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whatsnewalycat · 2 years

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Psychomanteum / Chapter 7

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

Chapter 7: Monster

Chapter Summary: With help from your best friend, Dieter sets a trap to confront you.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 7.9k+

Content / Warnings: alternating POV, talk about addiction, grief, communication problems, drag queens, confrontation, argument, nipple play, piv sex, laugh attack

Notes: Chapter title from "Monster" by Lady Gaga. I wavered between this title and two others for longer than I'd like to admit, but I think Monster is fitting of the Halloween theme. Thank you for reading! You are an angel and I appreciate you.

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The backstage dressing room at Barracuda Bar is in complete chaos.

Half a dozen drag queens are getting into costume and character, scurrying around, painting their faces, half-dressed with padding and layers of nylons and wig caps. Loud conversation and raucous laughter fills the crowded space, barely able to fit so many larger-than-life personalities. Everyone is wired with an undercurrent of excitement and nerves. Only adding to the calamity is “Monster Mash” blaring out of a Bluetooth speaker in the corner.

One of those queens is Parker, who is transforming himself into his drag persona Jackie Lantern. He’s leaning over the vanity, face hovering close to the mirror lined with pictures of Harold Perrineau as Mercutio in drag from the 1996 production of Romeo + Juliet. One eye open, the other closed, he applies white glitter to his eyelid. His mouth is gaping wide in concentration.

Trying not to disturb his zen as you approach, you gently set down the bottle of champagne you brought as a gift on the cluttered vanity, then look around the room with a wide grin, gleefully soaking up the effervescent energy that hangs in the air like a thick fog.

Parker turns towards you, eyeshadow brush in hand as he reads the word from the sign hanging around your neck, “ Sorry? ” and frowns, then meets your eyes, “I don’t get it.”

You look down at your fitted tuxedo and hold your hands out at your sides, then spin around in a circle, thinking maybe if he sees the whole thing it will click. But he just blinks. With a sigh, you explain, “I’m a formal apology.”

The gears visibly turn in his head, and then he throws his head back in laughter, “Oh my god, ok, I see you Midwest.”

You smile wide and nod at him, “I love the Mercutio costume. It’s perfect. Are you doing that song from the movie?”

“You know it,” he winks, then turns back to the mirror and starts on the other eye, “Pop that champagne, love, I’m gonna need it ASAP.”

“Should I get some cups?” you ask him while picking the bottle back up and peeling off the foil wrapper.

“Nah fuck that, we can just take pulls,” he mutters.

You shrug in response and untwist the muselet caged over the cork, “Is Reese coming to see the show?”

“Nope,” he responds with an air of annoyance, “I invited him but he never responded. Probably doing something with his wife .”

The word wife comes out with such venom, you wonder if the woman could feel a shiver run down her spine from across Manhattan.

“Mmm,” is all you respond, not wanting to comment further on the touchy subject. It’s not like you have any room to give dating advice. You tug on the cork of the champagne and it comes off with a POP! that garners a howl of celebration from a neighboring queen.

Parker sets the eyeshadow brush down on the vanity and takes the bottle from your hands, raising it to his lips. He drinks it gingerly enough not to spill champagne down the corners of his mouth, but fervently enough to make you raise your eyebrows.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so nervous for a show before,” you comment as he returns the bottle to your grasp.

He lets out a belch, then winces, “That’s so fucking warm, holy shit.”

In the spirit of commiseration, you take a few swallows of the champagne. Your eyes start watering from the carbonation and you burp, nodding in agreement, “That’s fucking gross.”

“One more,” he mumbles and grabs the bottle, taking another long pull before he returns to his makeup.

You eye him suspiciously. Something is up with him, but he obviously doesn’t want to talk to you about it right now. Normally before a show he’s filled with the same raw, confident electricity powering this room, but right now he’s a bundle of nerves.

“Did you invite your flavor of the week?” he asks, words forming around the tight O of concentration on his mouth.

“Who, Kelly?” you respond, but don’t wait for him to answer before you scoff, “No. She asked me to meet her husband. I’m not trying to get involved with their fucking marriage.”

When Parker turns from the mirror to stare at you blankly, as if to say really, bitch? You add, “No offense. Sorry.”

“The shade,” he chides playfully, then returns to the mirror and asks in a casual manner, “Have you talked to Dieter?”

The question gives you whiplash. Your head spins and heart starts pounding in your chest. That name hasn’t come up in conversation in months.

“No…? Why would I?” You push off of the vanity and cross your arms, turning your body to face Parker so you can study his face.

“Considering the luck you’ve had dating,” he shrugs, but avoids looking at you, “I thought maybe you would reconsider.”

