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chronically-ghosted · 2 months

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you got your claws in me honey, like a tiger in love

rating: E for Explicit! 18+

word count: 8K

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

summary: you arrive at your estranged uncle's door. what else is there to do but catch up over grilled cheese? well, if you have anything to say about it, you might end up doing a bit more.

warnings: dbf!dieter, grilled cheese as a way to guilt trip your dad's best friend/uncle into fucking you, drug use (weed), raising arizona that comes with its own warning, flirting with someone twice your age, no smut — that’s what part 2 is for, reminiscing, a cliffhanger? 👀

a/n: the original fic came out MONTHS before the mcu rumors, so either i have precognition, or the apocalypse is becoming predicable. happy valentine's day you filthy animals because nothing says romance like porking your dad's best friend

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From the voicemail of Mr. Paul Landeau, official Hollywood talent manager and agent to one Mr. Dieter Bravo . . .

Tuesday, 6:43PM

No, I’m not doing it. I’m not.

There has to be something else out there. Look, I know Fire Monsters: A Cliff Beasts story didn’t do as well as we hoped, but Reddit says it could be a cult classic so why don’t you focus on making that happen, okay? Instead of giving me shit roles like this. I’m not doing it.

– the sound of a door opening and the phone being shuffled – – a zipper rips – – liquid pouring –

We fucking talked about this, man. I told you I needed something different, something new. Tiktok is just reels of me screaming and dying – it’s fucking bullshit –

– more liquid –

I’m done playing the fucking bad guy. I’m not signing any more headless action figures for those little snot-nosed, little fuckers in line. I’m not asking to sign their moms’ tits, either – okay, maybe – but Jesus Christ, Paul, what you sent over is, like, the opposite of where I need to be. It’s for little teeny boppers with one or two B horror movies under their belt to finally break out into the mainstream – or where actors over forty go to cash in an easy paycheck. And yes, I fucking know we need something, but fuck – is this really all there is?

– liquid stops pouring – – zipper rips – – the sound of a toilet flushing –

Don’t fucking call me back, Paul, unless you’ve got something. Something real.

Tuesday, 8:23PM

OW! Motherf–

– a skillet clattering –

Okay – fuck, that hurts – okay, Paul, what about this? It came to me in the bathroom. Remember Jack from the Christmas party at the studio’s place? So, he’s got those two Sundance films, right, but they’re in Spanish, so not appealing to an American audience. Nicki told me that he’s thinking about doing another project, one with a wider appeal, and I’m thinking I should totally give him a call. I think we could vibe. I really liked his stuff – reminded me of my old small town, fucking around with the neighbor kids, you know? Kinda hometown hero sort of thing.

– sharp inhale then a cough –

It’s not my usual thing, but I think we should give it a try. Gimme a call.

Oh, do you know how to make a grilled cheese sandwich? Been craving one but I think I might burn down my house if I try again and UberEats doesn’t reach the good places further south. Oh, fuck, wait –

Hey Google, how do you make a fucking excellent grilled cheese?

Tuesday, 9:21PM

No, fucking–

Siri – how.do.you.treat.a.burn?

Calling. . . Burger King . . .

No! Fuck!

Tuesday, 10:49PM

Paul-y! Baby! Paul-ito!

Don’t worry. I got an idea that’s going to make us a million dollars.

A shop that makes only grilled cheese. But like – fancy grilled cheese. What do the kids fucking call it, ah – boogie – yeah, boogie grilled cheese. Like gouda and white cheddar, and butter churned by blind nuns or some shit. Tomato soups that have been blessed by the Dalai Lama.

Big sign out front that says, Vegans Can Eat Shit.

They’ll eat it up.

Fuck yeah, they will.

– silence for three minutes and sixteen seconds –

Fuck acting, man. Fuck this place.

And fuck this fucking cheese that keeps burning – goddamn it!

Tuesday, 11:52PM

Paul, why don’t we hang out anymore?

When I got started, we hung out all the time, man.

Hot dogs on the Santa Monica pier. Beer in the Pacific Ocean.

You showed me all the cool spots that no one else in LA knew about. You got me my first bump and my first stripper. God, that was fucking wild, man, you remember? I was so nervous I thought I was going to throw up. Did I ever tell you that before? Coke probably didn’t help a kid from a small town in South Cali, but – fuck, it made me feel better. Like I could get my shit together if I really tried.

What, are you too good for me now – is that it? Am I not good enough for you, huh?

Look, I’ve got Raising Arizona on right now, so why don’t you come over with a six pack –

Oh, shit, that’s right. You got a fucking family now.

Not a good influence, ol’ Dee.

Not a good –

Wednesday, 1:05AM

Fine, Paul. Fine.

I’ll play Mr. Fantastic in the Fantastic Four reboot.

Dieter’s thumb brushes the red End Call button and tosses his phone onto the kitchen island with a growl. He can feel himself coming down from the bump earlier – a thing he absolutely did not want to happen – and he shoves his palms into his eye sockets.

There is more coke upstairs, but that would require him to walk through his very long hallways to get there. Very long, and dark, and empty hallways.

He should have asked Maria to stay once she was done with the laundry. He would have done it right too – big bowl of popcorn, fully dressed, with a sign around his neck that said, I promise I’m not trying to sleep with you.

He is becoming increasingly aware of how many erratic voicemails he just left for his agent, aware that behavior like that was libel to get him a sit down in Paul’s office with all the blinds and windows closed, Paul’s narrow face serious and using Concerned Emotion #5, as he asks, “do we need to go back to rehab, Dieter?”

We.

There once was a “we”, now there was just “he” – in a house with seven bedrooms and a pool that could fit a sixteen wheeler in it.

And TWO kitchens – why the fuck did he think he needed two kitchens –

Well, he knew he didn’t need two, but it would have been cool to show them off to someone – If there was anyone to show them off to . . .

Fuck this downer mood.

Dieter snatches up his phone again, and the movement brings up his latest apps. UberEats is the second one. He taps in a few keywords, blatantly ignoring his latest call list.

Goddamn Burger King . . .

The front doorbell rings.

Dieter frowns, pulling the screen closer under his big nose. Now, he knows he is high and he knows he should be wearing his glasses when reading but there’s no fucking way . . .

He goes out of the kitchen, the room still smelling of burnt cheese with the cast iron skillet in the sink and a black husk sticking to its bottom. He goes left, then right, his robe tightly wrapped around him as if he is some huffy housewife, then down a hall and across the marble entrance way – fuming – why is this house so goddamn huge – who thought this was a good idea?

And so he wrenches open the front door – to a girl, not holding a Burger King bag. No, she’s got a roller suitcase behind her, bright blue, and she and the case are dripping wet. Like, just sprayed with a hose kind of wet and her big bottom lip is trembling. Behind her, the sky pukes buckets of rain, groaning with thunder.

Now, he likes his call girls (he always thought it was classier to call them that) a little more . . . vampy than this, but hell, he had been turned on by much less than this— than her with her big eyes, fat droplets rolling off her lashes, flushed cheeks – and oh, shit, her shirt is totally see-through – is that purple, he feels the back of his mouth flush with spit – wow, is this Paul’s way of apology because –

“Uncle Dee?”

And he’s mentally shoving himself back into his pants because no one in years has called him that and that was a very different time in place, when he was a completely different person and if this girl is the person he thinks it is, then – Jesus Christ, he’s bound and gagged straight for hell –

He squeaks out your name and you smile, sort of grimace, at him and wave.

“Yep, it’s me. Been awhile, right?” You finally give into the mortification of your stupid plan and you scrunch up your face, your hand wrapped around your elbow. “Look, I’m so sorry, this is too weird. I don’t have your number, but I panicked when my flight got canceled and my phone’s dead and you’re the only person I know in LA and –,”

“No, no – you’re fine – sorry–,” Dieter blinks before stepping back and letting you through. You sigh in relief and yank your baby blue suitcase over the threshold as you walk in, dripping water everywhere. “Sorry, it’s been a weird night and for, like, two seconds, I thought . . . nevermind . . .”

I thought you were a fucking ghost.

You bite the corner of your lip, glancing at him, knowing it was probably unwise to piss off your one chance at not sleeping on the ground tonight — or if what you were about to say would piss him off in the first place.

“Yeah, well, it’s been eleven years since we last saw you, Uncle Dee.”

Early on in his career, he wanted to build up rep as not only an actor but a real tough guy, so he asked if he could do some stunts for an old cop show. For all his bravado, he ended up getting a real round-house kick to the face and it sent him reeling.

This feels a little bit like that.

“No way, it can’t have been that long. Besides, I know I left my number with your dad or your grandma before I left and —,”

His throat closes up when very old guilt washes over him. It’s intensified when you give him an uncomfortable look.

“So your dad didn’t give you my number then.”

It’s not a question. You shake your head. You don’t tell him that your dad tried to call years ago and got a busy tone for the first few, and then a few years after that, was brusquely informed the line had been disconnected.

He chews on his lip.

You try to smile at him again but then another shiver takes hold of you and Dieter grimaces. “Shit, sorry, one second. I think this closet down here has towels.”

