#only not really BECAUSE IT FUCKING CRASHES
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[Ghost crashed into a car before he parked ours] - Mafia!TF141*F!Reader
Summary: You sigh when it's the fifth time someone fights in your poor tea shop this month. You just open it two months ago, in an area ruled by mafia called '141'. Maybe you should find their boss and give them money or what to stop the bullshit keeps happening in your shop. (well, here they come)
Mafia!TF141*F!Reader
Chapter 1 Chapter 2
To your surprise, Kyle, or Gaz – the model-like man introduced himself as – is such a considerate person with a nice sense of humor, at least compared to Soap or Ghost.
That day you trapped yourself in the predicament with John, he seemed to sense your embarrassment, hence he just handed his boss a backup shirt without making fun of you like his boss, so you have a lot of time for the man.
Like now, he’s sitting and sharing a plate of biscuits with you, enjoying a tranquil tea time accompanied by the pleasant smell of Earl Grey.
“You don’t have jobs to do today?” You raise your cup and ask, before taking another sip and watch Kyle finish his bite and reply.
“Ghost’s in charge of dealing with the enemy today.”
“Ehmm, okay” You refuse to figure out what ‘dealing’ means “What about others?"
"I killed mine yesterday.”
Okay, you truly don’t mean this, but let’s just end this topic and move on. With a few biscuits down to your stomach, brainwashing yourself to forget what you heard seconds before with the sweetness, and buying you some time to come up with a better subject, you open your mouth again.
“Every time one of you comes here, you just scare all my customers away.”
“Isn’t that better?”
“I need customers to earn money, Kyle.”
“You have us to pay you.” He points at the badge pasted on your wall. Of course, you’re not the one who put it on, you rather read the military smut out in front of all British than do it, but if you try to take it off, Soap will put a new one back, so in the end you just compromised and let him claim your shop publicly.
“This place isn’t only served for you guys.”
“It isn’t?”
Is it possible to refute when Kyle flashes you a smile that you almost get blind and start wondering if he can replace himself as your lights and save you the electricity bill? Maybe counting this as one of Kyle’s humor will be better than explaining. All required is to ignore the evil glints in his majestic brown eyes while he questions you.
But even though Kyle said he doesn’t have work today, he doesn’t stay long after he finishes his tea.
“Gotta head back to help the boss.” He grins as he turns the knob and waves you goodbye.
What’s weird is that after Kyle leaves your shop, customers start flooding back. Many of them are familiars of the shop, as you’re sure they’re 141’s lackeys too.
You remember them see you as one of the henchmen… Although they're not as afraid as when they first visit the shop because of your hospitable attitude, you can still sense the attentiveness in their demeanor.
No matter what, you’re going to figure out what’s actually happening.
“Hey, you.” You walk to one of the minions' sides. “Mind to tell me about why you guys always disappear when Gaz or Ghost or others come here?”
“We…” The guy’s eyes avert, shooting his friend a glance for help “It’s just a coincidence.”
“Coincidence?” Raising your eyebrow, you lower your voice to make it menacing
“It really is, ma’am, nothing to bother with the Sirs.”
“Show me, they must have sent some messages to inform you guys, right? Let me take a look, or I will…” You will what? Actually, you have no idea what you can do to these guys that can lift you up and throw you into a trash bin like a shot “Wait a second.”
Quickly running back to your kitchen, you come back with your most intimidating weapon –
“Or I will hit you with my pan!” You wiggle your arm as a threat.
“…”
They don’t look scared of the pan for a tiny bit. Wait, you should take your kitchen knife instead, who the fuck will pick a pan? You idiot.
yet to your satisfaction, they still fish out their phone and let you have it, and you don’t waste any time as you open the texting app.
‘Announcement: Boss will arrive at the tea shop in 10 minutes, clear the shop immediately.’
So they really are scaring your customers off. Give the phone back to the poor guy with pity in your eyes, you bring him a few more biscuits.
You’re strolling through the aisles in the shop. You’re out of flour and sugar, and every Wednesday the groceries are on sale. You never miss these chances to build up savings.
What a nice shopping trip. Quiet, leisure, just enjoying your own time, picking up different brands of cereal and calculating which is cheaper like a competent broken adult. Things never go wrong when you’re alone.
“Hey lass!”
Well, you’re kidding, things go south too quickly. The voice’s too familiar. It must be a hallucination.
“Lass? Bonnie?”
Don’t look back, keep walking. It’s not the detergent man with a stupid chicken crest yelling at you.
“HEY!” A hand pats you on your shoulder and makes you jump. Sighing internally and prey there won’t be any trouble caused by the man, you turn around and face him.
“Oh, Soap, Hi.” Shit, looks like you just can’t have a break from these men. “I didn’t hear you.”
“Even though the nan outside tells me te shut the fok up?”
“Yes.” you shamelessly admit, pro tip to confront people without shame “Why are you here by the way, Soap?”
“Oh, we’re in need of some things, so Ghost pulled off during our way home.”
You take a glimpse at his basket. A rope, a roll of duct tape, and a knife.
They must be going on a picnic. Yes, don’t overthink. The rope is for securing the tent, the duct tape is for concealing the holes on it. Knife? they surely will need it when cutting apples.
The image of Ghost slaughtering… peeling apple you mean, with Soap and Gaz playing red light green light and John napping in the tent is so vivid in your mind that you need to restrain the laugh with a clear of your throat before you grunt in affirmation and restart your steps.
With Soap depriving you of your last respite, you choose to grab what you need and head to the counter. All you want is to get home, have a nice shower, and lie on the bed reading the new fic you found last night.
“Do ye need help?” He watches you shove the products in your bag, but 5 huge cartons of milk are too heavy for your weak limbs, you can feel your arms trembling under your attempt.
“It’s okay, my car’s near the door. I can carry this myself.” Again, cheekiness works every time. You don’t care about strangers staring at you struggling with the bag and exit the supermarket in a crab way, as long as it can bring you back into peace faster, and you almost tear up when you see your car, the white of it is like the lighthouse in the atramentous night.
Hey, but you don’t remember your car has a goddamn huge dent at its boot.
“Oh yeah, forgot to tell ye. Ghost crashed into a car before he parked ours, and he’s contemplating whether he should kidnap the driver when they come back and make them shut up, or just kill them.” Soap looks at you stopping in despair as he recognizes what you’re looking at. “So it’s your car aye?”
You don’t answer him, you just watch Ghost materialize from the Shadow beside your car and give you a nod.
Fuck your life.
a/n: ty for reading :D have a nice day/night!
Car -1, Peaceful night -1
tag list :D - @blackhawkfanatic @nexthyperfix @danielle143 @goodbyegh0st @reaperxxxxzz @kaoyamamegami @imyprice @cod-z @poppingaround @live-for-fluff @masterstr0ke @mall0ww
#cod imagine#cod x reader#cod x you#ghost x reader#ghost x you#simon riley x reader#simon riley x you#simon ghost riley x reader#simon ghost riley x you#soap x reader#soap x you#john soap mactavish x reader#john soap mactavish x you#kyle gaz garrick x you#kyle gaz garrick x reader#gaz x reader#gaz x you#price x reader#price x you#john price x reader#john price x you#tf141 x reader#tf 141 x reader#tf141 x you
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how do you think it would be carmys first kiss with someone who works w/ him?
I’m assuming you mean like how it would happen? I’ve thought about this a couple of times and the main way I see it happening is after closing.
Maybe you stay behind late to work a dish that you couldn’t work on during operating hours, or you stay late to clean up. Regardless of your reasoning for staying, Carmy’s there because he’s always the last one to leave the restaurant.
Carmy finds his way behind you, watching as you cook. He’s so close that you can feel his breath on your neck. “What’s this, chef?”
“Uh-it’s wedding soup. Well, it’s going to be, anyway. I’ve been trying to perfect the recipe, but I didn’t want to do it on company time.” Your hands pause in cutting the carrots. He distracted you too much to risk getting nicked.
“Are you wanting it to be on the menu?”
“That’s up to you, not me,” you reply plainly. “You know, Carm, you don’t have to stay. I know it’s late. I can lock up after I’ve finished.”
