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jacevelaryonswife · 1 year

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What a wicked thing to do (to make me dream of you) | Part I

Aemond Targaryen was a shitty snob and you were determined never to see him again, however, he didn't seem to share the same feeling.

∴pairing: modern!Aemond Targaryen x nanny!reader

∴warnings: elitism and slight angst.

part II

Aemond Targaryen was a man of sophisticated and understated tastes, an assiduous collector of books and historical objects, a connoisseur of aged wines and gothic aesthetics. He was quiet, observant, polite, intelligent, handsome, well dressed and very intimidating. Because of these — and other — characteristics of your boss's brother, Rhaenyra Targaryen, your relationship with him was almost nonexistent. Not that the others were too close to you, but there was an intrinsic fear that snaked through your body when he was in the same room as Aemond.

The Targaryen mansion had a modern architecture with mostly surrealist paintings, although works of other artistic currents could be observed along the corridors and rooms. It was not your first choice of work, but the decision to look for a job during the graduation vacation was totally based on the high cost of living in another country. It all started with an exchange scholarship that turned into an irresistible proposal for a master's degree, which made you look for some options to stay comfortable and safe. Your first job was at a lovely flower shop that sold flowers in temperate climates, a dream come true, but when the offer to work as a nanny for two children in a mansion a few days a week with an alarmingly high salary, besides, your friend, who was friends with Rhaenyra's eldest son made strong recommendations of you (even though you don't have that much experience with children), fuck you agreed without a second thought.

Your employers were kind, though neutral, and when the family was together in full some unusual situations happened. However, along with your vacations came those of Aemond, and gods, it was almost suffocating to be in the same place as him, because although his qualities were attractive, the Targaryen knew how to be pretentious, arrogant, acidic, hot — tempered and indifferent — the last of the defects was almost always directed at you, while the others were restricted to his older brother Aegon and his uncle Daemon.

Otherwise, while you struggled to remain invisible, hanging out with the incredibly wealthy and dysfunctional Targaryens, Hightowers, and Velaryons was smooth and functional. Until one day everything changed. It was not uncommon for you to observe the paintings arranged impeccably on the gray wall, however, a well-known work caught your attention: Saint-Georges majeur au crépuscule, by Claude Monet. It was always a painting that captured your attention for a long time, apparently, the orange tone involved you more than enough to make you not notice it’s arrival, not that it was very easy to notice, since it was quite silent. But then, stopping in the middle of the hall, the owner with gray hair and violet eyes announced his presence with a simple question.

“Do you like it?"

Your indiscreet jump and hand directed to your chest didn't do much to hide your surprise (or fright), feeling too embarrassed to continue maintaining eye contact.

“Yes I like it.”

“Claude Monet, 1908, one of his best in my opinion,” he said.

“I know,” you replied faster than you intended, but with the tall man's curious look, you had to add, “I don't have artistic background or understanding, but I'm quite fond of impressionism.”

You clasped your hands together as you stared at the picture ahead, feeling like you might succumb right there. You didn't want to feel like a fool, so you silently listened to the guttural “hmm” he let out in response.

The lack of dialogue along with your flaring nerves made you say goodbye to him with a brief and hurried “Excuse me.”

Your memory does not include when you felt that way with someone, although it was a recurring feeling since you started working in an environment far beyond (financially speaking) your reality. You hated running away like a scared mouse, however, the feeling wasn't mutual to Aemond, who was almost delighted with your reaction.

That was the first time he noticed you, even if it was an unusual situation. He almost felt guilty about the way you ran, but who was he kidding? He liked your bewildered eyes and frightened expression, too nervous to face him or converse the way she had with Aegon, Jacaerys, and Helaena. A pretty girl, he thought, with fast-fashion clothes and unfinished nails, yet pretty, and a bit of an art knowledge. It was no exaggeration to say that from that day on, the second son of Viserys Targaryen took more notice of your presence.

You weren't the only helper in the house, but your job was restricted to stay with the kids, which made Aemond's peeks easier, as there were specific days and places where your silhouette would be restricted. He didn't know why of such sudden interest, you were just a maid. Yes, you attended the same college as him and had some publications in scientific journals, but still, what was it magnetic or different that attracted you?

Worse still, was he so indiscreet that Aegon caught wind of it and confronted him about it? Seven hells.

“So, did you miss something in the nanny's ass, bro?”

“That question could be asked of you,” he replied.

“But it is being done to you.” When the lack of response hit him, Aegon insisted, “What happened to the exemplary son and mama's boy? What will mom think when she hears you were about to eyeball our good maid?”

“Fuck off, Aegon,” he complained irritably, embarrassed actually. But he was Aemond Targaryen, losing a point to his older brother was not an option. “You should learn a thing or two from her since even the motherfucking babysitter can have some cultural understanding and you don't…”

“Wow, and they say I'm the idiot,” Aegon replied.

“You know what I meant.”

“Exactly, and that's why I meant what I said. So is it unusual for a nanny to be cultured? Please, that's why you don't have any friends.”

“And that's why I'm academically successful and I don't have to deal with you."

“Being a fucking snob? For sure."

“I wasn't being- you know what, take what you want, just get the fuck out of my face,” Aemond snapped.

“As you wish."

Although you both thought you were alone, by an unpleasant choice of fate you ended up listening to the entire conversation and imagine your surprise? It was something you hoped would happen eventually, but how small is it for someone to define a person by their profession or social class? You shouldn't be saddened that apparently your job as a nanny makes you culturally inferior in the eyes of Aemond Targaryen, but a few humiliated and embarrassed tears fell from your eyes before you silently withdrew.

That day your service was finished faster than usual, leaving the mansion discreetly and hastily. Other stray tears negatively graced your face along the way home and during your rest period. Thoughts about quitting your job were running through your head.

Bullshit, you needed the damn money.

But what is the cost?

Among other questions, the only thing you knew was the distance you would keep from Aemond Targaryen from then on, not even a stolen look, fear or secret admiration, all you felt for him was disgust. You hated snobs, and apparently he was one.

For the next few days you did your best not to meet him, or give him a look, though from what he had said about his condition earlier it was unlikely the Targaryen would mind his presence to notice any difference. Otherwise, you had no problems doing your chores and dealing with some other family members.

However, much to his mistake, Aemond continued to watch you as you played with little Aegon and Viserys throughout the manor. Again, he didn't know the source of the interest, but that afternoon (two weeks after it happened) when you spent too much time in the library with the little ones, he decided to act.

This time you noticed someone enter silently, making your heart sink. Somehow your subconscious suggested that the presence corresponded to the one you tried so hard to avoid, yet that didn't stop you from continuing to read a children's primer from the fancy wooden shelf without letting on your knowledge that you weren't alone.

He didn't know if you were oblivious to his presence or if you ignored him on purpose, so he decided to make himself seen.

“The section you're clearing contains the history of Old Valyria, from rise to fall," he began unrequitedly. “Have you read any of them?”

“The fall of Old Valyria.”

“The Untold Version?”

“More Believable Theories.”

“Hm.” In no time you turned to face him, generating a certain discontent in the platinum. Your answers were quick and dry, without trepidation or fear, intriguing him. “There are a few books by Septon Barth that I recommend reading, most notably Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History.”

“Thank you,” was all you said.”

He really didn't like that. Were you purposefully ignoring him?

“I can borrow mine if you like, it's in better condition than the one in the library," he suggested.

“I appreciate your kindness, but you don't have to."

“No problem."

“I don't intend to read,” you said, “I have no such fascination with dragons. Besides, maybe a nanny like me doesn't understand Septon Barth's far-fetched text.”

Oh fuck.

The silence that followed didn't stop you from continuing your service, while Aemond didn't take long to associate what you were referring to.

“Aegon told you?”

“No, I was close at the time.”

“…didn’t mean to put you down.”

“Really? It seemed that my condition as an employee did not allow me to have a cultural background, as you say. Not that I'm the most cultured person in the world, but yes, I understood perfectly what you meant.”

He sighed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you-"

‘I’m working, sir, if you have nothing else to say I would like to continue my work."

The shortness of breath that hit your body in the first conversation you had with him was replicated in the Targaryen upon hearing his response, almost paralyzed in place.

“I really didn't mean to offend you. I just understand that not everyone has access to the education and culture that money can offer.”

“Indeed, money restricts most of the population from having a quality education, but it does not mean that only the rich represent the apex of knowledge and holders of all culture, I can cite some examples from my life that contradict this.”

