#90s male green eyes

[drakaripykiros130ac]

I just have to say this: Aegon the Usurper flying off like an idiot in battle while Rhaenyra does not, doesn’t make this guy a hero, nor does it make Rhaenyra a coward.

We need to set the record straight: Women don’t have to be warriors in order to be worth something.

This is just another proof of classic misogynistic thinking of TG stans. But they also prove to be highly subjective since they give “poor sweet innocent” Helaena a pass for doing absolutely nothing and being less than relevant even as a dragonrider. And as the ringleader of the Greens, I don’t think Alicent sat on a horse and rode off to battle in order to further her own ambitions. She started the whole mess and then hid behind her sons. Even after Rhaenyra took King’s Landing, the only thing Alicent could say was something like “Just wait till my son Aemond returns bla bla bla.”

Rhaenyra is a girl’s girl. Those who read the book understand that. The canon version of her never wanted to be a son (unlike the stupidity induced in that show). She was very feminine: always choosing to wear the best dresses with the finest silks, many pieces of jewelry, and she is highly interested in men. She was always proud to be a woman. She embraced it. She never tried to act like the opposing gender as a way to make others look at her as worthy of the throne.

I repeat: Rhaenyra was a girl’s girl and she was proud of it.

She was not a warrior. She never trained with a sword in her life, unlike her idiotic half-brothers. She was not even the type (unlike Princess Rhaenys). Rhaenyra spent her time doing girly things and riding Syrax.

Shortly before the war started, Rhaenyra suffered a miscarriage which greatly affected her health. She needed months to recover. This is the reason why she didn’t ride Syrax in battle, as confirmed in the book. It was not because she didn’t want to or because she refused to fight her battles herself (as I hear many TG stans claim in spite).

And even if flying hadn’t been detrimental to her health, why would she fly into battle? You think that is a smart idea? It’s brave, but it’s also stupid, and the usurper himself proved that.

Aegon the Usurper rode his dragon into battle to show that he’s a man’s man, and what did that get him? Injuries which prevented him from being able to move well enough in order to sit on the throne he stole. The only battle he actually won was against a baby dragon, Moondancer. A baby dragon who inflicted deadly wounds on Sunfyre and caused his death.

So tell me again how ‘intelligent’ the usurper was to fly off into battle himself and what exactly he has accomplished with that. What exactly is so “heroic” about that? The fact that he shows off his masculinity on a big bad dragon?

And of course do forgive a poor woman for not flying her dragon into battle like a crazy person after a miscarriage and several psychological blows in one go like her father’s death, her daughter’s death, her son’s death and the usurpation through which a faction of snakes stole the throne that belonged to her.

Do forgive her for lacking any combat experience because you know…she was raised a girl and has a girlish personality!

And do forgive her for not being an idiot and getting herself disabled, like her half-brother did.

[pierofilm]

Did I, A Side Character Became the Male Lead's Wife?!

2023 | 13+ | ONESHOT | YANG JUNGWON × READER | -> PART 2

SUMMARY you — a side character in a royal novel doing absolutely nothing but enjoy your rich ass yet boring life, only watching over the female lead and doing your job in protecting her, only for a pair of kittenish eyes to fall not upon the female lead but on you, unfortunately.

AUTHOR'S NOTE not me writing a whole ass oneshot at 5am bcs of that sweet ask from that one anon, imma name u serotonin dopamine anon lmao- and jungwon bae u r truly my muse.. also inspired by sum manhwas cuz I binge read 90+ chapters in less than a day 💀💀💀 plus happy 900+ followers for me <333 mom wake up I'm famous even tho I'll never let u know what my secret writing blog is about 😊😊

a side character, how cute?

well, you only came to know of this very horrible (not really) fact that you're nothing close to a main character's vibes cause look at you babe, where's the sparkling shiny starry dust on you as you walked through the red carpet at the ball?

and did they even spare a glance at you? unfortunately, nope. because the female lead, Liz; was your enemy, at least in how your character was written in the novel by the goddamn author which was you.

yes, that's right!

you, a hella introverted author dwelling in the deepest corner of her room doing nothing but spent an ungodly amount of hours creating the perfect and enchanting characters after crying for major character death of a fic a few years ago. wiping your dripping tears off your cheeks in a comical way as you pull open your laptop and risk your 20/20 vision for life, just so you can reverse the aching pain in your chest that you wore a thick ass glasses now.

Liz, the female lead. Swooning over her was your religion, throwing not one but a ten whole buckets explaining how perfect she was—or how tremendously kind she was, delicate and utterly sweet. patting yourself on the back for creating such a goddess of a character, so it's only wise for you to give her a fitting male lead, right? Okay we'll talk about that later since it's about you right now.

So how did you end up in your novel? Well, because of one fateful day of you doing absolutely nothing but taking a goddamn rest, and whoever the god in heaven that just randomly decided to throw you in the novel you wrote yourself—must be utterly insane. Perfect indeed!

it took you a humongous realisation to see yourself in a dark green puffy dress that represents jealousy, envy, and betrayal—which also represents the side character standing behind the female lead on the thick cover of your book. you've originally written her as that wicked best friend that uses her seductive way of speech to seduce men, and at last turning her back at the female lead by accusing her of a horrendous crime.

her fatal fate consists of her head being snapped by the guillotine, unfortunately. but for you, not really, cause you are so in for destroying wicked characters but jokes on you—you're now in the body of that character.

pfft, can't the gods put you in a character that lives near the sea, with your straw hat on and as you drank your lemon juice away from the public drama, angsty dialogues, cringe moments you yourself have created because you don't have atleast an ounce of social skills that's why you pour it all on your characters.

"oh my apologies, milady— pfft—" three ladies sticking with each other like a super glue, had thrown the glass of wine on the female lead's gown—earning a series of gasps from everyone who saw but you were sure won't pay an ounce of consideration towards her as you had written almost everyone in this novel as "the world against the weak, fragile character."

oh, right. the hyena laughters of those you describe in episode 3 of "the flashy ball"; the three evil sisters, because why not? they added the extra spices in your tongue to the point you couldn't wait for them to get slap by the female lead or possibly someone.

ah, the tremendous satisfaction.

and you were one of that person whose hands itching to smash their skull apart, you cringed enormously at them as they were the ones that brought total trouble wherever they went or whoever are unlucky enough to get in their way. unfortunately, you seal your female lead's fate with them as she need some little obstacles, doesn't she?

you as hell were not sure what you're supposed to do, whether to just let things happen as the story goes or you do the male lead's job in protecting the female lead cause you have no idea why is he taking such a long time to appear, when he should've made his grand entrance at the freaking introduction?

and you wrote it that way cause you got fed up with male leads making their first appearance at the ball, and somehow quickly gaining the female lead's heart like Cinderella cause dear lord where's the slow burn?

just say, you're a conservative grandma type of a mindset or that you are skeptical over love at first sight. yep, you're right. that's why you ain't gonna let your precious female lead get bullied in front of your very eyes. she's like your granddaughter right now, seriously.

a shriek echoed through the entire ball, gaining everyone's attention. "oh my god! my dress! you— lady Liz! who did you even brought with you?!"

oh right, you forgot it's your first time at the ball either. "my apologies, milady. it's just that i saw a bunch of hyenas roaming around.." you rubbed the back of your neck.

"hyenas?! guards—"

"chill, what's the commotion here?" a bright dashing blonde haired man in a red royal suit came around, with sets of stars dusting upon his form which you already realise to be part of the main characters but unfortunately you forgot. you ain't having that extra superhuman memory just because you are an author.

the bunch of hyenas before you reasoned with the prince, but you slowly realise that the prince was none other than Prince Jake. Inspired by that one puppy image idol from fourth generation of kpop, you were apparently slurping your noodles in the local restaurant when you watched him imitating a dog from the tv, causing you to choke on your noodles.

it's safe to say, he's hot enough that he had to be part of your main characters. aah, that signature dashing smile of his as he defended the female lead with his wisely chosen string of words which immediately melted everyone's heart at sight.

times like this you wish you were actually the female lead, but the logical side of you beg to differ; you are not emotionally capable of spewing cringy romantic words for that's only reserved for writing. So thank you, i'll pass.

Surely, Prince Jake ain't the male lead for your precious female lead but you just let them converse with each other despite her with her absolute kindness, urging you to talk with them too, atleast a word. it sort of felt for a moment like she was trying to match you with the prince.

like no please, you'd rather not to. hot guys are hot, but they're not worth the emotional investment past the fangirling section.

plus the prince doesn't seem interested you as he doesn't spare not even one look at you which obviously you couldn't care any less, you sneakily went out the ball after a series of mishaps—for example your heavy puffy ass gown with its sole purpose to only look pretty but the reality ain't that pretty to say the least, panting like a dog as you took each step towards the entrance all while cussing yourself for ignoring your logical part of brain that you shouldn't have been adding humongous useless words to describe the gown just to make it sound extremely pleasing to the readers.

now you're the one to bear the consequences of your own writing, the fuck.

"one! two!—" a long, long, depressing sigh echoes. "three! ah!—" consequently falling upon your face, what a perfect day indeed. you just wanted to go home, tuck yourself in your comforting blanket, eat your hot cup of ramen or indulge yourself in the sea of chocolate while daydreaming of your favourite idols and fictional characters.

not this awful disaster of you getting tangled in the courts' affairs.

"i suppose, you need help, milady?"

oh no, certainly not. don't call me milady, pretend i do not exist for i certainly do not have the social skills to pretend that i like you, or form a decent conversation especially with men.

"milady?"

you curled yourself, burying your head into the comfort of your gowns. wondering quite a bit of how odd you look in the middle of the hallway.

"milady?" his voice-like whisper came closer, obviously standing beside you right now. "are you okay?"

fuck it. "please, i beg of you to kindly leave me alone as my day has been utterly ruined and—" oh wait, he seems oddly familiar. those lush fluffy hair and kittenish orbs that only softens among those he were close enough.

prince jungwon.

oh! the male lead, oh my god! your jaw hang so low it fell on the ground, your eyes sparkled in dozens of star like universe as you took in his marvelous beauty that you had spent creating meticulously after studying all the '101 rules of how to create the perfect male lead that had the readers heart evaporating & a huge ass green forest that certainly would cause blazing flames'.

"oh my god! you look absolutely gorgeous, i've done it really well didn't i?! oh my god!"

"o-oh—! absolutely, you did well!" he immediately replied back, pressing his lips tight nervously.

wait what? what did he say? oh shit, oh well, covering your mouth instantly as you accidentally let it out before the prince, your precious male lead that you solely created for the female lead. "i—.."

the prince, your very precious character—obviously taken aback with a slight blush dusting of his adorable cheeks as he raise his fist up to his lips, coughing a couple of seconds. a personality trait you very well are familiar of cause that's how you wrote him when he fall in love with the female lead.

your eyes ogled out at that familiar sight, screaming at the back of your mind—wait, wait! you're not supposed to fall in love with me, you idiot! go back! go inside the ball, she's inside there!

"that's oddly brave of you, milady. i'd certainly go as far as to say that i've never seen such traits from a lady." kitten eyes softening at you, crouching down as he lend both of his hands for you. you raised your eyebrow confusingly at what is he trying to pull at but you realise he was intending to get you up.

"u-uhm? uh, sorry. i could get up on my own, actually." yeah, that's what you did. pushing yourself back up despite his protests because you ain't gonna let him fall any further for you, nah uh, not in this life, your mission is to get him and your female lead together inside the frames of birds holding flower wreaths as they went on to their happily ever after.

not with you!

"may i have the honour to know your name, though, milady?" why the fuck isn't he leaving, what is there so interesting in you that he is still standing here asking you such generic questions.

you shouldn't be having the characters attention on you as you obviously wrote it that way, and that even though your character in the novel had tried to get the prince's heart, despite resorting to foul actions, that he never truly had been attracted to her despite this characters' seductive aura.

for you squealed so loud at the scene you wrote, with jungwon putting her in her place. "you are not her, and you would never be her." along with the bunch of your readers hosting a flamboyant celebration under the comments, screaming over how loyal he was.

so what in the actual fuck is this?

"you don't need my name." you nonchalantly answered.

"my apologies?"

"you see, my best friend is in the ball—" you gestured your hands to the entrance of the ballroom, "and she needs your help more than i do."

"wait? why would she need my help?" his eyebrows knitted together in utter confusion as you pushed him through his back.

"of course, she do! don't ask anything!"

"wait!— my name is!" he forcefully turn to face you again, but you immediately covered his mouth with your hands—kabedonning him against the wall.

an excruciating silence occured between you two in the silent hallway, Jungwon freezing to his core when your other hand shoot beside his head.

"listen i don't need your name, dear sir." you emphasise each word, you certainly don't need to know his name nor his status as a prince, not wanting to risk any possible connection with him judging by how he acted before you just now.

"b-but!" his words were muffled into the void as you cupped his mouth tighter.

"shh, shh. stop talking and listen, will you?!"

jungwon nodded slowly, what an odd situation he was in right now, he thought. but somehow he likes it.

"so first step, is go inside the ballroom. second, look for the lady in pink gown, and third—"

"t-third?"

"third is tell her your name! my best friend needs it more than i do!" you release him from your grasp as you went to swing open the huge double door, "now go!" waving a goodbye before kicking his body through the entrance, pulling the door back with your entire strength despite his protests.

oh of course, you finally let out a gag after suppressing it in front of him the entire time as you've never had a proper conversation with a male without stuttering, somewhat a sad tragedy for you, unfortunately. you felt quite guilty about your readers who swoon over the romances you wrote between your leads, weeping over how you're so good at it—not knowing you're a complete introvert with only a gigantic ass dictionary with you.

finally, the male lead and female lead's romances are about to start! you squealed with your hands clasping as you went on your way to the carriage, gesturing for the rider to embark on the way to your heavenly puffy manor with the widest big grin ever that it had him questioning you, "has any gentleman had caught your heart, milady? a couple of hours ago, you were often beyond distraught to attend the ball but insisted when you heard Lady Liz was going."

"oh, you silly." you giggled as you swayed your hand, "of course, that's one of the reasons. but there's another one.."

"may i ask what is it, then?"

you leaned in closer, urging him to get closer as you whispered. "i got the chance to become a Cupid!"

"a Cupid?" you squealed before the old man, hopping like a child for quite awhile before flying into the carriage much to his surprise, but only shook his head in amusement—appalled by how his mistress had changed so much.

"so?" you couldn't help yourself from pulling out the widest eccentric grin at the female lead, extremely curious and ecstatic over what romances had bloom between her and Jungwon.

Liz raises her eyebrow in confusion, "so?.. what do you mean, milady?"

you shrugged, falling back to your seat as you raise your eyebrow in a comical way, "that.." whispering ever so seductively, "prince."

"p-prince?

"yes!" the teacup rattles at your excitement oozing so much that you tapped the table a couple of times. "what happen? what's the tea~"

she lets out a soft giggle, a bit amused by your excitement. "i have no idea what you're trying to imply, milady."

"wait? what are you saying? didn't the prince went to you last night?"

Liz shook her head slowly, her expressions clearly stating that she absolutely don't know what and who you were talking about as a smile pulled up on her lips once again, taking a few sip from her teacup.

veins popped out from your neck as it dawned on you, your head snapped towards the castle on top of the mountain, you stupid of a prince! you cussed at him endlessly at the back of your mind, tightening your fist as your ears and nose fuming in anger. how dare he? he didn't listen to you at all? what in the actual fuck? would this somehow divert the original route? a dozen question arise into your mind one after another, causing you to let out an exaggerated sigh.

facepalming yourself as you imagined the imaginary heavenly light on top of you, weeping to yourself about how tremendously unlucky you are to have a hard headed male lead. it's impossible, you have never added a trait so irritating like this in his profile so how could this happen?

"milady?" the gentle voice of your precious female lead pulled you out of your inner desperation, you leaned in closer, whining so much over how unlucky you were and such, the rest only being in your mind as you pouted.

"ah, i remember now, the prince—"

"WHAT?—" you immediately seated yourself after giving her a potential heart attack, "my apologies, what did you actually.. remember?"

"i assume you were talking about the prince from yesterday? prince jake?"

"no not that bitch— oh certainly not him, ehem.." you took a couple of exaggerated coughs, avoiding her evident confusion. "isn't there a prince.. name jungwon with you that night?"

"oh my goodness! right! prince jungwon!" she shook her head in disbelief with her finger on her head.

right, how did you even forgot that the female lead in front of you had a "weak ass memory" in her profile description. tsk tsk, truly a forgetful author you are. you should be trying your best to remember the things you wrote before and revise it as best as you can, to avoid any possible problems in the future, atleast.

"right, how did i even forget, the prince asked me for your name, milady—"

"huh?" you look at her with confusion, as you were out of reality a couple of seconds ago. your orbs terribly widened as her words slowly sinking in to your brain. "HUH?"

ask your name?! why your name, why not hers?! what did the prince ate that night before stumbling onto your way that he had to ask for your name before the female lead—his own lover?!

laughing awkwardly, you raise your leg on top of another as you nervously swayed your hands repeatedly. "oh dear, oh dear. you might have heard it wrong, the prince?—" snorting outloud as you gestured to yourself, "asking for my name? what a funny news!"

"i didn't, milady. the prince came to me and asked me for your name, as he was immensely curious of who you are so i—"

"so what?—" you can't believe this, you really can't bring yourself to believe any words she was uttering. you should have been bestowed by the news that the prince had taken an interest in her, a hand in marriage, or anything, anything as long as you're out of the picture! "y-you didn't tell him my name, d-didn't you?"

"of course, i did!" exclaimed she did with the widest grin ever.

why are you so freaking happy over this?! clasping your head in your hands as you tragically fall on your knees causing the lady to gasp in shock, ushering to your side to get you up.

"milady?! what's wrong?"

"d-dear," you pouted as you look up to her, "you didn't tell him where my manor's at, r-right?"

she simply replied, "i did? the prince informed me that he's going to send a letter for you to be his partner to the ball."

an imaginary arrow struck back to your heart, forming a humongous hole that threatens to give you a panic attack. what? what in the actual fuck? did you accidentally did something to divert the original story you yourself created? but you didn't even do anything! you tried to do your best to keep the interaction with him as short as possible and he dared to take an interest in you?!

"milady, a letter from the royal palace had arrived for you."

"discard it. throw it. keep it away from my sight."

"milady?!" Liz and the head of the maid exclaimed in utter shock at your nonchalant answer.

"forget about it, forget about it." you clasped your forehead in utter disappointment, yet your brain were creating another plan b for this unexpected turn of events. what should you do? even more so, what would you do now that the prince had asked for you to be by his side to the ballroom?

this won't do, you won't let this happen—you had to look as unattractive and ugly as possible for him to cringe on and finally divert his attention back to the rightfully person who deserved it; the female lead.

your maids could only fall apart every single time you pluck out the enchanting gems they attached on your hair, ears and wrists. their efforts deemed futile as always as you had no mood for any sort of events, it was like a slap to their face as you initially weren't like this. you overheard them that they couldn't get used to how you were adamant in staying behind the spotlight as you often did your very best in dressing yourself up before, with the sole intention of gaining the favour of men and even more better, a prince.

of course, they are totally oblivious to your real identity. only a series of jaw gaping one after another with your change of character, at first—you had a dilemma over whether you should act like the character you created but you later scrap the idea as soon as the anxiety of being engulfed in the crowd suffocated your chest. opting to avoid as many as balls or public events as possible, but that obviously didn't work out that well since you heard of the female lead's arrival from the country side—just like you intended it to be.

and being the proud mother (writer) you are, of course why wouldn't you take one single look at her and see of how far she had came? but alas, one interaction leads to another one and so on—till finally, you became her best friend throughout her entire journey. waiting for the male lead's arrival, and watch their romances blooming and per se—but oh well, look at the situation you were in right now; total disaster.

you truly despise being in such an extravagant puffy gown and the numerous accessories hugging your skin, it's tremendously uncomfortable that you wanted to rip it off part in front of the prince standing before you right now, and right here.

asking for your hand to dance with that odd kittenish smile, that you swore you had never ever written in his personality profile; he should never have been this casual and chill over a person he had just met. he should've been cold as fuck, icy to touch, and a spiralling disaster if you dare to talk to him, so why?

plus how could he have taken an interest in you? you couldn't possibly have added a dose of the love at first sight trope, didn't you? you despised that trope to your very core.

"milady? may i?" he extended his hand before you, patiently waiting for your answer.

you had decided that you're going to reject him quick and efficient—just like the local fast food restaurant your mouth kept drooling over for, smashing a five star review for their inhuman speedy delivery.

"you see, prince jungwon. i have no desire to have a connection with you, a relationship, as a matter of fact."

he raised his eyebrow, seemingly unfazed by your bold words. "i'm curious milady, why so? have i done something that perhaps had annoyed you?"

cliché question, you loathe that. "what if i said you did?"

"then tell me, milady. i'll try my hardest to own up to you—" he took a steps forward, which causes you to immediately step back as well with a frown on your face. you can't, not in this life, to even give him a single chance to get close to you. nah uh.

"no need, and stay one meter apart, please." you pointed your index finger towards the floor and he hesitated, but complied immediately.

"i." you raise your index finger back to yourself and then at him, "don't like you. do you understand?"

"b-but?"

"stop questioning me, prince jungwon." you stayed firm in your spot, "i believe it's a common decency to step back when a lady had voiced out her opinion, a prince like you certainly would understand, am i right?"

Jungwon was clearly taken aback, the fact that you didn't give him a single chance to utter a word nor take a step closer was a hard punch to his face. It feels as if he was trying to reach for you, but you efficiently dodged it with ease. It kind of.. annoys him.

"base on how you didn't say anything anymore, i assumed we're done here! well then, goodbye prince jungwon." you turned your heels towards the entrance, not bothering to waste any time at this goddamn ball. "i hope this will be the very last." you scoffed inside your mind, eager for the story to return to it's original route, and that the prince would soon deem you useless and such—returning to the female lead's arms.

hm, now where's your precious female lead? she should've appeared right now and right here, strike the pot while it's hot!

"i'm afraid i can't back down that easily, milady." jungwon took a few steps forward, wrapping his hand round your wrist as he spun you around to face his eyes filled with blazing determination. one that you specifically added on top of his profile so that your readers would kept it in mind.

your breath hitched down your throat as you remembered there's only two reasons he could have this; one that reminds you when he was at war, shouting at the top of his voice to encourage his soldiers as they push through the enemies, and another reason of it appearing is when he have to get what he wanted, or else all hell will break loose, chaos will ensue.

right, you're truly an idiot. staying a few years in this novel without any memories, and only for it to surface back when you stumble upon the library—dozens of books flickering a series of eccentric images in your mind. It had cause you to lose all memories of important details, only emerging everytime you are presented with a situation you couldn't comprehend. such as when you forgot that the female lead had memory problems and such.

"i'll only present this choices to you, milady. since you tremendously intrigued me over how well spoken you were and fascinating indeed—" bitch, you don't even know how you had the sudden ability to confront him but you were just sure as hell that you don't want to ruin your own novel. no fucking way.

you can't let him have the upper hand on you.

"let me go." irritated to your core, you tried untangle Jungwon's tight grasp on your wrist but he won't budge even an inch which only had you fuming in anger. "i said let me go, bitch!"

the crowd emits a series of gasps and murmurs as you spun around—twisting the prince's arms which had him yelping in pain, and ultimately pinning him onto the ground. with rage consuming you that nothing was going in your way, you slammed your hands on the both side of his head. clenching your jaw and gritting your teeth as you emphasised each word. "you are one a dumb hell of a bitch, when i said i do not want to see you anymore. i mean it. so—"

"so what?" his smug look resurfaces, one that emerges whenever he was being challenged. yes, do that! he should despise you, not take an interest in you! he should loathe you so much that he can't even gaze at you for a second. excitement surged through your veins as you open your mouth, preparing for the last blow.

"so, get lost. just because you're a prince doesn't mean every girl would fall for you, idiot."

an even more louder gasp emits from the crowd as they clearly heard what you said, their jaw gaping and some covering their mouths with their hands as their mind are now bombarded with random questions over how exceedingly brave you are to insult the royal prince, and of what fate will you met now that you've done such an atrocious act.

a low giggle sent shivers down your spine, and goosebumps to riled over your neck as you realise the prince under you had the widest smirk on his face. you frowned deeply, he shouldn't be smirking! he should be fuming in anger and throwing you out of the palace at this moment. so why?!...

