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bitchiswild · 9 months

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Scooter Fate

Anh Yujin x F! Reader

Warnings: none!

Word Count: 1.8k

A/n: this is bullshit work 🤩🤚

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

As the sun began its lazy ascent over the suburban streets, you found yourself reluctantly maneuvering your child's micro-scooter, an embarrassing yet necessary mode of transport. It was drop-off time, the part of the day where single parenting duties converged into a chaotic ballet of managing school bags, lunches, and ensuring your little one made it into class on time.

“Making my way downtown walking fast, faces p-" I was abruptly cut off by an unexpected collision, and to my chagrin, it was none other than my PTA nemesis, Anh Yujin, steering her own micro-scooter. Both our micro-scooters clashed head-on, propelling both of us airborne, only to crash face-first into each other.

“Son of a Bit- Butternut squash,” I blurted out in a mixture of pain and awareness of the surrounding children.

“Shii-take Mushrooms,” Yujin groaned, mirroring my discomfort and also conscious of her surroundings.

“You need to watch where you are going!” our simultaneous accusations echoed, drawing the attention of other parents who swiftly called for an ambulance.

As we both lay there amidst the wreckage of our micro-scooters, wincing from the throbbing pain, mutual animosity stewed between us. Clutching our injured noses, we glared daggers at each other, locked in a momentary standoff. A teacher, sensing the tension, rushed out with tissues to help stem the bleeding, attempting to diffuse the escalating situation between two adults squabbling like children.

The wail of the ambulance pierced the air, marking the arrival of much-needed assistance. The EMTs hurried to assess our condition amidst the debris of shattered scooters.

“Looks like you both broke your noses. We should get you to the hospital for a proper check-up,” one of the EMTs stated matter-of-factly.

Yujin and I exchanged resigned sighs, the annoyance evident on our throbbing faces, but there was little choice but to comply.

"Either of you can sit on the bench with me or take the stretcher," the EMT offered, gesturing towards the seat and the stretcher.

"I call stretcher!" Yujin and I blurted simultaneously, shooting glares at each other. The momentary standoff ended with me being settled on the stretcher, while Yujin reluctantly took the bench beside the EMT. Our silent duel continued even in the confines of the ambulance, a battle of wills even in the choice of seating arrangements.

The bustling Emergency Room was a chorus of activity, a symphony of hurried footsteps and overlapping conversations. Yujin and I found ourselves side by side, occupying the same cramped space of the divided room separated by a thin, flimsy curtain. The discomfort was magnified by our proximity, and it didn't take long for the tension to resurface.

“This can’t be the only available room,” I muttered, my discomfort echoing Yujin’s unspoken sentiments.

A nurse passing by caught wind of our discontent. “I'm sorry, folks. It's a busy day, and this is the only space we have at the moment. We’re doing our best to accommodate everyone,” she explained, her tone apologetic yet final.

With a resigned sigh, we begrudgingly settled into our respective beds, separated only by a curtain that seemed to amplify the uncomfortable intimacy of our shared space.

“We should have separate rooms,” Yujin muttered under her breath, a sentiment I wholeheartedly echoed.

But amidst the sterile hospital smells and the distant hum of medical equipment, we were stranded together, two adversaries thrown into an unexpected proximity. The shared annoyance at the lack of privacy was a fragile common ground, a small bridge spanning the gap between our animosity. Yet, amidst the discomfort, an opportunity for understanding loomed in the air, waiting to be acknowledged or ignored.

The tense wait in the ER stretched on, time seemingly at a standstill. Yujin's exasperation broke the silence. "God, how long until the doctor shows up?"

"I know, right? I had a list of errands today," I sighed in agreement. Yujin turned toward me suddenly. "Remi is your daughter, right?" Her unexpected question caught me off guard.

"Yeah, why?" I replied, perplexed.

"Nothing much, just that Aria and her are friends," Yujin casually remarked, a nonchalant shrug following her words. She quickly averted her gaze.

Before I could probe further, the nurse interrupted, apologizing for the prolonged wait. Frustration crept in as I voiced my concern about picking up my daughter. "Is there any way we can speed this up a bit?" I inquired, feeling the weight of the impending responsibilities.

