#Key Spirit Awards

[smtown-tourist]

I know it’s a long shot, but wouldn’t it be amazing if Onew finally made his long awaited return from Hiatus with SHINee’s performance of Hard at the MMAs?

[bourbontrend]

Discover the latest trend in the bourbon world with Frey Ranch's 100% Wheat Whiskey Single Barrel. This unique wheated bourbon is a must-try for any whiskey enthusiast. Learn more about the incredible flavors and where to snag a bottle before they sell out! #BourbonTrend #WhiskeyLovers

[siamivoryspa]

Thai-style spa services

Thailand has been a consistent winner of several spa awards for many years. Thailand's spa sector appears to be in good condition, evolving with the changing needs of spa clients to a focus not far from the old goal of traditional Thai massage and herbal treatment techniques. Despite the necessity to integrate Western principles, the Thai spa industry's competitive advantage is its historic heritage: the rituals, treatments, and massage techniques that have lasted the millennia.

It has an authenticity that spas throughout the world strive to emulate, and "Thainess" has also become a key marketing factor for Thai spas. It is critical to understand why Thai spas with Thainess or in Thai style have won numerous accolades and surprised the globe!

Thainess refers to both the therapists and the cultural characteristics that have made Thailand the spa capital of the Asia-Pacific region and a must-have component for spas worldwide. While Thainess might mean different things to different individuals, it appears to encompass old therapeutic procedures, folk wisdom in its ceremonies, and, probably most importantly, graciousness when applied to Thai therapists.

Maintaining wellbeing through a better balance of the body, mind, and spirit, as well as with the environment, has become a fundamental principle for Thailand's award-winning spas and new initiatives. Thailand is increasingly positioned as a medical destination offering both orthodox and alternative treatments.

Thailand, known as the "Land of Healthy Smiles," offers its health and beauty-conscious visitors the wonders of pampering and holistic spa treatments for the body, mind, and spirit. The discovery of health and wellness includes a comprehensive selection of world-renowned day spas, destination spas, hotel/resort spas, and medical spas.

Spa treatments in Thai style can help you connect with your inner self in a variety of locations across the country. A Thai spa is unquestionably a worthwhile treat that gives the best spa experience. Without a doubt, this causes discerning tourists and receivers to fall in love with Thai spas with Thainess or in Thai style!

Thailand is a world-class spa destination because of its delicate blend of cultural heritages and diversities. Thai spas, with a focus on health and beauty, incorporate methods of relaxation and health enhancement, both physically and spiritually.

They bloom in Bangkok and key tourist cities around the country. The Thai spa experience incorporates indigenous resources, unique traditions, and local wisdom that have been passed down through the generations. Recognizing potential market niches for spa business, spa operators look to this historic treasure trove to produce and showcase the greatest Thai style spas to ensure worldwide spa recipients a lasting spa expectation.

In truth, Thailand's spa treatments differ greatly from those provided at top spa facilities across the world because the spa theory there has been embraced and adapted into traditional Thai style. The globe has been impressed by an imported spa recipe with a distinctive Thai twist! Spa facilities in Thailand also are of premium and exceptional value for money.

 A tropical sanctuary with natural and cultural diversity, Thailand is regarded one of the world's most recognised holiday resorts. This is a great plus that helps strengthen the country's basic strength as an eternal spa paradise. Additionally, top-notch spa supplies give foreign spa visitors a fresh perspective and a sense of familiarity.

Thai spas give visitors the chance to experience several aspects of traditional Thai culture. Thai spa experiences stand out because the staff members are innately friendly and service-oriented. The kindheartedness and gentleness of the Thai people compliment gracious hospitality and high-quality service, adding to the distinctive Thai touch's global recognition.

The Theravada Buddhist tradition strongly promotes kindness, compassion, and providing solace to others, and these virtues are deeply ingrained in daily life. The gesture is also logical and sincere. Additionally, the majority of spa facilities are built with distinctively Thai features that are highly regarded among foreign visitors.

The Land of Healthy Smiles, which offers a wide range of spa services, has also developed a wide range of retreats, alternative therapies, one-on-one consultations, and life coaching. Traditional Thai, Swedish, Javanese, and Sports massages, foot reflexology, aromatherapy, acupuncture, acupressure, hydrotherapy, skincare services including body wraps and facial scrubs, treatments for the face, skin, and hair, herbal steams, and floral baths are all frequent offerings at Thai spas.

Along with healthy nutrition and detoxifying, the Thai spa experience also includes body and mind exercises like yoga, tai chi, pilates, stress management, holistic wellbeing, and spa cuisine. Thai spas are well-known throughout the world thanks to its holistic therapies. The therapeutic properties of Thai herbs and plants that have been particularly designed to rebalance, repair, and revitalise the body, mind, and spirit are the foundation of many healing methods, holistic treatments, and wellbeing programmes.

[jbaileyfansite]

Interview with NBC News (2024)

Jonathan Bailey admits he’s still grieving the loss of Tim Laughlin, the wide-eyed congressional staffer turned fervent gay rights activist he played in Showtime’s groundbreaking limited series “Fellow Travelers.”

“Playing a character who is always searching for truth and has something to fight for that is meaningful and important made me really think, ‘How do you want to leave the world behind?’” Bailey told NBC News. “It’s a tiring thing for everyone to be like, ‘I want to make the world a better place.’ But Tim is an example of someone who’s a normal guy. He didn’t come from wealth, and he lived life to its fullest, including loving in a way that was just spellbinding.”

That love is the animating force of “Fellow Travelers,” which chronicles the decades-spanning romance between Bailey’s Tim and Matt Bomer’s Hawkins “Hawk” Fuller against the backdrop of key moments in queer history. After falling in love at the height of the Lavender Scare in 1950s Washington, D.C., Hawk and Tim weave in and out of each other’s lives for years at a time, unable to sever their bond. But after learning of Tim’s terminal AIDS diagnosis in the ’80s, Hawk drops everything to take care of Tim in San Francisco, where the former lovers are forced to address the true nature of their volatile relationship.

“Fellow Travelers” was nominated for three Emmys in limited series categories last month: Bailey (who also won a Critics Choice Award) for supporting actor, Bomer for lead actor and creator Ron Nyswaner for writing.

Following the success of Netflix’s romantic drama “Bridgerton,” in which he played a rakish viscount looking for his viscountess, Bailey expressed a desire to tell a sweeping gay love story. He booked the coveted role in “Fellow Travelers” six weeks before the start of filming in Toronto, following an electric Zoom chemistry read with Bomer — one of the most prominent openly gay actors working today — that even brought one of the executives to tears.

While he said he inherited the “inherent shame” of the AIDS crisis as a gay man who came of age in the early aughts, Bailey, who is English, knew very little about the Lavender Scare. He credited the writing of Nyswaner for helping him capture the spirit of Tim, a devout Catholic struggling to reconcile his faith with his growing infatuation with the emotionally unavailable Hawk, who is adept at playing the system to avoid getting outed.

“There’s something so childlike and full of wonder and unadulterated kindness about Tim that never leaves him,” Bailey noted. “When you see the huge effects of the societal pressure and control on gay people and how it affects Tim, I thought, ‘How do you tell a story of someone who’s bruised, battered and frayed by relentless, unforgiving control?’ I think the older he gets, the more painful it is for him.”

Bailey, like many queer people, has had a complicated relationship with religion. He attended a Church of England school and, at 11, was a scholarship student at his local Catholic school, where he “was completely aware of the lack of education around sexuality and gender identity.” Like Tim, he began to question his own “inherited beliefs” in his 20s, when he came to terms with his own identity.

While Tim’s religion makes him believe that something is innately wrong with him, it also gives him the capacity to believe in a love that he has felt but cannot always see with Hawk, who complements him in a way that is both “beautiful” and “painful,” Bailey said. “I think to say that they broke up a few times somehow assimilates it to a heteronormative relationship — they were completely not afforded that.”

“What Tim realizes is that the act of loving is the thing that you want to survive with and live alongside and to die with, and to be the more loving one is sometimes easier,” added Bailey, who thinks “there was no other” man whom Tim loved as deeply as Hawk. “I think the power of their dynamic — the brilliance — is that they met at that time, and it’s just a genius way of discovering and exploring how political and social attitudes really can’t kill love.”

Bailey and Bomer, who have both acknowledged that a show like this might not have even been made a few years ago, see “Fellow Travelers” as a kind of love letter to the queer actors who came before them.

“The way we look at each other is also about the opportunity that we’ve got that wasn’t there before,” Bailey said of his and Bomer’s palpable on-screen connection, which has evolved into a close off-screen friendship. “There’s a weight that comes to telling your own story or other people’s story that are similar or shares elements of your identity.”

On the day of the Emmy nominations, Bailey was in Malta — where he has been shooting the new “Jurassic World” film — with one of his best friends. They had already planned to find somewhere to grab a celebratory drink together in the late afternoon. But by the time they had settled in and tuned in to the livestream announcing the nominees, Bailey’s phone began to ring off the hook.

“The thing that was special, if a little ridiculous, is that we took a little selfie, and I realized there was just a pride flag that was in the distance,” Bailey recalled. “Having now spent a lot of time in Malta, you realize there’s only a few.”

Now on the precipice of superstardom with his roles in “Wicked” and “Jurassic World,” Bailey is redefining what is possible for an out gay actor in Hollywood, becoming a heartthrob to male and female audiences alike — even if he doesn’t often think about that label. “I’m excited to play more roles the older I get, and we will see what the heartthrob status is when I’m in my 50s,” he said cheekily.

As his profile has risen, Bailey has wrestled with which parts of himself he is willing to share publicly. His Olivier Award-winning turn in a gender-swapped West End revival of “Company” gave him an opportunity to speak openly about his sexuality — something he didn’t feel the need to reveal unless it was tied to his work. Now, he feels much more confident in interviews to volunteer certain stories about himself, including a harrowing experience in which a Pennsylvania man called him an anti-gay slur and threatened his life in a Washington, D.C., coffee shop.

For Bailey, who is still adjusting to the privilege of being able to choose his next projects, the company he keeps going forward is just as important as the material he is given to work with. He will return to the stage next year in Nicholas Hytner’s London production of “Richard II” and will reprise his role as eldest sibling Anthony in the next season of “Bridgerton.” He will next be seen as Jack Maddox, a charming academic and celebrity crush of protagonist Charlie Spring (Joe Locke), in the sixth episode of the third season of “Heartstopper,” which premieres in October.

“I recognized in the show something that I obviously didn’t have growing up, which is aspirational, generous storytelling about queer identity and gender identity that wasn’t necessarily a gay [show],” Bailey said of his initial reaction to watching “Heartstopper,” which, like many older queer viewers, made him feel slightly melancholic. “There’s so many people of that generation who just love it, because it’s brilliant and so well-performed by such an incredibly talented young cast.”

But truth be told, Bailey doesn’t think he will ever be able to let go of Tim Laughlin, who he likes to believe had “a very happy end of his life” fighting for AIDS awareness with the ACT UP movement without Hawk by his side. After having spent a year unpacking the life-changing experience of playing the character in post-screening Q&As and media interviews, Bailey has grown to feel the power of his work “more than [he’d] ever known.”

When playing a character who is confronting his own mortality, “you just think about how life is futile and quick,” Bailey said, “and if I can live a life as front-footed and as curious as Tim, then I’ll be a lucky man.”

Source

[justenjoythegossip]

THE ONE WHERE HE SAID HER NAME

For people who aren’t aware, Chris was just interviewed on Access Hollywood where he is promoting his dog food brand and talking about his wife’s connection and relationship with “their” beloved dog. Go Portugal! 

First remark, she will no longer be known as Voldemort as it’s the first time since the start of this shitshow that he has ever said her name. Good for her and shame on him. 

Second remark, his background has been blurred for more… privacy (sarcastic coughs).

Apart from those 2 new elements, it’s pretty much the same old stuff. Let’s dig. 

THE TIMING OF THE INTERVIEW

This interview takes place at a time where Chris is gaining a lot of momentum. He just made a very talked about cameo in a huge Marvel hit. As a positive sign, he is gaining followers again, which at least looks organic whether they are real or bots or a combination of both. He is working hard, doing stunts with ASP, in order to look deserving of the Spirit of Service award he is going to receive on September 11th which, by the way, coincides with the one-year anniversary of his wedding. 

This interview is about promoting his dog food brand and their partnership with a giant retail store. Because obviously why not ride this wave of publicity, make more bucks and get more attention? Especially after that planned story on his Insta about his Deadpool cameo and the variety article that suspiciously followed so quickly after it. 

Not coincidentally, this date was supposed to be the one when a BUA was to be announced, as Team PR blogs were insisting. (By the way, that fact alone should enrage Chris’ fans as his team clearly looks in cahoots with them, as many suspected.) 

TEAM PR AND THEIR LASTEST DECEPTION

Team PR blogs have been claiming the contract expired on July 26th, that the BUA was imminent and was to happen before the end of July.

They were clearly lying like they have been lying since the start of this shitshow. Particularly about the ending which was supposed to happen after the Ghosted premiere, after the Peter Holmes interview, after he came back to Insta, after theForbes article, after the papwalk in December… …during the shooting of the Materialists… 

The fact people actually gave credence to their most recent claims is not a testament to their “cunning” manipulation techniques or people’s gullibility but to how much this fandom wants this shitshow to be over. 

As you noticed, one key and vicious member of Team PR was explaining yesterday that Chris’ wearing the ring meant nothing and “was insignificant”. How hypocritical, isn’t it?  When Team PR, Team Real & Team Middle have all been talking & trolling about the precious for months. 

Notice how those Team PR blogs are now deflecting once more with silly diversions such as dog behavior or how allegedly his family will suffer for it (oh please), or play the victim card as they are allegedly receiving threats and hate messages. All of this is meant to distract from the fact that they lied once more. And they did it for several reasons, the most important being... 

ANOTHER CLASSIC BAIT & SWITCH FOR ADDED SHOCK VALUE

We have seen this movie before and repeatedly, haven’t we? The pattern is so similar to what we have witnessed in February with the ski trip. 

And even recently, with all the time she was seen spending in her home country without him (the concert, the birthday), her furnishing an apartment in Portugal, his wearing and hiding the ring every chance he got, and more importantly the stunt at the walk of fame of Kevin Feige where she was seen to be a no show so ostentatiously… Look at how staged that was, and you will realize what the purpose for it was. 

So, what they did was to try to breadcrumb a separation once again, to build up the fans’ anticipation before pulling the rug out from under them in order to add shock value. 

Well done! But FYI the aftereffect might prove very counterproductive for Chris, as his complicity looks more and more obvious and his playing the victim card looks more and more infuriating. 

CHRIS’ COMPLICITY

Chris claimed in his SMA interview how much he hates any forms of manipulation. He should have added that he was fine with it as long as he was the one doing the manipulating.  Indeed, his complicity is absolutely undeniable. 

I have written a post about this topic, if you want to check it out. 

Let’s add to this his recent shenanigans and more precisely what he did with the precious ring. I won’t go too far back and will just use 2 recent examples. 

Do people remember the Jinx commercial where he uses his pinkie to “hide” the ring as he gives food to Dodger? What he is actually doing here is to draw more attention to the ring and promote his relationship with Alba, he also looks ashamed to gain sympathy from his fans and manages to feed the discourse (real or not?) in the process. 

Isn’t it exactly what he did again for that walk of fame ceremony where he allegedly arrived without the ring (like he would forget to wear it) and then get photographed with it from every angle while his wife was a no-show?

Now let’s move on to the most interesting aspects of it all: the brand deal.

THE BRAND DEALS CONNECTED TO THIS SHITWHOW

First observation. You can see the similarity to the interview he did on The View sponsored by Jinx when he came back to Insta just in time for the Black Friday. 

I am not privy to any private information and haven’t seen the contracts but it’s safe to assume that certain businesses of his are directly connected to this shitshow for the simple reason that they have been getting an incommensurable amount of “free” publicity from many prestigious publications & media outlets. 

And by the way, it started before Alba even entered the scene. We can safely deduce Chris had already cashed in on those checks (“free” publicity) and this shitshow was also used as a payment for it. 

Because clearly, dog food and a civil engagement platform are not the “sexiest” businesses. And, the amount of media coverage those companies have been getting seems totally disproportionate compared to Chris’ status and the marketability of those businesses.

Compare this to the media coverage his fellow Avengers have been getting, like Jeremy Renner’s cigar and alcohol businesses, or Scarlett’s The Outset. 

Obviously, Chris gets to promote his businesses Jinx or ASP when he talks or breadcrumbs his relationship to Alba because this is far more selling and salacious for the media and the public. 

Sidenote, now observe the media coverage his commercial for a much “sexier” brand like Audi got, a commercial where he did not have to wear the ring by the way. 

So if you guys are enraged by this shitshow and how it is conducted, not looking at this train wreck won’t change a thing or the timeline but what might have an impact is to boycott the protagonists and the brands that are playing and manipulating you. 

THE ENDING OF THE SHITSHOW

Clearly this shitshow is long-term and won’t be ending anytime soon. And the reason for that is simple. The optics of this relationship aren’t great as he looks like her old uncle and the power imbalance is all over the place. He HAS to stay married to her for a while to give value to this relationship. 

Because clearly, he looks like another Hollywood cliché going through a midlife crisis. The only thing that could salvage a part of his public persona is to make this marriage last so that he doesn’t look like a “one-dollar Leo but without the talent”. 

In fact, it will likely last for much longer and might even escalate (DM is breadcrumbing baby rumors) because one thing appears crystal clear at this point: this marriage seems to be much more than a rebrand and a publicity stunt.

WHAT MIGHT BE COMING NEXT?

There is a rumor that Chris might be selling his LA home after he just sold his Concord house. Not so long ago it was the one in Vermont.

Like some Team PR blogs rightfully said, it was purposefully leaked to the fandom after the house had already been sold. It was a great and very smart PR move. Suddenly, Chris seemed like he was at a crossroads, like it was a new start where anything is possible. 

But as you guys noticed, the background was purposefully blurry for this interview, which gives the illusion he is private when he is really not, also puts emphasis on the crazy fan narrative (Chris has to hide to protect his family from his crazy fans) and more importantly helps to present any fabricated life he wants to the general public. It is a white canvas so to speak. 

[skemford]

Decided to refresh my knowledge of bendy protagonists personalities/quirks and i can say that i forget how distant canon Audrey is from fanon one sometimes

Here's relatively short list with Audrey character analysis+random tibbits (environmental/gameplay/voice lines)

(I'll appreciate if someone will interact+most of it is under the cut!)

1. Her workplace is an unorganized mess

On the right side: a couple of empty teacups, empty paper sheets, unopened envelope, books/notebooks, a toy ball and keys in the middle of the desk, storyboards that are UNRELATED to what she was working on;

On the left side: donut that she kept close to her elbow & storyboards while she was drawing + to-do list for a day

There's no WAY she'll be able to keep anything tidy. If you hc her and Bendy to have a familiar bond post game, she'll be as messy if not messier. Her home might be a wreck.

2. She easily distracts

- Audrey is working overtime and claims that she has "only eight hundred more frames to go" until the next deadline

But was she actually *actively* working?

She has unrelated items on her desk (listed above) and jumps on the first opportunity to get a coffee.

If she really did wanted to have a drink, she literally has a soda machine close to her office doors.

Some brands of soda do have caffeine in them, right? Getting a coffee looks more like an excuse for a walk.

Bonus point: if you'll stay in her office without getting up (for 15 minutes), she'll acknowledge that she has no time to waste and will return to work instead.

- "Well, the coffee's good and all. But this work's gotta get done"

Worth to acknowledge: this girl has "employee of the month" award and some kind of animation award (boris statue) in her office .

Does she stays overtime everyday to finish something? Or other Archgate employees are even worse at their jobs, somehow?