“Do you want me to leave?” His question comes out as a whisper. The tension in the air thickens as you set the knife down on the cutting board and turn around. Your back leans against the counter behind you. Carmy’s right in front of you, leaving barely any space between his body and yours.
“No.” It’s only a mere second after your reply that Carmy’s lips crash into yours. It’s full of passion as his hands wrap around your waist to press your body into him.
NOW. to be completely honest I fear in character Carmy would then profusely apologize like “oh shit that was really fucking unprofessional. Fuck I’m sorry. I’m going to uh- go now.” And then run out of the restaurant </3. He just doesn’t know how to handle his feelings and feels like he acted rashly. The thing he’s most scared of is there being an improper balance with you since he’s your boss.
He would in time though stop being a wimp and would take you on a proper date. He really, really likes you he just simply doesn’t not know how to be in a relationship. Bless him.
#carmen berzatto x reader#carmen berzatto#the bear#carmy berzatto x reader#the bear fanfiction#thoughts
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all that we see or seem
➔ Dieter Bravo x AFAB!Reader
➔ 5.7k words
➔ You moved to Hollywood in hopes of chasing your dreams; you get a lot more than you bargained for from your new boss, Dieter Bravo.
➔ Rated MA // dark fic, reader is afab (female anatomy, no pronouns used) and generally able-bodied, age gap (unspecified, reader is younger than dieter), vampire!dieter, blood/both consensual and non-consensual blood drinking, knife use, slight self-harm, gore of the mouth variety, pet names, takes place in 1983 bc i’m a sucker for changing settings
➔ this was requested from this prompt list by the very lovely @sp00kymulderr!! happy birthday darling, sorry this took so long but i hope it's worth the wait <3 thank you so much to @missredherring for this AMAZING header graphic ily 🖤
Los Angeles is a far cry from the little town you grew up in. It’s a seemingly endless maze, with more possibilities than you ever could’ve dreamed. It’s a little daunting, really. You step off your plane with your suitcase in hand, and you feel like the world is in the palms of your hands.
The harsh reality comes crashing in without warning.
LA is expensive, especially on your own. As the money you’d saved up to get you started dwindles much quicker than expected, your dreams only get further and further out of reach. Life always finds a way to fuck you over, and the city of angels does it quicker than anywhere else. The glitzy neon nightclubs and the glamor of Hollywood swiftly become an omen of doom rather than a beacon of hope. You’re in over your head, but it’s too late to back out now.
Auditions get put on the backburner. You work yourself to the bone as a server in a dumpy little diner, but it’s still barely enough to cover your basic expenses.
You wake up, you go to work, you come home, you go to sleep. The cycle repeats itself so quickly that your days all merge together into one, long, neverending nightmare.
The light at the end of the tunnel appears shortly before the first anniversary of your move. You’re scanning through the paper during your meal break when you see a help wanted ad. It’s normally the type of thing you would ignore, but a few things about it draw you in. The part that really catches your eye is the large, bold letters that proclaim “work closely with one of the biggest names in hollywood!” It seems too good to be true, and certainly something you’re not qualified for. But it could be a start–a way to get your foot through the door of the industry that brought you out here in the first place. Really, what’s the harm in trying?
You go to the library, type up your resume, and mail it in to the address listed in the ad. Realistically, you know that there must be hundreds of other applicants and you probably won’t get so much as a rejection letter back; but the needling little ‘what if’ in the back of your mind gives you a boost of hope that you’ve lived without for an achingly long time.
You get better than a letter–a broad, handsome man shows up at the diner late one night asking for you three days after you drop your resume into the local mail slot at the post office. Janine, the shaggy-haired waitress you work with almost every shift and have sort of become friends with, nudges you excitedly while you’re handing a ticket back to the kitchen.
“Honey, do you know who that is?” She nods her head over her shoulder towards a table in the corner of her section and you try to look over as nonchalantly as possible.
Of course you know who that is. His face is everywhere in this stupid town–magazine covers, billboards, movie theaters. Even with sunglasses obscuring the dark brown eyes that have made thousands swoon, you recognize Dieter Bravo. He’s bigger than Hasselhoff and Swayze combined.
“He’s asking for you,” Janine whispers. “By name. You know him?”
“Not yet,” you answer truthfully. You know without a doubt that he’s here because of your resume and that your entire world is about to change.
You’ve seen him on the big screen before and now you can definitively say that it doesn’t do him justice. He’s more handsome than any man has a right to be. He’s wearing a black hoodie and black trousers, an ensemble that stands out in the brightness of 1983 but yet perfectly complements the tanned tone of his skin. His shoulders could fill a doorway and his smile might actually melt you into a puddle. You can’t help but notice–with a hint of trepidation–that his canines are the sharpest you’ve ever seen, although that thought is quickly pushed from your mind when he greets you by name.
“Your resume is impressive.”
“No it’s not,” you respond with a little laugh before you can stop yourself, then you have to refrain from banging your head into the wall. What a great start to an interview.
But he laughs, and you can’t help feeling you’ve done something right. You’d do a hell of a lot worse just to hear that gorgeously deep, hearty chuckle again.
“Okay, I’ll rephrase. You said all the right things. You’ve got exactly what I’m looking for as an assistant.”
You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, because this is much too good to be true.
“You’re not from LA,” he states factually. “What brought you here?”
You consider lying–coming up with some story that’s less pathetic than the truth. He’s appreciated your honesty thus far, though, and you don’t want to break a streak. “I wanted to act, but… it’s hard to get started when you don’t have any connections. So I’ve just been kind of… getting by.”
He nods and gives you a look over–assessing, you think. “We all have to start somewhere. But this isn’t an easy job.”
There’s something unreadable in his voice, but you choose to ignore it because you want nothing more than a chance to impress him. It’s not about ‘making it’ anymore; it’s about proving to Dieter Bravo that you’re worth taking a chance on.
“Neither is this,” you reply with a vague wave at the diner around you. “If I’m not covered in fryer grease at the end of the day, it’s a good job to me.”
He chuckles again and it washes over you like fresh water after years of drought. You want more of him–more of his charm, more of his warmth.
“When can you start?”
You ask for two weeks to leave your diner gig on good terms, and he’s gracious enough to accommodate you. As the days tick past, the anticipation ramps up and time seems to move slower. You’ve never been so excited for a new job. Normally, your gut twists with anticipation and your mind swirls with every little minute detail that could go wrong–but not now. No, now you’re just excited. The possibilities of Hollywood finally seem to be within your reach again, and it all starts with this job.
You learn a lot about Dieter within five minutes of starting on your first day. For one, he’s incredibly personable. He greets you himself and vows to show you the ropes. There’s no third party to teach you everything you need to know, it’s just him. Just the two of you. You appreciate that immensely, because you’ll be serving him directly as his assistant. There’s no better person to learn from when it comes to his desires and routines than the man himself.
Two, he wears many different masks. It’s a little spooky, the way his demeanor changes depending on who he’s dealing with. He can be the sweetest, most charming man you’ve ever spoken to, then turn to a producer and be a complete hardass all in the name of getting things done. He knows exactly what persona he needs to wear for each person he interacts with–it’s all very calculated. You suppose all actors have to be capable of that; the mark of a good thespian is being instantly able to pretend you’re someone you’re not.
Still, it’s a little chilling. If you didn’t see it in some form or another with every person you meet on set, you’d be a little concerned. Dieter just makes it look like adaptation–fitting into his surroundings as a means of staying afloat. He’s been in this industry for a long time, he knows what works; and, subsequently, what doesn’t.
As far as the job goes, it’s a nice change of pace from what you’ve become accustomed to. You spend nights on set with him, fetching his coffee order or running little errands while he’s busy shooting. The hours aren’t unreasonable, and it pays double what the diner did. Now that you’re not struggling to get by financially, you have the free time you need to start pursuing your dreams again.
