#you know i know it fits mari but I think of mari neck broken in this is overpoweringly uncomfy

[lilac-udon]

[2demondogs]

LH Arthur Morgan/Reader Headcanons

Tags: Gender neutral reader. Low Honor Arthur. Fluff... in his own special way. A/N: Yes I kept Thinking after I posted those quotes. Yes I already posted that post because I'm writing a fic based on it.

Everything is tinged with violence anymore. It's a survival instinct for Arthur, nowadays, to seek it out in nonviolence; naturally, nonviolence bleeds into violence, too. Love and murder are brothers. The interconnected nature of the world's starkest contrasts is one of the few things that keeps him interested in it.

Mostly it manifests as some weird affection. There's a few normal compliments thrown about, but normally... he'd like to be inside you - fused into your body, that is, how Zeus undid you. He likes neck kisses because it would be easy for either of you to kill one another, yet you don't. (How tender.)

Love makes him feel less like a workhorse. After Mary came 'round again for a favor, he was ready to give up having his own desires. Freeing Micah was astounding all around. There is no one safe from his sneaking suspicion of ulterior motive - save for you. You don't seem to think much at all around him; he don't have to think much around you, neither.

The most vulnerable you've seen him was the first time you complimented him. He isn't used to be worth anything beyond his capabilities - so by the time your run-ins have led you to taking the seat next to him in the saloon, he's not sure why the hell you're buying him a round. That same flash of something broken and distrusting goes through his eyes every time you do things for him just because.

Speaking of, your meet-cute was... fitting. It took a few before it was clear you simply run the same parts as the gang. Standing off under the train tracks with a torn, dismembered body between you, was the first. Guns stayed put until you figured neither one of you was a serial killer - at least, not the one who left this mess - because the body was too old and you'd both know better than to stick around.

[holylulusworld]

Designed by pain (14)

Summary: Broken hearts are hard to put back together. 8 years ago, Dean lost something he didn’t even know he had in the first place. Will he get a second chance?

Pairing: former AU!Dean Winchester x fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, language, post break-up, daddy Dean

A/N: This was an alternative idea for the first chapter of my Bucky story: Monster-in-law masterlist. I decided to use it for a story with Dean.

Designed by pain masterlist

Designed by pain (13)

“Fuck, get off,” you curse under your breath. Hours after you leave Mary’s house you try to get the engagement ring off your finger. It doesn’t move. Almost as if the golden band wants to mock you or force you to keep it on. “Get off!!”

“Y/N, is everything alright?” Dean calls from outside the bathroom at his place. He offered you his guestroom for the night. You were too tired and emotionally drained to find a hotel room. “Do you need anything? I can go and buy whatever you forgot.”

“It won’t get off!” You huff and slam your hands onto the sink. “It’s stuck. I can’t get it off.” Choking out a sob you stare at your reflection in the mirror. So many years of independence and peace down the drain because the cocky asshole outside the bathroom couldn’t stay away from you.

“What? Wait! I’m coming!” Dean exclaims before opening the door. He covers his eyes and stumbles inside the room. “What did you say? Do you need help? Is your toe stuck in the faucet?”

You half laugh, half snort. “What? Why do you think my toe got stuck in the faucet? I didn’t take a bath, and would never stick my toe inside the faucet.”

Dean nervously chuckles. He rubs the back of his neck as he finally looks at you. “Well, accidents happen, sweetheart. A faucet can be damn dangerous.”

You snicker. “Your toe got stuck in the faucet, right? How did you do it, Dean?” He pouts and crosses his arms over his chest.

“I’m not telling you.”

“Well, at least your dick didn’t get stuck inside the faucet.” You grin from ear to ear. Teasing Dean is fun.

“Y/N!” He gapes at you. “I’m not some pervert putting his dick into the faucet!” Dean narrows his eyes to give you the stinky eye. “You know that my dick would never fit into a faucet.”

“You only didn’t put it inside because it would not fit,” you accuse, earning a huff. “I wasn’t talking about my toe, Dean.” You finally lift your hand to show him the ring. “It won’t get off.”

Dean hums. He steps closer to grab your hand to look at the ring. “Then, don’t take it off. It’s right where it belongs.”

You breathe his name and shake your head. “You know I can’t keep it. The ring never belonged to me, Dean. Whatever we had back then is long gone. We can’t just go back in time and make things right. I raised our son on my own and started a new life without you.”

Dean drops his gaze. He nods because there is no denying that he fucked things up. Even though Mary played a huge part in your breakup, it was his fault that he didn’t stay with you that day. Dean knows there is nothing he can do to make things up to you.

“Stay—” He murmurs, eyes searching yours. “Back then, I was a fool. I was selfish and scared of commitment. But I know now how it feels to live without you, and I’d rather have you and Michael in my life.” Dean raises his hand to stop you from replying. “Don’t answer right now. I know I have no right to beg you to stay, but I do.”

“Dean, I—” Your voice cracks. Right now, you’re not able to respond or even think straight. The past came crashing back into your life, and you cannot handle anything but focus on getting that damn ring off your finger.

He turns to leave the room but glances over his shoulder. “I’ll get some olive oil,” Dean says and points at your hand. “For the ring.”

You watch him leave, feeling bad for him. Dean broke your heart, but you know now, that it wasn’t all his fault. Maybe you should’ve stayed that night. If you hadn’t run away like an angry child, you could’ve talked things out and ruined Mary’s plans.

Dean darts his tongue out, focused on rubbing more olive oil into your skin. He gently massages your finger and tries to move the ring. “Almost there, sweetheart.”

You nod and watch him slowly slide the ring off your finger. It feels good that it’s gone, but at the same time, you feel a sadness you haven’t experienced in years. “Thank you.”

“I’ll put it away,” he says, sounding as sad as you feel. “In case you ever want it back.” Dean gives you a sad smile before walking out of the room. You sigh and grab one of the paper towels to clean your hand.

“Do you want to order takeout?” Dean calls from outside the room. “Michael is still at Sammy’s place, but we could eat together.”

“Sounds good,” you answer. “You can choose. You need to eat something after you refused to eat more of my mince pie.”

“That was not nice of you, Y/N. You know about my weakness for pie and ordered this monstrosity,” Dean huffs as he enters the living room. “A low blow.”

“It was payback for all the times I had to eat fatty burgers or pizza,” you shoot back. “You never invited me to a nice restaurant, Winchester.”

“Sweetheart, that’s a lie! What about the little Italian restaurant,” he bites back. “You almost inhaled their food.”

You purse your lips. Dean is not wrong. Their food was delicious. “I don’t know what you are talking about, Dean.”

He smirks. “How about I order takeout from them, and you can tell me again that I never invited you for dinner to a nice restaurant.”

“Your house is not a restaurant, Winchester,” you argue. “Do not cheat! Ordering takeout is not taking me out on a date.”

“Okay. Let’s go on a date right now,” he hastily says, smirking as you look at him with wide eyes.

“What? That’s not what I meant…I mean…” Stammering you look at Dean, unable to come up with an excuse. You said what you said and now it’s too late.

Part 15

Tags in reblog.

[givethemsmut]

Dom Mysterio x Reader

Chapter Twenty | Where It All Started…

I woke up to someone pulling me into them, my ass fitting perfectly in their crotch and their hands cupping my breasts.

“Finn. Push over,” I said while pushing forward.

Pushing his mouth up to my ear, his hot breath covering my neck. “Finn, huh? That’s who you think is pressed against you? Does it feel like Finn?”

There was no denying his smooth voice skating down my back. “Dom. Don’t let go.”

I thought I dreamed it when I woke up with my head against his chest and his hand finding my ass. “Hey sleepy head,” he hummed.

“You’re really here. Where’s Finn?”

“I kicked him out. For some reason he was sleeping in my bed with my girl half naked. Is there something you want to tell me?” Dom asked fully clothed with his ankles crossed and arm still around me.

“No, don’t be silly. I’m not attracted to him. He was comforting me, seeing some girl on top of you wasn’t fun for me. She doesn’t seem like she’s acting, her part seems all too real.” I said sitting up.

He looked at me in this way I couldn’t figure out, almost like he had no real thoughts on Liv. “I can’t speak for her intentions, mi amore. I know it’s the script, I don’t want her, and I’m not going to fuck her for any script. Did my dick react when she did that? For a second because I want pussy. That doesn’t mean I want hers.”

Leaning into my palms I leaned over and let over mouths softly touch. Dom kissed me back before his mouth opened on mine and I felt him touch push against mine.

Straddling his lap I let my arms fall around his neck before he pulled away just enough to get his words out. “Tell me you haven’t take any pills. Tell me you aren’t high.”

Still kissing his neck at every word I stopped myself. “I’m not high, Dominik.”

“When was the last pill? How many?” His hands were holding my hips in place.

Sitting back, I stared at him in disbelief, “Last night. Two. Happy now?”

Pushing me down to the bed and off his lap he leaned over the bed. “I’m not fucking you high. I’m not gonna support your old pill habit. The last time I fucked you high I felt like a fucking rapist. I had no idea how much you remembered or wanted it. I’m not doing it again.”

“Are you kidding me, Dom? The last time you fucked me high was high school on the ski trip where you saw every pill Blaine fed me and every drink I threw on top of the high. I was doing what everyone was doing. I knew we had sex, Dom.” I held onto his shirt forcing him to hover above me even more.

Scoffing, Dom, looked down at me. “Blaine kept getting you high all night. The amount of vodka on top of that would have anyone fucked up. We didn’t have sex just one time either, babe.”

Waiting for him to continue, I opened my legs letting him adjust to the space between them and kiss his neck as he spoke. “He was hellbent on proving we fucked or were fucking, who knows. He kept that fucking dumb game going with the dares. More and more drastic every-time.”

“I remember, Dom.” My hands fisted the fabric of his shirt and pulled him closer.

“Do you? You couldn’t even stand up without help. Blaine dared you to kiss me, that’s when it went from bad to worse.” His legs pushed up against mine and I could feel his body finally press against mine. “I looked in your eyes and you weren’t there. You were high on pills, I could have been anyone Blaine told you to fuck in front of our friends. I felt like a fucking predator.”

That night came back to me years later in broken pieces and shame.

Blaine hadn’t forced me to get fucked up the way I was on day two of our senior ski trip. I did it all on my own every time I asked him for another pill or opened a new bottle of liquor. 

I avoided eye contact with Dom until I was messed up enough to not notice him judging me. I was tired of overcoming everything, I was tired of watching him and Marie or wonder how much I would lose him. I wanted to get numb and stay numb until I decided so that’s what I did.

Blaine made it his personal mission to prove Dom and I were fucking only he was about five months too late. Marie had occupied that space now. It didn’t stop the flirting or teasing but we hadn’t actually slept together for a while. Blaine didn’t know that and that’s what fueled his mission the night we played Dares.

It was Blaine’s favorite twisted game to bring out when everyone was drunk enough to not want to argue with him. Marie joined us but we all knew the girl who refused to let loose wasn’t about to partake in anything.

Blaine started with Ashley who he dared to run outside naked while on IG Live then he moved to his other best friend Jaden who he dared to play condom roulette with his girlfriend since middles school. He had poked holes in only some of the stash and Jaden completed the deed before coming back. 

For some reason people couldn’t say no to him. He was cruel, manipulative and everything he said was dripping with anterior motives. 

“Your turn babe. Don’t let me down,” he smirked at me while I sat on his lap. Dropping down to my knees between his legs I guess his dare before he spoke again. “I want you to fuck Dominik. Right here in front of everyone.”

I swallowed hard, finding Dom’s eyes and trying to stay composed. Any tick could give Blaine what he wants, the truth that we had been hiding.

“Or just tell us the truth babe. I want every horny detail of how you fucked your step brother.”

Turning around I stood up, “He’s not my step brother, we aren't related. Why are you doing this?”

“As your boyfriend I think it’s weird that you don’t put out unless he’s in the room. I wanna know why. You wanna fuck him? I wanna watch.” His hand slapped my ass like I would bring him home a championship. 

Walking over to Dom I grabbed the vodka bottle, drowning my liver or whatever organs could get drunk off it. Silently, I stared at him waiting for him to talk. “Blaine, you can’t be serious. I’m not fucking your girl.”

“Don’t be such a pussy. It’s just sex. Maybe your girlfriend wants to know why you get hard for your sister too.”

Straddling his lap he tried to fight it but not the way I imagined. “I’m sorry, Dom.”

“We aren’t fucking in front of everyone. You’re fucking drunk and high.” Dom’s voice was full of rage at the idea.

Marie was watching closely at every move like it told a story we wouldn’t. “It’s just a dare, babe. Senior year is supposed to be wild and fun.”

“I need a condom,” he whispered to me while my hands caressed his face. Almost panic like we would forget in the heat of the moment.

“Confident, I like it.” Blaine showed from the armchair across from us, perfect view. 

Kissing Dom the room seemed to fall away completely. Our mouths were hungry for each other and our hands grabbed at what we could reach. 

“Fuck, slow down.” He whispered to me and it only made more of a mess between my legs for him. My hands works to pull on the waist band of his shorts and find him inside. 

Grabbing my hands and holding me still he barked his demands at me. “Slow down. Just ride it a little first. Let him suffer. My girlfriend is right there.”

Dom’s erection was pressing against his shorts when I readjusted myself and started rolling my hips. Chugging more vodka I tried to forget the people around us. 

I was spinning, drunk and high enough that my eyelids felt heavy so I let them clamp shut. “Oh my god, Blaine. I’m too wet. Please.”

I knew I said the wrong name but Blaine didn’t get to have that part of us. Dom and I behind closed doors was private, no one could have that.

Dom looked at Blaine like it was enough proof when he urged Dom to keep going with it. “Dude, how is that not enough proof? She said your name. She’s too fucked up to even know the difference.”

“I’ve said the wrong before. That doesn’t prove shit. Let her ride it.” Blaine wasn’t taking any amount of tampered evidence and it was pissing me off. 

Riding his lap I felt euphoric, airy and barely there. I was a ghost and shell of myself while I was rubbing my panties on Dom’s lap. I begged him to fuck me and watched him begrudgingly guide every inch of himself inside me before he exhaled. 

I continued to say Blaine’s name and ride Dom like one of my toys even though his anger was only building. His clenched fists, the way he would only breathe heavily with no groaning or moaning, the way he started at me pissed off. I knew I had crossed some line but it was protecting him.

Blaine couldn’t win that one and Dom would never forgive me otherwise. Hurting him was the only way I could protect him.

“You're mad I said his name instead of yours.” My hands found their way under his shirt, touching him.

“The one and only time I felt second choice. That doesn’t change the fact that I can’t fuck you while you’re high. I wanna know you’re here when I’m making you come.” His mouth covered my neck in kisses while my back arched.

“I’m here, Dom. Please.”

Dom pulled away, his hand immediately adjusting himself above me. “You haven’t even been cleared baby. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

I kept thinking to last night, how willing Finn was to touch me while Dom made excuses. My mind worked overtime thinking Liv had something to do with it. Dom took time to shake off the sass of his character but this would be a near kind of carrying your work home.

“There’s other ways to make each other feel good, Dom.”

His head fell, dipping, his hair only trapped by his hat he still had on. His face found mine, so close it hurt with my legs still tangled in his. “I don’t want to touch you, mi amore, I want to fuck you. It’s so hard to fucking control it with you like this.”

“Like what, Dominik? Desperate? Jealous?” I begged, hands still touch him under his shirt.

”No. No, with your legs open and your pussy wet. The way you fucking whimper for my dick. Fuck. I want to baby but I want more than we can do.” His hand dipped between us and I felt his fingers find my clit. “You wanna come on my fingers or my cock?”

“Dom,” I whispered and agreed forcing him to stop.

“Get dressed for the doctors. I’m gonna find Finn.” I watched him adjust himself and let me get ready all breathless the way he left me.

[woodchipp]

"You were overcame. You were sick of everything."

Okay. Mind actually showing us how Sunny got to this point, though?

and wow. the prose is written so well. i can feel the frustration /s

Also, wouldn't "overwhelmed" be a better fit in this context?

"Your precious violin lay shattered at the bottom of the staircase."

"Precious" violin? Didn't the game imply he only saw it as a means to spend more time with his sister? Lost Library outright states he was annoyed by having to practice playing it!

1) For how important their big argument is to the plot, we never even get to hear it, nor does the game bother to show exactly what served as the straw that broke the camel's back and drove Sunny to destroy the violin. I, for one, would've been genuinely interested to learn that. Maybe Mari could've said something so deeply upsetting that Sunny saw no other way to "get back" at her for hurting him? That would've made his anger a bit more understandable, imo.

Of course, giving characters understandable reasons for doing what they do is an outdated writing convention.

2)

"MARI was yelling at you."

I love how Sunny gets this large and detailed rundown of his feelings at the moment and all Mari ever gets is this sentence. Yeah, because who cares about what she thinks? Who cares that she actually has a valid reason for berating Sunny? Her point of view is irrelevant since she's Wrong™ and she's about to get stuffed into the fridge anyway!

What nuanced storytelling.

3)

"She didn't understand you at all... She didn't understand that you just weren't good enough. The only thing you hold onto was your anger. This pain... was it her fault?"

This is laughable. "uuuuu nobody Understands the limitless depths of my sufferi-" shut the fuck up. you did a shitty thing and you're getting rightfully called out for it.

I wouldn't be as harsh if the game put effort into showing how Sunny progressively grew exhausted (and exactly how harsh Mari got when he made mistakes), but it doesn't. I won't do the writer's job for them because I shouldn't have to.

(I know I said this a hundred times already, but for the purposes of this post, I needed to reiterate.)

4) Why were they arguing specifically at the top of the staircase in the first place?

Note that neither the caption nor the photo seem to show Mari being physically violent with Sunny, yet he interprets her getting in his way as a "fight" anyway. If the fight in question was verbal, that definition doesn't fit because Sunny isn't shown talking at any point during the argument.

"Photo of a Murder", huh?

Granted, Sunny is 12 and obviously has no idea what manslaughter is, but "murder" implies an intent to kill. A more neutral term like "death" would've been more appropriate here, imo.

Different words mean different things.

I think I see why these were scrapped. The game labeling what Sunny did as a "murder" wouldn't have allowed the narrative to paint him as an unfortunate victim of circumstance, now, would it? :)

>>"It was an accident, right?" >>"Photo of a Murder"

lol and lmao

"Nothing but scratches."

Because falling from a staircase apparently doesn't leave any bruises that would've incriminated Sunny. No one could differentiate a neck broken due to a fall from a neck snapped by a noose either, it seems.

How awfully convenient.

(No, I don't believe his parents bribed the police. There isn't enough concrete evidence to back that up.)

1) Exactly why is Basil's first thought "I can't let anyone find out what happened"? I get he's mentally unsound himself and Stressed™, but there's only so much those two factors can be used as a justification for, and what Basil did next can't be justified by them. Moreover, the fact that was the first thing he thought of suggests it's an instinctual response. What, was Basil involved in similar cover-ups before? This makes no sense.

