#aos fam

[itsabouttimex2]

What kind of yandere are they?

Explanations below/Click for higher res

MK has been through so very much. The glamour of being a hero wore off quick, leaving him with many insecurities and doubts. Giving him someone innocent and kind to protect stabilizes him somewhat, but makes him more vicious in an effort to ensure their safety.

Sun Wukong thinks as something worth protecting. You give him a purpose and a good reason to dust off his old bones and return to fighting- all he asks in turn is that you stay on Flower Fruit Mountain with him. And the world getting it’s greatest hero back is a worthy trade for your lack of freedom, isn’t it? (The most likely to kidnap you, tied with Macaque.)

Ne Zha uses you as motivation for his fervent service. If the celestial realm has you, then it’s clearly worth protecting. If someone so good and kind resides there, then why should he waver in his duty? This extends to personal fights in your name- he rarely comes out unbloodied.

———————————————————————

The Mayor keeps a close on eye on you, always watching from the shadows. You probably have a tie to the Lady Bone Demon in some way, an heir to her blood or powers. He cultivates your misery by pulling strings and arranged misfortunes- the fact that no one stops him or saves you is proof enough (to him) that the world is rotted to the core. Proof that it needs to be destroyed. Proof that you need something, or someone better- maybe him?

You justify the Lady Bone Demon’s ideals. She watches as you suffer and break, your kind soul perpetually punished for good deeds and unyielding optimism. If you trust people, they betray you. If you help people, they hurt you. Your life is proof to her that the world is cruel, and needs to be wiped clean. So she obsessively watches from afar, her mind constantly plagued with thoughts of you, and thoughts of ending your suffering. (The most manipulative yandere on this list.)

Azure Lion sees you cast from the Celestial Realms, thrown out for daring to try and improve the lives of mortals without approval from the Celestial Bureaucracy. Not only are you a perfect member for his brotherhood (and he will get you to join), but you also reaffirm to Azure what he’s fighting for.

———————————————————————

Zhu Baije is a very flawed man. By his own nature, he’s something of a troublemaker. You work to counteract many of the problems he causes, working hard to ensure that no fissure in the group grows too big. It’s easy to think of you as someone worthy of worship- you seem to have an endless well of patience and kindness. He just wishes that you gave a little less of it to people who aren’t him.

Ao Lie watches you close. He sees how you struggle to pull everyone together even when things are at their absolute worst, and respects your efforts. He sees a person always willing to stand up for other and for what’s right, never allowing yourself to stand idly by. The harder you fight to mend rifts between people, the more admirable you become to him.

———————————————————————

Mei just wants you- she doesn’t bother thinking it through or wondering exactly why. You’re nice and you’re good, so you’re hers. Her parents are fully supportive of her attempts to ‘adopt’ you, and have a room set aside for the day they ‘bring you home’.

Pigsy doesn’t think of his obsession as a hero, warrior, or soldier. He instead views them as a child in need or guidance and protection, the sort who would be benefit nicely from being taken under his wing- likely enlisting Tang and MK to help him corral you into his care. (The most likely to succeed in his goal, tied with Sanzang)

———————————————————————

Princess Iron Fan doesn’t think much of you at first, viewing you as a little more than a disposable pawn. But, to her surprise- you perform far more admirably than expected, so keeping you both alive and close becomes the rational course of action. She gets used to using you, then gets used to you, then wants you. And Iron Fan knows how to get what she wants.

Macaque at first is just using you, stringing you along. He trains you to be more like him, feeds you lies about Wukong and MK, gets you to hate them by filling your head with falsehoods. And somewhere along the line, he ends up getting attached. Instead of getting better, he doubles down on his manipulations, intent on keeping you close. (The most likely to kidnap you, tied with Wukong.)

———————————————————————

Tang Sanzang sees so much potential in you. You’re a feral little thing, tucked away under bushes and baring your teeth at him- a child acting like a wild animal. His holy heart aches for you, thinking of the struggles you must’ve endured through your life. With a pair of heavenly circlets for your wrists, Sanzang inducts you along for his pilgrimage, intent on bettering you bit by bit- by force, if he must.

Expect lots of tutoring and life lessons, all delivered with endless patience and a paternal attitude. Teaching you to read and write and behave might be harder than pulling teeth, but it will be done. Not to mention the four other pilgrims whom he positions as your ‘brothers’, who adore and respect him, each one swayed by his words of what’s ‘best for you’. (The most likely to succeed in his goal, tied with Pigsy.)