The nurse promised to do her best, darting out in search of a solution. Yujin’s curious question lingered in the air. "Can't your husband pick up your daughter?" she inquired, her brow raising.

"No, I'm a single mother," I replied matter-of-factly, surprised by the sudden personal turn in the conversation.

Yujin fell silent for a moment before revealing, "I'm in the same boat as you."

Confusion washed over me. "What?" I asked, thrown off guard.

"I'm a single mother too," she confessed, her voice carrying a hint of vulnerability.

"But I've seen you wear a wedding ring at every PTA meeting," I pointed out, puzzled by the contradiction.

Yujin chuckled, a smirk gracing her lips. "I wear it to keep the ladies off of me," she joked, adding a playful wiggle of her eyebrows, a rare moment of levity in the midst of our strained circumstances.

The air between us seemed to shift, the revelation of our shared status as single parents casting a subtle change in the atmosphere. There was a newfound understanding, an unspoken empathy that lingered between Yujin and me.

Yujin's confession hung in the air, a vulnerable admission that cracked the wall of animosity that had long divided us. I glanced at her, sensing a different energy in the space we shared, an unexpected bond forming amidst the sterile hospital environment.

"I had no idea," I admitted quietly, the revelation softening my tone.

Yujin met my gaze, a hint of vulnerability in her eyes. "It's not something I usually bring up," she confessed, a rare glimpse into a side of her I had never seen before.

The tension that had previously defined our interactions began to dissipate, replaced by a tentative understanding. We were two individuals navigating the challenges of single parenthood, both concealing our struggles behind the façade of everyday routines.

As the minutes ticked by, our conversation meandered away from the pain of our injuries. We found ourselves sharing snippets of our lives—stories of bedtime struggles, school projects, and the relentless juggle of work and parenting.

In that confined space of the Emergency Room, amidst the hum of medical equipment and distant conversations, a surprising connection blossomed. The shared experience of single parenthood bridged the gap, weaving a fragile thread of understanding between two individuals who had once been staunch adversaries. And in that moment, the possibility of a different kind of relationship, one built on mutual understanding, flickered to life.

The doctor's arrival was a much-awaited relief, ending the prolonged wait. He swiftly assessed our noses, popping them back into place with a discomforting but necessary procedure. With a couple of words of advice, a prescription for pain relief, and a promise of healing, we were finally given the green light to leave.

"About time," Yujin grumbled, clearly discontent with the wait. Her impatience was palpable as she prepared to depart.

"I couldn't agree more," I sighed, slightly frustrated by the delay but relieved that the ordeal was over.

As we readied ourselves to leave, a brief exchange ensued about ordering an Uber. "I'll order us an Uber," Yujin offered, already reaching for her phone.

"No, it's alright. I can handle it," I insisted, reaching for my own phone.

A mischievous glint sparked in Yujin's eyes as she teased, "How about I order the Uber, and you pay for our date?"

Her unexpected proposition caught me off guard. "Our date?" I echoed, taken aback by her suggestion. The air between us seemed to shift, the awkwardness of the moment lingering as I processed her words.

Yujin's playful grin softened into a genuine smile. "Yeah, why not? We could grab a coffee or something. You know, a gesture of truce after our eventful day."

Her offer held a sense of openness, an invitation to set aside our previous differences and perhaps explore the possibility of a new beginning. The prospect of an unexpected camaraderie, born from a day of mishaps and shared experiences, hung in the air, waiting for a response.

The agreement to grab coffee felt like an unspoken truce, a bridge connecting two previously distant shores. "You know what, I'd love to get coffee sometime," I replied, a genuine smile gracing my lips.

"Fantastic!" Yujin beamed, giving me a playful wink before swiftly ordering the Uber.

As the car navigated through the streets, we arrived at the school just in time. The atmosphere was alive with the chatter and laughter of children streaming out of the gates.

"Mommy!" Remi's excited voice rang out, her arms open wide as she dashed toward me.

"Mama!" Aria echoed, mirroring Remi's enthusiasm as she rushed towards Yujin.

Watching our daughters, identical in their joyous embrace, something shifted within me. The children, oblivious to the complexities of adult interactions, embodied a simple truth—they were friends, just as we had discovered.

