#they’ve both earned it after everything they’ve been through

[buriedinmyownfeelings]

I’m still stuck on my High and Low fixation and escape has never seemed further away

Today we conquered 6 from High and Low the Worst with two of my favorite boys

[closerstars]

small favors

mingyu x oc reader

fluff, friends to lovers

note: this is purely self-indulgent because i have a big fat ass crush on mingyu. havent got the time to proofread and fancify everything but pls enjoy!!!

—

"This is my third glass already. If that girl in the red dress doesn't stick around, I'm tapping out," you sigh, your face resting on your hand while the other holds onto your margarita. Mingyu had come up with the plan for you both to team up and help Wonwoo find a date at Seungcheol’s sister’s wedding party, and you had readily agreed.

You've known Wonwoo since childhood, introduced by his mom at the playground, and you've been the best of friends since then. Mingyu joined your circle in high school, and the three of you have been inseparable ever since.

"Hang in there. I think the girl in red might be the one. They’ve been chatting for a good ten minutes now," Mingyu remarks, checking his watch.

"Yeah? Let's see," you reply skeptically.

"Such a pessimist. Remember, she's your candidate," Mingyu teases.

"I don't know, I just don't see Wonwoo fully engaged in the conversation. She had that charm when I talked to her," you admit, though it's hard to tell from three tables away whether Wonwoo's truly interested or just politely listening.

As you both observe, Soonyoung joins in with his drink. "What are you both up to now?" he asks, following your gaze to Wonwoo and the girl in the red dress, looking at you and Mingyu with a confused expression.

Turning to Soonyoung, you ask, "Soonyoung, what do you think? Will the girl in the red dress be able to break through Wonwoo's defenses?"

He takes a sip and frowns at the aftertaste. "How come you never set me up? We're friends too, you know, both of you."

"Just answer the question," you roll your eyes.

Soonyoung takes another look at Wonwoo and the girl in the red dress. "I think she might," he finally answers, earning a nod of agreement from you.

"Hey, look! They're laughing!" Mingyu giggles at the sight of Wonwoo saying something that earns a laugh from the girl.

"Oh my god," you gush with Mingyu. "She just handed him her phone."

You playfully slap Mingyu’s arm. "Dude, they're exchanging numbers!"

Both matchmakers celebrate with high fives until the girl in the red dress exits their view and waves goodbye to Wonwoo.

"Wait, where's she going? Is she heading home already?" you wonder aloud, checking the time on your phone. When you look back up, the girl in the red dress passes by your table and greets you with a nod, saying, "Nice to meet you again, Y/N. Gotta go."

Wonwoo follows after her, approaching your table. As he sets his drink down, you immediately ask, “So?”

Wonwoo takes a sip of his drink. “She was alright,” he says nonchalantly, earning a disappointed expression from you, which he finds amusing.

"What do you mean she was alright?" Mingyu prompts.

"Well…" Wonwoo tilts his head, trying to recall the details. "She’s a photographer. So that’s a good start."

Impatient with his lack of detail, you sigh. Typical Wonwoo, a man of few words. "Okay. And?"

Wonwoo takes another sip. “She suggested I visit her photo exhibit sometime. So she gave me her Instagram page and I gave her mine too.”

Realizing your mission was a success, you grasp Mingyu's shoulder. Mingyu raises his glass, proposing a toast among the four of you.

"I'm so happy right now, I need another glass," you giggle, taking a sip of your margarita.

“Okay. Wonwoo’s got a date. How about me?” Soonyoung pouts, making you laugh. You then ask Mingyu to switch seats so you can play matchmaker with Soonyoung this time.

As you're in the middle of interviewing Soonyoung and scanning the crowd with him to find someone he’d want to talk to, Dami, Seungcheol’s sister in lawapproaches and grabs your arm, pulling you to her.

“Y/N! I have someone you should meet!”

With wide eyes, you look at your tablemates and mouth "Help," but they only laugh at you.

“Bye!” Wonwoo teases, waving to you.

Meanwhile, the three guys left at the table continue drinking and talking over the jazz music playing in the background. Mingyu notices you at a table with Seungcheol as Dami walks through the crowd with her arm looped around some guy in a tux.

He figures maybe this is the guy Dami wanted to introduce you to. Guess they aren’t the only ones playing matchmaker that night.

Wonwoo notices his best friend looking intently from afar. He turns his head back to see you shaking hands with a handsome stranger. Mingyu’s eyes start to wander, trying to distract himself from the hint of jealousy he was feeling

“When is the DJ set going to start? I am so bored,” Soonyoung pouts as he scrolls through his phone, then gets nudged by Wonwoo, directing his attention to you observing something from a distance.

Soonyoung couldn’t help but tease. “Oh wow, Dami’s got good taste. I’d like to see how Y/N would play the game tonight.”

“What?” Mingyu snaps out of it and pretends not to hear.

“Good luck stealing her back, man. Just letting you know I’m always Team Mingyu.” Soonyoung pats Mingyu's back, gripping his drink and takes off.

Wonwoo then slides closer to Mingyu. “You know you’ve always had the advantage, right?”

Mingyu looks at him, confused. “Advantage? What are you talking about?” Mingyu knows what his best friend was talking about. Wonwoo is direct, but this conversation feels different. They've never discussed about him and Y/N before.

“Oh, come on, Mingyu. I've noticed the way you look at her lately. If you like her, just tell her and let it happen the way its fated to happen,” Wonwoo says, taking a sip of his drink, as though confessing to Y/N were as simple as ordering another round.

If telling Y/N what he felt was that easy for him and her, he could’ve done it sooner. But no. He wanted to be sure. He wanted to be sure that this wasn’t just some sort of crush.

“Okay, let's calm down,” he chuckles nervously. “I’m just taking my time, hyung. And I also want to give her all the time and space she needs if…” he pauses. “… if she ever feels the same way.” He adds hastily, gulping down the rest of his drink. “This stuff is good. I need more.”

Conveniently, Seungcheol appears out of nowhere with two glasses in hand, setting them down their table. “I thought you might need another round,” he says, chuckling softly.

Mingyu thanks him, but before he can even grab his drink, you swoop in and snatch it from his hand, leaving the three of them surprised.

“Thanks,” you say, taking a sip and letting out a relieved sigh. You hadn't expected to meet one of your biggest radio DJ crushes, Joshua, at a wedding party. As the brief conversation with him ends, you hurriedly excuse yourself from Seungmi, feeling your face grow warmer by the second.

As you return to your table, Cheol gives Mingyu a teasing glance while sipping on his drink. “Y/N's pretty cute when she's flustered.”

“Oh shut up.” You playfully roll your eyes and then offered to get Mingyu a new glass which you did.

As you stepped away, Wonwoo chuckles at Cheol’s comment, earning an eye roll from Mingyu. “This is so annoying.”

“Why are you annoyed? Oh, I see. You know I heard that Joshua invited her to visit him at the radio booth sometime.” Cheol prods.

“She'll probably be too busy to go,” Mingyu counters.

“How would you know? Are you her manager?”

“What if I am?” Mingyu retorts, trying to play it cool.

They stop abruptly when you came back with a new drink in hand and gave it to Mingyu. “Gentlemen. I am back. Here’s your drink, sir.”

“So how’d it go meeting one of your celebrity crushes?” Wonwoo asks. He wanted to see how his bestfriend will react.

“Oh. Pfft. Yeah I think I played it real cool. Did I?” You turn to Seungcheol for affirmation but he laughs at you instead.

“You were good. Charming at least.” He winks at you and you mouthed a ‘thank you’ You then proceeded to rambling about Joshua’s radio show Sunday Mornings aired every Sunday morning.

“So annoying.” Mingyu mutters as he side eyes Seungcheol.

Wonwoo tries to hold in a laugh, covering his mouth with his drink. Mingyu takes another big sip from his drink thinking this was going to be a long night for him.

—

The tension Mingyu was feeling inside eases off as the night progressed. He has the alcohol to thank for that as well as when the dj finally starts his set for the after-after party.

You, however, was on a high and was extra loud for the night. Never in your life would you think you’d have the energy to goof around and match Soonyoung’s on the dancefloor considering that you weren’t that good of a dancer.

With your confidence at its peak you even pulled the bride to dance with you twirled her over to her now husband. The warmth and joy you felt was incomparable as you watched the newly weds dance and then seal everything with a kiss as the song ended.

Another song plays as you wanted to rest because your feet was starting to hurt already so you head to the bar for another drink as if you weren’t tipsy enough. You scan the room for somewhere to sit on but all you found was the flight of stairs from where the bride and groom had their grand entrance earlier that night.

Wonwoo was sitting down a step checking his phone. He then notices you approaching. He scoots a little and sweeps the space beside him with his hand for you to sit on.

“Tired?” He says with a welcoming smile.

“Yeah. A little.” You sigh as you carefully take a seat.

“Did you at least have fun tonight?” He asks like a dad asking his daughter if she had fun.

“Yes, dad. There were lots of boys hitting on me though.” You joke and scrunch your nose waiting for his reaction.

Wonwoo chuckles and plays along. “Ah my pretty daughter. The boys must’ve had a hard time getting your attention.”

“They’re just boys. I’m here for the party.”

“Really? No one caught your eye?” He points to the small crowd of people enjoying the music, dancing, having drinks.

You casually pretend to scan the crowd until you notice Mingyu was fast approaching still looking to be at full energy.

“I dunno. This guy seems pretty decent.” You shrugged. “Pretty. Decent. Kind.” You said that in a very smug way but heaven knows you meant it.

You’ve developed a skill of being friends with Kim Mingyu. And that was suppressing even the slightest infatuation that eventually grew over the years. Who wouldn’t have a crush on Kim Mingyu anyway?

You’ve had plenty of experience with girls befriending you just to get close to him, some would bribe you with coffee to have you give them his number. You get the coffee, ask Mingyu for permission if he’s comfortable with his number being given and then hand him the coffee you got for free.

With your sibling-like dynamic, he was so comfortable with sharing even his dating life sometimes it wasn’t as fun anymore because you realize how good of a person he was it’s almost unreal that some girls think of him as too naive when he’s really just that kind of person who always believes there is something good in everything.

You were glad to be his friend. You continue to learn a lot from him. There’s an internal struggle however, when that dreaded question “what if you wanted something more than being friends” comes to mind. It scares you. Scared that he might get to close to see through the cracks.

“What are you two doing?! Sitting down?! Really?!” Mingyu reaches for your hand while his other hand reaches for Wonwoo’s and then pulls the both of you up like his ragdolls.

This was always the dynamic between you three. Mingyu being the energetic golden retriever, Wonwoo being the calm black cat, you being the confused chihuahua to balance them out.

—

Later that night, you find yourself assisting a drunk Kwon Soonyoung to his hotel room.

As you search your purse for Soon’s key card he has entrusted you earlier that night, Wonwoo was trying to restrain Soon who was trying to kiss him while he laughs and giggles. Same with Mingyu. But he just talks to Soon in his state.