2)

"There's no way you can tell them the truth."

Why couldn't he just say that Mari's bad knee happened to buckle at the wrong time and she accidentally fell down the stairs, then? Since the game seems to imply Sunny was more willing to open up to Basil than to his other friends, I think it'd be reasonable to infer Sunny told him about the knee. And it would be a more plausible lie for a kid his age to tell!

The game has an easy and convenient cover-up story only to choose the most unnecessarily complicated one. peak writing

3)

"Who would believe... that it was... an accident?"

Literally everyone would. Unless Sunny had a history of being violent towards Mari (which is impossible since the game beats you over the head with how much he loved her), her death being accidental would have been the first thing to cross their minds, especially if Basil were to use the "bad knee" cover-up as described above.

Yes, Basil did what he did partly because he wanted to protect Sunny. However, if everything I've just dissected was his actual reasoning for doing something so demented, it's stupid and I will call it such.

"You think you see a figure pick something off the ground..."

Love the implication that a 12 yo child was somehow able to handle a 15 yo teenager all by himself. Because that's believable.

"For a moment, you feel at peace. You hate yourself for feeling this way. Is that all, then? Is everything going to be okay now?"

I want to emphasize just how inconceivably fucked-up this is.

Sunny's immediate reaction to the sight of his sister's hanged corpse upon snapping out of his dissociative fugue isn't horror or panickedly asking Basil what he has done.

It's relief. He feels at peace.

He's relieved that somebody cleaned up the mess he made.

[realcatalina]

Altered Richard III

I have prior read on webpage of Society of Antiquaries that their portrait of Richard III with broken sword has been altered. But honestly, I had no idea how much. (Because their description has...room for improvement.)

But when I discovered this copy...I started to wonder....

Ok, the proportions are not exact match in the copy...overall size of Richard has been enhanced into somebody with much larger bodyframe...however the differences in outfit and in sword...are very large.

And x-ray proves at least some of them show what was originally beaneat:

Such as the upturned bits of outfit near neck, much larger cuffs.

(some lines got but away from me. especially on right sleeve(from our POV. So take it with pinch of salt. But you get the picture...)

Imo the copy(with green outfit) has actually been created after some alterations already. It's overall side and proportions match well with these orange line on right:

Both red and orange line marks the non-original frames painting was once put into. Which both hid the edges of the painting, and with lack of sunlight, the colours didn't fade as in rest of the background.

We're not really that intrested in the orange line...although clearly the author of the copy did more of the sleeves than it revealed...and imo got inspired by outfit of Henry VII...because no way those cuts looked the shape as in the copy. Hell no.

(And in the copy the proportions are also off with overall frame of Richard, imo they tried to make him resemble Edward IV more, and be larger man...thus huge hands and big head matched with extremely short hands...like T-rex. Idk if nose's raise is meant to be there or not...the painting is certainly overpainted in that area now...but idk if for better or worse...)

But why do I think the orange line is 2nd frame and not first?

Because the copy shows half of the pommel of the sword...not all of it. But...that's not where the pommel originally was.

Idk much about swords, so I am including this to help us all understand what exactly was altered:

The actual round pommel is all the way on bottom of the painting, falling perfectly in line with the blade.

On copy it's straight line, but in painting itself now, the hilt of the sword is bend. Yet it should be straight!

Imo the hilt of sword was shorterned(altered) to fit the newer frame. Because pommel got completely covered, and it'd look weird.

(By the way swords with hilts of this lenght are not unusual as far as know... And idk if it's two-handed sword or not! Ask somebody who works with historical swords.)

But overall in x-ray the sword's blade is much wider, going narrower on top, the hilt is longer, the cross-guard is very simple...and it looks like sword you'd actually take with you on battlefield. Not the overgilded thing it looks like now!

Also the hair in x-ray is much more neath, with nice neath curls,

quite similiar to style of these protraits of Henry VII:

And no, I am not trying to disprove yet another portrait of Richard...

(In my post Mistaken identity I present evidence why I believe most portraits labelled as Richard III are actually Henry VII.)

But I have speculated that these two portraits might belong to earliest stage of Wewyck's workshop. Very early works.

But dendrology of Richard's painting shows baltic oak was cut in c.1515, so Socitey of Antiquaries believes it was created probably in 1520s or later.

But we have good indication that there was previous portrait of Richard, which matched this one at least in some aspects.

There is a figure from 16th Century Tapestry at St Mary’s Guildhall, which is by some believed to depict Richard III(with light hair):

And I agree, there is big resemblence in the face and position of hand...though not in overall outfit.(Idk if costume is accurate, with tapestries sometiems they aren't at all.)

But this tapestry was dated based upon its overall style to c.1510.

It predates the painting. Hence its totally possible it's based upon much earlier painting by early workshop of Meynnart Wewyck...or some other painter, possibly even in Richard's lifetime.

Either way, I'd love for Society of Antiquaries to restore the painting to how it originally looked. Because this truly is only painting where I am certain it is meant to be Richard III and nobody else.

[romancingdaffodils]

Eros - Part two

RAHHHHH

CUTIES !!!!

LOOK AT THEM THEY R IN LOVE !!!!

okay anyways hope u enjoy!!! lots of love - lilac ps. please help me i’m so alone.

1.2k+ words idek

“Are you going to cry?” Will asked, a genuine concern spread across his face. He knew Flo’s tears were happy, a response to being told the truth. Or what he believed to be true.

“Maybe.” she mumbled, letting out a string of giggles to prevent the tears. She hated crying. Hated it more than anything. Well, no, she hated heights more.

“You can cry.”

“I don’t want to cry.”

“You can cry, Flo.”

“No! It’s embarrassing, and pointless.”

“Makes your eyelashes longer.”

“Shut up!”

“It’s not entirely pointless.”

“You’re ruining the moment.”

“You’re refusing to cry.”

“Yes, but-“

“I can see the tears in your eyes.”

“Go away.”

“Flo.”

“Will.”

“You’re allowed to cry.”

“Stop it.”

“Come here.”

“No. You’ve hurt me.” she was obviously joking as she spoke, but put on a feigned frown.

“By being nice? Come here.” he said, leaning forward and hooking his arms under hers tugging her up into him. She yelped, kicking around her socked feet before relaxing into his chest. Falling into a fit of laughter, she buried her head into the crook of his neck. She straddled his lap as his legs moved up onto the couch, stretching out over the corduroy covered padding. He laughed softly, placing his hands on her hips. She hummed, taking comfort in his scent. Taking comfort in him.

“Nice skirt, by the way.” he said, moving his hand down to fidget with the pleated fabric.

“It best be nice, I spent about fifty quid on it.” she said into the crook of his neck, her breath tickling his skin.

“Where’d you get it from?” he asked, rubbing the end of the skirt between his thumb and index.

“The urban in Manny, went with Jazzy and An a few days ago.” she responded, sitting up and looking directly at him. She sat properly, still straddling him, all of her weight now onto his thighs. She put her hands on his shoulders, resting them there.

“Ah, nice. How is Jazzy? I’ve not seen her in a while. An is still in that band, right? We’ve gone horribly off topic.” he said, looking up at her. Brown eyes doing a soft triangle on her face: eyes, lips, eyes. He couldn’t help it.

“Jazzy’s good. She dyed her hair again. It’s all rainbow like now. Yeh, you gotta come with me to one of her gigs. You’ll love it, promise. Suppose we have gone off topic.” she responded, shifting lightly to sir more comfortably. She followed his eyes, a nervous feeling brewing in the pit of her stomach. All she could think was: ‘wow, he’s gorgeous.’ Off topic, related to the conversation they had previously had. The discussion of, ‘what are we?’. It hadn’t really been resolved. Two confessions with no answers.

“Flo,”

“Will?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“I’m scared.”

“Will you, be my girlfriend?”

“Oh thank god.”

“Answer the question.”

“Yes William, I’ll be your girlfriend.”

“Thank you Florence.” he said, smiling up at her. He knew she was going crazy right now, that she wanted to pick up her phone and send a message freaking out to her friends. She didn’t know he knew. But, he knew. He adored her for it. He adored her.

A comfortable minute of science was broken by Florence’s voice. She spoke softly, a wide smile planted on her face “Do you remember when we first met?”.

“Course. How could I forget? You smashed a bunch of plates and fell over trying to pick the shards up. The poor plates.”

“I had a dizzy spell.”

“You’re stupid, you were drunk.”

“I am not stupid!”

“Just a little bit.”

“Only for you.”

“Uh huh.”

“Can’t believe we met through Mari of all people.”

“I can.”

“She throws one hell of a party.”

“You sat in the corner with your friends the whole time, how would you know? Apart from when you were smashing plates. And, the only reason you were smashing plates was because Jaz made you grab more drinks.”

“Still!”

“Whatever you say, Flo.”

“We can never tell Mari that we’re together.”

“She’ll be the first person I tell.”

“Don’t lie.”

“Yeah you’re right, it’ll be Joe.”

“I love Joe!”

“You love Joe because he watches football with you.”

“Yeah, and?”

“You don’t love him for his beauty or his personality.”

“How dare you think me so shallow?!”

“Jaz told me you have a type.”

“Wh- WHAT?”

“Yeah.”

“SHE DIDNT.”

“Oh, she did. She told me all about your ex boyfriends, and everyone you’ve ever liked.” Will said, laughing after he spoke. The small smirk on his face reflected the teasing tone. He was exactly her type and he has never been more glad

“I hate Jazzy.”

“I’m quite fond of her actually.”

“Shut up!”

“Tall, skinny, plays guitar. Her exact words if I remember correctly.”

“You’re so horrible to me.” she whined, burying her head back into the crook of his neck. He continued laughing, rubbing one hand up and down her back, the other remained on her hip.

“You say that a lot.”

“I’m your girlfriend, I’m allowed to.”

“My girlfriend.”

“Your girlfriend.”

“God, you’re adorable.”

“Shut up.” she mumbled, her head hadn’t moved. She nuzzled further into his skin, fluttering her eyelashes in an attempt to tickle at the skin.

“I’m still not that ticklish.”

“Whatever.”

“You’re gorgeous.”

“Stop it.”

“Am I, your boyfriend, not allowed to appreciate, my girlfriend?”

“Please,”

“Please what, love?”

“Please.”

“You have to tell me what you want.”

“Will.”

“Ahh, I see.”

“Please.”

“You’re adorable. So perfect.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, so perfect. Just for me.”

“Just for you.”

“You’re flustered.”

“Maybe.”

“You are, you don’t speak properly when you are.”

“Shut up!”

“You’re embarrassed.”

“Will.”

“Florence,” her name rolled of his tongue, like a droplet rolling off of a leaf. He was sure no one had ever been this perfect for him, his Florence.

“Enough now, please.”

“You can’t handle being complimented.”

“You’re just terrible.”

“Yeah?”

“Terrible, and terribly handsome.”

“Thank you, sweetness.”

“Yeah.”

“You like that one?”

“Reminds me of Morrissey. But, alas I do like it.”

“Why are you like this?”

“Sorry. I cant help it.” she said, before breaking into some out of tune Morrissey-like singing. Calling her impression terrible would be an understatement, it’s far worse than terrible. It’s dreadful. “♪ Sweetness, Sweetness I was only joking when I said I’d like to smash every tooth in your head. OooOooH. ♪” she sang.

“Please never do that again.”

“Do you not find it endearing?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You love me.”

“Yes, more than anything.”

“…My impressions are apart of me. Plus, I love the smiths.” the brief pause before she spoke outwardly showed her processing the statement. The cogs of her brain turning. Her mind screaming and her stomach doing flips.

“Maybe I don’t love you.”

“William!” she exclaimed, slapping his chest. She giggled, taking away from her feigned anger of before. Florence giggles often in Will’s presence, it’s not a laugh. It’s a love driven giggle. A flustered twirling of hair and biting of lips. It screams ‘I feel like a teenager again in the best way possible’.

“Sorry, I do love you Flo.” he replied, looking up at her once again. Her laughter. No, her giggle, was by far the best sound he had been graced with. It was moments like these he wished he could take a recording in his mind, to rewatch the way her cheeks dimpled as she smiled. The way her nose wrinkled, her. He wished he could always see her.

“Thank you! I suppose I do love you too.” Flo said, landing them into a pit of silence. It was enjoyable, a silence that allowed shameless looks to reverberate through the air. If anyone else were in the room it would be sickening to look at the two. Bright smiles and pink cheeks. A mutual admiration. A passionate and erotic love. A romantic adoration. Known mostly as eros.

This development of a relationship had been a long time coming. Everyone else but them could see it. Rather stereotypical, really. But, they were just blind fools. Will had realised he liked her when they met for the second time, in a park. She had recognised him and smiled, he had walked over starting a conversation. When Florence started rambling about her love for music, he realised they had been sat on a bench for three hours. Talking, about everything. How it was Flo’s dream to own a cafe, despite the fact she was gluten intolerant and wouldn’t be able to eat half of the baked goods. How Will desperately wanted to get into politics, both took an interest in that. An exchange in numbers and mutual friends had led to this moment. Years, two to be exact, had led to this moment. Two long antagonising years of pining, too scared to reach out for one another.

[toomanytookas]

“You can see it in his eyes that he wants to touch you, to hold your hand, but he doesn't.”

The way that I was just so obsessed with the moments that drew attention to their physicality with each other this chapter... I love how you incorporated both the memory of touch and its presence in their present dynamic (dude that Stay here with me. Be with me. WTF).

I think if I had to pick a singular favourite instance of touch, it is hands down that hug in the atrium on opening night.

God, Taylor, the way I FELT it deep in my soul and just cannot shake the warmth and comfort of it. It was such a tender and significant moment as an embodiment of what had been building between them... I just wanted to hang in the glowing, healing feeling that it gave my heart for forever.

I literally could have copied the entire scene and was very tempted to, but as much as I loved the way you described the mental feeling of the hug, I genuinely FELT the actual tactile details in my bones:

He presses his warm hand against your shoulder, tucking you farther and farther in, as the other hand spans across your entire back, his face burrowed in your neck. You feel him sigh, at ease, his ribs expanding into yours and you fight back the sharp swell of the sob caught in your throat. You had no idea what it meant to be held until this moment.  You don’t want to let him go. You don’t think you can. 

It was so, so damn lovely and sweet and the perfect balm for some of the sharpest ache of their navigating becoming close again.

There's something about the language that you used to describe how perfectly they fit together that is just so wonderful and visceral. There was such a great build up from that initial holding back, which that made the first intertwining of their fingers all the sweeter and it felt like it just cascaded so wonderfully (in a gentle and controlled way) from there.

This in particular was so, so beautiful (as always, obsessed with how sex scenes are a vehicle for so much emotional exploration in your work):

He fits, so well, like no one else ever has. Bones touch bones, his space is filled by your joints, his blood warms where you are cold. Disjointed and broken, you slot together in holes made by the other.

And then in the epilogue, it was so delightful to see how free they could be with their touch, how open with their kisses and caresses in a way that echoes but is far better than anything that they were able to share in iterations of their relationship in other cities and other times.

I also loved seeing how both of them were so gently touchy with Marie (lol I guess she's getting her own little feature at the end of both of my comments for this chapter— she deserves better from me, honestly)? The forehead kisses, the way Dieter scoops her up so gently... It's such a wonderful and gentle energy that feels so wholesome and like it's the result of so much healing and the building (back) of trust.

Ok, Taylor, I gotta stop chatting your ear off sometime, so it might as well be here. I don't know how I thought I was going to read the entirety of this story on my plane ride, but it's been so lovely to draw out the experience over this week instead. I'm so excited to go back to the doc now that I've finished and get lost in some of the nitty gritty!

I can't possibly fully imagine what a labour of love developing and writing and publishing this must have been for you, but I am so grateful that you did it so that folks like me could have the opportunity to read Dieter and Natalie's story and get torn apart and put back together by it. 💕

Part Two + Epilogue

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

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NOVEMBER 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No idea, but –,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dieter’s face falls. “Why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I just don’t know, Dieter.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You want me to walk you home?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll call him later today.”

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

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

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

Jesus Christ, gimme something to work with. 

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

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

It’s . . .

He’s smiling. 

Like he’s proud of you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“W-what do you mean?”

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

“Do you still paint?” 

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

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

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

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

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

He grins. “Oh, yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hold him a bit longer before letting him go. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you want?” She scowls begrudgingly.

“What do you mean?”

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

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

“Rain check?” 

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

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

“Least I could do.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. You too.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dieter, I . . .” 

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

“Old habits die hard, I think.”

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

Here you come again

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

You look into my eyes and light those dreamy eyes

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

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

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

Here you come again

Looking better than a body has a right to

And shaking me up so, that all I really know

Is here you come again, and here I go

“Smoke?” You squeak.

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

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

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

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

“Hmm, you’re maybe right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, Drunky, we’re friends.”

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

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

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

DECEMBER 

The morning of Opening Night

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

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

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

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

Breathing out puffs of white air, you tighten your shawl over your shoulders and make the slow climb back up to the warmth.

Opening Night - Premiere of Homeward with You directed by Andrew Young

You puff out your cheeks, air rushing out between your lips painted the color of pomegranate, deflating entirely, as you swish the emerald green folds of your dress back and forth in the mirror. At the store, you loved it immediately and Marie audibly squealed, repeating that on the point of death, you had to promise to buy this dress for the premiere. 

Now, you think it fits awkwardly, the waist too tight and the loose shoulders unable to settle right. The high collar around your neck threatened to choke you out, your overheated skin uncomfortably itchy beneath the wool. 

This is stupid. I look ridiculous. I’m changing immediately –

“If you try to take that off, I’m tackling you to the ground.” 

Marie shakes her head as she slips silver studs into her ear, her own black dress stunningly elegant yet remarkably simple. Her short hair is coiffed, tucking around her ear in a way that would make any flapper girl sick with envy. 

“But it doesn’t look right,” you whine. “I look like an asparagus!” 

She rolls her eyes and picks your earrings up from your vanity, your gold necklace looped between her fingers. Her smooth brow is furrowed as she gently slips your earrings on, softly plugging the backs. She is quiet, contemplative. 

“Did I ever tell you I wanted to be you when I grew up?” She asks quietly. 

You frown at her in the mirror as she goes to put on the other earring. “That’s ridiculous. You of all people know what a complete nightmare my life has been.”

“Yeah, but you’re still here, aren’t you?” She unhooks the chain of your necklace. “You are without a doubt the most tenacious person I’ve ever met. You’re brave and funny and smart. Everything I ever wanted in a big sister.” 

The sharp flush of tears in your eyes threatens to smear your mascara and you catch her arm as it rests against your shoulder to clasp your necklace together. She stills and you look her in the eye. 

“You’re my best friend, you know that?” You ask her, your voice tight. 

She puts her arms around you, her head on your shoulder, her heels adding that extra height, and you watch each other in the mirror. 

