Summary; Dieter in panties. That’s it. That’s the fic.
Word Count; ~3k
Content & Warnings; subby!Dieter, Oral sex (f receiving) coming untouched, underwear fetish, face sitting. Established relationship. Also - I have done my absolute best not to “gender”the clothing items; but it is a cis male character wearing traditionally feminine undergarments
Author Note; *throws hands in air* I DON’T KNOW. IT JUST HAPPENED OKAY?! This movie needs to come out ASAP, this whore (affectionate) has me in a chokehold.
This work contains explicit adult content and is intended for audiences over the age of eighteen. By continuing to read you agree that you are 18 or older, have read the content and warnings and wish to proceed
Warnings: Language, established relationship, praise talk, heavy teasing, oral m recieving, balls in mouth, cumplay, always a loquacious Ezra.
Summary: Going down on Ezra before bed is the only thought in your pretty little head. He deserves it and you need to taste him.
A/N: Apologies for being MIA for a little, deployments have really gotten in the way of my writing. I have so much more coming soon…BUT…I hope you enjoy this thot that I couldn’t get out of my head until I typed it out, the way I yearn to make this man feel good! I love our Ez.
You burn for him. Your eyes refuse to look away. Your mouth waters at the sight of him. Something has come over you, heating you completely in the coldness of the metal pod.
Standing in the doorway of the washroom space, you are staring…disrespectfully.
Ezra is lounging in his favorite position, relaxed, head against a pillow on the bulkhead, as he reads his latest adventure novel. He’s on the bed sideways, with his feet planted on the deck, knees far apart. The damn tease only in his black briefs ready for sleep. You love those briefs. The fabric soft and snug. Outlining his beautiful cock resting heavy between his spread thighs. You absentmindedly lick your lips confirming your decision.
From this vantage point, you watch as his eyes dart across the page fully engrossed in what he is reading. As you pad slowly towards him, you bring your fingertips to your lips in anticipation. It’s instinctual at this point. Your mouth craves his touch, more so his skin, his taste. Ezra hasn’t taken notice of your approach and this excites you even more.
Once close enough, you lower yourself one knee at a time and shuffle silently to kneel between his wide spread knees. Now his whole face is blocked by his book. It must be a really good chapter because you are so close his body heat warms you but he hasn’t reacted to your advance…yet.
Placing both of your hands on either knee, you press your palms up the inside of Ezra’s thighs and he trembles, finally lowering the book to his bare chest to find you kneeling before him with a devious smile on your face.
“Mmm, my apologies little bird, it was not my intention to ignore your presence. I just entered a pivotal moment in my reading as I was awaiting your arrival to bed. To find you like this as I reenter reality is a delightful surprise.”
“No apologies necessary my love,” you answer sweetly as you continue to caress his thighs all the way up to his hips and back down to his knees, your touch obviously having the effect on him that you wanted as you watch him harden in front of you. Some of your passes lightly brush the tip of his cock or his balls. He lets out soft gasps each time. With his eyes closed he starts to roll his hips up as your hands get closer and closer to the crotch of his briefs. The sight of him reacting to your touch this way makes you squeeze your legs together for your own friction, but you want this just for him right now.
“Your hands are divine in touch little bird, this feels so good,” Ezra sighs as he reaches down to palm himself roughly over the thin fabric out of need, but you gently push his hand away and his eyes meet yours in apology.
“Let me take care of you handsome,” you press the heel of your palm over his thick tip and he whines grasping at the bedding as you begin to stroke him over his underwear. Now he is throbbing for you but you aren’t ready to free him just yet.
You lean forward, continuing to stroke him, and place wet open mouth kisses and suck small marks into his right thigh. Ezra looks down his body at you with so much want and you are going to drag out his pleasure because you love it when he looks at you this way. Completely surrendering himself and his body to your touch, your love. When your kisses reach his center you pause, looking up at him, then swiftly skip over to his left thigh to continue your path of sucking and kissing. Ezra exhales like he had been holding his breath.
“Don’t you worry baby,” you say between slow kisses with a smile and a squeeze of his inner thigh, “I’ve got you.”
Ezra soaks in your words with a deep breathy sigh because he knows you’ve got him, in every way, you are always there for him and take care of him as he does you. He closes his eyes and takes in your all encompassing presence.
Once your lips trail back up towards where your hand is still softly rubbing him, you don’t hesitate this time and nuzzle your nose and mouth into his clothed center. Ezra’s eyes shoot open as he thrusts ever so slightly when you all but bite him at the very top of his inner thigh. The small yelp he lets out makes you smile as you run your hot mouth over every part of his groin. You nibble the tops of his thighs. Nose his crevice. Kiss his balls. Lick his leaking tip savoring the taste of the damp spot your ministrations have earned you. And start to tug him a little firmer as you do.
Ezra is now a whimpering mess before you and you haven’t even removed his briefs yet.
“Please…please baby.” Ezra whispers quietly, pleading for you, begging for more, and you cannot deny him when he needs you so badly. Especially when his fingertips lightly stroke your cheek. What he doesn’t know, is you need this just as much as he does. This is what you wanted.
At his breathless request, your nimble fingers find the waistband on his briefs and begin to pull them up and over his length. His cock springs free to rest up on his tummy and your mouth waters in anticipation. You pat his hip and he lifts for you to pull his briefs completely off then down his long legs. Ezra pulls one foot free so that he is able to spread his thighs wide again for you to settle in between comfortably.
Ezra’s eyes roll back and his hand finds his face, rubbing his forehead with a shaky sigh, when your hands return to his bare inner thighs and up to his now exposed hips. You know he can never resist your soft touches, revels in them, his cock jumps in front of you. You take in the sight of him so turned on, trembling, panting…when his eyes return to you, you finally make your move.
“Oh!” he gasps when you lick and suck one of his balls into your mouth, he bucks his hips at the sensation. Your hands press him back into the bedding to keep him steady as you move to his other one. The noises coming from Ezra are intoxicating. You close your eyes to feel every gasp, whine, whimper, and cry as you lap your tongue over his most sensitive skin. You sense he is close by his flexing and heavy breaths, so you ease your aggressive want.
His cock is leaking onto his skin and you think to yourself what a waste as you release his right ball with a pop. Looking up his body, his chest heaving with arousal and restraint, you find his gaze as you lean forward, hands planted still on his hips. Ezra watches intently, lips parted as if he wants to say something, anything, but cannot. You give him a small smirk then stick your tongue all the way out flat and start to lick the underside of his cock from base to tip. Ezra growls deep in his chest watching your filthy action.
When you reach his tip you run your right hand up his side to caress his stomach and chest as you clean him of his precome. Then, with no hands, you tilt your head forward to catch the head of his length between your lips, forehead dragging down his abdomen as you finally take him into your mouth. You lean back to rest back on your hunches with his cock heavy on your tongue and you hum, tasting him at last. Everything you were wanting when staring at him before, the saltiness of his come, the slight spice of his soap, his unique scent that draws you in…Him.
“Blessed Kevva this beguiling mouth,” Ezra grunts out as you begin your steady pace building him to where he was when you were just touching him. His hand rests on the back of your head as you move all the way up and down his length, not to push you or take control, but to feel more of you. His hips start to roll up to meet your motions and you welcome it.
It’s messy. Your saliva mixed with his precome covering your lips, dribbling down your chin, down his shaft, to his curls and balls, and you fucking love it. You push yourself wanting more so you inhale deep to take his whole length, hitting the back of your throat with a gag. The moan you pull from Ezra spurs you on to do it again and again until he is practically shaking below you. Labored panting and high pitched cries as he nears his climax.
That’s when you hollow your cheeks, suck his cock as hard as you can, and you grasp his spit covered balls, massaging them together in your small hand in time with your bobbing up and down.
“Fuckin’ stars above!” Ezra basically screams, throwing his head back hard against the pillow propped up on the wall as his orgasm rips through him filling the back of your throat. You try to keep up and drink down everything he gives you. It’s almost too much as always and some slips past your lips onto your chin. After swallowing him fully you twirl your tongue around his overly sensitive tip, cleaning every inch of him, and he shudders.
Ezra’s hand is still in your hair and falls to his thigh when you finally pull off of his softening cock. Retracting your hands from him, you sit back with an accomplished look. He sees you reaching to wipe your face clean but stops you by sitting up and grabbing your wrist softly.
“Let me oblige you,” he says as his thumb swipes the come on your chin. He drags it to your lips, which you separate willingly as you look up at him from your kneeling position, “so captivating you are.”
Ezra presses his thumb onto your tongue and you hum with satisfaction. He watches you with so much adoration as you grin after the slow pull of his thumb out between your plush lips. Then he lifts your lips to his for a deep kiss, tongues swirling and tastes shared. The soreness of your jaw setting in and oh so worth it.
The kiss breaks and he brushes his nose with yours, moving it up the center of your face to gently kiss your forehead. You begin to pull his briefs back up his calves and he humphs gratefully, assisting the rest of the way. Then he easily lifts you up to him, into the bed and twists to turn off the pod’s soft lighting.
“Let us rest now little bird, what a wondrous treat that was before bedtime,” Ezra breathes into your neck in his raspy voice, tired from the day and sated by your actions.
“What a treat indeed my love,” you retort, tangling your limbs with his for sleep.
Ezra huffs a small laugh and pulls you tighter to him. You lay content surrounded by him, your taste for him fulfilled.
Warnings:Voyeurism, masturbations, sex toys, oral sex (male and female receiving), vaginal sex, angst, talks of domestic abuse, talks of being held captive, protectiveness, Frankie throwing his rank around a little and it’s sexy, domestic violence, threats of murder.
Comments: Frankie finds that his new neighbor doesn’t close her windows when she’s masturbating. You have moved trying to escape your past and catch the handsome man next door watching you one day, inviting him over in the heat of the moment, a decision that will change your lives.
Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers
Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says ’creator chooses not to use warnings’. You also agree that you’re the right age to be consuming anything here.
Frankie had noticed that the ‘FOR RENT’ sign had been taken down next door. Noticed it when he had pulled into the driveway after a long day, noticing that the lights had been turned on, but he hadn’t given it much more thought than that. The need for a beer and a shower urgent. Perhaps a beer in the shower after the day he had. Not noticing that someone was moving around, setting up a home while he opens the door to the house and sighing as he takes his hat off and starts toeing off his boots to let his aching feet breathe.
“Fuck I’m getting old.” He grunts to himself and closes the door, emptying his pockets of keys, wallets, mints and his phone, dumping it all on the entryway table Julia had left when she had moved out two years ago. Hanging up his jacket and pulling his sweaty t-shirt over his head as he walks down the hall towards his bedroom.
Prompt: soft pero tovar with an f!reader perhaps stranded in a cabin during a blizzard with this prompt: “no ones here. we can be as loud as we want.” (requested by @beskarboobs for my 3k follower celebration!)
Warnings: smut (18+ ONLY!), fingering, teasing, established relationship
Notes: Thank you for the request! I’ve missed writing Tovar so I was excited to write this one!! My update blog is @flightlessangelwings-updates to stay up to date on when I post!
~
“Fuck the winter!” you grumbled. The air around you chilled you to your bones as you wrapped your blanket tightly around you.
You had accompanied Tovar on one of his missions, since you always missed him whenever he was away from you. He wasn’t too sure at first, since the scowl-faced mercenary secretly always worried for your safety, but he knew you could handle a sword better than most of the men he’d traveled with so he reluctantly agreed.
Summary:When Javi Gutierrez relocates to New York, he discovers the joys of watching bad movies with you, while also falling in love along the way.
Word count: 9,005
Notes:Huge thank you to @ezrasbirdie for beta-reading this beast of a one shot and for letting me yell in the DM’s about this story I’ve had this idea for a while and I’m so glad to be finally sharing it with you all. This is a very meta fic with more than a few references. I hope you all enjoy it
Reblogs/comments appreciated
Warnings:Spoilers for The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent andPaddington 2, class inequality, swearing, feelings, one mention of sugar daddies (jokingly), minor miscommunication, mutual pining, kissing, non-explicit sexual content
Warnings:Drug use, phone sex, masturbation, sex toys, dirty talking, angst, Dieter being horny, slightly sub/dom undertones, begging, face riding, anal, vaginal sex
Comments: Your quarantine is supposed to be a relaxing time away from your boss, Dieter Bravo. Until he calls you complaining about his lack of stimulation. Surprising him when you agree to phone sex, you change the dynamic between the two of you, possibly forever.
Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers
ClickKeep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says ’creator chooses not to use warnings’. You also agree that you’re the right age to be consuming anything here.
Two weeks, fourteen whole days. Broken down it would be three hundred and thirty six hours that you would be by yourself. Unable to run the most obnoxious and inconvenient errands for your boss, Dieter Bravo.
This is going to be a vacation. You smile as you glance around the small room. Nowhere near as nice as the larger suite you know the star has, you brought his bags up and set out his cocaine so he didn’t flip out when he couldn’t find it in the two point fiveseconds he was looking for it. But the room has a larger stand alone tub you could soak in and you have WiFi. No Dieter begging you to run to his room to draw a bath or wash the one shirt he just had to wear. Yep, this was going to be magical.
It takes an hour for Dieter to be bored. His hair is already messy from him running his fingers through it, and he had already snorted some coke. He knows he can’t just snort coke all day. He’s not desperate enough to risk overdosing. He groans, flicking through the TV channels as he tries to distract himself. “Fuck!” He yells, tossing the remote across the room. How is he going to endure two weeks by himself? He’s going to go crazy.
Warnings: Fiends to lovers, oral sex (female and male receiving), praise, nipple play, hand jobs, vaginal sex
Comments: You and Marcus have been just friends for a long time, although everyone teases you that you should be more. Until another seemingly normal dinner at Marcus’s house turns into much more.
Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers
ClickKeep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says ’creator chooses not to use warnings’. You also agree that you’re the right age to be consuming anything here.
“Hey, you want to go out with all of us tonight?” You look up from your computer with a small frown, a leftover from where you were concentrating on the spreadsheet in front of you and not because you were interrupted. Being a forensic accountant was exacting work and you were one of the best in the bureau. One of your colleagues, Carissa, stands in the doorway with an expectant look on her face. “It’s two for one drinks and half off appetizers at Mel’s tonight.” She tells you, trying to sweeten the idea of going out with everyone you work with for happy hour.
You shake your head. “I have plans already.” You explain, not mentioning what you are doing.
“Pike again?” You press your lips together when her expression turns to a sly grin. “Are you sure that he didn’t transfer to D.C. to be with you?” She asks smugly. “You two spend a lot of time together.”
Warnings: Oberyn/Pero come with their own warning, pregnancy, f/f action, oral (male and female receiving), vaginal sex, cum eating, anal sex, m/m action, nipple play, lactation kink, threesome and foursome activities, childbirth, talks of pregnancy
Comments:Part 4 - Alternate Ending ofThe Spaniard Series Carrying your Spaniard’s baby, you come across the loveliest of creatures, a woman posed on the edge of her fate. To become a whore or…..to be set on a different path by fate and you. An unforeseen meeting in a market changes the course of your relationships with your lovers.
A/N: From the beginning I had two different endings in mind for The Spaniard Series. Here is the happy ending that some wished for.
Artwork by @ronnieiswriting
ClickKeep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says ’creator chooses not to use warnings’. You also agree that you’re the right age to be consuming anything here.
It is a perfect day in Dorne. The wind is mild, the warm temperatures are not exceedingly hot. Your thin silk dress does very well in warding off what heat there is and yet still proudly displays the slightly swollen stomach that is growing beneath your breasts.
You are flanked by two impressive men. One draws people to him, like flies to honey. The charm and danger that seems to be so equally mixed in his blood makes him irresistible. It doesn’t hurt that he is the prince of the region, even if he is a second son, he often acts on behalf of House Martell and all of Dorne.
The other man makes people hesitate before they approach, or back away entirely. His scowl is made to seem even fiercer by the scar that split his eyebrow in two and shows just how close he had come to losing his eye in a gruesome fight that he had described to you in perfect detail. He had won, of course, killing the other man even as blood had dripped into his eye and stinging so fierce that he feared he might have actually lost it.
Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!Reader (Because of Youuniverse)
Word Count: 4.5k
Summary: As Frankie gets ready to head to the gun range with the guys, he can’t help but drive you wild. You teach him a lesson and still get rewarded at the end of the night.
Warnings: Dad!Frankie, Family Fluff, Smut (dirty talk, p in v, squirting, fingering, hand job, cum eating)
A/N:This all started with the above picture of Pedro bts of The Mandalorian with that tight shirt on. It drives me wild. So, naturally I imagined Frankie in that shirt.
Frankie steps out of the shower and slings a towel low on his waist, tucking the fabric in near his hip. A smaller towel is used to rub at his curling hair before he drops it on the floor for the time being. When he steps in front of the sink, he hears you call for him from somewhere deeper in the house.
“Baby?” you call for him from the living room as you move down the hallway towards the bedroom. You knew he was taking a shower, but you weren’t sure if he was out yet, “Frankie? ¿Has terminado en la ducha?” (Are you done in the shower?)
He pokes his head out of the en suite as he hears you walk inside the bedroom, “Sí, mi amor, ¿qué pasa?” (Yes, my love, what’s up?)
Girrrrrrrl you didnt leave anything out, the cute, sweet, the most beautiful husband on the planet. You came for everyones emotions there. How dare you be this good ❤️❤️❤️
Word Count: 11.9K. LISTEN. This installment contains a large portion of what originally would’ve been a one-shot when I was in the early planning stages of this fic. And then, as per usual, I couldn’t control myself, and well, here we all are.
Rating:E | Semi-explicit PiV smut; drug & alcohol use; references to canon-related drug OD; language. My blog is 18+ only!
