#chapter title is I See You by Phoebe Bridgers! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

whatsnewalycat · 2 years ago

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Psychomanteum / Chapter 12

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC Louella (2nd POV)

Chapter 12: Ghost in the Machine

Chapter Summary: You and Dieter go on a date while grappling with the past, present, and future.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 8.7k+

Content / Warnings: alternating pov, insecurities, mirror, angst, fluff, acting career things idk, awkward/nervous speech patterns, cocaine use, past infidelity, suspicion, dissociation, argument, abuse mention

Notes: Chapter title from "Ghost in the Machine" by SZA featuring Phoebe Bridgers. Howdy! If you want the taglist, or AO3 link, head on down to the masterlist. If you want a link to the spotify playlist for this chapter, let me know and I'll send it to ya.

[ Series Masterlist ]

Every window in the house sits ajar, welcoming a warm cross-breeze that tickles your skin. It carries an earthy scent from further up the hill, giving faint whiffs of sage and dirt.

Dieter moseys around the house in his boxers, voyaging between his kitchen sink and potted plants, watering can in hand. He mumbles sweet little affirmations to his green dependents, checking in with each in a hushed voice, saying shit like, “Now, how are we doing here? Thirsty?” or “Looking great today,” or “Wow, someone needs a haircut.”

From your place nestled into the couch, you alternate between watching him and studying the white wisps of steam that swirl off the surface of your coffee cup.

This morning, while peaceful, has you feeling off-kilter. Your mind keeps wandering to the interview with DIRT. To your mom. To Dieter.

Overnight, the dust began to settle in your mind, providing more clarity. Details started to surface shortly after you woke. Things you heard yesterday, but didn’t understand or deem important in the moment.

Like David’s statement: “Dieter has had a lot of big changes in his personal life this past year as well, with his divorce to Anika, and the scandals surrounding it.”

Like your mother saying: “He had a problem with drugs, you know, big problem, had other women, too,“ and, “I know he has a cocaine habit, and that he cheated on his wife, does that sound like anyone else?”

Like Dieter saying: “No, I definitely deserved that.”

In each still, calm moment, they replay. Every time you look at Dieter and your heart aches with love and adoration, your memory blindsides you with this information.

Is your mom right? Did he cheat on Anika?

Or is she just trying to drive a wedge between you?

Wouldn’t he have told you when he had the chance?

You know you could do a web search to look into it, do your own research into the matter. Hell, you could even just fucking ask him. But the prospect makes you itch.

Because what if she’s wrong and he thinks you don’t trust him? Or, worse, what if she’s right?

Fuck, what if she’s right?

Your blood starts to buzz hot and rapid through your veins. You look around for an escape hatch and see a bookshelf, then set your coffee cup down to approach it.

Among knickknacks and a few small plants housed on the solid oak shelves, you find titles you expect to see, like 1984 by George Orwell, The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann, and at least a dozen art reference books. You also find a few things you weren’t expecting, like Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy, half a dozen Julia Quinn novels, and, most importantly, a first edition of Betty Crocker’s Picture Cook Book.

You pull the cookbook out and examine it, running your fingertips along the frayed corners of the faded red hardcover, then flip it open, asking, “Why do you have this?”

Dieter looks up from an unruly Monstera, “Have what?”

“This cookbook,” you answer, padding across the living room’s black and white striped rug to show him.

He frowns as you hold it up, shaking his head, “Must’ve been Annie’s. She left some stuff behind when she moved out.”

“My grandma had this one,” you murmur, glancing up at him, “Is—is it ok if I look through it?”

He scoffs and shrugs, “Not like she’s coming to get it,” then returns his attention to the Monstera.

You settle into the couch, thumbing through the yellowed pages, reading recipes, tips, and instructions compiled for housewives of the 1950’s. Dieter finishes grooming his plants and plops down at your side, curling an arm around your shoulders, “Betty giving you any inspiration?”

“Fun fact: Betty Crocker isn’t an actual person,” you smirk, turn the page to the section on custard pies, and inform him, “In the 1920’s, a flour company noticed they got a lot of homemakers requesting baking advice, so they adopted the moniker Betty Crocker as a pen name for the people who answered the questions.”

“Huh,” he blinks, “Interesting.”

“Listen to this,” you flip to a dog-eared page towards the back of the book and start reading from it, “If you’re tired from overwork, house chores you’re bound to shirk, read these pointers tried and true, and discover what to do.”

“What’s that?”

“Tips for housewives who are fucking miserable,” you tell him, then read another excerpt, “Get outdoors every day. Take a walk, do some gardening, take the children for an outing, or pay your neighbor a short visit,” and another, “Harbor pleasant thoughts while working. It will make every task lighter and pleasanter. Notice humorous and interesting incidents to relate at dinnertime, etc.”

“Jesus,” he mutters.

You want to tell him that the page was bookmarked. Its connection to the spine, well-creased. Referenced often. The comment lingers at the back of your throat.

When you backtrack your place in the book, trying to resume your study on custard pies, a white index card slides from between two pages.

“Oh,” you pluck it out and furrow your brow at the ingredients, measurements, instructions printed in a precise script, “It’s a recipe for banitsa. You ever had this?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s like a flaky cheese pastry… phyllo, feta, yogurt,” you murmur, then glance up at him, “What do we have going on today?”

“Reservations at 7, and Darlene’s gonna stop by later, but other than that,” he grins and shakes his head, “Nada.”

So, the two of you smoke a joint on the patio while Lincoln picks up the called-for ingredients Dieter doesn’t have on hand. After Lincoln drops them off, you sanitize the sun-drenched quartz of Dieter’s kitchen countertop, all sparkling rainbows in the light. Dieter spreads a paint-splattered drop cloth across the no-man’s land between the dining room and kitchen, sets up an easel, equips it with a canvas, then rolls a little yellow file cabinet out next to it.

He puts on a mix of music described as roller-rink 1978. As the funky tunes play over the sound system wired throughout his house, you attach a bread hook to his matte black stand mixer and sift bread flour into its 7-qt bowl.

Then you go to work.

You concentrate on the task at hand in each given moment, taking it step-by-step. Measuring, mixing, and kneading. Trying not to think too long about the romance novels lining the bookshelf, or the recipe’s delicate handwriting, or the dog-eared page, or Dieter’s baited breath after he recounted why he and Anika split, or your mother saying, “I know he has a cocaine habit, and that he cheated on his wife, does that sound like anyone else?” Or David Alterman asking, “Do you worry that those patterns are bound to repeat themselves?”

Instead of these things, you try your hardest to occupy your hazy, pot-laced brain by separating the dough into equal pieces while humming along to ABBA and Elton John and Electric Light Orchestra.

When the recipe calls for the dough to rest for an hour, you clean your workspace, throw together the banitsa filling, and wash the dishes.

Then the timer tells you: seventeen minutes left.

You turn your attention to Dieter. His bare feet move fluid from side-to-side, paintbrush flitting between the palette and canvas as he lip-syncs along to “Hollywood Swinging” by Kool & The Gang. A grin stretches across your face.

They cannot be right about him. This is not the kind of man who has affairs. No fucking way. This man is an angel.

I’ve been fooled before.

You banish the thought with a quick shake of your head, then try to distract yourself by asking, “Do you still see ghosts?”

He looks up at you, then back at his work-in-progress with a shrug, “I don’t usually see them per se, it’s more like a, uhh… an understanding. Or a knowing, I guess. Like a picture in my head with a feeling attached to it.”

His features twitch animatedly as he talks, accenting his words, dark eyes glancing between the canvas and your face.

“It’s like… have you ever had intrusive thoughts?”

“Have I ever,” you snort.

“It’s like that,” he explains, “Like a flash of something. Not like that kid in the Sixth Sense, seeing them fuckin’ uhh… walking around and shit.”

You hop up onto the kitchen counter and inquire, “Where’s the most haunted place you’ve been?”

Dieter pauses mid-brushstroke and scrunches his face up as he thinks about this, resuming when he says, “Well, hotels are always the worst. They’re so transitive, you know, all this energy coming and going constantly. And the people stuck there… they usually went intending to have a good time, a vacation or party or whatever, and something happened to them. That, or… they went in with an intention not to come out and succeeded.”

The implication unfolds in your brain, and you nod.

“Either way they seem to have unfinished business,” he shrugs and squints at the canvas, smudging paint with his thumb, “Usually they’re harmless, so it’s pretty easy to ignore,” he pauses here, clears his throat, then continues, “But in terms of the worst vibes I got, like, uhh… how scared it made me feel, it was definitely Ethan.”

Blood drains from your face and extremities, leaving you cold and dizzy.

“I—I thought—wait, really?”

He squints up at the ceiling, like he’s re-evaluating his statement, then levels his eyes with yours with a nod, “Yeah. At first, at least. Like the first night I was there, I felt him and it was,” he furrows his brow and drops his gaze to the floor, “Dark. Really fucking dark. And I was already in a bad way, y’know, I went to your place straight from the airport and you were—”

“A fucking disaster?”

“A beautiful trainwreck,” he corrects with a persuasive smile. It falters as soon as he continues, “And I just had this big fight with Annie about the divorce and, uhh, stuff, and hadn’t used blow in a day or two, just… not great,” he swallows, then shakes his head, “I think maybe… he could sense that about me. It was a warning. I remember knowing that’s what it was.”

“Oh,” you breathe. Look down at your hands. Start picking at your cuticles.

“It was hard to stay. So… I left.”

“I didn’t think it was that bad. I’m sorry. I mean, he told me that he liked you—”

“It got better, really, love. It’s fine,” he assures you, then frowns, “Wait, he told you he likes me? Did you ask him about me or something?”

“Well, yeah,” you drop your gaze to the floor, “I just wanted to—I don’t know, see if he approved, I guess.”

His head jerks back and he blinks, “Oh.”

“Yeah—he, um, told me that he always liked you,” you tilt your head at your dangling legs and chuckle, “Told me you were a triangle guy.”

Dieter lets out a light puff of laughter.

“He asked if you make me happy,” you tell him, so quiet it’s almost a whisper, then look up to study his reaction.

He pulls his paintbrush from the canvas and stares at you, his eyes soft and searching, “And?”

A soft scoff flees your lips, and you say, “Of course you do, Dee.”

“Yeah?”

This crooked smile spreads across his face and makes your heart ache.

“Obviously,” you chuckle, grinning in return.

Dieter seems to think about this, pink tongue rolling along his bottom lip as his eyebrow quirks. He sets his palette down on the little yellow file cabinet, drops his paintbrush into a cup of water, then crosses the room towards you.

The way he looks at you seems to take a physical presence on your skin, making you shiver before he even reaches you. When he does, his hands slide up your bare legs, fingertips dipping under the hem of your jean shorts. His hips nudge your knees apart.

You hook your arms around his neck as he tugs you closer, brushing his nose against yours, “You make me happy, too.”

He kisses you, gentle for only a moment before your tongues meet.

It’s so soft and wet it makes you gasp. A rumble sounds from his throat and his grip tightens. You arch your back, balling his shirt in your fist

He guides your hand to the bulge in his sweatpants, “Do you feel that? How happy you make me?”

“That’s pretty fucking happy,” you grin, wrapping your fingers around his girth, over the soft fabric. You start to work him and he tosses his head back with a moan.

Your lips meet his again, finding depth. It’s a slow heat, the way you take your time with his cock in your grip and your tongue in his mouth. Drives him crazy. His breaths carry strained groans that tickle your throat and make your cunt throb.

When you roll your thumb against the damp spot in his sweatpants, he gasps, “Fuck–”

You hook a finger under his waistband, “I wanna see it.”

“Oh yeah?” he chuckles, pausing to drag his tongue against yours, earning a whimper from you, then says, “Any time, any place, he’s all yours, baby.”

