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zemossunshine · 2 years ago

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Sunshine Chapter 42

Pairings: Zemo x You Bucky x You

Summary: Falling in love with a villain. This will start sweet and then go very dark.

Tags: Explicit. Mature. Not for minors. Dark. Angst. Knife play. Depression. Suicidal thoughts. Self Harm . Vomiting. Nightmares. Sleepwalking. Torture. Smut. Broken Bones. Blood. Injury. Violence. Rough Sex. Rape. Kidnapping. Spanking. Unhealthy Relationships. Mental Health Issues. Anal Sex. Orgasm Delay. Fear. Blow Jobs. Sexual Violence. Suicide Attempt. Reference To Domestic Violence. Sleepwalking. Memory Loss. Gen Violence. Threats. Manipulation. Manipulative Relationship. Murder. Death. Loss Of Parents. Implied Alcohol Abuse. Threats Of Rape. Non Consensual Drug Use. Emotional Manipulation. Gaslighting.

Warnings for This Chapter: Gaslighting & Emotional Manipulation.

I spent up so much time, trying to make you happy, I don’t think you ever could be happy. You don’t know shit you know, you act this big man and you think you are in control, but you don’t know shit you know. I stood by your side and pulled you away from your fire, again and again and again. I should have known fire would win. Now when you think of late nights, with me there in your bed, true ride or die, that’s what you had. I loved you, I loved you, but that was then. Lyrics by Anne-Marie.

–

A blast from somewhere within the mountain caused both you and Victor to look at each other curiously, you were elbow deep in the back of some machine with Victor directing you, every word he spoke whispered, graced itself down your neck, according to Victor you had smaller hands so were better suited to this particular task. Turning to D in unison waiting for a report on what was happening outside, or inside in another part of the Castle. A second blast had you both standing up, both moving to the same computer to access the cameras outside. Victor got there first with his handy electrical prowess . A quinjet, you didn't need to be on genius intellect to guess who was on there.

“Took them long enough.” Victor huffed. As if they could have found you years ago, but they just left you here to rot. It wasn’t like Castle Doom was hidden exactly, wrapped up withing the natural landscape. But this was your safe haven, you didn’t want them in here. Especially after the last encounter. There were no bad memories here to ponder over, nothing to prickle at your mind.

Victor moved you both to a new room, Ii felt empty almost as if the Castle itself knew Victor was the only one left. A dozen or so doombots were racing around, each sound echoing off the high ceilings. Dusting each corner, polishing the ornate black columns. Laying out an emerald green carpet, lighting the large fireplace behind you, revealing the Doom’s crest above the mantelpiece. The final touch, a ceremonious throne. A deep wood embedded with hues of green. Going by the amount of dust and spider webs on it, you doubted Victor ever sat on it. The doombot got to work quickly, which did nothing to alleviate the anxiety churning away. The room held a certain type of grandeur, an aged room that was never used. That was until the approaching footsteps echoed into the room.

“Don’t let them manipulate you, Sweetheart.”

You were more concerned about what else Zemo might say, how he could have you in a fit or terror with just a few words. You demanded your cloak from D so you could at the very least keep your head down and have some sort of barrier against them. Victor smiled softly at you, reminding you that as long as he was by your side, no harm could come to you. Maybe you could even ask about Rebecca. Victor could activate the golden shield and nothing could get through that, Victor would protect you, you knew that in your heart and soon after your racing heart did too.

Maria came into view flanked by Zemo and Bucky. It gave off the impression that Maria was in charge. Interesting. What was more interesting is that they had no weapons drawn, like they knew, they couldn’t take Victor. You assumed an attack was imminent. Victory settled into your bones, you had the upper hand. For now.

You suppressed a smile when the doombots offered a very confused Maria a drink, Victor’s attempt at being a good host, he once told you that he was ill equipped to be Royal, a difference between him and Zemo. Bucky knocked the glass flying and Zemo being as eloquent as ever declined politely. The lapels of his purple cloak had been replaced with a black material, an empty gesture, a semblance that he carried you with him. He did seem pleased to see you alive and well, you reminded yourself that Zemo took down the Avengers, that you hadn’t quite mastered the art of deception, he was an expert. You couldn’t allow yourself be fooled by him .

“Victor, I would like to negotiate-”

Victor cut him off. “I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, it was a low blow. Funny though. All four heads snapped in your direction, you swallowed the giggle down but couldn’t quite shift the smirk on your face.

“Sunshine, if we could just speak alone.” Zemo’s tone was so gentle, but you knew better. Alone means i’m defenceless. You shook your head. Reminding yourself of the things Zemo would do if you were defenceless, what he would do, what he would say, where he would touch. Victor wouldn’t want you to either, to be somewhere where his shield couldn’t protect you.

“We thought you were dead.” Bucky growled. “I walked through your blood.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Victor muttered. You smiled at Victor’s defence, pointing out their wrong doing.

“I did not.” Zemo said proudly, like it would absolve him, not point out explicitly that he knew you were alive and he let you suffer here. You heaved a sigh barely feeling any emotional change at the revelation, noting that no one asked how you had been, that they missed you. You resolved to sit, just sit and wait until Victor had enough and sent them on their way. You felt the air change and turned back, Victor already enabled the golden shield so they couldn’t advance on you, you frowned, perplexed by what had just happened. Bucky was seething, punching at the shield, Victor jutted his head down to your metal foot that was now exposed, having lifted your cloak to prevent tripping. You had gotten so used to your leg now, it was easy to forget that they didn’t know, it had been years.

“Hydra took that because of you.” You finally spoke looking at Zemo to see if he had even a hint of remorse, instead he looked deranged. His brown eyes were almost as black as yours. You didn’t need to step away or run, the golden shield wouldn’t allow him to come anywhere near you. When he withdrew his sword you rolled your eyes. Pathetic.

A screen projected in front of them, you only recognised it as your first birthday here because it was the one year you were stupid enough to believe there was a way out. Each recording would hardly pale in comparison to the next. Looking for seams to claw open, scratching along the door as they sang Happy Birthday to you.

“Defend yourself.” Zemo said with urgency.

“I can’t.” You shrugged, like there was any point now, like it could erase everything Hydra had done to you, Zemo didn’t see the clamps your hands would be in, like being able to use your powers to protect yourself, would change anything now. Like it could protect you from him, who was looking as you with a horrified expression because now he knew, he put you through all of that torture, for nothing. The fatal flaw within your powers, That nasty limitation. You could protect everyone else and you had, over and over. You protected them, even protected Mark for nothing. Zemo gave you your powers so you could protect yourself, for it all to amount to pain and suffering. The only person you really needed protection from was him and as long as you remained inside the shield you would be. Maria aimed her gun right at you and took the shot with shaking hands. As promised she didn’t want you to live through Hydra twice, if only she knew that you never really left. She saw you as weak, fragile, not able to survive. That's how Zemo saw you, in fact looking at your friends standing in front of you, it's how they all saw you. If that is the way they saw you, then you might as well show them, you lifted the hood from your face and stared at her, so she could see, so they could all see what you had survived. The black of your eyes, the lack of colour, lack of light.

“I’ll take her place, Hydra want me too.” Bucky tried to bargain.

“I don’t want you.” Victor dismissed.

Zemo sucked in air through his teeth, eyes bouncing between you and Victor. “ Sunshine please, Victor has misled you, he is a supremacist.”

You scoffed. “Victor wants to save the world.” Ok, his methods were extreme, but he did serve the greater good, it’s just no one wanted to listen to him, just as no one ever listened to you. You watched as Zemo’s eyes slowly became despondent, he knew he was fighting a losing battle.

“I’ve misled her? Me?” Victor’s tone was thick with rage. He splayed out his hand and your three apparent comrades' muscles locked up, keeping them in place. Victor lowered his shield and slowly took menacing steps towards Maria, You rushed forward keeping a hand on his forearm.

“How can you stand there side by side with them?” He growled at Maria. “How have you reconciled that within yourself? ” Maria blinked and you recognised it as blinking back tears, something you had done all too often. Were they tears of fear or tears of guilt?

Victor's head snapped to Bucky “The man who has known only pain for over a century, had no trouble handing it over? Did you ever thank her? No, I know what you have done.” Bucky strained against Victor’s powers, spittle collecting in the corners of his mouth.

“But you-” Victor advanced on Zemo, you pulled on his arm, reminding him of his promise. “You are the most sorry excuse for a husband I have ever had the misfortune to meet. Using your wife as a pawn to repair the damage you have done.” Victor pointed back to Bucky. “Dragging her down with you, forcing her into marriage. You gave your pain to your wife whether she wanted it or not.” Victor gave you a solemn glance. “You are despicable, there is nothing that would give me more pleasure than tearing you limb from limb.” Victor snarled, you knew Victor would take his time with Zemo had he not given you his word. Victor withdrew his sword and positioned himself to make sure he would be able to block any attack.

“We will get you out of here.” Maria didn't look shocked by anything Victor said, which means that she knew what they were doing and left you with them. Thing is, you didn’t want to leave, why would you? You were helping, getting to live more freely than you ever had before. You could tell she didn’t believe she could get you out of here, she knew she couldn’t. You had mountains of questions you needed answered, before you would even consider leaving the Castle. If they ever found a way to get past Victor, which they wouldn’t, then they would have to either convince you to force you and you doubted they could now. Sure your powers didn’t work against anyone you loved, you wondered how in tune your powers were with your heart. If I love them anymore?

“I know you.” Maria stuttered with a waning reassuring smile holding out her hand. “We can work all of this out, come with me, just me. You know me I’m not your enemy. You don’t want to be the villain.”

