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infizero · 10 months

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Why Ambrosius and Ballister’s Relationship Feels So Different in the Movie (Nimona)

As someone who read Nimona countless times growing up, I am very familiar with the story and these characters. Which is why when I watched the movie, I was struck by how different Ambrosius and Ballister felt. They seemed like totally different and unfamiliar characters to me, and it didn’t have anything to do with their designs.

After rereading the original Nimona graphic novel recently, I’ve come to the conclusion that the main reason they feel like completely different characters in the movie comes down to one thing: the removal of the joust.

When I watched the movie, I was surprised by the fact that they changed the circumstances that drove these two apart. But it didn’t hit me just how much this one event shapes both of their characters and their relationship to each other until I reread the book.

The joust is CRUCIAL to their dynamic. It pervades every interaction they have with each other, they bring it up constantly, it is literally the crux of their collective storyline. We learn about it on PAGE 5 of the whole book, and their big heart-to-heart when Ballister is captured near the climax of the story is based around Ambrosius finally admitting the truth about what happened. Honestly I’d say that him finally coming to terms with what he did and apologizing for it is probably what allowed these two to finally find peace together by the end of the book.

We get something similar to it in the movie. Ambrosius still is responsible for Ballister losing his arm, but it is under WILDLY different circumstances. So I want to talk about how the joust affects them in the book, and then explain why the movie’s version of events, while similar on the surface, has a completely different effect on everything. So let’s get into it!

(All images of the book are via pictures of my own physical copy btw, so apologies if they’re not the best quality.)

(Also I want to make it clear that I don’t hate the movie nor its adaptation of these two. I do personally greatly prefer the book, but this post is not here to tear down the movie and exclaim that the book was way better. I just find it interesting how changing one event can have huge ripple effects!)

Part 1: The Graphic Novel (AKA: “My Boyfriend Shot Off My Arm Because of His Wild Ambition!”)

Like I said before, we learn about the joust very early on; Chapter 2, page 5. It is told to us first via Ballister’s perspective. Nimona asks if she can kill Ambrosius while they’re making evil plans, and Ballister says no -- if anyone is going to kill Ambrosius, it’s going to be him. We then get a flashback to the joust itself.

Ballister explains how they were friends and how the joust was the first time they had been pitted against each other. Ballister won fair and square, but in his words:

BALLISTER: “but Ambrosius hates to lose.”

BALLISTER: “He always claimed it was an accident. No one could prove otherwise.”

BALLISTER: “Turns out the Institution had no use for a one-armed hero. I took the only other viable option.”

Ambrosius used a weaponized lance and blasted Ballister’s arm off. After the incident, Ballister was rejected by the Institution, and became a villain instead of the hero he had originally set out to be.

In Chapter 3 we see Ambrosius appear for the first time, and he and Ballister have a very relaxed sort of cartoon hero-villain dynamic going on. There’s definitely real animosity between them, but they don’t hesitate to simply talk casually to each other or help each other when things go south. It’s all pretty lighthearted and lowkey.

They fight briefly, but after Nimona triggers the building they’re in to self-destruct, Ambrosius doesn’t hesitate to help Ballister escape and Ballister doesn’t hesitate to accept his help. Ambrosius even tries to reassure him that Nimona will be fine. After they make it out, with Nimona presumed dead, Ambrosius puts a hand on his shoulder and tells him to go before more guards show up. They may be “arch-nemesises”, but they certainly don’t act like it.

AMBROSIUS: “Haven’t you missed our fights? We haven’t done this since you tried to clone the king’s daughter!”

BALLISTER: “Ambrosius, I really don’t have time for this.”

AMBROSIUS: “Are you trying to make me jealous?”

BALLISTER: “You’re an idiot.”

By the way, I’m not going to be doing a full breakdown of every single scene with them, don’t worry. I just think that their first interaction shows off their dynamic very well. This is presumably how they’ve been with each other since the incident, as it’s made clear both here and throughout the book that they’ve both been doing this for a while at this point. They have a very established dynamic, which is important as that is one of the big differences between the book and the movie. (I’ll get into that more later.)

Whenever these two interact throughout the book, it’s clear that they have very different opinions on the incident that drove them apart and how their relationship functions now.

Ambrosius tries to act like it was simply an accident and that it doesn’t matter. Ballister became a villain of his own volition, and now they are arch-nemesises who have to fight because that’s their job -- though he doesn’t exactly act like he hates Ballister.

Meanwhile Ballister saw it as a deep betrayal, and while he definitely still cares deeply about Ambrosius, he cannot get over the incident as easily as Ambrosius can.

Their respective feelings about what happened are shown perfectly in the scene in Chapter 7 where Ambrosius invites Ballister to meet with him in secret. Ambrosius tells him that the Institution has ordered him to kill Nimona and begs him to send her away, both so he doesn’t have to kill her and so things can go back to “normal.” Ballister then says that Ambrosius gave up normal at the joust.

AMBROSIUS: “I can’t believe you’re still hung up about that. It was a long time ago, you know.”

AMBROSIUS: “Besides, it was an ACCIDENT.”

BALLISTER: “I bet you’ve said that so many times you’ve started to actually believe it.”

Ambrosius insists it was an accident, and Ballister claims that he blasted off his arm because he couldn’t stand that Ballister was better than him. This sets Ambrosius off and they begin to argue.

AMBROSIUS: “You can’t blame me for how your life turned out! You made the choice to turn evil!”

BALLISTER: “Choice? I never had a choice! The Institution needed a villain. That lot fell to me. I never chose it.”

BALLISTER “And it could just as easily have been you, had that “accident” happened differently!”

AMBROSIUS: “Oh please! Do you really believe that?”

AMBROSIUS: “You never had it in you to be a hero! Everyone always knew that you were going to be the one to go bad!”

Ambrosius has convinced himself that Ballister chose to become evil, and that he isn’t responsible for what happened because it was an accident. We later learn that it wasn’t an accident though, which means that this really is him just making excuses so he doesn’t have to accept responsibility.

Ballister brings up the idea of Ambrosius becoming like him again after they fight, in one of if not my favorite scene between them in the whole book:

AMBROSIUS: “uugghh”

BALLISTER: “What if I cut off your arm right now?”

BALLISTER: “Then you’d see how fast the Institution would cast you aside. Just like they did me.”

AMBROSIUS: “You wouldn’t.”

BALLISTER: “No, I wouldn’t.”

BALLISTER: “And I’m the villain.”

BALLISTER: “What do you suppose that says about you?”

Ballister and Ambrosius are both very complicated individuals, and I think they lose a lot of their moral grayness in the movie. (Which I will get to later.)

Ambrosius is the “hero”, but it was his ambition that drove him to blast Ballister’s arm off, and he’s never accepted responsibility for it, instead trying to convince himself that Ballister turned out this way because of his own actions. But he doesn’t disagree here that the Institution would throw him out if he were to lose his own arm, which I think is very telling. He knows deep down that he is not a good person, and he is not working for good people. But he doesn’t want to admit it.

Ballister is the “villain”, but in many ways he is better than Ambrosius. He abides by his own rules of never killing unless it’s necessary, and goes out of his way throughout the book to make sure that as few people are harmed as possible. He knows that the Institution is corrupt, because he was one of the people it failed. And he works to try and bring it down.

Ambrosius cannot accept what happened, and because of that they aren’t able to get anywhere. They both know it wasn’t an accident. But because Ambrosius cannot admit it, they are stuck like this.

It’s a fascinating part of Ambrosius’ character that though he is adamant about Ballister being the one to destroy himself, he still cares about him. Much more openly than Ballister does in return, in fact. Ambrosius consistently does whatever he can to avoid having to kill him and always seems to have his wellbeing in mind. While he initially refused to kill Nimona, revolted at the idea that he should be ordered to kill “a little girl”, he eventually agrees to do so, but only under the condition that Ballister would be spared.

THE DIRECTOR: “Your motivations are quite transparent. I KNOW what the nature of your relationship was. I made it clear at the time that I disapproved. If your fixation on him has impeded your ability to do your job, then he truly has outlived his usefulness.”

THE DIRECTOR: “We’ll find you a new nemesis. Perhaps you will be more competent without Blackheart as a distraction.”

AMBROSIUS: “I won’t kill him. If you demand I kill the girl, I’ll do it - but I won’t kill him.”

Despite him and Ballister’s separation being his fault, he is the one who wishes most for things to go back to the way they were. And this is likely why he refuses to accept responsibility about the joust. If it were truly an accident, then there shouldn’t be anything preventing them from continuing to be together. By painting it as an accident, Ballister becomes the villain for refusing to move on and let things go back to the way they were, not Ambrosius.

But finally, after Nimona disappears and Ballister lets himself be captured, we get probably the most important scene between these two. Ambrosius has been demoted due to his failure to kill Nimona, and is now forced to guard Ballister’s cell. Ambrosius is at his lowest that he’s been throughout the story, disgraced and discarded by the Institution who he had always been so loyal to.

It’s notable that Ambrosius says here that they both know Ballister is not evil, since he has been paddling that idea this whole time that Ballister made the choice to turn evil. By admitting that he is not, it shows that he is both starting to turn against the Institution, and starting to be more honest about what really happened.

Naturally, after Ambrosius wonders how things ended up like this and reminisces on when they were together, Ballister once again brings up the joust. And finally...

AMBROSIUS: “I- I never wanted to hurt you. I- I didn’t- It was-”

BALLISTER: “Don’t you dare try to tell me again that it was an accident.”

AMBROSIUS: “It wasn’t.”

...he admits the truth.

Ambrosius shares his side of the story, letting both us and Ballister in on what really happened that day. It wasn’t fully his fault -- the Director had called him into her office the night before the joust and told him that he had promise, that he was her choice out of the two, but that he had to prove himself against Ballister or that opportunity would go away.

On the day of the joust, Ambrosius received a weaponized lance instead of his regular one, which he instantly noticed. He asked what the Director expected him to do with it, and was told that she expected him to win.

To Ambrosius’ credit, he had no intention of using it, as he was confident that he would win. But the weight from the weaponized lance threw his balance off, and he ending up losing. And so...

AMBROSIUS: “I wanted it, more than anything. You never wanted it as much as me. You were just BETTER, without hardly even seeming to try.”

AMBROSIUS: “I don’t even remember- but I must have-”

[...]

AMBROSIUS: “I’m sorry, Ballister. I’m so sorry.”

To be fair, Ambrosius is not entirely to blame here. I doubt he would’ve come up with this idea on his own; he only acted on it because the Director had already given him the weaponized lance, and stressed the night before that the opportunities she dangled in front of him would not be given to him if he did not win. He was manipulated.

But he still made the decision to do it. He could’ve simply not used the lance. But he chose to. It is his fault.

It’s fascinating that the version of events Ambrosius had been swearing by this entire time is the exact opposite of what really happened. He claimed that it was an accident, he didn’t choose to do it, he had no choice, and that it was Ballister’s choice to become evil that caused all of this. But in reality, Ambrosius was the only one who got a choice here. And that choice is why their relationship was destroyed.

Ballister then brings attention to something even more damning:

BALLISTER: “You’ve never said it before.”

AMBROSIUS: “What?”

BALLISTER: “You never said you were sorry.”

AMBROSIUS: “I- didn’t?”

AMBROSIUS: “Oh god.”

I feel like you could interpret this in a lot of different ways, but the way I see it, they probably didn’t see each other much right after the incident. Ambrosius was catapulted into stardom as the kingdom’s beloved knight, and Ballister became a villain. I don’t think they really interacted much until their hero-villain antics started up, so I don’t think Ambrosius really had a chance to apologize. And if he did, he didn’t think to. Regardless of why, I do think it is messed up that he never apologized, and it goes to show just how much this event destroyed the bond they used to have.

From here, there’s not too much, as Plot Stuff starts getting serious around this point. Ambrosius ends up betraying the Institution after they continuously attack Ballister to provoke Nimona, attacking the guards who are holding him. This is when Ambrosius finally chooses Ballister over the Institution, which is great for his character, but there’s not really much more than that to say about it.

He and Ballister plan together to try and save the kingdom, with Ambrosius being adamant that they have to kill Nimona while Ballister refuses to. It’s during this conversation that Ambrosius mentions that he “never did anything good [his] whole life”, which is really sad but also kind of accurate, and it goes to show how he’s finally accepted responsibility for everything he’s done and had a part in up to this point.

Eventually Ballister is able to find a way to nerf her and they split up, with Ambrosius wanting to tell him something in case they don’t see each other again, but Ballister shuts him down.

BALLISTER: “We can’t do this now. Just... just promise me you won’t get yourself killed.”

It’s easy to assume this was something romantic and it likely was, but I imagine Ambrosius could’ve also wanted to say sorry again for everything. Perhaps it would’ve been a mix of both.

Regardless, they split up and climax stuff happens: Ambrosius attempts to kill Nimona but gets seriously injured, Ballister tries to reason with Nimona, etc. etc. Eventually at the very end, we see that these two have made peace and are together again, living on after everything. And that’s these two in the book!

Whew. I know that was a lot, but don’t worry. I won’t be going into as much detail about the movie’s version of events, as Ambrosius and Ballister have a much more cut-and-dry dynamic there than in the book. Their relationship in the original is very complex, so I wanted to make sure I covered all of those little nuances.

The joust is what defines their relationship and a lot of their respective characters; it is unimaginably important. Ballister became a villain because he lost his arm and was cast aside by the Institution. Ambrosius became the kingdom’s hero because he took Ballister out of the picture. They are unable to be around each other normally for very long because of their divided views of what happened. It is only after Ambrosius finally faces the truth that they are able to find peace together once more.

All of this is to say that it’s extremely hard to imagine what their relationship would be like in the graphic novel had the joust not happened the way it did. Which brings us to...

Part 2: The Movie (AKA: “My Boyfriend Sliced Off My Arm Because I Literally Killed Someone!”)

Before we start, I want to again stress that I am not trying to argue that any changes made here are inherently inferior. I am merely pointing out the differences between the book and the movie that contribute to the overall dissonance I and many others have felt when it comes to these two across versions.

Right off the bat, we are greeted with the movie’s version of Ambrosius and Ballister’s backstory. Like was implied in the book, they appear to be together (or something along those lines) which is great to actually see. But it quickly becomes clear that the events here are far different.

Instead of a joust, it is a knighting ceremony. There is no competition between Ballister and Ambrosius here. Ambrosius is knighted and cheered for, and then it is Ballister’s turn. He is knighted and everyone is silent before breaking into cheers as well. And then...

...his sword suddenly turns into a cannon and kills the queen. And in retaliation...

...Ambrosius chops his arm off.

Now if you’ve listened to ANYTHING I’ve said so far, this should immediately set off alarm bells. Because this one little difference changes everything about these two’s dynamic.

In the book, Ambrosius shot off Ballister’s arm in order to win his position. It was an entirely selfish and evil action spurred on only by his uncontrollable want to be the winner.

But here, Ambrosius is debatably justified in his response. Sure, he didn’t have to be as drastic as slicing his whole arm off (and I know there’s symbolism there with how the kingdom has taught people to get rid of problems), but Ballister -- to him -- literally just shot the queen. The queen who Ambrosius has sworn to protect. It is completely reasonable for him to respond in this way. And that’s a huge difference.

By changing this, we already have a completely different situation. Ambrosius here didn’t particularly want to cut Ballister’s arm off, it was a reflex, a response to a sudden danger. (Not saying he wanted to in the book, but there he made the deliberate decision to do so. In the movie it seems much more like an actual accident -- an overreaction that he immediately regrets and, as we’ll see, continues to regret.) And there was justification for it. There was no justification for it in the book.

Instead of an Ambrosius whose ambition caused him to commit an evil act of betrayal against the man he was closest to, we now have an Ambrosius who, in the heat of the moment, overreacted like he was trained to after Ballister seemingly betrayed him. We’ll see over the course of the movie how this affects things, but that’s not the only major change here.

As we figure out shortly afterward, the movie makes a huge change when it comes to how the story functions, and that’s the timeline of events. In the book, the joust and the subsequent fallout between Ballister and Ambrosius happened years ago. We don’t know how long, but it’s clearly been a while. Enough time has passed where they are fully settled into their roles as hero and villain, and they look significantly younger in the flashbacks as well.

Like previously stated, book Ballister has been a villain for a while. He is completely settled into this role and has been making schemes and having fights of the week with Ambrosius for a considerable time. He knows what he’s doing. He has his own way of doing things, and when Nimona inserts herself into his life much of their early dynamic is him teaching her how he does things. In the book, Ballister is the teacher, Nimona is the student.

But in the movie, this incident just happened. It's unclear how exactly long it's been, but judging from Ballister's arm being created and his wounds healing it's probably been around a month.

Regardless of exactly how long it's been, the point is that these events are still very fresh. Ballister seemingly has just been laying low, not villain-ing it up, and he and Ambrosius haven't seen each other since the knighting ceremony. This changes literally everything about Ballister’s character. This post is specifically about Ambrosius and Ballister’s dynamic and not a Ballister character analysis so I’ll try to keep it brief, but movie Ballister seriously could not be more different from the book.

Compare this to movie Ballister, who I’m pretty sure never knows what he’s doing ever, at any point. He was training to be a knight. He has seemingly never once questioned the Institution. Now he has suddenly lost his arm and been thrust out into the unknown of being treated as a villain, and he has no idea how to handle it. Then Nimona shows up, tells him “hey, the Institution sucks”, and eventually he ends up believing so as well. In the movie, Nimona is the teacher, Ballister is the student.

Book Ballister actively resents the Institution and has no doubts that what they did to him is wrong. He has been plotting their downfall for a while. Nimona, on the other hand, seems to be out of the loop when it comes to the Institution and seemingly only starts hating them after she finds out how they threw Ballister out. Again, I’d just like to stress how completely and totally opposite their dynamic in the movie is compared to this.

