#oc x character event

[yanderehsr]

Hii! How r u? How was ur dai? About the oc thing...Could I prety please with cherry on top get a platonic platonic Furina, Ei, Nahidaand Venti with a reader that is like a elf? Idk, how to explain it, so I am gonna add a picture to how I wiev it:

Her name is Eclipsa and has white hair and pointy ears(ofc since she is an elf). And I dont mean like Santa's elfs, I mean the ones from greek and romanian mytology.

About the bakstory: Lets just say that she is the daughter of The Heavenly Principels(lets just call her THP bc I am lazy) (ik it sounds cringe but hear me out😭) and since THP was not all the lovey dovey tipe and probably VERY bad with children (maybe even hate them idk, I really cant see her motherly) she just decided to throe her to Tyvat into the care of the archons untill she was old enough (16 years old) to come to Celestia (bacically be mature since she doesnt want a cryng baby around). Eclipsa is growing, just like Klee slower (there is a theorh that says that Klee is 80 but is also 8 bc she is growing 10 times slower than normal) and everu 100 it adds 1 year rlto her age. Now, lets say that when she was 10(1000) she overheared somebody say that the archons dont actually like her (like parental figures ofc) and that they probably just cang get rid of her. She actually belivd them like a dumb child that she is and ran away (opened a portal to another world and dissapeared without anybody's knoladge). Now, lets just say for the sake of this au to make it more interesting (maybe more cringe but I am having fun ok?😭) that the disaster from Khaenri'ah happened bc the person occ heared it was a khaenriah'n and THP since finding this out was like "OH HELL NAHH" and this iz the reason they destroyd Khaenria'h. THP gave the archons untill Eclipsa was to turn 16 to find her. Well, now, at 15, she randomply (and awkwardly) came back. (Maybe she finally got into her head the ideea of checking Irmansole to see if the archons truly hated her and surprise surprise, ints not true). Now, imagine the characters meeting Occ in their nation. For Venti- at windrise, for Ei in the city (near the statue), for Nahida just at the spirit tree (maybe one of her little friends passed that message for her) and for Furina(back when she was still an archon) she was told from Neuvillette that he sensed Occ's presence(lets just say that higher ups are aware of Eclipsa's existance, including Furina. Perhaps she has read about Oc in one of the books she read to find a solution to Fontaine's profecy).

Also, I imagine ooc to look like this when she was little(I just love this fanart sm😭):

(One thing to note is that none of theres fanarts are mine, and idk who they are from to credit them. Also te line I made was bc there was some writting on that picture and I didnt want it to be out of the context:>)

About personalit I see her as somebody who is quite the drama queen and loves attention 24/7. She loves pulling pranks all the time and also like annoyng people, but in a joking way. Hoever I see her as somebody who has her moments of understanding and is quite the menance to societity(pretty mhch like how Klee is). About her powers, she is developing since young THP's powers but since she is not even 18, its definetly not as affective.

Anyways, I know it might be a weird request or cringe, and maybe I wrote too much, or gave too little information. Also, I am VERY sorry if you cant undrtstand this request, english is not my first language and I pretty much have dyslexia(not bad one tough, I am still working on correcting mynself :D) and I tried to make sure I made as little mistakes as posible but its hard to spot them when its a big paragraphe, uk? therfor you are always free to ignore thiz request, hopw you have a nice day and good luck writting so many requests. Also, congrats on 1k followrs!! :D

...Did I just read an entire fanfiction XD, I will gladly write this, and thanks for the congrats😆

Hope you'll enjoy😄

Trigger Warning: Yandere, Obsessive behaviour, Possessive behaviour, Kidnapping

Furina: She knows almost nothing about her, Neuvillette doesn't seem to remember anything about her and there are no books about it, hell the only reason she knows about Eclipsa is because Focalors thought of it as important that she knew about The Heavenly Principles daughter if she was going to act as an archon.

Furina's first meeting with Eclipsa is when Neuvillette is showing her around, it was instant love... not the romantic kind, the platonic kind, Eclipsa looked like a doll, so perfect to dress up, so perfect to have around, Furina feels lonely and Eclipsa makes her feel whole again, so she takes what she wants.

Furina dislikes The Heavenly Principles, she would be happy if she was hated by them, her performance is over either way, the profecy is fullfilled, is it really so wrong of her to be selfish... you will see Furina run around Fontaine with Eclipse causing havoc, as long as she is with her she doesn't feel lonely, and now she never will

"Y-you aren't leaving me right, right... ANSWER ME PLEASE... I'm sorry for yelling, I just don't wanna lose a friend so dear, you can understand, right?"

Raiden Ei: The day Eclipsa dissapeared was the day her sister died... not only did she lose her very own sister, she also lost someone she practically viewed as a daughter, she had never felt such horrible pain before, so she shut herself away as to not feel it again.

So many years spent in isolation, all Ei could think about was her sister and Eclipsa, she swore if she could just get them back, she would protect them both with her life, she just wants things to go back to normal, like it used to be.

So many years had passed that Ei nearly didn't recognize Eclipsa, she had so many questions for her, but she didn't say a single one... screw The heavenly Principles, she was going to protect her as best she could, Eclipsa don't even get a chance to talk before she was shut inside the plane of Euthymia.

