#a crumb of earnestness

[towersofviolet]

trying to find a gender-neutral alternative to ~girlies~ that conveys the same emotion and tone... like ~besties~ is almost there but it gives me the ick + isn't unhinged enough

[isfjmel-phleg]

Never mind, she wasn't in. Figures.

[impossible-rat-babies]

I have GOT to make a lil flow chart of eyrie + ardbert + charon + hydaelyn and how they’re all connected. with chibis

[ataritouchme]

stayed up all nite on accident on account of i was waiting on a random discord moderator to read my extremely way too earnest application for access to a private deadmouse livestream archive and approve it

[rayhalloffame]

Insomnia

Carmen Berzatto x F!Reader

Not to jump right into filth with carmy but I can’t stop thinking about having to ride him until he’s so tired he has to sleep, like insomnia doesn’t hold a candle to you. This got away from me so fast. Anyway, NSFW below the cut, MDNI

You wake up to the sound of a dish clattering. The clock reads 2:38 when you look to the bedside table. The room is cold and dark save for the light from beneath the bedroom door. Carmen should’ve been in bed beside you, but all signs point to it being a tough night. You rub the sleep from your eyes and swing your legs over the side of the bed. Goosebumps raise on your bare thighs almost immediately. The throw blanket at the end of the bed is easy enough to wrap around your shoulders before you go to find Carmy.

The TV is flickering but muted when you pass through the livingroom. A shuffle down the hall and right turn brings you to the kitchen where you find Carmen, back to you and head down in front of the running faucet. He feels you before he sees you, hissing at the chill on your hands that find home beneath his shirt, fists balled around the blanket and pressed to his navel. You rest your chin on his shoulder, cock your neck to look at his face. “Hey, Bear,” you murmur, press a kiss to the curve of his jaw.

Carmen sighs, removes the hand that was pinching the bridge of his nose to rub along your forearm. It’s then that you notice his other hand that he’s holding under the flow of cold water. “Burn yourself?”

As if he forgot himself, he flicks the wetness from his fingers then shuts the water. “Was trying to clean up before bed. Didn’t think the pan would still be so fuckin’ hot.” He dries his hand on the towel that sits in the counter. You press a final kiss to the back of his shoulder before releasing him from your hold, stepping back so he has space to turn around. “Sorry for wakin’ you, baby.” He pulls you into his chest by your shoulders, rubs his hands down your back to deliver some warmth through the blanket.

“It’s late,” you tell him, as if he doesn’t know, and his sigh is enough to solidify that fact. Before he can apologize, you continue. “What’d you make?” You extract yourself to peak into the glass Tupperware on the small island. “Smells yummy.”

You hear him open a drawer and utensils clinking. He pops the top off of a container, sticks the fork inside and twirls. Carmy feeds you, hand held just under your chin to catch any crumbs. He flushes when you groan around the bite. “Ma’s lemon chicken,” he answers. “Want more?”

He’s already reaching back to the container with the fork but you stop him. “It’s late,” you remind him around a swallow. He nods, closes the Tupperware and stores it in the fridge. “We’ll get the dishes tomorrow.” Carm’s hand hovers over the faucet handle before he relents, turns and nods at you. He follows you out of the kitchen, stopping in the living room.

“I’m uh, not too tired yet so uh-,” he jerks his head towards the couch, “gonna just watch tv for a bit. I’ll come to bed soon, yeah?” He’s waiting for you to fight him, tell him he has to sleep, to take care of himself. He’s surprised when you just nod, grabbing his hand to guide him to the couch. Carmen lays back, making space between his legs for you. Your body melts into his, head resting in his neck and throw blanket covering the both of you. You try to wait him out, listening for deeper drawn out breaths that indicate his slumber, but your own tiredness wins.

An hour later you’re awake again. Carmy’s hand is dragging lazily up and down the length of your spine beneath the t-shirt of his you often wear to sleep. “Mm, Bear, still awake?” Your voice is hoarse with sleep.

Carmen looks down his nose at you, hums and it vibrates through his chest. “You can go to bed,” he whispers, “just have a lot on my mind tonight.”

You shake your head, drawing in a deep breath before shuffling up his body. “What can I do?” you ask in earnest, nose tracing slowly against his cheek.

The “Nothin’, baby” that he sighs is expected. You adjust your position, knees sinking into either side of his hips. You drag your nose along the bridge of his, then seal your lips in a slow and tender kiss. His hand flexes on your back. “What’s that for?” he asks. You don’t answer, instead map the inside of his mouth with your tongue. He groans into your mouth minutes later, probes you again.

“Just think about me,” you whisper, dragging your lips across his cheek and to his ear. Your hips roll down into his, a moan ripping through Carmen’s chest.

“Always thinkin’ bout you,” he responds. His large hands find your hips and squeeze. You push down on his shoulders, sitting up in his lap when he tries to flip you under him.

“Let me ease your mind,” you plead. You pull your shirt over your head to reveal your bare chest and the light lacey panties that sit prettily on your waist. He rubs his hand over them, his tattoos a stark contrast to the daintiness.

Carmen’s eyes meet yours. “Yeah,” he says dumbly, breathless, “alright, yeah.” You make quick work of getting his sweats and briefs pulled down enough to reveal his angry red cock that feels so hard it might actually be painful. You’re distracted by it, tracing your fingers up his length delicately, saliva building in your mouth. You lean down to taste him, sucking just the tip behind your lips. Carmen huffs, hand finding your cheek. He begs, something about not teasing him, so you settle yourself back on his hips. Carmy uses his thumb to pull your panties to the side, catching just briefly on your clit, making you gasp. He smirks up at you but says nothing, instead, jaw falling open when he watches you sink down onto him. Slow, like you have to adjust to his size every time he gets inside you, which is partly true.

Hands planted on his chest, you grind against him. Carm’s thumb rubs delicious circles into your throbbing clit. You scratch your nails across his nipples, tummy flipping at the punched out moan it gets from Carmen. You trace his features, look at him adoringly. “You’re so- nghh,” you stutter, finding an angle that has him driving into the spongey spot in your cunt, “beautiful,” you get out in a breathy moan.

Carmen chuckles, squeezing your thigh with the hand not abusing your clit. He feels the way the muscles work under his palm, makes him even more aware of how hard you’re working to please him, to make him feel good. You drive him crazy.

He brings that calloused hand up to rest on your ribs, rubbing the skin just under your bouncing tit, knows how it soothes you, reminds you to calm your thumping heart. “Easy,” he says. You slow your hips to catch your breath. Carmen nods at you, in encouragement or appreciation you can’t tell. He lets his hand wander up further, until he’s gripping the back of your head and forcing you down to his chest. He holds your face mere centimeters from his own, lips brushing each others’ while you pant. Carmen plants his feet on the couch and starts thrusting his hips harshly into yours. You mewl into his mouth. Your hand wraps around his wrist and squeezes, crease deepening between your brows as pleasure builds in your belly. “I love you, you know?” He’s talking to you between pants, kissing your slack mouth.

“Uh-huh,” you whine, “love you, love you.” Carmen burries himself in you, holds your hips down with his forearm across your lower back. He has you pressed as close to him as possible without physically crawling into your skin. “Cum, Carmy, please – fuck, please.” That’s all it takes. He crushes your head into his shoulder, moans into your ear like a wounded animal, like you’re taking everything from him. Or like he’s giving you everything.

And he’s so sensitive but you’re so close, can tell by the way you’re squeezing your velvety walls around him. He picks up the pace. “C’mon, pretty girl, you’re right there, yeah?” He’s murmuring in your ear. With a final harsh push of his hips into yours you’re soaking his dick. He pets a hand down the back of your head, soft, tender, keeps rocking into you slowly while you ride it out. “Atta girl,” he murmurs into the skin of your temple, pressing his lips there.

Carmy’s spent, and you are, too, if the way your body goes limp against him is anything to go by. You both end up dozing right where you are, only moving to the bedroom when you slip off of him because your hip starts to cramp. He sleeps through his alarm in the morning.

[sunsburns]

missing pathetic pining college!art donaldson hours 😔

ugh literally me too cause tell me why i was thinking about him the other day… i had this idea from my challengers era (16+)

like imagine tashi kicking you out of your shared dorm just so she can fuck patrick with a peace of mind, and while you're wandering around campus with your hoodie on and your hands in your pockets, maybe about to kill an hour in the library before it closes, you run into no other than art donaldson.

and he’s wallowing, the poor guy. his head down, hair messy like he’d run his hands through it a dozen times, and there's a slump in his shoulders that looks way too heavy for someone as soft as him. it’s a little different from how you usually see him—he’s still sad-looking, yeah, but there’s something more vulnerable in it tonight. you like to imagine it's because patrick ditched him too.

but when he sees you, really sees you, his face lights up just a little. it’s not a full grin, but it’s enough. and when you ask him what’s wrong, he shrugs and says, “got stood up.” simple. like it doesn’t bother him as much as it clearly does.

there's this dumb, tender ache in your chest that wants to make it better for him. so you ask if he wants to walk. and he says yeah.

you end up wandering around campus together, talking about nothing, laughing at old jokes, and teasing each other about who got the worst grade on the last bio paper.

the night is warm, the kind that sticks to your skin and makes you feel a little more alive than usual. eventually, you get burgers from a 24-hour drive-thru, and you eat them in your car, parked in some random lot with the windows down and the radio humming quietly beneath your voices.

you're mid-bite when the silence creeps in—not awkward, just… still. your legs are pulled up into the seat, and art's fingers are brushing crumbs off his jeans. you glance over at him and catch him looking at you. he doesn’t look away.

there's ketchup at the corner of his mouth, and you think, i could kiss him right now. and maybe that would be okay.

you start leaning in before you realize you’re doing it, and you only notice because of the soft flush blooming across his cheeks, barely visible under the parking lot lights. it’s sweet. he’s sweet. and you’ve kissed him before, yeah—but never like this.

you find yourself nervous. when you’ve kissed art before (a few times, here and there) it was always under the ruse of being drunk or tashi and patrick pushing the two of you to do it for their own pleasure, so they could take turns kissing the both of you after. it was never just the two of you. never sober. never quiet like this.

but when his lips press against yours, it’s gentle. and there’s no hesitation. he kisses you like he means it. like he’s been waiting to. like he doesn’t know what to do with how much he wants this. like he’s not thinking about tashi or patrick or anyone else.

he leans into it so fast it’s almost clumsy—his nose bumping yours, the little gasp that slips out when your lips part—but it’s endearing in that soft, too-earnest art kind of way.

he kisses you like he’s afraid he’ll never get the chance again.

and you melt into it.

his lips are warm and soft and taste faintly of salt and ketchup. you feel the smile tugging at the edge of your mouth even as the kiss deepens, your heart hammering in your chest like it’s trying to break free. you shift a little closer, hand reaching for his jaw, cupping it, pulling him in. your thumb brushes over the soft skin just below his cheekbone, and his breath catches, trembling just a little.

he lets out a quiet, desperate little sound from the back of his throat, more sigh than groan, and it makes your stomach flip. he’s trying so hard to stay composed, but his body’s betraying him: the way he leans forward even as you pull back for breath, the way his hands twitch like he doesn’t know whether to grab you or not.

art pulls back, just barely, and blinks at you like he’s stunned. he tugs at the hem of your shirt, shy, almost like he’s asking permission without saying it.

you get the hint.

you climb over the center console, giggling when your elbow jabs him by accident. “sorry, sorry,” you laugh, breathless.

and he just laughs back, a little winded himself, cheeks flushed all the way to the tips of his ears once you’re straddling his lap, his hands finding your hips like he’s not quite sure what to do with them.

your fingers sink into his hair, messy and golden, and you kiss him again, harder this time. open-mouthed. messy. the way tashi taught you to kiss.

he melts into your mouth, breathing you in like you’re air. his grip tightens on your waist, getting braver, and he makes another sound, something small and needy, and it sends a thrill down your spine.

art’s trying to keep up. trying to match your pace. but he’s not good at hiding how much he wants this, how long he’s been waiting for it, and it makes him a little messy. a little too eager.

but you like him that way. earnest. soft. yours.

[pomegranatelifethis]

A Slice of Chaos

The Hall of Justice loomed like a futuristic fortress, all sleek metal and glowing holograms. You, however, were sprawled across a plush couch in the lounge, a bag of Doritos propped on your stomach, crumbs dusting your hoodie. At sixteen, you were the Justice League’s resident wildcard—a high school sophomore with powers you barely understood and a work ethic that could generously be described as “nonexistent.”

“Shouldn’t you be in the training room?” Diana’s voice cut through the crunch of your snack. Wonder Woman stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her lasso glinting at her hip. She was all regal poise, the kind of woman who could probably bench press a tank and still look flawless.

You grinned, popping another chip in your mouth. “Training’s overrated, Di. Besides, I’m strategizing.” You gestured vaguely at the empty soda can on the coffee table. “Hydration plan, see?”

Her lips twitched, fighting a smile. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Love you too!” you called as she shook her head and walked off. You were pretty sure Diana had a soft spot for you, even if you drove her up the wall. Most of the League did. It was your charm—cute, sweet, and just naughty enough to keep things interesting.

The lounge was your sanctuary, a place to dodge Batman’s endless drills or Superman’s earnest pep talks. You were a meta, discovered a year ago when you accidentally levitated your entire math class during a particularly boring lecture. The League scooped you up, promising to train you to control your telekinesis. Problem was, training was *hard*, and you’d rather be napping or raiding the League’s industrial-sized fridge.

A shadow fell over you. “Y/N.” Batman’s gravelly voice was unmistakable, like someone gargling asphalt. You didn’t even look up, just waved a Dorito in his general direction.

“Hey, Bats. Want one? Cool Ranch, your fave.”

He didn’t take the bait. He never did. “You skipped combat training. Again.”

You propped yourself up on your elbows, giving him your best puppy-dog eyes. “I was gonna go, I swear, but then I remembered I had this super important… uh, snack inventory to do.”

His cowl didn’t budge, but you could *feel* the exasperation radiating off him. “Your powers are raw. Uncontrolled. You’re a liability until you master them.”

“Liability’s a strong word,” you said, licking cheese dust off your fingers. “I prefer ‘chaotic asset.’ Sounds cooler.”

“Get to the training room. Now.”

You groaned, flopping back dramatically. “Fiiiine. But if I pull a muscle, I’m blaming you.”

💢💢

The training room was a high-tech nightmare—holographic drones, shifting obstacle courses, and enough sensors to make you feel like a lab rat. Flash was there, zipping around like a caffeinated hummingbird, while Green Lantern floated above, smirking as he conjured a glowing green punching bag.

“Look who decided to show up!” Barry called, skidding to a stop beside you. His red suit practically vibrated with energy. “Thought you were gonna ditch again.”

“Blame Bats,” you muttered, tying your messy ponytail tighter. “He’s got a sixth sense for my laziness.”

Hal landed, dismissing his construct. “Kid, you’re gonna give Bruce an aneurysm one day. And I’m gonna laugh.”

You stuck out your tongue. “Rude. I’m a delight.”

The session was brutal. You were supposed to levitate a series of weighted spheres while dodging drones, but your focus was shot. One sphere wobbled, then crashed into a wall, setting off a blaring alarm. You winced, shooting Barry a sheepish grin as he zipped over.

“Maybe try *not* breaking the equipment?” he teased, ruffling your hair.

“I’m a work in progress!” you shot back, but you couldn’t help laughing. Barry was like the cool older brother you never had, always quick with a joke or a snack run.

After an hour, you were sweaty, grumpy, and ready to bolt. “This is child abuse,” you declared, collapsing onto a bench. “I’m reporting you all to… someone.”

Clark appeared, all earnest blue eyes and farm-boy charm. “You did better than last time,” he said, handing you a water bottle. “You just need to focus.”

You took the bottle, eyeing him suspiciously. “Are you *always* this wholesome? It’s unnatural.”

He chuckled, unfazed. “Eat something substantial after this, okay? I saw you with those chips earlier.”

“Snitch,” you muttered, but your stomach growled, betraying you. Food was your love language. Pizza, tacos, ice cream—you didn’t discriminate. The League’s kitchen was your personal heaven, especially since Alfred occasionally dropped off trays of his legendary cookies.

💢💢

Later, you were back in the lounge, this time with a plate of leftover lasagna you’d sweet-talked Cyborg into reheating. Victor was a softie under all that tech, and you knew exactly how to work your charm.

“You’re gonna eat us out of house and home,” he said, but there was no heat in it. He was tinkering with some gadget, his cybernetic eye glowing faintly.

“Worth it,” you mumbled through a mouthful. “This is, like, Michelin-star level.”

A blur of motion, and Barry was beside you, snagging a forkful of your lasagna. “Yo, this is good! Vic, you holding out on me?”

“Get your own!” you swatted at him, but you were laughing. Moments like this—goofing off with the League, no world-ending crises—made the whole “hero-in-training” thing bearable.

Until the alarm blared.

“Unknown energy signature detected in Metropolis,” J’onn’s calm voice echoed over the intercom. “All available members, report to the briefing room.”