There’s also Ballister being a scientist and being much more jaded in the book, but that’s not really important for the purposes of this post. So alas, I shall move on.

This different timeframe greatly impacts Ambrosius and Ballister’s dynamic, and obviously it would. There is a huge difference between a falling-out that happened years ago and you’re both still bitter about, and a falling-out that happened very recently. This, along with the different course of events resulting in said falling-out, is what causes their dynamic to feel so alien.

Also while talking about their early interactions in the movie, I’d just like to point out that while here Nimona is the one to assume Ambrosius is Ballister’s arch-nemesis and call him such, which Ballister doesn’t agree with, they were actually arch-nemeses in the book. Just something I noticed.

Something else I find interesting is later on, Ballister seems to be almost in disbelief about Ambrosius cutting off his arm and makes excuses for him.

BALLISTER: “He didn’t cut off my arm. He disarmed a weapon.”

BALLISTER: “It’s how we were trained.”

(Side note, but I wonder if book Ballister ever felt this way right after the joust? Did he try to convince himself it was an accident too, once upon a time? Did he try to make excuses?)

And to be fair, he is sort of right. Like I said before, Ambrosius’ reaction to Ballister seemingly killing the queen was debatably justified. While we’re obviously supposed to side with Nimona here and agree that Ballister should be more upset at Ambrosius for what he did, the movie definitely paints Ambrosius as more sympathetic overall. We see him freaking out internally about cutting off Ballister’s arm, and there is a lot of emphasis placed on how he and the others were trained by the Institution, inviting the audience to place more of the blame on the system that taught Ambrosius to act this way rather than him as a person.

And again, I’m not saying this is a bad thing! I love a good "taking down a corrupt system” story, and with the different circumstances of the movie it definitely makes more sense to play it this way. But in comparison to the book, Ambrosius is much easier to sympathize with. His character is changed from a very morally gray person who did something horrible and won’t admit it, to a pretty okay person who did something horrible and wholly accepts and bemoans that fact. He’s almost the opposite of what he was in the book.

So we have an Ambrosius who accepts what he did to Ballister and feels awful about it, and a Ballister who has no idea what he’s doing and is basically just being dragged around by Nimona. With both of them being basically the complete opposite of how they were in the book, is it any wonder that their relationship with each other feels so different when they themselves are so different?

Also, once again, the circumstances are very different. There is no Queen murder plot in the book, nor is their any attempt to clear Ballister’s name. A significantly different setting makes a difference too.

I don’t see a need to go into further detail about specific scenes in the movie as I think I’ve made my point clear. But going back to the movie’s lack of Ambrosius and Ballister’s already established hero-villain dynamic, I think these differences are made quite apparent just contrasting how they talk to each other. I mean, just compare these two scenes:

AMBROSIUS: “What? You’re gonna kill me now too?”

BALLISTER: “You believe that?”

BALLISTER: “Then you never knew me at all.”

AMBROSIUS: “uugghh”

BALLISTER: “What if I cut off your arm right now?”

BALLISTER: “Then you’d see how fast the Institution would cast you aside. Just like they did me.”

AMBROSIUS: “You wouldn’t.”

BALLISTER: “No, I wouldn’t.”

BALLISTER: “And I’m the villain.”

BALLISTER: “What do you suppose that says about you?”

Their relationship in the movie is much softer and healthier than it was in the book. Their dialogue in the movie tends to lean much more towards tried-and-true “friendship betrayal” stuff; the wound of Ballister’s “betrayal” may be fresher, but it’s clear both of them love each other far more than they resent each other. In the book, it is the opposite. The movie could NEVER have the bar fight scene. It’s too ugly and bitter to fit these softer versions of Ambrosius and Ballister.

Part 3: Conclusion

So, that was a lot. I hope it’s a little clearer now how big the differences are between these two’s dynamic in the book and the movie! Especially if you’re someone who is only familiar with one or the other. While I prefer the book due to me tending to prefer more complex and messy relationship dynamics, I totally understand the appeal of the more loving and healthy relationship Ambrosius and Ballister have in the movie.

To summarize, here are some of the main takeaways:

Ambrosius causing Ballister to lose his arm is completely unjustified in the book and happens due to Ambrosius’ wild ambition, while in the movie it is a debatably justified reflexive action in response to an active threat.

Ambrosius overall is portrayed as much more sympathetic in the movie, with the system itself being more to blame for what happened.

In the book, the main thing keeping them apart was Ambrosius’ refusal to take responsibility and admit what he did. In the movie, it’s a misunderstanding about Ballister seemingly turning evil.

In the book, Ambrosius and Ballister have a very established hero-villain dynamic with the joust having happened years ago. In the movie the “betrayal” is still very fresh, which leads to very different interactions between the two.

And that’s about it! Thank you for reading this very long post. And if you haven’t read the original graphic novel or watched the movie, go do that!!! Much love to ND Stevenson and the rest of the people who made this story come to life.

Let me know your thoughts in the tags or the replies! Which version do you prefer? Are there any other factors you feel have a significant role in why their relationship feels so different? Or do you think I’m totally wrong about this and they feel basically the same to you?

Either way, thanks again for reading and goodbye!

#nimona #ballister boldheart #ambrosius goldenloin #analysis #meta #ballister x ambrosius #ambrosius x ballister #nimona movie #nimona graphic novel #nimona analysis #ballister blackheart

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drowsyhope · 3 months

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HEYA, [Y/N]! • POPPY PLAYTIME

summary ; child reader with the smiling critters

a/n ; THANK YALL SO MUCH FOR THE LOVE ON THE DOGDAY FICC 🫶🏼🫶🏼 was lowkey scared to post it bc i thought it was booty 😔 HOPE YALL ENJOY THIS ONEE

warning ; slight cussing, reader is hispanic coded bc ya girl is hispanic ‼️🙏🏼, based on the CARTOON versions of the smiling critters, different scenarios with each character, no children death just a lot of sillies :3

DOGDAY , MOVIE NIGHT

“are you sure the popcorn isn’t burnt?” you asked while holding up a greasy bag of popcorn, that clearly had a burnt smell to it. you were wearing your typical pajamas, a [f/c] ]f/a] themed jumper. dogday on the other hand was wearing a dog themed jumper, complete with fuzzy orange socks.

dogday nodded excitedly, taking the greasy popcorn out of your hands. “of course! everything is perfect!” he turned on the heel of his feet, turning around and walking towards the cushion fort the two of you made.

you were confused, but shook it off, putting in another bag of popcorn.

dogday caught wind of your birthday coming up, and planned a one-on-one play date with the two of you, since recently he has been more busier than usual. plus, he always love spending time with you!

fluffing up a pillow, dogday laid down, getting comfortable in his spot, his tail wagging and you made your way towards him, your own personal bag of popcorn in your hands.

“what movie would you like to watch?” he asked, grabbing the controller and looking at you, awaiting for an answer. you on the other hand, didn’t know what movie to watch. surely, there was plenty of movies to watch, but they suddenly just popped out of your head when the question was asked.

“hmm, what about [favorite movie]?” you responded finally. dogday nodded, turning towards the tv and putting on the movie, smiling as the two of you started munching on your goodies.

alas, your movie night began.

CATNAP , TEA PARTY

catnap was reluctant on the idea of a tea party, but with convincing with the help of dogday, catnap agreed.

the two of you were dressed in your sunday’s best. catnap went for a more casual look, having a pink bow tie tied around his neck, a bow being tied around the end of his tail. bobby gave him some white gloves, craftycorn gave him some necklaces to borrow.

you on the other hand, had a bow tied around your wrist, a bow being put in your hair. picky helped you style your hair, and kickin helped you become more confident.

the tea party was going to be held in his cathouse, which dogday and bubba decorated.

you and hoppy prepared tea, making some french goodies alongside it. you were excited for this little tea party, having it with one of your best of friends. it was also near the time of your birthday, so you were extra excited.

entering the cathouse, you were greeted by catnap, who was fumbling with his bow tie, seemly uncomfortable. “catnap!” you smiled, before giving him a funny look as he looked at you with a shocked expression.

“hey! uh ..can you help me?” catnap struggled, before you nodded. you didn’t want your friend to feel uncomfortable.

soon enough, the two of you were enjoying tea, snacking on chocolate chip cookies, and chatting your lives away. well, mostly you. out of the two, you were the more talkative one. catnap was the quiet one of the smiling critters, so it was surprising for the others for the two of you to become such best friends.

but, thankfully, the two of you are. cause you won’t be having this epic tea party if you didn’t!

HOPPY HOPSCOTCH , MOON CYCLES

hoppy has ever seen the moon before, you on the other hand, have. she always asked how it looked like, does it change, does it have a scent, etc.

“the moon has different cycles, like i think today it’s a full moon.” you explained, showing her a picture of the full moon today. hoppy looked amazed, her eyes widening and her eyes going up. you smiled at her, enjoying that she was finally able to be the moon.

“ah yucks, i wish i can see the moon for myself!” she responded, going back and landing on the pillow, making you giggle. you in return laid down on your stomach right next to her, the photograph still in your hand.

“it’s very beautiful! maybe i can take a videotape next time. i’ll make sure to show you.” you promised, sticking out your pinky for a pinky promise. hoppy smiled, taking out one of her fingers to establish the promise.

it made you feel bad that hoppy never seen the moon. you always seen how much she wanted to see the moon, always talking about it and learning about it.

you wished you can take her along with you, but your parents won’t allow you. also, hoppy is a 6’2ft mascot, and might make other people scared.

nevertheless, you explained the moon cycles to her, drawing pictures of them to visualize it for her. she enjoyed learning more about the cycles, and thanked you for showing her a picture of the actual moon.

hopefully, one day you can take her to the moon. the two of you can jump super high and reach the moon, planting a picture of the two of you, and come right back down. one day, you’ll make sure that dream comes true.

one day.

CRAFTYCORN , ARTWORK

the room was filled with bunch of laughter and smiles, it was of course, the art room. craftycorn was in charge of the art room, as she was the artistic one of the smiling critters.

thankfully, she had a helper, a kid named [y/n].

[y/n] was a artist from the day they were born, always making different artworks from different materials. if there was something, they could make anything out of it.

they enjoyed making art, and instantly became best friends with craftycorn, the two sharing their love for art.

“can you pass me the red?” craftycorn asked, scribbling on her paper. [y/n] nodded, getting up and walking towards the table, which contained different colored crayons. they grabbed the red one, turned around, and made their way back to where craftycorn was.

“here you go!” they said, giving them the red crayon. craftycorn smiled at them, taking the red crayon. she was drawing the two of them, using the red crayon to draw hearts all over the place.

[y/n] sat down, continuing to draw on their artwork — a drawing of all the smiling critters, them included. it was a huge project, and their hand definitely hurt. but, it was going to be worth it in the end.

soon enough, craftycorn was finished with her artwork, holding it up like it was a masterpiece. the other children caught wind of the finished art piece, and was quick to scatter towards her, wanting to see what she had created.

finally, [y/n] was finished. they smiled as they wrote their name near the bottom of the paper, holding it with such determination. they were proud of their artwork.

“that’s an amazing artwork, [y/n]!” craftycorn complimented, smiling as she realized it was her and the other smiling critters, alongside with [y/n]. she felt warmth creep its way into her heart, it was adorable.

“i hope you enjoyed it, i spent a lot of time on it.”

indeed, she and the other smiling critters enjoyed the masterpiece created by their dear [y/n].

PICKY PIGGY , BAKING

baking with picky was like a sport, it was easy!

picky had this cookbook that she liked to use. thankfully, you were able to read, so it was easy baking with picky, as she always had the ingredients on hand.

now, the two of you decided to bake cupcakes for the smiling critters, since they been craving some sweets for awhile.

“and now .. add vanilla!” picky said as you put some drops of vanilla into the cake batter mix, instantly being hit with the scent of vanilla. it smelled just like dogday.

picky read over the instructions as you poured the cake batter into the pan, making sure it was evenly distributed. it was rather a messy step, but with picky on your side, it was easy.

you were quick to put the cupcakes in the oven as picky sat on the countertop, looking at you, smiling. the two of you became friends over your love for baking, and picky’s live for eating.

you would always bake or cook for picky, as you wanted to improve on your skills. picky always gave you honest review, so you can improve better. it was a easy win for the both of you, you get better, and she gets to eat.

the two of you were in silence, looking as the cupcakes baked. it was a comfortable silence.

time was fast though, soon the cupcakes were finished. you put on your heat protective gloves, and took out the cupcakes, blowing on them to try and cool them down.

picky was jumping up and down, excited that the cupcakes were finally done. “okay, don’t touch just yet, they are still very hot.” you said as you took off your gloves. picky understood, but was still excited. she loved trying your cupcakes, something about them just make them melt in her mouth.

she loves when you bake.

BUBBA BUBBAPHANT , MATH HOMEWORK

you didn’t enjoy math.

you always stressed over it, cried over it, and also got mad over it. math was just not your brightest subject.

your best friend on the other hand, bubba, was a scholar on math. he always showed you how good his grades were on math, and always offered to help you.

but no matter how much he helped you, you never seemed to grasp on the concept of math in general.

“come on! it’s easy!” bubba groaned, looking down at the simple multiplication work on your paper. you on the other hand, was stressing out. you shook your head, to which bubba playfully rolled his eyes.

you groaned as bubba explained to you the basic of math, and how to do multiplications. you been over this plenty of times! you just can’t understand the concept of math!

“ughh .. at this point don’t even talk math to me!” that gave bubba an idea.

he quickly bought up 2 apples, “okay, there is two apples, correct?” you nodded. he bought up 3 apples, “now, there is 3 apples, right?” you nodded once again.

“now imagine each apple is 2 apples,” she pointed towards the 3 apples, “2 .. 4 ..”

“6!” bubba smiled. “correct!”

then it was like something clicked. bubba showed many other examples, and you got it right away. everything was suddenly making sense!

maybe math isn’t so bad.

BOBBY BEARHUG, VALENTINE’S DAY

valentine’s day was right around the corner, and you didn’t know what to get your best friend, bobby bearhug.

bobby’s favorite holiday was valentine’s day, she always loved the idea of love in general. in fact, that was how the two of you became friends.

you were giving out chocolates to your friends, and you had an extra heart shaped chocolate. you didn’t know who to give it to, until a certain bear came up to you, giving you a lollipop. smiling, you gave her the heart shaped chocolates, and the two of you became instant friends.

your friendship anniversary was coming up, and you were nervous. you didn’t know what to give bobby, as she basically already had everything.

but then, you had an idea, an expensive one.

2 week before valentine’s day, you were working your butt off for some cash. this was going to be an expensive gift, but it would be long lasting.

thankfully, you got some help from some of her other friends, getting some info on her favorite colors and favorite candies, everything was going to fall perfectly in place.

you made sure to give the person making the gift enough time, and made sure you tipped them accordingly. everything was perfect, and you were excited.

valentines rolled around, and bobby was trying to look for you.

“have yall seen [y/n]?” she was growing worried. today was your friendship anniversary, and she hasn’t seen you all day. she hoped you didn’t just ditch out on her, as she didn’t want to seem useless.

that was when one of the kids asked her to follow them, and as skeptical as she was, she followed nevertheless. they led her to a dark room, which scared her quite a bit. that was until the light turned on, revealing a surprising sight.

“happy valentine’s day!” you stood there, a ramo buchon in the color of her favorite color in your arms, some candies in your other. they were eternal roses, which meant they wouldn’t die out, which made it even more special. the other kids took pictures of the two of you.

this surely was going to be your favorite valentines yet.

KICKIN CHICKEN , ONE DAY

the playground was filled a lot of children, including bullies.

you hated bullies, especially since you have a few of your own. they always made fun of your hair and the way you spoke, which made you insecure about yourself.

that was until a kid named kickin chicken came to your rescue. he defended you from the bullies, and threaten to call the teachers on them.

he was like your guardian angel, and he was a chicken, so almost there.

“why didn’t you tell me?” kickin said with tears in his eyes as he patched you up. you were silent the whole time, not wanting to trauma dump on your friend.

“i didn’t want to seem weak.” you whispered, to which kickin sighed, taping your bruise. he looked at you with worried eyes, this was the 3rd time this weak you were sent to the nurse office, and kickin was always there to see you.

he gave you a hug, sighing as he heard you sniffle. you were always an emotional kid, which was probably one of the reasons they targeted you. kickin was sure to report those kids, they don’t deserve the cupcakes he’s going to bring on his birthday.

he wanted to tell you that you weren’t weak, but you would never believe him. he knew that you hated confrontation, so he never told you directly, but with his actions, he did.

“you’re a amazing friend, [y/n]. i hope you know that.” he said as the two of you hugged each other. you didn’t say anything, you didn’t want to believe what he was saying, but half of you know that he actually meant it.

you just hoped those bullies get the karma that they deserve, and that you won’t be bullied anymore.

one day, you’ll be a happy child. one day you’ll be able to smile without being scared of someone making fun of you. one day, you’ll be the best friend that kickin will always want you to be.

one day.

▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂▂

last one had a kick to it. alsooo!!! request are open!!! please request! :3 might take some time though :(

#x reader #poppy playtime x reader #poppy playtime #smiling critters x reader #smiling critters #dogday x reader #catnap x reader #hoppy hopscotch #bobby bearhug #bubba bubbaphant #kickin chicken #picky piggy #craftycorn #gn reader #child reader #fluff #poppy playtime smiling critters

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superstarz9 · 10 days

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So y’all fw Mr. Puzzles hcs?

Cause I got some :]

So canonically, based off the emerging movements he makes going from tv mode to ‘normal’ mode and the appearance of his arms/legs, there isn’t much of Puzzles that’s human anymore. The closest things he may have left is his heart and lungs (since he smokes, but that’s also a stretch).

