#i just love her so much ;-; she deserved so much better!!!

[onlyhereforpazzi]

Happy Birthday P.

Author note: This is late but we all know life gets hard and well I am finally ready to share this with you all.

Word count: 1373

Warning: Fluff smut slight cursing.

Smut warnings

The morning sun streamed through the window, illuminating the cozy apartment shared by Paige Bueckers and Azzi Fudd. Today was a day of celebration—Paige’s birthday! Azzi had been planning a surprise for weeks, and she was eager to make it special.

As Paige rolled out of bed, she was greeted by the delicious aroma of freshly baked muffins. Intrigued, she quickly got dressed and made her way to the kitchen. There, she found Azzi, wearing a bright yellow apron, bustling around with a smile that could light up the room.

“Happy birthday, Paige!” Azzi exclaimed, turning to face her with a tray of warm muffins. “I made your favorite—blueberry!”

Paige’s heart swelled with joy. “You’re the best, Azzi! This is amazing!” She took a muffin and bit into it, savoring the sweet and tangy flavor. “Mmm, these are perfect!”

After breakfast, Azzi led Paige to the living room, where she had decorated the space with colorful balloons and a big banner that read “Happy Birthday, Paige!” The sight made Paige’s heart flutter. “You really went all out!” she said, beaming.

“Only the best for my favorite person,” Azzi replied, her cheeks slightly pink. “Now, I have a surprise for you. Are you ready?”

“Absolutely!” Paige said, her excitement bubbling over.

Azzi handed Paige a blindfold. “Trust me, okay? No peeking!”

Paige giggled but complied, allowing Azzi to guide her outside. The cool breeze brushed against her skin as they walked. “Where are we going?” Paige asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

“Just a little further…” Azzi said, her voice filled with delight.

After a short walk, Azzi stopped and gently removed the blindfold. Paige blinked against the sunlight and gasped at the sight before her. They were at a beautiful park, filled with vibrant flowers and a small picnic setup under a shady tree. A cozy blanket was spread out, surrounded by a basket filled with treats and a small cake adorned with candles.

“Wow, Azzi! This is incredible!” Paige exclaimed, her heart racing with happiness.

“I wanted to do something special for you,” Azzi said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Let’s celebrate!”

They settled onto the blanket, enjoying the delicious spread that Azzi had prepared. As they laughed and shared stories, the atmosphere felt magical. Paige couldn’t help but admire how thoughtful Azzi had been, and how much she cherished their time together.

After finishing their picnic, Azzi pulled out the cake. “Okay, make a wish!” she said, lighting the candles.

Paige closed her eyes and made her wish, then blew out the candles. “What did you wish for?” Azzi asked playfully.

“I can’t tell you! It won’t come true,” Paige replied with a teasing smile.

“Fine, I’ll let it slide this time,” Azzi said, rolling her eyes dramatically. “But you owe me!”

They spent the afternoon playing games, taking photos, and enjoying each other’s company. As the sun began to set, casting a warm golden light over the park, Paige felt a wave of gratitude wash over her.

“Azzi, thank you for today. It’s been the best birthday ever,” Paige said sincerely, looking into Azzi’s eyes.

Azzi smiled softly, her gaze steady. “I’m so glad you’re happy. You deserve the world, Paige.”

Paige felt her heart race, realizing how much Azzi meant to her. “You make me so happy, Azzi. I don’t think I could have asked for a better friend… or a better day.”

Azzi’s expression softened, and she reached for Paige’s hand. “Paige, there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you.”

“What is it?” Paige asked, her heart pounding.

“I… I love you. I really do. More than just as a friend,” Azzi confessed, her cheeks turning a shade of pink.

Paige felt a rush of warmth and joy. “I love you too, Azzi! I’ve felt this way for a while now, but I didn’t know how to say it.”

In that moment, the world around them faded away, and all that mattered was the connection they shared. They leaned in closer, their hearts racing, and shared a sweet, tender kiss under the setting sun.

As they pulled away, both of them grinned, feeling lighter than air. “Happy birthday, Paige,” Azzi said, her voice filled with warmth.

“Best birthday ever,” Paige replied, her heart full of love and happiness as they sat together, hand in hand.

After a few moments of comfortable silence, Paige looked at Azzi, her eyes sparkling. “So, what now? Do we just sit here and bask in our newfound love?”

Azzi chuckled, her laughter like music to Paige’s ears. “Well, I have a few more surprises up my sleeve if you’re up for it!”

“More surprises? You’ve already done so much!” Paige said, her curiosity piqued.

“Just a little something to make this day even more memorable,” Azzi said, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “I thought we could go to that little ice cream shop you love. You know, the one with the giant sundae?”

Paige’s face lit up. “Oh, I’m definitely in for that! Let’s go!”

They packed up their picnic and made their way to the ice cream shop, laughing and teasing each other along the way. Once they arrived, they stood in front of the colorful menu, eyes wide with excitement.

“What are you getting?” Azzi asked, glancing at Paige.

“I think I’ll go for the triple chocolate fudge sundae,” Paige declared, her mouth watering at the thought.

“Bold choice! I’m going for the classic strawberry shortcake,” Azzi replied, her smile contagious.

After placing their orders, they found a cozy spot outside to enjoy their treats. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the stars began to twinkle in the night sky. They shared their sundaes, feeding each other bites and giggling at the whipped cream that occasionally ended up on their noses.

“This is perfect,” Paige said, her heart swelling with happiness. “I can’t believe how lucky I am to have you in my life.”

Azzi looked at her, sincerity in her eyes. “You make every day better, Paige. I’ve always admired your passion and determination. You inspire me.”

Paige felt a blush creep up her cheeks. “You inspire me too, Azzi. I don’t think I would be the player I am without your support and friendship.”

As they finished their sundaes, Azzi leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You know, I’ve always dreamed of sharing moments like this with someone special. I never expected that someone would be you.”

Paige’s heart raced at Azzi’s words. “Me too. I’ve always felt a connection with you that goes beyond friendship. It’s like we were meant to find each other.”

With a shared look of love and care for eachother. Eventually they return to Paige’s apartment, “So what else do you wanna do, birthday girl?” Azzi asks as she stares at the tall blonde’s blue eyes. “I wouldn’t mind a birthday make out session..” The blonde grinned, planting her hands on the younger girl's hips before kissing her slowly, the dark skinned girl returned the kiss and they began their way to Paige’s bedroom. *Time skip like 15 minutes homie* “Mmm Azzi yeah..” Paige groaned as she stared down at the younger girl's head between her thighs and her hands in her curly black hair, “so good yeah..” Her hips buck up to please herself, grinding into the girl's face. Azzi pulled her head back and spat gently before continuing. “Going come Az..” “Do it P.” Azzi mumbled against her folds, and so Paige did she release on Azzi’s tongue. Azzi came up for air, some cum on that button like that nose Paige loved.

Paige wiped it off and kissed her nose before pulling down the shorts of the younger girl rubbing her clit softly as she kissed her lips in chaste (is that a real word?) quick kisses. Eventually Azzi begged enough for Paige to slip a finger in teasing before a second. She curled her fingers into the younger girl smirking as her moans filled the room. Soon a third finger joined the dance and the rest is history.

“Happy birthday P.” Assistant mumble before hiding her head in the arms of Paige’s to tired to care.

—--------------------------—------------------------

Thank you for reading, sorry for the delay again. I hope this finds you well. Just because Kamala lost doesn’t mean we need to lose you too. 

[angelwishess]

You have been invited to the Fairytale Soiree! ‧₊˚ ⋅.𖥔

Angel’s 100+ followers event!

a/n: Hi hi everyone! I’d like to thank everyone so, so so very much for 160 followers!! When I first started this blog about a month ago, I genuinely did NOT expect to get this much love and attention. It was such a surprise, but I’m so very thankful nonetheless! During my short time running this blog I have met so many wonderful, talented, charming, amazing people, and I appreciate all of you so much! Thank you once again for supporting me until now! ♡

Story:

Every 100 years, a group of fae gather together to host a grand party to celebrate the beginning of a new century. And tonight, once the clock hits 12 it will be the genesis of a new era once more. The stars seemed to shine brighter than usual on this evening, and magic swirled around as the faeries gathered to sing, dance, feast and party the night away.

But of course, there was one more thing they had to do. Every Soiree, the three hosting faeries summon a group of humans, beastmen and merfolk alike to join them on this joyous occasion! Once every one hundered years, it truly would be a waste not to share the joys of tonight.

It just so happened that this time, a group of students seem to be the ones that were chosen! Waking up in an unfamiliar palace-like building, lush with gorgeous flora and hues of pinks, blues and purples. Although skeptical at first, they soon joined the fae with their grand soiree.