You groaned, sinking deeper into the couch. “Can’t the bad guys take a day off?”

Diana appeared, already in mission mode. “Y/N, you’re with us. Observation only.”

You perked up. A mission? No training, just watching the League be badass? “Sweet! I’m in.”

Batman’s glare said he didn’t agree, but you were already bouncing after Diana, lasagna forgotten. Sure, you were lazy, maybe a little too fond of snacks, but you were part of this team—chaos and all. And who knew? Maybe you’d accidentally save the day.

Or at least snag some post-mission tacos.

The briefing room buzzed with tension, but you were already daydreaming about the food truck you’d hit up later. Whatever this mission was, you’d survive it. You always did—with a smile, a quip, and a bag of chips in hand.

[stargrillzz]

The way

summary: A love as pure as Steve can give you, as pure and real as him.

note: Inspired by The way-Ariana Grande, Mac Miller. xoxo

Sunlight spilled through the open kitchen windows, golden and warm, catching the dust in the air like little flecks of magic. Somewhere down the block, someone was playing Marvin Gaye too loud through a crackling speaker. It was one of those mornings Brooklyn gave you sometimes—slow, sleepy, impossibly soft.

And it smelled like pancakes.

You stretched lazily, the oversized t-shirt you stole from Steve slipping off one shoulder as you shuffled out of bed and down the creaky hallway.

The kitchen looked like a postcard: Steve in a gray henley with sleeves pushed up to his elbows, flipping pancakes with quiet concentration, sunlight outlining his broad frame like something out of a daydream.

He turned just as you padded in.

“Morning, sunshine.”

You smiled sleepily. “Morning, Captain.”

He chuckled at that, shaking his head. “You gonna call me that every time I cook breakfast?”

“Depends. Are there strawberries?”

He pointed to the plate beside the stove, stacked high with golden pancakes, butter melting in glossy rivulets down the sides. Sliced strawberries, fresh and bright, sat in a bowl next to it.

You slid onto one of the stools at the counter, chin resting in your hands as you watched him with a dopey little grin.

“What?” he asked, catching your gaze.

“Nothing.” You tilted your head. “Just… you look like home.”

His ears pinked immediately, and he turned back to the skillet like it could hide his smile.

“You’re terrible,” he muttered.

“You love it.”

He flipped the last pancake, then walked over and set the plate in front of you. “I really do.”

You looked up, and for a second, the world stilled. No S.H.I.E.L.D., no threats, no history between his bones. Just you and him. Right now.

“Steve,” you said softly, “do you know how happy you make me?”

He paused, watching you. Then nodded, a slow smile tugging at his lips.

“I think so,” he said, voice gentle. “It’s the same way you make me feel.”

You stood to meet him halfway, arms sliding around his waist, cheek pressed to his chest. He smelled like coffee and maple syrup and laundry detergent.

“This is the best part of my life,” you murmured.

His arms wrapped around you tighter.

“I used to think I missed the world I came from,” he said. “But now... now I just think it was waiting for you” your heart clenched in the best way. “That’s the sappiest thing you’ve ever said.”

He leaned back just enough to kiss your forehead. “I’ve got worse.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it.”

You ended up on the fire escape, plates balanced between your knees, the air still warm even though it was barely 10 a.m. Steve sat beside you, his long legs stretched out in front of him, coffee mug in hand.

“You ever think about how weird this is?” you asked after a while.

He raised an eyebrow. “Pancakes?”

You laughed. “No, I mean… us. You. Me. You’re Captain America. I’m just—”

“Don’t.” He turned, eyes soft but serious. “You’re not just anything.”

You blinked, thrown by how earnest he was.

“I mean it,” he said. “You’re funny. And kind. And brave in all the ways that matter. I know what it looks like from the outside, but I wouldn’t trade you for anyone. Not then. Not now. Not ever.”

Your eyes stung suddenly.

“Steve—”

He reached over, brushing a crumb from your cheek with his thumb. “You don’t have to be anything more than what you are. That’s the person I fell in love with.”

The words hit like sunshine — slow and warm and everything you didn’t know you were waiting for.

You set your plate down and leaned in, kissing him softly.

“I love you, Steve.”

He smiled against your lips.

“I love you too.”

The rest of the morning melted by. You danced barefoot in the living room to old records he’d collected over the years, swaying in his arms while he sang off-key just to make you laugh.

“I should record this and sell it to the tabloids,” you teased.

He dipped you suddenly, catching you by surprise. “Go ahead. Tell the world I’m whipped.”

You gasped, giggling. “Steve Rogers!”

“You said it first,” he said, straight-faced, before kissing you again — long and slow and stupidly sweet.

And as you stood there with your arms around him, spinning in circles on creaky hardwood floors while the world outside kept rushing, you thought:

This is what it means to be loved. This is what home feels like.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

I saw you started writing for HP so PLEASE PLEASE I beg you for any crumb of Charlie Weasley x Reader, i'm a sucker for the redhead dragon tamer

A/n: Charlie 🥰 one of my favorite Weasley's

The warmth of the summer sun bathed the Burrow as you leaned against the crooked wooden fence, watching the chickens peck at the ground. The familiar chaos of the Weasley household buzzed behind you-mismatched laughter, the clatter of pots, and Fred and George’s unmistakable shouts about some new prank. Yet, your focus was drawn to the sky.

There he was, soaring effortlessly on his broomstick, a streak of red hair against the endless blue. Charlie Weasley. The dragon tamer. The man who’d captured your heart the moment he’d given you that cheeky, dimpled smile years ago.

You find it hard to not smile when Charlie is around you. Your gaze focused only on him as he performed a loop, his silhouette outlined against the clouds. The way he moved on a broom was pure confidence—strength and ease combined, a perfect reflection of his personality. He landed gracefully a few moments later, shaking his hair out of his eyes as he approached you with a grin.

“Did you enjoy the show, or were you too busy daydreaming?” he teased, slinging his broom over his shoulder and leaning against the fence next to you.

“I don’t daydream,” you replied, rolling your eyes with a smirk. “And if I did, it wouldn’t be about you Charlie.”

“Really?” Charlie arched a brow, his grin widening. “I’ll have to work harder, then.”his voice dipping as he nudged your side.

Before you could reply, he reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch was warm, rough from years of working with dragons, but it sent a shiver down your spine.

“You’ve been quiet today,” he said, his tone softening. “Something on your mind?”

You hesitated, your lips parting for a moment, unsure whether to admit it or just keep it to yourself. There had always been an easy friendship between the two of you, but lately, your feelings had grown into something deeper, into something you weren’t sure you could hide anymore.

“It’s nothing,” you said, glancing away, but Charlie caught your chin gently with his fingers, turning you back to face him.

“You’re a terrible liar, you know that?” he said, his eyes searching yours. “C’mon, talk to me.”

There was no resisting that earnest gaze of his,how he easily made your heart pound wildly in your chest, so you sighed and spoke before you lost your nerve.

“I’ve just been thinking… You’re always off doing these incredible things—training dragons, saving people. And I’m just… here. I guess I worry that I’m not enough to keep up with you....you can be friends with anyone Charlie”

For a moment, Charlie stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then, to your surprise, he laughed—a deep, warm sound that made warmth creep up your neck.

“Not enough?” he repeated, shaking his head. “Are you joking? Do you know how often I think about you when I’m off doing ‘incredible things’? You’re what I look forward to coming back to, every single time.”

Your breath hitched as he stepped closer, his hand now moving to rest against your cheek.

“You’re my favorite part of everything,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “The way you ground me, make me laugh, make me feel like I can be myself—you’re more than enough. You’re everything....when I'm with you I'm not scared”

Before you could respond, Charlie leaned down and pressed his lips to yours, soft and warm and perfect. The world seemed to melt away as you kissed him back, your heart pounding in your chest.

When you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours, his grin making your stomach flip.

“Guess I don’t have to work that hard after all,” he teased, his voice low and teasing.

You laughed, swatting at his arm. “Oh, shut up, Weasley.”

But as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close, you realized you didn’t mind the teasing. Not when it came from him.

Because Charlie Weasley wasn’t just your best friend, your partner in crime. He was your home. And you were his.

[crushpunky]

joe and college!reader argue

masterlist

based on this ask. warning mentions of sex

Y/n had been having a shitty week to put it lightly. It started on Monday when she spilled the entirety of her coffee down her outfit just before she had to give a presentation, then continued on Tuesday when her car got a flat tire. Wednesday, she stayed up all night trying to grind out a Calculus assignment before the test Thursday morning… which she nearly missed because her alarm didn’t go off. However, she made it through. She made it through because, in the back of her mind, she just kept thinking about her and Joe’s Friday night ritual: their pajamas and movie night.

Every week, the two of them would get together, dress up in their comfiest pajamas, and watch a movie. They’d alternate between Joe’s apartment and y/n’s dorm, whomever the host was getting to pick the movie. Neither of them particularly being big party animals, they chose Friday because it would allow them a trust excuse when their friends would try and drag them out to some rowdy club.

This week being hers, y/n stood from her desk with a sigh, finally freeing herself from her homework for the rest of the night. She did up her bed, perfectly fluffing up the pillows and laying out Joe’s favorite (and freshly washed) blanket. As the time for Joe to come over got closer, y/n popped popcorn and slipped into her new pajama set that’d finally come in the mail. It was a satin pink ensemble with lacy trim along the neckline of the tanktop and hem of her coordinating, ruffled shorts.

About thirty minutes before 7:00, aka the time their movie night officially would (hopefully) begin with Joe’s arrival and the approximate delivery of the pizza she’d ordered, y/n’s phone buzzed with a text from Joe.

hey, got held up at the fields, but ill be there asap. love you.

Y/n sighed, annoyed but not surprised. It wasn’t unusual for Joe to send a text saying he’d be a few minutes late, him often spending hours on the practice fields and naturally losing track of time. But that's what it usually was: a few minutes late.

So, when the clock hit 7:00, then 7:30, then 8:00, y/n found herself beginning to cry as she sat on her twin XL mattress, the pizza that had arrived already growing cold in the stale air of her dorm room. Taking a bite of a chewy, cheesy slice, y/n wiped her under eyes with a sniffle. Her week had been shit, Joe knew that, and she had been looking forward to this for the whole time. Just a night to relax and unwind in Joe’s arms, to leave all the other stressors behind. Yet here she was, alone.

Suddenly, a loud knock came from her door. Y/n barely flinched, already sunk deep into the bed as she watched some shitty Netflix show.

“Y/n! Y/n!” Joe’s voice was heard from the other side of the door.

Y/n looked at the door hesitantly, gnawing at her bottom lip. He was over an hour late. An hour. And it wasn’t like this was some last minute thing or something out of the ordinary, this was every damn week, and he hadn’t even bothered to call or text to let her know he was going to be that late.

“Y/n, please,” Joe sighed, running a hand through his sweaty hair. “Ja’Marr wanted to run drills a– and then Coach came and I my fucking phone died so I didn’t know the time and—”

The door to y/n’s dorm swung open, the light from the hallway illuminating her disheveled form. Her hair was tangled, the pristine pink of her new pajamas dotted with grease and crumbs from the pizza, and her eyes a mess of smeared and longgone mascara.

“Y/n, baby, I’m so sorry—” Joe said, immediately stepping through the doorway and into her dorm. His hands reached for her waist as he dropped down to look her in the eyes. However, she stepped just out of his reach, avoiding his eyeline as she closed the door behind him before silently turning back to her bed. She climbed back into her spot, turning the TV back on.

“Y/n, please, I—” Joe pleaded, his eyes earnest as he stood in front of her, blocking her view of the TV. She moved her neck to look around him, but he stepped to block her once more.

“Baby, I’m so sorry, just please talk to me—” Joe said.

“It’s fine, Joe.” Y/n snapped, her eyes finally meeting his. He could see the stress of the week in her teary eyes, making his heart break over the fact he’d played a part in it.

“It’s not fine.” Joe said sternly, grabbing the controller from her and pausing the TV. “You’ve had such a shitty week and I’m really sorry.”

“You’re right. I did have a really, really shitty week, Joe,” Y/n said with a sniffle, “and the one thing I wanted was to have this night with you and just…”

Y/n’s bottom lip trembled as she let out a sigh, her eyes fluttering closed as a tear rolled down her cheek. Joe knelt down in front of her, his eyes peering up at her intently.

“I’m really, really sorry, baby.” Joe said lowly, his hand trailing along the skin of her thigh. Y/n’s eyes fluttered open again, watching as he pressed a light kiss to her knee.

“I’m gonna make it up to you.” Joe whispered, his lips brushing her thigh gently. Y/n felt her cheeks warm as she watched him, but she quickly tore herself away once she remembered how they’d gotten here in the first place.

“No, Joe.” Y/n said, moving her leg from him with a groan. Joe looked up at him, his eyes wide and cheeks flushed.

“You can’t just… sex your way out of this. We need to talk. This is… important and something I’ve been needing to talk to you about for a while.” Y/n sighed. Joe stood up, joining y/n on the bed. His long legs dangled off the side as he leaned forward, a concerned look on his face as y/n peered back at him.

“Look, I get it. Football is always gonna be your first love but… Joe, sometimes it feels like I don’t even cross your mind.” Y/n said, fidgeting with her fingers in front of her and avoiding Joe’s gaze as she spoke. Joe stiffened, his brows shooting upwards.

“What?!” Joe said incredulously, y/n’s eyes finally moving to meet his. “Baby, what do you mean?”

“It’s just,” y/n sighed. “I just feel like it’s always just about… you and football and the season and the team and it’s never about, well, us.”

“You know this season has been so important for us— the team— but that doesn’t mean I just forget about you when football comes around.” Joe said, his hand reaching out hesitantly for y/n’s. She took it, running her fingertips along his calloused hands.

“Joe, it’s not just tonight it’s all the time.” Y/n said. “You’re watching game film when we’re eating dinner or going over plays while we’re getting coffee or… showing up late for our dates because you were practicing. Look, I get it that it takes time but… sometimes I just feel like I’m not a priority for you anymore.”

“Baby, of course you’re a fucking priority for me,” Joe said, squeezing y/n’s hand. “This is just… a really important time for me and I have to be performing at the top of my game…”

Y/n took in a deep breath, her bottom lip trembling slightly as she looked back at Joe.

“... but that doesn’t mean I should be sacrificing us.” Joe said, nodding lightly. “I… I’m sorry— for making you feel like I forgot about you and for not really being there for you.”

A small smile drew across y/n’s lips, a similar one spreading across Joe’s face.

“Thank you, Joey.” Y/n said, pressing a light kiss to Joe’s temple.

“Don’t thank me for something I should’ve been doing before.” Joe said with a slight chuckle. “You deserve to feel like a priority because you fucking are.”

“I love you.” Y/n whispered, running a hand through Joe’s hair as he looked back at her with a gentle, loving gaze.

“I love you too.” Joe said. “Now let’s watch a movie.”

[theapollochronicles]

Silco x Vastaya reader 🥺👉👈 pretty pls ty

didn’t give me much to work with but hope you enjoy! you’re one of my firsts requests :D @theberserkerwithin

��𝐚𝐭 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 | 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐜𝐨

“You can't buy this fineness

Let me see the heat get to it

Let me watch the dressing start to peel

It's a kindness, Highness

Crumbs enough for everyone

Old and young are welcome to the meal,”

pairing: silco x gn!vastaya!reader

summary: silco was a promising man with a demanding position in the undercity, but he had a hard time showing his true emotions to the people around him.

warnings: teen!jinx x reader (platonic), takes place before season one, mentions of violence (if you squint), smoking, some fluff & angst.

The hum of the fish tank filled Silco’s office, blending with the quiet creak of wooden beams overhead. You leaned casually against the desk, arms crossed, while Silco sat in his chair, reviewing a pile of reports. Your cat-like ears twitched as a faint creak sounded above you—a familiar presence settling into the wooden beams that crisscrossed the ceiling, but neither of you acknowledged her yet.

“She’s been up there for the past ten minutes,” you said under your breath, glancing upward.

“I’m aware,” Silco replied without looking up from his papers. “She likes to imagine she’s invisible.”

“I am invisible!” Jinx’s voice rang out, cutting through the stillness. Her legs dangled into view from the wooden pillars above, her tone both playful and defensive.

“You’re as invisible as Sevika’s temper,” you retorted, earning a low chuckle from Silco.

Jinx groaned, leaning down further so her head peeked into view. Her light blue eyes gleamed with mischief, but there was an underlying earnestness to her gaze. “I’m observing. That’s important, right? You always say I need to pay attention.”

Silco’s pen paused mid-stroke, his mismatched eyes shifting to the girl above. “Paying attention doesn’t mean lurking, Jinx. If you have something to say, come down and say it.”

She hesitated for a moment before swinging down, landing lightly on her feet. Straightening up, she adjusted her posture, trying to appear taller, older. “I’m not a kid anymore, you know. I can handle the serious stuff.”

“You’re growing up,” you agreed, your tone gentle. “But that doesn’t mean you can skip steps. You have to earn trust if you want to take on more responsibility.”