Warnings: PiV sex & sexual situations, alcohol & drug use, food mentions, pining & yearning, self-doubt, a little angst, feelings, some fluff… honestly, this has a little bit of everything.
A/N: All my love to @radiowalletand@astroboots who both allowed me to throw several tantrums while writing this. Sometimes it takes a village, and I’m so blessed to have you both with me on this ride.
———
Redding, California | May 2022
Without fail, the first day of filming always made her nervous.
It didn’t matter how much she prepared, how many deep breathing exercises she did, or how long she spent reviewing her lines—nerves bubbled in her belly like a pot simmering on a stove, creating a thick haze she had to act through.
As expected, Dieter appeared unbothered. He walked into hair and makeup (his call time an hour later than hers, she noted, with only a hint of jealousy) with an extra-large latte in one hand, phone in the other, and a smudge of charcoal pencil rubbed into his scruffy chin.
Of course he’d been drawing beforehand. He never reviewed lines the day of.
He’s always had more confidence than her.
It’s why he has an Academy Award, and you don’t, she thinks bitterly.
The director calls ‘action’, and Dieter slips into character as easily as taking his next breath, delivering his lines flawlessly. He’s an incredible force to witness—focused, comfortable, natural—he could’ve done months of prep or none; it’s impossible to tell.
She suddenly feels woefully inferior, and it only worsens when she misses the dialogue cue he feeds her.
“Shit, sorry–”
“Cut! Let’s try that again.”
She thinks maybe the director already regrets their talent choices for the film, and it sends her head spinning with thoughts of inadequacy. They should’ve picked someone who could take up as much of a scene as Dieter can, someone who has actually had decent work in the last few years, someone who won’t drag the whole thing down–
“Cut!”
Shit, she missed the line again.
The crew around her murmurs—imagined harsh whispers of doubt in her abilities, like they’re just now finding out she’s a fraud—she feels exposed, stark naked in front of a crowd. She sucks in a shaky breath, the world narrowing in, and two warm palms land on her shoulders.
“Hey, take a breath.”
It’s the lifeline she needs to stop her spiral dead in its tracks.
Dieter dips his head, eyes meeting hers, and he’s all warm encouragement and gentle smile in one short sentence.
“You’ve got this,” he reassures, the tenor similar to how it sounded two decades ago, with a hint of smokey age at the edges. On a shuddery exhale, she cracks a quiet inside joke.
“Pay isn’t shit this time around.”
A laugh breaks from his chest, lifting her spirits and giving her the confidence boost she needs.
“Even less of a reason for them to be pissed off,” he responds with a grin, and they both find their marks.
“Ready to try again?” the director asks, and she notices that they don’t seem annoyed at all. She nods, and the director calls ‘action’ once more.
They get the scene in the very next take.
———
The first few weeks of filming had been hectic. Some sets were half-built, wardrobe required constant adjustments and alterations, and a few filming locations had yet to be finalized. It was the nature of the beast, particularly with a project that leaned more independent, but he liked that about it. It made him feel young again, like he was just starting out.
It kept him on his toes.
And so did she.
Aside from her brief stumble on the opening take, she’d been the brilliant thespian he’s witnessed through her career. She was professional, engaging—the ebb to his flow at each of his winding curves. They played off each other perfectly; his relief was palpable when they picked up their natural chemistry as if it were shiny and new; something solid, sturdy, and unbroken despite years of dormancy.
She was cordial, lukewarm, and sometimes even friendly with him between takes. He savored every smile that stretched beyond her carefully crafted shell; felt the warm imprint of her palm on his forearm for hours after he made her laugh at a stupid joke. She had even pressed herself into his side during a night shoot, teeth chattering from the evening chill, seeking the body heat he willingly shared.
He wondered if she was always like this with her co-stars—friendly touches were a great, safe way to build up a little intimacy before filming scenes—or if (perhaps a little too hopeful) she couldn’t keep herself from touching him.
She kept her distance outside of filming hours, though.
She thwarted his attempts at rekindling their friendship—not cold or unkind, but also not filled with platitudes of another timeorsorry, not tonight. Each invite to dinner, coffee, a drink, or even a fuckinghike had been met with a polite but firm no thank you. It stung, more than he’d like to admit, but he supposed it was his penance, his cross to bear after abandoning her.
Maybe karma had finally come for him, putting her just on the other side of a wall and somehow more unavailable now than she’d ever been with an ocean between them.
They’d been set up in apartments by the studio—a duplex with a shared yard, two units side by side in a quiet, secluded part of town—and he rarely saw her aside from her morning dashes out the door for a quick jog, or if they had the same call time.
So, he soldiered on, content enough to make a great movie, pulling their careers back from the brink of death.
She had set boundaries. He was going to respect them.
Funny, he thinks, maybe therapy doeshelp.
Healthy coping mechanisms, he echoes in his head. He’d discussed them with his therapist, things to keep him occupied outside of work so he doesn’t spiral into unhealthy escapism so hard. Except that there wasn’t much of interest to him in Redding unless he wanted to hike or look at nature or drive the two hours to the tiny hometown he hadn’t visited in ages. He’d never been much of an outdoorsy type. He knew it was unfair to write the place off, but everywhere felt too small and dull after twenty years in LA.
Thankfully, filming kept him busy, long hours punctuated by small windows of sleep, and he was grateful because boredom was dangerous for him. It led to stupid choices and heavy consequences, and he was trying to be smarter.
On their first filming break—a long weekend for Memorial Day—he spent Friday pacing his apartment, listening to a Jamiroquai album, drawing more mountain ranges than he could get his eyeballs on (landscapes were his mortal enemy), and perusing the nearby grocery store for something for dinner.
Still a hopeless cook, he moseyed down the snack aisle, his gaze landing on a familiar white can with a blue cap.
He grinned, eyes lighting up behind his sunglasses, and quickly filled his basket with the essentials. The idea formed in his mind, maybe from boredom, possibly from his burning desire to spend more time with her and mend their friendship; he didn’t care to dwell on his reasoning, only to hang onto a glimmer of hope.
When he gets into his car, he taps out a text to her, quietly thankful she’d slipped him her number in case of emergencies.
Don’t make me regret giving it to you, she’d also said, though her lips curled into a playful smirk he recognized from their youth.
His thumb hovers over ‘send’ for only a moment before he taps it.
Picnic lunch in the backyard tomorrow?
He watches her type, then pause, then type, then pause. He prepares for rejection, a bitter thought clawing into his mind that she would need to run his invite by her PR team first, calculate if her reputation could handle his.
He silently scolds himself for being an ass.
Just when he thinks she’s chosen to ‘leave him on read,’ as the kids say, her response appears.
You know what? Sure, why not?
———
Perhaps against her better judgment, she agreed to lunch.
She was tired of doing everything everyone expected of her.
She knew he was lonely; she could practically feel it through the wall between them; she heard him pacing in the evenings, music playing in the background. She saw he’d been trying, in all senses of the word, and she continued to cold-shoulder him into oblivion over… what, exactly?
Something so old she no longer carried a fiery torch of anger, just the grief and regret of things she didn’t say.
She could use a real friend, at least. They both could.
She’d been lonely, too. She’s been lonely for ages now.
Her answer to his text had been met with a million and one follow-ups:
Are you sure?
Yes.
You’re not going back to LA for the long weekend?
No.
(To who? she thought)
Wine preference?
Something cheap, for old time’s sake.
It unleashed a flurry of texts—she would’ve never guessed he could carry on conversations via various blue and white bubbles, but they messaged back and forth for most of the evening. It was harmless fun, catching up while still avoiding the glaring elephant in the room; a bit of friendly banter back and forth as she giggled into her bed covers. He still had his delightfully weird sense of humor she adored, sharpened to precision over the last twenty-plus years. He sent her photos of paintings he had recently completed, and she responded with pictures of meals she finally learned to cook during the pandemic.
It was nearing midnight when she ended the stream of chatter with a simple I’ll see you tomorrow, D.
And now, tomorrow has arrived.
Dieter’s in their shared backyard, blanket tucked under one arm, canvas bag looped around the other, his signature sunglasses perched low on his nose. She spots him through the sliding glass door, nearly bouncing on the balls of his bare feet, a giddy swoop flowing through her lower belly. In the glitter of sunshine, he looks so much like a grown-up version of the boy who used to wait for her outside the diner in the early mornings while she wrapped up shift change.
She steps out into the yard; it’s sunny and warm but not sweltering, the perfect day to be outside. He greets her with a smile, his thumb hooking into the handle of the canvas bag perched on his shoulder as if to prevent himself from reaching out to her.
She wants to hate how she wishes he would.
“So, what’s the occasion?” she asks quietly, biting the inside of her cheek against a pulse of awkwardness. It’s so easy for her to drop her polished guard around him, and it makes her feel more exposed than she’s been in a long time.
He bites his lip, tipping his head back, afraid to admit the truth.
He gives it to her anyway.
“Yeah, uh… If I stay in that apartment by myself any longer, I’m gonna go fuckin’ crazy… ier.” His brows thread, tongue poked and pressed between his teeth, all awkward limbs and soft vulnerability. A pang of guilt collects in her chest—she’d let it grow and fester if he didn’t also look so incredibly endearing.
And if he wasn’t so god damn relatable.
“Yeah,” she huffs a soft laugh, pressing her sunglasses up her nose to hide her eyes, “same.”
He visibly relaxes.
She steps forward, feet swishing through the grass, and gestures to the ground. He snaps into action, unfurling the blanket with a flick of his wrists, spreading it out across the grass. He settles atop it, one long, toned arm motioning for her to join him.
“It’s no Echo Lake, but it’ll do.”
She laughs, the tension between them loosening, and takes her spot next to him, tucking her legs into a neat criss-cross. “God, I haven’t been there in years.”
“Me either. Don’t think we could get away with it now.”
She hums, watching as he pulls items from the canvas bag—pepperoni in suspicious packaging, a can of Easy Cheese, butter crackers. Her belly flutters when, for just a moment, he’s twenty years younger with a lot less weight perched on his broad shoulders.
“Really?” She points to the questionable culinary display between them, failing to hide her grin. He quirks a brow in her direction—half playful, all hope.
“I still can’t cook,” he admits with a shrug. She tips her head back, an unladylike guffaw bursting from her chest, catching the final curve of his broad smile when she looks back at him.
“And here I was thinking you were being nostalgic.”
His eyebrows raise, and he tilts toward her, dropping his voice into a stage whisper. “Hmm, just like that gift basket was simply congratulatory?”
She feigns innocence, pretending to be more interested in her nailbeds than his words. “That could’ve been anyone; it was sent anonymously.”
She holds back another smile for as long as possible in a sudden game of chicken as their eyes lock in a silent, playful challenge. One of his eyebrows wings up knowingly before he chuckles and shakes his head, accepting defeat. He reaches back into the bag, revealing an aluminum can, and presents it with theatrical flair.
“For the lady.”
“Wow, wine from a can. That’s fancy,” she teases gently.
Dieter only shrugs and pulls a can of seltzer from the bag. He catches her eyeing it curiously and sweeps his lip with his tongue.
“I’m…trying to take it easy,” he says by way of explanation, eyes flitting to the can in her grasp.
It takes her by surprise—he’d been trying in even more ways than she knew.
“Oh,” her tongue trips, inelegant and clunky in her mouth when she doesn’t know what else to say. A snarky quip would be cruel, but sickly-sweet sympathy feels hollow.
She settles for curiosity.
“Witheverything, or…?”
He huffs an ironic laugh, opening the can of seltzer to take a long pull before setting it down and stretching his long legs across the blanket with a sigh. Tilting back on his hands, he tips his head toward the sun, squinting against the warm rays even under the protection of his sunglasses.
A drop of carbonated water sits nestled in the crease of his bottom lip, begging to be brushed off with a featherlight thumb or even her own bottom lip—a memory she usually keeps tucked away until she’s alone late at night. It figures, she thinks, with the first cautious tendril of rekindled friendship, she’s already thinking about kissing him.
Maybe she never stopped thinking about kissing him.
Among other things.
It’s been too long. Dating was hard when you still carried a torch for someone else.
She’s always wanted to write off his past behavior as foolish when, in reality, she’s no better herself. The only difference between them is that he acted on his impulses. She was always too afraid.
She’s still too afraid.
“All of them, I suppose,” he finally answers, a few breaths after she assumes he wouldn’t. “In the beginning, it made it a little easier to handle… everything,” he gestures vaguely, and she knows exactly what he means by everything. Their world is not normal; money and fame, an existence that often feels so devoid of anything genuine it borders on insanity. There are days she feels like a zoo animal, something to be gawked at by the masses whenever they please.
Entertainment, existing only to be consumed and then disposed of.
Nothing more.
She doesn’t expect sympathy, would never dream of asking for it, knows how fucking unhinged it would make her sound to complain about her life and what kind of access to the world it provides.
It doesn’t stop her from feeling hollowed out and sucked dry.
She knows Dieter understands, too.
“It’s hard to slow down, you know?” He says it like an apology, a quiet acknowledgment that he’s used the perks of fame to cope with its emptiness while she rejected them, suffering alone and in silence.
She bites her lip and shrugs. “I never indulged much.”
He eyes her suspiciously. “We used to smoke weed in my bathtub all the time.”
She nods, wrestling with a dreamy smile. She wasn’t sure he remembered much of anything from their summer together.
“I’m surprised you remember.”
The remark has too much bite, and she presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth against a bitter wave of guilt. There’s still so much unsaid between them, and it oozes out through the cracks in her veneer whenever she’s around him because he’s always been the only one she can speak to freely. His stare is heavy, forcing her to busy her hands with opening the can of wine and taking a sip.
It tastes like shit—over fermented and syrupy sweet, a hangover in the making—but she doesn’t mind.
“I remember everything from that summer,” he admits with a low rasp, drawing her attention. When she meets his eyes, they’re laced with memories and wrapped in pain from her insinuation.
Fuck, maybe she is an ice queen.
Setting her drink down, she reaches for the spread between them. She offers him a salty, buttery cracker covered in the cheese-like substance, topped with an over-processed pepperoni, just the way he liked it all those years ago—her silent apology. He takes it with the delicate dexterity of an artist’s fingertips, popping the questionable concoction into his mouth with little preamble.
“Me, too,” she replies softly. He wipes a hand across his worn tee, the collar stretched, golden skin glowing in the sunshine. His gaze shifts, staring at the opening of his drink. He remains quiet, even though she can hear his gears turning.
She makes herself the same stack of over-processed, nostalgic bliss. She can’t hide her groan when it passes her lips, bursts of salt and cheese and a hint of spice melding together. She washes it all down with the shitty wine, and suddenly, it’s the summer of 2001 again. He hums, agreeing, setting out to make another. She assumes it’s for himself, but he presents it to her instead. She takes it with a grin and a playful wink, watching the corners of his mouth form into a smile.
Sighing contentedly, he leans back until he’s propped up on one elbow. She sneaks a glance at the plane of his torso; it’s more filled out now, but she can still recognize all the dips in his formerly lanky frame she used to explore with her lips. His shirt rides up as he adjusts his legs, exposing a sliver of tan skin that lures her eye line to the trail of wiry hairs leading into the waistband of his shorts.
She tries to hide her pavlovian response.
She presses her sunglasses back up her face, taking another sip of wine, blaming it for the flood of heat in her cheeks.
Silence falls around them, similar to the ones they used to foster together routinely—him with his sketchbook, her with a novel. While still tinted with awkwardness, there’s far less pressure for them to maintain appearances than they’re used to. They polish off the sleeve of crackers, snack sets made and passed back and forth, fingertips occasionally brushing, sparks of electricity on each pass.
Dieter breaks first. Silence always drove him crazy long before it ever got to her.
“So… why the goody-two-shoes bit?”
She didn’t expect the question, but it didn’t surprise her either. He asked it like he’s been dying to know, the much-needed answer to a riddle he’s tried to solve for two decades.
She licks at a salt crystal stuck to the corner of her lips; it reminds her of seawater-laced kisses and a smile more gorgeous than an oceanside sunset. Finishing her wine, she tucks her knees up, resting folded arms across them, and heaves a sigh.
“On my first big movie, I got some advice about public image and privacy from a few veterans. It seemed like the best way to handle things at the time,” she starts, ignoring how right they’d been with the never-fuck-your-male-costaradvice.
The rest had been a bit of a crapshoot.
“You always were smarter than me with that stuff. It must be nice, not having what everyone thinks is your life splashed everywhere.” His jaw ticks with the statement, annoyed but not jealous.
“It must be nice, having the freedom not to care what people think.”
Dieter laughs bitterly at that. “Freedom? A fishbowl is still a cage.”
She never thought about it that way, but he’s right. Their opposing publicity choices still landed them in similar places—two sides of the same coin.
“I always thought it would protect me. This perfect shell to keep the real me safe,” she pauses, emotion choking her. “But it just isolated me.”
He nods, pointing a finger in her direction. “Now that, I can relate to.”
“Oh, come on, everyone wants to be around you,” she teases, wine-warm fingertips pressing into his shoulder.
“Yeah, for a good time and a chance at their fifteen minutes. They want to party, do some drugs, have some sex,” he says that part quietly, an apology inscribed within the words as he speaks them. “No one wants to watch movies from the 40s, eat a box of mac ‘n’ cheese, or look at weird art.”
She twists onto her hip to face him, knees barely brushing his shorts-clad thigh. His hand twitches, moving to touch her leg before he pulls back, pressing his sunglasses up the curve of his nose.
“I do,” she admits with a grin. Through his sunglasses, he looks optimistic. She ignores how it causes her heartbeat to knock against her sternum.
“Still?” It’s a hushed question, like he’s afraid she’s merely appeasing him.
“Of course I do. I love those things.”
