost or at the very least a consultant they actually listen to #they also should put more focus on other personalities and actual give them a chance to stick. none of them got famous or a fanbase in a day #give some of the others time to grab attention

[hairmetal666]

au where Steve is a famous Disney kid and Eddie is a teenaged singer-songwriter. They get pushed together at events because they're close in age, but they just quietly dislike each other.

Steve's got a new show starting, a spinoff of the one that made him a household name. They hire a newcomer, Robin Buckley, to play his best friend and the two quickly become BFF in real life.

The show runs for two seasons but when it comes time to renegotiate contracts, neither star is interested. They're older now, ready to live life on their terms and not the company's, or in Steve's case, his parents.

As soon as the finale airs, Robin and Steve celebrate by going to a gay club. A few weeks later, an interview is released where Steve comes out as bi and talks about how his parents mistreated him; how they worked with the network to pressure him to be a perfect "all-American" kid even off screen.

Meanwhile, Eddie's an impossible level of famous. He's had number-one hits, won a Grammy, headlined an arena tour, achieved every dream he had for himself as a kid growing up in a trailer park in Indiana. He's not shocked by the news that Steve is leaving Hollywood, but he's flabbergasted that the guy isn't straight. When Eddie reads the interview, he gets this weird pang in his chest, almost like regret. But he never even liked Steve.

Steve isn't in the news again and Eddie doesn't think of him for a long time.

Steve goes to college. He loves it. Not because he's great in his classes, or anything, but because he's free to be himself for the first time. He makes friends and goes to parties and relaxes. He and Robin share an apartment.

After a few semesters, Steve decides to take a couple of theater classes, and is quickly cast in campus productions. In the vague anonymity of college theater he rediscovers his love of acting. No one has expectations of him, no one forces him to perform. He graduates and slowly starts appearing in small roles in Indie films, gathering critical acclaim. He feels good. Happy. Hopeful.

Eddie is blissfully unaware of Steve's career resurgence, experiencing his own musical highpoints, until the day where he's scrolling Twitter, sees a Variety headline that's getting a bunch of attention, "Steve Harrington in talks to star in Max Mayfield's first film." Eddie's livid.

"Maxine, what the fuck?" He growls when she answers his call.

They grew up together in the same Indiana trailer park. When she moved to Hollywood to start a career as a screenwriter, Eddie was by her side. And when her first script wound up on the Black List, his involvement on the soundtrack and original songs sealed her production deal.

She gives a long suffering sigh. "Munson," she grumbles. "I know you have a weird history with this guy, but I swear he's the right choice."

"He's a stuck up rich boy who's never been in trouble in his life."

"He's changed."

"Doubtful," Eddie sneers.

"Look. I'll set-up a meeting. Come hang out and you'll see what I mean." Before she hangs up she adds, "Call me Maxine again and I'll end you."

They invite Harrington to Eddie's recording studio. His hopes are not high for this meeting, so he's already a little thrown when Steve Harrington walks in, all grown up. He's in a crimson sweater, tight jeans, hair grown long so that it flops around his face in tousled waves that actually look genuine, windswept and golden. Eddie's eyes instinctively trace the scatter of moles on Harrington's face and neck, a pang of something hitting deep in his gut. Fuck, this dude is beautiful.

"Harrington," he greets, sticks out his hand. Eddie barely hears the answering, "Munson," because instead of a handshake, Harrington pulls Eddie in for a hug. Muscles bunch under the sleeves of the sweater, against Eddie's chest, and he's assaulted by the scent of cedar and sunshine and Steve. Eddie's not prepared for any of this.

They make small talk, Harrington sharing about going to college, falling in love with theater, Robin Buckley who he calls his soulmate. Eddie's head rings with how wrong he was about this guy; the pretty kid he grew up alongside who seemed to have the world in his hands. Max was right, he's perfect. Except.

"Let's get down to it, Harrington," Eddie says. Can't bring himself to call him Steve yet, feels that will somehow change everything and he's not ready. "I'll admit that Mayfield had the right idea about you, but can you sing? Play guitar? You have to perform my music, dude. That's not a small ask."

Harrington smirks, asks for a guitar. He gets it settled across his lap before he speaks. "I started taking piano lessons when I was 4. Voice and guitar at 7."

Eddie belatedly recalls that Harrington's parents were the worst kind of stage-parents, pushing their cute kid to perform even as he sobbed about wanting to play soccer with his friends instead of going to auditions. He has a moment of shame that he forgets as the other man begins to play. It's one of Eddie's biggest hits, a ballad about a teenaged broken heart from a kid whose name he can't even remember.

Harrington's hair flops in a swoop over his forehead, his fingers move across the strings with ease, skill. His voice is a rasp, close mimic to Eddie's own, but not quite deep enough. Goosebumps spread across Eddie's arms, his neck, and warmth pools low in his gut.

Steve finishes the song, looks up, cheeks glowing pink, honey eyes bright. Eddie's fucking gone for this guy. He wants so badly he might choke on it.

"Good?" Steve asks.

Eddie's embarrassed suddenly. Unsure. He tugs at his hair. "Yeah," he laughs. "Good."

He reaches out to take the guitar, the one Steve's already handing to him, and their hands brush. Eddie flushes. Their eyes meet and Steve smiles. Eddie's thoughts are consumed with the desire to kiss his plush pink mouth.

"You wanna get dinner? Just you and me?" Steve asks.

"Yeah, Steve," he laughs. "I'd love to."

🎬🎸🎬🎸

Fifteen Months Later

"Former Teen Heartthrobs Make Love Connection?"

Fans of musician Eddie Munson and former child star, Steve Harrington, were in for the surprise of their lives last night as the men arrived together for the premier of Harrington's new movie, Small Town Sins, written by up-and-coming screenwriter Max Mayfield, featuring original music by Munson. While Harrington's performance and the movie itself are garnering quite a bit of positive buzz, it's being overshadowed by gossip about Harrington and Munson's budding romance. They walked the red carpet together, pausing for photos as a duo, holding hands and flirting. When asked for confirmation of their relationship, Munson answered, 'we're bros,' before winking and pulling Harrington close.

There's a TikTok video embedded below the article, showing the men being interviewed on the red carpet. Their arms are loosely around each others' waists, and when their eyes meet they catch and hang for a beat.

"So, longtime fans of both of yours are going feral online right now because of the rumors that you two used to hate each other. Is there any truth to that?" An off-camera voice asks.

The men laugh. "We've always been great friends," Eddie answers.

"Eddie thought I was stuck up," Steve giggles.

"I did not." Eddie slaps at Steve, who gives him an affectionate smile.

"Liar," Steve answers.

Eddie leans into the camera like he's telling a secret. "Harrington here was afraid of me."

"Fuck off, I was not." They wrestle around for a couple of seconds.

Steve shrugs Eddie off, straightening his suit jacket. "Okay, maybe I was a little intimidated back then, but then this morning you found a pretty rock and cried about it."

Eddie shrieks, swatting at Steve until someone in a black suit and name tag shoos them down the red carpet.

Eddie walks off first, so he misses Steve withdrawing a hand from his pocket and saying, "Still have the rock, though." He flashes the red, grey, blue striped stone at the camera.

His gaze drifts away, landing somewhere in the distance, hazel eyes soft and heart-wrenchingly fond.

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #modern au #former child star steve harrington #disney kid steve harrington #musician eddie munson #steve and eddie are famous #getting together #fluff #falling in love #robin buckley #max mayfield #robin was steve's costar #max is a screenwriter #eddie cries about pretty rocks and gives them to steve #steve keeps them all #ficlet #one shot #steve and robin are platonic soulmates in every universe

[hotvintagepoll]

What are some screwball comedy pairings you wish had been a thing? Can definitely be gay ones :)

Okay finally!

One of the reasons I made this blog in the first place is that few things bring me as much blinding rage as imagining the movies we could have gotten, if old Hollywood had stopped being racist/homophobic/anti-everyone for ten fucking seconds. There were so many talented hotties working through our tournament era who only got cameo spots or no-budget movies! for no reason beyond white supremacy! there were so many stories that didn't get told because heaven forbid we acknowledge gay people! If this blog has a mission statement, a big chunk of it would be about highlighting all the amazing hotties who never got what they deserved in their heyday.

So! Let's tear Louis B. Mayer a new one and make some better movies.

Diamond Eyes (1946)

Harold Nicholas, the bored but fabulous son of a Manhattan millionaire, decides to take himself off on a transatlantic cruise to recover from the boredoms of socialites, constant martinis, and west side glamor. When working girl Rita Hayworth snags him into a fake dating scheme to throw off a jealous ex (Cesar Romero), he doesn't mean to fall in love with his false fiancé—or to set the ex up with his scheming accountant (Tyrone Power).

To the Tune of Millions (1945)

Ann Miller and Lena Horne are conwomen besties who use a fake dance act to get into casinos, which they then promptly rob. Unfortunately, an over-enthusiastic talent agent (Gene Kelly) sees the act and thinks they're legitimate, hiring them on the spot as the lead number in a newly opened but already failing musicale review. Who can they hustle at a theater that's barely bringing in a dime? The two ex-cons fall in love with show business, Kelly and Horne smooch at the grand finale, and Miller has an intense will-they-or-won't-they sparring relationship with the hot stage manager (Ethel Waters—and they will).

Untitled Three's-a-Crowd Film (1942)

Cary Grant, Jean Arthur, and Ronald Colman are running interference on a corrupt justice system while trying to keep up the act that they are all simply cohabitating in a shared AirBnB and definitely not falling in love with each other. Wait. This is actually The Talk of the Town. This movie actually exists and does veer this hard into polyamorous romance.

Tomatoes and Toast (1928)

Anna May Wong and Greta Garbo eat sandwiches for three hours. It's riveting.