The door beeped and clicked open so you successfully assisted Soonyoung to his room. You help remove his blazer and then finally made him lay in bed.

Thankfully, your rooms were on the same floor so you all went your separate ways for the night.

Once you settled in and changed to a shirt and sweatpants. You were in the midst of removing stubborn makeup when you decided to open a bottle of beer to cap off the night

As you were quietly browsing photos you took in your hotel room you notices Mingyu’s coat that you lazily hung to a chair.

You text him.

“You still awake??? forgot to give your coat back sorry”

“i’ll go get it in a minute” he replied

You continue browsing the photos you took for tonight and you stop at photos Soonyoung took of Mingyu and you making funny faces. Your lips curl to a smile as you remember this was taken after you sent Wonwoo off with a girl to talk too.

You heard knocking so you toss your phone to your bed and set the beer bottle down. You get Mingyu’s coat and open the door.

“Hey.” You were greeted with Mingyu hair still a bit wet from the shower, obvious from the droplets of his hoodie.

“I was going to give it later in the morning but you were eager to get it.” You hand him your coat.

“You can just tell me you’re gonna hug it to your sleep if you want to you know.” He reaches for it and your hands slightly brush together.

Your face contorts. “Ew. Why the hell would I do that? Creepy.”

“So you can dream of me. Duh.” He is still at it.

“I’ll pass. Good night, Gyu.” You were not having enough of it you rolled your eyes and was about to close the door but his hand stops it.

There was silence between you two for a few seconds. He then takes a step closer, height towering over you. At this moment you felt as if you were put under his spell. Unable to move, you focus on his forehead since your legs might just give up if you look straight into his eyes.

His eyes traveling from your eyes nose and lips.

He softly touches your fingers, moving up your arms barely touching it with his fingertips then tracing your jaw.

You feel your breath slowing down. Your eyes trying to read his. Was this really happening? Should you let it happen?

“Can I kiss you?” He says quietly.

You nod slightly, closed your eyes then it happens. You felt the warmth spread to your face.

Mingyu smiles as he pulled away. Both your eyes meeting each other. You sigh a little. Your foreheads against each other.

“You taste like beer.” He giggles softly and you let out a shy laugh.

You weren’t sure what got to you as you reached for his neck to kiss him again.

After you break it off there was a pause and then you both go back to laughing faces against each other. You have no idea if it was just the high of finally doing what both your hearts wanted to do for a long while. And finally meeting halfway with what the score is between the two of you.

You were both interrupted with the sound of the door being opened. You both straighten up as if nothing happened.

“I-uh…” Mingyu clears his throat. “Goodnight, Y/N.

You touch your nape and avoided eye contact. “Yeah uh. Good night, Gyu.”

—

It was another long day for you and Mingyu at work. While you were busy writing and revising scripts and trying to help your editor with the video editing, Mingyu was busy shooting new content for the project you were working together for. He was the director this time and you were one of the writers.

No one has said a word ever since that kiss. You were at your best at pretending that it did not bother you at all and kept busy at work.

He asked you to eat lunch with him at your favorite sandwich place.

The whole time you sat there were complaining about how you were frustrated at one of your scripts keep getting scrapped by one of the hosts you were shooting.

“Can I talk to you about something” He asked softly.

You peel off the wrapper of your subway BLT “Yeah go on.“ And then you took a big bite.

“About that kiss.” His eyes not leaving yours. Observing how you’d react.

You somehow mastered controling your reactions being with Mingyu for years.

“What about it?” You said nonchalantly. “I was pretty drunk that night.” No you weren’t. You were having a beer and completely aware.

“You…were?” He tilts his head like a confused puppy. “Okay. But I remember you kissing me back.” He was taken aback by your reply. You were clearly not as kissing anyone she sees drunk level as Soonyoung.

“Yeah, cause I was drunk. We do and say stupid things when we’re drunk. I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable.” You meet his eyes this time to make your lie more convincing to him but moreso yourself.

Mingyu was left confused. You were not drunk that night.

He raised an eyebrow because you were obviously lying. You were more stern, retained more eye contact when you lie. It’s the same strategy you do when you’re pushed to do revisions to scripts that you did not want to do because it’ll only change the story.

“Look I just want to you to know that I don’t regret doing that.”

“Mmhmm.” You were busy chewing your sandwich and back to avoiding eye contact.

“And that I have liked you long enough for me to have the courage to do that.”

He can see your eyes widen and proactively try to avoid his. Your gut goes crazy until your eyes meet his. You stay there and your gut eases.

You were about to say something but couldn’t find the words so you just closed your mouth and looked into his eyes now and sighed.

“But please don’t say anything. You don’t have to answer.”

“And just tell me if you’re not comfortable with this. I mean we do work together almost all the time.” He then takes a big bite of the sandwich he barely touched after all that.

“It’s fine. I mean… It was a drunken mistake on me. I just-” You sighed again and wanted to say something but your emotions were all over the place. “Thank you. For telling me this.”

“Are we cool?”

You smiled. “Course we are.”

—

“So… Wonwoo told me something earlier before he left.” You peeked through your laptop and glanced at Mingyu who was cooking.

“What’d he say?”

“Nothing. He just told me that he… saw us kiss that night at the wedding.” You shrug trying to keep your tone as casual as you can.

“Okay. And?”

“He said that whatever that was, it’s safe with him. It’s none of his business.” You stood up from your seat and walked to their fridge.

“I just told him that it was nothing. I was drunk.” You said as you searched for a can of soda and then reached for it.

Mingyu’s eyebrows were raised at the sound of you saying you were drunk excuse again. He turns to face you with arms crossed across his chest. “It was nothing huh? And you were drunk.”

“Yeah. I was. Haven’t we talked about this?” You opened the soda but almost fizzed out but you drink it up with your mouth before it spills.

Mingyu scoffs. “You can’t keep convincing yourself that you were too drunk to kiss me back that night,” Mingyu finally snaps, his frustration boiling over. He’s tired of you dismissing your kiss as a drunken mistake. It wasn’t just about the kiss he was frustrated about.

You were a mess. You were going on this push and pull game of yours. You would be sweet one day and then the next one push him away. It wasn’t as if Mingyu didn’t see this coming knowing you.

Your eyes widen in disbelief. “What did you just say?”

“You were sober,” Mingyu states firmly, taking a step closer to her. “You kissed me back.” He removes his apron this time and carefully sets it aside.

Your arms cross defensively. “And what if I did?”

“Just admit it,” Mingyu insists, his voice tinged with exasperation. “I kissed you because I like you, you kissed me back, and now you keep saying you were drunk and it was nothing?”

“Stop saying the word ‘kiss’!” You retort, your irritation becoming more obvious.

“Stop acting like a child!” Mingyu shoots back, his frustration building up.

“I was just experimenting, okay? Can we drop it now?” Your tone softens slightly as you resigns herself to the conversation.

“Experimenting? For what? You’re unbelievable! Are we guinea pigs now to experiment your feelings on?” Mingyu’s disbelief is palpable.

“I was trying to see if it was real,” you admit reluctantly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“What is?” Mingyu’s gaze softens as he meets her eyes.

“You and I,” you replie quietly, your defenses crumbling. “Whatever this is.”

There’s a moment of silence as they both process your confession.

Finally, you sigh, tone resigned. “I was just checking. Making sure what I felt was real. So I can confront it and have the guts to tell you.”

“But you kissed me, so I kissed you back, and then I went crazy, so I wanted to think about it for days, hence me trying to convince myself and you all that I was drunk!”

Mingyu’s eyes soften, a hint of understanding dawning in them as they trail from her eyes to her lips. “Well, do you want to check again?” he asks softly.

You chuckle, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “You’re so stupid,” you murmur. “I’m not kissing you again.”

“You want to,” Mingyu insists, leaning in closer.

You place your palm on his chest, stopping him from closing the gap. “Yeah, I kinda do,” you admit, before leaning in for a short kiss.

[novaursa]

To Kneel Before You (reader's choice)

- Summary: Defying the orders of your older brother, King Viserys I, you secretly join the battle for the Stepstones. After months of grueling conflict, a commander rushes to inform you of a captured agent of the Crabfeeder. But the prisoner isn’t an enemy spy—it’s your other brother, Daemon Targaryen, the infamous Rogue Prince. His face is smeared with mud and blood, his hair tangled and wild, and the fury in his eyes tells you everything. Your men have made a grave mistake. They’ve captured a dragon.

- Paring: sister!reader/Daemon Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 6 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne

The sound of your dragon, Serenix, beating her massive wings fills the air as you descend onto the beach, black sand and broken shells crunching beneath your boots. The sleek, obsidian scales of your mount shimmer like oil in the dying sun, her piercing ruby eyes surveying the land for any signs of remaining enemies. Her tail, long and sharp like a spear, coils behind her, the infamous weapon that has earned her the title The Night Spear. She's restless after battle, her breaths coming out in hot, misty puffs as if eager to return to the skies and hunt.

You run a hand along her neck, feeling the cool, smooth scales beneath your palm, grounding yourself after the high of combat. But something is off. The normally disciplined camp is abuzz with hushed whispers, soldiers exchanging furtive glances. Then, your commander, Ser Garren, rushes toward you, his face flushed with both excitement and panic.

“My lady, we’ve captured one of Crabfeeder’s agents,” he announces breathlessly, stopping just short of you, as if unsure how you’ll respond.

You raise a brow, dismounting from Serenix with grace. You’ve been hunting the Crabfeeder’s men for months now, your victories adding fuel to the wildfire of gossip surrounding the Targaryen princess who dares disobey her brother the king. But something in Garren’s voice makes you pause. There’s more to this than a mere enemy agent.

“Have you now?” you say with a smirk, adjusting the leather of your battle armor. “Show me.”

He hesitates, swallowing nervously. “You might want to brace yourself for this one.”

Curiosity piqued, you motion for him to lead the way. As you walk through the camp, soldiers straighten up, their eyes wide and full of anticipation, but no one dares to speak. The sounds of the waves crashing against the shore grow distant as you approach the makeshift prison tent.

Garren stops at the entrance, giving you a wary glance. “He’s… not exactly what we expected.”

“Oh?” You can’t help the laugh that bubbles up.

With a deep breath, he pulls back the flap. Inside, you see a figure—mud-caked, blood-splattered, and bound at the wrists and ankles like a common animal. His silver hair, once unmistakably pristine, is matted with sand and grime. His violet eyes blaze with fury as he looks up at you. Daemon. Your older brother, the Rogue Prince.

Your amusement flickers like a flame in the wind as you step closer. “Commander Garren,” you say, biting back a smile. “This is not one of Crabfeeder’s agents.”

Daemon’s glare could melt Valyrian steel. “Do you find this amusing?” His voice is low and dangerous, but there’s a glint of something familiar in his eyes—something teasing.

