#100 followers event

[ataraxiaspainting]

Hi, thanks for sending te rules ^^. For the request, can I please have yan mermaid Ruan Mei x fem human reader one shot? Basically, Ruan Mei meets a human and she find them interesting, but later discovers that the reader is dating. So Ruan Mei decides why not to kidnap her future darling.

please ruan mei is so pretty...... I CAN FIX HER GUYS!!

Birth of Venus.

Yan (Mermaid) Ruan Mei x F Reader.

Synopsis: Legends say the ocean’s waters are salty because of the tears of mermaids.

Warnings: Yandere themes and kidnapping.

Word Count: 700.

*~*~*~*

Upon catching sight of you for the first time, she finds herself at a loss for thoughts and emotions.

For her to lose sight of the former is as rare as her finding something not covered in rust and fading away with age on the bottom of the ocean floor. But, like those priceless moments, with her fingers gliding above and beneath a small mountain of gold coins in a treasure chest she spent more than a day trying to unlock, she could not bear herself to let go, to let something so precious go to waste. Time is of the essence though, because as much as she wants to simply take you beneath the waters with her hands, the scales on them never scarred with the color purer than that of the sky above you both, she has to wait for the right time, for everything to be set up accordingly. It is what she does best, after all, planning and soon discarding everything that provides little value to her, and perhaps soon to you, because, in the end, it is not uncommon for her to lose her emotions. They hold no significance at present or in the future, and she will release them once more in her quest for everything she desires. Thus, she patiently waits, concealed beneath the water, listening to the gentle sound of your footsteps on the sand and the joyful exclamations that escape your lips whenever you discover another seashell she intentionally left on the shoreline for you.

Everything and everyone she encounters, regardless of whether they are from the sea or the land above, bow down to her and her radiance, even creatures similar to her both in physique and intellectual prowess. She hopes the same will be what you do too, but she does not. Despite how ironic it sounds, you are the breath of fresh air she never had. She desires for you to remain unchanged, even if she resorts to preserving you as ice submerged deep beneath the ocean, thus ensuring your eternal presence. Nevertheless, she sincerely hopes this extreme measure will never be necessary.

She will try her best to ensure such.

Despite her emotions being minuscule, barely the size of a single caviar bead, she finds herself unable to articulate this indescribable sensation that threatens to overwhelm all logic she has.

Because when she caught sight of you for what felt like the hundredth time, she saw you kiss someone else by the shoreline, next to the special shell she obtained after hours upon hours of searching just for you.

For what felt like the first time in all her life, she felt sorrow, then anger, and hate. Her emotions finally gave way after all these months of observing you from afar, and tears gave way. But she doesn't know what to do now. All planning, what she has always been good at, along with her logic, which she also has been exemplary at, has all been washed away by the tides of fear, envy, and sadness. After what felt like an eternity of weeping over her loss, making the seawater get even saltier because of her tears, she concluded. She must act now, or you will be forever out of her grasp. She needs to take immediate action to regain her rationality and control her emotions once more. Despite her love for you, Ruan Mei will always be self-centered, and this fundamental aspect of her character is unlikely to change, even if she desires it. It is simply a matter of time until everything reverts to its previous state.

So, as you venture near the coast, captivated by the enchanting melodies emerging from the sea, she springs into action. With astonishing speed, so swift that you won't perceive it until it's too late, she delivers a powerful blow and drags you under the waters, where you will stay forevermore.

[chronically-ghosted]

Little Monsters

rating: 18+ Explicit

pairing: dieter x f!reader

word count: 5K

summary: A phone call home to your family has you missing them desperately . . . especially your husband, who always knows exactly what you need.

warnings/tags: pregnancy, Dieter has children and is actually a really good dad, director!reader, 1st half is mind numbing tooth rotting FLUFF, 2nd half is straight filth and dieter has a nasty nasty mouth, masturbation, camera/phone sex, slight breeding kink, one single use of ‘Daddy’, if I had an ounce of shame left in me I would not have posted this

a/n: special shout outs go to @spookyxsam for showing me about how babies work and to @lunapascal and @mysterious-moonstruck-musings for talking me off the daddy dieter ledge. this is my first pregnancy fic and i do not know what came over me (she lied, knowing damn good and well what happened to her brain chemistry)

from @yoursoulsunbreakable 's request: Hello sweetie, congratulations on your milestone <3 Here's my request for the little drabble: 5. “Tell me what you would want to do, if you were here right now.” With our precious Dieter and smutty? Hope it'll inspire you 😘

🤍Masterlist

“Tell me what you would want to do, if you were here right now.”

“Oh, Dieter, I’d – I’d –,”

“Yeah?”

You let out a burst of air from your lips, flopping back against the pillows. “I’d ask you for a foot rub,” you whine into the camera. 

He chuckles, the sound a bit garbled through the speakers. He leans forward into the camera, as if trying to see down your body, the angle of the phone against the hotel’s lamp not quite right. 

“Is Bravo Baby number three giving you trouble?” 

You eye your swelling feet over the steadily swelling bump. Well into your second trimester and the list of shoes in your closet you could still wear is shrinking rapidly. This also happened with your second child and when Dieter made one joke about keeping you barefoot in the kitchen, you nearly threw a butcher’s knife at his head. You stroke the left side of your stomach to preemptively soothe the little brat before they start wailing on that spot all night, sighing into your husband’s sympathetic, pixelated face. 

“They’ve been grouchy all day. Tom had to leave me in the car for a bit after we scouted a potential place for the exterior shots to finish taking pictures because somebody was having a grand old time wearing me out.” You narrow your eyes at him through the camera. “As if there was any doubt this was your child.” 

This is a constant inside joke between you. Your first kid, a girl, was a beautiful blend of both you and Dieter. His eyes, but your hair, your cheeks, and his nose. He also got to name her – said it came to him after he bought some chocolate and water at the hospital lounge –

“Zelle, Dieter, ‘Zelle’?? Like the money transaction service?” 

But you had been too zonked out on painkillers and endorphins to object (you thought it was beautiful at the time), and he signed the papers anyway. Neither of you had come up with a fitting name before then and he swears the instant he held his baby girl in his hands for the first time, it came to him, as if the stars rearranged themselves in the sky with that name. Incurably a romantic at heart – your husband – you found it sweet and also idiotic, but it was too late now. 

Your second one, Orion, had his name written down on a post-it note you carried in your purse for months and you made sure to show the nurse when you were admitted. Not that Dieter would intentionally go against the name you had agreed on if the baby was a boy, but there was a slim chance he’d get so caught up in the moment and, with watery eyes, tell the nurse to write something like Mars Bar on the birth certificate. 

And, for all that, Orion could have been a carbon copy of you.

The joke started when Dieter picked him up from his crib one night and brought that gurgling little mouth right up to his nose. “Are you sure you didn’t just spontaneously create this one? I don’t see a single hint of me in this little guy.” To which Orion giggled around a drool-damp fist and promptly bopped his father on the nose with it. 

“Are you saying you don’t remember what happened the night he was conceived?” You asked with a smirk over your shoulder as you returned some baby bibs to the drawer. 

Dieter snorted and slid Orion into the crook of his arm, those onesie-white feet seen kicking over his forearm. “Now Mommy is just being plain silly.”

That was five years ago and you couldn’t exactly deny you were excited for the smell of newborn to be all over your husband again. 

“I’ll be glad when we hit the last trimester,” he says, chin propped up on his wrist to stare down at you in his other palm, “so I can wave that doctor’s note in your face when you try to work too hard . . . like you are now.” 

You shift onto your side to face him, rolling your eyes. “You only like the third trimester for the sex hormones.” 

After spending most of your first pregnancy, and at least half of your second, trying to claw Dieter’s eyes out if he so much as breathed in your direction, he was delighted to find that by month seven, the hellcat who had taken over his wife’s body turned into a needy, whiny little kitten. 

Some of the best orgasms of his life come from those months, he swears up and down. 

“I’m not going to complain,” he grins, peering down at you from those prescription sunglasses. The Dieter you used to know wore them because he was constantly hungover; your husband wears them because he keeps accidentally misplacing his actual prescription glasses. “All I’m saying is you better be back in time so Daddy can play house with Mommy.” 

The shrill cry is heard through the phone, the closed bedroom door, and at least one hallway:

“Is Mommy on the phone?” 

Barely a second later, you watch over his shoulder as the door flings open and a wild blur of arms and legs dogpiles Dieter onto the bed. You hear him grunt, the camera flips up to the ceiling, as Zelle and Orion clamor for the phone. Chuckling to yourself, you take up the phone from the bedside table and hold it in your palm as you lean back against the pillows and your children’s faces flash over the small screen. 

“Mommy, I made a bug out of noodles and string today.”

“Mommy, I saw a cat that looked like a cow today.”

“Mommy, Daddy’s broccoli tasted funny - you cook it better!”

“Hey!” He lunges for Zelle’s little ankle and pulls her up around her waist as she giggles helplessly. 

You can barely see them, Orion’s pudgy little finger over most of the camera, Dieter’s hair and Zelle’s kicking feet visible only in flashes. 

“You better go help your sister, Orion!” 

Needing no other prompting, he drops the phone against the pillows and leaps onto his father, squealing at the noise Dieter makes. Where Orion got your looks, he had all of his father’s mannerism. You blinked twice when as a toddler Orion’s purposeful pout had looked so similar to his father’s, you wondered if they had practiced it together. Orion is ruthless when it comes to the tickle wars and immediately goes for Dieter’s neck. 

“Help!” he chokes, “I’m being overrun by tiny monsters!”

Zelle roars at his hip and Orion howls – he’d be a werewolf for Halloween a third year in a row if the tradition continued. Despite more frequent and loud protests about his poor back, Dieter lunges forward and yanks Zelle under his arm like she’s a football. He does the same to Orion and faceplants with both of them successfully pinned. It’s the oldest trick in the book and you muse what he’s going to do when they are too big to do that to anymore. But, as Dieter likes to say, one colossal nightmare at a time. 

“Peace treaty?” His voice is muffled by the blanket. 

“Stand and deliver,” they repeat, breathlessly and red faced. He lets them go and the two bodies barely move, grins still plastered to their faces. Cheeks pink, Dieter crawls over and snags the phone.

“See, darling?” he says between heavy breaths, “this parenting stuff is easy.” 

“Mommy, when are you coming home?” Zelle pops her head between Dieter and the phone, her cheek pink and her little hands pushing her hair off her face. 

“Yeah!” Orion pipes up, crawling over Dieter’s back, hooking his tiny hands over his father’s throat. Dieter’s eyes bug out for a moment before adjusting the five year old’s grip. “Are you done chasing the dragon?”

At that, Dieter snickers and you can’t glare with fire in your eyes like you’d like to so you plaster on an overly sweet smile on your face. 

“Rori, we asked you not to say that. It’s a stork, remember?” 

Orion frowns into Dieter’s curls. “But I want a baby brother or sister that comes from a dragon’s egg.” 

“Yeah, Mom, a dragon baby is way cooler than a stork baby.” 

Oh, you are going to kill him. 

This was another ongoing joke . . . for Dieter. Orion’s teacher called home one night after Orion proudly announced that his mommy was off chasing the dragon. Understandably concerned about the phrase, she called to make sure everything was alright, only to find out what he meant was that his mother was expecting a new baby and instead of a stork, his father told him that Mommy was going to find a dragon to put a new egg inside her tummy, and then the new baby would eventually pop out from the egg. 

This was something you had to relay through the phone to the teacher . . . because Dieter was curled up on the floor, laughing so hard he went mute, tears rolling down red cheeks. This had been his ‘stork’ story for Orion, and apparently unaware of just how impressionable a five-year-old is, told him that Mommy was chasing the dragon for a new egg. Dieter says his greatest regret in his life is that he wasn’t there to see the look on Orion’s teacher’s face. 

After that, you (and Dieter once he recovered) tried to alter the story enough so that he wouldn’t accidentally imply his mother was off on a drug binge, but evidently too much stuck. 

“I’m meeting with the dragon tomorrow, okay? I’m not chasing after anything. We’re having lunch. Right, Dad?”

“Absolutely.” He nods seriously at Orion and kisses that fat little cheek. 

“When is the dragon gonna give you the egg with my baby sister in it?” Zelle asks, matching Dieter on her stomach. Dieter’s confidence manifested perfectly in his daughter; you and him had told her many times that the baby might be a little brother, but she just stuck her nose in the air. “I know it’s a sister,” she said, with a characteristic roll of her eyes. 

“A couple more months, baby,” you smile, unconsciously rubbing at your stomach again. Baby Bravo is suspiciously quiet. Not soon enough. “But I’ll be home tomorrow, but you two have to be good for Dad until then, okay?” 

Orion nods from Dieter’s shoulder, but Zelle smirks up at her father in a way that is well beyond her six years.

“I promise to eat all of Daddy’s nasty broccoli!”

Dieter’s own impish nature, thrown right back at him. The one solace you found is that your husband might have finally met his match. 

