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messedupfan · 5 months

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Chapter 8

Summary: Set a few weeks after chapter 7. Without the work of renovating the house, Wanda and Y/n don't have much of a reason to see each other as much. So, Wanda creates a reason.

A/N: Don't get mad at me for the ending. Enjoyyyyy!!!!

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“Come on, just close your eyes and trust me,” Wanda says, you look at her with uncertain eyes because you have played this game before and never has it been a good idea. Granted, you played it with friends in high school and friends from work, Jean and Kate definitely are not to be trusted. But seeing as there can’t possibly be something bad that she could feed you, you shut your eyes and hold your mouth open. But as you feel her get closer you shut your mouth out of instinct. “Stop! Open up!” she says as she shoves your shoulder. You open your mouth and try your best to keep it open until you are told to close and taste. You try to open your eyes again but Wanda doesn’t let you. “How many times do I have to tell you that you need to experience the flavor with your eyes closed?”

“I’m sorry, I forgot we were in a rat movie,” you say with a full mouth.

“It’s a real thing, come on. Experience the food with your eyes closed,” she tells you and you start to chew and focus on texture and flavor. There is a bit more heightened experience but not much difference. “You’re chewing too fast! You need to slow down. Really let every bite release the flavors.” You shake your head and try really hard not to laugh as you slow your jaw down. You had no idea that Wanda was so serious about food.

This was the first time that you've been able to see her since completing the wall. You and Wanda texted back and forth often and tried to make plans to see each other but they kept falling through. Until Billy and Tommy asked when they'd get to see their friend again. And since Wanda wanted to meet your ex-wife after hearing so many stories about her, she manipulated the plans so that you'd invite her. Jean was more than happy to be invited and she even asked to bring her wife along. Which inspired Wanda to have an impromptu party. She invited her friends Carol and Agatha, as well as her twin and his family, and allowed you to bring any guest that you would like. She wasn't specific, but she was kind of hoping she'd get a formal introduction to the unofficial girlfriend. But you only brought yourself and beverages for adults and for the children.

The week that Rachel went back to Jean's house, was the week you and Daisy had a date every night. You were starting to warm up to the idea of seeing her as a romantic partner. Being around her finally got you to stop thinking so much about the situation and start living in the moment with her. That being said, you still weren't ready to introduce her to anyone as your girlfriend. Especially not Jean, who still wasn't sure about the whole thing. Part of her is just hoping it's a short phase for you before you find the person that you're meant to be with.

“Baba!” Rachel runs into the kitchen and hides behind your legs. “Tommy is it! You have to protect me!” She screams and you open your eyes and swallow the rest of the food in your mouth.

“Wanda, thank you so much for inviting us,” Jean says as she joins everyone in the kitchen to throw away some of the empty cans and bottles she collected on her way in. “It's been so wonderful meeting you and gosh I don't know how you're doing it raising two boys on your own half the time,” she compliments. “I tell you, if it weren't for Y/n and Anna, I don't know what I'd do.”

Wanda smiles and thanks her for the praises. “I really have a lot more help from friends and family than it looks. My mom would have been here but she's been helping out so much I thought she deserved a break from kids,” Jean laughs and you smile at the light joke as you hug Rachel who is still begging for sanctuary. Tommy is running around the house and stops when he spots Rachel in the kitchen but as he is about to run through Wanda stops him. “Excuse me mister, what did I say about the kitchen?”

“But Rachel is-” his reasoning is cut off by Wanda's disciplinary glare. “No playing in the kitchen,” he pouts.

“Since you tried to break that rule, you have to give Rachel a ten second head start,” Wanda says. Tommy sucks his teeth and tries to make an argument but he follows the penalty that his mom has set.

“Okay Rach, this is the only time you can do this,” you say as you hold her to you. “Ms. Wanda and I are cooking here. You can't keep hiding in here alright?”

“Okay, but you always say that no matter what you'll always protect me,” she reminds you.

Jean makes a face, “That's true, you always say that.”

“Yeah well, so do you,” you remind Jean. “If you need to be protected while I'm still cooking, mommy will do it. Okay, kiddo?” Rachel nods and squeezes you in a tight hug before she runs off. The three adults laugh once Tommy has run off to look for the other kids to tag. “Thank you for that,” you tell Wanda. She waves it off as she turns back to the stove.

“We've got patties, dogs, and sausages!” Pietro says as he walks into the house with a tray of cooked meats. He sets them down on an empty space on the counter and you move over to start getting plates ready for the kids. “Hey, so who's that girl that's here with Carol?” Pietro asks as he pops a soda bottle open.

“That's Val,” Wanda says as she taste tests the sauce she's preparing. She has you try some as well as she continues talking to her brother. “Why? Is she hitting on your wife?” Wanda teases.

“No, she's hitting on Jean’s,” he says as he points to the open back door and windows of the two women laughing. Jean looks over a little tense at first but quickly relaxes with a roll of her eyes.

“You're an ass,” she says as she takes the hotdog bun from your hand and tosses it at him at the worst possible moment. Luna witnesses the interaction and runs into the kitchen with wide gleeful eyes.

“Are we having a food fight?” She asks excitedly as she picks up the bun from the floor and gears up to toss it.

“Not so fast,” Pietro says as he takes the bun from his daughter. He picks her up in his arms and takes her out of the kitchen.

“And you claim that I'm the bad influence,” you say to Jean.

“You do not want to go there,” Jean retorts playfully.

“Oh?” Wanda shows her interest and you start to panic, taking back what you said and trying to get Jean to keep her from spilling secrets of your past. “No, no, I think I want to hear about this.”

“Trust me, I'll fill you in on all of the details later. Right now it looks like my daughter is trying to kill one of your boys. I'll be right back,” she says as she walks to the backyard.

“I did not think this day through,” Wanda says with an amused grin.

You shrug, “I think it's going pretty well all things considered. This was a really fun idea. Thank you for including me and my family.”

Wanda knows that she shouldn't pry but the curiosity is starting to get the best of her. “I'm actually surprised that you didn't invite more people,” she brings up casually. You shrug and mention that your other friends had prior engagements that they couldn't cancel and she nods in understanding. “Does that include Daisy?”

You try to read Wanda’s thoughts through her expression but she appears genuinely curious. “Technically, no, but um… There's a three month minimum rule with Rachel. So, I can't really have her around something like this for a few more months. If we make it that far, that is,” you explain carefully. Wanda doesn't pry further as the food is ready to serve and she leaves to inform everyone to grab a plate. From there, a line forms of children and adults grabbing plates of food they want and adding side dishes onto the plates. With the lack of space for everyone at either table, the kids call dibs on the table outside and the adults stay inside. You and Wanda end up sitting next to each other once everyone else has taken their places.

Jean and Anns sit across from you and beside them are Pietro and his wife, a couple they are familiar with because of having invited them to company events in the past. At the end of the table is Agatha, who came without a date but brought her son Nicholas. Next to Wanda is Carol and her date Valkyrie, when you asked about the girl she went home with some time ago she explained that she is more of a cool aunt than she is a step-mom and left it at that.

There isn't a moment of silence during the meal. “You're not one to talk, you once streaked naked at a party in high school on a dare!” Jean says after you acted disturbed by Pietro's skinny dipping story. He said he was trying to impress a girl on a date by breaking into a community pool late one night. They ended up getting chased out by pool security and he had to run to his car naked and clutching his clothes to his body. Wanda looks at you, shocked by the information bomb that Jean just dropped.

“If I remember correctly, that only happened because Scott Summers thought it would be funny to steal ehem, my clothes and I was chasing after him to get them back,” you remind her and she isn't laughing as hard anymore. She closes her mouth tightly as she remembers the complete story. The two of you had snuck into a bedroom at a party to be horny teenagers and got caught by her ex-boyfriend. He never liked you and always thought you were trying to get between him and Jean. He wasn't wrong, but it didn't give him the right to make you run completely naked in front of most of the senior and junior class.

“That's right,” she mutters into the lip of her beer bottle. Anna scrunches her face and shakes her head to not think about her wife with someone else. “Okay, wait, what about that time you-”

“How about we don't keep talking about the past,” you try to cut her off but Wanda doesn’t let it go that easy.

“No, no, I want to hear this,” she says as she pats your stomach as the two of you have somehow made your way closer to each other. Your hand is tapping lightly on the back of her chair. You sigh and use your free hand to cover your face. “I like hearing about this reckless side of you.” She leans on your shoulder and makes eye contact with you, her pleading green eyes cause you to sigh and give Jean the go ahead to tell one of the most embarrassing stories of your life.

“So Val, how did you and Carol meet?” Anna asks conversationally, moving the conversation to get to know others better. She's heard all of the stories that you share with Jean. She had to accept a long time ago that there was a bond there that was never going to be broken. She liked that Jean has a good past relationship history since the person she dated before had an ex that stalked Anna and threatened her to stay away. That person wasn't worth the stress. But sometimes she wishes the two of you didn't have so much history.

“Um, well, we've been in the Air Force together for a long time and speaking for myself, I've always had a bit of a crush.” Carol smiles and confirms that she always felt the same way. “I recently left because I’ve decided to go into politics so I asked her out. I mean, I would have before but I never wanted to risk complicating things with work and when people's lives are on the line it's always best to not be distracted.”

“Oh wow, I had no idea,” Wanda says, just as touched by the story as everyone else. Carol isn't one to talk about those kinds of details. But something tells her that this relationship is going to be the one that sticks for her friend.

Carol smiles at Wanda, “Well now you do. Can we move on, I don't like the moon eyes you guys keep giving us.” Everyone laughs at the mention of her discomfort.

“What about the two of you? How long have you guys been together?” Val asks and Pietro and Crystalia assume the question is for them and Pietro leaves it to his wife to answer because he isn't quite sure himself. There were a few times that they were on and off until he was done messing around and asked her to marry him. But he has no clue what that number could be. “Oh, wow that's a long time,” Val reacts to the number that Crystalia provided with wide eyes. “Congratulations you two, but I'm sorry I don't mean to make this awkward. I was actually asking about Wanda and Y/n.”

The table goes quiet as people look at each other with smiles and Val is confused by the lack of response. “Honey, they're just friends,” Agatha answers.

“Why'd you say that like it's not true?” Wanda rolls her eyes at her friend and Agatha shakes her head. “We are just friends. We actually met at the beginning of the summer,” Wanda explains to Val as she looks at you for a moment, considering whether or not she wants to tell everyone how that exactly happened. She's not sure if you've ever mentioned it yourself.

“Yeah, it's actually my fault,” Pietro starts. “I needed an extra set of hands for a renovation here that got shut down, thankfully before it was too late, and Y/n is one of my best workers and friends. So,” he shrugs and gestures towards you and Wanda as if that tells the rest of the story. He has no idea how little he knows about the story you share with Wanda. You open your mouth to correct him but a scream from the kids table draws the attention of the adults and everyone is rushing to find out what is going on.

Later that night, after everyone has left, you stay to help Wanda clean up. Jean and Anna were the first to go because Rachel was trying to show off to the other kids how fast she could spin without getting sick and it turned out that she could spin pretty fast. Unfortunately, she got very sick. Jean didn’t leave before telling you and Wanda just how much she loves Wanda. Val whispered something in Carol’s ear shortly after and the two quickly said their goodbyes. Nicholas and Tommy got into it really bad because Tommy claimed Nicholas was cheating since he kept winning the game they were playing. Tommy doesn't take losses well and so Agatha thought it best to take her son home. Wanda apologized profusely and Agatha accepted and promised to see her soon. Wanda scolded Tommy for his behavior and told him that she didn't raise him that way, to which he promptly reminded her that his dad is raising him that way. She wanted to ground him or punish him but, against her better judgment, she didn't. Pietro was going to stay to help with the clean up and maybe hangout a bit longer but Wanda had told Crystalia earlier in the day that she was happy to take care of Luna for the night and her sister-in-law was grateful for the opportunity to have a night alone with her husband. Their attempts to try for another child has been delayed because of the child they currently have with her nightmares and need for sleeping in her parents bed. So, once the opportunity presented itself, Pietro and his wife were out of the house.