You circle him slowly, hands behind your back, allowing the smirk you’ve been holding back to show. “A little, yes.”

Daemon scoffs, yanking at his bindings, though the ropes hold firm. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were the one who ordered this.”

“I could only wish to claim such a victory.” You crouch down in front of him, inspecting the sorry state he’s in. His armor is dented, his tunic torn, and yet he still exudes that arrogant Targaryen charm. “How did they manage to capture you?”

Daemon tilts his head, the corners of his mouth twitching. “An unfortunate mix of arrogance, an ambush, and…” He glances at the guards outside the tent. “Incompetence.”

You lean back on your heels, stifling a laugh. “I’m sure it was all very tragic. Should I free you, or would you prefer to stay here for a while longer?”

He narrows his eyes, but there’s no real malice in them. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To parade me around the camp like a prized beast.”

The idea is tempting, but you shrug casually. “I don’t know… It could be entertaining for a few days. But then I’d have to explain to Viserys how I let his precious brother rot on the shores of the Stepstones.”

At the mention of Viserys, Daemon’s smirk fades slightly, replaced with something darker. “So the king does care about me after all?”

“Don’t push your luck,” you reply dryly, standing and motioning for Garren to untie him. “As much as I’d enjoy watching you struggle, we have more pressing matters than your wounded pride.”

As Garren cuts the ropes, Daemon stands, rolling his shoulders and flexing his wrists as if testing whether he’s still made of flesh and bone. He glances back at you, his violet eyes gleaming with that ever-present spark of mischief. “You’re lucky I’m in a forgiving mood.”

You tilt your head, smiling slightly. “I was going to say the same to you.”

His lips curl into a familiar smirk, one that makes you wonder if he’s been plotting some sort of mischief all along. "You're always so predictable, little sister. Ever the wild one, pretending to ignore our brother's orders.”

“Someone has to make life interesting,” you reply with a wink, brushing past him. “Try not to get captured again, Daemon. It’s quite embarrassing for the both of us.”

He watches you walk away, and though you can’t see his face, you know that amusement has returned to his eyes. You call over your shoulder as you approach Serenix once more. “Next time, try not to look so much like one of the Crabfeeder’s men. You blend in too well with the mud.”

His laughter follows you, dark and rich. “Don’t worry, Y/N. I’ll make sure to be clean the next time you capture me.”

You mount your dragon, shaking your head with a grin. Daemon may be the Rogue Prince, but at least he’ll never let you be bored.

A few days have passed since your last encounter with Daemon, and the air around the camp feels heavier. The men are in better spirits, of course; your forces, along with Corlys Velaryon’s fleet, have successfully pushed back Crabfeeder’s men, taking key positions along the coastline. But the victory feels uneasy, like a cloud that hangs just overhead, waiting to break.

You stand on a ridge overlooking the camp, the salty wind pulling at your hair as you gaze at the sea. Ships bearing the banner of House Velaryon rest in the distance, their sails barely moving as they bob on the waves. The alliance with Corlys is vital, yet you can’t shake the nagging suspicion that something more is happening beneath the surface.

And that something is your brother, Daemon.

It’s not uncommon for him to disappear after a battle, slinking off to who-knows-where to nurse his wounds or plot his next reckless move. But this time, his absence is more deliberate. You’ve seen the way he’s been speaking with Corlys, heads bent together in hushed conversation, eyes glinting with a shared secret. And you know Daemon well enough to recognize that look—he’s scheming.

The thought makes you clench your fists, your knuckles going white. If there’s one thing you know, it’s that Daemon never plots without a purpose. And whatever it is, it won’t be simple or without consequence.

You hear the crunch of boots on sand behind you, and you don’t need to turn to know who it is. His presence is as familiar to you as the wind.

“You always look so serious when you’re thinking,” Daemon says, his voice smooth and amused. He comes to stand beside you, arms crossed over his chest as he looks out at the horizon. “I’ve been meaning to ask what’s been keeping you so deep in thought, but you’re never easy to approach these days.”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, taking in the relaxed way he stands, as if there isn’t a single care in the world. He’s cleaned up since you last saw him, his silver hair once again gleaming, his armor polished, though there’s still an edge of wildness to him—something untamed that no amount of grooming can erase.

“And yet, here you are, approaching me without a second thought,” you say, your tone lighter than you feel. “Why don’t you tell me what’s really been keeping you busy?”

Daemon’s eyes flicker with interest, the faintest hint of a smirk pulling at his lips. “What do you mean by that?”

“You’ve been spending a great deal of time with Lord Corlys,” you say, cutting to the point. “Whispering and plotting behind everyone’s back. Should I be concerned?”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained by your sudden forwardness. “Concerned? About what? Do you think I’m conspiring against you?”

“I think you’re conspiring against something,” you reply, crossing your arms as you turn to face him fully. “And I think whatever it is, you haven’t seen fit to share it with me. Or with Viserys.”

The mention of your elder brother’s name causes a shift in Daemon’s expression. For a moment, there’s a flicker of something—frustration, perhaps—but it’s quickly replaced by his usual mask of indifference.

“Viserys would have a heart attack if he knew both you and I were here together,” Daemon says casually, though you can hear the underlying edge in his voice. “He’s always been too soft, too cautious. Someone has to be bold enough to win this war.”

You narrow your eyes. “And what’s your plan? To wage this war in secret? To cut out the very people who are fighting beside you?”

He steps closer, his eyes sharp, but his tone remains calm. “You think I’d keep something like that from you, Y/N? From my own sister?”

“I don’t know, Daemon,” you reply coolly, refusing to back down. “I’ve learned over the years that you only tell people what they need to know. And you’ve been far too quiet for my liking.”

Daemon’s lips twist into a half-smile, a mixture of admiration and amusement. “Maybe you know me too well.”

“I do know you,” you say, meeting his gaze, refusing to be intimidated by the intensity in his eyes. “So, tell me, brother—what are you and Corlys planning?”

For a moment, he says nothing, simply watching you with that infuriating, unreadable expression. Then, with a sigh, he relents, but not entirely.

“Corlys and I have been discussing… opportunities,” he says, carefully picking his words. “The Crabfeeder’s forces may be retreating for now, but they won’t stay gone for long. We need to press the advantage.”

“That’s not a plan,” you say, frowning. “That’s common sense. What aren’t you telling me?”

His smirk grows wider, more dangerous, and he leans in slightly, his voice lowering as if sharing a secret. “Perhaps I’ll tell you when the time is right. You always did enjoy a bit of intrigue.”

You let out a frustrated breath, knowing full well that pressing him further will get you nowhere. He’s always been like this—playing his cards close to his chest, reveling in the power of knowing more than everyone else. But there’s something different this time. The stakes feel higher, the risk sharper.

And the way Daemon’s eyes gleam in the dimming light makes you certain that whatever he’s planning, it’s something far greater than a mere skirmish.

You step back, shaking your head slightly. “Just remember, Daemon—whatever you’re planning, it won’t stay hidden forever. Viserys will find out.”

Daemon chuckles softly, the sound rich and dark. “Let him. By the time he does, it’ll be too late to stop me.”

You watch him for a moment longer, feeling a tightness in your chest that you can’t quite name. It’s the same feeling you always get when Daemon is involved—like standing too close to the edge of a cliff, knowing that one wrong step could send you both tumbling into the abyss.

Without another word, you turn and walk away, the wind pulling at your cloak as you head back toward the camp. Behind you, Daemon remains where he is, watching you go, a shadow against the fading light.

A month later, the battlefield unfolds beneath you, a chaos of flames, blood, and the frenzied cries of Crabfeeder’s men. The skies are yours, and Serenix moves with the precision of a spear thrust, her sleek black body cutting through the air like a shadow. Her ruby eyes gleam, hunting for targets as her tail, long and lethal, swipes down with terrifying accuracy, impaling soldiers who are too slow to retreat.

Below, the remnants of the Crabfeeder’s forces scatter toward the rocky caves dotting the coastline, hoping to disappear into the safety of the shadows. You grit your teeth as you watch them retreat. They’ve learned. After weeks of battle, they know now that they can’t face a dragon in the open. The caves are their last refuge.

“Dracarys!” you command, your voice cutting through the wind. Serenix roars in response, a torrent of fire spilling from her jaws, lighting the ground below in a blaze of heat and destruction. The flames consume the few unfortunate souls who didn’t make it to cover, but most of them are already deep in the caves, well out of the reach of dragonfire.

You curse under your breath. The caves again. Every time they retreat here, it’s as if they’ve found a way to vanish from the battlefield entirely. You hover above, frustrated, watching the dark mouths of the caves swallow the enemy whole. Your forces have pushed them back, but pushing them into hiding doesn’t mean victory.

You guide Serenix to the ground, her wings folding elegantly against her sides as her tail coils behind her, twitching in irritation. She, too, is frustrated by the lack of prey. The ground beneath her trembles as she lands, and you take a moment to survey the scene. Your forces are regrouping, but the mood is tense. This isn’t the first time the enemy has used the caves to avoid annihilation, and you know it won’t be the last.

“We’ll need a new strategy,” you mutter to yourself, staring at the dark crevices carved into the rock. Fire can’t reach them in there, and even if you were to send soldiers after them, the caves are a death trap. Narrow passageways, unknown terrain—any attack there would be suicide.

Before you can begin to formulate a plan, the sky darkens with the sound of beating wings, and a shadow passes over you. You know that sound. The deep, guttural screech of Caraxes.

Your heart tightens slightly as you look up to see the blood-red dragon swooping down from the clouds, his serpentine body weaving through the air with predatory grace. Daemon. Of course.

Caraxes lands not far from Serenix, his long neck curling in curiosity as he approaches her, his massive maw pulling back to release a low growl. Serenix turns her head sharply, her ruby eyes narrowing at the intrusion, and she lets out a hiss in response, her tail snapping dangerously through the air. The tip of her tail, sharp and deadly, flicks in warning as she recoils slightly.

“Easy,” you murmur, placing a gloved hand on her neck, though you feel her tension thrumming beneath your fingertips. Serenix has never been fond of Caraxes, and it seems today is no exception.

Daemon dismounts, his boots sinking into the soft, charred sand, a smirk already playing on his lips as he watches the exchange between the dragons. “Serenix is still as charming as ever, I see,” he says, his tone amused.

“Charming isn’t the word I’d use,” you reply, eyes flicking to him as you dismount. “She doesn’t take well to being crowded.”

Daemon raises an eyebrow, casting a glance at Caraxes, who lets out another low rumble, clearly trying to get closer to Serenix. “You and your dragon are more alike than you’d admit.”

Serenix huffs in agreement, her wings flaring slightly as if to remind Caraxes to keep his distance. The red dragon seems amused by her defiance, but he takes a step back, circling away from her. You can feel Serenix relax slightly beneath your touch, though her tail continues to twitch with irritation.