And right when he starts to pull down his pants, the front door swings open.

You both jump and look towards the noise.

In walks Darlene, cell phone pinched between her ear and shoulder, talking to someone on the other line, “Yeah, I just got to Dieter’s house, I’m going to tell him—Yeah, I will—Ok. Ok.”

Dieter rearranges himself and meets your eyes, murmuring, “To be continued,” before turning to approach her.

“Yep, bye,” she tosses her phone in her designer bag and sighs, looking between the two of you, “Did I interrupt something?”

Your mouth gapes open. You shake your head and hop down off the counter, “We, um–we–”

Dieter cuts in, thank fucking god, responding, “No. What's the news?”

Darlene raises an eyebrow at him, then you. She leans back against the dining room table and crosses her arms, “Well, I raised hell at DIRT. David Alterman is on disciplinary leave. The interview will be published without the phone call tomorrow. So… we will see what happens.”

“Oh, that’s good!” you grin, glancing at the back of Dieter’s head, then to Darlene, “Thank you so much. And—and I’m sorry, you know, you had to deal with that.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Darlene nods, flashing you a wane smile, then looks to Dieter, “Can I steal you for a sec? I have to talk to you about something.”

He clears his throat and nods, “Yeah,” then follows her outside.

You release a little chuckle and smile to yourself.

The timer goes off.

Dieter slides the door closed behind him, following Darlene around the centerpiece of his patio: a sprawling oak tree. He looks up into it as he trails behind, admiring all the twisted innards of the beast. When they step out of its shade and into the hot afternoon sun, he grimaces.

She plugs a cigarette between her lips and lights it, asking him on the exhale, “What was that about?”

“Nothing,” he takes a step forward and leans against the steel railing, peaking over the edge to look down the cliffside.

“How’s she doing since yesterday? That was a fucking mess,” Darlene leans on the railing beside him.

Dieter scrunches his nose up, shrugging, “Kind of hard to read, I guess. She seems fine. But–but I don’t know, she’s just,” he pauses here and frowns, “I think I would be freaking out if I were her, you know? But she’s not? And I don’t know what to do about that.”

She flicks her cigarette and raises her eyebrows, then sighs, “Actually, Dieter, that’s what I wanted to talk about with you.”

“About what? Lua? What about her?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but are you serious about this girl?”

“Jesus Christ, Darlene,” he groans, dropping his head, “Yes, I’m fucking serious. I wouldn’t be doing all this bullshit for just anyone.”

“It just seems like there’s a lot you haven’t figured out. Maybe some things you haven’t discussed,” she takes a drag and looks him up and down, “What if I got some intel that says she’s still selling drugs?”

He plays along, inquiring, “What kind of drugs?”

“Edibles. Pot brownies, shit like that.”

“I’d say your intel is bunk. She’s straight.”

“Well, I looked into it,” she blows a plume of blue smoke out into the canyon, “She has no online presence, no license, sells out of her apartment—I mean, it fucking reeks, Dieter. How’s she able to make enough to live in that area with no marketing?”

“She doesn’t make a huge profit. I mean, this month I helped her with rent—”

“You’re fucking kidding me. So she’s using you—”

“No, she’s not. I had to beg her to let me help. It’s not like that,” he maintains, shaking his head, “I mean, who’s your source? Why are you even looking into this?”

“I don’t trust her, Dieter! Something isn’t right, it’s not adding up.”

He pushes off the railing and pushes non-existent sleeves up his forearms, “Let’s say you’re right, and she’s selling edibles,” he stops for a beat, then scoffs, “Who fucking cares? Fucking pot brownies? Who gives a shit.”

“Movie studios care. The public cares. Doesn’t matter if it’s crack or pot, she’s a fucking drug dealer.”

“She’s not a fucking drug dealer, Darlene,” he snaps.

She stares at him. Takes a drag off her cigarette.

He kneads his neck, shifting his weight from one foot, to the other, before throwing his hands out in exasperation, “I need you to just believe that, for once, someone loves me and is good for me. Please.”

Darlene’s lips purse, “That’s what you said about Anika.”

“That—that’s different,” Dieter drops his gaze to the ground.

“Is it, though?” she blinks at him, “You swore that was it, that she wasn’t a gold digger, and yet… now she’s ex-Mrs. Dieter Bravo. Walked away with almost half your estate in return for not selling your secrets. She’s a rich woman now.”

“Yep,” Dieter sighs, skidding his toes against the mahogany deckboards, “I’m just a big fuck up, you got me there.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” she asserts, “I just want you to really think about this before doing anything… rash.”

“I’m not going to run away and fucking marry her the first chance I get, ok?” he sneers, “Just—chill the fuck out.”

“Dieter, let me be perfectly honest with you,” she drops her cigarette and crushes it with the toe of her beige pump, “I worry it’s more than you just being cunt-struck again.”

His head jerks back and he scoffs.

She lowers her voice to a pleading tone, “Look, you’re falling headfirst into a serious relationship with this girl, she used to deal drugs, there’s all this shady stuff with her business, and… I just—I worry, are you, you know… are you ok?”

“Am I ok?” he repeats the question, drenching it with incredulity, “What the fuck do you mean, am I ok?”

She studies his face, crossing her arms. A meaningful tilt of her head tells him everything he needs to know.

His jaw gnashes from side-to-side and he shakes his head, “I’ve been clean for months, Darlene, because of her.”

“Alright,” she raises her eyebrows and blinks, “Good.”

“Do you believe me?”

Darlene shrugs, “If you say you’re ok, you’re ok.”

Bullshit.

“I am,” he confirms, his voice firm and final.

“Great,” she nods, then pulls out her phone and looks at the screen, “Alright, well, I’ll keep an eye on things after the interview drops and let you know how it goes.”

She stomps past him, the click-clack of her heels echoing out behind her, and exits out the side gate.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself, shaking his hands out at his sides, rolling his neck as he starts towards the glass patio door.

Dieter walks beside you as the hostess leads the way through the busy restaurant. Everything around him is white noise. It doesn’t matter at all.

All that exists is his palm on the small of your back. His whole universe has boiled down to you, right now, draped in this white, flowing chiffon dress that Kelly picked out for tonight. You, all starry-eyed and dolled up, gawking at your surroundings because you’re just so damn excited to be at another fancy-schmancy restaurant.

Earlier today, while wrapped up in his sheets, you told him all about the menu, and haute cuisine, and French culinary history, and Escoffier. He closed his eyes and held your warm body in place next to his, content to listen to you chatter on as long as you’d allow him.

He loves that about you. How passionate you are in everything you do. How you slow to appreciate beauty in things like snowstorms, and layers in croissants, and even the subtle timbre of a cello woven into his favorite song.

“Listen close,” you told him when you pointed it out, “It’s fucking incredible.”

He did.

He felt the chords vibrate through him, resolute and melodic. It gave the music new meaning, and he couldn’t believe he’d never noticed it before. He notices every time he hears it now.

But that’s what you do.

Everything seemed so fucking boring before you. Meaningless. You opened his eyes to what was right in front of him and gave it new life. Gave him new life.

The hostess comes to a stop and gestures to a square table, laying a menu on either side of the white linen. You sit across from him and meet his gaze, face all lit up with that gorgeous fucking smile that makes his chest tighten.

“Do you have a strategy in mind here?” he asks, leaning forward onto the table, rubbing his hands together, “Food, wine, dessert, the whole nine yards?”

“I love that movie,” you comment mildly, “Bruce Willis is hot.”

He raises his eyebrows.

“What?” you laugh.

“Bruce Willis, really?”

You study him, clearly very entertained, “Why, are you jealous?”

He scoffs at this, “No—I’m just saying, though, he’s never even been nominated for an Oscar—”

“Oh, well in that case,” you roll your eyes and let out this dramatic sigh.

Dieter laughs and shakes his head, “Wow.”

“Ok, but really,” you turn your attention back to the menu. As you survey it, you tilt your head back and forth thoughtfully, clicking your tongue against the roof of your mouth. A mischievous smirk plays on your lips and you ask, “Did Darlene say we were allowed one glass or one bottle of wine?”

Dieter taps an index finger to his chin and grins, “I recall her saying bottle, don’t you?”

“Mmmm, yep, now that you mention it, I’m like… 99% sure she said bottle,” you agree conspiratorially.

He smiles up at you, but his breath hitches when something behind you catches his eye.

Or, someone, rather.

A bright tangerine dress tight around her petite, curvy frame. Loose chestnut curls flowing down her back. Glowing brown eyes locked onto his. A small smirk plays on her plump, shiny lips.

His spine straightens and he mutters under his breath, “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

You frown and follow his gaze to Lilly Stokes just as she pushes her chair back and starts towards the table.

“Dieter, hiiii,” Lilly croons, squeezing his forearm, “How are you, Pookie? It’s been a minute.”

Dieter watches your eyes flick between Lilly’s hand on his suit jacket, and her face, and Dieter’s face. He watches the gears turn. The light bulb turns on. Your eyebrows shoot up and you meet his gaze, then immediately drop your eyes to the tablecloth.

“Fine,” he answers and leans back in his chair, pulling his arm from her grasp.

Lilly glances back at her table, then to Dieter, “I’m here with Jay—you remember Jay, right?”

Dieter blinks at her, thinking, “We’ve been inside you at the same time, of fucking course I remember Jay.”

But what he says is, “Yeah.”

“Oh, duh,” Lilly waves off the obvious, then wets the seam of her mouth, eyes dragging along Dieter’s body, “We should merge tables so we can catch up.”

“Oh, no—” Dieter shakes his head and gestures to you, “We’re—”

Lilly finally seems to notice your presence and turns towards you, “Oh my god, Dieter, she’s so cute, are you two on a date?”

“Yeah,” he meets your eyes for a moment before telling Lilly, “This is Louella.”

“Lou-el-la,“ Lilly repeats, enunciating each syllable like she’s trying to commit it to memory, “You don’t mind, do you, beautiful?”

You stare at her for a beat like you’re trying to figure out what she’s asking, then stammer, “Me? Wh—I’m sorry, what?”

“It’s ok if we join you?” Lilly nods, batting her false eyelashes. She asks this in a condescending way, slowing her words down like she’s asking a toddler.

Your throat croaks as you look from her, to Dieter, who’s mentally pleading, “Please no,” then back to Lilly, “Uhh—I mean, sure?”

He deflates as Lilly calls Jay over and pulls out a chair. You mouth, “Sorry.”

Jay Blackburn, who looks like a poor man’s Alexander Skarsgård but six inches shorter, saunters over, a lopsided grin plastered on his smug face, “Bravo. Long time no see.”

“Yeah,” Dieter responds, shifting in his seat at the reminder.

Across the table, you gnaw away at your bottom lip, eyes downcast, your bubbling excitement replaced with this raw, nervous energy. He soaks it up like a sponge. It trickles down his backbone and seeps into his bloodstream as he wrings his hands together.

“Who do we have here?” Jay asks, dragging his eyes along your body, drinking in your beauty with zero fucking shame.

Dieter’s jaw clenches and cocks to one side. His leg starts to bounce.

“I’m Louella.”

A warm smile crosses your face and you extend a hand to him.

Jay takes it in his like a baby bird and presses a kiss into your knuckles, then releases you, “Jay Blackburn.”

“Oh—um, nice to meet you,” you say, glancing at Dieter, then at Lilly, “And you are?”

Lilly bristles at this, huffing a little before her mask of sweetness goes back up and she responds, “Lilly Stokes.”

“So nice to meet you,” you look from her to Jay, “Are you guys actors, too?”

“Um, no,” Lilly lets out this half-chuckle, half-scoff, “That’s so funny. No. Well, maybe someday. But for now I’m just a makeup artist, content creator, brand ambassador for Wowie Zowie Cosmetics, and model,” she counts each role on her fingers, then adds as an afterthought, “Jay is a wellness guru.”