“I can earn it,” she insisted, her voice firm but laced with vulnerability. She looked between you and Silco, seeking approval. “You and Silco trust me, don’t you?”

Silco leaned back in his chair, studying her. “Trust is not a gift, Jinx. It’s a currency. And like any currency, it must be guarded carefully. You’ve proven yourself before, but you’ve also been reckless.”

Her expression faltered briefly, but she quickly masked it with a grin. “That’s because being careful is boring. And boring doesn’t get results.”

“Recklessness doesn’t either,” you countered. “Look, you’re creative. Smarter than most people give you credit for. But you have to show them you can channel that energy the right way.”

Jinx shifted, crossing her arms. “You sound like her.”

The room fell silent at her words, the weight of the unspoken name heavy in the air.

“Vi isn’t here,” Silco said evenly, his voice a quiet warning.

“I know that!” Jinx snapped, her expression a mix of frustration and hurt. “I don’t need her! I’ve got you. I’ve got Y/N.” She turned to you, her voice softening. “Right?”

You stepped closer, crouching slightly to meet her gaze. “You have us,” you said gently. “But you don’t have to prove anything to us, Jinx. We already see how much you’ve grown.”

Her shoulders relaxed slightly, but her gaze remained determined. “I want more than that. I want everyone else to see it too.”

“They will,” you assured her. “In time.”

Silco watched the exchange in silence, his expression unreadable. Finally, he spoke, his tone measured. “If you want to be taken seriously, start by handling smaller tasks without complaint. Prove you can follow through, and I’ll consider giving you more.”

Jinx blinked, surprised, but nodded. “Okay! Deal.”

“Good.” Silco leaned forward, returning his attention to the papers on his desk. “Now go. Sevika is waiting for you.”

Jinx wrinkled her nose. “She’s so bossy.”

“She’s capable,” Silco corrected, not looking up.

Jinx muttered something under her breath but gave you a quick smile before heading for the door. As she reached it, she paused, glancing back. “Thanks, Y/N.”

“Always,” you said with a small smile.

Once the door closed behind her, the room fell quiet again. Your ears straightened, turning to face Silco.

“You were a bit soft on her,” you teased lightly, crossing your arms.

“She’s determined to grow up too quickly,” he said simply, though his voice softened just slightly. “I won’t push her, but I also won’t let her stay a child forever.”

“She doesn’t have to stay a child,” you replied, moving to lean against the desk again. “But she needs to feel safe enough to grow.”

Silco didn’t respond, but his gaze lingered on you for a long moment before he returned to his work, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

The air in the Chem-Barons’ meeting room was heavy with tension and smoke. Silco sat at the head of the table, his usual composed demeanor a stark contrast to the chaotic personalities around him. You stood to his left, leaning casually against the wall with your arms crossed, your large, cat-like ears twitching occasionally as you listened to the barons’ chatter. Sevika stood on Silco’s other side, her imposing figure a silent warning to anyone who might think to challenge him.

The Chem-Barons discussed logistics, turf disputes, and shipments of shimmer, but the underlying current of mistrust was palpable.

“I’ve got to ask, Silco,” Finn finally spoke, leaning back in his chair with an exaggerated smirk. His tone was as casual as his words were calculated. “Why bring your lackeys here?” He gestured lazily at you and Sevika. “Do you need them to hold your hand, or are you just showing off?”

The room fell silent. Sevika’s jaw tightened, her cybernetic arm whirring faintly as her fingers flexed. Your ears flicked toward Finn, though you didn’t move from your spot against the wall.

Silco didn’t respond immediately. He leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the armrest as his mismatched eyes fixed on Finn.

“Careful, Finn,” he said at last, his voice calm but laced with venom. “You’re beginning to sound like someone who thinks they’re irreplaceable.”

Finn chuckled, clearly trying to play off the tension. “Oh, come on. I’m just saying, it’s interesting, isn’t it? You trust them enough to bring them into our space, but not enough to speak for themselves.”

Before Sevika could step forward, you placed a hand on her shoulder, a silent gesture to keep her in check. Your sharp gaze locked onto Finn, your cat-like eyes narrowing.

“They don’t speak because they don’t need to,” Silco said, his voice dropping to a dangerous low. “When they act, they leave no room for discussion. You’d do well to remember that, Finn.”

Finn’s smirk faltered, the weight of Silco’s words settling over the room.

“Let’s move on,” Silco said curtly, dismissing the conversation and returning his focus to the papers in front of him.

The rest of the meeting continued without further incident, though the tension remained thick in the air.

Later, back at the Last Drop, the silence in Silco’s office was almost deafening. You leaned against his desk, arms crossed, watching him as he stood by the fish tank, the dim light casting long shadows across the room.

“Finn shouldn’t have tried anything,” Silco said suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it that you recognized all too well. “The man has a penchant for testing boundaries, but that was… reckless.”

You tilted your head slightly, your ears flicking as you regarded him. “You handled it.”

“Not as much as I wanted to,” he admitted, turning to face you. “I could’ve said worse. Should’ve, perhaps. But meetings like that require… restraint.” He spat the last word like it was poison.

You smirked faintly, the tip of your tail curling as you watched him pace. “That restraint is what keeps the Chem-Barons in line. Finn likes to provoke, but he doesn’t understand the cost of pushing too far. You do.”

Silco stopped pacing, his gaze settling on you. For a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased, and the sharpness in his expression softened just slightly. “And yet, I find myself tempted to forget that cost when it comes to you.”

The admission hung in the air, heavier than the silence that followed. You blinked, your ears lowering slightly as you processed his words.

“I can take care of myself, you know,” you said, your voice softer now.

“I know,” he replied, his tone uncharacteristically warm. His gaze flickered to your ears, his mismatched eyes briefly betraying something deeper. “But I won’t tolerate anyone disrespecting what’s mine.”

The room seemed smaller in that moment, the space between you shrinking despite neither of you moving. You held his gaze, your tail flicking absently.

“Yours, huh?” you said lightly, trying to cut the tension.

He smirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “In every way that matters.”

You allowed yourself a small smile, stepping away from the desk and brushing past him toward the door. “Good thing I don’t need you to fight my battles. But… I don’t mind you trying.”

His gaze lingered on you as you left the room, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips. Once the door clicked shut behind you, Silco returned to his desk, his composure restored, though his thoughts remained far from the shimmer trade.

[pookalicious-hq]

blue velvet... jinx x reader

| 1.4. progress not perfection | prev | next | masterlist

synopsis: two girls trapped within a world full of hate would do anything for eachother. too bad they're both crazy. tags/tws: mentions of mental health illnesses, mention of suicide, blood and gore, mc has split personalities word count: 6.4k

present day: age 23

The sea of bodies sucked you in from either side, a swirling tide of motion and sound. Figures twisted and jostled, their voices rising over one another in a cacophony of excitement as they vied for a glimpse of Progress Day’s marvels. The air itself seemed to hum with energy, the sharp scent of steam and fuel mixing with the sweeter notes of caramelized nuts and fresh pastries. Somewhere nearby, a musician’s lively tune spilled over the noise, adding a whimsical rhythm to the chaos. The skies above were dotted with colourful banners snapping in the wind, their vibrant hues adding to the sharp contrast of the gleaming metalwork around you.

You tugged your hood lower, the fraying edge brushing against your cheek. Your wings, folded tightly against your back, twitched with the urge to stretch, but you kept them carefully hidden beneath your cloak. You’d made sure to preen yourself before leaving—the careful shaking off of loose feathers, the smoothening of your clothes so no stray plume could give away your presence. The last thing you wanted was to leave a trail. This was one of those rare moments when you could blend in, wander the city unnoticed, a fleeting chance to lose yourself in the celebration. A chance to be anonymous.

Still, you allowed yourself a small indulgence. The half-eaten pastry in your hand was sticky, crumbs clinging to your fingers as you weaved through the press of people. The sweet, greasy scent clung to the air, masking the slightly metallic smell of the machines around you. Your sharp eyes flitted between the vibrant displays, absorbing the cacophony of sights: clockwork animals that chirped and hopped, automatons strumming clumsy tunes, and an inventor passionately proclaiming the future of pneumatic transport.

You couldn’t resist. It was too tempting.

As the inventor’s voice crescendoed into the dramatic pitch of a sales pitch, you let your fingers brush against the edge of your cloak, a small static charge crackling through the air. The spark zipped into the exposed wiring of the machine, and the entire contraption jerked violently. Its spindly mechanical limbs flailed, thrashing through the air, smacking into the inventor’s leg and sending him tumbling into the air like a ragdoll. He landed in a tangle of metal and steam, and the crowd erupted in startled laughter.

You grinned, stepping away from the scene before anyone noticed you had been involved. Mischief always seemed to find you when you least expected it. In a crowd like this, no one ever connected the dots—Piltover was too busy admiring itself to worry about one little disruption.

As you sauntered away, a small voice called out behind you, tentative and high-pitched.

“Um, excuse me, miss?”

You paused and turned, blinking down at the small figure tugging at your attention. The little girl, no older than seven or eight, gazed up at you with wide, earnest eyes. Her dirty-blond hair framed her face in soft waves, and her tiny hands were clutching something in front of her.

In her grip was one of your feathers, big and gray, its edges tipped with silver like moonlight on dark water. It shimmered in the light, reflecting the kaleidoscope of colours around you.

Your heart sank.

Shit.

You’d made sure to shake out your wings before you flew up—checked every inch to make sure there were no stray feathers left behind. So why now? Why this one?

“You dropped this,” she said, as if it were a treasure instead of an accident.

“Oh,” you started, trying to hide the momentary panic in your voice. You reached out to take the feather, tucking it quickly beneath your cloak as you flashed the girl a forced smile. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

For a moment, she hesitated, eyeing the hidden feather with wide, curious eyes. You bit your lip, embarrassment creeping up your neck. But you couldn’t help the soft, genuine chuckle that escaped you. “You know what?” you said, crouching down to her level and gently taking the feather. “Why don’t you keep it?”

Her eyes widened in surprise, then her face broke into a smile so bright it made the noise of the crowd feel distant. “Really?” she gasped. “For me?”

You nodded, tucking the feather carefully into her hands. “Tell you what,” you said, leaning in close, your voice taking on a conspiratorial whisper, “this feather isn’t just any feather. It’s magical. I got it from a storm bird all the way in Ixtal.”

Her face lit up, her small fingers brushing over the edges of the feather as if expecting something to happen. “A storm bird? Like, one that makes lightning?”

“Exactly,” you replied, your eyes gleaming with mischief. “They’re rare creatures, and their feathers are said to bring good luck. So, if you keep this, you might just find yourself a little magic of your own.”

She gasped in awe, clutching the feather to her chest like it was the most precious thing in the world. “Thank you very much!” she beamed, barely able to contain her excitement.

Before you could say anything else, the girl’s mother appeared, her hands already reaching out to tug her daughter away. The woman’s eyes flicked over to you, scanning you from head to toe with quick, dismissive contempt. The glint of judgment was unmistakable in her gaze.

“What did I tell you about talking to strangers?” the mother snapped, her voice sharp and cold.

You stood, pushing your shoulders back as the woman’s eyes took in your worn cloak and scuffed boots—your mismatched, patched-up appearance. The clothes didn’t fit right, and the grime of Zaun still clung to your skin like an old memory. It wasn’t lost on you how quickly people like her could size you up. You weren’t part of this world.

“Come on,” she said to the little girl, her tone softening as she tugged her away. “Stay away from people like that.”

The girl hesitated, clutching the feather tightly to her chest, her wide eyes locking onto yours. You gave her a reassuring smile, though it didn’t reach your heart.

The bitterness crept in slowly, curling at the edges of your mind like smoke—dark, lingering, and impossible to shake off. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen it. That look. The judgment, the fear, the instinct to pull away from someone different. But something about seeing it in that little girl—someone so young, so full of wonder—made it sting more than usual.

Kids didn’t start out like that. They weren’t born to look at the world through a lens of suspicion and hatred. They didn’t come out of the womb fearing people they’d never met, or fearing the things they couldn’t understand. That was something that was taught. Something that was learned, and twisted, and fed to them like poison over time.

It was the system that did that. The walls that divided Piltover from the Undercity, the invisible lines that separated the 'worthy' from the 'unworthy.' Kids weren’t born knowing the difference between the two—they learned it by watching the way the streets were built, the way the towers reached higher and higher above the polluted depths of Zaun. They saw how people in the Upper City looked down at the world below them, how they turned their noses up, how they judged everyone and everything in it.

They heard their parents talk about 'the undesirables,' the 'unfortunate ones' from below. How they were a threat to everything Piltover stood for, how the poor, the outcasts, the criminals—those who lived in the shadows—were all 'dangerous' and 'dirty.' It was the kind of talk that seeped into a child’s bones without them even realizing it, until one day, it was as natural as breathing.

That same venom dripped into the veins of the next generation, and before you knew it, it wasn’t just the parents. The kids, too, started looking at you with the same disgust. The same fear.

But that wasn’t where it ended, was it? No. The system kept feeding into that fear, kept reinforcing the lies. In Piltover, it was about power and wealth, about who owned the shiny things, who had the money to pay for protection. And in Zaun, it was about survival. People didn’t get to choose who they became when they grew up. They either adapted, or they were crushed by the weight of the world around them.

It didn’t matter if you were born in the Undercity or the Upper City—you had no control over the cards you were dealt. But the kids, they didn’t know that yet. They didn’t know how the system stacked the deck before they were even born, how it trained them to see the world in black and white, to fear anyone who didn’t look like them, who didn’t have what they had.

The little girl’s eyes had been full of that. Her innocent excitement, all that wonder, until it was tainted by the shadow of her mother’s words. “Don’t talk to strangers.” A simple phrase, but one that held so much more weight when it was uttered with disdain. It was a lesson wrapped in a cruel package: ‘People like you and me don’t mix with people like her. Stay away. Protect yourself.’

It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t the little girl’s fault at all. You couldn’t blame the kids for the hate that was woven into them. They didn’t choose to be born into it. They didn’t have a choice in the matter. It was just how the world worked. The system taught them to fear, to distance themselves, and to ignore the humanity of those who lived beneath them.

And that was why it hurt so much. You’d seen the same pattern play out over and over, each time making it harder to believe that things could ever change. Because how could they, when the foundations of the world were built on this kind of cruelty?

You let out a slow breath, shaking off the sting of the encounter. It wasn’t worth dwelling on. Not today.

The thought barely had time to settle in your mind before a familiar shadow flickered across the ground, and a sharp, high-pitched screech split the air. You blinked, looking up just in time to catch sight of your falcon cutting through the crowd, her wings slicing through the sunlight like blades.

“Hey there, sweet pea,” you murmured with a half-smile, but something was off.

Instead of her usual graceful descent toward you, she veered wide, circling above your head in erratic loops. Her usual comforting presence felt distant now, her flight pattern erratic, as though something had startled her. You furrowed your brow, your fingers instinctively twitching at your sides, almost reaching for a weapon, but you held back, watching her every move.

Then you saw it.

Her talons flashed in the sunlight as they dipped lower, catching your eye. In the clutch of her claws dangled something delicate—too delicate, too out of place in this bustling crowd. You froze, every muscle in your body tensing.

A single strand of blue hair, eerily familiar, dangled like a silent warning from her sharp talons.

Your stomach churned, the blood draining from your face as a sick realization crawled up your spine.

Something had gone wrong.

As gracefully as you could, you navigated through the throngs of bodies. The air seemed to tighten around you as the crowd closed in, their cheers and chatter blurring into a dull roar at the edges of your consciousness. Every instinct screamed for you to break into a sprint, to push past the mass of bodies clogging the streets, but you forced yourself to move carefully, methodically, with purpose. You couldn’t afford to make a scene, not here, not now.

You adjusted the hood over your head, the fraying edge brushing against your cheek as you ducked beneath a banner strung low across the street. A vendor called out nearby, hawking some mechanical marvel, his booming voice cutting sharply through the noise, but you barely registered it. Your focus was locked on weaving through the shifting sea of people, each step measured, your wings pressed tighter against your back beneath the cloak.

The strand of blue hair swung like a pendulum in your mind, its presence as vivid as if it were still dangling before your eyes. Jinx’s hair. There was no mistaking it. The vibrant hue was burned into your memory, a colour that belonged to her and her alone. That single strand carried weight—a message, a warning, maybe even a cry for help.

Your falcon circled above, her sharp screeches drawing a few curious glances from passersby. You clicked your tongue softly, a signal for her to keep her distance. The last thing you needed was her drawing more attention to you.

Ahead, the crowd thickened near a towering automaton display, its gleaming brass limbs performing a mechanical ballet to the delight of onlookers. You gritted your teeth, scanning for a gap, anything to slip through without shoving your way forward. The anonymity Progress Day offered was a double-edged sword—perfect for blending in, but a nightmare when every second counted.

You slipped between two gawking spectators, their laughter grating against your ears as you brushed past. A child darted in front of you, clutching a toy bird that flapped its wooden wings. You sidestepped just in time, your heart racing as you narrowly avoided knocking them over. The mother shot you a wary glance, her hand tightening on the child’s shoulder as she pulled them away from you.

