Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
a trope that will always be top tier is sickie admitting to be sick, but caretaker not believing them "you're trying to get out of X/you're always playing it up/it's just a scratch you'll be fine" and then it turns serious. Guilt is THEEEE emotion
AUGH oh my godddd this is so good... I have not considered this in AGESSSS. Thank u for reminding me of this
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Is there a reason you don't post on Ao3 anymore? :(
Eh, 3 reasons mostly:
- The dumbass universe has well over 1 million words, it's very time consuming to upload it in chapters.
- very few people are reading there
- I mostly use AO3 as an archive when Tumblr decides to panic us into thinking it will self combust.
I dooo need to update all the works there, for my own peace of mind in case Tumblr dies tomorrow, but I'd say your safest bet to read my writing is here on Tumblr! ❤️
Marilyn: Sending you a heads up that your husband just left here, sick as a dog.
She stared at the text on the screen in front of her, then erased it. Stuck her bottom lip between her teeth and nibbled it until she drew blood, staring intently at Bella's contact.
They weren't friends, but they were friendly. Acquaintances, but there was a spark of something else. Marilyn forcing her hand by being blatantly obvious on how she felt, hoping Bella might reciprocate — the feeling, not the action. Bella's expressions were so terribly transparent — and reciprocate she did.
Marilyn felt giddy, which was a weird emotion for her to feel after such a long time of feeling nothing. For a couple years now she thought she had been unable to feel anything other than annoyance and exhaustion, her days blurring together, her acquaintances blurring into one monolith of a politician's wife, whom Marilyn was sure she too resembled.
Then there was Isabella Atwood.
Standing out like a sore thumb, bright hair and crazy curls, light eyes surrounded by dark makeup, hand in hand with her husband and so clearly in love, perhaps what picked her out from the masses the most.
The people who were in love in their circles were so far and sparse, Marilyn had stared at Bella during all of their first dinner together, watching like a hawk as Lucas Atwood exchanged quiet words with her, the way they always seemed to be talking even without saying a word, how he noticed when his wife jumped to go to the ladies room, the inquisitive and concerned look on his face, Bella's reassurance... That shit had to be made up.
Yet, it wasn't. Marilyn could barely wrap her mind around it. A flower growing between the pavement joints.
Marilyn: Hi Bella, how are you? Just a heads up, Lucas was just here and he seemed really sick.
What was this, an email? She erased it with a huff and slammed her phone down on the table, screen facing away from her, only to immediately pick it up again as it vibrated.
A random Instagram notification, which she swiped at impatiently, turning back to the task at hand.
Marilyn: Hi Bella, it's Marilyn! Just wanted to let you know Lucas was just here and he looked quite sick. Let me know if you need anything, ok? Tell him I hope he feels better so-
She groaned. She sounded desperate. Bella would think she was clingy and had a loose screw.
Marilyn pressed the erase button and cut the message short.
Marilyn: Hi Bella, it's Marilyn! Just wanted to let you know Lucas was just here and he looked quite sick.
Immediately a green dot appeared next to Bella's contact and three dots across the screen as she typed.
Isabella Atwood: Lucas is sick? He was over at your place?
Isabella Atwood: Is he still there?
Isabella Atwood: Does he need me to pick him up?
Marilyn huffed out a laugh, the iron squeeze around her lungs easing. She felt silly for overthinking the text so much, when Bella was triple texting her without a concern.
Marilyn: He left here about 20 minutes ago, he threw up mid meeting. He seemed really sick, tell him I hope he feels well.
Isabella Atwood: ofc he left 🙄 Thx for the heads up, I'll let him know!
Not only Lucas had looked ill, he had looked put off. Marilyn thought he was under the assumption he was doing a good job at masking how much he disliked her, but he'd be sorely mistaken. Much like his wife, Lucas Atwood was incredibly transparent.
He disliked Marilyn, that much was plain. It didn't bother her, as much as it worried her that it would hurt her prospects of striking friendship with Bella. People disliking her was nothing new.
She moved through the halls, back to the master suite in order to change clothes. Something comfortable, but not so comfy she might be surprised by guests whilst on her jammies. Richard had a habit of inviting people inside no matter the time of the day, just a coffee!, and she had learned to be put together during all hours of the day.
Marilyn pulled her hair down from the ponytail, feeling a little ridiculous for sporting it to begin with. When she had pulled up her hair before Lucas arrived, she had thought it made her look smart, put together. The type of person who could be trusted with a meeting, even if she knew that this was all a grand waste of time, Richard having her host the meeting because he couldn't be bothered. The thing was, just because she knew that, didn't mean Atwood had to know it too.
Maybe he would believe she was her husband's confidant, right hand woman who had his ear and thus was tasked with extraofficial meetings. Make him feel special, instead of frustrated. He was young enough to fall for it, green enough in politics. Maybe he'd think it was some sort of trust gesture to be invited into the mayor's home...
As soon as Lucas had stepped through her door, she had known there was no way he'd buy it; The frown he couldn't quite mask, how his charming smile was in place but there was none of the accompanying conversation. She had watched Lucas make conversation with waiters, her own husband, Sylvie Moore, and several different press members before. He was good at remembering details and making anyone feel listened to... So when he failed at that so spectacularly, she knew he was onto the fact this was all a farse.
Downstairs there was a noise and she glanced out of the window, seeing the headlights of her husband's car. He had been to Portland since the previous Thursday for work and had been supposed to be back Sunday evening. She couldn't say she wasn't glad he had been gone, they were going through a rough patch.
Another one, her brain supplied, unhelpfully and Marilyn scoffed, tugging on her sweater as she walked out of the bedroom, anxiety stirring in her stomach as she wondered who would cross the door. Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde?
"Mary?" His voice travelled, the front door slamming shut. Her shoulders dropped. He didn't call for her when he was pissed off, much less by a nickname.
Richard was standing in the living room like some sort of lost dog, one hand clutching his work case, the other holding the little handbag he took when travelling. Still on his coat and tux, hair looking windswept.
"Hi?" Marilyn took a tentative step down the stairs, hand wrapped tightly around the handrail, taking him in.
Richard was a tall, slender man. Light brown hair that had gone silver at the temples a long time ago, now featuring entire strands of grey mixed in the honey color. He had bright blue eyes and a square jaw of a movie star, with a dimple on his chin that had been the first thing she had ever noticed about him. Nowadays she mostly noticed his hands.
Tonight his eyes had really deep circles around them, exhausted, which was the cause for her hesitancy in the first place. Richard could be mean when he was tired and cranky.
"Hi, doll," he answered, smiling. Dropping his bag on the couch and collapsing on it too. She walked closer, more curious than anything.
"How was work?" She asked, circling their coffee table and peering at his face. He had an elbow resting on his knee, hand supporting his head and looked pale and tired. A part of her felt rewarded by his misery, she had been under the assumption "work trip" had been just an excuse, but he looked drained enough she now believed it.
"Bill was being a dick," he flailed with his tie, trying to undo the knot and Marilyn lowered herself to the coffee table, taking over the task, "funding is- don't worry your pretty head about it, it was boring."
When she had first met him, he loved to tell her about politics. Now he thought her too stupid for it.
She managed to undo his tie and worked on the buttons of his shirt, knuckles brushing against his neck. He was far too warm for such a cold night and Marilyn sighed as she understood the reason behind his behavior. Rich always turned all mellow when he was sick.
"You've got a fever," she mused, staring at his throat, the prickles of his beard coming through. His hands closed around her wrist, pulling hers back and away as she undid his shirt.
"I do?"
"Yeah," she forced herself to meet his eyes. Feverish and dazed, loving even. It made her feel sick. It was so much harder to deal with him being sweet, than when he was an asshole, "you probably caught something during the trip."
"Hmm," he let go of her hands, nodding and leaning back on the couch, "of course. Karmic justice for not taking you with me."
Once upon a time she had begged to tag along the work trips, instead of being locked inside with nothing to do for a whole week. It wasn't the case anymore.
The idea of being in Portland tagging along to boring meetings for four days — if he had actually been working, that was — was incredibly unappealing.
Instead of answering she just cupped his cheeks, stroking them with her thumbs, "how do you feel?"
"Tired," he leaned into her touch, she flinched out of reflex.
"You had the meeting with Atwood today, no?"
How kind of him to remember.
"Yes," she moved up, grabbing his ditched suitcase to keep herself busy, "he wanted to talk about funding for the shelter, during the holidays. They have an influx of- A bigger influx of people."
"Of course they do," Rich rolled his eyes, leaning back on the couch and throwing his head back, lazily watching as she buzzed around nervously, his suitcase in hand, reaching for the carry on as well, organizing the cushions, "nothing I can do about that, though. We already shilled way too much on philanthropy, the city hall is not charity work."
She wanted to point out all they had handed the shelter had been written off taxes. It was an annoying bureaucratic mess, yes, but all the money spent on non-profit institution could be written off their taxes... Besides, it wasn't like Richard was the one filling the paper work. That would be Sheila and Alvarez.
"Don't pout, Mary," he scolded her, "you're too soft, we're running a business, dear."
"I know," she nodded, squeezed the leather handle of his suitcase, "I'm gonna put these away."
"Okay," he didn't follow, stayed down in the couch as she climbed up the stairs and put his suitcase away in the office, on top of the desk, then went back to their bedroom and started to unpack his carry on. It was robotic work, throwing the clothing on a pile to be brought to their laundry room, separating his belts and sniffing the ties' collars to see if they had been worn or not before rolling them to go into the closet.
She was enthralled enough doing it, that Marilyn jerked when he entered their bedroom, a hand resting between her shoulder blades, pressing a kiss to her head, "I'm going to take a shower, I'm beat."
She fished his slippers out of the now empty case and zipped the carry on, taking it inside their closet and returning to their room. Richard had finished stripping and ditched the clothes on the ground, to her annoyance, as she got down to pick them up and put them on the glaringly obvious pile of to-be-washed sitting on their bed.
The bathroom door was open, so she knocked on it, peering inside. They had one of those fancy eight jets showers and the glass box was all foggy already, "have you had dinner yet?"
"What?"
She stepped further inside, forced her voice to be louder, "have you had dinner yet?"
"No," Richard made a face, shampoo lathering his hair, "don't bother, my stomach's not feeling great."
Even through the steam, she thought he looked pale enough to corroborate his point. She went over her options. Worried fussing, which he was clearly fishing for?
It didn't do her any good to pretend things were better than they were. He'd be gentle and curl into her and then next week he'd hate her. However, it would be easier to do just that and she was so tired already. Why put up a fight when she didn't have the will to see things through?
"Aw, poor baby," she heard herself saying, a ventriloquist doll, "I'm going to get you some meds."