You saved her life and Bucky's and they had the audacity to stand there and call you the villain. I know exactly who my enemies are. You looked at her hand with disinterest. I’m not the villain here. Your eyes only moved from staring daggers at Maria when Zemo started speaking to Bucky in Russian, bypassing Maria.

“Translate.” D appeared by your side, waiting for Zemo to speak again, his mouth closed slowly and Bucky pushed his lips together. They didn’t want you to know what they were saying. You scowled at them both, annoyed that once again you were being kept in the dark.

“I love you.” Zemo said, it was strange once you would have given anything for him to have said that to you, but now it just felt like a last resort, a last ditch effort, another manipulation to get you to listen, words without meaning, without feeling. He could lie to himself about love, but not you, not after everything.

“No you don’t.” You answered easily, ensuring he could see the blank look in your eyes. “Where’s Rebecca?” You offered Zemo a chance to be kind, to give you the information you had desperately been searching for, for years. All eyes flickered to Victor. They didn’t want to give her location away in his presence, which was ridiculous because you would tell him anyway. You stared at them incredulously waiting, until it dawned on you, they didn’t trust you with your own daughter, you were no longer reliable enough, they said it themselves, you were a villain to them, as if they had never been on that side of the fence themselves.

“Get out of my Castle.” You spoke with a neutral tone, you didn’t need to raise your voice, yet you were unable to stop your fingers twitching at your sides, ready to unleash, the impulse to turn on them. You were Royalty after all, you belonged in a Castle. Victor looked more proud than he had ever been as Maria and Bucky tried to reason with you, which fell on deaf ears, it was easy to drown out, it was just noise. Instead you made sure your gaze didn’t leave Zemo, he almost looked as if he were begging you to understand. You always understood his point of view, he never cared for yours. “Protect Rebecca, At least try to save one of us from Hydra.” You smiled sardonically at him which only stretched when you saw he actually looked hurt. He wanted to plead with you, instead he just looked haunted. Your words could hurt him as much as his once hurt you. You moved a finger in the air not breaking eye contact with Zemo, knowing Victor would understand your meaning. A portal rushed across the room, swallowing Bucky, Maria and finally Zemo, who was about to respond but you had the final word.

Funny. You thought, Maria screeched something about being brainwashed on her way out, you weren’t but maybe you had been without noticing, before Victor that is. If you believe someone has your best interests at heart then why would you have any reason to question them? To scrutinise? You had no reason to question Maria’s motives, but you did now, you had seen too much, you knew too much.

You always believed that Maria didn't tell you about yourself because you were too fragile. You couldn't handle it, that you would have killed yourself or lived in fear. Instead she along with Fury squirrelled you away, sent you to the Raft, in the direct line of the most dangerous people on the planet, with the psychiatrist from Hydra. They washed their hands of you, which would have worked, had they given you a fair warning that you were enhanced. Not a hint about your past or what to watch out for. Maria knew more about your life then than anyone did, and she didn't tell you, oh but she told Bucky and Zemo, told them everything, handed them all of the tools to hurt you, the specific details, ways to keep you terrified. Maria had multiple chances to tell you, to explain, instead she watched as you fell in love with them, just stood back and watched you fall deeper and deeper.

And Fury. You had to thank him for rescuing you, or did you? The exact moment your life changed in every world, pinpointed by him, was all it took, put you on this path, by doing the very best thing he could for you and it led to more suffering every time. Knowing you were enhanced he just walked away, where any series of events could have happened, you had even seen some. They could have trained you properly, warned you. Instead Fury granted Zemo his freedom.

The one time you left that wretched prison for that stupid Ball, Maria snapped that thick bracelet back on your wrist, ensuring you could be watched, tracked, controlled. Making sure that watch was firmly on your wrist, ready to shock you into submission at any given moment.

Like that would even work now. Like you could be supervised now. Bucky tried, messing with your work schedule so you would willingly move into the most overseen place on the planet. The nightmares, the fucking nightmares, more like fantasies he had of killing you, he didn’t ask for help, didn’t tell a soul. Just slipped into your bed, night after night until it built up and he broke your bones, trapped you in that box, calling it protection. Even after Maria had warned him, to be careful with you. Shuri had the power to get him out all along, no one thought to call her for a moment, they all waited observing just how far Bucky could push you, Bucky could have broken up with you at any point instead he just carried on, as if you had a chnace to defend yourself from him. He left you devastated back on the Raft, telling you he could no longer be around you, offering no explanation. But Zemo was right there, giving him the answer, you were the problem, your powers, passing the buck and responsibility back onto you.

You didn’t ask for your powers either, they were forced on you just like Bucky, but everyone overlooked that small detail. You were able to take his pain, set him free and just moved on. It wasn’t like he couldn’t live with it, he had been for years. Now, he was out there, living his life, married, spending time with your daughter, free and you weren’t. Bucky was the one who took you back to that hell, your supposed home, where he played living with a murderer a bit too easily, threatened you all the while knowing you were pregnant and once again, everyone decided you didn’t need that knowledge. Telling you that you didn’t understand loss. You lost your childhood, adulthood, decades of your life, lost Rebecca. Your entire life was a loss because someone else kept choosing it. He murdered Jason in cold blood, an innocent man and he wouldn’t be the last, and wasn’t the first of the people they had killed in your name. You thought he was so strong, Zemo too, to overcome all of their hardships, when you were the powerful one, you had been all along, they just kept you down, oppressed.

Your darling husband? He was the crux of it all, Your own personal living nightmare. Oeznik once told you that you brought Zemo back from the dead, you didn't realise at the time that it was trade, as Zemo got brighter by the day, you faded, slowly being drained, you would slowly perish. You tried so desperately to pull him away from his fire only to get burned every time, And again he just watched, relished in it even, he didn’t care enough to stop you, didn’t care enough to walk away. You loved Zemo so much you were destroying yourself to make him happy. Zemo couldn't be happy, you almost felt sorry for him. How ignorant you were to believe that you could help him be a better person. You only ever brought out the wrost in him. Or was that who he truly was all along? Maria implored you to not forget who Zemo and Bucky were. You didn’t know them in the first place. If you didn’t know what they were capable of, if you didn’t know who they were, then what chance did you stand? Zemo told you himself that people only pretend to change, did that make your entire relationship a lie?

The very first day you met he held a knife to your throat, that should have been a red flag but no, your idiotic ass sat down and asked if you could get him anything or help him. Told you all about his EKO Scorpion days as as you swung your legs to rhythmic sound of his voice. Outright told you he murdered people and you smiled. Liked him so much you convinced Ross to start handing him intel. He knew about that Ball months before anyone else did, that why he taught you to dance, that was when he knew he had a chance to get you alone. You loved that he was opening up, teaching you new skills, when all you were was an easy target for him to influence.

Then once you mentioned Hydra, you gave him and Bucky a free pass to do whatever they deemed necessary. As if being stuck on the Raft wasn’t enough. Zemo studied you, pandered to you, so when the time came you would fall into his arms. It was only here, now that you recall, that he did tell you he loved you, on the Raft. Told you that he was suffering, Bucky to, all to get you to leave. And take him with you. He cajoled you again, by not killing the guards, he killed people without a second thought. Usually ensuring that you someone felt responsible for it, bearing the weight of all the death on your shoulders.

He used sex to gain your trust the night of your escape, sealing your love for him. Only to brutalise you for hours after, it took so little for him to access your powers because you just couldn't believe that someone you loved would do such a thing. You could have had Rebecca without complication, lived a peaceful life, but no, Zemo always knew what was best for you. The fucking nerve of this man. His deceitful kindness, bringing in that swordsman, he knew that if you believed for even a moment you thought you could hurt someone, then you would be forced to learn how to use your powers. Ensuring that you felt secure with him, by telling you, by showing you. So safe that you fell into his arms all over again. Then he stripped the last shreds of independence you had, job, gone, bank account, gone. So you had to rely on him, completely blindsided. Was that the moment he knew you had no way out?

Showing you that your powers could be used for good, by ridding Bucky of his pain, it only cemented your belief that you could help, slowly repair the world, when all it was for Zemo was a way of repaying the debt he owed to Bucky for his crimes, crimes you had no involvement in, now you had to live with Bucky’s pain forever. Zemo understood that Bucky needed to be in control of his own life, but couldn’t extend you the same courtesy. He was a hypocrite, was he so convoluted, that he just didn’t see what he was doing?

Love had made you blind, you were tricked into marriage, what was next? So senseless to not see your dream house for what it really was. That metal clinking, the sound you heard everyday on the Raft and in your home, the same sound. The barriers built for you weren’t to keep Hydra out, it was to keep you fenced in. Reinforcement for your supposed protection, to keep you locked in. The tunnel wasn’t for Sarah's protection, it was to ensure your captivity, Bucky was just a stone’s throw away. You had been coerced by Zemo every step of the way, ignorance really was bliss, to not see that it was never protection, it was imprisonment.

Rebecca, born in a prison.

Lets’ not forget that he murdered your family, Hydra or not, it was just another loss as a direct result of meeting Zemo. He couldn't even respect that black was your favourite colour. He taught you to drive, but only in his portable jail, the pick up truck, with doors you couldn’t open and all manner of weapons inside. Threatened to kill Maria, ensuring your silence. He fucking shot Oeznik. You missed Oeznik, at the very least he was humane. You didn’t even ask his last name, just that stupid. Didn’t even ask where he lived in Louisiana. The times you could have asked him or Sam to help you, you hated yourself. Zemo always knew when you lied, even when you lied to yourself, you wondered when the first time was? How early on? The thrill he must have got out of it.

