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whatsnewalycat · 2 years ago

Text

Psychomanteum / Chapter 9

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

Chapter 9: Dearly Departed

Chapter Summary: You and Dieter use the psychomanteum again, then go out on a date.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 8.3k+

Content / Warnings: alternating POV, psychomanteum, talk about addiction, grief, homophobia, infertility, suicide, violence, fluff, sexual tension in public, cigarettes & smoking, river, restaurant, praise kink, fingering, the driver deserved that tip and more, disaster bisexuals

Notes: Chapter title from "Dearly Departed" by Shaky Graves. Just a heads up, since we're going back into the psychomanteum, there's a lot of heavy shit in here. Also I will definitely be releasing a little mini not-really-a-chapter with Lua and Dee's sex toy play that takes place between this chapter and the next because I think that's fun even though it's not super relevant to the story lol.

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“Ok how the fuck did we do this last time?” you mutter as you drop two folded black top sheets onto the floor of your closet and squint up at the popcorn ceiling.

“I think we tacked them up,” Dieter answers, his brown tootsie pop eyes sticking to the tall chest of drawers against the westernmost wall. His fingers thrum against the mahogany and he raises an eyebrow at you, “Is this where you keep your sex toys?”

You plant your hands on your hips and tilt your head, an amused smile creeping across your face, “That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”

A wide grin dimples his cheeks and he swings his head around to meet your gaze, “Look, I’ve always wanted to meet them in person.”

You start to feel flushed and tingly when you recall the dozens of times you’ve lined the collection up across your comforter, letting him select one or more. The video calls where you’re splayed out on your bed, headphones whispering his instructions right into your ears, what he wants you to do to yourself for his viewing pleasure. The wet slap of him getting off on it from his bedroom almost three thousand miles away. His own private cam girl.

“Don’t run off on me this time, I’ll let you play with them ‘til your heart’s content,” you smirk and drop your eyes to his lips, watching his pink bubblegum tongue dart out and coat them with saliva. The shiny, eau natural gloss gains your undivided attention.

It’s maddening how two pillowy pieces of flesh fill you to the brim with desire. But after six weeks apart, you’re obsessed. In his absence, you’ve been starved for his touch. All you want to do is kiss him. Hold him. Fuck him. The heat of his skin against yours has become a necessity as basic as shelter, food, water, oxygen.

By the way Dieter has been worshiping every square inch of your body, responding to each needy affection with enthusiasm. You can tell that he’s been famished, too.

Yesterday afternoon, Dieter pushed the door to your apartment open the second you flipped the lock and threw down his suitcase, grabbing your face and kissing you like he just returned from war. He pinned you against the wall and groaned against your mouth, “Oh my fucking god I missed you.”

This morning, his warm brown eyes followed his fingertips as they traveled the roads of scar tissue on your leg and arm, lips curved in a serene smile. So content learning each intimate detail of your body. Like if he memorizes every scar, every tic, every spot that makes you putty in his hands, he’ll never have to be apart from you.

You watched him practice this reverence while combing your fingers through his unruly locks. He was nestled into the softness of your belly, using it as a pillow. Tiny, heated flutters like hungry fireflies chittered away in your chest cavity as you told him, “I think I’m ready to do it again.”

He raised his eyebrows and smiled up at you, “You are insatiable, doll.”

Despite the teasing comment, you could see his flaccid cock surge with want. Your face flushed and you giggled, “I’m not talking about that.”

He looked up at you with those sweet puppy dog eyes and waited for you to elaborate.

“I want to try the psychomanteum again,” you explained timidly, resisting the urge to break eye contact, “I think I’m ready.”

His adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, then he asked, “Today?”

“Sure,” you brought your hand to his face and rubbed your thumb against the scratchy gray patch in his beard, “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, though.”

He scooted closer to you, scooping you up in a warm embrace. His lips pressed gentle against yours. A hot, fuzzy tightness knit itself around your heart. When he drew back, you pushed your fingers through his mop of curly brown hair. His eyes softened into a ganache as he watched you do this.

“I’ll do it,” he finally responded. Hesitancy quivered the edges of his voice.

“You don’t have to,” you assured him.

“I know, love,” he mumbled and grabbed ahold of your hand, then laid a kiss on your wrist and held your palm against the heat of his cheek, “But think I’m ready, too.”

Now, as he plops down in the tangerine armchair and squints into the mirror, dipping and tilting his head to test different angles, he tells you, “I think we’re ready to roll.”

“Oh yeah?” your thumb turns white with pressure as you pierce a clear thumbtack through the black bedsheet, driving it into the popcorn ceiling. You look down at him from your perch on the highest flat of your step stool and ask, “Wanna flip a coin to see who goes first?”

Dieter gets to his feet and offers up a hand to you, which you take and descend the step stool.

“I’ll go first,” he tells you, interlacing his fingers with yours, leading the way out of the closet, “And I swear to god I’ll scream if you tell me I don’t have to do that.”

“I was not going to say that,” you protest, but have to clamp down on your smile that would tell him otherwise.

He turns around and raises both eyebrows at you, grinning, “Wow, you’re fucking terrible at lying.”

“I… am a great liar,” you push his chest playfully, making him smile wider as he pulls you into a hug.