One Soul, Two Bodies (1948)

Farley Granger and Vincent Price star as Alexander the Great and Hephaestion in this sword-and-sandals period piece. Though clearly made on a studio backlot with a budget of $3, the dashing romance grounds the chariot races and cardboard sword battle sequences.

Grand Central Station (1931)

Interconnected narratives of Josephine Baker, Joan Blondell, Dolores del Río, and Fredric March all vying for the last seat on the 5:45 train out to Poughkeepsie. When they realize they're jostling to sit next to the same sugar daddy who's been stringing all of them along, the four decide to unionize. Pre-code thrills; the four-in-a-bunk Pullman car scene remains notable for a reason.

I have more but I think I've gone a bit delirious.

#asks #silly times

[suzdin]

Washed Up Has-Been: a Dieter Bravo one shot

Dieter Bravo x F!Plus Size!Reader

Warnings: soft!Dieter, sweet!Dieter, smut, angst, bodily insecurities, reader is plus sized but no other physical attributes are described, Dieter is a little chubby as well, mentions of drugs and alcohol, oral (m receiving), mention of sex toys, fluff? (gasp!), did I forget anything? I know next to nothing about the film industry, don’t judge me :(

Word Count: 2,800

Enjoy and feel free to reblog and comment if you wish! 💜🙂

——

Dieter Bravo had not been the same since Cliff Beasts 6.

What did they call it? Losing your spark? Your mojo? Your moxy? Whatever it was called, he’d lost it, along with his marbles… if he ever had any to begin with, and he was sure many would agree he hadn’t.

The reviews were bad, abhorrent, really. ‘Dieter Bravo as Gio Ricci baffling’, ‘Bravo couldn’t act his way out of a paper bag’, ‘I can’t believe this man has an Oscar’, ‘Did he get his Italian accent at an Olive Garden?’, on and on the critics wailed and lambasted.

He’d had a mental break shortly after the premier, firing everyone he could in his vicinity — his publicist, his hair stylist and manicurist, hell, even his agent of twenty five years. He’d hired a new one, of course, a potential script FedExed to his door that morning, fist curled and white knuckled in anger around the thick stack of papers as he perched himself like a sentient gargoyle on his couch, in the tattered clothes he’d been wearing for nearly a week.

A dad. They wanted him to play a fucking dad, some sort of buddy comedy family film opposite Dwayne Johnson, it might be a good move for your career, buddy, his agent had explained. But seriously, him? Hollywood heart throb Dieter Bravo, reduced to playing someone’s bumbling father, opposite THE FUCKING ROCK?

He couldn’t believe it.

He had put on some weight since his last film, sure, but that was no reason or excuse to allow himself to be typecasted as a dad.

Or was it the ever persistent graying in his hair and beard? The laugh lines? The crow’s feet?

‘Dieter Bravo is a washed up has-been’ the internet screamed at him daily, leading him to drown himself in an endless stream of drugs and alcohol…more so than he was already doing, anyway.

He was barely a functioning person. A husk of his former self, he could no longer get it up, unsure whether to blame the drugs or his steadily fleeting mental health, and even putting brush to canvas felt more like a chore than an escape nowadays. He’d become a hermit in his own home, the ghastly, aging 1970s mid-century horror he resided in the Hollywood Hills, that he thought was amazing when he originally bought it a decade ago.

Well, much like him, older things fall apart, and the house was a piece of shit, which was apt.

He had hired you as his assistant and he was so vague as to what that entailed that you were sort of a jack of all trades as far as helping was concerned, acting as his maid, his cook, the middle man to screen his calls, his emails, so on and so forth. Hell, you even took care of the large python he’d bought ‘because it looked cool’, that he was now too scared to touch, himself.

You did it all, and although he never properly expressed as much, he was more grateful for you than he let on.

He always found you pretty, too. Beautiful, even, and not in the fake way he’d grown used to, living in Hollywood. You were kind, sweet, and uncorrupted by a crueler world, always happy and eager to assist him with whatever he needed.

And if he was being honest with himself, the thought of you sheathed around his cock was the only thing that could even get him half hard anymore.

When you arrive for the day, you find him on his couch, glowering at what you can only assume is another bad script, graying hair disheveled and curling away from his skull, teeth gritted in disdain. A look you had come to recognize and were more than familiar with.

“Let me take that to the garbage for you,” you offer, as you normally do in these situations, stepping forward to reach for the offending script.

His eyes clock the way your breasts sway when you walk, the roundness of your belly, the plushness of your arms. He can’t help but stare; he wants to bury himself in you and stay there forever.

He swallows, moving the script away from your extended hand and tucking it behind a cushion, distracted by your body.

“No — no, it’s okay,” he replies and his voice feels like gravel in his throat, realizing he hasn’t spoken all day until now.

Although the script sucks and he doesn’t want to do it, he needs the money. “Thanks.”

You notice his eyes on you and you sit, leaving about a foot of space between you to maintain a modicum of professionalism, observing the sadness behind his dark brown eyes and knowing this has been the norm for several months now but still hating it for what it is.

“What’s on the docket for today?” you ask him and he shrugs, unhelpfully, his lips pulled into a frown, shadows staining the lines of his face. You haven’t seen him this bad in a while.

“I can… make you some hot tea?” you ask, looking down at the schedule in your lap, of which nothing is jotted down for the day.

He shakes his head, carding a hand through his hair. “No. I’m out of tea.”

You chew your lip. “Okay… well, then I guess I’m running to the store today. I have a list already, but can you think of anything else?”

Once again, he shakes his head. “No. I’ll just order it or something.”

You frown and tuck the schedule away, crossing your legs and turning to face him, contemplative.

“Then what do you want me to do today? You’re paying me to be here,” you note. “Unless you’d rather I go home.”

“No!” he damn near shouts, making you jump, and he immediately regrets his lack of impulse control. His gaze traverses your subtle cleavage and you clear your throat, heat warming your skin. “Sorry, it’s just… I don’t want to be alone right now. Can we just hang out?” he queries.

“Dieter, are you okay?” you question and he shakes his head in response.

“No.” A single word that says so much more than that. It pulls at your heart strings, seeing him like this. “I — I’m a nobody.”

“You aren’t a nobody, you’re Oscar winner Dieter fucking Bravo,” you counter, and he snorts, picking at some dry skin on his ankle.

“Yeah, Dieter fucking Bravo, the aging has-been who can’t act his way out of a paper bag,” he snorts.

“If you keep talking like that, I’m going to take away your internet access so you can’t read all the mean tweets about yourself,” you threaten.

“You wouldn’t.”

“One call to your financial advisor and I would and could,” you retort and Dieter scoffs, trying to remember if he’d fired him yet or not.

You cross your arms and flop back against the worn and flattened couch cushions, eyeing him smugly.

The movement pushes your chest up and out, his gaze on you once again and he isn’t subtle about it this time. You clear your throat and stir, staring back at his soft, plush lips.

“Dieter—“

“Come here,” he murmurs quietly and the spontaneity of it catches you off guard, your jaw hanging agape in disbelief and confusion.

“…What?”

It had been months since anyone had touched him, had wanted to touch him, and now, as he stares at your body and smells your light vanilla perfume, after the shitty week he’s had, he needs to be touched, even if only briefly.

“Come… here,” he repeats, more dogged than before, and in spite of yourself, despite how unprofessional it is, you find yourself scooting forward.

He grabs your hips when you’re within reach and drags you the rest of the way, pulling the cushion partially off the couch in the process, a small yelp of surprise escaping your lungs as he softly grips your face to bring his lips to yours.

They’re plush, dry, lightly chapped and he tastes a little like whiskey and weed, but you don’t really mind, his coarse, wiry mustache scratching and tickling against your nose.

Suddenly, with a soft groan in the back of his throat, his hand is under your shirt, cupping your breast, and you break the kiss, looking down to where his arm disappears beneath the fabric, shock settling over your features.

“Dee… are you… are you sure?” you ask. You don’t exactly look like the people Dieter had been confirmed dating in the past, and you feel a wave of trepidation, your self conscious nature bubbling to the surface. You’ve always felt Dieter Bravo was more than a little out of your league.

Not that you’re dating him, but, you know.

“I wouldn’t be doing this if I wasn’t sure,” he tuts and kisses you again, rougher this time, palming your breast, making your cunt throb.

He groans. You’re so good to him, always taking such good care of him, and you feel exactly the way he thought you would, warm and luscious and supple, his dick already fighting with the seam of his pajama pants, the first time in weeks.

And you’ve wanted this, too, as long as you’ve worked for him, never confessing your feelings for fear of losing your job. You never imagined Dieter fucking Bravo would feel the same way about you.

You know Dee needs this, you need this, and you want to make him feel good.

You brush a hand over his hardening cock and he damn near bucks himself straight off the couch with a grunt and a sharply uttered, “Fuck” against your lips. You grin into his mouth at how much composure he’s already lost from so few touches.

You pull away after a moment and scoot off the couch, sinking onto your knees in front of him, nestling yourself between his broad thighs.

He watches you, rigid cock tremoring in his pants at the sight, the outline of it clearly visible and straining against the fabric. “You… you don’t have to…” His voice is thick, haggard.

“Let me take care of you, Dee,” you mewl as you nuzzle your face against the squishy paunch of his stomach, lifting his shirt to plant small, reverent kisses in a circle around his belly button. He giggles and flinches at the contact.

“Sorry, sorry — ticklish,” he explains and you smile, placing a few more kisses there, more delicate than the ones that preceded them, trailing a line from his navel to the thick swathe of hair leading to his crotch.

Despite the pounds he’s put on recently, he doesn’t feel at all uncomfortable in front of you, eyes darkening as he drinks you in visually, lips tight and parted, breaths growing deeper in the barrel of his chest.

