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whatsnewalycat · 4 months

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Once in a Blue Moon

One Shot // Dieter Bravo x HotelStaff!F!Reader

Description: You're the only person working when a Christmas blizzard rolls into town and snows you in with a notoriously difficult guest, Dieter Bravo.

Rating: E (Explicit 18+ Only)

Word Count: 12.9k+

Tags/Warnings: one shot, slight dub con elements (power imbalance, isolation, alcohol) although both parties are enthusiastically consenting, hotel guest x hotel staff, blizzard, Minnesota because that’s my best friend, dieter generally being an ‘if you give a mouse a cookie’ ass bitch, kinda enemies to lovers???, Christmas, loneliness, palm reading, food and eating, cannabis, conspiracy theory mention, fluuuuuufffff, smut, dirty talk, a dash of conflict, painting stuff, power outage, poverty mention

Note: Merry Crisis! This is part of a secret Santa gift exchange and a present for my dearest Syl (@all-the-way-down-here @im-sylien). I hope you enjoy!! Have an excellent holiday, friend ❤️🎄

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 2:00 PM

“We are right in the bullseye for what people are already calling The Great Christmas Storm. Blizzard Warnings remain in effect throughout most of Minnesota until Tuesday morning. Forty to fifty mile-an-hour winds, combined with an anticipated twelve to twenty-four inches of heavy snowfall, are expected to create whiteout conditions, making travel dangerous or impossible in the Blizzard Warning areas. If you must travel—”

You kill the engine and look up through the windshield at Blue Moon Manor. The white exterior of the three-story Tudor Revival mansion seems to glow in contrast to the dark clouds hanging overhead. Some rich guy built it as a family home in 1905. It stayed in the family for over a century before a property management company scooped it up. Now the ornate family heirloom is a boutique hotel. Go figure.

You open your car door and grab your backpack from the backseat, swinging it over your shoulder as you step out of the vehicle. As you walk up the path to the staff entrance, snowflakes start floating down from the gray, low-hanging clouds like teeny-tiny feathers, landing on your cheeks and nose, melting on impact.

So it begins.

You press your security code into the door lock, waiting for the quiet beep-beep-beep of approval before shoving the door open to the back office.

Your coworker Jenna looks up at you when you enter giving you a nod of greeting as she zips up her jacket, “How is it out there?”

“Just starting,” you drop your backpack on the built-in bench and take off your stocking cap, shaking out your hair as you ask, “How’s it been here?”

“Let’s just say I’m ready to go home and drink some wine,” she snorts, “Should be a piece of cake for you, though. 202, 203, and 101 checked out early because of the storm, and the check-in today cancelled.”

“Storm of the century,” you mutter, “Merry fucking Christmas.”

“I hear it’s gonna get nasty. Do you really have to stay the whole time?”

You wave her off as you peel off your jacket, “It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry I can’t cover some of the shifts.”

“Really, it‘s fine,” you insist while hanging up your coat, “Bossman said he’d pay me double time to stay ‘til he gets back to town.”

“You’re goddamn right he’s gonna pay you double time.”

Trying to change the subject, you go over to the daily checklist, “Ok, 202, 203, and 101 are gone,” you frown, running over your mental tally of guests, “So, what? Just 302?”

“Just 302. Lucky you.”

“Yeah, lucky me,” you roll your eyes, then look out the window at the snowfall, heavier now, “You better head out before you get stuck here with me and Mr. Fluoride Mind Control.”

“I suppose,” she sighs, grabbing her purse, “Well, have a Merry Christmas?”

“You too,” you smile and meet her eyes as she extends her arms and beckons you closer. You groan, but accept the hug, face pressing against her puffy winter coat.

When she steps back and starts towards the door, she tells you, “Don’t have too much fun now.”

“I’ll try not to,” you snort, “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” she calls behind her as she opens the door, letting in an icy-cold draft of snowflakes before closing it behind her.

You sigh and wiggle the mouse on the computer. The second you do, the service bell dings.

“Fucking already?” you mutter to yourself as you follow the floorplan through the kitchen, into the formal dining room, then finally arrive at the archway to the parlor.

You find the man staying in Suite 302 leaning against the grand piano, thrumming his fingers on the shiny surface.

Wearing pajama pants and a grubby t-shirt, chestnut curls shooting up every which way, he sighs and taps the call bell again. The shrill ding makes your eye twitch a little, but you paste on an amenable smile, “Mr. Bravo, how can I help you?”

He spins towards you and looks at you over his sunglasses, dark eyes flicking up and down your body before settling on your face, “Can I get some towels?”

“Of cour—”

“And can you do that thing where you fold them into animals?”

You furrow your brow and tilt your head at him, lips parting to ask what he means, but he preemptively answers.

“Some hotels fold them into swans or elephants or whatever. You know what I mean? Towel animals.”

There’s no way he’s not fucking with you.

“I, uhh…”

He raps a knuckle on the piano, then saunters off, calling back, “Thanks, you’re the best!”

You stand there for a moment, mouth agape as you watch him disappear up the stairs, thinking: No fucking way I’m doing that.

And yet, half an hour later, you’re sitting in the back office watching a YouTube video on how to fold two towels into an elephant.

Following along with the step-by-step, you make the legs. Easy enough. The head ends up looking like an uncircumcised cock with wings, though. You set it on top of the legs and take a step back, glancing between your creation and the video’s example. As a final touch, you stick a couple googly-eye stickers on it.

“Good enough,” you sigh and tuck the microfiber monstrosity under your arm.

When you arrive at Suite 302, you pause for a moment, turning your ear towards the door. You hear the old wooden floor creaking as he walks around humming to himself. It smells like paint and skunk spray.

You swallow your buzzing nerves and knock on the door, fidgeting a little as you wait.

Inside, a fit of coughing erupts, and he chokes out, “Hang—on—”

His footsteps squeak across the floor to the kitchen. Clink of glass. Water faucet. The coughing stops for a few silent seconds, then he groans and the footstep squeaks grow closer.

A cloud of weed smoke bitch slaps you when the door to Suite 302 swings open.

He frowns at you, crossing his arms in front of his broad chest as he leans against the doorframe, “Hey, uhhh…”

“I got your towels,” you smile, presenting the towel elephant to him.

His eyes drop to the elephant, then he raises his eyebrows, “What is this?”

“An elephant?”

He glances between you and the elephant, flattening his mouth into a line before telling you, “Looks like a dick and balls with googly-eyes.”

The force you use to hold down your laughter makes you snort.

So fucking professional.

Your eyes meet his. An amused smile graces his lips as he takes the elephant.

“Anything else I can get for you?”

“Yeah, can I, uhhh… can I get some snacks? Something sweet, something savory.”

“I’ll see what I can find,” you nod, peering over his shoulder into the hazy room, “Just a reminder, we don’t allow smoking.”

“Oh, it’s not cigarette smoke.”

“I can smell.”

It goes straight from your brain out your mouth, drenched in sarcasm. So fucking professional.

His eyebrows shoot up in a surprised expression.

“I apologize, Mr. Bravo—”

“Oh, fuck that. Don’t,” he chuckles, waving off your stammering, “Call me Dieter, by the way. Mr. Bravo makes me sound like a fucking… karaoke machine.”

“Ok,” you chuckle, then put your customer-facing demeanor back on and tell him, “I’ll go see what we have for snacks. Let me know if you need anything in the meantime.”

He pushes off the doorframe, giving you a nod of acknowledgment as he steps back into Suite 302 and closes the door.

You return sometime later with a silver serving tray hosting a variety of cheeses, dried fruit, olives, spreads, and crackers. When you knock, he hollers to leave it outside the door, so you do.

The remaining daylight you spend cleaning.

Blue Moon Manor has eight suites: one on the first floor, four on the second, and two on the third. Working from the bottom up, you rid the recently vacated units of dirty dishes and trash, then collect the linens and haul them up to the laundry room on the third floor.

By this time, the serving tray you left outside Suite 302 has disappeared. The pot smoke, however, dissipated throughout the entire level. It seems even stronger than the last time you were up here. Almost like he completely disregarded your polite reminder of the no smoking policy.

You decide to table the issue temporarily. If he was still smoking by the time you returned to take his dinner order, you’d remind him again.

The prospect of confronting what your boss referred to as “a very important client” intimidates you, though, if you’re being honest.

Not that you’re particularly intimidated by him as a person or anything.

Sure, he has an IMDb page and some awards, but beyond that, he’s just another entitled guy.

It’s more so the influence he has on your employment that intimidates you. Sometimes your feral mouth speaks before your poorly-domesticated brain can articulate a proper response. If you were to say something combative, and this guy complained to your boss, you’d probably lose your job—a loss you cannot afford.

When it’s time to take his dinner order, you gather yourself before knocking on his door, repeating your script in your head as you wait. Then the door swings open and you’re absolutely blindsided.

He answers while wringing his hair out with a towel. It’s one of the two you brought him earlier. You can tell because there’s still a googly-eye stuck to it, pupil shaking around inside its little plastic dome. The other towel clings to life around his waist, parting to show off a slice of his tan thigh.

Regrettably, you follow your knee-jerk reaction to ogle him, looking him up and down before returning to his expectant eyes.

This results in an uncomfortable staring contest, where you’re trying to make your mouth work and he’s trying to figure out what the fuck you want, as made evident when he asks, “Do you need something?”

“Dinner,” you blurt out, then shake your head, “Sorry, I mean—What’ll you be having for dinner, Mr. Bravo?”

“What’re the options?”

“Chicken roulade or salmon.”

He groans, throwing his hair-drying towel over his shoulder.

“Do you guys have any normal food, or does it have to be upscale bullshit?”

You pause to once again gather yourself, and in that two-second silence he decides, “I’ll take the chicken roulade.”

“Dining room or room service?”

He shrugs, looking over his shoulder into the suite, then back at you, “Dining room.”

“Fabulous. While I’m here, can I take your tray from earlier?”

“Let me get it,” he mumbles, closing the door. While he’s gone, you go over the lines you rehearsed, and when he opens the door to hand you the tray, you tell him, “Just as a reminder, we don’t allow indoor smoking—”

“Look, usually I open the window and use a doob-tube, but, uhhh… the weather outside won’t allow it. I don’t want the wind to fuck up the crank windows.”

“But still—”

“And not that it’s any of your business, but I have a medical condition that I treat with cannabis. This is prescribed to me—”

“What? I’m not—”

“Besides, it should be legal—”

“Ok, you know what? Fine! Smoke away, but don’t be surprised when the manager fines you for it, plus the cost of extra cleaning charges.”

He crosses his arms and straightens his spine, “I can live with that.”

“Great,” you snip, taking a big step back, “Dinner will be ready at six.”

He closes the door a little harder than necessary and you stomp down to the kitchen, fuming the whole way.

Lucky for you, dinner prep involves flattening chicken breasts with a meat tenderizer, which helps tame your frustration. As you follow the recipe, sprinkling seasonings and feta cheese onto the breasts and rolling them up like neat little sleeping bags, potential consequences for your outburst run through your mind. Bad review, getting canned, all that.

Maybe if you hadn’t been dealing with this guy’s shit for the past two weeks, you would’ve been able to handle the situation with a level head. But his haughtiness is fucking grating. He can’t just answer a question or make a simple request. It has to be a whole production that makes it clear: he thinks he’s better than you.

By the time you finish cooking, though, you come to peace with the fact that you’ll probably have to kiss his ass to rectify the situation.

When the grandfather clock in the parlor chimes six times, you plate the chicken roulade and bring it to the dining room, slightly surprised to see him already seated at the table.

“Mr. Bravo,” you smile in greeting.

“Dieter.”

“Dieter,” you repeat as you set the plate down on his place setting, “Can I get you anything to drink? We have a Sauvignon Blanc that would pair well with the chicken—”

“I’ll take it.”

You go to the sideboard and find a bottle of wine. As you pour him a glass, he wrings his hands together and glances around, “Anyone else coming down?”

“Just you.”

“What about you, where do you eat?”

You shrug, setting the bottle down beside his glass, “In the kitchen.”

“You could eat out here.”

“Oh. It’s fine, sir. Really, I don’t mind.”

His nose wrinkles up under his sunglasses and he shifts in seat. You study him for a moment, sensing an air of loneliness about him.

“Unless you want me to join you.”

He shrugs, “Seems silly for both of us to eat alone.”

“So true,” you nod, clasping your hands together, “I’ll uhhh… I’ll be right back.”

When you return with your plate, you sit across the table from him. An uncomfortable silence settles in the room. The kind that makes your skin feel too tight and amplifies every little noise. The chewing, the utensils clinking, the wet swallows, everything seems ten times louder than reality.

Clearly, it’s not just the two of you in this dining room. There’s a third guest, the giant invisible elephant wedged between you.

He finishes his glass of wine and pours another, asking, “Do you want some?”

“I… shouldn’t.”

“Uh-huh,” he raises his eyebrows, looking at you over his sunglasses, “Do you want some anyway?”

You consider it, squishing your face to one side with indecision.

“I won’t tell on you, sweetheart, I promise.”

Your eyes flick to his, finding a sort of amused playfulness there.

“Fine,” you smirk and push back your chair, going over to the wine cabinet to grab a glass, “Just one.”

“No one’s twisting your arm about it.”

You return to your seat and reach across the table to grab the bottle, pouring only a small helping.

“Cheers,” he holds up his glass.

You mimic the sentiment and take a big sip, then tell him, “Mr. Bravo—”

“Dieter.”

“Dieter,” you nod, glancing at your wine glass, “I, umm… I apologize if I was rude earlier.” You meet his eyes and shrug, “If I’m being completely transparent, my boss will have my ass if the whole third floor smells like weed when he comes in next week.”

He watches you as he absorbs this, face inscrutable.

“But if you want, I can show you the back patio. You can smoke out there all you want, I really don’t care about that part.”

Leaning back in his seat, he takes a swig of wine, then says, “Fine.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” you smile.

“Uh-huh,” he sets down his glass, wiggling around a little as he tells you, “For the record, you weren’t being that rude. Well, maybe a little, but… I don’t mind. Suits you better than the bullshit customer service thing you do.”

You blink at him, biting your tongue, then return to cutting your food and making small talk, “Well, I hope you didn’t have any big plans for the holidays. Traveling might be tough the next couple days.”

He shakes his head, “Not doing it this year.”

“Not doing Christmas?”

“Nope. What about you? Do you celebrate Christmas? Any plans?”

“You’re looking at ‘em,” you gesture around the room with your wine glass and take a sip.

“No shit, you have to work?”

“I’ll be working until the storm passes. Tuesday at the earliest, by the sounds of it.”

“Yuck. You guys have a staff bedroom, or do you get to stay in a suite?”

“I have my pick of the empty suites.”

He pokes the food on his plate with his fork, “Which one are you picking?”

You chuckle a little before answering. Maybe it’s your imagination, but you detect a certain vibe coming from him. Not only that, but he’s attractive in a way you’re not entirely immune to.

“I think I’m gonna try a new one each night,” you tell him, “101 for sure, maybe 301 and 203. Not 201–“

“Oh well obviously, fuck 201.”

“Obviously,” you laugh, shaking your head.

He smiles at you, sparking heat at your center, then both return your attention to your food. The rest of the meal passes in a much more comfortable silence. Not wanting to overstay your welcome around a guest or veer further into unprofessionalism, you rise as soon as you finish.

“I’ll get out of your hair, but if you need anything, ring the bell. I’ll be around.”

“Sure,” he studies you over his sunglasses as you gather your dirty dishes, his jaw ticking back and forth, then he says, “Hey, thanks for keeping me company. It was nice.”

You want to tell him you thought it was nice, too. Or maybe say something about how it felt like a mildly off-putting but not entirely unsuccessful first date. Not at all what you assumed it would be like.

Instead, you give him a polite smile and nod, “Of course.”

—

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 8:00 PM

DING

You look up from the cribbage game on your phone at him, just a few strides away but apparently oblivious to your presence. He fidgets with the sleeve of his high-drama fuzzy jacket, shifting his weight from side-to-side. Waiting.

“Hi—”

“Holy shit!” He startles, gripping his chest, “Where the fuck did you come from?”

Before you can stop it, you snort out a laugh, then cover your face reflexively, “I’m so sorry Mr.—”

“Dieter.”

“Dieter,” you nod as you rise to your feet, stuffing your wide grin into a neat smile, “How can I help you, sir?”

“Call me a fucking ambulance for the heart attack you just gave me,” he jokes, shaking his head, then takes a step towards you, “No, uhh… I was gonna step out to smoke, do you wanna join me?”

“Oh—umm,” you chuckle a little, briefly considering the offer before politely telling him, “No, thank you.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” you glance down at his feet, clad in mismatched socks and crocs, “But here, let me clear off the back patio so you don’t have to stand in the snow.”

He shrugs and follows you through the parlor into the dining room, where you tell him, “Just give me a minute, I’ll put my stuff on.”

“Take your time,” he murmurs, going over to the sideboard, “Is this fair game?”

“Help yourself.”

“Do you want one?”

He flips over a lowball glass on display and sifts through the decanters of liquor, plucking out a bottle of finely aged whiskey. A drink sounds good. But the prospect of this virtual stranger fixing you a drink makes you uneasy.

Does he know that it’s just you and him under this roof for probably the next few days? Between the offer to smoke you up and pour you a drink, is he intentionally trying to intoxicate you? Or is he just being cordial?

You realize he’s staring at you, waiting for a response. Heat rises to your face. Shaking your head, you tell him, “I’m fine, thanks.”

He uncorks the decanter and turns to pour whiskey into his glass, so you dismiss yourself to the back office.

After bundling up in winter gear, you grab a shovel, then start towards the dining room. You stop short in the kitchen. The motherfucker walked right past the STAFF ONLY sign and started rummaging through the fridge.

“You’re not supposed to be back here.”

He glances back over his shoulder at you, “Why not?”

“Because—well, because—”

“Can you make me grilled cheese?”

He straightens and closes the fridge door, turning to face you. You, clad in your coat and boots and hat and all that shit, holding a shovel, just blinking at him, mouth agape.

“Right now?”

His jaw shifts to one side as he genuinely considers the question.

“Can I shovel first?”

“Sure,” he shrugs.

“Thanks,” you mutter, then trudge past him into the dining room.

He follows along behind you, through the hall to the back door, asking, “Do you have tomato soup?”

“Probably. Want some with your grilled cheese?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

When you twist the door handle and yank it open, a knee-high snow drift topples over at your feet.

“Jesus Christ,” you hiss and flip on the outdoor light switch to peek outside. A strong gust of wind knocks you back a step, carrying a flurry of shimmering, swirling snowflakes. Your cheeks sting at the icy cold sharpness of it, eyes watering in protest.

What a fucking nightmare.

“Forget it,” you huff, slamming the door closed. You prop the shovel against it and turn to Dieter, pulling your gloves off, “I don’t care, can you just use the doob-tube and turn on the fan in the bathroom?”

“The fan doesn’t work.”

You release a big sigh, tugging off your hat as you lean on the wall and kick off your boots, “Of course it doesn’t. Alright, plan C.”

—

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 8:45 PM

The range hood’s fan roars to life.

“Have at it,” you tell him as you walk over to the sink and unlock the window, pulling it up a few inches.

Dieter pulls a palm-sized wooden container from his coat pocket and leans back against the stove, twisting the top open. A one-hitter pops up from one of the two barrels of the container. He takes it and stuffs it into the dugout, “So, what, we’re all trapped here until the storm passes?”

You cross your arms in front of your chest and shrug, “Theoretically.”

“Figures,” he mutters, then pinches the pipe between his lips. He pulls a pink lighter from the pocket of his fuzzy coat and brings the flame to the other end. The tip brightens to a glowing ember as he inhales.

“I thought you didn’t have any plans.”

He holds the smoke in his lungs and croaks out, “I don’t,” before turning to blow the smoke into the fan intake.

“Are you upset that you’re snowed in with me?”

“It has nothing to do with you, sweetheart” he glances at you, then takes another hit.

“Ok, let me rephrase,” you shift, casting your gaze to the floor, trying to conceal the warmth blooming beneath your skin, “Are you upset that you’re snowed in?”

He shrugs, “I don’t like being stuck places. Especially another fucking hotel.”

“Whadda you mean?” you frown.

Your question hangs in the air while he takes another hit. He grimaces and steps over to the sink beside you, tapping ash from the little metal pipe with his lighter, then returns to his place at the stove and packs another onie.

“Did you ever watch the documentary Beasts of the Bubble?”

You shake your head.

“Don’t, it’s dogshit,” he snorts and takes another hit. On the exhale, he asks, “You know that I’m an actor, though, right?”

You nod.

“Right, well, long story short… Early COVID days, I was out in England shooting a movie and they wouldn’t let us leave the hotel.”

You have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes, sensing heavy dramatics on the horizon.

“They wouldn’t let you leave the hotel?”

“My friend—well,” he wrinkles his nose, “Yeah, my friend. She tried to escape, got her fuckin’ hand shot off.”

“Holy shit, seriously?!”

“Yeah, Lauren Van Chance. Pow! Shot right off. Fucking brutal,” he shakes his head and takes another hit. As he blows the smoke into the fan, he coughs a little, then shakes his head, “Anyway—wait, why am I talking about this?”

“Because we’re snowed in.”

“Oh—yeah. I dunno, feeling like I can’t leave… my therapist said it’s a trigger, I guess.”

“I get that,” you search his face, watching him frown at the one-hitter. Apparently satisfied with how stoned he is, Dieter releases a relaxed sigh and sets the onie down on the counter.

“If it’s any consolation, I promise I won’t shoot you if you try to leave. Like… I don’t know, you might need some snow shoes or whatever, but you could—”

He waves you off, “Eh, it’s fine. It’s just a thing, you know? Makes me feel all fuckin’ cagey and on-edge. Restless.”

You lick your lips and nod, glancing at the floor before you look at him, “Anything I can do to help?”

“Bud helps,” he shrugs, “Talking helps.”

“Does grilled cheese help?”

It takes him a moment to understand what you’re asking, but when he does, he chuckles, “Grilled cheese is basically a fucking Xanax.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then let’s get you a grilled cheese.”

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 10:00 AM

“The Department of Transportation has declared a state of emergency, and urges people to shelter in place as snow will continue to fall in the Twin Cities and across most of central and southern Minnesota through tomorrow. Overnight, some places received as much as 10 inches, with 40 mile-an-hour winds creating drifts—”

DING

Regrettably, your heart skips a beat.

You tuck your phone into the back pocket of your slacks and cross the kitchen, pushing through the swinging door into the dining room. When you get to the parlor, you find Dieter fiddling around with priceless antiques displayed on the shelves of an ornate built-in bookshelf. He glances over at you, “Hey.”

“Good morning, did you sleep ok?”

Nodding, he pulls his attention away from the bookshelf and takes a step towards you, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his pajama pants, “Did I miss breakfast?”

“No, what can I get for you?”

“Denver Omelet?”

“Sure,” you clasp your hands together behind your back, “Hashbrowns? Fruit? Anything to drink?”

“Yes, yes, and yes—coffee, water, orange juice with pulp.”

“Down here or in your room?”

“Here is fine.”

“You got it,” you smile, walking back to the kitchen. The creak of his footsteps mimic yours on the old hardwood floor, so you think he’s going to sit at the dining room table, but the duo whine of the swinging kitchen door takes you by surprise.

You turn to face him, “Oh, you don’t have to—”

“May I?” He holds up the wooden onie box.

“Sure,” you nod, clicking the range hood on, then go to crack the window open.

The soft murmur of the radio fills the silence while you prep his breakfast and he smokes. You absentmindedly hum along to the Christmas music, dicing a green pepper, an onion, and some ham. By the time you approach the stove to start cooking, he’s tucking the paraphernalia away in the pocket of his pajama pants.

“Have any big plans for the day?” He asks as he goes over to the coffee pot and pours himself a cup.

