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nikoruistyping · 1 year

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Our Love Language || Spencer Reid

Spencer Reid x Fem!reader

Summary: It’s your first time spending Valentines day with your boyfriend, Spencer and just when you thought all was lost he surprises you in more way than one...

TW: Small bit of Fluff, Lots of Smut, Adult Language/Swearing, Dirty Talk, Kissing/Making Out, Fingering (Kinda), Vanilla Vaginal/Office/Desk Sex, Oral Sex (Fem Receiving), Praise Kink, Nudity, Playful Banter/Jokes, Established Relationship, Aftercare, Mention of Valentines Day, Gushy “I love you’s”

Word Count: 4,805

A/N: HAPPY BELATED VALENTINES DAY FOLKS! I hope you enjoy and this little one shot is especially dedicated to my bestie who is obsessed with our boy Spencer Reid so I hope you enjoy babes and that everyone else does as well! Also this took me almost 3 days to write and proof and Im sure there is a bunch of mistakes still so I will go in and fix later since work and personal life has been crazy recently.

Physical touch, Quality time, Receiving gifts, Acts of service, Words of affirmation

It was the one day of the year you actually hated with a passion because the thought of it made your blood boil. Another holiday for people to make money off of and take advantage of all the loving couples who wanted to do many something a little extra special for their significant other. It was annoying having to see so many happy couples going around doing all the stuff you wanted to do but at the end of the day, you would go retreat to your fuzzy blanket and turn on Netflix with a bowl of ice cream in hand. Well at least that's how you used to spend Valentine's day but this year would be different from the rest because it was your first time actually being able to celebrate not alone but with your boyfriend Spencer.

You had an extra pep in your step the whole day and as you got off the subway from a long day at work you were looking forward to whatever surprise or possibly more than one surprise he would have for you waiting at home. It was eating you alive trying to guess or more so make up little scenarios in your mind about how just exactly what would the night entail. Would he go the more romantic route? Dozens of roses and a home-cooked meal? Would he get down and dirty from the get-go? Doing tons of explicit things to you the minute you stepped into the doorway? Just the sheer thought of it made you bite your lip, your steps getting faster in anticipation.

Before you could even pull your keys out of your pocket you get a phone call from Spencer and you quickly smile at the picture you had set as his contact photo, clearly something so silly and embarrassing but it reminded you of how much of a goofball he could be sometimes. You pick up raising the phone to your ear to listen to his voice.

"Hey babe,"

"Hey Y/N, so I have some bad news..." His voice seemed to echo so loudly into the phone your heart seemed to drop.

"Bad news...what the hell do you mean?" Your brow was furrowed in confusion as you had stopped in your tracks just minutes before you could enter into your apartment building.

"I-I don't think I'm going to make it home on time," You could hear the shakiness in his voice and that he was nervous.

"You have got to be kidding me! Spencer, you know how important today is for me. It's our first time as a couple celebrating Valentine's day, are you sure there isn't anything you can do?" Your Valentine's day plans were starting to disappear before your eyes and you hated how much importance this stupid holiday had on you but you at least wanted to enjoy it once while being in a serious relationship with someone you truly loved. You tried your best to seem tame over the phone because at the end of the day, it wasn't exactly his fault.

"Don't you think I know that Y/N?! Trust me I want to be with you too right now but this case is really beating up the whole team and there are piles of paperwork to do." He deeply sighed into the phone out of exhaustion, you hated seeing him so overworked like this and you know he hasn't been sleeping well recently.

"Fine how about this...have you eaten at all today?" You ask into the phone raising an eyebrow, you were sure Spencer could already imagine the look on your face.

"Does two cups of coffee count?" He asks with a small chuckle.

"Well, that tells me all that I need to know. It's decided I'm coming over to the BAU and I'm bringing dinner for us. If you can't come to me I'll just come to you." You quickly decided after sacrificing all the perfect little plans you were imagining in your head and you started to accept the reality that you would be spending your most romantic night ever in the dim lights of the FBI's office, how exciting.

"Y/N are you sure?! You really don't have to and plus do you really want to be here bored out of your mind watching me do paperwork?"

"I've already decided and as long as I'm spending time with you that's what I really care about." You say with a small smile on your face and turn yourself around to start walking in the other direction.

"You're right, I'll see ya soon then yeah?" He asked with a grin across his face on the other side of the phone.

"I'll let you know when I get there. See you soon my love." You quickly hung up the phone blushing to yourself before he could comment on the new pet name you called him. For some reason, it felt natural to say, what other day is better fitting than today right?

1 Hour later...

Take-out bags in hand you made your way over to the front doors of the BAU office. The office from the outside seemed darker than usual and there weren't many cars in the parking lot so something was definitely off. You reluctantly swiped your visitor's badge at the front door, pushing the glass door open with your hip to hold it as you seemed to juggle the bags of food around from one hand to the next. When you turned around to look at the front desk there was a candlelit walkway leading you in exactly the direction you were supposed to follow. Immediately a smile came about your face and you eagerly followed the pathway made for you, rose petals decorated the floor leading you right to were you needed to be.

"Spencer?!" You questioned calling out to him hoping he would respond back. The darkness seemed to fill the air and you couldn't see anything in front of you other than a few office desks being dimly lit by candlelight. You cautiously took a few steps forward, footsteps echoing into space.

To no avail, you didn't get any response back so you tried your best to navigate where you knew his desk was. You could already tell it must have been his because it was the one that had fairy lights surrounding it, more rose petals decorating the small space, and a little folded-up notecard addressed to you.

You gently put down the bags of take-out food and picked up the notecard while reading it to yourself.

Y/N, I know you're probably a bit upset at me that I lied to you so you could come here. I wanted to celebrate this special day in the one place where it all started, here in the BAU office. I hope that this doesn't come off as lame or corny, it's my way of showing you how much you mean to me. Happy Valentines Day S.R You couldn't help but have the biggest grin on your face, you couldn't believe that he really went through all this trouble to make everything look so pretty for you. You really were the luckiest girl in the world at that moment.

Before you could even say another word, you felt a familiar presence standing right behind you, and hands quickly covering your vision so you couldn't see.

"Spencer is that you?" You knew it was him but hey no harm in asking.

"Hmm... the name doesn't ring a bell. Can you describe what he looks like?" His breath was hot as his lips were close to your ear.

"Oh I see-" You quickly caught on to the drift of his little game so you decided to play along.

"Well let me think and see if I can remember," You paused trying to build up the suspense.

"He has these handsome brown hazelnut-colored eyes, he's about 6'1, his hair is light brown extra fluffy sometimes curly and his lips are very and I mean very kissable. Is that a good enough description?" You answer back smirking to yourself that you were sure it made him smile hearing you say that last bit of info.

"I might have seen him around, looks like he happens to be a criminal though so I'd be careful if I were you." He almost broke his serious tone of voice with a small but audible chuckle.

"A criminal, what is he guilty of?" You ask pretending to be shocked with a fake gasp escaping your lips knowing exactly where this little joke is going but you decided to indulge him since you found it cute and endearing.

"Looks like he stole someone's heart," He states as you decide to turn around, his hands lifting up to uncover your eyes so you could finally look at him. All the feelings from when you first met flooded back, the all too familiar feeling of butterflies in your stomach and cheeks flushed pink while your eyes made contact with his.

"He definitely stole mine for sure." You declare quickly pulling him closer to you, your hands immediately finding their home on the back of his neck where your fingers played with small loose strands of hair.

You smiled and leaned forward, kissing his lips softly, after such a long stressful day his lips felt like home. You let yourself become so relaxed that without even realizing you started to draw him closer, a queue for Spencer to put his hands on your waist. You had almost forgotten what it felt like to kiss him this passionately and you pressed into it, your fingers curling in his hair and lightly tugging. Your head turned to the side, your tongue sliding against his as the kiss became more intense. You let a quiet moan slip out and before you could get too carried away you pulled your lips away. Your hands reached back to his face and soothingly stroked the patchy stubble on his cheeks.

"You know you're a pretty good actor, I would have never guessed." You commented with a small giggle he just smiled right back at you.

"Let's just say it was a little white lie, it's an exception. Plus it was so worth it to see you like this right in front of me." He leaned in closer nuzzling his nose against yours as you just enjoyed the faint smell of his cologne.

"I have to say I'm impressed you were able to do all of this and with Hotch's permission?! You must have had to beg." You said with a small snicker.

"Well, what can I say, some people are worth going through a little bit of hell," He says with a smile as one of his hands goes up to cup your cheek, his hand a bit shaky and you could tell he seemed a bit nervous despite the very confidant façade he was putting on for you.

"Is everything ok Spence? You're shaking," You ask concerned as you put your hand on top of his.

"I-I-um well ok- there is something important I wanted to tell you and I thought it's finally the right time to do so," He took a deep breath and you could even hear how hard he swallowed due to the deafening silence around you two.

"Y/N...I love you-" The minute he uttered those three words you couldn't help but giggle at his confession. He furrowed his brows in confusion almost a bit offended at your reaction.

"What's so funny?! You know I’m trying to confess my undying love for you and this is the thanks I get-" He was ready to protest.

"Spencer I'm not laughing at your confession. I'm laughing at the fact that you got all nervous just to tell me that? I already know that you love me but it does feel nice to hear it out loud." You say nonchalantly and you could have sworn his jaw dropped at your words.

"How did you know? I mean this makes no sense at all I made sure to keep it a secret-" He was seriously in awe at how you could have figured out something so simple it even made him scratch his head.

"Spencer it's very simple to explain, this is our love language," Your hands slid down to hold both of his and intertwine your fingers with his as you pause a moment to savor every bit of how he was so focused on listening to you.

"I'm sure you have already heard of the five types of love languages. All the things we do for each other every day are all acts of love and even though we might not say it out loud in words actions speak louder," Your fingers traced small patterns on the back of his hand as he gave you a small smile.

"Every time you tell me how beautiful I am, when you clean the whole house for me, when we cuddle watching movies together, when you come home with my favorite dessert because you know I've had a bad day and cheesecake is the only way to cure my sadness and when you hold my hand or kiss me, those are all things that reassure me that you love me. You don't have to be some big-shot FBI Behavior Analyst to see we are in love Spencer."

"Wow...you literally just blew my mind-" He utters under his breath impressed by you but mostly surprised how you really do love him and that everything he does for you and you for him, that the little things don't go unnoticed.

"I don't want to toot my own horn but I tend to do that." You flash him a little smirk.

"Then how about you show me other ways you can blow my mind some more, hmm?" Spencer hummed as he leaned in closer to whisper into your ear, his fingers reaching to push a strand of hair behind it. The look in his eyes shifted from a soft brown to now a deep ocean of brown that was filled with lust.

"I see how it is, you want to jump right to dessert?" You question in a playful tone as your hands pressed themselves against his chest, playing with the ends of his tie between your fingers.

"You know I have a sweet tooth and I want to put one of those love languages to use," He says as his hands travel to touch the sides of your neck, grazing against your skin and sliding their way down to your waist slowly twisting your hips to his will while taking a few steps forward until your ass hit the edge of the desk.

"And which love language would that be exactly Spence?" Your fingers entangled in his tie and pulled him closer while you jumped up to sit on top of his desk.

"I think you already know which one I'm talking about." He took the opportunity to nudge himself into the open space you had made by parting your legs so he could fit and be even closer.

"Then why don't you just show me already, hmm?" You hummed back as if challenging him to take action and he sure didn't waste any time.

Before you knew it Spencer was crashing his lips into yours. His kiss is a bit more aggressive than normal, the force of it tilting your body to bend back. You feel your legs go weak but his arm quickly flexes to catch you from falling completely back onto the desk. His lips coax yours open with little effort as you're hardly putting up any resistance at this point. The flavor of bitter coffee is rich on his tongue as it swipes against yours. His teeth catch your lips in bites, groans, and moans caught in one another's mouth. You could feel his hair tickling your forehead and cheeks while you adjust the tilt of your head changing the angle of the kiss to be even deeper.

A few seconds more and you both pull away from one another's lips, gasping for air. Your lips feel swollen, breathing rapid, face tinted pink. You're pleased to find Spencer was left in equally the same state, taking deep breaths, lips slick and tinted with your favorite shade of lipstick.

You decided to heat things up even more by taking action and wrapping his tie around your small nimble fingers, yanking him forward. His eyes widen in surprise briefly as his smirk falls from his face just as your lips crash into his. This time you work your tongue into his mouth. Your kisses prove to be more teasing and playful than before.

Spencer responds by wrapping his arms around you. Your free hand travels down his body, appreciating and pressing against the taut muscles and harsh lines beneath his button-down shirt. He pulls away for a moment to show attention to your neck which was in dire need of being marked by his lips and teeth. You were ashamed to admit how much you loved when he left his little mark on you, showing to everyone you were his and only his. You tilted your head back enjoying the way he softly bit into your skin and would lick over the small bruises he created. He groans into the crook of your neck as your hands travel down his body, his hips pressing into you and you could already feel his growing erection through his slacks, brushing your inner thigh through the material of your skirt which you had already taken the liberty of hiking up.

His hands coursed over your body, running along your back, grasping your shoulders, weaving into your hair, gripping your hips and tilting them towards him, his body causing yours to twist and turn in ways that only his touch could do to you. You feel a rush of adrenaline run through your veins and for some reason even though sex with Spencer was always an exhilarating experience for some reason becoming all undone on top of his desk seemed so scandalous. Dare you say it might have even been a forbidden fantasy of yours with him.

Your fingers rake through his curls cradling his head close to your neck as he slowly travels downwards, his hands pushing the lacey fabric of your blouse to the side giving him more access to your neck and collarbone. His fingers fumbled with the buttons until he lost his patience and ripped it entirely off your body until you were left in only your bra. A loud gasp left your lips at his mere strength.

"What? I hate buttons." He quickly comments pausing the assault he is currently doing to your neck.

"T-That was my favorite blouse, Spencer." You try to say in defense but who are you kidding you didn't give a damn you wanted him to keep on kissing down your body till he reached the one place you needed him most.

"I'll just buy you a new one." His voice was already raspy while continuing to place kisses on your skin, one by one the more he seemed to travel and you leaned back giving him more access.

"You're lucky that I love you enough not to care too much-" Your sentence interrupted when his fingers quickly unzipped your skirt and he flung it behind him. His lips made their way downwards kissing your thigh and down your leg, his hands delicately lifted your leg up into the air, taking off your high heels and letting them drop with a loud clack onto the floor.

He runs fingers caressing your skin as he fluttered peppered kisses back up to your inner thigh. He kneeled down on his knees to be face to face with your heat. His hands crept their way to the edges of your panties and slowly pulled them down your legs, painfully slow might you add. It made you even hotter seeing him like this, worshiping you like a goddess.

"S-Spence I really need you-" A loud moan escaped your lips when he finally touched you, he knew all the spots that drove you crazy.

"Someone sure is eager, huh?" He quipped right back while looking up at you through hooded eyelids, loving the undone expression on your face and he wasn't even working his magic yet.

"Spencer, please." You begged through heavy breaths.

He started off with long laps of his tongue, fully tasting you, all of you. He'd break away every so often showing love to your inner thighs with peppered kisses. He'd build up your pleasure and pull away before you could be fully pushed over the edge. His skillful tongue circled your clit as your moans became high-pitched. You squeezed your eyes closed and rutted your hips up against his tongue hungry for more. Your hands found his curly brown locks, guiding him to continue pleasuring you and he groaned as you pulled at the roots.

You let a slew of curse words mixed with the way you kept saying his name over and over again fly from your mouth. He liked the sounds that came from you so he thrusted his tongue inside of you.

“Have I ever told you…” another broad lick, this one faster than the last, “… that I love the way you taste?” You could have sworn your heart skipped a beat hearing the way those words come from his lips.

You’re incapable of forming words let alone a whole sentence, your body strained from the rise and fall of almost coming undone. You bite your lip and give what you hope is a nod, knowing he’s watching you from down below. He lets out a moan as he sucks on your clit and your head falls back while tugging on his hair, your legs resting on top of his shoulders as you clutch him closer locking him in that position.

"I'm so close-" You barely were able to get out as he just relentlessly continued to pleasure you with his tongue.

You came, crying out his name, you were pretty sure your moans and screams were echoing all across the office, thank god nobody was there to see or else you would have been embarrassed beyond belief. He kept licking stripes up and down your slit, lapping up your cum as your legs squeezed around his shoulders. He pulled away for a moment to take a breath, cleaning the glistening liquid from his lips with the back of his hand.

"You definitely blew more than just my mind right now." You struggled to say between heavy labored breaths while you watched Spencer get up off his knees and hastily pulling at the knot in his tie to yank it off while he somehow patiently unbuttoned his own shirt, shimming it off his shoulders.

"You better get ready to have it be blown again." His fingers quickly went to his belt buckle and undoing it just enough for his erection to pop out.

He aligned his hips with yours as you just watched him slowly bring himself closer. His cock laid flat up against the small bit of lower abs that Spencer had been working on building up, he bit his lip seeing you so unraveled and needy for him. His lips found their way back to yours, his tongue pressing up against yours making sure you could taste remnants of yourself on his lips. The way he kissed you was passionate yet rough it was like nothing you had ever experienced, maybe it was the fact that it was Valentine's day who knows but Spencer had dialed up his tactics and you weren't complaining either. Your hands had found a place to rest on his shoulders, giving you the right position to keep him close. He pressed just a bit harder into kissing you, his teeth grazing your lower lip catching it and biting it in response as he started to get desperate.

"Fuck Spencer, I need you...please..." You said practically begging at this point as you craved to have his cock inside you.

"Shit...I love you so much Y/N." He declared almost with a smug look on his face knowing exactly what he was going to do next. Your legs were already feeling like jelly but you had found enough strength to pull his hips closer.

"Then show me how much," You whispered into the close space between your bodies.

Without warning his cock filled you completely in one stroke, the head brushing against your wet slit as it entered you. You squeezed your eyes shut as his length stretched your walls. He drew his hips back and then thrust back into you. Gasps and whines fell from your lips as he fucked you. You drew arbitrary patterns on his biceps with the pads of your fingers. Your toes curled as he slammed into you over and over again. His hands gripped the desk underneath you as he struggled to steady himself with each and every thrust the faster he went in and out of you. His nose nuzzled into your neck as he struggled to hold back his groans of pleasure.

For a moment his thrusts slowed but went deeper into you as you were being fucking into oblivion on top of his desk. His hands went from having a grip on your hips trailing slowly up to holding your hand, entwining your fingers with his as he took his sweet time bringing you to your climax at a slower pace. Everything felt like it was in slow-mo as his cock stroked along your g-spot, coaxing your orgasm to come faster. You could feel your core coiling up and about to burst. You squeezed his hand even harder while your moans filled the air and his head buried into your neck littering your neck once again with lovebites dark enough to leave marks the next morning.

"Cum for me...Y/N..." He had whispered into your ear, it flushing red with each and every word he had said.

You had cursed his name under your breath as your whole core had tensed up for just a moment while you came. His hips were still thrusting into yours as you rode out your high and you could feel him release inside of you, your fingers relaxed against his as you released his hand from yours. Both of your breaths were heavy and panting. His head leaned against your shoulder while your back was arched against the desk holding the both of you up. Your legs had tightened around his waist keeping him close to you while your bodies seemed to entangle with each other, his arms quickly embracing you.

Your hands went to cradle his head close to your chest as you played with his curly locks loving how soft his hair was.

"I love you, Spencer, so so much." That was all you had the strength to say while your breathing started to even out.

"Me too-" His voice cracked still trying to catch his breath.

"The best Valentine's day I could ever ask for." Your comment seemed to echo followed by an exhausted chuckle.

"I'm really glad you enjoyed it but you know I'm not done with you yet." He lifted his head to finally look you in the eyes as he disconnected your bodies letting you have a minute to fix yourself as he picked up the discarded clothing on the floor.

Your eyes still wandered while observing him get dressed as you swung your legs back and forth sitting on his desk, patiently waiting but also coming up with how you could keep the energy of tonight going for as long as possible.

"How about we eat some food first since by now I'm sure it's cold and then I can show you some more ways I can blow your mind...physically that is." You raised your eyebrows at him and he snickered to himself slowly walking over to you and cupping your cheeks in his hands.

"Sounds like a plan my love." He quickly kissed your lips with a grin on his face.

For the rest of the night, you two sat at his desk enjoying each other's company while you chow down on your favorite foods. Spencer went on through explaining how he really set up this whole elaborate plan to surprise you and you smiled along knowing that you were going to keep falling more and more in love with the man right in front of you. As he rambled on and on his voice started to fade into the background as you started to reflect that if every Valentine's day was going to be like this you wouldn't have it any other way and you could proudly say that your first Valentine's day was a success. You realized that didn't need a day dedicated to show how much you loved Spencer because in reality you had been doing so every day and you hoped to keep doing so for many more years to come.

#spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid smut #spencer reid #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fic #dr spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fandom #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds #criminalmindsmaster #fluff #smut

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fangirldreams101 · 8 months

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Coming Home pt. 5

DBF! Daryl, Rick, Shane & Negan x Reader

TW: Severe age-gap, older men

Chapter Index

Rick cursed, going to shield you from Shane's sight with his body.

"What the fuck do you think yer doin?" he seethed at Shane's cocky smile.

Rick's rage skyrocketed as he noticed Shane's eyes glance at your body underneath before he shrugs, "You should be thankin' me. Her good ol' dad was gonna be the one to come in and check on ya'll. Givin how ya were lookin at her earlier, I kinda figured it'd be sumn like this."

"Thank you," Rick grit his teeth, "Now leave."

"Nah, I dun think so. What would good ol' dad say knowin' his friend was aboutta fuck his little girl? Dun think he'd be too happy about it, but that's jus me," Shane drawled, picking at his nails.

"Shane," your timid voice called out, still in shock over what just happened, "please don't tell him."

Shane's cocky demeanor softens at the sound of your voice, and he sighs, "Gorgeous, I wouldn't do that to ya. 'N Rick, stop standin' over her like a rabid dog and let her dress herself."

Rick practically growled at Shane's words, kind of proving his point. You gently tapped the man above you on the arm, a quiet signal that it was okay. Rick sighed, tucking himself back into his pants and helping you put your clothes back on while trying to protect you from Shane's unwavering gaze. It was no use however, Shane's dark gaze drunk in every ounce of exposed skin he could. You heard him take a sharp inhale of breath at the brief glimpse he got of your wet pussy. Rick also heard it, whipping around and glaring the younger man down.

Shane cleared his throat and motioned for you to grab the drinks. Rick snatched a few off the counter, the blue balls clearly bothering him, and you did as well, taking a few into your grip. You guys began to head out of the room with Shane the last one to leave, grabbing the remaining bottles and giving a small chuckle.

As you guys approached everyone else, your dad exclaimed, "The hell took you guys so long?"

You felt Rick freeze and Shane took a step forward about to speak up, when your voice sounded out, "I accidentally dropped 2 of the beers and they shattered on the ground. Rick was helping me clean up cause the glass got everywhere."

"Aw, you didn' get hurt, did you," your dad ask, concerned as Rick and Shane looked at you in astonishment, marveling at your quickly thought out lie.

"Nope," you said cheerfully, "everything is all good now. They were very...helpful!"

You all kept the façade up as you went to your seats and settled down. You tried to ignore the dampness between your legs and Daryl's curious gaze. Daryl's eyes kept switching between you, Rick, and Shane, but when Shane gives him a smirk, he scowls and goes back to eating. You all easily reenter the current conversations at the table and time goes by until the incident with Rick feels like a weird fever dream. Even though Rick caught you a bit off guard, you were super pleased to know that at least one of the men you were interested in was willing to get with you. You hoped that once the party was over, you'd be able to have a talk with him and maybe make it a reoccurring situation.