I shared a glance with Yujin, our smiles mirroring each other's. There was a mutual understanding in that moment, a silent acknowledgment of the newfound connection between us. As our daughters embraced, it felt like a symbol of a beginning, a chance to build something new and unexpected from the remnants of a turbulent morning.

With a shared nod and a mutual understanding, we both stepped forward, ready to embrace not just our children but the prospect of a budding friendship—one that emerged from an unlikely collision of micro-scooters and broken noses.

“I’ll call you” As Yujin mouthed those words and winked, a rush of anticipation fluttered within me. Her playful gesture left me blushing, my mind swirling with the unexpected turn of events.

With a soft smile, I watched as Yujin led Aria away, the gesture hinting at a promise of future connection. Excitement tinged with curiosity welled up inside me, wondering what our newfound bond might unfold.

Turning my attention to Remi, I caressed her hair gently. "Let's head home, baby," I murmured, intertwining my fingers with hers as we strolled back, our steps lightened by the warmth of the shared embrace.

The day, which had started with a collision and broken noses, had surprisingly unfolded into a budding connection, leaving me curious and hopeful about the unforeseen journey that awaited—a journey that began with a chance encounter between micro-scooters and led to the possibility of an unexpected friendship.

“Mommy what happened to your nose?”

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

#bitchiswild #BIW.WRITES #anh yujin #yujin imagines #ahn yujin #ive yujin #ahn yujin x reader #yujin x reader #yujin ive #ive imagines #ive x reader #ive #an yujin

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yeen-meteor · 1 year

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thinking about how fucking cool i-no guilty gear is and how much i love her. narratively and design wise. like.

the first two things you pick up from her visual design are that she Fucks, and she plays guitar. That she’s a hedonist, and maybe an artist, or maybe just someone who would hang out at dive bars and play covers and get drunk and have a good time.

and neither of those things ever seem to be true at all, with how she’s portrayed in the stories. She sometimes puts on the whole sultry thing just to sling insults, but for the most part she’s just, serious, and vaguely miserable, and taking part in the Greater Scope Plot and fighting over the Fate Of The World. She never does anything for herself, never does anything for fun. She puts all this effort into using time travel to avert disasters, both in the drama cd and in the xrd sign arcade mode - and from what i’ve heard of the drama cd, she hates doing it, she hates feeling like the Author of the world and not just a participant in it - but eight years later she’s still doing it. She holds deep, deep grudges over who the chosen ones are, who gets to wield the flame of corruption. In Strive, she tries to become God, she schemes and fights hard for it, and she seems bored at best and miserable at worst the whole time.

She wears the visage of a free-spirited hedonist, but she can’t keep herself out of fate-of-the-world conflicts, she can’t seperate herself from what she is, what she was created to be, and what power she has. She spends her whole life toiling away at all these plots to alter the course of the whole world.

And when she’s defeated, at the end of Strive, she asks Sol why the fuck he has a weapon that strong, when he was practically unstoppable already,

and Sol just basically says, “It’s a hobby. A man’s gotta have hobbies.”

And like. I-no just. Doesn’t. She doesn’t have hobbies. She looks like she does, she looks like she wants to, but she doesn’t.

And Requiem is such a fucking cool song lyrically, talking about how her ascent to power is just destroying her, how she flew high so she could see everything but now there is no up or down above the clouds and she can’t breathe - just this self-destructive, obsessive involvement in The Big Picture, pursuing power because she’s Supposed to, and never once thinking about what She Wants.

And through her interactions with Axl, through the lyrics of Requiem, through Sol’s comment about hobbies, and through I-no’s visual design, even through Testament who almost seems to exist as a perfect foil to this concept as someone who has limitless power but just lives small and happy with all the hobbies in the world, we’re just left to wonder -

what if she actually did the things it looks like she does? What if she just, went to a dive bar, got on stage, played Stone Cold Crazy (with the Metallica lyrics just to piss off Frederick somewhere), got wasted, Hecked, and had just a wild, inconsequential, hedonistic good time, and left all the Big Picture behind? But it’s too late for her, because she’s already flown too high.

She’s so fucking cool like,.

