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pennyserenade · 8 months

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three's company

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

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

“I’m not alone.”

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

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

“I know.”

“Actors have never been my favorite company.”

“I know.”

“And I just don’t want to go.”

“I know.”

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

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

——

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ha ha,” you deadpan.

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

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

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

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

“Two weeks is not so long.”

“No,” he agrees quietly.

——

Two weeks is a prison sentence.

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” you tell him simply.

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

“I read, watched a movie. You?”

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

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

“Lots of things.”

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

“Do you ever think about me?”

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

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

“Oh, never.”

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

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

“You sound like my mother.”

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

“Mine hates you.”

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

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

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

“Do you want a lie or the truth?”

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

“Oh, a lot more than I should.”

——

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you high?” you ask him.

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

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

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

———

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

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

“That your boyfriend?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you working on the movie?”

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I bet not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ex-wife-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he truthfully doubts there will be much to celebrate.

He fucking hates Hollywood.

—-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’d you do?”

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

“Did you cheat?”

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

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

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

“We’ve got a kid.”

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

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

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

Dustin nods. “Yeah. Listening, too.”

“I listened.”

“But you didn’t like what you heard.”

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

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

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

“Not necessarily. Threesomes?”

“Have you done that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Would you? If she did?”

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

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

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

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

So crumbles the olive branch.

—-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Listen, I’m a little tired and—“

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

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

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

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

“I know! God, I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You furrow your eyebrows. “No, what?”

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

“Go to bed,” you tell them.

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

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

“Asking what?” you say, exasperated.

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

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

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

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

“Hm?” Dieter raises an eyebrow.

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

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

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

Dieter frowns. “That’s not true.”

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

“I never thought of you like that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You love him. You fool.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you have any rules?” he asks.

“Don’t cum in her first.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s okay,” he says. “Later.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know if I can. I think I’ll…” He swallows. “I know I’ll cum.”

“Please,” you beg. You dig crescent shaped nail marks into ass and he smiles teasingly, running his warm tongue against your sensitive skin. He presses so intimately into you, your nipples scrap against his chest. It feels so good. Everything does.

“He said no,” he answers, looking up to meet your eyes.

“He’ll give me anything I want,” you say. Dieter’s fingers leave yours then, and you look over. You think you’ve made him mad but he’s only repositioning himself, coming closer to your bodies. He doesn’t say anything.

Some things are so true they don’t need to be confirmed. They just are. The sky is blue and people die, and Dieter is a man who will give you everything because he was once a man who gave you nothing.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Dustin mumbles, finally drawing back. You nod your head, encouraging, but he doesn’t go harder. He moves in the same way he did before, experimental and slow. When you look at him, imploring silently, he shakes his head. “But a rule is a rule, baby. ‘Sides, I think he’s making me get you ready. Your husband is a bit of a pervert. He’s touching himself, watching me stretch you open with my cock.” Dustin presses his lips into yours. Against you, he mumbles, “Did ya know he likes to watch? Bet he likes to hear too. You—“ Dustin pushes back into you, stopping himself, and the squelch of your juices adds to the effect. He smirks. “—You’ll get fucked. Just not by me. Not yet. Maybe I’ll fuck him while he fucks you. Maybe we’ll do it..” he grunts, bottoming out again, “We’ll do you together. You’re tight as hell, but I know we can get you wide. Couldn’t we?”

You feel Dieter’s fingers but can’t move your eyes away from Dustin’s. They’re greener like this, up close. Dieter trails a line over your body, and then up to Dustin’s, with a lone finger. Dustin turns to look at him and he smiles, nodding. They seem to work without words.

Dustin reaches down to grip the condom as he pulls out of you. You look over at Dieter, half angry and half amused that he could interrupt. You realize what they’re doing almost immediately. Dieter holds open your legs by pressing his palm against one of your knees, and Dustin shuffles, moving back to let Dieter take his place.

His cock probes against your entrance and he smiles down at you like a fool. “Hey,” he tells you evenly, half sober. You ache for him. You clench around nothing as he licks into your mouth.

“Hey,” you respond, overcome. Your fingers wrap around his arms and you notice that he’s got more muscle than before too.

“You want to be fucked?” Although he attempts to make this a question, it is more of a statement. You nod along anyway. He kisses you hard, rough like with Dustin, and he nearly enters you as he rubs himself greedily against your naked warmth, wetting himself with your slick.

“Yes. Hard, like you do with him,” you tell him. He smiles against your lips. You take his cock in your hand, so much more sure with him than anyone, and he slides into you. It feels like homecoming, wet and warm and familiar, your fingers digging into his skin and the smell of sex in the air. He does what you ask, his thrusts sharp, his hips snapping against your hips.

“Dieter,” you pant out, nodding your head. He kisses the side of your mouth sloppily and you smile the best you can. Where Dustin felt right, Dieter feels perfect. You feel like you touch the hem of eternity as he plunges into you with the intensity you requested, uninhibited and giving in the roughness.

He repositions you both in one expert movement, moving to his knees, pushing your hips farther up. This makes you let out a startled gasp; he hits you far deeper like this, his thumbs digging into the flesh on your hips with bruising intensity. You can’t kiss from this position, but it doesn’t matter. He fucks you. Really fucks you.

You see Dustin in the hazy peripheral. Lolling your head to the side, you focus on him. He stands at the side of the bed, smiles at you when you catch his eyes. With his cock standing out in front of him like that, he looks a bit unserious. If you weren’t so full of Dieter, perhaps you’d be amused by this. He doesn’t even touch himself. This makes you frown.

“D—Dieter,” you stammer out.

“Huh?” he grunts.

“Dustin.”

“Mm, what—what about him?”

“Let him fuck me too. Please.”

Dieter shakes his head. “No, you’re mine right now. You’re—“ he snaps into you roughly, the bed creaking. “I’ll suck him off. Or maybe—“ Dieter grunts again, “Maybe he’ll be smart and he’ll get behind me. And maybe he’ll—“ his head drops to your neck, and your head the next part through mumbles. “Maybe he’ll rub against me like he was doing before. But it doesn’t matter right now. Just think about you. It’s all for you.”

You close your eyes, nodding. That sounds fine. Great. Dieter’s finger gazes at your clit and you nod, your hand reaching out to hold his wrist. You always liked to feel the way his forearm moved as he did this to you.

“Cum for me and I’ll cum for you,” he says, and you feel it begin, the stirrings of another orgasm. You think of him, of the way he punctures his thrusts with grunts, how good he feels inside of you, bottoming out like this with measured fury. You like how rough he’s being, like never before. You like this side of Dieter. You like that there is more of Dieter to know.

When you cum, you call out his name. He swallows it, pressing his lips to yours. “Fuck, you’re such a good girl for me. You’ve always been.” He fucks faster into you, his own release on the horizon. You squeeze around him once, twice, and that’s it; he’s filling the condom up and he’s gasping earnestly, amazed and so goddamn in love. He kisses you on the mouth and it’s so genuine. You kiss him back, smiling like a newlywed.

“Dustin,” you say against Dieter’s lips, after a moment. Your chests are both heaving and you're drenched in a thin layer of sweat. He presses his forehead against yours and you smile. “Let me take care of him,” you tell him.

Dieter rolls off of you, collapsing into bed with a soft groan and saying nothing. You take a moment to recuperate, breathing in and out, letting the bliss of this moment wash over you.

“Come here,” you say to Dustin, patting the open space of the bed beside you. He listens, the bed dipping beneath his weight. It takes a lot of effort on your part, but you rise to your knees. You guide him onto his back and he helps you straddle him. For a moment, you just sit there on top of him, looking at him.

“I used to masturbate to you,” you finally admit. This makes him grin. Beneath your cunt, his erection jumps a little.

“Thanks,” he says. His hand palms one of your breasts again. “You don’t have to do anything to me. I can finish myself off if you want.”

You shake your head, grinning. “Didn’t you hear me? I used to masturbate to you. This is a dream.”

Another hand comes up to cup your other breasts. “Are you sure you don't feel too sore? He fucked you pretty good.” You begin to glide your cunt alongside his prominent erection. He sucks in a swallow breath. “Guess that’s a no.”

“That’s a no,” you confirm.

“Just let her fuck you,” Dieter tells him quietly. You smile over at him but he doesn’t see it; he’s too busy watching the way you move your hips over Dustin. Even with a flaccid penis and in a state of post-coital peace, you manage to get to him.

You ride Dustin quickly, grabbing onto his strong shoulders as he tongues your alongside chest, finding your nipples. He groans, the sensation vibrating throughout your body as you follow the motion his hands set for you. A fast up and down, your back arching, taking him in completely and then pushing back so far he nearly falls out.

Admittedly he does most of the work, your legs wobbly and your body tired. But it feels good. God, does it feel good. You like this, being with two men back to back, each of them taking turns. Dustin generously tries to get you to cum again, his fingers sliding between your bodies, but you stop him.

“It’s too much. Just this,” you tell him. You grind down on him to make him feel better about it, and he hums sympathetically around a mouthful of your breast.

You ride him less enthusiastically the closer he gets, both of you too tired and worn. He stops aiding you so much, kissing anywhere he can access: your jaw, your neck, the side of your mouth. He lets your body fall forward into his. It’s a sort of lazy fucking that you do, meeting halfway to create the sharp thrusts that push him closer to climax.

“Cum in me,” you tell him, voice silky against his ear. He knows how tired you are, feels it too. He gathers up the last of both of your strengths, rutting up into you with intent. As he cums, you ride him, curious, taking all he can give. Dieter is too sensitive, can’t stand to move when he cums, but Dustin nods, moaning against you. When it’s over, you collapse into him, hugging his sweaty body. He laughs against your warm skin.

“Thank you,” he tells you softly, so only you can hear. You nod. You lie on him like that for a moment, listening to the beat of his heart. Dieter watches you, his expression unreadable. But he doesn’t look faraway.

You reach out to him with your fingers and he smiles, coming to.

Dustin helps you off of him and you fall between them, sated and spent. He slides off his condom and reaches across your body. “You want me to take yours?” he asks Dieter. Dieter, no longer feeling jealous but merely tired, nods. He hands the man his condom and Dustin pads off to the bathroom. Dieter and you watch this, amused.

“I kinda understand what you see in him now,” he confesses, smiling. He interlocks your fingers and you let him.

“Thank you,” you say, ignoring his comment. You look over at him.

He nods, sincere. “Of course. I assume I did it right?”

“You did it right.”

“And you don’t regret it?”

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

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I love you.”

You kiss him chastely, even though you know you shouldn’t. “I know,” you tell him softly. “I love you too.”

“Like a friend?”

“No.”

“Like a husband?” he asks, testing the waters. You laugh. Dustin comes back from the bathroom.

“No. Something more than all of that.”

“I can handle that.”

You nod your head. “Me too,” you tell him.

The bed dips from the weight of Dustin once more, and you roll over to your side, cuddling into him. He passes a warm rag to Dieter and he accepts it, cleaning himself. He goes to hand it to you, but you shake your head.

“I’ll take a shower in a little. When I can walk.”

This earns a laugh from them both. Dustin reaches an arm around you, drawing you closer to his body. Dieter, surprisingly, doesn’t mind this; he curls up behind you, too, wrapping an arm around your waist. You’re all so close, and it’s nice. He thinks maybe they might be something to this sharing after all.

“I liked that,” you say to no one in particular.

Dustin hums, fingering trailing over your arm. “Enough to do it again?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I think the opportunity for this kind of thing only happens once in a lifetime, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know about that. This is Hollywood, and they love sequels,” Dieter adds, smiling.

“Yeah,” Dustin nods, “That’s true.”

You close your eyes, smiling faintly. “A sequel, then, maybe,” you say tiredly.

In the morning, you do not regret any of it.

—-

A YEAR LATER.

SUBJECT: THREE’S COMPANY, BUT ONLY SOMETIMES from: [email protected]

I was at an art show the other day and I saw a painting with your name on it. The guy in it looked a little familiar (they told me it was an old painting, from nearly a decade ago, before you were both famous. Cute). I bought it, of course. Not that I’m in the habit of buying paintings from people I’ve slept with, but it was for charity and it looked good and I’ve got a new apartment that I’ve got to fill, so I thought why not? It cost a lot (good for you!) and because of that they let me wrangle an email address from them to tell you what a brilliant job you did. You did great. Very Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton of you. Anyway, to the point: You weren’t at the premiere of the documentary with Dieter last month. He told me that it's because you don’t like that scene, and I don’t blame you. Neither do I. But I was wondering how you feel about commissioned paintings? And do you think that Dieter would like to come with you to deliver it if your opinion is positive? (He told me I had to ask you that myself, so I think he’d be happy to accompany you if the canvas is too big to carry by yourself). P.S. I’m asking you for sex–a sequel, as it were–but I really would like a painting, too. I’ll spend a lot (not for the sex, but the art. I guess for the sex too, if you’re into that). Love, D. Mulray.