"So long, you have been away for 500 long years... but that's okay, you're here now, I'll make sure you not come to harm like what happened to Makoto"

Nahida: She doesn't have much knowledge of Eclipsa, she isn't recorded in the Irminsul, all the knowledge Nahida has of her is what her predecessor left for her she didn't forget, she is confused why Eclipsa isn't around... did she dissapear or worse, did she die?

Nahida is confussed when she feels Eclipsa's precence by the Irminsul, it feels familiar but she can't figure out why, of course like the curious 500 year old child she is, she went to figure out what caused such familiarity... Nahida knew who it was the second she laid eyes on her, this is who she is supposed to protect like the Greater Lord she once did.

Nahida asks a lot of questions, why is she here? Why was she gone? Eclipsa is now her favorite subject to learn about, Nahida takes up some kind of little sister role to stay close with her, she needs to know everything, feed her ever-growing curiosity, maybe one day she will introduce Eclipsa to the Wanderer... but that can be later, Nahida wants to be selfish for a bit longer.

"Curious, you being here fills me with a feeling like... like a hole, you fall down it everyday and it just feels so annoying, then suddenly someone has covered it up and I don't feel annoyance anymore... You need to stay with me for a bit longer, I need to figure out why"

Venti: He isn't all that interested in following The Heavenly Principles orders, but he still did as to not occur her wrath... he did not expect to take care of a child, he wasn't the best, he got constantly drunk, never took anything serious, except for protecting Eclipsa from any danger.

It was no surprise that Venti felt such fear and despair when Eclipsa dissapeared, he had lost yet another loved one... why does he still care, it always happens anyways, no relation lasts forever, no matter how much he tries to drown the memory of her in even more alcohol, it doesn't work

That's when Venti notices her precence, after 500 long painful years, is she finally back? Is this his second chance. He meets Eclipsa at windrise, she look just as well as when she dissapeared... He doesn't care what The Heavenly Principles thinks or wants, he will keep Ecilpsa safe and away from her, He will keep that smile on her no matter what.

"It sure has been a while hasn't it, soooo how have you been, hope you missed me for I have missed you"

[alabasterpickles]

It’s been THREE possibly four years but I’m back

I have a lotta trolls things brewing but have these doodles I whipped up in the last couple days featuring my lil Indie Troll OC, Olive (and her crush)

[minthe-drawings]

March's 2nd Heart Event Spoiler🍀⚒️

[fell-e]

Happy Birthday to my Beautiful wife💕💕

lukewarm greetings to everyone else

sorry, straightforward individual, but ive got eyes for jamil and jamil only

bonus:

[xoxorealitygalore]

Plan B

Jey Uso x Afro-Brazilian OC

Summary: In her thirties and single after a breakup, Hamisa decides she wants to become a mother, despite her friends' and family's objections. Unable to wait any longer, she chooses to have a baby on her own. However, she unknowingly ends up using her ex-boyfriend sperm after he drunkenly swapped her donor’s sample for his own. As Hamisa raises her child, she starts noticing striking similarities between her ex-boyfriend and her baby, leading to questions about the true origins of her child's conception.

Plan B Masterlist

Taglist: @xbriexx @christinabae @blackchickinthedesert

Fifteen long months had passed since Hamisa had last set foot inside the world of WWE, a world that once enveloped her with its chaos, its lights, and its fierce energy. It was a place where she had not only built a career but had woven deep connections, both personal and professional.

The memories flooded back as she walked through the backstage area of the Lucas Oil Stadium in Indianapolis, Indiana, where the 2025 Royal Rumble was about to unfold. But this time, there was something more, something that made this night different from all the others.

In her arms, bundled up in a soft pastel pink blanket, was her eight-month-old daughter, Jhream. The little girl had become the light of Hamisa’s life, filling her world with joy, laughter, and an unspoken bond that only a mother and child could understand.

After a year and a half of embracing motherhood, it was time for Hamisa to return, not just for herself, but for her daughter as well. It was a moment she had longed for, a chance to share the world she had once known with the little girl who had changed her life forever.

Backstage, the atmosphere buzzed with anticipation. The air was filled with the unmistakable hum of a WWE event, voices rising and falling, people hurrying to and fro, and the ever-present buzz of activity. The familiar faces around her were older and changed over time, but they were still the same people who had once been a part of her world. Some smiled warmly when they saw her, others gave brief nods, but all seemed to pause for a moment to take in the sight of her, standing there with Jhream in her arms. The baby’s curious eyes scanned the faces, wide and unblinking, soaking in the unfamiliar surroundings.

Hamisa walked through the bustling corridors with an eagerness that only a return to the familiar could provoke. Her heart fluttered as she introduced Jhream to anyone who would listen, proudly showing off the little girl who had become the center of her universe. Her excitement was palpable, and the love she felt for her daughter radiated from her, a beam of warmth in the otherwise cold, fast-paced backstage area.