That was, until they swiftly picked out Kyra from the crowd. Declaring her as the “Dreamer of Tonight”. They explained, that at the end of every soiree, just before the clock hits 12, all of the fae come together to grant one wish. Whether it be riches that overflow into mountains of gold, power beyond imagination, or knowledge of the unknown— whatever it is, they grant it. And it may even shape the course of the next century.

Kyra pondered this for a moment, sitting upon an elegant throne-like chair as she looked at the faces of all her friends. She frowned, and the faeries were curious. That was until she asked,

“Could I share my wish with my friends?”

Taken aback, the faeries asked why she wanted to do such a thing.

“Well… It just seems kind of unfair. They all deserve to have their wishes granted, too.”

An air of silence filled the room. Only to be broken by a rampaging laughter from all of the fae. They laughed, and laughed, until tears prickled in the corners of their eyes. No one had ever asked for something so ridiculous. The very first time anyone had asked for such a thing!

Amused, the fae agreed to let her share the wish— but with only one person. Now, its up to the rest of the group to decide whether they want to convince Kyra to share the wish with her, or simply just enjoy the party. But they better hurry up, because the clock is ticking! Either way, the faeries are expecting a good show out of tonight’s soiree.

Why, it might just be the most exciting one yet!

“Share this wish with me!”

Dress Code:

There isn’t a really stict dresscode— but of course the characters will all be wearing clothing suited for an extravagant ball!

And, if the name wasn’t obvious enough, this event is very Fairytale themed! So I suggest taking inspiration from fairytales! Whether it be characters, tropes, or items in the fairytale! Go crazy!!!

Theres not really a certain colorscheme either, Id rather you use the colors you think fit the characters you choose the most !!

Featured Characters:

Kyra Lovelace SSR (Fairytale Attire)

Floyd Leech SR (Fairytale Attire)

Ace Trappola SR (Fairytale Attire)

Vil Schoenheit SR (Fairytale Attire)

Azul Ashengrotto SR (Fairytale Attire)

Sebek Zigvolt R (Fairytale Attire)

Jamil Viper R (Fairytale Attire)

Jack Howl R (Fairytale Attire)

OCs:

Rory Queens SR (Fairytale Attire)

Shuu SR (Fairytale Attire)

Rayven Ludwig SR (Fairytale Attire)

Asher (Fairytale Attire)

AJ (Fairytale Attire)

RULES!!!:

- Despite this being a follower milestone event, everyone is welcome to participate! ♡

- You can use any kind of character to enter into the - event! OCs, Yuusonas, and canon characters that haven’t been listed in the participants! All characters are very much welcomed !!!

- Any kind of entry is also welcomed! Art, edits, fics, ect.

- Please tag me in your post and use the tag #Fairytale Soiree! In your posts!

Strictly no NSFW or proshipping.

There is no clear deadline nor winner, this is honestly just for fun so go crazy!!

Theres no real limit on the amount of SSR cards either, so feel free to do whatever you’d like, whether you choose to make an SSR, SR or R card !

Feel free to dm me if you have any questions :3

Once again, Thank you all so very much for supporting me thus far!! (Reblogs are appreciated :3)

[webanglikethat]

to every single queer person out there—trans, gay, bi, pan, ace, nonbinary, however you identify—let me just say this: I am so, so fucking sorry. SO, SO, SO FUCKING SORRY. I am furious. I’m pissed off beyond words. english seems like a forgotten skill as I'm typing this. I am so sorry.

we never deserved this. we never fucking deserved this.

I am sorry that you’ve been betrayed like this, that we’ve all been betrayed like this. I’m sorry that SO MANY of our damn votes weren’t counted, like we don’t even matter. like we’re just numbers on a page that they can toss out without a thought. like we can just be erased, as if we do not exist, like we’re puzzle pieces that don’t fit into their perfect picture, so they just throw us out, discarded, like we were never there in the first place. I’m sorry she just conceded, just gave up. left us hanging. just handed us over like we’re some afterthought, like we’re collateral damage in this disgusting twisted fucking game. as if our lives, our rights, everything we fought for, meant nothing. she just rolled over and let us get steamrolled, like we’re just noise, just numbers on a page, just nothing worth fighting for. do they even care that real people, people who trusted her, who put their hopes in her, are being crushed by this? and not only in the US. we ALL believed in her. and ... she ... just ... she was gone. just like that. and we’re the ones who have to pay the price. we’re the ones left with our futures on the line, wondering what rights we’ll have tomorrow, if we’ll even be safe tomorrow. and she just… gave it all up. handed us over to people who are hell-bent on erasing us, who’ve been clear from day one about what they think of us, what they want to take away. how do we even make sense of that? how do we believe in ANYONE? how can you abandon us in the lion's den and yet demand compassion and trust? to trust in the very hands that have left us to bleed, to burn, to fight alone?

we deserve better. we deserved someone who would stand with us when it mattered, who wouldn’t just throw in the towel and walk away when things got tough. we’re not just collateral. we’re not disposable. we’re human beings with lives, with love, with the right to exist without fear. we aren't statistics, diagrams, names forgotten on a wall. we are queer, and we are real. and she ... just left us to face down a nightmare she knows damn well is coming. so how dare they tell us to “keep faith” when they’ve shown us that our lives were never worth the fight to them. we needed someone who would dig in and say, “no, you can’t have them. not now, not ever.” and instead? we were left out in the cold to fend for ourselves. like always. like fucking always. and this isn’t just some political setback for us. this is our lives, our right to exist. we’ve fought and bled and stood through hell just to claim an inch of ground to live openly, to love who we love, and to be who we are. we deserved so much more than empty promises. and we won’t forget this.

right now, it feels like every warning, every fear we’ve had has come to life in the worst way. and let’s be real—what’s next is terrifying. I will not sugarcoat it. rights are going to be stripped away, our existence denied, our safety threatened. trump hasn’t hidden it; he’s promised it. this was supposed to be our home too. but they’re pushing us out, forcing us to hide. so please, if you need to, go back into the closet. change states if that’s what it takes. hell, think about leaving the country if you can, because it’s becoming clear that staying might mean risking everything. you do not owe anyone anything, just think of yourself first. you are your own priority.

and god .. Love. Love—something so pure, something so simple—has been twisted into a reason for others to hate us, to fear us, to hurt us. we were never supposed to be the ones people saw as a “threat.” that label should belong to hatred, to racism, to homophobia, to everything that has poisoned this world. but instead, somehow we are the ones they call dangerous. we are the ones they want to erase. and it’s maddening. what kind of world are we living in, where the fight to just exist is an endless battle? was it not love that led Eve to take that fateful bite, trusting in the bond she shared with Adam? and if love is the foundation upon which humanity was built, how can we be faulted for following its lead? of all the things we could hate, and we chose love.

if this moment feels like it’s too much, if it feels like everything you’ve fought for, every piece of yourself you’ve worked to own, every right, every dream, every bit of safety is collapsing around you -- I get it. I feel it in my bones. it feels like drowning, like being swallowed whole by a storm that never ends. the shore seems so far away. but listen to me: don’t you fucking dare let them break you. don’t let them get that satisfaction. don’t give them that power. we are not here to let monsters erase us. we’re here to outlast every single one of them. we’re here to survive and thrive. we are queer, we are real, we exist, we will continue to exist.

their power, their hatred, their cruelty—it won’t last forever. I know it's difficult to see the light at the end of this tunnel. but they are the ones who don’t belong in a world built on compassion, on love, on freedom. You are the real thing. You are here. You deserve to be here, and you deserve to feel safe, loved, and free.

if you’re feeling like there’s no point anymore, if this all feels like it’s too damn much to take, please just hang on. this fight is brutal, and sometimes it feels like it never ends. but I’m begging you—don’t give up. don’t let them have that final victory. don’t let them silence your voice, your light, your life. scream, cry, punch walls, call someone, reach out, hold on to whatever will keep you here another day, another hour. do whatever you have to do to survive this moment. because you’re needed. we need you. the world needs you.

you might not see it now, but you are a part of something big, something powerful, something they wish they could destroy but never will. you’re part of a legacy of resilience, of love, of defiance against hatred. every queer person, every person who has ever had to stand up against a world that told them they shouldn’t exist, that they should be crucified, erased, beaten up, has carried that legacy forward, passed it down so we could be here. so you could be here. and they did not survive all they did, did not fight, did not sacrifice so much just for us to lose hope. we’re still here because others fought and held on. now, it’s our turn. we owe it to them, to ourselves, to hold on with everything we have, to fight with everything in us.

and one day, I promise you, I truly pinkie promise you, that you’re going to wake up in a world that has moved beyond these hateful voices. one day, you will wake up in a world that sees you, that values you, where you don’t have to fight just to exist. you deserve to live in it, to walk in the sunlight without fear, without shame. they don’t get to take that from you. they don’t get to erase you. they don’t get to win.

this moment is hard. it’s beyond hard. but you, every single one of you, are worth it. you are not alone in this fight. you are surrounded by countless others who feel this too, who know this pain, who are holding on right alongside you.

so please, hold on. you belong, and nothing they do can change that. they cannot snuff out your light. they cannot erase your legacy. they cannot undo the love you were born to spread.

stay. fight like hell. be louder, be prouder, be everything they tell you not to be. because you are worth every ounce of this battle. and we will see the day they’re gone. we will make it through.

we too shall rise from the ashes.

to my queer family, my phoenix.

