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fbfh · 1 year

Text

dad!tony + stark!reader growing up/childhood hcs

wc: 1.4k

genre: fluff, a little angst, preventative hurt/comfort, family/domestic bliss

pairing: dad!tony + kid!stark!reader, gen 1 ironfam (tony, pepper, rhodey, happy) + reader

warnings: Tony loved your mom and thinks you look like her, your mom is not in the picture (open to interpretation), takes place in the early 2010s, mentions of iron man 1 - 3 and the first avengers movie, tony's a good dad, brief mentions of kidnapping/attacks/general danger, tony found out he had a kid and took you in backstory, bonding, tony's a good dad, did I mention Tony's a good dad

a/n: oh boy did this make me feel things lol. self shipping to cope hours who's with me.

@yesv01 @afidiofobia @thatmultifandomloser @babiesimagines @lizziebitch33 @hopefullhearts @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @dustyinkpages @liberty-barnes

Knowing what Tony’s like

And we all know what he’s like

The odds are if you’re his kid that he did not know you existed for at least a couple years

(I also like this backstory most bc it puts you roughly in the same age group as Peter and Harley and yall already know how I feel about that)

Your mom is probably someone that caught his attention and heart during his playboy era then disappeared

A few years later

You or turn up with a very detailed letter from your mom addressed to him

And you look so much like her it knocks the air right out of him

You also look so much like him too

You have all of his sass and intelligence and mannerisms

It’s shocking at first

You probably came into his life some time after he became iron man but before the avengers were formed

Early 2010s yk

Which means you actually have a little time to settle into your new life before shit hits the fan again

You know the whole “I’m trying to break generation cycles” thing he has with Peter in homecoming??

He has that exact same talk with you

He does so much research and a fuck ton of self reflection on how to raise a kid

And really be present for them

It's a very spicy emotional time for both of you

Because he realizes he needs to deal with all the unresolved shit he's been suppressing and ignoring

And you're trying to deal with the fact that up until now, you really weren't being taken care of like you should have been

And you're both trying to deal with how scary and dangerous all of the new threats out there are as Fury presses Tony to join the avengers

But you make it work

Because Tony is not giving up on you

And he's not resting until you're totally happy and comfortable and safe with all your needs met

The first time you call him dad?????

He has to try so hard not to cry

He's just so proud of you

And he loves you so much

He gets that feeling whenever you call him dad

Even when you say it every day

Even when you introduce him as your dad

And reference him as your dad

No matter how often it happens

He never stops getting that feeling

He majorly prioritizes making sure you have a good education too

And that you’re really getting something out of it

Whatever the best solution for you is, you’ll figure it out

While I love the idea of little baby stark just showing up to class in like 3rd grade and being like “this is my dad’s old prosthetic heart it’s a miniature arc reactor he built in a cave when he was kidnapped by terrorists” then proceeding to explain to your whole class and teacher how he designed built and powered the first draft of his suit, and how the electromagnet keeps the shrapnel in his chest from killing him

Or Tony calling you in sick and you show up a few days later sunkissed with souvenirs from the gorgeous tropical island he took you to “on business”

After getting separated and having both your lives threatened during the battle of manhattan and the surrounding events

And after getting attacked (again) and not knowing you thought he was dead during the whole ordeal with Killian

He’s going to want to keep you close to him

You can’t get kidnapped or hurt or attacked if you’re near enough for him to keep you safe

And he can’t get kidnapped or hurt or attacked if you’re close by enough to make sure he’s really doing okay

After all the shit you’ve both been through you’ll probably both end up with a lot of anxiety and attachment issues

But he works together with you to come up with plans for pretty much everything and every eventuality

Even if you know it might not help change the fact that there will be more fights to take on in the future, having a plan for keeping you safe during them makes you both feel a lot more better

And knowing he’s planned for every eventuality takes a huge weight off Tony’s mind too

Which means he can fight even better and save the world with a little more security knowing you’re okay now, and you’re going to be okay when he’s done with whatever problem he’s dealing with

So practically speaking he’ll probably get you a private tutor

Maybe online classes or homeschooling if those end up working better

But he’ll have Pepper find him some good candidates, then grill the living shit out of them

He’ll figure out their communication styles, their teaching styles, and generally if they pass the vibe test

When he finds someone who will actually be able to help you learn, they have to train a lot before they start tutoring you

The last thing he wants is for learning to become a source of distress for you instead of a tool to empower you

Plus having a tutor he can drag along with you means you have even more freedom to jet all over the world so he can surprise you with trips without either of you worrying about you falling behind

And speaking of empowering you

There is absolutely zero chance you’re not learning self defense and how to fight

He somehow helps you skip past the “wow self defense is scary” part right into the “wow this is super empowering and I feel safer and more secure since I started learning how to do this” part

Once you fly through the ranks of a bunch of different self defense and martial arts and fighting styles

Then you start doing hero training

He makes you a suit that’s armed to the teeth

And also safety protocoled to the teeth

“For emergencies only.”

After many, many safety talks, now you get to move onto the fun part

He gets to teach you how to use it

Neither of you can deny how much fun it is learning how to blast lasers from your palms or shoot rockets out of your wrists

He literally gets to teach you how to fly

It feels magical

It really feels magical watching you

His kid

Literally learn to fly with his help

God he’s just so proud of you

He loves you so much

Between the traveling and the privacy issues and the safety concerns, anything else you do

Any skills or extracurriculars or hobbies

Will also probably be from a tutor or private instructor too

One of his love languages is gift giving

He’s really looking forward to when you’re old enough for him to just hand you a credit card so he can see what you find when you come back

But until then he gets to spoil the shit out of you

Real talk he’s not going to stop spoiling you when you’re old enough to shop for yourself anyway

He loves the way your face lights up when he surprises you with something really cool

Trips, events, gadgets he made you

Anything you could conceptually want or imagine

All he has to do is wave his magic wand and now you have hyper realistic rainbow silicone mermaid tails for when you go swimming

You have a secret reading room hidden in the back of your closet that you access by pulling a book on a shelf

He even has a toy made after you in your favorite toy line

Barbies, american girls, legos, action figures

Or whatever your favorite toy/figurine is

He surprises you with a new one that looks just like you

And you lose your shit

Because who wouldn’t

What can he say

Tony loves spoiling you

Your existence is the greatest thing he could ever hope for

You are the most important beloved cherished thing in his life

All he wants is to keep you safe and happy and well taken care of

And maybe a little pampered and spoiled

But you deserve it

You deserve to have the world handed to you

Which is exactly what he intends to do

1K notes · View notes

whatsnewalycat · 1 year

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Psychomanteum / Chapter 10

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

Chapter 10: Snow Day

Chapter Summary: A snowstorm before a shitstorm.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 9.6k+

Content / Warnings: alternating POV, it’s giving hygge, tabloids, uncertainty and insecurity, snow, secrets, legal stuff, alcohol, cannabis, lotta dialogue, Anika, grief, dead parent, music, sign language, shotgunning weed, smut, how to remove ink stains

Notes: Chapter title from "Snow Day" by The Honorary Title. Thank you for being so patient waiting for this chapter!! Let me know what you think 🖤

[ Tag List ] [ AO3 ] [ Spotify Playlist ] [ Series Masterlist ]

From inside a coffee shop, you spot the first languid snowflakes beginning to fall from a dusty, overcast sky. They’re fat and heavy, their density suggesting the city will soon be covered in a thick blanket of it.

