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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!!!

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“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?”

#dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo #dieter bravo smut #dieter bravo x ofc #dieter bravo x oc #dieter bravo fic #pedro pascal character #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #psychomanteum

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welshdragonrawr · 2 months

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Did I write OuaT fanfiction? I did indeed. Am I rusty after quite a few years of not writing much fanfic at all for any fandom? I am indeed. Enjoy, I guess...? And Some Things You Just Can't Speak About (a.k.a The One Where Emma Gets Angsty Over a Jacket)

Emma Swan was no stranger to living small. There had been plenty of times in her life when she had survived just fine living out of one scruffy duffel, or her car, or on more than one occasion simply the clothes on her back. Hell the very first night Henry had brought her to Storybrooke, and she had opted to stay at Granny’s, had not been a problem as everything of importance she carried with her either on her person or in the compartment spaces of her yellow bug.

Despite the number of times she had been to Regina’s place before, it still surprised her just how much the other woman kept around. Not to mention how clean and tidy to a fault everything always was. Surely the whole having-magic thing helped – the only dust she probably kept anywhere in the whole house was probably some of the fairy kind. Almost every surface was polished, pristine or held some kind of knickknack that seemed to have no purpose other than looking pretty on a shelf.

Even the stairs didn’t give a telltale creak under Emma’s boots as she made her way up to the second floor. For a house that had supposedly been lived in for at least twenty-eight years – unless of course Regina had lived anywhere else in that time, but Emma figured that was incredibly unlikely – what felt like an expansive mansion to the blonde, also seemed to be missing something.

Emma had moved through enough houses, hostels, hotels and unfit homes to know all the signs of a building well-lived in and all the stories the very walls could tell. This place in all its grandeur and appearances, held history in the fact that it showed absolutely none at all.

Except, she thought with a pause as she passed an open door, for Henry’s room.

All it took was a quick glance through the gap to see the contrast. Things scattered over the bed from where he must have dressed for school that mornings, the splashes of colour on the wall, the mess over a desk where he had clearly been working hard at whatever latest theories were on his mind.

Unable to resist a pull from somewhere deep inside her chest, with a brief glance back over her shoulder toward her original destination, Emma shook her head lightly, pushed the door open further and took a step inside.

The abundance of colour was an immediate switch on the senses from the austere black and white décor downstairs. The vibrant hues of blues, and reds and rich mahogany browns of youth filled all four walls. There was still some sense of attempted organisation in the array of shelves and compartments for things, but these too were filled to overflow, with excess having spilled over into the floor as Emma had spied from the doorway. Just one look around the room and it was possible to see how much stuff was crowded in there. Anything and everything a young boy could want or wish for, more or less. She even spied a few games consoles tucked away alongside the plethora of books.

Emma was hit with an unexpected pang somewhere deep inside her core. Short, sharp, but no less surprisingly strong. If things had been different, would she have been able to give Henry all this?

She couldn’t help but wonder as she stepped by the bed, picking up a discarded jacket with some fancy designer label embroidered inside the collar that she knew she could not have afforded, regardless of career choice. The material felt thick in her fingers, the fibres woven with that sense of luxury many kids didn’t care for, but an adult would spot a mile away. Would he have been able to have any of this...? Of course if Henry had merely been content with possessions, then there would have been absolutely no reason for all of this to have ever happened as it appeared he already had everything he ever needed right here…

“Can I help you, Ms Swan?”

“Regina-“ the other woman’s voice had startled her, made her twist on the spot to see the Mayor hovering in the doorway, a sliver of a smile pulling at the corner of those red-painted lips – though Emma saw that same hint of a smile falter upon seeing the jacket in Emma’s hands.

“How long have you been standing there?” Emma asked.

“Inherited your fathers’ sense of perception I see, or lack thereof,” Regina chuckled, though her eyes remained drawn to the jacket in Emma’s hands. A beat of silence between them continued on a few moments too long to be comfortable, neither of them saying a word. Judging by the look in her eyes and recognisable subtle squaring of her shoulders, Regina had clearly expected the usual snap back from the blonde. When seconds continued to tick by and she must have realised she was not going to receive one, her fine brow finally raised as her arms folded across her chest.

“Looking for something, were we?”

“For you, actually,” Emma replied, fingers curling into the fibre of the jacket. If Regina noticed the subtle clench, she said nothing, merely tilted her head a fraction. To Emma however, that still felt like she was being assessed without words.

“We both know I like to keep an eye on my son, but I can’t say I make a habit out of hiding out in his room every other day,” Regina quipped, and for the first time in the conversation managed to pull her eyes away from the boy’s jacket to survey the rest of the room herself. Emma couldn’t help wondering if she was looking for anything out of place, even amongst the adolescent mess; no doubt Regina probably would have noticed if Emma had so much as accidentally kicked a toy from one end of the rug to the other.

For the second time, the smirk dancing slyly across those scarlet lips faltered when once again the blonde had evidently not risen to the goad of the verbal challenge. “What made you think you’d find me in here?” Regina poked just a little more.

Emma shook her head, as if shaking her thoughts free. “No, I didn’t, I…” she trailed off.

“You certainly seem to be having a way with words today,” Regina chuckled, finally stepping fully into the room and beginning to peruse various objects herself.

If Emma didn’t know any better she might have guessed the other woman was indeed inspecting each and every thing. She watched her pick up a notebook from the desk, flick through a few of the pages that Emma could see were filled margin to margin with Henry’s chicken-scratch scrawl – he had his biological mother’s knack with handwriting it seemed, although the tails of his letters had a more distinct flourish for sure. She wondered if that was because Regina had likely tried to teach him the much more elegant cursive of her own hand before… She heard Regina give a click of her tongue and mumble Henry’s name under her breath, shaking her head at a particularly untidy page; perhaps she had been thinking along the same lines. What else did she teach you…?

“Regina, I…” Emma ‘s voice tumbled out before she could stop herself, the other woman’s name falling from her lips with a softness so unexpected for both of them that Regina’s head snapped up from the book to look in Emma’s direction.

Emma wanted to ask. She wanted to know. She wanted Regina to give her some glimpses, some snapshots, some sort of mental photo album of the milestones she had missed and how the Mayor had managed them alone.

But a catch in her throat and a caustic ache in the centre of her chest stoppered the words thickly before they could fully form, let alone be said so freely. Did she want to know? Did she want to open herself up to the regret, the guilt, the burden of knowing how she had soothed each fever, comforted each cry in the night, encouraged his education to become the man Emma already saw every day in the young boy?

“Spit it out, Ms Swan, for both our sakes,” the words were sharp, but there was something else under the sting. Emma folded the jacket in her hands, over her arm, and she could have sworn she saw Regina’s brow twitch watching the imperfect action.

“Henry…” Emma began again, attempting to find a common ground for conversation to start but once again found her words caught on a soreness in her throat that had nothing to do with the time of year. The usual sharp clip of Regina’s heels seemed subdued on the carpet as she stepped closer, softened, but not silenced.