Aemond Targaryen was a shitty snob and you were determined never to see him again, however, he didn't seem to share the same feeling. Nobody ever spoke to him like that, not even his ex Alys. He was studying History at Citadel University, top student in his class, yet how could he be so blind and elitist?

“But that doesn't matter, as next week we won't continue to live together."

Fuck fuck fuck fuck. The vacation had come to an end. No, he couldn't let you go like that, he didn't want to keep such a negative image about himself.

“I-I… fuck I'm not… I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I was stupid, I shouldn't have said that—I shouldn't have thought like that. Your thinking is correct.”

“Good for you.”

He knew better that keeping trying wouldn't get him anywhere, so he decided to lower his head and silently withdraw from his presence. You didn't mention anything to Rhaenyra when you said goodbye to her, as all in all, one negative moment couldn't define all the positive experience you had. In the end, even studying at the same institution as Aemond, its departments and buildings were different and far from each other, besides that you very much doubted to attend the same social cycle as him.

Although that fact was reassuring, that week the slender platinum figure did not leave your mind, always churning your stomach in disappointment and anger during the flashes of your last conversation. You agreed that only time would make you forget that inconvenience, but what you didn't know was that for Aemond such a mistake was unforgivable, and worse, you, the simple nanny, couldn't get out of his head.

— ewan taglist: @schniiipsel @aemonds-fire

#aemond x you #Aemond Targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x fem!reader #prince aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #modern aemond #modern #modern aemond targaryen

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paracosmic-murdock · 4 months

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Tell me what are my words worth ; Benedict Bridgerton x Reader

Chapter 21: "Cordialement, Y/N et Benedict"

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: It has been two years since your secret was exposed and you had to leave London. Two years with deep buried misery and in which you missed everything you used to have. However, neglect, novelties, and letters made sure to give you more than one reason to return to claim someone who is as rightfully yours as your estate and your people: Benedict Bridgerton.

Warnings/tags: idiots in love, eventual smut, mutual pining, (kinda???) enemies (fake, this is just pride) to lovers (surely), bisexual benedict bridgerton, feminist themes, historical inaccuracy (for the sake of the plot), inspired by mulan (1998), song: the lakes (taylor swift), other tags to be added

Chapter summary: You and Benedict return to London with a wedding invitation and more shocking news for the family.

Word count: 2.7K

❁ Series masterlist

❁ mila's paracosm (main masterlist)

“Ma chérie, when did this happen?”

You cleared your throat. “Uh, during my first trip to London, my Lord.”

“This is unexpected, but… I shall speak to the council about this,” Lord Monet replied. “We believed you and the Prince of Monaco-”

“No,” you firmly denied. “He was a mere suitor, but Mr. Bridgerton is my love match.”

He raised his eyebrow, giving him a despective look. “Is he now?”

You two nodded.

“Is he also fit to be a duke?” he questioned. “Because if you do not marry the Prince, you must marry a man fit to rule the region, at least.”

“Even if he wasn't, and I am not saying he is not fit, I must be the one to perform the ducal duties,” you answered. “Not a soul knows this region better than I. Since my father passed, as you know quite well, I have been the one to take care of Burgundy, the winery, and the state. Therefore, I should be the one who continues doing it.”

“What is your cousin for, then?”

“Nothing, my Lord,” you sighed. “And once I marry and have children, the region shall stay in good hands. Always in our family.”

He sighed. “What is his background, then? His family, what?”

“His father was the late Viscount Edmund Bridgerton. My father's friend from Oxford, if you can recall,” you replied. “He is his second son, and his older brother is Anthony Bridgerton, the now Viscount.”

“You come from a good family, it seems.”

“I do, yes,” Benedict spoke for the first time. “I have seven brothers and sisters. One of my sisters, Daphne, is the Duchess of Hastings.”

“Well, you sound like a good man,” Monet smiled slightly. “Have you decided on a date for the ceremony?”

“The sooner, the better.” Benedict said.

“Why the rush?”

“As I am sure Lord Cartier might have mentioned, there have been issues with my grandfather,” you answered. “He found a bastard child of Father's to take my rightful place. The sooner I marry, the safer I will be, you know? Protected by marriage.”

“As long as the rush does not mean anything else, I believe two months from today will be perfect so you can have everything ready.”

“Will the priest be available?” you asked in concern.

“I'll make him available provided he isn't. The Duchess of Burgundy's wedding must be a priority for the Church,” he replied. “I might as well have the Pope himself marry you.”

You chuckled. “That will not be necessary.”

“The fourteenth of September, then?”

Benedict looked at you with an enamored smile. “Yes.”

Dearest Bridgertons,

We are most delighted to reach out to you with the news of our engagement and upcoming matrimony, which will take place on September 14th at the Palace of Versailles. However, before that, we are pleased to invite the whole family to the engagement ball on August 5th at the Château du Clos de Vougeot.

Additionally, we would be honored for Lady Violet Bridgerton to stay with us until the ceremony to assist us in its planification and keep us beloved company.

We are grateful to all of you for your support and, unbelievably, for meddling in our love. We would not be here today without your carefully schemed and loving interventions.

Finally, we announce our stay in Versailles until July 20th, when we shall start our journey back to London for some days. We are expected in Vougeot by August 1st at the latest (in hopes that you join us), in Dijon on August 28th, and in Versailles on September 2nd. The former information was provided to inform you of our whereabouts in case you wish to join us someday.

Sincerely,

Y/N & Benedict.

You and Benedict were having breakfast when Antoinette arrived at the dining room. Her expression gave you an insight for whatever the unfortunate announcement would be.

“My lady, your grandfather is here. And he brought unpleasant company.”

Your lips formed a fine line, and you looked at Benedict in utter worry.

“Please, inform him we are breaking the fast and take him to the sitting room to wait for us,” you replied. “Tell him we do not have much time to receive him as we are leaving for London within the hour.”

“What should I say if he asks who is ‘we’?”

“Tell him I mean my fiancé and myself.”

She nodded. “Of course, my lady.”

“If you wish, I could ask him to leave,” Benedict proposed when he saw your maid leave. “You will not have to see him if you don’t want to.”

“I will not show him any sign of intimidation, my heart. Plus, I must extend our invitation to the engagement ball in person and have my guards take that misfortune of a brother to the dungeon he belongs to.”

Benedict smirked. “You are a devious young woman, aren't you?”

“This particular trash will not take itself out, so I must make sure someone does,” you replied. “And if it has got to be me so I know it is done properly, you know I will.”

“My darling, you are an unstoppable force of nature.”

You rolled your eyes with affection. “You are a silly man, Your Grace,” you noted. “You better kiss that attitude goodbye by the day of the engagement ball if you want the King of France to approve of you.”

He smiled and finished the last of his breakfast. As soon as you finished, he helped you stand up and walked to the sitting room alongside you.

“Good morning, sir,” you greeted him. “Raphaël, I thought you would be in a dungeon right now.”

Benedict cleared his throat. “Good morning.”

Your grandfather raised his eyebrow arrogantly. “What is the meaning of this, Mr. Bridgerton?”

“Were you not informed?”

“Of what?”

“Y/N and I are getting married mid-September.”

Raphaël frowned. “Married?”

You looked at the engagement ring in your finger and showed it to them. “September 14th, to be precise.”

“You can not marry this man. He is a mere artist! He is not fit to rule the region!”

“And this bastard is?” you questioned, looking the man up and down. “The only person fit to be Duke or Duchess of Burgundy is me, and not even over my dead body somebody else will take my place.”

“No one is asking for your permission, Y/N,” he said. “Either you leave soon, or I'll tell your cousin, the King, about your London shenanigans.”

You frowned. “Are you aware that I could be killed for that motive? Are you truly capable of causing your granddaughter's death?”

“You have brought it upon yourself.”

Benedict watched the scene in bewilderment. “I beg your pardon?”

“You might be engaged to her, but this is a family matter and none of your concern, Mr. Bridgerton.”

“Anything in regards to the mother of my child is of my concern, and I will not allow you or anybody to disrespect her.”

You opened your eyes in the widest astonishment.

You were certainly not with child —at least not just yet—, but you couldn't deny that was a smart move from him.

“Are you with child?!”

You cleared your throat, looking at your grandfather in awe. “Yes.”

The anger in his features was unmatched, and for a second you thought he would have a heart attack at the news. A short second that resulted in the slow-motion scene of him attempting to hit you but his hand landing on your fiancé instead.

Both you and Raphaël gasped loudly as Benedict returned the punch with all the strength of his body.

“Oh, my Lord!”