You look up and from your current perspective, he’s all wild haired and broad shouldered, panting, your cunt clenching with desire as you eye him with a wry grin.

You smooth his shirt down over his belly and move your face to the hard bulge below, nosing the bulk of it through the fabric and inhaling his natural scent, thick and musky and masculine in your nostrils. You both groan in unison.

“Dear god,” he grunts, “I feel like I’m about to— aaaaugh— fucking bust already.”

“Save it for my mouth, at least,” you snip and his head rolls back against the cushion at your words, the one with the sag in the middle where his neck always rests, eyes sliding shut.

“You’re so good for me,” he pants softly, already so close to falling apart, “I take you for granted and I’m sorry.”

“Dieter, shh.” You find the stretchy waistband of his striped trousers and drag them down his hips, not all surprised to see he’s gone commando, cock springing free from the cage of fabric, uncut and dribbling against the drag of soft cotton. He’s girthy, and you’ve never seen one intact in the flesh before — literally — a small puff of air escaping your lips, taking in the sight of him for a few seconds before coming to your senses.

“Is everything alr—“ he starts to ask, cutting himself off when you unexpectedly cup his heavy balls in your palm and lick a slow stripe up his length with the flat of your tongue, his hips quivering and bucking involuntarily. “Shit—“

You grin, humming satisfactorily to yourself and continue to tease him, his hands finding your hair, fingers twisting at the roots as the rings he insists on wearing get caught in the strands, pulling ever so slightly. You moan.

You feel incredible, your tongue working his most sensitive areas, and he’s having a hard time holding it together, torso heaving above you, tiny whimpers departing his lips, and he hasn’t even entered your mouth yet.

You sense how much trouble he’s having at keeping himself in check, so you back off a touch to give him a momentary reprieve, shifting to kiss along the meat of his inner thighs, nipping at the tiny elephant tattoos etched into his skin as you do so.

He cups one hand on the back of your neck, watching you through half-lidded eyes, your lips like pure velvet and heaven.

He’s already forgotten about the shitty script tucked into the couch, about the bad reviews and the critics with their cruel, baseless quips. Faded away to nothingness, akin to what he experiences when he’s completely blitzed, negative thoughts dissolving to the back of his mind to be discarded, and for now, for the moment, the only thing that matters is you, your beauty, and how well you take care of him.

After what seems like an eternity of small, worshipping, teasing touches to the insides of his thighs and the rim of his belly, your lips return to his cock, lapping at the precum that’s beaded up at the slit before taking him into your mouth, hand fisted at the base as you work him into your throat.

He’s impervious at this point to keep his hips flush against the couch, shuddering into your mouth as you take him and pushing further down your throat, not entirely on purpose, moaning as the wet heat of your mouth engulfs him.

“Wanna— fuck your pussy next time— with a vibrating plug in your ass,” he grunts, hardly able to string a single cohesive thought together, making your cunt throb and slick leak into the cradle of your panties.

Dieter wasn’t one to shy away from toys, and in fact had an entire drawer full of them, which you had accidentally stumbled upon one day when putting away some of his clothes; everything from butt plugs to cock rings to flesh lights with multiple attachments and bondage gear.

You steady his hips with your hands and hold him in place as best you can, difficult with how much stronger he is than you, jaw stretching to fit him, the musky tang of him flooding your tastebuds.

You steadily rock your head up and down his length, taking him all the way to the back of your throat, and you can feel the veins running the length of his shaft pulsating against your tongue, feel the way his balls tighten as he edges ever closer to the precipice.

He’s wanted you, needed you, for so long, that he can’t contain himself much longer. His hips begin to stutter and you feel his body growing taut, hear his breaths growing shallow and haggard, fingers curling against your scalp.

“I’m… I’m gonna… fucking cum,” he grunts deep in his chest. That’s all the warning he allows before his hips stall and he lets out a visceral growl of pleasure, spilling a hot and heavy load across your tongue, some of it seeping out at the edges and dribbling down his thighs until you’re able to steady yourself.

You hold him in your mouth until you feel the very last drop hit the back of your throat, slowly pulling off only when you feel him starting to go soft.

“You should really clean up this awful mess you’ve made,” Dieter taunts when you sit back to catch your breath, watching the cocktail of spend and saliva slide down his tan skin.

You grin and tip your head forward to obediently lap at the escaped fluids. He groans as he savors the delicious sight of you, affectionately brushing his fingers through your hair as you do so.

After a moment, you rise from the ground, your knees cracking from the exertion, joining him on the couch as he tugs his pajama bottoms back up his hips.

He snakes an arm around the small of your back and kisses you, deep and full, moaning when he tastes remnants of himself on your tongue.

He grins against your lips and then rises, yanking you off the couch and giggling along with you when you pass him a perplexed look.

“Where are we going now?” you ask, pleased to see him happy and relaxed again after all this time, to actually see him smiling.

“You took care of me, so I’m going to take care of you. You’re familiar with my special drawer, aren’t you?”

—

FIN. xx

#pedro pascal #writing #fanfic #smut #author #romance #pedro fanfic #dieter bravo #dieter bravo the bubble #the bubble

[lixzey]

Letters.

tw: mentions of self harm and self hate

The Ninth Letter. 

It was a long shot, but Timothée knew he had to. He had to find her. It surprised him, just how much he cared for this girl. He didn't know her, but he was desperate to find her—to understand her. Timothée felt a sense of loyalty to her, vowing to finish her letters one by one—and not skipping to the end. Sure, he could save a lot of time if he'd just go on and skip to the last letter. But that felt like betraying Y/N—as if it was skipping to know the person who'd poured her heart out in the last eight letters. 

Timothée sighed, before closing his laptop and putting it away. He was in a meeting with the private investigator he had just hired two days ago. The trail was undoubtedly cold—because the only clue they had was the stamps on Y/N's letters. Still, the young actor wasn't going to give up that easily. He picked up the next letter and ripped it open. It was dated July 27th, 2023. 

Dear Timothée, 

Don't kill the butterfly,

That's what I heard the girl whispering beside me while I waited outside of my therapist's office. It was a year ago, when I started with Julie. I'd been staring at her, not realizing she was muttering something onto her shaking hands. A whisper, so quiet that I would've missed it if I hadn't been looking at her like an animal at a zoo. She was repeating it again and again, “Don't kill the butterfly.” like some sort of mantra. 

At first, it seemed strange. Because she had a butterfly drawn in black ink on the back of her hand—it wasn't a tattoo—it was smudged, clearly drawn on with a pen. It wasn't until I asked her and realized what the butterfly was. 

It's called The Butterfly Effect, and it's to help people who self harm—people like me. The idea is that every time a person wants to cut, they would draw a butterfly on their wrist and name it after a loved one. You have to let the butterfly fade, and if you cut, the butterfly dies. 

I felt terrible. I've been killing the butterfly, over and over again. 

The next session I had, I asked Julie about the girl—her name was Jane—and when I realized what had happened to her…..Let's just say, I haven't seen anyone so brave. 

I feel like a mistake. A waste of space. If I was brave enough, I'd already done it, but I hadn't. Who knows? Maybe someday, I can and I'll be free from all the bullshit of my life. Or, I'm just taking my time. 

Why am I even still writing to you? I feel like an idiot, wasting my money to get stamps, to send these fucking letters you won't ever read. But what if you are? Maybe you're reading my letters, reading how my life is hell. 

Anyways, I stapled a photo of myself at the end of this letter. I know, I know, I'm an ugly piece of shit. Not like the girls in Hollywood—not like fucking Kylie Jenner. How do I even compete with her? Next to her, I look like a potato with eyes. 

Maybe, just maybe…..

But I don't want to get my hopes up. 

I don't know what to believe in, honestly.

All my love, 

Y/N. 

Timothée stared at the photo, a beautiful girl was staring back at him—she had mesmerizing (y/e/c) eyes and long beautiful (y/h/c) hair. She was smiling. As if she wasn't the girl who wrote the letters he had read. He quickly snapped the photo and sent it to the private investigator. 

Timothée didn't know why she called herself ugly. Does she even look at herself in the mirror? She was beautiful, the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

“Stay with me, Y/N. I'm going to find you, even if it's the last thing I do.”

@lovemelikecrazyiloveyoucrazy @helens3amstuff @gatoenlaciudad

[larryatendoftheday]

This year I craved stories that transported me somewhere else. So in addition to my usual weakness for angst, I sought out fics with surprising plots and excellent world-building. These were the ones that really stuck with me. Thank you to these creators and to everyone who shares art or writing or creates fic rec lists. You have been and will continue to be a fantastic gift to so many. Thank you <3

Note: The fics in this list were published in many different years. They are not in a particular order. The main pairing is Louis/Harry unless otherwise noted.

Party Lines by nonsensedarling @absoloutenonsense Explicit | 25k | Phone Sex Operator

Several of my all time favorite fics are phone sex operator AUs, and this fic is an iconic addition because Louis isn’t even actually a phone sex operator. He’s pretending, and he gets attached. Full of sexy, sweet, and funny dialogue and the appropriate amount of suffering and uncertainty, this fic will transport you to an excellent alternate universe.

War Of Hearts by BoosBabycakes @boosbabycakes28 Explicit | 80 k | Enemies to Lovers / Non-traditional ABO

I live for a well-executed enemies to lovers arc, and this is it. Believable, sweet, funny, angsty, and oh so satisfying to read. Alpha Harry doesn’t fit his gender’s stereotypes, especially in private. His arch-nemesis Louis knocks on his dorm-room door in the middle of a pampering self-care night and sees the side of Harry that he keeps hidden. What follows is a fantastic gAyBO story about repressing, exploring, and accepting your true self. There is a strong cast of OT5 and related people that keep you laughing and believing. Honestly, I need to re-read this right now.

