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mothandpidgeon · 2 hours
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April Showers Challenge 
[noun: in parts of the northern hemi, an april shower is rain during the month of april]
for this little challenge, we want it to rain! so, all you have to do is write a story (minimum word count 500), create a moodboard, gif or art where it is raining / rain is present (that is a must!). 
below, i've found some prompts if you want or need, but creativity is all up to you. the only condition for the story is that it must be raining and must include at least ONE pedro pascal character (no rpf pls). how you interpret that is up to you <winks>  
[I’ve wanted to do this for an impossibly long time (and we all know how much i love writing about the rain) but the most important thing here is to have fun. if it becomes stressful, please don't force yourself to post!]
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SO, THE CHALLENGE? 
It must include raining in some capacity.
The challenge is open from 1st April to 30th April (ideally 👀, but i'm never going to stop people from posting late)
Your story must include ONE pedro pascal character (or more, if you so wish)
Add appropriate warnings if needed (dubcon/noncon etc) 
Please use hashtag: #UndercoverAprilShowersChallenge (so I can find it for the masterlist) 
OTHER INFO:
⇶ There is no maximum word count. ⇶ You can share MORE THAN ONE creation, but it has to have different characters (muahahhaa) ⇶ A masterlist will be put together at the end.  ⇶ You post your story on your own blog, using your own banner (I’m just kickstarting some fun). 
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PROMPTS:
some prompts you can use, but don't feel you must (you can amend to fit your story if you use, also)
⤬ Person gets caught in a rainstorm and gets sick.  ⤬ Both/all parties get caught in the rain.  ⤬ "Kiss me in the rain. Please?" ⤬ First kiss in the rain/forgiving kiss in the rain.  ⤬ Driving in the rain. ⤬ Having a lazy day at home.  ⤬ Childhood friends reunite after years apart, reminiscing about their shared memories while taking a nostalgic walk in the rain. ⤬ Two strangers take shelter together under the same umbrella. ⤬ A couple escapes to a cosy cabin in the woods during a weekend getaway, as the rain drums on the roof.
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npt for moots: @thetriumphantpanda @psychedelic-ink @swiftispunk @goodwithcheese @secretelephanttattoo @rhoorl @hellishjoel @morallyinept @perotovar @fuckyeahdindjarin @janaispunk @mrsmando @5oh5 @joelsgreenflannel @joelscruff @joelscurls @ezrasbirdie
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mothandpidgeon · 15 hours
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Wip wednesday
Thanks for the tags @schnarfer and @ezrasbirdie
I’ve been plugging away at Outlaw!Joel but I was distracted by a shiny new idea…demon!Ezra. I’m calling it While the Baby Sleeps. I’ve missed Ezra! I’m going to keep that sneak peek under wraps for now to motivate me to finish it. Anyway, here’s some upcoming bits from The Outlaws I guess.
“What’ll you do with the money?” you ask.
“Don’t know,” he answers. “Fixing to retire. S’pose it’ll go with the rest I got stashed away.”
Your mind conjures up a bucolic scene. Joel Miller— his hair longer, greyer— set in a rocking chair, sucking on a pipe and looking out over a golden pasture. It’s funny. Even though it’ll come at your expense, even though you don’t want him to have any peace after your gone, the picture of it feels soothing.
You huff a laugh and say, “Ain’t that nice.”
No pressure tag @rulexofxnines @goodwithcheese @lowlights @sp00kymulderr
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mothandpidgeon · 15 hours
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This was a hard choice. I want them all 😭 but also you deserve a break!!
(Help me choose) WIP Wednesday
Thank you so much @wannab-urs @janaispunk and @alwaysmicado for the tags!
Ok, so I’ve promised myself little writing break because I worked out the other day I’ve been back writing fiction (after a casual twenty-year break) for four months & in the time, I’ve written over 70,000 words and my brain needs a rest or it’s going to explode.
Having said that apparently, I’m a fic addict because I have a few rolling around my brain, so rather than a previews of WIPs, perhaps you could help me decide which one to start first (after a little rest).
Options are:
1. A follow up to my Joel fic Illicit Affairs - working title is This is my trying and would explore what happens with Joel and reader after he leaves his wife.
2. A 3 part mini series of dark, angsty Dieter with make-up artist reader, exploring the two we met in The One
3. Sexy shower with Javi P Drabble (that’s it, that the idea, thanks @sp00kymulderr)
Let me know what you reckon!
Np for wip Wednesday: @pascalssbabyy @katareyoudrilling @luxurychristmaspudding @sp00kymulderr @mothandpidgeon @freelancearsonist @ghotifishreads @magpiepillsjunior @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @ozarkthedog
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mothandpidgeon · 15 hours
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I’m so psyched for both of theseeee
wip wednesday
tagged by @gasolinerainbowpuddles @swiftispunk and @perotovar<3<3
between my uterus attacking me and my back lower back just deciding to give out (literally what is going onnnn) it's been a struggle to get anything at all written, but i've worked some on bright lights part 4 and a one shot i've called born hungry, which is kind of a sinister but soft post-outbreak dark joel that no one seems to be super interested in when i mention him on polls but i'm obsessed with him so i guess that one's for meeeee.
somewhat-smutty snippets and one instance of baby girl under the cut<3
from born hungry
Joel pulls a little chair up the foot of the bed, settling himself just between your legs. “Gimme your hand,” he says.  You don’t want to.  “Please,” he says. You swallow harshly, and thrust your hand in front of you. “Not gettin’ cut up by these claws.”  He produces a pair of slightly rusted nail clippers, and you breathe out, meaning to take the clippers from him, but he grabs your hand. You’ve never had anyone cut your nails before—not in your adult life, at least.  “Why?” You ask, but he doesn’t answer, just gently, carefully clips your nails, one by one, making sure no jagged ends or hangnails are left behind. When he’s finished he cups your face, stroking your cheek with his thumb. “God bless, you are pretty, baby girl,” he says.
from bright lights pt 4
“Can I see you?” Dieter asks. “I’m right here,” you point out. It takes a few seconds for you to realize that’s not what he means. He smiles gently regardless and kisses your neck. “Oh. I mean…yeah. Yes.” He’s already toying with the hem of your shirt, but he senses hesitation. “What’s wrong?” “Well, just, um.” How exactly do you word this delicately? You suppose you don’t have to. “My tits are like…real tits. Like they’re not lifted or perky, they’re just big thirty-two year old tits, so if you’re thinking—” Dieter isn’t even paying attention anymore. He’s hiked your shirt up already, groaning as he cups the aforementioned tits in his big hands and massages. “Fuck yeah they are,” he murmurs. He wastes no time drawing them into his mouth and sucking, groaning as he swirls his tongue around your nipples.
I just think they're both neat idk
tagging: @haylzcyon @mothandpidgeon @joelscruff @joeloverture @atticrissfinch @undercoverpena @iamskyereads
sorry if you've already been tagged!!<3
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mothandpidgeon · 1 day
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COWBOY CARTER OFFICIAL TRACKLIST. 🐎
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mothandpidgeon · 1 day
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The Outlaws (outlaw!Joel Miller x f!reader) Masterlist
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pairing: Outlaw!Joel Miller x f!reader rating: E 18+ MDNI
summary: Wanted for murder with a bounty on your head, your only hope of escaping the Pinkerton detectives is an outlaw named Joel Miller and his sidekick Ellie. But Joel has other plans for you. series contents : old west au, train robberies, enemies to lovers, grumpy Joel, handcuffed together, forced proximity, smut, period/genre/canon typical violence, alcohol, morally grey characters, assuming Ellie’s gender, reader has backstory, only one bed, no use of y/n. [check chapter warnings…I’ll update here]
about the reader: Reader is able bodied, bisexual, and has hair. She is an outlaw in her own right– a criminal and killer and frankly slightly unhinged (affectionate). She hails from Missouri and has a tragic backstory but, as always, I try not to include physical descriptors. Her age isn’t explicitly mentioned but she is an adult woman.
Moth's Masterlist // Add yourself to the tag list
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2 - coming March 29th
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
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mothandpidgeon · 1 day
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You’ve got me listening to Serge Gainsbourg with this fic. Dieter is SUCH a good fit for this. Now I’m dying for a Dieter Austin Powers au 😂 As a Mad Men Stan, I love this time period and I knew I’d be down for this before I even started reading. But you did not disappoint!!
More rambling under the cut!
Dieter’s outfit is absolute perfection. I can see it. What a groovy cat. In fact all of the clothes I know just what you’re talking about.
“Off you fuck then!” Please I’m in love with her darling.
“Super mellow, slightly trippy. Bit like me” I’m dead.
“I’m not here to be part of your collection of beautiful things Dieter.” What a line!!!
“Do you need any more inspiration?” SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP. SO HOT.
This is so hot. I’m absolutely dying over bossy reader and how much Dieter likes it. I love this subby puppy dog man.
“He’s all over you all at once, hands at your face, slapping at your arse, fingers at your clit, seemingly at the same time. A wave of Dieter that’s crashing against you with teeth, lips and want.” LOVE THIS.
10/10 I’ll be thinking about this all day!!!
Purple Haze: Dieter Bravo One Shot
1960's photographer Dieter Bravo x f!model reader
Part of the Dieter Brainrot Club Server Challenge
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Rating: Explicit 18+ minors dni
Word count: 5,000
Summary: That boy put a spell on you
Content: 1960’s London Dieter Bravo AU, heavy on the British slang, explicit alcohol and drug references, reader is a model but no physical descriptions, outfit descriptions, swearing, sort of enemies to lovers if you squint, smut; protected PIV, light bondage, reader is in control and Dieter is a subby puddle, pet names (angel, doll, darling), light dirty talk, playful slaps. Just a note we’re always very Fleabag coded here. Let me know if I missed anything.  
A/N: I did not expect the Dieter Brainrot Club challenge prompts to whisk me away to 1960’s London, but here we are! I’ve combined the two tropes Only One Bed with Forced Proximity, and look out for the ‘Oh I’ve always liked the idea of you in handcuffs’ prompt. I took lots of inspiration from our chats in the Brainrot but I feel I should shoutout @freelancearsonist & @fhatbhabie for some specific *thoughts*.
Big love to the Brainrot team; clever, talented, brilliant and always hilarious Dieter Bravo (and Rahul Kohli) lovers. Special shout out to @sp00kymulderr & @chronically-ghosted for bringing us all together.
Please Join us in the Dieter Bravo Brainrot club
Kisses to my darlings @pascalssbabyy @luxurychristmaspudding & @toomanytookas for their wonderful support and encouragement, so much love to you. Dividers by the talented @saradika / @saradika-graphics All images for Pinterest and do not feature reader, just vibes.
PURPLE HAZE
London, 1967
You don’t say no to Vogue. Even when the photographer is famously difficult to work with. And has shagged three of your flatmates. They had all fallen equally, wildly, in love with him and were consequently left emotionally devastated as he continued to work his way, seemingly fairly indiscriminately, through London’s fashion set.
Dieter Bravo. The American actor, slash photographer, slash artist, made his name in the UK taking photos of his famous pals in the early sixties and now he was a firm favourite with the Vogue team. You couldn’t hazard a guess as to why. Definitely wasn’t the big brown eyes, golden skin and penchant for afternoon cocktails with the fashion director.
You’d never actually modelled for him before, but having mopped up the tears of Caroline, Olivia and Peter in your flat, you didn’t much care for him. His reputation, one of hedonism and shoots lasting until midnight because he was high as a kite and decided they HAD to be done only under moonlight and with everyone naked, very much preceded him.
Such a shame he was so good at taking photos. Infuriating of him.
You arrive straight from your appointment with the hairdresser Daniel Galvin, rocking a fresh cut and colour as prescribed by the Vogue beauty director, and pull up at the location in your beloved little Mini Cooper. You find Lucia, the Vogue fashion editor, with her long suffering assistant Patricia, standing outside the decrepit East London warehouse. They are both dressed head to toe in Mary Quant, with matching Paige boy haircuts. Achingly trendy. The lads strolling past give Lucia an appreciative whistle, but she studiously ignores them.
“Doll, I am so sorry but Cecil’s shooting our new gal Twiggy for the first time and it’s all turning into something of a do, so I thought it would be ok if Patricia and I dash over to Kensington for a bit. I’ll aim to get back here for the end of the day.” These are very much statements, not questions.
You can’t help the scowl that has taken over your face, Lucia is supposed to be your friend and she is very aware that you’re not Bravo’s biggest fan. This is absolutely Lucia to a T, brazen as anything and with skin as thick as a rhinoceros hide. Well, you had to be to survive at Vogue you suppose. She doesn’t flinch at your scrunched up brows.
“Super, super, knew I could rely on you and Dieter. You’re both such pros darling! I’ve hung up the outfits on the rail in order, accessories labelled next to the mirror and Dieter’s got the plan of which area to shoot each outfit in.” She lights a thin Parliament cigarette, looks you directly in the eyes and deadpans, “I trust you both implicitly….”
A nod of her head, almost a challenge, “Have fun.”
For fuck’s sake.
