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bodrewritten · 5 months ago

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Daughter of Discord Chapter 16: Break the Chain

2:48 PM

When Applejack arrived at the cottage, Fluttershy was already packing her bag to meet the others. Her face was puffy and red but determined.

"Fluttershy!" the cowgirl cried, racing up to her. "Are you okay?"

Despite the shocking event of the day, Applejack worried that Discord had harmed her.

"He didn't hurt ya, did he?"

"of course not! He was so gentle with me even though..."

"Oh, it's a nightmare out there, Sugar! I mean what you did was wrong, but he didn't have to..."

She looked up. "What are you talking about?"

"Fluttershy!" Rainbow Dash cried as she, Pinkie and Rarity entered the cottage. "What's going on?"

"It's raining yummy delicious chocolate milk rain everywhere!" Pinkie exclaimed. "And still no whipped cream!"

"We just picked the kids up from the park, and they said they saw Discord take Screwball and Zany! And Glory said he went major nuts dude, like bars in the window, truly gone fishing.

"What's this all about?" Rarity asked.

"Fluttershy cheated on Discord and he got angry," Applejack said quickly.

Rainbow scoffed. "Get real, AJ! Fluttershy would never..."

"I saw her! She was in the alley this afternoon kissin' another stallion!"

"That can't be!" Rarity declared. "She was at the spa with me all afternooon!"

She narrowed her eyes at the unicorn. "You callin' me a liar?"

"You calling Fluttershy a common-"

"Girls!" Pinkie screamed. "This is no time for fighting! Can't you see Fluttershy's upset?"

The pegasus shivered as she sobbed some more. Applejack sighed.

"You're right. Fluttershy would never do a thing like that. She loves Discord more'n anything! It's just...it looked so much like you! But it wasn't like you at all!"

Pinkie gasped dramatically. "Maybe it was a changeling! I mean a changeling showed up at the Gala, so maybe...?"

Every pony stared at her with their eyebrows raised.

"That actually makes sense," Rainbow said with a shrug.

"Oh, goodness!" Rarity exclaimed!

Fluttershy stood up. "I have to find them! I have to make things right!"

"They could be anywhere by now, Sugar," Applejack said, shaking her head. "We best get to Twilight. I hate to say this, but...we need the Elements of Harmony."

The yellow pegasus gasped. "No! We can't turn him to stone!"

"Hopefully, it won't come to that. I'm sayin' we should have them just in case diplomatic talks don't cut it."

"Applejack is right," Rarity agreed. "We should go to Canterlot at once!"

"What about the kids?" Rainbow asked. "Isn't Maple Cinnamon still with Dinky?"

"Oh, shoot!" Applejack exclaimed. "I nearly forgot! Let's meet at the golden oaks library in half an hour. Two ponies at a time. Round up the kids and keep em at the farm"

"Alright, ponies!" Applejack cheered. "Let's break!"

"What's the point of even farming rocks, anyway?" Screwball asked her father.

The three beings of chaos were positioned comfortably on a kayak in the clouds overlooking Pinkie Pie's family rock farm. Gold Digger was chipping at a large boulder beneath them.

"Who knows?" Discord shrugged. "Why don't we give them something useful to mine? Any ideas, sweetie?"

Screwball rubbed her chin and then grinned mischievously. "I think I do."

She took a piece of cloud and shaped it into a lever. She pulled it back and a pile of bricks fell from the cloud towards Gold Digger.

"Now, now, honey," Discord warned, scrambling to take the brick from her hooves. "That could kill him, don't try anything painful like that."

"Point taken." Screwball summoned a megaphone. "GERONIMO!"

Gold Digger looked up. "What?"

When he saw the pile of small winged fish plummeting towards him, he screamed and jumped out of the way. Screwball summoned a banana peel on which he slipped and fell face down into a banana cream pie. The two chaotic beings rolled onto their backs in laughter.

"Classic!" Discord cried. "That's a classic!"

The filly laughed and picked up her brother. "Did you see that, Zany? Wasn't that the most hilarious thing ever? That'll teach him to pick on ponies like us!"

As she embraced the smiling infant, Screwball started feeling dizzy. She put her hoof to her head.

"You alright, dear?" Discord asked with concern.

"Yeah," she muttered, shaking her head. "Dad, can we go home now?"

"No!" the draconequus said quickly. "I mean...we only pranked one pony! Wasn't there another colt who made fun of you?"

"yeah I... Look, I'm gonna go talk to him."

Screwball hovered down onto the metallic ground next to gold digger. She coughed to get his attention.

"oh! Screwball is it? Back to your old tricks again I see?"

"yeah I uhh, I'm sorry. About hurting you all those years ago. I was young and out of control, and I didn't think about the consequences."

Gold digger smiled and his grimy face seemed familiar, but not cruel.

"hell, I could say the same thing." Gold digger scratched his newfound mustache. "I was opposed to change, and I really, i-i had certain prejudices that really weren't okay. I'm truly sorry miss screwball."

"Well..." Screwball scratched at her head and stood in silence kicking rocks.

"yeah. Thank you. A lot, actually. You've grown a lot. Actually, I really don't do this alot, only when I used to..."

Gold digger laughed and clapped a hoof onto her withers. "Of course! If we all kept thinking about the past there wouldn't be a future! You best get back to your fun screwball. Try not to have too much!

"haha, yeah...." Screwball flew off. "I'll write, okay!"

Discord was playing with the baby, who seemed uninterested.

Screwball shook her head. "Dad, this has been fun and all, but we should call it a day before we get into any more trouble. I mean Mom's not gonna be happy."

The draconequus scowled. "Your mother really doesn't care what we do at the moment."

The filly gasped. "Dad! How can you say such a thing?! What's gotten into you?"

She trailed off as he put his tail around her. "How'd you like to crash the ball game like old times?"

Screwball was tempted at the mention of baseball, but she could not stop thinking about her mother. Why was her dad acting like he did not care?

"That...does sound fun, but...we should get home. It's Zany's nap time anyway."

The infant appeared in Discord's arms. He was bouncing up and down with excitement.

"He doesn't look sleepy to me!"

As he tickled the baby, he felt a sudden wave of fatigue. Screwball raised an eyebrow as he slunk to the ground.

"Maybe you could use a nap?"

Discord shook his head wildly. "No! How can either of us sleep when there's chaos to wreak! Do you want to sabotage that ball game or not?"

Twilight ceased her pacing when her five best friends came bolting through the door.

"What is going on out there?!" she demanded. "Fluttershy, I thought you would have Discord under your control by now!"

The yellow pegasus whimpered. Applejack gave her an assuring pat on the back.

"They had a misunderstanding," the cowgirl explained.

"Now Discord's all mad and making it rain chocolate milk like crazy!" Pinkie shrieked.

Twilight's eyes widened in fear. "Where's Screwball?"

Fluttershy cried and buried her face in Applejack's shoulder.