“Did you-“ Emma tried to clear her throat, to little avail. “Did you ever…”

“Take care of him? Of course I did.” Regina snapped, the defensive thorns of the dark rose pricking at Emma’s skin. A perfectly poised hand snapped forward, attempted to snatch the jacket from Emma’s unsuspecting hands. A pull, a stronger tug, Regina’s hands grappled for the jacket, but Emma’s grip neither loosened nor let go. If anything her hold held fast, refusing to relinquish the fabric.

Caught in such a physical impasse, Regina looked up, mouth open to lash out with another venomous barb no doubt. But rather than clench tighter to the hypothetical stem of the dark rose in spite so well as she did her son’s jacket, Emma flinched, surprising them both.

For a moment, just a flickering moment, Regina’s gaze appeared to soften, seeing something in the blonde’s eyes, shoulders, way she held herself, the way she held that ridiculous jacket that spoke more volumes than any book on Henry’s bookshelf.

“Of course I did,” Regina repeated, her words softer than any velvet, dark eyes softening with as much of a sheen. Doing her best to clear her throat of the thick lump that had so stubbornly caught there, Emma averted her gaze from those eyes, and laid the jacket back down on the bed with a careful touch that Regina had never seen her use with her own awful leather jackets that tended to be slung, hung or thrown over the backs of chairs. The feeling of that intense stare prickled Emma, burned through leather and cotton and skin alike right through to the turmoil underneath. She didn’t dare to look up, to look back, fearing as much what Regina might find through such a gaze.

“Right…” Emma finally managed to force out through the silence. If either of them noticed her inflection being a fraction higher than usual, they did not mention it.

Perhaps purely out of habit, as much as anything else, Regina stepped closer and brushed a stray fleck of flint from the exposed lapel of Henry’s now-folded jacket. It was a movement so precise, so practised and probably done a thousand times before to the point she must not have even thought about it as she leaned over.

Yet, Emma had to tell herself forcefully, as she felt the brush of Regina’s arm against her own, that it wasn’t as purposefully possessive as it seemed. For every scrape, every stray thread, every speck of dust caused by Emma’s careless exploits, there Regina would always be waiting to dust him off after, to clean off and care for the clothes and the kid who wore them. A fact that gave her both relief and an unrelenting ache inside in almost equal measure. As worried as Regina might have claimed to be, Emma couldn’t help wondering how much of that constant fear of losing him also obscured her from seeing how she was always there.

Smooth expensive fabric of a blazer likely only worn once or twice and the old worn leather of Emma’s own jacket that had endured a lifetime was all that separated skin to skin contact – was all, and was everything - as Regina straightened herself again, unnecessarily dusted down her already impeccable skirt as if she too needed something to do with her hands for just a moment. Emma’s own clammy palms clenched to fists at her sides, blunt nails digging into the creases of her palms, tight and taut. If she gripped hard enough, the prickling pain of her nails just might detract from the inexplicable pool of warmth that had gathered deep inside from the brush of such closeness. A warmth both impossibly familiar and completely foreign to the Sheriff as she rocked back and forth on the heels of her boots. And with such feelings came all too familiar itch, the urge to run far, far in the opposite direction of finding out what it meant…

“Care to enlighten me as to the reason for this visit, Sheriff, or shall I have to prise it out of you like a tooth?” Regina asked, with a not entirely feigned sigh.

From the cut of the jibe, Emma knew the expression on her own face was tantamount to the way one would look prior to a dental extraction. So intense had her focus been on trying to smother the tumultuous feelings tossing around inside herself, she hadn’t thought s much to school her outward emotions also. Nevertheless, she was grateful for the slightly awkward return to the expected banter after the uneasy silence had lingered for so long – too long. Seeing Regina’s eyes flicker, however briefly, to her fists still held at her sides, Emma shoved her hands into her pockets – as much to avoid the gaze, as to avoid being waylaid by any other stray objects or ruminations in the room.

“You’re needed at the Town Hall,” Emma finally croaked out, inwardly cursing the ever-so-slightly rusted aspect of her voice. Regina’s brow raised, obviously awaiting further elaboration for such a vague answer, but Emma turned on her heel, headed back toward the doorway, the sudden urge to leave, to flee from this house and all its oppressive things coiling uncomfortably inside her like a spring prepped to snap or spiral out of control with every prolonged second or step. She wasn’t surprised to hear the click of Regina’s heels behind her, but she made no move to turn back around even as Regina spoke.

“What mess has your mother made for us to clean up this time, that couldn’t have waited, that you’ve felt compelled to come to tell me in person- Emma?” Regina’s sarcastic quipping cut short just as Emma’s hand found the door handle, and Emma tried her best to ignore the voice in her head telling her to recognise that tint of concern to those last two syllables.

“Gotta get back,” Emma replied, too hastily for either of them to believe it. If she looked up from the door now, she knew she would see those dark eyes staring back, scoring deep, searching for answers in cracks and crevices that Emma always tried her damned hardest to conceal.

Before Regina could open her mouth, let alone say the words what’s the rush, Emma had pulled the door open – with perhaps a little more force than was necessary, and a breathless ‘see you there’ – and set off down the driveway at a near-impossible pace. Her fingers flexing down at her sides as though the repetitive motion could wear the memory of the coat-fabric from her fingertips, could shake away the unfathomable prickling warmth humming in her blood, and rub away the bruising half-moons setting deep into her palms, leaving Regina disconcerted, standing in the open doorway, to watch as she disappeared.

To be continued...possibly...

#once upon a time #emma swan #regina mills #emma x regina #swen #sq #swan queen #henry mills #this is what my brain comes out with at 3am #what is my life and my mental state #let’s explore through fanfic cuz that’s healthy right hahah

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luxuryandlilacs · 10 months

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The Art of Elegance: Decor

Creating an elegant living space enhances the overall ambiance and reflects your personal style. Here are some tips to bring elegance and luxury in our homes:

Simplicity in design: Embrace minimalist aesthetics, clean lines, and uncluttered spaces. Avoid excessive ornamentation and opt for a harmonious color palette.

Attention to details: Incorporate well-chosen accents like fresh flowers, tasteful artwork, and refined decor items that add a touch of luxury and refinement.

Quality materials and textures: Invest in high-quality furnishings and fabrics that exude elegance and provide a sense of comfort and luxury.

Here are some videos that can inspire you!

youtube

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wafflepatterns · 11 months

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Meet new sewing pattern <Kanoko> Tote bag set

Meet the new item from Waffle Patterns Tote bag set <Kanoko> sewing pattern. This is a fun and functional tote bag 3 sisters set with many pockets. All sizes are perfect for daily use. Please make your favourite size with your favourite fabric. Those can be made with a relatively small amount of fabric, so, it is also nice to use your leftover fabrics from your stash.