You shout out to them as Lucia snips away at Patricia to ‘get them a bloody cab’.
“Stylist? Make-up artist?”
“Oh no darling, you don’t need them, this is all about natural, natural, natural, we want bare skin! Just whack on the false lashes I’ve left you and you’ll be good to go. Top and bottom darling, top and bottom!”
You watch them disappear into a black cab, take a deep, steadying breath and walk into the warehouse. It’s huge, obviously used as some kind of furniture storage place, filled with random handsome, antique pieces.
Fuck, it’s actually really cool. Light streams in from the huge windows in the flat roof, catching the specks of dust that fill the air. You spend a few minutes wondering around, pondering if you could strap a bit of that Georgian looking dresser to the roof of your Mini… or if that delightful ancient trunk would be noticed if it went walkies. There’s even a giant Victorian taxidermy polar bear.
“Pretty groovy, huh?”
You almost jump out of your skin, Dieter Bravo has draped himself around the Polar bear’s neck and is giving you a very studied gaze, Ray Ban Wayfarers perched on the end of his nose as he peers over them.
Your mouth falls open in shock and he pushes the sunglasses to the top of his head, taking the opportunity to snap a picture of you quickly with the camera hanging around his neck.
“Jesus Christ! You scared the life out of me.”
“Sorry about that, I was enjoying watching you creeping about the place like a cat burglar in your sexy black mini dress. You’ve got great face doll; I’m looking forward to working with you today.”
Oh no, he’s going to be appallingly charming, isn’t he?
Dieter’s every inch the louche Vogue photographer, dressed in merino wool black polo with black velvet dinner jacket and navy tailored pinstripe trousers, then pointed, patent leather boots. He has a purple, psychedelic Pucci print women’s silk scarf threaded through his belt loops in place of the usual leather belt.
His rich brown hair is longish and thick, fluffy almost curls adding an air of chaos, complimenting the patchy beard that’s just the right side of scruffy. It’s unusual, most of the fashion boys you know are still rocking a clean-shaven, mod look, but it suits his defined features, softens him. You try not to be too admiring of him, firstly in case he can tell and secondly, because you’re well aware he’s the kind of man that needs to be kept at arm’s length or you might just accidentally trip and fall into those heavenly eyes, like so many before you.
Dieter Bravo is a walking cautionary tale.
“Thanks…. Can you point me to where Lucia set up the clothes rack?”
Dieter chats away as you look through the clothes. You get the impression he’s not a man comfortable with silence, so you let him fill it. He talks about the bands he’s worked with, the designers who send him clothes and you can tell he’s watching your reactions, waiting for a flicker of excitement so he can be reassured just how tremendously cool he is. For that very reason you give him absolutely nothing.
You’re a model, you can make your expression go completely neutral if needs be. You let your eyes sort of deaden, mouth set in a firm, but not harsh, line. Feeding this man’s already giant ego is not on your agenda for today. If you can get through it without smacking him around the head for being so sure of himself, it will be one of your greatest achievements.
He watches you intently as you expertly apply the false lashes, two sets for the top row and another for the bottom. Natural my arse. Does look cool though, you’ll give Lucia that. You find yourself giving a little pout into the mirror and Dieter snaps another picture quickly.
“Sorry, I couldn’t resist. You know how to work your angles baby.”
You gift him a half smile and still it’s more than he deserves. You whip back straight into business mode.
“I’m going to use that poor excuse for a bathroom as a makeshift changing room. Where shall we do the first shots?”
“Our benign dictator wants the first outfit to be down by the chintzy 50’s sofas on the left hand side. See you down there? Unless…” He tilts his head, gives you a Cheshire Cat grin, “You wanted some help?”
“Absolutely fucking not.”
“Man, I love the way you English girls swear. Drives me wild.” The grin is still there, never faltering; he lets his eyes flick up and down you, as if that was going to the magic key that unlocks your knickers.
“Off you fuck then.”
He sighs. “I’m gonna see if there’s anything to drink in here.”
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You’re artfully positioned across one of the sofas; you’ve both decided this tiny pink flower print one clashes with the Biba mini dress perfectly, so you get to work showing the way the dress falls just above what would be deemed appropriate. Your favourite type of fashion.
Dieter has found a bottle of gin in a section up the precarious stairs which is currently being used as a rough and ready artist’s studio. He’s inexplicably pulled out two bottles of ginger ale from his kit bag, so he’s made you a gin & ginger ale. It’s actually quite yummy
“So… Are you going to cheer up any time soon? I heard you were fun?” He’s jumping deftly from ancient chair to broken sideboard, trying to get the best shot.
“I heard you like to collect models and assistants like they’re going out of fashion?”
“Oh shit, I haven’t shagged you already have I?” There is genuine panic in his eyes, and you can’t help but let out a musical laugh.
“Trust me Dieter,” you stare directly into the lens of the camera, “You wouldn’t have forgotten.”
He likes that, gives you a wolfish chuckle.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about angel. Give me more of that energy please! Fuck me, that was a good shot.”
You tip your head back and laugh, you don’t want to, but his enthusiasm is infectious, and the gin is helping to improve the mood considerably.
“I’ve got an idea.” He steps onto the sofa, takes your hand, so much more gently that you would have guessed, leads you over a ratty looking pouf to the bare, unmade, iron framed bed next to the sofa
“Dieter!” You let go of his hand immediately. You hate to admit it, but something in the warmth of his fingers against yours, the softness with which he held onto you, it has already sent a heat to your cheeks and a feeling in your belly you don’t care to acknowledge.
“Not yet baby…” He smirks at you, the light in those mischievous eyes shining bright. “I was thinking you could jump for me first. Show me those pins in action.”
You purse your lips, give him a hard stare.
“Fine…. But I promise you that will be the most action this bed will see today.”
You can tell Dieter’s happy with the shots, he keeps raining praises on you as you bounce on the bed and you find your smiles aren’t fake model smiles any longer.
Bollocks, you’re actually enjoying his company.
“Oh, these are going to be far out angel. You wanna get into the next fit, we’re up in the studio bit for this one and I’ll make us another gin.”
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You’re in the most fabulous Thea Porter deep green, velvet military style jacket (and very little else), when Dieter appears in the studio with another round of g&g. You’ve got bare thighs, with tiny satin shorts hidden by the length of the jacket and then knee-high socks pulled up tight. It’s no exaggeration to say the man almost trips over his feet.
“Shit, you look divine angel. Velvet is your thing.”
“Oh it’s all Thea, she’s a genius. I tried to steal one of Jimi’s jackets of hers, but he wouldn’t let me.”
“Jimi….”
“Oh, you know, the big one. Hendrix. We were seeing each other for a little bit.” You shrug your shoulders, well aware of the effect this little nugget often has on men.
It’s not the usual jealously that pours out of Dieter, it’s pure adulation, he’s almost blushing, a roundness to his cheeks that’s particularly endearing.
“He’s one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen in real life. That voice, oh, when he talks! I just melted. I could barely string a sentence together when I met him. All too brief, unfortunately.” Dieter’s genuine smile is causing an exquisite single dimple to appear and it’s making you come over all unnecessary. You look away.
“Yes, I was a bit the same, but he’s a pussycat really, such a sweetie. I could listen to him play guitar forever.” You smile at Dieter and you know it has real softness behind it, he returns it in kind, angelic crinkles appearing around those teasing, dark brown eyes. You decide to bend, just a little, “I’ll introduce you properly if I ever get the chance.”
“Well, now I’m in love with you.”
You cackle, a proper guttural laugh, and Dieter clicks away on the shutter, delighted to catch your genuine mirth on film and at the way he can see just a sliver of your boob and hint of a nipple exposed as the velvet jacket hangs open. Tantalisingly close. You gaze up at him through all those lashes, let you mouth fall open so there’s a hint a teeth and tongue. A smidge of excitement spiralling up your spine.
“Fucking magnificent angel.”
You hear an unreasonably loud clanking noise coming from the front of the warehouse and you both frown. Dieter doesn’t miss snapping a picture of your confused face, before going to investigate.
When he doesn’t reappear five minutes later, you reverentially remove the Thea Porter Jacket, pop it on a hanger and pull on the long, crocheted jumper dress that is supposed to be for the next shot. The big gaps in the material don’t do much to protect your modesty to be honest.
You call down to Dieter as you descend the rickety stairs and into the vast space of the warehouse below.
“Dieter, is everything ok?”
He actually looks a bit sweaty, pushing at the imposing metal door and meeting with absolute resistance. There’s a clanking sound that you can’t help for think sounds like a padlock.
“Erm… I don’t want to alarm you… but we appear to be locked in? Someone’s slid that giant bolt over the front of the door.”
“Fuck.”
“Indeed.”
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Lucia, as you suspected, does not make it back from Kensington.  
There’s no phone in the building, it’s getting increasingly dark and you are growing impatient. You’ve worked your way through most of the outfits, but it doesn’t feel quite so fun any longer. You’ve consumed all of the gin, so you’re both a bit squiffy, but it’s made you somewhat taciturn and Dieter a bit grumpy.
Luckily Dieter packed some sausage rolls in his seemingly bottomless kit bag, so you both sit and eat them in silence.
Dieter lets out a long sigh, “Fuck it, I’ve got some hash with me, if that would help pass the time?”
“Oh, thank god!” You huff out dramatically.
He fishes out a little tin from the charmed kit bag and joins you again on the slightly wonky chaise lounge you’re sat on. You watch as he expertly skins up, warming the hash with a lighter and crumbling it in with the tobacco.
“A mate of Keith’s brought this back from Morocco for me, it’s super mellow, slightly trippy.” He gives you a big grin, “Bit like me.”
You roll your eyes. The drink has loosened your tongue.
“Dieter I don’t think I’d describe you as mellow? Chaotic maybe? A fucking nightmare perhaps?”
He looks so utterly devastated, like a kicked puppy, that you just have to soothe him. You can feel the shift in your behaviour and you’re not sure there’s anything you can do to stop it. Boy certainly has a bit of magic about him.  
“But that’s what makes you so astonishing, isn’t it darling? Why everyone adores your photos so much? Your flamboyance and energy are always there but you also allow your subjects to shine. You can always feel the emotion in them darling.”
“You really think so?”
Is he, is he actually desperate for your praise?
Is the Dieter Bravo, literally infamous for his bravado and untouchable ego, in need of you effectively telling him he’s pretty and stroking his hair? Those eyes, they’re so beseeching, so soft and looking at you so eagerly, it’s making you feel uniquely powerful. You could make this man putty in your hands if you wish. And maybe you do.
“Of course, darling.” He keens at the praise and you marvel at what you now hold in the palm of your hands.
You watch him as he lights the spliff, there’s something magnetic about the way this man smokes, cheekbones more prominent as he inhales, strong profile just fucking delicious, soft brown eyes dipped down as he gazes at the brief flames that ignite the tip before turning to ash. You find you’ve let your finger trace along the contour of his jaw and his eyes meet yours, as he exhales a thick plume of smoke with those pouty lips.
“I’m sorry angel, I think this is all my fault.” His hand reaches out to hold into your face as well, you mirror each other, leaning into the other’s warmth and delicate touch. You both let your fingertips rest against the other’s chin, thumbs rubbing tiny circles.
“Dieter as much as I’d like to blame you, I don’t see how someone locking us in here is your fault?”
His thumb grazes your bottom lip, and you dart your tongue out to lick at it, slowly, feeling the wetness seep into Dieter’s skin and watching the way it makes a lopsided smile curl up onto his face.
He passes you the joint and you try with all your might to ignore the jolt of electricity as your fingers graze, as if you’re not already almost sucking at his skin. His hand falls from your face and you turn away from him, letting your own hand drop down to your shoulder, running your fingers against the silken material there instead.
“The thing is… I’ve fancied you rotten since I saw you in that Harper’s editorial. The one on the beach with the shells… I’ve got it up in my studio. I specifically requested you when Lucia suggested this shoot. So, it’s entirely my fault you’re stuck here with me.” He has the grace to look a little bit sheepish.
“I’d love to take that as a compliment, but it appears to me that you fancy everyone rotten?”
He laughs, but immediately looks sincere again, “Well, yes that’s true, I love all beautiful things; man, woman, inanimate object… but you really got under my skin angel. I’ve been trying to wangle a shoot with you for months. Couldn’t believe my luck when this was finally confirmed.”
It’s fun to toy with him. You take a long drag of the joint, beckon him forward and tap on his lips so he opens them, shotgunning the smoke into his mouth. You pull back, satisfied with the look of intense pleasure on his face, as he tries not to choke. Dieter seems to like it when you’re in control.
“I’m not here to be part of your collection of beautiful things Dieter.” You rest backwards on your outstretched arms, let the hash seep into you and soften out your edges.
“You’d be my most prized piece angel, my Mona Lisa.
You snort a laugh, take another long drag of the joint before you pass it back to him. You disappear into a plume of thick smoke as you exhale and Dieter stands quickly, joint hanging out of his mouth, so he can capture the moment on film.
