#white rambler

[tinyshe]

[taco-moment-certifier]

Alright i'm finally doing the "spell your url with songs title" that i saw @abibeur do once

Was a lot of work and I would've liked to put more things in it but oh well

The Fight by The Protomen All Black by clipping. Contaminado by La Femme Orinoco Flow by Enya

Movie (Never Made) by A Silver Mt. Zion One-Winged Angel (Extended Mix) by SiIvagunner Mourir pour des idées by Georges Brassens El Mañana by Gorillaz No Church In The Wild by Jay-Z and Kanye West Teardrop by Massive Attack

Can't Say Goodbye To Yesterday by Carla White End Of Forever by Samsara Blues Experiment Rhinestone Cowboy by Madvillain The Model by Kraftwerk I'm A Fucking Emperor by jazzwave Fire by The Crazy World of Arthur Brown I Cento Passi by Modena City Ramblers Et si nous n'avions pas été là l'histoire aurait été la même mais racontée par d'autres by Diabologum Régions Fédérées by Stupeflip

[mudwerks]

(via Charlie Poole & The North Carolina Ramblers-White House Blues (September 20, 1926)

Roosevelt in the White House drinking out of a silver cup McKinley in the graveyard, he'll never wake up He's gone a long, long time

[hififotos]

69 AMC Rambler.

[rcgality]

Dining Kitchen Inspiration for a mid-sized 1960s galley brown floor and medium tone wood floor eat-in kitchen remodel with an undermount sink, flat-panel cabinets, quartz countertops, gray backsplash, stainless steel appliances, an island, medium tone wood cabinets and black countertops

[sivangifs]

DC Metro Vinyl Exterior

[readychilledwine]

Hiii helloooo. Back with another request that popped into my brain if it interests you enough to write it into existence ✨ so Az lives in an apartment/condo in velaris that he rents from an old high fae lady who owns the building and she also lives there with her granddaughter (YN/reader/OC) who is def his mate but they dance around it for her sake (and her poor old grandmother’s lol) since she’s still young for a fae. Oh and idk why but I imagine Az having a cat that reader takes care of while he’s on missions. Once a week, without fail, Az has breakfast with the old lady and her granddaughter. If he’s going on an extended mission, he always lets them know he won’t make it and he tells them in person or sends his shadows with the message. One time, he gets severely injured before he’s able to send word that he won’t make it to breakfast. The old lady sends her granddaughter to the townhouse to look for Az and feyre or cassian answers the door and is completely baffled that a girl and her cat are asking around for the spymaster. Like “well he didn’t come for breakfast today and he ALWAYS comes for breakfast and grandma was worried and so was (insert cute cat name) and she wouldn’t stop yowling so I had to bring her to look for him too” reader is def an awkwardly endearing rambler. (And if the cat is buddies with his shadows that would be totally adorable too 🥹) and then maybe it ends off with her (gently) smacking azriel upside the head while he’s on his sickbed healing because how dare he not tell her and her grandma that he was going to get injured and miss their weekly breakfast 😡 feel free to change anything up if you end up writing it!!

The Breakfast Club

Summary - After missing breakfast unexpectedly, a hidden relationship is revealed to Azriel's family, who can't tell if they're more surprised by you or his cat.

Warnings - mentions of injury, stray kitten mentioned, fluff

💙Peep the Azriel Masterlist here💙

To say you were nervous as you approached the High Lord's townhouse was an understatement.

In the 4 all too short and unexpected years of knowing Azriel, the last of which had been spent as much more than just friends, he had never missed breakfast with you and your grandmother. And if he had, it had come with a note or prior notice.

He had not shown up today, breaking your grandma's heart as she had prepared his favorites. It had set worry into your heart, though. Worry you masked as the two of you ate in deafening silence.

You two had hidden the growing romance so well. You didn't want to ruin the illusion now and risk your grandmother becoming protective over your youth and, of course, his reputation and profession.

You held his black kitten closer to you, kissing her little white paws as she mewed softly. She had protested you leaving his apartment to look for him without her, wanting to live up to her name as you tucked her into the hooded jacket you had custom-made to carry the kitten.

The poor baby probably missed her owner, her constant companion, more than she could truly express. You were used to caring for her when he was gone, but he normally always left one or two shadows for her to play with, and today, they were gone.

You'd had a whole explanation planned, rehearsing it quietly on the walk here over and over, but it went out the window the second you opened your mouth. You rushed through the words, stumbling over them as you looked down and away from him. "EverysundayAzrielhasbreakfastwithmygrandmaandIbuthedidn'tshowuptodayandInjstwantedtoknow-"

You shook the feeling of dread building in your stomach and knocked. You would be lying if you said you were not scared when the High Lord himself answered his own door studying you like a textbook. "What can I help you with?"

Rhysand held a hand up to you, scenting the faint smell of cedar and night air that clung to you and smirking before masking it. "Breathe. Start over slower." He tilted your head up to him. "And look at me when you speak to me. You are not a mouse."

You took two deep breaths, cradling Dective Mittens closer. "My grandmother owns the apartment complex Azriel lives in," the High Lord's lip twitched, the final confirmation he needed. "And every Sunday, he had breakfast with us. The only time he doesn't, he lets us know with a shadow or a note or verbally before he leaves. He did not come today, and he was supposed to be back 3 days ago. I just wanted to know if you've heard from him?"

"You're the female he's been missing family brunch for." It wasn't a question. Just a statement. Rhysand kicked off the door frame. "Come inside. He's here. He's hurt, but he will be fine." He glared towards the small kitten in your arms. "And where did that come from?"

"Detective Mittens?" He nodded, continuing to glare. "Azriel's cat? You didn't know he had a cat? She got upset when I tried to leave her in his apartment, so I brought her with me so she'd stop crying and yowling."

Rhys pinched his noses, shoulders shaking as he chuckled. "And who named Detective Mittens?"

"Azriel? It was Detective Mittens or Princess Buttercup. She isn't a Buttercup."

His eyes were watering from laughter, shoulders fully shaking as he led you further into the house and up the stairs. He held his arms out, nodding towards the cat as he stepped in front of a room. "Stay behind me," the High lord entered with a casual grace, stopping a conversation between two deep voices. Azriel's and one you didn't know.

The black collar with a small piece of Azriel's siphon was barely visible among Mittens's long black fur. She finally freed herself, leaping into the bed and walking to lay on Azriel's chest. "How did you get here, baby?"

Mittens was immediately squirming and clawing, desperate to get to her owner and get the cuddles she had been missing. "Did you go outside and pick up a random cat, Rhysie?" A large illyrian male, Cassian, you realized, sat staring with a brow up. "Or did you steal someone's cat? It has a collar."

"Some pretty little thing was at the door. Dropped the cat off and then ran away."

A shadow had already found you, twirling into your hand and ripping you towards Azriel the best it could by itself. Soon, two more joined, then three more, then your whole arm was swallowed in darkness, pulling you to the side of the bed Cassian was not occupying. "Y/n," it came out as soft surprise, happiness underlying the tone. "Angel, what are you doing here?"

"It's Sunday." The answer hit him, and his head fell back, eyes shutting as Cassian and Rhys shared a look.

He tried to sit up, only to be stopped by Cassian's arms, guiding him back down as he winced in pain. "Angel, I'm so sorry. I-"

"Don't apologize for getting hurt," Cassian said gently. The general looked at you. "Breakfast girl?" You nodded. "One. Breakfast was mine and Azriel's thing first until you showed up," a playful glare went your way. "Two. We dropped the ball. He was hurt. Bad. And we knew he was seeing someone, but it's been kept so secret by a certain spymaster that we couldn't contact you."

"Should have just spoken to the complex owner," Rhys muttered under his breath.

You nodded. "And, will you be okay?"

Azriel was focused in Mittens, scratching her ears as she rolled over, exposing the fur of her tummy and waiting. The three of you stared in silence, watching as he cooed and baby spoke to her. Watching as a few tears slipped. "Missed you so much, my little baby. Aw, look at that belly. Y/n been doing the best job keeping it full and happy, huh?"

Rhys and Cassian both hid their smiles, the High Lord motioning for the general to leave the room. You sat on the bed, taking his free hand in yours, bringing it to your cheek and holding it there. "I was so worried."

Mittens moved to the window as if she suspected you two needed room, allowing you two alone time before she'd be back to cover Azriel in her love and warmth.

He wanted to sit up, to hold you close, but every slight movement of his core had nerves screaming in hot agony. He'd never mock Cass for being a bitch while hid guts were hanging out ever again. He settled for moving his hand to your neck, pulling you close and resting your foreheads together. "Im so sorry, y/n," he kissed your nose, eyes closing as yours did. "I got distracted, and it happened so fast I couldn't get word out."

Your hands came to rest on his bandaged chest. "What happened? You never get distracted." He smiled, a rare beautiful thong he hid from everyone but you.

"You accidently tugged the bond when you and Mittens were playing, and all I could think of was getting home to be with you two. Did you catch that stray?" He changed the subject, looking at you with hopeful eyes.

A small orange tabby had been roaming around the apartments. Short little fur "doing nothing," in Azriel's words, to protect it from the Night chill. Azriel has been smitten with it since it allowed him to feed him and get a few scratched in before a shop owner scared it away.

That was over a month ago, and you two had been playing a slow game of seduction with the kitten, praying to the cat distribution powers that they'd allow this little one to trust you both the way Mittens grew to.

"I did. He's in my apartment. Him and Mittens get along really well." As of hearing her name, a mass of black fur launched herself onto the bed, curling up on Azriel's leg that was closet to you and purring. "I named him Investigator Whiskers."

You watched Azriel melt, groaning with a smile at the matching name. You could feel through that string his growing happiness as the same family you two had accidentally made grew, too. "I love you," he whispered softly with no sign of the ice Rhys had so loudly accused him of having in his heart.

"I love you, too. I'm glad you're going to be okay." Rhys and Cassian came back in to you two resting your foreheads against each other again, eyes shut, heart beats synced in time.

It made it even more comical to them when Azriel thought nothing of your hand moving up his arm, rest in his hair before you pulled away, and smacked him. "Ow! Y/n! What the fuck!"

"That," you smirked as you caught his hand that came to playfully tug your hair, "is for worrying my grandma. She made your favorites! You broke her heart! She thinks you hate us!"

"I was hurt!"

"Excuses, excuses!" He pulled you into him, not caring if the good of you had an audience and kissed you deeply. "Mmmm, forgiven," you muttered when he pulled away.

Azriel sighed. "Rhys, can you go get grandma. I think we need to tell her some things. And have lunch."

"Lunch sounds nice," Cassian said as he took his seat and glared at you. "Breakfast theif."

"Boyfriend theif," you shot back.

The room turned into you and Cassian having a playful argument as Azriel watched, fingers scratching behind soft velvety ears. He looked at Rhys, eyes warm with joy and happiness as Rhys looked between you and Cassian, who had fallen together like a puzzle. I like her, Rhys said into his mind. Keep her.

That's the plan, Azriel replied.

General Taglist:

@hnyclover @glitterypirateduck @slytherinindisguise @mischiefmanager @bloodicka @starsinyourseyes @the-sweet-psycho @mariahoedt @rinalouu @sarawritestories @starryhiraeth @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @cumuluscranium @loneliestluvr

@elle4404

Azriel Taglist-

A/n-

Picture of my and baby daddy's kitten to pay the cat tax gods 💕

[universitycoop1]

Our yeti ramblers are a great way to keep your drink cold or hot, whether you're on the go or just want to enjoy a warm drink at home. So whatever your beverage preference, a yeti rambler 30 oz is just the right choice!

[wannab-urs]

Scandal

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x f!reader

Prompt: Forced Proximity + “You’re going to get us arrested” / “I always wanted to see you in handcuffs.”

