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jellisdraws · 3 months

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WIP Whenever

It’s been a while since I posted anything from my Cyberfantasy WIP so…

The helm was a vision straight out of the last century of star cruisers , retrofitted into something more functionally modern. It's dated darksteel panels were accented with rust red ironwood, and a full suite of leather chairs and stations sat vacant on either side of the conically shaped room. In the middle of the room where an old timey captain's chair may have sat, a 12 foot tall, 8 foot wide inky black egg shaped pod was welded into the floor, it's sleek sides seamed with glowing strings of runes. Past the navigation egg, the circular front viewport glowed with the purple hue of the light spilling from the Gate, the traffic ahead of them mere dots of black with their own aetheric glow of main thrusters, slowly idling their way forward, waiting their turn to warp. Wires and cables humming with magic running out of the base of the pod disappeared under the floor panelling - Was that… mahogany? - and reappeared where they linked into the various navigation and control stations across the bridge. Advancements in cognition-enhancing alchemy, magics, and technology like Jack’s own implanted cyberbrain now allowed the entire suite of operating systems for a starship like this one to be controlled by one person- a fact not lost on the starlining corporations.

Now that Automaton Intelligences were calling for equal treatment as kith, and even the corporate funded governments were having to give way in order to appease their constituents both organic and manufactured, it was far cheaper to just maintain the fewest employees possible and focus on guild busting tactics. Paying for stimulants, overtime and legal payouts when things went wrong was far cheaper than paying a living wage and hiring Shipboard AI to supplement helmsmen. The pilots guild was more or less a full fledged insurrection anymore, hijacking, blockading and destroying Corpo ships across the Unified Systems. They supposedly maintained sleeper representatives across the various starliner companies, those willing to quietly recruit new guild members or crash starships into trade hubs in firey protest. Split between the Corpos bearing down on them and the Guild’s aggressive recruiting tactics, every pilot and helmsman Jack had ever met had been either stupefyingly boring or batshit insane. She hoped this one counted among the former.

(Rest under the cut)

A voice floated out of the Comm rune on the egg, “Hey, just a heads up we’re about T minus 16 minutes to warp. Not to put too much pressure on you, but non essential systems will be going down as we warp, standard procedure, and they wont be back on till we’re headed into final approach.”

“Right.” Jack said, edging around the pod, trying to get a view of the person inside

“It's weird you know, I don't remember logging a request.”

Jack froze, waiting for alarms, waiting for the doors behind her to open, but the voice continued, “ Sometimes I forget about the small stuff though, or maybe it's an old one- glad they're finally sending someone to deal with stuff like this,” The voice was dreamy- like their attention was largely elsewhere- which Jack supposed it was; flying large scale starships was consuming work.

She finally scooted in front of the navigation egg, peering through the layers and layers of projected information and glowing sensor displays on the glass of the viewing window into the beautiful reflective eyes of a mermaid. She smiled dreamily at Jack as she floated gracefully in the suspending fluid of the egg. She was around 4 feet tall, with a slender feminine torso covered in opalescent white scales that shifted into a curling, ridged neon yellow seahorse tail. Her pale green curls were trapped beneath a pair of headphones she had pulled around her neck- the cord of which disappeared into the top of the egg. Her eyes were the color and quality of mercury, sitting prettily in a heart shaped face. She had a prominent tattoo of an incredibly buff orcish man in a navy cap and not much else along her sternum. Down the sides of her neck and collar Jack could see her gills filtering. Jack had to remind herself to look the woman in her eyes.

“Hi there,” Jack said.

“Yeah, hi,” returned the dreamy voice through the pod, though Jack couldn't see the Mermaids lips move, “Feel free to do what you need to do, We got about- oh… just under 14 minutes now.”

“Right. I don't suppose we could speed that up?” Jack asked

“Speed it up how?”

“Most ships have thrusters I believe, they are used to provide thrust. I would like there to be more thrust.”

“Oh.”

Jack unfolded the titanium blade from her hand and pressed the tip into the glass of the navigation egg with what she hoped was a menacing click, her black eyes meeting the Mermaids mercury ones, “Im hijacking the ship.”

“Oh, Okay.”

“‘Okay?’ What the fuck do you mean, ‘Okay’?”

“I was acquiescing.” the mermaid said.

“I just told you I was stealing the ship. Why would you acquiesce to that? Who says acquiesce anymore?”

“I dunno. Protocol I think.”

“Protocol says to agree to hijacking?”

“Yeah.”

“I need to be through the Hyperlane gate as fast as you can get us there…?”

“Madolyn.”said Madolyn the mermaid.

“Madolyn, hi. My name is-”

An explosion rocked the cabin as the doors in the rear blew open with a wild squeal and cracking of metal and ceramic, with a shower of blue and purple arcane sparks. The Corprobots began to force their way through the exploded doors, kicking and twisting burning out of their way.

“JACK GATHOWAY YOU HAVE BEEN FOUND NON COMPLIANT.” came a loud tinny voice followed by a short burst of gunfire.

Jack yelped and ducked behind the egg as bullets ricocheted around the cabin, struggling to flatten herself against the convex surface.

“Now please Madolyn!” She yelled

“Just feel free to call me Maddie!” she said cheerfully, righting herself in the tank and pulling her headphones back up around her ears. She began to wave her hands fluidly though the fluid, and the ship responded instantly. Jack felt herself pressed firmly into the smooth hard surface of the egg as gravity shifted in response to the acceleration. An echoing crash and the sounds of cursing revealed a corprobot had fallen off of it's feet and tangled the legs of the others.

Jack looked frantically in front of her, the aetheric glow of the gate was huge and all encompassing, trying to stay stuck behind the egg as Maddie swung the starliner in and out of traffic, avoiding the ships trundling there as she continued to accelerate towards the gate.

“Stay where you are!” came a corprobot voice, and then more gunfire, Jack hissed as a ricochet skimmed past her forearm, slicing the skin like a red hot razor. The bots were spreading out, making the precarious cover she had found increasingly tenuous. Between the shouting and gunfire she could hear Maddie cheerfully speaking to someone,

“Thats right Raxxus Control we have been spacejacked, and the culprits are accelerating us directly into the Gate!” A pause, “Nope, it does not seem like re-establishing control of the vessel will be possible.” She gave Jack a thumbs up, and Jack returned the gesture with a weak smile.

A Metallic hand grabbed Jack by the ankle and ripped her out of her hiding spot and she yelled, swinging and kicking, slamming her knife repeatedly into the torso of the corprobot holding her, the aetherium infused titanium sinking into the thick ceramic armor over and over until the bot fell in a shower of purple sparks. More gunfire from the bots- TING! A bullet lodged itself in her metal leg, she almost could have laughed until another one took her in the shoulder and she spun over the controls landing with a bone rattling THUNK on the other side of the defunct console. Maddie was still speaking,

“That's right, we are a passenger vessel, so firing on us is out of the question unfortunately. Eject them? I don't have the authority to do that sir, Im so sorry. Listen we’re about to hit the Gate, it's been lovely to talk to you- what was that? Collision?”

Jack’s eyes widened as she turned to look out the front viewport to see the prow of Starsailer emerge from the gate, followed by its masts and sails, a huge galleon from the ancient days of spacefaring, it's Draconic figurehead looking as surprised to see the Starliner as they were to see it. Maddie hewed the ship hard to port, but it was too late. Jack felt it shudder beneath her before the impact came and she was thrown across the room. She slammed hard into the ceiling, navigation egg, floor, egg again. As the starliner bounced off of the hapless Starsailer’s shields and directly into Raxxus Station itself, metal and glass and ceramic buckled as the momentum of the ship ground it further and further into the Gates’s superstructure. Jack felt the shuddering reverberations of arcane explosions before she saw them, massive roiling purple flames being ejected out of the gate with increasing intensity as the starliner crashed into it before the momentum of the spinning structure caught them and flipped the disintegrating ship entirely and the purple aetheric glow overtook all.

#Joe writes #wip whenever #wip #Cyberfantasy #cyberpunk #fantasy #fiction #writing #my writing #my oc #worldbuilding #fantasy art #character art #prosthetics #sci-fi #space

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arazialotis · 8 months

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Get Him to the Con - Part 7

Pairing: Jensen × Reader

Word Count: About 6000

Summary: The reader stumbles into Jensen at her favorite bar, a very drunk Jensen. She soon realizes Jensen was booked for a con this weekend and has to be eight hours from town in only two.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

Warnings: Language

Although this is an RPF, it is a character I created and should not reflect back IRL. I intend no hate or ill wishes to him or his family. This is purely just for writing and wasting my time as coping skill. Maybe some of you will enjoy it too. I apologize in advance for any mistakes or grammatical/spelling errors. I appreciate any feedback or suggestions!

*** Saturday ***

“Hey man,” Jared greeted Jensen, clasping hands and pulling him in for a half hug. “Glad to see you’re still alive. How was it?”

The entirety of the trip was still catching up to him. He was tired, from being in constant motion for three days straight to sleeping on crappy motel mattresses. But it was more than that. He had made it blatantly clear how he felt for you and still held no inclination on your stance. That wasn’t true; if you had any affection, it would have been reciprocated. Sure, there was the flirtatious banter and the natural ease in each other’s presence, but twice he had laid it all on the line only to be met back with a block of ice. And that last one… Hell, it had been magical. Sparks flying, gravity-defying. But your response confused the hell out of him. He’d been misinterpreting signals and your friendship the entire time. And god, he was such an idiot. He practically forced it upon you. If you felt uncomfortable or violated, his reputation would be in shambles, as he knew it should be.