3. She uses dry sarcasm or makes jokes a lot

Honestly, it happens really often and should be brought up in fan content more imo.

Due to the images limit i can't put a lot of examples with screnshoots but I'll quote some of them.

- "i think you and i have very different definitions of alright" (toward Allison)

- "Looks like he's having a bad day" (about dead lost one with the gent pipe)

- "Ok! Yeah! And that totally makes sense" (reaction to an easter egg)

- "That's one leap of faith i definitely won't make" (about the pit in animation alley)

4. Audrey gets defensive when someone starts to talk over her or when she feels overwhelmed

Audrey either will deny what was said or will acknowledge it by being sarcastic

Prominent example of this is her reaction to Memory!Joey at the hotel:

- "Oh,now you knew my father. Well, newsflash! I didn't even knew my father...or my mother. Or anyone else in my family" (after Joey says that she has "adventurous spirit of her father")

- "What? Are you crazy?... Who do you think you are?" (after the reveal of her being created by the ink machine)

+ Similar behaviour can be seen in her short interaction with Twisted Alice (Susie).

Audrey prefers to keep conversation equal between both sides and when it fails to work, she'll either stay silent or will express frustration (which can be seen with her replying "no" to Twisted Alice and not saying anything afterwards)

5. She seems to trust Allison enough to be vulnerable around her

After leaving the spider lair, she'll try to reach to Allison through the speakers

- "Alice? Are... you there?... Alice!"

She'll acknowledge that she feels scared and after Allison won't sound reassuring enough, Audrey's hand will be visibly shaking.

Allison is the only character Audrey has opened to; you'll never see her being that vulnerable with anyone else

(She is honest with Henry but not on this level)

It makes me wish they had more interactions; Allison for sure was really important in early development of the game.

6. She's blunt

Through the game Audrey is a type of person who says whatever is on her mind without hiding her intentions too much.

She's emotional and rarely thinks twice (most of her decisions are impulsive or sometimes irrational) which reflects on the way she talks.

It's often slips out through sarcasm when she gets defensive/tries to cope but it's also happens in relatively safe environment (for example, when she talks with Betty):

- "Are you...very old?" (Wilson's mansion, bedroom)

This one liner is the most random question you can say to a stranger; I doubt it was very well thought out from her side

7. Audrey easily trusts people which makes her easy to manipulate

I couldn't skip this one.

When Wilson has created a story about his "poor lost father" as a bait and Audrey did believed in this, there are multiple reasons for "why"

This either could come from her being "goodhearted" or the circumstances being used against her

- She went through whole "father trauma" in one day without being able to process anything & get proper answers:

An idea of "saving" another father (Nathan Arch) who she could've knew more than her own father (Nathan says in one tape that he meet young animators at least once) could've hit her really close to home

- Audrey never actually got a real answer on how to leave the cycle, teaming up with Wilson (who was able to enter and leave) could've looked like the only one way back

(I do acknowledge that writing in DR could've been better at places but if you do think about it in this way,it makes sense)

7.1. She is empathetic

I think that this part says everything for itself and it doesn't need to be explained. Thought, she's the one who decide if someone deserves it.

- She felt bad for hurting Bendy on accident & apologized when she was able to

- When she met Allison for the last time, she "gave" her this name, remembering that she doesn't like to be called 'Alice'

- At the end of the game she wants to try to make the cycle better for everyone.

Twisted Alice (Susie) was included which means that Audrey doesn't hold grudges against her (even with the latest one wanting to kill her previously)

8. Audrey puts her arm through an ink container without hesitation or any side thoughts

IT IS a game mechanic and lore wise you can relate it to her being an ink creature

But honestly? It's in character for Audrey.

We're talking about someone who decided to go to great lengths to catch an aquarium fish (that's kept as a pet) and wanted to use it...for a recipe.

8.1. She doesn't mind eating out of trashcans

If you think that wanting to use someone's pet for a recipe is too weird, you're actually wrong. But eating out of trashcan (when you have other options) may be.

Thought, she drives a line on a food that has flies or other insects on it (like "chocolate cake")...i guess in other cases, it's fine to her.

~~~~~~~

Trivial things:

- Bendy seems to be her favourite cartoon character.

She calls him "little guy" in prologue and keeps close to her storyboards where he's the main character:

In the cycle, she acts joyful when she first stumbles upon the real deal.

- She loves chocolate donuts

- Audrey uses dark eyeshadows (can be seen only in prologue custscene. It's hard to notice at first)

- Her breakfast from to-do list are toasts

- She has abstract Bendy painting in her office

- It can be speculated that she's uncomfortable with being touched (or with someone being physically close), unless, she's the one who initiates it

~~~~~~~~~

[joannasteez]

"im with you" - installment two

featured characters: mother's milk & female reader. warnings: alcohol usage (misuse) and angst. MM being his supportive, caring self. mutual pining? (kinda) authors note: this second installment has been sitting in my drafts since the release of season three, so over a year maybe? i don't see myself progressing the story (sorry?) but i was tired of seeing this in the drafts. so i give it to you all who wish to read it!

You hate 'The Reserve', not just for its sordid means of molding into fruition false delusions of grandeur, but because it is also a reflection. A mirror, smudged and stained, bitter callousness webbing sharply from the heart of it, mangling its way to the furthest reaches, but a mirror all the same. And when the sun wanes low into the horizon, that bombastic need for liquid comfort livening up the bar, in the solace of yourself you say 'I am not like these people; degenerate drunks and reckless hedonist, bleeding the poison of a heartless raging machine who thinks them too low to even consider their existence. I am not like the super-abled, I am better'. The hatred is beautiful enough in those times, consistent enough that it waters the dust and forms thought into palpable word. Then where is this mantra now? As the weeks grow colder, air nipping sporadic bites into the skin, lethargy soothing something still and lukewarm into your veins.

Grief is loud, 'where is your mantra now?', and your need for comfort is as bombastic as theres.

On this unsteady line of desire, here must be where the attraction falls short for him. Clips its wings, falling from on high.

'He sees you', the brandy says, auburn and taunting. 'He pity's you'.

All those years ago when the ache was new, splitting raw and lethal at your chest, you're almost sure it was pity that drew him in, that made him linger. It had to be, or that's what the sluggish, drunken part of you thinks, the part that takes comfort in dark hard spirits and makes you believe all the untrue shit that stains the foreverness of wayward esteem and memory. But sipping from the bottle is good, it's easy, feeling like a drizzle of fresh rain on the skin. The burn goes dull after while, when the sky bleeds something angry and orange,  leaving just the smooth glide down the path of your throat, and when your eyes shut to escape the welling of tears, you hear that everlasting crunch of metal.

It's a hard piercing, that cringing screech and scratch of metal etching into itself, the friction tearing into flesh and bone, and just mere seconds remain before the face that shares your own fades into something distant and lifeless.

Twins, a true phenomenon, and yet as you stare into the bottle, it all feels false and unnatural, like retribution. Something beautiful and different, worth no more to the state than a cover up story and a check for $75,000.

She was worth more. She deserved more, true justice, and yet here you are wasting away, your stomach a pool of brandy.

Like clockwork your phone vibrates. 'Here comes the pity', you think.

--How you holdin' up?

His wonder is a grey text bubble, nothing more than routine and after several years still its consistent. Maybe that's why desire has etched into your skin so, a slow gradual drag into nerve, entangled to the pulse of your veins, because at least some semblance of him cares. Even if it is all just obligation, when others stopped their award wining performances of sympathy, he'd still roll around in the early cool of October asking 'Are you holding up?', and 'How are you doing?'

The tears and liquor screw your senses well, fingers slipping over some of the right keys and missing others. It takes a while to gather thought, and even then it's driven by lies and poor motor skills.

--Mi fi.

--Im fie.

--Fire*.

--Fuk Im fine*.

--Fuck*.

The disappointment is palpable, heavy on the tongue and an uncomfortable warmth to the skin. You know it, can picture the way those brows of his pull together, mouth screwed and on the verge of disgusted. Well fuck him, if he thinks you care, he isn't the one in pain, drowning in perpetual heartbreak. Saturated to the bone with it really and its ripping at you slow and dreadful, a vicious tear of tissue and vessel. And God-- but...but doesn't he know? No, no, no he has to, he's suffered similar... but it's not the same... but it is, you stress to yourself, it has to be... but it isn't, and the tears taste more salty as they come. An aged bitterness that makes you wince.

--... are you drunk?

You keep him suspended, seconds, minutes even.

--No

--A but,, Im ok.

--A bit but Im ok*.

He's quick to reply.

--Where are you?

He waits, with a staling patience just at the top floor of the flatiron building, where the city bustles and groans, exhausted and restless. In just a few measly minutes, still nerve goes erratic with impatience and then comes the hammering of his pulse.

You're drunk and alone, drowning in the memory of shitty circumstance. His chest aches in that familiarity-- Harlem and a blazing summer sun, the hard blow of barely cool air, a child's excitement and then the coming in of doom, Soldier Boy, and then the swooshing in and fatal crunch of metal-- the ache a vicious sting. Growing nails make slight indents in his skin, fingers coming into his palm, to ball and harden, to feel and never to forget.

He was lonely then, just a wild vengeance to keep him company.

Marvin moves before he can think, leaves, turns the key in his ignition and joins the hard rush of the city before resolution melts loose and hesitant.

Your Brooklyn apartment is old, as old as the house he loved destroyed by the hurling in of a benz, and as he breathes, alleviating the hard brick of tension in his shoulders, he understands why he's here. Why-- in the most inconveniencing of times-- he thinks about you. Why desire, a fervent stream in his blood, has become more ungovernable by the day. You are new but familiar. Soft and alluring but recognizable to the bone, a reflection of pain and survival that wholly scares him and excites him just the same.

When the door opens, it's the petulant embrace that catches him first, the bottle of brandy nestled in your palm, but the smell curls about the air bitter and heavy, unsullied by shame. Even in the most dismal affair, your eyes are blood-shot, daring him to go beyond whatever is shy and lingering, a plead to make the pain go away. To call out the itching twitch in his skin by name and validate its presence.

"What?", you start, feeling his eyes. The stony weight. "You're not gonna wish me happy birthday?"

"You're a mess".

You'd waited for this, hoped for it even, to have the burn and the break of desire collapse against you. For it to scorch flesh and that unrelenting part of the heart that says 'yes, i want him, need him', but it never comes. There is no fracture, even when he tears you open with concerned eyes, just the unreconcilable truth that if you are a mess, royally fucked up and drunk out of your mind, that you do not want to be. Not when or where he can see. Because there is no middle, no point at which allure and brokenness meet in a charming enough compromise... right? So this must be judgement then, 'you're a mess', the knocking in of the gavel.

The quiver to your lip is fragile. You are fragile. "If you're here to judge, you can fuck off".

The lone tear you give makes his heart squeeze. Maybe he shouldn't have led so strong, so exacting.  

He brushes in anyways, like a piece of him belongs here and steals the bottle from your fingers. Palms growing idle now, fearful, balling and releasing, grasping at air --like your whole being-- grasping at everything, anything and gaining nothing. Nothing but the soreness of muscle once bent about glass fighting for strength, for the will to straighten. All there is, is the leaning in of silence, as he cracks the windows for a fresh breeze, a hard press that leaves you scorching and loose with a raw bare boned awareness. The mantle of your belly churning and awakened with a sullen impatience to hear his words, the charge of his thoughts.

Wont he do it now?

"Just say it already", knotting pain in your throat leaving your urgency dry. Brittle. "Whatever straight laced bullshit speech you got about effective coping, and-and-and pain... and whatever the fuck".  The new air is chilling, makes the grate of your voice wane and shiver. "Just say it".

He's next to you, sinking into the couch, and it's the closest he's ever been. "What's the point of preachin' shit you don't practice".

"Drinking isn't effective coping but tearing through the city, through the damn country, offing supes left and right with Butcher is?"

You were both wrong, but so terribly right. The through-line of your lives, just narrowly escaping death, broken already but always seeming still to be on the precipice of breaking.

For some time there's nothing, no word or deed, and then, there's everything. A delirious unearthing, barbarous and desperate. 'Look at me, understand me, please', fragile, on the borders of begging. "I never meant to drink so much, it-it just happened I-", your tongue goes lax and dry from temporary thoughtlessness or the swimming and draining of liquor in your veins, you aren't sure. "I don't even like the taste but June she... she made it a thing. Our thing".

You look to him, and see through the blur of your vision, the forming together of intent and attention. No crease of pity, just tenderness and patience, without blame. Just understanding.

And then it's here, nostalgia, a wistful coming together again of memory. "My father liked to have his taste every now and then y'know... a little sip just to feel some shit I guess", you start. A finger pulling at and curling into another. "So he'd hide little bottles of brandy around the house. A stash here, stash there, but he'd always end up forgetting. He had shitty memory that way... still does", the knot in your throat grew, forming a choking sensation. "But June would find them  and re-stash them, so when our birthday came around we'd sip and get shitfaced together".

You can feel the build, a hard rushing in, the levee soon to break. "We both hated the taste, but we were doing stupid shit together and thats all that mattered".

She comes clearly in your minds eye, a replica yet different. Glassy eyes dazzled by the soft burning away of innocence. The liquor is strong on her tongue, makes her touch something tight to the skin, a holding on to that bites but comforts all the same, and the air is pungent. Rife with rebellion. In the shared bedroom of an old family owned Brooklyn Brownstone, the world opens, teems founded and un-conforming with the blazing of this single moment. Oh sister, my sister. She was your mirror, your opposite. Everything. "She was just here my whole life and now she's gone. What thing am I supposed to have that I can touch, that-that-that I can feel other than this, other than our thing".

Something in Marvin wonders, if he reaches out, forms you with his hands, will you take him in or stretch away? Will you break? Shatter into a fragmented loathing because he is not her. And there is the curt twitching in his finger, he feigns for the answer.

"You never told me that".

You laugh, mirthless and ironic. "I never told anybody because I feel like a fucking joke. I speech those kids to death almost every damn day, about being present and making room, growing in grief and look at me." Your head feels full and heavy, a sharp pounding meeting just at the forefront of your skull. "I didn't even have the fight to do anything about it. They took her away from me and I just let that shit fade. I let her go Marvin, me".

He pulls at your chin softly to face him, smearing away a lonely rolling tear. From here, just inches away, everything about him is tender and warm. But if you lean further into him, will he pull you in?, or will the comfort of his touch fall away?

It travels instead, holding firm at your shoulders. His eyes settling light and easy.

"You wanna go all Rambo with the shit, and find out what happened, I'm with you 100%, but what happened to June isn't on you, its not".

The brandy on your tongue wears old, the solace of it going stale.

'I'm with you'

His embrace is a furnace, a delicate purging. A new opening of the world.

"Thank you Marvin".

[livelaughlovesubs]

In a Toji mood rn. Being sent off on a mission for a few days, and Toji, like the whore he is, just cant wait that long. You aren't too happy to come home and be greeted with the sound of whimpers and sighs from the bedroom. Well, you can't be too upset anymore after the sight of him twitching face down and flushed, ass up, tears threatening to spill down his usually stoic face, and his fingers as deep in his hole as they could go. He's so far gone, without stopping his movements, he begs you to do something, anything- that he'll take whatever you give him cause he just can't feel good without you :(( Teach him a good hard lesson on patience. Only suck and knead his tits. That's the only amount of stimulation he deserves, and just when he's about to finish, pull away and continue getting settled back in the house and lay down to go sleep. Leave him there with his eyes unfocused and glassy and the weight of your disappointment in him settling in. Did he learn his lesson? kind of. Will he pull a stunt like this again? Most likely -🦀

Omg… okay okay- let me just ✨🏆 Award for a fucking masterpiece

Life was hard. Work was hard. People were tiring and nothing sounded better right now then laying in bed next to your lovely boyfriend. An almost depressing sigh left you at the thought of washing up. Why were the curses always night active? Anyhow you could feel you spirit rise a little at the thought of finally going home, mind already gone off to somewhere far away. Just thinking about his pretty face was washing away your worries. Maybe he cooked something nice? Well, he didn’t know when you would return so that’s out of the question. Though maybe he was sleeping right now? Seeing, ehem.. admiring his sleeping face would make you very happy too.

You opened and closed the door quietly, putting the keys away and taking off your shoes. Turning on the lights, rubbing your eyes a little. The light was blending, so you closed your eyes while walking towards your shared bedroom, staggering slightly. After your eyes got used to the light you opened them again, now already standing in front of your room door. But something was stopping you from opening it, it was a peculiar and familiar sound, one you would never forget in this life time. Seems like someone was even more impatient than you, well this was a nice turn of events you certainly didn’t expect.

After listening in on him for a while, you opened the door as soundless ad possible. He must have been really immersed in it, for him to still not notice you. Normally his senses were so sharp though. Truth be told, you were almost upset at the scene unfolding before you, but now that you saw it up close, it was impossible to be mad at him. And those sweet sounds of pure ecstasy were like music to your ears. Filled with emotions, a bit despair, confusion and bliss, eagerness and guilt, truly enough to bring a smile to your face. The fungierst part? Your boyfriend, Toji, looked just like what his voice suggested. A tears covered face pressed down into the soft and delicate fabric, which was a great contrast to his rough and muscular appearance. There were sweat and what you guessed to be precum coating his lower half too, dripping down in such a filthy way. His back was arched so beautifully, fingers knuckles deep inside him, stuffing himself to the brim. How you wished you could see his face now, the blush he wore must have been breathtaking. Maybe it was better that you didn’t see, or you might have lost control.

This was truly a work of art, one of the most dirty and degenerate kind. You could recognise the squelching sounds of his hole amidst all the moaning and whimpers. Watching as his shoulders jerked off, thighs trembled and dick twitched. An especially loud groan following soon after, “ah-aAHhh..!” Oh? He raised his head a little, you got a peek at his eyes. God, what magnificent eyes, the tears spilling from them looked so delicate and delicious. His eyes were signalising that he was frustrated, that he needed help with his little business. But were you nice enough to just grant it to him? Nah, not today, you need to let out some of your own frustration today.

“Toji, I’m home~” a joyful voice with cheerful mannerisms, sitting down on the edge of the bed while stroking some hair strands out of his face. “Hu-huh?! Since… since when?” Has he really been so consumed in the act he didn’t notice you until, now? “Oh? Why are you stopping? No need to feel pressured by me, I’ll just settle down while you keep going.” Ah.. you were mad. “Uhh.. can’t that wait for later? I’d like some help here.” You raised an eyebrow. “Please..? Anything, I want to feel your touch, fuck.” “Anything huh, well, maybe I can spare you five minutes.”

And that is the story of how you found yourself on top of him, sucking and groping his pecs, while his hands clenched on your shirt. “Ah-ahhgnn.. y/n, please..” you knew exactly what he wanted, which is why you were deliberately not doing that. Wrapping those soft lips around his nipple, sucking on them, tugging on the other one harshly at the same time. “NgHh… fuck..” the black haired male cursed again, the grip on you tightened. His chest was so sensitive, you just adored playing with it. They were huge too…such a great stress relief, no? Well, not for him, he found it almost humiliating. How was he so reactive? God damn it. He could even feel himself getting closer to the edge, and that just from a little nipple play. Now you know why he finds it embarrassing. The noises raised in volume so he bit down on his lips, a pathetic try to quiet down. Almost like a cry for help, for some mercy you could bestow upon him. Yet you didn’t, heck you didn’t react to his hints at all, playing with him as you pleased. So annoying, so irritating, and so addicting.