3 sizes are available; L - grocery size, M - commuter size, and S - accessory size. The grocery size is quite large and enough for supermarket or fabric shopping. The commuter size is suitable for daily use and the size for about 10″ iPad and other small things like a make-up pouch, wallet, or snacks. The accessory size is a very cute mini size for small staffs like a lip balm or candy.

L and M are basically the same design. Both have large 3D-shaped pockets on the front, side pockets with pleats, and a small pocket on the back. There are 2 kinds of functional inside pockets, too. There are 2 options for the opening. The L size sample shows magnet fastener + strap + side release buckle opening. The M sample features a zipper opening. You can add a shoulder strap on M size.

S size has also front/back and side pockets and a very small inside pocket. The closure is a magnet/snap fastener and an inside closure with tape+button.

The pattern is drafted for woven fabrics. Mid-heavy weight woven durable fabrics are suitable. like duck, twill, denim, linen, canvas or décor weight fabric etc. I think waxed fabrics or water repellent outdoor fabrics are great options, too. For the lining, plain cotton or linen will be a good option.

Depending on your fabric and your design intention, please consider using additional interfacing on the bag panels for adding extra strength or body.

Here are my sample’s materials.

The shell fabric of smoky pink samples is mixed twill. I wanted to add body on M size, so I used woven mid weight interfacing on bag panels. For L size, I only use interfacing on the facing parts to keep it light weight. I also made a sample of M size with mid weight denim + fusible fleece combo for stable shape.

The red and yellow plaid set are made with wool coating. Those are all leftover of my winter projects. I used woven interfacing on the panels on the M size. The lining is plain cotton.

Again, please consider the material combination depending on your fabric and design intention.

The samples are using 30mm~40mm webbing for the handles and straps. If you cannot find perfect colour or width, making those with contrast fabrics are the option.

I used the shoulder strap from ready made bags, but you can make them by yourself, too.

For additional strength, I added the plastic plates on the base of M and S size. The special materials for the bag base are sold at notion stores, but I used plastic plate cutting from old clear files and ice cream package.

Please choose suitable materials/parts for your design and shell fabrics. I strongly recommend checking actual material samples as much as possible and experimenting your fabrics before start the project.

<other>

For smoky pink samples, I used twill tape on the pocket opening of side and back pockets for strengthen and as a design accent. It is also good option if your fabric is too stiff or thick.

********************* The sewing pattern includes 17 pages of instructions and all the sewing processes are described with detailed illustrations. The pattern files are available for both home printers (A4 or US letter) and copyshop(A0/A1 format).

You can check other photos of this model on my Flickr page.

The Tote bag set -Kanoko- (3 sizes) PDF sewing pattern is available here. Also in the Etsy shop.

Special discount price until 13th June 2023 (CEST) with other popular patterns. No discount code is needed! The sale page is here.

***** Special offer +17.5EUR for Paper pattern and free shipping Paper pattern + PDF option is available with plus 17.5EUR. *The paper includes only the pattern, please print out the instructions by yourself or read it with your tablet or PC. The PDF + Paper listing page is here.

Enjoy your sewing!

(Japanese post here 日本語ポストはこちら).

**********************

follow me! Instagram /// Facebook /// Shop /// Pinterest //// Newsletter

#sewing #wafflepatterns #sewing patterns #DIY fashion #other tip #other tips #tote bag #diy tote bags

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englass · 2 years

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Plains and Valleys

Pairing(s): John Seed x Deputy/Reader

Warning(s): John is his own warning; Possessive/Obsessive Behaviour; John being creepy; Stalking; kind-of Crack, this isn’t taken all that seriously; Not Beta’d; Experimental Piece; NSFW/Explicit, my first (and likely only) attempt at smut -- please kindly let me know if there’s anything else I should warn of here, I don’t know what I’m doing.

Word Count: 4,020

A/N(s): The title is basically a placeholder for while I was writing this because I had no idea what to name it... and truly, I can’t be asked to think of something better for a piece that only exists to see if I can write smut (spoilers: I can’t, but I’m not letting a completed piece rot away in my docs just because I’m embarrassed; I worked and spent time on this damnit!).

On another note, I was gonna just give this piece over as my contribution to WIP day that @derelictheretic was kind enough to tag me in, but decided against it. I’ll post a proper response and WIP later this week or next, so bear with me please hun! Just wanted to get this out there first.

- - -

John had a problem.

Well, he had many problems. Not least of all his growing frustration at the continued resistance from the Fairgraves' in his pursuit for the deed to their ‘establishment’. He also had been unable to play with Affirmation as regularly as he would have liked, so that put him in an even fouler mood than usual. And he wasn't going to even think about the stress he was starting to feel with his brother constantly breathing down his neck; always questioning his actions as though he were a child constantly getting into trouble and needing twenty-four hour monitoring, always asking after the progress of things that take time. A lot of time.

John may have a substantial amount of money at his disposal, but that does not mean he can work miracles.

Not all of the time, at least.

And his problems don’t stop there, oh no. Despite what many likely thought of him (and what a stroke to his ego that is, knowing that people think of him) John was well aware of his problems, his faults. He’d spent a lot of time getting intimate with them, after all; and every now and again they'd crop up like daisies, weeding their way to the surface yet again. He’d become rather good at managing them, if he said so himself, but even John wasn’t perfect (he was damn close to it though, as many would agree). And one fault he hadn’t quite been able to trim back was his tendency to fixate on things; obsess.

He obsesses over his plane, over its upkeep and maintenance, its flight records, the slightest scratch that wasn't there the day before-- how the fuck did that get there!?

He obsesses over the details on the manifestos he’s given, the contracts he’s made, dates and times for resource collection, rotations, their members' personal records (he denies having those), PR management, expenditures and everything in between.

He obsesses over his home, the décor, the colours and lighting, materials used, the whole aesthetic. How he presents himself, the clothes and brands he wears (it’s vain but he needs those creature comforts), his posture, his presence, his overall look that creates an identity that just screams nothing but John.

He obsesses over things.

He knows he does. It’s a faulty blessing.

And he has found something new to obsess over.

John has had a few run-ins with the local Deputies of Hope County in the past. Mostly Joey Hudson, delightful as she is, but ordinarily he doesn’t think too much of them. After all, he’s untouchable and they all know it. There’s no reason to worry about them, let alone waste his precious free time (what little he gets of it) thinking about them. They’re insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Nothing but an inconvenience, an annoyance at most. Completely irrelevant.

But then he saw her.

Standing there, innocuous, looking out at something (for something? Nothing?) in the distance.

There’s a hitch, the catch of a stilted breath.

Where they were keeping her hidden he has no idea, but he is taken the moment he catches that rogue glance of her.

And, strangely, he doesn't know why.

Sure, John and his brothers have been in this County for a good while now and he has never seen her before, so it’s perfectly normal for him to be curious about the unfamiliar face in town. Nothing wrong with that, it’s innocent enough.