Summary: You get locked in a closet with Dieter at the Oscars

Warnings: semi public smut; forced proximity; reader has hair that can have bobby pins in it, is able bodied, is wearing a dress, and is an actress; the barest hint of enemies to lovers, but not really. WC: 1.6k

A/N: Written for a Dieter Bravo Brainrot Server event. Thanks to @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin, @atinylittlepain, and @pr0ximamidnight for reading it for me <3

Dieter Bravo Masterlist | Main Masterlist | AO3 | Kofi

You just need to take a breather, that’s all. The Oscars can be a lot for an actress with social anxiety – there’s a million directors, former costars, and producers all vying for a conversation with you, not to mention the cameras catching you from every angle. And to make matters worse, they’ve allowed paparazzi into the lobby this year. 

There’s a coat closet just down this hallway, if you can just remember which door it is. You walk down the ornate hallway and find a door cracked open just slightly, the smell of weed emanating from the gap. You push the door open and step in, closing it tightly behind you. And you should have known from the smell alone who you’d find on the other side. 

None other than Dieter Bravo. 

“Shouldn’t have closed the door.” 

“And you shouldn’t be smoking in here. You’re stinking up everyone’s coats.”

“No, you really shouldn’t have closed the door. We’re locked in now.” 

“What?” Your voice hits a high frequency. You do not want to be locked in a closet with this particular former costar. You try the door anyway and find that he’s telling the truth. 

“I told you.” 

“Fuck, Dieter. You could have warned me!”

He chooses not to respond, taking another hit of his joint instead. He holds his hand out in offering, but you shake your head. Being high and trapped sounds like a recipe for paranoid disaster. 

You slump to the floor, pouting, but grateful they gave you a dress you can actually move around in this year. Dieter sits cross legged across the closet from you. There are coats lining either side of the walls. 

His usually fluffy curls are slicked back and styled to perfection. His nasty green bathrobe and pajama pants have been replaced by a billowing white shirt and fitted black pants. He’s even wearing real shoes. He looks… good. And he’s surprisingly clear eyed for someone smoking an entire joint. 

“You look nice,” Dieter comments. You look down at your dress – the color was chosen specifically to contrast well with your skin tone. The cut shows just enough bust and highlights your body shape. It’s a good dress. 

“Thanks, Dee. I was just thinking the same about you.”

“Oh were you now?” 

You roll your eyes. “Not like that, Dieter. You just clean up nice, is all.”

“I’m not um…” he trails off. 

“Not on coke anymore? I can tell.”

You and Dieter had worked on a project together a couple years ago. It was in the height of his coke addiction and working with him had been an absolute nightmare. He’d show up for work absolutely out of his mind, having screaming matches with the director, the producers, you. And that was if he showed up at all. The project had never even made it to production, leaving you worried your career was ruined. You fucking hated Dieter Bravo. 

But you could never deny how adorable he is. 

“Yeah. Cleaned up. Went to rehab. The whole shebang.”

“That’s good, Dee. Really.” 

You let your head fall back against the door, exposing the line of your throat to possibly the world's horniest man.

“You look really good in that dress.”

“I’m not going to have sex with you.”

You peek an eye open and see Dieter is already halfway across the floor, crawling to you on his hands and knees. He’s pouting at you. 

“What else do we have to do right now?”

You sigh and try the door one more time for good measure, reaching up behind you and tugging on the door handle. Still locked tight. Dieter grins and crawls even closer, settling between your thighs. He reaches out and strokes his thumb across your cheek. You can’t help but lean into it. 

“Always thought you were so beautiful.”

“Sure, Dee,” you scoff 

“I did. I do. Can I kiss you?” 

“Sure, Dee,” you whisper breathlessly. 

He presses his lips to yours gently at first. His lips are soft and plush against yours and you can’t help but deepen the kiss. You open your mouth and his tongue meets yours, hot and wet. Arousal sweeps through you and you bury your hands in his gorgeous curls, holding him against you. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his lap. You gasp, causing the kiss to break as your core comes into contact with the hard line of his cock in his trousers. 

“So fucking beautiful,” Dieter mutters into your throat, pressing kisses down into your cleavage. 

He lays you flat on the floor and scoots back, settling on his belly in between your thighs and rucking your dress up to your hips. 

“Dieter, you’re going to get us arrested for public indecency.”

“First of all, I’ve always wanted to see you in handcuffs,” he presses a kiss to your left thigh. “And secondly, I don’t see anyone here to catch us,” he kisses your right thigh, higher up this time. 

He hooks his thumb in the gusset of your panties, stroking your already soaked folds. You moan as quietly as you can. 

“So wet for me, already.” 

You groan as he pulls your panties to the side and buries his face in your cunt. There’s no build up, he eats you like he’s ravenous, like he hasn’t eaten in days. His curved nose grinds into your clit as he laps at your hole. His tongue plunges inside you over and over and you can already feel your core tightening. He slips two fingers in to replace his tongue, drawing circles on your clit with the point of it now. You cry out, much louder than you mean to be, than you need to be. His left hand comes up to cover your mouth, his face now hovering above yours as he curls his fingers perfectly inside you. 

“Quiet now, love. Wouldn’t want to get arrested for public indecency.”

The bastard. He thrusts his fingers into you a few more times and you’re coming all over his hand. You bite down on his palm to keep from screaming. He draws his fingers out of you slowly and rights your panties for you. He sucks your come off his fingers like it’s cake batter, letting out a little moan of his own at the taste. 

The door handle jiggles and you both freeze. Just as the lock turns, Dieter grabs you and rolls you both under the lowest level of coats on the side of the closet. You’re on top of him, breathing heavily into his neck. Someone comes in, grabs their coat, and leaves the room, pulling the door closed behind them. 

Dieter goes to roll you both back out but you stop him. You press a kiss to his very exposed throat. 

“I love this shirt. Very Mr. Darcy.”

“It is romantic isn’t it?” 

You drag your lips down his throat to his chest, pressing a kiss to the lowest bit of exposed skin. Your hands find the clasp on his fancy black pants, but you can’t quite get them open.

“The one time you don’t wear easy access pants…” 

“Here, let me.”

You both fumble for a moment before the clasp finally comes open and his cock springs out. 

“No underwear?”

“The lines were showing too bad.”

“Mmhmm,” you quirk an eyebrow at him. 

You wrap his cock in your hand. It’s long, curved a little, and not terribly thick. 

“Pretty,” you mutter before taking the tip in your mouth. He gasps as you suck him down. You swirl your tongue around his head, then flatten it out and let him fill your mouth. He hits the back of your throat and you suppress a cough, pushing him further down. His hands flutter into your hair as you start bobbing your head, sucking him down over and over again. He doesn’t push or pull you, simply rests his hands on the back of your head. 

You pull off him and lick a stripe up the seam of his balls as you stroke his cock. You suck one into your mouth, rolling it gently on your tongue, then switch to the other. 

“I’m gonna–”

You take his cock down your throat again, wanting to swallow his cum. You suck hard on the tip and then drop your lips down to the base as he comes in your mouth. His hips stutter beneath you and he groans. 

You let his softening cock fall out of your mouth and press a kiss to his hip bone. He strokes the back of your head reverently. 

“We should get cleaned up,” you whisper, your voice rough. 

Dieter sighs, but helps you get back to your feet. You take in his rumpled appearance and know you can’t look much better. His chest is covered in lipstick, as is his face. His hair is an absolute mess. His outfit is askew and wrinkled to hell. 

You help him fix his outfit, rub the lipstick off his skin, and finger comb his hair back into some semblance of a style. He pulls bobby pins out of your hair and stows them in his pockets, letting your hair down from the hours of work the stylist did. He smooths out your dress as best as he can. 

“We look…”

“Like we just fucked on the floor of a closet?”

“Yeah.”

He takes a bobby pin from his pocket and picks the lock on the door. 

“You could have done that the whole time?” 

Dieter doesn’t answer. He stands and takes your hand in his and pulls the door open. You’re immediately inundated with camera flashes. The paparazzi have found you. Your agent is going to kill you. 

“I fucking hate you,” you halfheartedly fuss at Dieter. This scandal will be fun to deal with... 

[hellishjoel]

12 Days of Pedro | Masterlist

Authors Note Hello and welcome to 12 Days of Pedro! I'm incredibly lucky to host a wonderful collection of works by such talented and sweet authors. We will be posting fics and moodboards, all linked on this masterlist! To the authors participating, thank you from the bottom of my heart, putting this together meant the world to me! Getting to hear all of your excitement and ideas really put me in the spirit! To the readers, these fics will be holiday/christmas/winter themed, all posted on the original authors account. Please show them support and love! Come back every day to open a new present (fic!)

Thank you to @undercoverpena for creating this wonderful masterlist image and thank you @saradika-graphics for the banner!

Day 1 (December 11) - new year's day by @hellishjoel Day 2 (December 12) - decorating the tree with dieter by @wildemaven Day 3 (December 13) - white christmas by @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin Day 4 (December 14) - when i’m feeling alone, you remind me of home by @joelsgreys Day 5 (December 15) - under the mistletoe by @beskarandblasters Day 6 (December 16) - baby, it's cold outside by @thetriumphantpanda Day 7 (December 17) - snowmen and sledding by @wildemaven Day 8 (December 18) - you're a mean one, mr. miller by @cupofjoel Day 9 (December 19) - make me like the holidays by @undercoverpena Day 10 (December 20) - let it snow by @kiwisbell Day 11 (December 21) - ásjá by @perotovar Day 12 (December 22) - naughty or spice by @morallyinept

[dancingtotuyo]

Part III

High Infidelity | Joel Miller X Female Reader

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Summary: You and Joel hull the kids to the beach for a much needed vacation. Things begin to change.

Tags: Tommy x Reader, Joel x Reader, Tommy's Wife Reader, infidelity, emotional affair, slow burn (as much as you can get for 5 chapters), Tommy goes to jail, Reader has had a child

Warnings: Tommy being a shitty husband & father, Father's day celebration, cursing, consumption of alcohol, emotional affair/cheating, some physical boundaries crossed. Pining

Notes: Y'all know the drill by now, thanks to my loves @janaispunk for beta reading and @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin for beta reading and providing me with some authentic prison information and inspiration, and @saradika-graphics for the dividers!

Words: 5273

Series Masterlist | Author Masterlist | Daily Clicks for Palestine & Other resources

It’s June before you’re able to escape to the shore. You make it in just over 4 hours. It’s good timing considering the multiple bathroom stops you had to make. It’s a small house that probably hasn’t been renovated since Joel was there as a kid. It sits two blocks off the shore on stilts that make you feel secluded from the people that pass on the quiet street below, and when you stand on the porch, the salty sea breeze caresses your body as you let your eyes close. You can just make out the crash of ocean waves. You can feel the breeze carrying all your cares away.  

Nate and Sarah excitedly explore the inside of the house. Their muted enthusiasm floating through the walls makes you smile. You’re thankful for this, thankful for Joel.  

The sliding door opens and then shuts. You don’t move. It’s Joel. You know the sound of his footsteps, the way he moves through the world by heart. He settles against the railing, arm pressed against yours. 

A smile spreads across your lips as your eyes open, landing on his. He smiles back. “Hard to enjoy the view with your eyes closed, Darlin.” His deep baritone rumbles smoothly. You see it in him too, the way the breeze carries away the wear and worry of the world. 

“It’s peaceful out here.” 

He nods. “Yeah, it is.”

“We should probably get back in there before the kids break something.”

Joel nudges you with his shoulder. “Don’t jinx us like that.”

“Our two? Unsupervised? That’s asking for it.”

“Our two?” A playful glint glimmers in Joel’s deep brown eyes. “My daughter is perfectly well behaved. It’s your little menace that’s the bad influence.”