He all but sprint-walks down one of the many halls branching off from the entrance, the ends of his robes flapping. You hear the creak of doors, several, as he digs around in the walls.

“Why do I have so many fucking linens?” You hear him grumble and you smile to yourself. You feel like you need to wring your hair out but wouldn’t dare move from the spot where he left you.

After a thump and more grumbling, he comes back, rubbing the back of his head, but holding out a giant lime green towel. In the light, you can see the dark circles under his eyes when you take the towel and immediately go to stop your hair from dripping on the marble.

His brain is waffling, ping ponging, between his memories and what is standing right in front of him. This? This is the little girl, not his literal blood relative, but she’s Enrico’s kid – Enrico, a slugger and one hell of a outfielder since he was eight years old, whose mom made enchiladas like nobody else in the goddamn world – Enrico, whose house became like a second home, Ricky's family a better family than his own – this is the same girl who hoarded Skittles like a fiend, the same one who he took to the pool on the weekends in the summer, and the zoo during Thanksgiving break? This little girl –

– is the same girl who is all legs under damp denim, eyes that could make Cleopatra fly into a jealous rage, and a fucking rockstar smile?

And, holy shit, those tits –

Dude, you cannot be checking her out. Dig deep and fight your fucking caveman brain. You’ve fucked up a lot in your life and you cannot do that right now. You cannot do that to Enrico.

You cannot do that to her.

You notice him grimace as he squints into the light of the chandelier above you both. “So, uh, not that I mind, but, uh, what are you doing here? I mean –,”

You laugh and it seems to echo in the empty house. “No, that’s a fair question. I was on a flight back from looking at colleges out east and my flight got grounded in LAX because of the storm. I absolutely don’t have enough money to stay in a hotel or rent a car and drive back home, so I needed a place to crash and call my sister to send me some money. And my stupid driver didn’t want to get flagged for harassing a celebrity, so he dropped me off at the corner, hence . . .”

You wave at yourself and inside his slippers, his toes curl, respectfully not looking at your damp legs and a definitely purple bra visible through your shirt.

Your mouth suddenly capsizes. “Shit, is that okay, if I stay here for a night? I didn’t even think - I - I’m not . . . interrupting anything, am I?”

Dieter chuckles, your expression undeniably cute, and he shoves his hands into the pockets of his robe.

“Nah. Not unless you call making the worst grilled cheese imaginable a party.”

At that moment, your stomach chooses to make the most aggressive growl in your entire life and you flush deeper than the cold outside.

“Apparently someone thinks that’s a good idea,” you chuckle weakly, horrified that your body is actively trying to sabotage a normal conversation.

Did it matter that you had posters of him in your bedroom when you were thirteen? That you went to midnight releases of every one of his movies?

No. Not at all.

“I got some food, mostly leftovers.” He worries at his lip as he realizes the only thing by way of something green in his fridge is the jar of olives he got for martinis. Even then, he has a sneaking suspicion he replaced the olive juice with vodka, but the memory of that night is entirely butchered. “But, uh, I’m sure we can find something.”

You smile at him. “Actually, grilled cheese sounds great.”

“Only if you do it.” He smiles, honestly, when you laugh. “What? Don’t laugh — I’m serious. I can’t make a sandwich to save my fucking life.”

“Pretty sure I can manage two slices of bread and cheese.”

His eyebrows jump as his lips press themselves together and you watch the thumb-sized bare spot on his beard twitch.

“Yeah, that’s what you think and then your goddamn kitchen is on fire.”

“Lemme change, do some rocket surgery and brain science, and then I’ll attempt to crack this grilled cheese thing.”

“Okay, but remember we do have Chinese leftovers and I can definitely crush a microwave. This way.”

You follow him through the halls, his shoulders loosening underneath the off-green fuzz, and you try and not to stare at the immaculately beautiful walls and expansive, clean floors, so your eyes wander, and then you’re trying not to stare at the immaculately beautiful man in front of you.

You push away the thought that this house looks nothing like you’d expect someone like Dieter to have, as he leads you to the kitchen — all black and chrome and steel, like what a Norwegian serial killer would have — and nods to a door towards the opposite wall. He’s digging around for the last slices of white bread when he says,

“Bathroom’s down there. I’ll get it all ready, but I’m leaving it up to you. Can’t afford to lose another pan.”

Your eyes finally drift down from the bare walls, unsure if you should be offended that nothing of the family back home is here, or accept that there was just nothing personal anywhere. You smile gently at him and nod in thanks.

He watches you go, that bright blue suitcase flashing as loud as a tornado siren, and he shakes his head. God, he needs a drink but drinking also makes him horny and he needs every mental facility available to him if he wis going to make it through this night with his sanity still intact.

Had it really been eleven years? He always meant to call up Enrico and the old neighborhood gang. He probably forgot about that last fight anyway – even if Dieter hadn’t – even if it wasn’t more than a decade ago. Mama Gonzales always said there’d be a place for him, even after his own father said acting was for maricos and drag queens. It always hurt more when the postcards from the Gonzales family stopped coming than when Mom stopped calling. And he always meant to send back a proper return address when he moved out of that crappy loft after his first real movie premiere but that was the 90s, and much of the 90s was spent between working shit jobs and drooling on the floors of rave warehouses. It wasn’t them specifically he didn’t want to see him like that, but anyone. Anyone who knew him before Dieter Bravo.

Certainly not anyone who called him Uncle Dee —

Something flashes in the corner of his eye and he realizes he’s always fucking hated the fact that the a) the back of his house is just one big window and b) he never bothered to put in curtains. Because, the thing with windows is they reflect things — things like his pseudo-niece taking her top off in his guest bathroom. Reflected and in full color right across his kitchen island like the sexiest hologram that will haunt his fucking wet dreams until the day hell freezes over.

Yep, that’s definitely your hips, your ribs, and okay—

Nope. Absolutely not.

Dieter’s knees give out and he crouches (more like slumps) to the floor behind the island, his palms so far in his eye sockets he can only see stars.

Yeah, only stars. Focus on the stars, not the image of the curve of your gorgeous tits that’s running around his brain like a child with scissors and a Thanatos instinct off the fucking charts.

Fuck, and he just wanted to get high and watch Nicholas Cage in a mullet.

“Hey, I’m done. Dee, you still here?”

He stifles a groan and stands up. You smile at him, the wet jeans and agonizing white tank top gone, only to be replaced by a black Fleetwood Mac tshirt and — fuck, where are your pants?

You lower the handle to your suitcase and go to stow by the bathroom door. And that’s when he realizes you are actually wearing pants, black shorts that are practically hidden by the oversized t-shirt and are comically, hilariously, painfully small. He can’t actually see the curve of your ass as you walk around the side of the island but he is absolutely not going to let his gaze linger long enough to confirm.

He clears his throat as you come to stand beside him. He gestures to the four pieces of white bread and a stack of Crafts American cheese.

“H-h-have —,” he clears his throat again and his forebearers groan collectively in embarrassment. “Have at it.”

You smile and tuck your hair over your ear before picking up the knife.

“D’you have mayonnaise? Butter?”

No amount of irredeemable hotness can distract him from that. “What? What do you need mayonnaise for? It’s grilled cheese.”

You cluck your tongue, an eyebrow raised. “Brain science and rocket surgery, remember? Don’t question the master.”

He can’t help but chuckle as he goes to his steel monolith of a fridge.

“Jeez, sorry, I asked,” he grumbles playfully.

He comes back with an (thankfully) unexpired jar and tub of butter and you get to work. Silence stretches a bit too long, something Dieter has never been good with, especially with beautiful women. He loves running his mouth and sometimes he's found that the women liked it too. He resigns himself to sit across from you at the island, watching you spread mayonnaise on both sides of the bread.

“So, uh, how are the folks? How’s your, uh, dad?”

You nod slowly and even though he hasn’t been around in eleven years to pick up on all your tells, he swears your hackles go up.

“Fine. All good. Dad’s still at the car repair shop — owns it now, actually. Makes decent money, I guess.”

“You guess?” He hadn’t made it his life’s work to mimic the human condition to not recognize cagey language.

You glance at him briefly before flipping over the last piece of bread and dropping a dollop of mayonnaise on top.

“Yeah. I — uh, we haven’t — I actually haven’t talked to them in a while. Though if I had, I probably wouldn’t be here right now.” You sneak another glance, this one ladened with a smile that had a secret curled up in its corners. “Serves me right, probably.”

“Yeah. Probably.”

He can’t help but return the smile, one of a familiarity he hasn’t earned yet. You were smiling at him as if you two had years of secrets together, memories and inside jokes that were for the pair of you alone. For the life of him and all the water in his ridiculous pool, he couldn’t fathom why you were being so nice to him. Letting him off the hook. It had been eleven fucking years after all. There are a lot of things he takes guilt free from the world. Your fucking star-eyed smile is not one of them.

So, he lets you off the hook. He doesn’t push it. If you don’t want to talk about your folks, he is happy to chatter aimlessly about something else. But, his brain winds up, what happened that caused you to fall out with your parents? Enrico, even back then, had been a hard ass, with you and your brothers. Always made sure to walk the straight and narrow. Detested drugs, always shined his shoes, thought tattoos were the devil, never kissed a girl on the first date —

And here you are, making fucking mooneyes at his daughter.