“Of course, I know that. I just want you to be happy.” Her tone changes and you can’t find her meaning in her eyes.

“I am happy,” you say, firmly. “I’m happy with this life we built.” 

She kisses your temple. “No, you’re not. But you could be.”

The falling snow flickers and sparkles in the bright lights of the theater, the sidewalks clear for now. As the car approaches, through the window you read the name of the production up on the marquee in giant bold letters, his name just below it. Your stomach tightens.

The tires squeak and you climb out of the cab, Marie just behind you. No one greets you and there are no flashing camera lights. There are a few journalists, trade reporters, critics but they stand around, relaxed, smoking or talking amongst themselves. It’s a relatively quiet affair, not uncommon for productions of this size. You feel the brief press of disappointment before boxing it away. 

The lobby is warm, with bordeaux floors and wooden paneled walls. An ancient staircase spills out to greet its guests, rich, shining banisters peering down from the second floor. A smiling suit-and-bowtie bartender waits by the coat check-in desk, converted from the old ticket sales corner used during the theater’s glory days. Marie offers to take your coat as your phone starts to ring. 

Fighting between your coat and getting your phone, you answer it without checking the caller.

“Hello?”

“Hey there.” Dieter.

Your mouth dries and you glance at Marie chatting with the coat check-in girl. Quietly, you make your way over behind the grand staircase, a little out of sight.

“Dieter, shouldn’t you be getting ready?” 

“I can do both. Talk to you and put on this eyeliner that makes me cry.” You fight a smile, your hand holding your elbow, shoulders hunching towards the sound of his voice. “It’s okay, you can laugh. It was funny. I’m funny.” 

“Dieter, did you call for a reason?” You know he can’t physically see you roll your eyes, but he’s deserving of it anyway. 

“Yeah. Um, well, actually I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

“Of course. What do you need?” 

“If you’re in the lobby, can you look over by the old phone booths?” Annoyingly vague occasionally, but cryptic, Dieter is not. You peer around the wall, your gaze running across the lobby. Sure enough, by one of the other theater entrances sits five old wooden phone booths. Only a few still hold the rotary boxes, but in one on the end sits a small woman with white hair. “Do you see a lady there in a silver dress in one of them?”

“Yeah, I do. Who is she, Dieter?” 

With an exasperated chuckle, he says, “okay, this you can’t laugh at. She’s my therapist.”

“What?”

“Okay, ex-therapist. I met her in rehab and I stuck with her after I got out. But then about five years ago she retired and she referred me to someone else. We kept in touch and became really good friends. I flew her out here to see my play and I was wondering . . . if you could keep her company.” 

Your mouth dropped further and further open. “Dieter, I . . . I don’t know . . .”

“She doesn’t bite,” he laughs. “And don’t worry, she only knows only most of the details of our sex life.”

“DIETER!”

“I’m kidding – I’m kidding!” You can picture him hunched over on the chair in the dressing room, laughing himself silly. He sighs, giggles subsiding. “Okay, look, she knows you who are, but I don’t talk about that stuff with her anymore.” His voice drops, quiet and boyish. “Besides, she’s kind of the closest thing I have to family and I don’t trust anyone else with her but you.” 

You can almost feel his breath across your jaw, his hushed reverence.

“You still there?”

“Yeah, Dee, I’m still here.” You scratch your eyebrow with your nail. “Of course, I’ll keep an eye on her. What’s her name?” 

“Beatrice, but I just call her Bea.” 

You arch an eyebrow. “Bea and Dee?”

“I’m just cute like that.” You laugh with him this time. There’s a part of you that wishes you could have seen him before the premiere, given him what you want, but you worry it might have messed with his head. “Thank you. It means a lot to me.” He sounds so sincere. “I’ve gotta go, but –,”

“Dieter, wait.” Phone clutched tight to your ear, you go deeper into the bowels of the theater, by the door that leads to the cabaret stage. “I, um, I have something to show you later. Nothing serious – and it doesn’t even have to be tonight but I’d like to steal you away for just a bit.” You smirk, trying to get some even footing underneath you, but his silence dries your mouth out. “I-i-if that’s alr–,”

“Say when and where and I’m there.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

“A-alright. Then, uh, break a leg.”

He chuckles, right down your neck. “Thanks, Nat. Oh and if I don’t see you until afterwards, you look really nice.”

You swallow around a dry knot of wool in the back of your throat. “Is this where I’m supposed to say, ‘you can’t see me’ and you say, ‘I just know’?” 

“You’ve got me all figured out. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Bye, Dieter.”

You close your eyes, thumb shaking as you tap the red button on your phone. Every breath catches on the knots of your spine, of the curve of your ribs, as it goes down, hollow, sucked down, only to emerge shredded and weak. 

The memory of what had nearly happened the night of the party at Shandy’s, it’s sunk into the crevices of your brain, under the skin behind your forehead, weighing your brow down day by day. It’s there, but you don’t see it. You don’t look. Like a beast in the jungle, you don’t make eye contact, hoping it will pass you by. 

Hearing his voice over the phone, teasing you, you swear you hear it growl. 

Look up, look up, look up

Look at me

Slipping your phone back in your purse, you straighten your shoulders and march for the old phone booth. 

Bea is probably about sixty years old, maybe closer to seventy. Silver hair tucked back in a low bun that makes her dress shine, short unpainted nails press a ratty paperback book into her lap. She adjusts a navel blue sheer shawl around her mache-thin skin when you gently tap the window, smiling. She blinks up at you with the biggest blue eyes you’ve ever seen on a living human being. 

What it says about you and Dieter that your therapists could not be more different, is a question you’ll bring up to Carla later on.

You gently push back the accordion door and wave.

“Hi. I’m –,”

“Oh, I know exactly who you are,” she says softly, her smile coy. She bookmarks her page and closes the book – The Jungle by Upton Sinclair – before standing up. Not wanting to offend her, you don’t reach for her unless she seems unsteady, but her walk is confident, if not slow as she exits the phonebooth. “Dieter said a friend of his would come get me.”

Yes, but do you know which friend? Those thin lips swirl up to the corner of her mouth, her eyes playful. “You really are as pretty as he said you were.” Quickly, she adjusts her shawl and offers out her small hand. “Lovely to meet you, dear.”

Mischievous. Like those little elves or sprites. Instantly, you see what Dieter likes about her. You offer her your arm. 

“Lovely to meet you too, but I get the feeling you know much more about me than I know about you.”

She pats your arm, that dizzy (fake) bleary old lady glaze going over her eyes. “I don’t know what gave you that impression.”

Above you, the lights flicker and a thrilled anticipation hums from the lobby, those still left eagerly moving to take their seats

“Oh, I’m so excited,” Bea squeals against you.

“You’ve never been to Dieter’s plays before?” You wait until the flow of people lessens, not risking an elbow or an errant shoe. 

“He doesn’t let me!” She grouches. “Only recently has he let me see some of his movies. But he picks them out and we have to watch them together. Honestly, that man is such a goof!” 

Her blue eyes watching people go by, she doesn’t see you chew your tongue. The man he lets Bea see is so wildly different from the one you knew, or the one you’ve gotten to know the past few months. The idea of just sitting down on the couch with Dieter to watch a movie was once, well, impossible. Now it didn’t seem . . . right. You try to picture this Dieter, this long-haired, relaxed, sober Dieter in a dark room, feet under your covers, laughing – laughter comes so easily to him now – and you couldn’t. Your brain shut the doors and turned off the light. No, no one’s home. 

No one’s there.

“He’s a doctor in this one,” you say by way of filling the silence. “Did he tell you that?”

Bea peers up at you, her silver eyebrows arching. “No. He said he wanted it to be a surprise.”

“He’s a small town doctor, in a town on the verge of collapse in the thirties. He’s caught between being responsible for his brother’s kid, who has been drafted just before he’s set to get married, and getting out of the town himself.” 

“Ooh, his dramatic roles are so good!” Bea squeals again, squeezing your arm excitedly. You wonder if this is what she does to Dieter’s arm when they watch his movies. The crowd thins, so you lead her down the steps, to the front row that Andrew roped off for special guests. The theater is small, intimate, not space for more than fifty people, but the red velvet seats have been kept in immaculate condition, the Roman-inspired paintings on the ceiling and golden-dusted ceilings kept fresh in gloss and shine. It’s, for lack of a better word, cozy.

Marie is already there with a playbill and her smile fades when she sees you with an old woman on your arm. You shake your head, I’ll tell you later, and help her sit before taking your seat next to Marie. 

“Do you miss it?” Bea asks quietly, her eyes on the stage, as the room fades to black. 

“Miss what?” 

“Acting.” If you were dancing, you would have just tripped. “With him?” And now you’re on your ass, wondering what the hell just happened.

You swallow, those blue eyes so bright and earnest. “Um. Sometimes.”

Bea sighs, rolls her eyes, and pats your hand. “He misses it. Even if he’ll never say anything.” 

You don’t ask her to elaborate, because you don’t want to know.

He’s good. They all are. 

There is a natural chemistry reflected between the cast that is often so hard to find. The subject matter, the sets, the expertly designed costumes – there is a sense of grounded realism. As Andrew hoped, the audience peers into the lives of a people strapped on a path of destruction. They fall apart as their town does around them. They get in their own way. They sabotage their own happiness again and again out of fear or frustration. Every character is fully realized to the point of anguish, of emotional damage because how could they not see it? How could they possibly continue to live their lives like this? How long do they believe they should suffer?

And beyond this swirling chaos of painfully human failure are the mobile walls you designed. They evolve, transform under expertly placed light, shadows increasing or decreasing depending on a blue or red light. The old Greek plays had The Chorus, omniscient watchers that took pity on the tragedy but were unable to stop it. Andrew’s play had your designs; silent, overbearing smears of sadness or grief or joy just out of reach. In such a grounded play, the walls added a sense of vivid delusion, waking madness, providing a razor’s edge of tension to every scene. 

Dieter’s character is morally flawed. Tired and run down by this world that’s given him nothing, no hope; stealing from his patients when he conducts housecalls to pay for this “escape” that never comes. At first he has no interest in saving the skin of his nephew, not willing to risk imprisonment over a fake diagnosis, but he, like the audience, is forced to bear silent witness to the genuine, deep, honest love between his brother’s son and his sweetheart, played by Emily. 

They sit at a kitchen table, the set painted a light green, the wood chipped and window glass cracked above the grimy sink. The night before he is meant to be drafted, Dieter’s doctor in the corner trying desperately to appear unaffected as his nephew goes through his will to his sweetheart and his uncle, so that in case of the inevitable, they know what his final wishes are. 

The boy is choked up, nervous, reading through every word with an agonized sob. His hands that hold Emily’s are shaking, as silent tears stream down her face. 

And then in a truly beautiful stroke of theater production, the boy pauses, and a recorded voiceover of him continues to read the will. But he stands, Emily and Dieter frozen in time behind him, and gently kisses Emily on the forehead, his eyes shut and face wet. He lets go, and turns to the audience. 

The voice over fades to a low hum as he stands at the center of the stage. The boy is mere feet from you. He watches Emily over his shoulder. 

“There are things I want to say to you, but I can’t. I think you already know them, but saying it out loud would only make things worse, not better. I would be saying them to be selfish, to unburden my own soul, by weighing down yours. But you know, right? You touch me and suddenly I feel a little less war torn. I'm not sure what peace is supposed to feel like but I think it may feel a lot like you.” He goes to her, still frozen, still curled up on the table, her eyes seeing nothing. He strokes her cheek, getting on his knees to look into her visionless eyes. “I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I see you everyday. I will love you as we find ourselves farther and farther from one another, where once we were so close. I will love you until your face is fogged by distant memory. I will love you no matter where you go and who you see, I will love you if you don’t marry me. I will love you if you marry someone else and I will love you if you never marry at all, and spend your years wishing you had married me after all. That is how I will love you even as the world goes on its wicked way.” 

He drops his head onto her hands. The reading of the will ends and the lights hold, just a bit longer on the doomed couple. 

“Are you okay?” Bea whispers, touching your arm and dropping back into your own body, you stare forcefully at your lap, begging the tears to stay back.

A cold sweat breaks out across your forehead, down the skin on your back, sucking your dress’s zipper to your spine. The blood in your ears roars, thunderous and loud, and you know you’re breathing unevenly, but you can’t help it.

You nod, wishing she would look away.

You feel green, feel pale, like something is molding inside of you, sickly blue sprouting around your spine and into your stomach. A sickness, an illness, lying dormant for years. 

It’s still there, you understand that now. 

The beast in the jungle, you meet it straight on, knowing the truth of it from the very beginning. But to what end – where would the self-inflicted circle of missed opportunities and failure finally end?

To unburden my soul, by weighing down yours. 

The lobby is loud, dozens of voices overlapping each other in an excited chatter, the crowd . You bring Bea to one of the long, low benches near the twin sets of double doors at the entrance, careful to take her out of the rush of the crowd. 

She groans as she sits down and eases her feet out of her silver flats.

“I do not miss the days of heels,” she says with a sigh, rolling her ankles around. “But is it too much to ask that they make nice shoes that don’t chew up your feet?”

“My mother used to say that was the price you pay for being a woman.” You sit down next to her, watching Marie chat with the art director across the room. “It’s not supposed to feel good, she said.”

Bea shrugs. “I suppose that’s true, but seems like a terrible way to look at life. A cycle of reward and punishment.”

You grin wryly at her. “My mother was a pessimist.” 

“And you?” She leans back, her thin hands on her lap. “Are you a pessimist or an optimist?”

“I’m trying to break the cycle of reward and punishment.” Your eyes unconsciously fall to the door to the theater. “But old habits die hard, I guess.” 

An excited roar sparks from across the room, the crowd surging towards the double doors. You see Emily’s shining blonde hair between shoulders, her bright smile. You can’t see him, but he’s there, you know it. So you sit back with Bea, matching her easy position.

“I know my old bones couldn’t fight off that crowd,” she nudges you with her elbow. “But you should go.” 

A flash of the curve of his chin, the sharp angle of his nose, the endless brown of his eyes. 

One way or another, it will be over soon. There is a sense of peace with that, whatever the outcome. 

You shrug. “I’m just fine right here.”

So you sit, with your ex’s former therapist and closest thing he has to family because his are all gone, or they hate him. You ask her about Upton Sinclair, and she asks you about what you do, and you tell her about the gallery. The two of you could have been sitting on a bench in Central Park, for all the hurry you take, exchanging questions and answers. 

Reporters ask for his picture, vloggers using their livestream to ask him about the role. You and Bea watch him, never talking about him, but never looking away either.

He’s handsome. He always is. Hair slicked back, eyes still ringing with black. He smiles and performs and you wonder if he’s a good enough actor to pretend to want to almost kiss you. His suit jacket is a deep red, almost purple, a perfect color for a December premiere. He turns, leaning into a photo with a few of his castmates and you see it – a flicker of dark green on his lapel. A glass leaf, the same color as your dress.

You fight to hide your blush, your assumptions really and truly getting out of hand, and you ask Bea about where she’s from. Eventually, Marie comes and joins you two, and her eyebrows jump only slightly when you tell her Bea’s connection to Dieter. 

The congregated crowd of media and fans alike eventually subsides, leaving just friends and family. Andrew finally comes out and an applause goes up. He’s pink and his eyes are a little bleary and you think he might have started celebrating a bit early. Toby holds his hand and he leans into it, smiling like a fool.

You hear a buzz about an afterparty through excited grins and one-armed hugs, the news met with nods or groans. The last stragglers linger, wandering out into the cold or into waiting cars. The lobby is flushed with cold air every time the double doors swing open. Marie has gone to pick up your coats, including Bea’s, her wrap doing nothing for warmth, and you lean your head back against the wall. 

You’ve been rehearsing something in your head since this morning, a final script, the end to the scene. Nothing fits quite right and you wish you’d written it down, but that risked someone finding your batherings. Maybe you’ll journal later, to get down everything in your head, everything you can’t say or don’t know how. 

The crowd thins, and a few more flashes go off, and then he’s coming towards you, arms outstretched. 

“Bea!” 

The old woman wrestles to her feet with a speed you hadn’t witnessed all night and Dieter envelopes her in his arms. Without context, the image is sweet, domestic: a boy and his mother. 

Then she steps back and messes up his perfectly combed hair. “There – that’s the Dieter I know.”

You swear he blushes. 

“I have had a lovely evening with your friends!” Bea says, holding his hand and giving you and Marie warm smiles. 

Marie out of the blue rushes forward and nearly tackles him to the ground. “You were so good, Dieter!” 

His eyes widen before his arms come around her waist, squeezing her so tight he lifts her off the ground. 

“Mhmm! Thank you! Thank you for coming. And now I promise to return your business partner to you. No more painting backdrops until midnight.” 

She slips off him, as his eyes drop to you, the warmth there softer than the velvet chairs. He reaches for you and all of existence narrows to his palm. You take it and he pulls you into his chest. 

He smells like your old Dieter. That layered musk of charcoal and vanilla, of sweet tobacco and sweat. Of course, he wears cologne, expensive and rich, but you turn your nose to his neck and inhale – it’s still there. Somewhere. His hands fall to your hips, your low back, then they’re sliding up your dress, cupping your ribcage against his. You pull him tighter to you, the scruff of his beard rough against your cheek as you breathe each other in. It happened accidentally, but this is the hug you should have given him all those months ago – one that allows for joy, for remembrance, for an ease that only comes after two people have learned the other intimately, where so much of one exists within the other, their own hearts cannot decide where one ends and the other begins. 

He presses his warm hand against your shoulder, tucking you farther and farther in, as the other hand spans across your entire back, his face burrowed in your neck. You feel him sigh, at ease, his ribs expanding into yours and you fight back the sharp swell of the sob caught in your throat. You had no idea what it meant to be held until this moment. 

You don’t want to let him go. You don’t think you can. 

But the double doors sweep open, drafting in the cool air and stronger, prevailing thoughts. Your chin trembles at the strength it takes to keep from pressing your lips against his cheek as you set your weight back on your heels, his hands resisting your release until the very last moment. He doesn’t let you fall or drop you; he eases you back down, away. But his hands are shaking and he steadies them around your elbows and you take his because you think your knees will buckle if you don’t keep touching him. His mouth makes a wet noise, his eyes on the ground, feet shuffling back. He holds you as though the room is spinning. 

“Um, Dieter,” Marie’s voice comes in from far away as you fight the urge to bury your body up under his chest, to lift him up with every ounce of strength you possess. “There’s an afterparty . . .”

“But I’d rather like to go home first, darling. If that’s alright,” Bea says. “Dieter?”

You watch his throat convulse and he stands up right. He lets go of you entirely. 

“Sorry,” he swallows, resolutely not looking at you, “just got a little lightheaded. Haven’t eaten much today. Bea, can I call you a cab?” 

“Do you want to go to the party?” Marie asks you as Dieter guides Bea over to the front desk. “Andrew’s invited us.” 

You shake your head, watching them go. It has to end tonight. It has to. 