“Oh my four year old is the bad influence?” You cross your arms, doing your best to keep the smile at bay. 

“For sure- got his dad’s streak for mischief. My Sarah is a perfect angel.” He sticks his tongue out at you. 

You roll your eyes, slapping his shoulder, but you don’t have a good response. He’s not wrong. Nathaniel knows how to get into places he shouldn’t. “I seem to recall an incident involving a ten pound bag of flour that says differently.”

Joel chuckles at the memory. Nathaniel was barely a week old when Sarah shrieked in the kitchen only for you to find her and the kitchen dusted in white powder. You had cried upon seeing it, postpartum hormones raging. Joel had cleaned your entire kitchen top to bottom. 

“She felt so bad for making you cry,” Joel laughs. 

“I think I scared her.”

The door opens again. Sarah and Nathaniel break out, rushing for your legs and begging to go to the beach. 

You spend the next several days lazing on the sand, reading more than you have in years as you soak in the sun. The kids run around chasing seagulls and other creatures. Joel helps them catch waves on boogie boards. You both take them further out to ride the waves. Sarah’s arms clutch around Joel’s neck, and Nathaniel does the same to you. They build sandcastles and Joel digs holes big enough to bury them both. 

At night, the kids are out by 8 o’clock if not earlier allowing you and Joel to sit out on the deck and drink. Your skin is warm from the constant sun. Joel’s cheeks are tinged pink on your third evening, his chest rosier. The salty air works at his hair, bringing out curls. You like this version of him a lot. You like this version of yourself too. 

Your feet sit in his lap as he massages your legs and feet, calves worn out from lugging your belongings across the sand and back. He stares up at the sky, twilight bringing the first few stars with it. You sip your homemade margarita, Joel’s specialty, from a red solo cup. 

“I shoulda brought my guitar. Only thing that could make this moment better,” he says. 

You hum softly, shifting in your chair. “Wouldn’t be able to massage my feet if you had your guitar.”

He laughs, so easy, so relaxed. You can’t remember the last time things felt this good. “Don’t worry, you’d still get your massage.”

“Why didn’t you bring it?” You cock your head to the side. 

“Wouldn’t fit in the car, miss over packer.”

You roll your eyes softly kicking at him. “We’ve used everything I packed. Speaking of which, what do you want for breakfast tomorrow?” You take another sip of your drink. Joel finds a knot in your calf, working it out as you let out a slight hiss. 

Joel shrugs, carefully watching your reactions careful to inflict as little pain as possible. “Ask the kids.”

“It’s Father’s Day.”

“Kids like pancakes.” Joel sips from his own drink before returning to the knot.

“But you don’t.”

“Doesn’t matter what I like, Darlin.”

“Well, it does tomorrow.” You cross your arms. 

Joel sighs rolling his eyes. 

You narrow yours. “Don’t make me force it out of you. You know I will.”

He considers it a minute before deciding it’s a losing battle. “Those omelets you made for my birthday. I really liked those.”

You smile. “I can manage that.”

You sit in bed with Nathaniel the next morning to call Tommy. As early as possible is preferred, not that Tommy will care. He’s been blowing you off more, hardly talking when you call or visit, seemingly uninterested when you talk about Nate. It’s exhausting. You dread it, but you continue anyway. 

It takes a while before Tommy’s voice comes through the speaker. You force an exaggerated smile to your face for Nathaniel’s sake. Daddy is an abstract being to him. “Hey babe. Happy Father’s Day!”

“Oh… that’s today?”

You push back the annoyance rising inside you. “Nate wants to say hello.” You hold the phone up to your four-year-old’s ear.

“Hello?” he says. 

You can barely make Tommy’s pathetic response. He won’t even pretend for Nathaniel and that’s the unbearable part of all this. 

“Happy Day!” Nathaniel says, taking hold of the receiver before he dives into updating his stranger of a father all about their beach vacation. Tommy stays quiet the whole time. 

Rage begins to boil just under the surface. Before it can bubble over, Nathaniel says goodbye, shoving the phone into your chest and dashing out of the room the moment he hears Sarah moving around in the living room. 

“Tommy?”

“Look, I need to go.”

You're not sure what’s worse. The hurt or the anger inside you. “I love you.”

“Yeah. I’ll talk to you on Friday.”

“Tommy.” It sounds like a scold. That’s exactly what it is.

“I don’t have time for this.”

“Time for your wife and son?”

“You’re the one who called me.”

“Are you actually going to call on Friday? Or am I gonna end up sitting next to the phone all evening?”

You get silence. 

“Tommy?”

“I’ll call.” And then the line goes dead.

You want to scream or yell or cry or all three. You settle for throwing a pillow across the room and giving yourself 5 minutes to cry. There may only be three months of this left, but you’re not sure you’ll actually be talking to your husband at the end of it, not that the two of you do any talking now. 

Wiping your eyes, you make your way to the kitchen to start on Joel’s promised breakfast. Nathaniel and Sarah sit at the table comparing sea shells. “Aunt Bonnie?”

“Yes baby doll?” You smile, kissing her head. 

“Which one would Daddy like on his card?” She points to a collection of about 5 shells. 

“Hmmm,” you crouch down to her level, looking them over. “I think he would like any of them, but this one looks like him.” You point to a blue-grey shell. 

She picks it up, inspecting it carefully. “It does look kinda grumpy like him.”

You laugh. That isn’t what you meant, but she wasn’t wrong. “I’m making omelets. What do y’all want in yours?”

The kids are digging into their breakfast when Joel walks out of his room, arms stretching above his head to reveal a little sliver of his tummy. Sarah quickly shoves her Father’s Day project under some magazines. 

“Look who decided to wake up.” You smile over your shoulder. “Morning sleepy head.”

“One day of the year I get to sleep in.” He mumbles, shooting a teasing glare your way. He clocks your red eyes before you can turn away. 

“Happy Father’s Day, Daddy!” Sarah yells, standing on her chair to give Joel a hug. He chuckles, pulling her into his arms, spinning around, and setting her back on the chair with ease. She laughs.

“Thank you, baby girl.”

“Happy Day!” Nathaniel grins at his uncle.

“Father’s Day.” Sarah corrects. Nathaniel simply shrugs like he’d said the correct thing to begin with.

Joel chuckles, kissing his nephew’s cheek. “Thanks, Bud.”

You track his footsteps over to your side of the kitchen as you invest your full attention on the omelet in front of you. You know he caught your tear-stained eyes. “Fresh coffee in the pot,” You say, keeping your voice even. 

You feel his full body heat behind you, a hand falls to your waist as he reaches into the cabinet next to the stove for a coffee mug. Something settles in your stomach. 

“What did my idiot brother do now?” He keeps his voice low so the kids don’t overhear. 

You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Darlin.”

“I don't want to talk about it.” Your head snaps toward him. He’s right there, face so close to yours. Always nearby. 

“You sure?”

You bristle a little bit. He drops his hand but stays in your space. “Not right now. We’re celebrating you this morning.” He smiles softly at you. “And I don’t want to burn your omelet, so scram.” You cock your head to the side. 

He waits a second, searching for any signs he’s missing something. When he’s sure he isn’t, he gives you a soft smile and a tender kiss on the forehead, and steps over to the coffee pot, leaving you feeling warm and hazy. 

The kids help clean up after breakfast. Sarah stands on a bench at the sink to wash dishes and Nathaniel waits patiently with a dish towel to dry the lighter dishes. You and Joel sit at the table, second and third cups of coffee in hand as you oversee their efforts. 

“I think I’m going to enjoy this next phase of parenting,” Joel says with a long, content sigh. 

You feel the easiness thrumming in your veins. Why couldn’t life always be this way? “Yeah if my anxiety about broken dishes or wet feet doesn’t get the better of me first.”

He chuckles softly, sipping from his mug as an easy silence falls between you. You watch the kids and Joel watches you. Sun pours through the many windows of the beach house. You’re not ready to leave tomorrow. 

“You wanna talk about it now?”

You sigh. “Not really. We’re supposed to be celebrating you today.”

“I’ll be able to enjoy myself more if I know what’s going on in your head.”

You keep your gaze focused on the kids, rolling the words around in your head. You feel emotionally exhausted by it all and you’re not even through the morning hours yet. 

“Darlin,” Joel kicks at your foot, smile on his face. “C’mon. We can talk about it.”

You set your mug down, turning toward him. “He’s just blowing us off again. I spent more time waiting for him to come to the phone than I did talking to him. He hardly interacted with Nate this morning.” You roll your eyes in an attempt to push away the tears pressing to escape. 

Joel reaches across the table, taking your hand. He runs his thumb over your knuckles. It grazes past your wedding band, almost taunting you now. 

“I’m sorry. This isn’t fair to either of you,” Joel says.

“You’d think I’d stop letting it affect me at some point.”

Joel bites his lip, eyes pinned to your ring finger. “He’s your husband. Needs to start acting like it,” Joel says gruffly. You catch the spark of something in his deep brown eyes, but you don’t have time to place it.

“We’re done!” Sarah exclaims with a proud smile, her shirt soaked through. 

You pull your hand from Joel’s, wrapping it around your warm mug as you laugh. “Thank you for your help. Both of you.” Nathaniel puts the dish towel carefully over the oven handle, shooting you the biggest grin.  

“Can we do presents now?” Sarah asks, curls bouncing with her. 

“Presents?” Joel says. “Y’all didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Don’t be silly, Daddy.” Sarah says, looking to you for permission. 

“I think now is a great time for gifts.”

Both kids run toward their shared room. They had been very excited at the promise of bunk beds. You ease out of your chair. “Not you too.” Joel shakes his head.

You shoot him a wink. “Suck it, Miller.” 

Flashes of your delayed Mother’s Day celebration jump between you. Joel had switched up the weekends and hadn’t been prepared, but had made up for it the following weekend. You hadn’t heard from Tommy. He never even mentioned it. 

You grab the small box from your suitcase, a small white bow tied around it. The four of you settle in the living room. You sit tucked into one end of the sofa while Joel sits at the other end, a bouncing kid on either side of him. 

“Me first!” Sarah says, handing her card and hand-wrapped gift to her father. 

Joel takes care, slowly reading the card out loud. His gift consists of a souvenir snow globe and a puca shell necklace. She picked them out with great care at the beach shop the two of you stopped in yesterday. He oos and awes over both. 

“You should put on the necklace!” Sarah says, standing up on the cushions of the couch.

“Maybe I want to admire it more,” Joel says. 

You bite back a smile. He’s already lost this battle and you both know it. 

“Don’t be silly, Daddy.” She grabs it from his hand, determination, and concentration painted on her face as she wraps it around his neck.

“Yeah, don’t be silly, Daddy.” You tease, shooting him a wink. He pokes his tongue out at you as Sarah almost chokes him in the process of securing the necklace. 

“Not so tight, baby girl.” 

“Oops,” she giggles. “All done.” 

She steps back to admire her handiwork, looking quite pleased. “What do you think, Aunt Bonnie?”

“Beautiful,” You smile, laughter evident in your tone of voice. “You look ready to hit the beach.”

“My turn!” Nathaniel announces, handing Joel a hand-drawn picture depicting their day at the beach yesterday. He goes into great detail describing everything he drew. Joel’s hand rests on Nate’s shoulder blades, head tucked toward him as he takes in everything the boy says with practiced patience and intentionality. 

It strikes something in your heart, a deep longing. That should be Tommy. But it also sends a deep sense of gratitude toward your brother-in-law for picking up where his brother has failed. You swallow back the tears, losing track of how much you’ve had to do that today.

“Thank you, Bud. I love it.” Joel kisses Nathaniel's head. 

“You’re welcome, Daddy.” 

Joel freezes. Ice rushes through your bloodstream. Your eyes meet Joel’s. What do you say to that? Neither of you knows the answer. 