A bewildered chuckle huffs from your chest, then you shake your head, “No fucking way. After what he did-“

“And what did he do, exactly, Lou?” Parker finally pulls away from the mirror and turns his attention to you, propping a hand up on his hip, “They both came out and said it was a one-off. Y’all weren’t even exclusive. It was a meaningless hookup. You, of all people, should know a thing or two about how those work.”

You jerk your head back in surprise, blinking at him as his gaze pierces you, then stammer, “I- I can’t date another fucking cokehead-“

“He has been on the wagon since then. People slip up sometimes. Again, something you , of all people, should know,” Parker advises defensively.

It feels like a punch in the gut.

He must recognize this, because his posture softens and he sighs, “I just… I know how much you liked him. And you keep going out with people and making all kinds of excuses for why you don’t want to see them anymore, but I think…” his tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth, as if he’s contemplating whether or not he really wants to tell you what he thinks. But he searches your face as he lets it rip, “I think it’s just because you still like him.”

Your mouth gapes open as his observation hits you like a freight train. You can feel tears start to burn behind your eyes, but you shove them down. His face melts into a sympathetic pout. He continues.

“I’ve known you since college, Lou. You’re my best friend in the whole world, and I’m gonna be real with you. The only other time you clicked that well with somebody was when you met Ethan.”

This dissolves the dam of resolve you had been building up to keep yourself from crying. Right there in that crowded, joyous room, dressed in a silly Halloween costume, tears start to fall.

“I know that what happened hurt, but I just think it’s something you should think about before writing him off forever,” Parker tells you softly. He places a hand on your shoulder and your face crumples.

Mortification intertwines with the betrayal of your best friend’s honesty and a deep shame starts to percolate in the cords of your neck. They vibrate and tighten your chest until you’re gasping for breath between sobs.

Why right now? Of all the times to talk to me about this, why right fucking now?? When we’re in a crowded room and he knows it’ll make me cry?

Even if he’s right.

The thought grips your stomach and makes you feel squeamish.

“Come here, baby,” he coos and envelops you in a hug, stroking your hair.

“Miss Lantern, are you making your friend cry right now?” someone nearby asks him, but you both ignore it.

“I love you and I don’t want anything to stand between you and happiness. Even if that thing is you,” he tells you.

“I know,” you respond in a shaky voice, returning his hug. The surprise tide of emotion starts to waver as you get a grip on your grief.

Parker grabs your shoulders and holds you out to inspect your face, muttering to himself, “We’re gonna have to fix this shit.”

“Is it bad?” you sniffle and wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. He winces in response, so you turn and look in the mirror and groan. Your dramatic makeup is streaked down the sides of your face from your eyes to your jawline. You pout and whine, “God damnit , Parker.”

“Hold on,” he tells you, then peers around the room and scurries off to talk to someone while you take a few pulls off the champagne bottle.

When Parker returns, he has a petite blonde lady in tow, and points to you, “Can you fix it?”

Her mossy green eyes look over your face appraisingly, then she nods and tells him, “Oh absolutely,” she turns back to you and smiles, “Come with me, doll.”

The term of endearment wrenches at your heart, but you follow her out to the hall where she has you sit on a bench. She reapplies your makeup with an expert hand, humming along to the Halloween music still blaring over the speaker from inside the dressing room. The two of you make small talk. You find out her name is Angela and she’s the lighting technician for the show, but is also a part-time makeup artist. She always brings her makeup to shows in case of emergencies.

Not that you’d call your bleeding mascara an emergency or anything, but you’re grateful nonetheless.

Just as she’s showing you the finished product, which is fucking phenomenal, Jackie Lantern comes out of the dressing room.

Her big white afro wig frames her face, showcasing the white glitter cut crease eyeshadow, glossy red lips, and goatee. She turns in a circle, flaunting the rhinestoned white bra and mini skirt. A matching cape flows behind her, shimmering in the light. White garter belts extend down her legs from beneath the skirt, holding up white thigh-high tights. She’s wearing long, white, fingerless gloves that almost reach her armpits. The bright, dazzling white of her outfit contrasts her dark skin beautifully.

She is full Mercutio.

You clap and hoot, bouncing to your feet to prance over and give her a hug. She hugs back and asks, “Are you gonna be ok?”

You assure Jackie with a tight squeeze, “Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

She pulls back and smiles warmly at you, “I’m sorry for coming at you like that, I just wanted to talk to you about it since- ”

Her mouth snaps shut and her eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights. But only for a second before she picks up the fumble, “Since it’s been on my mind.”

Your eyes narrow in suspicion again. An awful feeling churns in your guts, and you ask, “Are you talking to him or something?”

“What? No,” she scoffs, then averts her gaze to Angela and tells you, “Hey I have to talk to Ang about something, babe. I’ll see you out there?”

“Jackie-” you warn, searching her face. She brushes you off and walks around you completely, then links arms with Angela and starts off down the hall.