“Do you always arrive just as things are about to fall apart?” you ask, turning your attention back to Daemon. His armor gleams in the faint light, his hair once again tied back, though it’s impossible to miss the glint in his eyes. He’s always too confident, too sure of himself, even when things aren’t in his control.

Daemon chuckles. “I like to think of it as arriving at the most interesting moments. What’s the problem now? Crabfeeder’s men hiding in their little holes again?”

“They’ve taken to the caves,” you say, your tone more bitter than you intended. “We can’t burn them out, and any attempt to chase them in there would be suicide. We’re stuck.”

Daemon surveys the battlefield for a moment, his gaze lingering on the rocky cliffs and the gaping mouths of the caves. His smirk fades, replaced by a more thoughtful expression, though there’s still an edge of mischief in his eyes.

“You’re right,” he says after a beat, almost as if it surprises him to agree with you. “The caves are too narrow for dragons. They’re safe in there—for now.”

You shoot him a look. “That’s not helpful.”

“No,” he admits, rubbing his chin, “but it does give me an idea.”

You narrow your eyes. “What idea?”

He grins, that familiar dangerous spark lighting up in his eyes. “We don’t need to chase them into the caves, Y/N. We need to draw them out.”

“And how exactly do you plan to do that?” you ask, skeptical. “They’re like rats—they’ll only come out when they think it’s safe.”

“Which is why we make them think it’s safe,” Daemon says, his tone full of that irritating confidence. “They’ll come out eventually, hungry for revenge or supplies. But if we make it seem like we’re retreating, or better yet, fighting amongst ourselves…”

You frown, considering his words. “You think they’d be bold enough to come out if they thought we were at each other’s throats?”

He steps closer, lowering his voice slightly, the teasing edge still present. “We’ve given them reason enough to be terrified of us. Why not give them a reason to be overconfident instead? Let them think they’ve found a weakness, then strike.”

You stare at him, half-impressed, half-annoyed by his audacity. “You always did enjoy a good bit of theatrics, didn’t you?”

His smile widens. “Theatrics, strategy—it’s all the same, isn’t it?”

You glance back at the caves, then at Serenix, who’s now watching Caraxes with a wary eye. The idea isn’t without merit. It’s risky, but then again, most things are when Daemon’s involved.

“Fine,” you say after a moment. “But if this plan fails and we end up losing more men, I’ll make sure Serenix has a nice chat with Caraxes.”

Daemon laughs, his eyes gleaming. “I’m sure she’d enjoy that very much.”

As the two of you walk back toward your dragons, you can feel the agitation between the two beasts, though Serenix finally relents, allowing Caraxes to follow at a more respectful distance. You glance at Daemon one last time, wondering whether this alliance will be your saving grace—or the beginning of an even bigger disaster.

The plan was set. It was simple, almost too simple, and that was what made it clever. You stand on the beach once again, the wind tugging at your hair, your armor gleaming under the moonlight. The sea stretches endlessly beyond you, but it’s not the waves you’re focused on. It’s the dark mouths of the caves that lie scattered across the cliffs like wounds on the earth, hiding Crabfeeder’s men like rats in their burrows. Waiting for them to come out is no longer an option.

Tonight, you’re not hunting noble beasts; you’re luring rats.

Daemon stands across from you, a smirk playing on his lips, as if he’s already relishing the coming spectacle. You feel the tension in your muscles coil tighter, preparing for the mock battle you’re about to stage. Corlys’s forces are hidden, waiting for the signal to attack. The Sea Snake himself, always the strategist, has been overseeing the finer details, ensuring the timing will be perfect.

"You know this is going to be rather fun," Daemon says, pulling his sword from its sheath with a slow, deliberate motion. The Valyrian steel glints in the pale light, and he tilts his head toward you, eyes glinting with mischief.

“You have a strange idea of fun,” you mutter, adjusting your grip on your own sword. Serenix looms behind you, her eyes fixed on Caraxes, as if already irritated by his very presence. You can feel her unease, the subtle rumble in her chest vibrating up through your legs.

“Do try not to hit me too hard, Y/N,” Daemon teases, stepping closer. His movements are languid, almost lazy, but you know better. There’s nothing lazy about Daemon when he’s on the battlefield.

You roll your eyes. “I make no promises.”

Daemon chuckles, but the humor in his eyes is fleeting, replaced by something sharper, more serious. This mock fight, as ridiculous as it may seem, is crucial. If the Crabfeeder’s men believe you’re divided, they’ll be bold enough to come out of their hiding places. And once they do, Corlys’s men will be ready to strike.

You take a breath and raise your sword, giving a slight nod. The game begins.

With a burst of motion, Daemon lunges at you, his sword cutting through the air with practiced ease. You meet his blade with your own, the clash of steel ringing out across the beach. For a moment, it feels like a real fight—his strength behind each swing, your arms straining to parry. But this isn’t about victory. It’s about making a spectacle.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” Daemon shouts, his voice loud enough to carry. Theatrics, as always.

You grit your teeth, pushing back against his blade. “You’re the one who can’t keep to a plan, Daemon!” You throw your weight into the next swing, knocking him back a step.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch movement. Shadows shifting among the rocks. The Crabfeeder’s men are watching. They’re biting the bait.

Daemon smirks, catching your next strike with ease. “I told you, little sister. I never play by the rules.”

The anger in your reply is only half-acted. “That’s what makes you dangerous.”

You force him back with a series of quick strikes, your movements fluid but fierce. The clash of your swords rings out again and again, and you can feel the eyes of your enemies watching, waiting. Crabfeeder’s men, likely believing the Targaryen siblings have turned on each other, will think this is the moment to strike. That you’re too distracted by your internal squabbles to see them coming.

“Enough of this!” Daemon growls, stepping back suddenly, his sword lowered but his eyes gleaming with the thrill of the performance. “You’ll never understand what needs to be done.”

You take a step forward, raising your sword again, but the moment has come. The first of Crabfeeder’s men begin to emerge from the caves, their ragged shapes moving in the darkness like insects crawling from the shadows. You can see them, just barely, slipping out onto the beach, weapons in hand. They think they have the upper hand.

Daemon’s gaze flickers to you for just a moment, a signal. It’s time.

With a final, exaggerated swing, you knock his sword to the side, sending him staggering back—pure performance, of course. He growls, pretending to nurse a wound, but you both know this is where the game ends and the real battle begins.

Crabfeeder’s men pour from the caves, emboldened by what they think is your weakness. Dozens of them, perhaps more, race toward the beach, their weapons raised. A foolish move.

And then, with a deafening roar, Corlys’s men strike.

The Sea Snake’s forces, hidden among the cliffs, rain down upon the Crabfeeder’s soldiers with brutal efficiency. Arrows fly, and men with spears rush forward, cutting off any chance of retreat. The tide turns in an instant, your enemies caught off-guard by the ambush.

You lower your sword slightly, taking in the scene with satisfaction as the chaos unfolds. Daemon, ever the opportunist, straightens with a smirk, watching as the Crabfeeder’s forces fall apart.

But not all of them. Amid the confusion, one figure remains standing, surveying the battlefield with cold, calculating eyes. The Crabfeeder himself. His strange mask gleams in the firelight, and though he does not flee, you can sense his mind racing, searching for an escape.

Daemon notices him too. His smirk disappears, replaced by something far darker. Without a word, he sheaths his sword and moves toward Caraxes, his eyes locked on the Crabfeeder.

“I’ll handle this,” he says, his voice low, almost dangerous.

You watch as he mounts his dragon, the tension between you suddenly thick. You know that look. Daemon is a man who hunts his prey with the same ruthlessness as the dragons you both ride.

As Caraxes rises into the air, Daemon casts one final glance back at you, and there’s something unspoken in his eyes. Determination. Fury. Something personal.

You step back as the ground trembles beneath you, watching as Caraxes takes to the skies with a screech that sends a shiver down your spine. The Crabfeeder is his target now, and you know Daemon won’t stop until the man is ashes beneath his feet.

And so, as the battle rages around you, you can only watch as Daemon disappears into the night, chasing his prey.

The camp is quiet as you sit by the fire, the aftermath of the battle leaving a strange stillness in the air. The faint crackle of flames is the only sound, the usual chatter of your men subdued after the ambush’s success. They’re recovering, both physically and mentally, from the day’s bloodshed. Yet, something nags at you, a tension beneath your skin, a sense that it isn’t quite over. Not yet.

You’re sharpening your sword, the rhythmic scrape of stone against steel keeping you grounded, when you hear the distinct, heavy footfalls approaching. You know without looking who it is. Daemon always makes his presence known, whether intentionally or not. There’s a swagger in his step that you could recognize anywhere.

But it isn’t the sound of his boots that stops your hands—it’s the sound of something heavy hitting the ground with a sickening thud.

You look up, your breath catching for a brief second. Before you, lying in the dirt at your feet, is the charred, bloody head of Craghas Drahar. The once-feared Crabfeeder, his mask still melted to the remains of his face, his neck a ragged stump, dripping red onto the sand.

For a moment, the entire camp falls silent, the eyes of your commanders widening in horror as they take in the sight. Some of them recoil, looking anywhere but at the grotesque trophy Daemon has so casually discarded at your feet. The firelight flickers over the mutilated head, casting deep shadows that only make it more monstrous.

Daemon stands there, utterly unbothered, his armor still splattered with dried blood, his expression one of calm satisfaction. He meets your gaze with that same smirk, the one that always makes you want to hit him—or laugh. In this moment, you’re not sure which.

“How charming,” you mutter dryly, trying to suppress the strange mix of emotions rising in your chest. Amusement, disbelief, and something like disgust all tangled together.

Daemon wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing a streak of blood across his cheek, though he doesn’t seem to care. 

“A marriage gift,” he declares, his voice carrying across the camp like a whip crack. “For you, Y/N.”

Your commanders exchange uneasy glances, clearly disturbed by both macabre trophy at your feet and Daemon’s audacity. But you keep your eyes on your brother, refusing to show any surprise, even though your heart skips a beat at his words. Daemon has always been reckless, but this is bold even for him.

You fold your arms, raising an eyebrow. “You already have a wife, Daemon. In the Vale. Or have you conveniently forgotten about her?”

Daemon laughs, low and dark, the sound sending a ripple of discomfort through the gathered soldiers. He steps closer, his smirk never faltering.

“Rhea Royce?” he says, his tone dripping with disdain. “That bronze bitch in the Vale means nothing to me. She’s no wife of mine. You know that, Y/N.”

You narrow your eyes, standing your ground even as he towers over you, his presence suffocating. “Viserys won’t approve of this. You know that.”

Daemon shrugs, entirely unbothered by the mention of your elder brother. “Viserys won’t have a say in this. He never did. Not about my life, and certainly not about my choice in wives.” His smirk widens, his voice lowering as he leans in slightly. “I’ve already given you a dragon’s gift, little sister. Will you really refuse me now?”