“Ahhh, well… I think I’m gonna knock out some tasks that are hard to do when we’re busy. Inventory and deep cleaning, things like that. What about you?”

He shrugs, leaning back against the counter, “Gonna try to keep plugging away at painting ideas.”

“Oh yeah? What’re you painting?”

“It’s uhhh… it’s part of a series I’m working on, capturing the essence of interesting hotels across the country.”

“Really? That’s—that’s actually really cool. I love that. And you chose Blue Moon Manor?”

“Well yeah,” he sighs, looking around, “It’s gorgeous. The original features are well-preserved, all the intricate woodwork and craftsmanship. It’s unique, I like it.”

“I agree, it’s a special place.”

“I’m just… I don’t know, I’m stuck at the starting line, not sure what to paint. I haven’t found anything here that feels right yet.”

You look between him and the menagerie of omelet fillings sizzling in the pan, “Have you seen any of the other suites?”

“In pictures.”

“If you want, I can show you around today? All the vacancies are made up pretty. You can poke around and see if you find any… I don’t know, inspiration, or whatever.”

“Yeah?” He grins, “That would be… yeah, fuck yeah, that would be amazing.”

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 2:00 PM

You may be in trouble.

Not the kind of trouble punishable by anyone but yourself, but still.

What you mean is that you think you might have a crush on Dieter. Or, more honestly, what you mean is that you know you have a crush on Dieter.

This revelation occurred to you about halfway through your impromptu tour of Blue Moon Manor.

You were standing in the sunroom of Suite 203 while he wandered around, jotting down notes and taking pictures on his phone. The snow fell heavy outside, coming down in thick wet clumps that made it difficult to see beyond the border of the property. Everything blanketed in a pristine, shimmering white.

A deep sense of isolation plummeted your heart to your feet. Christmas Eve, when people all across the world gathered with loved ones, and you were working. Not that your empty one bedroom apartment missed you much. At least if you were there, you could lay in bed eating raw cookie dough while watching your comfort tv show. Throw yourself a proper pity party.

So, there you were, wallowing in your circular loneliness, going around and around the drain of self-pity, when Dieter approached you.

“Hey, you alright?”

You snapped out of your trance and looked at him, finding something very earnest and knowing in his eyes. It surprised you. He didn’t strike you as the kind of person who generally cared about what others were feeling.

“Yeah, just… thinking about how much I’m gonna have to shovel,” you chuckled, brushing off his concern.

“Sorry, you just looked… I don’t know, kind of sad.”

“I’m fine,” you assured him with all the sincerity of someone whose pants were on fire.

“Uh huh,” he studied you for a moment, then looked down at his phone and shook his head, releasing a big sigh, “I think I’m ready to move on.”

“Alright, follow me,” you pushed off the window and walked past him. As you did so, you misjudged your space and brushed up against him.

Pure negligence or subconscious desire, you’re still not sure, but the contact was a static shock. This quick jolt of heat that made you gasp and jump away from him, stammering, “Oh shit. Sorry, I, um—”

He chuckled, a handsome, dimpled smile stretching across his face, “It’s fine.”

“I’m embarrassed,” you blurted out. As if it wasn’t obvious enough.

“Don’t be,” he shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged, “Accidents happen.”

“Ok,” you laughed and buried your heated face in your hands, then regained your composure and said, “Ok, let’s see Suite 201.”

“Is that the shitty one?”

“It’s not shitty,” you snorted, starting towards the door, “It’s perfectly fine, just not as glamorous as the rest of them.”

“Uh huh. Like the ugliest Miss America contestant.”

“Sure—”

“Or the uhh… the smallest blue whale.”

“Yeah, I mean—”

“Suite 201 is to this hotel what Def Leppard is to glam rock.”

“Wow, ok,” you laughed, ushering him through the doorway into the hall, “Yeah, I think you got it.”

The whole dumb interaction is all you can think about. It plays over and over again. That look, the accident, Def fucking Leppard. The rush of excitement you feel when you see him or even just think about seeing him.

It is undeniable.

You have a big fat crush.

So fucking professional.

For what feels like the hundredth time, you lose count. You toss your clipboard down on the stack of fluffy white towels in defeat, scrubbing your hands over your face.

Maybe a cleaning project would be more productive. The first floor common rooms need dusting, or you could scrub the floors, or prep dinner, or blah blah blah… god, it all sounds so fucking boring.

Curiosity prods your heart.

You tiptoe through the laundry room, out into the third floor hallway, and linger there for an indecisive moment, listening to the low bass of his humming to himself and the thick pulse behind your ears. A few cautious steps towards Suite 302 reveals a DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging from the doorknob.

Rejection takes the shape of a stone in your mouth, heavy and hard and cold as you swallow it down. It settles uneasy in your gut.

Dusting it is.

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 6:59 PM

Every minute that drags on feels like an eternity.

The grandfather clock in between the library bookshelves mocks you.

Tick-tock-tick-tock

Begins to sound more like:

He-doesn’t-like-you

You glare at it, then down at your phone, swiping away a low battery warning to continue playing cribbage.

Outside, the wind snarls. Blue Moon Manor groans in resistance, and you wriggle deeper into the sofa cushions, telling yourself: Five more minutes then I’ll check on him.

It’s so dumb.

Really, you know how it sounds.

But not once has he put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign. For two weeks, he has been consistently demanding, never letting more than three daylight hours go by without asking for something.

As soon as you let yourself feel some affection for him?

Can’t get far enough away from you.

He-doesn’t-like-you-DING! DING! DING! DING!—

You sigh at the clock.

—DING! DING! DING!

“Fuck’s sake,” you mutter.

The lights die.

All white noise drops except the crackle of the fireplace, howling wind, and ticking clock.

“Fuck.”

Two floors up, something clatters to the ground, then Dieter hollers something unintelligible.

Well, he seems chipper.

You climb off the couch while googling power outages in the area.

Footsteps thud down the steps onto the first floor landing.

“Hello?”

“I’m in the library,” you call, not looking up from your phone as you text your boss.

His steps draw closer, then there’s a light in the doorway.

“This place is so fucking creepy in the dark, Jesus Christ,” Dieter hisses, “What’s the deal?”

You squint up at his dim figure, “Storm took out the power. I texted the manager to see if there’s a genny.”

“Genny?”

“Backup generator,” you turn on your phone’s flashlight, “Sorry for the inconvenience, I’ll go see if I can find some lighting if you wanna wait here—”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, sir—”

He gestures for you to lead the way, so you start towards the back office with Dieter hot on your heels. Once inside, you go over to the desk and pull open a drawer, fish out a headlamp, and slide it around your head. When you press the on button, a beam of light shoots from your forehead onto the desk.

“Cute,” he teases.

You look at him, unintentionally shining the light in his face.

He steps back and shields his eyes, “Jesus!”

“Ope. Sorry sir,” you stifle a laugh, grab a second headlamp from the drawer, and hold it out to him, “Do you want one?”

Grumbling under his breath, he takes it from you and slides it over his fluffy hair, then turns the light on.

“Ok, this is pretty sweet,” he admits as he starts wandering around the room, “I feel like a miner or something.”

“There should be a tote in here somewhere that has a bunch of candles,” you tell him as you start rifling through cupboards. When the search comes up empty, you try the closet, where you find a big purple tote labeled CANDLES.

“Here we go,” you pull the heavy container out into the room.

“Want me to carry that?”

The offer holds about as much conviction as a drain holds water. He leans back against the desk, plucks a pen from the pencil cup, and starts doodling on your daily checklist. Barely interested.

“No, I got it.”

You lift it and shuffle past him, slightly demoralized, then immediately bump into the doorway, “Oop.”

His headlamp blinds you, making you wince, then he chuckles, “Here.”

Dieter pushes off the desk and steps towards you, laying a gentle touch to your shoulder.

When you forfeit the tote, you notice the dark smudges dried onto his hands and forearms.

“Were you painting?”

“Yeah,” he awkwardly adjusts his grip, then starts back the way you came. You follow behind him, trying to aim your light at the ground by his feet.

In the kitchen, he says, “It smells good in here.”

“Probably the roast I made for dinner,” you pause for him to maneuver through the swinging door into the dining room, “I can get some for you after we get the candles going.”

He holds the door open with his foot and waits for you to pass through the threshold before setting the bin down on the dining room table.

“Thanks,” you say as he steps aside.

The white candles come in three shapes: pillar, votive, and stick. All of them unscented, so when you pop off the lid to the tote bin, the only thing you can smell is wax and dust and old flames.

You grab a half-melted pillar and ask, “Hey, do you have a lighter?”

He rummages through his pockets and pulls one out, then takes the candle from you. The flint sparks into a tiny flame that he holds up to the wick until it ignites, casting a warm golden glow onto the walls and ceiling. You pass him another pillar. The pads of his fingers brush against your hand when he takes it, sending your heart racing.

“Hopefully this isn’t a uhhh… weird or alarming thing to ask—”

“Oh god, what?”

“Is there anyone else here?” He lights the pillar and hands it to you, “You’re the only other person I’ve seen around.”

You take the lit pillar and set it down shrugging, “There, aren’t umm… no, it’s just me and you.”

“Oh.”

Where hyper vigilance should be, that old warning to not take candy from strangers, or not to turn your back on a man you don’t trust, something hungry and loud starts to grow. A devastating need for him to creep closer. For him to cross the boundary of what might be considered moral or right in such a situation. To touch you in ways that inspire heat between your thighs.

He doesn’t, though.

He just helps you light candles and strategically place them around the common rooms on the first floor, uncharacteristically reserved. You both remain quiet while you go about doing this, but the silence isn’t entirely uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence that feels more like a peace treaty than a punishment.

Your phone buzzes with a notification, and you pull it out, reading the text message out loud, “We don’t have a backup generator.”

“Shit.”

“And power might be out until Tuesday.”

“Tuesday? Are you fucking serious?”

“I apologize, sir—”

“Don’t do that,” he scoffs, shaking his head, “That whole… hospitality voice thing.”

The words come out sharp and bitter.

Your blood pulses hot, and you hear yourself say, “I’m a hospitality worker, exactly what tone of voice do you expect I use?”

“Like I’m a person, not a fucking client or whatever. I’m so sick of that shit, everywhere I go people kissing my ass,” he goes to the sideboard and flips over a glass, pouring whiskey while attuning his voice to a feminine, mocking tone, “Oh, Mr. Bravo, sir yes sir, do you need anything? Do you want a snack or a nap, do you need to be swaddled, do you want your dick sucked?”

He pauses to take a swig of the liquor.

Meanwhile, steam might as well be coming out of your ears. Just fucking boiling with rage, needling the red danger zone.

“I hate it. You all talk to me like I’m a goddamn toddler, it’s so fucking annoying—”

“Oh, fuck off. I’m annoying?”

He leans back on the sideboard and blinks at you, swirling the whiskey in his glass.

Stomping over to the liquor display, you pour a drink and seethe, “Ever think that maybe if you didn’t act like a fucking toddler, people wouldn’t treat you like one? I mean, for Christ’s sake, dude. You literally take a nap every afternoon and demand we cut the crust off your sandwiches. Last week you threw a temper tantrum because we put tap water in your sippy cup.”

“Ok, first of all that was a water bottle. And, have you ever tasted the water here? It’s disgusting. Not to mention the fucking—”

“The fluoride, I know,” you roll your eyes, “I know I know I know. It’s gross and contains fluoride and tastes like blood or whatever the fuck—”

“I did not say it tasted like blood,” he quips, pauses to take a sip, which you mimic, then he adds, “It does, though, for the record.”

“My point is that… If everywhere you go smells like shit, maybe you should look under your own shoe. You dig?”

For a moment, you can’t read him. He stares down into his glass, twisting his wrist around in a way that draws attention to the thick-banded rings on his fingers. Then he glances up at you, a smirk playing on his lips, “That’s perfect. Can you just talk to me like that from now on?”

Your head jerks back, and you let out a little scoff, “What, like a bitch?”

“No,” he chuckles, “Like… I don’t know. Real. Real-er, anyway. You seem cool. You, though. Not your toothless, sanitized worksona.”

“Jesus,” you scoff into your glass, shaking your head, “I’m not sure what to say to that.”

“Anyway. I just mean… talk to me like I’m a person, not a fucking guest or whatever.” When you look up at him, he shifts a little and adds, “Please.”

You hold his gaze long enough for your stomach to flip, then chicken out, dropping your eyes to your glass, “Sir yes sir.”

He lets out a chuckle, shaking his head, “Uh-huh.”

You appraise the remaining whiskey in your glass, then tip it back, wincing at the burn as you set the glass down.

“Do you want me to bring some candles up to your room, or will you be dining down here?”

“Will you be joining me?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yeah, of course,” he shrugs, “If you’re not busy.”

“I think I can squeeze you in,” you tease.

His tongue pokes out to wet the seam of his lips, then his smirk breaks out into a big, boyish smile, “You think so, huh?”

The innuendo makes itself clear. Your face heats up and you snort, “Shut up.”

“Hey, you said it, not me,” he raises his hands defensively, following you as you start towards the kitchen, “Is it cool if I smoke?”

You push through the swinging door, holding it open for him, “I can’t turn the fan on.”

“Uh-huh,” he ambles over to the counter beside the sink and casually hops up onto it, “Is that a yes or a no?”

After taking a moment to weigh the pros and cons, you sigh, “Just… blow it out the window, ok?”

So he smokes while you pull the roasting pan from the oven and prepare two plates, piling on potato wedges and green beans and hearty slices of roast beef. You wrap up your activities simultaneously, then move back to the dining room.

While you set the table, he goes over to the wine cabinet and asks, “Wine?”

You hesitate, once again contemplating the pros and cons of answering in the affirmative. If the wine goes to your head, you could make a mistake. On the other hand, maybe it would help untangle your knotted stomach. Make it easier to converse with him.

“Don’t feel like you have to say yes,” he adds when he notices your trepidation.

“Fuck it, why not?”

So fucking professional.

With his back turned to you, he surveys the bottles displayed in the wine cabinet, “Pinot? Cab?”

“Actually, I was thinking of breaking out the 2016 Cos d'Estournel.”

He looks over his shoulder at you, “The what?”

“Left side, second row from the bottom,” you point to it from across the room, “Dark bottle, white label.”

Once he finds it, he lifts it from the rack and studies it, “Cos d'Estournel. Ritzy stuff,” he sets it on the table between your seats, “What’s the occasion?”

“What is this, a role reversal?”

He grins at this. Then, as if committing to the bit, he strides over to pull out your chair. When you raise your eyebrows at him, he smirks, “Humor me.”

You roll your eyes a little as you sit down, but truthfully, your heart stutters.

Dieter walks back to the cabinet and picks out two wine glasses, “So? The occasion?”

“I don’t know,” you frown, “Well, I mean, I do know, but it’s hard to explain.”

He doesn’t say anything as he twists a corkscrew into the wine bottle and yanks out the cork, then pours the rich red wine into one glass, and the other.

“It’s just… I don’t think I’ve been in a situation like this before. It’s strange. The storm, the holiday, the manor, the-the you.” He smirks, sliding a wine glass over to you, and you give him a nod of thanks, “I feel like anything could happen or nothing at all and I wouldn’t be surprised either way.”

Again, he doesn’t respond, but a thoughtful expression creases his face as he takes the seat across from you. Not sure what to make of it, you ask, “Does that make sense?”

“I know what you mean, yeah,” he leans back in his chair and swirls the wine around in his glass, meeting your eyes from across the table, “The possibilities within the confines of these walls are endless.”

The way he looks at you conjures impure thoughts. Hand between your thighs, nails digging into his back. Bending you over the table and pulling your hair.

You raise your glass in the air, “To the possibilities.”

“To the possibilities.”

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 9:30 PM

You sit at either side of the lush Victorian sofa in the library, cashmere blankets draped over each of your legs. Illuminated by the warm glow of candelabras and the crackling fireplace, you flip through a book on palm reading while Dieter draws in a sketchpad.

For a while, he seemed quite engrossed in the project. Brow furrowed, hunched over the pad of paper as he scribbled. But with each monotonous tick-tock-tick-tock from the grandfather clock, he starts to stir more and more.

He finally tosses the sketchpad down beside him, leaning back and letting out a long groan, “I’m so boooorreeeeed.”

“Drama,” you tease, peeking over your book at him, “Can I do anything to help?”

“Can I open another bottle?”

“Go for it.”

Dieter jumps to his feet and clicks on his headlamp. The dancing beam of light fades out of sight as he walks into the hallway.

With a sigh, you look down at the book and try to continue reading, but keep losing your spot. Your attention instead is drawn to the fireplace. Its flickering flames seem to pull you into some kind of a trance, coaxing out bite-sized daydreams and nightmares, trying to predict what will happen when you and your fresh new crush start drinking in the dark.

What happens if we get drunk? Would we fuck? Would we fight? Would he be mean? Or pushy? Would I make a fool of myself?

You sit here for a while, letting these tiny fires burn out in your brain, so engrossed that you barely notice Dieter mosey back into the room.

“Hope wine is ok,” he says as he clicks the headlamp off, then he sets out two wine glasses and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon on the coffee table.

“Of course, sir.”

He snorts and shakes his head while leaning over to twist a corkscrew into the bottle.

“Sorry. Habit.”

“Don’t sweat it, sweetheart,” he yanks the cork from the bottle, then pours out two servings, “What’ve you there?”

“Hmm?”

“The book.”

“Oh,” you hold it up to show him the cover, “Cheiro’s Palmistry for All.”

He holds out a glass to you. You set the book aside and take it from him, crossing your legs to get more comfortable.

“Palm reading?”

“Yeah,” you chuckle, “I don’t know, it seemed interesting.“

“Have you ever been to a palm reader?”

Shaking your head, you take a sip of wine. Then another. A warm buzz tingles on your tongue and you ask, “Have you?”

He nods, “Yeah. Well, kind of. I dated this girl who dabbled in divination,” he takes a big gulp of wine, then sets his glass on the coffee table and moves closer, gesturing for your hand, “Here.”

“You know how?”

“I picked up on some stuff,” he shrugs.

Leaning forward, you place your glass next to his and bring yourself closer, extending your hand to him.

He holds it like a fragile thing, gentle but steady, “Is this your dominant hand?”

You nod.

Smoothing a thumb over your palm, he coaxes you to unfurl your fingers. His skin is warm and soft on yours as he examines you, thick fingers tracing the creases of your palm.

It feels nice. Intimate, almost. No thanks to the wine and ambient lighting.

“This side shows your conscious mind. Your life right now,” he clears his throat and says, “You’re perceptive, intuitive, a little moody. Emotions tend to run the show, but you’re also a realist. You have a passion for life and adventure, but often find yourself paralyzed by the reality of your situation, leaving you in a constant state of dissatisfaction. Logical, hard-working. You’re independent. You’ve had financial and emotional hardships. Not many serious romantic relationships, mostly flings. But this doesn’t mean you don’t get attached easily. You do, but tend to put up walls to protect yourself and disconnect before it gets too serious.”

Static vibrates through your skin. An eerie, frantic feeling of being seen too close for comfort. You swallow hard and study his face, too afraid to confirm or deny its accuracy.

“Cup your hand,” he instructs, guiding your hand to do so. Furrowing his brow, he examines the soft fleshy bits on your palm, poking and prodding them, “You have a temper, but you’re shy. You’re cynical. Closed-off. Reliable, because you have to be, but you wish you could just say fuck it and run away sometimes. That’s umm… that’s who you are in practice. Other hand.”

You give him your non-dominant hand. It’s shaky and sweaty and as he takes it you chuckle, “Sorry, I’m… nervous.”

Grinning, he glances up at you, “So I’m doing well, then?”

“Yeah,” you gulp, heat rising to your face, “It’s… yeah. Hang on, can I…?”

You take your hand back and wipe it on your pant leg, then reach over to grab your wine glass, swallowing the remainder of your wine. He does the same, then refills them.

While this is happening, you can’t help but notice the thick current of electricity pulsing between you.

You take turns stealing fleeting glances, and when you return to face each other, legs crossed, you’re much closer than you were before. Your knees meet his, maybe probably definitely crossing the line of what is considered appropriate distance for you to have with a hotel guest. Neither of you seem to mind, though.

In fact, it seems like quite the opposite.

As you extend your non-dominant hand to him, he huddles even closer, so close you can smell the Bordeaux on his breath, and cradles your hand in his.

“This side shows your natural tendencies. Who you are in theory, who you will be if you follow your intuition,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to yours, then back to your palm as he slides his index finger along a deep, diagonal crease, “First of all, your fate line is strong. If you follow your intuition, you’ll succumb to it.”

“Ominous.”

He frowns and shakes his head, reverentially tracing the sensitive map of your palm, “No, actually. You’ll have a crisis or two. One big one, at least, some kind of a revelation that causes you to upend your life. But it sets you on a path of vitality and happiness and strength. A few smaller ones, not as momentous, but still significant. The hopeless romantic you are, you’ll fall in love hard and fast, but that’s the one that sticks. You freely express your emotions and feelings. It’s… I mean, it seems good. Who wouldn’t want that? Cup your hand for me, sweetheart.”

You do.

He smooths his thumb over the mounts and divots, tilting his head at them, “You’re stubborn and you have a strong sense of self. Hedonistic. Imaginative. You daydream a lot. I don’t think you’re as reserved and shy as you let on. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism you learned along the way.”

You look up at him, finding his eyes locked on yours. A deep longing bubbles up your spine and you feel yourself lean in a little closer. He continues caressing your hand, dropping his gaze to your mouth, and asks, “Do you want my advice?”

“Sure.”

“I think you should follow your intuition. See where it takes you. I think… you need to let go of whatever reservations you have from the past, because it’s holding you back from a beautiful life.”

There’s a part of you that boils red and hot with denial. It screams from the back of your head that this is all bullshit, he’s just trying to fuck you, to use because he’s bored and tipsy.

But really, you know he’s right.

You know you’re dissatisfied with your white-knuckle, fake smile existence. You ignore your desires and inner-most knowing in favor of security. You attribute more weight to the negatives than the positives in every aspect of your life.

“You’re saying I should follow my gut?” you ask, studying his face.

He brushes your palm with his thumbs, “Yeah. I think so.”

You look down at his touch, hesitantly bringing your unoccupied hand to his forearm, allowing yourself to feel his warmth, “But what if it’s wrong? What if I make a mistake?”

“But what if it’s right?”

Meeting his eyes, you recognize the longing in his heavy-lidded gaze. You bring your hand to his cheek, sliding your thumb across his patchy facial hair, heart pounding, nerves buzzing as you close your eyes and lean in.

His soft lips meet yours. A gentle, questioning kiss that flips your stomach upside down. You pull back to make sure it’s ok. He seems to do the same, dark eyes flicking around your face before slipping a hand behind your head and pulling you back in.

The second kiss holds more conviction. A spark that ignites you both, quickly leading to the third and fourth kiss, at which point they start to blend together, a mess of tongues and spit and gasps.

You climb onto his lap, straddling him, pressing your body onto his. Through the fabric of his pajama pants, you feel his hardened excitement and use it to your advantage, rolling against him to gain friction. He grabs your hips and rocks them in sync with your movements, groaning into your mouth.

Heat builds steady at your core, tingling and gushing through your veins, screaming for more more more. Aching to feel the warmth of his skin on yours, you slip your hands under the hem of his shirt and slide your palms up his back, pulling him closer.

He parts from your lips to take off his shirt. You do the same, unbuttoning your shirt and tossing it aside, then reach back and claw at your bra clasp.

“Let me,” he signals for you to turn around. You do, climbing onto your knees with your back facing him. His fingers ghost along your spine, leaving a trail of twitching, hungry nerves in their wake.

“That feels good,” you tell him, arching your back with a whine.

“Good,” he murmurs, continuing the tedious touch, “I wanna make you feel so fucking good, sweetheart. Is that what you want?”

“Yes.”

