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freelancearsonist · 24 days

Text

all that we see or seem

➔ Dieter Bravo x AFAB!Reader

➔ 5.7k words

➔ You moved to Hollywood in hopes of chasing your dreams; you get a lot more than you bargained for from your new boss, Dieter Bravo.

➔ Rated MA // dark fic, reader is afab (female anatomy, no pronouns used) and generally able-bodied, age gap (unspecified, reader is younger than dieter), vampire!dieter, blood/both consensual and non-consensual blood drinking, knife use, slight self-harm, gore of the mouth variety, pet names, takes place in 1983 bc i’m a sucker for changing settings

➔ this was requested from this prompt list by the very lovely @sp00kymulderr!! happy birthday darling, sorry this took so long but i hope it's worth the wait <3 thank you so much to @missredherring for this AMAZING header graphic ily 🖤

Los Angeles is a far cry from the little town you grew up in. It’s a seemingly endless maze, with more possibilities than you ever could’ve dreamed. It’s a little daunting, really. You step off your plane with your suitcase in hand, and you feel like the world is in the palms of your hands.

The harsh reality comes crashing in without warning.

LA is expensive, especially on your own. As the money you’d saved up to get you started dwindles much quicker than expected, your dreams only get further and further out of reach. Life always finds a way to fuck you over, and the city of angels does it quicker than anywhere else. The glitzy neon nightclubs and the glamor of Hollywood swiftly become an omen of doom rather than a beacon of hope. You’re in over your head, but it’s too late to back out now.

Auditions get put on the backburner. You work yourself to the bone as a server in a dumpy little diner, but it’s still barely enough to cover your basic expenses.

You wake up, you go to work, you come home, you go to sleep. The cycle repeats itself so quickly that your days all merge together into one, long, neverending nightmare.

The light at the end of the tunnel appears shortly before the first anniversary of your move. You’re scanning through the paper during your meal break when you see a help wanted ad. It’s normally the type of thing you would ignore, but a few things about it draw you in. The part that really catches your eye is the large, bold letters that proclaim “work closely with one of the biggest names in hollywood!” It seems too good to be true, and certainly something you’re not qualified for. But it could be a start–a way to get your foot through the door of the industry that brought you out here in the first place. Really, what’s the harm in trying?

You go to the library, type up your resume, and mail it in to the address listed in the ad. Realistically, you know that there must be hundreds of other applicants and you probably won’t get so much as a rejection letter back; but the needling little ‘what if’ in the back of your mind gives you a boost of hope that you’ve lived without for an achingly long time.

You get better than a letter–a broad, handsome man shows up at the diner late one night asking for you three days after you drop your resume into the local mail slot at the post office. Janine, the shaggy-haired waitress you work with almost every shift and have sort of become friends with, nudges you excitedly while you’re handing a ticket back to the kitchen.

“Honey, do you know who that is?” She nods her head over her shoulder towards a table in the corner of her section and you try to look over as nonchalantly as possible.

Of course you know who that is. His face is everywhere in this stupid town–magazine covers, billboards, movie theaters. Even with sunglasses obscuring the dark brown eyes that have made thousands swoon, you recognize Dieter Bravo. He’s bigger than Hasselhoff and Swayze combined.

“He’s asking for you,” Janine whispers. “By name. You know him?”

“Not yet,” you answer truthfully. You know without a doubt that he’s here because of your resume and that your entire world is about to change.

You’ve seen him on the big screen before and now you can definitively say that it doesn’t do him justice. He’s more handsome than any man has a right to be. He’s wearing a black hoodie and black trousers, an ensemble that stands out in the brightness of 1983 but yet perfectly complements the tanned tone of his skin. His shoulders could fill a doorway and his smile might actually melt you into a puddle. You can’t help but notice–with a hint of trepidation–that his canines are the sharpest you’ve ever seen, although that thought is quickly pushed from your mind when he greets you by name.

“Your resume is impressive.”

“No it’s not,” you respond with a little laugh before you can stop yourself, then you have to refrain from banging your head into the wall. What a great start to an interview.

But he laughs, and you can’t help feeling you’ve done something right. You’d do a hell of a lot worse just to hear that gorgeously deep, hearty chuckle again.

“Okay, I’ll rephrase. You said all the right things. You’ve got exactly what I’m looking for as an assistant.”

You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, because this is much too good to be true.

“You’re not from LA,” he states factually. “What brought you here?”

You consider lying–coming up with some story that’s less pathetic than the truth. He’s appreciated your honesty thus far, though, and you don’t want to break a streak. “I wanted to act, but… it’s hard to get started when you don’t have any connections. So I’ve just been kind of… getting by.”

He nods and gives you a look over–assessing, you think. “We all have to start somewhere. But this isn’t an easy job.”

There’s something unreadable in his voice, but you choose to ignore it because you want nothing more than a chance to impress him. It’s not about ‘making it’ anymore; it’s about proving to Dieter Bravo that you’re worth taking a chance on.

“Neither is this,” you reply with a vague wave at the diner around you. “If I’m not covered in fryer grease at the end of the day, it’s a good job to me.”

He chuckles again and it washes over you like fresh water after years of drought. You want more of him–more of his charm, more of his warmth.

“When can you start?”

You ask for two weeks to leave your diner gig on good terms, and he’s gracious enough to accommodate you. As the days tick past, the anticipation ramps up and time seems to move slower. You’ve never been so excited for a new job. Normally, your gut twists with anticipation and your mind swirls with every little minute detail that could go wrong–but not now. No, now you’re just excited. The possibilities of Hollywood finally seem to be within your reach again, and it all starts with this job.

You learn a lot about Dieter within five minutes of starting on your first day. For one, he’s incredibly personable. He greets you himself and vows to show you the ropes. There’s no third party to teach you everything you need to know, it’s just him. Just the two of you. You appreciate that immensely, because you’ll be serving him directly as his assistant. There’s no better person to learn from when it comes to his desires and routines than the man himself.

Two, he wears many different masks. It’s a little spooky, the way his demeanor changes depending on who he’s dealing with. He can be the sweetest, most charming man you’ve ever spoken to, then turn to a producer and be a complete hardass all in the name of getting things done. He knows exactly what persona he needs to wear for each person he interacts with–it’s all very calculated. You suppose all actors have to be capable of that; the mark of a good thespian is being instantly able to pretend you’re someone you’re not.

Still, it’s a little chilling. If you didn’t see it in some form or another with every person you meet on set, you’d be a little concerned. Dieter just makes it look like adaptation–fitting into his surroundings as a means of staying afloat. He’s been in this industry for a long time, he knows what works; and, subsequently, what doesn’t.

As far as the job goes, it’s a nice change of pace from what you’ve become accustomed to. You spend nights on set with him, fetching his coffee order or running little errands while he’s busy shooting. The hours aren’t unreasonable, and it pays double what the diner did. Now that you’re not struggling to get by financially, you have the free time you need to start pursuing your dreams again.

You have only Dieter to answer to, which is a definite learning curve. Directors, producers, and even other actors chase after your favors, but Dieter tells them unequivocally to fuck off. You’re his–it’s a heady feeling each time he reasserts it. It makes for easy work when you’re not being pulled in thirty different directions simultaneously. He asks for what he needs when he’s around and he gives you a list of tasks to complete when he’s not. He’s a little eccentric–he tells you he can only work after dark because his eyes are sensitive–but it’s nice, falling into a routine after so long of working unconventional hours at a job where no two days are the same.

Still, as days turn into weeks by his side, you wonder exactly what version of Dieter he’s presenting to you. Which face is the most authentic? You want to believe he’s himself with you, but you’re not quite naive enough to convince yourself of that. The thing that bothers you the most is that you want him to feel comfortable enough to drop the facades around you. You want to get to know the real Dieter Bravo, underneath all the masks. But you also swore to yourself, when you accepted this job, that you would be nothing but professional–and wanting to get to know him so intimately is definitely a step beyond just being his employee.

To his credit, he’s strictly professional–even if you wish he wasn’t at times. There’s a lot of rumors and gossip about him, about his hedonism and the life he supposedly leads at night, but you don’t see that facet of him. With you, he’s friendly, kind, and respectful. He’s the perfect gentleman–and that’s how you know that you’re not getting a full glimpse of the real him. There’s too much contradiction between the rumors and the Dieter that you interact with.

No matter how straight-laced you try to be, you can’t help wondering what it’ll take to get a look at the real Dieter Bravo.

You think he starts to peek through when Dieter asks if you would be willing to work longer hours and be more of a personal assistant than a production assistant. You know him inside and out, he tells you, and it would be a pain in the ass to teach a whole new person how to deal with his errands. He even offers you a sizable raise when you pretend to be contemplating it, like you weren’t bursting at the seams to say yes before he even finished asking.

The sad–maybe even pathetic–truth of the matter is that you’re falling for him. Every facet of his charm, from his darkly passionate eyes to his easy humor, have you completely bewitched and ready to ignore the way your hair stands on end each time his gaze meets yours. You’ll take any small fraction of him that you can get.

He eases you into your additional duties, at least; that much can be said in his favor. He starts you out with small tasks, like ordering his groceries and picking up his dry cleaning. Dieter’s so kind and patient as he explains how he likes everything done–he’s particular, but not unreasonable. He even gives you a grand tour of his home so you can see exactly where and how he likes everything done–it’s like finally getting that real glimpse of him that you’ve been hoping for.

His Sherman Oaks mansion looks like something straight out of a Bram Stoker novel on the outside, yet the inside is a testament to the warm side of his personality that you’re more familiar with. It’s decorated in shades of orange and red, with patterns that are a little out of date but still manage to feel intentional. It gives the impression of someone who was more comfortable and sure of himself in the 70’s, or at least someone who hasn’t quite adjusted to the new trends that came with the turn of the decade. The walls are covered with art–most of it signed with his familiar “DB” in the bottom right hand corner. It’s neat, but not so neat that it feels staged. It fits the Dieter Bravo that you know perfectly, and it even starts to feel like home to you when you start spending more time there with him.

There’s never anyone else around when you’re there. For someone who has a reputation for throwing the liveliest parties in all of Hollywood, he doesn’t actually do a lot of partying. Not when you’re around, at least. It’s almost like he’s trying to hide that aspect of himself from you. If he has to host, he sends you home early or lets you know in advance that you’re getting a paid night off. You’re almost disappointed–parties have never really been your thing, sure, but you feel like you need to experience at least one of his.

Plus, people are starting to talk. You hear it on set first; his co-stars whispering about how he’s gone soft, how he’s gotten boring. Even the tabloids are starting to wonder if they’ve seen the last infamous Dieter Bravo party, which were once highly coveted and exclusive events. The few times he’s hosted lately have been small, quiet affairs–definitely not the big, star-studded shebangs that he’s gained a reputation for.

A rumor even starts circulating that he’s finally decided to settle down with a nice girl, which makes your stomach twist with a little green monster that shouldn’t be there. He’s your employer, you reason. That’s all. No matter how friendly he is, no matter how much he flirts with you, no matter how much he compliments your perfect cup of coffee, that’s all he is. Your boss. And yet, despite your constant self-assertion, your brain just can’t seem to accept it. You know you shouldn’t want anything more than that, and yet you just can’t seem to stop yourself from hoping.

“What’s going on with you?”

You’re in the midst of trying to sort through the files in his upstairs home office so you can find out when his insurance needs to be renewed when you hear the voice, loud and clear due to the open floor plan downstairs. Sound travels like crazy up the double-wide staircase with Dieter’s office door right at the top. You couldn’t shut it out even if you wanted to–and you don’t. God help you, you’re a little nosy and a little curious.

“Nothing.” That’s Dieter’s voice, but you don’t recognize the other.

“Bullshit. You’re not yourself.” It’s a deep, rich tone that you’ve never heard before and it immediately has your interest hooked. Dieter doesn’t get many visitors, much less such purposeful ones. Most people like to schmooze him, but evidently not this unidentified man.

“I’m trying to be different,” Dieter explains half-heartedly. “It’s time I cleaned up a bit.”

“No. Cleaning up your act is nothing more than a good way to get yourself caught. Things happen in the party climate, that’s how you fit in. Things don’t just happen to nice rich actors.”

Caught? Caught doing what, exactly? You creep closer to the open door on light feet, curiosity peaked.

Dieter sighs, and you can hear the exhaustion in his voice. “I’m tired.”

“So what are you going to do? Just give up? Waste away after… how long?”

“Maybe I should,” Dieter retorts–there’s grit in his tone now, maybe even bitterness. “Maybe I never should’ve taken the deal in the first place. You don’t see how fucked up this all is?”

“So, what? You’ve gotten everything you could’ve possibly wanted, and now you’re tired of playing the game? Pathetic.” There’s a sneer in the tone of this unidentified speaker and you don’t like it. You want to jump to Dieter’s defense, but something tells you this is a conversation that you shouldn’t be eavesdropping on.

“Whatever, man,” Dieter scoffs dismissively.

There’s noise downstairs now–a slight thud and what sounds like Dieter grunting as if the wind has been knocked out of him.

“What changed?”

“Fuck off,” Dieter spits.

“What. Changed?”

“You weren’t fucking honest with me.”

“Bullshit,” the stranger growls back. “You knew exactly what you were getting into.”

“No, you said everything I wanted, that was the deal. Remember?” It’s quiet for a long moment, and you wonder if Dieter’s pacing. He does that, when he starts to get stressed. “I’m still alone, though.”

“That’s your own fault,” the stranger replies–voice a little softer now. “I didn’t say I would hand you your dreams on a silver platter. You make your own destiny. Surely it hasn’t been so long that you’ve forgotten that little qualifier.”

“I can’t bring someone else into this shit and you know it,” Dieter replies. The venom is gone from his voice now–he just sounds done. Exhausted and spent.

“You can, but you won’t.” There’s a moment of silence, then a heavy sigh. “Start acting like yourself again before you raise too much suspicion.”

“Fine,” Dieter sighs heavily.

There’s a few long moments of silence, and then you hear the heavy solid oak front door shut. Presumably the guest has gone, and while you’re eager to sneak down and see if you can catch a glimpse of who it might’ve been, it’s far too risky with Dieter down there. Something tells you that he should never find out about the way you just eavesdropped on that conversation. You don’t know who he was talking to, or what kind of deal they were discussing–you just know that it’s serious, and definitely above your paygrade.

“Did you find that paperwork?”

You didn’t hear Dieter come upstairs–his sudden question from right behind you makes you jump and whirl around to look at him. You fight to keep your calm as you catch your breath; the last thing you want to do is clue him in that you overheard his conversation with his unknown guest.

“Yeah, I’ve got it right here,” you answer after a thick gulp.

“You’re a doll,” he proclaims with a wide smile. How easily he picks up the face he wears with you after a conversation that clearly upset him. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” you hum with a smile. “This entire room is a nightmare. It’s a miracle you ever find anything. You need to get, like… some filing cabinets. At the very least.”

“I’ll, uhh… get right on that,” he says in a way that makes you sure he definitely won’t get right on it.

Despite the nerves still thrumming through your veins, you laugh. “I’ll take care of it.”

“You’re a doll,” he repeats with his trademark grin. “Oh! Hey, uhh… you have tomorrow off. Paid, obviously.”

“Why?” You ask before you can think better of it.

He seems surprised–you don’t normally ask questions, especially about paid vacation days. “Work stuff I gotta take care of. No big deal.”

“Okay,” you answer with a slight frown. “Sure I can’t help?”