[lucyblue101]

Our happy ending 🥹

Satoru x reader

Context: this is based in a au after Satoru got rid of the higher ups and after Sukuna has been defeated.

It had been a day. A rough one. Y/N was running on empty, physically and emotionally drained. The endless demands at work, the impossible deadlines, the constant feeling of being overwhelmed—it was too much. She had tried to hold it together all day, keeping her composure for the sake of professionalism, but as she stepped into the apartment and saw the familiar, comforting warmth of home, it all came crashing down.

Her eyes stung with unshed tears, but she refused to cry, not yet, not until she was alone. But as she kicked off her shoes, trying to shake off the weight of the day, she was greeted by an unexpected presence. The smell of his cologne wafted through the air, and she turned to see Satoru Gojo standing in the doorway, a soft smile playing on his lips.

"Y/N, you’re home early," she heard him say, a hint of surprise in his voice.

Her heart twisted in her chest. He was here—early, before the exhaustion of her day could fully take hold. But the moment he looked at her, the dam inside her broke. She didn’t even try to hold it in as she collapsed in front of him, the tears that had been threatening to fall all day finally escaping.

Satoru immediately moved towards her, concern flashing across his features as he knelt in front of her. "Y/N?" His voice was soft, as if he already knew what was happening. "Hey, talk to me. What’s wrong?"

She didn’t answer. The words couldn’t come. She just shook her head, the tears flowing freely now, her body trembling from the weight of the emotions that had been bottled up for far too long. Satoru didn’t say another word. Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into his chest, cradling her close to him.

"You’ve been working too hard," he murmured, his hands rubbing her back soothingly. "Let it out, okay? You’re safe here."

Y/N didn’t know how long she stayed there, just held in his embrace, letting all the hurt, frustration, and exhaustion pour out of her. Satoru’s presence was a steady anchor, a calming force that slowly helped to ease the tension in her body.

After a few minutes, he gently guided her to the bedroom, sitting down on the bed with her in his arms. He laid her down on his lap, smoothing her hair away from her face as she curled up against him, still sniffling, her cheeks wet with tears. His fingers brushed through her hair in slow, deliberate strokes, the gesture so comforting and tender it almost made her want to melt into him.

"I know you’re exhausted," he said softly, his voice warm and full of understanding. "And I know things have been hard. But listen to me, Y/N. It’s going to get better. My students are more capable now, and with the higher-ups out of the picture, I’m going to be around so much more. I’m going to be here for you. We’ll finally have the time we deserve."

Y/N's heart fluttered as his words sank in. It was exactly what she needed to hear, the promise of a future where they could finally find happiness together, without the burdens that had kept them apart for so long.

"I want to marry you, Y/N," he continued, his voice low and serious. "I want to grow old with you. I want a life with you, not just moments in between missions. No more distractions, no more distance. Just us."

The words hit her like a wave, crashing over her and sweeping away any remaining sadness. She turned her head to look up at him, eyes wide with surprise, and then her lips curled into the brightest, happiest smile she’d worn in days.

The tears came again, but this time they were different—happy tears, filled with relief and love. "You mean it?" she whispered, her voice shaky but full of joy.

"Of course I mean it," he replied with a soft chuckle, his thumb brushing away the fresh tears from her cheeks. "I’ve wanted nothing more than to be with you, to build a life together. And now I can finally do that. We can finally be happy. You’ve waited long enough, and I’m done making you wait."

Y/N blinked, the weight in her chest finally lifting as she looked up at him with so much love and gratitude. "I love you so much, Satoru."

"I love you too, more than you’ll ever know." His words were filled with sincerity, and he leaned down to kiss her forehead, the warmth of his lips a final promise of the future they would share.

As she snuggled deeper into his lap, the stress of the day seemed to fade away. With Satoru here, with him promising to be by her side always, Y/N finally felt at peace. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to rest in the security of his arms, knowing that no matter what the future held, they would face it together.

Tag list (let me know if you wanna go on the tag list 🥹

@canigotosleep--plz

@tibibibi123

@haruhatake

@hargun-s

@itsafairytalekay

@mistymuii

@moonchhu

[httpsdana]

hi! i really like your fics and i had a really bad day today so could you do the sappiest fluff about gavi or pedri.

basically i got my period today and i was having the worst cramps of my life so something along the lines of that maybe?

take care and thank you x

Sweet Relief~Pedri Gonzalez

*Pictures are from Pinterest*

I had to write this immediately cuz it's so cute. enjoy <3

request from here

master list -> part 2

players/drivers I write for

The first rays of morning light peek through the curtains as Pedri stirs awake, glancing over to see his girlfriend curled up beside him, still fast asleep. He checks his phone and sees the date, realizing it’s around the time of the month when she usually get her period.

He remembers the last few times — how much pain she'd been in, how tired and miserable it made her feel. Determined to make today as easy as possible, he quietly slips out of bed, making sure not to wake her up, and heads out to the nearest store.

Once he arrives, he walks through the aisles, carefully picking out everything he knows she'll need: pads, pain relief medicine, her favorite chocolate, chips, and that comforting herbal tea she loved.

He even picks up a couple of fluffy blankets and an extra heating pad, just in case. With his arms full of supplies, he heads back home, feeling a surge of excitement at the thought of surprising her and making her feel better.

When he returns, she's still curled up under the blankets, her brows slightly furrowed as if she's in discomfort even while asleep. Pedri sets everything down quietly, arranging it all neatly on the bedside table, and then gently climbs back into bed beside her.

He brushes a few stray hairs from her face, his fingertips as light as a feather. He watches as she starts to wake up, and he’s there, right by her side when her eyes flutter open. The first thing she felt was that familiar ache, and she instantly knew — her period has arrived. She let out a groan, wrapping herself tighter in the blankets, which makes Pedri’s face soften with understanding.

“Good morning, princesa,” he whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

y/n blinks at him, managing a small smile despite the cramps. “Morning… didn’t know you were up already.”

Pedri grins, scooting closer and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “I had a feeling you’d be needing a little extra help today,” he says, glancing meaningfully at the stash he’s gathered on the bedside table. “So, I got you all set up.”

Her eyes follow his gaze, and she's met with the sight of her favorite snacks, pain meds, a heating pad, and a neat stack of pads. She let out a breathless laugh, her heart swelling at his thoughtfulness. “Pedri, you did all this… just for me?”

“Of course, princesa,” he murmurs, his voice soft as he cups her cheek. “I know how bad it gets, and I want you to be as comfortable as possible. I’m here to take care of you, remember?”

She reached up to hold his hand on her cheek, leaning into his touch. “You’re too good to me, you know that?”

“Never,” he whispers, pressing another kiss to her forehead. “You deserve it.”

He sits up, grabbing the heating pad and carefully placing it over her stomach. She sighes in relief as the warmth begins to seep through, easing some of the ache. Pedri grins, pleased, then settles back beside her, slipping an arm around her so she can rest against his shoulder.

“Is there anything else you need, mi amor?” he asks softly, rubbing gentle circles on her back.

“Just you,” she murmured, snuggling into his side. “And maybe… a little bit of chocolate?”

He chuckles, reaching over to grab the chocolate he brought. Unwrapping it, he holds a piece to her lips, smiling as she took a bite. “Anything else, hermosa?”

y/n smiles, feeling herseld relax under his touch and attention. “No, this is perfect. thank you, baby.”

He leans down to press a lingering kiss to her forehead. “Always, princesa. I’m here to spoil you.”

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

At one point, y/n shifted uncomfortably, wincing as another wave of cramps hits. Pedri notices immediately, his hand finding hers and giving it a gentle squeeze. “More painkillers?” he asks softly.

She nodded, and he’s up in a heartbeat, bringing her water and the medicine. He watches her take it, then slides back onto the bed, pulling her into his lap and wrapping his arms around her. “Here, lay against me. I’ll hold you until it goes away.”

She lets herself settle into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his chest against her back. His arms wrapped around her protectively, his fingers gently tracing patterns on her arm. “You’re my angel, you know that?” she murmured, glancing up at him.

He blushed but smiled down at her, pressing his lips to her temple. “Only for you, mi vida.”

A little later, when he catches her staring at the pile of snacks with a tiny smile, he tilts his head, grinning. “What’s that look for?”

She shrugged, biting her lip. “I just… I’m so lucky to have you. No one’s ever done something like this for me before.”

