Fanfic Scraps

“What’s happened?”

“Just some sleemo with a vibroblade. Don’t worry. But I’d rather avoid a med centre right now, for obvious reasons.”

She hears him swallow. Even across this distance she feels the incandescent surge of rage that flares up, before being quickly snuffed.

“I’ll meet you at the lifts.”

True to his word, when the elevator doors slide open he is there, pacing lightly, face tight. That doesn’t abate when he catches sight of her; she can only imagine how she must appear, tunic half-soaked with blood, slightly dazed with pain and her best Force-suppression attempts.

He puts a gentle hand to the small of her back - barely any pressure, just a suggestion of a touch, really - and guides her swiftly to his door.

Once inside it’s down to professional military gestures. He seats her sideways in a straight-back chair and carefully cuts at the seam of her shirt with shears. She’d take the time to complain - she liked this tunic, damnit - but keeping the pain at bay requires the bulk of her concentration and everything else is vaguely fuzzy. She’s missed what he’s saying just now, too.

“Huh?”

He gestures to her back.

“The wrap. Is it ok if I...?”

Oh, her bra. Well, under the circumstances. She reaches back to untie it for him and her shoulder wound screams in fresh firey protest. It’s sharp enough that her vision blurs and her stomach turns briefly with nausea.

“Stop.” His voice is a steady light of comfort through the choking haze of pain. “I’ve got it. Just sit still.”

He doesn’t ask her any more questions after that.

Once the bacta is on, mercificully cool and numbing, he delivers a shot to her arm and reaches for the bandages. There’s a memory now of herself as a child, open wound to her leg, asking for a dressing in tears. “No”, her minder had told her. “We do not cover our failures, child.”

But the thick blanket of dressing over her wound feels good, as Luke’s careful hands tape it in place. The painkiller is starting to take hold, and she risks drawing back from the Force a little, enough to allow her thoughts to clear a little bit.

Enough to realise she is topless in Luke’s dining room and he now has the warmth of his palms against her back, and he isn’t moving.

“Uh. Luke?”

He shushes her in response. He’s lucky she’s too tired to object.

She turns to look at him but his eyes are closed and his shoulders soft. “Healing” he says with the exaggerated shortness used to convey an air of concentration.

Oh, right. She closes her eyes and reaches out to see if she can join him.

A little while later she opens her eyes. Dusk has fallen and her shoulder feels about a million times better. She could even sleep on it, if she needed to.

Luke comes round too, yawning and stretching.

“How do you feel?” He asks her, and she looks over a shoulder and graces him with a smile.

“Better. Thank you”

He nods in acknowledgement. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Reaching for her wrap, she awkwardly shrugs. It hurts. Perhaps not quite as healed as she’d imagined, then.

“Not much to add. Some huge reptile with a back-up posse grabbed me by the main shuttle line. By the time I’d cleared the hired muscle he’d pulled a vibro, and you’ve seen the rest.”

“He just got in one lucky swipe” she grouses as an afterthought.

Luke nods, takes the ends of the wrap from her fingers and begins to wind it around. His hands brush the curve of a breast by her right underarm, and she suppresses a shiver.

“So you’ve no leads on who they were?” His anger is quiet but palpable.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that.” With a smirk, she leans forward gingerly to snag her utility belt form where it rests on the table. Rifling through a pocket she retrieves a small black wallet, which she opens and quickly flicks through before pulling out a data card.

<Character name>, resident of <planet> she reads aloud. Handing the the card to Luke she adds, “quite the looker, isn’t he?”

Luke looked from the card to her face and back again.

“You swiped his wallet?” He shakes his head in resignation. “Of course you swiped his wallet.”

“What, you thought I let him slice me for the fun of it? A little credit please, farmboy. I’m a professional, after all. And now we have a duracrete lead.”

His face lights up and he moves forward as if to hug her - then thinks better of it, instead he offers her a warm smile and says, “you’re brilliant.” The smile drops and he adds a rough punch to her good shoulder.

“Ow! What the hells?”

“That’s for putting yourself in danger for it. Don’t do that again; you’re not invincible. Now, I’ll get you a shirt.”

Well… at least she knows your name now.