Now, Luna and Billy are playing with legos in the living room and Tommy is playing a video game by himself in his room to avoid any more arguments for the day. Wanda doesn’t know what to do in terms of how to parent her son when it comes to things that she and Vision have vastly different opinions on. He wants strong tough boys that never lose. If she’s honest with herself, she can see that Vision wants to raise the next generation of toxic masculinity. Something she swore to herself when she found out she was having boys that she would never allow. But there is only so much she can do not only as a mother but as a co-parent. She doesn’t know how to influence these boys when they have less respect for her than they do for their father. At least Tommy lacks respect for her. She doesn’t mean to lump Billy in with his brother but she often forgets that they are complete opposites from each other since he is often forced to take part in the same activities as Tommy.

“Penny for your thoughts,” you ask as you notice Wanda has been scrubbing the same spot on a dish for longer than necessary.

Wanda blinks a couple of times before rinsing the dish and handing it to you to dry. “I’m just worried about Tommy. It seems like lately he’s been getting into more trouble. He's been picking fights with his friends and especially his brother. I just, I don't know how to teach him to be kind when his father is doing the exact opposite. I feel like I'm failing him.” She says as she starts scrubbing another dish.

You listen to her as you wipe down the wet plate. You wish that you knew how to help but it's clear that your situation is completely different. You and Jean have always been on the same page when it came to raising Rachel. That's not something that you've ever had to deal with. Plus Rachel is a girl, there are different rules and different fears when it comes to raising a girl as opposed to a boy.

“And it's not like I wish I was still married to Vision, it's that I wish co-parenting wasn't so difficult with him. We used to communicate and make decisions together but after,” she pauses and looks down into the sink. Does she want to get into the details of the end of her marriage with you? Will you judge her the way her ex-husband does? Will this make you think less of her?

“Wanda,” you call her attention and shut the faucet off. “You don't have to keep talking if you don't want to,” you remind her. She nods with her eyes closed.

“I know, I know,” she faces you but when she opens her eye, she looks past you. “It’s not that I don't want to. It's that I'm scared to.*

You try to get her to make eye contact but it doesn't work out, the second your eyes meet she casts her to the floor. “Why are you scared?” You ask softly.

Tears sting and threaten to fall out of Wanda's eyes and she's doing everything to hold them back. This isn't how she wanted to end the night. You decide that whatever is haunting her doesn't need to be brought to light right now and that you are going to help get her mind off of it. You pull your phone out of your pocket and play the first song to appear.

“Dance with me?” You ask as you hold your hand out to her. Wanda looks at you with red puffy eyes and you offer her a kind smile. As the song continues to play, Wanda falls against your chest with her arms around your torso. You wrap your arms around her and sway her around the kitchen. The song changes and it's another slow one that keeps the two of you together. The next song however requires a little bit more energy and you take that as an opportunity to get Wanda to smile.

You step out of her arms and start to dance a little goofy. You get a small smile to break on her face so you grab her hands and start to move them so that she can match your energy. It starts to work by the start of another upbeat song and you even get her to laugh so loud that Billy and Luna come running in because they wanted to be part of the fun. You let go of Wanda so that you can teach Luna how to dance and Wanda happily starts to dance with her son. With Luna on your feet and Wanda leading Billy, the four of you are having a lot of fun being silly. Wanda mouths a thank you and you wink in response. “I wanna dance with Auntie Wanda now!” Luna cheers as she steps off of your feet and you take the opportunity to teach Billy a few moves that you always thought were cool. He fellows along pretty well and you’re impressed.

“You gotta get this kid in some dance classes, Wanda. Look at him move!” You clap as you cheer him on which encourages him to feel free enough to make his own moves. Wanda is shocked to see her shy and timid son so happy and confident. She never thought of her boy enjoying a more performative activity but now she might consider looking into a class for him if this is something he'd want to spend time on.

You're still lingering around the house after the place is clean and Wanda is putting the kids to bed. You walk around the living room with the Sokovian cocktail in your hand as you look at the pictures once again. Trying to read if the expressions are truly happy. A game that you and Jean came up with as kids. It became less fun in the years of your marriage when there were fake happy photos hanging around the house. The two of you have since had those images cropped down to just Rachel because the memory of that misery doesn't need to live on. Looking at Wanda’s family portraits, you can see the decline in happiness. It was clear that they were extremely happy and in love in the first few years of their marriage. Then in the middle you can see a bit of exhaustion in the adults eyes but still some happiness from Wanda. At a certain point, Vision looks like a shell and Wanda appears to be barely hanging in there. But, you can only assume from an image.

“I think I need to get those photoshopped,” Wanda says as she notices you staring at the pictures. “But then again, it doesn't change the past. A part of me doesn't want to remove it from my life. Is that weird?” She takes the glass from your hand and takes a sip.

You shake your head, “No, it’s not weird. It’s not just memories of only your life. It’s Tommy’s and it’s Billy’s and you want them to have some normalcy. I think if at any point it bothers them to see all of it then put it all in storage and start over with them. But I guess until then, leave it.” Wanda thanks you for the suggestion and hands you the glass back.

“Are you avoiding something?” Wanda asks as the two of you make your way to the sofa. You shake your head with a confused expression to her question. “Well, it’s just, you’re still here. I’ve seen you ignore several calls and sigh at messages. Come on, we’re friends. Something is clearly up.” You hadn’t realized that she was paying that much attention to you. It’s a little flattering if you’re honest with yourself.

You look at the glass in your hand and then look at her. “Daisy wants to…” you drag out, a little uncomfortable with saying the words but you have to remind yourself that you are an adult and clearly you’ve done the act plenty of times before. “She wants to,” you clear your throat and Wanda’s eyes light up with amusement at your struggle to complete the sentence. “She wants to consummate the relationship,” you finally let out awkwardly. Wanda has to hide her smile behind her hand and apologizes when she lets a light laugh out. “Come on, it’s weird for me to talk about. I’ve never had to talk about this stuff before.”

“Really? Never?” She asks, surprised.

“I married my childhood best friend. I didn’t have to talk to her about sex because she was the person I was doing it with,” you remind her.

“Yeah but, you have other friends. I mean like Steve and, as much as I don’t want to think about it, my brother. You’ve never had to talk about this stuff with the other people you’ve dated?” She stands up and walks over to the bar cart to pour herself a drink because she knew that she was going to need one.

“I hate that I’m going to admit this but, I’ve only ever slept with one person,” you state and chug the rest of the cocktail. “I need to be drunk for this conversation,” you admit as you join her at the bar cart. Wanda can’t help the loud laughter that escapes her this time and all you can do is shake your head and pour yourself another drink.

“Okay, I’m sorry. It’s really not that funny,” she says as she covers her mouth again with her hand. A habit of her’s that you’ve picked up on. “Come on, sit with me,” she takes you back to the couch with a full wine glass in her hand. “What is stopping you from having sex with this girl? I thought you liked her.” Wanda asks with her free hand on your wrist, as if keeping you from running away.

“I don’t know, I just… I mean, I haven’t felt that spark you know? Like we’ve made out a couple of times but I'm not really into it and it has nothing to do with her. She’s pretty, funny, smart, and kind. It's all me. I haven't wanted to have sex in years. I don’t know if something is wrong with me or if I haven’t found the right person or what.”

Wanda nods as she listens to you intently, “I have a question and it might make you uncomfortable. I’m sorry about that.” She gives you a second to prepare yourself and you nod at her when you’re ready to hear it. “Is Jean the only person you’ve ever wanted to have sex with?”

You begin to laugh awkwardly as you take a drink as you process how to answer that. “Uh, well the short answer is no. Long answer is a little more complicated than that.”

“Okay, care to elaborate?” her eyes are a little squinted as she waits for your answer.

“I uh,” you let out a laugh, “Well I’ve been attracted to people, which is why I’ve gone on dates in the past. Clearly. But uh, when the fantasy becomes a reality. I fail to ehem,” you clear your throat before admitting something that no one ever has the guts to admit. “I fail to perform,” you mutter out quickly, hoping she didn’t catch it at all and also hoping that she did so that you don’t have to say it again.

Wanda drinks from her wine, getting a little impatient with your behavior. “Y/n, come on. We’re both adults and we’re both parents who are well aware that our children weren’t dropped off by a stork.”

You bulge your eyes out at her comment. “What?” you gasp as if it’s a total surprise. It makes her laugh and you join. “Okay, I’m sorry. I know it shouldn’t be this awkward. But it’s you, and I’m talking about some other woman.” You admit with the slightest slur in your speech.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Wanda swirls her wine glass to bring more oxygen to the beverage. “I’ve kind of been seeing a woman myself,” she admits once the glass is close to her lips. This information does anything but make you feel better. In fact, you feel a little hurt by the news. But it shouldn’t hurt you, as you pointed out you’re talking to her about another woman.

“Oh that’s nice,” you try to say enthusiastically but it falls flat. “How’s that going for you?”

Wanda shrugs, “It’s been alright. I don’t think it’s going to go anywhere serious.” Wanda’s cheeks begin to flush and you aren’t sure if it’s the alcohol or her emotional response. “We haven’t been on a real date,” she gives you a look to see if you’ll pick up on what she means by that but it takes you sometime to get there.

“Oh,” you say once you’ve caught on. “Good for you,” you give her a tiny applause with the glass still in one hand making you tap your fingers together more than anything else. Wanda closes her eyes and covers them with her hand and shakes her head.

“Stop, I know that it’s bad,” she says with a smile. “Mom’s don’t have sex,” she scrunches her nose and it makes you laugh.

“Wow, so are you telling me that my little sister is a stork baby?” You say jokingly and she replies back with a loud yes as she moves around on the couch. “Come on, you’re human. As long as it doesn’t happen when the boys can catch you, I think you’re in the clear.”

Wanda nods and takes another sip of your wine. “You’re right. But I think I meant to say that Mom’s don’t have casual sex.”

You tip your head to her on that one, “I guess. But I think it just goes back to not having a revolving door of um… people when your kids are around so they don’t get confused.” Wanda accepts that and thanks you for not judging her and not allowing her to judge herself. “Anytime, my friend,” you raise your glass to clink against hers and she accepts the cheers.

A couple more drinks and the conversation moves on from there. From talking about the kids to learning more about each other. Then it hits the point of the conversation when Wanda feels ready to talk to you about the end of her marriage. She talks about her miscarriage that came at the worst time possible in her life. She doesn’t hide a single detail and you listen intently, understanding Wanda a bit better. Even understanding Vision and why he feels he should have more parental control. It's not right, even though she was consumed by her grief it doesn't make her less of a mother. She has worked her way back to being capable of taking care of her kids on her own. It might've taken her a few years to get to this point, but she was never completely absent from her children. At least, not by the sounds of it.

Now you hold her in your arms on the couch, the two of you are quiet as you let the information sink in. You rub soothing circles on her back with your hand. Wanda is snuggling into your chest with her eyes closed. As her breathing slows, you start to wonder if she's asleep. “Wanda,” you whisper to check if she's awake. She doesn't respond so you carefully scoop her up in your arms and carry her up the stairs in a bridal style. As you lay her on her bed you realize she isn't asleep after all.