That glance stung more than you’d like to admit, but you didn’t have time to dwell on it.

Jinx was somewhere out there, and something was wrong.

Your falcon screeched again, louder this time, and you couldn’t help but glance up. She was circling tighter now, her movements frantic, as if urging you to move faster.

“I know, sweet pea,” you muttered under your breath, your voice barely audible over the clamour around you. Your fingers itched to do something—spark a current, clear a path, anything—but that would only draw eyes to you. You couldn’t risk it.

Not until you found her.

You quickened your pace, your movements fluid as you wove through the crowd. The sticky remnants of the pastry clung to your fingers, forgotten, as the urgency in your chest grew heavier with every step. Sorry Bluejay, I owe you one. You kept your head down, your breaths shallow, every nerve on edge as you closed the distance.

Somewhere in the city’s maze of streets and alleys, she was waiting. And you wouldn’t stop until you reached her.

​​The further you moved from the festival’s epicenter, the air shifted, growing cooler and quieter. The cacophony of laughter, music, and sales pitches dulled into a distant hum, like a fading memory. You kept your pace brisk but not hurried, eyes scanning every alley and shadow for signs of trouble.

This part of Piltover, on the fringes of the Progress Day celebration, was practically deserted. Banners fluttered lazily overhead, their vibrant colours muted in the dimming light, and the scent of roasted nuts and sweets thinned, replaced by the faint tang of salt from the harbour. The cobblestone streets underfoot felt uneven, and less polished, as if the city’s shine didn’t quite reach this far.

The shipyard loomed ahead, its silhouette jagged and imposing against the horizon. Tall masts and metallic scaffolding stood like sentinels, their shadows stretching long and dark. A faint tension buzzed in the air, something too subtle for most to notice but unmistakable to you.

Then you heard it.

Bang.

The sharp crack of a gunshot echoed across the empty yard, slicing through the quiet. Your heart jolted, and before you could process it, another shot followed, then another—rapid, erratic, like thunderclaps in a storm. The sound reverberated through the metal structures, amplifying its intensity, though you doubted it carried far enough to reach the festival crowd.

But out here, where the world had gone eerily still, it was deafening.

Your wings twitched beneath your cloak, your instincts screaming for you to take to the skies and close the distance faster, but you resisted. Drawing attention now, even in this desolate stretch, was too risky. Instead, you quickened your pace, your boots hitting the ground harder, each step echoing your growing urgency.

A scream tore through the air, shrill and desperate. The sound froze you mid-step, a cold weight settling in your chest. You knew that voice.

“Jay,” you whispered, fear threading through the name.

The screeching caw of your falcon pierced the air as she dove ahead, her wings slicing through the shadows like blades. Her presence was a beacon, guiding you toward the source of the chaos.

You rounded the corner of a massive stack of shipping crates, the metallic tang of gunpowder sharp in your nostrils now. The faint glow of flickering lamplight danced along the hulls of the docked ships, their reflections fractured in the water below.

And then you saw her.

The gunfire didn’t stop. It came in bursts, uneven and frantic, each shot like a scream.

Then came the actual scream.

High-pitched and sharp, it tore through the air and lodged itself in your chest. It wasn’t just panic—it was her.

Your pace quickened, every instinct propelling you forward. You rounded the corner of a shipping crate and stopped short.

She stood on the deck of a docked cargo ship, her shoulders hunched and trembling. Her gun—the one she never let out of her sight—was clenched tightly in her hands, the barrel still smoking.

There was no laughter, no sly grin, no sarcastic quip. Just frantic, shaky breaths and wide, wild eyes darting around like she couldn’t tell what was real anymore. Her hair whipped around her in the harbour wind, and her face was streaked with grime, sweat, and tears that carved clean lines through the filth.

Scattered around her were bodies, some crumpled and still, others groaning in pain. The metallic tang of blood mixed with the acrid stench of gunpowder, clinging to your throat like a sickness.

You’d seen her like this before. Episodes like these weren’t new—they had haunted her for as long as you’d known her. Back then, you’d been younger, just learning what it meant to be her anchor. You’d sat with her through sleepless nights and shattering breakdowns, trying to soothe chaos you could barely comprehend. It broke your heart every time.

But no matter how many times you’d helped her through it, seeing her like this never got easier.

“Bluejay,” you sang softly, your voice careful, your heart pounding so loudly it felt like it might burst from your chest.

The sound of your voice snapped her head around. But instead of recognition, there was fear—raw, primal fear—and anger.

She spun toward you, lifting the massive weapon and pointing it at you in one sharp, fluid motion. The sheer size of it dwarfed her trembling frame, but her grip was iron-tight, her fingers dangerously close to the trigger.

“Don’t—don’t come any closer!” she yelled, her voice cracking like glass. Her wide, unseeing eyes locked onto you, her chest heaving like she couldn’t pull in enough air.

“I’ll blow ya to itty-fuckin-bitty bits!” she shrieked, her voice teetering between rage and desperation.

Her hands shook so violently that you almost flinched, but you didn’t stop moving.

“It’s me, Bluejay,” you said, your voice as calm as you could muster. You kept your hands visible, palms out, as you took a careful step forward. “It’s Y/n.”

Her breathing hitched. Her grip faltered, the barrel of the gun dipping slightly. Her gaze flicked over your face, her lips trembling as if trying to form words.

“Birdie?” she whispered, the nickname falling from her lips like a prayer.

You nodded, your heart squeezing at the small, broken voice she used. “It’s me,” you assured her, stepping closer. “You’re okay. You’re safe now.”

Her arms dropped an inch, the gun lowering enough for you to fully see her tear-streaked face. She looked so small, so fragile like a child lost in the middle of a nightmare.

“Vi—” Her voice cracked, and her knees buckled slightly as she shook her head like she was trying to shake loose the chaos in her mind. “She wouldn’t shut up! They— They wouldn’t stop! They said I was—” Her voice broke entirely, her words tumbling out in a messy, disjointed rush. “I didn’t mean to— I didn’t mean—”

Her words splintered apart, her thoughts shattering faster than she could hold them together.

You stepped closer until you were right in front of her, the barrel of the gun nearly brushing your chest. Slowly, carefully, you reached out and rested a hand on the weapon, gently guiding it down.

“Bluejay, look at me,” you said firmly, your voice steady but laced with warmth. “You’re okay. Whatever happened, I’m here now. I’ll protect you. Just like always.”

Her lip quivered, and for a moment, her wide, tear-filled eyes searched your face. Then the gun clattered to the deck with a metallic thud as she let it slip from her hands.

You didn’t hesitate. You closed the gap and wrapped your arms around her, pulling her trembling form against you. She collapsed into you, her knees giving out as she clung to you like a lifeline, her fingers tangling in the fabric of your cloak.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, stroking her hair as her body shook with silent sobs. Your own throat tightened, but your voice stayed steady. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

The chaos around you blurred, fading into nothing but white noise. All that mattered was Jinx in your arms, her breath hot and ragged against your shoulder, and the quiet, desperate promise you made to her with every heartbeat.

For now, that was enough.

But the peace shattered as sharp shuffles of boots echoed across the dock. Angry voices followed, low and bitter, cutting through the thick harbour air.

“What the hell is wrong with her?!” one of the crew barked, his voice raw and wet with pain, clutching his bloodied side. His fingers dug into torn fabric, crimson dripping between them and staining the dock below. “You think this is a game?! She’s gonna get us all killed!”

“Useless,” another spat, his voice sharp as broken glass. His glare cut through the dim light, landing on Jinx like a predator circling wounded prey. “Always doing this shit! What good is she if—”

Jinx stiffened against you, her shallow breaths hitching sharply, each inhale sharp and jagged as shattered glass. Her trembling form grew rigid, her knuckles white as she balled her fists. The air around her felt heavy, charged, her anger flickering to life like a spark in dry timber.

“I’ll show you useless!” she snarled, her voice raw and splintering as she lunged toward the crew. Her face twisted into a storm of fury and fear, cheeks flushed, her wide eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

“Jay,” you murmured, your tone cutting through the crackling tension like a blade. Firm, soothing, and edged with unyielding control. Your arms tightened around her, holding her back with an ease that belied the strength it took to still her wild energy. “They’ll get what’s coming.”

She struggled, her body writhing against yours like a coiled spring, but you didn’t let go. Her breaths came in short, shallow bursts, the sound raw and ragged in your ears. You leaned in, pressing your forehead gently to hers, forcing her gaze to meet yours.

“I've got it covered, Bluejay,” you whispered, your voice soft and steady, cutting through the storm in her chest. “They’re not worth your precious wonderful time.”

For a moment, the fire in her eyes flickered, the embers dulled by the weight of your presence. Her lip trembled, and her breath hitched again, less sharp, more uneven. Slowly, you felt the tension in her muscles loosen, though not completely fade.

But the crew, blind to the tempest brewing around them, kept going.

“She’s a damn liability!” one snarled, their voice dripping venom. “We don’t need her screwing up every—”

A sharp crack split the air, the wood beneath them splintering as electricity struck like a viper. The faint, acrid smell of scorched wood and ozone burned at your nostrils, mingling with the salt of the harbour breeze. Sparks danced at your fingertips, painting jagged, dancing shadows across the blood-streaked dock.

“You’re fucking crazy, watch it!” one of them yelled, their voice faltering under the weight of their own fear.

You stepped forward slowly, each step deliberate, the faint buzz of electricity humming around you like a storm building at sea. Your voice dripped venom, sickly sweet and suffocating as honey left too long in the sun.

“Did you forget who’s been cleaning up after your pathetic mistakes?” you asked, each word curling like smoke around their ears. “Who’s been saving your asses every time you screw up a job? Oh, wait.” You tilted your head, a mocking smile tugging at your lips. “That’s right. The ‘crazy ones’."

The crew shrank back, their earlier bravado dissolving under the weight of your words. Their faces twisted with unease, the fear in their eyes glinting like shards of broken glass under the dim, wavering lantern light.

“Let me remind you,” you continued, your voice a sharpened blade, “that without her getting to everyone first, you’d all be corpses by now. So maybe, just maybe , you should be grateful you’re alive to complain.”

One of them opened their mouth, a flicker of defiance flashing across their face, but you raised your hand again. Sparks leaped to life, sharp and bright in the darkness, casting flickering shadows that danced across their faces like wraiths.

“Not another word,” you cooed, your voice soft and poisonous. “Unless you’d like me to show you what it feels like to be really worthless.”

The crackling air hummed with unspoken tension as silence descended, broken only by the faint, uneven rhythm of Jinx’s breathing behind you. Her trembling form leaned into your back, her fingers clutching the fabric of your cloak like it was the only thing tethering her to the world.

Before the tension could snap further, the distant shouting of enforcers broke through the air. Their sharp, barked orders rang out like cracks of a whip, growing louder with every second. Beams of harsh, unforgiving searchlights swept across the docks, their light cutting through the murky night and scattering shadows in their wake.

You turned sharply, your gaze narrowing like the edge of a dagger. “We’re leaving,” you said coldly, the finality in your tone slicing through the rising panic like steel.

To the crew, you added, your voice dripping with the sweetest of venom, “Try not to get caught. Because if you do…” Your smile sharpened into something deadly. “…I’ll kill you myself.”

Without another glance, you turned back to Jinx, gathering her into your arms. Her head rested against your chest, her uneven breaths brushing warm against your skin. Her small frame trembled like a fragile bird caught in a storm.

The growing shouts of the enforcers spurred you into motion. You broke into a sprint, your boots pounding against the dock, each step echoing like a gunshot before you leaped into the air. Your wings unfurled with a sharp, commanding snap, catching the cold harbour wind and propelling you upward.

The air bit at your skin, the sharp tang of salt and smoke mingling in your lungs. The faint, distorted echo of festival music drifted on the breeze, growing fainter as you ascended. Below, the shouts and clatter of enforcers dulled with each beat of your wings, swallowed by the dark sprawl of the city.

“Hold on, Bluejay,” you murmured, your voice softer now, stripped of its earlier bite.

Jinx clung to you weakly, her trembling fingers gripping the fabric of your cloak as if it were her last anchor. Her breath was hot and uneven against your neck, her body curled into yours with a fragile, childlike vulnerability.

You tightened your hold, soaring higher into the night. The glittering festival lights faded into specks below, swallowed by the jagged edges of the city’s darkness.

For now, the only thing that mattered was getting her somewhere safe.

The noise was impossible to miss.

The air inside The Last Drop was thick, heavy with the pungent mix of sweat, alcohol, and something sharper—the metallic bite of shimmer, sharp enough to catch in your throat. The crowd pulsed with frenetic energy, a relentless hum of voices blending together, their laughter too loud, their words too fast, a chaotic blur that rang through the dimly lit space. The floor trembled beneath the thrum of bass from the jukebox, deep and vibrating, a constant undercurrent to the clinking of glasses, the slurred conversations, and the heat—an oppressive, wet heat that soaked into your skin, a heat that clung to your hair and stuck to the back of your neck.

You didn’t mind it. You were used to this. The noise, the crowd, the chaos—it had always been a part of your world. You’d learned to carve out little spaces of quiet, little bubbles where you could retreat from the noise, even in the most crowded rooms. Your fingers tapped idly on the edge of your glass, the sound of the condensation trickling down the sides almost lost in the ruckus. The glass was half-empty, a dull reflection of the mood that buzzed through you—too much, too fast, and yet never enough. You let the noise wash over you, the calls, the laughs, the heat of their presence pressing against you like an extra layer of skin.

Your smile was small, but it felt wrong, like an echo of something that used to mean something to you, but no longer did. It didn’t feel like it fit the moment, but you kept it there, polished and practiced, the same smile you’d perfected over years of playing a part.

You were the one they all watched—beautiful, yes, but it wasn’t just that. It was the way they felt the pull of you, the way your power hummed beneath your skin, crackling like electricity just waiting to surge. Like bees drawn to honey, the crew and patrons swarmed around you, though most were too oblivious to realize it. They didn’t see that they were all just following orders, buzzing mindlessly through their routines, desperate to get closer to you. To take a little bit of what you had, to touch what they couldn’t reach.

As a child, the looks started off small—glances that lingered a little too long, just enough to leave a prickling sensation along your spine. And then there were the others—the more blatant stares, the open admiration that felt less like appreciation and more like an invitation to possess . They didn’t know it, but they weren’t seeing you . They were seeing something they wanted—a piece of the power that made your very presence dangerous.

You shifted in your seat, your hand brushing against the cool surface of the bar, and let your eyes sweep over the room again. A man—a stranger—was inching closer, slipping into the seat next to yours with that practiced, insincere confidence you had seen too many times before. His eyes didn’t meet yours; they moved over you like you were something to be catalogued, a thing to be desired, a game to be won.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked, his voice far too smooth, too rehearsed. It wasn’t about the drink, not really. You knew that. You could hear it in the way his words came out, smooth but heavy with intent, the faintest trace of desperation hanging just below the surface. He was trying to draw you in, to make it seem like he was offering you something when, in truth, he was just hoping for something in return.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you let the silence settle between you, and when you finally turned your head, your smile never wavered. It was perfect—polite, cool, a mask you had worn for so long it almost felt natural now. But underneath it, you let the smallest hint of disdain curl in your eyes as you reached for the drink. Your fingers brushed the glass slowly, deliberately, holding his gaze as you did.

“On the house, huh?” you asked softly, the words drawing out, almost teasing. You took a sip, letting the cold liquid slide over your tongue, the ice cubes clinking softly in the glass. "That’s sweet of you."

The man’s smile faltered for just a moment—only for a split second, but you noticed. You always noticed. His hand lingered on the bar, just a fraction of a second too long, and you could feel the weight of his gaze, how he wanted to take more than just your attention. He wanted to claim you. But you were too sharp to let that happen.

You leaned in just slightly, your voice low, soft—but sharp enough to cut through the murmur of the room. “But I’m not interested.”

The man stiffened, his grin faltering entirely. For a second, there was an almost imperceptible shift in his expression, something between frustration and confusion. But he didn’t give up. They never did. They’d try again, maybe with different words, maybe with different promises. But the game would always be the same.

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” he muttered, and there it was—the line, the one they always crossed. “A couple of … things came to mind when I saw those wings of yours.” They thought they had you figured out, that you were just another pretty face, just another prize to claim. But they never realized the truth—they never saw the real you, just a reflection of their ideals.

Your eyes darkened as you leaned back in your seat, the glass in your hand tight enough to make your fingers ache. The words you spoke were soft, but they carried weight.

“Maybe I do,” you said. “Maybe you’re not as interesting as you think.”

The man’s face reddened, his words swallowed up by the thrumming noise around you. He muttered something unintelligible before standing and backing away, vanishing back into the crowd.

You let out a slow breath, the tension easing from your shoulders as you turned your gaze back to your drink. The amber liquid wobbled gently, catching the dim light in fractured reflections, but it didn’t hold your attention for long. It never did. The weight in your chest was harder to shake, a hollow ache that no amount of noise or drink could fill.