When he unclasps the bra, you slip it off while he slides a hand around your belly and pulls you back into his lap.

He leaves a trail of kisses from your shoulder to the nape of your neck, where he stops to massage his tongue against you. A moan erupts from your throat at the tingling, hot sensation it cultivates. His hands roam around your body, over your breasts and ribs and abdomen, activating all those often-neglected nerves, but never staying long enough to bring relief.

“Fuck, Dieter,” you whine, “You’re teasing me.”

“Maybe,” he chuckles, smoothing a palm up your sternum and urging you to lay back onto his chest. You follow the suggestion and recline against him, head resting on his shoulder. Your skin buzzes where it meets his, the warmth of him flooding your brain with feel-good chemicals. He drags his fingers along the soft skin of your belly, making you whimper.

“But it feels good, doesn’t it?”

You nod.

“Don’t you want to savor it?” He cups your breasts and rolls your nipples between his fingers and thumbs, sending a rush of pleasure to your head, “Don’t you want me to show you how good it feels when you finally let go?”

“Yes,” you gasp, nodding, eyelids fluttering closed, “I want it, I want it—”

“Good,” he coos, pinching your nipples harder, “I want it too. Wanna see you fall apart in my hands. Will you let me do that for you, sweetheart?”

“Yes.”

He releases your tits and tugs at the waistband of your pants, “Take these off for me, will you?”

You roll off the couch onto your feet, facing him as you slowly tug at your waistband, teasing every inch of skin you reveal. He watches you with lust-blown eyes, palming himself as he drinks in the spectacle.

“Underwear too?”

He nods.

You hook your thumbs under the soft fabric of your bikini, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“I wanna see it.”

“You wanna see it,” he mutters, chuckling a little, “Ask and you shall receive, Princess.”

He shimmies out of his pajama pants, keeping his eyes on yours as you slide the underwear down your thighs. His thick, hard cock bobs out and waves hello.

“Fuck,” he sits up and rests his warm palms on your hips, glancing between you and your cunt, “Look at this pretty pussy, holy shit. Come here, baby. Come sit on my lap again.”

“If I sit on your lap, will my Christmas wish come true?”

“Maybe,” he smirks and leans back onto the sofa, tugging on your hand to follow. You turn around and carefully lower yourself onto his thighs, his knees between yours. Guiding you closer, he murmurs in your ear, “Tell me what you want, sweetheart, I’ll see if I can make it happen.”

You lay back on his chest, once again letting your head rest on his shoulder, and stroke his cheek as you tell him, “I want you to touch me.”

“I can do that,” he chuckles, kissing your forehead as his hands begin to wander, sliding down your sides to your hips and thighs, between your legs to pry them apart, “There we go, baby.”

When he touches your entrance, you both groan. His cock twitches against your back. He drags his fingers up and down your seam, spreading your slick, hissing in your ear, “Fucking soaked for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

“Uh-huh,” you whimper, nodding, watching him pet your swollen clit so soft and slow it sends sparks of need up your spine, “That feels so fucking good holy shit—”

“Yeah? You like the way I play with your sweet little cunt?”

“Oh my god—I do, Dieter, I do.”

A feral noise rumbles in his chest, and his fingers pick up speed, working in quick, tight circles as he pants in your ear, “I love it when you say my name. Sounds so fucking good on your lips. Say it again for me, baby.”

“I love the way you touch me, Dieter, please don’t stop.”

“Wouldn’t fucking dream of it, sweetheart. I just wanna make you feel good, make you feel so fucking good—”

You moan when he sinks one thick digit inside you, making your body buzz with pleasure. Your eyes flutter shut and you reach back, blindly carding your fingers through his hair, caressing his cheek, his neck, tugging on his earlobe, anything you can do to ground yourself and somehow repay the ecstasy accumulating thick and hot inside your belly.

He kisses your palm and asks, “Do you want more?”

A sort of strangled noise comes out of you, but you nod in the affirmative, and he obliges, sliding another finger inside you. They rut in and out at a steady pace, keeping tempo with his undulating touch on your clit. Heat branches out at the center of you, coursing through your veins, making your heart race.

You gasp and nod, “Keep doing that, Dieter, don’t stop please don’t stop holy shit—”

“You gonna cum for me, baby, hmm? Cum all over my fucking fingers?”

“Yes yes yes yes yes—”

Your whole body clenches as the feeling grows and grows, reaching a precipice.

“That’s it, sweetheart, let it go,” he pants in your ear, and when you plummet over the edge, whole body twitching with blinding pleasure, he coos, “Theeere we go—”

You whimper and clamp your legs shut, letting out a series of gasping breaths as the waves of your orgasm pulse, then start to peter out. Your tensed muscles go limp, and you open your eyes to look up at Dieter, “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah?”

He gives you a boyish grin that makes your chest swell with desire. You sit up and turn around to face him, straddling his lap with his cock pressed hard against your wet, throbbing pussy.

Tracing the curve of his lips, you purr, “I have another Christmas wish.”

“What’s that?”

You roll your hips, gasping at the pressure of him against you, “I want you to fuck me.”

He moans, eyelids fluttering and lips parting, head falling back against the sofa as he grabs your hips and silently urges you to keep going. You whimper and start to move to the rhythm of his suggestion, sliding up and down his length.

“Wanna feel your cock inside me,” you breathe, brushing his cheek with your knuckles, meeting his dark, wanting eyes, “Want you to stretch me out and make me yours—”

“Holy fucking shit—”

“Do you want that?” you coo, searching his face.

“God yes, please, baby.”

You situate the tip of him at your entrance and hook your hands behind his head, then lower yourself down.

The stretch of him is exquisite. He activates every nerve ending he touches with an aching, hungry need. Your mouth falls open with gasping breaths and pathetic little whimpers, and you hear Dieter groan, “So fucking tight, Jesus Christ—”

“Feels so goooood,” you croak, closing your fists in his hair.

He sucks in air through clenched teeth, digging his fingers into the meat of your ass, and rocks you back and forth, each thrust rubbing along something absolutely devastating. You blink your eyes open to meet his, all lust-blown and wide with awe, searching your face. His hand slides up to your face, cupping your cheek, brushing his thumb against your heated, damp skin.

“Kiss me,” he pants, reeling you in.

You fold over on top of him, meeting his lips with desperate urgency, a frantic exchange of messy kisses marked with gasps and moans. As the heat in your belly grows, you roll your hips faster, and he thrusts up into you, parting from your lips to growl, “You take my dick so well, sweetheart—that sweet pussy feels so fucking good wrapped around me, oh my fucking god—”

“Feels so fucking good, Dieter, don’t fucking stop,” you whimper, pressing your forehead against his, nodding in approval as he grabs your hips and fucks up into you hard and fast, “Oh my god, just like that baby yes yes yes—”

He captures your lips in his and you both moan into the heated, needy kiss, static building and building, spreading hot from your center. It feels so fucking good your eyes start to tingle and swim with tears, and you cry, “I’m gonna fucking cum, don’t stop—”

“That’s it baby, just let go, let it go, let me feel you—”

“So fucking good—Ffffuck—”

The force of your climax steals your breath, ecstasy pulsing liquid static through you, then yanks you down from the clouds and sends you crashing into the earth. Your body convulses and you let out a choked sob.

“Oh my god—oh my god, fuck,” his hips stutter and he pulls out, stroking his cock to completion, shooting hot ropes of cum onto your bodies with a moan.

Both of you remain rigid for a few moments, chests heaving, silently reveling the sweet rush of release before going slack. You collapse on top of him, eyes closed, and release a content sigh as you play with the damp curls at the nape of his neck.

He hums and wraps his arms around your middle, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, “How do you feel?”

“Amazing,” you chuckle, “Wow.”

“Wow is right,” he snorts, then pets your hair and asks, “Any other Christmas wishes?”

After thinking about it for a few seconds, your lips part with an answer, but you chicken out and close them.

“Hmm?”

“It’s dumb.”

“Uh-huh,” he pulls back to meet your eyes, “Tell me anyway.”

You chuckle a little, tracing his jawline, “It’s ok.”

He just blinks at you, waiting, so you swallow and shrug, “I don’t want to sleep alone.”

He hums, pressing a kiss into your forehead, then your cheek, “Do you wanna spend the night with me?”

“Is that weird?”

“I don’t think so. Do you?”

You shake your head.

His gaze drops to your mouth, and you lean in to kiss him. It’s warm and soft and sparks hopeful optimism in your chest, like this is something and not nothing.

When he pulls back, a sly smile spreads across his face, “Your place or mine?”

—

MONDAY, DECEMBER 25TH, 8:00AM

When you wake in Suite 203, it takes a moment for the events of the previous night to catch up to you.

The power going out, the candlelit dinner, the palm reading, the best fucking sex you’ve had in your life.

Was it a dream? Did that actually fucking happen?

But when you hear rustling from the other side of the bed, and feel an arm slip around your waist, pulling you back into his chest, reality punches you in the gut.

You stay still and wait for Dieter’s breath to fall back into a pattern of soft snoring, then slip out of bed and take a shower. With the power still out and the blizzard still raging outside, it takes a bit of guesswork to navigate the process in the dim bathroom, but you emerge successful.

When you tiptoe back into the bedroom, Dieter is still sleeping. You get dressed and go downstairs to make some coffee and think about your decisions.

For an hour or so, you pace around the kitchen island, ruminating over the things he said to you, the things you said to him, the way he made you feel, and the reality of your position in life versus his.

What felt good and right last night takes a different appearance in the harsh light of day. He could hurt you in so many ways if he wanted to. He could get you fired. He could be using you. He probably doesn’t actually care about you, he was just bored and horny and you were wrong this isn’t something, it’s nothing and you’re no one—

“Hey.”

You freeze and look up at Dieter, standing by the fridge in a soft chartreuse bathrobe.

“Hey,” you flash a nervous smile and wave, “How’d you sleep? Can I get you some coffee, anything to eat?”

He frowns, squinting at you, “Why’re you doing that?”

“Doing what?”

For a few seconds, he just stares at you, letting tension twist your guts to shreds, then he drops his gaze to the floor and nods, “Ok. Ok sure.”

Your whole body turns to cement. Cold and heavy and unmoving.

He walks over to the French press and pours a cup of coffee, “So… you’re having some regrets, and you’re gonna go back to this now? Miss hospitality?”

You swallow down a feeling like fire, avoiding eye contact as your vision blurs with tears, “I don’t know, I’m just… I’m just kind of freaking out, I guess?”

“What’re you freaking out about?”

“I guess it’s just that you were right,” you shrug, wiping at your eyes, “You know, with your palm reading. I get attached easily and, I don’t know… I don’t wanna scare you away because, umm… yeah.”

When he doesn’t say anything, you glance up at him, finding a warm smile on his face. Surprised at the expression, you sniffle, “What?”

He approaches you, still smiling, “Because you like me?”

Heat rises to your face. You hold his gaze, watching him lean back on the counter beside you, and you mumble, “Maybe.”

His smile grows wider, digging out dimples in his cheeks, “Yeah? Maybe a little bit?”

You shrug.

“And you think that’s gonna freak me out?”

Again, you shrug.

“Come here, sweetheart,” he murmurs, tugging on your hand. A fresh wave of tears floods your eyes when he wraps his arms around you, stroking your back as he assures you, “I like you too.”

“You do?”

“Cross my heart.”

“You’re not gonna get me fired and ruin my life?”

“What? No—I mean, I hope not. Unless your boss somehow finds out you got dicked down in the library—”

You laugh through the tears, “Oh my god, that would be a fucking nightmare.”

He chuckles, pulling back to look at you. You hook your hands behind his head, and the two of you stare at each other for a few seconds, humor fading from your faces, then you whisper, “This is… this is something, though, right? I’m not crazy?”

“I think it’s something,” his eyes flit around your face, and he shrugs, “You know, I’m a lot like you. I, umm… I tend to keep people at a distance, because I fall easy and hard and yeah… it’s scary. But, I don’t know. I have a good feeling about you.”

You nod, glancing down at his mouth, “Intuition?”

“Yeah,” he smirks, leaning in closer. His lips press against yours, giving you a slow, tender kiss that blossoms in your heart.

When you pull back, he tells you, “I do have one immediate problem, though.”

“What?”

“I don’t know how to ask you to make me breakfast without sounding like an asshole.”

“Like that’s ever stopped you before.”

“Wow. That’s it, I’m docking a star from my review.”

“Uh-huh,” you grin, running your fingers through his messy hair, “I cannot imagine what your review of this place would be.”

He takes a deep breath, then puts on an infomercial voice and says, “Four out of five stars. Gorgeous building, the food is amazing. Truly unique place. One of the employees let me eat her pussy for breakfast—”

You snort with laughter.

“—could not recommend enough. Deducted a star because she said I was an asshole.”

“Lovely, but you did not eat my pussy for breakfast. I’m sure I would’ve remembered that.”

“Not yet I didn’t,” he waggles his eyebrows at you, sneaking a few kisses as he herds you backwards onto the kitchen counter.

—

MONDAY, DECEMBER 25TH, 6:00PM

After breakfast—real breakfast, not oral sex in the kitchen, which was a treat in itself—Dieter went up to Suite 302 to finish the painting he wasn’t able to finish yesterday.

On paper, you had a very busy day. Your daily checklist gives you credit for every single item and some extras.

In reality, you cleaned up the messes made yesterday, which mostly involved washing dishes and following a wiki-how on getting cum out of velvet, and put together a charcuterie board for whenever dinner would happen.

With the remaining daylight hours, you laid on the chaise in the parlor, then the bed in Suite 203, and flipped through books of poems, and successfully resisted your many urges to disrupt Dieter’s work.

The snow stopped overnight, but the blizzard continued to howl all day. Strong gusts whirled the freshly-fallen snow through the air like some kid shaking up a snow globe. But when sunlight started to fade, so did the wind. Everything settled in its place, and the thick blanket of white finally became distinguishable from the nighttime sky.

Inside Blue Moon Manor, Dieter completed his painting, then crawled into bed with you. Apparently it had been just as difficult for him not to disrupt his own work.

He said he thought about you all day. He said he wanted to say fuck it and put the painting on pause to spend time with you, but felt he needed to finish it. He wanted to show it to you after dinner.

Naturally, your nerves have been buzzing since.

You insisted on an earlier dinner, blaming the lack of a lunchtime meal, but the look on his face when you made the argument made it clear he could see right through you. He didn’t mind, though. He helped you pour out glasses of wine to pair with the charcuterie board, then the two of you set everything up beside the fireplace in the parlor and fucking demolished it.

Afterwards, you washed the dishes while he smoked pot by the window. You didn’t even care if your boss smelled it anymore. It seemed trivial.

As Dieter tucks away his onie-box in his pocket, you recount the thought to him. He hops down off the counter and scoffs, “I mean really, what would he do? Fire you?”

“I don’t think he even can. There are three people that work here, and I am by far the most reliable.”

“I believe it,” he takes your hand, leading you from the kitchen to the dining room, “Tell you what, if my smoking gets you fired, you get to stay here with me and make his life hell.”

You laugh at this, shaking your head, “Yeah, ok.”

He turns around, “What, you don’t believe me?”

“No, I believe you. I just think it’s the kind of bet someone knows they’ll win.”

“And winning in this case would be, what? You keep working this dead-end job while I drive myself crazy thinking about you?”

“Hey—it’s a good job,” you release his hand and cross your arms in front of your body.

“No, that’s not—” he sighs, glancing around as he shifts his weight from side-to-side, “It’s a fine job, I just mean… I don’t know what I mean. I mean I wouldn’t mind it, you staying with me. That’s all.”

Searching his face, you deadpan, “That’s so romantic.”

“God, I can’t wait for you to see this,” he chuckles, then takes your hand and pulls you along, “Come on.”

You follow him through the dining room into the dark hallway, where you pause to turn on your headlamps, then climb the service stairs to the third floor, coming to a stop in front of Suite 302.

“Alright, lights out,” he clicks the off button on both your headlamps and leads you through the doorway, then the pitch black room.

“Ok, it’s probably gonna look weird in the lighting, but,” he turns your headlamps on, and you gasp.

The canvas shows a sunroom with windows of blinding white light. Suite 203. And there you are, staring out the window, shadows falling over your face.

“Dieter—”

From behind you, he slips his hands around your waist and kisses your cheek, then tells you, “I was taking pictures, you know, on the tour you gave me. And… I don’t know, I saw you there and took a picture because you just looked so…”

“Sad? Lonely?”

“Kind of. More like a, uhh… a palpable kind of longing. Sorrow and isolation. Like you’re looking for something or someone, but you don’t know what.”

You reach back and cup his cheek, brushing your thumb against his patchy facial hair.

“I wanted to capture that because it is… exactly how I’ve been feeling for years. Just so fucking lost and alone.”

Butterflies flutter around in your stomach, and you whisper, “You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

“Neither do you,” he murmurs, “Better yet, people all over the country will see you and know they’re not alone, either.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod, your light bouncing around the canvas, then say, “It’s fucking beautiful, Dieter. What’s it called?”

“Once in a Blue Moon.”

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #dieter bravo #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #dieter bravo fic #dieter bravo smut #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo fluff #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x f!reader

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chronically-ghosted · 2 months

Text

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

rating: E for Explicit! 18+

word count: 8K

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, 6:43PM

No, I’m not doing it. I’m not.

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

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

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

– more liquid –

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

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

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

Tuesday, 8:23PM

OW! Motherf–

– a skillet clattering –

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

– sharp inhale then a cough –

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

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

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

Tuesday, 9:21PM

No, fucking–

Siri – how.do.you.treat.a.burn?

Calling. . . Burger King . . .

No! Fuck!

Tuesday, 10:49PM

Paul-y! Baby! Paul-ito!

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

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

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

They’ll eat it up.

Fuck yeah, they will.

– silence for three minutes and sixteen seconds –

Fuck acting, man. Fuck this place.

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

Tuesday, 11:52PM

Paul, why don’t we hang out anymore?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not a good influence, ol’ Dee.

Not a good –

Wednesday, 1:05AM

Fine, Paul. Fine.

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

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

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

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

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

We.

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

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

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

Fuck this downer mood.

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

Goddamn Burger King . . .

The front doorbell rings.

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

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

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

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

“Uncle Dee?”

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

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

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

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

I thought you were a fucking ghost.

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

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

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

This feels a little bit like that.

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

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

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

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

He chews on his lip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, holy shit, those tits –

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

You cannot do that to her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. Not at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Certainly not anyone who called him Uncle Dee —

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

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

Nope. Absolutely not.

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

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

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

“Hey, I’m done. Dee, you still here?”

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

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

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

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

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

“D’you have mayonnaise? Butter?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Probably.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not that any of that would be happening with you.

He wasn’t a complete monster after all.

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

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

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

“Such a gentleman.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck, I can’t believe I said that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No fucking way, I love this movie.”

Dieter stilled. “Really? You do?”

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

That’s gonna be me some day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The movie goes on.

Nicholas Cage is Nicholas Cage with a mullet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck, that’s a such a good movie.”

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

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

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

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

You nodded, still not looking at him.

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

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

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

“Just . . . Nothing, it’s stupid.”

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

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

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

Just the two of us.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He frowns. You bite your lip and continue.

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, fuck.

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

It’s The Look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DANGER. DANGER, WILL ROBINSON. DANGER.

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

End of Part 1 | Next

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

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idolatrybarbie · 6 months

Text

for my fifty follower celebration! @bastardmandennis asked: dieter bravo and prompt no. 5— "ghosts aren't real, except when they are." it's scary story experiment...i haven't written horror in probably two years. enjoy the pretty graphic if nothing else.

rating & word count: mature | 2.8k

warnings: referenced substance abuse, mentions of alcohol, dieter is sober, one song-based joke (please get it plsplspls), reader is gender neutral, a good ol' haunting tale.

It’s late. How late? Excellent question.

You’re technically on vacation—one week out of fifty-six, when your boss takes his annual trip to Seoul to “unwind.” You’ve never asked him what that means, exactly. Better not to know what Dieter Bravo gets up to in the name of relaxation.

For the past thirty-four months, you’ve been working with the Hollywood troglodyte, following him around the world and across productions to take notes and document the goings on of his life. All of this in the hopes of ghostwriting his tell-all book. Technically, you were supposed to start outlining a manuscript this spring. The publisher doesn’t think you have enough material yet to make the memoir appetizing. What they don’t realize is that Bravo is not a very appetizing man.

He’s…odd. From the moment you first shook hands with him, you’ve felt an off presence surrounding him that you still can’t quite place, even almost three years later. He treats you more like an assistant than anything, asking you to fetch him coffee or an eight-ball; the request varies based on his mood. His actual assistant, Carla, is a bit of a shadow. Still, she’s there to share anxious backseat smiles with you on the way to Dieter’s red carpet appearances, a silent shoulder to lean on.

Sitting on the broken couch of your one bedroom apartment, you’ve lost focus of the Word document on the screen of your laptop. You’ve been transferring the last two months of paper notes to digital copies for the last three hours, resenting the task the longer it takes. Dieter wanted to experience the Swiss Alps before the first day of autumn, dragging you to the mountains for a six week stay. Apparently, they don’t have mobile connection at four thousand feet.

The thought crosses your mind to call it a night, leave the rest ‘til morning. This is your only real time to rest, after all. Before you can act upon it, though, your phone buzzes beside you. “Entry Of The Gladiators” blares from the pinhole of a speaker. The song has a Pavlovian effect on you, meeting the song with a sigh and the tick of your jaw.

“Dieter,” you answer, holding the phone to your ear.

“You picked up,” he says.

“Why are you calling?” You can’t hide the irritation in your voice. Shifting your laptop off of your thighs, you stand and stretch, wedging your cell between your cheek and shoulder.

“I just—I thought—”

“Aren’t you in South Korea?” you ask. Aren’t you supposed to be bothering someone else?

“Came back early. Got a bad vibe,” he says.

“A bad vibe?” you ask. “Come on, Dieter. That trip was important.” Important for you to have a social life for a sweet seven days, but also for him, too. If you remembered correctly, he was supposed to have a business meeting with Genesis Motor about starring in their new campaign of overseas commercials.

“I rescheduled with Genesis, everything’s fine. Don’t bitch at me,” Dieter says.

“I’m not—” you stop yourself, pausing mid-pace on the worn shag of your living room. Thirty-four months, and this is how he’s treating you? “You know what, fuck you. Fuck you, Dieter. My one week off from your crazy goddamn antics, and you’re fucking it all up. I’m done. Done.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” he urges.

“Calling the publisher in the morning, so you can find yourself a new ghostwriter.” Satisfaction rolls through you as you hang up on him, the tiny button on your screen giving you power. Yeah, fuck that guy. You plop back down on the on the couch, pulling your laptop back to you. Going through your hard drive, you start to load every file from the past three years with details on Dieter into the recycling bin.

Cold air rolls in from the window, cracked ajar to keep patchouli incense smoke away from the dingy plastic alarm on your ceiling. The rattling outside barely catches your attention, another noise lost to the wind. You blink. Blink again.

You know that feeling, like someone’s watching you? It’s a sense you’ve become mighty acquainted with in the last handful of years. Following a megastar around like a toddling penguin in his entourage tended to pull some attention back on you. When you look up your name, there are a handful of Variety articles, a PopCrave tweet or two that show up. A snapshot of your professional life, all in relation to Dieter. Over time, it’s gotten less uncomfortable. People love celebrities, and they just want to see them. Harmless.

But this feeling…you don’t want to look up from your screen. Continuing the task of putting every last document on Dieter in the desktop’s recycling bin, you switch over to a new tab when you’re done; search for something unimportant, waiting for this to pass. Your breath catches in your throat, heart skipping a beat. Finally, when you can’t fight the urge anymore, you turn and look.

Nothing. The smog-ridden navy sky of Los Angeles meets you with the pathetic twinkle of a far off star. You breathe in through your nose, then out again in a deep sigh. Nothing. Nothing’s there.