While you're about to step back, Wanda grabs the collar of your shirt and pulls you down making your lips meet hers. You're too stunned to move at first, not sure if you're dreaming this or if your mind is playing tricks on you. Then she pulls away and whispers, “Thank you for being so kind to me.” This time when she kisses you, curiosity takes the best of you and you make the mistake of responding to the kiss.

Feelings you haven't felt in a long time or even before have you holding Wanda closer to you. There isn't a kiss in the world that can compete with hers. You get lost in her lips until she tries to deepen the kiss. “Wanda,” you say as you try to pull away.

She ignores you and starts to play with the buttons on your shirt and you put your hand on her wrist to stop her. “Please just one night. It won't hurt us. Stay with me tonight.” She starts to beg and you shake your head and step away from the bed.

“Wanda, you're not thinking clearly,” you state as you put the buttons back through the holes. She sits up and tries to grab one of your hands to pull you back to her. “I'm um, I'm drunk. You're drunk. We can't do this.” You state nervously. It was taking everything in you to turn this opportunity down because her kisses are electric. Her lips have awakened something in you that you were pretty sure was dead. You could only imagine what going all of the way would do for you. But now is not the time. “Especially not with the kids here,” you say to give yourself another reason not to go through with this more than her. “And forget about our friendship, our kids are friends. We don't want to make things complicated for them right?”

Wanda runs her fingers through her hair and moves one side to the other as she bites her bottom lip. She nods at your words. “You're right, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have tried to… and I mean you have that twenty-something. You're a twenty-something.”

You sigh and tilt your head to the side as you blink more than usual, “Come on, Wanda don't make this about age. It's about… well, you're not looking for a relationship. Which is okay, you deserve this time to discover yourself as a person. I had my time.” You gulp as you try to stop the words from coming out of your mouth but with the way she is looking at you and the alcohol clouding your judgment it just comes out. “I can't do this tonight because I like you. A lot actually. And I just,” you sigh and shake your head and rub your nose with the side of your finger. “It wouldn't just be one time for me.”

Wanda nods and falls back on the bed. “I'm sorry,” she says as she gets comfortable on her bed. “You're right,” she continues to face away from you. “I'll um see you in the morning. Uh,” she clears her throat to hide the hurt in her voice. But you've heard it enough times to know that she's about to cry. You close your eyes out of guilt but you can't take back what you said. “Goodnight,” she says as she tries to hide her tears from the rejection. She wasn't lying and she knows that she will be grateful in the morning because you stopped this but right now it just sucks.

“Goodnight, Wanda,” you say as you walk out of the room. You shut off the lights and close her door before stumbling over to the guest room.

Chapter 9

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queercoshon · 5 months

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I wrote another thing! This one has been in the works for a while. It is also posted on my deviantart. It's a little bit softer than the usual content I post. As always, please feel free to leave suggestions/ideas

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When I first moved into your spare room, I was definitely on the smaller side. Adult life had bulldozed me, and I learned quick meals and protein bars were the easiest way for me to eat. If I had to make something more complicated, chances are I would just forget to eat entirely.

You, on the other hand, loved to cook, bake, and create different cocktails. Every overindulgence in the past few years showed on your body, curves cascading down your back and flaring at your hips, and your belly often hanging over the waistband of your pants.

You quickly picked up on my food habits, and were quite frankly appalled.

"How can you not love food? Every flavour, every texture? Food is art to me. Have you had good food before?"

I shrugged, because, no, not really. My experience with food thus far had been boxed pastas, cans of soups and chilis, whatever frozen meals were on sale, and various boxed snacks. Eating them didn't bring me a fraction of the joy you got just from talking about food.

Thus began your mission of making me fall in love with at least one dish.

You really could have stopped at the first dish. The leek and potato stew blew my mind. I had never had leeks and found potatoes flavourless mush. But somehow you managed to make such mundane ingredients into a symphonious dish, tastes layering over one another. I could not get enough. The warmth spread from my stomach to encompass my body, and in my cozy bliss I just kept eating, chasing the high of this delectable experience.

I had eaten so much my stomach didn't even slosh when I painstakenly got up from the table.

Your first success spurred you into overdrive. You sought different flavour profiles and combinations, testing to see which ones would make me melt. Most of them did.

Most days I was coming home to the scent of dinner leading me down the hall, with an underlying sweetness hinting at dessert.

You tried a wide range of cuisines. Pot pies, various proteins with rice and veggies, curries from all around the world, and so many different types of pasta. Desserts include cobblers, doughnuts, pies, cakes, and a variety of pastries. I could not believe how much flavour was in everything, and was desperate to get as much of it as possible. Every meal ended with me breathing shallowly, hand caressing my overburdened gut, and you with a satisfied smirk on your face.

With your increase in cooking came your increase in eating. Slowly your body started to billow outward, filling out all your clothes, finally forcing you to look at specialty stores to restock.

My weight gain was not so slow. My body was so used to running on minimal to average calories, it didn't know what to do with the sudden influx, now having to process at least twice what I used to eat in a day.

The first place it was noticable was my gut. It only took a week or two before I had a cute little pot belly. It would push open the buttons on my shirt, and cause issues when buttoning my pants. The rest of my body followed suit. My thighs and ass started to swell, my arms felt constricted in my t-shirts, and a double chin was quickly noticable. I barely noticed. I was so caught up in a whirlwind of culinary pleasure that I paid no mind to my tightening waistbands and my gut starting to peak out of my shirt.

Soon you started cooking breakfast, too. The table would be covered in food, from pancakes to bacon, hashbrowns to quiche. Each day there was something different, and each day I gorged until nearly comatose.

Eating like this every day rapidly changed my body, I had put on 100lbs in 11 months, from the first time you made that stew. I had upgraded my wardrobe 4 times, and was needing to again soon.

And then is was December. The month of overindulgence. Holiday parties every weekend. Potlucks, cocktail parties, hearty meals, sometimes multiple events in the same day.

This was the first time I truly appreciated food; the tastes, the textures, and the stories behind each dish. I tried everything, and then I tried everything again. Most nights I struggled to waddle from the car to my bed. On the rare occasions I wasn't fit to burst, you sat me down on the couch and made me try your creations for the next party. On those nights, I was bound to pass out in the living room, eyes glazed over, gut too stuffed to think about getting up.

Despite all the socializing and gatherings, Christmas day was quiet, just the two of us. I didn't want to fly across the country to see my few relatives, and you were going to do a late holiday dinner with your family at the end of January, when work slowed down for your parents.

I received two sets of pajamas that year. One from you, plaid pants and a red flannel top. It was a little big, but we both knew that wouldn't be the case for long. The other pair I got was from a childhood friend I hadn't seen in person in over 2 years. The pants were baby blue with snowflakes, and the tank top had a cheesy graphic and the phrase "Let it Snow!"

When you went to go work on the feast planned for the day, I tried the second pair of pajamas on. Despite being incredibly stretchy, I could barely get the pants past my thighs. My ass was hanging out the back, and the drawstrings were instantly lost in the waistband. The graphic on the shirt was horrendously distorted, and I could feel a breeze on the bottom of my belly. I was about to change back into the first pair of pjs when you called me for Christmas meal. My mind now only focused on one thing, I stopped what I was doing and lumbered to the table.

You called it Christmas Meal, because it was past noon, but well before dinner time. With the amount of food you made though, we could be there well into the night. There was the traditional fixings; turkey, stuffing, gravy, mashed potatoes, green beans, honey roasted carrots, sweet potato casserole, and dinner rolls, but you also added a baked ziti dish, homemade pizza rolls, and cottage pie. Bottles of wine, apple cider, and sparking water lined the middle of the table. There was enough food for 10 people, and we were just 2. I could smell desserts being baked to perfection in the other room.

"This looks amazing! I've never had anything like this. I'm sorry I couldn't help..."

You patted my stomach and laughed. "The only help I need is getting it all eaten. Load up and dig in!"

I piled my plate high with everything I could fit. It would take me at least 2 plates to try everything, probably 3 with the portion sizes I was taking. I looked over, and saw your plate faced the same overburdened fate as mine.

You ladled me a generous glass of mulled wine from the crock pot.

"Cheers!"

And then we fell into a frenzied silence, only the cacophony of two gluttons enjoying a sinfully indulgent feast, and the tv still playing Christmas special reruns in the other room made noise in our tiny apartment.

I still don't know how you did it, but every bite I took had me holding back a moan.

My family had attempted to make a turkey once in my life, and it resulted in a tasteless hunk of disappointment, the bird so dried out that the white meat was somehow pointy and sharp. The one you made was opposite to everything I expected. It was nearly falling apart in my mouth, the seasoning from the brine and rub made it to every bite. Different levels of flavours washed over me, and my eyes nearly rolled into the back of my head.

Every dish you made was like this. Some of them I had equally dismal expectations of, like the green beans, sweet potato casserole, mashed potatoes, and pizza rolls, all things my family had made sacrilege of once. Everything else I either hadn't had, or only had store bought. Even the best store bought ziti bake didn't come close to yours.

I was put into a trance. There was not a moment where I was still, constantly chewing, swallowing, and reaching for the next bite. Everything was washed down with copious amounts of wine and cider.

My shirt was pushed up by my rounding gut, bunched up under my chest by the end of the 3rd plate, my cheeks were warm, and every gurgle my belly let out just pushed me to eat more.

Your clothes had given up containing your belly. It sat naked on full display, hanging out of your defeated shirt, pushing your thighs apart as it sank further. You were absent-mindedly rubbing the crest of your gut as you shoved another role in your mouth. I poured the last of the 2nd bottle of wine in your glass, and popped open the 3rd to serve myself.

It wasn't until just after starting my 7th plate that I realised how overstuffed I was. It all hit me at once, the bottom of my belly itching as my skin stretched around my stomach swelling forward, my breathe shallow and pained, my lungs given no room to expand, pushing out a burp with every other gasp of air. I couldn't lean back without getting a stitch.

You were in a similar state. Hiccups jolting your body shaking out burps, your hands gingerly massaging your gut which was red and almost shiny.

I don't know how long we sat there, just rubbing our guts and moaning. There was still food left, but maybe enough for 1 averaged-sized meal for both of us. Everything else was crammed into our bellies.

Firmly drunk now, the sensation of rubbing my belly was sending sparks along all my nerves. Between that and riding the high of the first Christmas meal I had ever enjoyed, I was lost in my own little world of bliss.

A harsh timer bell going off in the kitchen jolted me out of my stupor, unleashing a string of burps and a new bout of hiccups. You groaned as you got up, supporting your back and belly like you were 9 months pregnant.

You looked at me with a wine-soaked grin.

"Ready for dessert?"