“I . . . can’t. There’s something I need to talk to Dieter about.” You tear your eyes away to her concerned face. “Shouldn’t be long, but after that I’m gonna go to bed. I’m exhausted after four months of this.” 

She nods like she knows it's been much longer than that. She hugs you, pulls you in tight, her mouth tucked in by your ear and says, “don’t take this the wrong way, love, but you were never going to be just friends.” 

You don’t make eye contact with her when she pulls away.

Ten minutes later, Bea and Marie have decided to share a cab, Bea’s hotel on the way to Marie’s apartment. You and Dieter stand on the curb, waving to them as they go. The snow is coming on thick now. A few catch on his lashes as he turns to look at you.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the party?” You ask.

He shakes his head. “There’ll be others. What did you want to show me?”

Age has done nothing to rob him of his beauty. You think you hope it hasn’t robbed him of anything else.

The creaky door of your brownstone greets you as you lead him inside, cheeks blushed pink from the cold, fingertips slightly numb, the metal keys in your hand bitterly chilled. You fumble for a few lights, cursing yourself that you left your home in total darkness hours earlier. The warm overhead lights awaken your living room, then the dining room across the hall. You’re grumbling to yourself and completely oblivious to Dieter’s open-mouthed stare. You’re leaning against the wall, fighting with your heel as he walks into your aubergine-colored living room with the plush gray couches and wall-to-wall bookshelves. 

“I want to look at every single one of these,” he says softly, fingers curled around your chenille throw blanket on the back of the sofa. “Have I read any of them?”

“If your reading tastes are anything like Bea’s, then probably,” you grin at him as you finally slip out of your heels. You fight the urge to groan, your feet flat against the hardwood, sensation finally returning to your toes, but you do sigh. The noise brings his attention to you and he smiles. 

“You do look beautiful.” 

Your toes visibly curl and you feel the smile slide off your face. You nod over your shoulder.

“C’mon. It’s in here.” 

He follows you through the other open-archway rooms to the kitchen, where the box from your basement sits on the counter. It’s gray, unassuming, with little buckles as adornments on the corners. Something about it feels weathered, hard won, as if it had been shipped across the ancient sea by long-dead ancestors. 

The lights are low here, hovering low on the dimmer switch. You always thought kitchens should be relaxing, comforting, so you rarely brighten the room unless you have to. Behind you, Dieter unbuttons his jacket as you grip the lid. 

“Now, you can’t laugh,” you say, a playful curl to your lips. He mimes an ‘x’ over his heart.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

“I’ve had these for a while, collecting them as I came across them. At first, it seemed almost morbid, but – I don’t know – I took comfort in them. As time went on, it helped me remember that everything that happened back then, actually happened and wasn’t just some insane LSD trip.” You thumb a corner. “At least it wasn’t for me.”

His brow deepens as you take off the lid.

He blinks a few times, trying to understand what he’s looking at. You wait, sit down on a black stool, watching.

Newspaper clippings. Magazine articles. Online articles printed and cut out. 

He takes a few out, his fingers running over the corners where yours have gone a dozen times. 

“Are these . . .”

“They’re all about Recovery Road. Speculation pieces on why it should win an Oscar, or several, even before it premiered. First reviews and public, consumer reviews. Trades on Heidi’s directing career, the cinematographers, the music for the film.” Your bare toes could brush his shoes if you swung your leg forward just an inch. “Opinion pieces on my career . . . and yours.” The knot in his throat moves as he flips through, going back ten years to the first articles. You watch his masculine hand, thick veins and weighty palm. “I know we didn’t make Oscar night, Dieter, and I don’t know if you ever stopped to celebrate. I know I didn’t, even years later. So this became my little celebration and in light of your success tonight, I thought you might like to celebrate with me.” 

He spreads a few out on the counter, the strange shapes of cut-out articles like lost puzzle pieces. His mouth is a straight line, those thick eyebrows drawn down, jaw set tight. 

“That night was the worst night of my life, Natalie. I don’t know why you want to remember it.” 

His voice is rough, cutting, comes from a place at the back of his chest. Your heart sinks. 

You’ve gotten it all wrong. 

“Oh. Oh, I . . . I’m sorry. I thought . . . well, actually I don’t know what I thought. I’m sorry.” You shake your head, dispelling any lingering illusions you may have, and brush together the articles he laid out, jumping to your feet. “This was a stupid idea. I can’t believe I thought this would be fun. I took you away from your afterparty to show you this ridiculous –,”

His big hand loops around your wrist and you freeze, the warmth of his palm exploding up your arm and into your cheeks. Dieter looks at you with a weight so profound you feel as though you could plunge through the floorboards.

“I lied to you.” He says gruffly. “Ten fucking minutes into seeing you again and I lied.” He works his jaw as his hand slides up to your forearm, then your elbow where it notches over the bend in your arm. “I know I said I thought we’d be better off if we never saw each other again, but that’s not true. Every day until you were released from that hospital, I begged Heidi for any news. On your health. On your withdrawals. On if you got out of the fucking bed that day. And then after you got out and into rehab, I asked Heidi to check in on you. But I knew it had to fucking stop. I had to fucking stop wanting things to be different because I didn’t think they could be. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Your bottom lip trembles. “And now? Now, do you think things could be different?”

The lines around his eyes tighten as he straightens up. But he still holds your arm like it's the last life raft in a cold black ocean. He turns his head, an imperceptible tilt.

“I don’t know. I really don’t. Do you want it to be?”

“Dieter,” you cry out, out of breath before you open your mouth, air held captive in your chest. You’re crying and you don’t mean to be. You sway as you violently shake your head and he grabs your other elbow. You reach forward and steady yourself with both hands on his biceps. There’s no way you can say this with your eyes open. “Dieter . . . for months now, everyone’s been asking me if I need space from you, or if it’s alright with me to be alone with you. If everything is still too painful to be around you, like I need protecting from you or something. But I – I don’t know how to tell them . . . that’s all I want. I want you. Even after everything, after how fucked up it was, how fucked up we both were, I can’t stop thinking about you.” 

It comes out in a rush, words and tears tumbling out of your mouth. You open your wet eyes to his lips parted in surprise, his face soft beneath the weight of your revelation. You inhale, more tears and more courage to say the things you’ve always wanted to say. No paper, no pen, no going back. 

“Dieter, I think about that house in Albuquerque all the time. I wake up and I think I can smell you in the kitchen. Or you’ll be out on the patio, painting. I know you and I went our separate ways – and I think that’s what was best for us then – but God, you never went away. You never, ever left.”

You tighten your grip, nails digging into his lovely jacket. Staring at his throat, locked in by memories, you want to drag him to the floor and cry in his arms, the way you should have on that hospital bed. 

In the silence, your gaze drifts, down his chest and over to his lapel. 

That green leaf pendant. The color of your dress. You thumb it and it’s warm, like his heart sits just behind it. 

Unexpectedly, his wide palm rests against your jaw, tilting your head up. Eyes warm and dark like the dying coal in a wood-stove, he brushes your cheek with his thumb. You don’t realize how cold you are until your face is held in his hand. 

“I’m gonna fuck it up if I say anything,” he says quietly, to you and you alone, “so I’m just going to do this.” 

In an instant, years and years and years of buried fear come screaming into your chest. That single most profound worry you carried with you since he first kissed you the night of the rainstorm –  dug it deep, covered with ignorance and a blind eye – it emerges like a seed sprouting into the light when his lips touch yours. 

You fold up into him, this fear, this concern pulling you up as he does. 

You feared, in all this time and all these years, that the great love of your life, the end-all-be all to romance and adoration, had been nothing more than a misguided, lonely girl giving away parts of her to unworthy holders – drugs, alcohol, addiction, and Dieter fucking Bravo, the first man who taught her there was something special about sex and feelings and not being alone in the darkness. 

You break apart from him, trembling in his arms. You’re crying again and you think he might be too, but it’s too blurry and it’s too much. 

“Dieter, w-wait–,” you grip his lapels, unwilling to separate his chest from yours, the press of his hips against yours. “W-what if we are wrong? What if I was wrong – what I felt for you, what I feel for you, everything we had – it’s just – a-a mistake. What if what you feel for me, is just more psychosis, more pills we have to swallow to fix it, fix us? F-f-fix me? What if you never really loved me?”

With a groan, he presses an open-mouth kiss to your cheek, the ghost of teeth against the fine hairs on your skin. 

“If what I feel for you isn’t love, then I don’t know what it is.” His arms sink across your low back, as if pulling you in as tight as he could make you understand with touch alone, send you his thoughts unfiltered and honest. He kisses the corner of your mouth, wet and frantic, and then your cheek and then again on your mouth. It’s wet and messy and he pulls away, just inches, to say: “I’ve loved you every day of the past ten years. I never stopped loving you. You were the only thing I ever got right.”

A soft cry escapes your mouth, hand on his cheek, as you tug him back into your mouth. Your lips barely part at the touch of his teeth, before he slips into your mouth, tongue massaging yours.Your nails scrape the back of his neck, the curve of his skull, fingers delightedly yanking on his longer, wilder hair. Everywhere he touches you, it’s insistent, determined to make you feel his love. He breathes harshly out of his nose when he palms your ass in his wide hands and you allow yourself to rub up against him, as if you didn’t own every inch of him already. 

Even through your dress and his slacks, the heat of your cunt up against his half-hard length is enough to have you both gasping for air. Breathing doesn’t really work right, lungs stuttering, half-aborted gasps through hiccups. 

His hand curls around your jaw and he kisses you again. You no longer need to breathe air that hasn’t been recycled by him first. 

“I’m so fucking scared,” he murmurs against your lips, half-open eyes searching for hesitation, for rejection.

“Me too.” 

You claw at him, and still sucking on your mouth, he rolls your dress up over your knees, up to your hips. His hands on your bare skin for the first time in a decade, he cups the back of your knees, tugging you up onto his chest.

“Where?” He mutters. 

“Upstairs. Second door on your right.” 

You spend the time it takes to get there familiarizing yourself with every curve of his mouth, the softness on the inside of his cheeks, where along his neck elicits the deepest groan when you use your teeth. 

Memories whisper like ghosts – he likes it there, lick here and listen to him, bite, yes, bite – you slip his earlobe between your teeth, nipping just north of gently, and he falters.

“You got this?” You tease, nosing under his jaw, as he makes the landing. 

“If this place was blown to bits,” he grumbles as he knees open your bedroom door, “I’d still find a way to fuck you on this mattress.” 

Kneeling one leg at a time, he unfolds you on the covers, hands free to roam against your hips, your ass, the backs of your thighs. Your nails scratch through his hair one last time before he sits up. 

Your bedroom is dark, blue in the winter, and the only light to see him by comes from down the hallway and over the banister. In the half-light, Dieter glows, a faint bright edge to his hair, his right arm as he slips it out of his jacket, tossing it to the floor. It lands somewhere and you don’t hear it, don’t look, instead watch his fingers unbutton his collar, tugging the starched shirt out of his pants. 

Mesmerized, you want to tell him to stop, that you want to do it, but you can’t. You have and always be spell-bound by Dieter Bravo. He gets off his outer shirt and that’s when you realize how hard he’s breathing, the shadows blurring the pink tinge on his skin. 

“Dieter, baby,” you worry, reaching for him and he comes, collapsing on his trembling elbows. He kisses you with a wet mouth.

“I can’t believe you’re letting me do this. You’re so fucking beautiful. You look like a fucking angel, on this bed, in this dress and I never thought I’d ever be here with you again.” His chest shakes and you pull him between your legs, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, hand cupping the back of his head. He buries his head in the curve of your neck, grasping at your back with his arms. 

You together lie there for a minute, in the silence and comfort that is afforded those nestled in intimacy. He fits, so well, like no one else ever has. Bones touch bones, his space is filled by your joints, his blood warms where you are cold. Disjointed and broken, you slot together in holes made by the other. You stroke his hair and he pulls back. The grin that grows across his face causes tears to spill down the apples of his cheeks. 

“You’re a fucking hurricane, baby, and I love you.” He holds your cheek in his palm, softly pressing a kiss to your lips. “Can I take off your tights?” 

You nod, swallowing thickly, the anticipation of having his hands on your skin making you twitch. 

He kneels away from you and one hand slides up the material of your dress while the other reverently plucks at the tight waistband of your nylons. He tugs gently, then using both hands, knuckles scraping your hips, your thighs. He touches the back of your knee and that fear resurfaces just for a moment. 

“Be careful, Dieter,” you gasp. He slows, catching your eyes. “P-please be careful.” 

The rest of your nylons come off easily while he nods, his thumbs briefly rubbing the material before they’re tossed to the ground. The night air is suddenly cold, colder than it had been seconds ago and you shiver, your dress around your hips and your cunt nearly exposed. 

Dieter crawls forward, settling around between your knees. It’s like he can smell how wet you are. His big palm cups your inner thigh, thumb directing his attention.

“Do you still like to be licked here?”

You nod fervently, almost bashful. 

“Has anyone eaten you out in a while?”

Again, your head jerks back and forth in the opposite direction, your hand clutching his knee and the other fisting the sheets. 

“Can I?” His stare flickers from your barely visible pussy up to your eyes. He’s all but begging you.

His gaze reawakes your voice. “Yes, Dieter, please – p-please, I need it.” 

His tongue wets his lips, eyes half-open, focused, as he pushes your dress up the rest of the way. You part your legs for him and he groans with appreciation.

“Jesus Christ, baby.” He shuffles back, easing onto his knees on the floor, big palms around the hinge of your legs. He tugs you as he goes, until your hips have settled on the edge of the mattress. 

His mouth drops open at the shine on your inner thighs and as though too overwhelmed to go straight for the center, he licks as close to your cunt as he can, eager for your taste. His hands on your hips tighten as he groans, inhaling deeply.

“I’m gonna make you feel so fucking good.”

You have half a second to breathe yourself before he licks, flat-tongued, up your cunt and the edges of your vision grow dark. 

He picks you apart, slowly, methodically, explorative. He licks like he’s trying to get an ice cream cone to come all over his face. 

Dieter tongues one lip, then the other and he has your hips shaking. He digs in, suctioning his mouth to your cunt, and flicks his tongue as far as he can and you twitch. He slurps in spit and slick between his teeth before presenting it back to you on the head of his tongue. 

“Oh, fucking god, Dieter –,” you press the heels of your palms into your eyes. “I can’t believe how good –,”

He licks as deep as he can, all the way up, air muffled by your folds, and flat-tongues your clit. Your vision whites out and you scream. But you didn’t come. That wasn’t you coming. Your legs are trembling and Dieter presses his forearm against your lower tummy, eyes scorching and scolding. Stop moving and let me work. 

As you relearn him, he rediscovers you. He knows there’s a spot, just around your clit that when sucked, it makes you arch off the bed, but he searches in no hurry, divining every inch of you again. He gets close and you tremble, so he pushes your knee back, opening you up further to slide in two fingers. So much more than anything you could put inside yourself, you roll your hips as much as you can, chasing that touch as his tongue sweeps over you again and again. He taps up against your pelvic bone through your pussy and you moan, loudly, pleasure soaking his fingers, then his palm. His dark eyes watch you from where his mouth works to suck ten years of missed orgasms right out of you. 

You want him to fuck you faster, to get you there in a way only he can, brushing places only he can find, only he dares reach. He licks you faster and faster, fingers plunging deeper and twisting, spreading you apart – he adds a third just before entering you again and again and again and then he finds it – that spot on your clit that breaks you apart, that warm gooey center exploding across his tongue. 

You come in silence, sparks flickering at the edge of your vision, mouth open, pussy clenching down on him, and only when you feel the vibrations of his moan between your legs, do you remember to breathe, gasping sharply to the high-pitched edge of a whine. 

“Dieter,” you pant, voice strained, knees weak as you push against his shoulders. Your clit stings a bit from overstimulation and he relents. He wipes his mouth on your inner thigh, inching up the bed, with your knee over his shoulder, still three fingers deep in you.

“C’mon, honey, you can give me one more like this. I know you can.” 

You whimper, never having a single orgasm like that in the last ten years, let alone two. “I don’t – I don’t think I can –,”

“Of course you can.” The wet squelch of his fingers scissoring inside of you proves him right. “I’ve got you, darling, I’ve got you and I’m never letting you fucking go again.”

He licks under your knee, beard still damp with your release, and Dieter does what he does best: he talks.

He promises you filthy, beautiful things. 

I wanna be soaked in you. I want you to come so hard, it drips down my arm, wets my chest. 

I wanna put my tongue on every inch of your sweat-drenched skin. I wanna taste you. All of you. In you. I wanna make you so full, that when I fuck you, I taste myself. 

I want . . . I want . . . I want . . .

“Oh, shit,” he murmurs, your cunt squeezing his fingers so hard they can’t move, and you gush, all the way to his elbow. 

You can’t see for a second, the sound of your pounding heart in your ears the only proof you’re still alive. It’s like your body has been storing it all for him, never doing this for anyone else, so you keep coming and coming. Dieter groans, drops his head, and licks up as much as he can, but you feel your own slick slip down your ass and stain your dress. You whine as he slips his fingers out of you.

“Ohmy– oh – oh – oh fuck, Dieter,” you garble. Your entire lower half is numb. You don’t realize you’re shaking until he’s stretched out both of your legs, hand gently massaging your thighs. He licks his palm, his forearm, trying to clean himself up, but never once taking his eyes off you. 

“Good, baby?” 

You nod, blinking back the sparks of light whirling across your vision. “So good. So, so good.” 

“I have a lot to make up for. Where’s the clasp to your dress?”

“In – In the back,” you swallow, hand flopping around to indicate some direction. 

“I’m going to turn you around, okay, baby?”

He takes you by the hip, the shoulder, and curls you onto your side. His thumb pressed up against the cup of your skull, warm and grounding, he unzips your dress, the sound loud in the silence. Easing you as he goes, he rolls you until you’re face down on the mattress and he can peel the dress off your shoulders. Somewhere behind you, he makes a noise at the sight of your bare back. 

“You’re so fucking gorgeous.” Heat drapes across your back as he leans down and kisses from the back of your neck, down your spine and lingers at the place just above the curve of your ass. He harshly palms your thighs, the meat of your butt, groaning, promising and marking places for his teeth. Your breathing hitches as you slide your dress off your arms. He meets your hands and helps you pull it down the rest of the way, over your knees and off the bed. 

You should be cold, shivering, but you aren’t. Not when his hands start over your calves, gripping them soft enough that he can move unhindered, but tight enough it's almost a massage. He goes up the backs of your knees, curves around your thighs, fingers dip into the bones of your hip. The mattress dips as he lays out behind you, over you, fingers tugging you back until there’s enough space for him to slip his hand between you and the mattress, his knee prying your legs apart. He cups you, biting the curve of your ear, and you gasp for him. He plugs you up with two fingers, still so wet he meets no resistance and he growls in your neck.