“He’s not your daddy, Nate,” Sarah says, pulling out her older sister voice. “He’s your uncle.” 

“Oh yeah,” Nathaniel shrugs, unbothered by his mishap as he swings his legs back and forth, hitting the couch with his heels as he does.

“Aunt Bonnie, do you have the other gift?” Sarah asks, determined to keep the morning on schedule. 

“Yeah, right here.” You fumble around, finding the box tucked between yourself and the couch. Joel keeps his eyes on you trying to figure out what’s running through your mind, but he can’t. 

Sarah plucks the box from your hands before presenting it to her father. “This is from all three of us.”

She looks very proud of herself. Joel takes it with a smile, eyes flickering back to you briefly. You give him an encouraging nod. 

He loosens the bow, pulling off the top. The kids lean over either side of his body, excited for the reveal even though they’ve both seen it. He pulls it out, inspecting it carefully. A black watch face with silver accents and an olive green watch band. His eyes dart to yours. You smile at him. 

“You’ve been talking about it for years.” You smirk, sipping your coffee. “You were never gonna do it yourself.”

“It’s exactly what I wanted.” He shakes his head, a stunned chuckle shaking his chest. “How’d you know?”

“Found an old picture Tommy had stored away last fall.”

“Look at the back.” Sarah bounces with excitement. 

Joel flips it over. His brows knit together as he catches the inscription. Happy Father’s Day. We love you. Sarah and Nathaniel. 1997.

“Do you like it?” Sarah looks up at him with sparkling excitement. 

“I love it.” He kisses her cheek, thanking both the children. He wraps it around his wrist, buckling it into place. 

“Now you won’t be late anymore,” Sarah says, making you and Joel laugh. 

“We can only hope,” you say. 

Joel looks up at you with one of the most heartfelt smiles you’ve ever seen. His lips move silently. Thank you.

You nod in response. 

You spend the final day of your vacation on the beach until the sun has disappeared. Joel ends up running back to the house to grab the car so your two very tired children don’t melt down. You hurry through bath time, trying to get all the sand from hair and bodies. You’re sure you’ll be finding sand all over your and Joel’s homes for months. 

You provide goodnight hugs and kisses, but Joel takes bedtime duties. You’re cleaning up the kitchen, and packing up pantry items when the first lines of You Are My Sunshine drift out of the kid’s bedroom in Joel’s soft melodies. The kids' sleepy voices talk him into another lullaby and then another before their eyelids slip closed and their breathing evens out. 

The door clicks softly and you’ve already pulled the margarita pitcher and new solo cups. “See they talked you into the whole set list tonight.” You smile, filling the cups with the last of the margaritas. 

“It’s the last night of vacation.” Joel chuckles. He grabs the blanket off the back of the couch and the half-eaten bag of pretzels. “They asked so nicely.”

“And you’re a big softy.” 

You grab both cups, following Joel out to your spot on the deck. It’s cooler tonight, the breeze a bit stronger. You sit across from each other, feet propped in the seat of the other’s chair with the blanket spread across your legs. Joel sets the pretzels right at your knees. 

“Did you enjoy your day?” You ask, sipping on the day-old margarita. It goes down easier tonight, and your cup is filled to the brim.

“It was a good day.” Joel smiles at you, easy and relaxed. The world and your issues feel so far away here despite the day’s earlier events. “Probably the best Father’s Day yet.”

“Oh you mean it beats the raw banana bread from last year?” You’re laughing before the sentence fully leaves your mouth. Joel’s head falls back, chest vibrating with laughter. 

His hair curls more from the salty air and fits him, tanned skin, curly hair, Puca shell necklace and all. You wonder if you look like a similar version of yourself, the relaxed beach version. 

“Sarah trying to choke me with the necklace beats whatever it was you tried to bake last year.”

You stick out your tongue. The pretzel bag rustles as he grabs a handful. You take another drink from your cup. Joel Miller makes a mean margarita. 

“What about you? Did you have a good day then?”

You take an extra second to think about it before nodding. “Yeah. I can’t complain when it comes to well-behaved kids and the beach.”

“Nathaniel calling me dad didn’t throw you off, I hope.”

Your shoulders tense a little bit. “I think I’m the one who should be asking that.” 

“Kinda surprised it hasn’t happened sooner if I’m being honest.” Joel’s pointer finger slides along the lip of his cup before he brings it to his lips. 

You bite your lips, staring at the house across the street. “Same.” 

“Sorry, that was kinda a mood killer.” Joel’s hand rests on your calf. 

“It’s fine. You’re more of a father to him than his real dad.” You try to wave it off, but the facts are reeling in your mind like a movie. “Fuck, you were in the delivery room, and coached his T-ball team, and you’ve tucked him into bed more times than Tommy ever has.” You swipe away the moisture that’s gathered in your eyes, chasing them with another gulp of your drink. 

“Hey… maybe you should slow down there.” Joel leans forward, his feet dropping from your chair as he grabs the solo cup from you and the pretzels tumble to the deck. 

“I don’t think that’s necessary.” You reach for the cup, but Joel keeps it out of reach, setting it on the ground next to his. 

“I do.” He’s firm with you, grabbing your hands and tucking them between his. You can’t meet his eyes, embarrassment flooding your body. “What's going on in your mind right now?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Darlin,” He tugs gently on your arms. Your feet greet the warm deck as you're forced to sit up straighter. The side of your knee bumps against his. “You can talk to me.”

“I just want to enjoy our last night, Joel.”

“Can’t do that if I’m worried about you.” He tips your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. 

The street lights flicker off his warm eyes. You feel his touch linger under your chin. Extra warmth gathers in each place he touches. The words bubbling up in you, helpless to stop the thoughts circling in your head for months. 

“I’m not sure my marriage is salvageable. I don’t know if I’ll recognize my husband when he gets out. I don’t think he’s the same person-“ You can’t finish through the choked-out sobs. 

Joel lets out a soft sigh and before you know it, he’s tugging your pliant body into his lap, rubbing your back. He kisses your head. Your head finds the crook of his neck, fingers digging into the back of it. He’s the steady rock he’s always been. It does little to soothe your racing mind. 

You have so many questions and no answers. Tommy’s release from prison always felt like a distant finish line. Now, three months away, it feels like just the start. 

“No matter what, I’ve got you,” Joel says, hand cupping your cheek. “I’m here for you.”

How much longer can you continue to find solace in your brother-in-law's arms? How much longer will Joel play the part Tommy is supposed to? Supporter, parent, partner…

You pull back, fingers still wrapped around his neck. The metal of your wedding ring presses against his skin, but he’s used to feeling it. He doesn’t even think about it anymore. Your forehead nearly touches his. The pools of his deep eyes are endless. They’re different than Tommy’s. You don’t mean to compare, but you like it, soft and inviting after sleeping on rocks for years. You think you catch the hints of desire in them. You’ve forgotten what it feels like to be desired. 

There’s a fight, a push and pull between you. Who’s going to do it. His hot breath fans across your lips. Who’s going to be the one to finally cross the line you’ve been toeing for so long and drag the other one into exile with them? It’s a lush oasis in the middle of the desert you’ve been traveling. One move and you can dip your toe in. 

Joel gives in first, leaning in. Your eyes flutter shut with anticipation, another touch of his breath. His nose nudges against yours. You catch a whiff of the salt on his skin, and then, nothing, a mirage all in your head leaving you stranded in the desert. 

Confusion knits your brow before your eyes are open. Joel is still close, closer than a man that’s not your husband should be, but he feels further away than ever. 

His thumb nudges your bottom lip. He gives a weak smile in an attempt to cover his true emotions. “We can’t…”

He’s right. You hate yourself for getting so carried away. “I know.” 

Your hand drops from his neck. You might be sitting on his lap but he’s never felt farther from you. 

“You should go to bed.”

You think to fight him on it, but you decide not to. You stand up. Joel doesn’t move, thumb playing with the lip of his solo cup. He can’t meet your eyes and it feels like you might be losing him too. 

Before you can think better of it, you lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. Your fingers rake through his hair twice over. His eyes close and he lilts into you just the slightest. 

“Thank you, Joel. For everything.”

His Adam’s Apple bobs as you pull away. He keeps his eyes pinned ahead, fingers curling around the red plastic. He’s barely holding on to control. 

“Good night,” he says, voice gruff, never looking away from his fixed point. 

“Goodnight.”

Joel finishes off yours and his margarita before he falls into bed. It’s just enough to keep him buzzed as he runs toward rest. He can’t get the feel of you out of his mind, how close he was to ripping apart his whole family. 

He’s in and out of sleep when the door pops open. He assumes it’s Sarah. She probably had a bad dream, and tosses the corner of the comforter back. Except, the full size mattress dips lower than it should. He reaches out but instead of Sarah’s small frame, he gets a handful of your waist as the smell of you fills his nostrils. In the haze of sleep, Joel opens his eyes just enough to find you facing away from him. 

The bed isn’t big enough for his legs not to tangle with yours, not if he wants restful sleep. Your body doesn’t tense under his touch. You don’t say anything. Neither does he, but your body melts into him until he finds his arm fully around your middle, back flush against his front.

Joel Miller considers himself a good man, but a good man doesn’t yearn for his brother’s wife. A good man doesn’t give into the temptation to have her so close, to be with her so intimately. Tonight, Joel Miller doesn’t worry about being a good man. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but tonight, Joel Miller falls asleep with you in his arms and bed. Tonight, Joel Miller’s deepest desires come true. Just for tonight, he gets to pretend you’re his. 

You wake up to an empty bed like you have since Tommy went to prison, but something feels off about it. A familiar smell lingers under your nose, and unfamiliar warmth fills you even though the sheets are cold.

You let out a soft groan, eyes fluttering open. You stare up at the ceiling, convinced once again that something feels off. You turn to look at the clock on the bed stand but there’s not one there. The walls are a different color and you shoot up as it all comes flooding back. 

You almost kissed Joel last night. The way you tossed and turned before giving into temptation and crawling in beside him. He hadn’t fought you, hadn’t said a word but pulled you flush against him in the bed that was just a bit too small. You’d slept like a baby for the first time in years. 

Joel sits at the table with the kids as they shovel the last of the extra sugary cereal into their mouths. A special vacation treat. You expect Joel to ignore you or at least be standoffish, but he hands you a cup of steaming coffee with the same smile he always does, crow’s feet crinkling at the corners of his eyes as if nothing happened. 

You offer a smile in response. A silent agreement to never speak on it again.

You’ve been home for a week when it comes, a plain white envelope stuffed with something soft labeled with a return address you’re all too familiar with written in Tommy’s chicken scratch handwriting. 

You wait until Nathaniel is down for the night, but it throws you the whole evening. Letters from Tommy are more rare than phone calls. You’ve received one, maybe two since he was incarcerated. Considering he’d promised to call on after Father’s day and hadn’t, the mysterious letter makes you feel unsettled. What shoes are left to drop?

You run the envelope through your hands, thumb picking at the corner of the seal, uncommitted to actually tearing it open. You’re worried whatever lies within will only hurt you more. You can’t sustain more hurt. 

Finally, you dig into the corner, tearing it open. Your eyebrows knit together. White fabric is neatly folded and tucked within. You pull it out, revealing a square of white fabric, like a bandana unfurls and a note falls to the floor. As you take in the black and white drawing on the fabric, you gasp. It’s a drawing of the picture you keep on your nightstand. The moment Tommy met Nathaniel for the first time. Tommy’s arm is wrapped around you, Nathaniel in his arms with the biggest grin on his face. It’s a moment that’s seared into your memory. Seeing it portrayed like this brings tears to your eyes, the emotions from that day and the last 696 flooding your body. 

Before the tear completely blur your vision, you pick up the note. You can barely make out Tommy’s handwriting when your eyes are clear, but you manage. 