“It was fine.” He grumbled. There was no need to get into all this with Jared, for the fact alone he would gloat about being right for months on end.

Jared did not let his relief show. Maybe Jensen was finally coming back to his senses. He feigned empathy instead.

“Just fine?” He asked.

No, it wasn’t just fine; it was amazing. You were amazing, and perfect, and hilarious. And he fucked it up just like he predicted.

“Yeah,” Jensen responded curtly.

“So, no Y/N then?” Jared pressed, a little confused by Jensen’s abruptness. “I thought she’d be here.”

Yeah, you and me both, pal. “Nah, she knew we’d be busy all weekend and wanted to hike the mountains instead. I don’t blame her. I’d rather be doing that myself too.”

“Are you okay?” Jared persisted.

“Yeah.” Jensen squeaked. “Let me get cleaned up. Then we can scout out some dinner before the craziness starts.”

Jensen left Jared in the hotel lobby. Jared sighed, unsettled. Something was clearly bothering Jensen, but getting him to open up would be hard. All Jared knew is it was centered around you. Ultimately, if the road trip didn’t go as planned or wasn’t everything Jensen had dreamed up, it was for the best. Sure, Jensen was down now, and it hurt to see him this way, but hopefully, this would help him move on and snap out of these unrealistic fantasies.

Jensen didn’t sleep well that night. The mattress was too plush, the sheets too silky, and the space beside him was too cold. He’d been informed that a few videos of the kiss had been circling some fan accounts and to expect questions about it at the panels. Followed by a scolding lecture on how to respond. He knew the expected response but wondered what he would say if he hadn’t been coached. It didn’t settle right with him. Maybe he’d get up early and call you in the morning. Just rip the bandaid off and ask what you wanted him to say. He tossed and then tossed again—the sheets tangling around his calves. He reached for his phone, the light momentarily blinding him. His heart raced as he scrolled through Instagram. It was easy enough to find. Replaying it, he could still imagine your lips against his, the back of your neck in his grasp, the fabric of his shirt straining as you pulled against it. It was a very good kiss. That is when your text came through.

‘Thanks again for an amazing trip! If you’re looking for a buddy on your next road trip, let me know. And don’t worry, the ghosts here are all bark, though I can’t say the same for those in room 217.’

He didn’t think his heart could drop further, but it did. There was no second-guessing it this time. The word repeated in his mind. Buddy. He had officially and unequivocally been friend-zoned.

*** Sunday Afternoon ***

If AllTrails had been tracking your time, they would have sent you a medal for the record time in which you descended that mountain. Even paying no heed to the speed limit, you couldn’t make it to Denver until mid-afternoon. You called Jensen twice, hoping to explain that you were on your way and wanted to talk, hoping he could spare a few minutes of his day. If you held these pent-up emotions in your chest any longer, you would explode. On the third attempt, you hung up early, logically knowing he was predisposed.

“Come on, come on, come on,” You chanted through the city streets, the consistent string of red lights taunting you.

The wheels of the rental car screeched as you pulled into the parking lot with a little too much tenacity. Upon exiting, you backtracked, realizing you had left the vehicle running. You ran through the hotel lobby to the adjoining convention center. The hall was filled with fans and staff alike, all eagerly waiting for the next event. Booths were filled to the brim with Supernatural merchandise, shirts, photos, and trinkets. Cosplayers caught your eye, Castiels and a human version of Baby. It was overwhelming and distracting from your overall mission to find him.

You pulled open large double doors leading to the main ballroom.

“Ma’am.” Someone called, and it took you a moment to realize they were speaking to you. “Ma’am. You need a wristband to enter here.”

Security personnel dressed in black pants and a yellow shirt with a conspicuous earpiece halted your progress further into the room.

“A wristband?” You questioned.

“Yes, you have to check in outside. Exchange your ticket for a wristband.” They explained.

“I don’t have a ticket.”

“You’ll have to buy one to enter.” Their patience drawing thin, tired of a weekend of over-explaining processes.

“Okay,” You held up your hands in defense. “Okay, where can I buy one?” You started to back away, signaling you wouldn’t be a problem.

You followed the directions back through the hall’s entrance to a booth where two bored attendants scrolling through their phones sat. Most attendees had already checked in at this point.

“Hello,” You tentatively called them from their screens. “I’m here to see Jensen.”

The one with pink hair sighed. “You and everyone else, sweetheart.”

Their concentration broke from the phone, and puzzlement crossed their face. Only then did you realize what state you were in from the morning hike. Tangled hair, sweat-crusted clothes, dried dirt down your entire left side, and a series of angry red scrapes on your calve. But they quickly recomposed themselves. Apparently, it wasn’t the oddest thing they had encountered today.

They grumbled as if you should know the process. “Ticket?” They held out their hand for a paper stub or your phone.

“You see, I don’t have a ticket.” You gritted your teeth, knowing how the next bit would sound. “But Jensen and I are actually… friends. So maybe he left my name or something on a list so I could get in?”

Something between a scoff and a laugh escaped the second’s mouth, covered up by a following cough.

“There’s no list. Friend or not, you still need a ticket to get in.” They held firm.

“Right, totally understandable.” You attempted to present as sane as possible, realizing passersby were staring too long for your comfort. “May I purchase a ticket?”

“If you want to meet Jensen in person, photo ops are done for the day, but we have a few silver packages that include autographs.” They explained.

“Great, that sounds wonderful. How much?” You asked compliantly.

“750.”

Now it was your turn to scoff. “You must be joking.” Even for romantic prospects, paying that absurd amount would take hell freezing over.

From their facial expression, they were not joking. “You could get general admission for 95, but that will only get you to the day's last panel, starting in about an hour.”

You raised an eyebrow. “A 100 dollars to hear them talk for what, forty minutes, an hour max?” Fucking ridiculous.

“You need a ticket.” They crossed their arms.

“Listen.” You pulled out your phone. “I literally drove the man here. I have the pictures. I think it will be okay if I go see him.”

You realized how much of a ‘Karen’ you were coming across as, but something inside you was starting to boil. The further you were being pushed away from him, the more you needed to fight.

The second attendant leaned into the collar of their polo, whispering. “We have a potential code gray.”

Fuck. You tucked your phone away. “You know what, it’s okay.” You slowly back away. “I’ll wait until it’s over. This is a big misunderstanding and does not need to get out of hand. I’ll talk to him tonight, and it will all be fine.”

You weren’t sure if you were trying to settle them or yourself, but you turned back down the hall and hastily walked out. Back in the hotel lobby, you weighed your options. You looked at your phone, and he still had not responded to the missed calls. Your stomach rumbled, and you smirked, knowing Jensen would tease you about not making the most rational decisions on an empty stomach. And you know what else? He’d encourage your spontaneity. Rather than wait in the lobby until the evening, you’d find another way in. There couldn’t be watching eyes everywhere. And once you did find him, he’d explain everything to whoever was being called in for code gray or whatever that meant.

Exiting the lobby, you circled the building and found a little courtyard where fans sat, chatted, and indulged in a quick meal. A hint of envy glossed over your eyes as you caught sight of an In-N-Out bag. You anticipated the doors to be locked, circumventing fans to use the one entrance, but they easily gave way. With feigned nonchalance, you went through another hall as if you belonged and knew exactly where you were going. Having quickly mapped the layout, you went around the ballroom to the back.

You were quickly met with a barricade of metal fences and high black curtains. An obvious sign to keep out and most likely where cast and crew could walk through unimpeded. You were close to out of ideas when an unmistakable figure in black jeans and a blue denim shirt walked past, followed by a posse.

“Jensen!” Your voice cracked.

It didn’t sound like your voice. It was higher and sharper. But through the sways of fabric, you saw him briefly hesitate. He was quickly ushered along.

“Oh, I think not.” You mumbled to yourself.

One leg was over the fence railing before your brain could comprehend your actions. Two shadows approached from behind the curtain as you straddled the cold metal. The crackling of their radio startled you, and you realized too late your mistake.

“Ma’am, we’ll need you to come with us.”

Double fuck. You ran for the exit back to the courtyard. Pausing once outside, you texted Jensen.

‘You remember that bucket list item I was talking about? Yeah, well, it might be much closer in the future than I anticipated.’

You tucked your phone away and continued your circle of the building. At this point, you were in too deep. You either had to leave the premise or find Jensen so he could bail you out. Well, fuck it. Unwittingly, he was the one to get you into this situation in the first place. He could get you out. You came across a stairwell entrance requiring a keycard for access. But gods, be blessed; whoever was watching you sent an answer. Someone came out for a cigarette break, and they even held the door for you as you stepped in.

You plotted the path in your mind, where you were positioned, and the direction he was headed. You took a left, scanning the area for any threat. A hall stemmed down to the right, and you saw more black curtains, but this time, you were successfully on the other side of them. You had to be close. A mischievous smile crossed your lips. This was fun. The adrenaline coursing through your system giving you a temporary high. Soon the Ocean Eight team would be knocking down your door, begging you to join their next heist.

Your false confidence shattered as you collided with the solid frame of a man. You looked up and up some more. His expression was far from pleased. A small, terrified giggle escaped your lips. As you turned, you found his double blocking your exit. Handcuffs came down upon your wrists, and you were escorted away.

Jensen sighed a breath of relief, making it to the holding room, where he joined Jared. He made it through photo ops; all that was left today was the panel and autographs. The panel earlier today for VIPs went better than expected too. The kiss never came up, and he was holding out hope that this next one would mirror it. Clif, his long-trusted security guard, closed the door behind them.