“I’m just kidding, you’re an excellent liar,” he mumbles against your hair.

“Really?”

“And gullible? Wow,” he teases, then starts giggling when you scoff in faux indignation and poke at his belly.

You pull back to search his face as your giddy smiles soften and sober. Worst case scenarios swim around your head and make you dizzy.

“For real, you’re gonna be ok?” you whisper, grazing his cheek with the back of your hand.

He leans into the touch and his shoulders relax, a pleased smile spreading across his face, “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart, seriously.”

“Ok,” you breathe.

The nerves must be rolling off of you in waves, because his dark eyes dart around your face and he sighs. He cups your cheeks with his hands, leveling his gaze with yours, “Lua. Do you know what we have planned for tonight?”

You blink and nod.

“I’m taking you on a real date. Like a fancy-schmancy date where I have to wear a tie and underwear.”

“Dee, underwear is an everyday-“

“Then we’re gonna come back here and play with your sex toys.”

“Oh, and I made a cheesecake!” you tell him.

“You… made a cheesecake for us?” he raises his eyebrows and searches your face. When you nod, he throws his head back and smothers you in a hug, groaning as he rocks you from side to side, “Louella, you’re fucking amazing holy shit.”

You hug him back. A spring of joy bubbles up inside you and you laugh at his infectious enthusiasm.

Dieter pulls back and meets your eyes, “I’m not gonna bail on you. Do you believe me?”

“Yes,” you smile. And you mean it. And you can tell that he knows it’s the truth.

In an attempt to vent the thick black cloud that collects soot in his chimney throat and makes him choke, he reminds himself that things are different now. He’s been practicing. Rationing his grief in manageable chunks. Allowing James to come out of the lockbox in his head for short periods of time to stretch his legs with little incident.

He intakes a sharp breath through his nose, the exhale whooshing out his exhaust pipe lips, allowing him to breathe just a little easier.

Dieter imagines a pack of Pall Malls. The maroon fliptop box that fits in the palm of his hand, the tobacco company’s name in Art Noveau over a silver seal.

When he sees the Pall Malls, he sees General Thompson plucking a cigarette from his tight, lipless scowl. Sees the gruff, soulless man grinding its glowing orange cherry into his son’s forearm. Smells the seared flesh. The howling from his lover’s throat echos in his skull.

It happens every time he spots a pack of this particular brand of cigarette. The memory an intruder in his brain. This is usually where Dieter tries to put an end to it, shoving James back into the depths of his brain in a desperate attempt to make it stop before it could show him what happened next.

Because what comes next is the wet smack of General Thompson’s swollen knuckles on his son’s face. His freckled, sunburnt cheeks an unnatural purple that puffed up under his skin. His delicate lips split and oozed a thick, deep red that Dieter wished he could kiss away.

But he couldn’t. His joints all seemed to be superglued in place.

After this, there’s the sound of James screaming. It filled his brain with TV static. It still does sometimes. He stood there, frozen in place, and wished the screaming would stop.

Until it did.

Then Dieter realized how much worse it was when James went silent. Just the thud of one body hitting another. In this dreadful muted thudding of flesh on flesh, a switch flipped and propelled Dieter forward, yanking General Thompson off of James.

He’ll never forget the horrifying realization that his limbs could move the whole time.

Dieter’s stomach twists and sours like it always does. He takes another deep, venting breath, exhaling the dense plume of guilt that builds up in his lungs. Pushes past the scent of burnt skin and the paralysis. He sees the Pall Malls again. He remembers better things.

A shed that was down by Lejeune High School’s beat-up outdoor track that he and James used to frequent. The tawny gravel littered with stomped out cigarette butts. Their daily ritual of going against the tides of their classmates rushing to the cafeteria for lunch to sneak behind the shed.

Every day, James leaned against the shed, red paint chips flaking on his shoulders like dandruff. He would fish out two mashed up Pall Malls from his pocket, then hand one to Dieter. A cigarette pinched between their index and middle fingers, the boys would cough and giggle from the tobacco high. They were hidden from sight except for two blue smoke stacks that rose from their side of the shed, which no one ever seemed to notice.

They had a similar ritual on Saturdays at The VIP Lounge.

Sharing cigarettes to stretch them out further. James seemed to lodge the filter deep into the wet of his mouth when he took a drag. It was always damp with his saliva when passed back to Dieter. He didn’t mind. In fact, for a long time, he thought that would be the closest they would get to kissing, the cigarette a surrogate for them to swap spit.

Dieter thinks about New River. How it would cool their heated skin on the hottest North Carolina days. The baptism of its current washing away smoke residue, traces of their teenage rebellion, before they had to return home and resume the roles they played for their families.

He remembers going there for the first time, when James told Dieter there was a place he liked to go to and write. A secluded beach.

“Sounds exclusive,” Dieter smirked.

“Practically a dang VIP Lounge. You’ll see,” James responded as he heaved a backpack over his bony shoulders.

Going there for the last time, after James was discharged from the hospital and Dieter’s family was packing their belongings. Moving once again. He waited until nighttime, when the house was silent and he was sure everyone was asleep, then snuck out the backdoor, tiptoeing through backyards to the Thompson residence.