You furrow your brow, “Wellness… guru?”

“Lifestyle coach,” Jay corrects, “Shepherding people to wellness through mindfulness, yoga, and nutrition.”

Dieter rolls his eyes.

“Ohhh,” you nod, “Wow, you’re both, like, really popular on the internet?”

“I have over 10 million followers,” Lilly advises, “So, yeah.”

“She didn’t know who I was, either, if that makes you feel better,” Dieter teases, casting a smirk your way.

You wince and shrug, “Yeah, I, umm… live under a rock, I guess. Sorry.”

“I like that,” Jay says, still eyeing you up like you’re a piece of fucking meat, “It’s refreshing. We should all be so lucky to be sheltered from the world in such a digital age.”

You raise your eyebrows, “I mean, I read the newspaper every day, so I’m very much aware of what’s going on in the world—“

“Right, but,” Jay starts.

“—Just, you know, stuff that matters.”

A stunned sort of silence falls over the table for a moment, then laughter erupts from Dieter’s throat. You grin at him, and Jay must think you were kidding, because he joins in on the laughter.

“You’re funny,” Lilly flashes this smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, then lets out an exasperated sigh and looks around, “Are we going to get some fucking service here or what?”

Throughout the meal, you remain quiet.

You don’t share your thoughts on the cuisine, or the wine, or the world-renowned chef. Your face stays painfully neutral as Lilly and Jay dominate the conversation, going on and on in a masturbatory fashion about their busy lives.

More than anything, Dieter wants to tell them to fuck off. He wants to tell them that neither of you fucking care about subscribers or algorithms or sponsorships. He wants to comment on the restaurant’s heavy-handed use of bear décor and kiss you and tell you he loves you.

But Darlene’s warning to be on his best behavior rings in his head.

Despite this, the one bottle of wine you agreed upon is easily negotiated up to two.

After the plat principal is cleared from the table, Lilly leans towards Dieter and asks “So, what’s new with you? We haven’t heard from you in, what,” she turns to Jay for confirmation, “Months?”

“Summer, I think?” Jay supplies.

“Yeah,” Dieter nods and looks up at you, watching the way you wiggle in your chair and look down at your lap. He shrugs, “I’ve been keeping busy.”

“I see how it is,” Lilly pouts, glancing between his eyes and mouth, “Pookie gets a girlfriend and forgets all about us.”

Heat rises to his face. Every muscle in his body clenches. A hundred violent images flash through his head. The words shut the fuck up wrestle their way up his throat.

“How did you all meet?” you ask, plastering on this polite smile.

Lilly combs her long fingernails through her hair, “I met Dieter at some fundraising gala last year.”

Dieter’s leg starts bouncing. He leans his elbows into the table and presses his closed fist against his lips, watching you absorb this information. But he can’t get a read on you.

“She introduced us,” Jay nods to Lilly, “Yeah, we were at this party, it was fucking wild—”

“Lua doesn’t wanna hear about that,” Dieter cuts in, dropping a hand to the table.

“It’s fine, Dee,” you chuckle, then take a big swallow from your wine glass. Unconvincing.

Jay ignores Dieter’s protest, “It was one of those nights where everyone got very well acquainted with one another, if you know what I mean.”

Your fake smile twitches.

“Sounds… hot,” you offer. You empty the remaining pinot grigio in your glass down your throat. Dieter mirrors the action, taking the wine like a shot of hard liquor.

Lilly sips her martini and lets out this wistful little sigh, “Soooo hot.”

“I have to go to the bathroom,” you announce as you push your chair back, then hurry away from the table before anyone else can respond.

His blood boils.

He glares between Jay and Lilly, well aware of the slew of insults percolating at the tip of his tongue, held back by his awareness of the public eye surrounding them.

“I’ll go talk to her,” Lilly says.

Dieter grits his teeth and warns, “Lillith—”

She waves him off and starts towards the bathroom.

“Dieter,” Jay smirks, tilting his head, “You seem upset.”

“What an astute observation,” Dieter mutters, crossing his arms over his chest, “Fucking incredible.“

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Jay raises his eyebrows, “So we’re touchy, ok. Is it because I told the story?”

Dieter says nothing, just grinds his teeth together.

“She doesn’t know about your more salacious hobbies, I take it?”

“She sure as fuck does now,” Dieter grumbles, “Thank you for that.”

Jay scoffs, “What, is this your first date or something?”

“No.”

Jay hums and takes a sip from his cocktail.

Dieter shakes his head. Scrubs a hand over his face.

Then he sits up and points at your empty seat, “If she’s going to hear about that shit from anyone, it should be me. Not some fucking ghouls just trying to get a rise out of her.”

“Then why didn’t she hear it from you?” Jay questions, pausing a beat before he sighs, “You know, you gotta own your demons, man. It’s not my fault you didn’t tell her—”

“Yeah, I fucking know, ok?” Dieter snips. He leans his elbows against the table, looking towards the women’s bathroom, “What’s taking them so goddamn long?”

Behind the roar of the flushing toilet, you hear the bathroom door open, followed by the sharp click of stilettos against ceramic tile. You open the stall door to find Lilly leaned up against the marble slab countertop, pulling a tiny silver canister from her clutch.

She looks up at the mirror and makes eye contact with you, “Hey, girl.”

“Hi,” you smile politely and approach the sink.

While you wash your hands, you watch Lilly through the mirror as she cuts two thin lines of coke right on the countertop. She fishes a short straw out of her purse and holds it out to you, “Do you want any?”

The ghost of cocaine’s allure sends your heart racing. It’s tempting, but you decline. She shrugs and leans over the counter. You look away and hear the two deep, short breaths through the straw. You swear you can feel the rush vicariously.

She sits up straight and keeps one nostril plugged closed, taking a few sharp inhales, making sure she got it all to the brain. Her eyes flutter and throat hums with contentment, “Fuck, that’s good. You sure you don’t want any?

“I’m fine,” you assure her, but don’t go to leave. You lean one hip against the sink and cross your arms, “Did you and Dieter, like… date?”

Lilly releases a chuckle, a sniffle, then rubs a fingertip against the white marble countertop where her blow was cut, “Oh, no. We fucked, like, a lot. But no, we never dated per se. It was more of a fuck buddy arrangement. No biggie.”

She scrubs her finger against her gums, then turns to the mirror to assess her appearance.

“Was that while he was still with Anika?”

“Well, yeah, that’s how it started. He asked if I could be their third,” she sniffles a few times as she examines her nostrils, “I know Kate Ridley was seeing them for a while, but that must’ve fallen through. Anyway, we all fucked around and it was fun. I brought Jay with a few times. Then Anika got turned off or something, she didn’t wanna get together anymore. Jealous I think, probably. He reached out to me for some one-on-one time.”

The information hits you like a slap in the face. A kick in the gut. A fist closed around your windpipe, squeezing tighter and tighter.

You can’t breathe.

“And of course I said yes. It doesn’t hurt to cozy up to a guy like him, with his connections and all. Good career move. Plus, he’s so good in bed. Fucks like an animal,” Lilly giggles, “Not that I have to tell you, right?”

Your face heats and lips part to respond, but she continues without regard.

“If you ever wanted a third, I’d be happy to step in. Jay, too, I’m sure of it. He was checking you out. You’re hot, you know, in a non-traditional kind of way. How long have the two of you been going out?”

She stares at you, waiting. Your throat croaks and you hear yourself say, “A few months, officially.”

“Oh, are you two, like, serious?”

You bring your hand to your throat and nod, “Yeah.”

“Weird,” she murmurs, “After what happened with Anika, I thought he was done trying to pretend he was like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like… monogamous, you know. He told me he’s a free spirit, doesn’t want to be tied down by one person ever again, all that. Then he disappears and re-emerges in a supposedly serious relationship, no offense, but it’s just confusing.”

“Oh,” you breathe, frowning down at the floor, “Well, maybe he changed?”

“The man is almost 50, I doubt that,” she scoffs, checking herself out in the mirror, then glances over at you, “Or, I mean, maybe? Hopefully?”

You nod solemnly and swallow the knot in your throat, “Should we go back?”

“Sure,” she shrugs, then leads the way out of the bathroom, into the dining room.

When you meet Dieter’s eyes, his annoyed expression goes slack. You lay one hand flat, palm facing the ceiling, balling the other into a thumbs up on top, and raise both hands. The signal he taught you back in your apartment before this clusterfuck started: Help.

Once seated, you keep your eyes low, trying to keep the steady hum in your chest from amplifying. Everything seems fuzzy and out-of-focus.

It’s too much. Too much noise. Too much information. Too much change at one time. You want off this fucking ride. You want to be home in bed, hidden under the covers where no one can reach you.

“We should go,” Dieter announces from far away.

Your body is cement. Limbs frozen. Lilly’s words play on repeat at a deafening volume:

I thought he was done trying to pretend he was like that.

He’s a free spirit, doesn’t want to be tied down by one person ever again.

“Oh, come on, Pookie–”

“Stop fucking calling me that,” he growls, then softer, in your direction, “Are you ready, love?”

You nod, then look from Lilly to Jay, your smile wavering, “It was nice to meet you both.”

Dieter leads you past blurry tables of shiny, well-to-do patrons, his hand at the small of your back, burning through your dress. You can feel his gaze glued to your profile, trying to assess the damage. You can hear the words queued up behind his closed lips.

A restaurant employee holds the door open for you. The cool night air kisses your heated, buzzing skin.

“Hey, are you ok?” Dieter asks, his thumb working against your spine.

You look down at the sidewalk and open your mouth to tell him, but it’s all a jumbled mess at the base of your tongue. Fire rises up your throat and tingles behind your eyes. You just shake your head and smother the sob in your chest.

Tears bloom in your eyes and drop to the cement. You croak out, “I’m fine.”

He scoffs.

The valet rolls up in Dieter’s cartoonish, pea soup-colored two-seater and tosses him the keys.

Once inside, you clasp the seatbelt. Grip the leather upholstery. Stare out the side window as the landscape starts to move.

“Louella” he coos, glancing between you and the road.

The car clunks a little as he shifts gears. You grip the seat tighter. Watch the city lights fly by.

He tries every once and a while to talk to you, but you can’t make yourself respond.

You’ve been here before.

You know what happens if you make a sound. If you vocalize the protest in your lungs.

What happens next is acceleration.

Car horns.

Impact.

Those vacant black eyes.

Darkness.

The second the car pulls into Dieter’s garage, you’re unfastening the seat belt.

When he shifts to park, you yank on the door handle and scramble from the vehicle.

The entryway door slams in Dieter’s face as you kick off the stupid high heels you never would have picked out for yourself.

“What the fuck is your problem?” his voice booms through the house when he opens the door.

By now, you’re halfway down the hall, making a beeline to his en suite bathroom, leaving a trail of jewelry behind you like breadcrumbs: the left earring, the right earring, bracelets, a necklace. All these brilliant ornaments Kelly loaned you to make you look more refined.

Dieter’s footsteps sound from a few paces behind as you turn into his bedroom.

“Louella, come on. Why won’t you talk to me?”

The edge his words carry make your heart jump and your feet move faster. You hurry into the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind you.

He jiggles the handle, “What the fuck is this? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask.

“That I slept with Lilly and Jay?“ he scoffs, “I didn’t think it mattered who I fucked before you—”

“That’s not what I mean. You know that’s not what I mean,” you press your forehead against the door and squeeze your eyes closed, “When I asked you what happened with you and Anika, you said the two of you grew apart. That—that she was resentful—like it was her fault–”

“Open the door so we can talk about this,” he says in a low voice, “Please, baby.”