“We should do them sometime.” He says it casually, like it wouldn’t crush him if she said no, even though they both know it would.
“Yeah, we should.” Simple, honest, direct. She means it, and he knows it.
He settles onto his back, linked hands cradling his head, eyes squeezing shut behind tinted lenses. His cheeks sit high on his face, an etched smile keeping them there. She pushes away their lunch scraps, mirroring him on the blanket—back flat, hands behind her head, wine-filled smile warming her features.
Silence washes over them again, sunshine soaking into their pores and making them both feel lighter in their chests—the sacred act of merely existing together, under no pressure to perform anything other than breathing. It’s nice, she thinks, not to worry about looking sloppyortoo tired or any of the other insults the media machine loves to say about women for daring to exist in the world.
When she’s with Dieter, none of that matters. It never did.
Eventually, a cloud passes overhead and temporarily breaks the sunshine. She cracks open one eye to catch a glimpse of the moon, making itself known even in daylight. She smiles and laughs to herself.
“Hey, D?”
He hums, sounding like he’s on the precipice of sleep, quickly clearing his throat before responding, “Yeah?”
“How’s the stargazing here?”
His grin tells her everything she needs to know.
———
Redding, California | June 2022
That lunch had been like opening a door they both previously considered nailed shut.
As summer warmed the air, they fell back into something resembling their old easy friendship, making up for lost time—sometimes with chatter, sometimes silence—but always comfortable.
They were careful, Dieter mindful of tarnishing her good reputation despite her reassurances, and stayed within their temporary homes. They kept their back doors unlocked, tiptoeing through the shared yard to slip in and out unseen by potential prying eyes. It was thrilling in its own way, like teenagers sneaking out to break curfew, though instead of getting up to no good, they watched old movies and ate pints of ice cream.
Sometimes they’d order take out, deliberately avoiding that same order they’d shared the night that began their end. Sometimes, she would cook, showing off the new skill she’d picked up in quarantine. Over dinner, he would make her laugh between sips of wine with a joke or a story from one of his many previous projects. He found he could enjoy a drink or two in her presence, never experiencing the nagging desire to overindulge to fuel his front of the fun-loving party boy.
It was refreshing not to be switched on all the time.
When they had later call times, they would share quiet morning coffees in the backyard, her nose in a book or her script, his hands smudged in black charcoal while he drew, the soft scribble of pencil on thick paper filling gaps between morning bird song.
He would coax her into that same backyard on clear nights, pointing out his favorite constellations. He’d been right all those years ago—the stargazing in NorCal was leagues better than anything they could’ve ever seen in LA.
One evening, they split an edible—giggle-dry mouths and warm, tingly limbs sprawled out on a blanket under the star-dappled sky, trading old and new banter back and forth. He teased her for her firm stance on social media (‘it’s rotting our brains, D’), and she shot right back with clever quips about his concerns over Bluetooth and brain waves.
Their laughs slowed into hushed whispers, quiet confessions told across weighted puffs of soft breath, vulnerabilities dangled out for the taking in small, measured acts of trust. They shared failed experiences in dating, brushes with the ugly power-hungry types in Hollywood, the roles they didn’t get, and how it still gutted them.
She admitted how devastatingly lonely she’d been during the pandemic.
He admitted how insanely bored he’d been and where it led. What it almost led to.
Through the choke of held-back tears, the rumors she had heard confirmed, she asked only one question—why?
“I went from one trap to another; guess I was trying to get free,” he answered truthfully, eyes full of remorse.
“You never did like a cage.”
“How’d you know?”
She huffed a dry laugh, lifting one eyebrow best she could through the syrupy warmth of THC. “No strings attached? That’s a classic.”
He grimaced. “I’m sorry. Back then, I thought every relationship would be a cage.”
She curled into his side with a flimsy excuse of warding off the non-existent nighttime chill, draping weed-heavy limbs across his body. He pressed his nose to her crown, breathing her in, wondering what fancy shampoo she switched for the cheap coconut one from his memories.
“It’s funny,” she whispered, her breath tickling his neck, “I think the last time I felt free was with you.”
Without a second thought, his lips landed on her forehead; an old reflex resurrected to bring her comfort.
“Me, too,” he confided, pulling her close and listening to her breaths as they slowed into sleep.
A sense of peace washed over him, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. He knew it was foolish to let himself sink into it; he couldn’t shake the quiet dread at the back of his mind that it might be fleeting, that it was all one long dream, despite the tangible proof of her body curled into his. He blinked against a sting of tears, eyes focusing on the pinpricks of light mottled into the inky canvas above—a perfect backdrop for a dream—and let himself drift slowly into slumber.
They woke the following morning to sunrise and songbirds, wrapped around each other, dawn-fuzzy gazes and shy smiles shared between them before ordering breakfast and showing up to set ten minutes late—no LA traffic to blame.
They walked into the hair and makeup trailer together to curious glances, extra coffees for the crew in tow as an apology. Dieter cracked a joke; laughs erupted from everyone in the trailer, and all was forgiven.
———
Redding, California | July 2022
Summer rolled on, and with it, filming progressed.
Their mended friendship had only improved their on-screen chemistry. They captured several scenes on the first take, her desire for perfection driving him to strive for the same. She enjoyed his improv moments, pivoting with him flawlessly as if the new words had been the ones written in the script all along.
They didn’t stray far from one another between takes, excitedly examining their character motivations or why they chose a particular intonation in the last take. Sometimes their voices would dip lower, discussions of which movie to watch or where to order food from when the day wrapped, careful conversations had when others were out of earshot. When no one was watching, she would lean into his side and link her fingers with his, and he’d toss an exaggerated wink her way, drawing a laugh from her lips.
She couldn’t remember the last time she had so much fun on a set.
Some script adjustments came in ahead of the fourth of July holiday weekend. She didn’t bother to finish reading them before slipping through the back door of his apartment to talk shop, the faint scent of patchouli incense greeting her.
She smiles to herself.
Some things never change.
She finds him sitting at the kitchen island, his nose in his sketchbook, a beer on his right, a manila envelope with his script changes on his left—still unopened. He’d showered recently, hair mussed and damp, with no attempts to tame his wild locks; it’s endearing that he still didn’t care for maintaining appearances or keeping up with fashion trends, despite several brands chasing him with lucrative offers of a full closet for a photoshoot.
He always did clean up nice, she had noted through the years, images of past photoshoots and red carpet looks floating in her mind.
A song switches over, and she immediately recognizes the music pouring from his phone, the small, tinny speaker doing a disservice to Coldplay’s sophomore album.
“This album was the only thing I listened to for six weeks when it first came out,” she tells him in place of a greeting, throwing her newest script copy on top of his. He sits up, reaching for his beer, pointing the neck of the bottle toward the fridge—a silent offer to help herself.
“It’s a good album,” he agrees as she grabs a beer from the fridge, handing it to him to open even though it’s a twist-off cap. He makes quick work of it, pressing the cold bottle back into her hand, fingertips brushing hers with a warm spark that settles in the base of her spine.
That’s been happening a lot recently.
She attempts to quell her quiet desire, keeping the conversation flowing.
“It’s a great album. It came out when I was shooting my first big film. I’d get back from a long day of filming and just lay on my apartment floor and listen to it. It always reminds me of that time in my life.” She sighs wistfully, taking a sip of beer. It borders on the edge of too hoppy for her tastes, the bitter hit making her tongue curl against her teeth, but she doesn’t care enough to complain.
“I listened to it a lot when it first came out, too. It’s always reminded me of you.”
She waits for the inevitable joke or cheeky grin to accompany the admission with bated breath, something to cut the tension between them whenever things start feeling like more than just friendship, but it never comes, sending her heartbeat into her ears.
His casual confession—that he’d thought of her beyond their summer together—turns her insides loose and liquid. It’s not the first time he’s insinuated he thinks about her, but it is the first time he’s admitted it so boldly.
She reaches for her drink, hoping the liquid courage will soothe her suddenly parched throat.
He shrugs after a beat—perhaps the only explanation she’ll get tonight.
She’s too cowardly to admit the same. The album makes her think of him, too; in another imagined life where they stayed friends, stayed together, lying on the floor of his old apartment and listening to the album together. Even now, she can picture how they would’ve stayed up until 3 AM with his old AIWA stereo pumping the music into the small, cozy space. They’d analyze lyrical nuances between sips of cheap wine, listening and relistening to get them right; the ubiquity of iPhones and Google still ages away.
She blinks the dreamy fantasy away, takes another sip of beer, and taps the manila envelope on the island between them.
“Have you looked at your script changes yet?” It’s a skilled conversation move back into safer topics, but she knows it’s futile as soon as she sees the look on his face.
“Youknow the answer to that,” he says with a grin, eyes tracking down to his half-finished sketch. “I’ll look at them later. We’ve got a few days off anyway.”
Her eyes follow his, curiosity getting the best of her. “What’re you working on?”
He shrugs, setting the pencil down.
“I suck at landscapes, so I’m trying to practice. I’ll never understand how Bob Ross did it and made it look so easy.”
“He used paint, for one,” she jests, biting back a grin that spreads wide when he rolls his eyes. She points her beer bottle at him. “It’s possible he was also an alien.”
“Now you’re speaking my language.”
“Well, I’ll believe Bob Ross was an alien before I believe you ‘suck’ at drawing landscapes,” she replies, padding around to his side of the island to peer over his shoulder. “Could’ve fooled me.”
He shifts in the chair, making space for her next to him, and she wordlessly steps into it. Her side grazes his, a brief tingle of electricity running up her spine; she ignores it by asking him a question.
“May I?”
He nods, sliding the sketchbook toward her, his silent permission granted. A thrill runs through her—for how much of Dieter’s life he lives in loud, bold color for everyone with a shark-like camera lens to see, his art might be one of the few things where his privacy rivals hers.
“This sketchbook is pretty old. I’ve had a lot of long drawing breaks in the last decade.”
She flips to the start, paging through a decade’s worth of work; full to the brim of charcoal and graphite, subjects of all sorts—a creepy graveyard landscape, abstract shapes, light streaming through a window with a surprising amount of warmth from just the stroke of a pencil.
He’s just as talented with pencil and paper as he is in front of a camera.
She turns the page, a surprised ‘oh’ dropping from her mouth.
“Shit, I forgot that was in there–” Dieter moves to pull the book away, but she reaches for his wrist, halting him.
She leans closer, brows threading together as she takes in the life-like drawing on the page, her own eyes staring back at her.
It’s a stunning display of his skill, how beautifully he captured her on paper. She looks ethereal, like he drew her through the blurred haze of a dream, and it immediately feels like she’s reading the pages of his journal—private thoughts for his eyes only.
He stills, his breath locked in his chest, but she can feel the intensity of his eyes on her. Her thumb strokes the inside of his wrist as she appreciates the amount of detail he used to capture her on paper. She turns toward him, meeting his eyes.
“You prettied me up, thank you.”
He makes an awkward noise, his jaw shifting with confusion.
“I draw what I see,” he whispers, gaze dropping to her lips for half a breath. His eyes dart back down at the page, and she follows.
She spots the date in the bottom right corner, next to the messy scrawl of his initials—his very own maker’s mark. Warmth blooms in her stomach, spreading into her chest as she puts all the pieces together.
“You drew this 10 years ago?”
“I told you, I took a lot of breaks–”
“This was the day after you won your Oscar–”
“You looked so pretty that night, and I–”
Words fall away, his heated eyes drifting back to her lips, and the warmth in her belly slides down into her hips, her blood immediately spiked with arousal.
She swears the air sparks between them, thick like ozone before a thunderstorm.
Shewantshim.
It sits there now in the center of her belly, louder than it’s been in years. He’s all she’s ever wanted; desire sharpened to a pinpoint; it would be unbearable if she didn’t welcome it so willingly.
In one quick move, her hand twists into the front of his tee, pulling him in to meld her lips to his. It’s messy, a little clumsy, the angle awkward from his perch in the chair. He stiffens, a noise of surprise catching in his throat, and she pulls away just enough for her mouth to hover over his, their foreheads pressed together.
“What is this?” he asks breathlessly, hands floating over her hips, a tremor running through them. Her laugh breezes across his full bottom lip.
“A kiss, you idiot.” It’s affectionate, her fingers twirling in his collar to tug him even closer, but his eyes go wide and wild like he’s locked in a dream. She draws back, wondering if she’s made a mistake and read the moment wrong. “Unless you don’t want–”
“No,” he says with conviction, finally allowing his palms to rest on her sides, “I definitely do. I never thought you’d want–”
“Well,I do, so come here and kiss me, Mr. Bravo.”
She pulls on his collar again, and this time, he goes willingly, lips meeting hers. It’s shy, tentative at first; the soft brush of plush lips, a set of shaky exhales, a shared, warm gaze under hooded eyes, his thick fingers curling into her shorts. She brings one hand to his stubbled jawline, encouraging his mouth to slant over hers. He breathes into her open mouth—a raspy, shuddery whisper of oh my god against her lips—before cradling her face in his palms and seeking her tongue with his own.
Her only thoughts are him—the hoppy hit of beer on his lips, the cheap green apple shampoo he’s always used mixed with an expensive-smelling cologne she can’t place but has savored more than she’d like to admit the past few weeks, the warmth of his palms seeping into her cheeks. It’s a heady rush that would set her off balance if they weren’t clinging to each other so desperately.
He whimpers, and it goes right through her, every nerve-ending lighting up with buzzing electricity. It’s nothing like the kiss they shared for the camera a few weeks ago—awkward, uncomfortable angles that look good on film, people shouting directions, an intimacy coordinator with firm instructions on how to kiss as if they were clueless—this one is real, familiar, like knowing the way through one’s hometown no matter how long it’s been between visits.
Refusing to break the kiss, he stands, and the stool kicks out behind him, clattering against the floor. Startled, she pulls away.
“Wha–”
“Don’t worry about it,” he growls, recapturing her lips and deepening the kiss. His hands cup her face again, fingertips cheating into her hairline, and he uses his solid body to cage her against the island’s edge. The counter digs into her back, but she doesn’t care, fingers spearing into his shower-damp hair to pull him flush against her.
He’s everywhere, invading her senses—inhaling her exhales, swallowing her breathy pants, chasing the taste of beer and summer on her tongue—his hips press to hers, and then she feels him, hard beneath the thin material of his shorts.
Her blood sings, and she clenches around nothing.
The kiss becomes smooth and fluid; it’s a dance they both know by heart, stuck in their memories from twenty years worth of quiet longing. It’s soft puffs of warm breath and desperate whines and rediscovery, a return to each other, a return home.
Eager for him, she lets one of her hands slip under the hem of his tee, her fingertips dancing along the top edge of his shorts, and he breaks the kiss with a gasp.
“Should we… talk?” he asks, dotting her face in sweet pecks, his scraggly beard dragging against her soft skin.
“Later,” she breathes, craning her neck to allow him access to it, arousal gathering at the apex of her thighs, soaking into her underwear, “after.”
“After?” It’s less a question and more a confirmation that they want the same thing; he sucks a kiss into the spot where her shoulder and neck meet while waiting for her response. She moans, feeling him twitch against her belly in response, and nods, her fingertips hooking into the band of his boxer briefs.
“Please,” she begs, unwilling to ask again.
“Fuck,” he utters, finding the hem of her shirt and guiding it over her head. His lust-dark eyes drop to the swell of her breasts, and she watches as his tongue nestles in the crease of his bottom lip, contemplating his next move while he catches his breath.
She shoots him a sultry smile, sex-kitten eyes, and pouty lips, arching her back just so, and it has the desired effect. With a pleasured sigh, his mouth drops to her chest, groans planted on the curve of her breasts as he presses hungry kisses into her skin.
His hands move to the button on her shorts, and she temporarily halts his progress.
“Your bed? We’re not young anymore.”
He nods, scooping her up with a soft grunt, his back giving a small protest as he walks toward his bedroom. She laughs into his shoulder, repeating they aren’t young anymore, but she loses all words as her back hits the mattress and he crawls over her, the weight of his hips pressing into where she wants him most.
He wastes no time, hips grinding against hers, providing a delicious weight and friction where she’s soaked and throbbing. He kisses her again, and she could drown it in, in him—the slow roll of his hips as it blooms pleasure up her spine, his hands roving her exposed skin, leaving tingles in their wake. Even the soundshe’s making pull her deeper into his current, whispered adorations (baby, gorgeous, beautiful), pants and grunts and groans, expressions of awe (oh my god andoh, fuck); it’s been so long, she thinks she could come from listening to him alone.
They strip each other bare, muted apologies for rounder, aging bodies met with enthusiastic compliments and desirous kisses across planes of skin. They let themselves get lost in it, in each other; the discovery and rediscovery of mapped sensitive spots paired with loud, sloppy kisses; sighs and gasps and moans filling the room, the rustle of the sheets as he slides her firmly under him, her throaty laugh when a pillow he haphazardly shoved away flops onto her face.
He shushes her with his mouth and uses his hand to draw different noises from her lips, sliding two fingers through her center. His head falls to her chest when he feels how wet she is—how wet he’s made her. She cants her hips up, seeking friction, and he delivers, fingertips expertly circling her clit until she’s crying out against the wall of his chest, and he’s grinning like the cat who got the canary.
Through the blissed fog of her orgasm, she kisses him until he’s breathless; when she breaks it, she begs for him, fingertips wrapping around his hard cock and lining him up at her entrance.
His first slip inside her is everything, weighty and full with a stretch that sends sparks to her toes; he cradles her head in his hands and weaves a pleasured groan onto her tongue when his hips nestle within hers.
“Fuck, I missed this,” he murmurs against her temple like he might tattoo the words there if she allowed it. “I missed you,” he adds, a golden thread of emotion stitching them tightly together.