He grabs her, flips her on her back, and blows a strawberry on her tummy as she shrieks with glee. 

“Alright – that’s it – it’s bath time for all naughty monsters!” He hikes Orion over his shoulder and picks up Zelle by her waist. He glances back over at you, his eyes bright and a giant smile on his face. 

You swear every time you see Orion, there’s less and less baby in his pudgy face, his little hands. Zelle is constantly saying and doing things that surprises you with the depth of their awareness and you know it doesn’t all come from you or Dieter. 

Your heart actually aches from missing them so much. 

“Monsters, say goodnight to Queen Monster–,” more yelling, roaring, “I’ll call you later tonight, okay, baby?” 

You nod, your eyes suddenly hot and tight. “O-okay – love you all.”

“LOVE YOU!” The three-headed monster yells in unison as it lumbers out of the bedroom.

You end the call, just before the tears spill. Again on your back, you stare at the ceiling feeling incredibly sorry for yourself when the baby rolls over and kicks you in the ribs. 

Hey, I’m here too!

You laugh, a little watery, and you wipe your eyes with your palms. Just get through tonight and you’re home. 

“Okay, okay, I’m up. Let’s get ready for bed, would you like that?”

It’s late. You know you should be asleep already, but the shower had taken longer than expected. The phone call with your husband and children lingered in your mind when you turned on the water and stripped down. Your heart was so full to see Orion’s pout and Zelle’s mischievous grin, especially after such a long day on your feet and for all his teasing, Dieter’s own ease and confidence as a father, as well as a husband, left you feeling . . . warm. In fact, your mind’s eye lingers on him in the memory of the call: his beautiful, rich curls – those square black glasses that made him look annoyingly mysterious and so goddamn hot – his biceps flexing as he throws around his children with ease, his shoulders broad and straining against his shirt — his bulging forearm making his triangle tattoo pop – his wedding ring that replaced all the other rings –

The good news is the baby was almost here. The bad news is that you’re suddenly irrationally horny and your all-too-eager husband was a plane ride away. 

Entirely naked besides the white hotel robe around your shoulders, you sternly ignore the plush tingling between your legs and try to focus on rubbing in lotion into your legs, your hips, over the old and new stretch marks over your stomach. Your fingers rub underneath the curve of your stomach and accidentally brush the damp curls, sending tiny shock waves up your pelvis. You gasp lowly, freezing, eyes tightly shut, fighting back that wave of arousal. 

Goddamn it. 

At first you think the ringing is between your ears, your blood rushing hard and fast, and then you realize it’s actually your phone going off.

Daddy Dieter, the screen reads.

You frown at the clock – if it’s late for you, then it’s very late for him. When he said he’d call you later, you didn’t think he meant literally later tonight. Still frowning, you put down the bottle of lotion and answer the phone.

“Dieter?” 

“Hey, baby. How’s your night?” 

He pulls back the phone and your mouth flushes with spit. He’s shirtless, sunglasses replaced with his actual glasses, that silver earring glinting in the low light. In the center of your bed, he’s propped up on several pillows with his arm tucked behind his head. He has thickened over the years, his chest and shoulders taking on a new weight as if he physically grew into fatherhood — and God, if his bicep was bulging before –

“Dieter –,” your voice is hoarse at first and you have to clear your throat to get anything out of your mouth that isn’t a whine. “Dieter, what are you doing up?”

He shrugs like he’s just been bored at home. “Bath time was easy. Orion wanted just one story and Zelle didn’t put up a fight when I told her it was bedtime and she had to put away the crayons.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Did you slip them Benadryl?” 

“Wow! No! Did you ever think that maybe I’m just that good of a dad?” He scoffs, mildly offended. And then he smirks. “I told them you’d come home sooner if they were good.”

“Ah, the old Santa Claus trick.” You nod sagely and sit down on the edge of the bed, the movement tugging the robe slightly. “Always a classic.”

“Yeah, I –,” Dieter’s eyes widen, edges going dark. “Are you naked?” 

You swallow, his sudden shift in tone causing your thighs to clench. You cross your legs as tightly as your belly will allow, your chin held high.

“I’m in a robe, Dieter. Took a long shower.”

His eyes glitter with interest, the tip of his tongue running on the edge of his bottom lip. “How long?”  

Feeling hot and swollen for months now, you flush pink, an overripe peach beneath the slightest pressure of his thumb. 

“Dieter–,” it’s a whine but you shake your head. “Please don’t tease. I’m so . . . sensitive right now, and I won’t be home until tomorrow and–,”

“Baby, baby, breathe. I know it hurts.” He sits up, his eyes big and dark. “I remember how wet you get around now.”

Your cunt drools onto the robe below you, thighs sticky, his words ringing in your ears. 

“Dieter, don’t –,”

“I know I can’t help you but what if I showed you how to help yourself?” 

You whimper, arousal now hot and warm in the pit of your stomach. The strength of it makes your pelvis ache. You know it won’t be the same as him, but his voice, it might be enough. You nod, your heart pounding, hand holding the phone shaking. 

“Then lie back, baby.” Dieter purrs and it’s almost like he’s pushing you back with his hands. You shift up the bed, careful to not step on your robe with your heels as you center yourself in the covers. But Dieter’s moving, off the bed, and he’s adjusting something behind his phone.

The baby inside you can feel your heartbeat racing and they turn, uneasy. You soothe them with small circles just above your hips, your lips between your teeth. But that touch on your skin, the look in Dieter’s eyes, you brush lower on your skin and immediately you shudder. 

“Baby, please, hurry, whatever you’re doing, hurry –,” 

You drop your fingers over your thighs, curling and uncurling, drawing imaginary lines like he does in the mornings against your shoulders and back. 

“Just a second, sorry, almost got it.”

Then he steps back, the phone hovering in the air. Dieter sits on the bed and the camera holds the entire bed in view. Dieter is nothing if not a performer, bringing a tripod into the bedroom when he knows you need him the most. He’s so fucking hot.

“Can you see me, baby?” 

You nod stiffly. “How do you want me?” 

“Whatever way is comfortable,” he smiles and it’s almost as hot as his smirk. Fuck, he loves you so much. You slide the robe off your shoulders, exposing the tops of your breasts as best you can and still keeping your phone up. “Perfect, baby, that’s perfect.” 

Your hand drops to your thigh again, dragging your nails up under the swell of your belly and you twitch. 

“T-tell me what you would want to do,” you begin, your voice shaking, arousal smooth as it licks up your spine, “if you were here right now.” You feel warm all over, the sheets cool against your calves. 

This far away, you can’t see his eyes clear enough to watch them darken entirely, but his low grunt is enough. It’s time for him to perform for his pregnant and insatiable wife. 

He slips his glasses off and tosses them onto the bedside table, where they land with a clatter. You can’t even think of scolding him when he lifts his hips and yanks his gray sweatpants down his knees, then to the floor. He’s half-hard as he shuffles back to the pillows, nearly in the same position you are. You shift to match him entirely, needing the immersion to be total and complete. You’d cry if he could actually touch you.

“Are you comfortable?”

You nod again. But Dieter shakes his head, his fingers digging into his thighs. “I can’t see you this far away, baby. I need you to say it. Talk to me.”

He was usually the one vocal enough for both of you, any coherent language impossible with the mess he makes out of you. You can’t imagine what you’re going to sound like, not when you’re this needy and desperate already.

“O-okay, Dieter, I’ll try.” 

“Good girl.” You whimper again, trying to restrain from touching yourself before he tells you to. But you’re throbbing, the heat blooming from your cunt rushing to the rest of your body, the baby in you restless. As if mother and child can only be soothed by their father. “Now, breathe, darling, you’re flushed.” 

You inhale, the air notching on every bone in your spine, and exhale, your lungs shuddering, eyes shut. “Dieter, please, tell me what you’d –,” 

“I’d touch your thighs,” he says with such immediacy, your eyes spring open. He’s got the knee farthest from you bent up, as if putting himself on display, turning his hips towards the camera slightly. His other leg is stretched out long beside him and his left hand strokes his cock. Hair and shoulders backlit from the far lamp, the image of him like this alone — just for you — has your cunt clenching, a moan spilling from your lips. “Touch your thighs, baby.”

You can’t grab as much skin as he does, but you try. You lift your knees, and massage the backs of your thighs, then up to your knees, and back down. You can almost feel his breath on your calves and you shudder. “What else? W-where else?” 

“I’ve been thinking about your tits for days,” he groans, the sound strangled, his cock now fully-hard and red. He cups himself, twisting as slow as he can take it. “Tell me what your tits feel like.” 

“Sensitive,” you gasp as you draw two fingers across your nipple and squeeze gently. Dieter only uses his mouth now on them, so you wet them with yours and return them to your swollen bud, slowly twisting and pulling. 

He’s watching you through the camera, eyes wide, breath sharp when you suck your fingers into your mouth. “Fuck, yeah, that’s right. Get them wet. What are you thinking about?”

“You. Your lips around my nipple, under my breast. Your teeth. They’re so heavy, Dieter.” 

His hips jerk under his hand, his fingers moving faster now. You can’t quite hear what he’s muttering, but you catch weak mumblings, “gonna feed our baby”, “yeah, your tits”, the baby” —

“Dieter, please–,” 

“Touch yourself with your fingers wet from your mouth. T-t-tell me what it feels like.”

With a relieved cry, you slide your hand down from your tits, over the swell of your belly, and in between your thighs. Wetness clings to the curls, to the curve of your ass, your body so ready to take him, and it locks up when you slip a finger inside.

“So wet. Warm. How many fingers can I put in?”

“One, but – can you already do two?”

You nod, the huff arching into a whine. “Yeah, baby. You have no idea how wet I am. I can slip in two with no resistance.”

“Jesus,” he pants and slows down, his hips rocking of their own accord. “You’ve got me so hard.” 

You curl your fingers inside of you, searching for that spot made and found and praised by him. Your folds plump and achy, you twist your wrist, scissor your fingers, but it’s not the same. It’s not the same as his three fingers plugging you up, readying you to take so much of him, it’s enough to ease the sharp ache for a bit. You moan, fucking yourself more. He hears it, sees it, and grunts. 

“You can come wherever you want, baby,” he murmurs, his own hand hesitant to match your speed. He tugs on his balls and his toes curl, his neck long and tense. “Fuck, I need your hands.”

“Me too,” you sob, real tears pricking the corners of your eyes. It feels good but it’s not the relief you need. It’s pathetic but you don’t want to stop. You can’t get in deep enough, even if you could get around your big belly. “Dieter, I can’t reach. It’s – I’m –,”

“Breathe, love, it’s okay.” His voice is soothing, calming. The same one he uses when you’re in labor and the sweet honey warmth of it sinks into your bones, easing the panic. You slow, gasping, tears pooling down your temple. Your orgasm is harsh, sunken in the dark, waiting for you to draw it out.

“What can you reach?”

“My clit.” 

“Then touch that. Can I see?”

You nod, angle the phone down as you rub that electric nub. 

“Oh, fuck, baby. I know it’s frustrating and I know it hurts, but you look so fucking good. So wet for me. Your pussy is perfect, pink, just how I like her.”

“Yeah?” you spin your fingers faster. That hot arousal returns steadily, melting back the resentment towards your own body the longer he praises. 

“Oh yeah.” You can hear the slap of skin on the other end of the phone and you can picture Dieter flat on his back jerking himself off to your pulsating cunt and you moan, loudly, tension evaporating from your body. “How do you feel?”

“Good. Tight. I just need a bit more.” 

“Me too. Let me see your face, pretty girl.” You turn the camera and gape at the sight on the screen. 

Precum drips out of his now-purple cock, his chest flushed and neck sweaty. He’s twirling the head around with his thumb at the pace you’ve set with your fingers against your clit. 

“Look at what you’ve done to me. You’re so fucking gorgeous. Can’t wait for you to be home so I can eat you out for hours.” 

“I want your cock in me, Dieter,” you gasp, furiously rubbing on your clit, sending wave after wave of pleasure coursing through you. Your cunt clenches in time with your thudding heartbeat. “You’re so thick. I wanna feel the stretch.”

“Oh, I’m gonna fuck you hard.” The confession is a low snarl, a promise made between the ridges of his teeth. He fucks his fist faster, the noise over his labored breathing obscene. “Gonna put your hands on the headboard, your pussy in my lap and I’m gonna fuck up into you until I fill you full again. Wanna make you pregnant twice.” 

Arousal floods your veins, your thighs a gooey mess. You toss your head back, back arching, and you moan as loud as you can. 

“Oh– shit, oh, oh, shit–,”

“You’re gonna leak all over my thighs and when you’re done coming so hard you can’t see straight, I’m gonna lick it up all off you, my wife. Mine. My baby. Mine. Fuck, you look so good full of me.”

He’s never this possessive, never angry that he can’t have you but he sounds livid. He fucks his fist, his hips bucking into nothing, his other hand squeezing his thigh so hard his knuckles go white. 