While I prefer the idea thar he smokes, I like to think that he only holds the cigarette and pretends to smoke with a small smoke machine in the back, since the cig isn’t actually lit in the scene (not on purpose, of course).

As a kid, he was inspired to smoke from the old cigarette ads in cartoons (like the Flintstones Winston commercial).

He loves cooking shows and remaking the recipes, but he can’t eat. For a relationship hc (platonic or romantic), he’d probably love making food for you and get feedback on his cooking (eg, more spices, cook more/less, different recommendations). And compliments, of course. Always gotta compliment the chef, after all.

Body-wise (and this one might be kinda gross cause of minor body horror so skip if not comfortable), since we’ve established that there isn’t anything organic anymore about his body, he probably looks like a wire version of muscle anatomy. He’s very self-conscious about this, and tries to hide it the best of his abilities (long clothes, wrapping his arms to keep his shirt in place, the gloves). To add, his brain is probably a unique motherboard with wires surrounding it like a brain.

He sees and hears through the antennas, and makes sure to keep then aligned as much as possible. If one of them is slightly bent out of their usual shape, things look and sound very broken, like your vision going in and out. To add, the top dial changes the channel from his expressions to a specific show, and the lower dial adjusts his volume.

Technically canon but he has heterochromia! His right eye is dark brownish and his left is light blue. (He has homophobia in his eyes 😔 /j /ref)

We already know he stims lets bffr.

My friend’s hc: His angry/scary/humanoid face is parts of his original face, as well as the face that glitches during the movie’s end (I stg I know where that face is from. I wanna say Jack Stauber but I know it’s some kind of claymation. Speaking of Jack Stauber, Mr. Puzzles kinda gives Mirror Man vibes, y’know?).

Since he’s not as human anymore, he doesn’t get sick normally. However, he can get versions of illnesses through similar methods. He can overheat and power off on hot days, and he’s probably not great in rain. His signal also jams when it rains, so he’d constantly be bumping into stuff and wouldn’t be able to control the channels properly (I say control the channels cause idk what else to call it but that thing he does in the movie where he runs all the channels in his head and stuff. His head’s still a fully functional tv after all). If he’s shocked with lighting or smth, he’ll lose his signal, which is his equivalent of going into a coma.

Speaking of rain, he’ll try his best to be on top of the weather and carry an umbrella. However, if he doesn’t have actors for the weather channel and is preoccupied with other projects, he’ll be stuck at the studio waiting out the storm. Relationship hcs for this can be rlly funny. You’d catch him all bitter about the sudden rain as he stands by the door waiting for a cab or smth. If you pull out an umbrella, he’s turn into an absolute drama queen. “Oh, it’s such a TRAVESTY! This HORRIBLE rain just WON’T lighten up! Oh, if only there was someone so kind and caring who’d share their umbrella with me!” You could a) not share the umbrella and receive an even more bitter Puzzles, b) insist on holding the umbrella and have him walk with you awkwardly, or c) give him the umbrella but he holds it so high that you still get wet.

Despite his hatred for the rain, it’s one of the few things he can still enjoy about his humanity. Being a bunch of wires and other tech, he can’t feel anything, just being numb, minus a light electrical pulse, similar to a heart beat. He can’t feel specific textures but can grab and roughly identify objects. However, he can feel the rain and how different it is from other things, and it reconnects him with the real world. For any Steven Universe fans, it’s like Peridot stepping out into the rain for the first time, but more somber.

If he’s out in the rain one day, he’s sick the next. When he sneezes, his screen goes static-y for the moment.

When he sleeps, he has a black screen with the small “sleep mode” pop-up in the corner. He’s also a very light sleeper.

When he zones out, it’s the Puzzlevision logo bouncing across the screen as a screen-saver.

Aight that’s all I got right now. If this does well I’ll post some more!

#mr puzzles #smg4 puzzlevision #mr puzzles headcanons #headcanons #puzzlevision

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sycamorelibrary754 · 7 months

Text

When You Wish Upon a Star

Summary: You and Bucky Barnes have grown close, bonding over sarcasm and shared trauma. You make it your mission to help Bucky experience all the joys of life that Hydra took from him. A little Disney magic is the perfect place to start.

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x reader (platonic)

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: A few curse words and references to past trauma.

A/N: Who wouldn’t want to go to Disneyland with Bucky?

It was always the same. Your eyes shot open as the sensation of falling washed over you. Slowly, you rolled over and lifted your head to check the clock. 3:12 am. Fucking perfect. After a couple of deep breaths, you lifted your tired body off your bed. You throw on your favorite sweatshirt before opening your door and shuffling down the hall.

It was dark, but you knew the way by heart. A frequent late-night visitor to the compound halls thanks to your PTSD. Your nightmares came in bunches, and when they did you needed a distraction when you woke up to keep yourself from spiraling down completely. You reach the kitchen and are just about to open the fridge when you see the outline of James Buchanan Barnes sitting on the sofa in the dark.

“Bucky? What are you doing out here?”

“Moonlighting as a vampire”, he grumbled.

“You know, I usually just take your hundred-and-eight-year-old sarcasm at face value, but it’s late and I’m genuinely curious”, you said, as you sit across from him on the sofa. One leg tucked up under your body and your arms crossed over your chest to keep yourself warm.

Bucky looks over at you stone-faced, but you can tell he’s trying to read you, searching for an ulterior motive. The gears are turning endlessly inside his head. After about five seconds of silence, you decide to return the favor. There are dark circles under his eyes and his disheveled hair is standing on end. You can tell has been up much longer than you.

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, sorry. I thought we were having a staring contest”, you said lightheartedly to cover up your attempt at reading him. You can’t help but notice the small smile that pulls at the corners of his mouth, disappearing as quickly as it came.

“Do you ever feel like you don’t matter? Like, despite it all, you’ll never be free of the pain?”

“All the time”, you stated without hesitation.

He turns to you with a furrowed brow and a look of surprise.

“What?”

“Nothing, sorry. It’s just, in the past when I’ve said that to people they usually give me a bunch of hollow platitudes,” Bucky said.

“Well, that’s not me.”

“Me either.”

That was the first time you and Bucky had a bonding moment. Moving forward there were many more late-night talks and quietly waiting up for each other. A movie always queued up to help pull each other back into the present moment after a mission. You could be alone together in a way that you couldn’t be with anyone else. It stumped the rest of the team, to say the least. Two people who would rather silently take in the world around them than be forced to speak had become best friends.

*^_^*

You wiped the perspiration off your forehead, sitting against the wall in the gym after a joint training session. Bucky insisted on helping you improve your hand-to-hand combat skills. He noticed you had gotten a bit complacent in relying solely on your powers. After you arrived home from your last mission with a black eye, Bucky was adamant about training you himself.

Taking a sip of water, you turn to Bucky, “Have you ever been to Disneyland?”

“You ask the most random questions, and no. I remember some of the original Disney cartoons, though. Steamboat Willie, Oswald the Lucky Rabbit. Before we started moving around to different army bases, my parents would give me a dollar and I would walk to the movie theater in Shelbyville, Indiana. They would joke, “Don’t spend it all in one place, James”, he said with a smile that slowly faded. “After my parents died, I stopped going to the movies. And… the Winter Soldier never had a vacation.”

It was only in the last few months you started to notice Bucky differentiating himself from the Winter Soldier. You assumed it was thanks to Dr. Raynor and his pardon-mandated therapy, but he would never admit it was you who was helping him see that the Winter Soldier and James Bucky Barnes were not one and the same.

“Well, something to add to your list then. Come on, dinner is probably ready,” patting his thigh. You mentally file away what Bucky shared for later. There was a whole new life for him to live now, and you were determined to help him do it.

A couple weeks later you and Bucky are infiltrating an old Hydra base off the grid. A simple in and out to retrieve a backlog of digital files, and you were back on the Quinjet within a couple of hours. You offered to pilot the jet home while Bucky took a nap. He awoke a few hours later to you poking him repeatedly on the shoulder with a dorky grin on your face.

“What?” Bucky groaned, wiping his hands over his face. “Are we home?”

“No, we’re making an unscheduled stop,” you said, as the super soldier sits up.

“Where the hell are we?” Bucky walked to the window surprised to find no landing pad, no buildings, no New York.

“Surprise, Buck! We’re going to Disneyland,” you declared. “I cleared it with Fury. We have tomorrow off, and I already sent the files we retrieved to Maria with a written debrief. We’re officially off the clock for the next 36 hours.”

“No, Y/N. I’m too old for this. What if someone recognizes us?”

“First of all, you’re too old for everything, but that doesn’t matter in the Happiest Place on Earth. Second of all, I’ve got that covered,” pulling a change of clothes for him out of your bag.

You both change and are about to depart the jet when you remember one more preventative measure. You grab both your suits and fiddle with them for a second before removing two of Tony’s trackers.

“This trip will be our little secret”, you wink.

You departed the jet and activated stealth mode at the top end of the Mickey and Friends parking structure, away from prying eyes. After a short ride on the tram and walk through security you’re standing at the top of Main Street USA. You look down at Cinderella’s castle as the sights, sounds, and smells of Disneyland envelop your senses.

“Okay, so I thought we could hit Adventureland first. Jungle Cruise, Indiana Jones, just to get your feet wet. Then we’ll do Frontierland and New Orleans Square. Wait until you see Pirates of the Caribbean! Oh, and Fantasyland has the Matterhorn, I have a feeling you’ll love that ride. Then maybe we could grab dinner at the Jolly Holiday cafe and watch the fireworks. That will leave us with Tomorrowland tomorrow, no pun intended. Finally, I thought for shits and giggles we could check out the Avengers campus in California Adventure Land before we leave.” you rambled happily. You finally look up from your park map to see Bucky eyeing you like you are speaking another language.

“Sounds great, but how are we paying for this? I doubt it’s on Shield’s payroll.”

“Ask and you shall receive”, you said with a devilish smirk, as you pulled Tony’s Black Master Card from your pocket.

“Where the hell did you get that?”

“Tony’s wallet. You’re not the only superhero here remember? Plus, Nat has taught me a thing or two about pickpocketing over the years,” you grinned. “Come on James, we’re going to spend it all in one place this time,” linking arms with the super soldier who simply rolled his eyes.

The next day and a half was a whirlwind of Disney magic. You went on every ride you possibly could. (You may or may not have hacked into the fast pass system to make your wait times in line as short as possible). Bucky made you go on Big Thunder Mountain Railroad twice and didn’t judge you for screaming in a way that would be considered very un-heroic by your teammates. You bought him personalized Mickey ears with his name embroidered on the back, and it only took ten minutes of arguing to convince him to wear them in a picture with Mickey. Meanwhile, Bucky took every opportunity he could to capture your Disneyland experience. Discreetly snapping a candid photo or filming as you happily sang along to the music on every ride.

After a good night’s sleep in the jet, the two of you made your way over to the Avengers campus in California Adventure Land. “Well, they got the aesthetics right,” you remarked. Taking in the scenery and park guests clad in Avengers merchandise.

You took a selfie in front of the Avengers campus sign that you immediately made your new lockscreen. It took a couple minutes, but Bucky found a spot for both of you in front of the compound to watch The Amazing Spider-Man! Peter welcomed the guests and conducted various flight tests in his new suit. There were flips, jumps, and web slingers galore. Each move executed smoothly, until he tripped over a few boxes and landed flat on his face.

“Yeah, that’s about right”, Bucky joked as you nod in agreement.

The campus is full of cast members dressed as all of your teammates interacting with park guests, Dr. Strange illustrating the mysteries of the Mystic Arts, and the Warriors of Wakanda demonstrating disciplines of the Dora Milaje. After exploring a bit, you decided to take a seat outside of Shawarma Palace to rest your feet. You both removed your hats and are scrolling through your phones when a curly-haired little boy wearing glasses and an Iron Man t-shirt quietly approached your table.

“Hi”, he whispered shyly.

“Hi, what’s your name?” you smiled. You put your phone down and place your hand on top of Bucky’s hand. The gears turning in his head like the night you found him on the sofa in the dark.

“James”, he answered, swaying back and forth on the balls of his feet. You looked over at Bucky as he visibly relaxed and smiled.

“Are you Bucky Barnes and Y/F/N Y/L/N?” he asked. Pushing his little glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

“Why do you think that?” trying to hide your grin.

“I have a poster of the Avengers in my bedroom! You look just like them, and umm, we learned about you at school. Oh, and I had an Iron Man cake for my last birthday. I got a helmet and everything!”

“That’s amazing, James! Iron Man is my favorite Avenger too.”

“Hey?!” Bucky said.

“Okay, original Avenger.”

You look over at Bucky eagerly. He seems to read your mind and nodded in agreement.

“We’ll let you in on a little secret, but you have to promise not to tell anyone,” you whispered as you motion for James to come closer. You hold out your hand and focus as small blue sparks dance around your palm.

“Woah!!” James yelled.

“Shhhh,” you giggled.

Bucky looks around carefully before taking off his glove and rolling up his sleeve to reveal his Vibranium arm.

“That’s so cool,” James said mesmerized.

“We’re here on confidential Avenger business and we must keep our cover. Can you help us keep our identities secret?” Bucky asked as he rolls his sleeve back down and put back on his glove.

“Yeah!” your new friend exclaimed proudly.

“Thank you, James. You will make a great Avenger someday,” Bucky said.

He gave the small boy a fist bump, and you do the same. James walked away proudly, and you can’t help but look over at Bucky. Your eyes shining with unshed tears.

“That’s why you matter.”

For the first time in your friendship, you think he believes it.

The sun begins to set as you both stroll out of California Adventure Land. Bucky is about to suggest walking across the street to wait for the tram when he sees you running back toward the Disneyland entrance.

“What are you doing? We need to get going. I’m sure everyone is already freaking out that our trackers are offline” Bucky shouted.

“There’s one more thing we have to do. Come on!” you yelled, motioning for him to follow you. You lead your best friend back down Main Street USA before stopping in front of the cinema. You waited for him to catch up to you and pointed up at the marquee.

Main Street Cinema Presents:

Steamboat Willie

Plus six great original Disney cartoons.

I thought you might like a little walk down memory lane before the clock strikes midnight and we turn back into pumpkins.”

Bucky stared at the marquee for a few seconds before looking back at you. Before you can ask him what he thinks, he embraced you in a hug. You walked inside and strolled from screen to screen. Taking in the nostalgia of the classic black-and-white Disney cartoons. You reached the last screen just as Mickey began to whistle the theme to Steam Boat Willie. You glanced over at Bucky and noticed his eyes shining with unshed tears this time. You rub gentle circles on his back until the credits roll.

“Thank you, Y/N”, he sighed, wiping his eyes. That meant a lot to me. This trip meant a lot to me. I never thought I’d say this, but I loved it.”

“You’re my best friend, Buck. You deserve to experience all of the beautiful moments in life. It’s never too late. Hell, everyone should have a first trip to Disneyland. I’m just glad I got to do it with you”, putting your arms around him. “Come on, let’s go home.”

Back on the jet, Bucky offered to pilot so you can get some sleep. Fortunately, the night air is calm and clear, so after about an hour he put the jet on autopilot and sat down next to you. The super soldier gently covered you with a blanket before pulling out his phone. He can’t help but laugh at the sight of the two of you sharing a giant Dole Whip or screaming as the train dipped and dove on Thunder Mountain. For the first time in forever, Bucky sees himself smiling and almost doesn’t recognize himself.

You finally stirred when the wheels touched down on the compound landing pad. Bucky had yet to notice you’re awake. Preoccupied with shutting down the jet and grabbing both your bags. You lay there silently as your eyes followed him. You smiled to yourself as you heard him softly whistling “When You Wish Upon a Star”.

Mission accomplished.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x y/n #winter soldier #mcu #the avengers #fluff #disneyland #super soldier #super powers #vibranium #white wolf #james buchanan barnes

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hazshit-hotel-hater · 1 month

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Could you talk about the designs Viv makes? I don't see many posts talking about this and I wanted some design tips, I intend to post my own cartoon designs (I just don't know when) and I wanted some tips <⁠(⁠￣⁠︶⁠￣⁠)⁠>

Hey hey!! Id love to talk about designs!

I actually answered this entire question and then uh…. Tumblr deleted my draft so let me try to redo all this lmao

Vivzie has a problem with bodytypes I’ve noticed. Almost all of her cast is insanely skinny and the only two “plus-size” characters I can think of are Millie and Mimzy. Meanwhile, Angel Dust, Vox, Stolas, & Alastor are a few very skinny characters I can think of off the top of my head.

For the best example, I’m going to be using Vox for now. Here is my Vox design next to his canon appearance

They don’t look too different right? This is still easily identifiable as Vox because his main characteristics are there; stupid little hat, tv head, thats about it.

My design also keeps elements of his suit with the stripes and shoulder pads, though in my design his body is a bit wider and his shoulders + waist make him look more commanding and intimidating while still maintaining a sense of professionalism. As for his canon design, he definitely looks sketchy, but he doesn’t really give me that commanding sense of popularity or authority that I feel an overlord should have, especially one with such a wide range of influence as Vox. His canon design looks top heavy and a little pathetic in that “he was born in a wet cardboard box all alone” way. Don’t get me wrong, a small waist can do wonders for a design, but when your designs start to look like… this

I think you might have a problem.

Now, I know I am nowhere near the best character designer in the world, but I have designed my fair share and I think I have enough experience to flatter myself a little.

This is a very simple design choice to make. Body types are probably some of the most intricate and interesting parts of a person in my opinion, and with a lineup like this where everyone looks more or lest the same from the torso down, it’s kind of a dead and sad looking cast, and not in the intended way.