"oh milady, how truly fascinating you are." you let out a loud yelp when he grabbed both of your wrists, pulling you closer to his face—a dangerous close proximity against his fluttering eyelashes and lips that your breath caught up in your throat which causes your cheeks to heated up in embarrassment of what kind of position you two were in right now. "i like you, you would certainly be a perfect fit to be by my side."

"what?!" you exclaimed, jaws dropping and eyes about to pop out at his very words. "i don't want to be by your side—"

"a lady like you, i'm afraid to say, intrigues me very much..." Jungwon shots a kittenish wink right through your heart. "be my wife, milady. i'll show you how good I can be for you."

「 © talesofyuan on tumblr 2023 」 all rights reserved. do not copy or post without permission.

[punkeropercyjackson]

Please tell me how Duke,Cass and Stephanie getting nonstop left out of Batfam content isn't because of antiblackness,racialized misogyny and a mix of gender essentialism,classism and ableism.When none of you can shut the fuck up about how 'black haired and blue eyed male is the only requirement for a Batkid!' and go as far as to include 'pale/fair skinned' sometimes when Damian and Dick are brownskin in multiple versions because of being brown in heritage and Damian and Jason have green eyes half the time and by saying 'lighteyed' when it comes to Batboys,that would be problematic but it'd at least include Duke since he's gold eyed due to Gnonom and you probably don't even know who that is since you actively refuse to meet Duke even though he's easiest Batkid to read for BECAUSE he's got so little content and Cass and Stephanie also have a small amount of material compared to the other boys

When Cass is chosen over Duke for Jason by all of you even though she hates him and she chooses Stephanie again and again against everyone's wishes and Duke canonically WANTS to be chosen for fucking once and Jason DID choose him and is the only other Batboy who called him a Robin directly outside of Robin War and Stephanie's dying wish was be 'a real Robin' and Cass' character creation purpose is to defy the idea that asian women exist only for white men and go against other asian girl stereotypes,INCLUDING being purely soft and feminine by making her a rough and tough butch who hates cis men.When you say 'Fuck canon,fanon is better!' to justify your millions of rewrites to erase Tim's Robin being a romani man and his Batgirl a half chinese girl and Jason's Robin and Batgirl being a black autistic boy and his Batgirl a bpdtistic male explotation victim and your crossovers of characters who have the perfect parents or at least caretakers in canon but suddenly,canon is your gospel when it comes to the bigotry in it's writing i.e how 'The core Batkids' came to be

And the fact is,that's like the only Batkids combo that DOSEN'T make sense!The Dead Robins Club is a no brainer but there's also the 90s Batkids trinity,the Shakespearen Robins(Jason,Stephanie and Duke),The Troubled Batkids(Tim,Stephanie,Cass and Duke),Batman!Cass Batwoman!Stephanie Robin!Maps and Trans Batgirl!Damian and the ONLY CANON Nightwing Robin and Batgirl trio we've ever gotten in Dick Tim and Cass??????You have some of the best dynamics of all time possible but nah,you'd rather pass it over for infantalizing a grown ass disabled moc into your pathetic lil pretty obsessed manchild,turning thee dead sidekick into a convuluted mess more than canon ever has and that's saying BIG words,cringeifying someone who just has the personality of an ordinary of 17 year old boy and is therefore inherently lovable into the arranged marriage lovechild of a dark romance guy and a pick me quotev girl and dehumanize a cute and sweet lil brown boy who's got that trauma already to turn him into an animal in human mold in the same breath you bash him healing enough to get a gf through trauma bonding and being kiddy together in favor of your groody ass lil age gap fantasy-Actually,that applies to ALL OF THEM

Kory,Rose and STEPHANIE are infinitely better written love interests for Dick,Jason and Tim than any older man you want them to get with,Tim most of all because he's not even a man,he's a boy.Cass and Stephanie are adults and have been for a long time in multiple incarnations so why not make Stephcass smut instead?Why not 'Duke joins the Batfam early/Jason takes Duke into The Outlaws after he has a fight with Bruce that scared him/Sleep Deprived Duke Thomas/Chaotic Duke Thomas/Duke Thomas deserves better/Trans Duke Thomas/Autistic Duke Thomas?,all of which are infinitely more implicable to Duke than they are to Tim and so is 'Token Normal Tim Drake'?When you make this content or you support it,you're saying something.You're saying you don't care about representation and perfer stereotyping and abusive dynamics because you believe they're inherently more interesting

Before you judge this post,consider the following:Which one of us has read enough comics and watched enough adaptions to know all this?Which one of us has more of a right to call themself a Batfam and Batkids fan?Which one of us is constantly gatekeeping Duke,Cass and Stephanie from their own story and pulling the 'No,YOU!!!!' card?It's absolutely pathetic how desperate the grip Batfanon has taken is and even more so that y'all refuse to move on from it like i did.It's not gonna kill you,you pissbabies.And just curious,how long was the last Batfam-centric post you rb'd?Longer than this,right?

[sophrosynesworld]

The Night Shift (Part 6)

Part One:

You exhale softly, swiping your badge over the scanner. A quick flicker of green replaces the red, followed by a sharp click that echoes down the otherwise silent corridor. Your fingertips brush against the cool, barely-blue walls as you walk, searching for something to keep you grounded. You’re exhausted, a bone deep type of tired. The thought of how much longer you can keep going nags at the edges of your mind.

A stretcher races past, a nurse from the burn unit on top performing relentless chest compressions as an alarm code begins to scream through the air. You pause, watching them vanish behind a curtain, the code team already in motion. You turn, forcing your legs to carry you down another hallway toward your unit.

You press the hand sanitizer dispenser, the cool gel spreading between your palms as you push through the last set of doors. Relief hits when you see the once blood-stained hallway now spotless.

“This is a professional workplace!” Haruto’s voice booms, startling you as he shakes a half-empty bag of chips. “Stealing food is a serious offense!”

"I wish he’d just get laid already," Airi's voice comes from behind, making you jump. She’s finally out of her scrubs, wearing a pair of denim jeans and an oversized hospital 10K t-shirt.

You chuckle, though it takes more effort than it should. "That would require him being nice first."

Airi smirks. “You think he’s going to track you down?”

“Dynamight?” You ask, unsure who she means, leaning against the wall as Airi rolls her eyes, her expression silently saying, of course.

“Who knows? I saw him earlier—he took a rough hit. They probably shipped him off to another hospital for treatment.”

Airi frowns, adjusting her oversized tote bag before crossing her arms as she follows you toward the ambulance entrance. You stop at the back, joining the line of residents as they wait, leaning against the wall while watching the incoming victim. The morning sun streams through the large bay windows, a reminder that you're now 19 hours into this shift.

“Aren’t you off work?” you ask, giving her a puzzled look. “Why are you still here?”

“I’m waiting for Naomi. We’re going to walk home together.”

You glance down at your watch, cracking a joke about your overtime pay, but Airi doesn’t respond. You turn to ask her something, but her expression freezes you in place—her mouth slightly open, eyes wide as she reaches for your hand.

“What is it?” you ask, but she doesn’t answer. Her gaze is locked on the entrance. Your gaze shifts to follow where she’s looking, your mouth falling open in disbelief.

“Holy shit.”

Dynamight stumbles into the ambulance bay, clutching his abdomen, his hair matted with blood and hero costume torn. Frantic crimson eyes scan the room—until they land on yours.

His mouth opens, a silent plea trembling on his lips as he stumbles forward, one hand outstretched, desperate.

“Please.”

The EMTs rush in alongside a gurney, guiding it toward the trauma bay. “Male, mid-twenties. Presenting with hematemesis. Fluctuating between alert and unresponsive but has been out for the last 8 minutes ."

You’re already moving, pushing through the crowd toward Bakugo. His glassy eyes, aren’t on you anymore—they’re fixed on the gurney being wheeled away. You gently cup his face in your hands, pulling his focus to you.

“You don’t want to see that.”

"Please."

The word is so quiet, nearly swallowed by the chaos around the two of you.

"What is it? Are you hurt?" you ask, looking over him for injuries.

He shakes his head, voice barely a whisper. "Save him."

You look over to see the gurney turning into bay six. Airi’s voice fades into the background, drowned out by the relentless ringing in your ears as you edge closer to the bed. Time drags, each second an eternity until the moment you tug on your gloves.

"Blood pressure's dropping, 90/60 on arrival. Tachycardic, heart rate’s at 170. Peripheral pulses are weak. We’ve started an IV in route." Everyone grabs hold of the gurney, moving in unison as you prepare to transfer the patient to the bed. As you lift, your heart skips a beat. Your eyes widen for a moment. You didn't recognize him at first, but dying before you is the number one hero—Deku.

Suddenly, his monitors scream with alarms, signaling trouble.

"Prepare for intubation!" Another doctor calls out while your stethoscope presses against Izuku's chest, the distant, irregular rhythm thrumming beneath your fingertips. His lungs gurgle with fluid, the faint crackle of blood seeping into the tissue unmistakable.

"I’d like to take the lead on this, if that’s alright with you, Dr. Kobayashi," you say, barely glancing up to meet his concerned, older eyes.

"Are you sure?" Dr. Kobayashi questions, his brow furrowed. "You look worse than half the patients that roll into this place."

"Heart rate’s at 210 and rising!" someone from the crash team calls out, eyes glued to the monitor.

"Failure isn't an option with this one." you reply, laser-focused on the task at hand, unaware of the man watching you in agonizing slow motion. "Push 6 milligrams of Adenosine, followed by 20 of saline into the large vein."

"I can do this" You reassure him. You don't have a choice.

The nurse swiftly administers the dose, while the senior doctor takes a step back, waiting for your instruction.

"I need a 14-gauge needle!" you command, eyes flicking to the nurses around you. "Set up a central line and prep an ultrasound for his abdomen," you order before beginning the thoracostomy.

The team falls in sync with you, trusting your lead without question. Your mind races, analyzing every possible outcome, desperate to pull Midoriya back from the edge of death.

Then his heart monitor flatlines.

"He’s in cardiac arrest!" someone shouts.

But you don’t hesitate. "Start compressions!"

Sakura jumps into action, beginning CPR as someone else gels the defibrillator handing the paddles off to you.

"Clear!" you shout, pressing the paddles to his chest.

His body jerks with the shock, but the flatline holds steady, unmoved.

The room is a blur of frantic motion and deafening alarms, but one voice cuts through the chaos.

"Get up, damn it! Don’t you dare die on me, Deku!" Katsuki's voice is raw, choked with emotion as he struggles against two other men both trying to hold him back. Katsuki’s wild, desperate eyes are locked on Midoriya’s limp body.

"Bakugo, stop! They’re doing everything they can." The number 6 hero, Red Riot, tries to comfort him, his face etched with pain as he tightens his grip on Katsuki’s arm, urging him to calm down. Beside him, the 14th hero, Chargebolt, rests trembling hands on Katsuki’s shoulders, his own eyes brimming with unshed tears.

But Katsuki can’t be consoled. His voice cracks as he yells, "Why the hell isn’t she using her quirk?! She could save him!"

You hear him, feel the weight of his accusation like a punch to the chest. But you can’t look at him. Not now.

You close your eyes for a split second, steadying yourself. Your quirk could help, but with how weak you are, you're not sure how far you could make it.

"Charge to 250."

Another shock. Another flatline.

Katsuki’s voice pierces the air again, louder, more desperate. "Do something!" His knees nearly buckle, Kirishima barely holding him upright as the anguish in his voice shatters what little resolve you have left.

"I know you can do it," Katsuki pleads, as his gaze locks onto you. "Why aren’t you helping him?"

You hesitate, hands trembling, torn between the logical part of your mind and the emotional whirlwind inside you. You want to help. You want to save him.

"Clear!" you shout again, trying to block out Katsuki’s voice, trying to focus on Midoriya.

Another jolt.

Another flatline.

How long can you hold back before risking everything?

The decision hits you like a wave. You drop the paddles, your hands trembling as you press them to Midoriya’s chest. The flatline still wails, cutting through your soul, but you close your eyes and push past the noise, letting your quirk flood through you. Warmth spreads from your fingertips, coursing into Midoriya’s body.

Your energy surges forward, a lifeline desperately trying to knit together the broken pieces inside him. You feel his cracked ribs, his blood soaked lungs, the trauma to his spine. You pour everything you have into him, your breath growing shallow as the drain begins to take its toll.

Katsuki’s figure becomes distant, just a murmur in the background as your vision begins to blur. You barely hear Airi and Rina pleading. Everything fades into the background, your slowing pulse pounding in your ears, your hands now numb. The world tilts, darkness edging into your vision.

And then—pain.

A sudden jolt courses through you, like lightning striking your core. Your eyes snap open, gasping for air as your heart races. Your quirk explodes with power, racing out of your palms.

You stumble, barely holding yourself up, turning your head to see the figure standing beside you. Chargebolt has pushed though the staff, his hand lightly resting on your arm, electricity still sparking from his fingertips. His eyes are wide with concern.

"I hope I didn't hurt you Doc," he says, eyes wide and bloodshot. "I think this might work."

The electric charge buzzing through your body reignites your senses, snapping you back to focus. Denki channels his power into you, not unbearably painful, just enough to give you the necessary strength.

With a renewed surge of energy, you press your hands back onto Midoriya’s chest. Your quirk flows again, stronger this time, bolstered by Denki’s electricity. You feel the pieces of Midoriya’s body slowly coming together.

His chest stirs beneath your hands.

"Come on," you whisper, your heart pounding. "Come back to us."

Katsuki stops yelling for a moment, his eyes widening as he watches. You can feel the weight of everyone’s hope pressing down on you.

Then—a flicker. Midoriya’s heart monitor beeps once.

then twice.

"I’ve got rhythm!" someone calls out, their voice distant, almost muffled. Dr. Kobayashi quickly steps in, taking over as you reel from the effort.

A wave of cheers follows as you remove your hands and step back, but it feels detached, like it's happening underwater. Your legs move on autopilot, guiding you back too the sterile corridor, past the buzzing fluorescent lights that feel too harsh.

You stumble, instinctively scanning your badge into the isolated hallway, the one that leads to the breakroom. Each step feeling heavier than the last. Sweat drips down your face, stumbling as you instinctively reach for the wall, trying to steady yourself. The world is spinning too fast.

The sounds of the hospital fade into nothingness as blackness swallows you whole.

Tags: Tags: @simplyraeblue @moonfloweronmars @kalulakunundrum @froggy-crystal @msjaeger @crystalssncw @dragonscribble @gina239 @abcdefbeom @bakugonnathrowitback

[thebirdart]

Some features of the earth urchins compared to the four hedgehogs of the world of Sonic!

One day I asked myself the question of how would be the anatomy of Sonic and I began to investigate the anatomy of the ground urchins but I liked so many details of them that I put together some characteristics of these animals to compare them with the four hedgehogs of the world of Sonic.

us start!

Starting with obvious facts:

In the world of Sonic only showed to have four hedgehogs; Sonic, Amy, Shadow and Silver, (the green does not count because it is still Sonic)

They all appear to be of a "same species of hedgehog".

For we know 16 types of earth urchins on our planet.

On the other hand I thought Silver was of a different species like Shadow. (By the shape of its spikes) But I don’t see the point, so they must be the same species. Although Shadow might be a little authentic in his design, I’ll explain later.

(Data: the hedgehog Atelerix algirus and the hedgehog Hemiechinus auritus are the ones who take care more to be pets at home)

FOOD

-Ground urchins eat insects, worms, molluscs, snakes, some fruits, small vertebrates, acorns, young birds and eggs.

(the hedgehog thought about it a little before attacking)

-Sonic and the others eat things that could be considered human; chili dogs, coffee beans (this is done by Shadow), strawberry cake (eaten by Amy and Sonic hates it), hamburgers (by SonicBoom), apples (by a drawing of Silver), and so on.

ANATOMY

The ground urchins have very good flexibility, an arched spine and strong and flexible muscles, that allows them to become ball. Comparing it with the deformed hedgehogs (Sonic) there is not much difference since all present good strength and flexibility, except Silver that can not be made ball.

The spikes of hedgehogs are made of keratin, which is a protein substance. I guess the same applies to Sonic and so on. Although in Sonic Unleashed when he is electrocuted we can see that it does not have "bones" in its large spikes, it is a little obvious to know but data that goes without saying.

The skeleton of ground urchins is similar to other mammals, only that its spine is a little more curved, as well as other details; as that its clavicle is well developed so that it can dig hard. This is very different from Sonic’s body and so on as it would resemble more a human structure.

Although also to keep in mind Sonic’s feet are��� a closed thing…

By the way the snout and mouth are very different too. Sonic has a snout but the nose and mouth are different from the ground urchin. And another fact: the hedgehogs take incredibly long walks if it is for food; something like 7.2 km/h and if we combine it with the particularity of Sonic being very fast this powerful detail does not overlook.

Time when I jumped out of my spot when I was reading this.

I love this, I have no idea if the creator of Shadow has taken this as a reference but did you know that hedgehogs have a blue border that surrounds their dark eyes? This can only be seen when hedgehogs look to the side. So the great "eyeliner" of Shadow could be a real detail of the animal but taken as a reference to leave it beside your eyes on the outside.

The tail of the common hedgehogs is bare, but the tail of the deformed ones appears to be of the same color as all their other spikes.

I think, canonically, the characters of the Sonic world can mate. But I didn’t see anything that highlighted this, I mean, we can witness Cream’s mother.

Male hedgehogs have a small penis, (bulge), located in what would be their navel and have intra-abdominal testicles (they remain in the abdomen instead of leaving through the scrotum) and the female vulva is a small button that is located in front of the anus.

I guess since they’re characters from the '90s, it’s obvious that this wasn’t thought of at the time of their creation. There’s not much to think about since they’re characters who may or may not wear clothes (Tails-Nine and Sally-Amy) and yet we wouldn’t see anything, not even the nipples! Because hedgehogs have five nipples, both female and male, and you’ll notice that Sonic has nothing.

But I found a picture of Sally where she has more clothes. I suppose it must be a hallmark that female characters wear clothes. (Although Sally is not a canonical character, of course.)

THE 5 SENSES:

Sight: they do not have good view, it is said that hedgehogs have no sense of space, but they can distinguish shapes. Although the hedgehogs are blind and may have collisions with objects, they continue to travel great distances and this does not cause them to slow down, they continue with the same speed as if they had good eyesight.

Smell: very developed, so I guess the four hedgehogs can smell very well from several meters, maybe Sonic can smell Eggman without making noise, will smell of egg?

If you hid a chili dog under the ground in a box, Sonic could find it.

Hearing: the ear of hedgehogs can detect high frequency sounds, their developed sense allows them to locate their prey underground.

Tip: If you saw the Sonic Prime series you will notice that Sonic’s ears move often before a sound. I think a good detail added for the blue hedgehog, this is also added in the IDW comics, I did not find the panel but it is when Amy stays listening to the ground and knows that two hedgehogs are close, those hedgehogs were Shadow and Sonic.

But although hedgehogs have a very sensitive ear I do not consider it the same for the four hedgehogs as they would go crazy at the sounds of Eggman machines, explosions or a simple click of the computer mouse. (Ground urchins get stressed too fast with a simple computer click)

Taste: These animals have a peculiar… sense of taste. They like the taste of a hundred feet. So it’s not uncommon for Shadow to like bitter, for Sonic to like spicy, and for Amy to like sweet, what would Silver like? Healthy or the first thing he finds in his world to eat?

Types of sounds hedgehogs make

Sounds of joy: these little things purr like a cat, and they can even mix it with whistles. Could it be that Shadow purred when he was with Maria?

Bullying sounds: they emit a sound through the nose from a strong breathing, they do it when they feel attacked or are upset. (I don’t know if they thought of it this way when they made Shadow growl annoyingly in Sonic Prime. The same with Amy and Sonic when they got jealous or bothered with each other at Sonic Boom)

Whining sound: when they feel pain they emit a sound like a scream, I could notice this in a video of a hedgehog that was in the water of a bathtub. (although there are always exceptions)

Sleeping sounds: Hedgehogs snore, I guess they all snore too?Hedgehogs fall asleep anywhere. In the Sonic game where Amy’s birthday is celebrated, Tails mentions that Sonic can sleep anywhere, even in the most unusual.

Data: the hedgehogs have nails/claws that they use to dig the earth and since the of Sonic characters are put gloves to not show their hands I think they should not have pads like normal animals but rather human hands. Well, Sticks is the only one I’ve seen without gloves and she’s a badger and badgers have pads. So all Sonic characters should have hands without the characteristics of their species.

BEHAVIOR

The behavior of one ground urchin and the other four is very different, except Shadow, he should stay on the side of the ground urchins.

Since hedgehogs are solitary, they only come together when it’s mating season. (Although Sonic likes to spend time alone…but he’s not a lone wolf like Shadow)

UNGIMIENTO (I couldn’t find the word in English)

When tasting a taste or perceive a new smell, or rare, the animal bites the source of this flavor or smell (Animals, objects, people, whatever) to then make a frothy, thick and white drool that with the tongue are smeared on the side peaks and those near his face. (Scientists don’t know why they do this) If I imagine it for the four deformed hedgehogs maybe this does not exist for them, as they smell new things all the time.

EXTRA DATA: Hedgehogs can swim but they don’t like to stay in the water too long because they can drown, I saw a documentary that mentioned this. I like that touch they gave Sonic that in the water he is scary, I don’t know if it’s something canonical or fandom but it was nice to see him be the only one with a life jacket in the Olympics.

Remember when they did that twitter and tiktok special where they asked Sonic what would happen if he was a worm? Well, hedgehogs eat worms. And did you know that the Egyptian hedgehog is prey to foxes? While it’s another kind of hedgehog this is funny. In Sonic the movie the character Longclaw is the "mother" of Sonic… the funny thing about this is that she is an owl and owls eat hedgehogs.

Who had the idea to give a friend and mother predators to Sonic?

That’s all. I hope you liked these characteristics that I came up with. See you later!

[dracoxmalereader]

Potions Class

Draco x Male Reader

Context: Slytherin! Reader and can be read as any year except fifth year or after I'm pretty sure, but I did write it with fourth year in mind since they're making pepperup potion.. <3 And I'm aware that gyat didn't exist in the 90's, just pretend it did. (:<

Summary: Pepperup potion is one of the easier potions to brew, but that doesn't mean class can't be eventful nonetheless.

Requested by: Anon

Word Count: 585

The clinking of phials and the hiss of hushed whispering were familiar comforts. Snape leisurely made his way around the room in rounds to oversee the progress of the potion he’d assigned you all to brew in pairs.

“Draco, stir this.” You turn your head away from the cauldron to reread the instructions in your book.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Draco grumbles, even as he reaches for the spoon and does as he’s told. “Ordering me around like a servant.”

You roll your eyes, paying him no mind. “The last thing we need is jewelweed.” You close the book and take the spoon from him, stirring it yourself. You look at him expectantly for a moment, and he stares back. Awkward silence swells as you blink at each other, even in the growing chatter of the potions classroom.

“I don’t have it.” He shrugs after another long couple of seconds.

“What do you mean you don’t have it?”

“I gave it to Goyle!”

“Well get it back from Goyle!” Snape shushes you from across the classroom, glaring at the two of you. Draco groans.

He pushes up from his chair, nudging it backwards so he has room to bend over the table and demand the jewelweed back from Crabbe and Goyle where they’re sat across from you. Apparently a harder task than anticipated, as he leans even further forwards to argue with them. There’s no helping yourself now.

“Gyat!”

Draco turns around, shooting you a look like you’d grown an extra head. “Excuse me?” Red bleeds into his pale face.

“Gyat.” You smolder at him, sucking your teeth to let out a teasing hiss. “It means-”

“I know what it means.” He scoffs at you and rips the jewelweed from Goyle’s hand, righting his posture through his noticeably deteriorating composure. He clumsily shoves it in your chest, rougher than he normally would. “Here, since you couldn’t get it yourself. Loud, useless pervert.”

A grin forces its way onto your face, and you chuckle through your nose. Draco scowls at you, huffing, almost dropping the jewelweed when you finally take it from him. His shoulders draw tight.

Pansy mini-jogs over from the table beside yours. “Do you guys have any Mandrake root left? Blaise used the last of ours and messed it up.” She raises her voice at the last part and clears her throat. Blaise shakes his head from their table. 

Draco turns his head first to hear her question and then to look at you as if you were going to give it to her. You gesture towards the Mandrake root where it sat almost directly in front of him. His brows furrow and his face reddens further, this time out of anger. Your smug smile deepens and adoration bubbles in your stomach like a potion of its own.