Before long, Pamela, a longtime friend, and WWE veteran, made her way over, having heard that Hamisa was back. Pamela's eyes sparkled with recognition and excitement as she bent down to meet Jhream's gaze. "Look at you, sweet thing," she cooed, her voice soft and affectionate. "You’re so pretty."

Hamisa’s smile deepened as she watched Pamela gently scoop Jhream into her arms. The moment felt almost surreal, Pamela cradled her daughter, offering her a moment of comfort amid the madness that was WWE. The soft cooing sounds Jhream made as she nestled in Pamela’s embrace became like a lullaby, a tender contrast to the chaos around them.

Pamela looked up at Hamisa, her voice filled with a soft awe. "I can’t believe I’m your Godmommy," she said, her tone filled with genuine warmth. She leaned in, pressing a kiss to Jhream’s cheek, and the baby, caught in the whirl of affection, responded with a goofy grin, one so exaggerated and mischievous that it took Hamisa by surprise. That grin, was one she had seen before, a flash of pure, unfiltered joy that reminded her so vividly of someone she once knew.

Before she could say anything more, a familiar voice interrupted the moment. "Pamela, Hamisa..." The voice was deep, almost hesitant, and unmistakable.

Hamisa’s breath caught in her throat as she turned. The man who appeared at the corner of the room was none other than Joshua, her ex-boyfriend. The world seemed to pause around her as he stepped into the space where she and her daughter stood. The last time she had seen Joshua had been under far more uncomfortable circumstances when they had parted ways after a disagreement over her decision to use a sperm donor. The tension between them had been thick, the air heavy with words unsaid. Now, more than a year later, their encounter felt awkward, almost strained, though the weight of their past still lingered between them.

Joshua’s eyes scanned the room, and his nervous smile faltered as he made his way over to where Hamisa stood, cradling her daughter. There was a hesitation in his movements, an unspoken uncertainty as he approached, unsure of how to navigate the space between them. His family, including his ex-wife and their sons, had built relationships with Hamisa over the years, and they had adored her. But after the break-up, and after his admission that he couldn’t fully commit to their relationship, things changed. The knot in Joshua’s chest, the memory of their time together, had never quite loosened, and he found himself standing in front of her now, unsure of what to say.

Pamela handed Jhream to Joshua without a second thought. Joshua accepted the baby gently, cradling her as though she were the most precious thing in the world. His eyes softened as he looked down at her, and for a brief moment, the world around them seemed to slow down. The baby was light in his arms, a small, delicate presence that seemed to bring a sense of peace amid everything.

"So, are you visiting or returning?" Joshua asked, his voice soft, but there was an underlying tension that hinted at the weight of their past.

"Returning," Hamisa answered, the word slipping from her lips with a sense of finality as if the decision had been made long ago. She took off her coat, revealing a pair of embellished tights and a curve-skimming pink bodysuit with cutouts that accentuated her form. The transformation was striking, she had returned to the world of WWE not just as a mother, but as a woman ready to reclaim her place in the ring.

Pamela squealed with excitement. "We’re going to be on the road together again," she exclaimed, her enthusiasm infectious.

Joshua smiled, though it was a tight smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. It was then that Hamisa noticed the small but significant detail, Joshua and her were both wearing the same color for their wrestling gear. It was an odd coincidence, and for a brief moment, Hamisa felt a pang of something she couldn’t quite identify.

As the conversation continued, Jhream, who had been tugging at Joshua’s beard, caught the attention of Jeyce, Joshua’s twelve-year-old son. Jeyce approached with excitement, his eyes wide with curiosity. "You’re back!" he exclaimed, pulling Hamisa into a warm hug.

"Hi, Jeyce," Hamisa said, smiling as she hugged him back. Jeyce’s gaze shifted to the baby in Joshua’s arms, and his face lit up with wonder.

"Is this Jhream?" Jeyce asked, his voice full of awe.

Hamisa nodded. "Yes."

Joshua handed the baby to Jeyce, who cradled her gently, as though holding a precious treasure. Jhream, for her part, seemed perfectly at ease, a content smile stretching across her face as she gazed up at the young boy. "Wow, she’s so pretty," Jeyce remarked, his voice filled with admiration.

A strange thought flickered through Hamisa’s mind, Jhream’s features, her expressions, the way she moved, it all seemed so familiar. It was as though she had seen them before, in someone else. But she pushed the thought aside, not allowing herself to linger on it too long.

As the backstage conversations continued, Pamela asked the question that Hamisa hadn’t even thought to consider. "Who’s going to watch Jhream while you’re out there for the Women's Royal Rumble match?" she asked, her tone light but laced with concern.

Hamisa hadn’t planned for that. In her excitement to return to the WWE, she hadn’t considered the practicalities of having a baby with her. The Women's Royal Rumble match was about to begin, and she had been focused solely on stepping back into the ring after months away. The last thing she had expected was to be caught up in logistical concerns.

Joshua, sensing her moment of indecision, stepped in. "I’ll watch her," he said, his voice soft but firm. "Good luck out there." He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to Jhream’s forehead, lingering for a moment longer than he had intended. The gesture, simple as it was, carried with it a weight of unspoken feelings.