—-

SUBJECT: HOPEFULLY NOT ROSEMARY’S BABY SITUATION to: [email protected], [email protected]

Sometimes I commission art work for people I like and sometimes I make an exception for those I don’t if they pay enough. I’m sure you fall somewhere in those categories, Dustin. But I must warn you: I won’t do dick drawings. I might do a vagina one if the inspiration strikes. I must admit I’ve never had a man ask me for sex over email. Kind of thrilling, like a retro sext but without any of the sexy parts. I’ve attached Dieter to this email for obvious transparency reasons. He says he’d gladly help me carry your canvas (figuratively and literally). P.S. It will cost you. For tax purposes, I hope you’ll let ‘it’ be the art.

—

from: [email protected] to: you, [email protected]

Who said divorce couldn’t be sexy?

#pedro pascal #dieter bravo #the bubble #dustin mulray #david duchovny #the bubble fanfic #pedro pascal fanfic #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x reader x dustin mulray #dustin mulray x reader #dustin mulray x you

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manonamora-if · 2 months

Note

Ask bomb

Are there any specific technologies or concepts from sci-fi books that you wish existed in the real world?

Do you consider yourself to be a picky eater?

You are given a choice to live in one of the fictional worlds where your games are set in. Which one would you choose and why?

If you were given a budget of 5000$ to upgrade your current house of tech setup, how would you spend it?

What's the most unusual item on your bedside table?

Have you read any of the IF works in chooseyourstory.com? While the forum is filled with unsavory characters, the quality of some of the works is better than most IFs found throughout the community as a whole

What's your favorite conspiracy theory, even if you don't believe it?

If you could have a conversation with your pet and they could understand you for just one minute, what would you say?

If you had a warning label, what would it say?

If aliens visited Earth and you were the first human they encountered, how would you explain our species?

What's the weirdest piece of advice you've ever received that turned out to be surprisingly useful?

What's the most absurd thing you've ever bought on impulse?

If you could have any mythical creature as a pet, which one would you choose and what would you name it?

As a french what are your thoughts on croak shoes and dad hats?

What's your favorite French expression or saying that you think the rest of the world needs to adopt?

If you could turn any activity into an Olympic sport, what would you have a good chance of winning a gold medal in?

😱

omg Anon...

Alright let's see

Teleportation. I hate the getting to places part of travelling. But also... Would it even work? Paris 2119 kinda gave me the ick about it at the same time.

I don't think I am. I'll eat almost anything and try new stuff when I can.

Any of the slice-of-life/like-the-real-world setting. Space is cool but it's too dangerous. Fantasy worlds don't have vaccines and medicine. It's like time travel: go in the past and you'll die of whatever disease is there, or in the future and maybe kill everyone with your bacteria (or was it the other way around? either way...). I'd rather live in a "normal" setting.

Half into a bed and mattress - the one you can bend up to read better. The rest in books and comics. If you give me the 5k in three years, I'll spend it in a gaming computer.

More unused bookmarks than books (I just have books on my bedside table).

I checked out the top rated listing on the main page a while back. Not my thing.

The Dead Internet Theory: the internet died some while back and is just populated by bots only. So we don't interact with people directly but through bots. It's a bit cuckoo. Or Nessie.

I've been told plants and rocks don't count as pets...

Volume not adjustable.

Don't bother, we're unsalvageable.

Touch grass. (go outside, take a walk, breath some fresh air)

Didn't buy, but I keep getting gifted croissant-related things: socks, kitchen towel... and more recently: the plushie. It is amazing. I love it.

The head of Mímir. I think we'd be drinking buddies. Especially if he is like in God of War.

Eh... Let people wear whatever they want.

« Quand le vin est tiré, il faut le boire. » - When the wine is drawn, you must drink it. Or finish your shit.

I am so average at shit, even then I wouldn't win any gold medal. And that's fine :)

#ask box #AMA #so many questions #took me so long to answer it all

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solsticeswackstuff · 10 months

Text

The Socs Headcanon sheet

:readmore:

Notes about the headcanon- I know the Socs are canonly mean to each other but my friend decided for the sake of our sanity they are mean as a means of protection for themselves. Outside of the public, they have a familial relationship. This is an AU where the socs are very close and for some reason, Dot is the kicker for the football team

Susan-

She has a notebook full of letters to herself and her mother that she writes when she is frustrated or insecure- no one has read it or attempted to

Susan in the group dynamic oldest daughter

In the car, Susan has the aux

Susan does ice skating

Pearl, Peg, and Susan met in etiquette classes

Dot met Susan at rich people's dinner parties (the best kind of bonding)

During the parties, Dot and Susan hide upstairs

Rosemary met Susan through the local kids' softball league

Susan pretends to hate all the socs girls but she loves them

Susan and Pearl bake together

Susan and Peg kill the spiders

The only recipe she remembers is lasagna because she was forced to take a cooking class and it’s the only thing she didn't burn

Can balance books on her head because of a posture exercise she used to have to do and now it has become a source of entertainment at sleepovers (the record has been nine)

Pearl-

Everyday Pearl writes letters to the rest of the socs and puts them into the socs' lockers

Pearl is the dad of the group (is Rosemary canonly her sister? I think so)

The group buys Pearl a lot of grill dad merch

In the car, Pearl sits in shotgun or drives

Pearl skates on roller skates and skateboards

Pearl and Peg are childhood friends

Pearl loves baking desserts to give to the socs sometimes with the letters

She makes birthday treats for the group as well. (She’s more sneaky with Susan’s treats because she knows how her mom is about eating)

Pearl has never forgotten a birthday

Dot and Pearl live to do stupid things to annoy Rosemary

Pearl’s favorite music artist is Atlas

Whenever Dot gets confused Pearl will pull her aside to explain

When Pearl goes missing she’s usually sleeping in the weirdest place in the most awkward position

Rosemary-

Rosemary is the wine aunt

Everyone gets piggyback rides from Rosemary

In the car, Rosemary is in the back listening to her music while just sitting there watching the chaos

Rosemary cannot ride a bike but she can surf

During softball, Rosemary and Susan started their rivalry that still exists

Rosemary met Dot at a park when they were kids and they have been very close ever since

Rosemary goes for walks that can last up to 2 hours every day

She cannot cook for the life of her

Likes scented candles for some reason. Like REALLY.

Dot and Rosemary have a weekly movie night

Has the healthiest sleep cycle of the group

Rosemary hates meeting people taller than her

Hates music that isn’t on her playlist

Rosemary is a witness to everything strange Dot and Pearl do

Dot-

Is the younger sister of the group

the kicker for the football team for some reason

She has her varsity jacket from football

In the car, she always sits in the middle

Dot curses at Peg when she thinks no one is around to mess with Peg

Somehow can ride a motorcycle

Dot helps out with costumes for the next play

She would die if she had a Baja blast

When the group goes to a gas station they lock Dot in the car so she won't waste all their money on candy

Dot hides under tables when there is a spider around

Her favorite music artist is Hobo Johnson

She gets TOO invested in movies

Dot is the Group armrest

She gets on Rosemary’s shoulders to yell at people

TREE CLIMBER KID

Scooters frequently

The reason she is on the football team is because one day she showed up to practice ATE UP

The team loves Dot not only because she scores but also because she does tons of shenanigans with them

Dot works out with the football team

Dot barging into the locker room: PULL UP YOUR PANTS THERE'S A LADY HERE

She has a changing stall that is decorated for her by Buddy and Wally

Buddy and Wally yell at Neil to be a gentleman whenever he says something pervy when Dot is around

Pre-Game dance parties sponsored by Dot’s Alcohol

Peg-

Peg is the middle child of the group

She had a lisp that only comes out when she is angry or speaking too fast

In the car, she sits in the back with Rosemary or drives

Loves chocolate ice cream an ungodly amount

Peg can drive and skate

Peg and Pearl met as kids around the same time Dot and Rosemary did

Anyone who talks bad about the socs Peg will beat them up

Peg can pick locks

Enjoys DIY and building stuff

Peg is very good at soccer

She owns a chicken named Barthanew

Star Trek enthusiast

Frequently suffers attacks and pranks from Dot

Dot and she have an ongoing prank war

Is dramatic as a thespian

The only one in the group who likes seafood

Peg frequently shotguns random things- the group will just be walking around after going to the gas station and Peg will just shotgun whatever she has

Group Headcanons

They regularly have sleepovers

During the summer they do monthly road trips

One time Dot and Pearl wanted a chocolate dessert wrap they found online at 3 am during a sleepover, but they didn't have Nutella so they used chocolate sauce. They didn’t taste good and when Dot went to wash her hands she put the sandwich in the sink and got covered in soap, they reference this event every time any of the Socs eats chocolate. (based on my experience)

Pillow fights happen every sleepover

The group goes to Ikea to pretend to be a divorcing family with Pearl and Susan as the parents (they lost Pearl briefly in Ikea before they realized she was just asleep in one of those tiny twin beds for five-year-olds)

They BLAST Hobo Johnson in car rides

They all LOVE Miss. McGee and buy her presents for dealing with them

The group takes a lot of group photos but something always goes wrong for example Dot has never looked at the camera, a bird flies through, and/or they all fall somehow

Susan’s Mom once signed them all up to be camp counselors…chaos ensued

During sleepovers, the socs girls will take photos of each other with random phrases on them

They had a slam poetry night, Peg’s was about the Mango Juul Pod

this is the wrap\/

we worked very hard on this any interaction with it is much appreciated 💛! thank you!

#peg rotpl #rotpl #grotpl #dot rise of the pink ladies #grease: rise of the pink ladies #rise of the pink ladies #susan rotpl #pearl rotpl #rosemary rotpl #the socs rotpl #save our pinks

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thatwordybirb · 3 months

Note

1, 5, 8, 13, 15, 16, 20, 29, 33, 34, 40, 44, 48, 52, 58, 64, 71, 90, and 93 for the ask game ‼️‼️

Ooo, thankies for sending! Alright, let's go:

1. coffee mugs, teacups, wine glasses, water bottles, or soda cans?

Hm! I guess I'd say... coffee mugs. But I never use them for coffee, just milk for dipping oreos in (via fork of course). Never had coffee. Grew up with Mormon parents and they ain't about that. Honestly think that's one of the biggest blessings of that unhappy upbringing: I never got addicted.

5. do you prefer to drink soda from soda cans, soda bottles, plastic cups or glass cups?

Glass! Hands down. Didn't drink soda of any kind as a kid, and plastic cups don't retain the cold or heat from drinks. Feels weird. And anything (especially milk) in a chilled glass (as in left in the fridge for a while before drinking) is just really Nice.

8. movies or tv shows?

Ooo, now this is a tough one! I like both, some movies are my favorite pieces of media (like Arashi no Yoru Ni subbed version not dubbed the dub intentionally literally tried to hide that it's a gay love story, biggest comfort movie for me), but I prefer TV shows in general. I like getting immersed in long stories, getting to know the characters and setting and seeing them evolve for hour upon hour. It's hard for a movie to give its story enough time to breathe. TV shows have issues with never knowing when to end (capitalism driving them forward long after a satisfying ending could happen, or canceling them before there is any ending at all), but movies do that too.

13. lanyard or key ring?

Key ring~! Never owned a lanyard, I think?

15. favorite book you read as a school assignment?

Um. Hm. That's... challenging. Because I have severe memory issues. I guess that honor goes (largely by default) to Dante's Inferno. I found it fascinating, historically and conceptually speaking.

16. most comfortable position to sit in?

Any position I can put my legs up! They do not like being on the floor!! I will legit stretch my legs to a different couch across from the one I'm on just to put my feet up, without realizing it!!!

20. preferred place to write (i.e., in a note book, on your laptop, sketchpad, post-it notes, etc.)?

On my desktop! Got over 200k stored on here now (after many years of not even a single paragraph), and damn does it feel nice to accomplish something~!

29. best way to bond with you?