#queer feedism #feedism story #intox wg #soft feedism #stuffing literature #mutual stuffing #mutual gaining #stuffed fatty

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d0odlfez · 6 months

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Milo x Sweetheart Headcanons <3

these are gonna be some couple headcanons and some specific to their characters, anyways enjoy!! (btw it’s 5 in the morning where i am right now so sorry for any spelling mistakes)

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• Milo and Sweetheart both have IMPECCABLE fashion taste (as we all know) so both of them love thrifting clothes and turning them into incredibly stylish outfits then having mini fashion shows showing off their outfits to eachother

• Milo is half Italian (from Marie) and is fluent in it so he likes to confuse Sweetheart by speaking in Italian to them (Sweetheart 100% finds it attractive)

• Despite having very similar styles of clothing Milo and Sweethearts ideas on how they should decorate their house were VERY different like they didn’t have any proper arguments over it but they definitely had their differing opinions

• for example Milos more of a simplistic kind of guy whilst sweetheart wants a bunch of colour and plants everywhere

• Sweetheart owns many MANY plants and talks to them whilst they water them all. they also have names that they address each of them by along with their own personalitys

• Milo has multiple half older brothers from a previous relationship that his dad was in before he met Marie, and they all constantly tease Milo for being shorter and having a smaller wolf form. and when they tease him at family gatherings Sweetheart gets like noticeably mad but manages to keep their composure as much as possible but cloaks and scares them just to show them what for (they’re all secretly scared of sweetheart)

• Milo gets Sweetheart to paint his nails black for him because he doesn’t like having bare nails and doesn’t want to admit to Sweetheart that he can do it himself because he likes the excuse to spend time with them <3

• Sweetheart’s love language is physical touch and gifts, Milo thinks this is adorable and constantly tells Sweetheart that they don’t have to always be giving him things (Sweetheart doesn’t listen) , even when they’re out food shopping Sweetheart is constantly offering new things to milo and asking if he wants to try it

• Milo has taken up the responsibility of feeding Aggro because the smell and texture of (wet) cat food makes Sweetheart throw up

• Milo put a small slit through his eyebrow while Marie was out when he was a teen because he thought it looked cool and then he realised shortly after that she would see it when she got home, he then panicked for about 20 minutes and just left it hoping she wouldn’t notice (she definitely did notice and he was grounded)

• Sweetheart was adopted when they were young and both of their parents are British so they have a bit of an accent that only comes out sometimes (ESPECIALLY when they’re mad)

feel free to add if you have any others :3

#redacted asmr #redacted audio #redacted milo #redacted sweetheart #redactedverse #redacted headcanons

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alpaca-clouds · 29 days

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The Moral Complexity of a Meat Consumption

I said it before and I will say it again: There definitely is a subsection of the Solarpunk movement, who keeps going on about the future having to be "all vegan". In any Solarpunk space you will find some of this sort. Heck. You will also find folks in anarchist spaces, who will go: "Oh, you are an anarchist and still eat meat? So you do believe in hierarchies! Because you see yourself as higher as an animal!"

These days I am mostly ignoring those people, because I know that you really just cannot win those arguments with them.

Outside of chicken I do not really like meat. I do not like the taste or texture. But if I completely cut it out of my diet, I will get sick. Tried it several times. It did not work out. So, I cut it down to two days a week, which keeps my body in a somewhat sustainable equilibrium.

For me the issue is in how my body metabolizes certain aspects of food. But a lot of chronically ill and disabled people will have to eat meat and cannot cut it out of their diet. Maybe they cannot eat a lot of other proteins due to their allergies. Maybe there is stuff in plants that they cannot metabolize. And maybe they are autistic and literally can only eat like five different things. There are plenty of reasons people might just not get around it.

However... I also look at a lot of folks in the modern world eating cheap meat every single day, and I am shaking my head. Sure, some of them might need to eat meat daily, but let's be honest: Most people actually do not. Most people would be perfectly fine to cut down on the meat and only eat meat once or twice a week.

I personally absolutely do not see anything wrong with killing and eating animals per se. Because that is just how the world works. Some animals kill, other animals are eaten. Humans are just another animal.

What I do find issue with, however, is the industrial meat industry. The thing that makes it possible in the first place for folks to eat meat every day. Big plants where hundreds, if not thousands of animals are being kept, with only ridiculous amounts of antibiotics keeping the animals from getting too sick. With slaughtering plants that process hundreds or thousands of animals each day. That is just... Not how it should go.

I personally... since I cut down the meat in my diet, I can afford to actually just eat the free range animals that got to frolick out on the pasture for their entire life. Because frankly, yeah, it is double the price of the alternative, but... So what? For two times a week it works fine. (Also, frankly, there is less water in the meat and the meat actually has better taste and texture.)

So, you know, for me it would be totally fine if there just was no cheap meat at all and all meat was pasture frolicking animals. But even here it gets complicated of course.

Because... Well, there are poor people, who also need to eat meat for health reasons. And what are they gonna do? After all being poor makes you more likely to be disabled - and hence require stuff like that.

And it is exactly the big issue. And frankly... I honestly do not think there is any proper solution to this under capitalism. Because more than anything... capitalism sucks.

#meat consumption #eating meat #animal farming #animal husbandry #vegetarianism #veganism #solarpunk #lunarpunk #anti capitalism

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blindbeta · 1 year

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Heyy, one of my oc's blind, and he has a wife that isn't visually impared. I've read a post a while ago, (I don't remember if you wrote it or not) that talked about "how blind people love" so to say, where it mentions that it is different in many ways to how not visually impared people think it might be, so I'd want to know if you had some fluffy prompts for me. Thank you <3

Blind Characters Falling in Love + Prompts

The post you are referring to is actually by @mimzy-writing-online and you can find it here.

A few prompt ideas I have include:

-consider the trust and automatic habits that might build up between the blind character and the wife. For example, describing things the blind person would be interested in without always needing to be asked, automatically offering to guide, automatically orienting the character to their environment, and knowing when to offer help. These are things that build up over time and with trust.

-Also, consider how wonderful a consistent lack of discomfort with blindness would be. In the beginning of a relationship, the person who isn’t blind may feel uncertain or unsure how to fit into their partner’s life when it comes to their blindness. An example of this would be questioning whether or not a description of a bench to their left would be welcome. A wife who has been with her husband for years may simply verbalize where the bench is, being familiar with the husband’s habit of stopping to enjoy the sounds of birds.

-Specific situational prompts ideas include: the wife describing TV shows that don’t come with audio descriptions as they watch them, the couple learning Braille together and leaving Braille notes for each other, the couple cooking together and using accessible tools, the wife placing markers on the shampoo and conditioner, the couple knowing not to move each other’s items, inside blind jokes, and knowing how best to give directions in reference to that restaurant they like or using left and right because the blind character never understood cardinal directions.

-Alerting the blind character to steps or curbs or changes in environment.

-A big one is an accessible house. If the couple got a home together, they would consider accessibility. This might include high contrast, extra lighting, textures, and no touch screen appliances as these can be harder for blind people to use. There is a comfort in having someone else consider your accessibility needs.

-Other ideas include accessible and comfortable dates. While this might depend on the specific person and where they live, a few ideas include:

-getting audio descriptions at cinemas or even for plays if offered

-reading the menu out to him and knowing what foods to mention or skip over because she knows his taste

-getting Braille menus

-making tactile art together using dot paint or puffy paint

-depending on vision and comfort level, they might avoid dimly lit or overly loud areas, but not all blind people will do this. Conversely, he might also only be comfortable going to such places with her.

-playing accessible games together

These are some ideas I had. You can also follow blind folks on YouTube or Tiktok, such as blindtobes, to see how they talk about blindness and dating.

#blind #blind characters #writing blind characters #blindness and dating #prompts

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katy-133 · 1 year

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Rick Sanchez Showing Signs of ASD for 30 Images

(Re-posting this from a previous reblog I posted in. For organisational purposes.)

(Using some notes from CDC.gov and NHS.uk)

“People with [autism spectrum disorder (ASD)] often have problems with social communication and interaction, and restricted or repetitive behaviors or interests. People with ASD may also have different ways of learning, moving, or paying attention. It is important to note that some people without ASD might also have some of these symptoms.” - Signs and Symptoms of Autism Spectrum Disorder, CDC.gov

Similar to the above quote, some of the below examples can be explained through Doylist (meta) explanations (for example, Rick usually wears the same clothes because that's a common trope in animation, due to asset limitations and marketing/merchandise reasons).

With that in mind:

Bad sensory, overstimulation: Rick preferring to eat just noodles (possibly due to texture/taste aversion), instead of having what everyone else in the family is having.

Getting very upset if someone touches or gets too close: Rick pushing Morty away when Morty runs up to hug him.

Stimming (repetitive performance of certain physical movements or vocalisations) by moving his fists in a celebratory shaking motion in multiple episodes.

Gets upset by minor changes. Rick getting mad at Morty for changing the position of his car seat, refusing to leave a dangerous situation until it's re-adjusted.

Rick: "Wait, did you f**k with my seat settings?!"

Having the same routine every day and getting very anxious if it changes: Rick being upset that Morty is busy and can't go on an adventure with him (like in a typical episode).

Gastrointestinal issues (for example, constipation). An episode focuses on Rick needing to go to a custom planet (that felt safe and secluded) to use the toilet and feeling great distress upon learning that someone else found the planet.

Has a safe food that is seeked out for comfort. Rick likes wafers. He's seen getting them from the kitchen in multiple episodes, Beth makes sure the house is stocked with them, and the Citadel of Ricks even has its own factory to produce them.

Referencing good sensory: Rick talking in detail about pancakes covered in syrup, not wanting the pancakes to go bad.

Rick: "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got pancakes back home with syrup on top of them. They're about to hit that critical point of syrup absorption that turns the cakes into a gross paste. And I hate to get all Andy Rooney about it, but I think we all like fluffy discs of cake with syrup on top!"

And Rick enjoying pancakes in S1E10 and S4E2:

Has obsessive interests. Rick becoming hyper-focused on giant mecha collecting and Morty reminding him to not go overboard on his new hyperfixation.

Morty: "Sometimes, enough is... ?" Rick: (Sadly) "Sometimes enough is enough."

Liking to plan things carefully before doing them: Rick keeping various helpful inventions in his lab coat just in case he needs them later (Vindicators episode).

Infodumping (to excitedly share a large amount of information about a highly-focused subject or passion at one time, usually in great detail and length).

Finding it hard to talk about feelings: Rick having hesitation in apologising and explaining his thoughts and feelings to Jerry.

Rick: "If I'm genuinely cool, I should be able to love you. Which I... therefore do."

Avoids or does not keep eye contact: Rick looking away or breaking eye contact with Morty. Image set of Morty calling him out:

Rick breaking eye contact while lying to Morty:

Having a preferred outfit to wear each day (can be cause of sensory issues). Rick wearing the same blue shirt for over 40 years (we see in flashbacks that it was brighter and has faded with time).

Unusual speech patterns, such as stuttering. Rick's stuttering decreases as seasons progress.

Vocal stimming (when someone repeats a specific sound or phrase to produce sensory stimulation). Some autistic children find it easier to make up their own words. Rick repeatedly saying, "wubba lubba dub dub." He will also repeat his own words (echolalia) immediately afterwards.

Delay edecholalia, scripting (when someone "saves" exact phrases and uses them later to make social situations easier). Rick (in The Ricks Must Be Crazy) remembers Morty's comment, "that just sounds like slavery with extra steps" and uses it later to try and win an argument with another scientist.

Not picking up social cues, finding it hard to understand what others are thinking or feeling. Rick making a joke and then realising the other person is in too much distress to laugh with him (has done this with both Morty and Jerry).

Rick: "You're not laughing?" (Expression changes upon realising) "Oh, right. You're dying."

Unconventional grief response, "inappropriate" facial expressions, lack of fear: Rick reacting to burying himself in a less uneasy way than Morty.

"To the point" style of social interaction. Rick often speaks bluntly and is seen as rude by other characters in response.

Rick: "Everyone, f**k off. Morty, I need your help."

Has a terrible memory but can remember ridiculously difficult information if it interests him. Rick forgets his portal gun and leaves it behind, but can remember the formula for various chemical reactions without using a reference (ending of M.Night Shaym-Aliens!).

And finally...

President Curtis referencing Rick's neurodivergency:

Rick's comment:

Rick: "I'm not touching that thing,"

Rick finding a roundabout way to let Morty know that he (Rick) also has ASD:

Rick: "Is this game popular with autistic people?" Morty: "Why would you say something like that?" Rick: "Because I'm starting to love it."