He furrowing his eyebrows, more tears rolled down his cheeks. His cheeks were really red, the blush has spread to his ears and shoulders too. Such a pretty crimson colour, it made you feel so proud. Even though Toji thinks you didn’t notice his small antics, you did. Well, his expressions when during those sessions just are the best, you couldn’t help but study every single detail about his gorgeous body. Which is also why you knew that he was close. Since you were feeling cheeky today, and a little bit cruel, you stopped your movements all together. Raising your head up and freeing yourself from his grip. Toji gasped at what was unfolding now, obviously surprised now. Maybe you were getting ready for more? Looking for the lube? But to his dismay, no, you weren’t, you were stopping. Did something happen that turned you off…? You only suddenly started settling down in the house, sorting out your suitcase. Ah.. so you wanted to get your responsibilities done first? Million thoughts were racing through his brain, he just couldn’t comprehend the situation. With that being said, he looked totally flabbergasted while sitting on the bed, cross legged, waiting patiently for you to finish washing up.

When you came back, he sadly got disappointed again, because instead to finishing what you started, you just got into the bed and said good night. The word confusion was basically written on his forehead, you had to fight back a laugh. That’s when he finally realised, ah, this was a punishment, fucking hell. Do you even know how uncomfortable it was to ignore that ragging boner he got? Or how damn frustrating it was? Yea nah, you fell asleep so soundly with the thought that he was suffering. Sure it was his fault, but… but…!

But he couldn’t change anything about it, so your poor little boyfriend has no other choice but to accept his fate and try tomorrow again. Surely he will learn his lesson this time, right? Right?

[princessanneftw]

The Princess Royal interview: ‘I’m not sure that rewilding at scale is necessarily a good idea’

With conservation close to her heart, HRH explains what’s needed to save animals under threat and how the monarchy plays its part

By Jessamy Calkin for The Telegraph

Inside St James’s Palace there is a bit of a flutter about the weather. Her Royal Highness the Princess Royal has several engagements today, and things are not looking good; due to wind, the helicopter might not be able to land at the designated sites, which will make travelling times to and from events longer.

The staff are waiting to be informed by the police, who are in touch with the helicopter pilot. HRH, as everyone seems to call her, has not yet been told.

She has a lot to fit in: directly after our interview, she is off to a meeting about Gordonstoun school, in London, by car, then by helicopter to give a speech at an English Rural Housing Association conference in Bedfordshire, followed by a visit to the Aircraft Research Association, where she will unveil a plaque, then back to St James’s Palace to change for evensong at The King’s Chapel of the Savoy, where she will be reading the lesson for the Royal Victorian Order.

Her day will finish at about nine, when she will be able to eat. Quite often she has a dinner engagement as well. Next week she is going to Mumbai for four days.

Not for nothing is she known as the hardest-working royal. She is involved with more than 300 charities, organisations and military regiments, and last year carried out 200-plus engagements – more than any other member of the Royal family.

Her first official engagement was at the age of 18; shortly afterwards, in 1970, she became president of Save the Children – a position that led to her being nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize – and her work with that charity continues to this day.

Early on, her father, the Duke of Edinburgh, advised her to pick the charities she was interested in – and her interests have multiplied.

But one charity that is particularly close to her heart is the Whitley Fund for Nature, which is why I’m here. Started by Edward Whitley OBE as the Whitley Awards, WFN is now celebrating its 30th anniversary, and the Princess has been a patron for 24 years.

The annual ceremony takes place at the Royal Geographical Society in London and is colloquially known as the Green Oscars; WFN distributes grants totalling around £500,000 to worthy international winners.

So far, £20 million has been awarded to 200 conservationists across 80 countries. And the Princess has never missed a single ceremony, presenting the awards and delivering heartfelt speeches.

HRH is quite probably the most respected member of the Royal family. Her lack of pomp and ceremony and the low-key dedication with which she carries out her duties is much admired. There is no whingeing. She refused titles for her children, Peter and Zara.

She is well known for her dry sense of humour. She is an exceptionally accomplished horsewoman and in 1976 became the first member of the Royal family to compete in the Olympics; she had won Sports Personality of the Year five years earlier. She famously resisted an attempted kidnap in 1974.

She has also become an inadvertent style icon, often rewearing outfits she first wore decades ago, which is both charmingly thrifty and impressive in that she can still fit into them, and she seldom buys anything that is not made in the UK.

She recently made a good-natured appearance on her son-in-law Mike Tindall’s podcast The Good, the Bad & the Rugby and she seems like an all-round good egg.

She has both gravitas and spirit – there was some very moving footage of her accompanying her mother’s coffin on the long journey from Balmoral to Westminster Abbey.

Back in St James’s Palace, Charles, her private secretary, is arranging the chairs, anticipating where she might like to sit. HRH arrives in a striking bright-green suit over a striped silky shirt and heads smartly for a different chair than the one offered.

How did she first get involved with Whitley? ‘That’s entirely Edward’s fault,’ she says in her crisp voice. ‘But the common denominator is Gerald Durrell.’

The Princess grew up reading Durrell’s books and became patron of his zoo in Jersey, part of what is now the Durrell Wildlife Conservation Trust, in 1972. ‘He very kindly asked me to become involved in the zoo – as it was then – in Jersey, and Edward [later became] one of Durrell’s trustees.

‘He and I had similar beliefs in what Gerald was doing. Apart from the fact that Gerald wrote very good books, during his travels he seemed to understand better than most the impact on the populations in which animals lived and the relationship between them and their animals.

‘Being told you have to save this, that and the other is all very well but have you been there? Have you ever tried living in that environment to find out what that means to them? Because the fundamental point is that unless the conservation comes from the local area, it won’t be sustained.’

No one is going to save an animal just because they’re told to. ‘You’ve got to work out how the animals are going to survive with the people who live there, who will be the ones who make sure that it works.’

What was Durrell like? ‘Every bit as entertaining as you would think. His humour but also his understanding of the relative importance of things in other people’s lives was absolutely fascinating – and he was spot on.’

Durrell said he felt ‘sympathy for the small and ugly; since I’m big and ugly I try to preserve the little ones’. He was an expert on captive breeding, with a view to releasing into the wild, and he tended to select animals that were close to extinction, or those that could best be helped, or just ones that were not very charismatic.

‘Yes, not the sexy ones,’ says the Princess. ‘Or the obvious ones. His approach was very holistic. He understood the impact of habitat – not just on one species but how all of the things that lived in that habitat related to each other and that you couldn’t replicate that instantly somewhere else – it was very specific to an area.’

Gerald Durrell died in January 1995, of septicaemia. He was an alcoholic and had successfully received a liver transplant but died of complications it gave rise to. ‘He told me that there was no point doing a transplant because his old liver had got used to being fed all the things he’d been given to eat and drink in order to make deals as he went round the world,’ the Princess says, smiling.

Durrell’s legacy is long. One of his innovations was to establish training for conservationists from around the world. The first trainee went on to become the first director of the National Parks and Conservation Service in Mauritius, and thousands of students from 151 countries have since attended the centre, whose graduates became known as Gerald Durrell’s Army.

This became the title of a book by Edward Whitley, who travelled round the world to assess the progress of some of the trainees and the animals they were conserving – such as the largest eagle in the world in the Philippines and Alaotran gentle lemurs in Madagascar.

To launch the book in 1992, Whitley was invited to give a talk at the Royal Geographical Society, and he asked the Princess to come along. It was at the book launch that he decided to set up the charity.

‘I sat down with Nigel Winser, who was the deputy director of the RGS and a long-time friend, and we designed what became the Whitley Awards on the back of a napkin,’ he tells me. In 1999, Whitley asked the Princess to become a patron. By then, ‘Attenborough was already on board, which encouraged her to think it wasn’t a fly-by-night organisation which would crash and burn’.

The awards focus on community-based conservation projects around the world. In order to qualify, each project has to be up and running – it cannot be a pipe dream. Initially there was only one award; this year there were six – of £40,000 each in project funding – plus a Gold Award of £100,000, given each year to a past winner in recognition of their outstanding contribution to conservation.

‘The reason WFN is so effective,’ says Alastair Fothergill, whose company Silverback made the acclaimed TV nature series Wild Isles, and who like Attenborough is a WFN ambassador, ‘is because its grants are awarded at the very cutting edge of conservation, where relatively modest funds can go a long way. Over the years, the fund has kickstarted the careers of many pioneers who have become leading lights in conservation.’

This year’s projects included safeguarding seabird nesting sites in Mexico; establishing ‘lion guards’ promoting coexistence in Cameroon; and protecting pangolins in Nepal, lemurs in Madagascar, freshwater fish in Lake Victoria and saiga antelope in west Kazakhstan. Each one heavily involves local communities.

In addition, WFN provides continuation funding for award-winners. To mark the 25th anniversary of Whitley, Kate Humble, also an ambassador, and Attenborough hosted an event at the Natural History Museum to help raise £1 million for continuation funding.

‘It was the first really big fundraiser we had,’ says Humble. ‘And one of the donors underwrote the entire cost of the event – so everything raised went into the continuation fund.’

The RGS ceremonies are joyous events. In addition to being presented with their award by the Princess Royal, each winner has a short film made of their work, narrated by Attenborough, screened at the event. ‘I’ve been going for 20 years,’ says Humble, ‘and every year I’m blown away by the winners – what they’ve overcome, what they’ve achieved.

‘You hear so much bad news, and you think, you know what? The world can be OK because people out there are doing this stuff – it’s demonstrable, it’s scientifically rigorous and it’s working. [It’s] an incredibly uplifting and inspiring evening.

‘And every year I watch Princess Anne speak and she never sounds like she’s reading someone else’s words. She cares deeply about what this charity does and what these people who win the awards have achieved – she is not a figurehead just trotting out nice words and providing a photo op. She could run the charity, she knows it so well and cares about it so deeply.

‘I’m not anti-royal,’ says Humble, ‘but neither am I someone who would go and wave a Union Jack. But when I see her I think, frankly you’re worth whatever it is we pay.’

HRH talks with fluency and knowledge on every subject. ‘She’s like a sponge – it’s unbelievable the information that’s stored in her brain,’ said her daughter Zara in an interview for ITV’s Anne: The Princess Royal at 70. ‘It’s quite annoying as well.’

She needs to know a lot because she works with a diverse range of charities, taking in early years, healthcare, microfinance and animal welfare. Promoting collaboration between charities is key. ‘I do a lot of that,’ she says now. ‘I have meetings bringing them together which they all seem to enjoy, though sometimes it’s a bit illogical.

‘Knitting together all the international NGOs is important, but we need to look slightly outside the box – can we do this better, are there ways of helping people to be more sustainable?’

The Princess does occasionally discuss conservation with the King, she says, but she won’t say if they always agree. And her grandchildren? How does she teach them about conservation? (She has five, four girls and a boy.)

‘I don’t see so much of them but making the point that they live in an area which they shouldn’t take for granted is important I think; both my children are aware of that.’

Gatcombe Park in Gloucestershire, where the Princess and her husband, Vice Admiral Sir Timothy Laurence, live in an 18th-century manor with 730 acres of parkland, has some beautiful trees – ‘the ones that survive – quite a lot don’t, we live on Cotswold brash which is not popular with plants; but having said that we have beeches.

‘You’ve just got to live with what’s there and make sure it doesn’t get overwhelmed. I’m not sure that rewilding at scale is necessarily a good idea – it probably is in corners, but if you’re not careful you rewild all the wrong things because they are just the things that are more successful at growing.

‘My biggest row at home is ragwort. Lots of people think that ragwort is absolutely brilliant because butterflies love it, but it’s not good for the horses [it is toxic]. I would say don’t take all the ragwort out, just where the horses are – but it’s quite a delicate balance.’

There are, she says, ‘quite a lot of horses at home, but they’re other people’s as well’. She rides whenever she can. ‘It’s a very good place to observe nature from.’

The Princess supports several horse-related charities, and became patron of Riding for the Disabled in 1971, and president in 1985. ‘It was just becoming a national body when I was invited to become a patron – at that stage I knew nothing about disability but the concept that ponies or horses could make a difference was obviously interesting and I knew about them. No matter what the disability was, the answer was, if they’d like to ride, we’ll give it a go. The commonality of the experience was important.’

Essential things for running a charity, she says, are evaluation and thinking of the long term. She cites the influence of Eglantyne Jebb, founder of Save the Children, ‘who constantly evaluated programmes to see if they were making a difference, whether they were doing the right things and whether people were invested’.

And it’s important to keep projects focused and manageable. ‘I’ve come to the conclusion that scale is the thing that defeats any good idea, because it can get to a size where people can’t cope.’

She has spoken in the past about the huge value of long-term commitment, in terms of the constitutional monarchy as well as in charity work. ‘Seeing things in the long term is a challenge,’ she says now, ‘but maybe part of our [value] – as a family – is long-term continuity, because the long-term view is quite hard to come by. And I think we can do that.’

May I ask what she might have done as a profession in another life? HRH laughs and looks vaguely impatient. ‘You can ask but I’ve no idea.’ Does she ever think about that?

‘Not really, and it’s way too late to have those concerns – in a way the fortunate part of my life has been the broad spectrum, to see so much. Not having a very specific interest has been a bonus, I suppose. We all have ways of doing things and with Whitley it is the practical aspects of what they do, and how to support them [that has been my focus].’

Edward Whitley, a member of the wealthy Greenall Whitley brewing family, set up Whitley Asset Management in 2002, alongside its finance director Louise Rettie, to serve a small number of clients. But there had always been animals in his life – his great-grandfather founded a small charity called the Whitley Animal Protection Trust; his great-great-uncle Herbert was an eccentric animal breeder who started Paignton Zoo.

In Edward’s office is a stuffed cockatoo that belonged to Herbert and a photograph of Mary, his favourite chimpanzee. Mary was famous for riding around on her tricycle and walking the dogs, or taking visitors by the hand and leading them round the zoo.

Edward studied English at Oxford then went into banking, joining NM Rothschild & Sons in 1983. He left in 1990 to write: Gerald Durrell’s Army came out in 1992 and he also co-wrote Rogue Trader, the autobiography of disgraced banker Nick Leeson, and worked with Richard Branson on his memoir.

Whitley is a tall, gentle man who doesn’t like talking about himself but is full of unbridled enthusiasm for WFN, and in particular its royal patron. ‘She transformed the charity – we never would have had the success we’ve had without her involvement. She saw what was possible and really helped us to achieve it, and she inspires the winners to do more. The winners are always pretty amazed at how she cross-examines them and cuts to the chase so quickly when she meets them.

‘She has an encyclopaedic knowledge of the world, and a phenomenal memory, and she is also very funny… And think of her father and the Duke of Edinburgh’s Award – she’s seen what a lifetime of work can achieve.’

In her speech at the Whitley Awards earlier this year, the Princess Royal cited her father, Gerald Durrell and Edward Whitley as the inspirations for her work with WFN. Among winners and their communities, she said, ‘it’s the global ambition to truly make a difference that has been astonishing’.

The awards, she continued, are for ‘the people on the ground, they’re the sharp end… It’s all very well to be here and understand what we think are the challenges, and want to make a difference, but when you meet the people who are actually out front and can turn that into a reality, it’s a real inspiration.’

Over the years, she has visited some of the winners’ projects, when her charity work takes her to those countries, ‘but not as many as I would like’, she says. In Uganda, for example, she met Dr Gladys Kalema-Zikusoka, who was working on improving hygiene in local communities after viruses had spread to gorillas she was managing in Bwindi national park. And in 1997, before she became a WFN patron, she travelled in a boat up the Amazon to see pink dolphins.

‘She was in Colombia for Save the Children and she asked the British embassy to include a visit to the Amazon in her trip – she was very interested in the dolphins,’ says Dr Fernando Trujillo, who went on to win an award in 2007.

‘The British embassy contacted me as an expert on rivers and dolphins. I was a little bit intimidated, and it was raining and I was worried we wouldn’t see any dolphins, but in the end we counted 32 – and she was so excited, every time she saw one she would jump up and down with excitement, and then rein herself in as if she suddenly remembered she was a princess. I could see her love for the environment was very genuine. From that day she was my favourite royal person.’

Another winner, Pablo Bordino, whose picture with HRH had been in the paper in Buenos Aires was flying back to Argentina. One of the flight attendants recognised him and when he arrived at the airport there was a television crew waiting to meet him. It raised the profile of his NGO - which protected marine life and habitats in Argentina - enormously and enabled him to generate further funding. ‘That’s the effect HRH has,’ says Whitley. ‘You can’t quantify it.’

Several award-winners went to the Princess’s 60th-birthday celebrations, including Claudio Padua, a successful businessman from Rio who gave it all up to pursue conservation, training at Durrell in Jersey and moving to a forest in Brazil with his wife, Suzana, and three children.

HRH had been to see them at their headquarters outside São Paulo and had taken an interest in their efforts to conserve the black lion tamarin, a monkey. They had no idea her visit would be such an ordeal, with all the security arrangements. ‘We had a call to ask what kind of security we had,’ says Claudio. ‘I said, “I have an old dog, that’s all.”’

‘She turned up with a security detail and entourage,’ Suzana adds. ‘They wanted to go into the forest to see the monkeys in our Land Rover and her security team asked, “Has this car been checked?” I said it hadn’t and they became very nervous but she ignored them and just got in anyway.’

Years later, the Paduas were invited to Buckingham Palace for her 60th. ‘It was a beautiful opportunity for us,’ says Suzana, ‘and as she came down the stairs she spotted us and said, “Oh how nice to see you. How are the monkeys?”’

The Whitley Fund for Nature is hosting a #PeopleforPlanet biodiversity summit on 6 and 7 November at London’s Royal Institution, where members of the public can hear live from Whitley Gold Award-winning conservationists from Africa, Central and South America, and Asia

[teeth2go]

Keep Your Mask On - I can see through it

they/them!MC x Leander

Warnings: Rated T. Mild mind-games. Maybe fluffy??? It's Leander so it could be worse. Word Count: 3.5k Word Density: mc, leander, hand, down, eyes, waiting.

What if a shy and somewhat manipulative MC beat Leander at his own game? Everybody is a winner.

It had already been a few weeks since Leander first held MC's cursed hands in his own. It was actually the first time anyone held MC's hands without immediately try to kill them.

Despite the initial shock of the experience, MC was slowly growing accustomed it. At the end of most days, the two of them would sit and chat in one of the booths at the Wet Wick, hands linked for few precious minutes.

MC had gotten into the habit of waiting around for him if they returned home before he did. "Home" being the same room Leander had gifted them the key to. They found a couple of interesting things in the bedside drawers, confirming some of the public rumors of his private escapades. Aside from the ones he freely admitted to of his own volition.

So there they were, again, waiting for their personal playboy as dusk crept up on the dingy street. They had begun helping out the bartender with small tasks instead of simply taking up space whilst waiting. This awarded the bartender a much appreciated opportunity to step away and deal with other things that kept her business in working order. It never hurt to be on good terms with your landlord. Even if you do live in a dive-bar.

The bar itself, counter and stools, served as a barrier between them and the many strangers who passed through the front door each night. People almost always traveled in groups after nightfall, and those groups very quickly added up into sizeable crowds that MC found overwhelming.

Sometimes a curious single from said crowds would venture up to MC and try their luck, only to consistently be turned down. Aside from the obvious issue of their hands, the casual advancements only reminded them more and more of what they were really craving, and of who they were waiting for.

In spite of his frequent innuendos and constant flirting, Leander's perpetual bashfulness remained one of their favorite cracks in his mask. MC was a glutton for the butterflies it gave them.

The night was slow, or about as slow as it ever got around there. Currently there were no brawls, which was always a boon.

MC helped themself to sampling some of the more exclusive spirits and enjoyed the warm buzz it created. They listened to nothing in particular as they focused only on slowly drying off the freshly washed wine glasses. The drowning chatter of the greater room faded out to an incomprehensible white noise.

The bar maids were responsible for serving the customers, so MC was safe to hide behind the counter and look unapproachable, a convenience for collecting their thoughts.