I’m aware my designs are very detailed and wouldn’t be easy to animate with my style, but it’s very easy to draw extra body types with a style fit for TV.

Gravity Falls is a great example of stylised bodies and also using them to build personality. By looking at these characters you can generally tell what their base personality is probably like right? You can do the same thing to an extent with the Hazbin Cast, but all of their designs get muddled into the other. Can you even tell where half of these people are positioned in this screenshot

It’s so pink and red im going to start seeing green when I look away. There are so many colours, use them!!!! You can still slap a red overlay over it and make it “look like hell” or whatever, but you’re still gonna have more variety.

Here’s my body/fur references for Angel and Husk. They are almost entirely opposite to eachother but you can probably get an idea for how they are based on colour and shape. I recommend studying other TV shows and things like anime or movies to see how body types and colours impact character design, but general things I always think of are, like I’ve said, body type, personality, colour, and silhouette. Silhouette is a bit harder to pin since a character can have a very recognizable silhouette and still not be a good design, but honestly to me as long as you can tell which character is which from silhouette you’re good to go on that front.

- Generally just don’t reuse the same colour palette over and over (heres some of my hazbin colours)

- Give diversity in shapes when you can and when it benefits the design

- Try to show their personality through their clothes and pose

- Don’t be afraid to add little physical or personality details that other people might not notice, a good design should keep you interested in tiny details like that or surprise you later on

- Pay attention to what would and wouldn’t make sense (ex. A character that doesn’t like modern fashion wearing modern fashion)

Im not the best at explaining all of this but I hope you could grasp even just a tiny bit of an idea from this! At the end of the day as long as you’re having fun and not actively harming people with the designs then you should be good to go

#raimble #hazbin hotel #hazbin critical #hazbin hotel criticism #hazbin hotel critical #anti vivziepop #hazbin hotel rework #hazbin hotel rewrite #hazbin hotel redesign #hazbin redesign #my art

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hollowtones · 8 months

Note

this isn't so much a "play this game" message but i heard you mention that you might play the bl*ey game in a similar vein to the p*ppa p*g game. thought i'd note that bl*ey as a franchise is far more genuine and has more spirit in comparison, not to mention the fanbase has expanded overtime a la my l*ttle p0ny.

during the pandemic my friend group bonded heavily over the show bc of its writing which based on my own experience is capable of appealing to adults in a subtle but still deep emotional and wholesome manner. it's a NZ gov't-funded kids show that truly has a purpose as edutainment for young families and fulfills it beautifully.

point is that doing a "wtf is this game about" stream of the recent game may not be the best idea for an otherwise beloved piece of media. also i wouldn't want you to deal with unwanted attention from toxic toon buffs. but don't wanna be bossy, i'm not ya mum ofc. that game does look very silly and adorable like the source so maybe you'd enjoy it! but just wanted to give you a heads up in case the original stream idea is in the works.

PS i listened to the beginning of the final pikmin stream early in the morning chasing around a mouse the cat brought in. so now my brain has connected the existence of the gumby movie to "where is that DAMN mouse"

I have been getting multiple questions and comments and messages about this recently, and I do not understand why.

I made one off-hand comment about wanting to play the game with friends (who like the show, and who were already planning on playing it) because it has multiplayer, and that sounds funny.

It is made by a company that exclusively does kids show licensed shovelware. I do not think it matters if the source material is good. People have been making bad video games out of good properties since video games became a widely produced thing.

(The friends I want to play this with are both fans of the show, and I think it'll be fun to try and understand it through their eyes. They also agree with me that shovelware is weird and funny and fun to pick at. LOL)

There's this weird thread of presumptions in these messages I keep getting, that if I do end up streaming this, it's going to be some weird irony-poisoned thing, or I'm going to be really unnecessarily mean or something. I do not understand. I know I can be kind of a bitch sometimes, but... Have you seen my streams?

"I wouldn't want you to deal with unwanted attention" I already am. I have received like 8 messages about this in the span of a few days. If you are going to get mad at shadows on the wall you do not need to make it my problem.

It's a children's cartoon. It's fine. The dogs will be fine if a bad game comes out and I have a chuckle about it.

Please do not send me questions or comments or presumptions about this anymore. Thanks.

#I have been talking about this with Frankie because he is one of the above-mentioned friends & he said #''i dont think bluey would read all that''

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seasonsbloom · 2 years

Text

ocean in a seashell . ( rooster )

pairing ; bradley bradshaw x female!reader

synopsis ; bradley has lived with his father’s ghost for long enough to know he’ll never make the same mistakes he did. and then he meets you.

wc ; 10.5k i'm sorry

warnings ; 18+ only, minors do NOT interact; bradley bradshaw's sad, sad life; angst, literally SO much angst; mentions of canon past character death; near-death experience; alcohol abuse; explicit language; explicit sexual content (breeding kink, cumplay, p in v, dirty talk, fingering, idk?)

note: ... yeah i don't fucking know either goodbye. stole the title from "sidelines" by phoebe bridgers aka god.

sol. sunderlust... none of this would be possible without you, thank you forever.

Bradley doesn’t remember much about his father.

These days, he recalls him only in fractions: Hawaiian shirts, mustache, hair that stood up spikey like grass covered in the first tentative November frost. He had big hands, Bradley remembers that, and he used to swing him up on his shoulders and let him ride around living rooms in Army commissioned houses they never stayed in longer than a few months. He always smelled of engine oil, and he played pianos like he didn’t even know the meaning of the word embarrassment.

Bradley based his whole life on the fading glimpses of that man he carries locked in the chambers of his heart. The older he gets, the more gaps he finds.

Suddenly he’s taller than Goose ever was, older, ranked higher. He wants to say, wait, hold on, go back. Wants to rewind to a time when he felt closer to his father, when he could remember what his voice sounded like, what it felt like when he tucked him into bed. When he thought if he just sat by the front door long enough, his father would inevitably walk through it again, hoist him into the air, and press tickling kisses to his cheeks.

Sometimes, Bradley wishes he could go back to when he thought bad things happened only in movies. When he had a father and a mother and an uncle and the bone-deep, unconscious conviction that things would always stay this way.

He can’t remember the day Goose died. Can’t remember Mav coming to the house, can’t remember the dog tags pressed into his mother’s hands. Strange how the most significant day of his little life remains in his memory as just another day - morning cartoons and PB&J sandwiches and his mom reading him a bedtime story. Part of Bradley thinks it’s unfair, his whole world crashing down and him not even remembering it. Like he’s arriving late for a movie and can’t make sense of the plot.

Not once did he see his mother cry over his father. He’s sure she must have shed tears, remembers now the empty tissue boxes and the eyes rimmed in red, understands now what he was too young to see then. But Carol carried her grief like a secret. She locked it behind the mahogany of her bedroom door, she hid it behind the veneer of her smile.

Bradley is nineteen, standing at his mother’s open grave, when he decides he’s never going to do to someone what Goose did to her. What he did to him.

For a while, he wants nothing to do with the memory of that man. Wraps himself in his mother, toys with the idea of taking her maiden name. Goes to college and gets drunk, gets high, gets himself into trouble. Thinks sometimes, in his very darkest moments, that maybe the best thing he could do for the world is to stop existing.

One night lands him at the police station. And it’s not like he got arrested or anything, they just take him in to sober up and tell him to call somebody to come get him. Mav is in town, thank God, and he comes in wearing his old aviator jacket and a wistful expression. Bradley’s call probably pulled him out of some bar or some girl or both.

Mav doesn’t say much, just drives him back to his college dorm and pulls over to the curb, doesn’t even turn off the car. They sit there in silence, with the blinker going and the engine purring.

Finally, Mav says, “Sometimes, you remind me so much of your father, it scares me.”

Bradley doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing. Sits there for a little longer and watches as frat bros and law students and cheerleaders cross the street on their way to hook-ups, to parties, to midnight fast food runs. Envies them just for a moment. Then, without saying goodbye, gets out of the car, goes to his room, and buries himself beneath the weight of his blankets.

So it’s like Bradley always suspected. It really is a futile thing, trying to escape the memory of his father. His ghost lives inside Bradley’s chest. Rattles against his bones.

And he loves him, even if he doesn’t remember him. Thinks that love is some intrinsic, primordial thing. Something that was there before he was born and will be there after he dies. Something he can’t fight. Unstoppable like the tide.

So he embraces it instead. Tries growing a mustache he’ll only be able to pull off much later in life, gets those old Hawaiian shirts out of storage. Decides to give into the underlying current of longing he’s felt every time he tipped his head back and looked at the sky.

Accepting that he loves his father is much easier than he thought it would be. Much easier than hating him.

It’s good for a while because it feels like he has a purpose, a goal. For so long, Bradley has been drifting at sea, unmoored, unbound, with no sense of direction. Now he’s swimming toward something, broad strokes, every move deliberate.

Then Mav pulls his papers.

The worst part of it all, worse than the betrayal, worse than the anger, is the confusion. He thought Mav would understand. Mav of all people.

(It’s his mother, setting a casserole on the table, smiling at Bradley and saying Pete over here, he’s the craziest pilot the Navy’s ever seen. It’s his sixth Christmas, the second one without his dad, and Mav gives him a model of a plane they’ll build together. It’s Mav staring at him with eyes gleaming with moisture the time he stole the Navy hat from his uncle’s head. It’s Mav in every memory of his life, laced so tightly to him he thought they were inseparable, woven together. Now the seams are coming apart.)

Mav, who keeps flying, who seems only to be a real, complete person for those few, short, fleeting moments just after he steps off a plane. Who’s never happy unless he’s going break-neck speed miles and miles above the ground, jumping off death’s shovel, laughing, flipping the bird, and saying look, I can fly!

If Maverick doesn’t understand why Bradley wants to fly, why he needs to fly, then who ever could?

Mav wants to explain it, calls him, shows up at his apartment. Bradley declines the calls, turns off all the lights, and sits on his couch in perfect silence, pretending he isn’t in.

He doesn’t want to hear explanations, doesn’t want to listen to excuses. He wants to fly.

Back when his mother was alive, she wouldn’t even let him get on an airplane. His whole childhood, they only left their state once to go to a funeral of some distant aunt or cousin or uncle, Bradley can’t remember, and his mother drove the whole ten hours there and back. It didn’t even register as anything weird to him - it was all juice boxes and gas station ice cream and goldies on the radio. It was his mom’s laughter and her smile and her fingers carding strands of hair warmed by the sun out of his eyes.

So Bradley remembers his mother every time he gets into a car. But his dad? Him, he can only get above the clouds.

He doesn’t give up. He finishes college, works odd jobs for some money, drifts further and further from the orbit he used to inhabit. And then he applies to the academy again, and then he goes to Top Gun, and he graduates top of his class and wonders what it would feel like if there were somebody to be proud of him. If somebody were congratulating him, taking him out for a celebratory dinner, or just somebody to hug him. What it would feel like if he weren’t so alone.

It’s what he dreams about sometimes, in the very darkest pockets of the night. A house with a swing set and a big, smiling, dumb dog and a pretty wife and a whole gaggle of children running through the garden. Bradley would teach them how to throw a football, and he’d carry them to bed at night, and his wife would smile at him, and there would always be food in the fridge and brownies on the table, and every room would be filled with love, and there would be no ghosts to haunt him.

It’s a dangerous fantasy. It’s a trap door, a slippery slope, it’s a snare, it’s a cliff’s edge. If he stays in it too long, he’ll be lost.

His mother always used to say he was a functional dreamer. He had his head stuck in the clouds, sure, but he knew exactly when to pull it out of there too. Maybe that’s why he’s such a good pilot.

So Bradley still is a functional dreamer. He knows that this is something he can never have, can never allow himself to have. He knows the pain of it too well, too intimately, still feels it every time he catches sight of his reflection in a mirror, the golden streaks of sun in his hair, the mustache, the split second of pure, blank horror, of oh god I look like him, I look so much like him, and feels it slice right through him like a knife through butter. He’s been carrying his father’s ghost for so long, sometimes it feels like his spine will crack under the weight.

Maybe people that live life like he does, like Mav does, like his father did - up in the sky, heads in the clouds - aren’t meant to have anything on the ground. Inevitably, they always end up leaving it.

He decided the day of his mother’s funeral, before the long procession of I’m sorrys and If you need anythings, before he let real estate agents into a house overflowing with cards and flowers - flowers in every room, flowers blooming and wilting and dying like a garden watered by his grief, like a garden watered by his ghosts - that he would never have a family. Not a wife to mourn him, not a child to miss him.

So there’ll be nobody to carry the burden of him.

And then he meets you.

It’s not momentous - it’s easy. Natural. Quicker than he thought possible. It’s stolen glances across a room and a smile that brands him like a mark, that cuts right through to the bone. A smile that settles in his heart. A smile that’ll never leave again.

In the beginning, he tries to fight it. Tells himself not to engage, not to get involved, to stay out of the mess he knows he’ll make here inevitably. To shield him, but to shield you too, to protect you from whatever hurt he’s going to inflict sooner or later.

But then it goes like this:

“Are you never going to ask me out, Bradshaw?” you ask him, smiling as you pluck his Ray Bans from him, as you place them on your own nose, and blink at him from over the rims.

The sun is casting you in gold. Bradley wants to catch the moment in a mason jar and put it on his bedside table. Let the glow illuminate his nights.

“I don’t think….” He trails off, wonders why it’s so easy for him to talk to you, why he can’t stop spilling truths like leaking water taps. “I don’t think I’ll be good for you.”

You don’t miss a beat. One eyebrow raising, you say, “And don’t you think that should be my decision?”

That’s when he knows that for him, you will always be it. That it’ll never be this way again with someone else. It’s not even a question. It’s just the truth.

When he’s with you, for the first time since he sat shotgun in a car with his mother, head nodding along to Elvis on the radio, Bradley feels like he belongs somewhere. Like he’s reached a shore, maybe. Like he can breathe.

For the first time, it feels like he knows peace, even with his feet on the ground.

His mother would have loved you.

You have a long conversation about it. About how he knows you want it - the diapers and the first days of school and the family Christmases. The pitter-patter of children’s feet, the cribs, the tiny fingers curling around your thumb. He knows you’ve dreamed of it all your life. And Bradley also knows, as much as it hurts, as much as it aches, that he can never give it to you.

He needs to be honest. He needs to put all the cards on the table so you know your options, see the truth about him. So you can walk away before you get any deeper into this.

Part of him is sure you will. Thinks it might be better, the safest option for both of you. Hopes you will, fears you will.

It doesn’t matter that he loves you. It doesn’t matter that he only feels at peace when he’s with you. It doesn’t matter that for the first time since he was four years old, the ghosts have gone quiet.

What matters is that he wants you to be happy. What matters is that if that happiness lies somewhere else, with someone else, with someone who’ll give you everything you dream of, give you a life, give you a child… Bradley will let you go. It’ll be the hardest thing he’s ever done, but he will.

Only you don’t leave.

You think about it for a very, very long time. Sit at his kitchen table with your hands folded on the tablecloth like you’re praying, with your head turned down, without looking at him, and then finally you say, “Alright. Fine with me.”

And Bradley’s protesting, pushing, saying, “Honey, you want this, I know you do, you want a family, you….”

“I want you more,” you say, and that’s that.

There’s no lie to it. It’s the truth, naked and beautiful and awful.

And Bradley - selfish as he is - accepts it. Because he doesn’t want to lose you. Because as much as he tries to convince himself of the opposite, deep down, he knows he’s not a good man. Just like his father wasn’t. They’re both just men willing to leave the people they love behind. Brave enough to fight for the “greater good”, but never brave enough to stay.

Regardless of it all, it’s the happiest Bradley has been in years. With you, he doesn’t feel like something is missing from him. He actually feels whole.

Your job as a freelancer allows you to travel with him, and he’s unspeakably grateful for it. He tries to show you, tries to be good about bringing flowers and cooking dinner, thinks if he can make you even a fraction as happy as you make him, he’ll have succeeded. When he gets deployed, he spends days memorizing your face, the shape of your throat where your pulse point jumps, the pattern of your heartbeat, the feeling of you beneath his arm.

And sometimes, when you’re asleep, Bradley puts his hand on your stomach and imagines a bump there, imagines a baby growing beneath it, and that’s when the ache gets so strong he thinks he can’t breathe.

That’s when he hates himself for not being something else: a doctor, an accountant, a real estate agent. Anything other than what he is. Could he have it then, this thing you both want so much? Could he let himself have it?

But eventually, when the fantasies fade, he always circles back to the truth: Bradley isn’t a doctor or an accountant or a real estate agent. He’s a pilot. Always has been, always will be.

He’s just too much like his father. That’s the whole point.

When he gets called back to Top Gun, three years after he met you, something shifts. He doesn’t know to explain it, but from the very first moment he sets foot on North Island again, something about it tastes like the beginning of an end. At night, he can’t settle, roams through the little house you rent off base like a sleepwalker. Checks in on you like he’s afraid you’re going to disappear. Can’t concentrate up in the air, can’t shut his brain off.

It’s like his father’s ghost travels with him in his suitcases, tucked between his neatly folded shirts, climbs out when no one’s looking. No matter where he goes, that ghost goes too. He can’t shake him.

You love California. You like the sunshine and the ocean. Like the Hard Deck and Penny and Phoenix. Turn your face into the warmth like a sunflower, and then you bloom, go brighter and brighter as Bradley goes the opposite direction. As something in him dims.

“Is it because of Mav?” you ask him softly, in the quiet of your bedroom. You’re carding hair from his forehead, fingers gentle, voice gentler.

Bradley can’t look at you. Shame coils low in his stomach.

“Yes,” he says, even if it feels like a lie in his mouth.

You sigh, no annoyance, only affection. Your head is heavy on his shoulder as you press the shape of a yawn into his skin.