Her palms press into his shoulders, encouraging him to move, and words fall away.
Their bodies used to snap tightly together like pieces of a brand new puzzle—edges clean, sharp, and unmarred. Now, their edges are softer, a bit frayed, but still made to lock in place, a perfect fit even after the passage of so much time.
He tries to draw it out, wants to make it good for her, for both of them, but she hooks her heels over his thighs, and he loses the last drops of brain power he possesses.
They quickly find the easy rhythm they once knew so well, buzzing electric and fiery warmth with each desperate, eager thrust of his hips. Her nails claw into his back, hushed pleas of please, baby spurring him on as they breeze over his ear, words he’d only heard in his dreams and fantasies.
The world drops away, time measured in heavy breaths and quickened heartbeats, kisses exchanged like a secret currency only for them. She comes first with a bitten-off gasp of his name, squeezing and pulsing around him until she pulls him over the edge with her, his face buried in her neck as he fills her with a choked cry.
They melt together on the mattress, sweet adorations and soft kisses shared in a post-orgasm euphoria—curved smiles, breathy laughs, the brushing back of hair—each movement is simultaneously newly exciting and achingly familiar.
She thinks she should feel worried that they let things get messy once more, but everything feels so right in the moment, just like it’s always felt when she’s with him; she doesn’t have the presence of mind to care.
She’s gotten pretty good at handling messes, anyway.
———
They spend the remainder of the evening in his bed, rediscovering each other as the sun dipped well below the horizon. While the stamina of their early twenties was gone, their passion for each other was not, fueled by two decades worth of desire.
He couldn’t remember the last time he wanted someone to stay in his bed (it was her, it’s always been her, only her), but he kept her there, pulling orgasm after orgasm from her until she begged him for a break, in the same tone etched across his eardrums—exhausted, but completely satisfied, sending a wave of pride through him.
In the afterglow, they tackle one of the final hurdles of their past.
He didn’t mean for it to happen like this, their bodies pressed together under the too-warm duvet, unwilling to separate long enough to kick it away, choosing to enjoy the prickling waves of heat flowing between them.
“I meant it earlier. I’ve missed you,” he confesses, repeating the words without the easy excuse of the heat of the moment. They’d sat on the tip of his tongue since she glared at him during the table read, a rare show of her true feelings under her carefully crafted mask; it had served as a beacon of hope that this hollow industry hadn’t stripped away her entire personality, the one he knew and secretly cherished.
She’s gone so quiet that he wonders if she’s asleep. He’d almost believe it if not for the way she’s holding her breath, and he realizes why a moment too late.
“Then why didn’t you call?” The question carries no heat, and still, it burns him.
It’s his turn to hold his breath.
She tilts her head, looking at him from where she’s nestled into the crook of his arm, silently pleading for an answer. There’s no anger in her eyes, but he almost wishes there was—it would be easier to bear than her raw, honest display of heartache.
“I did,” he starts, tongue thick with guilt. “When the towers fell. You didn’t answer.”
Her brows knit together, eyes narrowing as her mind drifts back to then,twisting through time and weaving the unknown pieces together before she heaves a bone-tired sigh.
“I went out for a run to clear my head.”
Dieter’s blood runs cold. “Oh.”
Shit.
“I– I thought you were screening your calls.”
“I was, but I would’ve picked up for you,idiot.” She taps his nose, all tender affection, but he’s already on the precipice of a spiral, groaning as the realization sinks in.
He’s been a colossal fucking idiot.
Her fingers dance along his jawline, drawing his eyes to hers. He wants to bask in the intimacy of her touch, press his cheek into her palm and let the warmth of her skin seep into his, but her eyes reveal she has more to say.
“You could’ve left a message, Dieter,” she whispers, all the hurt she’s held onto bleeding into her tone. The way her sharp tongue curls around his name nearly shatters him.
She’s right. He could’ve. He should’ve. The fact that he didn’t has haunted him for an eternity.
“Yeah, you’re right. I don’t know why I didn’t…”
Silence fills the small space on the pillow between them. It’s uncomfortable—heavy and suffocating—making him want to crawl out of his skin. Go find a fifth of whiskey and some white powder, stumble home with a nameless, good-looking stranger, and get lost in them, no tricky conversations to be had besides kicking them out afterward.
Hecan’t go back to that life. Not now, when they’re this close to something that feels like reconciliation, like coming home.
He shakes his head, willing the truth to form on his tongue.
“Actually, that’s a lie. I knew I fucked up. I should’ve called when I landed in Berlin, and I could give you a million reasons why I didn’t, but they’d just be tired old excuses. The truth is, if I had heard your voice… I would’ve been on the next flight back to LA.”
His exhale is heavy, breathing away the weight of guilt he’s carried as penance for the last twenty years. Her hand strokes a delicate pattern across his bare chest—he tries not to think about how it hadn’t been that long ago when someone else’s hands carved the same path in his skin after saving his life.
After giving him a chance to make amends, giving him the chance to be here, like this, with her—somewhere he never thought he’d be again.
He’s been such a fucking dumbass for far too long.
“You wouldn’t have come back to LA. There’s no way I would’ve let you no matter how much I missed you,” she murmurs.
“You missed me?” He knows the question is silly; the signs are there when he reels back through his memories. Her quiet support through the years—their eyes locking across every crowded room they shared, the one and only after party she ever attended, the gift basket, the longing in her eyes as she fixed his bowtie backstage—he wants to choke on how fucking foolish he’s been.
“Of course I’ve missed you. You were my best friend,” she pauses, a tear glittering in her eye. His thumb catches it before it can slide into her hairline. “You still are.”
That admission breaks him, because he feels the same way.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” his voice breaks into a dry sob, and she shushes him, coaxing him to nestle over her. Wordlessly, he rests his head on her chest, ear pressed over her heart, counting the steady beats that used to lull him into a peaceful sleep. Her fingers card through his sex-wild hair, and he can’t think of a single high that’s ever felt better.
“I forgive you. I already did a long time ago; I just didn’t realize it until recently,” she whispers, nails running over his scalp, sending a wave of chills across his back. “I hope you forgive me. I didn’t need to be such a cold bitch for so long.”
He laughs in disbelief. She would think she had something to apologize for. “No, I deserved it, and then some.”
He props up onto his elbows to kiss her properly, something deep but slow and unhurried, savoring it after spending so much time dreaming about whether or not he’d ever kiss her again.
“Hey, D?” she asks, breaking the kiss. He hums, his lips mapping a path across her jaw and neck. “What’re we gonna do now?”
He wants to laugh again. She’s always been worried about what comes next instead of living in the moment. Though he supposes it comes with the territory—both this life they live and whatever fucking miracle happening between them.
“I don’t know,” he tells her honestly, and she cracks a silly grin.
“Me either.”
They fall into laughter, and she tucks herself along his side, nestling deep into the sheets.
“Sleep on it?” he asks quietly, kissing the crown of her head. She nods, pressing her face into his neck. It’s nearly the same position he’d held her in the night he told her he was leaving—like she was trying to become part of him so she’d never have to lose him—and it carves right through him. He tries not to think about how they’re only a few weeks from returning to LA to wrap up shots in the studio and what that might mean for them.
Now who’s getting ahead of themselves?
Her breathing evens out, the sound of his most cherished lullaby, and he allows it to pull him under the veil of sleep alongside her.
———
In the muted grey light of pre-dawn, her phone chimes. Dieter groans, shoving his face into his pillow, as she squirms away to silence the alarm.
“Whyyyy?” he whines, reaching across the bed for her. She props up on one elbow, sleepy eyes studying his face.
“Yoga,” she offers in a sleep-thick voice as her only explanation.
“Fuck that. Let me sleep another hour, and I promise to bend you into as many positions as you’d like.”
She hums, something that sounds like a low, amused laugh, but still hesitates, legs creeping toward the edge of the bed like she might actually leave it. He reaches for her, one arm wrapping around her torso, and pulls her close, a gasp falling from her lips. Through the fog of his sleep-addled mind, he whispers the words he’s never said to anyone. The words he sometimes wishes she would’ve said, back when he was too terrified to admit he wanted to hear them.
“Please stay?” It’s a weighty request, all his vulnerability perched out onto a limb for her to take and either crush or cradle.
She’d been understandably cold toward him in the past, but never cruel.
Thankfully, he’s only met with affection, one palm curling over his jaw, her thumb stroking his cheek as she smiles, pillow lines still imprinted across her face.
“I’ll stay,” she breathes with conviction, and he lets himself believe she means it beyond that moment. She brushes her lips to his. “But you’d better make good on that promise.”
He chuckles darkly, encouraging her to turn in his arms and press her back to his front. He wraps one arm around her, nestling his lips over her ear, a low rasp poised to devastate her in the best way.
“Oh,I will.”
———
Redding, California | August 2022
The end of summer and on-location filming was near the horizon, but that didn’t stop them.
For the most part, they maintained professionalism on set, Dieter honoring her desire for privacy. He learned a few things from her, like striving to be more subtle and biting his tongue against every thought that filtered through his mind instead of just spitting it out for anyone to hear.
But she learned from him, too. She was a little less tight-lipped, more friendly, and less worried about a cloudy spot or two on her polished finish. She found it made things… easier, freeing almost, not to be so concerned with her public reputation all the time.
She still valued privacy above all else, but Dieter made convincing arguments for occasionally bending the rules.
It’s probably the only reason she let him pull her into her trailer for a quickie when a set repair required a delay in filming for part of the day. Even then, he still took care to be discreet—one large hand clamped over her mouth while the other pumped two fingers into her wet core, begging her to come for him before anyone noticed their absence. After they finished, he checked for curious onlookers, sneakily slipping from her trailer back to his own, everyone none the wiser.
When the days wrapped, they eagerly made their way home, slipping into a routine: a shared shower, filled with soft kisses and sudsy shampoo; food, eith
I wrote this at 3am, full of flu. It’s filth, am sorry.
Christmas Eve in a relatively new place was pretty quiet. You’d only been here 6 months. Most of that time was occupied by work or fixing the house up. The rest of your time was taken up with having an affair with your incredibly attractive neighbour. The gentle vibration of your phone on the sofa caught your attention.
This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence, including Joel briefly being violent with Sparrow, graphic descriptions of wounds and post-apocalypse wound care, graphic sexual content, and descriptions of childhood trauma
A/N;I should have called this chapter ‘exposition dump’ My endless gratitude and thanks to @the-ginger-hedge-witch,@radiowallet and V for reading through this for me to reassure my garbage brain that it was not garbage.
This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence, including Joel briefly being violent with Sparrow, graphic descriptions of wounds and post-apocalypse wound care, graphic sexual content, and descriptions of childhood trauma
A/N;I should have called this chapter ‘exposition dump’ My endless gratitude and thanks to @the-ginger-hedge-witch,@radiowallet and V for reading through this for me to reassure my garbage brain that it was not garbage.
The question makes you jerk, your body jack-knifing into rigid posture as you rear away from him, his hand clamped on your hip, his eyes searching your face for an answer. You wriggle, trying to remove yourself from his grasp as he presses himself a little harder into you. You’re covered in sweat and cum and a day’s grime.
“Doesn’t matter” you mutter, wrenching his arm from your skin, skittering over the pile of soft dusty clothing. He watches you with a furrowed brow as you grab at the clothing you had found that fit. A pair of dark wash jeans, hiking boots and a few shirts, none of them covered in holes or blood.
Unease settles in his stomach. In the weeks since you left Boston, you’ve offered nothing about yourself he doesn’t already know, bits and pieces picked from the little you’ve offered, the little he’s seen. The pens in your pockets, strapped together with twine and duct tape, more valuable than the clothes on your back, the equipment to make the forged ration cards that almost got you killed.
He’sassumed.Assumed so many things about you, from your age, to the life you lived inside the razor wire safety, that you took it for granted, that you were living on the edge of starvation, that you were going to Denver to get out of Boston, that the rumours of an active community had somehow reached your ears, and you were looking to start over, looking to run away.
The rumours out of Denver talked of Fireflies. That the militia group had scrubbed out the military, painted their symbols and sayings on the grimy brick, as though spray paint was a yellow brick road, their leader a woman behind a curtain.
Tess had run into them a few times. Tiny little splinter factions that talked of revolution, of taking the earth back, of the search for a cure. It made him laugh, the blind optimism of their cause, as if the world didn’t end with an order and a terrified cry that fell suddenly silent.
Joel watches as your fingers shake, you’re still sticky with his cum, your own, your skin still flushed dark and your breath not quite back to normal. Is this part of it? Were you asked? To trade your body for information about him, about Tess? What information could you have gained, those wide-eyed pleas of his name enough to shatter anyone’s resolve.
It turns to a thorned vine in his stomach, biting and savage, the knowledge that he would have told you anything for the heat between your legs, the soft slip of your skin and a whimper.
He’s moving before he realises it, vision going black to grab you, wrench your bird-like body to look at him. You’re fighting immediately, tears in the corner of your eyes as you scratch at his face, the exposed skin of his chest, frantic and scared.
“Who are you?” he’s loud, too loud, voice cracking in your ear like an explosion
“Get the fuck off me, get OFFme” you’re screaming, kicking and clawing until his skin is under your nails, beading blood on your fingertips. His grip only becomes tighter, shaking you towards him as you collide with his chest, his teeth bared, and skin flushed.
“I don’t know!” you scream, the words you don’t speak, the words you neverspeak leaving your throat like a bullet from a chamber.
His hand drops from your arm as you stumble backwards, colliding hard with a table, its contents spilling onto the floor with soft thumps, both of you heaving breaths as dust scatters around you like falling glitter.
“I don’t know” you repeat, rubbing your arm as you turn away.
“What do you mean?” he says, his voice slow, calm and deliberate.
“I don’t know who I am”
You watch his lip curl, the sneer flashing across his vision, the briefest flash of something sorrowful, a mourning not completed. Your eyes flick to the table blocking the entrance, your coat laying heavy on the table blocking the door. Your fingers itch, searching for the familiar softened edge, the anchor.
“What do you know?” he asks, his hands raised, palms up as he steps back from you.
You sink to the floor, hands on your knees as you look at the lines in your palm and begin.
*
Whenever I try to figure it out, I always come back to the things I know for sure. I know I had a mother, a father. I know I had an older brother, and I know his name was James. We lived in a house, and I used to think it was a big house, but I don’t know if I think that because I was so small.
I know they had jobs, but I don’t know what they were. James babysat me most days, picking me up from a room that was bright coloured and had kids in it – I suppose they were my friends. He held my hand as we walked home and played games like counting the number of pink flowers, or collecting dandelions for me to blow on.
My favourite snack was something dusted with crystal sugar. My room had animals on the wallpaper, and I was always kissed goodnight before I went to sleep. Mum and Dad called me sweetie, honey, love. James called me kiddo, or brat if I was in his way. I know he was older.
I can figure he was about 14 then – because I saw the kids grow up into those same too big limbs later on, not quite fitting in their skin, and I remember him seeming that way. King Kong in a backwards baseball cap. He was nicer to me than I think most older brothers are. I don’t remember him making me cry, maybe he did, but I’ve cried about so much maybe I forgot.
That day? The last day? It was just starting to get cold. I remember I asked my mum to tuck me in tighter, wrap me together in sheets and soft blankets before she smothered my face in kisses and I fell asleep. I think I had good dreams, I want to believe that. That little girl deserves it.
The sound woke me up. Loud banging and bright lights and I thought it was the Fourth of July again, the pretty colours in the sky. But when I looked outside the air was choked in smoke and fire. I could hear people screaming.
I don’t know why they didn’t wake me earlier; if Mum and Dad were just hoping I could sleep through it, like it was a nightmare I could wake up to in the morning. If it was better to see charred corpses than burning bodies. I’ve seen both now. There’s not much difference.
James woke me. He came into my room and picked me up. I thought it was strange because he never did that anymore, telling me I was getting too big for it, despite Mum and Dad never seeming to mind. He carried me to the living room and the TV was on, there were images of everything on fire, and that was the last thing I remember seeing on a screen.
Mum kissed me on the head. She told me it was going to be okay, that she had packed us a bag and we needed to go, like a little holiday, just for a while. The noises scared me, but James called it an adventure, so I nodded, chewing on a strand of my hair.
James covered my eyes when we went outside. I could smell it though, the sweet char of a world on fire, the smoke curled into my nostrils and its never left. He buckled me in, sliding in next to me and didn’t let go of my hand. I could smell burnt rubber when dad pulled the car out.
I wonder why they left so late. If they took their time with preparations in the chaos, if the car was full of canned food and warm clothing. If they anticipated a long stay in the middle of nowhere. I don’t remember what was in the back seat.
I remember my Dad’s knuckles were bleached on the wheel, like bone. I remember the windows rolled up and the radio off and flashes of more explosions on all sides of us. I don’t remember the turns we took to take us out of the suburbs. I remember horns, loads of them, loud and screaming.
I don’t know if we hit them, or they hit us. But the car got hit anyway. It flipped, at least onto its side, because my cheek felt cool against the glass. Mum pulled me out, and her neck was sticky with blood when I wrapped my arms around it.
We ran. Dad dragged James by the arm and I tried to keep my face buried in mum’s coat, it was soft and fuzzy warm. I was still in pyjamas, they had little pink pigs with curlicue tails and heart eyes. I had pudgy toes, and I think there was glitter polish on them. It caught the light from the town on fire around us.
The first infected I ever saw was running at me. You know the newly turned, the fresh fresh ones, they foam at the mouth? They’re rabid, they snarl and scream. You can almost see the person fading away as the infection takes over, killing the humanity like a candle.
Dad had a pipe, I don’t know where he got it from, and I just watched him hit them and keep running, dragging my mother by the arm, and James by the shoulder. I was crying then. My tears were cold. The alleyway we hid in was dark, and James cupped my cheeks and kissed my forehead, trying to calm down my screaming.