Wish I could have added more examples, but 30 images is Tumblr's current post limit.

(I understand that the potential meme joke by OP is that the "NOT YOU" image is of Rick from season 1, versus his markedly changed characterisation in season 5-onwards, that focused more on coding Rick as neurodivergent.)

I hope this has been in some part educational for a few readers. Happy Autism Acceptance Month.

But now for the disclaimer bit: Don't take it from me, learn more about ASD.

#tumblr won't let me add links sorry.#rick and morty #my text #storytelling #neurodiversity #long post

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whatsnewalycat · 1 year

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Psychomanteum / Chapter 11

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC (2nd POV)

Chapter 11: Hollywood Forever Cemetery Sings

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

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 11.8k+

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The home’s décor is quintessential Dieter.

Eclectic. Moody. Maximalist.

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

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

And, if you’re being honest, daunting.

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

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

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

No.

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

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

Is he different when he’s here?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You do.

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

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

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

You look away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tomás?”

“Mhmm.”

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

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

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

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

“I mean, I’m sorry—It’s just so…”

“White?” he smirks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dee,” he answers, “I like Dee.”

“I can do that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?” he snorts, “You think so?”

You nod, rubbing your thumb against his.

“I like you, too,” he murmurs.

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

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

“Who’re these people?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about all the people you party with?”

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

You look at him through the mirror.

His eyes are all dull and forlorn. Far away.

A sharp pain splits your sternum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you smile and wave at her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing but the utmost praise,” Lincoln insists.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fantastic. Well, the floor is yours.”

Dieter clears his throat and squeezes your shoulder.

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

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

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

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

“You didn’t?” David frowns.

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

“Is that when you started dating?”

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

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

“And yet, here we are. What changed?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m a baker.”

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

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

“Oh, you have a bakery?”

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

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

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

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

Dieter’s body tenses beside you.

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

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

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

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

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

Together.

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

“Oh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My name is Hannah—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She picks up on the second ring.

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

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

“I only wanted them to know the truth—”

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

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

“How the FUCK would you know?!”

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

You clench your jaw and shake your head.

“I’m sorry for caring—”

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

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

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

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

Your entire field of vision floods with red.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

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

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

You end the call.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

“Did I fuck it all up?”

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

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

You shrug and release a shattered breath.

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

“But—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I heard,” he confesses.

“Oh,” you breathe.

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

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

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

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

“Fuck me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almost.

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

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

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

You fucking love it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another airy, depraved laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes—”

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

Fucking beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fucking perfect.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ok,” you nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your face crumples up.

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

You kiss him.

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

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

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

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

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crystaltoa · 2 months

Note

If I may ask. Your headcanons what kind of food and dishes the turaga like best? (Remembered the post discussing and being silly about the turaga realizing that they and the matoran have to eat food on Mata Nui. It was probably also an adventure when they figured out how to prepare it to make it taste better / able to be eaten at all.)

Hmm...

A lot of this depends on whether you assume Matoran's nutritional needs are at all similar to humans, or quite different, or whether they consume food for energy and nothing else. I'm kind of going with the latter but assuming they still can taste their food.

I've kind of made it a bit about the villages in general since what the Matoran have access to is going to influence what the Turaga eats and vice versa, hope that's okay.

Some general notes first:

Crops and orchards do not appear to be a thing on the island of Mata Nui. Each village has a single Vuata Maca tree, and some villages also had access to Bula berries, both of which are high energy fruits. Other foraged fruit and vegetables are on the menu, but grain-based foods are likely out.

Some of the foods I mention here would typically be made with a flour in our world. but since grains aren't really a thing, you can imagine it would be made from something like ground up nuts, tubers, or maybe even something like tree bark.

That said, despite not exactly farming the land, the Matoran on the island did try to maintain the health of the "natural" environment, for example, volcanic soil from the lava farms was used to improve the health of Le-Wahi's forests.

Two real life plants with edible parts are confirmed to be found on the island: Bamboo, which has edible shoots, and the harakeke, which has nectar used for flavouring. I'm also going to include seaweed in this category.

Matoran don't seem to eat meat apart from fish. In fact, the Skakdi mostly eat meat just to intimidate people from other cultures and they don't require it from a nutritional standpoint. Kualus was also alarmed and disgusted by the existence of predatory bird Rahi, so... Matoran seem to have a different view of what is or is not food than most human cultures. If you want to give them a bit more variety, perhaps there are shellfish, molluscs, or arthropods that they might also eat.

Terms that originate in cooking (baked, boiled, friedetc) are often thrown around in other contexts, but it implies that Matoran are familiar with them as cooking practices

Ga-Koro: Fish is going to be a big part of the diet. Nokama may have developed a taste and skill for hunting them as a Toa Hordika. I doubt that food poisoning is an issue for Matoran given how energy absorbtion works for them, so fish doesn't technically need to be cooked. However, cooking them for improved flavour or texture may have developed over time, though Nokama herself still prefers sashimi. I imagine Ga-Matoran have also experimented with sauces and marinades (including the harakeke nectar), and have derived a number of spices from aquatic and waterside plants. In the absence of refrigerators, they have probably developed a number of preservation techniques (pickling, drying, etc) that are largely used for trading fish to other villages, especially during spring-summer when the fish spoils more quickly (they may not get food poisoning but nobody wants fish that smells and tastes rotten!).

Ta-Koro: I headcanon that Vakama loves spicy food, and prefers meals that most people would consider slightly overcooked. Ta-Matoran in general probably like stews, curries and soups as well, even in summer, as they love the heat and aren't bothered by having a cooking pot going all day in their hut. I think they would also have invented various types of tea, some of which may have slight medicinal properties.

Po-Koro: Pie is mentioned in MNOG in Po-Koro, so I'm going to take that as canon. These could be made with fruit, root vegetables, or even fish when they can get it. I also think Po-Matoran, and especially Onewa, like a lot of salt on their food (interpret that any way you want) Maybe they even add other ground up minerals for flavour as well in lieu of herbs and spices. I think it's fair to say Onewa's favourite pie recipe wouldn't be considered tasty or edible by human standards.

Onu-Koro: Headcanon territory here, but I'm going to make this the one exception to the no farming rule. I like to think they grow a lot of root vegetables on the surface but mostly harvest them from below the ground, meaning the plants are almost never uprooted for harvesting, and some of the tuber root systems grow absolutely enormous. Cooking below ground has the obvious problem of smoke, which could be dangerous without good ventilation, so I like to think that quite often high-power heatstones are used to fry, boil and perhaps bake their food instead. Like Ta-Koro, they like their stews and curries all year round since the underground village is less vulnerable to the summer heat. I also think of the Turaga, Whenua is one of the most adventurous in terms of figuring out what is and is not edible. Some varieties of organic beetle grubs have made it into the Onu-Matoran diet as a result, though most of his culinary experiments don't really catch on. He does not trust mushrooms, and refuses to say why.

Le-Koro: Fruit is the big one here, with a lot of foraged fruit, berries and nuts making up a large part of the diet. Being the most energetic of the island's Matoran, most Le-Matoran love sugar, and anything they can use to make food sweeter is highly sought after. Marinating fruit in nectar, honey or juice is common. They even sweeten traditionally savoury foods like fish. If sugarcane exists on the island, they would be coating absolutely everything in raw sugar. Matau, while not as adventurous as Whenua, has tried a few interesting food experiments in his time, though most meals he eats are a fruit or berry salad with some kind of sweet flavour enhancer. He will not comment on the mushrooms.

Ko-Koro: Ko-Matoran tend to eat a lot less than other Matoran as their lifestyle is all about conserving their energy for things that really matter. Many of them live off the odd Vuata Maca fruit from the village's tree and don't feel the need for anything more exciting. A lot of their other food comes from trade, and they keep the traded goods in large storehouses as Ko-Koro often becomes inaccessible to other villages for weeks at a time in the winter. Cooking is not terribly popular, but smoked fish and marinated fruit obtained from other villages are well liked by many Ko-Matoran. Traders visiting Ko-Koro often have the problem of their wares, such as fruit juices, freezing solid during the trek up the mountain. Turns out many Ko-Matoran like their food frozen, however, so vessels similar to popsicle molds are used by some traders to take advantage of this. Nuju is a little different and has been known to try things that the local bird rahi recommend and bring him. So far the seeds are his favourite, and the fish was okay, but it was a hard pass on the mice and the worms.

#bionicle #turaga metru #vakama #onewa #nokama #whenua #nuju #matau

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ashs-random-writing · 1 month

Text

Mushroom Circles

Chapter three

Ao3

—

When an accidental blood sacrifice leaves him in a strange new world, Roman has to hide

Logan would like to know what has been eating all the fruit

—

Roman received food in a similar fashion for the next few days, making sure they never caught a glimpse of him. The fruit sometimes changed. Sometimes it was the yellowish orange fruit he was usually given, the one that he had been scavenging for himself, but sometimes it was a strange blue fruit with a weird texture, or a strange pink fruit instead.

The blue one tasted weird, so he didn’t often eat much of it if that was what he was given. He liked the pink one a lot more, but his favourite was still the yellow one.

He sat down in the room part of his tunnel and leant his head on the dirt wall and hummed quietly

Why was he acting like this was normal? It was the furthest thing from it; treated like an animal by giant faeries and living under a tree in a different dimension. What part of that was normal? He buried his head in his knees

He heard footsteps outside of his tunnel, and didn’t bother to look up. Cyan was probably just giving him some more food. As much as he appreciated it, it felt dehumanising. Like he was just an animal. As far as Cyan knew, that’s what he was.

It always said something while it placed the fruit down.

He choked back a sob. He hated everything about this. He missed home, he missed his brother, he missed his house, his bed. He hated the dark, and that’s all he could be in, here. He hated having no one to talk to, he hated how extremely bored he was, he hated being so small, he hated his tunnel. He wanted… he wanted to go home.

He knew that he probably couldn’t. Even if he could find a mushroom circle, he got here by bleeding on each mushroom in the circle. If the mushrooms were to scale with everything else here, he wouldn’t be able to do that. Even if he did, what if it just took him somewhere worse?

He couldn’t afford to take that risk. He wiped the tears from his eyes. He peeked out at the slope leading up to the entrance; there were two pieces of fruit, one yellow, one pink. He could almost distantly hear the voices of Cyan and Nerd

Very occasionally, he would hear or see other faeries, but they paid very little mind to him, or his tunnel. Good. He lacked any social context to be able to figure out any language, so he didn’t quite know the motives of the faeries that were feeding him

He was inclined to believe that they weren’t malicious- in a way, it kinda reminded him of when he had found a little cat living under his porch. He had fed it everyday, and waited for it to trust him enough to come out. He never imagined that he’d be the cat in a similar situation

The comparison made his skin crawl. He wondered if, at one point, he’d forget that he was a person. He wasn’t acting much like one, nor was he being treated like one. He sighed.

He supposed he couldn’t fault them for treating him like an animal, since he hadn’t given them reason to suspect otherwise (but what if this carried on if they actually found him? He didn’t want to think about that)

He could hear quiet murmuring outside his tunnel. They almost sounded worried.

It had been about ten minutes since the fruit had been placed down, his empty stomach reminded him, begging him to get up and grab it. His legs were shaky, as he got up to walk to the food. His hands were trembling. He clenched them into fists

He took a deep breath, ignoring the way it hitched in his throat. He was fine, and he was going to stay fine. He grabbed the fruit, and started dragging it, one piece at a time.

There was nothing he could do about his situation. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut for a single moment, trying to force the tears back. Deep breath.

He began to eat.