All the lights were off, but Dieter tapped on the window pane of James’s room until it slid up, revealing his still puffy and mangled face in the moonlight.

“Can you sneak out?” Dieter whispered.

James nodded solemnly and mumbled, “Gimme a sec,” then slid the window closed.

A few minutes later the window slid back open. Out came James, backpack in hand as he landed on the grass with a quiet grunt. A worn baseball cap kept his face hidden in the shadows. He swung the backpack onto his shoulders and started off.

Dieter followed, already knowing where James was headed.

The forest they had traversed many times before was dewy and soft under his feet. Dieter became nocturnal. His ears seemed to dial up the chirping of crickets and croaking of frogs, the rustle of ferns and tree branches, the hard thudding of his aching heart, the buzzing of his frayed nerves. The rumble of the river grew louder and louder, until he breached the clearing to The VIP Lounge.

By then, the rumble was a roar.

James dropped his backpack on the damp sand with a muted thud and unzipped it. He pulled out a quilt and handed it to Dieter, who shook it open and spread it flat. Dieter sat down on the blanket, watching the way James kept his head tilted down, his battered face hidden by the bill of the baseball cap. He pulled out a baggie of cigarettes and a lighter, tossing them onto the quilt haphazardly before taking a seat next to Dieter. There was a metallic clinking from the backpack, and James handed Dieter an aluminum can of Busch Light.

Neither of them spoke.

New River’s roar was background to the tsch-hiss of their beer cans opening, the slurp of Dieter’s cautious sip, the glug-glug-glug of James chugging half of his in one go. The resulting belch was so loud in contrast to all the other hushed noises, it made Dieter snort a laugh. James laughed, too, a high-pitched giggle that stabbed Dieter’s ear drums in a way that he missed dearly.

It seemed to cut the tension. Both boys relaxed and scooted closer to the other, and James asked, “You’re movin’, huh?”

“Yeah,” Dieter answered, glancing over at James, hoping to see his face. It was just a shadow.

He turned his gaze back to the river, finding his vision sharpened in the night. The moon, a ripe, glowing cream-colored circle, hung in the sky above them among an infinite number of diamond-like stars that varied in size and purity. Moonbeams shone silver streaks across the thick, inky black water. Specks of sand glittered in the light.

“I don’t wanna be here anymore,” James confessed in a hoarse whisper.

“We could run away,” Dieter turned to James, finally catching a glimpse of his face in the moonlight. His heart pitter-pattered with hope. Immediately, his brain started working on a plan, and it flew from his mouth rapid-fire, “I- I have my chore money and could take some from Ma’s purse. We could go to New York, find places to work. We could write, we- we- could act-”

James raised his beer can to his lips and tilted it back, taking big swallows until it was upside down and empty. He crushed it between his palms and tossed it next to his backpack, then pulled out another.

As he cracked open his second beer, he shook his head, “S’not what I mean.”

The silence that followed was so heavy, it broke Dieter’s heart. The life he had just dreamed up for them on the spot was shattered into pieces.

“What do you mean?” Dieter spat.

“Nothin’, nevermind,” James murmured, then hugged his knees to his chest, dangling his beer in one hand while the other wrapped around his shin.

Dieter stared at the boy, trying to control the heated flame of rejection in his chest from shooting from his mouth. Like he was some kind of ill-tempered fire-breathing dragon.

“I jus’ mean… Maybe my story doesn’t go that far, y’know?”

And if Dieter knew then what he knows now, that this was a cry for help and not a breakup, maybe things would have ended differently. Maybe he would have stayed next to James on that beach until the sun rose. Maybe he could have begged James to change his mind. Maybe they would have run away together.

“So that’s it? You’re done with this?” Dieter bit off, his anguish disguised as rage.

And if Dieter knew then what he knows now, that rage was the only language his sadness knew how to speak, maybe things would have ended differently. Maybe he would have stayed and told James about how scared he was to lose him. Maybe he would have promised James that he didn’t deserve what happened to him.

But that’s the thing about things. They’re exactly the way they are. No backsies.

“Guess so,” James answered in a croak.

“Fuck this,” Dieter muttered, then got to his feet and looked down at the baseball cap that covered James’s face and spat, “Fuck you, James.”

He tore through the forest trail, fighting off branches, kicking blindly at ferns and bushes, trying to shove down the sorrow that felt like drowning. It quivered in his chest, trying desperately to claw its way out. When he arrived at his house, he snuck inside, back to his bedroom.

There, with his face smothered against his pillow, a comforter tenting his head, Dieter released his anguish. His pillow absorbed the tears and the sobs. He cried until the springy fabric was sopping wet and his voice was hoarse.

Dieter thinks about all of this now. About how much he wishes he could redo that last conversation. How he wishes James could have known that Dieter loved him. How he wishes James could have seen that there was so much more for life to give him.

This heavy, midnight blue fills his chest with lead. Loads a backpack full of rocks. Sinks him to the bottom of New River.

His eyes brim with tears when he looks up into the psychomanteum and sees the mirror reflecting those shiny silver streaks across the current of thick, inky black water.

A chill ripples across his body and leaves his hairs standing in its wake. He stays there, up to his chin in the cold water, grounding himself from the pull of the undertow. He ignores the smoke signals clogging his throat, hazing his mind.