A gunshot made us run again. That was when I saw the trucks for the first time. You know them, they’re still in all the zones. They’re like supply trucks, but these ones were full of soldiers, and they sprayed bullets like confetti. Looking back, I’m sure they hit some innocent people, some uninfected that were just running, or injured, or scared.
I’m sure it came from a good place. I can know that, I can believe it. That it was a good choice in the chaos, to offer some kind of safety. My parents weren’t the first to hand their kids to soldiers, to be sequestered in a truck. I don’t know if they offered or were forced to take them, the wailing babies and the scared little kids covered in snot.
James screamed. He grabbed at me as my father held him back, around the shoulders, like you would a man. Like he wasn’t a teenager. He grabbed my wrist so hard I was sure it broke. When they yanked me out of his grip, he took a piece of me with him. You can still see the scar, see? Right there.
I could hear my mum. She was yelling, words of comfort. “Sweetie, it’s going to be okay, sweetie, it will be over soon”
I think that’s where it turned sour, those candy sweet nicknames full of hope and love. Because if there was ever a time? To give me something to cling to, something to build on? It was right then, but this is right now and I know better than they did, I know what they failed to give me by offering me comfort instead of my name.
It was too dark in the truck. We crashed into each other as they drove, tiny little kid fingers pushed into each other until when they opened the canvas back, we were just a heap of crying bodies, clinging to each other for warmth. It was some kind of bunker, I think.
All concrete and fluorescent lights. Scratchy blankets that they wrapped around each of us. There was a woman officer there, her uniform was covered in blood, and she shed her clothes down to the white undershirt, bleeding pink. She played games with us, sang songs I cant remember now, wiped our faces with damp towels and tucked us in. Three to a cot.
The lights never went off. The chaos never went away. I think it took them three days to figure out it wasn’t going away. That this group of scared sickly little kids were their responsibility now, that they had to take care of us.
That woman, I wish I could remember her name, she took care of us. We ate canned food that tasted like nothing, and she scratched a hopscotch court into the concrete. A lot of us asked when we were going home. They didn’t answer us.
They asked us every day. What our name was, when was our birthday, could we remember where we lived? Over time, the kids that calmed down could remember. I didn’t have anything to grab on to. All I could remember was my name was Sweetie. But they knew that wasn’t right.
They shipped us all off together anyway, sending us to one of the first quarantined zones. It was a defunct military base outside of Denver. There were wounded there, not infected. It was a little community of broken people. Another woman, a civilian, tried to teach us all.
She called us her little ducklings, because we would follow her and cling to her cardigan. One by one, they matched us up. Birth records and memories, and surnames memorised matched little kids with families, with relatives that survived. I know now that 60% of the population was infected or killed that first night. I think that number got higher in the weeks that followed.
Nobody ever came to claim me. I couldn’t remember my name, I didn’t know where I lived. And there were lots of boys named James who had little sisters. So, they left me, to cling to whatever I could from wherever I was.
I got in every truck they offered, I slept in every bed they gave me, choked down every meal until I couldn’t remember different. But I wanted them to know, my mum and dad and James, that I was alive. That I was surviving, that they made the right choice.
I assume they’re dead. I guess in a way I died with them that day. I want to deliver these. Somehow let them know that I still have breath in my lungs. And then I will find some other reason to keep living.
Because what other choice do I have?
*
Joel thumbs through the bundle of postcards. Its thick, heavy in his grip, wrapped with a rust red twine. You untie it and let them spill into his palms. They’re shards of a life you didn’t get to live. Some of them are angry, jagged spikes that pierce his gut as the force of your devotion to the family you didn’t get to know wave at him in inky black.
“Dear Mum, Dear Dad, Dear James”
Joel glances at his watch, the smashed shards of time winking back at him in the dusty light. You gather the postcards back together, tying a neat bow with twine. He watches as you run your finger across a softened edge, see the tear fall down your cheek as you slip it back into the pocket of your jacket.
“I try not to be too angry with them. They did what they thought was best, given the circumstances. I survived, isn’t that what they wanted? Isn’t it better to be a starving, homeless, nameless person, than a bleeding corpse in the street?”
Joel doesn’t answer. You watch as his eyes flick back and forth between your face and the broken watch on his wrist. Each breath seems to cost him effort as his gaze settles on your face. He’s stripped, the hard edges of his furrowed brow softened into such mournful sorrow. You recognise the expression from the last time you looked in a mirror.
His fingers are soft on your cheek. Dragging tracks through the tears he wraps his hand around the back of your neck, tugging you gently closer to him. He hugs you like a lover. Pressing his forehead against yours, full body against your skin as you feel the weight of whatever he isn’t saying weigh you down too. Your arms wrap around his middle, he presses a kiss to the crown of your head.
Joel hears the glass shatter, the vengeful, hateful scream of the front windows exploding, bodies entering in its midst, cackling and laughing. He shoves you to the ground, instinct as he spreads his body wide and turns.
There are too many of them. You count four, covered in grease like streaks of war paint, carrying rusted machetes and feral grins as they circle inward. His gun is too far away, his bow, all of it discarded as though mottled glass would keep you safe, as though this town was deserted.
They seem to ignore you. Circling towards him with weapons raised as he inhales. He hopes you run. Hopes you grab that jacket and its hidden treasure and get away from here, scramble across the broken glass and run like you have something to lose, because you have something to live for. He has nothing, but the desire to help you do it, heart hammering in an empty chest, an echo chamber of guilt.
The first one drops with a fist to the face. Blood explodes from his nose as he rushes Joel, his weapon raised. Joel takes it from him as he falls. Its glinting a mean red, rust and old blood on the edges as he swipes at another, causing them to jump back.
They’re faster than he is, weaving towards him through racks of forgotten clothing as he leads them away from you, still sprawled and shocked on the ground. They move as a team, attack and retreat as you watch his eyes focus, finding the leader with a hard stare.
The next one jumps for him, landing on his shoulder with a hunting knife raised. You hear the gush of blood as Joel throws them to the floor, the rusted blade cutting a jagged line across their throat. You watch as he stamps on their face for good measure, the gurgling howl of the dying cut short.
“Get out of here” he snarls. You don’t know who he’s talking to. Your hands scrape on broken glass as you crawl backwards, somehow ignored by the group he has whittled down to two. You feel the sting of it on your palms like a shot of adrenaline and move faster, clutching a glass shard that cuts your palm as you scramble to your feet, running towards your supplies still laying on the useless barricade he made for you.
Something grabs you and you react, spinning to plunge the glass into something soft. It’s a woman. She’s not much older than you. You watch her eyes go wide as the shard embeds in the join between her neck and shoulder, the thick ooze of red blood calling her hands forth to clutch and gasp at it. Blood trickles from her mouth as she tries to breathe. You watch her fall, you watch her die.
Joels shout of pain draws you away from the new corpse, his shirt torn by a rusty blade as you watch the man with broader shoulders than the rest run at him, weapon raised. The fight is brutal, all sharp knives and bruises as you watch them trade punches, knees to the gut. Joel loses his blade first, wrenching the other man’s wrist with a resounding crack. You’re frozen watching them, attacking each other like infected, biting and scraping as blood drips from a cut on Joels lip, the man’s eye swelling shut.
He manages to get Joel in a headlock, trapping his arms as he takes the kicks to his shins with grunts of pain. He says nothing, pressing down on Joel’s throat as you watch him struggle, his face turning slowly red.
The gun is in your hands before you realise, the metal cool to the touch. It shakes in your fingers as blood seeps across the floor to your feet, pooling shiny and garish in the light. The click of the safety is loud, booming in your ears. It’s heavy, so heavy as you raise and pull the trigger, easier than flicking a switch.
The flash from the muzzle surprises and blinds you. Through the blinking starbursts in your eyes you hear a roar of pain, the sound of a body hitting the floor, feet stampeding towards you as you wildly aim, try to fire again, fingers slippery with blood as you fumble.
“Get off me!” you scream, feeling a shoulder connect with your stomach, your body lifted off the ground as though you weigh nothing. Your arm catches, tears on a piece of broken glass as you’re carried into the afternoon, your stomach rolling with every step as you scream and scratch and thrash.
There’s a door, a ringing in your ears you can’t shake, your vision blurry. You’re going to vomit, the jostling, the pain of each heavy step as you hear a boot connect with metal, the skittering of hinges kicked free. You scramble the minute your feet touch the ground, running blind away from whoever grabbed you, panting and half sick.
“Sparrow” Joel shouts, loud and frightened as he grabs for you, his hand slicking blood as you twist away from him, still fighting against a now dead enemy.
He looks at his blood-soaked hand, the rivulet of red over his knuckle, heart pounding and ears still ringing from the gunshot in the enclosed space. It’s yourblood. Your blood on his hands, and you’re bleeding, right here in front of him and not again, never again, not now, not now, not again, please.
“Joel” you gasp, salvation in a syllable as his hands rush over your body, pulling you and pressing against your stomach, your chest, covering you in sticky warm blood as the air takes on a copper tang. He’s frantic, grabbing at the sodden dress, pulling it away from your body as he murmurs words you can’t make out, sounds that make no sense.
“Joel” you say again, catching his cheek in a bloody palm. “Joel, I’m okay”
His eyes are wide and sightless, lip quivering beneath his beard as he searches you, looking for the source of it, ripping flimsy fabric between his shaking fingers until he presses his hand to your stomach, ragged deep breaths shaking his frame.
“It’s my arm. It’s just a scratch, Joel, I’m okay” you repeat, scratching blood-soaked fingernails into his beard, still and silent as you wait for his breathing to calm.
He presses his forehead against yours, eyes closed as he pulls you into him, wrapping you in his arms, his body fever hot as you let him lift you, another counter beneath your thighs as you feel the waves of nauseating adrenaline leave your system, each breath expelling it like poison.
Joel nudges his nose to your cheek, spreading his palms wide against your back as he steps closer between your thighs. You were here, a half an hour ago, just before he asked a question and the world cracked wide like a goose egg, splitting the universe into more chaos.
His lips are soft, a deliberate brush against your own as he shifts to cup your cheek, stroking your jaw as your pulse beats against his fingers. Engulfed in the smell of gunpowder, the crackling heat of a fire, the softness of damp earth, he kisses you. Slotting his mouth to yours like a missing piece, you share his breath, feel the barest hint of his teeth against your lip.
He’s warm, like the lazy sun in an afternoon, filtered through the branches of trees to caress your face and lift you, tilt your chin and part your lips, seeking more, drinking in the taste of him on your tongue, heady and full of sorrow.
You had never imagined it slow. In the delirious moments between wake and sleep, his hand splayed wide across your belly, the imagined kisses were frantic, feral and snarling as he snapped his teeth, bit down on soft flesh and consumed you, greedy and unhinged.
His fingers brush your cheek like the first snow, tracing to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, tug lightly at the end like the ringing of a bell, the turning of a page, something fresh and clean beneath. It feels like falling, the drop and swoop as you taste his tongue, feel the flutter of his hand on your jaw.
He swallows your moan with a tightening of a fist, twisting the gore soaked fabric in his hand as he pulls you closer, presses your chest to him, no space for your beating heart to run. Instinct guides you, shoving his shirt off his shoulders, leaving only a grimy tee as you grab at his shoulders, leaving bloody handprints in your wake.
“Joel” you whimper, feeling something hungry sink its fangs into your belly. You need to feel, something, anything,that isn’t pain or fear or sorrow. He’s a tower, a beacon of guiding light as he runs his mouth across your jaw, nipping lightly at your chin.
“I know little bird” he murmurs “I know”
“I need, I need”
“I got you” he says, a hand travelling to your thigh, hitching it over his waist as you grab at him, pressing as much of your skin as possible against him, needing to feel the still living tissue beneath your fingers as he fumbles with his jeans.
It burns like cleansing fire. He breaches you with a soft groan and a kiss, pulling you to sink onto him as though salvation was the join of your bodies. Every nerve ending lighting up with his hips flush against your own, sticky skin on sticky skin.
You’re not inexperienced. Before Joel there were boys with protruding ribs and a kind smile, men with nothing to offer but an escape for an hour, a soft touch, a softer kiss. Joel allows you no escape, trapping you with his body and the weight of emotion alike.
You move like dancers, soft and fluid as he chases your lips, hungry for a taste of the pleasure pouring from you, his fingers tightening around your thigh as you feel the scrape of denim on your skin.
“More, please more” you’re half sobbing, wrung out and squirming as he thrusts harder, spearing your insides with a force that cramps your lungs, chokes the tears before they fall. He’s pressing bruises into your skin, marking it, erasing pain with pleasure as he murmurs into your skin.
“I’ve got you, I got you Sparrow, I’m here”
You come with a cry of his name, a stuttered thrust deep inside you as you feel him follow you, pulsing hot and aching inside you as it spreads new warmth throughout your body, a softened ember glow.
He kisses you, wrapping his arms around your shaking body as you come down, unshed tears soaking into your lashes, vanishing into the air. He presses his lips to your cheeks, your eyelids, gently stamping your grimy face with affection until your heartbeat returns to somewhat normal.
You run your hands across his shoulders, feeling the snag of clotting cuts in the fabric, the expansion of his lungs as he breathes. You feel his shoulders, his spine, the wide expanse of his ribs when he winces, a brief crease of pain across his features.
Pulling back, you look, running your hands across his chest until you see it, the ragged hole in his shirt, the seeping blood that’s stained it to the waist.
“Oh my god”
“It’s alright” he says, batting your hand away from the wound “It’s nothing”
“What did that? Did they get you with a knife? Joel, we need to get you some antibiotics, let me see, let me see”
“It wasn’t them.” He says, twisting away from you, righting his jeans as you feel the slip of him between your thighs, pooling beneath you.
“Then what was it?” you ask, reaching for him again. He grabs your wrists, pinning them together with one hand as he lifts his shirt, an angry ragged wound across his ribcage.
“It glanced me. Just needs to be cleaned, same as your hands”
“What glanced you, when?”
“Bullet, little bird” he says, tightening his grip as he watches the realisation crest over your face.
When you struggle, panic in your limbs, he pulls you close, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he traps you to his chest.
“You did the right thing. You got him, he’s dead, you saved my life” he says, pressing his lips to your hairline.
“Ishotyou” you cry out.
“Your aim could use some work” he says, and you watch in disbelief as a grin crosses his face. “I’m going to clean you up, then I’m going to ask you to give me a few stitches, ok?”
He pulls Meryl’s moonshine from his backpack, pouring it over your hands as he swipes the blood away. He treats you like your something precious, swiping a clean cloth across the shallow cuts on your arm and hands. He tears bandages from a shirt, wraps your palms in them, sealing them with a kiss. Each time you reach for him, he dodges, shaking his head as he grabs your new clothing, allows you to dress.
They fit you like no other clothes you remember, jeans thick enough to chase away the cold, a shirt that swings below your waistline. Shoes that hug your feet and feel like soft earth beneath your toes. Joel nods appreciatively, wrapping an arm around your waist to kiss you again, staining your new shirt with drops of his blood.
He takes his shirt off, ripping it into long strips as you watch, the broad muscles beneath his chest twitching as he tears threads with his teeth. He sequesters the blood-soaked portion, making it the same size as the others, laying them flat on the counter to dry. He tosses you a small tin, ALTOIDS,raised on the front of it, the edges weary with rust. Inside is a needle and thread, some loops of paracord and a pair of tweezers.
“Just like a pair of jeans” he says, offering you the moonshine as he nods towards his ribs.
You take a swig before you sterilise it, threading the needle with shaking fingers as he watches silently. He sits like a statue, allowing you to press against his skin, hesitating as you poke and prod at him, the wound still bleeding over your fingers.
“My day was a lot like yours” he says quietly.
You look up at him, confused.
“Chaos” he says, nodding back at the wound on his side.
You pinch the edge of it together, seeing fresh red blood ooze from the gaping mouth of it, dripping down his side, his skin stained a deep mottled red.
“I should have woken her up too. But we didn’t know what was going on. And it was just me an’ her, and I didn’t wanna scare her.”
You press the needle into his skin, feeling his breath hitch beneath your fingers as you force it through the flesh.
“I’d put her to bed, she’d fallen asleep on the couch after waitin’ up for me. So, I think she woke up scared. She certainly was soon enough anyway. First infected I ever saw was my neighbour. His name was Jimmy. Decent enough guy, had a beer with him a few times. He came crashing through the glass door and ran at us. I had to shoot him. Sarah was terrified.”
“Who… who is Sarah?”
Joel pauses, glancing at the watch on his wrist.
“My daughter” he says softly.
You try not to react, but your hands shake so much you almost drop the needle, your focus suddenly intense on his skin, unwilling to look him in the eye.
“I got a brother, same as you, ‘cept I’m the older one. Tommy, he showed up with a truck and we did the same, planned on getting the hell out of there. I could hear Sarah in the back, reacting to the houses on fire, the crowds of people.”
He winces to the tightening of the stitches, fresh blood pouring over your fingers.
“Same as you, our truck got hit. Sarah broke her leg, so I carried her. We were doin’ okay. Got out of the main drag of Austin anyway, where they were all gathering. Mighta been the same day as you, same time you were being carried by your momma, I was carrying my baby girl.”
Dread clutches at your stomach, hot and painful.
“There were bodies everywhere. I tried to tuck her head to stop her from seein’ it, but she was a lot bigger than you were, so I’m sure she saw everything. The burning buildings, the people, the dyin’, the turning… but we managed to get out of there, somewhere quiet where I could look at her leg, breathe for just a second, try to figure out what to do. Still don’t know what I woulda done different”
Sorrow steals his breath for a moment.