Exhaustion claims you when you aren’t paying attention. Your sleep is dreamless, for the most part. You hear a subtle dripping the whole night, searching for the source in the dark. With your eyes closed, the task is impossible. You let the noise come closer, long and loud enough now that you learn to tune it out. Nightmares of a leaky faucet; how odd.

You wake up in the bathtub, laptop beside you, pressed between your clothed thigh and the fiberglass. The faucet leaks steadily above your head, water dripping down onto your skin. It’s gotten all over your face, at the edges of your hairline, in your eyes. Spluttering, you sit up. Your scalp is damp. Water has seeped into the collar of your shirt. Certainly you didn’t settle on the idea of a bath in the middle of the night.

Before you can question it more, your cellphone rings from another room. Scrambling out of the tub, you almost slip and fall against the wall tiles. Getting a grip on the edge of the tub, you step a foot at a time onto the bathroom floor and pad to the living room. Your phone is wedged between the cushions of the couch. Wrenching it from the fabric, you answer on the last ring.

“Hello?”

“I need to see you.” Dieter. Again.

“Dieter, my mind hasn’t changed since last night.” Looking at the clock on the wall, it hasn’t even been twelve hours.

“This isn’t about that,” he says. “Can you just come over?” It almost sounds like he’s begging…almost.

“Look, I’m busy today.”

“Tonight then.” His voice cracks, and you can only imagine the wiry, wide-eyed man on the other end of the line. “Please,” he whispers.

In all of your time spent with Dieter Bravo, you have never heard him use his manners—much less ask for something with such desperate politeness tacked onto the request.

“Okay. Okay, fine. Tonight. Just…don’t do anything stupid, alright?” you ask.

“Yeah. Okay,” Dieter agrees. Then the phone call dies.

You really don’t have anything to do today, the Friday of your week away from Bravoland. Sitting on the couch, you look around your apartment, taking stock of the life you’ve cobbled together here. Instead of pride or nostalgia, it fills you with dread. The glassy frames holding photos of family and old friends make your skin crawl, their resin paper eyes boring holes into you as they stare. A chill crosses over your body, prickling at your arms. You go to close the living room window to find it already shut.

You stay out of the living room, hiding away from a sense of unease in your bedroom. Still, it lingers in your doorway. That watchful sense returns. Your eyes stay open, glued to the ceiling as you lay down. You can’t leave, but you can’t sleep. Keeping your eyes open seems to be all you have—like letting them flutter closed would be an invitation for the unease of the apartment to waltz in and consume you.

Time slows to a drag, the sun absent from the sky as the day passes you by. The grey light from the window bathes everything in an uncanny dullness. Your laptop still sits in the bathtub. When night finally falls, you exit the apartment without looking back. The door closes behind you with a slam. You don’t even touch the handle.

The drive into the Hollywood Hills is the only moment of peace you’ve had since you woke up in that bathroom. You refuse to acknowledge whatever is going on at your place. You’re overreacting. All the work has set you on edge, and now your mind is playing tricks on you.

Yeah, that’s what it is—the work. Fatigue. All those late nights transferring and taking notes, or following Dieter to club after club, waiting for him to finish snorting a full 8-ball outside bathroom doors. Most nights blur together these days, the only thing that differentiates them being the photographs you take and the date you write at the top of your notepad. Your calendar is dependent on what colour tie Dieter wears on The Tonight Show or Kimmel every handful of months.

The Bravo mansion is modest in comparison to some of the architectural monstrosities out this way. Still, it manages to intimidate you every time you see it. Slowly, you pull up to Dieter’s place and park in the cobblestone drive. If you squint, you can see the Hollywood sign through a thick pack of warbling trees.

The sun is not shining down on the house today as it usually is. Even here, on land deemed the pinnacle of both the American and Hollywood dream, the sky is painted an ugly pewter. The building looks shadowy in its height, the twin pair of art deco doors no longer a quirky, eccentric detail of the house but a gaping maw. The small windows that frame them, a result of Dieter’s obsession with triangles, look like raw and jagged teeth. You don’t bother to lock your car when you approach the front steps, using the metal knocker at the door.

It only takes a few moments for Dieter to appear, opening one door and giving you a once-over. He’s still in his pajamas, missing his usual lounging robe. The lack of sunglasses present on his face indicates to you that he’s not hungover (yet).

“You look like shit,” is the first thing he says to you.

“I can still go home, you know.” Taking a step back, you raise a brow at him and angle your body back towards your car. The threat is empty, of course. Nothing could send you back to that place; might as well sell it now.

“Shit—sorry. I’m sorry, come in,” Dieter corrects himself.

The door opens wider with the length of his arm, and you duck in past him. The air inside the house is permeated with must, a mix of mildew and unsettled dust. Usually, the sight of Dieter’s mansion reminds you of general unwash, not a horrible monster house. Today is special.

“So?” you ask, faux-irritation lacing your tone. “You wanted me over here. You know it’s my week off, right?”

“There’s something wrong,” Dieter says immediately. He peers around the edge of the front door before it shuts. He locks the door, then reaches up to fasten the deadbolt.

Immediately, that tells you that this is serious. Forgetting the unease at your own apartment, you ask, “Is your stalker back? She’s out there, isn’t she?”

“What?” Dieter asks. “No, it’s not that. Nothing outside.”

He walks past you and deeper into the house, leaving you no choice but to follow.

“What do you mean, outside?”

“There’s something wrong in the house,” he explains.

“Like…”

Dieter looks around, giving each shoulder a hyperbolic check. Then he walks closer, so close that you can smell his breath—bubblegum toothpaste and cigarettes. Your heart speeds up a little, the proximity eliciting a light jog in your chest. It’s not like man has never been this close, but the last time…

“A haunting,” he whispers.

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you, an airy chuckle that pushes Dieter back a few feet.

“Come on, Dieter,” you say.

His face pulls tighter, look severe. “I’m serious.”

“Are you high?” you ask. “I don’t smell any alcohol on you. Did you take something? Because I can call your sponsor if—”

“Will you listen to me?!” he roars over you. In the three years you’ve known him, Dieter has never yelled. He gets a little wild, antics more than slightly crazy, but he doesn’t raise his voice. You watch him closely, eyes wide, as he recomposes himself. “There is something wrong in this house. I can’t sleep, can barely eat. It feels like—like I’m never alone. Moreso than usual, okay? I’m waking up in strange parts of the house, and my shit’s in places it shouldn’t be. And I called Brad,” his manager, “and he thinks I’m full of shit. Thinks I’m on another bender. I just…fuck. I just need you to believe me.”

You blink. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Dieter parrots. His eyes are all glossy, ready to spill with fresh tears. You thought that you had seen all of this man, the barest and ugliest parts of him. Now, you see you were wrong. He looks sad. Scared.

“I believe you,” you sigh. “I believe you. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“We could leave,” you suggest.

“No, no,” he insists. “I don’t think it’ll like that.” It.

“So then, what?”

“Stay here? With me,” Dieter says.

You should say no, heart racing now as blood rushes hot through your brain. Instead, you nod and follow him to his home theater, where he seems to be camping out. Dieter has too many candles lit not to be a fire hazard, with bagged snacks and bottles of water strewn about the floor and the plush horseshoe couch; the middle is stuffed with the same plush cushion as the back of the seats, making it more of a circular daybed than anything. Blankets are balled up at one end, two beaten up pillows next to them.

Dieter has the radio playing off of the luxury sound system, the large projector screen dark.

“I don’t think it likes noise,” he explains.

Dieter asks you to sit with him through the night, listening to shitty pop songs, car commercials, and every once in a while, FM radio static. He says the static is it, a creature he refuses to elaborate upon. He fists his hand into the blankets each time the station cuts out and turns to white noise.

This goes on for almost two hours. You start to get bored, and more pressingly, tired. Sleep calls to you, your mind settling the weirdness before as your imagination, and whatever is going on here a facet of Dieter’s. Is it possible for two people who haven’t seen each other in days, and live on opposite sides of town, to share in the same delusion? Surely. They had a name for it—folly of two.

That must be it. Working for a celebrity has finally driven you mad.

Leaning heavy against the cushions of the couch, you allow your eyes to slowly slip closed. Before the world disappears entirely, something is shaking you awake. No, not something, but Dieter. His wide palm is grasped over your shoulder, swaying you back and forth violently in his grip.

“What? What is it?” you growl.

“You can’t sleep,” he says.

“You’re fucking kidding me.” Your irritation skyrockets as you sit up, pulling out your phone to scroll through your contacts.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling your goddamn sponsor, so he can do his fucking job and I can get some shut eye.”

Dieter says your name; you ignore him, pressing ‘call’. “Please, don’t do that.” He tries to grab the phone from your hand, but you get up from the couch, out of reach. You want to believe him, you do, but you have no faith. You can't do this anymore; won't entertain the delusion any longer.

The line rings for thirty seconds before the sponsor finally picks up.

“Hi, is this Jo—” you stop yourself. A deep, heavy breathing sounds off from the other end of the line. “Hello?”

“Hang up,” Dieter whispers, shaking his head. You raise a finger at him. “Hang up!”

He moves from his lax position, kneeling up far enough to snatch your cell phone away and end the call.

“What the fuck?”

“It’s—”

“There is no it!” you yell. “There is nothing here, Dieter! No one is out to get you, or watching you. No one cares, okay? Ghosts aren’t real.”

Dieter watches you, and you watch him back. Holding a steely gaze, you don’t register the fizzle-pop of light bulbs around the two of you until they’ve already exploded. Shards of hot glass fly from the fixtures and land on the carpeted floor. All at once, the flame at each wick of Dieter’s candles is snuffed out. You stand still, frozen in complete darkness.

Dieter uses your phone for light, the screen illuminating the hollows of his face.

“Except when they are.”

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedrostories #50 followers

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contritecactite · 6 months

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Radio Omens time!! Strap in for my subjective personal opinions made by one person about the full-cast radio adaptation of Good Omens.

We're gonna begin with: I am blowing kisses to the scripting/editing/production team. This thing is an impeccable adaptation. Im-pecc-a-ble. The voice talent is fantastic, the energy is stellar, the pacing is excellent, and the sheer amount of atmospheric info they managed to translate into radio-friendly format? Mwah mwah mwah. I think it's the kind of listening format that's not for everyone, but it is SO for me.

Time for some specific highlights! It was a long day so we're a little extra silly this time. It's also long and not in a reasonable order.

(Ok good my page cut is working this time.)

- Good GOD I forgot the primary voices were Like That. I shrieked (happily) as soon as Aziraphale's mouth opened. This is why I travel alone /hj

-- (Incidentally, I said "oh fuck holy shit I can't do this" when Crowley started talking, but I did it anyway *sighs in bisexual*)

- Hheeeennghsh the opening scene in Eden is. The way it's written successfully sets up who Aziraphale and Crowley are, who they're supposed to be to each other, and a hint at who they're going to be to each other later because they are SO delightfully snippy at one another in this scene. Aziraphale's "oh, it's you" and Crowley's "mmhm, yeah, well done on keeping demons away. Bravo" (heavily paraphrased) will be living rent-free in my head until I have time to write a fic about it.

- So, having Aziraphale do the early narration is an excellent way of setting the tone. What I need you to do, if you've only done tv omens (which is so so valid and I think really is another excellent adaptation), is remember Aziraphale's magician persona. And then imagine him being that for the entire story. The pitch, the rate of speech, the slightly frantic energy, the drama: it's all just part of his overarching character in radio omens, and it's SO good for storytelling.

- Radio Crowley knows what's in all of Aziraphale's infamous Bibles so well that he can quote them. I love this detail, I love it as a means of establishing their relationship during their "let's be godfathers" scene, and I love how hard he's ribbing poor Aziraphale about the extra verses in Genesis.

- Radio Crowley is SO like... tender? I mean, all Crowleys are to some extent Soft but something about this one has just a little extra something. I love the way he talks about his temptations and shenanigans. He's so proud. It eases what could feel like needless exposition because he really seems to like explaining his process.

- That's a bit of the same of what I mean about Aziraphale's personality. Since he's very obviously inclined to dramatize a story, exposition just fades neatly into his character rather than grating on the nerves.

- They reference The Arrangement a lot and usually with a great deal of affection. There's one particular time when they even acknowledge something about wanting to protect each other.

- I adore the way Anathema and her ties to Agnes are introduced. It's so concise but meaningful, and it's just the right amount of setup for her character appearing later.

- The baby swap scene in other iterations relies so much on descriptive narrative or visual language, but you know what? The heavily trimmed down version also works surprisingly well.

- Crowley knows about the hellhound way beforehand (and, of course, he tells Aziraphale. They plan their roles for the party years in advance, which is an extremely efficient way of communicating about that scene to the listener).

- At Warlock's party in the book, Crowley gets all suspicious about a gerbil being gifted to him. In the radio drama, Aziraphale wonders aloud if the gerbil might be suspicious and Crowley tells him not to be stupid. Just struck me as a funny thing to shuffle around.

- Adult radio Anathema is everything to me actually.

- Poor Newt's childhood gets skipped over (unless I missed it, which is possible), but I liked his adult introduction as well; it brings in the whole Witchfinder-adjacent cast at once and makes it super clear how they all know each other without lingering.

- Shadwell. Just. The actor's voicework is so evocative of someone who is very gesturally expressive. There's no way he wasn't swinging his hands around in the recording space.

- The Them are all 100% perfect. Shout-out to Adam for that mind-rending scream that I was not expecting to go on for so long. Interestingly, in chapter credits, the Them are not grouped with the humans! This makes sense, but it also made my brain go !!!

- The horsepeople (both original and extra) were also so good, and that chunk of the cast gave the impression of good chemistry, so the scenes were really fun.

- Crowley says Aziraphale's name a lot. A lot a lot. Actually, most people do; probably for simplicity's sake, there's no "Mr. Fell," or "Nanny Ashtoreth," just "Mr. Aziraphale" and "Mr. Crowley."

- Well, Shadwell does say "Mr. A," and there is a Brother Francis.

- One of Nanny's rules for Warlock is "don't talk to the creepy gardener" rkahjdjs Crowley what is wrong with you

- I did in fact let out another sound when the Nanny voice happened. We're not talking about it.

- When applying for the jobs, Aziraphale just straight up calls dibs on gardener and Crowley complains and says something like "can you see me in a skirt?" and Aziraphale just pulls a date at random on which he'd seen Crowley in a skirt. This was probably also in the book, but I noticed it here and didn't there.

- Crowley's idea of something calming to listen to was a radio gardening talk show ;~; and he likes listening to televangelists for the lulz (I have never used that phrase before in my life but I'm keeping it)

- Having him hear Aziraphale possessing the televangelist was absolute genius for keeping the plot cohesive.

- Seance scene continues to be painful ahahaha...

- Hell's emissaries know that Aziraphale was discorporated and they're mean to Crowley about it in a way that implies Hell has long been aware that they're working together. Intriguing...

- There's mention at some point about how no homes in Tadfield have PlayStations or Xboxes, and I think that's a cool bit of writing to establish the time period (along with Newt bricking smartphones, which I think was said at least in breadcrumbs).

- Almost forgot, but Mr. Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett being the policemen trying to book Crowley for speeding in the beginning is so cute.

- When Satan is about to show up, Aziraphale worrying about everyone else and Crowley going "and me!" like hello, I am also in danger, that's my boss?? if u even care?? was SO funny in this version to me.

- Look, there were a lot more things, but it's already been several hours since it ended, so I'm sure I'm forgetting many.

- Oh! Pepper's backstory being transformed into her speech to Adam was SO good on so many levels. It really drove home that Adam does love his friends, it deepened their lore gradually, it made Adam's role and decisions very clear, and it also struck me as "Pepper says trans rights" even if that wasn't the intention, so hell yeah.

- The gag reel leads me to believe that Peter Serafinowicz is A) probably the funniest person alive to work with and B) extremely relatable due to the amount of time spent on the struggle bus. Also whoever put the breaking glass sound over all the accidental swears, I love you forever.

#good omens #radio omens #reading notes #cactus chatter #maybe i just need a new tag like “dran being unreasonably feral about good omens for way too many words”#suggestive #maybe?

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wannab-urs · 1 year

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The Spreadsheet Digest Vol. 2 - Fic Recs

Here's everything I added to the Pedro Fics Spreadsheet in the last week with my unedited ramblings attached (the notes I make immediately after reading, often unhinged).

Surrender - a Joel series by @ezrasbirdie

-> ofc daisy, grumpy/sunshine but the sunshine has depth and the grumpy isn't mean. ellie is excellent in this

Hayloft - a Joel WIP @atinylittlepain

-> dancer!reader (stripper), cute awkward joel, smutty smutty smut. reader is kind of soft!dom?

High Enough - a Joel/Dieter series by @psychedelic-ink

-> Actor!reader and your bodyguard Joel hookup with Dieter Bravo at a party and it is SO hot

Short Days, Long Nights - a Joel series by @frannyzooey

-> post outbreak!joel but it's also domestic bliss. the filth is filthy but the slow burn makes you work for it. This is gorgeous and beautiful and sweet but also so fucking hot!

What he didn't do - a Joel one shot by @joelsgreys

-> divorced!reader and Joel finally go on a date after he's been crushing on you for 10 years and it's very cute

Build Me Up Buttercup - a Joel series by me

-> You're failing Dr. Miller's architecture class and you decide to confront him about it.

Best Laid Plans - a Dieter series by @prolix-yuy

-> Dieter Bravo, legendary Hollywood playboy and a tabloid’s best friend, never thought he was worth much more than a good night to a parade of faces. Until Murch, the editor on his film, turns his world upside down. Now he’s got big plans to do the same as he drags her into the deep end of his hedonistic life. He’s got a guy for everything, but she’s got something he’s always wanted - a big enough heart (and patience) for him to fit in.

Breaking the Girl - a Joel one shot by @cinematicgf

-> Your boyfriend sucks, but you go home with him for the summer anyway. His neighbor and boss Joel Miller is decidedly not an asshole. And he's really hot.

Me-use - a Claude ;) one shot by @boliv-jenta

-> Just fucking trust me you have to read this

Toyin' with them older guys - a Joel one shot by @proxima-writes

->Hot bartender joel fucks with your sex life... and then ya know

The Babysitter - a Joel one shot by @proxima-writes

-> Babysitter reader seduces single dad joel and it is everything you could ever hope for, but it also leaves you wanting more (in the best way possible)

Push and Pull - a Joel one shot by @javiscigarette

-> Dom!Joel, pretty fuckin rough sex, but like Joel is a consent king and the aftercare is so sweet.

Deserve it - a Joel series by @fake-bleach

-> Joel's wife is cheating on him but it doesn't really matter bc you're giving him the best blowjob of his life

A Girl Walks Into A Bookshop - an Ezra series by @oonajaeadira

-> Ezra owns a bookshop and you get pulled into his store one day. This is the softest, most beautiful little story. Give yourself the gift of reading this please.

Vaya con Dio - a Dio one shot by @atinylittlepain

-> Dio thinks he has it all figured out, but you put him in his place

This Will Be The Day That I Spy - a Jack series by @oonajaeadira

-> You go on a blind date with Jack and it's full of surprises

Restoring the Roots - a Joel series by @bearsbeetsbeskar

-> Tommy and Ellie try to convince Joel to see a therapist... This is going to be really good...

A Long Day - a Javi P one shot by @jkprincess10

-> Have you ever wanted to rim Javi Peña? If not, you will after reading this

The Living Waters of Mandalore - a Din one shot by @beskarandblasters

-> Din discovers your uhhh living waters... and he's really excited about it

There's a lot of Joel on here this week... I was going through something lmao. I tried to throw in a few other guys for y'all too though.

Enjoy <3

#fic recs #The Spreadsheet Digest #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro fics

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ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff · 7 months

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Star-crossed in the Crosshairs (John Price x Reader)

Chapter 6: Hint of the Century

Fic Summary: This mission is the pinnacle of your efforts for the past three years. Your whole team and yourself have worked countless hours, slaughtered hundreds, risked life and limb for scraps of intel, and now it all boiled down to pairing up with another taskforce to get this job done and dusted. An unexpected spanner in the works comes in the shape of your former best friend, now also a Captain and somehow resurrected from his KIA status, John Price.

You can’t afford to let feelings - old and new - get in the way of your purpose. No matter how much you’ve missed, wished for, loved him, and no matter how much he might feel the same.

Content warnings: Usual COD content (violence, torture, death, guns), mutual pining, back from the dead, friends to allies to lovers, Reader is GN, some use of Rory.

Chapter 5 // Masterlist // AO3 Version // Chapter 7

There were two main reasons behind “Nerve” becoming your nickname around base twenty years ago: you had a lot of it, and you could get on anyone’s. As you rose through to the rank of Captain, you attempted to sever your nerves and burn them so you couldn’t feel anything anymore. But you’d just exposed their ends. Sometimes you were grateful, because your humanity made you a better soldier, reminded you of why you did this fucking horrendous job. However, today, it meant you were exposed to more pain from anyone who noticed and exploited it. You didn’t think Price would be one of those, using his history with you to call you by your name, expose you on the battlefield and in front of the Sergeant you’d reprimanded for feelings you also had. For the love of God, did he have no pity?

Your heart was hammering, sending your breath out of sync with the rest of you for a few seconds before you regained command of your senses.

“Anyone got eyes on Čiernik?” You asked down the comms as you shot down yet another of your opposition. These guys were coming out of the walls, you could’ve sworn.

“Negative, Cap. Taking the top level now,” was your reply, from Chance still leading your charge.

Meeting the barrel of Bravo team’s leader’s gun, you let Ghost lower his weapon instead of pushing it away whilst you replied, “Block the stairways, and get me eyes outside. He’s not getting out of this building unless it’s with us.”

Four more spots were cleared before you made it up onto the roof-terrace. A vacant table and chairs sat beneath an obsolete umbrella. A gentle breeze blew as you surveyed Nemšiná, still as soulless as it was when passing through. It inspired a dull pride that your work was finally paying off. All those yearsČiernik spent building his arsenal and you were ploughing through it like toy soldiers beneath your boots.

You heard Bronze over the wind picking up and blustering around your gear, “Sierra-7, this is Sierra-10. Building is cleared but no sign of Čiernik.”

“Copy that, Sierra-10. Begin reconnaissance.”

There wasn’t any sign of Shepherd either, you noted. Despite the obvious collaboration and the fact that this was Shepherd’s property, you’d yet to find something here that indicated he had ever been to it.

“Bravo team, Sierra team. We are all clear, but Čiernik’s location is still unknown. Search the place for intel and any signs as to where he might’ve gone.”

Maybe he was hiding in the walls.

Bravo team dispersed beneath your feet, back down the levels to the rest of the rooms, leaving just you with Ghost to sift through the room that connected to the stairwell to the roof. There was nothing besides the cabinet that covered one of the walls entirely but the contents of the cabinet were plenty. Ghost handed you a file labelled “Expenses 2022” and you began to sift through the most recent of entries – Excel spreadsheets mostly with precious little annotated after they were released from a printer.

A flare of ache arced through your side and you pressed against it as tenderly as you could.

“You alright?”

Your head swung round to face Price with all the calmness you could manage, “Fine. How’s the head?”

“Still a bit stiff.”

You snorted at his Hot Fuzz reference, spying behind him a laptop bag tucked at the back of an open cupboard. Ghost met your gaze then grabbed it down. You offered your black box from your pack, but instead he passed the laptop over.

“Ghost, a word?” Price nodded behind him. The two men trailed off, leaving you to get started on loading up the laptop. It would at least be a bit faster seeing if it had anything useful than the paper copies. Tapping in your key, the loading screen popped up, ready to transfer all its contents to your server.

Only one pair of steps returned to the room, and you could tell who by the gait and weight.

“Where’s Ghost?” You asked without turning.

“Coordinating on the second floor.”

“We don’t need two Captains in one tiny room.”