“Stop!”

“I will kill you with my bare hands for doing that to my granddaughter!”

“Is she your granddaughter now?! You get away from her or I swear to God you will not make it to the engagement ball!”

“You dishonored her not once but twice, and you dared inform of her condition as if it was the most normal thing on Earth to have a lady with child before marriage! Mr. Bridgerton, you are the furthest thing from a gentleman that there is, and you, Y/N, must learn your place! You are acting like a-”

“Speak of her badly once again and I will make sure to break your face.”

“You know what? I am out of here right now.” Raphaël rolled his eyes and exited the sitting room, tired of you and the chaos that surrounded the Dukes of Burgundy.

Your grandfather looked you dead in the eyes. “See what you caused?!”

“Whatever do you mean?!” you questioned. “Leave our property right now for I do not wish to see you again, sir. Perhaps the King should know of my faults and my condition and see how He assesses the situation.”

“For as long as I breathe, I will make sure you never rule this region. I will not let you tarnish my daughter's sacred name.”

“You are welcome to stop, then.” Benedict finished, to then yell for the footmen to take your grandfather out of the Palace.

And then there was silence.

“I will get killed, Benedict.”

He shook his head. “For all the Ton knows, everything was one of Lady Whistledown's rumors. Nobody has actual proof apart from witnesses we can trust in and mere hearsays. We will find Lady Whistledown and have her say it was all a lie or a misunderstanding.”

“Penelope Featherington is Lady Whistledown.” you replied.

“What?!”

You nodded. “She told me herself in an attempt to get my forgiveness so I wouldn't expose her to the Queen. I can only assume Eloise told her the truth, that the Queen and I were looking for her, and she decided to come clean.”

“Did you tell the Queen? Because Lady Whistledown hasn't published anymore, and the Featheringtons are in an economic crisis. The only thing keeping them alive is my family's support.”

“I did tell Her,” you replied. “I confessed to Penelope and Eloise that I was Antoine, and Penelope used that against me to have some sensationalist novelty for her ridiculous scandal sheet. She exposed Eloise's friendship with Theo to save herself because the Queen was getting close to her. Penelope saved herself at the expense of all of us instead of facing the consequences of her actions. It was only fair for me to return the favor.”

“Why would she do that to you?”

“When I was going through Eloise's stuff to find something about Lady Whistledown's identity, I saw that she exposed Miss Marina Thompson's pregnancy right after she got engaged to Colin,” you replied. “She surely was not aware that you and I were the couple and must have known about Colin's intentions to court me and the constant flirtations.”

“My heart, are you completely sure about this?”

“I am, and if her actions keep threatening my life and peace, I will make sure she pays for it even if it's the last thing I ever do,” you swore. “She was responsible for two years of my suffering. If it weren't for her, I would have been able to tell you myself about Antoine and I wouldn't have lost you. Nobody would have found out about anything and my grandfather would not be trying to ruin me. My life would not be hanging by a thread. If I must live in fear for as many moons as I have left, so will she.”

He sighed, kissing your gloved knuckles. “We must tell the family everything as soon as we arrive in London, my heart.”

“We must,” you conceded. “Along with a few other things.”

“Oh, my children! Welcome!”

You and Benedict looked at each other with a smile, and then at his mother again.

“We have been eagerly awaiting your return.” Kate said with a graceful smile.

“We sure have.” Eloise smiled widely.

“Now that you're here, we are finally ready for dinner!” Colin exclaimed. “I am so very happy for the two of you.”

“You better be, Brother.” Benedict teased him.

You cleared your throat. “Uh, before we do, we would like to speak to you. Adults only.”

Anthony nodded in surprise. “Of course. Gregory, Hyacinth, wait for us in the dining room.”

They complained but reluctantly left the sitting room.

However, before getting started, a maid appeared and announced Penelope's arrival to Bridgerton House.

“If you'll excuse me, I must receive her and we shall join you right away.” Colin commented happily.

“We would be grateful if the conversation could please stay within the family.” You looked at them with shyness in your tone.

“But Pen is like part of our family.” Eloise frowned.

“Well said, Sister: like.” Benedict conceded.

“Benedict…” Colin warned him.

Anthony cleared his throat. “There is no need to make a fuss out of this. If Y/N and Benedict's topic of conversation weren't confidential, there would be no issue in her being here. Since it seems to be as such and it is important that it stays between us Bridgertons, then you must respect their wishes, Colin.”

“If she cannot hear it, then perhaps it is none of my concern either.”

You rolled your eyes. “It's just that I personally would not want to see what I have to say on some scandal sheets tomorrow morning, Colin. Though I do not think she would expose herself, will she?”

The room fell silent, and you could see Eloise's offense at your comment. Despite Colin's tension caused by your gaze and words, you did not hesitate to continue.

“But if you do not want to hear what we have to say, it is fine. Less chances of Lady Whistledown finding out about my life if you do not tell her yourself, Colin.”

“Are you implying that Miss Featherington is-” Anthony began, but couldn't bring himself to finish the statement.

“... Lady Whistledown?” Kate continued for him.

“This cannot be true, and I kindly suggest you stop making such accusations, Y/N, for you have the reputation of a liar already and cannot deal another blow to your name.”

You stopped Benedict from interfering. “Eloise, am I lying?”

“I-” she blurted out, but couldn't form a sentence in her favor.

“El?” Colin asked, but she stayed silent.

“Eloise, did she or did she not expose Miss Thompson's condition in order to keep her away from Colin? Is that not the same thing that happened when she said that I was dressing as a man to go to the Academy when the only people who knew for sure were you, her, and my maid?” you questioned. “Did she not expose you and every single one of your family's matters to save herself and have something to say, respectively?”

“This is a serious accusation, dear…” Lady Bridgerton noted. “Are you… are you certain?”

“She told me herself,” you answered. “Trying to get my forgiveness after, I can only assume, Eloise suggested she tell me due to my plans with the Queen.”

“Did you, Eloise?” Anthony asked.

Eloise chuckled nervously but you spoke before she could. “At the end of the day, it was never her secret to tell,” you murmured. “But, for those of you who didn't know, I could get killed if word of it reaches France, so forgive me for not wanting her here.”

“Oh, this is too much to handle…” Lady Bridgerton sighed.

“Colin, have Penelope return home. She is not welcome here.” Anthony demanded.

“But, Brother-”

“Even before being Benedict's fiancée, she has always been the daughter of Father's dear friend, so we owe her our support,” Anthony stated. “And if not for her, do it for our sister Eloise regardless of how fine she is about it currently. Think of how she has affected our family, even Daphne… We are withdrawing our support to the Featheringtons effective immediately.”

Everyone looked at each other in silence.

“You cannot do this, Anthony.” Eloise retorted. “We have known them for-”

“Exactly. If she did not care about that when she used us and took advantage of our crises in her numerous issues, then we shouldn't either,” he spoke firmly. “It should be you or Colin whoever breaks the news. Decide or I'll do it myself tomorrow after breakfast.”

Colin left the sitting room, and Eloise shot you a look of disappointment before doing the very same.

“Let's not make Gregory and Hyacinth wait any more time. They must be starving.” Anthony said before leading the family to the dining room.

taglist: @yentroucnagol @crimsonincursive @czarinera @uwumd @omgnctchina

#benedict bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton x reader #bridgerton #benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton imagine

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bonesofapoet · 6 months

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ares crowned by persephone [simon 'ghost' riley x you] requested by @gonnaneedabiggerfloat from this kisses prompt list. apologies for the super long wait, but i hope you enjoy it authors note : the one where simon asks you to leave him to die. language, blood, injury, yearning word count : 1888

Your nightmare started like this.

The sunrise reflected in the eyes of Simon Riley, and you knew this would be the last time you ever saw him. Brilliant pinks and bright cerulean blue looked back at you, instead of his unmistakable deep, warm brown. The colors streaked together adding plums and violets to the painting that would leave Claude Monet breathless with envy.

There was a pull of something strong, something sad coiling within the depths of your heart, yet you found it hard to care, hard to notice when beauty such as this, rose tall above him to envelope you in the arms of a nightmare staged to be a dream. Golden clouds shone ethereal in the midst of the colors staining his irises, the sole collector of a piece so priceless he would only have to pay with his life. That didn’t matter yet, when the sparkle in Simon’s eyes was his and his alone - the very ones, in fact, that enamored you so shamelessly every time you looked into them, no matter the color they were wearing.