"Discord took her and Zany with him," Rarity replied sincerely. "Now all three of them are on the loose!"

The alicorn hung her head. "I was afraid this would happen."

"But that's not all!" Rainbow declared. "We think the changelings are involved!"

"Explain."

As hey did Twilight sighed and looked at the chaos storm through the window. "I'm afraid...we need the Elements of Harmony."

Every pony gasped.

"WHAT?!" Fluttershy screamed. "No! We can't, Twilight! We can't turn them to stone! They're my family! And poor little Zany is just a baby! And Screwball...I promised her she'd never suffer such a fate!"

"Fluttershy," Twilight said slowly. "I don't want to use the Elements on them either. Hopefully, we won't have to, if we can reason with Discord. However, if things get out of hoof and he won't listen..."

"NO!"

"If it turns out we have to use the Elements against him, it will only be temporary. I know a spell that I think might release him from stone. We wouldn't be punishing him for all eternity, we'd just be giving him a time-out."

Fluttershy relaxed a little. "I guess if it's for a little while...oh, but he'll hate me so much even if it was just for a little while! And what about the kids?"

"Don't worry. We won't use the Elements against them. Zany is too young for such punishment, and Screwball is smart. Once we explain things to her, she'll come around."

"I hope so," Rainbow said. "That kid is like family!"

"And ya don't give up on family," Applejack agreed.

Twilight turned back to Fluttershy. "We'll only use the Elements as a last resort, but we won't use them without your permission."

"Just...don't hurt him."

Screwball laughed and cackled as her chaos reigned. Her smile faded when she noticed the ponies running at the sight of her. One unicorn with a toothpaste cutie mark looked back at her for a moment. Screwball recognized her as Aquafresh.

"What did I ever do to you?"

The chaotic pony was confused. "Come on, Aquafresh! It was just a joke!"

She glared at her. "Look around, Screwy. How many ponies do you see laughing?"

Screwball stood frozen in place as the unicorn ran off with the others, leaving her in an empty paint-splattered street. She shook Aquafresh's words off and began searching for her brother.

"Screwy?"

She turned and saw her best friend standing behind her. Only one eye was looking directly at her, but both of them were sad.

"Dinky!" Screwball exclaimed. "Hey! How'd the date with Maple Cinnamon go?"

"It got cut short," the unicorn said bluntly, "on account of the rain."

"Oops!" the earth pony giggled. "Sorry about that! I hope you didn't get too wet!"

She expected Dinky to laugh along with her, but the unicorn's serious expression did not falter. After a while, Screwball's smile was gone again.

"Dinky, you okay?"

"Why are you doing this?"

Screwball blinked. "What? This? Relax, Dinky! Dad and I are just having a bit of fun! By the way, have you seen Zany?"

"No."

"Come on, Dinks!" She summoned a smiley mask. "Get into the spirit of things!"

Dinky stared at her for a long time and then turned away. Screwball lowered her mask in puzzlement.

"What's the matter with you? It's not like I haven't done stuff like this before."

"Yes, but..." Dinky said in a choked voice. "You weren't...mean to other ponies before."

Screwball scoffed. "Mean?! Dinks, it's not like any pony's getting hurt!"

The unicorn looked up at her. "Maple Cinnamon slipped on a banana peel and hit his head."

The earth pony froze. "Dinky, I...I didn't know! I can fix it!"

"Just because you can fix him doesn't change the fact that you hurt him in the first place!"

Screwball was taken aback. "Dinky, I've never seen this side of you..."

"Really?!" Dinky snapped. "Gee, that's really funny! Because I've never seen this side of you! What happened to my best friend? The pony who always stood up for me, who would never hurt a fly? What happened to her?"

"What are you talking about, Dinky? She's right here!"

The unicorn shook her head. "No. You're not my best friend."

Screwball's heart shattered into millions of pieces. "Dinky, how can you say that?"

Dinky turned and ran while Screwball stood hurt and bewildered. In all their years of friendship, Dinky had never spoken so harshly to her, and never had she said such a thing.

"She's wrong," she declared to herself. "I would never hurt anyone! I'm not bad! I'm not!"

Screwball stomped her hoof, splashing it in a chocolate puddle. She subconsciously cleared the water and saw her reflection. Her parents always said she had a sweet and pretty face, but now it looked dropping and upset. Realization overwhelmed her, her scowl turning into a frown.

She gazed around at Ponyville and only now noticed how different it looked. Buildings were floating upside down and splattered in paint, the streets had a checkerboard design and banana peels scattered everywhere, the school she attended as a filly was hanging sideways from a tree.

Everything looked...wrong. This was not the town she grew up in, these were not the streets she played in, this...this was chaos. Not a few harmless whimsical pranks, but full-scale chaos, the kind of thing her father said she was meant to create.

She did not like it.

#that title has mf LAYERS #The chain by fleetwood mac and he doesnt have to control his magic. yall alreay know #mlp fim #fluttercord #fluttershy #discord #my little pony friendship is magic #mane 6 #rainbow dash #applejack #pinkie pie #twilight sparkle #rarity #daughter of discord rewritten #chapter 16 #angst

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whatsnewalycat · 2 years ago

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Psychomanteum / Chapter 3

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

Chapter 3: Sedated

Chapter Summary: Something something a drunk mind speaks a sober heart.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 7.1k+

Content / Warnings: alternating POV, death, car accident mention, drug addiction, attempt to date rape, sweet bb dee gets to go off on a mf, consent discussions, flashbacks, binge drinking / alcohol use / blackout drunk, grief, divorce, angst, yearning, spooky ghost, hangover, toxic parent

Notes: Chapter title from "Sedated" by Hozier. Y'all I keep writing a million words per chapter lol. Brevity is apparently not my forte. Ok thanks for reading, friends, I appreciate you!!

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By the next time Dieter is able to come visit you, the snow has long since melted, and the idea of wearing a jacket sounds like hell on earth. Even now, when the sun has gone to bed and the moon is glowing full and luscious in the sky, the air is a thick soup that clings to Dieter’s skin as he walks the block from a liquor store to your apartment. He’s clutching a brown paper bag, which contains a bottle of whiskey, per your request.

When he finds the entryway to your apartment complex and buzzes your unit, your voice comes crackling over the speaker into the tiny echoing glass box of a room, “Whooo is iiiit?!”

He flinches back at the unexpected intensity of volume, but presses the speaker button and responds, “Dieter.”

“DEEEE OH MY GOD HI! Come in, come in!!” you squeal, piercing his eardrums again, quickly followed by the buzz signaling the door being unlocked. He winces back. The slurs in your voice are evident already.

I'm too fucking sober for this shit.

Dieter yanks the heavy door open, limbs feeling exhausted and all too real. The plastic seal of the whiskey bottle crackles as he twists the cap off on the short stroll to the elevator.