"Thank you, doll," he sounded genuinely thankful and she felt a stab of guilt for thinking so ill of him, one he did not deserve, she reminded herself. Nothing to feel guilty about.
Back in the bedroom, she picked up the load of laundry and carried it downstairs, separating it into further piles of lights and darks, as well as what was too delicate to be thrown in the washing machine. She started a load and moved to go through their first aid kit, picking out tylenol and pepto, then searched for a bowl. He hadn't mentioned nausea, but she had seen him sick enough times to know.
Her own stomach growled with hunger, and Marilyn made herself a grilled cheese, leaning against the counter as she ate, staring out of their window. The trees were bending with the wind, it was howling. The temperatures would be dropping soon.
When she walked back upstairs, Richard was already in bed. Curled up under the blankets with the TV on, muted on Fox News. He wasn't a conservative, or at least, he hadn't been one when they met and he had grown consistently closer to it for the past couple of years. It was a point of contention in their relationship, a recurring fight... No, it used to be. She didn't much argue anymore. He was proud of his both-sideism and she was far too tired to fight.
"Here," she sat gingerly on his side of the bed, planting the items on the bedside table, "for the fever," she popped out a tylenol pill, "and this is for the nausea."
He opened a disarming smile, shuffling to be half sitting up against the pillows and taking the meds, "never said anything about being nauseous," Rich fell back on the pillows, grinning at her, "are you a mind reader, Mary?"
"Yes," she rolled her eyes, forcing a smile, "my powers tell me this might be in need," she raised the plastic bowl she had brought upstairs.
He scrunched up his face, "I hope not."
"But feels like it?" She guessed and he sighed, nodding.
"Felt queasy the entire drive back," his eyes slipped closed as she combed through his still humid hair, "come to bed, Mary."
"Alright," she planted the bowl on the floor, next to his head, "it's right next to you, baby."
"Thank you," he curled up further on the blankets, shivering.
By the time she had changed and brushed her teeth, he seemed nearly asleep. Still, he stirred when the bed dipped, rolling closer to her and burying his face on her neck, letting out a happy sigh as he wrapped his arms around her.
Marilyn stared at their ceiling, counting the stars on the medallion that surrounded the light fixture. She had counted it many times before, there were exactly eight of them, each with six points.
"You're thinking too loudly," Rich mumbled, voice sleepy and she let out a scoff.
"Who's the mind reader now?" Marilyn turned her face, her lips brushing over his overheated forehead, "go to sleep."
"Can't," he groaned, but didn't move, so pressed to her that she could feel the unhappy gurgling of his belly against her hip bone, the steady thumping of his heart, "are you mad at me?"
"No, of course not," she answered mechanically, out of reflex even. Then after a pause, "why do you ask?"
A shrug, followed by a groan. He pulled back from her, sitting up to rest his head on the headboard and staring ahead. Although their bedroom was mostly in the dark, the TV was still on and she could see how pale his face was. Staying very still.
"Aw, Rich, c'mon," Marilyn leaned over him, to fish out the bowl from the ground and plant it on his lap, "don't make a mess."
He scoffed, a burp rolling up and causing him to shudder and press his lips into a thin, stubborn line. She rolled her eyes, staring intently, "Richard, at least go sit in the bathroom-"
"Stop caring about the fucking blankets more than me," he said courtly, and Marilyn's mouth snapped shut, spooked. Her eyes darted to his hands, one pressed to his mouth, the other on the rim of the bowl, white knuckling it.
"I-I'm sorry," she stammered over the word, moving out of the bed and stumbling back enough her back hit her dresser. She winced, straightened up and walked to his side of the bed, crouching down in order to plant a hand on his back.
He had sweat through the shirt, covered in a clammy sheen as he continued to gulp down, an ominous bubbling coming from his stomach, "shhh-" Marilyn whispered, rubbing his back softly, "get it up..." she placed a hand on the edge of the bowl, holding it in place and heard one of those loose, airy belches.
Richard leaned in further, then suddenly he retched just once and a large, copious flood of vomit fell inside the bowl, causing Marilyn to turn her head and gag. She felt the plastic bowl grow heavier, him wobblier under her hold, and then another wet sounding burp, followed by more liquid.
He was a very silent puker, but also infuriatingly stubborn. It was as if he became a toddler, refusing to move at all.
She breathed slowly through her mouth, then dared to look back at him, avoiding glancing at the bowl. Richard was pale as a ghost, spitting on the bowl, grey hair falling over his forehead, deep wrinkles next to his squeezed shut eyes.
"Shhh," she pushed his hair back, wiping the sweat off his forehead, "there. How are you feeling?"
No answer. She bit down a frustrated sigh, "Rich? Can I clean the bowl or are you gonna be sick again?"
No answer.
Marilyn bit down a scoff, unhooking his fingers from the rim, and quietly starting to pull the bowl away from him. In the bathroom, she emptied its disgusting contents into the toilet bowl and rinsed it out with the bidet, then she heard a groan coming from the bedroom.
"Mary?"
His voice was feeble, it made her angry just to hear it. She was psychotic, Marilyn thought. Emotions all over the place, wishing he was the man of her dreams, hating him when he was vulnerable, scared of him all the time... None of it made any sense. She didn't make any sense, it was like she was a pendulum swinging out of rhythm.
"MAR-"
"I'm here, I'm here," she rushed back to the bedroom, then froze on her tracks. He had thrown up all over the blankets, face pinched with pain.
"Why did you take the fucking bowl!?" He asked, annoyed, arms raised to avoid the mess, it suddenly reminded her of a toddler. A helpless child. Her fingers squeezed the plastic edge of the basin, "what's wrong with you? Move, Marilyn! Help me!"
"Sorry," she mumbled, rushing closer to him, "sorry, I'm sorry-" she bit the inside of her cheek not to let her disgust show, peeling his soiled shirt, "let me help you to the bathroom-"
"If you hadn't taken the bowl, I wouldn't be covered in this mess," Richard scoffed, pushing her hands away sharply when she started carefully pulling the blankets. Instead, he used the headboard to push himself up, nearly falling on top of her and sending Marilyn staggering back. Her butt cheek met the sharp corner of their bedside table and she bit down a yelp, moved out of his way and saw he had moved with such a haste that now the sheets were dirty as well.
"Clean that up," Richard bossed, circling her, a fist pressed to his mouth as he convulsed with another gag, "the smell is making me nauseous."
He disappeared inside the bathroom and Marilyn just stood there for a second, before she mechanically started pulling on the bedding. Such a mess.
She took it all to the laundry room, got new fresh linens and remade the bed, all the while her hands shook as if she was an abstinence patient, whole body shaking.
The shower was running again, it shut down, "Marilyn?"
"Yes?" She stepped closer, didn't dare enter the room. Richard had wrapped himself up in the bathing robe, an arm around his stomach as he leaned over the sink, still sick.
"Get my pajamas."
She obeyed, fished out the loosest pair of pants and a button up that would be easier to get him out of in case he was sick again. Vaguely, she thought this should be the amount of thought a mother would put on taking care of their child, not a wife towards her husband.
He let her dress him, dropped the bathing robe in her arms and stumbled into the room, collapsing back into the bed with a groan. She felt completely disconnected from her body as she tidied up the bathroom and slipped back into bed, now making sure the bowl was well within his reach once again.
Richard was breathing deeply, but he wasn't snoring and she knew he was still awake. She curled up, wrapped her arms around her knees and stared ahead.
Her husband stirred, tugged on the blankets and wrapped it around himself. His fever was probably higher. She should've been feeding him meds and check on how high it was, but she couldn't move.
Her phone buzzed on the opposite bedside table.
Richard let out a scoff, "who the fuck is texting you so late?"
"I- I don't know," Marilyn picked it up, squinted at the bright screen. Although it wasn't even 10 PM, she felt exhausted.
Isabella Atwood: Thanks for the heads up today, all is fine. Just an upset stomach lol.
Marilyn's heart, which she hadn't realized was racing, slowed down. Nothing important, nothing Richard could be mad about, "it's Atwood's wife, she's just thanking me for asking how he was. He was sick today."
"You didn't mention it earlier," he scoffed, turning his back towards her, "what was wrong with him?"
"I don't know, stomach bug?" She tried to keep her voice lighthearted, "same as you, probably."
"Uhmm," he didn't sound like he believed her, but not enough to warrant a fit. Marilyn let out a breath.
Marilyn: No problem!
Bella's contact lit up at the answer. Three grey dots appeared.
Isabella Atwood: Wanna grab lunch tomorrow?
She stared at the message for a second too long, trying to come up with an answer that wasn't a desperate yes. Richard scoffed.
"Go to sleep, Marilyn. What the hell is so important you need to text late at night?"
"Nothing, nothing," she moved on the bed, tugged on the blankets... Turned towards his back and rubbed his arm, hoping to soothe the bad mood. It worked like a charm, the tension leaving after a second. Marilyn reduced the brightness of her phone completely.
Marilyn: That would be great. Can we meet at the mall, let's say 12h30?
Isabella Atwood: Sure, see you tomorrow!
She smiled, then clicked on all of their texts and selected them. Deleted them and put her phone away, staring ahead in the dark room as Richard finally started to snore.
Marilyn: Sending you a heads up that your husband just left here, sick as a dog.
She stared at the text on the screen in front of her, then erased it. Stuck her bottom lip between her teeth and nibbled it until she drew blood, staring intently at Bella's contact.
They weren't friends, but they were friendly. Acquaintances, but there was a spark of something else. Marilyn forcing her hand by being blatantly obvious on how she felt, hoping Bella might reciprocate — the feeling, not the action. Bella's expressions were so terribly transparent — and reciprocate she did.
Marilyn felt giddy, which was a weird emotion for her to feel after such a long time of feeling nothing. For a couple years now she thought she had been unable to feel anything other than annoyance and exhaustion, her days blurring together, her acquaintances blurring into one monolith of a politician's wife, whom Marilyn was sure she too resembled.
Then there was Isabella Atwood.
Standing out like a sore thumb, bright hair and crazy curls, light eyes surrounded by dark makeup, hand in hand with her husband and so clearly in love, perhaps what picked her out from the masses the most.
The people who were in love in their circles were so far and sparse, Marilyn had stared at Bella during all of their first dinner together, watching like a hawk as Lucas Atwood exchanged quiet words with her, the way they always seemed to be talking even without saying a word, how he noticed when his wife jumped to go to the ladies room, the inquisitive and concerned look on his face, Bella's reassurance... That shit had to be made up.
Yet, it wasn't. Marilyn could barely wrap her mind around it. A flower growing between the pavement joints.
Marilyn: Hi Bella, how are you? Just a heads up, Lucas was just here and he seemed really sick.
What was this, an email? She erased it with a huff and slammed her phone down on the table, screen facing away from her, only to immediately pick it up again as it vibrated.