You circle your clit one more time and finally — your orgasm crests, your body locking up, your cunt gushing – and it leaves your mouth before you can stop it –

“Oh, Daddy–,”

You hear him gasp as if electrocuted, and you have to drop your phone to steady yourself as the weight of white-hot pleasure explodes across your body. You rock, breath gone from your lungs, mouth open in a silent scream, and everything slams back into you and you gasp, high and loud, every inch of your skin hot and trembling. You don’t realize you’re sweating until you feel it drip off your neck.  

All you can hear is Dieter panting from your phone amongst the covers, the sound muffled. Your eyes flutter as the warm waves languish, then curl, and finally, you sigh as the last waves drain out of your body. If you weren’t lying down you’re sure you’d be dizzy.

“Oh my god,” you mutter breathlessly to no one in particular.

“B-baby, you still there?”

You blindly feel around for your phone, arm so weak it’s trembling as you pull the camera towards your face

Dieter looks about as fucked out as you feel. Cock limp and still dribbling, his stomach and chest are covered in cum. He pushes his damp hair off his forehead, eyes wide and staring at the ceiling. 

“Holy shit, baby, that was …”

“Yeah,” you nod, swallowing your dry tongue, wishing again he was here so he could get you a glass of water. “I hope that wasn’t all of it because I really want you to say all of those things again tomorrow when you’re inside me.”

He groans and adjusts his limp cock. “You say that now but wait until Baby Bravo kicks you in the kidneys. You’ll be feeling a lot less generous towards this,” he gestures aimlessly to his naked body, “then.”

You chuckle. “Let’s just hope for the best. Besides,” you say, groaning a bit as you sit up to wipe the sweat off your neck with the robe, “I’m pretty sure I can have you eating out of the palm of my hand. Now that I know your secret . . . Daddy.” 

Dieter groans as you laugh. He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t be so surprised by now when you make me discover new kinks.” 

“Mhmm hmm.” 

He rolls his eyes as he gets up and picks the phone off the tripod. Holding the phone to his face, he wipes the cum off with his sweatpants before turning his attention back to you.

“How are you? Feel better?”

“Much better.” You stretch and lean back in the bed. If he was here, you’d probably be asking to eat you out, but at least the knife’s edge of desire has dulled. You can at least wait until nap time to jump your husband’s bones. 

“Good,” Dieter sighs, satisfied. “I’ll be there to pick you up from the airport tomorrow, okay?”

He always gets like this the nearer the due date comes, as if he can’t stand to see you lift a finger unnecessarily. You smile and nod, never wanting it to be any other way. 

“I’ll text you when I land.”

“Okay. Good night, my biggest love. I love you, so much.” 

“I love you too, Dieter.” Goddamn hormones, making you cry again. 

“Now lemme say goodbye to our little traveler.”

You wipe your eyes with your thumb as you tilt the phone to your swollen belly. 

“Good night, Baby Bravo. Can’t wait to have you around.”

And, at the sound of their father’s voice, they stir. Not kick or hurt. Just a tiny foot against your tight skin.

You are officially crying now. 

“They said hi, didn’t they?”

You’re nodding, crying, and he can’t see a damn thing. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “They said good night, Dad.”

He’s patient with you as you wipe your eyes, cheeks flushed again. 

“Baby, don’t cry, you’re breaking my heart.”

“You’re just a really good dad. And I’m so lucky,” you blubber. “This is it! I’m never leaving to go scouting again. I can’t take it.” 

“Mhmm. Let’s revisit that when you’re about two months postpartum and clawing at the walls.”

You laugh with him, your own sticky and goopy. “Fine.”

“Go to bed, love, and for the record, I’m the lucky one. Don’t forget that. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night.” You blow a kiss and he catches it. You roll your eyes. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

You stay like that for a bit, cradled by the pillows, and your phone on your chest, thinking about everything from Dieter to the next school picture day, to the next family vacation, and of course, the zillion things you have to get done with work before the baby comes — hopefully all from the home office.

She kicks. 

You smile, wondering how you and Zelle both just know it’s a girl. Dieter has his own suspicions, he says, but he’s saving them. Orion would probably be thrilled to have a dragon in the family. You snort, hand over the place where she put her little foot.

“I miss them too, sweetie. And once you’re here, we’ll outnumber those silly boys. Maybe we’ll have to get a dog. You’ll like dogs.”

She’s silent, maybe sleeping, maybe thinking about what the heck a dog is. You smile, turn off the lamp, and peel back the covers. The sheets are cool and soft.

You fall asleep, dreaming of little feet, and hands, and wedding rings.

[sebastianstanisahotmf]

a perfect winters day

Bucky Barnes x Reader

A/N This is a part of my 100 followers celebration. At this point I'm gonna stop apologising because my shitty time management issues and son make it hard for me to adhere to the time frames I have given to myself so I will post the fics when I have time to. (I love my son millions so I'm not blaming him for me posting so late but I'm just saying that I like to spend time with him which means it's hard to find time to write) I hope you understand. Also, likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated.

THIS IS NOT AN 18+ FIC BUT I STILL FEEL UNCOMFORTABLE WITH MINORS READING MY FICS SO PLEASE DNI IF YOU ARE A MINOR.

Summary You and Bucky have the perfect day in as it snows outside.

DO NOT REPOST ON ANY OTHER APPS/WEBSITES. THE ONLY PLACE THIS FIC IS ON IS TUMBLR.

Warnings Fluff, allusions to smut

“Wake up doll,” Bucky whispered into your ear, “It snowed last night.”

“Mm?” you slightly opened your eyes.

“It snowed doll!”

You sat up as soon as the words registered in your head,”Really!?” 

“Yeah doll, look,” Bucky wrapped your blanket around you and picked you up.

He walked over to the window in your bedroom and you gasped when you looked outside. Everywhere was covered in a sheet of pure white. The snow untouched, unbothered by anyone. The streets were empty, not a soul out there. It was like a winter wonderland especially since everything was so still it didn’t look real. 

“It’s so beautiful,” you gushed.

“Not as beautiful as you doll,” Bucky added, winking at you.

“You’re so romantic it’s almost disgusting,” you told him with a smile on your face.

“But you love it doll,” Bucky leaned in to kiss you. 

It was such a perfect moment, kissing the person you love the most while the world outside stood still, a beautiful landscape, the type you see in the movies and read in books. 

Bucky pulled back from the kiss with slightly swollen lips and a massive grin on his face, “I think we should make some hot chocolate and waffles.”

“I think thats a good idea babe.”

Bucky took the blanket off you and then took you into the bathroom. He put you down so you could brush your teeth while he did the same. 

Once you had done that, you walked into the kitchen to get started on the waffle batter as Bucky was making the hot chocolates. 

The way you both moved around the kitchen so gracefully and in sync made the scene seem rehearsed. The truth was that you and Bucky regularly made it a team effort to make breakfast so that neither of you feel like you have too many responsibilities. That’s how everything worked with you and Bucky; you both shared the workload in your shared apartment which not only made it easier, but allowed you both to feel equal. 

This may not have worked for other people but it worked for you and Bucky which is all that mattered. 

After the waffles and hot chocolates were made, you sat next to eachother at the dining table in your kitchen. Bucly had put every imaginable topping for waffles and hot chocolates on the table. 

“What do you want to do today?” Bucky asked, as he shoved an almost too big piece of waffle - loaded with every topping possible- in his mouth. 

You rolled your eyes and finished chewing the food you had in your mouth before responding, “I just want to stay in today, you know I like looking at the snow but going out in it is a different story.”

“I’m very aware doll, especially after our trip to Canada a few months ago,” Bucky chuckled at the memory of you slipping over. 

“You’re so sadistic Barnes,” you retorted.

“You didn’t moan about it last night, well you did, but not in that way,” Bucky smirked.

You picked up a strawberry and threw it at him.

“Hey, that’s not fair, I’m only telling the truth, Santa doesn’t come if you lie.”

“And you’re not gonna cum tonight if you keep teasin’ me,” you retaliated. 

“Is that a promise?” he questioned, raising an eyebrow.

You knew that Bucky would always be in charge in the bedroom, but it was fun to joke around. 

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

A few hours later, you and Bucky were cuddled up on the couch. He was laying with his head on your chest and the rest of his body was ontop of yours, acting like a weighted blanket. There was an actual blanket over the two of you and Home Alone was on the tv. 

This was the first christmas you and Bucky were spending together so you decided to introduce him to some of your favourite films especially since he was a few years behind on films.

Bucky let out a laugh which was a rare occurrence. You kissed him on the head and wrapped your arms around him tighter. 

“I love you so much baby,” you whispered.

“I love you too doll,” Bucky replied, pressing a kiss to your chest. 

This was perfect, you and Bucky cuddled up on the couch, watching a Christmas film and occasionally looking at the world outside.

If you want to see be tagged whenever I post a fic then click on the link.

If you want to see what I repost my other account is @sebastianstanisahotmf-reblogs

Taglist:@nicoline1998enilocin, @buckys-wintersoldier, @kenzs-world, @cutedisneygrl , @nekoannie-chan, @kandis-mom, @hisredheadedgoddess28, @booscherripop

[channelinglament]

Congrats on 100 followers! Request for your 100 follower special: Yandere!Alhaitham with a very ambitious Akademiya reader, and the prompt: "You just had to go poking your nose around, didn't you?"

Hey there! Tysm for requesting this, it was very fun to write!

Tw: isolation, murder, death, yandere, threats, knocking reader out, torture. Tell me if I missed anything :>

.

.

.

.

.

☆

Alhaitham. He is your Acting Grand Sage. He is a man endowed with extraordinary intelligence and talent.

He lives free — free from the searching eyes of ordinary people, anyway. But somehow, you keep finding him around you.

Could it be fate messing with you?

You still remember very clearly how you two met.

It was an another busy day in Akademiya. You were one of the best students here. You were always researching something. Always being seen in the library. Some even jokingly called you all knowing. You were very hard working, which was the reason you got to the top.

While searching for the book you needed, you heard footsteps coming from behind. It turned out to be your Acting Grand Sage. He asked you what book you needed. After helping you, he took another book and left. This very short conversation that happened, changed your life.

He would always stick somewhere nearby you. Alhaitham didn't seem to have many friends. Maybe the sage wanted to befriend you?

Whenever you two spoke, sometimes you would notice a small smile forming on his lips. One day you asked him why did he even became friends with you. He doesn't seem interested in a lot of people.

"I really like how ambitious you are. You always achieve the goal, no matter what. I find it.. nevermind"

It was very fun hanging around with him. One second you two sit in comfortable silence, the next moment he is having an..argument?..with Kaveh.

But..something seemed off. The way his eyes turned darker whenever your friends..or just anyone would approach. Though, they became even darker when it were your friends. How strange.

And they also seemed more distant now. Usually you all would hang out when you all were free. But now all your time was occupied with green hatstand with tits. You acting grand sage - Alhaitham.

You tried getting him into your friend group, but it didn't go as planned. The awkward tension was so thick, that you could be able to cut it with a knife.

It's alright, you thought. Nothing bad could happen if you go with them instead of the grand sage. He is busy, you are free. He would understand.

Why does it seem like your friend group is avoiding you..? Also.. some of them gone missing. When you interrogated with Alhaitham, he said that they quit. Left back to where they used to live. To how they used to live.

Seemed reasonable, as being a student in Akademiya wasn't easy. But why didn't they tell you about it.. something is wrong. You started having some suspicions about your friend. Ever since you've met him, you were growing distant from the people you hold dear.

So you started investigating.

And that's how, you got here. In this terrible situation.

You decided to follow Alhaitham. To see where would he go and what would he do. Just to be sure he's not at fault for your friends' s disappearance.

For aranara knows how long you were following him, into the deep parts of the forest. It was night already for Archons sake! What is he doing here?

And then, you saw them. Your friends.

Or more like what was left of them. You identified them because of their..torn clothes and hurt faces. Some where still alive, while others weren't. Why did Alhaitham-

"You just had to go poking your nose around, didn't you?"

You turned your face towards your...acting grand sage.

He was not your friend anymore.

He is a murderer.

"Why..?" - you mustered the courage to ask. The hatstand chuckled.

"WHY?!"

You had raised your voice. Your friends pleading you to run away with their eyes.

"It had to be done."

It was all you heard before something hit your head and dark abyss had enveloped your vision.

[richesthermit]

Temporary pinned post! Find info about me here

┈ Richesthermit's 100+ followers event! header art by applestruda on tumblr :) Learn more about this under the cut!

I'm more than happy to announce that we hit 100 followers! You're probably asking "What is this event?" and I'm here to tell you! This event will be a raffle! :) In order to enter you have to reblog this post and put in the tags if you're participating on not! With reblogging, you get one entry into the raffle, but there will be ways to get more than one entry! (You can learn how to in a bit) The deadline is March 24 at 12 pm EST! Any entries after this date will not be accepted into the raffle :) Any and all entries into the raffle will be put on a wheel that will be spun a total of 3 times to determine top three winners!