In Louisiana, Zemo was more free than he has been in years, finally happy and then bam. He just couldn't allow it. Frightening you so much, just his words made your powers grow, the effect he had on you was unparalleled, superior. His words cut you so deep, you were still sorry. What point did you start walking on eggshells? When you started swallowing the truth? How bitter it tasted now. Perhaps it was when you slit your wrists. Even then he made that about him, that you had tried to leave him all alone, that he couldn’t live without you. How many worlds had you died in trying to escape him? How many had he killed you in? You were destined for this man, destined to live in pain in every world, even if you were never the cause of it, you were his outlet in each and every universe.

To ever think he was so capable, to task him with cutting your daughter out of what should have been your lifeless body. Rebecca who had no idea who you were, no prizes for guessing who enforced that rule. To ever believe that he had good intentions. Zemo was a lost cause, the loss of his family had changed him in a way that couldn't be repaired, you couldn't blame him for that. He used you to try and fix his broken heart, put you through hell, he was a disease, flowing through your veins, burning under your skin. His claws were in deep, you could never be free of him, simply because he made you who you were today. Even if he disgustingly felt entitled to you, that he owned you, that you belonged to him. He would always have you whether you wanted him to or not, he told you as such, he would have taken you from the Raft regardless.

You had to finally accept what Zemo had told you all along, that he wasn’t a good man.

If you were presented with all of this information under someone else's name, you would scream about how unfair it was. You once believed you were so lucky to have met these people, the people Victor told you helped shape your life. They weren't even sorry, not even an attempt at an apology. And everything they had done, only led you right back to Hydra. Maybe you really were born for Hydra, you fell in love with the fist of Hydra and then a man that could rival the cruelty and callousness of Hydra itself, he would fit right in, climb the ranks. You should thank them really, for making you one of the most valuable assets on the planet. Your life was destined from violence the moment you entered the world. Born into this life, given to Hydra, who always showed kindness at the right time, saying the right things to make you believe you could change their minds just like Zemo. Zemo was no better than Hydra, none of them were. They were worse in fact because they made you love them, made you trust them. If they truly came here to rescue you from Victor’s clutches, they should have come prepared, walked in with every Avenger. They were ashamed, ashamed to tell them how you ended up here, what they have done, or worse in denial.

The rose tinted glasses were well and truly off. It had been so easy to compartmentalise everything into separate boxes, not never quite enough to piece the puzzle together, to step back and look at the bigger picture. The lies you had told yourself, to keep up the illusion of happiness. The mental gymnastics you had forced yourself to tangle through. All the times your brain screamed at you, to actually look at exactly who was in front of you, you just pushed it away, ignored it, refused to be as cynical as those around you. You latched yourself onto whoever was around because you had no one, you let people in so easily. You always listened to your heart not your head. Your desperate quest to keep people happy, to make the world a better place, the world couldn’t be a better place, that was the biggest lie you had told yourself. You had given yourself too easily. Your trust. Your heart. Your love. Everyone around you, taught you to depend on them when you were the power, they were never worth of you. They all moulded you into a frightened women, when they were the ones who should be scared.

Everything you had was a lie, it was all an elaborate lie, conjured up by those who claimed to love you.

The truth was, you had always been alone.

“Get up.” Victor’s hand stretched out in front of the fire that you had sat in front of, you hadn’t noticed. Knees to your chest, staring into the flames as if they could reveal all of the answers. “We're learning Russian.” Taking Victor’s hand he lifted you up, as he always did, elevated you time and time again. setting you another task to defend yourself, to learn the language that had been used against you.

Victor made you stronger. More powerful, someone to be revered, feared. He taught you to sword fight, probably in case you ever had to go against Zemo. Taught you to get in touch with your powers, to understand yourself. Built you a leg, had the patience to teach you to walk, gave you autonomy, when you had been cruelly deprived of it. He was willing to listen, to talk things through with you. Eliminated your panic attacks, he never let you feel fear in his presence. He told you the apparent rules for you were bullshit, only now you knew they were. You were treated as an equal, you saw it in all of his actions, ate next to you, stood by your side, let you decide when to attack, defend. Helped you save your friends, showed you how to be a superhero. You could choose to put yourself in danger to save Victor and there was never any punishment, no consequences. Victor made you laugh, smile when you felt incapable of it. Showed you the world could be beautiful, in harmony, in a bar of crime capital of all places.

The world that was broken, The media manipulated probably by a shadow government, turning the tides on heroes for tiny mistakes, peddling that the Sokovia Accords changed it all, when they hadn't done a thing. They were still locking up who they wanted without trials, releasing who they wanted as long as they followed orders, exactly what Hydra wanted with the insight project. Operating in the exact same way.

Ultimate control.

You wondered if you were ever meant to have your powers, you weren't strong enough to handle them. Not initially, but Victor taught you that you were, no one else seemed to think so, but he did, he believed in you. He needed you to see what you had been conditioned to accept. You could have lived a normal life, but they never would have allowed it. Victor didn't even manipulate you, he didn't need to. He didn't need to lie, he just needed to wait for you to see the truth.

That your life wasn’t fair.

You watched his lips move as he concentrated on The Addams family, sounding out the words in Russian, a film you had watched hundreds of times. An easy place to start because you already knew the dialogue and so did Victor, overhearing it in the lab, in Castle Doom. My home. You had lived here longer than anywhere else, of course it was your home. Victor was determined to have this language in his arsenal, to have every possible weapon at his disposal, he refused to be outwitted by Zemo.

Victor saved you, when you didn’t even know that you needed saving.

–

The journey home was gruelling and seemingly never ending to say the least. Dr Doom had kindly dropped them off in the middle of nowhere, having fried all of their devices, cutting off all communication, no funds, no recourse, no nothing, not that he really cared. Not that he ever cared about anything other than his family, Maria and James could drop dead and he wouldn’t bat an eyelid. The moment you said that your dreams aligned with the Doctor's, he lost all hope. You used to be an open book, in a way you still were, he could see that you had been desecrated and he knew that was his own doing, the peace in your life so ephemeral, simply because he couldn't face another devastating loss, another dead wife. To have his mistakes served on a platter, the error of his ways. To discover your powers never protected you, something that was only ever to be used as a fail safe, was taking you over. He saw the darkness that lived within you and tried desperately to tame it, so you wouldn’t be broken as he was, the atrocities he had seen, the ones he had caused, all of your pain and now the world would suffer for his wrongdoing. How had he been so conceited? How every single moment you had suffered was all because he told himself you were safe, you weren't the only one weaving an elaborate web of fallacies. He had done it for too long and something whispered that he wouldn't be much longer.

The Hydra knowledge he had abandoned for a decade, he barely looked into them when you disappeared, they would be all too vocal on getting you back, so he moved on. He would need to instruct Oeznik or Samuel to deal with them. Even Hydra were honest in their intentions for you, he couldn’t say with confidence he had been. Dr Doom seemed genuine with you, irritatingly so, although it was certain he omitted some facts along the way. He had never hated someone as deeply as viscerally as he hated the Doctor, not just because he had you but because he had shattered your world, he opened your eyes to your unwarranted and unjust reality. He was able to give you the one thing you had remaining. A choice, something he himself unilaterally stripped you of repeatedly. He had been too cowardly to even look remotely in Oeznik's direction, to see the disappointment on his old friends face. Oeznik kept pestering him, insisting that his worst fears wouldn't come true if you were loved. Everyone had been so frightened of what you could become. He had ignored the incessant bickering in his kitchen the entire time, all plans fruitless, you did not wish to return.

“We need to call in the Avengers.” Zemo sighed, interrupting the screaming match being held in his kitchen.

“Yes! Yes exactly what I was saying-”

“We need to call in the Avengers to warn them, what is coming.” Zemo said with despair. Maria was taken aback, James shook his head in disbelief. “Sunshine lived under the delusion that she could single-handedly repair everything that was defective. Now she has the power to, her own perfect world.” Zemo said bitterly, the harshness of reality was heavy on his tongue. They had never valued you, appreciated you, never tried to. Dr Doom, as much as he despised him, at the very least appeared to.

“Doom has poisoned her mind-”

“If you bend something long enough James, it will break.”

“No.” James growled. “No way in hell, that shit is in her head.”

“I can no longer tell, she used to be so expressive.” Zemo rose from his chair, wishing T’Challa, James, anyone killed him when they had the chance, then your suffering wouldn’t be as insurmountable. “If you will excuse me, I’m going to spend what little time I have left with my daughter.”

“I’m not taking you in until we bring her home.”

“Maria,” Zemo said gently, placing his hands on her shoulders, smiling sadly at her tears. You would come, he was sure, to claim what was rightfully yours. “Something tells me you will not be the one to serve justice. I’m taking accountability for my actions, when the time comes, I’ll keep her distracted, give you both a chance to flee.”

And with that Zemo headed to his precious daughter’s room, James called for him several times, but it was no use. If he were in your shoes, then he too would be hell-bent on revenge. As he turned the corner it hit him full force, the only thing the Dr could have possibly given you, the one thing that no one else could. That vile loathsome man gave his daughter life. How could he ever compete with that? He would have asked for his assistance himself if he knew the Dr could save you both. You left willingly for Rebecca, he would have sacrificed himself for the same cause. Placing himself silently at the end of her bed, he would cherish every last second he had. He made the same mistake with his first family, he didn't cherish them, working all hours, and he was doing it again, was history doomed to repeat itself? Rebecca was a perfect angel, all he had to keep him going. He told himself that she possessed traits from both of you, but he knew that wasn’t true, just another lie. He wondered who was the most dishonest with themselves. You with your inadequate excuses for your own treatment, or him with his false justifications of his deplorable behaviour?