Pedri’s grin softens, and he tilts her chin up so she's looking directly at him. “Well, get used to it, hermosa. Taking care of you is my favorite thing.” He leans down, capturing her lips in a soft, lingering kiss, his hand gently stroking her cheek. “And if there’s anything else you need, you just tell me. I’m all yours today.”

She let out a sigh, sinking into his arms as he presses a series of gentle kisses along her forehead, cheeks, and nose, each one lighter than the last. “Pedri, you’re spoiling me,” she whispered, even though she's loving every second of it.

He chuckled softly, wrapping his arms around her tighter. “That’s the point, amor. Besides, you deserve to be spoiled.”

The rest of the day continues with Pedri attending to every little thing. He helps her get cozy with extra blankets, adjusting the heating pad whenever she needed it, and even turning on her favorite movie for jer to relax. He laughs with her, making jokes, and he listens to her every whim, whether she needed more snacks, another glass of water, or just a long cuddle to take her mind off the cramps.

“Hey,” he murmurs at one point, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “How’s my princesa doing?”

She snuggled closer, letting out a soft hum. “A lot better with you here.” she smiled up at him, and he grinned ,pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“Good, because I’m not going anywhere,” he says, then shifts so she's cradled against his chest, his arms wrapped snugly around her frame. He peppers her face with little kisses, making her giggle. “I’m on official period duty today. Whatever you need — I’m at your service.”

“You’re amazing,” she murmured, nuzzling into his neck. “Thank you for everything.”

“Anything for my girl,” he whispers back, rubbing her back softly. “You know I’d do anything to make you feel better.” His fingers trail up and down her spine, soothing her, as he held her close.

Later, when she started feeling sleepy, he wrapped her up in his arms, pulling the blanket around them both. “Close your eyes, princesa. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

She doze off with him holding her, and when she woke up, he’s still there, smiling down at her with that same warm look in his eyes. “Did you sleep okay, mi vida?” he asks, stroking her hair gently.

She nodded, feeling so safe and cared for. “I love you, Pedri.”

He beams, his face lighting up as he leans down to kiss her. “I love you too, hermosa. So, so much.”

[danidrabbles]

I've been in a real reading mood lately and it made me SO excited to revisit this. Miranda, we've messaged about this before, but I wanted to give it the proper reblog it deserves!!!! (This got a little long. I'd apologize, but as a writer myself I know (hope) it's fun)

Because Dieter and ex-wife!Reader are on my mind all the time. I really like reading about people meeting, but love reading about people and knowing there's history between them, it makes things so bittersweet. Especially with these two because the love is there; you make it so efficiently evident in their "Do you want the truth or a lie?" conversation, and when they admit they think about each other, when Dieter says “I think you worried about what the real truth would be. We’ve got something here and it’s worrisome.” 🥺 It's a quick interaction, but it says so much about them.

As someone who was once a teenager with a crush on David Duchovny, Reader's meeting with Dustin is soooooo satisfying. The way he describes the production of the movie

"Everyone thinks us Hollywood actors just commit to this shit knowing it’s shit but we don’t! I mean 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?”

made me laugh out loud.

The interactions between Dieter and Dustin are so fun, too. Their snarking back and forth while discovering they might not be so different after all... You manage to build so much tension between them and Reader in their conversation with her by the door. But then you also pack in gut punches like, “You don’t know. You don’t know me.” “That’s not true.” “Yeah it is. I’m different now. I’m not the woman you dragged around all those years.” and “You love him so much. It isn’t fair. You will love him your whole life if you don’t stop this.” OOF. ouch! It’s all walking that line between fun, comedy and sexy so well.

The smut is so good Miranda... Even on a reread I’m sitting here like 😳

Having Dustin between Reader’s legs, having so much fun with her, while she and Dieter kiss, and the way it goes back and forth between the sensations of something new (Dustin) and something familiar (Dieter) is sooooooo fantastic, I love how you kind of juxtaposed them without ever making one feel less involved in the threesome than the other. Also so good for her (reader insert me) to have her little You used to masturbate to this man. Revelation!!!! (and her getting to say it to him later was so… soft?)

I’m obsessed with the fact that you went there with Dieter and Dustin, too. Like not that I didn’t expect that of you, it’s just that M/M/F threesomes can often be... more on the M/F/M/ side, you know what I mean? When they kissed, when Dustin made Dieter suck on his fingers (As Dieter’s mouth wraps around his fingers, you feel a warm bead of pre-cum drip onto your skin. Damn…) when Reader lays back and tells Dieter “I want to see what you’re like with men,” and they just. went for it. LOVED it.

There’s so much I want to comment on, but instead I’ll give you some passages that made my heart ache…

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. 

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. 

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.

“I don’t seem to regret you. Even though sometimes it’d be better if I did.”

It’s so beautiful and so bittersweet. It’s so good 😭 

And some lines that made… other places ache…

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.

“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.”

“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?”

Your Dustin is lowkey a fucking menace, jesus... Which genuinely surprised me so much!!!! But also the 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. made me laugh so hard.

THE ENDING IS SO FUN??? It’s so creative and I love the promise of more between these three. I’ve attached Dieter to this email for obvious transparency reasons. He says he’d gladly help me carry your canvas (figuratively and literally). made me giggle.

Miranda, this was so fantastic. I said it before but I love the way you work in all these emotions so seamlessly, while never losing any of the sincerity in the process, it's so admirable. Your word choices, your analogies and metaphors, the way you picked such an unconventional relationship for this and made it work... You're an amazing writer, I am in awe of you, and I love this story so much!

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?

[thats-a-mood-gabriella]

We talk a lot about how Blitz represents freedom to Stolas, and that's very much true. But we don't talk about the fact that he represents the same thing to others, too.

His first meeting with Moxxie, Moxxie only starts to smile when Blitz mentions that he needs to get home to his daughter, clearly demonstrating that here is a dad who cares about his kid. After the upbringing Moxxie has with Crimson, how eye opening would it be to step out of that world for the first time and immediately see that families don't have to be like that? Blitz is clearly doing crime just like his dad, hence how Blitz ended up in jail, but he's nothing like the cold hearted, abusive father that Moxxie grew up with. Blitz shows him, without even meaning to, that families can be different.

His first meeting with Millie, she's accepted the place that society says is hers. She even goes so far as to reinforce it to other imps; "imps don't work for themselves." "we don't deserve this." And Blitz shows her that she can be anything she wants, can have agency over her own life. He offers her the freedom to break out of the box she's been stuffed into by the world.

Blitz meets Loona at the pound. He didn't go there looking for a daughter, but he found a teenage girl being told she's worthless and will never matter to anyone or anything. He sees his own childhood in her and he says not again, not if I can help it. So he takes her home and what does he do? He tells her, over and over again, that she's perfect. Sure, he's sometimes more indulgent than he probably should be, but imagine how freeing it was for Loona, to not only literally be freed from a cage but then to have her adoptive father spend every day telling her that they were lying. She's perfect. She's wonderful. She can do anything she wants. She matters.

But see, that's what Blitz does! Just by being himself, just by refusing to be what society says he should be (imps don't work for themselves, they're the lowest of the low) (a criminal must be hard and ruthless, even within their own family; there is no room for softness, loyalty, or love) (you are worthless and will never amount to anything), he shows each of them a way to be free of whatever other people say they "should" be, just as he's done for Stolas. He's awakened ALL of them.

Please someone stage an intervention where they all tell him how he's made their lives better.

[beanarie]

here's another scene for the fic i posted a day or two ago. alternate title: rip philip buckley.

the messenger part two

"I don't want to go," Evan said.

Tommy glanced up from the flight listings on his tablet. Since finishing his delayed shower (alone), Evan had perched on the far end of the bed with his back turned. "All anyone there knew was a nineteen year-old who failed at everything. It- It was never home."

Tommy put the tablet aside. "Evan, I don't give a shit if you go or not." That was blunt even for him, bordering on cruel, but Evan gave a watery laugh. He heard what Tommy didn't say. You're the only thing I care about. Make the decision that's right for you.

Evan made a sad sound and crawled into Tommy's arms. "She's going to be so much," he grated out, his head against Tommy's chest. It wasn't comfortable. Evan ran warm as a baseline. Tonight he felt like he had a fever. "I don't think I can handle it. But I can't- I can't do that to Maddie. What kind of garbage person would make her deal with that alone?"

Tommy ran his fingers through Evan's damp hair. "Maddie won't be alone." Her husband was literally one of the best people Tommy had ever met. Howie had grabbed her hands the instant she and Evan had separated, and hadn't let go of her the entire time. He'd still been holding on when they'd left, Evan bringing up the rear toting a sleeping Jee-Yun.

"Not the same," Evan said, which was true, but Tommy didn't care, not right then.