Baby,

You and I both know I didn’t draw this. My cellmate did based on the photo. You probably know that. They call them paños. I’ve seen a lot of the ones guys in here have sent to their girls. They’re pretty cool. 

I’m sorry. I wish I could be better for you and Nathaniel. I love you, Bonnie. 

Tommy. 

Tears stream down your face. Just like that your heart seems to forget the heartache of the last couple years. This proves that your Tommy is still inside him somewhere, fighting to come back to you. You’ll do anything to have your Tommy back. 

It doesn’t matter if you're grasping at threads. Your heart overpowers your mind. You’re determined that you can pull him back by those threads, maybe not now, but once he’s out. Once he’s out, you can bring him back. You’re his Bonnie. He’s your Clyde. You’re tied together. Your heart beats for him, but you don’t catch a piece of your heart breaking off from the rest. That part can't beat for Tommy. It’s attached to someone else. 

Taglist: @pamasaur @alltheotps @rizzraa @moel-jiller @misstokyo7love @justagalwhowrites @pedritosgfreal @mellymbee @sarahhxx03 @lizzie-cakes @sixhours @duckybird101 @anoverwhelmingdin @nervoushottee @caitlynsixxx @kaykay0315 @stevie75 @millercontracting @cals-laundry @jessthebaker @noisynightmarepoetry @vickie5446 @mewantpeepaw

[tinyshe]

[fox-guardian]

[ID: A digital drawing of Martin Blackwood wearing a crop top that reads "men fish me fear wants me" in all caps. He is a fat white non-op trans man with a short red mullet with white streaks, a lot of body hair, a small goatee, freckles, and a scar on his neck. He is wearing round gold glasses, gold plug gauges, the crop top which is yellow with brown text, and blue shorts. He has his hands on his hips and is looking off to the side looking annoyed. The background is pale blue. end ID]

based on this post by @ceaseless-rambler that i simply Had to draw immediately

[esmedelacroix]

15 days til' Christmas

planning to surprise husband!miguel o'hara with the best gift ever⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆

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If there was one thing about Miguel that confused you it was what gift to get him for Christmas. You were always buying things that made you think of him or clothes that he would look handsome in(he looks good in literally everything).

But you couldn't help but feel like it wasn't enough. You couldn't help but feel like you needed more. You wanted to give him a gift that was tear-wrenching.

You thought that you would never get the opportunity to give Miguel the gift you thought he deserved. Until that opportunity presented itself in a certain two-lined symbol on a white stick you had peed on.

Right then you knew exactly what his gift would be this year. The only issue was that you had to keep this secret until Christmas which was in a whole week. But, you couldn't keep anything from Miguel for the life of you. What was worse is that he was incredibly perceptive and always knew when something was different.

You were already two months along and you never realized that you were extremely behind on your period until your period tracking app pointed out that you stopped getting your period after you logged unprotected sex during your fertile window.

You and Miguel were dating for three years before you got married and your second marriage anniversary was coming up. You weren't really trying for kids but the two of you didn't mind if you were to have one. You talked about it and you both felt ready so you started being more carefree about protection every now and then.

Miguel was used to taking three days off of work once a month to help you through your abnormally painful period cramps. He was so busy that hadn't realized you hadn't gotten your period.

You quickly got a long box and placed the pregnancy test in it before wrapping it up and putting it under the tree. There were already tons of gifts under the tree so it didn't seem weird at all.

You cleaned up your mess and right when you checked your watch you realized that it was seven o'clock. Miguel should be arriving any minute by now-

"Honey! I'm home!" you heard Miguel call out from the mud room. You could hear the noises of some bags indicative that he went grocery shopping like you had asked.

You rushed to the entrance and gave Miguel a big hug. You'd been missing him all day and it was taking every fiber in your body to not just tell him the great news right then and there.

"Woah amor, did you miss me that much?" he chuckled as he walked down the hall with you clinging to him.

You sat on the counter taking groceries out of bags as he put them away listening to him rant about how things were going at work. Most people wouldn't be very fond of listening to someone ramble about work for 30 minutes straight but Miguel wasn't a rambler he was a storyteller.

If he was going to tell you about his day, trust he would talk about it in a way that made it intriguing. He often made you laugh when he told you about some of the harmless silly rumors floating around at the office.

One thing that his fellow spiders other than Peter B would never know was that he enjoyed observing and gossiping about who was dating and who wasn't at Spider Society knowing that it was absolutely not his business.

The two of you thought yourselves to be cupids and would talk about what couple desperately needed to break up or who should be dating whom.

"Cariño I have a question..." Miguel started interrupting you laughing at his joke about who he thought Hobie should date.

"Yeah? What is it?" you asked in a more serious tone.

"Why haven't you gotten your period yet?" he asked.

Shit. Shit shit shit shit. You cursed to yourself trying to think of an answer.

"Well my period tracking app told me that it's because of my increased amount of weight training recently, it happened to me when I was 14 as well I lost my period for like half a year then," you explained.

"Huh, you never told me you've been going to the gym, you usually just run in the mornings," he said, accepting your answer. It almost hurt lying to him about this because he had so much trust in you that he believed everything you said.

"My practice closes at five now, remember? So I have a lot more time," you said.

"Oh I see," he said as he took out ingredients to make dinner.

He didn't really talk about it for the rest of the night and everything went smoothly but as you lay in bed that night in his arms you couldn't help but worry. What if you're not able to keep this up and the gift is ruined? All should be fine though besides you only have to keep from him for the next 7 days.

. . .

next part → 7 days til' Christmas

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taglist: @aripet22@to-the-endoftheline

[grandhotelabyss]

Advice/hard truths for writers?

The best piece of practical advice I know is a classic from Hemingway (qtd. here):

The most important thing I’ve learned about writing is never write too much at a time… Never pump yourself dry. Leave a little for the next day. The main thing is to know when to stop. Don’t wait till you’ve written yourself out. When you’re still going good and you come to an interesting place and you know what’s going to happen next, that’s the time to stop. Then leave it alone and don’t think about it; let your subconscious mind do the work.

Also, especially if you're young, you should read more than you write. If you're serious about writing, you'll want to write more than you read when you get old; you need, then, to lay the important books as your foundation early. I like this passage from Samuel R. Delany's "Some Advice for the Intermediate and Advanced Creative Writing Student" (collected in both Shorter Views and About Writing):

You need to read Balzac, Stendhal, Flaubert, and Zola; you need to read Austen, Thackeray, the Brontes, Dickens, George Eliot, and Hardy; you need to read Hawthorne, Melville, James, Woolf, Joyce, and Faulkner; you need to read Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Turgenev, Goncherov, Gogol, Bely, Khlebnikov, and Flaubert; you need to read Stephen Crane, Mark Twain, Edward Dahlberg, John Steinbeck, Jean Rhys, Glenway Wescott, John O'Hara, James Gould Cozzens, Angus Wilson, Patrick White, Alexander Trocchi, Iris Murdoch, Graham Greene, Evelyn Waugh, Anthony Powell, Vladimir Nabokov; you need to read Nella Larsen, Knut Hamsun, Edwin Demby, Saul Bellow, Lawrence Durrell, John Updike, John Barth, Philip Roth, Coleman Dowell, William Gaddis, William Gass, Marguerite Young, Thomas Pynchon, Paul West, Bertha Harris, Melvin Dixon, Daryll Pinckney, Darryl Ponicsan, and John Keene, Jr.; you need to read Thomas M. Disch, Joanna Russ, Richard Powers, Carroll Maso, Edmund White, Jayne Ann Phillips, Robert Gluck, and Julian Barnes—you need to read them and a whole lot more; you need to read them not so that you will know what they have written about, but so that you can begin to absorb some of the more ambitious models for what the novel can be.

Note: I haven't read every single writer on that list; there are even three I've literally never heard of; I can think of others I'd recommend in place of some he's cited; but still, his general point—that you need to read the major and minor classics—is correct.

The best piece of general advice I know, and not only about writing, comes from Dr. Johnson, The Rambler #63:

The traveller that resolutely follows a rough and winding path, will sooner reach the end of his journey, than he that is always changing his direction, and wastes the hours of day-light in looking for smoother ground and shorter passages.

I've known too many young writers over the years who sabotaged themselves by overthinking and therefore never finishing or sharing their projects; this stems, I assume, from a lack of self-trust or, more grandly, trust in the universe (the Muses, God, etc.). But what professors always tell Ph.D. students about dissertations is also true of novels, stories, poems, plays, comic books, screenplays, etc: There are only two kinds of dissertations—finished and unfinished. Relatedly, this is the age of online—an age when 20th-century institutions are collapsing, and 21st-century ones have not yet been invented. Unless you have serious connections in New York or Iowa, publish your work yourself and don't bother with the gatekeepers.

Other than the above, I find most writing advice useless because over-generalized or else stemming from arbitrary culture-specific or field-specific biases, e.g., Orwell's extremely English and extremely journalistic strictures, not necessarily germane to the non-English or non-journalistic writer. "Don't use adverbs," they always say. Why the hell shouldn't I? It's absurd. "Show, don't tell," they insist. Fine for the aforementioned Orwell and Hemingway, but irrelevant to Edith Wharton and Thomas Mann. Freytag's Pyramid? Spare me. Every new book is a leap in the dark. Your project may be singular; you may need to make your own map as your traverse the unexplored territory.

Hard truths? There's one. I know it's a hard truth because I hesitate even to type it. It will insult our faith in egalitarianism and the rewards of earnest labor. And yet, I suspect the hard truth is this: ineffables like inspiration and genius count for a lot. If they didn't, if application were all it took, then everybody would write works of genius all day long. But even the greatest geniuses usually only got the gift of one or two all-time great work. This doesn't have to be a counsel of despair, though: you can always try to place yourself wherever you think lightning is likeliest to strike. That's what I do, anyway. Good luck!

[morallyinept]

Dress Me Up & Call Me Pretty - A Dieter Bravo One Shot

Summary: Dieter gets into your make-up stash, and all carnage breaks loose.

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It's you, bub.)

Word Count: 6.8k of depraved filth.

Scoville Smut Rating: 🌶🌶🌶 "You tell me I'm doing well, and then, you try to kill me."

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here

Explicit - Established relationship/oral F receiving/M anal play/ass eating/pegging/dirty talk/come eating/playing dress up/feminisation kink/praise/sex toys/drug use/angst/Dieter being a fucking menace. 🐼

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ. ☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.  

Author’s Note: This was supposed to be a GIFLET... 🙄 I blame @for-a-longlongtime & @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin for encouraging me, you gorgeous rascals. Inspired by the BTS pic of Pedro on SNL with make-up on from his Miss Flores skit. Plumping lipgloss idea courtesy of the absolute legend @secretelephanttattoo 🖤

Finally get to play & write something for my homeboy, D - Yay! 💋

☝🏻If this story isn't to your taste, that's cool. Just skip past it quietly. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

MASTERLIST | DIETER BRAVO MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

“...I know I messed up, but this audition, it’s a game changer. Put me forward for it. I’m ready.”

The voice on the other end of the speaker sighs heavily. 

Brown, darting and bloodshot eyes flick up to the mirror, pale bottom lip chewed on listlessly. The rings on his pointer and pinky clack against the marble surface as he rocks his hand back and forth against it, increasing in speed. 

Clack-clack-clack...

“You’ve gotta fucking get it together, Dieter. I can’t keep pulling your ass out the gutter. That stunt at the Emmys? Shit man. Fucking memes are everywhere.”

A finger swipes in the tiny mountain of white powder and is brought to pale gums. He releases with a squelchy pop. The heady feeling bottoms out in his gut too quickly. 

“I know. I-I fucked up-”

“Fucked up? Jesus, Dieter!”