“No dad, off.'' Rebecca mumbled in her sleep, kicking her little legs as if they would make a difference, he hummed to himself as he lowered down onto the floor.

“As strong willed as her mother.” Oeznik whispered, lowering down to sit next to Zemo. Zemo closed his eyes for a moment, seeing you there, reminiscing in all of your fire, all of your light. You were as stubborn as you were the day he met you, more so.

“Mistakes do not define you, they remind us who we are not.” Oeznik lied. Oeznik knew him his entire life, this wasn’t just a mistake, he had stolen your life, removed the prospect of you ever living peacefully for his own selfish reasons, snatched away your happiness. Oeznik didn’t believe that either, how many fables were floating in the air, it was relentless, ubiquitous, perhaps they would start manifesting out of thin air. The lies everyone was telling themselves? For what reason? To ease the guilt? The stem suffering? How he detested himself, hated it all, every moment without you. Oeznik also knew his most likely path, vengeance and death. Though he imagined he didn't have the time left or resources, to go against the Dr, against you.

“Save your Sunshine, then set her free. Life will be your punishment. Everyday you will be in pain, you will suffer, you will do it because she has no choice but to endure the same.” Oeznik spoke with more authority than he ever heard.

“And once Rebecca becomes aware of what I have done?”

“Then we will really know if she is like her mother, if Rebecca is as forgiving.” Oeznik gave his shoulder a terse squeeze, grunting as he stood, “I on the other hand, will never forgive you.”

“That makes two of us.”

–

Three Years Old.

This year with all that had been revealed about your life, you decided to spend it completely buzzed out of your mind, why not? You couldn’t really explain your happiness in recent times, perhaps the truth had really set you free. No more lies in your life and that included the lies to yourself. No more wishes for a boring life, you wouldn't do to Rebecca what Zemo had done to you, a boring life didn't mean she was safe, it meant she was imprisoned, just as you had been. Being wine drunk brought out those sober thoughts, dancing all day with Victor, not touching down on the moon, but hovering in his jet just in front of it, with lights flashing, music blaring, you own little party for Rebecca.

“No lies, no manipulation, I don’t care if Rebecca has powers, I just want her life to be her choice, for true happiness, not whatever I had, I want her freedom.” You slurred as the day came to an end. You thrust your glass into the air, spilling wine down your arm and Victor’s. You both gave each other a matching smile, you finally asked for a wish that was approved by Victor, a real wish. Not an aspiration born out of fear.

“Happy Birthday Rebecca!”

–

You had spent a few minutes in a thunderstorm that morning, the wind burned your ears, the gales whipped your hair across your face, you were surprised you could feel the droplets thudding against your skull. It didn't feel the same, you knew now that you had never been free. As long as you were, whatever it was you were now, you couldn't ever be free. Time passed so quickly, it was so fleeting, it wasn't really a concept anymore. It didn't matter, it was so insignificant, your birthday loomed and you couldn’t muster any emotions, there was nothing to fret over, Hydra would do their worst, Victor would heal you and the clock would keep ticking.

Your entire world view had changed fundamentally. Reading the latest headlines didn’t help. Before you believed that evil didn’t really exist, that people were just misguided, that they just needed help, to see the hope in the world. You wanted to send a personal thank you to anyone who had ever called you naive. Now you knew evil was all too real, it flowed in your veins, mutilated your body, it was waiting on every corner, lurking behind every door, waiting to lure people in, corrupt the innocent, to turn the world into its own image. You believed once that you could change things, convince the world to let the light in. It was a joke, how could you persuade anyone to hold onto hope when the horror stared them in the face everyday?

This is what your daughter was growing up in, what she was surrounded by. Wars. Countries on the brink of financial & societal collapse. The aftermath of war, allies abandoning countries, leaving them destitute. Corrupt governments, letting their own citizens starve. The world was fuelled by ill intent, malicious, full of hate, suffocated by violence. The world has lost its humanity. The world you claimed to be beautiful was grotesque, ugly, more broken than you were.

“One hundred million, give or take.” Victor’s estimated with an apologetic tone. It should sound like such a massive loss of life, really it was just a drop in the ocean, just over one percent of the world’s population. Barely anything. Then maybe, just maybe the world would start to heal. You wish you could summon the energy to feel morally conflicted, but why should you? No one else seemed to. Thanos claimed to be saving the world too by eliminating half of life, he just needed to be more selective, remove those filled with greed, those who committed heinous crimes, those who just simply didn't deserve the precious gift of life. Dragging your thumb along the inside of your ring, to remind yourself of the type of people you were fighting against, the type that Victor wanted to eliminate. There wasn’t really a choice to make here, you didn’t need to use logic or be emotions, it was obvious. You knew that hours ago when you shifted through a box of scraps to retrieve the red melted, mangled button. It reminded you of your own body and mind, destroyed, hideous, disfigured. If you could press this button and take it all away for yourself, would you? If it removed the chance that Rebecca could ever be abused in the same way you had?

You slammed your hand down, not feeling anything that resembled guilt.

“Save the world Victor.”

Next Part: https://www.tumblr.com/zemossunshine/705243903031459840/sunshine-chapter-43?source=share

#dark zemo #dark #zemo x reader #zemo x you #dr doom #zemo

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toomanytookas · 8 months ago

Text

“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.

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

#there’s so much stuff I loved that I didn’t touch on but I will bug you about it some other time #the bubble #chaptered #read #author: chronically-ghosted

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izukuisbaby · 2 years ago

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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.

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the-iceni-bitch · 3 years ago

Text

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.”

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shallowseeker · 1 year ago

Note

(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.

#asks #asks that go seriously awry #shal meta #ascribing meaning for fun ok #spn 13x13 #spn devil's bargain #dean/cas #dean/cas + judgment #dean/cas + forbidden love #sam + idealism #spn anael #anael + pretending not to care #dean + teddy bear #dean + closets #tfw + motivations #turns out i had a lot of thought #i’m so sorry snon

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cardboard-aliens · 3 years ago

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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.

#bioshock #bioshock infinte #bioshock infinite burial at sea #burial at sea #elizabeth comstock #BaS Salt #cardboard cutouts #SORRY this got rambly im constantly sleep deprived #she's just such a poorly done character #and BaS was deliberate franchise murder as it killed of the potential for sequel

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realcatalina · 2 years ago

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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.

youtube

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?

#Netherladish fashion #c.1520 #sculpture #habsburgs #or ultimate sabotage of Cloth of Field of Gold by Catherine of Aragon?

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gretagerwigsmuse · 1 year ago

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i absolutely adored this chapter! it literally had everything - fluff, angst, humor, tears on my part, and some little cheekiness!!! also you know this but not everyone else does, but i’ve literally read this chapter like once a day since you sent it to me last week, i think i have it memorized by this point! more below 💕

The uncomfortable dress, the one Danielle had spent hours talking her into, is crumbled in the hallway. The zipper is probably broken, she thinks mournfully, remembering how she had struggled to get the restrictive piece of clothing off by herself. - i think what bugs me most about the dress specifically is that even tho it was uncomfortable, she still could’ve had a good night in it? but the guy decided to be an asshole and not only was she made to feel bad about herself, but she was made to feel bad about herself in something that she didn’t feel like herself in necessarily? like she had to be talked into wearing it? and they just guts me

“Auntie Mary!” Annabeth disappears into her house before she can process what’s happening. - i can perfectly hear annie’s voice in my head and it’s so cute!

Her panic causes her to miss the longing look in Bradley’s eyes. His brain focusing on the width of her hips, the dip of her waist before traveling up and locking on the way her nipples press against the pink fabric. - god he is so horny for her!! but like still respectful!!

He catches up to her in the bedroom, eyeing the messy, unmade bed. “Did we interrupt something?” - awwwwww bubbe 🥺 i know he was so taken aback by this! like the clothes everywhere and the messy bed! yeah it totally looks like she had a wild night (like which she did, but not in the way). like i obviously know why she didn’t tell him she had a date, but they seem like close enough friends that she would mention she was going out that night or busy? idk now i’m rambling

“She knows you better, and frankly, trying to brave the bathroom situation seemed like too much for my first time. So I needed another adult, preferably a woman, preferably you.” - as a 27 year old female this is also daunting for me

“Did you put my clothes in my room?” She blurts it out and immediately wants to hide in her room. “Uhh, yeah.” He scratches the back of his neck, red blooming on his cheeks. “Sorry if that’s weird.” - mary trust me, he wants to be the reason for the trail of your clothes on the floor and then put them away the next morning 🤭 i like that he cleaned up and that he blushes so easily

He shoves something at Mary’s chest. “We are leaving that fucking wand here. She keeps smacking me and telling me her spell isn’t working. That I’m still not “cute” like Bob. Fucking, Bob.” - everything about jake and annie makes me laugh like the whole wand thing, annie oakley, the fact that she still likes bob better, that she’s so comfortable with him? and i like that she has different types of relationship with all of them? like she’s really fleshed out for a little kid? but she’s not overly precocious? she’s written really well

Mary runs her eyes over the woman flirting with Jake. Her body is encased in a red string bikini that perfectly fits her thin, tanned figure. She suddenly feels very secure in her decision to keep her coverup dress on. - oh sweet girl 🥺 i like how she has this thought, but it automatically goes to bradley asking her a specific/personal question? like he’s just so focused on mary and her as a person?