“It’s starting,” you tell Dieter, nodding to the tall, windowed store front.

He sets his phone down on the wide, leathered plane of his armchair and leans forward, squinting at the window, muttering, “Snowmaggedon,” before he lifts a coffee cup to his lips and takes a sip.

A barista slams the espresso machine’s portafilter against their stainless steel countertop with a bang bang bang. Whistling sounds from a steamer. The warm, robust aroma of coffee saturates the air. You and Dieter are nestled into a secluded corner of the café, sitting among a variety of green plants with wide, waxy leaves. It almost feels tropical, a stark contrast to the snow globe outside.

You pick your coffee cup up with both hands, testing its heat against your lips before taking a sip. It’s bitter and hot, and when it washes over your tongue you hum with contentment before setting it back down. Dieter holds his hand out to you in the space between your chairs, and you interlace your fingers with his.

Snow falls steadily outside the window. You watch it settle on the shoulders of passersby, who all seem to be scowling with disdain, hands buried in their coat pockets, faces angled away from the falling flakes. With the snowstorm beginning, predicted to accumulate 8-12 inches, and no plans for the day, a weighted nostalgia creeps into your bones.

“When you were a kid did you ever have snow days?” you ask him out of curiosity.

He leans back in his chair and crosses one leg over the other, shaking his head, “We were always stationed in the south.”

“Oh,” you frown at the window, then shrug, “They were always my favorite days. My dad was a professor, so he would get to stay home, too. If it wasn’t too cold, he’d play in the snow with me, making forts and snowmen and whatever. When we came inside my mom would make hot chocolate, then we’d sit by the fireplace and stuff. I don’t know. I liked it.”

His thumb works against the back of your hand and you glance over at him, meeting his softened gaze. He opens his mouth to respond, but then his phone starts ringing.

The screen reads DARLENE.

“I’m–I’m sorry, I have to take this,” he tells you, then lets go of your hand and answers the phone with a quick, “Yeah?” before standing up and walking to the back of the coffee shop where it’s quieter.

You fold your legs up underneath you and pull your phone out from your pocket, then furrow your brow at the series of unread text messages received within the last ten minutes.

> PARKER: > OMG LOU

He included a link to a tabloid article. Your heart jumps into your throat as soon as you read the headline. You click it.

DIETER BRAVO DINES WITH MYSTERY WOMAN AT SWANKY MANHATTAN RESTAURANT

Dieter Bravo was spotted last night at Gabriel Kreuther in NYC, sharing an intimate dinner with a new mystery woman.

In photos obtained by DIRT, the pair can be seen kissing and huddling close to one another. They appear to be quite enamored, and were reportedly laughing and smiling throughout the meal.

Although the identity of this woman is unclear, she was hand in hand with Bravo as they left the restaurant.

The 46-year old actor, whose divorce to Anika Bravo was only recently finalized, has been under scrutiny for his promiscuity and alleged drug use. Is this mystery woman a flavor of the week, or is this something more serious?

You blink at the article for a moment, trying to sort the hundreds of thoughts that start ping-ponging around your brain. There’s too much information. It’s as if you’ve been downgraded to dial-up internet, and the modem in your head is squealing and buzzing as you process the incoming data.

The lining of your throat seems to be closing in around your windpipe. You respond to Parker.

< ME: < What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck

There are messages from more casual friends, each twisting your stomach tighter than the last.

> KOURTNEY: > Is this you?????

> RACHEL: > wtf are you dating dieter bravo??

And then you see one from Ethan’s son.

> BEN: > Wow, already?

A hairline fracture rips across your heart. You click the text response box and stare at the blinking blue line. Your ears feel hot. There’s static expanding in your chest and your mind is completely frozen.

From what seems like far away, you hear Dieter call your name. You shake yourself out of your trance and look up at him. Panic must be written all over your face, because his brow creases and his shoulders slump, “Did you see?”

You swallow hard and give him a tight nod, croaking out, “Yeah.”

“Hey, hey, it’s ok,” he coos, then closes the distance between you, crouching down in front of the armchair to level his gaze with yours, “It’s not a big deal, they’re just fucking vultures. They’ll move onto the next thing before you know it.”

You feel your eyes go vacant. You’re looking at him but staring at something miles away. Your teeth catch on the smooth inside of your cheek and pulse away at the tender flesh.

“Lua,” he calls softly, then plucks the phone from your shaky grip and sets it down on the armrest. His hands wrap around yours and he stares you dead in your soul, pulling you back to back to your body, “I promise it will be alright.”

Your head shakes back and forth on its own accord, “You don’t understand–”

“No, you don’t understand,” he tells you firmly, then pulls your knuckles to his lips and kisses them, those dark eyes so fucking warm and comforting, “They can say whatever they want, I don’t give a shit. I am–” he falters here, words caught in his throat. It makes your heart start sprinting. But he recovers, “I’m with you, ok?”

You feel your eyes tingling with the threat of tears, so you nod and take a deep breath, “Ok.”

But, really, you can’t be sure. Because he doesn’t know everything the press could find out about you. This reassurance, this promise, is not an informed decision.

What happens when a tabloid looks into your past? Would it destroy his already tarnished reputation?

And what happens if you tell him now? Would he have to cut ties with you before the news broke?

The idea of losing him feels like dying.

Worse, even.

There would be no tunnel of light to travel down, no pilgrimage to the sea of love, no overwhelming sense of peace and belonging. Only pain.

Dieter presses a kiss against one hand, then the other. Your heart flutters and you muster a watery smile.

“Wanna go home?” he asks.

Your eyes flick up to the window. A layer of white already sticks to most every surface in sight.

You nod, “Yeah.”

It’s noon by the time the two of you cross the threshold into your apartment.

Dieter can tell something is wrong. The whole walk here you were solemn and distant.

After you’re both stripped of your dampened outerwear, you turn on the gas fireplace and curl up into a ball on your purple velveteen couch. Dieter sits down next to you, but you don’t nuzzle into him like you normally do.

His skin is buzzing and tight. He watches your face, noting your pinched brow and far-away eyes. Your head resting on your knees, body all hunched up and guarded from attack.

On its own accord, his knee starts bouncing and he murmurs, “Baby.”