The circular button with an up arrow lights up when he presses it. He lifts the heavy glass bottle to his lips and takes three deep swallows of the intoxicant. A soft ding chimes, and the elevator's aluminum doors slide open. He steps inside, carefully avoiding his reflection in the mirrored walls as he smashes 5 on the panel of floor choices. His eyes fix on the glowing circle until his focus fades into abstract.

He regrets not making another stop between his hotel room and your apartment. The deep yearning to snort a line of a powdered god complex straight to the back of his skull twists around his skin. It works in tandem with the tacky layer of sweat and humidity coating his body, exposing his nerve endings to the unrelenting stimulation of the world around him.

As the elevator signals its ascent, he shifts his attention to the open bottle, to his fist wrapped around the crinkly brown bag at its glass neck, and raises it to his lips again. He tips it upside down and it glug-glug-glugs down his throat in time with the ding of the elevator flying up past floors 1, 2, 3, 4.

The love-hate relationship he has with the smooth burn wages inside him when he reaches floor 5. He lowers the bottle, hissing as his mouth-to-stomach pipeline protests the whiskey. His head whips back and forth violently and his body shudders. The elevator doors slide open and he steps out, rolling his shoulders and tapping his fingers against the crinkle of the brown paper bag.

He strolls up to your door, pausing to take a deep breath. His knuckles wrap against the dark wooden door. You bellow from inside, “IT’S OPEN!”

When he opens the door, he looks around and immediately regrets coming here. You’re sitting cross-legged on the velvet, eggplant colored couch, half-empty beer bottle wedged between your thighs, wearing nothing but a loose, white, Fleetwood Mac tank top that hangs off one shoulder and a pair of black boyshorts. Tattooed, puzzle piece skin fully on display, looking butter soft in the golden light that emits from a floor lamp in the corner.

Your beauty and lack of modesty isn’t what sets his hair on end, though.

It’s the string bean of a man sitting next to you, hard eyes looking all too sober in contrast to how obviously wasted you are. His long, dishwater blonde hair is pulled back in a tight bun at the crown of his head. He’s wearing a pair of gray basketball shorts. That’s it. What Dieter assumes is the man's navy blue t-shirt is discarded on the plush, white carpet of your living room floor.

His fingers slide along your bare thigh possessively as he sizes Dieter up. You look like you barely notice the touch, or even the person, as you clap your hands together and wave at Dieter, “Deeeeeeee ohmy godddd I’m so excited to see you, come here!”

You jump to your feet, sending the beer bottle toppling onto the floor. The mystery man looks irritated and hisses as he flinches back at the sudden movement and its subsequent mess.

“Oh noooo!” you giggle and snort, then try to bend over and pick the bottle up and stumble forward, catching yourself before you fall into the unlit gas fireplace.

“I got it, I got it,” Dieter strides into the kitchen and trades the bottle of whiskey for a roll of paper towels off the countertop, bunching a few into a wad as he makes his way into the living room. You grab them from Dieter’s hands, then drop to your hands and knees, pressing down into the wet spot, soaking up the spilt beer. His eyes flick to Mr. Mysterio, who’s staring down your shirt, no doubt getting a fantastic view of your tits.

Dieter goes back to the kitchen and rifles through cupboards until he finds a glass, then pours himself a hefty dose of liquor, and asks, “Either of you want a drink?”

Mr. Mysterio shakes his head, “Nah, I’m good, thanks man.”

“Yes, please!” you chime as you climb to your feet and clumsily make your way into the kitchen. Dieter shudders as your hand trails across the small of his back when you pass him.

You free throw the saturated, balled up paper towels towards the garbage. Your attempt fails, and the wad hits the linolium flooring with a wet smack. It goes unnoticed, and you grab a glass from the cupboard he left open, then set it down with a clink next to his.

You lean back against the counter, gazing at Dieter with a hazy, half-there smile, “Thank you, boo.”

Given your current state of sloppy drunk, he considers tricking you into drinking water instead of booze, but you’re eyeing the glass expectantly. Against his better judgment, he pours the amber liquid into the glass.

“Who’s your friend?” Dieter mumbles, nodding to the shirtless man.

You look ponder this, then tilt your head sideways to Mr. Mysterio, whose balls deep into something on his phone, “What’s your name again?”

“Max,” he answers without looking up.

“Max,” you repeat, grabbing the glass and pushing yourself off the counter.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You tip toe back to the couch, swaying like a pendulum as you navigate the path. Dieter swallows the contents of his cup and pours more before he joins you two lovebirds on the couch.

“So, is this gonna happen or not?” Max sighs. He finally peels his eyes away from the iPhone screen to roll his head on his shoulders and look you up and down.

You frown and furrow your brow at him, “Ssss what happening? What’s happening?”

He raises an eyebrow, “Sex.”

Dieter has to physically bite his tongue. The muscle writhes beneath the grip of his teeth. Un-fucking-believable. This fucking scumbag is still trying to fuck you.

“Mmm,” you toss your head back and forth, as if you’re actually fucking considering this, then look from Dieter to Max, “Not unnnnless Dee canjoin.”

“No,” both men say simultaneously, but for very different reasons.

Max stuffs his phone in his pocket and rips his shirt off the ground, then tugs it over his head, “Thanks for wasting my time.”

Dieter’s teeth release his tongue, and he sneers, “Were you seriously gonna fuck her?” Dieter's eyes narrow in a glare at Max's back as he walks by, “She’s shitfaced.”

Max chuckles as he heads for the door, disregarding the comments.

Dieter’s nostrils flare and he stands up, noting that his body feels lighter, more fluid. The whiskey is hitting him. He trails behind the douchebag and fumes, “She can barely fucking stand, you think she can fucking consent?”

“Hey, man, she messaged me and told me she wanted me to come fuck her in the ass,” Max asserts, turning to face Dieter with his hands up defensively, “I was just tryna hold up my end of the deal.”

“There no fucking deal if she doesn’t know what she’s doing,” Dieter bellows, getting heated now.

“Listen, I don’t give a shit,” Max scoffs and walks to the door, calling back as he exits, “Good luck, man.”

Once the door closes, Dieter stomps over and deadbolts it. He mutters under his breath, "Dare you to come back here, you fucking little shit."

When he turns around, you’re folded in on yourself, arms wrapped around your legs, face buried between your knees. Shattered sobs wrack your body.

Dieter throws his head back and looks at the ceiling, hoping his gaze shoots straight to whatever omnipotent being hangs out at the end of that backlit tunnel he never made it to the end of. He sends a psychic signal, asking, “What the fuck did I do to deserve this?”

The almighty tunnel demon or whatever doesn’t respond, and he supposes it doesn’t fucking matter anyway. This is happening. His shoulders sag as he releases a sigh that’s the exact square footage of his lungs. He grabs the bottle of whiskey en route to the couch, then plops down next to you and coos, “You… you ok?”