“Annabeth! That’s a pretty name!” She looks down the beach, waving at a group getting ready to leave. “I gotta go, but it was good to see you, Jake. I’ll have to tell Olivia I ran into you when we get back to school! I love your suit, by the way, it’s so cute! Bye, guys!” - i like how tammy is still nice? like so many times in fics the girl the mc compares her self to is always kind of a bitch? like if only to show how wonderful the mc is? i liked that tammy answered annie’s questions and didn’t seem like she was talking down to her, that she seems genuinely nice, and most importantly compliments mary?

Bradley gulps, thankful that his sunglasses block his slow pursual of her figure. She looks incredible. Curves in all his favorite places, and her clipped-up hair shows off the neck he’s dreamt of marking up. - god he’s so respectfully horny for her! and the bronco fantasy of his!!

They spend the next few hours in relative silence under the umbrellas, reading and occasionally chatting or reapplying sunscreen to the children and Bob. - side note, i absolutely do not understand people who don’t bring chairs or umbrellas to the beach?? like what do you mean you don’t have the tommy bahama chairs, umbrellas, and beach cart??? it’s psychotic!!! i need to be off the ground and in the shade sorry but i’m on ssris

Bradley groans, “An N-A-P sounds good. Is there room for me under the umbrella, honey?” - HONEY??? sunscreen on his back?? using her coverup as a pillow?? “wake me up if you need anything” BUDDY YOU DONT EVEN FALL ASLEEP (i know he was screaming when he found out she had a date the night before and recalled the strewn clothes before she clarified to the girls)

“And I felt so defeated that I redownloaded Hinge and updated my profile.” - no because why after every time i come back from my parents house to i go back on hinge too???

“This isn’t going to happen. You don’t look like what I thought you would based on your photos.” and left me with the check for our drinks.” - i’m not kidding when i say i’ve read this chapter like 10 times because i read the google doc so many and then this post at least twice and this part always makes my eyes water

“I know! It’s so fucking ridiculous that that was his reason! Like, I know what I look like.” She gestures to her body, her voice slightly shrill. “I know better than anyone else what I look like….I am so fucking aware of what I look like…” - oh mary my sweet girl! i can totally relate to this part! like i feel hyper aware of myself and the space i’m taking up lately! especially in the summer (pls just let me live in a place where i can wear oversized oxfords and boyfriend jeans all year) and i always try and be mindful of it when i’m on hinge?

“Not in that way? Like objectively, I know Jake is very attractive…” - this is exactly how i feel about the blond man, like yeah he’s objectively attractive but hell no does he do it for me personally give me a dirty blond or a brunette

Her good friend who does things to help her without even asking what she needs. Who frequently brings her an afternoon snack because she gets derailed in the repair shop and forgets to grab lunch before the canteen closes. - this is so soft! i can just picture her surprised smile and bradley’s bashful one when he comes into the shop/her office area! ughhhhh i want it

Who overwhelms her senses every time she sees him. Whose cologne makes her heart skip a beat. Who always wraps her in a warm hug, but never before checking if it’s okay. Whose hands touch her with a level of care that she’s never experienced before. - hugs are so underrated in fics! we need to have more hugging! i just want to feel small in his arms. i know he’s warm too

Who, when she tries hard enough, she can trick herself into thinking that he’s actually flirting with her. That he actually wants her. - oh mary!!! ‘that he actually wants her’ and then we see later that night that he DOES want her! at least physically in her mind!

“Please don’t.” Her whispered plea cuts them off. “Don’t be like Danielle and Reuben and try to tell me how much he likes me. That he has a crush on me. I know he doesn’t, so I can’t let myself think that. I don’t think I could handle the rejection and the disappointment.” - oh sweet girl 🥺 knowing some of what happens in chapter in how she reacts to the end of chapter 4 just proves this

With Annie curled up on his chest and Mary tucked into his side, holding on to his arm and resting her head against his shoulder, the three of them walk down a deserted stretch of sand. Completely unaware of the multiple cameras capturing the sweet moment behind them. - oh my gosh!!! they look like a little family from afar!! annie might be a cockblocker later, but she’s really doing everyone a favor now

She chuckles, “That is the secret. Aunt Lindsey’s secret recipe is that she always bought potato salad from the deli down the road and put it in one of her nice serving bowls.” - lol my mom does this (gotta love the big y)

Her eyes flick towards the shopping cart her goddaughter is sitting in, her pink striped coverup swallowing her tiny frame. - i just love her little coverup!! i used to have one similar

The team has been hitting the gym more frequently since the new year, starting to prepare for a short deployment they have coming up in the spring. - hmmmmm and it’s late january/early february now 🤔 would hate for them to be in a good place or take the next step in their relationship only for him to leave 🤔

He’s golden from spending the day in the sun, and his brown hair is fluffy from the salt water. - the best kind of bradley ☺️

Annie shoved the adults together on the couch and demanded they watch her dance around the living room to Top 40 hits. - kids are so weird i love them

“My leggings were too uncomfortable, so I changed into my pajamas; I hope you don’t mind.” How could I mind looking at your ass in those shorts? - god he wants her so badly

“Do you have an aviator boyfriend somewhere in Florida that we don’t know about?” - try not to sound too jealous buddy

He wraps an arm around her, slipping his hand under her sweatshirt and rubbing her back when she doesn’t protest. - i love this! and how they’re on her pink couch!! ugh i bet he’s so warm

She bends her leg, pulling it further up his lap and freezing when she feels him. “Sorry.” He grunts, trying to scoot away, yelling at himself for making her uncomfortable……“You’re so hard.” She says breathlessly, shocked at how aroused he is underneath her. - my brain stopped working here the first five times i read this

“You’ve been pressed against me for two hours in these tiny little shorts with no bra on, and you smell good.” He shrugs helplessly like he had no control over the situation. - he’s so flustered! and i love that he adds that she smells good? it’s a cute detail and seemed realistic to what someone rambling would say

The other hand runs up her thigh and slips under the hem to hold her hip, thumbing over the lacey edge of her panties. Mary moans as he pulls her further into him, tilting her head and letting her lips brush his. - mmmmmm that text post!!!

She lets herself openly watch as he adjusts himself through his shorts before dragging a hand across his mouth, his eyes only leaving hers to watch the way her teeth dig into her bottom lip. - fuckkkkkk that’s so hot of him!?!???

How she fit perfectly into his hands, like she was made for him. - awwwww bubs!!! you got a bit ol crush on her!!! god i wish it were me

Who wouldn’t want her? - well my sweet darling boy she thinks you wouldn’t 🥺

Mar[r]y Me | part four

pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Mariella “M&M” Vertucci (fem!OC)

summary: A love story told through friendship, laughter, and food.

series warnings: 18+ minors DNI, discussion of insecurities, difficult family relationships, discussions of food and alcohol use, an asshole man from Hinge, discussions of body image, conversations on what it’s like to be a fat woman trying to date in today’s society, suggestive language, warnings to be added as needed

word count: 6.6k

previous part | main masterlist

note: happy Friday! I am extremely excited about this part and I can't wait to hear everyone's thoughts on this chapter!! a big thanks to Jordan for all the yelling in the DMs over this one as I was writing it. and thank you for the love on three and 3.5!

part four - perfect post-beach meal

Ding Dong!

The doorbell echoes through the house, disturbing Mary, but not fully waking her.

Ding Dong!

Her left eye cracks open and immediately shuts, pulling the quilt over her pounding head to block the sunshine streaming through the blinds. I knew I would regret that fourth glass of wine last night.

Ding Dong!

The third ring makes her decide that whoever is at the door can go fuck themselves. Jehovah’s Witness or Girl Scout be damned. If it was important, her phone would be ringing.

Brrrrrring! Brrrrrring!

The ringer volume alone makes her stomach churn, combined with the brightness of her screen as Danielle’s face flashes at her; it’s an all-out assault on her hungover existence. She questions every decision she’s made since turning eighteen.

Ding Dong!

“Please tell me this is an emergency.”

“Answer the door. Then chug some water and sling back a few Tylenol.”

The line clicks off.

Ding Dong!

“I should have partnered with Brett for chemistry. He was dumb as a box of rocks and couldn’t stop staring at my tits. But I think it would have been a better decision overall.” The doorbell goes off again, somehow sounding more aggressive. “Alright, I’m coming. I’m coming.”

Rolling out of bed and getting her robe on without dry heaving feels like an accomplishment and a half. Her trek to the front door takes an eternity, the previous night’s wreckage strewn through the house.

Her bra lays outside her bedroom door, in the same place she dropped it after her intoxicated brain decided it had to go.

Her heels are unceremoniously dumped next to the front door. What had started as a cute outfit decision had quickly turned into a nightmare accessory and almost resulted in a sprained ankle when the evening took a turn.

She’s glaring at the culprit of her current state - the empty wine bottle and a lone glass - when she catches sight of the time.

“Who the fuck is at my door at 8:30 in the morning.” She exclaims to an empty house.

Ding Dong!

She rips the door open, ready to yell at Reuben for interrupting her much-needed post-cry sleep but loses all of her steam when she comes face to face with Bradley.

“Wha-” She doesn’t even get a chance to finish her one-word question when a tiny body slams into her legs.

“Auntie Mary!” Annabeth disappears into her house before she can process what’s happening.

“Don’t worry! I got her!” Jake - where the fuck did he come from? - hustles past her, following the little girl. “Cute outfit, M&M.”

The exaggerated wink he sends her way reminds her of what she’s currently wearing, the realization washing over her head like a bucket of ice water.

Her bathrobe is covering her favorite silky nightdress.

And nothing else.