Oh! Um, hm. Little embarrassed to say this, because it's super niche and not all my lovelies (I find the phrase "loved ones" so mechanical, I use the term "lovelies" instead) do it, and I feel selfish saying it! But I think the best way to bond with me is to talk shop creatively. Brainstorm ideas, read rough drafts, swap brainrot. I made all my friends through shared interests, but my beautiful beta readers have a special place in my heart (shoutout to those of ya still on tumblr!). That is not to say I do not strongly bond with people purely through shared interests, though! I do! Most of my lovelies are not beta readers. It's just that writing, and my writing being read, makes me happier than anything else - I do my best to reciprocate though, because to do otherwise would make me a jackass!

33. most used phrase in your phone?

I barely use my phone, because I'm a homebody who only leaves for groceries! I think it's "so sorry for the inconvenience" because I have to cancel appointments a lot. My life is one long comedy of chicanery and shenanigans, and things keep! Coming! Up!

34. advertisements you have stuck in your head?

Very first thought was the fucking "WEEEEE" pig in those Geico commercials, because my dad loved those, it will never leave my brain, nooo- no modern ones, haven't seen an ad in ages thanks to adblockers, the last straw was ads for that really ableist Shyamalan horror movie about the escaped elderly mental patients and i just couldn't take it anymore.

40. weirdest thing to ever happen at your school?

Another challenging one due to my massive memory problems! I racked my brain for over an hour on this one (first thing that sprang to mind could be identifying information about which school I went to, second thing that came to mind was just Tragedy), but finally remembered something: one day in the locker room somebody stuck a shoe in my lunch box. A fucking shoe. I do not remember the rest of the details, or if I ever figured out why someone stashed a grey laceless sneaker in my lunch box! I was too confused to even be bothered by what I think was a bullying attempt, to be perfectly honest!

44. favorite scent for soap?

Now this is challenging because of a different problem: most days I do not have a sense of smell, due to a childhood injury to my face! So every soap scent is basically the same to me, except on the rare days my nose works. I guess if I could make my own, cinnamon would be lovely. Or cotton candy. Or granny smith apples. Or rosewater. Hm. I guess every nice scent is my favorite, since I get to experience them so seldomly.

48. if you were a fruit, what kind would you be?

Tempted to make a lewd joke by saying peach or pear, buuut if I were to answer honestly... I think I see myself as an apple: thin skinned with a core nobody should eat. My friends tell me otherwise, and I'm starting to come around to their positive affirmations, but self hatred is a habit that digs deep and dies hard.

52. favorite font?

Never really perused fonts! I guess Verdana, since I find it the easiest to read. All my writing documents are in Verdana. If I could get away with a font that was composed of kickass logo letters (such as from, say, Kingdom Hearts) tho, I would!

58. four talents you’re proud of having?

I didn't see this one in the ask game, and now I feel a little bad I didn't ask you this one! T.T Um! First and foremost: I am proud of my ability to judge people's character. Always have been. I am not perfect, I've made some bad calls, but in general I am pretty good at telling if someone is a good person after getting to know them for a while. Sniffed out some backstabbing bastards and secret creeps before the people around me could before, multiple times. Second: I'm good emotional support. I'm proud of how I can help people out of really deep psychological pits. It's sometimes a huge problem, though, because my lovelies come to me for their problems all the time and being everyone's shoulder to cry on 24/7 can drive you crazy. It did drive me crazy! But I've gotten better at saying "I'm too overwhelmed to help right now, if I try we'll both be wrecks" and they've gotten better at going to other people more often, so, progress. Still there for folks, just can't do it as much as I used to. Third: I'm proud of my writing lately. Took me so many years to get to this point, but I feel so damn good about what I'm making. Fourth: fuckin uhhhh I guess my skill at shooters, I used to be a crack shot at Halo (covenant carbine, my beloved) back in high school and these days I'm kinda good at Splatoon (dualie main, giving chargers a try tho and I'm half decent at it).

64. favorite website from your childhood?

Fanfiction.net! Hands down! It's where I met my first circle of friends. It's where I first joined a fandom. I loved the stories there. Sad I'll probably never find some of them again, though.

71. least favorite pattern?

I mean the Iron Rule of Oligarchy sure is a drag. Joking, joking, I know this is referring to aesthetics. There is this ungodly pattern of wallpaper I've seen that's a yellow-beige background and has scattered American Revolutionary War period imagery. It's ugly as anything and I hate(d) it.

90. luckiest mistake?

Honestly? Joining Fanfiction.net. It's where I met my first circle of friends. Not all of them were good people. Some were very bad influences, actually. Things happened that hurt. But I survived. And the ones that were good people have remained my dearest lovelies for many years. Love them with all my heart.

93. nicknames?

All my lovelies call me Birb unironically, and anyone who reads this is welcome to as well~!

#thanks so much for sending this my way~#asks from the void #me talking tag #personal

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stories-from-the-shaded-moon · 6 months

Text

The Shine of the Moon

Astrin belongs to me

Mossie belongs to @vio-starzz

These are OCs from a very cool rp discord server that needs to be revived because-🥺🥺

He knew that he’d find fae here. Alone. As usual. So he joined them on the rooftop under the dim white light of the moon.

Their legs dangled off the side. Part of Astrin thought that leaning over even a little would make him fall. He leaned over anyway.

He wished that he had brought wine or his cigarettes, but he was more keen on finding Mossie. He remembered the Mossie also drank.

There were times like that when he had to remember that they were immortal. Then there were times that he had to remember that he, too, was immortal, tied to the overworld until it was inevitably destroyed. And his life will continue even after that. So will Mossie’s.

He finds himself chuckling at his own grueling thoughts. He catches the glance Mossie gives him. He shows fae a smile, but his eyes didn’t match his face.

“You up here thinking too?” Mossie nodded. Mossie was usually thinking. Sometimes it was about how much of a monster they were, but no matter how much Astrin explained how similar they were, Mossie would never believe him when he called himself a monster.

Mossie went back to looking up at the moon. Astrin sighed. He didn’t really know how to be an older brother. It also made it harder that he technically wasn’t the oldest here.

He tried to remember his older sister, but when he did, the bitter memories of his mother came with it. He remembered when he would be beaten and his sister would stand to the side and watch as he screamed for her. What kind of sibling would stand and watch as their sibling was forced to bleed?

Not Astrin. That’s one thing he knew for sure. He’d die before he ever allowed anyone to take his siblings’ blood.

He sighed. How was he supposed to work with Mossie? He acted differently around everyone individually. Around Cyrus, he could be the weirdest man alive, but around Callahan, he needed to act strong and like the assassin that he is. All of that just to get the tiefling’s respect and yet, he’s not even sure if he’s earned it yet. Probably not.

Mossie raised fae’s hands and started signing. “Why are you up here?”

Astrin contemplated whether he should speak or sign. Most of him chose to be non-verbal for now. “I came to check on you.”

“Why?”

Astrin hesitated signing because I love you, it would probably make things weird or Mossie might run away. The last thing he needed was that panic he felt when Mossie disappeared. He remembered the first time it happened, when he had spilled all of his feelings to Belle and Rowena on the bloody bathroom floor. Only by the grace of the gods did those two not spill everything to the others.

He shook his head and tried to think about another response.

“Because I wanted to make sure you weren’t gone again.”

“Why does it matter if I’m gone or not?”

To Astrin, it felt like Mossie was fishing for an I love you, and it killed him internally.

“I told you before that I care about you.”

“But why?!” Mossie spoke. Fae’s voice was barely over a whisper.

Because I love you. The words were at the tip of his tongue. He opened his mouth, searching for a different response, but it took him too long.

“You don’t even have a reason! You can’t just…love everyone!”

“I don’t love everyone. I love only two or three people in this world.”

“Who are?”

“Cyrus, you, and-“

“Jaz, the same guy that walked right out of here without a single word.” Astrin paused, recoiling from what fae said. He felt a weight in his body drop. He felt heat rise into his face. The bluntness of fae’s voice angered him.

“Love is complicated Mossie!” He didn’t mean to shout.

Mossie stared at Astrin. He took a deep breath and prayed for his anger to dissolve. He looked down at the ground that awaited him when he eventually fell off of the roof.

“I’m sorry,” Astrin whispered, feeling tears start to swell.

In his peripheral vision, he saw Mossie shake fae’s head. He assumed that fae was disappointed in him. Who wasn’t at this point? “I’m sorry Mossie.”

But fae was right. How could you love someone who just left? How many days could you live in denial before you finally accepted that they were gone and they were never coming back?

He felt fae pat his back and another flare of anger sparked. He signed, wiping the loose tears away. He straightened himself and decided to stare at the moon.

“You know,” Mossie spoke. “I think that you’re like the moon…”

Astrin chuckled. “And that means?”

“You rely on others to be seen.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

#Astrin the Silver Assassin #Mossie the Small Menace #<I didn’t know what to tag Mossie but that checks out #fae’s a fucking menace/pos #the shady lad writes #discord rp #rp discord

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anonauthorsworkshop · 2 years

Text

fun fact anon’s really short story on rickrolling pisspad lord

ok so this is uh something alright, I asked for you to ask and I’ve now delivered???!!?? this is probably OOC, how do you guys write so well for these guys when the info is so minimal??? you guys are the true anomalies here /j ——————-

What were you meant to do in a situation like this? You could feel your legs starting to lose their balance from supporting you, all you could truly do is curse out which ever god had brought you into this world, the same damned world that barley has a canon in yours! You quickly make a sharp turn not paying mind to where you were headed, it’s not like you were in the right mind to contemplate it either way.

it had been a funny idea at first to come back to Allagada for some of their ‘crazy swag wine!1!1’ and to see how long it’d take for you to ‘let lose’ from it. Yet you just had to overlook the fact you basically were a wanted criminal, no thanks to your weird rpg abilities. You let yourself take a quick breather and lean against a nearby wall, your eyes closed and head leaned back as if trying to think up of some sort of plan on what to do with yourself here. You had gotten pretty good at getting yourself out of life or death situations with that one guy back at the foundation and the latest time you’d found yourself here with the bastard mask, but this time was different. You couldn’t rely on anyone else for ideas as you made the executive decision to solo it.

You weren’t sure who or even what would be after you this time around...but they wouldn’t really have to give chase this time around because you didn't care enough about running away from them. You were done running. You were tired and your headached like crazy. You ready to get out of this hellhole. The best thing to do was to wait for your head to clear up a bit and save enough energy and nope out of there quickly. You bring a hand up to your forehead to wipe some sweat and look down at the ground wondering which excuse to use this time when questioned by the foundation.

As usual, it had been quite loud in Allagada. It was obvious, an eternal party where people were doing god knows what in the streets in the barley governed place. The cheers and loud obnoxious stomps you did your best to block out as you schemed, but those steps seemed to get so much louder. It made your headache worse as you looked up towards the source of the sound, seeing that someone had decided to join your pity party.

How it seemed life enjoyed seeing you suffer in the weirdest of ways. Of course after boxing one of the lords, you had to get found by another. You quickly stand up and stare back at the Yellow Lord. The bearer of the Odious mask, clearly here to ‘decommission’ you. You hold in a breath, just how were you gonna roll with this? Clearly, you didn’t wanna die. You still had to find answers on how you were even Isekai’d into this mess!

Your thoughts come to a sharp end as you realize he’d had been speaking this whole time, wow you needed to really lay off the wines.

-they spoke of something greater than what you’ve seemed to present at this moment. I cannot understand how something as pitiful as yourself could have survived an encounter with The Ambassador, or how you even brought yourself to strike down the Red lord.”

No matter the backhanded insult, you couldn’t just give up on your ability to think quicky! You always thought of great ways to save your self, you just had to think back to the files you’d read before. Or hell, even any form of media that could be a help as your time quickly dwindled away. There had to be something you could come up with, you could only pray the others hadn’t already tried that one. And yet here you are, thinking up of a new strategy. And then a plan came to you…well, not so great, considering this was you especially under the influence. Yet anyone could tell that it was horrible, but you’ve seen enough soap operas and badly done wattpad fanfics. Maybe all those really trash musicals got something right and were actually a warning this whole time to you to prepare! All you could truly do is hope to your old music/choir teacher that all those middle school lessons lead to procrastinating once more at home.

“You truly are a one of a kind of a let down. Something brought up to be something bigger. Perhaps I will grant you the mercy to speak your finale words instead of simply allowing you to meet your demise swiftly.” It scoffed at you, unknowing to your weird plan. You were either gonna prove yourself as a wildcard and die, or think of some better idea to leave but the first option seemed funnier.