The game always ended the same way, with you sitting here, staring at the untouched drink like it held answers you’d never find. You didn’t know why it left you feeling like this—like a puppet with its strings cut, empty and slack after the show was over. The glass was cool beneath your fingertips, but your skin felt too warm, prickling with the phantom press of their stares.

What do they really want from me?

The thought slipped through your mind, bitter and sharp like the burn of strong liquor. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. You’d been asking yourself that question for as long as you could remember.

You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the hum of the room fade into the background. Flashes of faces blurred behind your eyelids, half-formed memories of people reaching for you, their hands outstretched, their smiles too wide, too eager. They’d always wanted something—a piece of you, a piece of your power.

But love? That was different. Love was supposed to be soft, wasn’t it? Gentle. It wasn’t supposed to come with strings attached or sharp edges hidden behind kind words. You’d seen it before, a long time ago, in a life so far removed it felt like it belonged to someone else.

You tried to picture their faces—the ones you’d called family. You tried to remember the way their hands felt, the warmth in their eyes, the way they laughed. But all you saw were smudges, shapes that shifted and blurred, fading like smoke on a breeze. The details were gone, slipping through your grasp every time you reached for them, leaving only the faintest impression of what once was.

Your fingers tightened around the glass.

You thought of love as something distant now, like a language you’d once spoken fluently but had long since forgotten. The meaning was there, buried somewhere deep, but the words never came out right. All that remained was the idea of it—bright and fleeting, like the glow of fireflies you’d chased in the forests of Ixtal as a child.

A faint, sharp laugh rang out nearby, pulling you back into the present. Your eyes opened, and the bar came rushing back—the noise, the heat, the press of bodies. It was all too much, and yet it felt like nothing at all.

Love wasn’t real here, not in places like this. Not in the way it should’ve been.

And yet.

And yet, there was one face that cut through the haze. One voice that could pull you back when everything else felt like too much.

“Hey, stranger,” a familiar voice called from across the room, light and sing-song, the words laced with just enough chaos to make the air buzz.

Her.

You turned your head toward her, and there she was, weaving her way through the crowd, her braids bouncing with every step, her grin wide enough to split the world in two.

Your chest tightened. You didn’t know if it was the kind of feeling you’d been searching for or just another sharp edge to swallow, but when she was near, the hollow ache didn’t seem quite as deep. For a little while, at least, you could forget the faces you couldn’t remember and the love you’d forgotten how to understand.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

a/n: hi lovelies thank you so much for your patience <33 updates are gonna be a bit slower this time around since school and work sorry <3

taglist: @deathvidal , @stupendousbananasharkcop , @titusmouser , @itosh1teru , @0sunnyside0 , @pulcen , @chuucanchuucan , @fluffygreatness , @pebble-peddle , @brocoliisscared

[satinritual]

TETHERED.

CHAPTER THREE: Fix it.

Summary: given your father’s innate talent to break things instead of fixing ‘em, Joel drops by to help.

Wc: 2.9k. | Warnings: none.

Previous chapter | Series’ masterlist.

The steady, rhythmic drip, drip, drip of water from under the bathroom sink was the only sound piercing the heavy silence of the house, each drop a tiny, relentless intruder in the morning’s fragile calm. It fell with a soft, wet plop onto the tiles, pooling in a shallow, shimmering puddle that gleamed under the fluorescent light. The noise was insidious, burrowing into your mind like a splinter, gnawing at your patience. You’d tried to ignore it, to drown it out with the hum of your thoughts, but it wove itself into the fabric of the morning, a maddening metronome that mocked your attempts at peace.

You’d noticed the leak earlier, stepping into the bathroom to brush your teeth, your mind still foggy from a restless night. The tiles were cool under your feet, a brief comfort—until your socked foot hit the slick puddle spreading from beneath the sink. One moment, you were steady; the next, you were slipping, your balance betrayed by the wet floor. “Shit,” you’d hissed, the curse a reflex as you grabbed the doorframe, your fingers digging into the chipped paint to steady yourself. Your pulse spiked, adrenaline flooding your veins, a sharp jolt that left your heart pounding. You’d caught yourself, no harm done, but the sting lingered, you’d pulled a muscle or two. The morning, already off-kilter, seemed determined to pile on its petty grievances, each one a pebble adding to the weight on your chest.

What twisted the annoyance into irritation, was hearing your father’s voice downstairs, muffled through the walls, chuckling about your near-accident as if it were a harmless anecdote. You hadn’t gotten hurt and it wasn’t serious, but an ‘Are you alright?’ Would’ve been appreciated.

The text he had sent to Joel, glimpsed later on his phone while he poured you coffee, was simple: ‘Hey, got a leak under the sink upstairs, she almost slipped. Can you swing by and fix it when you get a chance? Thanks, man.’

Your father’s aversion to household repairs was no secret. He had a peculiar talent for turning minor fixes into catastrophes, a running joke in the family that had lost its humor somewhere along the way. Last summer, he’d tackled the floor fan, dismantling the grilles to wipe the blades clean, only to reassemble it into a lifeless husk that refused to spin. The toilet had been another victim, his earnest attempt at unclogging it leaving the tank gurgling and useless for days, forcing you to use his bathroom. And the toaster—God, the toaster—had erupted in flames after he’d “just cleaned the crumb tray,” the kitchen filled with acrid smoke and his sheepish apologies. 

Each failure was a testament to his relentless optimism, a belief that sheer willpower could salvage any broken thing, no matter how doomed. But willpower wasn’t enough, and every fix birthed a new disaster. The leak under the sink was just the latest casualty, and he wasn’t about to risk making it worse.

A soft knock on the house door sliced through the quiet, light but deliberate, startling you from your spiraling thoughts. You’d been crouched by the sink, staring at the puddle as if you could will the leak to stop, your hands damp from futile attempts to tighten the pipe with a dish towel. The knock jolted you upright, your knee bumping the cabinet, a dull ache blooming as you straightened.

“Come in!” you called, aiming for nonchalance, though your voice wavered, betraying the nerves coiled tight in your chest. You wiped your hands on your jeans, leaving faint wet streaks, and stepped back, brushing a stray hair from your face as the door creaked open.

You heard the door open and someone coming upstairs, and Joel stepped inside, his presence filling the small bathroom with an effortless, rugged ease that felt both comforting and disarming. His faded flannel hung loose over a worn t-shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle, dusted with dark hair, the kind of strength earned from years as a forest ranger. His jeans, scuffed and faded at the knees, clung to his frame in a way that spoke of practicality, not vanity, yet there was an undeniable pull in the way he carried himself—steady, grounded, like he belonged anywhere he stood. His eyes flicked to the puddle under the sink, narrowing with a quick assessment, then to you, a faint nod acknowledging your presence before he spoke.

“Hey, darlin’,” he said, his voice low, smooth, with a warmth that caught you off guard. Your heart skipped a beat at the word—darlin’—a casual endearment that landed like a spark, igniting a flush of warmth in your chest. It was nothing, you told yourself, just a Southern quirk, but the way it rolled off his tongue, soft and deliberate, made your pulse flutter, your breath hitch for a fraction of a second. You swallowed, hoping he hadn’t noticed, and forced your focus to his words. “Your dad sent me over. Said you got a leak under here, and you nearly took a spill.”

You nodded, crossing your arms to steady yourself, the damp denim of your jeans cool against your skin. “Yeah, it’s been dripping all morning,” you said, your voice tighter than you meant, frustration leaking through. “I tried to mess with it, but… I’m not exactly a plumber. Sorry he dragged you over for this.”

Joel’s lips twitched, a half-smile that was more amusement than pity, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “No trouble at all,” he said, kneeling by the sink with a practiced ease, his broad shoulders brushing the cabinet as he peered underneath. “Your dad’s got a knack for breakin’ things, not fixin’ ’em. Learned that when he tried to ‘help’ with my coffee machine last year. Damn thing never worked again.”

A laugh escaped you, sharp and unexpected, cutting through the tension in your chest. “Oh, God,” you said, leaning against the counter, the edge digging into your hip. “I swear, he’s cursed when it comes to appliances.”

“Tell me about it,” Joel muttered, his voice muffled as he reached into his toolbox, the metal clinking softly. “Man’s a menace with a screwdriver. I ain’t lettin’ him near my house, that’s for damn sure.” He glanced up, his grin playful, inviting you into the shared humor, and for a moment, the bathroom felt less like a battleground and more like a space you could share.

You hesitated, unsure of your role, your hands fidgeting at your sides. Standing there, useless while he worked, felt awkward, exposing the raw edges of your vulnerability. You weren’t used to being the one who needed help, not like this. 

“Can I… do anything?” you ventured, half-joking, your voice lighter than you felt. “I mean, I’m not completely hopeless. I can at least tell a wrench from a hammer.”

Joel chuckled, a low, warm sound that vibrated through the small space, easing the knot in your stomach. “That’s a start,” he said, his tone teasing but kind, tossing you a wrench with a flick of his wrist.

You caught it, fumbling slightly, the cold metal heavy in your palm, your fingers closing around it with a mix of surprise and determination. “C’mon, darlin’, let’s see what you got.” You ducked your head, hoping the dim light hid your flush, and knelt beside him, the tiles cold through your jeans.

You peered under the sink, the copper pipes glinting faintly, a slow drip forming a bead that fell into the puddle below. Joel’s shoulder brushed yours as he leaned in, his presence steady, grounding, the faint scent of pine and sawdust clinging to his flannel. 

“Alright,” he said, pointing to a bolt on the pipe. “We’re gonna tighten this here, stop the leak. Hold the wrench like this—” He guided your hand, his calloused fingers wrapping over yours, warm and firm, adjusting your grip with a gentle precision that sent a shiver down your spine. The touch was practical, necessary, but it lingered, a quiet connection that made the small bathroom feel smaller, the air thicker.

“Like this?” you asked, your voice softer, focusing on the bolt to distract from the warmth of his hand, the way it made your pulse quicken. You turned the wrench, the metal resisting, your movements clumsy but earnest.

“Close,” Joel said, his voice calm, encouraging, his breath close enough to stir the hair at your temple. “Little more pressure, don’t be shy.” He adjusted your hand again, his fingers lingering a moment longer, and you swallowed, your throat dry, as you tried to focus on the task, not the man beside you.

You worked together, the rhythm of metal on metal a quiet counterpoint to the drip’s fading cadence. Joel’s grunts of effort mingled with your own hesitant movements, the wrench slipping once, twice, as you struggled to find the right angle. “Easy, now,” he murmured, his voice a low anchor, steadying you. “You’re doin’ fine, just take your time.”

But then, predictably, you pushed too hard, and the wrench slipped, stripping the bolt with a faint screech of metal. “Fuck,” you muttered, wincing, bracing for the judgment, the sigh, the proof you were as useless as you felt. Your cheeks burned, shame prickling your skin, a reflex from years of being told you weren’t enough.

Joel didn’t flinch. He paused, his hands stilling, assessing the damage with the same calm he’d brought to the room. “Hey, it’s alright, darlin’,” he said, his voice soft, sure, the endearment hitting you like a warm wave, your heart stuttering again, a mix of comfort and something sharper, unnamed. “These old bolts strip easy. We’ll swap it out, no harm done.”

He reached into his toolbox, pulling out a replacement, his movements unhurried, as if your mistake was just a bump in the road, not a failure.

You blinked, caught off guard by his kindness, a nervous laugh escaping you. “Sorry,” you said, your voice small, the word automatic, a habit from too many apologies.

Joel’s gaze met yours, steady, a flicker of something—understanding, maybe—passing through his eyes. “No need to apologize,” he said, his tone firm but gentle. “Everybody fumbles at first. Hell, I’ve stripped more bolts than I can count. You’re doin’ better than you think.” His words were casual, but they landed deep, soothing the raw edges of your self-doubt, wrapping around you like a quiet promise. You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat, and handed him the new bolt, your fingers brushing his, the contact brief but electric.

He worked quickly, securing the new bolt, tightening the pipe until the drip slowed, then stopped, the puddle no longer growing. “Let’s test it,” he said, turning the faucet on, the water flowing clear, no leaks. He stood, stretching his back with a low grunt, his flannel riding up to reveal a sliver of tanned skin above his jeans. “There we go. Good as new.”

You exhaled, relief flooding you, a weight lifting from your shoulders. “Thank you,” you said, your voice quieter, laced with gratitude. “I would’ve turned this place into a swimming pool if you hadn’t shown up.”

Joel laughed, a deep, unguarded sound that warmed the room, his grin wide and easy. “Wouldn’t let that happen, darlin’. Just watch your step next time, yeah? Your dad said you took a slide.” His tone was light, but his eyes held a flicker of concern, searching yours for a moment longer than necessary.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you said, brushing it off, though the memory of your father’s casual dismissal still stung. “Just a clumsy morning.”

He nodded, wiping his hands on a rag, his movements deliberate, unhurried. “Happens to the best of us,” he said, tossing the rag into his toolbox. “You need anything else while I’m here?”

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Think you’ve saved the day enough for now,” you said, the words lighter than you felt, a tentative step toward ease.

He chuckled, shouldering his toolbox, and gestured toward the door. “C’mon, let’s get outta this bathroom.”

(***)

Later that evening, as the last blush of sunset melted into a velvet sky, you found yourself on the creaking wooden porch, the air cool and scented with pine and dew, a promise of rain lingering in the breeze. Joel sat beside you, his chair angled toward the yard, his boots propped on the railing, the leather scuffed and worn, dusted with the day’s work. His flannel hung open over a faded t-shirt, the porch light casting a golden halo across his face, softening the lines etched by years of sun and responsibility. The house behind you was dim, your father still at work, his absence a quiet ache you didn’t want to name. Joel’s presence, though, was a steady counterpoint, his decision to stay a small, unexpected comfort.

“I’m on night shift later,” he’d said earlier, shrugging as if it were nothing, his voice carrying that same easy calm. “Didn’t wanna leave you here alone. Figured I’d stick around a bit, if that’s alright.”

You’d nodded, the words settling in your chest, warm and heavy. “I don’t mind,” you’d murmured, meaning it more than you’d expected.

Now, the silence between you was companionable, broken only by the chirp of crickets and the distant hum of cicadas staking their claim on the dusk. Joel tilted his head back, eyes tracing the stars beginning to prick the indigo sky, his posture relaxed but alert, a man at ease with the quiet.

“You ever notice,” he said after a long pause, his voice low, warm, cutting through the stillness, “how your dad’s got a God-given talent for breakin’ things?”

You huffed a laugh, the sound escaping like a release, warm and unguarded. “Don’t I know it,” you replied, leaning forward, elbows on your knees, your sweater bunching at your wrists. “He’s a walking disaster. Tries so hard, but it’s like the house fights back. I feel bad for him sometimes—he wants to fix everything, but it just… falls apart.”

Joel’s lips quirked, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Yeah, learned that the hard way,” he said, scratching his jaw, the scruff rasping under his fingers. “Last month, he called me over to ‘help’ with the backyard fence. Deer tore through, messed up the garden. Poor thing was limpin’, so I took it to a vet—part of the ranger gig. Came back, and there’s your dad, starin’ at the fence like it’s a damn puzzle, talkin’ about rebuildin’ it from scratch.”

You raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at your lips as the memory flickered—how the fence, once a rickety eyesore, now stood straight, sturdy, the wood stained a rich cedar. “Wait, you fixed the fence?” you asked, your voice tinged with surprise, the realization settling like a gentle ripple.

“Had to. Your dad was about to take a sledgehammer to it, swear to God. Figured I’d save us both the headache. Plus, I know my way around a hammer—comes with the territory.” He gestured vaguely, likely to the forests he patrolled, the ranger life that left his hands calloused and his frame strong.

You laughed, shaking your head, the sound bright against the quiet night. “That’s so him,” you said, your voice fond but exasperated. “He’s got this unshakable confidence, like he can wrestle any problem into submission. Works great for cars—engines, gears, all that gritty stuff. But house appliances? It’s like he’s cursed.”

Joel chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that warmed the air between you. “Man can rebuild a V8 blindfolded, but give him a pipe wrench, and it’s chaos. I swear, he looked at that fence like it was written in Latin.” He paused, his grin softening. “Still, you gotta give him credit. He tries. Ain’t many who’d keep swingin’ like that.”

You nodded, the words sinking in, a quiet respect in Joel’s tone mirroring your own complicated love for your father. “Yeah,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “He does.”

The conversation lapsed into silence, not awkward but sacred, a shared understanding settling between you. You leaned back in your chair, the wood creaking under your weight, the coolness seeping through your sweater as you exhaled, the tension in your shoulders easing. The silence here was different from the city’s restless clamor—car horns, sirens, the constant hum of life that never slept. In Jackson, the quiet was expansive, patient, honest, a stillness that didn’t demand anything of you, only asked you to be. You hadn’t realized how much you’d craved it, how your body had ached for a moment that didn’t require performance or pretense, just presence.

