#i don’t remember what the movie is called but it’s on netflix

[sunnys-out]

My Little Darling | Alessia Russo

A/N: Hey y'all sorry this took a while but work got busy and didn't get a chance to work on anything. My French is rusty so please be kind.

I still remember how you told me how you would always be there for me

Warnings: language, injury

Word count: 2298

Alessia and I had met at our first team meeting at UNC and it seemed that all the international students just gravitated together. The other girls got a kick out of the French accent that came out when I introduced myself in English to the rest of the team.

I was desperate for friends, as were the other international girls, so I found myself getting close with the English players, Lotte Wubben-Moy and Alessia Russo, who was half Italian too as I came to find out. I loved them even though they did poke fun at the fact that France didn’t make it to the U-17 World Cup…joked that we would’ve met sooner. 

It was nice experiencing America with them and I found myself enjoying the little moments with the both of them, especially Alessia. I wouldn’t dare ruin a friendship that early, I mean why would she even be attracted to me…we had just met a month ago at that point in time.

A little quirk of mine is that I gave people nicknames, usually some animal but in French that reminded me of my teammates. Lotte, I fondly called, hibou or owl. You got to admit it when she is all focused and everything when she is at the defensive line her eyes narrow like a little owl. 

I hadn’t given one to Alessia only calling her Less, Lessie, Ali, or just simply Russo. She noticed, of course, pushing when the three of us were having a movie night at my dorm room.

“Why don’t I have a nickname?” Alessia poked my shoulder as we had just put on a random comedy on Netflix to watch. We were procrastinating on essays we had to all write for the same class but hey it was due in a week so we had time.

I furrow my eyebrows with confusion, “What? You have a nickname, I call you Less, Lessie, sometimes Ali…”  I poke her back “Soooo, technically you have more than one”

Alessia let out a huff as she got comfortable and laid her head on my shoulder as Lotte also got comfortable on the other side of me.

“No, I meant a french nickname, like Lotte has one…do you not like me?” Alessia pouted as she looked up to me feigning sadness.

I roll my eyes and look at Lotte on the other side of me, “Ma petite hibou, can you believe her? She thinks I don’t like her…as if we are not watching a movie in my dormitory”. This earned a laugh from the other English girl. 

Alessia lifted her head and pushed my shoulder, “See, you call her “Your little owl”, when can I get a cute nickname like that?”

Lotte raised her head, “wait, is that what that means? You calling me an owl?” I completely ignored her.

“Less, it just hasn’t come to me yet…but you keep yapping about it…I’ll call you canard, which is duck by the way”. A laugh escaped me before I finished the sentence as Alessia gave up and leaned her head back on my shoulder as we continued to watch the movie.

______________________________________________________________

Love is weird…yeah, I would say so. When I was Alessia there was a calmness that I couldn’t compare with Lotte. Don’t get me wrong I love ma petit hibou, but Alessia was different.

She’s driven and she always had this look in her eyes that only held a certain softness when she was looking at me.

She was there for me when I got my call-up for the French U-20 team just how our coaches had predicted.

Lotte couldn’t make it to our regular weekly movie night in my dorm but encouraged Alessia and I to “not do it because of her”.

We had finished the movie an hour ago and now were on some random episode of Stranger things. Alessia had migrated from leaning her head on my shoulder, as she always did, to laying her head on my lap, my finger gently combing her hair without a care in the world.

It was soothing and then my phone began vibrating in my pocket.

“Allo?, oui c’est elle. Oui…ah Merci, oui merci pour l'opportunité, c’est un honneur pour moi! Oui merci, …alors…. quoi…quoi, merci…au revoir”  (hello?, yes this is she, yes...ah thank you, yes thank you for the opportunity, it's an honor for me. Yes thank you...so...yes..yes...thank you.. goodbye)

Alessia had rolled over to look up at me and giggled, “so I only got ‘thank you’ from all that…who was that?”

I couldn’t stop smiling, “I got called up for the French U-20 team! Can you believe that?”

Alessia immediately got up and with a smile grabbed both sides of my face, “That’s amazing and of course I fucking believe that!”

All thoughts I had in that moment disappeared, I mean how could I even think when my whole world was in front of me. Alessia’s laugh broke me from my trance.

“Well, now I got to get called up for England, then we’ll be rivals..isn’t that absolutely wild” one of her thumbs now gently caressing my cheek.

I lean into her caress, “Alessia, what are you thinking about?” 

She tilts her head, as if she was observing my face to see how I will react.

“I’m thinking of how proud I am of you, really I am…and um..of…how much I want to kiss you right now”.

Alessia laughs as she feels my cheeks heat up in hands and my eyes widen.

“Well can I?” She asks as she pulls me closer.

With only a nod from me, Alessia brings her soft lips to mine. I had dreamed of doing that for so long that again my mind was empty yet filled with everything.

As she pulled back, her forehead resting against mine she whispered,

“No matter what happens…whatever this becomes, I’ll always be there for you” her fingers threading my hair as she continued to look at me.

“Ma petit chou, that’s your nickname…my little darling…no matter what happens you will always be that” I said quietly as I brought her in for another kiss.

24 August 2018

With another thud to the ground and frustrated groan, I swatted away any hands that attempted to assist me as I got up for probably the fourth time that game, not getting any cards given to the players knocking me down including once from Alessia. She gave me a gentle sorry as she helped me up even though I turned her down initially. I wanted to play against England in the final but it seems we both found ourselves fighting for 3rd place. Alessia and I hadn’t texted since the competition started and maybe only had a phone call here and there. The only time I saw her in person was right there in the tunnel before the start of the game. 

We were losing 1-0 and we were desperately trying to equalize, which meant I was pushing more up the field than usual. 

I was frustrated…justifiably…so I pushed even harder. I just did not expect to be taken down in the box. I lay face down gasping for any sort of air to return to me after the impact. Groaning also at the sting and sharp soreness near my right knee. The whistle from the referee signaling a penalty for my fall returned me to reality.

“Hey, you alright?” I heard muffled and a gentle touch to my face that I immediately recognized as Alessia. Her tone worried as she grabbed my hand. 

“Hey, hey, baby…I’m here ok? I’m here” I felt her hand gently holding mine as I finally was able to breathe slowly.

“Merde, elle saigne, médecin! (Shit, she’s bleeding, medic!)” I heard one of my teammates yell.

As the medics approached to wrap up my knee from the scrape, I felt Alessia’s hand leave mine. 

The penalty went in and we equalized. The energy was back but it didn’t end the way we wanted. Penalty shoot outs were never my favorite. Mine went in and Alessia’s didn’t but it didn’t matter what I did because we lost in the end.

I remained sitting on the field feeling disappointed that I couldn’t have done more to at least get 3rd place.

I felt a familiar weight on my shoulder and a gentle hand grab mine.

“Hey..” Alessia said quietly as she heard the sniffle come from me.

“Hey…ma petit chou” I look at her with a sad smile, tears threatening to fall as I leaned my head on hers.

“I’m so proud of you, you know?” she said interlacing her fingers with mine.

I only nod as the tears fall, “go celebrate, I’ll be ok” 

Alessia laughed a little as she shook her head, “no, I told you, I’d be there for you…even now…they can celebrate without me”. 

Media reported the pictures of Alessia and I on the field as a showing of support between two UNC teammates…Lotte would tease us upon our return and would yell “what a lovely showing between teammates” whenever Alessia and I would hold hands. 

______________________________________________________________________________

I was called up to the senior French team in 2019 and was able to play in my first World Cup. Alessia and Lotte watched from afar still participating in our university team while I was away. 

After the loss against the US eliminating us from the World Cup, I returned to ma petit chou who was waiting in my apartment with a cozy blanket and warm chocolate chip cookies from McDonald’s all set up for me. I wasn’t one to immediately tear up at a sight but the moment I entered the dimly lit apartment I couldn’t hold back.

Alessia loves deeply is what I came to discover and being close to the person she loved was important to her. It was important for me too. We both agreed that we wanted to keep our relationship to ourselves and not really post about it. We played together and lost together. I was there for her injury and she was there for mine. Which is why is was so hard to leave her.

2020 was filled with uncertainty especially because of COVID. Alessia and I were planning on leaving UNC along with Lotte to pursue a career back in Europe. Alessia went to Man United and Lotte went to Aresenal leaving me to go to Lyon. 

I won’t say that we didn’t try the distance but it became too much for us especially with our budding careers in our respecting countries. We stopped the relationship with a promise of keeping in touch whenever we could…we didn’t. 

A secret relationship remained a secret to the fans and the general public. We were former university teammates just liking each other's posts and commenting a blue heart every so often. It never went past that. The 2022 Euros came and went…an awkward “congratulations on the Euro win” was sent, read and not replied to. I mean I wouldn’t have… so I don’t blame her since the last message between us was from 2020. 

______________________________________________________________

I never handled injuries well…I isolated myself and Alessia was always there to accompany me. Since we separated, I hadn’t had a serious injury until 2023.

I knew I should’ve rested during after starting in every game in the group stages…I should’ve listened to my teammates but I didn’t want a repeat of 2019 with Australia. 

Sometimes you just know…as soon as I hit the ground in the latter part of the second half…I knew it was THAT tear. I laid there as the tears fell as the pain set in, desperately trying to find a hand to hold but only finding grass…

I don’t remember being put on the stretcher or anything that was said to me…nothing was familiar to me. They confirmed that it was a tear and I would be heading out back to Lyon to get the surgery and recover there. It didn’t matter really, we ended up losing in penalties…funny how history repeats itself…only difference was Alessia wasn’t there. 

______________________________________________________________

I remained in my hotel room, turning away any of my teammates who tried to stay with me…I just wanted to be alone…

I saw the result of the England/Colombia game and went through my phone until I found her number. It went straight to voicemail…

“Hey ma petit chou, congratulations on the win and getting a goal…I-uh…miss you a lot especially now. I don’t know if you saw but its an ACL tear and I’m cooped up in my hotel room…I still remember how you told me how you would always be there for me and-”

I choke back the tears threatening to fall but the pause was telling enough. “I just really need to hear you right now, so give me a call back because I do miss you and I can’t do this without you.” 

I end the call, immediately regretting my decision. I close my eyes hoping that the pain medication would kick in and I dont know how long I was out before I heard someone enter my hotel room.

I groan at the source of the noise

 “Go away” I wave my hand to whomever entered.

I stop immediately once I hear her small laugh.

“Well, I can’t possibly eat these cookies all on my own now can I?” I open my eyes and see Alessia with a small box of cookies. My face softened and my arms beckoned her to come to me. 

She gently held me like she always had and caressed my cheek wiping away the tears that had begun to fall

 “Hey…I’m here now” is all she whispered…oh how I missed my little darling. 

[ilikethisacompletelynormalamount]

Andrew Scott, Vogue: April 2024.

by Zing Tsjeng, Photos by Annie Leibovitz

Ripley, in other words, is the hero of the tale. “That’s why he fascinates so many,” says Scott. “There’s been so many iterations of him. I think it’s because people root for him.” Actors like Alain Delon and Dennis Hopper have tried the role; Matt Damon played him as an obsequious, lower-class naïf; John Malkovich, as a slimy, camp killer. Scott’s Ripley is different; a watchful loner escaping rodent-infested poverty, more at home among art than he is around people. Musician and actor Johnny Flynn plays his first victim—the monied Dickie Greenleaf—and Dakota Fanning is Dickie’s suspicious ex-girlfriend. “I find Tom quite vulnerable,” Scott tells me. “I don’t think he’s necessarily lonely, but I certainly think he’s solitary…. He seems to me by his nature that he just can’t fit in. He’s trying to survive.”

In Ripley, Zaillian extracts maximum Hitchcockian dread from every creaky footstep. But most sinister of all is Scott’s face, which exhibits a sharklike steeliness throughout. It’s a performance that exudes queasy force. Is Ripley a scammer, a psychopath, or both? “There’s so many things lurking beneath him that I’ve been very reluctant to diagnose him with anything. I never thought of him as a sociopath or murderous,” Scott declares. “It’s up to everybody else to characterize him or call him whatever they want.”

As we weave through tourists near the Tower of London, barely anybody notices Scott, save for a faint glimmer of recognition among mainly young women. He seems to draw reassurance from it. “I don’t like to think about it too much, if I’m honest,” he muses of fame. “I find it a little bit, er, frightening.” He is known but not blockbuster-recognizable, although he is in the upcoming Back in Action with Cameron Diaz and Jamie Foxx. What stunts did he do? “I can’t give that away, I’m afraid, or somebody from Netflix will come and shoot me in the head.”

What’s been on Scott’s mind the most hasn’t been acting at all, in fact, but art. As a 17-year-old, he was offered his first movie role on the same day he was given a scholarship to study painting. He chose acting, but has recently been thinking about Oliver Burkeman’s philosophical self-help tract from 2021, Four Thousand Weeks, which makes the case for focusing on the five things you truly want to accomplish. “For me at the moment, it’s like, What do you want to do? What do you want to say?”

He scrolls through his phone to show me his work. There’s a watercolor of a couple arguing in a restaurant in rich reds and greens, line drawings of friends and people on the beach, and two self-portraits. “It’s a bit weird,” he acknowledges of his depiction of himself, all bulbous forehead and Pan-like tufts of hair. His brisk, nervy lines are reminiscent of Egon Schiele or Francis Bacon, who turns out to be one of his favorite painters. “Well, God, I’ll take that,” he mutters at the comparison. He would like someday to go to art school. “I don’t ever regret it,” he says of acting. “But I suppose you just get to a stage where you think, What else? That’s one of the big painful things in life for me, where you can’t quite live all the lives.” As he gets older, he feels the tug toward revisiting old working relationships, including with Waller-Bridge: “We’ve definitely got things cooking,” he smiles. “I’d love to work with her again. She’s just a singular, wonderful person.” For her part, Waller-Bridge says: “I’d love to see him do a fully unhinged slapstick comedy character. Someone who is outraged at everything, all of the time.”

As we round the pavement and the Tate Modern looms back into sight, he recalls a poster he received in 2017—a monstrously large graphic that detailed every week in a human life span. “It’s your entire life if you live to 80—you have to fill in all the bits that you’ve already lived,” he remembers in awe, “a visually terrifying gift.” What did he do with it? “I didn’t hold on to it for too long.” Easy come, easy go: We finally finish our loop around the Thames and, as Scott disappears back into the throng, anonymous just the way he likes it, it occurs to me that the actor has many lives to live yet. ■

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 4 - You Might Be The Same As Me

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: As we exit the “enemies” phase, think of the enemies to friends as the match being lit and think of the friends to lovers as the candle taking thousands of words to burn. Chapter title from Homemade Dynamite by Lorde

Word Count: 6.9k (nice)

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Things start to change in the safe house. Contains usual tags.

Read on A03!

Chapter 3 - Chapter 5

Want to be tagged? Just ask!

Somehow, after the mission, you slept. Not well, but you did. You didn’t see Soldier Boy for almost fourteen hours after that odd moment in your room, only for him to suddenly drop on the couch next to you, watching the newly-fixed TV, holding a bowl and spoon.

“What the fuck is this,” he gestured to show playing on the screen, his mouth half-full with cereal. Crumbs fell into his beard, and he looked at the TV as if it had personally offended him.

You answered slowly, glancing between his loud, sloppy chews and the milk in his bowl, sloshing up to the sides as he settled into his seat. “Netflix.”

“That’s a stupid name for a show,” he snorted. “What does that even fucking mean?”

You shook your head. “No, the show is called Santa Clarita Diet. I’m watching it on Netflix.” He gave you a glance with a frown but remained silent, raising his eyebrows as you stared blankly.

His voice was clipped when he spoke. “What the fuck is Netflix?”

“Oh, um, it’s like a network. Like a modern TV station. It has a bunch of movies and shows, but you don’t have to wait for a certain time to watch them.”

“Huh,” he looked back to the TV. “Cocksucker mentioned something like that. I thought he was making shit up.”

“No, on demand is a pretty common thing now.” You shrugged.

“So all TV is on Newflux?”

“Netflix,” you corrected, growing more and more bemused by the conversation. “And no. We kind of just reinvented cable in a different format. There’s like a million of these websites, Vought even has their own. From what I can tell, the CIA gave us Netflix, Max, Disney, and Prime.”

“They’ll do that, but they won’t buy me weed,” he grumbled. “Fucking uptight pussies.”

“Yeah, well. They didn’t get us ad-free Disney or Prime, so I wouldn’t hold your breath about them giving you drug money.”

Soldier Boy only grunted, attention fixated on the TV. The silence between you stretched as you tried to figure out a perfect, organic way to bring up the whole “I told you what Homelander did to me and you put away groceries without me asking, what the fuck is happening” thing. Just as you were about to say something, hoping that the words would find you in the moment, you were cut off.

“What the fuck is this even about?” Soldier Boy asked with a sullen voice, still not looking away from the show.

“Uh, suburban zombies. I can change it if you want.” Anything, you thought, to keep this lack of antagonistic conversation going.

“No.” You waited for more elaboration but realized he wasn’t going to offer any, having fully turned away from you. You both remained on the couch, his eyes locked to screen as you remained in your seat, afraid to move and ruin whatever was happening.

The episode ended without any outbursts from either you or Soldier Boy, and you reached for the remote, only to be hit in the head by a soggy cheerio.

“What the hell?” You picked the cereal from your hair, turning to see Soldier Boy’s frustratingly casual expression. “What was that?”

“What the fuck are you doing?” He asked, nodding his head to where your hand had been on the remote.

“Why did you throw cereal at me?!” You snapped, holding the now mushy projectile to his face.

“To get your attention,” he answered, giving you an odd look. “You always get all bitchy when I touch you.”

“Oh.” You hesitated, your confusion only growing. “Why?”

“I don’t know, I can’t read your fucking mind. If it’s because of the Homelander thing, though, then you should remember-“

“No,” you rubbed your face in frustration. “Why did you need my attention?”

He rolled his eyes, as if it were obvious. “We’re going to keep watching this shit. It’s the least stupid thing I’ve seen so far. But you should fucking remember-“

“You could’ve just said that instead of throwing shit at me-“

“Would you fucking listen?” His familiar angry glare was beginning to form, so you closed your mouth. “If the touch thing is because of that Star-spangled pussyfuck Homelander, I meant what I fucking said last night.”

Your body tensed, trying to recall what he might be referencing. Last night, along with the previous twenty-four hours, had been replayed so much in your head it had become a simple blur of bad. "What you said?”

“I’m no rapist. I’m not an ugly pussy asshat who needs to.”

You look at him with an incredulous gape. “Needs to?”

“No part of sex is fun if she doesn’t want it. I like my woman begging me to keep going, and I only bite if they ask.” He gave you a brash grin. “I’ll show you whenever you want, Sunshine.”

“Charming,” you said under your breath, employing your now expert skills at ignoring his advances. “Would you like a trophy for the bare minimum?”

“I’m fucking serious.” He hissed, smile dropping, catching you off guard with the intensity and firmness of his expression. “If that’s why you’re so fucking annoying about me touching you, get over it.”

“Get over it?” You give a laugh of disbelief. “Are you fucking serious? First off, it has nothing to do with Homelander. Second off, if it did, I’m not going to just ‘get over it’ because this is 'annoying' for you.”

“Well then, what will make you get over it?” His question, though impatient, was said with a face of biting sincerity. At least, the closest thing to sincerity you deemed him capable of.