“I know he hurt you, Bradley,” you whisper. “It’s okay to be hurt. But I think you need to talk to him.”

He nods into the darkness. You’re right. You’re always right.

“I know,” he agrees, even though he knows he won’t.

When you’re asleep, Bradley slips out of bed. Pats into the living room and sits on the floor, back leaning against the couch. Pulls his knees up to his chest, closes his eyes, and then he dreams.

He dreams he’s four riding on his father’s shoulders through the living room. He dreams he’s ten, in a car with his mother, turning up the radio. He dreams he’s twenty, and he lets Mav explain. He dreams he’s thirty-five, and he marries you. He dreams he’s thirty-six and holding his baby. He dreams it’s a little girl with your smile and his eyes, and he loves her more than he thought he was capable of, so much it almost breaks him apart, so much it puts him back together. So much it’s worth it all.

Bradley’s earliest memory is of the giant, bone-white seashell on his grandmother’s mantlepiece. He remembers how heavy it was, remembers how cold it felt against the side of his face when he pressed it to his ear. He remembers hearing the distant, muffled hum of the waves, the song of the sea, remembers imagining what it might look like.

It’s no comparison to the real thing, years and years and years later, he knows this, but it’s something. It’s better than nothing.

It’s all he can allow himself—an ocean in a seashell.

The mission is a disaster, even if it is successful. Later, Bradley won’t remember what he was thinking up in the air, when he hit the target, when Mav went down, when he decided to go after him. He won’t even be able to tell if that is because he’s in shock or because he really wasn’t thinking anything. Maybe for the first time in his life.

If he had been thinking, Bradley likes to believe he would have kept his plane on course. Would have flown back to the carrier and then back to you, home, home, home. Wouldn’t have gone back for a man he still hasn’t spoken to, not properly, someone he loved once and now barely knows.

But all the ghosts of the people he’s loved and lost crowd up on him in that cockpit - his father and his mother and even Admiral Kazansky and their sad, sad eyes. There’s no room for Mav to be up there, too, he thinks.

So at first, you don’t cross his mind at all. He just follows his instincts like he’s never done before, could never bring himself to do. So much of Bradley’s life has been about dissecting just those urges, dismantling them, disabling them. Making himself into a creature of logic and second-guessing. Now, for the first time, he gives in to the currents and lets himself be rushed away.

And then his plane goes down, and he drifts into the white white white of snow he hasn’t felt in so long - and still, he doesn’t think. But every instinct from the moment of impact on, the moment his feet hit the ground, every instinct centers on you.

Home, he thinks. I need to get home to her.

Up in that F-14, that’s when he realizes. The brink of death is a bleak place. It’s a place of memories, a place of despair. It’s a place of hope.

All he can think of is you. How he’s leaving you with nothing. How he’s going to die here, miles above the ocean, and what will happen then? Who’s going to bring you his dog tags, the way Mav had brought his father’s to Carole all those years ago? Phoenix? Hangman? How are they even going to retrieve them if he goes down in enemy territory? Will anybody even remember the girl in that house, the one he didn’t even marry? And why didn’t he anyway? Why didn’t he put a ring on your finger, buy you a house, get you a dog, give you a baby?

What will remain of him now, in this world after he’s gone?

Nothing, he thinks, and his lungs fill with water, high up in the sky. You made damn sure of that, Bradley.

There will be nobody to haunt. He will disappear, and he will take his mother with him, will take his father with him, will take Mav with him. Nobody to remember him. Nobody to mourn him except you, all alone, carrying the terrible burden of his ghost.

It used to be a relief. Nobody to mourn me after I’m gone. Now it feels like a punishment.

Home, he thinks, remembering the content of your smile and your eyes gleaming in the darkness and your face turning, always turning, toward the sun. Like a child, as he closes his eyes, as he tries to accept the inevitable, he thinks, I want to go home. I just want to go home.

And then that’s what he does—he and Mav. Incredibly, inexplicably, illogically, they go home.

From far away, as he walks up the driveway, the little house with the gardenias you planted blooming pink and red in front of the windows looks like an oasis at first. Then it seems to grow longer, taller, goes from beckoning to daunting. He almost doesn’t make it inside. Almost doesn’t dare to get out his keys, unlock the front door, push through and toe off his shoes. Feels like he’s doing something forbidden, like he’s an unwanted guest in his own home.

You’re in the kitchen, elbows deep in sudsy dishwater, and when he walks through the doorway, when you hear the pat of his socked feet against the tiled floors, you look up at him with an open face full of love, full of relief. It almost bowls him over.

“Bradley,” you whisper, voice soft, and then you’re crossing the room, bubbles and foam and water dripping from your wrists across the tile, and he blinks at the trail you leave for a moment. Then you’re there, arms wrapping around his neck, face pressing against his shoulder, saying his name again and again, like a benediction, like a prayer of thanks.

Automatically, he pulls you against him with both arms crossed over your hips. Inhales deep, lets the familiar scent of you envelop him. Listens to your breath echoing against the dip of his collarbone, to the steady rhythm of your heart.

Your hands leave wet prints against the fabric of his shirt, like something primeval pressed to cave walls, like something that’s been happening for centuries, something that is happening right now, something that will happen again tomorrow and next year and the year after that, and distantly, dumbly, Bradley thinks, Oh. I’m alive. I’m here.

He feels packed in cotton. He feels submerged. He feels not-real, not-present, not-normal. He feels like he’s going to fall apart, and no one will notice.

When you draw back, it takes you only a split second to realize something’s wrong. You frown, the furrow Bradley likes to smooth out with his thumb appearing between your eyebrows, eyes swimming with a concern he doesn’t deserve.

“What happened?”

It’s classified, all of it. There’s so much of his life Bradley isn’t allowed to share with you, even if he wants to. There’s so much he doesn’t want to share but knows he should.

From far away, he hears himself say, “My plane went down.”

He can feel the panic in your body, feels it go through you like a spasm. You try to draw back, but he holds you where you are, afraid he’s going to shatter all across the kitchen floor the moment you’re gone.

It’s not fair, he thinks, how he keeps looking to you to hold him together. It’s just that at the end of the day, you’ve always been so much stronger than him.

“Bradley…” you begin to say, but he can’t hear it. He doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to hear how scared you are every time he leaves, he doesn’t want to hear how it made you feel to know that he almost died because he already knows. He knows.

“I want…” he says into your hair, a fragment of a sentence, a statement that trails off halfway, that goes nowhere. He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say.

In some ways, he feels stuck in that F-14. Like time kept moving, but he didn’t, remained static and crystallized like somebody dipped the moment in amber and preserved it on a bookshelf. Nothing makes sense to him. Rationally, he knows he’s standing here in his kitchen with you in his arms, knows he isn’t dead, knows he survived, but it doesn’t feel like it.

So Bradley tries to remember grounding exercises, focuses on little things, mundane things, things that shouldn’t exist on the verge of death. The bubbles popping in the sink. The specks of dust dancing through the room. The curve of your spine beneath the worn fabric of his Navy shirt.

Suddenly, the thought of you alone in this house is unbearable. Waiting for a man that never comes back. History repeating itself in the worst of ways.

“I want to have a baby,” he says, out of nowhere, out of some madness that took hold of him up in the air, or maybe when he touched the ground, or maybe at some other point he can’t name, can’t even think.

And it’s not a conscious thought. It’s not a decision he makes. It’s just something that spills from him, something that has been there unnoticed all along, words taking shape on his tongue before he can overthink their meaning, but then they’re out, and they drop between you like an anvil, and it’s like a relief, it’s like a breath he’s been holding for years, it’s like a sigh, something inside of him finally unlatching, finally escaping the shackles he put on it himself.

Oh, he thinks. He’s known this about himself, always, but it’s the first time he says it out loud. It’s always been a want, an ache, a yearning, but now it goes from all that to a need, a thrumming inside of him, something that cannot be ignored. Something that demands to be felt instead of thought.

In his arms, you stiffen.

With your palms on his chest, you push him away from you, take a step back, take the warmth and the scent and the anchor with you. Bradley is surprised he doesn’t float right up to the ceiling.

The openness of your face has shuttered now. You look at him with something unreadable crossing your features, something unfamiliar, and say, “What did you just say?”

Bradley swallows around a lump in his throat. “I want to have a baby,” he repeats, his voice smaller now, quieter, but the words more assured.

Because he does. Because it’s true. Because he’s always wanted this and doesn’t know how to explain to you that now he needs it. How now it’s the only thing that makes sense in a world that’s gone off the rails.

Your face falls, something crumbles, and it hits him like a punch to the gut.

“No,” you say, turning away from him. You step right into the trail of water you left earlier, it soaks into your socks, and then you’re leaving footprints too. Everywhere you go, you leave your mark like a brand. Not one part of Bradley has been left untouched.

Confusion zaps through him, but it’s a muted feeling. Muffled by all the chaos.

“I thought you….” It’s a great effort to form words, like pulling teeth. “You want children. Don’t you want this?”

“Not like…” You pause, rake your fingers through your hair, exasperation crackling from you like sparks from a burned-out socket, and Bradley can’t make sense of it.

You want this, he knows you do. So what’s the problem now? What did he do wrong?

“I don’t….”

“Don’t go there.”

There’s a finality to your voice, and he sees you drawing back from him, sees your shoulders come up, your face turning away, something wilting.

The idea of losing you, of pushing you away now that he’s finally decided to let you in, really let you in, the panic of it finally slices through the haze. Lifts the fog.

Bradley crosses the room and says, “It’s your decision too, honey, of course, it is, but I love you, and I want this, and….”

You whirl on him, and it punches the air out of his lungs. There’s real anger on your face now, your eyes sparkling with unshed tears, and Bradley’s heart clenches in answer.

“You don’t get to do this,” you say, voice heaving with the barely contained emotion, a ship on a stormy sea, “not after I compromised, not after I spent so long trying to get used to the idea of not having a baby, not after giving that up for you, Bradley. You don’t… don’t get to just come in here and change your mind just because it suits you, because you had some near-death experience and you’re full of adrenaline and… and….”

Bradley frowns, moves to touch you, but you flinch away from him, one arm going up to hug your own ribcage. As if you have to shield yourself from him.

Suddenly, he feels a sob building in his throat. To realize how much he’s hurt you, not just today by springing this on you, but by how selfish he was, again and again. By letting his past stand in the way of your future.

“It’s not that I changed my mind,” he begins, trying to string together something that will make you see the truth of it, make you understand what he means.

You interrupt, “You said you didn’t want kids.”

Bradley pauses. Did he say that? If he did…

“And it…” You gasp for breath, the tears now streaming freely down your face, and god, it hurts, it hurts worse than thinking he lost Mav, hurts worse than thinking he’d die in that F-14 because all of that he’d been prepared for, had been practicing for his whole life. Losing Maverick, losing himself, all of that had been inevitable. But losing you… Bradley always assumed he was going to be the one to go first.

“It’s fine,” you go on. “I was fine with it, Bradley, I gave that dream up because… because I wanted you more, and I was okay with it. It was my decision, and I don’t regret it, but for you to just… to just….”

“I do want children,” he says because he doesn’t know what to do except explain it, except make you see the truth of it all. “I’ve always… I’ve always wanted children, honey. I just… after what happened to my dad, after what that did to me, what it did to my mother, I didn’t… I didn’t want to do that to you. I couldn’t do that to you.”

For a moment, you say nothing, eyebrows furrowed, lower lip caught between your teeth.

“You…” You look like you’re trying very hard to understand it. “Are you saying you decided not to have children with me because you thought it would hurt me too much if you died?”

When you say it like that, out loud, logically, through your tears, it sounds so incredibly stupid.

Bradley opens and closes his mouth, once, twice. Finally, he nods.

He expects you to start crying harder, to hit him (all valid reactions, really), but instead, you do the one thing he doesn’t expect: You laugh. It’s a watery sound, barely amused, but it is a laugh.

You bury your face in your hands, then reemerge after a moment, eyes rimmed in red, and say, “God, Bradley, you’re so stupid.”

“I…” He doesn’t know what to say to that. Probably, you’re right. “What?”

“You just…” You exhale a long, shuddering breath. “You keep trying to make decisions without me.”

“... I do?”

“Yeah!” Your voice rises a little, then settles, and you say, “This is my decision as much as it’s yours. If I say I want it, if I say I know the risk and I know the danger, then you don’t get to tell me no. Do you think I’m dumb? Do you think I don’t understand what goes on when you get deployed? Do you think I don’t know that you’re risking your life all the time?”

“No, I… I know you know that.”

You shrug, and it’s a gesture of such helplessness that Bradley’s knees almost buckle.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow. I don’t know if… if one day there’s going to be a mission you don’t come back from. I don’t know that, Bradley. I can’t know that. But until then… can’t you just let us be happy?”

Bradley’s shaking. Head to toe, tremors that run through him like the tides. Unstoppable. Unrelenting.

“I…” And he knows he’s the one who brought it up, but suddenly all the doubts come crashing down. Suddenly the ghosts crowd around him. “What if I die? What if I leave you? What if we have a baby and I’m not… there?”

“Oh, Bradley…” Something on your face melts. You step closer, put a hand on his cheek, fingertips still pruned from the water, and say, so gently it breaks something open inside of him, “Bradley. You’re not your father.”

And Bradley can’t help it - he cries. It’s an ugly sort of crying, the sort that leaves you with a headache and snot dripping down your face and eyes that hurt. The one you feel in the morning. But it’s a relief too. A release. Rain after years and years of drought.

For so long, Bradley was trying to let go of a world that didn’t want him to leave. He’s been preparing for an early exit since he entered, has been so caught up in dreaming he forgot to live. So caught up in thinking he forgot to do. He thought he would be content to go out of this world and leave nothing behind, to disappear without a trace, without a word, without a ghost.

But now he sees it clearly. Now he understands.

Bradley doesn’t want to stop existing. He wants to cling to this world like someone clinging to the edge of a cliff, like a leech, like a cancer. He wants to haunt someone.

Only there’s something else, too.

A week before his mother died, when she had gone all quiet, when she had lost the vibrancy she used to carry around like a glow, when she had slept longer and spoke less and Bradley had known, somewhere deep inside of him, that things were ending, that they were truly ending, he’d gathered all his courage and asked a question he’d been rehearsing for weeks, months, years.

“Do you regret it?”

Do you regret loving my father now, knowing all that would come after? Knowing the landslide it really was?

And Carol had just smiled, something of that old light returning for a moment, a tenderness so big it felt like violence, and she’d said, “I could never regret him. Not even the heartbreak or the grief or the pain. After all, he gave me you, didn’t he?”

Maybe, he thinks, it’s time to let the past be in the past. Maybe it’s time to let himself have a future.

Maybe it’s time to let go of the ghost.

And you just hold him as he cries like he hasn’t since he locked himself in a bathroom stall after his mother’s funeral, cries until it feels like he’s going to throw up, cries until the gnashing teeth of grief of pain of hurt of anger finally leave him be.

After half an eternity, you pull away, warm hands cupping his face, tugging him gently away from the crook of your neck, so he has to look at you, can’t look anywhere but at you, and then you say, “Bradley, what happened to your father was a horrible, terrible accident. But he loved you. You know that, don’t you?”

He nods. His father, the hazy shape of him, the ghost he’s carried for so long - frosted tips and Hawaiian shirts and the smell of motor oil. Large hands and a mustache and rides around living rooms. So much of him is shadowed, fractioned, incomplete, but not this. This he knows. When he thinks of his father, there’s nothing now but the hazy, easy warmth of love.

“Do you really think,” you say softly, “that they made a mistake when they had you? Your parents? Do you really think they shouldn’t have done it?”

Bradley has thought about his life in boxes. Big cardboard ones, the kind you get when you move apartments. He tucks the good parts away beneath his bed, stows them, hoards them like a secret. Like his mother kept her grief. But all the bad parts - the pain and the sadness and the sorrow - those he lets pile up everywhere, in hallways, in living rooms, on kitchen tables. He stumbles over them on his way to the bathroom. He stubs his toe halfway to the closet.

He never looks at those good parts, afraid they’ll become tainted somehow if he thinks about them for too long, afraid they’ll lose their appeal or their strength. But there’s so much good there too.

Goose loved him, he knows this without a doubt. Carole loved him. Mav loves him, Phoenix loves him, you love him… At the end of it all, even despite all the terrible things that have happened to him, even with the ghosts that have haunted him for so long, Bradley has been loved, and he has lived, and he has been happy.

Shouldn’t that be worth something, too?

“No,” he says, voice soft, “no, I’m glad they had me.”

His life has been a long, long road. Difficult to walk sometimes, full of potholes, some as big as canyons. But there’s so much happiness there, too - car rides with his mother, Mav telling him stories about his father, the moment when the wheels lift off the tarmac at take-off. This long, terrible, winding road that led him here. That led him to you.

You brush your fingertips across his cheekbone, and Bradley capsizes.

“I love you,” he says, and it’s the truest thing he’s ever said. It’s the truest thing he’s ever known. “I want… I want to have a life with you.”

“You do,” you answer. “You have one.”

Bradley’s tears have dried so the sound he makes isn’t really a sob, but it’s damn close to one.

“Do you…” He clears his throat. “You love me, too?”

It’s a dumb question, unnecessary because he already knows the answer. But he needs to hear you say it anyway.

And when you smile, your whole face lights up. It echoes somewhere inside Bradley, somewhere at his core, goes through him like a current.

“Bradley Bradshaw,” you say, and there’s only a little bit of amusement in your voice, “you’re the love of my life.”

His heart jumps like a jackknife in his chest.