Your heart pounds in your chest, but you refuse to let him see it. This is Daemon—your brother, your equal, but also the most dangerous man in the realm. You’ve seen him like this before, drunk on victory, on blood, on the thrill of battle. He’s the kind of man who takes what he wants, consequences be damned.

But marriage? This wasn’t part of the game.

You glance down at the head, then back at him, raising your chin defiantly. “You think a charred skull and a declaration are enough to make me your wife? You’ve lost your mind, Daemon.”

His grin softens slightly, but the madness in his eyes remains. “Perhaps I have,” he admits. “But you and I—we belong together. Always have. You know it, Y/N.”

The silence between you stretches, thick and heavy. Your commanders are still staring, clearly unsure whether to intervene or stay silent. This is between the two of you now—an unspoken battle of wills, like so many you’ve fought before.

You let out a slow breath, shaking your head slightly. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

Daemon’s smirk returns, full of arrogant confidence. “I never do.”

You glance down at Craghas Drahar’s lifeless head one last time before looking back at Daemon, your gaze hard as steel. “We’ll talk about this when the war is over.”

Daemon’s laughter echoes through the camp, loud and rich. “Oh, sister, the war is never over.” He steps back, finally giving you some space, though his eyes remain locked on yours. “But we can certainly discuss it later.”

He turns on his heel and strides off into the camp, leaving the charred head of the Crabfeeder at your feet, a grim reminder of what he’s capable of.

Your commanders exchange nervous glances, and you can sense their unease in the air. You sigh, waving a hand to dismiss them.

“Clean that up,” you say to no one in particular, nodding toward the gruesome trophy. They move quickly, eager to rid the camp of the horror Daemon left behind.

As they work, you turn your gaze back toward the horizon, the weight of Daemon’s words heavy on your mind.

The skies over King’s Landing are bright and cloudless as you and Daemon approach the Red Keep, your dragons gliding through the air with an almost effortless grace. Serenix, usually prickly and on edge when near Caraxes, has grown calmer over the past few weeks. The animosity that once simmered between them seems to have eased. Serenix flies alongside Caraxes now with more ease, her long, spear-like tail swaying in rhythm with the Blood Wyrm’s serpentine form. The proximity of the two beasts has made Caraxes more chipper, his screeches less aggressive, and more… playful, if such a thing can be said of a dragon.

As you descend toward the Dragonpit, you take a deep breath, steadying yourself for what’s to come. Returning to King’s Landing always brings a knot of unease to your stomach, but today it is coiled tighter than ever. The last time you disobeyed Viserys’ orders, you had fled to battle on the Stepstones. Now, you return victorious, but what comes next will undoubtedly shake the realm.

You dismount Serenix with practiced ease, running a hand over her smooth, onyx scales before turning to see Daemon already striding toward the gates. His armor gleams, though the crown on his head—crafted from driftwood and bones—sits like a declaration of defiance. The so-called “King of the Stepstones” walks as though he already rules more than just a few rocky isles.

The throne room is packed with courtiers and lords when you and Daemon enter. Murmurs ripple through the crowd as they take in the sight of you both. Daemon’s presence always stirs unease, but today, it’s the crown perched atop his silver hair that commands the room’s attention. The driftwood crown, dark and weathered, stands in stark contrast to the golden grandeur of the Iron Throne behind Viserys.

Viserys sits on the Iron Throne, his face betraying a mix of relief and wariness. You’ve returned alive, but you can already see the conflict brewing behind his eyes. At his sides stand the usual council members—Ser Otto Hightower, his face drawn in disapproval, and Alicent, who watches with her hands tightly clasped before her. 

You and Daemon move together through the hall, each step echoing in the vast chamber. You feel the weight of a hundred eyes on you, but you keep your gaze forward, focused on Viserys. As you approach the dais, the murmurs grow louder, a ripple of unease passing through the assembled nobles.

Daemon, ever the provocateur, smirks at the whispering crowd, clearly enjoying the effect his crown has on them. He makes no effort to hide it, his violet eyes gleaming with mischief as he approaches the Iron Throne. You can feel the apprehension in the air, as thick as the heat of dragonfire.

“Welcome, brother,” Viserys says, his voice ringing through the hall as he rises from his throne. Despite his attempt at formality, you can hear the slight tremor in his words. “And sister.”

You both kneel before him, heads bowed in a gesture of respect, but there’s no mistaking the tension crackling between you. For a brief moment, all is silent. Then, Viserys lets out a relieved sigh. “You’ve returned victorious.”

Daemon glances up first, a slow, almost lazy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Victorious indeed, brother. The Stepstones are ours. And the men there saw fit to crown me their king.”

He rises, and without hesitation, removes the crown of driftwood from his head. He turns to you, his movements deliberate and slow, and before you can react, he places the crown upon your head. The weight of it feels heavier than you anticipated, though the material is light. The meaning behind the gesture is far from light, however.

The hall falls deathly silent as Daemon kneels again, this time at your feet. His violet eyes gleam as he looks up at you, amusement flickering in their depths. “I kneel not just before the King of the Seven Kingdoms,” he says, his voice clear and sharp, “but before my wife. We are wed, as per the ancient customs of our House.”

The air leaves the room, as if every person in the throne room has forgotten how to breathe. The shock is immediate, rippling through the courtiers like wildfire. Viserys’s face pales, his mouth opening and closing, utterly speechless. He looks as if he’s about to faint, his hand gripping the arm of the Iron Throne so tightly that his knuckles turn white.

For a heartbeat, no one moves. Viserys blinks rapidly, his mind clearly trying to process what has just been declared before the entire court. “W-Wed?” he finally manages to stammer, his voice weak, disbelieving. His eyes dart between you and Daemon, wide with shock.

Daemon, on the other hand, is entirely unbothered, his amusement barely contained. He glances at you as though daring you to deny it, his smile widening. “Yes, brother,” he says, rising to his feet again. “We are married, in the traditions of our House. Targaryen blood with Targaryen blood.”

You feel Viserys’s gaze burning into you, a mixture of shock, betrayal, and something like fear written across his face. He stumbles slightly, as if the weight of Daemon’s words has struck him physically. His lips move wordlessly for a moment, searching for something to say, but he’s at a loss.

Around you, the courtiers remain frozen in place, eyes wide with disbelief. Some look horrified, others utterly confused, while a few—those familiar with the old ways of your family—exchange knowing glances.

“You’ve… you’ve wed?” Viserys repeats, his voice strained as he looks directly at you now, searching for some explanation.

“Yes, brother,” you finally say, your voice steadier than you feel. “It is done.”

For a moment, Viserys sways, his hand gripping the throne harder as if he needs its support to stay upright. You can see the pulse throbbing at his temple, his pale face glistening with a sheen of sweat. He looks as though he might collapse right there in front of you.

Daemon, still wearing that maddening smirk, steps closer to Viserys, his voice dripping with amusement. “Are you not happy for us, Your Grace? Your brother and sister united—just as the blood of the dragon demands.”

Viserys stares at Daemon, his expression flickering between disbelief, anger, and something like heartbreak. “You’ve gone too far, Daemon,” he whispers, but it’s clear that whatever rage he feels is struggling to find its way to the surface.

Daemon’s eyes glitter with defiance, and he leans in slightly, his voice soft enough for only you and Viserys to hear. “Far? Brother, I’ve only just begun.”

[starshideurfics]

Thirsty Thursday - Shut up and dance with me

steddie, omegaverse, a little bit of fun during my angst-fest to celebrate some follower milestones 🥰

Steve keeps saying he feels goofy wearing a suit, even if he’s happy to do it for Robin. It’s non-traditional, sticking an omega in black-tie. But neither is an alpha like Buckley having an omega as her best man. Her mating ceremony is beautiful, Chrissy absolutely sparkles, and Steve cries through half of it because he’s so happy for his best friend.

Eddie might cry a little, too.

He’s seated in the front row, with Robin’s family, since he and Steve are ‘capital S’ Serious, and Steve has practically been adopted by Robin’s parents. Melissa catches him crying and smiles; she’s certain to ask when he and Steve are going to tie the knot themselves.

He’s nowhere near ready to answer that one. Especially without Steve to help. Eddie hasn’t wanted to rush things, even being friends so long beforehand. Knows that he loves Steve more than anything. But they’ve barely been dating a year…

After the ceremony, Steve catches his eye from the reception line. “You good?” Eddie mouths, quirking a questioning brow.

Steve makes a dumb face—pretends to cry—gives him a thumbs up, and it’s like everything rearranges, his whole world shifting a couple inches to the left.

He knows.

All his worries about it being too fast float away like so much dust on the wind. He’d be happy enough watching Steve from across the room for the rest of his life, to giggle and mime at one another.

But after the reception, he gets to take Steve home.

Not being in the wedding party, he should honestly head over to the venue soon—after going through the receiving line. He kisses Chrissy’s cheek, tells her she looks stunning, high fives Robin for locking down her perfect omega, and whispers, “I’ll be waiting for you with a cocktail,” in Steve’s ear.

He manages to cop a feel, squeezing Steve’s ass before pulling back, earning him a tiny whine as they part.

Forcing himself to keep walking, Eddie hates leaving his m—

Hates leaving Steve. He wants to run back and scoop him into his arms. To keep him close.

Instead, he gets in Steve’s car and drives to the reception, grabs a scotch from the open bar, and distracts himself from missing Steve by chatting with Jonathan who is just as in need of the company since Argyle and Nancy are also in the wedding party.

Eddie’s on his second scotch when he hears whispers that the limo has arrived, and he goes to order a Manhattan for Steve with extra cherries. He’s barely got the coupe glass in hand before the DJ is announcing the new Mr. and Mrs. Buckley.

They’ve changed into their reception outfits: Chrissy’s dress short and frothy, Robin in metallic pants and a shirt unbuttoned halfway down her sternum, both of them already dancing as they make their grand entrance.

The whole room hoots and hollers as they burst into cheers.

The rest of the party has changed too. Nancy’s in a slinky dress, the depth of the black of it the only thing hiding the outline of her dick. Argyle is in shorts that make him seem ridiculously tall, and Heather is in a romper covered in rhinestones.

Then there’s Steve.

He’s dressed to match Robin in silver-sequined pants, trading the button-down for a loose tank top that shows off too much of his golden skin, freckles and moles like so many stars in the sky.

Eddie’s mouth waters as he makes his way over to him, drink in hand.

“Damn, sweetheart!” he says, eyes locked on Steve’s tits, needing to hold him by the sides and slip his thumbs in to tease his nipples.

Steve grips hush chin, tilts his gaze up until their eyes meet. “Thanks, babe.” He smiles into their kiss, uses his teeth a little.

Eddie offers him the drink, and Steve happily accepts, plucking out a cherry and popping it into his mouth. Another kiss, this one cherry-sweet, and Steve downs his drink, holding his extra cherry between his teeth for a long moment, grinning as he bites it in half.

“Why is it so hot when you do that?” Eddie rasps, his dress pants suddenly a little too tight.