You have only Dieter to answer to, which is a definite learning curve. Directors, producers, and even other actors chase after your favors, but Dieter tells them unequivocally to fuck off. You’re his–it’s a heady feeling each time he reasserts it. It makes for easy work when you’re not being pulled in thirty different directions simultaneously. He asks for what he needs when he’s around and he gives you a list of tasks to complete when he’s not. He’s a little eccentric–he tells you he can only work after dark because his eyes are sensitive–but it’s nice, falling into a routine after so long of working unconventional hours at a job where no two days are the same.
Still, as days turn into weeks by his side, you wonder exactly what version of Dieter he’s presenting to you. Which face is the most authentic? You want to believe he’s himself with you, but you’re not quite naive enough to convince yourself of that. The thing that bothers you the most is that you want him to feel comfortable enough to drop the facades around you. You want to get to know the real Dieter Bravo, underneath all the masks. But you also swore to yourself, when you accepted this job, that you would be nothing but professional–and wanting to get to know him so intimately is definitely a step beyond just being his employee.
To his credit, he’s strictly professional–even if you wish he wasn’t at times. There’s a lot of rumors and gossip about him, about his hedonism and the life he supposedly leads at night, but you don’t see that facet of him. With you, he’s friendly, kind, and respectful. He’s the perfect gentleman–and that’s how you know that you’re not getting a full glimpse of the real him. There’s too much contradiction between the rumors and the Dieter that you interact with.
No matter how straight-laced you try to be, you can’t help wondering what it’ll take to get a look at the real Dieter Bravo.
You think he starts to peek through when Dieter asks if you would be willing to work longer hours and be more of a personal assistant than a production assistant. You know him inside and out, he tells you, and it would be a pain in the ass to teach a whole new person how to deal with his errands. He even offers you a sizable raise when you pretend to be contemplating it, like you weren’t bursting at the seams to say yes before he even finished asking.
The sad–maybe even pathetic–truth of the matter is that you’re falling for him. Every facet of his charm, from his darkly passionate eyes to his easy humor, have you completely bewitched and ready to ignore the way your hair stands on end each time his gaze meets yours. You’ll take any small fraction of him that you can get.
He eases you into your additional duties, at least; that much can be said in his favor. He starts you out with small tasks, like ordering his groceries and picking up his dry cleaning. Dieter’s so kind and patient as he explains how he likes everything done–he’s particular, but not unreasonable. He even gives you a grand tour of his home so you can see exactly where and how he likes everything done–it’s like finally getting that real glimpse of him that you’ve been hoping for.
His Sherman Oaks mansion looks like something straight out of a Bram Stoker novel on the outside, yet the inside is a testament to the warm side of his personality that you’re more familiar with. It’s decorated in shades of orange and red, with patterns that are a little out of date but still manage to feel intentional. It gives the impression of someone who was more comfortable and sure of himself in the 70’s, or at least someone who hasn’t quite adjusted to the new trends that came with the turn of the decade. The walls are covered with art–most of it signed with his familiar “DB” in the bottom right hand corner. It’s neat, but not so neat that it feels staged. It fits the Dieter Bravo that you know perfectly, and it even starts to feel like home to you when you start spending more time there with him.
There’s never anyone else around when you’re there. For someone who has a reputation for throwing the liveliest parties in all of Hollywood, he doesn’t actually do a lot of partying. Not when you’re around, at least. It’s almost like he’s trying to hide that aspect of himself from you. If he has to host, he sends you home early or lets you know in advance that you’re getting a paid night off. You’re almost disappointed–parties have never really been your thing, sure, but you feel like you need to experience at least one of his.
Plus, people are starting to talk. You hear it on set first; his co-stars whispering about how he’s gone soft, how he’s gotten boring. Even the tabloids are starting to wonder if they’ve seen the last infamous Dieter Bravo party, which were once highly coveted and exclusive events. The few times he’s hosted lately have been small, quiet affairs–definitely not the big, star-studded shebangs that he’s gained a reputation for.
A rumor even starts circulating that he’s finally decided to settle down with a nice girl, which makes your stomach twist with a little green monster that shouldn’t be there. He’s your employer, you reason. That’s all. No matter how friendly he is, no matter how much he flirts with you, no matter how much he compliments your perfect cup of coffee, that’s all he is. Your boss. And yet, despite your constant self-assertion, your brain just can’t seem to accept it. You know you shouldn’t want anything more than that, and yet you just can’t seem to stop yourself from hoping.
“What’s going on with you?”
You’re in the midst of trying to sort through the files in his upstairs home office so you can find out when his insurance needs to be renewed when you hear the voice, loud and clear due to the open floor plan downstairs. Sound travels like crazy up the double-wide staircase with Dieter’s office door right at the top. You couldn’t shut it out even if you wanted to–and you don’t. God help you, you’re a little nosy and a little curious.
“Nothing.” That’s Dieter’s voice, but you don’t recognize the other.
“Bullshit. You’re not yourself.” It’s a deep, rich tone that you’ve never heard before and it immediately has your interest hooked. Dieter doesn’t get many visitors, much less such purposeful ones. Most people like to schmooze him, but evidently not this unidentified man.
“I’m trying to be different,” Dieter explains half-heartedly. “It’s time I cleaned up a bit.”
“No. Cleaning up your act is nothing more than a good way to get yourself caught. Things happen in the party climate, that’s how you fit in. Things don’t just happen to nice rich actors.”
Caught? Caught doing what, exactly? You creep closer to the open door on light feet, curiosity peaked.
Dieter sighs, and you can hear the exhaustion in his voice. “I’m tired.”
“So what are you going to do? Just give up? Waste away after… how long?”
“Maybe I should,” Dieter retorts–there’s grit in his tone now, maybe even bitterness. “Maybe I never should’ve taken the deal in the first place. You don’t see how fucked up this all is?”
“So, what? You’ve gotten everything you could’ve possibly wanted, and now you’re tired of playing the game? Pathetic.” There’s a sneer in the tone of this unidentified speaker and you don’t like it. You want to jump to Dieter’s defense, but something tells you this is a conversation that you shouldn’t be eavesdropping on.
“Whatever, man,” Dieter scoffs dismissively.
There’s noise downstairs now–a slight thud and what sounds like Dieter grunting as if the wind has been knocked out of him.
“What changed?”
“Fuck off,” Dieter spits.
“What. Changed?”
“You weren’t fucking honest with me.”
“Bullshit,” the stranger growls back. “You knew exactly what you were getting into.”
“No, you said everything I wanted, that was the deal. Remember?” It’s quiet for a long moment, and you wonder if Dieter’s pacing. He does that, when he starts to get stressed. “I’m still alone, though.”
“That’s your own fault,” the stranger replies–voice a little softer now. “I didn’t say I would hand you your dreams on a silver platter. You make your own destiny. Surely it hasn’t been so long that you’ve forgotten that little qualifier.”
“I can’t bring someone else into this shit and you know it,” Dieter replies. The venom is gone from his voice now–he just sounds done. Exhausted and spent.
“You can, but you won’t.” There’s a moment of silence, then a heavy sigh. “Start acting like yourself again before you raise too much suspicion.”
“Fine,” Dieter sighs heavily.
There’s a few long moments of silence, and then you hear the heavy solid oak front door shut. Presumably the guest has gone, and while you’re eager to sneak down and see if you can catch a glimpse of who it might’ve been, it’s far too risky with Dieter down there. Something tells you that he should never find out about the way you just eavesdropped on that conversation. You don’t know who he was talking to, or what kind of deal they were discussing–you just know that it’s serious, and definitely above your paygrade.
“Did you find that paperwork?”
You didn’t hear Dieter come upstairs–his sudden question from right behind you makes you jump and whirl around to look at him. You fight to keep your calm as you catch your breath; the last thing you want to do is clue him in that you overheard his conversation with his unknown guest.
“Yeah, I’ve got it right here,” you answer after a thick gulp.
“You’re a doll,” he proclaims with a wide smile. How easily he picks up the face he wears with you after a conversation that clearly upset him. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” you hum with a smile. “This entire room is a nightmare. It’s a miracle you ever find anything. You need to get, like… some filing cabinets. At the very least.”
“I’ll, uhh… get right on that,” he says in a way that makes you sure he definitely won’t get right on it.