Tommy looked over at his buzzing phone. "Listen-"

Evan didn't shake. He vibrated, a low level hum throughout his body. "Just let me pretend for a minute that we're not going."

"Okay."

One hand made a loose fist, gathering the fabric of Tommy's shirt at the small of his back. "We're gonna stay here on the other side of the country while they bury my dad. I won't have to hear my mom crying like her heart is in worse shape than his was. No one will tell me I'm a bad son who never came to visit."

Tommy rested his chin on the top of Evan's head. An angle his neck didn't enjoy, but it was worth it. "If anyone so much as thinks that in your direction, I will punch them in the throat."

Evan ran his fingers down Tommy's forearm. "They didn't even tell us he was having surgery."

"Would it have helped?" Tommy asked in all sincerity. They'd both witnessed death numerous times. Was it better when loved ones could see the loss coming? Not always.

"I don't know," Evan admitted. "But things were- they were better, you know? We talked on purpose sometimes and it went fine. I don't understand why they didn't at least tell Maddie."

"Do you think she'll try to throw it in your face at some point?"

Evan flinched, proving Tommy's guess had hit its mark. "God, I- I hate thinking of her that way. She's my mom."

"Motherhood doesn't come with emotional regulation, unfortunately."

"She was better," Evan said again. He exhaled loudly. "Maybe it- it won't be so bad."

"Maybe. I'm here regardless."

After a moment of silence, Evan lifted himself up with a hand on either side of Tommy's hips. They kissed quietly, and he laid his forehead on Tommy's shoulder. "What did I do," he asked, almost to himself. "What did I do to deserve you?"

If pressed, Tommy could rattle off a list. But Evan didn't need to hear about his willingness to set himself on fire for someone he loved, or about how he could see in a glance that Tommy was having a bad day, about how quickly he'd learned what Tommy needed at times like those. "You were you. That's all you ever needed to be."

[autistichalsin]

"What is it like to be so uncaring? I wish I could spend a day being as unempathetic as them. (Unspoken: What's the point of having empathy anymore?")

This is a sentiment that I've seen so many others express, and myself have kinda had to work through too, in the past 24 hours.

And it's a damn good question, isn't it? The people who care for no one but themselves- and worse, who actively want to hurt others not like them- won. They got everything they wanted. Meanwhile, good, kind people lost, and are now being mocked. "Triggered, liberals?"

So what's the point, then? Why should we care anymore?

It's one of those questions where you really have to be your own guide with that. We live in a world that punishes kindness and tries its best to beat it out of people, and sometimes it's tiring to do so.

But I answered that question myself and maybe my answer will help some of you.

In a world like ours, kindness is an act of defiance. Becoming cruel/callous/selfish feeds in to the reality they peddled to steal American democracy for good. By being kind, you remind them that not everyone is like them. And believe me, under their taunting, under their cries of "own the libs", this unsettles them. Kindness is an act of resistance. Love is an act of resistance. You are telling them that they will never change who you fundamentally are, they won't take away the things that make you better than them. And there is nothing evil people hate more than reminders that not everyone is evil!!! Do you remember that scene from The Dark Knight where the Joker had a group of prisoners and ordinary citizens on two ferries with bombs to blow up the other's ship, expecting them to hit the button- but no one did, because they wouldn't take the others' lives? And how utterly baffled he was? Your continued compassion enrages fascists.

You are gaining so much more from remaining kind and empathetic than you can understand. Yes, the ones who lack it won and will get to abuse people, but they lack human connection, and most of theirs are shallow. Alpha male types don't enjoy close friendships; Matt Walsh himself said he never had a friend say he loved him, Tucker Carlson's mom hated him so much that she left him $1 in her will, and Donald Trump's wives only ever married him for his power and status. The few connections they have lack depth and care and genuineness. Sure, they have families, sometimes, who love/care for them. But it is a very different kind of love because it is conditional. That's the only kind of love they know. "Be like me, espouse my values, and then I will love you." They disown their queer children, they fear their wives being independent or their husbands being 'soft.' The instant they become "wrong" in some way, they'll be discarded. You, in seeking relationships with people who genuinely love you for you- and offering that in turn- are never going to know that terror.

You deserve to be loved. You deserve to get to continue to feel the full range of human emotion, which does and should include compassion and empathy and love. You don't deserve to have to give that up just to survive this dystopian hellscape. You deserve better and if this country has failed too much to give you better, you should still at least hold on to what scraps of better you can find.

Things are about to get worse in nearly every aspect; financially, socially, geopolitically, I could go on. Staying your authentic self- loving and compassionate- is one of the only ways you are going to be able to survive what's coming, because you'll need support, and so will those around you.

Not going to numb to what's happening is the literal only way we can fix this. And I'm going to be blunt here, no fix is coming in our lifetimes. We're going to try and salvage something in the future we aren't ever going to see here. But that makes retaining your fundamental kindness even more important, because when there's nothing in it for you, the only way to keep going is to retain a love of humanity, no matter what flaws it has, because otherwise you'll get discouraged and give up. We won't get out of this, even in a few generations, without radical acts of altruism for people who are going to live here after us. They deserve your help even if they're not here yet. They NEED you.

Don't let this change who you are. Who you are is good. Who you are is perfect. You're a normal person in an utterly insane world, and this insane world won't become sane again without people like you.

[lxndrlvr]

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ . ₊๋˚˖𓍢ִ໋🦢˚ ‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋

Can't sleep?

Note: insomnia, mentions of medication, fluff, established relationship, cuddling, working late.

Pairings: Alexandra Cabot × reader

🌊*ੈ✩‧₊˚

It's the typical sunday evening, you're busy typing in your laptop to go over your lessons over and over again, making sure you didn't miss anything. As a professor, you were quite used to staying up late to finish everything. It was a great excuse, really. You can always finish your work during the day, but still chose to do it during night time as an excuse to stay up, especially when you're over at your girlfriend's apartment. It took some time for you to adjust, as you weren't really a night owl. It all started when you caught alex outside your shared bedroom, sitting on the couch watching your favorite show. She was just staring blankly, which worried you. She didn't even realize your lingering gaze behind her, it was only when you wrapped your arms around her waist did she snap out of her trance and slightly jumped from the sudden contact. Immediately deflating in your arms once she realized it was only you, her exhaustion evident in her eyes. She closed her eyes when your lips touched her forehead, then to her cheek, down to her neck. Smothering her with kisses, which made her let out a soft sigh, cherishing this moment.

“Would you mind telling me why you're still up?” you spoke in a gentle tone, one that alex has grown used to. Ones that she craved during her vulnerable moments, your gentleness. A contrast to the harsh events happening in her life, constantly haunting her for as long as she can remember.

Of course you knew something was wrong, alex was more quiet than usual. You also noticed her being tense earlier this morning before leaving for work, her hands behind her neck. A habit of hers whenever she's troubled, poor baby.

“I can't sleep” she quietly replied, her eyes looked glassy. It was the first time you saw her in her vulnerable state, and your first instinct was to wrap her in a warm embrace.

“Something bothering you, hmm?” you took off her glasses, then tied her hair up in a messy bun. Taking advantage of her current relaxed demeanor, you pressed another kiss to her cheeks. Glancing at the table, you noticed some pills scattered from an open bottle. Melatonin.

Alex glanced at where you were looking, and letting out a long exhausted sigh, curling into a small ball inside your arms. How couldn't you have noticed? You blamed yourself for being so blind, it doesn't take a genius to know that those pills are her medication for insomnia. Alex was suffering from insomnia, despite having learned medicine from your mother, you didn't notice Alex's situation and how bad it has gotten. That even until now, you still felt guilty that there's only so much you could do in your power to make her feel better. Long story short, everytime you visited alex, you always made sure to stay up with her.

At first, even when you forced yourself to stay up, you always end up falling asleep in her arms. It was the other way round, alex couldn't help but find your efforts adorable that even when she disliked the idea of you going to an extent of staying up, even though you loved to sleep, it was nice to know that you cared enough to make efforts for her. No matter how many times she refused, you were persistent.

Your visits happened more often, especially when you knew Alex just got back from the court. You always brought groceries, and she always cooks for you. It's been months of continuing this routine, nothing changed much except for the fact that alex doesn't feel alone anymore. Sure, she was still insomniac but having you by her side eased her up. You had always expressed how grateful you were that alex is your girlfriend, unbeknownst to you, you were the best thing that happened to her. She didn't know what she did to deserve you, nor did she know what you see in her.

Back to present, as you were typing in your laptop, you felt the bed sink a little. You turned your head to face your girlfriend, smiling softly, noticing her drowsy state. She was wearing the silly fuzzy matching pajama that you bought for you and her, at first she called it silly, but now it's one of her favorite things to wear to sleep.

“Are you done with your tea?” you asked, absentmindedly pulling her in your arms. You closed your laptop, putting it on top of the bedside table.

“Yes” she paused, then continued. “Are you done with your work?”