You tilted your head at him. “It’s not something I can get over.” Before he could respond, his mouth opening with a frown and squinted eyes, you continued. “It’s one of my powers. I can feel people’s emotions when I touch them, even if I don’t want to. I can’t turn it off, or ‘get over it’.”

His mouth remained open for another second, and you could almost see his brain slowly turning in his head. You waited, your own mind spinning with possible reactions he might meet you with. Wrathful shouting, angered distrust, cold disgust, forceful words and distance.

“Do you not like what you feel from me?” He asked, no twisted fury on his face, eyes filled with that analytical, intrusive look.

“No, that doesn’t matter to me. It's intrusive, and usually people don’t like when I do it, so I just avoid touching anyone.”

“But you can’t fucking control it.” His words didn’t seem to be directed at you, but his glare made it feel like they were. “It’s not your fucking fault all those pussies have so many fucking secrets.”

You give him a passive shrug. “Doesn’t matter. It’s still against their will.”

“Doesn’t fucking matter,” he mutters. “For fucks sake.”

You tilt your head at him, unable to place where his disbelief and frustration was coming from, even more unsure who was facing the brunt end of it. “I mean, it can’t be that insane that people don’t like it. It’s not like you’d want someone poking around inside your feelings.”

“Sunshine, of all the things to care about, that is one of the most fucking stupid things I’ve ever fucking heard. No, I don’t care about you ‘poking around inside my feelings’, because I’m not a fucking pussy with something to hide.” He gives you another odd look, accompanied by a pause before he spoke again. “Is that where your name comes from?”

“My, my name?” You feel yourself pale, still trying to fully grasp his previous declaration.

He watches you through narrowed eyes. “Your supe name. The Anomaly.”

Your blood might have evaporated, a petrifying cold running through you. “Don’t call me that.”

“I heard MM and the French Prick using it.” He looked slightly thrown by your response, but didn’t stop pushing. “Is it a fucking secret?”

“No,” you answer, trying to keep your voice level, your words acquiring a rambling quality. “It’s completely accurate. I couldn’t think of better one if I tried. Having fou-“ you cut off your slip. “Three completely unique powers on top of the usual supe-sauce is… anomalous. But I fucking hate it. I- I really hate it.” You trailed off, rubbing your arms uneasily.

“Why? It’s just a fucking name.” His voice was casual, almost bored, but he’d leaned forward with feet firmly on the ground, waiting for your answer with an impatient frown.

You’d frozen though, as white walls and straps, cold needles and cuts, and expressionless, masked people above you flashed in your head. Ghosts of fear the first time, devastation the second, emptiness the third, and fury the fourth echoed through your body. Moments of violating change and feelings of uncontrollable, off-balance infestation in your body that would haunt you for the rest of your life. You turned to Soldier Boy, who was still watching with a deep crease in his brow as the TV show played in white noise, and forced words from your chest, to your throat, and out of your mouth.

“If the Russians gave you a name, would you want people to use it?” You said carefully, and watched his first clench at your question, the bowl almost cracking under his grip.

He kept your gaze as he responded, a cool, rough brutality in his words. “I would fucking kill the pussy who was stupid enough to mention it.” You give him a pointed look, and watch the understanding slowly fall into place in his head. All that left him was a grunt, and he turned his body and focused back on the TV, the conversation abruptly over.

The afternoon slipped into evening, the evening into night, and hardly any more words were exchanged. You said good night as you stood to retreat to your room, and he gave a muttered acknowledgment in response. Your sleep was poor but long, and when you walked out into the hall the following morning, you found Soldier Boy standing right outside your door. His arms were crossed, one hand holding the TV remote, and he spoke the moment he saw you.

“Where the fuck is the rest of it?” His intense, demanding tone was far too firm for how early it was.

You gave him a droopy blink, noticing the same shirt and jeans from the day before. “Did you go to bed at all?”

“No. Where is it?” You try to move past him, but he moves to block your path. “Where?”

You rubbed your face, trying to squeeze out the lingering and puffy sleep. “I don’t have a fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

“The show,” he spoke as if it were obvious, continuing to glower down at you as he waved the remote in your face. “You left, and then it was suddenly over and some weird fucking shit started playing. Fix it.”

You squint at him. “That show was canceled in, like, 2018. There isn’t any more.”

His expression was remarkably distressed. “Why the fuck would they do that?!”

“Netflix isn’t great at understanding popular demand,” you rub your eyes again as the dry of your mouth starts to fade. “But there’s like, an insane amount of shows out there. We can find something else.”

“Nothing else is good,” he grumbled. “All that played after was some stupid dating show. I had to watch a group of fucking idiots sit in rooms and whine about love all night.”

“You had to?” You roll your eyes with a snort. “What, did Butcher arrive with a gas mask and threaten to knock you out if you didn’t? If it’s so painful for you, just change it, or turn it off.”

He glares at your mockery, rubbing his neck as he mutters, “I don’t know how.”

"Huh?" His words had passed right through your ears as you tried and failed to keep your slugglish attention from drifting.

"I don't fucking know how," he practically barked, his face red as he refused to look at you. "It's my fucking fault technology is so fucking stupid now."

“Oh,” You feel a small amount of guilt as you realize that his scowl is one of embarrassment, his annoyed tone most likely rooted in frustration. “Wait, how have you been using it for two weeks?”

“I’d just hit buttons until something happened. It worked fine until you started that stupid Netflix shit.”

With a deep breath and sigh, you extend your hand for the remote. When he doesn’t move, you grab it from him with a tug and duck around him. “Follow me.”

Soldier Boy trails after you as you descend the stairs, stopping at your side as you reach the TV. You raise your arm to turn it off, but glance at his still-scrunched face, his bothered expression, and hand the remote back to him instead.

He stares down at his hands before looking back at the TV, then to you, his scowl only more confused. “Nothing fucking happened.”

“You’re going to do it.” You explain, pointing from the remote to the illuminated screen. “I’ll walk you through it, but you’re going to do it yourself.” “Fuck no,” he tries to return the remote to you. “You do it.”

You hold your hands behind your back. “If you want to live any sort of life in the 21st century after this, you’re going to want to know how to use a TV.”

“I can use a fucking TV.”

“Yeah,” you snort. “A shitty, twenty-year-old motel TV. Unless you want us to put you in a memory unit, gramps, you’re going to have to do it yourself.”

“Bitch,” he grunts, but he stops trying to pawn off the remote.

“Cunt.”

His knuckles are white around the remote as he gives you an impatient, expectant look.

“Raise your hand like this, with that side,” you tap the head of the remote. “Facing the TV.”

He mimics your movements, and you give a nod of approval.

“Good, now hit that button.” When he doesn’t, you grab his finger and adjust to sit where you had pointed. “Ok, now that one.”

“Why are all these fucking buttons hidden and not labeled. Buttons used to be fucking labeled.”

You shrug. “For most people it’s intuitive, I guess.” You point to another button. “Now hit that one, and I’ll teach you how to search.”

This continues for another painstakingly drawn-out ten minutes. Once you’re absolutely sure he can passably navigate, raise and lower volume, and turn off the TV altogether, you step back.

“That’s it,” you offer him a grin. “Easy as breathing.”

He makes a grumbling, incoherent sound, dropping back on the couch. After a moment of staring at the menu on the screen, he looks up at you from his seat with an irritable frown. “You just going to fucking stand there?”

You blink at him, catch that his curt words are meant to be an offer, and move around the couch and to take the same spot you occupied yesterday. He offers you the remote back, and when you don’t take it he throws it onto your lap.

You give him a tired sigh. “The whole point of this-“

“I’ve never seen any of this shit. You said you’d find something else I’d like, Sunshine. Prove it.”

You raise your brows, but your protests die on your tongue, and you start scrolling through the display.

“I’m not that fucking old,” he grunts over your focus.

“What?” Half your attention still on the TV, you watch him shift forward in your periphery.

“I’m not that fucking old,” he repeats. “I’m not your fucking gramps.”

You glance at him, a hum of amusement leaving you. “You’re over a hundred. It’s not like you’re forty and I’m calling you ancient. Besides,” you give yourself a small smile. “Hughie told me about your little trysts with mature women. Mature woman, forty years your junior.” You stick out your tongue at him. “Cradle robber.”

“I don’t discriminate.” He says, leaning back to lounge on the couch. “And it’s not robbing the cradle if there’s no one that’s-“ he cuts himself off as he almost slips and admits your point. He gives you a glower, daring you to say something. “I’m not old.”

“Someone’s sensitive,” you mumble with a small, genuine smile, and before he can jab back, you hit play on a comedy special, turn the volume to max, and recline into the cushions.

The next set of days pass in similar fashion, and though Soldier Boy doesn’t stop grumbling insults and annoyances, picking small fights, or calling you a bitch, your childish psychological warfare has come to a halt, there’s no more throwing of chairs or explosions, and the word “bitch” off his tongue lacks the malice it did before. You quickly discover that Soldier Boy is a lot more like a toddler than anyone could have possibly guessed. You start leaving out snacks of cheese and fruit on the counter and rarely return to find it still in its spot. If you sit with him, he’ll stay shockingly still, but will make little snipes at the television. Sometimes you catch him after a comment, watching to see if you’re entertained by his words, and learn that even a vaguely amused smile makes him take on an overtly smug grin himself. At one point you start writing down a list of his less than progressive phrases, labeling it “Soldier Boy Racist Grampa Highlights," until he catches you, grabbing the list from next to you when he notices his name.

“The fucks this?” He’d asked as he scanned the page.

“I got bored,” you shrugged, and he rolled his eyes.

“This one’s not even that bad,” he pointed to a more recent addition, and you leaned over to read it.

“You called Hughie a cocksucking queer piss-boy. He’s not even here to defend himself.”

“So?”

You just gave him a flat look and returned your attention to the book you’d been skimming. You noticed him pocket the list, though, and over the next few days he started to pull it out whenever the apparently vital urge to insult someone showed its face. While the vulgarity didn’t decrease, the use of language you could only describe as tasteless and bigoted, did. Hughie even received a demotion to a “cocksucking pussy.”

He still rarely slept, instead locking himself in his room late at night and only emerging once you wake up. Once you pass his room on a 3am trip to the bathroom, walking in soft, toed steps to avoid disturbing him, only for the light leaking under his door to flood the hallway as he opens it.

“It’s not morning,” he watches you, leaning against his doorframe. “You should be asleep.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” is what you try to say. But between your clouded brain, restless need for the bathroom, and energy-drained body, what comes out is a string of sounds in a whiny tone.

“What was that?” His voice is taunting, but lacks any real edge.

“Cunt.” You mumble, trying to look at least a little menacing and, based off of what you think is a grin on Soldier Boy’s face, not succeeding.

“Bitch. You know, if you’re not tired, I’d be willing to help get you there.” He’s probably giving you a cocky, suggestive eyebrow wriggle, but between the sleepy squint of your eyes and light casting him in a silhouette, you really can’t tell. When you just make another mumble in response, he chuckles “Go back to bed, Sunshine, you’re going to collapse.”

“Nu-uh,” is all you can manage, and start to shuffle down the hall once more. When you emerge from the bathroom, your vision filled with spots after trying to turn on the lights only to be blinded, his door is closed once more, and you return to your room, collapsing back into useless, terror-fraught sleep.

When you walk into the kitchen that morning, the coffee pot is full.

———-

“What’s the third?”

You look up from your trudge through a CIA-provided, untranslated copy of Beowulf to find Soldier Boy staring at you from the door of your room.

“Third what?”

Taking that as an invitation, he stepped fully through the door to stand at the edge of your bed. “Third power. You’ve got your fireworks and feelings shit, what the fuck’s the third?”

You mark your page and meet his insistent face. “I told you that what, like ten days ago? Did you only now think to ask?”

“Nine days,” he says with an eye roll. “Don’t be fucking dramatic. And you got all pissy about your supe name. Not my fault I tried to respect your stupid fucking woman emotions and dropped it.”

You laugh. “First off, add ‘woman emotions’ to the list. And you totally forgot. I can see right through you, you just didn’t want me to make more old man jokes.”

“You’re fucking doing it anyway." He mutters, taking out the crumpled paper and a pencil from his pocket, using the wall to scratch the addition. “Would’ve been a stupid fucking plan, and I’m not a sensitive pussy who cares about jokes.” He shoves the list back into his jeans, and gives you a scowl as your grin spreads further across your face.

“Literally two days ago you threw a tantrum because I asked you what dinosaurs were your friends.”

“Are you going to answer my fucking question?”

“Fine, you baby,” you snort. “I can heal people by touching them. Technically, I transfer their injuries onto me, and then I heal so quickly it doesn’t matter. That’s mostly what I was doing for the Boys before this.”

“You were playing nurse?” He frowned. “When you can withstand a nuclear blast and are a fucking human molotov? That’s fucking stupid.”

“In case you didn’t notice, I don’t really have any control over the fire. And I wasn’t just ‘playing nurse’, I helped with missions in other ways.”

“Really?” His tone was sarcastic as he gave you a doubtful look. “What, you were a human shield too?”

“Well, yeah.” You mutter sheepishly. “But it was helpful."

“Sure, Sunshine. They must be torn up without you.”

You give him a scowl. “You know, I’m not going to tell you stuff if you’re going to be a fucking dick about it.”

He blinks, mouth curving down. “I was fucking joking.”

“Wasn’t funny,” you shrug, opening up your book. “Get out of my room.”

He doesn’t move. “Why are you being a fucking bitch again?”

You sigh, staring blankly at the pages. You’d admit, even from inside your own head, your anger had blossomed quite suddenly. But his accusations of your team being absolutely unaffected by your absence stabbed you somewhere in your chest, fueling that voice in the back of your head. It was getting louder, reminding you of all that damage in your wake—how your team walked on eggshells when they spoke to you and flinched when you touched them. “Human shield” was the best description of your place within the group. “Nurse” was too generous a term for a person they let touch and heal them only if the hospital was too far away and it couldn’t wait. On rare occasions you’d convince them to forgo their protests and just let you fix their wounds, but it took promises and pleas from you and exhausted caving from them. You look back up at Soldier Boy, who has remained in his place, eyes boring into you as you’d calmed yourself.

“I don’t like being useless.” You say softly. You know the admission could return to bite you in the ass should the peace you and Soldier Boy maintained the past week crumble, but he’d surprised you once. Maybe he’d do it again. “I don’t need you to remind me that I am.”

You watch his reaction, frown growing but fuming annoyance fading. His eyes were overtaken by a surly look you couldn’t figure out. “That’s the dumbest shit I’ve heard.”

Your jaw drops, and that thing under your skin starts to claw against your skull. “Get out.” When he doesn’t move, your voice raises. “Get out!”

“Would you just-“

“Out!” You’re at a full scream now, chucking Beowulf at him. “Get the fuck out!”

“Just fucking listen to me!” He’d stumbled back as the book hit, most likely out of shock more than anything else, but remained in your room. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice smoke starting to curl around you, but you’re too angry to try to calm it. He must notice it as well, because his face pinches slightly, no longer trying to move back to you. “I wasn’t done-“

“What, you got more stupid, cruel shit to say? About how I’m not just useless, I’m a stupid fucking bitch? A useless whore who can’t even cook? An uptight fucking prude?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, woman, for once in your life, shut the fuck up!” He’s yelling too now, and suddenly you can’t move. It’s not like he’s never raised his voice before, having frequent appearances in your previous daily shouting matches, but this is different. This seeps through the air into your blood and head, shutting everything in you down until all that’s left is fear. Breathing is hard, your heart can’t seem to keep up with your lungs, and your anger is quickly turning into a light-headed, frantic need to go, go, go and hide, or to start clawing and clawing at whatever comes close until this feeling leaves. All of a sudden he’s right there, he’s in front of you and grabbing your arms, shaking you and saying something you can’t hear. Slowly, the tightness around you starts changing, becoming something solid, something firm. You’re annoyed and frustrated, but under it rests an urge to cover your hands in blood over something. Your fragile terror is washed over by a vigilant alarm, and everything suddenly feels sharper. As you emerge from your own brain, you notice Soldier Boy still there, his face level with yours.

“You’re fine.” It’s not a question. He’s telling you, and suddenly you realize that you are. And as you nod, you feel the distress in you fade into something like relief. Your head drops, and you tense once more as your eyes see his hands on your biceps.

“Um,” you look between his grip on your body and his face, drawn with a confusion you can feel in yourself. You gesture your head back down, his own attention following yours, and he lets out a grunt when he sees what you’re glancing at, dropping himself from you.

He draws himself up and turns, and part of you thinks he’s going to walk out the door and leave the rest of your fight for the morning. But he stops when he opens the door, and speaks without turning.

“You’re not useless. That’s what I was trying to fucking tell you. You’re certainly worth more than any of those preachy hypocrites.” Before you can ever open your mouth, he’s gone, slamming the door behind him.

You don’t sleep that night, laying in bed with the sheets feeling too warm and itchy, your thrashing only just slower than your restless thoughts. You stare and stare at the ceiling, trying to comb through the conversation and pick apart every second so you’d know just what to say when the dawn broke. You wanted to, needed to, make sure things didn’t go back to the way they’d been before. That had been exhausting, every part of your waking moments wondering who would blow up first, listing out hypotheticals to ensure that you would win any fight he offered you. You’d take the blame, a scratch in the back of your head told you it was yours anyway, to keep this truce. As the night moves, time becomes uncertain, hours, minutes, and seconds all feeling the same. Your dread turns to shame, to doubt, to a hot, righteous anger.

This won’t wait for morning, you decide. He doesn’t get to do this, make you sink down like this. It might have been your fault, but he doesn’t get to make you sit in it. You’re going to fix this or blow it up, and you’re going to do it now.

He must be up. He’s always up. You’d seen him “sleep” twice, both times in a frighteningly controlled manner, waking himself up the moment his breathing became soft. He’s certainly up, the light in his room is escaping into the hall, and you can hear him shuffling around, but, still, you knock on his door. When it doesn’t open, you knock again, then once more after another minute of inaction.

After the fifth knock, your patience a thin thread, you shout. “I know you’re in there, Soldier Boy! The light’s on, and I can fucking hear you! We need to talk!” The sounds pick up, but still the door is shut. “Let me fucking in, you ass!”

Nothing.

The thread snaps, and you push open the door. The harsh of the light blinds you for only a second, and when your eyes adjust, you're met with the sight of Soldier Boy, asleep, with his face in crumpled in a pained grimace. Sheet askew across the bed as he grunts unintelligibly, his body looks braced against something you can’t see. You’re frozen in your place near the door, agitation forgotten. You want to wake him up, because you know far better than anyone how real these things can seem, how the pain being your head doesn’t stop the echo of it in your body. You want to leave and never speak of this again, because there’s no way he receive you seeing him like this well. But what makes you decision for you, springing you from your rooted place, is the light in his chest starting to brighten as the room starts to hum.

It’s more instinct than anything—you know that the safe house and everything in it has been built to withstand this very thing, but that knowledge doesn’t stop you—as you run to the bed and shake Soldier Boy by his shoulders. When your skin meets his a rush of fear, pure and unbridled fear as strong as it had been from you hours ago, overtakes you. Fear and anger. You don’t think you ever felt this bloodthirsty, savage anger in you before. Your anger had always been cold and zealous, calculating tributes for your sorrow. This anger didn’t care. Somebody just had to hurt, and hopefully that someone would break.