Dinner did eventually begin to die down, with the folks with children the first to head out. Next were the couples, tipsy and giggling amongst themselves, probably going home to have some fun. Everyone helped clean up after themselves before heading out, and eventually the remaining group went outside to the porch to rest. Your Dad was having a conversation with Morgan and the local priest, Gabriel. You decided that this would be the perfect time to go talk to Rick but as you went to find him among the remaining people, Daryl sought out your attention.

"Hey," his gruff voice called out, "gotta momen'?"

You sighed, "What's up, Daryl?"

"Ya migh' be able ta pull the wool over ya daddy's eyes, but don'cha lie ta me," he leaned in, "Wha were ya doin' w' Rick?"

Your face flushed and you harshly whispered, "None of your damn business."

"'m jus tryna look out for ya. I care about cha," he mumbled, his eyes searching your own.

You maintain eye contact, getting lost in his desperate gaze before huffing, "You had your chance."

Rage flared in Daryl, "The sunnabitch touch ya?"

His head whipped around, searching for the sheriff. You grab his arm roughly and bring his attention back to you.

"What I may or may not be doing with him is again, none of your business. Don't you dare start anything," you hissed.

Daryl blinked at you. Internally he was fuming, but seeing your angry gaze directed at him was enough to reel him back in. He nodded and you took that as your chance to leave. The porch surrounded the house so you went to go look for Rick at the sides but as you did, you bumped into another person you were trying to avoid,

Shane chuckled as he grabbed onto your arms, "Whoa there, gorgeous, where ya runnin' off to?"

"Shane please, let me be. It's embarrassing enough that you saw me... that way," you mumbled.

Shane leaned into your side, whispering into your ear, "Was it? Cuz I found you to be mighty damn cute."

He presses a fast and hard kiss to the side of your head, "If you ever want a real man to treat you good, I will never say no to someone as lovely as you, gorgeous.”

You stammer a little as Shane saunters off into the night, throwing a grin and wave.

Rick comes up behind you, "We need to talk."

You beam up at him and he feels a pang of guilt knock through him. You follow him and you both find a quiet nook.

"So I-," you both began, and you let out a light laugh, not noticing the grimace Rick had.

"You first," you smile but Rick shakes his head, indicating that you start.

"I, uh, really enjoyed what happened," you said bashfully, "and I was hoping we wouldn't let this be a one time thing?"

Your hopeful tone and shining eyes made Rick feel like the worst person in the world, and maybe he was.

He shakes his head sternly, "This can never happen again, (Y/N)."

You gaped at him, "W-what?“

”Yer dad is my friend, you could be my daughter's age. What I did was vile. I'm so sorry for doin' that to ya, w' what's been happenin' w' my ex-wife and the kids, it jus' took a toll, but it dun excuse my behavior. I should've never-"

"Enough," you sighed, "we did it. You didn't take advantage of me, I wanted it."

"I can't believe this is happening again," you murmured, running your hands through your hair.

Rick's brow furrowed, "Wha' was tha'?"

"Nothing. Forget it. Okay. That's fine. Have a good night, Sheriff."

You walked away, reentering the house and going straight to your room. After both Daryl AND Rick now rejecting you, you think you needed a break from older men.

Taglist: @eternalrose81

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staygoldwriting · 10 months

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💌 To the Steve I Loved Before: Part 4

A Steve Harrington TATBILB!AU fic

Links to Parts 1-3 on my masterlist!

Summary: Y/N has written love letters to get over her deepest crushes. What happens when Steve Harrington gets his hands on her letter to him?

Disclaimer: This is inspired by the To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before series by Jenny Han! I have used none of her characters, but have only used the premise of a love letter in the wrong hands.

Word count: ~1200

Warnings: None, just fluff! And someone gets kissed smack on the lips 🙈

A/N: AHH I’m ashamed it’s taken me this long to write and post this next chapter 😥 but I’m back and it’s GETTING GOOD FOLKS! Haha I hope you enjoy this next chapter, please let me know what you think, and, as always, please show love and support! ❤️✨

“Wow, Steve Harrington, huh?” Eddie said, laughing softly. It sounded slightly sad, but you brushed it aside in the midst of your panic about the massive lie you just blurted out.

“Yeah?” you said, half-sure. “Why?”

“It’s nothing, I just… I guess I didn’t expect it,” he said slowly, looking down. “But then again, what do I know?” he shrugged, laughing.

“No worries, I mean, it took me by surprise too,” you said, being honest for the first time in a while. “But I guess you never know, right?” You glanced down at your watch, desperate to get out of the conversation. “Oh, look! My shift’s over. Well, Eddie it was nice to see you--”

“Can I walk with you? I’d like to give Steve my well wishes,” he said, smiling brightly. How could you say no to such a sweet face?

“Um, sure,” you said slowly, trying not to look suspicious. “But, um, if Steve acts weird or something, don’t hold it against him, okay? He’s… shy.”

“Steve? Shy?” Eddie laughed out loud, making you groan to yourself about the weak lie. “I’ve never known the Steve Harrington to ever be shy, especially about having a beautiful girlfriend.”

Your heart skipped a beat when Eddie called you beautiful. You blushed deeply, smiling softly at him as you walked away from the desk.

“Well, thank you, Eddie,” you said sweetly as you two started walking. “But yeah, I guess he’s not really into public displays of affection?”

“Well, he seems rather comfortable with those girls over there,” Eddie said, looking at you with concern. You looked over to see Steve leaning over the counter, flirting with a couple girls. You scoffed and grimaced at Steve’s smug face.

“I’m gonna kill him.”

Eddie looked at you in surprise, but stuck by your side as you approached Scoops Ahoy. Robin looked up, panicking when she saw Eddie was with you. She looked at you intently and made a what’s going on?! face, but you were lasered in on Steve. You pushed forward and past the girls, adrenaline racing again, pulled Steve in by the shoulders, and kissed him square on the lips. You felt his hands go up in shock, and as you pulled away, his eyes were wide, looking extremely confused.

“I’m sorry,” you said in as sweet a voice as you could muster, “I know I don’t usually kiss you at work, but I just couldn’t help myself! I missed you too much.”

Steve looked at you like he was witnessing an alien encounter. His mouth formed in various ways, trying to find words, and his brow furrowed as nothing came out.

“Ugh! No wonder he wasn’t interested,” a snarky girl spat behind you. “Let’s go, girls--he’s clearly got bad taste if he’s dating her.”

With a flourish of ponytails and curls, the girls turned around and left. Robin was looking on in shock, mouth hung open as she chuckled intermittently. She knew exactly what you were doing, but couldn’t actually believe it was happening.

“Y/N,” Steve said, speaking slowly and hoarsely, “what-what are you doing?”

You leaned in close to feign affection and whispered to Steve.

“I’m so sorry. I’ll explain later. In the meantime, can I kiss you one more time?”

“Yes-I mean, wait, why?”

“I’ll explain later, promise!” you whisper-yelled. “I’ll be waiting in front of the pretzel shop.”

With that, you kissed him again, no shock from Steve this time, and smiled at him sweetly.

“See you later, honey,” you said as you turned back to Eddie, who was grinning widely.

“Way to go, L/N!” he cheered. “You sure made sure those girls know he’s taken,” he smiled, giving you a high five.

“Thanks, Eddie,” you smiled softly. Eddie went on talking about more topics, but you found yourself distracted by the discovery that Steve Harrington isn’t a bad kisser.

-💌-

You were sitting in front of the pretzel shop with your feet resting on another chair when Steve walked up to you timidly. You moved your feet quickly as he sat down in front of you. His eyes darted each way, then he leaned on his knees to look at you.

“Hey Steve,” you said simply.

“Hey Steve? Y/N, what just happened?”

“Okay, let me explain!” you started, and Steve scoffed, giving you a you better look. “So, a while ago, I started writing… love letters… to guys I’d fallen for.”

“O-kay…” Steve said slowly.

“And I wrote a bunch of them with the intention to use them to get over each guy, they were never ever meant to get out! But then they did, and most of them had the wrong address, but… Eddie’s didn’t. And I couldn’t let him think that I feel the same way I felt in the letter.”

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you still feel that way about Eddie?”

“... I don’t know.”

“Well, I guess you obviously don’t, I mean, why else would you go and kiss me in front of him?” he said, sitting back. Then, he looked at you skeptically and leaned back in.

“So, why did you kiss me?” he asked.

“I’m getting to that,” you said impatiently, and he nodded. “So, regardless of my feelings, the letter was really embarrassing, and then he told me he doesn’t feel the same, so all the humiliation was for nothing, and-”

“That’s brutal,” Steve chuckled, and you glared at him. He looked at you apologetically and held his hands out for you to continue.

“... And I panicked, and I told him it didn’t matter because I was dating someone else,” you said quickly. Steve smirked and clicked his tongue, nodding.

“Alright, I get it now,” he said, smirking at you and raising his eyebrows. “So, clearly, I was on your mind,” he teased, and you rolled your eyes.

“So, can you pretend to be my boyfriend for a little bit, just until all this Eddie stuff dies down?”

“Listen, Y/N, as much as I would love to do this for you,” he started sarcastically, “has it ever occurred to you that you could just tell Eddie the truth?”

“And embarrass myself more? No way!” you yelled.

“Alright, alright,” Steve said, throwing his hands up in surrender. “I get it. Somehow, I understand your twisted little mind.”

“Does that mean you’ll do it?”

Steve looked away and squinted. He pursed his lips, then looked back at you.

“Yeah, sure, I’m game,” he said decidedly, and you breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thank you, Steve, really!” you smiled, and he nodded back at you. “We’ll have to meet again sometime soon to discuss the terms, but we need a more private place for that,” you said, starting to think out loud.

“Sure, sure,” Steve said passively, clearly thinking about something else. “Let’s meet at my place at eight tonight. My parents won’t be home, and I’ll order a pizza.”

“That sounds great, thanks again, Steve!” you said, standing to go.

“Wait a sec, Y/N,” he said, looking at you.

“What?” you asked nervously.

“I’m just thinking… I was the first person that came to your mind, yeah?”

“Yeah…” you said quietly, your heart pounding.

“And Robin had a love letter with her today…”

Your heart pounded even more, and you prayed he wouldn’t put it all together, but it was too late.

“Does that mean you wrote me a love letter?”

-💌-

Taglist: @tillkummer @mlle-ayka @sonicthehedgedoggo @klaine-92 @aurumbelis @onlyangel-444 @beep-beep-sherlock @morishitoshi @onceuponathreetwoone @toomanybandstocare @underthebatcape @zeldaknight @fieldofsecretss @prettyinpunk85 @igotbasicdrag @gothicfaires @thatonecurlygirl @luvthatlovestolove @loliakeoghan23 @dearelliewrites @mslunawinchester @aphex2winn @simonsbluee @inkedaztec @dumplinshee @pastel-abyss-x @frozenhuntress67 @hawkins-hs @witheringawayagain @theshinyrock @hollandcomics @pinkgothiccprincess @persephone13 @katsukis1wife @murnsondock @fictionlandslanddreams @srapalestina @babyghouly @madformunsonsstuff @harrys-tittie @middle--fingering @urmomgov @maybankstarkey @jbetches @stardustmunson @maltinonka @chaerfull @middle-of-the-earth @lilsunshine1092 @thehairington86 @the-weeping-author @bisexual-and-intellectual

#staygoldwriting #steve harrington #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #Steve Harrington x reader #Steve Harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x female!reader #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fic #steve harrington stranger things #stranger things steve #stranger things #stranger things fluff #stranger things imagine

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rawritzrobin · 1 year

Text

The Waynes: Chapter 2

Title: The Waynes

Pairing: Mobster!Jason Todd x Reader

Warnings: A bit of a nod to violence, but nothing descriptive. Somewhat signs of stalking?

Summary: Your mundane life changed the day a certain man walked through the doors of the bakery. You now had something to look forward to everyday.

A/N: Thank you all so much for the love on the first chapter!! It was a story that really sat with me for a while. I’m still figuring things out as I go so updates wont be happening as fast as I would hope. Slowly, but surely!

Taglist (if I missed you apologies, I saw some that came through a long time ago that might not be on this list. Please comment if you want to be added and ill drop your name into this list asap!): @msghostface @khaylin27 @thequeenofbigmacs @escapism-r-us @orighami @neobreakmyback @bubbles-incorrect-yb @hypnobanditprofessorhorse-blog

Masterlist | Chapter 1

Chapter 2: Hi Stranger

The bell to the front door sounded, and your mood instantly shifted. Every day around this time, a certain tall, dark, and handsome man would come by and buy a couple of croissants. You smiled as you let your fantasies run wild for one second, imagining the handsome stranger whisking you away to a better place. You tried to push away the negative thoughts.

Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome was probably a taken man with your luck.

You weren’t really sure you would see him again after that incident with Randy. In fact, now that you thought about it, you never saw Randy again after that night. You wondered if he found another girl to harass. But it didn’t matter, he was out of your hair.

You quickly ran to the front to greet the customer, hoping it was your crush. You smiled when you saw the man with black hair and a white tuff. Jason was his name. You took a second to admire his suit. You were sure he was very well off. He always came in wearing a different suit, each of them specially tailored just for him. Probably some sort of finance man.

“Hi there.” You said cheerfully. “The usual?”

Jason looked up from his phone, where he was sending a quick message to his driver, and instantly smiled when he saw you. You still didn’t know that you were basically the only person he smiled for. You just assumed he was a nice man.

“Hey Doll. Of course. Can’t get enough of those croissants.”

Butterflies ran through your stomach as you tried your hardest not to blush when he called you Doll.

“Did you have a good day today?” You said making friendly conversation.

Jason tried his best to not flinch. He had just finished a semi intense interrogation with one of their suppliers. The team had intel that this man was feeding shipment info to the Falcones. He wasn’t exactly having the best day. But his mood always picked up when he saw the front of your shop.

“Eh, as good as can be. Can’t complain.” Jason said with a slight chuckle, he didn’t want to bring down the mood with his awful day. “And you?”

You gave a tired laugh.

“Nothing much! Just happy the day is almost over. It’s been pretty busy with the Holidays coming up soon. It will be really busy once Thanksgiving rolls around.”

“Got any plans?”

You shook your head, “No. My folks aren’t around anymore. So it’s just me.” You stopped yourself and looked down for a second. The Holidays were always a hard time, especially nowadays. Jason didn’t say another word.

You smiled, a way to distract yourself from your feelings. “It will be new years before we know it.”

Jason looked at you sadly. He kept quiet, not wanting to pry anymore today. He was secretly hoping that you would open up to him one day soon.

You finished ringing him up when you noticed a flash of red on his hand.

You gasped and pointed to his hand when you noticed it was a large cut. “Jason, you’re hurt.”

Jason’s eyes quickly shot to his hand. He chuckled nervously. There was a bit of glass that went flying when he threw the man into the mirror on the wall earlier. One of the shards must have nicked him. He couldn’t even feel the cut on his hand. His line of work tended to cause a lot of injuries to his body. Especially when they fought back. He had gotten used to the smaller wounds.

He pulled his hand away, trying to hide it. “Oh yeah, some glass broke while I was helping do some dishes at work today. Must’ve cut me and I didn’t even notice. It’s okay.”

You shook your head in disagreement. “No, it looks like it needs some medical attention. Wait here.” You said, quickly jogging into the main office. You turned on the lights and made your way into the back of the room. The red and white first aid kit sat in the corner. You picked it up with ease and made your way back to Jason.

You opened the door that allowed you into the front of the shop and ushered Jason to sit into one of the seats at the front.

“May I?” You asked, gesturing for him to give you his hand.

Jason hesitantly brought his hand up into yours. You examined it closely.

The cut wasn’t too deep. Luckily it wouldn't need any stitches. You turned away from his hand, still holding it in your left hand, and with your other hand, rifled through the first aid kit. After a few seconds you found what you were looking for.

You looked up at him. “This is going to sting a little.”

Jason nodded, merely focusing on how soft your hands were in his. He watched as you gently tore open the alcohol pad and slowly began to wipe it over his cut. He winced slightly, it hurt, but not nearly as much as his other wounds he had sustained over the years. Under his suit were more than a handful of scars from past jobs Bruce had him on. This scratch on his hand was merely another addition.

He looked up from his wound and watched you work. You were hyper focused on making sure everything was okay. After you cleaned the cut, you added some antiseptic to make sure the wound would heal fast. You finished up by gently wrapping up his hand in a fresh bandage.

“All done. It should heal within a few days. Just clean it once a day.”

Jason looked down at his hand, and then up at you. Your eyes met and you looked away once you realized he was staring, hoping you weren’t as red as you felt.

“Thank you.” He said in a gentle voice.

You quickly cleaned up the kit, and made your way back behind the counter after washing your hands. Jason watched you move around quickly, but gracefully. Jason stood up as you closed the lid to the box.

“Here you go. They were fresh when you walked in.” You said with a large grin.

Jason admired you for a second. He had come over a dozen times to see you. Yet every time he saw you, he still got butterflies in his stomach. No woman has ever done that to him before. Girls threw themselves at him constantly at the club. There was something about you he couldn’t shake.

“Thank you. And thank you for helping me with my hand.”

“Of course! Happy to help.” You said looking up at him once more. Your eyes met once again, and the world stood still for that one moment.

“Well I better get going.” Jason said, a hint of sadness in his voice. “I'll see you around.”

You smiled and waved him out the door. You looked down sadly, your favorite time of day over, when the door chime rang once again.

“Wel…” You began to say, when you noticed it was Jason. “Jason, did you forget something?”

“Uh no. There was actually something.. Something I wanted to ask you.” He said, nervously.

You didn’t notice as your heart began to beat faster and faster. Did you cross the line today? Was this him coming in to tell you that he had a girlfriend and to stay away from him? The possibilities were endless. “What is it?” You asked, nervously.

Jason couldn’t believe he was doing this. He could count the number of times on one hand he had ever asked out a girl. That number was one, when he was hitting on Babs for fun when he was younger. He wasn’t even planning on doing this until he walked out the door. Maybe he should just tell her he changed his mind.

“I uh, I was wondering if you had any plans tomorrow night?” The words managed to slip out.

Your eyes widened, you were not expecting that. “Um, no. I work early tomorrow, so I should be done by five.”

Jason’s excitement grew, with that his confidence shot up. He had one of his men follow you around for a bit. He wanted to make sure you didn’t have a boyfriend or husband of some sort. He was relieved when his spy came back and gave him the good news that you were single. It actually came from your own mouth when he overheard you telling the bakery owner that you were “Sadly, going to be single forever.”

Still, even with that information, Jason was nervous.

“Would you want to go have dinner with me? There’s a new restaurant in the diamond district. I got invited to a pre-opening, and I have a plus one.” Jason held his breath waiting for your answer. Just 30 minutes ago he had a man begging for mercy at his feet. Right now, he felt like the tables were turned.

You weren’t sure if you heard what you thought you heard. Was this really happening? Maybe you were dreaming. But if you were, you didn’t want this dream to end. Your lips turned up into a smile as you nodded excitedly. “Yes. I would love to.”

The weight of the world seemed to just disappear off Jason's shoulder all at once. He could not be smiling any harder. The butterflies in his stomach were going crazy. “Alright. Cool. Um, do you live nearby? I can pick you up around seven. That should give you some time to go home and change.” He said as he pretended to not already know where you lived.

He was a Wayne. The Waynes knew everything and everyone in their neighborhood.

“Yeah, not too far. Just a ten minute walk.” You looked around the counter for a notepad. You reached for the large one near the register. You quickly wrote down your address and phone number. “Here.” You said handing it to Jason. You were blushing quite hard now.

Jason took the piece of paper with a wide grin on his face. “Okay, I'll see you tomorrow at seven.”

“Sounds good. See you then.” You waved Jason goodbye once more. Once he was out of sight, you pinched yourself to make sure you weren’t dreaming.

“Did that really just happen?” You mutter to yourself. Your mouth twisted up into a smile.

The smile on your face never faltered. Not as a rude customer threw a tantrum at the fact that you ran out of sweet cream horns two minutes before closing. Not as you spilled the leftover whipped cream all over the floor before locking up. Not as you walked home that night.

Jason, the handsome man you had been crushing on for weeks, just asked you out on a date. Nothing could tear you down. At least, for now.

A/N: It’s not much for now. But as the story progresses things will pick up. :3

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phoenix-fell · 1 year

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RWBY emotions and the stages of grief

Okay, hear me out and I’m sorry this is a long one but I’m just a bit intrigued by the emotions of our girls and how they’re being shown. (And a little tired of RWDE folk ripping it to shreds for the comedic outputs). I do feel like the girls mildly symbolise 4/5 of the stages of grief - which I’ll weave in throughout.

We have an obvious loss of innocence/purity and hope from Ruby - which I think is going to be especially interesting in the next couple of episodes, because while Blake has taken the reigns a little here and there, we know that WBY get shrunk and it’s going to force Ruby back into carrying her team (literally).

I quite liked in the last episode just how detached Ruby is from everything; from not noticing the Bees flirting, to not really engaging with the fact Yang is looking for her arm at the auction, to after the auction when she’s just completely oblivious to everyone’s conversation and focused on the sword. I think CRWBY have done a great job of framing her as isolated and detached, or ‘Depression’ - seeing as she speed-ran the first 3 grief stages.

Weiss, though, I feel might be just as interesting. She was framed alongside Ruby when the Bees were having a pun-off. She’s been thrust forward as the comic relief as she struggles to understand the world around her. I know Ruby is heading for a breakdown, but I don’t think Weiss is far behind.

Since the beginning, she’s been ‘Defiance’, a carefully put-together character who likes to be in control of the situation. But now, it’s not just that she’s somewhere unfamiliar; their entire plan fell apart, she watched her friend die in front of her, she has no home, no school, no idea whether she saved anyone and no idea how to get out of the world she’s been dropped into. When the cracks start to show, she’s often framed without her face, because she’s still keeping so much inside, trying to regain control whilst trying to process the fact she has nothing to go back to in Remnant. She’s had blatant evidence to suggest she’s in a fairy tale, but remains in ‘Denial’. Because, if she is, she can’t control that, right? She’s just walking through someone else’s story.

I feel like Yang has been extra ‘brawler’ the last couple of episodes which I feel is because her go-to is to exude strength in these types of situations, it’s her coping mechanism. The first time we see her she bursts into the scene throwing rocks at the Jabberwalker, her first interaction is an outburst because she failed to keep her sister safe and at the auction it’s clear she’s pissed at the Racoon, possibly because losing her arm is so inherently tied to her ability to fight and keep people safe. She seems to reflect ‘Anger’.

While Blake might just be coming out of a cocoon of character development - if she’s pushing forward a Bumbleby arc then I have to believe that feral Blake at the end of last season was when something snapped, but she’s having an easier time remaining composed because ultimately, the worst DID happen - and then she found Yang again, she has a second chance, away, removed from the chaos and war of the world they’ve fallen from and now has a second to breathe and let herself feel. Blake finds comfort in being in a story she knows, because she’s learned the moral of it, and wants to avoid the pit-falls that Alyx did - essentially, ‘Bargain’ her way through to a happier outcome.

I feel like either Ruby’s, Jaune’s, or Neo’s arcs (or maybe even all three, or everyone’s) will inevitably lead to Acceptance. Whether that’s accepting the loss of their loved one, accepting the love of others, accepting your own feelings, that you can’t always be the hero/save everyone or accepting you won’t always be in control.