They thought mostly about Leander and the obvious masks he wore every day. They used to wonder where the mask began and his authenticity ended. It didn't take long for MC to figure out that he was indeed a performance artist, and the performances were part of the package deal. Not unlike the bright markings on a venomous animal.

MC also wasn't oblivious to the suspicious second life he led with the Blood Hounds. He had several roles to fill, and in order to balance it all without revealing his full hand, he donned those masks to survive. A quote came to mind. Something about "Nothing personal, it's just business."

MC understood the mentality but they wanted be part of his personal motives, not just business. As sure as fondness was growing between them, MC would have been a complete fool to expect him to actually lower his guard for simply nothing in exchange. Crossing his boundaries by simply expecting special treatment was not an option. They were going to meet him halfway, but that couldn't happen if neither of them stepped forward.

The next inevitable step in their relationship was gnawing on MC's mind. The cause of their hesitations, the whole reason they were over-thinking where they stood with him. It was something he'd humorously offered several times, and they absolutely did want to take him up on it, but the right conversation needed to happen first.

They felt his presence before his fingertips made contact with their shoulder. It didn't startle them, but it did manage to shake them out of their thoughts.

"Hello, Eridia to (MC)? Anyone home?" Leander called out to them. He must have been trying to get their attention while they were ignoring the noise of the livening building.

He was completely leaned over the top of the bar, arms reached out across the distance, knees balanced on the bar stools. He looked ridiculous. Whatever Blood Hounds had come in with him were already dispersed to their tables and corners of interest, likely somewhat embarrassed by their leader's unprofessional display. MC wouldn't be surprised if Leander had made a beeline for the bar as soon as he spotted them. Again.

His appearance indicated that he had been dragged around the city all day, no doubt wrapped up in his odd jobs and strange connections. There was a very fine layer of dust on his clothes, dulling the shine of his leathers. He looked like he needed a stiff a drink. He began making his way around the bar to help himself.

"Sorry. I was spacing out." MC finally replied.

Leander paused for a moment, looking them up and down, then at the random assortment of mostly full bottles and used shot glasses still sitting out.

"You started without me?" He smirked but his eyes barely made any effort to meet his lips halfway. MC cleared their throat. It used to unnerve them, initially thinking it was an insincere expression at worst, or devastating fatigue at best, but they had spent enough time with him now to recognize a curse when they saw one.

Something about Leander's magic was probably killing him in a way that MC did not yet fully understand. Many signs had been pointing to this conclusion since the very first day they met him.

There was something inside of Leander that was slowly poisoning him, like a silent gas leak in an empty house. It was another reason he wore those metaphorical masks, to cover whatever was slowly rotting his soul away. As much as MC was morbidly curious, the answers to those specific questions could wait. It wasn't worth lighting a match over. Yet.

"Having fun?" He slid past them, using his hand to briefly maneuver their waist out of his way. The touch returned their attention to the moment.

"Mhm, just keeping busy," MC murmured. The glass they were holding was polished perfectly. They wobbled a little, crossing the short aisle and reached up on their toes to slide it into the correct shelf along the wall.

"You know, you don't have to do all of that." Leander said, side-eying their flawed coordination. He'd finished procuring his own drink and flashed his signature smile, instantly filling the closed space with warmth.

MC shuffled back to their spot, leaning heavily against the edge of the sink and selected the next wet glass to work on.

"You really helped yourself to the inventory this time, didn't you?" He chuckled but MC didn't miss the inflection in his tone. Something of a friendly warning.

"Only a few samples. With permission of course," they smiled back at him and waited for his reaction from under their eyelashes.

Instead, he sipped his drink slowly, gazing out at the commotions behind MC. They watched the dark liquid slip past his lips, disappearing into his perfect mouth. MC moved forward to put the next glass away, but was distracted by a stray droplet that was sliding down his chin. They nearly missed their step and began veering to the side.

Leander deftly hooked his arm forward and caught them, allowing MC to recenter their balance. He retracted his arm and bemusedly allowed them to continue on their way, wiping the droplet away with his knuckles.

They completed the task again, and then again. Each time they turned away from the wall of glasses and bottles, they caught Leander moving his eyes away from their direction. He was definitely watching when they stretched up to reach the shelves. MC raised him an inquisitive eyebrow, which earned them a friendly wink. They rolled their eyes, but that restless thought was growing louder.

"I think it's safe to assume you've been down here for a while." He gestured to their sampling. "Hopefully I didn't keep you waiting too long." MC felt their cheeks become a bit warmer and hoped that the blush blended inconspicuously with the one they already had from their buzz.

"Not at all. In fact, I really don't mind helping the bartender while I'm down here."

"Ah, that's very noble of you, but…" he leaned back against the counter directly across from MC, now partially blocking the cabinet. "You don't owe her anything, right?"

MC internally rolled their eyes. They knew exactly where that lecture was going. The Cost of Things in Eridia. Perhaps this was his way of reminding them of their own unspecified outstanding-balance.

That inevitable step forward was about to be taken, but MC wanted to be the first to move. There was something they wanted from him, but they need to ensure that is did not come with a price tag.

"Not exactly, but since we're on the topic, I have found myself indebted to a... friend." They smirked at down at the slow and methodical circles of the rag as they dried the last wine glass, circumventing his prepared lecture.

"Oh?" he sounded genuinely curious, eyes drawn to the gentle movements of their bandaged hands. He watched they way they delicately held the stem of the glass, turning it over in the light, looking for imperfections.

"Promise not to tell anyone but…" They approached the cabinet. He barely stepped aside for them to set it into place. "It's a guy. He's been so helpful and kind to me, but he hasn't asked for much in return," they spoke slowly, waiting for Leander's jealously to take the bait.

"So I've been thinking about how nothing in this life is free, you know? Eventually, I am going to have to pay him back. Even you tell me that nothing is free in Eridia." They pointed out.

Leander wasn't smiling anymore. He leaned forward to hear them better through the noise of the establishment. MC set their rag down and turned to face him, resting their hip against the counter, and regarded him as he became quite serious.

"…you haven't made some kind of deal with this guy yet, have you?" His brow creased ever so slightly. "If you need help, you know I'm here for you, right?" His free hand came to rest at their hip, anxiously ensuring that they remain facing him.

Whether he realized it or not, his possessive nature had recently developed into a obvious display of envy for their attention. Last week Vere had pointed this out to MC, inclusive of a short but obvious warning.

MC was very aware of Leander's jealousy. That was not the problem here. The problem was their own recently budding envy whenever he stepped out for a quick hook-up, leaving them behind.

Waiting for him.

Ais was seemingly the only regular who took notice fofthis more recent development. His advice was… well it less eloquent than Vere's, but he was right nonetheless. MC needed to do something about it already.

They took the first metaphorical step forward.

"Oh no, don't worry. It's not a situation that I can't handle," they reassured him. "But I'm not so naive as to think that he truly has no ulterior reason to share his resources or time with me." MC placed their hand over the one he still had on their hip, and smiled up at him before letting it go. "I also know that we both have our own sort of needs, so to speak. I'm very eager to tell him all of my thoughts on the matter."

His expression flinched and he cocked his head to the side, finally starting to catching on to who this "friend" might be.

"Oh?" the sound came out a lot lower than he probably meant it to. As if to compensate, his hand relaxed from their side, placing it on the counter beside them. He set his drink down and gave them his full attention, deciding to play along with their bashful elusion.

"What exactly is it that you want him to know?"

"Well, with friends, these kind of things are usually as simple as give and take. With strangers, though? Debts are just transactions waiting to be completed. He's not a stranger, and I don't want him to be," they punctuated that last sentence by playfully turning their head the opposite way of his. Challenging him. "So what I'm trying to figure out, is exactly how I can adequately return the favors, as a friend."

MC gazed up into Leander's calm face as they both took the moment to observe each other's body language. His eyes squinted, studying them, savoring the words, collecting his thoughts.

"…and you're going to pay him back...by running up a tab in his name?" A smirk finally broke free from beneath the mask, clearly amused.

MC laughed and waved their hand in the air to dispel the concern.

"I promise there's no tab, I really did get permission from the bartender-" Leander gingerly grabbed their wrapped up hand mid-air.

"Did you have something specific in mind for evening the odds with this friend?" He Interrupted their rambling. He'd been waiting for this very conversation about debts and repayments, and needed them to stay focused. What he didn't understand, though, was this new commentary on friendship, and why they were beating around the bush about it?

He intertwined his fingers with their own, hoping to ease some of their nervousness. Generally, he really did try to make an effort to not to scare them off. A hearty blush bloomed across MC's cheeks, much to Leander's pleasure.

"Well?" He gently urged. MC thought carefully about their next move, not wanting to waste their precious moment of leverage.

"Well. I guess it depends," MC drawled out, slowly reaching for the drink Leander had abandoned. It was right next to them on the counter, so they made sure to brush their arm against him as they reached for it, and then again as they brought the drink it in. They felt the toned muscles in his arm and torso stiffen at the contact. His icy eyes shot up to theirs, questioning the less-than-subtle touches.

"Depends… on what?" He cautioned.

MC brought his glass up to their face, but instead of taking a sip they parted their lips and just barely exposed their soft tongue to kiss at the condensation from the side of the glass he'd sipped from. They felt the moisture wet their lips as the missed dots slid down the glass, catching on their clothed fingers. It had hints of the same berry concoction he first served them weeks ago. They held his icy gaze as his unrestrained hand gripped the counter at the side of their waist, fingernails digging into the wood. His intertwined hand shook a little in their own.

They literally had him in the palms of their hands.

All the light bulbs suddenly went off over Leander's head, and he was not prepared for the sudden, blinding illumination. They had completely caught him off-guard for once. He almost resented the pride welling up in him. His eyes were wide, he held his breath and waited for their next move.

"I guess it depends on what I have to offer. If I'm being realistic, it will probably be some random errands around town." They shrugged, instantly changing their tone and posture to something far more casual, despite being boxed in very close to Leander's warm body. Their demeanor changed as though he wasn't even there. "Maybe delivering a few messages or something equally as boring. I most certainly wouldn't want to wager anything that I couldn't take back as simply transactional." They gave his nervous hand a firm squeeze.

MC watched as his face shifted from confusion, then to shock, and finally settled on disappointment. He looked down at the floor, hummed in admission, and begrudgingly let go of their hand.

"That is understandable," he acknowledged. "You friend would do right to respect you for that decision."

"Mhm, and I feel lucky because I know that he will." They smiled to him, and he returned it with a polite, but sad one.

Was MC always capable of being that cruel? Couldn't they have simply turned him down outright? Why even bother ruffling his feathers like that...?

"So, you want to run errands for him?" He tried to shove the disappointment and confusion down. He would just have to respect their wishes.

"Sure, I don't mind repaying his favors in that way. As long as he understands that the sex is strictly for fun."

Leander choked hard when his breath caught in his throat.

Pleased at his shocked reaction, MC closed their eyes and tasted the actual drink this time. It was indeed exactly the same kind he had once served them all those nights ago.

"Mm, there's nothing quite like the sweetness after the burn," they murmured, licking the residue from their teeth.

When they opened their eyes again, Leander was standing straight and rigid. He was stunned! The nerve of them!!

He wrenched the drink from their grasp and raised it up, tossing the entire thing back in one smooth movement. His slow, steady gulps were expertly practiced from years of living his reckless lifestyle.

MC silently prayed that he wasn't angry, and that they had played their cards just right, dealing him a satisfactory taste of his own lascivious medicine.

Leander sighed after reaching the bottom of the glass.

So that's their play, he thought to himself. He could work with this.

"Is that all?" He grinned like a fox as he set the empty container down, recovering from his surprise. Thank the gods he wasn't put off, but now MC worried for what his response was going be.

"So, you want to keep your work separate from your fun, as a friend?" He summarized.

"Only if he's interested." They felt bold enough to readjust their footing to square him up. His chest completely obscured their vision of the open room that lay out behind him. All they could see now was him, and they were grateful that his broad body obscured their own from potential onlookers at this angle.

On his face, he wore what was quite possibly the cockiest grin they had ever seen. MC couldn't help but shiver under the intensity of his piercing gaze. His eyes sparkled an incandescent green, the only indication that he was preparing himself for extended contact with their curse.

Everything that happened next went much faster than they could have expected it to.

His arm snaked around their lower back, slowly pressing a large hand into the base of their spine. This caused them to slightly arch forward, eliciting a small gasp. He bowed deep, bringing his face almost cheek to cheek beside theirs to murmur into their ear, in a voice low enough that not even Vere's monster ears could have picked up the sound. There was barely a breath of space left between them.

"I think he's very interested." He all but purred, with an uncharacteristically low rumbling that spilled forth from deep within his chest. MC sucked in a sharp breath on reflex and braced their hands against his chest. They squeezed their eyes shut as a dizzying wave of flutters nearly swept them away. He chuckled at their adorable reaction.

They stood like that for a moment. MC felt the chills that ran down their spine melt into a new heat, pooling beneath Leander's hand that was laying flush against their sensitive muscles. MC suddenly realized that he likely had tricks up his sleeve they didn't even know existed.

He took the last half-step forward, and MC instinctively moved backwards, unintentionally pressing their rear into the counter to make space that didn't exist. They accidentally trapped his hand in place by doing so.

The sandwiched position left only a small opening for their face to rest in the crook of his neck. They completely melted into his frame as his grip on the small of their back deepened. He hummed in approval of their nuzzling.

MC would have been embarrassed to death about the public display of lust if they were even capable of producing a single coherent thought in that moment. They were too overwhelmed with reveling in their own self-satisfaction to notice that Leander's other hand was reaching for the other key on his belt.

"What do you say to that?" He purred, the vibrations passing through his body and into MC's, rattling them to the core.

Their breath was hot and sweet, fanning across his neck and mixing with the scent of his body. It was syrupy but sharp, just like his drink. Just like him.

"I hope you don't keep me waiting too long." They whispered.

[felyatepa]

Spoilers for Workin' Boys

So, I've seen people point out the back of the brochure in Workin' Boys having Blinky's Watch Party

but I looked closer at each text block and did my best to decipher the blurry text (key word being tried) and while I'm not 100% on all of it, here's what I got.

The Barbeque Monologues

The Tony award winning musical serves up a well done tale of one typical American suburb. When folks gather around the grill, they share so much more than a dog and a cold one. Secrets, obsession, dreams and betrayal, these are the entrees at this barbeque.

Blinky's Watch Party

A musical extravaganza through Drowzytown! It will be oh so wonderful to see you again, Bill! Yes, Bill. I'm talking to you. Don't bother showing this to Ted. No one will be able to see it. But I can see you, Bill. I've been watching you, with Nine-Hundred and Ninety Nine Eyes. One short, thanks to your little brat. It's time I paid you back, Bill. What's the expression? "An eye for an eye." Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

Mamma Mia!

A terrible show about sad women singing ABBA. A truly miserable experience, I can't stress that enough. This show will make you hate ABBA as well as all musicals. You'll never want to listen to ABBA's two good songs ever again. Beware, friend. Beware. Abandon all hope ye who enter here.

Santa Claus is Going to High School!

Based on the Razzie award winning film by Kenny Ortega, this yuletide musical sees ol' Saint Nick trading in his sleigh and reindeer for a letterman's jacket! When Chris Kringle enrolls in Northville High School, he'll have to rekindle the holiday spirit in bad girl Noel, save Christmas from the cold-hearted Jacqueline Frost, and somehow get to class on time!

sorry if someone's done this already and I just haven't seen it!

[whatsnewalycat]

Psychomanteum / Chapter 11

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC (2nd POV)

Chapter 11: Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings

Chapter Summary: The first day in LA is a mixed bag.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 11.8k+

Content / Warnings: alternating pov, insecurities, mirror, angst, fluff, acting career things idk, video call, awkward/nervous speech patterns, toxic mother/family of origin issues, food/eating/hunger, argument, mentions of: infidelity, addiction, death, and infertility, crying, comfort sex, dirty talk, eating ass, oral sex (both r) face fucking, deep throating, squirting, anal play and sex, impact play, hair pulling, maybe a hint of degradation

Notes: Chapter title from "Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings" by Father John Misty. Oooo a new banner, who is she?! I apologize for how long this is, it really got outta hand. Thank you for reading!!!

[ Tag List ] [ AO3 ] [ Spotify Playlist ] [ Series Masterlist ]

“Holy shit, Dee,” you breathe, squinting as your eyes adjust from the darkness of the garage to the bright, open home. 

Dieter walks ahead of you, tossing his keys and sunglasses on a glass console table, kicking his shoes off onto the gleaming hardwood floor. Each noise seems amplified in the jarring silence. 

It smells like lemon pine-sol, and, based on how uncharacteristically spotless everything appears, you guess that he has someone come in and clean while he’s away. 

“It’s–I mean, wow–” you stammer, shaking your head as you examine your surroundings. 

The vaulted ceiling’s stained teak backbone stretches from one end of the house to the other, rafters extending from the beam like wooden ribs. On one side of you lies a dining room and kitchen, on the other, a living room and patio entrance. Light pours in through the living room’s floor-to-ceiling windows like giant frames showcasing the greenery of the patio, all lush with palm fronds and waxy-leaved bushes. 

The home’s décor is quintessential Dieter. 

Eclectic. Moody. Maximalist. 

Jewel- and earth-toned furniture, in all different finishes and fabrics, fill the open floor plan. The white walls are cluttered by art, a hodgepodge of creations. Prints and acrylic paintings and black ink illustrations, including some of Dieter’s originals. Plants are scattered around, next to windows and on tables, thriving in their glazed ceramic pots. 

Your fingers twitch, longing to experience every texture this buffet of materials has to offer. You feel yourself getting a little moon-eyed as you marvel at the place he calls home. It’s surreal.

And, if you’re being honest, daunting. 

When Dieter spends time with you in your domain, you feel you know him at his core. A loveable, chaotic, free spirit, who busies himself sketching and “taste testing” while you bake. Which mostly just means he eats cookies off the cooling rack when he thinks you’re not looking, but sometimes he draws pictures of you while he does it. 

You know him as someone who watches shitty TV and shittier movies with you just so you can make fun of them together, someone who theorizes out-loud about existentialism and Garfield in the same breath, who wraps himself around you when you sleep because, even when he’s dreaming, he wants your skin clinging to his. 

You don’t know him as Dieter Bravo, Academy Award Winning Actor. 

No. 

To you, he’s Dee. The man you fell in love with so haphazardly, it sometimes makes you question your own sanity. 

The existence of this other part of his life, with film sets and photoshoots and interviews and stylists and red carpet premieres, all these stringent show pony requirements, so paradoxical to the person you know and love… It makes you uneasy. 

Is he different when he’s here? 

Is Dieter Bravo, Hollywood Movie Star, the same man as Dee, Bubble Bath Connoisseur?

It’s something you’ve largely been able to ignore. 

But, since you’re being honest, you can admit that the disparities between his life and yours make your skin crawl sometimes. 

Like right now, when you’re standing here in the entryway of his gorgeous home, whose property value is probably greater than your lifetime’s gross income, holding the handle of your ratty old carry-on suitcase. Your piece of shit suitcase, with its broken zipper, and this big tear in the side.  

Which, really, has never bothered you before. It’s a goddamn suitcase. It holds things from point a to point b, and this works just fine. 

But Dieter has this ridiculous fucking suitcase with a heavy-duty metallic shell, and 360-degree wheels that glide effortlessly through airports, and a fucking phone charger. A fucking phone charger in a suitcase, seriously?

It’s just so… exactly how you fucking feel standing next to him sometimes. 

And, as if to prove your point, when you release the handle of your piece of shit carry-on, it topples over sideways against his space-age phone charger on wheels. 

All you can do is sigh. Stare at luggage. Try to ignore the voice that bombards your thoughts, telling you he’s obviously out of your league. 