Jared had already gone through a pour of bourbon and was now cracking the seal of a Russel’s 13.

“Make mine a triple,” Jensen instructed.

Jared laughed. “That kind of day, huh?” And handed Jensen a generous double.

“I can almost see the finish line.” Jensen sniffed the top of the Glencairn and took a testing sip.

He prayed that the whiskey would loosen his nerves or, at the very least, get you off his mind. Logically, he knew you were in Estes Park but couldn’t stop thinking about you. It only worsened as the day progressed. In this last hour alone, he thought he glanced at you exiting the lobby and later heard you calling his name. He shook the feeling off as he took a bountiful swig. He smirked, knowing you’d call him out for not slowly savoring the whiskey’s intricacies, and he would retort with you being a snob. He poured himself another round, this time to take it more slowly. Jared scoffed and was about to condemn him when the Barrell Seagrass caught his eye.

The radio crackled, and a stern voice came through. “Tiny, we have a situation. Require your assistance.”

Clif, who was also about to help himself a pour, cursed under his breath upon hearing his codename. It had almost been a flawless con. He had jinxed himself by celebrating too soon.

Jared’s brow furrowed. “Everything alright?”

Clif grumbled. “It will be once I get there.” And exited the room.

Jensen was unconcerned and too focused on the palate of cherry and leather.

“What’s that about?” Jared chuckled.

“I find it better for my mental health not to dwell on the possibilities.” Jensen teased back.

He went to his phone charging on the gray console to check the time, wondering when he’d needed to start hyping himself back up. Immediately his brow furrowed upon seeing your three missed calls and your message. Bucket list? Bucket list? He had to think back. The alcohol already clouding his memory. His eyes popped. Immediately setting the glass down, he dialed your number. You didn’t answer. He dialed again. No answer. He resorted to texting.

‘For the love of god, pick up your damn phone.’

Followed by, ‘I swear to god if your ass is in jail, I’m not bailing you out.’ Though he fully would.

“Jesus Christ.” He muttered. How was he supposed to get through the day now?

The holding room you were kept in was less of a room and more of a closet. The several monitors that observed the conference center’s layout indicated that you were not as stealthy as you had initially thought. One security guard sat across from you while the other stood behind them. Both of their arms crossed.

“Come on.” You reasoned. “One of you has to be the good cop and at least pretend to believe my story. At least offer me a coffee.”

“You think you are hilarious, don’t you?” The one seated said.

Deadpan, you said, “I think I’m adorable.”

They did not engage further, only held the stern expression.

“I’m not fucking crazy.” You would have gestured to the phone if your hands weren’t cuffed behind you. “You saw the pictures, the texts.”

“It’s amazing what Photoshop can do these days.” The one standing remarked.

“What about the video with the kiss?” You pressed.

They both scoffed. As you watched it with them, there was no clear angle of your face.

“That doesn’t prove anything.”

You rolled your eyes and clenched your jaw.

“Then bring him here, and he will vouch for me.” You demanded. “If he doesn’t, I will willingly walk away and accept whatever restraining order you see fit.”

There was a knock on the door, and your hope lifted. The one standing stepped out. Thus commenced a staring contest with the one across from you. As your phone rang, you lost.

“That’s him!” You exclaimed.

They didn’t move, still engaged in the staring contest. He let it ring to voicemail. Immediately it rang again.

“Goddammit! Answer the phone!” You demanded.

“Just because you named someone Jensen on your phone doesn’t mean it’s him.” He held his head high. “But then again, I’m fully aware there is no use rationalizing with a delusional person.”

Your breath became ragged and sharp. You were forming venom on your lips when the door opened, and the man you saw yesterday approaching Jensen appeared in the room. A couple of texts came through, but you couldn’t read them. The man took one look at you and sighed with disappointment.

“Let her go.” He instructed.

It was all you could do not to stick your tongue out in victory.

“Y/N, I thought you were supposed to be in Estes Park?” He said with an agitated tone.

The cuffs clicked as they released, and you rubbed your wrists.

“How do you know my name?”

You were equally concerned yet grateful this stranger was on your side.

“It’s my job to know.”

The other two whispered back and forth to each other.

“Speaking of jobs,” He remarked. “Why don’t you do yours and look for an actual threat?”

“Yes, boss.” They hung their heads and left you alone in the room.

“Let me guess,” You started. “Good cop?”

He chuckled. “No, not at all. The name’s Clif. I’m the head of Jared and Jensen’s security team. You caused quite the stir these past couple of days.”

“Yeah,” You agreed. “I may have gone a little off the deep end at the end there. Am I in trouble?”

“Only if Jensen wants to press charges.” You could tell he wasn’t joking. “Which I imagine he won’t. Not after a kiss like that.”

Your cheeks grew warm. “I’m here to talk about that with him, actually. To talk about that and a lot of other things. I know he’s busy, but…”

Clif checked the silver watch around his wrist. “He’ll be getting ready to go on stage in about 15 minutes. Something tells me you’ll need more time than that.”

You nodded in agreement though slightly disappointed.

“If you’d like to sit in, it might make the time go faster,” He continued. “I can grab you afterward. There’s a dinner break between the panel and autos. I think he would be agreeable to see you then.”

You held up your bare wrist. “I don’t think they’ll let me in.”

Clif chuckled and fished through his back pocket, producing a bright orange wristband.

Before you left with Clif, you found Jensen’s texts and shot him one back, hoping he would see it before he had to go on stage.

‘False alarm. I’ll explain later. Have a great panel.’

The conversation was already in full swing by the time you arrived. Clif was escorting you there when he commented on your leg. Now that the adrenaline and pain meds from earlier had worn off, the pain was catching up to you. He made a quick pit stop on your behalf, getting you some additional painkillers and water. He insisted on cleaning it up better, but you insisted harder you wanted to see the panel and that it could wait.

The door echoed as it shut behind you. Jensen’s head snapped in your direction, but from the lights blinding him and dimming the crowd, he could barely make out a figure. He continued the banter with Jared as they began taking questions left and right.

As your eyes adjusted to the low lighting, you scouted out empty seats, yet the throbbing in your hip protested. It had already been cramped on the drive down here and again in the security room. You opted instead to lean against the back wall. Their antics riled up a laugh in you, but you couldn’t help to notice Jensen was on edge. He was fidgeting more than usual, wringing the microphone with his hands, combing his fingers through his hair, twisting in the barstool. You couldn’t help but feel a slice of guilt knowing you had caused some of it.

A girl walked up through the crowd, and as she got closer, her face felt familiar. She leaned against the wall a few feet away from you.

“Oh, I remember you.” You said aloud. “We took pictures with you at the Colorado sign.”

She glanced out of her peripheral and then fully at you when the realization hit.

“Oh my god, yeah. You were with Jensen, right?” She confirmed.

“Yup, that’s me.” You followed her gaze over you and remembered how dirty you were and most likely smelled of sweat. “Sorry, I went hiking this morning but wanted to make the panel.” You explained.

“No, I didn’t mean to stare. Sorry.” She gulped. “It’s just, yesterday you said you were only friends, but then we saw you kiss outside the hotel, and, like, that was a kiss to end all kisses. You’re totally together now, right?”

You gulped and stared ahead.

She didn’t wait for an answer. “What was it like? Kissing him?”

You inhaled sharply, remembering his taste, his scent, the feeling of his strong fingers against your flesh, wondering where else his hands and lips might wander if you gave him the chance.

“That good, huh?” She concluded.

“Are you having a good time at the convention?” You asked, hoping to move on to other topics.

“Oh, absolutely, but the crowds,” She gestured outwards. “They get a little overwhelming at some points.”

You nodded understanding. “Y/N.” You introduced yourself and held out your hand.

“Casey.” She said and shook.

As if proving her point of crowds further, Jensen used the bottom of his shirt to wipe his face. The crowd went feral upon seeing a hint of skin.

“Stop it.” Jensen’s voice boomed over the system.

Then with a wave of his hand, he called for more praise which the crowd was more than happy to oblige. This went back and forth for at least three rounds. Jared and Jensen shared a private small conversation.

“Alright, alright, simmer down,” Jensen called. “We have more questions to answer.” When he finally drew command over the crowd, he turned to the girl on the right. “Hey, we ran into you at the border, didn’t we?”

The girl nervously chuckled, flabbergasted that he would remember.

“Oh, that’s my friend.” Casey pointed.

You were standing obviously next to flight, and based on the girl’s response, she must have been freeze.

Finally, she regained her composure and stumbled out of the question. “My question is for Jensen, and I’m a little shocked it hasn’t come up yet,” Jensen’s face dropped as she continued. “Since a lot of people saw you yesterday and the video of you kissing that girl has been circulating, I was wondering if you are officially off the market?”

Jared’s head whipped to Jensen. He held his microphone down as he hissed, “What kiss?”

Jensen gulped, realizing he had discussed it with Clif and his PR team but forgot to loop in Jared. Well, maybe purposefully forgot so as not to relive the humiliation. The crowd was so silent you could hear the air conditioning humming. Only the pounding of your heart was louder.

The lights seemed to grow brighter as the seconds ticked by. He raced through what his team had suggested and how he should respond. He breathed into the microphone, then paused as if halting a thought before it even started.

“It’s complicated,” Was all he said.

Jensen gave Jared a pleading look for aid.

Jared breathed in deeply, thinking he was going to save the situation. “I know every heart in this room just broke but don’t worry, everyone needs a good rebound, and Jensen was due for one, give it a few weeks.”