Eventually, you woke up from that dream, unsure why it read like a nightmare, when the blood was staining your hands, and not the ones cradling your jaw under the rising sun.

And yet this time, there was no dream. This was slowly becoming a waking nightmare, and no one ever had a chance with those. That distant, punch-drunk love was now accompanied by something else. Something other.

Something so incredibly familiar you had to press pause on the subconscious chaos swirling too fucking fast as it roared loud enough in your ears; it even rivaled the soft thundering of the ocean rising into view.

You and Ghost crashed through the treeline and onto rocky soil, rocky sand, high tide just beginning to creep up the shore. It hit you then, when you stopped halfway down the beach. The uneven terrain had forced you both to slow down so you didn’t go down. It was a textbook lightbulb experience, in the moments that uneasy pace gifted your mind a chance to catch the fuck up. You knew what it was, now. What had been gnawing at your nerves for the last half mile and why it seemed familiar, unsettlingly so.

It was the feeling from that dream months ago. That same pulling, that same coil of sadness wrapping itself a new home inside your heart, your stomach, flowing through your veins. Except it was accompanied by dread, now. The very same kind of quiet dread telling you this was truly a nightmare, when you swore it was a dream.

“Go.”

That couldn't have been right. The water was so loud now, it was a strain to hear your own breathing. “What?”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me. Fuckin’ go.”

The arm slung around your shoulders pulled away, and Ghost leaned his weight on the leg without a tourniquet failing to do it’s fucking job.

He speaks with steel, because he’s Ghost now. The urgency of your lieutenant was dominating the pale shadow of tenderness lurking in the shadows, if you knew how to listen for it.

(You heard it plain as day. Plain as the facts laid bare before you, yet you pretended not to see them.)

“Ghost -”

The rising sun, now beginning to peek over the writhing horizon, began to light up the spray of the ocean. If only you were surprised by this sudden streak of martyrdom - yet it was never sudden, not really. And he would not dare consider himself a martyr.

Golden beams rose slowly and languid against a sky so vibrant, so haphazardly painted with the colors that mirrored your nightmare. You began to understand now, looking down at your hands. You were wearing gloves this time, but they were covered in blood all the same. All of this - it was becoming hard to look at. Your hands jammed themselves in the first pockets they found.

Soon enough, your eyes fell down, down, down back to Earth, back to Ghost trying to keep off his injured leg.

That serpent of sorrow coiling surely around your heart constricted, something sharp and horrible when you remembered your shoddy medskills, how he would need a proper medic - and soon - unless he preferred to see the shores of England again from a body bag.

Your eyes slid to the spray quickly, all golden glitter sparkling in the sunrise, a precursor to the stars no doubt already waiting in the wings for their turn to grace the skies once again. And yet, you took none of it in. Not the tide inching closer and closer to your boots caked in muddy blades of grass and rock now stained with blood. Not the wild roar of the waves, gargantuan, almost, in the very near distance. Not even the way they reflected the sky painted above you in a palette so ethereal, Claude Monet would be breathless with envy.

All of it was lost, horribly muted among the cataloged scene of your extraction gone, no doubt, sideways. Ghost was shot. Your rendezvous had changed. Your team had been separated, all of you pursued, all of you trying to clear another day. And yet, all of this paled in comparison with the knowledge of Ghost - Simon - bleeding out way too fast and insisting that you fucking leave him.

If you were a perfect soldier, you would have done so immediately.

“Did I fuckin’ stutter? Get out of here, meet the rest of the team -” he cuts himself off, glances down at the pretty trail of blood he’d been kind enough to leave behind. Simon looks to the ocean, endless and vicious and impossibly beautiful before him. Flashes from before begin to greet him, an old friend that stopped coming by, long ago. “I’ll buy you some time.”

“Like hell -”

“That’s an order.” it was rough, his voice. Harsher than usual, and trying like hell to hide something. You suspected, though pushing at this juncture would be unwise, and you knew better than to waste such precious time. It wasn’t instinct, but you flinched anyway. All traces of training had begun to slip away seamlessly and disappear into the sea.

Perhaps Price was right. You should have listened when he advised you to reconsider accepting this assignment.

Next to you, Simon pushed away the old memories, pushed away the weekend he spent on a beach nicer than this one with his nephew back home. It was harder to push away the evening he brought you to the North Sea to watch the stars rise and share their stories, one by glittering one. He tried to forget the way your eyes reflected starlight, tried to ignore the memory of your smile shining brighter than the moon had, once it rose to bathe the world in glory.

But, Simon had never been good at pushing you away.

He was dying, he guessed. Between the worry he learned to read on your face, the set of your shoulders, the argument you tried to raise. And, then, there was the wonder about what had broken within him so quickly, so unexpectedly to entertain these memories here, in the middle of a fucking mission, of all places. Ghost had learned to shut shit that off.

Simon, it seemed, was succeeding on cracking the mask from within -

“Oh, right. You’re ordering me to leave you to die, then? Is this how you want to throw away everything we’ve grown to be?”

“If you’re still feelin’ fuckin’ generous, you can make your grand rescue with the team, yeah?”

Right. Right.

It was a waste, the cruel beauty of the world squandered on a moment such as this. As the sun’s rays broke through the last precious minutes of dawn’s fading blue hour, you held Simon’s gaze through the last rays of night. The sunrise was reflecting in the eyes of Simon Riley, and you knew this would be the last time you ever saw him. Brilliant pinks and bright cerulean blue looked back at you, instead of deep, warm brown. The colors streaked together adding plums and violets to the painting that would leave you cursing Monet’s name until the day you died.

That didn’t matter yet, when the sparkle in Simon’s eyes was his and his alone - the very ones enamoring you so shamelessly, even now, in the midst of the hardest thing you will ever have to do.

He reaches for you, and you reach back without a thought, without a care for the precious time you were surely wasting. Simon reaches for you, grabbing hold of your arm to tug you closer, your own gloved hand wrapping around his wrist, sleeve soaking through with blood. Ghost has gone now, melted away for a moment, leaving Simon one last minute of clarity with you, untainted by the sins of his past. When he finally meets your eyes, there’s peace in them.

You feel fabric along your jawline, sliding gently to tilt your chin to face him fully. It’s hard to see him like this - if only because it’s happening anywhere other than behind your closed doors. Those beautiful eyes of yours drift shut, and the rustle of fabric on plastic drowns out the ocean, inches away now as the tide continues to rise.

It’s something you’ve memorized, the feeling of his lips brushing along yours. It’s a comfort, a plea on your part how you kiss him back with everything you feel, because words simply have no place here. For Simon’s part, the gesture is repaid with all the familiar softness and desperation he holds, in this moment - an apology in the only way he knows how. An apology for what, exactly, you weren’t sure.

Simon felt responsible for so, so many things.

A moment passes, maybe two. Time slips by, a fictional figment that slows everything down and muddles your senses. You stay like this for as long as you dare, and then only a second longer before it’s you, who pulls away from him first. Tentatively, slowly, heart now fully entwined with that coiling serpent nestled permanently among your heartache. If you don’t leave now - it becomes clear to yourself that you never could. Then, all of this would have been for nothing.

So, you let go.

Simon Riley slips through your fingertips, eyes hardening as he lets go of your jaw, the curve of your waist. You see it clear as crystal, when the sun's golden rays fall on the deep brown belonging to Ghost, now, that this moment is all you have.

He braces on his good leg, mask sliding back into place and grip tightening on the only sidearm he has left. There’s a nod forward, a playful glint warming up the cold depths of Ghost’s eyes. “Go.”

Nightmares, you realize, are something you never truly shake. They linger, always, hiding in the shadows of a subconscious, or making a home in the forefront of your mind, always haunting, always taunting you for the rest of your life.

You harden yourself like Ghost taught you, and push everything down, down, down the fucked up rabbit hole you tumbled through of your own free will. “Give 'em hell, Simon.”

Without wasting a heartbeat, you turn and run.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley imagine #simon ghost riley imagine #simon ghost riley x reader #cod mwf2 #simon riley x you #mw2 fanfic #mw2 ghost #kas writes #i return from the depths of real life to make people cry

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tenyrasims · 3 months

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PEOPLE YOU'D LIKE TO KNOW BETTER

Naww thanks for tagging me your so cute ! I LOVE your blog ! @kuroashims ! HEH so lets start ! 🤩

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✬ Three favorite ships: Just three? Uff

Favourite ship of all time - Natsu x Lucy [Fairy Tail]

Zorro x Sanji [or Zorro with anyone] 🥰

Misaki x Usui [Kaichou wa maid sama]

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✬ Last song [s]: Probably everything by loveless and David Michael frank. 🤘🏼🖤

youtube

~ "Blue like Picasso, green like monet, my mind keeps slipping further away" 🖤 ~

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✬ Last movie:

Long ago im not the movie type tbh ... I guess 365 days. 😏

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✬ Currently craving:

Coffe, Coffe, Coffe [ like 20 cups a day]

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✬ Currently reading:

Girls with guns by @jarakio [love it btw]

about books ... City of bones. [Kinda into fantasy romans]

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✬ Fave color: Since black isnt a color ... Pastel colors and violet!