“Here-” He grabs it and holds it out to Pansy, only for his fingers to falter. It falls onto the table, rolling and taking several phials down with it as they all clatter to the floor. 

Snape growls, a very unimpressed Mr. Malfoy turning all heads in the classroom to your table. Draco’s complexion could easily rival that of an heirloom tomato. You fruitlessly fight laughter. 

Draco’s lips pull tight in embarrassment, and you only giggle harder. 

“My father will hear about this-” He barks, and you’re so amused you can’t find it in yourself to care about how hard he’s grabbing the green border of your robes, nor Snape’s rapidly approaching footsteps.

This is quite possibly the request of all time. Getting to write this was my yule gift. If Draco gyat fic isn't my calling I don't know what is.

Me and my mom got into a lengthy argument over whether gyat is spiritual or physical. She says Draco doesn't have gyat. I beg to differ, of course, because gyat is a mindset. <3

Draco has gyat, I don't care what my mom says.

Tags: @nowayisthistakenyet @gayaristocrat @siuspider @dracoshusband @skrunklespoingo @esperfraud @joongbin @midwestemosblog @we2222

[adore-laur]

SOUTHPAW

— a heartwarming friends to lovers story set in the 90’s 🌴

——

ORLANDO, 1991

The city calls him Southpaw, a sobriquet graciously granted to the left-handed pitcher who has won every game for the Orlando SunRays at Tinker Field.

Harry Styles is the praised name behind it all. The tall, curly-headed boy is swiftly on his way to stardom. He's an undeniable force to be reckoned with, built with strong arms that can throw curveballs and fastballs with lightning speed. The twenty-five-year-old is the backbone of his team, the best in the Southern League, and the player who makes the others green with envy. He impressively balances the substantial titles while remaining charismatic and altruistic toward everyone he encounters. 

When he's not found in the ballpark wearing his usual blue and white baseball uniform, a cap sits atop his head, paired with tan skin that seems to have a new ink design each time he's spotted by an onlooker.

Then there's Sawyer Clemente. Well, she knows for sure that she isn't quite as commendable as her best friend. Standing just a smidge over five feet, she could never amount to his accomplishments or role model status. To put it plainly, she's unemployed, lives with her parents, and has an ex-boyfriend that she hates because she just found out he cheated on her last night. 

She's merely Harry's closest companion, rooting for him in the bleachers even if she thinks baseball is a painfully dull sport that only inflates the male ego and makes her sweat in the merciless Florida heat.

She also has a plaguing crush on him but doesn't like to dwell on that matter too much. 

It almost seems punishing not to, though, because he's naturally flirtatious. It's impossible not to think about his innocent yet butterfly-inducing touches. To tell where his feelings for her lie, whenever he hugs her tightly after a successful game or looks down at her lips while she rambles about her day, proves to be even more unfeasible. 

Sawyer glumly watches the semifinal game, veering her troublesome thoughts away by appreciating Harry's legs in his form-fitting baseball pants. Nothing else seems to be working, so she borderline objectifies him while he chews his Bazooka bubblegum in concentration. 

She debated not attending because of the cheating revelation unmasked to her hours earlier, but she would never forgive herself if she missed such an important game for Harry. It determines whether the Sun Rays will compete for the highly illustrious minor league title. 

It's now the start of the seventh inning, and it's about the hundredth time she has caught Harry's eye, finding her in the crowd with a solicitous gaze and a frown on his lips. Her tense body language and absent-minded expression must indicate her mood. She absolutely despises how well he knows her. 

Harry focuses back on the game as he gets into position on the pitching mound, ball in hand, an undaunted mystique exuding from him. With unkempt curls framing his face, a smear of dirt on his cheek that was kicked up from his teammates sprinting to the bases, and his jaw contracting with each gum smack, he finally lifts one leg and throws the ball so fast it could be missed if someone were to blink. The crack of the bat reverberates throughout the stadium, and Sawyer sees Harry glance up to find her again. 

Then, every player's worst nightmare happens. Sawyer's worst nightmare happens. 

A cry of agonizing pain echoes loud and clear. Sawyer is up out of her seat instantly, her hands slapping over her mouth as she watches Harry double over and hold his wrist, his baseball mitt tossed to the side. His teeth are gritted, and his knees are bent as he rocks back and forth on the ground. Players hurriedly signal for the medics as whispers from fans in the audience mix with panicked yelling coming from the field. All of it is in the background of Sawyer's mind since the only thing she can focus on is Harry. He's in so much pain, and it brings terror-stricken tears to her eyes as he cries out again when his coach jogs over to him and tries to touch his wrist. 

Everything escalated so rapidly. Sawyer doesn't know what happened, and she's petrified because she's never seen her best friend in such an excruciating condition before. The only injuries she'd seen him suffer through were a harmless twisted ankle and the sporadic cramp in his hand. 

The medics cautiously escort Harry into the dugout. Sawyer doesn't hesitate to follow them. She can't just wait it out; there's a dire need in her to take care of him. She shuffles past people and quickly walks down the wide stairs toward the dugout, where his team is gathered. Some have their arms over their heads. Some are crouched with uneasy expressions. 

Sawyer goes to where she's seen the medics stand by during previous games. One of them, wearing a red vest, immediately lifts their hand to stop her. "Ma'am, fans are not allowed back here," she informs, her calm tone doing nothing to mitigate Sawyer's pounding heart. "Please return to your seat." 

"I can't! H-Harry," she stammers, standing on her tiptoes to try to locate him. "Harry Styles is my friend. Where's his coach? He'll recognize me. Please just let me see him." 

The medic sighs and calls behind her, "Someone tell Gardenhire I'm letting a girl in! Tell him she's Southpaw's friend!" 

Sawyer almost collapses with relief. "Thank you so much, miss. I owe you my life. Um, where do I go?" 

"Go straight ahead and take a left." She points and guides her in the correct direction. "Don't get too close. Let everyone do their job." 

As Sawyer runs to the medical tent, she can hear Harry's muffled groans and heavy breathing get louder. She puts a hand on her chest as his coach notices her and silently ushers her in. 

"Get her out," Harry says from his place on the stretcher. "Sawyer, leave. Damnit, someone take her!”

His voice grows weaker as his pain worsens. Sawyer only gets closer. 

"It looks like the ball hit and fractured his hamate bone in his left hand," explains a medic over the commotion. "It's swelling pretty fast, so surgery will be required as soon as possible. He won't be able to play for a while." 

Harry's eyes are pinched shut as they poke and prod his skin. Sawyer's heart sinks when she notices the pain etched on his face, a face that's usually so radiant and lit up with a smile. Her feet are frozen as she watches people surround him with bandages and ice packs. His body is stiff, and he's breathing shakily through his nose. When his eyes open, he reaches out his uninjured hand. Sawyer knows he would never want her to leave when he's hurting. He would never leave her side if the roles were reversed right now.

"Come here," he says scratchily. "It's okay. I'm fine." 

"Harry, no, you're not!" she exclaims, running her hands through her hair as her bottom lip wobbles. "God, why did you keep looking at me? Why weren't you paying attention out there?" 

"Hey, hey, hey," he whispers, gripping her hand and tugging her toward him. "Less of that, please. You looked like something was bothering you. Tell me." 

Sawyer stomps her foot and groans in frustration. He's too selfless! He's on the verge of tears but is concerned about her instead. 

"Don't worry about me right now. I'll tell you later, okay? You need to go to the hospital." 

Harry squeezes her small hand with his large one. "Is it about your boyfriend?" 

She sighs sharply. Again, she despises how well he knows her. A reply doesn't come, though, because an ambulance suddenly pulls up, the back doors opening as the sirens shriek. The medics help Harry sit up, and Sawyer doesn't let go of his hand the entire way to the vehicle. 

"Go home," he says once he's sat on the edge. "Just go home and run a bath or something. I want you away from here." 

Her wide, brown eyes dart back and forth between his. "At least let me ride to the hospital with you." 

"Sawyer, no. Listen to me." He cradles her tear-streaked cheek and roughly kisses the opposite one. "Listen, please. I'll feel better knowing you're safe at home." 

She would do anything to relieve his worry, so she nods her head with a sad sniffle. "Okay." 

"Don't cry over me." He winces with an uncomfortable groan when the ice pack slides off his wrist. Sawyer picks it up and gently returns it to his bruised, swollen skin. "I'm alive. It's not like I'm dying." 

"That's not funny," she scolds, crossing her arms. "But I'll go home now. You're in pain, so I'm not going to keep you any longer. They'll take you to the hospital, fix you, and everything will be fine." She's convincing Harry, but more so herself. 

"Correct," he says with a smirk. 

"Correct," she repeats while standing. "Keep me updated." 

"I will, Sawyer. Drive safe." He swings his feet like a child and scrunches his nose. "Tell your parents I say hi... with a broken wrist."

She smiles fondly and reluctantly leaves with a ruffle to his sweaty hair, glancing back on her way out to witness the ambulance doors shut with a bang. On her way home, she calls her mother and asks if she could start running a bath for her. She plans on sinking down in the warm water and praying to whatever higher power that Harry will be okay. 

Praying his sunrays won't dim. 

——

Tinker Field is empty when Sawyer arrives in the early afternoon. Harry is there, throwing a baseball up and down with his right hand, just like she assumed. A new accessory adorns his left one—a bandage wrapped around his wrist from the surgery he underwent. He looks incredibly gorgeous in his purple corduroy pants and fitted white T-shirt. The bandana tied around his neck is a nice touch, along with his lucky yellow sunglasses that glimmer under the open sky. And to no one's surprise, his recycled denim cap is peeking out of his pocket. 

"Hey, sunray," Sawyer says with a hand shielding her eyes. It's what she's called him ever since they became friends. Not only does he play for the Sun Rays, but she thinks he's a ray of sunshine himself. 

Harry saunters to her, chewing gum and skillfully spinning the ball with his hand. "How did you know I'd be here, shortstop?" 

"Where else would you be? Also, I give you a cute nickname, and all you give me is one that pokes fun at my height? That's not fair." 

"Don't care. Hug me, please." He pouts dramatically. "I have a boo-boo." 

"You have a broken wrist, Harry; I'd hardly call that a boo-boo." Sawyer snatches the stitched ball from his grasp. "No more. You're supposed to be resting." 

"You sound like my mother." He tries to grab it, but she holds it behind her back. "I'm not even moving my hand that much." 

"How was the surgery?"

He shrugs and circles around her to try to sneakily pluck the ball. "Dunno. They knocked me out real good. The nurses told me everything went well and sent me home the next day." 

Sawyer skips over to home plate and sits. Harry plops down beside her. "I'm sorry I couldn't visit. You know my parents don't like the hospital being in a dodgy part of the city." 

He nudges her. "It's all right. I still received the flowers you sent. Since you're here now, I expect you to tell me what was going on during the game." 

Sighing, Sawyer forms circular shapes in the dirt using the baseball. "You were right; it was about my boyfriend. Well, ex-boyfriend. My friend saw him making out with another girl at a bar last night. You know what's crazy? I asked him if he wanted to come to the game with me, but he said he had to work early. I guess he lied to avoid seeing me." 

Harry lets out a disappointed hum, then cracks his neck. "Mind if I leave right now and practice my screwball pitch on him?" 

"Please don't do that," she says with a wary laugh. She knows he's getting pissed. "Trust me, he's not worth it." 

"Yeah, but you are," he replies while fixing the folded cuff of her sleeve. "I'd do it in a heartbeat if my wrist wasn't fucked up." 

Sawyer smiles at his generosity. "Not necessary. He was a jerk, and we were only together for two months. Let's talk about something else." 

Harry tilts his head toward the sky, and Sawyer admires him for a bit. She notices his baby hair, which is sun-bleached from hours spent outside, the stubble that grows along his jaw and above his lips, the mole adjacent to his mouth that he's insecure about, and his sloped nose splattered with faint freckles that she wishes she could kiss. 

Her sublime sunray. 

Harry clears his throat and leans into her. Sawyer loves it when he leans into her. "I think I'm going to go tomorrow." 

"To South Carolina?" 

"Yeah. Even if I can't play, I still want to support the team. The flight leaves tomorrow morning." 

"Oh," she says quietly, picking at some overgrown weeds. "That's... really soon." 

He nods and scooches closer. "You could come with me and keep me company. We can watch The Golden Girls together. You can cut up my massive pain pills and put them in food for me because I'm a big baby. You know, friend shit." 

"Harry, I can't," Sawyer says hesitantly.

He tuts. "Why not?" 

"Um, I actually have a job interview scheduled for tomorrow. About time, right?" She laughs, but it quickly dies when he stares at her with a serious expression. "Don't look at me like that." 

"Why didn't you tell me?" 

She squints as the sun peeks over the nosebleed seats. "I just did." 

"No, before that," he says, taking off his sunglasses and setting them on the bridge of her nose. "When did you get the call?"

"It was right before you got hurt." She crosses her ankles and shakes her head. "I guess I forgot to tell you since I was so worried about your surgery." 

Harry hums understandingly. "Well, what's the job?" 

"Office clerk. It's lame, I know. I'll probably be printing and typing stuff all day." 

"That's not lame. It's a job; we all need one." 

She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, but you travel the country and play professional baseball. It's nowhere near the same level of cool." 

"And look where that got me," he mutters. "I can't even play for three months." 

Sawyer doesn't say anything as Harry picks up her leg and sets it over his. He unties the bandana around his neck and uses it to clean the dirt off her white sneakers. His bottom lip is cutely jutted out as he carefully scrubs with his right hand while the other lays limp beside her. 

After a few beats of silence, he asks, "Will you have time to say goodbye to me at the airport?" 

"Of course." She knocks her foot against his shin. "My interview isn't until the afternoon." 

"Kay," he says with a shy, dimpled smile. He ties the bandana around her thigh and pats it. "By the way, you still haven't hugged me."

Sawyer grins and bends down in her sitting position to wrap her arms around his torso, her face squishing against his soft stomach. He gives her a noogie before setting his arms around her shoulders. For the next hour, they watch robins and sparrows swoop throughout the ballpark, the sun beating down on the field as they talk about anything and everything. 

They melt deeper into each other until it's time to leave. 

—— 

Suitcases roll on terrazzo flooring, and voices boom through public announcement systems as Sawyer walks behind Harry at Orlando International Airport. 

She can't stop staring at his back. His white T-shirt is way too tight on his buff body, but she can't complain. His yellow sunglasses are on his face again, partly to hide his tired eyes and partly because those same eyes are puffy from crying. His coach told Sawyer that the healing stage after surgery is the most painful part. On the way to the airport, Harry had slumped next to her on the charter bus, and she could tell how exhausted he was from how he immediately fell asleep on her shoulder before they even started moving. 

Now, they walk toward the correct terminal to wait for the team's flight to be called. Harry holds his suitcase and duffel bag stuffed with all the uniforms in his right hand, while the other is still bandaged and basically useless. Sawyer occasionally sees him flex it uncomfortably, the veins and muscles protruding against the exposed skin rather attractively. 

She catches up to his long strides and gently grabs his forearm. "You need to let it rest. Stop moving it." 

He swallows harshly before shoving it into his pocket. "It hurts," he says, his voice laced with an undertone of strain. 

"I know," she whispers sadly, squeezing his bicep. "Your pain meds should be kicking in soon." 

They eventually arrive at the terminal, where people are bustling around to get to their designated boarding gates. The blinding sunrise pours through the large airport windows. As the team gets in line, Sawyer stays behind and watches Harry drop his luggage before standing in front of her. 

"Bye, sunray." She frowns sympathetically at his dog-tired expression. "Have a safe trip. I hope you guys win." 

Harry gives her a weak smile. "Thanks, shortstop. Good luck with your interview. Make me proud, okay?"

"Can I hug you?" she asks. Harry immediately opens his arms and winces when his wrist moves. She still hesitates. "Are you in too much pain right now? I don't want to hurt you." 

"You'll hurt me mentally if you don't give me a hug," he replies while jerking his head, this time with a genuine smile on his face. "Get over here." 

Shuffling toward him, she closes the distance. He hugs her with one strong arm around her neck, pulling her in and swaying her as the woman over the speaker announces that his team's flight is boarding. 

Harry nuzzles his nose against her head and hovers his mouth next to her ear. "I'll call you as often as possible. Please don't worry yourself sick, okay? I'm in good hands."

Sawyer nods against his firm chest, matching her breathing with his. She'll always worry, but she won't tell him that. "I love you," she mumbles when the final boarding announcement chimes. 

It's not uncommon for her and Harry to exchange those words, but this time, she wants them to mean something different. She wants to love him, not just as a friend. She wants to kiss his pretty lips. She wants to romantically hold his hand. She wants to feel his warm body press against hers at night. He could offer all those things, and she can't wrap her head around what's stopping them. 

Even if a nagging fear deep inside her is confident that it would ruin everything, why can't he just give her a sign? 

—— 

The ringtone of Harry's Nokia phone blares at maximum volume, rudely cutting his nap short. He covers his ears with a pillow and grumbles about how he just got off a three-hour flight. After contemplating, he slowly sits up and reaches for the nightstand to answer whoever’s calling. 

He checks the number displayed on the screen while rubbing his bleary eyes—it's Sawyer. His annoyance immediately dissipates, and he giddily rolls over to hide his smile in the mattress before hopping out of bed. He opens the sliding door that leads to his hotel room’s balcony and holds the device to his ear.

"'Ello?" Harry answers, his voice cracking with sleepiness. 

"Hi," Sawyer says breathily on the other line. 

He stares at the midafternoon sky and scratches his stomach through his pink sleep shirt. "Hey. How are you?" 

"Doesn't matter. How are you? Are you in Charleston yet?" Based on her rushed tone, she seems a bit jittery.

"I'm good," he replies with a trace of confusion. He can hear her fidgeting, and it's piquing his curiosity. "Um... I'm on a balcony." 

"Oh, that's nice," she says. "Really nice. Balconies are great." 

Harry smirks and starts pacing, staring at the ivy climbing the exterior walls. He loves it when he makes her nervous. "Mm-hmm. Yeah, for sure." 

"So, how's it going? Is your wrist—" 

"Hey," he interrupts gently. "What's up? I can practically hear you biting your nails." 

Sawyer huffs. "I have to tell you something. It's not bad; I promise. I just didn't want to make everything about me." 

"Don't go there with me, Sawyer." He yawns, balancing his phone between his shoulder and ear before rewrapping his wrist bandage. "Lay it on me." 

"Well," she says timidly, "I had that job interview not too long ago." 

He nods to himself. "I remember." 

"And they hired me on the spot. I can't believe it, Harry. I got the job!”

Harry stops in his tracks. "No way," he says with a growing smile. "Really? Actually, of course you got it. I knew you would."

Sawyer releases sweet laughter, and Harry closes his eyes to imagine how she looks. Is she all cozy in bed in her silk pajamas? Is she pacing around her room while twirling the coiled phone cord around her finger? Is she watching The Golden Girls on TV and wishing he was beside her? God, he misses her already.

"They said I can start next week. It's only a five-minute walk from my house, so I don't have to worry about driving. It's—" 

"Excuse me? You would rather walk instead of letting me pick you up? Is that what I’m hearing?”

She laughs again, making his heart soar. "You shouldn't drive with a broken wrist, silly." 

"I drive with one hand anyway." Harry sits on the balcony's decorative chair and crosses his legs. "Speaking of picking up, did you want to meet me at the airport when my flight lands?" 

"What time?"

He sputters his lips as he foggily tries to recall. "Tomorrow, a little after four in the morning. You don't have to, though. I know it's early." 

"I'll be there." 

No hesitance. All confidence. Harry swears that if she was next to him, he would kiss her lips until they ached. 

"You're the best, Sawyer." 

She hums delicately, almost sensually. "I'll see you then. I miss you, sunray." 

At the sound of his nickname coming from her, Harry's cock twitches under his denim shorts. "Yeah? I miss you more." 

Her smile is evident when she replies, "I'll bring your favorite blanket from my house in case you want to sleep while I drive." 

"Fuck, I can't wait for that." He doesn't tell her that it's his favorite blanket because it smells like her—an irresistible blend of coconut and pure sunshine.

"Me neither." The sound of her car starting is muffled in the background. "I have to head to the grocery store, so I'll let you go. Good luck with the game tonight." 

"Thanks. Hey, can you buy me some Toaster Strudels while you're there? The apple kind, please." 

"I got a job, and now you want me to buy you food? Absolutely ridiculous." 

"I'm injured. That's my excuse." 

"Bye, Harry." He can totally tell she's rolling her eyes. "Get some rest, okay?" 

"I will," he promises while toying with his bottom lip. “Bye, Sawyer. I miss you so much that it hurts." 

She snorts before hanging up. Harry sighs and uncrosses his legs—it’s a brutal mistake that has him hissing and palming his bulge. There's a tender ache that isn't painful, but it's still present and will definitely be an issue he needs to take care of before seeing anyone. 

It’s cruel the things she does to him without even trying. He got so horny over a friendly conversation that it's almost shameful the way he's about to jerk off in a Holiday Inn bathroom. 

Sawyer. She's all he can think about when he steps under the hot spray of water, biting his knuckles and bucking his hips as he unravels from just the thought of her sweet voice and smile. The image of her doesn't leave his brain until he falls asleep again, but even then, she manages to seep into his dreams like some unconscious sign being sent to him. 

—— 

There's no one else Sawyer would do this for. It's four in the morning, and she's in the airport parking lot waiting for Harry's plane to touch down. It's raining—downpouring, to be precise. The droplets hitting her car lull her to sleep. Her head leans against the window as the squeaky windshield wipers do their best to clear the continuously pelted glass. 

September in Orlando brings torrential precipitation most days. It's peak hurricane season, so the palm trees seem to constantly be swaying in the wind. Florida has been Sawyer's home since birth, but she wishes she had been raised elsewhere. Someplace where it isn't so humid, the citizens aren't so entitled, and the traffic isn't so unbearable. The only thing keeping her in the city is her best friend. He makes it worthwhile.

The passenger door suddenly opens, and Sawyer jolts awake. She slowly opens her eyes and stretches uncomfortably. 

"Why is your door unlocked?" Harry asks hoarsely, his morning voice causing a shiver to run down her spine. 

"There's no one here," she grumbles as her seatbelt clicks in time with a distant rumble of thunder. 

He throws his luggage in the backseat and says, "It doesn't matter. There could be creeps lurking around." 

Sawyer hums monotonously and clicks on the interior light to look at him. He's wearing a gray hoodie, the right sleeve covering part of his wrist bandage. Black sweatpants hang loosely on his legs. Strands of wet curls stick to his face and fall across his forehead, officially labeling him as the epitome of handsomeness. Somehow, he got tanner in the single day that he was gone. The sun in South Carolina must have kissed his skin with kindness, leaving more freckles across his perfect nose and cheekbones. 

"Where to for an early morning snack?" Harry asks while adjusting the air vents. 

"7/11 is open. Slurpees?" 

He nods eagerly, so Sawyer reverses out of the parking spot and heads in the direction of the convenience store. She turns on a classic rock radio station. They quietly sing "All I Wanna Do Is Make Love to You" by Heart the whole way there, the thunder and lightning outside providing background ambiance for their duet. 

Once they arrive, Sawyer parks, grabs her fleece blanket from the backseat, and gently lays it over Harry’s body. 

"Blue raspberry?" she asks him, even though she already knows the answer. 

"Please and thank you," he murmurs, putting his lanky legs on the seat. He tucks the blanket under his nose and inhales deeply.

She steps out, the orange and green neon sign reflecting off the puddles on the slick sidewalk, and walks through the glass doors. No one else is inside except a lone cashier, who looks like he's about to tip over from exhaustion. She pays and gets two cups, then walks over to the machine to fill them up—a blue raspberry for Harry and a Mountain Dew for herself so she can stay awake during the drive home. 

When she returns outside, she sees Harry with his head pressed against the window like he's in a depressing music video. She hopes he isn't too bummed about the unfortunate outcome of yesterday. News quickly spread that the Sun Rays lost the championship game. Deep down, everyone knew a win would be asking for a miracle without Southpaw pitching on the field. 

Sawyer sits in the driver's seat and hands him his drink. "I'm sorry about the loss." 

Harry sighs and takes the cup from her. "I think we all knew what the result would be. We were in our own heads, which unfortunately translated to how everyone played." 

She gives him a sad smile before taking a sip of her drink. "That sucks. I'm sorry." 

"There's always next year."