He actually does seem to be contemplating it for a moment–his eyes scan over your body, and it’s like he’s considering you more than the actual offer. “No, honey, I’ll be okay.”

“Okay.” You take a short breath, then head towards the door–this was the last task on your list for the night. “Anything else you need before I head out?”

He thinks for a moment, then shakes his head as he follows you down the stairs. “No. Thanks, sweetheart.”

You feel heat fluttering underneath your skin at the pet name–he uses them often and they never fail to make your heart pick up pace. It’s like he can tell, because his eyes linger on your lips for a moment before trailing down to the pulse point on the left side of your neck. You wonder for a second if he can actually see it beating, but you quickly push that ridiculous thought away.

“You’re sure there’s nothing I can do for you tomorrow?”

His eyes are still trained on your neck like he’s completely zoned out or something. You watch as his tongue slowly glides over his bottom lip, trance-like; it makes your breath hitch in your throat.

“Yeah,” he whispers after a long moment–he’s standing so close now, you didn’t even notice him closing in. “I’ll call you if anything comes up.”

“Okay.” You want nothing more than to grab him and pull him in, to kiss him like your life depends upon it. He sounded so upset and every bone in your body is screaming to comfort him. The way he’s looking at you right now, you don’t think he’d mind at all.

Instead you take a deep breath, grab your bag from the bench next to the door, and bid him goodnight.

Dieter doesn’t seem to realize that you’re always working, whether you’re on the clock or not. Even on ‘off’ days, you get loads of calls for scheduling requests and other tasks. Your saving grace is your trusty day planner—it holds both of your schedules, all neatly color-coded for maximum efficiency.

The worst thing you could’ve done on a weekend leading up to awards season is leave it in Dieter’s home office—and yet, as you frantically dig through your tote bag and your desk, that seems to be exactly what you’ve done.

You know Dieter’s got whatever event he’s hosting at home, but you can’t keep taking calls and scribbling notes on napkins without your schedule in front of you. The last thing you want to do is overbook him at a time where every single interview counts.

With a heavy sigh, you dial Dieter’s home number. It rings for what seems like eternity, and just as you’re about to hang up an unfamiliar voice answers.

“Hello?”

With a sigh of relief, you ask, “Hi, is Dieter there?”

“He’s busy.” The voice is high and sweet, yet her tone says she couldn’t be more irritated.

“Okay… umm, it’s kind of important.”

The stranger sighs dramatically. “I can take a message.”

“I just… I left something there, and I need to come get it as soon as possible. But I don’t want to interrupt anything.”

This time when she speaks, her tone is considerably more friendly. “Oh! Yeah, come on over. The more the merrier!”

You can’t help your intrigue, although you really don’t want to intrude without Dieter’s say-so. “Are you sure? I could always come tomorrow, I guess.”

“No no, come! It’s a party, everyone’s welcome!” Then the line goes dead without any further discussion.

You consider redialing in the hopes of speaking and clearing your visit with Dieter, but you doubt you’ll actually get through to him–and really, what harm would a quick visit do? You know exactly where you left it, on the desk in his office. It’ll be five minutes tops, a quick in and out. He might never even know that you’d been there.

You shake off the curious sense of foreboding that overtakes your mind as you grab your keys and lock your apartment door behind you.

It’s a twenty minute ride to Dieter’s house–a lot of time to spend thinking. At the forefront of your mind is that peculiar conversation you overheard last night; you’re not entirely sure why, really. Whoever that man was sounded almost as if he was in some kind of position of power over Dieter, and you don’t have even an educated guess at who that could possibly be. Dieter’s his own boss and he doesn’t take bullying–you’ve never heard someone get away with bossing him around like that before. He’s constantly in some weird form of pissing match with the directors and producers of whatever film he’s working on; he’s never seemed to be good at taking orders, even when he’s supposed to. You’ve heard many a rant about how much he values the ‘freedom of expression’. It all serves to make the mysterious visitor more confusing. Who does Dieter have to answer to?

The cab pulls up in front of his gated home before you’re able to find a plausible answer. You instruct the driver to keep the meter running since you’ll only be a minute before you step out into the crisp late-January air.

The grounds are a lot quieter than you expect them to be as the guard on duty opens the gate and closes it behind you. One thing Dieter’s famous for is noise–his parties are always reported as loud and exciting affairs akin to the fraternities in his favorite movie Animal House. There's no noise at all today, though, and it makes you curious. Is it really a party? Or was the stranger who answered the phone maybe his only guest? If the latter is the case, why would she want you to join in?

There’s a pale man in a cheap-looking suit waiting just inside the door, a tray of filled wine glasses in his gloved hands. “Take one,” he instructs, his eyes distant like he’s looking through you rather than at you.

“Oh, no thank you, I just need to–”

“Take one,” he repeats. “Master’s orders.”

Master? Of course Dieter would be into that.

The wine is a deep red, probably that expensive vintage shit that he’s always raving about. You prefer the grocery store stuff yourself, not just because it’s all you can afford. A drink never hurts, though, and you could certainly use something to take the edge off–because that tingling sense of foreboding has only gotten stronger since your arrival.

You take a glass and swirl its currant-colored liquid around. It seems more viscous than any wine you’ve had before–probably a mark of its age, but that’s just guesswork on your part. You take a small sip, then nearly gag. It’s like drinking a pile of melted pennies. You swallow it down with a grimace anyway since you don’t want to make a scene of spitting it out in front of the server. It leaves a metallic taste in your mouth that you’re eager to wash out–thankfully, the kitchen is on your route to the stairs. You quickly deposit the glass on a table once you’re out of the server’s eyesight, then head down the hall in a desperate search for water.

Once you’re out of the foyer, there are people everywhere. Very subdued people, at that–draped over furniture like throw blankets, some even laying on the floor. You consider checking one’s pulse until he twitches and lets out a muffled groan. Clearly high on something, you’re just not sure what. You nearly trip over one person and they actually hiss at you like some kind of feral cat. Your skin starts to crawl with every step you take. Even more important than your discomfort, though, is finding Dieter. What if he’s like this, too? Do you need to call someone?

You notice a dull ache starting in your gums as you make it to the kitchen–thankfully you’re familiar with his home, and you have a glass of water in your hands within no time. It seems that no matter how much you drink, though, that coppery-bloody taste never leaves your mouth. What the hell was that stuff?

There’s a short-haired blonde woman propped up against the wall underneath the mounted phone; she reaches out a lazy hand in some sort of greeting. She looks vaguely familiar, like someone you might’ve seen on the set of one of Dieter’s films.

“You made it!” She says with a lazy smile. She must be the woman you spoke to earlier, although you’re not sure how she can identify you.

“Yeah. Where’s Dieter?” The longer you’re here, the more worried you become. Something isn’t right, and your skin is prickling with apprehension.

“Upstairs,” she murmurs, then her eyes flutter shut and she slumps a little further down. She’s visibly breathing, at least.

For a moment, you consider picking up the phone and ringing the police. Would that cause more harm than good? Dieter must be aware of what’s going on here–you know you should talk to him before you do anything.

Your mission to find your planner momentarily forgotten, you make your way through the living room towards the stairs.

You check the office at the top first–there’s a few bodies zonked out on the couch, but none of them are Dieter. With trepidation in your very soul, you make your way down the hall. Each room is more of the same–people in varying states of unrest, no sign of the man you’re looking for. Most of them have red-stained lips and you eye more than one smashed glass along your journey. Your own mouth is starting to get alarmingly sore, but you ignore it in favor of finding Dieter.

Each step you take drives your worries deeper into your skull. What if something’s happened to him? What if he’s knocked out like all of his guests, or hurt, or something worse?

This is the first time you’ve breached the bubble of his bedroom. None of your work has ever involved this room, and while you’re a naturally nosey type of person, there’s something deeply personal and sacred about the space someone sleeps in.

Ignoring the steady throbbing in your gums, you knock once before pushing open the door.

Dieter’s alone in his room, sprawled out like a starfish in a sea of rumpled sheets at the center of his massive bed. Something akin to a groan of horror escapes your throat as you see the state he’s in. He’s paler than a corpse and drenched in sweat, chest barely rising and falling with breath.

For a moment, you’re frozen in place. Your entire body breaks out in a cold sweat as you notice the knife in his right hand and the deep gash in the crook of his left arm, right where an IV would normally be set. You can smell the blood draining from him, you can even taste it in the air–or maybe that’s just the lingering taste of whatever you drank downstairs.

Your stomach churns violently with the sudden realization of what you’ve done, of what you’ve drank.

“Dieter!” You manage to choke out while your brain tries to remember how to send the signals required for your body to fucking move.

He lifts his head shakily, brown eyes widening after a long moment of trying to recognize the face he’s looking at. “No no no,” he whispers hoarsely, “you’re not supposed t-to be here. You’re.. y-you’re supposed to be a-at home.”

A sharp, shattering pain in your top gum snaps your brain back into action. In a flash you’re crawling across a seemingly endless desert of mattress and it feels like you’ll never reach him. Everything is moving so slowly–each movement seems to take a hundred times the effort it should.

You spit out a mouthful of blood as the pain heightens, barely registering the two upper canines that go with it.

“What the fuck have you done?” You sob, uselessly pawing at his slashed left arm. It’s a precise cut straight across the artery–your hands are sticky and soaked with red the moment you touch him. Pressure, your brain screams at you. Put pressure on the wound.

“A real artist must suffer,” he mumbles weakly–then, even quieter, “I didn’t want to be alone anymore.”

“You’re dying.” Your voice doesn’t sound like your own anymore. It’s higher, breathier.

“You drank it, d-didn’t you?” He asks, ignoring your statement. His distant eyes are trained on the sharp fangs that have pushed your canines out. “Fuck. Fuck! You were n-never supposed to…”

“Shut up, shut up,” you plead. Every shaky breath seems to cost him years. “How do I fix this? How do I fix you?”

“Thirsty,” he mumbles. There’s water on the sideboard, your brain reminds you. You don’t even remember bringing the glass with you, much less setting it down. Everything is so fuzzy. Your arm doesn’t move nearly as fast as it should when you reach for the glass, and Dieter’s hand weakly comes up to stop you.

“Not water,” he croaks. “Need… need…”

He can’t seem to form the words required to tell you what he needs. He doesn’t have to, though. You know.

“You’re not dying on me, Bravo.” You take the knife from his slack right hand before he can stop you and grit your sore teeth together as you slash it across your palm.

“N-no, don’t…” But he doesn’t resist as you hold your bleeding palm to his mouth. His empty eyes flash back to life with the first taste, and then he takes your hand in his own and drinks greedily. You watch with nothing short of disbelief as the cut on his arm seals itself right before your eyes.

“You were supposed to stay away from this,” he murmurs as his tongue sweeps across your palm. “Why the fuck are you here, baby?”

You don’t even remember anymore. Everything is hazy, everything hurts. It’s a chore just to keep your eyes open.

“Damn it,” he growls–pushing your hand away from his blood-smeared mouth seems to take all his willpower. “I never wanted this for you.”

“It’s okay,” you murmur as you slump down against his sheets. They’re so soft and light, and you want to cocoon yourself in them for the rest of time. “It’s just a dream.”

“Why’d you have to come save me? Huh?” His voice sounds so far away that you’re not even sure he’s really speaking.

“I love you.” It’s okay to say that, because he’ll never actually find out. It’s just a dream, after all; you’ll wake up in the morning confused but totally okay.

“You were never supposed to,” his voice echoes from some plain of existence far, far away. “Damn it honey, stay awake just a minute longer.”

You try, but your eyes are so heavy. He sighs heavily, as if he knows it’s useless.

“Promise you’ll still love me when you wake up,” he pleads through the tunnel that separates you.

Nodding saps the last of your strength, so you let your eyes flutter closed. “Okay.”

You feel his lips against yours and his coppery kiss nearly brings you back from the verge of sleep. In the end, though, your throbbing head wins. Sleep takes hold quickly despite your feeble resistance.

How strange it is to fall asleep in a dream.

➔ beta: @schnarfer and @futuraa-free thank you my lovelies <3

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#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #the bubble #the bubble fanfiction #cece writes

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ramblers-lets-get-ramblin · 6 months

Text

White Christmas- Dieter Bravo x f!reader- a 12 Days of Pedro Story

Main Masterlist | Dieter Bravo Masterlist | 12 Days of Pedro Masterlist

Prompt: holiday getaway

Summary: You and Dieter decide to escape the push and pull of your families for the holiday.

Rating: E for EXPLICIT MDNI 18+

Word Count: 4.3k

Author's Note: this is my contribution to @hellishjoel 12 Days of Pedro!

I love this little trash panda and I am always itching to write more for him. shoutout to @wannab-urs and @catchallfangirl for beta reading for me! i love you both so much!

Warnings: oral sex f receiving, unprotected PIV, tummy riding, cumshot, cum eating, inappropriate use of a santa hat, bad family dynamics, face sitting, reader is comfortable wearing lingerie but is otherwise undescribed. I think that's everything. please let me know if I missed something and I will gladly add it!

Immersability: reader is able-bodied

“Goddamnit!” Dieter exclaims when his phone lights up, for what feels like the hundredth time today.

“Your mom again?” you ask. He snorts out a response just as his phone begins to ring again. He tosses the phone over his shoulder, not bothering to see where it lands. He presses the heel of his palms into his eyes and rubs them back and forth, letting out a deep, weary sigh.

“She just won’t fucking give up.” he groans. His mother had been calling non-stop for the last week. Wanting Dieter to come home for the holidays, for some reason. She had never been very interested in Dieter’s life. She had dropped him off at his grandmother’s house for a girls night out when he was six and hadn’t returned for seven years. By the time she came back, Dieter was in seventh grade, a foot taller and barely remembered her. She also had two kids in tow. She was home for a year that time, her longest stretch, before she inevitably left again. She tried to slide back into the role of mother as if she hadn’t pretended he didn’t exist for more than half of his life. She pretended to take an interest in his schooling, especially once she met the father of Dieter’s best friend. The part that hurt the most, though, was when she left again, she took his brother and sister with her, leaving Dieter with his abuelita once again.

That woman had never had a kind word to say to Dieter in the eight years you’ve been together. According to him, she hadn’t said many before then, either. When Dieter moved to New York to pursue a career in theater, she told him not to get his hopes up. “Only the really special ones make it in that business, baby.” she said, patting his cheek condescendingly. When Abuelita died, she didn’t have a will, so Sofia got the house and Dieter got a warning that he wouldn’t be able to come running home with his tail tucked between his legs if his “little adventure” didn’t work out. It only got worse when he decided to move out to Los Angeles to pursue acting. She’s never believed in him, not for a second of his life. “You’re just like your father. Full of these hopes and dreams that’ll never amount to anything.” she had scoffed. Not that Dieter would know, he’d never met his father. He wasn’t listed on his birth certificate and Sofia only ever referred to him as “that man.” Of course, once Dieter’s career started taking off and his movies started generating buzz, she suddenly became a lot more interested in her son’s life again.

She’s on her fourth or fifth husband these days, neither of you can ever remember. Her collection of various children who don’t know their eldest sibling, have no problem coming to him with their hands out, a trait they learned from their mother. He always gives in, because the alternative is having to listen to endless lectures about how ungrateful he is, and how much he “owes her for raising him.” That’s the only reason she wants him to come, really. So that he can lavish them with expensive gifts. The only reason Dieter even bothers to indulge every few years is because he is fiercely devoted to his nieces and nephews. The kids love to climb in his lap and wrestle on the ground. He plays football on the yard with the boys, and princesses with the girls. Whenever he comes home from a visit you can be sure it will be with a new manicure. He still sends gifts to the kids even when he doesn’t go home. This year, everyone is getting a new iPad.