Except there’s everything wrong with that.

Because that’s not it.

He can’t even blame his wandering eyes on her appearance; she’s wearing that drab uniform that even a charity shop wouldn’t take, and it does nothing to enhance whatever natural beauty she may have hidden underneath it. Although, the girl-next-door look she gives off is begrudgingly cute (if he dared to utter the word unironically).

Honestly, she’s not the type of woman that he typically would have paid any special attention to back in his lawyer days. Fucked her stupid maybe, for the extra notch in his bedpost, but he likely wouldn’t have taken her number or thought too much about her afterwards. Relegated to just another lay in a long line of bed partners that he doesn’t remember all the names of.

To be blunt, she isn’t anything special.

And maybe that’s part of the appeal, what hooks him in. Because she is different; unassuming and uncomplicated, modest to a point of simplicity. And yet there is something about her that he can’t actively see or name from his spot across the street that has drawn him in without even trying. And he doesn’t know what or why.

It’s as infuriating as it is intriguing.

Perhaps there is some iota of truth in what Joseph had said to him a while ago, John supposed silently to himself at the time: the simplest of things can be beautiful, in their own unconventional ways.

Although his brother could have said as much with far less words, verses, and vague allusions to a potential future that might never be-- a spark of sudden change that sets a new course in motion; scales tipped by the most consuming of emotions; scorched by a soul so deceptively unremarkable that no one would have thought to believe just how uniquely special they would become--

…

……

… Huh…

John creates a special slot in his increasingly hectic schedule just for her from then on out.

He goes out of his way to find more reasons to harass and bother the local population, all in a fruitless attempt to get lucky and have her answer their call for aid and come and tell him what a bad boy he’s being. (Annoyingly she never turns up, though.)

He makes calls and pulls some strings to the businesses he’s procured, makes inquiries to anyone that would listen to him, including those doing menial tasks or even going through their Atonement (they don’t understand the relevancy of his questioning and he may have been a little harsher with them than he should’ve been because of it), and all in the name of his personal investigation into her.

After all, he had argued to himself in front of a cork board covered with documents and pictures of her with a feverish flavour, what sort of Herald would he be if he didn't know everything about everyone living in his-- their, his and his brothers, soon-to-be County?

His invasive and not completely legal search into this new Deputy (and she is new it turns out, freshly transferred in fact) goes on for a full, nonstop month before -- during one of his totally-random-and-not-planned stops into town -- he discovers something else about her.

When he first saw his Deputy (and doesn’t that feel good to say) she was alone, leaning against the wooden beam of the Sheriff’s Department’s porch and staring out into the distant fields; the late afternoon sun haloing her figure in its golden warmth, its light making the colour of her eyes blaze bright and her hair shine silkily. The perfect picture of ease.

This time, when he finally manages to spy another in-person look at her, he finds that she has company. She’s standing next to the ever friendly Hudson, posture held strong by an understated confidence and arms casually crossed beneath her bust, an amused smile on her decidedly pretty face as Hudson talks animatedly about something that he can’t hear.

And she’s looking up at her.

John blinks, and blinks again.

He’s definitely seen her file, he even remembers glossing through her medical records (which he would most assuredly deny having if anyone asked), so he knows how tall she is. But for some reason it apparently hadn’t quite registered to him until now what that would look like in a physical comparison between the two of them.

He knows that the lovely Hudson is a couple of inches shorter than him, not too far off from meeting him eye-to-eye. His Deputy, from what he can see, is about a full head shorter than Hudson. Which would put her, what, roughly just about eye-to-chest with him...?

He thinks about it. Thinks about her next to him, imagines what that would look like. Thoughts surprisingly innocent as he wonders after clichés of reaching for something that she can’t reach, of cocooning her in his arms as he effortlessly wrangles her into his lap. Envisions the domesticity of easily resting his head on top of hers as he holds her from behind, slotting himself into the mould of her figure like matching puzzle pieces, perfectly meant to be and belong…

A high pitched, shaky sound slips free at the mental reel.

It’s not a secret the type of life that John used to live. He has been with numerous types of women, something he used to take a great deal of pride in, and has indulged in and explored his fair share of kinks in the comfort of expensive silk sheets. But who would have guessed that the former playboy, John Duncan now John Seed, would have a thing for domestic bliss.

Or rather, domestic bliss with little. ol’. her.

John makes the executive decision then and there to talk to his Deputy as soon as possible. Preferably alone. Without interference.

It feels like forever before he gets the opportunity.

A week later, on a daily walk through Falls End that has only admittedly become a thing in order to check up on the lucky woman of his blazing affections (I am not stalking her, Jacob, he had grounded out menacingly to his accusing older brother over Sunday dinner; who proceeded to look on at John with a slow quirk of an eyebrow), he finds his ever elusive Deputy resting around the corner of the Sheriff’s Department’s building. Eyes closed, head down, arms crossed, and safely concealed in the shade; unsuspectingly calm in her desired time alone.

And John is quick to ruin it.

He can’t help himself, he really can’t. The opportunity is here and he would be remiss to let it pass him by.

Even if she does look rather serene.

He's seen a few photos of her, more than a few actually-- albums worth even, so he knows what she looks like up close. He even printed one out (it’s a favourite of his, a near perfect replica of the first time he saw her) and has it framed on his bedside table; but it turns out no amount of photos quite do the real her justice.

The closer he gets to her the more he notices how petite she is, how the loose yet deceptively form-fitting hug of her bland uniform subtly accentuates the curves and slopes of her modest figure; the daintiness of her fingers as they rest against the exposed, smooth skin of her arms; that familiar magnetic draw snapping to life in the colour of her eyes as they lazily open, sparkling as he gets closer and she looks up at him, wide and wondering.

Innocent.

Oh, he was so wrong about her, he realises wondrously. Did her such a disservice in his initial judgement of her all those weeks ago. She is far from average.

And being here in front of her, close enough to touch, to be able to easily reach out and trap her against the wall and between his arms if he so wanted to, safely protected under the cage of his form -- her neck craning back in order to comfortably gaze up at him, meeting his eyes as he stares down at her…

It makes something inside him go wild.

John lays the charm on quick and swift, hand attractively running through his hair as a practised but handsome smile lights up his face, eyes twinkling through his lidded gaze with an aweing hunger he knows he is failing to keep hidden.

Getting the first word in, he leans close to the wall, not quite putting his full weight against it (his shirt was expensive) but close enough to allow him a moment of privacy with her by limiting her field of view to only him. Blocking out everyone-- everything else with his taller frame (and doesn’t that thought spark a sudden twitch of interest) as he eagerly monopolises her attention.

Daringly he edges further into her space while he talks ardently to her, truly basking in the unexpected pleasure he gets in watching her unintentionally baring her neck to him; being so beautifully submissive for him without consciously realising it. Amusement colouring his tone in pale notes as he watches the way her pretty eyes darken and narrow at his progressive disturbance and invasion of her time and space.