She watched the game from the comfort of her living room. Every time the cameras cut to Harry sitting in the dugout with a less-than-enthused expression on his face, her heart squeezed painfully. He loves baseball more than anything, and him not being able to play for his team clearly clouded his mood. She felt the effects of it when saying goodbye at the airport.

After a minute of tranquility, Sawyer turns off the radio and musters up some courage to ask the question that’s been lingering in the back of her mind since yesterday. 

"At the airport, why didn't you say I love you back? Did you not hear me?" 

Utter silence except for slanted rain falling even harder. Harry seems to be internally debating a response while he stares straight ahead and sucks from the straw in his slushy, his cheeks hollowed as he takes gulp after gulp. Sawyer is genuinely worried he'll get a brain freeze. 

Eventually, he sets his drink in the cup holder and clears his throat before tilting his head back on the headrest. "Fuck it," he exhales in a single breath. "I knew if I said it then, it would've changed everything. I wouldn't have meant it the way you did." 

There's the sign. She asked for it when she hugged him at the terminal. The one that's been hidden in both of them for so long, trying to crawl up to the surface but always shying away to avoid rejection. Always creating a barrier between the fine line of their friendship and something more. Constantly on the edge of a confession but never taking the leap. 

"How do you know the way I meant it?" 

"Friendly, I guess," Harry mumbles, plucking imaginary lint from his sweatpants. "Because we're friends. I don't know." 

"You don't know. You have no idea, actually." 

He looks at her, narrowing his eyes. "What are you talking about?" 

"You're wrong," she says vaguely. "I didn't mean it like that." 

He shakes his head, not understanding what she's getting at. "Stop speaking in riddles. What do you mean?" 

Cracking her fingers anxiously, she murmurs, "What do you think it means?" 

"Cut me some slack, shortstop. I don't know, all right? I like to think I know what goes on in your head, but I'm clueless right now." 

"Then answer this question." She shifts in her seat to face him. "In what way would you have meant it if you had said I love you?" 

He sighs and rubs his temples. "Sawyer, don't." 

"Tell me," she demands. 

"No. Let's just go home." 

"You might as well just say it." 

"Say what?" He runs a hand through his damp hair. "Just drive." 

She yanks her key out of the ignition. "I'm not moving this car until you tell me." 

"You're so stubborn, do you know that?" 

"I'm not just going to drop it, Harry." 

"I would really appreciate it if you would." 

"Then we'll be here for a while because—"

"I'm in love with you, okay?!" Harry abruptly leans over the console and grabs her cheeks, glancing down at her lips for a fraction of a second. "Okay?" he says more softly. "Does that answer your question?" 

The sign is so beautifully clear.

"Yes," Sawyer chokes out. "Yes, it does." 

He settles back in his seat and crosses his arms. "Wonderful. Now start driving." 

Lightning strikes. Rain batters. Hearts pound. She doesn't listen to him as she opens the car door and steps out, letting the downpour mat her hair and saturate her clothes. 

Harry hastily gets out and walks around the car toward her. "What in the world are you doing?" he asks, completely dumbfounded. 

Every fear about whether or not it will ruin everything disappears like gray skies after a storm. The sign has been spoken, and it now drops from the cloudburst and seeps into Sawyer's veins like the raindrops on her skin. 

"I'm in love with you too," she says over the sound of rainfall. Harry leans back against the car like he physically took a blow from her admission. "I mean it," she adds more firmly. "That's how I meant it at the airport." 

After a laugh of disbelief, he prompts, "And you made me admit it first because...?" 

"Because you make me nervous!" she says, spreading her arms. "You make me so nervous, Harry, but in a good way. In a way that makes me wonder if all those times you'd be flirty or handsy with me were on purpose." 

He steps closer, flexing his hands. "Of course they were, but I never wanted to just blatantly throw a confession of love at you. You had a boyfriend, and I would never screw that up for you. Even if he was a total birdbrain and didn't deserve you." 

Sawyer smirks. "And yet you flirted with me anyway?" 

"Well, I-I..." he stutters, scratching his head. "To be fair, I was flirting with you way before you were taken. The first time we met, to be specific."

She laughs loudly. "We're so stupid! Why were we so blind?" 

He wrinkles his nose and squints up at the sky. "I don't think we were blind. I think we were scared." 

"I'm not scared anymore."

He uses his uninjured hand to tuck strands of her hair behind her ear, then moves it to caress the side of her head. "Then kiss me." 

Her chest visibly deflates. "But your wrist..." 

"I really don't give a fuck about my wrist right now." 

"Okay, but I do," she argues, pointing at his gauze that's now soaked through. "You just had surgery—"

Harry's blue-stained mouth shuts her up. His teeth clash with hers, but his soft, wet lips quickly take control and remedy the slight pain. Placing both hands on the sides of her neck, his thumbs tilt her jaw upward to coax deep and perfectly messy kisses out of her pliant mouth. Sawyer settles her hands on his narrow hips and leans into him, doing her best to return his constant affection. His hoodie is drenched, and his hair tickles her face as his nose nudges against hers, slick from the rain. They're both breathing heavily, and she hums into his mouth when he tilts his head to kiss her from a different angle. Faint groans and whimpers come from the back of his throat when she returns his kisses with equal fervor. They make out until the rain causes their teeth to chatter, forcing their aching lips apart.

Sawyer pulls away first, feeling a bit dizzy. "Damn, Southpaw. You really know how to sweep a girl off her feet." 

"Please don't call me that," Harry says breathlessly, placing kiss after kiss on her forehead. “I only want to be your sunray. Forever." 

"I can't call you my boyfriend?"

He turns to the side and awkwardly coughs into the crook of his elbow. "Is this… am I your boyfriend? Wait. Don't… aren't you supposed to ask or something?" 

"Sunray," she says, cradling his cheeks like she's wanted to do for so long, "will you be my boyfriend?"

He gives her a noogie. "Duh. Will you be my girlfriend?" 

Sawyer nods elatedly, and Harry pumps his fist in the air before bringing her in for a suffocatingly affectionate hug. The two lovers stay in that position until the rain lets up and the sunrise lightens the sky. They sway like the palm trees do on the boulevard, kissing until their lips are numb. They hold each other until their clothes stick to their skin. They fall deeper in love since life's too short to not act on buried feelings. 

The storm has passed. 

The sky has opened. 

The sign is crystal clear. 

——

[bapydemonprincess]

I could imagine, deep down- as in so deep down she doesn't even know herself) -Sebastian having a fear of being in a female form and fully recognized as a woman, after centuries of servitude and the expectations of like, 90% of the people who summoned the demon being greedy selfish men more than anything.

And thus if Sebastian really feels like being female while in the current contract/life as Sebastian Michaelis, any changes she makes- if at all -to be more feminine are very subtle. Very careful. Most don't even notice at first..

Like a slight change of voice tone, a change in posturing, maybe wearing the barest minimum of makeup...

And of course, the one to finally FIRST notice, would be Grelle Sutcliff.

Who makes a big deal instantly about it, GASPING and GRINNING and RAMBLING ON about "HOW LOVELY YOU LOOK, DARLINGG!! Oh, so elegant and gothique! Even if you still wear the suit of a butler, you hold yourself, truly, like the woman in charge!! One hell of a governess, one could say!!"

Of course that tiny, tiny, hiding, unknown fear deep down has the demon IMMEDIATELY snapping and biting at this revelation, even as her pale complexion burns with red; in realization.

"If you've arrived to merely make accusations on my appearance and do nothing more, you are not welcome, so.. GET OUT!"

And the demon is especially aggressive on this day, diving in with butter knives to lunge at the woman.

Who yelps! Confused about this reaction!! Grelle has always known this particular "butler" to be very egocentric about his- her??- THEIR?? -appearance, and to fluff up like a crow at any compliments tossed their way...

And her confusion makes her clumsy and one or two knives even get her, giving her tiny slices here and there as her focus is still locked on this reaction.

And half way through this half-frantic, one-sided battle, the butler STOPS, and GLARES at this opponent.

"Grelle," Sebastian calls to her.

"Er- Yes??"

....

She looks like a startled cat who got caught trying to take something..

Sebastian burns and glares further.

"I told you: GET OUT! You're not even avoiding my knives! Do you plan to dance around, letting me slice you up for once??"

Grelle Sutcliff blinks.. and takes a moment to touch the red liquid sliding down her cheek... as if she didn't even feel it.

...

And then after a second of staring at her own blood on her fingers...

Grelle's eyes hood themselves, lashes shading green gleaming pupils, and her lips curl up once more as she starts to lap at her own blood on her black gloved fingers.

... And kind of goes overboard, just licking her own gloved digits in a very obviously symbolic way as she keeps her eyes on that red, red RED butler that is normally not.

"Mmm I might, I could use the work-out, I suppose.. and I do so love getting physical with you," she purrs.

And then adds after a purposeful pause:

"Ma chère."

Knives rain down upon the reaper in seconds, and finally, she has no choice but to leap away and leave the scene.

But all the while the red, romantic reaper is thinking of all the ways she will in the future woo her lady; from letters to the language of flowers.

And keeps that last image of the other in her mind the whole trip.

Of a Demon, affronted, like a WOMAN scorned.

But also a wide realization in those red, red, slit pupil eyes. (slit pupils like a creature PANICKED, AFRAID, CORNERED!)

That someone finally sees a woman in the butler livery. In this traditionally male uniform!!

And Grelle of all people, knows how this feels.

Knows that that is fear.

And plans to do something about it.

[chamiryokuroi]

The only things I wish they kept from 90s Bernard are his height and long hair. Let a male superhero be the cute shorty for once!

Other than that, I really wish we could see a flashback fashion montage for Bernard. Just to see him slowly stop masking as "conventionally straight" and start wearing things he actually likes.

I'm just so bummed TD:R got canceled. It really felt like they didn't put their best effort to make sure it succeeded. I hope this doesn't mean the end for Bernard or Timber, though.

See the fact is that some artists (Travis Moore) did draw him taller than Tim in new comics, but just like his eyes color (green/blue/brown) and his hair (white/blonde/strawberry blonde) they do not seem to decide in a height for him. Personally I like him being taller than Tim, or the same height.

TD:R was really unlucky, there were many things together that made it certain the comic wouldn’t succeed, I am really sad it god canceled but i hold hope it won’t be the end of Timber since we also got them together on Zdarsky current Batman run, and hopefully following writers do not break them up 🙏

[pennyserenade]

three's company

pairing: dieter bravo x ex-wife!reader x dustin mulray rating: e (explicit) tags/warnings: smut, pinv, protected sex, oral (female receiving) *inserts good for her meme*, oral (male receiving), dirty talk, light voyeurism, talk and use of drugs and alcohol (weed & wine), the weirdest situationship you ever did see, a bit of angst, jealousy, fingering, dubious consent (but like, only a tiny bit dubious. the tiniest bit) word count: 16.k+ (don't ask me what happened there) summary: The world is slowly descending into madness all around you, so you decide to give in and go with Dieter to his latest poor decision: a franchise movie filming in England. One night while there, you both sweep another into this odd half-hearted, life-long tryst you've got. a/n: i don't know how i got here but i hope you enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it. i could dedicate this to a lot of things but mostly i'm going to dedicate it the red shoe diaries. thanks to david and the horny '90s. also to maria (@sweetly-yours-and-mine) who has spent countless nights working through this with me. you are a gem

“I don’t like the idea of you being alone.”

“I’m not alone.”

“Facetime isn’t the same as real people.”

“Those are bad movies, Bravo. I’m not sure I want to be around those who make them for that long.”

“I know.”

“Actors have never been my favorite company.”

“I know.”

“And I just don’t want to go.”

“I know.”

“I’ll learn to stop answering your calls one day, you know? And then you’ll do everything alone, even a global disaster.”

“I knew you’d give in. That's my girl.”

——

The hotel is a converted English Manor - the very stuff of childhood fairytales and honeymoon daydreams with its Italianate architecture and technicolor green grass. It is warm, inviting, with high ceilings and the soft, consistent hum of human activity as workers scurry around to greet the incoming guests. They filter you in through white plastic tents and stick cotton swabs up your nose before giving you the WIFI password and a room with a stunning view of their expansive, manicured grounds. You don’t have any grounds to look in America, and your studio apartment has been eerily quiet as of late. The pulse of life has stopped in Los Angeles, but here it comes back with an unvarying rhythm.

You don’t like to admit it, but Dieter was right: you are not above loneliness.

The room they give you feels anachronistic, too modern and beige, but cozy in the way all four star hotels aim to be. You’ve got a television, a pristine bathroom that hosts a bathtub and a shower, and enough floor space to move around without stubbing any toes. There’s ample furniture too: a reading chair by the large window, the queen bed, and another chair by the door, which looks like it’s meant only for bags and the stray suit jacket. They’ve given you decorative pillows and instructions not to leave for two weeks - not for any reason.

You lay out on the queen bed and Facetime Dieter. The irony of the situation is too good not to tease him for.

“I know,” he gruffs, picking up your call immediately.

You can’t help but laugh at the misery that drips from his voice. “I’ve always been better at being alone. I think it was you who didn’t want to be alone.”

He runs a hand through his unruly hair and frowns. Even if you won’t take it, you like the idea that he’s only a long walk away now. You give in and shuck off your winner’s ego. “It’s only two weeks,” you assure kindly.

“If I’m good, do you think I can earn a sleepover?” There’s mischief in his eyes, flirtation thick on his tongue. You look askance at him and the dimple in his cheek deepens. “I’m only kidding of course.”

“Ha ha,” you deadpan.

“It’ll be nice after two weeks,” he promises. You know that tone, far off and introspective. It’s not good.

“Just Facetime me when you’re losing your mind.”

“You don’t want that. I’ll be on the phone with you all the time.”

You stare down at the phone, frowning. He smiles, coming back to his body. “I’ll be alright, kid. I always am.”

“Two weeks is not so long.”

“No,” he agrees quietly.

——

Two weeks is a prison sentence.

The room they put you in, while spacious, is merely a cell block now, reduced down to its most basic elements: the bathroom with the shower and the tub, which you’ve used so much it's a miracle your skin hasn’t fallen right off; the bedroom area, with the reading chair by the window; the queen bed, which you stopped making after day four and try your damndest not to fall in before 3pm. You’ve paced the floor so many times, feeling the angry itch of loneliness coupled with a newfound, perpetually lurking anxiety.

“One more day,” he reminds you over the telephone, trying to allay your fears. You hear the sound of his tub running in the background, over the static of his voice, and you wonder what he looks like right now. You picture two week’s more worth of beard growth, the slouch of his back as he sits on the edge of the tub, the pudge of his stomach, and the inciting trail of hair below his belly button. And his naked self. At home he was perpetually nude, and you imagine it’s no different now.

You find your own reflection in the mirror over the sink: sunken eyes, with bags underneath and your flesh taking on a slightly gray cast, the color of isolation.The window sun doesn’t seem to be helping much. You frown self consciously, but try to remind yourself he must be in a state himself; he stopped Facetiming you a week ago, opting for the good ol’ telephone call at least once or twice a day since.

“I’m going out of my mind,” you say as you continue to look at yourself. You lower your voice, vulnerability shared in a hushed, confessional tone. You imagine Dieter again: with that soft concentrated look that pulls his eyebrows together, the one that enhances the lines between them. They called him a curious child and now he’s got the lines to show for it. He told you that. The thought makes you smile at yourself, but you still look so tired.

“Just one day,” he supplies again. He sounds vaguely apologetic.

“I know,” you tell him simply.

“What have you been up to today?” he asks. You hear water come to a stop and a gentle splash follows it. He’s gotten in. “Anything fun?”

“I read, watched a movie. You?”

“I got high and jerked off. So, you know, nothing different than the past thirteen days that you’ve called.”

You scan your reflection in the mirror, contemplating your next words. It isn’t a good idea, but nothing is. “What did you think about?” you ask.

“Lots of things.”

He tells you this as casually as if you’ve asked him his name. You are so achingly lonely and this is so embarrassing, but you can’t help it. You know he’ll let you. Hell, he’s probably been waiting weeks for this. Years.

“Do you ever think about me?”

There’s a short, considerate pause. “Do you want the truth or a lie?”

“A lie.” You worry your lip between your teeth.

“Oh, never.”

You laugh, relieved. “I thought you were going to say something different.”

“Hm,” he hums, “I don’t think that’s the truth. I think you worried about what the real truth would be. We’ve got something here and it’s worrisome.”

“You sound like my mother.”

“Mine too. She thinks inviting you was a terrible idea but she wants you to know she’s thinking of you.”

“Mine hates you.”

He grunts. “Suppose I deserve that, don't I?”

“I think this is the first time in history that you diverted phone sex with talk like that.”

“I’m getting older, wiser,” he jokes. Then, “Do you think of me?”

“Do you want a lie or the truth?”

He considers it for a moment. “The truth. Hit me with it hard, baby.”

“Oh, a lot more than I should.”

——

The rapt sound of knuckles against your door incites an excitement in you that you haven’t felt since childhood. You jump from the bed, uncaring of the state of yourself, hungry for the news that awaits on the other side.

A kindly British man tells you that the quarantine has been lifted and that there will be a party and dinner for the cast and crew in a couple of hours. Formal wear is encouraged but not required.mYou spend the next few hours undoing what’s been done by isolation: the bags under your eyes; the unkempt room, with the fetid smell of loneliness wafting over everything; the living out of your suitcase and the wrinkles on your best clothes. You find an iron in the closet and shave your entire body.

Dieter stops by your room while you’re in the middle of getting ready. He sits quietly at the edge of your bed, watching you in the mirror with that dazed look in his eyes. He wears the ugliest goddamn housecoat you’ve ever seen, but he’d smiled so wide at the door that you’ve forgiven him for it.

“You’re excited,” he observes. His fingers fiddle with the sunglasses in his hands. “I thought you hate actors.”

You try to steady your hand as you bring the eyeliner up to your eyelid. “I don’t care what they are, as long as they can hold a conversation,” you mumble.

“I can hold a conversation. Maybe we ought to stay here and celebrate with each other.”

You look at him in the mirror, trying to figure out if he’s serious or not. You can’t tell. “You’re kidding.”

He shrugs. There’s a distant look in his eyes, as if he’s thinking too hard about something.

“Are you high?” you ask him.

“No, but I’m thinking maybe I should be.”

“Cheer up, boy scout. You’re the one who wanted to do this goddamn movie.”

He lets out a defeated sigh and falls back into the mattress with a groan. “I’m going to kill myself.”

———

He doesn’t kill himself, but he looks like he’s still weighing the prospect of it as you take your drink from the bartender.

Dieter suffers no one lightly, and you have a feeling the personable strawberry blonde in front of him isn’t exactly his crowd. You smile over the rim of your drink, enjoying seeing him squirm for once. Everything seems to come easy to him–except this. He’s never been very good at socializing when he doesn’t want to.

“That your boyfriend?”

You turn your head and find Dustin Mulray. You feel a hint of your teenage self come back to you as you look at him, struck wordless. It’s nothing as strong as the love that had you tacking up posters with his face on it to bedroom walls, but something vaguely akin to it. You’re happy to find it manifests itself as a friendly smile instead of love confessions. Perhaps it’s helped by his appearance: In his infinity scarf and beige knitted sweater, he reminds you more of a homely professor than a Hollywood movie star. You think: Movie stars! They’re just like us! while shaking your head in answer.

“No,” you tell him, “He’s my ex-husband.”

“Ah. That’s my ex-wife with him. Marriage is tricky, isn’t it?”

He takes a seat next to you and orders a drink. The bartender sits it on a napkin for him and he turns to you, his blue-green eyes awaiting an answer. You hadn’t thought he would want to talk to you, not really. You’re used to being invisible at events.

“I guess you could say that,” you reply.

“Are you working on the movie?”

You remember what Dieter told you to say if anyone asked: “For legal purposes, yes. Art coordinator #3.”

This amuses him, drawing out a smile. “That title come with pay or would you say it's just an internship?”

“I guess you could call it an internship.” You smile back at him. “Why? You think you could pull some strings and get me a paycheck?”

“I think I’d do you one better and get you a better place of employment. Have you read the script?” This makes you let out a genuine laugh. He brightens, smiling a little wider. “What? It’s the truth! Everyone thinks us Hollywood actors just commit to this shit knowing it’s shit but we don’t! I mean—“ He looks over the crowd, lowering his head closer to yours conspiratorially. “—Not those of us who started at the beginning. We thought it’d be good. Like Jurassic Park, but yanno, we didn’t get Steven Spielberg. We keep getting arthouse fucks. And I like arthouse fucks–don’t get me wrong–but what’s a man with an IPhone know about blockbusters?”

“Ah, I feel you but I can’t quite reach you from here.”

“No, I bet not.”

There’s something simmering in that line. If you didn’t know better, you’d figure it was a light flirtation. Surely not.

“I liked your early stuff better,” you confess.

“Me too. But those were the glory days and now I have alimony and child support to pay. How about him?” he nods in the direction of Dieter. “You get half his ass in court?”

You shake your head. His candor, although surprising, is refreshing. “No, no big payout. We’re amicable.”

He clicks his tongue in awe. “I envy the bastard but I can’t say I didn’t deserve my lot.”

“You haven’t even finished your first drink and you’re already gonna confess your sins?” You raise a curious, teasing eyebrow. He hangs his head and laughs.

“You married an actor. Don’t we all wear our hearts on our sleeves?”

“Mm, not mine,” you shake your head. “It seems he saved his emotions for the silver screen.”

It’s Dustin’s turn to raise his own curious eyebrow.

“How cozy.” You look over your shoulder to see Dieter standing in front of your chair, his fingers reaching out to the back of your chair. He looks…jealous.

“Dustin, this is Dieter,” you introduce them. Dustin sticks his hand out and Dieter plays nice, shaking it with a passing grin.

“Nice to meet you,” Dustin mutters. Dieter nods his head. “Yeah, you too. I was actually coming over here to steal her away for a moment. If she doesn’t mind.” He looks over at you, expectant. There’s a bite to his words you don’t like at all. How fucking rich, you think bitterly, remembering all the times you had to sit by while he shamelessly flirted with half the fucking world.

“She does mind,” you respond. The sharp finality of it makes even Dustin cough awkwardly.

Dieter looks taken aback. “Okay,” he mutters, looking between the two of you. He nods again, as though he’s drawn some conclusion. “Alright.”

You watch as he walks away to the other side of the room. Looking back at Dustin, you give him a rueful grin. “Sorry. And here I was, talking about how amicable we are. Exes of the year.”

He raises his glass. “To us pitiful people and our pitiful crash and burn marriages.”

You clink your glass against his, fighting the urge to cry or kill Dieter. “To us.”

—

The dinner table arrangement is unforgiving for Dieter. He’s sat next to Dustin at the far end of the table, with yet another red headed actress to his left. Unlike the talkative one, this one is in a state of brooding and continually huffing at everything he says. You’re slightly more lucky, sat at the other end, sandwiched between Dustin's ex-wife and the director.

He watches woefully as you chat with the ex-wife, nodding your head along politely. You were always such a good listener, even with the worst people. He frowns. He had changed his outfit between the party and the dinner, opting for a classier open dress shirt. He had seen the look in your eye when you had opened the door for him earlier, and figured he could use all the help he could get now that he’s undoubtedly pissed you off. He had hoped that they would’ve sat him next to you so you could talk. He’s even wearing that cologne you like. Or used to like. He doesn’t know anymore.

“So, like what—you usually get along with her or…?” Dustin asks him, following his eyeline right to you. Dustin brings the cool champagne they’ve served to his lips, his eyes too burningly curious as he gazes at you.

Dieter tries not to be possessive. He saw it in your eyes, heard it in your tone: that sharp, angry disappointment that you’re so used to delivering him. You don’t like when he gets like that. Not that he has much. This is a relatively new side effect he’s required since the divorce. He shrugs lazily, pushing the sunglasses up his nose. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

This earns him an even laugh. He looks over at the older man, frowning. “What?”

“I see magazines with your face all over it, man. C’mon, we all kiss and tell, even if we don’t want to.”

Dieter bites at the side of his cheek and considers him for a moment. “Look you and your wife-“

“Ex-wife-“

Dieter nods, uncaring. “Sure, your ex wife — you both like to talk a lot.”

“I’m just trying to figure out if I can make a pass at her or not. Make it easy for me. I don’t want to have to suffer this entire shoot because you’ve got some weird shitty thing going on between you. I don’t step on kept grounds….Well, not anymore,” he adds.