He was never good at this whole “comforting” thing. Maybe he should just leave. You probably won’t remember anyway. He seriously considers this, and he’s tossing the idea back and forth across his brain when you turn to face him. His body goes rigid as you meet his gaze.

Your eyes are bloodshot and glassy, your pretty face sopping wet with tears. Maybe some snot, too, but you’re still fucking beautiful. Which is insane. Your face folds in its sadness and you whimper, “Why’d you say that, Dee?”

His mouth gapes open and he furrows his brow, shaking his head from side to side in confusion, “Wh-what?”

“You said ‘were you seriously gonna fuck her?’” your face contorts as you put on a faux deep voice, and Dieter assumes that’s an attempt to mock him.

“No shit, Lua-” he scoffs, throwing his hands up in disbelief. Are you seriously mad at him for shooing away the fucking creep that tried to date rape you?

“Why would you say it like that? Like ‘who would fuck her, that’s disgusting’? Is- is it because of my scars?” your eyes are welling with tears again and you self-consciously run a hand along the side of you that was put back together by sutures.

He shakes his head and turns his body to face you, “No-”

“Am I really that fucking ugly?” you squeak and your body shudders as you inhale a sob.

“Absolutely fucking not,” Dieter booms incredulously.

Your face is wet and crumpled up like the beer-soaked paper towel on the floor beside your kitchen garbage can. You’re still crying. Is this what the whole night is gonna be?

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat and runs his hands through his hair, sending it every which way, and sighs, “You are… fucking gorgeous, Lua,” he pauses, then his brow quirks as he admits, “The things I would do to you… Unholy, unspeakable things, really, honestly. I would fuck you senseless any given day. I mean that.”

A dopey smile spreads across your lips and you giggle. His face falls into earnestness, and he searches your face, “But I wouldn’t touch you if you were too drunk to consent. That’s a shitty fucking thing to do," he grits his teeth and cocks his jaw, dropping his gaze to the floor, "Which is why I asked that rat-faced fuck if he was seriously going to fuck you.”

This explanation seems to satisfy you. Your puffy, red eyes finally stop producing tears. They’re far away and searching, like you’re deep in thought.

“It’s fucked up that he would even consider it, let alone encourage it,” Dieter scratches the scruff on his neck and mutters, “Where’d you even find this guy, Lua?”

You shrug and take a deep, shaky breath, exhaling the residual cobwebs of sorrow that accumulated while you cried, “Jusss tinder.”

“Tinder,” he repeats with disdain, looking around the room at anything except your beautiful face, “Having any luck on there?”

“Sss fine for what I need,” you inhale deep and unfold yourself, stretching your hands and feet as far away from your body as they can reach. The tank top you’re wearing pulls up and exposes a generous helping of your mid-drift. You let out a squeak and arch into the stretch. He has to avert his eyes to keep from ogling at the curve of your breasts that peak out from beneath the shirt.

“And what’s that?” he looks down at the bottle of whiskey, then raises it to his lips, taking a big, burning swallow.

You shake out your limbs, then look from the armrest, to him, “Can I lay m’ head on your lap? Looks comfy.”

Dieter stammers, “Oh, uh… yeah, sure.”

He makes room for you, leaning his back against the velvet couch as you scoot over and lay your head in his lap, draping your legs across the arm rest. Mentally, he pleads with his dick to not make a fool of him. The army green cotton shorts he’s wearing are thin and loose, and will absolutely not fucking conceal any kind of rumblings down under.

“Hookups,” you tell him, looking up with a devious smile from your place on his lap, “No strings, y’know.”

“I am all about no-strings-attached,” he touches his fingertips to his chest and grins, peering down at you.

“Deeeee,” you whine, gripping his free hand and interlacing your fingers with his. His dick jumps at the contact. God damn you. You don’t notice, just snuggle his arm against your chest like it’s a teddy bear and pout, “Can’t hook up with you like those guys. Too, um... stringy.”

The admission twists his guts up in a confusing knot. He’s feeling numb around the edges, though, and moves past it, chuckling, “Too stringy?”

“I like you too much,” you blink and nod, then reach up and tap your finger to the tip of his nose and giggle, “Boop.”

“You are so fucking drunk, Lua, holy shit,” he starts laughing, hiding the heat spreading across his cheeks. He takes another long swig of whiskey, then snorts, “I’m tryin’ to get on your level.”

You don't respond except for an amused hum. Some time passes in silence, your hands clasped together, huddled against the warmth of your chest. Sweat pooling between your skin and his. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the couch. In this darkness, he can zero in on the thudding of your heart as it pumps blood through your body, keeping you alive.

He's envious of each blood cell that gets to course through your veins. How they get to know every square inch of you in a way he will never be able to. How they are always within the temple of your body, a civilization of organisms working tirelessly to keep their goddess alive, worshiping you on a microscopic level.

“Can I tell you a sssecret?” you whisper loudly. His head downswings and he snaps his eyes open to meet yours, all stretched wide and dilated, like a doe's.

“Hit me,” Dieter advises in a gravelly voice, grateful for your numbness, otherwise you might notice the way his cock is twitching at the sight of you.

Your clutch on his hand tightens and you grin, “I wanna do this thing with the mirrors. To, mmm, talk to Ethan. With the mirror. I forgot what it’s called,” you frown and tilt your head, “psychomathlium.”

“What is it?” he cackles at the clumsy way the made up word falls from your lips.

“Hang on-” you sit up, letting go of his hand, and start digging into the creases of the couch. He drinks to the loss. When you find your phone, you hold it above your head victoriously, “AHA!”

He cannot fucking fathom that you have ever been able to convince yourself you're ugly.

“Gotta find the thing-” you mumble, tapping and sliding your index finger around the screen with one eye open. Dieter notes that the pulls of whiskey he had on the elevator ride up have fully saturated his nervous system, making him feel loose and wavy. You start trying to pronounce a word, only able to get as far as, “psychom-psychom-”

He outstretches his hand, “Can I see?”

You drop the phone in his palm, then get comfortable again, resting your head on his crotch.

“Psychomanteum,” Dieter reads out loud. He crinkles his nose at the description google gives:

In parapsychology and spiritualism, a psychomanteum is a small, enclosed area set up with a comfortable chair, dim lighting, and a mirror angled so as not to reflect anything but darkness intended to communicate with spirits of the dead.

“Yes!” you snatch the phone from his grip to scroll down the screen, then toss it on the floor haphazardly. He watches your face fall from excitement to sadness, and your voice comes out small when you say, “I wanna ask him why.”

“Ask him why, what?”

“Why he tried to kill us,” you answer, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He searches your face in confusion, but you're staring off into the distance, paying him no mind. His hair stands on end.

“What do you mean?” Dieter asks hesitantly.

“He crashed the car on purpose,” you close your eyes and stretch your hands above your head, “But he wouldn’t tell me why.”