Fuck. He didn’t know it would be this intoxicating to be so close to her.

Even as he dances through conversation with playful words and hinting remarks, becomes enamoured by the soothing intonation of her voice as she is dragged along with guarded comments and wary retorts, he can’t stop the way his mind ever so sinfully wanders…

It really would be so easy to have her up against this wall. To crowd her in with his frame on all sides and her vision filled with nothing but him. The centre of her universe and attention, him; and his hers. The concept of that sort of all-encompassing intimacy and devotion makes John shudder. Hungry all the more for it and the woman that has unknowingly given him a taste of what it could all be and become, of what that level of pure, unadulterated want is inspiring in him.

He could easily have her against this wall. Have her looking directly skyward up at him as if he were her moon and stars, as he looks directly down at her-- his entire world and more.

Snatch her thigh and hoist it up towards his waist. Have her balancing precariously on the tips of her toes and clutching desperately at him, trusting John to help hold and support her and keep her steady as he shields her from the world around them. Hides her away from the unworthy just as the unworthy have hidden her away from him. His lips sweetly latching onto hers, her taste finally on his tongue after all these weeks of wanting, involuntarily grounding his hips into hers as a desperate sound breaks within his throat.

Oh, John can visualise it now: the two of them breathing in each other's air, bodies flush as he tugs and pushes closer, her shirt riding up as it's snagged by the rough brickwork at her back, arching into him on an unsteady foot to escape its harsh bite. Teeth nipping teasingly at her lips and tongue licking moreishly into her mouth as his free hand roams down her stomach, pulls the rest of her shirt loose and fumbles in his eagerness with the buttons of her jeans, yanking the zipper down and shoving his hand below the waistband and into her underwear. Hearing her whine sweetly into his mouth as he feels just how wet she is for him, how much she wants him and how eagerly she welcomes him into her as he plunges his fingers into her slick cunt with a needy and quaking moan of his own.

Would she want it quick and rough? His fingers thrusting knuckle deep as he presses tight circles to her throbbing clit, teeth at her throat as he claws into her thigh held tightly in the dip of his waist. Listening to how her moans get higher, her breathing gets quicker, turning into desperate little gasps before he tugs his fingers free of her; lips devouring hers in quick apology as he battles to pull his aching cock free, cursing lowly against her lips as his slick covered fingers slip on the metal of his belt. She’d help him, he knows she would -- such a good girl --, nipping and kissing him back with wanton sounds as she bats his hand away, revelling in the noises he makes for her -- only for her, only ever for her -- as she pulls him free; rolling her hips until his cock catches on her slit and he’s thrusting home into her.

Only then -- while feeling her walls flex around him, mouth hanging open as they both bask in finally, finally being so intimately connected to one another -- would he finally hike her other leg up to wrap fully around his waist, fully supporting her weight and driving himself deeper into her, one of his arms coming up to press into the wall beside her, hand caringly slipping behind her head; bracketing her in. Shivering as her breath warms his neck and she cries out for him.

And considering her height… fuck, he can only imagine just how tight she’d be for him, chocking his cock as she squeezes him, milking him for all he’s worth until his teeth are stained red against her lovingly maimed neck. His hips snapping into hers with a guttural growl, panting sensual snarls of encouragement into her ear as he demands and begs in equal measure that she touch herself for him, dexterous fingers chasing her end as he chases his own until-- she’s coming around him with a high and shuddery keen. Her soft walls sucking him deeper into her, legs locking tighter around his waist and keeping him there as he spills himself into the back of her hot cunt with a strangled moan. Claiming her as his as he presses in closer, plugging her full with his cock and cum and praying that it’ll take--

…

……

… Huh.

He will definitely be exploring that at a later date…

Or perhaps she wouldn’t want it like that. Wouldn’t want him to be so rough and careless with her. Maybe she would want him to go slower, to be gentle-- to be good for her, to take his time and truly enjoy and appreciate every sweet beg and whimper that falls from her perfect lips. Perhaps she wouldn’t want to fuck him at the back of her shabby place of work, or even anywhere out in the open; maybe she would prefer privacy, for him to make love to her. Would want him to steal her away into his home, to carefully lay her out on his bed and unwrap her like a delicate gift, hands tracing teasing paths along her body before spreading her wide for his tasting pleasures. Taking his time to truly savour her unique flavour on his palette, wanton sounds pressed into sensitive flesh as he takes her throbbing clit into his mouth and sucks.

Broad strokes of his skilled tongue parting her lips and drinking her down, fingers firm as they hold onto the soft meat of her thighs and hips, thumbs rubbing soothing motions into her skin as he opens her up for him. Urges her with hot breathes, praising words, the flick of his tongue and the dip of his fingers into her wet heat, to cum for him; pleads with sound and touch and a greedy haze over his lust-darkened eyes. The gravel in his gluttonous voice vibrating into her, in love with how she reaches and cries out for him as he tells her how good she’s being for him, how badly he needs her to cum for him-- a debauched sound choking out of him as she does. Completely enraptured as she reaches the height of pleasure -- pleasure he brought her, that he will always strive to bring her --, bearing witness to his own personal God-given vision as he watches her writhe against his sheets and listens to her songs of praise, easing her down from that divine high and back into his devoted embrace.

Kissing a line up to her bitten lips, answering her mewls with soft coos and grounding touches, brushing over a nipple before taking the perky flesh into his mouth with a brief suck and fleeting skim of teeth, letting go with a lingering kiss before moving across and repeating the process to its twin. Reluctantly drawing away to playfully nip and press wet kisses into the column of her throat before letting her taste the tanginess of her juices on his tongue. Languidly kissing as he strokes her sides, writing indecipherable words of affection into her skin, content to let her enjoy the bliss of post-orgasm before he slowly pulls away, descending back down the line of her body with a husky, ‘one more, just one more for me, darling...’

John knows he wouldn’t stop at just ‘one more’ though. Hopefully she’d be generous enough to give him a few more before he finally slakes his need for her.

And hopefully she doesn't see the hard-on he’s now sporting after such vivid fantasies.

In a particularly bold move, temptation spurred into a fever from improper imaginings, John reaches for her; fixates on a strand of hair that has become untucked from behind her ear. She tenses, muscles coiling tight as she gives him the most suspicious look somebody has ever given him before. He’s actually rather offended. And very hurt.

But it’s sobering, in its own way. Because suddenly he can hear Joseph’s voice in his head from last Sunday (what a turn-off…), advising him that if he wanted to pursue a relationship with this Deputy that he was so smitten with then he needed to be gentle, considerate.

John may have done his ‘research’ on her, extensively so, but that did not mean that he was entitled or even deserving of her affections. He could not expect her to be on the same page as him, especially considering he had yet to even interact with her at that point. She may not have even heard of him yet, Joseph had speculated-- John and Jacob quietly sharing a disbelieving look. Everyone in the County knew their names, and with her being a Deputy there was no way she hadn’t heard of them.