“Shit angel, that was hot.” You don’t miss his not so subtle rearranging of his trousers, the thick outline straining against the tightness of the material, showing you just how hot he found it.
You smoke together until you reach the roach, slowly sinking into each other’s laps as you become more stoned. Bliss.
Dieter suddenly sits up straight and blurts out, “Angel, I’m getting some divine inspiration! I’ve got an idea for the last shot… The dress, it kind of looks like a painter’s smock? Let’s go get you messy.”
He takes your hands once again and pulls you gently up, you’re both a bit fluffy round the corners, a giggle on the tip of your tongue as you take the lead and slip your fingers through his. He slides the smock off the rail as you trail past with light feet and a dreamlike, hash haze clouding both your vision in the best way.
There’s an area with paint splattered dust sheets that Dieter had set up with lights and you place yourself in the middle of it, letting your focus fall entirely on Dieter as he fiddles with the switches and gets it exactly how he wants.
You fear he’s simply not paying you enough attention.
So, you whistle at him, his reaction slightly slowed by the dope, but he pings back into life instantly as you pull off the dress you’re wearing, wiggle out of your knickers and jut your chin in the air.
“Do you need any more inspiration?”
You think you might have broken him. He’s shaking his head slowly, walking towards you and clicking away on his camera as he does, barely breathing as he edges closer.
“Baby I am going to have quite the private collection after tonight.” He drops to his knees, presses his nose against your belly and kisses at the flesh there, as if he simply must have you in his mouth right now.
Your card your hands through that luscious hair, but pull him back, so those puppy dog eyes are staring reverently up at you.
“Hold tight darling, let’s get this final shot done.”
He sighs, reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a wrap and taps a little coke onto the bullseye tattoo between his thumb and forefinger, before holding it up to your nose.
“Just a little something to keep us awake for our final flourish angel.”
He knocks a little onto the softness of your breast and as he inhales, his teeth purposefully scrape your nipple, sending a current of energy running through you, as both the coke and Dieter invade your system. You fleck your fingers against him to try and ground yourself.
You’re enjoying being naked and the effect it’s having on Dieter, so it’s with reluctance that you pull on the smock and Dieter sets to work covering you both in great daubs of paint, kissing at your exposed skin before painting it with his fingers. Fuck, it feels heavenly, a shiver of desire at each touch, making you feel fizzy.  
You’re a beautiful mess by the time he takes the final shots.
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You’re back at the one bed in the whole warehouse, Dieter has laid down a pretty paisley print Victorian eiderdown on the mattress. A tangle of limbs as you kiss furiously, hands in each other’s hair and hot, naked, paint flecked bodies pressed together.
“Do you need me to…”
“No, no, I’m on the pill darling. It’s very liberating.”
So as to demonstrate what a modern, liberated woman you are, you push Dieter back down against the eiderdown, hooking your thigh over his deliciously soft belly that’s dappled with hair and climbing on top of him. Nestling his hard cock against your sex, moving in such tiny increments that it’s almost nothing, but sends a tingle of anticipation and want through you both.
“You’re just a bit of a messy slut, aren’t you Dieter?”
The groan he lets out is obscene, you tilt your head and find a smirk has settled on your lips. You bite down against your pout, let your thumb and forefinger give his nipple a rough pinch, before leaning your whole body against his and whispering softly into the shell of his ear, “But you’re going to be a good boy for me, aren’t you darling?”
“Yes, yes, please… please…” He whimpers and it is doing something unholy to you, there’s a fire raging in your core and you have to fight with every ounce of your willpower to not lift your hips and fuck him to oblivion, right this second.
“Please, what?”
“Please do whatever you want with me baby.”
“Good boy. Let me use you, I want to come against your cock.”
You reward him by holding his cock against your soaking folds, coating him in your slick, pressing him just the right side of firm so you can move up and down and enjoy the friction. He’s so hard, it feels divine, a pulsingpleasure warming your skin as you slowly move against him. It’s too much for poor Dieter, his hands are clutching at you, hips beginning to buck as he chases more.
You stop immediately, “No, no, Dieter, I didn’t tell you that you could move, did I?” You give him a short ‘tsk’, a light tap on his balls that makes him whine, as you lean back and unthread the silk scarf from the trousers in a heap by his ankles. “I’m going to need to help you be good, aren’t I darling?”
“Fuck yes, yes please.” You watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he practically begs you. Fucking enchanting.
Your thighs are tight around him still as you lean up over him, breasts rubbing against his open mouth, knotting his hands to the iron frame of the bed.
“Not an inch unless I tell you to Dieter.” You slide back down, hold your pussy just a little above his groin, take his cock back in your hand and rub his now throbbing head against yourself.
“Making me feel so fucking good darling, such a good boy. You know you need to make me come before I fuck you, you’re just too big otherwise aren’t you?”
It’s a whelp that leaves his lips, “Fuck! Careful angel, I’ll come if you keep talking like that and… shit… I need you to fuck me, please?”
You let him ramble, he’s becoming incoherent but as you slide his cock against your clit, your slick slippery and hot, you tip closer to oblivion and you watch him powerless beneath you, biting at his lips, twisting at your silken shackles. The velvet of his cock perfect as you pump him against you, no better feeling. Except maybe, maybe, how hard you can feel him trying not to rip him arms free and slam you onto the bed.
“Wish I could take a picture of your face right now angel, never going to forget how pretty you look using me.”
You look into his eyes as you feel your orgasm rising in your belly, warmth flooding you and making your fingers tingle. Your mouth goes slack and you call out his name like a prayer, your cunt gushing over his cock. He moans in absolute ecstasy.
Still pulsing, you lower yourself slowly onto him and he hisses with the sensation. You still, your face now just a breath away from his, “Would you like me to fuck your pretty cock Dieter?”
“Yes, yes, fuck it feels so good. So tight angel, I don’t know how I can last.”
“There’s a word missing darling?”
You give him a warning with a clench of your pussy, the feeling of him so hard and desperate inside you making you feel wildly powerful.
“Please, angel, please.”
You nip at his bottom lip, palms flat against his hard chest and continue to roll your hips at a pace that makes him groan with delight.
As you feel your orgasm begin to build once more, you take pity on Dieter, pull him into a deep kiss.
Just a gentle tug at the scarf and it comes undone; “You can touch me now.”
He’s all over you all at once, hands at your face, slapping at your arse, fingers at your clit, seemingly at the same time. A wave of Dieter that’s crashing against you with teeth, lips and want. You fuck him harder, squeezing his cock and rocking your hips feverishly, your legs are trembling; your release almost drowns you,
“Come with me Dieter darling.”
At your command, he spills into you with a groan, gripping onto your hips and pulling you hard against him, fucking up into you one last time. You let him stay there for a few moments, before you collapse down next to him, both panting but outrageously happy.
Dieter rolls over, kisses you again and again, now free to do what he wants, he needs to devour you whole.
“Fuck me angel, that was good… I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid I’m now dreadfully in love with you.”
You fall asleep together, naked, entwined, wrapped in the eiderdown.
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You are absolutely fucking ravenous when you wake up in the morning. Dieter pulls out a couple of Kit Kats from his bag, which you guzzle with tepid water from the dripping tap in the bathroom as a chaser.
The front door is still padlocked shut.
“I have an idea.”
You groan, you’re now fully versed in how Dieter’s plans go and quite frankly, you’re a little bit sore after last night’s exploits.
“Not that kind of plan. Well, actually, yes, I do have some thoughts along those lines, but this is more immediate, not die of starvation in an East London warehouse type of plan.”
“Fine. Hit me.”
“There’s a skylight in the studio which I think we’ll be able to reach, the roof is flat… maybe we can shimmy along and drop down onto the next building. I think I remember seeing it’s lower and there was some kind of fire escape.”
“So… we’re going to climb over the roof, dressed almost entirely in black and covered in paint?”
He nods at you eagerly, “Fuck’s sake Dieter, you’re going to get us arrested.”
“Oh, I’ve always like the idea of you in handcuffs.”
“You know that’s not how we work darling.”
So, that’s how you and Dieter end up clambering up onto the roof and haphazardly climbing down onto the next building. He has a messenger bag slung over his shoulders, full of his most prized possession; rolls and rolls of film - all of you. The majority of which Vogue is never going to see.
The expletives flowing out of both of you is bordering on the indecent, and more often than not, it’s Dieter grabbing at your hand in a squeaking panic as you teeter dangerously near the edge. Finally, after what feels like an hour, you lower yourself onto the fire escape next door and can see your route back down to earth.
With your feet back on solid ground, Dieter envelopes you in a survivors hug.
You know you really, really fucking shouldn’t, but you risk a kiss on the lips of the deviant who told you he loved you.
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Tagging in some Dieter fans: @katareyoudrilling @magpiepillsjunior @morallyinept @mothandpidgeon @gwendibleywrites @survivingandenduring @ghotifishreads @rulexofxnines @readingiskeepingmegoing @amyispxnk @theywhowriteandknowthings @rosellarecommends @lowlights
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mothandpidgeon · 2 days
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ok hear me out.
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but
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mothandpidgeon · 2 days
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Hello! I know it’s a long shot because it’s been 4 years, but do you ever have planned to finish Reputation? 😭😭😭 im sorry I don’t wanna come off as sound rude or insensitive and I’m not sure if you’ve already addressed this topic, but i love regency era fics so much so I’m kinda dying to see din and reader finally get together.
Hi nonny! I appreciate the respectful ask. You're good! It honestly makes me really happy that people are reading and loving Reputation even years after any updates have happened. I brace myself for this question every time that fic gets shared because I know I left it at the climax of the story. 🙃
I wish I had a better answer for you. I'm a little stuck on the next chapter (ok, maybe a lot stuck? nothing's changed since 2021). The resolution to the Wickham of it all is not quite right and I probably shouldn't be such a perfectionist because I know it's all about that kiss kiss but that's me I guess.
I really would like to come back to this. I have a delicious epilogue sketched out. In the short term, I'm really invested in my current series (also a historical au so there's that) and life is a lot different than it was when I started writing Reputation so I don't want to promise anything.
But I am a whore so when I hear from someone that they want more, I want to give it to them. So don't count it out.
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mothandpidgeon · 3 days
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I think I should post the next part of outlaw!Joel on Friday in honor of act ii.
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mothandpidgeon · 3 days
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Five million times!! You have no idea what that means to me. Just that you're thinking about this fic two years later brings me so much joy. Thank you for letting me know that! I had no idea anybody was rereading this and just 🥺🥺🥺
You made my whole day!
Helter Skelter (cult leader!Ezra x f!reader) - Chapter 5
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MASTERLIST - TAG LIST
Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4
Pairing: cult leader!Ezra x f reader, dark!Ezra x f reader
Series summary: When you meet a mysterious thinker named Ezra, you join up with his followers and become a part of their family. Your new life is full of psychedelics, sex, and mind bending experiences. But there’s something dark lurking in Ezra’s philosophy. Will you discover it before it’s too late?
Words: ~2.5k
Rating: E 18+!
Warnings: SPOILERS dark!Ezra, elements of dubcon (this is a cult so there is psychological manipulation), cults (obviously), mentions of drug use, mentions of pregnancy, vomiting, one racial slur, there isn’t actually sex in this chapter
a/n: Okay hello, remember this fic? I’m still on hiatus but I’ve had this chapter knocking around and I said I’d do some revisions but I’m lying to myself. So I might as well share it with you. There’s only one more chapter after this. I haven’t written it. I won’t pretend to know when it’ll be done. But I hope you enjoy!
Big thanks as always to @wordsnwhiskey for reading this over and living for this fic.
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PATIENT INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT EXCERPT [NAME REDACTED] ALIAS “STAR” September 22, 1969 -Why did you stay, Star? -I wanted to. -You never considered leaving? -Where would I go?
Keep reading
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mothandpidgeon · 3 days
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PEDRO PASCAL in New Mexico | via O. Castillo
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mothandpidgeon · 4 days
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As you know I am head over heels for this pair. I’ve said it all to you already but I must say it again. This chapter was so dreamy. Flirtatious Pix is everything. I can just see Dieter’s dumb puppy dog face. The water. THE WATER. Have we all recovered? That ending. What a treat. So sexy and romantic and fun.
I’m really honored that you let me beta this and that I get to hear about Pix and Dieter as they come into being. I’m so spoiled, truly.
bright lights - part iii [dieter bravo x neurodivergent!f!reader]
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chapter summary: It's the first awards show of the season. You try to get Dieter there without too much trouble. ratings/warnings: E [dual/alternating POV, alcohol/drug use, flirting, a little insecurity but not much, food eating/mentions, pix being a boss bitch, frank discussion of autism/neurodivergency and ways of coping, both of them being absolute menaces to each other, description of an-almost meltdown, reader described as curvy/soft/plus size, dry humping, dirty talk] wc: 6.7k a/n: please go to @ezrasbirdie-updates to be notified of updates! take a look at the series masterlist linked below for some notes on our reader. Things! Are! Happening! I'm playing very fast and loose with the timeline here, but we're starting with The Golden Globes, y'all! I'm always a little nervous before posting this fic in particular, I'm finding out, for so, so many reasons. There are a few things I put in here just for me, and I hope y'all can relate to them, too. Shout out to @mothandpidgeon for her betaing and the pep talk. I hope y'all have fun on their first little adventure!
masterlist | series masterlist | dieter bravo masterlist | previous | next
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There are many, many things on Dieter Bravo’s body to lust over. His thick forearms. Those shapely thighs. A smooth, muscular chest. The soft curve of his belly. Even his earlobes are begging to be bitten. There’s also every single thing about his face. By all rights he might be the most naturally beautiful man you’ve ever seen.