Hamisa nodded, her heart filled with gratitude. "Thank you," she whispered, knowing that at this moment, Joshua was offering more than just a simple favor. He was offering a sense of connection, a thread that tied them together despite the distance between them.

As the show began, Hamisa made her way to the gorilla position, her mind racing with anticipation. She was about to step back into the ring for the first time since her daughter’s birth, and everything felt surreal. The roar of the crowd outside was deafening, and the excitement in the air was almost tangible.

Meanwhile, Joshua took Jhream to the sitting area, where his relatives, including his sister-in-law Trinity, immediately noticed the baby in his arms.

"Is that Hamisa’s baby girl?" Trinity asked, her voice filled with curiosity. "Why do you have her?"

Joshua smiled, his eyes softening as he looked down at the baby in his arms. "I’m watching her for her."

"Is Hamisa in the Rumble?" Joshua’s cousin Jacob asked, his voice full of surprise.

Joshua nodded, a faint but proud smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah, she is."

The Women's Royal Rumble match was underway, and Hamisa entered the match at #4, her entrance earning a thunderous pop from the crowd. Her theme song blared through the arena, and the audience sang along, welcoming her back with open arms. She lasted twenty-five minutes in the match, showcasing her skills and holding her own against the fierce competition.

The final four in the match were Charlotte, Nicole, Carla, and Savelina, with Carla being eliminated by Charlotte and Charlotte ultimately winning the match, earning a title shot at WrestleMania 41. As the match came to a close, Hamisa made her way backstage, eager to find her daughter.

When she did, she was taken aback by how natural Joshua looked holding Jhream, as though he had been a part of her life all along. Hamisa took Jhream into her arms, thanking Joshua for watching her, but before she could say anything more, Jonathan, Joshua’s twin brother, took the baby, grinning as he held her up.

"Jhream, tell your mama you’re hanging out with us tonight. She can’t just grab you from us like that," Jonathan teased.

Jhream, ever the charmer, blew raspberries at Hamisa, causing Jonathan to chuckle. "She’s a feisty one," he remarked, as Jhream smiled, showing off her two bottom teeth.

As Hamisa took pictures with her friends and fellow wrestlers, she couldn’t shake the thought that Jhream looked more and more like Joshua with every passing moment. The baby’s facial expressions, especially the way she scrunched her nose, reminded her so much of him, a fact that made Hamisa’s heart flutter in ways she didn’t understand.

She tried to brush it off, telling herself that it was just her emotions playing tricks on her. After all, she had used a sperm donor to conceive Jhream. Joshua wasn’t the father. Yet, every time she looked at her daughter, those similarities felt more and more undeniable.

As the night wore on and the main event approached, Hamisa found herself standing with Jackie, talking about her hybrid role as a backstage interviewer and wrestler. But as Joshua passed by, Hamisa couldn’t ignore the uneasy feeling that stirred within her. The baby reached out for Joshua once again, and he gladly took her in his arms.

"She is so cute," Jackie commented, raising an eyebrow. "She looks just like him."

Hamisa’s heart skipped a beat as she struggled to keep her composure. How could a child conceived from a sperm donor look so much like her ex-boyfriend?

The questions swirled in her mind, and with them, a deep sense of unease. What did it mean that Jhream looked so much like Joshua? And why did it make her feel like the past was resurfacing in ways she wasn’t prepared for?

But the answer eluded her, hidden beneath layers of complicated emotions that she wasn’t ready to confront.

The morning sun poured through the hotel window as Hamisa sat on the edge of her bed, the phone pressed to her ear. She could hear Hermione’s voice on the other end, sharp and teasing, but with an undercurrent of concern.

“Hamisa, you’re overthinking this,” Hermione’s voice echoed from the speaker, confident in the way only a younger sister could be. “You used a sperm donor, Hamisa. That man isn’t the father. There’s no way Jhream looks like Joshua. Unless—unless, subconsciously, you want him to be.”

Hamisa stared out the window, trying to collect her thoughts. The gentle hum of the hotel’s early morning stillness contrasted with the whirlwind inside her mind. She exhaled sharply, her fingers brushing through her dark hair as she tried to shake off the nagging doubts.

"I’m not crazy, Hermione," she muttered, rolling her eyes, though she knew her sister wouldn’t see it. "I used a sperm donor because he didn’t want more kids, and we broke up, remember?" The words were stiff as if she were trying to convince herself more than anyone else.

"Yeah, yeah, I remember," Hermione replied, a mixture of sympathy and exasperation in her voice. "But, Hamisa... you’ve been through a lot in the past year, and now you're back in the WWE, reconnecting with all those familiar faces. It's normal for emotions to get mixed up."

Hamisa’s gaze dropped to the floor, her mind replaying yesterday’s encounter with Joshua and the way Jhream had reacted to him. The way she reached for him so effortlessly, as if there were a connection they shared, one that Hamisa couldn't explain. She didn’t want to admit it, but Hermione was right. The feelings were tangled, nostalgia, longing, and a bit of regret, all wrapped up in the rush of seeing Joshua again.