Well, one thing was for sure, he muses, something warm spreading in his gut, you are nothing like your daddy.

The hiss of the bread hitting the hot butter in a pan (you didn’t even need to ask where another pan was, you just helped yourself to his cabinets and he couldn’t have been more proud) jerks him out of his daze and he realizes that annoying silence has set in again.

“So, colleges, huh? Anything in particular spark interest?”

You nod excitedly as he found a topic that made you glow. Clearly, no one had asked about your interests in a long time.

“Yeah, actually. Emerson in Boston was amazing. I loved the city, but not sure I’d survive the winter. Swarthmore sounds good, Amherst too, but again, cold.” You grin sheepishly and flip the sandwiches, pressing the spatula (he didn’t even know he owned one of those) into the bread, making the butter sizzle and the air fill with a smell that can only be described as mouth-watering.

“It’ll be a nightmare, taking out loans for those places, but fuck, I think I’d be really happy there.”

He leans against the counter, facing you with crossed arms. He smiles a smile that he knows doesn’t reach his eyes.

“What, your folks wouldn’t pay for it? Or at least help out?”

Something sharp flashes in your eyes, like a rabbit catching the scent of a predator, before you shrug your shoulders flippantly. A well-worn deflection, he notes, right next to the place where he’s got all the places you mentioned are about as far away from California as possible. If you had mentioned somewhere in Europe, he wouldn’t have been surprised.

“Nah. I wouldn’t let them. Don’t want them thinking they get input into my life because they hold the purse strings over my head.” You turn off the stove and he moves to get the plates out from the cabinets – something to contribute as you made him a better meal than he’s had in ages.

“So, uh, we eat in there?” You glance down the hall to the eerily clean dining room, a place he’s pretty sure he’s never once set foot in after three years of living in this goddamn mansion.

He chuckles and shakes his head. “C’mon, I already have a movie picked out.”

You follow him, plates hot, down carpeted stairs to clearly the only room in the house that Dieter actually lives in. The lights down here are low, much more bearable than the white spotlights of the kitchen. Against one wall, there’s a fully stocked bar, with most of the alcohol halfway empty and costing a fortune. Across from the stairs is a massive record collection, going up to the ceiling, next to a gorgeous old record player — all wood and black vinyl — with big, plushy earphones curled up on a black leather recliner.

But the star of the show is the wall-to-ceiling television, with a brown, mouse-soft leather sofa that wraps like a giddy, up-turned grin in front of it.

And of course, in between the superstar television and the cozy couch, is a low glass table where he had snorted lines of coke more times he could count and where a virgin joint sits, unsmoked and tempting.

Dieter flushes as though he’d been caught by his parents with his pants down around his ankles.

“Fuck, sorry–,” he rushes over, the plate clattering with the glass, and he reaches for the joint, ready to squish it into his pocket when–

You laugh. “Relax, Dee, I know what a joint is. In fact, we are very well acquainted.”

You fold yourself into the couch, legs crossed, grinning at him as you bite into your sandwich.

He swallows, unclenching slightly as he sits down next to you. He watches you eat for a moment, trying to think of something cool to say.

“Sounds like I’ve missed my calling as the fun uncle, getting you high for the first time and all that.”

You snort and swallow your mouthful. “Yeah, by like two fucking years.”

“Oh, what a fucking lifetime. You poor thing,” he says, pouting dramatically and you giggle again, bumping into his shoulder. It sends his sanity knocking around in his brain.

You don’t notice, though, your eyes falling to the joint in the small ceramic bowl. The smile slides from your face.

“Well, you might have missed my first joint, but I’d be more than happy to take this one as my next.”

His eyebrows practically bounce off his forehead. “You’re serious?”

Your eyes slide away from the joint to his, something distractingly dark hiding there. “I mean, if the parties on your Instagram are anything to go by . . . And, well, when in Rome . . .”

You trail off, smirking, gesturing around you as if you had any idea the levels of debauchery that were obtained in this very room. Come to think of it, he halfway considers picking you up off the couch and putting a towel down underneath your perfect ass.

This is how it went sometimes, with the slower hook ups. No wet clothes, or grilled cheese, or bringing up family trauma — but initial touches, curling smiles, and then drugs. Always drugs. As if there needed to be another hand that tore off the cap of the pressurized, fizzy soda bottle. He’d play music then, for them, to show off his vinyl collection and have a plausible reason to rub his dick between their ass cheeks while dancing slowly to something croon-y from the seventies.

Not that any of that would be happening with you.

He wasn’t a complete monster after all.

With a playful grin that he had mastered over many press junkets, he snatches up the joint and lighter, and presents both to you in the flat of his hand.

“First hit goes to you, since you were so kind to make dinner for an old fuck like me.”

You snort and put your plate onto the table, wiping your hands free of crumbs on your black shirt.

“Such a gentleman.”

With deft and practiced hands, you take the joint between your index finger and your thumb, and sparking the lighter, brought the flame to your lips.

Just for one second, one goddamn second, he swears he saw The Look reflected in your eyes. He glances away, his cock fluttering awake like goddamn Lassy hearing the calls of another well-begotten child. He picks up his own plate.

“Hardly. It was all a ploy to get you to admit you follow me on Instagram.”

You burst out coughing, smoke chugging from your nose and mouth. “Dieter!”

He cackles, his tongue between his teeth, as you shove him away from you — do not think about her fingers clenched around your bicep — try to sit up and inhale again. You hang your head and groan.

“Fuck, I can’t believe I said that.”

“Yeah, and for that, I get two puffs,” he says out of the corner of his mouth, the rest of it full of the most perfectly cooked grilled cheese sandwich he’d ever had. He finishes chewing and swallows. “Hand it over, princess.”

You hand over the lighter and the joint, the paper slightly greasy from your fingers, leaning back dramatically into one of the many plushy cup holder seats spread out along the very long couch.

He chuckles devilishly again, far too satisfied, as he lights up and leans back into the cushions.

“And, as gesture of goodwill, I’ll admit that’s a good fucking grilled cheese.”

Your eyes snap open and a wide grin splits your face. “Hell yes! Mayonnaise on both sides, butter on the side with cheese. Best family recipe. Mwah!”

“Fuck, even I know that’s too much cholesterol for me,” he grunts and digs into the cushions, feeling around for the remote.

“Well, that’s not enough cholesterol for me,” you wink as you take the joint from the hand on his thigh, eyes daring you to do something about it. Nowhere near high enough to take the bait, he just narrows his eyes at you as he clicks the button and the entertainment system comes to life with a primordial hum.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, eyes wide, as the speakers roar and the lights dim further and the screen glows, “it’s like I’m in a fucking movie theater . . . in space.”

“It’s great, right?” Dieter moans like a loving father over his first child. This thing is his pride and joy, the only thing he could stomach in this goddamn house.

The DVD buffer for Raising Arizona begins and you squeal quietly, sliding onto your back, the joint dangling between your lips.

“No fucking way, I love this movie.”

Dieter stilled. “Really? You do?”

The few times he felt nostalgic for his old life — his old, old life when he was still a kid from nowhere, a nobody, you couldn’t pick him out of a line up of his sweaty, grubby cousins when they were all cobbled together like crooked teeth in front of Abuela Josefina’s television that still had knobs and bunny ears to watch movie after movie of Nicholas Cage reruns. Even with knees in his back, elbows in his ears, Dieter could quote every single line, his heart swelling.

That’s gonna be me some day.

“This movie is from, like, another century,” he mutters as he watches you settle in, something sickening like adoration clawing up in his chest.

“Yeah and it’s great,” you say eagerly, ignoring the way he plucks the joint out of your fingers. “Put it on!”

He resolutely ignores the pinch in his low stomach at your almost whine and presseS the play button with a little more force than necessary. Then, balancing the joint on the ceramic bowl, he sticks his fingers into his robe, pulls out his glasses, and puts them on without a second thought – just as he always did when watching movies.

It is only when he realizes he doesn’t hear you breathing that he realizes what he has done. Slowly he pulls the square glasses off his face and looks at them, feeling as disgusted as the day his doctor put them in his hands.

Near-sighted. Very common. Happens when people as they age.

“Got ‘em–,” his throat closes again, “got ‘em a few years ago. Only have to wear ‘em to see things up close and, uh . . . Well, I think they make me look old as shit.”

He can’t quite look at you, unsure what he’ll see on your face and knowing for sure that he couldn’t stand it if it wasn’t the way you look at him before. If you just would tease him about it, then —

“No,” you say, your voice very soft and small. His heart nearly punches out his throat, his neck nearly snapping in half as his head whips up to look at you. You sit up on your elbows, the darkness of the room cushioning your soft cheeks and muting the glaze in your eyes as you watch him over the bend of your knees.

“Nah,” you say, your nose scrunching, the weight of the high clearly settling into your skin, “they make you look . . . Uh, they’re cute.”

Dieter sucks in the side of his cheek, nodding slowly and sliding the glasses back over his nose. Cute, he could work with that.

“Jeez, would you start the movie already?” You poke his side with your toe. He doesn’t need to look at you to hear the faint blush in your voice.