Before he recognizes that he’s made the conscious decision to do so, he’s bridged the space between you and has pulled you into a searing, soaring, slow kiss. He fumbles it a little, teeth knocking against yours, but you just laugh into it, going up on your tiptoes, arms wrapping around his neck, pulling yourself closer to him like you want to meld yourself to his bones. Bradley feels like somebody’s poured liquid sunlight into his chest.

Somewhere it goes heated, goes desperate, goes near frantic, all the adrenaline, all the fear, everything pouring from him in a shower of want. Somehow he’s got you pressed up against the counter, tongue tangled with yours, fingers in your hair, fingers on your back, fingers pulling up the edge of the shirt you’ve stolen from him to find the warm, soft skin beneath.

Breathless, heart stuttering, Bradley pulls away, looks at your lips swollen from the tug of his teeth, your eyes with the heavy lids, the hair mussed by his fingers, and he needs to hear it. Needs to know you want this as much as he does. The ache in him twists like a knife between the ribs.

“Tell me,” he whispers, afraid the moment will shatter if he makes a wrong move, speaks too loudly. It’s so fragile - he wants to protect it so fiercely. Presses the tips of his fingers into the place where your pulse hammers away. “Tell me you want to have a baby with me.”

“I want…” And you sigh, a sound like a spring day, a sound like a rushing mountain stream. “I want it.”

He surges forward, lips against yours again, and you’re so alive beneath him, heart racing, breath heaving, fingers grappling along his neck, his shoulders, his chest, his arms, and Bradley wants to devour you. Wants to sink his teeth into all this life and never let it go again. He wants to exist, right here, in this moment with you forever.

“I love you,” he mumbles into your neck, lets his mouth move over the column of your throat, down to the sharp points of your collarbones beneath the soft skin. Sinks to his knees on the kitchen tiles like he’s kneeling at an altar to pray.

“Bradley,” you whisper, fingers going to tangle in his hair, to smooth along the sides of his face, and the softness in your voice cracks something in him. He swears he could cry again.

He doesn’t even know what he’s doing as he nuzzles his nose against the sloping curve of your upper thigh, as his fingers tighten on your hips. He just wants to be close to you. And you’re so soft, so warm, you smell like home, and it tears through him, blazes everything in its wake, to realize just how close he came to losing it all.

“I’m gonna marry you,” he whispers, babbles, barely coherent, pressing his face against the fabric of your panties, inhaling your scent, opening his mouth to push his tongue where he knows your clit is. “Gonna make you so happy, baby, I promise, it’s all I want. I’m never letting you go again, I’m never….”

Above him, you whimper, hips knocking forward, arching into the movement of his tongue for a moment, and he wonders if you’re wet, thinks about the hot, tight vice of your cunt, and groans against you. His cock jumps.

Then you’re tugging him away from you by the hair, and Bradley goes reluctantly, mouth still open, wishing he could stay where he was forever. Drowning in you.

You’re looking down at him with eyes blown wide.

“Bradley,” you say, and there’s something unsteady to your voice. “Take me to bed.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. It’s a tumble all the way to your bedroom - he kicks off his shoes on the way, you lose your shirt, and he’s somehow, miraculously, gotten down to his boxers by the time he drags you backward with him onto the mattress.

“I love you,” he says as he drags you on top of him, your legs opening around his hips like the petals of a flower. The mattress dips where your knees press against the springs, your weight grounds him. “I love you, you’re so perfect, you’re….”

He has no idea what he’s saying. His brain checked out a while ago, and it’s all just feelings now, just emotions coursing through him, and every once in a while, one will plunge its head through the surface, and then he’ll tell you something nonsensical, something dumb, something important, something he needs you to know, something…

You lean down to kiss him, to shut him up, his brain buzzes, your breasts press to his bare chest, and he’s so hard in his boxers it hurts.

“I love you, too,” you whisper against his lips, smile into the kiss. The curve of it burns against Bradley’s face.

He sits up, grasps you by the thighs to drag you closer, drag your core across his cock, and you both moan against each other. Your fingernails scrape over the back of his neck, where his hair is buzzed so short he knows it feels like prickles, and he shudders, sighs, lets his tongue run across your teeth.

For a while, you just stay like that, rutting against each other like fucking teenagers, tongues lazy, fingers eager, mouths hungry. Even through your panties, he can feel your wetness, wonders if it’s going to leave stains on his underwear, across his thighs. Bradley thinks he’s going to die, but this time it’s nothing like it was up in the F-14.

It’s difficult in your position, awkward, but he gets a finger first on your clit, and then, when he finds you wet and swollen and open, he slides it right inside you. Watches your face as you squeeze your eyes shut, as your mouth falls open on a muffled gasp, as your head tips backward.

You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He fucks his finger in and out slowly, adds a second to stretch you, and then he’s saying, “Baby, honey, you’re so tight, you’re so fucking wet, god I….”

You whimper, and then you’re pulling off him, shimmying out of your panties, leaning down to tug his boxers off.

“Gotta have…” Your throat moves when you swallow as you clamber back into his lap. “Want you inside me, please, Bradley. I’m ready.”

He groans, something in his stomach yanking tight, and he’s pretty sure he’s leaking precum steadily by now.

There’s no time to tease, no need for it either, not when you’re both aching for it, not after what you’ve just gone through. The hot slide of him inside you, feeling you all around him, Bradley thinks that might be the only thing that could make him realize he’s actually back here, that it isn’t all just a dream, that he didn’t actually go down in that plane and has been stuck in some kind of cruel limbo for the past few days.

But there’s the other thing too. The need he can’t explain. The selfish, horrible, depraved thing he can share with nobody but you. That nobody but you would ever understand.

Slowly, tentatively, he places his palm on your stomach, fingers splaying wide, and leaves it there. He’s too scared to look at you, too scared of what you’ll think of him, too scared of what you’ll do once you find out how deep his desire runs, how desperately he wants this. Will you hate him? Will you be disgusted? Will you draw back, pull away, leave him alone with all his depravity and all his fears and all his sorrow?

“I need… I want…” He can’t even finish the sentence, brain too foggy. Too scared to meet your eyes, Bradley just blinks at the sight in front of him, his big hand on your skin, and his heart seizes, his insides clench, and he can’t breathe, can’t, he’s going to…

Slowly, your fingers wrap around his wrist.

“Yes,” you breathe above him.

It’s a visceral thing. The words burn through him, wrap around him, curl into him. He surges forward to kiss you, desperate, a choked sound escaping him, and licks into your mouth. Around his wrist, your fingers tighten.

He pushes you back into the sheets, crawls over you and spreads your legs, slides between them where he belongs. When his gaze falls to your face, there’s so much trust there, so much love, and it cleaves him in two, just how much he loves you, just how much he needs you. He doesn’t have the words to express it, can only hope you understand what he means when he plunges into you without preamble, when he whispers your name against the shell of your ear, when he curves around you like he wants to shield you from everything bad in the world.

You moan, fingers coming up to grasp his arm where he’s balancing his weight on the elbows. Your mouth tips open, your eyes not straying from his for a second as he goes slow, as he goes deep, as he goes home. There’s an answer in that too.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, voice choked as he bottoms out, as he holds himself perfectly still. “So tight and beautiful, and you’re all mine, and I’m yours and….”

“Bradley,” you stop him. Wrap your legs around his hips and pull him in. “It’s okay. You can move now.”

So he does.

It’s frantic from the first moment. It’s all the tension that’s been building up for years and years inside of him, all his love and all his longing finally laid open, and he can’t hold back anymore, not when he feels like he’s going to burst out of his own skin at any moment now.

The wet squeeze of your walls around his cock has his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

“Fuck,” he curses, hips pushing forward at an unsteady pace, as he leans down to kiss you again, as you open your mouth for him easily, as he nips at your lower lip.

And it’s so dumb - he’s inside of you, curled around you, his tongue tangled with your own, but Bradley wants you closer, still. Needs to know that you’re there with him, that he’s here with you, that he came home and he is letting himself have this, you’re letting him have it, and he loves you, he loves you, he…

Bradley takes his weight off his elbows, gets his arms around you, plasters himself to you, chest to chest, hip to hip, mouth finding the side of your neck, your collarbones. Like this, with his arms around your shoulders, it feels almost like he’s pulling you down to him with every thrust, like he slides just half an inch deeper into you.

You try to muffle a moan into his hair, but Bradley pulls your face away, keeps his pace as he says, “Wanna hear you. Let me hear you, baby, tell me how much you like it. You love it, don’t you? Love my cock, yeah? Love it when I fuck you?”

Maybe it’s pathetic, but Bradley needs to hear it. Needs to know you’re as desperate for him as he is for you. Needs to know you want it just as much.

On a thrust in, your walls flutter around him, and you whine, back arching a little, head sliding across the pillow as you nod.

“Yes,” you gasp, “I love it, Bradley, I love your cock. Thought about it while you were gone all the time, every night, I….”

Bradley groans, shudders, suddenly so close to the brink he needs to squeeze his eyes shut against the image of you - the glossy eyes, the swollen lips, the absolute ruin he’s reduced you to.

“Can’t say shit like that, baby,” he whispers, leaning to press tender kisses to the column of your throat. “Not when you’re this fucking wet, not when you’re making these sounds… you’re gonna make me cum.”

You giggle, then moan, head lolling to the side to give him better access.

“Good,” you say, legs hiking higher up on his hips, his cock sliding deeper, “that’s the plan, isn’t it?”

If there were any air left in his lungs, Bradley would laugh with you. As it stands, he just ups the ante, going a little harder, watching as your eyelashes flutter, feeling your fingers spasm against the skin of his back.

It’s so hot in the room, both of you sticking to each other with sweat, and maybe that, too, should be disgusting, but Bradley doesn’t care. When he leans down to lick a long, wet stripe along the edge of your jaw, he tastes salt on his tongue.

“I’m gonna….” When he glances down at you, at the eyes wide with that much trust, as he realizes you would let him do just about anything to you, that you’ve both opened yourself to each other completely now, no barriers and no ghosts standing between you, it’s like a dam breaking. He moans, so loud it echoes through the room, leans to plunge his tongue into your mouth, desperate, and then he’s saying into it, “God, I’m gonna fuck you so full, honey, gonna fuck you until it takes, yeah? Gonna keep you right here and fill you up, again and again, gonna make sure to get a baby in you, fuck, you’d be so fucking pretty, honey, so pretty all full of me, I know it, I can….”

And you sob. Full-on. Back arching off the bed, legs sliding off his hips, spreading so wide it must hurt.

“Bradley,” you say, fingernails breaking skin, forehead pressing against his throat to hide your face. “Bradley, fuck, I… the pill….”

He’s shaking his head, cutting you off with his mouth on yours. Conveying what he can’t speak, what he’s too far gone to formulate, here where logic has become a distant, remote concept, here between your legs. Don’t say it. Let me live in this fantasy. Let me dream a little longer.

It’s the thought of it all - a bump beneath your dresses, a baby in your arms, tiny fingers wrapping around his thumb, it’s about the long, long stretch of life ahead of the two of you. It’s about a house filled with love and free of ghosts. It’s about the first glimpse of the ocean after listening to its roar in seashells all his life. It’s about giving himself over to you completely, after years of only dreaming of it.

Do you know? he wonders. Do you know that you’re holding his whole life in your hands?

“I love you,” he mumbles, repeats it as he sinks into you again and again, as he buries himself in you, as he holds onto you like he’ll be back in the cold, cold, cold of all that snow the moment he lets go, like he’ll go back to the cockpit with the ghosts like jailors around him, like he’ll float right off the face off the earth. You have always been his anchor. “I’m gonna give you a baby, honey, I promise, gonna cum inside of you, you want that, right? You want me to come right here in this pretty pussy, fill you up all nice and wet, and….”

Your mouth moves against his clavicle, the feel of it spreading like wildfire through him, and you’re saying, “Yes, yes, Bradley, give it to me, please, I wanna feel it, want you to come inside me, please, please, I need it, I….”

A yell punches from him as he thrusts inside one last time, buries himself to the hilt in your warmth, and then he’s panting, his ears are ringing, his veins are buzzing as he cums, as he paints you with his release. He can’t do anything except hold onto you, bury his face in your hair, inhaling your scent, jerking his hips forward erratically, little sounds escaping him. It’s never felt like this before - like dying and coming back alive. The release of it is so big he feels shattered under its weight.

And you’re saying something to him, whispering words sticky with honey into his ear, pouring them right into his heart, and he can barely hear you over the hammering of his own heart, but it doesn’t matter. You hold him as he trembles, as he shakes, as he tries to collect himself, to control his breathing, hold him and stroke lazy, soft circles up and down his back, trace patterns against his spine, leave soft kisses on any inch of skin you can reach, trapped beneath his weight as you are.

Finally, after an eternity, Bradley pulls away an inch or two, careful not to let his cock slip out. There’s a little embarrassment spreading through his stomach now because he can’t believe he came that fast, can’t believe he didn’t even make sure to take you over the edge with him.

But you barely seem to think about your own lack of an orgasm.

“Are you okay?” you ask, voice gentle, face full of concern.

Bradley’s heart clenches. Maybe, he thinks, his ribcage is going to crack open. It seems impossible for one person to hold so much love inside.

“Are…” He clears his throat, suddenly unsure. “Are you?”

You nod immediately, smile, and the relief floods him. Then you shift, gasp, muscles fluttering around his softening cock.

“Well… I…”

He doesn’t let you finish, shakes his head, says, “You did so good for me, baby. Let me take care of you, yeah?”

He’s already looking at the place where you’re still connected, where his cum is beginning to drip from you in silvery trails. The sight of it is enough to make something like madness descend again, something like that earlier haze, the frenzy of the heat.

Bradley pulls out, sighs at the feeling, and your mouth opens as if in protest, but before you can form any words, he’s replaced his cock with two fingers.

You whimper, eyes closing, a muscle in your stomach jumping.

“I got you,” he says, keeps his eyes on the mess of your swollen cunt, the wet spot soaking into the mattress just beneath, the evidence of his pleasure, smooths his free hand over your chest to settle you. “Relax, honey. I got you.”

Your answer is a moan of his name, fingers twisting into the sheets. He can feel your walls bearing down on the motion of his fingers and knows you’re close, desperately, frantically, torturously close to the brink.

So he speeds up the movement of his digits, swipes his thumb through the sopping wetness, and then across your clit as he fucks his cum back into you. Not letting a single drop go to waste.

“Bradley,” you sob, mouth opening, fingers grappling for something.

Knowing what you need, knowing without you asking for it, he catches your hand with his own and interlaces your fingers. Then he leans down, leans over you, leans in. Finds the seam of your mouth with his own. It’s less of a kiss than both of you panting against each other, finding the same rhythm.

“You can let go now,” he whispers into you. “I’m here. I’ve got you, honey. My perfect girl.”

You come with his name on your lips, cunt clenching around his fingers, arching off the bed and into him, and it’s like a prayer. It’s like a song.

It takes you a while to come down, and he coaxes you through it, brushes kisses against your lips and your jaw and your ear. Hopes he can ground you the same way you ground him.

Finally, softly, voice faint and fragile, you say, “That was… intense.”

Bradley hums in agreement, and then a laugh rips from him. Because it’s all so ridiculous and so monumental, and he doesn’t know where to go with all these emotions.

“I… yeah. It really was.” He pauses, feels shame curling through him. “I’m sorry I sprung that on you.”

You shake your head, lift one hand to run a finger across his mustache the way you like to do sometimes.

“It’s okay,” you say, and he knows you mean it. “You must have carried that for a long time.”

It chokes him up, the way you know him so well. Better than anybody else.

“Yeah,” he agrees, drops his head into the crook of your neck. “It… I want you to know that I really want this. It’s not… it’s not adrenaline, and it’s not just almost dying, it’s… It’s you. I want this with you. Only with you.”

He can feel the curve of your smile against his temple, can hear it in your voice.

“I want it with you too, Bradley. Only with you.”

Bradley’s so afraid he’s going to start crying again that he springs into action instead. Reaches around you for a pillow to push beneath your hips, angle your lower body upwards.

“What are you doing?” you ask, laughing a little.

“I’m trying to keep my cum in you. Maybe we’re like super extra lucky, and it works out on the first try.”

Now you’re laughing in earnest, and he gets the impression it might be at his expanse.

“Still on the pill, Bradley,” you remind him, eyes luminous with your happiness.

Feeling a little sheepish, a little embarrassed, a little elated, he shrugs helplessly.

“Can’t hurt,” he says. Then adds, “Besides… I don’t want all my hard work to go to waste.”

Then you’re laughing together, breathless, loud laughter, the bending-at-the-waist kind. The belly-hurting kind. The kind that doesn’t come often.

And it’s good. It’s beautiful. It’s the kind of peace he’s never known before but has wanted always, always, always.

It’s so much better than anything he could have ever dreamed. Because it’s real. Because it’s true.

All his life, Bradley thinks, he’s been listening to oceans in seashells. It’s good, fun even, for a while, but it’s no replacement for the real thing. It’s no comparison to standing at the shore of the Pacific Ocean, watching waves crest and crash and throw themselves against the beach again and again, like a devotion that never ends. How big and beautiful and terrible the truth of it is.

And he’d thought the whole world was in that seashell.

Once the laughter has died down, once you’ve fallen back into the kind of comfortable silence that can exist only between people that really, truly love each other, Bradley strokes his thumb against your cheekbone, watches your eyes flutter closed.

“I love you,” he says, “more than I thought I could love someone. Thanks for loving me back.”

It’s bumbling, and it’s inadequate, and it doesn’t convey half of what it should.

But you smile at him, eyes opening, face so tender his heart stutters, and you whisper, “It’s an honor, Lieutenant Bradshaw.”

For the first time, Bradley doesn’t think about dying, doesn’t think about leaving. He thinks about living. He thinks about staying.