You throw your hands out to your sides in exasperation behind them. As you make your way out of the backstage area to get a drink, you replay the conversation over and over in your head, finding a million ways to interpret the things Parker said. But no matter which way you twist it, his name, even just existing in your brain as a thought, burrows beneath your skin.

Dieter made sure to wait until just before the show started.

He approaches the crowded, red backlit bar and orders a drink for his nerves. From what Parker has told him, this could potentially end in disaster. But he has to try. You’ve blocked him from all forms of electronic communication, and, short of showing up at your apartment unannounced, where you wouldn’t let him in anyway, he doesn’t have many other options but to trap you.

Dieter reached out to Parker a week after you blocked him. Parker (rightfully) reamed into him for breaking your trust.

He confided in Parker, admitting that sex with Katie only confirmed his feelings for you. That he knows there’s something more with you. He asked what he could do to make it up to you. To get you back. Parker, a bit of a closet romantic, agreed to help Dieter on his mission. He told Dieter to stay clean and give you space. That he’d be in touch.

So Dieter did exactly that. Dieter hasn’t used coke since the day of the wrap party.

The fucking wrap party.

If ever he has been filled with disdain for the attention fame brings, it was the fucking wrap party. If ever he has wished that he could wipe his memory fucking clean, it was that goddamn party.

He had been awake for 36 hours straight when they wrapped. For 54 hours when he arrived at the party. It’s like he was outside of himself, a passenger as he watched himself walk into the black tie event wearing no shoes and dirty clothes, wielding aggression towards anyone who looked at him.

Then he saw Katie… and completely lost it.

Every ounce of hurt he felt came spewing from his mouth like acid he hoped would fucking melt her skin to the bone.

He screamed at her for seducing him, telling her that she ruined his fucking life, even though neither of those things are true. Like he has time and time before, he ruined his own fucking life. His part-time hobby of destroying anything that brings him joy.

And in true ruiner fashion, when people came to Katie’s defense, Dieter lashed out at them, hurling insults and tables and really whatever the fuck he could get his hands on. The cast and crew were all present to witness, or fall victim to, his tirade. He was escorted back to his hotel room, where he slept it off for the next few days. A pilgrimage to the land of the living dead.

Once back in LA, Mark and Darlene called a meeting, and made it clear: he’s on thin fucking ice.

It just so happens that the movie they wrapped on tells the story of a drug addict who spirals out of control. Dieter’s meltdown so perfectly paralleled the character’s that they were able to spin it as a publicity stunt. The film is somehow projected to do better because of the incident.

Dieter apologized to everyone involved. When he called Katie and told her that he was deeply sorry for the things he said to her, then admitted that he was on a two-day bender with no sleep, she responded casually that it “got her name in the headlines and press for the movie, so, whatever.”

Which, honestly, didn’t surprise him.

Considering what a fucking fool he made of himself, the sanctions on his acting career have been minimal. The same can’t be said for his mental state, though. He hated himself thoroughly after his actions replayed in his sober mind. Never thought he would be able to face any of the people who received the shrapnel of his emotional explosion.

But, miraculously, all of those people accepted his apology and moved on. Except for the person he finds himself caring about the most: you . And he hasn’t been able to do a goddamn thing about it. The degree to which he pines for your affection, for your favor, is driving him fucking mad.

He can’t figure it out. It makes absolutely no fucking sense. The more that time goes on, the truer it is. He spent a 24-hour stint as your real life lover. Just a taste of your devotion. That’s it.

But it’s like you engrained yourself into his fucking DNA in that 24 hours.

Thoughts of you haunt him every single day. Innocuous shit like his bathtub, soggy paper towels, pancakes, the scent of vanilla, reality TV, the fucking Beatles, and worst of all: literally every single baked good that crosses his path. Every time it’s like you’re whispering in his ear. Memories so vivid, if he closes his eyes and focuses, he can taste them.

From time to time, he wonders if you even think about him anymore. The dark side of him tries to convince him that you’ve moved on. But for some reason he knows, really, that isn’t true. It’s like he can feel your yearning from across the country, deep in his bones.

This knowing intuition comforted him, kept him from giving in to the hunger that threatened to swallow him whole after he quit using coke. But he was patient. When the hunger got deafening, he closed his eyes and tuned into the buzzing in his soul that told him there’s still hope . Then two weeks ago, he got a text.

> PARKER: > I have a plan.

And it’s certainly a plan. Whether or not it’s a stupid fucking plan has yet to be determined. But Parker confirmed that you’re here in this bar.

“Bugs Bunny?” a stocky Tina Turner asks him, then sips their drink through a straw as their eyes scan his baggy, gray rabbit costume.

He tips his glass to the stranger and corrects them, “Easter bunny.”

“Adorable,” they reach up and tug at one of the floppy ears attached to the upright hood of the onesie.