He turns the volume up and crosses his arms, smiling faintly. You’re warm next to him, he thinks vaguely, his own high finally starting to sink into his bones.

Cute. Definitely not a word he’s going to obsess over.

The movie goes on.

Nicholas Cage is Nicholas Cage with a mullet.

Your laugh is the clattering of bells in his ears and he can’t remember the last time he laughed so hard his sides hurt.

He’s coming up from bent over, knees almost to his chest, laughter nearly popping his ribs, when he realizes your feet are in his lap. The arches of your soles, the delicate bones of your ankles, the long smooth planes that run up to your gorgeous calves—

They are there, in his lap, and you don’t seem to mind. Head turned towards the screen, face bright from laughing, your arm arched back over your head, pressing your chest up — it’s like you meant for them to be there.

It’s just one hand, right? Two at the most. Just putting his hands down where he had them a moment ago. Up and — down.

You don't flinch. His palm is on the arched top of your foot, the other just above your other ankle.

You do smile, but that might have been because of Nicholas Cage raging again.

And then, during another bout of giggles, he clutches your shin bone, wraps his fingers around your heel, and laughs and laughs and laughs.

You wipe the tears away from your eyes, the end credits rolling.

“Fuck, that’s a such a good movie.”

He swallows, swiping quickly under his glasses before taking them off and chucking them onto the table in front.

“You’re fucking right it is,” he says hoarsely, leaning forward and plucking up the last of the joint. He inhales, letting the smoke ease stifle the tears in the corner of his eyes, gulping down a breath before offering it to you.

You take it, distracted, eyes on the credits, the light from the screen glowing on your cheeks.

He presses up under your ankle with his middle finger. “What? You knew what was gonna happen, you’d said you’d seen it before.”

You nodded, still not looking at him.

He goes for a more direct approach. He pinches your calf, and you scowl, the light back in your eyes.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, a bit sharply. He’s not nearly done having fun with you, not nearly. You take another sip of smoke before setting the joint back on the table.

You huff, settling onto your back, pinching at your nails.

“Just . . . Nothing, it’s stupid.”

Dieter hums. He knows when to let him come to you. He taps the arch of your foot.

“How are you feeling?” His gaze nudges the joint on the table.

You grin. “Really good. Tingly. Warm. Like everything else is a million miles away.”

Just the two of us.

“Enough to tell ol’ Uncle Dee what’s on your mind?”

You roll your eyes and sit up a bit, yanking a pillow behind you.

“Just thinkin’ about the old days, I guess.” You glance up at him from under your eyes. “Not in a bad way. At all. I just . . .”

“What?” If you gave him hell for the last eleven years, then fuck it, he deserved it. He pulls at your ankle. “What?”

With a big sigh, you lean back, something finally breaking and, with it, comes a great big smile.

“Okay, remember when you’d put on those plays with the rest of us kids during those super lame family reunions o-o-or Christmas? Marissa would have everything written out, all the cousins cast and you’d beg her to let you play – fucking – Bear Number 5 or something ridiculous – and she’d fight you on it but she’d relent, always putting on a show of her own – as if a ten year old could be put out like that.” You giggled, biting on your thumb, a sparkling in your eyes that made something in his chest burn.

Yes, he remembers the incredibly stupid fuzzy ears and the bear claw mittens. The fake roaring. TMZ would have a fucking stroke if those pictures of him, baby-faced, were to ever surface online. He smiles at you and basks in the warmth of those memories, his high making them brighter.

“I think it would have crushed her little heart if you didn’t ask,” you said, heavy-lidded eyes on you again. “I know it broke her when you stopped showing up at all.”

His heart actually pinches at that. He knows you’re not scolding him but fuck, maybe he’d feel better if you did. What a fucking idiot he was, for leaving all of that for empty mansions and meals from UberEats and all this fucking gunked up shit in his veins that made him feel older and older every year. Like he was chasing something that was never real in the first place.

“Look, honey,” the pet name is out of his mouth before he can stop it. He’s twisting towards you, both hands under your calves now. “I should have called. Should have made sure that at least you knew where to find me, even if things between your dad and I were fucked.”

“Oh, God, Dee, no. I don’t blame you. I don’t even blame my dad, sometimes. You just were very different people. He’s fine living his life in the same small ass town in the middle of nowhere. But you weren’t. And, fuck . . . I’m not either.”

He frowns. You bite your lip and continue.

“You know, I thought about following you out to Hollywood. Because of those plays. I had the best fucking time doing them and Hollywood didn’t seem so scary . . . with Uncle Dee out here. But, uh, I dunno. I grew up, I guess. Figured I was better at telling stories than performing them. I just knew I didn’t want to end up like my dad. Dying where I lived. Unremembered.”

His gut doubles in on itself. Please don’t say you gave up your dreams because I stopped calling.

“Do you still think about acting?” He asks quietly, trying to fight the faint ringing in his ears.

“Oh God, no,” you wave your hands, dusting away his near-panic that he’d somehow ruined your life. “I really do prefer writing stories, even if they exist only within the pages of a book. Or a really bad pamphlet, once or twice. I tried to continue the plays at home for a few years, after you left and Marissa took up cheerleading and thought she was too old to play with her little cousins anymore. But it just wasn’t the same without her. Or you.”

He realizes all too late that he can feel your pulse under your ankle. Strong. Pounding. Pounding, hard. Like you’re nervous. So struck by the notion that he can feel something so personal of yours, the smoke trapped in his brain lifts only slightly when he catches your eyes looking somewhere you absolutely should not be.

Oh, fuck.

Oh, fuck, he knows that look. You blink at him, then your gaze slowly slides down, down to his crotch, as smoothly you can beneath the weight of the smoke in your brain and he battles between the desire to throw your legs off him or pull you underneath him.

It’s The Look.

Men, women, it didn’t matter. The look was the same.

When the possibility of sex first enters their mind, when that first bloom of lust rushes down their spine and the memory of the physical exertion of fucking – all the panting and the heavy breathing, aching muscles and sweat – comes back, as real as a song stuck in your head. When that spark of imagination threatens to sway from the hypothetical to the actual, it’s a look he knows so fucking well, he might as well be able to carve it from clay, blind-folded.

And you’re giving it to him, right now.

You haven’t really thought about seducing him yet, no, that part hasn’t crossed your mind yet. But you definitely are imagining what his cock would feel like inside you, and you and your imagination and your wide-eyed gaze at his lap all whole-heartedly agreed: that would be a great fucking thing.

You, on your elbows, your heel dangerously close to his half-hard cock, the glaze in your eyes having something to do with what you were so shamelessly picturing, and your short breath having everything to do with what you were so shamelessly picturing.

He was quite sure you were completely unaware of the expression your face was making. Eyes hooded, mouth parted, breath short. Masking your emotions and filthy thoughts is a skill set mastered later in life and perhaps the last time you looked at someone like that, they simply bent you over the nearest surface and railed you till your knees buckled.

What a fucking excellent idea, his libido trilled. Now get off the couch and do something about it. I’m foaming at the fucking mouth here, man.

Dieter silences his inner horny monster, unintentionally squeezing his hand, the one that happens to be wrapped around your calf.

The movement seems to break you out of your dizzying spiral and you blink up at him.

He swallows. With a half smirk on the edge of your lips that you try to not let him see, you take your feet out of his lap, then reach forward, your palm alarmingly high on his thigh as you take the joint from his fingers. Your eyes flash like warning signs.

DANGER. DANGER, WILL ROBINSON. DANGER.

“So, you gonna give me a tour of this place or what?”

End of Part 1 | Next

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #the bubble fanfic #the bubble 2016 #the bubble fic #the bubble fanfiction

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gremlingottoosilly · 1 year

Text

And they said I couldn't be a psychologist [COD x fem! Reader]

Tired of living with a family that genuinely thinks that being a psychologist is a wild ride to being poor and lonely? Got too many student loans to ever think that you will be able to repay them? Just join the army! Good company, great benefits and lots and lots of travel.

AO3

Characters featured in this chapter: Captain John Price This fanfic will contain incorrect use of psychology, my dead dreams of becoming a therapist instead of a journalist, basically a harem "The only girl on the team" plot and a reader who can't fight to save her life, literally. Each chapter will concentrate on one or few characters at the same time, I hope you will like it!

Google search: average school psychologist salary in my state

Allow Google to search for your location?

Fuck it, the government already know who you are, where you are exactly, and what you will do with this pretty wrecked mental state of mine, if I wouldn’t get an affirmative answer.

School Psychologists made a median salary of $62 000 in 202X.

Google search: average psychologist salary in my state without Master’s degree

National average salary for Bachelors in psychology is: $32,395 per year

Google search: master’s degree psychology how much

Average cost to earn a master’s degree in Clinical Psychology: $62,650

Average cost to earn your doctorate in psychology: $115,500

Google search: how many days can person not eat

Google search: annual striper’s salary

Google search: can I become a stripper if I’m not attractive

Google search: Army enlisting

💬💬💬

In highsight, perhaps, you should have stayed with the stripper option. Sure, it would be a lot more mentally draining, but at least you would make much more money out of the utter humiliation this work would promise to be every day. Military, on the other side of the spectrum, wasn’t really different from being a sex worker – you are still selling your body and mind, still have too much time in a dominantly male field, and will probably experience a lot more patriarchy sausage parties once you get there. The only thing that was different was the employer.

