#DB Movie 20

[oimitocat]

HEART FLASHING | DB

seeing you run is exhilarating. the fear in your face makes his heart stutter in his ribcage. the rain and the thunder creating the perfect atmosphere. the wet footsteps, the panting, minho fears for you just as you fear for yourself.

the way you slip and almost lose your balance makes him cover his mouth to prevent a scream. he knows the critical situation but can’t you be more careful!?! he’s tense, literally. his eyes don’t leave you.

he knows it’s a movie, but seeing your raw emotions does something to his brain. to his heart.

seeing you cry out as you run out of stamina. as you’re pulled by the leg and fall to your face. the way you’re jumped by the brutal men chasing you. the way you’re punched until your skin is raw and bleeding. the way you never give up your lover’s name. the way you slowly lose strength.

the dim in your eyes dying. the sound of you choking on your own blood.

then the sound of tires screeching and a thud boom across the theater.

you die.

beaten. ran over.

minho’s mind goes blank for the remainder of the movie. which wasn’t much, given he was in the car probably not even 20 minutes later. you start the engine, humming happily to yourself. the premiere was a success and you were glad minho came to watch it with you. you look at him, excited to ask if he liked it and if he was down to eat something. the words die in your mouth when you see he’s extremely quiet and zoned out.

“min?” you ask.

you shift a bit, for him to catch you in his gaze. his eyes flit to you. the moment he sees you, he cries.

you tense up, panicking. he scrubs away at his face as he sobs, heaving like a child spanked for something minor.

“you’re so stupid!” he insults and you gawk at him.

“what- why!? what i do?” you get defensive.

“you fucking died! horribly!” he heaves.

you process everything for a moment, watching him bawl his eyes out. you had noticed he got really quiet after your character’s death. you lean back into your seat, smiling. quietly, you take his left hand away from his face, as he furiously dabs away his tears. you bring your hand with his, intertwining fingers.

“baby, it’s just a movie,” you laugh softly, adoring him. “let’s go eat yeah?”

“i hate you! why would you bring me here!? my h-heart can’t handle seeing you like that!”

[project-changeling-zero]

i really, really, really wanna work on this project and see it through, more than i have wanted to for a project in a while, sooo i'mma talk about it!

i am currently working on a large-scale HiJack fanfic titled "Our Love Found In War", which is a tale of 300 yr war between man and mystic being brought to an end through Hiccup and Jack's efforts in not only an alliance, but in their growing love.

hesitant to call it an 'enemies to lovers' story, as i'm not the biggest fan of ETL to begin with ( for reasons ), and Hiccup and Jack don't necessarily have animosity towards each other specifically.

there's a lot of kinks i'm working through, but here are some definitive details of the AU:

Hiccup and Jack are both 20-21

mystics aren't spirits, per say, and aren't immortal, but do generally live longer than humans and can die by specific means

the original storyline of the first HTTYD movie is relevant, as Hiccup is still the first and only dragon rider in this AU thus far, which is how the bridge between 'worlds' can begin to build

the Guardians are elemental-adjacent beings, with abilities that are unlike the rest of their kind

Drago Bludvist and Pitch Black had begun the war through superiority complexes ( bringing in DB cuz i don't care for him v much and he's dead, obviously )

as for some ideas i have that're a source of struggle for me to come up with plausible reasonings for:

Jack is being puppeteered by Pitch ( source of struggle - i don't know how this would happen or why )

the Guardians' relationship with Jack ( source of struggle - i don't know if they would even know he exists, if they should be acquaintances or why, or how they would be involved in Pitch's potential control of Jack )

Pitch in general ( source of struggle - wonder where he would be, if he's sealed up and Jack is somehow connected through magical means, or if he's still wandering around the plane of existence )

i kinda wanted to make a trail of OLFIW's progress of its writing, partially cuz i'm a little embarrassed to talk about this with anyone i'm close to, aside from my best friend ( if you find this, you know who you are and ily <3 ), but also bc i think it'd be fun to get some suggestions and i am physically incapable of shutting up about projects i really like! so might as well start here ^^

my plans for this fic are:

30-50 chapters ( i know, a lot )

cover art, mostly for fun

'official' playlist

reference sheets, concept art, etc.

scene art

...a shit load of advertisement-

basically, if you couldn't tell, i'm really pumped to get this out and i want to dedicate a bunch of time to it! and, considering it's summer, i get the chance to!

hopefully, i can at least get a rough outline of how i want this story to go by the end of the season, as well as have some sketches here and there.

oh, uh, should go without saying, but this'll be super gay. like, embarrassingly so. you'll feel it through the screen.

[pancakeke]

when I was a kid my dad spent so much money on a home theater setup just so he could blast mission impossible movies or whatever at 150 dB and let the base rattle everyone's bedroom windows all night even though he'd fall asleep and start snoring almost as loud like 20 mins in

[sandflakedraws]

lorieninksong replied to your post “ship aint official until ive drawn them napping”

I still know nothing about trolls but I love them. Your troll artwork in general is incredible btw. I may have to watch the movies now, you are winning. XD

they are incredibly silly movies, but as soon as you let go and take any part of them seriously, It's Over.

like oh my god.... he thinks he's responsible for his grandmother's death and that's haunted his every step for the past 2 decades... he thinks singing killed his grandma...😭😭😭

the first is probably the strongest film of all of them, tho it's sense of humor i generally vibe with the least.

the second has one of my favorite messages in kid's animation from the like. last 20 years, despite it feeling like it coulda benefited from another go in writer's room. but it also has HICKORY. won't spoil here why he gets me runnin around the room, but if you know you know.

and the third movie..?

what the hell man.

there is so much here that is joey's brand of kryptonite. like it was Hand Picked to make me, specifically, go hog wild. just the traditional pink pig, rolling in the dirt, shriek-oinking at 200 dB kind of hog wild.

y'know how stories that feel somewhat incomplete or have things unexplored lend themselves to fanworks a little better? that's what's goin on here.

[shannonsketches]

So, as per your recommendation I've read the whole currently available Super manga and it was stellar! Truly joyful experience, though it surprised me how much more sophisticated it was in its characterisation and storytelling. I've started the anime as it was airinng but gave up on it like 20 episodes in. After I've finished the manga I went back to check out some vegebul content compilations from the anime and it really struck me how, uh, awful it was? It's like the anime oscilates between the immature, tsundere shtick on Vegeta's part, and really mean-spirited "old married couple" comedy. It's like the creators of the anime are unable to conceptualize a more stable and mature, yet still passionate relationship because it's just gags for the kids, while at the same time smuggling in the age-old stereotype how marriage is a prison for a man. Some of the scenes really hit below the belt, like the scene of Vegeta overhearing Bulma talk about Goku to Trunks and Goten in the Zamasu arc. I wonder what was the point of that scene? Does it inform their relationship or his further actions in any way? Or is it just the anime script writers taking shots at a character they hate? Anyway, sorry for the rambling. Yes I can now totally vouch for the manga as my go-to, ESPECIALLY wrt Vegeta's characterisation and his relationship with Bulma. Seeing them be so comfortable with being together, and like so casually in love, is a breath of fresh air.

YES! Toriyama is a fantastic writer despite what he says about himself, and Toya’s addition has added a closer more intimate layer to the story that even Toriyama praised as something he’s always wanted for this world but didn’t trust himself to do well. I’m so glad you enjoyed the manga!!

And oh my god dude no legit somebody at Toei hates Vegeta. He’s been having his character thrashed since the 90s, even after Toriyama started liking him, but Super’s anime was easily the most glaring example. Especially having the side-by-side comparisons of his characterization with the movies Toriyama wrote.

Good on you for making it that far. The first time I tried to watch it back when it was airing, I gave up on it halfway through the first arc. My friend would have it on in the background while we did homework and it just stayed disappointing, but back then I blamed Toriyama because I had no idea he was working on a completely different manga or that he, too, thought Toei’s takes were garbage on the reg.

This last time I tried watching through an arc, skipping around when I hit my tolerance limit, and was finally defeated mid-Zamasu because my god it is so jarring coming to that straight from the manga I just had to call it.

I had a big rant here but I’m trying not to be mean. There are a lot of folks who love the DBS anime and that’s good. Whatever my opinions on it are, the anime is widely accessible and a big part of why DB has survived popular culture for 40 years. Credit where credit is due.

That said, you will always catch me begging more people to read the manga while yearning for a full reboot from the Daima team.

[duhragonball]

Daima vs. Super

I’ve got a little time on my hands, so I thought I’d start on this series I wanted to do about Daima’s continuity with the other Dragon Ball series. I’m starting with Dragon Ball Super because I think that’s the simplest one to discuss. I will be spoiling both shows under the cut, so keep that in mind.

All right, so when Daima was first announced, my initial assumption was that it would be set after Dragon Ball Super: Super Hero.  The Broly movie, Super Hero, the Moro and Granolah manga arcs each take place after the final episode of the DBS anime. But Pan was three years old in Super Hero, so it seemed like the only real question was whether a new project would be set after the “End of Z”.  Maybe I should make a little timeline of the DBS continuity.

Dragon Ball 1-153

Dragon Ball Z 1-288

Dragon Ball Z: Battle of Gods or Dragon Ball Super anime 1-18, or manga 1-4

Dragon Ball Z: Resurrection F or Dragon Ball Super anime 19-27

Dragon Ball Super anime 28-131 or manga chapter 5-42

Dragon Ball Super Movie 1: Broly

Dragon Ball Super manga ch.42-87 (Moro and Granolah arcs)

Dragon Ball Super Movie 2: Super Hero, or manga chapter 88-100

Dragon Ball Super manga chapter 101-?

Dragon Ball Z 289-291 (”End of Z”)

As it turned out, Daima was revealed to be set two years after the defeat of Kid Buu, which I believe puts it two years before the events of Battle of Gods and the beginning of the DBS anime.  So in terms of DBS, Daima is like a prequel series. Both shows are set in the “ten year gap” between Kid Buu and the finale of DBZ, but Daima takes place before Beerus or any other DBS stuff happens. 

Alternately, we could look at Daima as a hard reboot. It feels like the mission statement of Super was to fill in the “ten year gap”, and now we have Daima, which looks like it’s starting all over again.  It’s only twenty episodes long, and it only covers a single adventure in Year Two of the gap, but one could imagine a number of sequel series that might continue covering the Ten Year Gap without any regard for the events already established by Super.

I say this because there are a couple of glaring discontinuities between Daima and Super.  The first is only natural: Since Daima is set before Super, there’s no way for Super to acknowledge any of the events in Daima.  In particular, Super Saiyan 4 is revealed in Daima, but Goku never mentions it in Super.

This could easily be explained away by Goku abandoning the form after Daima Episode 20 and before he met Beerus in Battle of Gods.  He challenged Beerus to a match on King Kai’s planet, and went Super Saiyan 3, claiming it was his strongest form. But in Daima #20, Goku claims he discovered the form while training after Kid Buu. So that only leaves us with three options.

Goku was fibbing to Beerus and kept SSJ4 a secret for no apparent reason.

Goku had reached a point in his training where he decided SSJ4 wasn’t practical for combat.

Daima and Dragon Ball Super are simply incompatible.

I’m not fond of any of these options, since I feel like the whole point of introducing Super Saiyan 4 in Daima was to make it part of the wider Dragon Ball continuity. If Daima’s in it’s own little compartment, then that’s no different from the original SSJ4 debut in GT.  If Goku has a stronger form in his arsenal and chooses to hide it from an opponent like Beerus, then that defeats the entire purpose of it. 

Option 2 is the simplest way to go, but it also breaks Super Saiyan 4, and that’s no fun. You can make the case that Super Saiyan God, Super Saiyan Blue, and Ultra Instinct will obsolete SSJ4 anyway, but if Goku abandons the form before he even meets Beerus, then it’s basically just a one-off.  He used it against Gomah that one time and never again?  Weak.

I suspect that if Toyotaro plans to continue the DBS manga, he may want to work Daima lore into his stories, and he might no-prize some of these issues away. For example, we saw Black Frieza defeat Ultra Instinct Goku and Ultra Ego Vegeta, so maybe the key to victory is for Goku to combine UI with SSJ4, sort of like how he stacked Super Saiyan Blue with the Kai-o-ken.  I could see him trying that, especially since he had Goku rapidly switching between God and Blue when he fought Zamasu in the manga.

Or maybe Goku brings SSJ4 back because he decides it’s the best way to maximize his own Saiyan power. The Granolah arc had a lot to do with Goku and Vegeta finding their own paths forward, as opposed to simply imitating Whis and Beerus with their UI and UE forms. Maybe training with Broly would help them figure out what they really need to do, and SSJ4 might be the missing piece of the puzzle. 

There’s a way to deal with it, is what I’m saying.  The thing about Super is that it isn’t really over yet, since Toyotaro recently published that Trunks special that I haven’t read yet.  I would imagine he wouldn’t have bothered unless he had bigger plans for the future of the manga, and that Black Frieza situation still needs to be addressed.  So if Toei and Shueisha want to tie Daima and Super together in one neat little package, that’s probably how it’ll be done. 

The second discontinuity is the whole deal with Kibitoshin.  This one doesn’t bother me as much because the Dragon Ball Super franchise was so inconsistent with itself on things like this.  Let’s review.

In Dragon Ball Z Episode 267, the Elder Kai reveals that the Potara Earrings can be used for fusion, and suggests that the Supreme Kai and Kibito try to use their own Potara Earrings to fuse together.  They do, only to find out that it’s permanent.  Kibitoshin remains a fixture in the Dragon Ball cast through the events of Battle of Gods in 2013. In both the movie and the anime adaptation in DBS 1-14, Kibitoshin remains fused throughout. 

However, the manga adaptation of the comic took a different direction.  There’s a subplot with the Old Kai sending Kibitoshin to collect the Namekian Dragon Balls, because he thinks Beerus might be planning to use them for something, but it turns out to be a red herring.  At the end of Chapter 3, the Kibito and the Supreme Kai reveal that they used the Namekian Dragon Balls to wish for their separation. This was published on August 15, 2015.

I suspect Toyotaro did this in order to set up Kibito and Shin’s appearance in the Universe 6 tournament arc.  In Dragon Ball Super Episode 32, they show up to watch Beerus and Champa’s tournament.  Goku notices that they’re separate again, and they explain that they used the Namekian Dragon Balls to undo their fusion.  From an anime-only standpoint, this is treated like a big surprise, as they hadn’t been seen since the end of the Beerus fight in Episode 14.  It could be a callback to chapter 3 of the manga, except the manga’s version of Battle of Gods is completely different from the anime, where Kibitoshin did not use the Namekian Dragon Balls. DBS 32 aired on February 21, 2016. 

So on top of all of that, now we have Daima Episode 1, where Goku notices Kibito and Shin have unfused, and this time they explain that Majin Buu helped them separate..  Daima is set two years before Battle of Gods, so the implication here is that it doesn’t fit with Super at all.  Kibitoshin shouldn’t exist in Battle of Gods, or in any episode of the DBS anime, and he shouldn’t have needed the Namekian Dragon Balls to unfuse in the manga because he would have already done it with Buu a long time ago.