Despite the nerves still thrumming through your veins, you laugh. “I’ll take care of it.”
“You’re a doll,” he repeats with his trademark grin. “Oh! Hey, uhh… you have tomorrow off. Paid, obviously.”
“Why?” You ask before you can think better of it.
He seems surprised–you don’t normally ask questions, especially about paid vacation days. “Work stuff I gotta take care of. No big deal.”
“Okay,” you answer with a slight frown. “Sure I can’t help?”
He actually does seem to be contemplating it for a moment–his eyes scan over your body, and it’s like he’s considering you more than the actual offer. “No, honey, I’ll be okay.”
“Okay.” You take a short breath, then head towards the door–this was the last task on your list for the night. “Anything else you need before I head out?”
He thinks for a moment, then shakes his head as he follows you down the stairs. “No. Thanks, sweetheart.”
You feel heat fluttering underneath your skin at the pet name–he uses them often and they never fail to make your heart pick up pace. It’s like he can tell, because his eyes linger on your lips for a moment before trailing down to the pulse point on the left side of your neck. You wonder for a second if he can actually see it beating, but you quickly push that ridiculous thought away.
“You’re sure there’s nothing I can do for you tomorrow?”
His eyes are still trained on your neck like he’s completely zoned out or something. You watch as his tongue slowly glides over his bottom lip, trance-like; it makes your breath hitch in your throat.
“Yeah,” he whispers after a long moment–he’s standing so close now, you didn’t even notice him closing in. “I’ll call you if anything comes up.”
“Okay.” You want nothing more than to grab him and pull him in, to kiss him like your life depends upon it. He sounded so upset and every bone in your body is screaming to comfort him. The way he’s looking at you right now, you don’t think he’d mind at all.
Instead you take a deep breath, grab your bag from the bench next to the door, and bid him goodnight.
Dieter doesn’t seem to realize that you’re always working, whether you’re on the clock or not. Even on ‘off’ days, you get loads of calls for scheduling requests and other tasks. Your saving grace is your trusty day planner—it holds both of your schedules, all neatly color-coded for maximum efficiency.
The worst thing you could’ve done on a weekend leading up to awards season is leave it in Dieter’s home office—and yet, as you frantically dig through your tote bag and your desk, that seems to be exactly what you’ve done.
You know Dieter’s got whatever event he’s hosting at home, but you can’t keep taking calls and scribbling notes on napkins without your schedule in front of you. The last thing you want to do is overbook him at a time where every single interview counts.
With a heavy sigh, you dial Dieter’s home number. It rings for what seems like eternity, and just as you’re about to hang up an unfamiliar voice answers.
“Hello?”
With a sigh of relief, you ask, “Hi, is Dieter there?”
“He’s busy.” The voice is high and sweet, yet her tone says she couldn’t be more irritated.
“Okay… umm, it’s kind of important.”
The stranger sighs dramatically. “I can take a message.”
“I just… I left something there, and I need to come get it as soon as possible. But I don’t want to interrupt anything.”
This time when she speaks, her tone is considerably more friendly. “Oh! Yeah, come on over. The more the merrier!”
You can’t help your intrigue, although you really don’t want to intrude without Dieter’s say-so. “Are you sure? I could always come tomorrow, I guess.”
“No no, come! It’s a party, everyone’s welcome!” Then the line goes dead without any further discussion.
You consider redialing in the hopes of speaking and clearing your visit with Dieter, but you doubt you’ll actually get through to him–and really, what harm would a quick visit do? You know exactly where you left it, on the desk in his office. It’ll be five minutes tops, a quick in and out. He might never even know that you’d been there.
You shake off the curious sense of foreboding that overtakes your mind as you grab your keys and lock your apartment door behind you.
It’s a twenty minute ride to Dieter’s house–a lot of time to spend thinking. At the forefront of your mind is that peculiar conversation you overheard last night; you’re not entirely sure why, really. Whoever that man was sounded almost as if he was in some kind of position of power over Dieter, and you don’t have even an educated guess at who that could possibly be. Dieter’s his own boss and he doesn’t take bullying–you’ve never heard someone get away with bossing him around like that before. He’s constantly in some weird form of pissing match with the directors and producers of whatever film he’s working on; he’s never seemed to be good at taking orders, even when he’s supposed to. You’ve heard many a rant about how much he values the ‘freedom of expression’. It all serves to make the mysterious visitor more confusing. Who does Dieter have to answer to?
The cab pulls up in front of his gated home before you’re able to find a plausible answer. You instruct the driver to keep the meter running since you’ll only be a minute before you step out into the crisp late-January air.
The grounds are a lot quieter than you expect them to be as the guard on duty opens the gate and closes it behind you. One thing Dieter’s famous for is noise–his parties are always reported as loud and exciting affairs akin to the fraternities in his favorite movie Animal House. There's no noise at all today, though, and it makes you curious. Is it really a party? Or was the stranger who answered the phone maybe his only guest? If the latter is the case, why would she want you to join in?
There’s a pale man in a cheap-looking suit waiting just inside the door, a tray of filled wine glasses in his gloved hands. “Take one,” he instructs, his eyes distant like he’s looking through you rather than at you.
“Oh, no thank you, I just need to–”
“Take one,” he repeats. “Master’s orders.”
Master? Of course Dieter would be into that.
The wine is a deep red, probably that expensive vintage shit that he’s always raving about. You prefer the grocery store stuff yourself, not just because it’s all you can afford. A drink never hurts, though, and you could certainly use something to take the edge off–because that tingling sense of foreboding has only gotten stronger since your arrival.
You take a glass and swirl its currant-colored liquid around. It seems more viscous than any wine you’ve had before–probably a mark of its age, but that’s just guesswork on your part. You take a small sip, then nearly gag. It’s like drinking a pile of melted pennies. You swallow it down with a grimace anyway since you don’t want to make a scene of spitting it out in front of the server. It leaves a metallic taste in your mouth that you’re eager to wash out–thankfully, the kitchen is on your route to the stairs. You quickly deposit the glass on a table once you’re out of the server’s eyesight, then head down the hall in a desperate search for water.
Once you’re out of the foyer, there are people everywhere. Very subdued people, at that–draped over furniture like throw blankets, some even laying on the floor. You consider checking one’s pulse until he twitches and lets out a muffled groan. Clearly high on something, you’re just not sure what. You nearly trip over one person and they actually hiss at you like some kind of feral cat. Your skin starts to crawl with every step you take. Even more important than your discomfort, though, is finding Dieter. What if he’s like this, too? Do you need to call someone?
You notice a dull ache starting in your gums as you make it to the kitchen–thankfully you’re familiar with his home, and you have a glass of water in your hands within no time. It seems that no matter how much you drink, though, that coppery-bloody taste never leaves your mouth. What the hell was that stuff?
There’s a short-haired blonde woman propped up against the wall underneath the mounted phone; she reaches out a lazy hand in some sort of greeting. She looks vaguely familiar, like someone you might’ve seen on the set of one of Dieter’s films.
“You made it!” She says with a lazy smile. She must be the woman you spoke to earlier, although you’re not sure how she can identify you.
“Yeah. Where’s Dieter?” The longer you’re here, the more worried you become. Something isn’t right, and your skin is prickling with apprehension.
“Upstairs,” she murmurs, then her eyes flutter shut and she slumps a little further down. She’s visibly breathing, at least.
For a moment, you consider picking up the phone and ringing the police. Would that cause more harm than good? Dieter must be aware of what’s going on here–you know you should talk to him before you do anything.
Your mission to find your planner momentarily forgotten, you make your way through the living room towards the stairs.
You check the office at the top first–there’s a few bodies zonked out on the couch, but none of them are Dieter. With trepidation in your very soul, you make your way down the hall. Each room is more of the same–people in varying states of unrest, no sign of the man you’re looking for. Most of them have red-stained lips and you eye more than one smashed glass along your journey. Your own mouth is starting to get alarmingly sore, but you ignore it in favor of finding Dieter.
Each step you take drives your worries deeper into your skull. What if something’s happened to him? What if he’s knocked out like all of his guests, or hurt, or something worse?