“Not even when I’ve got you a present?” You were hoping it was intel, but you were still receptive of the ice pack he crushed and tossing over, which you caught one-handed, “Chance said you ran into a sledgehammer?”

“If anything, it ran into me,” You snipped back. A sigh crawled out your mouth as the instant coolness spread through your shirt and onto your sore torso. Allowing yourself the luxury of slumping, you leant your free hand on the desk beside the laptop, staring at the loading bar filling up at a snail’s pace. “Ta.”

“Don’t mention it,” Price moved beside you.

“You find anything else?”

“Nothing interesting.”

As you plugged your black box into the laptop and began unlocking it, you noticed Price’s hands as he pressed both nearby to lean in at the laptop screen. His watch was off and so were his gloves, revealing on his wrist what – to any other onlooker – appeared to be a shit tattoo of a shit firework. The faded fuzzy diagram of a nerve cell, ripped straight out of a biology textbook and inked onto his skin forever, made your gut twist.

“You alright?”

A shiver passed across from your right shoulder to your left. You pretended it was caused by the icepack.

“Peachy keen,” You tore your stare from his tattoo and focused on not clocking yours, Sick with hypocrisy, imagined Crash downstairs still torturing herself over what you’d said to her.

“I want you on the first floor and update me on the status of the teams. And don’t call me Nerve again.”

Price’s hands pulled his gloves back on, settling onto his gun, “Of course. Sorry. You know what they say about old habits.”

Fuck’s sake, you couldn’t help but love him, whether he called you by Nerve or by name, whether he was here, abandoning you, or ordering you to leave him for dead. Blinking rapidly, you checked the progress on your black box whilst flicking back another tab in the “Expenses” folder over the sound of his boots hitting the stairs.

A pattern under “Properties” caught your gaze: Nemšinian postcodes and house numbers, one after the other, listed with their worth in the following column and a serial number in the next. Your black box was almost complete; you’d be able to sort those codes in a few minutes.

“Sir, we’ve got incoming on all sides from Nemšiná. Five group, and they brought their night vision this time.”

Folding up the laptop and slotting into your pack, you replied, “Bravo team, head to the east; Sierra team, go to the south exit. That’s the closest to the outskirts and we can take whatever heat they bring.”

As you scaled down the stairs, a shot fired through the wall in front of you. You ducked out of the way of the second and third shot, then saw the empty handgun slide through the open door. You burst in to take out your hostile and was greeted by a sight: one of Sierra team on the ground, a trap door beside a wardrobe and scuff marks on the floorboards, and two open French windows – to the balcony you’d seen Čiernik lounging on just an hours before.After finding no heartbeat in your comrade’s neck and ripping off their tags, you glanced out of the door.

Čiernik was shimmying down the damn drainpipe and already halfway to the ground. Ahead, you saw his reinforcements coming through the front gate.

Over the ledge, you followed swiftly after, using the brickwork to aid your descent. A quick assessment of the drop failed you and you cursed at your knees’ response to dropping down onto the patio.

Shots fired from your twelve and one tore through your left bicep, shredding apart the muscles and blood vessels. Ducking behind a giant cement plant pot (that housed a palm tree of all things), you clung to the wound, shuffling until your back hit the vehicle before you ripped off your belt and wrung it around, pulling it taut. Another shot caught your ear but what got your attention was the hiss of air and the collision of gear and a gun with the concrete.

In the open back door, Chance was face down. She wasn’t moving for cover or to retrieve her weapon. Rolling onto your front, you dragged yourself along the grass, smearing the jade blades with scarlet as you crawled to the nearby planter. Your hand waited until the gunfire was aimed at the upper floors to clamp down on the toe of her boot and haul her across the patio. Her neck was narrowly missed by another bullet just as you got her completely in cover, where you flipped her onto her back and revealed the blood pooling fast on her abdominal, soaking her uniform. As you pressed down to slow the gush of blood, staining your hands red in the patio light, you felt the air stirring then whipping around you, the telltale breeze from a helicopter flying overhead.

“Chance? You hear me?” You spoke loudly, bent over to reach her ear, then you addressed your team, “This is Sierra-7, by the front entrance with Sierra-4 -gunshot wound to the stomach, require urgent assistance.”

A shadow darkened over the wound. You looked up just in time to see an armed masked unfamiliar a few feet away, his automatic weapon aimed directly at you.

“Found them.”

The butt of his gun smacked against your cheekbones, sending you sprawling onto the dusty ground. Disorientated, you were yanked up by the scruff of your neck and dragged away from your teammate. Arms trying to reach back for Chance, your legs Bambi’ed beneath you, unable to push you into standing. At the gate, you were held still only for the amount of time it took them to threw a sack and yank the drawstring tightly around your neck. Then you were tossed the back of a vehicle and, as it swerved off to the right, you wheezed out a breath and lost total track of your consciousness.

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

AN: OOOOooo! We've reached the halfway point of this fic. Can't wait for MW3 to come out and ruin my life (as if it didn't do enough of that the first time). Thank you to the folks sending me their thoughts and theories; you've really helped keep me writing. Especially those about the callsigns, the parallels of Price + Nerve versus Gaz + Crash. I've given you some more theory fodder this chapter plus this hint: Captain Price's Access Code.

Taglist: @mockerycrow and @entertain-my-lvst

#captain price x reader #john price x reader #john price fanfic #cod fanfic #captain price fanfic #captain john price fanfic #cod x reader #mw2 #mw2 x reader #my writing #r: gn #wc: >2k

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psychedelic-ink · 1 year

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* i do not give permission for any of my works to be copied, reposted or translated (without my knowledge)

TV SHOWS & MOVIES MASTERLIST

PPCU MASTERLIST.

🔮 personal favorite || ☔️ smut || 🤧 angst || 🧁 fluff || 🩸 dark content

Fuck It I Love You ☔️

pope's his best friend, he shouldn't get jealous when you talk to him– he really shouldn't. But how can he not when you've been turning a blind eye to all of his all the flirting he's been doing for the past month?

Wonderful Tonight ☔️

It's your birthday and Dave's running late, Frankie tries his best to distract you.

Be There ☔️

you think frankie might leave you just like everyone else, he proves otherwise.

Save Tonight (feat. santiago garcia) ☔️

frankie comes with you with a proposal that you're eager to accept.

Tag, You're It ☔️

once a month you and frankie play a game.

I Fall Apart ☔️

frankie's just having one of those days where he wants to be taken care of.

'tis the damn season ☔️

you've been crushing on your handsome neighbor for quite some time, but even if you've made your intentions clear, it doesn't seem to get through to him. However that all might change when his flight gets canceled and the two of you spend the holidays together.

Fruit, So Ripe ☔️

Frankie eats fruit. That's it. That's the plot.

All Our Candles Are Burned Out ☔️🧁 (feat. dieter bravo)

dieter needs helicopter lessons for an upcoming role and santiago finds you the perfect man for the job.

There Was a Wonderful Pleasure (feat. dave york)☔️

you've been having a stressful time, Dave and Frankie provide an excellent way to comfort you.

Fictional Death 🧁

you have trouble sleeping after your favorite character's death. luckily frankie is there to help.

Sweet Thing ☔️

taboo au + "i'll be your dirty little secret, if that's what you're into."

you were seventeen when Frankie became your stepbrother, but no matter the title, he never felt like a brother to you, going off to college right after your father remarried. But no matter the circumstances, he was still off limits. Years pass and when he returns from the army your relationship with him is even more strained. You end up settling for the second best thing instead, his best friend. Everything seems to be going fine until Frankie stays over and Santi needs to leave for work.

Writers' Iron Chef #10: Dreaming of Chandeliers 🧁

The interviews for the live in nanny job are a nightmare, luckily the next applicant, Frankie Morales, sweeps in to save the day.

Call Me ☔️

Frankie's away and when he calls you, you're reminded of how he has the filthiest mouth.

Forever ☔️

“You like it when I call you pretty?”

You moan out a broken “yes” falling out of your lips as you feel Frankie’s soft lips skimming down your stomach to your soaked pussy. His large hands pin your hips down to the bed, you moan at the way his blunt nails dig into your skin.

My Drug (feat. jack daniels) ☔️

Your gaze follows his, Jack’s looking at you both, a wide grin spread across his handsome features as he lazily strokes his cock. A bead of precum disappears under his palm. You whine, slick dribbling down Frankie’s length as he mercilessly pounds into you.

Only for you ☔️

Frankie wants to watch you touch yourself.

Do you feel it? ☔️

Frankie thinks you're beautiful.

MILLION DOLLAR MAN | SERIES 🤧☔️ (frankie morales x fem!reader x agent whiskey)

Two years had passed since your break up with Jack, a fellow Statesmen agent. But everything re-ignites again when Champ asks you to go San Francisco to investigate the disappearance of multiple women across the country and, sadly enough, agent Malibu. While doing anything with Jack is chaos enough, you also run in to another ex, a man that actually showed you kindness and someone you thought you could spend the rest of your days with that is until he started asking too many questions about your job, Frankie Morales.

#frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales masterlist

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waywardstation · 2 years

Text

Until Then, Don’t Worry

While Akari is gone on an expedition into the Icelands, Zisu does her best to keep Ingo from worrying about her, and bets that she can get him to smile. It is a process of trial and error.

HUGE FIC! I mashed together four prompt requests for this; slice of life, Zisu interacting with Ingo, Ingo Babysitting Lady Sneasler’s kits, and ticklish Ingo/ Ingo smiling/laughing. And huge thanks to CW Anon for the huge list of Pokémon puns you sent, I used a ton of them! Thank you!

I struggled with writing this, it’s so big and I feel like it’s hard to read at points (and I worry about some points of characterization) but I do hope it’s still engaging!

OR read it on AO3 here!

Enjoy!

————

“Bravo! Excellent!” Ingo signaled the end of the battle as he congratulated the victor. As the dust cleared from the sunset-tinted battlefield, Ingo brushed off some of the kicked-up dirt off of his coat. His roughed-up Gliscor settling on the ground as it indicated it was still conscious, but could no longer fight.

The air cleared to show Akari on the other side of the battlefield, who had run over to hug her overgrown Purugly.

“Great job, Missy!” Akari hugged the large Pokémon around their neck, who was purring happily despite her scuffs and scrapes.

“You are becoming quite strong, Miss Akari!” Ingo called out from across the battlefield as he tended to his Gliscor, handing them an oran berry and a reassuring head pat. He then walked over to talk to Akari within speaking distance, as opposed to shouting distance. Gliscor stayed behind, munching on the berry happily, despite the many scrapes it’s carapace had sustained.

“Even your newly caught Pokémon are proving to be exemplary opponents, very in sync with your battles!”

Missy noticed Ingo approach, and moved to brush up against one of his legs in an expected cat-like fashion. She purred as Ingo reached down to pet her head, not minding the fur she was getting all over his pant leg.

One of Akari’s newer Pokémon she had caught, the young survey corps member had brought her to Ingo, to train her up with a few one-on-one battles. As a strong Alpha (which explained its considerable size), Akari was eager to integrate the large cat into her team.

“She was already super strong when I found her!” Akari told the warden as she stood up, brushing some of the dust off of her knees. “But training with you has made her even stronger! She’s going to be a big help in tomorrow’s expedition!”

The overgrown cat let out a meow of agreement as Akari pulled a homemade potion out of her satchel. With a flick of her tail, Missy promptly returned to Akari, and she began to apply the potion to the large Pokémon’s scrapes.

“I am glad to be of service and help with training!” Ingo beamed, and he meant it. “Anything that will help better prepare you for tomorrow’s trip.”

Both he and Akari knew full well that she could have just taken Missy into the wilderness outside of Jubilife, and worked up training against wild Pokémon. But Akari enjoyed spending time with Ingo much more, and Ingo enjoyed battling with Akari more than anyone else. (no one else could battle quite like here…yet. With time, hopefully the rest of Jubilife village could become more accustomed to proper battles.)

So, Ingo was usually Akari’s go-to for training when she caught a new Pokémon, and he was more than happy to help.

“Thanks for doing this all day by the way, I know it was a little last minute,” Akari put the now-empty potion bottle back in her satchel as she glanced at the orange sky, the setting sun dipping below Jubilife’s mountain-line. “They didn’t tell me Rei got sick and had to drop out from Professor’s survey trip until this morning, so I’ve been rushing trying to get ready to take his place.”

“It is not a problem!” Ingo replied, a smile still on his face, being on the topic of battling. “I enjoy our battles. Though I know your expedition work is important, your presence here at the training grounds will be missed. How long will this trip last?”

“Well, we’re going to be stationed out there for a few days. Professor told me it should take around four days, five or six if the weather gets bad…which he says we should count on. But we’re going to do our best to avoid it!”

Ingo’s gaze flickered behind Akari momentarily, to focus on the distant mountains of Hisui. He could see what Laventon was talking about…dark clouds could be seen rolling in from across the ocean. It was still a considerable ways off, but it was coming, and seemed like it would indeed hit most of Hisui within the coming days.

Why did they have to do this trip now of all times?

Akari scratched Missy behind her ears one last time before recalling the large feline back into its pokeball. “He said the Zorua we’re going to observe are hiding away in the Iceland’s caves by the time we get there. They come together like that right before storms, and they have to be approached very carefully. It could take some time!”

“Well, I do hope you arrive at your destination safely and on schedule, and I hope your friend Rei recovers quickly.” Ingo readjusted his cap, trying to get the thoughts of the approaching storm out of his head.

“I do too! He was upset he couldn’t go, he told me to enjoy it for him,” Akari recalled as she readjusted her satchel, Missy’s pokeball now inside, and glanced out at the sky again. It was now a more purplish-pink color, as opposed to the orange.

“I should get going, I need to get up early for tomorrow,” Akari told Ingo as she turned her attention back towards the warden, before holding her arms open.

“So…hug?”

Ingo mirrored her and held his arms open at her request, and Akari wrapped her arms around his torso in a hug. She squeezed him rather tightly, enough for Ingo to swear she finally cracked a bothersome crick in his back. But regardless, he smiled and returned her hug.

“I’m going to miss you, but I’ll hurry back soon so we can do more battles!” Akari told him, voice muffled against Ingo’s thick tunic.

“The days will fly by on their own, but I will be here awaiting your arrival. The Icelands are dangerous, and safety is important! The weather can turn very fast this time of year, so proceed with speed, but not haste! Follow your safety checks!” Ingo reminded her as she let go of him.

“I will! And I’ll bring you back something too!” She told him as she headed for the training grounds exit, waving to him. “Goodbye!”

“Goodbye, Miss Akari!” Ingo waved back at her, a smile still on his face, keeping the worry hidden behind it.

That was, until a booming “Goodbye!” joined in, purposely loud to make sure it was heard, sounding from behind him. Startled, Ingo turned back to see Zisu exiting the dojo with haste to also bid Akari goodbye in time, waving her off with one hand. She had two brooms in the other. “Have fun on your trip!”

The young girl returned the wave with a smile and a “I will! Goodbye Zisu!” As she went down the hill towards her unit.

And with that, Akari was out of sight, not to be seen again for the better half of a week.

“Ah, Miss Zisu…I didn’t know you were still present! You have usually departed by this time,” Ingo admitted as he adjusted his coat, turning to address the captain once Akari was out of sight. Zisu got a glance at his rare smile before his usual frown replaced it, but warmth still carried in his voice. “I was just about to sweep up.”

Ingo had thought several times before that perhaps a more solid ground to battle on than packed dirt would be better in the long run. A layer of dust always settled on everything from all the dirt that battles always kicked up, meaning at the end of every day, Zisu or himself were left to sweep up. And today was Ingo’s day to sweep.

“I figured,” Zisu grinned at him, a contrast to his neutral expression, holding the brooms up. “But I thought I’d stay later and help you with that. Things are always a bit more messy once Akari’s done here. That girl knows how to battle! About as good as you!”

The captain took one of the brooms she was holding and tossed it to Ingo with no warning, not even letting him process her compliment. With an “oof!”, the warden barely clutched it against his chest, caught off guard by the sudden throw. He readjusted the broom in his hands to see Zisu was already sweeping dust out of the dojo’s entrance.

“Plus, the work will get done faster if I help. So it won’t be too dark when you have to walk all the way back home.”

Zisu’s selfless hospitality tugged on Ingo’s heart. While she tended to joke around with him a lot, and he often found himself on the receiving end of many of her antics, she was always so friendly with him - even from the first day he had begun hosting battles at the training grounds at Kamado’s request. He was technically taking over her space, but she never expressed irritation with him. In fact, she had been quite excited to have someone else stationed there with her!

Apparently it got lonely, which Ingo understood - before he was requested to be stationed at the dojo alongside her, it was just her there, all day every day. And barely anyone even used the dojo before Ingo came, besides the lone survey corps member Kamado would send her way for required training from time to time.

While clan relations had been getting better lately, maybe Ingo had gotten a little too used to seeing the Diamond and Pearl clans subtly clashing and talking against each other. He did not behave this way himself of course, instead showing members of the Diamond Clan (as well as anyone else) his best hospitality and respect, but had grown not to expect the same treatment from everyone in return.

However, having Zisu initiate such kindness, especially unprompted, in many of their exchanges was a nice change of pace. Ingo had welcomed it, quickly opening up and returning friendly gestures to her.

Just as much as Ingo had welcomed Zisu’s casual kindness and friendly demeanor, Zisu had taken quite a liking to Ingo’s agreeable nature and unique lingo, even if she didn’t fully know what he was referencing most of the time.

In short, Ingo had a friend, and Zisu had a workplace buddy who put up with her jokes.

“…your help is much appreciated, Miss Zisu!” Ingo replied after taking a moment to ponder accepting her help or not. Ingo knew she was going to help either way. “I am most grateful!”

“Don’t mention it,” the tall woman returned, sweeping the last of the dust out of the doorway. “…also I’ve told you before, just Zisu is fine! No “miss” is needed!”

“Apologies. I will work to keep that in mind…Zisu,” Ingo told her as he began sweeping the dust off of the battleground’s wooden platform.

Zisu knew the shortened title still wouldn’t stick just yet though. When the two had first met, it had taken a lot of reminding for Zisu to get Ingo to refer to her as “Miss Zisu”, instead of strictly “Captain”. But it was progress, and Zisu was currently trying to shorten it even more from “Miss Zisu” to simply “Zisu”.

It felt more casual to her, and solidified that their relations were also one of friendship, not one of just strictly a workplace business.

It wasn’t that Ingo didn’t want to, or deliberately didn’t retain the requests, but it was very clear that the warden valued formalities and politeness, and it was hard to let go of something that came so natural sometimes.

Zisu didn’t entirely mind that though, she thought.

With a smile, she returned to her work, moving on to brushing off the dust that had accumulated on the walls of the dojo.

Ingo was quiet as he swept, keeping his head down so the brim of his cap could protect his eyes from the glare of the setting sun.

He opted to listen to Zisu as she began to hum a tune to help her along with her work. It was vaguely familiar to him, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

The warden’s thoughts started to drift, wondering where he had heard it before. Getting so caught up in his mind, he didn’t notice Zisu had stopped humming.

“Smiles from you are rare, aren’t they?”

“Pardon?” Ingo stopped sweeping momentarily, still standing on the battlefield’s platform. He squinted in the sunset’s glare as he looked up to face the captain.

“It’s just not often I see you with big grins like that!” The captain referee to his earlier exchange with Akari as she halted her sweeping, one hand in her hips, the other gripping her broom as she met the warden’s gaze with a grin.

“Oh,” was all Ingo said after a moment, looking down to break the gaze as he rubbed at the back of his neck sheepishly. “I apologize, Miss Zisu, if I often appear cold. On the contrary, I-“

“-no Ingo, not at all!” Zisu hastily corrected herself in an attempt to rephrase what she was getting at. Did she offend him? Maybe she had been a bit too straightforward with this, she wondered. “Everyone who knows you knows how friendly you are! It’s just that you…hmm… nothing seems to get you to smile more than that sweet kid that just left, or tough battles, it seems.”

“Ah,” Ingo understood what she was getting at despite the rocky correction, and now a bit more relaxed, he turned back to finish sweeping the last of the dust off of the platform. “They both remind me of my previous station, before my arrival to Hisui. The memories may be slow to arrive, but they give me feelings of…familiarity.”

Ingo paused his speech a second, as if hesitant to be so vulnerable to a coworker. But this wasn’t just a coworker! This was Zisu, a friend. And Zisu would show empathy, not pity, he concluded.

“…And it is comforting to know my mind has not forgotten the sense of familiarities, despite the loss of remembrance.”

Zisu had known a bit about Ingo’s memory loss situation, with it being brought up when Kamado first introduced him to the dojo, but she never really asked about it much. However, she understood how important anything that connected him to his past was to him.

“…I suppose it does evoke a lot of smiles,” Ingo pondered further over Zisu’s initial comment as he swept the last of the dust off of the platform, a small smile tugging at his mouth again as he reflected.

Looking over his work to make sure everything had been cleaned to his standards, Ingo brought the broom back into the dojo and put it away. Poking his head out of the dojo’s doorway, he extended an arm out to take Zisu’s broom as well. Zisu handed it to him, and Ingo disappeared back inside for a moment, before reappearing to close and lock the dojo doors.

“Thank you for assisting me with maintaining the training grounds, Miss Zisu!” Ingo thanked the captain again, nodding his head in acknowledgement. “Tomorrow I will return the favor!”

“I’ll be counting on that!” Zisu half-joked with the warden, clapping him on the back.

With the sun having fully set, the two headed home for the night.

Zisu considered Ingo and reflected on what he had said. Smiles looked good on him! But with Akari gone, there wouldn’t be much of that for the next few days, would there?

Ingo’s mind drifted towards Akari as he looked at the distant storm clouds, a small seed of worry beginning to plant itself in his thoughts.

————

“Good morning, Miss Zisu!”

The captain looked up across the training grounds to see Ingo entering through the gates, one hand behind his back with the other extended up in a wave of greetings; his loud voice had carried quite far. Behind him, the early morning glowed a cool purple, the warm sun just beginning to climb over Hisui’s mountain line. The distant storm clouds were ever-present behind the mountains, still crawling closer.

“Good morning Ingo!” Zisu waved back to him, having been in the middle of arranging satchels of grit dust to grit rocks. “How goes it today?”

“As usual,” Ingo hid a yawn behind a fist as he approached, automatically going to help Zisu pack away the various grits she had assorted. “The engine is slow to startup.”

Unlike Zisu, Ingo was not a morning person, and it hadn’t gotten any easier for him as time went on. But day after day, morning after morning, he always arrived on schedule to his post at the training grounds.

A moment of silence as the two assorted and packed away the grits for the day, before Ingo broke this silence with another yawn.

“It could be a slower day today,” Zisu spoke up, putting the last of the grit away and dusting her hands off. “What with Akari being on that trip.”

“That seems most likely,” Ingo agreed, taking his position at the side of the dojo, seeing that Zisu’s chore was done. “I do hope she reaches her destination safely.”

Zisu could hear the slight disappointment in his voice. No Akari today, and that meant none of those breakneck battles that he loved so much. They both knew that this was just the first day of several like this.

But concern also accompanied the disappointment, and Zisu noticed Ingo glance at the distant storm clouds.

As someone who tended to always emphasize the importance of safety checks, it came as no surprise to Zisu that Ingo was thinking of Akari’s safety. The Alabaster Icelands were dangerous, and while she was with the professor and a travel party, she was still just a kid.

“Aw, she’ll be back before you know it!” Zisu attempted to console the warden, patting him on the shoulder. “You prepared her and that big ol’ Purugly pretty well for the Icelands.”

That seemed to quell Ingo’s worries for a bit. His frown softened as he straightened his cap that Zisu had knocked crooked.

“I suppose…you’re right. Thank you, Miss Zisu.”

The two stood in their respective positions for half an hour before anyone had come to the training grounds.