A random Instagram notification, which she swiped at impatiently, turning back to the task at hand.
Marilyn: Hi Bella, it's Marilyn! Just wanted to let you know Lucas was just here and he looked quite sick. Let me know if you need anything, ok? Tell him I hope he feels better so-
She groaned. She sounded desperate. Bella would think she was clingy and had a loose screw.
Marilyn pressed the erase button and cut the message short.
Marilyn: Hi Bella, it's Marilyn! Just wanted to let you know Lucas was just here and he looked quite sick.
Immediately a green dot appeared next to Bella's contact and three dots across the screen as she typed.
Isabella Atwood: Lucas is sick? He was over at your place?
Isabella Atwood: Is he still there?
Isabella Atwood: Does he need me to pick him up?
Marilyn huffed out a laugh, the iron squeeze around her lungs easing. She felt silly for overthinking the text so much, when Bella was triple texting her without a concern.
Marilyn: He left here about 20 minutes ago, he threw up mid meeting. He seemed really sick, tell him I hope he feels well.
Isabella Atwood: ofc he left 🙄 Thx for the heads up, I'll let him know!
Not only Lucas had looked ill, he had looked put off. Marilyn thought he was under the assumption he was doing a good job at masking how much he disliked her, but he'd be sorely mistaken. Much like his wife, Lucas Atwood was incredibly transparent.
He disliked Marilyn, that much was plain. It didn't bother her, as much as it worried her that it would hurt her prospects of striking friendship with Bella. People disliking her was nothing new.
She moved through the halls, back to the master suite in order to change clothes. Something comfortable, but not so comfy she might be surprised by guests whilst on her jammies. Richard had a habit of inviting people inside no matter the time of the day, just a coffee!, and she had learned to be put together during all hours of the day.
Marilyn pulled her hair down from the ponytail, feeling a little ridiculous for sporting it to begin with. When she had pulled up her hair before Lucas arrived, she had thought it made her look smart, put together. The type of person who could be trusted with a meeting, even if she knew that this was all a grand waste of time, Richard having her host the meeting because he couldn't be bothered. The thing was, just because she knew that, didn't mean Atwood had to know it too.
Maybe he would believe she was her husband's confidant, right hand woman who had his ear and thus was tasked with extraofficial meetings. Make him feel special, instead of frustrated. He was young enough to fall for it, green enough in politics. Maybe he'd think it was some sort of trust gesture to be invited into the mayor's home...
As soon as Lucas had stepped through her door, she had known there was no way he'd buy it; The frown he couldn't quite mask, how his charming smile was in place but there was none of the accompanying conversation. She had watched Lucas make conversation with waiters, her own husband, Sylvie Moore, and several different press members before. He was good at remembering details and making anyone feel listened to... So when he failed at that so spectacularly, she knew he was onto the fact this was all a farse.
Downstairs there was a noise and she glanced out of the window, seeing the headlights of her husband's car. He had been to Portland since the previous Thursday for work and had been supposed to be back Sunday evening. She couldn't say she wasn't glad he had been gone, they were going through a rough patch.
Another one, her brain supplied, unhelpfully and Marilyn scoffed, tugging on her sweater as she walked out of the bedroom, anxiety stirring in her stomach as she wondered who would cross the door. Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde?
"Mary?" His voice travelled, the front door slamming shut. Her shoulders dropped. He didn't call for her when he was pissed off, much less by a nickname.
Richard was standing in the living room like some sort of lost dog, one hand clutching his work case, the other holding the little handbag he took when travelling. Still on his coat and tux, hair looking windswept.
"Hi?" Marilyn took a tentative step down the stairs, hand wrapped tightly around the handrail, taking him in.
Richard was a tall, slender man. Light brown hair that had gone silver at the temples a long time ago, now featuring entire strands of grey mixed in the honey color. He had bright blue eyes and a square jaw of a movie star, with a dimple on his chin that had been the first thing she had ever noticed about him. Nowadays she mostly noticed his hands.
Tonight his eyes had really deep circles around them, exhausted, which was the cause for her hesitancy in the first place. Richard could be mean when he was tired and cranky.
"Hi, doll," he answered, smiling. Dropping his bag on the couch and collapsing on it too. She walked closer, more curious than anything.
"How was work?" She asked, circling their coffee table and peering at his face. He had an elbow resting on his knee, hand supporting his head and looked pale and tired. A part of her felt rewarded by his misery, she had been under the assumption "work trip" had been just an excuse, but he looked drained enough she now believed it.
"Bill was being a dick," he flailed with his tie, trying to undo the knot and Marilyn lowered herself to the coffee table, taking over the task, "funding is- don't worry your pretty head about it, it was boring."
When she had first met him, he loved to tell her about politics. Now he thought her too stupid for it.
She managed to undo his tie and worked on the buttons of his shirt, knuckles brushing against his neck. He was far too warm for such a cold night and Marilyn sighed as she understood the reason behind his behavior. Rich always turned all mellow when he was sick.
"You've got a fever," she mused, staring at his throat, the prickles of his beard coming through. His hands closed around her wrist, pulling hers back and away as she undid his shirt.
"I do?"
"Yeah," she forced herself to meet his eyes. Feverish and dazed, loving even. It made her feel sick. It was so much harder to deal with him being sweet, than when he was an asshole, "you probably caught something during the trip."
"Hmm," he let go of her hands, nodding and leaning back on the couch, "of course. Karmic justice for not taking you with me."
Once upon a time she had begged to tag along the work trips, instead of being locked inside with nothing to do for a whole week. It wasn't the case anymore.
The idea of being in Portland tagging along to boring meetings for four days — if he had actually been working, that was — was incredibly unappealing.
Instead of answering she just cupped his cheeks, stroking them with her thumbs, "how do you feel?"
"Tired," he leaned into her touch, she flinched out of reflex.
"You had the meeting with Atwood today, no?"
How kind of him to remember.
"Yes," she moved up, grabbing his ditched suitcase to keep herself busy, "he wanted to talk about funding for the shelter, during the holidays. They have an influx of- A bigger influx of people."
"Of course they do," Rich rolled his eyes, leaning back on the couch and throwing his head back, lazily watching as she buzzed around nervously, his suitcase in hand, reaching for the carry on as well, organizing the cushions, "nothing I can do about that, though. We already shilled way too much on philanthropy, the city hall is not charity work."
She wanted to point out all they had handed the shelter had been written off taxes. It was an annoying bureaucratic mess, yes, but all the money spent on non-profit institution could be written off their taxes... Besides, it wasn't like Richard was the one filling the paper work. That would be Sheila and Alvarez.
"Don't pout, Mary," he scolded her, "you're too soft, we're running a business, dear."
"I know," she nodded, squeezed the leather handle of his suitcase, "I'm gonna put these away."
"Okay," he didn't follow, stayed down in the couch as she climbed up the stairs and put his suitcase away in the office, on top of the desk, then went back to their bedroom and started to unpack his carry on. It was robotic work, throwing the clothing on a pile to be brought to their laundry room, separating his belts and sniffing the ties' collars to see if they had been worn or not before rolling them to go into the closet.
She was enthralled enough doing it, that Marilyn jerked when he entered their bedroom, a hand resting between her shoulder blades, pressing a kiss to her head, "I'm going to take a shower, I'm beat."
She fished his slippers out of the now empty case and zipped the carry on, taking it inside their closet and returning to their room. Richard had finished stripping and ditched the clothes on the ground, to her annoyance, as she got down to pick them up and put them on the glaringly obvious pile of to-be-washed sitting on their bed.
The bathroom door was open, so she knocked on it, peering inside. They had one of those fancy eight jets showers and the glass box was all foggy already, "have you had dinner yet?"
"What?"
She stepped further inside, forced her voice to be louder, "have you had dinner yet?"
"No," Richard made a face, shampoo lathering his hair, "don't bother, my stomach's not feeling great."
Even through the steam, she thought he looked pale enough to corroborate his point. She went over her options. Worried fussing, which he was clearly fishing for?
It didn't do her any good to pretend things were better than they were. He'd be gentle and curl into her and then next week he'd hate her. However, it would be easier to do just that and she was so tired already. Why put up a fight when she didn't have the will to see things through?
"Aw, poor baby," she heard herself saying, a ventriloquist doll, "I'm going to get you some meds."
"Thank you, doll," he sounded genuinely thankful and she felt a stab of guilt for thinking so ill of him, one he did not deserve, she reminded herself. Nothing to feel guilty about.
Back in the bedroom, she picked up the load of laundry and carried it downstairs, separating it into further piles of lights and darks, as well as what was too delicate to be thrown in the washing machine. She started a load and moved to go through their first aid kit, picking out tylenol and pepto, then searched for a bowl. He hadn't mentioned nausea, but she had seen him sick enough times to know.
Her own stomach growled with hunger, and Marilyn made herself a grilled cheese, leaning against the counter as she ate, staring out of their window. The trees were bending with the wind, it was howling. The temperatures would be dropping soon.
When she walked back upstairs, Richard was already in bed. Curled up under the blankets with the TV on, muted on Fox News. He wasn't a conservative, or at least, he hadn't been one when they met and he had grown consistently closer to it for the past couple of years. It was a point of contention in their relationship, a recurring fight... No, it used to be. She didn't much argue anymore. He was proud of his both-sideism and she was far too tired to fight.
"Here," she sat gingerly on his side of the bed, planting the items on the bedside table, "for the fever," she popped out a tylenol pill, "and this is for the nausea."
He opened a disarming smile, shuffling to be half sitting up against the pillows and taking the meds, "never said anything about being nauseous," Rich fell back on the pillows, grinning at her, "are you a mind reader, Mary?"
"Yes," she rolled her eyes, forcing a smile, "my powers tell me this might be in need," she raised the plastic bowl she had brought upstairs.
He scrunched up his face, "I hope not."
"But feels like it?" She guessed and he sighed, nodding.
"Felt queasy the entire drive back," his eyes slipped closed as she combed through his still humid hair, "come to bed, Mary."
"Alright," she planted the bowl on the floor, next to his head, "it's right next to you, baby."
"Thank you," he curled up further on the blankets, shivering.
By the time she had changed and brushed her teeth, he seemed nearly asleep. Still, he stirred when the bed dipped, rolling closer to her and burying his face on her neck, letting out a happy sigh as he wrapped his arms around her.
Marilyn stared at their ceiling, counting the stars on the medallion that surrounded the light fixture. She had counted it many times before, there were exactly eight of them, each with six points.
"You're thinking too loudly," Rich mumbled, voice sleepy and she let out a scoff.
"Who's the mind reader now?" Marilyn turned her face, her lips brushing over his overheated forehead, "go to sleep."