This is the first time you’ve breached the bubble of his bedroom. None of your work has ever involved this room, and while you’re a naturally nosey type of person, there’s something deeply personal and sacred about the space someone sleeps in.
Ignoring the steady throbbing in your gums, you knock once before pushing open the door.
Dieter’s alone in his room, sprawled out like a starfish in a sea of rumpled sheets at the center of his massive bed. Something akin to a groan of horror escapes your throat as you see the state he’s in. He’s paler than a corpse and drenched in sweat, chest barely rising and falling with breath.
For a moment, you’re frozen in place. Your entire body breaks out in a cold sweat as you notice the knife in his right hand and the deep gash in the crook of his left arm, right where an IV would normally be set. You can smell the blood draining from him, you can even taste it in the air–or maybe that’s just the lingering taste of whatever you drank downstairs.
Your stomach churns violently with the sudden realization of what you’ve done, of what you’ve drank.
“Dieter!” You manage to choke out while your brain tries to remember how to send the signals required for your body to fucking move.
He lifts his head shakily, brown eyes widening after a long moment of trying to recognize the face he’s looking at. “No no no,” he whispers hoarsely, “you’re not supposed t-to be here. You’re.. y-you’re supposed to be a-at home.”
A sharp, shattering pain in your top gum snaps your brain back into action. In a flash you’re crawling across a seemingly endless desert of mattress and it feels like you’ll never reach him. Everything is moving so slowly–each movement seems to take a hundred times the effort it should.
You spit out a mouthful of blood as the pain heightens, barely registering the two upper canines that go with it.
“What the fuck have you done?” You sob, uselessly pawing at his slashed left arm. It’s a precise cut straight across the artery–your hands are sticky and soaked with red the moment you touch him. Pressure, your brain screams at you. Put pressure on the wound.
“A real artist must suffer,” he mumbles weakly–then, even quieter, “I didn’t want to be alone anymore.”
“You’re dying.” Your voice doesn’t sound like your own anymore. It’s higher, breathier.
“You drank it, d-didn’t you?” He asks, ignoring your statement. His distant eyes are trained on the sharp fangs that have pushed your canines out. “Fuck. Fuck! You were n-never supposed to…”
“Shut up, shut up,” you plead. Every shaky breath seems to cost him years. “How do I fix this? How do I fix you?”
“Thirsty,” he mumbles. There’s water on the sideboard, your brain reminds you. You don’t even remember bringing the glass with you, much less setting it down. Everything is so fuzzy. Your arm doesn’t move nearly as fast as it should when you reach for the glass, and Dieter’s hand weakly comes up to stop you.
“Not water,” he croaks. “Need… need…”
He can’t seem to form the words required to tell you what he needs. He doesn’t have to, though. You know.
“You’re not dying on me, Bravo.” You take the knife from his slack right hand before he can stop you and grit your sore teeth together as you slash it across your palm.
“N-no, don’t…” But he doesn’t resist as you hold your bleeding palm to his mouth. His empty eyes flash back to life with the first taste, and then he takes your hand in his own and drinks greedily. You watch with nothing short of disbelief as the cut on his arm seals itself right before your eyes.
“You were supposed to stay away from this,” he murmurs as his tongue sweeps across your palm. “Why the fuck are you here, baby?”
You don’t even remember anymore. Everything is hazy, everything hurts. It’s a chore just to keep your eyes open.
“Damn it,” he growls–pushing your hand away from his blood-smeared mouth seems to take all his willpower. “I never wanted this for you.”
“It’s okay,” you murmur as you slump down against his sheets. They’re so soft and light, and you want to cocoon yourself in them for the rest of time. “It’s just a dream.”
“Why’d you have to come save me? Huh?” His voice sounds so far away that you’re not even sure he’s really speaking.
“I love you.” It’s okay to say that, because he’ll never actually find out. It’s just a dream, after all; you’ll wake up in the morning confused but totally okay.
“You were never supposed to,” his voice echoes from some plain of existence far, far away. “Damn it honey, stay awake just a minute longer.”
You try, but your eyes are so heavy. He sighs heavily, as if he knows it’s useless.
“Promise you’ll still love me when you wake up,” he pleads through the tunnel that separates you.
Nodding saps the last of your strength, so you let your eyes flutter closed. “Okay.”
You feel his lips against yours and his coppery kiss nearly brings you back from the verge of sleep. In the end, though, your throbbing head wins. Sleep takes hold quickly despite your feeble resistance.
How strange it is to fall asleep in a dream.
➔ beta: @schnarfer and @futuraa-free thank you my lovelies <3
➔ Want to see more from me in the future? Follow @freelancearsonist-updates and turn on post notifications to be notified when I post new fics!
➔ Want to support me? Please reblog this fic! It helps boost it in the algorithm and gives it more circulation no matter what your follower count is :) any feedback or comment is always greatly appreciated!!
#dieter bravo#dieter bravo x reader#dieter bravo fanfiction#pedro pascal#pedro pascal characters#the bubble#the bubble fanfiction#cece writes
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lestappen fic recs: an (ongoing) masterlist
here it finally is! because i promised!! a hopefully ongoing collection of my favorite lestappen fics, all on ao3.
LONG FICS (over 35k words)
Long Live (The Walls We Crashed Through) by Fabby | Explicit | 80.7k words
“What are you doing?” Charles asked, his voice cracking.
Max blinked at him once before he smirked and said, “Well... I was going to kiss you.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to.”
“Why?” Charles repeated, feeling like his legs were going to give out.
“Is that not a good enough reason?” Max asked.
OR: The childhood best friends to lovers fairy-tale-soulmates fic that nobody asked for. Charles has been in love with Max since he was seven years old.
I'm sure this one can go without saying since you all have probably read it, but it's a classic, and I'm including it on pure principle. This fic has it all.
2. Yours by loquarocoeur | Explicit | 53.9k words
Charles looks much too satisfied as Max leans back against the door, one eyebrow tugging up as he asks, “Do you want to fight?”
“Of course I want to fight.”
Charles only looks slightly amused. “Then fight.”
"Stop fucking telling me what to do!" Max yells.
Charles cocks his head. "What, because it turns you on?"
Alternatively:
Max doesn't want to like Charles, but Charles makes that really fucking difficult sometimes
To Bottom Max enjoyers, this will become your Bible if you haven't read it already. To tentative Max Bottom explorers, you will love this fic even if you never read Bottom Max again. But it might change your brain chemistry, so be careful.
3. half of a heaven by weiwuxian | Explicit | 38.9k words
“Good evening. I’m Charles,” he offers his hand, which Max takes and for a second, Charles thinks he’s going to kiss the back of it. Some muscle spasms in the tight grip, rough velvet against soft skin. When Charles gets his hand back, it feels like he lost a finger or two in the fight.
“What’s your poison, Charles?” Max asks, settling on the barstool like it’s not designed to be the most uncomfortable chair in the world.
“Cyanide, usually. I’ll settle for a gin tonic for now.”
or:
Charles is a supermodel that has learned everything he needs to make his world turn. Now, he has no idea what Max Verstappen wants from him.
charles' black cat energy is strong in this fic. and man's laden with issues. he's an eccentric supermodel and max is an f1 driver and big ol' simp. once again they're dumb, but they're lestappen, come on. fork found in kitchen.
4. give me that fire by Lady_Something | Explicit | 39.8k words
“Can you work with him?”
Max has to take two drags of his cigarette before he can answer, and even then all he says is, “He knew I was the head chef, didn’t he.”
Charles has to have known. Even if the news hadn’t reached him that Max had taken over as the head chef of Taureau Rouge, he would not have travelled all the way from Paris to London for an interview at a restaurant without knowing who he’d be working under.
Still, Charles was the one who broke up with him. Max has to know, for sure.
“He knows,” Christian confirms softly. “He outright laughed at me when I called and asked him to come work at one of my restaurants. It was only after I said it was Taureau Rouge, working with you, that he agreed to come.”
Fuck. Fuck.
Max could’ve gone his whole life without knowing that. He probably fucking should have, because how is he supposed to be normal about it?