The visitor was a single village boy, asking Ingo if they could battle for a few rounds to help toughen up his buizel; his father had suggested coming to Ingo for pointers before going out into the Fieldlands surrounding Jubilife.

Ingo obliged, and went a couple rounds with his Tangrowth, all the while giving tips to the boy about type advantages and disadvantages, and the pros and cons to agile and strong style moves.

Zisu watched the whole time. She could see just how much Ingo was holding back, for the sake of teaching the kid the very basics of battling. The rounds dragged horribly, with Ingo having to stop every time and explain something. His smile was not there throughout the whole battle, nor did it make an appearance when the training finished.

“Bravo! Excellent!” Ingo congratulated the boy and his buizel after the pair had managed to successfully initiate both an agile and strong style move. Ingo’s Tangrowth clapped alongside him in encouragement as well, before returning to its ball.

“Thank you for the training Mr. Ingo!” The boy hugged his buizel. “Now Dewey and I can go into the Fieldlands!”

“Indeed! Though, might I suggest departing for Miss Zisu first? Consider purchasing some grit dust for Dewey; it will make him even stronger.”

“Really? Thanks Mr. Ingo!” The boy cried again, his buizel barking happily alongside him, before the two ran over to Zisu to exchange some of the boy’s meager allowance for grit dust.

Zisu handed the boy a few pouches of the stuff, and as he ran for the training grounds’ exit, his buizel zipping after him, Zisu glanced back at Ingo.

The whole time, he had not smiled; neither in the conventional way, or his own way. Hospitality and kindness had been there, present on Ingo’s face the entire time he had been training with the boy - Ingo was always pleased to help others when he could- but that was not the same as enjoyment.

And for the rest of the day, nothing much had happened to change Ingo’s disposition.

The sun had risen higher in the sky as early morning crawled closer towards midday, before it began to dip lower. Very few people had come to the training grounds during this stretch of time. Ingo was always there to assist with training and tips, much at the same level as the village boy and his buizel from earlier. And Zisu had gotten a few requests to teach a new attack to a Pokémon, or exchange grit. But that was it.

All the while, the distant storm clouds rolled closer.

Come sunset, it was all quiet, and had been for the last hour and a half. Zisu had taken to re-wrapping the bandages around her wrists, tightening them, as she had nothing much else to do. Ingo had started to doze off, his head tipping down as he stood against the dojo in his stationed position.

Today was a very slow day indeed.

As Zisu finished tightening the wraps around her left arm, she glanced back up at Ingo. Leaned against the wall of the dojo with his arms crossed, the brim of his cap protected his closed eyes from the setting sun, and his neutral frown was set deep in his features. Even, heavy breaths indicated he had drifted off.

That frown…Zisu had noticed the warden had been largely dismal today. With how many times she had caught Ingo glancing in the direction of the Icelands, calculating the distance of the storm clouds, it was clear as day that he was still fretting over Akari.

She couldn’t let him do this to himself for the better half of a week! He needed something else on his mind, and the slow days at the dojo weren’t doing him any favors.

He needed something that could bring him the smiles that Akari could usually give him so easily.

“Ingo!” Zisu came up beside the warden and dropped a heavy arm over his shoulder, waking him up with a start.

“Miss Zisu!” Ingo reflexively replied, quickly rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he slightly slumped under the weight of her arm. “Is something wrong? Did I miss a challenger? Apologies, I-“

“No, no-“ Zisu assured him, halting his worries as she patted his shoulder reassuringly. “You didn’t miss anybody, don’t worry; but you’re right, something is wrong!”

Ingo gave her a quizzical look; her playful tone indicated it wasn’t something serious, and it left Ingo more curious on what she was up to than anything else.

“Which is..?” Ingo initiated.

“I haven’t seen you smile once yet today!” Zisu finished.

Ingo’s look of curiosity quickly gave way to an unamused expression, but it wasn’t entirely one of annoyance.

“They’re quite rare, I hear,” Ingo sarcastically told her, relaying her own words from the day before.

“Hey! Let’s make a bet! I bet…I can get one of those big smiles out of you before Akari comes back!”

Zisu had been mindful to infer that Akari would indeed be coming back fine, to subconsciously smooth Ingo’s worries.

“There doesn’t have to be any ‘bet’,” Ingo reassured Zisu, putting his hands up to halt her train of thought. “I can present a smile for you right now. See?”

Ingo gave Zisu the best smile he could, but it was tragically stiff and scripted, not at all authentic and warm like they always were with Akari.

Zisu crossed her arms at the sight of the gesture, but her features were lighthearted; she was entertained at her peer’s attempt.

“That’s not the smile I see when you’re battling with Akari!” She retorted, laughing as Ingo’s scripted smile wavered slightly. “I’ll get you a real smile; after all, a smile a day keeps…the, uh…frown lines away!”

Ingo shook his head at the cheesy impromptu saying with the beginnings of a laugh.

“What do you get if you win this…’bet’?” Ingo questioned, hypothetically. He felt like no matter what, Zisu would following through with this whole ‘bet’ idea.

All Zisu really wanted was to cheer Ingo up, and help him do something else other than worry over these next several days. That would be reward enough for her.

“Just a big smile from you!” the captain told him, before flashing a playful grin. “They’re rare you know!”

Zisu’s bad saying may have started up a laugh for Ingo, but her good-natured ribbing continued it.

“I’m not sure that’s how bets work,” Ingo commented after a quiet huff of amusement. “It seems a bit one-sided-“

He was cut off by Zisu; He wasn’t outright rejecting this, and that was enough for her.

“-Now, It’s been a bit quiet around here for a bit too long. What do you say you and I have a battle? One of those with Akari always gets a big smile from you!”

Ingo’s eyes brightened at the proposition.

————

On the second day of Akari’s absence, Ingo entered the training grounds, right on schedule as usual, to see Zisu.

The captain was currently sitting down on a bench next to the dojo, with a box in her hands.

Yesterday’s battle with Ingo had been exhilarating…for Zisu at least. She knew Ingo was quite literally one of the best battlers in Hisui, but she never fully understood to what extent until she had a battle with him herself.

Zisu had much more experience battling than almost every other person in Jubilife, and that shown through well - she lasted quite a bit longer in a battle with Ingo than most other people would, and used lots of techniques.

Agile and strong moves were relied upon heavily, seeing as Zisu had worked hard to perfect these styles to teach others, and she got a few successful dodges in; she did her best to stay on top of typing matchups as well. Zisu had managed to last about seven rounds with Ingo before her last Pokémon crumpled on the field (which wasn’t bad, considering she only had four Pokémon!).

Of course, Ingo had followed it up with the most genuine and excited “Bravo, excellent!” She had heard from him all day. The amount of encouragement and entertainment in his voice, along with his clapping, had made Zisu almost feel like she was the victor instead of the loser!

Did Ingo do that on purpose to lessen the blow of defeat for every challenger he battled, it was he just that supportive of others?

Zisu guessed the latter, as she saw the pride and joy for her efforts apparent in his features from across the battlefield.

But what she didn’t see was a smile.

It was clear Ingo had thoroughly enjoyed the battle, as it had required more strategic thinking than he was used to here at the Jubilife training grounds, but it wasn’t enough to bring out that Akari smile.

Though, the point of the battle wasn’t to win, it was to make Ingo happy. And that was a start.

She would keep trying.

“Good morning, Miss Zisu!” Ingo broke Zisu from her thoughts, greeting her as always with a predictable wave. His other hand held onto his cap by the brim as a cold wind stirred, blowing through the training grounds. A darkening sky accompanied the brisk breeze today. “May I ask what is in the box?”

“Good Morning Ingo!” Zisu returned the warden’s greeting, before shifting the box in her hands. “I brought some potato mochi for us to share today!”

Zisu opened the box to present crisp, hot potato mochi to Ingo. The wind that was kicking up did nothing to diminish the scent of the mochi.

Ingo pressed a hand against his stomach to suppress a grumble; he always had breakfast in the mornings (it’s important to keep your engine running!), but the trip over to Jubilife always burned through a lot of the calories.

“Fresh from Beni’s kitchen!” Zisu plucked out a mochi for herself, before holding the box out to Ingo to let him take one. “I figured, with slower workdays ahead of us, we could take some time to enjoy some mochi together!”

“I am most grateful, Miss Zisu! Thank you!” Ingo pulled a mochi out of the box and bit into it. The subtle look of worry on Ingo’s face lessened as he sat down on the bench with the captain, finishing the mochi in a second bite. Zisu put the box between the two of them, for them both to enjoy as they pleased.

From the expression Ingo wore as he entered the training grounds, it had been clear on the trip over that he had been thinking about Akari’s safety again. Zisu was glad she had picked up some mochi that morning; she knew Ingo greatly enjoyed it, and had hoped that at least for a little while, it would distract him from his worries.

Plus, she still had a bet to win.

The potato mochi was finished quickly between the two of them, and Ingo sighed with contentment as he finished his last piece.

Zisu stole a side glance at him to see how she did. The look of satisfaction on his features couldn’t have been more apparent, but still, there was no Akari smile there.

“Not even Beni’s famous potato mochi wins an Akari smile, huh?” Zisu joked. She wasn’t disappointed; it just meant she would keep trying!

Ingo turned to her with a look of confusion, before it dawned on him what she was talking about. The bet!

“Miss Zisu, is that what this potato mochi was for? Thank you, but I have already satisfied the bet!” Ingo reasoned. He pulled another one of his scripted smiles to prove a point.

“Nice try,” Zisu elbowed him in the arm lightly, “but that’s not the smile I’m looking for!”

Zisu found it amusing that Ingo was actively trying to help her win this bet ‘against’ him, but it was even more amusing that it wasn’t really working.

“And you’re welcome, I know you enjoy Beni’s mochi.” Zisu smiled as she stood up, dusting her hands off on her clothes as she took the empty mochi box.

“I will repay you for the mochi! Tomorrow, I will bring a box for us when I arrive.” Ingo offered in a hurry, standing up and mirroring Zisu as he brushed his own hands off on his coat.

“Ingo, you don’t have to!” Zisu argued against it. “That was just a nice gesture from me!”

but Ingo was always keen on repaying others for their kindness.

————

On the third day since Akari had left, Zisu and Ingo started their morning with again finishing off a box of mochi that Ingo had brought this time (despite Zisu’s protests).

The day before had been tragically empty of visitors, even more so than the last. Only one or two people had come by the training grounds.

Perhaps it was due to the worsening weather.

Yesterday had been cold and windy, but today was rather dreary. The sky was dark and foreboding, threatening rain (but so far, this was an empty threat). A chill seeped into the bones of anyone that wasn’t wearing enough layers for the weather, and thunder rumbled in the distant sky every once in a while.

The hot mochi that Ingo had brought for Zisu and himself was thankfully keeping them both warm enough for the time being as they sat on the bench.

Yesterday Ingo had seemed a little worried. But more or less he had been in relatively good spirits. Today, however, he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of the foreboding clouds hovering above the Icelands, behind the mountains in the distance. In his stress, he had seemed to forget his sense of manners, and was absentmindedly cramming a whole mochi into his mouth at a time.

Zisu sat in silence, staring at the half eaten mochi in her hands as she let Ingo take piece after piece from the box.

What could she do to cheer him up? Nothing she had done yet had brought a smile to his face…

“Hey Ingo?” Zisu spoke up. The warden turned to her, mouth full of mochi. In a moment, he remembered his manners and quickly wiped his mouth.

“Hm?”

“…how about a joke?”

The question caught Ingo a little off guard, and he swallowed his mochi in surprise.

“I’ve been practicing,” Zisu added, a bit more of a playful tone seeping into her voice. And indeed, she had been practicing.

If deeds weren’t successful in getting Ingo to smile, perhaps something a bit more direct would work.

“Alright then, what’ve you got?” Ingo turned slightly to better face Zisu on the bench. Once again, a look of worry was overshadowed by intrigue. This was a good start, Zisu thought.

“Alright! How did it go…Ah, what did the Pokémon say when it sneezed?” Zisu started, trying to remember one of the many jokes she had prepared for today.

This was a simple one! Surely he could get this.

“Hmm, a sneeze…” Ingo thought for a moment, scratching his head under his cap. “Sneasler’s kits make sounds akin to sneezing a lot…hmm…’Sneeze-el’?”

That was not the answer Zisu was looking for at all, but it still worked in its own way, she supposed!

“No, but that is a good guess!” Zisu corrected him. “But what I had in mind was ‘Pik-achoo’-“

“-bless you.” Ingo cut her off, a look of amusement in his eyes as he huffed a small laugh, satisfied that the captain had fallen into his trap.

It took Zisu a moment to see what Ingo had done. He had known the answer! He was just messing around with her, playing his own joke!

“Hey!” Zisu drowned out Ingo’s quiet chuckle with a much louder bark of laughter. “That’s not how that was supposed to go!”

“Well, you have a lot of chances to tell more today,” Ingo dusted off his hands, having polished off the mochi as he stood up and stretched his back. A lighthearted disposition was heard in his voice, despite the ever-present frown.

Well, Zisu took every chance she got, and with no one at the training grounds, she had a lot of chances. Every time she could manage to cram in a joke, one-liner, or pun, she did.

Ingo would ask her to do a task?

“Miss Zisu, could you please hand me the broom? The dojo’s entrance is a little dusty today, and I don’t want rain to mix with it and make things muddy.”

“I’m On-ix!”

“…while I do that, could you bring those boxes inside?

“Abra-lutely!”

Ingo would tell her he was going to skip his lunch break?

“You’re going to dew-wott??”

“Miss Zisu, I had a lot of potato mochi this morning!”

Ingo was caught with a little too much time on his hands, glancing at the Icelands for a little too long?

“Hey Ingo! Which Pokémon makes you sigh every time you mention it? Scyther!”

sigh!

“Don’t get so Hera-cross with me, I’m only trying to Cherrim you up!”

“Miss Zisu!”

And if Ingo tried to appease her bet with yet another smile, still as forced as ever…

“That’s not the smile I’m looking for Ingo, but don’t worry, the day’s not sn-over yet!”

Zisu personally thought they were great, but a lot of them were pretty terrible; the cheaper they were, the louder Ingo groaned as he shook his head. But it was good-natured, and Zisu could tell it was keeping him occupied; she caught him laughing quietly to himself several times as he would walk away.

But still, there was no big Akari smile.

As the day wound down, and the sun had made its way lower to meet the mountainline, Ingo and Zisu had decided to close up the training grounds early. No one had come by for the last three hours, and a light drizzle was starting to fall; the dark heavy clouds had finally followed through with their threat.

Zisu shut the doors to the dojo, keeping her back to the gust of wind and rainfall. Everything was dark, save for a single lantern hanging near the dojo’s door, illuminating the two. A flock of starly flew in the distance, silhouetted by the dark clouds as they made their way back to the safety of their nests in the Fieldlands.

“It looks like the weather’s gonna get worse before it gets better. I don’t think anyone will be coming up here for training anytime soon…you won’t be coming in tomorrow, will you?” Zisu asked.

“I must maintain my duties at this station, even if there are no passengers waiting to board,” ingo secured his cap on his head against the wind, the other holding his coat closed to keep the rain from soaking his tunic. “I will arrive tomorrow on schedule.”

Zisu would have questioned this decision otherwise, but she knew why Ingo wanted to come in to the training grounds tomorrow.

He wanted to be here when Akari’s expedition returned, and he probably didn’t want to be without company right now, left to his own thoughts of worry.

Zisu knew that Ingo had Sneasler and the kits, who he had been returning to every night in the highlands to check up on, but she liked to think that perhaps her efforts to keep him happy and distracted were helping, and he was seeking out more of her company.

“Roger that! You’ll see me here tomorrow as well then!” Zisu announced, pulling on the dojo doors once to make sure she locked them.

In the darkness and the drizzle, Ingo’s cap was pulled down over his eyes, his pose stiff and tight against the cold rainfall, but his eyes softened, as did his frown.

————

On the fourth day since Akari had left, Zisu was already at the training grounds, inside the dojo and doing her morning stretches by the time Ingo arrived, walking through the gates to the training grounds. The sky was dark as ever, rain coming down hard and steady.

“Good morning, Miss Zisu!” Ingo waved a greeting to her as he approached the dojo at a brisk pace, instead of stationing himself where he always did outside of the building. While outwardly expressed a frown, soaking wet as he wrung water from his coat just outside the door, Zisu could still spot the warmth of the greeting in his eyes (Amongst the morning tiredness, at least).

Satisfied with how much water he was able to wring out of his clothes, Ingo finally stepped through the entryway of the dojo, a crack of thunder rumbling loudly as he closed the doors behind him.

“I promise, it’s really fine if you just use Zisu!” The captain quipped lightheartedly as she finished her stretching, getting one last crack out of her shoulder. “But, good morning to you too…I hope you’re ready to smile today!”

And with that, the lingering warmth in Ingo’s eyes were quickly replaced with something akin to ‘I should have expected this’.

“Jokes yesterday, potato mochi the day before, and a battle the day before that…What should I be expecting today?” The warden rhetorically asked as he shook the water off of his hat, already mentally preparing himself.

“Hey, I haven’t gotten you to do your smile yet!” Zisu told him. “And Akari is coming back within a day or two!”

Ingo followed this up with yet another half-hearted stiff smile, like he did every time, in an attempt to appease her…as if this time would somehow be any different, and she’d finally let go of this bet.

“That’s not it!” Zisu lightly elbowed him in the arm, finding each attempt as endearing as the last…he was trying at least, and she found it amusing.

Zisu turned her attention to the inside of the dojo, getting a good look at the room as she gestured to it.

“Anyways, seems we’re stuck inside for today…and the dojo is in need of a good interior reorganizing.”

Ingo glanced around the inside of the building. Zisu was exactly right, a good reorganizing was in order. Boxes of grit and mastery seeds were stacked in a disorderly fashion, and various items Zisu used to help teach new attacks to Pokémon were haphazardly strewn about in piles.

The room was an absolute mess, to put it bluntly.

“A disorganized station is a station bound for accidents,” Ingo mused as he browsed through one of the boxes. “Seeing as nothing else is on today’s schedule, we will take care of this post haste!”

A squeak near Ingo got Zisu’s attention, and her eyes drifted to behind him. However, nothing was there.

“What was..?”

“Ah, you have yet to meet my passenger for today,” Ingo changed tracks, and pulled his coat back for Zisu to see.

A tiny sneaslet had secured itself to Ingo’s side, pressed tightly against his tunic, and chirping happily at its reveal to the woman, waving a little claw out towards her. From under Ingo’s coat, it had managed to stay perfectly dry.

“We have arrived at our destination, little lady! You can now let go.” Ingo instructed the little Pokémon.

With another chirp, the tiny sneaslet dropped out of his coat and onto the dojo flooring, but still stuck close to the shoes of the warden as opposed to exploring. Even for her age, she seemed a bit small, and in turn seemed more cautious of the new settings of a building interior, quite different from the mountainous terrain of the highlands, or her cozy cave.

“She’s so cute!” Zisu exclaimed at the sight of the baby. “Is this the late hatcher you and Akari took care of?”

“She is,” Ingo confirmed, thinking back to that time a few weeks back. He had been lucky Akari had been there to help him with the egg. “Lady Sneasler is starting to teach her kits to hunt for themselves. The last few times made it apparent this one isn’t ready however. Her siblings are prone to take advantage of her smaller nature, and it has…not been good for her developmental skills, or her confidence. Especially with such weather conditions, I have decided to bring her with me today while her siblings hunt, and watch her myself.”

A very small quirk of a smile, a genuine one, tugged at the edges of his mouth. “…Akari opted to name her Powder.”

“Such a perfect name!” Zisu doted over the name as she bent down to be more level with the sneaslet, still hiding Behind Ingo’s legs. “Little Pow-Pow!”

Zisu exaggerated the nickname with two little playful punches, as if the name was an onomatopoeia for punching, and to her surprise, Powder half-mimicked the action, half-heartedly punching the air with one little claw and a tiny chirp.

“So cute!” Zisu exclaimed, before Ingo fished something out of his pocket and held his hand out to her.

“Powder is quite bold when she’s comfortable, but she leans a bit on the shy side. She is partial to these; you can give her one, if you would like. It will help her warm up to you.”

Ingo kept his hand held out patiently, and when Zisu cupped her hands under his to receive it, Ingo dropped a plump bean pod into them.

“I have quite a bit of these today,” Ingo told Zisu as a hand went back over his coat, presumably over the pocket where the beans were held. “I intend to use these to help her practice hunting today.”

Zisu inspected the bean pod momentarily, before holding it out to Powder. The sneaslet was still obscured behind Ingo’s leg, but at the sight of the bean pod, her eyes lit up and she took a step out from her hiding place, making her way towards the captain.

Tiny claws grasped at the bean pod, and carefully lifted it from Zisu’s hand to begin peeling back the pod layers, and get to the beans inside. However, powder ran back to the safety of Ingo before she actually began to nibble on the treat, tiny teeth munching on the beans as wide eyes stared at Zisu in admiration.

“Powder is such a sweet thing,” Zisu professed, affection apparent on her face as she brushed her hands off on her clothing. “It’s a shame her siblings are leaving her out.”

“Indeed,” Ingo tipped his cap as Powder finished her treat and tossed the empty pod aside. “Siblings should be there to help one another, not set them back.”

Ingo reached into his coat pocket again, and pulled out another handful of beans. Powder’s eyes lit up at the sight.

“Which is why we will assist Powder in improving her hunting skills! If her siblings won’t help her reach the intended station of improvement, we will!”

————

The morning had gone incredibly well.

With yet another day of barely any activity at the training grounds, Ingo and Zisu quickly cleaned up the inside of the dojo, the rain pouring down outside the entire time. With that done, they spent the rest of morning with Powder, helping her hone her hunting skills.

Zisu hadn’t known the extent of her stunted skills until Ingo had started taking out bean pods and hiding them around the inside of the dojo. Ingo’s Tangrowth, meanwhile was distracting the sneaslet and playing with her just outside of the building, still dry and safe from the rain under the dojo’s extended roof.

“Won’t Powder be hunting things that are, you know…moving?” Zisu questioned, curious as Ingo tucked a bean pod into one of the many boxes against a wall, full of mastery seeds.

“Her siblings have severely stunted her,” Ingo explained. “Developing hunting skills with sneasel always starts with sniffing out stationary food, such as plump beans. However, Powder’s siblings would always reach such food before Powder could ever sniff any out. We have to build up this skill first before moving onto prey.”

Ingo tucked another bean away into a currently-unused lantern. While these were certainly not places Powder would find beans in the wild terrain of the highlands, it was the best he could do, within the confines of the dojo.

“While this isn’t the ideal place for hunting, it’s a good place to start, as Powder will have to differentiate the scent of food among the scent of the other people and Pokémon that have traversed here.”

Ingo sure knew a lot about Pokémon development, Zisu concluded as she followed him back to his Tangrowth, who was still busy distracting Powder just outside the door, the pittering of rain coming down stronger now.

“Alright, little lady!” Ingo addressed the sneaslet as Tangrowth detangled one of its limbs from her and placed her in Ingo’s arms, before taking a step into the rain to bask in the drizzle; Powder had taken to using the vines as a swing of sorts. “Are you ready?”

The sneaslet chirped in Ingo’s arms quietly. Ingo could see she was not confident in her hunting skills at all, and nervous about how well she would do. Ingo knew however that it was because all she had ever known was failure, due to her siblings stunting her efforts…this time would be different.

Thunder sounded off in the distance, and lighting lit up the sky over the Icelands momentarily. Powder gave a quiet, uncertain chirp and snuggled deep into Ingo’s tunic as he looked back at where the lightning struck, holding the tiny Pokémon reassuringly; Powder would much rather just be held, and Ingo wished he was holding a certain person safe in his arms right now.

Akari was already on her way back by now, far away from that place, surely…

“You can do it,” Ingo encouraged her as he scratched behind her ear, before setting her on the ground. “Find the beans!”