“Same as you, we ran into a soldier. Some kid with a flashlight and a radio. We weren’t sick, they were chasin’ us, and Sarah was crying out cause she was in pain.”
“D-Did they take her?”
He laughs, bitter and cold.
“They killed her. Is that the same thing?”
You tie off the stitches, pressing your hand hard against his chest, feeling the life in his veins from the pulse of his blood.
“He was aiming at me, but Tommy shot first. And then Sarah… I was right there…”
You thread your fingers between his, staring at the dried blood flaked on his knuckles. You let the silence hold you, cradle you both as everything you’ve lost somehow breathes in the room, an entity just out of sight.
“I miss them too” you say, resting your head on his shoulder as the sun begins its descent, streaking mournful purple across the sky.
Joel kisses you again, bitter and gentle, hauling you into his lap to press his grimy chest against your clean clothes, tangling his fist in your hair. You want to tell him you’re sorry. You can taste the same on his lips, the copper tang of mourning.
He traces his hand across your heart, feeling it beneath his palm as you bury your face in his neck.
“I keep thinking, I’m going to die out here. And when I do, I’ll be all alone, with letters to a family that died trying to save me. I don’t know if I’m more afraid of dying, or of living having let them down.”
Joel strokes your cheek. He wants to lie to you, to take the weight of your secret off your baby-bird frame, hold it in his chest, weigh it down with his own regret and sorrow. Let it sink beneath the waves until neither of you can feel it. The lie tastes like tin on his teeth. He gives you all he can offer, a kiss and a promise, more than he’s ever given anyone.
Warnings:Voyeurism, masturbations, sex toys, oral sex (male and female receiving), vaginal sex, angst, talks of domestic abuse, talks of being held captive, protectiveness, Frankie throwing his rank around a little and it’s sexy, domestic violence, threats of murder.
Comments: Frankie finds that his new neighbor doesn’t close her windows when she’s masturbating. You have moved trying to escape your past and catch the handsome man next door watching you one day, inviting him over in the heat of the moment, a decision that will change your lives.
Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers
Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says ’creator chooses not to use warnings’. You also agree that you’re the right age to be consuming anything here.
Frankie had noticed that the ‘FOR RENT’ sign had been taken down next door. Noticed it when he had pulled into the driveway after a long day, noticing that the lights had been turned on, but he hadn’t given it much more thought than that. The need for a beer and a shower urgent. Perhaps a beer in the shower after the day he had. Not noticing that someone was moving around, setting up a home while he opens the door to the house and sighing as he takes his hat off and starts toeing off his boots to let his aching feet breathe.
“Fuck I’m getting old.” He grunts to himself and closes the door, emptying his pockets of keys, wallets, mints and his phone, dumping it all on the entryway table Julia had left when she had moved out two years ago. Hanging up his jacket and pulling his sweaty t-shirt over his head as he walks down the hall towards his bedroom.
Warnings:Gambling, strip Sabacc, nudity, wagers on sex, oral sex (female receiving), vaginal sex
Comments: A Mandalorian sits down at your Sabacc table on Canto Bight, wanting to play for the ship you have offered up as collateral. Except you decide that you won’t play for money, you’ll play for clothes.
Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers
ClickKeep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says ’creator chooses not to use warnings’. You also agree that you’re the right age to be consuming anything here.
It wasn’t often that you spent much time in one of the gambling dens on Canto Bight. Often the atmosphere was too much, or the table too rich, but this was interesting. When the Mandalorian had sat down at the table, several were concerned that the obvious bounty hunter had pucks on them. It was clear by the way they quickly gathered their credits and scattered to the four winds. You had been annoyed at that, seeing the potential profit you had been betting on slip through your fingers. Instead, he hadn’t got up to go after one of them or pull out a puck for anyone still seated. He pulled out a pouch of credits and tossed them down, obviously wanting to play. You raise a brow and toss down your latest hand, forfeit since so many left the table. “You’re gonna play, Mando?” You ask in disbelief.
Din tilts his helmet, glad for the visor which makes it easier for him to bluff. “I heard from others that you are betting a ship. I need one. Let’s play.” He orders, gesturing for the dealer to cut the deck. You hum, picking up your drink to take a sip, the others warily looking at each other, unsure of whether they wish to play a Mandalorian. If he loses, he could decide to kill them then and there. Once Din has his cards, he is careful to make sure they are not reflected in his visor as he eyes his hand.
Warnings: Organized crime, guns, violence, drugging, kidnapping, oral sex (male and female receiving), loss of virginity, recording sex with out permission, fingering, domestic violence, threats, murder
Comments:You are a Smith, he is a York, pitted enemies in a turf war between your crime families. A meeting at the infamous neutral territory, The Lounge, ends up with Dave kidnapping you as a blow to the Smith family. Plotting to keep you until you give him something that would be priceless. Your virginity.
A/N: While the reader does have a last name, there is no description for the reader.
Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers
ClickKeep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says ’creator chooses not to use warnings’. You also agree that you’re the right age to be consuming anything here.
The kind of wet work that went into the shading dealings of his family wasn’t for everyone. There were few that could kill a man with a baseball bat to the head and calmly go kiss their mother before cleaning up for the weekly family dinner. Dave York had been born for it. Only son of the powerful leader of the York crime family, he had killed his first man at fourteen. The blank stare in his dark eyes reported to shake a man to his core, rightly earned with the blood that stained his hands. Groomed to take over as the leader of family, associates and loyal men. To continue the turf war with their bitter enemies, the Smiths.
You are the only daughter of Lewis Smith, raised to take over one day despite your cousin’s desire to be the head of the family. He doesn’t think you’re strong enough, but that’s typical. Most men underestimate you, they think of you as some weak, delicate flower, and not the stone cold killer that you are. You don’t plan to have a turf war when you take over. No, you plan to end it. You plan to kill Dave York before he can kill you.
Marcus Pike x female Reader Co-written with @absurdthirst
Recently arrived in Texas and only slightly removed from his divorce, Marcus finds himself smitten with the women at the housewares store that is helping him furnish his new Austin condo. It becomes a more complicated situation than he could have expected, but Marcus has never been one to shy away from a challenge when love is on the line. ✨This fic takes place *before* the events of The Mentalist.✨
Rating: E for Extremely Explicit! Word Count:16.4k Warnings: Cursing and food/alcohol mentions. Blanket warnings for this fic will include divorce, past abusive relationships, deceased parents, father issues. Summary: Whether you technically want to call it your first or second date with Marcus, a movie and dinner becomes quite an adventure when you realize that the two of you have a few key things in common. Notes: We’re ramping things up right out of the gate here, guys. Hold on to your hats!
With five minutes left until six o’clock you’ve managed to force yourself to stop pacing the main floor of your place. Instead, you’re sitting in your kitchen with a mug of tea and nervously twirling the small ring you’ve chosen as an accessory round and around your finger. It had been nearly impossible to think about anything besides Marcus for the rest of your shift. Everything seemed to push your thoughts back to him. Not that they ever strayed far from him in the first place.
Marcus had to stop setting up everything about an hour before, switching gears and showering so he could get dressed in something that was appropriate for a date. Nothing too formal, but he paired dark jeans and boots with a maroon button-down shirt and his leather jacket. The dishwasher hummed and he had just transferred the clothes over to the dryer. Kitchen towels and bathroom towels are all ready to be folded and put away once they are done.
He checks his watch and gives a grin, time to head over. He picks up the small bouquet of flowers he had stopped by to grab after he had dropped you off at work and gives himself a small nod. “Time to go, don’t embarrass yourself Pike, you like this woman and she’s your neighbor.”
You shake your head and grin when the sound of the doorbell chimes at six sharp, wondering what Marcus must think of your roommate’s playful motion to replace the neighborhood-standard ding dong with something more akin to music. “Right on time,” you practically beam at him when you open the door. He’s somehow even more attractive than he was a few hours ago, and is very sweetly holding out a small handful of gorgeous flowers. “Come on in. I’ll get a vase for those beauties.”
He steps inside, pleased to find that it is a mirror image of his own place. “Well now I don’t have to explain how big my living room is.” He teases, remembering how flustered you became when you had said something about it that could be construed in a completely different kind of way.
Snickering lightly, you dig an empty vase out of a cabinet and toss him a pointed look. “You pushed the innuendo on that one. You’d just gotten done asking about a people to cuddlesection!”
“Valid question for a single man who just wants someone to love.” He argues playfully. “It’s better than trying one of those dating apps.” He shudders slightly at the idea.
“I have to admit, they can suck.” A lot of your more recent dating has been done via app and blind set ups with Naomi’s boyfriend’s friends, but clearly none of them have stuck.
“I get the theory behind them.” Marcus shrugs and steps closer as you put water in the vase. He leans against your counter and sweeps his eyes up and down your figure in appreciation. “I just like an interesting meet-cute. Like ours. It’s honestly fascinating in my opinion and so much better than ‘we matched’. ”
“Retail makes it harder sometimes. All those fun weekend activities where people meet and chat and get to know each other? I’m usually working then. It’s only with the new promotion that I’m getting some of my nights and weekend time back.” The beautiful bouquet is easily deposited into the vase with some water, and you set it down on the kitchen island in front of you with a satisfied smile. “But I like our meet-cute better, too. It’ll be a very cute story if we ever have occasion to tell it.”
“Well.” Marcus shoots you a smile as you admire the flowers. “I say that we start our first date and see if we have reason to tell people about a meet-cute or that date from hell with the person I unfortunately live next to now and just wave to awkwardly.” He jokes. If things didn’t work out, he wouldn’t treat you any different from any neighbors he had in the past. He just wasn’t that type of man.
“I doubt you’ve ever been anyone’s Date From Hell, Marcus Pike.” One quick reach and you’re picking up your purse from the kitchen island and nudging him toward the front door.
He chuckles. “Then you’ve never heard about the time my car broke down, I spilled my beer on her, my credit card was declined, and it started pouring down rain while we walked to a phone alllllllll in one date.” He tells you as he guides you over to his car. “Classic definition of a date from hell. ”
“Oh,noooo.” The laughter that bubbles out of you is apologetic, to say the least. “That sounds awful. But it wasn’t because you did something wrong.”
“True.” He huffs and opens the door for you. “But it doesn’t count as anywhere close to the top ten dates.”
Once you’re both settled in the car you settle back with a comfortable sigh. “Tell me about one of the top ten, then. The funniest date or the best one or the one that is the most nostalgic.”
“Well….” Marcus knows that it’s not good protocol to talk about past relationships, but you asked. “I reserved a suite at the best hotel and had a full spa package arranged complete with room service.” He offers. “That was a fantastic weekend.”
“You like to make a fuss.” The revelation makes you smile, glad to see that the Marcus you met today who does small things like hold doors and pick up trash from the table, is consistently thoughtful. Not just as a means of making a good first impression.
“I do.” He doesn’t apologize for it, knowing that some might not like it, but it was a part of his personality. “Acts of services?” He offers with a smile.
“I’ll remember that.” Preferring to go into this with the idea of it lasting, you want to keep track of the important things early on. If it ends up fizzling out, it won’t be because of a lack of intention. “I’m kind of a words of affirmation and gifts combo.”
“Noted.” He tosses you a grin. “And if I get to be too much, just— you know, you can always say something. I never want to overstep.” He knows that there are certain people who hate having things done for them and he respects it.
“We’ll find a rhythm.” That’s something you’re fairly certain of, given the fact that you’re both reasonable adults and have so far been very upfront about your interest in each other. “As long as this doesn’t unseat your worst ever date story tonight, and we decide to see what happens…we’ll find a rhythm. Just…if you’re not a good morning and good night text kind of person, tell me now.”
That makes him grin and he shakes his head. “I’m more of a 'hey I called to let you know that I’m going to be ten minutes late and is there anything you need when I am on my way?’ type of person.” He had stopped calling Amanda when she seemed so annoyed by it, but in the end she seemed annoyed no matter what he had done.
“We’re the people who drive other people crazy,” you observe softly. “Checking in, sending notes, holding doors, doing things preemptively to try to lighten the load.” It actually makes you chuckle, the way that the two of you seem to line up. Even Naomi likes to give you grief about the little notes you drop in her purse sometimes when she has something big coming up, or the fact that you always seem to have one of her favorite bath bombs stashed for when she’s having a bad day.
“Can’t be a bad thing, right?” He asks.
“For us?” You shake your head, offering him a smile as he drives. “No. It’s good for us. But other people are missing out on the excellence that is our affection.”
He appreciates the outlook you have on it and hums when he stops at a red light. “What about you? I want to know your worst and best dates. See where the bar is at.”
“Let’s see.” Humming dramatically, you love the way he lights up a little when he looks over at you again before the light turns green. “Worst would be from college. The guy who took me to his little brother’s little league game because I said I like baseball. I gave him the benefit of the doubt, thinking he was trying to be cute about it, but he proceeded to spend the entire game yelling corrections at the kids and telling me why they should give up on sports early to avoid disappointment.” It’s sort of funny now - mostly you just feel bad for the little brother and literally anyone who has met him since. “And the ‘picnic’ dinner he was very proud of packing? Was celery sticks and Jell-O cups.Which we ate while he told me what I should be changing about my diet and lifestyle to be more attractive to the men who have to spend time with me.”
“What a dick.” Marcus makes a face of disgust and shakes his head. “I’m seriously hoping you shoved a celery stick somewhere extremely uncomfortable in his bodily orifices.” He chuckles. “I’m saying this as a private citizen and this in no way represents the view of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He adds on, dry humor lacing his tone.
You shrug, being far past any kind of upset about it, and gently and briefly run your knuckle along the side of his hand in a soothing gesture. “I went home and ordered a pizza for me and my roommate to have with some beers while we watched the actual game that was on that night. Much better use of my time.”
“Perfect.” Marcus nods in approval. “If he wanted to really make it a date, he should have taken you to the game. Cheap seats, hotdogs, and beer?” He gives a small groan of approval. “Nachos and the ice cream that comes in the little hats.”
“I’m seeing a road trip to a Rangers game in our future.” The prediction makes your smile widen, and don’t for one moment regret letting yourself get excited.
“We could do that.” Marcus has to admit that he wouldn’t mind that at all. “We didn’t have a professional team in Portland, but we had a minor league team that I would go to sometimes.”
“Are you from Portland originally?” You ask, wanting to know more about the man you already feel so comfortable with.
“No.” He shakes his head and shrugs. “I’m from southern Cali, don’t hold it against me. Portland was my first duty station out of the Academy.” He gives a small chuckle. “San Diego to Quantico was like a completely different world.”
“Man, I thought upstate New York to DC was bad.” Shaking your head a little, you try to imagine a laid back, potentially surfer-sequence version of Marcus getting used to the pounding pace of the nation’s capital.
“Completely. I had just finished school and it was a completely different universe.” He chuckles, looking over at you with a grin. “Frat parties to weapons training.”
“I went from the family farm to the big city.” The image of him as a frat boy is endlessly entertaining to you, because he doesn’t give off that stereotypical energy in the least. “8 am classes were nothing compared to getting up before dawn to milk the cows before school, let me tell you.”
“Wow.” He tosses you a grin. “No wonder you spent ten minutes telling me about how different cheeses reacted to different styles of graters.”
“You can take the girl out of the dairy farm, but you can’t take the obsessive knowledge of all things milk-related out of the girl.” At the time you had barely noticed you were doing it, but now you can feel the tips of your ears heat up. “When were you at Quantico?” You ask, quickly changing the subject.
“Ten years ago.” He smirks slightly at your obvious embarrassment, but he had been fascinated by the mini lecture.
As he pulls up to another red light, you turn fully toward him in your seat with your eyebrows furrowed as seriously as eyebrows can possibly be furrowed. “Marcus.” You shake your head at him, barely keeping yourself from laughing. “I graduated from George Washington University eight years ago. This…” You can’t hold them back, the giggles escaping at the ridiculousness of the whole thing. “This isn’t the first time we’ve lived in the same city…”
“Jesus.” His own giggles burst out until the two of you are laughing in his car like idiots.
“The universe literally just shoved you through my front door today. Just incredibly sick of us walking past each other on the street.” You may not put a lot of stock in destiny or the universe, but it sort of seems like the something out there is dead set in making you believe.
“No, what will be sick is if you used to go to the Command Post.” He tells you, remembering heading to that little sports bar when they needed a break to have a few beers and shoot some pool. It’s one of the few places he had gone.
“Um…” Sinking back into your seat, you cringe a little before you burst out giggling again. “My roommate…Naomi…s-she used to bartend there…”
His eyes blow wide, and he whips his head around to stare at you in shock. “No shit?!” He huffs out. “Jesus, Madison was fucking in love with her. Swear he would tip her like forty bucks every time he bought a round.” He pauses. “Curly hair, skin the color of dark chocolate and would wear green contacts?”
“You know Madi?!” It’s a goddamn blessing that you’re nearly at the movie theater, because you’re both about to bust out of the car from laughing so hard. “Oh, you’re going to fucking love this.” What the ever-fucking-fuck kind of coincidence is all this? “Marcus, they’re dating now! He’s here in Texas. They ran into each other a couple of months ago at a private party she was working.”
“Jesus, I wondered where the hell he went.” Madison had gotten caught up in a bad bust in organized crime and had left the FBI. He slaps his hand against the steering wheel and starts laughing again. “Okay! I get it! We were supposed to meet!” He glances up at the roof of the car before he looks back over at you. “This is proof that the world is a small fucking place.”
“Fucking crazy.” You shake your head at him, aware your mouth is hanging open in disbelief but not really able to close it or stop being shocked. “When we hit that Rangers game, all four of us should go,” you offer, wanting to give him a chance to see his old friend again. “If you want.”
“Hell yeah.” Marcus chuckles and turns into the parking lot of the theater. “We used to talk about taking a train into New York for a Yankees or Mets game when we were studying our asses off.”