If it’d been any other circumstance, you’d have been terrified by it. But you’re not, focused entirely on waking Soldier Boy up. Later, when several hours were between you and this moment, you’d deal with this. Maybe you’d even acknowledge how, despite the distance, you still may not be afraid of it. But now, with the light only growing, you let his feelings wash through you, and you do something drastic.

You pull back and slap Soldier Boy in the face.

He roars, eyes shooting open and glazed with a feral haze, his body jerking upright and grabbing you by the throat. Even as it happens, hindsight tells you that there probably were other ways to wake him up, but this was the stupid path you’d taken, and you unfortunately could not go back.

Before your vision could grow spotty, before your own fear and images of a flickering light above you could overtake your head, he let go with another shout. You scrambled back, realizing the fever in you had crept out of your spine, trading bruises on your neck for burns on his hands.

You watch him slowly regain control, his face dropping into exhaustion and his eyes searching the room—for what exactly, you’re not sure—and finding you.

“What the fuck are you doing here.” The words are low and rough, and though they don’t sound like a question, you answer him anyway.

“I- I just wanted to talk, and you weren’t answering the door…” You trail off lamely, your words sounding hollow even to you.

He doesn’t yell at your though, or push you out. He just stares at you, as if you’re meant to continue, to try and justify your presence. But you just stare back, unsure if you want him to kick you out, talk to you, or just pass out and forget the whole thing.

Instead of those options, leaving you at yet another loss, he sits back and scoots over to the far side of the mattress. When you don’t react besides another prolonged stare, he gives a half-hearted eye roll and pats the space next to him. Slowly, slightly fearful of misunderstanding his gesture, you walk over and drop on the bed at his side.

He’s looking ahead, unreadable from only his side profile, when he speaks.

“I shouldn’t have fallen asleep.”

You don’t stop watching him as you respond. “Does that happen every time?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

You don’t have anything else to say—any reassurance you can think of sounding stupid even in your head. So you wait, still watching him, and sit in the silence.

“Do you not have any?” His voice is strangely soft, though no tension has left his body.

You give a small sigh. “I do. But I’m good at hiding them. Stuff like that,” you wave a hand to his chest. “Only happens on bad days.”

“Bad days?” You can see his frown forming as his lips turn down, his voice growing deeper.

“On a few missions, I saw Homelander,” you whisper, now staring ahead yourself. “From afar. Really afar. I know he didn’t ever even see me, because I’m not back… there, but whenever I see him, apparently it’s enough.” You turn back to Soldier Boy, and are met with him watching you.

“Is that what yours are about?”

You give a small nod. “Different things happen, but it’s always him. Always there.”

“Hm,” his eyes don’t leave you as he speaks. “How do you stop them?”

You don’t have to ask what he means. “I don’t stop them, I just keep them in here.” You tap your head. “And I think of before. About how it was.”

“That helps?”

“As long as I don’t let myself remember that it will never be like that again.” You can’t hide the pain the words give you.

“What was it like?”

“Before? It’s was normal,” you shrug. “Boring.”

He tilts his head at you. “Normal?”

“Normal,” you repeat, watching his face as you speak.

He frowns, and looks away. You notice him swallow heavily, glaring at the wall. “Like,” he swallows again. “Like what?”

“Well, I had parents. Siblings. I had friends, I worked, I went to school-“

“School?” He turns back to you. “You're an adult, did they make school fucking longer?”

You feel a small smile quirk your lip. “No, I was doing a postgraduate. I’d actually just finished. Technically, I’m a doctor.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“Of Anthropology, yeah. I know less about human medicine than WebMD.” You pause. "That’s like, a website that’s famous for giving bad medical advice. I’ll show you tomorrow.”

“And you think you know less than it?”

“Oh, I know I know less than it.”

He snorted, returning to watch the wall. “That’s fuckin ironic.”

You nod in amusement. “Yep.”

When you don’t continue, he looks back once more. “What else?”

“I lived alone. Small, shitty studio on the Upper West Side. I visited my dad in Boston once a month-“

“Just your dad?”

“Yeah, my mom wasn’t dead, she’s just a bitch.” You hear Soldier Boy cough what might have been a laugh, but you ignore it. “She and my dad divorced when I was like, ten. They had joint custody, but I stopped talking to her when I was fifteen.”

“Harsh,” he mutters. “What, she ground you one too many times?”

You decided that holding back about thing like this was a need long gone. “She tried to send me to a medical boarding school in the Berkshires.”

“What the fuck is a ‘medical boarding school’”

“Like a psych ward where they teach you math.”

“Huh,” he raises his brows at you. “You need one?”

You shake your head. “Nah, I already knew math.”

He stares at you blankly, a smile having crept onto your face. “You’re… making a joke.” He said slowly.

“Yep,” you nudge his shoulder with your own. “That’s what a good one sounds like.”

He lets out a low laugh. “That wasn’t that fucking good.”

“You laughed.”

“You can’t fucking prove it.”

You’re grinning fully now. “Whatever you need to tell yourself, gramps.”

He rolls his eyes. “So your mom’s a bitch, you lived alone, and you can’t even cook. That’s just fucking sad.”

“New York is famous for its food,” you mutter. “And I can heat stuff up, as you very well know.”

“You can’t coast on box macaroni forever, Sunshine.”

“Been working fine for both of us so far.”

He gives you an amused look. “You’re not trying to seduce me.”

“What the fuck does that have to do-“

“You don’t have to impress me,” he continues, unfazed. “Your cooking doesn’t matter. What’d you do when you were hungry for dick?”

You stare at him. “You’re unbelievable.” He only returns your glare with a cocky grin.

“You haven’t seen nothing yet, Sunshine.” He winks, and you roll your eyes.

“Men aren’t big pussies about that stuff anymore,” you smile as his face drops at your claim. “And I never spent a lot of time being ‘hungry for dick’, anyways.”

“What, you have a loyal boyfriend?” he taunts.

“Nope,” you give him a grin. “But I had a sweet old lady in the apartment across the hall who brought me food every weekend. You’d have liked her, she was just your type.”

He grunts, but not with annoyance. “All I hear is no boyfriend, no friends, and can’t cook. Like I said, just fucking sad.”

“I had friends!” You protest. “We’d do karaoke every Friday!”

“You can sing?”

“Nobody who does karaoke can sing,” you dodge with ease. “But we had fun.”

He lets out a labored breath, and when he turns to you this time, you notice how bloodshot his eyes are.

“Would you go back?” He asked. He was watching you so carefully, and you once again are left confused by the look in his eyes.

“I don’t think I could.” You answer, your voice sounding far away, a memory of a gravestone flashing in your head. “I don’t think it would be fair to them.”

“Fair to them?” He gives a doubtful huff. “That’s fucking stupid.”

“Really?” You challenge. “I don’t think it’s stupid to not want to pull the people you love into this shitshow. I got a chance to keep them out of this life. Most people aren’t that lucky.”

Soldier Boy only shrugs. “Bad things will still fucking happen to them.”

“Bad things happen to everyone.” Your words are firm. “I’m making sure they don’t fucking die.”

“Well,” he turns back to the wall. “Aren’t they fucking lucky they have you.”

You know his words are meant to be cold and sarcastic, his face has even dropped into a scowl. But there was no sharpness behind them, and the rest of his face just looks… so tired. You hate it, it’s leaking into you and you’re not even touching him. You really, really want it to stop. So, you say the only thing that you can think of.

“Nobody taught me,” you say softly.

“What?” His red eyes give you a confused glance.

“I can’t cook because nobody taught me how. My mom didn’t care to, I don’t think it ever occurred to my dad, and eventually everyone just assumed that I could and I didn’t want to correct them. I turned into some sort of rage against the patriarchy shit in my head, but it’s a just life skill that I can’t do because nobody wanted to teach me.” You give him a sad smile. “I don’t think they felt as lucky to have me as you think.”

“So why’re you protecting them?” He asks, a puzzled frown on his face. “If those pussies didn’t fucking care about you, then they don't fucking deserve it.”

You shrug. “I know. But I’m going to keep doing it anyway.”

His eyes on yours have that look of dissection again, but it’s no longer violating, only prying carefully. You’re not sure how long passes before he speaks.

“It’s late,” he mutters. “You should sleep.”

You hesitate, but nod and stand. You move to the door, glancing back to see his still watching, alone on the bed. From here, he somehow looks more tired, the light making the circles around his eyes more prominent and the color on his face more washed out. You think it’s the most human you’ve ever seen him.

“Good night, Soldier Boy,” you say gently, and turn to leave.

You almost don’t hear his response.

“You don’t have to call me Soldier Boy,” the words are said under his breath, and when you turn, he has a soft frown. “Ben’s fine.”

You blink, and a small, unforced smile crosses your face. “I’ll see you in the morning, Ben.”

[theygotlost]

good afternoon here's my big rant on my pet peeves for subtitles in movies and tv

This is a post that I’ve thought about making probably for years now but never got around to. I might add more later if I realize I’ve forgotten any

When it comes down to it, the purpose of subtitles is this: to reflect exactly what the audience can hear, precisely when it can be heard. If you fail to do this, your subtitles are bad and you should feel bad. Although I don’t have concrete examples for most of these off the top of my head, I promise I have experienced them all firsthand at least once.

-> Watch for spelling and typos. Obviously.

-> Syncing issues.

This should go without saying, but the captions should be synced as closely as possible with dialogue and sound effects. Subtitles that are out of sync are worse to me than no subtitles at all. They’re unbearably distracting and I have to turn them off. I’m fortunate enough that I can keep watching without them, so imagine how frustrating this is for someone who needs to keep them on no matter what.

-> Jumping the gun.

This is basically an example of out-of-sync subtitles that are slightly too fast, but it gets its own category because it ruins the viewing experience in its own unique way. In particularly dramatic scenes, actors will often draw out their lines or pause between phrases. Captions sometimes fail to reflect this by displaying the entire sentence all at once, allowing the audience to read what someone is about to say before they actually say it, which deflates all the dramatic tension of the scene.

-> Phantom captions.

This one is less self explanatory, but it’s kind of similar to syncing. Sometimes there will be significant intervals of time between lines of dialogue, especially after a scene ends and a new one begins. The interval may include music, sound effects, or complete silence, but what I’m calling a “phantom” is a caption that stays on the screen after that last line of dialogue is delivered until the next line is spoken. I don’t remember what I was watching, but there was one that was glued to the screen for SEVERAL MINUTES over what was supposed to be an atmospheric break between scenes and it drove me nuts. In my experience this happens more often with older subtitling for DVDs and some old videos and less with modern streaming. 

-> Straight up spoilers.

Sometimes, a character will speak whose true identity has not yet been revealed to the audience. If I’m not supposed to know the character’s name yet, don’t just… tell me right there in the captions whenever they say something. Descriptors like “disembodied voice”, “man”/”woman”, “mysterious figure”, etc. will suffice.

-> Lack of musical descriptors.

It usually helps to describe the genre or emotion of the music that’s playing rather than just writing [music] or 🎵. That being said, if there is a song playing that’s particularly well known in the mainstream, I think it’s useful to actually include the name of the song. This one I do have a concrete example for: in Arrested Development, Gob always blasts The Final Countdown during his acts. But the captions on my DVDs for the show always describe it as [stagy pop]. Like yeah I would say that song is some pretty stagy pop, but I think a lot of the humor comes from knowing that it’s specifically The Final Countdown by Europe because it’s such a perfectly corny selection that Gob would make.

Another musical failure is not transcribing pertinent lyrics. If the song is playing in the background, then that’s understandable and it can be kind of distracting if there’s dialog happening on top of it because the audience isn’t actually meant to be paying close attention to the song. But if the song is front and center, like for a musical number or montage, then the lyrics can be pretty important. Last year when I watched Arcane on Netflix with my family (a recent, high budget production from the biggest streaming platform ever), the show had the nerve to write [man rapping] over a musical sequence. Imagine if all subtitles ever just said [person speaking] for the entire movie.

-> Affectations.

If a character starts using a silly voice or accent, or if the sound of their voice changes in any way, describe that. If the audience can hear the difference, the subtitles should reflect that difference. And they should reflect it informatively and accurately; for example, don’t just say [mock accent], but specify [mock French accent]. 

-> Paraphrasing.

I don’t even know why this is an issue, but it’s alarming how many times the subtitles just… straight up don’t match what the characters are actually saying. It’s like the transcriber was forced to write all the captions from memory, so they kinda sorta say the same thing, but the wording is different and some sentences or phrases are missing. When I brought this up with my mom she theorized that the transcriber was working off the script for the movie because hey, that’s all the dialogue already written down, right? But it completely fails to account for revisions, improvisation, or actors delivering their lines even slightly different than how they were originally written.

And last but certainly not least, one of the biggest offenders in bad subtitling…

-> [Speaks foreign language]

If someone says something in another language, please, for the love of god, do not just write [speaks foreign language]  and call it a day. Specifying the actual language is an improvement, but this descriptor only works if the audience members are truly not meant to know what’s being said (which is sometimes the case). If a character is only saying a single word or phrase in another language, transcribe it. As in, write down the actual words that they said. If you don’t speak that language, find someone who does. You are insane for transcribing a character saying “hola” or “abuela” in an otherwise English sentence as [speaks Spanish] (real examples I saw respectively in Rango and JANE THE VIRGIN. THERE’S SO MUCH SPANISH IN THAT SHOW). 

If the audience is supposed to know what someone is saying in another language, English subtitles will usually be hardcoded. DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, LET THE CAPTION SAYING [SPEAKS FOREIGN LANGUAGE] COVER THESE UP. This is actively impeding understanding, not helping it. Jesus christ

* Please keep in mind that I’m not deaf or hard of hearing and I don’t have auditory processing disorder; I almost always watch movies and tv with subtitles whenever the option is available because it helps me absorb information better. If I don’t even strictly NEED subtitles and these are issues for me, I can only imagine how much more difficult it is for those who rely on them more heavily. I invite you to add your own perspective!!

[straylightdream]

what am I missing? ~ 3racha

act five: “was I even an option?”

feat: bang chan x f.reader, seo changbin x f.reader, han jisung x f.reader

↳ in your mid to late twenties you’re left wondering if you missed your sexual awakening. With a the help of friends you start to really find yourself.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: for the story as a whole angst, a little fluff, body image issues, and self doubt, cussing all smut warnings listed below for what is in this story.

series masterlist

𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬.

𝐚𝐧: these will be shorter Drabble style chapters. 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰. Please fill out this form.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: the mc calls herself a slut. for the story as a whole, oral (fem & male receiving), piv, unprotected sex, groping, threesome, use or traffic light system, choking, and spanking, more warning to come.

Life has been crazy with work and with- well that night you shared with Changbin. You haven’t been able to see him or either of the other boys. Jisung has been texting you a lot and even asked you to get dinner this weekend just the two of you.

You were surprised when Chan asked you to grab dinner on a random Wednesday night after work. Instead of going out he brought take out over. Like he normally does when you hang out just the two of you. Sitting on your couch eating noodles you both watched some random movie you decided to watch on Netflix. You could tell right away Chan had something on his mind. You decided not to push him to say anything that if he wanted to talk about it he would bring it up. He’s always been easier to read when he seems like he has a lot on his mind.

“I need to tell you something.” He speaks up.

“What’s up Chan?” You set your empty plate down on the coffee table.

“I accidentally let it slip to the boys about your bad date.” You look over at him and can tell he feels bad he told them.

“That explains why Changbin came over and why Jisung is texting me way more than normal.” You can’t help but find the situation a little funny.

“I’m really sorry.”

If the boys know about your bad day and your “little problem” you're assuming they know about what happened with Changbin. “It’s fine Chan. I’m assuming you figured out I slept with Bin.”

“Yeah I figured it out but I promise he wasn’t bragging or anything like that. Jisung figured it out on his own and, then Jisung pointed it out when we were getting a drink.”

A little laugh passes your lips. Of course Jisung figured it out. He’s always had a knack for reading people. You vividly remember getting drunk one time when you had a crush on Changbin, and Jisung told you he knew you like him. You knew nothing would happen between you and Changbin because he was going through a break up. But Jisung informing you he knew you had a crush on your friend was like a bucket of ice water being poured on you.

“It’s fine you guys know. I know we don’t exactly talk about our sex lives with each other. But being with Changbin really made me feel more confident in myself. I can’t help but wonder what it’s like to explore other sides of myself in bed.”

He stares at you for a long moment almost like he’s studying you. He looks away and you can tell he’s thinking about something he wants to say. “You don’t have to answer this but I want to ask you something,” he’s suddenly nervous, having a hard time looking you straight in the eyes now.

“Whatever it is, go on and ask.” The way he was acting was making you slightly nervous yourself.

“Are you going to sleep with Jisung?”

When Jisung asked you out over text you couldn’t help but feel that maybe he did want to sleep with you? But you haven't figured out if that was okay after sleeping with Changbin. Before anything would happen you would let Jisung know about you Changbin. “I mean I might make myself sound like a slut, but honestly I would like to. I’ve gone most of my life barely having a sex life and when I did have it wasn’t really fun or exciting. It would be nice to explore things with him or Changbin. Jisung talks about his sex life all the time and it sounds like he’s into more interesting things so I can’t lie, I'm intrigued.”

Without even thinking Chan opens his mouth, “what about me?”

There is a moment of silence that feels deafening. The tension in the room suddenly felt thick. You never thought Chan was ever fully interested in you. Sure he flirts here and there but he’s never made it sound like he saw you as someone he was attracted to or acted like he was sexually attracted to you. Jisung always pokes fun at him saying he’s in love with you, but you never thought he actually was. Of course you’re attracted to him, and embarrassingly he’s been the center of a few of your sex dreams unintentionally.

“What about you?”

“Was I never an option?”

Chan was honestly your first pick in your mind when he brought up the idea of a friend helping you out, but he never made a move. You just assumed he didn’t see you that way.

“I didn’t think you wanted to be an option,” you pick at the sleeves of your sweater feeling suddenly more nervous.

He sets his food down on the table and moves closer to you. You hold still holding your breath without realizing you are. He pushes hair behind your ear giving him a clear view of your face. “I shouldn’t have told the boys about your date.”

“Why?” You whisper.

“Because I shouldn’t have let Changbin come over.” He leans in closer to you.

“Chan what is happening?” Your lips are close as your noses brush.

“I’m not going to ask you to stop exploring your sex life, but I want to be an option.”

-

Chan realized after Jisung made it clear he was going to pursue you that if he wanted a chance to prove to you he wanted you, he would take any opportunity he got. When he asked you to have dinner his intentions weren’t to sleep with you. He honestly just wanted to talk, but he realized he couldn’t make another mistake and he wanted to know what it’s like to make you fall apart. Chan liked you as way more than a friend. He knew if this was all he was able to have he wanted to have something with you.

“You were always an option. If you want to sleep together we can,” you say with your lips still close.

Without saying another word he takes your face in both hands and presses his lips to yours for a heated first kiss.

Regarding taglist:

If you aren’t interacting with my writing outside of liking the new post I’m gonna have to remove your name from the taglist. You will also be removed if I try to tag you and your blog is listed as "invisible". If you've changed your URL and didn't let me know I will also be removing your name. I’m sorry for the inconvenience but my interactions outside or likes feels like it’s nonexistent right now. All of my taglist are still open though. If you request to be added to one via this form, I kindly ask for interactions in the form and feedback and reblogs. To be quite honest, those really encourage my writing.