Powder let out another chirp as she hesitantly started sniffing the air. She turned her head in one direction, towards the dojo’s entrance; cautiously she entered, still sniffing for a stronger scent, and turned to face a table with some cloth on it. After a moment though, she shook her head and changed direction to approach a box in the corner, full of mastery seeds.

“Good job Powder!” Zisu whispered quietly next to Ingo, not too loud as to give away Powder’s success before she would find the beans herself.

The sheer joy that glowed off of Powder’s scrunched muzzle as she dug around in the box for a moment, before pulling out a single bean pod between her claws was infectious enough to spread to Ingo and Zisu.

“Bravo Powder!” Ingo clapped loudly, the pride visible in his eyes despite his ever-present frown. “Excellent!”

“Good job!!” Zisu reiterated to the tiny Pokémon with a thumbs up, as the sneaslet peeled back the pod layers and scarfed down the beans. With a slightly more confident chirp, Powder once again sniffed the air and headed for one of the unused lanterns, quicker and more sure of herself this time.

It had taken about an hour for Powder to find all of the hidden bean pods, but as she plucked the last pod from its hiding place and held it up triumphantly, Ingo counted it as the 15th one he had hidden, which meant she had found all of them!

“Bravo Powder!” Ingo once again congratulated the tiny Pokémon as she popped the beans into her mouth, discarding the pod with a squeak of happiness. “You found all of them, excellent work! I was certain you could do it!”

With a yelp of joy, the tiny Pokémon ran for Ingo and leapt into his arms, snuggling into his chest as he caught her and picked her up. Thankfully, his thick coat and tunic protected him from her small (but potent) claws that latched onto him.

“Oof! -perhaps, no more beans for you, though!” Ingo commented quietly as Powder continued to nuzzle into him, responding to his encouragement. The beans themselves were not too heavy, but with all of that now packed into a tiny body such as Powder’s, she was quite a bit heavier than before.

“She did really well!” Zisu commented, coming closer. She wanted to give Powder an encouraging head pat, but refrained from doing so, in case the little Pokémon wasn’t used to her yet.

“I knew she would, she just needed a fair chance.” Ingo placed Powder back down on the ground, and she chirped happily, but stuck close to his feet - most likely in hopes she would get more beans. “If we keep practicing, her skills will rival her siblings’ in no time, if not surpass them entirely!”

A louder peal of thunder split through the sky outside, deep enough to grab the attention of everyone inside the dojo. Powder gave a small mewl and gripped Ingo’s pant leg, as Zisu and himself glanced at the dojo’s doors.

Reminded of the condition of the weather outside, Zisu could see all the worries that had crawled to the back of Ingo’s mind return in an instant.

He moved to slide open one of the dojo’s doors and gaze out to the Icelands, as if looking to see if the weather out there had at least mellowed out. The colder atmosphere from outside chilled the inside of the dojo.

“She’s going to be ok,” Zisu tried to reassure Ingo, coming up next to him. “I’m sure she’s on her way back right now; she said she’d be back in four to six days, right?”

“Correct.” Ingo verified, rubbing at the back of his neck. “It’s just…I know how severe the weather can get up there.”

Ingo’s gaze did not leave the distant Icelands.

“I’ve been up there when it gets rough, and I don’t want her to be caught up in that.”

Ingo thought back to when the Pearl Clan had found him. He remembered nothing much of anything before the incident, apparently having been caught in a raging snowstorm and found in a snowbank amongst the aftermath. But he remembered how he felt coming out of it; an aching body and numerous severe injuries he felt for weeks after, all while staving off a bad case of initial frostbite.

It was one of the first things he remembered in terms of his time here in Hisui. He did not want Akari to have to go through that, especially for some expedition trip she wasn’t even supposed to go on.

Akari had a travel party and a strong team of Pokémon to protect her, yes, but she was just a kid, and there were certain situations where simply having a strong team would not have been enough.

Flash blizzard, avalanche, getting snowed in…

“But you are right.” Ingo concluded, trying to self-assure himself. “I am sure Miss Akari is on her way back right now.”

Ingo was interrupted to feel a sudden weight tugging on one side of his coat, and he glanced down just in time to see Powder let go of his coat pocket, several beans in her tiny claws.

How could she possibly want more?

Having been caught red-handed, the sneaslet promptly ran off to hide in one of the boxes in the room to quickly peel and scarf down the beans, as if Ingo would take them away.

Instead, he just shook his head at the sight, standing within the open doorway of the dojo.

“Oh, smart little lady! It seems I can no longer keep them in my coat pockets.” Ingo considered. When Powder was not watching, still invested in her stolen treats within the box, Ingo tipped his cap back and tucked the rest of the plump beans away under it.

Surely she could not reach them all the way up there, he thought as he readjusted the cap.

“She loves her beans,” Zisu commented as she watched Powder poke her head out of the box, trying to steer the subject away from the ongoing storm, onto something less heavy.

“A bit too much, it seems,” Ingo added as the tiny sneaslet made her way out of the box, sneaking over back to Ingo’s shoes in an attempt to try and get more beans. “Perhaps I should not have brought so many extra beans aside from what was needed strictly for hunting practice today.”

“I would agree, that seemed like a bit of an…Overquil.” After some hesitation, Zisu attempted another pun in an effort to lighten the mood even more. Plus, she found Ingo’s groaning over her bad puns to be entertaining.

However, she was pleasantly surprised to notice Ingo flinch with a snicker, a small smile on his face. It wasn’t what she was trying to get out of him, but it was the most authentic smile she’d seen from him in days.

Could this lead to what she was pushing for? Perhaps she was finally on to something!

“First time I’ve seen you smile like that at my jokes before!” Zisu shot Ingo a side glance, a look of amusement on her face. “It wasn’t even one of my good ones, I used all of those yesterday! …are you one of those fellows who enjoy really bad jokes? Should I tell more?”

“Ahem- apologies! It was not the joke, Powder is the- ah, cause of that.” Ingo jolted again slightly, breaking up his speech, and reached across himself, pulling his coat back to grab at something under it.

With his coat pulled back, Zisu could see Powder was no longer at Ingo’s shoes, but now climbing up his side. Having already investigated the inside pockets of his coat and finding them empty, she had started looking elsewhere. Each time the tiny sneaslet readjusted her little claws for a new grip, or nuzzled her face into the thick fabric of his tunic, sniffing in search of something, Ingo winced.

Zisu would have thought the claws were actually hurting him, if not for the fact the warden seemed to stifle a laugh every time he flinched.

When Ingo reached to pull Powder off of him, she made a little squeak, quickly moving out of reach and behind his back.

“She is searching for the beans; Miss Zisu, would you be so kind as to assist me and retrieve Powder? I cannot reach her,” he requested as he extended an arm back to grasp for Powder unsuccessfully.

“You wanted her to go hunting for them, didn’t you?” Zisu joked as she simply crossed her arms at the sight, not answering Ingo’s question or moving to help. She found the situation entertaining.

“I would have hoped she didn’t go looking for them so uRGEntly!“ Ingo’s voice wavered as a tiny claw gripped around at his other side. Powder’s face popped out of his coat with a squeak as she tried to climb her way up and across Ingo’s chest, nearing her goal, but the warden took the chance to finally grab her up and pry her off of him. Powder was chirping excitedly and trying to wiggle out of Ingo’s grip, reaching in vain for his cap.

“It seems she has figured out where they are, though. And her claws are rather ticklish,” Ingo stated matter of factly, traces of a smile still on his face despite his voice regaining its composure. He gently closed his hand around her outstretched poisonous claws, moving them further away from his face before she could accidentally scratch any bare skin, and he placed her back down at his feet.

Powder immediately dashed away a distance to hide in a box of grit dust, stewing in her thoughts as she waited for another chance to climb for the beans.

“You’re ticklish?” Zisu questioned the warden. The thought amused the captain; while he was certainly kind and friendly to anyone he interacted with, Ingo outwardly gave off a rather stoic appearance. The thought of him being ticklish never crossed her mind, and it seemed like quite a contrast against that persona.

The simple inquiry made Ingo turn his head at her a bit too quickly. It seemed he knew what she was considering.

Zisu’s grin only widened when he cleared his throat, adjusting the brim of his cap in a nervous manner as he looked back away from her.

A very dry, not at all confident “I suspect most everyone probably is, to some degree. Now, I think-” was all he vaguely answered with, before quickly trying to derail Zisu’s train of thought. However, he was unsuccessful at this.

“Ingo, I think I know how to win that bet!”Zisu interrupted the warden, keeping the current train of thought going. The way she raised her hands up drained Ingo’s face of color.

“I can assure you Miss Zisu, there is no bet! There never had to be a bet!” Ingo tried to reason as he started to pull back from the tall woman, but it was no use. He pulled another smile in a final attempt to appease her, but this time it was nervous and pleading. “See? …Miss Zisu? Please do nOT-!” Ingo’s voice jumped as he felt a finger jab into his side, right under his ribs.

Despite half-expecting it, the sensation made the warden practically leap out of his skin with a sound of surprise, and he reflexively moved away, But Zisu followed him as she continued to playfully poke at his torso. The uncharacteristic sounds Ingo made were humorous, especially when she got a particularly good jab at his stomach or his ribs, which caused him to snort.

“GAHah! Z-Zisu!” was all Ingo could choke out through his clenched teeth, finally disregarding the formal ‘miss’ title he always added in his desperation to push her hands away from any ticklish areas. But with Zisu being the taller and more fit one between the two of them, it was futile - each time he moved his hands to protect one spot, Zisu simply jumped to a spot he left open. With not much room to move in the crowded dojo, Ingo started to crumple in a fit of poorly-contained laughter, but Zisu kept him upright, holding him up by his coat.

“ZIsu! GaH!! NoT thERE!!”

“Come on, I’m not stopping until you give a big smile!” Zisu warned him. One hand held his coat secure while the other continued to tickle at his stomach, causing stutters of laughter to spill from Ingo’s mouth.

Even with his eyes shut tight and the brim of his hat obscuring his expression as he faced downwards, Zisu could still see a wide grin tugging on the corners of Ingo’s mouth, laughter spilling through clenched teeth. Even if it wasn’t exactly voluntary, it was an authentic smile!

“There it is!” Zisu announced heartily, barely heard over Ingo’s loud, awkward bouts of laughter.

As the warden was in shambles, Powder saw her chance and zipped out of her stewing spot to Ingo. Grasping at his pant leg, she began to climb up the warden again in pursuit of the reward under his cap.

“Yeah! Go for it Pow-Pow!” Zisu encouraged the sneaslet as it chirped excitedly, spurred on by the encouragement. She had already grasped onto the edge of Ingo’s tunic, and was making rapid progress towards his hat.

“P-Powder!” Ingo urged the Pokémon to stop in a miserable attempt to dissuade her. He put an arm up to hold onto his hat, but quickly snapped it back down against his side when Zisu tickled into his underarm, taking advantage of the opening. “Z-Zisu! Do nOT encourage this beHAVior!”

“Oh let her have them!” Zisu laughed instead, beaming as the tiny Pokémon finally clambered onto Ingo’s shoulder with a yelp of happiness, and slipped her claws under his cap, grasping at the beans.

Quick as a flash, the little lady had snatched the reward up in her paws, and pounced off the warden, dashing out through the dojo’s open door and into the rain, under the training ground’s platform to enjoy her prize in relative peace.

Ingo’s Tangrowth, who had still been outside soaking up the rain into their roots, shot a quizzical expression towards Powder, then Ingo and Zisu, wondering what had happened.

As soon as Powder had her treats, Zisu let go of Ingo, and he he slumped forward protectively, using his hands to rub the lingering sensations out of where Zisu had tickled him.

He was out of breath, and wearily readjusting his cap and coat between wiping a few stray tears from his eyes, but some soft laughter still lingered, and Zisu could see a smile left behind on his face. It was small, but it was authentic and it was there.

“…p-please refrain from doing that again, Miss Zisu!” Ingo wheezed as he picked himself up and leaned against the dojo’s doorway, still getting his breath back. He pulled his coat closed as if to protect himself from further attacks. “I find the sensation…unbearable!”

“Well then, don’t smile so big when you’re tickled!” The captain laughed at the display, putting a hand on his shoulder again as she always did, but this time to steady him.

“It is…not exactly voluntary!” With a flushed face, Ingo glanced out to Powder through the rain, still nice and dry under the protection of the training ground’s platform. She was happily using her claws to peel back the treats’ outer layers, eager to get to the beans inside and scarf them down. A small pile of empty bean pods already laid strewn about next to her.

With a mischievous glint in her eyes, Powder chirped with delight as she made eye contact with Ingo, knowing full well that she had outmaneuvered him, despite his best efforts.

“I can only hope now that Powder does not get sick eating so many. Let us hope she does not relay this to her siblings either, lest they expect this kind of behavior to be acceptable as well! Lady Sneasler would not be pleased with me, encouraging such habits with her kits,” The warden brushed himself off a final time, straightening out his coat.

A hand went up to straighten his cap, but grasped at air. After a moment, Ingo felt Zisu situate the previously-missing cap, which had been knocked off, back onto his scruffy hair.

“Oh lighten up Ingo, she’ll be fine!“ She reassured him. “And I won our bet! I got to see that authentic Ingo smile!”

“We didn’t have a bet,” Ingo insisted once again with the same amount of patience in his voice, as if he was reminding her of this for the first time, not the twentieth, “I had smiled for you several times!”

“None of them were the smiles that Akari can get out of you so easily though, and I made sure you had a good time instead of worrying while she was away!” Zisu laughed. “And speaking of that wonderful girl, looks like I won the bet right on time!”

Ingo had no time to process that indeed, Zisu had kept him from excessively worrying, and he had actually had a good time overall (even if he still didn’t understand the bet…he had voluntarily smiled for her several times!). He would have thanked her, but Zisu pointed across the training grounds, and Ingo’s gaze followed to see Akari was standing there at the entrance, in the rain.

She clearly had just gotten back from her expedition, and from the looks of it, had managed to avoid the storm in the Icelands! Ingo was flooded with relief to see this!

In her hands was a container of sorts, full of materials from the Icelands (most likely things she brought back to give to Ingo as presents), and pokeballs (probably containing Pokémon she had caught on the trip that she wanted to show Ingo). Her clothes were scuffed up and muddied, and she looked a little worse for wear herself. A rufflet, one of her own Pokémon she had presumably caught on her expedition, was perched upon her head with extended wings in an effort to keep her dry. But behind the weary exterior, her ever-present energy and friendliness still shown through.

Though her current most prominent feature was the obvious look of awe on her face.

How much of what just happened with Zisu had she seen?

“Miss Akari!” Ingo called out, his voice strained with several emotions. He was absolutely overjoyed to see that Akari was back, safe and sound! Relief visibly snuffed out the worry that had accumulated in him over these last few days. But…how long had she been there, watching them? “You’ve arrived back at the earliest scheduled date! Er, welcome back to the station! I am glad to see you have arrived back safely! …How was your trip?”

A moment of agonizing silence.

“You’re ticklish?!” Akari yelled back to him across the training grounds as she dropped her box of trinkets, loud enough for anyone in the general area to hear, much to Ingo’s dismay.

The devious look in her eyes as she took a step closer told Ingo all he needed to know.

Zisu’s laughing off to his side, and Powder’s snickering under the platform didn’t help the situation. Ingo didn’t even want to look at his Tangrowth at this moment, given the circumstances.

Of all things for Ingo to expect from Akari when she got back…it was something akin to a tight hug, or an hour of blurting out the details of her trip! Not this!

“Miss Akari, please no!”

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thedevilsmemes · 5 months

Text

ASTARION ANCUNIN QUOTES ~ BALDUR'S GATE 3 SENTENCE MEME!

"Hello, darling. Don't be shy, I promise I not to bite until we've been formally introduced."

"The tadpole's influence broke his dominance over me, and now I can finally pursue the one thing I've hungered for these long dark years."

"I'll be the last thing the bastard ever sees."

"Given that my choices were 'eternal life' or 'bleed to death on the street', I took him up on the offer."

"It was only afterwards I realized just how long 'eternity' could be."

"By the Hells. Sex, my dear. A night of passion."

"I'm out of wine and flowers, so I hope an introduction will suffice."

"And I wish I was drinking out of the skull of everyone who's ever wronged me. Life is tough."

"I've been waiting. Waiting since the moment I laid eyes on you. Waiting... to have you."

"Yes darling, that's what we call a lie."

"All I want is a little fun, is that so much to ask?"

"Why hello. Welcome to my humble party."

"Oh, we're lying to each other now? Excellent."

"But... you're no stranger now. Just strange."

"I hate it. This is awful."

"Wait! Don't interrupt them. Let me do it. They sound disgusting."

"I don't know, I'm sure a vampire spawn could still rip out your heart."

"My, My. Who knew our friend had so much blood in them?"

"Oh, you're such a sweetheart."

"I'm just glad you're being sensible about these revelations. I was worried people might turn up with torches and pitchforks."

"Although, there's still time."

"I already apologised. What more do you want? Unless you're looking for another nibble?"

"Yes, darling? Do you need something?"

"What in the sweet hells were you THINKING activating that lance, I was right there!"

"Next time? No no no, if there is a 'next time' I'll be the one aiming the all-powerful weapon."

"Although, I do appreciate you trying to fix your mistake, just don't do it again!"

"It's just that I happen to be a... what's the best way to put this? A vampire?"

"Oh my honour, the only thing on my mind, is depraved carnal lust."

"You couldn't wait ten seconds before being an absolute freak."

"Oh, good, puns. Because clowns aren't enough of a horror already."

"What? Was it something I said?"

"Really? - Anything in particular?"

"Now, I can't help but notice that one of us is positively drenched in blood. So..."

"At least the smut peddlers of Sharass' Caress will have a field day writing erotic verse about us when we're both dead."

"Hundreds? Urgh, it'll take hours to kill them all. She/He's right, we should just go."

"Oh? Then what do you want?"

"Five seconds into this relationship and I already want to break up with you."

"Oh the one hand, killing Gortash will be fun. On the other, Halsin can be very annoying."

"The man can't stay quiet about 'enjoying the freedom of nature's gifts'. I bet he'd outlaw clothing if he could."

"Good Morning. Thank you for not killing me the other night."

"Of course, what fun! I'm going to fucking kill you."

"I am. And beautiful - not enough people mention that."

"Hmm. Hmm. Thank you for helping me. It was very kind."

"I can't even tell if any of you are acting strange because you've been replaced or because this group is full of weirdos!"

"So... I was wondering if maybe - perhaps - you might be able to..."

"Can you read what's on my damn back? Please?"

"Well, hello... Looking for a cuddle?"

"What are you? No. We are not jumping down there!"

"Oh - eh - Hello again?"

"Easy now. Let's not do anything Hilarious."

"You have a manner of irresistible desperation about you. I like it."

"I'd trust a devil over a vampire any day. I think he likes us."

"Oh, bravo! Encore!"

"Why she sounds positively demented."

"I love it! let's tell her everything!"

"Don't be touchy. I'm sure he meant 'better off dead' as a compliment."

"I'd shake her hand, but she can still snap me in two, so... probably safest to skip it."

"Anyway, it's a brand new day. I'm sure we'll find lots of people for you to kill."

"I must see this. Don't you dare say no."

"Well, this seems like a lovely little spot. The sense of impending doom aside."

"I suppose it was only a matter of time until [ insert name ] took vengeance."

"For the Lady/Lord of loss, She/He does not like losing."

"Come to kill me again, darling?"

"Guilty as charged. Sometimes literally."

"What? No! Don't you dare! This isn't funny!"

"Huh, thank goodness, I was almost worried."

"Nice as it is, she still doesn't have the best hair in the camp."

"Well, I mean... kind of? It's a long story, honestly."

"You'll get back to me? This is important, devil! When?"

"It's not enough we have a gallery of villains to look out for, but now we could be infiltrated by a shapechanger?"

"But you're serious about this? About... us?"

"Tailor's mannequins? I never figured [ insert name ] for a follower of fashion."

"Well done again on besting Baal and all that. It was very twee."

"You filthy devil. I'm shocked."

"Haha! That's - Oh, you're serious."

"Well, of course we can leave him, it's the easiest thing in the world. We just have to keep on walking."

"Well, at least you purr for me..."

"The thing that will decide my fate forevermore? Yes, it has been on my mind, why?"

"Who knows how long before the others go feral without us there to guide them?"

"Let. Me. Go! - Ah... Hello!"

"No, as much as I'd like to become a Lord, ruling over the Underdark's vampire spawn, we have unfinished business with the mind flayers."

"I'm glad you had your fun then. I am here to provide an endless array of delights."

#baldurs gate 3 sentence meme #baldurs gate 3 sentence starters #roleplay sentence meme #roleplay memes #roleplay prompts #sentence prompts #sentence starters #sentence memes #writing meme #rp memes

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the-stray-liger · 1 year

Note

I AM 100% NOT OKAY AFTER TODAY'S EPISODE OF G-WITCH. FUCK.

Like... the reunion between Guel and Suletta after the former drove of Bitch Boy Elan 5 genuinely warmed my heart, especially with Guel finally, properly confessing, and clearing the air on the previous misunderstanding between them. You can tell that Suletta is genuinely touched that Guel cares so deeply for her, even though she's already committed herself to Miorine, says as much and gently lets Guel down, who takes the rejection with grace, which is a far cry from his attitude at the beginning of the series. Bravo, Guel Jeturk... you've unequivocally proven yourself to be Best Boy™ in this show.

Then we move on to the main conflict of the series. Miorine recognizes that Suletta is little more than a pawn in Prospera's schemes, and after another conversation confirms Miorine's suspicions of just how deeply that Suletta's been metaphorically brainwashed into being dependent on both her mother and the Aerial, and that because the Aerial is the one thing that Suletta refuses to give up in spite of how easily she'd cast aside everything else if her mother told her to? She's become an obstacle. So now, Miorine conspires with Guel to take Suletta's title of Holder as well as the Aerial from her, not just to save Suletta from herself, but to also provide Guel with the means to rescue his company from bankrupcty, given her own empathy with Guel's situation... all while keeping Suletta in the dark, as usual.

So... the duel. As we see, Guel is still wrestling with the guilt of killing his father, which seems to be manifesting as a sort of PTSD induced cockpit-phobia, similar in nature to another character from After War Gundam X, Jamil Neate. Guel isn't just fighting Suletta, but also himself at every turn, and it shows in just how desperately he is trying to keep himself together, even as Suletta not only overrides the Darilbade through the Aerial activating Permet Score 6, but appears to achieve a level beyond that, with Permet Score 7 manifesting as an iridescent white glow... and then Aerial apologizes before she's remotely shut down before Suletta can secure the win, allowing Guel to claim victory, and more importantly, the title of Holder and the Aerial from Suletta.

Whether you interpret that as Ericht apologizing to her sister for getting her so deeply involved with Prospera's schemes and implicitly allows herself to be shut down, or Eri apologizing to Suletta for being unable to prevent what was coming next, both conclusions are utterly heartbreaking to think about, as the entire sequence of events could be interpreted by Suletta as Guel, Miorine, and the Aerial herself all betraying her. The episode is capped off by Miorine pushing Suletta away even as she screams to be allowed to try again, everything slipping through her fingers like grains of sand as Miorine dispassionately tells Suletta that it's over between them, all because Miorine is desperately trying to push Suletta away to keep her safe from Proospera's machinations.

My only concern is that despite Miorine's best efforts... Prospera's probably accounted for all of this, and even expected this outcome.