Leaving the office at 5pm on a Friday is a cardinal sin. The other interns watch you with a curious expression as you gather your wallet and phone, shoving them hastily into your handbag. You hope they aren’t looking close enough at your face to see the tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. If you get out of here in under a minute, you can cry safely on the street.

There’s no crying in this office. You made it through the first round of layoffs, the relief an itch in your chest as you watched co-workers pack their desks, move their little succulent plants into cardboard boxes and vanish. All their work was farmed out to all of you, 100 people whittled down to seventy with the same amount of papers. It was inevitable that something would get missed.

And you missed it. A line in one of the thousand spreadsheets, not updated, the formula not copied over. Ones and zeroes that caused the math to implode, for everything to grind to a halt until they found your error, fixed it and resumed the churning pace, each of you glued to screens with headphones and mouths set into a grim line.

She didn’t yell at you. It was in the raise of her eyebrow, the twitch of her finger over her keyboard, the way you watched her manicured nails hover over the “delete” key, as if it would have real world consequences. It was an hour of dressing down, of explaining the mistake in its simplest terms, as though you were an infant, your first class of your first year. No sympathy for the late nights or caffeine fuelled mornings, where you dragged yourself into the office mere hours after leaving it.

“I want you to take the weekend and consider your future with this company.” She sniffed, her eyes narrowing as she looked over your attire. “We certainly will”

There’s nothing waiting for you at your apartment except a Lean Cuisine and a dead plant. The streets are full of people in the same business attire as you, listening to podcasts and talking on headsets, they part around you like a rock in a river, barely noticing the tears that are now flowing freely down your cheeks. Nobody would stop if you were screaming, it doesn’t matter that it’s silent.

You start to walk.

*

Fall meant blankets for Dieter. He pulled them from the linen cupboard in his kitchen with something akin to glee, emptying the shelves of the rainbow of fleece and thick comforters, spreading them around his apartment as he walked in and out of the balcony, breathing in the air that chilled his lungs.

Summer had left without a goodbye, no final send-off of scorching heat or sticky sidewalks. Instead, the sun rose one morning on air that felt crisp, that chilled lungs and demanded steam in a hot shower, for the tea to be steeped a moment longer, the mug to warm your hands. Taking on an orange hue as the stores changed from bright colours to warm earth tones, the occasional pop of Halloween peeking through as hemlines got longer. Dieter reached for sweatpants most mornings.

He called you once a week. He saw you once a week. That was the baseline established. You would come in on a weekend in the mid-morning rush, and he would get a call, Owen, or sometimes Molly letting him know of your arrival. It was his wakeup call some days, just a few steps away from opening his eyes to see you first thing. He fell down the last stair most mornings. You would sit and talk with him, people watch in his carved out corner as you drank your coffee, ate a muffin. You asked him about himself, and he answered you honestly.

You seemed wholly unsurprised about the drugs, the women, the men. He had only made oblique references, a highlight reel of parties and tabs of LSD, you even laughed when he told you about Bertha, the strawberry-banana weed plant growing in the abandoned bathtub on his balcony. You guessed correctly that he preferred to grow his own, no pesticides or interference. He’d used the seeds from his last harvest, grown her again and marvelled at the cycle of life. Owen brought up the used coffee grounds once a week for fertilizer. He got the jars from goodwill.

You admitted your own indulgence was a glass of good Chardonnay. He’d stocked his fridge with Chablis right next to the blueberries, his whiskey remaining on top of the fridge, bottles emptied and repurposed, growing flowers out of makers mark on his nightstand.

The phone calls were his favourite. The shyness about you disappeared, you were more willing to admit things, less willing to suffer the silence as he waited for you to expand on an answer. If you didn’t want to answer something, you told him and he asked a different question. Your favourite colour was of ruby grapefruits.

He smoked and painted while you talked, bowls of fruit and tidily rolled joints accompanying your laughter. He loved to make you laugh. It tugged at his insides when you said you rarely did otherwise. On the weekends you chatted with Owen and Molly, lingering at the counter while Owen ground and pressed, and Molly doodled on your receipt. They knew better than to charge you, so you compromised by buying someone else’s.