Then, it’s warm. And calm. And sunlight is kissing his skin.

James is there.

Dieter can’t see him, but his presence fills the space like a shimmering golden fog that makes him feel weightless and peaceful. A sense of total oneness.

“I’m so sorry,” Dieter tells him, the message only a thought that’s absorbed into the ether.

“Ain’t your fault,” is the response that comes, “None of it, y’hear?”

A lump surfaces in Dieter’s throat, and he chokes out, “I could have-”

“Coulda woulda shoulda,” James chides.

He smiles as a sob bubbles up his throat.

“I’m happy, Yay-go. I’m at peace. I want you to know that.”

A wave of relief washes over Dieter. Tears roll hot down his cheeks. The nickname rings in his ears and rolls off his tongue, “Yay-go. I forgot you called me that.”

“I see you been makin’ it in Hollywood. Mighty prouda you.”

“Thanks,” Dieter chokes out, “Couldn’t’ve done it without you.”

“You gonna try writin’ again?”

Dieter shakes his head again, “I literally can’t do that without you.”

“Fuck you can’t,” James scoffs, “You were just as good as me, don’ you remember?”

“That’s a goddamn lie.”

“It’s the goddamn truth, brother, whether you believe in it er not.”

“Fine,” Dieter concedes, “I’ll try.”

“Alright, you take care now, y’hear?”

“I love you,” Dieter tells him.

“I love you, Yay-go.”

When Dieter emerges from the closet, his eyes are puffy, red, and shrink-wrapped with tears. A jolt of panic surges through your body. You jump off the bed and rush over to him, holding a palm to his chest, “You ok?”

He nods and sniffles, glancing around the room before locking his eyes on yours. As soon as they do, they overflow with tears. You cup his cheeks and whisper, “You did great, Dee.”

His face crumples at this. An empathetic ache radiates across your chest. You envelop him in a hug, and he returns it, burying his face in your hair with shaky sobs.

After a minute, he pulls back and sniffles, “Wow,” he shakes his head and throws a hand up, running it through his hair, “That was fucking crazy.”

“It’s a lot to take in,” you press your eyebrows together and nod.

His face crumples again, “God, it was just so good to hear his voice.”

Your eyes start to tingle and your throat cramps up. You manage to croak out, “I’m so happy for you, Dee.”

He pulls you back into an embrace that warms your insides, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, love,” you mumble back, closing your eyes as you hug him back.

He hums and nuzzles against you, “Are you ready?”

The question, although innocuous, sends your heart racing. A panic fills your chest and tightens the cords of your neck. You thought you were ready. You swore you were ready. But what if it doesn’t go well?

“I’m scared,” you admit in a whisper.

The wet gulp of his throat only incentivizes your nerves. He probes, “What are you afraid of?”

You push the words from your knotted vocal chords, “He was just… fuck, so hard to talk to at the end, ya know?”

“Are you scared he’s going to be like he was then?”

You nod. Tears burn behind your eyes. Thick phlegm coats your throat and makes it hard to breathe. You inhale a shattered breath, then whimper on the exhale, “What if that’s just who he really was?”

“Come on, Lua, do you really think that’s true?” he pulls back and meets your shiny bloodshot eyes with his own. When you shrug, his shoulders deflate, “I promise it’s not.”

Your panic starts to protest, “But he’s been bothering yo-”

“He’s doing it because I can see him. It’s the same with all of them,” Dieter searches your face, then tells you with conviction, “Speaking from experience, that thing he was when he was fucked up was not him.“

You know he’s right, really.

But what if he’s not? What if I fell in love with a monster in disguise? And what if I’m doing it again?

Then you see Dieter’s eyes, all doughy and sad. You see the fragile pieces of him, his softness and his warmth. There’s a darkness in there that’s dialed up when he’s on blow.

You know Ethan was the same way.

All the blackened parts of him floated to the surface when he was on a binge or coming down. Those hard edges, they were a part of him, but they didn’t define him. Everyone has those undesirable qualities they’re able to keep hidden until circumstances make it impossible, yourself included.

You drop your gaze and nod, “You’re right.”

“Lua, look at me, baby” he murmurs, and you meet his eyes again, “You can do this.”

“I can do this,” you repeat, then take a deep breath.

When you were a kid, you had this toy called a View-Master.

It was a Christmas gift from your parents and came with 6 different reels that each had a theme, like Bugs Bunny, Wild Animals of Africa, Charlie Brown’s Summer Fun, etc. The reels were sturdy cardboard discs with 14 pieces of film spliced into squares around the circumference. When you loaded a reel into your View-Master, you brought the device to rest on the bridge of your nose like binoculars, pointed it towards the light, and voilà! A 3D image.

Each image change was punctuated by the click-slide of your View-Master turning the reel and exposing two new splices of film to the light. Very analog.

You used to sit in the bay window of your childhood bedroom in Ohio and go through each reel, yanking on the handle seven times to ensure you saw all seven pictures. You would load your reel for Wild Animals of Africa:

Zebras

Click-slide

Lions

Click-slide

Giraffes

Click-slide

Antelopes

Click-slide

Elephants

Click-slide

Hyenas

Click-slide

Crocodiles

Click-slide

Zebras

In the past year, you’ve been flooded with thousands of memories of Ethan. It’s as if each day, your grief would decide to set off into the dense forest of your mind with a little foraging basket. Throughout the day, your grief would dump the basket out at your feet and ask, “Can we make sense of it now?”