Tang probably mirrors Pigsy in his acquiring of a child- he finds some dirty little waif on the streets and takes them in as his own. Something ancient and repeating calls from within him, pushing him to take this little unfortunate thing into his care, to push them to be ever better- an inner voice calling for him to be kind and merciful. And really, who is he to deny such a kind urge?

Master Subodhi is a wonderful judge of character, capable of picking out both the flaws and strengths of a person. You could be troubled and impatient, or rude and reticent. All that matters is there’s true good inside you- however embryonic it may be. Through strict guidance- and with a not insignificant amount of amusement at the shenanigans you cause with his other students- Subodhi manages to slowly molds you into a better and stronger person. Mind you, all of this is through the masterful use of manipulation. Expect his other students to help him reign you in and chip away at your resolve to leave. (The most likely to have an obsession that’s stronger than him.)

———————————————————————

Sandy thinks that you’re simply wonderful. You’ve been a constant supportive force in his life, encouraging his therapy sessions, teaching him how to brew tea, vouching for him to shelters across the city. With your support, Sandy slowly becomes a better person, leaving behind most of his obsessive and possessive behavior behind. There are lingering traces, hints of overprotectiveness and denial of consent, holding you too tight in his arms and not letting go or slipping sleeping pills into your tea… but even those habits lessen in frequency and severity.

That, or you might be a child of his that he wants to be a better role model for. Sandy wants you to be happy! He wants you to be confident! He wants you to have a good dad! So he almost unhealthily works to improve himself, finding positive ways to channel his most toxic and unhealthy traits, hoping to become someone worthy of your love. (The least likely to hurt you.)

Everyone else treats Sha Wujing like a monster, hurling wicked names and cruel words. ‘Demon’ and ‘fiend’, they decree, and Wujing has long internalized their words as truth. He’s plenty happy to act on his learned monstrosity, lashing out at any who draw near- until you come along with a simple compliment and an admission of weakness. You aren’t strong enough to fight, not quick enough to run from him- but you’re kind enough that he doesn’t think to butcher you. Growing obsessed with you amplified some of his worst traits while also teaching him about unconditional love and support, the dichotomy of equal progression preventing any true growth for a time. Once Sanzang comes along, Wujing has to think long and hard on who he is and what he’s done and who he wants to be and what he wants to do- and decides to be better for you.

There aren’t many people that the Demon Bull King cares for, but you’ve managed to worm your way into his stony heart anyhow. It’s awkward to try and be open with someone so squishy and frail, but he makes a token effort to be less intimidating and overbearing so you aren’t as scared. It’s not easy settling you into his family (especially with his son now battling you for his attention), but he’s sure you’ll get used to it eventually. Iron Fan is more on board with your induction than her son, coming to view you as a lovable; if weak, second child. Red Son refrains from outright violence, but is notably icy over the sudden competition for affection. Still, in the strangest of ways- it’s family.

———————————————————————

Chang’e has been alone for a very long time. There’s no real way to know exactly how long, but isolation has taken it’s toll. Is it so bad to want someone to dote on and nourish? No! So you and her should be family! She’s even more insistent if Y/N is leporine in some way- the two of you are meant to be family! A loving lunar goddess and her perfect little lop, together on the moon. To her, it sounds like something out of a fairy tale. It might be more of a saccharine nightmare to her captive, though. (The most capable of keeping Y/N from escaping.)

The Scorpion Queen really just wants a friend, no matter what it takes to get one. Loneliness has gnawed away at her inhibitions and morals, leading her to snatch up the sweetest looking person around and haul them back to her castle. She’s not above using poison to keep you complement, brewing up several blends from her own venom. Paralytics, sedatives, you name it. One quick sting and you’re helpless in the Queen’s arms, ready to be pampered and protected. After she’s done cleaning and patching your new wound, of course.

Kui Mulang has been waiting for his lover for so very long… and then you come stumbling in, wide-eyed and unaware of the dangers that the demon possesses. You’re a funny little mortal, unworthy of having your weak soul devoured- not only would it not expand his lifespan too much, but he fears it might even make him weaker. Instead, he forces you to become a cute little companion/pet and regales you with tales of his lover, filling your ears with descriptions of her beauty and kindness. Don’t get the wrong idea, though- you aren’t making him a better person. He’s just found one single person to not be totally awful to. (The most likely to replace his obsession.)