You had no tattoos, the only piercings simple studs in your ear. You’d looked interested as he slowly filled in the triangles on his forearms, but didn’t ask him. He was still resisting the urge to push, to unfurl his fingers and reach to touch you in those quiet lulls of conversation. Feel your skin again under his thumbs, as if he could ever forget the sensation.

The scent of melted dark chocolate and cannabutter was thick in his kitchen. He could feel a mild contact high as a fuzz in his limbs as he watched them blend together. A floured pan was waiting for the brownies off to the side, and so far he’d only burned the tip of one finger on the cooktop. His lungs were too old for the crispness of the air, and after a few days of sobriety in the guise of a tolerance break, he found the scribbled brownie recipe in a Julia Child cookbook he had been given more than a decade ago.

He would call you tonight. Your last call had ended with his honesty. You still seemed to hedge whenever he opened, this delicate dance of advance and retreat. Every time you asked a question, you knew the answer, but seemed surprised when he gave it to you anyway. It was well past two am, the streets quiet as he watched the fan spin above him, listened to you talk again about ambitions and goals and plans that had more steps than the recipes he followed.

You hesitated, faltering at the finish. He wanted to ask you “What then?” what happens when you check every item off your list, when you’ve undoubtably achieved everything you want to and there’s no moon left to reach for – which lofty star would gain the focus of your new pursuits. But he let the silence linger, waiting for the question he could taste in the air, smoke curling from the ashtray at his bedside.

“Dieter… do you ever wonder what the rest of your life looks like?”

“No Loulou… this is the rest of my life. Talking on the phone with you.”

*

“Sorry we’re closed”

The bell creaks your arrival, groaning under the pressure of the day as you shove the door open. You don’t know why you’re here, why your feet brought you, protesting the impractical heels that carried you blocks and blocks in the dwindling sunlight. Everything hurts from crying, your face angry hot from the tears. The reasons left you in the smog from screaming cabs, catching in the choking pollution until you were blind with it, left with nothing but a hollow despair.

“Did you hear, I said… oh fuck!” Owen turned and blanched as he looked at you, dropping the rag he was using to polish the gleaming machine.

“I’m ok, everything’s ok, I’m sorry, I just…” you start, shame creeping up your spine as you watch the colour drain from his thin face. He scrambles, beads clinking merrily as he ducks behind the curtain.

“DIETER!” His voice booms, loud and echoing around the empty shop as you jump, holding your elbows as you glance at the door, wanting to run, to go home to your dead plant and sad dinner and pretend you didn’t have a breakdown. To glance nervously at your phone with a glass of chardonnay and hope he calls.

Instead he appears, dishevelled in sweats and a bathrobe that’s at least three sizes too big. He’s wearing sunglasses, there’s a stain that looks like chocolate on his cheek. He carries with him the same frantic energy, spiced this time with fear as he sees you, takes stock of your appearance and points at the chair, the faded mustard yellow that’s unofficially yours.

“Owen, grab one of those veggie pastries, make a hot chocolate and fuck off” he says, his voice stricter than you’ve heard it before, a glint of danger as he watches you, the painful shuffle as you make your way through the mismatched desks and tables.

He crouches rather than sits, close enough that you can smell the air on him, the crispness of fall and spices that cling to his clothing. Close enough you could count the greys in his beard. He watches as you fold in on yourself, shoes dropping to the floor with an echoing thunk as you curl into the familiar softness of his company. He doesn’t say anything, his eyes darting frantically around your features as you hear Owen in the background.

There’s a clink, a steaming cup and a plate placed beside you, as Owen offers you a smile, palms Dieter’s shoulder as he leaves in silence. The lock sounds heavy as it clicks behind him.

“Eat, Loulou” he says, his hands splayed wide on the armrests of the chair. You watch as his thumbs tick like metronomes as he strokes the fabric. This is the closest he’s been, since that first day. He doesn’t touch you, besides the accidental brushing of clothed knees as you sit in the mid mornings. He gestures when he talks, tugging at his clothes or his hair, watching your own limbs as you sit still, pen poised in your grip, hovering over the journal you always intend to write in.

The pastry is good, full of rich vegetables and buttery soft flakes, the hot chocolate steals the heat from your face, distributing it throughout your body as he waits patiently for you to finish. He brings you an extra napkin, you dry your eyes.