Your eyes flick to his, eyebrows raising in question, “Hmm?”

“What’s on your mind?”

The space between his body and yours feels like miles. He scoots closer and rests his palm between your shoulder blades. Works his thumb against your spine. Your rib cage expands beneath his touch, then releases a shaky breath.

You’re holding back. Stuck in your head. It’s so obvious.

“You can talk to me about it, love,” he assures you.

Your eyes get all red and watery. You drop your face between your knees just as it starts to crumble, “I don’t wanna lose you.”

The words claw at his heart. He pulls you closer, wrapping his arm around your tensed up shoulders, but you don’t budge.

“Why would you lose me?” he asks.

And he wishes you would just look at him. Let yourself unfold so he can see you.

When you don’t respond, he continues, “Lua, you’re not gonna lose me,” he swears, “Whatever it is, we can work through it.”

“You don’t know that, Dee,” you choke out, “You can’t say that if you don’t know.”

He blinks and scoffs, “No, I guess I can’t. So why don’t you tell me and we can find out?”

Your shoulders tremble with sobs.

It feels like an eternity before your crying slows and you look at him.

When you do, your face is all flushed and wet with tears, and you choke out, “In 2018, I was busted with a fuck load of product. It was a set up. They were trying to arrest Ethan. But I—I just happened to be the one— ”

Dieter furrows his brow and studies your face. Your mouth hangs open, and he can practically see the words queued up at the back of your throat. He gives you an encouraging squeeze. You release your breath.

“I’m a convicted felon,” you whisper.

His head jerks back, then he shakes his head, “What?”

“Felony drug trafficking charges,” you drop your gaze and swallow hard, “And—and I know that you’re already in the spotlight because of drug use, and if the media finds out—”

A sob rips through your chest. His heart plummets to the floor.

“Dee, I don’t wanna ruin everything for you,” you squeak, body tensing as your eyes well up again, “I’m—I’m not a good person. I’m a fucking drug dealer, for fuck’s sake. Your association to me,” you shake your head back and forth frantically, “It—it could destroy your fucking career.”

It starts to dawn on him that you might be right. A clusterfuck of emotions tightens his guts into a knot, making him nauseated. And you’re sitting there bawling and he just wants to tell you that it’s ok, it’ll be ok, it doesn’t matter, but he doesn’t know if that’s true or not, and he can’t bring himself to lie to you.

“Listen,” he turns his whole body to face you, cupping your cheeks, thumbs moving like windshield wipers against your tears, “We’re gonna figure it out. Let me call Darlene, see what she says. Ok?”

“Ok,” you croak.

He presses a kiss into your forehead, letting his lips linger against the creases, closing his eyes to savor the moment. Then he gets to his feet and moves into your bedroom, pulling his phone out of his pocket, closing the door behind him.

“Can we do anything?” he asks Darlene, running his fingers through his hair as he paces the floor of your bedroom.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Dieter. What do you expect me to do? Expunge her criminal record?” Darlene jeers.

“Is… is that something you can do?” he stops pacing and frowns.

“No!” she scoffs, “Honestly, the best thing for you to do would be to drop this relationship—”

“Not an option,” he asserts, eyes flicking to the closed door.

“Why not?”

“Because I—“ his heart leaps into his throat, then he shakes his head and starts to pace again, dropping his voice to a murmur, “I don’t know, I can’t.”

The phone line is silent for a moment, then you hear an exasperated sigh, “Is this really worth the mess that could come out from this?”

“Yes,” he answers honestly.

“You don’t know that—”

“I do, Darlene. It’s non-negotiable,” he counters, sure and unflinching.

Darlene mutters something under her breath, then concedes, “Give me thirty seconds to think.”

Dieter strides over to the window and slides the curtain back to peak outside. Snowflakes pour from the low, gray ceiling of clouds. They’re relentless, covering the city in white.

“I want both of you on the next flight to LA,” Darlene tells him then, “We’re going to get ahead of this. We’ll coach her, get the two of you in an interview or two, make a statement, show the public that she’s reformed.”

Reformed. The term makes his lip curl in disdain.

“I don’t think any flights will go out ‘til tomorrow, we’re in the middle of a goddamn blizzard out here,” Dieter murmurs, then turns away from the window and starts pacing again.

“Fine, whatever, just—be honest with me Dieter, is she still selling drugs?”

“No,” he lies without hesitation, “She’s a pastry chef.”

“Ok,” a sigh of relief crackles over the phone line, “Ok, good, we might be able to make this work. I’ll let Lincoln and Mark know what’s going on.”

You’re cleaning the empty kitchen sink when Dieter emerges from your bedroom.

You don’t look up at him, just furrow your brow at a stubborn spot of glued-on caramel and scrub your steel wool pad against it vigorously. His hands find your waist, and you jump at the unexpected contact, releasing a nervous chuckle, “Oh, hi.”

He folds his arms around your belly and nuzzles into the crease of your neck, “Hi.”

Your muscles are all rigid and live-wired. You drop the steel wool and press your yellow rubber-gloved hands against the lip of the sink to brace yourself.

“We have a plan,” he rumbles, and starts swaying back and forth gently, as if to soothe you, “You ready to hear it?”

No.

“Yes,” you croak. Your fingers grip the sink now as you try to steady your shaking hands.

“We’re going to LA as soon as the storm passes.”

A buzz starts ringing in your ears. Your heart leaps from your chest.

“Wh—what?” you turn around, ripping yourself from his grasp, and search his face, “Why?”

Dieter takes a step back and runs a hand through his messy hair, “We’re going to do an interview, some press stuff, to show that you’re not…”

“A criminal?” you finish, then scoff and shake your head, “But I am, Dee—”

“They don’t know that. They don’t have to know that. You’re a pastry chef, that’s all they need to know,” he tells you, then takes a step forward. He places his hands on your hips and meets your eyes with a pleading gaze, “If we tell them about your past, if we’re open about it, there’ll be nothing for them to gawk over. They’ll get bored and move on.”

Your jaw clenches and you shake your head, “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” he responds. His thumbs work against the waistband of your jeans.

Your throat knots up in protest when you think about this plan. The pending chaos. The shitstorm that will ensue after this snowstorm passes. All the damage it could cause.

“You don’t… you don’t have to do this for me. I—” a sob holds your words hostage. An invisible hand reaches into your ribcage and squeezes your heart into pulp. You drop your face into your yellow rubber gloves. A wave of agony overtakes you.

Dieter wraps his arms around you and pulls you against his chest. You return the embrace and bury your sobs into his sweater. He pets your hair and sways back and forth as he coos, “It’s ok, baby. It’s ok.”

“I’m not worth it, Dee,” you choke out, “You–you can tell them I’m nothing, that this is nothing, just save yourself, whatever you need to do. Just—just forget about me. I understand if that’s what you need to do—”

“Louella,” he pulls you back by your shoulders and meets your gaze, “Can you do something for me, love?”