“Mhmm.” you chuckled, what alex didn't realize was that her words were starting to become incoherent the more she spoke. Her drowsiness making it hard for her to realize her current state.

“Can we sleep now?” alex hummed, pulling away from your grasp as she watched as you frowned from the sudden change of heart. Alex shook her head, smiling at your antics as she pulled you back in for a hug, this time, she was the big spoon.

“Please.” that was the last thing you said as you both drifted off to sleep, the warm blanket wrapped around your warm bodies, glued together. A perfect way to end the day.

[waaayoutofline]

Murder On The Dancefloor (part 1)

(from the When the Cat and the Mouse Go For a Midnight Dance series)

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x F!Reader

Prompt: Vigilante!Reader x Agent!Natasha

Summary: Natasha isn’t having the best of luck in trying to bring one of the ex Hydras general down. You however may be able to assist her. Will you two be able to cooperate? Or is it your fate to always stand on opposite teams?

Warnings: None in this chapter.

WORD COUNT: 2510 (give or take)

A/N: Hello!! So, this is heavily inspired by the song Murder on the Dance Floor (duh). I think it really suits the dynamic between Agent Natasha and Vigilante!Reader, and I thought, okay, let’s actually write it instead of just thinking about it and eventually forgetting. There are a few changes from the canon universe. In this AU, the Avengers didn’t separate after the Sokovia Accords (I’m a child of divorce, okay), so they’re a real family here. Peter is also part of the team and was never forgotten by every single human except, well Hulk (he deserves better). Natasha is alive and well, along with Yelena.And finally (last thing, I promise), this will be part of a mini-series. Maybe with three parts.That’s about it. Enjoy, and thanks for reading! :)

//

It was too late to do this. Natasha rubbed off the tiredness of her eyes for what must be the fifth time in the last fifteen minutes. This was getting ridiculous.

”…What if-“

“For the last Yelena, we are not committing arson.” The blonde grunted at the quick dismissal, sliding down the synthetic, black leather chair. Crossing her arms with a tired pout, she didnt look much to different from the six year old girl Natahsa remembered. The clock in the conference room is getting more obnoxious by the second, as if teasing them to not having an answer yet.

Across the room, the sulked eyes of Benjamin Horvat were looking right back at her. His picture was poorly pinned, hanging unconventionally by a small blade (courtesy of Yelena) on the board. Steve wont be happy when he sees it.

”It would be a small one! It wouldn’t be that hard, just some small fires around some of his clubs, see if there is any luck and make him come out. Quick and subtle.”

”There is nothing subtle in that plan Yelena.” Natahsa turns down again dryly.

It’s been six hours since Yelena payed a visit to the renovated compound, bringing her 5 month old puppy Fanny (which is currently being spoiled by Wanda and Peter). She came in with new dirt onto a possible Hydra ex-officer, one of a depressing long list that the team has yet to tackle down. Most of them ran when SHIELD fell down.

The two of them plus Steve and Bucky, managed to get intel on Benjamin’s Horvat. He was currently involved is some kind of shady precious gem business, along owning some expensive clubs that served as covers for the mafia. At first glance, you’d say that he was just another second class criminal. But that as far as aparences went. Because people like him were worth something, he was heavily guarded.

His intel was precious enough to make him valuable and well-protected. Access to him seemed almost impossible.

The worst part was that he didn’t even bother using conventional transport. Even after combing through all national surveillance, he didn’t appear on any of the cameras. Not even Redwing, Sam’s beloved drone, had managed to get a clear visual of him. It was almost as if he’d gone underground (which he hadn’t—Natasha checked). And despite his love for nightlife, the clubs he owned and frequented were highly exclusive, each with multiple layers of security clearance.

After a long evening, both Steve and Bucky called it a night, but the two sisters were too stubborn to let it go. They were both running out of ideas—or, in Yelena’s case, running through a list of increasingly dangerous, borderline illegal suggestions. Eventually, exhaustion began to take over, and the blonde started dozing off, her head slipping forward as sleep crept up on her. Natasha wasn’t far behind, her eyelids drooping as the hours dragged on.

But then—a sharp, static crackle echoed through the speakers, jolting both women awake. Instinctively, they snapped into defensive stances, eyes darting to the screens around the room as they flickered in a disorienting pattern of black and white, struggling to stabilize.

Finally, the screens gave a clear image, revealing a shadowy figure cloaked in darkness.

“Night, ladies! Glad to see you’re still awake,” a teasing, lilting voice echoed through the speakers. “Huh, take out from Luigi’s huh? Their pizza rolls are to die for.”

Natasha’s eyes widened, a flicker of recognition sparking across her face. Her posture shifted, shoulders squaring as an unconscious surge of energy overtook her weariness. It can’t be.

“I’d prefer pizza bites. Who are you?” Yelena asked, mirroring Natasha as she stood up. She’d clearly sensed the change in Natasha’s demeanor.

The redhead grabbed the tablet on the table next to her, attempting to trace the breach, but the system was completely overridden. Whoever this was shouldn’t have been able to slip past their security. She called for FRIDAY, but the AI didn’t respond.

“Aw, come on, not even a hello? Do you know how long I spent trying to surpass that stupid robot of yours?” the voice continued playfully. “It’s been a while, Natty. I thought you’d be glad to see me—or, well, hear me.”

Natasha’s face remained painfully stoic, but her white-knuckled grip on the tablet betrayed her turmoil. She knew this person loved theatrics, but even for them, this was going too far. “How many times have I told you not to call me that.” Natasha grunts in annoyance, a headache already starting to set in. There is a brief silence. She can practically see your pout from here.

“Geez, so grumpy.”

Yelena watches the exchange with curiosity, somehow not detecting a real threat. “I sense some... history here.”

“There is!”

“There is not!”

Both women snapped at Yelena, making her eyes widen as she instinctively stepped back, lifting her hands in mock surrender. “Ha, when you say that, it usually means there is…” she stated, amused.But the sentence died under Natasha’s withering stare. “Alright, just an observation. Geez, you are grumpy.” she muttered under her breath. Catching Natasha’s warning look, Yelena slid back into the chair, still grinning despite herself.

“Can we focus?” Natasha said, voice clipped.

Yelena just shrugged, casting a glance between the two of you.

“Oh, come on, don’t get shy on me, Agent Romanoff. Is it because we haven’t had our little “I run, you go after me” sessions recently?” You teased. “I promise, you’re the only one I let chase after me.”

It’s true that its been a while since you have gone under the radar. Even if you weren’t out committing your little revendouz vigilantes acts, Natasha still couldn’t help to keep an eye out for you. It wouldn’t be the first time that you took a mini sabbatical and returned with more messes for her to clean up.

Finally, from the shadows, a woman stepped a young woman, posture relaxed, radiating an air of practiced confidence. You wore your typical casual clothes, a fitted jacket and a crop under it. Your face was partially obscured by the lighting, but Natasha could see a few loose strands of hair escaping, catching faintly in the room’s dim light. Chest rising up and down rather fastly. It’s like you just returned from somewhere.

Your eyes, bright yet focused, lingered on Natasha with an amused glint. The faintest smirk played at the corner of your mouth, an expression that made Natasha feel strangely restless. There was something in that permanent look of yours that always kept her on edge.

“Who are you?” Yelena blurted out.

You gasped dramatically, resting a hand on your chest as if genuinely wounded. “Why, you hurt me, Agent! Didn’t you tell her anything about me? And here I was, starting to think that I meant something to you.”

Natasha sighed in exasperation, her gaze still scanning for any sign of how you managed to break in. But it was as if you’d been authorized from the inside. She knew you were good, hidden behind that playful demeanor, but it was exhausting how you always seemed one step ahead. “There’s nothing to tell,” Natasha replied curtly, “besides the fact that you’re a pain.”

You huffed in false offender , crossing your arms. “Archenemies would have sufficed. Besides, that is no way to greet someone who can help you with Horvat.”

Both of them froze at the name. Giving up, the redhead throws the device on the table, getting slightly closer to the TV and crossing her arms. If this was going where she thought it was, caution was very much need. Especially with you.

“A little…birdie, told me that we have, for once, a common enemy. Excluding each other of course.” You smiled at the last sentence, but your eyes were bright with a dangerous spark.

“He’s not as unreachable as you may think. I guess that by now you have figured that he frequents the nightclubs in the Lower East Side. He is supposed to assist to an event tomorrow at night. Just our luck, right?”

Natasha’s brows furrowed. “Our? What, exactly, do you want with Horvat? Did he make it onto your little blacklist?” She scowled, still irritated by the last man you’d managed to eliminate right under her nose.

As if reading her thoughts, you let out a light, teasing laugh. “Ah, well, I wouldn’t exactly call it little,” you said, an amused glint in your eye.

Natasha huffed under her breath, visibly displeased with your evasiveness. “What’s in it for you?”