“You couldn’t just go to a Nationals game like everyone else in the city?” It’s so wild to think about that you’re not sure you’ll be able to start processing it properly any time soon. “I can’t believethis…”
“We did, but we wanted to go see a subway series game.” He tells you with a laugh.
“Just think,” you flash Marcus a grin and shake your head. “If we’d run into each other at the bar back then, maybe I could have avoided the Little League date.” You shrug. “But then, I do love to tell that story.”
He snorts and shakes his head. “It could have been possible. I met my ex-wife in that bar.”
“Oh yeah?” You haven’t poked or asked anything about her, but this feels like a moment to at least make the situation a little lighter. “Anyone I know?” At this point, you would believe anything.
“Okay, so if you knew Amanda Perez, I’m going to just declare this the Twilight Zone.” He huffs, glancing over at you to see your reaction to her name after he parks.
“That depends.” You can feel all the blood drain from your face, thinking about the only Amanda Perez you ever knew - ten years ago, in Washington DC. If it’s the same woman, you’re going to declare this completely insane. “Are we talking 5’9”, black hair, perpetually bronze skin, never drinks hot chocolate with mini marshmallows, and talks in her sleep when she’s stressed out?”
“Nofucking way.” Marcus leans back and gives you a wide-eyed stare of disbelief. “This is— how did you know her?” He chokes out.
“We…” You choke on it, honestly a little worried about how he’ll react. If you’re right about the timing…well, the universe has a very fucked up sense of humour. “We dated.” Your head drops, looking at your thumbs in your lap. “For about six months. Then she sat me down on campus one day and told me she’d met somebody else.” Just - apparently - like she’d done to Marcus ten months ago. “When did you guys meet?”
He feels like he’s been hit by a truck. Especially since he had specifically asked his ex-wife if she was dating someone when they met and he got her number. Woodenly, he tells you the date, something that he had memorized at one time as the luckiest fucking date in history.
“Cool.” You’re already nodding as soon as the month comes out of his mouth, and for the first time this memory makes your heart hurt not because she hurt you but because she hurt him just the same way. “Cool…yeah…we…um…we overlapped for about a month, then. She was seeing both of us for about a month…”
“I’m sorry.” Marcus is immediately apologizing, feeling completely sick to his stomach. “Fuck, I’m so sorry. I - I asked if she was seeing someone, I swear.”
“Marcus, I’m not mad.” Shaking your head again, it’s like you’re trying to shake your thoughts back into line. “I mean, I was. I was completely heartbroken. But it’s not your fault. She…” You shrug helplessly. “Clearly, she has a pattern of finding someone new before she leaves the person she’s with. I’m sorry…if this is all too weird, or too much, or upsetting for you I totally get it. I can take an Uber home and we can just wave awkwardly at each other in passing like most neighbors.” It would - you realize with a sick feeling dropping through you - be a little heartbreaking all over again. But you don’t want to put Marcus through any kind of pain.
“Why would I want that?” He frowns at you in confusion. “I mean…if you don’t think that it’s a good idea to date, I understand. But my ex-wife being a slightly shittier person than I had realized doesn’t change my interest in you.”
“Are you kidding?” A huff pushes its way out of you as you laugh in disbelief. “I want to send her a picture of us together. Ten years later and I still want to throw it back in her face. I may be feeling a little petty about it, to be honest. But I’m sure as hell not going to let the fact that we share an ex put me off wanting to be on this date with you tonight.”
The grin Marcus gives you is positively wicked, and he purses his lips slightly. “We are still friends on social media.” He tells you slyly. “We agreed that we would be 'friends’ because she couldn’t bear the thought of not knowing that I was okay.” He rolls his eyes slightly now that he knows that it’s a pattern his ex had for cheating. Something he had clearly stated he despised.
“Ooooo,” you rub your hands together with happy, petty glee. “Picture in front of the movie theater? See if she spontaneously combusts over Facebook?”
“Oh, I say we tease her.” Marcus huffs. “Post a picture of us holding hands and then one after the movie. Don’t you remember how nosy she is?” Amanda had always wanted to know what was going on in everyone’s lives.
“I will bet you anything that she will try to take preemptive credit about how she always knew we would get along or some bullshit.” With the specter of your mutual ex not hanging between you like an awful Twilight Zone episode, you lean quickly over the center console of his car and leave a small press of your lips on his cheek. “Come on, handsome, quick picture and let’s get some popcorn. Movie starts in less than five minutes.”
Marcus snorts as he gets out of the car, walking around it while giggling to himself like a schoolboy and gives you a smirk when he opens the door for you. “So, I have a technical question?” He started in a long draw. “Does…does our body count go up when we sleep together? Since we’ve slept with the same woman? Don’t we get a pass on this? I feel like we should get a pass.”
“Honey, I have a feeling my body count is a lot higher than yours anyway,” you throw him a playfully suggestive wink, but the fact is that you never actually made it to the altar over the last ten years and he did. “If you want a pass, it can be a pass.”
“That doesn’t scare me.” He shuts the door behind you and his hand rests on your lower back, not too low to be disrespectful but he knew you wouldn’t mind the touch. “Just like the fact that you used to date my ex-wife doesn’t scare me. We can bitch about her annoying traits together.” He jokes lightly.
“Blanket hog.” You groan immediately, making no effort to pretend you’re not leaning into his warmth a little. March in the evening in Texas still had a decided chill in the air. “I’ll offer this up on the Altar of Exes while we’re still on the topic, but I was engaged about a year ago. Part of packing up and coming to Texas was getting the hell out of New York again. It’s not necessarily a long story, but it definitely reads like the screenplay for a Hallmark movie.”
“Man or woman?” He asks curiously. It’s obvious that you have lived that never say never life and he’s interested in your background. “Not that it matters, heart break is heart break and I know it sucks.”
“Boy.” You roll your eyes dramatically. “Basically, I stayed in DC after college, trying to figure out what the hell to do with my hospitality degree that would pay more than minimum wage and no clear dream job. About four years ago, my mom got cancer, and my dad couldn’t take care of her and the farm on his own, so I moved back. Crate & Barrel let me transfer to the nearest store to my hometown and I kept my job there one day a week just so I wouldn’t have to quit. Turned out that my dad’s prized farm manager was my high school sweetheart. He and I got back together, tried to make it work, then when it was clear that my mom wasn’t going to make it, he proposed in front of her. Forced me to say yes, basically. A few months later I laid my mom to rest, told him to eat shit, and I found a promotion to move to.”
“Oh fuck.” He grimaces at the poor taste of that timing. “I could see if it was her wish to see her little girl happy or whatever, but nooooo.” He shakes his head and rubs your back in a half turn of his wrist. “I’m sorry about your mother, beautiful.” He murmurs softly. “That was the time to stand beside you and support you, but never push any type of big, emotional decision.”
“She would have liked you.” You tell him quietly, masking the slight sniffle that always threatens to invade when your mom comes up in conversation. “She did this weird thing…every morning she’d put the coffee pot on and go out to the garden while it brewed. I don’t know how she always had enough flowers every single day for a new vase, but there were always fresh flowers on the kitchen table when I came down for breakfast. So, the fact that you showed up at my door with flowers would have put you in her good books immediately.”
“Then I’m extra glad that I brought them.” Marcus tells you, walking up to the ticket booth and pausing the conversation long enough to purchase two tickets to the movie from the teenage girl behind the glass. Once he has them in hand, he turns to you and offers you the ticket he had gotten for you. “Maybe one day I’ll get to meet her and bring her the most beautiful flowers I can find.” He is obviously talking about visiting her grave with you, but it’s pretty clear that your mother meant the world to you.
“Sorry.” Sniffling slightly, you shake off the layer of melancholy and accept the ticket from his hand. “Didn’t mean to bring the mood so far down. I just don’t want you to think I’m commitment phobic or something. I didn’t make it down the aisle for a very good reason.”
“Baby.” It’s almost natural that the term of endearment comes from his mouth, especially at thismoment. “You have nothing to apologize for.” He assures you, reaching for your hand and lacing his fingers with yours, and giving them a small squeeze. “Good, bad, sad, I want to know all about you.” He leans in and kisses the side of your head. “Would a buttered popcorn, some Milk Duds and a large Coke help lift your spirits?”
The softness that rolls through you - the sweet little pet name, the touch of his hand, his lips, everything together - has you leaning against him all over again. Face to face, this time, and it means you can smile up at him and find out the exact shade of brown his eyes are when they’re all soft around the edges like they are now. “Make it Junior Mints, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
“Done.” He’ll let you eat all of those, mint and chocolate never mixed with him, but he would buy two boxes for the smile on your face. “A large popcorn, a box of Junior Mints and two Cokes.” He orders when you reach the concession stand before he turns to you. “Anything else you want, baby?”
“That’s more than enough.” You promise him, both because it’s absolutely true and also because you’re not about to pout and request cuddles in front of the teenage cinema employee currently bored by your entire existence.
He gives you a smile before turning back to them with a smile. “That’s it.” He pays and hands you one of the Cokes and the Junior Mints while he takes the tub of popcorn and his own coke before leading you over to the butter station. “A lot of butter or a little?”
“I am routinely yelled at for drowning my popcorn,” you tell him seriously. “So put as much on as you want.”
He catches his tongue between his teeth and grins at you. “Are you sure I wasn’t supposed to meet you at that bar?” He asks, knowing that he would have approached you just as easily as he had Amanda and apparently you were a better fit. “We are going to need napkins.”
Reaching past him, you grab an exaggerated stack of napkins and tuck them in your hand along with the candy box. “I think we definitely were supposed to meet in that bar.” Once the facts of the situation had started to sink in - and the conversation since then - you’re willing to admit that there is an element of destiny or fate of some kind at play. There are just too many coincidences surrounding the whole thing.
Marcus cackles gleefully as the butter dispenser spurts again and again all over the kernels. “Remember how Amanda hated this?” He asks, shaking his head. “Always wanted plainpopcorn.”
“Lecture upon lecture about cholesterol.” Seeing even a little of Marcus’s catharsis through being able to vent about her is somewhere on the fence between kind of cute and wildly entertaining, and you love this level of freedom on him. “What is life without a little fun? A movie without buttered popcorn? Nachos without ungodly amounts of cheese and pickled jalapeños?”
Marcusmoans, rolling his eyes in pleasure. “Fuck yes.” He snickers. “We had one of those chocolate fondue fountain things? I definitely put that amazingly nasty canned nacho cheese in it during game day parties. Just hold the chip under the cheese.”
“Marcus Pike.” You deadpan his name, so he looks at you curiously. “That may be the sexiest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“It’s official.” He shakes his head, and his face is splitting in two from the force of his grin. “You’re my soulmate.”
“Come on.” Your cheek heat deeply until your face is practically on fire, and you can feel yourself go shy at the honesty in his only slight tease. “Let’s go find a seat and take an astonishingly cute picture before the lights go down.”
“Perfect.” Marcus follows you into the theater and tells you to pick wherever you want to sit, secretly happy when you want the next to back row.
“Get the popcorn in the picture,” you snicker, wiggling around in the tight movie theater seats as the two of you try to find a decent way to pose for this silly photo.
He loves the way you think. Stretching his arm out so he can snap the pic. It takes a couple of tries, but eventually there is one really great one. “There it is.”
“We’ll see if she has anything to say about that in a couple of hours.” You’re absolutely certain beyond a doubt that Amanda’s need to be in the middle of gossip will prevail, and Marcus will probably have a few texts and you’ll have a friend request by the time the movie is over.
“You are evil, and I love it.” Marcus tells you as he captions the picture and posts it on his timeline before he turns off the phone completely.
“We dealt with enough of her bullshit, she can handle a little fun from us.” When you settle back into your seat, you have no desire to do any of the vaguely uncertain mincing around and instead just lean into his side. You want to be beside him, and you won’t apologize for it.
Marcus lifts his arm and puts it around your shoulder. Never happier than this moment in how candid the two of you had been with each other. “Popcorn?” He asks as the lights dim.
“Well, we didn’t just get it for the picture.” With a grin, you grab a few kernels off the top of the tub and offer them to him, fully aware of the intimacy of the gesture.
There is a moment where he just looks at you, amazed at how easy all of this is with you before he leans forward and opens his mouth for you to feed him the popcorn, closing his mouth around your fingers and making sure to suck the buttery richness off of the tips before he pulls his head back.
Alright. Well. There’s no way you’re going to be able to concentrate on the movie now and you absolutely brought that upon yourself. Hoping Marcus didn’t register too much of the flash of heat in your eyes, you ease yourself back into your seat and under his arm as the credits begin to roll.
The movie starts, but all Marcus can think about is you. Every time you shift slightly, it’s to bring yourself closer to him and he can’t say that he hates it. The movie plays, almost in the background he’s so hyper aware of you and every time you reach for the popcorn, his own hand bumps yours as you both seemingly have the same sense of timing. “I’m starting to think you’re doing it on purpose.” He teases, leaning in to murmur softly in your ear.
“Me?” You whisper, batting innocent eyelashes at him. “I am innocent and pure and am not at all enjoying the small touches.” Just pointing it out tells him how much you are enjoying them, and hopefully lets him know how borderline giddy you are.
“God, I hope not.” Marcus whispers back playfully and leaning in a bit more so that his nose is almost touching yours. “I have a firm rule of never kissing someone innocent and pure on the first date and I was really looking forward to that first kiss I am planning.”
“Oo, there’s a plan?” You raise an eyebrow at him, grateful there’s no one sitting nearby to shush your whispered flirting. “So, I’d better not close the gap and do it myself right now, huh?” You wouldn’t, not if he’s been thinking about it enough to have an actual idea of how it will happen. But it’s fun to tease.
“I mean…you are always welcome to close the gap and do it now.” Marcus hums. “But I was honestly thinking that it would be even better if it were when we were both full and there was the taste of sweet wine on your lips, maybe the light of the moon shining down on your face. Where I can face you completely and cup your cheek. Slow to start, testing the waters before it deepens.”
Swallowing the hard thump of your heartbeat, you can feel the excitement course through your veins. The promise of something new, and potentially big, hovers in the horizon and in his words. “But,” your voice is barely above a breath. “How will we know which is better unless we’ve tried both?”
“Clever girl.” His eyes are soft and yearning, flickering down to your lips for a moment before looking back up at your own soft orbs. He tilts his head slightly in invitation, offering you his lips but not demanding anything. This next step was yours to take if you want to.
The world seems to slow, in that beautiful way it only does when something wonderful is about to happen, and the faded dialogue of the movie filling in the background like Marcus is your own personal screen idol. It takes only a small turn off your head to nudge his nose with your own, eyes flicking up to find his lids heavy and hazy as you lean forward imperceptibly to press your lips to his.
There is something sweet and yet so incredibly titillating about the buttery, salty taste of your lips. He sighs slightly and his lashes flutter as he closes his eyes and leans in more firmly into the kiss.
It’s adolescent, to be sharing your first kiss in the back of a movie theater over a tub of buttery popcorn and sticky-sweet soda, and you sort of love that about it. The moment is relaxed and unpretentious, with the hum of excitement running all through it as Marcus presses back against your soft approach and you happily sigh to deepen the first moment of physical intimacy between you. He forgets that you are in public, forgets that there is a movie playing on the screen in front of you. Everything but the feel of your lips on his fades away into the background.
With the way he molds so perfectly against you, it would be so easy to go too far. To just toss up your hands and indulge, the rest of the world be damned. But you remind yourself that it’s early days. Just the beginning. And there can be so much more if this to come.
You pull back gently, reluctantly, and feel yourself mourn the loss of his touch immediately as you’re nearly panting for the breath he’s stolen from you. “I…um…wow…”
“Wow, is right.” Marcus gives you an almost goofy grin.
“The moonlight and sweet wine have a lot to live up to, later.” You tell him with a sly smirk, before settling into his side again. Teasing Marcus is easy and fun - comfortable as well as exciting. Something you hope you’ll never get used to. Teasing him and kissing him are very similar endeavors.
“I will have to bring my A game to top that kiss, but I think I can.” His fingers brush the skin of your arm gently, making you shiver. He hums, knowing that it’s not cold that makes you react like that, but he uses it as an excuse to lean close again. “Let me know if you need my jacket, beautiful.”
“Just you, handsome.” You both know it’s not the chill of the air conditioning making goosebumps raise on your skin, and you offer him another piece of popcorn from your fingers. “Just you.”
He smirks and takes the popcorn again, this time making sure to twirl his tongue around your fingers as if your digits were your clit and he was treating it to his singular attention.
“Tease,” you murmur under your breath, acting like you’re upset about it but you’re honestly not in the least. Turned on, however? Oh yes.
“Not teasing.” Marcus responds smoothly. “Promising.”
You’re proud of yourself for not whimpering, but there’s no way he misses the way you shift in your seat and gently squeeze your thighs together in anticipation. Your ex-fiancé wasn’t a bad lover or anything, but oral just wasn’t his time to shine. Cumming on Marcus’s tongue sounds like heaven. “I hope you keep your promises, then.” Not that you doubt him. Of anyone in the world, you fully believe Marcus Pike keeps every promise he makes.
“It might be my favorite thing in the world.” He lifts a brow at you and smirks slightly. “And it’s been a long time since I’ve gotten to indulge.”
“Fuck…” That’s definitely a whimper, and you’re grateful no one is nearby to judge you for it. “Well, I’m happy to break that dry spell for you.”
“We just have to survive this movie and dinner.” He murmurs softly. “I’d already taken tomorrow off. Do you have to work?”
“No.” You’re all but shaking your head, ready to promise him you can sleep in and stay naked if that’s what he wants. All he has to do is say the word. Tipping your head back, you find his soft eyes watching you. “And Naomi’s staying with Madison tonight. So no roommate, either.”