You sniffle and stare back at him.

“Never fucking say that to me again,” he rasps. His eyes are obsidian, burning a hole through you. The whites start to tinge red and tears pool at the corners when he tells you, “Unless you really think that it—that this—isn’t worth the trouble.”

All the air evacuates your body. Your face crumbles. So does his.

“Is that what you think?” he breathes. The tears spill over onto his cheeks.

“No, of course not, Dee,” you squeak, “I just—I don’t want you to throw your life away—”

“I’m not. I know I’m not,” he shakes his head and clenches his jaw, tilting his head at the ceiling, then he swings his gaze back to yours, “Please—please, Louella. Trust my judgment.”

He cups your cheeks and searches your face. Your stomach flips upside down like you’re falling off a skyscraper.

You swallow hard and nod, “Ok.”

Dieter releases his breath. His features start to soften and he sniffles.

“Ok,” you nod again and clear your throat, brushing your hand along his jawline, “Ok. Are you sure?”

“Positive,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours. After a beat, he tacks on, “We’re gonna have to work on your lying, though.”

This makes you laugh, and it brings a smile to his face.

“I’m gonna have to figure out what to do with my orders,” you sigh, then mutter your anxious thoughts out loud to yourself, “Maybe Parker will help with the ones being picked up tomorrow. I’ll have to cancel the others. Fuck.”

Your teeth catch your lip and you worry away at it as you think about your measly bank account and your upcoming rent payment.

“What?” he asks.

You shake your head, then meet his eyes. They dim and his shoulders slump. Your stomach flips at his visible disappointment in your lack of transparency, so you stammer, “Oh–no, no, I was–um, trying to figure out if I can pay my bills.”

“Let me take care of your bills.”

You groan in protest, “Dee—”

“Just for this month. It’s the least I can do,” his gaze goes all soft and pleading. Then he sticks his bottom lip out in a pout. It’s an obvious ploy but it tugs at your heartstrings all the same.

You groan and roll your eyes, “Fine,” then wrap your arms around his middle and pull him into a hug, squeezing him tight as you murmur into his sweater, “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he mumbles against your hair. You feel his lips curl into a smile, “Thanks for letting me be your sugar daddy.”

“Oh my god, stop it,” you laugh, but nuzzle in closer to him and sigh, “I need a fucking drink.”

The ceiling seems to breathe in time with The Velvet Underground’s I’ll Be Your Mirror. Your brain feels soggy and numb around the edges, your limbs heavy and loose. This afternoon’s steady stream of alcohol starts to put your nerves at ease, and for the first time all day, you’re not thinking about what’s going to happen tomorrow.

Granted, your thoughts are tangentially related, but at least your mind is capable of wandering now.

“How drunk are you?” you inquire as Dieter re-enters the living room, holding a tumbler of peppermint schnapps in each hand.

He frowns at the empty couch, then swivels his head loosely to where you’re now sprawled across the carpet and laughs, “Why are you on the floor?”

“Why… are you… not on the floor?” you counter, shooting finger guns at him.

“Excellent point,” he grins, then settles on the ground, groaning as his back reclines against the couch. He sets one glass down on the carpet next to him and raises the other to his lips, taking a big swallow.

“Dee,” you giggle.

“Hmm?” he raises his eyebrows and meets your gaze.

“How drunk are you?” you repeat your question.

He scrunches his face up in contemplation, then shrugs, “Yes.”

“Are you ready to tell me all your secrets?” you ask with a grin.

“My secrets? What secrets?” he scoffs, “You’re the one with secrets.”

“Show me yours I’ll show you mine,” you roll on your side and prop your head up on your palm.

“I can’t tell you all my secrets,” he stops to take a sip of his drink, then says, “You can have one. For now.”

“Only one?!” you holler back in indignation, “That’s not fair.”

“I can’t just… unload all my secrets on you at one time,” he explains, flopping his head into a tilt as he jokes, “Gotta sprinkle them in, ya know?”

The alcohol simmering in your veins buoys your confidence and curiosity.

“Tell me about Anika,” you say quietly, then watch his whole demeanor shift.

His spine straightens. Syrupy molasses eyes harden. He searches your face, “What about Anika?”

You’ve always wanted to ask him, but haven’t had the guts to do it. His response is exactly why you’ve abstained from digging into the topic. When her name comes up, he bristles. Becomes serious and guarded. It’s so unlike him.

While you could read any tabloid magazine and get details on the subject from a third party, you haven’t, because you want him to tell you. Willingly. But tomorrow you’re going to his house… where he lived… with her. And you know nothing about their relationship.

“Why didn’t it work?” you inquire.

He releases a deep breath and shakes his head, averting his gaze to the ceiling, “So many reasons.”

“Like what?” you crawl across the carpet on your hands and knees, grabbing your drink and taking a long pull before settling next to him. The peppermint burn makes you grimace.

“It was just…” he shrugs, “Fucked. I dunno,” his head rolls on his shoulders to meet your eyes, “Do you know how we met?”

You shake your head.

“I was on the set of this movie, and she worked at the hotel where we were filming. They kept us there for months, like fucking hostages, it was a total shitshow,” he stops and chuckles, then looks down at the glass in his lap, “Anyway. I was trying to find someone to hook up with, and she agreed, but only if I’d marry her.”

“Dieter, no–” you gasp, eyes widening, “Oh my god, you did not marry her just to fuck her, did you?”

His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth and raises his eyebrows, “Well–“

“Shut up, oh my god!” you smack his shoulder and he starts laughing, then takes a sip of his drink.

The cheeky grin he’s holding falls into something more somber, and he tells you, “No, really, it was… more than that. She was persistent. She wanted to know me. Really know me. And, you know, ever since my career took off, nobody wanted anything like that with me. Something real, you know? Just a bunch of fucking sycophants. So, I don’t know, I was skeptical of her.”

“I think you had a right to be,” you murmur, searching his profile.

He glances over at you and flashes a wry smile, then faces forward again, “She was the one to revive me when I OD’d. Saved my fucking life. After we escaped, we went to meet her dad and I, uhhh… I asked for his permission to marry her,” he chuckles and shakes his head, “He refused. But I was persistent, just like she was with me. We followed his rules while we stayed with him, sleeping in separate rooms, stayed sober, went to fucking church. I fought for his approval. And when he gave it to me, we got hitched immediately.”

“Why did you need to do all this to fuck her? Was she a virgin or something?” you tilt your head and furrow your brow, then backtrack, “Sorry–that’s not my business, sorry.”

“She was, yeah,” he raises the glass to his lips and swallows a hefty gulp.

“How old was she?”

“Twenty-six,” he tells you without looking at you.