Not that your family is any less dysfunctional or treats you any better. Nice, boring house in a nice, boring suburb. Obligatory white picket and three-a-day Xanax addiction included. Your parents’ barely concealed disdain for each other and resentment towards the children who prevented them from living their dreams, didn’t stop them from pressuring you to join them for every family function. They have to keep up the perfect, All-American family image. The guilt-trip phone calls every holiday were even worse if you decided to spend the previous holiday with Dieter’s family. She’s been hounding you this week as well, wondering what the neighbors will think when they notice that another year has gone by without an appearance from yours truly. It always causes tension between you and Dieter, too. Neither of you wanting to put up with your families, but also not exactly thrilled to put up with the other’s family either. You don’t even bother to decorate the house for the season anymore. The push and pull from your respective families all but guaranteeing that neither of you will be home to enjoy it.

When Dieter’s ringtone starts playing again, this time from the kitchen floor, you pick it up and take a look at the broken screen. Sofia, again. You roll your eyes and silence the call. You power it off and shove it into your pocket and walk to where Dieter stands leaning forward, his hands braced on the counter. You stand behind him and rest your head on his bare back, between his broad shoulders. You snake your hands under his arms and up his chest. You grip his pecs and press a soft kiss to his skin, between his shoulder blades. He shivers under your touch but you can feel the tension start to ease from his body.

An idea strikes you then. “Hey, Dee. I have an idea, baby.” He reaches up and rests his hands over your own.

“I’ve got a few ideas of my own, sweetheart.” You don’t need to see his face to see the lopsided smirk his mouth is turned up in, or the mischief glinting in his eyes.

“Not that, cabron ” you chuckle, planting another kiss to his skin. He releases your hands and turns to face you.

“What’s your big idea, baby?” he asks. He caresses your cheek with his thumb, his other fingers rest under your jaw, reaching towards the back of your neck.

“Let’s just get out of here. Let’s forget all the family drama and take a vacation.” He tilts his head at the suggestion and you can see his tongue poking the inside of his cheek as he mulls over the suggestion.

“Sounds like a plan. I just have one requirement.” You cock your eyebrow curiously.

“What’s that?” you ask.

“I want to go somewhere warm. Somewhere you can wear that teeny bikini I bought you this summer.”

After much deliberation, you and Dieter ended up choosing Barbados for your Destination Christmas. Three thousand hours of sunshine annually, and thousands of miles away from either of your families. You decide two weeks should be long enough for the heat to die down. Why some people lose their minds around the holidays, you’ll never understand. You decide to do some pre vacation shopping, even though you don’t subscribe to the Norman Rockwell version of Christmas, you still live in America. The consumerism and materialism capital of the world. So you still need to find a present for Dee. But what do you buy for the man who can afford anything he wants? The man whose lack of impulse control ensures that he does? Something in the window of a store catches your eye and you step into the boutique. Twenty minutes and one swipe of Dee’s credit card later, you and your little black bag head for the record store. You find the perfect gift for him there. A vintage t-shirt of one of his favorite bands, The Replacements. From their 1990 tour at the Palladium, right before Paul Westerberg left the band for good.

Thankfully you get home from your shopping trip before Dee gets home from his. You take the time to carefully wrap the shirt and stuff it to the bottom of your suitcase, next to your other purchase. You quickly shove your clothes on top, hiding the surprises, just as you hear Dee come in the front door. When he appears in the bedroom he walks straight to your dresser and opens the top drawer. You huff out a laugh when he dangles the tiny black triangles connected by thin string in front of your face.

“You forgot something, baby.” he says with a sly smile. You snatch the bikini from his grasp and drop it on top of the rest of your clothes.

“You should really start packing, Dee. Our flight is early.” you tell him. He lands a swat on your ass before he walks to the closet and digs out his own suitcase.

He groans in your ear when the alarm goes off at 3:30 the next morning, his naked body pressed against yours. “Why did you have to book such an early flight, my love?” He tightens his arms around you when you move to rise from the bed.

“Dee, we have to go!” you squeal with laughter as he gently kisses the back of your neck. “Our flight is at 6:00. There’s a six hour layover in New York. Come on, lazy bones, get up.” you try once more to wrench yourself free from his grasp, but he just holds you even tighter.

“Gimme a kiss, first.” he whines. You turn in his arms and slot your lips between his. He slides his tongue into your mouth and you can feel his cock twitch against your bare thigh. You feel the heat emanating from your core at the mere thought of him sliding it inside of you. Lazy, sleepy morning sex is a fan favorite in your house. But you have a flight to catch.

“Come on, big boy. There’ll be plenty of time for all this once we get to the resort.’ you assure him. You give him a smack on the ass and push him out of the bed.

Fifteen hours and two flights later, you finally arrive in Bridgetown. It’s the middle of the night so you have no trouble getting a taxi. They are all parked in a line outside the terminal. Dee falls asleep on the twenty minute ride to the resort, but you stay awake, watching the ocean whiz by. The salt from the sea permeates the air, even through the windows of the taxi. Even in your exhausted state, you already feel all the stress from the holiday season sleeping away from you. All the pressure to be with people you don’t really like, who don’t really like you. Just you and your guy, on a beach for two weeks. Toes in the sand, drinks in your hand. Nothing to worry about except what restaurant to go to, what shop to hit up. You gently nudge Dieter awake when you arrive at the resort. The taxi driver brings all of your bags into the lobby of the hotel and Dieter pulls a hundred dollar bill out of his wallet.

“Thanks, man. Drive safe.” he says to the man, still wiping the sleep from his eyes. You’d think for someone who travels so often he’d be more used to this. Sometimes, he reminds you of a fully grown toddler. While you give the man at the desk all of your check in information, a bellhop loads all of your luggage onto a gold rolling cart. And by ‘all of your luggage’ you mean your one suitcase and carry on, and Dieter’s three suitcases and two duffel bags. How this man could pack so much truly baffles you. All he ever wears is pajamas, or nothing. It makes you wonder what else he might be hiding in those bags. Maybe he did a little Christmas shopping of his own, you think. Once you get settled into your penthouse suite you send the obligatory “we’ve arrived safely texts. Then you turn off both of your phones and slip into bed. Dieter falls asleep immediately, snuggled into your side. His soft snores lull you to sleep after only a few minutes.

You and Dieter spend the next seven days staying up late, sleeping in and having the laziest hungover sex anyone ever had. You spend your days on the beach, laying in the sun. Dieter naps and you read. Your evenings are spent at a different restaurant every night. None of the bullshit the resort serves. If you wanted to eat chicken parmesan you could have just stayed home. You ask the locals what their favorite restaurants are and their favorite dishes. You eat fish cakes, chicken feet, guava cheese and salt bread. You indulge in all of the local delicacies. Then, you spend a few hours at the resort bar, knocking back drink after drink. You stumble into your room and eat junk food and watch shitty horror movies. You talk for hours, content to do nothing more than just be together. Every other day you turn your phones on for 15 minutes. You respond to texts and Dieter returns calls and emails from his agent and his publicist. Then, they go right back off and are stuffed into the drawer of your bedside table. You can’t remember the last time either of you were this unplugged from the world. You wonder what it’ll be like when you have to go back to your real life. When Dee has to go back to his rigorous filming schedule and you have to return to your own work. You don’t want to waste a single second of this uninterrupted time with him.

When Christmas day rolls around, you and Dieter opt to stay in your room the whole day. Most shops and restaurants were closed for the day anyway. You wake late in the afternoon and decide to take a shower while Dee is still sleeping. You peek over at him before you dig your surprise for him out of its hiding place in your suitcase. You slip quietly into the bathroom and turn the shower as hot as it will go. You take your time in the shower, carefully washing your hair, slowly soaping your whole body. When you step out of the shower you pause and listen, trying to figure out if Dieter is awake. When you hear nothing, you continue with your post shower ritual. You grab two of the resort towels off of the rack, probably the fluffiest towels you’ve ever felt, and wrap one around your body and the other around your head. You move to the vanity where your toiletry bag sits and grab your moisturizer. You apply a thin layer and while it soaks in, you finally open the little black bag you had bought on your shopping trip. You remove the barely there panties, red with a little white trimmed skirt. It came with a matching cut out bra, if it could be called that. It took you three tries to get the red satin triangles positioned just right. Finally, you pull out the cherry on top, so to speak. Pasties with red satin bows. Once you’ve wrapped yourself in the expensive lingerie, you tie the terry cloth robe tightly around your waist, lest the surprise be ruined. You give yourself a final once over in the mirror and pull the door open.

Dieter is awake. He’s sitting against the headboard with his arms folded behind his head. Seems like he had a similar idea as yours. He cock stands proudly at attention, and it's wearing a little Santa hat. A noise of surprise escapes your mouth and you can tell by the look on Dee’s face, he got the response he was hoping for.

“Merry Christmas, baby.” he drawls, voice still gravelly from sleep.

“Funny,” you say, “I got a present for you to unwrap, too.” Dieter raises an eyebrow in curious interest.

“Oh yeah?” he asks.

“Why don’t you come over here and let me open you up?” He scoots down to the edge of the bed and spreads his legs wide. You saunter over to him, letting the tension build between you, keeping your hand tight over the knot of your robe. Once you’re standing between his thighs, he grips both of your hands in one of his large ones. He presses a soft kiss to them and drops them down at your side. He unties the knot at your waist and lets your robe fall open. His breath hitches in his throat when the terry cloth falls down your shoulders, offering him a peek of your exposed skin. He reaches up and shoves the fabric the rest of the way off. “Holy shit, baby. Is all this for me?” he asks, trailing a finger down the center of your chest, between the swell of your breasts. He rests his head against the softness of your stomach, his breath causing your body to light up with desire. You thread your fingers through the curls at the crown of his head and pull him closer still. “Merry Christmas to me.” he whispers, lightly licking just under your belly button. A shiver courses through your veins and you give his hair a slight tug. He moans against you at the sensation and reaches up to cup your ass. He spreads your cheeks apart and drags one of his fingers between them, until it comes to rest at your clothed core. The fabric is already wet and warm with your desire.

Dieter slips his finger under your panties and swipes it through your folds. He gently nips at the same spot he was just licking. “Fuck, Dee.” you groan out into the air, the sound bouncing off the high ceilings right back into your ears. Dieter growls against your skin and removes his hand from your panties.

“Get over here.” he says wickedly and pulls you into his lap. You wrap your legs around his waist and start to settle in. “Nuh-huh.” he protests. He lays back on the bed and grips your ass tightly. When he pulls you forward onto his belly, you figure out what he’s after. But before you give in, you decide to take something you want from him first. You plant your hands on his chest and your clothed cunt on the soft swell of his tummy. “What are you up to?” he asks, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

“This,” you say as you grind down on him, “is my favorite part of your body.” You can feel his happy trail through your soaked panties, the coarse hair there providing you with the friction you need so badly. His hands move to your hips and he pulls you even further onto his stomach. You work your hips up and down, back and forth. You can feel the soft trim on his Santa hat bobbing against your ass. You can see the muscles of his throat work as he swallows. His jaw tenses and he moans loudly.

“Fuck yes, baby. Use me, mama . Take what you need.” he urges. Seeing how turned on he is by this sends you over the edge.

“Dee,” you pant. “I’m so close.” He stills your hips and when you protest, he responds ,

“On my mouth, baby. I need it. Need to taste you.” he practically begs. You slide your panties down, lifting one leg at a time until you can slip them off. You shuffle up the bed on your knees, dragging your bare, dripping pussy across his abdomen and chest. You hover over his face and he wraps his arms around your thighs. He pulls you down to his mouth, the scruff on his cheeks scrapes the inside of your thighs, but you relish the burn. He flicks the tip of his tongue lightly, but quickly, across your clit. The motion turns your bones into jelly and you fall forward, catching yourself on the mattress. You’re already so worked up that it only takes a few expert swipes of his tongue before you are falling apart all over him. He pulls you even tighter to his mouth as he works you through with his tongue.

Once the aftershocks have passed, Dieter lifts you from his mouth and wiggles out from under you. He rises from the bed and stands at the foot of it. You are still on your knees with your hands planted on the mattress. Dee grips your hips and pulls you backwards towards him. You let out a yelp in surprise and he chuckles. “I can’t wait anymore, baby. I need to be inside you right fucking now.” he says, removing one hand. You see something fly over your head. The miniature Santa hat lands on the pillow in front of you. “Ready for me?” he asks. You barely begin to nod as you feel him press the head of his cock against your warm, wet cunt.

“ Fuck , Dee. Yes, papi .” you reply. He enters you slowly, but steadily, until your still sensitive walls fully engulf him. He lets out a low hiss when his hips meet the soft curves off your ass. Your hands fist the sheets when he starts thrusting. He pulls out of you nearly all the way, leaving just the tip inside of you, and buries himself to the hilt with every stroke. He fills you up completely every time, completely wrecking you. You wouldn't be surprised to get a noise complaint from resort staff with the way you scream for him. The animalistic growls he makes reverberate in your ears, and soon his pace begins to falter. He pumps once, twice, three times before he quickly pulls out of you. The front half of your body falls flat on the bed, your ass still sticking up. You feel the warm spurts of his come hit the cheeks of your ass. He grunts as he strokes himself and paints your skin with his spend. When he’s finished, he admires his handiwork.

“Looks like we ended up with a white Christmas after all, huh?” he laughs. You groan at his idiotic, but typically Dieter remark and lower your legs to the floor. You stand and try to hurry into the bathroom to clean up but Dieter stops you, slipping his tongue into your mouth, tangling it with your own. He grabs the meat of your ass, not caring that it's still sticky with his come. When he releases your mouth, he brings his fingers to it. His eyes light up when you take two fingers into your mouth, down to the knuckle, and suck them clean. You wink at him and walk into the bathroom, feeling his eyes on you every second of the way.

Once you’ve cleaned yourself up, you remove the expensive lingerie and put on your favorite pair of leggings and one of Dieter’s t-shirts. Dee has dressed himself as well, kinda, he never leaves home without his ratty, sage green bathrobe. He’s sitting on the suite’s couch, scrolling Netflix for something to watch. You pause to rifle through your suitcase, pulling out the black plastic bag from the record store. You stuff it in your armpit and join him on the couch. Dieter pulls you in close to his cheat and kisses you on the forehead. “Thank you for my present. You looked so fucking hot like that.” he eyes you up and down. “You always look so sexy.”

You pull the bag out from under your arm. “I did get you a real present, ya know?” you shove the bag into his hands. His face lights up before he even opens the bag. When he pulls the shirt out and shakes the wrinkles from it, tears spring to the corners of his eyes.

“You remembered.” he whispers. Dieter had mentioned the show to you on your first date.

“If you could go back to any point in your life and relive it, when would it be?” you had asked.

“The last time I saw The Replacements live.” he responded with no hesitation. “I’d go back and watch it sober, revel in the finality of the moment instead of being too fucked up to even remember it the next day.” he slips his arms out of his robe and pulls the shirt on over his head. He lands a soft, but deep, kiss on your lips. “I love it, mamita. ” he says. His hand disappears into the comically large pocket of his robe. “I got a little something here for you, too.” he says. He opens his hand and a small velvet box rests in the palm. Your eyes flicker from his to the box, and back again.