To me, it doesn’t really matter, since there’s three different versions of Battle of Gods that tell wildly different versions of the same story.  Expecting Daima to line up with any of them is kind of pointless, since they don’t line up with one another. I’m pretty sure Akira Toriyama just wanted an unfused Supreme Kai for this story, but he didn’t want to set it after Kibitoshin got unfused in DBS.

This is, of course, easily resolved if we assume Kibito and Shin re-fused sometime between the end of Daima and the beginning of Battle of Gods.  A few suggestions on how to accomplish this:

1) Majin Buu’s interior somehow has the power to dissolve fusions, but only temporarily.  If you get out of Buu’s body, you automatically re-fuse after one year.  This didn’t happen with Vegito because Goku and Vegeta are mortals, and according to Gowasu in DBS 66, Potara fusion is only permanent when at least one Kai is involved.  So Vegito separated inside Buu’s body, but didn’t recombine because his time limit expired first.  But Kibitoshin’s fusion had no time limit, so he recombined later, requiring him to use the Namekian Dragon Balls later on.

2) Kibito and Shin slip on a bunch of banana peels and their earrings fall off and they re-fuse.

3) The Elder Kai tells them to try the Potara again and they fall for it all over again like a couple of dummies.  I mean, it was kind of stupid how they fused together in the first place, so it’s not like they need a sensible reason to re-fuse later on.

4) During some as-yet-unseen adventure, Kibito and the Supreme Kai reluctantly choose to fuse together to defeat a powerful bad guy.  Seriously, they did get a big power boost from the fusion.  I think that gets overlooked, because they were no match for Majin Buu either way, but Kibitoshin could still be a badass against lesser villains. I bet he could give Perfect Cell a run for his money.

Again, I could see Toyotaro tackling this if he plans to continue the DBS manga and if he wants to work Daima lore into his stories.  It’d be a little awkward, since this second Kibitoshin fusion would have to take place several years before Black Frieza, but this is the same guy who did a whole page to explain where Dr. Hedo got the inspiration for the Gammas’ capes.

It is also possible that Daima and Super will wind up being left as separate things.  The precedent may have been set that future projects will be standalone sequels to DBZ without necessarily connecting to GT, Daima, Super, or one another. I tend to doubt this, though, since Daima does include some lore from Super.  Gowasu and the Supreme Kais of the other universes are shown, and Goku’s home universe is still said to be in Universe 7.  It’s not much, but it’s a pretty clear continuation of the cosmology from Battle of Gods and Super. 

And there’s nothing to outright contradict Super.  We don’t see anyone in Daima say that Super Dragon Balls don’t exist, or that Ultra Instinct is impossible, or that the Pilaf Gang was brutally murdered in a gangland shooting. It’s not like GT, where both Super and Daima seemed to go out of their way to rule out any possibility of a shared continuity.   But I’ll get into that another time...

[dbzebra]

Episode 20 of Daima was amazing from beginning to end it was so exciting to watch! I thought the animation couldn’t be topped from last episode but it was!! 11/10 epsiode

Last few weeks might be DB has ever looked in animated form period. This episode has the best Kamehameha of the franchise imo and the fact that a version of Super Saiyan 4 did it makes it even better for me

Dragon Ball Daima was a really fun series. I wish it lasted a little more but it was Toriyama’s last gift to the fandom and I’ll be forever grateful for that. Haven’t felt this excited and happy watching modern DB in a LOOOOONG time. Gonna catch up on the dub now!

it’s good to have a series that just does what it wants to do and doesn’t care about adhering to a specific narrow timeline

also

I am fucking VINDICATED

Daima pretty much disregards Super outside a few minor references and honestly good lol. Daima being it’s own thing works way better than having to fit into Super’s timeline 

The term canon has such a deep chokehold on this fanbase it's honestly ridiculous. It's all fucking canon just in different continuities!!

The original run, Super, GT and Daima are all separate timelines but they’re all canon.

GT has ALWAYS been canon to the Z anime and the sooner people get that the better. Same with the movies. Garlic Jr especially 

"ITs not CanOn" shut the hell up lol. So many people in this fandom use canon to determine quality when that doesn’t make any sense. 

You know the type I mean. 

"Well umm actually this is canon so it's better than (insert filler/movie here) that isn’t canon" SHUT UP THATS

NOT HOW IT WORKSSSSSSSS

Like genuinely who fucking cares if it's

CanOn or not? Do you like it? Cool! Don't?

Ignore It!

There's so many people who just handwave away filler, or the original movies, and especially GT because NoN CanOn and put stuff like DBS on a pedestal purely because of that meaningless term. Not to mention DBS has multiple continuities so why are those all canon but the movies/GT/Daima etc isn’t?

People are turning on Daima being canon or not despite Toriyama writing it. Why does everything have to fit into DBS?

The Z movies did whatever and they were fun because of it

Also love how certain fans move the goal posts with things

First it was made by Toriyama = canon

But now since Daima contradicts Super, Daima is supposedly not canon?? GT fits almost perfectly after Z and that's not canon either in their eyes because Toriyama didn’t do it

So which is it? 

Made by Toriyama or consistency? Can’t be both. Going by the former, any future DBS arc isn’t canon anymore but you know people will justify that is and then turn around say Bardock the Father of Goku isn’t canon etc etc. and the latter, DB contradicts itself all the time. Z and Super included. I mean we see Gero die like 5 different ways in the anime across Z, fiillee flashbacks, movies and GT flashbacks 

Just so tired of this meaningless “canon” debate. It’s fucking absolute nonsense that doesn’t even mean anything in a series that has a whole arc and a whole freaking spinoff series about timelines and fixing shit

Dragon Ball is Dragon Ball. We all have our preferences on what is better or worse or whatever else but this canon vs non canon debate crap needs to end. 

Thank you for coming to my ted talk 

[tobiasdrake]

Have you read the Dragon Ball Super manga? You've stated in the past that you're more of a fan of the original manga than the anime adaptation, so I was curious what your thoughts are on the current continuation of Toriyama's original manga, seeing as how the manga had some Toriyama supervision and was based on his notes.

While I do prefer the manga to the anime, I will say that both versions of Dragon Ball Super are hit-or-miss. There are basically three creatives at work with DBS.

Toriyama, up until his passing, would write story notes and some individual plot points down and pass them off to Toei and to Toyotaro. Lotta To- names floating around Dragon Ball.

...he said with no sense of self-awareness at all.

But this is Toriyama twenty or thirty years later, so he's not exactly the same creator that wrote the original manga. His memory of his own work has drifted; For instance, while writing Battle of Gods, he forgot that Super Saiyan 2 even existed and thought SSJ3 was SSJ2.

It had been a long time for him. He only got back into Dragon Ball because Dragon Ball: Evolution pissed him off. Explaining in the 30th Anniversary Super History Book:

"Dragon Ball once became a thing of the past to me, but after that, I got angry about the live action movie, re-wrote an entire movie script, and now I'm complaining about the quality of the new TV anime, so it seems that DB has grown on me much that I can't leave it alone."

The movie script he rewrote was, of course, Battle of Gods.

Famously, after seeing Evolution, Toriyama basically marched into Toei to see what they were making, ripped up the script for Battle of Gods, and rewrote the whole thing. He was just. So. Incensed. By Hollywood's butchering of his work.

So, in a twisted way, we have Dragon Ball: Evolution to thank for the resurrection of the Dragon Ball brand. I know, it's so weird.

This was Toriyama's formal return to the world of Dragon Ball after decades of just writing little story bits here and there or designing a character or two. Though just writing story bits here or there is more or less what he settled back into with Super. Toriyama would write notes about what he wanted to happen and deliver them to Toei and to Toyotaro, and the two would separately interpret those notes into their own vision.

You can tell what's from Toriyama versus what's from Toei or Toyotaro based on what plot points end up being hit by both versions versus what's unique to one interpretation or the other.

So, this:

Gohan facing down the fused Kefla and sacrificing himself in a double KO to take her off the field? That's Toyotaro.

Super Saiyan Blue Kaio-ken? That's Toei.

Goku has never kissed Chi-Chi in 20+ years of marriage because he's aroace and they're basically playing house for keeps? That's Toriyama.

Android 17 being the key factor in winning the Tournament of Power because his Android energy can't be sensed the way ki can, that's something that came down from Toriyama. 17 pretends to self-destruct using the bomb he doesn't have anymore; The one Krillin once used Shenron to remove from him.

But Toei has 17 emerge for the fight with Jiren, so he can briefly join Goku and Frieza in fending Jiren off - before they tell him to fuck off because he's not supposed to be in this scene.

While Toyotaro has him remain hidden under his cloak of ki-sensing invisibility for a last-second surprise.

But like I said before: Writing Dragon Ball again after twenty years away out of spite towards a bad American production, Toriyama isn't the same creative he was when this was all fresh and new and exciting. He was just as prone to characterization slip-ups and questionable decision-making as Toei and Toyotaro are.

I mean. That was even happening in the original manga. Remember that time when any part of the Android arc honestly? Good times. Nobody's perfect.

So, like I said, with Super, it's really hit or miss on both sides. Sometimes Toriyama's collaborations with Toei give us the heartwarming and beautiful friendship relationship between Broly and his new pals Cheelai and Leemo.

Or this. Especially this.

Nothing in Dragon Ball has ever, EVER been as funny as when Goku and Vegeta made Frieza hold the line against Broly, a nemesis Frieza brought to Earth to kill Goku and Vegeta. Taking advantage of his berserker rage in the most comical and beautifully karmic way possible to buy them time to work out the Fusion Dance.

And sometimes they give us yet another version of the Gotenks failed fusion joke they need to flog like a dead horse every single time a Fusion takes place in any piece of media they have ever produced.

DO YOU REMEMBER THAT TIME DO YOU REMEMBER DO YOU FUCKING REMEMBER THAT TIME IT WAS SO FUNNY DO YOU REMEMBER IT

That is Fusion Reborn, Yo Son Goku and Friends Return, DBS: Broly, and DBS: Super Hero in order.

And for his part, sometimes Toriyama's collaborations with Toyotaro gives us Goku lighting the fuck up like Spirit Korra.

And sometimes it gives us Vegeta learning how to teleport from the Yardratians but then immediately swearing off ever using it again because... I guess the move has Goku's cooties on it or something.

"Vegeta, you can teleport!"

"No, I cannot! I demand divergent character evolution from this manga so I will forever forego ever learning the cool and useful techniques that you use, Kakarot. What do you mean my dialogue sounds like a fourth-wall breaking author screed?"

This is honestly one of my "favorite" things that ever happens in Super. Vegeta refuses to learn Ultra Instinct, the ultimate martial art of the gods taught by Whis, and demands another path to the same kind of power that does not exist.

Then Beerus, a character who has long been established as vastly inferior to Whis, is like "Wanna learn this other thing that's just as good as Whis's thing I swear?" and helps Vegeta learn a new art where he... *checks notes* ...lets his opponent punch him in the face without defending himself until he dies.

This is where you end up when your mission statement is to not do the things that actually work for the intelligent martial artist and instead do the opposite out of spite. You end up with a fighting style that's built around losing fights on purpose.

Toyotaro somehow manages to shill the hell out of Vegeta and downplay Goku while also making Vegeta look like the most useless idiot ever. Ultra Ego is the worst transformation in the history of Dragon Ball and I'm convinced that Beerus helped Vegeta develop this as a prank.

He's up there right now laughing his ass off.

So. Yeah. There's a lot to like but also a lot to not like about both versions of Super. It's very different from what the original manga is, and it has very different pluses and minuses between the two versions. But there are some gems to be found here.

And the biggest gem is this guy.

[secretsofdbz]

Alright, timelines. (link to my old post)

Today I'm going to walk you through the cluster fuck of Toriyama not paying attention to what he writes from the Trunks arc to the epilogue of the Perfect Cell arc.

Reminder that I divide the "Android Saga" in 4 arcs:

Trunks arc (arrival of Frieza to 3yg training),

Android arc (until the time machine is discovered)

Imperfect Cell arc (until Cell absorbs 18)

Perfect Cell arc (+ epilogue of Trunks killing imperfect Cell)

I will also pull Toei and Daizenshu content if needed just to show how bad it gets, BUT that's just to enhance my argument. Everything here is manga-deductible without extra context or content.

As I've shown in the link above, the manga implies 4 timelines:

Forgotten timeline (Cell kills Trunks and steals his time machine),

Lost timeline (the timeline that dead!Trunks traveled to, which did not have a Cell pop in the middle of its Android Saga, otherwise Trunks would've known about Cell),

Future Timeline (the one we know and see, Trunks traveled to a uni where Cell traveled to first, so there's changes and Cell pops up in the Android saga),

Main Timeline (the one we know and follow, to which Cell and Trunks traveled to),

Let's go into details about dates and math and everything first. (under the read more because LONG)

When Future Trunks discovers dead!Trunks' time machine, he states that it comes from age 788, which is 3 years from where he comes from (which means he comes from 785), and that the Machine landed here "4 years ago". 4 years ago was about one year before Trunks first came (aka one year before Meca Frieza stuff).

During the first trip, Trunks states he comes from 20 years into the future.

That means during his first trip, he went from 784/785 to 764.

We also know he's 17 at this point and "will be born in 2 and a half years"

(Baby Trunks is supposed to be ~6 months old by May 12th, 767, so "I warn in 764, I'll be born in 2.5 years, so I was born in 766" works. Ignoring the wikis about Trunks' birthday being June and Future Trunks' birthday being in November, it doesn't matter here, we just need the years))

For Trunks to be 17 during his first trip, he needs to travel from 784 (before his 18th birthday). So by the time he comes back the second time, it needs to be in 785 (so he is 18!); since it takes 8 months to charge the machine (Trunks the Story manga chapter), that works out.

So in terms of trips, we have:

Trunks (both versions) : (early-mid) 784 to 764

Trunks (both versions): (early-ish) 785 to May 12th 767

Cell: 788 to 763

(handy recap sheet)

At the time, for Toei, there were only two Timelines (aka it was both multiverse theory AND dynamic time travel theory, because Trunks becoming aware of Cell who killed him means Trunks isn't killed by Cell... yeah it's all sorts of EHH ??):

(Toei pamphlet for the Super Android 13 movie)

(animedia 1992-1993, "Dragon Ball Z across time special, new year summary")

Anyway, you'd think this would be fine right? The image of Cell killing Trunks while he still had his sword (which he shouldn't since he broke it on 18's arm he never used it again in canon) is anime filler, we're all good.

Except... no. This fucking panel right here. Cell explains "(the machine/bots collecting dna) could've gotten Trunks cells but didn't because we had enough Saiyan cells".

Cell supposedly comes from a timeline where GOKU killed Frieza and Cold. But this god forsaken panel contradicts that. (of course it's just that Tori forgot, but we are DB fans, we take things seriously and word of god of the manga is supreme and can't be wrong)

This means that THIS particular version of Cell doesn't come from the Forgotten Timeline.