“No.” Jensen stopped him. “No, that’s not what this is at all. I…” His voice cracked, and he paused again. He was exhausted from being careful with his words, hiding shit, and painting a face that would create appeal. And so he decided to let it all go. He picked a loose thread in his jeans as he confessed to the world. “A few months ago, I met someone. And I was a complete ass, but she gave me a second chance anyways. She’s not just a rebound from Elena. She’s kind, and funny, and a smart ass, but most of all, she is real. And she sees me not as Jensen Ackles, but just as…”

“Dean Winchester?” Jared grumbled.

A few fans yelped, but most stayed respectful.

Jensen’s jaw tightened. “She sees me as I am.” He huffed. “I like her. Like, like her.” He said as if he was in middle school, and there was a collective aw in response from the audience. “I saw a future with her.”

“Okay, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Jared piped in.

“Calm down,” He snipped back. “Not wedding bells, two kids, a dog, and a white picket fence. Not yet, anyway. Just taking it a few months at a time. Having someone other than you to confide in, to care for and be cared for in return, someone I can laugh and cry with, someone to share adventures with, I don’t know…” He sighed, defeated, getting away from himself, feeling like he wasn’t making sense. He turned to Jared, “It’s not like you aren’t my best friend, but you have Gen. You have someone you can go home to, someone you can talk to when I’m annoying the hell out of you, someone you can be vulnerable with and don’t have to act around.”

Jared sighed.

“That doesn’t sound complicated.” The shy voice peeped up.

Jensen smiled mournfully, addressing the fan again. “The thing is, she doesn’t feel the same. I got friend-zoned. Hard. Which is okay. It is completely her right. And I mean, I’m a lot to deal with, so I get it. So it’s complicated because we have to figure out if we can stay friends now that I screwed us over with that kiss half of you witnessed.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. It took a second for you to process it all.

“This is utter bullshit.” You gasped, Casey taking it all in, though you had completely tuned out the rest of the world as if you were talking directly to him. “Friend-zoned, how did I friend-zone you? Maybe, and here’s a thought: if you had the ability to confess your feelings to me with as much ease as to hundreds of people, I could have told you I felt the same. But you just kissed me, and I panicked because I didn’t know what you wanted, and I thought I wanted more than you. Because I do see you as you are, but I acknowledge that you are still Jensen Ackles, and I’m still a crazy little fan that shouldn’t even know you in the first place. It’s not either, or, asshat; it can be both. I’ve been waiting for your lead this whole time. And now that I’m here, you are telling everyone it’s over before we even had a chance. Fuck!”

Although it was a rageful whisper, Casey heard everything and ferociously typed away on her phone.

Before Jared tried again to regain control of the situation, Casey’s friend jumped back on the mic. “Y/N says that if Jensen had confessed his feelings to her in the first place with as much ease as he can in front of thousands of fans, she wouldn’t have accidentally friend-zoned him.”

Jensen stood abruptly. “Y/N’s here?”

Panic rose again, seeing heads turn, looking for an imposter in the crowd.

The girl continued. “She says she was waiting for him to decide if he wanted to take the relationship to the next level, probably because she’s just a fan like us, and well, fuck, he’s Jensen Ackles. And I’m looking at her right now, and she is head over heels. Well, okay, she’s a little furious, but if Jensen wants her to have his babies, she would totally have his babies. Girl, we have to help her lock that man down…”

Again, silence in the room.

“What did you do?” Your eyes were wide.

Casey kept typing, ignoring your panic. “Trust me.”

You felt eyes on you and slid down the wall in mortal dread.

“Sorry,” The friend at the mic said. “Those were texts from my friend. I probably shouldn’t have read every single one.”

Crickets.

“Y/N’s here?” Jensen asked again.

“Yeah,” The girl looked through the crowd and pointed. Thankfully, it redirected some of the gaze to the back. “She must be sitting with my friend over there somewhere.”

Jared stood, but Jensen waved him away. “How do I know it’s really Y/N, and you're not making this up?” He asked skeptically.

Casey looked down at you as you were hiding your face between your palms. She nudged you with her foot.

The girl’s voice sounded throughout the ballroom. “I spy something yellow, clouds or mountains, the nasty-ass ball pit, Neil Diamond, or Bate’s Motel; any one of those should do.”

Jensen snickered and shook his head back and forth. “God dammit, Y/N. Do you want to try and make this work? Be more than friends?” He was still searching the crowd but couldn’t find you.

“Sign an NDA,” Jared sarcastically commented, believing Jensen’s previous analysis of your commitment to privacy was shockingly misguided.

“She says you can ask her face-to-face on a proper date.” Some of the crowd chuckled; others held a sadness that the window of his singleness was closing.

“I didn’t say that.” You snipped at Casey.

“We can’t make you seem too eager. Not after that baby comment.” She retorted.

Jensen chuckled again. “How does ten tonight sound? You pick the place.”

From a distance, he could see the door in the back crack open, light flooding the darkness momentarily, and he knew it was you. A small smirk escaped his lips.

The friend at the microphone continued to telephone Casey’s messages. “She left, I think, 'cause I embarrassed her and exaggerated certain details. But if I didn’t completely mortify her, I say it’s safe to change your relationship status.”

From the main lobby, you could hear the cheers and applause. This was not how you expected the day to go, especially almost getting arrested and working things out with Jensen over a panel. There was the sound of heavy footsteps and keys jingling as Clif rounded a corner.

“You keep making my job more and more interesting.” He jokingly scolded. “Come on,” He gestured with a nod of his head. “Let’s get you out of here before the panel ends, and people put two-and-two together.”

You stepped in line. “Let me make the record clear that Jensen was the one to kiss me and could have been more tactful in answering that question. I will only take the blame for momentarily losing it and breaking a few convention policies that may or may not be criminal offenses. I don’t know how this stuff works.”

He turned to look back at you and wiggled his eyebrows as if keeping you privy to a secret. “Something tells me I’m going to have to keep an eye on you.”

“Not when you should have both eyes on Jensen.” You teased back.

He laughed as you continued down the hall, and he parted a black curtain for you. “Oh, I like you.”

He led you to the holding room. It was nearly as messy as a frat house after a championship victory. Bottles of whiskey lined a TV stand, jackets and sweatshirts were strewn about, devices of all kinds were plugged into outlets, and piles of eaten and unopened food sat everywhere. You found a clear spot on the couch, and exhaustion finally hit you. Exhaustion from traveling non-stop, to restless nights, to hiking earlier this morning, to internally debating everything that was happening. You leaned your head back and shut your eyes.

The temporary relief was short-lived as the click of the door opening jolted you from the micro-nap. You stood up as Jensen and Jared entered the room. They looked equally exhausted but somehow maintained their brightness and energy. Jensen’s face glowed upon seeing you.

“Y/N!” Jensen exclaimed.

“Hi.” You greeted sheepishly.

He bounded over to you and took your cheeks in his hands, pressing his lips against yours. Jared went for another round of whiskey.

“What the hell are you doing here?” He pulled away and looked you over. “What the hell happened?”

You didn’t know where to begin. “I met a park ranger.” You said, accompanied by something between a laugh and a huff.

Jensen took in your scrapped-up leg, and his face grew stern. “Are you okay? We should get a doctor to come look you over.”

“I’m fine,” You promised. “The ranger did a thorough examination and knocked some sense into me. I should be back to normal in a couple of days.”

“Was he cute?” He asked.

You grinned. “Very.”

He pinched his lips together in a smile. “Well, then I better up the antics for our date tonight and really try and impress you.”

“Oh my god,” You giggled. “I never said any of that!” He gave you a questioning glance. “To be fair, not most of it.”

“So, no babies then?” He teased, and your cheeks turned ten shades darker. “Hey Jared, it’s time I officially introduce you; this is Y/N. Y/N, Jared.”

“Pleasure,” Jared stated coldly.

“It’s great to finally meet you,” You offered.

“Hey, we should order some food before autographs.” Jared bypassed you and spoke directly to Jensen.

“Yeah,” Jensen agreed. “I’m starving. You want anything?” He asked you.

You shook your head no. “What I need is a shower and clean clothes.”

Jensen smiled and dug through his wallet, fetching out a key card. “Room 912. If you need anything, text Clif. I’ll send you his number.” He handed it to you. “See you later tonight? Then maybe we will have the chance to talk about all this.”

“Yeah.” You bit your lip, accepting the key and trying not to get ahead by wondering if you would be sharing a room tonight.

Starting a relationship with him required a plan, including expectations and boundaries. As much as you wanted to rush into things, taking it slow was for the best. Waiting for him to finish autographs would give you time to make a list and develop some questions on what a relationship with him would entail beyond the normal stuff. This wouldn’t be as easy as it seemed, but you trusted he would be there to guide you. Before parting, he placed another peck on your lips, leaving you craving more.

Part 8

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GHTTC Tags: @maggiegirl17 @foxyjwls007 @djs8891 @deans-spinster-witch @tmb510 @ghostofjoharvelle

#supernatural #spn #spn fandom #spn fanfic #jensen ackles #jensen x reader #jensen x y/n #jensen x you

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bullet-prooflove · 5 months

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Partners: EZ Reyes x Reader

Tagging: @crazy4chickennuggets @kmc1989 @oureternalbond @wakeama @infinity-mars @danzer8705 @perverteddreamss @keyweegirlie @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @est1887 @the-wandering-lunatic @alwaysachorusgirl @anime-weeb-4-life @multifandomloversworld @mortal--soul @buddinglinguist @adaydreamaway08 @stressed-chas @spookyboogyuniverse @spaghettificationandpretzels @thanossexual @thebaileybugle @bonsaijoons @sclitvdes @appreciatelove @weiwei0210 @justreblogginfics @irishavengersassemble @keyweegirlie @zaenight @wolfiekru

Story Arc:

The Water Tower - EZ tells you a secret.