Sneering at you, saying, “Get real, this fucking guy is way too rich to be humoring you.”

Saying, “Louella Rose, once he knows you’re trash, he’ll be gone for good, I can tell you that much.”

“Want me to show you around?” Dieter asks, the low timbre of his voice a butter knife cutting through the thick fog of your thoughts. He steps closer and plants his wide palm on the small of your back. 

You turn to him with a smile you know is flaccid, but nod, “Lead the way.” 

He studies you for a moment, dark eyes darting around your face, no doubt sensing the apprehension you can’t shake, and proves your suspicion true when he asks, “What’s wrong?”

Your throat tightens and you drop your gaze to the colorful entryway rug beneath your feet, shaking your head as you admit, “I—I don’t know. I’m… kind of freaking out, I think,” your voice cracks, and words start to tumble from your mouth, “I just keep thinking that I don’t belong here, like I’m too fucking poor to be doing this, I mean, to be here, and-and I’m so fucking nervous that I’m gonna fuck this up somehow—”

“Hey, come on,” Dieter coos, one hand settling at your waist, the other brushing against your cheek, “Look at me, Lua.”

You do. 

His eyes bore into yours, unblinking and sincere, “It’s gonna be ok. I promise.”

Your brows press together and you swallow hard, then nod. 

“We’re gonna do this stupid interview, which you’re gonna fucking nail–”

You look away. 

He tilts your chin towards his face again, refusing to let you hide, repeating, “Which you’re gonna fucking nail. You know why?”

You just stare at him, half-expecting him to say because you have to or I won’t love you anymore, but instead, he says, “Because you are fucking amazing, Louella. You are brilliant, and gorgeous, and genuine, and hilarious, and capable of fucking anything. Ok?”

His words, so sure and earnest, soothe your inflamed sense of worthlessness. 

A burning sensation works up your throat, then spreads behind your eyes. Hot tears roll down your cheeks. You wipe them away with the back of your hand and croak, “Don’t say things like that to me, it’s too sweet and makes me cry.”

“Listen here, doll,” he cups your face and raises his eyebrows, a mischievous grin playing on his lips, “I’ll compliment you as much as I goddamn please.”

You let out a wet, nasally chuckle and link your hands behind his neck, then sniffle, “Fine. I guess. If you say so.”

“That’s what I thought,” he mumbles. His thumbs work against your damp cheeks as he brings his lips to yours, gentle and soft. 

When he pulls back, he clears his throat and turns back to the vacant house, “Alright, sweet cheeks, let’s give you the official tour.”

The term of endearment makes you laugh and shake your head, “Dieter, I swear to god–” 

He grabs your hand and tugs you onward, ignoring your feigned protest. 

At the tail end of the tour, Dieter swings open the door to his spacious bedroom. You recognize the tall, chartreuse walls and the puffy white linens tucked around his bed. 

Of all the rooms in his house, including the art studio set up down the hall, this is the one that feels the most like Dee. It’s a little messy, but in a lived-in way you expect from him. Relatively no-frills. Comfortable. Homey. It smells like him, not like lemon pine-sol. 

You gravitate towards a chest of drawers that sits opposite his bed, grinning at a pile of rings, lighters, coins, and crumpled up cash. A big, rectangular mirror mounted on the wall above it catches your attention. 

All kinds of paper mementos are stuffed into the mirror’s frame. Your eyes wander along the edge, stopping to study a picture of him, much younger and more angular than he appears now, with a woman whose bright, dimpled smile matches his. 

“Is that your mom?” you ask, pointing to it. 

“Yeah,” he walks behind you and wraps his arms around your middle, tucking your shoulder under his chin, watching you through the mirror as your eyes leapfrog to each little piece of him.

A ticket stub to a Prince concert at Madison Square Garden in July 2004. 

An old polaroid of two dark-haired young boys roller skating. 

“Tomás?” 

“Mhmm.”

You tilt your head and frown, “Can I ask you something?” 

“No,” he deadpans, blinking at you through the mirror. 

“Shut up,” you snort, then ask, “Why the fuck are you named Dieter?”

He laughs at this, throwing his head back to boom at the ceiling before returning to your reflected gaze. 

“I mean, I’m sorry—It’s just so…”

“White?” he smirks. 

“Yes!” you laugh, covering your mouth, “Is that your real name?!”

“No,” he grins, then shrugs, “Well, legally it is. But my parents named me Manuel Diego Soto Flores. Diego is what everyone called me.”

“Stop it, oh my god. You are blowing my fucking mind right now,” you shake your head at the whiplash this information gives you, then pause, “Wait, why did you change it?”

“My agent suggested I use a stage name way back when. Dieter Bravo sounded cool,” he explains, and chuckles a little as he tells you, “I got in an argument with my folks about it when work started picking up, and legally changed it just to piss them off.”

“Wow,” you raise your eyebrows and laugh, “That is… truly petty.” 

“That it is,” he sighs, his smile faltering. 

“So, what am I supposed to call you? Diego? Dieter?” you smirk, meeting his gaze in the mirror. 

“Dee,” he answers, “I like Dee.”

“I can do that.”

You hold his gaze for a few moments, relishing the heat that swells in your chest, then resume your study of his artifacts, squinting to read the faded black ink of a few movie stubs lined up together: Eyes Wide Shut, Donnie Darko, The Departed, Fight Club, Whiplash, Titanic, Toy Story 3. 

Next to them, you spot a wrinkled brown paper square, etched with unruly black ink strokes into a blueberry branch. You tilt your head at it, then glance down at the blueberry branch tattooed on your forearm. 

Your eyes flick to the reflection of Dieter’s face and find him already staring at you. A question creases your forehead, and he answers with a shrug. Tingles spread across your belly. You smooth your hand against his and leave it there. 

“Look, I printed the ones from the elevator,” he chuckles, pointing to a picture of the two of you stuffed into one side of the mirror’s frame, stone-faced, black grease paint and mascara co-mingling with red lipstick, smudged all over your mouths and cheeks. Below that, the shot Dieter took a second later when you both broke, faces lit up with laughter, eyes bent up into barely visible crescents. 

“Oh my god,” you laugh, hand flying to your mouth, “Come on, we have way cuter pictures than those.”

“Those are my favorite, though,” he smiles, kisses your cheek, then tucks your shoulder back under his chin.

You shake your head and sigh, grinning as you tell him, “Fuck, I like you.”

“Yeah?” he snorts, “You think so?”

You nod, rubbing your thumb against his. 

“I like you, too,” he murmurs. 

“Thank god, or this would be really awkward,” you joke as you return your gaze to the relics framing his mirror. 

A snapshot of him, a generation younger, all gaunt and baby-faced, leaning against a high top table crowded with half-empty cups, ice cube islands rising from brown mixed drinks. Two young men across the table from him, his arm draped around a young woman’s shoulders. All four of them glow with a boozy shine, wide and carefree smiles stretched across their faces. 

“Who’re these people?”

“Old friends from my theater days in New York,” he murmurs, “I don’t talk to them much anymore. There’s Glenn, you might’ve met him.”

He points to a tan guy with a brown pompadour and a very punchable face, who’s wearing a baby blue polo shirt and holding up his middle finger. 

You sift through your memory for someone who might have looked like that fifteen or twenty years ago, but come up blank and shake your head, “I don’t think so.”

“He was at Katie’s party that one night, and, uhh… actually, I almost brought him up to your apartment the first time I met you, but he was being an asshole and wouldn’t get out of the car.” 

“Not ringing any bells,” you frown, “Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve met any of your friends.”

His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth, then he mutters, “Well, I would certainly introduce you to them. If I had any.” 

You try to think of a contradiction to this statement, racking your brain for an instance of him at least hinting at the existence of a friend. 

“What about all the people you party with?”

“Haven't done much of that lately. Besides,” he cocks an eyebrow and curls his lip, “Those aren’t friends. Never were. And, uhh… I did a solid job alienating my real friends a long time ago.” 

You look at him through the mirror. 

His eyes are all dull and forlorn. Far away. 

A sharp pain splits your sternum. 

You wriggle around to face him, cupping his cheeks, brushing your thumbs against his patchy beard until he meets your eyes again. Then you tell him, “I’m your friend. Parker’s your friend. You’re not alone anymore, ok?”

His shoulders slump and eyebrows thread together, molding his features into this tender expression that makes your stomach flip and chest ache. 

He doesn’t say anything, just pulls you into a hug, squeezing you tight. You slide your hands to the back of his head to comb your fingers through his soft curls. 

A commotion erupts at the other end of the house. The front door opening and closing. Rustling and conversation. A feminine voice echoes down the hall, calling, “Hello?” 

“That must be them,” he murmurs, and starts away, but you pull him back. You wrap your arms around his midsection and bury your face against his t-shirt. 

“Wait, just… a little bit longer,” you say, closing your eyes to soak up the warmth from his body. It seeps into your bloodstream and feels like sunshine in your veins. He rests his head against your hair, taking a deep breath in, and you feel his body relax again. 

The clack-clack-clack sound of heels against the hardwood floor draws closer, but the two of you just stand there, all wrapped up in the other, until someone crosses the threshold to his room, comes to a stop, and says, “Oh, you are here.”

You part and turn towards the intrusion: A neatly made-up, petite, brunette woman wearing a fitted navy blue pantsuit. 

“Darlene,” Dieter greets, crossing the room to envelop her in a one-armed hug. They press a chaste kiss into the other’s cheek. He returns to your side, palm sliding against the small of your back, and introduces you both, “Darlene, Louella, Louella, Darlene.”

You meet her meticulous hazel eyes and smile wide, outstretching your hand to shake hers, “Hi, so nice to meet you.” 

She reaches out and accepts the invitation. Both your gazes drop to study the contrast of your hands. Hers are dainty, soft, blemish-free; adorned with shiny, blush pink fingernails smoothed to rounded tips. Yours bear the scars and calluses earned by over a dozen years of baking, your naked, short fingernails hosting jagged edges from nervous biting. 

When you step back, heat creeps up the back of your neck. She looks so… unimpressed. Annoyed, even. The barely perceptible twitch of her thin eyebrow cocking, lip curling, eyes flicking around your person like she’s identifying weak spots. Then she plasters on a polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and asks, “Do you prefer Louella or Lua?” 

“I don’t care,” you chuckle nervously, “Lou, Lua, Louella, whatever you want.”

You glance at Dieter, swallowing hard. He smooths his thumb against your spine.

“I’ll call you Louella,” Darlene decides with a quick nod, then looks from you, to Dieter, “Should we get started? We have a lot of work to do.” 

On your way to the dining room, you cross paths with a short, curvy woman whose brown, tightly coiled hair bounces around her round face as she hauls two thick garment bags into a bedroom. She peaks over the luggage and calls, “Oh, hi!” when she spots you. 

She spins on the heel of her beige pumps to face you, shifting the bags to one hip, “Louella, right?” 

“Yeah,” you smile and wave at her. 

“Kelly,” her hot pink lips stretch into a bright smile and she shakes your hand, looking you up and down before diverting her dark eyes to Dieter, “Nice catch, Bravo.” 

Dieter smirks at the comment, eyeing her tenuous grip on the bags, “Need some help?”

She just scoffs and raises an eyebrow at him before spinning around and starting down the hallway. Dieter shrugs after her, then ushers you into the dining room, where a frantic looking young man is setting out three labeled mint green to-go boxes on the stained oak table, assigning seats to you, Dieter, and Darlene. 

“Lua, this is Lincoln, my PA,” Dieter gestures between the two of you, “Lincoln this is Lua, my girlfriend.”

“Hi,” Lincoln tucks a strand of dark blonde hair behind his ear and leans his tall frame across the table, extending his hand. 

“Nice to meet you, Lincoln,” you meet his ocean blue eyes as you take it in yours and shake it. Dieter settles into his assigned dining room chair, leaning back against the burnt orange suede. You take your seat next to him. 

“Nice to meet you, too,” Lincoln flashes a quick smile, then glances from Dieter, back to you, “I’ve heard a lot about you.” 

“Oh yeah?” you grin over at Dieter, who’s crossing his ankle over his knee, watching you with amusement, and tell Lincoln, “Good things, I hope.”

“Terrible things,” Dieter teases, letting his head dangle to one side. 

“Nothing but the utmost praise,” Lincoln insists.

A nutty aroma wafts up from the box with your name on it. You recognize the briny sharpness and name it, “Oh, fuck, did you get us pad thai?”

“It’s from that place you wanted to try,” Dieter tells you. 

You wiggle and clap your hands together, reaching for the box as Darlene approaches the table. Lincoln scurries into the kitchen and makes himself look busy. She sits down with a sense of urgency that makes you fold your hands in your lap and sit up straighter. 

“Here’s the plan,” she pushes the takeout box away, leaning over her open notebook, “Interview with DIRT at 4:00 today. Louella, we’ll practice your answers for a bit, then Kelly will help you pick some clothes,” her eyes flick from the notebook, to you, then to Dieter, and she says, “While you’re in town, I think it’ll be good for the two of you to be seen in public together, but I have some ground rules—”

“Jesus Christ, Darlene,” Dieter groans, scrubbing his hands over his face as he leans his elbows onto the table, “What are we, teenagers?”

“Well, Dieter, play stupid games, win stupid prizes,” she blinks at him.

“What the fuck does that mean?” he scoffs.

“It means,” she snips, zeroing in on him, “With all the bullshit you’ve pulled in the past year, you’re not exactly rolling in prospects, are you?”

He doesn’t say anything in response, just clenches his jaw. 

She continues, “It’s a goddamn miracle you managed to land that Mike Flannigan job—”

You turn to him and gasp, “You got it?!” 

This big, giddy smile spreads across his face when he meets your eyes and nods, “Yeah.”

“But he could lose it if this doesn’t go right,” Darlene advises, pulling your attention to her. She shoots a glare from you to Dieter, “So we’re going to follow my direction, right?” 

Your face falls and you clear your throat, then stammer, “Y—yeah, of course.” 

Dieter shifts in his seat, pressing his mouth against his clasped hands. 

“As I was saying,” Darlene continues, raising an eyebrow as she drops her gaze to the notebook, “You’re both to be on your best behavior while in public. No drugs, no parties, no more than a glass of wine, no public fornication. We’re going full Disney rules of conduct, ok?”

When Darlene blinks up at you, you nod, “No problem.” 

“Alright, let’s rehearse some Q&A,” she sighs, turning her attention back to her notebook. 

She runs through questions the interviewer might ask, reconstructing your answers from nervous ramblings into practiced statements. It’s like a mental boot camp the way she attacks this, and, honestly, it’s quite impressive. 

When Darlene is confident you won’t respond to questions like: “How did you and Dieter meet?” with answers like: “We dropped acid in a closet with my best friend,” the drills cease. Just when you think you’re safe to open that mint green box with your name on it, Darlene stands from the table, “Alright, let’s go see what Kelly has for you.”

You have to physically restrain yourself from pouting as she starts off down the hall. 

“Here, quick,” Dieter shoves his open container of pad thai in your hands. You manage to take a few bites before Darlene comes back to see where she lost you. 

“Coming, sorry,” you swallow and give it back to him. 

Darlene and Kelly decide you’re wearing a balloon-sleeved white silk blouse and a high-waisted, billowing, floral skirt that comes down to your ankles. 

Once your makeup and hair are styled, and you're all done up and presentable, not unlike a feral mutt turned show dog, Darlene holds her hand out to you, palm facing the ceiling, and says, “You’ll have to take off your wedding ring.” 

“Oh,” you frown at her, then at the simple gold band on your left hand’s ring finger. With a heavy blue sigh, you slide it off your finger, and drop it in her extended hand. 

When you emerge from the bedroom, Darlene trailing behind you, Dieter is pacing the length of the living room, dressed in a short-sleeved white button-up and navy blue slacks. He spots you and stops in his tracks. A grin spreads across his face, “Oh wow, look at you.” 

“Look at you,” you counter, matching his smile as you look him up and down. 

He wipes his hands on his pants, then strides over to you and kisses you. His lips are eager when they meet yours. You link your hands at the nape of his neck and arch your back into him, losing yourself momentarily. When he pulls back, he presses his forehead against yours and murmurs, “You look like… a sexy kindergarten teacher. I like it.”

You laugh and shake your head, “Oh yeah, this is doing it for you?”

“Fuck yeah it is,” he rumbles, then grips your waist and kisses you again.

“Alright, it’s almost time,” Darlene prods impatiently from a few feet away, “Where’s your laptop?”

Dieter mutters something under his breath, then steps back from your embrace and tells her, “I’ll go get it.” 

As he goes off down the hall, you plop down on the overstuffed couch. Its deep, rich brown leather feels buttery soft against the small sections of your exposed skin. You cross your legs, smoothing the soft fabric of your skirt over your knees, “Is it a video call?” 

Darlene takes a cursory glance in the direction Dieter went, then sits down next to you, her words hushed and serious as they flee her lips, “Louella, his career is teetering on the edge of a cliff right now. One more blow could send the whole thing crashing down. Do you understand how important it is that this goes well?” 

An icy rush of panic floods your veins. You meet her hazel eyes and nod. 

“Good,” she says, searching your face, “Don’t fuck it up.” 

Lincoln and Kelly leave for the day once everything is set up. Darlene stages you and Dieter hip-to-hip in the middle of his couch, then starts pacing behind the laptop, occupying a strip of the living room’s black- and white-striped rug between the glass top coffee table and a black brick-faced wood fireplace. 

Pixelated face pops up on Dieter’s laptop screen. You can make out David Alterman’s egg-shaped bald head and thick-rimmed glasses. He says, “Hello hello, how are we doing today?” 

“Pleasure to see you,” Dieter gives a nod and drapes his arm over your shoulders. You flash a smile to the computer and wave. 

David continues, “I just want to start by saying thank you for meeting with me today. On the phone earlier, Darlene said that there were some things you wanted to discuss regarding your new friend.” 

“Girlfriend,” Dieter corrects, glances at you, then back at the screen, “There was an article by your, uhh… publication speculating who she is. We wanted to go on record and introduce her, get it all out in the open.”

“Fantastic. Well, the floor is yours.”

Dieter clears his throat and squeezes your shoulder.

“Oh, ok—um, hi, my name is Louella,” your voice comes out too loud, and your heart starts pumping heat through your body, up your neck, across your face. You wriggle in your seat and explain, “Sorry, I’m really nervous, I’ve never done anything like this before.” 

David chuckles, “That’s ok, dear. Why don’t you start by telling me how the two of you met?” 

Your eyes flick to Darlene in the background, following her moving form. She gives you a nod of encouragement. You take a deep breath. 

“We met at Katie’s party in February. My best friend, Parker, convinced me to go, and, yeah, I ended up meeting Dee there,” a big smile stretches across your face as you explain, “I remember meeting him, and I felt this connection to him like,” you snap your fingers, “right away. It was fucking bananas—er, sorry, regular bananas. But. It was like I had known him my whole life or something, you know? We—me, Parker, and Dee—spent the night together,” at this, you see David’s bushy brown eyebrows perk up, and your cheeks start burning, “N-not like that, like sexual or anything, we just talked and joked around. Instant friends. It was so much fun. And, you know, it’s funny, because I didn’t even know he was an actor—”

“You didn’t?” David frowns. 

“No,” you chuckle, “The next morning when we were all getting breakfast there was this guy taking pictures of us eating pancakes, which I thought was fu—um, weird, but then Dee and Parker explained… Well, y’know. Paparazzi and all that.” 

“Is that when you started dating?” 

“No,” you shake your head, glancing down to your hands, “We were just friends for a few months before that started. My, um… my husband died about a year ago in a car accident, so I was… not in a hurry to start any kind of romantic relationship.” 

Your thumb rolls along the seam of your finger that’s usually covered by your wedding band. 