“I know. I’m just… I’m feeling the pressure, you know? I can’t fucking sleep.” He scratches under his chin. That little spot that feels raw and tight. "Just need some sleep."

“You checked in with your therapist?”

He snorts and bends over the vanity growling. “That quack doesn’t know me.”

Clack-clack-clack...

There’s a long sigh. “Get yourself straight. Sleep. For a week. Then we’ll talk about work.”

“Get me the script!” He wails.

“Goodbye, Dieter.” 

He tosses his phone into the sink and tugs at his hair. His eyes find his disapproving reflection staring back at him vacuously.

The mirror never lies.

It shows us the unbidden, hideous truth that we try to deny; shows us who we really are, even if we don’t know who that person is anymore.

Who are you?

It shows you your weakness, that disgusting perverse swill that rides inside your veins and is one with you - it’s a part of you and always has been; the root of its origin undeciphered. You’ve just known it to always exist inside of you; accustomed to the customs of your vile ways.        

Who the fuck are you, Dieter Bravo?

He points at his reflection. “I see you, you… fuck! I see you.”

Dieter is seeing it once again, the way he always had when he beheld his wrung out reflection staring back at him. The sight of himself in the mirror hung over the giant basin causes a tidal wave of images to stab at his eyeballs. So much so that he feels slightly unsteady on his feet for a moment or two.

A rush of recall; the sordid details of that fucking Emmy after party in all their purest, most vivid forms, taunting him and confusing him for a relapsed second or two, where he lets them slip inside his walls.

His guard relinquishes but if for a moment, and it's a singular moment that brings unbearable consequence and destruction with it.

It brings guilt, shame; unabashed disgust. It brings that look on your face as you shake your head and storm out, cameras flashing in his face as he chases after you and peddles fraying excuses that you've heard before. 

And once those feelings fester in, they’re hard to rinse out. A cataclysmic effect that renders him incapable of anything else but mental self-flagellation; an emotional top drop strangling him until he can no longer breathe.

Tasting the smells and hearing the colours that are laid out inside his head like sleazy schematics, drowning in the cloudy dopamine. A suffocating feeling engulfs him; a fire raging through the driest desert, burning up everything until there is nothing left to destroy.

He knows his dick was probably involved, it usually is. Drugs too. Lots of drugs. But he'd arrived sober and with you glittering on his arm. He'd been doing so well, polished up.

You were right, those people that surrounded him, they weren't his friends. They were enablers. Leeches. Revellers in his misery.

But your face, your pretty, pretty face... You didn't scream, you didn't shout. You just held him whilst he sobbed. All night. God, he hadn't cried like that in... well, he can't remember.

And he couldn't sleep that night, and hasn't been able to since.

He begs internally, to make it stop.

Screaming silently not to allow him to be the spectator anymore on his last deviances, but he’s still rendered useless whilst it omits the heinous, fucked up truths about him.

Truths that should have ruined him; if it was anyone else, it would have. Game over. Hollywood says bye-bye. But instead he’s celebrated for his bawdy reputation in the industry. One janky scandal after another, racking them up like it's fucking awards season.  

He scratches the underside of his scruffy chin listlessly. He taps his cheeks, hollowing his mouth open so it sounds out of his mouth like bongo drums and does that on repeat. His fingers are buzzing, his toes feel weird. What day is it?

Dieter grips onto the sink with both hands straining to keep himself up right and gasping as though he’s been punched in the gut; his reflection is not making it easy on him at all.

You did this. You fucking did this.

He dry heaves into the sick, but nothing comes up anymore.        

Sort your shit out.

He sees it. He sees his face. The mirror never lies. It shows you your real face; the one under the professionally groomed cheekbones and ageing skin pulled crinkly round the eyes. Perhaps he should get some botox.

He decides he loathes his face, it’s hideous and he wants nothing but to claw it off and leave it bloody and scarred.

He decides that he hates being alone and left to his own perilous devices like this, and wonders why you’re not home yet. Wonders how you can always silence the nagging and twittering, even though he is less than deserving of silence.

He snorts two more powdery lines and takes a deep, shuddering breath, clears his throat as though trying to find the right baritone as the sherbet fizz rips craggy down the back of it. 

The conversation with his agent leaves him ruminating further in the dark of the unhinged; ebbing paranoia starts to gnaw at him and he knows he has to calm down; somewhere in the static fuzz, he knows he should probably calm the fuck down. Regain his composure, even with a head full of luminescent bubbles that make his cortex feel uncomfortably numb. 

His fingers blindly selects a tool from the pot of brushes on the sink; he takes the fuzziest one with the biggest head and retreats into the bedroom, a lost boy, running its silken fibres up and down his cheek.

The gentle stroke of the compacted hairs feels like a tender touch, comforting, grounding him as he breathes in and lets the make-up brush, that you use to coat your cheeks in pretty fuschia colours, soothe him for a few seconds. 

And that’s when Dieter has an idea; cracking open his skull like a lightning bolt. Dashing back to the bathroom as though he’s shit all down the inside of his harem pants; the adrenaline, the rush floods down the veins in his triad inked arms as he scatters the brushes across the vanity clumsily and cackles wildly. 

The same rush he gets when he’s about to paint a new, heinous masterpiece. Only this time the canvas will be his own face. 

Layer by layer, he conceals the signs of his turmoil, the long, binge worn-in trenches under his eyes. As if he could mask and tame the chaos with every stroke. The eyeliner is meticulously applied, despite the visible shake in his fingers, although two more lines of coke will sort that out, give him sharpened focus, if but for a few minutes. 

The act of shaping his eyes allows Dieter to momentarily escape the storm inside his mind, even if he doesn’t take the opportunity to bask in its sloshy puddles. 

He looks back at his reflection and sees not the paranoid, reclusive and somewhat maniacal man he’s become, but an esteemed, Oscar-worthy actor who can transform into another character, if but for a while. 

And it stuns him, not his handiwork, although he’s quite in awe of it - he’s always been expressive with a brush - but the fact that he’s forgotten that he’s this person rather than the catatonic failure being held together with strained, thread-like seams. 

That he, too, could be… pretty. 

But Dieter knows this is only a temporary reprieve, another coping mechanism before the turbulent thoughts blow in again to rattle his tired skeleton. But for now, it’s enough to roll with, to revel in the ignorant bliss.

And it’s having a profound effect on his body as things start to tingle back to life again; fingers, nipples, cock… Pieces of him coming alive that have felt so anaesthetised for so long.

Staring at his lips, he frowns at their bareness. Rummaging through your make-up bag in a road to Damascus dash, he audibly growls when he can’t find it, the finishing touch.

He ends up tipping it all in the sink, burying his phone that has been incessantly pinging for days, as he searches for his coveted prize frantically with gnarled claws. 

“Fuck!” He paces out of the bathroom; a renegade hand partaking in the regular tug and twists at the curly hair on his nape. He pulls open the dresser drawers and rifles around.

No, not in there either. 

The bedside table shows no hint of the final piece that will complete the look.  

Sighing and feeling his fingertips throb, Dieter stops stomping when he spies it, taunting him on the side of the sink where it had always been.

Come here, big boy…

He pulls the cap off and twists up the bottom to reveal the velvet bullet, shaped down to a flat nubbin by your copious wear. He sniffs it; it even smells of you. The lipstick is a pretty, deep rosy pink.

He runs it over his lips and rolls them together. Blotting it with his fingers, a few soft taps like he’s seen you do a thousand times before; he puckers and licks around his teeth. He loves this colour on you, his favourite.

Loves that it leaves the markings of you all down his chest and around his cock. 

Dieter reaches into the front of his pants and adjusts the heavy weight of his dick in the throes of hardening and tenting them out. He gives himself a squeeze and the groan that escapes him sounds so alien.

He leans forward and kisses the mirror, leaving a print of his lips, and smirks.

"Would you fuck me? I'd fuck me. I'd fuck me hard. I'd fuck me so hard..." Dieter recites Jame Gumb imitating his accent, and snickers at his reflection.

He paints on a sticky glaze of gloss over the top of his lips, then retreats into the bedroom, back to the dresser drawers where he pulls out your silk and lace in abundance and laughs maniacally as he repeats the quote.

"I'd fuck me so hard..."

When you reach the bedroom, the carnage stops you in your tracks. For a moment, it looks as though there's been a robbery.

What the...?

There are clothes everywhere, on the floor; your delicates and unmentionables. Outfits strewn over the bed, sequins and suede crumpled on the chair like deflated ghosts.

The closet doors are wide open and you can hear the muffled sounds of him from somewhere amongst the throes of it. Garbled curses and strung out laughter that echoes.

“D?” You call as you place your purse down.

“Yeah!” He calls as you make your way towards the closet door, but he bounds out, wrapping his green gown tight around his waist.

He looks at you, hair dishevelled, but you stop in your tracks.

You smile, slowly and wide, as he stares at you like he’s just woken up.

“Babe.” He acknowledges, blinking widely and fast.

“Damn, you have good taste. That colour is gorgeous on you.” You say, zoning in on his lips.

“What?” He questions with a twinkly void in his eyes. He baulks then remembers his face is caked full of make-up.

“Oh. Yeah?” He blushes.

More scritching at the underside of his chin commences and he frowns at the foundation now embedded under his nails.

You smile softly. “Yeah. But let me fix your eyes. Come here. Got a little smudge there.” You say as he follows you over to the vanity like a loyal puppy and sits himself down, proverbial tail wagging crazily.

You smirk, noticing his legs are swathed in a black, nylon sheen under the flaps of his corduroy gown.

“Nearly fucking blinded myself putting that shit on. Don't know how you do that everyday.” He nods to the eyeliner that you pick up.

“Masochist,” you smirk. You dab at his eye corner, redraw the line and smile. “There. Perfect.”

He blinks a couple of times, as though there’s something in his eye. Or perhaps he’s having a stroke.

“You look…” You swallow as you can’t find the words.

“Do I look pretty? Do you want to have sex with me?” He puts to you, and it’s like he just whispered it directly to your clit. He stares up at you with perfectly lined, brown doe eyes.

Sucking in a breath you query “is this for a role, or…?”

“No.” Dieter shakes his head standing and his gown falls open. You see he’s wearing black stockings with lace tops, held up by suspenders. And your black, lace thong.

“D. Is that my thong?” You ask, bewildered and bemused, as he turns back to you.

“My thong now.” He simmers at you.

“Oh my God. Don't do this to me.” You say feeling the heat ignite your cheeks.

It suddenly feels very hot and stuffy in the bedroom as you take him in. Sweat makes itself known on the back of your neck and you feel damp between your legs. Your inherent need for him grows fangs and wants to sink itself into the meat of his thigh and suck deeply until you grow fat and full and fall off.

“I'm not doing anything, baby.” Dieter remarks, twiddling his curly tufts around his finger.

“Fuck, D. You're fucking hot like this.”

“Yeah I am.” He says twirling, and twirling a bit more vigorously, until you stop him.

You take his head in your hands and peer at his blown out pupils. “Are you high?” You question, eyeing him with a dipped frown.

“Maybe. It's irrelevant.” He shrugs and shakes out of your grip. You’re too good to him, and he knows it.

He is completely fucking unworthy of this, of you. Look at you; you’re stunning there in your effortless grace and the way you behold him like he shits out gold nuggets, even when he’s fucked up - again.

You’re a fucking Goddess, and the no good, piece of shit needs to worship at your feet and beg for your forgiveness for his latest relapse. He can’t look at you, he can’t look at himself.

He wraps his robe around his belly again.

This was stupid. Pathetic. Why does this fucking foundation itch so much? It’s your eyes, it’s as though he’s tumbling through tunnel vision, hurtling straight at your damn eyes. Stop looking at me.