"What will the winners win?" I'm so glad you asked! ┈ First place will win a set of 3 layouts of their choosing , a set of 6 pfps and 4 other edits of their choosing! (The 4 other edits can all be the same thing or be 4 different things) ┈ Second place will win one of the first place prizes and 3 other edits of their choosing! ┈ Third place will win one of the first place prizes and 2 other edits of their choosing!

"How do I gain more entries into the raffle?" You can do one or multiple of these things (only once per thing!) You can send each thing in all one ask or in separate asks :)

- Send a screenshot of mumbo jumbo in my ask box - Clicking to help palestine and sending a screenshot to prove that you have in my ask box! (Example here) - Send a fun / generally silly looking image of Aikyan in my ask box - Send a funfact about Hermitcraft or the Life Series that most people wouldn't know in my ask box

Doing each one of these leads to one entry per each one! If you do all of these plus reblogging, you can gain a total of 5 entries in the raffle which leads to a higher chance of winning :)

I hope this all makes sense and you're free to send any questions about it in my ask box! :) Hope you all have fun and enjoy this event and thank you all for 100 followers!

[urbanflorals]

Emma's 100 follower event!

I'd like to start with thanking all my lovely followers and moots. I've literally been on Tumblr for like a month - the fact that you got me to over 100 in that time is crazy to me. You guys are the reason I'm doing this so thank you! I love you all so much <3

intro post is here :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Paris 🥂 - i'll make a moodboard off of you/your blog.

Call it what you want 🖤 - I'll tell you a song/album that makes me think of you

Feels like 🍒 - I'll make a moodboard of anything you like

Cornelia Street 🎀 - I'll write you a personalised letter [moots only]

the bottom 🌠 - I'll assign you a fictional character :)

Love story 📜 - I'll write a short story with characters of your choice [they have to be apart of my fandoms/books I like in my intro post]

Stay 🕰️ - I'll make a playlist for you (you can tell me what music you like/ artists and things like that.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

✧ This event will end on the 10th of Jan 2024! (i've cut it short cause i'm over halfway to 200 already)

✧ Please keep all requests in the asks other wise it'll get wayy to messy.

✧ you can ask for as many as you want <3

✧ all responses are going to be under the tag #emma's 100 event

✧ again thanks for 100 followers my loves <33

[jaehunnyy]

I know I love you

Genre: friends-to-lovers!au, fake-dating!au, angsty but with a happy ending, fluff (in the end)

Word count: 1k

Pairing: fake-boyfriend!Beomgyu x fem!reader

Requested by: anon (song: 0X1=LOVESONG - TXT)

Warnings: one kiss, usage of pet names (angel), a bit of a messed up situation, mentions of clubbing, mentions of Beomgyu being drunk (though he is sober enough), possible grammar mistakes

A/N: nonnie, im sorry it took so long to write this, but i am happy i got to finish it now. i changed the meaning of the lyrics a bit and i used them in different situations, so I hope you don't mind that too much. thank you! ✨️

__________________________________ ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

The flashing lights and the loud music defining the club Beomgyu was in were nothing new for the boy. The reason why he kept ending there? Very familiar as well. He often wondered what made him accept fake dating you, because instead of becoming closer, he felt like you were distancing more with every passing day. And still, it was his mistake, because he accepted the deal when you offered to help him with making the girl he loved jealous—not realising that you were supposed to make yourself jealous in this case. And once again, the memories have started to kick in.

"Hey, Gyu!" you shouted, gently nudging his shoulder: "I heard you're in love, hmmm?"

His eyes widened at your question, and the panic made his vision blurry. There was no way you found out, was it?

"Uhm, well, you see—"

"I can help you with that, Gyu! I know you are way too shy to confess, so I have a plan for that. Let's fake date!"

"I don't want to use you for that… you are much more than a rebound for me, Y/N…"

“I offered to do that, and I will be here for you, always. Let's do that, Gyu. Please, use me like a drug."

Let's fake date. Please, use me like a drug. He would have never imagined that he would be in such a situation, but if he said no, you would keep on asking questions, and he would expose himself; so he chose to say yes.

Already tired of the place he spent his last hour in and the aching memory of his mistake, he took his leather jacket and started walking slowly to your house, because even with his foggy mind, he knew you'd always let him in. You were his fake girlfriend, after all. He also took advantage of the silence on the street, engulfed by the pressure of his thoughts, until he reached your welcoming house. One knock, and you were already in front of him, the same, worried look plastered on your face.

"Did you get drunk again…?" you sighed, before letting him come inside.

"No, 'm not drunk," he said, an innocent smile stretching his lips softly: "just missed you."

You gave him a bitter smile, because in the end, you were not the girl he loved, (or so you thought).

"Is this part of our deal?"

"Missing you? No, Y/N, 'm honest with youuuu!" he laughed, clinging into you like a little kid.

You had enough of this painful pretending.

"Gyu… let's end this."

Was he not sober enough, so that he started to hear things? There's no way you would end things like this, right? Did he do something wrong?

"What? What about the girl I like?"

"You don't need me to pull her, Beomgyu. Once you do, you will be happy, and I will keep on hurting myself. It's over."

He felt the need to laugh, you couldn't be serious. It was toxic, but he was addicted.

"Are you saying that I'm the one hurting you, when you did that to yourself?" he asked, hands shaking in anger. Why did you blame him?

"Yes." you simply stated, arms crossed in front of your chest.

"Then why the fuck did you offer to help me one month ago?"

"Because I love you, Gyu. And I would rather have you as my fake boyfriend than not having you at all, but it has become an all or nothing situation, and I want all of you."

You did all of this—because you loved him too? All this messed up situation, for him to find out that you were crushing on each other?

"Y/N… you were the girl I liked. When you found out that I have a crush, I panicked and… I didn't want to give myself away, so I chose to say yes to your plan, even though it made no sense."

You looked at him with glossy eyes, giving up and squishing him into a big hug. There was no point in fighting more, the situation was already messed up. You were convinced he wouldn't remember any of this in the morning, but you wanted to use this opportunity, just this time.

"Gyu, look at me. If you remember this in the morning, kiss me. If not, let's both forget about this."

Even though he was sober enough to think rationally, he played your game once again.

"Deal."

The next morning came with such small steps, that you felt trapped in a never ending loop. Since you didn't have a lot of space in your one-person apartment, you had no choice but to let Beomgyu sleep next to you, his hands holding you close to him all night. You opened your eyes and saw him already looking at you, lips curling in happiness at the sight of you.

"Morning, Y/N!" he cheerfully said, stroking your back softly.

"Morning, Gyu. How do you feel?"

"Amazing, actually. What about you?"

"I'm… alright…" you whispered, trying to understand why he didn't act sick after his drunk state the other day; though, the boy had something else in mind.

He gently cupped your cheek with his hands, pressing his soft lips on yours. The kiss took you off guard, but you didn't lose any more time and kissed him back, full of feelings and love. You felt him smile, pressing his forehead on yours and looking at you softly.

"Say you love me, Y/N. That's all I want to hear right now. Say you love me till the end of the world."

"I love you, Gyu. I love you, and I'm so happy you remembered."

"I love you too, angel, I always did." he said, then pressed a sweet kiss on your cheek.

In the end, everything turned out to be worth it, as you ended up having your own happy ending story, next to the boy you've adored more than anything.

[ataraxiaspainting]

hiiii i have a request! yan chrollo and how he would treat darling during valentines day?

he gets a +10 buff of being creepy, essentially. turns it up to eleven, and this behavior does not go away until at least february 21st. that is if you're lucky. if you're not just pray for march 1st or whatever to come around as soon as possible.

Yan Chrollo + Valentine’s Day.

How Chrollo acts, as always, depends on you and your current relationship, be it with him or with other people. Do you know of his existence yet? Is his stalking still in its earlier stages? Are you interested in anyone romantically, and plan to confess to them on this day?

To Chrollo, you are the direct cause of all of his actions. He knows you don’t mean it because most likely you either don’t know he is always following you or you think that he is simply a good friend to you. The latter is much rarer though, because as much as Chrollo knows how to manipulate others, he’ll show his true intentions around you to keep you on edge, be it when you are at home cooking a meal for your family and he has been invited from said family, or when you are walking home from the bar and he just so happens to be there when you inevitably slip because you are drunk. He may or may not have put something in your drink too if that is the case. He won’t tell you that though until you are so vulnerable, that he snatches you up, either for just the night or what is intended to be the rest of your life. He doesn't care if this is seen as wrong by the rest of the world. He is a thief. His job is to steal away treasures. Why should his intentions with you be any different? If you tell him that this is wrong, the same response will occur, albeit with a few more mind games. Perhaps it is best not to poke the bear, even when it has already had its fill.

If you haven't been taken by him yet, be prepared for one of two scenarios to unfold. Firstly, he may discreetly deliver an assortment of gifts and an anonymous letter to your mailbox, or perhaps even leave them on your kitchen table (if he's feeling particularly unsettling). Alternatively, if you're open to dating, he may attempt to arrange a blind date with you. He would enlist Shalnark's assistance to ensure that he becomes your chosen companion for the evening. However, it's important to note that the likelihood of a blind date is rather slim, as it ultimately depends on your preferences. Regardless of your plans for the night, Chrollo has no qualms about sending you an anonymous letter and gifts. It matters little if you're alone, confessing your feelings to someone else, or already on a date with your partner.

Resting on your table lies a crimson envelope. Its sight prompts your eyes to widen, expanding to the size of saucers. However, its presence pales in comparison to the other objects adorning the tabletop. A plush teddy bear, two grand bottles of opulent wine, a duo of boxes containing your favorite foods, and an arrangement of roses nestled in a glass vase, a purchase you know was not made by your hand. These roses, in hues of ivory and peach, exhibit not a trace of withering or decay. The person who broke them in to put them in here was extremely careful with them, along with the other gifts.

Despite the icy tremors in your hands, you pay no mind to the numbing sensation. With cautious precision, you proceed to unseal the envelope, taking care to avoid tearing it. You find yourself in a situation where no one believes you anymore. You no longer share the details about your stalker with anyone. Unfortunately, they always seem to vanish without a trace or become the center of attention in the news. And sometimes, to your utter dismay, both things happen simultaneously.

You don’t scream either, anymore. That’s probably what your stalker wants. Whoever they are. You don’t know anything about them, aside from the fact that they are always watching you. You are always right under their thumb, one of the only houses you could afford, when paired up with the traveling fees, that is far away burning to the ground before you could pay it was sure evidence of that.

As you begin to peruse the letter, a sense of dismay washes over you, realizing how distant you have strayed from prioritizing your well-being.

“Dearly beloved…”

If, by chance, he has already whisked you away, a task that requires minimal effort on his part, Valentine's Day will bear a resemblance to this scenario. The card and an abundance of lavish presents will still grace the kitchen table, but at least their origin will be known to you. Chrollo promises you a "date", provided you conduct yourself properly today. As always, the destination is up to you, or so he feigns. Deep down, he already has the “date” planned. It would be wise to hope he doesn't subject you to anything too dreadful on this day.

[chronically-ghosted]

can you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills?

rating: T (this is the tamest thing I’ve written in years)

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 8K

summary: a year into secretly dating, you are overwhelmed by your feelings for Dieter Bravo, confident and resigned to the fact that he doesn’t feel the same way. But on Oscar’s night, drunk on sparkling wine and a terrific win, Dieter gives you a reason to doubt your fears. 

warnings/tags: age gap, self-aggrandizing rumination on our public vs private personas, a stupid amount of kissing, angst but soft angst, angst that is resolved, this is very different from anything i’ve done recently, and there’s no smut? just kisses? What have you become Taylor? one very very very soft Dieter, waxing shamelessly poetic about being in love and being loved by Dieter Bravo 

a/n: this comes from the same request by two of my LOVELY followers ( @tvversionperson and @bitchwitch1981) from my 100 followers event: “I’m not drunk. Can a drunk person do this?” “You’re not doing anything.” “But… I sent you my love. Did you… did you not get it?” with Dieter Bravo. this is so wildly different from anything i've done before, i'm flinging this into the internet like a goddamn trapshooter of emotional angst

shout out to @iamdesibell for the visuals of Dieter at the party. She spoils me with all of her incredible Dieter artwork.

🤍Masterlist

Every artist knows it's about the looks. The aesthetics of it all, the internet’s new favorite buzzword. Increasingly too often, the merit of the artwork is equated to the moral merit of the artist; it’s not so much about selling the image you create, it’s about selling the image of yourself. Does the artist fit into the image of what the masses imagine when they hear what the artist offers? Can the artist balance both the expectations and provide something new? When is the right time to break the mold, and be different, or when is it best to follow the crowd? Keep your head down and make more content than art. When does the aesthetics of a thing matter more than the thing itself?