But if you must choose, if someone forced you to name a feature of his you cannot stop thinking about, it would be his hair. Especially right now. 
Especially right this very second.
Dieter has gone through a few different haircuts since you started here in the summer, but he’s kept it longer lately. He hasn’t had a haircut in a month or two, ever since you’d mentioned that you’d always liked men with long hair. Whether it’s by coincidence or he’s taken your opinion to heart, you don’t know, but it’s a constant struggle to keep your fingers to yourself.
If you dug your fingers through that silver-threaded chestnut mane all the way to his scalp and tugged, what would he do? 
Every imagined reaction makes you giggle. 
Shock, confusion, arousal—all three, maybe. 
You suspect he wouldn’t mind one way or another if you simply ran your hand through his hair, though. He’s been more physically affectionate toward you since he got back from visiting his family. A light touch on your arm, a hand on the small of your back as he passes behind you, one of those gleeful little forehead kisses he’s so fond of when he gets good news. 
You can’t tell if all of this is a coincidence or if he’s genuinely trying to be closer to you, as a friend or otherwise. It’s been an arduous process letting it happen. You would never tell him that, obviously; it sounds so insulting to tell someone, “Hey, it was really hard to let myself get close to you, but I did it!”
Getting close to someone, physically or otherwise, means opening up, and opening up means showing parts of yourself that he might find ugly. Making friends has always been pretty easy; it’s the keeping them around that’s usually the problem. 
But you really, really want to try to keep him. You’re so hopelessly, desperately into him that you don’t even try to fool yourself anymore.
What makes it all a little easier, though, is that you’re about ninety percent sure he’s into you, too.
All the signs are there. 
And yes, you know you’re just a regular girl (kind of) with a regular job (sort of) and a regular life (before this, at least) and he has a million beautiful people throwing themselves at him all the time, but, like, where are all those beautiful people lately? 
You haven’t had to call a single morning Uber since that night with Elvira. 
It’s not like he goes out—he’s about as much of a hermit as you are. The only hint of him still possibly sleeping around was the picture of the “old friend,” but he’d told you it was nothing, and you’d believed him. 
You decide to test this theory of yours. What’s the worst that could happen? You’ve embarrassed yourself plenty in front of him and he still seems to want you around. 
Eight days before the Golden Globes on a brisk Tuesday morning, you start your experiment.
“Morning, Dee.” He’s dragged himself out of bed for an early esthetician appointment, followed by a deep tissue massage. You’re still not entirely sure what an esthetician does, but Christina made it sound very important. 
“Mm,” he grunts. “Coffee?”
You nod toward the counter and he stumbles to the coffee maker, then settles next to you and stares off into the patio, bleary-eyed.
“You need a haircut.” 
He looks up and glares over the rim of the cup. 
“I’m not even awake and you’re criticizing me,” he pouts, jutting his bottom lip out. 
“I’m not,” you laugh. “I’m making an observation.”
With a wicked little smile, you run your fingers through his hair. It is, you realize, the first time you’ve actually reached out and touched him.
His mouth rounds, eyes fixed on your other hand as it comes up to tug at the ends. It’s thick and only a little coarse, softened up by the two hundred-dollar deep conditioner sitting in his shower.
“The gray is nice, too,” you sigh. His dark eyes widen, sparkling like a starry night sky. “Makes you look so distinguished.”
“Yeah?” He asks and you hold in a giggle at how hoarse it comes out. 
“Mm. I’ll see if Caitlin can cut it on Sunday, too. It just needs a little trim to keep it healthy. Do you want her to dye it, too?” You ask, but he just swallows hard as you keep playing with his hair. “You okay?”
“Great,” he breathes. “Yeah, I’m—you’re touching my hair.”
You ignore the prick of self-consciousness.
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No!” He says as you slide your fingers down and set them in your lap. “Fuck no. I like it. You just…don’t usually touch me.”
You take a bite of your bagel and scrunch your nose at him and his big puppy dog eyes, and tug on the ends of his hair again.
He giggles.
“So,” you prod. “Cut and color?”
“Just the cut,” he says, and you don’t bother hiding your smile. “For now.”
Experiment one: successful.
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The world is often hellbent on making life as difficult as possible for people like you. Sometimes just going to the grocery store is an event you have to come home and recover from.
Keeping yourself on track and focused when there are quite literally dozens of things feels impossible until you remind yourself that you have a system. 
You have a system for everything.
A checklist doesn’t sound revolutionary, but most people see a task as one step. You do not. In fact, there are many steps for most things, and when you’ve tried to explain this to people that don’t think like you, you’re often met with a blank stare. 
But that’s fine. They don’t need to understand your system. 
The only problem is that it’s time consuming. Broken down into tasks and subtasks and sometimes sub-subtasks, it takes a full day to translate everything from the chaotic scribble of notes you took perched in the uncomfortable armchair in Christina’s hospital room into a readable list of Things to Do.
There are so many things to do.
Christina is shockingly patient with you through the whole process, and you suspect she’s feeling guilty for throwing all of this on you. You’d like to clear the air; tell her it’s fine, that you’re actually getting excited about it, but people don’t seem to like it when you bring stuff like that up unprompted.
Her hospital room is filled with flowers and candy bouquets and Get Well Soon! teddy bears. She says almost all of it is from Dieter. She’d forbidden him from stepping foot into this hospital.
“I’ll be damned if he catches some kind of bacterial infection right before the biggest moment of his career,” she’d said. She wasn't quite so concerned about you, apparently.
“He’s really kind of a sweetheart, isn’t he?” 
She rolls her eyes, but hums in agreement. “He wasn’t always,” she says. “Back when he was using. I think half my job was dragging him out of bars and paying off paparazzi.”
Dieter isn’t exactly the picture of sober living now.
“When he was using?” You ask, helping yourself to a dark chocolate-covered strawberry from one of the candy bouquets.
“The hard stuff, I mean. I’ll take him drunk or stoned any day over coked up out of his mind. He doesn’t like to talk about that much.”
Sometimes you still wonder why Christina stuck around through all of it, but looking around the room you kind of get it. There are worse people to work for.
He has a good heart.
You spend the rest of the pleasantly cool day by the pool organizing your planner. Dieter, of course, decides that he simply must go swimming today. You don’t know how he’s not freezing, even with a heated pool.
Maybe it’s a good time to try another experiment. 
He hops out of the pool just as you’re breaking down scheduling an appointment for a haircut. You’d asked Caitlin, his usual groomer, if she could do it Sunday before the show, but she was hesitant to give him a cut on the day of an event. You understand her nerves, but it’s still another thing you have to do.
You pretend the reason you can’t tear your eyes from your tablet is because you’re too engrossed with your work and not because you’re afraid you’ll forget how to talk if you see him with wet hair and stiff little nipples—
Droplets of water spatter over your screen as he invades your space. “Yeah?” You ask, wiping them away. 
“You’re really organized,” he says, tapping it and minimizing the window. Now you have to look up and scowl.
“Dee!” You scold. He looks incredible, of course. Of course.
“Sorry, sorry.”
But you can hear the grin in his voice as he sits down next to you like a damp, curious dog. “What is all this?”
“What’s it look like? All the things I have to do to get you to an awards show in one piece,” you say, probably a little more aggressively than is strictly necessary.
“There’s like fifty things here,” he says. 
There’s not fifty, but there are a lot, you suppose.
Schedule haircut
Check if D wants Amberlee or Hans
Call first choice
Make back up appointment with second choice
Add to schedule
Tell D
You tap your fingers against your thigh as he glances over it, expecting him to ask why you need to do that, that a fully functioning adult shouldn’t need things broken down like a toddler. And then you might have to explain why your brain works the way it works, and you don’t know if you’ll ever be ready for that conversation with him.
People usually have one of three reactions when you disclose your diagnosis. Usually, it ends with someone denying everything, saying that you must have been told wrong, that you are too functional to be autistic. Too much like them. Other times, people outright stop speaking to you, suddenly extremely uncomfortable with the fact that you exist at all. And worst, in your opinion, is the sudden change in tone, speaking to you like a child.
It’s not something you usually tell your employers. And you don’t think you could handle any of those if they came from him.
“That’s cool,” he says. “I want Amberlee. Hans is always trying to get me to cut it really, really short. As if I’d deny the world this.”
The tension dissolves as he shakes his wet hair, spraying you with water and giggling as you shriek his name.
“Sorry!” He says again, but you know he’s not. He stands up and stretches out, his biceps glistening in the weak sun. 
How silly you were, fearing he’d judge you. 
“Dee?” You ask softly, and he freezes, looking down at you with a furrowed brow and two plump, pursed lips. “Would you mind getting me a drink?”
His face lights up. 
“Of course,” he breathes. “Yeah, of course, what do you want? I can—do you just want some water? I can go get something from—”
“Just some bottled water, please,” you say, and he trots off, dripping water all over his marble floor.
Something giddy and warm blooms in your chest. 
Experiment two: successful.
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Sunday night, it’s all out of your hands. You’ve done everything you can do to ensure Dieter’s evening goes as smoothly as possible. And you’re feeling really, really fucking good about everything because you’re pretty sure you pulled this off, despite knowing nothing about any of this. You’ll have to spend all day tomorrow doing everything you usually do in a week, but that’s fine. You got this. 
You did this.
There’s nothing for you to do now but wait for Dieter to ask you for something. He has water and snacks, and you’ve picked out the red Skittles for him just this once to prevent any red dye smearing on his fingers. You’d worry about his clothes, too, but he’s in all black tonight.
You’re in all black, too, but it isn’t on purpose.
Christina’s dress code instructions were clear: do not give them any reason to think you’re anything but staff. A plain black suit felt appropriate, complete with sensible black shoes to keep you comfortable on your feet for the next few hours. Not exactly fashionable, but the goal is camouflage, not couture.
“We’re gonna match!” He’d announced, giving you a once over as you’d gotten into the car. “You look really nice.”
“Very funny, Dee,” you said, slipping into self-deprecation and denial before you could stop yourself. He didn’t say anything, and you looked up from digging in your purse to meet his eyes. 
“I mean it,” he’d said quietly.
“Oh,” you sighed, heat rising in your cheeks. Sometimes you’d claw at yourself and end up scratching someone else instead. “Thank you, Dieter. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he’d said, and then he’d moved on, talking about how he hoped they didn’t sit him by Austin Butler again.
Dieter, at least, is very good at moving past those moments, though sometimes you wish he’d let you wallow in them a little and feel worse about your social faux pas. He won’t, though. He never does.
Things are a little hectic. His pants needed hemming, his shirt was too small in the shoulders, the shoes were a half size too big. Eventually, between his stylist, his stylist’s sewing kit, and you running to the nearest men’s clothing store with said stylist on FaceTime telling you exactly what to look for, he’d gotten almost fully dressed.
He’d put the long, sequined coat on last, after his hair’s been poked and pulled and twisted into perfection.
“No date tonight?” Caitlin asks, brushing his curls out of his face. “Love that you’ve kept the silver, by the way.”
“Thanks,” he says, clearing his throat. “No, uh, no date.”
His eyes flick up at you, but they’re back on Caitlin just as you notice it. She has a million products laid out on the little table beside her, each chosen carefully from a bag filled with anti-aging creams and moisturizer and serums. You’d never thought much about men getting done up before these events. Dieter wore makeup on set, of course, but for some reason that never translated in your brain to being on camera elsewhere.
She starts with a cleanser that costs more than the jacket you’re wearing, and a gentle application of under eye serum for the bags under his eyes. Moisturizer that makes his face glow, along with cover up for a few blemishes. Eyebrow gel after a quick pluck, and a light dusting of powder for shine.
Caitlin steps back and tilts her head like there’s something missing.
“What about some eyeliner?” She asks. “I think it’ll go with your whole kinda goth boy look tonight.”
He nods, unconcerned. She applies a small amount to the outer corner of his eye, and decides he could use some clear mascara, too.
It’s unfair how fucking good he looks.
As if his eyes aren’t big and sweet enough on their own, the slight enhancement makes them heartbreakingly beautiful.
“How’s he look?” Caitlin asks. You glare at him.
“Sickeningly handsome,” you say, faking annoyance. He tries to be smug, but his cheeks are already turning pink. 
You’re a little smug about flustering him.
Dieter is constantly in various states of undress in front of dozens of people. He is pulled and poked at, positioned and repositioned, dressed and undressed, and he’s never shy about it. He’s unaffected, irritated at most if he’s been standing there for too long, but the feel of hands and fingers moving him and his limbs from one place to another is background noise at this point. You watch Caitlin run her fingers through his hair, twisting and waving his curls, and he stares at his phone like she’s not even there.