And you would tell your grief, “No. None of it makes sense.”

So it would go out again, filling the wicker basket to the brim, emptying it at your feet. Again, you wouldn’t be able to derive anything from this mess. Grief would dump the memories again and again and again until they were piled above your head and you would say, “That’s enough! I’m fucking drowning!”

But even then it wouldn’t stop. It would sift through the pile and shove them down your throat, “What about this? Is this something?”

There you were, every single day, choking on the memories of your life with Ethan. Sometimes you thought it would kill you. Obviously, it never did. But there were some days you would have preferred death over this torture.

The forest of your mind has become picked over. Grief has slowed its frantic collecting, tired of finding the same things over and over again. Most days, it’s manageable. You don’t feel like you’re drowning anymore.

Every once in a while, it comes to you bearing something shiny and new, asking with hope, “Is this it?”

And you clear your throat, testing its width and integrity, and you know it won’t choke you. Not actually.

And, throughout the past year, where grief has replaced your husband as your primary partner, you’ve been able to reduce this tragedy to seven distinct 3-D images. Of course, nothing will make it make sense, not really, because tragedy is senseless. And nothing will make him come back, not really, because Ethan crossed the threshold of death where there’s no return to his body.

You can’t say he stayed behind the thick membrane of the afterlife because he’s still here in some ways. Not in the memories that grief brings you or cheering from the sidelines, like how it is with your dad and grandparents. Ethan does exist in these ways, but also as a presence that clings to your skin and makes your hair stand on edge. Tangled in the thin veil between this life and the afterwards.

But those seven images you’ve isolated into a View-Master reel… you know that there’s something significant held in those moments.

The honeybees that crawled around your bridal bouquet.

Click-slide

The fingerprint ink pad when you were booked for drug trafficking charges.

Click-slide

The infinite, tunneled reflection of the mirror maze.

Click-slide

The IV drip of antibiotics being replaced with another as Ethan cried and held your hand.

Click-slide

The pile of crescent moon fingernail clippings on your mother’s dining room table.

Click-slide

The black ink stain on your carpet.

Click-slide

The picture of him and his brother that you found on the floor of his room.

Click-slide

The honeybees that crawled around your bridal bouquet.

You’re in the psychomanteum, gripping the tangerine armchair so hard your knuckles are tinted white. You only allow yourself to glance at each image for a moment before yanking on the lever for the next. When you reach the beginning of the reel again, you study the mirror and only see opaque, unmoving blackness. What Dieter told you that day in his suite at the Plaza echos back into your mind:

“He tries to talk to you. But you’re closed off. That’s why he couldn’t come through the psychomanteum.”

The click-slide of the View-Master makes you flinch. You slow down this time.

The fingerprint ink pad when you were booked for drug trafficking charges. Under arrest for selling controlled substances in the 4th degree, a Class C felony in the state of New York. The cops tried to plea bargain with you, offering to drop charges in exchange for testimony against your husband. Your assigned public defender urged you to take this deal, but you refused.

“You should’ve taken it, Lou,” Ethan told you afterwards, “Don’t ever take the fall for me like that again, you hear me?”

Click-slide

The infinite, tunneled reflection of the mirror maze. Where you and Ethan, stoned out of your fucking gourds, found a little boy crumpled on the floor crying. You consoled him and then the three of you found your way to the exit together and returned the boy to his mom.

“We parented the shit out of that,” he told you later, “I think we’d make a pretty good team.”

Click-slide

The IV drip of antibiotics being replaced with another as Ethan cried and held your hand. An OB/GYN just advised that the infection was so severe, your reproductive organs were damaged beyond repair. The scarring told the doctors that conception would be almost impossible.

Ethan’s choked sobs, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I should have told you.”

Click-slide

The pile of crescent moon fingernail clippings on your mother’s dining room table. Ragged edges where they were just attached to you. Your mom screaming at Ethan, “You ruined her fucking life, you worthless piece of shit.”

You stop there.

The memory settles in your body like you swallowed a quart of battery acid. Your throat burns and your eyes well up with tears. The caustic substance eats through the layers of your stomach and pools inside you, liquefying your guts.

You look up at the mirror and all you see is the blackest ink in the city and a fucking abyss of darkness and nothing at all.

Your grip on the chair tightens. More than anything in the world you want to leave. But you somehow know that he can hear you and you need to tell him.

“Ethan-”

A sob catches in your throat. You bury your head in your hands and squeeze your eyes closed, trying to calm the hysteria buzzing across your tightening skin. When your breath starts to even out, you continue in a shaky voice, “I- I know you’re here. And- and I’m sorry, I don’t think I can do this right now. It’s too hard. I’m sorry. It’s-”

An unbearable ache radiates from your heart. You sag down further into your own lap, digging your fingers into your hair and tugging at it just to feel some kind of external pain, “It’s my fault. I know it is. I’m s-s-so sorry.”

It’s like your whole body is collapsing in on itself, dissolving cell by cell without mercy. Your heaving chest pulls your sobs so tight they just come out airy like a dog whistle.