The faeries were still talking outside. He couldn’t understand a single word that came out of their mouths. He ate as much as he could, but then ultimately just curled up in his corner and tried to sleep.

His mind worked a mile a minute, not willing to let him rest apparently. It was funny that this whole situation was what made him finally start not acting on every impulse he had- you’d think that breaking a leg, and later an arm as a kid, would be a good enough deterrent, but apparently it actually took him being trapped in a giant magic fantasy world.

Funny how that worked. He dryly, very quietly, laughed to himself.

He wondered about his brother, not for the first time; how had Remus reacted when Roman went missing in the middle of the night?

He finally fell asleep.

——

Logan’s favourite spot to sit and read had become his favourite for a second reason. He loved to figure things out- this mystery animal was keeping him busy for a while.

Patton obviously also enjoyed interacting with it (in the vague way that was all they could do to interact with it, anyway) but likely more for the reason that it was some kind of small animal, and he loved most animals.

Logan had noticed that if he strained his ears, sometimes he could hear small noises from the burrow. Some were almost melodic, some were just movement- but it only fuelled his curiosity more.

When he couldn’t hear anything, that was usually a sign that it was asleep, which also gave him more questions. It didn’t seem to have a regular sleep pattern, and Logan couldn’t figure out why.

He and Patton collected fruit for it every few days, once it had eaten what they had previously collected. They gave it different fruits to try to figure out what it would eat. Almost amusingly, when they had given it a less common fruit, it had dragged it into the burrow, as usual, but the next time they looked, it had been dragged back to the entrance with one singular bite mark.

Logan picked up the fruit with a small chuckle. Perhaps they wouldn’t give it that next time. It seemed to enjoy the other fruits well enough, though, so it wasn’t much of a problem

Patton was often the one to place the fruit down for it, given that he was a little better at being gentle, and a little quieter than Logan.

He turned the page to his book as Patton carefully placed the food in the burrow

“Food time, little guy,” he murmured.

Contrary to usual, when they looked a few minutes later, the fruit was still where they had left it

“Do you think it’s okay?” Patton inquired, eyes wide in what Logan assumed was probably worry

Logan, someone who preferred to stick to facts rather than pander to emotions, took a moment to think

“I presume it is okay. There isn’t anything to indicate otherwise, and given its strange rest patterns, it might be sleeping right now,” he assured

They talked quietly for another few minutes before checking on the food they had left for the creature. It had finally brought it into the burrow from the entrance.

“That’s good,” he muttered, ghosting his fingers over the tree root concealing the entrance “it’s woken up,”

He and Patton began to pack up their things to go home for the day a few minutes later.

Above them, storm clouds began to gather, unnoticed.

—

@a-chilly-pepper @da3dm

#sanders sides gt #sanders sides fic #sanders sides story #sanders sides g/t #giant/tiny #giant tiny #sanders sides au #sanders sides #g/t #sanders side fic

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galaxythedragonshifter · 1 year

Text

Lloyd and Morro cousin Headcanons because I can't not do it. (I.e I read some Greencousin Fics and they have me by a chokehold.)

All of these would take place a while after Crystalized btw, in an AU where Morro ends up a human again after Crystalized. (I wanna write sum this ngl)

Lloyd and Morro are so touch starved it's ridiculous.

Morro is now an ex-ghost at that point. SECOND CHANCE AT LIFE BAYBEE!

"Why didn't you take Wu's hand?" "Because I didn't think I deserved it."

Morro kept asking Lloyd about modern inventions bc he didn't really have time to acknowledge it when he possessed Lloyd in Possession. He was kinda mix of both Acronix and Krux when it came to how he reacted to technology.

At first, Morro and Lloyd were kinda closed off from one another, and they kinda "ignored" each other, otherwise bantering (Morro more so than Lloyd), but they slowly started to realize that they had more in common than they realized after a few arguments, (And a ton of angsty trauma. A ton 🥲) And Thier bond built from there. Now, they are practically inseparable.

Morro doesn't want to be the green ninja anymore. He's seen how much pressure Lloyd is under, and he totally understands that he could've never handled it. He had just thought it was fame and being worth something, especially after so long of being worth nothing. When he was denied being the green ninja, he thought it meant he wasn't worth anything anymore. That's why he'd worked so hard for it in the first place. He wanted to be worth something. He also really doesn't...care...that much anymore?

Morro still has Aquaphobia (not Hydrophobia, as that's actually a different term than "fear or phobia of water.)

Lloyd still gets Morro flashbacks and nightmares. Lloyd usually hides them from Morro, since he doesn't want his cousin to worry. Morro has noticed though.

Morro no longer has the little markings on his face, as that was only there when he was a ghost. He does have a small green scar under his eye like Cole did, and it will most likely be there longer than Cole's was. (Potentially the rest of his life)

Morro's nicknames are forever "Emo-boy" and "green wanna-bean" XD-

Morro still has a really tough time with handling objects and handling the upkeep of his mortal body. (He'll forget to eat and drink, drop cups from time to time, bump into a door or wall, freak out from a stray drop of water, ect.)

Going with the previous one, when Morro first ended up human, he had a hard time even eating food, since he hadn't been human for a long time. (Sensory issue based, since it was too overwhelming for certain tastes or textures because of that)

Morro and Lloyd are StubbornCousins™. They are the most stubbornest of cousins.

Morro actually hated it when he was brought back to life by the Crystal King. He hated destiny constantly toying with him and just wished that they would put him to rest for FSM's sake.

He decided to lay low for a while, until they caught Lloyd. He then tried to get Lloyd out, and escaped with him.

Morro has sensory sensitivities. Like, severe ones. It's taking him a lot of time to actually get used to his human body, as his ghost body didn't do all that.

Morro and Kai still somewhat dislike each other. Kai is protective over his lil bro and doesn't really trust Morro all that much. Morro is still slightly closed off towards him, but he gets that Kai is the overprotective sibling. They grow to tolerate each other, and eventually bond somewhat.

Morro, after everything that he did wrong, feels really guilty for it in all honesty. Oh FSM he was such an idiot. Nowadays, he does everything he can to make it up to Lloyd.

Morro does infact swear. He tries to limit it though.

Morro actually has never had things like Pizza before and more modern foods. The ninja are constantly surprised by what he'll be confused by next.

Lloyd actually can do things like hot-wiring a car. He was taught at Darkley's, unsurprisingly. (Inspired by Captain Bookworm's Land of the Living Fic)

They throw banter around. Like a lot. Especially when they met after Morro became human again.

Morro actually came back during Crystalized. The Crystal King wanted to use him along with Harumi, but Morro "agreed" long enough to earn their trust. He wanted to help the ninja since he hated the Overlord, and ended up helping Lloyd, much to the Green Ninja's surprise. He also saw through the Crystal King's lie faster than Harumi ever did. He knew that the Crystal King would only keep him around for as long as he was needed, so any promises the King made was void.

Lloyd has two little fangs and no one can change my mind.

Morro's right eye is his normal eye color (dark olive green), while his left (the one with the ghost scar under it) is paler.

#ninjago #green cousins #ninjago morro #ninjago lloyd #headcanon #behold Greencousin brainrot #some Headcanons for yall #galaxy's headcanons

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chewyjellycable · 3 months

Note

oooo you want to talk about dele on tumblr soo bad ooooooo

I CAN'T BELIEVE I NEVER ACTUALLY RAMBLED ABOUT THEM ON HERE OH MY GOOOD I NEED TO FIX THIS. (Edit: This is a lie I did it once and entirely forgot about it. There's a lot more info in this one, though feel free to check the other one even if there's repeat information!!)

Anyways here's a list of things about Bredele de Cassonade I think y'all should know (with many accompanying links):

Bredele is intersex (designated AFAB though), and (kind of) identifies as Agender! They use They/He/Zem, but are fine with any other pronouns. It doesn't matter if you use masc, fem, or androgenous terms for them!!

Unlike Langue, they found their identity very easily since they really didn't care what they aligned with. It all felt silly to them. Langue would dog on them about not being "girly enough", but even then they didn't feel like a ""real girl"" (their body always functioned oddly due to being intersex), so! They're not!

They like growing their hair out and letting their facial hair grow in, but they rarely get to do that because of work. They did have longer hair in their school years before they chopped it off for the sake of their job. They let their stubble grow in when they're on vacation, though!!

Though when it comes to relationship, they CANNOT for the life of them figure out what they like. They last assigned themself to be asexual and androromantic, but even they're not sure. It's hard for them to decipher a lot of things emotionally, especially relationships with others.

They currently hold ""possible relationship interest"" in Milk, Espresso, and Cream Cheese Tea.

Their pet is called Ditzboard, who's a ditzy little thing who trip and falls and does all manner of clumsy things but never drops its documents!!

Autism. They bit things as a child and still do sometimes when under stress. They get overstimulated, they hate the sound of their own heartbeat, they have specific tastes in food and textures, they have shutdowns (and meltdowns), they don't understand social cues very well outside of what they've had to teach themself... They also do a lot to themself to make themself feel ALIVE, though I won't specify what here.

They've held an interest in doctors since they were a kid. Hell, as a kid their favorite game series was Trauma Center. Much like how Langue played Ace Attorney when they were younger. :] Both DS games!! I like to think they shared a DS as kids.

Dele also has a keen interest in blood. It may be morbid, but they love thinking about it. It's not that they'd harm anyone for it, absolutely not, but the red fluid is something they think about and it fascinated them endlessly. They'll be bleeding and think of the blood and how it will clot and what it looks like on his skin whilst treating the injury. (They also don't have many to talk about this interest in for obvious reasons.)

Despite their visual differences, Langue and Bredele do get mistaken for each other sometimes!! Dele gets flattered, Langue gets offended.

Dele is ONE inch taller than Langue, and was born moments after Langue was. The lawyer SEETHES at the fact that Dele is better in ANY capacity. Langue will take anything they can get to prove they're better than him.

Langue's jealousy runs deep. Being the louder and more emotional of the two, they're one of Dele's worst critics. They'll lie to zem, bicker with zem, but at the end of the day they're siblings and Dele wouldn't give that up for the world. Langue, however... It's hard to say if they'd truly give up much for zem.

Bredele has learned mending magic from the spare few times they've visited Parfaedia. He's not very magically gifted, so he'll take what he can get!! Besides, it's very useful for equipment (and Langue's glasses when those crack and break too much to reform quickly).

They think Dasani Bottled Water is very unhealthy compared to other types of water bottles due to the lies Langue has told him.

BACK ON THE EMOTIONAL PROCESSING. Dele cannot cry. Well, they CAN, but it's very hard for them to. They can go through the world ending and there's only a chance that they could. A lot of negative emotion just gets numbed out and they can't express it unless it just gets to be Too Much, and even then it's just. So. Difficult. At a younger age, they were called a monster for being so "emotionless".

#chewy ask #oc tag #crob oc #cr oc #bredele de cassonade cookie #langue de chat cookie #chewy lore #cw blood #doctor-sunshine-is-dead #chewy art

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heartfullofleeches · 2 years

Note

The quality of meat plus the loneliness thing really has me thinking about the monster reader having eating problems because they don't want to hurt humans, and Evan helping them out, gelling them they're not a monster for doing so.

(tw: cannibalism, injury, light gore)

Some animals are harder for you to digest that others. You aren't sure how, considering there aren't any biological books on your species, but meals a regular human can enjoy take just a little longer for you to swallow. Your teeth are sharp, but it's your saliva that really breaks down your food.

An upside for you is that you can draw sustenance from any form of life, which is why a majority of your diet was made of flowers. Easy to swallow, nearly endless in supply, and best or all - nobody got hurt.