You nod and absorb this information. The jealousy machine roars inside your head. It draws comparisons between you and Anika. So young, so virtuous, so beautiful. Is this the kind of woman Dieter falls in love with? Someone so utterly unlike you?

A sadistic yearning to know more twists under your skin.

“What was your wedding like?” you ask now, resting your head on his shoulder as you take a sip of the liquid toothpaste.

“It was gorgeous. At this Venetian hotel, in their gardens. It was just our immediate families, you know, real intimate. Annie wore flowers in her hair and she was… so fucking beautiful,” he breathes, staring at the opposite wall like it’s a portal into the past. Like he’s still standing at the altar watching her walk down the aisle towards him, heart bursting with love and commitment.

Your skin twists. Chest feels hollow. But you stay quiet and let him marinate in the nostalgia. He shakes his head, takes another drink, and continues in a low voice.

“The first month was great. I took time off from work and we just…” Dieter trails off then, glancing over at you, as if to save you from the implication.

“Fucked?” you laugh.

He snorts and nods, “Yeah. Honeymoon period, you know.”

You hum knowingly and take a few sips from your glass, trying to drown the image.

“When I started booking gigs again, I was away from home for weeks at a time. She fucking hated it. Whenever I came home, we would fight about how often I was there. She was… resentful. Withholding. I’d try to buy her things and apologize, spend all my time trying to win back her affection. Then when it worked, I would have to leave again, and it would start over.

“She took it so personally. Thought I did it on purpose so I wouldn’t have to be around her,” his jaw gnashes back and forth as he stares into the distance, “I stopped arguing with her about it. It seemed pointless having the same conversation over and over. We grew so far apart, it was like… a canyon between us. It seemed impossible to cross.”

He opens his mouth and takes a breath like he’s going to say more, but then he meets your eyes and closes it. Looks away and takes a drink.

“Do you think there could have been a compromise? A way for you to be around more?” you ask.

His shoulders slump and his eyebrows draw together, “I don’t know. Maybe. But I never tried.”

You hum and nod, bringing your glass to your lips, then tip up until its contents empty down your throat. The burn tightens your face into a wince.

“Want another?” Dieter asks.

A snowplow roars by and scrapes the street outside. Dieter imagines they’re pushing the thick, relentless snow into long, white piles that look like lines of blow on the sidewalk. A deep yearning tugs inside him when he pictures it.

The alcohol is gone. The sun has set. From his experience, this is coke’s time to shine.

He wonders what you would be like all coked out, expecting the thought to be amusing.

But instead, it makes his stomach churn.

Dieter looks down at you where you lay, wedged between his side and the back of the couch. Your ear shares a wall with the gentle thump-thump of his heart, your fingertips dancing across the slice of his soft belly peeking out between his sweater and pajama pants.

The syrupy thick trance of booze holds you both in its grasp, veins buzzing, limbs heavy.

The album Tea for the Tillerman is currently spinning on your record player in the corner. On The Road To Find Out transitions into Father and Son. You clear your throat and wiggle a little, and he awaits the words gathering at the base of your tongue.

“This was my dad’s favorite album,” you murmur, then chuckle, “There was one night when I was a teenager, where he got super drunk, which he, like… never ever did. He woke me up and made me listen to it with him.”

Dieter furrows his brow and nods in acknowledgment. He puts his thumb to work against the blackwork pear tattoo on your bicep.

“He said it would be our secret and we can’t tell my mom,” you snort. A deep, blue sigh expands your ribcage and you exhale it across his chest, peppermint breath burning his nostrils when it wafts into his face, “When this song came on, he told me I needed to listen to it, because it’s everything he ever wanted me to know.”

Dieter’s fingers find your hair, sliding between strands, petting you affectionately as you both listen. The air in your drafty apartment is chilled by the dropping outside temperature, but your body heat warms his body to perfection.

“When did he die?” he questions softly.

“Two weeks later,” you tell him, “It was this really aggressive brain cancer. Inoperable. A death sentence, basically. He knew for months, but they didn’t tell me about it until he was admitted to hospice. Didn’t want me to worry.”

His throat tightens in a knot. He doesn’t say anything. Just keeps stroking your hair, silently urging you to continue.

“Then it was just me and my mom,” you sigh, blinking your eyes open to look up at him, “And—You don’t know my mom yet, so you don’t understand how much of a shitshow that was, but trust me, it was not fucking fun.”

You don’t know my mom yet.

Yet.

His heart flutters. This might be the first time you’ve acknowledged the possibility of this concrete stepping stone in your relationship: meeting the parents. The realization twists in his belly and numbs his fingers.

“Anyway,” you mutter, thrumming your fingertips against his happy trail, “I just wish he could have been around longer, you know? He was my best friend.”

“That’s hard,” he acknowledges, voice raspy with secondhand heartache for your loss. Tragedy. His mind starts connecting dots to Ethan. The sudden and traitorous death of another man in your life.

He pulls you closer, squeezing his arm around your shoulders as he presses a kiss into the crown of your head. You crane your neck up to meet his eyes, a wistful smile playing on your lips. His brow creases as he studies your face, then stammers out, “I—I feel like I should say something else, but nothing feels right.”

You frown, “I didn’t tell you because I want you to say anything. I told you because I trust you.”

A hum sounds from Dieter’s throat as his stomach flips upside down. It dawns on him that you’re placing your heart in his hands. His wrists strain under its weight. How can something be so heavy, but so fragile at the same time?

Guilt tightens the cords of his neck like he’s tuning a guitar. He regrets not telling you the whole truth about Anika. That it wasn’t just the chasm that had grown between them to end the relationship.

“Hey,” you coo, pulling him from the depths of his thoughts. He raises his eyebrows in question. Your eyes search his and you grin, “Do you wanna go play in the snow?”

You’re a maniac.

He means that as a compliment, honestly, Lua, he really does.

But if you throw one more goddamn snowball at him he’s going to lose his mind.

Now you made yourself fall backwards into a foot of fresh, sticky snow, and you’re trying to get him to join you on the frozen ground.

Fucking maniac.

“Come on!” you call to him, “It’s fun!”

“It’s fucking cold is what it is,” he retorts, but trudges over to you anyway, Ethan’s boots sinking up to the collar with every crunchy step. The booze that saturated his veins earlier in the day is fading to a whisper, and he wishes he drank more, if only to make him feel warmer.

When he reaches you, chest heaving from exertion, white puffs of breath steam from his lips, his head swings down to observe you. The ridge of snow outlining your body reminds him of the flimsy white plastic packaging that holds action figures in place within their boxes.

You’re fully bundled up. Boots, snow pants, the whole nine yards. Both of you are. The only swath of your skin exposed to the frosty air is a square of your face peeking out from beneath the wool cap pulled down over your eyebrows and the green scarf billowing out of your jacket.

“Do it, Dee!” you urge.