“Owen can’t deal with crying women. We had this woman once, who would come in and read these tragic romances, and sob over her latte. He went to this bookstore in Hell’s Kitchen and bought her all these bodice ripping pirate novels and told her she was banned from reading anything without at least two nipples on the front cover.”

You hiccup a laugh.

“Her names Mallory, they trade Kindle recommendations for books with aliens with blue dicks now”

“I’m sorry Dieter, I didn’t mean to… I should just go, this was stupid, I’m sorry, I’ve worried you for nothing and it’s stupid really. Honestly, I’m fine, it was just a bad day, I made this mistake, and it was completely my fault and I should have known better and I shouldn’t be crying, I should have just done it properly the first time”

“Can I give you a hug?” He asks. “Would that be okay?”

He waits. Perched on the balls of his feet as though his knees aren’t screaming in protest, as if his whole body hadn’t been jolted by electricity from the sight of you in pain. The roar of primal rage that flooded every sense the minute he saw the tears glistening on your cheeks brought him back to his youth, to the cocaine fuelled bar brawls and waking up with sticky fists. He gave it up in his twenties, but found he felt the need to scorch the earth to find those that caused you pain. You nod. Just a tiny jerk of your chin, your eyes filling again as he watches your fiddle with the hem of your shirt, looking down to try and blink them away.

He's stronger than he looks. The baggy clothes hiding a thick frame as he lifts you, depositing you back onto the armchair, curled exactly the same with him beneath you. He wraps the bathrobe around you both, bringing his arms around your middle as your head rests on his shoulder. He’s warm. Soft and broad beneath you as you feel his body still when your hair brushes his cheek.

Its easier, to bury the words in his skin. To talk into his shoulder, your eyes on the pulse of his throat as you explain your day. The dressing down from your boss, the judgemental eyes on you as you left the fluorescent lighting of the office, the pain in your feet from walking here. That you weren’t even sure why you were here, just that you didn’t want to go home. His thumb smooths a steady rhythm on your hip, rubbing tiny gentle circles over the robe and your clothing. You can feel him breathing beneath you, his warmth floods your senses.

“You don’t have to go home” he says quietly.

He still thinks you’re soulmates. He still thinks that this friendship you’ve fostered is the kindling to a blazing inferno. You don’t tell him about the coffee dates you sometimes go on throughout the week, about the men you swipe right on Tinder, the hopes you pin to white smiles and JDs.

“I can’t”

“I have a batch of weed brownies cooling on the counter. A stack of movies and very comfy couch. Nothing else.” He says, shrugging so you look at him. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes” its an answer without hesitation.

“I’m not going to use your shitty workday as an excuse to tempt you into bed. We can get high and watch movies and fall asleep. That’s it – we’re friends right now Loulou, this is what friends do. Promise”

He hooks his pinkie into yours, nudging his nose against your cheek as he nods, waiting for you to agree. When you do, he lifts you to your feet, grabbing your shoes as you wander slowly behind the beaded curtain.

*

Everything is green. There are plants in every corner of the apartment. Apartment is generous for the room you’re standing in. Shaped in an awkward rectangle with a sliding door, a small kitchen is crammed into a corner, shelves sit uneven, their contents sliding drunk with gravity. A huge deep green couch in front of a large television, looking every bit as soft and comfortable as promised. Hiding behind a wicker screen is his bed, which is when you start laughing.

“Like it?” he asks, grinning as he flicks off light switches, darkening the hallway leading to the stairs. Its round. Huge and sprawling, pillows piled against the wall with crisp sheets tucked awkwardly on the rounded edges. You can see where he sleeps with the comforter, puddled in the middle and your brain provides you with an absurd image of him, a frog on this lily pad, talking on the phone with you as the ceiling fan spins above.

“It’s very you” you shrug, gravitating towards the corner, paint and canvases stacked like pizza boxes, a tower almost as tall as you. The easel is propped on a brick, the work only half finished as you look at it. Its streaks of midnight, deep rich blues as you look closer, the tiny speckles of the universe behind a moon made of spun lace, glued to the canvas. In the foreground, two tiny figures sit hand in hand, as if observing the webbing above them.