"But why does she look like him?" Hamisa asked softly, her voice barely audible as if the question itself was too vulnerable to speak aloud. "It’s like... she’s got his nose, his little expressions. Even the way she smiles, Hermione, it’s like I’m seeing him all over again, and it’s messing with my head."

Hermione was quiet for a moment, the line crackling slightly. “Hamisa,” she finally said, her voice steady. "You’re being too hard on yourself. You’re looking for patterns and connections where there might not even be any. Babies pick up so many things, like facial expressions and mannerisms from those around them. It could just be a coincidence. And honestly, you’re seeing things through the lens of everything that happened with Joshua. It’s bringing up old feelings, and that’s what’s clouding your judgment."

Hamisa leaned back against the headboard, still holding the phone to her ear, but her thoughts were miles away. "Maybe you're right," she muttered, her voice faint. "I just don’t know why it feels like I’m being hit by this all at once. It’s not just the way she looks. It’s everything, the way she reacts around him, the way she clings to him like she recognizes him. It’s confusing."

“Hamisa,” Hermione said gently, her tone softening. “You’ve always had a way of overthinking things. You have a beautiful little girl, and you’re back doing something you love. You can’t let all these doubts get in the way of what’s in front of you.”

Hamisa paused, glancing down at the space beside her on the bed. She had told herself time and again that Joshua wasn’t part of her life anymore, that he wasn’t the father of her child. And yet, in those fleeting moments when Jhream smiled just like him, or when she clung to him as though she had always known him, Hamisa couldn’t help but wonder. It was as if life had a way of throwing the most unexpected reminders of the past when she least expected them.

“I know,” Hamisa sighed, her voice filled with a weariness that was too deep for someone so young. "I just don’t know how to make sense of it all. It feels like... everything is happening so fast, and I can’t keep up with it."

Hermione’s voice softened again, a smile audible in her words. “It’s okay to feel that way. You’ve got a lot on your plate right now, but you’re strong. You always have been.” She paused for a moment before adding, “And when it comes to Joshua, don’t let your heart go wandering where it doesn’t need to. You’re doing this for you, for Jhream. And that’s what matters.”

Hamisa’s lips curved into a faint smile as she leaned back against the pillows, her shoulders relaxing for the first time that morning. Hermione’s voice, though miles away, always had a way of soothing her, of grounding her when she felt like she was slipping away.

“Thanks, Hermione. I needed that,” Hamisa whispered, her eyes closing as she allowed herself to breathe.

“No problem,” Hermione replied. “Now go enjoy the rest of your day. I know you’ve got a big schedule ahead of you.”

Hamisa nodded even though she knew her sister couldn’t see it. “I will,” she said, the words feeling more like a promise to herself than anything else.

As she ended the call, Hamisa set the phone down beside her and stood up, walking to the window where the sunlight poured into the room. She took a deep breath, letting the warmth of the day wash over her. The doubts still lingered, but for now, she would try to silence them. For Jhream. For herself.

And maybe, just maybe, for the part of her that still wondered what could have been with Joshua.

Hamisa walked over to the window, her fingers grazing the cool glass as she gazed out at the early morning bustle of Indianapolis. The city was waking up, the streets filled with cars, and the air was crisp. It was hard to ignore how much had changed since she last found herself in the WWE’s orbit.

She had come back, not just to revisit the world she had once called home, but to forge a new path, one that included her daughter, Jhream. The realization of how much had shifted in her life, how quickly everything had changed, made her head spin. The excitement of returning to the ring had been undeniable, but it also triggered memories and emotions she wasn’t ready to confront.

The connection between Joshua and Jhream lingered in the back of her mind, a whisper she couldn’t quite ignore. Each time she saw her daughter’s smile or the way she scrunched her nose, it felt like a fragment of the past was staring back at her. She had told herself it was just coincidence, but there was something too real about it. And deep down, she couldn’t shake the nagging thought: Could there have been a mistake?

A soft knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. Hamisa straightened up, wiping away the pensive look on her face and replacing it with her usual, confident demeanor. She opened the door to find Pamela standing in the hallway, a smile on her face and an eager energy radiating from her.

“Morning, girl!” Pamela greeted, practically bouncing with excitement. “You ready for the day? It’s gonna be a crazy one, but we’re back, baby! Back on the road again!”

Hamisa’s lips curved into a smile at Pamela’s enthusiasm, even though she felt a little detached. The bubbly energy that Pamela exuded was like a welcome ray of sunshine. But Hamisa couldn’t shake the unease still fluttering in her chest.

“I’m ready, I guess,” Hamisa said, her voice betraying her uncertainty despite her attempt at a confident tone. She stepped aside, allowing Pamela to enter.

Pamela looked her up and down with a raised eyebrow. “You guess? Honey, I can see it in your eyes. What’s going on? You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

Hamisa sighed, her gaze falling to the floor. She hadn’t realized how much her emotions were written all over her face until Pamela’s observant eyes caught it.

“I’m just... trying to figure things out,” Hamisa said quietly, rubbing the back of her neck. “It’s nothing really. I just—there are a lot of things I didn’t expect when I came back. It’s... harder than I thought.”

Pamela’s expression softened, her usual teasing demeanor giving way to concern. “What’s harder?” she asked, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the bed. “What’s going on with you, really?”