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✬ Fave flavor: Uh, hard to tell. Banana and peach.

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✬ Relationship status: happy Single ♡

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✬ Last thing i googled: Animations for my Sims Story ♡

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✬ Current obsessions:

My babies ♡ ❤️❤️❤️

Aidan 🖤🔥🔥🔥

Zorro !

and as you could tell : These guys

🖤😏😏😏🖤

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Hope that helps you guys to know me a little better ♡♡ Love you ~

taggingggg: @madfeary @okiyukiyo @jessiemoonsims @nightlifeseries @lost-souls-story @glittermutt @kumorisims @jarakio and everyone who wants to join i want to tag you all guys 🥰

(sorry if some of you did this before, couldnt find it on your Blogs.

😭 😭)

Me while doing this:

#tag game #get to know me #love you guys #Youtube

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opsidecrewsclash · 10 months

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One Piece Side Crews Clash - Round 1

Members and Propaganda under the cut

Donquixote Family

Members:

Doflamingo

Sugar

Monet

Baby 5

Dellinger

Buffalo

Giolla

Lao G

Gladius

Señor Pink

Machvise

Diamante

Trebol

Pika

Vergo

Violet

Bellamy

Rosinante/Corazon

Trafalgar Law

Associates/Allies:

Caesar Clown

Disco

Propaganda:

a) Their style. Have you ever seen a more elegant, yet striking crew? b) They are family, Your Honour. Its even in the unofficial mame; the Donquixote Family. c) They believe in each other and give second chances, something not many crews do! d) They are so inclusive! An abandoned girl? A fishman-baby? A child who bullies his way in? Lost siblings? Deposed royalty? Everyone are welcome! e) Long-term planning and flawles execution of strategy. This is a crew who knows how, when and where to strike. f) Their ship. It is absolutely fabulous.

I mean this crew is where some of the most ICONIC one piece characters originated! The Family is a great blend of hilarious and irredeemably evil. And their eventual takedown at Dressrosa is very satisfying! (chants) Family! Family! Family! Family!

They're batshit crazy. Also, Rosinante. Also, Trafalgar Law.

Because they gave law a backstory

Heart Pirates

Members:

Trafalgar Law

Bepo

Shachi

Penguin

Jean Bart

Ikkaku

Uni

Clione

Hakugan

Polar Tang

Propaganda:

They’re a group of huge fucking nerds and we love them for that

Beloved dorky blorbos. The core 4 have been together since they were kids, the crew's been sailing for 11 years now!! They love their captain so much and Law cares for them more than for himself (can cite at least 3 canon moments that prove this) so much potential for them, so many adventures we don't know about! ALSO THEY HAVE A BEAR!!!!!!

Loveable dorks, smart captain, submarine.

They are the one allied crew where we know the most of how they started and developed characters.

#polls #round 1 #donquixote family #heart pirates

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godsthatshot · 2 months

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youtube

Hello fellow Fourth Wing fans — I present chapter one of Fourth Wing by Rebecca Yarros (Maddie’s Version) 🖤⚡️

I made this (I’m narrating & playing Violet and also I did the casting, recording, editing, audio engineering, visuals, music, sound design, etc) and it would mean a lot if you gave it a listen! I’m a voiceover actor and lifelong bookish fangirl, and this is my passion project. My friends (other VO actors) are playing the other characters. I’m going to do the whole book, which will take me the majority of this year, and I would love the support of the fandom as I try to make it as book accurate and high quality as possible. My goal is to tell the story with as much fan service as possible — it’s got a Reputation (TV) kind of vibe that I think RY would really get down with. This is how I create fan art (literally I record at my desk and then my friends record mp3s and send them to me and then I treat the audio and cut it all together by myself alone in my basement) and I’m really, really proud of it. I truly believe in my portrayal of Violet and my creative vision and I hope that it hits home with the fandom too!!

[PS I’ve been in contact with the copyright holders to the audiobook and made it clear that this is not for profit and that I do not own the IP of the Empyrean Series or any of its characters, and as long as I acknowledge that this is a passion project and an unauthorized adaptation without copyright, it’s allowed! My adaptation is not monetized and I’m paying for all the production costs out of my own pocket. I am in pursuit of the official publishing rights for due diligence! Praise be to Rebecca Yarros!!]

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traumnovelledreamstory · 3 months

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Vanilla Sky Analogy

I don't know what it is like to want to live. My life is woven within dreams of dying under beautiful vanilla skies. Sometimes I wish to turn into the paintbrush that painted these skies. I couldn't quite ever make out whether my metaphor of an exact vanilla sky was meant for life or death.

Either way it made me incredibly happy.

As a child, I'd lie down and close my eyes and get lost in my escape, my mind, my imagination. I'd get lost somewhere in France, somewhere under a sky Monet once painted that was a true vision. It was probably real. I'm dying for something real. I'd also get lost somewhere between where the sky and the land kiss.

I saw myself as a sleeping angel roaming in streets of France searching for Monet's vision somewhat like a frenetic. I so desperately needed to find my sky so as to be free. Somehow my metaphor for life or death wasn't the sky anymore. The confusion was gone. It was freedom. It was never about life and it was more than death and infact sadder than death.

It's sort of a surreal desire. I sometimes thought of making love under a sky that immensely provoking. I think I'd cry. I can feel it being somewhat sacred. I imagine it still. It's almost like I'm gleaming from being painted by the colors of the sky.

Blue, for i am in so much pain

Violet, for i am a girl who loves flowers and particularly violets

Orange, for I have never been less scared of everyone and myself.

Eventually it became a maddening desire and it started fading away. I don't dream of running under hued skies and watch the sky and the land kiss and become one anymore. I watch myself stay caged and stuck in my palace of materials and negotiations. I feel my tears rolling down my cheeks, it feels hot on my skin. I once wanted to find the wind to dry them up.

The sky became a mere crumpled piece of paper on which I try to find what's left of life and in me.

The Seine at Argenteuil remains a lucid yet forgotten desire. It taunts me. Yet i just sit and watch and wait. What for? I guess nothing. Isn't it just sad? To wait for nothing and nothing but nothing?

#spotify #sorry for being depressing #im sorry #there is absolutely nothing lonelier #vanilla sky #poem #radiohead #fig tree analogy

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guess-my-next-obsession · 2 years

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Plastic Hearts

Chapter Three: Prisoner

pairing: dieter bravo x actress!oc (Violet Apollo)

chapter rating: M (talks of dieter’s shitty parents, insecurity, these two pining for each other but being scared little shits, sexual desire, weed use, brief mention of hollywood being filled with predators, dieter’s awful parents, cocaine use (pls think before you use cocaine in 2022, it’s just fucking fentanyl and not worth it), me writing Matt Smith into this for a second bc i couldn’t resist, asshole!dieter returns, voyeurism?? a little??, oral sex male receiving, fuck these two are a mess)

word count: 5.5k

authors note: listen i had to write a fucking SNL monologue for Dieter and it was hard and it’s not very good and shout out to all the writers at SNL having to do that every week lmao

series masterlist | series playlist

“You seem to really like this one. Been staring at it for ten minutes now,” Dieter leaned to the side, whispering to Violet as they stood in the MoMA, staring at Monet’s Water Lilies. “I always thought shit like this is too pretty. I like my art like I like my women—“

“Abstract?” She turned to give him a smirk.

“Well, I was gonna say without meaning and overpriced, but sure—abstract.” She rolled her eyes and chuckled, nudging his shoulder with hers.

“I love this painting,” she mused in a powder soft voice, Dieter’s eyes softening as he stared at her profile like she was the real work of art. “Everything about it. It is too pretty, you know? But some shit just is. And you can see the brushstrokes in it—it’s messy, it’s imperfect, and yet it’s so…fucking pretty, you know? So soothing and romantic and…nothing that you’d ever think would come out of a bunch of brushstrokes on a canvas. It’s pretty and it’s messy and it’s just…all the things.”