And tax benefits.

And health insurance.

And a special program for those who would like to receive an education after they are done killing people, but don’t want to pay more than 100 000 dollars for a diploma that would look good on exactly one photo on the wall and then would be forgotten by pursuing the career of a sandwich artist. Ah, oh no. Negative thinking again.

Jesus fucking – oh no, blasphemy, looking not good for your all-american goody-two-shoes portfolio – Christ, you have to get herself together – and at least somewhat presentable, even this would mean very little, considering the fact that for a woman in such masculine field, any signs of traditionally feminine things would be considered a bone thrown to a pack of wolves, but…no, no, no. You can’t have this new age psychology shit while she is on a mission…by being a new age psychologist, enlisted to the army just because you don't want to be a stripper, and too slow to become a good drug dealer.

Cynthia Cockburn once wrote an essay about women's role in maintaining patriarchy by joining the army. How a lot of females are helping salvage the old system, that has to be put down for good for a long time already – and how this system continuously throws them out, without even acknowledging their input.

You are wondering, if by applying your makeup right now, you are doing pretty much the same. Ah yes, a woman in a field dominated mostly by psychotic men! Let me just put on my brightest red lipstick, a short that will barely cover anything important and, of course, a pair of heels that would set anyone in the hearing range to a Vietnam flashback even if they never been in Vietnam to begin with. Oh no…is that a risky joke? PTSD is a serious matter, you know. You shouldn’t joke about flying helicopters and war flashbacks – not when the training for the military psychologist courses were so hard, that even you, with your pretty much good mental health, would have to check herself double time for any trauma that the instructor would leave with you.

Two weeks of torture for an opportunity to apply the blandest eyeshadow known to mankind, the pinkiest lipstick that barely holds any pigments – it’s not like you have money to splurge on something better even given the permission – and a mascara as clear as the mountains fresh air. God – oh no, blasphemy again, you really don’t want to get a good grade with all of these God-fearing old-fashioned men, aren’t you? – you really hated just how bland you look. You feel like one of these girls in your college – with tightest buns, cream sweaters and perfectly high-pitched laugh that would make them desirable for even blander college boys. Ah, how much you hated this place.

The military base, however, is far worse.

First, there are just too many people here. Second, everyone looks at you like you are some sort of ghost. Judging by your loosely hanging white doctor’s coat, they aren’t too far from the truth, but it still was weird. And finally, third – you are still not sure that your papers have been sent correctly, and this is even the right place.

Instructor – a terrible, horrible, horrendous woman – told you that there would be plenty of study material for you here. That with these people, writing your master’s or even doctorate would be a “ ‘king breeze, rookie, if they ain’t decide to eat ya first”. The males around you – and some women, of course, because the newest military recruitment made sure to include as many people as possible, providing everyone with the opportunity to kill people as much as they would want – doesn't sound quite as great material for your research.

And you are not going back to the fucking college.

She said that some Captain brought you here specifically – and that higher-ups made him do it, as he was dismissing any previous attempts of sending psychological help for any of his units. So this is going to be a classic conflict between a person and the government – and you, a useless specialist – are going to be stuck in the middle, as long as you don't get shot. Perfect, terrific, just a great fate for someone who got out of college after 4 years of destroying her own hopes and dreams in a giant cell of a US education system.

You haven’t even met the man before, and now you are sitting here, in the middle of nowhere on this gigantic base. Fighting with the fabric of your clothing – a nice buttoned shirt, nothing that could be considered a provocation from your side, and trying to breath as the reality of the situation is slowly thinking it.

Breathe in

You stuck here for only god knows how long – until you either will be dismissed, or decide to go away by your own choice. With people you know nothing about, and who probably doesn’t even want you here.

Breathe out

This is a perfect opportunity for you to write your Thesis – just pick one of these perfectly twisted specimens, and make his mental state even worse. Or better, if you would feel nice enough for such hard work.

Breathe in

Perhaps, it’s not so bad – only a few years of service, and you will be back in your education. The children and their easily molded minds are waiting for you to be their perfect school psychologist. With average salary of “fuck you and your savings too”.

Breathe out

Health insurance is nice. Would be even better with some dental insurance, but this is reserved only to soldiers. And you are…well, not a soldier, that is for sure.

Breathe in

– Greetings. I suggest you are the mental health expert?

…and, all of your neatly putted breathing schedule is fucked. Stupid army people and their stupid questions with such nice and deep voices that would make you think of deeply fucked up stuff any other day and…

– Oh, um, yes. A psychologist. And you are..?

– Captain Price. You have to work in my unit, but I figured out that just sending my men to get you would be too much on your first day.

– Thank you, I…I would rather greet them myself, that is. I kinda have to.

He frowned. Oh, great. A perfect example of stoic fatherly type – the guy who is probably thinks of his soldiers as his kids, definitely don’t have a wife – alive one, at least – and slowly cooking himself alive in a pot full of misery, machism and “I don’t buy any of this mentally ill stuff”.

His mustaches are great though. And a hat.

– Do you really?

– Well, I don’t want to earn my paycheck for just sitting around. This would be nice though.

– In that case, higher-ups would put us both in trouble for this.

– Do you have anything for me to start working with? Like a personal file or…

– I’ll show you around.

– Oh. Okay.

He seems harmless enough. As much as one man wearing a full uniform with too many weapons and a tiny hat could be – but you still feel well protected while walking beside him. With this still hanging loose coat of yours – you’ll have to search for something more adjusted for your tiniest fucking height – you can feel everyone’s gazes on you. Jesus, you will have to work with this many people? Let’s just hope that no one here believes in magic powers of therapy, and you would be pretty much free for any of your working hours.

— But you do have personal files of your soldiers, right?

— I thought your people like more of a personal approach?

— Well, it would be really great, but I need some documents to write off my work and…

— Then you are going to write those documents, kid. I don’t want to scare you, but a young miss like you really wouldn’t want to see real portfolios of my men.

— Sir, with all honor, I am not a…

– We’re here.

Oh. Saving you the humiliation of being able to recognise patronizing tones and understanding, that you are, in fact, a kid, a young miss, and generally a useless fucking person. Psychologists in a place, where most of the people probably believe, that getting drunk will save them from nightmares? What a joke.

At least the office is nice.

Tidy place, neatly furnished room with a table, a sofa – something right out of Freud’s fantasies. A small empty closet for all three of your psychology books. You can already picture whimsical and fun soldiers laying here, trying so bad not to laugh in your face as you were trying to uncover all of their mental trauma without being strangled to death.

– Thank you, sir…captain? It’s nice.

– Not much, but everything that we were able to put when they said that we need a mental expert here.

– I will try my best not to disappoint you, I promise.

– You can unpack here, someone will show you the bed later. Still don’t know whether to put you with soldiers or medics.

– Um…I would really prefer a… A nice and roomy bedroom, preferably with no one to snore alongside you, and definitely not with soldiers who can get the wrong ideas about a nice and sweet lady psychologist sleeping right next to them on their base. Of course, you can’t say that.

–...I need to gather as much material about them as possible, so it would be really neat to sleep closer to the soldiers.

You are the architect of your own demise. You and your stupid Thesis that you are not even sure, whether you could write it right now or not.

– Oh.

He scratched his chin in a manner that you have seen too many times. Do all older males with bears share the same mannerism?

Then he smiled – a ghostly feature on his face, that almost made him look like he actually wanted you here, and not just putting up with higher-ups bullshit because every special task force needs its psychologist just so the soldiers won’t kill each other on one sunny day.

– Okay. I’ll think about something, doc.

– I am not…not a doctor, sir. Not yet, at least.

– Well, it’s either a doc or a kid. What do ya prefer?

– Doc would be better. Perhaps, I will earn my doctorate after the service.

– That’s the spirit, kid.

– But sir-

Shit. He is gone already.

You were never a fan of dad jokes. Or dad types. Or anyone, who is questioning what the fuck you are doing here, even though you spend 4 years fighting for this position in the college. Who cares, if you can’t shoot guns? Words are just as deadly!

Well, judging by the size of the rifle on the Captain's body, maybe, your words would definitely be less threatening than his guns. But this doesn’t change the whole picture!

Oh, well. You might as well try to get yourself as comfortable as possible – considering all of the possibilities, they might simply forget that you exist, and you would have to sleep on this tiny couch at least for today. What a great opportunity and definitely something that you spent four years waiting in awe of. Perfect, beautiful, something right from her dreams.

“You can still get out of here, you know. Just go out of this door and we will never ever speak about joining the military ever again. Trust me, babe, I am your conscience.”

Oh no. You hated talking with your conscience – mostly because it was an annoying prick, and also because, as studies were showing in many of the presentations you would make for your classes, this is a first sign of not just a person being self-aware, but also the step to being proclaimed a mad man. Even if you are, in fact, a very self-aware and mentally healthy person. Mostly. You liked to think of yourself as one, at least.

“You don’t want to be here. And you shouldn’t – there is plenty of work outside.”