“Lou, it’s not your fuckin’ fault,” Ethan’s coarse voice cuts through your mind like a machete.

Your spine stiffens and you sit up, wiping the hot tears from your face, “Wh-what?”

Just when you think it was your imagination, some kind of an auditory hallucination your inflamed mind conjured up to make you feel better, you hear him again.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Christ’s sake, Lou, of course it’s not your fault.”

You blink and sniffle, furrowing your brow when you see that you’re still in the psychomanteum, mirror unchanged.

“I love you and I’m sorry,” he cuts through again, “But it’s not your fault and I couldn’t let you go on not knowing that, ok?”

And you feel him, like you used to. Before the coke deteriorated him into a stranger. His presence is a blanket around your shoulders, protecting you and keeping you warm.

Your heart pounds so thick with love it’s like a miracle salve on your open wounds. The tissues and organs so putrid and rotted, a puddle at your feet just a moment ago, start to regenerate and reassemble.

Your chest flutters and you nod, “Ok. I- I love you too.”

“I know you do, baby.”

You whisper, “I miss you so much. Fuck, it sucks so much without you.”

He doesn’t say anything, but you understand that he hears you.

You swallow the thick saliva in your throat and ask him hesitantly, “How do you… feel about Dieter?”

“You know, I always liked him,” Ethan tells you, “Triangle guy. Know who else is a triangle guy?”

Your stomach flips and you chuckle, dropping your gaze to your trembling hands “Me.”

“That’s right,” he says, and you swear you can hear the smile in his voice, “Listen, Lou, I want you to be happy.”

“Ok,” you sniffle. The ache in your chest swells. You twist around the plain white gold wedding band on your ring finger.

“Does he make you happy?”

“Yeah,” you smile and your vision goes blurry with tears as you nod, “Yeah, he really does.”

“Well, there you go.”

You wipe your eyes on the sleeve of your sweater and chuckle, “You gotta let him be, though. Stop trying to scare him off.”

“Hey now, I just needed to get your attention. You don’t have to worry about me any more, ok? I’m gonna get out of your hair.”

“Can I visit with you this way? With the, um, psychomanteum?”

“Anytime, babe,” his voice is warm and reassuring, “Hey, remember our first dance? That Everly Brothers song?”

“Yeah,” you grin, then sing softly, “Whenever I want you, all I have to do is dream. Dream, dream, dream…”

His presence starts to wane.

Then he’s gone.

You take a deep breath and fold your legs up underneath you, dwelling in the stillness. The ache in your body fades into a whisper. Your crying slows to a trickle.

When you swing the closet door open and step into your bedroom, you find Dieter pacing back and forth at the foot of your bed. He strides up to you immediately, his brows pressed together and warm brown eyes wide with worry. His hands cup your cheeks as he searches your face with the silent question: Did it work?

Tears burn behind your eyes again, a fresh new wave. Residual sorrow. Relief. You manage a tight nod before the sobs start vibrating through your ribcage.

“C’mere sweetheart,” he rumbles, presses a kiss into your forehead, and pulls you into a hug.

As you let the heaviness inside your soul expel through your heaving chest, Dieter guides you to your bed. You follow his persuasion, curling up against him. He holds you close and pets your hair, assuring you in a hoarse whisper, “You did great, Lua. I’m so proud of you.”

You wipe your face with the sleeve of your sweater and meet his gaze, “Thank you.”

His lips twitch into a smile and his thumb grazes your cheek. You relax into his side again with a content sigh, feeling the emotional fatigue start to set in, “I’m so sleepy now.”

“Take a nap, doll,” he murmurs, “I’ll wake you up in time to get ready.”

His thumb works against your shoulder in a soothing back and forth rhythm. It works like hypnosis, lulling you into a deep seeded comfort, blooming in your chest with a yawn. Your bones feel heavy inside your body.

“Mmmm ok,” you manage to slur out before your eyelids flutter shut and the world goes dark.

The main dining room of Gabriel Kreuther is lavish, but cozy. Wood beams stretch up the walls towards the curved ceiling, from which a flock of sparkling crystal storks hang. The table cloth and wide, upholstered chairs are a creamy white. Rosé cloth napkins and a gold lamp sit on the table and add a touch of soft romance to the atmosphere.

Dieter sits perpendicular to you, grinning as he watches your sparkling eyes study the menu. His gaze drops down the black satin shoulder straps of your dress, following the plunging v neckline. He licks his lips. A wave of smooth, shiny fabric flares out from the cinched waist. That fucking dress, Louella, holy shit.

“Is it too boob-y?” you asked him after getting dressed, looking down into your own cleavage with a frown. Then you turned around and showed him the back, adding an addendum to your question, “Or too short?”

Most of your back was left exposed by the garment. The hem sat just below your ass, teasing his hungry eyes. To most people, the answer would probably be yes. But he fucking needed to take you out while wearing it. Needed to show you off and make spectators ripe with envy at this stunning woman he somehow managed to woo.

He ached with lust and shook his head, practically drooling, “I refuse to let you leave in anything else.”