For Oscar’s night, often there is nothing more important than the look of things. The elegance. The allure but approachability of the stars. Beautiful but obtainable. Handsome but effortless. But beneath all the veneer, all the lights, and gold and glitz, there is a yearning, an animalistic hunger, for a quite literal shiny object waved in their faces to clamor and push and shove for. The beauty is a mask that covers fragility and fear and anticipation – and that mask must remain firmly in place, no matter the outcome. Remember, they’re watching, always watching, and you cannot want a thing too much, lest you become conceited or conniving. You cannot love in a way that scares them.

And sometimes, you think you love him in a way that scares yourself.

His warm palm grips yours over your knee. He, along with the other nominees, wait patiently as the names are read allowed from the gilded stage. His face, a mask – of curiosity, of wonder – but only you, perhaps because you are so close to him, can see the fraught want in his eyes. You know how much he wants this, how much you want this for him. He wants it so much he’s trembling. Microscopically. Barely at all, barely a flinch of genuine human emotion, it makes you sick. Because Dieter, the Dieter you’ve come to know in the past year, is so wonderfully unpolished, such a sterling testament to the beauty in the raw, it makes a spot behind your sternum ache to watch him hold himself back. 

You want to give him a smile of encouragement, to kiss his knuckles and soothe his hammering pulse with your thumb, but you can’t. You can’t even look at him, any movement immediately flagged by the cameras. Always watching.

But behind the rows of seats, they can’t see your clasped hands. Can’t see his tapping foot. They can’t see how much he wants, how much he loves. As the names are read aloud for the category of Best Actor, you lift your thumbnail to the meat of his palm, between his own thumb and index finger. Gently, softly, quietly, so as not to startle the molecules of air around you, you draw a heart in his skin. 

But by his rigid posture, you’re not sure he registers it. You can’t tell if he knows you’re there at all. 

It began a year ago. 

After a truly spectacular break up that left you bereft and aimless, you decided to quit. Quit it all. Quit and start over doing the one thing you actually had passion for: screenwriting. Was it risky and dumb as hell at your age? Absolutely. But it didn’t matter if you never ended up writing for a big Hollywood film, you told yourself, as long as you were writing, that’s all that mattered. 

So you quit writing articles about car insurance, packed up everything, and moved to the City of Angels. 

Two years later, you were still earning your dues. Still working from the bottom of the barrel up, climbing through muck and verbal abuse and emotional exploitation and the very dredges of the industry. 

You tried to focus on your craft, on getting more than just getting coffee for the actual writers, but after multiple days spending nineteen hours on your feet, the capacity to be creative so rarely comes, your brain often sizzled and fried like the back end of a janky, unreliable toaster. The production company you worked for had just purchased the rights to a popular novelist’s book for a film adaptation. The party you were at was more of a “pat yourself on the back” sort of thing for the director and novelist to rub elbows while surrounded by beautiful people. Attending mind-numbing parties for the sake of building connections was one thing. You could actually have fun when you wanted, but this? This self-indulgent, ego-driven, flattery bullshit, when all you wanted to do was sleep?

You watch as Eliot Baker, friend of the director and whose house is currently being trashed by a bunch of dangerously drunk and high animals, steps up onto his kitchen table. His pupils nearly dilated to the size of quarters, he holds up a baggy of white powder.

“Anyone interested in Colombia’s finest, please join me in the bedroom. Beautiful women, please stay.” 

The three shots you had done earlier had done nothing to dull your irritation, now amplified by the grating cheer that goes up from the crowd. Coke rarely puts you in a better mood, but at least it’s better than sulking by the stairs. Eliot leaps off the table and leads a gaggle of giggling women, and men with their hands all over their sparkly asses, down the hall and you try not to roll your eyes, your feet all but dragging beneath you. 

Then someone catches you by the elbow.

And you wonder how a homeless man got past security. 

A comically large green beanie on his head, a blindly yellow hood zipped up over what perhaps had been a white t-shirt – you are immediately arrested by his dark, soft eyes. Thick, furrowed brow. He hasn’t let go of your elbow. 

“That guy is a fucker,” he tells you with vehemence. 

“What?” He could have asked you your name and you would have said the exact same thing.

“Baker,” he sneers over your shoulder at the small crowd tumbling through the open door, Eliot’s too blue eyes watching like a farmer counts cattle to the slaughterhouse. “He laces his shit. Makes you too fucked up. He’s the kind of evil fucker who roofies drinks.”

The stranger looks at you, the twist of rage around his mouth fading, eyes softening again, as if he is worried about you.

“Don’t go in there,” he says. 

His warm hand is still around your elbow. 

“Okay,” you say because you haven’t come across anyone this earnest, maybe in your entire life, and certainly not since moving to LA. 

He blinks, as if surprised, and slowly withdraws his hand. You stare at each other for perhaps too long before he jerks his thumb over his shoulder.

“Wanna smoke some weed?”

The cool night air of LA always surprises you. It’s never cold, no, but the chill is noticeable, tangible, always right at the back of your neck when you least expect it. You stifle the urge to shiver as the man slides the glass door behind him, immediately deafening the party inside. You hadn’t realized it had been so loud until there is blissful silence, the sound of blood rushing in your ears replacing the trance music and the dull hum of overlapping voices. 

The man straight off the set of The Big Lebowski unhurriedly digs around in the pocket of that obnoxious hoodie for a bit, as if he could lose an item in that small pouch. 

He finds what he’s looking for with a grin on his face, and when he brings both the lighter and blunt to his lips, you realize his left arm is in a cast. 

He sees you eye it, managing to light and hit the blunt with one hand before pocketing the lighter and offering the smoke to you. The browns in his eyes are overcome by the darkness surrounding you on the back porch overlooking the valley below, the skyline of Los Angeles winking in the far distance. 

You notice something, not writing or words on his cast, more like a dark blot, but you don’t ask him about it. Most people in this business you’ve found are only on for the cameras and when it comes to personal, quiet moments, the less personable they have to be the better. You feel like you’re already pressing your luck by getting a few free hits off this guy so you wait your turn, ready to be as silent as he wants it to be.

Which apparently isn’t very much at all.

“How’d you end up here?” He asks with genuine interest and just a touch of weariness. 

You shrug as you take the blunt from him again. “My boss is here to schmooze his new writer. As his assistant, I think I’m contractually obligated to be around him more than his own shadow.”

“You’re a PA?” He asks, voice strained and full of smoke, before he puffs out the side of his mouth. A considerate smoker, then. 

“No,” you shake your head. “I’m whatever is lower than a PA. I think an actual bottom-feeder in a fish tank has more power than me.” 

“So you’re new to the scene?” 

You scowl, one arm tucked around your waist, the other tapping on your thigh. “Yeah, if two years is still new.” 

He frowns. “What are you trying to break into?” 

His fingertips brush yours over the next exchange and maybe it’s the earnest look in his eyes, or the bizarre fact that he actually smells good despite looking like he’d raided a garbage can, or maybe it’s the weed finally hitting, but you are honest with this complete stranger.

“I wanna be a screenwriter.” 

Maybe it’s the drugs finally hitting him too, but the glossy shine to his eyes doesn’t seem to be from boredom as you explain to him the past few years of your life, starting from the breakup in Boston to getting a very specific brand of q-tips from a drugstore on the other side of town for your boss at midnight. 

“I know I have to pay my dues, and I don’t mind that, but I just want to do something that matters, you know?” The unexpected chill of the night air curls around your neck as he listens intently to your uninterrupted ramble for ten minutes. “I don’t even care about big movies, or the awards, I want to write something that touches just one person. Give them something to think about for years to come. Comforts or encourages them to do the thing they’re scared of doing.” You feel heat climb up your ears as he watches as though you’re the most fascinating thing in the world. “It’s silly. It’s just a job, and I know I should treat it like that . . .”

You trail off, waiting for him to admonish you, but instead he grins. A smile that widens his whole face. On someone else it might look condescending, but he’s grinning wildly as he slides the joint back into his mouth with two fingers and leans back on his heels.

“So you’re a little dreamer, huh?” That faint blush now beats a harsh red. Fuck, you knew you sounded like an idiot – always opening up too soon and too fast to strangers who don’t really give a fuck. You were just supposed to have a conversation with this nice, albeit weird guy and go on your way and – 

He cocks his head as he looks at you, takes in your beet-red ears and cheeks and that smile falters.

“You know that’s not a bad thing, right? The world needs more dreamers. People, who despite all the bullshit, continue to believe they can be happy.”

“You could also call that being delusional,” you mutter as you take the halfway-spent joint from him when he offers. 

One of those thick eyebrows jerks as though thinking of a funny joke. He shrugs, his mouth twisting down in a disbelieving smirk. “Personally, I like to call it whimsy.” 

Whimsy? Who talks like that?

You fight a giggle and find him looking at you again, that smile smoothed out and warm again. One glance and you snort loudly, then bust out laughing. 

Those magnanimous eyes glitter as he watches you laugh yourself silly. 

“Child-like, wondrous whimsy,” he teases and you laugh harder as though he tickled you. Another snort explodes out of you and you clap your hand over your mouth, finally hearing the noises you’re making and mortified beyond reason. You glance over your shoulder, worried someone else might have heard your donkey laugh. In fact, you wish anyone other than the gorgeous man standing next to you had heard it. 

But if he finds it unpolished or annoying, he doesn’t show it. He just rolls on his heels, grinning and looking overly pleased with himself. When the giggles subside, you bite your lip at him.

“Can I ask you something?” 

“Fire away, Pistol Pete.” 

“How’d you break your arm?” 

He looks down at it as he forgot it was there.

“Uh, it’s a long story.”

He finally pulls it out of the sleeve of his jacket. Your mouth drops.

You can’t even tell what medium had been used, either paint or sharpie or something else entirely, but the cast is a mosaic of some of the most gorgeous artwork you’d ever seen. Birds in gold and blue hues, flowers and leaves in stunningly rendered detail, the curves of anonymous noses and lips and teeth and earlobes – all wound together in collage by someone with an eye for detail and a precious reverence for the mundane. 

But for all the artwork, designs you fully believe should be in a museum, you realize no one has signed it. Maybe only twelve year olds sign each other’s casts, you think harshly to yourself. Grow up.

But still, the sight makes you a little sad. 

“Did you do these?” You ask quietly.

He nods, turning his arm to give you a better look, as if eager for your approval. You think you see the horns of Goya’s El Gran Cabrón before he pulls his arm back. 

The man hasn’t answered your original question, watching your face for every microexpression. Finally, you do glance up and he has his bottom lip in teeth, as though preparing to be scolded. 

At that moment, you want nothing more than to kiss those plush lips. You swallow, feeling rather lighted-headed and capable of making terrible decisions, so you take a clear step back. 

“I got daydrunk and fell in my pool wrong.”

You frown at him. “That’s not a very long story.”

He drops your gaze, suddenly bashful, and shakes his sleeve back over his cast. “Yeah, well, I couldn’t come up with a better story that makes me look really cool, or makes you laugh, so I went with the lame truth.”

You don’t remark that it sounds like he wanted to impress you so you go for the easy alternative.

“Why would I laugh at you?” 

He flops his arms in half-shrug. “I don’t want you to laugh at me. I just want you to laugh. I like your laugh.” 

How does someone who wears their heart so openly on their sleeve survive in a place like this? You want him to swallow you down so you can count the rings in his stomach, learn his history like oak trees. 

“Who are you?” You blurt out, your mouth full of cotton and brain somewhat disconnected from your brain stem. 

At that, he laughs. “Gimme your number and you’ll find out.” 

His smile elongates the longer you stare at him. “It’s not a line. I mean, it is, but not like that, if you don’t want it to be. This fucking industry is built on who you know and I know a couple of people to know. You can call me if you have any questions or need a reference.” 

The whiplash between flirty tease and professional contact is jarring. Your fingers shaking from shock, you take your phone out of your pocket and hand it to him. 

He taps away, bobbing his head to some tune only he can hear, before lifting it up to his face and snapping a selfie – tongue out and eye squinting into the flash. 

He tosses your phone back and you learn his name for the first time. 

The shock wears off immediately and you roll your eyes.

“Okay, my turn.” 

He digs into his back pocket and slides a bright pink 2007 motorola flip-phone into your outstretched hand. 

Full – chock full, in fact – of surprises. 

“I’m not gonna get tracked,” he says seriously, eyes narrowed. “You really should think about giving up your iPhone. All kinds of bad vibes.”

You eagerly look forward to him explaining the Big Foot Conspiracy and his theories about the magic silver bullet. 

It takes you a second to type out your name with the multiple buttons, some old sense memory from seventh grade coming back like a grumpy, displeased ghost, but finally, you snap the phone together and toss it back to him.

With the nub of the smoking joint poking out of his mouth, he frowns when he looks at the phone screen. 

“Dolly Parton?”

You pluck the joint out of his mouth, a surge of playful confidence keeping your eyes locked on his. You nod. “Since we’re doing the whole fake name thing . . .”

You want to wink, with your hand on your hip, so clever to have figured out his little game, but when he continues to frown, that rush of bravery fizzles out.

“But the name I put in your phone is actually my name?”

You chuckle, surprised and confused he’s still committing to the bit, a little frustrated at this point because you are actually starting to like this guy and . . .