He sighs and turns around, then shifts his weight backwards onto his heels until he tips over and lands in the soft snow with a muted thunk. Both of you start giggling and Dieter marvels at the sense of calm that sinks down into his bones, “Wow.”

Barren black tree branches sway gently with the icy breeze at the edge of his vision, all shimmering with frost and highlighted with snow. The low clouds are glowing gold from streetlights and swollen with snowflakes that plummet to the ground, landing on your bodies with barely detectable thwaps.

Snow insulates the air, and the only audible sign of life he can detect is your breathing. Like you’re the only two people on the planet right now. It lulls him into a sense of warmth and safety.

“Who do you dream of becoming?” you ask.

He frowns, “What, you mean like… Batman?”

You start cackling at this. The sound tingles in his chest and makes him chuckle.

“No! I mean like… when you imagine the future, what kind of person do you hope you’ll be?”

“Like I said, Batman,” he deadpans, then starts giggling when you reach over and smack his arm playfully, “Ok, seriously, let me think. It’s been a while since someone’s asked me that.”

“I guess you’re already living the dream, huh?” you murmur, “Rich and famous.”

The innocuous question turns his bones to lead. A tarpit opens up under his body and he starts to sink. He shakes his head and confesses, “It doesn’t feel like it most of the time.”

“How so?”

Dieter hums as he contemplates how to answer this.

“I know it sounds whiny, but… it’s so lonely. And don’t get me wrong, I love acting, I love the arts, it just… doesn’t feel like that’s what I’ve been doing lately. Creating art, I mean,” he sighs, “I don’t know when it stopped being about creation and started being about… well, feeding my ego, I guess. Staying relevant.”

You hum and reach over, grabbing his gloved hand with yours, “So, tell me what Dieter’s heart wants him to be.”

Your grip seems to pull him out of the darkness of the tarpit. A lifeline. He closes his eyes and lets his mind wander into his heart to see what’s there.

He wants to be true to himself. Happy. Free. Safe. Loved.

“I want to be… exactly like this.”

Snow crunches around your head as you turn towards him, but you wait for him to continue.

“Lua, I—I don’t know, it’s like… I feel the most like myself when I’m with you, you know?” Dieter breathes, shaking his head up at the glowing sky, “Like when I’m with you I’m at home. It’s crazy, what even is that?”

It’s silent for a moment before you whisper, “It’s love, Dee.”

“Holy shit,” Dieter bolts upright and looks down at you, and you’re looking up at him with that big, beautiful smile that takes up your whole face, and he beams, “Holy shit, you’re right. I fucking love you.”

You start to giggle and bring your gloved hand to cover your face, “I love you, too.”

“Oh my god,” he laughs and smiles, then scoops you out of the snow and squeezes you as tight as he can. You squeal and throw your arms around his neck, using it as leverage to climb into his lap and wrap your legs around his waist.

The snow gear makes every movement cumbersome and awkward, but your lips manage to find his, and you barrage him with gleeful kisses that quickly escalate in intensity.

Heated vapor clouds of breath warm your faces. He rolls his tongue against yours and groans at how perfectly soft it is.

Suddenly the snow gear feels like a prison.

“Should we go inside?” you huff, grazing your nose against his. He nods and pulls you in for one more lingering kiss.

As the two of you follow the path of your footsteps, Dieter looks back at the imprints your bodies left in the snow. The place where your hands met. And he knows now, like he’s always suspected, that he’ll never be the same.

Dieter compiles all the blankets and pillows in your apartment on the living room floor in front of the gas fireplace while you stand at the stove, stirring hot chocolate ingredients together in a saucepan over a low flame.

“Should I put on some music? Set the mood?” he asks while flipping through your collection of records.

“Dieter Bravo, are you trying to seduce me?” you call back to him with a cheeky grin.

He giggles, then says, “Oh, yeah, have I not done that yet?”

Wouldn’t It Be Nice by The Beach Boys starts projecting across the apartment. It warms your skin like sunshine.

Dieter rounds the corner, so you turn to face him, watching in admiration at the way he sways his body to the beat and sings along with the lyrics. A smile stretches across your face when he points to you and belts out, “I wish that every kiss was NEEEEEVER ENDING—”

“Beautiful, Dee,” you laugh, covering your face as he sambas into the kitchen, then wraps his arms around you and nuzzles into the crook of your neck.

“Oh wow you’re making some serious hot chocolate,” he observes from over your shoulder.

“What, do you think I have packets of powdered hot chocolate?” you snort and raise an eyebrow, “You should better.”

He chuckles at his, then hints, “It looks fucking delicious.”

“It’s almost done,” you say, then pull back to cup his cheeks in your palms, meeting his brown eyes, “Do you wanna smoke?”

“Way ahead of you,” he plucks a joint out from behind his ear and plugs it between his lips, then steps back and starts patting his pockets to find a lighter.

“Wait, wait—let me finish this,” you hold up your index finger and spin around, stirring the steaming pot of hot chocolate.

Dieter rifles around the kitchen and finds two mugs, then sets them on the stove. He leans back against the counter and crosses his arms, “Our flight out is at 9 tomorrow morning, by the way.”

Your pulse jumps, and you breathe, “Ok.”

He reaches out to grab your free hand. His thumb works against your skin and you bring your eyes to meet his when he murmurs, “It’s gonna be fine, love. Piece of cake.”

“For you, maybe,” you mutter, then cast your gaze down to the fully-incorporated hot chocolate. You flip the burner off and sigh, “I’m so nervous. What if I say something stupid, or wrong or—or do something to embarrass you—”

“Louella,” he cuts you off, and your eyes flick to his. They’re gooey and warm. A tingle of affection starts across your chest. He tells you, “I will be there with you every step of the way. We’re gonna get through this together, ok? I promise.”

“Ok,” you nod, then take a deep breath and squeeze his hand, “Ok. Just—you know, so you know, I’m probably gonna need you to tell me that like every ten minutes.”

“Should we come up with a secret signal?” he asks.

This brings a smile to your face, and you nod, “Like what?”

After thinking on this a moment, Dieter releases you and balls his hands into fists, pressing them together with his thumbs pointing towards the ceiling, then moves them in a circle.

You chuckle and copy the action, “That?”

“Yeah,” he grins and nods, “It means ‘together.’”

Your smile grows impossibly wide as you repeat the sign, then you ask, “Ok now is there one for ‘get me the fuck out of here’?”

He snorts and lays one hand flat, palm facing the ceiling, his other hand into a lazy thumbs up on top of the outstretched palm, like it’s some kind of a plate, and raises both hands.

You mirror the sign a few times.

“Help,” he explains, letting his hands fall to his sides.

You reach out and grab them with a smile, pulling him closer, “Do you know sign language?”

He frowns and shrugs, “I know enough to get by.”