Yeah, like a sex job. Or secretary. Or a waiter – what a beautiful line of work for someone already in too much debt to her government. And judging by the already dismissive faces of your parents, going home as a stay-at-home daughter is also not going to be an option. So, go far and beyond.

You just need to find a few people who would be interested in psychotherapy – how hard is that?

#cod x you #cod x reader #cod #call of duty #john price #price x reader #ghost x reader #soap x reader #gaz x reader #kyle gaz garrick #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #konig x reader #konig mw2

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vneuns · 1 year

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𝐓𝐨𝐧𝐲’𝐬

PAIRING — Shuri x black!reader

WORD COUNT — idfk <3

SUMMARY — Y/n and Shuri take a trip to New York for a slice of pizza

NOTE(S) — HI MY BABIESSSS!!! it’s been way too long, this is my first piece of writing in months so bare with me pretty please, this isn’t much but i wanted to write Shuri and this came to mind. because new york pizza is absolutely fucking amazing.

reader speaks a lil italian

“Why is it so cold?” Shuri complained as she stuffed her hands in the pockets of the coat you had leant her for the night being as that they didn’t need any in Wakanda. People hurried past the two of you eager to get out of the cold. Friday nights in the big apple what else could you expect. “Will you stop complaining where almost there,” You rolled your eyes as you hooked your arm through your girlfriends and put your hand in your pocket after doing so, so it wouldn’t freeze off.

You and Shuri had met when she’d went to practically kidnap your cousin from her dorm. You hadn’t seen her in a while and figured it was as good as a time as any and decided you’d go and visit your little cousin at her dorm, the same day your now girlfriend went to go and save her life.

“I don’t know what’s so good about this Pizza anyways, we have chefs from all over the world in Wakanda who could make the exact same thing, and better!” your eyes moved to the girl next to you before coming to a complete stop and turning towards the restaurant in front of you. There were people scattered all around at various tables, making conversation and enjoying their food. “Come on Princess,” a smile adorned your face as you dragged her into the family owned pizzeria and went to sit at your usual table in the corner.

Shuri looked around a bit confused as she sat down with furrowed eyebrows, taking off her jacket slowly and placing it on the empty side of the booth next to her. “I’ve watched enough American Television to know we’re suppose to wait to be seated.”

“You have Wakanda and I have Tony’s,” the second the name leaves your lips a man in about his late 50’s, in a white chefs coat exits the kitchen and makes a bee-line towards where you’re sitting. “Y/n!” He yells cheerily and engulfs you in a big hug. The two of you rock back and forth for a minute before Tony pulls away his hands going to your face. “You start seeing royalty and suddenly Tony’s spazzatura (garbage)!” Shuri sits quietly watching the interaction between the two of you, intrigued to say the least. Pulling away you shake your hand putting your hand out towards Shuri turning slightly towards her.

“Tony this is la mia principessa (my princess) Shuri. Shuri this is my uncle Tony.” The princesses eyebrows raise in question trying to find the resemblance between the two of you. “The term Uncle being used loosely, Tony would feed me when I was in my broke college student phase-“

“She came in here everyday with five dollars got herself a slice of plain cheese pizza and a cup of coke. She’d hog this exact table until closing.” A smile found its way onto your girlfriends face at the thought of you sitting in this exact spot a few years younger surrounded by books. “It is very nice to meet you, Tony” Tony looked over at you with a confused expression when Shuri stood up and offered him her hand to shake.

“What’s she doing?”

“She’s waiting for you to shake her hand,”

“Well I see that, but why?”

“Because it’s a sign of politeness and respect Tony.” Your elbow made contact with his side as you nudged him forward a bit. You stifled a laugh as you watched Tony take her hand and shake it as if it was a foreign thing, before ultimately pulling her into him and wrapping his arms around her.

“Welcome to the family kid.” Tony told her as he pulled away giving her a pat on the back. You watched the interaction between two of your favorite people. “So what can I get you lovely ladies?”

“One large pie and two sprites please.” Tony nodded headed back in the direction of the kitchen as the two of you took your seat.

“A pie? I thought we came for pizza,” Shuri quizzed her head slightly titled like a puppy. “It’s a term we use for an entire six or eight slices of pizza.” The princess nods thanking the waiter when he comes back and places your cups of soda in front of you both.

“So tell me why again we had to fly all the way out to New york city to get pizza.” She leans forward taking a sip of the soda from her straw before pulling back immediately with a turnt up face. “What the hell is that!” You can’t help but laugh as you place a straw in your own cup and take a sip shaking your head softly.

“Soda!”

Shuri’s eyebrows furrow as she raises her top lip slightly. “Taste like battery acid.” After a few minutes of mindless conversation about what the princess has been working on in her lab, the pizza finally arrives and is sat on the table between the two of you.

“Are we suppose to eat all of this by ourselves?” You nod happily pulling a piece from the pie and taking a bite. Your eyes roll back and a moan leaves your lips. “I already don’t like it.” You place your pizza back on the plate a frown on your lips as you chew the rest of the pizza in your mouth.

“B-but you haven’t even tried it yet.”

“I should be the only one making you make noises like that.” Your eyes widen in surprise at your girlfriends bluntness and serious expression. “Just one bite.” your bottom lip hits out knowing your girlfriend could never resist.

“Fine.” Shuri rolls her eyes as she pulls the greasy slice off the tray and eyes it suspiciously. Her mouth opens slightly taking a small bite off the tip of the pizza. You watch as she keeps a stock expression as she eats the pizza; When she finishes she takes a sip of the sprite ‘battery acid’ and wipes her fingers on one of the napkins placed in front of her. “Well…”

“I think I’d enjoy a Tony’s in Wakanda.”

#lil bit of loreali gilmore humor for my girlies <3 #shuri x you #shuri x reader #shuri x black!reader #shuri #shuri x y/n #wakanda forever fanfiction #Shuri fanfic #wakanda forever x reader #wakanda forever x y/n #marvel x y/n #shuri fanfiction #mcu fanfic #mcu fanfiction #marvel fanfic #marvel x reader #black panther fanfic #black panther fanfiction

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i-need-some-advice-on · 2 months

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Hi. I’m a young adult living on my own for the first time and I had an experience last night that I don’t know how to handle. I don’t want to talk to my boyfriend about it because I don’t want to overwhelm him. Most of my friends aren’t out on their own so I don’t think they can help me if I brought it up to my mom, she’d probably be convinced I can’t handle living on my own because autism. Here’s what happened:

last night around 8:40 PM I received a message from the PayPal app saying that they blocked an unusual charge. They asked me if I recognized the charge or not. It said it was for zero dollars and had the British pound is the currency sign. I am American. I pressed no because I hadn’t even used PayPal that day. I almost never use it.

The good news is that the charge was blocked. I even checked my bank account – no charges that day at all except for the DoorDash I ordered. I didn’t lose any money.

The bad news is that Paypal wants me to get a new card from my bank and I have bills coming up. If I replace my debit card, I won’t have access to one for three days. My bills are on auto pay. These bills are coming up far sooner than my bank and send me a new card. This is the only card I have. I don’t have a credit card or another debit card. Do I need to replace it immediately or can I afford to wait?

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innoc-nope · 3 months

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Being Silent is Violent.

I cannot sit in silence anymore. I should have never sat in silence. As I sit here, life goes on. With or without me it goes on. I hear from different areas of social media about the horrors on this Earth because of cruel people. Today for the first time, I donated money. Just ten dollars. Yet it made me feel better, more clean. More okay with myself. I donated money to ‘Rashida Tlaib, the only Palestinian American in Congress for a petition requesting Biden to suspend weapons transfers and military funding to Israel in accordance with the recent ICJ ruling.’ As the website had said. My great friend in California sent me a link to it, knowing I would sign the petition. It wasn’t enough for me. They asked for donations and gave I did. It was only ten dollars. Ten dollars did not feel enough. What will ten dollars do? I thought. Yet what would it be as well without the ten dollars. I finally felt like I was helping. Even in the smallest bit. I want to make a difference. I want change to happen. I want people to not be massacered by this genocide anymore more than I want to make a difference. Then I went onto the social media app, Tiktok. There I saw more videos and it felt wrong to not do anything about it. Yet it is like, well what can I do? Something. You can always do something. An action, even just one will make a difference. No matter how small, it is a start. It may not feel enough, I don’t know when any action will feel like it’s enough. This is a part of my actions. This is my next step.

Every day feels like a challenge for me, as a seventeen year old girl who currently has unknown issues. Yet I know it is nothing compared to the pain, suffering and loss of the palestinian people. I ask myself, why aren't they talking about this in school with us? Why is no one teaching us other than the media? Why do I not hear about it outside my phone? Why does everyone want to ignore this issue? As I learned today, while so many people were enjoying the superbowl, a young girl just the age of 12 named Sidra Hassouna hung from the side of a building. All of her limbs were blown off. Then a girl named Hind Rajab, just six years old, died. She spent twelve days in a car with her dead family members. Then I see what seem to be hundreds if not more lists of dead babies, all ages; zero. How can so many people not do anything about this? How could I? How could I sit by and do nothing? I may be young. I may be naive and stupid at times, but I am emotional. I am a lover of so many. I mourn, I mourn for so many people I do not know. I wish and hope and pray for the better of the world. Do you? Do you care enough to do anything? Will you do anything? Or will you do nothing, like I once did as I was scared. I was scared to do anything, but those lives matter more, all those who suffered or are suffering deserve at least some compassion. Show some, won’t you? If not donate for a cause, at least speak about it. People need to know what is happening in the world. We all deserve to know. Being silent is violent.