Your smile faded just slightly, and for a moment, a flicker of real purpose showed through the facade. “Let’s just say he has something I need. Something personal.”

Natasha’s eyes narrowed, her suspicion unwavering. “And how in the world would you ever entertain the thought of me agreeing to work together?”

“Because you’re stuck,” you shot back, your voice sharper than usual. “Let’s be real, Romanoff—if I could do this alone, I wouldn’t be here. But not even you can’t get to him on your own. And…neither can I.” You admitted through your teeth. The playful glint softened, replaced by an intensity Natasha hadn’t quite seen from you before.

“I need someone who won’t mess it up if I’m going to get to him,” you continued, the amused mask slipping just a bit more. “That’s where you come in. I mean, who better to handle some undercover work than the Black Widow herself?” The slight provocation didn’t go unnoticed, but Natasha’s mind was already racing with possibilities.

The room fell into silence, the ticking clock on the wall seeming louder than ever as Natasha’s eyes bore into yours, as if trying to see every hidden motive. Perhaps she should just go fetch Wanda. Still, she held herself steady, determined to avoid letting any trace of intrigue slip. It only took a spark for you to create a fire.

Yelena, sensing the tension between the two of you growing sharper by the second, finally cut in, a note of exasperation in her voice. “So… how could you get us in—”

“Yelena, no.” Natasha cut her off sharply, her posture rigid and unyielding. “We are not entertaining this. And I’m certainly not working with her,” she added, the cold in her tone unmistakable. She turned her gaze back to you, her expression filled with deep distrust. “She does nothing but trick and deceive, and I’m not about to let her pull us into a mess.”

You held her gaze steadily, a flicker of hurt passing through your eyes—brief enough for Natasha to notice. She shook her head sturborling, she couldn’t afford to feel any remorse for you. But as quickly as the emotion came, it vanished, and you rolled your eyes playfully. That was something that sparked Natasha’s curiosity. Just like herself in the past (maybe still now at times) it seemed as if you had a mask. She didn’t know exactly how genuine that unserious facade, the one you always seemed to hide behind, truly was.

“So distrustful and uptight as always, I see. Tell me, has she always been this way?” you asked, looking at the blonde. Yelena shrugged, starting to answer but clamping her mouth shut as Natasha arched an eyebrow in warning.

“Look, I’m not thrilled about this either. But it’s the only way. Believe me, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think so,” you said, your tone uncharacteristically steady. “I’ll even compromise and act like one of your ‘goody-two-shoes’ heroes.” You almost gagged on the words. “Swear I’ll play by your rules, as long as it gets us to him. If there’s one thing about me, it’s that I don’t lie. Have I ever lied to you, Natasha?”

There was no mockery in your voice this time, just an unexpected sincerity. Natasha paused, caught off guard. Had you deceived her? Absolutely. Tricked her? Too many times to count, wounding her pride each time. But lied, outright and blankly, right to her face? As shocking as it was, she couldn’t recall a single instance. No matter the game, you’d always been blunt about what you were going to do.

Yelena, noticing Natasha’s hesitation, leaned in. “сестра (sister), maybe… maybe she has a point. We’re no closer to him on our own. And if she can get us in…”

Natasha looked at her, seeing the reason in her words, though every fiber of her instinct fought against trusting you. After a long pause, she rubbed her temples, exhaling heavily. As sad as it was, there wasn’t any better option. But to admit that she had no other option than to work with you, of all people, was burning her pride.

“Fine.”

Yelena gave a small fist pump of victory, relief lighting her face after the hours they’d spent trying to come up with a solid plan. Meanwhile, you grinned, satisfaction gleaming in your eyes.

“But—” Natasha cut in, fixing you with a hard look. “No tricks, no double-crossing. As you said before, do this by my rules, is that clear?”

You raised an eyebrow, a glimmer of your usual defiance flashing in your expression. “Well, I mean… it is my plan so technically—”

“My. Rules.” Natasha repeated, her voice dropping to a dangerously low tone that left little room for argument. Her stare bore into you, unyielding, and the confidence in your face faltered just a bit. “Understood?”

You swallowed, any spark of rebellion snuffed out under the intimidating weight of her gaze. “Understood,” you muttered, a hint of surprising, begrudging compliance in your tone.

“Oooh, scary mean glare,” Yelena muttered under her breath, clearly entertained as she watched you two bickering. A mischievous glint in her eye, she leaned back, curious to see how will play out between you two. Perhaps she should pay visits more often.

“Enlighten us, then. What in the world does this great plan, legal plan of yours involve?” Natasha inquires dryly. Another cheeky grin on your face was enough for her to know that she won't like it in the slightest. It was almost sinister, how much you enjoyed to push her bottons.

”Well…that answer can vary. How are your dance moves, Agent Romanoff?

Clearly baffled, she didnt have time to answer when someone blasted through the door, startling all three of you. “You! Are you the one you hacked FRIDAY?” demanded a frantic Tony Stark, dressed in Iron Man-themed pajamas, bags under his eyes and a steaming coffee pot in hand labeled “#1 Best Hero” (a gift from Peter). Honestly, Natahsa is a firm believer that he bought it himself but whatever.

You giggled almost manically. “Oops, that’s my cue! Talk to you later to get into details, Agent.” You practically purred, teasingly waving goodbye before cutting the connection in one swift motion. Natasha was met with her reflection on the now dark screen, your last words hanging heavily on the air.

Natasha drops on the chair heavily, grunting and rubbing her temples while looking at the roof in despair. How does she always end up in these situations?

[khchn]

I only influence people into the good kind of bad habits. Everyone deserves a little guilty pleasure every now and then. I wouldn't trust me doll, if your car suddenly blows up after my advice then it's nothing to do with me. I'll have you sign a waiver before I give you any car advice. Jesus Emily, you don't even know who Lewis Hamilton is? He's a race car driver, goes really fast on tracks. I don't actually know how good his knowledge is on the inner workings of a vehicle is though. I'm all for doing dumb shit Em, but setting my own snort laugh as my ringtone is just taking it to far. People will think I have a real self obsession. I don't need the public thinking I'm weirder than I am. I'll make sure I get a really big bag to carry you around in, my little high maintenance poodle. Cat can be an Italian Greyhound. As much as I love Cat, I think Mae would be a little better with the tech, she has the patience of a saint. Although I'm sure she's already so annoyed with me and stupid questions. They probably thought we walked in best friends and came out enemies with the way we spoke to each other. It's a good job we love each other. I'm looking forward to the next escape room we do. Oh I love it when you use my full name, say it again! Why only two questions? Why are you keeping her a secret? Is she that bad? Okay two questions, first one, what's her name? That's because I don't really want to be thinking about Bradley's penis thank you. I bet that hurts, have you ever broken a man's dick before? He might have, but I just can't get past how much he hurt her when they broke up, I wouldn't have forgiven a man for that. That's if Marvel will keep me, maybe they will, maybe they won't. My lips are sealed, not like we're ever told anything.

Doesn't sound like you at all, now that you put it that way. You're everyone's greatest influence. Maybe I'll have to start using you for car advice. Even if you're not...whoever that is...I'll gladly listen to you in that department. That's the nicest way you ever could've put it, Kat. And I adore your snort laugh. May as well make it your ringtone. But yay for me being a poodle! I think I fit the high maintenance and wants to be carried around everywhere bill on that front. I'd rather go to your daughter for the tech advice, I'm sure she's only going to be mildly annoyed at all of our questions. You saw us in that escape room in Austria, I think the poor person working was over the bickering and the inability to get anything done. Don't full name me, Kathryn Hahn, but I now feel fully able to confirm your suspicions. But in order to curb your insatiable knowledge, you are allowed only two questions about her. They could be breaking other things, like his dick, but I can't believe I managed to say that before you. You have to admit that Bradley's kinda...evened out since they had Willow. I don't know why it still has to be such a battle with you two. You are more than able to keep yourself working, ma'am. You're really doing amazing things these days with Marvel, something I could never dream of doing.

[real-fire-emblem-takes]

I got a break from work so I’m gonna write this.

Hi, I was the anon that wrote about dimidue and emblaskr (guess that’s the ship name) earlier and the problematic biases underlining both (moreso with Askr and Embla).

Also, I absolutely do not hate Askr, he’s my favorite character, but I did want to hide my identity in that previous take as much as possible since Embla’s a pretty popular character. But it was cowardly of me. The rest of this post is going to elaborate on why Emblaskr is problematic and reflects racist trends in the media.