You glanced at Joel, his profile sharp against the starlit sky, his eyes still on the horizon, content in the quiet. There was a steadiness to him, a man who’d made peace with silence, who carried it like an old friend. You wondered what shaped that in him, what storms he’d weathered to sit so comfortably in this moment, but you didn’t ask. Not yet. Instead, you let the silence speak, a wordless connection that felt real, grounding.

The air grew cooler, the scent of pine and impending rain sharper now, and you pulled your sweater tighter, the sleeves bunching at your wrists. You didn’t know what lay ahead—not in this town, not in the fractured pieces of yourself you were still learning to name—but here, on this porch, with Joel’s quiet presence and the stars blooming overhead, you felt anchored. Not whole, not yet, but here. And for now, that was enough.

Series’ Masterlist | Next Chapter

[chronically-ghosted]

i crawl home to her

rating: 18+ explicit

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 8.2K

summary: you bring dieter home to meet your family over the holidays.

warnings/tags: discussions of food, mentions of weight gain, brief biphobia, bad family dynamics, hiding parts of yourself to make yourself more palatable, dom!Dieter when his type-A girlfriend needs him to, smut in places it shouldn’t be, a family can be two people, bad jokes, mentions of marriage and kids, one light booty smack, peep the super obvious bob's burgers reference, minimal edited, you can pry the image of dieter in ugg's from my cold dead hands

a/n: i've caved and finally added to the evergrowing pile of "Pedro boy fucks you in your childhood home". @sp00kymulderr i told you i'd get it out today -- it might be tomorrow for you, but it's not yet midnight! i present to you part 2 of merry thanksgiving nonsense2023!

🤍Masterlist

You nearly miss the exit off the gray-slushy highway because you’re trying to remember Aunt Gayle’s food allergies. 

And Uncle Rick’s preferred way of taking his coffee in the morning.

And the right detergent to use when washing your niece’s clothes, or else your sister will come after you with a hatchet. 

“Baby, you’re gnawing your fingernails bloody.” 

You blink, surprised to find your hand anywhere near your mouth, the other white-knuckling the steering wheel, and to your enormous embarrassment, he was right – you’d pulled up several hangnails, leaving tiny pink gouges, right under your immaculate holiday nails you got for the express purpose of looking presentable in all the inevitable Insta photos your sister demands every year. 

“Fuck,” you mutter and curl your fingers into your fist as if to hide temptation. From the passenger’s seat, Dieter frowns.

“Twizzler to make it better?” He spins the red, bendy candy enticingly. Your mind suddenly flashes back to the time you both got way too high on his new bong and he made the exact same motions with his dick. You had never laughed so hard in your life. 

The red candy whipping around in a circle, you groan into the steering wheel. 

“I’m turning around. This was a terrible idea.”

“What are you so nervous about?” Dieter half-way laughs. He pulls his Ugg-stuffed feet off the dashboard and sits up. Crumbs from the Starbucks Christmas sugar cookie spill off his “Kris Kingle My Jingle” sweater and onto the seat, but it’s those fucking earnest, curious eyes that always seem to rock your world. You occasionally don’t like to be touched when you’re stressed, so out of the corner of your eye, you see his hand waver before falling back in his lap. “It’s just dinner.” 

“Yeah, but it’s holiday dinner with my family. They’re all so judgy and mean and every time I come home for more than twenty-four hours, I’m reminded exactly why I fucked off to California.”

“Maybe they’re jealous you’re a hot shot director,” Dieter suggests. “Or that you have a ruggedly handsome movie star boyfriend.” Eyebrow raised, he twirls the Twizzler again and manages to bite it out of the air. You half-way expected it to smack him in the face. “They know I’m coming, right?”

You bite your lip, the last phone call with your mother still achingly heavy in your chest.

“You know what she asked when I told her I was bringing home the one and only Dieter Bravo as my boyfriend to meet my family?” You don’t need to look at him to see the furrow in his brow, the slight curve in his shoulders. You prop your elbow up against the window, rubbing your forehead with your fingers. “She asked if it was a career move. If I was dating you to get ahead in the industry . . . like I’m trying to sleep my way to the top.”

There’s a fraught silence. You listen to the wheels churn dirty black snow so you don’t have to look at him. 

“Then why in the world would you start with my dumb ass?”

Despite yourself and despite what’s coming, you smile. But you fight it, wrapping your lip up between your teeth. So he continues:

“If you really want to make it big, you gotta date someone at least forty years older than you. So, what? We’re talking seventy. But, wow, think of the money. Bet he has his dick dripped in gold just to keep it hard–,”

“Dieter!” You swat at him, smile too big to contain, and he grins, grabbing you by the wrist. “That’s terrible!”

“But I made you laugh, didn’t I?”

You smirk. “Barely. More like ha ha than a big chuckle.” 

He nips your palm, the rough hair on his chin scraping the soft skin. 

By some minor miracle and a forcible act of God, your mother is allowing you two to share a bedroom. Not out of respect for your relationship, of course, but there is simply not enough room to spare. You watch those perfect lips imprint themselves in the cup of your hand and you’ve never been more thrilled to have to share a double bed. God, you cannot be this wet before you have to look your mother in the eye. You retract your hand with a breathy exhale. 

“We don’t have to stay long,” Dieter says, a weight to his gaze that proves he hasn’t completely blown off your concern. He twists his body in the seat and crosses his arms, his shoulder pressed into the seat. He watches you with his head against the headrest. “I hate seeing you like this.” 

“I’m already on thin ice because we’re just staying two days.” You shake your head. “My sister and her family have already been there since Monday and plan to stay the rest of the week.” You inhale, hold, and exhale until you can feel your shoulders drop. “It’s just . . . I’ve worked so hard to make something of my life, to be someone I can be proud of, and it just doesn’t matter to them. They want me to marry a banker or something, and quit my job to do cutesy family blogging on Instagram. They’ve never, ever liked the real me.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see something come over Dieter’s face. Not annoyance, or irritation, but as if someone kick started his brain. But it passes and he brushes the back of your hand resting over the gearshift with his fingers. 

“I like the real you,” he says quietly. “In fact, I really, really, really like the real you. I gotta keep you around. Who else is gonna remember the name of the best Chinese food place when I’m high?” 

Dieter is sweet, knows the wonders his smile can accomplish, with a twinkle in his eyes. A bit crude, a little distractible, but ultimately, well-meaning. However, he seemed physically incapable of maintaining sincerity. Which in the beginning, was also cute, but now, in a moment of crisis, it was boyish in a way that made you worried. A little scared. Like too much pressure and he’d break.

Is Dieter Bravo someone you could rely on? 

History says no. 

So, maybe you’d just carry everything. 

You smile at him and return your hand to the steering wheel.

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

The car squeals as it stops in the driveway, wheels crunching the cold ice. You look up at your childhood home with the same unease and trepidation that’s been there since childhood.

“Go let ‘em know we’re here,” Dieter says as he unbuckles his belt. There’s still crumbs in the knit of his sweater. At least his sweatpants are clean. But there’s nothing you can do about those Uggs right now– 

His hand squeezes yours, centering the universe that’s spinning like the inside of a martini shaker. You can feel the weight of his gaze press into your chest – heavy, warm, forgiving. He smiles, then slides into a smirk.

“Chillax, bro. Your vibes are not gnarly.”

You huff, trying to offer a smile that’s not a grimace. This was such a bad idea. Maybe it’s not too late to go pay for one of those mail-order boyfriends and keep Dieter in his nice California, hippie plastic wrap. 

You hear your name being called from the porch and that smile fully plummets into a grimace. Gathering from that reserve of confidence that makes you look at male writers, directors, and (yes) actors and tell them they’re idiots and get the fuck off your set, you open the door and head around the corner to the front of the house. 

Yeah, in the face of your mother, that reserve is basically a trickle.

She’s waiting for you on the porch, red dish towel in hand. 

“I thought that might be you, darling! I’d recognize that squeak from that rust bucket anywhere.” She smiles, arms wide, as you bend down to give her a hug. You've had to bend down to hug your mother for years now and you still feel about two feet tall. “How are you? You’ve been good? You look pale, but you’ve definitely been eating, haven’t you?”

She pinches your cheek as if to show you all the extra fat you have on your face. 

“Where’s Dad?” You try not to look like you’re tearing your face out of her grip and glance into the surprisingly quiet house over her shoulder. “Aren’t Emma and Dan supposed to be here?”

“Your father is out finishing his latest woodworking piece. He’s been at it for days, no matter how much I beg him to help with the food or the house. It’s all on me again to save the holidays.” 

As it is every year.

“Your sister and her family went out to get more sweet potatoes. They eat sweet potatoes in California, don’t they?”

Here it comes.

“Yes, Mom, they eat sweet potatoes.”

“Oh good, I thought it’d be considered a carb.” She frowns, hands on her hips as if you’re about to get a proper scolding. “Now you told me you’re going to be bringing your fancy actor boyfriend. Damian Bravado, right? I cooked for exactly seven people, darling, a single empty chair will throw the whole thing off!”

“Yes, Mom, my boyfriend, Dieter Bravo, is here. He’s just in the–,”

Someone, distinctly not your boyfriend, or at least not the boyfriend you left in the car, waltzes up the front steps.

Rings gone.

Earring gone.

Gloves that would make Ryan Gosling seethe with envy covering the tattoo on his hand.

His hair slicked back and curling deliciously around his ears, his dark jeans cover the laces of maroon Timberland boots. His black turtleneck clings to his wide chest, the leather jacket broken in enough to be soft, but not so used there’s tears in the seams. And, to top it all off, his cream-colored scarf curled around his throat looks like it came out of a Hallmark movie.

Maybe you are in a Hallmark movie. Maybe on the way up the porch, you slipped and banged your head and all of this is a bizarre, weirdly-erotic dream. Maybe someone actually did call in a mail-order boyfriend who looks exactly like Dieter and the real one is hog-tied in the trunk of your car. Maybe – 

You’d heard of quick costume changes, but this is ridiculous.

“Debbie!” He calls out, like they’ve been best friends for twenty years. He flourishes a wrapped bouquet of flowers, bright red against the white snow, and hands them to her after bouncing up the steps. His cheeks are tinged pink, as if he’d run the block, but without a drip of sweat on him, he’s simply glowing with what could be presumed as the holiday spirit. 

To your never-ending and horrific surprise, your mother squeals as she takes the flowers. 

“Poinsettias! My –,”

“Favorite, I know.” You stumble out of the way when he leans down and kisses her on her cheek. “And they’re fake, so you can reuse them next year. But you’d never know it at $300 a pop.”

Okay, yes, this is a clone of your boyfriend, a walking holiday Ken doll – Dieter never, ever brags about money. 

“I’m not a banker or anything, but I like to spoil my girls.” 

The bastard winks at you. 

Your mother has turned to gooey, drippy putty in his hands. She’s redder than the hand towel and the poinsettias combined. She flounces, flutters, eyes springing back and forth between the ruby-red flowers in her hands and Dieter’s achingly handsome face – one that hasn’t dimmed that thousand gigawatt smile since he first arrived. 

“Oh, oh my goodness – well, this is just lovely – it’s so nice to finally meet you – I can’t believe she’s been hiding you from us all this time – please, please come in, you must be freezing!”

She backs into the house, still staring at the flowers, then as if she hadn’t been living here for the past fifteen years of her life, she bounces towards the dining room, then on a quick turn, heads for the kitchen, then turns again to the hallway closet. 

“Oh gracious – where did I put – it must be – come in and shut the door behind you – you know where your room is, darling, I’ll be back in just a second, I just have to – ah, these are spectacular –”

A door down the hallway finally swings shut and muffles your mother’s insane rambling. 

So dazed, you don’t see him move until he’s pressed you up against the glass etching of the door, his hand palming your hip and the other diving to cup the back of your neck. He tugs you down into his mouth before you have time to blink.

Jesus Christ, mint? His breath smells like mint??

God, he even fucking kisses like a Hallmark Prince. His mouth pulls you into him and your brain whites out – careless of the little whimper you make, careless of the fact that literally any one of your family members could walk in right now, careless that you’re teetering into him as if on string. Your breath flutters down his throat and he huffs through his nose. The tips of his fingers are chilly enough that you shiver at his touch.

He edges the bottom of your lip with his tongue before pulling back and tightening his grip in your hair. 

And there’s that Dieter smirk you are all too intimately familiar with. 

“How’m I doing?” He mutters. His gaze flickers between your eyes, your nose, and your kissed-pink lips. “I’d say I got Mama Bear on my side.”

Maybe it’s a good thing he isn’t always like this. Between the fresh breath scent in his mouth, the fragrance of his much-too expensive cologne permeating your senses, and his thick thigh shoved under your groin, you are embarrassingly boneless in his arms. You pluck your fingers over the soft leather collar at the back of his neck, just as much to inspect the jacket, as much as to release more of that delicious smell. 

“Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?” You mutter, smirking, as you wind your fingers into his curls. “Spoil my girls, what the fuck was that?”

“Ah, ha, ha, ha,” he gloats as he lowers his head to your neck. You expect a warm kiss in the length of skin you’ve exposed to him, but instead his teeth lightly tease your throat above your pulse point and you feel your knees buckle as your face warms. “I can be very charming when I want to be.” He squeezes your ass as if to make a point. 

You hold back a moan, flattening it to a shudder in your chest. You can feel his grin in your neck and he shifts you, pulls you closer and compresses you deeper into the wooden door. You can feel your conscious thought melting through your fingers so you blink, lick your lips, try to wiggle out from under his teeth.

“This isn’t a Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. This is Invasion of the Body Snatchers.” You gasp his name into the foyer of your childhood home when he licks you from the curve of your shoulder up under the soft place below your ear. Your hips jerk unconsciously, baser instincts seeking out the friction of his jeans, and you push against his biceps. “Dieter, she’ll be back any minute. She can’t – can’t see us like this.”

You’ve never heard him chuckle like the way he does, so darkly pleased with himself.

“Once I’m done schmoozing her, your father, your sister and her – what did you call him – cardboard husband, we’ll fuck in front of them and they won’t say a word.”

“Dieter!” You shove him just as your mother returns from the kitchen.

She frowns and you feel the scolding coming, the scent of Dieter so obviously entangled in you. You might as well be wearing a sign that reads, hi, yes, I’ve been recently groped why do you ask?

“Did you forget where your room is? Honestly, what would you do without me? Now, follow me and I’ll remind you.”

Schmooze he did. 

From the same magical bag of weirdly specific and perfect gifts, Dieter presents a bottle of Buffalo Trace bourbon and two very illegal, but very Cuban cigars. Your father forgets to scowl in the face of some of the most expensive bourbon in the world. 

For your sister, he somehow senses that material objects won’t go as far, so he endears himself to your niece first. Asking her questions about her doll, about her school, what she likes to play with her friends and how crazy it is that hopscotch is his favorite game too. 

In twenty minutes, he’s on his hands and knees, black sleeves pulled up over his immaculate forearms, and etching out a hopscotch board with pink chalk. He nods and interjects while your niece runs around him, demanding a dragon in the corner, or a crown in another, and suddenly your biological clock starts blaring like an air-raid siren. 

“He’s so good with kids,” your sister mutters to you from the door to the garage. A single glance tells you she’s under the same effect of watching a hot man play with a child. You’re so aroused and confused you can’t even eye her with jealousy. 

“Mhmm hmm.” 

“When are you going to have some of your own?” 

And you’re back inside before you can see the look on his face as he lifts his head.

It would be insulting to call it eerie. 

It’s not like he’s physically incapable of smelling clean, or dressing nice, or even combing his hair. You’ve seen him do it time and time again for galas and interviews. Hell, that time he took you on a date to get sushi in the tallest building in Toronto, he didn’t look that much different from how he does right now . . . and yet . . .

You feel your face scrunch in suspicion when he remembers your aunt’s food allergies, how your Uncle Rick likes his after-dinner coffee. 

Dieter might forget to put on pants, but he’s never forgotten the important dates of your relationship. He remembers what you were wearing the first night you kissed, but can’t remember to take out the pizza before it burns in the oven. 

This, this Dieter, feels wrong. 

You watch him laugh with your father and uncle by the fireplace with brandy in his hands as you work with your mother and sister to unwrap a dozen saran-wrapped pies. He comes by later and takes the stack of plates from your mother’s hands and assures her he’ll do the dishes, as thanks for such a wonderful meal.

This Dieter Bravo needs a smoking jacket and uses words like “wonderful meal”. 

Initial surprise at his near magical transformation from the car this morning long gone, you sit with this uncomfortable feeling, as everyone around you eats pie and laughs and looks all the part of a fucking Hallmark card for “joyful festivities”, long enough to finally understand it for what it is:

Anger. 

Shame. Guilt. 

Hot embarrassment. 

You look at the man who’s invaded your boyfriend’s body as he charms the pants off your mother and father, and ugly, heavy embarrassment boils over in your chest. Washing the knife in your throat down with your fourth glass of wine all night, you excuse yourself with the last bit of breath in your lungs before ducking upstairs, then stumbling to your childhood bathroom you once shared, and share again, with your sister. 