Regardless, Joseph’s point still stood: if John wanted a genuine chance with her then he needed to soften himself, to be delicate, more tactful with her. Demonstrate that he can hear and see her for all that she is and can be, and that he accepts her without reservation.

Think of it like Atonement, Joseph had supplied sagely, fingers steepled, she needs to willingly give her confession over to you, John. Her affections. You can’t just take them.

And to Joseph’s credit, that actually made sense to John.

Atonement was all about accepting one’s sins, confessing them to another whom they trusted would never condemn nor judge them for their past actions or choices; unburdening themselves so they may be reborn pure and untainted for the hopeful future ahead of them. In that regard, his pursuit of his Deputy wasn’t too dissimilar.

So in that brief moment, in that flash of hurt as she steels herself against his considerate gesture and where John remembers Joseph’s words, he pauses. Convinces himself to go slower, to not try to grab at her like a spoiled brat reaching for things that weren't his-- yet. Reigns himself in enough so he doesn’t give her anymore of a reason to potentially be wary of him, to which he has very likely just given her quite a few. Trying in his own distinct way to smooth over her obvious distrust of him.

John knows he’s made mistakes throughout his life. Many would say he’s not a good man, and he wouldn’t necessarily disagree with them. But seeing and learning of her, of recalling his brother’s words and advice, of the many fantasies he’s had before and even during meeting her in this moment, he thinks he could change that. Knows that, if she would have him, if she gave him the chance, he’d be good. He’d be good for her.

Joseph always talks about love, about the power and control it wields over people and-- admittedly, John doesn’t completely get it.

But with her? For her? He thinks he just might.

…

He thinks he already does.

#can you tell i didn't know how to end this?#what a mess #plot is less than half baked #but hey i had fun with it so that's good #also #because i love ruining people's day #i can't help but read that first line in Jeremy Clarksons voice. makes this whole thing that bit funnier to me #oh and if anyone would like to draw a certain scene of John and a cork board that would be most appreciated #absolute pinnacle of me going silly with this fic #love it #also also #i was aiming to get this out for halloween because of how scary the writing is but i'm an hour late :(#very typical of me but i'm still disappointed #but it's okay i have my bed waiting for me so all is well lol #john seed x reader #john seed x deputy #john seed x female deputy #fanfic #fanfiction #my writing #fc5 fanfic #far cry 5 fanfiction #far cry 5 fanfic #tw: obsessive behavior #tw: stalking #tw: possessive behavior #don't feel like he's that possessive in this but still tagging just in case

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siyainterior · 23 days

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IBAIS MEDIA is a digital platform for Branding, Marketing & Services. We are a Develop Marketing platform that Specialized in Strategy, Creativity, Design and innovative technology.

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horrorlesbians · 9 months

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where do you source your collage materials they’re sooo good omg

all of those came from either magazines I was given that someone else didn’t want, old fashion/hair magazines from my mother, or home décor/fashion/beauty catalogs. I don’t think I’ve cut up any of the magazines I’ve purchased myself to use for a collage, at least not yet

#written in blood

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harmonyhealinghub · 4 months

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Feng Shui: Balancing Your Space for Harmony and Positive Energy Shaina Tranquilino January 5, 2024

In today's fast-paced, technology-driven world, finding balance and tranquility in our lives has become more important than ever. Feng Shui, an ancient Chinese practice dating back thousands of years, offers a unique approach to creating harmony and positive energy within our living spaces. Whether you're looking to improve your home or office environment, incorporating Feng Shui principles can have a profound impact on your overall well-being. At its core, Feng Shui is about the flow and arrangement of energy, known as "Qi," in our surroundings. By understanding how Qi moves through different spaces and how it interacts with elements such as light, colour, furniture placement, and natural materials, we can create an environment that supports and nurtures us.

One key aspect of Feng Shui is decluttering. Clutter not only overwhelms our physical space but also affects our mental state. According to Feng Shui principles, clutter blocks the flow of Qi and hinders opportunities from entering our lives. By removing unnecessary items from our surroundings and organizing our belongings thoughtfully, we can open up space for new possibilities.

Another fundamental principle of Feng Shui is balancing the five elements: wood, fire, earth, metal, and water. Each element represents specific qualities and characteristics that contribute to a harmonious environment. For example:

1. Wood symbolizes growth, vitality, and creativity. Incorporate wooden furniture or plants to introduce this element into your space.

2. Fire embodies passion, excitement, and transformation. Use candles or bright colours sparingly to bring in this element while avoiding overwhelming effects.

3. Earth signifies stability, nourishment, and grounding. Decorate with earthy tones such as beige or brown and include natural materials like stones or ceramics.

4. Metal represents clarity, precision, and efficiency. Introduce metallic accents or décor pieces made of metals like copper or silver to enhance this element.

5. Water embodies calmness, reflection, and abundance. Add a small fountain or mirror to create the illusion of water in your space.

Additionally, paying attention to the Bagua map can help guide you in optimizing different areas of your home or office. The Bagua is an energy map divided into nine sections, each corresponding to a specific area of life such as health, wealth, relationships, and career. By aligning these areas with their respective elements and enhancing them accordingly, one can attract positive energy and improve various aspects of life.

It's worth noting that Feng Shui is not about blindly following rules; it's about creating a space that resonates with you personally. While general principles are essential to consider, ultimately, trust your intuition and what feels right for you.

Incorporating Feng Shui principles into your living or working environment can bring numerous benefits. It can enhance overall well-being, boost productivity and creativity, foster harmonious relationships, increase abundance and prosperity, and promote better physical and mental health.

If you're new to Feng Shui or unsure where to start, consulting with a Feng Shui expert can provide valuable insights tailored to your specific needs. They can help assess your space and make recommendations based on its unique characteristics.

Remember that Feng Shui is a continuous process – regularly reassessing your space as circumstances change ensures that the energy remains balanced. By investing time and effort into creating a harmonious environment through Feng Shui practices, you'll find yourself surrounded by positive energy that supports your goals and aspirations.

#feng shui #feng shui harmony #positive energy spaces #balanced living #home wellness #energy flow #zen spaces #harmonious home #feng shui tips #positive vibes #balance your space #happy new year #feng shui new year

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isfjmel-phleg · 11 months

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Yet Another YJ comparison post: bedrooms! Because one's personal space can reveal a lot about them. I'm going to cover Tim's, Kon's, and Bart's rooms in this post and will look at the girls' rooms in another.

To keep this post from getting excessively massive (I've already maxed out the picture limit), I'm going to stick to bedrooms from before and during the run of YJ.

Tim

The earliest bedrooms we see for him are his dorm at boarding school and his guest bedroom at Wayne Manor. Since the former is rather generic by nature and the latter is not a space that Tim has creative control over, I'm going to skip them and concentrate on Tim's bedroom at Drake Manor, the mansion next door to Wayne Manor that Jack Drake buys shortly after he is released from the hospital after his wife's death and his injury.