[houseofchalamet]

What Are Friends For? (Part 2)

Pairing: Timothée Chalamet x fem!Reader Summary: Reader gets a chance to return the favor ;) Warnings: Smut (fingering, handjob, oral - male receiving), language, friends with benefits, no aftercare. Word count: 959

You were afraid things would be awkward between you and Timmy, but that couldn’t be more wrong. 

After your… encounter, you’d put on a pair of pants and met him in the living room. You both ate your food on the couch and watched a movie, talking and laughing like it hadn’t even happened. You were relieved that it hadn't changed your friendship.

Except for the fact that when he went home that night, you masturbated to the thought of his fingers inside you at least a hundred times. You wondered if he was doing the same. The thought of him fucking his hand and thinking of you made you cum extra hard.

Your lives were busy. You managed to hang out with him a few more times in the next couple weeks, but nothing sexual happened again. You didn’t want to push it and risk making things weird between the two of you, so you let it go.

“What are we watching?” Timothée called from the living room.

“I don’t know, whatever you want,” you called back as you practically emptied all of the snacks from your kitchen cabinets.

He sighed loudly as you entered the living room, arms full of junk food. “You decide.” This was an argument you two had often.

“I don’t know.” You dropped everything onto the coffee table.

“Just pick something,” he pleaded.

You grabbed the remote and plopped down on the couch beside him. You didn’t even know which streaming service to flip through. You tried Netflix. Nothing.

As you were waiting for Hulu to load, Timmy shifted in his seat for what had to have been the third time in under two minutes. You turned to him, wondering what his deal was. He met your gaze immediately. His eyes were wide and his cheeks were tinted a light shade of pink.

Like he’d been caught.

You had no idea what was going on until your eyes just happened to flick down and you took in the bulge in his pants. A long moment passed as he tried to gauge your reaction and you tried to figure out what had triggered this or how to even react. Finally, you cleared your throat, not wanting to appear too excited.

“Do you need help with that?” You nodded down to the tightness in his jeans.

He smirked a little, remembering your encounter all those weeks ago. “Would you?”

“What are friends for?” Remote forgotten, you tucked yourself beside him and reached down, feeling him over his jeans first. You fought back a smirk; you knew he’d be big. He exhaled, his head dropping back onto the cushions even though you’d barely touched him yet. You made quick work of unzipping his jeans and pulling him out of his boxers. 

You thought of all the nights you’d laid in bed, imagining Timmy’s cock, and now here it was, hard in your hand. Your pussy was already dripping as you ran your hand up and down his length.

You rubbed your legs together to create some friction. Timmy noticed your neediness and reached his hand into your pajama pants until you felt slight pressure on your clit. You gasped, automatically opening your legs in search of more pleasure, which he was happy to provide.

You pumped even faster, hoping you’d be rewarded for it, and you were. He slid a finger inside you. You bucked your hips, wanting more. You could no longer contain your excitement; you’d been dreaming of this for weeks. He matched his pace to yours, fingering you at the same speed you were using on him. 

Your chest rose and fell rapidly. Despite your building orgasm, you forced yourself to focus on pleasuring him. He seemed to be doing the same, adding another finger. You were both locked in a pleasure-filled standoff.

He increased his pace, rubbing your clit with his thumb and effectively throwing you over the edge. A whimper escaped your throat as you came around his fingers for the second time. You could feel his dick twitch in your hand as your pussy convulsed.

You pulled his hand from your pants and guided it to your mouth, sucking on the cum-covered digits before he had the chance to do so first. His jaw dropped as he watched you swirl your tongue around his fingers, tasting yourself. It was undeniably hot. He involuntarily bucked his hips once, simply unable to help himself. He was close.

Whether he knew it or not, he’d made you cum several times the last few weeks. Now, you needed to return the favor. You dropped to your knees, intending to replace his fingers with his cock.

“Fuck, (Y/N),” he strained. He nearly came just from the sight of you kneeling before him. You licked his tip, making him curse again. “Feels so fucking good.”

Excitement coursed through your veins; you liked when he praised you. He was struggling to keep his composure, and the little noises of pleasure that managed to escape him only excited you even more.

You took his cock almost entirely in your mouth, licking the underside and swirling your tongue around the tip, knowing it would be the end of him.

He looked god-like as he came; better than you ever could have imagined. His back arched and his hands clenched around the material of the couch cushion. Your pussy clenched again at the sight and taste of him coating your mouth.

You rested your head on his thigh, committing his fucked-out expression to memory as he tried to slow his breathing.

“Timmy?” you asked after a few moments.

“Yeah, (Y/N)?”

You stood, wiping the side of your mouth and grabbing the remote once more. “I wanna watch Euphoria.”

[disasterarea-podcast]

So given the writer’s strike, some people are concerned about their shows and movies being postponed or canceled, and aside from the fact networks have already BEEN canceling shows for no reason for years (I still maintain a healthy anger about what Netflix did to Sense8), I thought I would suggest some books on disasters you might want to read if you’re into that sort of history. Which you are if you’re here, I imagine.

Note: I’m suggesting these books because most books on disasters don’t get a huge audience, and so I recommend them because this sort of writing can be hard on the writer and requires a bunch of research. We throw so much money at true crime, we can spare a few bucks for the stories of people who died in disasters.

Also, please check with these with your local small bookstore or library. Amazon can be great, but let’s lend a hand to those who need us more.

Recommended books:

“The Circus Fire,” by Stewart O’Nan - This is one my favorite books on a disaster, because the whole thing creates a very vivid image of the circus prior to the fire in Hartford in July of 1944. There’s one specific line in the book which always makes me pause because it’s so affecting, about how everyone who escaped being able to hear the sounds of the animals screaming as they died - except all of the animals were out of the tent by then.

“The Only Plane in the Sky,” by Garrett Graff - This, I highly recommend you get on audiobook. It’s an oral history of the events of 9/11 with a full cast, and it’s incredibly affecting to listen to.

“Ada Blackjack: A True Story of Survival in the Arctic,” by Jennifer Niven - Ada Blackjack was a badass: flawed and weak at times, but hardy and steady when necessary. Half of her story is how she survived, but half is how she was exploited following her rescue. Both stories need to be known.

“Alive,” by Piers Paul Read - If you’re watching “Yellowjackets,” this should be required reading. If you’ve seen the movie adaptation from the 90s, there is WAY more you don’t know. The story of Uruguayan Air Force Flight 571 is a tough read, but a worthy one.

“A Night to Remember,” by Walter Lord - This is to disaster nonfiction what “In Cold Blood” is to true crime. It’s not a long read, but it’s a great one. Lord had the advantage of writing the book while many of the Titanic survivors were still alive and could give a very good description of what they went through.

“Dying to Cross,” by Jorge Ramos - I recommend this not just because it is good, but because it is timely. Nineteen people died in an un-air-conditioned truck as they were attempting to make their way into the states from over the Mexican border. It’s a horrific story, and one that humanizes an issue for whom some people need to be faced with the humans involved and what they go through.

“Bath Massacre: America’s First School Bombing,” by Arnie Bernstein - Harold Schecter also wrote a very good book on the Bath school massacre called “Maniac,” but I have a preference for this version. It’s a good reminder that schools in the U.S. didn’t just become targets in the last twenty years or so.

“Into Thin Air,” by Jon Krakauer - I feel like this is a gimme, but it’s a fantastic book from someone who was actually on Mount Everest during the 1996 disaster and knew those involved very well. I happen to like Krakauer’s work anyway - I even like “Into the Wild” despite my feelings about McCandless and his legacy - but it’s understandably my favorite.

“And the Band Played On,” by Randy Shilts - The one thing I will say is that Shilts’ treatment of Gaetan Dugas is *rough* to say the least and outright wrong on some points, God knows. But it’s still an amazing book, and if you come out of it not wanting to dig up Reagan and punch him a bunch I’m impressed at your restraint.

“Triangle: The Fire That Changed America,” by David von Drehle - The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire is one of the disasters I am most interested in, and I would argue this is the definitive book on the subject. Also, if this book introduces you to both Clara Lemlich and Frances Perkins … I mean, talk about badass women.

“The Radium Girls,” by Kate Moore - Look, I’ll say this. If you know of the Radium Girls, this is a great book on their story. If you don’t know, go in blind and prepared to be horrified.

“Red Famine: Stalin’s War on Ukraine,” by Anne Applebaum - Ukraine has always been a target. During the Holodomor, they were victims of one of the worst genocides in history.

“Midnight in Chernobyl,” by Adam Higginbotham - Like the miniseries? This is a great source for more information for what happened at Chernobyl and all of the ass-covering involved.

"Boston Strong: A City's Triumph Over Tragedy," by Casey Sherman and Dave Wedge - If you’re interested in the Boston marathon bombing, I really thought this book did a good job of connecting the stories of the victims, the authorities searching for the killers, and the killers themselves.

“Show Me the Bodies: How We Let Grenfell Tower,” by Peter Apps - As I understand it, Apps did a lot of covering the Grenfell Tower fire for the British press, and it shows. He provides a mountain of information, and you will come out of reading this book absolutely LIVID about what authorities allowed to happen in Grenfell and so many other council estates in the UK.

“Dark Tide: The Great Molasses Flood of 1919,” by Stephen Puleo - I feel as though the molasses flood gets treated like a joke a lot of the time, but y’all, twenty people died. That area of Boston was *wrecked*. The photos of the devastation are terrifying. Puleo treats all of this with the proper respect it deserves.

“In the Heart of the Sea: The Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex,” by Nathaniel Philbrick - Forget the movie. Read the book.

“The Great Influenza,” by John M. Barry - Want to read about the 1918 flu epidemic? Want to be mad that a hundred years later we didn’t learn a damn thing?

Now, that’s just a start. If anyone wants, I can always post photos of my disaster book collection on Kindle and next to my recording desk. Or if there’s a specific disaster you’re interested in, I may know of a good book about it you can read.

But just remember if SAG and the directors’ guild joins the strike too - there is so much out there to occupy your time until they come back. Entertainment work is work, and it deserves to be supported financially and fairly as such. Rock on, WGA. ✊

[squichymochi]

It’s been a few years since I wrote something and English isn’t my first language. Also first time I am writing/posting something on tumblr 😅

Anyway Hazbin is my new hyperfixation, so I’ve written something 👉🏻👈🏻

Warning: Mentions of death and murder as well as sex toys, but nothing too out of the ordinary for this show.

Alastor x Reader

Word Count: 1.070

Idea from: @this-hazbin-quoted

"What in the heavens is that?" Your voice carried a mix of curiosity and concern as you stepped into the hotel's living room, your eyes instantly drawn to the shiny, noisy object that had captivated everyone's attention.

Charlie, Vaggie, Sir Pentious, and Angel Dust were scattered around a brand new, fancy-looking television. The device looked out of place amid the hotel's usual furnishings. *Your husband will be more than just pissed when he sees this,* you thought, a wry smile tugging at your lips. *Understatement of the century*.

"We got it because Sir Pentious wanted to show us something new called Netflix," Charlie explained, her eyes twinkling. Her excitement was infectious, but you remained skeptical. "And what better than a movie evening huddled up together as a bonding activity," she added, her arms dancing through the air to emphasize her point.

"Mhhh," you hummed noncommittally, drifting towards the bar where Husk had already prepared your favorite drink - a dark, smoky whiskey that promised a momentary escape from the madness of Hell. You let yourself fall onto one of the bar stools, the leather creaking under your weight. "I don’t know if this is such a good idea," you mumbled, the warm liquid burning a path down your throat, leaving a trail of bitterness.

"I tried talking them out of it, but they’ve been glued to this nonsense for hours," Husk grumbled, his tail swishing in visible irritation. He poured another drink, his movements more mechanical than thoughtful.

Raising an eyebrow, you turned to observe the group. Angel Dust was lounging on the sofa, his posture relaxed. "Well, first we were watching a documentary about sextoys," he began, only to be cut off by Vaggie's death promising glare. "But since everyone's acting prudish, we switched to something else," he finished, rolling his eyes dramatically.

The group was mesmerised by the screen, their expressions a mix of fascination and horror. Husk slid another drink towards you, his own bottle now halfway to empty. "When Alastor gets back, I'm not going to be a part of this circus," he growled, taking a long swig.

Your attention was snapped back to the TV by a dark, ominous voice. "Until this day, nobody knows what happened to the man. All that was found were his glasses and one of his shoes, floating in the river."

A sense of familiarity washed over you, and you slid off the stool, drawn to the group huddled around the TV.

The story was unnervingly familiar, like a half-remembered dream. Squinting, you joined them on the sofa. "Want some?" Angel offered, extending a bowl of popcorn towards you as you took a seat next to him. You grabbed a handful, tossing them into your mouth. But as the storyteller uttered the victim's name, the popcorn lodged in your throat, triggering a fit of coughing.

"Hey there, toots, usually you choke on something that is a bit more substantial," Angel said with a snort, patting your back. "You alright, Y/N? We can switch to something else if this is too much," Charlie offered, her fingers hovering over the remote, concern written all over her face.

"No, no, it's fine!" you sputtered, your cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and surprise. If only they knew why that name shocked you.

Time drifted by as you all settled into watching "True Crimes Unsolved." The room was dimly lit, casting eerie shadows that danced along with the flickering images on the screen. You found yourself huddled under a blanket with Angel Dust, both of you gradually growing more tired by the hour, your eyes heavy with sleep.

Suddenly, a jarring static noise pierced the quiet, sending shivers down your spine. You looked up, startled, to see your husband, Alastor, perched at the edge of the sofa. His smile was strained, a forced mask over his growing irritation.

"May someone enlighten me as to why we have this grotesque picture device here?" His voice, was filled with static, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

"Darling," you started, hoping to diffuse the tension, but Charlie, ever the optimist, was already bounding over with her usual infectious enthusiasm and of course undying charm. You could see Alastor's eye twitch slightly, a sign of his growing annoyance.

Alastor's mood shifted suddenly, his attention captured by the story on the screen. "Oh, I remember this one. He tasted rather delightful," he said with a giggle that was as unsettling as it was genuine. The room fell into an uncomfortable silence, every eye turning to Alastor, who was now fixated on the TV.

"Didn't he, darling?" Alastor squeezed in between you and Angel, wrapping an arm around you. Your face flushed a bright shade of red, and you desperately avoided everyone's gaze. "Ha, they never found him. I told you, darling, burying his bones beneath a protected area was a brilliant idea!”

Before he could continue, you jumped to your feet. "Alright, that's enough for today. Time for bed," you declared, your voice trembling nervously. Alastor's grin widened, the mockery clear in his eyes.

As the room cleared, Angel Dust leaned in, his grin mischievous. "Never took you for the type, toots. But hey, we're all sinners down here," he teased, patting your head with a genuine and friendly smile.

Finally alone, you collapsed onto the sofa beside Alastor. "You didn't have to tell them," you pouted, feeling a mix of embarrassment and annoyance.

Alastor leaned in close, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Darling, you're my wife. They already have to know," he chuckled, his hand gently caressing your cheek.

Time passed, and Alastor wrapped an arm around you, his gaze softening as he looked down at you. "Do you want to see how many more of them are people we've dealt with together?" he asked, a hint of fondness in his voice.

You snuggled closer, resigning yourself to watching a few more episodes. But Alastor's final comment about the television lingered in the air. "This device will be gone tomorrow. I'm not fond of it," he said, the static in his voice sending yet again a thrill through you.

You buried your face in his button up shirt. "Not every new technology is a threat," you murmured. His only response was a haunting stare. Sighing, you kissed the corner of his mouth. "Fine, podcasts it is, then," you said with a chuckle.

Thanks for reading my little drabble ☺️

[be-my-sunrise]

The Masked Man || p.js

pairings: jason role-player!jisung x fem!reader

genre: smut, minor pls dni

wc: 3,551

warnings: phone sex, mutual masturbation, use of sex toy, choking, use of pet names and derogatory terms, reader had a dream about having sex with jisung. let me know if i missed anything!

a/n: this fic is a part of 1-800-SLASHER collab by @jenoslutie !! i apologize for being late, i was supposed to post this on halloween but it took me longer than i thought. also, i really tried writing the "scary" part but turns out i suck at it and i feel like the ending is ASS omg😭 happy late halloween!<3 enjoy~

“Hold up.. Phone sex with who now?”

“With Ghostface! The other day, I got so bored and came across this website called 1-800-SLASHERS. So, these people role-play as slashers, like Michael Myers and Ghostface, and we can have phone sex with them!”

You furrow your brows in confusion upon hearing your best friend, Giselle's, story. Staring at her face in disbelief through the video call on your laptop.

“And you paid them for that?”

“Well, duhh, obviously.” Giselle rolls her eyes at your question. “You should try it, too, you know.”

“No way, it’s so ridiculous! The idea itself is just crazy, like.. why would I want to do that?”

Honestly, you can’t even begin to think why would people want to pay a random person to role-play as a scary character and have phone sex with them. You feel like it’s just a waste of money, and the idea of having phone sex with a complete stranger is just weird to you.

“I’m just saying, don’t judge until you actually try it yourself. Plus, I remember you once said, and I quote, “I would definitely bang Jason Voorhees.” 

Giselle grins widely and wiggles her eyebrows teasingly at you. You groaned, face-palming yourself at the memory. “Oh my God, that was the one time we played ‘fuck, marry, kill'! Technically, I have to choose one of them.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Deflect all you want, girl, but the heavy emphasis on ‘definitely’ says a lot.” 

“Ugh, you’re so annoying.”

“Aww thanks, I try to.”

You glance at the time and realize that it’s getting late, remembering the unfinished assignment that is due tomorrow morning. You quickly bid your goodbyes to Giselle and hang up the call. Thankfully, you were almost done with the assignment when you suddenly received a call from your friend.

The next morning in class, your mind starts to wander from whatever topic the professor is currently talking about, thinking about plans to do during the weekend. It was Friday after all. In fact, it happens to be Friday the 13th, which made you recall the conversation with Giselle last night. You still don't understand the excitement behind it. Not that you're against it though, it's just not exactly a thing that you would do. But, the more you think about it, the more curious you get. 

The day goes by like a blur. After dinner, you sit on the couch, switching between TV channels to find anything to watch. You were about to switch to Netflix, but you stopped when your eyes caught the title of the movie. Friday the 13th. 

"Of course they have this playing right now," you scoff. 

Not knowing what else to watch, you decide to watch the movie anyway. Even though your eyes are glued to the screen, your mind wanders elsewhere. "What was that website again? 1-800-SLASHERS?" You thought to yourself. Despite what you kept saying, you just can't seem to get your mind off of it.

You unlock your phone and open the browser app, quickly typing out the website URL before pressing enter. The first thing you see after the page is loaded is the name 1-800-SLASHERS in big bloody letters. 

Just right below the name of the website, you find a list of the character names along with photos of the role-players in their sexy costumes. Well, it's not exactly costumes because all of them are almost naked while also wearing the scary masks. As you scroll through the list, you finally find the one character you're most interested in. You tap the photo to take a good look at the guy wearing a Jason mask, eyebrows raising when you realize that he's shirtless. 