“I could listen to you talk about art for a lifetime, Miss Apollo,” he confessed quietly, just for her to hear. Sometimes he wanted something just for the two of them to have. A whisper, a look—a moment of authenticity.

The couple was constantly surrounded these days, bodyguards and assistants and handlers and fans—eyes always locked on them as though they were waiting for something to happen, missing the only thing really happening—a budding friendship.

Violet met his eyes and stared at him with the kind of awe that would make any man crumble.

“Take me to one you like,” she insisted, her eyes turning to meet his. Dieter smiled to himself and nodded, slipping his hand into hers more naturally now that he actually wanted to. Violet held onto his bicep with her free hand, the “couple” no longer sure what was for show and what was sincere anymore.

“You know, I grew up in New York most of the time as I kid,” Dieter began as the couple and their entourage walked through the museum, keeping his voice low so that only she would be able to listen.

“Yeah?” She turned her head a bit to watch him nod, his index finger and thumb rubbing his the hair on his chin.

“Yeah, my parents wanted me as far away as fucking possible.” Violet frowned at him as he glanced over at her, a small chuckle leaving the typically stoic man. “To be fair to them, I was a little shit from day one.”

“You were a child, D. Little shit or not, you deserved to have your parents around.” She spoke it as though it was simply a fact, but that little sentence had been the hardest one to accept, even through years of therapy. He didn’t feel like he deserved it—acceptance, their presence, love. “I know your mom is Marianne Ward, who’s your dad?”

Dieter was impressed by her knowledge on his mother’s career. She mostly spent her career doing artsy indie flicks rather than the shit most people saw. Aside from her Oscar nomination, she hadn’t really been much of a starlet.

“Ed Bravo—he’s a producer—“

“Yeah, didn’t he also try his hand at directing? What was the film called—Humoring Colossus?” Dieter stopped abruptly, causing the group around them to also halt. He shook his head and chuckled at her, his eyes wide with awe and intrigue.

“You’ve seen that shit?” He asked with disbelief, Violet chuckling at his theatrics as she nodded. “You’ve got to be like one of only ten fucking people to have even heard of that film. That’s impressive.”

“Don’t think too highly of me, I mainly watch obscure films like that to sound cooler than I actually am,” she assured with a smile, waving him back towards her.

Dieter grabbed her hand again, Violet resuming her hold on his arm as they walked up to a canvas hanging on the wall, smudged with black streaks of ink—chaotic and yet somehow orderly. Violet leaned closer to read the card beside it: Julie Mehretu, Invisible Sun (algorithm 5, second letter form), 2014, ink and acrylic on canvas.

“Now this…speaks my language.” Dieter studied the painting with puckered lips, his fingers rubbing his chin as he focused on it.

Violet meant to study it with him, she really did, but the current view of his deep contemplation was more awe-inducing than any work in the building could ever dream to be. Here he was in all his natural glory, hair tousled into messy waves and curls like he just got out of bed an hour ago, the greying patches on his beard almost forming two little hearts (ironic, she thought, for a man so averse to romance).

“I met the artist once at a gallery opening, and I tried to talk her into letting me buy it. Offered way too fucking much for it, but she said she preferred it here.”

Dieter turned his eyes, catching Violet in her gaze. He would’ve smiled at the sight of her studying him so closely if it hadn’t made him sick to his stomach with nerves.

Truthfully, he didn’t know if he wanted her swooning for him—if that’s what was beginning to happen. Not enough had changed about him for him to be welcoming anyone into his life like this. He was still a short tempered, emotionally unavailable man with unresolved mommy and daddy issues.

Though he’d been behaving on their week-long stay in New York—keeping to his side of the two-bedroom hotel suite, only smoking weed, and finding the strength to remain celibate—it was all bound to come to an end at some point. He had itches he needed to scratch, and though she’d been able to see the best he had to offer this week, he wasn’t sure she’d be so quick to stare at him with awe if she saw the other shit—the side that most everyone else got to see besides her, hence why they all hated him.

Dieter cleared his throat, snapping Violet out of her daydream, her eyes batting away her admiration as she turned to focus on the painting. “It certainly screams you, Dieter.”

“How so?” He asked, his head tilted.

“It’s chaotic, but clearly brilliant. It’s black and white but it’s also grey, you know? It’s…a whole combination of things. I don’t know why, it’s just you.” Dieter felt both thrilled by her observation and weighed down by it.

If she understood him so well, could she already see the storm on the horizon? Did she even care? Why didn’t that help soothe his anxiety? Why didn’t that cure him of the itch in his palms?

“I’m feeling kind of tired,” she looked back at him, something clearly weighing on her mind, though he knew her well enough to know that she was much too sober to speak it. “I think a nap sounds nice before we have to go to the show.”

“Okay,” he nodded and turned around to find his assistant, Raf. “Can you call Violet a car to go back to the hotel?”

“Sure thing,” the young man nodded and walked away to call the car.

“Thought maybe you would join me.” Violet’s hopeless voice pulled at Dieter’s heartstrings. Though he hadn’t realized she’d been offering for him to join, even if he wanted to cross that line, he couldn’t. He was hosting SNL that night and had dress rehearsals all afternoon.

“Wish I could,” he pinched her chin and gave her an apologetic smile, neither of them paying attention to the fan that was approaching their entourage.

“I’m so sorry, but I’m such a big fan of both of them. Could I just say hi?” Dieter turned his head around to take in a teenage girl desperately pleading with his head of security.

“It’s okay,” Violet interjected, waving the girl over. “Oh, I love your skirt. Where’d you get it from?”

“I made it, actually,” the girl blushed and giggled nervously, eyes hardly meeting either of the actors’.

“What’s your name?” Dieter asked, his casually cool persona back on.

“Violet, actually.” She chuckled and looked to Dieter’s Violet. “I’m such a big fan of yours—both of you. I watched you on broadway last year.”

“Oh, really?” Dieter gave her a smile. “Thought nobody came to that show.”

“Well, I loved it. And Violet, you’re amazing in literally everything you’re in. I’m such a big fan of yours. I actually—“ She held up her phone, showing them her lockscreen. It was a fan edit of Violet in her MCU debut role—the one that landed her her current job.

“Oh, wow,” Violet blushed and gave the girl a bashful smile. “You’re so sweet. Can I give you a hug, Violet?”

“Sure,” the girl willingly accepted the hug from her hero, Dieter watching the entire scene unfold before his eyes.

A truly good person, that Violet Apollo. Too good for the industry she worked in. Way too fucking good for him.

After taking a picture with the fan, Dieter walked Violet out of the museum, cameras waiting for them when they stepped out into the brisk autumn breeze of New York City. Dieter opened up her door into the SUV, tempted to give her a kiss on the cheek for the cameras, but the more he began to actually feel for her, the less he wanted to do such intimate things in front of the mob of paparazzi stalking them.

“I’ll see you before the show?” He asked, Violet nodding her head and reaching to pinch his chin. Dieter grabbed her hand and kissed the pad of her thumb, winking at her before closing her door, his security and assistant following him over to his own SUV parked right behind hers waiting to take him over to Rockefeller Center.

•••

The entire car ride from the MoMA to their hotel on the Upper East Side, Violet couldn’t stop thinking about Dieter. The way his dark eyes seemed to turn golden when he looked at her and black when he looked at anybody else. The way his beard felt against her fingertips when she’d pinch his chin. His earthy cologne that may have just been his natural scent—she couldn’t yet tell. He’d somehow managed to intoxicate her with his mere existence, and it was beginning to become an addiction she didn’t know she’d be able to shake once this was all over.

She could see it in his eyes—his hesitancy to feel something for her. She knew there was more between them than friendship or obligation, but just how much? Neither of them allowed themselves to speak it out loud.

Violet didn’t want to think anymore, didn’t want to wonder whether or not he was thinking of her, but before she could spark up a joint and hop in the bath, her phone was buzzing. She sighed and set the joint down, grabbing her phone and sliding the green arrow to accept the FaceTime call from her assistant now back in LA.

“Hey, Luce,” Violet spoke through an exhale, only half paying attention to the blonde on her screen.

“Hey, just wanted to call and let you know I booked your trip to London at the end of the month for the press junket. I haven’t heard back from Dieter’s team as to whether or not he’ll be joining you.”

“Maybe it’s best if he doesn’t, you know? Give us some time to miss each other and all that.” Violet bit at her once-perfectly manicured nails while her assistant narrowed her eyes at her through the screen.