You shake your head, whimpering, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

The door handle jiggles again, “Come on, Lua, open the door.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can, just unlock it—”

“Answer me.”

“GodDAMNIT–”

A hard thud shakes the doorframe.

You jump back and yelp.

“This is so fucking stupid,” he seethes, “Lock yourself in my fucking bathroom instead of talking to me. You realize how fucking stupid that is, right?”

He hits the door again. You scramble away from it, watching the doorknob rattle.

“Stop it, Dieter,” you cry out, backing yourself up to the wall, “You’re scaring me.”

“I’m scaring you?” he scoffs, his words still steeped in red, “Do you really think I would fucking hurt you?”

You slide down the wall and collapse into a pile, covering your head. All you can hear are your own shattered breaths.

A few quiet moments go by.

When his voice comes again, it’s a plea.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.”

You look up at the door and sniffle, wiping your eyes.

“I—I wanted to tell you. I mean, I was going to tell you. I swear to god. It’s just,” there’s a soft thump against the door, and you can picture him on the other side, forehead pressed up against it, “Do you know how hard it is to admit that you’re a piece of shit?”

You don’t say anything, just watch his still shadow beneath the door.

“Do you know how hard it is for me to willingly show you that? I mean, fuck. How–how are you supposed to trust me now?”

What follows is silence. Broken up by occasional sniffles and wet, labored breaths. Your chest aches.

Slowly, you rise to your feet and pad across the cool tile floor.

When you reach the door, you don’t say anything, just press your palm against the barrier where you think his heart is. And you swear, if you concentrate hard enough, you can feel its steady rhythm.

“How are you supposed to love me now?” he whispers, “You won’t even look at me, Louella.”

Your eyelids clamp shut and you take a deep breath. Then you step back and turn the doorknob, pulling the door open.

And there he is.

Dieter Bravo. The man you love.

His eyes all puffed-up and red-rimmed, cheeks streaked with tears. Every handsome feature laced with remorse.

You wrap your arms around him, burying your face in his suit jacket. He envelops you in a warm embrace and squeezes you tight.

“I’m–I’m sorry for yelling,” he tells you in a hoarse whisper, petting your hair, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened, I lost it.”

You swallow hard and rub his back, a silent kind of reassurance.

“I would never hurt you, Lua,” his voice cracks, “I’m not him. I’m not him.”

Instantly, tears flood your eyes.

“I know, love,” you croak out, pulling him closer, “I know.”

Dieter kisses the crown of your head with reverence. Then your forehead. He tilts your chin to face him dead on, grazing his nose against yours, “Wanna talk about this more in the bath?”

You nod and weave your fingers through the curls at the back of his head. His lips meet yours, lingering for a tender moment before he pulls back and makes his way over to the soaking tub.

While you wash the makeup off your face, he fiddles with the water temperature and crumbles a magenta bubble bar in the stream. The sweet scent of blackcurrant fills the air. You glance up in the mirror and see him shucking off his suit jacket, eyes trailing down your spine. His breath heats the nape of your neck when he draws close and unzips your dress, his movements gentle and slow as he slides it off your shoulders.

The dress falls at your feet. You turn to face him, murmuring, “Look up.”

He does, and you set to work on his shirt buttons. When you’re halfway down his chest, he asks, “Will you tell me what she said?”

“She, um,” you pause to bite down on your bottom lip, then sigh, “She told me you and Anika would fuck around with her and sometimes Jay. Then, you know, just her.”

He hums in acknowledgment.

You reach the end of his button-down, then spread the shirt apart. As he takes over tugging it off, you ask, “Was that something that you wanted, or…?”

“We both wanted to try it,” he shrugs. Your hands move to his belt buckle and you unfasten it. He continues, “Thought it would reignite that passion. It was fucking stupid because it just made us both jealous.”

He pauses to kick off his slacks, then ushers you face the mirror again. You watch him unclasp your bra and toss it aside, glancing up when you recount, “She said you didn’t want to be tied down by one person ever again.“

He nods, diverting his gaze, “Yeah. Well, that’s true. I didn’t,” then his eyes return to yours, “But then you came along. Fucked up all my big plans to be lonely and miserable forever.”

You can’t help but grin.

He casts a backwards glance at the tub, “I think it’s ready.”

Dieter gets in first, groaning as he lowers himself into the bubbles. You sit on the opposite side and tip your face to the ceiling, stretching your legs across him, then sink down to your shoulders.

The water burns your skin a little, but you like it. It feels real.

“Hey,” Dieter rumbles.

You swivel your head down to look at him, but can only see bubbles.

“Holy shit,” you giggle, then sit up and meet his eyes, “What?”

“Come here, doll,” he reaches out to you.

You slide your feet under the water and crawl over to him, closing your eyes as you lay your cheek on his shoulder and relax against his body. He wraps his arms around your waist, snuggling you like you’re his favorite teddy bear.

One of your hands occupies itself by absentmindedly tracing the edges of his jaw. The shell of his ear. That one silver hoop earring he refuses to part with. Your nails work into his hairline and play with his damp curls.

“Were there others?” you ask him.

His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth, then he admits, “Yeah. A few. Just hookups, really. Lilly was the most consistent, and that was still, you know…”

“No strings attached?” you smirk.

“Yeah.”

“Why did you do it?”

Your spine arches as he draws a big breath in, then releases it, “All the reasons I said it didn’t work. That was true, you know. I was gone a lot. Filming, meetings, press stuff. A few days here, a week there. There was one stretch where I was gone for two months. I’m not drowning in work or anything, but it adds up. I don’t think she realized that being with me meant being away from me that often. And. Yeah.

“At first, it upset me a lot. I thought she would be supportive and loving. Compassionate, you know. But she turned so cold when she was mad. Completely ignored me. Acted like I didn’t exist. Even when I begged for her reassurance, for her to show me she still cared and noticed me, but she wouldn’t react. I felt like a ghost. It-it kind of reminded me—”

He pauses here for a moment, holding his breath, then releases a soft, sad chuckle. His Adam’s apple bobs. When he starts again, his voice is watery.

“It reminded me of what it was like for me growing up. If I didn’t please my dad, he would ignore me completely. I would act out, be loud, push him until he exploded. Because then… then at least I knew he could see me. It was something, you know?”

You blindly cup his cheek and graze your thumb against his beard to let him know you’re listening. He nuzzles into the touch, a small rumble sounding from his throat.

“Maybe I was acting out with Annie? Or maybe just trying to… fill that emptiness, loneliness. Or numb out. Forget that my wife didn’t love me anymore. I don’t know. I guess it doesn’t matter. I started using again. Heroin, oxy, bars, morphine, adderall, booze. Whatever I could get my hands on, really. But blow has always been my favorite. It makes me feel…”

“Powerful?”

“Yeah,” he says, “Yeah. Powerful. And with other people I actually felt… desired. Plus, they were both a rush. I felt alive. When I was home I was hollow. I stopped groveling for her affection when I started fucking around. Neither of us wanted to work on the hard things. The whole fucking thing, you know, it metastasized. And—and our relationship died.”

“Fuck,” you grimace.

Dieter cranes his neck to look at you, “Too bleak?”

“No, it’s not that,” you tell him, “It’s just… familiar.”

Adrenaline spikes your bloodstream. Your mouth opens to say more, then you close it and hold your breath.

He rests his cheek on your head. Squeezes you a little tighter. Like he’s prodding you so say more.

“Do I make you happy?” you ask him.

“Do you make me happy?” he repeats, disbelief raising his voice an octave.

You nod.

“I told you earlier,” he kisses your hairline, “You make me so happy, Louella.”

“But will you feel the same tomorrow?”

“Obviously,” he lets out a little snort of laughter like he thinks you’re kidding. Silence settles. His body seems to tense and he adds, “Really, love, I mean it.”

Your teeth catch your bottom lip. Brows lace together. Then you ask, “What about a month from now?”

“Don’t do that, come on—”

“A year from now? Or—or longer, even—”

“Lua,” he huffs, then pulls you up to face him. His eyes are soft and pleading. He brushes his knuckles against your cheek, “Look, we won’t be happy every second of every day. You know why?”

A sharp pain radiates across your chest. You wince and shake your head.

He tilts your chin up to meet his eyes and says, “Because it’s fucking impossible. If we do this thing right, which I fully intend to, sometimes we’re going to be scared, and frustrated, and–and we might want to take an easy way out. But I’m telling you that I will not do that. Because I love you.”

You search his face and only find sincerity. Your stomach flips in a freefall so violent it makes you gasp, “Fuck, I love you.”

He smirks, gaze flicking between your eyes and lips, “And I’m going to love you tomorrow.”

Your heart skips. Heat creeps up your neck.

He cups your cheeks and locks his eyes onto yours, “And the next day, and ten years from now, and all the way until my next fucking life, ok?”

“Ok,” you nod. Tension liquifies and drains from your body. The corners of your mouth upturn and you ask, “What then?”

“What then?” he snorts, shaking his head with amusement, “What do you think? Hmm?”

You grin and shrug, pressing the tip of your tongue to your front teeth.

His eyes drop to your mouth and he pulls you in for a kiss. When you part, he murmurs, “I’ll fucking find you in the next life and fall in love with you all over again.”

The words electrify you. You hook your hands behind his head and press your forehead against his, “Promise?”

“Cross my heart,” he murmurs, and kisses you again.

#psychomanteum #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo #dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo x oc #dieter bravo angst #dieter bravo fic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fanfiction #the bubble fanfiction #the bubble fic

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jaybirdie421 · 6 months ago

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Masterlist for songs used in chapter titles:

(TBP- To Be Posted) (TBW- To Be Written)

Book Title: Running Up That Hill (A Deal With God) by Kate Bush

Prologue: What Was I Made For by Billie Eilish

ARC 1

Ch1: Walking on Sunshine by Katrina

Ch2: Made For Me by Muni Long

Ch3: Mad World by Pentatonix

Ch4: Brother by Kodaline

Ch5: Devil’s Train by The Lab Rats

Ch6: Towards the Sun by Rhianna, Charlie’s Inferno/Terrible Things by That Handsome Devil/AXIE

ARC 2

Ch7: Not Like Us by Kendrick Lamar

Ch8: Devil Town by Cavetown

Ch9: Look Who’s Inside Again by Bo Burnum

ARC 3

Ch10: Burning Pile by Mother Mother

Ch11: The Cult of Dionysus by The Orion Experience

Ch12: Nothing’s New by Rio Romeo

Ch13: We Are Young by Pentatonix

Ch14: Spooky Scary Skeletons by Andrew Gold

Ch15: Material Girl by Madonna

Ch16: Blow My Brains Out by Tikkle Me

Ch17: Meet Me At Our Spot by WILLOW

Ch18: Wait A Minute! by WILLOW

Ch19: Dead But Pretty by IC3PEAK, Abbey by Mitski

Ch20: Just Dance by Lady Gaga

Ch21: Sweater Weather by The Neighborhood

Ch22: Let’s Groove by Earth, Wind, and Fire

Ch23: Pocketful of Sunshine by Natasha Bedingfield

Ch24: Take A Slice by The Glass Animals

Ch25: Breezeblocks by Alt-j

Ch26: Ride by Sir-Mix-A-Lot

Ch27: Touch The Sky from Brave

Ch28: Ole Therebefore by Rachel Zegler

Ch29: Rewrite the Stars from The Greatest Showman

Ch30: We Both Reached For The Gun from Chicago the Musical

Ch31: Too Sweet by Hozier

Ch32: Line Without a Hook by Ricky Montgomery

Ch33: Do You Remember The Rain by (?)