The Cell we know and love/hate comes from a timeline in which a future Trunks killed Frieza and Cold, BUT everything still went to shit (Goku + gang dying, dead!Trunks traveling to the past, and coming back to destroy the Androids).

In this timeline, Bulma met Future Trunks (who killed Cold and Frieza) in 764, presumably the gang got all the warnings like in the main timeline, but everyone STILL died. So she invented the Time Machine to send her Trunks to the past (perhaps with different instructions so as to not repeat the mistakes of the Future Trunks she saw 20 years prior).

Here's the thing. There is a way for this timeline to exist. You "just" gotta work on the postulate that "each time there's a time travel to the past, a new branch is created". And "if the time machine travels back in time a second time, it lands in the timeline it first branched out unless it travels back further in time". Rephrased: The "784 to 764" trip created a new branch in 764. The "785 to 767" trip landed in that new 764 branch. However the "788 to 763" trip created a whole new branch in 763.

The Time Machine that was piloted by dead!Trunks actually "traveled further back in time", creating an earlier "branch"... which is why Trunks noticed changes, including Goku's late arrival (or Frieza's earlier arrival, we don't know).

Yes, because Future Goku did not use Instant Transmission to fight Frieza and Cold. We know he didn't because Future Bulma had the coordinates where Goku landed, which is how Future Trunks got said coordinates. If Goku had IT to fight Frieza and Cold, Bulma wouldn't have known where the pod was going to land 3 hours later.

So timelines and where does Cell come from? Well you need a timeline from the Branch that started in 764 (with a Future Trunks' arrival to kill Frieza and Cold) but in which everyone died to the Androids, and in which, when Trunks traveled back home, he was able to destroy the Androids...

Anyway here's my final recap of all the timelines in Z, in which "one time travel is one interference creating a new branch". And this is how we can see where Cell comes from :D

This opens a realm of possibilities!!

Did a version of Trunks stay in the past, during his first trip and got a wish to Shenron to have a way to destroy his androids, so he didn't come back in 767 and didn't grow strong at all? Did the future trunks that warned against the Androids but that timeline still went to shit approached the problem differently?? who knows! Time for fanfics and doujins I guess :D

Peace!

[eternalsailormom]

If you haven't seen Under Paris and plan to and also hate spoilers this essay is not for you yet, come back later! Anyway ok so this fucking banger of a movie finally replaced Deep Blue Sea as my favorite shark movie of all time. The whole movie was a statement while also having a good time. Deep Blue sea had a good foundation, script, the famous Samuel L. Jackson rallying speech (So we're not going to fight ANYMORE!), took itself seriously except for well timed LL Cool J scenes, and didn't skimp on graphics or shark time. Also that ending credits song. Perfection. But THIS movie had the foundation, the script, the acting, the graphics, and THAT ENDING THO. The meanings behind the movie itself and why the ending happened the way it did was just *chef's kiss*. DBS has specifically only one human--Dr. McAlester--who is made to be at fault for the makos becoming smart and vengeful, so as long as she died by shark, per test audiences, then the movie ending with all 3 sharks dead is seen as ok. Even though humanity was at fault the sharks still overall need to be bested because they're smart sharks and smart sharks are bad. Under Paris was meant to be a satirical take on French politics, greed, climate change vs human decisions that always make things worse, and ultimately the end was an anti-Hollywood poke at how the sharks always die at the end. Not only do the sharks live, they win. Multiple things happen in the movie that underscore the poor decisions of humans for hundreds of years thus leading to climate change, greed and our own hubris. The WWII shells polluting the Siene lead to destruction generations later. The pollution of the oceans leading to the new species of shark Lilith becomes. The refusal to stop the Olympic triathlon due to money and image taking precedent over human lives. The machinery of politics over humanity. The sharks win because they deserve to take back the world we're ruining, because being deadly and able to quickly parthenogenetically reproduce thanks to our polluting shouldn't be their death sentence, and they win because we can't fix the problems we've created by making more poor decisions. The main characters in the film all keep making poor decisions that lead to either their deaths or the destruction of nature, and that was purposeful. Sharks are vital to the oceans and Lilith would repopulate the waters in no time, fixing the damage we've done to shark populations. Bruh when the explosions started and Paris started crumbling and I realized the sharks were going to win, I screamed. 15/10

Also here is a link to further reading because of course I researched this to make sure I wasn't reading too much into it and backstory is fun 🦈

"Under Paris’ Director Used Hollywood Tricks to Make an “Anti-Hollywood” Netflix Hit. Xavier Gens, who was born the same year that Steven Spielberg released 'Jaws,' dives deep into the making of his subversive shark feature."

https://www-hollywoodreporter-com.cdn.ampproject.org/v/s/www.hollywoodreporter.com/movies/movie-features/under-paris-ending-netflix-movie-1235933114/amp/?amp_gsa=1&amp_js_v=a9&usqp=mq331AQIUAKwASCAAgM%3D#amp_tf=From%20%251%24s&aoh=17197944455506&referrer=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.google.com&ampshare=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.hollywoodreporter.com%2Fmovies%2Fmovie-features%2Funder-paris-ending-netflix-movie-1235933114%2F

[spoke9]

Debridement

By Michael S. Harper

Debridement

Black men are oaks cut down. Congressional Medal of Honor Society United States of America chartered by Congress, August 14, 1958; this certifies that STAC John Henry Louis is a member of this society. “Don’t ask me anything about the medal. I don’t even know how I won it.” Debridement: The cutting away of dead or contaminated tissue from a wound to prevent infection. America: love it or give it back.

Corktown

Groceries ring

in my intestines:

grits aint groceries

eggs aint poultry

Mona Lisa was a man:

waltzing in sawdust

I dream my cards

has five holes in it,

up to twenty holes;

five shots out of seven

beneath the counter;

surrounded by detectives

pale ribbons of valor

my necklace of bullets

powdering the operating table.

Five impaled men loop their ribbons

’round my neck

listening to whispers of valor:

“Honey, what you cryin’ ’bout?

You made it back.”

Caves

Four M-48 tank platoons ambushed

near Dak To, two destroyed:

the Ho Chi Minh Trail boils,

half my platoon rockets

into stars near Cambodia,

foot soldiers dance from highland woods

taxing our burning half:

there were no caves for them to hide.

We saw no action,

eleven months twenty-two days

in our old tank

burning sixty feet away:

I watch them burn inside out:

hoisting through heavy crossfire,

hoisting over turret hatches,

hoisting my last burning man

alive to the ground,

our tank artillery shells explode

killing all inside:

hoisting blown burned squad

in tank’s bladder,

plug leaks with cave blood:

there were no caves for them to hide—

In the Projects

Slung basketballs at Jeffries

House with some welfare kids

weaving in their figure eight hunger.

Mama asked if I was taking anything?

I rolled up my sleeves:

no tracks, mama:

“black-medal-man ain’t street-poisoned,”

militants called:

“he’s an electronic nigger!”

“Better keep electronic nigger 'way.”

Electronic Nigger?

Mama, unplug me, please.

A White Friend Flies In from the Coast

Burned—black by birth,

burned—armed with .45,

burned—submachine gun,

burned—STAC hunted VC,

burned—killing 5-20,

burned—nobody know for sure;

burned—out of ammo,

burned—killed one with gun-stock,

burned—VC AK-47 jammed,

burned—killed faceless VC,

burned—over and over,

burned—STAC subdued by three men,

burned—three shots: morphine,

burned—tried killing prisoners,

burned—taken to Pleiku,

burned—held down, straitjacket,

burned—whites owe him, hear?

burned—I owe him, here.

Mama’s Report

“Don’t fight, honey,

don’t let ’em catch you.”

Tour over, gear packed,

hospital over, no job.

“Aw man, nothin' happened,”

explorer, altar boy—

Maybe it’s ’cause they killed people

and don’t know why they did?

My boy had color slides of dead people,

stacks of dead Vietnamese.

MP’s asked if he’d been arrested

since discharge, what he’d been doin’:

“Lookin’ at slides,

looking’ at stacks of slides, mostly.”

Fifteen minutes later a colonel called

from the Defense Department, said he’d won the medal;

could he be in Washington with his family,

maybe he’d get a job now; he qualified.

The Democrats had lost, the president said;

there were signs of movement in Paris:

Fixing Certificates:   Dog Tags:   Letters Home

Our heliteam had mid-air blowout

dropping flares—5 burned alive.

The children carry hand

grenades to and from piss tubes.

Staring at tracer bullets

rice is the focal point of war.

On amphibious raid, our heliteam

found dead VC with maps of our compound.

On morning sick call you unzip;

before you piss you get a smear.

“VC reamed that mustang a new asshole”—

even at movies: “no round-eye pussy no more”—

Tympanic membrane damage: high gone—

20-40 db loss mid-frequencies.

Scrub-typhus, malaria, dengue fever, cholera;

rotting buffalo, maggoted dog, decapped children.

Bangkok: amber dust, watches, C-rations,

elephanthide billfolds, cameras, smack.

Sand&tinroof bunkers, 81/120 mm:

“Health record terminated this date by reason of death.”

Vaculoated amoeba, bacillary dysentery, hookworm;

thorazine, tetracycline, darvon for diarrhea.

'Conitus’: I wanna go home to mama;

Brown’s mixture, ETH with codeine, cortisone skin-creams.

Written on helipad fantail 600 bed Repose;

“no purple heart, hit by ’nother marine.”

“Vascular repair, dissection, debridement”:

sharp bone edges, mushy muscle, shrapnel: stainless bucket.

Bodies in polyethylene bag: transport:

'Tan San Nhat Mortuary’

Blood, endotracheal tube, prep

abdomen, mid-chest to scrotum—

“While you’re fixin' me doc,

can you fix them ingrown hairs on my face?”

“They didn’t get my balls, did they?”

50 mg thorazine—“Yes they did, marine!”

Street-Poisoned

Swans loom on the playground

swooning in the basket air,

the nod of their bills

in open flight, open formation.

Street-poisoned, a gray mallard

skims into our courtyard with a bag:

And he poisons them—

And he poisons them—

Electronic-nigger-recruiter,

my pass is a blade

near the sternum

cutting in:

you can make this a career.

Patches itch on my chest and shoulders—

I powder them with phisohex

solution from an aerosol can:

you can make this a career.

Pickets of insulin dab the cloudy

hallways in a spray.

Circuits of change

march to an honor guard—

I am prancing:

I am prancing:

you can make this a career.

Makin’ Jump Shots

He waltzes into the lane

’cross the free-throw line,

fakes a drive, pivots,

floats from the asphalt turf

in an arc of black light,

and sinks two into the chains.

One on one he fakes

down the main, passes

into the free lane

and hits the chains.

A sniff in the fallen air—

he stuffs it through the chains

riding high:

“traveling” someone calls—

and he laughs, stepping

to a silent beat, gliding

as he sinks two into the chains.

Debridement:   Operation Harvest Moon:   On Repose

The sestina traces a circle in language and body.

Stab incision below nipple,

left side; insert large chest tube;

sew to skin, right side;

catch blood from tube

in gallon drain bottle.

Wash abdomen with phisohex;

shave; spray brown iodine prep.

Stab incision below sternum

to symphis pubis

catch blood left side;

sever reddish brown spleen

cut in half; tie off blood supply;

check retroperitoneal,

kidney, renal artery bleeding.

Dissect lateral wall

abdominal cavity; locate kidney;

pack colon, small intestine;

cut kidney; suture closely;

inch by inch check bladder,

liver, abdominal wall, stomach:

25 units blood, pressure down.

Venous pressure: 8; lumbar

musculature, lower spinal column

pulverized; ligate blood vessels,

right forearm; trim meat, bone ends;

tourniquet above fracture, left arm;

urine, negative: 4 hours; pressure

unstable; remove shrapnel flecks.

Roll on stomach; 35 units blood;

pressure zero; insert plastic blood

containers, pressure cuffs; pump chest

drainage tube; wash wounds sterile

saline; dress six-inch ace wraps;

wrap both legs, toe to groin; left arm

plaster, finger to shoulder: 40 units blood.

Pressure, pulse, respiration up;

remove bloody gowns; scrub; redrape;

5 cc vitamin K; thorazine: sixth

laparotomy; check hyperventilation;

stab right side incision below nipple;

insert large chest tube; catch blood drain bottle ...

The Family of Debridement

Theory: Inconvenienced subject will return to hospital

if loaned Thunderbird

Withdrawn. Hope: Subject returns,

Treatment:

Foreclosure for nine months unpaid mortgage;

wife tells subject hospital wants deposit,

Diseased cyst removal:

'Ain’t you gonna give me a little kiss good-bye’

Subject-wife: To return with robe and curlers—

Subject tells friend he’ll pay $15 to F’s stepfather

if he’ll drive him to pick up money owed him.

“This guy lives down the street,

I don’t want him to see me coming.”

“It looked odd for a car filled with blacks

to be parked in the dark in a white neighborhood,

so we pulled the car out under a streetlight

so everybody could see us.”

Store manager: “I first hit him with two bullets

so I pulled the trigger until my gun was empty.”

“I’m going to kill you, you white MF,” store manager

told police. Police took cardload, F and F’s parents for

further questioning. Subject died on operating table: 5 hrs:

Subject buried on grass slope, 200 yards

east of Kennedy Memorial,

overlooking Potomac and Pentagon,

to the south,

Arlington National Cemetery.

Army honor guard

in dress blues,

carried out assignment

with precision:

[chronic-ghost]

Chapter 7 of Recovery Road

chapter rating: E (18+)

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 13903

chapter summary: Promotion for the film begins and Chloe comes back to him … again, this time with a request that comes maybe a little too late. Two questions are asked that alter the course of his life forever.

chapter warnings/tags: darker themes, drug-coerced physical aggression (nothing graphic, but a little more intense that in prior chapters), rough sex, casual drug use

a/n: It has to get worse before it gets better . . .

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ScreenGrab

August, 3rd

13:16:29 PICTURE UP, BEGIN B-ROLL:

CUT TO:

Focuses and unfocuses on DIETER BRAVO as he thumbs through his phone. Someone next to him out of frame says something to him and he laughs. The camera pans out to include NATALIE LORRAINE in the shot. They both sit in black director chairs. 

She mutters something else and strokes a strand of hair off his forehead. The movement is gentle, intimate. His look to her verges on adoration. 

He mouths, thank you.

CUT TO BLACK

13:18:01 

CUT TO: INTERVIEW WITH DIETER BRAVO AND NATALIE LORRAINE

INTERVIEWER: So tell me, why did you sign onto this project?

DIETER BRAVO: I’d worked with Heidi Morgan in the past and when she approached me with this, I was really taken by the story and Heidi’s direction. There was a lot to work with and I really felt a solid connection to Ben’s character arc. 

INTERVIEWER: Because of your past with drug abuse?

DB: Sure. You could say that.

NATALIE LORRAINE: You told me you liked the role because you got to play the guitar again. 

DB: When they’d let me. But yeah, that was also a big factor. I got to walk around my trailer, strumming my guitar. Too bad for everyone else it wasn’t soundproof. 

INTERVIEWER: What about you, Natalie?