“And yet, here we are. What changed?” 

“I fell in love with him,” you explain, flicking your gaze from Dieter, who squeezes your shoulder, then straight into the camera, “You know when you meet someone and it’s like… they vibrate on the same frequency as you or whatever? Like they were made to be in your life? It was like that. I don’t know, it was fucking crazy. Shit, sorry for swearing—”

“It’s fine,” David says, “I’ll edit it out.”

You release a relieved sigh, “Ok. Well, anyway, I wasn’t—I mean, neither of us were expecting this to happen. But it did. So I took a chance on him, on us, and… yeah. I’m so glad I did.” 

“That’s great,” David smiles at the camera, then looks down at his notes, “So you said the two of you met at Katie’s party—Is that Katie Wainwright?”

“Yes,” you answer. It takes all your energy to remain neutral. To keep your body from twitching in discomfort at the mention of her. 

“Are the two of you friends? Do you run in those circles?”

“Oh, no,” you snort and shake your head, “Parker is a drag performer, under the stage name Jackie Lantern, and knows quite a few theater folks in New York. It’s all him. I was just tagging along.”

“I see. And what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a baker.” 

“Pastry artist,” Dieter interjects, leaning forward, “She makes some of the best goddamn pastries I’ve ever had in my life.” 

You beam at this. He gives you an encouraging little wink that makes your heart skip a beat. 

“Oh, you have a bakery?” 

“No,” you say with a little too much haste, then stammer, “Well, not really. It’s not a brick and mortar store or anything. I run it out of my apartment. But, I’d love to—you know, someday, open a bakery.” 

“Sounds like a good investment for your boyfriend to make,” David hints.

“Oh, no, I’m not,” you clear your throat and shake your head, “I want to do it myself.” 

“Independent,” David observes, then looks down to his notes, “Dieter has had a lot of big changes in his personal life this past year as well, with his divorce to Anika, and the scandals surrounding it. Do you worry that those patterns are bound to repeat themselves?”

Dieter’s body tenses beside you. 

You furrow your brow and frown slightly, then glance up to Darlene, whose stare can only be described as a warning. 

Downshifting your face from confusion to thoughtfulness, you answer, “I think… We both have pasts that present challenges in our relationship. It’s not exactly easy-breezy all the time, but that’s the thing with love, right? You take the person, demons and all, and choose to love them anyway?”

David jots down some notes. Your guts twist when you recognize the opportunity to do what you came here to do. 

“And, you know, speaking of which, one of the things I wanted to bring up during this interview is that I—um, I have a criminal record,” you swallow hard and turn to look at Dieter. 

He takes his arm from your shoulder and closes his hands into fists, thumbs pointed upward as he presses them together and draws a circle with them. 

Together. 

Warmth washes over you and you smile at him. He slides his palm against yours and interlaces his fingers with yours. 

“Oh?” 

You turn back to the laptop and sigh, “Yeah. I was arrested in 2018 on drug trafficking charges. I was convicted of a felony—and, you know, I didn’t have to serve any hard time or anything, just probation, thank fucking god, and I’ve changed a lot since then, but it’s still… still a factor,” you drop your gaze to your lap and shrug, “And, of course, the dead husband thing is a considerable amount of baggage. We live across the country from each other. There’s—there’s a lot that’s difficult about this. But I still think that what we have together is so fucking worth it.” 

“It is,” Dieter confirms, giving your hand an encouraging squeeze. 

“Thank you for being so open about this, Louella. This must be hard for you to do,” David says in a monotone voice, not looking up from his note taking. 

“You have no idea,” you release a big, elated sigh, “But, like mentioned Dieter earlier, we don’t want people to think we’re trying to hide any of this, because we’re not. We’re just trying to move forward together.” 

“I appreciate your honesty,” David says mildly, looks down to his notes, then squints up at the computer, clicking around as he tells you, “Now, after DIRT published the article questioning your identity, we received a call. I’m going to play that for you now…”

You glance from Dieter, to Darlene. Their confused expressions match yours. 

“My name is Hannah—”

Your stomach drops to the floor. You whisper, “Fuck.”

“—I hear you’re trying to figure out who this woman is with Dieter Bravo. Well, I can tell you, that’s my daughter. Her name is Louella Rose Friedman. Now I don’t know what the hell she thinks she’s doing with this man, but I do not approve. I mean, really now, her husband died less than a year ago!”

Static tingles in your ligaments and fills your lungs. Your head shakes back and forth in protest, but her shrill voice continues to project across the room, scraping against your eardrums. 

Dieter releases your hand and leans forward, trying to speak over the recording, warning, “Ok, David, that’s enough—”

“And this man? Dieter Bravo? Just like him from what I can tell. And I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but—”

Everything moves far away in an instant as your mind disconnects from your body. A high-pitched ringing noise dulls the noises around you. 

From far away, your mom says, “He had a problem with drugs, you know, big problem, had other women, too.”

“Stop,” Dieter grinds out over your mother’s recorded voice.

“Lost his goddamn mind, tried to kill them both—”

Darlene scrambles over to the laptop and turns it towards her, “David, this is Darlene—”

“I just don’t understand what that girl thinks she’s doing getting involved with someone like this again, especially so soon?” 

“No, nope,” Dieter stands, then booms, “This ends right FUCKING now!” 

The sudden snap of him slamming the laptop shut and the dead silence that follows jolts you like a cattle-prod.

You flee the living room, down the hallway, into Dieter’s bedroom, then dial her number. 

She picks up on the second ring. 

“Louella Rose, what in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” your mother’s heavy midwestern accent pierces your eardrum. 

“Are you fucking kidding me, mom? What do I think I’m doing? What the fuck are you doing?!” your teeth grit and and hiss, “Calling a fucking tabloid, really?”

“I only wanted them to know the truth—”

“That is fucking bullshit and you know it,” you growl, crossing an arm over your belly, pacing the floor, “You wanted fucking attention. Well, you’ve got it, congratu-fucking-lations!” 

“I’m just looking out for your best interest. That man is bad news, Louella.“

“How the FUCK would you know?!”

“I know he has a cocaine habit, and that he cheated on his wife, does that sound like anyone else?” 

You clench your jaw and shake your head.

“I’m sorry for caring—”

“You don’t fucking care! You have never fucking cared! If you cared, you would have talked to me, not a fucking tabloid. That shit you told them—” your voice cracks, but you swallow the lump in your throat and continue, “Mom, that’s not your story to tell. It’s mine.” 

An exasperated sigh crackles in your ear, then she says, “You shouldn’t get tangled up in his world, Louella—”

“What I do, who I date, is none of your fucking business. It’s not your decision. I am a grown ass woman.”

“You might be a grown woman, but you’re still my baby girl, and I don’t want you to wind up dead this time,” she clicks her tongue against her teeth, “I’d say you’ll understand someday when you have your own kids, but that’s just another thing Ethan ruined, isn’t it?”

Your entire field of vision floods with red. 

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“When I hang up the phone, do not contact me ever again. You are fucking dead to me. Do you understand?”

“Oh, come on, Louella, don’t be dram—”

You end the call. 

Dieter hovers a few feet from his open bedroom door. His nerves tingle with anticipation. Hushed sobs call out to him and grip his heart. 

How long does he wait before going in to comfort you? Would you rather have time alone?

Part of him feels terrible for eavesdropping. Well, eavesdropping might not be the right word, considering how your heated words reverberated from one end of his home to the other effortlessly. It’s not his fault the goddamn place is like a resonance chamber. 

Dieter hears Darlene in the living room chewing someone out over the phone. The words “so fucking unprofessional” echo down the hall, filled with venom. She’s in full tirade mode. Out for blood. 

It gives him a smug sense of satisfaction hearing her wield this rage towards someone else. 

If he knows anything about Darlene, it’s that this will take a while. She won’t stop until she’s had her fill, until her belly is swollen and ripe with vindication. Then she’ll lap the sticky blood from her hands, smoke a cigarette, and say, “Here’s what’s next.”

He raps a knuckle against the doorframe and asks, “Can I come in?”

“Yeah.” 

The word is soggy and muffled. He enters the room, closing the door behind him, and finds you sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed, face buried in your hands. You don’t look up at him. 

He crawls onto the bed behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, pressing his forehead against the nape of your neck. Warm notes of vanilla and macadamia nuts waft off your hair. You feel so rigid under his touch.

“Talk to me, baby,” he murmurs, tugging you closer. 

“Did I fuck it all up?” 

Your voice comes out in a squeak, like you squeezed the words from your throat. Wet sobs bubble up your throat and shake your shoulders. 

“No,” Dieter frowns, “Do you really think that?”

You shrug and release a shattered breath. 

“Absolutely fucking not,” he assures you, “Hey, listen to me. You were fucking amazing.” 

“But—”

“No, no buts. You were perfect. And—and brave, so fucking brave,” he nuzzles into that perfect space between your shoulder and neck and says, “I’m so proud of you, Louella.” 

“Really?” you sniffle and wipe your eyes on the sleeve of your shirt, smearing black makeup onto the luxurious white silk. 

“Holy shit, yes,” he chuckles, pulling you closer, relishing the way your hunched up muscles seem to slacken, “Before the bullshit that rat fuck pulled, you were perfection. Killed it, I swear to god, doll. And—and none of that last part was your fault. David shouldn’t have sprang that on us, and your mom,” he scoffs and shakes his head, gnashing his jaw back and forth as he tries to choose his words carefully, then finally says, “I’m sorry, but that was fucking despicable. You didn’t deserve that.”

“You didn’t deserve that,” you sniffle.

“No, I definitely deserved that,” he mutters, glancing up to the mirror, meeting his own eyes only for a moment before diverting his gaze.

Your hand slides over his and you move your thumb in gentle strokes against his skin, “She’s the fucking worst, Dee.”

He hums in acknowledgment, then inquires, “Was that her on the phone?”

“Yeah,” you answer, and your voice comes out all quivering and squeaky, “I, um… I told her to never talk to me again.” 

“I heard,” he confesses.

“Oh,” you breathe. 

His pulse jumps and he stammers, “I—I wasn’t trying to or anything, I swear, the noise just carries—”

“I know,” you squeeze his hand, “It’s ok.”

Your crying wanes in intensity, but the air around you is still dense and stormy. Dieter kisses your shoulder and asks, “What can I do to help you right now, baby?”

You ponder this for a long moment. When your response comes, it jolts his insides. Sucks the air from his lungs. 

“Fuck me.”

He’s not sure he heard you right, and shakes his head, “Wait, what?”

Then you reach back and run your fingers through his hair. Unravel against his chest. Let your head roll back on his shoulder. 

Dieter cranes his neck to search your face. It’s all tear-drenched, your makeup smeared, eyes puffy and red. He reaches up and squee-gees the mess with his thumb, wiping the excess onto his white comforter as you quietly tell him, “I need to get out of my head. I want—I want you to fuck me. Hard. I want it to hurt. Use me. Please.”

His insides coil and twitch. Your lips part as you scrape your nail along his jawline, beckoning him closer. 

He smooths his palms along your torso, drinking in the heat of your body through your silk shirt. Your mouth draws him in closer: a bright flame, and he’s just a moth. 

That’s how it is with you, Lua, you have to know that by now. He’s just a bug, and you’re this all-consuming fire that could burn him alive and he’d say thank you, my love, thank you for your light.

When your lips meet, his vocal chords crackle. Your mouth, plush and pliable, so delicate, he almost feels bad for the force he uses in response. 

Almost. 

You have to understand how difficult it is for him to restrain himself with you. How the tether between his humanity and deprivation pulls taut when you writhe beneath his touch. 

What you’re asking, to make it hurt, use me, please… it electrifies him. Calls to the part of him that bucks against the restraints. Is that what you really want? For him to unchain that beast?

His teeth catch your lip and you gasp, but you don’t stop kissing him. In fact, you ball his shirt in your fist and kiss him harder. 

You fucking love it. 

He palms your breast and tastes the sweet whimper on your breath when he grips your flesh. Digs his fingers in, squeezes harder. You moan down his throat. Arch your back. Roll your tongue along his, soft and wet and hungry.

“Fuck,” he growls through grit teeth. Grabs your jaw and licks the gasp from your mouth. You grind back against his cock and an intoxicating rush of heat rolls through his body, clinging to his bones, sinking into the folds of his brain, tinging his vision with this thick scarlet fog that makes his heart pound in his chest. 

Dieter buries his fist in your hair and sits up on his knees, ushering you to do the same. His lips hover at the shell of your ear and he murmurs, “Is this how you want it? Want it fucking rough?”

“Yes,” you breathe, and he slides a hand to your neck, spreading the webbing between his thumb and index finger on your esophagus. 

“I wanna pull up your pretty little skirt, and bend you over—wanna play with that tight little asshole—”

You let out this throaty moan that vibrates against his palm. It makes his cock jump. 

“Would you like that?” he rumbles. Clamps down on your earlobe. Grinds the flab between his teeth. 

“Oh my fucking god, Dieter, please,” you whine, hips rolling against him, urging him to make good on his word. 

He shoves your face into the mattress and you just prop your ass up for him, pushing back as he rucks your skirt up to your waist. His hands slide up the soft, warm flesh of your thighs, feeling the weight of your ass in his palms. 

You arch your back, presenting yourself to him, whimpering for attention, silk underwear all damp with want, clinging to your cunt. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he rasps, hooking a fingertip around the wet patch of fabric, dragging his knuckle through your arousal, “You fucking love this, don’t you?”

You let out a throaty, delirious laugh that quickly morphs into a moan when he rubs the knuckle against your clit, then slaps your ass with a sharp smack.

“Fuck yes,” you gasp. Your hips roll against his touch, seeking stimulation. But he doesn’t want you to have it yet. Not like that. 

He pulls away, and you whine, going to get up on your hands in protest, but he closes a fist around your hair and pushes you back down, grinding out, “Don’t you fucking move.”

Another airy, depraved laugh. 

Dieter grips your hair tighter, explaining in a whisper as he tugs your underwear down your legs, “You’re gonna stay right here, ass in the air like a bitch in heat, and let me do whatever the fuck I want to you. How’s that sound, love? Hmm?”

“Please,” you breathe. He hears the wet gulp of your throat. The hair between his fingers pulls taut when you nod. 

“Perfect,” he murmurs, releasing your hair, tossing the underwear from around your ankles across the bed. 

He slides his palms over your ass cheeks. Parts them just long enough to gather a pool of spit on his tongue and let it land on your asshole with a wet splat. Rolls his thumb through the spit, smearing it around, making you gasp, “Fuck, that’s good—”

His cock twitches. Electricity writhes around his insides. He licks his lips, then purrs, “Yeah? It feels good when I touch your asshole, hmm? You fucking like that, princess?”

“Yes—”

Dieter spreads you apart, brings himself closer, throat rumbling at the scent of your heat. At the way your swollen, needy cunt is just fucking dripping, coated in a shiny layer of your slick. 

Fucking beautiful. 

He drags his tongue through the arousal pooling at your entrance with a depraved groan. 

You unleash a moan and try to wriggle around on his tongue, still trying to exert control, still not letting go. 

He raises a hand and lowers it on your ass cheek with a smack, talking at your cunt as he holds your hips steady, “Stop trying to run this, doll, let me fucking use you like you need me to.”

The response that comes is a whimper, but your muscles stop working under his grip. 

“Good, that’s it, baby,” he coos, then returns to your cunt, licking along all the soft ridges and valleys of you, savoring your nectar gathering slick on his tastebuds. 

“Oh my fucking god,” you croak, but you don’t rock against his tongue. Doing just as he asked. Heat surges through him, all that pride commingling with lust and love and need. 

He licks up your middle, painting you with short, broad strokes, all the way up to your tight, puckered asshole. Saliva pools as he laps away, rubbing back and forth, in a circle, flicking his tongue against you in wet little slaps. 

All the while, you’re whimpering and moaning, legs trembling, sweat coating your hot skin, damp against his palms. 

He brings the tip of his index finger to the center of your asshole, wriggling and applying pressure until the tight ring gives and allows him entrance. Your choked moan fills his ears and he moves slowly, carefully, letting you adjust to the sensation. 

One knuckle disappears, then another, and when buried as deep as he can go, he ruts it in and out, the hot pool of spit lubricating his movements. 

You start to slacken, your sharp little gasps for air drawing out longer, surrendering to pleasure, whimpering and nodding, eyes fluttering. 

Dieter pauses and wiggles another thick digit against your tight hole, panting, “Fuck, you’re doing so good, baby. Fucking amazing. That’s it, baby, just relax for me—”

It slides past the barrier and he moans in unison with you, burying his fingers again and again, spitting thick, gooey wads of saliva where he fuses with you, making his movements easier, more fluid, while the hot, smooth inside of you grips around his fingers.

“Fuck me,” you beg, “Please—please fuck my ass.”

“Take your clothes off for me, baby,” he sits up straight and begins to unbutton his shirt. You roll over onto your back and start to strip down while he throws the shirt on the floor, then lays back and takes off his pants. 

He reaches into drawer of his nightstand and pulls out a bottle of lube, then squirts a dollop of it into his hand and glances up at you. You're laying on your back, propped up on your elbows, lust-blown eyes glued to his cock. When he spreads the slick along his length, your pink tongue rolls across your lips, stoking the hot coals in his core.

Dieter crawls across the bed to you, murmuring, “Open your mouth for me, baby.”

Your gaze locks onto his as your jaw drops open. He moves up your body and straddles your chest, holding his throbbing, aching cock out to you, “Wanna fuck that pretty face of yours, is that ok with you?”

You nod, threading your brows together, batting your lashes, eyes all half-lidded and hungry, and purr, “Use me like a fuck doll.”

The request makes his cock pulse in his fist. You curl your tongue against a bead of pre-cum hanging off the tip of him and wiggle it around. His head falls back when the delicate touch floods his body with pleasure and he groans, “Holy fucking sh—”

The words evaporate from his throat when your lips pull taught around his girth, the wet heat of your mouth engulfing him. His lubed-up hand falls to the wayside and he snaps his gaze back to yours. You hold eye contact and move at a slow, steady rhythm, taking more and more of him with each renewed bob. 

Dieter moans at the sight of you, lips all shiny and stretched out around him, eyelids fluttering. He brushes the sweat-dampened hair from your forehead, gathering what he can reach in his fist. Tightens his grip. Pushes his hips forward. 

When he breaches your throat, you gag. A hot rush of spit pours from your mouth. Twitching muscles squeeze around him, protesting the intrusion. A wave of ecstasy rushes up his spine and pulls a moan from his stomach. 

“Are you ok?” he rasps, meeting your watery eyes. 

You pull off of him, panting, strings of saliva hanging between your reddened lips and his glistening cock, and nod, “Don’t fucking stop,” before taking him in your mouth again. 

So he thrusts forward again, carefully, every muscle in his body tensing with restraint. Your palms slide up his thighs, around to his backside, where you dig the tips of your fingers into his skin, urging him forward, and he knows now that you fucking meant it: Use me like a fuck doll. 

He nods with understanding, “You want more, hmm?”

The hum of approval from your throat ripples across his body and makes him groan. You bat your lashes up at him, eyes creased like you’re smiling but your mouth is all crammed full of his cock so it’s hard to be sure, but he can tell you’re just fucking loving this shit. Jesus fucking Christ, it’s almost more than he can handle. 

“Want me to fuck that pretty fucking face?” he growls, closing his fist around your hair tighter, rolling his hips, dragging his cock in and out of your mouth. 

You moan and it makes him moan, the vibration of your throat writhing beneath his skin.  

He adjusts his angle, releasing your hair to grab both sides of your head and plunge deeper, down past the back of your mouth, letting out a sharp groan as the firm ridges slide tight around him. His hips work forward in a quick, short burst of wet thrusts that light up every nerve in his body, then he pulls from your mouth. While you gasp for breath, he grips the base of his cock with one hand while the other grabs your spit-covered chin, “Is that what you fucking want? Fuck your face just like that?”