———————————————————————

Syntax admires your work from afar, picking apart every bit of tech you manufacture. He’ll install dozens of cameras across your home just for the joy of watching you scramble to disable or destroy them. With the sheer volume of spyware distributed, it’s inevitable that you miss at least a few, allowing the spiderized man to maintain constant surveillance. He inducts your work into his own, picking apart the blueprints he’s stolen from you, admiring the many lines of code you’ve written. There’s a new camera in your house each day, slowly stealing away all privacy. The concept of a ‘blindspot’ doesn’t exist in Syntax’s carefully curated world- no closet, corner, or crawl space is safe from his leering eyes. You’re then subjected to 24/7 surveillance, your life becoming an ever-present livestream on the screens of Syntax’s machines. (The least likely to personally interact with his obsession.)

Huntsman has never seen a worthier adversary. You match him blow for blow and thwart his traps at each turn. He has to keep upping the ante as you escape his clutches, an ever evolving quarry worthy of pursuit. The biggest (and only) dilemma he has in regards to his obsession is whether he should taxidermy or cage you. Either way, you’ll make a nice trophy. (The most likely to kill you.)

It takes a saint to gain the Ink Curse’s attention. You have to be the most wonderful goody-two shoes darling in the world, a person who’s mature and rational and kind and responsible and generous and wise and loving. If you can manage all of that, along with having no major character flaws or massive mistakes in your past… then you have their attention. It is the worst prize you could have ever received.

Alternatively, be a child who gets trapped in the scroll. There’ll be a mocking form of pity to every interaction, but the Curse might try to mold you into an equally brutal punisher of sins. After all, what else can you do? You’re stuck, aren’t you? Get used to the company, kiddo. (The most likely to break you.)

Yellowtusk would happily speak with you until all the rivers of the world run dry. The two of you match wits in civil debates, opposing each other’s viewpoints and arguments with fervor. No stakes, no hatred, no grudges- just debate for the sake of debate. You grow together, sharing your wells of knowledge and expanding the breadth of your wisdom side by side. His obsession with you is softer than most, quelled by quick chats and simple skinship - but it’s obsession all the same, waiting to spiral out of control.

———————————————————————

Red Son’s pride is an irrefutable aspect of him. The half-demon views himself as superior to all but a select few- and you, unfortunately, do not fall into that group. Red thinks of you as something akin to a cherished pet, worthy of care and companionship, but not freedom or respect. He could control almost every aspect of your life if he so wanted, but that’s more trouble than he desires. If you behave properly, Red allows you to dress yourself and have a small collection of personal possessions. Also, expect him to personally forge you a tracking collar emblazoned with his family’s insignia. (He truly does care about you- deep, deep, deep down in his heart. But you’re still lesser than him.)

If you happen to be his sibling, though, his treatment of you becomes more bearable. He’s still insanely possessive and domineering, but there’s more respect for you as a person.

The Spider Queen also thinks of you as a pet, a cute little thing to dress up and lock in chains. You make the most wonderful decoration for her throne room, shaking in the corner with a shackle clasped around your wrist. Everything you wear is produced from her own silken webs, everything you eat is caught and killed with her own two hands. If you step too far out of line, expect your next meal to be the corpse of a loved one.

Peng looks at you with some strange mixture of pity and amusement. (There’s some genuine care in there, but they’d never admit it.) You’re the smallest and youngest of the Brotherhood, with naivety and kindness to match. They find it funny to toy with you in a variety of ways, though they take care to never truly cause harm. Ex: Knocking into you for the sole purpose of tripping you up, biting back laughs as you apologize for ‘not paying attention.’ Peng will ‘forgive’ what you perceive as a personal mistake, hauling you up and dusting you off before sending you on your way. You’re a fun toy. A devoted sibling. A cute little time-killer. And, somehow- the person they cherish above all else.

[ririemimo]

dragonfruit dump~

with others xD

[coredrill]

[iimexpensiive]

"I should spin the wheel to see who gets my undivided attention~"

[zero-way-out]

I just stumbled onto Karl Urban's imdb and this man is a fucking shapeshifter.

Like i look at these characters and see the same face but i have not once connected these characters as all being played by him.

[siixkiing]

"....you have chickens." Don't mind her just gently holding one with her eyes twinkling.

"Yup, these are my ladies."