But you fluster him. 
He shudders when you run your fingers through his hair. 
Your heart flutters at those rosy cheeks.
Eventually, his face is done, his hair is done, he’s slipped on his coat and he’s ready to be chauffeured across the street in a black SUV. He’ll sit in the back—much more glamorous to exit that way—and you’ll get dropped off with the rest of the assistants down the street.
It curdles that blissful certainty you’d just recently had; a stark reminder of the division between the two of you. You sigh as you gather your things in your bag to set by the door. It’ll be faster that way when you get him inside and come back, not wasting time packing up.
“Pix?” He asks. “Do I look okay?”
What a question for him to ask. Do I look okay? He’s literally sparkling. He’s glowing. He’s so beautiful it’s hard to look at him for too long.
But he’s pulling at his collar and biting his lip.
“You look beautiful,” you say, and he grins.
“What are you doing?” He asks.
“Getting my stuff together so I can fight everyone else trying to get home a little faster,” you explain. He has no idea what happens after he disappears into auditoriums.
“Why don’t you just stay in the room?” He asks. “At least until traffic clears up. Or stay the night. I paid three grand for this suite, someone should enjoy it.”
“I don’t have anything to sleep in,” you explain, but it’s like a weak argument. You don’t even know why you’re fighting it.
“Sleep in the shirt I wore here,” he says, grinning. Flirting. “Or nothing.”
“Aren’t you coming back?”
“You want me to?” He asks quickly. You open your mouth, intent on saying something wildly flirtatious, but your alarm goes off. 
It’s time.
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It’s almost over. Dieter is almost to the end of the carpet, almost ready to go inside. It’s almost time for you to get away from all the flashing lights and photographers screaming his name and the beautiful people who keep shoving past you to greet him.
You can almost feel those soft sheets.
You keep repeating it over and over, almost done almost done almost done, hoping to stave off the mini-meltdown that’s been looming since you arrived. You’ve blended into the back with the rest of the help, armed with lip balm and a sewing kit and glass bottle of Voss.
Dieter looks back every now and then, and you wonder if he’s trying to tell you something. Are you doing a good job? Does he need something? Can he tell you’re getting uncomfortable? You plaster on a smile and hold up the water bottle, but he shakes his head.
Almost done almost done almost done.
The clicking of the cameras, light bouncing from expensive jewelry. A cacophony of voices, some excited, some impatient, some inexplicably angry. Cell phones ringing. Someone is wearing too much cologne. The lining of your polyester suit jacket itches, but at some point during the day all the tags had disappeared.
Breathe in, breathe out. It’s almost done.
A man, large and imposing, brushes past the throng of assistants, and bumps right into you. The bottle of water—Dieter had specifically asked for that bottle of water—flies from your hand, hits a divider pole, and bursts into pieces, all over the fancy carpet. No one notices but you, and that’s when it feels like the end of the fucking world.
He asked for that water.
You hadn’t questioned it—you don’t like it when people question your food and beverage preferences, afterall—and you’d assumed there was a reason. The taste, the texture, you have no idea. All you know is that it’s gone now, and your precariously balanced state of mind is in danger of shattering just like that stupid fucking bottle.
Is everyone looking? You don’t look up. You focus on keeping your shaking hands from catching on pieces of jagged edged glass. All that work and you can’t even do something as simple as keep a bottle of water safe and ready for him to drink when he gets thirsty.
Later, it will occur to you that some inconsiderate asshole had shoved you in their hurry to get from point A to point B, and you could hardly be blamed. But that girl with her logic and objectivity is not here right now. It’s just you, your anxiety, and the sound of a million fucking camera shutters.
“Pix?”
Dieter’s kneeling on the ground in a ten-thousand dollar outfit. You might kill him when you can breathe again.
“Dieter, I’m sorry, the water—I can find some more, I know you like Voss—”
“Hey,” he says, blocking you from all the cameras as best he can with his broad torso. He slips his warm, dry hand over yours and squeezes. “You’re okay.”
Your heart stutters as you meet his warm gaze.
“We’re almost done here,” he murmurs low enough that only you hear it. “I’ll get something inside. You’re doing great.”
“Oh,” you hiccup. “Thank you.”
You’re not sure what else to say, but he doesn’t seem to need anything else. He helps you back to your feet and your heartbeat slows to normal.
You’ll be tabloid fodder, you think—Dieter Bravo stops red carpet interviews to help clumsy woman up during the Golden Globes—but that’s all right. 
All you can think about is his hand over yours.
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Dieter has no delusions about his chances tonight. He’s still a little stunned that he’d been nominated at all. He figured it would be his co-star getting all the nominations—and he did, too, of course, but for a supporting role. Knowing Bradley, he’d bitched about that designation for weeks. 
Dieter had spent a lot of time before this wondering exactly how many dramatic roles he’d need to do before he got taken seriously again. Even with his general disdain for these ceremonies and all the ass-kissing involved right up to the last minute, being nominated means he’s back on track; that he hasn’t screwed his life as badly as he thought he had.
Despite that, he’s over all of it after twenty minutes into the show. The hosts are rarely funny, the music is always a little too loud, it’s always far too hot under the lights. It’s not like sitting in the dark enjoying a play—they’re all part of the show, too.
You’d hate it here.
You’d look amazing in one of these designer gowns, though. Maybe one of those strapless, backless things they have to use double-sided tape on to keep up. If he told you that, you’d frown at him and tell him to shut up, and he’d insist, and you’d tell him to shut up again. And he’d laugh because you’re funny. 
Maybe you’d be his date one day.
You’ve been different lately. Flirtier. Handsier. Fingers in his hair, a hand on his bicep. He stands too close to you and you don’t move away. He wants to do things for you; he wants to please you, pull you closer, make you proud of him.
You’re making him crazy.
Dieter resists wiping a hand down his face, afraid of smudging Caitlin’s carefully applied makeup. He’d never hear the end of it.
As predicted, Bradley wins for supporting actor. Dieter claps and laughs with everyone as Bradley thanks a laundry list of people who got him there today. 
He’s barely paying attention when they get to lead actor. The presenters call out his name and he snaps into performance mode just before someone shoves a camera in his face. Humble smile, wave at the camera.
“And the Golden Globe goes to…”
Dieter expects to feel nothing when he loses, but it’s bitter disappointment that floods his chest instead. He sighs, a broad smile of solidarity stretching across his face as he claps for his fellow nominee.
Only fifteen more categories left. 
He throws back a shot of tequila.
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Shadows of the Past wins for best screenplay and supporting actress in a drama. Emma deserves that one. His claps are much more enthusiastic for her.
He squeezes Emma’s shoulders as she darts onto the stage as gracefully as she can and she throws a cheeky grin back at him. It might have enticed him once, but he has no interest in messing with a married woman.
How times change, he thinks.
Finally, it ends and they’re all herded like overdressed cattle to another ballroom for a tame sort of after party that lasts for a few hours. He makes the rounds, running into Carol Cobb and Sean Knox, who’ve just moved in with each other.
They’re trying for a baby.
He’s nodding, smiling, trying.
God, it’s so fucking hard to care. Good luck to that kid.
At ten he figures he’s been here long enough. There are still the after-after parties, and maybe he can get smashed enough at one of those he’ll forget all about the one of many losses he’s sure to sit through until the season is over.
He runs right into Bradley as he sneaks through the back.
“Hey, man,” Bradley says, staring out over an eerily empty parking lot. He takes a drag from what looks like a tightly rolled joint. His statue is on the ground and he nudges it with a shiny loafer, as if making sure it’s still there.
Dieter frowns. Bradley isn’t one to put “poison” in his body. He made sure they all knew that on set. “You all right?” Dieter asks, and he’s shocked to find that he’s actually a little concerned.
Bradley shrugs and hands him the joint, of which Dieter happily takes a long inhale. It’s not the good stuff, but it’ll do.
“Great,” Bradley says miserably. Dieter debates finding an excuse to leave. He’s not good at this kind of thing, and he’s still a little bitter about losing.
He’s still deciding when Bradley speaks again.
“My wife wants a divorce,” he says. Dieter tries to recall his wife’s name, but his brain just whirs.
“Shit, man,” Dieter says. “Sorry about that.”
He really is, kind of. Divorce sucks, no way around it.
Bradley shrugs. “I expected it. But she served me papers this morning.”
Dieter doesn’t know what to say, so he just takes another hit and hands it back. “You need that more than I do.”
“You headed to any parties?” Bradley says, eyes dragging up and down Dieter’s body with new, sudden interest. 
There are two reasons people look at him like that—drugs or sex. Dieter got rid of his plugs for the most part after his last stint in rehab, and as much as he wouldn’t ordinarily be opposed to fooling around with a desperate, heartbroken man, he thinks he’d rather just go back to the hotel now.
He’d rather just see you.
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The Waldorf Astoria lobby is surprisingly quiet, save for a few employees milling around. Dieter checks his watch—it’s only nine-thirty, somehow. You haven’t answered his text about coming back and changing for the after-after parties, and he wonders if you’ve fallen asleep.
He’s never seen you asleep, now that he thinks of it. You’re always sharp and alert, always ready for whatever bullshit he has to throw at you. The idea of you curled up in bed, maybe snoring a little, softens something in his chest.
The elevator ride takes forever. It chafes at him—for three thousand dollars a night he shouldn’t the elevator fucking work?
He imagines you rolling your eyes at his impatience. He can’t help it. He wants to be there now. He wants to ask you for a hug and pretend it’s not because he’s upset about losing.
The hallway lights are dimmed to a soft, yellow glow that does nothing to endear him to the ugly carpet. He stops in front of the door and pulls out the keycard—should he knock, he wonders?
He should knock.
One, two, three knocks. “Pix?” He calls. “It’s me.”
“Hold on,” you say, and he’s so deliriously happy that you’re still there he doesn’t even fuss about waiting a few moments. The door opens and he blinks a few times to make sure he’s not seeing things.
You’re barely dressed.
“Where’re all your clothes, honey?” He asks, unable to help himself. You’re wearing his shirt and a pair of boy cut panties that accentuate your ass. And that’s it.
You roll your eyes. “You coming in or what?”
Hell yeah, he’s coming in.
“You’re wearing my shirt,” he says as you climb into bed and cover yourself up, much to his chagrin.
“What?” You ask, looking down and giggling. “Oh. Yeah. You told me to, remember?”
There’s something a little off about your demeanor. A thin sheen of sweat shimmers on your collarbone and your eyes are much shiftier than usual. Most of the time he can get a glance or two from you.
Did he…interrupt something?
“I did,” he sighs. “It looks good. You look good.”
“Shut up,” you say, and there you are, glaring at him in an adorably bashful way with slightly bloodshot eyes. He spies his weed pen on the bedside table. 
“You smoked my weed, too,” he teases as you fall back on the bed and giggle.
“Mmhmm.”
Yeah, fuck the after-after party.
“Sorry about the not winning thing,” you say out of nowhere as he shrugs his jacket off, hanging it up carefully. “At least you have some parties to go to still, huh? Unless you plan on hanging out here. There’s a marathon of Criminal Minds on.” You wiggle your eyebrows at him, grinning in a dramatic, enticing way.
“Actually…” He trails off, and you give him an expectant look. “I need a hug.”
You open your arms wide with no hesitation and he falls on to the bed with you. You’re definitely high, right? He should feel bad about taking advantage of your current state of mind, but he can’t make himself feel bad enough to stop. You’re too soft and warm against him.
You run your fingers through his hair, humming as he burrows into you. He doesn’t dare breathe too hard, doesn’t try to unravel himself just in case you realize what you’re doing.
“Still got all this product in your hair,” you say, scruffing it up. He pouts when you let him go, but he’s not mad about the view as you walk to the bathroom. He’s almost purring at the sight of you so casually undressed, so comfortable in his presence with your thick thighs and the curve of your ass on display.
You look so fucking good in that shirt.
He reaches for his weed pen and takes off the stiff, expensive clothing as he waits for you to come back.
“Where’re all your clothes?” 
You’re so loose like this, so unafraid of yourself, of him, of whatever is happening between the two of you right now. He should put all his clothes back on and leave, but Dieter is a selfish man, and you might never let him get this close again.
You settle back in bed with a spray bottle and a brush, kneeling next to him and spritzing it with cold water. He sighs as you massage his scalp with your nails. On the TV, a serial killer confesses his crimes to Inigo Montoya. 
Now he wants to watch The Princess Bride with you.
He takes an inhale and hands you the pen, but you wave it off. “I’ll pass out soon enough as it is,” you murmur.
“You want room service?” He asks. “I’m fucking starving.”
“I’d take some dessert,” you say. “I might have already gotten a burger.”
“Spending all my money.” 
“You don’t mind.”
 And fuck, he absolutely doesn’t. He’d spend every penny he ever made on you. He never thought of himself as a spoil-his-girl type, but he’s pretty sure he’d do anything to keep you happy.