“How noble,” Dieter says wryly, “She’s not mine to answer for. Besides, it seems like you were already doing a good job at making a pass earlier.”

He fights down the petulant child inside of him, biting at his lip instead of wearing an all out pout. Through the concealed tint of his sunglasses, his eyes soften at the sight of you across the room. He can almost feel the crack in his heart as he considers the fact that you might have actually liked talking to this man.

Dieter knows one day it’ll come, the moment when you find yourself in a serious relationship with someone else. Most of the time he thinks he’ll be okay — that it will affect him like it must but it won’t ruin him entirely — but sometimes, like right now, he worries he’ll get on his knees and beg you not to do it. You don’t deserve that. He hates himself for the greed he feels, how he can’t ever just let you be happy. He doesn’t want to be like this dick, taking and taking from his ex-wife, all while he noses around and wets his dick in anything that will let him. He never wants to embarrass you like that. Not again. Never again.

Chugging the last bits of his drink, Dieter looks over at the man. Dustin looks back at him, nonplussed. It takes herculean strength to say the next words.

“She doesn’t like men who are crude or too direct, but to be frank, I think you can’t really fuck up with her. She likes you and always has.” Dieter casts a glance in your direction again, feeling mischievous. He smirks, letting himself have this one. “Well, since you were last relevant, that is.”

Dustin laughs the burn off, shaking his head. He touches Dieter’s shoulder in a show of faux friendliness. “We’re in the same shitty franchise now, bud, so welcome to the club,” he whispers, just low enough for him to hear.

Dieter raises his empty glass to Dustin with a forced grin. Feeling defeated but comforted by the fact that he’s now got something to separate him from that asshole, he raises his hand to the pretty waitress for another drink. To celebrate.

But he truthfully doubts there will be much to celebrate.

He fucking hates Hollywood.

—-

Truth be told, Dieter didn’t plan on doing this tonight. Getting high. He planned, if he was being honest with himself - and he is trying, at his most introspective more now than ever - to be doing you. Had he invited you on the vacation just to fuck you? No, but ignobility inevitably follows in the tracks of his nobility. It was written between the lines, something you both had hinted at over the past two weeks. But now you’re somewhere else. There's a lot of rooms in this hotel. Maybe you’re in your own. Maybe not. Dustin had looked like he was going to devour you at the bar earlier tonight, so probably, you’re doing him in his room.

Or do you bring men back to your own place now? He doesn’t know.

Dieter would blanch if he wasn’t so high. He sits in the middle of the decorative couch, staring at the ceiling with glazed eyes, and he tries to imagine a different version of your last phone conversation.

When you asked if he ever thought of you when he touched himself, he’d tell you the truth. Because you like the truth. He’d say: all the time. More than he should. Really a sickening, depressing amount because he misses you, especially lately. New York is a terrible place to be these days; death permeates everything and nothing seems as right as it used to. Even loneliness feels worse, no longer poetic or artistic but just lonely. It's less like Al Pacino on the set of the Godfather and more like Michael Corleone, sitting alone at the empty dining room table. Days stretch on and on, and he’s hungry for life that has halted so he paints terribly, insecure of even hobbies. What else is he supposed to do but play with himself and remember poignantly that he had once been married to a lovely sort of woman who would’ve made it all better, if only he hadn’t fucked it up?

Well, he doesn’t think about that last part so much. It doesn’t really make for good masturbating material.

He wasn’t sure he was going to survive the pandemic before they asked him to do this movie. And of course he asked you along when they had. It’s the only way in the world he could ask for your help: through omission of truths and beating around the bush. He wonders if you might take pity on his soul again and let him crash with you for a while, just to wait the rest of this out together after the movie wraps. If you really are fucking Dustin, it might make things tense but not impossible. He’ll learn to live with it. He’ll have to. What else is he going to do? Go back to this moment in time and stop you?

Perversely he wonders if Dustin is not the first man you’ve fucked since the divorce. You’re not his last but he wishes you were a lot. It’s been nearly two years and he’s forgotten what you feel like, what you taste like. It’s miserable. When he touches himself and thinks of you, you’re like an apparition, some Franksteinian woman built of fragmented, hazy memories. All he remembers was that the last time wasn’t nice and that you didn’t cum. He couldn’t make you, something about you being too sad or too angry. It was a shame, because he’d always imagined the two of you would’ve gone out with a bang.

This thought makes him smile, but it doesn’t last for long. There's nothing funny about your divorce, not really. He broke your heart tediously, and now you’ve got to tell people that it wasn’t just one thing but many things. He knows that. An unanswered phone call. That waitress in Vegas who he flirted with so unabashedly your mother thought he was cheating on you - along with half the internet and for a brief moment, yourself too. The apartment in New York he bought and moved into without asking you. That art house opening he missed, the one you’d asked him continually throughout the week to set time aside for. So many things—the seven sins and just a few more to top it off.

He wasn’t really surprised when you had asked him for a divorce over lunch one day. You didn’t even live together at the time - the New York apartment became more permanent than he had originally planned for - and you looked so tired, like you were drained of life, overwrought and quiet. What surprised him was the fact that you hadn’t done it sooner. The knowing that you had tried against hope was not an easy one for him to reconcile with for a long time after that. Even in that moment you had developed a sort of halting lisp as you pushed the statement out, as though your own body protested it. He remembers that better than the sex.

You had waited for him to get better and he never did, so you both took your chicken salads with a side of failed marriage that day, and now here you are. Dieter sighs, feeling the familiar pangs of remorse.

“Whatever drugs you’re on must not be very good because you look miserable.”

Dieter lifts his head off the back of the loveseat, straining his eyes to make out the shape that’s hovering in his doorway. His brain catches up with him before his eyes do, and the distinct mumbling voice of the figure comes to him. Dustin.

Shaking his head, Dieter laughs, relieved. “I was thinking.”

Dustin takes this as an invitation to cross the corridor. As he comes closer, Dieter finds he’s in more casual clothes - perhaps even sleepwear - clutching a bottle of wine in his hand. If this is a peace offering, Dieter will take the olive branch. He’s so goddamn pleased you’re not fucking this guy, he might even kiss him.

“You want a joint?” he asks him, straightening on the couch. Suddenly it’s not so hard to be magnanimous, not with the sheer euphoria of you not having betrayed him (is he allowed to call it that? Probably not, but there’s no word quite so apt). He feels he might even be smiling, but he can’t be sure. He hopes so.

“God, please,” Dustin groans. He sits the bottle of wine on the table and rubs his hands together eagerly as Dieter lights the one he’s been puffing away at.

“I figured you were the one with the goods,” Dustin says around a cloud of smoke. He looks over at the open door, nodding at it. “We should close that, huh?”

Dieter shrugs. He thought he had closed the door, truthfully. “Probably should. I think I saw a kid here,” he says. Neither of them get up.

Dustin passes the joint to Dieter. He takes another hit when he gets it because fuck it, this is a celebration. “What, she didn’t want you?” he can’t help but ask.

Dustin laughs mutedly. “I don’t know. I figured by the way you reacted at dinner that I better not try. And there's that thing with my wife.” He shrugs. “I’m always fucking that one up. I thought I should just wander around and see where the night takes me.”

Dieter rests his head back against the couch again, nodding sympathetically. “Mm, I understand. Me too.”

“What’d you do?”

“The better question would be what didn’t I do.”

“Did you cheat?”

Dieter turns his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t fuck anyone else while we were together but she said I might as well as have. And I guess she’s whose opinion really matters, isn’t it?”

Dustin mumbles an agreement. “I fucked a lot of people,” he confesses. “Even the divorce lawyer.”

“And she still talks to you?” Dieter asks.

“We’ve got a kid.”

“That’s right. She told me that, because she likes to talk.”

“Hey don’t be a dick. Yours does too, you know? That’s what women like to do—talk. And they like to be listened to.”

Dieter narrows his eyes. “Is that what you were doing at the bar? Talking?”

Dustin nods. “Yeah. Listening, too.”

“I listened.”

“But you didn’t like what you heard.”

Dustin says this more as a statement than a question. Dieter looks back to the ceiling and pinches his eyes closed, too high. “Mm,” he mumbles. “I’m just so happy she isn’t fucking you right now. I really thought she would be there for a second and it was making me sick.”

Dustin huffs out a laugh. “I take it you never shared?”

“What do you mean ‘shared’?” Dieter asks. “Like wife swapping? No. We seemed to have left the practice in the sixties.”

“Not necessarily. Threesomes?”

“Have you done that?”

Dustin shrugs, smiling unashamedly. “Before we got married, of course,” he tells Dieter. Then, “And a little after too.”

Even with the high, Dieter can’t help but feel curious about the arrangement. “With men?”

“Sure. It wouldn’t have been fair with just women. That was the rules, anyway. Why? You’ve never been with a man?”

“A few. That’s not what strikes me as odd. You just didn’t strike me as the type.”

“I wouldn’t say I was, but fair is fair. And it can be nice. Interesting.”

Dieter rolls his eyes. “Gay sex is gay sex, no matter how you cut it. If you’re about to tell me it doesn’t count, I’m gonna laugh.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t. I just like there to be a girl there too.”

The information weighs heavily on Dieter’s drug induced state of mind. He finds himself beginning to laugh. “Wait a minute, are you trying to talk me into a threesome? Is that what this is? Are you trying to seduce me, Mrs. Robinson? That’s what the wine is about, isn’t it?” He points to the bottle in question, and everything suddenly seems much too funny.

Dustin begins laughing too. “No! The wine was for something. I just couldn’t figure out what”

Dieter ignores him. “Your…your wife hates me,” he manages to hiccup out, “And mine? She—“ She hates me too. This thought makes the laughing come to a slow halt. That’s right. She hates him too.

“I bet she’d do it,” Dustin supplies, soft chuckles still emitting from him. “They can surprise you like that sometimes.”

Dieter shakes his head, his smile more soft, almost sad. “Not with me. I pissed her off. I was thinking I’d try with that waitress downstairs but she’s young and I’ll for sure hate myself for that later.”

“Don’t do that. Your wife really will hate you for that,” Dustin advises. “Take it from an expert. Just call her. Apologize.”

Dieter shakes his head. “That won’t work. It’ll just make her more mad when she realizes I’m high.”

Dustin considers this. “Maybe. I don’t know. Let’s go to her room. Do it in person.”

“You can’t go,” Dieter tells him evenly. It’s not often he’s the voice of reason — even less so when he’s high — and this dynamic is beginning to make him feel out of sorts. He wants to shut his eyes and sleep this off, but naturally — because he is who he is — he will follow this train of thought through with Dustin.

“Why not?” Dustin smiles widely, catching his stride in the conversation. He speaks more animatedly, bringing his hands into the mix for emphasis. “She doesn’t want to fight with you in front of me! And she can see we’ve made friends. That’s progress! She’ll like that.”

Dieter considers this. He does want to show you he’s sorry — really.

“You just want to fuck her,” he says to Dustin. He’s too high to be angry, even if he really wanted to be, but he is suspicious.

When Dustin doesn’t respond to that, Dieter narrows his eyes. “You do!” he accuses, acutely horrified by the idea.

Dustin looks at him, a smile playing across his lips. “C’mon, aren’t you a little curious to see what it’d be like?”

“No. And besides, even if I was, I don’t think she would. She’s not…I don’t know, I don't know how to explain it.” Dieter pinches up his face, stuck for the right words. “She’s not a prude by any means, but I don’t think she would.”

“Would you? If she did?”

Dieter doesn’t consider the question, only beats around it. “She wouldn’t. I know her.”

He watches as Dustin rises from the couch. “Let’s just go ask her.”

Dieter jumps up, feeling sobriety sneak up on him. “No!” he says, horrified.

But Dustin has snatched up his bottle of wine and began to make his way out into the corridor before Dieter can stop him.

So crumbles the olive branch.

—-

When you see Dustin standing at your door, holding up a bottle of wine with a goofy grin, you think it's a sign from the Heavens above. No more Dieter, that’s what it tells you. He’s ruined your life for a decade now and it’s a cause you’ve got to accept is a lost one. A new man is here and you’re lonely, and you didn’t even have to go search this one out. You smile, open the door a little wider.

But then you see Dieter shuffling down the corridor, brown eyes blown wide. Dustin looks over at him with a grin and you realize with a sinking feeling that this wasn’t what you imagined it was. You don’t know what it is, to be exact, but you’re sure it’s not right.

They look up to no good, with glazed eyes and Dustin’s too wide grin. You close your door just a smidge when Dieter shoulders to the front. He smiles apologetically, and you instinctively hold out a hand to keep him steady. But he’s steady, in no risk of tumbling forward. He puts his hands over yours before you quickly take it away. He looks stung but you don’t care.

“Hey kid,” he says sheepishly. His eyes seem to be asking you something - saying something - but you’ve long lost that way of communicating. You frown, slumping against the doorway.

“Make friends?” you ask, nodding back to Dustin.

Dustin nods his head, unaware or — more likely — too high to be aware. “He’s being a good boy,” he vouches.

“I’ve been good,” Dieter echoes. He tries another grin and that easy charm of his, but none of it works. You fold your arms over your chest.

“Listen, I’m a little tired and—“

“I’m sorry. I know what I did earlier was shitty. I don’t know why I do things like that. Don’t shut me out. Please.” Dieter pouts. The sincerity of his words punches you in the gut, and makes you angrier somehow. Like it’s mocking, even though you know it’s not. He seems to sense this and he continues talking. “I know I don’t own you like that. I had no right. None at all. And I’ve been meaning to say it to you all night. And I know you’re thinking ‘this prick is high.’ I am. I’m really high, and I can’t deny it, but I’m sorry too. I was sorry even before I got high. That’s why I got high.”

Dustin giggles behind Dieter. You look over, feeling pangs of annoyance for him too. Now that he’s not your knight in shining armor he’s just some asshole in kahoots with this asshole. “That’s terrible,” he huffs out. Dieter glares at him over his shoulder before you’ve got the chance.

“I’m sorry,” Dieter tells you again, pleadingly. You shake your head.

“You’re always sorry. That was always the problem.”

“I know! God, I know.”

“Ask her if she wants some weed,” Dustin whispers.

“And I suppose you smuggled that in?” you ask, straightening yourself up. You feel motherly, glowering at him like this. You want to wring his neck. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed fuck you, make you feel eternal and sexy. But no. Now you’re so matronly, standing there in your PJs, frowning so hard wrinkles are mapping their permanent home in the places your face creases.

He nods guiltily. “But you knew that! I’ve talked about it all week.”

“Yeah but—“ you wave your hands in the air. “It all adds up with you. It’s..”

“The little things,” he finishes sadly. “I know.”

“Why do you know so little if you know so much?”

Dustin coughs suggestively behind Dieter and Dieter turns around swiftly. “No,” he tells him sharply.

You furrow your eyebrows. “No, what?”

Dieter shakes his head dismissively and Dustin shrugs, looking around aimlessly. He’s trying hard to contain a laugh or a grin, you can tell. You hate that Dieter is making you a bitch in front of him. You could be fucking him for God’s sake, but you’re just annoyed.

“Go to bed,” you tell them.

“Well that’s the idea,” Dustin counters, his lips drawing upwards. Dieter looks pallid.

“It wasn’t,” he tells you. “I swear. I came here to stop him from asking!”

“Asking what?” you say, exasperated.

“For a threesome,” Dustin says simply, like it’s nothing at all. “Though I can see now that’s probably not in the cards. And it wasn’t really asking for one, just a hypothetical.”

You look over to Dieter. He looks down at the floor, like a kid in trouble. “Dieter,” you scold.

He shakes his head. “I didn’t want him to ask. I told him—I said you wouldn’t. I didn’t even want to suggest it,” he mumbles helplessly. “That’s not what this was supposed to be at all, kid. I swear. I just wanted to say sorry and…I don’t know.”

You don’t know whether to believe him or not. “But you talked about it?”

“Hm?” Dieter raises an eyebrow.

“The threesome? You were talking about having one?”

“Yeah, but not like—it wasn’t locker room talk. Not really. He just started talking about it and asked if you would and I said no—“

“How do you know I would say no?” you huff. “You don’t know. You don’t know me.”

Dieter frowns. “That’s not true.”

“Yeah it is,” you nod. “I’m different now. I’m not the woman you dragged around all those years.”

“I never thought of you like that.”

“Well, still, yes,” you say, feeling angry and stung and in a desperate need to prove him wrong and spite him all in one go. It’s such an ugly feeling and it’s not right, but you can tell the words take him by surprise.

“Yes?…” he asks. “Listen, I get that you’re angry, but you don’t have to do this.”

“No I want to,” you say. “If that’s what you want, what he wants, I want it too. If that’s what you’ve come for, then you’ll get it.”

He shakes his head. “You’re angry and you’re not thinking straight. You’re…being mean. And you’re only going to piss yourself off more, I think, and then you’re going to be mad at me because I drove you to it.”

You shake your head. “No. I think I’m being quite nice. I’m standing here telling you I want you to fuck me. I want him to watch. I want him to fuck me and you to watch. Whatever perverse things you cooked up together, let’s do them. If you’re going to make me mad, then I’m asking that you have the decency to fuck me too.”

Dieter struggles to compute the information. You do too. You hate him. You love him. You are so high strung and pissed and you’d do anything to be touched. Let him prove himself, goddamnit, or let him be damned jealous. Either way, you get fucked. Everyone's a winner or only you are. You don’t give a shit.

Dustin seems altogether pleased by this, clapping a hand onto Dieter’s shoulder. “I told him you might surprise him.”

“Mm hm,” you hum. You do not break eye contact with Dieter. He nods his head, resolving to trust you—or to go along with it. It doesn’t matter, just so long as he doesn’t question it.

When he steps forward, you put your hand up, blocking him. “First the weed.”

He lets out a soft sigh and stays put for a second, looking as though he wants to say something more. He’s wise enough not to in the end.

As he rounds the corner, heading back to his room, you finally glance back up at Dustin. He smiles softly. “You don’t have to do this,” he tells you. “I really was just to get some fire under his ass. I mean, I’m not against it, but if you’re just doing it because you’re pissed—“

You cut him off with a hard look. “I want to,” you say resolutely. “And I am pissed. So be it. Men start wars for less.” You shrug. He looks amused and you feel something arise in you, up alongside the anger — arousal. Desire. Something. He smiles handsomely. The grayish scruff on his cheeks bodes well with his aged features.

You do want to fuck him. That’s freeing information. Propping the door open wider with the kick of your foot, you nod him in. “C’mon. Get in here before I change my mind.”

The dichotomy between his laughter and the intensity of the fight you just had with Dieter makes you smile despite yourself.

“Wouldn’t want that,” he responds with a wink.

He brushes past you with his body and you fight the urge to suck in a shallow breath at the sudden casual contact. As he moves into the room, he pulls you away from the door with him, gripping at your shoulders. He doesn’t let you stay back and wait for Dieter like some lost puppy.

You look at him, eyes wide, and he hands you the wine in his hand. He is so unserious that it’d be plain endearing if it hadn’t been a source of annoyance a moment before. You watch as he wets his lips and looks down at yours. There seems to be a pregnant pause, eyes searching yours for an answer to an invisible question. You think of Dieter, of all the sex you’ve not had since the divorce, and how hurt he seemed when you pulled back from his touch. You love him so much. It isn’t fair. You will love him your whole life if you don’t stop this. You heed your mother’s warning too late and you kiss Dustin hard on the mouth. He takes some of your grief with a practiced tongue, kissing you deeply until you’re interrupted by a cough in the corner a few blurry moments later.

Dustin smiles, holding your face between his hands. “The weed,” he remarks. Dieter nods. He looks a little hurt, a little angry, a little betrayed—looks like he’s always made you feel, and you are not surprised it doesn’t make you feel any better.

You love him. You fool.

You shake Dustin off and Dieter hands you the joint with a forced grin. “It’s strong,” he warns softly as he lights the end. As you inhale, Dustin comes to stand behind you. Dieter’s eyes watch as his arms snake around you. He plants wet kisses alongside your neck and Dieter worries his bottom lip between his teeth.

Dieter reaches out to you, touches the wrist you’ve risen to put the joint in your mouth. His calloused fingers try to reach across burned bridges and you aid him, handing the joint back and reaching out to him too. His baggy sleep shirt is easy to take between your fingers. He takes a hit and then comes closer to you, pressing into you.

When he kisses you for the first time, you think of an ouroboros. Whole and eternal, destruction and rebirth. Your mother hates him when she once loved him. He knows your birthday and the way you like your coffee in the morning. You don’t know what he did yesterday. He doesn’t know your friend’s old cat died and that you’d been to two weddings before COVID hit. He tastes familiar and feels strange against you, unreal and vivid. You open your mouth and he slides in his tongue. The kiss isn’t like the one with Dustin; he does not explore you as much as he remembers you.

Dustin and Dieter pass the joint between them. When you feel the loss of warmth behind you, you turn curiously, detaching from Dieter’s lips. Dustin goes to abandon the joint on the table by the bed and Dieter’s hot mouth presses kisses alongside your neck. You wrap your fingers in his hair and you can't help but moan when he tongues alongside your jaw. Dustin’s eyes spark with delight at the sound.

You look down at the wine bottle still in your hand and hold it up. Dustin takes it from you, grinning. “I forgot to tell you it was my gift. I’ll open it. It’s good, aged to perfection,” he comments.

He searches your bedside for a glass and finds a crystal one beside the water vase that they gave you earlier that week. He looks down at the bottle in his hand and frowns. “Fuck, I forgot the wine opener.”

“Call the desk,” Dieter says against your skin.

You turn your head back and begin kissing him again, humming an agreement against his lips. Dustin shuffles behind you as you return completely to Dieter, your lips ghosting over his. He licks into your mouth and grasps at the back of your neck, keeping you attached to him as you begin the dance backwards to the bed.

The weed gives you a cloudy feeling, enhancing the warmth of his fingers and lips on your skin, but erasing any inhibition that would make you embarrassed to be doing it in front of another man. You like the idea of it, actually, that there’s some stranger - albeit a familiar one - standing somewhere in the room as Dieter’s fingers lift up your sleep shirt and dip beneath the hem of your underwear. Your ass presses against the edge of the bed and you feel his erection against your thigh. You moan carelessly, tugging at his hair, and he exhales into you, the line between pleasure and pain thin and delicate as he rushes to do what he’s afraid Dustin will get to first if he doesn’t.

Dustin hangs up the phone and looks at the two of you on the bed, a surge of desire filling him as he watches. You’ve got your legs open and Dieter’s got his hands down your underwear and he can see it all from this angle. You’re making delicious, breathy moans and Dieter’s arm muscles flex as he works them out of you. There’s a wet spot on your underwear and he wants nothing more than for Dieter to take them off so he can see more of you.

He watches a while longer, captivated by what makes you tick and what kind of a lover Dieter is. It's kinda like hotel porn that he’s had on repeat the past few days, but live. Before he can get out the request for Dieter to take your underwear off, or wait for the inevitability of it, there’s a knock on the door. He rushes to answer it, holding the door open only enough to take the glasses and the bottle opener. He mumbles a quick thanks before shutting the door on the confused worker.

Dieter enters you with a thick finger and you let out a loud uninhibited moan around his kiss. As Dustin attempts to open the wine he smiles, thinking of the young man who was just outside the door. He likes that you aren’t afraid; he’s always found that attractive in women.

“Here,” he says, pouring the pinkish liquid into three separate glasses. Neither of you look at him, so he repeats it again, this time with more command in his tone. You look so thoroughly kissed when you look up, red lipped and swollen, that it makes him ache, and Dieter’s wild haired annoyance is charming in its own way. He hands you both a glass and you take it with a shy smile. Dieter is less pleased, but takes it anyway with a soft ‘Thanks.’

Dustin watches as Dieter wipes your slick from his fingers with a pang of envy, swallowing down the wine. This isn’t something he’s made a habit of doing often— watching people fuck, threesomes — but he had felt that it wouldn’t have been right to do without Dieter. Truthfully, he had had every intention of going to your room by himself before he had peered into Dieter’s open door. The sight of him sitting there, staring up at the ceiling like he had been doing, inspired sympathy. He hadn’t been entirely truthful about that with Dieter, but what he’s learned over the years about sex is that some little white lies must be told sometimes.

A part of him feels guilty, knowing his own ex-wife lies somewhere in this hotel, probably brewing in her own anger. But he’s leaving her alone. That’s what she asked of him, isn’t it?

“So, any rules?” he asks, abandoning this train of thought before it crashes.