#and i think it says something about immersing yourself in the news and the fate of the real world #and how going too far into that can destroy you without some small joy in your own small world to balance it #guilty gear #i-no guilty gear #yeen rambles

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dpadstudio · 5 months

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Savant - Ascent REMIX ~ Ultimate Update ~ Available May 9th

- Includes -

✨Classic Mode 🧙Unlockable Abilites (New & Classic) ⛓️Absorb Enemy Powers 🐲Dragon Shot 🕺Ultimate Dance Moves ⚔️Reworked Survival Mode ⌛Time Attack Mode 🏃Daily, Weekly and Monthly Challenges

What is Savant Ascent:

A malicious orb has cast Savant out of his tower and transformed his surroundings into dangerous enemies!

Dodge and shoot your way back up the tower, and blast down waves of enemies as you make your way towards the top! As you progress, you unlock CDs that not only give you new tracks to play to, but also grant you powerful new abilities!

Get the game on Steam here, New update drops May 9th

#indie games #rail shooter #pixel art #music #musical game #savant ascent #savant alchemist #dpadstudio #snakepixel

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tsunochizu · 1 year

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(Rain world) Artificer second chance challenge!

For those who don't like any of the two canon Artificer endings and instead want to give them a second chance!

Mods required:

- Pilgrims ascent

- Scorched district

- Open exclusive regions

- Pups for everyone

- Emerald's tweaks and features ("Artificer can gain reputation with scavengers" option only)

Mods recommended (but not required):

- Slugpup safari

- Better pup ai

- Friends of friends

- Revivify

- Diverse shelters

- Osha compliant shelters

Goals of the challenge/steps to take:

- The beginning is simple, as it is just the beginning of Artificer's campaign. Up until you get to metropolis, do not pick up any pups. (As sad as it is, that's just how it is) (do not meet any echoes either)

- Second step is to hang around the area until you find one pup (regions allowed for searching: exterior, metropolis, scorched district, pilgrims ascent) you may collect pearls and bring them to pebbles, or just explore the two modded regions, DO NOT kill the chieftain though

- After finding the first pup, go to meet the echo on top of the tallest tower (it MUST be your first echo)

- Meet the echo near metropolis entrance, and then the echo within scorched district

- Go through scorched district to the gate to pilgrims ascent, move down pilgrims ascent until you get to the gate to garbage wastes

- Stay in garbage wastes until you find a second pup

- Meet enough echoes to either have regular full karma (easy mode) or max karma

- Befriend the scavengers once again (thanks to Emerald tweaks mod) or at the very least make them not aggressively hostile anymore

- Go to outer expanse with the two pups

The whole point of the challenge is that Artificer finds some pups, and starts a new life basically

Meeting the echoes is like letting go of the anger

Thats why its important for the tower echo to be first one you meet

I played this challenge for around 25 hours at the current moment, it is definitely possible

Good luck to whoever makes the decision to try :D

#rainworld #rain world #rain world downpour #rw downpour #rainworld downpour #rw artificer #rain world artificer #rw challenge

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desert-horned-lizard · 7 days

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I do not enjoy living inside the cactus. It is cramped, dry, and above all, filthy. For how can one hope to clean a space one can barely fit inside of to begin with? Even to crawl up to my little hole is an arduous task, for I must carefully scale the slippery ribs of the cactus, blinking back the wind-blown dust, all the while avoiding the rows and rows off prickles that divide me so cruelly from my own front door. And yet, no matter how careful I am, and no matter how my skill in traversing my own doorstep grows with repeated application, it seems to me that it is categorically impossible for me to make the ascent without the spines stabbing themselves into my hide at least a dozen dozen times, often thrice that amount, and by the time I finally arrive at my miserable hovel, trembling with mixed agony and adrenaline, hours and hours have gone by, and only a sliver of the day remains. These scant hours few left to me must, by necessity, be allocated to picking the spines from of my hands and feet, precluding me from indulging in any sort of leisure. I have grown accustomed to this mode of living over the years, and, to some degree, I have developed a dull sort of resistance to the pain of coming home, as if not only my fingers but my nerve endings, too, had calloused over, or eroded from years of constant friction.

Then, when the night descends, the darkness becomes so absolute that I cannot even see the insides of my own eyelids. As I try to get to sleep there come hundreds of insects with assorted pincers and manifold legs. They descend upon me, crawling across my back, tickling the nape of my neck and the space behind my ears, probing with god knows what kind of organs, looking for something, prey, a ripe patch of flesh to suck, a warm fold to procreate and lay their eggs in - I dare not speculate further. I would sweep these insects aside if I could, but alas, it would only provoke their mandibles and their venomous teeth. And so, instead, I simply steel myself, and I try my best to hardly stir. When sleep takes me I seldom dream, but when I do, it is often of far away places.