“Fuck yes, just like that,” you choke out, voice all gritted and airy.

“You pinch me when you need to breathe, ok?” he instructs, searching your flushed, messy face, “Pinch me right now so I know.”

This big smile spreads across your swollen lips and you squeeze a chunk of his ass between your fingers, “Like this?”

“That’s it, baby, do that and I’ll let you come up for air,” he nods, “Now stick out your tongue.” 

Your tongue stretches down to your chin, and he slaps his cock against it with a smack-smack-smack before sliding it back into the hot cavern of your mouth. He cradles your skull in his palms and thrusts forward, cramming himself down your throat. Your vocal chords buzz against him, and your mouth emits this sick, wet glug-glug-glug that sets him on fucking fire. You pinch him and he pulls out, both of you gasping and moaning. 

“So fucking good, fuck,” he rasps, waiting a moment for your breathing to be less desperate, then asks, “Ready?”

You hum a little mhmm and open your mouth, welcoming him back to fuck your throat. He can barely fucking stand how hot you look with your face all shiny with sweat and tears and spit, how your eyelids flutter then snap open to meet his gaze, how your body wiggles around beneath him, hips bucking against nothing, thighs rubbing together. 

If he didn’t have you pinned down like this, you’d be touching yourself, he just fucking knows it. 

The ecstasy tingling at the base of his spine starts to spread and you pinch him just before he loses control. He pulls out, but doesn’t dare grab himself this time, for fear that any stimulation will push him over the edge.

He gets on his hands and knees and leans down to press his lips to yours. You throw your arms around his neck and arch your back into the kiss, pulling him closer, rolling your tongue against his as soft whimpers flutter from your mouth. One of his hands trails down your body, between your legs, and he groans at how fucking wet you are. 

You gasp against his lips, throwing your head back as he plays with your clit, working you at a rapid rhythm that makes your face twist and flush, nodding in approval, quick little gasps and squeaks escaping your throat. 

He grins when he realizes how close you are. So fucking worked up from sucking him off, already coiling up, ready to burst. 

“That’s it, baby,” he husks, kisses you, then presses his sweaty forehead to yours, “That’s it, let me see you fucking cum, baby.”

“Fuck fuck fuck, Dee, don’t stop—fuck—”

Your words disappear with a sharp inhale, muscles tensing up, hips arching against his hand. He continues to move against you, fast and steady and firm, until you find your voice and release a choked sob. You collapse into yourself, body shaking violently, legs clamping shut, gasping for air. 

“Holy fuck,” you breathe, and your body starts to slacken, but jumps like a live wire at his slowing touch. 

Dieter slides down your crease, through your arousal, propping himself on one arm to watch how your cum clings to his fingers in thick, heavy strands as he draws his hand away. 

“Fuck, you’re amazing,” he murmurs, licks you from his fingers, then drags them along your warm, gooey seam again, “But I’m not done with you yet.”

Your eyebrows press together and lips part with a whimper, but you don’t appear adverse to the suggestion. In fact, you bring a hand to your chest. Cup your breast. Pinch your nipple and gasp. 

His body surges hot with want. He grazes his nose against your face, rumbling into your ear, “How’d you put it? Like a fuck doll?” 

Your throat lets out a little whine and your lips pout out into an O as he sinks two thick fingers into your cunt. You prop yourself up and watch him slide in and out, whimpering and nodding, “Fuck that’s so good, Dee—oh my god, yes—”

The hunger roiling at his core grows. He adds another finger, stretching you wider, and you release a choked moan. 

“Is this what you want, Lua? Want me to fuck you like a little slut, hmm?” he pants, shifting himself to hover above you, pumping his arm, cramming his fingers into your tight, wet heat over and over again. 

“Yes yes yes yes yes,” you babble, and start moving your hips against him, “Do that thing—”

Dieter smirks, knowing exactly what thing you’re referring to, and pulls his hand up towards the ceiling, rubbing the pads of his fingers hard against your g-spot, “That?”

“Fuuuuuuck yes, baby, just like that,” you moan, “That’s so good, baby, such a good fucking boy, fuck me so good—”

He lets out a groan and wiggles his fingers faster, “Yeah? You like when I make you squirt all over the place? Wanna soak my fucking bedsheets?”

Your response is a strangled noise, but you nod your head frantically, and your limbs start to tremble. And, fuck, the sight of you all shaking and whining, skin slick with sweat, makeup running down your pretty, flushed, contorted face, it’s enough to send his insides fluttering, barreling towards oblivion once again. 

Dieter has to close his eyes, swallowing hard as he tries to reign himself in, forcing himself to fill his mind with mundane thoughts about what to eat for supper, how this disaster of an interview will get resolved, whether or not he’ll wake up early to attempt making breakfast for you, all while trying to ignore the liquid hot squeeze of your pussy around his wiggling fingers.

When he feels he finally has a grip on his pleasure, he snaps his eyes open and moves between your legs. Buries his face in your cunt. Rolls his tongue on your swollen clit. 

“Yes, fuck,” you breathe and anchor your hands in his hair, pulling his curls into tight fists. Your breathing starts to come in shallow gasps. The muscles of your thighs tense and twitch. 

“Don’t stop, baby, don’t fucking stop,” you whimper, and he works you faster, moving his tongue in a circle, tickling the inside of you, groaning as you rub yourself against him, smearing your juices all over his face. You moan when the sound hits you, so he continues, humming from the back of his throat, and it’s just the push you need. 

Your hips stutter and still. A wild, ragged noise tears from your chest. You convulse around his fingers, and he pulls them out, sliding his mouth down to your opening just as a hot wave of pleasure gushes out. It splashes against his face, and he tries to catch as much as he can on his tongue, moaning at the taste of you. Grabs your waist and holds you there, lapping away at your cunt as you gasp for air, body jerking at the stimulation, but unable to move from his vice grip. 

He climbs your body and kisses you, hard and messy, letting you taste yourself. You rake your fingers through his hair, whining into his mouth when his tongue slides across yours. 

His cock aches with neglect. The steady inflow of pleasure burns between the layers of his skin and begs to be released. 

He pulls away from your lips and pants, “Flip over for me, love. I wanna fuck your ass.” 

And, you… fucking hell, Lua, you smile at this like he told you he’s buying you a brand new car. He sits up and you roll over onto your belly, then stick your ass up into the air, “Is that good?”

“Fucking perfect.”

Dieter grabs the abandoned bottle of lube,  squeezes some into his palm, then requests, “Spread for me, baby.” 

You reach back, pulling your ass cheeks apart. He squirts some of the lube on your puckered hole and you yelp, then giggle, “It’s so cold.”

He chuckles at this as he strokes his cock, smearing the slick lube along his length, then he asks, “Have you done this before? Anal sex?”

This isn’t the first time he’s ventured into ass play with you, but only with tongues, toys, fingers. You look back at him and shrug, “Well, yeah, but,” then you drop your gaze to his dick, “You’re, um… a lot bigger than anyone else…” 

The comment makes his ego swell, and he can’t help but grin, spreading the lube across your tight hole with his middle finger. Then he applies pressure to its center until it allows him access. Your eyelids flutter and you whimper, licking your lips, pulling your cheeks apart further. 

“I’ll go slow, but if it’s too much, tell me and I’ll stop, ok?”

“Ok,” you nod.

He wriggles another digit inside you. You gasp and nod, “Fuck, that feels really good.”

“Good,” he purrs, rutting into you slowly, flicking his gaze between your face and ass, watching the way your lips part and eyelids drift closed, feeling the muscles inside you start to relax. 

You arch your back into the stimulation, breathy little whimpers and moans floating from your mouth like music to his fucking ears. Lust pools hot and needy at his center, making his heart thud and his cock ache. 

“Are you ready?” he asks, studying your face as you open your eyes and look back at him. 

“I’m ready,” you confirm, holding his gaze as he pulls his fingers out and brings the head of his cock to kiss the tight, lubricated hole. 

Dieter pushes forward cautiously, pausing when your asshole surrenders to the very tip of him and you let out a sharp cry. After a moment, you nod, “Keep going.”

So he does. The tight ring squeezes the ever loving fuck out of him as he slowly, tediously, makes his way inside you. His forehead breaks out in a sweat, muscles quivering from the effort it takes to move at this pace. Your face pinches up with what could either be pleasure or pain, he’s not quite sure, but it’s accompanied by whimpers and nods, signaling your approval. 

Once the head of his cock is fully engulfed, though, and you adjust to his width, acclimate to the feeling, things start to go faster. He pushes your hands away and spreads your cheeks himself, hissing, “Fuck, this looks so good, baby. Love seeing your sweet little asshole stretched out around my cock—”

“It feels so fucking good,” you breathe, propping yourself up on your elbows, “Give me more.”

The request squirms around inside him and makes his throat rumble. He drives his hips forward steadily, and it’s a fucking vacuum of suction, pulling him in, swallowing him whole. You sputter and moan in reaction, croaking out quiet little whines of “oh my fucking god” over and over again.

“Fuuuuck, you’re so fucking tight, holy fuck, Lua,” he groans, throwing his head back, then starts to roll his hips, still moving at a languid pace, sliding his length along that ring that, even when your muscles loosen slightly, grips him so fucking tight it makes every ounce of sanity flee his brain. 

“Do you like that? Like when I fuck your ass with my fat cock?” he asks through grit teeth.

You whimper and nod, “Yes yes yes yes—”

“Tell me,” he demands, snapping his hips, heart jumping at the moan you choke out. 

“I like it wh—when you fuck my ass—” he snaps his hips again and you gasp, then continue, “with your big, fat cock—”

“Yeah you fucking do, don’t you?” He increases the tempo, moaning at the squeeze of you, how fucking good you feel wrapped around him, and grinds out, “Little fuck doll likes being used, hmm? Just like this?” 

“Holy fuck, Dee,” you groan, raising yourself up onto your hands, pushing back against his thrusts, “I fucking love it, yes.”

The force of your body moving with his, burying him to the hilt inside you again and again, fills him with fire. Sweat drips from his forehead onto your back, heart fluttering in his heaving chest, hands tingling, limbs trembling, ecstasy pooling thick and hot at the base of his spine. 

“Fuck, you’re gonna make me fucking cum,” he warns, but doesn’t let up his pace. 

“Cum in my ass, baby, please please please,” you moan. 

The request tugs at the edges of him, and he wants you closer, wants to feel the heat of your skin against his. 

“Get up here,” he grunts, leans forward and hooks an arm around your torso, pulls your back against his chest, cradling your neck in his palm. Your head falls back onto his shoulder and your mouth is hanging open slack, frantic little moans fleeing your throat as he fucks your ass deep and hard, rumbling into your ear, “Cum in your fucking ass, hmm? My little slut wants her ass filled with cum?”

You bring your hand to the back of his head and grab a fistful of hair, breathing, “Fuck yes, please, Dieter, please—”

“Anything for you, love,” he pants, then you pull his hair tighter, and you start to rock your hips against his, and your whines get all high-pitched and airy, and he babbles, “I mean that, I really do, fucking anything you want, baby—fill your ass with cum, buy you whatever the fuck you want, fucking anything, I swear to god—”

Your lips cut him off, and you’re fucking trembling now, muscles all tight and coiled, squeezing around his cock, and he kisses you back with fire, groaning against your mouth as you whimper, then your breath disappears completely, you let out a strangled moan, and your body shutters from the force of your orgasm. The static buzzing in his center grows wider, deeper, tingling up his backbone, through his limbs, until it washes over him completely.

He thrusts into you one, two, three more times, spilling his load inside you.

His labored breathing puffs hot against yours. You bring your touch to his cheek and draw a circle into his beard with your thumb. He kisses you again, gentler, lips lingering on yours, then murmurs, “I fucking love you.”

A bright, wide smile spreads across your face. You let out this breathless little giggle, kiss him, then say, “I fucking love you, too.” 

Dieter pulls out and falls back onto the bed, stretching out, catching his breath. You follow suit and cuddle up to him, laying your head on his heaving chest. He curls his arm around your shoulders and rests his cheek on the crown of your sweaty head. 

The silence that settles is comfortable, and he notices that the rest of the house is quiet, too. Darlene must have fled sometime while he was fucking you, no doubt disgusted by the noises that were probably not muffled at all by the barrier of his bedroom door. 

His attention draws back to you when you whisper, “Am I doing the right thing? By cutting her out of my life?”

It takes a moment for him to understand what you’re asking. When it clicks, he frowns, “I don’t think that’s a question I can answer.” 

You’re quiet in response, so he inquires further, “What’s your relationship like with her?” 

“We, um… we butt heads,” you shrug and bring your fingertips to his sternum, start drawing little swirls against his skin, “She’s always been so… I don’t know, self-centered? Childish?” you pause here, and he can hear the gears in your busy mind turning. You lay your palm flat over his heart and say, “It’s always about her. She didn’t come see me when Ethan died, or try to console me, or anything. She fucking—”

A frustrated huff of air blows across his chest. You shake your head, then sigh, “She fucking called me all the time crying about it, and posted all this bullshit online about how sad she was, and—and she fucking hated him. It’s like she expected me to comfort her. She never asked how I was doing. It was… fuck, it was just like when Dad died.” 

Dieter smooths circles into your skin with his thumb. Studies the ceiling, waiting for you to say more. Then you do. 

“When I would try talking to her about how much I missed him—my dad, I mean—she would get fucking mad at me. Say shit like, ‘Well, how do you think I feel?’ or—or, ‘You’re not the only one who lost him,’ or—this one’s my favorite, the uses it all the time, ‘It’s not all about you, Louella Rose,’” you pause and scoff to yourself, shaking your head, “So I stopped trying to her about it, and then she would get mad at me for not talking about it, so then I would talk to her about it, and she would either get mad all over again or squirrel the things I told her away to use as fucking ammunition against me the next time I made her upset, and—and, I don’t know. That’s just how it is with her.” 

Dieter’s mind whirs as he sifts through the million thoughts pouring through his brain, trying to find the right one to tell you. It feels like finding the hay in the needlestack, and when his mouth opens, all that comes out is, “Fuck that.”

“Yeah,” you snort, then comb your fingers through his hair and murmur, “I love your curls, they’re adorable.” 

He almost takes the subject change you dangle in front of him, but something lingers at the base of his throat, begging to be known. 

“Look,” he starts, shifting to meet your gaze, and sighs, “I really don’t think you’re making a mistake by cutting her out of your life, Lua. And-and not because she said those things about me, but because she treats you like shit. And, I know it’s not my place to say shit like this, but,” he shakes his head, searching your face, watching the tears pool in your eyes, “She might be your mom, but that’s not family, you know?”

Your face crumples up. 

He starts to fumble out an apology, “Fuck, I’m–”

You kiss him. 

When you pull back, you whisper, “Thank you.” 

“Of course,” he breathes, brushing his hand against your cheek, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” you scoot closer, and he wraps his arm around your shoulder. A few peaceful moments go by before your stomach growls so loud it makes both of you start laughing. 

“Let’s get you some fucking food, huh?” 

[savvylittlecoxswain]

Have you ever seen those videos where the college grads are showing off a million stoles and cords and medals? That’s Bobby.

He was involved with the following organizations and activities per the UW yearbook his senior year:

Phi Gamma Delta aka FIJI

A social fraternity whose members attend university with the foremost goal of receiving an education, and that Phi Gamma Delta is a fraternity that promotes scholastic achievement amongst its members. Its mission statement lists five core values for its members: friendship, knowledge, service, morality, and excellence.

Oval Club

The Oval Club, formed in 1907, was an organization affiliated with the University of Washington. Its purpose was to promote student unity and cooperation, develop cultural leaders and preserve traditions of the University of Washington.

Big “W” Club (for Crew)

The Big W Club is a special organization that helps University of Washington letter-winners stay connected to their alma mater. Big W Club members retain the spirit and pride of being a Husky by taking part in exclusive gatherings and events, like hanging out at informal happy hours or reconnecting at the biannual Hall of Fame induction or team reunions. Membership is automatic when you receive your first varsity letter.

Minor “W” Club (for Fencing)

Membership in the Minor "W" Club is dependent upon participation in some University minor sport. Men who participate in wrestling, swim-ming, golf, fencing, cross-country, ice-hockey and rifle are awarded the small "Circle W."

Beta Gamma Sigma (Sr. Yr. - Treasurer)

An International Honor Society Serving Business Programs. Its mission is to encourage and honor academic achievement in the study of business and professional excellence in the practice of business. Membership in this honor society is by invitation only and is very prestigious as BGS invites only the upper 10% of the upperclassman undergraduate classes. An invitation to become a member in BGS is the highest recognition a business student anywhere in the world can receive.

Alpha Kappa Psi

A business fraternity with the goal to bring together students who share an interest in business and provide them with opportunities to learn and grow through professional development, philanthropy, social events, and more.

Rho Sigma Chi

A social fraternity that believes a principle-driven lifestyle should be paramount in an individual’s lifelong quest to achieve progressive development, and that the world has a great need for ethical leaders whose core principles were based on the possession of remarkable character. Their goal is to enhance the leadership abilities of men by refining their character through the framework of Friendship, Justice and Learning — our three guiding principles.

Varsity Boat Club (Sr. Yr. - Manager)

A platform and guide for the men and women of Washington Rowing, collectively encouraging the values of hard work, team before self, and personal improvement. All men and women participants at Washington are eligible for membership after rowing four quarters.

Not listed:

Schaller Scholarship Plaque Recipient

Awarded to crew member with the highest grades on the team. Bobby Moch won this award all three years he was on crew.

Phi Beta Kappa Key Holder

The Phi Beta Kappa is “America’s Most Prestigious Academic Honor Society.” It was founded in 1776 and aimed to promote and advocate excellence in the liberal arts and sciences, and to induct outstanding students of arts and sciences at select American colleges and universities. Fewer than 10% of US colleges and universities have Phi Betta Kappa chapters and these chapters select less than 10% of their arts and sciences graduates to join.

[x--daughters-of-darkness--x]

"It’s more than sales – it inspired an entire generation of young girls to know they had a place in heavy music." Inside Fallen: the album that turned Evanescence into instant 21st century metal superstars

No rock band had an explosive a rise in the 2000s as Evanescence. This is the story of their classic debut album

Evanescence’s Amy Lee was at one of the many awards ceremonies she attended back in the first half of the 2000s when she was approached by a fan. This wasn’t unusual in itself, except this fan happened to be rapper and mogul P. Diddy.

“He said, ‘I love your album, I listen to it when I work out’,” Amy tells Hammer today. “And I was like ‘Really? That’s awesome!’ That was surprising to me. You know who I am? That’s weird.” Weird is right. Just a couple of years earlier, Amy had been a shy, aspiring singer and songwriter who had played no more than a handful of times with the band she’d co-founded as 13-year-old almost a decade earlier. And now here she was, getting star-spotted by hip hop A-listers at swanky awards ceremonies.

“What do they call that thing? Imposter syndrome!” she recalls today. “I definitely felt like I’d snuck in the back door and somehow got to go to the Grammys. Like, ‘I’m not supposed to be here and people do not know who we are and this is a prank.’ I think part of that is just it all happening so fast and being so young.”

The reason for the attention was down to the blockbusting success of Evanescence’s debut album, Fallen. Originally released in March 2003, and about to be reissued as a deluxe 20th anniversary edition, Fallen appeared at the tail-end of the nu metal boom. It offered a gothier, more dramatic take on that sound, which bridged nu metal and both the rising symphonic metal and emo scenes. It would go on to sell more than 10 million copies in the US alone, turning Amy Lee into an icon and role model for a generation of young, female fans.