He recalls the car ride from the diner in February, the frantic whimpers that fled your lips when you were asleep. The only discernible phrase Dieter could hear was, “Slow down, not buckled-”

There are a million questions that cross his mind. Was he abusive? Was he drunk? Did he say anything to you? What fucking happened, Lua?

When considering which question to lead with, it dawns on him that asking right now wouldn’t be fair to you. Even if the questions itch the insides of his throat. He wants you to want to tell him, and won’t try to divulge your secrets when you’re in a vulnerable state.

“So… you want to make a psychomanteum?” he drags his eyes around your stonewalled face.

“Mmmhmm," you nod loosely. The motion grazes your head against the soft length of him and generates a lusty ache deep inside his groin. With a sigh, you flick your eyes to his and admit, "I’m too scared to do it by myself, though. Sss why you shoul' do it with me.”

“Right… right now?” Dieter’s eyes widen.

“Why not?” you shrug.

His brain sloshes around in his skull as he shakes his head vigorously, “No. No no no. We’re not going to drunk dial your dead husband, who tried to murder you, via mirror.”

Your laugh is squeaky and delirious, and you throw your hands over your face as you snort, “Well, when you put it like that…”

“I do, I do put it like that,” Dieter finalizes. His fingers are filled with energy when he thinks about how soft your hair looks, and he wills himself not to run them through the strands, then he mumbles, “What else do you wanna do?”

“Fuck?” you look up at him with hopeful eyes. Hopeful, half-open, completely offline eyes.

Yes.

“Absolutely not,” he chuckles, resisting the urge to rub his thumb against your cheek, and a spark jolts his insides when he tells you, “Maybe tomorrow. But right now you are trashed. Next idea.”

“Hmmm,” you scrunch your face up and tap your index finger to your chin, then your face lights up, “Wanna lay in bed and watch shitty TV?”

“Let’s do it,” Dieter smiles.

You jump up a little too quick and stumble sideways before gaining your footing with a giggle, then you start down the hallway.

He follows you, but stops dead in tracks at the closed door next to the kitchen when he thinks he hears something inside. His smile fades as a darkness with weight settles on his shoulders. It seeps into his bones, doubling their weight, pulling his soul to the ground.

You pop into the doorway of your bedroom, backlit by the bright ceiling light inside, with a great big gorgeous smile on your face. Your hand extends towards him, “Come on! Do you want umm… pajamas?”

“Is there someone in there?” Dieter furrows his brow and points to the closed door.

“Not… really,” your eyes flick to the door and you shift your weight to one hip, then clamp your lips shut with your teeth and avoid his gaze.

That’s a weird fucking answer. But the twisting in his guts tells him he doesn’t want to know more than that.

“I’ll, um… I’m gonna use the bathroom first,” he mumbles, then averts his eyes as he skirts by you into the bathroom. He closes the door and takes a deep breath, pressing his palms against the bathroom counter over the sink.

That wretched feeling sucks him towards the center of the earth. Like he’s sinking in a tarpit. He shoves his hands in the front pockets of his shorts and digs around to see if, by some divine miracle, a bag of coke has magically spawned inside. No such luck.

Maybe he can just ignore that insatiable burning in his chest. The yearning that’s pulling all the skin in his body too tight for comfort. That chronic emptiness that just intensified tenfold.

What the fuck is in that room?

He looks up in the mirror. The man that stares back at him looks like shit. Darkness like bruises stain the tear troughs under his pained eyes. His skin is dull and lifeless. Fuck, he just looks hollow. Like those vacant-eyed chocolate rabbits people gift children on Easter Sunday. No life to be found here. Nobody's home.

With a sigh, he leaves the bathroom, flipping the light switch off behind him. A sickening shudder runs down his spine when he crosses the hallway to your bedroom.

An image splices itself into his mind’s eye just for a second. Just one single frame of a man’s inky black shadow, somehow darker than the darkness of the room.

A warning.

Inexplicably, he understands that’s what it is: a warning.

Then he steps through the threshold of your bedroom and he’s doused in artificial light. The room, its cream colored walls littered with colorful paintings and shelves of plants, feels different than the rest of the apartment. A plush white rug covers most of the hardwood floor. One large window, visible through the sheer emerald green curtains, runs parallel to the length of your bed, opposite the doorway.

It feels… safe.

You’re laying on your side, hugging a pillow, one leg hooked over the edge of the rust-colored comforter. The flesh of your thigh is exposed to the air. The swell of your ass catches the light. His fingers twitch as they think about how your skin would give under their grip.

He imagines what it would be like to sink his teeth into you.

“You comin’ or what?” you mumble without breaking your line of sight from the tv mounted in the corner of the room. He shakes the depraved thoughts from his head and approaches the other side of the bed, eying the side table drawer that displays a photo of you and Ethan on a beach somewhere with white sands and perfectly tranquil turquoise water.

He looks up at the cavernous black doorway. That warning churns his stomach again.

But then his gaze flicks to you, and you’re looking back at him with your eyebrows drawn together over doe eyes. He thinks of you having to go to bed every night alone in this depressing fucking apartment. With a sigh, he pulls the covers back and crawls between the white sheets.

All of a sudden he doesn’t know what to do with his extremities. How does he normally lay in bed? Surely, not like he is now. Like a corpse boxed into a coffin.

Is it offensive to think that in a dead man’s spot?

You cut him off from his spiraling thoughts as you tug on his shirt and mumble, “Dee?”

He doesn’t say anything, just turns his head to look at you.

“Can you cuddle me?”

There’s such a childlike innocence to the way you ask him this question. It’s all pink hubba bubba and Saturday morning cartoons. He can tell the intention is not romantic or sexual. It’s just comfort.

So he nods and hums in a gravelly voice, “Yeah, come here, doll."

You kick your legs all the way under the blankets and wiggle closer as he wraps an arm around you. Your body settles against his, cheek to his chest, one arm draped across his belly. His hand lands on your hip. It feels natural and innocuous, so he doesn’t move.

It’s like you’re hit by a tranquilizer. Your body melts into his with such ease. His rigid muscles go lax, too. The colorful noise on the TV is just background.

“I miss this part the most,” you whisper the statement like it’s a secret.

He hums in acknowledgement and closes his eyes, sinking further into contentment.

“Do you?” you ask in a yawn.

“Do I what?”

“Y’know, miss cuddling with your wife?”

Dieter remembers the hotel room off the coast of Italy, the day after he and Anika were married. White curtains flapping in the breeze off the Grand Canal. Late morning chatter floating up through the open windows.

Her back was pressed against his chest, a layer of sweat gluing them together. His nose was buried in her golden hair, breathing in the floral bouquet of the flowers that were anchored in her locks 24 hours prior. Their breathing moved in sync. He felt a warmth spread across his body as he marinated in the moment.