Dieter unwraps himself from you, sitting on the edge of the bed like you are, and shrugs his shoulders. You both look at each other. Dustin feels like an outsider, intruding on something too big and personal, but he doesn’t mind. A bit of self-flagellation mixed in with pleasure was always how he did his sex best, and there’s nothing quite like sleeping with two people very much in love during a pandemic.

“Dieter said you’ve never done this before,” he says, looking at you. “Is that true?”

You nod your head. “What do you mean by ‘rules?’”

“Well, I guess it’s a bit different because no one is with anyone here, but sometimes there will be requests people make to ensure no one gets their feelings hurt. For instance, you might not want me to cum inside of you or enter you at all. They’re for safety too—consent, boundaries.”

“I see.” You look down at your glass of wine, thinking. “I don’t really have any rules. Maybe just use condoms.”

“Are you sure?” Dieter whispers, tugging at your shirt sleeve. He leans in closer, says something Dustin can’t hear. You shake your head. “No, it’s fine. I don’t care if you do that,” you tell him. He seems surprised by your answer.

Dustin can’t help himself. “What’d you ask?”

Dieter shrugs his shoulders. “Just about how she feels about us.”

“Do you have any rules?” he asks.

“Don’t cum in her first.”

You look at Dieter quizzically and all he provides is a shrug that says nothing. Dustin nods his head. “That seems easy enough: condoms, don’t cum first.” He swallows down the rest of his wine and sets the glass aside.

You twirl the liquid around in your own glass, smiling faintly. “I can’t believe I’m gonna do this,” you say.

“Me either,” Dieter replies. He sits his glass, half finished, on the nightstand.

“I’m feeling high,” is your next sentence. Dieter seems to grimace.

“You’re in the wrong state of mind,” he tells you.

You shake your head. “No. I made up my mind before I got high. I want to be fucked,” you tell him, voice plain and even. “If you don’t want to fuck me, I’m sure I’ll be okay with just him.”

Dieter shakes his head adamantly, cheeks beginning to red. “I—I do want to. I always want to. I just want to make sure you’re not doing something you’re going to regret later.”

With a smile, you tell him teasingly, “I won’t regret it later. Not if you do it right.” You offer him a teasing wink that draws out his dimple. He leans forward and presses a chaste kiss on your lips, too romantic and sweet to be good for your soul.

You decide then that this will have to be less Dieter focused if you want to last. “Lay on the bed,” you say to him. He nods his head, prying off his house shoes. You look over to Dustin, who stands awkwardly at the head of the bed. He smiles again with that charming Hollywood grin that age hasn’t dimmed in the slightest, and you grin back. “I want to kiss you again,” you tell him directly.

“That can be arranged,” he says, dipping onto the bed.

Dieter lies back against the heap of pillows at the headboard, his knees spread apart to make a spot for you. Dustin guides you there slowly, his body pressing into yours until there’s nowhere left to go but into Dieter. He kisses you deeply, hands strong and warm and unfamiliar in an entirely exciting way as they bunch up the fabric of your sleep shirt and expand over your skin.

Dieter doesn’t touch you, even though he badly wants to. Part of it is heartbreak and disbelief, and the other part is erotic fascination—watching you come apart like this, at another angle, is undeniably doing something to him. You are so pliable under Dustin, so easy for him, like you’ve waited your entire life to be like this. Maybe you have. Maybe he never paid enough attention—maybe in all your thousand little, subtle ways you had once alluded that you’d like to be this way. Maybe if he hadn’t been such a prick, he could’ve made more rules, one like ‘Don’t enter her at all’ and ‘Don’t kiss him like that because I know once upon a time you kissed me like that and I screwed it up, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t be a better husband. I’ll be a better friend, just don’t kiss him like that.’

But then again maybe not. That’s a mouthful and you’re high and he’s high. Maybe it would be just like this. It’s just that he loves you. It’s an odd kind of love, but it’s real. Dustin has his tongue down your throat, his exploratory fingers beneath the fabric of a sleep shirt, but Dieter loves you. The fool.

Blissfully you are unaware of the pity party Dieter throws for himself behind you. He is a body, a springboard for desire and heat, as you surrender yourself to lust the way you never really have before. You do draw up some comparisons, unable to help yourself.

Dustin is grittier, all command and surrender. He is an electric taste of the illicit, some faraway fantasy made palpable. Dieter is your ground zero, vivid and stormy. He is what yesterday was. You read somewhere once that when you have a child with a man, their genes have the ability to change your own. Though you and Dieter have no children, you feel like something irrevocable like that happened — that you carry a part of him in your genetic makeup. It doesn’t make Dustin worse for it. In fact, it makes him better, an exotic vaccine into your very tired bloodstream. You deserve it. You deserve it so much, and you practically beg for it, mewling as Dustin kisses his way down.

“I bet you taste like heaven,” he mumbles warmly into your skin, licking a teasing strip over your midriff. You watch, mouth agape, heart beating wildly in your chest. Dieter tilts your chin up, directing your attention towards him, feeling impossibly greedy now. He kisses you languidly, tonguing lolling gently against yours, making it lasts forever. Your mind is in a haze, the slow, sensual turn of your tongues lighting a fire in your belly as Dustin uses his own on you. He trails lower and lower, warm and wet, fingers drawing down your underwear and then—

“Fuck,” you say, gasping out the word. You surprise yourself. Dieter captures the word in his mouth and groans in soft appreciation. You glance down your body, your knees hanging loosely over Dustin’s shoulders, watching his warm tongue pressing against your clit. It’s a sight to behold, the way his pink tongue flattens over you. His large hands grip onto your legs, holding you apart as your back presses into Dieter’s front. You feel his semi-erection nudge into your back.

Dustin spends his time with you, teasing you lightly with his tongue at first, learning the careful intricacies of your body. As you run your hands through his unruly bed hair, the tip of his tongue dips into your opening experimentally. He looks up to you, blue-green eyes searching for approval. You buck against his face, desperate, full of want and drugs and something indescribable but undeniably exciting. Ambition. Want. Joy. You used to masturbate to this man. His nose grazes against your clit and he laughs as you struggle. It is warm and bubbly, and you feel it all the way down to your bones.

You tug his hair so hard that he sends another noise vibrating through you: a low, half pained, half aroused groan.

Dustin brings his mouth back to your clit, grazes it gently with his teeth. “Oh,” you say, your head drawing backward, falling into Dieter’s shoulder. He watches you, his dark eyes fixed. He presses his lips onto yours like time hasn’t changed anything. You bask in it, give yourself over to the fantasy with the ease he’s offering it—you kiss like lovers, familiar and intimate, an unformidable duo in sex where you weren’t in marriage.

Dieter doesn’t leave your lips as he says, “I never got to see this sort of thing from this point of view. You’re so goddamn pretty.”

His hands tease up your sides, fingers drawing closer to your chest. “Is he making you soaked? Just like I used to?” he asks, his voice a low drawl. You arch up, bringing your lips up to his. He slots his mouth over yours, pressing into you roughly as his fingers find a pebbled nipple through the cloth of your night shirt. As he scraps over the top of it with the pad of his thumb, you draw your eyes closed. The heady scent of Dieter surrounding you mixed with the intoxicating feel of Dustin pressed against your cunt is almost too much to bear. Almost. You moan against Dieter’s lips again as Dustin’s tongue works you, and Dieter smiles, nodding. “Oh baby, he’s gonna be like me. A pitiful, helpless fool for you. Aren’t you?” he says, looking down the valley of your body to the other man.

Dustin grunts wordlessly against you and your hips fail you again, pressing up into the vibration. Sensing this isn’t the end of lack of control, Dustin presses a hand against them, pinning you down. As he licks you open, spreads your folds with the warmth of his eager tongue, you feel on fire, the sensation reaching every part of your body. He’s good at that. He’s lapping and lapping, his strong nose meeting your clit at just the right time each time he comes up.

“He’s so fucking good,” you say helplessly, uncaring of who hears. The drugs make you uninhibited, looser. You meet Dustin’s eyes as he takes your clit into his mouth again. He is sucking lightly and you try to roll your hips into him, but he presses down, a silent no. “Fuck, you’re so—good at that. Oh my god.”

Dieter pinches your nipple between his fingers, humming softly at the sight before him. “You’re gonna make me jealous, baby.”

Dustin’s mouth grows more focused, intent. You feel your orgasm drawing up, coming closer and closer. You open your eyes, blown wide with desire, and focus on Dieter. He kisses you softly again, bringing his hand up to your other breast. Dustin sucks your clit into his mouth, his fingers digging into your soft flesh, and your hardened nipple scraps against the warmth of Dieter’s palm. It's all so right. You cum then, toes curling into the sheets, body going rigid beneath the touch of them both. Dustin doesn’t stop; he laps up your want greedily and Dieter draws up his head to watch. His eyes darken, full of desire and what you assume is a begrudging respect.

After you’ve ridden out your orgasm on Dustin, Dieter huffs out a soft laugh. “He wants to fuck you,” he tells you, thumb swiping affectionately across your cheek. Dustin, unable to let that one go, presses a kiss to your inner thigh and muffles a laugh against your skin.

“Bravo, you’re so jealous it’s making you stupid. She knows that,” he says, nuzzling his face against your inner thigh. “Of course she knows that.”

“M’not jealous,” Dieter denies evenly. When he looks down at you, brown eyes too kind, you half believe him.

You break the eye contact and smile appreciatively down at the man between your legs. A finger you’d locked in his hair now swipes across the bottom of his shiny lips. He takes it into his mouth, wetting the pad, and you say, “You aren’t a very good team. I think it’s important to be a good team.”

Dieter places a hand on your arm, more of a phantom touch than a grip, but you know it’s a stroke of possessiveness. You glance back up at him, cupping his cheek in your palm. “Dieter likes men,” you tell Dustin, not looking away from Dieter. “He’s not playing nice now and I think it’s a shame because I bet you taste just like me right now. And I know—“ your gaze drops down to Dustin, your voice velvet “—how much this dearest ex-husband of mine likes the taste of me. Have you ever kissed another man, Dustin?”

Dustin bites at your bait, smirk growing wide as his body stalking up yours. “Of course. I looked like a God in the ‘90s. Everyone wanted me and I wanted everyone,” he jokes, his warm hands flattening against your torso. His legs rest behind your thighs as he sits upwards, and you can see the tent of his erection against his sleep shorts. The black of them does little to conceal the full outline, and you thrill at the idea that he’s probably not wearing any underwear beneath the fabric.

You’re not one for getting starstruck - not anymore, anyway, a Los Angeles resident for years and the ex-wife of a star - but the fact that you used to masturbate to this man in front of you is something you still can’t shake. It occupies your mind, the way you had rewinded scenes from his raunchy, made for tv erotica over and over. Even now, many years later, you can still picture it: his younger frame pressed behind a blond woman, fucking into her in haste, his hands all over her and his thrusts rough. It was incredible to you back then, placed in some seedy location like an alley. Public and animalistic—the stuff of paperback romance novels. You remember the way he tugged her shirt upwards, how in the heat of the moment he grasped at any part of her he could get. A black bra and a long skirt, the bra pushed askew, going higher and higher with each thrust, and the skirt gripped onto, used for leverage as he pushed into her from behind. The VHS that hosted the scene had been passed from friend to friend in your college days, until someone’s VCR had eaten it. You feel a bit excited to know you’ve got the real thing right here. You think about telling him.

But it’s not about you, not now; it’s about Dieter. You widen your legs, make room for the ‘90s heart throb to slip between your body and come closer to the man you’ve dedicated your life to. In this moment you can admit as much. Dieter’s got his cock pressed against your back, and you know he would do anything - anything - for you if you’d just ask. His love burns like a million suns and you’ll be Icarus in every lifetime. You fool. Kiss another man hard and seek penance in his presence behind you.

Dieter stiffens as Dustin presses closer and closer to him. You shift to accommodate them, moving your body up, guiding Dieter along. He holds you close like a shield but doesn’t protest when Dustin’s lips press into his.

Dustin tastes of earthy vineyards and you—like sweetened strawberry wine and the familiar palette of tangy and acidic that’s blessed Dieter’s tongue many times over. That’s it, he thinks with a smile against Dustin’s generous lips. That’s how you taste. He savors it like a wine connoisseur does his wine, running it over his tongue and thinking too long about how to describe it. It is so utterly you, it makes him yearn for another life.

He plunges his tongue so deeply into Dustin’s mouth, it threatens to gag them both. But it doesn’t. They’ve both got their party tricks, after all. Dieter’s kiss grows hungry and suddenly there’s no space between any of you. You are a perfectly molded puzzle, fingers on skin, in hair, tongues swiping against lips and chests, and there are deep guttural moans exposing what the erections do well to show.

You know Dieter wants this, can feel his evident excitement press into your back. You happily welcome the warmth of Dustin’s firm body pressing impossibly close to yours. Dieter wets his bottom lip and squeezes you reassuringly, a habit from other life slipping into this new one.

You alternate kissing one another, creating a new taste on your warm, eager tongues. It is perfect. Dustin’s hands gingerly fumble over your chest, not focused or intent but curious, and Dieter’s allow it. The possessiveness has translated into something entirely more agreeable, and these men work together like lovers.

Your fingers grip at Dustin’s muscular shoulders, trail lower and lower over the slope of his chest down to the dip above his shorts. The path is slow and arduous to your lust riddled brain. He grunts against your collarbone, his hot breath fanning over you, and you go lower still, taking the shorts with you.

Dieter’s eyes trail the same place yours do, his chin tucked into your neck; you share the same view of Dustin: the red weeping head of his cock as it bops against his toned stomach, eager to be touched and licked and surrounded. Dustin sighs hotly against you as you press against him - against it - and Dieter swipes his tongue behind your ear. It is heaven, the way Dieter and Dustin feel against you, combined like this. You want them both. You need them.

You wrap your hands in Dieter’s curls, let him support your body as it rubs frantically over Dustin’s. Dieter peppers kisses alongside your neck and whispers, “God, you’re so fucking hot. God, I was so fucking lucky—“

The rest of it is lost against the shell of your earlobe. Some things - even the kindest, most genuine things - are better left unsaid.

Dustin emits soft, urgent moans as his cock catches between your bodies. The tempo of your shared thrusts grows quick, more focused, and he is close, on the very brink of letting go. You knit your brows, watch curiously and excitedly as he draws closer. You think of it: A hot spurt, just for you. Dieter holds up your sleep shirt, seeming to expect the same.

But then Dustin stops, his thick fingers rough and tight against your skin as he stills your movements. In the morning you’ll be bruised, a thought that thrills you. “Not yet,” is what he says in explanation, leaning his forehead against yours.

Dieter laughs softly, some terrible joke about bad endurance dying before it rises to be heard. He’s on his best behavior. Dustin tastes of you, of him, and you’re all naked and you’re so happy, so pliant. You lean against him like he’s someone you can lean on, and he swallows the serenity of that thought silently. Dieter is a half guilt, a perpetual bleeding heart, and you are his salvation. He knows it doesn’t work like that, can’t, but sex is not about what is real and logical. That’s why you were always so fucking good at it; it was beyond the both of you, and somehow a language you spoke best together.

He should feel worse about Dustin. Perhaps it’s because you want it so bad, or maybe it’s because he’s so horny, but the inclusion of him feels less intrusive than before. This is not your marriage bed - it’s been lost to the cruel seas of time - but it feels like a union, and Dustin plays a curious part. Not the voyeuristic onlooker, but the active participant, his glistening cock hot and heavy against your beautiful stomach. It should make Dieter sick. It did, thirty minutes ago. But now it makes him hard, wets his mouth. The bastard is good looking.

What can he say - you have always had good taste.

You turn your head and lick into Dieter’s mouth, redirecting your attention. He turns you between their bodies, pressing you into him as he kisses you feverishly. Dustin assists him, holding you against his body like Dieter had been doing before, only upwards. Dieter draws back and lifts the cotton sleep shirt over your head. He takes advantage like Dustin hadn’t been smart enough to, wetting your nipple with his warm mouth and tweaking the other between his fingers. You squirm, pressing your hot cunt against his stomach. He feels too clothed suddenly, having been denied contact because layers. You help him take off his shirt and Dustin helps you take off his pants. You waste no time wrapping your hot hand around him and tugging loosely.

His mouth finds your nipple again and you wrap your fingers into his unruly hair, jerking him off slowly as he kisses and sucks at your bare chest. He knows you’re already dripping, seen it on Dustin’s glossy lips when he got done with you, but this is his body remembering you and he can't stop. He remembers the way you got when he licked at you like you were the last scraps of his final meal on earth. How desperate and needy you became, just as desperate and needy as him. His hand travels down your stomach, straight down to your cunt, and he palms the wet heat of you into his hand. Dieter relishes the way you gasp into his mouth as the heel of his hand finds your clit, a smirk on his lips and a sentence like, “That’s it, baby,” coming out against you.

He fingers your entrance teasingly and finds you devastatingly wet. This is heaven, he thinks, the wet stickiness of you on the pad of his finger and your hot breath on his lips. You dig your nails into his shoulder, shut your eyes against the sensation of one of his fingers entering you. Dieter is ground zero. In your Garden of Eden, Dieter was there, at once Adam and the serpent. This is the apple. How delicious it is to be fucked, how perfectly human. Of course they’d turn on God for this. Cover up with leaves and be terrified of the whole earth later. Bleed and cry. Divorce. Whatever. This is worth turning back on perfection for. Poor Eve. Poor you.

You rub yourself against his hand and Dustin takes one of your breasts into his hand, watching. Dieter is so focused on the squelch of your juices and the way his finger - fingers now, two, and you stretch so perfectly for him - enters you that he doesn’t even mind. You’re no pissing contest, he sees that now—you're the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He swallows your moans and tries his best not to cum. Your grasp on his cock is so loose and it’d be so embarrassing to cum on your stomach when the tugs are nothing, and besides this is about you. So he focuses on trying not to.

“Condom,” you mutter, your lips landing on the side of Dieter’s mouth. Dieter nods his head but doesn’t pull back from you. He watches, enchanted, as your hips move against his hand. He can feel your orgasm build in the way you clench around his fingers, the penultimate pressure too much to bear. When you come, its with a shudder, your body tight and rigid above his as you ride it out. Dieter is so high and so in love with you, and he’s so sick about it that all he can do is laugh earnestly, even though what he wants is to ask you to marry him again.

Dustin is touching you all over with his hands, palming your perfect breasts, and you’re arching farther and farther back. Dieter can hardly bear the sight—not because of the jealousy—but because he’s deathly afraid this is it for him. You’re the best thing he’s ever had, and he knows he can’t think that way. You had a good run—you’re great friends now—but God, you married him in Vegas and you used to sketch his nose with careful affection onto canvases you kept for yourself. Who’s gonna sit in your studio now? Who’s gonna take up space in your heart, make you smile over the canvas as you work? He would weep if you didn’t look so pretty and sated, leaning into Dustin the way you are.

He kisses you hard on the mouth just to get rid of the thoughts, and then he kisses Dustin too, grabbing roughly at the back of his hair the way he hasn’t ever with you. It’s not kind, but Dustin doesn’t seem to mind; he moans gruffly, absorbing nothing but the desire behind it.

Your hands explore Dieter’s exposed skin as they kiss, warm and gentle, unconsciously fingering the scar he got as a child. You know the map of this body. When his hard cock bops against his stomach you take it in your hand again. Before he has time to think, you put him in your mouth.

“Fuck,” he mumbles against Dustin’s lips. They stop kissing, looking between them at the sight of you. Dustin is so considerate, so much better than Dieter has ever been. He moves aside your hair, kisses against the curve of your spine. All Dieter can do is think about not cumming. He feels bad about this, wishes he could gather enough strength to think about your hair and things like that. But your mouth is warm and you take him in with expertise, bobbing in a rhythm he wouldn't dare break. Up, down, the tip of your tongue running alongside a vein, back up again. He’ll cum like this. You look up at him through your eyelashes and he touches the top of your head with unspeakable tenderness. Cum, you beckon, but he won’t. Can’t.

Where is that goddamn condom? How can he make this last forever?

He pulls back from your lips smiling an apologetic grin when you at him, surprised. You seem to understand, a devilish little smirk playing across your glossy lips. He wants to kiss you, but even that feels dangerous right now. He thumbs your lips instead.

“Condoms,” he tells you softly. You nod your head.

“In my bag.” You point over to the corner of the room. Dieter pads off to get them.

Dustin’s hands sneak between your thighs and you sigh when he finds your entrance, the tip of a finger rubbing the spot Dieter abandoned. You’re so wet and you want it so badly. He presses his lips against your shoulder and you feel the heat of his breath against your goose pimpled flesh. As you loll your head against him, he slides a finger in. You scratch the back of his head and nod frantically.

“You’re so tight.” He nips your skin and then licks at you with a desperation you’ve only experienced in Dieter. You like being wanted this badly. You lift your hips and ride his finger, squeezing around him. So tight, right. He laughs and you feel that too. “You like being talked dirty to, don’t you? You’re being so good, riding my finger like this. I can’t wait to fuck you. To feel you around my cock like this. And I bet he’s thinking that too.”

You both look over to Dieter as he unwraps a found foil and takes out the condom. You sigh; Dustin’s thumb finds your swollen clit. “We’ve got to make him cum in you, but I don’t think you’ll find that hard. He wants you so bad. Look—“ You feel Dustin’s grin already across your back. “He’s so fucking hard for you. Just as hard as me.”

Dieter strokes himself through the protective sleeve as he watches the two of you. You feel the familiar sensation of heat spreading low in your belly. When Dustin dares to enter another finger into you, you gasp, feeling full and stretched and yet not full enough. He spreads his fingers inside you, preparing you. You tug at his hair and make eye contact with Dieter.

He smiles lopsidedly, suddenly boyish and more handsome than he’s ever been. You think he looks happy for you—so pleased that you’re pleased, with a glint in his eye. Maybe it’s the drugs. You don’t know. Maybe he is happy that you’re happy. He was always better at saying he loved you than he was at showing it, but you suspect that this is his showing you. Love. Maybe it spills over in divorce, just another cruel thing you’ve got to cope with.

When Dieter comes back, he presses a condom into Dustin’s thigh. You are at the edge of another orgasm, everything perfectly in place — the sensation of Dustin’s thumb, the way his breath hits your skin, the idea that Dieter is watching you—but he denies you it, interrupting. You go to protest, whine, but he doesn’t give you a chance.

Dustin’s fingers are still in you, on you, when Dieter leans down and presses his tongue flat against your clit, greedy with lust. He licks at you around Dustin’s fingers and it feels like too much. They seem to make an agreement, working you at the same time. You cum quickly and this one seems to go on for eternity. You squeeze Dieter’s shoulder. The other condom package falls loosely onto the bed as Dustin uses his hand to keep you steady, your knees weak from the pleasure.

You tug at Dieter’s hair to make him stop. Dustin seems to know instinctively, leaving you feeling empty when he takes his fingers away. His slick covered fingers rest on your hips as you tell them both, breathlessly, “I can’t do another one. It’s too much.”

Dieter shakes his head in protest but Dustin takes the information in stride. He’s too good at this, moves through the motions with ease, improvising quickly. He extends his slicked fingers to Dieter. Dieter, who has been so focused on you, looks at them quizzically, unsure of what they mean. Then he seems to get it, hard features smoothing out in realization.

He looks at Dustin, and it’s not like with you. He's focused, not icy or angry but so intent. It’s not a loveless gaze, per se, but it is devoid of love; filled not with something warm but something hot.

Dustin’s cock presses into the small of your back. As Dieter’s mouth wraps around his fingers, you feel a warm bead of pre-cum drip onto your skin. You bite at your lip. You’ve never seen Dieter with men before, and this new side of him excites you—like unlocking a new door in a house you’ve had for ages. He puts on a show for you, bobbing like you did on him. Dustin’s fingers seem to be an extension of yourself. You shudder as Dieter tongues along them, and Dustin rubs himself helplessly against your backside.

“I want to see what you’re like with men,” you say to Dieter, your voice barely a whisper. But Dieter hears you and his eyebrows perk in interest. This is a long unanswered question to something you’ve never been brave enough to ask. You’ve always known that he’s been interested in men — that he’s had sex with them — but you’ve never really questioned outright about what it was like. It felt equal parts too personal and hurtful; you didn’t want to know what it was like with other people before you. But everything seems different tonight. You want to know badly, like he’s got secrets that could be your salvation hidden in him.

You slip from between them, lying against the pillows. Before filling the space, Dieter looks over at you. His brown eyes implore you for a sign and you nod your head.