// Max and Charles have history, but it doesn't stop Charles from coming to work as Max's new sous chef. It does mean that everything changes for them both in the space of a single week.
Chef aus seem to be a trend in the f1 ficdom and I eat that shit up every time. This fic is no exception. Anyways they're so messy and flawed, it's beautiful
5. unwritten by NovaCloud | Teen and Up | 37.6k words
Reach for your dreams. Charles is trying, but it’s fucking hard. Falling in love with Max wasn’t part of his plans. Running away is easier, at least that way he won’t get hurt. Right?
-
Letting out a breathy laugh Charles shakes his head. He puts down the little shot glass and turns to Max, staring at him. “You spent my yearly pay check on me?"
“I spent it on charity,” Max corrects him with a slight smirk as he casually leans against the bar. Charles wants to kiss it off his face. “I’m very concerned with wildlife conservation.”
Charles snorts. “It’s for biodiversity.”
“And that too, of course.”
"You're insane, you know that?"
As someone in journalism I had to suspend my disbelief at some parts but that's honestly part of the charm tbh. Just silly, dramatic, fun, and cute. Plus billionaire Max is... yeah.
MEDIUM FICS (15k - 35k words)
straight lines (that unwind you) by 140445 | Explicit | 16.3k words
“Do you know him?” Arthur asks.
“No,” Charles decides. Because he does not. He knows Max is a mathematics major, and that he plays chess. And that he hits the gym. And what he looks like when he comes. Details.
The tag "meet-cute but it's a meet-disaster" is used, which is accurate. A good mix of comedy but also heart-wrenching... sweetness? romance? they're both extremely stupid and extremely lestappen and it's just amazing. and great smut ofc.
2. home (is wherever I'm with you) by actparci | Not Rated | 17.9k
On the drive back to the hotel Max had turned to him, blue eyes fierce and piercing.
“Promise me you won’t stop being angry. You’re angry because you know what you can do. Use it, control it, let it fuel you. Other people won’t understand but that doesn’t matter, you know what you’re capable of.”
You and me, he’d seemed to say, we’re the same.
Charles wonders now how he ever thought Max wouldn’t understand.
Or: Charles leaves Ferrari, tries to win a championship, and learns some things about belonging. All the while, Max is there.
Another one you've all probably read. If I were to describe this fic in one word, it's "cathartic". Who needs therapy when you have Charles Fix It Fics???
3. kitty conundrum by linearity | Explicit | 18k words
Charles shows up to Monaco with kitty ears and a tail. Max is totally normal about it.
spoiler alert: he's not normal about it. thanks to some magical realism you get this almost-omegaverse-but-not-quite fic, and lestappen are just two horny idiots.
4. friday night; i'm in love by autumnapricot | General Audiences | 21k words
Charles hates Max.
Well, not really—hate is probably far too big of a word for it.
Max annoys Charles.
Well, not really either, because Max doesn’t, like, do anything purposely to annoy Charles or goes out of his way or acts with ill intention, or whatever. At least he pretends like he doesn’t, so.
Charles is annoyed by Max.
Yes, that’s more like it.
[Or—Max and Charles work together in an office, eight hours a day, five times a week. Strangely enough, it’s friday nights that bring them closer.]
They're so silly and sweet in this fic and I was endlessly endeared reading it. I'm a bitch for an office au, especially when it involves a ridiculous one-sided rivals to lovers.
5. even the sun sets in paradise by PrincessElectra | Teen and Up | 27.7k words
If he had to name the place where the story of Max and Charles began, if there was a moment that divided them into Before and After, there would be a few candidates.
But there was only one correct answer. He would never forget the name.
The place is called Val d’Argenton. Stories are still being written there.
Charles likes to tell the story of the incident - turn by turn, infused with poetic drama, detailing every single emotion: frustration, anger, pure spite. Every time he tells it, his smile grows along with the laughter in his eyes, even as his words recount a tale of opposing emotions.
“I never want to go back to Val d’Argenton,” Charles once confessed.
“We’ll never go back there,” he promised, and Charles knew what he meant.
This fic is... everything <3 The hurt/comfort is just done so well; it gives meaning to the phrase "in sickness and in health." Their love is just written so beautifully.
SHORT FICS (under 15k words)
Cheating at Bingo and Other Christmas Traditions by WanderingBlindly | General Audiences | 12.4k words
"You know, there’s a very nice, very handsome young man in my neighborhood –” She starts back up, flagging down their waiter for another glass of wine.
“Absolutely not,” He cuts her off with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Next topic.”
“So you’re too good for him, is that it?” She sounds defensive, but her tone still has a mocking edge to it – emphasized by the quirk of her brows.
Hardly holding back a groan, Charles tries to think of a way out of this. She’s like a cat, batting at him until he gives up, rolls over, and plays dead. “That’s not – I’m just busy, and it’s –”
Or: Hallmark style fluff featuring an irritated Charles, a well-meaning Max, and the grandma that just wants them to kiss
Short and sweet, just pure fluff and Christmas joy. If you just want to read something nice and also pretend like it's Christmas in July, then this is the fic for you.
2. Clothes by Anonymous | Mature | 2.6k words
5 times Charles steals Max's clothes and the 1 time Max rips his clothes off of him.
cute domestic lestappen. they're adorable. that's all <3
3. Saturdays by NerdHerder12 | Teen and Up | 3.1k words
On Saturdays, Max visits Charles.
Proceed with caution. I feel physically ill after reading this fic and I really only read it when I want to hurt my own feelings. But it's so good.
4. And That's How I Foksmashed Dad's Championship Trophy by PrincessElectra | Teen and Up | 6.5k words
All of that would have been forgivable if not for the Green-Eyed Monster’s complete disregard for the pre-contracted occupation rights of Max’s lap. Such rights had long been pre-determined and belonged to Sassy (and occasionally to Jimmy, she admitted begrudgingly). However, no amount of quiet hisses and vicious glares seemed to penetrate the creature’s thick skull, and he would greedily occupy Max’s thigh for more than 95% of any given afternoon. Sometimes with his head, sometimes with his feet, and a few times he even straddled his entire body over Max; the latter could not have been comfortable for Max, as the Green-Eyed Monster was enormously overweight compared to Sassy.
(Jimmy had insisted that it was not nice to shame another living creature about their weight, but she was not wrong. With her compact size and considerably more reasonable mass, Sassy was confident that she was much more comfortable for Max to have on his lap than that horrendously oversized creature.)
Another hit by PrincessElectra. The beauty of this fic is how hilarious but also fluffy it manages to be. Sassy needs to narrate all future lestappen fics, I don't make the rules
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Talk Shop Tuesday: If you could immediately pluck one story/concept/idea from your brain and have it fully formed in front of you, exactly as you would want, what would that idea be? Can you describe it to us, along with any potential factors that are slowing you down/blocking you from creating it in the first place? Thanks! <3 -@fieldsofview
Oh, boy, that is a question!
My first thought is that I'd like to have When Two Become One (or, oh dear, Little and Broken, but Still Good) completed, just to not have the dangling WIP to worry about.
But really, honestly, if I was sitting here with the one-use-only magical wishing stone that would take a story from my brain and give me a ready-to-release perfect version of it? I would ask it to finish the historical-with-magic m/m romance that I started writing a bit over five years ago and had plotted five followups to.
It's such a great story! It has magical soulbonds that are made, not found! It has a whole system of gay marriage fitted into a historical setting in a way that I personally find satisfying and logical! It has the obstacle to marriage between our heroes being that they are too exactly well-matched for each other (and therefore it's painfully difficult to determine which of them ought to become a non-person and lose his independent inheritance and social status by becoming the dependent spouse of the other, because it's 1834 and somebody has to not be a whole legal person anymore after they get married, that's the rules).