“I don’t,” he says, because he knows you need to hear that. You let out a huff of a laugh and run your fingers through his hair one more time.
“So soft,” you sigh.  
“You think about my hair a lot?” He murmurs.
“I just like touching it,” you say, and he turns around and grins at you.
“You can touch anything on me whenever you want,” he flirts.
“Shut up,” you say again, smirking.
He finds the room service menu on an iPad on the bedside table and sends in an order, pleased that he doesn’t need to speak to anyone but you. A bacon cheeseburger and peach and pistachio mille-feuille with creme patisserie for him, a butterscotch pot-de-creme for you. You tease him for his overly fussy dessert, but you take a bite when he offers it anyway.
He feeds it to you, the messy creme squeezing from the sides of the crisp and as you bite down. Your eyes are still bloodshot, heavy lidded in an indescribably sexy way. If he moved his fingers a few inches forward they’d be on your tongue.
“That’s pretty good,” you say, scooping some of the pot-de-creme out and lifting it to his mouth. “Have some of this.”
He leans forward and wraps his lips around the spoon, watching the way your mouth parts as he consumes the confection like the Eucharist.
“Pretty good,” he says, wiping the tiniest bit of creme off the side of your mouth with his thumb. 
Eventually, when he’s stuffed himself full, he finds himself under the covers with you.
“Not going out I guess?” You ask. Your voice is heavy with exhaustion. You’re fighting sleep just to stay awake to talk to him. He should let you sleep.
“Wouldn’t be fun. I’m still a little sad that I lost,” he admits instead. Your eyes pop open, shiny in the blue light of the TV screen. “I woulda thanked you if I won.”
“That’s ridiculous,” you say in that blunt way of yours. “You didn’t even know me when you made it.”
“I wish I had,” he says.
You giggle and run your fingers through his hair again, more tentative this time, cautious not to cross any lines. He wants to tell you that there are no lines with him, that he’d give himself to you whole if you’d let him, stomp all over these boundaries you’d imposed on yourself.
He lets you step over them first.
You draw closer until he’s holding you in his arms, until you’re nosing his cheek and he’s nosing yours, and he should pull away. He shouldn’t let you do this.
And then you kiss him. It’s chaste at first, like you’re just comforting him in the language he speaks.
“I’m sorry you didn’t win,” you say, kissing the tip of his nose. “You deserved to.”
“Thought you didn’t watch my movies,” he says.
“I lied.”
You kiss him again and giggle against his lips. He giggles back. Laughing with you makes him warm and gooey inside. “You okay, Pix?” 
He needs this to be real.
“I know what I’m doing, Dee. I promise.” You pause, and he watches the doubt creep over your face as you second guess yourself. “Unless—”
He kisses you with more heat to head you off, heart thumping in this little cocoon of bedsheets. 
“What were you doing when I came back?” He asks.
“Guess,” you sass.
“You wanna finish?” 
“You’re so unprofessional.”
“Just trying to help,” he says. He winds his leg between yours, offering himself. “Been a long day. You get so stressed out.”
Use me is what he wants to say.
You wiggle further down till you reach his thigh, pressing the damp gusset of your panties against him. He flexes and you let out the smallest whimper.
“Yeah,” he rasps. “There you are.”
“Is-is-is this okay?” You stutter, and he cups your neck in his hand and kisses you.
“You know it is,” he murmurs. “You know how much I want you. Know how much I wanna see you come. Make you feel good. I know you do, you’re a smart girl. Use me.”
You move like molasses against him, and your panties just keep getting wetter and wetter against his thigh. He wants to pull them to the side, feel your hot pussy against his bare leg, but he doesn’t dare do anything that might pull you out of it.
His cock has sprung to life, precome dripping from his slit as he throbs against your soft thigh. You pant into his mouth as his hands roam your body, stroking your belly and thighs and all the places he ever dreamed of touching.
“Can I touch your ass?” He asks, and you nod vigorously. He squeezes your cheek in his hand, groaning into your mouth as you whine against him.
Dieter’s been with a lot of people on various drugs in various positions, but you make it all brand new. You make him feel like he’s never felt a hot, wet cunt before, like he’s never heard a woman moan, like he can’t control himself. His cock is throbbing, protesting at being ignored, but he’s too focused on just how much pleasure you’re getting right now.
“Dee,” you whine and oh, fuck, he really loves the way that sounds.
“I know, baby,” he says. “I’m right here.”
“I think—I think I’m gonna come,” you whisper.
“Good, baby, that’s good. Want you to come. What do you need?” He asks. “Let me help you.”
“I-I-”
“Wish you were on top of me right,” he whispers. “Wish you were using my cock to get yourself off. Want you to put me in place, yeah? Fuck me until I’m a good boy for you.”
You don’t answer—you can’t. You seize against him, and he can feel you gush through your panties, your slick dripping against his thigh. “Dee,” you chant, over and over, and he rocks you through it.
“Thank you,” he murmurs. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. My girl, my pretty girl.”
Shivering through the aftershocks, you look up at him with soft eyes. “Dieter,” you sigh as he smiles softly at you.
He murmurs your name against your lips and kisses you one last time before you go heavy beside him, your breathing evening out. His cock is still hard, begging for him to finish himself, but he’s loath to untangle himself from you. 
Instead he just lays there listening to you breathing, and eventually, he drifts off, wrapped up in you.
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Blearily, your eyes blink against the morning sun. There’s something warm and bright fluttering in your chest, like you’d been having a particularly lovely dream, and as you try to chase the last glimpses of whatever it had been the night before floods your memories.
Dieter’s nose nuzzling against yours, his lips tickling your jaw, soft giggles from the both of you echoing in the dark room. And you’d kissed him.
You’d kissed him.
He’d kissed back, of course.
His hands roaming your body, gentle fingers lingering over your bare thighs and tummy. His leg threaded between yours, pressed against—
Oh, God.  
Was that part of the dream, too?
Judging from the stickiness between your legs, you think not. You sit straight up in bed, whipping your head around to find the room empty save for yourself.
You try to swallow the disappointment rising in your throat as you swing your legs over the side of the bed and stumble around for your pants, the humiliation of waking up alone after dry humping your boss being quite enough to deal with at the moment.
Ugh, you’re still in his shirt, and it still smells like him, and you still smell like him, and—
The sliding glass door opens and Dieter steps inside wrapped in a fluffy robe. Every muscle in your body unclenches, and that warmth from earlier floods back into your chest. He smirks, his eyes dragging over your body.
He whistles.
“Oh, shut the fuck up,” you laugh and throw a pillow at him as you fall back on to the bed.
The mattress dips with his weight, leaning over you to meet your eyes. The silver in his hair shimmers in the light. You smile up at him.
“Morning, dream girl,” he says.
You don’t think you’ll need a third experiment, actually.
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dividers and support banner by @saradika-graphics
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mothandpidgeon · 4 days
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just joel miller and his rare smile, also ellie <3
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mothandpidgeon · 5 days
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This blew my fucking mind. Giving me all my sexy spy fantasies.
You get Dave so perfectly. The violent jealousy and the desire and the patience. I’m sweating. Absolutely delicious.
Out of Sight
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Summary: Another job for Dave and his girl. (This is the same Dave and reader from Love at First...Sight, but there is no plot here.)
Pairing: Dave York x f!reader
Rating: Explicit (18+ only please)
Warnings: explicit sexual content, brief mention of injuries resulting from a physical assault, brief mentions of violence
Word Count: 3.7K
Dave York Masterlist
Author's Note: No Carol and kids in this world, friends.
“Sophisticated.” That’s the word you use for how you want to look tonight.
“What about the blue one?” That dress is Dave’s favorite – you’d worn it the last time he took you out to dinner. He particularly likes the way the thin straps cross over each other in the back, just between your shoulder blades. A perfect X-marks-the-spot – he’d rested one hand right there as he bent you over the bathroom sink at the restaurant.
“Too sexy.” Your voice sounds faraway, accompanied by the clink of hangers in your closet. Dave doesn’t like it when you put him on speaker – he prefers to hear your voice closer, where he can pretend you’re right there, whispering in his ear.
But you rarely concern yourself with his preference. “I want to look expensive. He needs to think he’s the only man there tonight who can afford me.”
Darkness shadows the edges of Dave’s vision. “He’s not paying for you.”
“No.” If he could see your face right now, your smile would be hungry – predator seeking prey. “But they like to pretend they could.”
Dave grunts noncommittally. He doesn’t like this part, but he knows it’s better. Before you, completing these assignments was messier: broken locks or broken windows, muffled panicked cries. It always surprised him how much even the softest of them would fight back.
But now the team has you.
You don’t have to sneak or fight your way in because they invite you: into their plush offices, into their dark-windowed limousines, into their gated mansions. Hungry for what they think you’re offering them, they don’t notice your eyes taking in the quickly-tapped alarm codes or the thin keycards tucked into breast pockets.
You are disarming – that word took on a new and concrete meaning once he saw what you could do.
You don’t kill. You simply leave the mark vulnerable: a sedative, delivered in the kinds of ways Dave knows not to ask about, and an open door. Once you’re back at his side, he gives the signal and the closer finishes the job.
“This one.” Your voice is nearer to the phone now and he hears the swished thump of the dress falling on the bed next to the phone.
“Which one?”
You pick up the phone then, bringing your breath so close he can almost feel it. “You’ll see.”
Dave’s been at the party for nearly an hour before he finally does: in a room of coal black, you shine like an amethyst. It’s a dress he hasn’t seen before – sparkling liquid violet that looks poured over you, molding to the contours of your breasts, gathering snug at your waist, spilling to the floor. Your arms are exposed, and a slit down the plane of your breastbone hints at what’s beneath but reveals nothing.
He understands now what you meant by expensive. A woman like you would only leave this party with a man who can offer her something. And the men in this room would think what you want is found in numbers in a column – in ledgers and accounts.
They’d be wrong.
Dave, though? He knows what you want.
He catches the eye of one of his guys across the room. One nod and Roberts is moving: circling the room, the silver tray crowned with champagne flutes held aloft. When he nears you, you take the drink – your fingers circle the slender stem of the glass, your eyes never acknowledging the man even though you’ve worked with him for almost a year.
The message is sent: you know they’ve got you.
Dave smooths the lapel of his tuxedo and undoes the button at the waist, then checks the time on his watch. It’s only nine and he knows you work fast. And he’s counting on it because he needs you. There is a rule, the newest one: no physical contact between you in the 48 hours before this part of your assignment.
He fucking hates that rule. But he knows why he made it.
It was seven months ago. He was trailing you to the location: a marina, where a defense contractor with minimal patriotism and a big fucking yacht was waiting for you. Dave had watched your signal come on as you turned into the gas station parking lot. When he pulled up next to you and you looked at him over the top of your sunglasses through your window? He could read your mind.
He got the bathroom key from the attendant inside and followed the crumbling sidewalk around to the back. The lock stuck a little; he finally got it to turn, but when the door opened? You were already in there, lifting the hem of your gauzy swimsuit coverup that hung to midthigh.
He’d fucked you hard and fast against the graffitied concrete block wall, your bikini bottoms stuffed into the back pocket of his chinos. No kissing – couldn’t smudge your makeup or leave a scrape of stubble on your cheek – but that just meant you talked to him the whole time.
Such a pretty, filthy mouth.
Twenty minutes later, Dave crouched on the deck of a rented sloop, twisting rough rope into a neat coil, his eyes behind his sunglasses watching the mark lead you onto the yacht.
You were nearly two hours late to the safehouse that night. By the time you slipped through the door, Dave was vibrating with fury. And then he saw you. Saw the faint bruise on your carotid. Saw the paper-thin split bisecting the plump of your lip. You told him just enough. The fucking asshole’s sharp eyes spotted a dried smear of come on your inner thigh: the one spot you’d missed with the handful of scratchy bathroom paper towels.
Dave would have killed the target himself, with his bare hands. But the deadly-calm look in your eyes said he didn’t need to.
He moves through the room – talks golf with a senator’s husband, eats a leaf of endive stuffed with a truffled goat cheese mousse, feigns sips of a bourbon and soda – but he’s always watching you. He likes this part. He isn’t sure how you do it – how you project that intoxicating mix of aloofness and invitation – but it always works.
 You don’t have to seek them out; they come to you.
It’s been barely twenty minutes since you walked in when Dave sees the mark notice you. This one is important – notorious, cautious, dangerous. But everyone has something they want that makes them reckless. Tonight it will be you.
You don’t make it easy and that just makes them want you more. The way you tilt your head instead of laughing at their jokes, how your eyes drift just past them when they think they’re being charming, your prodding smile that says, ‘try a little harder.’ And so they do, until they finally get you to take their arm and be led out the door.
The smug looks on their faces say they’ve won. But it’s always you.
Tonight’s mark keeps touching you – your wrist, your shoulder, the back of your hand. Once he leans to whisper in your ear; Dave watches two of his fingers stroke the nape of your neck and he pictures the quick jerk a head makes when a bullet meets the back of it.
He can almost feel the punch of the recoil into his shoulder. He’d welcome it.