You lock the door forcefully in lieu of slamming it shut and sit down on the tile, your head against your knees. Rationally, there’s a part of you that knows this shouldn’t affect you like it is. Women would kill for a boyfriend like this – your sister very nearly jumped him in the garage. 

But that’s just the thing – this isn’t your boyfriend. This isn’t the man you spend your days and nights with and this isn’t the man you fell in love with. This isn’t the Dieter you want to show the world. 

A soft knock comes from the other side of the door and it breaks you out of your self-deprecating spiral. 

“Just a second,” you call out as you stand. You flush the empty toilet (this night is filled with ruses after all) and twitch the faucet on for two seconds. But when you open the door, you’re immediately cowed back in. 

“Dieter, what are you–,”

“Are you okay?” Beneath the veneer of the Million Dollar Man, his eyes are soft, coaxing the anxiety out of you. “You looked pale when you left.” He tucks an escaped strand of hair over your ear, watching how his fingers brush up against your skin. He gently tangles his fingers in your hair as he pulls back. He smirks. “Mom’s dressing wasn’t that bad.” 

White-hot shame blooms again and you turn your head from him, tugging your hair out of his reach. You catch his hurt expression out of the corner of your eye. 

“I’m fine. Just needed some air.” 

“You’re not a good liar. I’ve told you that.” His voice is clipped. Not irritated, but not interested in lengthy bouts of misdirection either.

“Well, I don’t feel like bearing my problems to Mr. Perfect.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He crosses his arms, shoulders swelling in the space of the tiny bathroom, and he leans on the sink. 

“It means you’re a better liar than me so I guess you’ll have to do it for the both of us.” 

You know it’s ridiculous to try and move around him – but maybe this Dieter wouldn’t care if you left angry. Even sober, he could manhandle you without a second thought, but between the heat of the drink in your throat and he’s blurred at the edges, you know you’re fighting a losing battle.

“Dieter, please, just –,”

He stands his ground, effectively blocking the door, and you huff, pushing up against his waist with your hands, your teeth bared behind your lips. He steps back, you think you’ve won a mile, but then his hands grasp so firmly around your elbows, your entire consciousness is pulled into where his fingers curl against your skin.

He gently, but seriously, shakes you slightly.

“Stop fighting me. You tell me what I did wrong and we’ll talk about this.”

The past two weeks of dread, and fear, and worry, and shame – shame that this is your family, this is how you go to pieces around them, this is all you can offer him – slam into your chest and your breathing hitches. The fingers at his chest dig into his shirt. The fourth glass of wine makes your eyes hot and tight.

“This isn’t you.” 

You grimace in the bright light of the bathroom and your confession. But beyond your closed eyes, his demeanor hasn’t changed. 

“What’s not me?”

A tear slips out the moment you open your mouth, your throat closing and gagging on your words. You swallow and try again, eyes peeling open to stare at the curve of his shoulder. 

“You’re Dieter Bravo. You dry-clean your favorite pajamas to preserve the material. You do astrology charts of people who piss you off to find out how to best get back at them. You paint until four in the morning and sleep in our bed until I wake you up–,”

Your heart thrusts its way into your airways and cuts off your ability to speak. You know you’re not making a lot of sense, but all you can think of right now is how much you want to peel this fucking black, Steve Jobs-esque, goddamn ugly-ass turtleneck apart with your bare hands. Like freeing a mermaid from a net. He squeezes your waist, his broad palm settled in the curve of your lower back. 

“Darling, I don’t see why this has you so sad –,”

“They won’t fall in love with you like I did.” You lift your watery gaze to him, unable to stop the spilling of tears. You always got teary when you drank a bit too much, but fuck, if you didn’t love him so much, you wouldn’t be so mad . . . at yourself. “I hate that you feel like you have to do this to be accepted by my family. I hate that they can’t see what makes you so special to me. I hate . . . I hate that they don’t see the real you.” 

And out of nowhere, he smiles. 

Never one to shy away from bodily fluids, Dieter kisses your tear-soaked cheeks, his hands rising up your back, taking their time to press into the curve of your hips, the bones of your ribs, the high arch of your spine, before settling on your cheeks. He kisses your wet mouth, thumbs against the corners of your lips like a soft leather bridle. He holds you, just like that, until your heart eases, stops racing in your chest, and you lean more into the kiss, chasing instead of hiding. You wrap your fingers around his wrists as he pulls away.

“With all due respect, this is just another gig for me.” His gentle smile hides no bitterness, no anger. No disgust. “I know what people like this are like, how they think, what they want. What they value.” He smears away the cold tears from your skin with his thumbs. “It’s fun, in a way, to infiltrate their little circles. It’s all fake, it’s all bullshit, and fortunately I’m fantastic at bullshit.”

You let out a watery laugh and he reaches behind you for some toilet paper to dry your tears. He blots your eyes for you before you can even take the tissue. 

“You’re not forcing me to do anything, baby,” he murmurs. “My family was exactly the same way, so I know how the game is played.”

“Yeah, and you don’t talk to them anymore. I just wish I had your bravery to cut them out of my life like you did.” 

Dieter’s mouth twitches. “Well, that had more to do with the fact that I like to occasionally make out with boys, than dysfunctional family dynamics.”

You squeeze his forearm as he continues to clean your face, trying to catch his eyes but they’d gone hard where a moment ago they were soft. He thinks, using the silence to carefully fix your make up with his thick thumb under your eyelashes to lift off the smeared mascara. 

He didn’t talk much about his life before Hollywood, but when he did, you understood why he was so closed off about it.

“Let’s put it this way: they did the cutting off, not me. And even if we have to be completely different people, your family still talks to you. I’m not saying that to guilt you, or compare trauma scars, but . . . most times we can’t pick who we love, but sometimes we have to.” 

You nod, a sense of ease washing over you. His small, I don’t know if I should say this but I’m gonna smile widens across his mouth. 

“It’s okay if they don’t see the real me, because I know you do.” He finally pulls away the tissue, his mouth pulled up in sweet earnest. “What can I do to make you feel better?”

A physical string connected between your ribs and his could not have tugged you faster. Tripping into his wide, warm chest, you drop your head onto his collarbone as you wrap your arms around his torso tighter than his own rib cage.

“Just . . .”

His bulky arms pull you into his chest, the bristles of his beard scratching at your temple. It’s not until you sink away from your own thoughts, into the silence in the bathroom, that you realize your breathing is synced with his. 

That realization hits you particularly hard, that without trying, without meaning to, you become one with him – you turn and bury your face into the pulse of his neck. If you can get to his heartbeat, maybe that’ll calm you too. Dig through the crust of the earth and end up in China. You shift in his arms, and he does too. Dieter cups the back of your head, thumb rubbing the arch of your skull. His entire arm circles your back. 

“What do you need, hm, baby? What can I give you, huh?”

You know he doesn’t mean it like that, but the girth, the weight of his voice has your toes curling in your shoes. His rasp is so often used to light that first spark. 

“Dieter –,” the moment shifts and so do you. You squirm, itching for his face in your hands, his mouth over yours, but he holds you steady. Holds you firm. So firm, you can feel he’s half-hard in his jeans. 

Oh. 

Maybe he did mean it like that. 

You press your tongue against his pulse point, your fingers splayed across the back of his rib cage, and he shudders. You’re about to bite down, when his hands peel your fingers from his back and pinch your wrists in one single, meaty grip. Heart suddenly thundering in your chest, he steps back to allow for just enough room to turn you – barely any at all – and pushes you face down on the sink counter, your wrists clasped over your ass behind you.

Cold marble pressing up against your tits, your face turned towards the window and the towel bar where you used to hang your Barbie swimsuits when you were seven, you feel his other massive palm dip under your sweater and press flat against the ridges of your spine. He hums when you let out a small whine. Flexes his fingers when you wiggle your ass against him. You seek out the marble with your cheek, heat rising under your skin, arousal suddenly burning hot in your low belly. 

“This is what you need, hm, baby? Need me to touch you? To feel you?” He murmurs. Dieter always did like playing with his food. You nod helplessly, cheek sticky against the marble. He shifts his hips into the crack of your ass, with just enough pressure to have you bucking back against him, but not enough to find relief from the stirring between your legs. 

He strokes your hair away from your neck, fingers brushing over your collarbone, gaze languid and slow. Like he can see where he needs to pluck to unravel you. 

“Why is my baby so tense?” He muses quietly, patronizing. His hand maps your spine in a single palm, edging slowly up your back until, with two fingers, he pinches your bra open. You feel the snap of the release and you rub your nose against the edge of the counter, whimpering. “Don’t I take care of you?”

You gulp. “Y-y-yes, you treat– treat me so good. I want it.” 

He has you pressed too tightly against the counter to slip his hand down your front, the edge pinching your hips. So, instead, with your hands still pinned against your tailbone, he palms your ass and rubs a thick finger down between your legs and up over the seam of your jeans. The whine building in your throat breaks into an open moan when he presses your zipper teeth into your clit.  

“Want what? Tell me and I’ll give it to you.” 

“F-fingers – tongue – fuck – y-your cock. Anything inside me.” 

The surprised, breathless chuckle that reverberates down to the button of his jeans seared against your ass has you bending, stretching, just for a glimpse of his face in the mirror. 

His mouth open, tongue curling back and forth over his bottom lip, he’s hungry. Wants so much. Can’t satiate this need without something between his teeth. Grinning around a mouthful of incisors. Patience has never been Dieter’s strong suit. 

With a firm jerk around your wrists, your back arches up off the counter, shoulders pinched, hands caught low near his groin. You know he wants you to watch him touch you in the mirror – he’s stopped before when you close your eyes – but it’s hard to look at the woman reflected back at you, with her bleary eyes, mussed hair, heaving chest, and exposed belly button where his hand hovers between the waistband and a green sweater, and recognize yourself. 

  “No one can take you from me. Do you understand?” He dips his head, arched nose dragging up the curve of your neck, breathing hot through his teeth against the lines where your hair and your skin meet. You can’t help but arch up into his waiting mouth. “Not your family. Not mine. You’re so greedy for me – who else is gonna make you feel this good?” 

“N-no one, Dieter, no one can.”

His hand rising under your sweater, thumb first at your belly button, then up between the spread of your ribs, and finally, it catches under the wire of your bra and he tugs it down. The material rubs against your sensitive nipples – it almost stings, your body pulled taught like a bowstring – the straps falling low off your shoulders, but your sweater keeps it from falling off completely and he goes no further. You whine, eager for something other than the scratch of the bra – something warmer – and push your sensitive tits into his soft hands, but his hand drops, fingering the waistline of your jeans instead. He ignores what you want to show you what you need. 

This is a thing he did. He watched you wind yourself up with deadlines and scheduling and meetings and arguments on set and and doubt and worry and fear and then he took it upon himself to tire you out enough that all of it shattered – crashed and consumed under the white noise in your head. Dieter liked to play however you needed it.

You can feel the seam of his jeans hover just beyond your fingertips, as though his hips swing unconsciously forward while he nips and sucks on your neck. God, you’d give anything to have the weight of him between your palms. 

When he speaks again, you realize at some point you squeezed your eyes shut, forgoing sight to chase the sensation that sparks across your skin every time he touched a new bare patch of skin on you. He pulls his head up from fixating a tender purple blush just below where your sweater covers your shoulder to catch your gaze in the mirror. Panthers do not watch with such hungry eyes. 

“Arms up.” It’s not a command, a request, but the words drip from his mouth, rich and sweet. He lets go of your wrists and your arms flutter above you, his fingers already rolling up the edge of your sweater. He drags it up, snagging your loose bra with it, and peeling them both off you. The immediate heat of his chest on your bare back is so hot, it burns cold. 

“Dieter,” you cry, nipples hardening in the cold air, goosebumps spiraling out along your skin. He’s there for you in an instant. 

He bites the soft, invisible hairs at your jaw, thick paws coming up to clutch your breasts, the sudden swap in temperature making your head swim. He pulls you against his chest, a new outer skin that breathes and moans and gasps, one that has a steady heartbeat your own has synced to. 

With his eyes fixated on you in the mirror, he molds your breast to his palm, rounding your nipples with his thumbs before sliding down between the curves of them. He licks the back of your neck. 

“Face down, baby,” he says. 

“But it’s cold,” you huff, pouting. You smooth your hands over his, his angular wrists, his broad thick forearms entombed in long back sleeves, then settle with your fingers in his hair. His height over you has your torso stretched, your tits bare and ripe, and he palms your stomach to the top of your ribs in two hands. He grunts when you twist his curls, keeping his head still so every bruise and wet spot on your shoulders and throat are all too visible. “Don’t you want to see all your good work?”

He blinks, slow and purposeful, his eyelids heavy, mouth parting. You can’t be sure of his decision, of what he wants, what he’s going to give, when his hands arch up the cradle of your arms, soft enough to tickle below your elbows, then around your wrists. He’s done this enough for you to know he wants you to let go.

You do. 

Fast as venom moves from fangs to flesh, he plants your hands on the counter, forcibly gripping the edge. This is how you hold on. 

He steps up against you again, iron-hot cock pressing without hesitancy between your ass cheeks, and unbuckles your pants without preamble.

“I’d rather just show you.” 

Broad hand bending your shoulders forward, fingers pressed flat over your shoulder, you gasp when your tits make contact with the cold counter, and an instant later, he’s filling your open mouth with his fingers. He wets them against the slip of your tongue and grabs your jaw. 

Your mind fracturing like cracking ice, you don’t hear the zip of his jeans, the groan as he takes himself out – barely feel the rub along your wet slit, the arranging of his fingers around your bare hip, the widening of your stance with his ankle. 

But you do feel it when he’s suddenly hilt-deep inside of you. 

You lurch forward with the weight of it, whining as though scalded at the sudden blinding pressure of pleasure and pain, and you slap a palm against the mirror to keep yourself from shattering through it. Behind you, Dieter looks like someone dislocated his kneecaps. 

“You good, baby?” He pants, drawing his hand out of your mouth, wet spit between his fingers as he cups your hanging breast. The sensation bleeds hot, then cold. Unable to help himself, he nuzzles your shoulder blades. 

You nod, eyes shut, the magnetic north sense of you spinning wildly off-kilter as you try to gulp in as much air as you can. You know you’re about to lose it anyway. He stands upright, not so much as inching out of you, when he plants his feet and nestles your ass against his hip bones, hands wiggling you further down his cock. 

“You’re so fucking gorgeous.” 

It’s said with such wonder, a breathless reverence, that you think he might not have realized he said it out loud. You glance over your shoulder, turning your head instead of finding him in the mirror. 

The facade of the Brooklyn banker is gone. Your Dieter stares, awe-struck, at the body he’s got impaled on his cock like it’s the first time he’s seen a naked woman. Soft, pliant, eager to please, your Dieter lets you collar him, peg him, and give it to you exactly as you ask.

“How do you want it?” The phrase is so familiar, so intimate when spoken from his pink lips, you shudder, a Pavlovian response that’s got you drooling somewhere else than your mouth. He lifts his gaze and finds you staring. 

There is no one else in that moment. Not a single living soul besides you and him in this white-tiled bathroom. You can almost hear the absence of people ringing in your ears. His open, hot mouth draws your eyes away from his and you want every bit of him as stuffed up inside you as you can handle. Twisted around, you lick his bottom lip over your shoulder before offering your tongue for him to suck.

He groans, and you breathe in intimacy you’ve never experienced before. A flushed ache rises from your chest, a precursor to the aches he’ll leave you with by morning. 

You tip your head back and thumb the bristly skin against his chin.

“Hard, baby. Please.”

For all his faults, for all his forgetting, Dieter switches brain waves as fast as you do, tethered together like the gravitational spin of space rocks in the wake of a gleaming comet.

“Okay.”

He distracts you from the pain of that first rough thrust by biting down on your shoulder.

His motions are short, targeted, and right up into the cradle of your cervix, the pace driven, unrelenting and hard. You shake with the force of them, as fragile as silverware on a table near the drop of an atom bomb. 

“Oh – fuck, Dieter–,” 

He pins your arm that had touched his chin to your chest, then his chest to your back, sealing your damp skin to his shirt. The curl of that wretched black turtleneck scratches deliciously against your low back. 

Grunting in low, short bursts, Dieter sabotages his own breathing by crushing you so tight to his chest. He sucks on your neck as if to draw the oxygen straight from your blood. The fingers on your hip steady you, just for his cock wrecks your insides. 

“You wan-na – ngh – you wanna know why it doesn’t bother me?” 

Each word is spat out from between his teeth. He’s giving you your requested punishment as much as he is sprinting after his own release.

“Tell me. Tell me please.” Your voice is scraped raw, breathless and gooey at the same time. 

“Because when you’re my wife, they won’t be able to do a fucking thing about it.” 

Around him, your cunt squeezes, his words sending shocks through your nerves. You whine as if he’d smacked your ass. 

“I fucking felt that. You like that. You want that. You want my fucking cock every day.”

Again, he plants your hands on the cold counter. 

“Push back against me, baby.” You anchor yourself, ass out, elbows and knees locked. “That’s it, that’s my fucking good girl.”