Unless . . .

“You’re actually Dieter Bravo? The actor? Three-time Emmy nominated actor Dieter Bravo?” 

He loops his finger through one of the free-roaming curls from under the beanie and twists it. “That’s what it says on my underwear . . . when I remember to wear it.” 

The blush on your face now scalding, you dart across the space between you and him and snatch his phone back. You can literally feel the shameful heat in your spine, your lower back, as you delete Dolly’s name and frantically type in your own. 

“I’m so, so, sorry. I was just trying to be funny. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you but it’s dark and, um, you don’t look like I thought you would and I-I had no idea – I’m so sorry –,”

“Girlie, take a breath,” he chuckles and strokes your fingers as they tremble over the keypad. “I’ve never seen someone so stressed out after smoking half a joint before.” 

You’ve gone stock still as he bleeds the panic out of you with just his touch. You watch as his warm hand, dwarfing yours in size, slowly moves up to your wrist, your pulse point. His thumb presses into the vein and gently rubs. You can’t help the sigh that eases out of your throat as all the tension in your arm collapses into that one focal point, that one place he presses against you. You inhale, not realizing you had stopped breathing for a second and he releases gently, the ache in your body left over from the rigidity gone. 

A brief dark haze passes over his eyes when you sigh, but gives you space easy enough when you settle. 

He takes the phone out of your limp hands and reads what you’ve typed out.

“Cute name. But I think I’m still gonna call you Dolly.”

Humor is your gut instinct. Defuse a situation or calm your nerves, sometimes the best you can do is crack a (often poorly timed) joke. You feel all fluttery inside, partially because you’d been talking to Dieter “I know people who know people” Bravo all night and partially because you’re about 86% sure he’d been flirting with you. And so, without thinking, you say:

“Because of my massive tits, right?”

His eyes flit up from his phone screen to, presumably, your tits. Which are very much not Dolly-Parton-comparable. 

But he grins. He actually giggles, pressing the back of the hand holding his phone against his lips as if trying to hide his smirk.

“Yeah, that’s definitely it.” 

It is the kind of laugh that you know he’s laughing with you and not at you and he’s still staring when his laughter subsides. 

He is still staring at your tits.

Just as your face flushes what feels like the hundredth time tonight, he glances up at you. He offers you the last puff, you shake your head, so he sucks in down before flicking the nub over the railing of the patio. His hands sit heavy in his front pocket, the frown on his face contemplative, eyes searching the horizon.

“I think you’re going to text me . . . on a Tuesday,” he says, like he’s divining portents from the shapes of the clouds. 

You swallow, trying to purge yourself of this whiplash embarrassment, but you can’t quite decide what exactly to make of this man or this conversation. “What makes you say that?”

His smile is so genuine it rattles something inside you. “It’s my favorite day of the week.” 

This feels too good, too real, too intense, too fast. It was a quiet, but familiar story passed around in writer’s rooms or on the back lots of sets: an older man seduces a young girl, promising the world, and then offering nothing once he had gotten what he wanted. 

You beg your heartbeat to slow down. 

But Dieter Bravo doesn’t seem capable of that, not with his honesty, his open heart, but then again none of them ever do. 

That’s the whole point. 

“So, um, I should go. My boss is probably out back, breaking things, pissed off because I’m not behind him with a fresh macchiato.” Your phone feels absurd in your hands, as if it now carries something vital inside of it. “But, uh, thank you – for everything. The smoke, the advice, listening to me ramble endlessly –,”

“You weren’t rambling,” he says, arms crossed and finger tugging at an errant curl again. “You were talking about what makes you happy and I was listening. I like listening to you.”

You wanted to believe him. You really did. 

“I’ll call you sometime, okay?”

He nods, raising a hand in a wave, but as you turn away, something final, the last piece of the puzzle, pops into your brain.

“Why me?”

Dieter looks at you, big brown eyes confused like a puppy whom you scolded for chewing on your shoe. 

“What do you mean?”

“There’s gotta be at least fifty people here. Why did you stop me from going into Eliot’s room? 

Dieter shrugs, that easy smile returning. “You looked like the only other person who didn’t want to be here. And you’re really pretty,” he adds casually and your heart launches itself into your throat. “I’ve got a thing for really pretty girls. Gets me into a lot of trouble.”

There comes that heat, that flare in his gaze that makes you wonder how someone like him fucks, all proof necessary that he has a working cock, and he’s not some mystical, Willy-Wonka-esque Ken doll. 

It’s a look that makes you wonder if he wants his cock in you. 

“Good night, Dieter.”

“Night, Dolly.” 

Weeks passed and immediately you were so drowned in work, Dieter Bravo occasionally slipped your mind, falling back on your list of things to do when a deadline was approaching.

But when a contract for a position in a new writer’s room passes over your desk, you pause, and immediately think of him. The offer is unbelievable. More money than you thought possible working as an underling. The channel set to produce was the real deal, likely to order more seasons if the first went well. 

“Saw your writing,” your boss told you by way of explaining your dreams falling directly into your lap. “Good work. I sent some of it off, and the studio came back with this. Don’t take too long signing the dotted line, okay?” 

You nod, dumb-founded as he walks off, and you glance back at the contract.

And, despite your almost desperate elation, something felt off. But you didn’t know enough about the industry to confidently say if this is a bad deal or not. 

So, with a glance down the hall, you call the only person you know who would.

He is immediately livid. Not that you haven’t called, of course, but that someone has clearly tried to take advantage of you. 

“Do not take that deal. That corporate bullshit means they’ll own your IP for years to come. I can’t believe they’d do that to you. Stay right there and whatever you do, do not sign that. I’m calling someone at the studios.”

“Yeah. Uh, okay, Dieter, I won’t,” you murmur, half-expecting your hand to burn if you picked the contract up again. “But, um, thank you, for being honest with me. It felt weird, but I didn’t want to pass up an opportunity and I was freaking out that this was the only one I was gonna get but I didn’t want to be rash,so I, um, . . .”

You trail off, the sudden silence on the other line only making your panic and shame more pronounced. You cringe inwardly – Dieter Bravo had better fucking things to do than console a baby screenwriter out of her first mistake – and Jesus, if there was ever a chance he was going to sleep with you, it’s long gone now – it must be, no one willingly sleeps with someone so goddamn gullible.

“Dolly?” His voice is quiet, but with a certain edge that makes you picture that implish little smirk. “Do you know what day it is?” 

“No?”

“It’s Tuesday.” 

That phone call turned into a new job with a female-led production team, thank yous over drinks, late-night dinners at obscure and dark Chinese food restaurants, movie nights at your shamefully small apartment, and then . . . a kiss.

Which led to all the rest. 

A year later and you’re so in love with Dieter Bravo, you crank up Beyonce’s Countdown and belt it from the top of your lungs every time you hear it on the radio. 

There’s a new irritant, a new agitation that can only be soothed by him. He’s remade you, changed you, reformed your very being to be missing a piece when he’s not around. He’s made space for him inside you, there was no life – not a real one, not a happy one – not before him and there won’t be anyone or anything after him. No one else fits with you anymore. Ever again. 

Your blood runs hot over the ridges of his fingerprints, stamped deep on your soul and your bones.

Trouble is, he’ll never know.

“And the award for Best Actor goes to . . .”

His grip is almost painful and you return it with everything you can, your jaw drawn tight.

The pause feels like it lasts forever.

You hear his name and you think for a second you’ve blacked out, that you’ve somehow missed the moment, or you’ve somehow slipped into a pungently real dream. 

And the crowd erupts.

The spotlight finds him in the crowd and you’re being pulled into his chest. 

The cologne he wears costs more than your car payment but the instant you’re crushed up into his silken shirt, it’s him. Beneath all the layers, beneath the veneer, the man with the green beanie and fervent yellow jacket is still there. Somewhere. You love them both.

“You did it, darling, you did it,” you whisper into his ear and that’s all you can say before you know you have to tear yourself back, because every second you linger on him, the harder it becomes to quell this rising tide inside you that increasingly tastes like salt water whenever he’s around. It’s become so obvious his name resides in the cup of your mouth. 

But when you do pull out of his embrace, in the ringing shout of the crowd, the sparkle of the spotlight, his hand lingers on your elbow, and in a space of a heartbeat that lasts impossibly longer in your memory, you’re met with such a look of profound regret you feel it take up room in your chest. 

And in an instant, it’s gone. Grinning broadly, he drops your elbow and moves on down the line, cheered on by his peers, the white light from above illuminating his broad back, the bits of gray becoming ever more present in his beard. You cheer and you cheer and you cheer and you hope it’s from all the cheering that your voice grows hoarse and the tears start to trickle out of the corner of your eyes. 

You’re trembling visibly as he accepts his award, showing just the right amount of awe, and appreciation, and excitement. He glances up into the spotlight and there’s the real Dieter for just a split second before he humbly gawks at the golden statue in his hand.

The clock begins.

Make your speech thoughtful and poignant – relevant to what is close to people’s hearts right now.

Be profusive with your thanks. Better start with that, actually. Lower yourself at the height of your glory.

Mention family, friends, names and faces that the masses don’t know because it makes you appear connected to a reality those watching on the television can only speculate about. Say something kindly about how this means so much to you.

Cry a bit, but not too much. Keep your voice steady but with tears in your eyes. Cut yourself off, the emotion too much, and say thank you again. 

And anything more than three minutes, they start to play you off. 

You’re mentally going through the notes on a potential acceptance speech his PR manager gave him on the drive over, but in the end, it’s clear he doesn’t need it. 

Dieter’s speech is excellent. 

Really good. Really, really, really good. It has a flare of genuinity, but not the bite of vulnerability that makes people uncomfortable. 

He’s been practicing for weeks now, editing as he talks, in the mirror, while driving home from the grocery store, before he goes to sleep. Tonight’s speech, a compilation of all that you’ve listened to time and time again, is the best version of all of them. 

He’s soft when he needs to be and excited when he can. He’s onto the gratitude bit, going through the director, the writers, the cast and crew, even his costar, whose beautiful face is shown on the twenty foot screen above the stage, joyful tears in her eyes. And as the applause dies down, his big hand dwarfing the tiny metal statue, his fingers flexing, Dieter’s back goes ridgid, his eyes downcast. A smile slips out infinitesimally. 

Dieter clears his throat and looks up.

“And there’s someone else I’d like to thank. This, uh, this one goes to all the little dreamers out there. Working nine to five, to make your dreams happen. We did it, baby, couldn’t have done it without you.”

He stares into the camera and you swear, you fucking swear, he’s looking right at you. 

It’s a drowning sort of wave, this focal point that draws you down into him. It’s all consuming and it’s tender and it touches places you didn’t know could go this warm and what else could describe this but love? You resent the Academy, this place, these people for keeping him away from you. You think you’ll claw out the eyes of anyone who tries to separate you again.

You are crying – for your industry friend, his guest at the Oscars, so sees the cameras and the glitz and the glamor. 

You’re crying because you’re in too deep. 

The rest of the night is dipped into a champagne glass and swirled fast, catching like lighting in a bottle.

Gold dust falling fast, dizzily. 

Bubbles, glinting green and pink in the light, rising and winking out of existence.

Golden bubbles in your drink, in your mouth. Your throat. Your stomach. 

You feel lighter than air. 

With him, you feel as bright and as strong as diamonds. As timeless and luminescent as pearl.

As beautiful as gold. 

When the door finally shuts behind you in a darkened apartment, you’ve entered a secret, separate realm of domesticity: mismatched shoes, coffee creamer flavors you don’t like, and shampoo bottles that take up too much space in your shower.

It’s quiet here, blue and shadowed. The girl who left here hours ago to get ready in a hotel halfway across town forgot to leave on a light, rushing out in her haste. 

Behind you, you hear him snicker, his tongue behind his teeth, champagne bubbles still in his nose, as he hangs his silk jacket on your coat rack, right next to your muddy raincoat and baseball caps faded with sweat. 

“We gotta be quiet,” he hums, wobbling a bit as he toes out of his expensive loafers, pushing them near your off-brand birkenstocks. “Nala’s gonna hate me forever if we wake her up now.”

He is, of course, referring to your tabby cat, who hates everyone who isn’t you, and has a distinct requirement for twelve hour naps with no interruptions. Dieter swears he’s going to wake up one morning with that cat flexing her claws against his throat.

It takes you a moment to recognize and comprehend how your lives have melted together, how extracting you from him and him from you would be akin to destructive alchemy, the process of deconstructing two things causing both of them to oxidize and reduce to flaky rust. You’re drunk and you’re a little dizzy and you’re swaying slightly because your feet hurt but you are too consumed by introspection on your own feelings, what it means to love something other than yourself, to do anything about it. 

You’re so far gone from your own body you float, untethered and lost in thought, right up until the moment his arms come around your waist and he pulls you into his chest, like slipping on a beloved coat. 