Dieter smiles and nods at the compliment, “Yours is great too. Tina is-“

The sound system starts to boom, then lights flood the stage, and they both lose interest in the, frankly, dull conversation, turning instead to the start of the show. Dieter drains the remainder of his drink down his throat and sets the glass down on the bar. He sets off towards the side of the stage, angling himself to face the crowd.

A drag queen named Boo Who is up first. Boo Who is wearing a rooty highlighter yellow wig with a side part, an angular mirrored mini dress, and mirrored high heels, a la Lady Gaga at the Monster Ball. Appropriately, she lip-syncs “Monster” by Lady Gaga.

As Dieter scans the crowd, he notices it consists of two types of people: either singing and dancing along, or completely entranced by the performance. Everyone is in costume, which doesn’t really help with the whole “trying to ID you” thing. He checks his phone and sees an unread message from Parker.

> PARKER: > She's a formal apology

Dieter frowns at the screen and squints back up to the faces in the crowd, wondering what the fuck that means. But then something near the front of the stage catches his eye: a white neck placard that reads SORRY in big, bold letters. The person wearing it is wearing a tuxedo, complete with a black bow tie and white gloves. Their hair is slicked back and shiny with gel. Of course, he recognizes you, even beneath the black pencil mustache painted above your red lips. You’re singing and dancing, your smile wide and taking up your whole face.

The air is sucked from his lungs. Even from here, he can feel your light warming his soul. He can’t help but start grinning at the spectacle.

When the song changes, you turn around and start towards the bar. His heart starts to thud heavy in his chest, feet propelling him after you before he can think twice.

You’re on your tip-toes, stretching across the counter, yelling your order over the music to the bartender when he sits down next to you.

“Vod-ka cran-ber-ry?” you holler, enunciating each syllable as much as you can. The bartender nods in acknowledgement, then his eyes land on the person next to you.

“Whiskey, neat,” the man requests. The timbre of his voice resonates down your spine and into your limbs.

Your head snaps towards it.

The man next to you has the hood of his bunny onesie in the upright position, hiding most of his face. But you can see a shock of messy, dark curls. He’s wringing his hands together, and you can see that on one are two thick-banded rings. And his aquiline nose is poking out from behind the shadow. Soft, musky notes of violet and patchouli.

“I’ll pay for hers, too,” he tells the bartender when he returns, setting a drink down in front of each of you. The man slides a $100 bill across the bar, “Keep the change.”

Blood rushes to your head in a flare of rage when it all falls together.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you bark. He blinks back when he finally turns to meet your eyes. The eye contact feels like he’s reaching through your ribcage and squeezing your heart. Your knees feel wobbly and your stomach drops, but you hold your steel gaze steady.

“I thought this would be better than showing up at your apartment unannounced,” he reasons, pressing his eyebrows together as he searches your face. His eyes flick down to the sign around your neck and the corners of his mouth upturn, “I like your costume. Very handsome.”

Words fail you. All you can do is scoff and turn back towards the stage and walk away from him. But he catches your arm and says, “Please, Lua.”

You spin around and square your shoulders as you spit, “What?!”

Your ferocity doesn’t scare him away. In fact, he comes closer, crowding you until all you can smell is his cologne and you can feel the heat radiating off of his body as he leans in and tells you, “It was a mistake. I’m so sorry.”

He meets your gaze again after he says this. His eyes are soft and sincere and warm and you want to curl up inside them. Then you remember he made a fucking fool of you. He coaxed you out of your emotional hiding spot, then gutted you.

You tried to shove those feelings back in and stitch yourself up months ago. Denied your wound’s existence, even to yourself. Ignored the rotting flesh you couldn’t bear to deal with. Now proof is humming loud in your body. The seams are pulling tight against your swollen belly. You’re so fucking close to splitting open, to spilling your guts, so he can see what he fucking did to you.

“And what did he do, exactly, Lou?”

Parker’s words from earlier nibble away at your brain. And, logically, you understand all of the points he made. You can acknowledge their legitimacy and see the apologetic look on Dieter’s face and know that he’s being honest.

But all the hurt you buried for months has been resurrected. You’re right back where you started: jilted.

“Ok,” is all you respond before shaking his arm off and turning around. In that second between the word leaving your mouth and spinning away, you see his shoulders slump and sadness etch across his face.

You zig zag through the crowd until you’re close to the stage, then don’t look back. But you can feel his gaze glued to you. Like when the mirrors in Ethan’s room come into view, a shiver runs the length of your spine and lingers.

It tingles at the back of your neck until about half way through Jackie Lantern’s set. That’s when Dieter appears in your periphery, just a few feet away. You keep your eyes forward on the stage as you cheer and dance in support. When her last song, “Young Hearts Run Free” by Candi Staton, starts playing, everyone fucking loses it. Dieter extends a few bills up to Jackie, who takes them and stuffs them into her white, rhinestone bra. Her eyes flick from him to you and you resist the urge to flip her off before she gets back into the zone.