He's sitting on a chair in a very laid-back position, knees wide apart, and his head slightly tilted to the side. His hands rested on top of his thighs with one hand holding a sharp knife. The photo was taken in dim lighting, but you can still clearly see his toned figure. You zoomed in on his body, eyes trailing down from his broad shoulders to his abs. His gray sweatpants hang low on his hips, giving you a peek of his v-line. When you look further down, your eyes widened in surprise seeing his cock print, almost choking on your spit. You bite down on your bottom lip at the sight, wishing he pulled it out instead of hiding it under his pants.

You quickly make an account and manage the payment settings. When it's all set up, you go back to the list page. A tab pops up when you tap his profile, showing you a call and video call button. You can't believe that you're actually considering this. But, after seeing a visual of the role-player, you can't stop yourself even if you want to. You hesitated a bit, not wanting to show your face.

"Maybe a call would be better for now."

Suddenly feeling nervous, you stare at the phone screen as you wait for the call to connect. Then the ringing stops and you move the phone closer to your mouth, clearing your throat before talking.

"Hello?"

"Hey there." Your breath hitches in your throat hearing a deep voice through the speaker.

"Hi, uhh.. what's up?"

There was a short silence followed by a low chuckle from the guy at the receiving end of the call.

"Oh, I'm doing good. You?"

"Me too."

You let out a nervous laugh, lowkey cringing at yourself. It's not like you haven't done this before, you've had phone sex with your ex-boyfriend a couple of times in your last relationship. But that was almost two years ago, so you can't help but feel weird and nervous.

"What's your name, doll?"

"You can call me y/n."

"Y/N. Such a pretty name for a beautiful girl like you."

"Oh, umm thank you. So.. should we get started?" You ask him, and he chuckles before answering. 

"Yeah, sure. Tell me what you're wearing right now."

"I'm wearing a tank top and shorts."

"Take off your shorts, doll."

You mumbled okay and set your phone down before hooking your thumbs on the waistband, slightly lifting your hips to take off your shorts along with your panties. Even though you're still nervous, you can feel yourself slowly relaxing, thanks to his voice. His deep voice sounds so calming, yet so sexy at the same time. Your mind goes back to the photo you saw before the call, pressing your thighs together at the thought of him. You imagine him sitting on the same chair, one hand around his cock, slowly pumping himself as he talks with you.

"I took off my shorts, and my panties too."

He hums in satisfaction, "Mmm you're such a good girl for me, taking off your panties before I told you to. Now, touch yourself where you want me most."

You move your hand towards your core, collecting the wetness on your fingers before pressing it against your clit. A small moan falls from your lips as you rub circles on the sensitive bud.

"Is my pretty doll touching herself?"

"Yes," you paused. "I wish it was your fingers instead of mine."

"Yeah? Tell me more, doll. What do you want me to do?"

You rub your clit faster, letting out a breathy moan as you put in more pressure. "Wish you were here too, I want to feel your fingers inside me."

He snickers, "Oh, baby, my fingers won't be the only thing you're getting if I'm there with you."

Closing your eyes, you slip two fingers into your core. You moan out loudly from the stretch, imagining it was his cock. 

"Bet you look so pretty around my cock. All fucked out, moaning and begging me to fuck you harder." 

Suddenly you hear a glass shattering, making your eyes fly open in shock. You look around to find the source of the noise, only to realize that it was coming from the TV. You see Jason punching through a small glass window to choke one of the female characters. You bite your lip and start pumping your fingers faster, making you whimper.

"Fuck, I need you so bad. I want you to choke me while you're fucking me senseless."

He lets out a groan in response, tightening the grip around his cock as he strokes faster. His heavy breaths can be heard through the speaker, making your eyes flutter close at the sound of his noises.

"My pretty doll likes it when I choke her, hm?"

"Fuck, yes. I want you to choke me until I pass out."

"My, my.. what a naughty doll you are," he chuckles. 

You feel a familiar knot in your stomach, muscles tense as you're reaching your climax. You put the phone down next to you, using your now free hand to rub circles on your clit, gasping from the added stimulation.

"Shit, I'm so close."

"Me too. Cum for me, doll. I wanna hear your pretty moans."

Your jaw goes slack from the orgasm, moaning loudly as you rock your hips to ride out your high. He mutters profanities under his breath hearing you moan. You can hear him panting, breath hitching in his throat as he also rides out his high.

"Hey, umm thank you for this. I think I'm gonna end the call now." You say, suddenly feeling awkward.

"Yeah, no problem. Hope I can see you next time, doll."

You press the end call button and get up to grab tissues to wipe your hands. After that, you turn off the TV and head to the bathroom to clean yourself.

***

A few days passed after the phone sex and you can't seem to get your mind off him. All you can think about is doing inappropriate things with him. Riding his cock until your legs go numb, leaving claw marks on his chest, and the list goes on. Oh, and his voice. Gosh.. his voice was sexy as fuck. You want him to whisper praises in your ear as he rails you.

You moan into the pillow, hands gripping the sheets. The guy behind you thrusts his hips roughly, burying his cock deep inside you.

"Fuck, feels so good." You say, voice slightly muffled.

"I can't hear you clearly with your face against the pillow, doll."

Your heart beats faster hearing the familiar voice and the pet name he used. He suddenly flips your body so you're lying on your back, throwing both of your legs over his shoulders. Your eyes widened in shock seeing the masked man before you. Even though his face is covered with a Jason mask, you still recognize his deep voice.

He leans his body closer, pressing your thighs and chest together in the process. He rests his hand next to your head and wraps the other one around your neck, blocking your airflow. Your eyes flutter close, moaning loudly as he continues to fuck you. 

"Ah, ah, ah. Eyes on me, doll. I wanna see your eyes get glazed over."

He mutters good girl under his breath when you open your eyes. Your mouth hangs open as you feel his grip around your throat get tighter with each thrust. He tilts his head to the side and chuckles.

"What's wrong, doll? You want this, don't you? You begged me to choke you while I fuck you dumb." 

Panic starts to fill your chest, but all you can think about is how good his cock is making you feel. You weakly claw at his hand, trying to pry it away and he just laughs at you mockingly. You start to feel dizzy, eyelids getting heavier as your vision darkens from the lack of air.

You suddenly open your eyes and your body jolts up in shock, hand clutching your neck as you gasp for air. You look around frantically only to find yourself in the dark. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you start to calm down realizing that you're inside your bedroom. You had fallen asleep while watching a video on your laptop. It's now dark outside and only the soft glow from the moon is illuminating your room. You get off the bed and carefully walk across the room to turn on the lights, making you squint from the brightness. Then, you go to the bathroom to splash your face with cold water. After you're done, you stare at your reflection in the mirror.

"Wait.. did I just have a wet dream about that Jason role-player?" 

The wetness between your legs confirms your thought, making you blush as the realization hits. You touch your neck remembering the way he choked you in your dream and how good he made you feel. The thought of his cock filling you up nicely makes you press your thighs together. 

You go back to your room and reach for the laptop in your bed, quickly typing the website name in the search bar. You strip your clothes off, leaving your bra and panties on, which thankfully is a matching set. When the page loads, you scroll down to look for the guy who role-plays as Jason. Once you find his profile, you adjust the pillow and your sitting position so now your back is comfortably resting against the headboard. You open the nightstand drawer next to you and reach for the vibrator and a dildo before setting it aside. 

After turning on the webcam and clicking the video call button, you set your laptop down in front of you, making sure your body is seen on the camera. The line suddenly stops ringing and then you see him. He's shirtless, just like in the profile photo, only wearing gray sweatpants with the mask. You didn't even realize that you were staring until he snapped you from your daze.

"Hello? Hey, you okay?"

"Hm? Oh, sorry, I was too busy admiring the view."

He let out a small laugh, "I can say the same to you too."

"I'm not sure if you remember, but I called you here the other day. I'm y/n."

"Ah, yes, my pretty doll. Glad I can finally see you."

"You know, I can't get my mind off of you. I even had a dream about you." You bite your lip, debating whether to tell him about the dream you just had or not, but then you decide to just go for it. 

"We were having sex and then you choked me. I couldn't breathe, but all I cared about was how good your cock felt."

"Is that so? Take off your panties, doll. Show me how good I made you feel."

He hums in satisfaction at the sight of your soaked panties, palming himself through the pants while he waits for you to take off your panties. Once you take it off, you spread your legs wide and adjust the webcam so he can get a nice view of your glistening pussy, but can still see your face as well.

"Fuck, baby. Even your pussy looks so pretty."

You start rubbing your clit in small circles, moaning from even the slightest stimulation. You throw your head back as you pick up the pace, the pleasure making you dizzy. His cock twitches in his pants, clearly enjoying the show you're giving him. He pulls out his hardening cock, letting out a breathy moan as he slowly strokes his length. The noises he makes catch your attention. You were so horny you forgot that you're still in a video call. Your breath hitches in your throat at the sight of his cock. It's even better than you imagined. His cock is long and thick, you can feel your mouth watering.

"I need you so bad," you whimper.

"Yeah? You want me to fill you up nicely with my cock?"

"Fuck, yes please. I want you to stuff me full with your cock."

You grab the vibrator next to you, turning it on before pressing it against your clit. You moan loudly from the sensation, mouth itching to scream out his name. But then you realize you don't know his name.

"Tell me your name, please?"

"Sorry, doll. I can't tell you that."

"Please? I want to scream out your name," you beg. 

"I can't–"

"Tell me your name, please! I'll pay you!" You cry out from frustration. You're so close and you have been holding back, wanting to scream his name as you cum. "Please, I'll Venmo you right now, just tell me your username."

He grew silent for a moment, considering your offer. He feels bad about using you, but he knows you're too horny to think twice before paying him just to know his name and the extra money would be nice. It's actually against the policies, but at this point, he's also too turned on to care.

"Jspark."

Once he says his username, you quickly grab your phone and send him the money. He glances at his phone when he gets the notification, smirking as he sees the amount of money he received.

"Oh my pretty doll, I didn't know you're such a pathetic slut. You're so horny you didn't even think before throwing your money at me just to know my name so you can get off." He laughs at you mockingly before telling you his name, "I'm Jisung. Go ahead and scream my name, doll"

"Jisung!" 

You scream his name as you finally let go, back arching against the bed from the pleasure. You moan loudly as you ride out your high. He pumps his length faster, chest heaving up and down. You reach for the dildo and rub the tip against your slit. 

“I would love to see that in your mouth, doll. Get it all nice and wet for me?”

You close your lips around the tip, grimacing at the taste of your arousal. You lean closer to the camera before pushing the dildo into your mouth. You look straight into the camera as you bob your head up and down, cheeks hollowing as you suck the toy. Jisung can feel his cock throb in need, wishing it was his cock in your mouth. He imagined you kneeling in front of him, wrapping your pretty lips around his cock as you look up at him innocently through your lashes. The idea of you deep-throating his cock pushes him to the edge. Eyes close while his jaw goes slack. His abdomen tensed as he dumps his load on his stomach. Jisung let out a breathy laugh when he realized that you had turned the vibrator on again, pressing it against your clit while you suck the toy. 

“Look what you do to me, doll. I came once and I’m still hard as fuck.” He says while pumping his cock. You remove the toy from your mouth and suck in deep breaths. The way you look at him innocently with tears in your eyes and swollen lips, Jisung swears he could cum again right then and there.

“I got this all nice and wet for you, Jisung.” 

“Good girl. Now, put that in your pussy and keep the vibrator on your clit.”

Slowly, you push the dildo into your core. A broken moan falls from your lips as the toy stretches you out. The slight discomfort from the stretch feels so delicious that you don't even wait for yourself to adjust.

"Fuck, I wish this was your cock instead." You flick your wrist faster, the angle making you brush against your sweet spot. 

"Poor baby, is it not big enough for you? You still need my cock to stretch you out, hm?"

Overwhelmed by the double stimulation, you can only babble nonsense in response. Your thighs tremble from the pleasure as you move your hips to meet the dildo halfway, pushing the toy deeper. You pick up the pace when you feel the familiar knot in your stomach once again.

"I'm so close." 

"I don't think you deserve to cum, doll."

"Please, Jisung, I can't hold it anymore!" 

Jisung throws his head back as he grips his cock while fondling his balls using the other hand. His cock twitching in his hand, signaling that he is also reaching his climax. 

"Beg me."

"Jisungie~ please?"

His head felt like spinning. The noises you make and the way you whine his name drives him crazy.

"Fuck, y/n. I love it when you say my name. Go ahead, baby. Cum for me."

You let out a long moan, legs shaking from the intense climax. Jisung's breath hitches in his throat, panting as he cums as well. For a moment, only heavy breathing and a soft buzzing noise can be heard while both of you catch your breath. You pull out the dildo and turn the vibrator off.

"Thank you, Jisungie. That was great." You give him a weak smile. 

"Likewise, doll. I haven't cummed that hard lately," he chuckles.

"Well, I think I'm gonna go now. Maybe I'll see you again next time."

"I'm counting on it."

You end the call and close your laptop. You slip under the comforter and decide to clean up in the morning. You drift off to sleep, hoping that you would dream about Jisung again.

[writingoneout]

Untilted Katamari Reflections

Preamble:

Content considerations for the following include:

Parental abuse

Bigotry

Worldly anxiety

You're welcome back another day if that's too much right now.

I.

It’s fall of 2015.

You and your virgin college friends drink shitty cocktails called the “Slutty Will Rodgers.” They’re just Pepsi rawdogged with indeterminate amounts of grenadine and Captain Morgan. When you bought the mixers a Wal-Mart stocker yodeled “OOOOoOoooOH, maKIN sOMe DRINKS?!?!” and you knew it was time to leave.

We Love Katamari is on the Telly. It’s a sweet, trippy game you first bought to cope with high school. On Dark Fridays at 1am, when your inbox was barren and your balls were full, you’d drive to the empty gym downtown and sprint six miles. Then you’d come home and replay the firefly level until you fell asleep with your pug.

Your college friends are bad at the game, so they pass the controller. You’re playing the underwater stage. A spaceman falls in the pond of people gunk and stacked crabs. It’s going really well if you’re honest. You point to the screen and say “this’ll be Florida if Trump wins.” See Fig. 1.

Figure 1: Rick Desantis has big plans for Disney.

Your friends don’t reply because they soon won’t be virgins and their tongues battle each other’s. It’s a different game they play, one with fuzzier rules, but greater industry respect. You wish the campus gym was open 24/7.

. . .

Your skills as the prince are not inherent. You first meet him in 2005, when your dyspraxic hands can barely tie a shoe. Your parents catch you lose shit for the Toonami review of Me and My Katamari. They buy it for Christmas, hoping to steady your nerves while your father’s in therapy.

Dr. Flam is a Neo-Freudian hitched to your mom’s guy, Dr. Flim. She’s deep in your dad’s dream journal and makes him watch movies like Cool Hand Luke to really reign in his ego. He gets the DVDs from the Netflix site, then through the mail. As a family you watch your dad’s therapy films and reruns of Inyuasha.

In the waiting room you barely navigate the sticky ball through Namco Bandai’s Satoshi Kon parade. See Fig. 2. You’ve only seen adults express anger verbally, so when you mess up you grunt a lot and let out those Leopold Butters Stotch swears like “crap,” “shoot,” and “gosh darn.” You’re not particularly self-aware, so you probably just say “god fucking damn it” a few times and don’t remember. Years later you realize there was probably a secretary behind the glass watching you do all this.

Figure 2: Bwahbwahwabhbawahbwaaaaah.

Sometimes there’s a girl in the room with you, just around your age. She’s stuck while Dr. Flim teaches her mom about what dream snakes mean for her fear of male puberty. That's what he did for your mom, anyway.

You think the waiting-room stranger is cute, but you won’t admit you like girls yet, especially not to yourself. To cope with the cognitive dissonance, you do your weird shit louder while refusing to make eye contact with her. If you get real stressed you crank up the main menu track and yell “ahhhhh that’s so relaxing” while the “nah nah nah nahs” play through your headphones.

At one point the girl stands against a wall and stares at you with her arms crossed. You bet she thinks you’re cool, but she’s probably just annoyed and hopes you’ll notice, or maybe just ask if she’s OK. It’s probably good you don’t talk with her. You might ask something stupid, like if she's seen the roach corpse in the stairwell. It’s been there for a year straight, isn’t that crazy?

For better and worse, you power through your little game alone. Every time you lose the King of All Cosmos beats, shoots, and belittles you. See Fig. 3. It reminds you of when your own dad shattered your Harry Potter wand over the kitchen counter because you dropped a mini pizza.

Figure 3: The King of All Cosmos offers little constructive advice, all things considered.

You fail quite frequently. Eventually you drop the game because it’s getting stressful and you have the power to relieve yourself of the situation—not the Freudian lobby, just your fake dad.

II.

It’s 2012. PlayStation Network uploads The Prince’s primeval outing: Katamari Damacy. Within, Padre Cosmotic flaps his gums over too much hooch then slams his dump truck ass through the better part of our solar system. He dislodges every recognized constellation and even the moon itself.

Cosmos sends Prince to Earth—the last brick left in the shitstorm—to make slop of our planet and bodies. With the slop space itself will be made anew. The Good Son does as he's told, and every living entity experiences euphoric ego death within the bulbous heaven of the Katamari.

As a Real Gamer Teen you lose a lot less in this one. You really go in and fix Fake Dad’s mistakes, no problem at all. This is why a year ago you hailed “gaming journalism” as your calling. You write clean and play tight; should keep the lights on. It’s the most concrete idea you’ve had since 7th grade when you outlined a YA novel called Tooth Pocket. Even you didn’t think Scholastic would buy that one, though. It was just too hot for the book fair.

One day you’re cranking through FFVI and your real dad swings by, mad you're young. He grills your ass and says “I bet you can’t even tell me the biggest thing happening right now.” It’s some real “What’s a gallon of milk cost?” shit, he could mean anything.

 Surprisingly, you can’t think of a good answer. You and your friends are actually pretty informed because John Stewart is still at the desk and y’all chime in every day. See Fig. 4. You also spend hours each week tearing through MSN slideshows in your Graphic Design class because the Photoshop takes five minutes. You’ve seen a staggering amount of the Syrian civil war.

Figure 4: Sometimes in Snapchat you draw glasses on your cat to make him look like Mitch McConnel. You wouldn't do that without this guy.

Still, you’re a little stumped. It’s the middle of a phenomenon native to moralist presidencies known as "a slow news week.” You actually ran out of war shit the other day and clicked through some slides about Pakistani wrestlers. The seniors who offered you Jack Daniels in the Whataburger lot saw it and laughed. They thought you were peeping dong in class. You really weren’t, but they didn’t believe you. They graduate certain you were bricked up in the Dell Lab over big guys in spandex.

“I don’t know,” you tell your dad.

He throws his hands behind his head, hard, like an orangutan chucking logs at a poacher.

“It’s the fucking carbon tax,” he yells. This comes as a surprise, you think, because that shit is last month’s news. It really didn’t go anywhere.

“Do you not pay attention because you don’t give a shit, or are you just a nihilist and think you can’t do anything?” You can tell in his eyes he thinks there’s a real answer. “Seriously, which is it?

You don’t remember what you said. You probably just stammered until he walked off.

A month later he picks you up from marching band. Your phone is dead, so he had to wait twenty minutes longer than anticipated while you found his car. He punches the rearview mirror until the windshield cracks then screams of how your birth kept him from New England.

III.