On the rare occasions that I see other people, often the the first thing ask me why I choose to live in the cactus. It seems impractical to them, I suppose. Why would I live somewhere that hurts me with such consistency, somewhere that maims my flesh and drains me of every ounce of my resolve, somewhere that inflicts such grievous injury upon me, and for what seems like no benefit to me at all? I always find myself unable to reply to their questions. I remain silent, or I change the subject. Usually they don't probe further, or if they do, I evade them in other ways. I can say absolute certainty that not a soul on this earth knows my true thoughts on the subject. But, if I could reply, I would in every case declare that I far prefer shivering in the darkness of the cactus to being scorched by the the merciless heat of the desert sun.

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obligatebureaucrat · 1 year

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I know Daisy is still (rightfully) the focus of a lot of the Mario Wonder hype, but I have to talk about Toadette being in and playing identically to Mario because she’s had a legendary ascent over the past 20 years.

Toadette started off as a roster-filler turned spinoff semi-regular. She was in a similar role to Daisy and Waluigi, albeit with significantly less fan regard since she A) wasn’t human and B) didn’t have a personality nearly as defined or loud as the other two.

She had a few standout moments in the DS/Wii era like getting a board in Mario Party DS (which gave some much-needed detail to her personality) and cameoing in the intro of Mario Galaxy (and as we know, spinoff characters getting acknowledged in the mainline games is a rare feat). However, she still hadn’t established herself as a core fixture of the series. NSMBW chose generic Toads over her, the Mario & Luigi series (pre Paper Jam) paired Toadsworth with OCs and generic Toads instead of her, and it was a coin flip whether she’d appear on the roster of a given side game. Nothing wrong with that, that’s just where she was at the time.

Toadette started to ramp up a bit in the 3DS/Wii U era. In particular, she was a main playable character in Treasure Tracker, arguably the most maintain-adjacent spinoff, and she was a major character in Mario & Luigi Paper Jam, an appearance that really helped solidify her personality, as would be seen in Mario Maker 2.

Then, for whatever reason, Nintendo went all-in on Toadette on the Switch. She was an NPC in Odyssey, putting her more solidly in the mainline series. She was playable in NSMBU Deluxe, albeit as a slight easy mode with access to the powerful Super Crown and more 3-Up Moons. She appeared as a playable character in Mario Maker 2 and took a major role in the story mode. Said story mode’s portrayal was in line with Paper Jam, making her the creative ideas gal and (weirdly anti-labor) Head Toad.

Now with Mario Wonder she’s made it to the top. She’s a playable main character in the newest mainline game with no caveats. She’s not an easy mode, she plays exactly like Mario himself. And given that she has plenty of playable appearances and an actual personality under her belt, I’d say she’s overtaken Buckenberry and Alagold in prominence.

My girl went from a GameCube-era spin-off character that could’ve been abandoned like Koopa Kid or Toadsworth to a full-fledged hero and main(ish) character. I’m proud of her and look forward to her inevitably supplanting Mario as series mascot by 2030/j

#Toadette #mario wonder #mario

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newattitude · 21 days

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Wicca's - Aura de la l una - Simple Bloom - Ascent - Petrichor par ✰ Pтιтɴoυrѕ Alтer ✰ Via Flickr : ✰ Credit ✰

[Simple Bloom] - [SB] Brows: Indira - High Arch

Aura De La Luna - Face Marks - Gothcore

Petrichor - :[P]:- Eyes - Koranva - Gothcore

ASCENT - Osiris Earrings (Gauged Ears XL F)

Wicca's Originals - Anu Piercing - The Warehouse

NEW ATTITUDE ● New Attitude Blog ● Twitter ● Tumblr ● Pinterest ● Instagram ● Flickr ● Facebook ● Deviants Art ● Primfeed

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thezombieprostitute · 1 year

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Tutoring

A/N: Written for @the-slumberparty this is my fourth entry for the Bingo card combining “college AU” and “bodyguard AU” (though I’m kinda cheesing it on the “college AU” part). Reader has no physical descriptions.