She fucking kills it, as always. The crowd loves her, and they continue to cheer after she walks off stage and the intermission music starts. Your eyes dart to where Dieter was standing and find he’s no longer there. Which is your cue to get the fuck out of here.

With your head down, you push your way through the crowd, stopping at the coat check to get your jacket before you hurry out the exit.

Brisk autumn air licks your skin as you step out the door into the night. A thick layer of clouds lay low to the ground, reflecting the artificial golden light from street lamps, making the sky glow. Frost speckles the concrete sidewalk and sparkles as you walk.

You’re plugging your headphones into your phone when you hear Dieter coming up behind you, commanding your attention when he barks your name, “Lou ella! ”

You jump and turn around in surprise.

“Are you fucking serious?” he scoffs, throwing his hands out to his sides as his face twists up with outrage.

The fire in his question ignites your anger. It flashes bright and hot beneath your skin and you respond with vitriol, stepping towards him, but allowing for about two feet of distance, “ What? What, Dieter , what the fuck do you want?”

“I want you to stop fucking running from me,” he answers through gritted teeth. His face is shadowed beneath the hood of his fucking bunny costume, but you can see the cords of his neck standing out and know that he is furious . He continues, taking a step towards you, “Stop fucking holding back. I know you are-“

“You don’t know jackshit about what I’m fucking doing,” you meet his glowering eyes in a challenge.

“No?” he raises his eyebrows and blinks. Looks up at the glowing golden sky and shakes his head. Takes a deep breath. His gaze falls on you again, “So you’re not trying to avoid talking to me?”

“No,” you lie. Neither of you move. The word hangs in the air. It settles like shards of glass in your stomach.

His tongue darts out and licks his bottom lip, then he scoffs, “Fucking coward .”

It comes out of his mouth in a white hot puff when it meets the cool air.

“ Fuck you,” you growl in return.

The corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk and he steps closer. You swallow hard at the dwindling distance between your body and his. That constant, humming electricity that ripples between you is so thick your skin is buzzing.

“That’s it, doll, let me have it,” he purrs, “I wanna hear it. Come on.”

Your nostrils flare and your heart starts pounding, rage bubbling in your chest, “You- You come here to my best friend’s show,” you step closer and jab your finger against his chest, “and you fucking ruin my night-“

“It’s more than that, Lua, come on, you know it is,” he coaxes, “Give it to me.”

“You- you- you- ”

“And what did he do, exactly, Lou?”

“You-” your voice cracks, but you push the words out, “ Hurt me.”

He nods and searches your flushed face. Like this is what he was looking for. You continue.

“You fucked this- this fucking gorgeous woman. You were probably just fucking me on the side while you actually fucking date her. Because she’s not fucking broken like I am-“ a sob catches your throat, “She’s- she’s-“

“She’s not you , Lua. She doesn’t fucking matter to me. She is not the person that’s stuck in my fucking head. She’s not what I think about every goddamn day. That’s you ,” he holds your gaze steady as he tells you this. You start to shake your head and open your mouth, like you could convince him that he’s wrong to think that, but he starts again, “And what about you and your no-fucking-strings-attached? How’s that going for you now?”

You flinch at the mention of your promiscuity. He cups the sides of your face, and studies you carefully as he asks, “It’s not the fucking same, is it?”

Your throat tightens. All you can think of are his hands warming your cheeks. His intense gaze. The huffs of his interrogation against your skin.

“Is it, Lua?” he repeats, softer now, almost a mumble. His eyes are scanning your face, landing on your lips.

You swallow hard and shake your head.

“Why is that?”

Your mouth falls open to answer, but he pulls your lips to his before you can utter the truth that he already knows.

Because it’s not him.

You meet him with a ravenous energy, That spark, that fucking magic, it’s there . It’s in his touch that drops to your waist and pulls you in close. It’s flipping your stomach upside down and rattling those stagnant butterflies loose.

His tongue slides against yours, breaching your mouth, hungry and searching. Your hands rest against his chest for a moment, soaking in the heat of him through your palms. They slide up the surprisingly soft fabric of his costume to the hair at the nape of his neck. You pull his body to yours, and a rumble sounds from the back of his throat.

He pulls back only enough to plead, “Stay with me tonight,” before his lips are back on yours again. Like he needs them to breathe. Like he couldn’t bear to break the contact just to ask this of you. You nod in response, refusing to pause your onslaught of messy kisses.

“Come on,” he mumbles against your mouth, guiding you towards the busy street. You take his hand and follow him a whole three steps to a black town car that’s parked and running. He opens the door to the warm backseat and gestures for you to get in.

This is when you notice two things:

Your red lipstick and painted-on mustache has transferred to his face and he looks fucking ridiculous.