Hamisa took a deep breath and walked over to the window again, staring at the city outside as if the answers might be hiding there. She didn’t know why it felt so difficult to admit her feelings, but she realized then how much she had kept bottled up since the moment she had returned to WWE.

“It’s just... everything,” Hamisa began, her voice low and introspective. “Yesterday, when I saw Joshua holding Jhream, it was like I was seeing something I wasn’t supposed to see. I know it’s not his baby. I used a sperm donor. I know that. But every time I look at Jhream, I keep seeing little things that remind me of him.” Her voice faltered as she added, “It’s driving me crazy, Pamela. I don’t know if I’m just missing him, or if this is... something else.”

Pamela was quiet for a moment, letting Hamisa's words settle. She knew how deep Hamisa’s feelings ran, even if Hamisa herself didn’t fully understand them.

“You know, girl,” Pamela said slowly, her tone more thoughtful now, “sometimes when you’ve got a history with someone, it doesn’t just go away. No matter how much time passes. But you’ve got to remember—you made that choice for a reason, and it’s not just about Joshua. It’s about you. About what you needed, what you wanted for your life.”

Hamisa turned to face Pamela, feeling a knot tighten in her chest. “I know that, but... sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing, you know? Joshua never wanted more kids. He didn’t even want to be a part of my life when I made that decision. And now I’m here, seeing him with her, and it’s like... everything is messy. I thought it would be simple, but it’s not.”

Pamela stood up and walked over to Hamisa, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Nothing about life is simple, baby. But you’ve got this. I know you do. And as for Joshua... he’s not a part of your life in the way he once was, but that doesn’t mean you’re supposed to carry the weight of everything that happened between you two. You’ve got a little girl who loves you, who needs you, and you’ve got a life to live. Let Joshua figure out his place in all of this.”

Hamisa closed her eyes, letting the weight of Pamela’s words sink in. It wasn’t easy to let go of the past, especially when it seemed to follow her like an invisible shadow. But Pamela was right. Hamisa couldn’t keep holding onto old wounds that didn’t belong to her anymore. Her life now revolved around Jhream, and that’s where her focus needed to be.

“Thanks, Pamela,” Hamisa said, her voice quieter now, but with a sense of clarity she hadn’t had moments before. “You’re right. I need to stop second-guessing everything. I’ve got to let go of the past if I’m going to move forward with Jhream.”

Pamela smiled, her usual energy returning. “That’s the spirit! You’re back, and we’re not slowing down for anything.”

Hamisa laughed, feeling a sense of determination rising within her. The doubts weren’t gone, but for the first time in what felt like forever, she felt like she was ready to face them head-on. With Pamela’s encouragement and her own resolve, she could start the next chapter of her life, one that was all about her and Jhream, and nothing else.

“I’m ready,” Hamisa said, her confidence returning with a vengeance. “Let’s do this.”

As she walked toward the door, the uncertainty that had plagued her earlier began to fade. Whatever happened with Joshua, with her past, it no longer mattered. She had her future to focus on now. And that future had a little girl who needed her.

Next

[the-ramshackle-prefect]

rollo haters dont go after fellow honest bc he has pretty privilege...

[would-they-listen-to-that]

Can you do a selfship playlist for Folly from Regretevator? Thank you ^_^

‧₊˚🖇️✩ ₊˚🎧⊹♡ sure thing!

The Masochism Tango - Tom Lehrer

Animal Cannibal - Possibly in Michigan OST

Liquid Smooth - Mitski

Animal - Sir Chloe

Suki Suki Daisuki - Jun Togawa

song for my lost ghost friends - spellcasting

Just Take My Wallet - Jack Stauber's Micropop

Drift Away Omnichord - Trillian

Labyrinth - Miracle Musical

Ruler of Everything - Tally Hall

thanks for dialing in!

[crosshairs-dumb-pimp-gf]

Cross X Tahny- What If...

Disgrace Alternative: + A Path of No Resistance + What if Crosshair never attempted to dissuade her?

A few rotations later...

A few rotations more...

Luckily that's not how it goes down!

Thanks for sticking with me for @clonexocweek! If you're a Disgrace reader I hope you liked the supplemental content, If not and you want to see how the story actually plays out you can find the chapter index HERE. Read on Tumblr or Ao3!

@feral-ferrule @vimse @kaytunez @substantial-exposure

[fruifruit]

march has the misfortune of being my favorite character in fields of mistria and also funny as hell

[oros-ash3s]

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⋆ Febuwhump 2025 ⋆˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*＊

Day 2 || “Holding Back Tears” 

TW: Brainwashing, references to drugs

“Alastair?” 

The voice at the door was one that he spent so many sleepless nights begging for, praying to God to have the chance to hear, if for just once more. It was one he had been so desperate for, the need for it overwhelming his senses, leaving him a shuddering mess. One that was like music to his ears. 

Tonight it was none of those things. 