She pulls her robe together, tying the knot as tight as possible and clutching the top together with her fist. Her panic causes her to miss the longing look in Bradley’s eyes. His brain focusing on the width of her hips, the dip of her waist before traveling up and locking on the way her nipples press against the pink fabric.

The confusion and stress on her face snaps him out of it. He hands over her favorite drink from Starbucks - something he is very proud of himself for memorizing - and doesn’t say anything until she’s taken a sip.

“We’re babysitting today.” Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out except for a squeak. Bradley’s eyebrows shoot up, “Are you okay?”

Mary’s head drops and she groans, moving her hand from her robe to rub her forehead. He’s not sure what to do, slightly distracted by the cleavage that has appeared, when she turns and waves him into the house. He locks the door and follows her toward her room, slowing down as he takes in the trail of clothing leading down the hall.

He catches up to her in the bedroom, eyeing the messy, unmade bed. “Did we interrupt something?”

“What could you have interrupted?” She questions, taking some pills with a water bottle from her nightstand, following it up with a big gulp of her iced tea. “Why am I babysitting?”

“We’re babysitting. To give Reuben and Danielle a bit of a break. I’m not confident enough to try and watch the baby, but I know I can handle a preschooler.”

“How did I get pulled into this?”

“She knows you better, and frankly, trying to brave the bathroom situation seemed like too much for my first time. So I needed another adult, preferably a woman, preferably you.”

“And Jake is here because?”

“We’re giving Javy a break, too.” She snorts at his joke. “Get ready; we’re going to the beach! They sent us with snacks, sand toys, and enough sunscreen to cover the entire 7th fleet.”

“I need to shower and eat something.”

“Go ahead and shower; we’ve got time. I brought you a ham and cheese croissant.”

“I have some watermelon and baby carrots in the fridge. Can you pack those up and put them in the cooler while I get ready? The cooler is in my office.”

“On it.” He’s already moving toward the kitchen, throwing a thumbs up over his shoulder and forcing himself not to look back where he knows she’s undoing her bathrobe.

She’s brushing her teeth, feeling better after washing away the previous night’s disappointment, when she has the sudden realization that her clothes are still littering the floor. Mary hustles out of the ensuite and can feel her face start to burn when she sees the remnants of her outfit sitting on the dresser. She swallows her pride and walks into the kitchen, which she’s surprised to see has been cleaned. “Where’s Annie?”

“They’re outside, and she’s giving Jake a lesson on… something. He’s gotten smacked with her fairy wand about seven times so far, so she’s either cursing him or fixing him. Only time will tell.” He turns from where he’s washing a knife. “That baggie has your croissant. You ready to go?”

“Did you put my clothes in my room?” She blurts it out and immediately wants to hide in her room.

“Uhh, yeah.” He scratches the back of his neck, red blooming on his cheeks. “Sorry if that’s weird.”

“No! Not- I just-” She stutters over her words. “I wasn’t expecting it! It’s nice, but you didn’t have to do that. You also didn’t have to clean the kitchen. Thank you!”

“No problem; Danielle mentioned you went out with a friend last night, and you might be a bit hungover, so I figured I’d help some; besides, you only had like five things in the sink. It took no time.”

“Well, thank you.” A muffled shout comes from the yard, and Jake storms into the house with Annie tucked under his arm like a football.

“Okay, is it time to go yet? Annie Oakley and I are ready to dig in the sand! Race you to the front door!” He plops her on the floor and pretends to take off, watching as the little girl books it towards the door.

“Jake!”

“Coming, munchkin! Hide that thing now!” As he jogs toward the front door, the hissed instruction breaks the other two.

“We should probably go before our children get into another fight.” Mary giggles at Bradley’s statement, grabbing her beach bag and food, her brain rotating the “our children” over and over in her mind.

“For you!” Annie shoves a seashell into Bradley’s hand.

“Oh, thank you! Look at how pretty this one is, Mary.” He shows off the tiny pink shell before putting it in his pocket.

“You’re growing quite the collection.” Mary mummers, smiling as she’s gifted a tiny lavender shell. The morning had been filled with splashing in the waves and building sandcastles that did not want to stay up, and then Annie wanted to look for seashells.

“So are you.” He puts the shell in his other pocket, the one holding everything Annie has handed Mary. “Jake is going to be so jealous.”

The two adults pause their meandering to look back at their blanket, where Jake volunteered to stay and watch their stuff. Apparently, he’s made a friend while waiting for the other Daggers to arrive.

“Hey, how was New York? How’s your family? I feel like I haven’t seen you since the Secret Santa party.” She turns her attention back to Rooster, who has crouched down to assist in the search for more shells. “This one is for mommy? Okay.”

“Christmas was good; family is fine. Everyone was their usual selves, so nothing new there. Although I’m 74% sure my favorite cousin is pregnant again, and no one else has figured it out yet. So, now it’s just a matter of waiting for a Facebook announcement post to see if I’m right.”

She smiles when she hears laughter coming from the blanket; Jake deserves someone who makes him happy. Her good mood disappears in an instant as Annabeth starts splashing in the shallow water, soaking the bottom half of her coverup.

“Oh, Annie!” She stops herself from yelling, knowing the preschooler didn’t do it maliciously. “Okay, how about we have some watermelon and dry off before lunch arrives?”

The little girl sprints up to Bradley, raising her arms to be picked up. “What? You want a piggyback ride?”

She shrieks in joy when he flips her onto his back and starts jogging toward their spot, moving very carefully to avoid hurting her. Mary follows behind them at a slower pace, dreading the visual of what she’ll look like next to the blonde goddess who has joined Jake on his towel.

“There’s my favorite girl!” Jake catches Annabeth as she jumps into his arms the moment Bradley sets her down.

Her tiny hands clasp his face. “Watermelon.” She demands, making the four adults laugh.

“Watermelon, please.” Bradley gently reminds her, already opening the cooler, handing the sunscreen to Mary when she reaches for it.

“Watermelon, please.”

“Come here, baby.” Mary puts her arms out for Annie. “We gotta reapply sunscreen, and then we can have watermelon.”

“Nooo!” She whines, trying to hide in Jake’s neck.

“The sun is hot! We need to make sure we’re protected, kiddo!” Jake assists.

“Jake too?”

“Yes, me too.”

That’s all she needs to allow herself to be sprayed with the sun protectant, insisting on holding Jake’s hand while Mary sprays him down too. She’s happily munching watermelon on Jake’s lap when she asks, “Who are you?”

“I’m Tammy, a friend of Jake’s sister! I just stopped to say hi for a second. What’s your name?”

“Annabeth Fitch! I’m four years old.”

Her last statement is directed at Mary, who has pulled her damp coverup off to dry in the sun and is standing there in her black one-piece. Bradley gulps, thankful that his sunglasses block his slow pursual of her figure. She looks incredible. Curves in all his favorite places, and her clipped-up hair shows off the neck he’s dreamt of marking up.

A low whistle interrupts his favorite daydream, the one that includes Mary, the backseat of his Bronco, and the dog tags he never wears but stores in his glove box.

“Damn, Mariella!” Phoenix is leering over her sunglasses, arm in arm with Yale’s very pregnant wife, Kristina, who is pumping her fist and chanting her name. Logan, Bob, and Javy slowly follow behind, carrying beach supplies, while the Lee kids run straight to Annabeth.

“Oh my god, stop it, you two!” Mary laughs, her face red enough that Bradley isn’t sure if it’s from their cat calls or the sun.

“Absolutely not! You look hot!” Kris' attempt at a hug turns into a side squeeze, her belly getting in the way. “We brought pasta salad, but please tell me you have more watermelon. It’s all baby #4 has had me craving.”

“We do! It’s in the cooler behind the pile of children on Jake; help yourself!”

The guys finally arrive with chairs, a cooler, and other supplies. The adults catch up while Kristina lays out ground rules for her kids before handing out sandwiches and bowls of pasta salad to everyone.

The men wolf down their food before starting a two-on-two football game, and the kids beg Bob to help them build a sandcastle, a request he happily completes, leaving the three women relaxing in chairs. They spend the next few hours in relative silence under the umbrellas, reading and occasionally chatting or reapplying sunscreen to the children and Bob.

It’s when Bradley makes his way back to their spot, carrying the youngest Lee, that things change. He hands the three-year-old off to her mother. “Yale said she was getting cranky, and it might be good to let her chill with you guys.”

“Yeah, it’s almost her N-A-P time. Come here, sweetie, let’s cuddle a little.”

Bradley groans, “An N-A-P sounds good. Is there room for me under the umbrella, honey?”

“Of course, you should put more sunscreen on if you’re going to lay down, though.” She ignores the eyes burning into the side of her face and the jaws that drop when she complies with his ask for help getting his back.

Using her folded coverup as a pillow, he lays on his stomach in the shade and gets comfortable. “Wake me up if you need something.”

She gets exactly ten minutes of peace, just enough time for Andrea and Bradley to fall asleep, before the other two start in on her.

“So, I heard you had a date last night. How did that go?” Kris tees up, casually flipping through her magazine.

“Oh! Where did you meet him?” Natasha’s faux innocence annoys her.

“Well, if Dani told you that I had a date, then I’m sure she also told you how bad it was.” She snaps, staring steadfastly at her book and pretending to read. She isn’t actually reading; she can’t. The words have started to blur together from her tears. “And if she told you how bad it was, then you definitely know we met on an app.”

The sniffle that punctuates her sentence springs the other two into motion.

Nat sits in front of her in the sand, taking the book from her, and Kris holds her hand, her mom voice kicking.