But you pull him to you, wanting to get your hands on him. Wanting to reassure him and quell those shakes that rattle him. Wanting to scrape those scabbied layers off of him and bathe until the skin feels soft once more.

But he’s making it very difficult to concentrate on any kind of admonishment right now.

Right now, you just want to lick him all over.

You take his hands and his gown flaps open again. His little tummy paunch rests softly on top of the silk elastic of the suspender belt and you run your finger along the width of it. His cock barely fits inside your thong, and you’re trying not to dribble as you stare down at it.

Thick and swollen and hard. And thick... fuck.

“I like this.” You pant.

“Yeah? How much?”

“A lot.” You nod to him slowly as you look up at him. That clit of yours thunders like it’s kicking crazily at a locked door to get out. You clench, squeezing your thighs together and try to stifle your moan.

But he hears it. And he fucking runs with it.

“Am I your good girl?” Dieter pouts and flutters his clumpy mascara eyelashes at you.

“Oh-ho.” You whine, shaking your head and punching your fist against his bare chest gently.

Yeah, he went there.

You know exactly what he wants, how he wants to play this out. He's playing the part, and you're his partner in scene. So you give it to him.

“Yeah. You're such a good girl, D. So fucking pretty for me.”

“Yeah?”

“Did you make yourself all pretty just for me?”

He nods. "You like it?"

“Look at those blow-job lips… Jesus.” Your thumb pulls on his sticky, cerise bottom lip before he sucks it fully into his mouth and eye fucks you darkly the whole time he does it.

“What do you want?” He whispers coyly as your thumb pops out.

“I wanna ruin your make-up.” You husk.

“Fuck.” He says, giddy. "Do it."

“Wait here.” You say, scurrying over to the closet and disappearing inside.

“The strap on!” He calls.

Your head pokes around the door like a Meerkat sniffing out danger. “Yeah?”

He nods enthusiastically with serious eyes. “Fuck yeah.”

“Oh, you’re such a fucking cock slut.” You call back excitedly and giggle as you rummage around in the drawers in the closet. The drawers that are chock full of an arsenal of sexual weaponry. Dildos, plugs, vibes… Everything you can think of, and then some.

“It feels so silky and nice. I can't stop touching it.” He groans as he watches you step into the bedroom again with the harness and dildo dangling from your hand.

You pull down your jeans and step out of them, kicking them away in haste, and he bites his lip beholding you.

You're too much and not enough.

“Touching your little pussy?” You observe him running his hands over the silk of the suspenders and the stockings. He fiddles with the tiny bow on the thong.

“Yeah. My pussy feels real nice.”

“Show me how you touch it, Dieter.” You tempt.

He sits back on the chair, legs open, manky gown falling off his thighs. His hand cups over his cock that’s grotesquely hard. Thick, swelling and the head as flush and pink as his lips.

Poking out the top of the thong, it’s so small to hold him all in fully, and there’s a little sheen on his belly just below his slot machine button, that glimmers sticky at you where he’s leaking.

Your throat runs immediately dry because all the fluid in your body is pooling in your cunt right now and dripping into your panties. Fuck...

You watch him pump that hefty cock of his over the lace. You can hear him breathing hard and moaning with unrestrained pleasure as he goes. He hisses, you watch mesmerised and unable to look away, trying not to drool in the process.

He says your name and you feel it all over your body as it fires in your core.

“Mmhm, mmhm, fuck… feels so good.” Dieter purrs as he strokes up and down his thick length, taking the time to rub the pre-cum slick around his head.

You watch keenly as the insides of his thighs jerk each time he does it.

“Come here, pretty girl,” you coo sitting on the end of bed and tapping the space beside you.

“You want to do scissors with me?” He smirks.

“Fuck, D!” You groan.

You run your hand through his fluffy, messy hair as he reaches you. No matter how well put together he can look - and it’s rare - his hair always resembles a chaotic mess that you love tugging on.

You yank him forward by it, eliciting hisses from him. Those plush, pink coated lips of his are puffed out as you twist his cocoa hair tightly inside your fingers. He coos, enjoying your fuss.

“You feeling a little out of sorts, baby?” You whisper to him, kissing his crown as he kneels between your parted legs.

You know, you always know when he needs you. But never asks.

He sits back on his heels and doesn’t look at you, his hands wringing, fidgeting. The obvious signs that say he’s not ready to talk about it yet. He scratches under his jaw, in a patch that is soothed as he digs his nails into it again. You take his hands and he hangs his head.

“D.” You prompt. “Tell me what you need right now.”

Why do you do that? I hurt you, and will continue to hurt you, and yet you still want to take care of me...

You smile at him, plugging in and powering up the sun, and it tears at something inside of him.

Dieter leans forward, planting soft smooches up the inside of your thigh and leaving wet, lipstick kiss prints.

“This.” His nose presses into your crotch. He flicks his tongue out and up the front of your panties. “I want to taste that pussy, baby.”

“Yeah, you wanna lick my cunt, pretty girl?”

“Mmhm,” he says, his fingers now tugging your panties aside eagerly as those brown eyes lance at you for permission, for approval. His brain is yammering away twenty to the dozen.

Pussy-pussy-pussy-pussy-pussy-

“Eat it, Dieter.” You groan.

He runs his nose up your slit inhaling in deep and humming out in satisfaction at your scent. He slides his long fingers up underneath your panties and pushes them to one side to reveal your soaking lips glistening at him.

He leans in, eyes still looking up at you in their droopy, tired haze, and runs his tongue against you.

You feel that wet muscle weave inside your folds and begin to lap you up like he’s starving.

He listens to them; those whimpers around his fingers as he slides them into your mouth as he tongues you, and the way you look at him; you trust him, you adore him, and it fractures him and leaves wounds opening up all over his body as he bleeds out, bleeds for you.

He reaches down and slides his other fingers inside your pussy as he slurps hungrily around your clit; so wet and so fucking tight.

Dieter watches every time you come; really studies your face and the sounds you make from his fingers fapping hard inside your cunt, bringing you to the edge, and instead of holding you back or denying you, he lets you fly. It's the best part. It's like fucking Icarus, man. He always flies too close. He wants to see your psychedelic colours and bask in their vividness as they blind him. Feel your corona melt his face.

He feels you tighten and constrict around his fingers, hilted to the silver bands at his knuckles, your slick soaking all over the metal. He knows this is real, not a spaced out trip. Knows that he makes you feel these things for him. Even when he feels like utter shit.

You can’t fake it when you’re this open, this vulnerable before him. He inhales you, he needs you. He lets you dissolve on his tongue. Needs you more than the nose powder, more than the glittering lights, more than the fans chanting his name and his face blown up on billboards.

You’re his fucking drug and he’s hopelessly addicted to feeling you flood through his veins.

The pointed tip of his tongue probes and flicks wildly against your clit, and you die. He grabs a hold of your waist, hoisting you up and back further onto the bed where he tugs your panties aside further and delves into your cunt with a heated fervour.

You watch, gasping, as that perfectly pink lipstick smears wet and sticky across his mouth and cheeks as he goes to town on you like he’s starved.

“So fucking good, baby. Just like that!” You gasp feeling dizzy and unbearably hot.

Amidst the heat of his lapping, you start to feel a subtle, yet almost electric feeling that radiates on your lips and clit. It’s like a cascade of tiny, pinprick vibrations; invigorating and soothing at the same time.

Tingles, leaving a pleasantly cooling sensation around his wet tongue.

“Mmm, you’re wearing the plumping lipgloss, aren’t you?” You smile as the tingles increase over your clit, pulling tight and localised; you start clenching internally as you feel it deliciously sharp and aching as that nub pulses whilst he teases and strokes it with his tongue.

“Mmhm,” he confirms with his mouth full of you.

“Good choice.” You groan. “Yeah, D…”

Your fingers rake through his crown, tugging his face closer into your centre where you start to grind. Snuffles of his nasally breaths are felt on your mound; his tongue diving deeper and you feel the thickness of his fingers sliding into you, immediately stroking at the fleshy spot where he knows to coax your orgasm out of hiding and into his waiting mouth. The beads on his wrist jangle and clack as he faps hard, finger fucking you into oblivion.

“Mmm, oh God, D…” You groan and writhe. “Just like that, pretty girl. You’re gonna make me come.” You pant glancing down at him and that darned lipstick is everywhere, all across his lips, peppering his scruff pink and smeared across your cunt and thighs.

“Oh fuck! Yes!” You caterwaul, your body tensing and pulling tight as you start to unwind and flood his mouth.

Drinking you down, he licks long and fat stripes up your pussy. He sucks on your plumpy clit and smirks as you catch your breath; your thighs clamp hard around his face from the overstimulation.

“On your hands and knees, pretty girl.” You instruct and he grins.

The gown comes off, flying through the air, to reveal him bare chested, clad only in your suspender belt and stockings, and that damned thong with his cock spilling out of it.

Bending over on all fours and presenting that ass up to you, Dieter groans as you grab his cheeks and bite into them.

“Yeah!” He growls as he feels your teeth indenting the skin. You slap his ass a few times, watching the fat of it jiggle; sharp, quick stings from your palm as he moans and stretches out like a cat pushing his rump closer to your face.

You part his cheeks, unhooking the black line of the thong riding deep up in that crack. Holding it to the side, you slide your tongue all over that pink, puckered urchin that's waiting for you.

“Oh, baby!” He groans.

You reach between his legs with one of your hands; his butt cheek closing against the side of your nose when you let go, and stroke his rigid cock as you lick and tease his hole.

You spit, lathering him up, and the wet clicks of your tongue flickering around his rim are filling the room obscenely.

Your tongue pushes in, delving into his ass deeper as you fuck him with it, and he whines and bucks. You pump his cock, feeling your hand sticky from his silky fluids, and his balls are full and swollen as you grope and pull on them gently. It makes his head feel all fizzy, like a soda pop all shook up, and he could burst and spew out at any second from the carnage your tongue causes as you push it deeper into his ass.

“Fuck!” He grizzles, his head hanging low like it's snapped off his vertebrae.

“You love it, look at you. I wanna watch you get fucked in this pretty little hole, D. Take pictures. So everyone can see what a cock hungry, little slut you are.” You say.

“Fuck baby, yeah.” He growls.

“Let everyone see you get ruined.”

“Ruin me, baby. Please.” Dieter grunts.

"Stretch you out and watch you gape for me."

"Fuck!"

You reach for the strap on and begin buckling it in around you as you carry on feasting. You take off your top and bra in between licking and sucking around his hole.

Once it’s on and secure, you tap his ass. He turns as you stand, and you jut the dildo towards his mouth.

“You look so good with my cock in your mouth.” You praise as he sucks on the end of it.

You stroke through his hair, and run your thumb across the lipstick smeared around his mouth. Shiny, sticky with the gloss and your cunt slick. He's a mess and it delights you.

Your hands clutch his head; the length of your rubber cock inside his mouth, his tongue swirling around it. Whining for it, able to take it in deep and getting a little too enthused for it that he chokes a little here and there.

“You like sucking cock, don’t you, pretty girl?” You cajole.

“Mmhm.” He nods with his mouth full, taking the dildo in as deep as he can to the back of his throat. It's impressive that he can deep throat so well.

“You wanna fuck this, hmm?”

“I do.” He gasps as he takes a breath. Strings of crystalised saliva pulling from his lips.

“Get the lube.”

He scrambles towards the bedside table and yanks open the draw so hard, the whole thing comes out and crashes on the floor. Grinning, Dieter tosses the bottle up at you and you squeeze it out over the dildo.

“Bend over, let me see that ass again.”

Dieter eagerly presents once more, and glances over his broad, tan shoulder at you. His sultry eyes are expectant, wanting - needing.

“Ready baby, deep breath…” You chime jauntily squeezing his cheeks.