This bedroom is therefore not one that Tim grew up in, and it reflects his current interests rather than his entire childhood.

An earlier view of the room that I ran out of space to include depicts it as light purple, but after that the décor becomes blue.

The furnishings are basic, but Tim's interests are represented in posters (basketball, football, and...a bikini-clad woman?) and the computer and research materials on his desk. He keeps a photo of his parents next to the computer, where he can see it while he works--he misses his mom and laments his parents' absence from his childhood, and he wants to keep them close.

(Robin 1993 #11)

With a change of artist comes a different layout. The window is now on the same wall as the bed. The poster has changed (NIN, for the band Nine Inch Nails), and there is now a dresser to the left of the bed with a golf trophy. Does Tim have any history playing golf?

(The girl here is Tim's girlfriend Ariana, who has crashed in his room overnight after some family conflict. Tim does the gentlemanly thing and sleeps in the guest bedroom, but the Drakes' housekeeper assumes the worst.)

(Robin 1993 #21)

Yet another artist, and while the layout is similar, the furnishings have changed. The dresser has been moved to the other side of the room and replaced by a wall of shelves containing books, a small TV, boxes, maybe some records, and a large speaker. Tim's bedspread is raspberry instead of blue. There's a nightstand with a phone on one side of the bed and another stand with a CD player and CDs on the other. An electric guitar stands in one corner. (Does he ever play it?) The floor is littered with laundry, magazines, a basketball, a tennis racket, shoes, a keyboard, a soda can, and CDs. A computer desk and stool are opposite the bed. The sports posters are gone; most of the posters seem to be for bands (Loaded, Westway, something about Gotham Beehive, and other names I can't make out--these seem to be fictional?), although there are one or two of women.

This room gives the impression that his primary interests are music and books. Notice that there are fewer sports-related items than before. Tim's interests are shifting, or he just doesn't have the time to stay invested in sports anymore.

(Robin 1993 #45)

The layout is similar here, but the floor is tidier, he has moved books to the phone nightstand, the band poster over the bed has changed (still a fictional group?), and the walls and bedspread are now in lifeless pale shades of green and blue. This room seems less occupied than previous views; Tim at this point is probably not home often enough to hang out here much.

(Robin 1993 #60)

The Drakes move briefly to an apartment in Keystone City. Tim's room here bears a lot of resemblance to the room he left behind. The walls are still blue. Note that the carpet has changed colors from beige to blue between issues! The red bedspread might be intended to be the same as the raspberry one, since exact shades vary by colorist. He even seems to have tried to recreate the arrangement of the furniture as much as possible. He prefers the familiar and misses home and thus is decorating his room accordingly.

(Robin 1993 #62)

(Robin 1993 #63)

After this, Tim is sent off to boarding school again, and his room there is pretty generic and not especially reflective of his interests (beyond a TV). As of #100, his family sells Drake Manor and moves back to their condo in downtown Gotham. We get a slight glimpse of Tim's room there, but it's not very detailed. It is blue.

Kon

His solo doesn't pay much attention to his domestic life, but we do get a glimpse of his room at the Compound, his home in Hawaii, when a school friend takes classmates on a tour of the house while he's away. It's a very generic room. Bed, dresser, desk, chair. Untidy piles of clothes and schoolwork. Blue walls, of course, but bright yellow, orange, and red bedding. The only evidence of his interests are in the ridiculous number of posters of women, and what might be a lava lamp? on the dresser.

He probably doesn't spend enough time in this room to be able to suit it to his interests beyond the minimum.

(Superboy 1994 #43)

However, at Cadmus, his room is much more personalized, probably to make up for its being basically a windowless metal box. There's a computer desk and chair. The desk and floor are littered with papers, food and drink containers, magazines, and a CD player. He has an electric guitar (which, like Tim's, we never see him play) and a large speaker, partially buried under a soda can and baseball cap. There's only one poster of a model now; instead the other posters are of Wonder Woman, Supergirl, Red Tornado, and maybe a band? Also a smiley face picture and the phrase "Step off!" (maybe a reference I don't get).

All very characteristic. Like Tim, he seems to be very into music. They're both messy, but he's messier and apparently eats in his room more often than Tim seems to. Who's to stop him? This room is the most privacy he ever gets.

Also note that probably most of his possessions are likely to be things he has bought himself from whatever allowance he's given from merch earnings and the salary Cadmus (hopefully) pays him. After all, he has no family to receive birthday and holiday gifts from.

(Superboy 1994 #68)

An new artist gives a different view of his room (and the dialogue demonstrates the difference between Kesel's Kon and Joe Kelly's Edgier take on the character).

The décor is entirely blue, very similar to what we've seen in Tim's room. He has a bed with a built-in shelf headboard and nightstands, as well as a shallow step around the perimeter of the mattress. He has a few books, a comic, various video game systems, a toy robot, some kind of gauntlet thing, loose papers, a teddy bear, abandoned slices of pizza, a phone, a lamp, a Pokemon ball, a CD player and lots of CDs, and a Superman alarm clock. His posters are of Final Fantasy XX (not a real thing!) and Nine Inch Nails, the same as Tim. There also seems to be at least one small drawing, which might be his work.

Notice how the posters have evolved! Music is clearly a big deal for him, along with video games. The Superman alarm clock is a suitable symbol of responsibility. I have no idea whether someone gave him that bear or he bought it himself, but I love that he has one item that is a child's possession, not so much a teenager's. He is, after all, technically very young. Despite all efforts of this artist to visually age him up a little.

(Superboy 1994 #83)

(Superboy 1994 #86)

After he moves to the Kents' farm, we get to see his room there when Cassandra Cain stops by to visit. It's probable that this is Clark's old room. The furniture might have been his, and so might the high school poster and pennants and books. But everything else is very Kon. He's got a TV, video game systems, a computer, and a CD player with headphones. Scattered about are a baseball bat, crumpled papers, books, a pen, a baseball cap, shoes and laundry, magazines, a baseball, CDs, an unidentified bottle, and a framed photo. The posters are of Wonder Woman, bands, video games, and a model (labeled as Cindy...Crawford, perhaps?).

Notably absent is food and drink (aside from the bottle). He's got parents now, and Martha Kent probably does not allow eating in bedrooms!

This is probably the warmest and most youthful of his rooms, a very different feel from his Cadmus quarters.

(Batgirl 2000 #41)

Bart

I ran out of room to share this panel, but the earliest living quarters we see for Bart are in Impulse #1, where there's a flashback to Iris rescuing him from the lab where he is being kept in VR. She is sitting and hugging him in a room where there appears to be only a bed. Bart owned nothing in the 30th century, but he will more than make up for it after moving in with Max.

His first room is in Max's house. Its most striking feature is the loft bed that has room for a mattress and extra living space on top, along with built-in bookcases, a desk, and a dresser. Max could just as well have provided him with an ordinary bed, but instead he gives him something unusual and fun. Was the bed purchased from a store? Or was it custom-built (perhaps by Max himself)? We don't know.