He lifts his body up right, off your sweaty neck and back, and with both hands pinching your waist, he yanks you up and down on his cock in long, rough thrusts, knees bending with enough force to send you onto your toes.  

“Gonna have to take it. Just – fucking – take – it –,”

His leaking cock drives up against that spot inside of you that makes your eyes roll back and body tense again and again, but yanks back before that hot feeling swells. It’s so close you’re dizzy from it. 

You want to fuck yourself on his cock but you can’t time your aching hips right, so you stop trying and bend forward more, exposing more of your cunt to him. 

“Dieter, please –,” 

“Baby, you gotta be quiet. I know you feel good, but you can’t let them hear us.”

The words are out of your mouth, breaking through the thick, drowning fog and through the hindbrain barrier.

“Fuck them. Let them hear.” 

Dieter’s hips slow, punch not as deeply, as if he’s curious what you’re going to say next.

“Take off your shirt. I wanna feel your skin.” 

He listens immediately, a very good boy at heart, and the first press of his soft chest against you nearly has you coming then. 

“Harder again, please.” 

Again, without a second’s hesitation, he kisses your ear before grappling your shoulder with one hand and your hip with the other and he takes up his position as owner and keeper of your sloppy cunt. 

You cry out, high and wrecked, some semblance of sanity knowing you’re being far too loud, and he bucks the words out of you.

“I wanna suck on your earring, Dieter.” He grunts as he doubles over as if trying to yank back an unrestrained and early release. He rubs his damp forehead in the patch of soft skin by your shoulder blade. 

“Say it again.” 

With every rock of his hips, you swing up higher, and higher, your thighs tensing, nails scraping the counter. 

“Wanna put it between my lips and suck until you’re cherry red. I wanna choke on your rings. So far down my throat I gag. Wanna – wanna – lick your tattoos – all of them – ‘til the ink blurs from my spit. I –,”

The noise he makes is pained, weak, a man at the end of his rope.

He pops your ass. “Shut up. You’re gonna come now.” 

His sweaty palms slip against the soft skin of your hips, and he keeps slipping with no leverage. 

“Stand on your toes.” You do and for an absurd second, you think he’s going to pick you up in a bear hug. He wraps his arms around your rib cage, his face nestled into the hot, sticky curve of your neck, in the flipped image of when he takes you after your legs get sore from riding him. Your tits spilling over his forearms, he keeps the ludicrous bend in your spine as well as the short, rough pace. You reach your fingers around the back of his head and hold on for dear life. 

The change in angle has stars blowing across your eyes, has you whimpering strings of pleas, veneration, and curses all threaded together. His own thighs shaking, he rubs the pads of three of his fingers across your clit and you’re over the edge. 

“Oh – oh, shit –,”

The electrical storm that’s been building one wiry shock at a time finally bursts and you go rigid from head to toe, turning to marble, to steel, bright and sharp. You can feel your own release dribble down your thigh, Dieter stuttering behind you.

“Wait – fuck,”

He tries to speed up, or press harder, but he’s coming so hard you feel it expand your cunt and ends up just making a leaking mess. The sensation shivers you through another minor wave. The crest goes high, then crashes, and you slump forward, cold nips be damned, and he follows you down a second later. 

The heated weight at your back and hard, cool marble squishing your tits is too much for your dazed brain to handle. Any looser and you might slip off the edge of the earth. 

Dieter seems to be in a similar state. He not so much pulls out of you as he goes weak-kneed to the floor. A single tug on your hip has you stumbling down with him.

Despite the garland around the stairs, despite the smell of cranberries in the air, despite the veneer of perfect holiday wholesomeness, it’s the slick layer of sweat, grime, and cum over your skin that has you finally smiling. 

You recognize you have been gone far too long – there’s not enough spiked hot cider in the world to ignore two missing bodies and a locked door. Dieter puts his barefoot preemptively up against the door frame and you giggle into his shoulder. 

“Oh, there’s the sound I’ve been missing!” He nuzzles you, a blissful smile breaking open his face, sunlight over storm clouds. He wiggles beneath you, trying to tug you on top of him, but with your jeans constricting your thighs, and his barely below his hips, all it really accomplishes is the two of you rolling around on the bathroom floor.

In a heap of limbs, slick skin, his knee catching the button of your jeans, you bump your nose against his chin, there’s something bright building in your chest – it’s twisting your mouth, pinching your cheeks – his fingers grab your elbow, his eyes lock into yours – 

And you’re laughing. 

You’re laughing too loud, all pretense gone. You can’t honestly care what they’re thinking downstairs.

He manages to get you under him, his damp hair clinging to his temples and tangling down in frizzy strands. 

“I’m gonna say this and I need you to actually hear me.” 

You nod, grinning up at him and lightly tracing his clavicle. 

He swats at your hand and holds it to your chest. 

“Don’t wait until it’s that bad, okay?” You chuckle and he bites the tip of your nose. “Listen to me, you little goblin, I’m trying to be serious for a second.”

You settle under him, fingers intertwining with his over your chest. Sincere Dieter is a beautiful thing to look at. 

“This holiday bullshit can be a lot. Spent a lot of them either in coke up to my eyeballs, or in the bathroom the next day. It fucking sucks that these are the people we can from, but we can’t change that. What’s important is the family we build right now–,”

Your mouth drops open, his words suddenly illuminating a future that had always seemed so blurry and distant. 

“Dieter, I –,”

“I’m gonna marry you someday, so let’s start with us.” He kisses the back of your hand. “We carry each other, okay?” 

You nod, the white light of that future searing a hole in your chest, exposing your heart to the open air, and bringing tears to your eyes. You nod, more assured, before kissing him on his bottom lip.

“Okay.” 

The next few minutes play out just like they would if you were at home: cleaning each other up, trying on clothes only to realize he grabbed your sweater instead, and bumping affectionate kisses wherever they could reach. 

At the top of the stairs, you don’t know what awaits you in the living room. What exactly you’ll be returning to. Who will catch you and who won’t.

But it doesn’t matter. His hand is around yours and he’s grinning petulantly against all the world. 

Is Dieter Bravo someone you could rely on? 

Your heart says yes. 

[yandere-romanticaa]

People are hungry for this man, oh my word. Take these humble crumbs, my little doves. Also fem reader because it's easier for me.

The soft glow of the moon cascaded down on the pair as the wind blew gently, soothing the raging heart in the girl's chest.

It was hard to focus when you were oh so aware of his stare. It was so easy to picture it - ruby red eyes, lost deep in thought as they skimmed all over your body, taking in absolutely every detail they possibly could... And yet, still somehow being able to be completely aware of the surroundings or any incoming attack. Every miniscule movement of the tiniest of bugs, any scarce leaf on the ground, all of it was easy for him to spot.

That was the power of a Servant, you figured. And your Lancer had many, many things going for him.

Being a participant in the Holy Grail War was never an ambition of yours. Your family had no real standing with the other mages as it was a relatively newly established group. You never even considered yourself a particularly impressive or strong mage, just good enough to survive.

And against all odds, the Holy Grail had picked you.

The bright red command seals on your hand were a painful reminder of your bloody predicament. Danger lurked in every corner and even if you tried to hide it, the quiver in your step was painfully obvious to your Lancer. To him, you were no better than an open book. In its own way, he found that endearing.

He took a shine to you almost immediately. While he would typically prefer a more outspoken and assertive Master, he couldn't help but to stir the fire which lay dormant deep inside you. You couldn't see the strength you possessed but that was alright. He could see it, smell it, almost taste it even. He wanted to push you into above and beyond, he wished to see you at your breaking point, only to rise from the ashes anew.

Such a delicious thought. His cute little Master, who didn't have a single clue of the plans he had for her.

Times like these, he really, really, loathed being a heroic spirit. Improper thoughts came to him like breathing, it was certainly no way for a Servant to admire their Master in such a manner but the man could not help himself.

You were far too delectable for your own good.

He was going to chain you, break you, show you just how much he cared for you in the most earnest way possible. He was going to present you with the Holy Grail and make you the true victor of this war.

He was going to make you even more beautiful than you could ever imagine.

[absolutebl]

This Week in BL - I hand out a couple of high scores & have qualms about pairs

Organized, in each category, with ones I'm enjoying most at the top. I didn't get many screen shots this week, so welcome to a WALL OF TEXT. Duh duh duh dum.

July 2024 Week 3

Ongoing Series - Thai

We Are Cute (Weds iQIYI) ep 16 fin - TanFang are ridiculous but I have grown to truly love them. ChainPun at the end made me hoot with laughter everyone was a meme of FINALLY. In fact, I loved all the pairs, this was a great ensemble piece.

I was left mildly wondering if Arm will ever lead a BL. 

All in all? 

I really enjoyed this show. It was slow to find its stride (I didn’t get into it until ep 7) but I’m very glad I gave it a chance. It’s a soft ensemble piece with multiple couples and very little plot, but I didn’t care because it’s not trying to be anything more substantial. Essentially this was a series of vignettes covering one year of uni for a queer friendship group finding love, new friends, and laughter. It’s not being harsh with us or it’s characters the way some offerings of this ilk have been (side eyes Friend Zone and Only Friends) nor did it tumble into Gen Y chaos. In fact, this reminded me more than anything of a refined and elevated Love Sick - just with older characters and occurring within a genre that has matured too. It has that close queer friendship group meets earnest gentleness that made me adore Love Sick so much. In other words, this was Thai BL at its finest, finding it roots again 10 years on, but also stretching upwards and showing us what it could do with that original seed. So? I loved it. Did it blow my mind? No. But it left me smiling and made me belly laugh quite a bit. 9/10

Technically it should probably get an 8/10 - too much singing, but I’m bubbling over with nostalgia rn.

Wandee Goodday (Sat YT) ep 12 fin - I struggled to watch that fight. But that’s because it was so well done for a BL. Lots of speeches this ep. (I said too cheesy right before Dee did.)

I like Drake & Title as a new ship. Hope it sails. Also some decent ace rep. 

On a totally different note: Good use of frosting. But… you know I’m gonna say it… NO SINGING. 

Final thoughts:

What a FUN show. A charming quintessentially modern Thai BL about a doctor and a boxer who start as a one night stand and then fall in love. Great rep for everything from Muay Thai, to safe sex, to FUN sex, to ace, to bisexuality, to smiley kisses, to the first legal gay wedding in a Thai BL. It’s a delight and I enjoyed (almost) every single moment of it. 

An easy 9/10. 

I do hope we get more GreatInn.

The Rebound (Weds Gaga) eps 7-8 of 12 - So Ryu’s ma is evil? And Frank is giving me serious second lead syndrome. Also he’s been working out a lot. I noticed my dude, thank you. I don't think we've ever gotten this kind of focus on a side dish before. The show is in dangerous territory, since he's so good he's taking attention away from the leads. Also, I think Zen is completely aware of what is going on with this love triangle, he just doesn’t want to put up with their nonsense. I even like the cute side crumbs. 

On a complete aside: why are crime lords in BL always in bathtubs? Asking for… the other genres. Wouldn’t it be hilarious if The Godfather entirely took place in bathtubs? A Real Man has a large… tub. 

And we end with mass murder? WOW! Chaotically played my dearest pulp! 

Century of Love (Weds Gaga) eps 3-4 of 10 - These boys are playing complicated roles with lots of layers to them. Daou is doing a great job. We can see the old man inside this kid. Offroad... I’m not convinced, he’s chewing the scenery a bit. I actually think he has the more layered and complicated part to play. So I'm giving him a chance to subtly show that cheerful façade fracturing with delicacy. But I worry we may be back in JamFilm territory where one partner can’t quite keep up with the other's skillz.

All of this is to say, this is still a better acted piece than I was expecting. (Although the surrounding cast and special effects are doing our leads no particular favors.)

It’s hugely enjoyable but uneven (with those occasional injections of slapstick humor) I’m not entirely sure the production knows what it wants to be. I wish it had the courage of its convictions to lean into the “I feel you linger in the air” aesthetic. Now that I know Thailand can go there, I’m a bit annoyed when a show like this, which should, doesn’t. Which is not to say I’m not enjoying it. I am. A lot. Just that I should probably lower my expectations. Daou, however, is so damn good, he keeps getting my hopes up.

This Love Doesn't Have Long Beans (Fri iQIYI) ep 3 of 8 - Oh no we have a lonely poor little rich boy. Catnip character for @heretherebedork. Meanwhile, I’m liking the layers of the main romance, with everybody having hidden agendas and such. Nice tension. Of course I love the eroticism around smells. One of my favorite tropes. But I’m not sure I buy the relationship chemistry between the leads when this much lying is going on. 

My Love Mix-Up Th (Fri YT) ep 7 of 12 - I am growing to love Fourth's version of this character. He’s so frantic and confused, but in a completely different way from the JBL. It’s a bit more whiny and a bit less cartoonish. But it resonates with me more. He's less of a meme tho. The photo moment! I literally squealed, "Gah!!! They are so cute!"

Linguistic moment. Did you hear in the cupcake section that Half went to rao/ter? Very sweet. (The boys use rao/nai.)

Also, yay for the twist on the school counselor character! Best thing ever. I would like the entire story of Nop & Sin GMMTV, please and thank you. Also… NO SINGING. 

Sunset X Vibes (Sat iQIYI) ep 6 of 12 - I’m continuing to enjoy this a lot. It’s a fun cast. A touch twee for me, and I’m really hoping they amp up something other than the romance soon, but I don't mind ending my week with these two.

The Trainee (Sun YouTube) ep 3 of 12 - I'm enjoying this show so much, just not as a BL (yet). It’s honest to the internship experience of overwhelm (such as I recall, it's been A WHILE). I’m not sure how much BL I’m getting from it thus far. I mean our leads shared a long glance or two but that’s about it. It’s very slow burn. But I don’t mind that since I’m liking the surrounding stuff. Can't stand the girlfriend intern character tho. I hope she get redeemed.  Or killed.

Love Sea (Sun iQIYI) ep 6 of 10 - Halfway through I had already finished my drink out of sheer boredom.  Trash watch here.

Knock Knock Boys (Thurs Gaga) ep 9 of 12 - Frankly I’m finding this relatively dull right now. Lovely kisses tho. Best and Seng are great together, consummate BL pros, not a pair I had on my bingo card. 

Ongoing Series - Not Thai

I Hear the Sunspot AKA Hidamari ga Kikoeru (Japan Weds Gaga) ep 5 of 10 - I like how much we can see K’s intense liking and emotional need for this loud broken kid. And how easy it is for him to admit to that truth. Because what he’s going through is so much worse than admitting to having feelings. The acting is fantastic. Sometimes I forget how great Japan can be. And then they decide to remind me. Oh, it’s SO GOOD. 

Takara's Treasure AKA Takara No Vidro (Japan Mon Gaga) ep 3 of 10 - Another one I’m finding boring. Just japan’s version. The vintage yaoi “old dude creep trope” I see. It’s been a while. 

It's airing but...

Meet You at the Blossom - it's your funeral (or, more likely, one of the main characters'). You can argue but... statistics. You know my feelings on this matter. MY BLOG, remember?

GIF by mypotatokun

In case you missed it

The Time of Fever AKA Unintentional Love Story 2 (Korea movie) trailer released to Korean theaters 5/25. HoTae & DongHee, side couple from Unintentional Love Story are back! Same actors, same character names. I love them. Devastated this hasn't had international distribution. I demand you tell me the moment you find it!

The Last Time (Thai Fri YT) - Got bumped to Aug 2. Convoluted story of loss and possible reincarnation or something.

Next Week Looks Like This:

Upcoming BLs for 2024 are listed here. This list is not kept updated, so please leave a comment if you know something new or RP with additions.

July Releases Still To Come

7/24 I Saw You in My Dream (Thai Weds Gaga) - Dee Hup is behind this one so I have high hopes. Younger boy chronically teased his whole life by the older boy next door suddenly starts having horrific prophetic dreams about his bully and must save him.

7/26 4 Minutes (Thai Netflix or iQIYI?) - Great, a rich boy studying business at uni, suddenly gains the supernatural power to see four minutes into the future.

7/29 Battle of the Writers (Thai ????) - trailer here, TutorYim return, and while I adore them, I really hope this is better than Middleman's Love. Won't be hard. However: the premise? Ugh. Something something authors fighting - save me. Why don't writers understand that nothing is more boring than writers?

THIS WEEK’S BEST MOMENTS

No time this week, I'm having computer issues.

(Last week)

Streaming services are listed by how I (usually) watch, which is with a USA based IP, and often offset by a day because time zones are a pain.

The tag BLigade: @doorajar @solitaryandwandering @my-rose-tinted-glasses @babymbbatinygirl @babymbbatinygirl @isisanna-blog @mmastertheone @pickletrip @aliceisathome @urikawa-miyuki @tokillamonger @sunflower-positiiivity @rocketturtle4 @blglplus @anythinggoesintheshire @everlightly @renafire @mestizashinrin @bl-bam-beyond @small-dark-and-delicious @saezurumurmurs

Sigh, Tumblr in it's infinite wisdom doesn't like too many tags.

There's these tricks, remember.