“This is beautiful” you say, reaching your hand towards the texture, stopping yourself at the smell of fresh paint. He hasn’t finished it yet, some white canvas peeking through the edges.

“Thank you” he says, grabbing your hand and pressing forward. Your fingerprints are left on the sticky surface, they come away streaked purple. “I’m going to suggest something that’s going to freak you out a little bit. Take a shower. I’m going to give you some of my clothes to change into – you can’t be comfortable all buttoned up like this. Half a brownie and a shower, and then we’ll watch some movies”

He wipes your hand on his shirt, taking most of the pigment with it as he strolls to his cluttered counter, a tray of half cut brownies waiting on the edge, balanced precariously. You can see the jars behind him, half full of buds of weed in mason jars. There’s an orchid growing out of a bottle of Makers Mark.

He grabs dark sweats from a haphazardly folded pile, pulls one shirt, then another, before settling on a third and giving them to you. From his pantry he gives pulls a towel in jewel tones before opening the door to his bathroom, depositing them on a cluttered vanity. You catch a glimpse of more plants before he skitters back to the kitchen, a knife held loosely in his grip as he ponders the slab of brownie.

“Have you…”

“I went to college Dieter” you reply, rolling your eyes.

He cuts two pieces, cutting one in half before offering it to you. The chocolate smells rich and heavenly, decadent in the weight of it as you take a bite, the flavours exploding across your tongue as you taste cinnamon and brown sugar, just a hint of the vegetal weed exploding across your senses.

He eats the other half, and then another piece as you finish yours. You notice the way he lingers on your lips as you suck the chocolate from your thumb. He points to the bathroom; you enter to another jungle. There’s a plant in a terracotta pot in the corner of his shower. All the soap is cluttered on the floor.

But the shower itself is a marvel. You lock the door behind you and stare, the giant square head protruding right from the ceiling, and you know it will rain down on you like that first day you met him, heavy and warm and soothing. You fold your clothes neatly, rolling them to fit in your handbag as you turn the water on, immediately jealous of the hot water streaming from his taps.

It washes down the drain at your feet as you turn under the heavy spray. The tension that had been slowly leaking from your pores turns to a gush as you relax, allowing your eyes to drift shut as the hot water hammers your shoulders, your palms braced on the tile. Idly, you wonder if Dieter had ever placed his hands here, if he stood in this same position.

It was cold enough to stand outside and will himself to calm down. The sound of the shower had his cock perking up with interest. It had been silenced by your tears as you moulded yourself onto his lap, but the idea that you were naked mere feet from him had brought it back to life with a roar. He forced himself into the cold, tucking himself into the waistband of his sweats as he looked over his apartment. He shoved the toys into the bottom drawer, wincing at the stickiness of dried lube as he made note to run them through the dishwasher in the morning. He turned off the overhead lights, grabbing a weighted blanket from the bed and throwing it with a grunt onto the couch.

The lava lamp on the coffee table gave off a blueish softness, making him feel as though he was underwater, his limbs heavy as he loaded up a bowl with salted cashews, grabbing a few sodas from his fridge as he scrolled through the DVD menu, waiting to hear the water stop.

Oh. Oh.

Oh, you look so good in his clothes. Your hair is still damp as you exit, clouds of steam billowing with you as if you’re a goddess come to earth, shoving your handbag into a corner with his laundry. His brain is static, all white noise and lust as he watches the way his shirt stretches across your tits. You’re wearing fabric that has touched his skin, that smells like him. You’re going to smell like him. His cock twitches dangerously at his hip.

“Dracula first” he says, amazed he found words other than begging you to let him taste what you taste like mixed together.

*

Everything is so deliciously warm. You’re under a blanket that presses on your thighs, the weight making you feel heavy. Everything is clouds and deep breaths, blurry and hazy, a film left too long exposed. Your fingers are salty from cashews, the texture on your skin making a pleasant hum as you shift closer to Dieter again. He’s blurry too, as though you’re looking at him underwater, and your palm, swimming in and out of focus makes you giggle, as you trace the lines he did, trying to recreate his steps.

“Mount of Venus” you say, your tongue thick and warbling as you press into the padded flesh.

“Mhm” he replies, deep and rumbling, an ancient carving next to you. You rest your head on his shoulder, your palm in his lap and wait.