It’s 2016. A rockin’ MILF in the Psych department gets you really into Hamilton. See Fig. 5. Every day you wake up on the grind and blast “You Aaron Burr, sir?” through your shitty 7-11 cans. While cramming foreign language Quizlets and McGraw Hill Online you do this thing called “Hafilton.” It’s where rock up to “Nonstop” and quit listening just before Hamilton decides what he will stop is being a good husband.

Figure 5: Like Kojima, you know "MILF" is a mindset, not a factual inquiry.

It’s 2018. Your grades are notably better and you’ve snuck into the honors program. Like Hamilton himself, you really flourished at 19 and thought about running for office. You immediately abandoned this idea after remembering your allergy to recordings of your image or voice.

You cohabit with the Psych MILF, and she offers some advice: she’s really had her boots on the ground with this whole “clinical psych thing” and honestly, respectfully, she loves you, but dear God it might not be your scene. It’s taken a real toll on her and the friends, and she can’t imagine you going through that shit.

At 1am in your living room you boot up DOOM (2016) and listen through some Hamilton. Angelica is thirsty on main when you remember that you, yourself, could be a lawyer. You don’t have to run for Congress to fight the establishment. There’s just the common law, and it’s right there. You can just get your grubby little hands in that shit and work your magic.

. . .

It’s the last semester of undergrad. Your Western Thought professor says Hamilton wasn’t really a huge deal and really James Madison shat out the big parts of our faction-proof empire. Yes, there was, in fact, a civil war, but the caplock rifle worked it out. After the Federalist papers he has you read the Bill of Rights but no Supreme Court cases. There’s a lot of talk on negative liberties.

Just before finals, the learned doctor says your generation only has two things to worry about: the climate and the poverty. Yeah they’re big, he says, but they’re just two things. You’re crafty kids, smart as the framers, even.

. . .

The state decides law school is your jam and lets you come inside.

There’s the negative liberties but you actually read Supreme Court opinions when the big boys aren’t shaking fists for Valley Forge. They have you listen to Hamilton for context. You feel dirty. An LRW professor puts on the “I’m Just a Bill” video and your sectionmate with Ivy degrees gets really, really mad.

. . .

The Federalist Society has a comfy presence at your law school. Along with Big Oil they sling out free pizza to every Little Scalia with a rumbly tum tum.

On your way to class you hear what the pizza boys feel. They hate Europeans, those social democrats with the rotten armories and clumpy cash. The Euros, they think, give too much wiggle room for the mentally ill, and by that they mean they mean gay people and probably just women overall.

There are more than two things to fix, you think.

. . .

The pandemic hits. You and some pals start a Google Doc to stay afloat. It barely works. In the Zoom review for the property final your professor catches multiple people crying. "You don't have to be here," he tells them, “there are other jobs.”

. . .

A year passes. You’re in a niche public interest class you do all right with. The professor looks you and thirty-five others dead in the eye and says how sorry he is that law school is traumatic. You shed a single tear in your little window. You're pretty in the shit and haven’t worn pants to class in months.

Then public interest prof takes a big, big drag from his long, fat spliff. He spins his desk chair and baseball cap at the same time, never letting go of the joint.

“Hey,” he says. “It’s not your fault, really, but the world is fucked. It’s time to fix what your parents did.”

The next week he gives a practice exam where the best solution is to sell an old lady’s house to Nestlé.

IV.

It’s 2022. After throwing your whole gooch at it, you fail the bar exam.

You fall back hard into exercise. When you’re not slamming Barbri you’re at the gym binging curls and cranking the Chainsaw Man soundtrack. One night on the way to squats you finally hear “Black Parade.” Just like you, Mr. Gerry Wayland is stuck between global disrepair and the desire to write Funny Little Books.

You just started an FLB yourself, actually. It’s spin on a Story Break episode you love. In your version there’s a fucked up civil war horse that moves like a spider and is covered in bugs. Rich people kill the planet then the horse gets lost in space. It’s compelling, you promise. There’s body horror and pirates dressed like Gorton’s Fisherman. See Fig. 6 It’s about the horrors of the contemporary world state. It’ll be fun.

Figure 6: An untapped horror icon. Imagine blood contrasting that yellow.

Big problem, though: you remember rich people love hiking. There’s no grass on Mars, not that good shit anyway. Would they really fuck all of it?

You edit. In the last few years, the real breathless ones, the oligarchs cash their tab. A cartel, they think, could really muscle those stragglers, the tragically common. There’s one city left with both breathable air and refugees. They level it. The few survivors are spread amongst the stars, so their loves and languages may die.

. . .

It’s the middle of Bar Prep Round 2. You and the patient MILF see Hadestown in the Big City.

There’s a juke joint on stage flanked by devil trombones. A sad little guy slinks in from the janitor’s closet. His name is Orpheus and, just like you, he’s a sad, short writer who likes a lady so much it comes out weird. He has a vision, he says, for a little ditty. It’s compelling, he promises, and shit’s gonna change. His love is functional and realized, worth the investment of a hardened woman displaced by capital’s torture. She believes him.

You cry because you know where this goes.

It’s just a single tear.

Don’t worry.

Nobody sees.

. . .

There’s this game you like, by some corporate anarchists who hate themselves. They’re Scandinavian, from the spot in Tallin where you stopped for a cruise. Every gift shop there had swastikas and gas masks leftover from the bloody years.

In the game is a liberal yacht MILF. She thinks you’re stupid but someone’s helping with your gun, so you’ve got that on her. And yet, she pins you, re your whole writing thing. See Fig. 7.

Figure 7: She sucked, but it still hurt when she left.

Your favorite Supreme Court podcast says the ocean’s last hope is other countries. But those countries’ people cry to the Disco game, and their ministers also bought The End of History. You meet them on the subreddit. You're all geeked out, waiting for the tide.

. . .

It’s the era of desert cradles. God thinks you’re disgusting, so he sends his better kids with a memo: the flood was too much work on his end, it’s time for something different.

“Just keep walking,” he says.

Your skin bares his figure. So do the corpses. You little birds among billions, gassed out and screaming, move to clean.

V.

It’s 2023.

We Love Katamari is up on the PlayStation store. You sit with the cats and mow down some crabs. You don’t need it so much these days, but it’s nice.

There’s a Bar card in your wallet, just below your gym tag. There are two interviews in your Google Calendar. Good stuff might happen, hopefully soon. You crawl into bed and wrap an arm around your wife’s rib cage.

Everything matters and nothing is safe.

You are loved enough to sleep.

[vaaaaaiolet]

“Where are we anyway?” you ask, pulling him to the present. “Maine.” Leon breathes. “Why?” “They’ve um…got good lobster. You haven’t had lobster if it’s not from here.” “Leon.” He lets out a hum, tacking a question mark on its tail end as he stares at the wall. “You remember you’re allergic to seafood, right?”

Leon moves away from the place where he spent 20 years pining for you after it all gets taken away from him in a flash. This is the story of a particularly dull morning in which no boxes are unpacked, no walls are painted, and he accomplishes nothing.

f / m, emotional hurt, hurt / no comfort, implied / referenced character death

i watched one day on netflix and this is my take on that one scene near the end, leon is dexter you are emma, i hate myself for writing this too

word count: 940 // read on ao3

A lull – despite the chaos that comes from unpacking – seeps into Leon’s bones. 

It’s the first time he’s allowed his mind to take the wheel from his body in a while. He’s used to it being the other way around, his body chugging along, all relentless go go go, but this time, something at the back of his head urges him to give in. Inner voice, subconscious, whatever the hell psychologists call it.

He ought to sit this one out. 

The bedroom wall cradles his back as well as wood paneling and wallpaper can as he slides down its length. In the quiet stillness only early morning can bring, Leon watches as swirls of dust illuminate in the air. The hypnotizing dance of particles flying out from his half-unpacked boxes pulls his mind every-which-way, making his eyes furrow and his head hurt. There’s too much dust, too much he’s doing and somehow not enough, he really should be working on the downsta-

“Rather grim photo of me,” your soft voice snaps him out of his muddied thoughts.

He turns his head to see you sitting next to him, knees pulled up to your chest. Your finger points to a framed picture on a shelf he’d set up yesterday with Claire. The picture had been one of the only things she’d gotten out from his boxes before he’d snapped at her; told her in no uncertain terms that she was messing with his process.

You frown, lowering your finger. “My eyes are all screwed open and I look crazy.”

Leon snorts in response, shifting to shrink the space between you two. It’s the most beautiful picture he’s ever taken of you. 

He wishes he was out of the frame so he could see even more of you in that white dress, running along the Aegean shoreline with him. The dress whose hem he’d fingered under the velvet dark of night as he itched to slip it off your shoulders. Your eyes were open and full of stars. Full of him, too.

“Where are we anyway?” you ask, pulling him to the present.

“Maine.” Leon breathes.

“Why?” 

“They’ve um…got good lobster. You haven’t had lobster if it’s not from here.”

“Leon.”

He lets out a hum, tacking a question mark on its tail end as he stares at the wall.

“You remember you’re allergic to seafood, right?” 

God, and he groans. Puts his head into his hands and rubs his now-bruising temples until he feels the veins shift around. Can’t you let him have this one thing? 

“Maine’s not all seafood,” he mutters petulantly back, “it’s got…” Damn it, the only thing he can think of are Cape Cod kettle chips and the lighthouse on the bag. Is Cape Cod even in Maine? “Maine’s got pretty lighthouses.”

“I’m sure you came for the lighthouses, babe.” you chuckle.

“I just…” Words evade his dry mouth. He settles on dropping his head on your shoulder instead, slowly and carefully like a teenager making the first move on a movie date. You throw out a hand, carelessly gesturing towards the innards of Leon’s moving supplies strewn all over the floor.

“I don’t mind, you know,” you say after a beat, “if you just got rid of it all.” 

“What?”

The same anger he felt when Claire rifled through the moving boxes with your name written on them surges through Leon again, and he picks his head back up to look at you in disbelief. 

“No.” He says stubbornly.

“Le-”

He cuts you off with a tired glare. There’s no bite behind the gray-blue of the eyes you once believed could see right through you. 

“I could never do that.” he finally whispers.

He always thought his eyes did the talking for him. This isn’t your fault, Leon tries to make them say this time, it’s mine. I never told you what you needed to hear when you needed it. I know you wrote poetry for me. God, I read it all. I still have the journals your bumbling idiot of an ex dropped off at our house. You can still put your head in the hollow of my back if you try, I’ll let you do it whenever you want, just please. Please don’t make me get rid of what you left behind. 

“You’re actually quite gorgeous in that picture, you know?” he interjects his own barrage of telepathic apologies. “You’ve always been gorgeous.”

The smile that blooms on your features at his words is one that’s arguably more stunning than the one in the picture, but Leon won’t tell you. He commits it to memory instead. A safe place where you won’t see the flaws in yourself. It’s the place you live in these days. He thinks you understand anyway because you brush your hand over his and give it three short squeezes. 

One: I’m thinking of you, two: I miss you, three: I love you. 

“I didn’t really appreciate it at the time.” Your words taste bitter in his mouth even though you laugh.

“I did.”

“Sometimes.” Leon hates how small your voice has become.

He sits there for several minutes, back against the wall, relishing in the weight of your palm on the back of his hand until the sensation becomes nothing but warmth, and then a ghost of that, until it becomes nothing at all. The picture of you laughing with your eyes wide open watches him steadfastly from its perch on top of his shelf.

Eyes wide, alive, in love. That’s how he’d like to remember you, he thinks.

Organizing the downstairs can wait just as Leon once did.

[st-eve-barnes]

You know that I'm no good (chapter 5)

(Modern Aegon x fem Reader, Modern Sihtric x fem Reader)

Summary: You want Sihtric. Aegon wants Skade. There's only one small problem: Sihtric and Skade are dating each other.

This chapter: in spite of your growing and confusing feelings for Aegon things get cozy with Sihtric as well. (I know my Sihtric girls have been very patient, you're getting a bit more of him this chapter!)

The movie I picked in this chapter was random and I quickly picked one of my fave songs from it not realizing it's actually pretty perfect for Aegon, so go listen to Girl you'll be a woman soon by Urge Overkill.

Warning for the entire series: 18+ for explicit language and smut. Angst/comfort/fluff. Fake dating and so much mutual pining. Mentions of depression/drinking/self harm.

This is an Aegon x Reader fic with a bit of Sihtric x Reader on the side. I've wanted to write a modern AU that combines The Last Kingdom and House of the dragon for a while now so here it is!

Word count: +2900

Masterlist

***

All my fics are also on AO3

***

You were on your couch again the next Friday night, determined not to open the door for anyone this time and enjoy your Netflix alone time. Before you started your Stranger Things rewatch you took one last look at your phone.

Zero messages.

Aegon had been quiet since last weekend. You supposed you could always text him first but you didn’t want to appear too eager, which you of course absolutely were but you didn’t want him to know that. Your feelings for him still confused you and having slept on Helaena’s words you were determined to at least try and follow her advice. 

Focus on just having fun with Aegon and try not to overthink things. And get back to the plan with Sihtric. You were in the middle of the second episode when your phone lit up with a text, from Aegon. You reached for it so fast you almost dropped your phone on the floor. 

So far for not appearing too eager.

“Good evening, moon of my life ❤️”

His text made your heart skip a beat and your lips curled up into the biggest smile. Damned, you hated the effect he had on you.

“Hey, loser,” you texted back.

“Whatcha doin?” his answer came immediately.

“Watching Netflix and not leaving my couch, and you?”

“In my bed watching a movie. I would ask you to come over but you don’t wanna leave your couch so I won't bother.”

Shit.

“What movie?” you typed, ignoring his invite and trying not to think of the image of him lying in his bed all cozy and alone.

“Pulp fiction.”

“Oh, a classic.”

“You’ve seen it?”

“Of course I’ve seen it, a long time ago though, I think I remember I loved it?”

You jumped when your phone rang and your heart leaped again seeing Aegon’s name appear on the screen. You eagerly accepted his call,”Hey, loser.”

His voice was soft and heavy in your ear,“Watch it with me.”

“Aegon, I’m not coming over.”

“That’s not what I meant, look for it on Netflix and we can watch it together, I’m only 5 minutes in, I’ll wait for you.”

You sighed,”I was watching Stranger Things.”

“And now we’re going to watch something that isn’t crap. Come on, doll face, do it, I’ll wait.”

You stopped the episode to type the movie into the search bar. 

“Stranger Things isn’t crap,” you stated in the meantime, settling back in your spot on the couch.”And what gives you the right to interrupt my plans again by the way? Is this going to happen every Friday night?

“Maybe,” Aegon teased,”Would you mind?”

You could practically hear his shit-eating grin through the phone.

"Ask me again in a few weeks," you teased him back and he laughed.

“You ready?” he then asked.

“Ready.”

Aegon let you watch in silence for ten minutes before he started giving you his opinion on certain scenes, which resulted in you having to tell him to shut up because you were missing things.

“But you’ve seen it already,” he ignored your complaints.

“That was years ago, I don’t remember every little detail!” you threw back,"Let me pay attention."

“Okay, fine, I’ll shut up,” he promised. Which lasted for exactly five minutes. You gave up on trying after that, and you had to admit you were kind of enjoying the sound of his voice a little more than the movie anyway. His laughter through the phone warmed your heart and when he sang along to “Girl you’ll be a woman soon” your heart wasn’t the only thing getting overheated.

By the end of the movie he turned more quiet again but you could still hear him breathing right next to your ear, making it feel as if he was right there in the room with you. 

God, how you wished he was right there in the room with you. 

And how you wished the movie was longer than it actually was because before you knew it the end credits started rolling and you could hear Aegon let out a long, tired sigh and yawn.

“Thanks for keeping me company, darling,” he then spoke sweetly.

“Next time you’re watching Stranger Things with me,” you teased him and you could hear him laugh softly.

“Next time you come over and watch it in bed with me,” he whispered in a sleepy voice, putting your stomach in knots.

“Good night, Aegs.”

“Sweet dreams, my beautiful girl.”

***

You had just finished breakfast the next morning when your phone lit up with a text, not Aegon but Helaena this time.

“Party at Sihtric’s house tonight and guess who got us all an invite? You can thank me later, pick you up at 10!”

You couldn’t help but smile and feel excited by her message but your initial excitement wore off quickly when you realized Sihtric wasn’t the one you were excited about. Your first thoughts and the butterflies in your stomach were all for someone else.

When did this happen? Sihtric was the one you’d been crushing on for the past six months or so, the guy you so desperately wanted to date only a few weeks ago, your ultimate dream guy, the prettiest guy you’d ever seen. And now?

Did you even still want him? Or had Aegon wormed his way into your brain and your heart to the point there was no more room for Sihtric?

You closed your eyes, trying to conjure Sihtric’s beautiful features and unique eyes and cast Aegon out but all you could see was two beautiful blue eyes and a dumb smile that didn’t belong to Sihtric.

Fuck.

Another text from Helaena popped up on your screen:”You’d better wear something slutty, I have a feeling tonight is your night, babe!”

You decided on something mildly slutty, one of your best fitting jeans with a low cut top showing off your back and a little cleavage.

When Helaena texted you the address you found out Sihtric didn’t live too far from your apartment. As you walked up the steps to his house you were amazed by the size of it, it looked more like a mansion than a house., you knew he was pretty well off but you still hadn’t expected that.

Helaena locked arms with you as you both walked into the luxurious garden, there was a huge swimming pool, bar and barbecue and quite a few familiar faces hanging around.

“Not bad, huh?” Helaena whispered.

“Not bad,” you agreed,”I’m gonna go look for a bathroom first, I’ll meet you back out here.”

You walked up the stairs to the house and through the kitchen, looking for the bathroom but failing to find one you walked up the stairs.

“Lady Y/N?”

His voice made you turn around instantly and you stared right into his beautiful mismatched eyes. Sihtric was standing at the bottom of the stairs, wearing black jeans and a simple white t-shirt and it looked ridiculously good on him. You almost felt relief when the sight of him still took your breath away.

Maybe your dormant crush on him wasn’t as dead as you had assumed after all.

“You remembered my name,” you smiled surprised.

He returned your smile,”Of course I did. You’re hard to forget.”

He carefully walked up the stairs to get closer to you, reaching out his hand again and when you offered yours he shook it firmly and then held onto it just a little too long, the contact making you blush. 

“How are you enjoying the party?” he asked.

“We’ve only just arrived, but I’m already in awe of this gorgeous house you have here.”

“Ah, I wish I could take credit for that but it’s my parent’s house,” he explained,”I’m just house sitting for them while they’re away for the summer. Let’s just say my place is a little more…modest.”

He gave you a sweet smile that you couldn’t help but return.

“Well, does your parent’s mansion also have a bathroom?”

He smiled,”It has five actually.”

Your eyes widened and he nodded his head and laughed,”I know, so over the top, right? I’ll walk you to the closest one. Follow me.”

You followed him up the stairs, swallowing down the nerves in your stomach and trying not to stare at his ass too much.

“It’s the first door right there,” he pointed,”Do you…want me to wait until you’re done?”

There was a teasing, almost flirty tone to his question.

“No, I think it’s a little early on in our relationship for you to hear me pee,” you teased back.

He laughed again, so loud and so genuine it lit up his entire face and it made you swell with pride. Not only had you managed to talk to him without letting your nerves take the upper hand but you actually managed to make him laugh as well. It made your confidence soar.