You brought your arms to your hips and suck in a breath. ‘I’m a f██ing idiot!’ you chuckled to yourself as your look of pure despair turned to radiating smugness. You breathed out and pointed at the confused Lord yelling out clearly off key,

“We’re no strangers to love! You know the rules and so do I!” You smugly sang out, tapping your foot with your head raised tall to return back the Yellow Lord’s confused stare. He looked as if he was going to say something, but was intentionally interrupted once more. “A full commitments what I’m thinking of. You wouldn’t get this from any other guy!” you continued with the meme’d melody The man in question had clearly given up on trying to figure out what the fuck you just said and we’re planning, instead opting to look it’s shoulder in fear of being caught in the mess you’d caused with someone watching the scene from afar. “What are y-“ you brought your extended out hand towards your chest as the other sat gripped on your hip, “I, just wanna tell you how I’m feeling, gotta make you understand!” You sang loudly with every note, making eye contact with the other man for every line to maximize the awkwardness. No amount of therapy could ever make anyone ready for the part everyone loves, as you sucked in a breath and shut your eyes. You stuck out your hand once more at the embarrassed lord and pointed.

“NEVER GONNA GIVE YOU UP! NEVER GONNA LET YOU DOWN!” You swiftly opened your eyes. if the Sole Intertrode of Amingvolvin was here, he would total sense the sheer smugness radiating off of your aura.

The yellow lord couldn’t bring himself to move in his sheer confusion. He’d practically been so moved he stopped dead in his tracks, staring at you like a fish out of water. His mouth slightly agape as he stared, before shaking his head violently to snap himself back to reality. It’s confused stare turned into one more laced with the one a mother gives to her child while scolding it. As soon as he snapped himself back, you felt your stomach drop with your smug grin slightly faltering. You couldn’t give up now with your real life high school musical performance, you had to keep going, for the vine!

With your hand still pointing out at it, you swiftly continued with your AWE inducing, INSPIRING, INCREDIBLE performance. “NEVER GONNA RUN AROUND AND DESERT YOU! NEVER GONNA MAKE YOU CRY, NEVER GONNA SAY GOODBYE!” You swiftly brought down your hand and rested it on your hip just like your other and finished it all off.

“NEVER GONNA TELL A LIE AND HURT YOU!” You finally finished off, panting heavily as you felt the adrenaline caused by surviving death with a MEME— course through your veins. You felt the Yellow Lord’s stare go through your very core. He looked like he was lost for words for once as he stood there in complete and utter shock of everything he just saw.

It was a rather amusing sight to see, honestly. The man had probably never seen anything like what just happened before in his whole existence. After a few seconds, he managed to find his voice again. “What..what were you saying there?” It asked slowly, clearly having trouble processing what the hell just happened. Then finally, the wave of ‘what the bloody [REDACTED] did I just do!?’ hit you, in the moment of feeling like an idiot you played the best card you could think of “IT WAS THEM!” You pointed at nobody in particular behind the lord.

Without thinking straight, most likely from the confusion that was spawned from your amazing performance he threw a quick glance from across his shoulder. Upon inspection, there had been nobody. It hit him, you both were in a quieter part of the country. As he turned back to question you, you had already made your escape back home and disappeared.

A tinge of disappointment seemed to plague him, upon realization of the feeling, questions dawned upon him. Why did he feek this away? It had been a horrible performance really, it was so out of key and incredibly unorthodox with the lack of instrumental. The acapella style was absolutely terrible and totally out of character. What had possessed you to pull such nonsense with the human love song. The red lord had gotten greeted with retaliation resulting in assault, yet he..he got a love song. Why?

Questions that seemed would be left unanswered for a while rang out in it’s mind. He couldn’t waste his time asking himself such odd questions, not when he already failed to apprehend you and would have to report his failure. A human, not to mention a criminal in the wall’s of Allagada, singing out a love song towards one of it’s authorities. As he kept reminding himself of the last scenes circumstance, the more it brought over the thought that all of this seemed just like a play. It shook it’s head at the mere thought, surely you weren’t doing this on purpose right? You were merely confused and drunk and he had more important matters to dwell on! Though he’d found himself questioning the veracity of these claims. It wasn’t as if you had gone out and sung about these feelings to anyone else, would you? ________________

You faceplant right into the familiar floor. ‘F█k yeah! Concreate!’ you cheer to yourself. Not much progress, but I’ll take it!’ You sit up and dust off yourself before sitting against the bed that the foundation had oh so generously given to you rest your face against your hands and breath a heavy and exaggerated long sigh.

Why do you even go back there? Clearly if you had thought about it more, past you would’ve realized that the pros of getting sh█tfaced clearly were outweighed by the cons. But hey, it was fun to let loose after being terrified of what’s next to come in the foundation you thought to yourself as you leaned down on the bed.

Maybe you could squeeze in some hours of sleep before more interviews started up again on why you disappeared from the security cameras. ———- Fun fact: Twenty percent of coffee mugs have traces of fecal matter on them. Good luck living w/ that 😊 -Sincerel, Fun fact Anon.

#submission #fun fact anon #scp #pansophical pretender #yellow lord #alagadda #you crazy mf you actually did it #oh my god

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caemthe · 25 days

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@intcritus said.º

Oh look whose got another pile of goodies for Dee, the usual of course. But he's gathered some ribbons for her hair and pretty ornate dagger with blood on the handle. With such a heavy haul, he drops it off in mortal form, sticking around to make the woman a snack to share with him since she's always getting him those delicious nut and fruit blends. " You like wine, Dee? I'd bring it by but a bird carrying a bottle of red is most suspicious." Not that he cares but the imagery is quiet hilarious.

"Aris!"

Aristotle's visits were always a sweet surprise and, while she appreciated the gifts and little things he found for her, just his presence was enough to make the oracle a smile, a rarity for someone who maintained a neutral expression most of the time. The little bones seemed like they all belonged to the same creature, which was exciting, but it was for the best to not get ahead of herself and make assumptions before getting to work. Blue eyes widened slightly upon seeing the blood-stained dagger, so tempted to touch it and learn the secrets it hid but, at the same time, wanting to save the 'best part' for the end.

"You're being too nice to me. I was under the impression that you would fly away and not return for a while." Yes, she was referring to what happened last time. Back then, she really caught him off guard, didn't she? But she had no intention of teasing him further, especially when he was being such a sweetheart. Though it would be a lie if she said that she didn't want to tease him more ever since. That way of thinking didn't make much sense, so she kept it to herself. A kiss on the cheek was given to the man as she thanked him for the various little treasures he brought her.

"You think so? Even if someone got it on camera, I don't think it would be the weirdest thing people have seen crows do." But many would have questions about the mysterious crow's disproportional strength. "I don't drink, but I will accompany you with a glass of iced tea if you want to drink. I was gifted a few wines by people I worked for in the past. I don't know much about wine, but they look fancy. It would be a waste to have them collecting dust when there's someone who can enjoy them."

There actually was a reason why Deirdre couldn't drink or do anything that messed up with her brain's communication pathways. The first thing she was taught as an oracle of doom was to control her powers, so she wouldn't go mad with the countless visions striking her human brain from all sides. The 'door' of the unknown should only be opened when she wished, she had to be in control, but it wasn't as easy to stay in control under the influence. "I was given some snacks that supposedly go well with wine too. If you have the time, I would love to watch a few slasher films with you tonight."

#intcritus #dee. º ( saber. )#ask. ° ( delivered. )#/ somewhere else a detective scratching their head bc the weapon used by the killer gotta be here somewhere---#/ also we don't talk about how i just noticed the existence of the text color editor button

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the-widow-sisters · 1 year

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And a Happy New Year

Summary: It is New Years and Tony has thrown a party. However, after Yelena, Kate, and Peter get into a little too much fun, it is up to Natasha, Carol, Darcy, and Tony to get them sorted out as the New Year comes.

Word Count: 5.5k+

A/N: Happy New Year, y'all!!! Thank you for an amazing year filled with amazing friends and kind words and even more fics!!! Let's make this next year just as amazing 🥰💗💗💗 Y'all are the best 😊💕

Warning: Underage Drinking

“Excuse me!”

Darcy pushed through the crowd, trying to spot the snack table in the midst of the huge mass of people that were taller than her. It seemed like everyone was taller than her, and at some point, it really had a way of getting under her skin. After all, nobody got between a girl and her pigs in blankets.

It was New Years Eve, and Tony had thrown a party for everyone. A ton of people had shown up, and Darcy had just managed to wrap up some last-minute stuff she wanted to do at the lab.

She had dragged herself up to the party and the first thing she thought of was the pigs in a blanket. She loved those things at New Years, and when she had mentioned it to Tony, he had taken her suggestion to heart and told her he would have them at the party.

So here she was, trying to get through the crowd to find her pigs in a blanket that she was promised.

“Excuse me,” Darcy spoke up as she shoved past Bucky, his form taller than hers by quite a bit, and he just barely shifted forward, far more focused on talking to Sam about something or another. Darcy grumbled under her breath, casting an unhappy glance in his direction.

“Carol should’ve left your precious arm with the Guardians a little longer,” Darcy mumbled unhappily before suddenly bumping into someone. She quickly looked in front of her, and to her shock, it was Kate. As soon as they met eyes, Kate’s gaze lit up brightly.

“Oh, hiya, Dee-Dee!!!!” Kate excitedly greeted, far too much enthusiasm in her voice as she looked at her.

Darcy furrowed her brow, instantly realizing that Kate was not standing up entirely straight and that she was almost leaned over to one side. Darcy looked down at the giant plate of food she had taken, and Darcy assumed Kate must have not been getting it all for herself. She knew Kate could eat, but that looked like she was feeding at least five more people besides herself.

This was the weirdest thing that Darcy had seen all day, and Kate was almost completely unlike herself. Therefore, Darcy decided to satiate her curiosity by getting to the bottom of it.

“Hey… Are you okay?” Darcy questioned, deciding to focus more on Kate’s wellbeing at this moment as she squinted a little and reached out to touch Kate’s shoulder. Kate was grinning goofily and somewhat lopsidedly.

“Oh, I’m okay!!! Didja know vodka don’t smell like nothing?” Kate asked completely out of the blue, leaning in a little closer to Darcy as she tried to keep her voice down in that manner that was completely the opposite of quiet. Darcy wrinkled her nose just a bit as she leaned back and away from the obvious smell of alcohol on Kate’s breath.

So that was what was off with Kate. She was drunk. But that was utterly baffling to see Kate get drunk. Who in the world would have gotten her to drink, though? Kate did not drink ordinarily. Usually, it was only ever for social reasons and her drinking was limited to wine and beer.

“Smells like something to me,” Darcy commented, and Kate furrowed her brow as she stumbled forward just a bit, losing her balance ever so slightly.

“Oh, might’ve been the other stuff Yelena gived us,” Kate informed her, laughing as she scrunched her nose playfully. Darcy winced a little at the terrible grammar.

So that was who had gotten her into it. Yelena must have dared her or something. Or Kate had wanted to impress her. Darcy could honestly see either one with Kate. Sometimes she really wished that Kate was not so desperate to do anything to please people.

“Wait, who did she give alcohol to?” Darcy questioned, grabbing Kate’s arm to keep her from leaving just yet, and Kate furrowed her brow.

“Me!” Kate answered brightly as her expression turned far more easygoing.

“But you said us? Is there anyone else?” Darcy checked, and Kate seemed as if she were in deep thought before leaning even closer until they were almost nose-to-nose so she could utter her next words.

“She gave it to Peter, but shh… He’s not old enough to drink. She said it was okay, though. Russia’s drinking age is sixteen…. ‘Merican government is bad and don’t know how to make boys men and girls women and what age to be makin’ it happen,” Kate rattled off something that Yelena had doubtlessly told her in defense of her logic. Darcy raised her eyebrows.

Kate then happened to look down at her plate of food that she had grabbed, and she suddenly seemed to remember what she was doing. She then turned and headed off without another word, moving around the crowd and trying to avoid falling over despite the fact that she seemed amazingly close to it.

Darcy slowly shook her head, having no idea what was going on, but knowing that she had to tell Natasha.

Why could they not have just one normal, uneventful holiday?

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

“You got Peter drunk?! What is wrong with you?!” Natasha demanded as she stalked directly up to Yelena where she was leaning against the wall near a pillar. Natasha assumed it was some kind of a tactic to hide from people so she could drink in peace.

Darcy had told her everything, and while she was definitively unhappy about Kate and Yelena getting drunk, she was most upset about Peter. After all, he was too young to be doing that, and if Aunt May were to ever find out, she would have all of their heads for getting her precious boy inebriated regardless of whoever had been the actual culprit.