“What’s happened? Besides the kiss that I walked in on?”

“Just…I don’t know. I feel like I’m doing that thing that I always do again where I meet an injured little bird of a man and take it upon myself to nurse him back to health only for him to fuckin’ fly off the minute he’s all better,” Violet hid her face in her hands, groaning dramatically. “I just need a week away from him, so let’s keep London a solo trip. Okay?”

“Okay, yeah. You’re the boss,” she typed in the demand into her phone before continuing. “By the way, it’s not a flaw to see the good in people. Not that I entirely approve of Dieter—I don’t really know the guy—but from the way he looks at you in all these pictures, he’s either the greatest actor of all time or he’s just plain into you.”

“Shh,” Violet held her finger up to her lips. “I’m going to hang up now so I can smoke weed and relax before I have to be my crush’s fake girlfriend again.”

“Godspeed, my friend.”

As Violet smoked her joint in the bathtub, the hot water up to her neck, the “smells like happy” bathtub failing to deliver its advertised effects, she thought about her past romances.

She always did tend to take a broken man and invest all her love into him, or rather the idea of him that she’d invented in her head. In truth, every man she ever thought she loved was simply a reflection of things she loved about herself, or things that she wanted her partner to love about her.

Her previous lovers were all rather boring, selfish takers who allowed her to suffocate them with love and adoration until their ego had inflated to the point of no return, leaving her to watch them as they floated off to the next best thing—the next girl too good for them that could fix the parts she couldn’t.

Deep down she knew Dieter wasn’t the same as all the men before. For starters, he actually seemed to value her—her feelings, her opinions, her way of doing shit. She knew he could be selfish, harsh, distant, cold, but he could also be generous, soft, interested, and so goddamn warm when she caught him in the right mood.

Dieter was bad for her and he was good, too—black and white and grey—which made her all the more confused about what to do.

Gathering herself a bit, she quickly got ready, doing her own hair and makeup tonight because she couldn’t bear the thought of interacting with anybody else right now.

She opted for a simple glam, her hair in cascading waves down her shoulders and back. She wore one of Dieter’s vintage t-shirts—a suggestion from Dieter himself—a distressed pair of jeans, and an oversized black leather jacket on top. Her outfit was casual but she didn’t want anything over the top—tonight was all about Dieter.

Violet beamed at the paparazzi waiting in front of 30 Rock, giving them her best smile and a friendly wave. Funny how they’d never know she was paralyzed with insecurity and sadness all the while.

“Hey,” Violet found Dieter in his dressing room, surprisingly all alone. “Thought I’d have to throw some elbows to get to you.”

“No, I, uh,” he gestured back at the hall. “I told everyone I wanted to be alone.”

“Oh—should I?” She stepped towards the door but Dieter shook his head and stood up, reaching out for her hand.

“No, stay.” Violet smiled, nodding and following him over to the sofa.

“You feeling okay?” She asked, afraid to bask in uncomfortable silence for too long. Dieter shifted in his seat, glancing at her with that boyish grin she’d become so accustomed to but at one point couldn’t have even imagined him wearing.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Just…nervous, I guess.” He reached over, lightly punching her knee. “But you being here makes it better. And sorta worse. I can’t explain it.”

“I know what you mean,” she chuckled, tilting her head at him with a soft smile, her eyes unabashed in their look of admiration. “You have nothing to be nervous about, Dieter. You’re going to be great.”

“You know, out of all the people in this bullshit industry for me to be under contract to spend time with, I’m glad it’s you,” Dieter confessed barely above a whisper, reaching up to cradle her cheek. “I just wish I was good enough for more. Maybe then I wouldn’t be so scared to act on shit.”

“What? Dieter—“

“Alright, Mr. Bravo. We’re ready for you at stage entrance.” The producer opened the door and gave them both a hurried look. Dieter gave Violet a longing look before standing up and walking out, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

What the literal fuck? Good enough for more? Act on shit? Act on what? Violet’s head spun at the thought of Dieter Bravo harboring feelings for her, and the thought of him holding back on them because he was insecure made her so dizzy she thought she could throw up. If only she could gather her wits enough to tell him that she was just as scared about the way she felt for him. That she was just as insecure about what she brought to the table.

•••

Dieter waited behind the iconic doors on the SNL set, ready to give his opening monologue. He’d written it with the help of a couple writers at the show, insisting that he wasn’t going to try to reinvent himself tonight, but simply show the viewers a newer side of him—a bit less brooding and pained than the image he’d created over his career.

Faster than he could catch his breath, the doors were being opened and he was stepping through them, walking down the stairs to the iconic jazz and applause from the crowd. He scanned the rafters, hoping to see one familiar face but shocked when he saw two more—his mother and father.

Great.

Plastering his smile even wider in hopes of hiding his actual oh my fucking god my parents are here panic.

“Thank you. Thank you.” Dieter bowed to the audience as the applause died down, his heart clambering inside his chest. “It’s an honor to be here tonight, I’m Dieter Bravo. You may know me as that one guy from that one thing that you fell asleep in the middle of but somehow won an Oscar for.” The crowd laughed. “You know, I’ve been sort of awestruck being here hosting. So many of my childhood heroes have walked these halls and stood where I’m standing now—turns out they’re all more like villains and are thankfully canceled now…which is great business for me. SNL would’ve never been desperate enough to have me on if pickings weren’t so slim around Hollywood these days.” The crowd response was a mixture laughter and ooo’s, Dieters mouth curling up into a half-smirk. He insisted that joke be kept in and had to kiss ass to get it approved but oh, the payoff. “Listen, I know I’m not known for my comedy. I’m a pretty serious guy, I like to take serious roles, but, ya know, since I’m turning forty in a couple months, I’m hoping to turn a new leaf.” The audience applauded him, Dieter nodding and trying to calm his smile before continuing. “Yeah, I used to only smoke sativa, but lately I’ve really been into indica.” Another round of scripted laughter erupted from the crowd. “No, but seriously. I’m slowly getting myself together. I’ve given up the fast life—mostly, got a new role coming up that doesn’t involve any Cliff Beasts or terrible accents, hell, I’ve even given up the all the young, beautiful supermodels in exchange for a beautiful, brilliant actress that’s here tonight up in the rafters hoping that I don’t completely embarrass her. Hi, darling.” Dieter blew her a kiss and waved his hand at her—that wasn’t scripted. “Anyways, we’ve got a great show for you all tonight. Stick around and we’ll be right back.”

The show went well, or at least he thought it did—everything was happening so fast it was hard to tell. After the end credits rolled and he’d given a fake hug to every fucking cast member, he walked off the stage, desperate to try and find Violet before his parents could inflict too much emotional abuse onto her.

Dieter found her in the green room, surrounded by a fucking mob of cast members, writers, producers, fucking interns—all of them making it near impossible for him to reach her. She was laughing and carrying on with all of them, playing her favorite role of the always-smiling American sweetheart, but he could hear the difference in her voice.

Violet was always so poised when she laughed in front of an audience, but when she was alone with Dieter, when he truly made her laugh, she was all snorts and cackles and just plain fucking real. It almost felt sacrilegious to hear his favorite sound distorted by inauthenticity like this.

“There you are,” his mother’s voice sounded from behind him and he closed his eyes, wishing her away. When he felt his father’s firm grip on his shoulder, he sighed and turned around, forcing a smile on his face.

“Ed, Marianne.” Dieter gave them a polite nod, both of them eyeing him up in that judgmental way that made him feel like a little boy again, desperate to make them proud.

“You did well out there tonight, son.” Dieter furrowed his brows at his father’s praise, remaining frozen when he was pulled in for a hug.

“Are you sick or something? Why are you hugging me?” Dieter’s mother swatted his bicep at the question, his father letting go of him.

“Nobody’s sick. We’re just proud of you. God, is it always going to be so volatile with you, Dieter? Sorry that we weren’t there as much as you may have wanted us to be, but we’re here now. Can’t we let bygones be bygones?” His mother pleaded, though her dismissal of his childhood neglect and trauma did little to win him to her side.

“Weren’t there as much as I may have wanted? You sent me off to live with a nanny across the country. That wasn’t not being there, that was abandonment,” Dieter scoffed, shaking his head as he tuned out their typical deflections to save himself the hurt.

When he felt a hand slide against his bicep, looping their arm with his, he almost jumped, but one look to his right side and he was met with Violet’s smile—one that seemed to wash away all thought.

“Found you,” she mumbled with a grin, Dieter’s lips curling up out of instinct. Violet’s eyes soon turned to his parents, her smile turning into a flat line as she glared at them. “If you two don’t mind, we have a party to get to.”