If Embla truly loved Askr, she would have never tried to hurt him so gravely. Invading his kingdom, trying to kill everyone he holds dear…that isn’t love. That’s obsession, jealousy, selfishness. When he died, I believe it was less that she cared about him, but more that she lost the chance to have someone unfailingly caring about her again. It’s a matter of possession and satisfaction. She can’t have Askr. When she dies she calls out his name, but again that reinforces not her love for him, but her desire to not be alone. It is inherently selfish because even as she dies she thinks only of how she is affected. She laments being alone, not how she cares about Askr. If she cared about him, would she have ever tried to commit such terrible acts of violence and hatred against him? Never in the story do we see her atone, see her feel guilt.

Embla is all about control. Controlling her people, controlling those that go to Askr, controlling Askr even. Because she doesn’t want him to be happier than her. She wants him at her level.

TV Tropes has an article called the Black Best Friend. Askr isn’t confirmed as black, but he is a poc character, and this trope can affect non-black poc as well. The details of this trope are quite similar to how Askr is. For the sake of length I’ll only go through a few.

Askr “is used simply as a means to make the white character look better.“ Without him, Embla would never have received her Freudian excuse. She would have been the equivalent of Surtr without Askr’s existence.

Askr is “flawless to the point of being unreal.“ He is unimaginably perfect. He has no flaws, no deep seated issues to speak of. One can argue he may not have been a good listener to Embla in their flashback, but the problem is that this isn’t an issue that is talked about or delved into. He is also a bit oblivious, but again, this is ignored. It would have been great if Bruno called Askr out for his ignorance and seeming apathy, but it doesn’t happen. What about how he and his sister suffered due to Embla’s bitterness? I would have loved Bruno calling Askr out for trying to paint a sympathetic picture of Embla in front of him, since his life was ruined by and ultimately taken by her later on. And I would have loved if Askr reflected on that, apologized, and realized that he himself does not deserve to be the long-suffering supporter of a woman who hates him and wants to destroy everything and everyone he loves. But this doesn’t happen, and Askr is glossed over to be genetically perfect. We can brush him aside so we can focus on more of Embla. This isn’t good treatment of Askr. Actively ignoring facets of his character to make him bland and generic compared to the “deep” and “complex” Embla is just a symptom of racism, in trying to make sure he doesn’t overshadow her.

Askr “revolves almost entirely around a white character.” (Found in the laconic tab). As before, he is merely focused on the white Embla. He should have been a prominent character on his own, but he is instead quickly killed off (see another familiar trope on the website, Black Dude Dies First). Askr is the first prominent casualty of the book on top of having less screen time than any of the other ocs. We even see Letizia more than him, alive at least. The following times he shows up is in her memories. He provides even more development and focus for Embla!

Askr only exists to uplift the Embla, to carry her trauma and help her process it, and to no benefit of his own. She belittles him, threatens violence against him, and it’s seen as…romantic? The white female character actively engaging in war viciously attacking him and emotionally abusing him is…romantic? If this was a relationship that existed in real life, Askr would be considered a victim of abuse. And there are relationships like this in real life, sadly enough. Embla is capable of her actions and I’m sick of seeing her woobiefied by parts of the fan base. And it is her own fault that she refuses to see past her flaws. She is long past being a victim. It is not Askr’s job to handle her emotional maturity and make her better. Embla is trying to, once again, COMMIT GENOCIDE. Against HIS people! He absolutely does not need to show her kindness, nor does he need to coddle her when HE is the victim! And the audacity to imply that Askr gaining independence and being strong enough to advocate for his worth and safety is “selfish”? (Speaking to the anon whose take was a response to mine). That is wrong on so many levels.

Most of the time, nonwhite characters in media have to be paragons to be even remotely palatable to the fan base. But white characters (most often men, but sometimes women) are often given more excuses for their actions. They can be war criminals. They can be violent and petty and make mistakes. And it is absolutely problematic to DEMAND Askr be there for Embla at all times at the expense of his own mental health. What about his suffering? His pain of being cast aside? The stress he must feel over having to be perfect because if he makes ONE mistake, she snaps? Because that’s what happened! One little misunderstanding and she was lost to her own wickedness. That is frightening to think about, and shows she really was never good. She just had the privilege of being surrounded by goodness and allowed to hide in its light. It is unbelievably disgusting and unrealistic to expect someone to be unfailingly devoted as they are repeatedly broken down by someone who supposedly “loves” them.

.

[pepis-benis]

fuck it, wip wednesday

eventual swanqueen, ofc

—————

“She’s his mom, Mary Margaret! I don’t know what else to tell you! She clothed him, fed him, took care of him when he was sick, taught him to walk and talk and all sorts of other things! I didn’t do any of that! He’s my kid, yeah, and I love him more than I thought I’d ever be able to love anything. But the first thing I did? I gave him up.”

“Emma, don’t say that. You were giving him-“

“Yes! His best chance. I gave him up, for him to have his best chance in life. And it was Regina. I know you fucking hate that it’s Regina, and I get it, really. But look at Henry. He’s so good! He’s so good that it hurts sometimes. I would think about him, wondering how he was, who he was. I always hoped he’d be okay; he got better than okay. Henry got everything I ever wanted him to have. Everything I wished I had gotten. Not just food, clean clothes, and a place to sleep. Henry got someone who loved him.”

Snow opened her mouth again. Emma didn’t let her get a word in.

“How can you tell me Regina doesn’t love Henry? He’s so polite and smart and funny and caring! Henry cares so much about the things he loves, the people he loves, and that’s because he has someone who loves and supports him. She’s everything he’s ever had, Mary Margaret, and there’s no world in which I can take that from him. Either of them, actually. How fucking cruel would I be if I took a kid from his mom, huh? Just because I think I’d be better? Because I’m good and she’s evil?” Emma missed the pain that crossed her mother’s face, ignoring how her mouth closed tightly, lips pressed impossibly thin. Her brain had started scrambling, letting out any and every thought she had about Regina. She had been doing a lot of thinking, and yeah, most of it had been about Regina. “I know she’s done horrible things, things I don’t want to dwell on, things I don’t want Henry to hear about. She’s different now, and she deserves as much of a chance as anyone else to prove it. You can’t raise a kid like Henry and be the same person she was; it doesn’t make sense.” Emma finished lamely. Snow was quiet, digesting Emma’s tirade as she leaned against the counter. Emma glanced toward the table, finding that Henry and David had migrated to the living room area of the loft.

Regret filled her when she saw Henry’s bowed head, David speaking in a low, calm voice. She hadn’t wanted Henry to be aware of the arguments surrounding his other mother. He already had too much knowledge of her past, and Emma hated to taint his view of her anymore than it had been. She left Snow in the kitchen without another word, making her way to her son.

“You have to go home, Henry,” Emma said gently, resting her hand on her son’s shoulder as he slumped on the couch in resignation. David stood, giving her an apologetic look before taking Snow out of the loft for a walk. “I’m sorry you heard all that, but it is the truth.” He finally turned to look at her, his eyes wet.

“I miss her, I really do. I know she was bad, but I love her, Emma,” Henry said, voice thick. Emma wrapped her arms around him, eyes beginning to sting with tears. “People change, right?” he asked into her shoulder.

“All the time, kid. And your mom changed a long time ago, she was just scared of it.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You changed her, Henry. Everything she’s done since you came to her was for you. She hasn’t been evil, she just didn’t know how to protect you any other way. Now she doesn’t have to protect you alone.”

“But she was trying to hurt you at first”

“I was a threat, Hen. I know that might not make sense to you, but she saw me trying to take you away. And I can’t do that to her. I was never trying to do that. I want what’s best for you, and she does, too. We can find a way for us to all be happy.”

“Like a family?”

“Yeah, like a family. Nothing would make me happier.”

[alpacacare-archive]

day twoe ah haha

[inamindfarfaraway]

I would find Blondie Lockes very annoying in real life, but I love her in fiction. She's a genuinely good journalist in terms of both skill and ethical integrity, who only occasionally forgets to check the facts because she's fifteen and holds herself accountable when she does. She has incredibly high standards for everything and believes herself to be the ultimate authority on quality. She has magical lockpicking powers because her fairytale is about Goldilocks breaking into a house. She somehow completely ignores the story's moral that Goldilocks was wrong to break into the house, feels entitled to go wherever and help herself to whatever she's able to and cannot comprehend why people dislike this. She's been terrorizing an anthropomorphic bear family with her cheerful disrespect for privacy and is convinced that they love her. She has a non-anthropomorphic pet baby bear. Her motivation is dependence on external approval rooted in deeply internalized classism. She's desperate to be useful and important to those with higher social status and feels the need to lie that her family is technically royalty to fit in with her royal friends, even though they treat commoners like equals all the time. She positions herself as a conduit of true greatness; closer to it than the masses, but never the hero, always reporting on other people and evaluating what they've done. Because what she's done isn't enough to be worthwhile. What she is isn't enough. But this performative lifestyle makes her anxious about being judged as a fraud and an interloper, and ashamed of selfishly transgressing against social norms. Her microphone head looks like an adorable little bear head. That's one hex of a character alright.