This is an excellent breakdown and I am REALLY sorry I cant say all I want because Im on my period and in a lot of pain and the brainfog is serious dfadfjd

I love Guel so much. He came out of all he went through a much better man and he thanks Suletta for that and genuinely cares about her and Suletta accepts that in a way she can't accept Elan's gross and agressive invasion of her private space. I sincerely hoped to see Guel just beating Elan's ass I wanted it so badly

The "I have to hurt her to save her" trope drives me up the wall but I also love it. Miorine really wanted to do all of this to protect Suletta and try to free her from Prospera's grip but I am also so so so worried that she did indeed play right into Prospera's hand and honestly I cant with this show its kicking my fucking ass

I cant really say more bc Im not feeling too well but this episode was legitimately one of the most intense and heartbreaking so far somehow and it featured minimal violence. It was a masterpiece honestly

#gwitch #gwitch spoilers

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mysterious-moonstruck-musings · 6 months

Note

ok but what do we do until the next chapter now??? Like what’s actually wrong with dieter??? What’s gonna happen now??? What are they gonna say when they meet again????? Whaaaaaaaa????

I don’t know what to do with myself now lmao like I keep opening tumblr and then remember you just updated and then close it again and then i do it all over again.

I’m loving the fun asks this evening. Keep them coming! 🤣

I feel like I need to insert this gif in regards to what you should do with your free time. I kid of course! I’m just excited for context to use it. 🤭

All of these are excellent questions! We will get a small hint of what’s going on with D in chapter 25. The actual diagnosis discussion I have planned for (checks outline) chapter 27.

I will say the next chat between T & D is probably not going to go as expected…for reasons. I’ll leave it at that so as not to spoil anything. It’s not bad, it’s just 🥺.

They won’t actually be reunited for good until chapter 28…for reasons. They will have some things to work through….also probably not what you’re expecting. It’s going to be tough and hit the feels because he is just so fucking pitiful.

Of course this is the current outline. It could shift a bit depending on how long these chapters get. Again, I suck at judging this stuff.

We will get some more revelations, Gabby will learn some things, and Talia and Alex will have a sweet bonding moment. There is still A LOT to cover (and I’m already rethinking my outline again 🤦🏻‍♀️).

Of course, there is still our happy ending to cover.

I do plan to do a couple more of the Deconstructing Dieter Bravo posts as we get bits of info on what he is dealing with. It’s a lot to cover and I do want to go in detail about it. It will probably help y’all realize why I have not done a D pov. 🥴

There is still a ways to go my friends! Even if it doesn’t seem like it. It’s been a crazy ride and we still have a few more bumps to get over.

In the meantime, I guess I’ll try to keep you entertained with my charming personality. 🤭

And you know I’m always down to chat about the finer details and discuss what’s going on with the other characters. Feel free to hit me with your questions and thoughts. I’m here for it.

If that isn’t enough to satiate you, and you really need something to occupy your time, read it again from the beginning. Pay attention to the finer details as you do so. I wasn’t kidding y’all when I said I left breadcrumbs. 😏

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #destiny & deliverance series #talk to me about d & d #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo x oc #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #talk to me

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smallestapplin · 2 years

Note

Hi I hope it’s not too much to ask for but is it possible we can get the twins saying they’re proud of the reader and maybe the reader starts crying cause no one says it to them :’). If it’s too much don’t worry!

Don’t worry bestie, I sobbed when I was someone was proud of me when I was 18 cause it was the first time I ever heard it, so I get it😌

Asks are open

🔲Ingo🔲

You two were friends and had bonded quite well over work and battling. He loves bouncing ideas off you, it’s nice to have an outsiders perspective on his strategies.

You never really had a strategy, just going in the moment so you thought you’d give it a try and battle him with it.

You had beaten him using your new strategy that you came up with.

He was clapping his hands while you looked so excited that you had gotten it right!

“Bravo! I’m so proud of you! You did an excellent job on…..are you alright?” He was quick to rush over to you.

You hadn’t even realized you were crying, which turned into sobbing when it finally hit you.

“I-I’m sorry I.”

“Shhh it’s okay.” Ingo just holds you in a comforting hug, rubbing soft circles on your back, shushing your quietly.

When you finally started calming down you tried to explain “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cry like this, just I’ve never heard that before and it felt really nice to be told that.”

“It’s alright, truly I don’t mind, I’m happy to be of service.”

To say Ingo is shocked is an understatement. So long as you’re in his life he will make sure you know how proud he is of you and how happy you make him.

🔳Emmet🔳

He is a menace in video games and you know this.

But you had been practicing and coming up with ways to beat him, and you really wanted to show it!

Mario kart was a fun kinda hell with him, filled with screams, yells, swears, and your excited cheering with Emmet’s.

He was genuinely surprised you beat him, you won first place the entire time.

“I won! I actually won!”

He can’t help but grin brightly at your joy.

“You did, I’m verrry proud of you! I didn’t expect you to beat me so thoroughly.”

He was about to continue when he heard a choked sound, looking at you his smile falters as he pulls you to his chest.

Holding you in a tight hug where you cry your heart out onto his chest. Emmet hums a soft melody and nuzzles his cheek against you.

“Hey now, theeere you are, are you feeling better?” He asked once you settled down.

“I’m sorry em, I-“

“No need to explain, I just hope it was a good cry.”

“It was, happy tears I can assure you.”

“Perfect! That’s all I want, happy to help!”

#yeah help my therapist get paid #pokemon #pokemon imagines #pokemon x reader #pokemon fanfic #pokemon ingo #pokemon fluff #pokemon ingo x reader #pokemon emmet

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commanderbuffy · 10 months

Note

First, I love the snippet from Heart's Canyon. It's definitely a more introspective POV from Kit than I think we're used to, and to me at least, the snippet read like this is an older, wiser and sadder Kit without actually laying down a timeline. Bravo.

Also, Kit has a cat! That's so awesome. Kit needs something to give her uncomplicated affection and, despite the dog propaganda, cats are *excellent* at just being there for you.

Second, I decided to flee reality this morning and reread 650 ft2 instead. I wondered if rereading it as a complete work would change how I felt about 650 Jade... and, even knowing that there's a HEA just six chapters away (I mean, it's right there, I don't even have to wait for the fic to update. And I've read this story before) I was still yelling at Jade by chapter 7 to use her words and stop expecting Kit to read her mind. Like, with love. But still... yelling. LOL

It did lead me down a tangent wondering if Jade was actually the villain of the piece (such as there is ). After all, Jade is the person who repeatedly acts against her better judgement in ways that end up hurting herself and Kit, and she's intentional about it, too, which is simultaneously so human and well-characterized; a fascinating gloss on the canon characterization; and why I was yelling at my phone in the bathtub at 10:30 this morning. In short, you write real good and it brought me a great deal of pleasure when I really needed something to help me ignore the world for a few hours today.

Also, somehow the U-haul reference in the first paragraph missed me the first time I read 650 ft2. I chortled because u-hauling but also because it is very much Kit & Jade that they can have known each other for nearly 20 years and still have moved in together too quickly.

But my favourite exchange in the piece is between Scorpia and Jade:

“After her one-night stand, you set strict boundaries and informed her what said boundaries were and why you set them.”

When Jade didn’t answer immediately, Scorpia said, “Jade. You set boundaries like you told me you had. Right?”

“Uhhh….”

"JADE CLAYMORE."

As an older sister, I felt this in my bones. Thank you, again and always, for sharing your writing with us.

Yes!! The Kit in HC has been through it. She's not like completely self-aware, but she is aware enough so make some valid observations about her circumstances and where she is emotionally. Kit's love language is physical touch and she became VERY touch-starved after the break-up. Her cat doesn't fully fill that void, of course, but he helps immensely.

That's such a great question re: if Jade is the villain of 650. I remember while it was still a WIP, the messages are received were SO varied, but I think most people were on Jade's side. While I tried to write them as equally sympathetic and equally at fault, I think I ultimately landed on the side of Jade being the biggest instigator of the angst in the timeframe that 650 took place.

That Jade/Scorpia interaction is one of my FAVORITE. I have one similar instance in HC that I'm excited to write

(also an older sister here, so I feel that)

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wayhavenots · 2 years

Text

Stupid Cupid (4/5)

Posting now so I can stop thinking about it lol. I could have maybe condensed this to actually squeeze in the ending, but I didn’t want to, so...the next part will for realsies be the last one (and in Nate’s POV).

[This is on AO3 by the way.]

Series Synopsis: A mysterious supernatural baby appears in Wayhaven. While Unit Bravo tries to reunite the child with his family, Avery is forced to confront her feelings about love.

Part Synopsis: The baby is reunited with his mother, but Avery gets hurt in the process.

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 3285

The sounds of footsteps echoed as they—Farah, then Avery, then Nate—stepped off the elevator and into the brightly lit Facility hallway. It seemed designed to induce a feeling of walking through an endless tunnel, its spotless white walls and white tiles stretching as far as the eye could see. The baby Eros in Nate’s arms cooed experimentally at the new place, which seemed to coo back to the child's squealed delight, also magnified by the walls.

At Nate's slight flinch, Avery gently lifted the baby out of his arms. Nate never complained, but she knew that being a temporary stay-at-home dad to the Eros baby had been hell on his senses.

"Sorry I couldn't be more helpful," she said sincerely. "If I weren't, you know, a mutant…"

She let the words fade into the infinite hallway, not sure where they were going. Then what? Then the baby could tangle up her feelings, too, the way his sticky little fingers tended to tangle in her hair and yank? Was that a price she'd pay to save Nate the trouble? The uncertainty, the doubt, the pain?

Yes. No. She didn’t know. There were moments when she knew she would lay down in traffic if it would make him smile—although it was usually good enough just to look at him, the way she did now. She couldn’t help getting caught in his honey-sweet gaze. It made her wonder what he could possibly see when he looked back at her, to make him smile so warmly in return.

Maybe she had the supernatural baby to thank for that.

"You should give yourself more credit,” said Nate, almost as if he could hear her thoughts. “This was a team effort. And we make an excellent team, don’t you think?"

There was an intensity to the question, and all she could do for a moment was nod. “But I still think you were pulling more than your weight,” she said lightly. “We’ll split it more evenly next time. I’ll chase after the baby all day, and you can come home and wrestle receipts out of their mouth.”

Nate’s smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Next time, I’m sure they won’t have such an appetite for those papers,” he replied.

“Next time?” exclaimed Farah, whipping around. She continued down the hall backwards, twinkling eyes flicking between the two of them, her teasing smile covering nearly her whole face. “Avery, Natey, do you have something to share with the class?”

Avery let out an involuntary laugh at the unexpected insinuation. “Oh, yes, we played house for a week with a baby who doesn’t eat or produce waste, so obviously we’re prepared to have children right this instant.”

“Don’t act like you don’t love the idea,” accused Farah.

“It’s a little soon to be thinking about that,” said Nate, his chuckle a little strained. “And I believe this is the room,” he added.

The lights were so bright that Avery had to look away.

Nate had mentioned during the elevator ride that this floor was typically used for interrogations; there were power dampeners lining the walls, and the mother Eros, being one of the most powerful supernaturals the Agency had encountered, might have posed a threat if they were to meet anywhere else. It was a condition that Rebecca had requested and that, apparently, the Eros had accepted happily. Still, Avery hadn’t expected it to be so bright, hot and cold at once, an overwhelmingly heavy torture just to step inside.

Avery’s eyes adjusted, and she realized that the sensation wasn’t by design.

Two women stood before the group, both having risen from chairs that slid silently against the carpeted floor. There was Rebecca, of course, who flashed an uncharacteristic smile at their entrance. And then there was the mother Eros.

It was hard to look at her. It was hard not to. She was a silver-haired, silver-eyed goddess adorned in glimmering, golden silk robes. At roughly seven feet tall, the top of her head just brushed the ceiling of the drab Facility room. Her eerily symmetric face gave off a sharp amber glow, which brightened as her smile grew. She uttered a word, or perhaps a name.

The baby, who had been busying himself by playing with Avery’s hair, turned his head in the direction of his mother.

When their eyes met, he gave a high-pitched shriek and flapped his arms about excitedly, his tiny body beginning to glow and burn red-hot in Avery’s arms.

And it hurt, it hurt, like nothing she’d ever felt before, or worse, like she was ripping along old seams. She needed to let go—couldn’t—stumbled forward, to the goddess, who glowed too bright, her gaze carving a hole deep in Avery’s chest. She needed to look away—”Avery!”—couldn’t—”Avery!”—hands steadied her, burned all the same, too many hands—take him, let go—let go let go let go—

And then her arms were empty, and it only burned where she was touched—Farah’s hand on her shoulder, Nate brushing tears off her cheeks, Rebecca grasping her arm. Was she okay? Did it hurt? What did she feel?

It was instinct to pull away, to back herself against the cool wall and shut her eyes against the glow and the hands and to take deep, shaky breaths. “I’m fine,” she insisted, before she could be asked, before she could be helped. She had never hurt like this before. No, she had been hurting like this for most of her life. No—

“You will recover,” said the goddess, her voice smooth, flowing like honey into Avery’s ears, or maybe like lava. “The love here is strong, and has made my son strong as well.”

“How?" asked Avery, the word tumbling from her lips before she could stop it. Her eyes opened, curiosity having won narrowly against her instinct for self preservation. "How can you tell? That there’s love here? That it’s real? That it’s not magic?”

Her gaze burned back into Avery's. “It’s all real,” she said finally. “It’s all magic. What you want to know, child, is if it will last. And I can tell you no such thing.”

“That’s helpful,” muttered Avery, finally tearing her gaze away. Only to find her eyes locked onto Nate, whose face was full of concern as he looked back at her, his hands hovering uncertainly in the air between them.

“We’re happy to have reunited your family,” said Rebecca quickly. “Thank you, Agents.”

Nate nodded to Rebecca, in apparent recognition of the dismissal, and then approached the mother and baby. “We’ll miss you, little one,” he said, reaching out a hand to gently ruffle the child’s hair—and then, perhaps thinking better of it, returned to Avery’s side.

Farah spoke next, a phrase that Avery didn’t understand but that made the baby Eros clap his little hands.

And then it was Avery’s turn. Words caught in her throat as she met the baby’s eyes. That hurt, too, even though she saw only happiness there. Comfort. Love. “Be good, kid,” she said, with one final nod.

The goddess’s voice followed her out: “You may hide your heart behind barbed wire, but it will not change its rhythm.”

“Just don’t lose him again, okay?” Avery returned, shoving her still-stinging hands into her hoodie pockets as she walked toward the door, not looking back.

“You two haven’t been back in forever,” said Farah, practically skipping as she led the way into the Warehouse. She was so far ahead that Avery might have lost her in the darkness, if not for the sound of her voice calling behind her. “You’ll really like what we’ve done to the place.”

“Done?” repeated Nate, a frown crossing his features in obvious concern for the state of his meticulously put-together home. He was no doubt imagining nightmare scenarios: rearranged furniture that had left his beautiful floors scratched, antiques perched in precarious positions and, oh, if Farah had rearranged the library by color and “boringness” the way she was always teasing…

Avery’s hand squirmed in her hoodie pocket, anxious to reach out for Nate’s, to soothe worries that she didn’t understand and couldn’t possibly talk him through without sounding sarcastic.

But being touched still felt like being torn apart, so much so that Nate had insisted that they make a detour to the medical wing before leaving the Facility. (Curiously enough, it didn’t hurt when Elidor greeted her with a handshake.) It was why they were coming back so late.

So she kept her hands to herself, as prescribed, as she followed into the sitting room. Not a thing looked out of place, Avery noted. Not even the agents: Morgan was lurking in a dark corner and Adam stood near the window with his arms crossed.

Farah put her hands on her hips as she looked between the two. “Well?”

A begrudging sigh escaped from Morgan's lips as her gaze swept over the three of them. “Surprise. Happy?”

“No!” exclaimed Farah. “What part of surprise party don’t you understand?”

Morgan scoffed. “The part where you surprise us with demands for a party.”

“Thirty minutes before the start of the operation,” added Adam.

Farah waved aside their complaints. “Where are the decorations? The banner?”

There was a gentle tap above their heads. Avery looked to the source of the noise to see Nate pinching the corner of a piece of lined paper taped to the top of the entryway. Written in black ink, in a curly script that she had to guess was Adam’s, were the words “Welcome Back, Nate and Avery.”

She couldn’t help laughing.

“I truly missed you all,” said Nate sincerely, although his smile betrayed more amusement than Avery detected in his voice. “This is such a lovely gesture.”

Farah scoffed at the flimsy piece of paper. “Oh, yeah, so lovely.”

“Any lovelier and Nate would get emotional,” said Morgan, wrinkling her nose.

Avery let their light bickering settle over her like a warm blanket. She didn’t have a sarcastic quip at her fingertips, although the situation certainly deserved one. Even the notebook paper seemed like overkill, considering it had only been a week since they’d stopped by the Warehouse. Still, it made her smile to be included. No one had ever thrown her a surprise party, or had missed her after just a week apart.

But there was something that terrified her about that, too.

What you want to know, child, is if it will last.

As if he sensed her change in mood—and maybe he had—Nate moved close to her, but not close enough to hurt. His concerned frown was a cool salve against the words fading in her mind. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I should probably head home.”

A wrinkle crossed his brow. “You know that you're always welcome to stay here."

“That’s what the sign says,” she said, flashing a smile she didn’t quite feel. “But I really should take care of things at home. Fill it back up with choking hazards and mess everything up again.”

“I’ll come with you,” offered Nate. He lowered his voice, as though that would keep the rest of the group from hearing. “I have been wanting to talk with you. In the chaos of the last week, I’m not sure…? It would be good to be on the same page. About us.”

Oh, yes. The conversation she was dreading. To hear him clarify that he had been under the influence of the Eros all along; or to hear him insist that he wasn’t; or to hear him say, even in that diplomatic way of his, that after spending so much time in such close quarters, he had seen the barbed wire around her heart and didn’t want it anymore; or to hear—

“But I understand if you’re not feeling up for it tonight,” added Nate.

“I’m not,” she answered quickly, taking the offered life preserver.

He nodded and gave her a reassuring smile. But it didn’t meet his eyes, and she knew he wanted to press the issue. Would have, if not for their audience.

Not that that had ever stopped him from pushing before. For as gentle as he was, he could be persistent when he cared about something. Her safety, or his principles, or his books, or... She wondered why he would give her an out now.

“Avery?”

She shook her head, which didn’t shake the thoughts away, and forced a smile back to him. “Night,” she said brightly. “Enjoy the party.”

There was a figure waiting at her door when she got home, and Avery paused at the bottom of the staircase. Maybe it would have been wise of her to ask Nate to come with her, considering she could be disarmed by an index finger to the forehead. But she hadn’t been thinking. She’d just needed to be alone, to remind herself that she could be alone.

Because she could. She’d been alone most of her life.

She took a deep breath. And as she reached for her pepper spray, the figure turned to face her, braid sweeping over her shoulder.

Avery frowned. “Rebecca?”

An expression like sheepishness wrinkled her mother’s brow, before being replaced with one of detached professionalism. “I’m sorry for the intrusion. I wanted to check on you.”

She blinked. "Have you heard of those newfangled cellular telephones? You can make calls from practically anywhere."

"I suppose I wanted to see, with my own eyes, that you were really as fine as you keep insisting."

Avery crossed her arms over her chest, not sure she agreed with the implication that Rebecca had any clue how she was feeling. “Yeah, I’m great. You’re the one who’s acting strange.”

“In what way?”

“Oh, let’s see,” she began, and started to count them off on her fingers. “You reminisced about my childhood. You said you loved me. You smiled. You're checking on me with your own eyes.” She wiggled her four fingers for emphasis and then shook her head. “I would have opened an investigation into your disappearance if I thought I had the security clearance.”

Rebecca sighed. “In truth, the situation affected me more strongly than I anticipated.”

“Oh, right,” said Avery, remembering how content the baby was in Rebecca’s presence. “The kid sniped you. Has that worn off yet?”

“I wasn’t sniped, Avery. But seeing a mother and child lose each other… It was my nightmare for your entire childhood, to lose you and not be able to get you back.” She let out a sharp breath. “Before losing you the way I did, of course.”

Avery swallowed. She didn’t want to get into this, either. Rebecca’s weird and misguided attempt to be Mother of the Year, when she didn’t need her anymore. When she’d trained herself not to need her, or anyone, anymore. “It all worked out in the end for them, I guess,” she said finally. “Except for being trapped here.”

Rebecca shook her head. “Actually, after you left, they were able to open a portal back to the Echo World.”

Because of course they did.

“Love is a powerful thing,” continued Rebecca softly. “It’s not usually enough.”

“I had no idea,” she deadpanned. Hadn’t she been love’s punching bag her entire life?

Rebecca heaved another sigh. “It’s not usually enough,” she repeated. “But I won’t stop trying with you.”

“Maybe you should.” She hadn’t meant for it to sting, and she regretted the words as soon as she said them. What was wrong with her?

“Maybe,” said Rebecca, giving her a small, sad smile. “But I won’t. Good night, Avery.”

Avery counted three-hundred imaginary sheep hopping across her bedroom ceiling before she gave up on sleep and shuffled to the living room to watch some mindless reruns. The thoughts in her head were too loud. It didn’t help that she’d gotten used to sleeping next to Nate, either, which was an impossibility for tonight if she didn’t want to get hurt.

What if she was like this forever? Allergic to physical touch. Mean. Bitter. A walking disaster. A lonely mess. Lonely because she’d pushed everyone away, because it hurt the other way around. (Even though, according to Newton’s Third Law, there was no difference.)

When she flipped on the light, her eyes were met with the mess that she’d left. Dishes set out of reach. Scattered papers on the coffee table—some chewed up and spat out, courtesy of the baby Eros. Various stuffed animals and a giant blanket that she supposed she should have returned to Rebecca.

Funny how it didn’t get cleaner if she ignored it.

And so, for the first time in a long time, she set to tidying. Which was just as mind-numbingly dull as the last time she’d done it, but maybe she needed her mind numbed. Maybe she needed to finally put some of this garbage behind her.

She felt a spike of pain when she collected the papers to toss in the recycle bin. A low intensity version of what she’d felt in the interrogation room, making her drop the offending receipt.

Curious, and stupid, and sleepy, she reached for the crumpled paper again, then dropped it on the floor when it burned. Hypothesis confirmed.

She used two pencils to unfurl the paper without being hurt. On one side, the chewed-up receipt for a knock-off version of Nate’s fancy fragrance-free shampoo. On the back, in smudged blue ink and familiar, neat script—

Dear Avery,

I wanted to thank you for inviting me to watch this documentary with you. But, I confess, I found it difficult to follow the movie when you were so much more captivating! I truly love the way you light up when you're excited and inspired by the vast mysteries of the universe.

Even now, you are sound asleep on my arm, and although the scientists on screen have captured a picture of a black hole, I can't tear my eyes away from you. I think you are the answer to a mystery of my universe.

Love,

Nate

She remembered collapsing into the couch and snuggling into Nate like it was the most natural thing in the world. In the back of her mind were excuses—it was cold, she was tired, it was the best position for viewing the screen and reaching the popcorn bowl at once. All true but not the truth. The truth was a loaded gun, or at least, a full ink cartridge.

In ink, six years ago: Her final paper for Astronomy 101. A note in her permanent record about academic dishonesty.

In ink, six weeks ago: I think you are the answer to a mystery of my universe. Twice, love. Below it, an N curved to dip below the rest of his name, a swoop that made her heart follow suit.

She wished the baby Eros hadn’t chewed up the paper—but maybe it made complete sense that he had.

She found more scattered around her house. Scrap papers she hadn’t noticed for weeks, that she might not have noticed at all if not for her sudden need to take care of this mess. A mess that Nate had adorned with sweet sentiments when she wasn’t looking.

Every letter burned to the touch. Every one of them was signed “Love, Nate.” Every one of them was filled with love.

He loved the expressions she made when she was doing paperwork. He loved the way she couldn’t sit properly in a chair. He loved her genuine curiosity and her defensive snark. He even loved her messiness, because in it, he found little clues to every part of her she kept quiet or hidden.

And he loved her. There was no hiding from that now. He loved her.

#twc fanfic #nate sewell #nate x detective #nate x avery

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