Men of Steel, Men of Power by Stria (Asia117) @nooradeservedbetter Explicit | 58k | Political Revolution / ABO

Get ready to be absolutely consumed by this parallel universe and the angst-ridden reality of Louis, pretend alpha and head of security, and Harry, feminine alpha and new-hire. There is enjoyable intrigue, mystery, crying, sex, political philosophizing, and some spy movie shit as Louis attempts to right wrongs and push back against those in power. OT5 pop up in surprising and satisfying ways. However, perhaps most notable to me was the attention to detail in how Louis deals with pretending to be a gender he is not. (Perhaps don’t read while in your gender dysphoria feels but do read to feel seen.)

what's left of my halo's black by LiveLaughLoveLarry @loveislarryislove Explicit | 22k | Friends with Benefits / Angst

If you love pain, this fic is for you. A heartbroken and emotionally damaged Louis manages his problems—such as being a wedding planner and the impact of his abusive ex--by secretly fucking his coworker Harry. It turns out this doesn’t actually solve his problems, though, and new issues emerge from what was supposed to be a simple friends-with-benefits arrangement.

turn me up by turnyourankle  Explicit | 3k | Hanky Code PWP | Louis/Luke Malak

I found this while searching for @1dhankyfest content, and I love it. There’s something about unabashed gay sex culture that revives my soul.

Paint Me In A Million Dreams by green_feelings @greenfeelings Mature | 112k | Fake Dating / Enemies to Lovers

Hollywood actor Harry Styles is gutted when the man he can’t stand gets the Scorsese role he wanted. It gets worse when their teams conspire to set them up in a fake relationship to promote the film. I read this fic in the first days of 2023, so the details are a bit blurry in my memory. I know I loved the enemies to lovers arc, the strong Ziam subplot, and Harry obsessing over his unavailable crush (which isn’t Louis). In my comment, I wrote, “My heart absolutely ached with the pining and angst, and the sexual tension was so palpable.”

Gonna Dream of How You ... by therogueskimo Explicit | 4k | PWP / Canon-compliant

This canon-based fic was so steamy and tender. Photos of Louis performing in a tanktop get Harry going. What follows is some long-distance edging and fun. It features soft Dom Louis and desperate Harry and just really hits all the right notes in my opinion.

Almost Misheard by tommokat @tommokat Teen and Up | 4k | Friends to Lovers / ABO

This is a comfort fic. It’s got hilarious fluff about best friends who realize what their inner alpha and omega knew all along. (The rest of the gang might be in on the secret too.) I’m almost amazed by fics that manage to pull me in with believable characters and storylines without any angst, and this one delivers on every front. You’ll be grinning the whole time.

Coax the Cold by MediaWhore @mediawhorefics Mature | 86k | Mermaid / Historical AU

Professor Tomlinson is fascinated by the occult. When a circus advertises a unique sea creature, he decides to go undercover as a janitor to get close. He plans to write the paper that will finally prove he was right about the existence of fantastical creatures. This author expertly builds the world of this fic – 1800s Britain, academia, and freak shows. I loved the believable cast of characters (OT5 and more!) and the stakes that are set, including the horrid antagonists.

fondre ton absence by scrunchyharry @scrunchyharry Teen and Up| 41k | Amnesia / Historical AU

Harry and Louis childhood best friends who grew up and discovered love together in a quiet village. Harry manages asthma and chronic illness that often leaves him homebound with his books, but Louis always keeps him company. Their simple life is turned upside down when Louis is drafted in WWI and does not return home. Then, when Harry finally finds him, Louis doesn’t remember anything. This story was a tearjerker but so beautifully written. I adored that portions of the story were told in letters and that Harry often referred to literary works. Bonus: This fic has amazing visuals by whenthebodiesspeak.

be a good boy, Harry by stretchmybones Explicit | 1k | PWP / Pet play

Harry wants to play, but Louis is busy watching football, so he asks Harry to wait. I haven’t stopped thinking about this domestic and sexy little slice of life since I read it in January of 2023. My comment said “simple and perfect,” and I still agree.

The Heart's Home by homosociallyyours @homosociallyyours Teen and Up | 10k | Squiddry