Ch34: 9 to 5 by Dolley Parton

Ch35: Jump in the Line/ Dead Mom (Reprise) from BEETLEJUICE the Musical

Ch36: I/ME/MYSELF by Will Wood

Ch37: Double Life by Pharrell Williams (Despicable Me 4)

Ch38: Your Love (Deja Vu) by Glass Animals

Ch39: When Will I See You Again by SHAKKA

Ch40: End of Beginning by Djo

Ch41: Baby Hotline by Jack Stauber (Micropop)

Ch42: I Know The End by Phoebe Bridgers

Ch43: Heat Waves by The Glass Animals

Ch44: Everybody Wants To Rule The World by Tears for Fears

Arc 4

Ch45: See You Again by Tyler The Creator

Ch46: Cloud 9 by Beach Bunny

Ch47: Plage Coquillage

Ch48: Poison from Hazbin Hotel

Ch49: good luck babe! by Chappell Roan

Ch50: Ghost by Confetti

#fanfic #fanfiction #sans undertale #undertale #sans au #papyrus #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #ao3 link #ao3 author #ao3fic #RUTHtale

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exclusivecolette · 9 months ago

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LOVE AGAINST ALL ODDS

PT.1

(Sorry if the title doesn’t really match the story. I struggled figuring one out. first story so please bare with me.)

(if you aren’t blonde or don’t apply to the features, you can just put your own features in. i just put my features because i didn’t really know what else.)

summary: a girl starts to fall in love with a boy in class. But, her abusive parents are extremely strict (ignoring the fact she’s even old enough to drive.) And what is she gonna do when she realizes, he isn’t just some crush.

TW in the chapter: abusive parents, family drama, cussing

“i’m so sick of this shit” i yell turning around walking into the door frame. “language!” satan yelled following after me. I turn around making eye contact with her. “mom im not a kid anymore” i say going to shut the door. “im not treated you like one by saying you can’t date.” my mom yelled back.

“how old am i?” i ask looking her straight in the face as she looked back with confusion. “16! you can’t tell me who i can and cannot date. you saw me hugging one boy. great now i’m pregnant!” i roll my eyes shutting the door. “i’m telling your father!” fuck. “i don’t care” i shouted back sitting on my bed. fuck.

I heard the front door shut. About 5 minutes passed before i heard footsteps toward my door. I had my tv on. “turn that off” my dad said clenching his jaw. I obliged almost shaking in fear. “when your mom tells you something, you listen you understand me?” he got closer until he was in front of my bed.

“dad she said-“ a sharp pain spread across the side of my face. My hand reached up to my cheek then was quickly jerked away. “do not talk back to me. you nod and listen that’s it.” he yelled still holding a tight grip on my wrist. I nod as a tear went down my face. He let go and before walking out said “and clean up your room” there’s a single shirt on the floor.

I woke up feeling like shit. I stumble over to the bathroom, use it. I sit at my vanity. great. There was a bruise almost shaped like a hand on my cheek. A bruise concealer couldn’t cover. And the mark around my wrist. Small towns usually seem to keep quiet.

Fourth period is so fucking borin- “if you could be any animal what would it be?” a brunette asked next to me. god. “i don’t know matt” i put my face in my hands. “i would be a dog preferably a-“ he paused. I looked up confused on the silence. “what happened to your wrist?” he asked sitting up from his lounging position.

I quickly put my hand over it. Nosy bitch. “nothing mind your business” i say looking away. He just silently sat back. i’m such dick.“i-id be shark.” i sigh looking at him. He just nodded, he looked kinda bummed out. did i make him upset? “why do you have an owl tattoo?” i ask turning my body more to face him. “i just wanted it” he said.

“i like owls, they’re so pretty.” i say turning completely towards him. I saw his eye twitch and he cleared his throat. he’s looking at my cheek. I undo the piece of hair tucked behind my ear. “you have a lot of tattoos. we’re only in highschool” i let out a small laugh and turn back in my seat so he couldn’t see it.

“i like them” he shrugged. “i like them too” i shrug and turn back in my seat.

I had just put my bag on my shoulder when someone bumped into me while running down the hallway with their friends. I fell towards someone. “you alright?” i look up to the boy id talk to earlier. “god.” i scoff looking back to the people that shoved me. Matt let out a chuckle.

“fucking prick” i mumble and realize matt’s hands were still on me. “sorry” i say taking a step back and he took his hands off me. his hands were soft. “hey are you going to the game tonight?” he asked. “the hockey game?” i ask. yes the only fucking game tonight. why am i so stupid? “yeah” he insured.

“yeah i go to all of them” i say shrugging. “yeah i remember seeing you at our last one. When we won you looked like you hadn’t gotten in trouble for something.” he smiled “oh you play?” i asked “um yeah you didn’t know?” he asked confused . “no i go because i um have to, my brother plays. Charlie. i just read” i look away in embarrassment.

“yeah i remember seeing you holding one” he laughed. “well i’ll see you tonight” i smile. “if you look up from your book” god am i blushing? i feel like i’m blushing. fuck. “yeah whatever i’ll look for you” i smile about to walk away. His cheeks got red. matt sturniolo blushing?

#matthew sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo #Spotify

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leafcabbage · 1 year ago

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Hello! We don’t really know each other but one of my friends reblogged a tag game you participated in, and I’m REALLY curious about some of your WIPs! Namely, these two:

1. Yet to be named side fic about Tubbo's feeling in the hospital based on Chinese Satellite by Phoebe Bridgers

2. drdi wilburs backstory as told through his many misdiagnoses

You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, the titles just piqued my interest so I thought I’d send an ask :) I hope you have a lovely day!

hi!! sorry its taken me so long to reply, busy week !!

1. so i started the chinese satellite fic before i even got to seven day and the wrong side of twenty six percent, which is the fic it takes place during. i wanted to do an exploration into tubbo's atheism and how its hard for him to have no way to believe that, in the case of ranboo dying, he would ever see them again. especially coming from a christian family and in florida. and like... the idea that he wishes he Could believe that, but everything is out of his hands and its hard for him. its based specifically around the lyrics: "I think when you're gone, it's forever

But you know I'd stand on the corner

Embarrassed with a picket sign

If it meant I would see you when I die"

2. wilbur!! so he's got bipolar disorder but it took QUITE a while to get to that diagnosis, and he moved in with phil when he was... 10. i think (<- guy who doesnt know his own fic). and its about how hard it was to get him the help he needed, even with phil as a constant advocate, and like... just the struggles of raising a very mentally ill child and the lengths phil would go for him. i plan for each chapter to be around a different (mis)disgnosis hes gotten or Big Mental Health Event (he was in a mental hospital several times), that kinda stuff. i think itll be fun to write tbh but its on the back burner right now both because i dont have time and becuase i have bipolar II and sometimes writing things similar to my experience feels like eating rocks haha

thank you so much for the ask!!!!! i appreciate it a lot!

#cabbage answers #ghosts-and-blue-sweaters #fic asks

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effyeffa · 2 years ago

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a comprehensive list of (almost) all of my spotify playlists, sorted by theme

category 1: a bit of everything.

every feeling everywhere all at once opened by brian eno, closed by mitski, in between an eclectic mix of everything to scream cry and dance to essentials. as the title suggests this is the music that makes up the foundation of my identity. funkadelic, air, spiritualized, y la bamba, weyes blood etc etc multitudes: similar idea but older. more hip hop in there, a little time capsule of 2017

seasonal playlists: these are closed chapters that won’t be altered

forbidden fruit february. self explanatory. aquarius season is for yearning and getting messy, thanks fiona apple idlings of march is when spring begins again, just barely but there’s a careful joy spreading. joyful tunes! this must be the place! spring has sprung and continues springing. instrumental interludes as standalone songs, everything sounds like water. the time that we wasted just hit like a wave begin again, another spring playlist. this time with childish gambino, laura marling, hayley williams, guns’n’roses, the classic combo april flowers. short and sweet, alice phoebe lou meets car seat headrest slowly come the saints of summer. do you remember when st vincent said daddy’s home well i made a whole playlist about it. mika is in there. genuinely no idea what was going on that summer. never ending summer, this IS the season of the witch. we love a strange mix of oldies and french and german new wave i can’t believe summer is over and oh it’s so sentimental, it’s a cherry-coloured funk winter walking. it’s giving phoebe bridgers in the graveyard, mountain goats, springsteen, mother mother winter fruits: the first big thief singles off their latest album came out and sent me down this particular spiral. frankie cosmos and mitski, niche italian indie pop

playlists i still edit/add to, first: good moods.

still you. skinshape, biig piig, kadhja bonet, julia jacklin autobahn, a roadtrip playlist, best friends laughing, mostly italian 70s/80s many moons ago: it’s pop! it’s happy things! silly goofy times golden hour! an old one. started this in 2018, sylvan esso was big, king krule, her’s, clairo will you always love like this? dream pop. lesbianism. st south. everyday’s a holiday: okay kaya and rex orange county, steve lacy vibes maybe i wasn’t there: kendrick, dijon, rosalía come on over & do the twist. they’re love songs. aching with nostalgia but happy coffee in bed is teetering on the edge between a lovely warm soup of emotions and desperate yearning clear the fog is where the yearning begins in earnest.

moody moods.

free drinks at the local bar, we’ve got mac demarco, the strokes, girlpool. you know the drill take me for a spin: something of a continuation of free drinks a few years later now including sam cohen, kevin morby. sad-ish music that still works if played in public ring: odes to being happysad on public transport in berlin, short and sweet peel you like a fruit. THEE playlist of psychological warfare. i would be an electrician: if you enjoy julien baker’s happy to be here, the following ten tracks might do similar damage to your psyche no more bad news from my jorja smith phase, also greentea peng, arlo parks gloomy. it’s the end of the world, sharon van etten said, and love is a losing game, and there’s stormy weather and love will tear us apart. calm there’s definitely a flatsound track in there. be warned.

and here’s three completely new ones, works in progress, not yet categorised:

touch. a very specific moment in time. listening to beach house and rhye with all my friends on a big couch, drifting off together, crying a little, holding on tightly all the in between: the only place that matters is by your side, mama you’ve been on my mind, only the strong survive, don’t think twice it’s alright. songs that transcend time and space transitional. seeing angels in everything

already this post is way too long. i have so many playlists, my god. i have a whole folder sorted by genre, one by decade, more by concepts and themes. i’m currently sorting through everything and thought i’d share my process, maybe you’ll find something for yourself new in my chaos :)

#music recs #playlists #spotify #mine #what if 2023 is the year i go fully tumblrina again. wouldn't that be fun

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kermit-coded · 1 year ago

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I Hate You For What You Did (And I Miss You Like A Little Kid) (229 words) by pop_and_lock Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Spider-Man: Spider-Verse (Sony Animated Movies) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Miles Morales & Peter B. Parker & Gwen Stacy | Spider-Gwen, Miles Morales/Gwen Stacy | Spider-Gwen Characters: Miles Morales, Peter B. Parker (Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse), Gwen Stacy | Spider-Gwen Additional Tags: Betrayal, Father Figures, Mentors, Mentor/Protégé, Bittersweet, Trauma, Past Character Death, miles is a fucking KID, hes a KID guys!!!, miles morales saddest guy in the multiverse, Crushes, Families of Choice, Title from a Phoebe Bridgers Song Series: Part 1 of spiderverse fics Summary: For so long Miles wanted nothing more than to see Peter and Gwen again. But not like this.