Fifteen minutes into a conversation with a tech billionaire who thinks sports cars are interesting, Dave sees you win: the target rests his hand on your lower back and steers you towards the door, his fingers drifting towards the top of your ass.
Dave knows exactly how far you can bend a finger before it snaps; he wonders if the mark would be surprised by how easily they break. He excuses himself from the rich guy and slips to a quiet edge of the room to whisper into his cuff.
“She’s moving. Don’t lose her.” That instruction isn’t necessary – his guys know the price if something happens to you on their watch.
The waiting is the worst. Dave stays at the party for another forty-five minutes – chats with his state department colleagues who know nothing of the side jobs he takes, eats a few more canapés that crumble dryly in his mouth, watches the seconds tick away until he can leave to meet you.
In the air-conditioned quiet of his car – a relief after the buzzing chatter of the party – he glances at the coordinates your tail has sent him. Helpfully, the target has taken you to the apartment his wife doesn’t know about – a top-floor penthouse in a building that prides itself on discretion: no cameras in the lobby and doormen who see nothing. Dave silently thanks him for making this so easy.
He parks the car down the block from the building and watches his rearview mirror for you. He used to wait at the safehouse, but not anymore – not since the night he thought you weren’t coming back. Now he comes to get you, and God help anyone who tries to keep you from him.
The minutes pass – Dave loosens the bowtie and tosses it in the backseat, and flicks open the button at his collar. His eyes never leave the mirror. Finally – eighty-seven minutes since you left the party – he sees you strolling down the sidewalk, a long black coat covering any sparkle from your dress. The only shine comes from the shimmery glint of your hair in the moonlight. You’d been a brunette at the party but you’re a blonde now – an icy platinum bob reaches your chin, framing your smile as you slide into his car.
“He’s ready for them.” You drop your small satin clutch into the backseat, and Dave sends the message to the team that will complete the assignment.
“You good?” He glances at you as he pulls away from the curb.
You flicker your eyebrows up. “Were you worried about me, David?”
“Never worry about you,” he lies. “Just knew this one might be a problem.”
“He was easy.” You roll the car window down to let your hand dance in the night breeze. “Took his medicine like a good boy.”
You hum softly to yourself, the wind sending the silver strands fluttering across your cheeks. Dave steals looks at you as the highway carries the car away from the city lights.
“Who were you tonight?” Dave has seen your hidden safe – IDs and passports, all in different names, all with your pretty face.
“Ivy.” You’re still turned to the window, your fingers fluttering in the warm air.
That one is new.
“Tell me about her.”
“An art dealer. Just got back from Seville - sourcing a Murillo for a client. Likes Torrontés and avant-garde theatre.” You flash him a smile. “Loves anal.”
He narrows his eyes and you laugh. “None of them can resist that, York. If they think there’s a shot? It’s almost too easy.”
Dave doesn’t want to think about the things the marks say to you – what you might say to them. So he changes the subject, reaching across the seat to touch the tied sash of your coat.
“Liked the dress tonight.” His fingers give a quick tug of the ends.
“It was a good one.” You smile at him, your fingers brushing away the fine hairs caught in the glossy plum of your lipstick.
“Didn’t make it out?”
“Too memorable. Down the garbage chute.”
“Show me.”
You smirk, your fingertips tracing the strap of the seatbelt across your chest. “Can’t. Safety first.”
He shifts his jaw to the side and takes the first left he sees. The tires stir the carpet of leaves that cover the little-used asphalt and he puts the car into park on the shoulder.
“Show me.” He lets his voice dip low, gravelly, and your eyes spark.
You tap your nails against the buckle of the seatbelt for a moment before clicking the release. The belt retracts with a hiss but Dave barely hears it over the blood pounding in his ears. You don’t always let him tell you what to do, but fuck, he likes it when you do.
Your fingers move to the tied belt, unknotting the ends.  You open the front of the coat a sliver and he sees skin: the swell of your breast, the curve of your belly, the smooth tops of your thighs.
“More.”
Your eyebrows lift a fraction, the pink tip of your tongue settling into the bite of your teeth. “David missed me.”
He frowns at you, his mouth thick with how much he wants you right now. “I said more.”
You smile, pulling the lapels wide, letting them drape open over your shoulders. “Better?”
He reaches for your thigh – grips it until his fingers dent your skin. “Panties go down the garbage chute, too, Ivy?”
At the name, your eyes glimmer and Dave sees that you like it – like the game that this might become. “Maybe I didn’t wear any.”
That ‘maybe’ – he knows you’re teasing him, but the thought of you alone with another man tonight like that twists knife-sharp in his belly.
He gives your thigh another squeeze, then lets go of you to push his seat back as far as it will go. You watch him, chewing the edge of your lip with soft huffed breaths as he shrugs off his tux jacket and throws it in the back seat.
He leans across the space between you to curl his hand beneath your jaw. His other slides around the smooth skin of your neck to your nape, fingertips brushing that place the other man had stroked not even two hours ago. He brings his mouth close to your ear – lets his lips graze it as he speaks.
“No matter what your name is, you’re mine. You know that?”
He feels your quick nod, feels you relax into his touch.
“Say it, Ivy.” He uses his teeth on your earlobe just to hear your hungry gasp. “Say it.”
“I’m yours.” Your hands are moving now, one gliding up the sleek sateen of his trousers to palm his cock through the fabric, the other at his waistband to tug at the bar clasp. He could help – he almost does – but he likes watching your brow furrow in frustration. He keeps your chin lifted, turning your face to meet his eyes.
“Looks like you missed me.” He smiles at your narrowed eyes as he slides his hand from your throat to the vee of your legs. “Let me feel how much you’ve missed me.”
You’re so good for him: how you spread your thighs wide on the seat of his car, how your tongue slips out to lick his thumb as he runs it over your bottom lip. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of it – the way you give to him, the way you take.
He gently eases his middle finger along your center and clenches his jaw – you’re wet already, those slippery folds that beg him to bury his finger knuckle deep inside your heat – but not yet. He wants you soaked, wants you messy and slick and begging.
“I think you can get wetter for me, baby.” His other hand keeps your eyes on his, and he glides his thumb over your cheekbone. He feels the fine silver strands of your hair brush soft against his wrist. “What if I fuck your mouth? Is that what you need?”
Your lips are parted, tongue dancing over them, as you nod with a heavy-eyed smile. You manage his trousers by feel and he lifts his hips just enough for you to yank them down with his underwear to free his cock. Then your hands are on him – those slender fingers wrapping around him in a squeeze.
“Ivy.” He likes saying that name – likes how it shifts something in you, makes you different even beyond the blonde hair he’s now tangling around his fingers. “Tell me what I’m going to do.”
Your eyelashes flutter, a ragged exhale pushing through your plump lips. “Fuck my mouth.”
“That’s right.” He has you now – he can see that. Whatever he asked for, you’d give him. “Why?”
“To make me –” your words are unsteady, but your hands move over him with familiar ease – “wet for you.”
“Go ahead, baby.” He’s so hard it almost hurts, and when you bend over his lap and he watches the plum ring of your lips slide over the head of his cock, he can’t help but groan. He twists the silver strands of the wig tighter in his fingers, pushing just enough to let you know who’s in charge. “Fuck. How deep can you take it?”
You don’t answer: can’t, not with the way his cock is pressing thick and heavy on your tongue, with the way the head is pushing at the back of your throat. But you moan, and he feels it – feels the vibration of it. But he also feels you try – taking him deeper, so deep he practically sees stars. You still, not moving, and he realizes you’re waiting for him to use you.
So he does: uses the grip on your hair to guide you up and down, almost sliding out completely before burying himself in your mouth again, the tip of his cock teasing the entrance to your throat. He’s careful – Dave doesn’t lose control, and definitely not when it comes to you. But he walks right up to the line: he fucks your mouth a little rougher, a little harder.
Like you’re Ivy. Not you.
He thinks about coming like this; he can almost see it, pearly drops spilling over your smudged lipstick, the color of his come in the moonlight the same as your silver hair. But he doesn’t want to just take from you tonight. You’re his, and he never wants you to forget why.
So he lets go of your hair to smooth his hand against your cheek, to catch the point of your chin with his fingertips and pull you off his cock. Your eyes are glassy and half-closed, and you smile at him as he brings your face close to his.
“Touch me now.” Your shining lips nearly brush his. “See how wet I am now.”
He does – his whole hand into the space between your legs, the sticky slick of you covering his palm as you grind into it. “Did so good for me, Ivy. You want me to fuck you now?”
You nod, already clambering across the console to him, slipping out of your coat as you move. You arrive in his lap wearing only your heels and the blonde wig, your hands sliding into his hair to press your mouth against his. Your tongue is salty with him. But the faintest hint of a cologne he doesn’t know drifts from your skin, and he squeezes two thick handfuls of your ass to drag your soaked center against him.
“Who do you belong to, baby?” He settles his teeth into the edge of your lip; you have to pull it free to answer.
“You, David. Always you.” Your hand is moving in the space between your bodies and he feels you grip him, angle him, and then you’re sliding down the length of his cock, your words softening into a gasp. “Oh.”
Two days apart is too long. His eyes squeeze shut for a moment, his thoughts sliding away to anything else: anything but how you feel around him right now, anything but how you are whimpering in his ear as you begin to roll your hips. Your head falls back – the blonde hair nearly brushing your shoulders, the long line of your throat opening to him. He places his mouth right there – right at the center of that lovely sweep of skin where he can feel your blood rushing beneath, pulsing against his lips.
He slides one hand around to settle two fingers against your clit; you hiss, shimmying your hips from side to side against the pressure of his touch.
“Fuck, baby.” He gives your ass a soft swat as you keep wriggling in his lap, rubbing yourself against the pads of his fingers. “Are you going to make yourself come like that?”
Your eyes are squinted shut and you’re biting the plump of your lip, breath coming fast as you writhe, and he smacks your ass again, harder this time.
“Answer.” He’s clenching his jaw so hard he knows it’ll ache tomorrow. “You gonna come like that? You need it that bad?”
There are other words he gives you then – ones he knows you like – and other questions, too; and you answer him: yes and please and more, your voice arching into a moan when he lifts his hips off the seat to finally start to fuck you.
You grip his face between the palms of your hands and search for his mouth, your lips sliding against his cheekbone, his nose, before you find it. A kiss – soft, the tip of your tongue there smoothing the curve of his lip – and then teeth, little nips hard enough to hurt.
But when you stop – when your mouth parts in an O, when your hands slide away to grip the headrest behind his head – he knows.
“That’s it, Ivy.” He’s close – wants to fill you while you’re still moaning in his lap – so he fucks up into you as hard as he can. “Come on.”
You let go then, and he does, too. The squeeze of you around him is too much, and he yanks you down against him hard, his cock pulsing inside you.
You whimper and slump into his chest, hands sliding from the back of the seat down the crisp cotton of his shirtsleeves, fingertips tracing the shape of his biceps through the fabric.
“I should be a blonde more often.” Your voice is teasing as you breathe against his cheek.
“Don’t give a shit what color hair you have.” He turns his head to see your eyes – blinking soft and slow, close enough they blur. “As long as you come back to me.”
“Always, David.” You sigh – another gentle roll of your hips sends a shiver through you, and he pulls closer. “Always.”
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mothandpidgeon · 5 days
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It’s okay. I believe him. 
PEDRO PASCAL as JOEL MILLER THE LAST OF US | 1.08 WHEN WE ARE IN NEED
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mothandpidgeon · 5 days
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I love you and it means so much that you love this. And even more that you’ll listen to me yammer on about these two 24/7. ❤️❤️❤️
The Outlaws (Outlaw!Joel Miller x f!reader) - Chapter 1
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Moth's Masterlist // Add yourself to the tag list
pairing: Outlaw!Joel Miller x f!reader
rating: T (eventual E 18+ MDNI)
wc: 2.8k
summary: Wanted for murder with a bounty on your head, your only hope of escaping the Pinkerton detectives is an outlaw named Joel Miller and his sidekick Ellie. But Joel has other plans for you.
tags: old west au, train robberies, enemies to lovers, grumpy Joel, handcuffed together, period/genre/canon typical violence, alcohol, morally grey characters, assuming Ellie’s gender, reader has backstory, no use of y/n
authors note: it’s been a really long time since I’ve had the confidence to post a new series here. But these two have taken over my brain and I’m excited to share them with you. Thank you @ezrasbirdie for beta and generally cheering this idea on.
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You’ve found yourself in some spots before but never one as tight as this. You’re seated in the passenger car of a train bound for Chicago. If you make it there, you’ll hang.
Your knee bounces anxiously. You’ve been wracking your brain for hours now. There’s got to be some way to escape but you’re fresh out of ideas. Unless you can smash the window and jump out of a moving train, you’re screwed.
“Quit that twitching or I’ll give you a real shiner,” Brown says from behind his newspaper. He’s sitting on the aisle, between you and freedom. There’s a holster on his hip, his fancy pistol a promise that you won’t get far if you try to run.
As you suck your teeth in response, he chuckles to himself, and you wish you could punch him again like you did back in Laramie. 