“Come find me when you’re done,” he then spoke softer,”The price for using my personal bathroom is a dance. So you owe me one.”

He winked at you again before returning his way down the stairs.

You entered the bathroom with a big sheepish grin on your face and when you looked at your reflexion in the mirror you covered your face with both hands, both excited and slightly embarrassed.

You jumped when your phone beeped, expecting a text from Helaena but it was Aegon this time.

“Just arrived at Sihtric’s but my pretty girlfriend isn’t here :( “

“I’m in the bathroom,” you texted back, smiling to yourself,”Unless you mean one of your other girlfriends…”

“You’re the only one for me, sweetheart. Come find me.”

Your chewed your bottom lip and sighed, feeling those butterflies pop up in your stomach again. 

So that crush definitely wasn’t dead either. You knew Aegon was just playing, pretending to be your boyfriend like you both agreed to and flirting because that was the only way he knew how to communicate with women. None of it meant anything. 

Right?

And Hel’s words still floated around in your head too:“do not fall in love with him because it will not end well”.

Was it too late for that already? Had you already started falling in love with him or was there still time to reverse everything and give Sihtric an actual chance?

***

The party was in full swing by the time you got back outside, Helaena was dancing her ass off on the dance floor with some guys you didn’t recognize. Jace was chilling on a floaty unicorn in the pool and you even spotted Aemond by the bar, dressed in all black as always and filling up his drink while hiding behind his sunglasses even though the sun had gone down a while ago.

Sihtric was talking to some of his friends by the barbecue and much to your surprise you caught his eye almost instantly and he gave you a little wave and a smile. You waved back but didn’t walk up to him, instead you kept looking around until you saw him. 

Aegon, walking up to you with a happy little smile on his lips. His hair was messy and curly and he was wearing light blue jeans, sneakers and a black t shirt. He looked so good for someone who wasn’t your type at all. You couldn’t look away from him and he didn’t seem to be able to look away from you either, not breaking eye contact once until he was standing right in front of you.

“Hey,” you smiled.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he teased, placing one hand on your hip and leaning in to place a lingering kiss on your cheek. You leaned into it and placed your hands on his stomach. It seemed to encourage him because he cupped your cheek and kissed you again, on the lips this time. It was soft and sweet and you fucking melted.

Aegon smiled into the kiss and you slipped your tongue into his mouth, unable to hold yourself back. He didn’t hesitate to reciprocate, kissing you deeper and digging his fingers into your hips as he pulled you closer.

You leaned back too soon for his liking and his mouth chased yours, pulling you into another kiss. You didn’t need to be persuaded, you kissed him back just as eagerly.

There was nothing wrong with playing the game, right? After all he was supposed to be your boyfriend and you were just acting your part. 

Eventually you leaned back again and this time he let you.

“You missed me, huh?” he teased, his smile soft and his hands still resting on your waist.

“Like a hole in the head,” you teased him right back, making him laugh again.

“Shall I get us some drinks?” he suggested.

“Good plan, yeah,” you stepped back from him, relieved to be able to put some distance between you two. 

You could so easily get addicted to his kisses, and his hands, his gorgeous blue eyes. Fuck, you could get addicted to all of him. Maybe you already were but you were just too stubborn to admit that.

“Lady Y/N?”

You turned around to find Sihtric standing right in front of you.

“May I steal you away from your boyfriend for that dance?” he asked, a sweet smile on his face as he reached out his hand to you.

This was a dream and not real life, it must be. Just a month ago you were all alone and ready to give up on men altogether and now these two gorgeous guys were practically begging for your attention? This couldn’t be real, things like that didn't just happen to you.

But when you placed your hand in Sihtric's it felt very real.

He guided you to the dance floor and you followed him eagerly. 

Maybe giving into him would help break this spell Aegon seemed to have put you under, it sure couldn’t hurt.

The song was slow and Sihtric didn’t hesitate to place both hands on your waist, carefully pulling you closer to him but waiting for you to close the final distance. You wrapped both arms around his shoulders, gazing up into his eyes for a moment and finding him staring right back at you, and straight into your soul. 

His eyes were intense and when his lips curled up into the tiniest of smiles you looked away with a smile of your own. 

Sihtric pulled you closer and you leaned into him, giving into the warmth and comfort his body was offering you. He hugged you tighter, you hugged him back, he gently nuzzled into your hair, you moved your fingers into his neck caressing his skin. When his lips brushed against your cheek, obviously very much on purpose, you shamelessly leaned into it.

It felt good to hold him and be held by him, his undivided attention and playful touches felt even better.

He didn’t speak for the longest time but just danced with you, letting you get comfortable with him and helping you relax in his arms. His one hand carefully moved up from your waist to your back and underneath your top, tracing patterns on your exposed skin. His fingers featherlight and leaving goosebumps in their path. His forehead rested against yours, locking eyes with you again and not looking away this time.

Every caress from him was slowly starting to erase Aegon from your mind. 

When Aegon returned with your drinks that’s where he found you, wrapped up in Sihtric’s arms. His jaw clenched at the sight and he quickly turned around, not wanting to look at you both any longer than necessary. For a moment he wasn’t sure what to do with himself and he just froze. He took a long sip from his drink, and then another one until the glass was empty. Then he put your drink down on the table and returned to the house and as far away from the dance floor as he could.

Helaena had witnessed the whole thing and closed her eyes in a deep sigh.

Dancing with Sihtric felt surreal, you’d dreamt about this so often but you never imagined it might actually happen. And you definitely never imagined him being so flirty and sweet with you. You could feel his warm breath on your cheek, his lips inching closer to yours and for a moment you actually thought he was going to kiss you.

He pulled back at the last moment and just continued dancing with you.

“Sorry,” he then whispered,”I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“It’s okay, you didn’t,” you reassured him.

“I know you and Aegon are…”

“Oh, right,” you realized,”And you and Skade of course.”

He just smiled,”Me and Skade aren’t exclusive.”

“Oh.”

“She’s…um…a bit of a free spirit.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his choice of words.

“Anyway, I should let you get back to your boyfriend,” he moved back but not before taking your hand and looking into your eyes one last time,”If things don’t work out between you and him…or if you two are not as exclusive as I think you are…give me a call. We can still do that double date, or…I could just take you out on a date.”

And then he walked away from you, leaving you completely baffled.

You jumped when Helaena put her hand on your shoulder.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” she grinned,”What was that?”

“You watched that happen, right? That wasn’t all just in my head?”

“Oh, no, it happened, he was shamelessly flirting his ass off. I thought he was going to kiss you!”

“So did I…fuck,” you sighed, biting your lip while fighting a smile and feeling your cheeks heat up.

“He wants you, babe, that was so obvious for everyone to see,” Helaena teased with a huge smile on her face,”If you ask me he’s liked you all along and seeing you with Aegon just gave him that little push he needed to pursue it.”

Helaena’s words made your smile fade and your eyes met hers,”Shit, where’s Aegon?”

[sleeplessdreamer14]

Since Monkey (2023 Netflix movie) is a glory hog/attention needer, I bet when he gets a crush on someone, his show-off-y-ness fucking sky rockets. He's normally all for attention anyway but THIS PERSON'S ATTENTION he'd die for it!!! LOOK AT HIM DO A SICK BACK FLIP, JUST FOR YOU!!!!

warning: one swear

you’re absolutely correct

Monkey’s always been hungry for praise and attention long before meeting you

but when it comes to your attention-

I don’t wanna call him an attention whore, but…

let’s be real he would absolutely jump at every opportunity to show you how awesome he is

he’s gonna go the whole nine yards and then some, pulling tricks and stunts to try and impress you

Monkey’s putting on his best show for you

afterwards he eagerly awaits your approval and esteem

might get a little grumpy if you respond by lecturing him for his recklessness, but takes even the littlest bit of thanks or compliment from you as a win

but seriously this guy would preform near impossible feats for you if you requested

careful Monkey, your simp is showing /t

this may come from a place of wanting to make up for his faults and shortcomings, or even just the fact that it’s him

because he practically worships you, and wants to convince you (and himself) he’s worthy of you

so when you tell him that he doesn’t have to do all this just to prove his worth to you, he remembers what Lin told him before he got sealed away, and it gets to him

that doesn’t stop him from showing off for you from time to time though, that’s just him

[noosayog]

[Movie Night] Atsumu fucks movie night up

wc: 600

content/warnings: she/her reader

Come over? 

You roll your eyes at your boyfriend’s text, already knowing what he has in mind for the night. You originally had plans to see a movie and purposely instructed Atsumu to meet you at the theater because you knew that if you met at his place, the two of you wouldn’t make it out. But of course, minutes before you’re about to head out, Atsumu sends a message about oversleeping and not being ready in time. You had been ready to ghost his ass and get unready right then, but Atsumu had called and sweet talked you into doing movie night at this place.

Armed with a pout and some choice words for him, you’re greeted with the widest grin, like this was all part of his plan. Your scowl eases a bit when Atsumu negotiates with a promise of microwave popcorn and Coco. You stare him down with narrowed eyes when he gives you an innocent smile and both hands in the air. Just a movie, he had said. 

You settle on the couch with your side pressed to the couch armrest, on the opposite side of him, as far away as possible. He murmurs a little “c’mon baby,” while manhandling your entire body to sit in his lap. You squirm a bit but allow it. 

Surprisingly, he behaves for most of the movie. He did gradually maneuver you two to lay sideways on the couch, your back pressed to his chest, but it’s comfortable, so you also allow it. When Miguel starts singing to Mama Coco, you’re sniffling and holding back tears, until you feel your boyfriend shift behind you. He’s pressing a gentle kiss to the back of your ear and it’s so gentle and you’re so weak from Mama Coco singing along to Remember Me, that you’re about to turn around and cry into your boyfriend’s broad, warm chest. 

Until you feel something hard against your thighs. 

And you distinctly feel his lower half shift against you. 

You spring up from the couch and give him a look of sheer disbelief, movie forgotten. “What is wrong with you, Atsumu!” 

He sits straight up, alarmed by your sudden movement. “What?” he asks. 

“How can you even think of fucking when this masterpiece is playing?” 

He also gets to his feet, giving you the same crazed look but you imagine for a different reason. “Well what do ya expect me to do! I’m netflix-and-chilling with my hot ass girlfriend and she’s looking all teary eyed and cute!” 

“You promised! You promised that we would just be watching a movie tonight!” 

“Well, sweetheart, it ain’t my fault I’m in love with ya! This is basically my default around ya!” 

“You’re disgusting, you horn dog. Is that all you ever think about?” 

Atsumu recoils, slowly sitting back down. “Well sorry, but ya didn’t have to say it like that.” The end of his sentence fading into a little whisper. 

Well, now you feel bad. 

“‘Tsumu…” 

“It’s fine, it’s fine!” he cuts you off. “I’m sorry. I know ya wanted to go to the theaters tonight, but I screwed it up. Then ya just wanted to watch a movie, but I messed that up by getting bricked up even though it isn’t fully my fault because ya-” 

You cut off his rambling by cupping his cheeks. “Shut up.”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“You owe me a real movie date, okay?” 

“‘Kay.” 

You jump up, encasing his hips with your thighs, where you can still very much feel his excitement.

“Then we can do what you want tonight. Although, I don’t know how I feel about letting a psychopath who doesn’t cry during Coco cop a feel-”

It’s his turn to shut you up with his lips, curled into a grin, and an insistent roll of his hips into yours.

[atlas-likes-writing]

Death in the Family

Characters: Jason Todd/Red Hood, Dick Grayson/Nightwing, Bruce Wayne/Batman

Summary: The world is falling. Dick and Jason are trapped under the rubble of a now-destroyed building. It takes everything to escape.

Word Count: 2325

Tags: Angst, whump, gore, graphic depictions of injuries, death/deaths in the past, swearing (but nobody actually gives a shit about that), mentions of explosions, angst with a sad ending.

Authors Note: Is the pacing goofy? Yes. Do I care? No. I will be paying in advance for everyone's therapy bills regardless. This fic was inspired by the movie "Fall" on Netflix! Let me know if you want me to tag you in my fics!

Masterlist | AO3

@qcomicsy

It’s as if the world is falling. Everything feels so heavy. An uncomfortable weight lies on his chest. Moving doesn’t help. It instead makes it worse. A disgusting feeling of wetness coats the side of his face. Is it sweat? Tears? He can’t tell. His body is heavy. His eyelids are heavy. Maybe he should just stay there. Slip into sleep again. Maybe then that weighted feeling will leave him. 

“-Bird!” 

A tiny voice sounds out in the dim. That’s peculiar. What’s the importance of a bird right now? He’ll figure that out when he wakes up. He’s too tired to care right now. 

“Jaybird!” 

The voice is clearer now. Louder, but not to the point of deafness. Loud in the way your parents are loud when they yell at you from downstairs to tell you that dinner is ready. It’s distant. Muffled. Like someone has put earmuffs over his ears. 

“For goodness' sake, Jason! Wake up!” 

That’s what got his eyes to snap open. When he does, he’s met with almost pitch black. His arms are pinned to the ground beneath him by sharp stones. No, not stones. Boulders. His left arm has clearly snapped at the force of them falling on top of him. The dull throb that emanates from the now useless limb is soon to crescendo, but for now that’s all it is; a dull throb. It’s now Jason realises that the uncomfortable weight isn’t just the feeling of impending doom as he originally thought. It’s a slab of concrete. Thick and jagged and it’s digging into his torso, surely leaving bruises in its wake. 

He begins to panic when the dust begins to settle on his eyelids. How long had he been down there? He shifts around, attempting to move any of the debris that fell on him. Immediate regret shoots through him; as does a sharp, blinding pain in his leg. He cries out. The sound of it is gravelly and clogged as if something is stuck in his esophagus. The dust around him coats everything. His skin, his helmet (which he now realises is broken), his tattered costume; everything. It sticks to the interior of his throat and makes speech scratchy. 

“Nightwing?” he calls out to the darkness, “What happened? Dick? Are you there?” 

“I’m here, Jason. Had me worried for a second there,” the voice of his brother breaks through the cracks between the rock. Relief floods through the younger man. 

“Oh, thank the gods,” he responds. “Where are you? Are you injured?” 

“I’m fine, Jaybird. Only a couple scratches. You’re the priority right now. Keep talking to me, okay? Do you remember what happened?” 

What did happen? The vigilante ignores the pounding in his head in an attempt to recall the happenings of the past thirty minutes. His mind is filled with the images of a battle with the Joker. Jason broke down at the sight of him, and his distraction resulted in the C4 at the base of the high-rise building to explode, falling directly on top of them as a result. The two men are lucky to be alive. It’s a miracle Dick scraped away with only a few bruises and scratches. 

Yeah, Dick is apparently far luckier than Jason right now. 

“The fucking Joker,” Jason spits. “I’m going to kill him.” 

“Let’s focus on getting out of here first, eh? We don’t know if the rest of the family are trapped under here as well.” 

Dick’s defusal works. Jason breathes in deeply to calm his nerves. His eyesight begins to adjust to the darkness, and he can make out his surroundings more clearly. 

“Right. Yeah. You’re right. Where are you? I can’t see you anywhere.” 

“I’m next to you, Jason. Through this gap in the rock,” Dick replies. At his words, Jason tilts his head as far as his predicament will allow him (which, predictably, is not very far), and the eyes of his brother shine out in the dim between two large rocks that separate them. They’re bright and unmoving and make Jason relax a little. They always seem to have that effect. The constancy of them always ooze safety and competence no matter the situation. He’s Nightwing. His gaze can make even Batman feel safe. All it takes is a meaningful look and Jason feels calmer almost immediately. 

The younger man moves his head back to its original position, looking up at the debris instead of to the side. He closes his eyes, before throwing his head back onto the ground in frustration. 

“Fuck! This is my fault,” he exclaims. 

“We both know that’s bullshit,” Dick replies. Jason fights the urge to tut at him mockingly for his colourful language. “That man beat you to half-to-death and then caused the building you were in to explode. Nobody is blaming you for acting the way you did. This is not your fault. Stop blaming yoursel-" 

“People could be dead, Dick.” 

That shuts him up. 

The two brothers lie there in silence for a while before Jason speaks up again. 

“We should be dead, Dick.” 

“How come?” 

“What are the chances of us making it this far? You’ve been a vigilante since you were what, eight? You’ve been in the game almost as long as Bruce, and yet here you are.” 

Dick remains quiet. Jason continues. 

“Me? I did die. Quite horrifically, might I add. Yet here I am.” Jason opens his eyes and turns back to his brother. “Why am I not dead?” 

“Because it wasn’t your time.” 

“Then when is my time?” 

“Not right now, if you’re wondering.” 

Now it’s Jason’s turn to be silent. 

“You have your whole life ahead of you,” Dick states, “Now is not the time for you to talk like you want to give up.” 

“I’m legally classified as dead, Dick. There is a gravestone in the gardens of the Manor with my name on it. I’m already halfway there.” 

“And? You’re alive right now, right? Is that not excuse to keep on living?” 

Jason sighs, a heavy exhaustion settling like bricks on his body. 

“Fuck you, man.” 

“What for?” 

“For being right.” 

Dick’s eyes remain trained him, steady and still. It’s almost unsettling. The older of the two speaks up, this time with humour in his voice. 

“I’m always right,” he says, a smile evident in his voice despite the fact that Jason can’t see the lower portion of his face. The younger brother chuckles, the sound scratchy and harsh. 

“Now that’s bullshit.” 

The silence that follows is comfortable despite their surroundings. Jason closes his eyes, a faint smile on his face. He could fall asleep here and be perfectly content with it. A heaviness presses on his eyes as he begins to drift off.  

“Jason! Don’t close your eyes.” For the second time in the span of about five minutes, his eyes snap open in shock. They flutter for a moment, and he lets out a disgruntled groan. 

“I’m tired, Dick. I want to sleep.” 

“I know you want to, kiddo, but I need you to stay awake for me, okay? Bruce will never forgive himself if you end up dead.”  

Jason scoffs. “Fuck that. He’d get over it as soon as the funeral’s over.” 

“Yeah right,” Dick replies. “You didn’t see how he treated himself after the first time. He nearly destroyed himself.” 

“Let’s put the emphasis on nearly, hm?” he spits into the darkness. “If I was in his position, I would have torn the world apart if he had-” 

“Bruce isn’t you, Jason!” 

“What. And you are, Golden Boy?” 

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” 

“What did you mean then?” 

An audible sigh is heard from the other side of the boulder but the older of the two brothers otherwise stays silent. Jason closes his eyes again, this time out of regret. 

“Shit. Look, Dick. I’m sorry. We shouldn’t waste oxygen arguing.” 

“You’re right. We shouldn’t. I’m sorry.” 

It’s at this point when an audible drip of something falls onto the rocks behind Jason’s head. His eyebrows knit into a frown at the sound. What was that? Is there water above them? If so, maybe they could use it to find which way is up so they can escape. 

Another drip, this time closer to his head. He can’t see the droplet of whatever it is falling from the ceiling of debris. Is it coming from the side? He turns his head away from Dick to look for the source. In the dim, he can make out a puddle of something next to his head. He squints his eyes, and he sees that it’s red. 

Oh.

Red. Crimson. It’s blood. 

His blood. 

He’s bleeding. 

The thing coating the side of his face isn’t sweat or tears. It’s his own blood. 

Oh God. 

Was the space he was trapped in always this claustrophobic? 