It wasn't like he kept his chickens a secret after all, having a little roosts for them all over the mountains. Letting them wonder to their heart's content across the valley. Having a variety of breeds too, each one he thought was so unique or cute or beautiful in nature — even ones that others would think otherwise.

"I see you found LieLie — "

" — she is a beauty isn't she? She's one of my Dong Tao."

Or known as a Dragon Chicken, which explained the name he had given her. A little tongue and cheek joke but also because he wanted to honor a certain little brother of his too — he was sure he'd of loved that.

[humans-must-be-the-heroes]

All AoS fans should watch Chloe’s new show on Hulu!! I enjoyed it and her character gives off some Daisy Johnson vibes 😊

Chloe Bennet as Detective Lana Lee | "Interior Chinatown" 1x01 | "Generic Asian Man"

[adraughtofamortentia]

.

[just-some-random-blogger]

Hey gorgeous,

Would you be up for some angst ?

Maybe his niece (rhaenyras younger sister) was always the negleted child and after sometime she gets to be known as one of the greatest targaryens (she claims cannibal and is a beast when it comes to fighting and being a ruler) and she comes to the last dinner before her father dies and sleeps with daemon (who previously in her childhood made her feel worthless)

And when she avoids him after, he goes to her and shes like:

-Just so you know, that meant nothing

-what if it meant everything to me?

-not my problem

All I Ever Wanted

Daemon Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader

Summary: The gods have weighed the scales, now you were only paying everyone their dues. It felt nice to hold the upper hand against your uncle for once.

Word Count: 1k+

Warnings: mentions/depictions of targcest (uncle and niece), fem!reader, mentions/allusions to sex, angst, bad fam relations, typos, etc.

A/N: idk im tired i hope you like it nonnie. i changed a bunch of stuff about the fic req so T_T i cant believe i managed to make it so long HAHHAHAHH Tagging: @pinksirensong @aralezinspace @deniixlovezelda @targaryenmoony

Daemon could not believe it.

He could not believe that he woke up by himself.

He was soaking in his smugness, dripping with self-accomplishment and victory, eagerly rolling over to coo his musings of self-importance to his prey.

Yet you were gone.

And he did not understand it.

He did not appreciate the bile that was threatening to be regurgitated out of his pallet. A line grew between his brows as he ripped his blanket off. He roughly dressed himself in breeches and a shirt, then stormed out of this chambers.

Part of him was relieved to find you so quickly, another part was in pure offence to how nonchalant you acted in the gardens, eating a pear as you read a book.

"Skoro syt issi ao kesīr sīr early isse se ñāqatubis?" Daemon cut through your concentration on your page. You turned to him halfway through his sentence, full mouth slowing in its chewing.

"What do you mean 'why are you here so early in the morning', uncle?" you narrow your eyes, shaking the hanging foot from your crossed leg. The heavy, red velvet of your skirt barely moved at your actions.

Daemon walks over to you, unkempt long, platinum hair blowing with the morning breeze along with his loose shirt, "you should have woken up with me."

You watch him as he nears. When he reaches the bench you were sat upon, you bring your book to your lap, one hand in between the pages of where you stopped reading, "and why should I have done so, uncle?"

The tone in which you say this with simultaneously angers and excites Daemon. He adores a good challenge. You both know that.

The prince reaches out to your face, tilting your head up to him, "I'm not done with you, niece."

You roll your eyes. He chuckles as you stand.

You thoughtlessly discard the core of the fruit to the side and release your grip on your book in order to clamp it under your arm, "iksis ziry daor obvious bona iksan tetan lēda ao?"

Daemon stills. He watches as you, his sweet little niece, defiantly staring at him. You spat such words as 'is it not obvious that I am finished with you?' to him? Your uncle? Your star? He who you viewed as holy as the Seven you were so devout to? No. This surely was a jest. A game of cat and mouse.

Daemon's lips curve into a lopsided grin. He opens his mouth to join in the banter, and yet he was not given an opportunity to speak.

"I will leave now, since you're clearly persistent to bother me," you coldly say, moving past him in all audacity.

A scoff actually leaves him because of this. He catches your arm, lowly and dryly chuckling, "rūda lēda aōha tymptir, byka genes."

Quit with your game, little mouse.

"I'm not playing, and I'm not a mouse," you snip, pulling your arm out of his grip.

Now you were both looking at each other with furrowed brows, equally long and light air wafting with the wind.

"I got what I wanted from you, Daemon."