#rooster #bradley bradshaw #rooster x reader #rooster imagine #bradley bradshaw x reader #top gun imagine #mine #f: oias

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arceespinkgun · 2 months

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Essay: Galvatron, the Flawed Jewel

When I watched the 80s Sunbow cartoon, I always found Galvatron to be a rather shallow character. But in the Marvel UK comics, he is one of the most fascinating and compelling of all. I want to explore why that is. However, before I can, I need to briefly clarify who Galvatron was made from and how many versions of him are in this continuity. Time-travel makes this really complicated, but here's my best guess:

The first Galvatron (and Scourge and Cyclonus) went back in time right after he was thrown out of Unicron by Rodimus as he was in the movie. This Galvatron went back in time to escape from and find a way to destroy Unicron, but he, Cyclonus, and Scourge end up being erased from existence in the Time Wars arc after Shockwave kills Cyclonus, accidentally causing the space-time continuum to nearly collapse.

Galvatron II was plucked from an alternate future in which he tried to get Unicron to leave him alone by doing his bidding—killing and conquering. But the Unicron of the main timeline makes Galvatron II do yet more labor for him.

A third Galvatron was shown in the future stories, replacing the one who was erased from existence. This Galvatron temporarily succeeds in forcing the future Autobots off Cybertron, but ends up dead (maybe? He's shown slumped in a pile of corpses so) in a battle against Unicron.

I'm going to assume each Galvatron can be used to inform my interpretation of him in general.

Another detail to mention is that the Galvatron(s) of this continuity were always made from more than Megatron. All of them probably have some degree of Straxus in them as well. Straxus, who I must say sure is obsessed with Megatron's body, both injected his mind into Megatron AND built a second, lookalike Megatron out of some unnamed Decepticon to inject his mind into. In both cases, Megatron's personality seemed to reemerge as the dominant one, but this calls into question what Galvaton inherited from whom.

Straxus's alt-mode, which seems very similar to Galvatron's

With all of that out of the way, time to delve into the complexities of Galvatron's characterization!

One of the first things that surprised me about Galvatron in this continuity was the way he reacts to characters who are obscure and/or weak.

He knows all their names!

One big issue with this continuity is the overinflated cast (because the comic was supposed to sell the toys), so there were always tons of characters who almost felt like filler running around. A few characters who are known for their cool designs and toys, but still fill this role, are the Seacons. They're just described as engineers who were brought to Earth to fortify Shockwave's undersea base, not to fight. But when Shockwave sees Galvatron walking around on the ocean floor, he sends them out to fight him against Soundwave's advice, knowing they'll probably die. The Seacons' leader, Snap Trap, even just tells his team, "...do your best!" before the fight, which doesn't inspire confidence lol

But Galvatron is impressed with them, and even leaves them all alive! He says that by embarrassing Shockwave, it will all be in their best interest one day.

Some way too overexposed filler characters were the Sparklers/Sparkabots. When one of them, Fizzle, almost drowns, Galvatron... saves him for seemingly no reason?

At the same time, though, I think it's significant that this odd fondness does seem be predicated on these people not actually being able to do much to him or anybody close to his level. For example, several characters I'd classify as being on the level of fodder, Guzzle (another Sparkabot), Getaway, Chainclaw, and Crossblades are initially some of the only surviving Autobots in the future Galvatron II was from, but when they actually manage to defeat Scourge and Cyclonus, Galvatron is so disgusted that he saves Cyclonus's life just to immediately punish him by killing him himself.

When it comes to the big names, Galvatron seems to feel only contempt. In Galvatron II's future, he strings up Rodimus's corpse and shoots him again and again, symbolically killing him over and over. And in the multi-issue story ...Perchance to Dream in which Galvatron tries to trap various Autobots who are in stasis in visions of moments in which they demonstrated their inner weaknesses/flaws, we get to see Galvatron's own nightmare. While it's meant to be humorous, I think the fact that Galvatron's worst fear is being killed by Rodimus over and over again is important.

In fact, it's not just the Prime I suspect Galvatron is afraid of. Sure, maybe it was just cruelty or his desire to turn the Decepticons against the Autobots, but in the Time Wars arc, I think he used Scorponok as a shield because he didn't want to face Ultra Magnus in a fair fight, since Magnus had previously defeated Galvatron a couple of times.

So, Galvatron's afraid of other people who can best him, but what does he desire? Well, the entire series follows his mission to free himself of Unicron. He has major setbacks given multiple versions of himself die, and Galvatron II suffered a rude awakening when he realized his attempt to satisfy Unicron by following his orders was for naught and that that he remained a tool. In fact, I believe that Galvatron's interest in weak, obscure characters stems from how eclipsed he himself feels by Unicron.

Also, I love how much of Unicron's and Primus's personalities we get to see in these comics. Unicron is so immature which is great, because like, who does he have to impress? XD

Galvatron sometimes says he wants to take over the Decepticons and conquer the world when he's free of Unicron, but I honestly question if that's even true. Galvatron II doesn't spread his "empire" beyond the Americas, something that bothers his troops. They note he's acting like a child, revelling in random acts of destruction to no purpose.

The first Galvatron spent a long stretch of issues (like a hundred or so IIRC) in the present time, wandering around and doing nothing in particular, only lashing out when he's reminded of Rodimus Prime, or attacked by other people, like his former lieutenants Scourge and Cyclonus, or the Wreckers. All of that on top of the fact that he very intentionally didn't start his fight with the Seacons... in fact, after that battle, he embarrasses Shockwave and undermines his command by claiming he'd come in peace. Galvatron also doesn't really take initiative to team up with his old self, Megatron, instead only doing so after Shockwave attempts to get over that humiliation by using Megatron as a weapon against Galvatron. And yes, then he finally starts to take initiative and battle people... but I almost wonder if that was Megatron's drive for conquest propelling the initial conflict, not Galvatron's.

This brings up another really interesting facet of Galvatron's character: his relationship with Megatron. In the story arc that introduced Galvatron, Target: 2006, his initial plan is to get Megatron's help in building a weapon to destroy Unicron. Notably, Galvatron does not tell him they are one and the same, and unsurprisingly, Megatron does not agree to work with him.

However, some time after incapacitating Megatron, Galvatron does tell the captured Jazz about his entire backstory. Also, the first ever glimpse of Galvatron's unstable state of mind came when Megatron decided to team up with the Autobots to defeat him. He can't seem to handle the cognitive dissonance of this.

Later, leading up the Time Wars arc, Galvatron does manage to get Megatron's assistance by instead convincing him they're the same. One of the first moments that peaked my interest in Galvatron was during this arc. When he sees the Wrecker, Roadbuster, about to shoot Megatron, and remembers that in his timeline, he suffered that injury as Megatron. And in that moment, Galvatron decides to spare his past self the pain.

There are so many layers to this. Imagine remembering horrible pain that your past self suffered and then deciding to suffer that as your current self to spare them that agony. It's not a selfish act, because you still have to feel it. It's bizarrely compassionate in a way. (It's also worth noting that as the timeline diverges more and more from his original one, Galvatron becomes more and more unstable, to the point that even Megatron grows tired of his madness and vows to not end up like him. Once again, something about cognitive dissonance is extremely difficult for Galvatron to handle).

Unlike this Galvatron, Galvatron II initially resents Megatron. Galvatron II actually manages to best Unicron by making Emirate Xaaron wake Primus to get the god's help (!) and then inspiring all the Autobots and Decepticons to fight Unicron (!!!) and eventually Unicron is destroyed.

Galvatron in this continuity is such a badass, I really can't overstate that

But with Unicron gone, Galvatron then sees Megatron as the one thing still holding him back. This is where the header image of this post comes from: Galvatron views Megatron as the flaw to his otherwise-perfect jewel. When Galvatron sneaks aboard the Ark, which Shockwave and Starscream have stolen, and discovers Megatron there, Galvatron blames Megatron for his mental instability. He nearly tries to kill him before he comes to his senses and snaps back to an attitude more like that of the first Galvatron and decides he might need to protect Megatron and team up with him.

This is the (not Straxus-made clone) version of Megatron and Galvatron II, who hadn't met before this point

However, this isn't to be. The Ark crashes when Ratchet sacrifices himself and only Galvatron is seen leaving it. He kills some humans and then unsteadily walks away from the ship, until he ends up at a settlement.

He ends up being tracked down by Fortress Maximus, who shoots him in the back, which triggers Galvatron and causes him to go into a rabid frenzy.

Pictured: Galvatron eating the forbidden noodles

Fortress Maximus beats himself up over causing this for a while until his Headmaster component, Spike Witwicky, tells him to own up to his mistake and fix it.

I want to shift focus for a minute to this final opponent Galvatron ends up facing. Fortress Maximus in this series is an extremely flawed Autobot: so worn-down and eager to stop fighting and have peace that he ended up essentially being a colonialist whose actions and inaction nearly destroy a once-peaceful world. He's a character who is super averse to conflict to the point of being callous at points, and he needed to learn to do his duty and take responsibility for his actions. I mention him because I think Galvatron is a parallel inversion of those character traits: what he actually needs is to just stop fighting, since it's when he isn't that he is actually at his most stable... but that need is getting obscured by his immense power, arrogance, and mental illness.

This conclusion may be reaching, but here is my ultimate take on Galvatron's character here: Galvatron's past self, Megatron, is someone with an indomitable will. No matter how embarrassing the defeat (and he has so many humiliating ones in this continuity, from standing on a cliff that falls out from under him, to freezing up because he was hangry and ate too much raw coal), he keeps going seemingly shamelessly. No matter how many times people like Straxus and Shockwave try to take over his mind, Megatron's personality just keeps reasserting itself in the end. He gets inappropriately intimate with his enemies, and just become more driven and more obsessed if anyone ever manages to get the better of him. He lives to fight, and enjoyed executing people before he ever started the War.

But I think Galvatron is not only a transformed Megatron (+ whoever else was sharing Megatron's head at the time), but a transformed Megatron whose will was shattered by Unicron. That deep down, Galvatron doesn't particularly want to keep fighting and conquering—that he's not at his happiest when he's fighting and killing some powerful opponent the way Megatron is. Instead, fights with people who could threaten him scare him. He doesn't even really care that much about conquering the world... the passion that Megatron had for being a dictatorial strongman is all but gone. Galvatron seemed most satisfied when he was just hanging around on Earth, doing nothing in particular, maybe in a body of water or something, alone, with nobody around to trigger memories of Rodimus Prime or Unicron or anyone else powerful enough to hurt him. Hot take, but I feel like with Galvatron, there could be a chance that he could be open to living peacefully if he were left alone, which is something I didn't feel was possible with Megatron.

...Also, this color scheme for Galvatron is the best ever. Just saying!

#Galvatron #Megatron #Unicron #Straxus #Fortress Maximus #long post #transformers g1 #transformers marvel #maccadam #my analysis

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noobclock666 · 3 months

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Watchmen and Charlton (Character References)

finally made this!

Some Watchmen and Charlton character references which I wanted to do for a long time!

I based the sizes on a reddit post I looked up for this by u/moyerr.

One of the best comic books ever made. I should really read the Charlton comics too.

I want to thank Happy Harry and The Vengur Bros for finally making me read it. I read it back in 2023 BTW. I mean, Happy Harry named himself after the Bar in Watchmen. CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT!? I CAN’T!

And watching “THE NUMBER ONE ANIMATED FLASH CARTOON ON NEWGROUNDS” again, makes the Flash movie more messed up and beautiful. Side note, in my headcanon voice cast, Happy Harry voices everybody. It’s great.

And here’s a link to the artist I ripped off to make this art.

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irisbleufic · 4 days

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Of all the bullshit I never expected to be back on with the same intensity of October through December of 2000, Beetlejuice was not it. But I finally got to see the musical yesterday, and the part of me that has adored all 94 episodes of the animated series from the moment I started watching them on ABC Saturday mornings in 1989 just fucking flared—this fond, awful tightness in my chest. It’s the first TV show I ever imprinted on; it’s been with me since childhood. Surreal.

About 4 years into watching the cartoon, I finally saw the live-action movie that the cartoon was based on. I hated it, because it was so malevolent and empty compared to the incredible world-building characters in the animated series. Serious shout-outs to Stephen Ouimette and Alyson Court for all that stunning, hilarious, and often moving voicework.

Now, okay, I need to go back to 2000 again to make this all make sense. I’d watched the show from 1989 until whenever the 4th season ended. It wasn’t until I was in my first semester of college, newly transplanted to New England, that I found a couple folks within my program who had loved the show growing up, too. I ordered all of the episodes on VHS. It was difficult to track them all down in 2000, and it was expensive. But I pulled it off, and we had Friday night watch parties for weeks over the month of October. But that is not where this ends.

I was in the process of winding down the writing I’d been doing on Tim Burton’s Sleepy Hollow for the entirety of my senior year of high school. Suddenly, I’m in college and watching this fucking cartoon and thinking, there is so much heart in this. How the fuck is there so much heart. I haven’t seen two characters this wholesome codependent in, well, ever. I went looking for forums and mailing lists devoted to the cartoon. I found a mailing list. There were a handful of artists drawing amazing fancomics on there, and they were like, what do you do? Oh. I write. And they were like: do you understand how desperately some of us have wanted fic, but just can’t find it?

That is the wrong thing to say to me when I’m on a downward spiral of realizing I’m not going to escape a fandom without getting myself into a project so long that it’s all I’ll be doing for fucking months on end. If you’re one of the people who knew me back then, you know what I did for those four months in the fall/winter of 2000. I wrote a novel. Sure, I came close to failing a couple of classes, but it was the first time I understood exactly what I was capable of building as a fanwriter. Maybe even as a real writer.

“Time Will Tell” was hosted on a friend’s Angelfire site for a handful of years. People found it via LiveJournal, too, because I linked it there. I put it on AO3 somewhere circa 2012 and took it down again in 2017 because I didn’t feel there was enough interest in it, and also, my 19-year-old editorial foibles and typos were aspects I wanted to amend in it.

The musical took more inspiration from the cartoon than the film. I’m stunned and grateful for that. I found the “Time Will Tell” file buried pretty deep in my Gmail folders. I’ve been reading it since the drive home last night. I just can’t believe there’s now enough of a fandom for me to consider finally polishing it and getting it back online. It’s one of my two oldest surviving pieces of writing.

Anyway, sorry for the Gotham fic delays that I’d been trying to get a handle on. Now that the semester’s over, I feel that getting this thing I wrote twenty-three years ago back to the light of day is the best use of my time for a couple weeks.

If you’re one of the people who read “Time Will Tell” back in the day, thank you. I don’t know how many people out there still remember it beyond maybe ten or so friends I’m still in contact with all these years later. I’m sorry it disappeared for a while.

#beetlejuice #beetlejuice the musical #beetlejuice the animated series #lydia deetz can fuck right off for reminding me she was the reason i wrote first-person pov for the first time ever #and can take all the credit for making me feel less alone as a kid #maybe this is why ghosts never scare me; bj is such a delightful dumbass and set my expectations pretty high/low depending

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prolix-yuy · 1 year

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The Booth (and All its Misuses)

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader Editor "Murch"

Summary: Dieter is pushing boundaries with the roles he takes. And with you.

Word Count: 4.4k

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ MINORS DNI, descriptions of male and female bodies, heavy fantasizing including oral sex (m and f receiving) and allusions to PiV sex, exhibitionism, dirty talk like whoa, male masturbation, allusions to female masturbation, Dieter's voice is a weapon.

Notes: That fucking cat show waltzed on in here and made me imagine Dieter recording those ridiculous lines and here we are. It's such a role for him I couldn't resist. This Dieter and Murch are from my series Best Laid Plans, and this story takes place before the events of The Plan. I also have to thank @boliv-jenta for being part of the inspiration for this fic with her hilarious Claude story that I've been giggling over for a couple days now.

Cross-posted on AO3

Best Laid Plans Series Masterlist

“What stupid thing did you sign me up for?”

Dieter’s agent blows a sigh into the phone that makes him wince. He’s still a little hungover despite the IV service he ordered this morning, the grease-laden breakfast sandwich, and the lazy handjob he gave himself in the shower. He thought today was a light day, maybe a press junket in the afternoon he could roll into once the edges of his vision cleared. But instead he’s ushered into a Mercedes and finds himself on the way to a studio to record…

“The voice of a bald horny street cat?” he asks, flipping through the short script.

“It sounded up your alley…cat,” she quips back, and despite the low ache in the base of his skull he has to admit he enjoys the over-the-top dialogue. A little slutty, artistic, dramatic? Yeah, his agent’s got him pegged well.

His thoughts drift for a moment at the suggestive wording. He should really call Mitsy for another night in.

By the time he exits the car his head has cleared a little, aided by the coffee he whined to pick up and a few more minutes of shuteye. It looks like it’ll be a quick read, only a few pages of dialogue. He sweeps in, heavy brown cardigan flapping behind as he greets the audio tech and director. Their handshakes are straightforward, professional. The tech settles him in the sound booth, testing levels and microphones as the director walks Dieter through the scenes. It’s exactly how it sounds; a lascivious street cat wooing a plump pink hairless counterpart. He’s scrungly but smooth, devilish but dashing. Dieter raises an eyebrow at some of this - are people supposed to be horny for the cats? - but makes no comment.

The read is pretty fun for a one-off job. He leans into the ridiculousness to the director’s delight, and ad libs a few responses. The “follicle divergent” line was a favorite addition. He even turns on the bedroom voice for a few takes. If some classic Dieter filth gets him on their good side, maybe he’ll score something less ridiculous next time. Connections, connections, connections as his agent always says.

As he finishes up the final page, a door opens on the other side of the glass. His eyes flick up briefly before the words slog to a stop in his mouth.

What are you doing here?