#rwby #rwby 9 #rwby spoilers #bumbleby #yang xiao long #blake belladonna #weiss schnee #jaune arc #this took me longer than you'd think because I kept getting caught replaying the Bee moments

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cha-melodius · 3 months

Note

Aaaaaaah congrats on 100 fics! I’m so excited that you’re doing this! Can I request Lokius in a western/cowboy setting?

(You were a prophet when you sent this back in August, Old West Lokius is quite the in vogue thing now lol. I hope you enjoy!)

Ain't No Place for a Better Man

(3k, M; read it below or on AO3)

They’ve had easier jobs, that’s for damned sure.

Protecting an entire train of stagecoaches was always going to be a strain on his crew, especially through this territory. They’re good, but they’re not that good. Mobius should have insisted that the client cough up the money to bring on another couple of folks, but they’d been reluctant and Mobius hadn’t wanted to risk the job going to someone else. And really, against most bandits, they’d probably have been fine.

They weren’t up against most bandits, though.

Mobius flips a blood-streaked silver dollar at the barkeep and collects a bottle of whiskey and four glasses in return without a single word exchanged. His crew is damn-near legendary in these parts; people vacate ‘their’ table when they enter the saloon, tip their hats when they pass on the road, and generally treat them with the kind of wary respect they’ve worked hard to cultivate. Mobius’ crew may be nominally ‘good’ guys, but a hard world makes hard people, especially ones who are hired to protect what passes for civilization out west.

Verity grunts in appreciation when he deposits the glasses on the table and sloshes a generous helping of whiskey in each one. Wincing a little as he leans forward, Mobius pushes two across to the others then settles back into the rickety chair. He tosses his hat on the table and kicks his feet up next to it, crossing them at the ankles and ignoring the dirty looks from the barkeep. The burn of cheap whiskey flows down his throat and spreads out in his chest, dulling the ache of what’s probably a bruised rib.

“How do you think he found out they were moving the gold?” Casey asks, fidgeting with his glass. Twitchy guy, but surprisingly good with a rifle. He’d been riding with the trailing coach on the job and had caught the butt end of a pistol to the face when they’d been boarded, which is now darkening to a mottled purple across his cheekbone. Hadn’t gotten shot, though, which was a small blessing.

“How does he always? He’s got his ways,” Mobius returns with a shrug. “Weren’t one of us.”

“Obviously,” Verity snorts. “Slippery bastard has his fingers in plenty of pies, and people are easily bought. What I don’t get is how no one has managed to shoot him off his horse yet.”

Mobius snorts. “You’re the marksman, Ver. You tell me.”

“Swear he’s goddamn magic. One of them spirits. No one should be able to dodge all those bullets.”

“I assure you, he’s just a man.”

“And how exactly do you know, Mobius?” Verity counters, a too-shrewd look on her face.

Mobius blinks at her slowly and takes another sip of his drink. “Didya forget how I got this?” he asks, tugging aside the collar of his shirt to reveal an ugly scar twisting just under his collarbone. “He was flesh and blood when he drove that dagger into me.”

She looks chastened, but not completely convinced. “Could be he takes human form sometimes,” she mutters into her drink.

“I heard of spirits like that,” Casey puts in. “One of the girls at the Mariposa was tellin’ me about this guy who comes in—”

“Enough,” Mobius says. His voice isn’t particularly loud or sharp, but everyone falls silent nonetheless. “You tell these stories, you let him get in your head. He ain’t a spirit, or a witch, or whatever else has been said about ‘im. Bleeds as red as the rest of us. Now,” he says, swinging his legs off the table and throwing back the rest of his whiskey, “I’m beat. And I’m takin’ this with me.” He grabs the bottle of whiskey off the table, ignoring their protests, and tugs his hat back on before he turns and walks away.

His steps are onerous as he climbs the stairs leading to the rooms over the saloon, heavy with a deep weariness he can’t seem to shake off these days. He’s getting too old for this shit, that’s for certain, but there’s something else weighing him down that he’d rather forget about in the bottom of this whiskey bottle tonight. He takes another swig as he kicks open the door to his usual room, only to find it already occupied.

The black-clad figure is little more than a lump, sitting hunched over in a chair next to the a small table with his hat pulled down low so that the broad brim of it hides his face from view. He doesn’t react when Mobius enters—unconscious or dead or just uninterested in the newcomer is difficult to say. Mobius’ hand is on his pistol before he knows he’s moving, even as something familiar twinges in his mind at the shape of the man’s shoulders.

“Think you’re in the wrong room, buddy,” he says evenly. “This one’s spoken for.”

The man looks up, a curtain of dark hair falling back from his face, and his lips twist into a wry smile. “I’m exactly where I intend to be, in fact.”

“Shit,” Mobius swears, his hand falling away from his gun as he takes another long swig from the bottle. Kicking the door shut behind him, he pulls his hat off and tosses it onto one of the bed posts. “You know they’re all downstairs, right? This is the last goddamn place you should be.”

“Didn’t have much choice in the matter.”

“What are you doing here, Loki?” Mobius sighs.

“I can’t want to see you?” Loki asks, trying for flippant and falling short by a mile.

As Mobius draws closer, he can see that Loki’s even paler than usual—which is really saying something—and he’s still hunched over, clutching his shoulder. Mobius reaches out and gently takes hold of Loki’s slender wrist, tugging his hand away and sucking in a breath when it comes away covered in red.

“You took a bullet today.”

“Astute observation,” Loki returns dryly. “I fear that Verity of yours is going to shoot me dead one day.”

Mobius squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath, forcing his hand not to tremble. “She’d like that.”

“And you, Mobius?”

“Don’t you dare ask me that, Loki.”

Loki bows his head again, and Mobius turns away before he accidentally says something powerfully stupid. He steps out into the hallway and flags down a maid for a basin, a rag, and some clean water—well, clean as it gets, anyway—then returns to dig through the saddlebag slung over the foot rail of the bed for the sewing kit within, the one that’s mended more flesh than fabric. He leaves it on the table next to Loki along with the whiskey and goes to fetch the basin and water at the sound of a light knock on the door. The legs of the other chair grate loudly against the rough wooden floor as he pulls it around in front of Loki and settles into it, close enough that their knees are knocking together where they’re interleaved.

The silence stretches out between them, somehow heavy with unspoken words and comfortable all at once, even as Loki flinches when Mobius pushes his jacket off his shoulders, even as Mobius’ fingers find a familiar path in the buttons of his shirt, even as Mobius takes another swig of the whiskey before passing it to Loki. A subtle shine to the fabric of his black shirt is the only visible trace of blood on it, but when Mobius carefully peels it away from the wound, the bright red staining his pale skin tells another story. The disturbance brings a fresh surge of blood oozing to the surface, and Mobius pretends that he doesn’t notice Loki trembling under his hands.

He works with movements far gentler than most people would think him capable of, and the water in the basin steadily darkens as he cleans around the wound. Even though Mobius’ attention is focused on his work, he can tell Loki is watching him raptly the entire time, his eyes fixed on Mobius’ face, until Mobius pulls out the long forceps he keeps in the kit just for this purpose. Only then does his trepidation show on his face, the knowledge of what’s coming only too familiar at this point. Mobius shoves the whiskey bottle at him again, and Loki dutifully drinks before handing it back. The muscle of his jaw jumps when Mobius pours a glug of the alcohol over the wound, but his stoicism is put to the test under the assault of the forceps. Loki inhales sharply and turns his face to the ceiling when Mobius goes digging for the bullet, as if that might hide the tears welling in his eyes.

Fortunately, the bullet comes out easily along with the bit of shirt that it pulled in with it. The unassuming hunk of lead clinks dully when Mobius drops it into the basin, the sound of it a bleak reminder of how close he’d come to losing Loki entirely. Another few inches…

Mobius shoves the thought out of his head. He can’t let his mind travel down those roads, not when he needs his hands steady to finish this hellish task. One thing at a time, one stitch at a time, until the hole in Loki’s shoulder is finally closed and Mobius lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He rinses his own hands, then dampens the rag again and carefully takes Loki’s, gently wiping the now-dried blood from his skin as best as he can manage.

Loki’s head is bowed when he finishes, and Mobius reaches out with both hands to cup the sides of his face. His expression is impassive, but dried tears streak his cheeks, leaving pale tracks through the dirt and grime, and Mobius can’t help but rub his thumb through them in an ineffectual attempt at wiping them away.

“You’re all right, sweetheart,” he says, barely more than a murmur. He lets one corner of his mouth tug upward. “Gonna take more than that to take out the legendary Loki Odinson.”

Something fractures in Loki’s expression. “Mobius—”

“Shhh,” Mobius hushes, pressing a thumb to his lips.

Then he pulls his thumb away, leans closer, and presses their lips together instead.

It’s chaste at first, the barest brush of contact, but a moment later Loki is gasping into it, almost a sob, and his hands come up to curl desperately in Mobius’ shirt. He deepens the kiss hungrily, his teeth tugging at Mobius’ lips and tongue licking into his mouth, until the angle becomes untenable and he’s climbing into Mobius’ lap instead.

“Loki, you can’t—” Mobius protests, but can’t is not a concept that Loki is well-versed in, and he’s swallowing down the rest before Mobius can put voice to it.

He kisses Mobius like a drowning man in the desert slaking his thirst with Mobius’ lips, sinking his good hand into grey locks to pull them ever closer together. Mobius’ hands find the narrow dip of his waist without really meaning to, only that he could never resist that spot, the way Loki’s wiry muscles flex under his grip, the soft smoothness of his skin under hard calloused palms. His own shirt long discarded, Loki sets to work on Mobius’ instead, and despite the way his cock is definitely taking an interest, Mobius stills Loki’s hands with one of his own.

“I just sewed you up,” he scolds, a frown settling into his features.

Loki has the audacity to look annoyed. “And now I’m fine, can we move along—”

“You gotta take care of yourself.”

“Mm, not in my nature,” Loki says bluntly, leaning for another kiss before Mobius can reply. “That’s why I’m here,” he murmurs against Mobius’ lips, “because I know you’ll take care of me.”

“Loki,” Mobius exhales on a shuddery breath, squeezing his eyes closed against the emotions threatening to choke him.

A moment later, Loki’s forehead contacts his, and he brushes their noses together. “Please, Mobius,” he whispers into the narrow space between them. “I could have died today—”

“I know,” Mobius grinds out.

“—so I need you to fuck me until both you and I forget about it.”

Mobius can’t deny it’s an appealing prospect. “But your shoulder—”

“You’ll be careful,” Loki cuts him off. His lips twist wryly. “You’re always careful with me, even when you shouldn’t be.”

For two people who are constantly at odds, Mobius has always been terrible at saying no to him. He doesn’t manage it now, either. “Alright,” he surrenders, his hands already sliding over Loki’s back, lingering in the dip of his spine. “Alright.”

It’s not easy, between Loki’s shoulder and Mobius’ own injuries, but Mobius takes his time. He presses endless kisses to Loki’s skin, perfect in its imperfection, marred by countless scars inflicted over the years. Some by Mobius’ own hand; more by his crew, including the starburst that will form at his shoulder, no matter how neatly Mobius stitches it closed. If Mobius had his way, he’d never gain another one.

In this, Mobius knows he’s destined to be disappointed. Instead, he focuses making sure the pleasure overwhelms the pain, in treasuring every moment like it might be the last. He works Loki open with endless care—well, Loki wasn’t wrong—sinks into the impossible heat of him, rolls their bodies together as Loki urges him on, chasing the moments where they are just this. Not opponents, not adversaries, but two men seeking comfort in each other’s arms, finding what solace they can in a hard world.

In the aftermath, Loki tucks himself against Mobius’ side, pillowing his head on his shoulder, leaving no trace of space between their bodies. He’s unusually quiet, and Mobius doesn’t know if it’s just the trials of the day or something else weighing on him.

Loki’s hand moves idly over his chest, eventually finding the very scar under the collarbone Mobius had showed off earlier that evening. “Do you remember this day?” he asks, trailing a finger over the gnarled flesh.

“Are you asking if I remember the day you stabbed me in the chest?” Mobius returns incredulously.

Loki shrugs. “You’ve had closer calls.”

“Not from someone I love.”

Loki’s hand stills, not unexpectedly. It’s not the first time Mobius has said it, but he doesn’t deploy it often. It tends to make Loki… skittish.

“You didn’t know me back then,” Loki says eventually as he spreads his palm out over Mobius’ heart.

“I know you coulda killed me, but you didn’t.”

“I fear you’ve always made me soft, Mobius,” Loki murmurs, like a confession pressed against his skin.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is in this life.”

“Don’t have to be,” Mobius says. “Not all the time, anyway.”

That, apparently, was a step too far. Or maybe this was always going to be the end of their limited time tonight. Loki doesn’t reply for a long moment, letting the statement hang in the air, then his hand curls into a loose fist.

“I should go before anyone finds out I’m here,” he says. He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and grips the edge of the mattress tightly. “I’ve already lingered too long.”

“You don’t have to run,” Mobius tries.

Loki laughs, without a single goddamn trace of humor in it, as he stands and grabs his trousers off the floor, tugging them on and doing up the buttons. “It’s not that simple.”

“It could be,” Mobius insists. He sits up, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I have contacts. People in the marshal’s office, they could get you a deal—”

“And what makes you think I want a deal?” Loki snaps, though a second later his shoulders sag. “I appreciate that you’re willing to stick your neck out for me. I do. But just because you’re on the side of law and order doesn’t mean you’re in the right.” He bends down snag his shirt off the floor, wincing as he tugs the bloodstained garment on. “How do you think your employer got all that gold, hm? It certainly wasn’t by asking nicely.”

This is not the first time they’ve had a similar argument.

“Don’t know. Don’t care. The law says it’s his,” Mobius answers with a shrug. “You expect me to believe you’re stealin’ out of some kind of highfalutin moral righteousness?”

Loki flashes him a wicked smile as his long fingers fasten his shirt. “Of course not. I’m stealing it because I want it. Which I’m fairly certain is also true of the man who’s paying you.” Once he’s finished with the buttons, he crosses back over to the bed and stands between Mobius’ legs, lifting a hand to the corner of Mobius’ jaw as he stares down at him. “You and I, we’re not all that different, in the end.”

Mobius slides his hands under the loose tails of his shirt until his palms find warm skin again. “In that case, if I asked you, again, to come join me…”

“I’m sorry, darling,” Loki murmurs, bending down to press a lingering kiss to his lips. “I can’t. Not— not yet.”

“I’m never gonna stop asking, you know,” Mobius tells him.

A melancholy smile tips onto Loki’s lips. “You’d break my heart if you did.”

That, right there, is why Mobius will never be strong enough to end this. It’s the hope that kills you, so they say.

“When will I see you again?” he asks instead.

“When’s your next job?” Loki jokes. Or not. It might not be a joke.

“Not funny,” Mobius huffs.

“I’ll find you,” Loki tells him, then quickly adds, “not during a job, all right? I’ll always find you.”

It shouldn’t be so comforting. Nothing is certain in this life—especially not for men like them—and yet this, he’s come to rely on. “Take care of yourself, sweetheart.”

“All right,” Loki promises. “just for you.”

#lokius #loki x mobius #loki laufeyson #mobius m. mobius #cowboy loki #cowboy mobius #western au #lokius fanfic #lokius fic #my fic #chamel's fandom fest

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strawhatsoraya · 2 years

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Ok so your Doffy fic was amazing! Could you write a sequel where she is wearing the dress (a first time)?🌻❤️

2 weeks in the making, this monster has been born. You did not say if you wanted fluff, or smut or angst, or a mix so I took the liberty to tap into Doflamingo's unhinged mind and typing away until I felt demented. Here we go 🌻! I hope you like it wink wink.

Learned Something

DOFLAMINGO X FEM READER, SHE/HER | NSFW WORD COUNT: 4.2k CONTENT WARNINGS: it's Doflamingo so the bitch is mean, okay? he could have been meaner so let's all be thankful he wasn't. there is a lot of degradation, because that's what he considers flirting. it's sweet nothings whispered in an ear to him. it's great; gets his cock twitching. bondage lite, I guess, nothing crazy. spanking. he likes to slap pussy too cause it's cute. choking. biting, profanity. oral female receiving male giving. ejaculation. that's it folks--imo it could have been worse lol A SUMMARY: Doflamingo has asked you--twice--to put on the dress he's bought for you. You don't seem to understand the importance of following orders, or accepting his judgement. So he sets out to teach you a little lesson or two.

PART 1 | PART 3

He had asked you very calmly to put the dress on. In fact, he had called you a good girl or implied you would be if you put it on for him. Was that not enough incentive?

Your legs had refused to move from their position as you looked back at him with big round eyes. Oh, how he loathed when you did that, as if there was an ounce of innocence left in your body.

Doflamingo was sure he had stripped you off that a long time ago. Why did you insist on holding on to it? Innocence needed to be corrupted. It served no purpose except to make you weak. His previous discipline clearly had not been enough. You needed one more lesson: a one on one, if you will.

You are standing there in your suit, back straightened, eyes roaming over the guests. He admired your diligence but at the moment, he wanted to break your concentration. Doflamingo leans forward, his chest almost grazing yours. His breath is hot against your cheek, before he moves his mouth closer to your ear. His lips brush against it, sending goosebumps on the run when he speaks: “We’re leaving,” he breathes; his order a heated whisper. “Come with me.”

You follow him, as he starts walking without you, well aware of your place: six steps behind, no more no less. He leads you out of the party, through the crowd of giggling patrons. You notice a few eyes swerving your way, mostly stationed soldiers that briefly assess you and Doflamingo before casting their attention back on the guests. A part of you wishes to say–to watch the couples dance, watch the skirts of dresses sway with the movements. It was hypnotizing, and calming in a way that was completely different to the back of Doffy’s head.

Even if you had wanted to refuse his request to wear the dress, you know you wouldn’t be able to. You had known him since childhood. His capricious temperament was no secret. You just knew how to navigate it most of the time but you were not a gambler. Taking risks was never in your nature.

It was for that reason, and because a part of you desperately desired for his approval that you put on the dress. Your body grows hot as you allow the fabric to drape over your naked body. As he requested, you are wearing no underwear. Your hands go to clap your heated cheeks as you observe yourself in front of the floor length mirror; the dramatic plunging neckline that leaves very little to the imagination, breasts hanging a little low, round and seductive.

The slits on the skirt of the dress are so high they reach the top of each hip, exposing part of your lower belly when you move. You’re not sure how he expected you to wear this out in public, but you have no plans on asking.

You walk out from behind the changing room divider, careful not to trip. The dress had been shocking enough but the shoes he had absolutely insisted you wore–or else–were the ones threatening to do your brain in. A pair of hot pink high heels, with big ornate bows at the back, and glued on rhinestones. To top it all off, they were attached by a very short silver chain; ornate shackles that made you feel prisoner to his whimsy.

In his opinion, you were taking too damn long to get dressed. He blinked, slowly, as he sat with his legs spread on the bed bench, feathery pink coat over his shoulders. He was a man with an immeasurable amount of patience. All his greatest plans required it. Doflamingo was careful, consistent, thorough, and most of all passionately fueled by the desire for revenge, and power.

Still, you were testing his limits.

A large hand reaches with thick fingers for his hot pink tie, loosening it in a few swift movements. It was then you decide to come up from behind the changing room divider. The slinky shimmery red fabric moves fluidly with your body, and fortunately for you–in his opinion–demanding all of his attention.

He runs the flat of his palms over the front of his navy pinstripe suit, as if he was cleaning his hands from responsibility.

He tilts his head as he observes you fidgeting. He hones in on your exposed shoulders, dark red spaghetti straps of your dress cutting into your skin slightly. Doflamingo sucks his teeth noisily. You should have worn the damn dress when he asked you the first time.

You made him ask twice, so he had no choice but to add a small punishment. He grins down at your shoes, ecstatic to see you were having difficulty walking without short steps. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

“See?” he starts, his tone boastfully maybe slightly mocking. His head is tilted as he grandly gestures with one hand, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You look stunning.”

He pauses to gauge your reaction. Your hands keep moving to your arms, fingers gripping the flesh there as if you could fold in on yourself. It presses your breasts together. Doflamingo leans back on the bench, hands down on the fabric as he crosses one ankle over his knee.

“I’ll ask you again. Why didn’t you wear it in the first place?”

He knows what your answer will be before you speak it, but he feels like having a small amount of entertainment. After all, you’re making him miss out on his own party. You owed him this much.

“The dress is so pretty,” you mumble, your hands moving away from your biceps. Your eyes are still fluttering around on the ground, taking in the pointy ends of your shoes, the extremely clean floor, the moonlight spilling into the room through the venetian window. You wipe your hands down your hips, against the smooth red fabric of your dress. “It didn’t feel right.” You look up at him at last, a shy gaze from underneath your lashes. “Only pretty girls wear these kinds of things.”

There it was: your sin of the night.

Doflamingo smiles–wide, toothy, tameless. “You never learn, do you?” he asks darkly. “My little butterfly.”

His stare is predatory as he licks his lips. Your heart somersaults in your chest, a mixture of fear and excitement makes your mouth water. You’re not sure if it’s nausea or lust. All you know is that you have seen that look in his eyes before. You know what follows but try as you might you’re never quite ready for it.

Butterfly or moth–Doflamingo didn’t see much of a difference. A winged insect was a winged insect, but at the moment you shone in beautiful colors. Tonight, he decided, you were his butterfly. He stands up and pretends he doesn’t see you flinch. There’s a small quirk to the corner of his lips as he advances towards you. Your legs tremble, so you clench your hands into fists, fighting your body for control.

“Have you ever heard of taxidermy,” he asks you in an innocent tone. It is so jarring against the cold stare that chills your veins that you feel breathless. “Little butterfly?” You shake your head very slightly, afraid any sudden movements might trigger a response. He invades your space, you take a loud deep breath as his chest brushes against yours. Your breath is ragged, so soon, he has to smile. His breath is hot and humid against your cheek when he continues speaking: “You see, there’s a little bit of debate over it,” he begins, amusement lilting his vowels. His hands move to your hips, fingers dancing lightly over the slit of your skirt. Your eyes threaten to flutter close at the feathery sensation of his fingertips. He smiles at your response. You were as sensitive as always. “You could pin a live butterfly’s wings and mount it that way, restrain it, keep it from flying off, but what happens once the butterfly dies?”

You don’t respond. You had no idea, plus you doubted he was expecting an answer from you. He hardly did when he was like this.

“It decomposes. There’s nothing beautiful left behind. You know, I do hate ugly things.”

One of his hands moves away from your hips, and presses flat against your belly. He moves it upward at an achingly slow pace. His palm is hardened from battles, its roughness reminding you of your differences when he continues up the middle of your chest to your neck. Your nipples harden when his fingers wrap around your neck.

“Now, if you want to keep it beautiful. There is a way,” he continues, squeezing his fingers. You gasp, quickly, trying to catch your breath before you lose it. Your eyes water when he tightens his hold, putting pressure on the sides of your neck. “You catch it first without injuring it, gently.”

His other hand slips between your legs. You feel him move the fabric of your skirt aside, and brush the back of his hand against an inner thigh. You shudder, a small whimper in the back of your throat dying out when he fixes his stare on your mouth.

“I’m not done talking. Please be quiet,” he orders with a small curl to his top lip. You swallow. You’d nod in understanding but his large hand was still wrapped around your throat, keeping you in place. He slaps one of your thighs with the back of his hand. “Spread.” You obey immediately, side stepping to give him more room. “As I was saying, you capture it and then you kill it.”

He smiles down at you, as he slides his knuckles up and down the inside of your thigh. You try to focus, try to watch his lips move as he talks, but it is hard to do. You’re embarrassed at the state of your arousal, feeling your folds become wet with your slick.