He had a goddamn car waiting here the whole time.

A jolt of obstinacy makes you scoff, “Really?”

He grins sheepishly, but doesn’t respond. As you slide into the leather backseat, you decide not to tell him about the black smudges all over his face. He gets in after you and tells the driver to go to the hotel, then turns to you, “I know you better than you think I do.”

“Is that right?” you ask, raising an eyebrow at him.

He slides closer, leaning in so his breath is hot against your ear, “You think I don’t know you need a little stretching before you open up?”

Heat rises to your face and pools in your belly. Your eyelids flutter as you glance up to meet his eyes. The look in his eyes is full of mischief and lust, but there’s something else there that’s softer, which keeps your gaze locked in place as its meaning steeps in your soul.

“I missed you,” you admit, naming the significance.

He presses his lips to yours and the kiss lingers for a tender moment before he renews it with more urgency. A tingle of want rolls across your body.

You rake your fingers through his hair, pulling his hood down. He pulls back from the kiss and brushes his thumb against your cheek, meeting your eyes again, “I missed you, too.”

“Yeah?” you smile, eyes flicking to his lips.

He shrugs and gives you a boyish grin, “Maybe. I guess. A little bit.”

You shake your head and roll your eyes, smile not fading, “I like your bunny suit, by the way.”

“Thanks,” he looks down at it, then points to you, “I like yours, too. The tuxedo is um,” he licks his lips like he’s searching for the right words, “Really doing it for me. It looks so fucking hot on you,” his eyebrow quirks as his gaze trails down your coat, and he leans in until his nose is nuzzling against your cheek, “I can’t wait to strip it off of you piece by piece.”

Just as your lips part with a gasp, the driver pulls up to the entrance of a hotel and puts the car in park, then calls back “Here, sir.”

The two of you scramble out of the backseat. He grabs your hand and leads you into the hotel. Judgmental looks from the fine patrons of Whatever Fucking Five Star Hotel This Is whiz by as you trail behind him. When you reach the elevator, he punches the UP button impatiently.

The desire that hung thick in the air on the car ride begins to dissipate in the hotel lobby. You catch a glimpse of yourself and Dieter in a mirror. Your lust-fogged mind starts to clear and a strange sense of self-awareness dawns on you. Dieter has his bunny hood upright. Your hair is shiny and hard with hair gel. Smears of red lipstick and black paint coat both your mouths. Damning evidence that you were just making out.

The two of you are incredibly out-of-context in this ritzy place. Plucked off the floor of the Barracuda Bar and dropped in this lobby that seems to be all gleaming white marble and chandeliers.

In the elevator door’s dull reflection, you can see a few people gather behind you. Everyone is silent, all concentrating on the elevator floor countdown.

Dieter raises your clasped hand to his lips and kisses the back of it.

The gesture is so simple, yet so sweet it makes you feel giddy. You look up at him and find he already has eyes on you. He’s studying you with a warm kind of amusement. It brings a wide smile to your face, which spreads to him.

The elevator dings and the doors slide open. A few people come out before he pulls you inside, pressing the 20 button, and you both nestle into the back corner of the elevator as the remaining guests file in.

“You, um…” your eyes flick to him and you barely stifle a laugh, “You’ve got a little something on your face.”

Completely stone-faced, he glances down at you, then gestures to the general area of his face, “Here?”

You nod and clamp your lips closed. The crowded elevator is hushed except for the whiz of the pulley system and the muted beeps indicating ascent. He hums and frowns, pulling the phone out of his bunny suit pocket and opening the front-facing camera. The display reveals both of your faces as a mess of black and red smears. Your black eye makeup has bled down onto your cheeks, giving you raccoon eyes.

“I think we look fine, don’t you?” he deadpans.

Laughter bubbles up from your belly, bursting through your nose as a snort. The noise ricochets off the walls and earns a few dirty looks. Dieter breaks, his low-pitched laughter rumbling in his throat and shaking his shoulders.

“You’re right,” you squeak, voice cracking into another wave of laughter that you can’t stop when you look back at his phone, “We look really fucking cute.”

The doors slide open at floor 5 and release a couple that looks annoyed by the outburst.

“Wait wait, serious face, I’m gonna take a picture,” he instructs, and you are both able to mold your faces into solemnity for one whole second before the laughter erupts from your throats again. You bury your face against his shoulder and give into the giggles, despite the impatient sighs of your fellow elevator passengers.

The doors slide closed and the ascent begins again.

“Lua, wait, is it,” he nudges you for your attention. You lean back and watch him lick his thumb, then rub the very corner of his mouth, “Right here? Did I get it?”

An involuntary snorting noise sounds from your sinuses, then you squeak, “That- that's it, babe, that’s perfect.”