Someone wrote the Music for a Sushi Restaurant fic of my dreams. Half-man, half-squid, with the voice of an angel, Harry is quite the catch. Louis, an exhausted and lonely restaurant employee, is tasked with keeping an eye on the special find. This story was so entertaining and sweet. It filled me up with good vibes and left me happier than I started.  

~~~~

I always include my favorite fic that I published that year at the end of these lists. I didn’t publish much, but I really enjoyed this one.

In His Rightful Place by larryatendoftheday @larryatendoftheday Explicit | 2.7k | PWP

Harry reunites with Louis and gets to reclaim his role as the person who fucks his boyfriend best.

#favorite fics of 2023 #mine #fic recs #thank you all!!! <3

[marzipanandminutiae]

conciseness anon here. people will misconstrue your meaning (often on purpose) no matter what, and tumblr users don't like to read. try something snappy and sarcastic, with a link to your evidence. hire me for PR

Yeah, I'm. Not going to take things in the old "BUCKLE UP FUCKERS; LET ME LEARN YOU A THING" direction, thanks.

Most of the stuff I correct is good-faith misinformation where people simply don't know better. I used to be very into getting snarky about it, back when I still perceived all historical misnifo as some kind of personal attack. But I've grown since then (hopefully); I know that I make mistakes, too, and since my literal career depends on being seen as credible now, I very much want people to give me grace when that happens. How can I expect that grace if I don't extend it to others?

...the first time. Or if they have no reason to know better. I reserve full rights to unleash the Snark on people who double down in the face of well-sourced corrections, or people who had the resources to thoroughly check the information they were putting out and didn't (or wilfully chose to ignore that information despite having it). I can tell Hollywood big names to go fuck themselves for giving a grown heroine in 1780 loose beachy waves AGAIN- or character-assassinating Jenny Lind, to give a non-costuming example -and sleep soundly at night.

But I will not be coming in hot on people for not knowing something they might well have no reason to know. Nor will I be insulting their intelligence ("Tumblr users don't like to read?" tell that to popular story blogs like hellenhighwater). Sorry, not sorry.

#ask #anon #history #it might be my first IMPULSE to come in hot. but I'm an adult who can rein my impulses in. usually. #I try to anyway

[lol-jackles]

Would doing a cameo or guest spot on the Boys hurt Jared's branding? We found out today that Kripke seems to be tweeting him a lot, and I don't think it's about the revival from what Jared said about working out. For me it wouldn't be so much about nudity as my trust in his choices for projects in the future. Right now, I trusted him to watch a cowboy show of all things and loved the family vibe. But after an X rated gig, maybe not so much. Do agents and managers consider things like that or not

It's not the cameo or guest spot that is the issue per se, after all Charlize Theron had a funny cameo as an actress portraying one of the supes in a movie within a movie, and all lead actors do guest spots between their main projects. 

There's main three things going on.  First, Kripke is indulging in some of his worst impulses.  He knows Amazon will censor out the graphic sexual and violent scenes, but it won't stop him from filming them for his own titillations. 

Second, unsympathetic roles never help anyone's career. Just look at how much Misha disavowed Karla with excuses that he "didn't know" it was based on true events. Back then Misha was a struggling actor who accepted work whenever he can. The reason why Jared said he would like to play "thinking man villain" is because those type of villains are usually right in their thinking; they're just wrong in how they try to achieve their goal.

Third, if the guest role is an unsympathetic villain that gets killed by the good guys, then it goes against the upward trajectory of Jared's career. If you've seen the movie Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, there is a scene between Al Pacino and Leonardo di Caprio that explains this.  Pacino plays a director to Caprio's Rick Dalton who is a fading lead tv star known for playing a heroic character name Jake Cahill on Western series, now is guest starring as bad guys in Western series.  Rick has been offered a lead role in Italy's spaghetti Western movies that he's unsure of accepting.

Marvin Schwarz: You… You always play the bad guy on these (American) shows?

Rick Dalton: Yeah.

Marvin Schwarz: So, and they have a fight scene at the end of them?

Rick Dalton: Well, not… not… not Land of the Giants or F.B.I… but the rest, yeah. Yeah.

Marvin Schwarz: you lose in the fight?

Rick Dalton: Yeah. Yeah, of course.  I’m… I’m the heavy.

Marvin Schwarz: Oooh, That’s an old trick pulled by the networks.

Rick Dalton: *stunned*

Marvin Schwarz: Now, you take (new character) Bingo Martin, for example. Right?  So you got a new guy (actor) like Scott Brown.  You wanna build up his bona fides, right?  So you hire a guy from a canceled show to play the heavy.   Then at the end of the show, when they fight, it’s hero besting heavy.  But what the audience sees… is Bingo Martin whipping Jake Cahill’s ass.

Rick Dalton: *taking it all in*

Marvin Schwarz: You see?  Then next week, it’s Ron Ely.  And next week, it’s Bob Conrad, wearing his tight pants, kicking your ass.

Rick Dalton (in a bit of denial): Yeah.

Marvin Schwarz: Now, in another couple of years, playing punching bag to every swinging dick new to the network, that’s gonna have a psychological effect… on how the audience perceives you.

Rick Dalton: Right.

Marvin Schwarz: So Rick, who’s gonna kick the shit out of you next week? Mannix? The Man from U.N.C.L.E.? The Girl from U.N.C.L.E.? How about Batman and Robin? Ping! Pow! Choom! Zoom! Down goes you, down goes your career as a leading man.

Rick Dalton: *silence*

Marvin Schwarz: Or do you go to Rome and star in Westerns… and win fucking fights?  Ticket, señor?

Cliff Booth (played by Brad Pitt): All right....... What’s the matter, partner?

Rick Dalton: Well… it’s official, old buddy. I’m a has-been.

Cliff Booth: What are you talking about?  What did that guy tell you?

Rick Dalton: He told me the goddamn truth, is what he told me.

Ever wonder why most action stars like Dwayne the Rock Johnson have in their contract that their characters never lose fights on screen? Because they don't want to even give audience the chance to have a subconscious idea that they're not lead stars.

#hollywood

[skymoral]

Liu Kang x B!F Reader

FIRST DATE (Pt. 1)

Link: Pt 1 | Pt 2

Summary: Y/N with was able to snag an opportunity of dating Liu Kang, thanks to your friend Johnny bringing him around. You just hope that you aren’t to rusty

Tags: fluff/romance, friendship, happy/sad, first time, fun, black air-force energy, black girl magic, and comedy(supposedly)

A/N: I may or may not make two parts to this, as this may be longer just for you lovelies 🥰

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

After defeating Shang Tsung, Earthrealm was once again at piece with its champion and protectors.

Now Y/N was not in that department or category. No you were just a normal black woman, working as a hairstylist at hair shop.

You only knew about this, because one of the customers were the champion. Johnny Cage himself, who requested you to style him up personally. Because it was said around Hollywood that you were skillful with women and men hair.

You took him in and he loved it, and you all became friends ever sense. With the constant offer of Johnny asking you to be hired as his personal hairstylist. Which you declined respectfully.

You enjoy working at the shop with your girlfriends and doing things for smaller clients.

Which he understood, but you both still stayed in contact as y’all had good laughs and enjoyed each other company. Despite him being your continue client.

Although you didn’t know that your world would slightly change.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

You came to work like any other day. Your girl Jamika pre-opened the shop to get things together, along with your other friend Tonya. Who was cleaning the space.

Ya’ll do this every morning when opening before the other workers prepare.

Your phone buzz and you grabbed it from the counter and noticed you had got a text from your boi Johnny. Saying he was coming today, and bringing some friends. You texted back that it was fine.

“Girl who just texted you? Was it Johnny stanky booty ass again?” Tonya came behind you, smirking. Y/N quickly closed her phone.

“No your cousin Thomas.” You smiled walking away from her to grab your products.

“Bitch stop fucking playing with me… you would think the nigga had a crush on you, the way Johnny be texting you.” Tonya sat down, which quickly ended.

“Tonya I know damn well yo ass ain’t sitting down. You have this whole otherside to do babe.” Jamika came out in her uniform and apron, Jamika was the owner of “Cuts n Styles”. Along with her boyfriend Darius.

Jamika went to turn on the open sign and unlock the door, “You need to tap that and get laid ASAP.” Your two friends laughed smacking each others hands.

“AMEN to that sis.” Tonya shouted as she was finishing cleaning.

“Eww…No, you guys are gross. First he’s just a friend, and secondly life doesn’t revolve around me needing to get laid and meeting a man.” You explained as you put on the apron.

More of the workers started coming in, pre uniform on.

“Yeah aight, keep telling yourself that. You haven’t went on a date. Sense that lil boi cheated on you 2 years ago.” Tonya said sitting at her chair.

“Can we not.” You didn’t want to talk about that, Tonya raised her hands in defense dropping the conversation.

You all heard the bell move at the door, alarming them of a customer. As always you mainly greeted customers.

“Hi welcome to Cuts n Styles! How ma-“

“Heyyy Y/N!” Johnny announced himself to you cutting you off.

You both approached each other with a hug, Johnny picking you up and spinning you around.

He put you down and noticed a few guys behind you. One mainly catching your eye. “And these must be your friends?”

“Ooh yeah right! I was telling them how good you are with hair. So they wanted to meet you!”

“Yeah after he bragged so much about you. We had to meet this famous Y/N for ourselves. My name Kenshin.” Kenshin bowed to you.

You smiled and nodded, “Y/N of course… hehe hello.”

“This is Raiden, Kung Lao, and Liu Kang.” Johnny introduced them, they bowed to you. Kung Lao shook your hand.

“I’m not sure if you could like do something to cut down my hair a bit. It’s grown quite a bit.” Kung Lao took off his hat.

“Hmm, that is something Sugar, I don’t really work in that specific field.” You told him.

“I can take you right here my man.” Your boy Malcolm offered his services, which Kung Lao happily accepted.

“Don’t worry, he’s really good.” You confirmed to him, “Now were any of you getting anything done, that’s not getting like haircut kinda fades and whatnot?” You asked, looking at them. Then focused your attention back on Liu Kang.

Who caught it as soon as you looked, he gave you a kind smile. You got flustered a bit, having butterflies in your stomach. Quickly looking away.

“Actually yeah, Liu Kang needs his Princess locs trimmed and a touch up from yours truly, as well.” Johnny told you.

“I am alright Johnny Cage, I do not need it. I would hate to bother this lovely lady into doing my hair.” Liu Kang spoke up.

“Nonsense honey, it’s our job. That’s how we make a living, I can take y-“

“WAIT!” You interrupted Jamika, a little too loudly.

“Hehe, sorry. Can I speak to you really quick. It’ll only be a moment Mr. Liu Kang.” You smirked nervously.

“Just Liu Kang is fine.” He smiled at you.

You quickly dragged Jamika and Johnny away to the backrooms.

“Girl what is up with you today?” Jamika asked frustrated.

“Is something wrong?” Johnny added.

“N-N-Noo… N-Not really… Look I was just thinking maybe… Jamika you can take Johnny and… ᴵ ᶜᵃⁿ ᵗᵃᵏᵉ ᴸⁱᵘ ᴷᵃⁿᵍ” You whispered the last part quietly, almost in audible. But Jamika caught it and noticed how you acting fucking weird and shy all of a sudden. Which was not you, then it hit her like a rock.

“OMFG! Girl you like that Liu Kang nigga OUT THERE!?” Jamika gave you the biggest grin ever. Johnny looking at you in amazement, waiting for you to clarify.

“W-Well no… maybe… yeah… BUT I just saw him, he looks cute you know… and built.”

“Well I am too probably better.” Johnny praised himself. Jamika rolled her eyes.

“BOI! It ain’t always about you!” Jamika shoved Johnny’s head.