“Dee, what is this?” you ask. You and Dieter had decided years ago that you didn’t need to get married. Nothing about a wedding or a marriage certificate would add anything to what you already share together. With Dieter’s notoriety, any ceremony you had would be a dog and pony show, a media zoo. He pushes the box into your hand and you open it. There’s a small gold, heart shaped charm inside. It matches the others on the anklet Dieter got you for your third anniversary. There’s a capital “D” in script font on one side. You roll your eyes when you turn it over and get a look at the other side. Engraved in the gold is an eggplant emoji.

“Merry Christmas, baby.” he says. You close the box and set it on the coffee table. You snuggle up under his armpit and he tightens his arm around your shoulder.

“Thank you, Dee. I love it.” you say, snatching the remote from his hand. You scroll through a few titles before finally settling on one.

“Scandal again?” Dieter pouts. You ignore him and press play. Your time here in your perfect little bubble is running out. Soon enough you’ll be back to L.A. and Dieter will be off to Germany for his new movie. You plan on soaking up every second of bliss you can get out this vacation.

taglist: @planet-marz1 @rhoorl @nerdieforpedro @hyzer34@littlegrungegirlaf @pamasaurur @joeldjarinff @harriedandharassed @casa-boiardi@disassociation-daydreams @inept-the-magnificent @elegantduckturtle @magpiepills@cherubispunk @milly-louise @party-hearses @megamindsecretlair @survivingandenduring @Darkheartgatita @mysterious-moonstruck-musings

#dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo #dieter bravo fanfic #dieter x reader #dieter bravo fic #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo smut #dieter bravo fanfiction #12 days of pedro

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katealpha · 9 days

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Art by RandomGirl1265

While many of the underground facilities built by Vault-Tec have been uncovered over the two centuries that went by after the bombs fell over America. However, one of Los Angeles’ deepest secrets lie just underneath the decimated (and formerly named before the war) Chinese Theater.…

————-

Christina Kirby was just your average movie and TV actress in her late 20s. Born into money and practically raised by Hollywood, she had a promising career ahead of her. The Great War hadn’t affected her life all that much, though one day, she was brought to one of those vaults that were being created in case the worst happened. The plan was outlined to her as she was given a tour around the place. That when the bombs started to fall, she‘d be notified the second any bombs were detected headed towards the country, minutes before any nuclear sirens started going off, and she and other Hollywood names would live underground until the all clear.

It was a neat little place. It was furnished comfortably with many of the decorations based on the Hollywood esthetic. Movie posters, a walk of fame in the hallways, everything looking shiny. Her room was practically a smaller version of what she had in her mansion, but still comfortable and private.

When she was driven home after the tour, she was getting ready to walk through her front door, when she felt herself being grabbed from behind and a wet cloth pressed against her nose and mouth. Christina passed out within seconds, hardly able to struggle.….

————280 Years Later———-

A hydraulic hiss woke Christina up suddenly. Everything was blurry and misty as a glass door opened before her into a dim hallway. She felt horrible. Sweaty, sore, and most of all, severely bloated. As she stepped out of the cylindrical pod, she felt slow and heavy to boot. When her vision cleared, Christina looked down to see that her belly was disgustingly swollen. A gasp left her lips as her hands moved to feel herself. It didn’t take long for her to feel something moving inside of her. That she was pregnant. Very pregnant. Her heart sank and Christina imm began to waddle down one way, searching for anything that could help her, or give her answers.

As she made her way down, she passed by more of those pods like the one she was in. Inside she saw more women. All of them sporting baby bumps of various size. Some looking less than 9 months with one, some looking like they were carrying quadruplets. They all stood still, sleeping. Some were subconsciously caressing their bellies as they shifted and jostled with whatever lie within. Christina looked up and gasped again, seeing their faces and seeing their names on the tops of the pods. All of them were other actresses. Many having much more recognizable names than her. A List stars to lesser known actresses like herself. All Christina could do as she wandered through this place was wonder what was happening to them and why.

———-—

After finding a shower chamber and rinsing off, Christina managed to fit a blue and yellow jumpsuit on and began exploring, hoping to find food and water. She found water cans first, then some food stores with cereal and canned goods. Then, she found various terminals. All of them revealing more and more about what was really going on here.

Apparently, this was part of some horrendous experiment to preserve pre war Hollywood. By kidnapping nearly every prominent actress in the industry, stick them down in this lab, and inseminate them with the seed of multiple sports stars. To combine the genes of the most physically fit men in America with who many considered to be the most beautiful and influential women in entertainment. That by doing this, a new generation of potential entertainers could populate the wasteland. It all made Christina want to throw up, especially with the knowledge that the outside world was a nuclear hellhole, and that over two centuries had gone by, the pods preserving the actresses perfectly, as well as their unborn children.

After Christina gained ahold of her bearings, she ventured to an elevator and arrived in the living quarters upstairs. The place she remembered touring through what felt like yesterday. It was still in decent condition. The vault hadn't been discovered by the outside world, and everything was as it was left by the science staff. A trek up to the Overseer’s office revealed that not only was he dead, but killed by the scientists, who collectively agreed not to participate before their pregnancies reached full term. They left the vault together after over a decade, shutting it behind the. Only the robotic staff and the test subjects remained.

Now, Christina had a choice. One that had her stumped. From that terminal, she could override the pods, and release every woman in the lower levels. Let all those actresses wake up to the same horror Christina had. She couldn’t know what reactions would happen as a result, but she wouldn’t be alone, and the truth would prevail. However, she could also let them rest with their children still inside, and leave this place behind to start a new life. It was a tough choice…one that she hadn’t too much time to make, as one more question popped into her already overwhelmed mind.

When am I giving to give birth?..

#pregnant #pregnancy #pregnant kink #fallout #fallout 4 #fallout new vegas #video games #fanart #fallout fanart

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illiterateaffairs · 11 months

Text

behind the scenes chapter one | i enjoyed our meet cute

masterlist | next

pairing: jamie tartt x actress!reader (ted lasso)

rating: T

word count: 4,722

summary: you’ve been in richmond one day and you’re already having chance encounters with famous british football players, what are the odds?

a/n: welcome to the first chapter of my new jamie series, behind the scenes! fake dating is a god tier trope and i’ve always wanted to write something for it. it will also be very rom-com-y, just like ted would like. i really hope you enjoy the first chapter, i’m so excited to kick off this new story and can’t wait to hear your thoughts. also wanted to shout out @buckychristwrites who wrote an incredible fake dating jamie series called could this be and you should totally check it out if you haven’t already ♡

Your alarm goes off at 8AM on the dot but you’re already wide awake. You’ve been in London for 48 hours and instead of taking in the sights, you’ve been trying to reset your sleep schedule. After landing at 10AM Friday morning, you pretty much passed right out as soon as you arrived at your rented, two story brownstone.

See, London was eight hours ahead of Los Angeles - your home base. While you were used to traveling for work, you’d never had a job in another country before. And jet lag was a bitch.

You’re an actor. You have been since you were 15, when you got a recurring role on a kids show after an opening casting call. Some called it luck, but you called it busting your ass in theater classes as soon as your mom could afford them. You’d been a “drama queen” since you were in diapers and you begged her to sign you up for every class, camp and play in your small town and she did everything she could to support your dream. She’s your biggest fan.

By the time you were 20, you’d had a sitcom and several supporting roles in films that made you an underrated fan favorite. Your biggest break came, though, when you were 22 and were given the opportunity to star opposite A-list actors in the superhero film of the summer. After that you blew up, you did a few more action movies and a couple other dramas.

Now, freshly 25, with a lot of credits filling your IMDb page, there was one genre you still hadn’t tackled: romance. And that’s what brought you to London. You were filming your first romantic comedy in the beautiful town of Richmond. Usually when your job brought you to a new place, the first thing you wanted to do was explore it. However, spending the last couple days in and out of sleep was preventing you from doing so. Today was Sunday, your last day before production kicked off tomorrow, and you’d be damned if you didn’t get the chance to get out and do something before you were swamped with work.

You get ready quickly, eager to not waste another second inside. However, just as you swing your front door open, you come face to face with your assistant, who’s hand is poised to knock.

“Oh, good, you’re already up,” she chirps, brushing past you and into your temporary home as she taps away on her iPhone.

“Margot, I thought we agreed on no work this weekend,” you sigh, reluctantly following her into your living room.

“I agreed and you agreed, but Harry on the other hand,” she frowns holding up her phone, “He didn’t agree.”

You groan. Harry was your publicist. You’ve worked with him since getting the role in one of the Spiderman movies. He always had some crazy idea how to boost your public image, most of which you’ve shot down, but his most recent pitch he hasn’t been able to let go of.

“He’s still bugging you about that shit?” you question, flopping down in an armchair.

Margot perches on the arm of the sofa, “He’s only bugging me because you keep ignoring him. He still thinks it's a good idea.”

The good idea in question was agreeing to a fake relationship with another celebrity - or anyone really. Usually the goal of a PR relationship was to gain attention for one or both parties, or their upcoming projects. While that wouldn’t hurt, your publicist thought the benefit of having a fake boyfriend was that you’d appear more desirable.

In your previous roles, you’d been typecast as the funny best friend or snarky sidekick. Not only was this movie you were about to film your first as the leading lady, it was the first where you were playing a romantic lead. You also haven’t been known to be seen with many suitors in your personal life as well. Not that you hadn’t had any significant others since entering the spotlight, but they’d been short lived and you tried to keep those relationships under the radar, not necessarily wanting the public’s opinion on your dating life.

Of course, that didn’t stop journalists and people with Twitter accounts from speaking on it anyway. Since you got cast in this Rom-Com - Hopeless Romantics was the working title - you’d been subjected to criticism over how you couldn’t possibly be seen as a realistic love interest when you’ve yet to be painted as such both on and off the screen. Though, you’d love to point out that just because you hadn’t played a romantically driven character before didn’t mean you couldn’t now. You’ve learned to just ignore trolls like that.

That didn’t mean from time to time the odd comment didn’t get under your skin.

Still, you didn’t see the point in faking a relationship just to get these people off your back. You had the best fans in the world, who’d watch you do anything no matter the genre. And your co-star was Charlie Knox, who’d been pegged as this generation's Hugh Grant, so plenty of people would be buying tickets regardless. You could hardly argue, feeling flushed after your chemistry reed with the actor even though he was doing just that; acting. Harry had even previously suggested faking a relationship with him, which would be the perfect scenario according to him, but Charlie was of course already taken.

“He’s going to have to give up eventually,” you shake your head, “Because I’m not doing it.” Margot makes a weird face and you tilt your head, “Don’t tell me you think I should do it.”

“No, of course not. You should have the autonomy to make your own decisions about your love life, real or fake,” she insists, “I just wish Harry didn’t make such a big deal about it.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry he’s bugging you about it. I can talk to him again.”

“No, don’t worry about it,” Margot sighs, “You should be enjoying your day off. Were you on your way out before? What were you thinking of doing?”

You shrug, not really having had a game plan, “I was thinking breakfast or something to start, and then seeing where the day takes me.”

She nods, once again tapping on her phone, “That sounds nice. Don’t be out too late, though. A car will be here to get you at 6AM for the read through.” As she stands up and starts walking to your door, she glances at you, “And wear a hat please. Last thing we need is you to be stampeded by fans like in The Lion King.”

“Margot, I love you, but there is no need to bring Mufasa into this,” you tease, “I promise I will be discreet, but only if you promise me you will also take time for yourself today.”

“I promise,” she says with a small smile, but before you know it, she's already back on the phone and out your door.

You can’t be too hard on her. You were also known to prioritize your work over everything else most days. But she was not only the best assistant you could ask for, she was also one of your closest friends, and she deserved some time off. You’d have to talk to Harry at some point tomorrow to get him off her back. And yours.

But first, food.

It had been one month - one fucking month - since Keeley had gotten back together with Roy. And it was the worst month of Jamie’s life.

Yes, he still has feelings for Keeley. Yes, it hurt him to see her choose Roy, even if it had nothing to do with him. And it was twice as bad that Roy and him had finally started becoming actual friends after all these years. But that wasn’t really the problem.

It was the way everyone has been looking at him since it happened.

It started with the apologetic look on Keeley’s face that greeted him when he answered the door one summer morning. Before she could get a word out, he knew what she was going to say. In fact, he’d seen it coming. Despite Keeley insisting she wasn’t choosing between him and the grumpy old fart who was now his head coach, the two had been spending more and more time together. Keeley was around the club more and Roy was less grumpy. That morning, Keeley told him she wanted him to hear it from her that they were thinking of starting things again. His stomach twisted, disappointed that he’d practically lost her for the second time. But, God, the look of sympathy she was giving him felt even worse.

That was nothing compared to the way Roy looked at him when he walked into the locker room later that day. Roy wasn’t one to talk about or express his feelings, but he still managed to somehow convey his guilt and apology through a single look. Jamie just shook his head, eager to not speak a single word about the topic and move on. For the first time he wished Roy would just yell at him like he usually did.

Then a week later, Roy and Keeley were publicly a couple again. The rest of the team and staff were elated, but the few who’d known Jamie had been pining for the bubbly blonde again looked on at him sympathetically, patting him on the back and muttering affirmations on the way to training. In the grand scheme of things, they were just being nice, but he fucking hated it.

He was Jamie Fucking Tartt. He could be with anyone he wanted. Sure, the only girl who’s liked him for him and the only one he’s truly loved would rather be with someone else; someone else who was one of his best friends now. So what? The last thing he wanted was everyone around him treating him like a wounded puppy. He was fine.

It didn’t help that he saw Keeley and Roy all the time. At work. At team celebrations. At friendly gatherings. They were everywhere. In fact, they went the extra mile to include him in things to make him feel better, though it had the opposite effect. He felt like a charity case. He didn’t need them babysitting him, like he couldn’t spend a single night alone without collapsing into a full mental breakdown.

To be fair, the last time he’d had a night to himself, he’d made the mistake of turning on The Notebook for the first time out of morbid curiosity and he wept for an hour. But it was The Notebook for fuck’s sake, what else was he going to do?

Things improved little by little as the weeks had gone by. Sam and Colin stopped giving him glances everytime Keeley visited the locker room to drop something off for Roy. Keeley stopped looking at him with guilt riddled eyes, but there was still a weird energy between them when they hung out. And with Roy things felt mostly normal.

At least he thought so, but this morning Jamie’s been wandering around his house aimlessly waiting for Roy to show up for their regular early morning training. He’d been ready at promptly 4AM but there was no sign of his coach. He waited thirty minutes before calling but no answer. So, he plopped on the couch and watched some cooking show for another hour or so before trying again. It wasn’t until 8AM - four hours later - he got a call back from Roy.

“Hey, I thought old people were usually up early,” Jamie teased upon answering, “Did you oversleep, grandad?”

Instead of Roy’s gravelly voice responding, he hears another familiar voice in the background, “Is that Jamie? Tell him I’m sorry.”

Keeley.

Jamie’s stomach twists. Of course.

“Uh, yeah,” Roy’s voice eventually says, “Keeley was here and I forgot to set an alarm. We were going to get breakfast but then we can meet at the park if you still want?”

Roy grunts as Keeley speaks up again, voice distant, “Oi, ask if he wants to join us.”

Roy sighs into the phone, “Yeah, unless you want to come to breakfast with us?”

Jamie closes his eyes. Another pity invite. “Um, thanks mate. That’s alright, though. Think I’ll get some running in on my own and maybe we can meet up later tonight.”