Six years in Wyoming and your luck has run out. It’s bad enough that you’re getting hauled back east but being pinched by a Pinkerton man in a silly bowler hat and that ridiculous tin badge is humiliating. He’s actually twirling his fucking mustache, the bastard. 
“I’m hungry,” you tell him as he neatly folds his paper. You’re not but you’re grasping at straws now, trying anything that might get him to give just an inch. 
“That’s too bad,” he says. He pulls a little paper bag of jelly beans out of his coat pocket and pops a few into his mouth.
Fucker. 
You chew on a hangnail, pressing your forehead against the window. Your best chance of getting off of this train is Brown dropping dead. You’ve been wishing for him to have a heart attack for the last 35 miles but no luck yet. When the train stops in Cheyanne, you might be able to make a break for it but it’s too risky. There aren’t a whole lot of elegant solutions left.
The landscape of the west rolls by as the train chugs along. Wide, churning rivers, thick forests, and mountains dusted with snow. It was beautiful back when this was your refuge. Now, it’s just something else to scowl at while you listen to Brown munch his candy. 
Your sigh fogs the glass. All you can do now is hope for a miracle. 
The train reduces speed to take a curve and all you can see are thick, tall trees with branches that shade the tracks. They go from a blur of green to clutches of pale, white trunks and you realize you’re seeing more and more details on each branch. The locomotive’s slowing. It’s huffing and puffing with effort, sparks flicking off from the wheels as the hulking thing crawls along. Soon it’s so slow that you could run faster. There’s no station in sight, you’re still deep in forest here. Something’s amiss. Maybe the train is broken, maybe they ran out of coal. How trains work is a mystery to you to begin with but they must break down sometimes. 
You chance a look at Brown. He’s all suspicion, sitting up a little taller, eyes searching around for the answer to the same question that’s on your mind. What’s going on here? 
Suddenly the train lurches to a halt. A hat box falls off of the overhead shelf and a few passengers brace themselves against the seats with grunts and complaints. 
“Are we stopping?” a man a few rows ahead of you asks no one in particular. 
The locomotive answers with a long, tired hiss. 
“You got something to do with this?” Brown asks you in a hushed tone. 
“How could I stop a train all the way back here?” you ask him. 
“Maybe one of your compatriots,” he says. 
You give a laugh. If there’s one thing you’ve never had in your life it’s scruples and if there’s two, it’s compatriots. You’ve been on your own since you were sixteen and there sure as hell isn’t anybody in the world that loves you enough to stop a train for you. 
You don’t feel sorry for yourself, never have. RIght now, in fact, you’re feeling pretty pleased. Any delay on this trip means more time to think. Hope blooms in your chest and you have to keep yourself from grinning so Brown doesn’t get the wrong idea.
The train is motionless for a while, murmurs of speculation from your fellow passengers. 
Then the car door slides open and in walks an outlaw with a pistol in each hand.
He’s slight. Short and scrawny and youthful, maybe sixteen years old. The bottom half of his pale face is covered by a dark red bandana, mousy brown hair under a worn hat.
“Ladies and gents, I regret to inform you that this here is a hold up,” he says, tone so cheerful, you’d think he was a carnival barker. But his voice isn’t as deep as you expected. In fact you’re skeptical that’s a boy under there. “Keep your hands where I can see ‘em and nobody gets hurt.” 
The other passengers gasp and whisper, nervous looks shared about the car. Your foot begins to bounce again as your mind races to figure a way to make this new wrinkle work in your favor. 
“That means you, too,” the kid says, sidling up to Brown. Now that she’s closer, you’re almost certain this outlaw is a girl. “No need for heroes here.” 
The Pinkerton man’s hand is laying on his revolver. 
“I suggest you move along to the others, young fella,” Brown replies. 
“Don’t be an idiot, buster,” the kid says. She cocks a pistol. 
There’s a long standoff between the two and nobody in the whole car dares to even breathe. 
The door slams open and you jump. 
A second outlaw enters. There’s a noticeable shift in the air. He’s imposing and dark, stalking in like a big dog, spurs jingling with each step. 
“What’s taking so long?” he asks. His voice is a cowboy drawl. He adjusts a canvas mail sack on his broad shoulder, no doubt stuffed full of money from the train’s safe. 
He’s dressed like any other outlaw, and you’ve seen your fair share. Shabby shirt, black waistcoat, a leather belt heavy with bullets around narrow hips. He’s got on a black hat and beneath it you spy dark curls threaded with silver, much older than the other robber. 
All you can see of his face are two brown eyes that flit between the standoff in front of him. He whips his colt 45 out of its holster with practiced ease. 
Brown’s outnumbered now. This is your chance. 
“You’ve got to help me, mister,” you say, rising from your seat with your hands up in surrender. 
Your sudden movement draws all of his attention. He points the barrel of his gun at your chest and your breath catches. There’s no point in being afraid, though. Odds are you’re going to die on the gallows anyway.  Maybe he’ll shoot you but at least you tried. Your heart’s thrumming in your ears.
“I ain’t on this train of my own free will,” you explain. 
“Quiet, you,” Brown growls.
“He’s a Pinkerton man. He’ll shoot you dead if you let him,” you say.   
You're sure Brown would love to glare at you if he didn’t have his attention trained on the man in front of him.
“Don’t worry about her,” Brown says. “I’ve got no quarrel with you, friend.”
The outlaw’s eyes narrow just the slightest bit.
“I’ve got a bounty on my head,” you say. All of your words are coming out fast.
“How much?” the outlaw asks.
“Enough,” Brown says. His hand stays on his gun. 
“He’s taking me to Chicago and I’m facing the rope,” you explain. “There’s a warrant in his breast pocket. It’s the god’s honest truth,” you say. 
The outlaw thinks for a moment and you tense. It never ends well for you when men think too much. 
“Take it off him. And the gun,” the outlaw says to his partner. Then he turns back to Brown and says, “Hands up.”
“I don’t intend to interfere with your business so long as you don’t interfere with mine,” Brown says.
“If you think you’ll have that gun up and shooting before I’ve put a bullet in you, you’re sorely mistaken. So I’ll give you one more chance to get your hands in the air,” the outlaw warns. His cold words light an exhilarating heat in your belly. 
Brown clenches his jaw but with two guns drawn on him he has no choice but compliance. You feel some vindication as he slowly raises his hands. 
With some fancy flips, the kid holsters one of her guns. Brown lets her take his pistol and pull the paper from his coat though he frowns all through it. 
You watch the outlaw skim the words on your warrant. His eyes bounce between you and the page. 
“She don’t look like the murdering type,” he says.
You suppose he’s right. You’re still rough around the edges but in your straw hat and prim, full skirt you might be mistaken for a school marm. That you certainly aren’t.
The kid looks at you with new interest.
“That’s up to the judge,” Brown says. “My job’s just to bring her to the law.”
“I’d be much obliged if you prevented that from happening,” you say. 
“Why should I?” he asks. 
You swallow. You’ve had to sing for your supper before but it’s never been a matter of life and death. 
“You’re going to steal her necklace and his wallet,” you say with a nod to the other passengers. “What’s the difference between that and little old me?” you ask. 
“Aiding and abetting is the difference—“ Brown begins indignantly. 
“You give her that black and blue?” the outlaw asks and there’s a new edge in his voice that thrills you.
You’ve almost forgotten about the mark on your cheek, when you and Brown came to blows that first encounter. He got you right in the under your eye where a big ugly welt remained. 
“She struck first,” Brown says with a smug little smile.
You want to knock his teeth out and it seems the outlaw has the same fancy. He whacks Brown right in the nose with his pistol. Brown wails and grabs his face, blood pouring between his fingers. Some of the other passengers gasp and a woman cries out in horror. 
You laugh so hard that it hurts the bruise.
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As you step off the train you’re so flooded with relief. You’ve never been closer to catching a rope and your narrow escape, the pure fate of it all, is invigorating. The leaves look brighter than before and the air feels fresher even though coal smoke hangs all around you. 
You’ve got a second chance. Well, more like a hundredth chance. Anyone with an ounce of sense would see this divine intervention as a sign to change their ways, do things right. Not you. You just thank your lucky stars that you’ve put off meeting your maker by one more day. Whoever’s up there, you’ve managed to outsmart him so far and sometimes you’re arrogant enough to believe that you might avoid judgment day altogether. 
It takes you a moment to notice there are no other outlaws on standby. The tracks are obstructed by a pile of railroad ties which explains how such a small party could get aboard but other than that, it’s just deserted forest. The coal man and engineer must be tied up in the locomotive. An impressive feat for five men, let alone an aging cowboy and a teenage girl. 
“Keep moving,” the outlaw says and leads you away. 
He whistles uncommonly loud and two saddled horses— one the color of whiskey, the other nearly black— trot out of the tree line. 
A gun’s report echoes from the train. 
“Shit!” You duck. Brown and a Marshall stand on the caboose, aiming in your direction. 
The outlaw returns fire. A direct hit. He strikes the Marshall in the chest and his body topples over the rail onto the tracks with a great thud. 
“Come on!” The kid calls from the saddle of the brown horse. She’s got her hand out to you. 
You pull yourself onto its back behind her as more bullets whizz by. The kid shoots without taking time to aim. Her shots ping off the metal train car and Brown takes cover long enough for her partner to mount his horse. 
“Giddy up, Shimmer!” She kicks the horse and you’re carried off down the tracks, back west. 
The gunshots quiet and eventually stop and soon the train has disappeared from view when you’re around that bend. The horses take you off the gravel shoulder of the train tracks and into the trees, hooves picking carefully through the brush. They don’t stop until dusk is falling, miles away from where you started. Their hideout is a cave along the banks of a deep river. 
The kid hops out of the saddle south a celebratory holler and pulls the mask off to reveal delicate features removing her hat allows a long braid to tumble down her back. So you were right, that was a girl under there. 
“You see that shooting back there?” she asks her partner. 
He gives a gruff kind of chuckle but says no more. 
For the first time in days your whole body relaxes and you can’t help but giggle to yourself. You made it. 
“I’m Ellie,” the kid says after you’ve got your feet on the ground.“This here is Joel Miller.”
You’ve heard the name. The man notorious for robbing stagecoaches, banks, and trains stands before you. He tugs down his bandana revealing patchy stubble and a full set of lips that look like they’ve never seen a smile. It might be that he just saved your life but you can’t help but find him handsome. He’s rugged and square jawed, his neck dotted with beads of sweat. 
“As I live and breathe. I suppose I owe you one,” you say. 
You put out a hand for him to shake but instead your wrist is clamped in iron. He’s locked a handcuff around you. 
“God damn it!” you snap. You yank your arm back but he holds the other cuff in his fist. 
“Joel! What the hell?” Ellie says. 
He fixes his own wrist in the other cuff. You’re locked together with only about a foot of chain separating the two of you. 
“If you’re worth $10,000 I don’t need you wandering off on me,” he says and tugs back. 
All of the good will in you evaporates and you feel fire rise in your gut. You’ve never expected honor amongst thieves but this is more than treacherous. 
“You son of a bitch. You’d turn me into the law? I bet there’s a bounty on your head three times the size,”you gripe. 
“Four,” he tells you. 
Your face is hot and you’re ready to fight but Joel Miller isn’t just some city detective. 
“You’re a wanted man. How do you figure you can just waltz into the sheriff and ask for the reward?”
“You don’t worry about that, missy,” he says. 
The little moniker makes you want to slap him right in the face. 
“Joel, no,” Ellie says, features painted with disgust. 
“Don’t start with me,” he warns her. 
“We don’t need the money,” she protests. 
“Ellie.”
“Fuck you, you ugly lily-livered bastard!” you say. 
“Hey!” he barks, pulling the chain taught. “Listen here, missy. That handbill said ‘dead or alive.’ If you can’t be quiet, ain’t nothing stopping me from putting a bullet in ya.” 
His words send a shiver down your spine. There’s no reason for you to believe that’s an empty threat. Angry tears brim in your eyes but you’ll be damned if he sees you cry. You’re capable of violence, too, but unarmed, outnumbered, and imprisoned, you’ve got no choice but to shut up. 
You don’t go down easy, though. You spit at the ground between you and the frothy wad of saliva lands on Joel’s boot, then slips into the dirt. His nostrils flare and for a second you think he’s got mind to put you over his knee. You stand your ground, glaring into his dark eyes. 
There’s a twitch in his jaw and Joel turns away, working at the strap on his saddle, taking you with him. 
“Ellie, get that fire going,” he orders. “We’ll ride to the Boot tomorrow. Lay low for a week. Then we’ll go to Jackson and deal with her.” He nods at you. 
“You serious?” Ellie asks. She looks at you with apology in her expression. 
Joel tosses her the reins and she sighs. He shoves his saddle bags into your arms. 
“Make yourself useful,” he says. 
Your mind is already working again. You made it off of a moving train, you’ll find a way out of this new predicament. You’ve got one week to slip out of Joel Miller’s clutches. 
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Chapter 2 - Series Masterlist
Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear from you. Asks always open and I don't bite (much).
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