“Is there a reason you learned it or was it, like, just because?” you tilt your head in curiosity.

“Well,” he scrunches his nose up and shifts his weight to one leg, “I had a fan approach me once, they were deaf, and I didn’t understand the signs so they had to write everything out on this little pad of paper. It seemed like it was a pain in the ass for them,” he shrugs again, “I figured I should learn it after that. Communicate better, you know.”

Your heart swells so wide it makes your chest ache, and you smile, “That’s so sweet.”

“Speaking of sweet,” he diverts, eyes flicking to the steaming pot on the stove, “Can I have some?”

You nestle into Dieter’s handcrafted love nest on your living room floor. Heat from the fireplace licks your skin. Hot chocolate settles in your belly. The plush blankets and pillows hug your body. It’s like you’re sinking down into a cloud.

Dieter sparks the joint and tosses the lighter aside, then stretches out beside you, placing a glass ashtray on his belly. The tip of the joint blazes orange as he takes a few sharp inhales. You curl up at his side, nuzzling into his shoulder. He hands the joint to you, then wraps his arm around you, pulling you closer, hand settling at your waist.

When he exhales, he lets the smoke creep out his mouth slow and thick, inhaling it back through his nose for a moment before blowing it at the ceiling. You watch with amusement as you take a long drag. The smoke blooms in your lungs, and a river of relaxation trickles out from your chest. It creeps up into your head and lifts you like helium.

You pass it back to him and exhale, asking, “Do you remember when we tripped at Katie’s apartment with Parker? When we became friends?”

Dieter takes two hits, then rolls the joint against the ashtray, sloughing spent ash off the cherry before handing it back, “Obviously I do.”

His words form around the smoke as he exhales, coming out muffled and scratchy.

“Wasn’t that weird? That we ended up meeting like that?” you take a puff off the joint and amend your question, “I mean, like I know we met before, but not like that, you know?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, his fingers gripping into your side. A lazy, glowing tingle branches out from the touch.

You pass the joint to him and close your eyes to revel in its wake, taking a deep, peaceful breath as you murmur, “I’m so glad it happened like that.”

He takes a hit, then gives you a squeeze for attention. Your eyes flutter open to meet his, then they drop to the fountain of smoke curling out between his lips. His eyebrow quirks and your face lights up when you understand.

You prop yourself up and lean in close, brushing your lips against his, soaking up the sweet shimmer of pleasure that trickles down your spine. His hand slides up your body, fingers slipping into your hair, and he pulls you in closer. Your mouth seals to his, and he exhales, dilating your lungs with secondhand smoke.

When you pull back, you blow the smoke aside. His gaze lingers on your face and heats your skin. His fingers twitch and you hum in approval, then he closes his fist in your hair.

A gasp escapes you. His throat rumbles. Eyes darken. He raises the joint to your mouth and you take a hit, then bring your lips to his and blow. His chest expands under the force. He tilts his head away and exhales at the ceiling.

Neither of you break eye contact when his hold on your hair tightens.

The strands pull taut against your scalp. Your mouth gapes open in a moan.

He grits his teeth, inhaling with a hiss, hips jerking upward. The feral noise wriggles into your ears and twists around inside you, dousing your insides with gasoline. When you lick your lips, his gaze flicks to your mouth, and he rumbles, “Stick out your tongue.”

You follow his instruction, stretching your tongue out flat against your chin, batting your eyelashes. He pulls you close to lick the stretched out muscle. His velvet tongue drags along yours, up into the wet open cavern, lapping away at the smooth insides of your cheeks, the ridges on the roof of your mouth, every soft, electric tissue he can reach. As he carries out this laborious worship, moans echo against the backs of your throats with increasing severity.

Your body writhes with gooey, heated desire, but his grip on your head keeps it in place, the sting of your hair being pulled only fueling your ache.

When his hips thrust up into nothing again, you can’t take it any more. You need them to be thrusting into you right fucking now. You tug at his t-shirt and he pulls back to meet your eyes, face all glistening and wet from your combined spit. He recognizes the desire written across your features and pants, “Clothes.”

Dieter lets go of your hair and sits up, sending the ashtray tumbling onto the blanket. He mumbles, “Fuck,” and he flips it right side up, then extinguishes the joint’s dwindling orange tip against the glass.

While you pull your shirt off, he’s trying to brush black ash off the blanket, but ends up just smearing it around, and you tell him, “It’s fine, take care of it later.”

He turns to respond, then realizes you’re topless. His gaze drops to your tits and a wide smile spreads across his face, “Amazing.”

“Dee,” you chuckle, flopping backwards to wriggle your pants off, “Focus!”

He releases a low, dopey murmur of laughter. A dead giveaway he’s stoned.

“In my defense,” he tugs his shirt off and tosses it to the side, then pulls down his pants and kicks them off, “Fucking look at you, Lua, Christ almighty—”

He kneels between your feet and wraps his hands around your ankles, then slides them up the back of your legs, leaving shivering nerves in his wake as he rambles, “Seriously. It’s ridiculous, you’re just… fucking gorgeous. The most beautiful person on this planet, I swear to god.”

The compliment swells in your chest. It tingles and flutters around inside you. Makes your fingers go numb. Your eyebrows press together and mouth gapes open as you search for the right words.

He raises your ankles to his shoulders and scoots closer, closing his eyes as he presses a wet kiss against your calf, then hums to himself and says, “Correction: Most beautiful person in the universe.”

You try to retreat from the blistering intensity of his statement, chuckling, “You never know, there might be some super hot aliens out there—”

“Mm-mm,” he hums in disagreement, kissing your other calf, shuffling forward a few more inches. His hands slide further up your legs, smoothing along the backs of your thighs.

You gasp at the shiver that rolls across your skin. He plants a reverent kiss on each knee, leaving little wet pools that glow in the firelight. Your eyelids flutter at the trickle of warmth this inspires between your legs.

“Dee,” you whisper, and he meets your eyes while nuzzling his cheek against your knee. The tickle of his facial hair sends your heart racing. Your stomach flips as you tell him, “You… you make me feel beautiful. Like… really beautiful.”

His gaze goes all doughy and soft as he searches your face.

“I love you,” you breathe. The phrase holds all the weight it did the first time. You never thought you’d say to another person again. Not like this.

Your words hang in the air for one moment before they really hit him.

When they do, and they sink in, you see all the air leave his lungs.

He climbs on top of you, folding your body in half, letting his engorged cock settle between your thighs. His lips meet yours with intensity.

The kiss deepens, and his velvet tongue rolls soft against yours. You trail your hands through his hair, down his neck, across his chest, around his shoulders, feeling the heat of his skin against your palms as your mouths unite again and again.

His hips jerk, and you both moan at the friction. He follows the sensation, pressing his sweaty forehead against yours, rolling his hips, sliding his length between your swollen, parted lips, up against your throbbing clit.