"Can't," he groaned, but didn't move, so pressed to her that she could feel the unhappy gurgling of his belly against her hip bone, the steady thumping of his heart, "are you mad at me?"
"No, of course not," she answered mechanically, out of reflex even. Then after a pause, "why do you ask?"
A shrug, followed by a groan. He pulled back from her, sitting up to rest his head on the headboard and staring ahead. Although their bedroom was mostly in the dark, the TV was still on and she could see how pale his face was. Staying very still.
"Aw, Rich, c'mon," Marilyn leaned over him, to fish out the bowl from the ground and plant it on his lap, "don't make a mess."
He scoffed, a burp rolling up and causing him to shudder and press his lips into a thin, stubborn line. She rolled her eyes, staring intently, "Richard, at least go sit in the bathroom-"
"Stop caring about the fucking blankets more than me," he said courtly, and Marilyn's mouth snapped shut, spooked. Her eyes darted to his hands, one pressed to his mouth, the other on the rim of the bowl, white knuckling it.
"I-I'm sorry," she stammered over the word, moving out of the bed and stumbling back enough her back hit her dresser. She winced, straightened up and walked to his side of the bed, crouching down in order to plant a hand on his back.
He had sweat through the shirt, covered in a clammy sheen as he continued to gulp down, an ominous bubbling coming from his stomach, "shhh-" Marilyn whispered, rubbing his back softly, "get it up..." she placed a hand on the edge of the bowl, holding it in place and heard one of those loose, airy belches.
Richard leaned in further, then suddenly he retched just once and a large, copious flood of vomit fell inside the bowl, causing Marilyn to turn her head and gag. She felt the plastic bowl grow heavier, him wobblier under her hold, and then another wet sounding burp, followed by more liquid.
He was a very silent puker, but also infuriatingly stubborn. It was as if he became a toddler, refusing to move at all.
She breathed slowly through her mouth, then dared to look back at him, avoiding glancing at the bowl. Richard was pale as a ghost, spitting on the bowl, grey hair falling over his forehead, deep wrinkles next to his squeezed shut eyes.
"Shhh," she pushed his hair back, wiping the sweat off his forehead, "there. How are you feeling?"
No answer. She bit down a frustrated sigh, "Rich? Can I clean the bowl or are you gonna be sick again?"
No answer.
Marilyn bit down a scoff, unhooking his fingers from the rim, and quietly starting to pull the bowl away from him. In the bathroom, she emptied its disgusting contents into the toilet bowl and rinsed it out with the bidet, then she heard a groan coming from the bedroom.
"Mary?"
His voice was feeble, it made her angry just to hear it. She was psychotic, Marilyn thought. Emotions all over the place, wishing he was the man of her dreams, hating him when he was vulnerable, scared of him all the time... None of it made any sense. She didn't make any sense, it was like she was a pendulum swinging out of rhythm.
"MAR-"
"I'm here, I'm here," she rushed back to the bedroom, then froze on her tracks. He had thrown up all over the blankets, face pinched with pain.
"Why did you take the fucking bowl!?" He asked, annoyed, arms raised to avoid the mess, it suddenly reminded her of a toddler. A helpless child. Her fingers squeezed the plastic edge of the basin, "what's wrong with you? Move, Marilyn! Help me!"
"Sorry," she mumbled, rushing closer to him, "sorry, I'm sorry-" she bit the inside of her cheek not to let her disgust show, peeling his soiled shirt, "let me help you to the bathroom-"
"If you hadn't taken the bowl, I wouldn't be covered in this mess," Richard scoffed, pushing her hands away sharply when she started carefully pulling the blankets. Instead, he used the headboard to push himself up, nearly falling on top of her and sending Marilyn staggering back. Her butt cheek met the sharp corner of their bedside table and she bit down a yelp, moved out of his way and saw he had moved with such a haste that now the sheets were dirty as well.
"Clean that up," Richard bossed, circling her, a fist pressed to his mouth as he convulsed with another gag, "the smell is making me nauseous."
He disappeared inside the bathroom and Marilyn just stood there for a second, before she mechanically started pulling on the bedding. Such a mess.
She took it all to the laundry room, got new fresh linens and remade the bed, all the while her hands shook as if she was an abstinence patient, whole body shaking.
The shower was running again, it shut down, "Marilyn?"
"Yes?" She stepped closer, didn't dare enter the room. Richard had wrapped himself up in the bathing robe, an arm around his stomach as he leaned over the sink, still sick.
"Get my pajamas."
She obeyed, fished out the loosest pair of pants and a button up that would be easier to get him out of in case he was sick again. Vaguely, she thought this should be the amount of thought a mother would put on taking care of their child, not a wife towards her husband.
He let her dress him, dropped the bathing robe in her arms and stumbled into the room, collapsing back into the bed with a groan. She felt completely disconnected from her body as she tidied up the bathroom and slipped back into bed, now making sure the bowl was well within his reach once again.
Richard was breathing deeply, but he wasn't snoring and she knew he was still awake. She curled up, wrapped her arms around her knees and stared ahead.
Her husband stirred, tugged on the blankets and wrapped it around himself. His fever was probably higher. She should've been feeding him meds and check on how high it was, but she couldn't move.
Her phone buzzed on the opposite bedside table.
Richard let out a scoff, "who the fuck is texting you so late?"
"I- I don't know," Marilyn picked it up, squinted at the bright screen. Although it wasn't even 10 PM, she felt exhausted.
Isabella Atwood: Thanks for the heads up today, all is fine. Just an upset stomach lol.
Marilyn's heart, which she hadn't realized was racing, slowed down. Nothing important, nothing Richard could be mad about, "it's Atwood's wife, she's just thanking me for asking how he was. He was sick today."
"You didn't mention it earlier," he scoffed, turning his back towards her, "what was wrong with him?"
"I don't know, stomach bug?" She tried to keep her voice lighthearted, "same as you, probably."
"Uhmm," he didn't sound like he believed her, but not enough to warrant a fit. Marilyn let out a breath.
Marilyn: No problem!
Bella's contact lit up at the answer. Three grey dots appeared.
Isabella Atwood: Wanna grab lunch tomorrow?
She stared at the message for a second too long, trying to come up with an answer that wasn't a desperate yes. Richard scoffed.
"Go to sleep, Marilyn. What the hell is so important you need to text late at night?"
"Nothing, nothing," she moved on the bed, tugged on the blankets... Turned towards his back and rubbed his arm, hoping to soothe the bad mood. It worked like a charm, the tension leaving after a second. Marilyn reduced the brightness of her phone completely.
Marilyn: That would be great. Can we meet at the mall, let's say 12h30?
Isabella Atwood: Sure, see you tomorrow!
She smiled, then clicked on all of their texts and selected them. Deleted them and put her phone away, staring ahead in the dark room as Richard finally started to snore.
Marilyn: Sending you a heads up that your husband just left here, sick as a dog.
She stared at the text on the screen in front of her, then erased it. Stuck her bottom lip between her teeth and nibbled it until she drew blood, staring intently at Bella's contact.
They weren't friends, but they were friendly. Acquaintances, but there was a spark of something else. Marilyn forcing her hand by being blatantly obvious on how she felt, hoping Bella might reciprocate — the feeling, not the action. Bella's expressions were so terribly transparent — and reciprocate she did.
Marilyn felt giddy, which was a weird emotion for her to feel after such a long time of feeling nothing. For a couple years now she thought she had been unable to feel anything other than annoyance and exhaustion, her days blurring together, her acquaintances blurring into one monolith of a politician's wife, whom Marilyn was sure she too resembled.
Then there was Isabella Atwood.
Standing out like a sore thumb, bright hair and crazy curls, light eyes surrounded by dark makeup, hand in hand with her husband and so clearly in love, perhaps what picked her out from the masses the most.
The people who were in love in their circles were so far and sparse, Marilyn had stared at Bella during all of their first dinner together, watching like a hawk as Lucas Atwood exchanged quiet words with her, the way they always seemed to be talking even without saying a word, how he noticed when his wife jumped to go to the ladies room, the inquisitive and concerned look on his face, Bella's reassurance... That shit had to be made up.
Yet, it wasn't. Marilyn could barely wrap her mind around it. A flower growing between the pavement joints.
Marilyn: Hi Bella, how are you? Just a heads up, Lucas was just here and he seemed really sick.
What was this, an email? She erased it with a huff and slammed her phone down on the table, screen facing away from her, only to immediately pick it up again as it vibrated.
A random Instagram notification, which she swiped at impatiently, turning back to the task at hand.
Marilyn: Hi Bella, it's Marilyn! Just wanted to let you know Lucas was just here and he looked quite sick. Let me know if you need anything, ok? Tell him I hope he feels better so-
She groaned. She sounded desperate. Bella would think she was clingy and had a loose screw.
Marilyn pressed the erase button and cut the message short.
Marilyn: Hi Bella, it's Marilyn! Just wanted to let you know Lucas was just here and he looked quite sick.
Immediately a green dot appeared next to Bella's contact and three dots across the screen as she typed.
Isabella Atwood: Lucas is sick? He was over at your place?
Isabella Atwood: Is he still there?
Isabella Atwood: Does he need me to pick him up?
Marilyn huffed out a laugh, the iron squeeze around her lungs easing. She felt silly for overthinking the text so much, when Bella was triple texting her without a concern.
Marilyn: He left here about 20 minutes ago, he threw up mid meeting. He seemed really sick, tell him I hope he feels well.
Isabella Atwood: ofc he left 🙄 Thx for the heads up, I'll let him know!
Not only Lucas had looked ill, he had looked put off. Marilyn thought he was under the assumption he was doing a good job at masking how much he disliked her, but he'd be sorely mistaken. Much like his wife, Lucas Atwood was incredibly transparent.
He disliked Marilyn, that much was plain. It didn't bother her, as much as it worried her that it would hurt her prospects of striking friendship with Bella. People disliking her was nothing new.
She moved through the halls, back to the master suite in order to change clothes. Something comfortable, but not so comfy she might be surprised by guests whilst on her jammies. Richard had a habit of inviting people inside no matter the time of the day, just a coffee!, and she had learned to be put together during all hours of the day.
Marilyn pulled her hair down from the ponytail, feeling a little ridiculous for sporting it to begin with. When she had pulled up her hair before Lucas arrived, she had thought it made her look smart, put together. The type of person who could be trusted with a meeting, even if she knew that this was all a grand waste of time, Richard having her host the meeting because he couldn't be bothered. The thing was, just because she knew that, didn't mean Atwood had to know it too.
Maybe he would believe she was her husband's confidant, right hand woman who had his ear and thus was tasked with extraofficial meetings. Make him feel special, instead of frustrated. He was young enough to fall for it, green enough in politics. Maybe he'd think it was some sort of trust gesture to be invited into the mayor's home...