Pound of Flesh - EZ realises the situation with your debt has taken a violent turn.

"you have my life in your hands" - EZ pays off your debt.

Drinking Tonight - EZ reflects on his decision.

It’s you that texts EZ, not the other way around. He doesn’t know what to expect when he steps into the bar. There’s a trepidation in his chest because whilst the two of you weren’t talking, your relationship is in stasis. It’s the reason he’s kept his head down over the past few days, given you a little space because the truth is he doesn’t want what he has with you to end. He knows that’s what’s going to happen now you’ve broken the stalemate. You’re going to give him his stuff back and tell him that it’s over.

In his heart he knows that he would do it all over again. He can’t stand the idea of you being broken like that, having to trade your body to pay off the interest of a loan that you didn’t ask for.

When he enters the bar, you’re sitting at one of the tables near the juke box. The machine is unplugged, the glass panel still smashed. Someone has helped repair the shelves that lined the back wall of the bar, Riz he thinks, he remembers the other man mentioning popping over a couple of nights ago. He sits down across from you, his shoulders tense as he slumps in his seat unable to look at you.

There’s silence for a minute before you sigh, your fingertips straying to one of the cardboard coasters before you begin to toy with it.

“I’m sorry.” You tell him. “I’m sorry for reacting the way I did. I…” You hesitate for a second before finding your words. “I’m so used to being on my own, that I forgot what it’s like to rely on another person. I haven’t been able to do that for a very long time.”

He knows your talking about your father, both before and after his death. You’d taken care of him long before the cirrhosis killed him, when he was too drunk to stand, too beaten up to gamble, too hungover to manage a bar. You’ve fended for yourself for as long as you can remember.

“I don’t want to take your money. I don’t want it to taint our relationship but now we’re in a predicament because I feel beholden to you, and I don’t like that feeling.”

“You aren’t.” EZ says fiercely, ducking his head so he can meet your gaze. “I don’t expect anything from you.”

“Imagine it was Angel.” You say carefully. “That Angel had paid off a debt you owed to the club, a debt that right now you can’t possibly afford to pay, imagine how that would make you feel.”

Grateful, he thinks and then trapped. There are expectations attached to something like that even if they aren’t spoken. Angel would never hold it over him, but it would be there, in between the two of them. It’s in that moment that he gets it. By paying the debt he may have taken Grady’s boot off the back of your neck, but he’s replaced it with his own.

“How do we fix this?” He asks you, his elbows coming to rest on the table. “How do we move past it?”

You lean down and reach into your purse, withdrawing an A4 brown envelope and setting it down on the table in front of him.

“I had this drawn up.”

He frowns as he reaches for the envelope, unsealing it with his fingertip before he pulls the paperwork out of it and studies it intently. It’s a contract, he sees his name on it and yours, the title of the bar and it dawns on him all at once.

“No.” He says as he places the document back down on the table. “I don’t want it.”

“EZ…” You begin but he shakes his head cutting you off.

“Jo, this place belongs to you, to your family.” He says, his voice rough. “I can’t take it from you.”

“EZ, you are the only person in this world that understands how much this place means to me.” You tell him, reaching across the table and clasping his head in yours. “Why I have to keep it, why I work my ass off for it and for you to be a partner in that…” You trail off for a second and he realises how hard this is, not just for him but for you too. You are not a woman who trusts easily, the world has taught you that other people only want something in exchange for what you can give them.

This contract is your way of resetting the balance between the two of you. As much as you have faith in him, you’ve been proven wrong so many times before that the wound just can’t be healed. He understands that about you.

“Think of the money as an investment.” You tell him. “You own 50% of the bar. You get a say in all of the decision making and a 50% share of the profits, everything else is up to me. The operations, the day to day running, it’s mine to deal with. In a couple of years when I’ve saved enough cash, I can buy you out.”

It’s clear that you’ve given this a lot of thought, that for you this is the light at the end of a dark tunnel that has been your reality for a very long time. He places his palm upon the paperwork as he stares down at it, his fingertips skating over the text. The time he’s spent behind your bar, with you have been some of the happiest of his life. He can see this working, the two of you being happy together, running this place.

“No interest.” He says finally as he tilts his head up to look at you. “The aim of paying off the loan was to give you the room to breathe. Take the part about the interest out and I’ll sign it.”

“EZ…”

“Jo.” He says firmly. “No interest.”

You pause for a second before nodding your head.

“Fine. No interest.” You agree as you slide the paperwork back towards you. “I’ll get this amended for you to sign.”

He watches as you tuck the contract back into the envelope, returning it to your purse.

“And us?” He asks you, dark eyes resting on you as you lean across the table so that your faces are inches apart. “Where does this leave the two of us?”

“I guess this makes us partners.” You tell him, your fingertips trailing over the curve of his cheek. “In life and with the bar.”

He exhales, his eyes meeting yours as his lips brush over the tattoo on your pulse point.

“Partners.” He says with a smile. “I like the sound of that.”

Love EZ? Get added to his tag list!

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#ez reyes #ez reyes x reader #ez reyes x you #ez reyes fanfiction #ez reyes imagine

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tri-pofdeath · 10 months

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I'm LATE at this point but goddammit i want to talk about the Vash/Leonof fight and the Wolfwood/Ninelives fight, how their visuals contrast each other, and what these artistic choices say about the characters.

So, first and first most, as a general rule the panels in Vash's fight are very light, in wide open but barren spaces that span across several areas in the ship. There is a lot of physical distance between him and the Puppetmaster, and the fight feels very tense and contemplative. For Wolfwood's fight with Ninelives, it's just about the opposite- it's very dark, close quarters, and brutal. It takes place in a small enclosed space that Wolfwood makes even more tight by trying to close a door on Ninelives. To get a quick idea of what I mean, look at these pages side-by-side.

Wolfwood's pages at a glance just. have literally more ink on the pages, and all of the panels are almost entirely filled with the characters within, and with the exception of Ninelive's splash page there, you don't get a chance to sort of , step back and take a good look at them persay. It's all hectic, with sound effects and intense speech bubbles filling a lot of the sparse negative space.

The pages with Vash's fight, on the other hand, are mostly white and a very light gray-tone, with more focus on the environments than on the characters. He spends a lot of the fight assessing threats, looking for the puppets, exploring- it's very suspenseful.

First off, the location and the framing of the panels works very well for what's actually going on with these fights- Vash's fight with Leonof involves everyone on the ship (at least as far as he knows), so the "camera" being far away (like the reader is observing from afar, hiding perhaps) works well, but so does the focus on the notably empty environments. This place is a paradise compared to the rest of No Man's Land we've seen - there's grass! Nice houses! Working ship rooms! This place should also be teeming with people happy to see Vash, too! It's deeply wrong that this place is so empty.

The barrenness of these places is also reflective of how much Vash has lost very quickly- he gave up his life with Lena (and as far as he knows they're either in danger or Gone, they were used against him) , he hasn't seen Meryl and Milly in years and I imagine is unsure if he Will again, and has to

Meanwhile with Wolfwood- this is a fight between two people on the same side. Their peers, and they're mad as hell at each other (well, Wolfwood is more mad as hell in general, but y'know.) If Ninelives gets out of here and it gets back that Wolfwood has properly totally betrayed Knives, as far as Wolfwood knows, that could be very bad for him.

Not only that, much of Wolfwood's current inner turmoil has to do directly with violence and his humanity, and he is having a hell of a time coming to terms with that. Vash's words have had a real effect on him, and even if he's not necessarily taking them to heart, they're certainly getting under his skin

(This happens before the fight, but still, the mindset of "completely pre-occupied and haunted by a moral crisis" is how he goes into this ) Wolfwood is definitely one to go all in on fights, but even this one is especially brutal and violent- he's definitely taking things out on Ninelives. His fear of Vash/Knives, fear of what happens next in the grand scheme of things (ik that's vague but YKNOW) , the whole aforementioned Moral Crisis- It's definitely notable that Vash is Not present and there are no witnesses to this fight except for Ninelives, his equally damnable peer who went down the same awful path (working for Knives/Legato) that he did.

also. not related to the bigger point I was making here but I have to say, I really really love inkwork and Nightow does a lot of cool stuff with like, high-contrast lighting or really stylish use of spot-blacks in Vol 3 and 4 and I am putting them directly in my mouth. Look at that WW up there!! Look at this one!!