He blinked his eyes open, waking at his own pace. When he adjusted his head to peer up at the frescoed ceiling, he studied the cherubs playing in the fluffy white clouds that decorated the sky blue background. His mouth moved in the shape of a silent word.

Too afraid to say it out loud, too bold to keep it inside. It’s what that morning was, though, he was sure of it.

Heaven.

At home in their bed, dozens of times in those first few months, she would nuzzle into him as they fell asleep. As they woke up. After sex. While watching movies. Doing nothing at all. His lips spelled out the muted confession.

Heaven.

“I do,” he whispers his secret in exchange for yours. Evening the scales. Or whatever.

“Do you love her?”

His skin tightens as the question bubbles between the layers. He gnashes his jaw back and forth as he considers this.

In contrast to the months of content cuddling and hot sex, here were months of him reaching across the mattress in the dark, asking, “Can I hold you?” or “Can you hold me?” or “Annie, please, can you just look at me?”

He was always met with silence.

One night he quietly admitted, “I feel like a ghost each time I come home.”

To which she responded, “A ghost wouldn’t leave me here with no one,” then got up to sleep in another bedroom. By the next morning, she looked right through him again. A phantom in his own home.

It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling.

Dieter thinks about the divorce petition his lawyer, Gene, received from Anika’s lawyer. He has 3 more days to respond before the decision could default. Gene left him a voicemail earlier today explaining that defaulting could result in millions of dollars lost.

But he can’t bring himself to sign it.

If he signs it, it’s real. They’re divorced. Anika will go back to Europe. He would rather die than live in that huge, empty house without her. Each room haunted by memories of her, the good and the bad.

“Do you love Ethan?” he finally returns when he’s unable to come up with an answer.

“Yeah,” you breathe a sad chuckle, then sniffle, “That’s why I don’ understand.”

A split-second vision of a man-shaped black hole in the other bedroom invades his brain. The alarm bells start ringing as a shiver runs down his back and clutches his guts. But he swallows hard, clears his throat, and declares, ”We’ll do the psychomanteum tomorrow.”

“Really?” you roll around to face him, and his hand slides to the small of your back. He’s acutely aware of the pads of his fingers resting on your soft skin. How tempting it is to set them into motion, to feel more of you.

“Yeah,” he answers. Your face erupts in this big, beautiful smile that is contagious, making him grin despite the storm roiling inside him.

Then your gaze flicks to his mouth and back to his eyes in a question. A question that divides him as his tongue slides along his lower lip subconsciously. You search his face for an answer, leaning forward enough that he inhales the whiskey taste on your breath.

Your hand reaches up and your nails rake through his hair. A shudder rattles his spine and sucks the air from his lungs. The ache he feels when he holds himself back is torture.

“Why don’t we go to bed, Lua?” he rumbles.

You place your thumb on his lower lip and run it along the edge, sending a tremble down the center of him. His eyes flutter shut, and he feels your whisper hot against his skin, “Sss that what you wanna do?”

No. Absolutely fucking not.

But the slurring in your speech reminds him how fucked up you are, and the warning is twisting its way through his intestines.

“Yeah,” he decides, opening his eyes to flash you a gloomy smirk.

Your features sag in disappointment and you draw back, tucking yourself into his side with your head against his chest. You mutter, “Sorry.”

The pain in your voice is apparent. You’ll get over it, though, once you return to sobriety and realize it would have been a mistake.

“Do you want me to turn the lights off?” he asks, frowning up at the brassy ceiling light illuminating the room.

“No,” you yawn, “Dark is scary.”

He glances over at the darkness hovering on the other side of the open doorway and nods in agreement, “Ok.”

It’s quiet for a few minutes, and he thinks that maybe you’ve fallen asleep, until you mumble out, “Are you gonna leave when I’m asleep?”

“Do you want me to?"

"No."

"Then I won't."

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

But when your breaths get long and deep, and all the residual tension held in your tenuous state of consciousness slackens, the gnawing at his brain starts again. The Big Empty, gutting him and carving him out like a jack-o-lantern.

His eyes are fixed on the TV, but it’s just lights and noise. Nothing is absorbing. All he can think about is how much he wants to get rid of this sinking feeling. He may have promised you he’d stay, but would you really remember? Or would you be more likely to freak the fuck out when you wake up from your blackout next to him?

Really, he’d be doing you a favor by leaving.

He takes a deep breath in and slowly releases it into the bedroom, then cautiously reaches down into his shorts pocket and fishes out his iPhone. There’s an unread message.

> GLENN: > You coming out?

His molars catch the smooth inside of his cheek and bite down. A soft little snore emits from your throat. His eyes flick to the dark bedroom doorway and the tar pit of sadness starts sucking him down. Static vibrates hot in his veins. He texts back.

< ME: < Yeah. Where?

When you wake, it’s with a start, eyes snapping open with anxiety as you’re catapulted into consciousness. Your TV is blaring 90 Day Fiancé and the bedroom lights are still on. You sit upright and notice the covers are drawn back on Ethan’s side of the bed.

Stomach acid rises in your throat as you start patting down your surroundings in search of your phone, taking a deep breath of relief when you pull it out from beneath your pillow. Two unread texts, sent hours apart.

> DEE: > Going to liquor store then I’ll be there

> DEE: > Sorry, had to go. Text me when u wake up.

You drop your phone and lay back down, covering your face with your hands as you groan out loud, “What the fuck did I do?”

With your eyes clamped shut, you try to recount the night before. Pouring glasses of wine while talking to your mother on the phone. She was crying, telling you about how she was having a difficult time dealing with Ethan’s death. She doesn't understand why you’re not as sad as everyone else. She informed you that when her husband died, she was practically bedridden for a year.

Like you don't remember. Like you weren't the one that picked up her slack to avoid living on the street.

“Just because I’m not calling you bawling or posting bullshit on social media doesn’t mean I’m not fucking sad, mom,” you growled, then emptied the Pinot Grigio into your glass.

Shockingly, she did not appreciate this. Her voice assaulted your ear drums from hundreds of miles away as she snipped, “Well I’m sorry for being a human with feelings, not a robot.”

When you wouldn’t dignify her comment with a response, she continued to bait you, “I thought I could count on you of all people to know how I feel, but I guess not.”

You rolled your eyes and put back the glass of wine like it was a shot of liquor.

“Now I know better.”

A pause to wait for your non-existent response.

“Now I know better than to bother you with my feelings again. Nope, can’t talk to Louella unless it’s about her, isn’t that right? All about you.”

That exceeded your limit for bullshit.

“Yeah, that’s definitely what I’m doing right now, mom, making it all about me,” you scoffed, then hung up on her.

After this, you dug out a bottle of whiskey from the back of a kitchen cabinet. You rejected her calls until you got drunk enough to not give a fuck if she went to voicemail or not, laughing out loud to yourself as each voicemail notification popped up on your screen, "Fill it up, bitch, I don't give a fuuuuuck!”