As soon as Lucas had stepped through her door, she had known there was no way he'd buy it; The frown he couldn't quite mask, how his charming smile was in place but there was none of the accompanying conversation. She had watched Lucas make conversation with waiters, her own husband, Sylvie Moore, and several different press members before. He was good at remembering details and making anyone feel listened to... So when he failed at that so spectacularly, she knew he was onto the fact this was all a farse.
Downstairs there was a noise and she glanced out of the window, seeing the headlights of her husband's car. He had been to Portland since the previous Thursday for work and had been supposed to be back Sunday evening. She couldn't say she wasn't glad he had been gone, they were going through a rough patch.
Another one, her brain supplied, unhelpfully and Marilyn scoffed, tugging on her sweater as she walked out of the bedroom, anxiety stirring in her stomach as she wondered who would cross the door. Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde?
"Mary?" His voice travelled, the front door slamming shut. Her shoulders dropped. He didn't call for her when he was pissed off, much less by a nickname.
Richard was standing in the living room like some sort of lost dog, one hand clutching his work case, the other holding the little handbag he took when travelling. Still on his coat and tux, hair looking windswept.
"Hi?" Marilyn took a tentative step down the stairs, hand wrapped tightly around the handrail, taking him in.
Richard was a tall, slender man. Light brown hair that had gone silver at the temples a long time ago, now featuring entire strands of grey mixed in the honey color. He had bright blue eyes and a square jaw of a movie star, with a dimple on his chin that had been the first thing she had ever noticed about him. Nowadays she mostly noticed his hands.
Tonight his eyes had really deep circles around them, exhausted, which was the cause for her hesitancy in the first place. Richard could be mean when he was tired and cranky.
"Hi, doll," he answered, smiling. Dropping his bag on the couch and collapsing on it too. She walked closer, more curious than anything.
"How was work?" She asked, circling their coffee table and peering at his face. He had an elbow resting on his knee, hand supporting his head and looked pale and tired. A part of her felt rewarded by his misery, she had been under the assumption "work trip" had been just an excuse, but he looked drained enough she now believed it.
"Bill was being a dick," he flailed with his tie, trying to undo the knot and Marilyn lowered herself to the coffee table, taking over the task, "funding is- don't worry your pretty head about it, it was boring."
When she had first met him, he loved to tell her about politics. Now he thought her too stupid for it.
She managed to undo his tie and worked on the buttons of his shirt, knuckles brushing against his neck. He was far too warm for such a cold night and Marilyn sighed as she understood the reason behind his behavior. Rich always turned all mellow when he was sick.
"You've got a fever," she mused, staring at his throat, the prickles of his beard coming through. His hands closed around her wrist, pulling hers back and away as she undid his shirt.
"I do?"
"Yeah," she forced herself to meet his eyes. Feverish and dazed, loving even. It made her feel sick. It was so much harder to deal with him being sweet, than when he was an asshole, "you probably caught something during the trip."
"Hmm," he let go of her hands, nodding and leaning back on the couch, "of course. Karmic justice for not taking you with me."
Once upon a time she had begged to tag along the work trips, instead of being locked inside with nothing to do for a whole week. It wasn't the case anymore.
The idea of being in Portland tagging along to boring meetings for four days — if he had actually been working, that was — was incredibly unappealing.
Instead of answering she just cupped his cheeks, stroking them with her thumbs, "how do you feel?"
"Tired," he leaned into her touch, she flinched out of reflex.
"You had the meeting with Atwood today, no?"
How kind of him to remember.
"Yes," she moved up, grabbing his ditched suitcase to keep herself busy, "he wanted to talk about funding for the shelter, during the holidays. They have an influx of- A bigger influx of people."
"Of course they do," Rich rolled his eyes, leaning back on the couch and throwing his head back, lazily watching as she buzzed around nervously, his suitcase in hand, reaching for the carry on as well, organizing the cushions, "nothing I can do about that, though. We already shilled way too much on philanthropy, the city hall is not charity work."
She wanted to point out all they had handed the shelter had been written off taxes. It was an annoying bureaucratic mess, yes, but all the money spent on non-profit institution could be written off their taxes... Besides, it wasn't like Richard was the one filling the paper work. That would be Sheila and Alvarez.
"Don't pout, Mary," he scolded her, "you're too soft, we're running a business, dear."
"I know," she nodded, squeezed the leather handle of his suitcase, "I'm gonna put these away."
"Okay," he didn't follow, stayed down in the couch as she climbed up the stairs and put his suitcase away in the office, on top of the desk, then went back to their bedroom and started to unpack his carry on. It was robotic work, throwing the clothing on a pile to be brought to their laundry room, separating his belts and sniffing the ties' collars to see if they had been worn or not before rolling them to go into the closet.
She was enthralled enough doing it, that Marilyn jerked when he entered their bedroom, a hand resting between her shoulder blades, pressing a kiss to her head, "I'm going to take a shower, I'm beat."
She fished his slippers out of the now empty case and zipped the carry on, taking it inside their closet and returning to their room. Richard had finished stripping and ditched the clothes on the ground, to her annoyance, as she got down to pick them up and put them on the glaringly obvious pile of to-be-washed sitting on their bed.
The bathroom door was open, so she knocked on it, peering inside. They had one of those fancy eight jets showers and the glass box was all foggy already, "have you had dinner yet?"
"What?"
She stepped further inside, forced her voice to be louder, "have you had dinner yet?"
"No," Richard made a face, shampoo lathering his hair, "don't bother, my stomach's not feeling great."
Even through the steam, she thought he looked pale enough to corroborate his point. She went over her options. Worried fussing, which he was clearly fishing for?
It didn't do her any good to pretend things were better than they were. He'd be gentle and curl into her and then next week he'd hate her. However, it would be easier to do just that and she was so tired already. Why put up a fight when she didn't have the will to see things through?
"Aw, poor baby," she heard herself saying, a ventriloquist doll, "I'm going to get you some meds."
"Thank you, doll," he sounded genuinely thankful and she felt a stab of guilt for thinking so ill of him, one he did not deserve, she reminded herself. Nothing to feel guilty about.
Back in the bedroom, she picked up the load of laundry and carried it downstairs, separating it into further piles of lights and darks, as well as what was too delicate to be thrown in the washing machine. She started a load and moved to go through their first aid kit, picking out tylenol and pepto, then searched for a bowl. He hadn't mentioned nausea, but she had seen him sick enough times to know.
Her own stomach growled with hunger, and Marilyn made herself a grilled cheese, leaning against the counter as she ate, staring out of their window. The trees were bending with the wind, it was howling. The temperatures would be dropping soon.
When she walked back upstairs, Richard was already in bed. Curled up under the blankets with the TV on, muted on Fox News. He wasn't a conservative, or at least, he hadn't been one when they met and he had grown consistently closer to it for the past couple of years. It was a point of contention in their relationship, a recurring fight... No, it used to be. She didn't much argue anymore. He was proud of his both-sideism and she was far too tired to fight.
"Here," she sat gingerly on his side of the bed, planting the items on the bedside table, "for the fever," she popped out a tylenol pill, "and this is for the nausea."
He opened a disarming smile, shuffling to be half sitting up against the pillows and taking the meds, "never said anything about being nauseous," Rich fell back on the pillows, grinning at her, "are you a mind reader, Mary?"
"Yes," she rolled her eyes, forcing a smile, "my powers tell me this might be in need," she raised the plastic bowl she had brought upstairs.
He scrunched up his face, "I hope not."
"But feels like it?" She guessed and he sighed, nodding.
"Felt queasy the entire drive back," his eyes slipped closed as she combed through his still humid hair, "come to bed, Mary."
"Alright," she planted the bowl on the floor, next to his head, "it's right next to you, baby."
"Thank you," he curled up further on the blankets, shivering.
By the time she had changed and brushed her teeth, he seemed nearly asleep. Still, he stirred when the bed dipped, rolling closer to her and burying his face on her neck, letting out a happy sigh as he wrapped his arms around her.
Marilyn stared at their ceiling, counting the stars on the medallion that surrounded the light fixture. She had counted it many times before, there were exactly eight of them, each with six points.
"You're thinking too loudly," Rich mumbled, voice sleepy and she let out a scoff.
"Who's the mind reader now?" Marilyn turned her face, her lips brushing over his overheated forehead, "go to sleep."
"Can't," he groaned, but didn't move, so pressed to her that she could feel the unhappy gurgling of his belly against her hip bone, the steady thumping of his heart, "are you mad at me?"
"No, of course not," she answered mechanically, out of reflex even. Then after a pause, "why do you ask?"
A shrug, followed by a groan. He pulled back from her, sitting up to rest his head on the headboard and staring ahead. Although their bedroom was mostly in the dark, the TV was still on and she could see how pale his face was. Staying very still.
"Aw, Rich, c'mon," Marilyn leaned over him, to fish out the bowl from the ground and plant it on his lap, "don't make a mess."
He scoffed, a burp rolling up and causing him to shudder and press his lips into a thin, stubborn line. She rolled her eyes, staring intently, "Richard, at least go sit in the bathroom-"
"Stop caring about the fucking blankets more than me," he said courtly, and Marilyn's mouth snapped shut, spooked. Her eyes darted to his hands, one pressed to his mouth, the other on the rim of the bowl, white knuckling it.
"I-I'm sorry," she stammered over the word, moving out of the bed and stumbling back enough her back hit her dresser. She winced, straightened up and walked to his side of the bed, crouching down in order to plant a hand on his back.
He had sweat through the shirt, covered in a clammy sheen as he continued to gulp down, an ominous bubbling coming from his stomach, "shhh-" Marilyn whispered, rubbing his back softly, "get it up..." she placed a hand on the edge of the bowl, holding it in place and heard one of those loose, airy belches.
Richard leaned in further, then suddenly he retched just once and a large, copious flood of vomit fell inside the bowl, causing Marilyn to turn her head and gag. She felt the plastic bowl grow heavier, him wobblier under her hold, and then another wet sounding burp, followed by more liquid.
He was a very silent puker, but also infuriatingly stubborn. It was as if he became a toddler, refusing to move at all.
She breathed slowly through her mouth, then dared to look back at him, avoiding glancing at the bowl. Richard was pale as a ghost, spitting on the bowl, grey hair falling over his forehead, deep wrinkles next to his squeezed shut eyes.
"Shhh," she pushed his hair back, wiping the sweat off his forehead, "there. How are you feeling?"
No answer. She bit down a frustrated sigh, "Rich? Can I clean the bowl or are you gonna be sick again?"
No answer.
Marilyn bit down a scoff, unhooking his fingers from the rim, and quietly starting to pull the bowl away from him. In the bathroom, she emptied its disgusting contents into the toilet bowl and rinsed it out with the bidet, then she heard a groan coming from the bedroom.