“Yeah, that works…” Roy says before tacking on, “Sorry, Jamie.”

Jamie chuckles humorlessly, “Not a problem. Talk to ya later.”

He hangs up and tosses his phone across the couch. Not only did Jamie not like feeling like a third wheel, he didn’t like being one because the other two felt guilty. Especially when he was still getting over his feelings for one of them. He groans, forcing himself off the couch, eager to stay true to his word. He needed to run off these feelings.

You’d been leisurely walking through the streets of Richmond for a little while, enjoying the early fall breeze and the sights as the leaves started to change color. You’ve been trying to keep an eye out for a place to grab breakfast or a snack, but you’ve been distracted by the shops and the people walking around you. For your part, you were donned in sunglasses with a ball cap tilted low on your head. So far no one has stopped you, which was nice. Not that you minded meeting the occasional fan. Most were sweet and you adored connecting with people face to face, but there was always the risk of someone just in search of an autograph or selfie despite not caring about you or your work, not to mention nosy paparazzi who pop out of nowhere to get a photo. So, you’re enjoying the semblance of normalcy while you can. You sense that once filming starts, those in the area will be eager to catch a glimpse of you and your costars any chance they get.

You’re a little too comfortable with flying under the radar, when as you’re turning a street corner someone runs right smack into you. You both fall to the ground, your sunglasses flying clear off your face. Your heart hammers in your chest, wondering if someone had done this on purpose, but the stranger next to you also appears to be scrambling.

“Fuck, sorry,” they mutter, grabbing your discarded sunglasses for you before pulling you both up. As he places the glasses back in your hands, his eyes meet yours for the first time, “Oh shit, are you…”

You smile sheepishly, his eyes alight with recognition. You’re still a little anxious from the encounter, as you try to get your breathing to return to normal. You vaguely wonder if this guy is going to ask for a picture or something, when you actually hear the familiar click of a camera and your blood runs cold.

“Hey Jamie Tartt!” an accented man calls, “Who’s the girl, Jamie?

The man in front of you looks back at you with wide eyes and grabs your hand, “Shit, come with me.”

You can barely process what he’d said as he pulled you down the street, “What? Where are we going?”

“Somewhere private,” he explains as you continue jogging alongside him, “Where there’s one paparazzi, ten will follow. But I’m sure you know that.”

You can’t argue with him. But you do wonder who the hell this guy is that he’s so familiar with paparazzi. You also briefly consider if following a guy you’ve never met through alleyways is a smart decision, but you hardly have the time to dwell on it.

After a few minutes, this mystery guy, who you can only presume is named Jamie if the paparazzi was right, leads you through an unassuming storefront that ends up being a charming and quaint little café. You look around curiously. It’s not completely vacant, but the patrons don’t bat an eye when the two of you enter. The middle aged barista behind the counter looks at your companion with a warm smile and greets him, once again, by Jamie.

After your heart rate returns to normal, you turn to the man beside you. He gives you a tiny shrug, “I come here when I don’t want to be bothered. Not many people know about this place but it has the best scones in Richmond.”

You squint at him in curiosity, “So, I’m guessing you’re…someone of note then, too? If that paparazzi was taking your picture and you have a secret hideout.”

He chuckles, looking a little bashful, which you have a feeling is out of character for this guy, “Uh, yeah, I’m Jamie Tartt? Premier League footballer for AFC Richmond?”

Your cheeks heat up, “Oh, uh, sorry, I’m not really familiar with…”

He cuts you off, “No need to apologize. Wouldn’t expect an actress from the states to know anything about English football.”

You chuckle, despite yourself, “Well, if it helps I don’t know much about American football either. Or any sport for that matter.”

Jamie’s lips quirk up again, “I know you, though. From that thing.”

You snort, “Well, I’ve done a couple of things.”

He shakes his head, “No, no, no, you’re in that one movie, what’s it called,” he snaps his fingers, “Meet Me in Melrose, that's the one!”

“Wow, that’s a deep cut,” you comment, the film being an indie you worked on years ago; one of your first bigger roles despite the lower budget project.

“Yeah, my old coach? It was one of his favorites, so the whole team became obsessed. We’ve watched a bunch of your stuff,” he explains.

“That’s cool,” you nod with a small smile.

He nods along with you before suddenly becoming very aware of his situation, “Uh, can I order you something? Or, shit, you probably had somewhere to be. I usually try to wait things out for a while here, but if you have to go…”

You once again consider the oddity of casually hanging out in a cafe with a man you just met, but he seems trustworthy enough. And even a bit intriguing.

So you respond, “No, I don’t. I was just out exploring before. I was actually looking for a place to eat so this is perfect. I’m happy to hang out here for a bit.”

“Okay, cool,” Jamie nods again, still feeling a bit unsure of what to do when a Hollywood movie star is suddenly in your midst, “Uh, do you like coffee? Tea?”

You shake your head, “You don’t have to buy anything for me.”

“Well, I was the one who crashed into you and abducted you here so it’s the least I can do.”

You giggle, “Okay fine, I’ll take a hot chocolate. Coffee makes me anxious and tea tastes like a worse version of water. No offense.”

Jamie laughs to himself before walking up to the counter to order for you both. He returns moments later with a hot chocolate for you and coffee for him, as well as two of those scones he mentioned, before leading you over to a small booth in the back of the cafe.

“So, uh, you must come here often if the staff knows your name,” you say as you blow on your drink for it to cool, “Unless they’re all soccer - sorry - football fans?”

“Actually, Olive, the owner of the café doesn’t know shit about football. It's part of the appeal,” he tells you, “I manage to avoid photographers most of the time, but even if they’re not hounding me, I still like to come here to get away from things.”

“That makes sense. I feel like it's hard to do that in LA. Even the small businesses are overrun with influencers trying to find the trendiest spot nowadays,” you muse.

“Is that where you live? LA?” he asks.

“Mhm. Have you been?”

“Nah. Been to New York before, but spent most of my time in some clubs,” he tells you, “Have you been to London before?”

“No, actually,” you admit, “I’ve always wanted to come but never got around to it. I’m actually here for a film.”

“Oh, yeah, a Rom-Com, right?” he asks and you nod, “It’s all anyone can talk about around the club these days. We’ve never had a big movie shoot in Richmond before.”

“Hmm, wait til everyone hears how you kidnapped one of the stars,” you joke, finally braving a sip of your drink.

Jamie laughs, “I think I’ll keep that one to myself. Plus, I don’t think they’d even believe me.”

You laugh along with him, thoroughly enjoying his company as well as the delicious cocoa. You also finally try the scone Jamie placed in front of you. Your eyes light up after the first bite.

“Is that blueberry?”

Jamie’s eyes widened, “Sorry, I should have asked…”

You furiously shake your head, “No, no, don’t apologize. I love blueberry.”

Jamie’s lips quirk up, “Me, too. It’s my favorite.”

You smile back, but it drops when you feel your phone buzzing in your pocket. Pulling it out, you see that you had a missed call from Harry along with a few text messages. Instead of responding, you roll your eyes and put it away, eager to forget that the man exists until tomorrow.

“Uh, everything okay?” Jamie asks tentatively.

“Oh, yeah,” you reassure, plastering another smile on your face. Then you find a part of yourself that desperately wants to vent about your situation to an unbiased party, “Actually, uh, I’m not sure how much pressure football players are under for their image, but have you ever been asked or been in a fake relationship for PR?”

Jamie leans back, processing the question, “Uh, no. I haven’t really had a problem finding my own girlfriends.”

You snort, “Of course.”

“But I’ve heard of it happening with other footballers,” Jamie adds, “And there was this whole reality dating show I did and none of that was real.”

You gasp, “You were on a dating show?”

Jamie nods reluctantly, “Yeah. It was called Lust Conquers All. It was a low point.”

You can’t help but laugh, “Wow, I’ll have to check it out.”

“Please don’t,” Jamie groans, rubbing a hand over his face, wondering what possessed him to even bring it up.

After your laughter quells, Jamie eyes you curiously, “Why do you ask? About PR relationships, I mean.”

You sigh, looking down at your hands in your lap as you answer, “My publicist wants me to do the whole fake relationship thing.”

Jamie’s eyebrows furrow, “Why?”

You shrug, not eager to admit but still wanting to know his take nonetheless, “Apparently, I don’t seem like a romantic person, because I haven’t done a romantic role or publicly dated someone before.”

Jamie continues to look confused, “So? Isn’t that what actors do? Play new roles even if they haven’t done it before?”

“Yes, thank you,” you agree, nodding furiously, “But since I’ve only played cynical or sarcastic characters, that’s how people see me. Apparently, I don’t seem like a good choice for a movie called Hopeless Romantics.”

“But you’re not like your other characters in real life right?” he asks, “You’re not completely cynical about romance.”

You falter, your eyes flitting away from his. Jamie scoffs.

“Oh, come on, don’t tell me you’re anti-romance.”

“I’m not,” you sputter, “I just think dating is a little more complicated than the movies make it seem.”

Jamie doesn’t listen, “Wow, I can see why your publicist thinks you need a fake boyfriend for this to be a little more realistic. You can’t be against love and in a movie about love.”

You gasp, lightly shoving him, “Hey! I’ll have you know I’m not against love. It’s just…hard to come by for me.” You sigh, trying to figure out what exactly you’re willing to admit, “The last few guys I’ve dated weren't so great. They either only wanted to date me for the exposure or connections or money.”

Jamie’s expression sobers, “Oh.”

“Yeah,” you nod, “My last relationship, if you could even call it that, was so short lived. It ended because he stole this fancy vase thing from my house.”

“Wow,” Jamie whispers.

“And jokes on him, it was from pottery barn,” you huff, “But yeah, basically its not love I don’t believe in. It’s other people. So I’ve been pretty content to be on my own these days.”

“I get that,” Jamie says softly after a beat, “I’ve dated plenty of girls who only wanted me cause I’m a footballer. Or cause I’m great at sex,” you snort, shaking your head, but he continues, “Not that I really wanted a real relationship, but it still hurts when someone doesn’t want you for you.”

“Exactly,” you nod, picking off pieces of your scone, “I’ve never been with someone who felt genuine. Have you?”

Jamie sighs and you sense there’s a story there, “Once, but I fucked it up. Didn’t realize what I had until it was gone. Classic right?”

You huff lightly.

“The worst part is she was kind enough to stay my friend even after the way I treated her,” he continues, “So not only does she treat me with kindness that I definitely don’t deserve, but I have to sit by and watch her be with someone else.”

You frown, “That must make it hard to move on.”

“You have no idea,” he chuckles humorlessly.

“And you haven’t been with anyone else since?”

“A couple girls, but nothing serious. And no one recently. Haven’t really seen the point.”

“So I guess I’m not the only one who might be a little cynical then, huh?” you ask with a teasing smile.

He gives you a half smile. “Yeah, I guess I can’t be one to judge.”

You study him for a few more moments. After your introductions, you would have guessed Jamie Tartt was another classic playboy athlete, and after conversing with him that seemed to be his reputation. But now you weren’t so sure. He was…peculiar.

You continue chatting for a while longer. He tells you more about his football team and you tell him a few spoiler-free details about the movie you’re shooting. Before you know it, you’d been camped out in this cafe with Jamie for a full hour. Time flies when you’re enjoying yourself. You had to imagine the paparazzi had to have left the area by now. And while you weren’t in a hurry to cut your conversation short, your hot chocolate was no longer hot and your scone was long gone.

“Hey, this place is really nice by the way,” you comment, as you gather your trash, “I might have to come back here. That is, if you don’t mind sharing your secret hide away with me for the next three months?”

Jamie chuckles, following you back to the front of the café. “Feel free.”

You smile at him softly, as you walk out the door, “Maybe, I’ll uh, see you around?”

He shrugs his shoulder, “Yeah, I’ll be around. Maybe you could catch a football match while you’re in town.”

“I’ll definitely keep that in mind,” you nod, “Well, thank you again for the rescue. I owe you one.”

“Nah, it was nothing. Get home safe, yeah?”

“You, too. Bye Jamie.”

He bids you farewell, before you two reluctantly turn and head in different directions. You wrinkle your nose, recapping your encounter in your head. What a random coincidence to run into an apparent famed football star on your first day in town. You wonder if you ever will run into him again, but you assume the odds of that are low.

Meanwhile, on his walk home, Jamie is questioning whether or not he should have asked for your number. In a strictly platonic sense, just to keep in touch or to be available in case you needed a friend while you were in town. But he brushes the thought away. Like a famous actress would want to willingly hang out with him if she wasn’t hiding from paparazzi. Yeah right. Odds are this was all a dream and the boys would laugh in his face if he brought it up tomorrow.

Real or not real, he’d remember your morning together fondly.

a/n: please let me know any and all those! again, so excited for this story and brand new journey for jamie x reader. also! i will be starting a fresh taglist for this story, so let me know if you’d like to be tagged. the distractions taglist will stay the same for any one shots i may continue to post in that universe. <3

taglist: @respondingtoshowerthoughts-blog @royalestrellas

#jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt fanfiction #jamie tartt imagine #jamie tartt x f!reader #jamie tartt x female reader #ted lasso fanfiction #ted lasso fanfic #mine #behind the scenes series

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colonelzemo · 9 months

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BEN BARNES during 2023 WRITERS GUILD OF AMERICA STRIKE: GRISHAVERSE DAY at NETFLIX HOME THEATER in LOS ANGELES. USA on 13TH JUNE 2023.

#ben barnes #benbarnesedit #bbarnesedit #mancandykings #flawlessgentlemen #sabcast #dailymarvelcast #dailymarvelkings #dailyshadowandbone #raphael little things #usermattz

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mr-styles · 10 months

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Harry Styles ‘Love on Tour’ Ends After 173 Concerts for 5.04 Million Fans, and $6.5 Million Donated to Charity

Harry Styles’ world-shaking “Love on Tour” wrapped before a crowd of 100,000 people at Italy’s RCF Arena last week, concluding 173 dates over nearly three years. The tour launched on September 4, 2021 and saw Styles performing to 5.04 million fans in North and South America, the U.K., Europe and Australia — including 20 dates at Madison Square Garden, 18 at the Los Angeles Forum, six at London’s Wembley Stadium, and two sets of “Harryween” concerts — and is the fourth highest-grossing tour of all time, according to the announcement.

Just as significantly, the tour donated some $6.5 million to charities, which are listed below.

He was joined for the tour by a band that features Pauli Lovejoy, Sarah Jones, Mitch Rowland, Madi Diaz, Elin Sandberg, Ariza, Yaffra, Parris Fleming, Kailah Vandever, Lorren Chiodo and Laura Bibbs.

The tour also saw the release of Styles’ third solo album, “Harry’s House,” which won Grammy Awards for album of the year and best pop vocal album, as well as all four BRIT Awards for which it was nominated. The album’s head single, “As It Was,” reached No. 1 in 33 countries—including 15 weeks on top of the Billboard Hot 100.

CHARITIES DONATED TO ON LOVE ON TOUR

Planned Parenthood Choose Love Physicians for Reproductive Health Rebuild Foundation REVERB Black Voters Matter Fund – Capacity Building Institute The Afiya Center International Rescue Committee Intermission Youth Save the Children CARE Every Town for Gun Safety BEAM Theater Gates Rebuild Theater – Venice Program WWWF-Brasil Sydney Zoo Baan Tawan Mai Orphans (Pow Sarin Org) Cribs Foundation Inc. St John’s Home Limitless Children’s Wishing Well SHINE Green Umbrella Children’s Foundation Black Minds Florence Org… “and more.”