“There’s this image of you that I swear to god is painted on the backs of my eyelids,” he murmurs, fucking you lazily with his fingers. You fist the sheets, arm shaking to keep yourself tilted enough to give him room. You can feel his hot, thick, solid cock against the back of your thigh, his own body heat enough to make you sweat. He touches a place that makes you gasp and his hips twitch forward. You want more, more heat, more of him, his white undershirt sticking to your back. You want to feel him. You push your hips back and he groans, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “I see it when I wake up and when I go to sleep at night and it used to fucking kill me because that was all I had left of you.” He speeds up, his wrist snapping against your pelvis. “But then – then, it – it gave me comfort, because I got to see you all the time. It wasn’t real and it wasn’t enough but god, it got me through the worst of it.” 

You can feel your core tighten, pleasure spiral down and in on itself, a single spark away from exploding, as he goes faster and faster.

“I fucking need you–,” he whines in your ear, chest smothering your back, knuckle rubbing up against your clit. 

“Dieter, take off your fucking shirt –,”

You lunge forward, out of his grasp, his fingers dragging wet slick over your hip as you roll away from him. His hands frantically yank his shirt up and over his head as you work the button on his pants, unzipping him in a rush. You’ve barely gotten his pants down over his knees when he grabs you by the elbow, yanking you into his mouth, his lap. Your shared moans coat the inside of your mouths, lips pressed swollen and hot, teeth nipping and pulling. Separating only to breathe, he hauls your knee over his hip, pulling you as close as he can, his cock red and leaking into your stomach. 

You roll your hips forward, your soaked cunt clutching around his cock and he sways, breaking apart, to open mouth-groan. 

“C-condom?”

“Don’t want one. There hasn’t been anyone but you.”

“Me neither.”

You snake a hand between your heated bodies and pump him once. Again and he whines. A third time and you push him back, flat against the mattress, his body thumping into the pillows. His thumbs press into the curve of your hips, up your waist, fingers slotting between your ribs. 

But his eyes are latched onto your nipples.

“And these tits, baby,” he cups the weight of one while thumbing across the raised nipple of the other. You arch your spine, letting him do whatever he wants, while you pump him slowly, and swirl your clit with your other fingers. “Been obsessed with them. Fucking dream about them. Wanna spend a whole day with my mouth on them.”

“Well, I wanna spend a whole day on this cock. Dieter, fuck, your cock is fantastic.” It’s thick and long and you lick a mix of precum and spit into your hand to coat all of him. 

“Yeah, you missed my big cock?” Hips bucking inches off the mattress, his eyes fall half-shut, almost black with hunger. “Show me, baby, show me how much you missed me. Fuck yourself on my cock.” 

Despite his filthy mouth, his breathing hitches when you go onto your knees, hand holding him beneath you as you adjust to find your entrance. He breaths so sharply, you glance at him, the head of his cock just inches from your cunt. His chest is flushed and sweaty. The roundness of his stomach trembles, the hair there pressed flat and wet. The hair at his temples and across his hairline is damp,  beautiful curls tossed back from his face. Eyes warm, his lips are wet with anticipation. 

“I missed you, Nat,” he says quietly, suddenly. His fingers squeeze your thighs and his words catch as you notch just the head inside you, the fat head splitting you apart. “I m-m-missed you so-oh much.” 

Wanting nothing but to feel every inch, you take your hand away and find his forearm to steady yourself. The deeper you take him, the higher your whine goes. 

“Fuck, Natalie, fuck –,” his eyes are squeezed shut, jaw tight, as you gasp towards the ceiling, eyes rolling back in your head. “Fuck, you feel – you are –,” 

“Dieter –,”

Your hips drop, his twitching below you, and you take in every ridge, every throbbing vein. You don’t mean to tease, but he’s so big and it’s been so long since you’d taken him, you have to sink as slow as possible. His grip almost bruising, he wants nothing more than to yank you down on his cock, but he holds, waits, lets you adjust, even though his chest is red and he hasn’t taken a full breath in a minute. 

You inhale as you finally take all of him inside you, flush to his hips, his lap already wet, that low simmering heat swirling out from every place his cock rubs up inside of you. 

“Natalie–,” he chokes.

It’s been too long. 

You thrust forward, riding him hard and setting a pace that startles even you. A loud groan roars through him and his hands around your hips yank you back and forth with just as much force, as much want. Arousal climbs higher and higher, your shared pants and moans a catalyst for fire.

“Natalie,” he tries and you open your eyes. His face is flushed now too, eyes wet. “Natalie, I can’t stop thinking – the last time we were like this – I did – I said –,”

He whimpers as you slow and lean over him. You cup his cheeks with both hands, thumb tugging down his bottom lip. You kiss him, mouth slotting over his. “Don’t think about that, baby. Stay here with me. Be with me.” 

He nods frantically, gasping as you jerk your hips just right, and you nuzzle his nose before building back your speed, that heart-stopping pace. He intertwines his fingers with yours, offering himself to hold onto as you both race towards release, his hips rhythmically bouncing against yours. 

But you can’t help it either. Flashing across your memory like fireworks, you’re overwhelmed with images of you and him either in this exact position or a dozen others. On top of a desk, in a car, against a wall, behind, under, in front – every way he would make you take him again and again. You dip forward, just a bit, remembering that angle that made his knees quake – and apparently still does. 

“Oh, fuck, baby –,”

Bits and pieces of old fantasies slide in between the gaps in your memory – the time you tried to picture his face when you sat on your new vibrator you gifted yourself on your twenty-sixth birthday – the time you finger-fucked yourself in the bathtub, hopelessly trying to find that spongy spot he used to stroke – it was not agonizingly enough.

It was nothing like him begging you to never, ever leave. You ride him hard and fast because tomorrow isn’t promised and it might never come. 

His thumb on your bottom lip and his voice pry your eyes open. Your thighs quake from the strain, ratcheting that thunderous pleasure up every knot of your spine. You’re sweating so much you think you might melt off his cock. 

The bed squeaks, as you grind yourself against him, his hand still on your face. 

“I fucking love you.” He breathes through, open-mouthed, a spike of pleasure, his hair plastered against his forehead. You think you might come from the look of pure adoration in his eyes alone, but you white-knuckle your approaching orgasm, just as you know he is. “You’re made for me. This cunt is made for me.”

Every inch of you is fire hot. You gaze down at him and take your thumb between your teeth, nipping gently, your hands balanced against his stomach. 

“I am yours, Dieter. I’ve never wanted anything else. Never.” 

He swallows, eyes impossibly dark and deep, staring up at you like you hang the moon and stars, like you are solely responsible for the air in his lungs and the blood in his veins.

Dieter jerks up to kiss you, his hand cupping the back of your head, nails lightly scratching into your hair. The force of him stills your hips and you kiss him back, arms around his neck, but does nothing to quench that roaring blaze in your cunt. 

His arm drops from your head, goes around your back, the other catching your hips against his and he flips you both, nestling you against the covers. He pins your arms above your head and thrusts into you, setting a pace that has your eyes rolling back your head. You whimper. 

“You are the only thing I’ve ever loved,” he grunts into your neck, his voice low as it kisses your skin. His pace is punishing, chasing whatever haunted him at night those years he was apart from you. You pin your knees to his ribs, welcoming him deeper and deeper. “I want to be yours. I want to be yours until the day I fucking die.” 

“You are, Dieter, you are.” 

The sound that comes from his chest, echoing in your ear, and seeps into your bones finally pushes you over the edge. White-hot lightning strikes you between your legs, a warm, milky wave rocking you flat on your back as your cunt clenches down on him. He shouts, loudly, his back tense as he spills inside of you a second later. You can feel him soak the inside of you, his cock twitching under the pressure of your still-tight cunt. 

His hips pump once, twice more, his body eager to empty him out entirely, and then he stills. 

The sound of your shared heavy breathing, between the sweaty, throbbing mass of your bodies, is the only sound in the bedroom, stretching on for minutes at a time. 

You have never felt so close to a person as you do right now. You can feel his heart pounding against his chest as it sits above yours. Your skin, damp with sweat, clings to his. This is where you want to be, for the rest of your life. 

Slowly, as fast as his shaking arms will allow, Dieter lifts up to look you in the eyes, breath still heavy in his lungs. He’s red, pushed to the limit of exertion and then beyond that. His hair is a damp mess and his skin is so warm it almost burns.

But he’s smiling. 

As your breathing returns to normal, even if it might take hours to wash yourselves clean, he smiles at you and you smile back because all it took was time.

Time, some therapy, and some space apart to find out what truly matters. What only matters. If nothing we do matters, this is the only thing that does. 

You don’t have to speak because he knows what you’re thinking. Grinning through a half-chuckle, he kisses your forehead, your nose, and your lips. With a sigh, you wrap your arms around him as he gingerly tucks his head under your chin, and rests his cheek against your chest. You play with his hair. 

The night stretches on, the snow falls harder outside. Eventually, you end up under the covers,  Dieter Bravo is in love with you and you love him back. 

He taps his fingers against your hip, absent-mindedly, to a beat you don’t recognize. And then his chest vibrates over yours, the sound sinking into yours, as he hums the chorus to Here You Come Again.

When you wake up, hours later, sleep overtaking you at some point during the night, you open your eyes to gold sunlight streaming in through the curtains and his back to you. His arm tucked under his head, curls askew on the pillow, and you feel him breath against the mattress. 

Hesitantly, slowly, you reach forward, hand trembling, across the small space between your bodies –

And you touch his shoulder. He’s solid. He’s real. He’s here.

He shudders awake, groaning sleepily, as he turns over, his brown eyes greeting yours with all the joy of the sun. 

He touches your cheek and you smile. 

Epilogue

The wooden tracks of the rollercoaster vibrate violently as the cars lurch over the railings and down the slope. Screams of delight are lost beneath the gentle melody of the merry-go-round, its lights bright against the late evening sky. People wander between the tents and the booths, stopping to play a round of hunt-the-duck or to throw a ball at empty milk bottles. The smell of popcorn and candy hangs thick in the warm summer air. 

Dieter adjusts the giant stuffed bear on his back, eyes surveying their next target on the Coney Island pier. 

“Ice cream me, babe.” 

Your arm juts out and smears vanilla-chocolate swirl across his mouth and he sputters.

Your eyes jump up from your phone, embarrassed to have been so distracted, and you immediately go to wipe his lips, his own hands busy keeping the bear up right. 

“Sorry, sorry!” 

He grins as you blot his mouth and chin. His tongue swipes out and licks your palm.

“It’s okay, only if you use your mouth next time.” 

You roll your eyes as you toss away the used napkins. This time you hold the cone properly so he can lick his fill.

“What’s so important on your phone that you nearly drown me in ice cream?”

A summer breeze, hot off the waves of the ocean, strokes your hair, tugging it over your eyes. You push it back, frowning.

“Netflix emailed us, wanting to know if we wanted to be a part of the documentary about the making of Recovery Road.” 

“And you think that’s a bad idea?” He asks, catching an errant dribble before it smears across your fingers. 

“I don’t know. It just feels like dredging up things that are better left in the past.” 

“Netflix’s specialty.” 

You frown at him and he grins. “No one’s ever officially gone on record about what happened and now maybe we should. Set the record straight.”

“I don’t think we’ll come out of it looking very good,” you worry your lip. “Besides, if we’re being interviewed, shouldn’t Chloe get a chance to tell her side too?”

Dieter shrugs. “She can if she wants. But the story is ultimately about you and me. Besides, they just want the juicy gossip about all of our wild and crazy infidelity sex.”

“Dieter!”

With a chuckle, he drops the bear between the two of you, so he can look you properly in the eyes without a paw over his face.

“Baby, I’ll do whatever you want to do. If you want to do it, great. If not, fuck ‘em. I don’t care how it makes us seem, because no matter what, they’ll never know the true story.” He takes your hand that is not holding an ice cream cone, sticky fingers and all, and kisses your knuckles. “You and I are so beyond Netflix documentaries, or tell-all exposés – or whatever constitutes a love story in Hollywood. What I feel for you, no one could ever do it justice.” 

He sees your chest stutter for breath, your eyes soft as he kisses your palm. 

“They’d never understand the man you’ve become,” you say quietly. “What it took to get here.”

He nods, hand sliding to your cheek, your neck, and pulls you in. “This is it for me.”

“Me too.” 

The jingle of the carnival around you, the roar of the rollercoaster in the distance, fills the silence as your lips move against his, hand curled up against his collar.

“Okay, new question,” he breaks apart before he loses all of his senses and pulls you into a bathroom stall.

You chuckle against his lips. “Yeah?”

“What would you think about getting a dog?”

“A dog?” You blink up at him.

“Yeah. Doesn’t have to be very big – there’s no room in our brownstone for the three of us anyway.”

You frown playfully, contemplative, as you loop your arm through his, the bear stretched across both your backs, as you instinctively wander towards the water.

“I’ve always liked pitbulls. Found them to be really misunderstood.” 

He nods. “I like that. Kind of flies in the face of the ‘small dog’ idea but I like it.” 

“When have we ever not bucked tradition?” 

“You’re exactly right, my beautiful girl.” He kisses your cheek as you list off other potential breeds.

Honestly, he doesn’t care. Whatever dog breed you want is fine with him.

As long as it has a collar and a name tag, somewhere he can hang a ring. 

T H E  E N D

[izukuisbaby]

੭ु⁾💌 ex!husband toji x reader : megumi's shared custody

୭ A/N : this is not the toji fic I've been bothering yall about for days, just a little idea I had to write when I woke up ! inspired by @mari-the-bimbo

୭ synopsis : you and your ex-husband Toji have joint custody of baby Megumi and your divorce with him is put to a test when he brings him to your house😍

୭ before you read : Megumi is 4 years old in this, also this could become a series so don't hesitate to send your ideas through asks !

୭ warnings : implied nsfw

You heard your doorbell from the kitchen ringing quite insistently . You knew it was the day your stepson Megumi was supposed to come live with you for a week. That also meant your ex-husband Toji would be there, much to your dismay. You walked towards the door, already exasperated and opened it with a sigh.

"Hello Mrs. Zenin", you brought your gaze upwards to meet the eyes of your ex-husband who was smirking as he looked at you from head to toes in an inappropriate manner, fit to his character.

"Stop calling me that Toji, we are divorced" you curtly said before stepping aside to let him in, and closing the door behind him. "Where is Megumi ?" you asked, seeing his son was not there. "He's in the car don't worry. I just wanted to have some time alone with you, if you-" he begins with his annoyingly perfect grin. "TOJI FOR GOD'S SAKE WE ARE DIVORCED CAN YOU STOP THINKING ABOUT HAVING SEX WITH ME ALL THE TIME ?!!" you shouted, he did this every time, and you had enough, or so you thought.

"Do you want to drink something- no dirty jokes Toji" you scolded as you saw his sneer again, causing his grin to widen. "A coffee would be lovely princess, thank you", his smile, his godforsaken smile and the nickname made your stomach flutter and you hated it. Not a word was uttered as you made the coffee and poured it into a cup, handing it to him. Your face got closer to his as you leant forward. Toji jumped on the occasion to wrap your right cheek in his hand and turning your visage so that you were facing him. Your eyes instantly met his and you did not know how long you two drowned in each other's irises, but you could see it was longer than normal. The eye contact was broken when your ex-husband brought his lips to yours in a - let's face it- long awaited kiss. You wrapped your hands behind his neck and climbed onto his lap. He was quick to wrap his own arms around your waist, your chests now touching. He wanted more of you, you were intoxicating him. Toji bit your bottom lip slightly - not enough to hurt you - entailing a gasp to escape your mouth. He took advantage of the moment to put his tongue against yours and you two made out until you were out of breath.

Caught in the moment, you failed to notice Megumi, standing there a smirk on his face, very much like his father's. You quickly climbed off of Toji's lap and ran to him, hugging him. "Megumi, how long have you been standing there ?" you asked, with a blush on your face caused by the embarrassment. "About 15 minutes, it was hot in the car and Dad was taking forever" he replied, walking towards the stool to take a seat in the kitchen beside his dad. You turned towards Toji and looked at him wide-eyed, his child saw you make out and he did not care. "Ha yes, I see" you replied with a light chuckle to hide your embarrassment. "Are you and Dad back together ?" Megumi inquired smiling like the little angel he is, he seemed almost excited - given his tone - at the idea. "No", "Not yet" you and his dad replied at the same time. You could not help but smile at Toji's answer, you still loved him but refused to admit it.

Toji had dinner with the two of you as Megumi demanded a moment with you three together. It was like the old times, and you and Toji could not take your eyes off of each other. After the meal, you escorted your ex husband to the door. You had cramps in your cheeks from smiling since he walked through the door. "Thank you for the meal princess, I'll see you soon" Toji says before kissing your forehead. Needless to say, you have been thinking about him all night - and so did he.

© izukuisbaby. comments appreciated ! although do not modify, translate, copy, claim as your own or repost on any app/platform/social media (this applies to all of my content)💓

[the-iceni-bitch]

I Long to Be

Pairing: Mr Freezy x hit woman!reader (kitten), Officer Bill x hit woman!reader (PG only for now)

Words: ~2.1k

Summary: Your new dynamic has Bobby ready to explode.

Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content (fingering, over the pants hand job, dry humping, mentions of oral and penetrative sex), emotional manipulation, reader is a massive bitch, slightly subby Bobby (what?!?!), cheating adjacent, domestic violence as foreplay, inappropriate behavior at a funeral, gossipy neighbors, SMUT!!!! 18+ ONLY!!!

A/N: This is mostly just setting the stage for the next arc I’m gonna do with our murderers but whoo boy are you sluts in for a treat! Sorry for inflicting the stache on you, but I’m just gonna lean into it.

I am no longer doing taglists so if you want to stay up to date on all the latest filth, follow my sideblog @the-iceni-library and turn on notifications!!!

You moaned softly when Bobby pulled you back against his chest, the hand that wasn’t digging into your tit buried knuckle deep in your cunt from behind as he stroked your walls slowly.

“No marks.” You ordered when you felt his teeth scrape over your pulse, ignoring the snarl he shot you through the mirror before settling for licking a thick stripe up the side of your neck. “Don’t fucking pout at me, pretty sure even those dumb fucks out there would notice if I walked out there with a hickey. Control yourself.”

“You need to quit being a fucking bitch.” He growled when you squeezed his cock before starting to stroke it through his slacks again. “It’s been five days, if I don’t feel that warm snatch wrapped around me soon, I’m gonna fucking kill someone.”

“Then you’ll just have to wait even longer, Bobby. I told you, we’re gonna drill some fucking self control into you.” You rolled your hips into his hand when his palm ground into your clit, dropping your head back against his shoulder and purring when you felt his cock throbbing under your palm. “Plus, I’m still pissed at you for the unbelievable pile of bull shit I had to dig you out of.”

“But… fuck, kitten.” He buried his face in your hair to cover his groan when you squeezed him again, bucking his hips into your grip and tugging softly at your nipple as you brought him towards his peak. “I fucking need it. You can just suck on the tip a little, just tide me over, I’m fucking dying.”