#my writing tag #atsv #atsv spoilers #atsv fanfic #atsv fic rec #across the spider verse #marvel fanfic #marvel

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spritehouse · 1 year ago

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ShortMC's Whumptober 2023 Masterlist

Works

Fandom: Criminal Minds Final Word Count: 29.8k All works are Ralvez/Ralvez-related *Recommendations/Personal Favorites

*Terminal Velocity: Prompt: Safety Net (no. 1)

Hate Myself: Prompt: "They don't care about you" (no. 2)

*I'm Getting Desperate (losing my mind): Prompt: "Make it stop" (no. 3)

Kiss Me Before I Start to Think: Prompt: "You in there?" (no. 4)

*The End is Near: Prompts: Part 1: Pinned Down (no. 5) + Radio Silence (no. 7) Part 2: "It should've been me" (no. 6) + "It's all for nothing" (no. 8)

The Sky is Overcast (I'm sorry): Prompts: "You're a liar" (no. 9) + "You said you'd never leave" (no. 10) + Goodbye Notes (no. 24)

Wide Awake, Spiraling: Prompts: Captivity (no. 11) & Insomnia (no. 12)

I Can't Hide From You (like I hide from myself): Prompts: Infection (no. 13) + "Just hold on" (no. 14) + "I'm fine" (no. 15)

Please Hurry, Leave Me (I can't breathe): Prompts: Drugging (alt) + Touch Aversion (no. 17) + Tortured for Information (no. 18)

*It Hurts to Hope for More: Prompts: "I'm not as stupid as you think I am" (no. 19) + "You will regret touching them" (no. 20) + "Don't move" (no. 21)

*It Gets so Dark (so you can see the stars): Prompts: Vehicular Accident (no. 22) + Shadows (no.23) + Storm (no. 25)

Destroyed Everything & Spit Us Out: Prompts: "You look awful" (no. 26) + Scars/"Let me see" (no. 27) + Bloody Knife (no. 28)

Put Down the Knife (we're not swapping blood): Prompts: "What happened to me?" (no. 29) + Reluctant Whumper (alt) + "Take it easy" (no. 31)

Whumptober 2023 Playlist

Every song I used for a fic/chapter title

Hate Myself (dodie) Hate Myself + I'm Getting Desperate (losing my mind)

Four Tequilas Down (dodie) Kiss Me Before I Start to Think

I Know The End (Phoebe Bridgers) The End is Near | I'm Not Afraid to Disappear + When I Call, You'll Come Home

Two Birds (Regina Spektor) The Sky is Overcast (I'm sorry)

Emily I'm Sorry (boygenius) Wide Awake, Spiraling

True Blue (boygenius) I Can't Hide From You (like I hide from myself)

First Love/Late Spring (Mitski) Please Hurry, Leave Me (I can't breathe)

Afraid of Heights (boygenius) It Hurts to Hope for More

Black Hole (boygenius) It Gets so Dark (so you can see the stars) + Destroyed Everything & Spit Us Out

We're In Love (boygenius) Put Down the Knife (we're not swapping blood)

Scrapped Ideas/Work

Ideas Dumpsite: Ideas/concepts that didn't make it to a final draft

Scrapped Scenes (pt. 1): Short Scenes, dialogue, etc. that didn't make it into a final draft

Give it up to You (I surrender): Scrapped Work | Moreid | Prompt: Shock (no. 4)

Doors a Kid Shouldn't Walk Through: Scrapped Work/WIP | Moreid/Ralvez | Prompts: Pinned Down (no. 5) + Recording (no. 6)

more coming soon!

Thank you to everyone who read/interacted with any of my works/rambling this October & thanks so much Whumptober team!

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poisonfrog0 · 11 months ago

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on songs about graceland

graceland: a sprawling 1930s estate in memphis, tennessee; the resting place of elvis presley.

graceland: faded red velour, antique wood, wrought iron and dust.

graceland: a final destination. a tourist attraction covered in a feeling of absolution.

i had no idea what graceland was until about a year ago.

paul simon won the grammy record of the year in 1987 for his song “graceland”, the title track of his seventh album. i believe this award was well deserved. i have not knowingly listened to any other songs from 1987.

simon sings about a road trip to tennessee with his nine year old son sitting in the passenger seat. he reflects upon his failed marriage: “she comes back to tell me she’s gone / as if i didn’t know that / as if i didn’t know my own bed / as if i’d never noticed the way she’d brush her hair from her forehead.” loss of love is compared to being “blown apart”, metaphorically comparing heartbreak to windows during a storm. the repeating chorus line “i’ve reason to believe / we all will be received in graceland,” is sung as a prayer rather than a lyric.

when i listen to this song, as well as “graceland too” by phoebe bridgers, and “morning elvis” by florence and the machine, i am overcome by the feeling of optimism - a kind of self-sacrificing optimism that occurs during a last resort. the kind of bittersweet you feel when things get better, even though you know the end of the story is tragic (or, at best, sad). but it seems like the composers of these songs know how the story ends. despite this, they are going to graceland. they’ve always wanted to see graceland.

for every artist to depict the same yearning, melancholic (yet hopeful) feeling that shrouds graceland is fascinating. this phenomenon spans multiple decades and genres. in the way that disneyland represents the quintessential american nuclear family and commercialism, graceland has morphed into a sum greater than its parts.

it has turned into an almost mythical destination; a place worshipped and revered for more than it is at face value. but what’s interesting about this to me is: it doesn’t have much to do with honoring elvis or his accomplishments. at least, that’s what i’ve gathered from listening to these songs about graceland. it’s always about - making it - to graceland. i need to make it to graceland. i wish i made it to graceland. what is waiting in graceland?

i can name a few gracelands for myself. i think it is human nature to search for yourself, to search for healing and belonging in other people and places. when i get there i will be okay. when i make it to the next chapter in my life i will be okay. when i am with this person i will be okay. i have experienced mixed success with this mindset - one of the many mindsets i’ve tried on to cope with living - but i do not see anything inherently wrong with this concept. it’s tricky but not wrong. for a long time, my mother country was my graceland. it does make me feel complete and healed, but every time i leave i am inconsolable for weeks. i decided to reclassify it as home. it feels better to miss it that way. a small tourist town on the northwest coast was graceland for many years - while the town itself is lackluster and unimpressive to visit, that specific stretch of the pacific ocean is special to me.

someone from my hometown used to be my graceland. we were not meant to be but i tried long and hard to challenge fate. i have since learned not to make anyone i loved my graceland.

to go to graceland is to be saved. it is a beautiful idea. in some ways i have been saved by these people and places.

graceland - graceland - people sing about graceland as if it’s a castle in the sky. even better than a castle in the sky. it is solace; a place for pilgrims and weariness.

how has a 1930s mansion become such an emotionally significant destination? graceland has transcended its reality: a barely historic building south of memphis, tennessee, with the corpses of a long-dead singer and his family buried somewhere in the lawn. i hope i can visit someday.

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yessadirichards · 2 years ago

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Taylor Swift returns to Nashville, reveals 'Speak Now' date

NASHVILLE, Tenn.

Taylor Swift is playing catch-up with her fans this year in a massive and impressive stadium show that embraces her artistic reinventions.

Nearly two months into the 52-show Eras Tour, Swift returned Friday to the origins of her musical career in Nashville, Tennessee, a city she outgrew as a country starlet destined for pop stardom.

In front of 70,000 fans, Swift dropped the news that she would be releasing a re-recording of her Nashville-era 2010 record, “Speak Now,” on July 7.

Swift started releasing new versions of her early albums in 2021, after a dispute over the ownership of the masters, which were sold to — and then by — music executive Scooter Braun. “Speak Now,” Swift's third album, will also be the third “Taylor's Version” recording — she released the re-recordings of 2008's “Fearless” and 2012's “Red” in 2021.

“Speak Now” was an album she wrote entirely by herself and she performed one of the singles, “Sparks Fly” after her announcement, followed by “Teardrops on My Guitar,” from her 2006 self-titled debut record.

The tour started chaotically with a breakdown of Ticketmaster’s ability to withstand the demand of fans, who were eager to see Swift after an extended hiatus from touring due to the coronavirus pandemic. Those who were lucky enough to get into the first of three shows in Nashville made sure to show out in their cosplay outfits inspired by Taylor’s songs, ranging from marching band geek to cardigans and cottagecore.

“I moved to Nashville nearly 20 years ago,” she told the crowd. “And this dream I had since I was so little I can’t even remember even first having it, this dream came true because of this town and the people in it.”

She started off the nearly 3.5-hour show with a line from “Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince” as a gentle spring rain sprinkled on the crowd: “It’s been a long time coming, but it’s you and me, that’s my whole world.”

The Eras tour theme is a natural fit for an artist whose music is often so self-referential, winking and smiling at the previous Taylors and their moments. The show is broken up into acts, not moving chronologically through her discography, but instead presenting like a house with many rooms. The color schemes, choreographed dancers and outfits support the overall feeling of musical theater, with a stage that incorporates rising platforms and hidden trap doors she can disappear through.

With over 40 songs on the setlist from her 10 albums, Swift hits a lot of the highlights of her singles, ranging from “You Belong With Me,” “Shake It Off,” “Bad Blood,” “Anti-Hero” and “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together.” But she also made time for special songs, like her 10-minute fan favorite “All Too Well,” and brought back opening act Phoebe Bridgers to perform their duet “Nothing New,” a vault track released on “Red (Taylor’s Version).”

It was a five-year wait to see all the glittering chapters of Swift’s career on stage together, but the pop star’s marathon performance carried fans through to the last notes.

#yessadirichards

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sequinsmile-x · 2 years ago

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I Know the End - Not Afraid to Disappear

She wishes they’d met earlier, that they’d had more time. Meeting him here, at the end, was cruel even by the universes standards.

A Hotchniss on the run AU, told in 3 parts

Series Master List

-x-

This is my 100th work on Ao3. Which is...ridiculous and amazing and just about everything. Thank you for your support, your love for my fics and even the (well deserved) screaming.

I hope you enjoy this story, and here's to the next 100!

The name of the fic, and the chapter titles, are from the song I Know the End by Phoebe Bridgers. If you want to get the tone of this fic, I'd recommend listening to it.

-x-

Words: 2.9k

Warnings: Major character death, canon typical violence, references to trauma/PTSD, criminal activity

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

She’s seen his face before.

It’s all she can think as she knocks back another scotch in a dive bar in a small town in Texas.

He looked like a Fed, despite clearly trying his best to look anything but. The jeans and leather jacket and what looked like a polo shirt underneath were doing nothing to take away the serious way in which he held himself. A stiffness to his posture that she instinctually found herself wanting to mess with, to make him squirm.

Emily can’t help but wonder if she’d been as obvious when she was pretending to be someone else. In many ways, she still was.

She knows he isn’t one of the people after her, she knew them well, their faces burned into her memory, the people who she once called her team. Her friends. She’d worked through the feelings of betrayal years ago. Allowed herself to feel it, crying in a cheap motel once she’d made her initial escape, the moment when she knew things would never be the same again. She’d learnt since then. Spent the last few years forging a routine, a way of life that she knew like the back of her hand. She knew when to make her exit, to find somewhere new.

But she still can’t shake the fact she knows his face, and given the not so subtle looks he throws her way, he’s thinking the same about her. She knocks back the rest of her drink and stands, throwing money down onto the bar before she makes a quick exit.

She isn’t sure if she wants him to follow her or not.

___

He knows her, remembers her name even after all these years.

She’s older now. No longer the 20 year old he used to see in her mother’s house, an air of chaos around her no matter where she went, wilfulness following her like a sweet perfume. He’d let her back into the house once. He’d been on night duty, and she’d forgotten her keys. He’d got her to her room, drunk and underage to help her avoid accidentally waking up her mother.

Aaron remembered placing a glass of water on her nightstand and helping her take her shoes off. High heels she’d clearly replaced since with more sensible combat boots. The following day she’d looked at him like they’d never met, and he wondered if she remembered it at all.

He’d heard she’d died. Rumours throughout the bureau when he was still there that the ambassador's daughter had worked for the CIA or Interpol, depending on who you got your gossip from, and that she had gone rogue. Killed her target before she herself was caught.

It was definitely her. He might have been married when he’d worked for her mother, but he wasn’t an idiot. She was beautiful, captivating. The kind of person you never forgot.