Atlas stood leaned up against the doorframe, head tilted to the side, resting against the smooth wood. In the sunlight, he looked ethereal, his skin appearing to be made of pure gold, glowing dimly as if he was some holy being, sent from above. His hair was tucked back, exposing the soft crook of his neck, his clothes not the usual dark, baggy style he liked, but instead gauzy, translucent robes, which gave away too much to the imagination, the outline of Atlas’ toned, muscular figure much too visible for Alastair’s comfort. He had draped himself against the wooden frame in a way that was entirely unlike himself, posed up like some sort of model, the image bringing a burning hot to Alastair’s cheeks. His expression was pouty, eyes soft, lips pursed slightly. He had never looked less like himself.

“Alastair,” he repeated, voice soft as velvet. He instantly dropped down at Alastair's side, brows furrowed in concern. “What’s going on?” 

It was then that Alastair was able to see the person standing directly behind him. 

Kazuya stood in the doorway, shrouded in shadows. Unlike Atlas, he could never be described as anything close to angelic. Despite his beauty, his looks on a level that no average person would ever be able to achieve — that Alastair would never be able to live up to — Kazuya looked the near opposite of holy. No, with the hungry gleam in his eyes and the smug smirk, he resembled something akin to the devil, sent there as some sort of personal temptation, nothing but pure torture. 

Alastair quickly scrubbed at his eyes, ducking his face down low, praying his hair would shield the inky black mess his cheeks had become. He wouldn’t let Kazuya see him cry. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. 

“N-nothing,” he mumbled, unable to hide the tremble in his voice. “It’s nothing.” 

Atlas frowned, worry tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Are you sure? You know you can always talk to me.” 

It was a complete contrast from the Atlas he had known a week ago. 

He had been giving Alastair the silent treatment for who knew how long, refusing to be left alone with him, always swept off with Daphne or her friends. He couldn’t remember the last time he had dared to look in Alastair’s direction, when he hadn’t had that faraway look in his eyes, drugs and alcohol numbing his usually sharp gaze. 

The Atlas that was staring at him now wasn’t like that. His entire attention was focused on Alastair, eyes searching his face, desperately trying to lock on Alastair’s black ones. His fingers brushed against his hands, just grazing against his skin, not fully holding them, but not avoiding the touch, either. It was more than Atlas had allowed himself in months. 

But his gaze was wrong. His eyes were too droopy and soft, a haze clouding over them; and his pupils were dilated, giving him the same appearance of being high that Alastair had grown accustomed to, although he knew that wasn’t the case — not this time.  

“Hey.” Atlas tried again, his voice almost a whisper. He cupped Alastair’s face, calloused palms harsh against his cheeks, his thumb gently tracing the line of his cheekbone, wiping away the ebony tears that were welling in his eyes, the tears he’d been trying so hard to hold back. They were inches away now, Alastair forced to meet Atlas’ gaze. He’d never looked so beautiful.

For a second, Alastair had almost been able to pretend that they were inside his room, not on the floor of a temple designed to torture them. He could almost pretend that Kazuya was not in the corner, eyes watching their every move, gloating. Could almost pretend it was just him and Atlas, alone. That Atlas was really himself, that Atlas really wanted him. That the thing he had fantasized about for so long was finally becoming true.

But that wasn’t the case. 

Atlas would never stare at him with those eyes, if he was himself. If he was in his right mind. Atlas would never hold him so gently, face so close that he could feel his breath with each word he spoke, hot against his skin. 

Atlas wouldn’t want anything to do with him. 

“What’s wrong?” Atlas whispered, nearing closer. His lips were parted slightly, eyes half-closed. He knew what this was. Knew what Kazuya was doing, what he was making Atlas do. And he hated every part of it.

You. He wanted to scream. You’re wrong.

You’re under a spell and you can’t even see it! You’re acting all wrong and I don’t know why or how he’s doing it and there’s nothing I can do to help you. I want so badly to save you but you’re too busy wrapped up with Kazuya to let me. It’s suffocating. 

But he didn’t say that. He couldn’t, not with Kazuya watching them, waiting. It was what he wanted. He was doing this on purpose, pushing and prodding at Alastair, waiting for him to break. 

He wasn’t going to allow it. 

“You know we’re safe here, right? We have nothing to worry about.” Atlas whispered again. He was so close now, his nose practically brushing against Alastair’s. Alastair couldn’t make himself pull away, not with those hands, brushing back his hair, smoothing out the unruly tufts. “I know it’s hard to believe, but we’re protected here. Kazuya just wants to help us. He's a good guy, I promise.” 

It was only at those words that Alastair’s was able to suck up the courage to push him away, his resolve finally hardening. He bowed his head, pulling away from the touch. “I know, Atlas,” he whispered, his voice refusing to go any louder. He felt like a little kid again, the words he really wanted to say jammed at the back of his throat. “I’m okay. Really.” 

Atlas let his hand hang suspended in the air, his frown deepening. “We could go do something, if you’d like. Help you relax.” 

Those words again. Relax. 

That's all they wanted him to do. Relax, take a break. Let go of your worries. Everyone here, they were obsessed with it. Promises of no responsibilities, of rest and sleep and fun. It was all sickening. And somehow, all of his friends had gotten sucked into it, pulled in by Kazuya's allure, and allure Alastair could never begin to compete with.