“Pleasure” he says, his fingers twitching across the blanket. “Love of beauty, and expression. Warm and open, giving to others. Intimacy, sexual expression”

“You said mine was pronounced.” You grab his hand, flipping it in the mirror of your first meeting, trailing your fingers across his palm. You feel him shiver next to you. “Yours is too”

“Mhm” he repeats, his head lolling to look at you. He’s beautiful really. The blue shadows dancing across his features. His skin is soft, the lines deep in his face. There are mismatched patches on his beard, he’s greying around the jaw. You want to scrape a finger across it, but your arms feel too heavy to lift.

“I’m not going to kiss you Bette” he says, flipping his hand onto yours, matching those movements with a delicate touch. It races up your spine, flames licking at your senses as you sigh, shift even closer to him.

“Why not?”

“We’re high. And I made a promise. And I haven’t gotten tested, and you haven’t gotten tested, so even if I was going to kiss you, I’d have to deny myself everything else. And if I did kiss you, you’d vanish so fast in the morning, and it would take months to get back here. And if I want you like this by the New Year, it’s better to be patient”

He sounds sober in the moment. A determination in his voice as he presses his thumb into your pulse. You know he’s right. The tiny voice that’s drowned by weed shouts agreement. You would run from him in the morning – you’d know immediately it was a mistake.

“And if we weren’t?” you ask, edging yourself over the flame.

“Are you sure you want to know?” he asks, nodding to the TV, where Boris Karloff follows the Ave Maria to find a friend.

“Tell me what I’m missing”

“Have you ever been properly fucked beautiful girl?”

He watches the way your pupils’ contract. The tremble in your lip at the hitch in your breath. He feels your pulse jump beneath his fingers, feels the twin twitch beneath his own sweats. He’s thought about nothing but properly fucking you, of taking apart every put together piece of you and rearranging them between his sheets. Of finding every spot that makes you giggle, squirm, moan. Of what you look like covered in a thin film of sweat, of the way you swallow when you cum.

“Yes” you whisper.

“Liar” he accuses. “You’d be thinking of them right now, not wondering what I mean. Do you know what I mean Loulou? When I say I want to properly fuck you?”

“No” its breathy and soft, and he knows that’s exactly what you’ll sound like when he finally buries himself to the hilt inside you.

“I’ve thought about it a lot.”

He’s throbbing, thankful and mournful for the weighted blanket not betraying the weight of his cock pressed into his hip. He can feel it, the first sticky bead as it seeps into the waistband. You’re watching his mouth, your eyes focused on his tongue over teeth as he sucks in a breath, tries to calm himself.

“I’d start at your neck. I know someone in college probably got it right on accident. Found the spot where if you scrape their teeth just right, you’d whimper. That spot, and then the others, under your jaw, right down the middle of your throat. I’m going to mark you; my beard alone will leave you red. But I want my teeth as well, I want to brand it right over your pulse, watch it bloom like an opening flower. I want you weak kneed, grinding up against me because you’re already soaking wet.”

“Do you think you’re that good?”

“I know I’m that good. It’s the getting you naked part that will be a problem the first time. Because I don’t know if I’ll be able to control myself. I think I’m going to destroy a bit of your clothing, my clothing, to begin with. I’m a fan of a good striptease, but I think that will have to wait until later. Once the ravenous hunger has died down a bit.”

You squirm. Just enough that he knows you’re pressing your thighs together, that some of the lazy warmth has concentrated right between your legs.

“I have to taste you. I’m desperate to taste you. Some days I lay on that bed and think about all the different ways I want to. I want to have you spread open on that armchair downstairs so I can see just how wet you are – I want you on my face, I want to pull all your weight on me, so I can feel how your whole body twitches when you cum. I want to watch you open for me, watch the way your clit swells every time I wrap my lips around it, the throbbing of your cunt before I even work my fingers inside.”

You whimper. Its enough to make him hiss. A strain against his muscles as he grinds his hips into nothing. You’re both unsettled now, shifting to find comfort against your own skin. His cock hurts, and you’re right here and you smell like him, and all he’s touching is your palm.