Bart has a lot of stuff for someone who at this point has probably only been in the 20th century for several months. Max and very likely Bart's family too have been very generous.

In the bookcases over the bed, there are egg-shaped objects (footballs? something else?), boxes, books, various containers, and sunglasses. The bookcase near the door includes a speaker, more books, binoculars, baseballs, a slingshot, a helmet, a baseball glove, boots, and other items I can't precisely identify. On the floor are a novelty lamp, a mop, and a skateboard. On the desk are books, a billiard ball, another lamp, and a framed photo (Iris? Linda?). There's a trash can by the door. Hanging up are a poster of what appears to be Cookie Monster, a Manchester street sign, another poster (of a girl? the only time we see anything like this in Bart's room--it becomes a mirror in later issues), and some sticky notes. The walls are blue, and he has a Star Wars bedspread that never shows up again.

(Impulse #12)

Here the bedspread is raspberry. Up on the loft are a tennis ball, magazines and books, an alarm clock, a boot, and some crumpled trash. There's a window with white curtains opposite the bed and a blue rug with raspberry trim on the floor. The room itself is quite narrow, which justifies the need for the space-saving loft bed. Hanging on the wall are a basketball hoop, a poster of a bird, and a Route 66 sign. Scattered on the floor are books, a baseball bat and ball, a box of cereal, a boot, CDs, laundry, a tennis shoe (three shoes and none of them match!), a Gameboy, a rolled-up paper, playing cards, a video game controller, a newspaper with the headline "Mars Attacks," a small trampoline, some electronics, a flashlight, a golf club, a skateboard, a baseball cap, a soccer ball, and a baseball beanbag chair, along with some other things I couldn't identify.

Tim is messy, Kon is messier, but Bart is messier than both of them put together! Note the prevalence of baseball-related items, which is surprising considering that he will play baseball for the first time two issues later in #20.

(Impulse #18)

Bart and Max eventually move into Max's daughter Helen's house, where they remain for most of the series. The design of Bart's new room becomes inconsistent from here on. The glimpse we get of it here shows an ordinary bed with a yellow bedspread. The walls are blue because heaven forbid a boy's room be any other color. The signs on the door--the Superman poster, "Bart's room," and "No Max Allowed!"--are one of the few details that will remain consistent later.

(Impulse #44)

A closer look shows that he still does not have the loft bed. The poster of the Flash and "Man...or Astroman?" are new. The floor is littered with laundry, shoes, a video game system, a baseball, magazines, books, a cup, and a robot toy. His tastes haven't really changed since the move.

(Impulse #46)

A different artist makes the room wood-paneled, with Superman and Flash posters, a bookcase, and a Birmingham pennant. Still no loft bed! His room never looks like this again.

(Impulse #50)

A few issues later, the room changes again. The floors are hardwood instead of carpeted, the walls are grey/beige, and the loft bed makes a triumphant comeback with some modifications. Maybe it took them a while to reassemble it in the new room.

The amount of stuff in this room (which is much larger than the room in Max's house) is staggering. We've seen the posters and the basketball hoop before. The beanbag is now blue. So is the bedspread. As for everything else, it includes but is not limited to:

a mouse cage on the dresser covered in cloths, a tube of toothpaste, a baseball, and a contain with a Batman logo

a lot of laundry

a cereal box and scattered bits of food

a video tape

a piece of wood...?

a basketball

a keyboard (which we've never seen him play)

a "Home Bungee Jumping Kit"

a game controller

a pneumatic tube from a bank?

a fast food cup

a dart gun and darts

a skateboard

playing cards

snacks

school books

a flashlight

a stuffed monster holding a hockey puck and covered in darts

an action figure (from Star Trek?)

board games including Candy Land and Monopoly

an electronic thing with a screen and antenna--a small TV maybe?

an acoustic guitar with broken strings (which he does know how to play)

a booklet on "How to build a flying machine from vacuum parts!" along with the vacuum and flying machine

a golf club

a box of blocks

a baseball, glove, and bat

a Visitor's Guide to Rocket City, Alabama

a checker/chess board

a model rocket

a Batman mask

a photo album

a car tire

a sled with the name "Rosebud"

These items reflect a wide variety of interests and distractions that he has flitted among.

(Impulse #56)

Another artist simplifies the room and returns to the regular bed.

(Impulse #58)

But it returns to its former state later on, with some recognizable features. The baseball beanbag chair, the rug (which has changed color, along with the now teal bedspread), the Monopoly game, the small trampoline. The walls are blue again. He has two Afterlife Avenger posters (his favorite comic book hero). There's a TV connected to a VCR and multiple video game systems on the loft. Scattered around are a baseball bat, a mostly eaten pizza, discs and cartridges, a basketball, comics, a Pokemon ball, laundry, marbles, the folded drawing Carol gave him, her necklace, and a diary.

Bart doesn't seem the sort to keep a diary, but Carol did refer to keeping her drawing of him safe in her diary after having to rescue it from his room. Could this be her diary that he has somehow got hold of and is keeping as a means of keeping her close now that she can't see him again?

Also note that the signs that were formerly on his door are gone and have been replaced by an orange sign simply saying "Bart's room." The absence of "No Max Allowed," which was last seen around the time of the Mercury Falling arc, suggests a change in their relationship.

(Impulse #76)

Shortly after this, Bart undergoes further horrors and sinks into depression. And his room is eerily tidy and uncluttered. What happened? Does it hurt too much to look at everything he used to get enjoyment out of, so he has put it all away?

(Impulse #78)

Whatever the case, the last time we see this room, it's full of packing boxes because Bart is having to move in with the Garricks. The loft bed hasn't been dismantled, so it might be staying at Helen's house. We do not get to see his room at the Garricks' place.

It's also worth mentioning that the room also changes while Thad lives there and it becomes his personal space. Almost all of Bart's belongings have been put away, except for anything hanging on the wall, the mouse cage on the dresser, desk supplies, and a framed photo of Bart with Max and Helen. The photo is absent while Thad is using the desk, probably because he didn't want to look at it!

Thad was raised in a computer-filled lair with no personal possessions or décor of any kind, so the clutter in Bart's room was probably annoying him enough to make him want to get it all out of sight. He wouldn't be used to living in such an environment, and he clearly prefers to function in practically spartan conditions. Other than tidying up, he makes no changes to the contents of the room to reflect his own tastes (reasonable, since he's playing a part).

(Impulse #63)

Carol's comment about not knowing about this desk is apt--we haven't seen it before, and it seems redundant with the desk under the loft bed.

(Impulse #65)

#comicsposting again #YJ: so glad we found each other #TD: he lived so others wouldn't die #KE: all I got is who I am #BA: fastest attitude alive #this took FOREVER you guys #now to get to work on the girls' rooms

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