You remember snippets from there forward. Sexting with some guy on tinder. Dieter’s text letting you know his flight landed, asking where to meet you. The desperate urge to fuck. Laying in bed with Dieter.

Your stomach clenches and you groan again when you remember trying to get him to kiss you. He rejected you.

You lift your phone and send a text to him.

< ME: < Gooood morning sunshine. Please tell me I didn’t make a total ass of myself last night.

To your surprise, he responds immediately.

> DEE: > Lol no way < ME: < Do you still want to hang out with me? Hahahaha > DEE: > Obviously > U hungry? < ME: < Only if you’re bringing food here 👀 < I look like shit and refuse to be seen in public > DEE: > Impossible for u to look like shit lol fucking goddess > Be there soon

Your stomach flips upside down and makes you dizzy. Last night’s inconsolable desire to be fucked hard returns with a vengeance. A tingle twists at the your center when you imagine what Dieter would be like in bed.

You’ve been on the phone with him while he was painting and drawing. He seems to get lost in a trance sometimes, rambling out the narration of his creative process. Messy, passionate strokes. An intuition for detail. Would he do the same with your body as his canvas?

You roll on your side to look at the empty half of the bed. Guilt that’s heavy and blue pools in your chest. It feels like a betrayal to wish Dieter would have accepted your advances.

It’s not like you haven’t been having sex. You’ve actually been very successful in keeping your sexual needs met. There’s a divine kind of peace you find with another body pressed against yours as you work towards mutual ascension. They touch you in delicious ways that make your sorrows melt away, then you never have to deal with them again. Anonymous orgasm donors that you scrub from existence at the first opportunity. It’s exactly what you need.

That, wherein, lies the problem with Dieter. You don’t want to never have to deal with him again. In fact, you like having to deal with him. He’s goofy, fun to talk to, and says nice shit like fucking goddess. You don’t want to dispose of him.

With a sigh, you drag yourself out of bed and into the shower. The hot water falls on your head, washing your sins down the drain. A baptism into this new day.

“How you feeling now, doll?” Dieter asks as you curl up into yourself, resting your head on a black and white checkered pillow. The greasy, tangy scent of Chinese food lingers from half-eaten takeout boxes that litter the end table on the other side of the arm rest, only about a foot away from your face.

You groan, “Still terrible. I can’t believe I invited some fucking rando to my apartment. I’m so sorry, but also thank you for telling him to fuck off.”

He chuckles, “Relax, forget it.”

“Also,” your heart pounds in your chest when you lift your gaze to his, studying his reaction, “Thank you for, um… not… letting me kiss you.”

The corners of his mouth turn down as he sighs and runs his fingers through his hair, “You were pretty drunk, I figured you would regret it.”

You sit up and lean away from the now repugnant smell of lo mein, scooting closer to Dieter, admitting, “I haven’t, um… kissed anyone since, you know, Ethan died.”

His eyebrows raise in surprise, “Really?”

“Yeah,” your face heats up and you continue to stammer, “I’ve like… hooked up with people or whatever, but that’s… different. I- I don’t know.“

“I believe ‘no-strings-attached’ is the phrase you used,” he smirks, turning his head to search your face.

“Oh, is it?” you laugh, throwing your head back and covering your face in embarrassment, “Of course I told you that.”

“That reminds me-”

“Fucking hell,” you groan and drop your head to your chest, mentally preparing for the next embarrassing thing that blackout you did.

“No no no, I told you I��d do the psychomanteum with you today,” he tells you.

Your breath catches. The betrayal you feel towards yourself is deep and cutting. Why would you fucking tell him about wanting to do that? You frown and turn to him, “What did I tell you?”

“I- um, I mean,” he stammers, shifting in his seat as he crosses one leg over the other and looks up at the TV, “You told me that he tried to kill you both. And you wanted to um... to ask him why.”

Shards of glass slice through the soft innards of your belly. Shame, hot and red and viscus, floods from the wounds and fills you to the top. You bring your knees to your chest and hug them tight, folding in on yourself, “Fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t need to tell you about that.”

“Wait, why are you apologizing?” he sounds bewildered.

You shake your head and shrug, unable to come up with an answer. Your skin burns with embarrassment and you wish you could disappear.

“Hey,” the couch next to you shifts and his palm presses against your back as he rumbles, “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but if you wanna do the mirror thing, I’ll do it with you.”

A sigh expands your lungs and you turn your head to look at him. His puppy dog eyes search your face for a clue as to what you’re thinking. Tears burn the backs of your eyes and you choke out, “I feel like an idiot for telling you about it. I don’t know.”

He hums and rubs the back of his neck. Tilts his head from side to side, then scratches his chin as he tells you, “When I was a teenager, I had a friend named James.”

You sit up straight and furrow your brow at him. He leans forward, pressing his elbows into his knees, “We were military brats, both our families were stationed at Fort Lejeune in North Carolina.”

One of his legs starts bouncing rapidly and he traces the lines of his palm. You reach out and grab his hand, interlacing his fingers with yours, then give him a firm squeeze of encouragement. He glances over, meeting your gaze. His eyes are tear-brimmed and bloodshot. You nod, as if to prod him forward.

He frowns and drops his eyes to your clasped hands, then continues, “We had to move. I wrote and called him for months, but I never got a response, so I gave up. A year after we moved, I found out that he, um… he drowned in the river.”

“Oh, Dee-” you breathe, and tears tingle behind your nose and eyes before they overflow onto your cheeks.

“I’ve tried to contact him on a ouija board more times than I care to admit,” a sad little chuckle bubbles up from his chest, out his nose, “So, yeah, I get it. Wanting answers, closure, all that."

You nod and watch him, studying the tics in his facial muscles. He’s obviously lost in the expanse of his brain. Your thumb sets itself into motion, smoothing a circle against his hand. He takes a sharp breath in and looks up, shaking himself out of his trance, then says, “Anyway. I’ll do it, too. See if I can talk to him.”

An ache of affection radiates across your chest. You sigh, feigning annoyance as you grin and squeeze his hand, then release him to wipe away the tears on your face, “Fine. Ok. Let’s do it.”