Warnings: School stress, implied kidnapping. This story is about 1700 words!

“Hi there, you must be Peter. I’m Y/N and I’ll be your literature tutor.” You shake the hand of the young man in front of you. He seemed so small but that was likely a combination of his seemingly shy nature and his giant bodyguard next to him. You’d been warned before agreeing to tutor Peter that his father, Tony Stark, was quite protective of him and he’d have a security detail. Your only requirement was that the bodyguard did not interfere with the tutoring.

“Hi Y/N,” Peter shook your hand back, “thanks, again, for agreeing to this. I really have no idea what I’m doing with literature. I’m more of a math and science brain. Oh, and this is my bodyguard for the day, Ari.”

“Nice to meet you, too, Ari,” you extend your hand. He quickly shakes your hand, completely covering yours with his, before getting back into lookout mode. “And I understand what you mean, Peter. Today is going to be a sort of Session Zero, where we talk out your assignments, possible ideas and goals, and make sure we can actually work well together. Sound good?”

He nods ascent and you guide him to the library’s study room you had reserved. You’re glad he agreed to meet at your university’s library, you had some friends here who would look out for you and knew your signals if you needed a call for help. Tutoring was great practice for your education degree and the money was good enough but you knew to make safety a priority.

The two of you get settled in the study room while Ari sets himself up a chair that puts himself between Peter and the door. He’s so massive you’re glad you reserved one of the larger study rooms. You’re definitely not worried about him interrupting the tutoring; he’s very much all business.

Your session with Peter goes very well. You work out a way to get his math and science interests integrated into the literature project with Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

“Why that one,” Peter asks.

“Fun fact, Lewis Carroll’s writings are still studied by Logicians. It’s not just word play or fantastical things in this book, there’s also plays on logic and mathematical references.”

Peter’s eyes go wide, “you’re kidding me!”

“Nope, and I think that you can do this project, literature analysis, whatever you want to call it, by looking at Alice’s Adventures through the lens of a mathematician or logician. Just please, please, please make sure to talk to your teacher about this. I’d hate for us to get almost done with everything only for them to say, ‘that’s not what I wanted.’ Okay?”

“Yeah, that makes sense. Okay, I’ll make sure to ask her at class on Monday.”

“And if she doesn’t give you a response right away, please do email her. Get some kind of paper trail going so she can’t say you never got hold of her. I’ve had bad experiences like this before.”

“Sure thing!”

“I think this was a very successful Session Zero, Peter. What say we do this again next week?” Peter nods enthusiastically as you both pack up your things. “And thank you, Ari. I’ve had people promise to not interfere with sessions only to end up being nothing but an annoyance.” He nods and gives you a smile so charming you feel yourself almost melting.

Next week’s session you meet up with Peter at the study room but he’s not with Ari.

“Hi Y/N! This is another of my bodyguards, James,” Peter is quick to explain. “Security detail gets switched up every now and then.”

You stand up and go to shake James’s hand, “well, as long as you also agree to not interrupt today’s session, we should get along just fine.” James nods his head and returns your handshake before moving between Peter and the door. He’s big and tall like Ari, but with short hair and light stubble where Ari had longer hair and full beard. James doesn’t take a seat and just stands there, seemingly not looking at anything. You look back and forth between him and Peter with a confused expression and Peter whispers, “he’s kinda hardcore on protection. Doesn’t believe in sitting while on duty.” You nod as though you understand but you can’t imagine opting to stand all day when chairs are available.

“Well, let’s get to it then,” you smile at Peter. “Did you get approval from your teacher on this?”

“She said she’d have to get back to me so I followed your advice and emailed her. Just to be safe.”

“Good call. So, where would you like to begin today’s session?”

After some time of discussing various passages that Peter had problems with he sighed and said, “I sometimes feel like I’m just not meant to understand literature. I tried reading things like The Hobbit, a kids book, and I couldn’t even get into it.”

“Neither could I the first several times I tried to read it,” you confessed. Out of the corner of your eye you could swear you saw James fidget. “And it took me a really long time to figure out why. It was Tolkien’s style of world-building.”

“Yeah,” Peter began, “like taking five pages to describe a door, right?”