He’d asked you earlier, when Dustin asked about rules, if you’d be alright with them touching each other, maybe even entering one another. You hadn’t expected it to get to that, so it had been easy to say you didn’t mind. In fact, you had figured Dieter only said it as a means to scare you away from the idea. And now that the notion is not only on the horizon, but a reality, it comes just as easy to say yes—maybe even more so.

He stalls, hesitating, so you nod again, laughing. He smiles. Your ex-husband is a startlingly beautiful man like this, looking so openly vulnerable. He’s physically and emotionally naked and you’ve waited decades for it.

Dieter and Dustin kiss each other like men do, aggressive and dominating, neither willing to lose the good fight just yet. You feel your interest piqued, watching the way their fingers touch each other. How they tug and grip, search for purchase all over. Dieter is much rougher with Dustin than he’s ever chanced to be with you, with bruising kisses and bruising touches. When he grabs the man’s cock, it is with an ugly dedication, fast dry and quick tugs. Dustin hisses the first time but doesn’t protest. In fact, he thrusts his hips unashamedly into Dieter’s closed fist, licking into his mouth with a degree of delight. They tug at the back of each other’s heads of hair and eventually Dieter gives way, falling back to allow Dustin to mount him.

Dustin searches for the condom on the bed, his chest rising and falling heavily in an attempt to grasp at long denied air. You watch through heavy lids as he slides the latex onto himself. He’s circumcised, pink and swollen at the tip. Drips of pre-cum have made him all glossy and you bite your lip watching him struggle to line himself up. When he gets the latex down to his base, he smiles a satisfied smirk. He doesn’t look at you. If he notices you staring, he doesn’t mind at all. This is his favorite play, and he’s an actor after all.

Dieter’s knees knock apart to accommodate his frame—a body you’ve begun to notice with quiet admiration in your desire. He’s broad, much broader than he’d been in his youth, and he’s got muscle all over now, whereas before he’d been lean and lanky. He’s hard and tight and as he begins to rub himself against Dieter, you’re taken with the way his skin stretches over the plains of his back, his arms, his stomach. Dustin is in impeccable shape, perhaps one of the only men who can claim he’s doing better now than he was in his youth. Gone is the boyishness, replaced with a heady, sure masculinity.

Dieter seems to relinquish his fight happily now, soft growls emitting from his lips. Dustin presses down into him, and while most of what they’re doing is obscured by Dieter’s legs, you can imagine it well enough: the steady, erratic thrusts of Dustin’s cock rubbing against Dieter’s. There’s a sheen of sweat on them both and Dustin buries his head in Dieter’s neck. He licks at the places you had once, and it is nothing but erotic little huffs from them both.

“You’re…” Dustin begins, but falters off. He lifts himself up, repositions, bracketing Dieter’s head between his strong arms. Dieter’s eyes are pressed closed, his dark features etched with pleasure. All they do for a while is rub against each other. You feel like an intruder, like something stopping them from getting where they need to be. Maybe you are.

You dare to speak: “Aren’t you going to touch each other?”

Dieter looks startled. He’s red in the cheeks, the exertion of their movements and the heat of his desire making him flush. He taps Dustin on the arm, making the steady roll of his hips slow until suddenly it’s nothing. It’s all quiet for the first time in minutes.

They both look at you with intent eyes. But Dieter is the first to take charge. “You should fuck her,” he tells Dustin. Dieter looks at you, questioning.

“But—“ you protest. Dieter shakes his head.

“It’s okay,” he says. “Later.”

Dustin has no qualms about the interchanging of you and Dieter. You notice that he's notably gentler with you than he was with him, though. He crawls to you, kisses you chastely—as if testing the waters. There’s nothing necessarily erratic or rough about what he does to you. He looks between your spread legs and fingers at your entrance once more, circling the area teasingly. You groan in anticipation and his head falls to your chest. He takes a taut nipple into his mouth as he plunges his fingers inside of you, pushing them against your front wall. As you sigh heavily, he moves his wet mouth to the other nipple.

You turn your head, catch Dieter’s fixed gaze. He reaches out his hand and you lace your fingers together. He’s touching himself through his condom, stroking softly. You want to devour him.

Dustin takes his fingers from you, and you look back at him. Before you can plead for more he says, “I’m gonna enter you now.” You nod, wordless.

He gathers the slick from his fingers and coats his latex covered cock with it. As you squeeze Dieter’s hand, Dustin lines himself to your entrance. His kiss is soft, barely a kiss at all, and he enters you, inch by careful inch. He feels so overwhelmingly right, snug, puncturing something decidedly primal inside of you when he bottoms out.

“Oh, fuck,” you groan hotly against his shoulder. He manages a small laugh, running his lips against your cheek. “Go hard,” you ask. He hasn’t moved yet, stays still inside of you. You think of the way he was with Dieter.

“I don’t know if I can. I think I’ll…” He swallows. “I know I’ll cum.”

“Please,” you beg. You dig crescent shaped nail marks into ass and he smiles teasingly, running his warm tongue against your sensitive skin. He presses so intimately into you, your nipples scrap against his chest. It feels so good. Everything does.

“He said no,” he answers, looking up to meet your eyes.

“He’ll give me anything I want,” you say. Dieter’s fingers leave yours then, and you look over. You think you’ve made him mad but he’s only repositioning himself, coming closer to your bodies. He doesn’t say anything.

Some things are so true they don’t need to be confirmed. They just are. The sky is blue and people die, and Dieter is a man who will give you everything because he was once a man who gave you nothing.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Dustin mumbles, finally drawing back. You nod your head, encouraging, but he doesn’t go harder. He moves in the same way he did before, experimental and slow. When you look at him, imploring silently, he shakes his head. “But a rule is a rule, baby. ‘Sides, I think he’s making me get you ready. Your husband is a bit of a pervert. He’s touching himself, watching me stretch you open with my cock.” Dustin presses his lips into yours. Against you, he mumbles, “Did ya know he likes to watch? Bet he likes to hear too. You—“ Dustin pushes back into you, stopping himself, and the squelch of your juices adds to the effect. He smirks. “—You’ll get fucked. Just not by me. Not yet. Maybe I’ll fuck him while he fucks you. Maybe we’ll do it..” he grunts, bottoming out again, “We’ll do you together. You’re tight as hell, but I know we can get you wide. Couldn’t we?”

You feel Dieter’s fingers but can’t move your eyes away from Dustin’s. They’re greener like this, up close. Dieter trails a line over your body, and then up to Dustin’s, with a lone finger. Dustin turns to look at him and he smiles, nodding. They seem to work without words.

Dustin reaches down to grip the condom as he pulls out of you. You look over at Dieter, half angry and half amused that he could interrupt. You realize what they’re doing almost immediately. Dieter holds open your legs by pressing his palm against one of your knees, and Dustin shuffles, moving back to let Dieter take his place.

His cock probes against your entrance and he smiles down at you like a fool. “Hey,” he tells you evenly, half sober. You ache for him. You clench around nothing as he licks into your mouth.

“Hey,” you respond, overcome. Your fingers wrap around his arms and you notice that he’s got more muscle than before too.

“You want to be fucked?” Although he attempts to make this a question, it is more of a statement. You nod along anyway. He kisses you hard, rough like with Dustin, and he nearly enters you as he rubs himself greedily against your naked warmth, wetting himself with your slick.

“Yes. Hard, like you do with him,” you tell him. He smiles against your lips. You take his cock in your hand, so much more sure with him than anyone, and he slides into you. It feels like homecoming, wet and warm and familiar, your fingers digging into his skin and the smell of sex in the air. He does what you ask, his thrusts sharp, his hips snapping against your hips.

“Dieter,” you pant out, nodding your head. He kisses the side of your mouth sloppily and you smile the best you can. Where Dustin felt right, Dieter feels perfect. You feel like you touch the hem of eternity as he plunges into you with the intensity you requested, uninhibited and giving in the roughness.

He repositions you both in one expert movement, moving to his knees, pushing your hips farther up. This makes you let out a startled gasp; he hits you far deeper like this, his thumbs digging into the flesh on your hips with bruising intensity. You can’t kiss from this position, but it doesn’t matter. He fucks you. Really fucks you.

You see Dustin in the hazy peripheral. Lolling your head to the side, you focus on him. He stands at the side of the bed, smiles at you when you catch his eyes. With his cock standing out in front of him like that, he looks a bit unserious. If you weren’t so full of Dieter, perhaps you’d be amused by this. He doesn’t even touch himself. This makes you frown.

“D—Dieter,” you stammer out.

“Huh?” he grunts.

“Dustin.”

“Mm, what—what about him?”

“Let him fuck me too. Please.”

Dieter shakes his head. “No, you’re mine right now. You’re—“ he snaps into you roughly, the bed creaking. “I’ll suck him off. Or maybe—“ Dieter grunts again, “Maybe he’ll be smart and he’ll get behind me. And maybe he’ll—“ his head drops to your neck, and your head the next part through mumbles. “Maybe he’ll rub against me like he was doing before. But it doesn’t matter right now. Just think about you. It’s all for you.”

You close your eyes, nodding. That sounds fine. Great. Dieter’s finger gazes at your clit and you nod, your hand reaching out to hold his wrist. You always liked to feel the way his forearm moved as he did this to you.

“Cum for me and I’ll cum for you,” he says, and you feel it begin, the stirrings of another orgasm. You think of him, of the way he punctures his thrusts with grunts, how good he feels inside of you, bottoming out like this with measured fury. You like how rough he’s being, like never before. You like this side of Dieter. You like that there is more of Dieter to know.

When you cum, you call out his name. He swallows it, pressing his lips to yours. “Fuck, you’re such a good girl for me. You’ve always been.” He fucks faster into you, his own release on the horizon. You squeeze around him once, twice, and that’s it; he’s filling the condom up and he’s gasping earnestly, amazed and so goddamn in love. He kisses you on the mouth and it’s so genuine. You kiss him back, smiling like a newlywed.

“Dustin,” you say against Dieter’s lips, after a moment. Your chests are both heaving and you're drenched in a thin layer of sweat. He presses his forehead against yours and you smile. “Let me take care of him,” you tell him.

Dieter rolls off of you, collapsing into bed with a soft groan and saying nothing. You take a moment to recuperate, breathing in and out, letting the bliss of this moment wash over you.

“Come here,” you say to Dustin, patting the open space of the bed beside you. He listens, the bed dipping beneath his weight. It takes a lot of effort on your part, but you rise to your knees. You guide him onto his back and he helps you straddle him. For a moment, you just sit there on top of him, looking at him.

“I used to masturbate to you,” you finally admit. This makes him grin. Beneath your cunt, his erection jumps a little.

“Thanks,” he says. His hand palms one of your breasts again. “You don’t have to do anything to me. I can finish myself off if you want.”

You shake your head, grinning. “Didn’t you hear me? I used to masturbate to you. This is a dream.”

Another hand comes up to cup your other breasts. “Are you sure you don't feel too sore? He fucked you pretty good.” You begin to glide your cunt alongside his prominent erection. He sucks in a swallow breath. “Guess that’s a no.”

“That’s a no,” you confirm.

“Just let her fuck you,” Dieter tells him quietly. You smile over at him but he doesn’t see it; he’s too busy watching the way you move your hips over Dustin. Even with a flaccid penis and in a state of post-coital peace, you manage to get to him.

You ride Dustin quickly, grabbing onto his strong shoulders as he tongues your alongside chest, finding your nipples. He groans, the sensation vibrating throughout your body as you follow the motion his hands set for you. A fast up and down, your back arching, taking him in completely and then pushing back so far he nearly falls out.

Admittedly he does most of the work, your legs wobbly and your body tired. But it feels good. God, does it feel good. You like this, being with two men back to back, each of them taking turns. Dustin generously tries to get you to cum again, his fingers sliding between your bodies, but you stop him.

“It’s too much. Just this,” you tell him. You grind down on him to make him feel better about it, and he hums sympathetically around a mouthful of your breast.

You ride him less enthusiastically the closer he gets, both of you too tired and worn. He stops aiding you so much, kissing anywhere he can access: your jaw, your neck, the side of your mouth. He lets your body fall forward into his. It’s a sort of lazy fucking that you do, meeting halfway to create the sharp thrusts that push him closer to climax.

“Cum in me,” you tell him, voice silky against his ear. He knows how tired you are, feels it too. He gathers up the last of both of your strengths, rutting up into you with intent. As he cums, you ride him, curious, taking all he can give. Dieter is too sensitive, can’t stand to move when he cums, but Dustin nods, moaning against you. When it’s over, you collapse into him, hugging his sweaty body. He laughs against your warm skin.

“Thank you,” he tells you softly, so only you can hear. You nod. You lie on him like that for a moment, listening to the beat of his heart. Dieter watches you, his expression unreadable. But he doesn’t look faraway.

You reach out to him with your fingers and he smiles, coming to.

Dustin helps you off of him and you fall between them, sated and spent. He slides off his condom and reaches across your body. “You want me to take yours?” he asks Dieter. Dieter, no longer feeling jealous but merely tired, nods. He hands the man his condom and Dustin pads off to the bathroom. Dieter and you watch this, amused.

“I kinda understand what you see in him now,” he confesses, smiling. He interlocks your fingers and you let him.

“Thank you,” you say, ignoring his comment. You look over at him.

He nods, sincere. “Of course. I assume I did it right?”

“You did it right.”

“And you don’t regret it?”

You shake your head. “I don’t seem to regret you. Even though sometimes it’d be better if I did.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I love you.”

You kiss him chastely, even though you know you shouldn’t. “I know,” you tell him softly. “I love you too.”

“Like a friend?”

“No.”

“Like a husband?” he asks, testing the waters. You laugh. Dustin comes back from the bathroom.

“No. Something more than all of that.”

“I can handle that.”

You nod your head. “Me too,” you tell him.

The bed dips from the weight of Dustin once more, and you roll over to your side, cuddling into him. He passes a warm rag to Dieter and he accepts it, cleaning himself. He goes to hand it to you, but you shake your head.

“I’ll take a shower in a little. When I can walk.”

This earns a laugh from them both. Dustin reaches an arm around you, drawing you closer to his body. Dieter, surprisingly, doesn’t mind this; he curls up behind you, too, wrapping an arm around your waist. You’re all so close, and it’s nice. He thinks maybe they might be something to this sharing after all.

“I liked that,” you say to no one in particular.

Dustin hums, fingering trailing over your arm. “Enough to do it again?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I think the opportunity for this kind of thing only happens once in a lifetime, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know about that. This is Hollywood, and they love sequels,” Dieter adds, smiling.

“Yeah,” Dustin nods, “That’s true.”

You close your eyes, smiling faintly. “A sequel, then, maybe,” you say tiredly.

In the morning, you do not regret any of it.

—-

A YEAR LATER.

SUBJECT: THREE’S COMPANY, BUT ONLY SOMETIMES from: dustin.mulray@gmail.com

I was at an art show the other day and I saw a painting with your name on it. The guy in it looked a little familiar (they told me it was an old painting, from nearly a decade ago, before you were both famous. Cute). I bought it, of course. Not that I’m in the habit of buying paintings from people I’ve slept with, but it was for charity and it looked good and I’ve got a new apartment that I’ve got to fill, so I thought why not? It cost a lot (good for you!) and because of that they let me wrangle an email address from them to tell you what a brilliant job you did. You did great. Very Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton of you. Anyway, to the point: You weren’t at the premiere of the documentary with Dieter last month. He told me that it's because you don’t like that scene, and I don’t blame you. Neither do I. But I was wondering how you feel about commissioned paintings? And do you think that Dieter would like to come with you to deliver it if your opinion is positive? (He told me I had to ask you that myself, so I think he’d be happy to accompany you if the canvas is too big to carry by yourself). P.S. I’m asking you for sex–a sequel, as it were–but I really would like a painting, too. I’ll spend a lot (not for the sex, but the art. I guess for the sex too, if you’re into that). Love, D. Mulray.

—-

SUBJECT: HOPEFULLY NOT ROSEMARY’S BABY SITUATION to: david.bravo@gmail.com, dustin.mulray@gmail.com

Sometimes I commission art work for people I like and sometimes I make an exception for those I don’t if they pay enough. I’m sure you fall somewhere in those categories, Dustin. But I must warn you: I won’t do dick drawings. I might do a vagina one if the inspiration strikes. I must admit I’ve never had a man ask me for sex over email. Kind of thrilling, like a retro sext but without any of the sexy parts. I’ve attached Dieter to this email for obvious transparency reasons. He says he’d gladly help me carry your canvas (figuratively and literally). P.S. It will cost you. For tax purposes, I hope you’ll let ‘it’ be the art.

—

from: david.bravo@gmail.com to: you, dustin.mulray@gmail.com

Who said divorce couldn’t be sexy?

[yourlocaleftelinghoe]

SOOOOO- I decided to humanize the 5 realms (or "Rijken" in dutch) of the Efteling. These are areas in the park where some attractions are placed. They're basically that typical friend group in cartoons or 90s shows.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

Fantasierijk: the leader

Every friend group needs a great leader, am i right? Well, say no more!

Fantasierijk, or in english, Fantasy Realm, is the leader of the Realm Friend Group. She is the purple area on the Efteling park map. She takes her job as Efteling's assistent VERY seriously. Fantasierijk would often boss the other Realms around to make the park look as perfect as possible, even though she is sometimes lazy herself.

Despite all of this, she IS in fact, a strict leader like figure, but she means well. Fantasierijk is pansexual.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

Marerijk: the grump

Marerijk, or in english "Lore Realm", is the green area on the Efteling park map. He is the only male friend in the Realm Friend Group. Marerijk takes the appearance of a well kept, goodlooking DILF elf. But don't let that fool you, because Marerijk is a massive grump with often a short fuse and can lash out to others, especially Fantasierijk who comes up with her bossy attitude.

Another fact about Marerijk is that hes a great fighter. He's bisexual.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

Ruigrijk: the lady knight

Ruigrijk, or in english, "Rough Realm", is the strongest of the bunch. She is the red colored area on the Efteling park map. This so-called "dumb blonde" by her past bullies, is now the bravest, strongest and greatest of them all now. Born as a total tomboy and daddy's girl, she always wanted to be like her father, who was a great knight at the time. When her father suddenly dissapeared one faithful day, teenage Ruigrijk promised him and herself that she would be just like him and take over his job as the most greatest and strongest knight ever.

It was not easy for young teenage Ruigrijk to be that great just like her father. She needed to survive knight school with her bullies. After many school years, she finally managed the sword hands and graduated. The scar on her eye? She got that from her bully's sword in a duel back in school. Ruigrijk is Omnisexual but has a preference for men.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

Anderrijk: the sassy aunt

Anderrijk or in english, "Other Realm", is the second oldest of the group. She is the blue area on the Efteling park map. Anderrijk is the so-called sassy aunt figure of the bunch. She is a great backup amongst the others ans is actually quite powerful.

Anderrijk is sassy, protective if needed. She also has that typical motherly figure to everyone and will tell off Fantasierijk if shes too bossy again. This mostly will lead fights between the 2, to the point if they fly fists to each other, Marerijk and Ruigrijk have to separate them from each other quickly if the fight is going waaay out of hand. Anderrijk is a lesbian and is currently dating no one.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

Reizenrijk: the tomboy

Reizenrijk, in english "Travel Realm", is the yellow area on the Efteling park map. She is, you guessed it, the tomboy of the group. Reizenrijk is the youngest of the 5 and idolizes Ruigrijk pretty much everyday. Shes also the best mechanic Efteling ever wished for. Reizenrijk also made her own plane and helicopter, as seen in the image.

Reizenrijk always admired mechanics for fixing things and inventors for their "cool" inventions, so she became both. She also admires Ruigrijk for her bravery and strength. Ruigrijk is Reizenrijk's mentor, training the young tomboy to be as strong as her. Reizenrijk is heterosexual ally aromantic and is dating no one.

[rippleclan]

RippleClan: Moon 14

Halibutpaw, Graypaw, and Shadowpaw are apprentices! Halibutpaw learns under Parsley, Graypaw is a caretaker under Carnationspeckle, and Shadowpaw is called to be a codekeeper with Rustshade’s help.

[Image ID: Halibutpaw, Graypaw, and Shadowpaw sit in a line. Under Halibutpaw, it says LEVEL UP! HALIBUTKIT -> HALIBUTPAW. Under Graypaw, it says LEVEL UP! GRAYKIT -> GRAYPAW. Under Shadowpaw, it says LEVEL UP! SHADOWKIT -> SHADOWPAW.]

(Halibutpaw: 6, male, warrior apprentice, impulsive, quick witted, lover of stories)

(Graypaw: 6, female, caretaker apprentice, bullying, careful listener)

(Shadowpaw: 6, male, codekeeper apprentice, troublesome, confident with words)

Graypaw pranks Rustshade with Shadowpaw’s help.

[Image ID: Graypaw and Shadowpaw run from Rustshade. Graypaw says “You’ll never take us alive!” Shadowpaw says “Sorry Rustshade, she made me!” Rustshade says “Get back here!”]

---

“What were you doing out alone like this to begin with?” Rustshade groaned as he raced behind Shadowpaw. 

“Just hurry!” Shadowpaw yowled. “She needs help!” Late summer warmth coated Rustshade’s pelt as he hurried over the stones and roots of RippleClan’s forest. Shadowpaw had only been an apprentice for a quarter moon, but he had a handle on the territory already. He scurried between the trees like he had wandered the land as long as Rustshade had. Shadowpaw’s dark gray fur blended with the stones scattered about.

“You’re going to kill me and your mother at this rate,” Rustshade grumbled. He rubbed his paws raw as he launched off rocks and matched Shadowpaw’s frantic pace.

Eventually, the gray apprentice screeched to a stop under the cover of a huge sugar maple. Thick green leaves sheltered the two codekeepers from sunhigh and dappled their pelts. Rustshade’s gaze dotted around the trees. His nose twitched and searched for the scent of blood or fear, but he smelled nothing.

“Shadowpaw, are you sure this is where you left her?” Rustshade said, intense eyes locking onto Shadowpaw’s. 

“I’m sure,” Shadowpaw said. There was a lightness to his voice that made Rustshade pause. Shadowpaw’s eyes flicked into the branches of the maple. Something skittered over Rustshade.

The ginger codekeeper looked up just in time to see Graypaw flying from the tree, a bloodthirsty yowl splitting the air, her paws stretched out toward Rustshade. He didn’t have time to react. Graypaw landed on top of him, shoving him into the dirt. She bounded off before Rustshade could kick her.

“You’ll never take us alive!” Graypaw cheered. She playfully shoved Shadowpaw and took off into the depths of the trees.

“Sorry, Rustshade!” Shadowpaw laughed, scurrying after his sister. “She made me!” Their dark fur blended with the shade of the trees.

“Get back here!” Rustshade snapped as he hurried to his paws. She shook the dirt off him and followed the trail of the troublesome apprentices.

(Rustshade: 58, male, codekeeper, sneaky, learner of lore)

(Shadowpaw: 6, male, codekeeper apprentice, adventurous, confident with words)

(Graypaw: 6, female, caretaker apprentice, bloodthirsty, careful listener)

Downstar’s patrol comes across a kittypet interested in Clan life.

[Image ID: Weedfoot, Oilstripe, and Downstar stand on the left beside each of their apprentices. A pale ginger and white tom with a dark blue ribbon is in the upper right corner, saying “Excuse me!” Underneath him, it says NEW PLAYER: JAMES, 90 MOONS, MALE, CHARISMATIC, DEN BUILDER, FORMIDABLE FIGHTER.]

---

Weedfoot prided herself on her social nature. She considered herself a happy, chatty molly, one who befriended others easily and eased the tensions with others. Sometimes she wondered if she was a mediator reincarnated; after all, she had befriended most of the other deputies (not Eelgrowl, though. Never Eelgrowl). She was beloved by her apprentices, both old and new, and all in all, her Clanmates liked her!

So why could she not ease the tension between Downstar and Oilstripe?

Oilstripe, to her credit, seemed unaware of Downstar’s aloof behavior towards her and continued on the border patrol with Burdockpaw like nothing was wrong. Downstar stayed well ahead of Oilstripe with Clampaw at her side. Weedfoot and Locustpaw took to the back of the group, noses alert and primed for unfamiliar scents.

“I bet I could make Downstar laugh,” Locustpaw whispered, their short neck craning up to Weedfoot’s level.

“Not right now, Locustpaw,” Weedfoot muttered as Downstar stopped. “We’re at the border.” 