The way a lot of him is just left Implied bc the light is that bright but you can still tell exactly what's happening, even with such an extreme angle as this is just, chefs kiss, beautiful

AGAIN while i'm here I want to talk about this page too, right before their fight starts, this is GREAT. The movement in this page is great- the explosion smoke leading into WW's cigarette smoke, which leads into him throwing aside the cigarette and getting ready to Fight. And how the side of his jacket blends in to the background of this big panel? SO COOL, very stylish and fun, I can only imagine Nightow felt like a god when he planned out this page

#hope yall like this one i like talking about The Art #I really enjoyed these two fights #also apologies if any of the ww stuff aint quite there I don't feel super confident in talking about him. I am not a ww scholar i'm afraid #trigunbookclub #wolfwood #vash the stampede #leonfof the puppetmaster #gray the ninelives

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beansprean · 2 years

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@schreibfederlaerm left this scene in the notes on my last mardjinn comic and I HAD TO DRAW IT so ty to her!! 💖

(IDs in alt and under cut)

ID: what we do in the shadows comic. Panel 1: waist up of Marwa standing in profile, wearing a pale green peasant dress, red stone necklace, and a pair of fuschia half moon reading glasses. Her hair is pulled back in a loose braid and she is standing in front of an old fashioned book wheel, which she spins to read the 7 different books she has set into the trays. She is smiling widely at the page she is currently reading, which is labeled 1969 and has a diagram of a rocket. Filling the background behind her is a photo of the known universe and several old newspaper clippings of major space news, including the moon landing, the first man to go into orbit, and the first satellite launch. There are also some ancient hand drawn diagrams of Saturn, a model of the solar system, a digital rendering of the orbit of Jupiter, and some 14th century Persian astronomical writings. The pages and the stars fan out and face behind her as the panel ends.

Panel 2: Close up of Marwa from the front, looking down at her book with an amazed smile. The background is filled with galaxies and her eyes are reflecting stars. She breathes to herself, “The modern world is so amazing…” Panel 3: close up on Marwa’s right eye as she is startled out of her hyperfixation by a speech bubble reading “You know…”. Panel 4: Chest up of Marwa from the front as the Djinn pops up suddenly behind her. Marwa’s eyes dart over to him, smile creeping back up as she recognizes him. He casually leans over her shoulder, meeting her gaze with his usual nonchalance, and continues, “I could give you all the knowledge of the modern world you like. Just one click away.” He holds up his pen, thumb poised over the cap as if to demonstrate.

Panel 5: shoulders-up from behind them both, book wheel gone still in the background as Marwa turns to look at the djinn, grinning with excitement. “Are you kidding?” she says, “Learning is the best part! Did you know people flew to the moon?!” The djinn just looks back at her, furrowing his brow slightly. He pushes, “Are you sure? I won’t even take a wish for that.” Panel 6: waist up from the front. The djinn has straightened up from his slouch, pen lowered, almost pouting at the rejection. Marwa, smile still full on her face, lowers her chin to slip her reading glasses off and says, “I don’t mean to offend you, but…”

Panel 7: close up of Marwa from the djinn’s perspective on a bubbly pink and white background. She is smiling gently, eyes lowered and shining toward her books, long curls of hair escaping her braid to frame her flushed face. She continues, “There’s joy for me in the journey - just getting things handed to me…” Panel 8: close up of the djinn on the same bubbly pink and white background, the panels split diagonally behind them. Marwa’s line continues: “…It would get boring rather quickly, wouldn’t it?” The djinn is staring down at her with literal hearts in his wide eyes, cheeks flushed with more emotion than we've ever seen from him. He looks absolutely lovestruck.

(after the caption)

Screenshot of tags from user schreibfederlaerm: wwdits. i've been thinking about them so much i have this whole scene in my head where the djinn finds marwa studying like 12 books about modern culture at once. and the djinn is like 'i could just give you all the knowledge you need to get by in the modern world'. and she's like 'are you kidding? the learning is the best part about it!' (but more polite) bc she's a scientist! she discovered things about saturn and now she's learning about the moon landing! and the djinn is like 'are you sure? i wouldn't even take a wish for that.' and she's like 'i don't mean to offend you but for me there's joy in the journey. just getting things handed to me - it would get boring rather quickly wouldn't it?' and that point the djinn would be like *heart eyes* bc she's not interested in just using him for his wishes! so now it's about proving to her that his magic is not just a tool to 'take the easy way out' and accidentally seducing her & falling in love with her on the way. I just have a lot of feelings about them okay? /end ID

#wwdits #mardjinn #marwa wwdits #the djinn #what we do in the shadows fx #what we do in the shadows #my art #fanart #image described

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pencil-peach · 6 months

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G Witch Onscreen Text: Episode 12

And so, we have reached part 13 in my attempt to transcribe and discuss the text that appears on monitors and screens in G Witch (and talk about stuff I think is cool)

This is the Episode 12, the season 1 finale: "Keep Marching on Instead of Running Off."

<< Click Here to go back to Episode 11

Oh, but you'll have to change before you can join me under the cut.

You have to wear a normal spacesuit while reading this post...

Like episode 11, this episode is actually very light on text, (for obvious reasons..) so I'll also spend some more time discussing little things in the episode I think are interesting.

The text on the panel for the EV (Elevator) reads C BLOCK No. C - 6 The EV is arriving shortly.

It also has 3 symbols on the bottom, with one crossed out. It's hard to know what they mean, but my best guess is: - Communication (Which is currently unusable due to the attack) - Multi-Directional (As in, isn't a one way elevator, can go back and forth) - Capacity (In this case, multiple people can use it at once.)

Also, in this scene, Miorine talks about "opening the bulkhead from the control center." What she means is she wants to find the control center so she can open the giant wall that separated her and Suletta. The first thing that both girls thought of doing when they were separated was rescuing the other.

Also, also, the fact that C Block still has some semblance of power despite having been fully disconnected from the rest of the plant must mean that every individual block must have some sort of reserve power system in case something like this happens. I wonder how expensive this place was to build....

I really like the scene where we see Sophie activate Permet Score 4, because I think they put so much focus on it in order to put a lot of things we've seen earlier into perspective.

Up until now, we've only seen 3 characters (other than Eri but she doesn't count) activate Permet Score 4: Nadim in the prologue, El4n in episode 6, and now Sophie.

I think the first thing we can see when we compare these instances is how, broadly, Gundam Pilots have generally been made to become more resilient to Permet in the 21 years since Vanadis.

As far as we can tell, Nadim was probably one of the most skilled Gundam Pilots at Vanadis. (Other than Eri but she's like. cheating.)

Even acknowledging that he hadn't piloted a Gundam in some time (He says as much when he first activates Permet 3), he's still incredibly adept at controlling GUND Bits and nearly singlehandedly holds off the attack by Cathedra. (Thought Wendy's efforts must also definitely be acknowledged.)

When Wendy starts suffering from Permet exposure, Nadim tells her that she can't raise her score any higher

We never see or hear exactly which score she's at, but her Gundam is deactivated by the Antidote, which only works up to Score 3. So she's either at 2 - 3, and she's clearly suffering its effects harder than Nadim, who's also at 3 at this point.

But despite Nadim's clear adeptness at Piloting the Lfrith and his much stronger resilience to Permet, when he activates Score 4, he dies nigh instantly. He doesn't survive longer than a minute.

When Gundams had first been developed, Score 3 was considered the absolute limit, both in terms of what a human could bear and what Gundam tech could handle.

We can see this reflected on the Lfrith itself. When first launched, and up to Score 3, Lfrith's body appears completely normal.

But when he activates Score 4, its entire body glows bright red as opposed to just its GUND components. A sign that its bearing a load it can't handle.

And when Nadim finally dies, we can see its body is also horribly scarred with Permet Burns.

Sophie's Permet 4 scene is a showcase of how Gundam Tech has evolved in the 21 years since Vanadis.

When Sophie activates Permet 4, she's pushing up against the human limit. Her heart is pounding so fast and so hard we can hear it over the music. She says she can't breathe and might even throw up, and unlike El4n, she's not an Enhanced Person. She's entirely unaugmented, but unlike Nadim, she lives.

Gundam Pilots have become more resilient since Vanadis, but also of note is that they've also gotten younger. We don't know the ages of Nadim, Wendy, and Elnora, but they're all clearly adults. In fact, we only ever see Adults piloting Gundams in the prologue. When Prospera realizes Eri reached Layer 33, she's horrified, and I wouldn't be surprised in part because a child piloting a Gundam is just something that had never been done before.

But now, Gundams are piloted almost EXCLUSIVELY by young people. Younger people are raised and trained and experimented on at earlier and earlier ages because it seems that, for some reason, they are just better at being able to handle them.

The tech has also improved much since then. Whenever Lfrith Ur reaches score 4, that device on its shoulder unfurls and activates, and retracts when it goes back under. the Ur and Thorn were built off of the pre-production Lfrith models, and in order to get around its Score limitations, they just added an extra Permet Processing unit to its back to bear the extra load.

El4n is a special case, and his reaction to Score 4 in comparison to Nadim and Sophie stands as a testament to the effectiveness of Bel's Artificial Nervous System. At Score 4, El4n acts more like he's under the symptoms an unenhanced person would experience at Score 3.

All that suffering just to reduce the permet load by 1. How sad.

Anyway, the EMERGENCY EXIT Suletta uses is labaled as an EVACUATION PASSAGE.

It also has the same 3 symbols as on the elevator. If we try and apply the same labeling method as I used on the elevator, then.. -Communication (Offline) -Direction - One Way -Capacity - 1 person. The direction and Capacity make sense, but the communication is a little dubious? Maybe that symbol designates if it leads to an exit or something....

Normally, when Miorine refers to her dad, she calls him "Kusoyaji," which is a portmanteau of "Kuso" (a general swear word usually meaning 'damn' or 'shit'), and "oyaji" (which is a word for father) Calling him a terrible dad, but in this scene after he protects her and she sees that he's critically wounded, she shouts "Otou-san!" instead, which is a more common/respectful word to use for your father. This is localized into English as having Miorine usually call him a "Lousy Father," or something similar, but in this scene she just calls him "Dad"

We also learn a little more about Notrette in this scene, as when Delling tells Miorine to choose the best option of survival and leave him, he says it's what Notrette would do, and that they'd both decided at some point that if anything happened, one of them had to survive in order to raise her.