“I think I can buy you for a quarter at Coney Island,” he murmurs into the nape of your neck like he is reciting Neruda’s poetry. You stifle a smile, your hands gripping around his elbows, as he sways with you. He does this a lot; thinks one thing, then two, then three, and by the time it comes out of his mouth, it’s nonsensical to anyone not strapped into his train of thought. 

“Try again, darling.” You stroke his cheek with your thumb, his chin tucked over your shoulder, ear pressed to yours. “I think you missed a couple of steps.” 

Your voice is gummy even to your own ears, the endless drinks at the afterparty stitching your syllables and consonants together into some freakish creature. He’s slightly blurry in your eyes, his presence overwhelming all of your senses as they try to keep you upright. 

He chuckles and presses his face into your neck in what you believe is an attempted kiss. 

“I mean, you glow,” he admits quietly to your skin. The grin falls from your face when your heart constricts. “You fucking shined tonight and I couldn’t stop thinking how beautiful and sweet you looked. Sweetness I wanna lick up.” He chuckles again, this time through his nose, laughing at his own absurdity. “And then I remembered cotton candy is sweet too and you can buy cotton candy at Coney Island for a quarter and. . . I think I can buy you for a quarter at Coney Island.” 

He scrapes the back of your neck with his teeth as he nudges you forward down the hall, not sparing an inch between your bodies. Which makes for a disastrous time, both of you drunk, his socked feet slipping on the wood, and your heels and dress tangling up together. 

“Baby, wait–,” 

“We’re almost to the bedroom, we can make it–,”

“Not if we break our necks first. Gimme a second, I’ll just–,”

You slide out of his grasp, inching down the wall and tucking up the truly insane amount of tulle they managed to stitch into your dress. You feel like you’ve been digging for five minutes before you find what you're looking for.

You stick your heel in the air and fiddle with the clasp around your ankle, drunk and working in near total darkness.

Dieter huffs and slides to the floor next to you. He watches you struggle for a minute, nearly swallowed up by the layers and layers of tulle, before he squeezes the air with his open hand.

“Gimme. We’ll be here all night.”

You pout visibly and awkwardly rotate until your foot is in his lap. His fingers are warm as he plucks at the clasp.

“I am perfectly capable of getting dressed on my own.” You toss your hair indignantly. 

“Yeah, but you’re always going to need my help to get undressed, right?” He smirks, eyes bleary, as he slides the heel off your foot and takes up the other one when you don’t move. 

Always, he said. 

Forever.

He’s being so soft, so gentle.

He sees the red marks left behind by the straps of your heels and frowns, displeased. Slumped over in the hallway of your tiny, pathetic apartment, his top few buttons of his pressed dress shirt hopelessly gone, tonight’s bow tie slung around his neck like a tipsy snake, Dieter gives you a foot rub by way of kneading out your pain. 

He kisses your ankle with such reverence, adoration, the liquid in your mouth vanishes and ends up in the crotch of your tights. 

You’re both too drunk for an actual fuck (“don’t make fun of my whisky dick, baby, it makes it sad,”) but you don’t want to be anywhere else but in your bed with him when you do sober up. So, you let the tulle drop, Dieter giggling as he gets hit with an avalanche of dress and you both clamor over each other to stand up. 

Towering over you and smelling like rich, warm, leather and splash of something spicy, he raises an eyebrow at you. You scrunch up your face, your twisted-up mouth betraying the stern look in your eyes, and put your knuckles to your hips. He matches your stance, this town ain’t big enough for the two of us . . .

“You’re in my way,” he grumbles, his mouth twitching. 

“Maybe you’re in mine.”

“Well, then it looks like we’ve got on our hands a good ol’ Mexican standoff.” 

“By all means, pardner, stick ‘em up.”

You eye him like PopEye, cheek full of nothing but air, your one eye all squinty. At that, he completely breaks, going red as he laughs. You hold the pose for a second longer before you collapse against him, laughing until tears run out of the corners of your eyes. You press your forehead into his chest, his heartbeat like a homing beacon, as he nuzzles the back of your head, giggles escaping occasionally on puffs of air. 

“That’s it!” He says after a moment of silence and tosses his hands into the air. “I’ve had enough! I can’t do this anymore!”

Without warning, he bends down and hauls you over his shoulder. He continues his tirade over your brief gasp of surprise – “Dieter!” – his finger indignantly in the air as he marches off towards the bedroom.  

“I can no longer date a girl who is funnier than me and so goddamn, fucking pretty. Who let you do that, huh? Who taught you how to be so fucking adorable? Answer me, you sexy, little weirdo.”

He tickles you enough just to make you squirm before dramatically tossing you onto the bed. You assume your best heart-broken divorcé pose, hand draped over your forehead, one leg tucked under the other. 

“Think of the children, honey! Nala needs a father’s influence, a lonely girl trying to survive in a man’s world! You can’t shoulder me with the responsibility of single motherhood!” You sit up, eyes fluttering up at him. “Everything I learned, I learned it all from you!”

Smirking, he kneels onto the mattress, your body folding back as he hovers forward, his nose inches from yours. You fight the shiver that arches up your body every time he gets that look on his face. He’s got your sanity between his teeth. “That child loathes me, darling,” he purrs. “She’s better off with you. She looks far too much like the milkman to be mine anyway.”

Your fake gasp is buried beneath the lunge of his mouth over yours. His hand cups your cheek as his mouth seeks out all its favorite places against your lips, your skin, your jaw. Your fingers dig into his wrinkled, once-starched shirt, the heat of his skin pricking your fingertips.

It’s right there, that knife edge between starting something there’s no going back from, no alternative path that ends in anything other than him buried deep inside you, filth that still makes you blush pouring from his mouth into your ear. A part of you, the part of you that’s been stalking behind every smile and touch he sends your way all night, the part of you that every nerve sing for him, is begging you to continue. To touch him in the right places that make his eyelids drop, mouth wrench open, to take on the animal that’s gnawing at you both. 

But you don’t. You can’t.

The simple fact of the matter is – you’re exhausted. You know he is too. The Oscar statue sitting on your entryway is a culmination of dozens of exhausted nights that finally paid off. 

He sighs when you pull back, there is no anger on his face, no disappointment that you’re ending things here. There’s only . . .

“You looked really, really pretty tonight,” he confesses to your nose with a smile. “Thanks . . . for coming with me tonight. You make everything better.”

You tuck his hair over his ear, feeling whole and small beneath the gentle search of his gaze. His hair is getting long and you love it, but you don’t want to nag him about it. The universe has finally balanced itself with him in between your legs, the foundations that make up the galaxy all settled in right here. 

He takes it one step further, reaching back behind him to the comforter you keep on the end of the bed that inevitably gets kicked to the floor every time he stays over. You’d pick it up and put it back every day of your life without complaint if it meant him in your bed until the end of time. 

Dieter tosses the blanket over both of your heads and crawls back in between your legs, elbows tucked by your ribs. All the champagne in the world couldn’t give you this same warm, bubbly feeling in your chest as his weight sinks into you.

He’s submerged you both in another realm, a deeper one than the one before, and in this one you have to whisper, even though the only other person in all of existence is inches from your nose. 

“You’re drunk,” you murmur, hushed. You can barely find the outline of his chin, his lips, his nose. The steady drum in your chest misses a beat as you consider where he might be looking on you. 

He awkwardly tugs your knuckles from both hands beneath his head, kissing them gently before allowing them to quietly slide into his hair. He’s so warm, nearly completely invisible to you in the blackness, the weight of his broad chest threatens to choke the air right out of you. But this exactly is how you want it to be. You want to be overwhelmed by Dieter Bravo.  

“I’m not drunk,” he tuts, a soft slur still tucking his words together. 

You reach down just inches to his temple, following the lines of his body that swear all lead to you, to find the arch of his cheek. He closes his eyes, lashes fluttering like butterfly wings against your thumbs. 

“Could a drunk person do this?” He asks quietly, as close as he could come to indignant in this special, dark little world. 

You wait, for a sloppy kiss, for something hard to tap against your thigh, but nothing comes. In fact, he doesn’t move. 

You inhale as best you can, grinning, ready to start another proverbial sparring match with him.

“You’re not doing anything, Dieter.”

His eyelashes stroke your thumbs again, a kitten lick, as he opens his eyes. 

“I sent you my love. Did you not get it?”

All in the air in your lungs is purged in a heavy gasp as his words impact your chest the way comets collide with meteors. 

He says your name, concerned by the wounded noise you just made, and when you don’t answer, he leans back, tugging the blanket as he goes.

It’s not until you’re looking up at him in your bedroom, his face blurry and your cheeks cold, that you realize you’re crying. 

“Dolly, what did I do?” He sounds so concerned, so visibly shaken, you can’t help but cry harder. He only touches your wrist, as if he’d been banished from your body. 

If you hadn’t had so much to drink, this wouldn’t be happening or at least you’d be able to get it to stop, reign in those explosive feelings that you had kept for so long deep and buried until he came along with a match in the dark. 

You take a deep breath, eyes locked onto the ceiling, hands clenched in fists. You know he can feel the tension in your forearm beneath his thumb making circles inches below your pulsepoint. You thought you never, ever wanted to have this conversation, but now you understand this has been the only thing that’s been on your mind for months.

“You don’t mean that,” you croak into the darkness. You feel small and foolish, embarrassed for having a body that produces emotions. 

“Don’t mean what, darling?” He’s still talking quietly, but firmer, providing a hook onto which you can grasp and fight the current in your mind. He knows this feeling, anxiety, and he hates how it looks on you.

“That you love me.”

Your words ring in the air, like the distinctive pitch of singing glass. You swallow that choking knot further down your throat and, wrenching your gaze down from the ceiling, finally look him in the eyes.

It’s the same look he blinked at you from the seats, there and gone so fast you partially convinced yourself you’d imagined it: profound, deep regret.

“You think I don’t love you?”

His tone makes you instantly feel guilty. Did you miss something? What if he texted it to you and you didn’t see it? Or wrote it in a note . . .

“You’ve never said it. At least not to me.” 

And his face crumbles.

He slides off his haunches, feet dangling over the edge of the bed, his big shoulders curved. 

Slowly, as if believing he has no right to, he touches your ankle, where he had rubbed away those painful marks in the hallway. He shakes his head, smirking darkly at himself.

“At the risk of sounding like a dramatic fucking actor, I didn’t want to put you in harm’s way.”

You sit up, unable to help yourself from curling up next to him, his grip adjusting to your thigh, instantly finding the heat of it beneath all the tulle. Cutting right to the core of you. 

He gets this furtive glance when he’s thinking about something unpleasant, his eyes darting rapidly back and forth, as though unable to choose the right course of action. How much does he say, how much does he give away?

He rubs your dress material between his fingers.

“I’m older than you,” is how he starts. When your mouth twists open, ready with a litany of reasons why you don’t care, why no one should – reasons you’ve already said to him a dozen times – he meets your gaze and silences everything in your head. “And it’s not me they’re going to come for.” 

The weight, the finality to his voice shoves that knot right back up your throat, your eyes hot and tight.

“I . . . I didn’t say it, outloud, because then we’d have to do something about it. I don’t want to keep us in the dark, but . . .” he swallows as if choking too. “But after the dox two years ago and then the incident in Austin, I feel like I’ll be putting you in physical harm when they find out we’re together. And I would literally rather die than have anything happen to you.”

He kisses your temple, the touch a consolation. 

You don’t want to turn away, you want every kiss he gives you, but all you can feel are the studio’s words, the words of your managers, pressing down on you:

You know how some fans get. For your safety, let’s give it two years. 

We’re happy for you, we really are, but you can’t be seen together too much. Minimal instagram, rare public appearances. We’re just trying to keep up appearances until the fans settle. 

Appearances.

Aesthetics.

Image.

You’d happily kill anyone who tried to take him from you. 

But you know he’s right.

“It has nothing to do with how I feel about you, what I feel for you,” he promises, voice warm, dipped in honey. “I just . . . I can’t lose you.”

“Then can you say it just this once? Just to me?” You try to smile but the tightening of your skin only spills the tears. “Please, Dieter, I won’t ask again. I have to hear it once from you. After that, I promise I–,”

His great warm palm covets the back of your neck, rolling you into him like melting chocolate drips onto the floor. He stops, inches from your mouth, so close you can feel your neutrons mix with his.

“I love you.” 

Earnest, genuine, real. 

A green beanie and a yellow jacket.

Chinese food and dreams of a better life. Of a happy life.

You steady yourself, your spinning world, against his hand around your cheek, clutching onto his wrist like it’s the last great lighthouse at the end of the world.

You open your eyes and, yes, yes, there is adoration in his smile, in the way he watches his words soothe some ache inside of you with joy.

“I love you too,” you tell him, in case it wasn’t obvious. If somehow he couldn’t smell your obsession for him. “I love you,” you say again, firmly. 

It’s an inevitable sort of fall, his mouth into yours.

Like neutron stars collapsing together, alone and quiet in the far reaches of space.

Like the stone bones of an ancient church cracking and tipping into the sea as time and erosion eats away at a once great monument.

Like the spinning metal within a compass, never failing to find north, to find home.