NATALIE LORRAINE: My past history of drug abuse or my guitar? Oh, you mean the role. Yeah, I wanted a challenge and felt like Taylor’s struggle to balance stardom and her own past was something I could do a lot with. 

DB: You just liked the flowy, sheer dresses. 

NL: You are welcome to borrow mine. They’ll change your life. 

INTERVIEWER: What was it like working with someone you’d never met before in such an intense role? Natalie, you first this time.

NL: Oh, um . . . it was great. Dieter is a great scene partner, one of the best. He made me feel very, um, comfortable. I’ve never had a role like this before and he made the experience truly memorable. I can’t ever thank him enough.

INTERVIEWER: That’s a lot of high praise. 

NL: He deserves it.

INTERVIEWER: And you, Dieter, what was it like working with someone so much younger than you?

DB: Ah, wow, way to cut deep there. But, uh, Natalie is one of a kind. She made me feel . . . really good, about the role. I think my life has been made better by knowing her.

NL: Aw. You sap.

INTERVIEWER: The rumors say that early on in shooting you two didn’t like each other. Is that true?

DB: Rumors are always exaggerated, but, uh, yeah, early on, we had some, um, creative differences.

INTERVIEWER: How did you overcome them? 

NL: Same way anyone else does, I guess. Just . . . talked it out. 

INTERVIEWER: My time is almost up, so I gotta ask, is this real?

DB: What do you mean?

INTERVIEWER: The chemistry between you two is palpable. Are you two secretly hooking up? 

NL: No. Why would you ask that?

DB: I’m married.

NL: He’s married. 

INTERVIEWER: Ah, well, had to try. Thanks for your time. 

Movie Burn

August, 3rd

15:20:45 

INTERVIEWER: Did you have any concerns about backsliding, Dieter, after coming out of rehab so quickly? 

DB: No.

INTERVIEWER: Are you guys secretly dating?

DB/NL: NO.

Chatter Media

August, 3rd

17:17:21

INTERVIEWER: Natalie, what was your workout regimen for this film? 

NL: Adderall and American Spirits. 

INTERVIEWER: Really? You look so hot. 

NL: Thanks. I crushed up the pills into my green enema smoothie every morning. 

INTERVIEWER: Are you sleeping with Dieter?

NL: No. 

INTERVIEWER: Are you sleeping with anyone? Got any secret boyfriends?

NL: Yes.

INTERVIEWER: Oh, really? Can you tell me who?

NL: No. 

JemJem News

August, 4th

08:38:01

INTERVIEWER: Have you ever kissed outside of filming?

DB: No. 

INTERVIEWER: Ever thought about it? 

NL: Could have kissed him when he brought me a water bottle today.

INTERVIEWER: Did you?

NL: No.

Bra$h Talk

August, 4th

10:21:23

CUT TO: 

*Off-screen* INTERVIEWER: So, you don’t know where they are?

CAMERA focuses on Mark Bronson. His hands fidget with a water bottle. He’s looking over the sight-line of the camera.

MARK BRONSON: No. I don’t know. They were here earlier. 

INTERVIEWER: Do you have his number? Or –

*unintelligible*

CUT TO:

MARK BRONSON: I’m calling, but she’s not picking up. 

INTERVIEWER: Shit. 

PRODUCER: Alright. Take five. Sorry, Mr. Bronson. Give us a second.

MB: No problem. I–

CUT OFF. 

He breathes in, the powder tickling the inside of his nose, the back of his brain. Burning, like a fire ant bite. The porcelain of the toilet lid is cold against the tip of his nose, his palm. It always makes him a bit dizzy, that first one. He leans back, against the wall, careful to avoid the silver railing, rubbing his nose, and catches your eyes over the rim of the seat. 

Cold tile, stale air. Fluorescent lighting. This public hotel bathroom is not anything like the cottage in New Orleans. But it’ll have to do. You’re the only warm thing in the room. He stretches out his leg to knock his boot against your thigh. You glance at it briefly before inhaling the coke on the lid. 

“Why do they give you all the good questions, huh?” You glower, voice rough.

“Oh, you mean the ones about my stint in rehab or my arrest?”

“Okay, that’s, like, a third of the time. Most of my questions are about my ass or tits.”

Dieter smirks. “Can you blame them, baby?.” 

“And if one more of those shits ask me if I’m fucking you,” you narrow your eyes at him, “I’m taking my Starbucks cup and shoving it up their asses.”

“But you are. A lot and often.” He bends around the toilet and takes your ankle in his hand. He smooths his palm up to the back of your knee, then back down. He never wants to stop touching you. You are so warm. 

“Maybe not enough,” you smirk at him, familiar enough with his every little tell to know that he’s half-hard already. 

The bite in his brain has turned to a simmer, greasy bits crackling in the fire. He tugs on your ankle, pulling you around until you’re in his lap. He settles back against the hotel bathroom wall, smiling, and cups your cheek, rings knocking against your jaw bone. Your arms fold across the back of his shoulders as your nose turns into his.

“You’ll get some good questions, eventually.”

“Yeah, when? How?”

“Just stop being a woman with fantastic tits.”

“Dieter!”

He chuckles and softly bites your jaw. You giggle and squirm, and he lets go, dropping his head back against the tile. He’s quiet. Thinking.

“How did I ever get through these things without you?” He hums, eyes closing and opening slowly. You smell like lilac and cigarettes. 

“You didn’t have to split your coke, for one.” You mutter, playfully, and he pinches your chin. 

“That’s not what I meant.” 

The hand at his shoulder crawls up into his hair. 

“I know, Dieter. I know.” 

He tilts your head down as you press his up and that brush of connection, his mouth folding over yours– it sparks something in his chest. You were wrong. He didn’t need the coke if he had you. You make his skin buzz. You spin his brain around and around until he’s dizzy. He feels awake when you’re underneath him. 

Everything seemed like it had been shifted slightly to the left, since coming back. Everything was the same but nothing at all. He worries it is too plainly written across his face. He worries that the media vultures will see it, that Mark or Heidi would see it too. He worries that you will catch him staring and hate what you see in his eyes. 

The longer he is with you, the more real the shared “pocket universe” feels, the one you shared with him. That this is where he was meant to be and everything before New Orleans was someone else’s life. With you, he isn’t exactly Dieter Bravo but he isn’t himself either. Maybe that was partially because being high off and on for two weeks straight tends to cause feelings of disassociation, but it’s more than that. 

The longer he is around you, he knows he’s building his own funeral pyre higher and higher. But the farther he feels from the ashes of his life, the more he wants you. So, Dieter did what Dieter always does: he follows what feels right.

He pulls back, that ache, that need, to bury himself in you already stretching in his gut, but he has to say this. You have to know. 

“Move in with me.” 

You still. You become immobile, trapped in amber, with your hands still in his hair. You’ve never been meek, never will be, but somehow you’ve shrunk. 

“What did you say?”

His chest surges with affection. This feels right, so it has to be. But he knows you’ll run if you think he’s fucking with you. He wants to cradle you to his chest but he has to wait for the air raid sirens to stop ringing in your ears. 

“You heard me,” he says softly. He ducks his head to lift your gaze and you follow. There’s fear in your eyes. He thumbs the hinge of your jaw. “I want you to move in with me.” 

There’s much more malice in your voice than betrayed by your eyes. You sit back, away from him, on his knees, not his lap. “Move into your house with you? The same one you share with your wife?” 

“No.”

Your mouth twists and panic gets the better of you. You stand up from him and haul yourself across the small bathroom, arms crossed and eyes sharp. “So you want me to be just your dirty secret? In some sleazy apartment up town? A kept fucking woman–,”

“No.” He isn’t going to be patient with you when you’re like this. He overwhelms you in two steps– takes your jaw in his hand and again you stiffen, lips pulled into a snarl like a cornered street cat. He wraps his other hand around your wrist as if to preemptively keep you from scratching him. “Stop talking like that. Just tell me– do you want me?”

Not, do you want to live with me?

Not, do you want a relationship with me?

Not, do you want me to leave my wife for you?

Do you want me?

He doesn’t realize it but the coke is ratcheting up those dark, fringe feelings– his obsession for you, his possessiveness, his near-delirium that he cannot simply have all of you. His hand around your wrist tightens. You try and yank your jaw from his grasp, but he holds on tighter, his fingers digging into your skin. 

“Do you want me?” He hisses. 

You want to snap at him, to yell – does he understand what he’s asking of you – but you’re sleep deprived, coked out, and increasingly raw around him. The unexpected wave of emotion, of unchecked vulnerability, is surprising as it is powerful. Your knees shake. 

Did you want him? 

Did you want to breathe?

Did you want to sleep at night?

Did you want to eat food, to feel nourished and full?

Did you want to be happy?

Your bottom lip trembles. 

“Dieter–,”

“Just say yes.” His grip leaves your wrist and tenses around your waist. His eyelids hover half-closed as he presses you harshly up against the door. It’s the only bare wall that doesn’t have a metal safety bar around the edges. You feel as though you’re being dragged beneath the waves by a hurricane. “Just say you want me. Tell me you don’t want to fuck anyone else—,”

His teeth bite into your neck, as if to suck the words directly from your blood. Your touch is like electricity everywhere on his skin and any semblance of thought is slowly squeezed from his brain as his grip turns rougher and rougher. When his lips find yours, they’re still pulled back into a snarl. 

His deft fingers are tugging your shirt out of your waistband, as your hands slip to his belt, his zipper. One more time, he thinks, one more fuck and then there’ll be some clarity. 

“Say it, Natalie,” he growls and bites your earlobe not at all gently. You gasp and the noise has his cock straining against his pants. His hand rises and slides around your throat. “Say it before I take it from you.” 

“Dieter, I want–,” your voice is high-pitch, yearning, and a bit of him breaks off like an ice pick tearing up glass shards. Snik. Snik. Splinters.

His fingers around your throat tighten. Your flesh gives beneath his touch and you sputter and squirm beneath him.

“Yeah? Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.” He’s not asking nicely, he’s begging. How do I keep you? How do I stop you from leaving me? He’s frantic about it.

Fuck, he took too much coke and now he’s emotional. Bleeding. Vacillating between rational and irrational. Wavering. He wants so much. Too much. It’s the coke and it’s making him want to eat you. 

He yanks you up into his arms, your skirt up around your waist and you gasp, the enormity of what he feels for you pressing down into you. The door shudders as he holds you against it. His warm cock wedges itself against your stomach and your thigh. 

“Baby, please, tell me– I need to know–,” 

He’s worried. God, he’s so worried. He buries his face in your chest. 

You groan, strained and overwhelmed. There might be tears in your eyes. 

“Yes, Dieter, I want you. I want you so fucking badly I can’t breathe right.”

The groan he makes is one of relief and he’s not even inside of you.

“But, please, please, fuck me, Dieter. I need to— you have to–,” 

Fighting with the fabric of your skirt, you pull your underwear to the side. He drags his hips forward, notching the head of his cock against your entrance. It’s wet and warm and he thinks his heart is going to beat out of his chest.

“You’re gonna stay, right? You’re gonna be with me, after this?” He’s already out of breath, out of his mind. You nod and he thinks he might cry.

“I’ll stay.” You swallow, your eyes closed, head against the wooden door. “Yes, I’ll stay.”

One arm wrapped around your low back, and the other holding the both of you against the door, he slides up, breaching you – “fuck, fuck, fuck–,” “I know, baby, I know–,” all the way to the very end of you in a single, hot stroke. The moan you share is harsh, ragged, pained with the force of it. He feels the sound in his chest, your own pressed up against his. You knock your head back against the door, mouth open, as if awestruck that it could feel this good. 

Your knees hitched around his waist pull him closer. “I gotta– I want– more–,” 

“Baby–,” his nose turns your mouth to him and he open-mouth kisses you, tongue licking the inside of your mouth. His hands hitch you higher, cupping your hips to take even more of him, and he starts fucking you. 

That’s what this is. A good, hard, mean fuck.

The door rattles behind you and thankfully is already locked. His thrusts are deep, fast, hips punching into yours. 

“I wanna look. I wanna watch me fuck you.” He murmurs in your neck. Your eyes are closed, mouth twisted in pleasure, as you scratch his back to hold on. “But I don’t wanna drop you.” 

He wants to brand your chest with his own. 

He shouldn’t be fucking you in a public hotel bathroom, he knows, but New Orleans is gone. The light, and the white bed, and the paint, all gone. You are caught in between universes, in between realms, between what is and what should be. He doesn’t want to be here, in this one, if it means he can’t have you. If he has to go back to whatever his life was before you. This can’t be the end. 

Your moans climb higher and higher, your cunt fluttering around him. He knows he should clap a hand over your mouth, but the sounds you make dig under his skin, claw at his blood. They make him feel so good. So wanted. 

“Dieter, you’re so deep. You’re going to bruise me.” 

“Your little pussy likes it when I’m mean to her–,” he shifts his pelvis, adjusting you against the door, and grinds so hard, the tip of his cock brushes against something that has you mewling. 

He wants the leverage of the floor, to hold himself over you, to watch as he splits you apart. But the airlessness, the proximity to you, to that fucked-out look in your eyes, he can’t part with it. 

He doesn’t know how to make love. It’s been too long since he’s tried, unable to conjure the memories or the feeling to do it. He only knows frantic clawing, hot skin. But he wants to learn, for you. He doesn't know how to verbalize it, but he needs you to know. 

He turns his face from the cup between your neck and shoulder, into your cheek and catches your gaze. You lock eyes and he nearly comes right then and there. 

Maybe you already do, know.

“It’s good, Dieter,” you murmur, eyes glassy and cheeks red, “it’s so good.”  

It’s too much. Your cunt is sucking him in, shuddering around him as he pounds up into you. Your whimpers are rubbing his nerve endings raw. He has to come before he burns up. He bites into your shoulder and you wail. 

He lets go, whining– hot spurts filling your insides and his cock throbs, you moan at the sensation, the warmth, and he’s still coming as your cunt contracts, wavering, and then his hips and thighs are soaked in you. 

He wants to fold you into his ribs but instead, presses warm, wet kisses to your cheek, your flushed neck, and then your nose and forehead. Instead of pulling away, setting you down, he pulls you closer, flush against him. He can feel your thighs trembling around him, every breath ragged and heavy.

He’s shaking too.

“Natalie, I–,”

“We should get back.” You won’t look him in the eyes all of a sudden and that hurts, stings something very soft inside of him. He nods, but gives you one more kiss against the plush of your lips, his hand cradling your head, before he slowly, carefully, extracts himself and pulls his softening cock out of you. 

“That’s always the worst part,” you groan, face twisted. 

He wants you to say, that’s always the worst part– when you leave me. 

“Hurts me too,” he mutters quietly as he slowly lowers you to the ground. You wobble, but your grip on his shoulders holds you up right. He lets go of you long enough to take some paper towels from the dispenser and he offers them to you. 

Your eyes are soft as you wipe yourself clean from his sticky cum. “Thanks.”

You toss away the used paper as he turns back to the last bits of coke on the toilet. He gathers as much of it as he can and rubs it on his gums. You’re watching him through the mirror as he wipes off the rest and rubs his hands on his jeans.