His hand moves to the center of you–where you’re the most heated. You gasp loudly, eyes growing wide when you feel his fingers slip between your puffy lips. He moves them upward towards your clit.

“Do you know how you kill it? You have to be careful after all,” he continues, his thumb brushing against your nub. You bite down on your lip, trying to keep from making a sound. “You want to preserve it. So you pinch it’s little tiny body,” your eyes grow wide when you feel his fingers move to mimic his words. “Between your thumb and forefinger.”

He pinches your clit, and you forget your determination to be quiet. Your yelp is loud, and it transforms into a moan as he lets go, rubbing your nub in circles with his thumb once more.

“And see? The beauty remains,” he says against your lips. His thumb is relentless on your clit, you bite down on your lip again, trying to hold back your whimpering. Doflamingo is impressed at your resolve. He smiles crookedly as he watches your squirm, cheeks flushed, as he presses his thumb on your pulse. He feels your heart racing, beating and beating, running away in preservation.

Foolish behavior. You could never get away from his cage.

“Did you not like the dress?” he asks you. You take a ragged breath, force your eyes to open. He is looking down at you with a neutral expression. You can’t tell if he’s serious and you’re not sure why he’s still on the subject of the dress.

“It’s not that!” you stammer, knees feeling weak the more he works your clit. You feel your slick starting to coat the inside of your thighs. You try to rub them together, you want to feel more, but Doflamingo is only using his thumb, refusing to give you more. He slips one leg between yours to keep you from moving again. “The dress is so revealing anyway,” you mumble, feeling your face flush again. Your eyes water. “It would have been so embarrassing.”

He should be furious over your ridiculous excuse but you’re squirming again, and not only because of his touch. He sees the dumb watery expression in your eyes, the drooping on the corners of your mouth, how quick you were to blush once more. He smiles at your expense, realizing your embarrassment. His cock twitches in his slacks, demanding he continues.

He lets go of your throat, and moves his other hand between your legs. You take a deep breath when he stops moving his thumb, but gasp at the feel of his fingers lazily playing with your dripping folds.

“But I wanted everyone to see you,” he whispers against your ear, tongue darting out to lick your earlobe. You shiver, his fingers smearing your slick all over your sensitive pussy. He still won’t enter you, and it’s a torture you can barely stand. You desperately wanted relief. You felt your cunt twitching inside you, beckoning, calling. It was humiliating. “I wanted them to see your beautiful tits, and stare at them all night. There’s a lot of filthy men at the party, you know. They’d look at you and get hard just picturing the way they’d fuck you,” he takes in your earlobe for a noisy suck. You softly moan, and he has to do his best to hold back from laughing; at least for now. “They definitely would want to shove their cock between your tits, and cum all over your pretty face.”

You gasp, as his fingers tease your entrance. Another moan floats past your lips as he dips inside with a middle finger, just up to the first knuckle.

“Heh,” he chuckles softly against a sensitive spot behind your ear. You whimper, arms flying out to steady yourself by grabbing his biceps. Your legs feel gelatinous, you know you hadn’t been in control not once, not ever, but it had been a long time since you felt so helpless. “Did you get wet just thinking about it? About all those perverted old men seeing you and dreaming about fucking you in all kinds of depraved ways? Getting hard while they stand next to their dumb wives. I’m surprised, Butterfly,” he kisses down the column of your neck, a mouth open, and so hot it scalds your skin. “I didn’t know you were such a slut.”

He wraps an arm around your waist, brings you close until your breasts are pressed right up against his hardened chest. His mouth bites down on the soft flesh of your shoulder, as he shoves middle and ring finger inside you. Your fingers dig into his arms as you cry out, little jolts of pleasure making your body shake. He is savage, relentless in his maneuvering. His fingers move faster the more you moan. The loud sound of squelching is impossibly lewd and arousing. His tongue moves over the strap of your dress, and he pushes it aside to drag his teeth against your skin.

“You shouldn’t be enjoying this,” he tells the line of your jaw as he kisses up to your ear again, fingers moving aggressively against you before he roughly inserts a third. You cry out at the stretch, hips moving against his hand trying to follow his rhythm. “I need to punish you better lest you get ideas. Do you like it when other men think of you?” He pulls out his fingers suddenly, and leaves you empty and aching. He grabs your cunt possessively with one hand, his fingers reaching deep towards your asshole. “You belong to me” He spits through clenched teeth, as he grabs your chin with his free hand. His fingers dig into your cheeks painfully as he forces you to look at him. He lets go of your pussy only to slap it. You yell in surprise. He both hates and loves your reaction so he does it again. “Every part of you. All of you is mine.”

He keeps saying it, as he bites down your neck, leaving purple bruises in the wake of his destruction. He demands you repeat him, every time spanking your throbbing pussy. You cry out each time, even though you expect it, fear leaving to make way for arousal. You’re dripping down your thighs, soaking the fabric of his slacks as he keeps his leg between yours. He can feel it, and something like desire seizes in his chest.

He loathes how you can make him feel this way: uncontrolled, unrestrained. He wanted nothing more than to plunge his cock inside your dripping pussy until he felt like he’d go blind, until your nails scratched the skin of his back, leaving a trail of blood behind. He wanted to, but he refused to give you that privilege.

Doflamingo leads you back towards the canopy bed. He stops at the bed bench, grabs you by the wrist and flings you around. A massive hand flies up and comes smacking down on your ass. You grit your teeth, hissing at the sting.

“Up,” he orders but quickly realizes you wouldn’t be able to even if you wanted to. He laughs at your shoes, and at you when he looks up. “Nevermind. I guess I’m doing everything myself.” He grabs you by the waist and lifts you up on the bench. You stand on it feeling uncertain, legs wobbling slightly. He slaps your ass again, as a reminder to hold steady.

A flick of his wrists, and strings shoot from his fingertips, weaving in the air into thin white ropes. They circle your wrists, knotting themselves. There’s a vague thought in your head about resisting, fleeing even, but it disappears quickly when your arms are pulled over your head. You yelp, and look up to see yourself tied to the bar of the canopy bed. Your breathing becomes rapid, heat all consuming over your body when you look down at Doflamingo. He is watching you hungrily, licking his lips as he slides his hands around the back of your thighs. He moves them slowly, up and down, letting you rub your thighs together. You hum in pleasure, eyes fluttering close at the friction. Your sensitive pussy is swollen, and wet. You miss his fingers inside you, and your mind races, trying to find a way to convince him to put them in again.

“That’s enough,” he says calmly, shoving his hands in between your thighs and pushing them apart. You stutter an apology that makes him laugh. He reaches out carefully, rifles his fingers through your folds once more. “You’re soaked. How unsightly.” He looks up at you with a cool glare, and you swallow thickly. You try stammering another apology but he moves closer to you, and picks you up by your ass. You cry out again, and he groans as he adjusts your legs–one over each shoulder. “That’s enough yelling. You’re acting like a child.”

He kisses your belly through the fabric of your dress. Your fingers twitch as you test the restraints of his ropes. You know better, but you still try, and stop when the ropes start cutting into your skin. It stings and you feel a small bead of wetness against the inside of your wrists.

“Careful, Butterfly,” he mumbles, his hands now free to roam. “If you try to struggle, you’ll get cut.” He kneads your ass under your skirt. His skin is hot against the smoothness of yours. His fingers unforgiving as he digs into your flesh, gripping. He knows you’ll bruise–you always do, so easily. He smiles against the inside of one thigh. Doflamingo snakes a hand around your thighs and lifts up the fabric of the dress to expose your cunt. “Now stay still. I haven’t finished your punishment.”

Punishment, or hell, or whatever it was you weren’t sure—but it felt like ecstasy to you when he picked up your hips slightly to angle your pussy against his mouth. His lips latched around your clit, sucking noisily. You heard his warning, but shake your tied hands anyway, desperately wanting to bury your hands in his hair; to grab tuftfuls and grind your hips against his searing mouth.

The sounds he makes as eats your pussy echo in the quiet room; slurping and moaning, he gives detailed attention to each part of you–your folds, the corners where your thighs meet your hips, your clit, your dripping slit. He inserts his tongue, thrusting back and forth. His mind is clouded by the moans you make. He grips your thighs harder, sucks harder thinking it would lighten the stiffening of his cock.

It doesn’t work. It never does.

His cock was throbbing in his slacks. He could feel the precum soaking through his underwear the more you dripped down his chin, all the way down his neck. You cried out when he bites on the inside of one thigh, and he tries to focus on that instead of the way your wetness had soaked the collar of his crisp blue shirt. He’d punish you for that too–at another time.

His tongue is unforgiving, as he relentlessly rips moan after moan from you, pushing you closer and closer to the precipice. You whimper, and cry, to the point you feel you are consumed by madness. You bite your tongue–maybe by accident, you’re not sure but you taste copper in your mouth as you grow closer to orgasm. He feels the twitching of your thighs, your trembling body and smiles as he sucks on your swollen and over sensitive nub, knowing he has you beat.

You cum, predictably, moaning his name. He can’t help the smile that splits his lips. He laps at your dripping pussy, drinking every last drop. He doesn’t stop until he’s satisfied, until he can’t taste you on yourself any longer.

Your legs suddenly drop from his shoulders as you move, and you groan at the heaviness of your body. You try to use your legs to keep yourself up but they shake. He watches you stand there on the bed bench, trembling, and fatigued; hair in disarray, the night’s makeup smeared all over your face. He smiles and wipes at a remaining bit of your cum on his chin with a thumb, drags it up to his mouth for a long suck.

“Listen,” he tells you with a raise of his brows. You nod quickly, repeatedly, trying to see past the haze of the aftermath of your orgasm. “You need to watch me.”

You do as he says, while he unbuckles his belt. Your eyes rove over the bulge in his slacks, and you feel perverse at how your mouth waters at the sight of his zipper lowering. Your belly fills with fire, and you can’t believe your own greediness when you become wet at the sight of his pink cock bouncing out of his underwear. He squeezes the angry tip, his eyes all the while on your face. You lick your lips, and he scoffs, a crooked smile taking over his mouth.

“You’re an insatiable slut, huh?” he tells you as he brings his hand down to stroke his shaft. Doffy bites down on his lip. “You’re not getting any. Don’t get any stupid ideas.”

His hand moves quickly, furiously, as if he wanted nothing more than to cum. Your brows draw together at the injustice. How could he rush such a beautiful thing? If only you could help him, you could show him how good it was to prolong it just a tiny bit more.

“If you had worn the dress like I told you, this wouldn’t be happening,” he hisses, teeth clenched, jaw set. You sigh, feeling absolutely pathetic.

You can’t help your treacherous legs, the way they move so you rub your thighs, faster and faster to match his pace. You moan and whimper, fighting your arousal, hating the fact that he wasn’t filling you up right now with his thick cock.

“Next time, maybe you’ll show me you actually learn something when I speak.”

You yell, and he chastises you, when you suddenly fall to your knees. Your arms feel tingly, almost numb from having them hang above you. He moves closer to you, still furiously pumping his cock. You blink, trying to clear the stars from your eyes, and in that moment you see white spurt from his cock. Hot cum falls all over your exposed tits, dripping and sliding down to your belly, covering your dress.

“See?” he asks, pumping his cock, trying to milk out every last drop. He looks down at his hand, cum on the back of it and on his fingers. He reaches for your dress, smears it over the red fabric, before slipping his fingers into your mouth. You suck mechanically, in a haze. “It’s a beautiful dress. Now you’ll never wear it again.” He takes out his fingers, and tilts his head at you, watching you silently. He shrugs one shoulder and turns around.

You call out his name belatedly, as he’s heading for the door. He doesn’t turn around but waves a hand in the air. “You stay right there and think about what you’ve done.” He pauses at the threshold of the door, looks over his shoulder at you. “I’ll come for you when I feel like you've learned something.”

#🌻 anon #fic request #doflamingo x you #doflamingo x reader #doflamingo x y/n #donquixote doflamingo #one piece doflamingo #doflamingo smut #doflamingo #one piece x y/n #one piece x you #one piece x reader #for the cummunity!#if you think I died writing this you thought right

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dylansslutt · 11 months

Text

Business/ Joel miller

age gap/ the reader is 28 while joel is in his 50s

summary: you were mean to be alone but so was he? staying away leads to wanting more

warnings: smut, violence, cursing

you found jackson, after a long time out in the open infested land of the dead. you weren't old but you weren't young, being only 28. 8 when the infection began.

your mother was a nurse and taught you every life skill she knew. you became good friends with maria, and eventually tommy. you went on runs, helped plan and on talk on things about jackson.

your nursing skills ended you a nicer room, more so a small house. thankful for it but you sure deserved it patching up folks.

yet when time comes around about tommys older brother joel showing up with a young girl named ellie well things changed. you stayed to yourself, never actually talking to him.

"y/n, come over here i want you to meet someone."

your eyes shift over to marlene and the infamous joel miller. swallowing down your sudden nervousness, you make way over towards them. knowing this would happen eventually.

"this is y/n, i was telling you about. great nurse as well as she's helped a lot of people. oh y/n great, this is joel tommy's brother." she rambles as you make eye contact with the man.

he looks you up and down before offering a nod, "joel."

you give a small nod back, "y/n. uh what's up, i was about to ride out soon?"

she sighs, "i need you to take joel, show him our spots." you wanted to protest, ask her to ask anyone else. yet you give him a tight lip smile.

"hope you know how to ride." he scoffs almost, a small smile appears on his face. something you figure rarely happens.

"honey i was riding horses before you were born, let's go." he walks past you making you give her a look. who only stifles a laugh motioning for you to go forward.

biting your lip, you turn and jog a few steps forward. gaining sync you finally let your eyes wander him discreetly.

"the stables right up here." the path was short, and the sigh made a smile spread across your face. joel took a second to give you a good look, noticing how unreadable you were.

pretty none the less. yet you were younger, and he was here for ellie and tommy only.

"this is apollo, that's hades over there. honestly fits ya' if im being honest." the names sounded familiar.

"ya' know greek mythology?" he questions walking up to the darker colored horse.

you pets apollo, "i'm the one who gave them their names. i might be young but i still had something... before all this shit."

clearing your throat, you walks the horse out. "let's get going."

he nods and follows.

the two of you left the first sight, which wasn't much. you did get a better chance to watch him, analyze him a bit better. he was a bit hard to read but one thing certain.

for him being older he still was good looking.

the second place was a old hunting spot.

"here we gotta leave the horses." you come to a stop, joel watching as you swing yourself off effortlessly.

he just nods, "it's a old hunting spot, there's a couple round here. we should have everything in lines, but sometimes some' comes straying."

leading the way, you glance back at him. his eyes flicker around cautiously making you turn forward. he definitely was a bit different than his brother.

"how long you been at jackson?"

the question threw you off guard, not expecting him to even spark a conversation. "maybe a year, maria and i came across each other."

you slow down as you both walk side by side, you finally pointing towards the area.

"so up on those trees, we got hunting spots. then there is a small little shed over a little farther. i'll show ya' cause i need to take check on stocks."

"so is ellie your daughter? tommy mentioned he had a niece before." you glance over at him, trying the small talk he once said before.

"no, ellie is not my daughter. my daughter is dead." and with that you went silent, feeling so stupid for asking.

as you approach the shed, you put in the code for the lock. swinging it open, the light from the window made things more visible.

as he peers around, "ya' must be trusted to have the knowings of all these things."

you shrug, "i like to know what i am getting myself into... living here and all."

he notices how close off you are, and how double meaning your words were.

"i'm sorry, about my question. should've never said anything." he shakes his head, allowing you to feel some sort of relief.

"who'd you lose?" the question caught you off guard, hand hovering over the packs of matches. counting five. swallowing down every flashback that comes to mind.

"everyone." he has an indifferent look on his face at your answer. "who was the first person ya' had to kill?" your jaw drops.

"jesus christ, are you serious?" scoffing at his words he shrugs, looking through some stuff. "all alone, end up here alone. you seem to handle yourself, it's obvious some' happen."

"oh like it hasn't with you or anyone else? no one gives a shit. no one cares if you had to kill your sister or see your parents die or quiet literally mostly anyone you meet." you snap at him before opening a nearby drawer seeing the contents.

silence pass making you sigh.

"how old are you?" your head snaps towards him, closing one of the drawers. wondering why he is so curious all of a sudden.

"turning 29 soon, you?"

"56." he grumbles out and you stare at him shock.

"bullshit." he looks over at you confused.

"there is no way you are in your 50's." he looked good, too good it was no way. a small smirk lifts on his mouth, "yes hun, i am."

you just nod, "okay we're good here, still can't believe it though. i swore maybe 40 something." you head towards the door shaking your head. glad the subject took a change.

he rubs the back of his neck, noticing you a bit more. taking you in more, mind litters of you.

the walk back to the horses was quiet, you glance over at him. stealing a few glances. he was different, someone you didn't see all the time.

"there is one more place, but if all honesty. we wouldn't get back till about sun down, i can just show ya' another time."

he shrugs, "we are here for a little longer. i don't mind." you laugh, "you don't but if we get back in the middle of the night, we are going to bed hungry."

giving him a look. "i don't like to go to bed hungry, mister."

he smirks softly, shoving his gun in his back pocket. "guess, we better get going then. before little ole' princess starves over here."

the mock makes your mouth drop open, since he was close enough you space you smack his arm. "whatever old man."

as you go to walk off, he stops you by holding his hand up. the sound of rustling makes you still. everything seems fine for a moment, until one of the chain of bottle cans rang out.

"we made those to hear them. we gotta go!" you harshly whisper out, grab the reins of your horse. him following suit, as you jump up and gain full balance before you kick apollo to go.

flying off forward, glancing over your shoulder at joel. he was right behind you, before you glance in front of you. the trail was heavily made, and with the pace you were going you didn't pay attention.

"y/n wait!" you try to slow down, confused on why. unlike you joel noticed the movement alongside the woods. in such quickness someone comes running out from the side of the woods.

a gunshot rang from him, making you shriek as your horse bucks. trying to hold on desperately, only failing as apollo jerks you off.

your body slings off hitting the ground roughly, rolling down the side hill. a gun shot rang out again followed by another. slowing into a stop, your body aches.

heaving out as you look around, seeing your gun and knife still intact to you. letting out a deep groan, you push yourself up into a sitting position.

the sound of footsteps behind you, make your hand fly to your gun. "y/n?" joels voice is heard from behind , turning your head softly to see him. he rushes down the hill, dropping to his knees beside you.

"i'm fine." you try and shrug him off. not the first time you fell but his eyes land on your leg. a scowl almost replaces his once almost worried gaze.

"ya' ain't fine, been fuckin' shot." he mumbles before gripping a piece of your long sleeve fabric. ripping it off into a shredded piece as your eyes follow his line of focus.

you didn't even notice your leg was bleeding open. you got shot. you got fucking shot. hissing as he wraps it, your hand flies out to his arm. "this is gonna fuckin' hurt, so please do it fast."

your eyes are staring deeply into his, the pain starting to become slightly noticeable. he pulls the fabric tight before tying it, making you cover your mouth with your hand.

a tear or two slips down your cheeks, exhaling softly as he drops his hands from your leg. "who the fuck where they? did they trail us? a-are there more?"

the questions slip out so fast, nervous and anxious. joel shakes his head. "there were two, i killed them okay?" your lips tremble, "i was so stupid i th-thought they were infected."

"shh. if there's more, i don't know. which is why we need to get going? apollo shouldn't be to far, so hop on hades." joel reassures you, he wasn't mad because this genuinely wasn't your fault. you were smart, he notice that quickly. this was something you would never see coming.

you smile softly as joel uses their names, "you use their names. not everyone uses their names." biting your lip to mask the pain.

he gives you a soft look. "we'll they should." the moment was sweet, but you move forward. grabbing onto his hand which was held out for you. pulling yourself up, you almost fall back down.

joel's free hand slips around your waist, pulling you into his chest. a soft curse slips your lips. it hurt, it really did. you had your fair share of wounds, but never have been shot before. usually you do the fixing up.

biting your lip glancing down at your blood soaked leg pant's. joel moves his one hand around your arm instead of hand, eyes now on him.

"can you walk?" you don't know but not wanting to appear weak in front of this intimidating man, you step forward. the pain shot up into your hips, you wanted to scream.

looking back at him, nodding the lie knowing your voice would betray you. he stares at you before stepping forward, "good let's go."

as you go to take another step your leg gives out, hitting the floor almost. his hand jerks you up and into his arms bridal style.

"stubborn as a bull. don't lie, y/n." the tone of his voice left you quiet, so dad like. your head rolls to the side, kind of dizzy. you see hades come into view.

he helps you up first, sitting behind you. one hand on the ropes, the other wraps around your stomach. holding you close to his chest, hand covering your whole stomach almost.

the pain from the horses gallop hurt, each movement in your leg burned.but you were determine to ride your horse back.

"i swear i'll be fine. it's not far, just stay behind me." he had helped you up on the horse after much protest. hesitant for some reason yet you weren't someone he had to care about. so he let you.

not like he could with your arguing.

the ride didn't take that long, but when you hit the stables. your body tips sideways and you hit the ground.

"y/n?"

feeling your cheeks being tapped, you force your eyes open. coughing out slightly as you try to push him away. "i'll be okay." you repeat as joel, gets up to tie your horse up along with his quickly.

trying to push yourself up, he watches you fail miserably. coming back over, he wraps your arm around his neck. motioning you to lean onto him for support.

"hey, hey. where we goin'? where am i taking you?"

your voice was hoarse. "my house." he stares confused not knowing which one, but then it dawns on him.

the one day he saw you, on the small corner home. outside watering a plant, alone but happy. that house. how the fuck he remembers no idea but he helps you towards it.

you were coherent enough to help jog his memory, motion little turns to take. it was a block or two away from the horses, you were starting to go in and out from the blood loss.

he ends up picking you up bridal style halfway, your door unlocked already as joel slams the door open, eyeing your layout. he sets you down on the couch.

you wake up fully at the sound of stuff slamming, "where is it?" he mumbles to himself. out of it you think of medical stuff.

"joel?"

he comes around the wall, "the stuff is under the sink. get a rag from that closet door."

he is off to grab those things, and you push yourself up. ripping the hole open more to your pants, you shakily lift your leg for a second. whimpering you feel the back of your leg for an exit wound.

running over one, a sigh of relief escapes you even through the pain. the adrenaline was worn off but you knew you had to get the wound patched.

"Here."

the items were sat down, "ther-there is an exit wound. i need you to clean and stitch me, if i-i do it. i'll fuckin' pass out."

you snatch the bottle, joel managed to find. blood smearing around it as you bring it to your lips. taking a few good deep chugs, one more even before handing it over to him.

he watches you, how strong you were. he seen grown men be more of a pussy than you. you rode a fucking horse home, for christ sake.

pouring the liquid onto your thigh, you clasp onto the cushion. the pain makes a small screech escape your lips. "fuck!"

he puts a rag down, handing you the bottle. you take it with shaky hands, downing a gulp. leaning back feeling hot, "if i pass out. do not judge."

he shrugs, wiping the area making you wince. he cleans the needle as he gets ready to sow you up. "no need too, you were shot."