“Natashka!!! My favorite!!! Look, idiots, this is my favorite person,” Yelena pointed at Natasha, gesturing the bottle in her direction. Natasha looked at it carefully, realizing that it was vodka, and she let out a deep, unhappy sigh.

“Hey, are you two paying attention?” Yelena yelled a little louder, trying to get Kate and Peter to look at her from where they were at the pillar that was not too far off. Peter was talking to Kate and laughing nonsensically as he started looking at it and sizing it up.

“No, Yelena, you pay attention to me,” Natasha warned carefully, moving closer as she glared at her baby sister.

Yelena just looked at her confusedly, lolling her head around with a lazy grin as she sat the bottle up on her knee where it was drawn up before her. The other leg was extended in front of her, and Yelena looked like she was sliding sideways from where she was leaned against the wall.

“Is Peter drunk?” Natasha questioned, already knowing the answer but figuring she would give Yelena the opportunity to explain herself. Yelena just grinned as she nodded emphatically.

“Vodka bless us, every one!” Yelena simply answered as she raised the bottle in a sort of toast, and Natasha clenched her jaw, currently praying for the strength that she did not believe that she possessed to handle this situation.

“And why is he drunk?” Natasha forced as much patience as she had, the words sounding more like she was spitting that actually uttering them.

“Because it is New Years. I know you don’t like drinking, but it is rite of passage. It is time when boys become men and girls become women. Little Bishop has had wine and beer, so she had to have vodka. Set off new year right,” Yelena told her, her Russian accent thickening painfully and strongly as she sounded almost as broken in her English as Alexei.

She was obviously so drunk that she was not even entirely thinking straight. Elsewise, she would have had a better hold on her English.

Natasha felt a prickling irritation rising within her, and her emotions got the better of her for a moment in the way that only a sibling can bring out.

“What were you thinking?! Peter can’t get drunk!!! He’s way too young!” Natasha cried, blowing her top a little as she allowed the frustration to seep through. Yelena finally looked at her with some recognition, at long last understanding what she was saying and what she was attempting to argue.

“Drinking age is sixteen in Russia! He is safe,” Yelena declared, slurring her words as she pointed the bottle’s end in his direction. Natasha glanced that way, and quickly noted that Peter was definitely not safe. He was a fire hazard and absolute train wreck.

He was currently starting to try to climb the wall with just his index fingers and big toes. Kate was just watching, laughing far too much and far too wildly as she swayed in place, and Natasha immediately noticed that Kate was positively wasted. Worst of all, it was somehow even more terrible than what Darcy had described.

Natasha took in a deep, calming breath, attempting to center herself and remain rational since she was currently dealing with the three stooges.

“In case you forgot, we are in America. America’s drinking age is twenty-one. Twenty. One,” Natasha specified, emphasizing the words as strongly as she could, and Yelena just squinted a little at her in confusion.

“While in Rome, do as the Romans do,” Natasha pointed out, clarifying her statement even further, and Yelena furrowed her brow, looking at Natasha as if she had lost her mind.

“All these countries… You confuse me, you poser,” Yelena slurred, waving her bottle.

Natasha let out a deep breath of pure aggravation. The last thing that she had wanted was for Peter to get drunk, but both of her baby sister figures getting drunk really irritated her as well. Natasha let out a deep breath, knowing that Yelena was doubtlessly the person behind it all and figuring that she would deal with her tomorrow after she had slept it off.

What was important now was that she got Kate and Yelena and put them to bed to reduce the damage as soon as possible. She would call Tony to take care of Peter. After all, Peter would likely listen to him far better than he would listen to her.

Natasha let out a long breath, reaching forward and snatching the bottle out of Yelena’s hand. She let out a protest, frowning in that typical pout as she looked up at Natasha as if she had stolen her most prized possession.

Natasha then looked to where Darcy was nearby. She had been lingering, obviously not wanting to get in the way of an angry Natasha but also wanting to overhear the details. Natasha gestured to Tony as she got Darcy’s attention.

“Can you please get Stark? I’m going to have him take care of Peter, and then we’re going to need Carol to help with these other two,” Natasha explained, and Darcy nodded as she went over to Tony.

She tapped his shoulder, saying something to him, and he furrowed his brow, raising up a little on the balls of his feet as he tried to spot Peter. Darcy gestured for him to follow, and she led him over to the three blind mice and their current keeper.

“What’s this about Underoos and vodka?” Tony asked, leaning in toward Natasha as he lowered his voice a little in an attempt to keep other Avengers from overhearing. Steve had moved so that he was leaning against the wall a little ways away, and Natasha knew that the last thing Tony wanted was for him to get into a whole lecture about underage drinking. He was probably afraid that Steve would put an end to alcohol at the party at all.

Darcy turned and headed toward Carol where she was at the punch table getting drinks for her and Steve, leaving Natasha and Tony to it.

“Yelena got Peter and Kate drunk,” Natasha explained, and Tony looked over to where she had glanced, and he winced a little, wrinkling his nose just barely.

“You let your monkey off its leash for one second, and just look at all the damage it can cause,” Tony commented as he eyed her with that typical smarminess, and Natasha just let out an irritated breath as she looked at him.

“Just take Peter upstairs and away from all this. Get him to go to bed or something. The sooner we can get these three sleeping this off, the better,” Natasha pointed out, crossing her arms as she eyed him. Tony let out a deep and long sigh before nodding slowly.

“As much as it pains me to say it, you are right, Romanoff,” he pointed out, and she nodded, unable to help the barest bit of a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

“I always am.”

“And that’s why it pains me to say it,” he pointed out tiredly as he headed over to Peter. He reached out to pat his shoulder, and Peter reached around and grabbed his hand instantly and instinctively.

However, as soon as he turned around and fully realized who had put their hand on him, his face lit up in an adorably huge, dorky grin.

“Mr. Stark!!! You’re here!!!!” he cried gleefully, and Tony nodded, wrapping his arm around the kid’s shoulders.

“Yeah, I’m here, kid. Are you all there?” he asked, unable to help the small joke at his expense despite the fact that he was an easy target at this point.

“I’m here! Is this like a telephone call? Or that Verizon commercial? Can you hear me now?!” Peter raised his voice for the last part, laughing like a madman, and Tony raised his eyebrows as he leaned his ear away.

“Crystal clear,” he answered, and Peter just laughed crazily.

“C’mon, kid, we’ve got to head upstairs for a little bit,” Tony started guiding him, and Peter nodded, quickly following along.

“Oh, yeah, Mr. Stark, don’t worry! I’m right behind you! I’m like… on your tail,” he laughed, pausing only to hiccup, and Tony shook his head.

“Well, at least you’re a happy drunk,” Tony told him, and Peter laughed as he stumbled a little, accidentally bumping into Tony and almost falling. He flailed his arm out, his middle and ring finger touching his palm, and right about that time, webs shot out of his wrist from under his sleeve.

Tony reached out, snatching Peter’s wrist as he looked at him.

“Do you have web-shooters on?!” he hissed quietly, and he suddenly heard a smack noise sound off not too far off.

The web immediately smacked against Jen’s behind where she was dancing not too far off and she let out a squeak as she jumped. Tony paused for a moment in horror, and she turned around quickly, looking slightly angry. However, she was obviously drunk as she stumbled a bit also.

To Tony’s surprise, she quickly eyed Steve and she instantly offered him a onceover, her entire expression changing. Steve happened to realize she was looking at him, and he slowly widened his eyes as he realized precisely how she was looking at him.

“Y’know, I was about to be mad and Hulk out, but like… That’s a huge compliment coming from America’s a—”

“Okay, off to bed with you,” Tony scolded as he started pushing Peter away, guiding him as they made their way through the crowd quickly to the elevator with Peter babbling and laughing about something the whole way.

Natasha, who had witnessed this whole exchange, was somewhere between being even more tired an exasperated and actually finding it hilarious. She was not sure how Carol was going to react given the fact that Jen was currently coming on to her boyfriend, but she figured that Carol would probably politely ward her off while laughing at Steve’s discomfort.

Sure enough, Carol caught them on her way back, and she did just as Natasha expected, sending Jen on her way and giving Steve his punch with some playful comment, before finally accompanying Natasha alongside Darcy.

“So what’s the situation? Two sots in need of a lift?” Carol chuckled as she looked down at the both of them. Kate was over there talking about something with no one in particular, and Yelena was not-so-subtly crawling over to Natasha to try to reach up and take the bottle out of her hand.

“Pretty much. Yelena got Kate and Peter drunk,” Natasha skillfully raised the bottle last second, and Yelena crashed into her leg, leaning her full weight into her. Natasha had been ready for her, so she did not budge as the weight hit her. Yelena whined as she just leaned into her.

“Kate and Peter?” Carol asked, raising an eyebrow as she almost looked like she would laugh. Natasha shrugged.

“Said something about it being a rite of passage, I don’t know. Honestly, I think she just wanted to see how funny they would be when drunk and then she fell in the bottle herself,” Natasha pointed out, and Carol shrugged a little.

“She does know that Peter at least isn’t old enough to do that, right?” Carol questioned, and Natasha started to speak, but Darcy butted in at that moment.

“Well, she had an answer for that, too. She said Russia’s drinking age was sixteen,” Darcy answered for Natasha, and Carol looked over at her as she raised both eyebrows.

“Wow…”

“So I sent Peter with Tony and now we need to get Kate and Yelena upstairs so we can put them to bed and get them to sleep this off,” Natasha told her, and Carol nodded in understanding.

“Gotcha. Well, I can handle that,” Carol acknowledged with an easygoing grin before shifting her eyes down to Yelena where she was fully wrapped around Natasha’s leg. Since she had been leaning against her, she had ended up bringing her arms around Natasha’s leg and simply clinging on.

“Since Squishy doesn’t look like she’s letting go anytime soon, you want me to get Kate?” Carol offered, and Natasha nodded.

“That’d probably work best,” Natasha agreed, and Carol headed over to Kate. As soon as Kate saw her, her eyes lit up and she made grabby hands.

“Carol!!! Care-Bear!!! Christmas Carol!!!” Kate cried, and Carol just smiled kindly, not sure where the kid had come up with all of the nicknames that she had but figuring she would just go with it and not ask questions. After all, if Kate was going to be cooperative, there was no reason to do anything to throw off her mode of operation.

“Hey, Kate. Wanna go for a ride?” Carol asked as she started to lean down toward the girl, her arms outstretched.

“Well, does a one-legged duck swim in a circle?” Kate questioned, and Carol narrowed her eyes a little, not sure how to respond as she paused just before grabbing Kate and lifting her up onto her shoulder.

“Uh….”

“Heck, yes!!!” Kate cried, and Carol slowly nodded, her eyes a little widened as she lifted Kate and threw her over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Weee!!!!” Kate cried excitedly, and Darcy raised an eyebrow at the girl.

“Completely abandoned all semblances of politically correct with that one, didn’t you?” Darcy pointed out, and Yelena made some noise of dismissal as Natasha helped her to her feet.

“You and your political correctness. Shove it up bunghole,” Yelena declared, and Natasha sighed deeply and unhappily as she nodded her head for Carol to lead the way. Darcy waited until Natasha and Yelena had passed her before following along after the both of them.

“People get so offended. No reason in it. They talk about having dark humor, that is dark humor. When people actually have dark humor, people get offended,” Yelena fussed, and Carol nodded as she glanced back at her.

“Y’know, while I completely agree, you do realize that we’re arguing the point that a one-legged duck joke is not politically correct and that it’s dark humor, right? It’s a duck,” Carol pointed out, and Natasha sighed as she shook her head.

“Don’t try to reason with drunks. It won’t get anywhere,” Natasha warned wisely, and Carol moved her head in a conceding gesture as she pushed through people, Kate getting jostled as they went.

“But Lou was the one to bring it up,” Carol pointed out, and Natasha just shook her head.

“Well, in that case, I don’t know what to tell you about that,” Natasha sighed tiredly, and Darcy made some noise of offense.

“I was trying to be funny!” Darcy told her, and Kate looked up from where she was dangling from Carol’s shoulder, offering Darcy a shaky thumbs-up.

“I think you’re funny. A funny hunny,” Kate laughed as she hiccupped, suddenly burping loudly. Yelena leaned back instantly at the sound of it, disgust written in her features

“You are so disgusting!!!” Yelena complained, nothing but venom in her voice as she looked at Kate in horror.

“’M sorry… Too many bumps,” Kate declared somewhat thickly as she sounded like she was trying to keep it together. Another burp passed from between her lips.

“Carol, can you please try not to shake her up too much?”