“You’re fucking dramatic, I’m still letting you come, so quit being a bitch.” You felt warmth bloom under your hand and smirked at him, your pussy sucking on his fingers as he started fucking them into you harder until you came with a broken sob.

“You goddamn cunt.” He looked furious when you pulled away from him, growling when you wrenched out of his grip to straighten your dress out. “I swear to god, you keep fucking holding out on me and I’m gonna split you in half in front of those cunts until you’re bleeding and begging me to stop.”

“No you’re not.” You shoved your tits back into your dress and did up the buttons. “You’re gonna play the grieving husband and father for as long as I tell you, and once I feel like the fucking heat has died down enough, maybe then you can get your dick wet. But until that happens, you’ll just have to settle for hands and dry humping. Now shut up and try to look wrecked.”

He didn’t have to try, he was wrecked. Dealing with your constant teasing without being able to actually fuck you had him feeling like his nerves were frayed to the limit, and topping that off with having to play the tormented widower was testing the self control you were adamant he exercise. There hadn’t even been any jobs for him to redirect his pent up rage, so he was stuck settling for furiously jerking himself every night as he longed for your perfect, warm cunt.

You gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder before opening the door and heading back out to the wake, not bothering to fix your face as it fit the narrative that Bobby had been comforting you while you cried yourself out. With how haggard he was, your stupid cunt neighbors had no problem accepting when you told them that you and Bobby had been supporting each other through this tough time. 

Bobby’s jaw was clenched tight as he stood at the edge of his living room, barely paying attention to the twats who kept coming up to him to tell him how sorry they were for his loss while he watched you act like the perfect grieving friend. You shot him a glare when he tried to move closer to you, hiding your smirk behind your drink and leaning against the wall when he accepted another unwanted embrace like a good little widower.

“Hi, Suzy?” You had to act quick to school your face when you turned and found the fucking cop who had flirted with you at the damn crime scene standing there, you had not expected to see him again.

“Officer Bill!” You caught Bobby start out of the corner of your eye, shooting him a glance to settle him before turning back to your surprising visitor. “Robert’s just over there, did you need to talk to him about something? I thought everything was closed.”

“It is, and please just call me Bill.” He gave you a nervous smile and stepped a little closer to you, fidgeting with his hands as he struggled with what to say to you. “I just… I couldn’t stop thinking about you and I know these things tend to put all the focus on the family but I wanted to make sure you were ok? Since she was your best friend, I’m sure things are hard.”

Oh shit. Your flirting had worked a little too well, this boy was sweet on you. It took some doing for you to fight the pleased smile that tried to spread across your face, especially when you caught Bobby glaring at you over the cop’s shoulder when the man reached and gave your arm a reassuring squeeze. 

“It’s been so hard.” You gave a small sob and could have laughed when he drew you into his chest, burying your face in the warm planes of muscle as he did his best to comfort you. “I feel so alone now. I’d usually talk to Mary about this, but now I have no one. Maybe I could talk to Robert but he’s suffering so much worse than me, I don’t want to burden him any more.”

“God, you’re so sweet, honey.” You managed to disguise your snort as another sob, pressing your body close to his and trying not to grin when he settled his hands at the small of your back, “You can talk to me, Suzy.”

“Bill, you just met me.” This was working out great for you; a dumb cop who was already wrapped around your finger and a new way to piss off Bobby, what could be better? “I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

“Baby, no, never.” He gave you a soft smile when you lifted your head to meet his gaze, cupping your face in one massive palm and gently brushing his thumb over the curve of your cheek in an effort to soothe you. “I just wanna help, but we don’t have to do anything you don’t want, ok?”

“Okay.” You leaned into his cheek and sighed softly as you batted your eyelashes at him, it had been a while since you had played this game, but seems like you were still a fucking pro. “Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure, darlin’.” You let him give your waist a squeeze before stepping back, your eyes finding Bobby’s and narrowing at the look of unbridled rage you found there until he was cowed. “There’s a little bakery near here if you wanna have some privacy.”

He nodded towards the gaggle of housewives that was watching you with interest while the rest of your neighbors started filtering home and you sighed, accepting his hand and letting him lead you towards the front door while you gave Bobby one more warning glance to keep him from doing something stupid. As soon as the door closed behind you the busybodies went crazy, whisper shouting at each other as they tried to keep some semblance of decorum while they packed up all the leftovers and helped Bobby clean up, or rather, did all the cleaning while Bobby started downing scorch like it was his job.

Thirty minutes later and he was finally alone, exhausted from all the unwanted hugs and sympathies he had to endure and wanting nothing more than to lose himself in you. But he couldn’t because you were still out with that fucking cop. He sulked in the chair at the front window, watching your house as he slowly drained the bottle of scotch and tried to keep himself from imagining what you might be doing with that fucker.

By the time the bastard’s car finally pulled up in front of your house an hour later, the bottle was empty, Bobby wallowing in a pool of self pity that he never would have admitted to and growling when he watched the officer help you out of the car and lead you to your front door with an arm around your waist. When he watched him give you a peck on the cheek he almost lost it, dropping the bottle and cursing when he heard it smash against the floor. At least you didn’t invite him inside, sending him on his way with a little wave before strolling into your house without a second glance. 

Bobby waited a few minutes after the cocksucker pulled away before storming over to your place, barely keeping himself together until he was able to knock on your front door. 

“Hey there, Bobby.” You gave him a wicked grin when you opened the door, stepping aside and letting him in. 

“The fucking cop?” He was itching to slap you, or maybe choke you, he was absolutely furious.

“Bobby, Bobby, Bobby.” You shoved him a little and snorted when he stumbled slightly. “Drunk again. What the fuck am I gonna do with you?”

“Fuck me.” He was so drunk he didn’t even care anymore, grabbing you by the back of your neck and dragging your face to his until his lips were devouring yours.

“Jesus, did I fucking break you, Bobby?” You chuckled when he growled in response and shoved you against the wall, grinding his hardened cock into your hip as he tried to wrap his hands around your throat. “No fucking marks! God, still haven’t learned, have you?”

Your slap sent him reeling, the only thing that kept him upright being your tight grip on his collar as you watched him with mock concern. He tried to snarl at you when you gripped his jaw in one hand, shaking his head with a demeaning tut before leaning forward to bite at his lips.

“You need to dump that fucking cop, kitten.” He purred into your mouth when you wound one leg around his hip and dragged him into you, letting him rock against you slowly with a low moan as his dick twitched in his pants.

“And you still need to fucking control yourself, instead of charging over to your single neighbor’s house like a bat out of hell right after your wife’s funeral when you know every fucking busybody in the neighborhood is gonna be watching us like a bunch of hawks.” You let him lift your other leg to wrap around him, pressing you into the wall and moaning into your neck as he ground right against your clit. “I’ll make you a deal Bobby; you manage to keep that temper of yours reined in and the neighbors off our backs for a whole month while I make that sweet, dumb cop fall in love with me, and I’ll let you do whatever he does to me, so you don’t combust.”

“You’re such a bitch.” His breath against your neck was desperate, the rhythm of his hips writhing against you growing frantic as you both neared your ends. “You let him fuck you and I don’t care, kitten, I’ll fucking kill him.”

“Aww, don’t worry baby, it’ll just be the tip.” You laughed when he snarled into your throat, forcing himself to pull back before he sank his teeth into you so you didn’t decide to torture him even more. “Look at you being so good, and I didn’t even mention your reward.”

“What is it?” Christ, you were just whipping men left and right today.

“Once I get that moron to give me his whole heart, I’ll let you help me break it.” He hit you at the perfect angle and you shuddered with bliss, your release soaking the front of his slacks as his own filled his briefs. “But in a way that keeps him wrapped around my little finger so we can use him if we need to.”

“Ugh, fuck. Fine.” He sighed defeatedly into your neck. “But if I haven’t had my dick sucked once by this time in two weeks, I’m getting a fucking toy.”

[shallowseeker]

(Turns out I had a lot of thoughts, and not just about that broken glass. I hope this doesn't disappoint you. Here goes:)

Much ado about lamps, closets, and erect buildings.

The fight scene in 13x13 Devil's Bargain: how the symbols TFW are thrown into reveal their shadow-motivations.

Here's some overthinking to finish up your night, and happy trails!

ANAEL = DELIVERS A POWERFUL HIT TO SAM Duplicity, ambition Anael is lying to Team Free Will. Her gut punch to Sam is a sneaky surprise attack. Anael was "low-level functionary...who had ideas that no one would listen to," and now she wants Lucifer as a leashed beast to do her bidding.

Presented as a money-obsessed material girl, we later see just how much Anael cares about Heaven and Humanity. She meddles and only pretends to be money-obsessed in order to accomplish good in the world. 💔

Here, she thinks she can use Lucifer to help change the world. But she's making a very dangerous choice. Eventually, she'll get burned by Lucifer. (He'll grab her by the neck and lift her off her feet ,just a few episodes later, despite her sacrifices for him).

It seems that not even the savviest businesswoman of all time can safely siphon his power, especially using a veneer of vulnerability.

Anael looks upon Lucifer, the light, hoping to use him to run Heaven as she sees fit and better position herself to help humanity. Anael pretends to be bad, desperate to cover up how much she actually cares. We'll see that revisited in 14x01 Strangers in a Strange Land, when AU Michael compares her inherent Love to Dean.

///

SAM = HIT BY ANAEL, SAM GOES FLYING ACROSS THE ROOM Bedside table, on-lamp to off-lamp Wisdom, past mistakes; alternatively the Righteous thing versus the Selfish thing Sam gets slammed into a bedside table and a lamp, then crumples to the floor. This is a specter of Sam's past betrayals and temptations re:Lucifer's power. Sam was tempted by Lucifer's light. Sam thought he could overpower/outsmart Lucifer for the sake of Good, that Lucifer could be "a powerful lamp" that chases away the darkness and the monsters.

But just like how Sam hits the lamp, that illusion got shattered. Lucifer's light is a lie. Lucifer comes, "as everything you want," which is a callback to Lucifer's original illusory lure, in the bedroom, as Jessica Moore. But it was all a ruse.

Now, Sam knows better, but Anael, who thinks she knows, does not.

ALTERNATIVELY, this off-lamp is a reading on Sam's 2D heroic performance versus the 3D, nuanced complexity of his reality.

Sam goes flying into the bright n' shining lamp. It falls to the ground and goes out. This is because, although Sam performs heroism in the name of Pure Goodness, but he is human and as such, is just as selfishly motivated to save his family as anyone else.

Morality spirals down into Moral Relativism. When our Greater Good becomes protecting our families, that tragic weak spot leads inevitably to darkness. (This is the tragedy of humanity.)

Despite Sam's bright idealism, he is often drawn into saving his loved ones through selfish means, such as when he unleashed The Darkness.

Now, ironically, even though he knows how dangerous tangling with Lucifer can be, he will eventually participate in the same thing as Anael is doing. That is, he shackling Lucifer's power in order to rescue his family (Mary n' Jack) from AU Earth.

It's often spelled out and underlined that Dean and Cas will act as soldiers, doing "whatever it takes" to save the family, such as when Dean pulls a gun on Kaia, or when Cas brain-fries Donatello. But Sam is the same. (So are you, probably, the human who's reading this. "Everyone has a breaking point." Love is weakness, love is strength.)

///

CAS = HIT BY LUCIFER; CAS IS FLUNG UP HIGH OVER THE DOMESTIC READYING SPACE OF THE HOTEL Picture of erect skyscrapers, broken glass Duty, passion When Cas is attacked by Lucifer, he is swept UP into the wall, high, where he slams into a picture of erect buildings. For a brief moment, he's an angel plummeting from the high ground, from that place where he lives "above it all."

This is a three-part combo hit:

1) It's an emasculation, that Lucifer's got a "bigger stick," so to speak (after all, Lucifer has killed him before, and Cas is still fighting him in a fit of foolish, prolonged courageousness)

2) It's a personal nod to Cas's angelicity, "as tall as a Chrysler Building" & his subsequent "Fall from Grace"

3) It's a goading barb about Cas's duty versus his passion.

Cas may play at being solely motivated by duty and chivalrousness, but he's also "Erect, Passionate, Fallen, in Romantic Love," in ways he doesn't want others to know about.

As Cas falls, the glass shatters, breaking this illusion and revealing Castiel's lustful tendencies, the erect skyscrapers.

Cas is also in a domestic "go" space of the hotel, because of who he wants to live among. There's a sink and a stack of clean towels. He's got blood on his hands, sure. But to the angels, he's "dirty" because of how his love for Dean manifests, that he "hungers for strange flesh."

We've seen Cas torn between duty (case details on the left) and his, uh, tall erections (skyscrapers + metal on the right) before.

And Lucifer knows. He's been in Castiel's head. He sees. It's why, in Rock Never Dies, Lucifer tries to goad Castiel (as everyone does), trying to smash through his grayrock composure and get him to react. Cas is not duty-bound, and he's not pleasureless; he only pretends to be. That's why the goading takes the form it does.

When Cas hits the wall, the glass breaks and he falls. Because Lucifer wants to smash that illusion, to take Cas down a peg or two, just like Metatron wanted to--revealing Castiel's hunger, desires, affections, and motivations in full, 3D, technicolor.

///

DEAN= HIT BY LUCIFER; DEAN IS FLUNG INTO A CLOSET, WHERE IT BREAKS AND SPLINTERS, similar to the splintering wood in this episode where the demon accosts him Stereotypical hero, soft teddy bear

Lucifer backhands Dean, the universal hit of disobedience, and Dean goes flying into a literal closet, where the doors shatter and wood splinters all around him. He cowers.

This is a hit on Dean's performance as the stereotypical hero, as the constructed, mythical Malboro man. Inside the closet, Dean is soft, like the pillow on the upper shelf. He's a dork and a teddy bear, and he "wuvs hugs."

Dean's in a closet here, because he closets his true nature (yeah, I know...it's a bit on the nose)

Dean loses his (traveler’s) duffel bag, because what’s hidden inside the closet signifies his sense of home.

There's also a pillow present, because of how soft the real Dean really is, and also who he wants to share his bed with

There's a tan blanket because that bedfellow is Cas; he wants to be covered by Cas in more ways than just comradery

Dean tries to hide his affection and how his love for Cas manifests, but Lucifer knows. That's why his goading took the form it did in season 11, with the desperate, mocking "CAAAS!" This knowledge allows him to enter the bunker in season 15, using Dean's lost love as the illusory lure to get past the door.

///

Lucifer looks on Dean and Cas, thrown down as a unit, illusions shattered. He knows.

Lucifer functions a little bit as symbolic of Chuck's judging eyes here, too.

In the splintered ruins of Dean's emotional walls, and in the shattered remains of Castiel's legendary, military composure, they're right next to one another, almost as if caught out by the Narrative Gaze.

And here we have the layout of the scene:

Dean, broken and vulnerable, with his closet split open, flanked by remnants it’s doors, and splintered pieces. It reveals a soft pillow, a tan blanket. He’s hunched over deep—his squishy insides revealed.

Cas, defeated but stubborn, still desperately crawling towards Dean amidst all that broken glass.

Cas's disarmed angel blade is exposed, in close proximity to Dean, angled at him and nestled alongside one of Dean's splintered pieces.

The truth: Dean is not his performance of Dean. Cas is not solely motivated by Heavenly duty.

As he moves to shield Dean (an extension of his absence in this scene), the rest of the scene reveals a lot about the truth of Cas's protection, the nature of his fall, and about who he shields and why.

It's not a holy cause. This is simpler. Forbidden. Down to earth. (Affection.)

And they cannot protect each other from everything.

///

Meanwhile, Sam is in a deep crouch of his own, hunched over near the blacked-out lamp, also taking a heavy kick to the guts.

After Ketch saves them, Sam stands and helps his brother to his feet (signifying acceptance).

And they stand as a united front against Ketch, Sam flanked by two familial defenders. It calls to mind Chuck's quote, "You still think that Dean and Cas will come charging in, just in the nick of time. You still think you can win."

Well, one thing's for sure. They'll sure as Hell try.

I really enjoyed you pointing out that both dean and mary were assaulted in the same ep. I'd never noticed that before. what do you think about the scene where lucifer attacks all three of them (devil's bargain)? There's broken glass on the floor and i wanna know if you think that's anything

I don't have any thoughts about it right away, but I'll be happy to make something up if inspiration strikes.

[cardboard-aliens]

BaS was the worst thing to happen to the franchise. Its a murder in disguise. "Oh look at Rapture! You see it before it was terrible! So pretty! Please turn a blind eye to this mary sue as we make everything about her"

Franchise murder at it's finest. Tying all of the world building in a noose around Elizabeth's neck and then sinking her to the bottom of the ocean.

But even ignoring Elizabeth for the moment, BaS Rapture doesn't feel like the Rapture from the previous games! As they try to merge the games with Infinite the immersion falls apart, adding in the Need to Know Stations and the Pneumo Lines along with matching Air Grabbers makes it feel off- and then you consider how much bigger they had to make the levels to accommodate for the Air Grabbers so the city becomes much more vertical and much less cramped, unlike the Rapture of previous games- Market Street in BaS is SO much taller than the Welcome Center in BS1 its ABSURD

AND THEN, there's the fact BaS Rapture draws the later Art Deco phase of Streamline Moderne instead of the earlier style in the 20s. It makes the areas you visit in BaS feel complety divorced from the city of the first two games.

Then we get to watch Elizabeth get to be the most special character in the entire franchise- she gets to meet every big name from the first game regardless of how little sense it makes (except the named female characters 🤔) Elizabeth is just SO good at singing Cohen wants her to work for him!!! (She gets a poster and a nickname for the public- like WHY. ALSO- why is Cohen running a child trafficking ring in the first place. And why would you go to Cohen to get into places Ryan didn't want people going. Maybe you should go talk to the left over smugglers like Peach Wilkins) She's so smart Atlas needs her to start the riots for him!!! She's gets to bond the Sisters and big Daddy's for Suchong cause's he's too stupid too!!! (Funny how they take our one Korean Character's achievement and have a white man in another dimension 40 years before figure it out while calling Suchong slurs. Totally not racist) Ryan thinks she's so special he wants to give her a job!!! (Strange, I thought Ryan started up hangings for contact with the surface and sent people to prison out of fear they were spies) Fontaine is an idiot so Elizabeth has to get him WYK!!!

She meets every big name from the first game, and gets to out "smart" them by pointing out the obvious while stealing their defining character moments. All while constantly beating her up and throwing her a pity party to tell us how hard her life is. But then you compare her to Jack, Delta, Eleanor, The sisters Big and Small, the people in Shantytown who were all suffering far worse than Elizabeth in her tower and she just comes off as immensely privileged- and that's before we have to watch her burn a child alive for revenge and then abandon said child. They make her SUCH a flawed character and then refuse to explore her faults instead having the story tell her shes so perfect and smart and special as every character bows before her.