"i thought you were gonna be a real dick, joel. you are surprisingly nice." you mutter through gritted teeth as he takes the bottle once more over your thigh, liquid burning the wound.

he laughs, "ya' just don't know me, darling."

he hands over a clean rag, "bite this so you don't tell the town." weakly grabbing onto it, hands touching. blood smears onto each other, no telling if it was from yours or his.

he watches how drain and pale you looked. hesitantly he lines up the needle, before pushing it through. you shove the rag in your mouth, barely drowning out your screams.

joels hand grips your leg down tightly, against your legs involuntary movement. seconds later your body drops onto the couch. he watches as you pass out, finishing the work with a deep look on his face.

your eyes flutter open, the soft light from your kitchen makes your eyes squint. the actions from earlier come to you, when the soreness spreads through you, along with the deep pain in your leg.

sitting up slightly, getting a look at your leg. joel stitched it up pretty good. your eyes jerk up to someone coming out the kitchen.

"hey, you're up." you nod softly. "how long was i out?" he sits down a glass of water, which you instantly take.

"all night. i went through your medicine bag, pulled you out some pain pills." he hands you one over before you finished your water.

"thanks." you take it as your wince forgetting about movement. "jesus, my body. it's like i was hit by a bus."

joel sits down across from you. "no, just thrown off a horse." you give him a pointed look, he eases back a smirk.

"did you sleep at all?" he shakes his head and you roll your eyes. "go. go home. i'll be fine, i can take care of myself."

he gives me a look, "i know that. just wanted to make sure you were okay." you smile softly, before a thought popped in your head.

"can you get me a wet towel? i need some of this blood off, and some new clothes. it'll save me from walking." your voice showed tiredness. you tell him where everything was, which wasn't hard to find. you wouldn't believe you been living here longer than two weeks.

he turns around to let you get undressed but trying to take your shirt off was miserable. "joel?"

he looks over his shoulder, eyebrows fusing together confuse on why you haven't changed. "c-can you help, it's really hard?"

he notices the innocence, and steps forward. his rough fingertips help pull the shirt over your head. your black bra pushing up your exposed breast. darting his eyes away, you grab the new shirt.

tugging it over your head, he helps with the sleeves. "thank you." he stares in your eyes, not knowing why he was helping. yet when your eyes still train on his and slightly lower to his lips.

he moves forward pushing his lips onto yours. so gentle which surprises you as he comes off nothing but that. instead he cups your face softly, deepening the kiss as you gasp into his mouth.

pulling away softly, you blush under his stare. "help me with my pants?"

he slowly tugs your pants down, careful of your bad leg. it wasn't so sexual, it was just innocence something so rare. he had grabbed some shorts, thankful for that. pulling them up you smile up at him.

"that was a workout." you grasp the wet rag that he had set aside, wiping at the dried blood knowing you weren't about to try and bathe right now.

he shakes his head. "i should go check on ellie. i'll swing by later?"

you nod, almost finishing your arms and face. feeling so tired you were gonna pass out. he left and you were left with sleep not even able to process the moment just before you.

days passed and you haven't seen joel. you'd be lying if you said you didn't care but you weren't bound to show it. your leg was still sore but you were tired of doing nothing.

stepping out the house slowly, leg aching but happy you took a pain killer. taking it slow, you headed down to the small little building used for your help with the jackson citizens.

opening it up and walking around, you smile at lina.

"hey."

"i heard! are you okay?" she rushes around, you nod your head. "yes, tired of being at home."

she shakes her head, "i'll put a chair in the room for you."

you smile gratefully towards her. she is a smart girl about 17 you think? been teaching her everything you know, quick learner at that.

she came by told you about her being here while you were out. helping two patients. "can you put oil on this and rewrap it?"

she nods and goes to grab the items, happy she was figuring out the natural remedies you can use for things as medicine. she comes back and helps with your leg, doing a much better job than you.

"thanks, lina. seriously." you thank the girl and she merely shrugs. the door swings open and joel comes walking in. your sit up in confusion before he points at you.

"can we talk?" you knew it wasn't a question, you look over at lina. who takes the hint and scurries off to the back.

"what's up?"

"it's been three days, why am i told you are at work?" you look up at him confused.

"you don't know me, you haven't even came to check on me? i am sorry why are you angry right now?"

he shakes his head, "me and ellie aren't leaving. do you understand that, i'm here to stay. if you keep gettin' fuckin' hurt imma' kill you myself."

you push yourself up, leaning against the desk. "oh now he has a big boy voice. i'm glad you are here for good joel, but i can't sit inside forever. now i am at 'work' so can we do this another time?"

he stares at you before he shoves himself over the desk, capturing your lips in a ravaging kiss. "damn woman. i don't know what is is, but fuck i like ya' darlin'."

you push him away slightly, "you joel miller are entirely too soft."

his eyes soften for a moment, the thought of a lot of things come to him. knowing you met ellie a few times, who found out about you two.

you were maternal, something he craved that he never had in his life. innocent and sweet but also a strong independent women. this scared him. this scared you.

he left shortly after and a hour or so passed and someone comes walking in the door with flowers. you look up but scowl at the sight of shaun in front of you.

your ex boyfriend, kind of as you two had a thing until you found him hooking up with a girl in a spot you showed him.

the flowers set down in front of you, make your eyes flicker to lina. she looks away looking as if she wants to laugh. "i heard about the run, i'm sorry about that. how about dinner baby?"

"baby?" you glare up at him. "don't bother with that shaun, it's over. we are done so just take your flowers and go, leave me the hell alone."

he scoffs, "still a bitch huh? things don't change, and i was trying to be nice."

your eyes widen, "leave!" you point to the door. he rolls his eyes, "i was just leaving."

flustered you glance over at lina, sighing miserably. "first joel and now him? i need a fuckin' break."

a knock on your door, makes you sigh. standing up and hobbling over, "who is it?"

"uh, joel?"

"come in!" you yell not wanting to walk farther, he walks in and glances you up and down. "hey." you smile softly, feeling the energy.

you been thinking of a lot you wanted to say. he walks forward, hand on your waist guiding you to sit back down.

"we need to talk." he nods in agreement.

"well i- i just have a lot of this baggage and history. this stuff is new and god i've been craving something like this-like you." the confession was raw as your eyes reach his, who watches you in a indescribable way.

"i just am scared, scared you'll leave."

he shakes his head, "if ya' knew all the fucked up shit i've done. i don't think you'll look at me the same."

you grasp his hand, squeezing it tightly. "i doubt that."

sitting closer together a small confession leaves you, "i know, i know i am a little younger but... i- i've had my losses. i've had my kills."

tears fill your eyes, threatening to spill. not wanting to look at joel, "i-i had to do fucked up shit to survive joel, and i did stuff to cope. i'm not pro-"

"hey, it don't gotta be all told now. we have time, darlin'." his embrace was nice as he pulls you in. kissing your forehead slightly.

pushing away he stops you, eyes staring up at him doe like. his thumbs wipe the fallen tears. "you're safe with me."

he wanted you safe and protected like ellie. he just knew with you, you could handle it just maybe.

your door swinging open, makes you jump. joel looks at you confused and you shrug. "i-i"

"y/n!" shaun voice calls out, your heart dropping.

"oh no."

he walks around the corner, stopping when he lands on you two. "what the fuck is this?"

he chuckles and your eyes flicker to joel who went very still and very quiet. "so this- this old fuck is the guy you are whoring around with behind my back?"

standing up ignoring the pain, glaring at the monster. "you cheated on me you crazy fuck! you quite literally just broke into my home!" joel was standing up, almost like he was calculating his next move,

glass breaking makes you jump as you see he knocks a few items you only had up onto the ground. joel snaps and launches forward. you saw what he didn't want you to see.

he beat shaun to a pulp, shoving him outside the home. words were shared as you are stuck in the same spot.

the blood stains your wooden floors and the sound of the door slamming makes your eyes snap up. joel is infront of you, chest rapidly moving up and down.

"i- i am so sorry, he-" you try with anything but joel shakes his head.

"y/n, y/n! are you okay?" he snaps you out of it and you nod. "yeah, yeah i'm fine." your hands run through your hair. glancing down at his hand.

"oh my god, your knuckles." he stops your movements, just grasping onto you softly.

your eyes land on his gaze. "i went on like a few dates with him, and he hooked up with some other chick. i-i didn't know he was crazy."

"won't be a issue anymore."

you gulp, "i appreciate the help. thi-this last week but i am someone you don't wanna get close with."

joel's expression drops, not expecting for you have such a recoil. he wasn't even expecting himself to start to like you. yet here you two were.

he shakes his head, "honey. this-" he motions around you two, the broken glass beneath you. "this ain't shit. if you heard half the stuff i've done, i'm not sure ya' would be standing here right now."

you give him confuse look but he steps closer.

"i ain't afraid of what's inside this pretty little head of yours." he sees the fear in your eyes, the words make them flutter shut. when they reopen he is right in front of you.

hand reaching up to cup your cheek, thumb smoothing across your skin. slowly his lips lower, you both tasting each other. his grip tightens on you as yours wrap around the base of his neck.

he lifts you up, tossing you gently on the couch.

your shirt was lifted up and his beard tickles your skin. kisses trail around your ribs, underneath your bra. his one hand grips the side of your thigh, tightening it as he pulls you closer.

lips back on his, before slipping down your neck. a heavy sigh escapes your lips as he places himself between you.

"fuck ya' gorgeous." he stares down at you making you giggle. your hands tug him down to your lips again as his hand runs over you.

gasping in his mouth, his free hand grasp around your neck. other hand slowly teasing you.

eyes opening him staring down at you, watching your reaction. "please." you beg.

he slips his hands around your pants, tugging them down. "is this what you want baby."

his thumb presses right on your clit, applying some pressure. your hands fumble behind you, unclasping your bra. you lean up tossing your shirt and bra onto the floor somewhere.

joel lifts your hips up slightly, making you squeal. pulling your panties down and off from around your ankles, you swear you saw his eyes roll back for a moment.

his bruised hand was up around your throat again, soft but holding you in place. his good hand lets his thumb rub your clit slightly.

"fuck joel." you whine at his teasing. "you wanna feel good?" he leans down sucking one of your free nipples. gasping at the feeling, moaning into your hands.

"don't hide, tell me what ya' want darlin'."

looking up at him, sheepishly as he takes you in more.

"please touch me."

it rolls of your tongue and his beard stubbles against your thighs as he devours himself into you. your hands in his hair, eyes widening as one of his thick plump fingers enters themselves into you.

"fuck, joel." his hand grips your thigh, moving it on top of your thigh. in a sniper position he lays pleasuring you. mind swirling as tommy's brother eats you out.

"taste so good, baby." another finger enters you making your leg move slightly, him pinning it down almost. "stay still."

you whine out, hands coming up to your breast trying to grasp something. it was becoming too much, the pit in your stomach kept building.

"fuck like that." your words come out as a whisper, eyes rolling back as joel looks up at you through hooded eyes. his print sticking against his jeans.

he loved watching how off you were getting. his tongue moves in such a way on your clit you try pushing at his head, "oh my-"

his hands grasp yours easily, stopping you as his fingers curl up into you in such pace. "oh fuck." your mouth was parted unable to contain the moan littering your lips.

joels face and beard were soaking with your liquids, he didn't stop there. you didn't even notice he was stroking himself freely now, lifting up off the bed some.

he lifts up from you, letting you breathe from the torturing pleasure. his lips land on yours, tasting yourself on him. without warning he slowly slides himself into you, your mouth opens as he shoves his tongue into it.

the moan you both share as he bottoms out, nails digging into his bicep as he lifts your legs up around his waist.

"so tight, darlin'." he leans back, moving slowly watching as you try moving against him. "not so fast, darlin'."

he pushes down your stomach, going deeper. this 'old man' sure knew what the fuck he was doing. he hits deeper, making your back arch slightly. his thumb brushing over your clit.

he keeps the pace the same as he rubs your clit slowly with his thumb. holding one leg in place, giving it a soft kiss.

"joel please." you whine looking at him through your lashes, his grip tightens and his hand slips away up around your neck. his hips quicken, slamming into you.

one hand holds onto his arm around your neck, the other grips the pillow under you. he kept hitting the right spot making you stutter out a whimper, him telling you how good you were taking him.

trying to look up at him through his pounding, he grips tighter around your throat. "fuck darlin'."

"filling me up, daddy." it just came out, you weren't thinking. yet for some reason joel just leans down kissing you. brushing against your clit from the decrease in space.

"imma' cum." you whimper against him, his movements never faltering. "cum darlin'."

"fu-fuck, fuck.-" your head falls back into the pillow helplessly as he keeps going, riding your second orgasm out. he had a goal of wanting three out of you.

he tightens both hands around your waist, eyes focus on your face. trailing down watching how your tits bounced with each thrust. moaning he feels your legs shake and your head was shaking.

"jo-oh my-" you were so close to another one. the tension was too much and suddenly your dripping around him. the wet squelching sound leads into him pulling out, cumming into his hand.

a few drops drip onto your stomach, letting your leg slide down slowly. as he pulls out delicately, knowing your probably sensitive.

he notices a towel over a door, grabbing it wiping himself and yourself clean. he kisses your lips once more, tightening a hold onto you.

"did the 'old man' give ya' a good fuck." a laugh escapes your tired expression. you thought of that statement before.

"made me fuckin' squirt so i would go with yes..."

#joel miller imagine #joel miller fluff #joel miller x reader #joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller filth #the last of us smut #the last of us imagine

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infiniteeight8 · 7 months

Note

ironstrange

“just… tell me.”

I’ve gotten a couple really good prompts recently, and I am looking forward to writing them, but I am still working on the ones folks have been waiting for awhile. Just wanted to let you know I got them!

Also, I really didn’t mean for Pepper to come off quite as badly here as she does. Her intentions were good! Just, maybe, not thoroughly thought through. Angst ahead.

Despite spending hours working up to this conversation, the words still catch behind Pepper’s teeth when she actually has Tony in front of her. After a silent minute, Tony sighs wearily. “Just… tell me,” he says, and she knows he knows exactly what’s coming.

“I don’t want to be in a relationship with you anymore,” Pepper admits, dropping her gaze to her hands. Taking a breath, she makes herself look up. “You knew this was coming?” Tony nods. “How?”

“Partly because we’ve been here before,” Tony says. “But mostly because you’ve spent the past two months setting me up on playdates with Stephen, who is pretty clearly in love with me.”

Pepper winces. She hadn’t thought it was that obvious. “I want you to be happy.”

“With someone else.”

“Yes.” Pepper deflates. “Please don’t let this spoil things with Stephen.”

Tony gives her a look. “Stephen isn’t the one who’s simultaneously implied I can’t handle a break up and indicated an expectation that I’d cheat.”

Dammit, that hadn’t been what she’d thought at all. “Tony—”

“Go,” he says, turning away.

Pepper wants to argue, but Tony is too hurt right now. She can only hope she hasn’t damaged their friendship.

#IronStrange #double drabble

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chronic-ghost · 9 months

Text

Part Two + Epilogue

A/N: this is an approximation of what I envisioned reader wearing the night of the premiere. the monologues come from the works of elena jacobs and lemony snicket.

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NOVEMBER

Snow had come hesitantly to the city. Sprinkling down and melting against the black tar like salt in soup, the weather seemed unable to make up its mind. That nasty wind would flush down narrow alleyways, snagging up unsuspecting hats and everything not firmly held down, bringing with it that biting cold. This late in the season, the gorgeous bloom of golds and reds fluttering in trees was gone, torn down by that spiteful wind. The gnarled, brown bodies of leaves littered the streets, drain pipes swallowing them down when that first drift of snow melted into gray water. New York was fighting an oncoming winter, sinking its heels in and rejecting the inevitable. Everyone else just wished it would pick a side.

You know you’re not, not really, but sometimes you feel it: old. At thirty-two, things tend to crack a little louder than they used to. Hangovers lasted two days, not two hours, and how you used to live your life with only hours of sleep for weeks at a time completely baffles you. Sure, it was probably a lot of coke, but god, these hours are going to kill you.

Production for Andrew’s play is in full swing. Some days you never leave the back side of the curtain, too entrenched in building, then painting the forty-two foot moveable walls. Between you and the rest of the tech crew, you had managed to solve the weight problem: because of its light-weight nature, the walls had a tendency to fall forward or back, basically the opposite direction of where they were pushed. But late last Thursday, with a few bolts from a nail gun, a couple of thick screws, and several PVC pipes, the walls stabilized. A collective, exhausted cheer went up, some moved to tears after hours of frustration. After that the crew went home . . . and you went to open the gallery.

Marie helps as much as she can. Opening early when you can’t and closing late when you have passed out in your office chair. But as financial manager and co-owner, she has her own responsibilities. Hands to shake and meetings with potential buyers and artists. She’s taken over much of the front-facing work associated with running a gallery, as you had both agreed when you agreed you’d handle Andrew’s project, but there’s still so much to do. Opening night looms large in your mind and you are simultaneously excited and horrified. Once it's over, you plan on sleeping for two weeks straight.

There are some bright spots, though. Your crew is a bunch of college kids from NYU interning, but they teach you about the world of TikTok outside of being the marketing arm for the gallery and whatever the fuck flossing is. You overheard one of them call Dieter, “girl dinner” and you absolutely knew better than to ask what that meant. They’re funny and curious and love to learn. Gives you hope for this goddamn world.

And then, there’s the opportunities you get to see bits of the show before anyone else. When rehearsals are on, the building stops, quiets for a few minutes. Like ants, the stagehands scurry out into the seats, relieved to have nothing to do for a bit, and eager to see where all their hard work is going.

You find your place at the far back of the house, out of the lights of the stage, and you watch him. And he’s good. He’s so fucking good it makes your heart twist in your chest. The rest of the cast is great in their own right, but your eyes remain glued to him and him alone. His performance is magnetic. You feel it in your bones. You could watch him on a stage for the rest of your life. You don’t miss acting, but you do miss having him as a scene partner.

For what it’s worth, he never looks at Emily longer than he has to.

You twist your wrist, growling at the pain, the muscle in your forearm cramping like it always did when you overworked yourself painting. With the walls built, that left only the actual artwork to be done and if your team were master carpenters, master artists they were not. You set them to work painting the base layer, but it was on you to bring those designs Andrew approved to life.

You are sweaty, hungry, and every time you move, something else hurts. By your watch, it’s close to seven and Andrew usually lets the cast go home around seven thirty. You’re a more benevolent overlord; you let your team go around seven fifteen.

But at seven on the dot, the black curtain moves back and several members of the cast head towards the back door, animatedly chatting amongst themselves. Like wildfire, some gossip spreads from the cast to the crew, eyes lighting up and suddenly reinvigorated.

“What are they talking about?” You ask Liam, one of the stagehands, who shrugs.

“No idea, but –,”

“Andrew is giving us the weekend off!” Sarah in her too big overalls comes bounding over, practically vibrating. “He’s hosting a party at Shandy’s.”

Shandy’s is actually three different venues built into one like legos. In the center was an open air stage. If live music wasn’t playing, then the latest sports game played on the high definition screen. On the right was a bar, aptly in the style of an old tiki lounge. And on the left, was a low-maintenance seafood bar and grill: fish and chips, fried oysters, and hush puppies. It sounded fun but you never much had the inclination to go sniffing your nose around temptation.

“You’re coming, right, Natalie?” Sarah asks excitedly. But the idea that you have a second of free time to yourself, much less to spend it with drunk people, is laughable.

“Oh, I don’t think so, Sarah. There’s gallery stuff – Marie hasn’t had a break in weeks and –,”

“You hear the good news?” Dieter’s delighted tone splits apart your little trio and he comes loping over with a grin on his face. “We’ve got the weekend off.”

“Hell yeah!” Liam pumps his fist. “But Natalie here doesn’t wanna come to the party at Shandy’s.”

Dieter’s face falls. “Why not?”

You frown, not feeling like you need to explain yourself to a bunch of college students, or Dieter himself for that matter. You stand up, mindful of the tension in your lower back, and wipe the paint on your hands on your overalls. After working with you for several weeks, Sarah’s bright enough to pick up on your irritation simmering low.

She eyes him as she steps forward. “We’re gonna head out for the night, if that’s okay?”

You nod at the both of them, your mouth still twisted into a frown.

“I have a job outside of this,” you huff at Dieter, as the kids scurry away. “A busy full time job and I just can’t –,”

“What if I pick you up?” Dieter asks. How, after all these years, could he still make you feel like you are the only person in the room? “Andrew’s also doing a bunch of events for the out-of-towners, and the last stop before dinner is a bar. Which I’d like to avoid for obvious reasons. So lemme meet you at the gallery and take you to the dinner.” He smiles relaxed.

“I just don’t know, Dieter.”

“Bring Marie,” he says simply. “You both have earned a night off. I’ll pick you both up and take you back after dinner. I’ll help you mail invoices, if you’d like.”

Knowing exactly what his ADHD does to his brain with numbers, you shake your head, giving up the ghost and grinning. “That’s really not necessary, but, um, I’ll think about it. Lemme talk to Marie and see what she thinks.”

He nods, watching as the backstage empties out. Less people, less noise. Dieter’s mouth twitches.

“I can help you with painting too. You and I both know I’ve got a shit head for numbers, but this, I think I can do. With a little direction.”

He flashes you a smile and you inject your thumbnail into your closest finger.

“Um, maybe? I’m exhausted right now and probably shouldn’t be making any executive decisions.”

“You want me to walk you home?”

Your chest swells at his sincerity. “Just to the subway stop if you don’t mind.”

To your enormous (disparagingly, staggeringly large) surprise, Marie actually agrees.

“I’ve been staring at excel spreadsheets so long I think I’m going cross-eyed,” she says from behind the office desk you share that next morning. She massages her eyeballs with the heel of her palm. “We’re in a good place with the fundraiser announcements for the holidays and there aren’t any upcoming tours we have to schedule.”

You know this, but you let her talk through it outloud, hoping she’ll stumble across something that’ll make her change her mind. But she doesn’t.

She shrugs. “Tell him I’ll buy him dessert if he gets a car with heated seats.”

After your initial confrontation at your brownstone, Marie had seemingly changed her stance on having Dieter around. While she wasn’t about to offer to him to stop by, she most likely wasn’t still considering murdering him in his sleep. You wonder if it had anything to do with his consistent concern about your wellbeing – making sure you ate breakfast at those six AM calltimes and walking you home at night in the freezing cold, despite your protests. He even made the very risky joke that Daddy’s visitation hours were over and it was time to return you to Mommy . . . in front of Marie. And again to your enormous surprise, she laughed.

It was progress. Progress towards what, you weren’t entirely sure.

You smile at your friend, gray eye bags and all. Maybe this is the universe’s way of sending its approval; yes, this is okay to want.

“I’ll call him later today.”

It’s the last tour on a Friday before a long weekend. Meaning, none of the students are paying attention and a few appear asleep on their feet. You go on with your explanation of brushwork, of pattern recognition, that artists' use of color is almost as distinctive as their signature. You sound boring even to yourself, your quips falling flat and references feeling awkwardly outdated. Nothing could rouse these zombies and their glassy-eyed stares. The herd shuffles along as you take them to the charcoal exhibit.

This actually has you excited, charged even. You talk about the care that using this particular medium requires, that there are so rarely do-overs and mistakes are costly. The artist must be precise with their vision, focused, and above all else, determined.

Your impassioned speech for the arts wakes up no one and you fight back a frown.

Jesus Christ, gimme something to work with.

As you try and remember the next part of your tour, something beyond the crowd of students moves. You’re halfway through describing past and present famous artists who worked with charcoal, when you catch his eyes.

Dieter leans up against one of the white walls, a real one, not a hanging salon wall, his arms crossed and his converse notched against his ankle. You expect a smirk, a tease, so this is what you get up to when I’m not around, but whatever is on his face its not that.

It’s . . .

He’s smiling.

Like he’s proud of you.

You attempt to stifle the blush erupting up your face as you turn back to the artwork. If the students can catch the tremble in your voice, they don’t say anything.