When you awake next to him the next morning, warm in a way that goes behind physical body heat, he kisses your nose.

I love you, he tells you, with his words, with his body. With the dozens of ways he’s been mulling over in his mind to keep you safe and make you his for everyone to see.

I love you, he tells you that morning. 

And every morning after that.

[yukik4z]

yukik4z event

i hit 100 followers so this is an event to celebrate it! thank you sm again <3 everyone can join :D but remember: don't copy. you will be kicked out of the event.

how it'll work:

message me your fav emoji and ill give you a female idol u have to make a moodboard of (u can pick the aesthetic/color scheme yourself)

you have to submit the moodboard before 12th of august. ill tell the winners on 13th of august

prizes:

1st place : a follow, a shoutout, 10 reblogs, 50 likes (posts of ur choice) 3 custom mbs (idol, aesthetic and color scheme or ur choice), a profile theme (aesthetic of ur choice)

2nd place : a follow, a shoutout, 7 reblogs, 30 likes (posts of ur choice) 2 custom mbs (idol, aesthetic and color scheme of ur choice) , a profile theme (aesthetic of ur choice)

3rd place : a follow, a shoutout, 5 reblogs, 15 likes (posts of ur choice) 1 custom mb (idol, aesthetic and color scheme of ur choice)

4th place : a follow, a shoutout, 4 reblogs, 10 likes (posts of ur choice)

5th place : a follow, a shoutout, 3 reblogs, 7 likes (posts of ur choice)

how to participate:

like, reblog and tag 1 or more ppl who could be interested in joining

comment if u are joining

add the tag "yukik4z event" to ur post

u can also tag me in the post !

note: i had to lower the number of reblogs bc i cant make another acc. im so sorry!

[maria-tries-to-write]

have a great day ✨ can I request for h, u and m for daemon?

100 followers’ event: Daemon Targaryen’s Yandere Alphabet! (H, U and M);

A/N: The last request for the 100 followers’ event, thank you to all of you who participated!

You can find the other works for the yandere alphabet here.

WR: Yandere!Daemon Targaryen, yandere behavior, toxic relationship, manipulation, mentions of death threats and mentions of kidnapping.

H stands for HELL: what would be their object of obsession’s worst experience with them?

Certainly if you disobeyed him.

Again, I don’t think Daemon would punish you physically, not that he couldn’t, but he knows that are other ways, way more painful ways, to make someone submit.

So, if you ever plan on disobeying Daemon’s rules, you should fear for the safety of your loved ones. And that would include your own kids.

You went to your children’s bed chambers to give them your usual goodnight’s kiss. However, you were surprised — and completely terrified — when you spotted your husband’s figure lazily laid beside your kid’s body.

“Sh…don’t be noisy, my dear. The kids are sleeping. It would be a shame to wake them up, wouldn’t it?”

U stands for UNIQUE: something different they would do compared to others yanderes.

Differently from others yanderes, Daemon does not have the patience to properly court you. He could try if really needed, but Daemon would get bored and impatient quickly. You met him last week, and now you found yourself chained to his bed frame. Clearly, patience is not Daemon’s best virtue.

M stands for MASK: how different are their public persona from their true selves?

As we can well see on the show, Daemon stands for his bad reputation. It’s no secret to anyone that the king’s brother is not someone to cross paths with.

Knowing this impasse, Daemon will be a true gentleman. He would treat you so well that you would start to doubt the court’s gossip.

Realizing your inner conflict, Daemon would not think twice before taking this as an opportunity to steal you away from the Red Keep.

[anonymous-rendezvous]

˗ˏˋ 100 Followers Event ˎˊ˗

We're going to do a community fic for 100 followers where you guys send us an ask with a pairing and a scenario/AU. Then we'll be throwing all pairings and scenarios into separate wheels and see what fate gives us!

We'll accept both Solo!character x GN!Reader's and Poly!Character's x GN!Reader. (E.g. Shu x GN!Reader, Doppio/Ver/GN!Reader, etc.)

These are the groups we write for: Luxiem, Noctyx, XSoleil & Krisis. But we can also write for Ren, Kyo, HoloTempus, & Shoto if people want more variety.

Also, feel free to get creative with your pairings! We will accept cross-wave parings.

Here's the list so far!

EDIT: Here are the winners! Thank you to everyone who submitted parings and AU's

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Rules:

╰┈➤ No HoloArmis yet, they only just debuted. We'd love to include them in the future but we can't include them in this event.

╰┈➤ All pairings will include GN!Reader.

╰┈➤ We can write polly but please don't suggest anything bigger than 5 members. So no Luxiem x Noctyx x GN!Reader or such.

╰┈➤ Mysta and Yugo will still be included in this event, so if someone suggests full Poly!Luxiem or full Poly!Noctyx, they will be included. This also applies to Magni and Vesper.

╰┈➤ Every pairing only gets one vote. So if two people suggest the same pairing, it's only counted once.

╰┈➤ Keep all suggestions as sfw as possible.

[denieatsart]

100+ Followers DTIYS

Hi remember how I said I'd do this like a month ago well i forgot so here is this :) ( btw hi ??? Ty for 100 who are you people /silly )

The rules are just . Draw this silly little pirate guy ( Overseas!Killer ) . You can draw him as a skeleton because I know people are hard !!

Don't be rude and stuff to other people who entered :)

I'm still figuring out what the winner prize thing'll be but there will be 3 winners !! ( if enough people enter lmao )

[suncakie]

Sleepy Prince | sick!Teru x gn!reader

request. [@stuckindreamland06] Teru with 11 and 12 🫣

[anon] Nsjsbdjdjdbd Teru and 12 PLEASE

prompt. 11. "Kiss me"

12. "Have you been taking care of yourself?"

prompt list. 100 followers event!

warnings. Fluff, Tiara is ooc, kou is ooc, teru is ooc

notes. Hello! Sorry this took so long, anyway I hope you don't mind me merging both of your requests:) enjoy!

You haven't heard from Teru for days, to only visit him and be told he was sick, better yet knew from one of his siblings instead of himself.

You haven't seen or heard from Teru the past few days, not a call or a text notified in your phone for his whereabouts, you were getting worried.

You attempted to ask kou about it, but unfortunately he wasn't at school either, asking Yashiro was also an option but when you did she said she haven't heard from kou either.

And this is how you came to this mess, Kou was somehow cooking yet having a call with Yokoo and Satou, surprisingly talking about homework.

"Kou-oniichan is taking care Teru-oniichan he's got a high fever" the female tugging you towards the stairs told you, dragging out the 'h' in high as you passed the boy in the kitchen, none of you daring to disturb the boy.

"Teru-oniichan is sick?" You asked again despite hearing it already, the female nodded and placed her hands on her waist as the both of you reached the closed door of Teru's room.

"Yeah! he fell down the stairs and Kou-oniichan carried him" you looked at the direction of the kitchen, stunned that kou could carry his own brother, with his whole weight even.

"Well thank you for thanking care of the both of them Tiara-chan" you smiled and patted the females hair, her happily giggling "No problem!"

"I better be going" you told her before she tugged your sleeves, gaining ur attention, she motioned a shh sign with her finger, whispering towards you.

"He's sleeping, we should be quiet when going inside" you smiled and placed a finger towards your lips "I'll be quiet" the female grinned at you before walking away, probably gonna help kou out with the cooking.

With that said, you opened the door, careful for it to not creak, the curtains were open surprisingly the afternoon glow of the sun not waking up the sleeping prince who laid on his bed, layers of covers hugging his figure.

Your lips twitched up at the calm sight of the boy in front of you, until though, you looked at the discarded books and paper work on the floor and bedside.

You sighed and started to pick up the books and paperwork on the floor, arranging them neatly on his desk, before moving towards his bedside, unfortunately, before you could neatly place the paper's on his desk a hand lightly grasped your wrist, startling you in the process.

"Love? What are you doing here?" The grasp on your wrist loosened, prompting to clasp his hand on yours instead.

You relaxed, placing the papers on the desk and sitting on the side of his bed, playing with his fingers "well, a little birdy told me your sick" you lightly chuckled as you frowned, worried plastered all over your features.

"Why didn't you tell me?" The blonde frowned, yet it looked more like a pout with a damp towel on his forehead.

"I didn't want to worry you, plus I'm better now" he attempted to stand up, abruptly stopping as he almost fell down in the bed with the sudden force of standing up.

your arms holding his shoulders and back when you noticed he almost fell down "yeah, better really" the both of you lightheartedly laughed, as your boyfriend sat himself down, wanting to sit with you in the bed instead of laying down.

"So, Have you been taking care of yourself?" Teru smiled at you, observing your movement as you started to wash the cloth in warm water you found laying on the floor.

Teru loves seeing you take care of people, as it is very rare for you to take care of one, the blonde prince wouldn't lie if he says that seeing you attempt to take care of him doesn't make his heart flutter.

But more or less, he feels bad he made you worry.

"Yes, more than you anyway, school gave so much homework though, we also have a test tomorrow" you complained, angrly squeezing the life out of the cloth in your hands.

Teru snorted at you while you gave him a look of betrayal "sorry, sorry, you just look so cute complaining like that" you scoffed as a response, a smirk then laid on your features.

"I want to see your face once you realize how much homework you'll do" the blonde only smiled at your comment, your face shifting from confusion to realization as you looked over the paperwork you were fixing earlier.

"Ughh that's not fair" you pouted as you spread yourself lazily on the bed, teru laughing at you before he sighed, earning your attention.

"Hm? What's wrong?" You asked as you stood up, grasping his hand onto yours. Teru laughed and lightly shook his head "it's nothing, I'm just– well I'm sorry for worrying you"

You smiled at him lovingly wondering how you were able to get this man "it's not nothing, and don't be sorry about it, I'm only worried because I care for you hm? Plus your pretty reckless when it comes to exorsising things its normal for me now"

Teru scoffed, and pouted crossing his arms, his gaze drifting to his katana at the back of the room "That was on purpose, those supernaturals aren't supposed to be here anyway" you tapped his leg, as he looked at you confused until he saw a mokke he let tiara keep.

"Then why didn't you exorcise this cute thing yet?" The mokke jumped as you mentioned about exorcising them, he hid in your neck as it shakes.

Teru glared at the pink bunny before sighing "tiara wants to keep it as a pet so i let her keep it, if not its not supposed to be here"

You chuckled and let the mokke go, giving it a piece of candy as it hopped away, ah yes, teru is your moody little man. "What was that?" The blonde suddenly spoke, eying you curiously.

You looked at him confused "what?" Teru smirked at you, a glint of mischief and hurt on his eyes "you said something about me, could you repeat it for me?"

You eyed him, frowning with confusion, you didn't say anything though? Unless you said your thoughts out loud...

Oh.

"I said your my little prince!" You smiled at him, as though he smiled at you back "that seems wrong, I believe I heard you said something of.." you looked at him curiously yet very nervously.

"Something of?" He moved closer to you, like a villain taunting it's victim, which he somehow doesn't look as sick as he looks earlier "your moody little man, hm?"

You huffed at him "it's true anyway! Who knew boys could have mood swings too! And they say girls are moody when on their period"

With you distracted on your mumbling, you weren't able to realize how your boyfriend inched closer towards you, unfortunately for the both of you though, the time you finally realized it was when he had his nose next to yours, which made you jump in surprise resulting to almost falling off the bed.

Keyword, almost.

"Oh why hello there, you almost fell didn't you?" You grumbled at his arms "ah well mister prince charming I thought it was obvious" Teru chuckled at you before looking straight into your eyes, you starring back at his own as well.

He looked calm, too much for your liking, if it isn't obvious it some, it looked like he was trying to tell you something, yet you ignored it.

"Kiss me" he said in a breathy voice, it seemed sore as well, he's still sick isn't he? It must of took all his strength to balance the two of you, more so, you just sitting on the wood frame of the bed.

Just at the same moment, the door opened, revealing another blonde holding a tray of food, a shorter one stood beside him, a two empty glass cups in hand.

And before any of you could utter a single word, the male blonde in the doorway beat you to it "we should've called (name) earlier so that you won't lay there the whole day" another voice chirped in, it was in a higher pitch humming in approval before speaking.

"Teru-oniichan just needs a magical kiss on the lips!" Before shuffling was heard and the door clasped shut, no room of argument was given as the two of you still stared at the closed door that once held the two younger Minamoto's.

Teru turned to look at you, a goofy smile on his features "so? My kiss?" You sighed at this, and prompted to kiss his forehead instead and stood up to grab the food of tray Kou left for his brother.

You could feel Teru's pouting stare piercing through you, if looks could kill, you would be in bed right now, kissing the heck of your boyfriends face.

"Once your better alright my prince?" You told him as you took the tray and faced him. You were expecting a pouty Teru yet it seemed his expression shifted to a more amazed yet loving stare.

"Alright, I love you, you know that right?" You stayed silent for a while, before a smile lifted up to your features.

"I love you too Teru"

all writings belong to @suncakie. Do not repost or steal.