Steve smiles, pulls half the cherry from between his lips, and presses it to Eddie’s mouth. “Shut up and dance with me, Munson,” he says, laughing, barely containing his delight.

He drags Eddie onto the dance floor, the alpha going willingly, hands easily finding their way onto Steve’s hips. Falling to the beat, into moving with one another is easy. So easy, Eddie nearly forgets his revelation from earlier.

And he’s distracted again by Steve’s chest.

“You okay there, Munson?” he teases, using a single finger to direct Eddie’s gaze back up to face him. “Keep your eyes on me.”

A purr rumbles through Eddie’s chest as he leans in close. “Why d’ya still call me Munson all the time, Stevie?” he murmurs, then kisses Steve’s ear.

“Like the way it sounds. I like everything about you, Eddie.” The words are soft and vulnerable, barely audible over the pulse of the music.

It makes Eddie brave enough to be vulnerable, too.

“How do you like the sound of Mrs. Munson? Or Ms.” He smiles. “Whichev-”

Steve cuts him off with a kiss.

“I like the sound of that a lot.”

[yournowheregirl]

read my mind

rating: G | wc: 1225 | cw: none

The first word that comes to mind when Eddie steps foot into the Harrington house is ‘chaos’.

Which is weird, because he had come to know Steve’s house as neat and very much put together. It was probably a combination of weekly cleaning and the fact of Mrs. Harrington’s obsession with interior design and keeping everything absolutely perfect, even though she wasn’t there most of the time. But this time there are loose pieces of paper all over the floor and a pile of books in the middle of the hallway, like someone had spent hours researching something.

Eddie also hears some kind of ruckus coming from the kitchen and he prepares himself for the worst. He might not be all that up-to-date with all of the crazy shit that’s been happening in Hawkins over the last few years, but he has been through enough to know that something weird can happen at anytime.

As he approaches the kitchen, Eddie jangles his keys, sliding them between his fingers as a makeshift weapon, just in case. He stomps his feet a little louder than usual and takes a deep breath, preparing for the worst, as he turns the corner.

If he thought the hallway was chaotic, it’s nothing in comparison to what Eddie finds in the kitchen. The clutter of books and loose papers had made its way onto the tiled floor, but it was joined with what looks like miles and miles of tin foil. Eddie’s eyes follow the silver trail to the other side of the kitchen, where he finds the two culprits.

Steve is sitting at the kitchen table with Robin sitting on the floor in between his legs, and while that isn’t something unusual, their accessories definitely are. Because Steve is wearing an absolutely ridiculous tin foil hat, with a pointy end and all, and for a second Eddie wonders if this is a new hair routine for him. Steve is focused on making a hat for Robin, it seems, as he’s wrapping even more tin foil around her head as well.

“What the fuck are you two doing?”

“Babe!” Steve says with a bright smile. “You came at the perfect time!”

“Uh, you invited me, and also, that doesn’t answer my question. What the fuck are you two doing?” Eddie asks again. “Is this the new and improved Steve Harrington hair ritual?”

“No,” Robin replies with a roll of her eyes. “We’re testing out our telepathy.”

Eddie blinks, completely dumbfounded at what Robin had just said. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Yeah, there must have been something in that bunker, or in the Upside Down, something, because we totally have powers now. Like, I always know what Robin’s thinking, for some reason,” Steve says, and oh God, he’s being sincere isn’t he?

“Yes! So today, while I was shelving tapes at work, I was thinking about how the moon landing was totally faked, right? And then Steve just finished my thought, saying ‘oh yeah, they faked it for sure’ like it was nothing,” Robin says excitedly. ”I didn’t even say anything! He just read my mind!”

Now Eddie hasn’t been scared away from the freaky sides of things, it even earned him a nickname, but this is a little too weird. Even for him. There’s no way that Steve and Robin actually have supernatural powers, no matter how hard they try to believe it. But then Eddie notices how excited they both are, and the big smiles on their faces make him smile as well. Sure, they’re being ridiculous right now, but he figures they deserve to be after all they’ve been through.

“Okay, I’ll bite. What can I do to help?”

“Right, so…”

Apparently Robin has raided the Harrington’s personal library on all the science books they had (which Eddie had noticed in the hallway) and cooked up an experiment that will prove once and for all that she and Steve are telepathically connected. All Eddie has to do is a little word association, and if both Robin and Steve write down the same word without looking at each other’s answers, it proves their connection beyond any doubt.

Well, Eddie still has his doubts, but whatever.

Once Steve and Robin are all set, their backs against each other and a piece of paper and pen in hand, Eddie gives them their first word: chocolate. He gives them both five seconds to think of something, but while they look very confident, their answers don’t match up.

“Sorry. Steve said milk and Robin said cocoa,” Eddie tsks. “Not a match.”

“It’s basically the same thing,” Robin scoffs. “Another one.”

“Fine. Your next word is, uh, sun.”

After five seconds, Steve shows his paper, which says summer, while Robin’s says hot. Again, not a match.

“Well, summers are hot, so we’re getting close.” Steve shrugs. “We’ll get the next one, Robs, I can feel it.”

But with every word Eddie throws at them, they continue getting close to a similar answer (Steve answers ‘sky’ while Robin says ‘galaxy’ when Eddie gives them the word ‘star’) but it’s never an exact match. This doesn’t deter them in the slightest; they continue to be convinced of their powers while Eddie starts to believe less and less. Not that he believed it in the first place.

That is until…

“Okay, final one,” Eddie sighs, and because his stomach is rumbling, says, “Hungry.”

Steve and Robin scribble away on their papers and then show Eddie their words in unison. For the first time, they have the exact same word on paper: ‘pasta.’ Eddie must look either shocked or impressed at this turn of events, because Steve positively lights up at the sight of him.

“Did we get it?” He asks, looking over his shoulder at Robin’s paper and beaming when he sees the answer. “Robin! We got it!”

“I knew it! I knew we had a connection!” Robin exclaims. “Do you believe us now, Eddie?”

Eddie huffs in response. “That doesn’t prove anything. You’re just saying that because you were supposed to make pasta today, remember? You invited me over for lasagna?”

“Oh shit. You’re right,” Steve says with a sheepish grin on his face. He carefully removes the tinfoil hat and Eddie tries not to laugh at the ridiculous state of his hair. A very wise decision because he’s rewarded with a quick kiss from Steve. “I guess we got a little distracted. Sorry babe.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re lucky you’re cute,” Eddie flirts back. “Now, where’s the pasta?”

After the kitchen is cleaned up, Steve starts working on the lasagna. Eddie offers to help, but Steve tells him to just sit back and relax. Well, Eddie can definitely do just that. Robin does get to help though, saying something about the lasagna being her mom’s recipe, so she has the final say with the ingredients.

As Eddie watches them cook together, moving around the kitchen in perfect sync and handing each other spatulas and seasoning without asking for it, he can’t help but wonder if Steve and Robin do have some kind of psychic connection after all.

happy birthday!! @stobinesque 🎉🎁🎂 me and @legitcookie cooked up this little silly stobin brainworm for you to celebrate your birthday!! we hope you enjoyed!

[grapejuicestyless]

The Grudge

Harry Styles x fem!reader

The second part to You’re The Winner.

ANGST

Summery: based off of the song The Grudge by Olivia Rodrigo!!

Some nights I still wake up wet from my own cold sweat and salty tears. I rework the script I’ve perfected until my pen runs dry and the pages are crinkled. I scribble out each word and fix it until the cut is so deep it cuts more than just through the page, but to the reader.

I was never someone who believed in doing things so they were merely good enough. No, I always thought things through until they were at their very best points. Each sentence rephrased to make the viewer understand the concept of the conversation but to catch the deeper meanings and let it make more and more sense with each rewatch.

Now I lay awake, terrified of never being enough. Is my success nothing more than a false ego I have in my head? Do these awards that sit on my shelf hold any value if nobody could recognize them? If earning these doesn’t elevate me do they even count as a prestigious award?

I never had these issues, I displayed everything proudly. Aware of how lucky I was to be able to accept these awards so graciously. Body draped in the finest pearls and hair styles to perfection. I was excited to tell the stories when people would ask. Tell them about what I was working on, encourage them to follow their hearts. My insecurities were always just that, small thoughts littered in my head meant to make me doubt my self worth. Now they felt like more.

More than just metaphorical daggers stabbing into my body and mind. I wake up in distress from more than my own voices but his. I still hear Harry’s voice after all these months. It’s the sound of the insults I throw at myself, at everything I’ve done. It’s his voice I hear every time I think I am not enough. And what he had to say about my passions and how I execute them still lingers like a scar. I hold onto every detail of what he thought of me like my life depends on it and I break myself over and over again by finding deeper meanings in his playground insults.

The trust that he betrayed, confusion that still lingers. He took everything I loved, my confidence and my pride and crushed it in between his fingers. He could run circles around me with all his money and resources. He knows it too, be both knew it. I just never believed he would use it as a way to take stabs at me.

I still stay awake fantasizing about his little fucking sorry. How he was in tears when I finally pulled away. The shocked look on his face. I feel tough in the privacy of my room. Able to beat him up in my head and make him feel guilty but never to his face. I try to understand why he would do this all to me. I make up situations to lessen the blow. The fact it was unsolicited and simply something he chose to do for fun. Still, I can not let it go that easily. Not until every ounce of doubt is scrubbed from my mind and the voices in my head no longer belong to him.

……………………………………..…………………………………………

Sitting at the Oscar’s I find my place beside Greta Gerwig and Emma Stone. I feel out of place. I’m friends with them, I know them and their secrets. They’ve led me through the obstacles and the difficulties that come with trying to get into film making. They have been nothing but kind and reassuring over how great they think I am yet I can not push down the feeling that when the cameras flash to us I will be labeled the place holder to make the crowd look more full. No matter how lavish my gown is, no matter how nice my hair is I will never shine like the women who sit beside me. I will never stand out and make my name be known and it is something I can not come to terms with.

To rub salt in the wound I sit there and compare each category I am placed in to everyone else. I read out the nominees on the pamphlet they hand out like we are watching a youth theatre production of a marvelous broadway play. I barely make the cut for best assistant director. I read the names beside mine and I try not to get myself worked up.

I am not Greta Gerwig, I am no Christopher Nolan. I am Y/n Y/l/n. I am a woman who dreams bigger than she can possibly ever achieve. And I try not to get in over my head, but I always do. I strive to be the best and still I get trampled over.

I read the names over and over, flipping through the pages. I read the names under each category. Billie Eilish, Taylor Swift, Adele…I think about if I should’ve taken up music. I can’t sing very well but I have so much to write about. I have so many feelings and so many things to argue that I simply can not relay through film. Not at my level anyway. Joe releasing it must be to put a pen to paper and just write whatever you feel because the darkest emotions write the best songs.