It's not much, but it seems that Notrette was a very logically minded person, who always looked toward the future in her decisions. I wouldn't doubt that Delling tried to save her, but left without her at her own insistence.

Sometimes I feel as though this scene is paralleling that incident in a way we can't know, and Miorine managing to save Delling here implies that if Delling had tried and not ran away, he could have saved Notrette. But that's just speculation on my part.

There's no real way to prove this, (other than the fact that their voices sound similar) but I've always believed that the closeup of this DOF member we see when they enter the plant is the same DOF member that Suletta kills at the end of the episode.

When Vim launches in the Dilanza Sol, he comments that he worked his way up the corporate ladder by "personally claiming his rivals' heads." It's most assuredly a figure of speech, but um, well.

Like father like son.

When Guel launches in the Desultor, he tries to communicate to the Dilanza Sol, but remember, the comms are jammed, so it returns an error.

After the deed has been done, the network begins reactivating, and we see NETWORK ONLINE appear on Guel's monitor.

This is our first sign that the DOF are starting to run out of time.

I think a lot about this scene. Maybe not in the way you're supposed to think about it though. I just can't shake this idea that Prospera intentionally waited for one of the soldiers to be right in front of Suletta before killing them. She and Godoy had been standing there the whole time, on both sides of the hall. Surely there were better times to have attacked them than when they were right in front of Suletta.

Maybe I'm not giving her enough credit but wouldn't it make sense? She needs Suletta to be okay with the idea of killing someone. Wouldn't seeing her mother do it in order to save her life be perfect for that? Prospera barely comforts her afterward either. She immediately explains to her that if she hadn't done it, Suletta might have been killed, and that fighting can save everyone.

And of course, it's obvious, but I just love the symbolism in this shot. It's so good. Suletta stepping out of the darkness and crossing the line, led by her mother's blinding light, onto the bloody path. It's so good. Such a good fucking scene. Grrggrhgrh

The music that plays during this fight between Suletta and Sophie is titled AERIAL REBUILD

youtube

If you haven't already, you should give it a listen. It's genuinely one of my favorite tracks in the entire OST, top 3 at least, and we don't hear much of it in this scene.

During their duel, Sophie calls Aerial REBUILD's face "scary" and says she "liked her better before."

Aerial is no longer pretending to be a machine made for silly school duels, that line has been crossed, and its true purpose is beginning to be revealed.

The truly terrifying thing about REBUILD's GUND Bit Cannon is that we never see it at full capacity. In fact, this one time we see it, it's at its WEAKEST strength. All mobile suits used in Asticassia have a regulation program installed that limits the energy output of their beam weapons. (With this restriction, all energy weapons only produce green colored beams.) Despite being off Asticassia for months now, Aerial NEVER had that program uninstalled, so its Beam Weapons are still at their lowest output. And, Despite That, the beam produced by this cannon is...

This Powerful. It's so powerful, that when Aerial uses it, you can see it have to activate its back thrusters to counteract the recoil.

It's SO powerful, that it completely melts the legs of a Desultor who just happened to GRAZE it ever so slightly.

Not to talk about future episodes here, but I actually cannot stress that it is genuinely a miracle that Miorine forcefully shut Aerial down in this moment in episode 17.

Because, and I mean this with zero exaggeration, Suletta would have ERASED GUEL and SPLIT THE SCHOOL IN HALF if she released the charge on this god damn canon.

Lord In Heaven, Prospera.

TEXT: SUBJECT: Business Correspondence FROM: Peil Technologies To: ELAN CERES HIGHEST PRIORITY

An attack has been made on Plant Quetta by the terrorist orginization 'Dawn of Fold' 2 unidentified MS using GUND FORMAT were confirmed. We will contact you later with further instructions.

This is the email 5lan receives from Peil after the DOF leave. They got that information quick, huh? I wonder how... We also see that he only ever receives Business Correspondence emails from Peil and Course Schedule updates from Asticassia in his inbox. He doesn't have any friends.

And with that, we have completed Ep 12, the entirety of Season 1! Wow...what a ride it has been thus far...

Thank you for coming on this journey with me...!

Whatever happens next, we'll face it together, won't we?

Episode 13. >>

Masterpost.

#g witch #gundam the witch from mercury #Youtube

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saintbleeding · 1 year

Photo

[ID: Comic page of Martin and Jon from TMA. Martin is a fat white man with ginger hair and freckles, wearing circular glasses and a pink, short-sleeved, collared shirt open over a white t-shirt.

In panel one is a text box reading “knock-knock?”, and below it Martin stands in the open doorway of Jon’s office, holding two mugs and looking apprehensive. There is a green reflection on the side of his face and hair from the entity, presumably still in the corner. He says “Hey, sorry to interrupt, but I have a theory I wanted to ask you about.”

In panel two, Jon, still seated at his desk, pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, saying “Yes?”

In panel three, Martin has moved further into the room. A nameplate on the open door reads “Head Archivist, Jonathan Sims”, but someone has written “Git!!! Signed, someone who knows what he’s talking about” crudely in black marker over the word ‘Archivist’. Martin, looking away in thought, continues “Well, I’ve been looking over Ronald Sinclair and Carlos Vittery’s statements and I think there might be something to the fact that they’re both so... spider-y? Do you think?”

In panel four, Jon wears a mortified expression, sweat dripping down his face, and there is a thought-bubble next to his head with the word “no” repeated in various sizes and thicknesses. His speech bubble has wobbly edges and the text for his speech is messy and inconsistent. He says “... that’s absolutely ridiculous don’t be so stupid” but is interrupted by someone out of view in the corner of the office saying “Martin, you’re right once again!” This speech is surrounded by little pink hearts. End ID.]

listen. is ronald sinclair’s statement technically from season two. yes. but work with me here ok. martin can be web-aligned enough to find it early as a treat.

also who is that..........lurking.............. a mystery,,,,,,,,,,

(first) (2/4) (next)

#the magnus archives #tma #jon sims #martin blackwood #described #my #saint draws #saint writes #tma aus #double time travel au #this is the tag. yes it's a bad tag. peace and love. <3

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withoutyouimsaskia · 1 year

Text

Remember Me, Special Dreams

Part XXV. Epilogue

GIF: Originally posted by @thekingofkawai

Summary: Self-insert. You're having trouble with recurring night terrors and Morpheus pays you a visit. (Title from the lyrics of Placebo’s Special Needs)

Warnings: language, angst, mentions of night terrors. 18+ Minors DNI. Smut, AMAB oral receiving, penetrative sex (AFAB+AMAB)

Word Count: 2.1k

A/N: Hello there dearest readers. Here it is. The final chapter of Remember Me, Special Dreams. I won’t replicate all the sentiments I wrote about in my post here but just know that I love and appreciate every single one of you who has read this story. Until next time, all my love, Saskia ❤️

Sandman Masterlist

-----------------

5 Years Later

The weekend bag weighing down your dominant hand is what you focus on as you de-materialise in an eddying haze. Despite having travelled this way countless times, you still get anxious about doing it alone. Getting out of your head by connecting with your senses was a good way of diminishing the feelings but the only thing that could truly banish them was the sight of your destination, the heart of the Dreaming.

It had only been a couple of days but you had missed it keenly.

You taste the fresh, nurturing air as you gratefully inhale a breath. Welcome images of both pure realism and fantasy beam from your optic nerves to your brain. Faint sounds of ripples across the surface of the lake are a soothing soundtrack. Your tension from travelling melts away.

You journey across the bridge that leads to the front doors. Sure, you could have appeared inside the palace but you like the walk to soak in every detail of the approach and converse and check in with Dreamfolk that you see on your way.

You have timed your arrival to coincide with the end of Morpheus' audience hours in the throne room. You take the familiar route to the place now.

With a careful press of your palm, you noiselessly push one of the doors open and slip through the gap. While neither of you can see each other yet, you are aware that Morpheus knows you are here. He would have felt your presence as soon as you re-entered the Dreaming.

You leave your luggage to the side of the door frame and walk to the bottom of the curving staircase. The resplendent glass panels that serve as a backdrop eke gorgeous pastel shades over the marble that makes up the cathedral-like room.

As you look up to where Morpheus sits on his throne, a warm smile touches his rosy lips, one that you cannot help but return.

"My love," his voice oozes with the sweetness and warmth of honey and ginger.

"My Lord."

You ascend the steps, each footstep invoking a growing anticipation. To be close to Morpheus again is your only wish.

Once stood in front of him, he reaches for your hand and brings it to his mouth. His lips touch the ring on your left hand; a silver band set with a black opal. The iridescent speckles in the stone reflect colours of red, blue and green onto his pale skin.

He keeps his eyes locked with yours throughout, enhancing the intimacy.

You pull your hand away gently and rest it on the back of your neck as you are overwhelmed by the feelings blossoming in your chest.

Even after all these years, he is still able to make you giddy and delirious.

"Hi Morpheus," You say shyly.

"Hello, Y/N." He stands and puts his hands firmly on your waist. "Tell me how you are, how were your parents?"

You smile broadly as you mentally recall the weekend you had spent together. Afternoon walks and conversations that lasted long into the night. Wholesome food and non-stop tea drinking. Reminiscing and planning for the future. So much love and affection.

"It was lovely. They were on sparkling form, although they seemed a bit disappointed that you couldn't be there."

"Next time, I promise." He pulls you into an embrace. His clean, comforting scent is a balm.

You mumble your next words against his chest. "I think they might also be starting to notice that I've stopped ageing."