“Hey, woah, okay. What’s wrong? How bad is bad? Did he hurt you?” Mary shakes her head, taking a deep breath to avoid crying. “Want to talk about it?”

“I went home to Brooklyn for Christmas as usual, but with this new job, I get more days off during the holidays, so I stayed longer than normal. Which was a mistake. All it meant was three extra days of my mom complaining about my lack of a love life and how I haven’t given her grandkids - that usual spiel. But she took it a step further this time. She actually tried to set me up with the son of one of her friends from her book club.”

“How did that go?”

“It didn’t. I refused to go. Then there was a lot of screaming - mostly about embarrassing her - and I got the first flight out of JFK that I could. I spent the rest of my holiday week on the couch watching Parks and Rec. And I felt so defeated that I redownloaded Hinge and updated my profile.”

“You met on Hinge?” Nat sounds surprised.

“Yeah, I figured it was better than Tinder.”

“Was it?”

“No, just as many dick pic offers.” The women laugh, Mary wiping her eyes where a few tears had slipped by.

“Anyway, I matched with this cute guy, Jeremy. We chatted for a few days, and he asked me to dinner. We had been clicking, and he seemed nice, plus he hadn’t tried to send me any photos, so I said yes.” She pauses to check on Annie, making a mental note to make an apple pie for Bob as a thank you for keeping the kids occupied.

“So what happened?”

“We met at that steakhouse downtown, Samson’s, and he texted me that he was at the bar. Apparently, there was a wait even though we had a reservation, and I was fine with that. I’ve spent enough time in restaurants to know that shit happens and sometimes you get behind, but it very much was not fine with him. He was incredibly rude to the hostess and the bartender. And then when our table was ready - only like 15 minutes later than planned, by the way, it was nothing - he looked at me and went, “This isn’t going to happen. You don’t look like what I thought you would based on your photos.” and left me with the check for our drinks.”

The small chorus of “what the fuck” makes her start to hysterically laugh.

“I know! It’s so fucking ridiculous that that was his reason! Like, I know what I look like.” She gestures to her body, her voice slightly shrill. “I know better than anyone else what I look like. I know that men don’t like bodies that look like mine. I know that men need to get to know me before they’re interested in me. I know that no one is attracted to me at first glance. I am so fucking aware of what I look like, and I am meticulous about choosing photos that accurately represent what I look like. Yes, they're flattering photos, but they very clearly show that I am fat.”

“Mary! That’s so ridiculous! You’re beautiful!” Kristina scolds her.

“I know I’m pretty, Kris, but I’m also fat. And I’m not saying that to put myself down or fish for compliments. It’s just a fact. I have brown eyes, I have a master's degree in project management, I’m fat.” She sighs. “But guys can’t get past the stomach or the hips or the slight double chin. I could look exactly like Farrah Fawcett, and men still would be stuck on the fact that my thighs are bigger than their heads!”

The group falls silent. Neither of the other women know what to say.

“I know what I just said sounds terrible, but please don’t feel bad. It’s how it’s always been for me; I’m used to it. I know how to work the system, how to figure out if a guy is good for me or not.” She chuckles humorlessly. “Though apparently not electronically; don’t worry, I already deleted my profile for good.”

“I’m sorry we teased you. Danielle didn’t mention this guy was such a dick.” Nat apologizes.

“That’s because she doesn’t know. The bartender was really nice and said she would give me three drinks on the house if I ordered an appetizer to go with it because he was so awful. I took her offer, got severely tipsy, took a Lyft back home, and then polished off the bottle of wine that was taking up space in my fridge. White is always a good accompaniment to crying if you were wondering.”

“Wait, so how does she know the date went badly if you didn’t tell her?”

“After finishing the wine, I realized I wasn’t just tipsy but drunk, and then suddenly, my dress was suffocating me, but I couldn’t get it unzipped. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize that when I was getting dressed because Danielle helped me. I remember crying harder and calling Dani when I couldn’t get it. I’m guessing the hysterical breakdown was a clue of how the night went. And she must have talked me through it because the dress wasn’t on my body when I woke up this morning.”

“God, why does everything go extra wrong when you’re sad and drunk?”

“I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure I ripped the zipper of my brand-new dress because I got overstimulated.” She pouts.

“Oh, that’s an easy fix!” Kris waves her hand like she’s waving the problem away. “If you did break the zipper, just give the dress to Logan or bring it by the house sometime, and I’ll fix it for you, no problem!”

“Really? That would be am-”

“What about Jake?”

“What?”

“What about Jake?” Phoenix repeats, “Why don’t you date him? The two of you flirt all the time! And as much as it pains me to say it, he’s a good-looking guy. And - bonus! - he’s way less insufferable than he used to be.”

“Oh! Yes! You two would be so cute together!”

“You know we’re not actually flirting, right? We banter and “flirt,” but it’s all platonic. And Jake is handsome, but he doesn’t do it for me.”

“That man is sex on a stick, and he doesn’t do it for you?” Kristina questions.

“Not in that way? Like objectively, I know Jake is very attractive; there’s no doubt that he’s hot, but I’m not actually attracted to him. It’s the same way with Maverick. He’s a good-looking guy, but I have zero interest in fucking him.”

That sends the group into laughter.

“Okay, okay! I get what you mean!” Nat forces herself to stop laughing, “What about Bradley?”

Mary looks down at the man sleeping soundly on the towel beside her, and her heart twists.

Bradley.

Who, when she tries hard enough, she can trick herself into thinking that he’s actually flirting with her. That he actually wants her.

Bradley.

“It’s the same thing as with Jake; he’s a good guy, a great friend - good looking, too - and he play flirts with me. But that’s all it is.”

“Mary-”

The sound of crying swiftly stops the conversation, Mary running down the beach to where Annabeth is holding her head, cradled in Bob’s arms.

“She tripped and bonked her head on a bucket. It wasn’t too hard, and she’s not bleeding. I think she just scared herself.”

“Thanks, Bobby.” She brushes over his hair affectionately before scooping her niece into her arms. “Come on, baby, let's take a walk.”

She stands and starts making her way down the beach, waving to let the others know everything is okay and trying to soothe her crying goddaughter.

“Hey! Everything okay?” Bradley jogs up to them, rubbing his hand over Annie’s hair, checking to make sure she’s not bleeding. “Sorry it took me a minute, Phoenix slapped me. You okay, Miss Annie?”

Annabeth buries her head in Mary’s shoulder as she explains what happened, big crocodile tears wetting her shoulder. “So we’re gonna walk for a little bit. And then I think it might be time for H-O-M-E. Someone seems a bit T-I-R-E-D.”

“Okay, that sounds good. Just let me know, okay?” He drops a kiss on Annie’s forehead and turns to head back, giving the girls some privacy.

“Rooster!”

“Yeah, sweetheart?” Annie makes grabby hands at him. “Want me to walk with you?”

She easily transfers to Bradley’s arms. With Annie curled up on his chest and Mary tucked into his side, holding on to his arm and resting her head against his shoulder, the three of them walk down a deserted stretch of sand. Completely unaware of the multiple cameras capturing the sweet moment behind them.

“I thought you said the perfect post-beach meal includes your Aunt Lindsey’s potato salad?”

“It does.” Mary grabs the container filled with creamy, dill, red-skin potato salad and smiles at the man working the deli counter. “Thank you, have a good one!”

She drops the clear quart container into their cart and tickles Annie’s neck, making her giggle and try to squirm away.

“Then why are we buying potato salad for dinner?”

After their walk down the beach, Mary called Dani to let her know that she was going to have Annie sleepover at her house while Bradley packed up their stuff. Once she found out she was spending the night with her favorite aunt, Annie immediately asked for beach meal, prompting Bradley to ask what that meant.

“The perfect post-beach meal! It’s something my cousins, and I created when we were younger. It’s a fully-loaded cold-cut sandwich, served with my Aunt Lindsey’s potato salad - a family secret - and a handful of potato chips. Best paired with lemonade.” She explains in the car, inviting him to join them for dinner and a movie in her living room.

He immediately accepts, eager to spend more time with Mary and Annie, the little girl quickly wrapping him around her little finger. “We’ll have to stop by my place so I can shower; I don’t want to drag sand all through your house.”

“Just grab a change of clothes; you can shower at my house. We’re going to have to clean up, too, huh?” She turns around to the backseat, tickling Annie’s tummy, smiling as her shrieks of laughter fill the Bronco. “If we’re going to do post-beach meal, we need to stop at the grocery store for a few things, too.”

She chuckles, “That is the secret. Aunt Lindsey’s secret recipe is that she always bought potato salad from the deli down the road and put it in one of her nice serving bowls.”

Bradley laughs! “That’s cheating!”

“No, that’s being smart and saving yourself a ton of work. If you knew how big my family is, you would realize that making enough potato salad for everyone ends up being an all-day ordeal.”

“How big is your family?” He’s curious. He knows she has a bigger family; every story has a different family member attached to its background, but she’s never given exact details.

“I’m one of four; all my brothers have at least two kids. My mom is one of five, my dad is one of six, and all four of my grandparents had multiple siblings. Thirty-one people on my dad’s side moved from Sicily in 1888 or 1889, I can’t remember right now, and my mom’s side came over before World War II. They set up shop in the city, and everyone has pretty much stayed in the Brooklyn area since then. Last family reunion, there was easily over a hundred and fifty people that showed up.”

“Wow…” Bradley blinks at her unexpected answer. “People still do family reunions?”

“Mine do.” She answers distractedly, searching for an acceptable red onion. ��You like red onion, right?”