Via variety.com

#harry styles #love on tour

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hometoursandotherstuff · 3 months

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If you're interested in buying this 8 level, 5bd, 6ba artist's home in Los Angeles, California, I suggest that you bring a few body fluid detecting black lights. You'll see why when we get to the lower levels. It's $10M to buy, or you can lease it for $$35,000 - $65,000mo. (I'm guessing that the longer you lease it for, the less you'll pay?) Anyway, take a look at this fun property.

Check out the classy entrance. I can't think of what this reminds me of. Maybe like entering a theater or something?

First you pull into your private, gated garage on the side of the house.

Very dramatic, artsy entrance.

The kitchen's pretty nice, and it looks like it's on a sort of angle.

8 levels is a lot of house, and this one has so many different styles.

Here, we have a very Zen living room. I wonder if the pagoda conveys, b/c I would want that.

On this level the house turns very white and modern. There's a kitchenette and a lounge with a view.

Now, on this level is your game room. It's like a casino.

Toilet is down this hall. Those stairs look steep.

The home theater is set up casually, but you can always redo it.

Here's you inspirational work-out room. Go get 'em, tiger.

Coming downstairs, get the black flashlights ready. I don't know why this bedroom is completely out in the open. Note the red lights on the stairs.

Very large entertaining space, I guess.

Here's how it looks with the lights on & off. Solid doors open to let the light in from a small terrace.

So, this would be like a lounge.

Very large bedroom with a view.

The bedrooms offer a variety of styles and built-ins. This one looks like it has a small sauna, too.

Spacey disco bathroom.

What a lumpy bed. This purple & red room has doors that lead to the deck.

Clearly this is the Egyptian room and it has access to the pool.

Definitely a blue light room. Not lovin' the textured wall.

Sexy-ish bath.

Hot tub grotto.

Look at the water coming down from an overhead pipe. I think that would be annoying.

The pool lights up red at night. There isn't any outdoor yard space b/c it's built on a very steep hillside and is close to the neighboring homes.

https://www.devonnorjean.com/2189-sunset-plaza-drive

#artist's house #modern mansions #houses #house tours #home tour

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copperbadge · 3 months

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Hi Mr Starbuck! Some friends and I are moving in a few months and we're eyeing various places all over the US. Chicago came up as a relatively affordable big city (compared to LA and NYC) and I have to ask the resident Tumblr Chicagoan his opinion. As a resident who lives and works in the windy city, what's your big pros and cons of residing there (especially things you might not encounter as a tourist)? (also, how accurate is your "guide to chicago" still, since its been a few years!)

Well, I definitely have opinions!

The guide to Chicago is no longer accurate -- too many places have closed or moved, and the pandemic altered a lot (for example the Money Museum still exists but I'm not sure if it has regular hours even now). I should do a new one but like, I really don't get out much anymore so I can't talk about restaurants outside of a VERY local area, and I never could talk much about hotels, which just leaves points of interest mostly already covered by Atlas Obscura. :D At this point it'd just be kind of moot, others are doing it better than I am.

Chicago is inexpensive compared to New York or Los Angeles, but like, that's everywhere in America. Chicago is still a quite pricey city to live in, mainly because the taxes are so high -- 10.25% sales tax, for example, and my property taxes are also pretty steep. People joke about Taxachusetts, but I'm pretty sure Chicago at least has it beat (and 2/3 of the state's population lives in Chicago or the outlying suburbs). Housing is not at a premium in the way it is in NY and LA but depending on where you want to live and how far you want to commute it can still be very expensive. My housing was never less than half of my monthly income until I bought this place, and then ONLY because the job I'm in now came with a $10K/yr raise from my last one.

Chicago does have great culture, great museums, great food, and it's a liberal island in a pretty conservative region. It is however quite segregated, so if you are any race other than white, living here can get a little more complicated than I've portrayed it as a white dude. There is significant crime and particularly gun crime, but it's generally confined to specific regions of the city. That said, even if you discount crime, the Chicago PD are corrupt as fuck and uninterested in being helpful, so if you are from a demographic the cops enjoy harassing, it will not be different here.

I do love the city, warts and all. I like the water, I like the people, I like the midwestern vibe. I'd find it very hard to leave, especially because I have a network of friends here, but also because I just plain like it and I know it really well. There is a very short list of cities I'd consider leaving Chicago for, and most of those would have to have a well-paying job waiting for me. But it did take me time to fall in love with it -- it took a few years before it felt like home.

It's a little difficult to get more specific without knowing more about your situation -- what you do for work, what your budget is like, what your goals are in leaving where you are. Do you prefer to drive most places? (Parking and traffic can both get dicey.) Can you tolerate taking public transit if driving is inconvenient? Is the industry in which you work something that has a lot of openings here? Do you want to live in an urban environment, and if so are you prepared to live in a likely somewhat shitty apartment to do so? If you prefer to live in a house, are you prepared for a long commute? What do you like to do for fun and is there a thriving culture for that here? What is it important to have access to -- museums, concerts, theater, sport? Where do you need to travel to regularly (ie, I go to Austin several times a year) and how do you prefer to travel there?

Anyway, yeah -- like, I love it but I have few illusions about it. If you want to chat further feel free to hit me up by email, happy to answer more specific questions!

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stylesnews · 10 months

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Just as significantly, the tour donated some $6.5 million to charities, which are listed below.

He was joined for the tour by a band that features Pauli Lovejoy, Sarah Jones, Mitch Rowland, Madi Diaz, Elin Sandberg, Ariza, Yaffra, Parris Fleming, Kailah Vandever, Lorren Chiodo and Laura Bibbs.

CHARITIES DONATED TO ON LOVE ON TOUR

Planned Parenthood

Choose Love

Physicians for Reproductive Health

Rebuild Foundation

REVERB

Black Voters Matter Fund – Capacity Building Institute

The Afiya Center

International Rescue Committee

Intermission Youth

Save the Children

CARE

Every Town for Gun Safety

BEAM

Theater Gates

Rebuild Theater – Venice Program

WWWF-Brasil

Sydney Zoo

Baan Tawan Mai Orphans (Pow Sarin Org)

Cribs Foundation Inc.

St John’s Home

Limitless

Children’s Wishing Well

SHINE

Green Umbrella Children’s Foundation

Black Minds

Florence Org… “and more.”

#harry styles #jul23 #lot23 #charity

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imaginecolby · 11 months

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broken record || c.b.

summary: you and colby were once best friends, but when he moves to LA, you lose the most important person in your life. when you meet again a number of years later, you confess your feelings and he attempts to fix your relationship.

prompt credits to @brocksblueroses !! *y/f/n: your full name *(m/n): manager’s name

y/f/n and colby brock, truly the best of friends. you and him were closer than two people could ever be. you went everywhere together, hung out together all the time. people truly thought you were going to spend the rest of your lives together, whether it was just a platonic relationship, or romantically.

unfortunately, that all changed after your high school graduation. you made all these plans to spend the summer together, but all of a sudden, he was packing up his car and leaving you behind. he was on his way to living a life in los angeles, in an attempt to make a name for himself in the social media world. you watched behind instagram and twitter, seeing him become one half of a very successful youtube duo. you were so proud of him for all of his success, but you wished so badly that you could be celebrating with him.

you tried every day to reach out to him, just to talk and catch up. maybe even plan something to meet up with him. he started out giving you short responses, then nothing at all, and eventually he ended up unfollowing you.

“it just sucks so bad because we were so close at one point. then, all of a sudden, it’s as if we never even met or knew each other.” you sighed, venting to a friend about what was going on between the two of you.

“hey, that’s his loss. if he wants to get all in his head with an ego, then that’s on him. you’re an amazing friend to everyone, and if he can’t see that, then he’s dumb.” they said to you. you forced a laugh, trying to keep your tears from falling.

as the years continued to pass, you began working on making a name for yourself as well. you’d been a singer for some time, and finally took the plunge to become more serious about it. you’d been taking singing lessons to perfect your voice, and meeting and making contacts. you lived in LA for a while, but it soon got very expensive. fortunately, you had a friend who lived in las vegas and had an extra room that they offered to you. you were able to work on a large part of your music from home, and it was only a short trip to los angeles when you needed to be there.

your first couple of years living in vegas were so good, and you were starting to gain a following. your music was doing really well, and they were all songs that you were beyond proud of. after the first few singles, which then turned to an EP, your manager was able to secure you some spots performing at small venues and theaters around you. it was a very small “tour,” performing at small venues mostly on the west coast. performing gave you the thrill of a lifetime and you couldn’t believe that your life had taken this turn.

tonight was your final show, which was taking place in las vegas, and you were performing at a small theater on the strip. you'd sold a good number of tickets and had seen fans tweeting you about how excited they were for the night. before the show, you had a small meet and greet event, meeting and taking pictures with your fans. it was so heartwarming to meet the people who supported your craft and made it possible for you to perform like this. you always took the time to make sure that they knew how grateful you were for them.

once the show started, you were feeling a bit uneasy. despite it still being a small crowd, it was the biggest one you’d ever performed for. as you sang, hearing everyone sing the words back to you, you were on the verge of tears the entire night. it was so special, and you were over the moon.

as your eyes scanned the crowd, they fell upon a face you immediately recognized. colby brock was in the audience, watching your show and vibing to your music. if you hadn’t been in the middle of a song, you would have run off the stage to throw up. but you powered through.

throughout the rest of your set, you made a conscious effort to not linger on colby for too long. you couldn’t believe the butterflies you had by just seeing him. but you didn’t want to make it too obvious that you were staring at him.

after the show, as everyone was leaving, colby was feeling those same butterflies.

“man, she was amazing! i can’t believe i hadn’t heard of her until tonight.” colby said, reeling from the high.

“she was really good! im glad (m/n) convinced us to come. it’ll be good to us to get to know the local talent.” sam said.

“sam, i need to talk to her. i dont know why, but something is drawing me to her.”

“well, she’s probably packing up to leave, so you better hurry. good luck. i’ll be waiting outside.” sam said, patting him on the shoulder. colby, working his charm, somehow convinced the security guards to let him backstage. as you and your crew were packing up, you turned in his direction, eyes meeting once again.

“uh, hi. can we help you?” one of your band mates said to him, colby’s eyes stayed locked on yours.

“i was wondering if i could talk to you.” he said shyly, eyes glued to you.

“yeah, sure.” you said, walking over to him. you eased your band mate who went back to their equipment to finish packing up. “c’mon.” you said to colby, leading him back to the green room. you sat down on the couch and he followed suit, sitting awfully close to you.

“i just gotta say that was such an incredible show you put on tonight. you are so talented.” he said with a smile.

“thank you. that means a lot.” you smiled back.

“i’m colby, by the way.” he said, extending his hand to shake.

“y/n.” you said, taking his hand and shaking it. why was he being so formal? is this some kind of bit?

“so, have you always been a singer? you’ve got an incredible voice.” he said to you.

“uh, not professionally, no. i've sung here and there, at home, in school choir. but just within the last few years or so have i taken it seriously.” you said to him. this was starting to weird you out. did he really not recognize you?

just then, your tour manager came into the room, letting you know that you were needing to leave soon.

“ah, shit. sorry. i dont usually hang around this long after the shows. but i gotta get going.” you said, leading him back through the main room and outside.

“no worries! thank you for taking the time to chat. i was really amazed by your performance and just had to meet you and tell you that in person.” he said.

“hey, y/n! we’re headed to the bar next door! come on!” one of your band mates called.

“you all go ahead, ill catch up!” you said, waving them off. you watched as they walked off and you turned your attention back to colby. “im sorry, did you just say you had to “meet” me?” you asked him. holy shit, he really didn’t recognize you.

“yeah. that’s usually what you call two people sharing an interaction for the first time.” he said. you knew he could tell that you were upset. but he didn’t know why he felt so bad about it.

“what the fuck, colby. do you really not recognize me?” you asked him.

“no?”

“y/f/n. from high school?” you took your phone from your pocket and pulled up a photo of the two of you from senior year. it was the homecoming game, he was in his band uniform, and you were at the game with the school choir as you’d performed the school songs beforehand. you both had the widest smiles on your faces and looked happy as ever.

“oh my god.” he said softly.

“did your ego get too big for your head that it made you forget everyone you ever knew? we were best fucking friends and you literally introduced yourself to me tonight as if we had no history.” you said, fighting tears.

“i dont know what to say.”

“well, im trying to have a good night to celebrate the end of a successful tour. so i'll be next door celebrating with people who actually enjoy being friends with me. you know where to find me when you think if something.” you said before walking off.

“dude, what the hell?” sam asked, stepping to colby’s side.

“i fucked up. bad.” colby said, staring at the ground.

“obviously. she went to school with us?” sam asked, and colby just nodded.

“i don’t know if you ever met. but she was right. we were best friends. we met freshman year and grew really really close. so much so that people thought we would end up together.”

“how did i not know any of this?” sam asked.

“i started distancing myself from her once you and i got more serious about moving to LA and starting youtube. i thought that if i kept her in my life i would never want to leave and be with her forever. i was really falling for her.” colby said.

“clearly you have some unresolved feelings, since you were begging to talk to her tonight. granted your decision was a dumb one, i don't think you had intentions of hurting her.”

“i didn't.” colby interrupted.

“then you need to tell her that.” sam said, colby nodding in agreement. the two of them finally left from the venue and made their way to the neighboring bar. colby quickly spotted you at a table and made his way over to you.

“oh look everyone! its my ex best friend who i was so important to! so much so that he ghosted me and forgot who i was completely!” you said, downing the rest of your drink.

“y/n, please. let me explain.” colby said to you.

“explain what? how little i actually meant to you?” you asked.

“explain myself.” he corrected. “please.” you looked up at him and saw the hurt in his eyes. no matter how mad you wanted to be at him, you broke under his gaze.

“fine.” you said. you ordered yourself another drink before you followed him to a booth. you slid into one side and colby sat next to you.

“first, i just want to say how incredibly sorry i am. i was an idiot for the things i did to you and i feel so horrible that i didn't take into account how my actions would affect your feelings.” he began. “i wanted so much for this youtube thing to work out with sam that i thought the best thing for me to do was cut ties with you. i thought that, if you and i stayed in touch, i wouldn’t be as focused on this journey as i should've been. all it would’ve taken was one ‘i miss you’ text and i would’ve come running back to you.”

“if you would’ve told me you were serious about youtube, then i would’ve supported you. sure, i would’ve miss you, but i would’ve also convinced you to see it through.” you said.

“i don’t doubt that. but i would’ve been too weak to listen. i was falling for you so hard, i know that i wouldn’t have seen it through. and i didnt want to leave sam hanging. so i did what i thought was appropriate, which was to unfollow you and cut ties completely. and again, i am so incredibly sorry for hurting you the way i did.”

“colby, look. i understand that you felt you had good intentions. and i accept your apology. but i have to tell you, what you did was really shitty and it made me feel horrible. it felt like all the years of friendship we had all meant nothing and that you truly were done with me. seeing you thrive in LA, and now vegas, it made me so proud of you. you and sam have been doing such incredible things and have been so successful. but it made me so sad at the same time, because i wanted to be part of the celebrations. we were always there for each other in the big moments.” you said to him. “and all the times i tried to reach out to you and plan something for us to get together, getting nothing in response, and seeing you out with all your influencer friends. that's when i sorta got the memo that you were truly done with me.”