You word this so plainly, so carelessly, and yet it pokes at him, makes his insides churn.

"I've scratched my itch. I've satiated my curiously," you release the tension between your brows to contort your face into scorn, "I've unraveled you, and found you're just another man-- greedy, self-absorbed, and cannot show for all the talk they give."

Daemon scoffs, eyes narrowing. He steps closer, raising his nose as he lets your words get under his skin, "it is too early to toy with me like this."

The eyeroll you give strikes a chord in him as you mutter, "ah, kepus, ao sagon getting uēpa. Ȳdra daor ao jiōragon ziry?" Oh, uncle, you're getting old. Don't you get it? The hardness in his face falters when you continue, "there's no game between us. There's nothing."

Daemon pulls his head back. No. That's not you.

You slowly shake you're head, ratifying, "Iksan gaomagon lēda ao."

I'm done with you.

But who were you?

Last night, the young girl he used to braid the hair of burst into the hall, uninvited, with purpose. His decaying brother, Viserys, and the Hightower bitch was shocked, even your sister, Rhaenyra, was. Daemon, though, was amused by the the theatrics and whispered this your ear, telling you that you copied him.

It was clear when you replied, "except I was not exiled, uncle. I left and returned on my own will. Something you have never done and never will," that you were not that little girl anymore.

He watched you as you moved, as you carried yourself in the room with not a hint of reluctance. You came as... a woman. A woman.

His breath caught in his lungs as you recounted your stories with your beloved Cannibal, much to the aghast looks of others. He was not one of those who laughed at the notion your frailer version gave of claiming the dragon, and yet still, he could hardly believe the words that you surely uttered by your bitten lips himself.

Oh, your lips that then mused more private stories for his ears only later that night, your lips that he then took between his teeth even later, and that he then made to call out his name in the early mornings.

Who were you now?

That woman was not here. You were not the warrior that claimed the dragon, the vixen that clamed his soul, and, sure by the gods, not the little girl that claimed all eagerness to please everyone around her.

Who were you, you who was looking down at him, as though it was not he that read you bedtime stories, he that gave you treats under the banquet table, he that make you come undone beneath him last night?

How dare you discard him?

Daemon regains his gall, "I'm not done with you, niece."

You don't even look at him when you say, "I don't care," and walk away with that stupid book in your hands.

His nostrils flare. "Don't you fucking walk away from me," he quips, unwilling to chase, unwilling to bend or beg.

He watches as you make your way farther.

Against himself, in a brand of desperation, he hastens after you, grabbing your arm, pulling you back to face him. He heaves at your idle gaze, "you've worn my patience."

"It's only fair," you purse your lips, "you worn my time for nothing."

One of Daemon's eyes twitches.

"Bullshit," he chuckles.

You shrug and it enrages him.

It is bullshit and you both know it. And yet somehow, he's beaten to the punch again. He's left defenseless before his little niece and it's ripping at his seams.

"I honestly expected more from you, uncle," you pout, "but then again, I only thought so highly of you because I was a naïve child, just like you said I was all those years ago."

Daemon could not even respond as you hypnotize him by pushing his hair behind his ear, "I've met many men whilst my travels with Cannibal. Though I did appreciate your company, I'm sure you'd agree last night was as lack lustre as it was for me, right, uncle? Since you'd had a great many women yourself."

He watches you as you lean in. He can see the sheen, smell the remnants of pear on your mouth.

This was a trap. There was no real answer. He's been choked. You knew this. And now your lips were curving up.

"Your mind games don't work on me, child," Daemon finally gets to speak.

You laugh outright. You grab his arm as you sigh, "what? Is it so scary to reply to my words you evaded the question altogether?"

In another world, he'd have gone red faced at your words, but no, your mind games don't work on him.

But, oh, it does.

You got him piping like a kettle.

"Just so we're perfectly clear, uncle, so that I am certain we're on the same page," you clutch your book into your chest, "know, that everything, last night, meant nothing to me."

He speaks before he thinks. He can't even hate himself for it because he speaks like he can't even hear himself, "what if it meant everything to me?"

You knit your brows. You scoff out a chuckle, "now who's playing, Daemon?"

His breath audibly hitches. You hear it. You smile, "that's not really my problem, now is it?"

You horribly, so, so gently rub the pad of your thumb on his lips. He freezes as you turn back. Daemon watches you walk away for the second time. This time, he does not run after.