It’s the sickest joke the way the names continue to go down the line. The eleven letter name in bold italics with an invisible circle around it and arrows pointed to make sure I see it. Harry Styles is up for best original song. Not only that, but I’d heard it too. Stayed up with him while we wrote it. He was so sure it wasn’t good enough and I sat there supporting him.

I stayed awake comforting him while he cried over his million dollar piano. Tears ruining the ivory and the clear shine. How idiotic I was to have been so kind to someone who so easily tore me down like I was nothing more than a pawn to remind him of his greatness. I knew the song was beautiful. His name was golden among the others competing for such an important award. One that would recognize his talent and secure his name in Hollywood. A lump formed in my throat. If I didn’t believe him then, I did now. I wasn’t some prophecy. I didn’t have a title to my name to prove. I was someone who got lucky once. My work was nothing compared to his.

………………………………………………………………………………….

They called the nominees for each category, listing off the winners one by one. We grew closer and closer to the major categories that would have the TMZ headlines buzzing by the morning. When it was my turn to be called, I couldn’t help but feel jitters and anxiety pass through my veins.

I’d heard about everyone else. All of their movies staples in my Friday movie night routines I had continued even without Harry there to occupy a portion of the couch. I laughed, I cried, I thought deeply about each movie. I couldn’t help but feel nervous that I was up against people so much stronger than I was.

My picture on the screen showcased my much more recognizable friends shaking my shoulders. We were unprofessional and excited to see how I could be recognized. They made me feel that even if I didn’t win, it was well worth it because the academy, as rigged as we all secretly knew it was, had chosen me of all people to list along with a handful of others. It was an honor for me to be here, beside my best friends and my hero’s.

The name that rang through the microphone didn’t match mine. It wasn’t even close, yet I felt fine. The hands slipped from my shoulders to clap along with the crowd. My photo minimized to showcase the woman who had rightfully won over me. Still, my shoulders were heavy and my heart sunk. How nice it could’ve been to go home with that. Be able to hold it up to the sky and thank my brothers and sisters for helping me get there.

Greta and Emma tried to make me feel better. Nothing hurt worse than working up an excitement only to have it ripped away from you. It worked, for a minute. How blissfully unaware I was that the categories grew closer and closer to the one that involved the one man I couldn’t bare to think about now. I barely registered the way they prepared the stage to announce his category until the talking turned to whispers and the softest sniffles echoed.

He looked handsome on the big screen. His hair was darker than I remember it being, I assumed he dyed it for tonight. His shoulders were broad in his suit and his face was cleanly shaven. If his eyes could speak they would be a jumble of words that expresses different emotions. He bit his lip and toyed with his rings. I caught him picking the skin by his thumb. I wanted to yell at him to stop, it was a bad habit we tried so hard to break. But he wasn’t mine anymore. I no longer existed as a best friend to him, someone else could place their hand over his and silently relay their own thoughts to him.

The sour feeling in my heart curtailed like milk when his picture took up the entire screen. The way he stood and hugged the people around him. He was surrounded by friends and family alike that supported him in ways I used to. If it were a few years ago, that would’ve been me beside him. His plus one to an event I was already attending simply because he was everything to me.

Watching him accept that award was the final straw. How he walked up to the stage in no rush, fixing his coat on the way and running a hand through his hair. He had a lazy smirk on his face that would make anyone weak in the knees. He looked confident and yet so grateful for everything happening to me. I felt confused by his attitude. How cocky he was in private, he was so good at masking the real Harry when it came to keeping a good public image. It was some kind of pathological lier type of bullshit that made my throat close and heart pound.

In his speech he thanked his mom and his dad. He thanked his sister and his friends. His ex-Bandmates and his producers. A full list of names, he went on and on and yet my name never came up. He thanked people who didn’t even know him on the crinkled piece of paper shaking in his hands. They didn’t know his favorite color, how he preferred his eggs. He didn’t like celery but he loved peas. Mushed, soggy, fresh. He would spoon them onto his plate like a mad man. They didn’t know he slept with his socks on because he felt scared something might try to grab at him at the end of the bed even now. He was childish in a mature way. Fears he carried form childhood that he couldn’t shake, they didn’t know that and yet they got the credit I deserved. I couldn’t do it then.

I could sit there and pretend to be tough, but I wanted to scream. I could sit there and say I was fine to everyone, be my professional self but I couldn’t act like it was okay anymore. To tear me down, to rewrite your past to fit the people who chose you based off fame and not on who you are, to get rid of what we once cherished was too far. I could put aside his harsh words for the sake of the night but his blatant disregard for my feelings after he’d cried over my leaving said enough.

When he left the stage I made my exit, mumbling something short of having to use the bathroom. My dress was short enough to not have to gather it between my fingers. I could walk quickly down the aisle and look at my feet on the way. I couldn’t make eye contact with anyone, even though they didn’t know me I felt that the look on my face would reveal it all.

The door opened harshly but had stoppers on it to silence any amount of force pushed on it. It made any angry outburst look accidental. The only indication that the door had been opened was the sliver of light the slipped through the opening of the main lobby and the dimly lighted theatre that held the greatest minds of film alike.

My feet hit the expensive carpet hard, heals digging into each design I wondered if my aggression would permanently dent the fabric, ruin the art in it.

It was colder outside of the room that I sat idly in, more free. The only people out here at this time were the few paparazzi permitted and stray employees cleaning up for the night. Flashes took my vision and I could see the headlines now.

How I would be bashed for simply showing my emotions. How they would paint me as a bitter sore loser who couldn’t even keep it together and act fine. I couldn’t blame them really. How would the world even know of how their favorite pop star had taken a hold of my heart and ruined any perception of love I had for him in a few short months.

The air outside was chilling. My skin was bare and in a way, in my artistic side of my mind I could pretend it was the literal way the world was showing how I felt. Tiny stabbing wounds across my arms creating goosebumps running up and down each exposed part of my body.

My car wasn’t there. I was out so early without warning, I became stranded not only mentally but physically. I didn’t care then. If I had to walk the streets of Los Angeles in high heals and an expensive gown. If I got mugged of all my belongings on my way home I didn’t care. I couldn’t be near anyone anymore. I couldn’t hold it together and I certainly wouldn’t fall apart for everyone to see.

Footsteps slapped against the pavement so quickly, I didn’t process the splashing of puddles or the heavy breathing approaching me. With my luck, I would already become a victim to a robbery before even turning the corner.

The hand on my arm came next. It wasn’t rough but it was firm enough to catch my attention. More than that, it was so familiar, so warm.

I felt the roughness of fingertips brushing under my bicep and the contrasting softness of his palm resting on top. His rings were warmed from his skin already, smooth against my body. I knew who the hand belonged to immediately. It was one I had held, toyed with and admired for years. One attached to a body that I adored, looked up to like a hero.

Turning, his eyes met mine. They were a darker green. I couldn’t see if from how far I was before, but he looked more tired, more sad. His eyes were dark not from anger or all the drinks I had hoped he was downing so he would forget about me, but because something was bothering him. Something heavy. He carried a lot of regret and sadness in his eyes that were once so free and careless. He seemed more calculated in his choice of words, more precise than his usual mess of sentences that came straight from his mind to his mouth.

“You didn’t have to chase after me.” I broke the silence, he was still catching his breath. He shook his head, looking down to gather himself. His pants were wet at the bottom from the pavement and his hair was falling in front of his face. I wanted to reach out and brush it back, but it wasn’t my place. I didn’t have a place in his life anymore.

“I wanted to.” He confessed, searching my face. In my head I’d like to think my expression was stone cold. One that was heartless, expressionless. I didn’t care in my head, but in my heart I did. I felt my lip quiver, I felt my eyebrows furrow. I was an open book for Harry to read.

“Why? So you could fix things? Fix us?” I escalated things quickly. I didn’t want to play his mind games. He was brilliant, people didn’t give him enough credit for it. If I allowed him to sit here and apologize while I was already feeling vulnerable, it wouldn’t matter how sincere it was. I would accept it and cave and by the morning I would hate myself for letting my heart take over my brain.

“No, don’t do that. Y/n, you were the one who walked out on me. I tried to get you to stay, and I regret not trying harder and if I could go back I would’ve begged on my knees but that doesn’t change the fact that you still left. I care about you, Y/n. You’re my best friend.” His voice was sharp, desperate. It felt so real, everything he was saying. I trusted him completely. I understood what he was feeling. Some nights I wish I had stayed. I had just put up with it. It was all the talk of my undying love that I held for Harry. A friendship that may have turned into a small crush in my head without me realizing. My undying love, now, I hold it like a grudge. The reason that forgiving and forgetting is so hard.

“Do you think I deserved it all? Harry tell me, please. Is that what you really think of me? As someone who deserved to be built up just so you could watch me fall? Is that what I was for you?” I begged him to understand what I meant. What I endured was verbally abusive, toxic, venomous. It killed me to know that my best friend thought so low of me. So poorly of the girl he swore to protect with all his heart.

“You know I never meant to.” He tried to defend himself, his hand loosened on my skin, falling down to hold my hand. His fingers intertwining in mine felt like tiny flames bursting out across my hand. It was so soft yet so hard, my body started to shake from more than just the cold.

“You are so selfish.” I shook my head, breathing in to look at the same bewildered face that looked back at me all those weeks ago. I remembered all the arguments I had won in my head against him. In the shower, in the car, in the mirror before bed. I remember all the things I didn’t say that I wish I had, all the ways I could’ve made him hurt like I had. It would’ve made me the smaller person.

The fact he looked lost about where I was coming from made it so much more difficult to not spill my guts to him there on the sidewalk. He made it so hard to not want to rip him apart with his oblivion and gaslighting tendencies. I doubt he even though about all the damage that he did.

“I just-I can’t wrap my head around how anybody could do the things you did so easily? You have everything and you still want more! You must be insecure, you must be so unhappy! I know it more than anything, I’ve lived it. Harry, hurt people, hurt people. We both drew blood but man, those cuts were never equal!” I didn’t touch him but to both of us it felt like I had slapped him in the face. Acknowledging his actions and mine that led us here made it so much more real, the end was so much more destined for our story. I tried to be tough, I tried to be mean, but still standing there after pouring out my heart and feelings I couldn’t help but crumble. A single cry tumbled from my lip. I shook my head and looked to the sky. Harry made no movement.

It was pathetic to be so torn after so much time apart. He should’ve held no weight in my heart, but he always would. He was the most important opinion in my life, even when he wasn’t present. When reworking scripts and giving direction, in the back of my head it became a constant question of if Harry thought it was enough. If it was good enough.

“You could’ve at least given me credit, you know I deserved that much.” My hand ripped from his viciously. It burned the way we separated so quickly. His eyes were stuttering over mine, his mouth tried to move, hand digging through his pocket.

I no longer had time for him, not then not ever. He could pick me apart, rip my heart out and stitch it back together, point daggers at my deepest hurts but he would no longer get these reactions out of me.