“Oh thank god,” he sighs with exaggeration, then another stifled laugh rips through his words, “I’d- I’d hate to look like a mess- in- public- ”

The last 3 words come out in breathless wheezes. This has you both doubled over in laughter, tears streaming down your cheeks, unable to breathe, for so long you don’t even notice the other people get out on their floors.

On floor 20, the doors slide open and he pulls you down the hall to his room, the two of you still shaking with giggles. As the door clicks closed, you’re unzipping your coat.

Dieter turns to you with a smoldering smirk. You shrug the jacket off your shoulders and fold it over your forearm. Before you can find a proper resting place for it, he tosses it on the floor and interlaces his fingers with yours.

You let him reel you in and wrap his arms around your shoulders. Your body responds, relaxing against him as you return the embrace. The placard around your neck struggles to conform into this new shape, crinkling in protest.

He nuzzles into your hair and releases a deep sigh, “This fucking sign, Lua, it’s gotta go.”

You snort in response, but don’t go to take it off, or move, or anything. Your joints and ligaments decay into gelatin. His lips press against your forehead and he mumbles, “Do you wanna take a shower?”

Leaning against him like this, you can feel his cock twitch at the thought.

“Lead the way, bunny foo-foo,” you tease, then straighten your spine and return your weight to your feet.

“Easter Bunny,” Dieter corrects you as he pushes off the wall and starts towards the bathroom.

“Whatever you say, Peter Cottontail,” you snicker. From behind, you watch him chuckle and shake his head, so you sing, “Hoppin’ down the bunny trail. Hippity hoppity, Easter’s on its waaaay.”

Dieter shoots you an amused smile over his shoulder as he turns into the bathroom, flipping on the light.

This bathroom, like the one at The Plaza, is as big as your bedroom back home. A large, rectangular, backlit mirror hangs above the white marble double vanity. The floors and walls are also outfitted in white marble. There’s a deep rectangular bathtub on a platform, separate from the shower. The shower itself takes up a third of the room, sectioned off with a frosted glass divider.

Dieter walks over to the shower and cranks the knob to hot, then spins around and stares at you. You pull the SORRY placard off over your head and set it down on the counter, grinning, “What?”

He shakes his head and approaches you, crowding you against the vanity’s countertop. His hands settle at your waist and he meets your eyes as he mutters, “I’m glad you’re here.”

You tuck your hair behind your ear and bat your eyelashes up at him, “I’m glad I’m here, too.”

“I am sorry,” he reasserts. You link your hands behind his neck and watch him as he glances up into the mirror, then back to you, “For… everything.”

For a moment, the only noise comes from the shower head spraying water onto the tile floor. It looks like he’s deep in thought. You study his face as he presses his forehead to yours and becomes out of focus.

“I don’t even know how to explain myself,” he admits, “It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have-“

“Hey,” you interrupt his spiraling, pulling back to meet his eyes, “I forgive you.”

His shoulders sag and his features relax. You bring a hand to his cheek and brush your thumb against the stubble there. He flutters his eyes closed and leans into the touch.

The tenderness that you both seem to hold hostage within yourselves so well comes into the light and lets itself be seen. Connection swells and throbs within your chest. When you close your eyes and zero in on the sensation, you swear you can feel it radiating between your souls.

An open door. An invitation.

Your lips meet his, soft but urgent. His fingers find the buttons of your tuxedo jacket and undo them, then the buttons of your dress shirt. You untie the black bow. It drops to the floor, followed by your jacket. His lips depart yours and press wet against your neck, then follow the unfastening of your shirt down your torso.

You’re livewired and wanting, letting your eyelids close and your head fall back heavy. Your palms press against the countertop as you arch into the tantalizing sensation. Hushed whimpers escape your throat when he rolls his tongue against the delicate skin of your belly.

Like he’s kissing away the hurt he caused. Licking your wounds.

Dieter unfastens the last button and spreads open the starched white dress shirt. He grips your hips, splaying his fingers around to your back, up to the hooks of your bra. His mouth follows the firm pressure of his hands, leveraging your abdomen against his mouth as he continues to lick and kiss and suck his way up your body.

Pleasure bubbles hot at your center, sending your pulse racing. Each flick of his tongue drips thick down your spine.

A click sounds from your bra being unhooked and brings your attention back to Dieter. You drop your heavy-lidded gaze onto him, meeting his molten dark eyes. The elastic band of your bra slackens as he tugs at the front. You shrug off the shirt, then the bra.

“Fuck, Lua,” Dieter hums, palming each breast, pressing a kiss into your sternum. You bring your fingertips to his hairline and comb your nails through the wild, loose curls. He looks up at you, desire etched into his features, just as obvious as your smeared makeup settling into his skin.