It has COMPLEMENTARY MAGICAL ABILITIES REVEALING ROMANTIC COMPATIBILITY. It has YEARNING. It has a DUEL (well, almost) and a huge historic disaster that our heroes get swept up in, leading to SWOONING FROM MAGICAL EXHAUSTION. It has the baby sister who the hero wants to protect SOLVING PROBLEMS HERSELF, with the help of her trans girlfriend. (It has magical gender affirmation for trans people, because what kind of magical setting would it be if it didn't??) It has a HORRIBLE COUSIN WHO WILL INHERIT THE ESTATE who turns out in a subsequent book to be not really horrible at all so much as, you know, autistic and traumatized and dashed awkward in sensitive situations, and in need of just the right adorable twink to understand him and love him.
It unfortunately has a terminal lack of writing momentum due to me picking away at it through all the years when my writing had not come home from the wars, and so I just feel sort of exhausted every time I think about figuring out what the fuck happens in chapter five and how to put that into words and sentences and paragraphs, so I've stuck it in the drawer and moved on to things that I feel a bit less daunted by, although just this second I feel daunted by every activity more complicated than playing Cake Sort on my phone and watching a lot of Air Crash Investigations, because life is a lot right now.
But if I just had this novel straight from the wishing stone, I could read it, and I'm sure I would love the whole thing again and be ready to write the next five books, and also I could publish the dear thing and tell people it's a bit like a KJ Charles (with less murder) or Jordan L Hawk (with less eldritch horror), and it would probably sell pretty decently and I could be firmly on the way with my five year plan to be able to do more writing and less day-jobbing. And that would be awfully nice.
#asked and answered#talk shop tuesday#answered on wednesday because it is that kind of time right now
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What does Azula cook for Katara for their first dinner date? Do things go as planned?
my personal head canon is . . .
okay okay so hear meowt-
Azula, Toph, Sokka and Ty Lee get along splendidly like chums. Although Azula's reluctant, she can't help but follow around in their little group wreaking havoc wherever they go.
And because she's so adamant on being mean (but she actually is not, mind you), the other three in that little group like to play pranks on her to get back at her.
It couldn't have come to haunt her at a worser time than exactly when she's supposed to be cooking Katara dinner for their first dinner date.
Azula doesn't know, of course, when she proudly pours stewed sea prunes into Katara's bowl as they are seated at the private table next to the royal dining hall, garnishing it with a little fire flakes to innovate a culmination of two cultures, that she's actually tapping down generous amounts of chilli pepper used for brain stimulation.
"You really think this is a good idea?" Katara asks doubtfully as she peeps into the bowl with suspicion.
Azula crosses her arms over her chest. "Of course. The Royal Fire Academy for Girls taught me cooking during survival training and I make the best elephant-rat soup in the whole nation!" Her eyes shine with a tint of vile pride.
Katara looks at her worried. "But this isn't elephant-rat . . ."
"Oh, just eat the damn food I made for you!"
"Okay, okay!" Katara picks up her spoon, filling it with stew, before placing it inside her mouth.
Her eyes widen immediately, smoke almost exiting out of her ears. She gulps down the spoonful and the burn travels all the way to her butthole.
It feels like a volcano just threw up inside her.
"Oh my god!" She exclaims, eye brimming with unshed tears.
"What?" Azula looks at her with so much longing and expectation in her eyes that Katara feels stupid to even break the horrible news to her. "What is it?! Is it that good?!"
Azula pulls the bowl towards herself.
"No-" Katara chokes out, trying to reach the bowl; trying to prevent another tragedy, but the spoon is already in Azula's mouth and the stew is already getting sprayed to the floor from Azula's mouth in a quick shower.
"WHAT THE FUCK?!"
Azula wipes her lips discordantly, letting the spoon fall from her grip as she notices the tiny container sitting on the table. She grabs it swiftly and empties some of it's contents to her palm and BAM!
It's that thought enducing, extremely hot, chilli pepper that she swore she won't try out again, no matter what monster forced her to.
And here's her date, trying to get some water in her mouth in a way that lets her heal her own burning tongue.
Azula scowls. She knows she put fire flakes in that container. She made sure to check literally today morning. She double-checked it, in fact. Unless somehow . . .
Unless . . .
Azula's eyes widen with unfathomable rage. "SOKKA YOU FILTHY PEASANT!!!" She yells before pushing her chair back, letting it fall down in a crash as she storms out to the dining hall, smoke coming out of her nostrils.
Katara can still hear Azula yelling, "SHOW YOURSELF AT ONCE YOU IMBECILE!!!" in the hallway as she giggles to herself, her mouth and palete completely neutral and soothing again from her healing water.
She picks up the other bowl placed for Azula, fills it only with stew, and takes a hesistant sip. Her eyes widen again but this time because of the exquisite taste rather than a volcanic eruption.
Azula wasn't lying when she said she's a great chef.
She tries not to moan out loud at the flavours filling her mouth that are normally missing back in her village. Azula's made sure she added spices that aren't inherently hot to the stew from the fire nation cuisine keeping the waterbender's low spice tolerance in mind, and it's unique in a way she's never experienced before. The firebender's put in such meticulous effort into the dish that Katara can't help but think about kissing her flush on the mouth when she next catches sight of her. She gulps the stew down, directly from the bowl before helping herself with another bowlful.
...
It's when she goes to visit Azula that night, that she finds two figures walking out, rubbing their hands and neck, groaning in pain. She knows exactly who they are just from the silhouette.
When light finally falls on them, she notices that her brother's straightout missing his ponytail and Toph's got a black-eye and a broken nose. They stop in front of her.
"I don't even wanna know." She says, raising her hands, before walking past them to Azula's chambers.
***
this prompt came out more chaotic than i expected it to be ngl- 💀
#azutara#ragzie yaps#kazula#katzula#katara doesnt wanna know#but aang wants to know#and ty lee wants to know too#zuko just walked off with a snort#atla#atla fanfic#drabbles#atla drabbles#princess azula#katara of the southern water tribe#sokka#sokka of the southern water tribe#toph#toph beifong#azula#katara#anon#asked and answered#asks#anon asks#ask me anything#asks are open#send me asks#ask me stuff#literally anything#fanfic
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skyrim has decided to, at long last, punish me for my sins
I am devastated.
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people keep telling me like Wow youre getting so much done im so proud of u U must be feeling better . and like i get by all external capitalistic standards this is Good Actually. however it is actually really really bad for me and i am feeling so bad. every day i wake up push myself way too far past what i can handle and then go to my room curl up in bed and cry for multiple hours . i am approaching a breaking point the burnout/depressive episode/hospitalization/shutdown/dissociative episode/whatever is gonna be super fun. And everyone will say What happened i thought you were doing well. but like Are you normally doing well when you do assignments is that fun for you
#text#neg#and i try explaining it and people look concerned but idont think they get it#because for most people this would be good. but for me its not#and i dont knoww how to explain that and i dont think people will get it once i crash either#im not . built for school im not built for work im only doing this so i have somewhere to live really#i am so fucking tired guys its not even funny 👍👍👍
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this guy joining Echo in Ninjago Characters I AM Going To Be Thinking About Forever btw.
#ninjago#ninjago liveblog#ninjago okino#They really gave me a side character whos an NPC guide in a video game (but doesnt know it) and then made him Find Out and fall into a#a depression about his entire lifes purpose being for naught and that his entire worldnis fucking fake and then have him break free of his#of his coding and Go To The Real World#im. hes so everything#BUT THE SCENE WHERE HES TRAINING AND FAILING TO PROPERLY GUIDE HIS PLAYERS OVER AND OVER AND OVER BC THEYRE TREATING IT LIKE A GAME BC THEY#BC THEY HAVE MULTIPLE LIVES BUT THEIR DEATHS ARE REAL /TO HIM!!!/ HE HAS TO WATCH ALL THAT AND IT MEANS SOMETHING TO HIM BECAUSE#BECAUSE GUIDING THE PLAYERS IS HIS WHOLE PURPOSE!!!! BUT TO THEM HES JUST THE TUTORIAL HELPER CHARACTER!!! AUAU#i do also like Racer 7. An NPC /programmed to lose/‚ only there to add a challenge to the actual players and yet she NEVER STOPS TRYING...#but she always crashes at the exact same spot in the race. every. time.#AUUGH.