“I’m doing my best, but there’s too many people to get through. Seriously, Tony needs to start renting a ballroom or inviting less people or something,” Carol pointed out as she pushed past some more folks. Kate kept moving around on her shoulder as she hung there like a limp noodle.

There was only so much more of the jostling that Kate took before she suddenly let out a burp that had just a little more coming out with it. She spewed, and Carol froze as the projectile puke landed on Yelena and her prized vest that she had for some reason chosen to wear that night.

Yelena took in a sharp gasp, and Carol glanced back around hesitantly, somewhat scared to, and Yelena’s eyes lit up with the worst of fire.

“KATE BISHOP!!!!” Yelena cried, red hot fury rising within her as she lunged.

Natasha instantly grabbed her, at this point not caring about puke getting on her. She was too concerned about keeping Yelena from killing Kate.

This was the first time that Yelena had actually went after Kate in a threatening way in a long while. Natasha knew that between the combo of Yelena being drunk and her favorite vest having Kate’s vomit all over it, it was more than enough to send her over the edge.

Kate was barely aware of herself, so she did not quite know the imminent peril she was in as Natasha wrestled with Yelena. Darcy kept moving back every time Natasha would take a step back and try to keep Yelena off of Carol’s back.

“SHE RUINED OUR VEST!!!” Yelena screeched drunkenly. Her words were slurring and riddled with the thickest Russian accent that Natasha had heard in a while, but the intent behind them was clear as a bell.

“Yelena, Yelena, stop!!!” Natasha tried to get her to listen, but Yelena was mad at this point and it was not going to be easy to reason with her.

“Woah, woah, woah, don’t get that stuff on me!!!” Carol cried as she reached out behind her with the arm that wasn’t supporting Kate. She pushed at Yelena’s chest near her collarbone where she had not been puked on as she did her best to keep the vomit away.

“Yelena, sweet girl,” Natasha moved between Kate and Yelena, grabbing Yelena’s face as she forced her to look at her. Yelena finally met eyes with her, and Natasha let out a deep, long breath, locking her gaze onto Yelena’s as she tried to bring some sort of serenity to her.

“My postirayem zhilet, khorosho? Vse budet khorosho. Prosto ostav' yego na vremya. YA postirayu yego, i ty smozhesh' nosit' yego zavtra ves' den',”1 Natasha explained to her carefully. Yelena was slowly bringing her breaths to a calmer pace, and after a long moment of eyeing her, she nodded a little, catching herself as she lost her balance just barely in the midst of leaning forward.

Natasha sighed, turning around toward Kate as she offered a meaningful glance to Darcy. Darcy stepped up nearer to Yelena to keep an eye on her, and Natasha looked at Kate, lifting her chin.

“Kate… Angel,” Natasha sighed tiredly, reaching forward and wiping Kate’s mouth with a napkin that she had luckily managed to keep in her pocket. Kate met her eyes somewhat blearily, and her gaze lit up adorably albeit drunkenly.

“Tasha, you’re here, too!” Kate excitedly declared, and Natasha nodded.

“Yes, sweetheart, I’m here,” she expressed, and some thought instantly came to Kate as she looked at her with puppy-dog eyes.

“’M sorry for gettin’ drunk,” Kate apologized, and Natasha looked at her with surprise. After eyeing her for a long moment, she nodded slowly.

“It’s okay, Kate,” Natasha finally expressed, putting the napkin back in her pocket. She would take care of the puke mess after getting the girls in bed.

“We’re almost to the elevator,” Carol informed her, and they continued to push through the crowd.

At long last, they arrived at the elevator, and Carol reached forward, pressing the button. The elevator lowered, opening up as it let them in. They moved through, stopping as Darcy reached forward and pressed the button for the floor that the rooms were on.

There was silence between them for a few moments when suddenly a farting sound resounded in the elevator. Carol’s eyes went wide as she realized instantly what had happened, Kate’s behind far too close to her face for her not to know immediately. Natasha closed her eyes, already ready to be through with this night, and Yelena furrowed her brow.

“Who farted?” Yelena questioned.

“Start spreading the news!!! I’m leaving today!!” Kate suddenly cried drunkenly, and it was then that the smell hit everyone.

“Oh, my—”

Carol wrinkled her nose in disgust, squinting hard as she stared straight ahead. She was calling back on her military experience to try to last through it, thinking of all the many times that she had to go through the men around her farting like crazy.

Yelena was instantly gagging, and Natasha was starting to get worried that she was about to puke as well, and Darcy kept lingering near the door of the elevator, waiting for the exact moment that it would open up and let her out.

“KATE BISHOP!!!!” Yelena yelled in the midst of a heave.

“Gosh, Kate, the news isn’t the only thing spreading! That stench is doing a pretty good job!” Darcy cried, covering her nose with her shirt.

They managed to stumble out of the elevator as soon as it opened, the group of them trying to get ahold of themselves. Yelena was barely managing to keep from throwing up, and Darcy was keeping her nose covered. Natasha and Carol were just attempting to get through it the best that they could.

“Check her underwear when we get to the room,” Carol managed to choke out, the words coming out rough and forced as she tried her best to remain stoic.

“Darcy wears thongs,” Kate suddenly slurred. Darcy’s eyes went wide and Natasha, Carol, and Yelena looked at her quickly. After a long moment, Darcy just laughed, waving her off.

“Ah, you know drunk people. They’ll say any old thing,” Darcy shrugged it off, and Kate huffed as she remained just as silly as she had been this entire time.

“Shh, she said it was a secret,” Kate laughed goofily, sounding near passing out. Darcy got extremely quiet, and Carol raised an eyebrow.

“Do you wear thongs?” Carol asked, and Darcy instantly shook her head.

“Look, thongs are nothing to be ashamed of—”

“Well, then why keep to self?” Yelena managed to ask, just aware of herself enough to jump on this bandwagon instantly.

“Because I knew how you three were going to react!!!” Darcy cried, and Yelena just laughed deeply and far too drunkenly.

“How did Kate know?” Carol asked.

“She came to my room for a movie and saw them in my underwear drawer,” Darcy sighed deeply and unhappily.

“Why was she pilfering in your underwear drawer?” Carol instantly followed up, and Darcy groaned deeply as she rubbed her forehead.

“It’s where I keep my secret stash of candy bars. They’re at the back of it, and I told her to grab us some while we were watching the movie,” Darcy explained through gritted teeth, and Carol shook her head, far too pleased with this whole thing.

“Wow… You didn’t think that one through,” Carol pointed out, and Darcy groaned, smacking herself in the forehead. Natasha could not help the slightest bit of amusement, but she held it back the best that she could, knowing that the situation called for seriousness.

“Look, guys, we can talk about Darcy’s underwear choices later. We’re almost at mine and Yelena’s room. Let’s dump them off there,” Natasha told the group.

Carol smirked widely, not about to let this one go. She was definitely going to get Darcy later with this one, and if Yelena did not remember it later, she was going to remind her, and they were totally teaming up for this one.

Natasha opened the door to her and Yelena’s room, letting herself in and leaving it open for the others to follow.

They came along after her, and Natasha took the vest, unzipping it and taking it off of Yelena. Carol headed over to the bed, dumping Kate onto it. To Carol’s surprise, Kate seemed to already be completely knocked out, and she slept there on the bed peacefully.

Once Natasha got the vest off of Yelena, she guided her to the bed, letting her lay down. Almost as soon as her back hit the bed, she fell asleep, passing out.

Natasha moved over next to Carol and Darcy, looking down at the two bozos they had deposited on the bed.

It was at that moment that the clock in the room struck midnight and they heard loud yelling from downstairs announcing the New Year. Carol looked at the both of them, and she huffed a little, smiling.

“Well, at least we’re all together for New Years,” Carol pointed out, wrapping her arms around Darcy and Natasha. The both of them wrapped their arms around Carol’s waist in turn, letting out a collective sigh.

“One way or another,” Natasha finally tiredly agreed.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Yelena barely came into consciousness, and the first thing that she realized was that there was something warm next to her and hugging her. Yelena could not help but smile sleepily despite the killer headache and hangover that she could feel coming on.

Even when Natasha was doubtlessly unhappy with her, she was there to cuddle. She truly did have the best sister in the entire world.

Yelena snuggled closer, bring her hand up to touch Natasha’s cheek and her hair. However, to her surprise, she felt that Natasha’s hair was actually down. She furrowed her brow, still not opening her eyes. The sun was coming in through the blinds, and she was not about to expose her eyes to it unless she had to.

It was strange for Natasha to sleep with her hair down.

However, what was even stranger was for Natasha to smell like lavender. Yelena took in another sniff, realizing that something was weird about this. Natasha never smelled like lavender. It was always vanilla.

It was then that Yelena decided that she had to open her eyes. She needed to know what was going on with Natasha that made her let her hair down and have that weirdly familiar scent of lavender to her.

Yelena barely cracked her eyes, instantly squinting hard from the pain of the light hitting her eyes. But she finally managed to force her eyes open.

As soon as she did, she realized that she was almost nose-to-nose with Kate Bishop.

Yelena let out a loud noise of protest and disgust as she jumped back, and Kate’s eyes shot open. As soon as she realized it was Yelena and that they were so close, she jumped back in shock, trying to leave Yelena’s space so she would not make her uncomfortable. In the process, she threw herself off the bed and on the floor.

“Ow,” Kate groaned from where she was currently laying on the carpet. Yelena allowed herself a full body shiver.

“What happened?” Yelena asked as she squinted, trying to keep the light out of her eyes.

“The last thing I clearly remember is you telling me to go get some pigs in a blanket, but other than that,” Kate trailed off, going quiet as she groaned a little. She dragged herself so that she was sitting upright, pulling herself up onto the bed. Yelena barely offered her a glance as Kate sat with a safe amount of space between them.

They were silent for a few moments until Yelena suddenly furrowed her brow.

“You puked on me,” Yelena acknowledged, and Kate thought hard for a moment before suddenly having a vague remembrance of it. Kate slowly nodded in reply. Yelena was quiet for a little longer, the both of them wordlessly recovering from the night before.

That is, until Yelena suddenly took in a sharp breath, looking at Kate quickly in surprise and something that was almost glee.

“And Lewis wears thongs?!”

(1) "We'll wash the vest, okay? It's going to be fine. Just let it go for right now. I'll wash it and you can wear it all day tomorrow."

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is-she-suffering · 2 months

Text

8 April 2000 -Telegraph Magazine

Disturbed and disturbing, Katie Jane Garside fronted the band Daisy Chainsaw, prophesied the end of the world - and then disappeared. Seven years later she’s back, ready to shock again.

QUEEN ADREENA were on stage for only half an hour or so. The audience at London’s Hammersmith Palais had come to see Bush and the collected youths did not know what to make of this support act. It’s lead singer, Katie Jane Garside, is thin, provocative and confrontational. She has uncut Miss Havisham hair and wears pervy Victorian underwear. Twisting and squirming in the dark, often screaming, often prostrate, often turning her back to the audience, she is a performance artist rather than some chart-lipsticked Everywoman. Sexual in a very weird way, she looks as if she is lap-dancing in a gas-chamber. The blokes stare in disbelief. They shuffle about. Then, as the mike goes between her legs, they jump up and down.

Backstage afterwards the band squash into one of those huddles of Marlboro Lights and flushed analysis. There is a sign saying that CCTV is in operation and anyone taking drugs will be handed over to the police immediately. Orson, the bass guitarist, is wearing a long burgundy evening dress and complaining that his shoulder hurts because he fell off his horse. In Surrey. Very rock'n'roll. An individual wearing a jacket which looks as if it was made out of Wombles turns out to be Katie Jane’s boyfriend. She points to a huge man wearing black lipstick.

“That’s Billy Freedom,” she says. “He’s one of the weirdest people I have ever met.”

The lead guitarist, Crispin Gray, turns up. All eye-shadowed and Glam, Gray is from Islington and both his parents were West End actors. He understands theatre and has worn make-up for years, though not so much when he was signing on because he couldn’t face the hassle in the dole office.

“Quite a lot of girls seem to be attracted to the band and I’m sure it is because of Katie rather than me,” he says modestly. “Most guitar bands are still fronted by tough rock chicks trying to beat men at their own game, but Katie is not trying to be tough and I think girls like that.”