“Oh, sorry, did you want any?”

You shake your head, a smile in your eyes not on your lips. 

“What?”

You reach out to him and as though magnetized, he comes to you, hand sliding around your waist and the other cupping the back of your neck. 

“I’ll think about it, okay?” You say, your fingertips rimming his collar. “What you asked before . . . it’s a lot. But I’ll think about it.” 

He nods, heart pounding in his chest. How is he going to make it through three more days of this with you? How can he keep away from you now?

“Take your time. But, uh, don’t take too long.” 

You nod up at him, bright eyes twinkling, and he bends and kisses you again. It’s brief, subtle, but it makes his ribs expand all the same. 

Your hand goes and unlocks the door. “Gimme one second. Gotta check if the coast is clear.” 

He lets you go, and you stick your head through the small crack between the door and the wall. Satisfied that you weren’t about to be tackled by reporters from The Rolling Stone, you wink at him and disappear around the corner. 

You can’t touch her out there. Only here. In the dark.

He follows you and is hit in the face with a painful, bright light from the sun’s reflection on the marble floor. His eyes watering, he walks forward, towards the shadow, the silhouette he presumes is you. 

The lobby is full of people and sounds. No one seems to have heard a single thing, haven’t got a single clue about what just went on in the very public bathroom. His eyes adjust and there you are, in the center of the hustle. You aren’t moving.

“C’mon, we’ve got to get back to the–,”

“Dieter?” 

It’s not you asking. 

It’s her. 

He’d know that voice anywhere, even if he felt like it belonged to a version of himself he had long since abandoned. 

Guests and hotel employees and camera crews weave around the three of you. 

She wasn’t supposed to come back.

Her hair is as straight as her posture, eyes hidden behind round, thick sunglasses. Her cream, wide-brimmed hat matches her pantsuit, with gold accents. In a word, she is stunning. The ideal movie star wife. 

His heart lurches. He half-expects for it to tear out of his chest and slump along the floor like a dying rat, blood splattering on the nice white marble. 

“Dieter, how are you?” Chloe doesn’t take off her glasses to address him. She hasn’t seen you yet, he supposes.

“I-I’m,” he tries to peel his tongue from the roof of his mouth, “I’m fine. Good. What are you doing here?”

It’s more accusatory than he means for it to be, but his heart is still pounding in his chest, an after-effect of fucking you. 

Behind his wife, the revolving door to the hotel glitters in the slanted gold evening light as children play with it, around adults trying to get through. It makes him think of the time his mother took him to the Coney Island pier and put him on the merry-go-round. He was six and nervous because she’d be out of his sight for a minute each time the carousel turned. 

“I’ll be right here waiting,” she said with a smile. “I’ll always come back for you. It’s a promise.” 

Why he is thinking of that memory right now is beyond comprehension so he blinks, trying to claw his way through the mounting agitation. 

His tone makes Chloe stand up straighter.

“We need to talk, Dieter. About our marriage.”

There’s a gurgling sound, something smothered and choked, behind him and her immaculate face turns over his shoulder. 

You’re pale. You’re pale and afraid and he’s ruined you.

“Hello,” Chloe says smoothly. “Do you know Dieter or are you a fan?”

You blink as though she had slapped you. “A fan–?”

“Chloe, this is m-my co-star, Natalie Lorraine. We’re, uh, meant to be at a press junket right now. We got a break . . . and went to get something to eat.”

“Was it good?”

He nearly snaps his neck in half looking back at her. She still hasn’t moved an inch, only her head, her hands clasped neatly across her lap.

“What?”

“Was the food good?” She asks. “You both look a bit ill.” 

“No. Food was terrible. I recommend you avoid it.” As though you had been possessed by the ghost of formality itself, face lit with a brilliant smile, you step forward, hand outstretched. 

Chloe takes it after a moment and you shake. Dieter has to fight the urge to break your hands apart. 

“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Chloe. I think we just missed each other at the party at Scott’s house.” 

She tenses, but not at you. “Yes, well, that was a very busy night, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was.” 

It’s scary, your face. How serene and calm you are. 

“I love this blouse,” you say, gently tugging on the cream silk. “It’s gorgeous on you.”

Chloe smiles genuinely and Dieter’s heart withers to his stomach. “Thanks. It was a gift from my father.”

“The artist, right? Dieter’s told me so much about you. Told all of us. Can’t get him to shut up about it, really.”

Your eyes graze him with the sharpness of a glinting scalpel before smiling back at Chloe.

Her own is stiff. “That’s what I keep hearing.” 

Why are you still talking to her? Why are you still here?

“Are you going to be in town lo–,”

“Natalie, we need to get back to the press.” He wants to haul you over his shoulder. “We’ve delayed them enough as it is.”  

“Oh, c’mon, Dieter, they can wait a few more minutes. Your wife–,”

“Let’s go—,”

Chloe’s shoulders are taught. Stretched thin. 

“I came here to talk, Dieter. When can we do that?” 

“Yeah, you should make your wife a priority, Dieter.” 

He’s losing his grip on everything. You stand by Chloe as if you were sisters. His gaze leaps to her.

“An hour. Alright? Can you wait an hour? I have to tell them something.”

“Or you can just go now. I’ll tell them an emergency’s come up.” You walk past him and pat him on the chest. He thinks your nails sting him for a second. “Nothing should come between you and the woman you love.”

He wants to take you by the wrists. “Natalie–,”

But you slide around him, waving to Chloe as you go. “Wonderful to meet you.” 

You are swallowed up into the crowd of the lobby. No, no, no, no– 

“Dieter.” She calls him back. “I have to check in, so you can have an hour.”

“Thank you.”

And he’s weaving into the crowd after you.

He’s shaking when he bursts through the adjacent private hotel room, meant for refreshments and make-up touch ups. 

It’s not a panic attack, not yet, but something is mounting in him. It’s clawing up his throat, its talons razor sharp and an inch deep. His throat burns as if he had thrown up – did he? Maybe he did? – but he’s not thinking clearly. None of this feels right. 

He’ll come up with some excuse to tell her why he suddenly vanished, but if he doesn’t wrangle back some control, he feels like he’s moments away from walking straight into traffic. 

He doesn’t want to be here right now. He wants to get out.

But half of the cast of his very successful movie is just on the other side of this room, along with cameras and recording phones that would just love to get a glimpse of the Old Dieter. The barely-holding-on Dieter. The fucked up one.

Your compact mirror clatters as it falls from his hand onto the bathroom counter. He flips open the secret compartment in the back and is suddenly overwhelmed by the decisions. It feels like there’s a tornado siren going off in his head.

Are yellows uppers or downers? What did you say about the red ones? No, it’s the one with the T on the back that are uppers. No, wait, it’s – 

He hears the door open behind him, the sharp light from the window catching on the door handle and sparking in the mirror in front of him.

Fuck it. He grabs three of the ones he thinks are right and throws them into the back of his throat and swallows so hard, his teeth grind together. 

“Dieter?” It’s Mark and his gut turns over. “What are you doing–,”

There’s no point in hiding it. He knows Mark saw the open compact of unidentifiable pills. 

So much for that fucking drink among friends.

Dieter unhurriedly shuts the compact and slides it into his pocket. He can’t turn around but instead stills himself for an argument, an accusation, a reaming he really deserves, but it doesn’t come.

Instead, Mark is just . . . shocked. 

“I really didn’t think that. . .” His mouth closes, as if words have failed him. “But she was right. Chloe was right. You are using again.” 

It’s not a question or an accusation. It’s just . . . reality. 

He has them all ready. The lies he tells himself – 

I’ve got it under control 

I can stop when I want

This isn’t a relapse

– but for some reason, he can’t say them outloud. Each time he tries, the words stick themselves against his throat. He can see Mark’s expression devolving into anger over his shoulder in the mirror the longer his words remain, unanswered, unchallenged. He would love it for Mark to hit him.

“I don’t get you, man. I don’t.” Mark shakes his head and puts his hands on his hips. “Everything was going so fuckin’ well. Why are you throwing it all away now? Why didn’t you come to me? Or Heidi? We could have helped you.”

Dieter shrugs. Something goes dark in Mark’s eyes. 

The sun shifts and the light is now permanently blinding his eyes. He closes them and steps out of the bathroom. He swears he can hear the tune of the carousel, the jingle – something starting to give him a headache. Grunting softly, he presses a thumb to the inner corner of his eye. 

I’ll always come back for you

“Have you told Chloe?” 

Dieter shakes his head, dropping onto the edge of the bed. He thinks there’s a black spot in his vision forming in his right eye. Mark is blurry as he stands over him. 

“Are you going to?” 

He can feel something slide off of him, or into him. Either way, it’s clogging up his airways. “She’ll find out eventually. She always does.”

Mark’s mouth drops open in disgust. “That’s fucked up, man.”

The jingle is clear now. The door handle sparks like it’s on fire.

“And it’s not your fucking problem. I don’t care what you think.”

“Well, shit, Dieter, I used to think a lot of you. I really did. I’d heard all the shit you’ve gone through in the past few years and to see you on that set being the best version of yourself, I was so fucking proud of you, man. But now that I know that you’re this . . . You really fucking had me there for a second.” 

Dieter lowers his thumb from the arch of his eyebrow and meets Mark’s glare. “Now, you know.” 

Mark narrows his eyes. “Yeah, now I know.”

Dieter goes back to the bathroom to wash his hands in the sink. They feel sticky for some reason. He has nothing to hold onto. 

“When’s the next session? I know we running late, but–,”

“Nevermind about that. Canceled for the day,” Mark growls, “I’ve got a question for you. Are you fucking Natalie?”

His knees nearly give out. “What?”

Over his shoulder in the mirror, Mark crosses his arms. “I said, are you fucking Natalie?”

“Why do you–,”

“I don’t know if you’ve fucked her yet, but there is something going on,” Mark says slowly as if he hadn’t said anything, his gaze focus on the floor. “I wanted to act like I didn’t see it, but if you’re using again . . .” 

“Just because I’m high, doesn’t mean I’d cheat on my wife.” 

“If you are, just tell her. Leave her. Don’t let it go public.”

Why doesn’t he just tell Mark? Just confess. Just confess that he can’t stand being married to Chloe anymore. That you are unlike anything he’s ever known, ever felt. Sure, Mark’d be mad but maybe, with time, he’d be happy for the both of you– he knows what it feels like to be in love—

Whoa.

Where did that come from? He can’t actually– 

His knees buckle as his head spins faster and faster and he clutches the counter to stay upright. He grinds his teeth. “There’s nothing to go public about.” 

“Just go home to her, Dieter. You can still fix things–,”

“Stop lecturing me.” 

“Don’t go out tonight. We’ll all understand. I’ll tell Roxie you had other things–,”

“Why does Roxie care?” He leaps at the distraction. “Is there something going on?”

Mark clenches his jaw, but Dieter pounces the chance to see you again so soon, even if Chloe comes along. Of course she is, some part of his brain rages, she’s your wife. 

“Great. Chloe wants to meet everyone anyway.” 

“C’mon, man, don’t do this. Don’t do this to Chloe. Don’t do this to yourself. What happened, Dieter?”  He’s pleading. He’s sincere. His brown eyes are deep with concern and it makes Dieter want to vomit. 

He goes to leave – his hands only shake once – when Mark grabs him by the shoulder. 

He is physically blinded by the color red, just for a minute. 

destroy destroy destroy

He can’t even blame the coke. He wants the violence. The pain. The rips in his skin. 

His knuckles collide with Mark’s jaw and every nerve in his body roars in victory. The force of Dieter’s punch sends Mark reeling, stumbling back, and he staggers into the wall. 

more more more more!

Dieter blinks, the spike in adrenaline making him dizzy. Mark clutches his jaw, already swelling, again more shocked than angry. Dieter squeezes his fists, joints cracking, his right hand throbbing.

“This doesn’t concern you.” he says, quietly, empty of anger. “Leave me alone. Leave Natalie alone.”

He had all but admitted to the affair. He has to tear his feet from the floor, Mark’s jaw now purple, and he storms out the door, to go see his wife. 

    Chloe was always beautiful. Always stunning. She walked into a room and people stared. 

When he met her at that cast party, she was modeling for DKNY. Her boyfriend, at the time, was a photographer and given who her father is, he (like many other past relationships) had hopes that international connections would further his career. But it didn’t and the ex-boyfriend was more mad about the loss of potential fame than the end of the relationship.

Dieter hadn’t been like that. He had been successful and good-looking enough that when she told him who she was, her last name didn’t even register. Of course, it helped that he was tripping on shrooms that one of the PAs had given him, but at the time it didn’t matter to her. He looked at her like she – and she alone – hung the moon.

At least, that’s how she remembered it and, more importantly, that’s what she told him that morning in her apartment before he officially checked into court-mandated rehab. They were only six months into dating then, but when she told him, the way she told him, he felt something change. For the first time in his life, he wanted to be sober because someone else wanted him to be sober. And not just anyone, but this someone. This beautiful, smart, patient, sweet woman valued him, for some unfathomable reason. So, impulsively as always, he got down on one knee and proposed to her in that shitty studio apartment. Maybe it said something about her that she said yes– he didn’t even have a ring– but he gave her his earring and a promise. He’d do it right, when he got out, and she believed him.

And, of course, when he proposed, she didn’t know about all the cheating that had gone on while they were dating. It wasn’t like he actually loved, or even liked, any of the people he slept with, but he had done it because he was high and sex felt really, really good on ecstasy. If she had been there, he would have fucked her instead, but she wasn’t and he didn’t and it was someone else and it was one of them who eventually leaked it to the press. 

It was two days after a three week period of withdrawals that she confronted him. She was nice about it, of course. Always nice. And maybe it was because he was ten pounds lighter, his skin waxy and pale, and he could barely walk, but when he confirmed it all, she had just said, “I know you didn’t mean it.” She did cry, though. She cried and he felt like an even bigger asshole than when he threw up twice on the same nurse. She cried and he begged for forgiveness and all that self-hate and loathing metastasized in him. But, most importantly, he wasn’t alone through all of it this time. 

He took the backhanded compliments, the passive aggressive comments, and let himself be molded into what she wanted because quite frankly, he was sick of trying to figure out what he was supposed to be anyways. 

But the more distance he tried to put between his past and his future, she was there to bring it back. She was both a reminder of what he was and what he could be all at once. 

She sits, perched on the end of his bed, back straight and hands in her lap. Her wide brimmed summer hat is by her hip on his untarnished bed— how the hell is going to explain where his luggage is— and she faces the window, looking out into the late Los Angeles evening. 

She is beautiful. Painfully so. And sometimes he thinks that she likes him a little broken.

He never did get her a real engagement ring.

After seeing Mark, he left the hotel and walked until he could feel himself getting a blister, and then turned around again. It felt like it had been days since he went through that golden, twirling revolving door, but it had only been an hour. One hour exactly. The coke doesn’t have its claws so deep into him anymore. He can breathe easier. The scales have somewhat evened out and he feels somewhat like a normal person again. Thankfully, because this isn’t a conversation he really wants to have.