Like as if them oversexualizing her and portraying her as weak as they beat her up constantly wasn't bad enough they force her into a story she didn't need to be a part of so crudely it brings the other games down with it. No ONE was asking the questions BaS wanted to answer, and Elizabeth should've gotten her own DLC in a setting separate from the previous games to explore her character. There the narrative can revolve around her because it could've been BUILT around her instead of breaking the rules of a preexisting setting to work around her and changing her to fit into those broken rules (I mean she WAS OP in Infinite- since they made sure not to explain Elizabeth's abilities so they could be plot convenience. They still ARE plot convenience in BaS, but the tools are weaker ones then she had in Infinite).

Elizabeth needed a better writer than Ken- she's clearly just an embodiment of traits he thinks are cool and hot while forgetting to actually make her a compelling character- her base character concept is one i LIKE, being isolated and locked away. Wanting more out of life then what you've got, but the execution is just so poor as her privileges shows in every moment and the narrative never challenges her on it and instead pats her on the back and tells her she's right.

[arty-shadow-morningstar]

A Failed Betrothal (6)

Here is a new chapter for you guys. I am terrible at writing feelings and this is my best shot.😅 Tell me what you think.

[Masterlist]

(PART 1)(PART 5)

-------

(Words in bold is French)

“Tch, Drake is going to be busy trying to find Hawkmoth. He can’t go around Paris, being Dupain-Cheng’s boyfriend. Besides, he can’t be a proper boyfriend even in his most lucid moments. I will be her boyfriend instead.”

Tim was glad he didn’t take a sip of his coffee when Damian volunteered to be Marinette’s boyfriend. But he still choked on air. Jason with his limited knowledge of french was confused. Damian didn’t do what he heard, right?

“No, you can’t. Chloe already told them about Tim. If I come in with a different boyfriend, they would get suspicious. We can work on Hawkmoth while we go on those dates. Besides, I thought you don’t like me. That’s not going to sell the image of a loving couple.” Marinette pointed out. (She also doesn’t want to do this fake-date thing. Not because she likes Damian and she had always been a goner for green eyes and totally would be date him if it weren’t for some stupid curse dictating her feelings for him and fake-dating him might get her catch feelings for him and she would get her heart broken when this is all over and she would stay single forever and be a lonely old lady with hamsters and cats for company.)

“Actually, Mari-bug, I only told the class how romantic your boyfriend is. I never told them what he looked like. Just in case, Timothy couldn’t make it. I have back-up favors to cash in.” Chloe explained.

Marinette didn’t even know why she was surprised at that, this was Chloe after all.

“You have more than one American boy around our age in your debt who you intend to be my boyfriend? Sounds like you, Queenie. So that also means that Damian doesn’t have to do it if he doesn’t want to.”

“My offer still stands. I will be your ‘boyfriend’ before I have to go back. I will be more understanding than those other American boys when you have to rush out for an attack. That is to assume that they can come here or agree. In our initial meeting, I didn’t like that weak girl act you put up. Recent events have made me realize that you are a much stronger person. (Careful Damian, that sounds like a compliment.) You are a decent partner to date.(Shit. Shit. Shit. That wasn’t a compliment, right?)”

Damian couldn’t see why Dupain-Cheng would refuse such a good deal. He supposed her feelings might be still hurt from his first impression of her. He would give her an apology when they are alone and away from his brothers who would make a big deal of it.

“Fine. At least, the curse will at least make this fake couple thing more believable.” grumbled Marinette. The light pink blush on her face is not because he said she was someone he would date.

Oh right, the curse. He swore internally, it had possessed him to be Dupain-Cheng’s boyfriend. He now would have to endure the hand-holding, kissing and staring into each other’s eyes, and try to resist the curse which will be much harder now. Somehow, he didn’t regret it a little bit. It sounds more bearable with him doing those things with her than her with Drake. This was just a mutual agreement to ward off her suitors and prove to her classmates that she was off the market.

Chloe clapped her hands,“If we have everything sorted out, you can start being a good boyfriend by walking Marinette to school today. We want to be on time now.”

The others started packing up their stuff or finished what they were eating. Marinette was dragged out of the bakery by an impatient Damian. Chloe and Alix picked up what Marinette left behind and followed out. The rest soon left right after, leaving the two boys in the bakery.

“Hey, Replacement, tell me if I am wrong but did Demon Spawn willingly ask a girl out?” Jason asked, stealing a croissant from Tim.

“Try making himself the perfect candidate to be her fake boyfriend out of many choices, including me, and get her to agree to it. Now he has to go on a few romantic dates with Marinette in order to ward off this really pushy guy in her class. Demon Spawn also has a crush on her and he’s in denial of it. We are not hallucinating either. I’ve checked.” Tim replied, sipping his coffee.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Damian. Let go. Hey, Wayne, are you listening to me? Let me go. This is not how you treat your significant other. And you are not even going in the right direction.” Marinette all but yelled at him.

He released his grip on her. “My apologies for manhandling you but I wanted to tell you this away from everybody else.”

“What?” She asked, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes.

I- This is a little difficult to say for me,” Damian started. (Why were his palms sweaty? It’s just an apology. He had done it before although it was mostly because Grayson told him what he did wrong and made him do it.) “But I am sorry for calling you weak, pathetic and every other bad thing I have said about you when you have shown that you are anything but those. I was mad at myself for being caught and took it out on you.”

Her glare softened.

“Apologies accepted. The school is this way.” She said with a smile and went towards the school. Damian walked by her side, his hands in his pockets.

Marinette looked at where his hands were, “If we are going to do this fake dating thing, I suggest we hold hands.”

Damian grabbed her hand and continued walking in silence. Her hands were so small and fitted perfectly in his. Oh God, it’s the curse again. Turning him into a sap. Do not think about her hands. And the fact that she took down a man twice her size with them which was an amazing sight to watch.

“Why are you so stiff? Loosen up a little. You are with the love of your life. Smile a little.”

Damian plastered on a fake smile, “Happy?”

“It looks fake. Being a model he will be able to tell.” Marinette remarked, “Are you sure you want to do this? We can still go get Tim to be my boyfriend.”

“I can do this. Drake wouldn’t be a better choice. It doesn’t help that you are relentlessly nit-picking me. Or are you that bad of a girlfriend?” Damian couldn’t help but sniped back. “Maybe that’s why Chat Noir left you.”

He found himself back against the world and her elbow at his neck. (He would forever deny that he liked it.)

“Look here, Wayne. You know nothing about me and you shouldn’t assume that you do. Chat Noir was revoked of his status as a hero for his behaviour. If you don’t act the part properly, I am going to have my former partner, who has absolutely no sense of boundaries, harassing me in my civilian life and I have already dealt enough of his advances to last a lifetime. I have given you so many chances to get out of this which you refused and yet, you are half-assing it. So are you in this 100 percent or not? Because I am at the end of my patience right now.”

“The boy who is obsessed with you is the former Chat Noir?”

“Yes, I will explain about that later but what’s your answer?”

“I will give it my best shot but I have never pretended to be in love.”

“Were you not taught in the League?”

“There were seduction tactics shown to members when they were old enough and I left them when I was 10 but I am not sure if those skills can be applied here.”(Slamming your opponent against the wall wasn’t one of them but she was doing a great job of it so far. No. No. No. He is not his father. This is different from whatever he has with Kyle.)

She released her hold on him and grabbed his hand, leading him towards her school.

“Well then, here are the basics. Everytime you look at me, just think of your favourite things to make your smile a little more genuine. Maybe call me by a pet name if you want. Keep your touch on me like you can’t keep your hands off of me and act really reluctant when you have to let go. You will only keep them my shoulders, arms, hands and waist or I will break your hand. I will do the same. If you are going to have to kiss me, give me a warning.” He looked into her blue eyes and nodded.

“Alright.”

“Oh. I almost forgot. In case they try to question our relationship. My favourite colour is red. My favourite song is ‘Fearless’ by Jagged Stone.(I love Taylor. Sue me) And we met online a few months ago. You came all the way to Paris to see me a month ago and asked me out. We will talk more that later. Oh, I also love designing and have dreams of being a famous fashion designer.-”

Marinette rambled on which Damian found a little endearing. He looked forward to knowing more about her. He added a few comments here or there about himself (because it was only fair.) and ways to improve their cover story about their relationship.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“We are nearly at school. Let’s start the act, Romeo.” Marinette whispered at him and looked at him with a bright smile that brought a tiny smile to his face. Okay, maybe he liked Marinette a little bit but that doesn’t mean he’s in love with her.

He moved her hand holding his to the crook of his elbow.

“Is this acceptable, my lady?”

She wrinkled her nose, (Adorable. No. Don’t go there) “This is fine. But can you not call me that? And princess too? I may have erased his memories as Chat Noir but it could be a trigger to bring them back.”

“Understandable. What about Malak?”

She blushed. Marinette had learned Arabic a while back and was very fluent in the language.

“It’s okay.” She said in a soft voice. She put her other hand on his bicep and leaned on his shoulder.

“You don’t look like a touchy-feely person so is this fine?”

“Yes.”

“Cool, let me tell you more about the atrocious lies that had passed her mouth.”

They walked into the school courtyard, arm-in-arm, for the entire school, especially Marinette’s class, to see. The perfect picture of a loving couple. Marinette’s blush from earlier was evident on her face, leaving no room for doubt about her new relationship status. (Many guys, gals and pals were upset over it.) As they both walked up the stairs, whispering and laughing about who knows what (gulliable and idiotic classmates they have to suffer learning with), two pairs of green eyes followed them.

In this case, the saying ‘green-eyed monsters’ was true. One was envious of the boy who held the girl he wanted in his arms and the other was envious of the attention the couple was receiving.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Damian escorted Marinette to her class. He gave her a kiss on her cheek and said, loud enough for the class to hear, “Bye, Malak. I will pick you up after school for our date.”

“B-bye, Damian.”

He took her hand, gave a kiss to the back of it and departed, leaving a very red-faced Marinette behind. The rest of the class parted the way as Damian walked past.

She rushed into her seat where Chloe sat beside it, grinning like a Cheshire Cat.

“Sooooo, Mari-bug, how was your date? You two rushed out of there so quickly and left your stuff behind. So eager to spend time with your boyfriend, eh? You enjoyed it very much by the looks of it.”

“Sorry about that, Chloe. Did you bring my bag and the cheese danishes?” Marinette tried to change the topic. And she also wanted to make sure a god of destruction doesn’t go hungry and angsty during school. “Yep, here you go,” Chloe said, handing Marinette her bag and a box of cheese-flavoured snacks for Plagg, “Your mom packed some for you.”

“Marinette. Where have you been the last two days? And you came back with a boy. I am honestly worried about your behaviour.” Lila played the concerned classmate wonderfully.

“Yeah, Marinette. This is a new low, even for you.” Alya added.

Marinette readied herself to tell the cover story Damian and her worked out on the way here.

“Lila, I appreciate your ‘concern’. But the last four days have been a little hard on me so excuse me if I am a little snappy today. You see, Damian disappeared and didn’t return home after school on Friday. So when he didn’t pick up for our weekly video call, I panicked and called his family and they told me what happened. They sent me a plane to get out of Paris so I can’t get akumatized.”

“Was that why you were gone on Saturday?” Chloe asked, playing along although she already knew why Marinette wasn’t in Paris the last four days.

“Yeah. Sorry for not telling you guys. It was sorta last minute. Thankfully, he wasn’t kidnapped actually. His biological mother picked him up but never told his father that she was taking him. I just came back last night. Dami followed me to make sure I am okay.”

“What a bunch of bullcrap.” Alya said, “I don’t believe you.”

Oh. The irony... “Alya, I don’t care if you do. My life is my own business. So keep your nosy nose out of it. Your opinions don’t matter to me anymore, stranger.” Marinette internally was tired of this silly routine and wanted this to end already.

Alya wanted to pick a fight with her over the smallest things she did for the past months. She wondered why her former best friend hated her this much.

“Lila told me that you were skipping school and you paid an actor to be your pretend boyfriend.”

Pretending to not hear what Alya said, Marinette turned towards Chloe, “Hey, you never told me about how you met Tim. I can’t believe that you two are friends.”

“We met at one of those charity galas-”

“Hey, we were talking to you.” Alya cut her off. To which Chloe glared at the ombre-haired girl.

“I thought our conversation was done. What else am I supposed to say?”

Marinette was frustrated and hid that fact well, showing any reaction would give the game away. If she had reacted, it would further fuel the fire of Alya’s self-righteousness, making her believe that Marinette was somehow guilty of what Lila told her about. Lila managed to turn nearly the entire class against her by appealing to their ‘hero’ side and outbursts from Marinette and the others made them more sure of themselves of being in the right. It was so deep-rooted that nothing would sway them to logical reasoning. Maybe except Phase 2. Phase 1 was made a little easier when Talia kidnapped her and made her miss a few days of school.

Phase 2 was to not acknowledge the lies or just appear uninterested. It would illustrate the point that people don’t have to listen to them if they don’t want to. If possible, sow little seeds of doubt to the ones Lila had a looser grip on. The more people they can slowly get on their side, the better.

Alya was confused, usually Marinette would throw a ‘temper tantrum’ about how she didn’t do that and Lila lied.“I-, you should-, You should apologize to Lila.”

Marinette raised an eyebrow, “For what this time?”

“For saying that she was lying.”

“Pray tell, when did in any of our conversations so far did I do that? I mean I don’t like the fact that she just accused me with little evidence of paying my someone to be my boyfriend but I am not going to fight with anyone over it. Maybe I did do that, Maybe I didn’t. Maybe there is a good reason I did those things. The thing is Lila should keep to her own business and I will keep to mine. And as should you. I know you are a reporter at heart but you should at the very least respect my privacy.”

Alya stayed silent, fuming. Everyone was looking at them now. She realized that the designer was right and if she pushed further, she would be the bad guy.

“I thought so. Now, go away. I have nothing else to say to you. Let Chloe finish her story of how she met Tim which you so rudely interrupted.”

“Who’s Tim?” Lila asked, wanting to know more about Marinette’s boyfriend to work on an angle to get him away from the ravenette.

“Mari-Bug’s boyfriend’s older brother. Now, shoo peasants, we are talking. Anyways, Mommy took me to when I was younger so I could mingle with all the other rich kids and get connections. Timothy was there and back then, he was still with the Drakes...”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lila and Alya returned to their seats, both were visibly upset although Lila was seething inside. When Marinette was not at school for the last two days, the Italian thought that it was the last she had seen of her. Today, she showed up with a handsome boy on her arm and by the looks of his clothes, rich too. If she manages to get ‘Damian’ to break up with that pest and date her instead, then she would have a rich, handsome boyfriend devoted to her and that brat would be so heart-broken that an akuma so powerful would be made that even Ladybug won’t be able to defeat. A two for one deal. Lila started planning (scheming) to take her boyfriend away.

------

(Part 7)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Edit: I am so sorry. I forget to add the taglist.

Tag list: @alysrose-starchild, @buginetye, @lookatthestars1, @blackroserelina, @macncheesemonster, @mochinek0, @myazael, @tonicxworld, @thewitchwhowaited, @t1dwarrior-of-earth, @kissa-chan, @iwantasecretidentity, @theymakeupfairies, @user00000003, @woe-is-me0, @kashlyn, @mochegato,@moonlightstar64 , @greatcatblaze, @moongoddesskiana, @tazanna-blythe. @tonicxworld, @toodaloo-kangaroo, @frieddonutsweets, @local-witch-of-mn, @lady-bee-fechin, @iglowinggemma28, @indecisive-mess-named-me, @k-tea-and-coffee, @jayjayspixiepop, @all-mights-asscheeks, @idk-j-go-with-it , @loysydark, @thenillabean, @lolieg, @zalladane, @silvergold-swirl, @henie04, @blueblossombliss, @khneltea, @mochegato, @itsmeevie01, @roguishredaxion, @alyssadeliv, @steph-hearthlight, @adrestar, @eliza-bich, @abrx2002, @hikari55ttva, @doglover82, @daminette5074, @moon5608,@justafanwarrior, @allis-sun, @animegirlweeb, @aespades, @corporeal-terrestrial, @mildlydeadly, @kanamexzeroyaoifangirl,

[realcatalina]

Bust of whom?

I recently watched this podcast from Harvart Art Museum. I believe it is nice that  they managed to atribute it finally to Pietro Torrigiano and prove it is 16th century original. However, I believe they are wrong in thinking it could be Mary Rose.

They went with Mr Mathews’ ‘reidentification’ of Sittow’s portrait as Mary Rose and with letter from 1510 where Margaret of Austria asked the sculptor to fix the bust of Mary Rose because the neck has broken-and this one is broken it that place. But plenty of Torrigiano’s bust could have broken in that place, because it is the bust’s weakest point.

But they are correct that there is some resemblence to this portrait:

That shape of mouth is very like Catherine of Aragon, and overall face in some aspects resembles her-but it isn’t her imo. Obviously the nose and eyes are different shape. Though nose tip is kind of similiar.

My conclusion? It’s probably Catherine of Aragon’s relative form Netherlands. Probably her niece. But which?!

Let’s be honest-in all portraits their lips are fuller than this. But not always the portraits can capture the features that well, due to unflatering angles etc, and sometimes the artist struggled to capture the features well. 

In portraits and in sculptures. 

Based upon nose you’d say it should be Mary of Austria, because she had nicest nose. But if the size of lips could be downplayed, so could be the nose.

Which means it could be any of the sisters.

The deal breaker here is the fashion. It’s c.1520(hence long after that letter):

But it has split front of the gown-which in netherlands was not fashionable since c.1505. Big contradiction right? Well, it’s logical actually, because this is probably not mainstream netherlandish fashion. 

It’s style of Isabella of Austria:

She as Queen of Denmark, Norway and Sweden, kept to netherlandish fashion to great degree.(While her sisters abandoned it for foreign styles.) But weather in Denmark is colded than in Netherlands and she was forced to adapt for it.

If you look back to the bust’s details-the gown is lined with fur, the kirtle is lined with fur, plus much thicker chemise/parlet(we can’t tell). 

I am not saying the bust is good likeness on her features, but you can see some of that resenblence in eyes and nose.

 Obviously the mourning headwear would lead you believe it could be Margaret, but since there is pretty good resemblence to Catherine, I doubt it. (Though of course due to them being related it is not 100% impossible.)

In 1519 twin boys of Isabella have died and her grandfather died also, so she would certainly have reason to go to mourning around 1520. Imo it is Isabella. 

Alternatively, it could be Margaret of Austria or Isabella’s sisters Eleanor or Mary (but after they have since abandoned netherlandish fashion) or their mother Juana of Castile not from life(in Netherlandish fashion of much later than start of her imprisoment) or not very good likeness of Catherine of Aragon herself. 

When  Charles V visited England in 1520, perhaps she could have worn netherlandish fashion and had bust made to comemorate the occasion. However-it’d have to be poor likeness in eyes and nose. Nose perhaps could change with health issues and age. Eyes-nope.