[ Next Chapter ]

#psychomanteum #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo x female reader #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal fic

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goldammerchen · 1 year ago

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*is still avoiding making day 5* (*this will be queued for later*)

one of my projects (1/2 main ones) is going to be the end of me (Dx)

[TLDR: history interspersed with modern era psychological horror]

where do i even start. one of the reasons i make my pru begin with the order (instead of as baItic), besides straight up kinda make him cartoonish evil [/half-joking...], is to make the contrast deeper between the order/prussia and the freaking gd.r for fic reasons (so less contrast in other fics/ideas), and for gil to doubt if some of his changes are from being deleted then renamed, and/or remembering things different—perhaps wrongly—since being "reformulated".

in my version, when the common people from the pru.ssian tribes outlive the crusades, it includes the heta-people representatives (semi-unfortunately for gisel). some of the avatars join the order, others keep finding ways to continue antagonizing gil (esp the one that was THE baItic pr.ussia). but, over the years, each death, each resurrection, each reincarnation, changes them, making them forget. after the black death, nothing is ever the same as before (germani.zation + the mass death from the plague), aside some sort of atavistic dislike towards gil--who was younger than then during the crusades, so it was complex for all. at some point, at the end of his childhood, the fanatic kid began to understand the reality of his existence. without exchanging spoken words, he turned blind eye to the paganist rituals, while the prus.sians who joined the knights stepped forward to protect him when needed... all of this doesn't mean gil didn't think like a mf imperiaIist nationaIist during the xix century until the 19.18 rev, while later, as much as he somewhat begins to think things different during the post-war, he always liked the taste of revenge... [i'm gonna write the fic: enough explaining].

so, *the* teuto.nic order, *the* pr.ussian kingdom and subsequent incarnations, to the (in the most idealized version) internationaIist dd.r?? was the change of heart genuine, or the result from literally dying? nobody was really the same after the wars, yet somehow that's truer for him. how someone like him (and ivan) dare(d) to call themselves revoIutionaries...?

to this mess above, add gil in the modern days beginning to lose touch with his time perception. nothing is working how it should be, and isn't going away no matter what. he deals with the psychological horror bullshit mainly alone at first, until he can't hide it anymore from lud, his younger brother, who has mixed feelings towards his older brother (after everything). this brings another layer of psychological mess to the story, that develops further in the next part (including canondivergence).

i'd love to tag these with the title of the fic, but it ties with the ending. edit: #potatocest angst works for now.

[the other fic is a crossover, set right after the war, but the tone is different...]

edit 2: kinda moving some of the tags here. after years of daydreaming, i'm fond of my baItic pru oc + kaIinin... oc. but, those appear in *another* project that scares me lol (high expectations Dx). the dude (my gil) basically got uprooted after doing the same (oversimplified i know)

#hws prussia #sr. tnddr #besides i am fond of the baItic pru oc (+ kalinin.... oc)#years of daydreaming #both will appear in another project of mine that i also have high expectations for...#dude (my gil) basically got uprooted after doing the same (oversimplified i knowww)#dd.r posting #In Case I Don't Make It (joking)#potatocest angst #fic wips

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gerogerigaogaigar · 1 year ago

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Lil Wayne - Tha Carter II

I slept on Wayne for too long. I suppose he was hitting his stride when I was barely a high schooler, but I have no excuse for not checking out his backlog sooner. Tha Carter II is a solid contender for his best work and represents a huge jump in quality from his previous work. That's not to say Tha Carter I is bad, far from it, but Weezy completely and utterly destroys the competition on this one. Behind the laid back lazy vibes there's a lot of highly technical shit happening in the verses here. Weezy can maintain a rhyme scheme well past when a normal person would have run dry and the multisyllabic patter is layered into the rhymes until he's practically juggling rhyme and rhythmic ideas. The ability to glide from laid back to intense staccato flow and from lazy to frenetic pace is an amazing achievement. When Lil Wayne declared himself the best rapper alive he was not kidding. He sincerely was one of the best rappers alive.

Mobb Deep - The Infamous

For people that are not already big hip hop heads this album is a bit of a hidden gem. It came out among a scene that was reinventing hardcore hip hop on the east coast, but didn't quite achieve the long term success of Enter the Wu Tang or Illmatic. Possibly the starkness is slightly to blame. There is no time for goofy skits and even the bravado isn't in the name of fun, this shit is serious. There's less individualist bravado here and more 'none of are gonna make it unless we all work together' vibes. East coast hip hop has a few notable hallmarks and my favorite is the oh so predictable inclusion of what I like to call "haunted piano". This tends to lend a more serious, stark sound to east coast hip hop as opposed to the funkier west coast. In the case of The Infamous these stark beats and dead serious subject matter make for an intense experience. Plus the features by Nas, Q-Tip (who also produces), and half the Wu-Tang crew make this album a who's who of east coast rappers.

George Harrison - All Things Must Pass

When the Beatles broke up John and Paul started their solo careers and Ringo went back into the Ringo box or whatever. George Harrison however had an ace up his sleeve. While John and Paul had been stealing the limelight he had just been writing a billion fucking songs and so his solo debut is a triple album. Surprisingly there is very little of the psychedelic raga influenced ramblings that you'd expect, instead Harrison seems to have gotten interested in country and blues. And it really works! There is of course a fair bit of psychedelia, My Sweet Lord was the big hit after all and the title track is pretty psych too. But imo the album's strongest moments are after a reprise of Isn't It A Pity where he just spends the rest of the album doing extended bluesy hard rock guitar jams.

Drake - If You're Reading This It's Too Late

Listen I'm such a fucking hater for Drake. So it pains me to say that this album isn't a complete dumpster fire. It is still impossible for me to take Drake seriously as a rapper but hey at least he's trying to actually rap right? I think this might actually be enjoyable if it was pared down a bit and if the beats were punched up a bit and if someone other than Drake rapped over them.

Aerosmith - Rocks

I'm gonna start being known as that girl who will go to bat for mediocre dad rock bands aren't I? I like Aerosmith, they genuinely nail the stupid guitar god machismo of the 70s. The guitars can scream, the drums go wild, and Steven Tyler's camp ass voice feels completely unrestrained. All they have to do is keep up that energy and they do. When Last Child started playing I legitimately air guitared to that sick ass riff.

Madvillain - Madvillainy

MF Doom and Madlib were a match made in hip hop heaven. Madlib could flip a sample better than anyone in the industry at the time and the esoteric nostalgic beats were the perfect accompaniment for Doom's supervillain persona. Doom's rapping is at its peak here, pretty much take every good thing I said about Wayne's technique and turn it up to eleven. Faster, effortless, deliberately sloppy, mumbly yet perfectly enunciated. Rhymes in rhymes in rhymes are stuffed rapid fire in a minute and a half what would take other rappers four. Doom's GOAT status is unassailable. The thing is that Madlibs beats are so incredible that if you just removed Doom from this record it would still be an amazing listen. These two are just so incredibly individually talented musicians that also happen to be the perfect fit for each other.

#lil wayne #mobb deep #george harrison #drake #aerosmith #madvillain #so i definitely declared wayne the best rapper of his era #and then said that doom was even better #even though those two albums came out within a year of each other #so which one is it audrey?#doom or wayne?#the answer is shut up who give a shit #500 album gauntlet

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daja-the-hypnokitten · 2 years ago

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Jukebox reviews part 28! For context, see my post “A Project” under this same tag. If you want to see a full list of his EMCSA stories, they can be found here, sorted alphabetically.And if you want to see some of his drabbles, check out his blog at @jukeboxemcsa

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