#palestine #free gaza #gaza #gaza genocide #from the river to the sea palestine will be free

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thewales · 11 months

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Interesting article by Tominey for The Telegraph:

The less Meghan and Harry earn, the more dangerous to the monarchy they may be

What Meghan wants is no longer what Meghan gets, it seems.

Perhaps it was by mutual consent but, to me, “part ways” sounds suspiciously like a more gentle way of saying: “You’re fired.”

Regardless of who actually pulled the plug, it must be deeply troubling for the couple that even those willing to pay a reported $20 million (£15 million) for the Duchess’s opinions no longer want to hear them.

For those who have never listened to Meghan “investigate, dissect and subvert the labels that try to hold women back”, the podcast largely featured the American former actress talking about herself through the medium of interviews with the likes of her “dear, dear friend” Serena Williams.

One particular gem was Meghan’s insistence that being “particular” does not make her difficult. As she explained: “I’m particular. I think a rising tide raises all ships. We’re all going to succeed so let’s make sure it’s really great – it’s a shared success ...You’re allowed to set a boundary. You’re allowed to be clear, does not make you demanding. It does not make you difficult, it makes you clear.”

Just to be clear – and I’m not trying to be difficult here – the recollections of those who worked for the Duchess at the Palace may vary. For further clarity – and I make no apology for being particular on this – she denies the bullying claims.

Meanwhile, Deadline claims that the people at WME, the big Hollywood agency that signed the Duchess in April, are building on the couple’s film and TV production, brand partnerships and overall business.

Yet while there will no doubt be some toasting the news of Archetypes’s demise, the Palace powers-that-be should perhaps be mindful that the more the Sussexes’ earning power recedes, the more dangerous they could become.

While the Duke may have said all he wants to in his autobiography Spare, and accompanying interviews (although he has claimed he has enough material for a second book), the Duchess is clearly still brimming with “content” that is seemingly bursting to come out.

And while a great deal of it can easily be dismissed as word salad, she’s never been afraid of adding a splash of vinegar dressing when discussing her royal relatives.

she rather ominously revealed to the US magazine The Cut last August: “It takes a lot of effort to forgive. I’ve really made an active effort, especially knowing that I can say anything … I have a lot to say until I don’t. Do you like that? Sometimes, as they say, the silent part is still part of the song.”

She also said: “It’s interesting, I’ve never had to sign anything that restricts me from talking. I can talk about my whole experience and make a choice not to.”

This is a woman, it appears, who has kept the receipts and may not be afraid to brandish them should the need arise.

Nor should it be overlooked just how expensive the Sussexes’ lives in Montecito are. If it wasn’t costly enough to be spending hundreds of thousands of dollars a year on security, Harry has also been involved in litigation against several newspaper groups and the Home Office.

So the Palace’s supporters are celebrating a pyrrhic victory if they think the Sussexes’ de-Spotification is a good thing.

The more desperate the duo are to land new deals, the more demanding their paymasters may be about the type of content they provide. Think Spare on steroids.

The other danger is the Sussexes’ constant desire to do everything in a hurry, which is what put them at odds with the steady House of Windsor in the first place. While the Duke and Duchess have been determined to share their “truth” at the speed of 100 mph, the Royals have always operated at a much slower pace (rather like travelling in a yellow cab through New York when you are not being “chased” by paparazzi).

Take this weekend’s Trooping the Colour. It’s hard to believe it now, but it was 10 years before the Princess of Wales was actually allowed to appear on the Buckingham Palace balcony under the Firm’s “no ring, no bring” policy. Royal life is a marathon, not a sprint.

Megxit may have been about many things. But one should never underestimate the lengths the Sussexes will go to to achieve the “financial independence” they have always been looking for.

Full article

#the suxs #brf

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paracunt · 6 months

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I love hayley but I always think about that time she said at a concert that she’s very comfortable talking politics and I do think a large part of that is true but all of her political stances have been very US-based only with the exception of “the news” where the band referenced Ukraine. This is something that a lot of celebs do so I’m not blaming hayley alone on this but I remember when she rightfully called out trump on her insta stories multiple times for being a very loud and outspoken bigot but Biden is funding a genocide now so it’s disappointing that she’s not criticising him too. Biden might not be as loud of a racist as trump and desantis but the way he talked about the Palestinian people is dehumanising. A lot of white celebs are only brave enough to call out politicians who are very right wing but Biden is just as bad as them if you pay attention to his speeches and review his actions

I will never see celebs as a moral compass but I do think it’s very important for Americans to speak out cause knowing that Biden is using my tax dollars to fund the IDF makes me sick. I don't know how many times I sat in a history class, learning about genocides and wondered "how could anyone let this happen?" now I'm asking myself the same question while one is actively happening. The least the band could do is sign that artists4ceasefire letter and share ways to call Congress to demand a ceasefire. The band decided to release a song like “the news” and they’re gonna probably perform it hundreds of times again. They decided to be political in this era so it’s highly upsetting that they’re silent about all of this. Palestinian people are living in a nightmare situation and all they asked of us to use social media to share updates, to remember them and their culture and to amplify their voice. It’s such a simple request from people who are going through an ethnic cleansing.

if they keep performing “the news” next year and never speak on anything that’s happening right now, I’m gonna look at them very differently cause ignoring and moving on as if nothing happened is exactly what the IDF wants. They’re 3 white people from Nashville, do they think it’s unsafe for them to speak on this? Famous women of color like dua lipa, bella hadid, kehlani, and kelela are being harassed by zionist daily but they still share donation links and information cause they know it’s more important than the Israeli government's official account constantly tagging and bullying them. Hayley was with rep Justin Jones and he posted a caption “fighting fascism with @yelyahwilliams” a few weeks ago, So where’s all of this energy when our president is giving money and weapons to Israel only

Thank you for sending this ask, I appreciate it.

The truth of the matter is, i’ve realized that Paramore only talk about things that affect them or their friends and are morally “just” or “right”. If they are gonna be labeled antisemites they aren’t gonna say anything, (let me reiterate there is nothing antisemitic about wanting justice for palestine, for the brutal capture & tortures to stop happening, for the genocide to stop happening) because they don’t want to look bad. Ultimately they are just three white people who are rich & sheltered and won’t talk about things that will get them in hot water like this. If Hayley was really comfortable talking about politics she’d put her money where her mouth is, as would any other member of Paramore, but that isn’t happening.

I feel obligated as someone who fucking cares about people to say something, seeing all of the videos of children being pulled from rubble, Palestinians being tortured by IDF, the IDF soldiers laughing and making fun tiktok videos like they aren’t raping and murdering and torturing and committing war crimes on the daily; i cannot be okay with that. Joe Biden is nothing but a slimey little snake and like many old white men before him he will never be anything but that to me. It doesn’t matter how much he panders or whatever, the blood is on his hands and he is complicit in Genocide of the Palestinian people.

But, like many white liberals who are sitting on their comfy couches taking “mental health breaks” cuz they can’t stand to see another video on social media about the war because it “bothers them too bad” all i have to say about it is: How do you think the people who are being fucking mass murdered, living in constant fear, who run from place to place in the Gaza strip praying that they aren’t going to be bombed when they find somewhere where they think they may be safe, for even a moment, until another bomb drops? So yeah, I’m not gonna be nice about this, because personally I don’t give a fuck about acting like it’s okay for them to be silent, because it isn’t and it never will be and I will remember this for the rest of their careers.

and personally, I don’t ever want to hear another political speech from them until they say something about this, because now it just feels like a load of bullshit.

I love Paramore but we are allowed to be critical of them.

#ask

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brostateexam · 1 year

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The federal government has burned through more than $1 billion to study long Covid, an effort to help the millions of Americans who experience brain fog, fatigue, and other symptoms after recovering from a coronavirus infection.

There’s basically nothing to show for it.

The National Institutes of Health hasn’t signed up a single patient to test any potential treatments — despite a clear mandate from Congress to study them. And the few trials it is planning have already drawn a firestorm of criticism, especially one intervention that experts and advocates say may actually make some patients’ long Covid symptoms worse.

Instead, the NIH spent the majority of its money on broader, observational research that won’t directly bring relief to patients. But it still hasn’t published any findings from the patients who joined that study, almost two years after it started.

There’s no sense of urgency to do more or to speed things up, either. The agency isn’t asking Congress for any more funding for long Covid research, and STAT and MuckRock obtained documents showing the NIH refuses to use its own money to change course.

“So far, I don’t think we’ve gotten anything for a billion dollars,” said Ezekiel Emanuel, a physician, vice provost for global initiatives, and co-director of the Healthcare Transformation Institute at the University of Pennsylvania. “That is just unacceptable, and it’s a serious dysfunction.”