 And I have no explanation as to why she’d wear mourning headwear at the time. 

Unless she sent the bust to Charles V as gesture of defiance as Henry VII was preparing to meet French in Field Cloth of Gold-as sign of her not agreeing with being friendly to French and mourning such decision. 

We know she was strongly against French, but this would mean actively trying to sabotage the meeting.  Would that fit her character?  It’d certainly not fall into obedient wife cathegory. 

Tell me what you think. Bad likeness of Catherine of Aragon’s niece or bad likeness of Catherine herself?

[swissmissficrecs]

Favorite Sherlock Holmes fics from 2020

Usually I put a bunch of explanations and disclaimers on these lists but you know what, it was a weird year and I’m not going to try to justify or apologize for what I read or didn’t read so here are my favorites that were completed last year, in descending order of length:

and your very flesh shall be a great poem by CaitlinFairchild (151K, E, Johnlock) After a tragic confrontation with terrible consequences, Sherlock and John follow Mary as she flees to America.

Drawn to Stars by Silvergirl (107K, E, Johnlock, Sherlock/OMC) After the Culverton Smith case Sherlock is clean, working, and looking for a romantic partner—since John has told him that’s what he needs. Shame John didn’t mention he was interested in that role himself, before Sherlock went off to Rome with a gorgeous Italian copper to try to fall in love and become a complete human being. (This one is very slightly cheating because it was finished on 30 Dec 2019, but it didn't make it onto my 2019 list because I didn't read it until after I'd made the list. And it deserves to be on a Best Of list, so here it is.)

Thermocline by J_Baillier (83K, M, Johnlock) John "Five Oceans" Watson — technical dive instructor, dive accident analyst and weapon of mass seduction — meets recluse professor of maritime archaeology Holmes. As they head out to a remote archipelago off the coast of Guatemala to study and film its shipwrecks for a documentary, will sparks fly or fizzle out?

Do No Harm by Calais_Reno (79K, T, Johnlock) In 1923, Dr John Watson is on trial for the murder of his lover, Mary Morstan, a writer of popular mysteries. If convicted, he will hang. Sherlock Holmes sets out to prove his innocence, but finds himself more and more infatuated with the handsome doctor, and deeper and deeper inside the bohemian world of London's painters, playwrights, and poets. Will he uncover the evidence needed to acquit him in time?

To Be Human by ohlooktheresabee (78K, NR, Johnlock) There is a serial killer on the loose with a penchant for collecting the brains of his victims. Sherlock, John and Scotland Yard are on the case, but something about the chosen victims has Sherlock on edge. While they piece together the clues that will lead to the killer, John begins to realize that the way his best friend thinks may sometimes be more a hindrance than a help….

immediate and inglorious by simplyclockwork (72K, E, Johnlock) Bodies are showing up in back alleys, with no sign of a struggle, no trace of drugs. If not for the strangulation bruises on their necks and the scythe carved into their left shoulders, they could have died peacefully, in their sleep. With New Scotland Yard dumbfounded by the Grim Reaper Killer case, Sherlock is called in to consult. The more he investigates, the deeper Sherlock finds himself drawn into the work of London's newest serial killer. As his views of good and bad begin to blur, he risks losing himself to a darkness he never imagined. And, even more pressing: where does John Watson, grieving ex-boyfriend of the Grim Reaper's latest victim, fit into all of this?

Curtain Rising by tiger_in_the_flightdeck (61K, E, Johnlock) A disgraced television star is the target of a series of death threats just after a theatre production’s adaptation of The Sound of Music is announced with her as the lead. The suspect list is a mile long and growing, Rosie Watson is in the spotlight, and Sherlock might be getting too fond of his time on stage to focus on the case. With opening night approaching, can he and John figure out who wants their client dead before her final curtain rises?

The Fire Finds a Home by fearfully_beautifully_made (61K, E, Johnlock) After Sherlock and John decide to give having a relationship a go, this is how their relationship starts to develop. There a little bit of plot, if you squint, but it was mostly an excuse to write John and Sherlock having sex in a lot of different ways and learning to love each other.

Borrowed Ghosts by DiscordantWords (57K, M, Johnlock) In the aftermath of the Culverton Smith case, John spent one painfully stilted afternoon hanging out with Sherlock. He counted the minutes, finished his tea, and left for home without ever clearing the air between them. And once he'd left, he found it very hard to go back.

You Might Just as Well Be Blind by ArwaMachine (56K, E, Johnlock) When a serial killer starts targeting couples, Sherlock and John must do what they have to do in order to get to the bottom of things. Unfortunately, John already has a girlfriend. Surely pretending to be in a relationship with Sherlock won't pose any problems with his relationship, will it?

The Broken Tether by J_Baillier (54K, M, Johnlock) Maybe he thinks that you only enjoy his company because of the Work, because of the way his dazzling intellect shines when he's in his element, but the truth is this: it is when he is at his most human, most bare, that you feel closest to him.

how the light gets in by subtext-is-my-division (Quill_A)  (54K, E, Johnlock) Red wine always makes him tipsier than usual and he finds himself saying, the words slurring a bit. “You know, I’ve got to ask. Do you always shoot cabbies for people you barely you know?” John meets his gaze over the rim of his glass, and there’s something there that Sherlock can’t pin down. “Not for everyone,” he says, meaningfully, pointedly, his smile all teeth.

Erosion by saintscully (53K, E, Johnlock) Sherlock’s father falls ill, leaving the surviving family members broken and rudderless. James Sholto shows up in London unexpectedly, his intentions unclear. John has to navigate the consequences of crime, illness and death and their impact on his frayed relationship with Sherlock.

Hold You Like a Weapon by MissDavis (52K, E, Johnlock) Eurus shows up at 221B Baker Street in labour. Things go downhill from there.

Chances Are by Berty (51K, M, Johnlock) Sherlock is spending some time in his mind palace - so far, so normal. But why is John there, why do things keep changing and why are there only two exits from the sitting room at 221B, neither of which seem to go anywhere useful? It's a case like no other for Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

Sine Nomine by SilentAuror (45K, E, Johnlock) As Mycroft reviews the footage from Culverton Smith's morgue, he revisits his original question: whether John Watson would be the making of his brother, or make him worse than ever. He's come to a conclusion, but decides to give John one last chance. So he gives him a choice.

Cockaigne by HollyShadow88 (38K, E, Johnlock) When John’s contacted by an old uni friend about problems in his new art exhibition, he doesn’t think it will be worth Sherlock’s time. After a glance of the crime scene, however, they’re both pulled into the project in ways John didn’t expect. Will a week of erotic performance art finally be enough to bring them together in the way they both secretly hope? (Spoiler: it’s a tropey fic, of course it will)

Written in Ashes by 88thParallel (37K, M, Johnlock) Sherlock becomes the prime suspect in a homicide case, and recently unearthed memories of his childhood are complicating matters. It's up to John to track down answers — can he help Sherlock before it's too late?

A Desperate Indulgence by LollipopCop (34K, M, Johnlock) John thinks it's 2012 after waking up with amnesia, having no memory of Mary. Sherlock, exhausted from years of tension and hiding his love, pretends they got married instead.

Inhale With Ease by Vulpesmellifera (25K, E, Johnlock) In the years after Vivian Norbury's capture, life seems to work out just as John planned. He's got that respectable job at the surgery and goes home to his wife and child. He joins Sherlock on cases a couple times per week. It's a rhythm he can live with - just enough adrenaline highs to balance out the drudgery of a normal bloke's life. Until a pandemic, and Victor Trevor, arrive in London.

The House on Rue des Boulangers by Berty (24K, M, Johnlock) After being invalided out of the army and without any other prospects, John Watson has relocated to a small town in northern France. Now he has to decide what to do for the rest of his life. One morning there's a mad stranger in his garden chasing a swarm of bees, and it seems John's decision is made.

High Mountain Tea Leaves by disfictional (23K, E, Johnlock) A mountaintop robbery on a Japanese-occupation-era train where the only item stolen was a small case of mysterious tea leaves in a backpack? An ideal Christmas gift, two days late. Sherlock convinces John to travel for tea.

Detours by saintscully (22K, M, Johnlock, Sherlock/OMC) During the better part of the first year following Mary's death and the events at Sherrinford, Sherlock and John are slowly rebuilding their lives and their friendship. All seems (relatively) well and John takes comfort in once again being a father, a doctor and a friend. An unexplained shift in Sherlock's behaviour catches John by surprise, and he begins to worry about his place in his friend's life. John has to examine everything he thought he knew about Sherlock, himself and their relationship in order to win his rightful place yet again.

hands full of matter by simplyclockwork (21K, E, Johnlock) When Sherlock is captured in Serbia, Mycroft cannot afford to involve the British government in his rescue. Instead, he sends John. After two years spent thinking Sherlock was dead, John finds himself navigating not only Sherlock’s rescue but their fractured friendship as well.

The Victim Experience by J_Baillier (16K, T, Gen) A case takes Sherlock and John deep into the seedy underbelly of the haunted attractions industry. With audiences craving more and more intense experiences, is a real murder the next logical step?

On the Fence by BeautifulFiction (13K, T, Johnlock) The murder of the King's College fencing champion leads to revelations about Sherlock's past. Will it be the point that tips them from friends to lovers, or will they remain on the fence?

Plus bonus ACD era:

"Baker Street: The Sleep of Reason": A Memoir by John H. Watson, M.D. by Gaedhal (98K, M, Johnlock, Johniarty) This is a Victorian Era story in the "Sherlock Holmes" (2009) Ritchie-verse. The main characters are Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson and is from the doctor's memoirs. It was written before "A Game of Shadows" so there are differences in this story and film canon, mainly in the person and backstory of one particular character.

The Taste of Truth by sanguinity (25K, T, Johnlock) Two and a half years after Reichenbach, John Watson discovers the magical tree that caused Holmes to fake his death.

The Adventure of the Vatican Cameos by Garonne (18K, E, Johnlock) How should one behave when waking for the first time in the bed of one's dearest friend? Holmes and Watson solve a case in Catholic London while navigating the turbid waters of their new relationship.

Hot Water by wordybirdy (13K, E, Johnlock, Watson/Gregson) Dr. John Watson's libidinous affair with a respected Scotland Yard inspector abruptly judders to a halt when the former meets a certain Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, for the very first time. The attraction between the two is strongly mutual, but misunderstandings only multiply and tensions abound, as all three men attempt to deal with the new situation.

[cheri-translates]

Headcanon - When you suddenly hold his hand

Original title: 当你突然握住他的手

Original author: 池离子

[ VICTOR ]

You’re sitting on the sofa while Victor’s next to you, looking through documents.

Peering at Victor, you watch as he pores over the documents very seriously - so seriously that he doesn't even notice you staring at him. Carefully admiring him from head to toe, your eyes finally land on Victor’s hand.

His hand is much larger than yours. Looking at your own small and petite hands, you find them adorable and a perfect match for Victor’s well-defined hands. Reaching out, you place your hand atop the hand that he’s using to hold the documents. 

He turns to glance at you, realising that you’re staring at his hand. In response, he swaps the documents to his other hand, freeing the hand that’s held by you.

“You’ve already had one pudding tonight. There isn’t a second one."

You swat his hand angrily.

"What? In your eyes, is everything I do linked to pudding?”

He’s taken aback slightly, but eventually returns his gaze to the document.

You spread his hand flat, then put your own hand on it. One big and one small - a good fit. You can feel the warmth of his palm. This hand held yours at the dance, held your waist in the ski resort, and wiped cream from the corner of your mouth. Thinking about it, you unfurl your hand before clutching Victor’s tightly.

Victor’s eyes never leave the document, but he returns your grip with equal force.

Your hand is delicate and small. His thumb strokes the back of your hand, and the ticklish sensation makes you stifle your laughter. Despite wanting to pull your hand away, he doesn't let you go. Instead, he tightens his grip, as though fearing that you’d pull your hand away from his.

"Don’t move.”

“In this lifetime... you can’t leave.”

-

[ GAVIN ]

Gavin is watching TV with you, the both of you huddled in a corner of the sofa, squished into a small ball. Your head is resting on his shoulder, and your hands are on your kneecaps. A faint light has been purposefully left on in the room to prevent it from being in complete darkness, and also to set the ambience.

Your gaze shifts from the boring advertisement to Gavin, and see that his hand is on his leg.

You’re suddenly struck with a mischievous idea.

You place your small and delicate hand on the back of Gavin’s. Noticing your action, he lowers his head slightly and asks if something’s wrong.

Ignoring him, you continue playing with his hand, feeling the rough callouses on it from years of wielding a gun. After giving them careful touches, you burrow your own hand underneath Gavin’s. With this, your hand makes direct contact with his leg.

Gavin doesn’t say a word. You can sense that he’s gradually tightening his grip on your hand. He’s exerting pressure, but is in control to ensure that he isn’t grasping your hand too tightly. He wraps your small hand in his large palm. His heartbeat seems to be following his palm, sending you a steady stream of signals.

Lifting your head to look at him, you find that his eyes are fixed on the TV, and his ears have turned crimson.

Using your free hand, you reach out to touch his ear. It’s terribly hot.

“Gavin, your ears are so red and warm...”

Gavin turns to face you.

“Cough. That’s because... you lighted the fire...”

-

[ LUCIEN ]

You’ve come to Lucien’s laboratory to pick him up from work. By this time, Lucien should have already hung up his white coat, and should be sitting on his office chair, grinning as you rush in with snacks you bought along the way. But today, when you rush in with the egg tart you purchased, the white lab coat is still on Lucien. He sits before the laptop, holding some documents while perusing through them.

"You’re here? Sorry, there was a little issue at work today. I'm currently looking for the cause of it. You might have to wait a while. I'll be done as soon as possible.”

You nod, placing the egg tart on his table. Shifting a chair over, you sit beside him.

Lucien always smells good, you think to yourself. There’s always a cool and fragrant scent on him, but you’ve never seen him spraying cologne. The flowers at home don’t have this scent either. Giving him a careful whiff, you can’t guess what it is.

You haven’t seen Lucien in an entire day! Right now, you really need a Lucien-recharge, so you stand up to move behind him. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you bury your face in his white coat, one hand hanging loosely in front of his chest. He isn’t too surprised, nor is he caught off guard. After all, you’ve used this trick many times, and he’s grown used to it.

Inhaling Lucien’s scent deeply, you find that he’s really nice to smell. Lucien seems to be tickled by your breath. He chuckles lightly while giving the arm in front of him a gentle pet. You grab his hand.

"Lulu... how much longer will you take?”

He grips your hand tightly, as though he’s giving you a response.

“Ten minutes. Just wait for a little longer. I’ll be done soon, okay?”

With this, he brings your hand to his lips, giving the back of your hand a gentle kiss.

This action flusters you so much that you want to find a hole to burrow into. Although you hurriedly attempt to withdraw your hand, Lucien’s stronger than you, and he clasps your hand tightly, giving it another firm kiss.

As though succumbing to fate, you slump against his neck, putting your arms around his neck.

Even though you can’t see your own expression, your face has already started to feel warm, and your ears are probably red to their tips as well.

"You must be feeling shy. Let me see...” After saying this, he turns his head.

“Don’t look!" You mumble, burying your face in the shoulder of his white coat.

-

[ KIRO ]

The two of you have just finished a game, and are slumped on two beanbags next to each other, surrounded by potato chips and soda. Kiro tosses the controller to the side, then leans against you coquettishly.

"Miss Chips is too good at playing! I can't beat her at all! I’m not playing anymore! It’s so embarrassing!”

You rub the golden head that has leaned over. His hair is so soft. For a moment, you even feel like you’re petting a large golden retriever.

You glance at the controller which has been thrown onto the carpet. Eyes shifting upwards, you see a pair of hands that you’re highly envious of.

He’s a celebrity, so of course it’s very important to have a pair of nice-looking hands. Kiro has taken off his ring. Originally, his hands are thin, long and pale, and the part where he often wears the ring is even more tender. You look at your own hands. As compared to Kiro’s, you probably aren’t even considered a female.

Brimming with jealousy, you slowly stroke the back of his hand. The delicateness of Kiro’s hand is just like yours.

"Miss Chips..."

You hear him calling you like this, but you have no intention of responding. You simply rely on your courage to continue. You put your hand in his palm and look at him, anticipating his next move.

Kiro is fascinated by the huge watery eyes you’re giving him, and immediately grabs your hand.

"I knew it... You’re just as hungry as I am, aren’t you? Let's find something to eat! There’s never enough snacks!”

"?"

He gets up quickly and grips your hand tightly, trying to pull you up too.

"What do you want to eat? I'll make it for you!"

You look up at him as he radiates with light, and release a chuckle.

"Okay, okay!”

Borrowing his strength, you stand up as well. The two of you walk to the kitchen while grinning and swinging each others’ hands like little children.

-

[ SHAW ]

It's too hot. Surviving the summer is going to be difficult.

The air conditioner at home is broken, and you’re still sweating despite wearing a blouse. Shaw steps out of the kitchen with a large glass of iced cola in his hand. Judging by the volume, it’s clear that he mixed Cola and Sprite again. 

He sits next to you, gulping it down, and you watch as water vapour surrounds and the glass. it must have been chilled. You’re going crazy from the heat, so you unfurl your hand in front of him, indicating that he had better give you a sip of the iced cola.

Instead, this ignorant man put his hand on yours. Not only is there no cola to drink, but it’s also warm.

"Stinky Brother, I asked you to give me a sip, not your hand." You swat his hand away, moving forward to snatch the cola in his other hand.

"Hey hey hey Mary Sue, be careful. I mixed two soft drinks in this. Don't spill it on me..."

Shaw knows that you genuinely can’t stand the heat, so he doesn’t tease you this time. Instead, he obediently places the cup in the palm of your hand. The wall of the cup is icy cold, and it’s so comfortable that you want to stick your face against it.

You take a small sip, and the cooling sensation fills your mouth, and your mood becomes exponentially better. Filled with a sudden impulse, you reach out, grabbing Shaw’s hand tightly.

You expected Shaw to respond by returning your grip.

But Shaw is Shaw, and he’s always testing your patience.

"Oh? Auntie, you maintain your skin pretty well for someone who has reached middle-age... tsk tsk tsk.” He speaks, lifting your hand up and scrutinising it.

"You brat. I’m right here, so you better cleanse your mouth...”

With the cola in one hand, you try to retract the other.

Not caring that it’s warm, Shaw grasps your hand tightly, uttering a casual apology. On account of the cola, you decide not to hold a grudge against him.

"Mary Sue, save me some. Don't drink it all." Shaw leans over, and the only thing separating your faces is the glass.

“Also, let’s head out later. Your hand’s really empty... I need to get you some jewellery... Do you like rings?”

–

More translated and original works: here

–

[ Permission to translate ]

池离子: OK! Just state that the source is LOFTER池离子. Also, if you’ve posted it, could you also take a screenshot for me? No need for the whole thing - just a little will do!