His face scrunches, that initial pinch felt as the large, globular head of the dildo breaks through, but you can feel him instantly relaxing against it and welcoming you in.

You slide the dildo into him gently, slowly. All the way until you reach the hilt.

“You take it so well, pretty girl. That feel good?” You stroke and pat his butt.

“So good, baby. Fuck!” He groans. "Oh God, you're so deep."

"Your sluttly little hole can take it." You move your hips forward steadily, easing the dildo’s thickness in and out of him.

You watch as his ass indeed takes it; the lube helping to glide it in effortlessly as it squelches and bubbles around his rim.

“Nice and deep, D. God, you should see this right now. See how your ass just takes my cock.”

“Feels so fucking good.” He gurgles, trying not to dribble on the sheets.

“My big, fat cock filling you up, hmm?”

“Yeah. Fuck me."

His little breathless pants echo around the tincture and colour of his voice, barely able to come through as he breathes out through it all. “Oh my God, oh my God…” Dieter trails off.

“That’s it baby, take my cock.” You whisper at the sight of him doing just that. “So, so pretty.”

You work the dildo in and out as you reach underneath again and pump his dick up and down; squeezing and applying the right pressure as he fucks into your fist.

You still for a moment, just enjoying him pushing back and twerking on the end of you like some mad evangelist for anal. Marvelling at how his hips flex and his back arches and sinks like a cat as he works and fucks hinself on the end of your cock.

He flashes you an enigmatic grin over his shoulder again.

"Good girl," you praise.

You grip tighter around his cock and start to pump him in rhythm with your increasing thrusts into his ass.

“Oh you’re so hard, you like that don’t you?” You whine. “Look at my pretty girl taking this cock so well.”

You let go of his dick and press into his thighs as you lift yourself up a little and begin to fuck his ass harder and faster.

“Oh shit, baby!” Dieter whines. “Yeah, fuck my ass!”

He takes it, somewhat cross-eyed, as you go harder and deeper inside him. You see his large hands claw into fists around the sheets. He grits his teeth so hard the cords in his neck pop out.

He’s close. You always know. Those little telltale signs of an imminent climax when he starts to strain and tense before biting down his lip and panting wildly like a dog trapped in a hot car, reveal themselves like clues to solve an orgasmic mystery.

But just as he’s there, just as his eyes are rolling into the back of his head in sweet delusion, is when you pull out.

It’s the perfect, sweetly sinful moment to destroy him.

Dieter’s head immediately snaps round at you. “What the fuck?!”

You smirk and slap his ass.

“Please…” He whines. He tries to back his ass back on it as you step out of his reach.

You shake your head and then plunge back in. You do it again, and again. And a-fucking-gain.

It goes on for quite some time; the agony, the prevention - the acute thwarting of his pleasure. Leaving him on the edge of never, that peak where his body can’t unwind or uncoil or release fully.

You throw him up to that height, but don’t allow him to fall back down.

His body responds in all the right ways each time - the clenching, the jittery spasms; the gasping and incoherent babbling as it builds, and each time he thinks this will be it - that you’ll show mercy and let him fly free.

But then you snatch it all away from him; robbing him of his hedonism with a wicked smirk creeping across your mouth like The Grinch Who Stole Christmas.

Dieter growls out - and somewhat close to damn tears too through glistening, black lined eyes - when you pull out of his ass again and let go of his dick, just when he is on the cusp.

Keeping him balanced on the edge precariously for the final time.

"Baby, you're fucking killing me, please." Dieter whines.

You slather his butt and your dildo in more lube; you can see it dripping shiny down his crack and onto his balls. You slide back up into that puckered hole of his ass, taking him by surprise, forcing your way in this time - no pleasant warnings or easing him in.

“Going to destory this hole, D.” You growl, grinning as you grab a hold of his ass cheeks like he does yours, and you fuck the shit out of that ass of his.

You watch as the shiny dildo plunges in deeper each time as you draw back. “This ass is mine!" Tiny squirts of lube are felt pelting your thighs.

Dieter grunts away crazily, face pressed down into the pillow, covering it in foundation and eyeliner as it sweats off of his face. His body struggles to stay upright and you adjust your position.

You sit over his ass; the dildo plundering in so deep. Your hands rest on the back of his stacked shoulders, and go hard on him like riding a bronco.

“Fuck!” He mouths into the pillow. His cock rubs against the duvet deliciously.

“Look at you taking my dick,” you snarl in his ear full of awe. You lick across his cheek, over that little wondrous scruff, and then suck on his ear lobe, tasting the metal from his hoop.

“Such a good little cock slut for me, aren’t you D?” You tease.

Dieter groans out, his eyes crane to look at you. Jaw slack and nodding. You push your fingers inside of his mouth and you can feel him tonguing them as he pants with his ass chock full of your girthy strap on.

He mewls as your fingers slip out of his mouth all shiny from his saliva.

“Can I sit on it?” He asks and the request takes you both by surprise.

“You wanna sit on this cock?” You ask him, your thrusts slowing down.

“Please.” His voice is so tiny, like he can’t believe he is actually begging for it.

His dick brushes against the dildo as he manoeuvres upright to face you, and it makes him gasp and smile in delight. You clamp your hand around them both and jerk them slowly for a moment or two, bewildered by how he reacts to it with his mouth open in a small 'o' and glassy eyes smeared with mascara.

It’s so fucking hot, the state of his face; it’s a fucking mess, a pink cloud around his mouth and panda eyes, and your cunt is literally throbbing at it.

“Fuck…” Dieter curses as he throws his head back enjoying the sensation. It may be silicone or whatever, but crushed and rubbing against his own cock, it feels so damn good.

“You like that?” You put to him and he looks down at you nodding and placing his hand over yours as you both start frotting together.

He slips his fingers on his other hand into your cunt; ringed thumb stroking on your clit and bringing you close.

You’re both watching and panting together, all the perverted, lusty visions of it flooding your senses. You imagine him doing this with another guy - with another real cock - and it turns you the fuck on. You wonder for a moment if he’s thinking the same thing. You want to see that. You want to watch.

You make a mental note to discuss it with him at a later date. Your clit pulses in response to it, like it’s been zapped as he strokes against your spot expertly, and you squeal as you come over his fingers.

He sucks them and groans deliciously.

“Sit on it like you wanted, pretty girl,” You say, laying back on the bed.

Dieter kneels, straddling over you, as he lowers himself down slowly onto the dildo; whining out as it begins to fill him up again.

You can see him taking his time, being hesitant as he fucks the tip mostly. Sitting tentatively on the top so he can control the depth.

“Take it all in, D.” You instruct him boldly. You push down on his hips and he takes more of it in. His nylon covered thighs buckle and shudder, his massive hands grip onto your stomach for a moment and you can feel his fingers prodding at you sharply.

“Fuck all of that dick!” You order him and you buck up, the dildo going further into his ass and making him cry out.

You start to fuck him and he pushes back against you each time, taking it deeper and starting to whine and groan with sexy, gruff melodies again.

He sits backwards, his hands behind him and gripping around your thighs. His own cock slapping across your stomach and his as he bounces up and down on that dildo jammed into his ass that feels so fucking good.

Dieter starts rolling his hips around on it and almost passes out.

"Fuck..." he growls, eyes rolling back again.

“You're such a hungry cock slut, Dieter… that's it, ride it. Look at you, you can't get enough. Stretched all around my cock. Do you love it?”

“I fucking love it, baby.” He pants, sweat beading down his temples; his suprasternal notch shiny.

“Tell me you love my cock, pretty girl.”

“I love your cock. Ahh yeah… fuucccck!” He’s there again, so close. You can see it.

“Come all over my tits, D. Come on, you slut. Do it.”

“Fuuh-uuuckkkk!” His balls lurch and surge and you can feel him stiffen and tense in his body before he cries out through delicious grunts and strangled curses.

His toes are stretched out and he’s cricking against it; holding onto the pleasure for as long as he can until he eventually bursts all over your chest.

He sighs deeply as he releases; a geyser of pearly deliciousness spurting upwards and splashing onto your skin and nipples.

“Good girl.” You praise. “You gonna lick it up, like a good girl for me? There we go. Get it all.”

He runs his tongue all over your skin, licking and getting all of it. He then leans into you, kissing you and slipping his salt soaked tongue into your mouth so you can taste him too.

“Mmm,” he whines as he tries to control his breathing, cheeks as pink as his smeared lipsticked lips.

Dieter flops forward fully onto you, his weight crushing. The dildo slides out of his ass with a wet pop, and you both stay like that for a few minutes as you wrap your arms around him and kiss the top of his damp crown, over and over affectionately.

“You okay? Feel a bit better?” You whisper to him tentatively, the hair on his head tickles your lips as you speak into it.

He nods and reaches up for your face and strokes your cheek with his knuckles.

“Yeah.” he replies, satiated. “Fuck. That was-”

“I know.” You giggle utterly beside yourself. “Your make-up’s ruined.”

You kiss his fingertips and cuddle him tighter, wrapping your legs around his waist. As you do, the stickiness of his sweat squelches between you both and sounds like you just let rip ungraciously.

He snorts, his shoulders heaving against your chest, and you giggle into his hair.

He places a few lingering kisses on your clavicle. “We're doing that again. And I'm keeping these.” He says, flicking the elastic of your thong against his hips. “You hungry? I'm fucking hungry.” He croons, looking at you.

“I could eat.” You agree.

“Waffles? Or no, no, no, wait… Ramen. Fuck. Yeah. Then some waffles. Some of those peppery chicken things… you know with the Haberno sauce?” His eyes are still blown and you peer into him carefully.

He stops yammering and tries to look away, but you kiss him again, pulling him back to you. You sigh, as his head rests sweaty against yours, so close that it looks like he only has one, twitchy eye.

“You know this fuck up loves you, right?” He murmurs in the smallest voice you’ve ever heard peep out of him.

“Never doubted it.”

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He mumbles. Dieter presses a kiss to your cheek and gets up.

“D?”

“Yeah, yeah?” He reaches for his gown crumpled on the floor.

“Go flush it.” You nudge. “All of it. We’ll start over again, okay?”

He sighs. He doesn’t deserve you. You, and your soft eyes staring back into him encouragingly, with misplaced love and forgiveness that you force him to confront.

He wants to do it, wants to be better for you. He wants to be as pretty for you as you are for him. He’s tired of disappointing you, even if you never show it each time he falls back into the muddy, cold gutter. You always reach in to pull him out. How do you do that?

Padding to the bathroom, he pulls the thong out of his ass; a dishevelled, chaotic mess with a ladder running the length of the left stocking down the back of his calf, and you smile as you unbuckle the strap on.

Moments later, you hear the toilet flush in the bathroom.

“Good girl!” You praise, and you hear Dieter chortling wildly.

Dieter catches sight of his face smeared in the mirror. The mirror never lies, no matter how much your dress yourself up and call yourself pretty.

Sniffing in deeply, tasting some flavour of of a mild clarity, he reaches for a cotton pad and begins clearing the smeared make-up off of his face. Slowly revealing his features back to him with each swipe of the pad. New skin, a new man.

He smiles at himself, blushing.

You’re not afraid to be lost with him. To indulge him and be unabashed. And Dieter knows that eventually, you’ll help him find his way back to himself again.

Because you always reach in to pull him out of that muddy, cold gutter. And he loves you so fucking much for it.

Tagging the Dickin' Around With Dieter On Discord Lovelies: @secretelephanttattoo @rhoorl @maggiemayhemnj @trulybetty @for-a-longlongtime @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @goodwithcheese @musings-of-a-rose @avastrasposts @undercoverpena @gemmahale @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @linzels-blog @sin-djarin @beboldbebravethings @legendary-pink-dot @laurfilijames @ladybess-a03

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MASTERLIST | DIETER BRAVO MASTERLIST

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