Amy describes the young, pre-Evanescence version of herself as “a little bit shy”. Earlier this year, she told Hammer’s sister magazine, Classic Rock, that the death of her younger sister, Bonnie, when Amy was six, was a catalyst for “this soul, spirit- searching, expression mode”, which would eventually manifest itself in music. She wrote her first song aged 12, and others quickly followed. “I wrote plenty of songs that were crap,” she says with a laugh. “You just haven’t heard them.”

Things became more serious when she met future Evanescence guitarist Ben Moody in 1994 at a Christian Youth Camp in Little Rock, Arkansas, where her family had moved to a few years earlier. She was 13 and Ben a year older, though the two decided they could make music together. Amy describes their initial endeavours as “more like an electronic duo, like Massive Attack” than an actual band, though some of their early songs would end up on Fallen, including Imaginary, Whisper and My Immortal.

The nascent Evanescence didn’t play a gig for nearly six years, partly because of their youth, and partly because they wanted to concentrate on honing the songs they were writing. “The live part for me at that time just wasn’t my focus,” she shrugs. “I wanted to make stuff.”

Their first release was a self-titled debut EP that came out in 1998 via local label Bigwig, followed by another EP, Sound Asleep, the following year (both featured songs that appeared on Fallen). They’d played a few a low-key acoustic shows in their early days, but their first proper, plugged-in show was at a bar named Vinos in Little Rock on January 2, 1999, less than a month after Amy turned 17.

“It was difficult to be on stage at first,” she says. “I had to really work at being a good performer. I remember the first time we played a gig and four people knew the chorus to one of our dumb little songs,” she adds, self-effacingly trailing off.

It was an early version of My Immortal that caught the attention of Diana Meltzer, head of A&R at Wind-up Records, in 2001. Amy had just enrolled in college to study music theory composition when she got the message that Wind-up were interested in Evanescence - essentially herself and Ben.

“I still wanted to make music, but I was going to study so that maybe one day I could work on film scores as a backup plan,” she says. “We got signed three months in. I had one semester of school. I literally went from graduating high school to moving to LA and making our album in a year and a half.”

Producer Dave Fortman can remember the first time he heard Amy Lee sing Bring Me To Life in the studio. The guitarist in 1990s rockers Ugly Kid Joe pivoted to production after the 1997 break-up of that band, working with the likes of Superjoint Ritual and Crowbar before signing on to produce the debut album by an unknown band from Arkansas called Evanescence. After listening to their demo, he jumped at the chance to work with them. And then came the moment when Amy began singing in the studio.

“Amy was in the booth and this voice just came out,” Dave tells Hammer. “My engineer, who has worked with some of the biggest names in music bar none, turned to me with his jaw on the floor and said, 'Goddamn! This girl can sing.’ You just forgot where you were, you weren’t working anymore, you were just in awe of her. They were the most talented people in their age I’d ever been in contact with.”

The Evanescence that recorded Fallen was Amy and Ben, plus keyboard player/string arranger/co-songwriter David Hodges (who joined the band in 1999) and an array of session musicians, including future Guns N’ Roses/Foo Fighters drummer Josh Freese. Dave Fortman estimates the album cost around $250,000 to make – a sizeable sum now, but relatively modest at a time when seven-figure budgets weren’t uncommon (Korn’s 2002 album Untouchables reportedly cost $4 million). Some of that budget went on the real-life orchestra that Amy insisted on using for many of the songs – a bold move for a new band, when an electronic recreation would have been cheaper.

“None of us were ever going to back down on that,” says Dave Fortman. “It had to be that way or it wasn’t going to work. We recorded the orchestra in Seattle where they have no union, so it was cheaper. If we’d have known it was going to smash in the way it did, hell yeah, we would have just recorded them in LA!”

Evanescence didn’t get everything their way. Bring Me To Life, which addressed Amy’s feelings of numbness while in an abusive relationship,  was augmented by the inclusion of rapper Paul McCoy in an attempt to appeal to the nu metal market - a decision that went  against the band’s wishes. “I was so scared in the beginning that we were going forward with something  that wasn’t a perfectly honest picture of who we were,” Amy told Metal Hammer earlier this year. “But it didn’t last long. After a few songs, the mainstream was able to hear more than the one song and it was like, ‘OK, they at least sort of get what we are.’”

Advance expectations for Fallen were modest when it was released on March 4, 2003. “If it had gone gold [500,000 copies], we’d have A all been delighted with that,” says Dave Fortman. As it turned out, the album smashed it, selling more than 140,000 copies in its first week of release alone and reaching No.7 in the US Billboard charts. Bring Me To Life was a huge factor in that success. Like My Immortal, the song made its first appearance on the big- budget, Ben Affleck-starring Daredevil movie, which hit cinemas a few months before Fallen came out. 

When it was released as a single in its own right, accompanied by an expensive-looking urban-gothic video that saw a nightdress- clad Amy somnambulantly climbing the side of a tower block, like a cross between a character from an Anne Rice novel and a comic book superhero, Wind-up reps had to beg radio stations to play it (“A chick with piano on a rock station?” was a common response). Those that did air it soon found their phone lines jammed with people who wanted to know what it was that they’d just heard. It entered the US Top 10 and did even better in the UK, where it reached No.1.

Bring Me To Life and subsequent singles Going Under and My Immortal put wind in Fallen’s sails. Those 140,000 sales shot upwards at a vertiginous rate: within a month, it had sold more than a million copies in the US alone. By the middle of 2004, it had reached seven million (in 2022, Fallen was awarded a diamond certificate for US sales of more than 10 million). The speed of the ascent left Amy Lee dazed. “There was just so much going on,” she says, exhaling. “I don’t know if I got to focus on it that hard at the time.” 

The label wanted to get Evanescence out on the road to capitalise on that initial success. A touring band was assembled around Amy and Ben – guitarist John LeCompt, drummer Rocky Gray and bassist Will Boyd were recruited to back them. Their rise as a live band was equally dizzying. The day Fallen was released, Evanescence headlined the 200-capacity Engine Room in Houston, Texas. Three months later, they made their first UK appearance playing the Main Stage at the inaugural Download festival, sandwiched between Stone Sour and Mudvayne. Two weeks after that, they returned to the UK to headline a sold-out show at London’s prestigious Astoria.

Inevitably, given the scale and velocity of Evanescence’s success, it didn’t take long for the backlash to kick in. Amy was the focus of much of the criticism, with the barbs ranging from the petty (one magazine questioned her goth credentials) to the outright misogynistic (she was painted as a diva with absolutely nothing to back it up other than the fact she was a woman). Evanescence themselves were perceived by some of their detractors as nothing more than a cynical marketing experiment; the phrase “Linkin Park with a girl singer” appeared a depressing number of times back then, which diminished the decade or so Amy and Ben had invested in their band and music.

“I felt a lot like people wanted to see me fail, especially in the beginning,” Amy says. “I think it’s partially that they want to see if you’re the real thing, and when you shoot up so fast and you have a lot of success really quickly, I think there’s a little bit of a human nature thing that wants to poke a hole in that. I felt on the defence, I felt misunderstood – I’ve got a badass, bitchy look on my face on the album cover, so obviously I must be some kind of bitch.”

Amy was just 21 when Fallen was released, and the criticism took a toll on her. “It was hard as a young person to feel misunderstood,” she reflects today. Things became even more complicated when Ben left acrimoniously in October 2003, just six months after the release of Fallen, with creative differences cited at the time as the reason for the split (in 2010, he admitted to trying to force the singer out of the band they had founded together).

“I felt frustrated,” says Amy. “I wanted to hide a bit in that initial aftermath. People always wanted to attach me to drama, like Ben leaving the band. All of that was trying to be made to make me look bad, like it’s my fault or, ‘Well now it’s going to suck because she didn’t actually do any of the work, obviously all the men behind her did all the writing and the creation.’ It just made me angry a lot.”

The criticism and fractured personal relationships may have been difficult to deal with, but the impact Evanescence had was undeniable. Fallen landed at a transitional time for metal. By 2003, nu metal was on a downward trajectory creatively and commercially, with scene heavyweights Korn and Limp Bizkit both releasing dud albums in the shape of Take A Look In The Mirror and Results May Vary respectively. The New Wave Of American Heavy Metal was bubbling up, but it didn’t possess the same kind of mainstream crossover potential.

Fallen was different. Nu metal may have been in its DNA, but so was goth and electronic music. It was heavy enough for metal fans but it was also dramatic and heartfelt enough to draw in the emo crowd and pop fans alike. The soaring piano ballad My Immortal, with its narrative of a grieving relative haunted by the spirit of the family member they’re mourning, and Going Under, another song detailing the feelings of hopelessness that come from suffering in an abusive relationship, were unquestionably dark, but Evanescence wrapped them up in ear-worm hooks and gothic allure, while Amy’s presence imbued them with a distinctly feminine spirit that was a world away from nu metal’s over-testosteroned aggro.

The broad-church appeal of Fallen was reflected in the range of musicians who garlanded it with praise. Over the years, it’s been cited as an inspiration by everyone from Lzzy Hale and The Pretty Reckless’s Taylor Momsen to pop star Kelly Clarkson. Björk praised Evanescence and so, more surprisingly, did Lemmy, a man not known for his love of goth-tinged ballads.

“They’re fucking excellent,” said the late Motörhead frontman when asked for his view of the band. Even more significant – and noticeable – was the devotion Evanescence, and Amy in particular, almost instantly inspired among fans, especially female ones. The look she sported in music videos, magazine photo shoots and TV interviews – goth-style corsets, black and red eye make-up - was taken up by countless rock club kids up and down the country.

But arguably the most lasting impact Fallen has had is musical. It marked a changing of the guard: not just the end of nu metal, but the beginning of the rise of symphonic metal. Bands such as Nightwish and Within Temptation released albums before Fallen, making sizable waves in mainland Europe, but Evanescence put a distinctly American spin on it, turbocharging symphonic metal’s rise on the back of Fallen’s success. Even now, Amy’s too modest to acknowledge the influence that Fallen had.

“People are always asking me that question: ‘What is it about that album that resonated with people so much?’” she says. “I don’t know. Some of it’s just out of your control. At that age and that time in my life, I don’t think I would have given myself that credit.”

Dave Fortman is far more forthright on the subject. “Did I notice it?!” he says. “How could you not?! That’s what happens when you become, not just a big band, but an icon. She truly changed things. All those symphonic bands that came in their wake? They’re all Amy’s children.”

Fallen helped turn Evanescence into one of the biggest bands of the 21st century. They beat superstar rapper 50 Cent to the award for Best New Artist at the 2004 Grammy Awards (Bring Me To Life also took the trophy for Best Hard Rock Performance). To date, the record has sold more than 17 million copies worldwide – only Adele, Eminem, Norah Jones, Lady Gaga and Linkin Park released albums that have sold more during that time.

Dave calls Fallen “a life- changing album”. He explains: “It’s more than sales – it inspired an entire generation of young girls to know they had a place in heavy music. To show they didn’t have to ever compromise.” It’s a sentiment Amy shares as she looks back at the shy 21-year-old of 2003.

“It was crazy, it was awesome,” she says. “But there was a lot for me that was going on personally, turmoil and relationships within our band. It was just this wild time where so many things that felt huge were happening at the same time. Did it change the musical landscape? I don’t know. But it inspired somebody for something good, it made them walk back from the edge, feel their self-worth in some way. I think it’s truly a gift and a blessing in my life.”

Originally printed in Metal Hammer #381

[numinousmysteries]

Fool's Gold

@eightnightsofmulder

@today-in-fic

Eight Nights of Mulder Day 1: Gold

[on Ao3]

December 1993

Mulder is off visiting his mother for Hanukkah and it’s quiet in the office. Scully uses the downtime to familiarize herself with some of his older cases. She’s tempted to reorganize the files but she assumes they’re arranged by a logic only Mulder understands. She, however, cannot decode it. It’s not alphabetical, geographical, or thematic but she’s never seen him struggle to find anything so she leaves them be. The filing cabinets smell like old books, stale coffee, and him. 

She’s still a little surprised she didn’t find out Mulder was Jewish until nearly a year into their partnership. Granted, he doesn’t wear a symbol of his faith around his neck like she does and he explained that he’s Jewish more in heritage than in practice. Besides, he told her, he was really leaving town to avoid having his paycheck docked for failing to take any vacation time in the past four years. The year-end deadline just happened to coincide with the holiday so he thought he’d make his mother happy and spend it with her. 

Their partnership is odd like that. It’s so intimate at times while, in many ways, he still feels like a stranger. She trusts him with her life, but knows so few details about his past or who he is when they’re off the clock. When she told her sister about her new partner, Missy grilled her: Is he good looking? (Conventionally, sure, you could say that). Does he have a girlfriend? (If he does, she must have the patience of a saint). Would you hook up with him? (That one just got a conversation-ending eyebrow raise). 

The office is sepulchral without their usual verbal volley of theories and retorts. Free of his frenetic energy, the space feels like it’s lost its electric charge. It’s like walking into a room knowing the party has already dispersed. His scent has fully permeated the air, warm and musky, as if it’s a skin he’s recently shed. Sitting in his chair, she feels like a child playing pretend. His warmth is long gone from the fabric but it still holds his shape. 

It’s her office, too, but it doesn’t feel like it. She has no desk, no name plate, no personal items of her own to pair with his old awards, family photos, and news clippings. It’s as if this is his life and she’s just passing through. Part of her wants to make her mark, to leave something of herself in their basement lair, but she also fears doing so would forever bind her to this place. During her first case on the X-Files she felt like a visitor in a strange land, but each day finds her tip-toeing closer and closer into Mulder’s world—if not his life. 

She’s reading a case file from 1991 about a boy in Tennessee who Mulder believed was possessed by the spirit of his great-great grandfather when she notices a second signature alongside Mulder’s in the case report: Diana Fowley. Next to Mulder’s staccato, detached scrawl, Fowley’s signature is all sensuous curves, looping letters smoothly linked together. Scully locates a few other files from the same year and sees the same name. 

It doesn’t shock her that Mulder had a partner before her. It’s standard FBI protocol for all field agents to have one. But she is surprised that he never mentioned her before. Was Diana sent to debunk Mulder’s work like she was? Or was she a fellow believer? Did she make the basement her home as well?

Scully’s curiosity gets the better of her and she picks up the phone. 

“Holly? Hi, it’s Dana Scully. Agent Mulder is out and I had a question about an old case of his so I was hoping I could speak to his previous partner. Her name is Diana Fowley. Do you think you could find her extension for me?”

“Sure, Dana, no problem,” Holly says on the other end of the line. 

Scully hears Holly clacking at the keys on her computer over the phone. She immediately feels embarrassed. Would she be snooping around like this if Mulder’s old partner was a man? 

“Hi Dana,” Holly says finally. “It looks like Agent Fowley is currently stationed in Berlin in the counterterrorism unit. Do you want me to connect you to her office?”

“No, that’s fine,” Scully demurs. “It’s after working hours on her time. I’ll probably figure this out on my own anyway. Thank you, though.”

“Anytime,” Holly says and hangs up the phone. 

Counterterrorism? It doesn’t seem like a natural stepping stone after working on the X-Files. Scully tries to resume her work but that name keeps appearing and taunting her. 

She’s flipping through a file for a case on a murderous Loch Ness-esque monster spotted in Lake Erie when she sees a photo paper-clipped to a crime scene report. 

In the photo, Mulder is walking around the shores of a marshy lake with a tall, brunette woman a few paces ahead of him. Scully can’t deny the woman is pretty. She has strong features and wears a fitted skirt suit that clings to her feminine frame. Her dark hair is perfectly in place, the way Scully wishes hers looked out on assignment when it instead typically devolved into a halo of frizz. She looks like a woman—while Scully sometimes feels like a girl playing dress-up in the boxy pantsuits she bought, believing they’d make her look more professional. Instead of acting as sartorial armor, though, she fears her outfits just make her look small and sexless. 

Then, she sees it. On Mulder’s left ring finger there’s a gold band, shining in the sunlight. And on Diana’s: a matching one. 

It’s possible Diana had a husband at home, but Mulder? It doesn’t make any sense. Scully reviewed his personnel files when she was first assigned to work with him and he’s never been married. 

After an hour of struggling to focus on work and pacing around the office she decides to take her research to some more unofficial channels. 

****

“Agent Scully, what a pleasant surprise,” Frohike says as he welcomes her into the Lone Gunmen HQ, bolting the door shut behind her.

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” Byers chimes in.

“Yeah,” adds Langly. “Didn’t expect to see you while Mulder’s out of town.”

“Who is Diana Fowley?” she blurts out. She spent the drive over concocting a plausible backstory for her question but once she arrives, she’s too anxious for answers.

The three men look at each other silently for a moment and Scully’s heartbeat accelerates.

“She was Mulder’s chickadee when he just got out of the Academy,” Frohike says, looking down and avoiding eye contact with her. “Good-looking.” 

“She was there when he discovered the X-Files. She has a background in para-science,” says Langly.

“But she got a legat appointment abroad and they split up,” says Byers.

“Were they married?” She asks. 

“Not officially,” says Frohike. ��But Diana was a little ... possessive of Mulder. She made him wear a ring.”

“It was actually kind of romantic,” Byers says.

“Oh come on, man,” Langly snipes. “He was totally whipped.”

“It was complicated,” Frohike says, splitting the difference.

Scully bites her bottom lip. “I need to go. I’d appreciate if you didn’t tell Mulder about this.” 

“Your secret’s safe with us, Agent Scully. I’ll walk you to your car,” says Frohike, standing to meet her. 

“That’s totally unnecessary,” she says. 

“You can never be too careful,” he replies. 

Scully wants to protest that she’s carrying a gun and is inarguably in better fighting shape than this short, balding man, but she just smiles and nods. 

She’s about to unlock her car when Frohike says, “Listen Scully, no matter what you hear about Diana I want you to know you have nothing to worry about.”

“Excuse me?” She asks, taken aback. 

“Even if you and Mulder don’t have that type of relationship, I can assure you we’re all much happier to see him with you than Diana. There was a lot of passion there, but also a lot of mind-fuckery. I don’t think she always had his best interests at heart.”

“Frohike, that’s alright, my curiosity was purely professional,” she says. 

“Sure,” Frohike nods. “But trust me, I can tell from the way he talks about you that you two have a good thing going whether that’s just as partners or something…more. It’s a lot more significant than a fake gold ring, anyway.”

She looks at him quizzically.

“What? We obviously analyzed it. Had to make sure it wasn’t a device she was using to track our boy. Didn’t find anything nefarious, but didn’t find any real gold, either. Totally hollow inside, just like the woman who gave it to him.” 

“Thank you, Frohike,” she says.

“Get home safe.”

In the rearview mirror, Scully sees Frohike waiting at the door to the Gunmen’s heavily protected fortress as one of the other two lets him in. Then she watches as his small form disappears inside and the door shuts behind him. She smiles to herself as she drives away.

[beargyufairy]

Just My Thoughts Pt. 11

Fairy Tail Manga Reread Version

And she does!! I think this is such a cute little detail since Lucy does indeed turn her adventures into a novel! Not only that, she gets an award for it I love how Hiro Mashima remembers some small things he writes about his character, although he does often forget a lot of information. Just happy that Lucy makes her dreams come true which one consistent aspect Hiro Mashima adds for her.

For example, she joined Fairy Tail, she saw the rainbow cherry blossoms even though she ended up being sick and she saw the Stella stars in the movie. I know that Natsu does help her achieve a lot of these, but her dreams did come true at the end of the day. Using this trend, I hope that Lucy finds Aquarius’s key, since this is her newest dream. I’m still super upset about how everything related to the sacrifice to summon the Celestial Spirit King is handled, but I’ll forgive Hiro Mashima if he does a good job and redeems himself in the 100 YQ.