"Mary?"
His voice was feeble, it made her angry just to hear it. She was psychotic, Marilyn thought. Emotions all over the place, wishing he was the man of her dreams, hating him when he was vulnerable, scared of him all the time... None of it made any sense. She didn't make any sense, it was like she was a pendulum swinging out of rhythm.
"MAR-"
"I'm here, I'm here," she rushed back to the bedroom, then froze on her tracks. He had thrown up all over the blankets, face pinched with pain.
"Why did you take the fucking bowl!?" He asked, annoyed, arms raised to avoid the mess, it suddenly reminded her of a toddler. A helpless child. Her fingers squeezed the plastic edge of the basin, "what's wrong with you? Move, Marilyn! Help me!"
"Sorry," she mumbled, rushing closer to him, "sorry, I'm sorry-" she bit the inside of her cheek not to let her disgust show, peeling his soiled shirt, "let me help you to the bathroom-"
"If you hadn't taken the bowl, I wouldn't be covered in this mess," Richard scoffed, pushing her hands away sharply when she started carefully pulling the blankets. Instead, he used the headboard to push himself up, nearly falling on top of her and sending Marilyn staggering back. Her butt cheek met the sharp corner of their bedside table and she bit down a yelp, moved out of his way and saw he had moved with such a haste that now the sheets were dirty as well.
"Clean that up," Richard bossed, circling her, a fist pressed to his mouth as he convulsed with another gag, "the smell is making me nauseous."
He disappeared inside the bathroom and Marilyn just stood there for a second, before she mechanically started pulling on the bedding. Such a mess.
She took it all to the laundry room, got new fresh linens and remade the bed, all the while her hands shook as if she was an abstinence patient, whole body shaking.
The shower was running again, it shut down, "Marilyn?"
"Yes?" She stepped closer, didn't dare enter the room. Richard had wrapped himself up in the bathing robe, an arm around his stomach as he leaned over the sink, still sick.
"Get my pajamas."
She obeyed, fished out the loosest pair of pants and a button up that would be easier to get him out of in case he was sick again. Vaguely, she thought this should be the amount of thought a mother would put on taking care of their child, not a wife towards her husband.
He let her dress him, dropped the bathing robe in her arms and stumbled into the room, collapsing back into the bed with a groan. She felt completely disconnected from her body as she tidied up the bathroom and slipped back into bed, now making sure the bowl was well within his reach once again.
Richard was breathing deeply, but he wasn't snoring and she knew he was still awake. She curled up, wrapped her arms around her knees and stared ahead.
Her husband stirred, tugged on the blankets and wrapped it around himself. His fever was probably higher. She should've been feeding him meds and check on how high it was, but she couldn't move.
Her phone buzzed on the opposite bedside table.
Richard let out a scoff, "who the fuck is texting you so late?"
"I- I don't know," Marilyn picked it up, squinted at the bright screen. Although it wasn't even 10 PM, she felt exhausted.
Isabella Atwood: Thanks for the heads up today, all is fine. Just an upset stomach lol.
Marilyn's heart, which she hadn't realized was racing, slowed down. Nothing important, nothing Richard could be mad about, "it's Atwood's wife, she's just thanking me for asking how he was. He was sick today."
"You didn't mention it earlier," he scoffed, turning his back towards her, "what was wrong with him?"
"I don't know, stomach bug?" She tried to keep her voice lighthearted, "same as you, probably."
"Uhmm," he didn't sound like he believed her, but not enough to warrant a fit. Marilyn let out a breath.
Marilyn: No problem!
Bella's contact lit up at the answer. Three grey dots appeared.
Isabella Atwood: Wanna grab lunch tomorrow?
She stared at the message for a second too long, trying to come up with an answer that wasn't a desperate yes. Richard scoffed.
"Go to sleep, Marilyn. What the hell is so important you need to text late at night?"
"Nothing, nothing," she moved on the bed, tugged on the blankets... Turned towards his back and rubbed his arm, hoping to soothe the bad mood. It worked like a charm, the tension leaving after a second. Marilyn reduced the brightness of her phone completely.
Marilyn: That would be great. Can we meet at the mall, let's say 12h30?
Isabella Atwood: Sure, see you tomorrow!
She smiled, then clicked on all of their texts and selected them. Deleted them and put her phone away, staring ahead in the dark room as Richard finally started to snore.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Marilyn: Sending you a heads up that your husband just left here, sick as a dog.
She stared at the text on the screen in front of her, then erased it. Stuck her bottom lip between her teeth and nibbled it until she drew blood, staring intently at Bella's contact.
They weren't friends, but they were friendly. Acquaintances, but there was a spark of something else. Marilyn forcing her hand by being blatantly obvious on how she felt, hoping Bella might reciprocate — the feeling, not the action. Bella's expressions were so terribly transparent — and reciprocate she did.
Marilyn felt giddy, which was a weird emotion for her to feel after such a long time of feeling nothing. For a couple years now she thought she had been unable to feel anything other than annoyance and exhaustion, her days blurring together, her acquaintances blurring into one monolith of a politician's wife, whom Marilyn was sure she too resembled.
Then there was Isabella Atwood.
Standing out like a sore thumb, bright hair and crazy curls, light eyes surrounded by dark makeup, hand in hand with her husband and so clearly in love, perhaps what picked her out from the masses the most.
The people who were in love in their circles were so far and sparse, Marilyn had stared at Bella during all of their first dinner together, watching like a hawk as Lucas Atwood exchanged quiet words with her, the way they always seemed to be talking even without saying a word, how he noticed when his wife jumped to go to the ladies room, the inquisitive and concerned look on his face, Bella's reassurance... That shit had to be made up.
Yet, it wasn't. Marilyn could barely wrap her mind around it. A flower growing between the pavement joints.
Marilyn: Hi Bella, how are you? Just a heads up, Lucas was just here and he seemed really sick.
What was this, an email? She erased it with a huff and slammed her phone down on the table, screen facing away from her, only to immediately pick it up again as it vibrated.
A random Instagram notification, which she swiped at impatiently, turning back to the task at hand.
Marilyn: Hi Bella, it's Marilyn! Just wanted to let you know Lucas was just here and he looked quite sick. Let me know if you need anything, ok? Tell him I hope he feels better so-
She groaned. She sounded desperate. Bella would think she was clingy and had a loose screw.
Marilyn pressed the erase button and cut the message short.
Marilyn: Hi Bella, it's Marilyn! Just wanted to let you know Lucas was just here and he looked quite sick.
Immediately a green dot appeared next to Bella's contact and three dots across the screen as she typed.
Isabella Atwood: Lucas is sick? He was over at your place?
Isabella Atwood: Is he still there?
Isabella Atwood: Does he need me to pick him up?
Marilyn huffed out a laugh, the iron squeeze around her lungs easing. She felt silly for overthinking the text so much, when Bella was triple texting her without a concern.
Marilyn: He left here about 20 minutes ago, he threw up mid meeting. He seemed really sick, tell him I hope he feels well.
Isabella Atwood: ofc he left 🙄 Thx for the heads up, I'll let him know!
Not only Lucas had looked ill, he had looked put off. Marilyn thought he was under the assumption he was doing a good job at masking how much he disliked her, but he'd be sorely mistaken. Much like his wife, Lucas Atwood was incredibly transparent.
He disliked Marilyn, that much was plain. It didn't bother her, as much as it worried her that it would hurt her prospects of striking friendship with Bella. People disliking her was nothing new.
She moved through the halls, back to the master suite in order to change clothes. Something comfortable, but not so comfy she might be surprised by guests whilst on her jammies. Richard had a habit of inviting people inside no matter the time of the day, just a coffee!, and she had learned to be put together during all hours of the day.
Marilyn pulled her hair down from the ponytail, feeling a little ridiculous for sporting it to begin with. When she had pulled up her hair before Lucas arrived, she had thought it made her look smart, put together. The type of person who could be trusted with a meeting, even if she knew that this was all a grand waste of time, Richard having her host the meeting because he couldn't be bothered. The thing was, just because she knew that, didn't mean Atwood had to know it too.
Maybe he would believe she was her husband's confidant, right hand woman who had his ear and thus was tasked with extraofficial meetings. Make him feel special, instead of frustrated. He was young enough to fall for it, green enough in politics. Maybe he'd think it was some sort of trust gesture to be invited into the mayor's home...
As soon as Lucas had stepped through her door, she had known there was no way he'd buy it; The frown he couldn't quite mask, how his charming smile was in place but there was none of the accompanying conversation. She had watched Lucas make conversation with waiters, her own husband, Sylvie Moore, and several different press members before. He was good at remembering details and making anyone feel listened to... So when he failed at that so spectacularly, she knew he was onto the fact this was all a farse.
Downstairs there was a noise and she glanced out of the window, seeing the headlights of her husband's car. He had been to Portland since the previous Thursday for work and had been supposed to be back Sunday evening. She couldn't say she wasn't glad he had been gone, they were going through a rough patch.
Another one, her brain supplied, unhelpfully and Marilyn scoffed, tugging on her sweater as she walked out of the bedroom, anxiety stirring in her stomach as she wondered who would cross the door. Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde?
"Mary?" His voice travelled, the front door slamming shut. Her shoulders dropped. He didn't call for her when he was pissed off, much less by a nickname.
Richard was standing in the living room like some sort of lost dog, one hand clutching his work case, the other holding the little handbag he took when travelling. Still on his coat and tux, hair looking windswept.
"Hi?" Marilyn took a tentative step down the stairs, hand wrapped tightly around the handrail, taking him in.
Richard was a tall, slender man. Light brown hair that had gone silver at the temples a long time ago, now featuring entire strands of grey mixed in the honey color. He had bright blue eyes and a square jaw of a movie star, with a dimple on his chin that had been the first thing she had ever noticed about him. Nowadays she mostly noticed his hands.
Tonight his eyes had really deep circles around them, exhausted, which was the cause for her hesitancy in the first place. Richard could be mean when he was tired and cranky.
"Hi, doll," he answered, smiling. Dropping his bag on the couch and collapsing on it too. She walked closer, more curious than anything.
"How was work?" She asked, circling their coffee table and peering at his face. He had an elbow resting on his knee, hand supporting his head and looked pale and tired. A part of her felt rewarded by his misery, she had been under the assumption "work trip" had been just an excuse, but he looked drained enough she now believed it.
"Bill was being a dick," he flailed with his tie, trying to undo the knot and Marilyn lowered herself to the coffee table, taking over the task, "funding is- don't worry your pretty head about it, it was boring."
When she had first met him, he loved to tell her about politics. Now he thought her too stupid for it.