[shoujothoughts]

Not me, back on my Spock x Uhura bull$hit after all these years. Tumblr, what have you done to me?

In other news I just bought this book right now at this very moment don’t come for me

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

the Spuhura moments in the Gemeni Agent are top tier omgggggggggggg

[graythefae]

I wore an ao dai for the first time in years, so obviously the only logical thing to do was draw the Kaebedo fam with ao dais and Vietnamese accessories (individual shots under the cut)

[monkiekid-qi-xiaotian]

hi there !!! my names mk , mei (my BEST friend!!!!!!!) told me she has one of these accounts so i figured id make one as well to support her! might actually post here though ,,

[ hello hello!! forgot to add ,, this blog takes place after season 5 happened. my poor baby.. heh.. <3 ]

ooc: hi gang. i caved. mk is me and i am mk, so here we are. he/they for both me and mk ! also.. heh.. i ship spicynoodles. yay!

main account: @mikerooksi

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my tags ;3

#mk answers! #mk roleplays! #mk rambles! #mk doodles!

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my fam!! [will update]

mac - @sixearss [grumpy monkie,,,] mei - @emerald-dragon-girl [BEST FRIEND!!! <3] ao lie - @dragon-prince-of-the-west [mei's greatgreatgreatgreatgreatgatregrea-] red son - @redson-lmk [we're also best friends! (he's mean💔)] jin - @nerddimple [orange demon !!!] nezha - @fyolailover69 [lotus prince ,,,] monkie king (sun wukong) - @the-monkey-king-1 [AHH AHHHEHEHE HEHEH MONKIEEE KINGG] im aware its spelled 'monkey king', shut it.

[quitealotofsodapop]

Cicada Beat Part 2:

prev post.

Yup, when Macaque crash lands on the airship, all he knows is that his mate, and their kids are one board and- Hey wait is that the monk-

Tripitaka?: (*cicada punch!*)

Macaque is having a very weird day of deja vu when he meets the noodle shop gang for the first time. Even Mei lunging on him, teeth and sword bared, reminds him of how Ao Lie first reacted.

He gets especially quiet when he realises that in his absence, Wukong had accidentally gathered a new found family, just like last time when he left him under the mountain. That gives Mac an early indication of how much he's screwed up by leaving to investigate LBD on his own.

Nezha eventually shows up after following Macaque to the airship, and after adding his two cents about Mac (and DBK on accident) setting off the Map's protective barrier, actually defends the shadow monkey. Mostly because he too wouldn't have put Wukong in danger in his condition, but agrees that Mac could have atleast explained his true reason for leaving.

MK goes to calm his fam down, only for his mom to snap that MK did roughly the exact same thing his father did, just on a smaller scale by lying about his reason for going to Megapolis + fighting demons on the side.

It turns into a bit of a talk show arguement for a bit until they crash into the East Sea.

[smokeinherperfume]

He's so perfect i just-

i crawl home to her

rating: 18+ explicit

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 8.2K

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

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

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

🤍Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But I made you laugh, didn’t I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is Dieter Bravo someone you could rely on? 

History says no. 

So, maybe you’d just carry everything. 

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

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As it is every year.

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

Here it comes.

“Yes, Mom, they eat sweet potatoes.”

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

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

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

Rings gone.

Earring gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Poinsettias! My –,”

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

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

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

The bastard winks at you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Schmooze he did. 

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

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

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

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

“Mhmm hmm.” 

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

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

It would be insulting to call it eerie. 

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

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

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

This, this Dieter, feels wrong. 

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

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

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

Anger. 

Shame. Guilt. 

Hot embarrassment. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Dieter, what are you–,”

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

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

“I’m fine. Just needed some air.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Dieter, please, just –,”

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

He gently, but seriously, shakes you slightly.

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

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

“This isn’t you.” 

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

“What’s not me?”

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

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

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

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

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

And out of nowhere, he smiles. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just . . .”

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. 

Maybe he did mean it like that. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“N-no one, Dieter, no one can.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Face down, baby,” he says. 

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

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

You do. 

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

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

“I’d rather just show you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re so fucking gorgeous.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hard, baby. Please.”

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

“Okay.”

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

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

“Oh – fuck, Dieter–,” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again, he plants your hands on the cold counter. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Dieter, please –,” 

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

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

“Fuck them. Let them hear.” 

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

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

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

“Harder again, please.” 