Dieter drinks in your form now, thinking of all the things he wants to do to you. Imagines his cock smashed between your tits, thrusting slick along your sternum as you push your tender flesh together around him. Imagines your pink painted lips sealed around his girth, face shiny with spit, eyes watering as he fucks your mouth. Imagines your cunt, all swollen and begging for attention. Sliding his finger along the wet seam of you, watching the breath enter your lungs in a gasp.

“Are we doing three courses or four?” you ask, pulling him from his depraved thoughts.

He clears his throat and scoots his chair closer to the table, trying to conceal the erection that manifested while his mind ran rampant, “Fuck it, let’s do four.”

Or five, he thinks, imagining himself crawling under this table on his hands and knees just to taste you.

“You ok?” you chuckle, raising an eyebrow at his lingering gaze.

He looks around to make sure nobody is within earshot, then leans in and husks, “I want you so fucking bad right now.”

Your lips part and your tongue darts between them, then your eyelashes flutter, “Well, you’re gonna have to be patient, then, aren’t you?”

A hum emits from his throat involuntarily. He throbs against the seam of his pants.

You react to this with a quick glance to his mouth as you purr, “You’re gonna be a good boy for me, right?”

He swallows a moan. Your lips curl into a sultry, knowing smile. You press your eyebrows together, batting your lashes, pouting your lips, “Because good boys get rewarded. Is that what you want?”

“Holy fuck-” he rasps, leaning towards you.

“Yes or no,” you’re so close he can feel the words against his lips.

“Yes,” he croaks. His ears feel hot, pulse thudding hard against his neck, cock stiff and leaking against the constraints of his slacks. Pleasure tingles at his core and he wants desperately to bend you over the table and fuck you right here, right now.

“Then you’ll be a good boy for me, right, Dee?” you whisper the words, and your lips stay apart from the utterance of his name, tongue poised at the entrance of your mouth. The restaurant fades into the distance. Nothing else in the world exists except your lips, your tongue, your hot gaze on him.

“Yes,” he manages.

You drag your finger along his jaw and coo, “Good.”

“Hi, my name is Liz and I’ll be your server, how are we doing tonight?” a squeaky voice sounds from the opposite corner of the table.

You jolt upright and smile politely up at her, “Hi, good, how are you?”

The two of you go back and forth a little. He’s not sure what you’re talking about, because he’s still lost in a wanton haze, trying to catch his breath, staring at you with heat in his eyes. Eventually you blink at him, as if the faceless waitress asked him a question.

He shakes his head back and forth, trying to snap out of it, clears his throat, and looks down at his menu with a frown, “I uh… I’ll have what she’s having.”

The waitress, as it turns out, does have a face, and when he glances up at her, her bright blue eyes widen in recognition, “Oh wow, Dieter Bravo?”

He smiles and nods, extending his sweaty hand across the table, being sure not to stand up and present his tented crotch to the poor girl, “Yeah, what’s your name?”

“Liz,” she reminds him and shakes his hand.

“You already told us that, sorry,” Dieter chuckles at himself, “Nice to meet you, Liz. Hey, could we get a bottle of champagne?”

“Nice to meet you, too,” she beams a wide, starstruck smile, “Oh, um, of course. Which one?”

“Well,” he sighs, glancing at you, then clasps his hands together and shrugs, “Most expensive one you have. We’re celebrating.”

“Absolutely. If you don’t mind me asking, what are you two celebrating tonight?”

He frowns and tilts his head towards you, not sure what to say. You take this as your cue to explain.

“We exorcized my apartment,” you tell her, grinning from ear-to-ear.

The waitress’s mouth gapes open in confusion, and she looks to Dieter for guidance on how to navigate the response, but he just bursts out laughing.

You wince and your face gets all flushed, “Sorry, I-”

“No, you’re right,” Dieter assures you, his voice still quivering with laughter, then flashes a charming smile to the waitress, “Thank you so much, darling.”

“Oh, um,” her cheeks tinge pink and she tucks her hair behind her ear, “You’re so very welcome, sir. I’ll be right back with the champagne.”

After the waitress walks away, he swivels his gaze to you with an amused grin, “Woooow.”

“I’m so sorry,“ you put your hand over your mouth and laugh, “Why did you take me out, again?”

His smile stretches wide and he releases a content sigh, “Because I like you.”

“Good,” you smirk, dropping your gaze to his lips, “Can I kiss you, or is that not allowed in public?”

“God, please kiss me,” he murmurs, leaning in towards you.

“Yeah?” you smile, your shining eyes meeting his before they flutter closed and you drift closer.

Dieter hums in the affirmative, pressing his lips against yours. Your lips are so fucking soft and warm and he loses himself in the kiss. His throat rumbles with want and he brings his hand to the nape of your neck, pulling you closer, kissing you deeper, savoring the taste of your saliva and the perfect way your tongue rolls against his, and the the huffy, barely audible little whines that squeak from your mouth.

He could lose himself for hours like this.

Liz interrupts again, gently placing a bucket of ice and two champagne flutes on the table.

You pull back, clearing your throat before telling her, “Thank you so much.”

“I apologize, I totally forgot to ask before, and- and my manager just reminded me,” Liz grimaces, “Can I take a peek at your IDs for the champagne? If I don’t I’ll get in trouble, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s no problem,” you assure her with a wave. Both of you pull out your wallets and hand your ID cards to Liz, who surveys them both, eyes lingering on yours for a bit longer than his.