AshClan scent was thick on the other side of the border that night. Weedfoot could hardly smell her own Clan through the mess. That was what it was to her now; a mess. The churning scent of a Clan who slaughtered her friends and left her wounds to fester. A Clan who let Paleshade die.

“Burdockpaw, come with us,” Downstar ordered. “We’re going to mark this stretch of the border. Weedfoot, take Locustpaw and Oilstripe along the other half. We’ll meet back here when we’re finished.” Burdockpaw trotted away from his mentor and slipped between Downstar and Clampaw. 

“Let’s get this done fast, and we can be back in our nests soon,” Weedfoot sighed, glancing at the starry sky above. She led her group along the border and refreshed RippleClan’s scent.

The trees were thick in this part of the territory, marked by AshClan caretakers as they harvested wood for their artisans. Weedfoot remembered strolling through the area as an apprentice, learning how AshClan learned to wield their excess of trees to their advantage. She’d much prefer to remember her various visits to the border with Oilstripe, wondering if they would see the Giant Frog of RippleClan once more, throwing clever insults at nearby AshClan cats.

“Weedfoot,” Locustpaw said, snapping Weedfoot out of her strange nostalgia. They had just finished marking part of the border and now glanced between Weedfoot and Oilstripe. “Weedfoot, she’s staring at nothing again.” Weedfoot looked over her shoulder. Oilstripe focused on a random spot beside Weedfoot, just over the border. She would have seemed attentive if she had been looking at anyone, but instead she looked like she needed a chat with Fennelspot.

“Are you alright, Oilstripe?” Weedfoot asked. Her paw touched Oilstripe’s shoulder. Oilstripe turned to her former mentor, but kept glancing at the empty space.

“I was just thinking,” Oilstripe muttered, tail twirling, “do you have any fun stories from this area? Something to teach Locustpaw maybe?” Weedfoot thought for a moment. In the past, the border had been a fairly mundane stretch of AshClan territory. There wasn’t much she could think of happening here, outside of her meeting with the Giant Frog, but she had told Locustpaw that story already. Suddenly, a gentle memory slipped to the surface and Weedfoot’s heart softened.

“Further into AshClan,” Weedfoot explained, pointing her tail through the dark, “there was this flat stone. We all loved to sunbathe on it in the summer. We’d spend our sunhighs sleeping there, away from the chatter in camp. Paleshade and I visited that spot a lot. Sometimes with friends, sometimes alone.” Weedfoot’s chest grew warm and she couldn’t help but purr. “That was where I proposed to her.”

“Wait, Paleshade was your mate?” Locustpaw gasped. “I thought she was your sister!”

“StarClan, no,” Weedfoot laughed. “Didn’t your father tell you this? Paleshade and I were quite the duo. We had a lot of ideas. We drove our mentors to the edge of sanity!” She shook her head with a soft laugh. “Paleshade and Weedfoot. They always said our names together.” Weedfoot stared into AshClan and mumbled, “I wonder if she would be proud of me.”

“She is,” Oilstripe stammered. “I mean, I think she would be. I think Paleshade would be really, really happy for you.”

“Oh, thank you, Oilstripe,” Weedfoot purred. She bumped heads with Oilstripe and let the warmth in her chest sink through her and into her former apprentice. “You can say the nicest things.”

“When you don’t put your tail in your mouth,” Locustpaw said softly.

“No chirpin’ Oilstripe,” Weedfoot chastised Locustpaw, gently flicking them with her tail. “Come along, then. We’ve marked enough of the border. Let’s meet Downstar.” Weedfoot and Oilstripe walked beside one another back to the meeting spot. Downstar, Burdockpaw, and Clampaw beat them there, chatting with one another until they spotted the rest of the patrol arriving.

“Good,” Downstar yawned. “Let’s go home.”

“Excuse me!” someone yowled. A bulky figure flew out of the bushes on the other side of the border. It was a pale ginger tom with leaves sticking out of his long, fluffy fur. A dark blue ribbon clung to his neck, ending in a pretty bow. His white underside was stained with mud. He flew over the border and trampled over Locustpaw. Locustpaw kicked him off. The kittypet tumbled over himself and landed at Weedfoot’s paws.

“Who are you?” she snapped as Burdockpaw and Locustpaw hissed.

“I’m very sorry,” the kittypet groaned, hurrying to his feet, “but I believe your neighbors are trying to kill me.”

“There he is!” A thin gray tom scurried out of the shadows with three AshClan cats at his side. Weedfoot’s fur bristled and her claws slipped out of her paws.

“Eelgrowl,” she hissed as Eelgrowl stopped his patrol a tail-length from the border.

“Weedfoot,” Eelgrowl huffed, cold brown eyes clawing into Weedfoot. “You have something of ours.”

“What’s going on?” Downstar asked as the kittypet’s raised fur made him grow to twice the size.

“We caught this kittypet hunting on our territory,” Eelgrowl explained. “He took prey from our kit’s mouths.”

“In my defense,” the kittypet growled, “I had no reason to believe I couldn’t catch mice on your land.”

“He didn’t even eat it!” the brown cat behind Eelgrowl, a warrior named Barkfur, hissed. “He played with it like a moss-ball!”

“We can’t let a kittypet who so willfully wastes prey leave unpunished,” Eelgrowl said. He took a bold step forward, his paw dancing on the edge of RippleClan territory. 

“He’s on RippleClan territory now,” Downstar huffed, standing between Eelgrowl and the kittypet. “We will handle him.” Downstar stared down Eelgrowl. Part of Weedfoot wanted Eelgrowl to try something so she could beat his face into the rocks. He had it coming, after all.

“You know what?” Eelgrowl snapped. “Fine. Keep him. Save us the hassle.” He stepped away from the border. “If we see you on AshClan’s land again, kittypet, I’ll have our artisans turn you into a rug.” Eelgrowl flicked his long, thin tail back. His patrol stalked away, eyeing the kittypet until they slipped from view. The kittypet sighed and smoothed his pelt.

“You don’t really do that, do you?” he gulped, glancing at Downstar.

“They’re bluffing,” Clampaw assured him.

“Who are you, then?” Downstar asked.

“My name is James,” the kittypet said, preening under the attention. “I come from the north. My humans had plans to move south, but I didn’t want to follow them. I’ve heard my fair share of rumors about Clan life, and thought I would join one instead. Clearly I will not be joining AshClan’s ranks.” He sneered across the border.

“You’re lucky you found us!” Burdockpaw declared. “We’re RippleClan. We’re all about welcoming kittypets and such!”

“Where was this enthusiasm when we met Apple Cider?” Oilstripe scoffed, whiskers twitching.

“Oh yes, I met her on my way here,” James chirped. “Friendly cat.”

“There’s a lot of work to do in a Clan,” Downstar said. “It can be rewarding, but you would need to respect our laws. We kill prey to eat it, not to play with it. We cannot afford to disrespect those lives in such a way.”

“What do you play with, then?” James asked, cocking his head.

“Something other than prey,” Weedfoot chuckled, shaking her head.

“We’ll escort you back to our camp if you’d like,” Downstar explained, nodding toward the unseen coast. “You can decide if Clan life is really suited for you or not.”

“Very well then,” James said, bowing to Downstar. “Lead on, dear lady. I look forward to seeing how many of the rumors about your Clans are true.” Downstar purred a bit at the title, then flicked her tail and led the patrol away from the border. Burdockpaw and Locustpaw walked on either side of James, each eyeing the newcomer for trouble. Weedfoot and Oilstripe wandered behind them. 

“For the first time in moons,” Weedfoot muttered to Oilstripe, “AshClan actually gave us something.” Oilstripe laughed and playfully bumped against Weedfoot.

(Weedfoot: 63, female, deputy, charismatic, very clever, formidable fighter)

(Downstar: 73, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Locustpaw: 8, nonbinary (they/them), historian apprentice, troublesome, moss-ball hunter)

(Oilstripe: 18, female, historian, charismatic, ghost sight)

(James: 90, male, caretaker, charismatic, den builder, formidable fighter)

(Clampaw: 8, female, caretaker apprentice, lonesome, interested in Clan history)

(Burdockpaw: 8, male, historian apprentice, loyal, interested in Clan history)

[sewers-headmates]

Sorry if this is complex, we've been thinking about splitting them for a while now and it hasn't happened so I trust you to help make an alter pack for them. Can you make a subsystem which includes the branches of the military (Army, Marines, Navy, Air Force, Coast Guard, Space Force) and if possible, have them based off of Nikko Ortiz's depictions? If you can't do that it's fine! -🧠💉

sorry this took a bit to make but yes! i would be honored to make it for you guys! this one was kinda teamwork!!

i did 90% of this i get to include my picture shitlips! Anyway enjoy!

Subsystem Name: Military Subsystem, Branches Subsystem, Stars n Stripes

Name: Army, Ace, Ajax, Alec, Ambrose, Apollo, Archer, Ares

Age: 21

Gender: male

Pronouns: he/him

Sexuality: omnisexual, fem lean

Species: human

Source: brainmade, inspired off of nikko ortiz

Roles: subsystem host

cisIDs: brown hair, brown eyes, buff, hypersexual, PTSD

transIDs: transHarmless, transAutistic, transOCD, transScars, transHighPainTolerance

Paraphiles: sadomasochist, cratolagnia, hoplophilia, kinemortophilia

Other Labels: polyamorous

Appearance:

Name: Marine, Private, Sergeant, Corporal, Damon, Blaze, Hunter

Age: 25

Gender: male

Pronouns: he/him

Sexuality: bisexual, aroacespec

Species: human

Source: brainmade, inspired off of nikko ortiz

Roles: subsystem protector, anger holder

cisIDs: anger issues, black hair, brown eyes, scars, ASPD, buff, dumb

transIDs: transInvincible, transGodComplex, transCharacter (Captain America or Billy Butcher- depending on what fits more), transHarmful

Paraphiles: sadist, cratolagnia, hoplophilia

Other Labels: struggles to understand romantic and sexual attraction

Appearance:

Name: Navy, Beau, Elias, Silas, Wes, Amory, Bram, Florian, Marius

Age: 28

Gender: male

Pronouns: he/him, they/them

Sexuality: gay

Species: human, transMermaid

Source: brainmade, inspired off of nikko ortiz

Roles: subsystem mood booster, sexual protector

cisIDs: brown hair, OLD, BPD, hypersexual, hyperromantic, pale

transIDs: transYandere, transHomewrecker, transMarried, PinkBloodic/transPinkBlood, transSpecies, transMermaid

Paraphiles: masochist, aquaphilia

Other Labels: polyamorous

Appearance:

Name: Air Force, Air, Jasper, Cas, Cyrus, Magnus, Vincent, Indigo

Age: 29

Gender: male

Pronouns: he/him

Sexuality: asexual, aromantic

Species: human

Source: brainmade, inspired off of nikko ortiz

Roles: subsystem work alter, subsystem academic alter

cisIDs: ginger, green eyes, freckles, adhd, smart, low empathy

transIDs: transChronicPain, transCaneUser, nullHumanity, transOCD, transDelusions

Other Labels: probably not happy to be in this system

Appearance:

Name: Coast Guard, Coast, Aiden, Eli, Alex, Asher, Benny, Noah, Levi, Seb

Age: trans15, chrono 25

Gender: male

Pronouns: he/him

Sexuality: asexual, gay

Species: human

Source: brainmade, inspired off of nikko ortiz

Roles: subsystem mood booster

cisIDs: brown hair, autistic, asocial, shy, adhd

transIDs: transAge, permaTeen, transHarmless, transLovable, CottonCandyscentic

Other Labels: polyamorous, legitimately a stupid little ball of sunshine

Appearance:

Name: Space Force, Astrid, Lunar, Solar, Mars, Mercury, Venus, Way

Age: ageless

Gender: nonbinary

Pronouns: they/them

Sexuality: pansexual

Species: human, transAlien

Source: brainmade, inspired off of nikko ortiz

Roles: subsystem gatekeeper

cisIDs: brown hair, bad vision, town eyes, nerd, autistic, socially awkward

transIDs: transSpecies, transAlien, transStarPupils, transUniverse (among us), permaLoser, transSpecialInterest

Other Labels: loves loves space like a lot like so much i need to point it out

Appearance:

wow that was intense but i feel kinda sad it’s over! Max and I put a lot of work into this one and I’ve grown so attached to them. I hope you enjoy them!

-mod richie and max

[prerodinu]

New Muses: The Bunnies

The Bunnies are one organism. They are one whole entity made up of several components.

The Bunnies were created by a witch (her lore is here when I make it) who was created as a manifestation of friends for her for a time. Little bunnies she had found and then changed into humans by a process that only she knows. That only she can do.

The Bunnies changed with time as she grew. Sometimes the Bunnies would freak out and other times they would be too docile for her. Sometimes The Bunnies would be her lovers, while she couldn't get the downstairs to work, she was trying to figure that out.

Until she came across a witch beating her familiar. Something she deemed punishable by not only death but a very very slow one.

Thus this current Managiarie of The Bunnies was born.

These Bunnies changed from the animals that she took from witches who abused them and changed them. Changed them into men.

Fully functional men.

Which was the difference between The Bunnies before and the Bunnies now.

For her transformation process, the witch picked out different literature that best matched them. This was also designed to make sure that anyone who came upon them, female or male, would want them. Would desire their sweet words or their surly attitudes.

The Bunnies themselves have different supernatural features, designed to be alluring like vampires are to drag you closer to them. And when you do get closer to them, they morph into your every desire. Every want.

The Bunnies although loved by the with (who is named Bunny) she never actually gave them names. She didn't feel it was right to do so. Especially since so many people could come upon them and the desired name for said Bunnies might differ from person to person.

So when you ask your Bunnies their name. They will ask YOU what you think their name is. They will make you guess so many names until your eyes dilate and you find one that brings you lust, joy, or pleasure and that is the one that they pick.

Each Bunnie has a different personality, each made with a different piece of literature that makes up their core, their middle, and their outside.

Their core is the spark that brought them to life. Their middle is the deeper things, not surface level but slightly more into them. Their outside is the surface level. The things they seem like but change when you get to know them more.

The Bunnies are as follows.

Made from: A Miniature Lop Bunny.

Core: A poem called 56 by Dawn Lanuza (find it here) Middle: A poem by Louise Kaufmann ( find it here) Outside: Pieces of him scattered across every gym you have ever seen a himbo at heart a dazed expression on his face whenever he sees you. The Mark: Their eyes. Both of them are a milky blue-green swirl, often you won't see them and it's covered by their hair.

Made from: A Carrion Crow

Core: A poem by Edgar Allen Poe (find it here) Middle: A piece of the Poem a Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allen Poe (find it here) Outside: Every man you see walking past you with a scar you wish to trace with your finger-tips. Every man in a mask you wish to uncover but find you don't want to ruin the surprise for yourself. The mark: their wrist, always has their wrist covered and or very long sleeves.

Made from: A D'Albertis/White Lipped Python

Core: Apollo to Icarus by Nikita Gill (find it here) Middle: A poem by Atticus (find it here) Outside: The man who stands up for you in a bar, who smiles that fanged smile before disappearing off into the night. The man you dream about with jawbones and you joke to friends he just might have pointed ears but you are unsure. He is the man from every Fae movie and tv show you can't help but fall in love with. The Mark: their thighs, the back specifically. They are always going to wear pants or shorts to cover it.

Made from: An Arctic Wolf

Core: Hades to Persephone by Nikita Gill (find it here) Middle: A quote from Kurt Kobane (find it here) Outside: Every male lead in the 90's who wasn't good enough for the main lead. Think Dean from Heathers. A man you want to want but find him scary. Who smells of blood, incense, and forest. He scares you with his grin but you want him nonetheless. The Mark: the inside of their palms. They are almost always wearing gloves or covering their palms from view.

Made from: A Artic Fox

Core: every time you take a breath of cold air and feel it solidify in your lungs as you move through the forest. Blood of a fresh kill and the soft northern lights. The softness of watching the snow fall from inside as you snuggle up with someone. Middle: A Poem by Perry Poetry (find it here) Outside: Introvert by Ritika Jain (find it here) Their Mark: their right ear is scared, they always have their hair to cover it.

Please know that these Bunnies will act differently with everyone. They are going to try to be everything you want at their core. They need it to survive. If you do not give them or feed them what they need. They will leave.

Each bunny also has a part of them they always keep covered. A mark of their transformation. Some it's their hands. Other's its their wrist or neck. Sometimes it can even be an eye. Most likely they will never show you and if you go to touch it. They will back away.

[newsintheshell]

NETFLIX DROP 01: TRAILER, ANNUNCI E ANTEPRIME DEL NUOVO EVENTO ONLINE

Devil May Cry, Tomb Raider e Blue Eye Samurai fra le grandi soprese arrivate durante la premiere live di Castlevania Nocturne!

Ve lo avevo anticipato e non poteva quindi farsi attendere il riassuntone del primo DROP 01 di Netflix, lo speciale evento virtuale in diretta streaming su YouTube e Twitch, imbastito per unire il watch party in anteprima di Castlevania: Nocturne e qualche breve ma gustoso sneak peek di alcune novità, lato animazione, attualmente in cantiere.

Purtroppo riguardo a Pluto siamo stati scammati, non hanno fatto vedere nulla di nuovo. Hanno semplicemente ripassato il trailer spaccamascella uscito un paio di mesi fa.

Tutto sommato, però, è stata un'ora e mezza piacevole, fra episodi - che non sono riuscito a seguire al verso, se non a spezzoni ahimè - e brevi teaser e showcase di merchandise vari. Un evento dal formato leggero, informale e conciso, che mi piacerebbe si ripetesse sinceramente.

Capisco che eventi più corposi come la Geeked Week e TUDUM siano maggiormente attesi in generale, ma le presentazioni in pillole, a mio modo di vedere, sono decisamente più fruibili e, appunto, più efficaci.

🔶🔸DEVIL MAY CRY

Cominciamo con un primo annuncio MOTIVAZIONALE (*wink wink*). Dante, Vergil e Lady di nuovo in versione animata, 8 episodi, più stagioni in programma.

La sceneggiatura è stata concepita da Adi Shankar (Castlevania) and Alex Larsen (Yasuke), mentre il tutto porta la firma di STUDIO MIR (The Legend of Korra, Dota: Dragon's Blood, The Witcher: Nightmare of the Wolf).

🔶🔸SONIC PRIME

Mostrato un teaser che annuncia una terza stagione per la serie con protagonista il celebre riccio di SEGA. Ad un'occhiata da profano, ha tutta l'aria di una grandissima cutscene, ma non sembra male.

Non sono però mai stato un fan di Sonic, quindi skipponi. Go next.

🔶🔸CAPTAIN LASERHAWK: A BLOOD DRAGON REMIX

Altra produzione targata Adi Shankar, questa volta in mano allo studio BOBBYPILLS, che la chat di Twitch ha subito categorizzato come Suicide Squad made in Ubisoft e la chat di Twitch ha sempre ragione :v

Fra ultraviolenza in stile retro anni '90 e ironia, questo spinoff dello spinoff di Far Cry 3 (ci hanno infilato pure Rayman!!) sembra vare le carte in regola per rivelarsi una visione divertente. Il trailer ci dà appuntamento per il 19 ottobre.

🔶🔸BLUE EYE SAMURAI

A quanto pare questo progetto era inizialmente comparso per la prima volta nel 2020, ma me lo devo essere perso.

Nata da un'idea dei coniugi Amber Noizumi e Micheal Green (Logan, Blade Runner 2049), è stata sostanzialmente presentata come una "storia di vendetta nel periodo Edo - Kill Bill incontra Yentl".

Come biglietto da visita è intrigante, ma ammetto che la trama di base mi ha lasciato con qualche dubbio. In sostanza, la nostra protagonista in cerca di vendetta, è una meticcia con gli occhi azzurri e per questo viene discriminata e trattata come una "creatura della vergogna". Le frontiere del Giappone sono ancora chiuse e razzismo e misoginia sono di casa, quindi che fare? Ci si traveste da uomo e si va a sbudellare gaijin finché non si trova quello che è tuo padre, l'occidentale che ti ha resa diverss e reietta dalla nascita. Ok...?

La serie, che arriverà in streaming il 3 novembre, a livello tecnico e di atmosfera si presenta molto bene comunque, quindi vedremo. Giudicate voi, ecco il treailer.

🔶🔸SCOTT PILGRIM

Non ce la fate ad aspettare il 17 novembre per vedere la versione animata, in stile SCIENCE SARU (The Tatami Time Machine Blues, The Heike Story), del famoso fumetto di Bryan Lee O'Malley? Eccovi una clip in anteprima allora.

🔶🔸MASTERS OF THE UNIVERSE: REVOLUTION

Clip in anteprima anche per la nuova serie di He-Man e i Dominatori dell'Universo, che approderà sulla piattaforma nel 2024.

Pu confermando una vaga continuità con gli eventi della divisiva Masters of the Universe: Revelation, la serie è stata presentata ufficialmente come standalone, suggerendo un qualche tipo di correzione di rotta riguardo alla narrativa.

🔶🔸TOMB RAIDER: THE LEGEND OF LARA CROFT

E dulcis in fundo, anche sul gran finale abbiamo chiuso con il botto, con l'adattamento animato di un'altra storica icona videoludica: Lara Croft!

Preannunciata un paio di anni fa, ma anche qua io non ne ho alcun ricordo, la serie si ispira alla trilogia reboot di Crystal Dynamics (Tomb Raider, Rise of the Tomb Raider e Shadow of the Tomb Raider).

In programma per il 2024, è prodotta in casa Powerhouse Animation (Castlevania, Masters of the Universe: Revelation).

Per chi si fosse perso la premiere in anteprima e volesse comunque un assaggino di Castlevania: Nocturne, nel mentre aspetta di poter maratonare la prima stagione (vi ricordo che esce domani by the way), ecco i primi sette minuti della prima puntata in omaggio.

Quel poco che sono riuscito a vedere, non mi è dispiaciuto affatto, ma la sensazione che ho avuto è stata quella di una serie molto introduttiva, con in mente un arco narrativo da sviluppare potenzialmente su più stagioni e che quindi potrebbe risultare un po' lentina e all'acqua di rose. Per ora mi mantengo curioso.

⫸ NON VUOI PERDERTI NEANCHE UN POST? ENTRA NEL CANALE TELEGRAM!⫷

Autore: SilenziO))) Se usate Twitter, mi trovate lì! 

blogger // anime enthusiast // twitch addict // unorthodox blackster - synthwave lover // penniless gamer // INFJ-T magus

[FONTE]

[misscinnamonroll16]

Brozone Remade

Time for Serious Boy Clay. A little change up with the skin tone. Made him darker but not too dark you can't see his body hair. I got an overlay for the hair so now it's more green. For his everyday, I made two outfit because I really like the first one I did but I did want to change it up. I also gave him glasses bc the boy is ruining his eyes reading in the dark like he does.

Bruce, John, Floyd, Branch

Viva, Poppy, Brandy

Bruce Jr., Cove, Freddy, Windy, LaBreeze, Rainy

A close up to show off those adorable freckles. Bet their used to be a contest to guess how many freckles Clay had as a kid. No one actually knew the answer but it was good for selling merch. (you might have to zoom in to see them.)

Formal wear. Just like Bruce, he knows how to dress up. But it's only bc those are serious clothes and he likes looking serious (meaning he likes looking preppy, which fits the whole golf vibe).

And just bc I think he'd weird goofy socks with his formal wear that just barely peek out. (and you can zoom in on those legs to pep the hair lol).

Athletic wear. He's never really been much of an athlete, always more of a dancer. So his athletic wear is closer to what male dancers wear (at least from what I've seen) ((he's probably wearing a loose tank under the hoodie))

Sleep wear. Clay likes having the room ice cold when sleeping. long sleeves and pants. He has slippers he wears bc at the course he used to constantly get splinters in his feet from his bedroom.

Party wear. Dude does not party, he'd rather be at home with a good book than out at some party. Similar to John, doesn't know what to wear, formal but casual.

Swim wear. Legit is just trunks. That's it, not much to say. you can zoom in to see all his body hair if you want 🤷‍♀️. Also the 90s called and they want their shorts back lol

Hot weather. It probably doesn't get hot at the course very often but when it does, most trolls just roll up their pant legs, sleeves or take off their shirts. (Bruce probably got him that shirt)

Cold weather. Like Bruce, remembers the cold winters at the Troll Tree and only likes the cold bc it mean it's time to get cozy. He loves to curl up by a fire with a good book and blanket.