Through the glass window, you see their bus pull up and stop by the curb, a beautiful glowing miracle.

“And that’s the end of our tour,” you say quickly. “Thank you for coming on this tour. Feel free to browse the gift shop, but you are free to go. ”

You don’t physically shoo them out the door, but your fingers clench just the same.

“You’re good.” Logically, you know you didn’t hear him coming, didn’t smell his cologne. But you sense him all the same. You don’t jump at his voice suddenly at your shoulder. You turn and smile back at him, throwing your hip out dramatically.

“Had some practice acting in front of crowds before. Maybe you’ve seen my work?”

He shrugs, swinging his hands into that tan coat – which he wouldn’t let you pay to get drycleaned – as he looks around the gallery.

“Maybe, I have,” he sniffs, “don’t get a big head about it.”

You laugh as he wanders back as though drawn to the art. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot your contribution and curse yourself for not tearing it down when you had the chance.

You sidle up next to him, hoping that if he got that far, you could deter his attention elsewhere. But he doesn’t notice your anxiety, your worrying ball of fear. Instead, he’s quiet, mouth soft, eyes slow to move across the exhibits.

“You know, you always were braver than me.” Your heart catapults into your throat, gaze wrenching away from your dark secret to him, to his face, to search desperately for a hint of a lie.

“W-what do you mean?”

“This, all of this,” he swings his hand out either to indicate the rest of the artwork or the building itself, “it’s so fucking incredible, Natalie. I let you see one painting of mine and I wanted to die from embarrassment. But this . . . you . . .” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t do this.”

“Do you still paint?”

There are flashes in your memory, more feelings than anything else, of that time in New Orleans. You’ve told your therapists as much as you can remember about it, about the drugs you took with him, how quickly it spiraled out of control. And then comes the most painful thing to admit: it was the first and only time in your life you felt truly happy. Having Dieter all to yourself was a bright spot that nothing, not even time, or anger, or heartbreak could ever extinguish.

And in those flashes of memory, you remember waking up and watching him paint gorgeous things on those green walls. Watching him paint on you.

Your heart aches, throbbing for just a minute. He’s been back in your life for months now, and you’re still convinced he’ll vanish the second you’re not looking.

Dieter nods, thoughtful. “Yeah, sometimes. It’s more of a stress reliever than anything else.”

“I get that. I tried out ceramic work before I found out I’m complete shit at it. But it felt good to punch something gooey.”

He grins. “Oh, yeah?”

You nod, adding, “moved on to painting giant murals after that. Pollock would have been proud.”

He follows you as you lead him back, into the long and winding guts of the gallery.

“I tried a lot of things after . . . after rehab. Not a lot stuck, but at least I wasn’t choking on my own feelings anymore.”

Your unconscious feet have brought you to the red painting your other tour group pointed out. It’s big, pulsating red, black specks invading the scarlet colors like an infection.

“Lots of love and nowhere to put it,” he murmurs to the painting.

His curls are just as lush, just as beautiful as they are on your charcoal sketch. As they are in your memories. God, his neck, his fucking neck –

He catches you staring and grins bashfully. “Sorry, what you said reminded me of that scene in Fleabag. When she confesses to the tax guy.”

You swallow around the knot in your throat, nodding your only possible action. And then he turns and you feel your knees buckle.

“Did you paint because of me?” The brown in his eyes is soft, overwhelming. Seizes you and nails you to the floor. The noise that would leave your mouth if you open it would come directly from your heart.

The gallery is quiet, empty. Silent as a church.

But then he steps back, resetting the distance between you. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that. I’m crossing a line here and –,”

“Yes.” It’s gentle, quiet, your admission. Your confession. “Yes. You said you picked it up in rehab and I . . . I don’t know. I guess I wanted to see if it helped me too.”

He worries his lip, his hands fidgeting in his pocket. “And did it help? Painting?”

You huff and cross your arms as you stare up at the art you made with so much unhinged rage and painful love pouring out of you. You had been sure your tears were going to ruin the paint.

“Yeah. It did. Unfortunately, your fucked up matched my fucked up in absolutely every way possible.” His nose flares as he stares at the ground. It hurts him still, after all these years. You inhale, the smell of the space calming your nerves, Dieter’s cologne a heady undertone. Trembling barely visible, you reach forward and take his hand. It’s warm and heavy and you try to find a memory where it was gentle against your face, but it doesn’t come. Your brain longs for new memories of him, hungry, desperate after surviving on scraps. He stops breathing regularly as you intertwine your fingers. “For what it’s worth, Dieter . . . it was nice not to feel so alone.”

The noise he makes is quiet, almost imperceptible. Could have been a deep breath, a groan, a sigh. But it is something much more vulnerable, much more punctured than that.

You hold him a bit longer before letting him go.

“I don’t get it,” he mutters quietly, staring at your wrist. “I don’t get why you aren’t fucking furious with me.”

“I was,” you confirm. “For a long time, I was. I hated you, Dieter. But I can’t be mad at you without being mad at myself and I’ve learned to forgive both.”

He closes his eyes briefly, lashes thick as they obscure that beautiful brown. “I could have said no. I could have – stopped it, before it became anything.”

“You and I both know that’s not true.”

It's careless, throwing around suggestions about fate and destiny and the thing that binds all living things. Your gaze lifts from his lips to his forehead when he looks back at you.

“You’re right,” he hums. “You were, we were . . . it was an addiction I wasn’t prepared to deal with at the time.”

“Did it get better? Dealing with your . . . addiction.”

You want to think he’s looking at your lips as you face the painting again.

“Nope,” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Had to quit cold turkey. But this one, uh, this one doesn’t come with any nicotine patches.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Those things smell disgusting.”

Something buckles as it crosses his face. He sticks his hands into his pockets again. “Yeah. But I would have preferred it to the alternative.”

New York had made a decision by the time Marie locks up the gallery behind her. The sky is a throbbing purple and thick snowflakes flutter against your eyelashes. The sharp wind had surrendered, winter making its final claim over the city, and it started snowing with confidence, with surety.

White flecks cling to your scarf as ahead of you, Dieter opens the car door for Marie. Desperate to get out of the cold, she practically launches herself across the leather seats, her little body always cold as it is.

“Did you seriously get a driver with this car?” You shake your head at him as you follow Marie. He smirks as he climbs in after you.

“I’m only partially responsible with a credit card now. Besides, New York drivers are so mean and my fragile heart can’t take it.”

It was a simple town car, but with the seats facing inward like a limo. Marie sits with her hands over the air vent in the floor with obvious relief on her face. She cracks an eye open to Dieter as he shuts the door and the car lurches into traffic.

“What do you want?” She scowls begrudgingly.

“What do you mean?”

“You went above and beyond the request for seat warmers. I owe you dessert. What do you want?”

Dieter chuckles, glancing at you as Marie all but curls up against the vent.

“Rain check?”

She hums and closes her eyes, her head lolling against the window. Dieter sits across from you, his feet tucked in between yours, a content smile on his face.

“Thank you,” you murmur quietly. The cold has left a pink blush across his cheeks and it looks wonderful on him. His hands flex by his sides.

“Least I could do.”

The only sound for a while is the rush of air coming out of the vent, the faint honk of a car in the distance. Over Dieter’s shoulder, you watch the slow trickle of snow turn more consistent, flakes turning to chunks. It looks deathly cold out there.

You meet Dieter’s gaze – only because he had been watching you first.

“Do you ever miss warm and sunny California?” you tease quietly, mindful of Marie.

“Sure.” Dieter shrugs and folds up his long leg over his knee. “But I don’t think California misses me.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” You cock your head to the side, watching the snowfall again. “California has a lot of good memories with you.”

“Well, if California ever wants me back, she’ll have to give me a call.”

You laugh. “She’s far too mysterious for that.”

“I’d like to think I know what a lady wants.” His voice is low, rumbling, like the heated vents. You glance at him but he’s already staring out the window.

You unbutton your coat and sit in silence for the rest of the ride.

Shandy’s is, presumably, packed. Hot bodies desperate to get out of the cold stand shoulder to shoulder in the pretend-crab shack. The irony of a beachfront-themed restaurant while outside a blizzard is brewing, is not exactly on anyone’s mind as they cram further in, away from the windows and drafts. The smell of fried fish makes your mouth water and these are the times you miss having an ice-cold glass of beer. With your arm wrapped around a sleepy Marie, Dieter stands on his toes to try and find Andrew and the other cast and crew who showed up. He drops back down, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, saying something to you, but it’s loss in the buzz of the crowd.

“What?” You yell across three feet. He shakes his head and, without warning, takes your hand, diving into the crowd. You have only a second to revel in the warmth of his palm before you have to take an active stance to avoid being elbowed or stepped on. Marie latches on to your arm tighter, one good jostle away from being lost in the sea of people. Dieter ducks and weaves with shocking precision, his wide chest cutting a path for you and Marie behind him. Someone steps back and you stumble into his shoulder.

He glances down at your intertwined hands, as if to make sure you are still there. You can’t quite read what’s in his eyes.

“Nearly there,” he murmurs before diving back into the crowd. Like the parting of the red sea, Dieter manages to pull the three of you through the knot of people and over to where a section of tables and booths had been roped off. Andrew leaps to his feet, his face red and eyes blurry, the instant he sees you.

“You made it! I thought we lost Dieter a while ago!” He embraces each of you, ending with Marie who glares up at him.

“I’m hungry.” A sleepy Marie was one thing. A hangry Marie was a whole other beast entirely.

Andrew chuckles and slings an arm over her shoulder. “I’m pretty sure we ordered everything on the menu twice, so dig in. All goes on the company card.” Marie’s eyes the size of silver dollars as she stumbles towards the feast, Andrew turns back to you. “What about you? Hungry?”

There’s something warm in your palm and it takes you a minute to realize it’s Dieter’s hand. You’re still holding hands – and smooth as ever, Dieter casually lets go as one of the cast members comes to give him a hug.

“You’re good, right?” He says to you, as they break apart. “You can come sit with us if you want.”

By some miracle, you spot someone who looks like Sarah from the back so you shake your head.

“Nah. I think I see my people over there.” And then you do something incredibly stupid: you clap Dieter on the shoulder, like an uncle would pat his neurotic nephew. “If Marie comes looking for me, tell her I’m in the back.”

He glances at your hand on his shoulder and then nods. “Sure. Uh, have fun?”

You are sweating beneath your woolen coat from the body heat of a hundred drunk idiots and now you can actually feel it on your hairline.

“Yeah. You too.”

You spin on your heel in the direction of your salvation, internally cringing at your own stupidity. If this girl isn’t Sarah, I am so totally and completely fucked.

The girl was, in fact, Sarah. Liam’s there too and a few of the other NYU interns. The art director sits in a booth nearby, talking to a couple of the students, so you don’t entirely feel like a lecherous weirdo hanging out with a bunch of nineteen year olds.

Many of them come up to you, offering to buy you a drink as a premature celebration for opening night, which is only just a week away. But you merely ask for water, or a coke. They obliged, curious, but respectful, staying for a while to chat until the ice in their glasses melts and they’re off for a refill.

In the early days of your partnership with her, Carla told you that addictions are formed out of habits: you turn to drugs or alcohol every time because you have no other tools with which to self-regulate. That you quite literally fill the silences by drinking because the alternative is unbearable.

So, you count it as a small personal, private win that you can lean against a railing, quiet, and watch the crowds of people without ever feeling like you need a drop to top it off.

But . . . there is a want. A missing of something no longer there. You toss back the ice to crack it between your molars before it melts.

“Hey there, stranger!” Dieter bounces up the few steps to the small alcove you’ve propped yourself up in. His cheeks are flush and his hairline is wet. That gorgeous jacket is nowhere to be seen. He shoulders up next to you and you are consumed with his radiating body heat.

A delighted scream goes up from the crowd as the opening chords of Sweet Caroline begin and the walls vibrate with a triumphant “bum bum bum.”

“Someone’s having a good time,” you practically shout over the bad and off-key singing, eying him up and he chuckles, swirling around the brown, bubbly liquid in his cup.

“Some of the kids wanted to go dancing,” he yells back, “and bet I couldn’t floss or whatever, so sue me if I’m a little sweaty.”

He drops his head and rubs his sweaty forehead against your shoulder.

“Ew! Dieter – get off!” You giggle and shove him away from you. Hekers as he stumbles against the railing. He sniffs his shirt.

“Blegh – I think I can already smell myself.”

Sobering, you watch him as he presses the cool cup against his forehead. He catches you watching.

“What?” He asks and pushes the sweaty ends of his hair out of his face.

You turn your head to his ear so you don’t have to screech over Neil Diamond’s most famous song for white people. “You look . . .” You can’t really find the right words now, opting for staring at a freckle on his neck until they come to you. “You look happy, I guess.”

The rapturous smile curled around his lips fades, his eyes caught on the melting ice in his cup. This close, your shoulders touch and he curls around you, like he’s got a secret. You’ve learned a thing or two from your therapist so you wait until he’s ready.

The crowd is insatiable, screaming and howling as the final chords play, and another plucky song starts up.

“Once upon a time, these kinda things were a struggle for me.” He nods to the crowd, the bar, the alcohol. “Either I’d get black out drunk and wake up next to my PA or a stripper named Candy. And then, when you met me, I was straddling sobriety and my failing marriage.” Another party, a hotel, a blue sparkling pool. Wanting nothing more to push him back into his room and unbuckle his pants on top of his linen bedsheets. Dieter drops his head away, his forearm tense against yours. He thumbs the edge of his cup, preparing it for his admission. “And then . . . I was going out of my mind trying not to think about you.”

You can’t admonish him. You already know this, how you had been the image in his mind he pictured when he fucked his fist, long before viewing party at the director’s house. But it feels new, fresh, like he’s confessing all over again. Like the feeling persists.

“Dieter, I . . .”

His mouth is soft, beard wet, neck sticky with sweat, but his eyes burn you. Threaten to singe the skin from your bones.

“Old habits die hard, I think.”

His thumb presses against your wrist, his big hand covering yours against the wooden bar, pinning you – you can’t move forward or pull away. The heat of his chest throbs against your stuttering ribcage, the fingertips of his other hand twitching against yours at your side, seeking out your knuckles and then jerking away. His inhale draws your chin up to his, you’re so close you can see every memory etched in the lines around his eyes, his pulsating skin above the vein in his neck – the way his lips part when you meet his gaze. He murmurs your name and the ghost of his kiss swoops down your spine, choking your lungs, robbing you of air. Heavy lashes soft against his cheeks, he breathes, gives you whatever is left inside of him and you swallow it down, inches from his mouth.

Here you come again

Just when I'm about to make it work without you

You look into my eyes and light those dreamy eyes

And pretty soon I'm wondering how I came to doubt you

In the lofty silence between you, the Dolly Parton lyrics are audible, the crowd decidedly less familiar with the words. The bubble of sound surrounding you, enclosing you and him, breaks, the casual hum of a bar returning, and the outside world suddenly exists again.

He blinks at you as neither of you can ignore the song any more.

Here you come again

Looking better than a body has a right to

And shaking me up so, that all I really know

Is here you come again, and here I go

“Smoke?” You squeak.

He nods quickly, pushing you gently on your low back. “We gotta get the fuck outta here before they play Jolene.”

It’s nearing 1AM when Marie finally stumbles out of Shandy’s, drunk and warm and full of french fries.

“‘Hn don’ even ca-are I’m over thirty n’ drunk as hell.” She mutters into your shoulder. Heavy virgin snow sits heavy on the ground, only a few imprints of shoes left behind. You hold her close, worried about her stumbling and yanking you both to the ground. Dieter has gone ahead to flag the car down.

“You say that now but wait until the hangover, sweetie,” you laugh and she squeezes you.

“Hmm, you’re maybe right.”

Bold headlights flash on the street ahead as the town car pulls up against the curb. Dieter jogs up, leaving the car door open behind him.

“Gimme Drunky Pants.” You help him hold Marie up right before he bends, scooping her up by her knees and cradling her to his chest.

“Dieter, be careful,” you frown. “It’s fresh snow. You could slip.”

Marie lifts her head, her arms looped around his neck, squinting. “Am I Drunky Pants?”

“Yeah, Drunky Pants,” Dieter chuckles as he leads you to the car. “It’s a good thing you weigh about a buck fifty soaking wet.”

“Hey, pal, ‘m at least two dollars.” She holds up three fingers. She tries to find you over his shoulder. “Natalie, call my lawy’r, they’re takin’ me to jail.”

You brush her wet hair out off her forehead just outside the door. “I’ve got bail money, don’t worry about it.”

Dieter snorts and climbs to the car, minding Marie’s head as it goes limp on her neck. He eases her onto one of the seats as her eyes flutter open and shut.

“ ‘re such a good friend, Nat-il-ee. I h’ve bail money for you too.”

You shut the door after them and Dieter raps the glass, indicating to the driver to go on. He sits back down as Marie’s hand touches his knee.

“ ‘r we friends, Die’er? We’re frien’s right?”

You bite your lip, trying to keep from ruining what could be a very sweet moment, as Dieter pats her hand.

“Yeah, Drunky, we’re friends.”

“I’m not Drunky, you’re Drunky . . . wait, no, guess y’re not.” With a sigh, Marie rolls over and faces the plush seat. “Good night.”

Dieter meets your eyes across the car, your teeth tight against your lips, and he shakes his head, grinning like a mad man. Don’t ruin it for her.

You nod, snorting down a giggle. You take out your phone and snap one picture. Just for memorabilia.

DECEMBER

The morning of Opening Night

The concrete floor is cold even through your thick socks and hard-bottom slippers. The low window is shut and has been locked for weeks now, but the icy air managed to sneak in anyway. A woolen shawl around your shivering shoulders, you shuffle towards the stack of shelves at the back corner of your basement. Your pottery wheel sits clean and unused, the prospect of either hauling it up to the kitchen or freezing your ass off down here equally unappealing.

You store things down here that are either seasonal, like decorations and bug spray, or things that are too big to fit somewhere upstairs. Or, in the case of what you’re looking for, things that weigh too much.

It’s on the bottom shelf in the back, like it always is. You realize now that you’ve unintentionally stored it in a place of shame or embarrassment, a dirty secret you can only look at when it’s cold and all the lights are off. But that’s not how you feel about it. You slide it off its shelf, the only thing here that isn’t covered in a layer of grime that accumulates over items in basements. The buckles are cold under your hands and you feel like you should apologize. So you do. Silently, you make a promise that it’ll no longer live in the basement, that under the bed, easier to reach, might be a better home for it.

After all, you think, after tonight, you might want to show it to him.

Breathing out puffs of white air, you tighten your shawl over your shoulders and make the slow climb back up to the warmth.

Opening Night - Premiere of Homeward with You directed by Andrew Young

You puff out your cheeks, air rushing out between your lips painted the color of pomegranate, deflating entirely, as you swish the emerald green folds of your dress back and forth in the mirror. At the store, you loved it immediately and Marie audibly squealed, repeating that on the point of death, you had to promise to buy this dress for the premiere.

Now, you think it fits awkwardly, the waist too tight and the loose shoulders unable to settle right. The high collar around your neck threatened to choke you out, your overheated skin uncomfortably itchy beneath the wool.

This is stupid. I look ridiculous. I’m changing immediately –

“If you try to take that off, I’m tackling you to the ground.”

Marie shakes her head as she slips silver studs into her ear, her own black dress stunningly elegant yet remarkably simple. Her short hair is coiffed, tucking around her ear in a way that would make any flapper girl sick with envy.

“But it doesn’t look right,” you whine. “I look like an asparagus!”

She rolls her eyes and picks your earrings up from your vanity, your gold necklace looped between her fingers. Her smooth brow is furrowed as she gently slips your earrings on, softly plugging the backs. She is quiet, contemplative.

“Did I ever tell you I wanted to be you when I grew up?” She asks quietly.

You frown at her in the mirror as she goes to put on the other earring. “That’s ridiculous. You of all people know what a complete nightmare my life has been.”

“Yeah, but you’re still here, aren’t you?” She unhooks the chain of your necklace. “You are without a doubt the most tenacious person I’ve ever met. You’re brave and funny and smart. Everything I ever wanted in a big sister.”

The sharp flush of tears in your eyes threatens to smear your mascara and you catch her arm as it rests against your shoulder to clasp your necklace together. She stills and you look her in the eye.

“You’re my best friend, you know that?” You ask her, your voice tight.

She puts her arms around you, her head on your shoulder, her heels adding that extra height, and you watch each other in the mirror.

“Of course, I know that. I just want you to be happy.” Her tone changes and you can’t find her meaning in her eyes.

“I am happy,” you say, firmly. “I’m happy with this life we built.”

She kisses your temple. “No, you’re not. But you could be.”

The falling snow flickers and sparkles in the bright lights of the theater, the sidewalks clear for now. As the car approaches, through the window you read the name of the production up on the marquee in giant bold letters, his name just below it. Your stomach tightens.

The tires squeak and you climb out of the cab, Marie just behind you. No one greets you and there are no flashing camera lights. There are a few journalists, trade reporters, critics but they stand around, relaxed, smoking or talking amongst themselves. It’s a relatively quiet affair, not uncommon for productions of this size. You feel the brief press of disappointment before boxing it away.

The lobby is warm, with bordeaux floors and wooden paneled walls. An ancient staircase spills out to greet its guests, rich, shining banisters peering down from the second floor. A smiling suit-and-bowtie bartender waits by the coat check-in desk, converted from the old ticket sales corner used during the theater’s glory days. Marie offers to take your coat as your phone starts to ring.

Fighting between your coat and getting your phone, you answer it without checking the caller.

“Hello?”

“Hey there.” Dieter.

Your mouth dries and you glance at Marie chatting with the coat check-in girl. Quietly, you make your way over behind the grand staircase, a little out of sight.

“Dieter, shouldn’t you be getting ready?”

“I can do both. Talk to you and put on this eyeliner that makes me cry.” You fight a smile, your hand holding your elbow, shoulders hunching towards the sound of his voice. “It’s okay, you can laugh. It was funny. I’m funny.”

“Dieter, did you call for a reason?” You know he can’t physically see you roll your eyes, but he’s deserving of it anyway.

“Yeah. Um, well, actually I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

“Of course. What do you need?”

“If you’re in the lobby, can you look over by the old phone booths?” Annoyingly vague occasionally, but cryptic, Dieter is not. You peer around the wall, your gaze running across the lobby. Sure enough, by one of the other theater entrances sits five old wooden phone booths. Only a few still hold the rotary boxes, but in one on the end sits a small woman with white hair. “Do you see a lady there in a silver dress in one of them?”

“Yeah, I do. Who is she, Dieter?”

With an exasperated chuckle, he says, “okay, this you can’t laugh at. She’s my therapist.”

“What?”

“Okay, ex-therapist. I met her in rehab and I stuck with her after I got out. But then about five years ago she retired and she referred me to someone else. We kept in touch and became really good friends. I flew her out here to see my play and I was wondering . . . if you could keep her company.”

Your mouth dropped further and further open. “Dieter, I . . . I don’t know . . .”

“She doesn’t bite,” he laughs. “And don’t worry, she only knows only most of the details of our sex life.”

“DIETER!”

“I’m kidding – I’m kidding!” You can picture him hunched over on the chair in the dressing room, laughing himself silly. He sighs, giggles subsiding. “Okay, look, she knows you who are, but I don’t talk about that stuff with her anymore.” His voice drops, quiet and boyish. “Besides, she’s kind of the closest thing I have to family and I don’t trust anyone else with her but you.”

You can almost feel his breath across your jaw, his hushed reverence.

“You still there?”