You are melancholy about this; their realisation means it will bring about change and you have grown quite accustomed to your life in its current guise.

"Do you regret your decision?" He whispers.

Pulling away, you cup his jaw with a hand. "Not at all. I promised forever in our wedding vows."

"And I promised to support you in times of difficulty.”

"It's okay. We always knew this day would come."

"We should decide what to tell them."

"I agree,” you lighten your tone. “But first, you must let me know how you have been."

Morpheus looks wistful. "I have missed you, My Queen, as I always do when we are apart."

"I missed you too. Especially at night."

You are referring to the necessary measure where you are shut off from the Dreaming when you spend a night in the waking world. It is something that you know saddens Morpheus, for it brings him great satisfaction to feel you enjoying dreams again after choosing to live predominantly in the Dreaming, particularly the dreams he makes especially for you.

"I thought about you a lot when I was alone," you confess in an afterthought.

Morpheus raises his eyebrows. "Did you think of anything in particular?"

"I think you can guess."

He chuckles with a playful smile. "I have an inkling but I would much prefer you tell me."

"I would much prefer to show you."

You push on his shoulders to get him to sit once more and then sink down onto your knees. Your long black coat, deliberately reminiscent of Morpheus’ own, pools about you.

“May I?” You ask as you trace an index finger around the circumference of the button on his trousers.

He nods and a little thrill electrifies your core. While it was not the first time you had done things in this room, you always find it exhilarating to be able to pleasure your King atop his throne, and even more so when you are the one taking charge of the situation.

You free his erection and steady it at the base with your hand. His tip is dripping with arousal; you lap at it with your tongue and he gasps.

His reaction makes you grin mischievously. You tease him with little licks and kisses until he is tense with need. He has never begged verbally yet you know that this state is the closest he will get to uttering the words and a cue that he is desperate.

The instinct to quell his torment is all-encompassing.

You open your lips and take him into your mouth. The groan he issues as you envelop him is guttural.

You take in as much as you can handle without bringing yourself discomfort and then look up at your husband. Lustful darkness glints in his eyes. You move.

Dragging upwards, you suck all the way to his swollen tip, swirl your tongue around and then dip back down. You repeat this at various speeds and pressures, and use your hands to provide extra sensation. Scandalous, wet noises and breathy panting fill your ears and turn you on.

You slow a little and peek up at Morpheus. His hands are gripping the arms of the throne, clearly showing the strain he is bearing in order to keep himself under control. You know that he wants to let his hips rise up. You tighten your lips and move faster to compensate. He begins to twitch.

“Y/N,” he calls.

You withdraw.

"I want you in my lap."

You stand, and as you do so the clothes covering your body dissolve into nothing. It is a feat that never fails to impress you.

Morpheus moves to sit further forward on the throne and you place yourself so your thighs are either side of his hips. His expectant expression and the feeling of skin on skin makes you quiver with delight.

You fix your attention on the enchanting, exquisite face that you adore, at the person you love so dearly and your heart stumbles. You sometimes wonder how the universe pulled this off however you are glad it managed to.

Morpheus draws your face to his and you kiss deeply, running your fingers through his wild, wispy locks. His own fingers massage your breasts and your nipples harden against his soft palms.

Without breaking the kiss, you position your entrance to hover over his cock. You pull back and look deep into Morpheus’ bottomless blue eyes.

"Do it," he says darkly, as his smouldering gaze consumes you.

You drop down with a controlled flex of your leg muscles.

The groan that rumbles in his chest is like the growl of a jaguar. Your own groan is higher in pitch but just as vehement.

You find a rhythm; a shallow yet sensual one that keeps you from knocking your knees or Morpheus' back into the upright of the seat.

You stare at each other with wonder. All that pent up longing seeps away, replaced by relief.

Your forehead falls to rest on his shoulder. From your new viewpoint, you have full sight of the place where your bodies are joined. You blink in surprise.

Literal constellations are swirling, dancing on your skin.

Shades of blue, purple and pink highlighted with twinkles of silver, they caress the insides of your thighs, hips. Everywhere that Morpheus’ skin is touching yours.

You have no idea whether he knows what he is doing.

You stop your rutting and raise your head.

"My love?" He questions with concern.

You look down again and he follows suit.

Morpheus sees the galaxies. His lips part in surprise.

He experimentally trails his fingers up your neck and across your jaw. You can’t see however you know that the same is happening because of his expression of fascination.

His hands are then everywhere. Brushing over your lips, eyelids, breasts, stomach, leaving stars in his wake. He's painting you with his very essence. Making you shine with the same radiance of the ceiling above you.

He then places a palm over your heart. “I love you, Y/N,” he intones delicately.

“I love you, Morpheus.”

You kiss again before you grip the back of the chair and lift yourself up a little. Morpheus' hands grasp your hips and making full use of the newly created space, he begins to pump up into you.

Burying your face against his neck, you gasp with every thrust as he hits a spot inside you that makes you feel like you are on the way to losing your composure.

You allow him to do it. You let yourself be swept by his currents, higher and higher into the boundless night sky above you.

He then makes a sound that has been echoing in your mind since the very first time you had sex. A deep, drawn out moan of pleasure that makes your walls start to constrict.

You relish the cooling flood of liquid that he spills inside you and the shuddering of his release triggers your own. Morpheus' long fingers then engulf your clit with sweet friction and your body arches with ecstasy.

You are suspended, floating in the vacuum of space. The stars that float around you, the same as the ones marking your skin.

Your lips are forming a single word. His name, but you can't hear the sound in your current orbit.

Morpheus' voice pulls you back through the atmosphere and down to somewhere more grounded.

He is murmuring praises that tickle the shell of your ear.

You are weak, unable to reply with anything but laboured breaths. Your legs shake so much that you are afraid you will fall if you try to get up. All you can do is cling to him like a koala on a eucalyptus tree.

Morpheus stands, still buried inside you. Your surroundings transform into your bed chamber.

You whimper when you feel your centre of balance shift as he goes to lay you down on the sheets. You don’t want to leave the safety his arms provide.

"Relax, my love," he murmurs.

He lets his cock slip out from your warmth. Pillows cushion the back of your head and cotton meets your bare skin. He clears his release away with a wave of his hand and drapes the covers over your exhausted frame. Suddenly, he is gone from your vision field.

"Morpheus?" You sound fearful.

"I am here, Y/N." He reassures.

He settles into the space beside you. You smile as you feel his hands stroking your face. Soothing you this way was something he excelled at.

“Is there anything I can get you?”

You shake your head, fighting to keep your eyes open. “No, thank you.”

He presses a kiss to your temple.

"Sleep, my love. I will watch over you until you wake."

It was such an inviting idea. The light in the room begins to dim, as if Morpheus has read your thoughts.

You give in to the lull, but before you are drawn under, you grab onto Morpheus’ hand.

"Don't leave me, please," you implore.

He lies down beside you and pulls you flush against his chest with his lithe arms.

His reply is a promise, spoken with his usual sibilance of storm clouds and sea breezes, a promise that would last for eternity.

"I wouldn't dream of it.”

-----------------

"So let me sleep where I live. With a murder of crows that live in the boughs of my brain. See me when I float like a dove. The skies above are lined with trees. I'm on my knees, I'm singing please. Come and take me away."

A/N II: A happy ending! Hope you enjoyed it. Would love to know your thoughts. Have a good evening ❤️

Also. Send help. I watched The Boat That Rocked and On The Road last week and I am now more in love with Tom than ever.

Taglist: @pinkcyclewitch @layla2-49 @shoidy-cat @silverhart93 @boofy1998 @dotieeee @ponysboy-sunsets @fangirlmary @littledollll @fatimakinney @jamiethenerdymonster @rosaren2498 @mr-sandman-bring-me-a-dream @madiebear @sandman-33 @sallysal9 @asiludida164 @elf-punk @grungeisntmything @sapphireonline @seninjakitey @emarich7

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whatsnewalycat · 1 year

Text

Psychomanteum / Chapter 3

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

Chapter 3: Sedated

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

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 7.1k+

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

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

[ Tag List ] [ AO3 ] [ Spotify Playlist ] [ Series Masterlist ]

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

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

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

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

I'm too fucking sober for this shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Max,” he answers without looking up.

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

Jesus fucking Christ.

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

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

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

He raises an eyebrow, “Sex.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Absolutely fucking not,” Dieter booms incredulously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He outstretches his hand, “Can I see?”

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

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

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

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

“Ask him why, what?”

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

“What do you mean?” Dieter asks hesitantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why not?” you shrug.

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

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

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

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

Yes.

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

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

“Let’s do it,” Dieter smiles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the fuck is in that room?

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

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

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

A warning.

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

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

It feels… safe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can you cuddle me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you?” you ask in a yawn.

“Do I what?”

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

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

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

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

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

Heaven.

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

Heaven.

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

“Do you love her?”

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

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

He was always met with silence.

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

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

It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling.

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

But he can’t bring himself to sign it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. Absolutely fucking not.

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” you yawn, “Dark is scary.”

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

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

“Do you want me to?"

"No."

"Then I won't."

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

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

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

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

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

> GLENN: > You coming out?

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

< ME: < Yeah. Where?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now I know better.”

A pause to wait for your non-existent response.

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

That exceeded your limit for bullshit.

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

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

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

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

You lift your phone and send a text to him.

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

To your surprise, he responds immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chuckles, “Relax, forget it.”

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

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

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

His eyebrows raise in surprise, “Really?”

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

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

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

“That reminds me-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[ Next Chapter ]

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