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

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

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

“Say it again.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh – oh, shit –,”

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

“Wait – fuck,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you’re laughing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dieter, I –,”

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

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

“Okay.” 

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

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

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

Is Dieter Bravo someone you could rely on? 

Your heart says yes. 

[softkiseu]

◌◌◌ ✽✽✽ ◌◌◌

𝟐𝒌 ⤾蝶🦋 𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑒

the day finally here and it's time to celebrate because we arrive in my one of the greatest destination / milestone in my tumblr journey. drum roll pls. i now met a two thousand (2k) dearest lovely nabis.✨me being so happy, cheering and dancing w tripleS LOVElution! it's a celebration,yet to break from my playful happy moments and be back a serious mode for a few seconds. thank u so much for all the support, even i'm not a friendly vocal blog like others, you guys never left me and show support on your own way. this slow progress is a big deal with me because i never thought i'll reach this far. i was like, 1k is enough at first but now we able to double it and it's a special gift that i would ever never received without you dearest butterflies. once again, tysm and ily all! 🤍

special thanks to : @dubuyunniechi @wiotas @y2qi @interstellarz @koosuvi @2592 @jenfaery @yunjios @raeceah @hazelnut-affogato @gun-wook @ecojinri @alfaire @chaey2k @y-ves @webzzo @w-eons @w-oun @h-ao @yeritos @jaes1lvr @gunw-ook @menhpy @iluvrei @i-jiwon @eunaray @tookio @dewyrka @i04rei @i07swan @flwzai @i4sullyoon @k-yujin @jeonzio @sugiieop @starmio-deactivated20230830 (😟) @yunjidoll @sakkurada @minguukie @sseulr1n @gigittamic @isamiracle @tzulipss @tyunlouv @tozak-i @baesol @y-unjins @v6mpcat @dollienini @wonflirtz (might forgot someone, i have a dory brain so apologies, also sadly reach my tag limits)

vip people i sometimes chat with and other who quietly sweetly leaving notes- that so often and i never failed to notice, want you to know that i do appreciate each one of you guys, so so much. some are a inspo, didn't have a chance to chat or interact yet, hopefully one day we able to get closer. they are all the kindest and sweetest to make sure to follow if your still not.

ps. a event is coming to celebrate this milestone. hope to see you fam join! sending hearts to everyone 🤍✨

[fluffypotatey]

so what’s ur favorite thing abt mei that u feel like nobody else notices but it adds so much to her and you feel like everyone needs to be talking about it

everybody needs to realize that before MK was dubbed and knighted—i mean, before MK was titled the Monkey King's successor and wielded the trusty staff, Mei was the powerhouse of the group.

literally remember how our introduction to her character was her saving MK's ass while he was being chased by Red Son, and girlie only thought they were playing a game. my initial reaction to her was "oh, so she's the first hero of the city!" LIKE THAT WAS WHERE MY MIND WENT!

1x06 has a special place in my heart because it shows Mei in her element! she's the motorcycle gal, she's the OG mechanic (SHE LITERALLY BUILT AN HQ FOR MK IN S1), she's the descent of Ao Lie, she's the wielder of the DRAGON SWORD (you know, the sword nobody in her family was allowed to touch because it was a prized artifact and it chose HER)

it is honestly such a struggle (for me) to simply place Mei in the "warrior" category of the hero/warrior duo because yes, MK and Mei are a duo (a dynamic duo one might say), BUT it is so different to swk and macky's duo. they are both the hero and the warrior. their narrative pieces collide and parallel and align so well or clash and-- omg look, another topic to add to my "MK and the gang's ultimate goal is breaking the narrative structure/fate/destiny" folder! (BECAUSE NONE OF THEM PERFECTLY ALIGN WITH THE NARRATIVE EVERYONE IS PUSHING ON THEM. NONE OF THEM FIT COMPLETELY FOR FATE TO WIN DO YOU SEE WHAT I AM SEEING! DO YOU SEE- *gets dragged away*)

*comes back covered in blood* but yeah, everybody start pay closer attention to my gal because her main character energy is real and important and will be crucial for the upcoming seasons. listen, even if MK wasn't there when Red Son and the fam released DBK, Mei would still be there to screw with their plans (I mean, it would have been easier for DBK to wreak havoc because of the energy source, but also MK would still make the impulsive decision to dive into DBK's energy thingy later but this post isn't about him <3)

Mei's awesome and intelligent and intuitive but also impulsive and prone to emotions before anything but i love her