“i was never done with you. i thought about you all the time. but i had myself convinced that if i let you back in that you would convince me to leave this all behind. i was surrounded by a lot of shitty people back then, and i also had myself convinced that you would use me for clout and then leave me.”

“i’d never do that to you. i never wanted anything from you. i just wanted my friend back.” you said softly.

“well, he’s right here. ready to fix everything. if you’ll have him.”

“i want to fix this, you dont understand how badly i want you back in my life. i really do. but there’s a lot of years of damage that need to be repaired.”

“and im willing to repair it.” he said, taking your hands in his. “more than willing.”

you looked up at him with tears in your eyes. you were way too drunk to think about trying to stop them, and just let them pour down your face. you tried to speak, but you couldn’t make the words come out. you just nodded your head as he pulled you into his chest, hugging you tight. you sat there wrapped in each other’s arms for a while, silence falling over you as you took comfort in each other’s embrace.

“i missed you.” you said softly.

“i missed you too. more than i realized.” he said, squeezing you once more before letting you go.

you spent the rest of the night together, catching up and sharing drinks. colby formally introduced you to sam, and the three of you had a great time together. over the course of the next few months, you and colby fell right back into step, your relationship going back to how it was when you knew each other in the past. and the both of you did everything it took to keep it that way.

#colby brock #colby brock imagine #colby brock fanfic #colby brock fanfiction #colby brock imagines #colby brock x reader

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f4llingtoyou · 1 year

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Long distance is hard. Especially when you’re not even dating in the first place. (min ho x reader)

wc: 0.9k an: i wanted to post something before i leave for my trip so... enjoy!

You pick up on the second ring.

“Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?” you quip, tucking the phone into your shoulder while you slide your computer into your bag.

“Well, hello to you too,” Min Ho grumbles across the phone. Your laughter spills through your speaker all the way to Los Angeles. He misses the sound of your laughter. He misses you in a way that he can’t speak into words, not when there’s six thousand miles stretching out between the two of you.

“Why do you even know what time it is here? It’s like you’re obsessed with me or something,” he drawls. You heave out an exaggerated sigh and sling your bag over your shoulder, shifting your phone to your other ear as you wave goodbye to your professor.

“Oh, you wish. It’s because of that one time you called me at three in the morning, asshole. I have Los Angeles on my clock app now-” you pause to accept a flyer from a passing student, something about a theater production. You make a mental note to check it out later. If Min Ho were here, you’d get a ticket for him too.

But he’s not here, you remind yourself. You learned your lesson after the first few weeks where you’d always order a second coffee for him on instinct, only to show up to an empty seat next to yours.

You clear your throat.

“Are you even in bed right now? Or are you out partying so hard you’ll forget about me and your life back here?”

You’re glad he can’t see you, because something like genuine fear sinks into the crease between your eyebrows when you say it out loud even if you meant it as a joke. It’s selfish of you, but you want more of him than his voice through your phone and pictures of the life he’s living so, so far away from you. You want all of him, even if he doesn’t know it.

He’s not yours to want, you chide yourself. Even if you wish he was.

“Thinking about me in bed? I’m flattered, sweetheart,” he teases, and you roll your eyes so hard you’re sure he can sense it.

Your retort is half-hearted. “I literally hate you. I’m hanging up.”

You do think about him. Not in bed, specifically, but he’s made himself more than at home in your thoughts and your feelings and you haven’t gone a day without missing him so much that it hurts. It’s like breathing, the way you wish he was here.

He’s always been able to read you like a book - you wonder if that’s still true across the phone. You hope it isn’t.

“Do you still have my hoodie?” he asks suddenly, and you’re sure he catches the noise of surprise that slips out of your mouth because he chuckles.

“No, I actually sold it to the paparazzi,” you mutter, deadpan.

“Ha, ha. Very funny.”

“Yes, I still have it. Is that even a question?” you continue, tone softening. Not that you’d admit it, but you sleep with it every night, wishing it still smelled like him. Sometimes it feels like the only part of him that you have left that’s just for you.

“I know, I know. I just - I miss you,” he confesses, and it’s impossible not to pick up on the hesitation in his voice even through the crackling static. You don’t know what he’s implying, but the thought of him not knowing how much you miss him too is like an arrow through the ribs, knocking the air out of your lungs.

It leaves you speechless.

Because where do you even begin? You hadn’t realized just how much he meant to you until he was gone, until you started reaching for him in the empty space beside you. In some twisted way, you don’t think you should be allowed to miss him, not when he’s out living his dream. The last thing you’d want to do is hold him back when he deserves the world and more (and maybe you’re not the person who can give it to him, no matter how badly you want to be). It’s hard to believe it’s not apparent to him, though, the way you had to take yourself apart and put yourself back together when he left.

You’re in love with him. And yet the moment you realized it, he was on a plane thousands of miles away.

You’re startled out of your thoughts by a muffled yawn, and your surprise turns into muffled laughter. It’s enough to dispel your aching loneliness, just for now. After all, it’s verging on four in the morning for him, and the fact that he’s still awake just so he can talk to you has something in your chest turning warm and cottony.

Your voice is gentle this time. “Go to bed, Min Ho. I miss you too. I l-”

I love you.

You let the words go unspoken.

“I’ll talk to you later,” you continue softly.

He pauses, and if you were next to him you’d see the way he’s biting back his words. If you were next to him, he wouldn’t have to, he thinks. But there’s just some things that he can’t bear to say over the phone like this.

His voice is a little rough when he speaks again. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Goodnight.” “Night, Min Ho.”

And then the call ends.

#min ho x reader #xo kitty x reader #min ho #this turned out kinda angsty.. oops #☆ xok - minho #☆ my writing

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gotham-ruaidh · 5 months

Text

Little Bit Better Than I Used To Be

Catch up: Chapter 1 (Starry Eyes) || Chapter 2 (Save Our Souls) || Chapter 3 (Dancing On Glass)|| Chapter 4 (Merry-Go-Round)|| Backstage (1) || Backstage (2) || Chapter 5 (Danger)|| Backstage (3) || Chapter 6A (Love Walked In) || Chapter 6B (Without You) || Backstage (4) || Chapter 7 (Stick To Your Guns) || Chapter 8 (Time For Change) || Backstage (5) || Chapter 9 (Take Me To The Top) || Backstage (6) || Chapter 10 (Home Sweet Home) || Backstage (7) || Chapter 11a (Nightrain) || Chapter 11b (Nothing Else Matters) || Chapter 12a (Handle With Care) || Chapter 12b (I’m So Tired of Being Lonely) || Chapter 13a (Angel) || Chapter 13b (She’s My Addiction) || Chapter 13c (Patience) Chapter 14a (Where Do We Go Now?) ||| Also posted at AO3

Chapter 14B: Where Do We Go Now?

Soundtrack: “Sweet Child O’ Mine,” Guns N’ Roses, 1987 [click here to listen]

Now and then when I see her face She takes me away to that special place And if I stare too long, I'd probably break down and cry

- Guns N’ Roses, “Sweet Child O’ Mine” (1987)

Tucson || July 1988

It didn’t matter what Colum or the label or anyone else said – all recording studios looked the same on the inside.

Sure, there were always small differences. The really comfortable couches at Sound City in Los Angeles. Electric Lady in Manhattan still had the really cool paint scheme that Jimi Hendrix himself had designed. Muscle Shoals in Alabama oozed coolness.

But this studio, whose name he couldn’t and didn’t care to remember, nestled down a back street in Tuscon was…tired.

Almost as tired as Jamie.

The “quick three week tour” had stretched to eight weeks, with no end in sight. Theater shows had been upgraded to arenas. Playing to thousands and thousands of ecstatic fans. Pouring their hearts out night after night after night, and squeezing in radio promos and sound checks and business meetings during the day.

Fucking exhilarating.

Everybody wanted a piece of Print – their music, their story. Jamie still hadn’t granted too many interviews this tour, but the press ate up every word he said about sobriety and music and forgiveness. Insatiable for details about the woman he had met in rehab, and written all the new songs about, and refused to name publicly.

Print was making more money than they knew what to do with. The label had sprung for a private plane, and nobody in the band missed the rickety and smelly tour bus (except Claire, because it was still all so new to her, which Jamie added to the list of thousands of reasons why he loved her). Their hotel rooms were bigger. Catering in the dressing rooms was much nicer.

Fucking exhausting.

So many people wanted a piece of Jamie every day. Ian and Angus, to run through the new material that just kept pouring out of them. Colum, to talk ticket sales and adding second and third nights in each city. The suits from the label, who kept finding them in Dallas and Kansas City and Detroit, slapping Jamie’s back and pushing terrible ideas for duets with pop stars or contributing to a movie soundtrack or pleading to do the acoustic set in a special for MTV.

And on top of that, some dirtbag reporter from the National Enquirer had figured out who Claire was, somehow got a hold of her personnel file from the hospital, and tracked down her shitty ex-husband for an exclusive interview. Splashed her life all over the tabloids, complete with very grainy photographs of the she and Jamie together, holding hands, on a rare day off in Nashville when he took her to a few honky-tonks. The one saving grace was that thankfully, nobody at The Ridge had said a word about anything about her time there, or the time they shared together.

Claire took it all in stride. She always understood. Holding him in the bathtub of their suite in Denver as he shook from another panic attack. Smiling over a three AM hamburger at a diner in Topeka. Whimpering as he came off stage in Atlanta, sweaty and keyed up from singing about her, hoisting her in his arms for a long kiss against the lighting equipment at side stage, heart stuttering to see his eye makeup smudged against her cheeks.

The man he was on the last tour – unhappy, unfulfilled, so deep in an addition he didn’t care to acknowledge – would not recognize the man he’d become on this tour.

“In ’86, we played seventy eight dates. We had a number one record. I bought my house, and my motorcycle, and my car.” Quietly he sipped coffee in their suite in Seattle, watching the city wake up, running his thumb over Claire’s shoulder as she settled against him in front of the window.

“You had everything you had always dreamed of.”

He snorted. “I was a mess. All I could think about during every show was how to find a girl or a bottle or a baggie as quickly as possible. And the crew would always do that for me.”

The crew respected his – and Claire’s – request for no drugs or alcohol backstage this tour. What the techs and roadies and production crew did on their own time, in their own hotel rooms, with whoever they wanted to – Jamie didn’t care. But for everyone to help with, to respect, his sobriety was a gift. And he never stopped saying thank you.

“If only those reporters could see you now – Jamie Fraser swaggering off stage for an Evian.”

He smiled. “And to kiss this beautiful doctor who for some reason keeps following him around. Because he loves her, more than any man has ever loved any woman.”

He wanted to provide for her. To shelter and protect her. To never leave her side ever again.

She didn’t need him to do any of that, of course. They’d talked about it many times. But she wanted him to do that. And the fact that she chose him, kept choosing him…that was why they kept going. Kept each other sober. Kept holding each other up.

They’d agreed that this time on tour was for her to understand this part of him – and to help both of them decide how and where they would live once the tour was done.

Which is why the radio silence from Boston, four weeks after mailing the letter from Philadelphia asking, politely, just what the hell was going on…was so fucking crushing.

The stress of that – and the grind of touring – did make it just a bit more difficult every day.

Thankfully Colum had scheduled a week-long break at the end of the month. Angus was already planning a trip to Aruba with the two groupies, who truth be told had grown on the rest of the band. Ian was planning to spend the week with his wife, Jamie’s sister Jenny, and their kids.

And Jamie and Claire – well, they’d be getting married.

Only a few people knew, with good reason. Ian and Jenny, of course. Alec and Faith, in New York. Colum. Dougal MacKenzie and his wife Gillian, who had helped both Jamie and Claire so much at The Ridge. Uncle Lamb, who would officiate. And Claire’s friends Joe and Gail Abernathy, who had quite literally saved her life by getting her to The Ridge in the first place.

The service would be simple. Exactly what they wanted – what they needed.

And after that…well. They would truly be husband and wife.

But there was a lot to do – a lot to take care of – between now and then. Not the least of which was, wrapping up this recording session.

The time laying down acoustic tracks in Philadelphia last month was very well spent. They weren't so rusty. But the guys were eager to hear the songs in electric form. And since they were in Tucson, and Colum knew Bobby Higgins – who not only owned this studio, but who had also produced that really killer Ratt album in ’84…

“OK, Jamie.”

Jamie took a deep breath, and looked up through the glass at Bobby, hunched over the console in the control room.

“Ready for take two?”

Jamie looked left, to Angus – and right, to Ian.

“Yup.”

“OK – this is In My Veins, take two.”

Jamie grit his teeth.

Caught Claire’s eye in the control room.

She smiled.

He relaxed.

Angus counted in on his drumsticks, and then started the heavy beat like they’d discussed.

Four bars – and Jamie’s guitar and Ian’s bass joined in.

“That was really, really great, Jamie.”

Claire handed him a new bottle of water, cap already twisted off. He drank it in four deep gulps.

“I know you’re not shitting me. So thank you.”

Quickly she looked over her shoulder – Angus’ cheeks were being loudly kissed by the groupies, and Ian played around with his bass, and Colum and Bobby were deep in conversation in the control room.

“Where are you?”

She had pulled him away before, when the panic attacks were coming, and he knew she’d do it again right now if needed.

He wiped his mouth with the back of a sweaty hand. “About an eight out of ten.”

“Do you need a break?”

He met her eyes. “I need a meeting. Been thinking about my old friend Jack Daniels all day.”

“Did you see something?”

He sighed. “I’ve only played electric a handful of times since I got back from The Ridge.” He looked down at the gorgeous Stratocaster strapped across his chest, fist flexing. “I got this guitar because the black tone and white trim matched the label on the bottle. Stupid, I know. But it’s all I could think about today.”

“Not stupid. We’ll deal with it. You should call Alec. And I can find you a meeting.”

He leaned in, and kissed her forehead. “I love you. I’ll call him. And I need to sell this guitar.”

She nodded. “We’ll find a charity.”

He kissed her again. “I love you.”

She kissed him quickly, and returned to the control room.

Grateful that Jamie had turned away to talk to the guys, when Colum tapped her on the shoulder, and slid over an envelope postmarked Boston.

“Mail call. Do I want to know?”

She shook her head, folded the letter, and slid it into the back pocket of her jeans. “Is there a Yellow Pages I can borrow?”

#outlander #outlander fanfic #jamie and claire #little bit better than i used to be

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television-overload · 1 month

Text

of our own making

(an X-Files fanfic)

Chapter 14/34 - styrofoam gravestones

[Read on AO3]

Skinner gleefully calls their joint adventure to Los Angeles a “honeymoon,” though Scully is sure no one else would consider the movie they'd just been subjected to a worthy use of their time if it had been.

‘Worse than anticipated’ might come close to describing it, actually.

The trip itself is fine. The insinuation that this is their honeymoon (from their boss, no less) causes them to blush. Skinner knows he's making it weird, which is probably why he keeps teasing them about it every time he sees them. Thankfully, despite the awkward hazing, their boss sets them up with separate rooms.

And apparently has given them free reign of the Bureau credit card for the evening.

The piece of plastic is burning a hole in her pocket as Scully goes out in search of her partner following the premiere. The studio lot looks much the same as it had when they'd visited before, over a year ago. Even some of the sets are still up, probably from last minute reshoots, and it's here that she finds Mulder, seated amongst the styrofoam gravestones and fake grass.