She managed to undo his tie and worked on the buttons of his shirt, knuckles brushing against his neck. He was far too warm for such a cold night and Marilyn sighed as she understood the reason behind his behavior. Rich always turned all mellow when he was sick.
"You've got a fever," she mused, staring at his throat, the prickles of his beard coming through. His hands closed around her wrist, pulling hers back and away as she undid his shirt.
"I do?"
"Yeah," she forced herself to meet his eyes. Feverish and dazed, loving even. It made her feel sick. It was so much harder to deal with him being sweet, than when he was an asshole, "you probably caught something during the trip."
"Hmm," he let go of her hands, nodding and leaning back on the couch, "of course. Karmic justice for not taking you with me."
Once upon a time she had begged to tag along the work trips, instead of being locked inside with nothing to do for a whole week. It wasn't the case anymore.
The idea of being in Portland tagging along to boring meetings for four days — if he had actually been working, that was — was incredibly unappealing.
Instead of answering she just cupped his cheeks, stroking them with her thumbs, "how do you feel?"
"Tired," he leaned into her touch, she flinched out of reflex.
"You had the meeting with Atwood today, no?"
How kind of him to remember.
"Yes," she moved up, grabbing his ditched suitcase to keep herself busy, "he wanted to talk about funding for the shelter, during the holidays. They have an influx of- A bigger influx of people."
"Of course they do," Rich rolled his eyes, leaning back on the couch and throwing his head back, lazily watching as she buzzed around nervously, his suitcase in hand, reaching for the carry on as well, organizing the cushions, "nothing I can do about that, though. We already shilled way too much on philanthropy, the city hall is not charity work."
She wanted to point out all they had handed the shelter had been written off taxes. It was an annoying bureaucratic mess, yes, but all the money spent on non-profit institution could be written off their taxes... Besides, it wasn't like Richard was the one filling the paper work. That would be Sheila and Alvarez.
"Don't pout, Mary," he scolded her, "you're too soft, we're running a business, dear."
"I know," she nodded, squeezed the leather handle of his suitcase, "I'm gonna put these away."
"Okay," he didn't follow, stayed down in the couch as she climbed up the stairs and put his suitcase away in the office, on top of the desk, then went back to their bedroom and started to unpack his carry on. It was robotic work, throwing the clothing on a pile to be brought to their laundry room, separating his belts and sniffing the ties' collars to see if they had been worn or not before rolling them to go into the closet.
She was enthralled enough doing it, that Marilyn jerked when he entered their bedroom, a hand resting between her shoulder blades, pressing a kiss to her head, "I'm going to take a shower, I'm beat."
She fished his slippers out of the now empty case and zipped the carry on, taking it inside their closet and returning to their room. Richard had finished stripping and ditched the clothes on the ground, to her annoyance, as she got down to pick them up and put them on the glaringly obvious pile of to-be-washed sitting on their bed.
The bathroom door was open, so she knocked on it, peering inside. They had one of those fancy eight jets showers and the glass box was all foggy already, "have you had dinner yet?"
"What?"
She stepped further inside, forced her voice to be louder, "have you had dinner yet?"
"No," Richard made a face, shampoo lathering his hair, "don't bother, my stomach's not feeling great."
Even through the steam, she thought he looked pale enough to corroborate his point. She went over her options. Worried fussing, which he was clearly fishing for?
It didn't do her any good to pretend things were better than they were. He'd be gentle and curl into her and then next week he'd hate her. However, it would be easier to do just that and she was so tired already. Why put up a fight when she didn't have the will to see things through?
"Aw, poor baby," she heard herself saying, a ventriloquist doll, "I'm going to get you some meds."
"Thank you, doll," he sounded genuinely thankful and she felt a stab of guilt for thinking so ill of him, one he did not deserve, she reminded herself. Nothing to feel guilty about.
Back in the bedroom, she picked up the load of laundry and carried it downstairs, separating it into further piles of lights and darks, as well as what was too delicate to be thrown in the washing machine. She started a load and moved to go through their first aid kit, picking out tylenol and pepto, then searched for a bowl. He hadn't mentioned nausea, but she had seen him sick enough times to know.
Her own stomach growled with hunger, and Marilyn made herself a grilled cheese, leaning against the counter as she ate, staring out of their window. The trees were bending with the wind, it was howling. The temperatures would be dropping soon.
When she walked back upstairs, Richard was already in bed. Curled up under the blankets with the TV on, muted on Fox News. He wasn't a conservative, or at least, he hadn't been one when they met and he had grown consistently closer to it for the past couple of years. It was a point of contention in their relationship, a recurring fight... No, it used to be. She didn't much argue anymore. He was proud of his both-sideism and she was far too tired to fight.
"Here," she sat gingerly on his side of the bed, planting the items on the bedside table, "for the fever," she popped out a tylenol pill, "and this is for the nausea."
He opened a disarming smile, shuffling to be half sitting up against the pillows and taking the meds, "never said anything about being nauseous," Rich fell back on the pillows, grinning at her, "are you a mind reader, Mary?"
"Yes," she rolled her eyes, forcing a smile, "my powers tell me this might be in need," she raised the plastic bowl she had brought upstairs.
He scrunched up his face, "I hope not."
"But feels like it?" She guessed and he sighed, nodding.
"Felt queasy the entire drive back," his eyes slipped closed as she combed through his still humid hair, "come to bed, Mary."
"Alright," she planted the bowl on the floor, next to his head, "it's right next to you, baby."
"Thank you," he curled up further on the blankets, shivering.
By the time she had changed and brushed her teeth, he seemed nearly asleep. Still, he stirred when the bed dipped, rolling closer to her and burying his face on her neck, letting out a happy sigh as he wrapped his arms around her.
Marilyn stared at their ceiling, counting the stars on the medallion that surrounded the light fixture. She had counted it many times before, there were exactly eight of them, each with six points.
"You're thinking too loudly," Rich mumbled, voice sleepy and she let out a scoff.
"Who's the mind reader now?" Marilyn turned her face, her lips brushing over his overheated forehead, "go to sleep."
"Can't," he groaned, but didn't move, so pressed to her that she could feel the unhappy gurgling of his belly against her hip bone, the steady thumping of his heart, "are you mad at me?"
"No, of course not," she answered mechanically, out of reflex even. Then after a pause, "why do you ask?"
A shrug, followed by a groan. He pulled back from her, sitting up to rest his head on the headboard and staring ahead. Although their bedroom was mostly in the dark, the TV was still on and she could see how pale his face was. Staying very still.
"Aw, Rich, c'mon," Marilyn leaned over him, to fish out the bowl from the ground and plant it on his lap, "don't make a mess."
He scoffed, a burp rolling up and causing him to shudder and press his lips into a thin, stubborn line. She rolled her eyes, staring intently, "Richard, at least go sit in the bathroom-"
"Stop caring about the fucking blankets more than me," he said courtly, and Marilyn's mouth snapped shut, spooked. Her eyes darted to his hands, one pressed to his mouth, the other on the rim of the bowl, white knuckling it.
"I-I'm sorry," she stammered over the word, moving out of the bed and stumbling back enough her back hit her dresser. She winced, straightened up and walked to his side of the bed, crouching down in order to plant a hand on his back.
He had sweat through the shirt, covered in a clammy sheen as he continued to gulp down, an ominous bubbling coming from his stomach, "shhh-" Marilyn whispered, rubbing his back softly, "get it up..." she placed a hand on the edge of the bowl, holding it in place and heard one of those loose, airy belches.
Richard leaned in further, then suddenly he retched just once and a large, copious flood of vomit fell inside the bowl, causing Marilyn to turn her head and gag. She felt the plastic bowl grow heavier, him wobblier under her hold, and then another wet sounding burp, followed by more liquid.
He was a very silent puker, but also infuriatingly stubborn. It was as if he became a toddler, refusing to move at all.
She breathed slowly through her mouth, then dared to look back at him, avoiding glancing at the bowl. Richard was pale as a ghost, spitting on the bowl, grey hair falling over his forehead, deep wrinkles next to his squeezed shut eyes.
"Shhh," she pushed his hair back, wiping the sweat off his forehead, "there. How are you feeling?"
No answer. She bit down a frustrated sigh, "Rich? Can I clean the bowl or are you gonna be sick again?"
No answer.
Marilyn bit down a scoff, unhooking his fingers from the rim, and quietly starting to pull the bowl away from him. In the bathroom, she emptied its disgusting contents into the toilet bowl and rinsed it out with the bidet, then she heard a groan coming from the bedroom.
"Mary?"
His voice was feeble, it made her angry just to hear it. She was psychotic, Marilyn thought. Emotions all over the place, wishing he was the man of her dreams, hating him when he was vulnerable, scared of him all the time... None of it made any sense. She didn't make any sense, it was like she was a pendulum swinging out of rhythm.
"MAR-"
"I'm here, I'm here," she rushed back to the bedroom, then froze on her tracks. He had thrown up all over the blankets, face pinched with pain.
"Why did you take the fucking bowl!?" He asked, annoyed, arms raised to avoid the mess, it suddenly reminded her of a toddler. A helpless child. Her fingers squeezed the plastic edge of the basin, "what's wrong with you? Move, Marilyn! Help me!"
"Sorry," she mumbled, rushing closer to him, "sorry, I'm sorry-" she bit the inside of her cheek not to let her disgust show, peeling his soiled shirt, "let me help you to the bathroom-"
"If you hadn't taken the bowl, I wouldn't be covered in this mess," Richard scoffed, pushing her hands away sharply when she started carefully pulling the blankets. Instead, he used the headboard to push himself up, nearly falling on top of her and sending Marilyn staggering back. Her butt cheek met the sharp corner of their bedside table and she bit down a yelp, moved out of his way and saw he had moved with such a haste that now the sheets were dirty as well.
"Clean that up," Richard bossed, circling her, a fist pressed to his mouth as he convulsed with another gag, "the smell is making me nauseous."
He disappeared inside the bathroom and Marilyn just stood there for a second, before she mechanically started pulling on the bedding. Such a mess.
She took it all to the laundry room, got new fresh linens and remade the bed, all the while her hands shook as if she was an abstinence patient, whole body shaking.
The shower was running again, it shut down, "Marilyn?"
"Yes?" She stepped closer, didn't dare enter the room. Richard had wrapped himself up in the bathing robe, an arm around his stomach as he leaned over the sink, still sick.
"Get my pajamas."
She obeyed, fished out the loosest pair of pants and a button up that would be easier to get him out of in case he was sick again. Vaguely, she thought this should be the amount of thought a mother would put on taking care of their child, not a wife towards her husband.
He let her dress him, dropped the bathing robe in her arms and stumbled into the room, collapsing back into the bed with a groan. She felt completely disconnected from her body as she tidied up the bathroom and slipped back into bed, now making sure the bowl was well within his reach once again.