“Actually, no.” Again, your attention is drawn to movement from where James is standing, but you continue with Peter. “You see, part of Tolkien’s world-building is including names, poems and songs ‘of old’ that are meant to tell the reader ‘this is an old world with lore and history.’ But for readers like me, and possibly you, it felt like I was starting a series with the fourth book and I had missed out on some required reading. I felt as though the names were people I was supposed to already know. It wasn’t until I read The Silmarillion that things really started to fall in place for me.”

“That makes a lot of sense,” Peter commented. “A lot of times literature feels like I’m missing pieces of the puzzle for the story to make sense, for me to see why it’s such a ‘classic’ or why it’s important.”

“Something to consider, if you’re up for it, is learning about the time period the book was written in. Not when it’s set in, because those aren’t always the same, but when it was written. It can really help explain a lot of those ‘this doesn’t make sense’ details.”

“It still feels like a lot of work to just understand a book,” Peter complains.

“But you’re not just understanding a book,” you reply. “You’re understanding a culture.”

Your discussion went on like that for the rest of the session, with no further movement from James’s section of the room.

The next session Peter showed up with yet another bodyguard. He looked apologetic when he told you, “this is Lloyd. He’s today’s security detail.”

“Nice to meet you, Cupcake,” Lloyd pulled you closer to him as he shook your hand. “I’ve heard nothing but good things from the other guys.”

You try to back away from him. Between his handlebar mustache, aggressive body language and overpriced cologne, you knew he wasn’t going to make today’s session easy.

“Hello Lloyd,” you reply curtly. “Just to make sure, you are aware of the conditions for allowing you to sit with us for the tutoring session, yes?”

“I’m aware,” his smile grows, showing his teeth, “and I promise to try to abide. But it’s not my fault if I end up finding you distracting.” You give him an incredulous look and respond, “yes, yes it is. But if you become too much of a distraction you will have to stand outside the room or you’ll have to explain to Mr. Stark why today’s session got canceled.”

“Ooo, so bossy,” he leered. “I like ‘em bossy.” You roll your eyes and try to get the session started.

It isn’t long until the small study room is full of Lloyd’s cologne and giving you a headache. Your mood is worsened by Lloyd’s constant fidgeting and frequent derisive noises and comments. You’re very tempted to cancel the session but Peter’s such a good student and you want to do right by him.

“So have you heard back from your teacher about this?”

“Yeah, finally got an email response saying she’s going to have to see a rough draft before she’ll approve.”

“A full rough draft? Not an outline or summary,” you ask. “That’s a lot of work and a ton of time you’ll never get back if she says no to this.”

“You could just bitch slap her into accepting,” Lloyd interjects. “Bitch slapping bitches always works.” Peter winces at his words and that’s the last straw for you.

“So you’re saying it would work on you?” You do not hold back on your glare and the comment seems to catch him off guard.

“I’m no bitch.”

“Then why are you acting like a needy bitch boy who’s not getting enough attention? You were allowed here with the understanding that you do not interfere. And yet you’ve done nothing but annoy, distract and deride. So either you sit still, shut up and do your job or I slap you and see if your bitch slap theory holds.”

Both men look taken aback at your anger but you don’t stop staring down Lloyd until looks away with a “yes, ma’am.” You turn back to Peter, smile, and continue to talk out how to handle his teacher while working on the project.

As the weeks go by you’re grateful to never see Lloyd again. Peter alternates between Ari and James for the rest of your sessions and, when it’s finally time, you’re almost sad to say goodbye to the kid. Ari even gives you a giant smile and says he owes you one. Apparently your session with Lloyd was the last straw and they were finally able to get him fired. You were happy to help and only one bad session out of a semester’s worth of tutoring was your best record thus far. Now you could focus on your own finals, you were just a couple weeks away from getting your degree and wanted to finish strong.

You were so caught up in finals stress that you didn’t notice someone following you until you were grabbed with a rag pressed into your face. The smell is strong and you find yourself passing out quickly. The last thing your brain registers is the too strong stench of overpriced cologne and someone whispering the word, “bitch” into your ear.

#navy and roo's sleepover #college au #bodyguard au #bodyguard!ari levinson #bodyguard!bucky barnes #bodyguard!lloyd hansen #dark ending

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whatsnewalycat · 2 years

Text

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 ]

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