He'd taken the movie harder than she had, she thinks. After all, it's his life's work they're making a mockery of, not really hers. She's much more bothered by the bizarre love triangle the filmmakers somehow worked in, wondering how on earth they'd come to that conclusion in their short time together.

Mulder had disappeared after a particularly ridiculous scene taking place in a coffin, abandoning her to a sheepish-looking Skinner, who handed over the credit card without a word as soon as the credits rolled.

But now she sees him, and he's not moping like she'd expected after seeing him walk out of the theater in a huff.

Instead, he's staring straight ahead, frozen like one of the statues in the middle of the fake cemetery, seemingly lost in thought.

“Been looking all over for you,” she says, taking a seat beside him on the artificial hill.

“Yeah. Sorry I left. I couldn't take it anymore,” he answers, his blank stare never wavering.

“That's saying a lot, coming from you,” she jokes, nudging against him with her shoulder. “I'm pretty sure your tolerance for bad sci-fi movies is higher than most.”

He doesn't respond, and it's then that she notices his open cell phone laying in his hand.

“You okay?” she asks.

He looks down at his own hand as if seeing it for the first time, and snaps the device shut.

“I, uh—” he starts, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. “While I was out here, I got a call.”

A knot of anxiety twists in her stomach. That call could be from any number of people, and she can’t tell from his expression what it might have been about. He's shaken, that much is clear.

She suddenly wishes she hadn't eaten a full bowl of popcorn in the theater.

“They tried calling you first,” he continues. “But your phone was on silent during the movie.”

Her eyebrows furrow and she hurries to dig her cell phone out of her purse, checking the display.

2 missed calls.

“Mulder, who—”

“The adoption agency,” he says, cutting her off, and it feels like the floor drops out from beneath her.

She's breathing, but it doesn't feel like she's getting any air. It's impossible to tell if it's good news or bad news yet, but her voice has suddenly stopped working and she can't bring herself to ask.

His hand finds hers, grasping on tightly.

“They approved our application, pending a home visit,” he says, a disbelieving smile beginning to form on his lips.

“They did?” she asks breathlessly, and he nods.

“And there's more.”

What more could there possibly be? She feels like crying, but she doesn't know if she can. The whirlwind of emotions is overwhelming.

“They found someone,” he says. “A possible match.”

That does it. A watery smile pulls at her cheeks, and she can hardly believe it, except she trusts this man with her entire being and he would never lie to her.

“That quick?” she asks.

He nods again. “They said they know it's fast, but the plans for the last placement fell through and they need someone who can be ready in the next four months or so.”

“Four months?”

“A young woman, already five months pregnant.”

She can't help it, she leans forward and wraps him in a crushing hug, throwing her arms over his shoulders and holding on. He holds her just as tight, and she feels his beaming smile in the crook of her neck, matching her own.

“Why didn't you come get me?” she gasps into his ear, absolutely certain she's never been this happy in her entire life.

“I wanted to,” he says, amusement lacing his voice. “My legs stopped working as soon as I heard the words ‘application’ and ‘approved’ and I had to sit down.”

This draws a laugh from deep in her chest, and she pulls him even tighter, cupping her hand over the back of his head and running her fingers through his hair.

When she finally pulls back, she sees his eyes filled with tears of joy, and she knows her own look the same.

“Really?” she asks, needing to clarify. Wanting to hear him say it again. And then maybe again later.

“Yeah, Scully,” he says, gripping her hands in his own. “Really.”

Suddenly, the movie doesn't seem so bad anymore. Who cares, it'll tank anyway. They have better things to worry about.

They're going out to celebrate, and Skinner can pick up the tab. It may not be their honeymoon, but it's a celebration of their relationship nonetheless, a culmination of their time as partners and the beginning of their journey toward becoming parents.

She stands determinedly, pulling Mulder to his feet and interlocking her arm with his, grinning up at him giddily.

“Let's go,” she says, flashing the credit card proudly.

He gladly takes it from her, laughing freely as they begin to stumble out of the graveyard arm in arm.

“Scully,” he says, tossing his cheap plastic Lazarus Bowl behind him as they walk. “Promise me you're not in love with Associate Producer Walter Skinner?”

-.-.-

It's just a week later when a knock on Scully's apartment door signals the arrival of the representative from the adoption agency for the home visit. They'd spent the week frantically getting things in order in their limited time after work, finally integrating the items brought over from Mulder's apartment with her own. Mulder had even gotten one of the pictures from their courthouse wedding framed, and it held a place of honor on top of the fireplace mantle in the living room.

Every time she passes it, she feels her heart skip a beat. There are precious few pictures of the two of them together, and that one is the most special of them all. It makes her feel like she has that “normal” life she'd asked him about, once—though of course there is nothing normal about this arrangement they have.

“Mulder, she's here. Is everything ready?” she says, feeling slightly queasy.

“Ready, Scully,” he answers, and she shoots him a look.

They'd talked about this at length already, so he should know better. “You can’t call me that, remember?”

He tilts his head downward challengingly, the exaggerated eye contact sending a shiver up her spine, and she knows what's coming before the word leaves his mouth.

“Dana,” he breathes in a low rasp, smirking at her visible reaction to how odd it still feels to hear her given name spoken aloud outside of the most dire circumstances.

Oh boy.

“What exactly will you be calling me? Fox?” he asks next, moving to adjust one of the chairs at the kitchen table.

“I seriously don’t think I can,” she answers. “I’ll think of something, but if I have to, I suppose I will.”

“You know, you’re the only person who’s ever listened to me and not called me Fox, I think,” he comments, his eyes tracking her as she approaches the door. “Other than maybe the Gunmen.”

“And now it just sounds completely wrong coming out of my mouth, so I won’t be doing it anytime soon if I can help it,” she says in a clipped tone, knowing the caseworker is waiting right on the other side of the wall.

“I appreciate that.”

She rolls her eyes, which only makes his smile brighten. “Shut up and get over here,” she says, jerking her head toward the doorway.

He readily obeys, sliding into place beside her with his arm over her shoulders before she opens the door to the woman on the other side.

“Ms. Koske, hi! Come on in,” Scully says, far more cheerily than her usual affect.

Mulder catches her eyes, and they flash in warning. Cool it down, they say. Be yourself. She'll do her best to take his advice, but it's hard. This is a key moment in their already fraught path to parenthood. She doesn't want to mess it all up with one small mistake. Not after they've come this far.

“Good to see you, Ms. Scully,” Ms. Koske greets her with a smile and a nod as she enters. “Mr. Mulder.”

“Would you like anything to drink? Coffee? Tea? Water?” She needs something to do with her hands, so she shoves them in her pockets, hoping the answer will be yes so she can distract herself from her nerves.

“I’m alright, but thank you,” Brenda says politely. “Maybe after you’ve shown me around a little?”

Thankfully, Mulder takes the reins after that, probably sensing her unease.

“Of course, right this way, Ms. Koske,” he says, separating himself from her side—a loss which she feels acutely. He leads the woman further into the apartment, winking at Scully behind her back as he goes.

Scully takes a deep breath, collecting herself. She's not sure why she's so nervous. She and Mulder have read every piece of adoption planning literature they could get their hands on, and quadruple checked that they had everything right before today. Still, she'll always be the one to worry that they missed something.

Thankfully, Mulder keeps cool under pressure. At least in situations like this.

“Any pets?” Brenda is asking him by the time Scully catches up to them in the hallway. She can see that the woman already has a half a page full of notes on her clipboard, not that she can make out any of it.

“Just my fish,” Mulder answers easily. “Although, Sc– Dana had a dog a few years ago.”

Scully clears her throat, deciding now is the time to jump in and be an active participant in this visit.

“Maybe we could get another one after we move to a bigger house, hmm?” she asks. Mulder’s unamused expression is exactly what she was hoping for, but he quickly schools it before Ms. Koske can see.

She's partially teasing about getting a dog—payback for him blindsiding her with the ‘new house’ idea at their previous interview. But it might be nice, someday.

Besides, he can’t exactly say no right now, can he?

She grins.

“Whatever you want, my love,” he responds, his overly saccharine smile telling her, ‘two can play that game.’

“How long have you been keeping fish, Mr. Mulder?” Brenda asks, oblivious to the subtle unspoken conversation happening right over her head. She stoops to look at the mollies with interest, tilting her head in response to the U.F.O. themed decor.

“Oh, uh, probably over a decade now,” Mulder answers, turning his attention back to their guest and his gleaming fish tank, in its prized new location.

Brenda raises her eyebrows, scratching something on her clipboard.

“Impressive. They’re more work to take care of than most people think,” she speaks, and Scully hopes that translates to ‘If you can keep a fish alive, you can definitely handle a human child,’ even if the logic there isn't exactly sound.

Off the hallway, next Mulder shows her to the bathroom, which had been meticulously cleaned the day before. Scully doesn't know how someone could make such a mess with toothpaste, but Mulder’s tooth brushing quirks like squeezing the toothpaste tube wrong have been a constant pain in her neck since he started sleeping over. At least that's the worst of her worries. Otherwise, he's been a very agreeable living partner, even putting his shoes away instead of leaving them out after the time she almost tripped on them with an armful of groceries.

Brenda peeks inside cabinets and checks the bathtub, annotating as she goes on her clipboard.

“Are your medicines kept secure and in a child-safe place?” she asks, looking to Scully.

“Yes, I was a doctor before I left to join the FBI,” she answers readily. “I can assure you that I know all the dangers and keep them stored safely.”

Brenda nods, seemingly impressed.

“A doctor,” she says. “Do you have any experience with children’s medicine?”

Scully shakes her head. “Just a rotation in med school,” she answers honestly. She knows realistically that this won't impact her chances of adopting, but still she wishes she had a better answer. “I, uh… went in a different direction.”

The woman smiles. “Not a problem, I was just curious. It’s good to hear that you have a background in medicine, that will certainly help.” Scully lets out a sigh of relief as Brenda scrawls something down, then turns her attention to her partner. “Mr. Mulder, what did you do before the FBI?”

The question catches Mulder off guard, and he rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Oh, I– I got recruited not long after I completed my degree in psychology.”

“Did you ever practice?” Brenda asks.

“No, I didn’t.”

“But, I’m sure you have a general understanding of children’s psychology from your studies, yes?”

Scully looks to Mulder, curious about his answer herself.

“I do, yeah,” he says. “But, actually, most of my knowledge in that… area… comes from personal experience.”

The caseworker nods in understanding. “I hope you don’t mind my asking… I know this is a little less formal than our last interview, but I’d still like to be thorough.” The implication that he should expound on his answer is clear.

“No, I understand,” he says, nodding. “Uh, when I was twelve, my little sister disappeared. She was never found, and it… tore my family apart. I spent most of my adolescence bouncing between therapists until I went off to college in England.”

Brenda gives a sad shake of her head and makes a note.

“You two have quite a history,” she says, unmistakable traces of pity in her voice. “I can see why you were drawn to each other, and why you’re looking to start a family.”

Scully catches Mulder’s eye, and they share a look. This woman doesn't know the half of it, but she's right. Their bond is rooted deeper than most, deeper even than the average married couple.

All they want now is to move forward with their lives. To have a spot of sunshine after years of darkness and suffering. Somehow, that desire turned into the dream of starting a family, and it's hard to believe how far they've come in a few short months.

“I think I’ve seen enough in here,” Ms. Koske says, breaking the sullen silence that had fallen. “Would you mind showing me your room?”

“Of course,” Scully says, smiling a forced smile as she leads the way. “Our room.”

Because it is their room, as far as Brenda needs to be concerned. She doesn’t need to know that Mulder actually sleeps on the bed that’s in the spare bedroom, now that it’s been moved from his apartment. All it took was moving a few more of his personal belongings into Scully’s room and making his room look like a guest room, and their little white lie was perfected.

“Looks like you’ve got a good variety of reading material, here,” Brenda says, eyes trailing over the bookshelf. “Medical journals, Moby Dick … The Truth About Extraterrestrial Life Forms. That one’s… unique.”

“My husband is a big fan of science fiction,” Scully says, the explanation coming easily to her. She even managed to use the word “husband” without stuttering over it, for once. Easier than saying “Fox,” in all honesty.

When she looks up at said husband, though, he's suppressing an amused smile, and she shakes her head, her cheeks undoubtedly flushing pink.

Brenda nods at her answer, smiling warmly as she stands back up to her full height. “Yes, I can see that. You’ll have to make some space for children’s literature. They’re classics, but I love to recommend Dr. Seuss.”

Scully’s heart twists, and Mulder’s eyebrows raise almost imperceptibly, a meaningful look passing between them in the span of a second.

She doesn't want to get her hopes up yet, but…

“I’ll buy a whole other bookshelf, if I have to,” Mulder says eagerly, chuckling softly, and Scully feels herself fall even deeper in love with him.

Brenda pats him on the arm, an approving smile stretching her cheeks.

“Now, that’s what I like to hear.”

-.-.-

The rest of the tour goes smoothly, and Brenda takes Scully up on her offer for tea prior to her departure.

The conversation topics are decidedly lighter as they sip on the warm drinks. Mulder regales her with tales of growing up on Martha's Vineyard, keeping things in the safer territory of beach days and riding bikes, rather than touching on his home life.

Before long, their cups are empty and they get to their feet, moving slowly toward the apartment door.

“Well, everything looks good here,” Brenda says, tucking her clipboard into her bag. “Clean, not too small, good neighborhood, healthy food. Shouldn’t be too difficult to childproof, for however long you plan to stay here. And, your experience in medicine and psychology should certainly work in your favor.”

Scully reaches a hand out and finds Mulder's, and he must have been searching for hers too, because he's right there, clasping her palm in his.

“I have no qualms recommending you to our birth mother,” Brenda declares with a beaming smile. “I’m sure we’ll be able to set up a meeting with her soon.”

She grabs Scully’s hand for a cordial handshake, then shakes Mulder's, and all the while Scully can scarcely move or breathe. Had she heard that correctly? They were really going to get a shot at this?

For the first time, she lets herself envision them with a child. Baby toys scattered on the living room carpet. Mushy baby food lining the shelves of her pantry. Mulder as a father, ever the involved parent like he says he wants to be.

That was something she hadn't ever truly allowed herself to imagine. Not even when embryos bearing his DNA had been implanted into her womb, while he waited supportively in the waiting area.

For the first time, it's real, and she can barely hold herself together.

Mulder thanks the woman for them both, smiling broadly as he opens the door for her, but Scully can't hear them over the sound of her heart racing. She manages to mumble a thank you and goodbye before the apartment door closes, unable to muster anything more substantial than that.

And the moment they're alone, tears erupt from her eyes, hot and wet on her cheeks.

Mulder doesn't waste a second pulling her into his arms, holding her tight to his chest. She feels herself being lifted a few inches off the ground, and he buries his face in her shoulder, grasping her securely around the waist.

She can't speak, can't do anything but cry into his shoulder and picture their life together. Beyond the X-Files, beyond alien abductions and missing sisters. Finally, finally beyond manipulative ex-girlfriends and smoky shadow governments, who now lie in dirt and ashes.

There's a life for them, beyond, and she wants it now more than she ever thought she would.

“One step closer,” Mulder whispers into her neck, his voice choked with emotion.

She can only nod and hold him tighter in response.

~~~

Note: Apparently Hollywood A.D. takes place in January 2000?? I'm going with it.

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#msr #txf #x files #xf fanfic #mulder and scully #my fanfiction #fox mulder #dana scully #of our own making #ooom #msr adoption fic #adoption

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