Eric Topol, the founder and director of the Scripps Research Translational Institute, said he expected the NIH would have launched many large-scale trials by now, and that testing treatments should have been an urgent priority when Congress first gave the agency money in late 2020.

“I don’t know that they’ve contributed anything except more confusion,” Topol said.

#long reads #*coronavirus

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omegaprotocol · 3 months

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Hailey Is Fired

Hailey is in a suit and tie with a clipboard in her hand, she has a checklist that is mostly finished, but the last point is still unchecked. It says ‘impress agent Roland so much he pays me more money than I know what to do with, and get a nobel peace prize’. Next to the checklist is a hand drawing of herself with sunglasses and finger guns. She smiles, satisfied from her work and glances at a door inside of her lab labeled ‘Omega Protocol’. She puts the clipboard down with a sigh of anticipation.

“Don’t overthink it, let your work speak for itself.” The front doorbell rings and Hailey waits for a moment. Is answering it right now too early? I don’t want them thinking I was just standing in front of the door. But I don’t want to wait too long either, plus I am just sitting in front of the door. The doorbell rings a second time.

“Oh shit.” She opens the door quickly. On the other side are four Government officials in suits and ties with black sunglasses. The man in front takes his glasses off and puts them into his pocket.

“Good evening Dr. O’hara, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” The fake smile the man puts on is poisonous.

“Afternoon Mr. Roland, how has your day been?”

“I’d rather skip formalities if that’s alright, we have a quick form for you to sign verifying that we did a progress report with you.” There is a long pause, Rolands smile fades away and he hits one of the lackeys behind him.

“Oh, sorry boss.” The goon behind Roland gives a clipboard with a document on it to Hailey.

“Oh, yes, of course.” She takes out a blue pen and begins to sign the document. “I think you will be very happy to see my progress. I have found solutions for our “unique problem” and have finished all of my projects a month before the deadline and all systems are fully operational. If you wanted, I could have them installed for homeland security by the end of the year.” Roland is pacing around the lab looking at the notes and research around the room with an unsatisfied face.

“That is wonderful news, but as you may remember, our last visit was not what our team was hoping for. We gave you some notes to work on?”

“Yes! I read through the extensive documents you gave me and was a little confused. The threat you described in your letter seems like a very serious threat and I didn’t agree that the solution was a bigger bomb or better weapons. If the target is as smart as you say they are then there are bound to counter measures that we can’t account for so I made-” Roland puts his hand up to cut Hailey off

“The American government isn’t paying you to theorize, we requested a targeting system.” Hailey looks at him annoyed at the interruption.

“According to the brief, the target could have shields to block targeting systems, so I didn’t build that. I made something that can think for itself and solve problems. Firstly I made an anti-aerial defense system AI, it can establish unidentified flying aircraft and missiles in seconds and dispense measures to neutralize a vast number of threats from explosives to EMPs.”

“How far can it fire?

“Um, it wasn’t made to launch anything, it was only built for defensive measures…” Hailey feels the air in the room grow still so she perks up. “However it can reach across the entire continental US so only one system will be needed to defend the entire nation saving on precious tax dollars. Plus when defending other countries you would not need to build very many to cover the globe.”

“Money is no object Dr. O’hara. And the US isn’t defending the whole world. Show us what else you got.” Hailey gives him a puzzled look.

“The target is clearly capable of total annihilation. Shouldn’t this technology save everyone?”

“Everyone doesn’t vote in elections. Continue your presentation.” Hailey begins to realize that the language of a ‘global defense system’ in the grant she was given was clearly just talk.

“I also have made an AI that was built to be launched into space via satellite and scout the surrounding area for any anomalies in space. The scanning range is large enough that it can reasonably guess what is going on in our whole solar system in less than a year. Invaluable for looking for the target or anything else anomalous in our system.”

“What else does it do?”

“Well… it can also launch missiles to break apart asteroids.”

“Dr. O’hara, respectfully, our department isn’t interested in killing space rocks.” Hailey stops for a moment before shaking her head and firing back at Roland

“Didn’t the brief you sent me say that you wanted a defense against threats off planet?” Roland hesitates, clearly not wanting to answer the question.

“Yes, it did”

“And didn’t it say that the system needed to be able to protect itself from unknown and unrecognizable threats?” Hailey’s voice is beginning to rise from anger.

“...This is not what we had in mind.”

“I don’t think you understand what the Earth needs in order to survive “the target’s” attack.” Hailey puts dramatic emphasis on ‘the target’ with finger quotes. She begins to believe that homeland security doesn’t even know who ‘the target’ is.

“The US has given you all the information you need about the target. if you are incapable-” This time Hailey raises her hand to cut off Roland.

“I am capable. The brief was vague at best, so to compensate for the lack of information I had I built something that can learn and protect us itself.” There is a long pause, until finally Roland puts his sunglasses back on.

“Dr. O’hara, the US government is unhappy with the progress you made and we are pulling out from the grant we offered you.”

“Wait what? You can’t do this! I’ve built everything you asked for and I still have one more project-” Hailey’s eyes dart to the door labeled Omega Protocol. Roland interrupts her again.

“And the government will be happy to review all your work on AI and national defense at a later date, but you are now off the project. Thank you for your time but we are taking it from here.” There is a beat before Roland rolls his eyes. “That means pack up the stuff! The three other government agents jump up and begin quickly taking papers and blueprints off the desk and walls and filing them in boxes.

“What, no you can’t do this. I slaved away this whole time, being on your beck and call for months. This is my research and my lab. All of this tech belongs to me.” Hailey grabs Roland's arm to stop him from picking up a piece of tech. The item Roland is holding falls to the ground and breaks into several pieces. He pushes Hailey off his arm. Roland begins to lose his proper facade and lets his true colors show through the black and white suit.

“According to the contract you just signed, this whole lab belongs to the government. Your notes, your blueprints, your tech, even the building. And we are no longer going to compensate you for ending the contract early, which you agreed to by signing. Get your personal belongings and get out, the International Station of Defense would be happy to arrest you if you don’t comply.”

Hailey looks around the room and sees the other agents picking up all of her stuff. She snaps the blue pen she was holding when she realizes that she isn’t being listened to, again. She sees one agent find her TV remote and begins pointing it around like a laser gun. Hailey rolls her eyes. She knows that Omega Zero can not be used by Roland. Knowing him he would turn it against other countries, or worse.

“I understand.” She begins picking up random trinkets to fake that she is packing up her stuff. She then opens a desk drawer and grabs a silver key. One of the government agents sees it and raises an eyebrow. Hailey smiles fakely, “spare house key, haha.” The agent shrugs and looks away. Roland, satisfied with his work, leaves the room.

“I would say it was a pleasure Mrs. O’hara, but it wasn’t.”

“Doctor O’hara.” seeing the opportunity that only the stooges were left in the room, she sarcastically shouts. “Ok, I’m leaving the lab. Before I go I’m gonna grab my super secret plans in the break room and go home.” All the agents look up and quickly file out of the room towards the break room. Hailey shouts at them as they leave. “Three doors down on the left.”

Hailey quickly rushes to the Omega Protocol door and opens it. Behind the door is Omega, sitting and waiting to be called on. Omega jumps up and begins excitedly shouting.

“Hello! I am Omega Zero and I am going to protect the Earth!” Hailey quickly shushes the robot and grabs her hand.

“We need to get out of here, and we can’t let anyone know who you are and why we’re leaving.”

“Okay! How would you like me to help?” Omega whispers.

“You need a disguise.” Hailey ignores Omega’s offer and puts her lab coat around Omega and her flatbill hat with a picture of a cow on it for the local sports team. She takes a step back to look at Omega who is smiling and excited. “This isn’t going to work.”

“I believe in us!”

Both of them begin walking throughout the facility breezing past agents. Hailey is keeping her head down and not talking to anyone while Omega is skipping down the hallways waving at agents as they pass. The agents wave back happily and some even say hello. They get all the way to the front door before one of the agents shouts at them.

“Hey, Hold on one minute!” Omega turns around immediately and Hailey slowly turns to the agent. The agent looks intensely, as if studying them for anything suspicious. After a brief moment, he gets a smile on his face. “How about the Dairy Cows right? Crazy game they had yesterday.”

“Oh yea, haha what a game.” Hailey says as she practically runs out the door.

The agent puts his hand up on his head making them look like horns. Omega returns the gesture then uses her rocket shoes to fly after Hailey outside. The agent turns around as she flys out the door totally oblivious.

Hailey and Omega are now sitting in Hailey’s car, and Hailey looks determined and she starts the car. Omega looks out the windows, at the new city around her.

“Wow, I have never been outside the lab before! It is exactly how I imagined it. Where are we going now Dr. Hailey?”

“I need to find a place to hide you and lay low while I figure things out. Ugh, where am I going to find someone who would be willing to hide a six foot super AI!”

“Maybe we could go to Jason’s house to return his hat! Maybe he misses it.”

Hailey isn’t listening at all and is lost in thought until she sees Omega's hat. On the back of the hat is a tag with the name Jason written in blue marker. “Perfect.” Hailey smiles as they both drive off the facility.

#superhero #superheroes #Omega Protocol #Comics #original character #original story #ocs

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