She hands them back and flashes a cheery smile, “Perfect, thank you. I’ll be right back with that bottle.”

Once the driver puts the black SUV in drive and sets course for your apartment, Dieter rests his hand on your leg. An electric current buzzes under his skin, pulsing from his head to his toes.

It’s a miracle he held it together in the restaurant. You didn’t make it easy. Gazing over at him with fuck-me-eyes. Wearing that goddamn dress. Purring in his ear between each course, “Look at you, being so patient.”

And:

“You’re doing so fucking good, Dee.”

And, his personal favorite:

“Are you thinking of all the fun treats you’ll get if you keep it up, baby?”

He sets his thumb in motion and lightly grips the soft flesh of your thigh, leaning close to your ear to murmur, “So how’d I do? Was I a good boy?”

“Oh, Dee,” you coo and plug your index finger into his jugular notch, then drag your fingernail up the center of his throat. Over every ridge and valley. You split his adam’s apple in half. Your nail catches against the grain of every stubbled hair in its path. Curls up to the bottom of his chin.

And he’s yours, all yours.

“You were such a good boy,” you whisper, and it strikes your vocal chords just enough to gain a raspy edge, “I think you should get a reward, don’t you?”

Dieter nods, his fingers working further up your thigh, closer to your heat, “I think so.”

“Go ahead, baby,” you breathe, letting your legs fall open for him, “You deserve it.”

The closer his hand slides to your sex, the hotter it gets. You whine and arch your back against the seatbelt.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Lua,” he chokes out, pulling your underwear to the side, “I can feel my fingers defrosting.”

You giggle just as his knuckle grazes your clit, and your breath hitches.

“Look at me, baby,” Dieter husks. You do, and your eyes are all glazed over and dark in the passing streetlights. He presses his forehead against yours and strokes the sensitive nub, slow and meticulous, and your eyelids flutter.

“That’s perfect,” you whimper, nodding your head in approval. Each pant from your lips becomes more vocal than the last. He kicks himself for not getting a ride in something with a fucking privacy partition.

Dieter turns towards the driver and asks, “Do you mind turning on the radio?”

The man mutters something to himself, then twists the volume knob on his stereo. An upbeat pop song fills the silence between your strained whimpers.

Dieter brings his focus back to you. Your face, all twisted up with pleasure. Your swollen clit under the gentle strumming of his knuckle. Your lips, fuck, your goddamn lips. All pouty and wet from your own spit because you can’t stop licking and biting at them.

“Faster, Dee,” you whine, knees falling further apart.

He adjusts his touch, dragging his fingers through your slick before quickening his pace, drawing circles around the erogenous bud, “Like this?”

“Yes- oh, fuck. That’s it, baby,” you purr.

Dieter rasps into your ear, “So fucking wet for me, Lua, oh my god-”

He glides his touch down your seam, and you’re so fucking gooey and hot, coating his fingertips. A whimper flutters from your lips when he traces your soaked entrance. Your tight cunt squeezes around him as he slides two fingers inside you.

You gasp and cover your mouth.

He stiffens his fingers into a hook, pulling up through the drenched silken fabric of your pussy to that rubbery plane that makes you muffle your own choked moan. His thumb finds your clit and starts to roll against it. Your back arches towards the roof of the car and you nod and whimper under his control.

His heart starts pounding as he watches you start to lose yourself in his touch. Beads of sweat gathering on your forehead, muted moans against your trembling hand, the steady pressure of his fingers hooked into your g-spot, the incessant strumming of your clit.

He brings his lips to your ear and whispers, “Wanna see you cum all over the seat of this fucking car, baby, can I do that? Can I make you soak this fucking seat?”

You nod frantically and withdraw your hand from your mouth, panting, “So fucking good, holy fuck, Dee, you’re such a good boy-“

And you’re getting frenzied and louder, so he kisses you, and he rubs you from the inside now, too, little movements he has to strain himself to control. You gasp against his mouth and pull back, grabbing your car seat head rest with one hand as the other clamps over your mouth, your eyes fluttering, limbs shaking, and he’s in fucking awe of how breathtakingly hot you are right now.

The moans are barely dampened by your hand and he’s sure the driver can hear you but he doesn’t fucking care, all that matters is your shivering body and his hand all wrapped around your cunt as your breath hitches and the walls around his fingers spasm and you’re practically fucking howling he could just marry you right now jesus fucking christ. You cum hard, your delicious nectar marking everything between your pulsing pussy and the back of the driver’s seat.

You collapse back into your seat, chest heaving, and look up at him with dreamy, half-lidded eyes, smiling sweetly. He pulls his fingers out of you and brings them to his mouth, sucking your cum off each digit with reverence. You tug on his jacket and pull him into a gentle kiss.

The driver clears his throat and Dieter looks around outside the vehicle, realizing it’s in park in front of your apartment, “Oh shit, we’re here.”

“I didn’t want to… interrupt,” the driver tells him awkwardly, confirming his suspicion that your backseat activities were not discreet.

Lua, you fucking angel, you burst out laughing, “I’m so sorry!”

Dieter tips the man $200 and the two of you make your way up to your apartment.

[ Next Chapter ]

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