He doesn’t know where to sit or where to put his hands. He picks the chair by the squat desk in the dark corner and lets her bask in the fading light. He’s not sure if he’s overwhelmed by her beauty, or that she’s here and real and not just this name at the top of his phone to whom he’d fire off unanswered texts. 

He picks at his nails and realizes at some point he put his wedding ring back on. When the fuck did he do that?

“I’m sorry I surprised you like this,” Chloe says, again sparing him the scariest part of simply starting the conversation. She turns away from the window and takes off her glasses. She looks pale. “There is just a lot I want to say and I don’t think . . . I didn’t want to say it over the phone.”

“Me too. I mean. Yeah, we have a lot to talk about. I just don’t know why we couldn’t have done it at the house.” 

“You left me at that party, Dieter.”

“I took an Uber. You had the car. Where did you go? Why didn’t you come home for two–,” 

“Are you not happy to see me?” Her eyes are blazing, daring, serious, and wet. What happened that night, he thought it had ended his marriage. He truly believed that if they stayed married, it would only be in name because she wouldn’t want him after a scene like that. He was so willing to give it all up. So easily. 

Too easily.

Maybe she was right to leave. The first tendril of guilt unfurls in his chest. Of course, she was right. And he was so, so wrong. He always was.  

“Of course I’m glad to see you.” Hesitantly, he gets up and goes to sit next to her on the bed. She pulls her hand off the cover and crosses her arms. Up close, he can see she’s more than pale. Her skin is waxy and there are bags under her eyes. She’s got a green tinge to her cheeks like she’s nauseous. “But we’re in the middle of these press junkets and the movie is in post-production and . . . I just wanted more time to do this right.”

“Do what right?”

There’s a tremble of fear in her voice. He makes sure to keep his even.

“To . . . to say . . .” he watches her eyes for some sort of guidance, “to just . . . get back to us.” 

He slides his hand over hers. She doesn’t pull away. But there are tears, pouring down her face. She sniffs. 

“That’s what you want, right? You want us to be together.” 

She nods, furiously, quickly, sighing in relief. “Yes, Dieter, yes. I need us to be together. I can’t do this alone.” 

She pulls him to her and lets out a cry that churns his stomach like black, arctic waves. 

“Oh, Dieter, they’ve released some trailers and you’re so good. So good. I’m so proud of you,” she murmurs wetly into his neck. He feels her tears on the skin above his pulse-point. 

There’s a part of him that wants to curl up into her lap, put his head on her thighs, and let her imagine all the ways he’s succeeded. All the good work he’s done. But he’s fidgeting.

The bump from earlier is still feeding his anxiety to an unbearable level. He bites his tongue and rubs his hand over her shoulder, determined to keep her from looking too closely at him. 

“There’s a lot we have to talk about, Dieter, but do you want to do this with me? What do you want?”

All his life he felt like he had never been whole. As if he was just made up of tatters, just loose bits of thread that popped and unraveled over time. He’s been unraveling his whole life, but this time, with this decision, he might actually tear apart. He still loves his wife, he’s sure of it. He needs the reminder that she offers, that she embodies. Look at what you could have– 

If only he was a fundamentally different person. If only he could be something other than himself. 

It’s a coin flip, right? Only a matter of time . . . before we both fucking lose it

He’s in danger of being overwhelmed by memories.

He told himself he left because that was what she wanted. He hadn’t come to terms with the impossible idea that he wanted to leave in the first place. That he, ridiculously, would ever want to leave her.

He squeezes his eyes shut, wraps his arms around her waist, and pulls her into his lap.

“I want you to tell me what to do,” he whispers to her shoulder. “I’m not a good person without you.” 

She swallows, leans away, and wipes her eyes, runs her hands over his wrists, then the back of his hand. She freezes as she finally notices his bloody knuckles. 

“It doesn’t hurt,” he says quickly as her dainty thumb hovers over the blood, the split skin. And he wasn’t lying. He can barely feel it. He feels disconnected from his own body, like someone else is driving and he’s been locked in the trunk.

“What happened, baby?” She asks, her mouth full of tears. She sounds tired.

“Nothing. Just hit it.” It is so obvious he had been fighting, he feels bad he couldn’t find a better lie. 

But Chloe sighs sympathetically and swallows. She was always so good at picking and choosing what she decided to believe. 

“We’ll bandage it.”

“You always know how to take care of me,” he murmurs as she massages his palm. 

“You’ve come so far, Dieter. You’re an entirely different person,” she says, smiling at the blood on his hand if it isn’t there. “I’ve always known you have a big heart. One I hope you can share.”

Her big eyes damp and, horrifyingly, filled with love, she puts a hand against the back of his neck. He feels feverish, too warm, but she seems to find comfort in it.

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“What if we had a baby, Dieter?” She smiles gently, coyly, easily. She’s thought about this. “You and me. I think it’s time. You’re ready to be a father.” 

It’s quiet. 

He is made up of nothing but tears. He’s spent years trying to stitch himself back together with everything and anything he could get his hands on. But he is still ripped. Still torn. Still unmade. 

He gave away pieces of himself to anyone who asked because he didn’t want them anymore. But giving this tattered, broken thing to a child? To someone who didn’t ask for it?

Can’t I just be fucked up on my own?

Cheers to being fucked up on our own.

“Chloe . . . Chloe, I . . . I have to ask you something.”

She sits up more in his arms and brushes the hair out of his eyes with a stroke of her fingers, her nose pink and cheeks wet. “What is it, baby?”

Why?

Why did you agree to marry me?

Why do you still love me?

What would it take to make you stop?

“Are you happy? Happy with me?” His entire existence no longer hinges on her answer, and he cannot fathom a world where she says yes. He shakes his head, on the verge of something, as he thumbs her cheek, begging for honesty. “Why are you still here?”

For a second, a single moment in time, for the only time, with his hands on her waist, he thinks he sees the real Chloe for the first time. Not the model, or the daughter of an artist. Not the wife of a movie star, or the helpless girlfriend of an addict. He sees her, a woman with her own reality, her own version of the world and history. He sees her in stark vulnerability, an uncomplicated answer, because he’s asking questions she never considered herself. 

Fresh tears spill out of her eyes as she squeezes his wrist. “Because I love you. And you love me. That’s how it’s supposed to work, right?” 

“That’s all?”

She laughs gently, the sound wet and thick. 

“What else is there?” 

She kisses his cheek and her lips are wet with tears. “You don’t have to answer now, about having a baby. Just think about it, please?”

He nods. 

He knows his answer. Well, not cognitively. It’s not there, in his head. But it is there in the pain in his lungs, in the dryness of his mouth, in the erratic heartbeat in his neck. It will be a long time before he can take apart those sensations to understand and identify panic for what it is. But it’s there. It’s there in the sensations that the world is coming apart. 

If this is what she wants, he can’t give it. He just can’t. 

They've been together for almost three years and they still don’t know each other at all. 

The hotel room is hazy, cloudy, weed smoke curling up in the corners. There’s music coming from somewhere, but he can’t really figure out where. Half of these people are strangers, shadows against the walls, and they move in and out of rooms like ghosts. Every moment in time seems longer than the next. He can feel himself crawling out of his own skin. 

It’s near midnight and Mark still hasn’t shown up.

But the downers from the compact mirror worked. Everything exists in limp obscurity. 

Chloe clings to him like she’s stuck a knife in him and if she pulls it out, he’ll bleed to death. A second doesn’t go by where she’s not touching him. This body is unfamiliar, he thinks as he handles her hips, her low back, as she introduces herself to everyone. 

First, there’s Nick and Cooper. They are stoned out of their minds, eyes glassy and red-faced, and react the way all men react when meeting Chloe. Their mouths drop as they take her hand in greeting. Cooper’s gaze slides over her shoulder to Dieter – this is your fucking wife, dude?

It makes him angry, rubs him the wrong way, but not out of jealousy. His mouth twitches as he shrugs. 

“I’ve been listening to your albums for days now! After Dieter told me you play live music.” Chloe says with her hand on Nick’s shoulder. “The Sixers are officially my new favorite band.”

“Oh, uh, wow– that’s–,”

“Do you want anything?” Dieter snaps, stepping back. Chloe’s hand slides off the kid’s shoulder. “I’m going to . . . get some water— what do you want?”

Chloe smiles and he knows he needs to unclench. He feels like the entire stretch of his shoulders is filling up the whole room. 

“Actually,” she says, turning back to the boys, “I’d kind of like something a little . . . green . . .”

Nick is instantly fumbling with his pocket as Chloe laughs. “Totally. Got a few extras right here.” 

He nearly spills his beer, before Cooper takes it from him. Nick finally manages to pull out a blunt and green lighter. Her eyes flicker up to Dieter as Nick lights the end.

“You don’t mind, right, baby?” 

“Not at all.” 

She inhales and goes to ask Cooper something inane, so Dieter flops into the couch behind her. This is going to be a long fucking night.

The blunt between her long fingers is about halfway gone, the room smelling like burnt cheese, and has become so cloudy someone has to turn on a fan, when the door opens to Samuel, Roxie, and Marie, all carrying boxes of alcohol. The crowd, the shadows on the walls, swarms. Cooper does the polite thing and asks if he can get Chloe or Dieter a drink, which Dieter declines and Chloe happily accepts. She curls up onto the couch next to him, sighing happily. 

“God, didn’t you miss this? These parties? The things we used to get up to.” She murmurs into his ear, her tiny hand clutching at his bicep and the other at his forearm. She smells like weed and an incomprehensibly expensive perfume that he can’t begin to describe. 

“Yeah. But, when did you want to lea–,”

The crowd, congregated around the new arrivals and their new drinks, has to shift when the door opens a second time. 

His nails dig into the arm of the couch, stiffening from his head to his toes. 

It’s you. You’ve changed out of your outfit for the interviews– he could venture a guess as to why– but replaced it with a long, black cotton dress, thin straps. You can’t possibly be wearing a bra. You’re barefoot, a beer bottle in your hand, someone at your heels–

“Natalie! You made it!”

You’re surrounded by the Sixers, by the shadows of people, of faces he doesn’t know, or ever remember.

Except for one. 

“Everyone, meet my friend Oliver! He’s visiting, from England. Very posh.” 

That pale face emerges above the crowd and someone wolf-whistles. He smirks. “Settle down, settle down. I’m actually very annoying, but you’ll love me anyway because I have enough ecstasy for you all to see the face of God.”

The crowd cheers.

He can’t move. Can’t turn his head away. 

Beside him, Chloe’s face scrunches up and lifts her head. “Oliver? Don’t you know an Oliver?”

“Honey, hush.” 

He can’t take his eyes off you as Oliver spins you into the center of the room, Marie and Roxie chattering about something as they slide onto the floor. 

This. It’s this moment where he actually might lose his sanity. Either that or tackle Oliver to the ground and pummel his face in until he’s more blood smears than human. 

“Thank you, darling girl. You always know how to make a man feel so welcome.” 

You giggle and collapse into an armchair across the room from the couch. You’re high. Again. Still. Always. 

“Now, you precious thing,” Oliver crouches down and taps your knee. Dieter’s hand twitches. “Where did you say your friend has gotten off to? Because I don’t think he’d like it very much if . . .”

He trails off, catching the intense look in your eye. You’ve made eye contact with Dieter across the room, eyes wide, nipping at a hangnail on your thumb with your teeth and the neck of the beer bottle dangling in your fingers over the edge of the armchair.

You look genuinely scared. Dieter’s nostrils flare. 

Good. 

Oliver stands up, oblivious and smiling through blindly white teeth. “Dieter, old boy, she said you’d be here. How’ve you–,”

His gaze falls to Chloe at his shoulder, instant recognition in his eyes. He glances back to you. Chloe, far too stoned for her own good, jerks and sits up. She gives a hazy, bleary-eyed smile to Oliver. 

“Oh my God, Oliver, it is you. I know you. You’re Dieter’s friend. Who knows the Queen of England. How is she?”

Perhaps for the first and only time in his life, Oliver is speechless. His thin-lipped mouth opens and closes, clearly not sure where to land his eyes. But then something comes over him and that mask of charming smugness returns. He bows slightly to her. 

“You are correct, ma’am. Lovely to see you. And, remind me, your name is . . .”

“Chloe,” she says, sitting up and stretching, her eyelids only half open. She offers her hand and he hesitantly takes it. “I’m Dieter’s wife.”

“Oh, are you now?” 

Oliver glances over at you and Dieter wants to throttle him. His eyes flash with malice as he turns back to Chloe and kisses her knuckles. “Well, isn’t that just a laugh? Can I get you anything? Any of you anything?” 

He’s going to combust right here if he doesn’t get a moment to talk to you. 

“Actually, let me get it. Natalie, help me carry drinks.” 

You scowl. “No, I’m fine, right here–,”

“Now.” This time he will haul you over his shoulder if you don’t listen.

Oliver, for whatever unclear reason, steps in. “I’ll stay here with Ms. Chloe, if that’s easier.”

He oozes– slides– into the cushion on Chloe’s other side as Dieter extracts himself from her arms. He balances her back and she opens one eye at Oliver. 

“You smell like peppermint,” she giggles. 

“Aren’t you frightfully perceptive? Now, tell me, has someone had too much to smoke or to drink?”

Dieter doesn’t hear her answer. He’s snatched you up by the arm– you actually, physically snarl at him– and yanks you through the crowd into the bathroom. 

Two no-names are making out in the dark. He flips on the light without preamble.

“Out.” 

They break apart, mouths sloppy and wet, and scatter like rats in a sewer. He tosses you inside and slams the door shut behind him. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You snap at each other at the same time, glaring, scowling, breathing sharply. Everything that should be said is buried and egos flare, replacing sanity. It’s the kind of argument, an argument so loud and violent, it reeks of bitterness and shame and desperation and that fine, fine line between seething hatred and that thing that scares him more than he can possibly conceptualize. All of this is easier to say than admit it. All of this is mean and nasty and meant to cut deep. 

He couldn’t bear to hear it now, even if you did admit to anything. 

Did you wait a full hour before calling him or was it the second I was out of earshot?

Had a good time with your wife you abandoned? Everything all good now? 

This is a private party for the cast and crew. He shouldn’t even be here!

If you get a plus one, so do I!

Why did you pick him? Why? 

Oh, sorry, I thought you liked surprises– given how you fucking handled today.

What did you promise him, huh? 

They had to reschedule everything because you can’t keep your shit together. Bet your wife loved being sloppy seconds to a TMZ reporter. 

Was he even in the area or did you get on your hands and knees to beg him to come here?

He crowds you up against the sink. His throat feels raw, head still spinning. Your hands are clenched at your sides as if preparing to throw a punch or claw or scratch or bite. Why can’t you just ever be nice?

You’re falling back into old patterns. Your instinct around him is to bite, maim, draw blood. The frustrations of a muzzled, brain-infected dog. 

The back of your hips bump up against the counter and you scowl up at him. He wants to put his hands on you but he can’t tell if it's to kiss you or strangle you. Fuck you or split you apart. How did this happen? How did you end up in the exact same place you were before?