There was one other thing you could eat without issue; a good source of nutrition too, yet the most costly meal of all. For some reason, human flesh was the ideal food for your kind. It had the fastest digestive time of twenty seconds, and kept you full for days. In the past, it was all you could eat; preying on unsuspecting wanderers alone at night and feasting on one body for days. It was also one of the darkness periods of your life.

Even before gaining more humanity after meeting your husband; you always had regrets. The fear locked in their dead eyes; the screams they bellowed before their demise. They haunted your dreams even now. A part of you still hungered for another taste, a lust you kept under lock and key. You didn't want to go back to those times. No matter how hard it was some days.

At the dinner table; your loving husband at your side, you sat down for yet another meal. For you, a few strips of raw steak and a vase of rises; and him a meal of the same cut only the meat had been cooked to a proper temperature and some vegetables. Evan always tried his hardest to accommodate life for you; his poor spouse. He hated to see you struggle and wanted to make sure you ate enough; no limits too great for him.

You take a flower from the vase and bring it to your neck, running your second tongue over its petals. They tasted just like they would to a normal human being, albeit slightly sweeter. How you longed for something different.

"How was your day, honey?"

His words snap you from the melancholic trance you had found yourself in without even realizing.

"Hm? Oh.. good.. good.. Just took care of a few errands in town. How was yours?"

Evan slumps back in his seat. He could tell something was wrong, but didn't want to be a bother. He shoves a piece of cauliflower in his mouth, wiping his lips with his napkin before he sneaks.

"Same old day of work. Fred's still out from a surgery, so I'm stick with his shit still, but for now.. I'm just glad to be home with you."

He puts his hand on the table, slipping it near you, but you don't seem to notice or care. You pick up a portion of the steak and put it in your mouth; fluids clung to your fingers. It was better raw. Cooked meat just tasted like leather unless fried, but the grease was too much. You grimace as you chew; your saliva at work to break it down further. The piece you had now was slimy and bland despite the seasons Evan had put on it; its texture coating every each of your mouth.

You swallow, the food hitting your stomach with little satisfaction. You pick up another; forcing yourself to devour it. It tasted worse than the last bite. Your mind begins to dwindle on the aspects of the day to try and ignore the flavor. The sun was bright, the weather was pleasant, the people were... nice.

Your stomach growls. You pick yourself up from the table, storming out the room and into the living room where you collapsed on the couch.

"Y/n?!"

Evan chases after you; his heart breaking as you sob into the decorative pillows. You hold onto one of them, clutching it over your stomach. The smiles of the people you've met through the day flash in your mind; their exposed skin a haunting memory - sending another stabbing pain to your abdomen.

"That's not me.. I'm not that thing anymore."

Evan falls to the floor beside the couch; his own tears brewing as you wail out. He tries to take you in his arms, but you shove him away.

"Stay away! I don’t want to hurt you.."

He shakes his head. "No.. no, honey. You've never done anything that would hurt me. It's okay.."

"It hurts... I'm so hungry.."

He swallows hard. He knew exactly what you meant now. Even if you tried to hide it, the smell of blood lingered in the warehouse were he found you. Scouting the area, he even found remains of your past victims; but he didn't care. Even with that knowledge; proof of your crimes, you would always be his Y/n. He vowed to be by your side and knew the dangers of his choices; ready to step up to bat whenever the time came.

"Y/n.. It's okay."

You hear the rustle of his sleeve; his palm against your cheek.

"Eat me."

You lift your head from the pillow. "W...what?"

He brushes strays hairs from your face with a warm smile. "Take a bite out of me. I don’t mind."

"No.. I can't-"

"You can. You aren't a monster, Y/n. You're the love of my life and you're in pain. There's nothing I wouldn't do to take it away."

Evan gets up, heading into the kitchen and returning as quickly as he could. He sits on the edge of the couch, slicing his forearm open with the kitchen knife in hand. He didn't even brace himself for it; knowing this is what he had to to do bring you peace. The blood flows in thick gushes; a few dots splattering on your face from the force and speed of his cut.

The smell is overwhelming. Against better judgment; the voice in your head that screamed "no", you ran your tongue over the wound. Evan hisses as your saliva touches the cut. It stung similarly to putting alcohol on an open wound. You pause at his sign of discomfort, but he merely rubs your head as a silent single to continue.

You bite down; your saliva corroding the skin within twenty seconds. You tear off the rotted flesh and devour it like a starved beast. The pain is white hot at first; numbed down by some agent in your drool. In a sick way, it was almost comforting to be feasted on by you. Being able to provide for you in a way unlike any other. Evan's arm trembles, but he stays strong for you; kisses your forehead as he feels tears fall on his lap.

"Everything's okay, Y/n. This is what your body needs for survive. You're no different from any other human eating something lower in the food chain. From now on, don't be afraid to ask me for this, and if you really need it, I don’t mind getting you a fresh supply from any nosy neighbors."

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere scenarios #yandere imagines #yandere oc #yandere x you #male yandere #yandere insert #yandere story #tw yandere #tw body horror #tw cannibalism #tw injury

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isagamis · 2 years

Text

𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐑𝐄

gojo satoru x reader ┊ chapter 4 ┊ wc: 3.9k

cw: angst, fluff, reader gets to know megumi a little more, one on one time with megumi, reader gets scared of feelings, stubborn reader, gojo being a cutie as always

author’s note: so sorry for the delay! been super busy with work & have had no motivation with this chapter bc for some reason is was hard for me to write. i had no idea where to take it but i think it turned out alright! please make sure to REBLOG along with liking. just liking does nothing for reach! this isnt instagram!

[ song for the chapter: 1 ]

hide and seek masterlist

I’m awoken by the gleaming rays of sun reflecting through my window. It takes a minute for my vision and hearing to adjust as I come out of my sleep. My arms stretch out in front of me, and I let out a strained groan at the pull of my muscles. My fists circle my eyes asI force myself to sit up. With a hunched back, I just sit, pulling my comforter around my body. My eyes threaten to keep closed with every second, and all I want to do is get back to sleep. I realize I’d never slept so hard, even harder than the night before. I don’t know what Gojo has in him, but it’s like he’s the fucking sandman. I wasn’t riddled with nightmares and didn’t once stir in my sleep. My brain alerts me, Gojo. I quickly look to where he was sleeping on the floor to find an empty pallet. I feel my gut fill with disappointment. I don’t know why I thought he’d stay the whole night. Silly me.

The jiggle of my door handle startles me and it opens with a struggle. “Sorry, did I wake you?” Gojo’s stupid fucking concerned smile radiates the room. I can’t help but to smile back at him. His lanky body walks with such grace as he carries two trays of food, he brought me breakfast?

“You didn’t have to…”

“Oh, please, I can’t have you missing meals,” He says handing me my tray.

“Oh, you don’t have to sit on the floor,” I unravel the blanket around me to motion to the end of my bed, “you can sit up here.”

He folds a leg under him as he sits, the mattress sinks in lightly at his weight. I scoot myself back to give him more room.

“I got you some omurice and miso soup,” He says pointing to each item with his chopsticks, “I got extra natto, too, if you wanted to try it.”

“Do you want some tea?“ I ask him as I get up to get some for myself.

“Tea sounds great.”

“It’s sweet tea, though.”

“Is all tea not sweet?”

“Gojo, it’s southern sweet tea, like iced,” I laugh as I pour a cup for each of us, “I made it the other day.”

“I would love to try your snazzy southern American drink,” he says in the most cliche American southern accent.

“Do that again and I will throw this drink in your face,” I chuckle, “We do not sound like that.”

“Okay, switch,” he offers a small bowl of natto to me as his other hand waits for the tea. We make a quick hand off and I settle back into my spot. I watch as he brings the drink to his lips and takes a satisfying swig. His face contorts as he swallows, “Christ, that is sweet.”

“If it doesn’t taste like a heart attack then it ain’t sweet enough,” I laugh as I sip my own.

“Try the natto!”

I use my chopsticks to stir the soybeans. Its mucus-like texture is quite different to me but definitely intrigues me. Its smell is also something I’ve never really experienced, it doesn’t bother me though. My chopsticks pick up a small cluster and I stuff them into my mouth. I chew slowly as I try to gather the taste onto every bud of my tongue.

“I like it, it’s different, but good,” I inform the boy in front of me.

“A lot of people don’t, the consistency scares ‘em away,” he replies, stuffing his own face.

“Where I’m from, there’s plenty of questionable foods, this is nothing.”

“Do you cook?”

“I used to, now that I’m here though, I don’t have the things I need to make the dishes from home,” my smile slowly fades as I think about it. I’d do anything for a homemade dish right about now.

“If I was able to get them, could you cook for us?”

My eyes dart to meet his, “Us as in me and you or us as in all of us.?”

“Whichever you want,” he looks at me over the top of his miso bowl that’s being drained into his mouth.

“Yeah, I’d love to, that’d be nice,” the smile I once had creeps back into my face and I can even feel a light blush flush my cheeks. His kindness always takes me by surprise. Gojo wasn’t a well spoken topic back home but he’s a well known sorcerer internationally. Word gets around eventually. All I’d heard about him was that he was kind of a player, snooty and narcissistic. But from what Gojo’s shown me of himself, he’s just a normal dude. He’s super down to earth and so caring. Makes me wonder how rumors like that even spread about him.

“Oh, by the way, do we have a library?” I ask as I finish my last bite.

“Yeah, I’ll show you where it is when I get back,” he says, picking up my tray along with his. As soon as he’s out of my room I take the opportunity to get dressed for the day. I throw on some loose jeans and a t-shirt and head to my bathroom to brush my teeth. As I exit my bathroom, Gojo is already back and cleaning up his pallet off the floor to take back to his room.

“Let me get dressed and I’ll be back,” he tells me with full arms. I leave my room after him and wait for him outside of his door. After about five or so minutes, he comes back out in a pair of sports joggers and a loose fitting t-shirt. My eyes subconsciously avert to his thighs. I hate it, but the thin fabric hugs them so perfectly and I can’t help but to look. He luckily doesn’t notice and I quickly look away once he sees my face.

“Okay, follow me~” he sings as he walks past me. He leads me out of our building and to one that’s behind the main schooling unit. “Here, we are,” He says, opening the door for me, “I have to run a few errands so I’ll be back this evening, If you need anything Shoko is always in her office.” I nod to him and catch the door from him.

“Oh and I realized I didn’t have your contact info, care to exchange?”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” I reply as I reach into my back pocket for my phone. We switch devices and put each other’s numbers into them. He hands my phone back to me and leaves me with a goodbye. I glance down at my screen to see that he’s put himself in as ‘Satoru’ with a little wizard emoji next to it. It coerces a smile from me as I slip my phone back into my pocket and enter the library.

It’s empty and as bad as I feel about it, I’m grateful to finally have time to myself. It’s a rather small library, only about ten to fifteen shelves of books. A few tables are placed here and there and the lighting is fairly dim. I notice that candles line the walls in their little sconces. With a snap of my fingers I activate my technique and each wick is lit with a small flame. The room becomes vibrant from the flickering lights. I smirk to myself in pride, such a simple motion but yet so satisfying to perform.

“Hello?” a voice speaks from beyond one of the looming shelves.

Startled, my head snaps in the direction of the voice, “Uh…hello?”

“Y/N sensei?” wild strands of black hair make themselves known from behind the shelf.

“Oh, Megumi, I didn’t hear you, I’m sorry to disturb you.”

“How did you do that?” He questions, pointing to the candles.

“I—what?”

“That!” his arm sharply extends to his previous focal point, “How did you do that!”