Katie Jane, ripped stocking, long lace bloomers, shoes that she has dyed herself, drinks quite a lot of red wine from the bottle and agrees that yes, she has come a long way since the days that she drilled babies’ heads

She used to shave her head. In 1992 she went around as Daisy Chainsaw, a short-lived, explosive act distinguished by the dramatic theatre of self-battery. In seizure to a megaphonic fuzz of electric guitar, she sang I Feel Insane and other loud angry songs coloured by dervish dancing and props - a doll, red paint, stained wedding dresses, wigs and dead flowers.

Those who went to see her perform in Deptford pubs described a grimy child-woman convulsing to ‘grandcore punk riffs’, and quoted scenes of fury. “I hit Crispin and he beats the shit out of me,” she said at the time. “Once he smashed me against a wall and I played a gig with blood running down my face.”

Daisy Chainsaw were managed by an ex-punk named Jason and they did pretty much as they pleased, turning down Glastonbury, Top of the Pops and advances from Madonna’s label, Maverick. “I think Katie is psychotic,” the bassist once said. “She lives through her emotions rather than her brain.”

She was accused of manufacturing her madness in order to merchandise pain, a useful pop trick subsequently deployed by Alanis Morissette et al. But Alanis is acceptable: she likes lipstick, takes a bath and conforms to the dreadful truth that a haircut can make you happy. Katie Jane is more unfathomable than this; she has no labels.

Pressed to explain herself she came up with a range of disparate theories founded on a basic witchy eccentricity that deviated into an offbeat belief system. She took on everything from white magic to David Icke, the former spokesman of the Green Party who announced that he was the Son of God.

“People can laugh,” she said at the time. “But I always realised the insignificance of role-playing and he gave me the courage to stand up for my convictions.”

In essence, she wanted to break down conditioning and communicate some of the terror and disillusion that we all feel. She enacted ugly sadness. Most of all, though, she was a fatalist. She did not think about where she would be when she was 30 because, she said in 1992, the world was due to end in 1998.

Daisy Chainsaw were not commercial and in 1993 they split up. The world did not end and now Katie is 30. She went away for five years, had a nervous breakdown, and now she’s back.

“I had worked really hard for a long time and given too much away. When I look back, Daisy Chainsaw represented a bottleneck of desperation and that is why it came out in such violence.”

The climate is different now. In 1992 the queens of the scene were L7, Babes in Toyland and Courtney Love’s Hole. They were linked by defiant unprettiness, crashing guitars and a Riot Grrrl wildness. But the backdrop was middle-class. Some of them had been high-school cheerleaders; Courtney Love arrived from suburban America.

The contradictions between the rockstar on stage and the real person who created the image caused insoluble tension, and one which arguably destroyed this genre. L7 disappeared; Hole simply sold out. There are no wild women now. No one dares to be odd or to flout the diktats of traditional beauty because they know it won’t get them on magazine covers. That is why Katie Jane is important. She is difficult to manipulate and difficult to package and thus encourages healthy deviance from the universal definitions of 'normality’.

In 1992, Katie Jane signed on, drove her 'patchwork’ Mini on a ley line from Cornwall to Norfolk, recorded the wind on DAT, mucked about with a musician from Test Department (a cutting-edge industrial band), stayed in a haunted house, did some group therapy, had visions, nearly went mad, but avoided prescription drugs.

“The doctor told me that, emotionally, some people have a football pitch and some people have a rocky landscape. I chose to stay with the rocky landscape. It was what I was born with.”

You have to trust nature, she believes. “I don’t think psychotherapy works. It simply creates a new set of crutches.”

She laughs and tells a story about the afternoon she was sitting in the hollow of a tree and all these blue tits flew around her in a huge flock. Very strange things have always happened to her. “I do hear voices,” she admits. “But it’s not a regular thing.”

Her life is full of entities and strange synchronicity. There is a Zulu warrior that watches out for her - “I have seen his face,” she says. She could be psychic or she could simply be someone who looks at a lot of different ideas, feels everything and understands empathy.

One day, a year or so ago, she was walking down a street in Belsize Park and ran into Crispin Gray. They had not seen or spoken to each other since the Daisy Chainsaw days. He had tried to run the band without her and it had not worked. They needed a singer. “It did not end properly,” he says. “And I knew it wasn’t over.”

Katie Jane re-entered the music business in her own inimitable way. One meeting with a record company executive was staged on Hampstead Heath.

“There is a beautiful undergrowth bit,” she says. “My friend Louise led him to this clearing. Then we stood there and did a cappella. I said nothing and he gave me a big lump of money.”

So now they are back with a manager, an agent and a public relations company. Their name, Queen Adreena, arose from Katie’s dream about a warrior queen. Later, looking in a book by Annie Sprinkle (a porn star/performance artist) she noticed that 'Queen Adrena’ was the name of a legendary Californian dominatrix.

There is a new album, Taxidermy, and a CD-ROM of their new songs played to complement a black and white film made by Martina Hoogland-Ivanow, a 25-year-old photographer/director.

Katie Jane Garside grew up in Salisbury, the child of an army background. When she was 12 her father announced that the family were going to live on a 33ft yacht. The sailed around the world for four years. As teenage girls, Katie Jane and her younger sister, Mel, saw deserted islands, ate meals out of tins and disappeared into the realms of imagination.

Finally, they ended up near Poole where Katie attended a rough state school. She was beaten up for many things, but mostly because she had very small bosoms, a memory which transmuted (as these things do) to become a part of her work.

At 17 she arrived in London, penniless but determined. Then she met Crispin Gray when she answered an advertisement in a music paper, and her professional life, from then on, was about working with him.

The voyage around the world had left her feeling different and displaced. She was left with a love of the ocean, and indeed all places that allow a person to be alone. She is still displaced. When you ask her where she lives she says she doesn’t really know. She has lived in a lot of places. She wanders around in her thrift-store chic, with a battered brown leather suitcase containing all her possessions, her pale flesh bruised from falling around on stage. There is an atmosphere of acceptance around her. She will end up where she ends up.

“You might become a major rock icon,” I say, thinking this would be a good thing.

She smiles. “That would be a funny place to be.”

Jessica Berens

#queen adreena #interview #2000 #taxidermy

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undreaming-fanfiction · 2 years

Text

Only Ours

Fandom: Stranger Things

Rating: T

Pairing: Steddie, Dustin x Suzie

Category: fluff, songfic, domesticity, established relationship

Summary: Dustin blinked at them, surprised. "Wait, Steve. You...don't have one?"

"One what?"

"A song. For you and Eddie?" Dustin tried again, eyes shifting between them as if he expected it to be some kind of a joke. "Come on, isn't that like a classic relationship thing?"

Eddie learns that Steve would very much like them to have a couple song and since he's the only one with any musical taste in this relationship, it's up to him.

You can also read it HERE.

I fully support the idea I read in other fics that if Eddie were to get a cat, its name would be Ozzy. In fact, I believe that Eddie would spoil the cat rotten and tell the cat that whatever it did was "so metal, darling" and Steve would self-combust with jealousy over a cat. Except Ozzy would sometimes do the cat thing where their alliances change in a split second and Eddie would be left with two sassy and gorgeous creatures who'd team up from time to time just to keep him on his toes.

Why 1990 you ask? Because the perfect song for my boys only came out then.

Oh yeah, now the story.

December 1990, Hawkins, Indiana

Four years ago, the world didn't end, although it certainly tried. Steve's head throbbed just thinking about it, so he mostly just attempted not to. Some people had been reported missing but were, in fact, dead. Other people had died but then it turned out they were just resurrected/transported into another dimension/kidnapped to Russia. The ground split in Hawkins in an angry X shape and killed more people, injured some and destroyed a large chunk of the town. Levitation, gruesome deaths, terrifying sounds of crunching bones, Hawkins had it all. And since most official channels were useless, it was up to the Hawkins' young and finest, sometimes also weirdest and some additions from other places like California, to do something about it. Which they did, yay, world saved and all, now back to your lives, college, high school, you name it, and keep that trauma under the wraps, yeah? Others might not understand.

Apart from the interdimensional monster fighting, superpowers, government conspiracies, possessions and more Dungeons and Dragons references than he ever cared to know, Steve also had a few surprising personal revelations.

One, his parents sucked. Not slightly, not subjectively, but massively and in so many ways that his brain decided You know what, let's just erase this shit. He sometimes wondered if that was the reason why he felt so stupid, that his head just decided that in order to get rid of the thoughts of his parents, everything else from that time should also go. When they decided to leave Hawkins for good and graciously left him the house sitting next to a melted line in the ground, he breathed a sigh of relief. There had been a time when he'd give anything for them to notice him, but after the hell of 1986, his friends threw a Farewell, suckers! party (well, Eddie and Robin did and Nancy, Jonathan and Argyle happily joined) and after raiding his father's alcohol stash, setting up an improvised shooting range outside with their perfect family photographs and desecrating his mother's beloved tablecloth with red wine, he felt unexpectedly free. He could do anything he wanted and...yeah. He'd have to figure out where to start with that.

Two, he had no fucking clue what he wanted, but fortunately his heart didn't wait for the brain to catch up and just pointed in the direction of recently resurrected Eddie Munson and shouted "GO!". Steve should have probably found it confusing, he should have had a sexuality crisis, but he was so tired after all that crap, Eddie was actually great and his eyes were pretty, and maybe it wasn't figuring out his sexuality but rather finding a person he clicked with. He still liked boobies, but he also liked Eddie. Robin tried to educate him on what he was, but after seeing a few of their disgustingly romantic looks, she just settled on Eddiesexual. Steve didn't protest (much).

Three, he still was a romantic. Steve had always played up the romantic side with the ladies and did what was expected of him, wooing, flowers, dinners, all that, because that's what you were supposed to do. But he was completely clueless when Eddie agreed to date him. What do you get a guy for a date? Or more precisely, what do you get Eddie? As it turned out, he was overthinking for no reason because all the roads led to Eddie's heart. It took a while for him to calm down, but Eddie took everything in a stride and even when Steve knocked on his door, sleep-deprived and babbling about the prettiest flower he saw on his way from work that reminded him of Eddie and he just had to pick it for him, Eddie would just grin, say "another score for the Harrington charm, come on in big boy" and wear the flower proudly in his hair until it wilted.

All of these revelations lead to some changes in his life. When things settled down, he sold the house, not sparing a single look when he shut the door behind him for the last time. It was a final goodbye to his prior shitty life and when he moved to a much smaller, older and cheap, but cozier house, he felt like he could breathe again. Then Eddie moved in with him, as they both decided the distance was not too great, but absolutely unnecessary. And when Eddie suggested getting a pet together, Steve's first thought was his father's voice, saying Absolutely not, animals are messy, there is no merit to them, Steven. The second thought was giving that voice the finger, grabbing the his keys in one hand, Eddie's wrist in the other one and driving to the nearest shelter. So year 1990 saw him living a comfortable, quiet life with Eddie and Ozzy (because what else would Eddie Munson call his cat, right), both working not very prestigious but normal jobs. They would still meet their friends often, the whole survived-the-end-of-the-world squad might have left Hawkins here and there, but always returned, as if there was a magnetic pull to the place. It was probably just difficult to feel fully at home somewhere else, where no one understood your caution, your quirks and nightmares. With Nancy and Robin's support ("Nagging," Eddie corrected him, "it's called nagging, Harrington"), both Steve and Eddie applied to a community college and got in, seeing it both as a good step forward in their lives, but also a much needed fuck you to the Harrington senior expectations and Munson predetermined criminal future.

And hey, it wasn't the life Steve had imagined before, but it was so much better than any fantasies he had for his future with Nancy because what he had with Eddie was real, it was domestic and comfortable and just home. They got to see their kids grow up and couldn't be prouder of them, even though they had at least one of them over every single day, providing relationship guidance and reassuring them that even if, for some unimaginable reason, their college dreams didn't work out, it wasn't the end of the world (because that was a bit more dark, screechy and filled with floating particles), that things work out in the end, look at them, community college and all, who would have thought that the former jock with more hair than brain cells and a metalhead who took three years to graduate would do so well for themselves? You have nothing to worry about, nothing at all.

When Dustin got older, he and Suzie finally started travelling to see each other. He would often complain to Eddie and Steve during his visits that even all those years later, his friends would always send him on his way with a heartfelt rendition of Never Ending Story and sadly, Eddie didn't turn out to be as sympathetic to his plight as Dustin might have hoped. When he learned the finer details of the Starcourt debacle and how the world was saved by Suzie's genius and Dustin's voice, Eddie collapsed into Steve and howled in laughter while Dustin mouthed "traitor!" at him. Steve just grabbed the nearest pillow and offhandedly muffled Eddie's outburst.