But it’s not the same. Everything is different. He’s different, and so are you. You both know all this rage, this animosity, all this vitriol was misplaced. Undefined. A language not yet translated. You were screaming and screaming, in different tongues, begging to be heard. 

He doesn’t know what he feels when he presses himself up against you, but it is a lot.

“Are you doing this to punish me? Is that it?” Dieter whispers. Your eyes roam his face, unmoored by the sudden quiet, your hand at his chest pressing and pulling. “It’s not my fault.”

Your mouth twists, your breathing stunted. His eyes are pleading, searching your face for answers, to remind him of places where he had put his lips. Your nose, your jaw, your throat–

His heart squeezes in his chest. 

“What’s that?”

There’s a shadow on your neck, colored over by make-up, but this close, he can see the purple rings. Bruises. Your eyes widen as you realize what he’s seen, your hand sliding up your throat to cover them. 

“Did Oliver do this to you? Natalie, I swear to god, if he hurt you at all, tell me and I’ll–,”

You shake your head. “Dieter, he didn’t do this to me.” Your eyes are sad, but the jut of your chin balances your head high. “He didn’t bruise me.”

“Then, who–,”

His stomach plummets. The two of you relive his hand on your throat in the bathroom earlier today. The panting. The pressure. The force he used to fuck you. 

“Holy shit, Natalie, I am so sorry. I–I had no idea, why did you say anything?” 

“I didn’t want you to stop.” You spin one of your rings on your finger. “I didn’t want to leave.” 

Was this not the exact position you found yourselves in hours ago? Clutching each other, nails digging in, mouths open in want– revolving, revolving, revolving. Light swallowing light. Like a carousel. 

Your pupils are almost entirely black. He’s jealous. He wants that freedom. He wants you. 

“But you do now. You’re going to leave.” He steps away from you.

You scoff, a wet shine in your eyes. “You’re here with your wife, Dieter. You’re always with your wife. You beg and plead with me and I, like a fucking idiot, believe you. I think we know exactly who’s doing the leaving.” 

“It’s not that goddamn simple.” 

You sigh and rub the heel of your palm against your forehead. “It is, Dieter. It really is. This is it. This is the end. I can’t take not having you anymore.”

You drop your hands to your side. His heart flutters, as if slowing down.

“What does that mean?”

“It means we can fight and yell and scratch each other into bloody ribbons, but nothing’s going to change. You’re never going to leave her. Nothing’s going to happen.” You close your eyes, briefly, steeling yourself against something, hands tightening into fists. 

He can’t remember the last time he was this afraid. 

“Natalie–,” He’ll take it all back. Take everything back. He wants you in his arms.

“It means I don’t want to be around you anymore.” You open your eyes and there’s nothing there. A different person sits in your head. Someone who doesn’t care about him, at all.

There’s no anger in your voice, no resentment, or disgust. Only defeat. Only strung out, exhaustion, an ache that cannot be soothed. 

“I need you to leave me alone.”

This is not at all where he thought this conversation would go. Never thought you’d say those words. Never imagined this is what you would do. 

“Is that what you want?” He husks. Something is dragging its claws down his chest, his ribs. It gets caught on his heart and tears. “What you really want. Don’t lie to me.” 

Your eyes harden for a moment, reflective and stern. “Dieter, this is killing me . . . So this is the way it has to be. I’m sorry.”

You avoid his outstretched hands, his inevitable pull towards you, and stagger out into the crowd. He hears the music, the laughter, the sounds of chaos and rapture, and then the door closes and he’s alone in the cold, stale air.

“So I’m still skeptical at this point. Yeah, she’s gotten some things right, but hey, that it could just be a really good guess. I think she can tell I’m not really thinking this has been worth my time, so she offers to read my palm.”

He’s pretty sure he’s heard this story from Samuel before, or heard it somewhere else, or remembers it differently. But it’s all just noise to him. 

Chloe sits on the floor between his legs, her head on his knee. He absently strokes her silky hair from time to time, but it’s just something to do with his hands. Eons and ages have passed in this fucking room and Dieter just wants to go to sleep. He’s watched four people run into the bathroom to blow chunks and he thinks he can smell it from here. 

I need you to leave me alone.

I don’t want to be around you.

He tries to listen, to pay attention, tear his thoughts away from this spiral that’s haunting him. 

Leave you alone? For how long? Don’t you get that’s impossible now?

“So she takes my hand and looks at it, really looks at it. And something about this just feels different, you know, like the air has changed. I can’t explain it, but I feel like I’m being seen for the first time.”

His audience is quiet, captive. Dieter can feel Chloe sit up straighter as if fighting off sleep. 

Roxie snorts. “She’s just going to tell you an incredibly vague, possible future so now any time something even remotely resembles that path, you’ll think she’s right. Nevermind all the times she’ll be glaringly wrong.” 

Dieter knows they’ll never be friends but he’s always admired Roxie’s honesty. Her bravery. She’s shrewd and he likes that. 

“Whatever. It was special, alright? Important. I can’t explain it but it felt right.” 

“I believe you,” Marie pipes up, dreamily. “What else did she say?”

Samuel doesn’t quite look at her, picking at his palm as if it is currently under inspection.

“Well, she did say this other thing. She looks down at my palm, and do you know what she says? She says my life line is jagged. Split.”

“What does that mean?” Someone asks in a hushed voice. Dieter struggles not to roll his eyes. It’s not even a good story. The kid lost thirty bucks to a palm reader. Big whoop. 

Samuel roves his electric blue eyes across his captive audience. “Means something colossal is gonna happen to me. Means something’s going to happen to me where I’m not the same person I was. And I just know she’s right. Don’t ask me how, but I can already feel those life lines splitting, you know? You should all go get your palms’ read. It’s spooky.” 

“What did it say about your love line, Samuel?” Marie asks again, who has her head in Roxie’s lap, her feet in Nick’s. All three are so stoned it’s a wonder she can form words at all. Cooper’s been missing for hours.

Dieter isn’t sure anyone else registers the flash of desire he sees across Samuel’s face when he looks at her, but maybe that’s not the point. God, he desperately wants to leave. He doesn’t even care if he looks ashamed, or guilty, or lets everyone down. The coke has been gone from his system for hours and now the scratchy, heavy haze has set in. It makes him irritated when people breathe too loud. He tugs on Chloe’s hair but she doesn’t move. 

Samuel watches Roxie stroke Marie’s face. “She said my love line is strong.”

“So you’re finally admitting to all the bastards you’ve fathered over the years?” Roxie sniggers and a few others laugh. In his lap, Chloe giggles too.  

But Samuel only scowls. “No, asshole, it means I’m going to have a whirlwind romance. The kind of things they write books and poems and love stories about. Means my twin flame and soulmate are the same person.” 

“What’s a twin flame?”

Dieter’s mouth goes dry as his gaze slides across the small circle to the armchair. Oliver is there. And so are you. Curled up in his lap. The strap on your right shoulder has fallen off, away from your head on his chest. Your eyes are open, but you look very small. Oliver’s got his hand on your low back.

He tries to pull his thoughts away from the memory of his teeth in the crook of your neck, but he can’t. 

“Excellent question, lovely Natalie.” Samuel nods his head in a bow to you. Oliver’s finger dips across your bare shoulder and Dieter grinds his teeth so hard, his jaw aches. He rocks his head back against the wall behind him as if to physically keep himself from lunging forward. 

“Everyone knows what a soulmate is, but a twin flame is not something so well known. Because, maybe, it’s a little more difficult to talk about. A twin flame isn’t the person you’re meant to be with because you’re too alike. Too combustible. But you burn. You burn with love for this other person because it’s like looking into a mirror.”

“So it’s like fucking your clone?” Someone asks stupidly.

“No, you moron. It is not like fucking your clone.” Samuel’s face softens as his gaze brushes up against Marie’s forehead. “A twin flame is like finding your other half. The missing link in the universe. The thing that makes everything else make sense. The thing that quiets you, brings you a sense of comfort. Of wholeness. Intimacy without words, or questions, or concerns. There’s no hiding from this person. It’s a promise, a contract, with the universe. When you find your twin flame, it’s knowing peace for the first time.” 

He can’t look up. He can’t. 

He stares, relentlessly, at the back of Chloe’s head. His grip is almost firm in her hair. He cannot look up. 

He really, really, really shouldn’t. 

And yet he does. 

His gaze flickers to the armchair again.

To you.

And you’re not looking at him. Relentlessly not looking. You don’t look up.

Until you do. 

He doesn’t have a name for it.

It’s not peace. It’s not quiet. 

But it does rage. It rages inside of him. It burns him. 

For the first time since meeting you, he sees tears in your eyes. Unrestrained. Open. They race down your pink cheeks and he can’t be there to wipe them away. You’re crying while looking at him and everyone could see, but they don’t. Oliver could turn around and everyone would catch you right here, right now, with his hands on his wife, and there would be no denying anything. Who wouldn’t take a single look in his eyes and not know exactly what he feels for you?

This is the real punishment. The real pain. Why did you think he could ever leave you alone? This thing inside of him almost has a shape, a texture, a taste. It’s alive in him now. Born from denial and fed on bouts of temporary relief and half-measures, he feels it, this almost inhuman want. And he sees it all reflected back at him through your eyes. You, who came out of nowhere but who was always meant to be here, now matters more to him than he ever thought possible, now who has the power to destroy him. It’s beyond ruination, it’s nuclear war. It’s scorched earth and salting the rivers. Perhaps this is why he’s never been whole, why he tears himself on the corners and edges of his own making, because he’s been searching. Unknowingly, aimlessly wandering, hopelessly stumbling into chaos again and again– because the other half of his soul lives in another body. In a body, so much like his own, set on a path of destruction. 

A path of celestial creatures in collision, of universes collapsing into each other. Of neglected bodies seeking out in the dark that which is familiar. 

The spacial gap between the couch and your armchair is infinite, black and yawning, when he could take three steps across the room and kiss you on the mouth. But he doesn’t. 

He holds this thing tighter, lets it burn. He knows you feel it too. You turn from him, the connection overwhelming and wipe your eyes. The hole in his body he calls a chest aches.

God, he’s such a hypocrite. And a fucking fool.

“That’s so romantic,” Marie sighs from the floor. Her eyes flutter shut. Samuel watches her eyelashes against her cheek. “You get that and a soulmate? You’re so lucky.” 

“Not really,” he says quietly.

The hotel the studio rented for the press junkets doesn’t have a pool. But it does have a pretty nice rooftop bar overlooking the city. Disappointingly, it’s not open at four AM, but that’s probably a good thing. Meant to keep idiots from getting black out drunk and falling over the edge. Idiots like him.

Chloe lays asleep, four floors down, curled up in his bed, the sheets still warm from where he laid beside her for hours, white-knuckling the blankets, and staring at the ceiling. An hour after they left the party and two hours after he put her to bed, he got up and left, flinching at the sense the bedroom walls were closing in on him. 

He thought about going to find you, but he couldn’t. 

Finally, when he had managed to drag Chloe out the hotel room door, when everyone else had been so fucked up, their disappearance had gone unannounced, he pulls the door shut behind him and breathes. 

He can still hear the music through the walls, still smell it all, his mouth has been dry and cracked for hours, and the woman in his arms is nearly unconscious. But at least there’s some separation between you and him. It was too much. 

He bends down and pulls Chloe into his arms, carrying her like he did after they got married. But he can’t move. Not just yet. He tips his head back against the wall, trying to get the image of the rush of tears down your face out of his head. 

The movement stirs her and she lifts her groggy head.

“Wher‘re we?” she slurs.

“We’re going to bed, honey. It’s late and you should be asleep.” 

She smiles weakly, laughing to herself. Her feet kick as she taps his cheek with her finger. “You take sush good care o’ me. Always will. Always will love me.” 

Before he can reply, the hotel room door opens again and his black shadow steps out. 

You’ve been crying. He can smell the salt, hear the sniffles, and your red face all but confirms it. He whispers your name, a hush, a prayer and you tense as though transfixed by the shape of a ghost– you weren’t expecting him out here. You turn, eyes brightening when they meet his, but then you see her in his arms and you whimper– out loud– strands of saliva shining as you open your mouth in distress. He thinks he can physically feel his heart break. 

You’re not looking at him, but her, cradled and asleep in his arms. Your expression isn’t one of jealousy, or rage, but total and utter confusion. Why? Why her? Why not me?

“Baby, let me fix this.” He’d do anything to help you stop crying, to change your mind that you in any way have ever been second to any other woman in his life. He turns to you and Chloe’s arm brushes your shoulder. She hovers, oblivious and nearly-unconscious, between the two of you. 

“Fix what, honey?” She mutters up to him and you jerk back, as if burned.

For the third time, the hotel door opens and Oliver nearly runs you over. You swipe at your face rapidly as Dieter takes several steps back down the hall. 

“Sorry, darling, sorry,” he murmurs, nearly tumbling over, would have fallen to the ground if you had not grabbed him at the last second to hold him upright. His eyes are bloodshot and the edge of his right nostril is bright red. “How are you? Are you leaving?” 

You glance at Dieter over his shoulder. “Yeah. It’s late and I’m tired.” 

“Oh, sweet thing, I promised you a good time, didn’t I? And I don’t think I’ve quite done that.” Oliver manages to right himself and presses a thin hand against your cheek. You close your eyes, as if soothed by the warmth, by a presence if not the right one, so terrified of being alone. “Let me make it up to you.” 

Dieter stands, transfixed and silent, as another man leads you down the hallway, away from him. He can’t even make a noise, something to jostle Oliver out of his single-mindedness, something to tell you that this isn’t what he wants – not by a long shot – something to make this feel less like an all-encompassing nightmare. 

But he doesn’t and Oliver pulls you farther and farther away. You look over your shoulder once, tears rimming the soft hairs at the cup of your eyes, and it’s that face, your face of grief and desperation, that kept him awake and eventually dragged him out of bed, long after Chloe had fallen asleep. 

And so, he sits in one of the black and white booths on the rooftop bar and smokes. 

The late summer wind is warm and it plays with his hair– the curls around his forehead, along the backs of his ears, across his neck. His hair is longer than it has been in years and the wind is gentle as it goes. It reminds him of the few fond memories of his mother. When he was young. When his father still loomed so large. 

He wants to lean into it, into the gentle touch of something bigger than himself, of something that promises to protect him, to keep him safe. But when he does, there’s nothing there.

So he goes on. He smokes and he sits and he waits. He waits for the sun and for clarity and for Chloe to wake up. For the day to start all over again. 

For you to come to your senses and run far, far away from him. 

Eight AM. 

Another hotel room, all furniture cleared out. The window curtains pulled shut, no light. 

There’s a rumble, a clutter of sound, as lights and cameras are posted and aimed. The drowsy drabble of crew going through the motions, half-asleep and not yet caffeinated. It’s slow, sleepy, eyes downcast and unfocused. Light will come eventually, with the rising sun, but it’s still dark. Still blue.