He’s leaning on the cart when a little hand tugs at the sunglasses hooked into his shirt, his eyes shifting from Mary’s legs to Annie. “I’ll eat anything except for radishes, hard-boiled eggs, and anything Jake grills - I just don’t trust him, despite his self-proclaimed Texas grillmaster skills.”

“Noted. Okay, we just need lettuce and lemonade because I’m not making that from scratch today.” She looks up from the list on her phone. “Oh! You look cute, baby! I think Bradley’s glasses might be a little big for you, though.”

“Ah, she’ll grow into them. Right, peanut?” They both laugh as the shades fall off her face when she nods in agreement. “I think I should hold onto these for you until you get a little bigger.”

“You guys wait here for a minute, I’m gonna grab a head of lettuce, and then we’re basically all set.” She rubs a hand across his back as she walks away, smiling as Bradley realizes he’s losing the argument about what movie they’re going to watch with dinner.

“Ho-le-y shit! Look at that!”

“Oh. my. god. Do you think he’s single?”

“I hope so! That is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

The frantic whispering drags Mary’s attention from the iceberg lettuce display. She watches as a group of pretty, twenty-something girls point and ogle in Bradley’s direction. Her eyes flick towards the shopping cart her goddaughter is sitting in, her pink striped coverup swallowing her tiny frame.

Well, they’re not wrong. He does look sexy.

The muscle shirt he’s wearing shows off the hard work he’s put in recently. The team has been hitting the gym more frequently since the new year, starting to prepare for a short deployment they have coming up in the spring. He’s golden from spending the day in the sun, and his brown hair is fluffy from the salt water. Combined with how he’s entertaining an adorable little girl, who is clearly enamored with him, she completely understands the thirsting happening next to the avocado tower.

“I’m going up to him. How do my boobs look?”

The brazenness of the group leader stuns her.

Absolutely fucking not.

Without looking, she grabs a head of lettuce and hustles back to the cart, grinning at Annie when she points at her. Bradley turns and smiles, pulling her into his chest as he drops the lettuce next to Annie in the cart. “This one has insisted that we need ice cream to round out this perfect meal of ours, and I think I agree with her. What do you think, honey?”

She melts into his hold, savoring the way his arm feels wrapped around her waist. “Well, I do have chocolate sauce and rainbow sprinkles that are dying to be used up. So I think you’re absolutely right; we should get ice cream.”

Bradley and Annie high-five as he starts booking it toward the freezer section, leaving Mary in their dust. She snorts at the ridiculousness she’s brought to the grocery store and starts to follow them.

“Hey!” A voice behind her catches her attention. She turns, vindication spreading through her chest when she sees the disappointed faces of the group of younger women.

“Congrats on him; he’s a beauty.” The leader gives her a thumbs up and a wink like she had just bagged a prize deer.

She laughs in response, giving a small wave over her shoulder as she works to catch up. Knowing that without supervision, Annie will con Bradley into buying five flavors of ice cream.

“Alright, that’s your final number of the night, twinkle toes. Time for bed.” Mary lifts herself off the couch where she’s spent the last forty-five minutes leaning against Bradley.

After dinner and mini ice cream sundaes were eaten and Cars had finished, Annie shoved the adults together on the couch and demanded they watch her dance around the living room to Top 40 hits.

“Time to brush my teeth?”

“Yes, time to brush your teeth.” She swings Annie onto her hip. “Wanna watch that James Bond movie you were talking about last week?”

“Yeah, if you’re up for it?” Bradley gets up when she nods in response. “Awesome, I’ll finish the dishes and set it up.”

“Thank you, I’ll be back after she’s asleep.”

He watches her walk down the hallway towards her bedroom, talking to the sleepy preschooler in her arms before moving into the kitchen. As he washes the ice cream bowls, he thinks about how much he’s enjoyed the day. He never thought the highlight of his week would be fighting for an hour to secure a car seat into Bronco and then spending 12+ hours caring for a four-year-old. But it has been, and he’s enjoyed every moment.

He pours them each a glass of the Moscato he picked up at the store and sprawls on her pink couch, scrolling through his phone while he waits for her to put Annie to bed. It’s not too long before soft footsteps grab his attention, and he gulps when she rounds the corner.

“My leggings were too uncomfortable, so I changed into my pajamas; I hope you don’t mind.”

How could I mind looking at your ass in those shorts?

“Course not; want you to be comfy.” He watches her bend down to add detergent to the dishwasher, her sweatshirt catching his eye. “Do you have an aviator boyfriend somewhere in Florida that we don’t know about?”

“What?”

“Your sweatshirt. I’ve only seen people who come out of flight school with those.”

“Oh, this! I always talked about how I wanted one of these sweatshirts, so when I announced that I was leaving to come out here, my favorite admiral got me one as a going-away present.” She points to her sleeve as she sits beside him, “He even got my call sign embroidered on it!”

“Cute; how come I’ve never seen this before?”

“I only wear it at bedtime. He ordered it to be oversized for me, which I appreciate, but it was so big that it practically was a dress. Dani and I tried to crop it one night, but we didn’t measure, misjudged it, and well…” She lifts her arms slightly above her head, her tummy and the very bottom curve of her breasts coming into view. “Not exactly public friendly.”

He hums, distracted by how if she had lifted her arms one more inch, she would have completely flashed him.

“You, uhh-” He clears his throat, “You ready to watch the movie? I poured you a glass of wine.”

“Thank you!” She hits play as she takes a sip. “Oh, Bradley, you did such a good job picking this out.”

He grunts in response, his brain fixated on the little moan she let out after her second sip.

Twenty minutes into the movie, he pauses it when she squirms for the tenth time. “Are you uncomfortable?”

“Sorry. My back hurts, and there’s not enough room to lay down.”

“Come lay with me. There’s plenty of room here.”

“Really?” She asks as she’s already moving around the coffee table to his other side. “You don’t mind?”

“Just come lay down, Mary.” She slots herself next to him on the chaise, resting her head on his shoulder and throwing a leg over his thighs. “Better?”

“Yes, thank you.” She pats his chest in thanks, and he starts the movie up again. He wraps an arm around her, slipping his hand under her sweatshirt and rubbing her back when she doesn’t protest.

When the movie ends two hours later, she yawns and shifts on his chest as the credits roll. “I liked that a lot; I think that’s Daniel Craig’s best movie.” She bends her leg, pulling it further up his lap and freezing when she feels him.

“Sorry.” He grunts, trying to scoot away, yelling at himself for making her uncomfortable.

A hand on his chest stops him.

“It’s okay.” She quietly reassures him, her hand sliding up to cradle the side of his face, turning him to look at her. “I don’t mind.”

The look in his eyes takes her breath away. He looks hungry. Like he wants her. The way his breathing gets heavier when she sinks her hand into his hair gives her the confidence boost she needs. Summoning all the grace she possibly can, Mary sits up and swings a leg over his hips. His hands guide her onto his lap, her eyes widening when she sits down.

“You’re so hard.” She says breathlessly, shocked at how aroused he is underneath her.

“You’ve been pressed against me for two hours in these tiny little shorts with no bra on, and you smell good.” He shrugs helplessly like he had no control over the situation.

“Bradley…” She trails off when he moans as her hands tug his hair. She leans into him, heart pounding as their chests and noses touch. Her eyes flutter, a quiet whine escaping as she enjoys the way his hand grabs at her ass, big and warm through the thin material of her shorts. The other hand runs up her thigh and slips under the hem to hold her hip, thumbing over the lacey edge of her panties. Mary moans as he pulls her further into him, tilting her head and letting her lips brush his.

“Aunt Mary!”

She sits up straight, balancing herself on his chest. “Annie?! What’s wrong?” She climbs off Bradley, apologizing as she goes.

“I- I- I had a bad dream! Th-the dinosaurs were there!” She wails, tears pouring down her cheeks as she hiccups.

“Oh, sweetie, it’s okay! It’s okay! Those dinosaurs aren’t real. They were just machines for the movie. They can’t hurt you.” She bounces Annie, trying to soothe her. She’s going to kick Reuben’s ass all the way to Australia for allowing Annabeth to watch Jurassic Park. Knowing it’s his fault that she and Bradley were interrupted.

“Can we watch Frozen?” The sniffles break her heart, and she immediately gives in.

Mary sighs, “Yeah, let's wipe your face off, and we’ll watch Frozen.” After the tears and snot are washed away, she settles on the opposite end of the couch with Annie in her arms, wrapping a blanket around them and turning on the movie.

Once the citizens of Arendelle are singing about ice, she risks a glance over at Bradley to find him already watching her. Her heart skipping a beat at the intensity of his stare. She lets herself openly watch as he adjusts himself through his shorts before dragging a hand across his mouth, his eyes only leaving hers to watch the way her teeth dig into her bottom lip. She can’t remember the last time she was this turned on and mourns the fact that she didn’t even get a chance to taste his lips.

Eventually, she breaks eye contact, looking at the movie when Annie points. Bradley doesn’t look away - can’t look away - her cheeks are flushed, and she's still slightly panting. He’s annoyed they were interrupted and feels bad about being annoyed. But he’s never going to be able to forget the way she felt on his lap. So soft, so warm. How she fit perfectly into his hands, like she was made for him. He can’t think about how her hands pulled his hair and how she wiggled on his lap, or he knows he’s going to get hard again. Those 90 seconds are going to star in his dreams for the rest of his life.

She’s perfect. I’m gonna ask her out next week, and we’ll go to dinner somewhere nice. We’ll go to Samson’s. He decides.

I can’t believe that asshole didn’t want her.

Who wouldn’t want her?

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#bradley fic

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