You start whimpering and working against him, delighting in the heated pool of pleasure swirling deep inside you.

“Oh, fuck, baby,” he pants, mouth gaping open as he looks down between your bodies, “Getting my cock all wet, not even inside you yet, holy fuck—”

Dieter sits back on his haunches, just out of reach, and you reel at the loss of his body heat, arching your back as you whimper and pout.

“Hold your legs for me, love,” he instructs, pushing your thighs back so you’re all splayed out for him. You hook your hands at the creases of your knees.

“Fucking perfect, just like that,” he groans, then grabs the base of his cock and slaps it against your pussy. The weight of this impact sends pleasure rippling across your body.

You gasp, then nod in approval.

“You like that, baby?” he grinds out, laying a wet smack smack smack against your clit. Your eyelids flutter shut as sharp waves of pleasure wash over you.

“Oh my fucking god, Dee—” you choke out, nodding as you look up at him, “Do it again.”

His throat rumbles in response, eyes growing noticeably darker, brows pressing together, mouth gaping open as he grants your request.

Smack smack smack

Your hips jerk on their own volition with each slap, blood heating and pooling thick at your center.

“Fuck—” you moan through gritted teeth. Your body cries out for more, and you plead, “Put it inside me. I need it, I need you—”

“Oh yeah, you need me to fill that pretty little pussy?” he purrs, nudging the head of his cock against your entrance, “Is that what you need, love?”

You whimper and nod, trying to work your hips against him, trying to incentivize him to give you more.

Dieter sucks through his teeth and brings his thumb to your clit, drawing tight circles that vibrate down into your body. His hips delve forward just enough to push the head of his member inside you. Heat branches out from between your legs and your limbs start to shake as the tingling pleasure clings to your insides.

“I bet you can cum just like this, can’t you? You’re going to, aren’t you, Lua? Just the tip of my fat cock getting you off?”

You start to take big breaths of air as pressure swells under his touch and you manage to choke out, “Yes—yes yes yes I’m gonna cum—fuck, don’t stop—”

He groans, rubbing your clit faster, and arousal bubbles at your center as he rasps, “That’s right, love, just let go, I want you to cum for me just like this, fuck yes—”

Throbbing heat accumulates inside you, its pressure building and building until you reach capacity.

You buckle and break, ecstasy flooding out from your center, washing over your body, swallowing you whole. Your pussy pulses around the head of his cock, and you release a guttural moan at the ceiling while Dieter coos, “Gooood, fuck yes, there we go.”

He continues to massage your clit even when your body starts to twitch at the stimulation.

“Oh my god, Dee,” you whine.

He grins down at you, slowing his touch to a stop, then slides his palms up your thighs until he reaches your hands and purrs, “I got it from here, love.”

You let go of your legs and your shaky arms fall slack on either side of your head.

When you meet his gaze, it’s dark and wanting. It flutters inside you and draws your attention to the deliciously thick tip of him still engulfed inside you. Your tongue slides against the tender skin of your lips and you watch his eyes flutter as you arch into him, giving you both just enough friction to spark a fire.

His hips start to roll in shallow, tediously slow thrusts. Your heart picks up speed and a shiver of pleasure shoots up your middle. He presses his eyebrows together and his mouth gapes open with a throaty moan.

The way he’s looking at you, his eyes all heated and amorous, searching your face with wonder, glancing at your mouth like he’s holding back from kissing you… it tugs at your insides.

“Dieter,” you breathe and reach out to him, “Come here, kiss me.”

He dives at you, crushing his lips against yours, groaning at the contact, kissing you with passion that blooms at your center and makes you gasp.

Your hands wrap around his shoulders and you bury your fingers in his curls, pulling him closer, kissing him harder, rolling your tongue against his as he starts to rut into you faster, deeper, each thrust fucking electric and consuming.

His forehead meets yours and he pants, “You’re fucking perfect, Lua, Jesus fuck—I—I fucking love you. I wanna fuck you every day—”

You whimper and nod, “Yes yes yes fuck yes—”

“Ev—every day until I die, I swear to god—fuck—”

“Say it again,” you work against his hips, lost in the devastating ecstasy of him stretching you over and over, “Say you love me.”

“I love you, Louella,” he groans, and he starts kissing you again, messy and needy, proof of the words he’s gasping against your mouth between kisses, “I love you, I love you, I love you—”

And it’s fucking insane, how it feels like you’re on an entirely different plane of existence, in a dimension where it’s just him and you in that shining, iridescent vessel of belonging, and it’s perfect and all-encompassing, his lips, the heat of his body on yours, hot puffs of breath containing his admission of love, the way he’s filling you again and again, and it just feels right, like you were each crafted with the other in mind, meant to be together.

Pleasure twists and aches at your core, burning hotter with each thrust, and you’re whimpering against his mouth, “Fuck fuck fuck, Dee, don’t stop—”

He moans and drives into you faster, “Wouldn’t fucking dare—wanna feel that cunt squeeze the life from me, baby—”

Static starts crackling and buzzing hot at the base of your spine, stealing your breath with a sharp gasp as it expands wider and wider, and you dig your nails into his back, muscles tightening and clenching as the sensation gathers speed and distance and it sucks you into nothingness like a black hole before ecstasy explodes across your body and you release a choked sob, “F—FUCK—”

Dieter moans against your cry, rutting into you frantically, “Oh my fucking— ” and the words escape him, body shuttering, face twisting up with pleasure as he finds his release inside you with a few sharp thrusts.

He gasps and his hips slow to a stop.

His sweaty forehead presses against yours and he pants, “That was—wow—”

Bliss is still shimmering under your skin, fluttering down like the snowflakes falling onto the ground outside, and you giggle, “Fucking awesome?”

He laughs breathlessly at this and wraps his arms around you, scooping you up as he rolls onto his side. His lips meet yours for a sleepy, languid kiss, and he confirms, “Fucking awesome.”

You gather your pillows from the love nest on your living room floor and start towards the bedroom as Dieter grabs your comforter.

“Oh shit,” you hear him mumble, and you turn around to see him staring at the black ink stain. He glances up at you, “Is that from the ashtray? Fuck, sorry—”

Your heart clenches in your chest and you shake your head, “Oh–no, that’s um… that’s ink, I haven’t been able to get it to lift.”

He frowns and tilts his head at it, then looks back up at you, “Did you try rubbing alcohol?”

You blink and shake your head, “No.”

“Works like a charm,” he shrugs, then tosses the comforter over his shoulder and yawns as he moseys towards the bedroom, passing you while you find yourself rooted in place, staring at the stain.

The squeak of Dieter collapsing on your bed sounds from behind you, then he calls out, “Are you coming?”

You shake yourself out of the trance and clear your tight throat, then turn to join him.

[ Next Chapter ]