The woman powdering your face does one final touch up before closing her kit and leaving. She goes out the hotel room door, another spindle sliding back into its place in the machine. The rumble around you continues. 

He calls your name, gently, softly, quietly. You don’t turn.

He picks up the coffee he got you and approaches you. 

Up close, he can see you got about as much sleep as he did. 

“Thank you.” You say loudly as a PA crosses behind him. 

“You’re welcome.”

“Did you have a good time at the party?”

“Yeah. We did.” It feels like they’re talking in code, in a foreign language that doesn’t sit right in his mouth. He steps closer to you, his heart digging into his ribcage. “Can I talk to you privately, for a minute?”

He runs a fine line; he needs to sound as if he is asking a good friend, a coworker, for a favor, but he wants you to know that your face is shredding him down to his very last atom. You have to come with him.

And maybe, because you feel it too, because you can hear the finality in his voice, because at some point the pain and insanity have to end, you nod. You motion to the interviewer– gimme five – and distracted, he nods.

You’re out the door and into the hallway when he realizes you’ve both left your coffee cups behind. Strange how something so innocuous can feel so transparent. 

He shuts the door to the room used as the make-up room, the same one as his argument with Mark less than twenty-four hours ago. The lock clicks with a snik. 

It’s been days since you both slept well, or at all. Either kept up by each other or by thoughts of each other, plagued by images and daytime dreams of waking up next to the person you actually wanted, you look wrung out. The make-up artist had done well, but he knows you. He can see your exhaustion in a way that only someone who intimately knows you can see. It’s a tiredness that goes beyond sleep, one that cannot be soothed by physical rest. It’s a bruise that refuses to heal.

Still, there has to be some sort of build up, just so he has a chance to try and put everything he wants to say in some sort of coherent order.

“How was your night with Oliver?” He asks without malice, without judgment. He’s absolutely sure he doesn’t want to know, but he doesn’t want to upset you. Ease you into the thing that’s sitting in the back of his mouth. 

But he can’t anticipate just what you’ve been holding back too. Your eyes flood with tears and you shakily sit down on the bed. He immediately sits down next to you, not caring if putting his hand on your back pissed you off, not caring if holding your hand in his lap is the wrong thing. He wanted to hold you in his arms last night in the hallway, this is the concession he makes with himself. 

“Dieter, how can you ask me that?” 

His heart knots up in his throat as his hand at your back goes up to your shoulders, gently massaging your neck. He can show emotional maturity, or at least try to.

“Baby, it’s okay if something happened with him.” He swears he tastes bile. No, it’s not okay. You aren’t to be touched by another man that isn’t him– he closes his eyes for a second, holding back grief and rage. 

With a watery sigh, you admit: “nothing happened with him. He passed out the second we got to my hotel room. But even if he didn’t . . .”

You lift your eyes to him, catching and holding his gaze, before looking back down at your entwined hands on the coverlet. Your makeup is only slightly smeared as though you forced your own desperation back down the well of sadness. 

“I didn’t fuck him, Dieter,” you say slowly, quietly, words warbled from your still-wet mouth. “But I should have . . . I really, really should have because I don’t know why I’m saving myself for you. You’ll never do the same for me.”

He’s shaking his head. No, no, you’re all wrong. You’ve got this all wrong.

“I didn’t touch her.” He focused on the curve of your knuckles. How your fingers manage to slot so perfectly in between his. “After . . . after the party, she was already asleep by the time I got us back to the room.”

“What about this morning? She must have been awake then.”

“She was,” he admits. He takes a deep breath. “But don’t you understand what I’m trying to say? Baby, I couldn’t. Can’t. Won’t ever do it again.”

Your breathing hitches, caught on every single one of your ribs as it lurches up your chest, fresh tears in your eyes. 

“No, Dieter, I don’t understand. What are you saying right now? What do you want from me?”

He slides onto his knees in front of you, palms shaking as they fold over your thighs. 

“She wants to have a baby. With me.” His voice is quiet, and he can only confess to your waist. Those curves he loves to run his fingers over, his nose across. You jerk as if to pull away, a snarl in your mouth, but he holds on. 

“Dieter, you bastard, I–,”

“But I’m going to say no.” 

He looks up at you. To your face so constricted in pain and heartbreak and a delirium that only comes when the days and nights have blurred together. You’re so tired.

And he’s done. At the end of his rope. 

He holds onto you as you struggle, try to fight him, try to fight the inevitable, but he holds on and he’s never letting go. 

“I’m divorcing her.” 

You still. Go slack. Soft in your disbelief. He’s failed you if this comes as a surprise. 

Something sharp and jagged splits apart in his throat, burning him, and he drops his gaze from your face before you have a chance to see the tears well up.

“When all of this is done . . . when everything is safe, I’m asking her for a divorce.” He tips his head into your lap. His voice is sodden, damp. “Natalie, I can’t be without you anymore. Can’t you see that?”

The back of his shirt, between his shoulders, goes wet when you press your face against him. You breathe through half-sobs. 

“Dieter, what are we going to do?” 

He shudders and smooths anxious circles into your hips. He can feel you shake above him. 

“Just wait, baby, just wait. It’ll all be over soon.”

Maybe, the kid was right.

Maybe, just maybe, despite what may come, despite the countless lives that are going to be ruined and the immeasurable pain coming . . .

Maybe, this is peace. 

[alsopurp]

New sounds ✨

REFERENTIAL rings in the new year with a 2 parter on the latest film adaptation of Act 1 of Wicked, just in time for the digital release!

For the musical nerds who'd find themselves awake at 2 am listening to Elphaba and Glinda riff and high note compilations

PART 1

Wicked - 'The Music'

Welcome back to the ‘Session of The Witch’!

[an ongoing miniseries of episodes diving into the resurgence of witches in pop culture fiction and their thematic relationship to this moment in feminism, womanhood, queerness, misogynoir (and musicals!]

I’m joined by returning guest Miss Sundi to talk about the 20 year history Wicked the musical and its most recent film adaptation! 

Directed by Jon M. Chu, ‘Wicked: Part 1’ is a film adaptation starring Cynthia Erivo as Elphabaand Ariana Grande as Glinda..

The original musical featured music and lyrics by Stephan Schwartz, book by Winnie Holzmanand starred Idina Menzel as Elphaba and Kristin Chenoweth as Glinda. The musical itself was an adaptation of Gregory Macguire’s 1995 revisionist retelling of L. Frank Baum’s Wicked Witch of the West character (renamed Elphaba in tribute) from 1900’s Wonderful Wizard of Oz children’s novel. 

Part 1 - 'The Music'

We recap of the story of Act 1 + a music commentary delving into the music of the musical track by track and note by note!

+

A recap

Mother Schwartz

The Glinda and Elphaba binary

Motifs

Glinda's double speak

Optional notes

Making Good

Jonathan Bailey is thriving

Back phrasing

High stamina 'I want' songs

LAR

Sharon D. Clarke

Fresher's week at Shiz

The Mics are on

Nessa Um Nessa

Madame Morrible's DBS

Men singing

Sopranos and Belters

BALLGOWN!

Mindful riffing

Lesbianism

Colours('Colors')

Musical Lesbianism

[Part 2 - 'The Movie'

A conversation about the history of the book, the shows musical origins and more of our thoughts on the recent film adaptation.]

___

This one is for the musical nerds who found themselves awake at 2 am listening to Elphaba and Glinda high note compilations.

___

Hosted and produced by Dr. Khaliden Nas.

Music by PamperedFists & Anzahlung.

All videos edited by Victor Alexander.

Podcast Artwork by Valentine M. Smith. 

Keep up to date with Dr. Khaliden Nas by checking out www.alsopurple.com Follow me @AlsoPurp on all socials.

Find out more about REFERENTIAL’s upcoming episodes on www.alsopurple.com/citations

Thank you for listening!

Leave the pod a rating to help other people find the show!

[henrykathman]

I have too many thoughts on The Great Gatsby (2013)

Music by Molly Noise (She/Her)

YouTube | Podcast | Patreon

This video sees me delving into the 2013 adaptation of The Great Gatsby directed by Baz Luhrmann; a film that many have regarded as a definitive version of F Scott Fitzgerald's original novel, while others regard it as a dubstep-laden imitation of the literary classic. Which one is it? Settle in and find out, old sport!

Work Cited:

Agur, Colin. "Negotiated Order: The Fourth Amendment, Telephone Surveillance, and Social Interactions, 1878–1968." Information & Culture 48.4 (2013): 419-447. https://conservancy.umn.edu/bitstream/handle/11299/182084/Agur%20-%20I%26C%20-%20Negotiated%20Order.pdf?sequence=1&isAllowed=y 

“Baz to Make ‘Gatsby’ Choice.” The New York Post, Achived through the Wayback Machine, 10 Feb. 2011, archive.ph/20130111073735/www.nypost.com/p/pagesix/baz_to_make_gatsby_choice_I5ngKh4aqSwiEmZh6H0iKJ#selection-2097.0-2097.27.

Beaton, Kate. “Great Gatsbys.” Hark! A Vagrant, 10 May 2013, www.harkavagrant.com/?id=259-. Accessed 25 July 2023.

“Elvis (2022) and the Utter Mediocrity of Biopics.” Broey Deschanel, Youtube, 27 Sept. 2022, youtu.be/Fu96gDcrEeU. Accessed 25 July 2023.

Ferriss, S. (2018), Refashioning the Modern American Dream: The Great Gatsby, The Wolf of Wall Street, and American Hustle. J Am Cult, 41: 153-175. https://doi.org/10.1111/jacc.12869

Fitzgerald, F. Scott. The Great Gatsby. Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1925.

Kroenert, Tim. “Baz Luhrmann versus the God of Capitalism.” Eureka Street, vol. 23, no. 11, June 2013, pp. 25–26. EBSCOhost, search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&AuthType=sso&db=a9h&AN=90006908&site=ehost-live&scope=site.

Luhrmann, Baz, et al. The Great Gatsby Screenplay. 2013, stephenfollows.com/resource-docs/scripts/greatgatsby_sp.pdf.

MacLean, Tessa. "Preserving Utopia: Musical Style in Baz Luhrmann's The Great Gatsby." Literature/Film Quarterly 44.2 (2016): 120-131.

McGirr, Lisa. The war on alcohol: Prohibition and the rise of the American state. WW Norton & Company, 2015.

Miller, Alyssa. “Baz Luhrmann Really Is the ‘Stanley Kubrick of Confetti’ and This Is Why.” No Film School, 11 Nov. 2022, nofilmschool.com/baz-luhrmanns-editing-and-visual-style.

Noer, Michael. “No. 14 Gatsby, Jay.” Forbes, 13 Apr. 2010, www.forbes.com/2010/04/13/great-gatsby-bio-opinions-fictional-15-10-fitzgerald.html?sh=672907174535. Accessed 25 July 2023.

Piff, P. K., et al. “Higher Social Class Predicts Increased Unethical Behavior.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, vol. 109, no. 11, Feb. 2012, pp. 4086–91, https://doi.org/10.1073/pnas.1118373109.

“Searching for Sugar Man (2012) - Full Cast and Crew.” The Internet Movie Database, Amazon, 2012, www.imdb.com/title/tt2125608/fullcredits/?ref_=tt_cl_sm. Accessed 25 Aug. 2023.

Seitz, Matt Zoller. “Baz Luhrmann Is the Stanley Kubrick of Confetti.” Vulture, 9 Nov. 2022, www.vulture.com/2022/11/baz-luhrmann-knows-hes-the-stanley-kubrick-of-confetti.html.

Stewart, Jack. “The Cars of the Great Gatsby.” The Daily Drive | Consumer Guide®, 16 May 2013, blog.consumerguide.com/the-cars-of-the-great-gatsby/.

[duhragonball]

I'm kind of ahead of schedule tonight, so I went over and updated the index pages I set up for the 2023 DB Apocrypha Liveblog. Well, part one doesn't need an update, but part two now has links to the DBS movies, SDBH Episode 50, and the recent manga chapters.

The only thing I'm missing now is DBS Manga Chapter 100, which is supposed to be available on December 20. This is the first time I've actually wanted to read a new chapter the day it came out, so I'm not sure how it works. Wait, never mind, the Viz website actually says what time it'll be up. That's kind of handy. Anyway, it won't be on the website until tomorrow morning, so it'll have to wait until I get home from work.

Let's see... the GIF Advent Calendar is all queued up for the home stretch, I've got Luffa Annual 5 all set up to post on AO3, and I finally got caught up on the World Tag League. Probably the best WTL I've ever seen. Bishamon's got the goods.

I do need to edit all the Luffa chapters I wrote in November, but that'll keep, honestly. And I need to write up something for this blog's 11th anniversary, but I just checked this afternoon and found out it's actually December 21, and not the 20th as I previously believed. So I've got another day to put it off.

So yeah, December is going pretty well.

[dbzebra]

🔥tournament of power (this is the most random thing i know)

It’s honestly a mess of an arc. Anime namely. Manga arc was just forgettable af

The recruitment / preliminary stuff is like 20+ episodes which imo it did not need to be at all. And the ToP itself just draaaaaaags. In OG DB, the tournaments served a narrative purpose. Testing Goku and Krillin and the “there’s always someone better,” Turtle v Crane rivalry and lead up to DKP, and finally the Goku v Piccolo rematch. ToP is just “survive and whoever loses dies” yet we all know the final wish is everyone gets revived anyway. You can say that about any arc but ToP is especially obvious

There’s some good moments, but man it blends together I can’t tell you much from it. 70+ new characters when like 60 of them are nameless fodder you’ll never remember let alone ever see again is just a strange choice. Yeah I get it, battle royale, but could’ve been done way better like cutting the roster in half.

UI Omen was cool af. I wish they kept that as the final design the whole time. But Goku ‘mastering’ it in like literally 20 minutes after being hit by his own Spirit Bomb (literally how? Also fuck Vegeta for not contributing) in universe while the gods took multiple eons and some still haven’t done it completely is just lame. So many instances in the ToP there are moments where Goku and Vegeta are about to lose “I’m all out of power I can’t fight” then power up to maximum 5 seconds after and are stronger than before.

Power scaling sucks. They changed how Saiyans get stronger in Super and it’s really frustrating. Goku in Blue gets bodied by Berserk Kale. Then in like 5 minutes after in universe, SS2 Goku is toying with both Kale and Caulifla in SS2, which are both stronger than Berserk Kale. Like huh? Make it make sense

And then SSBE aka Bluer sucks and legitimately don’t know how anyone could like that ugly overly bright form.

And now we’re almost 5 arcs later (counting movies) and we’ve literally never seen any of em again beyond mere mentions like “Jiren was tough” because imho they realized they fucked up and wanna move on lol

Lastly Jiren is the most boring foe they’ve ever faced and I’d rather watch Evolution because at least I can get entertainment out of that. All Jiren has going for him is saying it’s over when it’s not actually over, and the dub line “I trust no one, even dragons” because it’s a meme and I love it.

On that note though, the memes gave us stuff like “Hit’s clone” and El Hermano, Gohan Blanco, and Ultra Instinct Shaggy which was more fun than that whole arc even if it got spammed lol