Here, in small town Texas, he’d come across Emily Prentiss.

She looks up at him, and their eyes meet. She frowns ever so slightly, averting her eyes back to her drink as she downs it, slamming the glass down with a little more force than necessary. She throws another look at him before she smiles at the bartender, putting money down at the bar before she makes a hasty exit.

Aaron would never be able to explain why he followed her, what possessed him to hurriedly throw money down himself before he walked outside too, something about her pulling him towards her. Maybe it was intrigue, the comfort of a familiar face after so long. Or maybe, it was just that he was lonely, the life he had been living since Foyet had torn his old one apart too empty for him to take.

The street is empty when he walks out onto it and he sighs, briefly wondering if he had seen her at all. As he turns to walk back into the bar, he’s met with the barrel of a gun, a pair of dark eyes looking at him over the top of it.

“Why are you following me?” Emily asks, her eyes hard, boring into his as if she could read his mind to find her answer. “Who sent you?”

“No one sent me,” he replies calmly, his hands up as she doesn’t lower her gun, her grip tightening on it. “I recognised you,” he swallows thickly, speaking as quietly as he can so she can still hear him, “You’re Emily Prentiss.”

She frowns at him as he says her name, her eyes widening as she looks around to ensure they were alone, pushing her gun so the muzzle is pressing into his stomach, her finger on the trigger.

“What do you mean you recognise me?” She asks, her face remains stoic, unaffected, but he can see the panic she’s trying to hide from him in her eyes. He looks around them, repeating her action to make sure that they are still alone before he turns back to answer her.

“I used to work for your mother,” he replies, and he sees the shock flash across her features, her grip on the gun in her hand loosening for the first time, “you were in college, about to start your Master’s I think. Brown?” He continues to look at her, her face still emotionless, “I actually helped you sneak back into the house one time.”

He leaves out that she’d drunkenly come on to him, that she’d kissed him. The brief touch of her lips to his the closest he had ever come to cheating on Haley.

“Yale,” she corrects him, finally pulling her gun back from him, clicking the safety on as she puts it in a holster, “it was Yale,” she takes a step back from him and looks him up and down. “You FBI?”

“I used to be,” he replies, half smiling at her when she frowns, her eyebrows creasing, “It’s a long story.”

He can almost see her entire thought process, the wheels turning in her head as she continues to study him. How she clearly contemplates just leaving him here, their interaction just a blip on her radar like it had been a lifetime ago. He watches as she bites her lower lip and sighs, frustration that seemed to be aimed at herself seeping off of her.

“Well,” she says, clearing her throat, “you’d better come with me, we’ll find somewhere better for you to tell me.”

She’s already turning around, her back to him before his brain kicks into gear.

“Wait-”

“You look like a Fed, Aaron.” She cuts over him, turning to look at him again with a smirk on her face, “you should probably stick with someone who knows what they are doing, or whoever is chasing you will find you soon.”

He wonders how she knows, what about him gave away that he was also running from something. If she could smell it on him, if he really was that obvious. But something else overrides it all, the question tripping out of his mouth before he can stop himself

“You…remember my name?” He asks, cursing himself internally immediately, the wry smile on her face making him feel something close to embarrassment.

She steps towards him, the faint smell of her perfume and something that was clearly just her overwhelming his senses as she whispers to him.

“I remember everything.”

___

She remembered kissing him.

As soon as he’d started talking to her in the alley behind the bar, his voice brought it all back. Memories she had boxed away when she became someone else all flooding to the forefront.

She’d been enamoured with him from the moment he’d arrived at her mother’s house. The same feeling she’d had in the bar, the need to mess with him, to make him squirm, one of the few things that had entertained her that summer. Emily remembers the night he mentioned, how he’d let her into the house and treated her with such kindness she could still feel the warmth of it now, decades later. The lingering heat from an extinguished flame. That, combined with her general attraction to him and the amount of tequila in her system had made her kiss him. He’d pulled back immediately, something that she understood the following morning, his wedding ring one of the first things she’d noticed about him.

She’d pretended nothing had happened, that their interactions were nothing more than those she had with the other people who worked for her mother. It was easier.

Pretending, Emily had learnt, was one of the things she was best at.

He was clearly running from something. His demeanour was that of someone who was uncomfortable, not used to his surroundings. All of his years working for the FBI still lingering around him, making him stand out in a way she knew would draw attention to him if something didn’t change.

If asked, she wouldn’t be sure why she’d taken pity on him. It could be classed as loneliness. Intrigue because he wasn’t wearing a ring anymore, a part of her wondering if that was linked to why he had quit the FBI, why he was in a similar situation to her.

Mostly, she knew it was because he knew her name. It had been so long since someone had known her name.

She lets him into the motel she’s been staying in, locking the door behind him as he walks in. When she turns he’s looking around, seemingly taking interest in her belongings, her bag always mostly packed in case she needed to make a hasty exit.

“Drink?” She asks, unable to stop herself from smiling when he jumps slightly, turning to face her as he nods.

She takes two of the motel issued glasses and heads over to her bag, pulling out a bottle of scotch. She pours them a generous measure each, passing him his drink as she sits next to him on the bed. She turns so she’s looking at him, her eyes briefly lingering on the sharp edge of his jaw, the way this throat moves when he swallows some scotch.

“You want me to start from the beginning?” He asks, his question snapping her out of her slight stupor. She nods at him, taking a sip of her drink, the burn in her throat distracting her from the one in her cheeks caused by being caught staring at him.

“It’s as good a place as any.”

He sighs, his lips set in a firm line as he looks straight ahead again, eyes fixed on the wall in front of him, as if he couldn’t bring himself to tell her if he was looking at her.

“You ever heard of the Boston Reaper?” He asks, briefly looking at her so she can nod in response, before looking away again, taking a sip of his scotch, “I was part of the Behavioural Analysis Unit at the bureau, we profiled criminal behaviour, travelling the country to help catch killers. He was the first case I worked when we didn’t get the guy, the lead detective sent us home.” He chuckles dryly. “I’d almost forgotten about it, something that I’d think about when I couldn’t sleep, but I moved on. Then I got a call from the lead detective years later, saying he needed my help.”

She watches as he talks, the way he shakes his head at himself, clearly placing the blame for whatever had happened on his shoulders.

“Turns out he’d made a deal with the Reaper, a deal that was about to expire because he was dying. We caught him. He’d posted as a victim himself. George Foyet.” He spits out the name, his hand tightening slightly on his glass. “He escaped.”

He falls into silence, and she clears her throat. “Did you find him again?”

“More like he found me,” Aaron answers, briefly looking at her before he looks back at the wall, “he broke into my apartment, stabbed me 9 times, and then dropped me off at the hospital,” he shakes his head, “my team took forever to find me, too long. They thought I’d taken the morning off, they only realised something was wrong when they got a call that one of my agents was in the hospital. Foyet had his badge, he left it with me.” He pauses, knocking back the rest of his scotch, swallowing thickly, “by the time we realised what his plan was it was too late.”

She feels a sense of foreboding wash over her, his sadness and guilt travelling through the air in the small gap between them. Her throat feels tight, her eyes fixed on his empty ring finger.

“Aaron, you don’t have to-”

“By the time the SWAT team arrived at my old house, he was already gone. My son and ex-wife were dead.” He says through his teeth, clenching his jaw to keep himself together. She sighs sadly, closing her eyes. “My son was three. And he…” he drifts off, eyes screwed shut as he tries to rid himself of the images she knew he’d never be free of, “eventually I found Foyet, and I killed him. It wasn’t self-defence, I wasn’t even working at the time. I just killed him.” He laughs dryly, shaking his head. “I knew they’d be after me, that legally what I’d done wasn’t justified, so I left.”

“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” she says, not sure what else there was to say. He’d have heard all the platitudes she’s sure. From family, from the team who had once worked for him. “How long ago?”

“About a year since I killed him. Haley and Jack have been gone 18 months.” He looks at her, his eyes cold, a humourless smile on his face, “So what do you think, Emily? Is my story sad enough for me to tag along with you?”

She feels embarrassment, and something close to shame colouring her face as he asks her, her gut twisting at the implication that she knew wasn’t entirely false.

“That’s not what…” she starts in an attempt to defend herself that he shuts down with a single look, “Yes. But we should move on tomorrow, I’ve already been here too long and all the locals in that bar were staring at you like you were an undercover cop.”

He smiles for real this time, and she ignores the pull in her belly.

“What about you?” He asks, his eyes meeting hers.

“What about me?”

“I heard rumours, stories about what happened-”

“Another time,” she interrupts him, her hand touching his arm, the first physical contact they’d had. He nods, understanding whether he liked it or not he wouldn’t be able to force her to tell him.

“Answer something else instead?” He asks, and she nods. “Why did you bring me here?”

She can’t tell him the whole truth, she knows that. Can’t let him know that it was something as small, as sentimental as the fact he knew her from before. The old Emily that she was certain was long gone.

“It’s less conspicuous if we travel in a pair, people won’t pay as much attention to a couple than they will a single traveller.”

He seems to accept the answer, standing up from the bed. “I should get back to mine, I’ll meet you here in the morning.”

“Stay,” she says, far too quickly, clearing her throat before she carries on, “you may as well. Then we can leave early, swing by where you’ve been staying to get your things.”

His eyes flash to the bed, “There’s only one bed.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “I’m not the 20 year old girl who tried to kiss you anymore, Aaron,” she says, smirking as he blanches, clearly sure she didn’t remember that part, “I’m a grown woman. I think we can manage sleeping in the same bed.” She grabs her pyjamas from her bag, heading into the tiny adjoining bathroom of her motel room. “Besides, we’d better get used to it, if we’re going to do this sticking to one room is safer.”

She gets a vague response from him as she enters the bathroom, pulling the door closed firmly behind her. She blows out a breath and looks at her reflection in the mirror. She scrubs her hand down her face, and tries to gather herself, unsure if this truly was a good idea or not, but aware there was no turning back now, even if she wanted to.

When she’s ready for bed she walks out of the bathroom, giving him a chance to do whatever he needed to. He walks back out in his boxers, his clothes in hand as he dumps them over the chair in the corner.

“Well, that answers a question I’ve had for over a decade,” she jokes, dissipating some of the tension in the room as he climbs into bed with her, putting as much distance between them as physically possible, “always wondered if you were a boxers or briefs kind of guy.”

He glares at her, something she can’t read in his eyes as he settles on his side, turning off the dim lamp on the nightstand next to him.

“Goodnight, Emily.”

“Night, Aaron.”

Neither one of them mentions it when they wake tangled together in the morning, curled around each other like pieces of the same puzzle.

-x-

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atlabeth · 3 years ago

Text

everything happens for a reason part 4 - zuko x fem!reader

The night was full of terrors and your eyes were full of tears

part 3 | masterlist | part 5

a/n: i told you this was where everything starts to go downhill !! throw one out for my girl kura though water tribe mothers stay winnin

i had this scheduled for next week but elle wanted angst so it’s out today😁😁

wc: 2.9k

warning(s): threats/talks of killing and violence, lots of stress, ozai being the worst (and racist), basically just. angst

chapter title comes from the night we met by lord huron + phoebe bridgers!

The blood in her veins turned to ice as she shot a panicked look at Zuko.

“What?” A frown was already forming on Zuko’s face despite his efforts to remain impassive. “Why?”

“I’m unaware of the reason, my prince. All I know is that I am supposed to escort you to the throne room, then once you are finished to deliver the servant. Another guard will be here shortly for her.” A pregnant pause hung in the air as the two children met each other’s eyes, the fear obvious in Y/N’s.

“I’m sure you know that the Fire Lord does not like to be kept waiting, Prince Zuko.” The guard’s voice brought them back to reality and Zuko nodded unsteadily as he began to walk with the guard, shooting a look that he hoped was reassuring back at Y/N.