Richard was breathing deeply, but he wasn't snoring and she knew he was still awake. She curled up, wrapped her arms around her knees and stared ahead.
Her husband stirred, tugged on the blankets and wrapped it around himself. His fever was probably higher. She should've been feeding him meds and check on how high it was, but she couldn't move.
Her phone buzzed on the opposite bedside table.
Richard let out a scoff, "who the fuck is texting you so late?"
"I- I don't know," Marilyn picked it up, squinted at the bright screen. Although it wasn't even 10 PM, she felt exhausted.
Isabella Atwood: Thanks for the heads up today, all is fine. Just an upset stomach lol.
Marilyn's heart, which she hadn't realized was racing, slowed down. Nothing important, nothing Richard could be mad about, "it's Atwood's wife, she's just thanking me for asking how he was. He was sick today."
"You didn't mention it earlier," he scoffed, turning his back towards her, "what was wrong with him?"
"I don't know, stomach bug?" She tried to keep her voice lighthearted, "same as you, probably."
"Uhmm," he didn't sound like he believed her, but not enough to warrant a fit. Marilyn let out a breath.
Marilyn: No problem!
Bella's contact lit up at the answer. Three grey dots appeared.
Isabella Atwood: Wanna grab lunch tomorrow?
She stared at the message for a second too long, trying to come up with an answer that wasn't a desperate yes. Richard scoffed.
"Go to sleep, Marilyn. What the hell is so important you need to text late at night?"
"Nothing, nothing," she moved on the bed, tugged on the blankets... Turned towards his back and rubbed his arm, hoping to soothe the bad mood. It worked like a charm, the tension leaving after a second. Marilyn reduced the brightness of her phone completely.
Marilyn: That would be great. Can we meet at the mall, let's say 12h30?
Isabella Atwood: Sure, see you tomorrow!
She smiled, then clicked on all of their texts and selected them. Deleted them and put her phone away, staring ahead in the dark room as Richard finally started to snore.
Lucian accompanies Adalyn to a conference, envies the passion and certainty of the people around him, and finds himself unexpectedly drawn to Edmond's sense of purpose.
The door closed behind Lucian with a loud thud. The apartment was incredibly quiet compared to the chaotic murmur of the conference.
Lucian liked the conference. Spirited people, talks, different ways to present things, enthusiastic crowds, and questions. Everyone seemed so lively and full of purpose and joy.
Lucian didn't manage to speak to anyone.
Most of the time he spent there shadowing Adalyn, sitting or standing and observing. How people talked. How they smiled. How they moved. How interactions got created near the coffee stand. How croissants got divided.
It all flew kinda over his head. He didn't feel...connected. More like he was a fly, watching from the wall—too lost to belong but too fascinated to look away.
He wondered what he liked so much about the event. The people were too intimidating for him to approach. The topics and quality of presentations varied.
Adalyn peeled his ears off comparing free talking during power points with engaging questions and reading down a prepared text. Even the way people could grab attention and invite questions was important.
Adalyn was already on the how. Lucian was still stuck on why.
Despite the different topics—from digital posters to how many times Twitter posts involved the word "we" and "they" to depressive themes in metal music and the historical development of the portrayal of orcs in rpg games—and their seeming unrelatedness to everyday world...
He struggled to name the emotion the whole 40 minutes long way with the subway up until the 17 minutes long walk to the grocery store.
Adalyn talked happily beside him, satisfied with occasional hums sent her way.
No denying it was good to have her with him. Especially at such times, when emptiness threatened to swallow him. When he felt trapped in his own inadequacy and helplessness. What was the thing that made his heart beat faster, his face burn, his skin itch restlessly?
Ah. Jealousy.
He was jealous of these people. With their weird specific obsessions and deranged passions, personal interests, they managed to study and envelop in theory enough to actually research and bring results in that institutions deemed worthy of reward.
Even Adalyn had this. Her question was about work and changing routines of work and remote work and home office, the different meanings people derived from their routines and obligations, the sense of purpose that gave your life an aim. Building identities around status and professions and skills and needs.
There was going to be a red string in it somewhere that made it make sense. Right now he wasn't always sure what she was researching, when they sat in cafes or at the riverbank to watch humans or when they conducted interviews with random people.
But her passion for it was what he believed. The sparkle in her stormy blue eyes, the will and endless energy, the way she could switch from the glaring introvert at home to a charming scientist or doctoral candidate outside.
She was magnetic. She knew where she was going and why, gathering information to answer her questions, even if those changed. Adalyn could propel them to the moon, if she wanted.
Surely, if he stuck around her, some of that willpower would stick to him too?
Lucian wasn't sure. Next to her, he felt like a child. Helpless child caught at his worst moment, entirely behind everyone else. He was supposed to be an adult; he was supposed to know, what he wanted to do and how he wanted to live, what he wanted to strive for.
They led discussions about it every evening. Adalyn did so many things with him; sometimes he suspected she was scared to leave him alone. As if the two of them wouldn't find a way to each other, if they strayed from the schedule.
Wake up. Breakfast. Stretch. Walk. Groceries. You clean the living room, and I clean the bathroom. Let's make lunch. What's your agenda for the research project today?
"It will get better," she told him, interrupting herself from a analytical monologue. "Once the administration is done, you'll get a place at the faculty in the office next to me. Office hours and deadlines, people and socializing. Purpose right there."
Sometimes she understood him, better than he understood himself. Talked to the darkest corners of his soul without him ever having to voice it out loud.
Sometimes he doubted she could understand him at all.
The afternoon after the conference ended, Adalyn didn't let them go home. As if sensing Lucian's anxiety about returning into that calm, dark emptiness, she brought him to the Danube river. Admittedly the most beautiful body of water he had ever seen. Adalyn knew he was drawn to the water, to the people he could ignore there, to the noise not directed at him, to the colours he could imagine how to paint.
Lucian was even glad when they ran into Edmond there. Edmond was an enigma. Dark short curly hair and icy-blue eyes—so different than Adalyn's almost dreamlike cornflower blue—that always seemed to throw swords at him.
Hostility rolled of Edmond in waves.
But even Edmond had that magnetism; that sense of purpose. Even if it was anger or hate, Lucian couldn't place—always looking to the side wondering who it was directing at and finding no one there—Edmond's movements were sharp, his head held high, and his eyes always on the horizon.
He ran 10 kilometers in the morning and evening and exercised on whatever outside machine or gym he found on the way. Lucian didn't yet gather the courage to ask him what he did for a living. Adalyn seemed to have known, so maybe Lucian just missed something.
Wasn't anything new, for him to miss things. To wonder off in his thoughts only to suddenly get bored of them and look for anchors in the real world.
As if there was any other world.
Yet, Lucian couldn't shake the feeling there was something missing. Something profound. Where others had feelings, he had numbness. Where others had goals and dreams, he felt only gaping emptiness. It followed him into his sleep, a paralysing feeling of dread, of being trapped somewhere foreign, where he didn't belong.
He woke up sweaty, heart trying to claw out of his chest, the room too hot for comfort.
On the simpler days, he wanted Adalyn. He cuddled closer to her. Something about her scent and warmth next to him, even if he was sweaty and overheated, filled something in him. Like a layer of snow on top of a pointy cliff. The abyss underneath was still there, but the soothing cold let him breathe through it.
On the harder days, he felt afraid of her. The fear that was close to bone-deep panic and horrification he couldn't logically reason with.
That's when he got up, not wanting to be trapped in the same room with her, all curled up on her side, impossibly light hair spread over the cushion like a snake nest.
At 6 in the morning he stood on the balcony, shivering from the cold that felt better than the one inside his chest, watching the streets slowly come to life. In noise and chaos, Lucian didn't feel so lost and stupid. He didn't feel so out of place and swallowed by darkness. It was one of his only respites.
The door crashed suddenly as Edmond came out from the main entrance of the building under him. Sharp moves, rhythmic breath. Short sleeves, because he wouldn't be cold for long.
In a burst of will and inspiration, Lucian grabbed different pants and followed him.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Sorry if you've already answered this before but what hairstyles do the gang have?
I've mentioned it off hand I think, but never in detail! Behold, a moodboard for each (the colored pics are the shade of the hair):
-
Bella has waist length auburn curls. Her hair is what I'd call "genuinely" curly, meaning she doesn't have to spend time activating or perfectly drying to have a very defined curl pattern BUT, of course like any curly girl she spends a fuck ton of time washing, drying, styling.
Luke has the "Sh4wn M3ndes Pretty Boy" hair. Lose waves, chocolate brown, shorter on the back longer on the front but overall the same shape, lots of volume.
Raven black and true curls. Longer, sometimes at his jaw, sometimes at his shoulders, mostly just a mane of dark hair. It's very distinctive.
The effortless "cool girl" blunt wavy bob. It's medium brown, thin and wavy, the type of hair she can get up and go. Bella gets genuinely upset over how easy Wendy's hair is to style. Vince steals her hair products and scrunchies.
Shaved sides afro, with a mop of tight coils on top. His hair is dark brown, but not black like Vin's. The shaved sides are very neat and Jonah keeps it close to the ear, without invading sideburns space. Sometimes when life picks up he'll let the shaved side grow back in a bit, but Leo likes it shaved so... Happy boyfriend, happy life.
DISNEY PRINCE HAIR. Floppy golden blonde hair, that does the little swoop on the front, shorter back. A neater and shorter version of Luke's hair. In Leo's case, VERY golden blond. He stands out when they're in a group, since he's the only one with light hair (Bell's is ginger, but dark).
Max is a real real blonde, meaning his scalp is always red lmao. He has an undercut, with chin length hair. It's sunkissed in several parts, with almost icy strands. His beard is a little auburn and makes his chin look more pointy than it is. He has both ears pierced, but at the moment doesn't wear any earrings. His hair is almost always up in a man bun. A full sleeve of tattoos on his right arm, going from shoulder to knuckles. No lips. Perpetual frown.
Chris is the vampire looking guy of the gang. Alabaster skin, with raven black hair, green eyes that are very light but with a circle of yellow near the pupils and low set brows. He's objectively handsome, but also has one of the worst cases of resting bitch face of all my OCs. He's 182 (5'11ft) and he's very lean, athletic but not gym built. His hair is short, a little longer on the bang area, very similar to how Leo's is when he cuts it short. He's got pierced ears but doesn't wear any (anymore) and he doesn't have tattoos.
Marilyn has shoulder length extremely blonde hair, blue eyes and an oval face with a square chin. She's very skinny and has delicate features, more so than Bella or Wendy. She's 165 (5'4), which makes her taller than Wen, shorter than Bella. Her hair has waves in it, but she regularly straightens it. No tattoos or piercings besides the singular ear piercings.