“Can you guys just do me this favor please.” You pleaded. They both looked at each other, then nodded.

“Don’t worry we gotchu girl!”

“Just don’t say SHIT to Tonya. You know how that little loose lip girl is.” You looked at them seriously.

“Mhmm yeah yeah, whatever girl. Let’s go cagey boy.”

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

Y’all left out the backrooms and you told Liu Kang you’ll take him Jamika will take Johnny. As you were showing him to your chair. You listened in on Malcolm talking with Kung Lao, Raiden was next to them as well.

Clearly Malcolm expressing his love for Martial arts, freezing from doing the hair showing off what he thought were moves.

You just smiled shaking your head at him, you sat Liu Kang in your chair. You asked him he can remove his head wear, which he happily obliged.

Rubbing your fingers in his hair, more so to ruffle through to see what you’re working with. His hair was soft but corse, feels like it hasn’t been properly conditioned.

“So how long has it been sense you had your hair done?” You asked nicely.

“It has… been a minute, is something the matter Ms. Y/N”

“Just Y/N is fine Liu Kang. And no, I just like to know my clients hair and if they prepped before hand. Don’t worry sweetheart, you are in good hands. I’m a give you the special hair wash and conditioning treatment.” You told him excitedly.

You brought him to the hair wash station, and begun getting to work on washing and messaging his hair. Which you could tell he was loving, with his eyes closed and satisfied sounds.

You were really feeling yourself, for actually doing good for the god of fire. As Johnny told you what he was. Even though this is your first time meeting him, Johnny already told you about all his friends. With him telling his story, and Liu Kang was the main one that intrigued you the most.

Because baby the description was nothing like seeing him in person. He was sexy, seemed kind, had a body like a king, fought like one, and the main thing. He’s a damn god of fire and more.

You brought him back to your chair after cleaning his hair. You felt a stare on you, and you turned with Tonya looking at you with wide eyes and mouth a gaped with her own client in the chair.

Y/N quickly glared at the source, which was Johnny and Jamika who quickly turned away acting as if they were busy.

“So did you enjoy your first hair spa.” You chuckled, drying his hair with a towel and plugging the air dryer.

“Very much so, it was quite relaxing. As Johnny has told me you do have the magic hands.”

“Told ya.” Johnny interjected,

“Would you hold your head down!” Jamika pushed his head.

You blushed at the compliment from the god of timelines himself. Felt like the ultimate praise itself.

You blowed dried his hair, after it was fully dry. You were about to cut it, “So how short would you like it hun?”

“Just right there is fine.” Liu Kang tapped his shoulder.

“Alright.” You began trimming the dead hair and split ends. So it doesn’t damage his hair

“Sooooo, um… Liu Kang… D-Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Damn already!” Tonya and Jamika chimed in unison.

“Shutup! Hehe I’m sorry… N-Not like that, well yeah… I was just trying to start a conversation… I’m sorry nvm… You just seem like the guy to have cute thing on the side… not saying you aren’t cute… You’re hot actually, I mean-“

You saw Jamika, swiping her hand across her neck shaking her head to stop talking. Johnny cracking up in her chair.

“I’m a just stop talking now.” You hung your head embarrassed focusing on his hair.

“Damn Y/N, remind me to not get dating help from you.”

Fredrick the other brother barber in the shop said out loud. Working on a head. Your friends began laughing. You were fuming at this point, you felt so embarrassed.

Liu Kang chuckled slightly but not at you, “It’s alright I understood what you meant. No I am not dating anyone and I appreciate the compliment. You are very beautiful yourself.”

That made you slightly freeze, getting ‘Ooohs’ from everyone in the shop. Liu Kang wasn’t easily fazed as you were by other people’s antics. Being friends with Johnny helps you to survive and tolerate it.

Tonya goofy ass being extra as always, over what he said. Y/N hates how she does the most, and it only gets worse.

“Thank you.” You said shyly, as you continued his hair. You finished and gave Liu Kang a mirror to see it.

He looked at it, and was happy how it turned out and thanked you. He asked you how much it cost and you told him that it was on the house.

“That is very kind of you Y/N but I couldn’t. You have given me a wonderful service, I do not want to just take it for free.” Liu Kang was not going to take your generosity and not give anything in return.

“Well… If you really want to show your appreciation. How about you treat me to a meal, that’s my final offer.” Y/N smirked at him, and she could’ve sworn she had butterflies in her stomach. Because that goddamn smile of his was killing her.

“Are you asking me out Y/N?” Liu Kang asked Y/N he appreciates her boldness.

“Well that depends Liu Kang, will you accept the offer?”

“Of Course.”

“Then yes I am asking you out.” You finally spoke up openly. You can hear your girls screaming and cheering you on.

“I am busy this week.” Liu Kang informed you.

“Then how about next week on Saturday, I’m off that day. 5 o clock, I know this good Chinese restaurant. It’s super popular.” You suggested smiling.

“That can be arranged. Thank you again Y/N, I must head back. It was an honor meeting you all.”

“Right back at you daddy!” As soon as Tonya said that. Jamika threw a wig brush at her. Gaining an ‘Ouch’ from Tonya holding her head.

“What the hell is wrong with you! Close yo mouth, and Thank You for stopping by Liu Kang. You and your friends are welcome back any time.”

Everyone was telling them bye, “Ayy it was nice talking to you dogg. I would love it, if y’all can give me a few pointers. Teach me some stuff ya know?”

“Of course, we’re always open for those who want to learn. We will stay in touch.” Kung Lao told him. They clapped hands, Malcolm pulling him into a bro hug.

“No doubt, no doubt. Have a blessed day bro.”

Kung Lao thanked him again for fixing him up nicely. Before they left you called out to Liu Kang asking him how are you supposed to contact him.

“Just tell Johnny.”

With that they were gone, it was a moment of silence before one old client spoke waiting in the chair.

“So ain’t nobody gonna say anything about the nigga with the glowing eyes?”

“Really!? I thought those were just contacts.” Tonya looked shocked.

“You is one slow ass child, I tell you the truth.” Fredrick shaking his head.

You felt like a weight has been lifted off your chest and you slumped in your chair. But now you were very much excited about your upcoming date.

“Gone head girl, get you some of that Kung Pao Chicken.” Jamika snapped her fingers three times. You rolled your eyes, you turned around and looked at yourself in the mirror.

You saw your new growth coming through and need your locs retwist and styled.

“Jamika could you touch up my hair for next week.”

Jamika nodded, and you were hoping this date goes well and praying it does. It felt like God was giving you another chance at romance.

A/N: So it’s going to be a two part story, but I had so much fun writing this. And hope you ladies still enjoyed it.

I’m already in the process of completing Part 2 of this story. If in any case you really liked this story and want it continued into like a head-cannon thing beyond two parts with a reappearance of her friends and more. You can always request, just hit me up through DM’s ☺️

Or if I get a lot of love on this, but all in all it was fun hehe.

#liu kang is daddy material #liu kang mk1 #liu kang x reader #liu kang love #liu kang #black reader #reader insert #fem reader #female #mk1 x reader #mortal kombat #liu kang mortal kombat #liu kang fanfic #sfw fanfic #fanfic

[auteurdelabre]

Bravo, Take a Bow! Part 3 Dieter Bravo x f!Reader

story summary: As a struggling actress you’re amazed when you land a role in an indie film you’re dying to be a part of. What you’re not expecting is to develop feelings for your mega famous and often exasperating co-star Dieter Bravo.

tags: Soft!Dieter, Masturbation (f),

rating: 18+ (for future chapters)

Series masterlist

Part 3 - The Table Read

The contact negotiations are over several weeks later and you have officially been hired on by the production. You're being paid a decent amount but not anywhere near to what outsiders assume film actors make. It'll be enough for rent for the rest of the year plus enough for a decent down payment on a new car as this one is getting older with frequent replacements being needed. 

The real hope is that this role will springboard into a career. One where you can count on the money, even if it's not in the millions. Just enough to keep you going, enough to get you sponsorship deals and able to buy a house. Enough fame to parlay it into a decent career. Enough that people won't have to ask what you do, they'll know who you are. 

You're sitting on your sofa reading "An Actor Prepares" when there's a screech from Carlee's room. You flinch but assume that this is another OnlyFans fulfillment. But then her bedroom door bursts open and she's shoving her phone into your face. The headline is from TMZ and has a photo of an irritated looking Dieter walking to his car. 

Dieter Bravo signs on for untitled domestic drama.

"So he's officially hired on," you say trying to sound casual. "Cool."

Carlee gives you a light punch to the arm before tracing her long pink nail under the headline. 

Co-star is relative unknown and lists your name. Actually seeing your name there in black and white gives you an instant thrill. You let out a small shriek and throw your book to the ground excitedly. 

"I wasn't allowed to say anything!" You insist when Carlee shoves you, your cheeks flushed happily. "I could have been sued!"

"I can't believe you got it," Carlee says and you hug her when you see her lash line is wet. 

Your brother is similarly affected when you call him later that night after texting him the article. You can hear Jack getting choked up on the other end of the line. 

"Finally they see what we did all along," he insists. 

Your nephews insist on talking over each other in excitement asking when you're gonna be on the TV. You just tell them they'll have to go to the movie theatres next year to see you and they all burst out cheering. 

Filming starts in two weeks which is just enough time to tell "That Place" who wishes you good luck and laments that they'll miss you.

You've invited a few of the girls from the restaurant to the bar, all of them over the moon and excited to see your success. Charlotte is taking care of her grandkids but when you'd arrived for your shift there was a bouquet of Daisy's from her garden waiting for you. 

Now you're all huddled around a table, shots raised in the air. 

"To Hollywood!"

Shots are thrown back, selfies taken. Dancing is brief because you fucking hate dancing, but you still attempt it, feeling good with the liquor going through your veins. 

As a handsome man comes to deliver what is your sixth or seventh round, Carlee surges forward informing him that the drinks should be comped because:

"SHE'S GONNA BE FAMOUS! SHE'S DIETER BRAVO'S NEW COSTAR!"

"Shut up!" You call out to her, blushing furiously when the server hands you your drink with a charming smile.

"In that case this round is on me."

"You don't have to do that!" You insist, your face flaming. 

"My pleasure," he says, winking and sauntering away. 

The girls collapse into laughter around the table as you watch him leave. You feel tipsy and happy, that sweet spot behind drowsy will come for you. 

Carlee excuses herself to go dance with a tall blonde man and you watch her go, always amazed at how natural she looks in any scenario.

"What's he like? Dieter Bravo?" Tiffany asks, her eyes glazed. "He seems fucking nuts."

You think back to his supportive words. His professionalism. The way he rescued you in that last scene when you felt yourself unraveling.  

"He's much chiller in person," you observe thoughtfully. "He was really nice actually."

He kisses nice.

You think back to that chemistry read. The way that Dieter backed you against that kitchen counter. The way his mouth and body felt against yours. 

"I heard he keeps a vial of cocaine on a necklace around his neck all the time," Daisy whispers loudly, moving onto water. As she wipes at her smudged eyeliner. "That's what TMZ said."

"Dunno if that's true," you say with a drunken shrug. "He wasn't wearing a necklace that day...I don't think."

"Hope you remember us when you're famous," Daisy muses as she and Tiffany lean against each other and break out into an off-tune version of "Welcome to Hollywood."