You bite your lip and pull his face against your chest, smothering him between your tits. He groans and digs his fingers into the soft flesh, pressing them hard against each cheek. His thumbs find your nipples and strum them in tandem. The sensation sends waves of ecstasy down to your cunt and makes you moan. Ferocious in his movements, he comes up for air and drags his tongue up the crease of your cleavage. It slides up the slope of your breast and rolls back and forth over your nipple.

The fluid movement makes you gasp and nod. His eyes flick to yours as his teeth catch the sensitive bud. When your jaw falls open and you release a throaty moan, the vocal manifestation of the flames of desire licking your insides, he rumbles, “Fuck, I missed that sound.”

Your pelvis is thrusting forward with a mind of its own, desperately seeking friction. But he doesn’t give it to you. Instead, he pinches and tugs on your nipples, playing with different levels of pressure until he finds one that has you melting like putty in his hands, all the while mumbling, “I think about you all the time, Lua, you know that? You know that not one fucking day goes by where I don’t think about you?”

Too turned on to continue with this torture, you grab handfuls of his bunny suit and pull him to his feet. You kiss him in frenzied bursts, unzipping his costume as he unbuckles your pants and they drop to your ankles.

You slide your hands down his chest, down to the elastic of his boxers, “Dee,” you whine against his mouth, “Please.”

“Tell me what you want, love,” he purrs, plush lips catching yours. His hands slide down your sides and a finger hooks on the black lace of your underwear. An ache of anticipation throbs at your core, body screaming for him to touch you.

“I want you to to bend me over this sink and fuck me,” you breathe, looking up through your lashes to meet his lust-blackened eyes.

Without further question, he turns you around and pulls both your underwear and his to the ground. You meet his eyes in the mirror as his chest presses against your back. His body heat on your skin salves your chapped soul. The way his eyelids flutter tell you the feeling is mutual.

One of his hands settles your hip, fingers digging into your flesh, while the other guides his member to smack lightly against your ass cheeks.

You grin at each other through the mirror, and he hums against your ear, “Is this what you need, baby? Need my fat cock to stretch that sweet little pussy?”

The filthy words slide into your ear canal, down your spine, leaving a trail of charred remains as it fills you with fire. You swallow hard and nod. His cock nudges against your entrance.

“Say it.”

The demand itself makes you whimper. Your lips form a pout and you try to drive yourself back, hoping to spur him into action. But his hand on your hip doesn’t allow for movement. He doesn’t flinch, just keeps his eyes steady on yours and waits.

“I- I need your fat cock to stretch out my sweet little pussy.”

“Good girl,” he coos, then presses a kiss against your pulse. His hips thrust forward, and his cock sinks into you at an excruciatingly slow pace, “Holy fuck-”

You sputter and watch his hot gaze on your contorting face. Both of his hands grip your waist now as he finds a rhythm that makes you writhe and gasp from pleasure. Each thrust sends shockwaves across your body, from the walls of your pussy through the tips of your toes.

“Is that what you need, sweetheart?” he rumbles against your ear.

“Faster,” you plead, pushing back against him at a quicker pace, following the urge tingling at your center. His tempo conforms to yours and you gasp, “Yes, yes, just like that, Dee-“

He groans and his fingertips dig into your skin, “Love it when you say my name, Lua,” his voice trembles with each sharp thrust that melts you from the inside out, “Does it feel good on your lips? Does it feel right? Do you feel that?”

His questions flip your stomach upside down. Because, yes, his name is like powdered sugar on your lips. Because, yes, being with him is like hearing your favorite song. Like warming your chilled hands on a fire. Like climbing into bed at the end of an exhausting day.

“Oh my god, Dee,” you pant, nodding in agreement, “Yes- yes, I feel it.”

The mirror is starting to fog from the shower’s steam. You can barely see the reflection of yourselves anymore. Just blurs of skin moving in time. But your nerve endings are on fire, every square inch of your body doused in ecstasy as he fills you again and again. His lips hum against the crook of your neck, groaning curses with increasing frequency.

Pleasure builds and builds at your center. You chase the sensation, meeting his thrusts in a frenzy, pushing hard against him as you moan, “Fuck, fuck, fuck- Dee, don’t stop, baby.”

“That’s it, Lua, tell me what you need. Such a good girl, Lua. So fucking good,” he purrs into your ear.

A twisting, dizzying static swells inside you, pulling sharp gasps of air in through your mouth. You let out a choked sob as your body fills to the brim with ecstasy, then releases it all at once. Your joints dissolve, arms and legs start to tremble, and your pussy seizes around him.

His hips stutter, whole body going rigid for a moment before he moans and shudders, spilling inside you. He loosens his grip on your waist and wraps his arms around your belly, nuzzling into your neck. You can feel him smiling against you.

Your chests heave in unison, relaxing more with each slowing breath. The two of you soak up all those beautiful post-orgasm happy chemicals, melting against each other more and more with each passing second. Eventually, he mumbles, “Shower?”

[ Next Chapter ]

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