“You’d take one finger for me, easy. Two and three might take more coaxing, but I know you’ll take them for me. You’ll be so out of it by the first time I make you cum that the second and third will feel like a wave, crashing and breaking and not stopping. I think three might make you squirt; I hope it does. I want to be drenched in you, drink it down. I think you’re going to taste like blueberries, sugared and sweet and dripping. I want my palm soaked in you; this mount of Venus pressed right up against your clit. If you’re good for me, if you do what I want, I’ll share. I’ll gather all of you onto my tongue and spit it right in your mouth. Ill make you cum again with my tongue halfway down your throat.”

“Jesus…”

“You need stretching Loulou. I need to take my time, even though I’ll be fucking the sheets like a wild animal, getting them sticky and wet with how much I want you. If you’re sitting on my face, you might see me fuck my fist to take the edge off – a poor substitute as I’ve discovered”

“Why?”

“You know why” he replies, flipping your wrist to press against him over the blankets. He watches as your eyes widen, the thickness of him matching the delicate bones in your wrist. He pulls your hand away before you can curl your fingers in the fabric. He watches your free hand disappear beneath the blankets, the way your eyes glaze over as you press your fingers between your thighs.

“Once you’re ready, you’ll have to get used to it. It’s going to take time, for me to cram my cock inside you. You’re going to feel like heaven, and I don’t know how long I’m going to be able to hold off from pounding your slick little cunt. I’ll need you to help me, rake your nails through my hair, down my back, mark me up like I’ve marked you. If you need toys, I have them. If you want to watch the way you fit me I’ll film it.”

“Then what” he can see your hips rocking beneath the blankets. The lazy slow fucking of your own hand over his clothing makes him groan. He’s dangerously close himself, the weight of the elastic on the head of his cock enough to have him dribbling, he can feel it sliding over his skin, seeping into his shirt as he closes his eyes, willing himself not to cum.

“You’ll get fucked properly beautiful. I’ll fuck you until you can’t form words, until you’re drooling from my fingers in your mouth, until you can’t hold yourself upright. Until all your body knows how to do is submit to it. To give in and sink under and cum again, so hard you squeeze my fat cock out, so I can run it across that swollen berry of a clit and make you scream. Wherever I cum, you’re sharing. If its in your pretty little mouth you can’t swallow, I want to kiss you till its dripping all over your tits. If its inside you I’m going to fuck a dildo into you and lick it off. I want it on your skin, I want it on my skin. I want every time to be so fucking filthy we need to change the sheets. I want you as ruined as I am, for anybody else but me.”

“Dieter…” you whimper, your nails digging into his palm as he watches you stiffen, the little shudders across your skin as it breaks out in goosebumps, your mouth falling open in a moan. The bite of pain across his hand strikes the match and he cums, panting and untouched into his own skin, threading his fingers through yours to hold your hand, both of you squeezing in time.

He shifts, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he drags you to lay in the deep couch, curled up against his chest. You can smell the mingled scent of your release in the air as you press your face into his shirt, suddenly embarrassed as his hand rests between your shoulder blades.

“Then… we do this. You lay in my arms, or I lay in yours and we catch our breath together. There will be some differences, if you’re wearing a shirt, my hand will be up it, I can already tell I’m going to be obsessed with your tits”

You smile, some of the embarrassment shrinking at the matter-of-factness in his tone.

“And then we fall asleep, and when we wake up, we do it all again. That is the rest of my life Loulou.”

You can’t think of what to say. Shifting to place your hands on his hips you allow yourself the luxury of relaxing into his arms, his thumb stroking the same metronome on your spine as you close your eyes and let the exhaustion pull you under, a deep and dreamless sleep.

You wake before him in the morning. The sobering light coming from his balcony makes you stiffen. Fear boils like filtered water through your blood as you taste salt on your lips. His hold on you has slackened in sleep, allowing you to slip free without waking him, searching for your shoes, grabbing your handbag from the corner. Processing the night before isn’t an option. You need some distance to put it in a box, and label it as something other than the emotion coiling in your belly like an angry viper. You find your shoes on his counter.

As you walk past the couch he grabs your hand. You look down at him, his eyes bleary with sleep as he smiles at you. He says nothing, hooking his pinkie into yours and nodding. He lets you go, closing his eyes as you stand like a statue in front of him.