You lean back in the booth, eyes drunkenly half shut thinking that you'll never forget this moment or these people.

Never.

//////

The table read is today and you're exhausted. For the last two weeks you have been eating, sleeping and breathing the character of Cecelia. You've made heaps of notes in your small book that you carry with you everywhere. 

You arrived early to the hotel, one that's not as upscale as the one before. But it's nice and its parking is just as expensive. 

"One day I won't care about the cost of parking," you tell yourself as you swipe your credit card through the meter. "One day I'll just valet everywhere." 

You're early by at least twenty minutes but you’re already armed with a coffee and a water bottle so you stride in, following Gwen’s instructions for where to go inside. 

You reach the room filled with moving figures. A large table sits in the center of the room. There are only about twenty chairs which is rather modest. If this was a bigger production, if this was a marvel film they're would be much more pomp and circumstance, many more tables and a fresh spread for breakfast. 

The director, a serious looking man in his forties with thin framed glasses smiles at you when you approach. His name is Karl Sands, famous amongst the indie film sect. He wears backwards caps and jean shorts that reach past his knees. He's often wearing a tan overcoat that reaches his ankles. 

"So nice to meet in person," you tell him, shaking his hand. "I'm so excited to be playing Cecelia. Your script was-"

"Hey thanks! Go on and take a seat up be right over there," Karl says in that lazy drawl you immediately clock as Californian. "I won't be long."

He turns back to a young man with braces who looks stressed. 

"And soy in this one Bernie or I have to send it back, man and I don't wanna do that ya know?"

"Yes sir," Bernie says nodding. 

You feel relieved when you see Jan walking towards you. Turns out she's not just the casting director; she's also the script supervisor. On smaller productions like this it's not uncommon. 

"I'm so glad to see you," you enthuse, returning the hug she gives you.

"You were made for this part," Jan gushes. "Everyone who saw the video thought so."

"I'm just so glad I got the opportunity."

"So are we," Jan gushes. 

You're introduced to several writers, a producer, the assistant director, the script supervisor and you cannot possibly remember all the names and you're so thankful that everyone has paper name plates in front of them. A harried looking Bernie hands you a paper name plate with Cecelia in big letters, and underneath your name in sharpie. You thank him and grin before slapping it on the table in front of you.

A tall handsome man enters the room a short while later, warmly greeted by Jan and directed to the table. You think he looks familiar. He takes a seat near you giving a small wave when he reads the paper name plate in front of you. He places his nameplate in front of him and you read his name. Gary Owens.  

"Hey I'm Gary," he says with a wave. "I'm playing Oliver."

"The other man," you say with a sage nod of your head. 

"I've been called worse," Gary replies and the two of you laugh. 

You can't help but find him impossibly attractive with his light eyes and tanned, skin. When he smiles he looks boyishly handsome. You realize belatedly where you know him from - he's big in the theatre world in LA. He was in the latest production of Hamilton. 

Dieter still hasn’t arrived and you find yourself nervously tapping your pencil on your notebook. After a moment you pull out your phone. You've been instructed by Gwen not to post too much regarding production on your socials. No script, no identifying landmarks. Today is just a bird's eye view of your Starbucks drink beside a pad of paper and your favorite gold pen. 

You smile to yourself, captioning it "first day at work. #excited #actinglife"

You only have about 300 followers, mostly fellow actors you've met during auditions and friends from back home.

A few more of the actors file in and you meet them all, giving waves. The group chats amiably for a bit and you can't help but notice that Dieter isn't here yet. Call time was nine and it's almost ten. 

You lower your phone when you hear a ruckus coming from behind the closed door of the hotel room. 

"I told you I'm not fucking doing it! Those things fuck with brainwaves!" 

You recognize Dieters baritone voice through the door. He continues having an argument with what sounds like a very tired woman. 

"Guess the rumors are true," one of the writers (Max? Matt?) Murmurs to the man next to him who in return rolls his eyes. "Let's just hope he's sober."

"Fucking diva," the blonde replies. The group titters and you see Jan standing next to Karl making a concerned face. You think it's a bit unfair to judge Dieter on what could just be a bad day.

The door bursts open and suddenly the mood shifts. 

Dieter has an entourage that follows him into the room. You find out later it's his PA and two publicists. One of whom you recognize as the tall serious woman from last time. 

You're not surprised to see him wearing his trademark sunglasses. He's also wearing high top sneakers and bare legs under a huge green jacket that hits him mid calf. 

He glances around the room of people, waving and smiling as if the explosive conversation outside never happened. 

"Hey everyone, so sorry I'm late! Agent double booked me. Had to do some fucking BuzzFeed vid. Anyway I'm here, let's make a movie!"

There's something about Dieter that screams Hollywood. Maybe it's the megawatt smile, or the way he just exudes this casual confidence. Whatever it is, you can see just by glancing around the room that everyone is charmed. 

Even Max and the other men who had been bad-mouthing Dieter only moments before look awe -struck. The actors who had moments before been giggling now stare up at him with wide eyes.

You smirk at the hypocrisy before you feel his eyes land on you from across the room. 

"Hey Sudsy," Dieter grins, lowering his sunglasses as he calls over to you. The entire table glances over at you in confusion. You hear a few "Sudsy?" murmurs go around the table and you flush. 

"Hi," you reply tersely. 

In many ways you're very thankful for Dieter because if not for him you wouldn't be sitting here making an actual movie. But at the same time you’re mortified every time he brings up that fucking commercial. 

He walks around the table and takes a seat right next to you, crowding you and you hold in a frown as he nearly spills your coffee when he throws his notebook onto the table. 

He takes his sunglasses off completely, shrugging off his jacket to reveal a purple velour tracksuit top with green plaid shorts underneath. 

"Big day," he says, tilting back in his chair to look at you. His breath smells like spearmint, you assume from the mints he's cracking between his teeth. You think he must do it to cover up the smell of tobacco smoke.

"Yeah. I'm really excited."

"That'll pass," Dieter scoffs quietly, popping another mint into his mouth and crunching loudly.

You look back at your phone, unsure of how to act. It's not like you and Dieter are strangers but you're definitely not friends. You scroll through your Instagram feed as everyone in the room is directed to take a seat at the table. 

"You post a lot?"

You notice Dieter looking over your shoulder at your feed and you turn the screen off, shrugging. "If I feel like it."

"You feel like it now?"

"Huh?"

"Take a pic of us," he urges, motioning to your phone. 

You hesitate, looking into his face. He's never struck you as a person who likes having his photo splashed all over the place. He always looks pissed during candid paparazzi shots and he doesn't even have an Instagram account as far as you can tell. And yet he looks eager for this. 

"Uh, okay."

You raise the phone, turning the camera to face you. Dieter tilts his head against yours, smiling broadly. The younger person inside you who grew up watching his movies gets a little excited at the physical evidence of your meeting. This is Dieter fucking Bravo after all and you're making a movie with him! 

You raise your hand and flash a peace sign to the camera. Dieter does the same only winking and you snap the photo. You look like you've been friends for years, the way your heads tilt towards one another, the smiles look genuine. 

"We're hot," Dieter tells you with not an ounce of humility in him. You give a small smile.  

"You want me to post it?"

Dieter nods. "Yeah."

"Any specific hashtag?"

Dieter smiles, looking ponderous. "Sunglasses emoji?"

You smile nodding. "Sure."

You apply a filter to make the image look slightly washed out before typing in the caption: 😎 #dieterbravo 

"Do you have an account to tag?"

"Used to," Dieter shrugs. "Got to be too much." 

You post the photo before turning off your phone. Attention is drawn to the head of the table where Karl is announcing the outline of what to expect today. 

"Okay so first we're just gonna do brief introductions and go through the script summary," Karl tells the table. "Then we'll do a quick ten and come back and do our first official reading. Everyone excited?"

Everyone around the table claps excitedly, you loudest of all. Dieter gives the table a small slap as his form of applause, his rings clicking against the mahogany. 

With that Karl and the lead writer Jeff start in, going over the themes of the script, the tone, and more. You listen fascinated because if you hadn't pursued acting you'd always thought of being a screenwriter. 

About an hour and a half later they finish and you're exhilarated. Hearing from the writer why he wrote what he did and how he was inspired makes you connect even further with Cecelia. Karl gives a wide smile at the end of the table. 

"Alright take ten everyone."

Dieter is out of his seat before the sentence is out of Karl's mouth. The serious woman goes to follow him, tapping away at her phone. But Dieter is quick, ducking out of the room as she ambles slowly after him. 

You take a sip from your water bottle before standing. You turn your phone back on when you head out the doors, grabbing a coffee from the table against the wall on your way. You want to stretch your legs and think about what you've been listening to. That's a lot to digest. 

As you walk through the automatic doors of the hotels front door glance at your phone, wanting to update Carlee on what's going on. Your Instagram is still open and refreshed. Your eyes widen as you see the follower count. It's gone from 300 to over 4,900. The photo of you and Dieter has so many comments you just keep scrolling. 

A blue checkmark account sticks out to you in your new follower count. With disbelief you realize Haley Braccken now follows your account. So do a handful of beauty and fashion influencers. 

Holy shit.

You stand outside the hotel, eyes closed against the sun, drinking in its warmth as you scroll through the comments. 

"Having fun yet?"

You glance over your shoulder to see Dieter half hidden behind one of the large pillars at the entrance of the hotel looking relaxed, a cigarette hanging from between his lips. He's shielding himself from the sun and from any potential paparazzi. You also think he's hiding from the serious publicist. 

You walk over to where he sits, sipping your coffee. One leg is crooked and pulled up next to him on the bench as he scratches at his ankle. 

"I am actually," you admit with a broad smile. "Still kinda surreal but... Amazing."

"I remember that feeling," Dieter muses, pulling the cigarette from his mouth. You watch smoke curl around his full bottom lip. "Kinda. Can I give you some advice?" 

"Sure."

"It goes really fucking fast really fucking suddenly. One day you're trying to scrape together rent and the next day you're on the cover of magazines having people kissing your ass and telling you how wonderful you are," Dieter takes another drag. "Make sure you don't get so caught up that you miss everything."

This is shockingly coherent and even more shockingly sage advice from a man who you thought was a few marbles short of a full set. You exist in companiable silence, contemplating what he's said. You wonder if acting is even fun for him anymore. If it gives him that same feeling of joy and enchantment it gives you. 

"Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"Why did you sign onto this film?" You come to sit next to him on the bench, your coffee nestled between your thighs. "It's obviously a small production. They won't be paying you nearly as much as one of those cliff beast movies. So why?"

"I don't always get the chance to be a part of these kinds of stories," Dieter explains. "I wanted to make something that meant something, not just some pretentious Oscar bait. I wanted to do something serious."