“Yeah, Dee, I’m still here.” You scratch your eyebrow with your nail. “Of course, I’ll keep an eye on her. What’s her name?”

“Beatrice, but I just call her Bea.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Bea and Dee?”

“I’m just cute like that.” You laugh with him this time. There’s a part of you that wishes you could have seen him before the premiere, given him what you want, but you worry it might have messed with his head. “Thank you. It means a lot to me.” He sounds so sincere. “I’ve gotta go, but –,”

“Dieter, wait.” Phone clutched tight to your ear, you go deeper into the bowels of the theater, by the door that leads to the cabaret stage. “I, um, I have something to show you later. Nothing serious – and it doesn’t even have to be tonight but I’d like to steal you away for just a bit.” You smirk, trying to get some even footing underneath you, but his silence dries your mouth out. “I-i-if that’s alr–,”

“Say when and where and I’m there.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“A-alright. Then, uh, break a leg.”

He chuckles, right down your neck. “Thanks, Nat. Oh and if I don’t see you until afterwards, you look really nice.”

You swallow around a dry knot of wool in the back of your throat. “Is this where I’m supposed to say, ‘you can’t see me’ and you say, ‘I just know’?”

“You’ve got me all figured out. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Bye, Dieter.”

You close your eyes, thumb shaking as you tap the red button on your phone. Every breath catches on the knots of your spine, of the curve of your ribs, as it goes down, hollow, sucked down, only to emerge shredded and weak.

The memory of what had nearly happened the night of the party at Shandy’s, it’s sunk into the crevices of your brain, under the skin behind your forehead, weighing your brow down day by day. It’s there, but you don’t see it. You don’t look. Like a beast in the jungle, you don’t make eye contact, hoping it will pass you by.

Hearing his voice over the phone, teasing you, you swear you hear it growl.

Look up, look up, look up

Look at me

Slipping your phone back in your purse, you straighten your shoulders and march for the old phone booth.

Bea is probably about sixty years old, maybe closer to seventy. Silver hair tucked back in a low bun that makes her dress shine, short unpainted nails press a ratty paperback book into her lap. She adjusts a navel blue sheer shawl around her mache-thin skin when you gently tap the window, smiling. She blinks up at you with the biggest blue eyes you’ve ever seen on a living human being.

What it says about you and Dieter that your therapists could not be more different, is a question you’ll bring up to Carla later on.

You gently push back the accordion door and wave.

“Hi. I’m –,”

“Oh, I know exactly who you are,” she says softly, her smile coy. She bookmarks her page and closes the book – The Jungle by Upton Sinclair – before standing up. Not wanting to offend her, you don’t reach for her unless she seems unsteady, but her walk is confident, if not slow as she exits the phonebooth. “Dieter said a friend of his would come get me.”

Yes, but do you know which friend? Those thin lips swirl up to the corner of her mouth, her eyes playful. “You really are as pretty as he said you were.” Quickly, she adjusts her shawl and offers out her small hand. “Lovely to meet you, dear.”

Mischievous. Like those little elves or sprites. Instantly, you see what Dieter likes about her. You offer her your arm.

“Lovely to meet you too, but I get the feeling you know much more about me than I know about you.”

She pats your arm, that dizzy (fake) bleary old lady glaze going over her eyes. “I don’t know what gave you that impression.”

Above you, the lights flicker and a thrilled anticipation hums from the lobby, those still left eagerly moving to take their seats

“Oh, I’m so excited,” Bea squeals against you.

“You’ve never been to Dieter’s plays before?” You wait until the flow of people lessens, not risking an elbow or an errant shoe.

“He doesn’t let me!” She grouches. “Only recently has he let me see some of his movies. But he picks them out and we have to watch them together. Honestly, that man is such a goof!”

Her blue eyes watching people go by, she doesn’t see you chew your tongue. The man he lets Bea see is so wildly different from the one you knew, or the one you’ve gotten to know the past few months. The idea of just sitting down on the couch with Dieter to watch a movie was once, well, impossible. Now it didn’t seem . . . right. You try to picture this Dieter, this long-haired, relaxed, sober Dieter in a dark room, feet under your covers, laughing – laughter comes so easily to him now – and you couldn’t. Your brain shut the doors and turned off the light. No, no one’s home.

No one’s there.

“He’s a doctor in this one,” you say by way of filling the silence. “Did he tell you that?”

Bea peers up at you, her silver eyebrows arching. “No. He said he wanted it to be a surprise.”

“He’s a small town doctor, in a town on the verge of collapse in the thirties. He’s caught between being responsible for his brother’s kid, who has been drafted just before he’s set to get married, and getting out of the town himself.”

“Ooh, his dramatic roles are so good!” Bea squeals again, squeezing your arm excitedly. You wonder if this is what she does to Dieter’s arm when they watch his movies. The crowd thins, so you lead her down the steps, to the front row that Andrew roped off for special guests. The theater is small, intimate, not space for more than fifty people, but the red velvet seats have been kept in immaculate condition, the Roman-inspired paintings on the ceiling and golden-dusted ceilings kept fresh in gloss and shine. It’s, for lack of a better word, cozy.

Marie is already there with a playbill and her smile fades when she sees you with an old woman on your arm. You shake your head, I’ll tell you later, and help her sit before taking your seat next to Marie.

“Do you miss it?” Bea asks quietly, her eyes on the stage, as the room fades to black.

“Miss what?”

“Acting.” If you were dancing, you would have just tripped. “With him?” And now you’re on your ass, wondering what the hell just happened.

You swallow, those blue eyes so bright and earnest. “Um. Sometimes.”

Bea sighs, rolls her eyes, and pats your hand. “He misses it. Even if he’ll never say anything.”

You don’t ask her to elaborate, because you don’t want to know.

He’s good. They all are.

There is a natural chemistry reflected between the cast that is often so hard to find. The subject matter, the sets, the expertly designed costumes – there is a sense of grounded realism. As Andrew hoped, the audience peers into the lives of a people strapped on a path of destruction. They fall apart as their town does around them. They get in their own way. They sabotage their own happiness again and again out of fear or frustration. Every character is fully realized to the point of anguish, of emotional damage because how could they not see it? How could they possibly continue to live their lives like this? How long do they believe they should suffer?

And beyond this swirling chaos of painfully human failure are the mobile walls you designed. They evolve, transform under expertly placed light, shadows increasing or decreasing depending on a blue or red light. The old Greek plays had The Chorus, omniscient watchers that took pity on the tragedy but were unable to stop it. Andrew’s play had your designs; silent, overbearing smears of sadness or grief or joy just out of reach. In such a grounded play, the walls added a sense of vivid delusion, waking madness, providing a razor’s edge of tension to every scene.

Dieter’s character is morally flawed. Tired and run down by this world that’s given him nothing, no hope; stealing from his patients when he conducts housecalls to pay for this “escape” that never comes. At first he has no interest in saving the skin of his nephew, not willing to risk imprisonment over a fake diagnosis, but he, like the audience, is forced to bear silent witness to the genuine, deep, honest love between his brother’s son and his sweetheart, played by Emily.

They sit at a kitchen table, the set painted a light green, the wood chipped and window glass cracked above the grimy sink. The night before he is meant to be drafted, Dieter’s doctor in the corner trying desperately to appear unaffected as his nephew goes through his will to his sweetheart and his uncle, so that in case of the inevitable, they know what his final wishes are.

The boy is choked up, nervous, reading through every word with an agonized sob. His hands that hold Emily’s are shaking, as silent tears stream down her face.

And then in a truly beautiful stroke of theater production, the boy pauses, and a recorded voiceover of him continues to read the will. But he stands, Emily and Dieter frozen in time behind him, and gently kisses Emily on the forehead, his eyes shut and face wet. He lets go, and turns to the audience.

The voice over fades to a low hum as he stands at the center of the stage. The boy is mere feet from you. He watches Emily over his shoulder.

“There are things I want to say to you, but I can’t. I think you already know them, but saying it out loud would only make things worse, not better. I would be saying them to be selfish, to unburden my own soul, by weighing down yours. But you know, right? You touch me and suddenly I feel a little less war torn. I'm not sure what peace is supposed to feel like but I think it may feel a lot like you.” He goes to her, still frozen, still curled up on the table, her eyes seeing nothing. He strokes her cheek, getting on his knees to look into her visionless eyes. “I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I see you everyday. I will love you as we find ourselves farther and farther from one another, where once we were so close. I will love you until your face is fogged by distant memory. I will love you no matter where you go and who you see, I will love you if you don’t marry me. I will love you if you marry someone else and I will love you if you never marry at all, and spend your years wishing you had married me after all. That is how I will love you even as the world goes on its wicked way.”

He drops his head onto her hands. The reading of the will ends and the lights hold, just a bit longer on the doomed couple.

“Are you okay?” Bea whispers, touching your arm and dropping back into your own body, you stare forcefully at your lap, begging the tears to stay back.

A cold sweat breaks out across your forehead, down the skin on your back, sucking your dress’s zipper to your spine. The blood in your ears roars, thunderous and loud, and you know you’re breathing unevenly, but you can’t help it.

You nod, wishing she would look away.

You feel green, feel pale, like something is molding inside of you, sickly blue sprouting around your spine and into your stomach. A sickness, an illness, lying dormant for years.

It’s still there, you understand that now.

The beast in the jungle, you meet it straight on, knowing the truth of it from the very beginning. But to what end – where would the self-inflicted circle of missed opportunities and failure finally end?

To unburden my soul, by weighing down yours.

The lobby is loud, dozens of voices overlapping each other in an excited chatter, the crowd . You bring Bea to one of the long, low benches near the twin sets of double doors at the entrance, careful to take her out of the rush of the crowd.

She groans as she sits down and eases her feet out of her silver flats.

“I do not miss the days of heels,” she says with a sigh, rolling her ankles around. “But is it too much to ask that they make nice shoes that don’t chew up your feet?”

“My mother used to say that was the price you pay for being a woman.” You sit down next to her, watching Marie chat with the art director across the room. “It’s not supposed to feel good, she said.”

Bea shrugs. “I suppose that’s true, but seems like a terrible way to look at life. A cycle of reward and punishment.”

You grin wryly at her. “My mother was a pessimist.”

“And you?” She leans back, her thin hands on her lap. “Are you a pessimist or an optimist?”

“I’m trying to break the cycle of reward and punishment.” Your eyes unconsciously fall to the door to the theater. “But old habits die hard, I guess.”

An excited roar sparks from across the room, the crowd surging towards the double doors. You see Emily’s shining blonde hair between shoulders, her bright smile. You can’t see him, but he’s there, you know it. So you sit back with Bea, matching her easy position.

“I know my old bones couldn’t fight off that crowd,” she nudges you with her elbow. “But you should go.”

A flash of the curve of his chin, the sharp angle of his nose, the endless brown of his eyes.

One way or another, it will be over soon. There is a sense of peace with that, whatever the outcome.

You shrug. “I’m just fine right here.”

So you sit, with your ex’s former therapist and closest thing he has to family because his are all gone, or they hate him. You ask her about Upton Sinclair, and she asks you about what you do, and you tell her about the gallery. The two of you could have been sitting on a bench in Central Park, for all the hurry you take, exchanging questions and answers.

Reporters ask for his picture, vloggers using their livestream to ask him about the role. You and Bea watch him, never talking about him, but never looking away either.

He’s handsome. He always is. Hair slicked back, eyes still ringing with black. He smiles and performs and you wonder if he’s a good enough actor to pretend to want to almost kiss you. His suit jacket is a deep red, almost purple, a perfect color for a December premiere. He turns, leaning into a photo with a few of his castmates and you see it – a flicker of dark green on his lapel. A glass leaf, the same color as your dress.

You fight to hide your blush, your assumptions really and truly getting out of hand, and you ask Bea about where she’s from. Eventually, Marie comes and joins you two, and her eyebrows jump only slightly when you tell her Bea’s connection to Dieter.

The congregated crowd of media and fans alike eventually subsides, leaving just friends and family. Andrew finally comes out and an applause goes up. He’s pink and his eyes are a little bleary and you think he might have started celebrating a bit early. Toby holds his hand and he leans into it, smiling like a fool.

You hear a buzz about an afterparty through excited grins and one-armed hugs, the news met with nods or groans. The last stragglers linger, wandering out into the cold or into waiting cars. The lobby is flushed with cold air every time the double doors swing open. Marie has gone to pick up your coats, including Bea’s, her wrap doing nothing for warmth, and you lean your head back against the wall.

You’ve been rehearsing something in your head since this morning, a final script, the end to the scene. Nothing fits quite right and you wish you’d written it down, but that risked someone finding your batherings. Maybe you’ll journal later, to get down everything in your head, everything you can’t say or don’t know how.

The crowd thins, and a few more flashes go off, and then he’s coming towards you, arms outstretched.

“Bea!”

The old woman wrestles to her feet with a speed you hadn’t witnessed all night and Dieter envelopes her in his arms. Without context, the image is sweet, domestic: a boy and his mother.

Then she steps back and messes up his perfectly combed hair. “There – that’s the Dieter I know.”

You swear he blushes.

“I have had a lovely evening with your friends!” Bea says, holding his hand and giving you and Marie warm smiles.

Marie out of the blue rushes forward and nearly tackles him to the ground. “You were so good, Dieter!”

His eyes widen before his arms come around her waist, squeezing her so tight he lifts her off the ground.

“Mhmm! Thank you! Thank you for coming. And now I promise to return your business partner to you. No more painting backdrops until midnight.”

She slips off him, as his eyes drop to you, the warmth there softer than the velvet chairs. He reaches for you and all of existence narrows to his palm. You take it and he pulls you into his chest.

He smells like your old Dieter. That layered musk of charcoal and vanilla, of sweet tobacco and sweat. Of course, he wears cologne, expensive and rich, but you turn your nose to his neck and inhale – it’s still there. Somewhere. His hands fall to your hips, your low back, then they’re sliding up your dress, cupping your ribcage against his. You pull him tighter to you, the scruff of his beard rough against your cheek as you breathe each other in. It happened accidentally, but this is the hug you should have given him all those months ago – one that allows for joy, for remembrance, for an ease that only comes after two people have learned the other intimately, where so much of one exists within the other, their own hearts cannot decide where one ends and the other begins.

He presses his warm hand against your shoulder, tucking you farther and farther in, as the other hand spans across your entire back, his face burrowed in your neck. You feel him sigh, at ease, his ribs expanding into yours and you fight back the sharp swell of the sob caught in your throat. You had no idea what it meant to be held until this moment.

You don’t want to let him go. You don’t think you can.

But the double doors sweep open, drafting in the cool air and stronger, prevailing thoughts. Your chin trembles at the strength it takes to keep from pressing your lips against his cheek as you set your weight back on your heels, his hands resisting your release until the very last moment. He doesn’t let you fall or drop you; he eases you back down, away. But his hands are shaking and he steadies them around your elbows and you take his because you think your knees will buckle if you don’t keep touching him. His mouth makes a wet noise, his eyes on the ground, feet shuffling back. He holds you as though the room is spinning.

“Um, Dieter,” Marie’s voice comes in from far away as you fight the urge to bury your body up under his chest, to lift him up with every ounce of strength you possess. “There’s an afterparty . . .”

“But I’d rather like to go home first, darling. If that’s alright,” Bea says. “Dieter?”

You watch his throat convulse and he stands up right. He lets go of you entirely.

“Sorry,” he swallows, resolutely not looking at you, “just got a little lightheaded. Haven’t eaten much today. Bea, can I call you a cab?”

“Do you want to go to the party?” Marie asks you as Dieter guides Bea over to the front desk. “Andrew’s invited us.”

You shake your head, watching them go. It has to end tonight. It has to.

“I . . . can’t. There’s something I need to talk to Dieter about.” You tear your eyes away to her concerned face. “Shouldn’t be long, but after that I’m gonna go to bed. I’m exhausted after four months of this.”

She nods like she knows it's been much longer than that. She hugs you, pulls you in tight, her mouth tucked in by your ear and says, “don’t take this the wrong way, love, but you were never going to be just friends.”

You don’t make eye contact with her when she pulls away.

Ten minutes later, Bea and Marie have decided to share a cab, Bea’s hotel on the way to Marie’s apartment. You and Dieter stand on the curb, waving to them as they go. The snow is coming on thick now. A few catch on his lashes as he turns to look at you.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the party?” You ask.

He shakes his head. “There’ll be others. What did you want to show me?”

Age has done nothing to rob him of his beauty. You think you hope it hasn’t robbed him of anything else.

The creaky door of your brownstone greets you as you lead him inside, cheeks blushed pink from the cold, fingertips slightly numb, the metal keys in your hand bitterly chilled. You fumble for a few lights, cursing yourself that you left your home in total darkness hours earlier. The warm overhead lights awaken your living room, then the dining room across the hall. You’re grumbling to yourself and completely oblivious to Dieter’s open-mouthed stare. You’re leaning against the wall, fighting with your heel as he walks into your aubergine-colored living room with the plush gray couches and wall-to-wall bookshelves.

“I want to look at every single one of these,” he says softly, fingers curled around your chenille throw blanket on the back of the sofa. “Have I read any of them?”

“If your reading tastes are anything like Bea’s, then probably,” you grin at him as you finally slip out of your heels. You fight the urge to groan, your feet flat against the hardwood, sensation finally returning to your toes, but you do sigh. The noise brings his attention to you and he smiles.

“You do look beautiful.”

Your toes visibly curl and you feel the smile slide off your face. You nod over your shoulder.

“C’mon. It’s in here.”

He follows you through the other open-archway rooms to the kitchen, where the box from your basement sits on the counter. It’s gray, unassuming, with little buckles as adornments on the corners. Something about it feels weathered, hard won, as if it had been shipped across the ancient sea by long-dead ancestors.

The lights are low here, hovering low on the dimmer switch. You always thought kitchens should be relaxing, comforting, so you rarely brighten the room unless you have to. Behind you, Dieter unbuttons his jacket as you grip the lid.

“Now, you can’t laugh,” you say, a playful curl to your lips. He mimes an ‘x’ over his heart.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I’ve had these for a while, collecting them as I came across them. At first, it seemed almost morbid, but – I don’t know – I took comfort in them. As time went on, it helped me remember that everything that happened back then, actually happened and wasn’t just some insane LSD trip.” You thumb a corner. “At least it wasn’t for me.”

His brow deepens as you take off the lid.

He blinks a few times, trying to understand what he’s looking at. You wait, sit down on a black stool, watching.

Newspaper clippings. Magazine articles. Online articles printed and cut out.

He takes a few out, his fingers running over the corners where yours have gone a dozen times.

“Are these . . .”

“They’re all about Recovery Road. Speculation pieces on why it should win an Oscar, or several, even before it premiered. First reviews and public, consumer reviews. Trades on Heidi’s directing career, the cinematographers, the music for the film.” Your bare toes could brush his shoes if you swung your leg forward just an inch. “Opinion pieces on my career . . . and yours.” The knot in his throat moves as he flips through, going back ten years to the first articles. You watch his masculine hand, thick veins and weighty palm. “I know we didn’t make Oscar night, Dieter, and I don’t know if you ever stopped to celebrate. I know I didn’t, even years later. So this became my little celebration and in light of your success tonight, I thought you might like to celebrate with me.”

He spreads a few out on the counter, the strange shapes of cut-out articles like lost puzzle pieces. His mouth is a straight line, those thick eyebrows drawn down, jaw set tight.

“That night was the worst night of my life, Natalie. I don’t know why you want to remember it.”

His voice is rough, cutting, comes from a place at the back of his chest. Your heart sinks.

You’ve gotten it all wrong.

“Oh. Oh, I . . . I’m sorry. I thought . . . well, actually I don’t know what I thought. I’m sorry.” You shake your head, dispelling any lingering illusions you may have, and brush together the articles he laid out, jumping to your feet. “This was a stupid idea. I can’t believe I thought this would be fun. I took you away from your afterparty to show you this ridiculous –,”

His big hand loops around your wrist and you freeze, the warmth of his palm exploding up your arm and into your cheeks. Dieter looks at you with a weight so profound you feel as though you could plunge through the floorboards.

“I lied to you.” He says gruffly. “Ten fucking minutes into seeing you again and I lied.” He works his jaw as his hand slides up to your forearm, then your elbow where it notches over the bend in your arm. “I know I said I thought we’d be better off if we never saw each other again, but that’s not true. Every day until you were released from that hospital, I begged Heidi for any news. On your health. On your withdrawals. On if you got out of the fucking bed that day. And then after you got out and into rehab, I asked Heidi to check in on you. But I knew it had to fucking stop. I had to fucking stop wanting things to be different because I didn’t think they could be. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Your bottom lip trembles. “And now? Now, do you think things could be different?”

The lines around his eyes tighten as he straightens up. But he still holds your arm like it's the last life raft in a cold black ocean. He turns his head, an imperceptible tilt.

“I don’t know. I really don’t. Do you want it to be?”

“Dieter,” you cry out, out of breath before you open your mouth, air held captive in your chest. You’re crying and you don’t mean to be. You sway as you violently shake your head and he grabs your other elbow. You reach forward and steady yourself with both hands on his biceps. There’s no way you can say this with your eyes open. “Dieter . . . for months now, everyone’s been asking me if I need space from you, or if it’s alright with me to be alone with you. If everything is still too painful to be around you, like I need protecting from you or something. But I – I don’t know how to tell them . . . that’s all I want. I want you. Even after everything, after how fucked up it was, how fucked up we both were, I can’t stop thinking about you.”

It comes out in a rush, words and tears tumbling out of your mouth. You open your wet eyes to his lips parted in surprise, his face soft beneath the weight of your revelation. You inhale, more tears and more courage to say the things you’ve always wanted to say. No paper, no pen, no going back.

“Dieter, I think about that house in Albuquerque all the time. I wake up and I think I can smell you in the kitchen. Or you’ll be out on the patio, painting. I know you and I went our separate ways – and I think that’s what was best for us then – but God, you never went away. You never, ever left.”

You tighten your grip, nails digging into his lovely jacket. Staring at his throat, locked in by memories, you want to drag him to the floor and cry in his arms, the way you should have on that hospital bed.

In the silence, your gaze drifts, down his chest and over to his lapel.

That green leaf pendant. The color of your dress. You thumb it and it’s warm, like his heart sits just behind it.

Unexpectedly, his wide palm rests against your jaw, tilting your head up. Eyes warm and dark like the dying coal in a wood-stove, he brushes your cheek with his thumb. You don’t realize how cold you are until your face is held in his hand.

“I’m gonna fuck it up if I say anything,” he says quietly, to you and you alone, “so I’m just going to do this.”

In an instant, years and years and years of buried fear come screaming into your chest. That single most profound worry you carried with you since he first kissed you the night of the rainstorm – dug it deep, covered with ignorance and a blind eye – it emerges like a seed sprouting into the light when his lips touch yours.

You fold up into him, this fear, this concern pulling you up as he does.

You feared, in all this time and all these years, that the great love of your life, the end-all-be all to romance and adoration, had been nothing more than a misguided, lonely girl giving away parts of her to unworthy holders – drugs, alcohol, addiction, and Dieter fucking Bravo, the first man who taught her there was something special about sex and feelings and not being alone in the darkness.

You break apart from him, trembling in his arms. You’re crying again and you think he might be too, but it’s too blurry and it’s too much.

“Dieter, w-wait–,” you grip his lapels, unwilling to separate his chest from yours, the press of his hips against yours. “W-what if we are wrong? What if I was wrong – what I felt for you, what I feel for you, everything we had – it’s just – a-a mistake. What if what you feel for me, is just more psychosis, more pills we have to swallow to fix it, fix us? F-f-fix me? What if you never really loved me?”