I smirk, “You mean this?” I lift my hand, and my pointer finger extends. A flame appears just above it, as if my own finger was one of the waxy sticks that clung to the wall.

“Is that your technique?” I am taken aback by the nonchalant tone in his voice.

“Well, I’m sorry it’s no shadow technique,” A playful scoff slips from me.

“No, sorry, I didn’t mean to offend,” he spills apologies, “I’m just interested in what you can do.”

“Ever seen Avatar the Last Airbender?”

“That’s an American show right? I think I’ve seen it.”

“Yeah,” I confirm, “My technique is based off of the fire benders, I have no creativity so I took inspiration from things like that.”

“Why haven’t you used it around us? I think everyone else would find it pretty cool,” he leans slightly to the right to rest a shoulder against one of the bookshelves, his foot crosses over the other.

“Cons of using fire,” my palms rub together, “Dry spells tend to be a nuisance.” He just nods in understanding as his eyes divert back to the candles.

“Megumi,” his attention from the candles lands back on me, “Y’know, I’m pretty sure this is the longest we’ve spoken, and I’ve been here almost a month.”

His lips purse, and I can sense nervous irritation swirling around in that mess of a head of his.

“Quiet kid, huh?” I laugh as he groans, embarrassed I’m sure.

“I guess.”

My feet begin to explore the room, “What were you doing in here anyway?”

“I just like to get away for a bit sometimes,” He leaves his spot from the shelf and disappears back into the rows of books.

“I get it,” I answer, “If I could, I think I’d spend every day alone.”

“I’m just used to it,” I hear Megumi’s voice echo from the back of the room.

“How come?” I start to search the shelves myself for anything that may catch my interest.

He doesn’t reply right away, instead all I can hear is the sleek pulling of books.

“My mom died when I was very young,” he finally says, and I sense emptiness in his voice, “My dad abandoned me soon after. It was just me and my sister then.”

“That’s when Gojo found you, right?” I ask as my fingers scan over the old spines.

“Yeah,” I hear a strained sigh leave him.

“That must have been hard for you, things are better now though, right?”

“No, yeah don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for Gojo and everything he’s done for me, I just–”

“Wish you got the parents you deserved?” I finished for him.

“Yeah…” I can see him now through the shelf and his head hangs low at his admission.

“I’m the same way,” I sympathize, “My family wasn’t all that great either.”

He looks at me over the books, a gleam of comfort in his dark eyes.

“But I love the family I have here, now and I’d do anything for you guys,” a soft smile spreads on my face. He’s trying to hide it, but I can see the curl of his lips all too clearly.

“What is it with teachers and being able to get their students to speak so freely?” He chuckles.

I laugh in reply, “It’s just in our genes, it works on Gojo, too.”

“You got Gojo to talk? About himself? Oh, how shocking!” The black haired boy says sarcastically.

“Oh, hush, it’s different,” I wave his tone away.

As if on cue, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out to see Gojo’s sent me a message. “Speak of the devil,” I say aloud.

Satoru: *one attachment*

I unlock my phone to see he’s sent a picture of a little white cat nuzzling against his leg on the street.

Satoru: you think they’d let us keep her?

Me: absolutely not

“What is it?” Megumi asks, looking over the books as if he could even see my phone that way.

“Gojo’s found a cat and is asking if he could bring it back,” I say, turning my phone and showing him the picture.

“Principal Yaga’s already yelled at him I don’t know how many times for trying to bring cats here,” His eyes roll in annoyance at his elder.

I laugh in response as I picture this six foot two man coming up to the school with an arm full of stray cats.

“He’s so stupid, I swear,” Megumi’s voice moves from behind the shelf as he walks around to me. I spot a couple of books in his arms and raise and eyebrow at him in confusion.

“These are books about jujutsu history in Japan, I figured you’d want to know more about it,” He explains. He dumps the books into my arms and my body dips at the weight of them.

“Thanks, now I have homework,” I huff as I readjust them in my arms.

“I would get started now,” He suggests.

“Well fine, if you wanted me gone that bad,” I reply playfully, walking past him and to the door. He waves me off and I head back to my room with my new assignment in hand.

My fingers flip through one of the books. The pages are full of images of past curse users and cursed tools that are still in use today. My lips sip from the straw in my cup as I concentrate. I don’t know how long I’ve been laying here outside my window, but I’m almost to the middle of the first book, and my eyes are starting to feel dry. The urge to stretch overcomes me, and my muscles extend out like a house cat that’s been sleeping all day. I put the book down to my side and tap my phone that’s sitting next to it. I’d been so encapsulated in reading, I hadn’t even noticed that I missed lunch. My arms stretch out before me once again, this time a strained groan is forced through my lips. I sigh and lean back against the wall, feeling too comfortable to make myself get up just yet.

I look to my left to see that messy black head of hair from earlier trudging along the path in the garden. “Megumi!” I call out to him. His head snaps in my direction and he stops walking.

“Oh, there you are, I’ve been looking for you,” he yells from where he stands, “I was just about to get lunch, wanna join?”

“Please, I’m starving!” I quickly get up from my spot and jog over to him, books still in hand.

“How far did you get?” He asks as he notices the books.

“Not far at all, it’s really caught my interest though.”

“Yeah, I’ve found a lot on the Zenins in some of them, it’s taught me a couple of things if I’m being honest.”

“Oh? But you have yet to train with me?” I tease.

“After the way you took Gojo? No thank you, I’m good.”

I laugh at his response as we walk in unison to get our lunch.

“Okay, what you were saying earlier about not having a good family life,” he says, stuffing a spoonful of rice into his mouth, “I’d like to know more.”

I let out a sigh, “Of course you do.” I look away from him as I chew my food.

“Only if you’re comfortable,” he adds.

“I told myself I’d be more open,” I admit.

“So…”

“But!” My voice pitches up as I prepare my compromise, “You have to tell me what’s going on between you and Yuuji.”

His head falls back with an annoyed groan, like I’d caught him in one big secret.

“Please, it’s so obvious you like him,” I push.

“Fine, Fine! You’re right, I do, but you gotta promise not to say anything, not even to Gojo,” he bargains with a pinky extended towards me. I take it with my own knowing damn well I would be relaying this whole conversation to the white haired idiot later on.

“Megumi, you’re not as mysterious as you think you are,” I smirk at him as I take a sip of tea. He only responds with an eye roll.

“Okay, your turn,” he nods to me.

I lean back onto the wall behind me to relax myself before I open up. “As you might be aware, sorcery isn’t very common overseas. Due to that, I was treated as an outcast early on in life. Especially in the states, they just take that stuff as a psychological issue, and my parents let them do just that. They hospitalized me so young. I think I was around twelve or thirteen when someone from the government came for me. They took me out and brought me to that secluded box of a school. I’d been there ever since. I don’t even remember what my parents looked like. To my knowledge, I no longer exist legally,” I look up to see him with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s concentrated, like he’s taking in every word.

“Wow, uh, that’s a lot,” he shifts in his spot on the floor, “I thought my sob story was bad.”

“Yeah, I think I’ve got you beat there, bud,” I laugh, “it’s whatever though, I guess.”

“No, it’s not whatever,” Megumi protests, “It’s fucked up, and you’re allowed to be angry about it.”

My body tenses at his words. A spoonful of food half way into my mouth as it finally clicks in my brain. I realized, in the past fifteen or so years, I had been so busy distracting myself that I never allowed myself to be angry at my situation. I had never been given the time. I was always either training or exercising curses. They had never allowed me time to actually think.

“Well,” I falter, “I did not expect a fifteen year old to offer me such therapeutic advice.”

“I’m sure Gojo would say the same,” he vouches.

“Yeah, he probably would,” I pick around at my food as Megumi’s words settle into my thoughts.

“By the way, what do you think of him?”

“Huh? What do you mean?” I look at him confused.

“I think you know what I mean,” he looks at me with lifted eyebrows as he sips from his tea.

“All of you are so nosy!” My voice disguises itself in fake annoyance, “It’s like y'all want us to be a thing or something.”

“I don’t mean to push that on you!” He clarifies, “I just…he’s different around you.”

“Different how?”

“He’s giddier, reminds me of how he was when I was younger,” I notice a small smile carve into his face, “It’s just nice to see him be so energetic again.”

“I think it’s just because we have a lot in common, maybe he’s just comfortable around me,” I dismiss, “We’re just close friends, I guess, nothing more.”

I feel my heart begin to ache at my words, and my mood changes instantly. Megumi notices my discomfort and tries to speak, but my actions are faster.

“Sorry Megumi, I’m gonna go, I’m not that hungry anymore,” I get to my feet quickly and am out the door before he can say anything.

I feel terrible. One, for leaving him so rudely. Two, for being so dramatic. And three, for making myself feel like this. It’s just too soon. The wounds of last year are still so fresh, and I’m scared to heal them. I appreciate that these kids think that we’d be good for each other, but it will never be in the cards for me. Gojo would never look at me that way. Whatever the students are seeing in him now is just hopeful imaginations. From what I’ve been told, he’s always been this way. I am not special.

I clutch my chest in hopes to relieve the ache. My feet stumble over one another as I try to get back to my dorm as quick as I can. I feel so stupid for even getting upset over something like this. A dumb hypothetical situation! My mind races with solutions to resolve these fantasies. I close myself into my room to hide away from the world, as per usual when I find myself too overwhelmed with feelings.

My feet pace the floor as I think. My mind finds every possible outcome and plays them on film. Scenarios of Gojo and I, what we would look like as a couple, how dates would go, even marriage shoves itself in there just to rub it in my face. But then I see him, I see it. Gojo’s body being pulled apart just like hers had been. My brain forces me to imagine every rib being ripped from his sternum, every organ being torn from him. I hear his blood curdling scream of agony. I shut down, unable to bear anymore. I stop pacing and make up my mind.

I won’t allow myself to get used to him. Because eventually, one of us will be thrown out like last week’s trash, and for as selfish as this may sound, I pray to a god that it’s him.

Night falls before I know it, and I notice that Gojo still hasn’t returned. I assume maybe it’s because he just got caught up in whatever business he had been doing all day. Either way it didn’t matter to me. I had been in my room since running out on Megumi so abruptly, he came by just before six to inform me that dinner was ready. I told him I wasn’t hungry without even opening the door. I’d rather just sit here in my own self pity and wallow in it. I just kept thinking about how easily Gojo had me tear down my walls, and how much that actually annoys me. I do appreciate him as a friend, but we would never be more, there was no need for him to know me any deeper. It’s best I just distance myself and continue my work as a teacher, if I have to transfer again, I’ll do it.

I can feel the small child in me screaming that I’m wrong. But what do they know? This is to protect myself. Shield me from the hurt that is the world of sorcery. You can’t just move on from watching the person you love be slaughtered in front of you. My days are numbered as a sorcerer, involving myself with anyone at this point would be futile.

I feel a hot tear slide down my cheek. I try to wipe it away, but more angrily appear. I sob quietly, my head between my knees as my shoulders shake. It’s a short cry. Just one of those where you’re feeling too many things at once and something has to be let out somehow and this is the way it chooses to release itself. I suddenly think about how tomorrow is monday, and that although I’m struggling, I have to keep working. That I have to pretend that my own loneliness isn’t killing me slowly. Despite that, I accept it. I accept that I have to wake up at six in the morning and brush my teeth and do all the things normal people do until I’m not. Until I’m teaching children how to defend themselves against monsters, teaching them how to kill.

“Jesus Christ,” I sigh exasperatedly, my body flops to lay down properly in my bed, “I wish I was a worm.”

Although I haven’t changed into pajamas or even gotten under my covers, my eyes close and my breathing slows. My body shuts down, and everything goes quiet.

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