She couldn’t even return the sentiment — she was completely frozen in place despite the age old urge to run shooting through her body. Servants didn’t meet with the Fire Lord in any sort of formal way — Spirits, they barely even talked to the royal family as a whole unless it was for some kind of business reason; even then they were at risk of their infamous explosive tempers.

Y/N might’ve been young, but she understood just as much — she was as good as dead the moment that guard arrived.

What was she supposed to do? Y/N was a child, a servant — if the Fire Lord wanted to see her, she had no choice but to follow along with it. But she knew that nothing good was going to come out of this. She cherished her friendship with Zuko more than anything but she hadn’t been treating it as seriously as she should’ve.

Her mother was right. She couldn’t imagine her life without Zuko now, but Y/N knew now that she never should’ve attempted anything more than professionalism. The Fire Nation was a cruel place, the Fire Lord was a cruel man, and she was going to pay the price for trying to go against it.

As if summoned by her thoughts, her mother came storming around the corner with an unusual haste in her step, the fire blazing in her eyes only offset by the pure horror.

“Y/N, what did you do?” Her mother’s frenzied voice went in one ear and out the other as she just stared at her wide eyed, mouth opening and closing but nothing coming out. “Why did I hear the Fire Lord’s personal servants talking about meeting with a servant girl?”

“I— I—” The stammered syllable was all that she could get out, but Kura didn’t wait for an answer. She grabbed her daughter’s hand and began to run, constantly looking behind her as they darted through the hallways towards the servants’ quarters. Once they had arrived, she slammed the door shut behind them and immediately got to work.

“I’m sorry!” she cried, finally managing to form a sentence. “I— I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking about—”

“You weren’t thinking about anything!” Kura flew around the room, shoving various items into a satchel and all but clearing out Y/N’s area of the quarters. “I told you to be careful just talking to him, and now— now this?”

“I’m sorry!” Y/N repeated, her words coming out in between choked sobs. Her head was spinning and she could barely breathe — no more than twenty minutes ago everything was perfect, how did it go so wrong so quickly? “I thought we were safe, I thought that they wouldn’t know—”

“The Fire Lord will always find out,” Kura muttered, still a whirlwind around the room as she tried to think of anything her daughter could need. “I was too lenient. I should have never let you get close to him.”

“I don’t know how it happened, but I started liking him and he started liking me and we went out into the city even though I knew we shouldn’t have and he told me he liked me and I like him even more now but now I’ve ruined everything!” Y/N heaved another shaky breath, the words flowing out of her like water as tremors ran through her whole body. “And now the Fire Lord is going to kill me!” she sobbed.

“Nothing is going to happen to you, baby. Okay? Not as long as I’m here.” Kura threw a cloak behind her at Y/N. “Put that on.”

“Why?” She began to do what her mother asked, but questioned it anyway.

“Because I’m going to get you out of here.” She dug through a parcel of coins and after a quick count, threw it into the bag as well. “The Fire Lord wants to mess with my daughter?” she muttered to herself. “He’s going to have to go through me first.”

“How?” Y/N asked yet again, her voice just as uncertain as she felt — it was like she was incapable of anything other than one word responses.

Satisfied with the contents of the satchel, she put the strap over Y/N’s shoulder. She then knelt on the ground in front of her and adjusted her cloak, carefully pulling the hood over her head to conceal any distinguishing features. “I want you to listen to me, and I want you to memorize every word I say. Is that clear?”

Y/N nodded and Kura cast another glance at the door, as if expecting the Fire Lord himself to burst through the door at any moment, before turning back to her daughter. “Alright. You are going to leave the palace through the servant door near the infirmary. You’re lucky — the guards should be changing shifts around this time, so if you move quickly you’ll be able to make it past the walls without getting caught. Do not stop running until you reach Harbor City — I don't care how tired you get or how much your legs ache, do not stop. Ask around for Eisuke, but be careful; the place is brewing with criminals. Once you find him, tell him you are Kura’s daughter. He’ll be able to get you out of the city; if he wants coin, give it to him. From there—”

The door burst open all of a sudden and Kura shot up, instinctively hiding Y/N behind her. She relaxed when she saw it was only Aiko, but the somber look on her face told her all she needed to know.

“There’s a guard looking around for Y/N,” she warned. “I managed to throw him off the path for now, but it’s not going to last. If you’re going to get her out, you need to do it now.”

Kura turned back to her daughter, once again kneeling in front of her. “From there, do whatever you can to get to the Earth Kingdom. You’ll have far more allies there than anywhere in the Fire Nation. Once you get far enough north, you’ll be able to find a boat to take you to the Northern Water Tribe. Tell them that you are Kura’s daughter, and show them this.”

She ripped her necklace off from around her neck and tucked it into Y/N’s hand — a simple band with a blue stone carved in the shape of a flower — and closed her fingers around it. “They’ll recognize it from my time in the tribe, and they will help you. Do you understand?”

Y/N swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded, her eyes already shimmering with tears. “I’m so sorry, mother. I’m so sorry.”

She shushed her and embraced Y/N in a tight hug, trying to soothe her as much as she could. “It’s alright, darling. You shouldn’t have to apologize for being a child.”

“Why can’t you come with me?” she asked desperately. “You’ll be safe too.”

“I have to stay back to make sure that you’re safe on the other side as well,” Kura reassured. She knew that if her daughter disappeared right before she was supposed to be punished, it would only serve to anger Ozai more. If she left alongside her, Kura was almost certain that all of the servants would be punished; if she stayed then she would be able to take full responsibility — as long as she knew her daughter was safe, Kura could weather anything.

“But I can’t do this alone,” Y/N pleaded, the tears now falling freely. “Please, mother.”

“You can, my little otter penguin. You’re braver than you even know. “ Kura pressed a kiss to her forehead and smiled faintly at her before looking back at Aiko. “Can you make sure she gets out of the palace safely?”

“Of course.”

Kura embraced her once more, squeezing so tightly that Y/N couldn’t breathe, but it was a welcome sensation this time. “I love you, Y/N. Always remember that, no matter what happens.”

Y/N nodded and shouldered her satchel, biting down on her lip hard to keep herself from shedding any more tears. “I love you too, mother. I swear, I’ll find my way back to you. I don’t care how long it takes.”

Aiko took Y/N’s hand and began urging her towards the door, looking back at her mother with nothing but pure sympathy. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Kura.”

“So do I,” she whispered.

Zuko knelt in front of his father, willing himself to keep his eyes on the floor as well as stop the tremors running through his body. He was in trouble, he had to be for a meeting like this, but all he could think about was Y/N and how much trouble she would be in. He had to figure out some way to save her—

“Prince Zuko.” Ozai’s voice boomed throughout the hall, and he worked to maintain the mask of stoicism. It was near impossible with the countless thoughts bouncing around in his head, but he somehow managed. “I’m sure you know why I have called you in here tonight.”

He counted in his head the seconds passed for an appropriate pause before answering cautiously. “No, father. I’m not aware of the reason for this.”

“Don’t lie so blatantly to my face,” he spat. “I have eyes everywhere, and I know you were in the city without permission. Am I correct?”

Zuko swallowed the sudden lump in his throat and nodded shakily. “Yes, father, you are. I went into the city today with—”

“With a servant girl?” The flames on either side of him flared up as a result of his growing anger. “I would ask what was going through your head when you decided to do something so stupid, but it doesn’t seem like anything is going on up there.”

“She needed silks for a project she was working on,” he said, trying in vain to defend himself. “She didn’t have the materials that she needed so I thought I would take her out into the city to help her.” It was so much more than that, but Zuko feared for what would happen if his father knew the feelings he harbored for her.

“You are the crown prince,” Ozai growled. “It is not your job to help servants. You should know better than to go prancing around with Water Tribe savages, but I suppose I have to teach you a lesson.”

“Please, don’t—“ Zuko began, but he was cut off yet again.

“You will speak when spoken to,” he interrupted through gritted teeth. “If you won’t take such a coveted position seriously, then I will take it into my own hands. I will not have your feelings ruining the image of this family after how hard I have worked. The Water Tribe peasant will suffer severe consequences, and it will be your fault. This will be your lesson to remember just who you are. Nothing in this world comes without a cost."

Zuko felt his heart stop for just a moment as his father’s golden eyes bore into his own, and he dug his nails into the flesh of his palm in a half-hearted attempt to stay calm. “Father, is this really necessary?”

“The mere fact that you are questioning my decision proves that it is,” Ozai seethed. “This is not your choice to make, and every attempt in undermining my authority will make her suffer more. Do you understand?”

He found himself unable to speak, the horror of the situation still processing in his head. Y/N was going to get hurt, possibly killed, and it was all his fault. He should’ve been more careful, he shouldn’t have been around her at all, he was being completely selfish by wanting her company and now his father was going to—

“I will not repeat myself again; do you understand?”

Zuko inhaled sharply and nodded, his vision coming back into focus as he croaked out a “yes”.

Ozai appeared less than satisfied, but it seemed the extended company of his son was not worth worming a better answer out of him. He directed his attention to the guard waiting by the door. “Take him back to his quarters — station two guards outside to ensure that he stays put. Once you are done, find the savage and throw her in a cell. A night in the cold will loosen her tongue. You are dismissed.”

Zuko felt numb as he pulled himself up from the floor, bowed, and walked out of the throne room with the guard. Every fibre of his being screamed at him to break away from the guard, to run and find Y/N, and take her away from this dreaded place before any harm could come to her.

But he didn’t. He remained in place, following the guard silently to his room as a storm brewed in his mind.

What in Agni’s name had he pulled her into?

Prince Zuko doesn’t sleep a wink that night, spending every moment staring out the window with wide eyes and a petrified heart. He has no idea how Y/N is going to get out of this, and he feels like a coward for not being able to protect her. What good is any kind of honor if this was the cost?

The next day, he is forced to be with a guard at all times — he doesn’t catch a single glimpse of the waterbender.

The next day, the rest of the week, a month — no sign of her. He tries to find Kura, but is met with the same result. He manages to sneak his way into the prison, but he can’t even find her there. None of the other servants will tell him anything about their whereabouts, either out of fear that the same will happen to them or direct orders from his father.

He feels like he’s tainted, like he only brings pain to those around him. His mother gone, his love missing, dead, or worse, and the same for her mother. The effortless cruelty his father shows to everyone around him — it makes him wonder if that’s what will become of him when he eventually takes the throne.

It makes Zuko sick, to think of what she went through and that he was the cause of it. It takes everything in him to hold the tears back, but the floodgates open at night when he is alone — with Y/N gone, he feels that way more often than not.

Every sign points to her being dead, but Zuko prays to every spirit he knows that she somehow found a way out.

Y/N doesn’t sleep either that night, every breath and every step dedicated to getting farther away from the palace. Every sound she hears sends tremors through her body, expecting every cracked branch or bump in the night to be someone coming to finish the job. More than once she questions what in Tui’s name is she doing, and Y/N knows that her mother’s final words are the only reason she is able to get through this.

She feels like a coward for leaving. Her mother is going to bear the consequences, and it’s more than likely other servants will suffer because of her too. And Zuko — she has no idea what is going to happen to him. He may be the crown prince, but title has never stopped Ozai before. She doubts it will stop him now. Knowing that it won’t last is the only comfort — she’s just a servant; punishment will only be inflicted to make an example out of the situation and then it will be left alone.

At least, that’s what she hopes for.

Y/N tells herself that she will reunite with Zuko no matter the cost. No matter how long it takes, how much she has to go through, even if she has to break into the damn palace — she knows that her story with the prince is not over, even if she has to keep writing it herself.

She will see him again. Y/N knows that much.

oops²

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