"Don't take it personally, man," he told Dustin while Eddie choked and gasped for air under the merciless fabric. Somewhere in the room, Ozzy gave a concerned chirp, but Steve ignored it. "I think it's cute and they might be jealous, you know? I think it has to be really nice to have a song like that," he smiled at him and eased his grip on the pillow. "Will you behave now, Munson?" A muted confirmation seemed to be enough and Eddie sat back up, trying to fix his hair which now looked like a bird's nest.

Dustin blinked at them, surprised. "Wait, Steve. You...don't have one?"

"One what?" He wasn't really paying attention, trying to untangle Eddie's rings that got stuck in his curls. This man needed a constant supervision and Steve was the right man for the job.

"A song. For you and Eddie?" Dustin tried again, eyes shifting between them as if he expected it to be some kind of a joke. "Come on, isn't that like a classic relationship thing?"

Steve's ears went slightly pink. "Um, no. I don't think I've ever had one. But I think it's really cool and you and Suzie have something like that, don't let those other shitheads ruin it for you." His smile was genuine and comforting, but Dustin's mind was already racing.

He turned his focus to Eddie, frowning. "Really, Eddie? All that musical knowledge and not a single song for the two of you?"

Eddie hugged the pillow that had nearly cost him his life seconds ago and grabbed a strand of his hair, pulling it in front of his face. "I don't...I don't think it ever came up?" he says, eyes darting to Steve. "Why didn't you say that was what you wanted, Stevie?"

Steve just shrugged, the pink hue returning. "Um. I always thought it came up naturally? Like. When you get your first kiss during a song or something, then it's your song?"

"Well, yeah, it can be like that, I guess," Eddie admitted, frowning. "But I don't think there are any rules to it. And if there are, screw them. You're gonna get that song, baby, no matter what. Time for some research." He slapped his thighs and suddenly jumped up, rushing from the door. By the sounds from the next room, Eddie was rummaging through his entire musical collection.

Steve stared at Dustin with furrowed brows. "What...has just happened?"

Dustin rolled his eyes. "It's called communicating your wants and needs, Steve."

From that moment on, Eddie started something that could only be called a quest. He was completely serious about fulfilling this single wish and while he normally played his music at obnoxious volumes, he ended up digging up his walkman and listening to tens of tapes, scribbling his notebook and whenever Steve approached him, Eddie would stop the track and shoo him away. Steve was growing concerned with the amount of time Eddie was spending on...well...his wish. He tried to backtrack, told Eddie that it wasn't a big deal, it didn't really matter that they didn't have their song, but Eddie always cut that crap short. "Steve. If I can do this one single thing for you, why the hell wouldn't I? Let me handle it. If I have a candidate, you will be the first one to know, okay?"

And so Steve waited. It took weeks and he was slowly getting worried that he set Eddie up for a failure, because while they met here and there in their musical taste, it wasn't exactly compatible or anywhere near the love song territory. So when Eddie finally called him over one evening, just after the holidays, he was equally excited and terrified.

"So," Eddie started, clearing his throat. "I just want to let you know that I tried to take everything into consideration. Our styles. Suitable lyrics. I went through a ton of songs, and trust me, there are tons that feel like they are about us, but I was...I was trying to find something that would represent how I see you. And I think...I think I finally found it, but it's just a suggestion. If you don't like it, we can drop it."

Steve recognized the album before Eddie could continue, it was one of the newer ones that Eddie picked up and he had to chuckle, more in amusement than disappointment. "Slaughter?" he snorted and pointed at the band name. "Really, Munson? I mean, sure, sounds about right for what we went through-"

"Will you just - can you please shut that pretty mouth of yours and listen to it?!" It could have sounded annoyed, except not really, because Eddie was never mad about Steve's music preferences (or lack of them). Only then did he notice that Eddie looked genuinely nervous, his eyes were everywhere but on Steve and he was chewing his lip with enough force to make it red and swollen. He was wringing his hands and pacing in the narrow space of their room, back and forward, only squeezing two steps in before spinning around on his heel. Ozzy gave a quiet mrrrow and rubbed against his ankle, almost making Eddie trip. After the stream of creative insults against the poor (but definitely not sorry) creature ended, Eddie sighed and picked the now very content cat up, rubbing his chin. "Seriously, Stevie. It's not a joke, I swear, I just...when I heard it, I immediately thought of you, you know? I mean, it says Lady instead of...I don't know, Stevie, but I guess that would be too specific and it's not like we're the target audience, I guess. I can sing that line for you though. If that bothers you. So just try it, please. If you don't like it, I will never bring it up again." He finally looked at Steve and how could he refuse those beautiful dark eyes?

Steve felt the involuntary rise of the corners of his mouth, something that Eddie brought into his life. Dustin was always making fun of Steve grinning like an idiot in the presence of their dungeon master, but Eddie liked it, often pinching his cheeks and peppering kisses over his forehead until he turned Steve's chronic frown upside down ("but with less bats," he always added and that was a guaranteed chuckle right there). So if Eddie liked him smiling, Henderson could bite Suzie's...computer. Crossing the short distance between them, he stroked Ozzy's ears and kissed Eddie on the lips, short and sweet. "Of course, Eddie. Even if it's not the one, I always appreciate you broadening my music horizons," he remarked with a grin.

"Oh, you don't." Eddie's shoulders finally relaxed and he laid Ozzy on the bed, petting him in place of an apology. "Sit down with me, yeah? Before the majestic feline decides to maul me for my insolence." With that, he leaned over to the cassette player and hit play.

Okay, so the initial guitar wail may have freaked him out a little. Eddie didn't do a low or even a medium volume. He flinched and his hand on Ozzy's back twitched, but then Eddie's fingers were over his and... Hm. The intro isn't that bad. Not romantic, but nothing scream-y or too heavy. Actually, the melody wasn't bad at all. Steve gave Eddie an encouraging smile and the marvelled at the returned grin.

And then the singing started. A bit husky, yet still melodic, but that didn't matter because all he could focus on were the lyrics.

I've been livin' in this lonely world

Wishin' I could find someone to love

Hopin' someone would come from above

Change my life

Steve's breath hitched. That hit too close to home. Way too close. His fingers started trembling, but Eddie's hand was there, warm, large and with callouses felt so good on his skin.

Then I noticed you there

You were my angel sent from my despair

I know that you are the lady who cares

Eddie's grin became more muted now, a bit unsure as he mouthed Stevie over the lyrics, but Steve tightened his grip on the other man's hand. Ozzy made a chirp of disappointment and left the bed for something more fun because the back scratches were becoming infrequent, but Steve didn't even notice.

I want to spend my life with you

With you

He felt like he might cry. His eyes burned a bit and oh, he got it now, why Eddie would think of him and why he could only think of Eddie with this song. Those long fingers were caressing his knuckles as if he was the most precious piece of fine art he'd ever seen and there was so much fondness in Eddie's eyes, those stubborn wrinkles around them showing as he kept smiling and Steve loved him so much he didn't know how to cope. He redirected his straying focus back to the lyrics because Eddie wanted him to hear them. Eddie picked this song for them, for him.

I think of all of those sleepless nights

To survive

It's like the earth was standing still

You know I hardly had the will

A bitten off sob escaped Steve's throat. He was used to hiding his soft side from everyone, but never from Eddie because he never made fun of him, never judged. Eddie might have chuckled to himself when he noticed Steve's glassy eyes and uneven breathing during romantic movies, but he always pulled Steve closer, arm around his shoulders, burying his face in that luscious hair and never commenting on the dampness on his t-shirt. Steve still couldn't understand how or why, but he had learned - with Eddie's stubborn support - that he was not only loved, but loved for exactly who he was.

Then I noticed you there

You were my angel sent from my despair

I know that you are the lady who cares

I want to spend my life with you

I want to spend my life with you, baby

My lady

You're true

He wasn't exactly crying, well, not sobbing, but there were a few rogue tears and Eddie just moved closer, pulled Steve against him and began stroking his hair, all while gently swaying to the music. Steve was so, so thankful that Eddie understood, that he didn't panic or immediately halt everything because something made him cry. Perhaps that was the definition of true love, to be known and still loved, to enjoy the nearness and choose the lazy domestic mornings and slight annoyances over temporary butterflies.

I want to spend my life with you

I wanna spend my life with you

Only with you baby

I want to spend my life with you

You know you're my little angel

I want to spend my life with you

Okay, that was it. He couldn't just wait for the song to finish, not now and certainly not with Eddie right next to him. Steve tackled his boyfriend onto the bed and Eddie produced an undignified squeak when Steve spun them around, burying Eddie's upper body in their mountain of pillows. He only had a second to appreciate Eddie's delighted bark of laughter before kissing him silly, not caring for once that his tears were visible and dripping down onto Eddie's face. He would have loved to be a bit more refined in his technique, but he was (in Dustin's words) an emotional mess, so enthusiastic and wild it was. Not that the rest of the lyrics were helping in regaining of composure.

Oh don't you knowI want to spend

All of my life with you babe

'Cause you gave me all your lovin'

And baby I know it's true

'Cause you're the only one for me

Baby I'm the one for you

The song was becoming quieter and he could feel Eddie's hand fumbling on the player and pressing stop. Then it returned to his hair and Steve might have forgotten to breathe, but it was becoming obvious that he wasn't getting out of talking that easily. Eddie's hungry kisses were slowing down, becoming gentler and finally turning into little pecks. He managed to grab Steve's jaw and take a shaky breath. "Holy shit, big boy," he laughed and stroked the moles on his boyfriend's throat. "I gather that's a Yes, I like it?" he whispered, still grinning.

Steve wiped his eyes and leaned his forehead against Eddie's. "As if you couldn't tell. Yeah. Yeah, I liked it. A lot. I think...I think it's the one, Eddie. If you're okay with it."

Eddie pumped his fist in the air victoriously. "More than okay. I guess I'm just relieved it wasn't a complete miss, I hadn't been that nervous since I was a teenager. I mean, I wish this song existed when we got together, it would have been a much easier confession and it would still hit all the points." He stilled when he heard a sharp intake of breath. "I hope you're okay with all of them...?"

"Shit, Eddie," whispered Steve and buried his face into Eddie's t-shirt. "I loved it. All of them, but that...chorus, I think, that one the most." He wondered how to say the million things swirling in his mind, how this song managed to silence the "bullshit" he had always feared, how he'd never thought anyone would ever say these words to him. To be someone's absolute choice.

To his surprise, Eddie just laughed and hugged him like an octopus, hands, feet, all crushing Steve in a long-limbed hug. "Ah, yes. You seemed surprised at that, so let me ask you. Do you really doubt I want to spend all the years I have left and then some with you, Steve? When we live together," he nudged Steve's side gently, making him squirm, "we have six kids and a cat," another nudge, another squirm, "we're in the middle of saving for that dream road trip of yours and, most importantly, you make the best goddamn pancakes in Hawkins? Jesus, Stevie. I'm not giving you up, even when you're much older, bald and you spend all your day bitching about Max and Lucas's kids skating on our sidewalk. You're stuck with me, so deal with it."

Steve smiled through his tears and leaned down into that tight, crushing embrace. "Yeah. That works for me. I do want that, Eddie, all of that. And..."

Eddie relaxed his arms and tilted his head at Steve's hopeful tone. "And, Stevie?"

Steve's breath tickled Eddie's ear as he whispered: "You said you had more songs that reminded you of us. I'd like to hear them."

He laughed then, free and wild, as if that was it, that was the ultimate highlight of his life. Nothing better would ever happen, except that was a lie, wasn't it? In a life with Steve Harrington, this was just the beginning. "Are you asking me for a mixtape, Steve? After four years?"

"Mhm." Steve's lips moved to Eddie's throat and well, it looked like a turtleneck for tomorrow and the day after that. He found it difficult to remember why it was a bad thing. "I can offer those beloved pancakes of yours as a compensation."

Eddie moved his leg to the side and threw off Steve's balance, flipping them around. "Oh baby, you've got yourself a deal" he grinned before gently nudging Ozzy out of the door and closing it, because some things were definitely not meant for cat eyes and ears.

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No beta, we die like all the characters whose names begin with B, so sorry. I don’t have a beta reader and I’m fully aware there are some gramatical errors, if anyone is willing to put up with a non-native speaker raging over all the “perfect” tenses, I will love you forever.

Oh yeah. The song is Spend My Life by Slaughter.

#steddie #steve x eddie #steddie fanfiction #steve harrington #eddie munson #dustin henderson #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #strangerthingsfanfiction #fluff #steddie brainrot #songfic #ish

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