Was this smell of death always present? 

His chest is tight. His throat is closing. The pounding in his head heightens. 

A short way above him, he can hear his family. They’re shouting for him. They’re shifting rubble and debris. They’re trying to reach him. They’re shouting for Dick. Dick is shouting back. 

They can’t hear him. 

“Jason! Shout! Let them hear you!” 

He does so. He shouts. He screams. He yells. He yells for Bruce. He yells for Tim. He yells for Steph. He yells for anyone who might be there to save him. 

“Red Hood? Is that you?” He hears his father’s voice. 

“Bruce!” Jason replies. “It’s me! Help me!” 

“Keep shouting, Jaylad. We’ll find you!” 

He continues to yell for his father. His voice quickly growing hoarse from the dust that sticks to his windpipe. Beside him, Dick urges him to keep going. 

“Keep shouting, Jason! Keep it up! Don’t stop!” 

It’s only when light spears through the rubble and debris is pulled away that he stops. Tears stream down his face as the now unsettled dust falls on top of him all at once. He squints as his eyes try to adjust to the newfound light. The boulders pinning his broken arms are lifted and the slab of concrete is removed from his ribs. Strong arms lift him up and out of the pit he was in moments before. Bruce was always able to lift him as if he weighed nothing. Now is apparently no different. He’s picked up and cradled by his father like a child as he’s taken away from the hell that trapped him. He hunts for his family amongst the destroyed remains of the building that fell on top of them. He sees Tim. Damian. Steph. Duke. Cass. Carrie. Harper. Kate. Everyone. They’re all there. They’re all safe. 

But they’re missing someone. 

“Dick! You left Dick!” Jason’s voice cracks. Bruce gazes at Jason, the eyes behind the cowl seem sad. Defeated. It’s an unnatural look on the man. The Dark Knight shouldn’t look defeated. 

“I’m sorry Jason,” Bruce soothes. He sounds broken. Why does he sound broken? 

“What? No. Can you not find him? He’s there! He was right next to me!” he exclaims. Jason looks over Bruce’s shoulder to see his family gathered around the hole he was pulled out of. Steph is crying into Tim’s shoulder, his hand rubbing her back in an attempt to calm her. Damian is on one knee; the blade of his katana is stuck into the ground in front of him with his head lowered as if in prayer. Kate puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. What are they doing? Can they not find him? Jason feels like a child. Helpless and ignored. 

As he continues watching, he sees a flash of black and red fly into the pit. There’s silence for a moment before he sees Connor Kent bring the limp body of Dick Grayson out of the rubble. From where Jason is, he can see the teary eyes of the Kryptonian and his heart sinks to the ground.  

He doesn’t want to look down from Connor’s face. He doesn’t want to see the truth of it. He saw Dick in the rubble moments ago. He was alive! He was well! He only had a few scratches. He said it himself! He- 

“-was dead on impact.” 

His eyes are open, but the usual shine is gone. They’re glassy and dead. 

What? 

No. 

That- 

That doesn’t make sense. 

“But he was talking to me! I heard him speak!” Jason exclaims. Bruce shakes his head. 

“No, you didn’t,” he states, voice uncharacteristically quiet. 

“You’re gaslighting me? Really?” 

“He didn’t talk to you, Jason. I promise you that.” 

Jason looks down from his brother’s eyes, unbelieving. He knows what he heard. Dick was speaking to him as clearly as his father does now. He was speaking right into his ear, for heaven’s sake! He looks at Dick’s mouth as if to disprove his father’s words. 

Or rather, where Dick’s mouth should be. 

His jaw is gone. Probably smashed by a rock on impact. The hinge hangs uselessly on Connor’s arm. It’s grim and ugly. Jason can’t look away despite himself. 

“They say that,” Bruce begins, “sometimes, when someone is in a life-or-death scenario, their brain hallucinates a loved one as an act of self-preservation.” 

The puzzle pieces are locking into place. The fact that Dick’s voice is what woke him up in the first place is making sense now. The fact that Jason never saw the lower portion of his face is making sense now. The smell of death wasn't coming from him. The unblinking, still eyes wasn’t a knowing gaze, he was fucking dead and Jason didn’t realise. He was stuck in a hole with the corpse of his older brother, and he didn't fucking know. But Dick saved Bruce from having two dead sons that day. 

Even in death, Dick Grayson is always there to keep you safe. I suppose he is luckier in that respect.

--

Should I do a part 2 to this?

Reblogs appreciated!

Masterlist

[random-imagines-blog]

Ambulances {Robert Downey Jr x Teen!Reader Oneshot} 

Requested by: Anonymous Wordcount: 3483 Summary: Being the youngest actor on the MCU is a dream come true - but why doesn't you feel as good as you should? Notes: Talks about depression.

This was meant to be everything that you ever wanted. The chance to work on one of the biggest franchises the world had ever seen. Appearing in a huge movie, and then getting the chance to star in a television show afterwards, all about your character. Possibly more movie appearances. Getting paid so handsomely that if you were careful, you wouldn’t ever go into debt. Rubbing elbows with some of the biggest and brightest stars in the world. Chris Evans, Robert Downey Jr, Scarlett Johansson, Benedict Cumberbatch. And you weren’t even out of high school yet. You were supposed to be living the dream.  

Then why did it feel like it was spiraling down into one of those nights where you don’t remember your dreams? It wasn’t a nightmare. There were negatives but nothing that you didn’t expect going into the acting profession. You didn’t hate your job. You didn’t hate your character. You just - started to feel nonchalant about the whole thing. Nothing at all. It started off with not feeling as excited as you used to when you woke up in your trailer to go to set. You were tired and had to drag yourself out of bed to go to hair and make-up.  

Robert was getting his done, his iconic Tony Stark facial hair being trimmed and shaved perfectly. You muttered a good morning before taking your seat, and one of the makeup artists came to work on you. 

“Rough night, kid?” Robert asked, raising an eyebrow at you.  

“I don’t think I slept that well,” you said. “Just - couldn’t get out of bed today.” 

“That’s called being a teenager,” He chuckled.  

“Yeah, probably,” you said, forcing out a chuckle back. You would just chalk this one up to a bad day. Everyone had those. You were able to pep yourself up for your scenes, and work through them without any issues. It was good to focus on something other than yourself for once. Get into the character. Become someone else for a little while. Someone who was mighty, and strong, who got out of bed each morning without trouble - unless they were beat up, which because this was a superhero movie, happened quite often. But you declined going out for dinner with everyone else, just saying that you were tired and headed back to your trailer while they went out to enjoy themselves.  

You looked around your trailer once you were inside. It was quiet in there, save for the very faint buzzing of electricity that was powering the lights. You collapsed down on the small couch where you usually went over your lines but - you couldn’t think of what to do. You didn’t feel like doing ... anything. There was your gaming console set up by the tv, a stack of games - but you didn’t feel like playing them. There was Netflix and Amazon Prime and Disney Plus and Hulu - but you didn’t feel like watching anything. There was your laptop, but you didn’t feel like website surfing. So, you just - sat there. Doing nothing. Feeling nothing.  

Your phone went off. You could see the name on top. One of your best friends from back home. Someone that you usually loved to talk to. But you just ... didn’t feel much like talking to them. A stab of guilt made its home in your stomach once the screen went dark again, knowing that you should have answered it. There was no reason to ignore them. But you still didn’t move. Just letting this feeling of ‘you should you should you should’ take you over.  

-- 

You didn’t even remember falling asleep - and you couldn’t remember if you dreamt or not. One minute, you were sitting on your couch, staring blankly ahead of you, not even thinking of anything, and the next, you were still sitting there but there was light coming in through the curtains and your alarm was going off on your cellphone.  

You were astounded at yourself. You’d never done this before, never felt this way before. You forced yourself up and into the shower but there too, you didn’t feel like doing much of anything. It all felt so ... tedious and worthless. How many times in your life were you going to waste time, standing here in the shower, washing your hair? How many times were you going to cover your loofa in bodywash and lather yourself up? Doing it all today just to do it again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day. It felt so dull. 

And when you got out, all squeaky clean and put on a random hoodie and jeans to head out to hair and makeup, yet again, you didn’t feel as good as you usually did. Usually, a shower was just the thing that helped you start the day. You felt good when you were clean. “God, what’s wrong with me?” You muttered to yourself as you went into trailer and took your seat. 

This time it was Chris Evans that got there the same time you did, sitting in the opposite chair. “You missed a fun night,” he said, grinning at his phone. 

“Oh,” you said, looking straight ahead of you into the mirror. You forced out a laugh that didn’t feel real. “Next time, next time.” 

“I’ll hold you to it. They had some of the best tacos that I’ve ever had-” Chris said, turning into an excited puppy as he often did when he found something that he liked. Usually, it was enough to make you cheerful. But you just tuned him out, not having the attention span for this conversation. Or maybe it just wasn’t the energy. 

The makeup artists started on you, having to use a bit more concealer than they usually did. “Make sure you get all eight hours,” The artist reminded you.  

“Yeah, sorry about that,” You forced a chuckle. She covered your dark circles expertly, patting on powder to try to make it look more natural, and then you were out there to get ready for the shot of the day. You had a bit of time until you actually had to be on the set, since you were just coming in at the end of the scene, so you sat down and just ... watched. You didn’t really say anything to anyone. You weren’t in the most sociable mood. You let your mind wander, your body being present, but your mind was far away.  

“Hey kid,” A voice snapped you out of it. You blinked a couple of times and looked to see that Robert was sitting right next to you. You hadn’t noticed because you had been so busy thinking about ... you couldn’t even remember. That was more startling than Robert’s voice coming out of nowhere. You had no idea what you had been thinking about.  

“Hey,” You nodded, and then looked back out to the set, watching Chris Evans and Scarlett working together on a scene. “I didn’t know you were supposed to be on set today.” 

“‘m not, but I got bored so though I’d check it out,” he said, crossing his arms in front of him. Robert Downey Jr was intimidating, not because he was tough or scary, but because of his long career, and how he managed to recover from some pretty drastic dips. “You seem a little glum, chum.” 

“No, I’m just ... tired,” you said. It felt like a flimsy excuse, but you didn’t have one that felt better. It must have sounded weak as well, because Robert took off his sunglasses in a very Tony fashion and slipped them into his front pocket.  

“Just tired?” He asked. “You coming down with the flu or something?” 

“That could be it,” You nodded, clutching onto that idea. Maybe you had just gotten sick. Maybe there was a bug going around. There was always some kind of bug going around. It would explain your increase in listless behavior. You weren’t always the most active person, but you had been able to keep up with Marvel’s standards for their actors, but now that you were finding it harder, the flu made perfect sense. “Yeah, I think it’s just the flu. Better not get too close, huh?” 

“I’m not worried, I get my shot every year,” Robert said, casually. “You know - you could come to one of us if something is wrong, right?” 

It almost felt like an accusation of sorts. Like he could see right through you. See something that you were having trouble seeing in yourself.  

“Yeah, of course, you’re like - the best mentor ever,” You nodded, forcing on another smile. Just the flu, nothing was seriously wrong, it’s not like you could be ... depressed or anything. You didn’t have time to be depressed. You weren’t in the right business to be depressed.  

Your name was being called by the director, so you stood up quickly. “Gotta go. Good talk.” 

“Yeah, good talk,” Robert said, watching your back as you walked away. He saw something in you that he saw in himself, saw the beginning of something that he had struggled through for a lot of his adult life. And he didn’t want to see you struggle through it, at least not alone. He was going to be keeping an eye on you - two if he could spare them. 

-- 

It felt like the longest month of your life. It just dragged on, and on. There were at least four times that you had almost quit the movie. Where you brought up your manager’s number on your phone and almost pressed dial because you wanted out of your contract. It didn’t matter how much money you would owe the studio, or that you would be blackballed in Hollywood. Nothing felt like it mattered anymore. Your gaming system and laptop were collecting dust, literally, you had drawn a sad face on the system in the dust. You didn’t go out with the rest of the cast anymore, claiming other plans or that you weren’t feeling well, and spent the time in your trailer alone, with the lights off. Not because you were hiding but because you didn’t care to turn them on. You’d just be turning them off when you went to sleep so what was the point? You woke up, you dragged yourself out of bed, you went to set, and then you went back to your trailer and back into bed. You’d doom scroll through social media but not interact with anything.  

You went through the horrors of the world like you were trying to prove something. Or use it as a reason to be the way that you were being. The world was a crazy, unhappy place, so of course you were unhappy. Of course, you were falling into a depression - which was something that you could no longer deny. This wasn’t a few bad days, or the flu, or just feeling uneasy. This was full on, falling through the cracks, feeling worthless, depression.  

You didn’t deserve to be here. You weren’t putting in the work that you should be, which made you anxious about your performance, which made you feel even worse. You felt like you were just an imposter among all of these stars, you didn’t earn your place among them. It should be someone else here. A star like - Jenna Ortega, or Noah Schnapp, would fit in here better than you could. You were messing up your lines, having to have someone feed them to you through a small earpiece that couldn’t be seen on camera. You were given warnings by the director to shape up. You didn’t even cry when you were given that criticism. You didn’t get mad, you didn’t feel proud that he cared enough about you to want you to do better, you just felt numb to it, and returned to your bed like you did time and time again.  

It was after you spent an entire weekend in your bed, not showering, only eating what you could grab quickly and bring back to the bed, which was all the unhealthy stuff, not even changing your pajamas once, that you admitted that you had a problem. That you were forced to deal with the cold reality that - you weren’t coming down with the flu, but that this could seriously be depression. You couldn’t live in the denial of it anymore. 

You knew you should call your parents. Maybe your manager. Maybe even your family doctor to get a referral to a therapist or something along those lines. But there was only one person that you could think of talking to. 

You forced yourself into a shower, found some clothes that smelled relatively clean and didn’t have any stains on them, and put your shoes on for the first time in days. The sun was shining, and you had to admit that it felt kind of nice on your skin after so long. The crew were running around, getting things prepared for today’s shoot, which you didn’t have any part of. A free day, at least for now.  

You walked past a couple of the trailers, looking for the right one. A sign in the door had his name in big block letters, and you saw that he had drawn a little Iron Man underneath it. It wasn’t very well done but it was recognizable. You knocked on the door and then put your hands in your pockets, looking around to see if anyone was noticing you lingering outside. 

The door opened and Robert poked his head out. His cool expression warmed up when he saw you standing there. “What’s up kid?” 

You looked at him and you tried to think of exactly how you were going to say this. He already knew the meaning behind you coming to his door. But - he was still going to make you say it. You just had to say it. 

“I think - I have a problem, Robert,” You admitted. It was the first time that you said it out loud. Your first outside admission that something was wrong. You were putting it out into the universe because that’s the only way that you could get any sort of help.  

“I thought so,” Robert said, stepping out of his trailer. “Come with me.” 

-- 

He didn’t take you straight to a therapist or to the hospital or anything else that you had fared he was going to do. Instead, he took you to a small ice cream parlor near the studio. He bought you a sundae, loaded with all of your favorite toppings, even if you didn’t necessarily feel like eating something sweet right now. You didn’t feel like you deserved the treat. 

“Go on,” Robert urged, digging into his own with a plastic spoon. “You admitted you have a problem. That’s step number one, you deserve it.” 

It was like he could read your mind. He knew exactly what you were thinking and why you weren’t eating. So, you picked up the spoon and you dug it into the mess of ice cream and toppings and sauces and took out a large scoop and put it into your mouth. The sweetness ... actually tasted sweet. It didn’t taste like ashes on your tongue like a lot of food does these days. Eagerly, you went for a second scoop, and Robert was looking at you like you were a child of his that he was proud of.  

“I - I don’t know if it’s depression exactly. I’ve never really been depressed before,” You admitted, stirring your ice cream to make it a little softer, a little easier to eat. “As far as I know, it doesn’t run in my family. And ... it’s not like ... I feel sad or anything. I don’t cry...” 

“Depression isn’t just about feeling sad. Everyone feels sad,” Robert said, taking a bite of his own. “It sucks the life right out of you. It makes you lose your spark. Your passion. Any pleasure that you have in life, it just ... takes it away.” 

“That ... is how I’ve been feeling,” you said with a small nod. “I know it’s ridiculous, like, I’ve got my dream role and -” 

“It doesn't matter, kid,” Robert said, kindly. “You could be the happiest, richest person on the planet, and you can still get depressed. It’s not about deserving it. It’s just something that unfortunately happens.” 

You kept stirring your ice cream rather than eating it, watching the toppings drown under the melting cream. It was hard to take in that this was something that was actually happening to you. It was like a car crash in a way. It happened to other people. It was never supposed to happen to you. 

“So, what do I do?” You asked, slumping back. “Because I can’t ... I can’t be this way. It’s exhausting. I’m forgetting my lines, I can’t concentrate, I keep fucking up scenes and I feel like everyone is mad at me -” 

“No one is mad at you,” Robert said, pointing his spoon in your direction. “Everyone is worried about you. I think we all had it figured out before you did. Did you know that Evans has social anxiety? He works on it every day. He’d be another good person to talk to about all of this stuff. It’s different from depression but ... it has some of the same struggles.” 

“I’ll try to remember that” You mumbled. “So really, what do I do? How can I... get over this?” You plead. You put all of your trust in Robert here. He’d become a leading figure in your life since you joined the MCU.  

“It’s a disease,” Robert said, sadly. “It’s not something where you just take two pills and you’re done. There are medications that’ll help you out, but they take a little while work, and sometimes, you have to go through a couple of different ones to find out what works for you. Though what I’d recommend is therapy.” 

“Therapy?” You ask, eyebrows furrowed together. “I don’t even know what I’d say. I don’t have some ... deep childhood trauma that I can just point my fingers to. I don’t even ... know how to explain how I feel.” 

“You did a good enough job with me,” Robert pointed out.  

“That’s because I know you. I’m comfortable with you. And you knew what it was before I did...” 

“Why don’t I give you the name and number of the therapist I’ve been seeing for years. They’re really good,” Robert said, taking off his sunglasses and making straight up eye contact with you. “Or - they can help you find someone who fits you best. That’s important. You have to feel comfortable talking to them. There’s no shame in trying to find the one for you.” 

You groaned and put your head down on the table, the metal feeling cold against your forehead. You were hoping it was going to be easier than that. That it could just be like antibiotics, take two a day and scare the depression away. But of course, nothing was ever going to come that easy in this life. You were going to have to work for it. Just like how you worked hard for everything else that you achieved.  

“It’s going to be a trek,” Robert said, clicking his tongue, spooning up more of his ice cream. “But I think you can handle it. You took that first step, now you just have to make a phone call.” 

He took a card out of his wallet, and he slid it across the table to you. A professional business card, the name and number of a therapist. You just looked at it from your position on the table, your head turned onto its side now. “Do I have to do it right now?”  

“You don’t have to do anything,” Robert shrugged. “It’s up to you when you’re ready.” 

You sighed again. You missed the days when your parents used to make the phone calls. Used to schedule your appointments for you. Made sure that you got there on time. That was one of the annoying parts of being an adult. You had to do it yourself now. 

You raised your head and read the card again. The name of the doctor in a neat, no-nonsense font. You took another spoonful of your ice cream, took your phone out of your pocket, and started to dial the number, looking at Robert the whole time who gave you a thumbs up. It was going to be a rough road but - at least you could honestly say that you were not alone. That helped more than anyone could ever understand.