“Problem, Dieter?” the tech asks through Dieter’s headset. It sounds further away than before, like a string between two tin cans instead of Sennheisers. You lean over to address the director, his quick nod dismissing you to sit on a chair in a darkened corner. Dieter swallows hard, shaking off the stumble.

“How do you want me to pronounce ‘gordita’? Throw more accent on it?” he asks, directing their attention away enough to sneak a look at you. Your phone screen illuminates your face, harsh blue light carving your pretty features into something sharp and focused.

He wants you to look up so he can give you a little nonchalant wave, like it’s no big deal the cute girl who keeps showing up on his movie set and making him laugh is here when he’s reading for a syphilitic cartoon cat. He tries to think up a good line to shoot you when he exits the booth - so this is where you hang out when you’re not on my set, Murch? - but even that falls flat in his head. Plus there’s something about calling you Murch in front of people who don’t know you that makes him cringe. You’ve got enough working against you in Hollywood, you don’t need him tossing out pet names that could lessen their respect for you. He respects the hell out of you in the first place; how hard you work, how everyone likes interacting with you, the trust people have in you to do your job well. Murch is just between the two of you, its own sign of respect.

He can admit to himself it’s also a sign of a little more than that. Only for him.

He throws himself into the last fifteen minutes of the recording, flourishing his vocals for peak laughs. He wishes you had some headphones on so he could make you roll your eyes or snicker with him, but you’re tapping on your phone up until the tech ends the recording. Dieter gathers himself and feigns casual energy as he exits the booth.

“Need any more takes? We’re running early on my schedule,” he says breezily, letting his gaze fall to you almost by mistake. “Oh, hey, didn’t see you come in. Elias doesn’t have you working today?” He offers a friendly smile, the most professional he’s even been with you.

“Running drives today,” you say simply, hovering next to the tech while he transfers the audio to a slim hard drive. “The DIT has my footage until 6, so I’m sneaking some extra hours in.”

Right, you’re still “working your way” in the business, putting in hard days for not enough pay and expected to be happy about it. He’s seen you with lunch orders on set, filling in for a PA or making calls in the home office when shoots are delayed. You’re happiest behind your computer, hands fast on the keyboard and eyes darting over a timeline as you help massage a masterpiece out of the mess. But you’re still working towards that being all you have to do to survive in Hollywood. Maybe after this film you’ll be able to breathe easier. Maybe he could win an Oscar for it and you could be an award-winning editor. It would be nice to win an Oscar for you.

Not for you. For himself. That would just be some icing on the cake, to give you a leg up in the industry where he can. That’s all.

“That’s all Dieter, you’re wrapped. Sean, take off, you can still make your kid’s game,” the director says, the tech smiling gratefully as he snatches up his bag. A little flash of an idea, born out of wandering thoughts and attraction and foolhardiness, crosses Dieter’s lips.

“Hey, could I use the booth for a little while longer? I’ve got some pickups I need to record for an audiobook and I forgot to book a space,” he asks, silently hoping this moment of assholery might work out. The tech sighs loudly, rubbing a hand over his face, before you chime in.

“I can wait around, I’ve seen Sean do this enough I can figure it out. And I’ll lock up as we leave,” you say, sunny expression lightening the dour mood. It only takes a moment of shuffling for the others to leave, Sean waving a thanks to you as the door swings shut.

Shit, he only planned this far, now what?

“Well you better hop back in, you’ve only got…17 minutes,” you say, settling into the swivel chair and pulling the huge headphones over your ears.

“Not even a, ‘hey Di, nice to see you, thank you for brightening up my day with your dramatic cat-acting’? …Cacting? Ooh, I like that,” he says, leaning in the door frame. You smirk and roll your eyes.

“Hi Di, it’s always a pleasure to see your shining face, and whatever you rolled out of bed into. That’s a comfy looking sweater,” you smirk back, redirecting your attention to the soundboard. “Now can you get in there and do your lines so I’m not late getting back?” you say.

“Yes ma’am, thanks again,” he says, shutting the door behind him. A little smile settles on his face that she liked his cardigan, actively dashing it off before he pulls over a chair to the microphone stand. He’s got a reputation to uphold, and getting gooey over a compliment isn’t part of his brand. Settling back into the seat, he pantomimes opening his phone and placing it on the stand in front of him.

There’s no script, it’s just a ploy, something to get you to stick around and talk to him more. He always enjoys the handful of minutes he gets with you on sets as you wait for dailies or a script revision to bring back to post-production. He wishes you were one of the actors sometimes, stranded on set while the crew reset or shuffled you around, leaving time to chat and open up. He wants to ask you what your favorite memories were, discuss a new art exhibit at length, pop a few edibles and get high enough that your minds could melt into each other, followed by your bodies. But you’re always moving, a skip in your gait like you’re worried about being a step behind. He dreads the day Hollywood tries to beat that drive out of you, make you step on something precious to get ahead. He wants to put his hands on your shoulders and tell you it’s okay to slow down, to walk instead of run, that you don’t deserve to fall into bed exhausted every day just to get up and do it all over again.

“Do you need me to keep an ear on your recording?” you say, hand hovering over the button as you look at Dieter through the glass. He twists a crooked smile onto his face, his improvisation skills helping him navigate the conversation.

“It’s an erotic audiobook, so I’ll leave that up to you Murch,” he says, winking. You roll your eyes again, hitting record before reaching to mute yourself. “Wait, before you do that, how’s your day been?” he asks, slouching into his chair with spread thighs. He likes to see if you’ll look, give him any hint that you may be as interested in him as he finds you.

“Not too bad, Di, living the dream,” you say, leaning forward on your elbows with a smile. “Post’s coming along good, you’re getting better at not spitting every time you shout at Alé.”

“They keep asking me to drink during that scene, it gets me all drooly!” he retorts, the tinny laugh coming through his headset warming his chest. He really likes the way your eyes scrunch up when he gets a good giggle out of you, that you’ll laugh with your whole body if he gets it right.

“Besides that, nothing special. You looking forward to the scenes you get to shoot in Rome?”

“Looking forward to being told I can’t have any pasta. What else are you supposed to eat in the city of love?” You laugh again, goosebumps tingling along Dieter’s neck at how intimate the sound is coming through his headphones.

“I’m pretty sure that’s Paris.”

“Tell me you’ve never fallen in love with a pasta alla vodka.”

“You eat all the things you love, Bravo?”

“Some of them,” he purrs, dropping his voice down an octave and tilting his head. You shake yours with an exasperated sigh, but he thinks he sees your eyelashes flutter. He’s about to elaborate - I do love pussy, and not just the weird cat I’ve been reading for - when the glow of your phone directs your eyes down.

“Shit, I’m blowing up,” you curse, scrolling quickly. “Are you good to go?”

Dieter nods his head, squaring up his chair and adjusting the microphone stand down to his level.

“I’ve got it Murch, you take care of business. Thanks for doing me a favor,” he says, trying not to let the disappointment bleed into his voice. You shoot him a tight smile before muting yourself, red light blinking in his view. You watch the screen for a moment before taking off your headphones and diving back into your phone, alternating typing and scrolling.

The silence of the room lays heavy on his shoulders, the warmth of your voice slowly fading. He feigns opening up something on his phone, a blank webpage all that actually stares back at him. Wetting his lips, he wonders what the hell to say to make it look like he’s not just dicking around in here.

“Hey Murch,” he finally settles on, keeping his eyes glued to his phone, now dark enough to reflect his face back at him, your blurry silhouette in the corner of his eye.

“It’s nice to see you today. You haven’t been on set in a bit. Things must be ramping up in your edit bay. They’re keeping you busy, that’s for sure. Or you’re keeping yourself busy. Because you know, you work really hard. I see it. Everyone does.” He clears his throat briefly, eyes snapping up to you. You flick your own up, a question on your face, but he just thumbs-ups you.

“What would you do if you got a break? What does the lovely Murch do on a day off?” he says, his throat catching a little on lovely. “I think you like a big breakfast, something with fruit in it. You like…mangos, right? I’m pretty sure you said that once. Or peaches.” The phantom flavors drift along his tongue. “And then I’d bet you’d want to do something outside, especially if it’s nice out. Get out of that dark basement. Wear something light and breezy.”

It occurs to Dieter he’s never seen you in anything more than jeans and a t-shirt. What would you look like with your shoulders bare, legs on display, breasts scooped into a flattering neckline and ass swishing along? Did you even like pretty summer dresses? God he hoped you did. You would look fucking delicious.

A tightening in his groin alerts Dieter to a path his brain probably shouldn’t go down, but it’s the Wizard of Oz in there and his libido is following the yellow brick road. He licks his lips at the thought of you turning to wait for him, a flirty hemline skimming along your thighs. If a little breeze kicked up the skirt would flutter just a little too high for your liking, making you smooth it back down. And he’d be helpless to stop from falling to his knees and ducking his head under it.

His cock is at full attention now, straining against his slacks. He tries to shake off this train of thought, redirect to something that will refocus him, but every time he glances up to take in your features, your attention elsewhere, only hardens him more.

“Fuck, you’d look good in something like that. You look good all the time.” Dieter’s hand clenches on his thigh, dangerously close to crossing a line. An irrelevant notification lights up his screen - ten more minutes of studio time. He squeezes his eyes shut, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth.

He shouldn’t. You’d be grossed out if he did, violated. Probably scream at him, call him a filthy little slut.

Fuck, his pesky degradation kink’s not helping.

“Shit, Murch, you got me hard in a fucking sound booth. I can’t even get this hard this fast watching porn. What the fuck have you done to me?” he husks out, running a hand over his face. His cock bobs in his pants, the mistake of even alluding to porn in the same breath as your name furthering his thoughts. Because now that he’s said it, all the little scenarios he lies to himself about jacking off to come to the forefront unbidden.

The way the slip of your tongue over your lower lip makes him want to follow it with the head of his cock, fat and weeping at your hot breath.

How your hands moving along a keyboard make him wonder how they’d look wrapped around his shaft, pulling him to the brink expertly before easing him back.

The fact that there’s a couch in that dark little room you work in that calls for him to fuck you on it over and over again.

You put down your phone right as he’s spiraling, imagining how you’d look spread on your back on that beat-up monstrosity as he hovers over you, and slip your headphones back on. He coughs once, hoping his face isn’t too red.

“You doing okay Di?” you ask, a note of concern coming through.

Busted.

He shifts in his chair, his erection thankfully hidden by his low seat and the little stand his phone rests on.

“Hah, yeah, just…getting through some of this dialogue.”

You smirk, chin in your hand.

“What, a little too spicy for THE Dieter Bravo?” you say, and have the audacity to pull the corner of your lip between your teeth.

Well never mind then. He was going to be the gentleman and suffer in silence. But if you were going to insist on egging him on when he was just imagining how sweet your cunt would taste, then he’s going to play a little dirty.

“You can be the judge of that,” he says airily, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

“I’ve read my fair share of romance novels. I don’t think you’ll surprise me.”

Oh, it’s really on now.

“Then listen in. Maybe you’ll learn something new.”

You settle back into your chair, motioning for Dieter to begin. He rolls his shoulders, putting both hands on the stand and pulling focus to his phone. His grayscale reflection is remarkably confident for how rippling his insides feel. Pulling from memories of early gigs that were a hair shy of softcore pornos and his own racing thoughts, he writes you a story.

“I fucking want you. Keep telling myself no but I fucking want you,” he growls, puffing hard out his nose. Your reaction is immediate; your eyes snap wide, mouth parting. He wants to look you in the eyes as he improvises a scene but doing that and trying to keep his composure above the waist is proving too much. His lips brush hard against the microphone, his whiskers scraping along the sensitive instrument.

“I’d make it so good for you, make you mine so many times you’d have to spend the night. Would you like that? For me to take care of you so fully, so completely, you wouldn’t be able to walk out after? Because I want you like that every. Single. Day. Let me make you feel so fucking good, baby.”

You’re trying to keep a neutral face but he can see it. The tremble of your lower lip. The rigidness of your posture. He would bet his summer house you were squeezing your thighs under the control table. God, he wants to be on the other side of the glass and saying these things in your ear, lips brushing against your skin. Filthier things too, like how he wants you to cum so hard it drips down your legs for him to lick up. That he’ll stretch you so good on his cock, make you drunk with pleasure every moment you let him.

“Because you deserve to feel like a goddess. You do so much for me, baby, let me give you even an ounce of that back to you. I’ll be so good for you, sweetheart, treat you better than that goddamn shithead of an ex that was never worth your time.”

Dieter’s running his mouth as close to the truth as he thinks he can get away with, sneaking glances up to see how you react. Your arms are folded in a picture of ease, but he can see how your fingers dig into your bicep. He drops his voice into a lower register, rumbling deep but with a gentle quality he enjoys utilizing for narration.

“He lets her ride his buttery slick thighs, buried so deep he can’t tell where her pleasure ends and his begins. He doesn’t care as long as she keeps throwing her head back like that and crying his name. If his heart gave out now he’d die happy with the musk of her on his lips and her velvet walls clenched around him. Even though she’s already cum twice he urges her into a third with his clever thumb and a grin when she shatters.” Dieter’s half impressed at himself for thinking on his feet, the words quickening the rise and fall of your chest. Your cunt must be on fire from this, he hopes he’s not the only one aching. You can’t be unaffected, not with the way you can’t look away, gaze tight on his face when he looks up. He’s got one more tiny idea that could get him in trouble, or make the tension thread between you finally snap. Leaning forward, he looks through his lashes at you. You’re holding your breath.

“Be a good girl for me, baby.”

Your reaction is instant. Blinking hard and flaring your nostrils, your grip gets even tighter. Your skin must be blazing hot, the heat between your thighs unbearable. He wants to soothe it with his tongue, quench it with his fingers as you fist his hair and tell him how good he’s making you feel. His cock is hard to the point of exploding in his pants, the telltale tingle in his hips warning him that it’s all too possible.

A question hangs on the tip of his tongue, one he’s so prepared to ask:

Want some help with that Murch?

You jump suddenly, the faint clanging of an alarm on the other side of the glass a shock to his own system.

MotherFUCKER.

“Sorry Di, time’s up. I gotta get moving,” you stammer, shakily pressing buttons to stop the recording and transfer the data. He tosses the headphones off quickly, taking the briefest of moments to wrap his cardigan around his middle to hide the prominence of his erection. He saunters back into the room with a smug smile.

“Now who’s gotten all flustered?” he teases, hopeful you won’t bolt from his sight. The balance is precarious now, a tiny nudge in the direction he desires setting everything off balance. Thankfully you chuckle and shake your head.

“That’s really paying your bills? I swear I’ve read better online for free,” you say, sticking in a loose USB stick and transferring the “audiobook” over for him. Dieter hovers in case you open the file, but you only hand him the drive with an overly bright smile. He takes it from you, searching your face for any hint of the titillation he caught earlier.

“You’ll have to send me your favorites, I’ll record them for a good price,” he drawls, leaning on one hand in your space. It’s a dance he’s done with you in the past, but never with so much charge in the air. He can almost taste the electricity between you, and when you meet his eyes there’s a flash of something deeper, something you won’t let come to the surface so you tamp it down with a dramatic sigh.

“Why would I want my scorching hot erotica in your voice?” you joke, his hands coming up in mock hurt before he winks at you. You shake your head and put the hard drive you came here for in your bag.

“See you on set?” he asks, and god he sounds pitiful to his own ears but you tilt your head and smile, hand on the knob to leave.

“I’ll be around,” you say before leaving him in the booth in silence and his own tangle of thoughts.

A bolt of arousal claws down his spine, a filthy moan falling from his lips.

“Sweetheart, I’m so goddamn hard for you. I need you to look at me. Look at me and I’ll cum so hard. Just fucking look at me. See me. See what you do to me?” His hand moves faster, fingers catching along the thick ridge of his head, the need almost painful as his mind conjures the image. Your lips pursed, eyes still cast down as he whimpers into a microphone.

“Want you to put those talented fingers inside your panties and rub your clit on the other side of this window. Let me whisper all the fucking depraved shit I want to do to you, how I want to lick and finger and fuck every hole until you beg me to stop. I’ll be…such a…good boy for you.” He’s on the knife’s edge, looking down into the chasm, heavy breaths making it harder to hide. “Let me…be your good boy, sweetheart. Please, look at me.”

And in the moment before he cums, you look up and catch his eye.

It’s a livewire to his cock, and he empties onto his stomach with ragged cries. He’s begging it to hurry up, be as fleeting of an orgasm as when he pumps it into some starlet wanting a night with his publicity, but it keeps rolling and rolling over him, shuddering breaths and clamping legs. Tears come to his eyes because even with how fucking good it feels, he knows it could be so much better. He knows a night with you would be a million fucking times better than his hand and his phone next to his ear playing the soft laughs he coaxed out of you. That you’d make him cum, but you’d also make him smile, and preen, and maybe even glow.

Shame burns along his chest at how fucking sad this must look, legendary playboy Dieter Bravo, who could open his hotel room door and have anyone on his cock that he pleases, covered in his own cum while your voice tells him Paris is the city of love.

Stopping the recording, he flops an arm over his face. He’s gotta get you out of his system, invite you to one of his parties for one really good fuck then send you on your happy little way. You could brag about bedding him, about how many orgasms he gave you and how much he’s ruined you for other men. And he could scratch the itch buried between his shoulders that flares when you trade good-natured barbs. Clear his head of this weird little infatuation he hasn’t experienced since he was 25 and drunk off his first love.

That’s it, he’ll do what he always does. Make you feel like the center of his world for a night and part happy and satiated. It might finally ease the giddiness you bring with the swing of your hips. Maybe it will finally feed the emptiness inside him when the drugs peter off and his skin feels too tight and all he wants to do is find the next high or low to distract him.

But first, he’s gotta get you to accept his invitation.

END

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