"You don't strike me as a particularly serious person," you muse.

"That's why it's called acting, Sudsy," he replies with a wink. You give an exasperated sigh. 

"Can you stop calling me that?"

Dieter looks horrified at the very thought. "Why?"

"Because it's embarrassing and I hate it."

Dieter takes another deep drag of his cigarette, appearing to be thinking deeply Finally he exhales the smoke, his mouth twisting in amusement. 

"Nah."

You both return to the room a few minutes later. Dieter is immediately whisked into a conversation with his publicists and you retake your seat. 

You can't help but glance at your follower count which has now climbed to over 8,000. You shake your head in disbelief before silencing the phone and dropping it back into your purse. 

Karl calls everyone's attention and you feel Dieter slide into the chair next to yours. He looks grumpy and you surmise it's about the endorsement deal he was screaming about this morning. 

If you were closer to him you'd ask if everything is okay. As it is you simply focus on what Karl is saying.

"Alright actors grab that water and get prepped. We're starting now."

The read through. All the actors bring out their scripts, some like Dieter putting on reading glasses, others taking long sips from their water bottles. Like you, all have pens raised and ready to make changes and notes. 

Jan begins to read all of the exterior notes, the background and you see your lines highlighted in pink on the page before you.

It’s all so exhilarating and you’re so excited that you feel breathless. Your hands are shaking with anticipation. You feel your body tensing. A strange cold going up your legs. Almost as if you've been dunked in ice water up to your navel. 

Fuck. No. Not now. Not here.

A panic attack. You haven't had one in years. You have this under control with medication most of the time. But right now your hands tremble so much that you thrust them into your lap, willing them to stop. 

Please no no no no no no.

You're sweating. You can feel the damp at your temples starting and you can assume that if you looked under your t-shirt you'd see that your chest had broken out in a blotchy flush. 

Calm down. Take a drink of water.

You reach for your water bottle but when you see your hand trembling you shove it back onto your lap. Dieter is watching you out of the corner of his eyes and you feel your face flaming as you realize he saw the quaking of your hand. 

I look like a fucking amateur. Actor who gets nervous when she's about to fucking read her lines.

You can see your lines coming up on page two. The ones you highlighted and practiced for days. Jan is reading the description of the scene, it's all leading up to you and Dieter.

Fuck what is everyone going to think when-

You feel a broad hand reach under the table and reach into your lap. Long fingers lace through yours and give your right hand a reassuring squeeze. You aren't expecting the contact and you blink over at Dieter. He's giving you an encouraging smile, tilting to your ear. 

"You got this Sudsy," he murmurs softly. "Deep breath."

Whatever your preconceived notions about Dieter Bravo were they are officially erased in that moment. Yes, he calls you Sudsy and he's a bit obnoxious at times, but he's been impossibly sweet. He's giving you kindness. He's giving you support.

You give him a small smile and lick your lips. You feel his hand loosen and go to retreat but you stop him, tightening your hand in his and lowering your voice to a tight whisper.

"Just... Wait?"

Dieter blinks before nodding. You grip his hand tightly in yours; very thankful that no one can see what's going on under the table because it looks like something it definitely isn't.  

"Alright," Jan says. "Interior shot, hallway, daylight. Cecelia walks in the front door carrying shopping bags. Levi is heard off-camera." 

You swallow. "Levi, are you home?"

"I'm in the kitchen."

"Interior kitchen. Cecelia enters," Jan reads. "Close up on Levi. He looks like a man beaten down by life."

"The guests will be here soon."

"I know," Dieter says before swallowing his mint. 

"Cecelia is agitated as she lowers her shopping bags." 

"You said you would clean the kitchen up."

"What do you call this?" Dieter asks. "You think I'm washing dishes for my own amusement?"

"You said it would be done before I got back," you say with irritation. "We still have to set the table."

You feel more confident. More set in the scene. And now you squeeze and release Dieter's hand increment by increment under the table. 

"You're more than adept at doing that yourself," Dieter says, slowly pulling his hand from your lap back to his own. He pauses. "I dunno I don't think that sounds right."

"I agree," Karl says. "Too clunky. We'll work on that."

A few of the writers nod and begin making notes in the margins of the script.

The scene goes on like this. Tension mounting between the characters. Then it's into the next scene and the next. It's exhilarating imagining this all happening. Reading it linearly with all the voices present is exciting. 

There are a handful of sensual scenes. One taking place in a cabin in the woods as a last ditch effort to rekindle their relationship is particularly intense. You can admit that is the only scene that gives you pause when you think of filming it. As you and Dieter read through those lines you're thankful you're no longer gripping his hand in yours. 

There's a forbidden kiss scene with your old flame and Gary shoots a smile up at you from his spot a few seats away that you return, swallowing the galloping of your heart. 

And then before you know it, it's five pm and Karl notes this is a wrap. He tells you that rehearsals will begin next week. 

Dieter is gone before you can say goodbye or even a genuine thank you.

///

Carlee is bouncing off the walls when you get home that day, desperate to hear all about the experience. You tell her everything, skipping over the hand hold. Carlee would just read into it.

"This is so cool!" She squeaks. "I've already got your Oscars dress designed in my head."

You laugh, trying to imagine what crazy piece she'd create for you. You decide that tonight you'll take care of dinner as a thank you to Carlee for all her help. 

Later that night you relax on the couch, the TV playing something low in the background. Carlee has gone to bed, leaving you to scroll through your Instagram feed, shocked that one little photo with Dieter has taken your follower count to over 10.2k. 

You have a bunch of emails from Gwen. Apparently there are already deals for sponsored posts on your account and she's setting you up with a social media manager. You frown at the idea of someone managing something that you intended to be more authentic.

You go back to the photo of you and Dieter from today, still in awe that a man you used to watch on screen at the movies is your new costar. He's nothing like you thought, nothing like the tabloids like to paint him as. You're thoughts drift to his hand holding yours today. It's almost like you can hear him...

"You want me."

You tilt your head to see that you're not losing your mind. The tv is playing one of Diete'rs movies, the one that got him an Oscar. The one where he plays a country priest torn between duty to the cloth and his desire for a fellow clergyman played by Hugh Jackman.

You never actually saw it. It had seemed like Oscar bait from the first ad and you hadn't bothered spending your time or money on it. By the time it won the Oscar you weren't even that interested. 

But now, seeing Dieter on his knees in prayer? 

Fuck. He looks hot in this.

Seeing him dressed as a priest sending desperate longing looks across the church at Hugh makes you squirm on the couch as you keep watching. You find yourself immersed quite quickly in the story of two men torn about by circumstance and time. 

His voice is doing that husky, rumbling thing when he and Hugh find themselves alone in the chapel one night, rosary beads clutched tightly in their fists.

"I shouldn't want this," Dieter rasps. "But I can't help myself." 

His dark eyes are narrowed with intensity and when strides forward and he captures the lips of the other priest played by Hugh in a searing kiss you let out a soft sigh. 

Your hand is sliding down underneath the front of your jeans before you even realize it. You touch yourself through your panties, shocked at how wet you already are. 

You watch Dieter's own hand slide down the front of his co-stars cassock onscreen and you bite your lower lip to keep from moaning out loud. The two of them look so sexy, full mouths and deep groans.

Hugh grips the back of Dieter's neck, deepening the kiss and you hear Dieter let out a soft whimper that hits you straight in your core. You curl two of your fingers inside, fucking yourself in time with the men onscreen. 

Fuck it feels good. You can hear Dieters voice on the screen, urging the other man to disrobe and by the time the two men are shirtless and tangled on a cot you're bucking into your palm, cresting on the edge of a rippling orgasm. 

"It's wrong," Hugh's character moans against Dieter's tongue. "So wrong, so sinful."

You’re rocking against your hand and your fingers, gripping the couch with your free hand, praying Carlee doesn't come out of her room. 

"Please," Dieter groans as Hugh kisses down his jaw. "Show me how to be good." 

That sentence in Dieter's dark baritone sends your hips jolting up from the couch against your palm, rutting there as stars explode behind your closed eyes. 

As you come down from your orgasm with heart hammering and cheeks flushed you're very aware of one glaring fact:

You are so fucked. 

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[whatifwekilledgodandwebothgirls]

And another thing, harry potter had TERRIBLE world building . Im not talking about the " centuars are considered basically animals despite having sentience " im not talking about " the only jobs for wizards are wizard cop , teacher , and owner of fucked up little shop " . Im talking about how the magic system is built around unstackable magic .

See the way i personally belive that the most fun magic systems are the ones where you get increasingly powerful by stacking spells on top of eachother . For exapmle taking a simple spell about moving water and stacking a bunch of other more spesific spells on top to make it applicable to human blood or something . ALSO , the ones that are about stackable knowlage, ie getting more and more deep knowlage about a spesific subject so you can get better at it . In harry potter , they have SOME conplicated spells sure , but they require memorization to learn , not any real craftsmanship. Its just plain remembering words of a page , the mage cant make their own spells by being clever or by combining spells . It takes the complexity out of spell casting . FURTHERMORE even if you HAVE taken the time to learn all those cool spells , like hermione has , it still doesnt FUCKING matter . It doent matter . Harry potter , who knows like one spell , is still able to hold his grownd as much as her . I genuenly dont know why or how harry is a good wizard . Im geussing it has to do with like how magical a person in by nature? I cants pinpoint what skill exactly magic uses . ALSO the whole wands making you more powerful thing is kinda based but only if each character made their own wands. If you wanna make them go into little shops (which i applaud, its really cool ) you gotta make wands irrelevant .

NOW . EVEN IF I FORGOT ALL OF THIS , even if i forgot how bulshit the spells are , i cant give up on this one minor detail . There isnt a distinctive spell languge . All the spells are in this wierd latin english hybrid . Alright . Fine . Im ok with that , upset about it , but i will live . WHY in the abselute FUCK dont they TAKE LATIN CLASSES. WHY DONT THEY TEACH LATIN IN THE FUCKING SCHOOL . They had the most RANDOM fucking classes . Why dont the do latin , even just a single class . It bothers me increadebly much . They have time to learn how to handle animals , youre telling me they dont have time to learn THE LANGUGE THEIR SPELLS ARE WRITTEN IN ?

Anyway . War and hate on planet earth . All those big time hollywood writers should hire me to make their worlds more realistic . Her and gorge r r martin are two of the most annoying writers because they both could have had a very well writen series if they just didnt have their head so far up their ass to consider that MAYBE they should devout more than a single thought to their world building. Dont get me started on rr martins fucking plotand how he handles politics . Why cant writers just think

#harry potter #jk rowling