But he wasn't going to give in, despite it all. He would never relax. Not as long as he was trapped inside here. 

“That’s okay, I’ll pass.” He whispered, not looking up. He refused to. If he looked up, he’d have to see the disappointment on Atlas’ face, the little pout on his lips, like the only thing in the world he wanted was to be with Alastair. As if he was the only thing that had ever mattered. It would’ve killed him. “Maybe another time.” 

“Okay.” Atlas whispered, his voice so sad it almost broke Alastair’s heart. He squeezed his eyes shut, choking back a sob.

It wasn’t Atlas. He reminded himself, Atlas wouldn’t want this. 

Atlas didn't want him.

Atlas’ hand grazed against his back, sending a shiver down his spine. He lingered for only a brief moment more as he stood, crossing back towards Kazuya. “I’m always here, if you need it.” He said, pausing at the door, glancing behind his shoulder. The invitation was everything Alastair had ever wanted. He was like a drug, pulling Alastair in, addicting. “You know where to find me.” 

And just like that, he was gone, pulled into Kazuya’s arms again, giggling as he was led down the hall. 

Alastair felt every bit like dying.

masterlist || next

✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩

Credits go to @ohagiwrites as she helped create this storyline. Kazuya and Alastair also belong to @ohagiwrites ੈ✩‧₊˚

✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩

taglist || @febuwhump @ohagi505 @vesanal @aalinaaaaaa @fangedcinnamonroll @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @seastarblue @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @iamheretohurt @corinneglass @melodxi @thebookishkiwi @lancedoncrimsonwings @sugaredparchment @cepheusgalaxy @fizzydreamz @robinshandhurts @ieppiq @nosebleedgirlpunch @sunflowerrosy @charlachan @cacophonyofwords

✩ Send me an ask or dm to be added or removed from the taglist ✩

[yanderehsr]

Time for the second reward for 1k followers, it's an event

OC X Character Event

Here are the rules

1. Do not send in the OC as an anonymous, the reason why will be explained in number two

2. Each person may only get one OC written about, you can send in multiple but I will only write for one per person

3. You will have to explain some things about your OC, such as looks, Personality and a bit of backstory, even if you have a link please write this in your request.

4. The OC will NOT be the yandere

5. You can pick if you wanna choose the yanderes or if I will choose them for you, either one works for me

6. How long will this go on? Until the 1 december you will be able to send in requests, any OC requests afterwards will be deleted, if you have written a request before the deadline but I still haven't written about them until after the deadline, I will still post that one.

7. Have fun ^^

Masterlist:

OC: Lukyan Yandere: Childe

OC: Eclipsa Yandere: Furina, Raiden Ei, Nahida and Venti

OC: Aleron Yandere: Venti and Guinaifen

OC: Cyrus Yandere: Welt

OC: Noriku Yandere: Hu Tao and Barbara

OC: Elyna Yandere: Neuvillette

OC: Rosemary Yandere: Blade and Yoimiya

OC: Buraku Yandere: Scaramouche

OC: Shari Yandere: Kaveh

OC: Tobi Yandere: Lumine

OC: Hikaru Yandere: Zhongli

OC: Atalai Yandere: Diluc and Ningguang

OC: Puji Yandere: Topaz and Herta

OC: Marcel Yandere: Jing Yuan, Blade and Huohuo

OC: Isabella Yandere: Xiao

[sunnysidesevenup]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63376321/chapters/162372121

THE FIC IS UP!!! I decided to post it on ao3, since it’ll be easier to format and write for me that way. I’ll be posting Moonlight Song there eventually too.

[valentine-cafe]

  ˖⁺. strawberry kisses : valentine matchups event .𖹭 ݁

﹙ cupid's arrow. ﹚ ─── come on and come all, and join this valentine specials! ”

for valentine’s day we’ve decided to open up matchups as a little special. what does this entail? send in some info of yourself and we’ll match you up with one of our ocs<3 followed with some short headcanons and a personalised interaction especially for you. this runs on a first come, first serve basis. all 14 matchups will be posted on valentine’s day. closing date is 13th feb.

. . . café reservation !! 🍓: in order to participate, please send us the following information:

 gender

sexuality

a quick rundown of who you are as a person ( can include mbti, likes and dislikes, anything in regards to your personality )

what your interests are ( hobbies, aspirations, etc )

any other info you deem necessary, please give us enough info to run with!

𖹭. ps : please do not give us too much or overly sensitive information of yourself. for your own internet safety. You can provide us details about a persona / oc of yours.

. . . desserts to expect !! 🍰 : 

you will be matched up with one of our characters, in which you will recieve some personalised headcanons and a short scenario of how they would spend valentines day with you / your persona.

꒰ slots : 14/14 ꒱ ( closed! )

[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.

[wyrdle]

More of that au where Shuji never joins kirijo group, and takuto becomes his cognitive pscience research partner

[leonsecretsanta]

interest check for Leon x reader secret santa!

Hi! Before we kick this account into full swing, we're looking to get a general gauge of how many people would be interested in participating in such an event! So please help get the word around to all x reader and x oc writers and artists that you think would be interested in such an event to vote down below!!

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