With a groan, he presses an open-mouth kiss to your cheek, the ghost of teeth against the fine hairs on your skin.

“If what I feel for you isn’t love, then I don’t know what it is.” His arms sink across your low back, as if pulling you in as tight as he could make you understand with touch alone, send you his thoughts unfiltered and honest. He kisses the corner of your mouth, wet and frantic, and then your cheek and then again on your mouth. It’s wet and messy and he pulls away, just inches, to say: “I’ve loved you every day of the past ten years. I never stopped loving you. You were the only thing I ever got right.”

A soft cry escapes your mouth, hand on his cheek, as you tug him back into your mouth. Your lips barely part at the touch of his teeth, before he slips into your mouth, tongue massaging yours.Your nails scrape the back of his neck, the curve of his skull, fingers delightedly yanking on his longer, wilder hair. Everywhere he touches you, it’s insistent, determined to make you feel his love. He breathes harshly out of his nose when he palms your ass in his wide hands and you allow yourself to rub up against him, as if you didn’t own every inch of him already.

Even through your dress and his slacks, the heat of your cunt up against his half-hard length is enough to have you both gasping for air. Breathing doesn’t really work right, lungs stuttering, half-aborted gasps through hiccups.

His hand curls around your jaw and he kisses you again. You no longer need to breathe air that hasn’t been recycled by him first.

“I’m so fucking scared,” he murmurs against your lips, half-open eyes searching for hesitation, for rejection.

“Me too.”

You claw at him, and still sucking on your mouth, he rolls your dress up over your knees, up to your hips. His hands on your bare skin for the first time in a decade, he cups the back of your knees, tugging you up onto his chest.

“Where?” He mutters.

“Upstairs. Second door on your right.”

You spend the time it takes to get there familiarizing yourself with every curve of his mouth, the softness on the inside of his cheeks, where along his neck elicits the deepest groan when you use your teeth.

Memories whisper like ghosts – he likes it there, lick here and listen to him, bite, yes, bite – you slip his earlobe between your teeth, nipping just north of gently, and he falters.

“You got this?” You tease, nosing under his jaw, as he makes the landing.

“If this place was blown to bits,” he grumbles as he knees open your bedroom door, “I’d still find a way to fuck you on this mattress.”

Kneeling one leg at a time, he unfolds you on the covers, hands free to roam against your hips, your ass, the backs of your thighs. Your nails scratch through his hair one last time before he sits up.

Your bedroom is dark, blue in the winter, and the only light to see him by comes from down the hallway and over the banister. In the half-light, Dieter glows, a faint bright edge to his hair, his right arm as he slips it out of his jacket, tossing it to the floor. It lands somewhere and you don’t hear it, don’t look, instead watch his fingers unbutton his collar, tugging the starched shirt out of his pants.

Mesmerized, you want to tell him to stop, that you want to do it, but you can’t. You have and always be spell-bound by Dieter Bravo. He gets off his outer shirt and that’s when you realize how hard he’s breathing, the shadows blurring the pink tinge on his skin.

“Dieter, baby,” you worry, reaching for him and he comes, collapsing on his trembling elbows. He kisses you with a wet mouth.

“I can’t believe you’re letting me do this. You’re so fucking beautiful. You look like a fucking angel, on this bed, in this dress and I never thought I’d ever be here with you again.” His chest shakes and you pull him between your legs, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, hand cupping the back of his head. He buries his head in the curve of your neck, grasping at your back with his arms.

You together lie there for a minute, in the silence and comfort that is afforded those nestled in intimacy. He fits, so well, like no one else ever has. Bones touch bones, his space is filled by your joints, his blood warms where you are cold. Disjointed and broken, you slot together in holes made by the other. You stroke his hair and he pulls back. The grin that grows across his face causes tears to spill down the apples of his cheeks.

“You’re a fucking hurricane, baby, and I love you.” He holds your cheek in his palm, softly pressing a kiss to your lips. “Can I take off your tights?”

You nod, swallowing thickly, the anticipation of having his hands on your skin making you twitch.

He kneels away from you and one hand slides up the material of your dress while the other reverently plucks at the tight waistband of your nylons. He tugs gently, then using both hands, knuckles scraping your hips, your thighs. He touches the back of your knee and that fear resurfaces just for a moment.

“Be careful, Dieter,” you gasp. He slows, catching your eyes. “P-please be careful.”

The rest of your nylons come off easily while he nods, his thumbs briefly rubbing the material before they’re tossed to the ground. The night air is suddenly cold, colder than it had been seconds ago and you shiver, your dress around your hips and your cunt nearly exposed.

Dieter crawls forward, settling around between your knees. It’s like he can smell how wet you are. His big palm cups your inner thigh, thumb directing his attention.

“Do you still like to be licked here?”

You nod fervently, almost bashful.

“Has anyone eaten you out in a while?”

Again, your head jerks back and forth in the opposite direction, your hand clutching his knee and the other fisting the sheets.

“Can I?” His stare flickers from your barely visible pussy up to your eyes. He’s all but begging you.

His gaze reawakes your voice. “Yes, Dieter, please – p-please, I need it.”

His tongue wets his lips, eyes half-open, focused, as he pushes your dress up the rest of the way. You part your legs for him and he groans with appreciation.

“Jesus Christ, baby.” He shuffles back, easing onto his knees on the floor, big palms around the hinge of your legs. He tugs you as he goes, until your hips have settled on the edge of the mattress.

His mouth drops open at the shine on your inner thighs and as though too overwhelmed to go straight for the center, he licks as close to your cunt as he can, eager for your taste. His hands on your hips tighten as he groans, inhaling deeply.

“I’m gonna make you feel so fucking good.”

You have half a second to breathe yourself before he licks, flat-tongued, up your cunt and the edges of your vision grow dark.

He picks you apart, slowly, methodically, explorative. He licks like he’s trying to get an ice cream cone to come all over his face.

Dieter tongues one lip, then the other and he has your hips shaking. He digs in, suctioning his mouth to your cunt, and flicks his tongue as far as he can and you twitch. He slurps in spit and slick between his teeth before presenting it back to you on the head of his tongue.

“Oh, fucking god, Dieter –,” you press the heels of your palms into your eyes. “I can’t believe how good –,”

He licks as deep as he can, all the way up, air muffled by your folds, and flat-tongues your clit. Your vision whites out and you scream. But you didn’t come. That wasn’t you coming. Your legs are trembling and Dieter presses his forearm against your lower tummy, eyes scorching and scolding. Stop moving and let me work.

As you relearn him, he rediscovers you. He knows there’s a spot, just around your clit that when sucked, it makes you arch off the bed, but he searches in no hurry, divining every inch of you again. He gets close and you tremble, so he pushes your knee back, opening you up further to slide in two fingers. So much more than anything you could put inside yourself, you roll your hips as much as you can, chasing that touch as his tongue sweeps over you again and again. He taps up against your pelvic bone through your pussy and you moan, loudly, pleasure soaking his fingers, then his palm. His dark eyes watch you from where his mouth works to suck ten years of missed orgasms right out of you.

You want him to fuck you faster, to get you there in a way only he can, brushing places only he can find, only he dares reach. He licks you faster and faster, fingers plunging deeper and twisting, spreading you apart – he adds a third just before entering you again and again and again and then he finds it – that spot on your clit that breaks you apart, that warm gooey center exploding across his tongue.

You come in silence, sparks flickering at the edge of your vision, mouth open, pussy clenching down on him, and only when you feel the vibrations of his moan between your legs, do you remember to breathe, gasping sharply to the high-pitched edge of a whine.

“Dieter,” you pant, voice strained, knees weak as you push against his shoulders. Your clit stings a bit from overstimulation and he relents. He wipes his mouth on your inner thigh, inching up the bed, with your knee over his shoulder, still three fingers deep in you.

“C’mon, honey, you can give me one more like this. I know you can.”

You whimper, never having a single orgasm like that in the last ten years, let alone two. “I don’t – I don’t think I can –,”

“Of course you can.” The wet squelch of his fingers scissoring inside of you proves him right. “I’ve got you, darling, I’ve got you and I’m never letting you fucking go again.”

He licks under your knee, beard still damp with your release, and Dieter does what he does best: he talks.

He promises you filthy, beautiful things.

I wanna be soaked in you. I want you to come so hard, it drips down my arm, wets my chest.

I wanna put my tongue on every inch of your sweat-drenched skin. I wanna taste you. All of you. In you. I wanna make you so full, that when I fuck you, I taste myself.

I want . . . I want . . . I want . . .

“Oh, shit,” he murmurs, your cunt squeezing his fingers so hard they can’t move, and you gush, all the way to his elbow.

You can’t see for a second, the sound of your pounding heart in your ears the only proof you’re still alive. It’s like your body has been storing it all for him, never doing this for anyone else, so you keep coming and coming. Dieter groans, drops his head, and licks up as much as he can, but you feel your own slick slip down your ass and stain your dress. You whine as he slips his fingers out of you.

“Ohmy– oh – oh – oh fuck, Dieter,” you garble. Your entire lower half is numb. You don’t realize you’re shaking until he’s stretched out both of your legs, hand gently massaging your thighs. He licks his palm, his forearm, trying to clean himself up, but never once taking his eyes off you.

“Good, baby?”

You nod, blinking back the sparks of light whirling across your vision. “So good. So, so good.”

“I have a lot to make up for. Where’s the clasp to your dress?”

“In – In the back,” you swallow, hand flopping around to indicate some direction.

“I’m going to turn you around, okay, baby?”

He takes you by the hip, the shoulder, and curls you onto your side. His thumb pressed up against the cup of your skull, warm and grounding, he unzips your dress, the sound loud in the silence. Easing you as he goes, he rolls you until you’re face down on the mattress and he can peel the dress off your shoulders. Somewhere behind you, he makes a noise at the sight of your bare back.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous.” Heat drapes across your back as he leans down and kisses from the back of your neck, down your spine and lingers at the place just above the curve of your ass. He harshly palms your thighs, the meat of your butt, groaning, promising and marking places for his teeth. Your breathing hitches as you slide your dress off your arms. He meets your hands and helps you pull it down the rest of the way, over your knees and off the bed.

You should be cold, shivering, but you aren’t. Not when his hands start over your calves, gripping them soft enough that he can move unhindered, but tight enough it's almost a massage. He goes up the backs of your knees, curves around your thighs, fingers dip into the bones of your hip. The mattress dips as he lays out behind you, over you, fingers tugging you back until there’s enough space for him to slip his hand between you and the mattress, his knee prying your legs apart. He cups you, biting the curve of your ear, and you gasp for him. He plugs you up with two fingers, still so wet he meets no resistance and he growls in your neck.

“There’s this image of you that I swear to god is painted on the backs of my eyelids,” he murmurs, fucking you lazily with his fingers. You fist the sheets, arm shaking to keep yourself tilted enough to give him room. You can feel his hot, thick, solid cock against the back of your thigh, his own body heat enough to make you sweat. He touches a place that makes you gasp and his hips twitch forward. You want more, more heat, more of him, his white undershirt sticking to your back. You want to feel him. You push your hips back and he groans, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “I see it when I wake up and when I go to sleep at night and it used to fucking kill me because that was all I had left of you.” He speeds up, his wrist snapping against your pelvis. “But then – then, it – it gave me comfort, because I got to see you all the time. It wasn’t real and it wasn’t enough but god, it got me through the worst of it.”

You can feel your core tighten, pleasure spiral down and in on itself, a single spark away from exploding, as he goes faster and faster.

“I fucking need you–,” he whines in your ear, chest smothering your back, knuckle rubbing up against your clit.

“Dieter, take off your fucking shirt –,”

You lunge forward, out of his grasp, his fingers dragging wet slick over your hip as you roll away from him. His hands frantically yank his shirt up and over his head as you work the button on his pants, unzipping him in a rush. You’ve barely gotten his pants down over his knees when he grabs you by the elbow, yanking you into his mouth, his lap. Your shared moans coat the inside of your mouths, lips pressed swollen and hot, teeth nipping and pulling. Separating only to breathe, he hauls your knee over his hip, pulling you as close as he can, his cock red and leaking into your stomach.

You roll your hips forward, your soaked cunt clutching around his cock and he sways, breaking apart, to open mouth-groan.

“C-condom?”

“Don’t want one. There hasn’t been anyone but you.”

“Me neither.”

You snake a hand between your heated bodies and pump him once. Again and he whines. A third time and you push him back, flat against the mattress, his body thumping into the pillows. His thumbs press into the curve of your hips, up your waist, fingers slotting between your ribs.

But his eyes are latched onto your nipples.

“And these tits, baby,” he cups the weight of one while thumbing across the raised nipple of the other. You arch your spine, letting him do whatever he wants, while you pump him slowly, and swirl your clit with your other fingers. “Been obsessed with them. Fucking dream about them. Wanna spend a whole day with my mouth on them.”

“Well, I wanna spend a whole day on this cock. Dieter, fuck, your cock is fantastic.” It’s thick and long and you lick a mix of precum and spit into your hand to coat all of him.

“Yeah, you missed my big cock?” Hips bucking inches off the mattress, his eyes fall half-shut, almost black with hunger. “Show me, baby, show me how much you missed me. Fuck yourself on my cock.”

Despite his filthy mouth, his breathing hitches when you go onto your knees, hand holding him beneath you as you adjust to find your entrance. He breaths so sharply, you glance at him, the head of his cock just inches from your cunt. His chest is flushed and sweaty. The roundness of his stomach trembles, the hair there pressed flat and wet. The hair at his temples and across his hairline is damp, beautiful curls tossed back from his face. Eyes warm, his lips are wet with anticipation.

“I missed you, Nat,” he says quietly, suddenly. His fingers squeeze your thighs and his words catch as you notch just the head inside you, the fat head splitting you apart. “I m-m-missed you so-oh much.”

Wanting nothing but to feel every inch, you take your hand away and find his forearm to steady yourself. The deeper you take him, the higher your whine goes.

“Fuck, Natalie, fuck –,” his eyes are squeezed shut, jaw tight, as you gasp towards the ceiling, eyes rolling back in your head. “Fuck, you feel – you are –,”

“Dieter –,”

Your hips drop, his twitching below you, and you take in every ridge, every throbbing vein. You don’t mean to tease, but he’s so big and it’s been so long since you’d taken him, you have to sink as slow as possible. His grip almost bruising, he wants nothing more than to yank you down on his cock, but he holds, waits, lets you adjust, even though his chest is red and he hasn’t taken a full breath in a minute.

You inhale as you finally take all of him inside you, flush to his hips, his lap already wet, that low simmering heat swirling out from every place his cock rubs up inside of you.

“Natalie–,” he chokes.

It’s been too long.

You thrust forward, riding him hard and setting a pace that startles even you. A loud groan roars through him and his hands around your hips yank you back and forth with just as much force, as much want. Arousal climbs higher and higher, your shared pants and moans a catalyst for fire.

“Natalie,” he tries and you open your eyes. His face is flushed now too, eyes wet. “Natalie, I can’t stop thinking – the last time we were like this – I did – I said –,”

He whimpers as you slow and lean over him. You cup his cheeks with both hands, thumb tugging down his bottom lip. You kiss him, mouth slotting over his. “Don’t think about that, baby. Stay here with me. Be with me.”

He nods frantically, gasping as you jerk your hips just right, and you nuzzle his nose before building back your speed, that heart-stopping pace. He intertwines his fingers with yours, offering himself to hold onto as you both race towards release, his hips rhythmically bouncing against yours.

But you can’t help it either. Flashing across your memory like fireworks, you’re overwhelmed with images of you and him either in this exact position or a dozen others. On top of a desk, in a car, against a wall, behind, under, in front – every way he would make you take him again and again. You dip forward, just a bit, remembering that angle that made his knees quake – and apparently still does.

“Oh, fuck, baby –,”

Bits and pieces of old fantasies slide in between the gaps in your memory – the time you tried to picture his face when you sat on your new vibrator you gifted yourself on your twenty-sixth birthday – the time you finger-fucked yourself in the bathtub, hopelessly trying to find that spongy spot he used to stroke – it was not agonizingly enough.

It was nothing like him begging you to never, ever leave. You ride him hard and fast because tomorrow isn’t promised and it might never come.

His thumb on your bottom lip and his voice pry your eyes open. Your thighs quake from the strain, ratcheting that thunderous pleasure up every knot of your spine. You’re sweating so much you think you might melt off his cock.

The bed squeaks, as you grind yourself against him, his hand still on your face.

“I fucking love you.” He breathes through, open-mouthed, a spike of pleasure, his hair plastered against his forehead. You think you might come from the look of pure adoration in his eyes alone, but you white-knuckle your approaching orgasm, just as you know he is. “You’re made for me. This cunt is made for me.”

Every inch of you is fire hot. You gaze down at him and take your thumb between your teeth, nipping gently, your hands balanced against his stomach.

“I am yours, Dieter. I’ve never wanted anything else. Never.”

He swallows, eyes impossibly dark and deep, staring up at you like you hang the moon and stars, like you are solely responsible for the air in his lungs and the blood in his veins.

Dieter jerks up to kiss you, his hand cupping the back of your head, nails lightly scratching into your hair. The force of him stills your hips and you kiss him back, arms around his neck, but does nothing to quench that roaring blaze in your cunt.

His arm drops from your head, goes around your back, the other catching your hips against his and he flips you both, nestling you against the covers. He pins your arms above your head and thrusts into you, setting a pace that has your eyes rolling back your head. You whimper.

“You are the only thing I’ve ever loved,” he grunts into your neck, his voice low as it kisses your skin. His pace is punishing, chasing whatever haunted him at night those years he was apart from you. You pin your knees to his ribs, welcoming him deeper and deeper. “I want to be yours. I want to be yours until the day I fucking die.”

“You are, Dieter, you are.”

The sound that comes from his chest, echoing in your ear, and seeps into your bones finally pushes you over the edge. White-hot lightning strikes you between your legs, a warm, milky wave rocking you flat on your back as your cunt clenches down on him. He shouts, loudly, his back tense as he spills inside of you a second later. You can feel him soak the inside of you, his cock twitching under the pressure of your still-tight cunt.

His hips pump once, twice more, his body eager to empty him out entirely, and then he stills.

The sound of your shared heavy breathing, between the sweaty, throbbing mass of your bodies, is the only sound in the bedroom, stretching on for minutes at a time.

You have never felt so close to a person as you do right now. You can feel his heart pounding against his chest as it sits above yours. Your skin, damp with sweat, clings to his. This is where you want to be, for the rest of your life.

Slowly, as fast as his shaking arms will allow, Dieter lifts up to look you in the eyes, breath still heavy in his lungs. He’s red, pushed to the limit of exertion and then beyond that. His hair is a damp mess and his skin is so warm it almost burns.

But he’s smiling.

As your breathing returns to normal, even if it might take hours to wash yourselves clean, he smiles at you and you smile back because all it took was time.

Time, some therapy, and some space apart to find out what truly matters. What only matters. If nothing we do matters, this is the only thing that does.

You don’t have to speak because he knows what you’re thinking. Grinning through a half-chuckle, he kisses your forehead, your nose, and your lips. With a sigh, you wrap your arms around him as he gingerly tucks his head under your chin, and rests his cheek against your chest. You play with his hair.

The night stretches on, the snow falls harder outside. Eventually, you end up under the covers, Dieter Bravo is in love with you and you love him back.

He taps his fingers against your hip, absent-mindedly, to a beat you don’t recognize. And then his chest vibrates over yours, the sound sinking into yours, as he hums the chorus to Here You Come Again.

When you wake up, hours later, sleep overtaking you at some point during the night, you open your eyes to gold sunlight streaming in through the curtains and his back to you. His arm tucked under his head, curls askew on the pillow, and you feel him breath against the mattress.

Hesitantly, slowly, you reach forward, hand trembling, across the small space between your bodies –

And you touch his shoulder. He’s solid. He’s real. He’s here.

He shudders awake, groaning sleepily, as he turns over, his brown eyes greeting yours with all the joy of the sun.

He touches your cheek and you smile.

Epilogue

The wooden tracks of the rollercoaster vibrate violently as the cars lurch over the railings and down the slope. Screams of delight are lost beneath the gentle melody of the merry-go-round, its lights bright against the late evening sky. People wander between the tents and the booths, stopping to play a round of hunt-the-duck or to throw a ball at empty milk bottles. The smell of popcorn and candy hangs thick in the warm summer air.

Dieter adjusts the giant stuffed bear on his back, eyes surveying their next target on the Coney Island pier.

“Ice cream me, babe.”

Your arm juts out and smears vanilla-chocolate swirl across his mouth and he sputters.

Your eyes jump up from your phone, embarrassed to have been so distracted, and you immediately go to wipe his lips, his own hands busy keeping the bear up right.

“Sorry, sorry!”

He grins as you blot his mouth and chin. His tongue swipes out and licks your palm.

“It’s okay, only if you use your mouth next time.”

You roll your eyes as you toss away the used napkins. This time you hold the cone properly so he can lick his fill.

“What’s so important on your phone that you nearly drown me in ice cream?”

A summer breeze, hot off the waves of the ocean, strokes your hair, tugging it over your eyes. You push it back, frowning.

“Netflix emailed us, wanting to know if we wanted to be a part of the documentary about the making of Recovery Road.”

“And you think that’s a bad idea?” He asks, catching an errant dribble before it smears across your fingers.

“I don’t know. It just feels like dredging up things that are better left in the past.”

“Netflix’s specialty.”

You frown at him and he grins. “No one’s ever officially gone on record about what happened and now maybe we should. Set the record straight.”

“I don’t think we’ll come out of it looking very good,” you worry your lip. “Besides, if we’re being interviewed, shouldn’t Chloe get a chance to tell her side too?”

Dieter shrugs. “She can if she wants. But the story is ultimately about you and me. Besides, they just want the juicy gossip about all of our wild and crazy infidelity sex.”

“Dieter!”

With a chuckle, he drops the bear between the two of you, so he can look you properly in the eyes without a paw over his face.

“Baby, I’ll do whatever you want to do. If you want to do it, great. If not, fuck ‘em. I don’t care how it makes us seem, because no matter what, they’ll never know the true story.” He takes your hand that is not holding an ice cream cone, sticky fingers and all, and kisses your knuckles. “You and I are so beyond Netflix documentaries, or tell-all exposés – or whatever constitutes a love story in Hollywood. What I feel for you, no one could ever do it justice.”

He sees your chest stutter for breath, your eyes soft as he kisses your palm.

“They’d never understand the man you’ve become,” you say quietly. “What it took to get here.”

He nods, hand sliding to your cheek, your neck, and pulls you in. “This is it for me.”

“Me too.”

The jingle of the carnival around you, the roar of the rollercoaster in the distance, fills the silence as your lips move against his, hand curled up against his collar.

“Okay, new question,” he breaks apart before he loses all of his senses and pulls you into a bathroom stall.

You chuckle against his lips. “Yeah?”

“What would you think about getting a dog?”

“A dog?” You blink up at him.

“Yeah. Doesn’t have to be very big – there’s no room in our brownstone for the three of us anyway.”

You frown playfully, contemplative, as you loop your arm through his, the bear stretched across both your backs, as you instinctively wander towards the water.

“I’ve always liked pitbulls. Found them to be really misunderstood.”

He nods. “I like that. Kind of flies in the face of the ‘small dog’ idea but I like it.”

“When have we ever not bucked tradition?”

“You’re exactly right, my beautiful girl.” He kisses your cheek as you list off other potential breeds.

Honestly, he doesn’t care. Whatever dog breed you want is fine with him.

As long as it has a collar and a name tag, somewhere he can hang a ring.

T H E E N D

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