“Hmmmm.” He smiles and leans in. He doesn’t kiss you, but he does nuzzle your nose with his. “So I don’t have to worry about you being too loud then.”
“With what they put me through, they deserve payback.” You grumble softly, breath catching at the unexpectedly dirty reply.
“I’ve heard.” He snorts. “Our bedroom walls are shared. “Once I get my bed, we might have to have a competition.”
“We can trash my second-hand bed with a contest, not your brand new one.” You know what that big, beautiful four poster is costing him, and you won’t let him waste that kind of investment.
He huffs and sends you a cocky smirk. “I have to test out how durable it is.” He teases, body extremely interested in this conversation.
The slickness between your legs is nearly fogging your brain with your nod and murmur: “For science.”
“For science.” He agrees and tries to look back at the screen with a sigh. “So…I have a naughty idea.” He poses. “What if we leave the movie now and go get dinner.” He knows he hadn’t watched any of the movie up on the screen if he was honest with himself. Too focused on you.
Flicking your eyes back up to the screen, you have to admit that if you hadn’t seen it a dozen times already, you would have no idea what was going on - finding him much more engrossing than Norma Desmond could ever hope to be. “Very naughty.” You agree with a grin. “Let’s go.”
The two of you giggle as you make your way down the stairs and out of the theater. Marcus only feels slightly bad about tossing a nearly full drink and popcorn, but he’s too interested in getting you alone where you don’t have to worry about bothering others with your conversation. “Note to self, watch movies at home. When I get a TV.”
“Ah, electronics. The one thing I am absolutely useless in shopping for.” Now that you’re out in the lobby, your voice almost feels odd at full volume again. “But yes, you do need a tv.”
“I am an excellent judge on TVs.” Marcus tells you snootily. “If I can turn it on and watch TV, it’s good.”
“Well, I can’t fault your logic.” You shake your head at him as you make your way through the lobby. “But you’ve forgotten. In order to be good, a TV must also be verybig.”
He snorts and throws you a mildly dirty look as you exit the theater and make your way into the dusky night. The sun is starting to set and he chuckles. “How about a good mid-sized tv that knows how to work really well?” He bargains, aware that he’s not talking about TVs at all.
“Oh, we’re talking about TVs.” Throwing him an exaggerated wink, you nod wisely. “Yeah, function over form, every time.”
His hand on your back flexes slightly, resisting the urge to reach down and pinch your ass. If this wasn’t your first date, he might actually do it, but he needs to somewhat mind his manners. “So where would you like to eat dinner, beautiful?” He asks you softly, wondering if you have any favorite places or anywhere you’ve wanted to try.
“I’m not picky.” The stroll back out to the parking lot is lazy and the warmth of his hand on your back lulls you against his side yet again. “You mentioned steak earlier. We’ve talked about barbecue. There’s a good Italian place I know. Anything it’s fine.”
“Ehhhhh.” Marcus would prefer that you pick but he knows that it might just lead to a longer conversation about the merits of each place and he doesn’t want to take longer than he has to in order to get you sat down to wine and dine. “How about Chama Gaucha?” He asks, wondering if you would like the Brazilian steakhouse. “They even have a salad bar.” He offers enticingly.
“This is going to be a thing, isn’t it?” You wrinkle your nose at him, sticking out your tongue for good effect. “Brazilian barbecue it is.”
“I’mcompromising.” He sticks his tongue out at you. “I heard that is healthy in relationships.”
“Funny how often we used to get those lectures when we were always the ones bending over backwards.” With another heavy eye roll, you take the last few steps to his car a little faster - his long legs meaning he’s already beaten you there. “It’s a meat and veggies compromise, but from how much you obsessed over picking out wine glasses, I’m guessing they have a killer wine list.”
“I have heard they do.” Marcus had never been there himself, but it was one of the restaurants that he had been wanting to try. He just hadn’t yet because it’s not any fun going to a place like that by yourself. “Hopefully we will find out.”
“Hopefully we will.”
As always, Marcus holds your door for you to get in and settle in before he shuts it and climbs into the driver’s side.He starts the car and pulls out of the theater parking lot so he can navigate towards the restaurant. He has always had a pretty good sense of direction and exploring the city for work had helped him get a good idea of the overall layout and where a lot of things were located. “What type of wine do you like?”
“Do I lose points if I say ‘cheap’?” You offer him what you hope is a charming smile. “I’ve matured only slightly beyond my college Arbor Mist obsession. So…I guess that’s anything sweet and fruity.”
He raises a brow at that. Amanda had been very picky about wine, and they had spent several vacations in Napa Valley as a result. “I’m guessing a shiraz might be the best starting point.”
“I know, I have the palate of an 18-year-old sometimes. It’s awful.” You shake your head in defeat.
“No, I’m just wondering how you and Amanda got on with that.” He chuckles. “She is…rather snooty about wine.”
The huff that pushes out of you is audible. “I pretended really hard.” You tell him quietly. “But…I don’t want to pretend with you.”
“Does it help that I like beer better than wine?” He asks, sending you a side glance. “And a good tequila is the best.”
“You’ll show me what you like, and I’ll show you what I like.” That’s how it should work. At least to you. No pretending and no lying. If it goes beyond tonight, anyway. “If you want to, I mean.”
“Oh, I’m just thinking about how to stock my fridge when you come over to my place.” He throws you a smirk. “If you want Arbor Mist, I’ll make sure that you have whatever flavor is your favorite. If you like IPAs…” He grimaces. “You’re on your own there.” He teases and wrinkles his nose playfully.
“These days it’s more like shandies and Riesling.” You relax measurably in your seat, that unhappy flash of nerves fading away. In its place, you send him a smirk. “You never did tell me your favorite cheeses.”
He tosses you a mildly guilty grin. “Is this date over if I tell you that it’s goat cheese?” He snickers.
You half-snort, covering your giggle with one hand. “It would be off if you were dating my father.”
“Well then I guess it’s a good thing that my favorite cheese is Havarti.” He chuckles and can’t help but reach over and take your hand. “That or fresh mozzarella.”
His fingers laced through yours are warm and weighty, and you raise the back of his hand to your lips to press a kiss to his skin. “You teach me about good wine, and I’ll teach you how to make fresh cheese,” you bargain, truly believing that the more you share, the better things will be.
“Ohhhh I like that.” Marcus grins. “How do you feel about charcuterie boards?” He asks seriously. He had gone with Amanda to a class on how to set up the best boards for parties and his ex-wife had been obsessed with them. As long as there was jalapeño jelly and berries on it, he was in heaven.
“Honestly that’s most of what I eat for lunch,” you admit without a hint of shame. “Just me and my little charcuterie board at my desk with a sweet tea? That’s heaven, baby.”
He hums in approval and nods. “So, I’m envisioning dates on my new couch with a charcuterie board and a new wine while we cuddle in our new blankets.”
“That sounds like the perfect rainy night.” The vision of a storm sounding outside the house while you curl up in a little blanket fort of your own making is about as sweet as he is. “Date night at home.”
“I’m glad you like that idea.” He gives you a sweet look as he stops at the red light. He’s only about six hundred feet away from the turn for the restaurant. “Your favorite version of a date is what?” He asks.
“Anything that involves learning.” It seems like a cop-out answer, you know that, but you squeeze his hand quickly and explain. “Teaching each other things, taking little classes, hitting a museum, or trying something that’s new to both of us.” You shrug slightly. “Nerd dates.”
“Damn.” Marcus hadn’t thought you could be any more perfect, but you continue to surprise him.
“Damn?” Your head quirks in his direction as he pulls into the restaurant’s parking lot.
“Just admiring how perfect you are.” He tells you as he parks and shuts the engine off.
“Oh,please,” you roll your eyes playfully.
“Seriously, you said the magic words.” He promises.
Willing to admit that might be the case, you reluctantly let his hand go so he can put his car in park. “Do you have the same answer, then?”
“I have to admit I might be asking you to accompany me to a few gallery showings.” He winks before he gets out so he can come around and let you out of the passenger side.
“Perfect.” You slip out of his car once more and happily accept his hand when it lingers by your side. “I can learn more about art.”
Inside the restaurant smells delicious and Marcus’ mouth waters. “Table for two please.” Marcus smiles at the host and squeezes your hand.
The genuinely bored looking host shows you to a booth where you are immediately greeted by your waitress with a smile and attitude as bright as the sun, and you fluster when she explicitly welcomes you out for what is clearly your date night. “How long y’all been together?” She asks, chattering away. “If ya don’t mind me askin’?”
Marcus looks over at you and then checks his watch. “Nine hours now?” He asks, looking over at you for confirmation. “At least that’s how long we’ve known each other.”
“Well, shoot.” The waitress laughs when both you and Marcus do, and easily excuses herself to grab Marcus a complete wine list when he asks for it.
“Nine hours strong.” You grin at him with flushed cheeks.
“I mean, I have to say that we are doing really well for nine hours.” He tells you. “We’ve found a mutual background and established our communication.”
“And you were the talk of the store after you left.” You tell him with a grin, knowing that it’s completely beside the point but still finding it fun.
“How so?” The waitress returns with the wine menu and Marcus quickly picks out one of his favorite sweet reds and looks towards you for the answer.
“Anyone redoing an entire house is always worth talking about.” You reason, taking a sip from the water glass in front of you. “Plus…I came back from lunch grinning like an idiot…”
“Grinning like an idiot, huh?” He asks, grinning like one himself right now. “Kind of like how I absolutely wasn’t dancing around my condo like an idiot while I unpacked all the shit I bought from this pretty sexy girl I met at the store?”
“Kind of exactly like that.” The image he presents with that is playful and dreamy, and your grin spreads wider. “I’m almost afraid to ask if you’re a good dancer.”
“Formal? I won’t step on your toes.” Marcus admits. “Amanda always said that for someone who could fuck I had zerorhythm.”
“Thank God.” You groan dramatically. “For a second I thought you were going to say you were a childhood ballroom champ or something. Considering you’re already pretty much perfect, that would have just been completely over the top.”
Marcus throws his head back and laughs, making the waitress grin as she comes up to the table again with the bottle to pour glasses for both of you. “Well at least you two are enjoying yourselves.” She says, sending you a wink.
“It’s refreshing to find out that he’s not textbook perfect, that’s all.” You shake your head at the waitress as if to tell her how ridiculous it is that he is so close to perfect, and listen with interest while she explains exactly how your very unique dinner will be served.
“That sounds incredible.” Marcus looks over to you and nods towards the buffet. “You want to go get your salad? I hear they also have an amazing lobster bisque.”
“There is nothing about this meal that doesn’t sound perfect.” And amusingly, it even hits on the ‘nerd’ qualification for a date, because you’ve learned an entire new genre of steakhouse operations.
He slides out of the booth and cheekily holds his hand out to you. “My lady, heaven on a buffet awaits. Shall we feast?”
You barely manage to cover your mouth, acutely aware that the couples at the surrounding tables won’t find your snort as endearing as Marcus does, and you reach to take his hand. “We shall,” you agree, mimicking his tone between giggles.
He helps you up and holds on to your waist while you both shuffle over to the buffet. Cheese slices, stuffed olives, pasta salads and everything to make a real salad are accompanied by the bisque, some rice and black beans with plantains that smells amazing, and the little cheese breads that you’ll later find out are amazing. Marcus groans at the plate piled high and grins at you. “This isn’t even the meat selection yet.” He reminds you.
“We’re going to pass out as soon as you park your car at home,” you predict, admitting to yourself that it would be fairly hilarious if it happened.
“Shit.” He huffs, shaking his head. “That just means that I’ve got to make up for it when we wake up.”
“Baby, a good date and a good sleep cuddled up together isn’t anything that needs to be made up for.” Of course, you’re fully and eagerly looking forward to having him in your bed, but you don’t want to give him the mistaken impression that it’s the only interest you have in him.
He flashes you a wink as both of you make your way back to the table. “So you don’t want to wake up with having your clit sucked on. Got it.”
“Oh, fuck off.” You hiss under your breath, with an absolute pout in your voice. “I’m just trying to behave! God, that thought is going to hauntme….”
His laugh is a little dark, a little mean, but he loves the way that you pout over the idea. Both of you sit back down and immediately a server comes over with steaks on a spit to ask if you would like some. Marcus nodes right away and holds out his other plate for the man.
Dinner is an elaborate, delicious, substantive dance, and you’re predictably stuffed by the end of it. The wine Marcus chose is far beyond your education level and a little extra tasty because of it, making you feel that much more spoiled. Halfway through your dinner you had both agreed that you would have to do this again, and that you would be tracking down a copycat recipe for the cheese bread to try making at home. You haven’t stopped laughing, teasing, or grinning like smitten teenagers all night. It is, in every way, an absolutely perfect night.
There’s a light breeze as he walks you to the car. Both of you are almost overly full, but it had been worth it. He looks over at you with a smile at the way you automatically turn your head and look at him. “I think that we can call this a success.” He comments lightly, swinging your hand that is encompassed in his.
“Without hesitation.” It’s past chilly and has officially become cold, and you tuck your free arm around yourself for a little extra warmth on the way to the car. “And I think we can both safely skip breakfast because we’ll still be full in the morning.”
Marcus doesn’t care that it’s only another hundred feet to the car. He slips his hand out of yours and starts shrugging off his leather jacket and stopping you so he can hold it out for you to put on. “Here.”
“I’m fine.” You protest, but it’s hollow and you both know it. The jacket is around your shoulders before you can even finish the thought and the warmth it retains from his body makes you shiver counterintuitively before you start to warm up. “I…thank you…serves me right for trying to be cute above all else.”
“Youare cute. And now I get to be a gentleman and give you my jacket so you aren’t cold when I kiss you.” He smirks and turns you towards the car again.
“Ohright,” you hum, as though you could ever forget exactly how amazing it had been to kiss him. “We still need to compare and contrast.”
He waits until he gets you to the car, the door right at your elbow when he turns to you and cups your cheek just like it said he would. There is an anticipation in this air, and he takes just a few seconds to absorb the sight of you looking at him. The shine of the moon on your face is perfect where he had parked away from the light posts and yet he could see the want in your eyes clearly. “Beautiful.” He whispers before he leans in and kisses you with far more assertion than he would have if that kiss in the movie theater hadn’t happened.
His version of a first kiss is definitely smoother. You’ll give him that. Smooth and deep and delicious - and not just because of the wine. One of your hands easily finds its way to his chest, feeling the way his heart beats out of control when you begin to kiss him back.
He softly encourages you to open up, tongue sliding along your lips before you open your mouth and let him inside. Marcus can’t help the groan that rises from his chest when his tongue touches against yours, almost shyly at first before moving with more confidence and determination as the kiss progresses.
Completely enveloped in the moment, a plane could have crashed in the restaurant parking lot, and you wouldn’t have noticed beyond thinking that the earth shaking under your feet was from how good and right kissing Marcus feels. His tongue slides against yours and his breathing stutters and his heart skips a beat in his chest. His hand curls around the nape of your neck and he tugs you just a fraction closer. It’s magical, the feeling of your lips against his and for a moment, he never wants this kiss to end.
The rest of the world may not exist, and would not have at all, except for a distant cat call from another part of the parking lot and you break from Marcus with an embarrassed giggle. Marcus chuckles and turns to give the person a wave before he turns back to you. “Home, beautiful?” He asks softly, reaching for the door handle to the car.
“Home.” The fingers you have twined in his shirt pull him back to you for another, shorter kiss before pulling away fully.
He hums and holds the door open for you, not closing it until you are completely inside before hurrying around the front so he can jump behind the wheel. Nerves and excitement are thrumming in his system but he’s not going to assume he’s being invited into your bed, not even after being told. You can always change your mind and he will respect that.
In the front seat of his car, wrapped up in his leather jacket, your lips twist into a smile when he climbs back in beside you. “I think we have to call it a tie,” you tell him sheepishly. “Since both kisses were definitely, wow.”
“Yes, they were.” Marcus agrees, turning the engine over and picking up your hand quickly to press a kiss to the back of it before letting it go so he can put the car into gear.
“I guess we’ll just have to collect more data. You know…experiment.” You squeeze his hand lightly in yours. “For science.”
He throws you a small smirk and nods. “For science.” He agrees before he decides to change the subject. “So, what do you normally do when you get off of work? Your wind down routine?”
“Depends on the day.” Hands still linked together, your fingers tangle easily in his and keep him close while your heart beats louder and faster. “If I had a day shift, I’ll bring a book out to the garden before I start thinking about making dinner. But if I worked a later shift then I’ll just figure out something fast for dinner and turn on the TV.” You chuckle awkwardly. “That makes me sound really boring. Maybe I am. But I live with my best friend so it’s not like I’m running out for drinks with her every night. We do that in the garden.”
“Then I guess I’m boring too.” Marcus assures you. “I’m too old to try and go out every night. Especially after a long day at work.”
“I would imagine that your days are a lot more demanding than mine.” Which is nothing against your job, just an acknowledgement of the fact that his job is higher stress.
“Sleeping in on days off is a particularly favorite hobby of mine.” He admits, knowing that those have been few and far between the last few months. “That’s why I wanted a good bed. I try to make it a rule not to get up except to pee until at least ten-thirty.”
“Sleep in and drip dry?” You guess, raising a scandalous eyebrow at him and flashing a grin.
“I know.” Marcus rolls his eyes playfully. “If I was an eccentric billionaire I would live on a private tropical island where I can sleep with the ocean breeze flowing over me and never wear clothes again. Just go for a swim and pad around nude.”
“Ohnoooo…” Laughing along with him, you won’t deny that you’re very interested to know exactly what that visual would look like. “Relaxation. That sounds just horrible. How will you eversurvive?”