Dieter had never been more attracted to her than when she was guiding him away from his parents and down the hall to his dressing room, shooting him a knowing smile over her shoulder as she led the way.

It was moments like this that he wished he could set aside his feelings for her and just fuck her, but no matter how hard he tried to tap into his old ways, his heart and mind were dead set on giving her more.

If he was going to sleep with her, it wasn’t going to be a one off hookup, wasn’t going to be something quick and fleeting, it was going to fucking change his entire life. And as much as he wanted to dive head first into everything her, he knew he just wasn’t ready. He’d fuck it up like he always did.

“You did way too good tonight to be brought down by your shitty parents,” she assured once they were in the peace and quiet of his dressing room, spinning around to cup his cheeks.

There was a point, even if momentary, that he thought this would never happen. He assumed they’d be cold to each other, or at best friendly, but this—her hands on his face, his eyes locked on hers, the look between them that anyone could clearly see was adoration—was never in even his wildest of dreams.

“Can I kiss you?” His request was whispered, almost shy, as though it was an outrageous thing to ask. Violet tilted her head, her smile soft and just barely there as she studied him carefully, letting his question hang in the air for a moment before she was nodding. Dieter almost whimpered—something yearning and desperate inside of him surfacing for a moment. He whispered to her as he leaned in, his hands cupping her face. “You’re so beautiful.”

Violet knew the deal—she knew that these moments came with no strings attached. When he got lonely she was there and vice versa. To read any further into things was to admit defeat in this battle she was fighting internally. A battle she wasn’t quite ready to give up yet.

Dieter held her close, though his kiss remained soft enough for her to pull away at any moment. But she didn’t seem to want to. He smiled as he felt her hug him tight, his hands lowering to her waist and squeezing. He would’ve been content to stay that way forever, but of course…

“D, we gotta get you to the after party.” Andrea walked in, eying the two as they pulled away from each other breathlessly. Dieter pinched Violet’s chin, smirking down at her before turning to nod at his manager.

“Alright, just let me change.” Both Andrea and Violet left the room, though he wouldn’t have given two shits if they stayed, especially the latter.

After changing into a silk button down that was one size too big and a pair of black trousers, Dieter was making his exit from 30 Rock hand in hand with the most beautiful woman in New York City as far as he was concerned, a rare smile on his face as he waved at the paparazzi.

It seemed his fake happiness was starting to become real—and god, did that make him want to throw up.

Walking into the party, he held onto Violet’s waist, keeping her close and shielding her from everyone trying to steal her away from him.

Violet turned around, Dieter’s hand sliding to the small of her back as she leaned into him to speak over the music. “I’m gonna go get a drink, do you want anything?”

“Uh,” Dieter spotted his dealer and a few of his party friends from over her shoulder, the craving for a couple little white lines distracting him. “Just a gin and tonic. I’m, uh, gonna go to the mens room for a second.”

“Okay,” she nodded and gave him a smile before leaving him to go to the bar. Dieter watched her until she disappeared and quickly made a bee-line for the bathroom, his dealer grinning and waving at him as he neared.

“Haven’t heard from you all month,” the all-business appearing skeeze welcomed Dieter to their little bathroom party with his hands on his shoulders.

“Been busy.” Dieter kept his eye on the constantly opening and closing door as his friend set up a few lines for him on the counter. Dieter wasted no time in leaning down and snorting the white powder up, one line at a time. As he moved to snort the last line, the door swung open.

“They didn’t have any tonic, so—“ Dieter interrupted Violet with a snort, his eyes wide as he turned to see the last person he ever wanted to show this side to. Violet looked at him with a mixture of disappointment and concern, the couple remaining frozen and silent for a few beats.

“Lovely to meet you, I’m Alex. Can I fix you a line as well?” The dealer leant his hand out for Violet to shake but Dieter was quick to slap it away, giving him a warning glare as he watched Violet storm out of the doorway and back into the party. Wiping his nose, he rushed out to follow her, his heart racing from the drug and his own fear of fucking up his chances with her.

Dieter found Violet by the bar, tossing back shots with one of his “friends”, a fellow actor who was safe but a total slut—and that meant a lot coming from Dieter fuckin’ Bravo.

“You know, you’re even more beautiful in person. It’s usually the other way around,” the actor flirted, tucking Violet’s hair behind her ears.

“Does that line usually work for you?” She chuckled, now sipping on a cocktail through a little black straw.

“Usually. Is it working now?” He smirked at her as she shrugged, Dieter now quickly losing his composure as he watched the scene unfold before his eyes.

“Fuck off, Matt.” Dieter stormed over, stepping into the space between their bodies and glaring at his friend. “She’s with me.”

“She’s with nobody,” Violet corrected, glaring at Dieter for causing a scene, his blown out pupils a reminder of why she was so upset in the first place.

“Sorry, mate, I didn’t know the two of you were together for real,” his friend held up his hands in defense, giving Violet an apologetic look before he was leaving the couple alone.

“You just told Matt Smith to fuck off!” Violet scolded, too drunk to care about her volume.

“Relax, he’s a friend,” Dieter assured as he ordered a drink for himself. “A friend you seemed to be enjoying.”

“Are you jealous?” She accused with more irritation than he was hoping for.

“I’m not—not jealous, Violet. I just think if we go around flirting with other people, our little fucking showmance is gonna start to unravel.”

“I’m not your girlfriend, Dieter. If I want to flirt with someone, I’m going to flirt.” Dieter turned to her with a raised eyebrow, both turned on and enraged by her independence.

Though it was surely the drugs in control, he thought it would be fun to give her a taste of her own medicine. Turning to his other side, he spotted a model sipping on a vodka soda.

“Hey, you wanna have sex with me?” He asked as though the answer was obvious, and judging by the girl’s smile, it was.

“Sure.” Violet scoffed at her eagerness, Dieter turning back to her with a smirk.

“You’re not my girlfriend, right? So I can fuck who I please tonight?” Violet had never looked more disgusted with him, and if he’d been sober, he definitely would’ve dropped to his knees and pled for forgiveness—but he wasn’t sober right now. He was just an asshole.

“Do whatever the fuck you want, Dieter. I’m going home.” Violet set her drink down and made her way out of the party, Dieter’s eyes following her until she left the club.

“So…your place?” The model approached him, her hand sliding up his chest.

“If you sign an NDA.”

•••

Violet woke up around three in the morning to the sound of moans coming from their hotel suite’s kitchen. Furrowing her brows, she walked over to her bedroom door and cracked it open, gasping when she saw Dieter leaning back against the fridge, the model from earlier on her knees for him.

Though she felt fucking sick with jealousy—truly, she could’ve vomited right there on the fucking floor if she wasn’t so determined on keeping up her appearance—she couldn’t help but steal a glance at his appendage. After so many nights of dreaming about it, the real thing made her gasp. He was hung like a goddamn horse.

Dieter’s head was tipped back, his body bare besides the robe he kept with him like a security blanket. He held onto her head and guided her to take him in deep, vulgar slurping sounds filling the space as though he completely forgot about his roommate. Violet almost stormed out, enraged by the fact that he’d let anyone besides her get to feel him so closely—closer than she had yet to get—but soon, a name slipping off his lips in a breathless moan made her totally forget her rage.

“Oh, fuck, Violet. So fucking good.” Violet covered her mouth as she gasped, watching as the model pulled away from him and very hoarsely corrected his slip-up in names. “Yeah, sure, whatever, just don’t stop.”

“You’re a fucking asshole.” The model stood up and fixed her outfit, seemingly having been on her way out of the hotel room before he seduced her one more time in the kitchen, storming out of the room with a slam of the door.

Dieter sighed at his still-raging erection, pumping it with his open fist until he was painting the kitchen tile white with a feral growl slipping from his lips.

Violet looked on at the scene, his flushed chest heaving from his orgasm ripping through his body, his long and thick cock dripping white as he stroked it lazily, his soft moans filling the room like the most beautiful song she’d ever heard.

“Next time you bring someone home—don’t.” Violet announced her presence, watching as Dieter jumped and let out a girlish shriek. Giving him a stern look, she watched him as he stayed frozen in place, his eyes lowering to his now half-softened length.

“You wanna—“

“Fuck you, Dieter.” She slammed her bedroom door and locked it. Though she still very much did “wanna”, it wasn’t going to be that fucking easy for him.

No matter how beautiful and impressively fucking hung he was.

•••

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