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SvS is great because Janus's argument is simultaneously so well crafted and also so deceptive and manipulative. Look at him go. He really fits the lawyer role to a tee
#he runs circles around thomas while interrogating him and its insane to watch#and then he's like 'the only reason you don't speed is to avoid a ticket'#and cuts off thomas when he tries to go 'or maybe its because i don’t want to die in a fucking car crash'#the whole max stirner bit is really good too cause again it's so well presented and you wanna be like ok ok go off#but then its like oh ur just gonna gloss over the relevant details of him not practicing what he preached? for the sake of ur argument? ok#+his reaction to thomas saying the trial is unfairly set up is basically just 'uhhhh ok but its not that serious though'#as if he didnt set up the entire scenario in the first place and give a whole ass Joker monologue at the witness stand like ok sure buddy#i love him he's so slippery and slimy and manipulative and charismatic#the anti hero ever#i think patton not knowing wtf he was doing also made janus look a lot smarter by comparison to be fair#he also ran circles around patton to the point where patton's interrogation of him straight up ended with janus interrogating patton instea#janus sanders#sanders sides#selfishness vs selflessness#ts janus#deceit sanders#ts deceit#and yes this is subtle lawyer shade LMAO#ive never met a lawyer that wasnt shady and corrupt af
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I wish I wasn't so exhausted and I could make more art.... I even planned out a whole prompt-a-day month for Saigenos/Genosai, TWICE, but the first time no one seemed like they could participate when I asked about it, and the second time I friggin lost the damned plan. I could remake it a third time, but I just....I don't know.
I've been really struggling to get along for a while, and I think if it didn't hit it off--or even if I just got really productive and it seemed like I was reaching crickets--I'd be so incredibly discouraged that it would bring me down even further. It usually takes my stuff a few months to a year to get reach, and that really doesn't do anything for me when I need the support immediately.
It's not that I don't have a billion ideas for so many different things, but my battery has been taking longer and longer to charge up and it's been running out faster and faster, and it's been like this for....a year?? Ish?? Maybe longer, I don't know.
I wish I could just stop needing so much fucking time to bounce back.....
#written from my bed as I'm almost crying from exhaustion and hopelessness#I'm PMSing and I had a really tiring day so i know this feels worse than normal#but when you've been struggling to fall asleep for months because waking up means being disappointed in yourself#for everything you failed to do the day before and everything you know you're going to fail to do again today#it's really hard not to feel like shit about yourself#trying to be constantly hopeful but never living up to your expectations#and then the few times that you do you completely crash for days#and then the only way to not crash is to have your big accomplishment be 'i went to the gym' 'i took a shower' 'i answered a message'#and just. again#to have the be the way you're living for months and months and months#it's so embarrassing to admit how little i can do and it makes me so ashamed knowing how much I've done and see what everyone else around me#is constantly doing#and then when i do share things it just kind of dies off because I've been too exhausted to maintain most relationships#which ALSO makes me feel like absolute fucking shit because i think people think i just don't care about them#when it's really that it takes me hours to get out of bed and I'm lucky if i remember to eat before 4#and I hate so much of myself and see it as such a huge waste of time that it uses up almost all the energy i have to take care of myself#but if i don't do it I'll just hate myself even more#i know i keep on complaining about this but I'm. I'm trying to fix it#i have BEEN trying to fix it actively for so fucking long#but it's.....i think I've stopped believing anything i do has significant worth and it makes it hard to keep trying#and i know people will read this and say take something for it but when you're only interactions with medications and drugs#are one experience that scarred you so bad you didn't go to the doctors for ten years and one experience so bad#that you couldn't even explain it at first without HARDCORE disassociating#it's hard to convince yourself that anything will ever be any better and that it won't make everything intensely worse for years
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one time when i was seventeen a girl from school invited me to queer prom & i got so stoned i forgot my jacket in her car, and she posted a pictures of her bird on her shoulder while she was wearing it, and when she gave it back a few days later it had yellow paint stains on it. and i think about that a lot
#i didn’t know her very well and i was confused why she kept messaging me and inviting me to random things with her friends#at graduation she really wanted photos together which i didn’t really understand because we weren’t that close#and now five years later i realize it was probably because she had a crush on me and i feel like a huge fucking idiot#pegasus speaks#right after graduation she had a really bad bipolar episode and crashed a car and showed up to my friend’s house with a knife#it was during a party & i was so high i could barely stand but i had to call the cops cuz i was the only one who could spell her name right#two days later her mom checked her out of the hospital AMA and she called me as i was going to work saying she was going to kill herself#last time she messaged me was in march i think. she’s in BC somewhere and living in a basement with some old guy and doing a lot of drugs#and i miss her
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Something I hate about booktok is that no matter how much time you spend trying to curate your feed you will always run into smut. I don't inherently have a problem with that but it's so present and all consuming within booktok that it's almost impossible to avoid. Also, the smut isn't even that good. I would be less annoyed if the smut was good.
#Also it just creates a really toxic environment for minors#Like that teenage biker that grown ass women were being fucking weird to#And although he isn't a minor that one hockey player#I saw so many women showing up to his games and having him read smut without warning just to record his reaction#Purely because they decided he is what the main character looked like#That's so fucking gross#I've been in fandom long enough to see a fucking red flag#And I know eventually there will be some shit#And it will crash and burn#And only the people there to enjoy books and not be fucking creeps will survive#I'm just tired of waiting for it to happen#It's just hard to find a book community so active#Ughhhh#Booktok#Books#Reading#Text#Text post#Personal
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Okay, yeah I give up.
#infinite saving my beloved#I spent all day in my gameplay save file just for it to not let me save after hours of progress#REPEATEDLY#already moved em to a new town#remade a super bare bones house and remade the family#but yeah#doesn't change anything#there's just only so much new or interesting gameplay wise I can post if I can never actually save my progress#so yeah I think I'll give up on posting gameplay stuff#not that I ever posted much gameplay#but it was a fun distraction every now and then#but dealing with this is the bloody opposite of a fun distraction#okay tag rant over#just really burnt out on this shit#if there's one thing I absolutely despise about sims 3 is just the sheer frequency of crashes and shit going wrong all the time#like#it's insane just how often you lose any kind of progress because of some random fuck up in this game#it's really discouraging#okay rant over for real now#sorry just needed to vent a bit#ignore me
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Anyway I don't think Zack angels of death has sex
#random thoughts#angels of death#sorry x reader crowd#he gives off like. jacking off at four in the morning to take the edge off before you crash energy#also he has canonically eaten fruit loops in soda okay i don't think he's into degregation you are NOT his sex kitten#not only do i think he will not have sex i think he has never had sex before in his life because like. when the fuck would he have had sex#he got burnt crispy at like eight and subsequently orphaned. he's like twenty two. when did he have the time#also he has body image issues out the wazoo he is NOT letting anyone see him naked#also where the fuck is he getting all those bandaids from. is he banned from every cvs in a fifty mile radius of his current location#if asked if he's had sex he would scoff and say yes (he is lying)#if asked how many times he would squint into the middle distance and say ' . . . a bunch of times.'#but it's more likely he'd get really pissy about it
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If I take a second to breathe and think and 3 seconds into it someone calls me over the radio to come clean something they could do themselves again I'm going to actually scream
#like god I knkw I'm the only usher here rn cuz im the opening usher on saturdays but FUCK#give me a second tk fucking BREATHE#I HATE when I'm doing something and one of the managers calls and is like actually can you stop what you're doing even though what you're-#-doing is more important and come sweep up this like 3 cernal popcorn spill literally right next to us that we could get ourselves but won'#I hate this job so much I want to quit so bad#somebody else hire me right now so I can leave this shithole#and also have a real job that pays mlre than 10 bucks and hour so I can actually pretend to be a semi functional adult#I can't even pretend right now#I've been stuck in limbo for the last 2 years at least and I really don't know how I'll ever get out#I probably won't let's be honest because I wasn’t born into a world where that's possible anymore#and my mental health has only been slowly but surely deteriorating for even longer than that but it's really crashed and burned lately#but i'm trying#and I honestly don't want to try anymore#I'm so tired
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