My escape was the same as the last. Quick and panicked. My feet hit the pavement harder than before and my arms swung with so much force, I was pushing myself forward with each step. Farther and farther, I couldn’t find the courage to look back like before. I couldn’t stand to think about him crying again. My hatred for his actions could never compare to the love I would always hold for Harry. If he didn’t deserve me, that would be okay. But I could not live with myself knowing I made him cry again. Not even after what he did.

………………………………………………………………………………….

“You could’ve at least given me credit, you know I deserved that much.” Her hand ripped from mine so quickly that it almost burnt my skin. It was like a fresh wound opening to feel her leaving not only mentally again, but physically. How her touch would never be in mine again. How she no longer belonged to me, I no longer belonged to her.

Her words set in after a hesitating moment. She meant my speech. God, how could I have been so stupid? To not realize how hurt she must’ve been to be erased so easily from the narrative. Like the nights spent together and the laughter and tears meant nothing. The piano ruined and her shirt soaked by my tears. The shirt that was really mine. I wondered if she still had it after all this time. It always did look better on her than me. I would give her everything if I could.

I dug through my pockets quickly to find it, the crinkled piece of paper with all the names on it. All the words I wanted to say but knew I would stumble over in my own nerves if I were to win. My hands were shaking so bad, I couldn’t grasp it in time. She was gone.

Something about this time told me that she wasn’t coming back. She wouldn’t stop. Not even the most guttural cry could make her look back. I had hurt her over and over again. Still, I wanted to apologize. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was until the word held no meaning and sounded odd coming from my lips. Like it was no longer real. She owed me none of her time.

So I stood there by myself, in the light rain that fell over Los Angeles, wet and alone. My paper was wrinkled in my hands, creased and bent messily. I looked down at the handwriting that didn’t really look like mine. How even in my excitement to be nominated, the loss of Y/n was so heavy it was hard to do anything. The pen was too heavy. I couldn’t do anything I once loved without her support. I looked down at all the names. My mother, my sister. They weren’t even first on the list. The first name I had written down, Y/n Y/l/n. My best friend.

I hadn’t read it out because I thought she wouldn’t want me to. I didn’t want to take away from an important night for her. Steal the spotlight from her award I was certain she would win by placing her name onto mine.

I was so sure she would win. She would be happy and we could reconnect. I had watched the movie, I watched all of her movies. She was the best of us. Always a talented writer, always having a new idea to jot down. Her napkins were sketch pads and her notes app was a dictionary of her favorite books and inspirations for shots. I know nobody with a mind like hers, one as creative and brilliant. I’m not sure why I tore her down all those days. Made her feel worthless when she was one of the best things in my life.

Even after all of this, she was and would always be everything to me. I could try and try and try to forget her and erase her from my life but she would always carry a piece of me around with her. I would always have hints of her in my home, in my wardrobe. She was everywhere without even being there.

She was my best friend.

[camilaxmartin]

Hi dear!!

omg thank you for being like so supportive of my velvette stuff and my account truly honoured to be your mutual!

okay so I was winding if you could like do like a short fic or whatever of are mommy mother Rosie (she’s so mommy it’s not funny) could it be where we like get jelly of the relationship that Rosie and Alastor have and we start huffing at her whenever Alastor is around and just having an attitude towards her in general (she seems like the woman to adore bratty attitude but also like proper pretty girl attitude too, could you also use the nickname sweetie or doll! Oh! And also like a thicker reader I’m a thick girl myself! Sorry for so many requests in one!)

( if your not taking requests just ignore little ol’ me! :3 )

have a good night/day darling!<3

getting on your nerves

navigation // rules // masterlist

summary: rosie taking an interest in our jealous behaviour

warnings: gets suggestive at the end!

notes: GIRL i’m the one honoured to be your mutual like?? your works??? anyway, hope you like it!! (i know i’ve gotten to it LATE AF but my motivation is… funky) i’m not proud of this one but gonna post it anyway as i already wrote it- it turned out totally different than i wanted but meh wtv

requests: closed!!

alastor came into the flower shop and softly walked over to the counter ringing the small bell on top of it waiting with a smile. it was surprisingly a slow day at the cannibal town. no one was wandering around the store and everything seemed so… peaceful.

well, until rosie came out of the back and greeted him with a wide smile.

“alastor!” she exclaimed and walked over to him giving him a tight hug. “oh how i’ve missed you” she said holding his hand and looking around for a place to sit down.

“i know, it’s been a while” alastor chuckled and looked down at the hand she was still holding not making any move in a way to shake her off. rosie smiled, being used to him letting her be affectionate as she finally picked out her favourite table and leaded both of them to it.

“so” she started, letting go of his hand, sitting down and expecting alastor to do the same. “what brings your twisted being, here today?” she asked and turned her head, looking for her teapot.

alastor chuckled and sat down in the chair at the other side of the table, putting one of his legs over the other one and sighed deeply. “nothing much dear, just came over for our check up” he said and chuckled again also looking around for a teapot, as that’s what they’ve always drank while gossiping.

rosie smiled and all of her attention moved onto him. “well then? where have you been? what’s new? how’s the ‘v’ thing?” she asked all of those question at once which earned her a laugh from alastor, forming a grin on her face.

“oh my dear…” he started and shook his head trying to make the situation more dramatic. “there’s a lot to talk about from those three question you’ve asked” he smiled wider but his brows furrowed slightly. “didn’t we always to this while drinking tea?” he asked and rosie laughed at him, covering her mouth with one of her hands.

“we sure did!” she kept laughing and made herself more comfortable in her seat. “and that’s even more perfect occasion for you to meet someone” her smiled turned more lovely as alastor raised one of his eyebrows at her.

“who?” he asked, putting both of his hands on the table, waiting for her to elaborate wanting to hear all the gossip. rosie rolled her eyes playfully at him and called out for you. “y/n!” she called, turning her head to the side.

hearing your name you came out of the back and looked at her while tilting your head, questioning why has she called you. only after a moment you noticed another person sitting with her at the table and as you walked closer to both of them you noticed it was alastor. you smiled to him trying to make that smile as honest as possible but you knew he saw right through you as he rose one of his eyebrows at you.

“oh my doll, would you be so nice and make me and alastor some tea? if not that totally fine, darling” she asked you with the biggest smile on her face. and how could you say no to this woman?

“of course” you smiled to her dumbly and went to the back again, to prepare the tea and try to make yourself act normal around alastor.

rosie chuckled seeing your smile and as you walked away her eyes drifted back to alastor who had a bit of a questioning look on his face alongside his never resting smile.

“i see” he said and chuckled looking at her while still keeping his hands on the table. “the remarkable matchmaker finally found her match?” he asked and rosie chuckled at his words, covering her mouth as she rolled her eyes playfully, her cheeks slightly rosing.

“always such a charmer” she laughed and she did it loud enough that you could hear her at the back. you placed the teapot down with a thud rolling your eyes and trying to at least keep some face as you continued on making the tea. “but yes, i must say i did find my match” she said more softly and her eyes softened as alastor rolled his own at her and chuckled, shaking his head.

“i see you have a taste for a woman this time” he laughed and rosie moved her hand over the table to gently punch his shoulder. he laughed even more at her reaction.

“she’s not for eating” she said sternly but couldn’t hold the laugh escaping her throat. “well, not that eating” she chuckled as she went back to her sit again and roll her eyes playfully as alastor’s eyes squinted at her words and his dear ears flatten slightly. rosie took a notice of that and let out another laugh. “oh alastor, so easy to embarrass you” she continued laughing and he just rolled his eyes at her.

as they continued their conversation you gathered everything you needed and grabbed the tray with the teapot and two cups, walking out of the back and trying to keep up your smile. you came over to them and placed it on the table, smiling softly to rosie as she gave the smile back.

“here you go” you said more to her than them and she clapped her hands together with a chuckle.

“thank you sweetie” she said grabbing the teapot and pouring her and alastor a cup. you were just standing there not feeling like you should stay but also not entirely sure if you should leave. rosie smiled even more seeing you stay with them as she handed alastor his cup.

“alastor” she said taking a sip from her cup and looking at him again. “i want you to officially meet y/n-“ she said and turned her head to you with a wide smile, showing off her sharp teeth. “the ‘match’ to the matchmaker” she playfully rolled her eyes. “and the love of my life” she smiled and took another sip from her cup as you just stood there feeling your cheeks staring to blush.

alastor looked you up and down and despite this not being your first meeting with him, but first as rosie’s official girlfriend, you felt like he was studying you. i mean it was something he’s been doing every time so was it really that unpredictable? rosie smiled wider seeing your blushing cheeks.

“i’m so glad you stopped by today” said rosie and smiled to alastor wider. his smile widened too as he took a sip from his cup.

“always a pleasure” he chuckled taking another sip. you just stood there not knowing what to do with yourself exactly as you continued on watching their conversation.

“so tell me, have you met someone interesting lately? and you know i don’t mean it in a lovely way” rosie chuckled sipping her own tea as alastor eyes squinted slightly as his ears folded.

“well a few people yes, but they’re never quite like you” he said with a laugh in his tone and your eyes immediately went to his face.

“oh darling” rosie exclaimed and chuckled putting her tea down on the table. “you could never meet a second me” she chuckled once again and put her hand on his hand in a rather playful manner but it definitely didn’t seem playful to you.

“excuse me” you said with a fake smile as you walked to the back again and let out a deep breath out of frustration. rosie eyes followed you immediately same as alastor’s did and his smile widened just a bit.

“so rosie!” he started and the woman’s attention was brought up to him immediately. “is she really the one? i mean does she know you that well?” he asked wanting to irritate you even more as he knew you were still listening to the conversation. your hands turned into fists as you heard his words.

rosie only chuckled at his question and rolled her eyes. “yes, i am. i love her” she said and alastor rolled his eyes again.

“you loved franklin as well” he said shrugging and sipping his tea as rosie’s gaze turned into a bit colder one.

“the past is the past, darling” she shrugged and took her cup again sipping at it as she avoided his gaze, alastor taking pride in making her anxious so easily.

you couldn’t literally hold in it more as you heard their conversation. wasn’t it enough for him that you were already jealous? had he do this all?

you shook your head and walked deeper into the back, into the greenhouse in which rosie kept all of her flowers. you inhaled the smell of all of them and sat on the ground feeling your eyes tear up from pure anger and jealousy. why… why was he like that?

you didn’t know that but rosie took notice of your absence at the back and her brows furrowed. you weren’t acting like that normally when she had friends over. something was definitely wrong.

“alastor!” she said and the deer-man’s ears peaked up on her voice. “it was really a pleasure having you today but i have a lot of work…” she lied and alastor just laughed at her attempt to lie to him, yet let her get away with it.

“i understand” he said getting up and dusting off his coat. he smiled to her and grabbed his staff. “ill be on my way then, see you next time” he said and rosie smiled at him as much as she could waving her hand until he left the building.

she immediately rushed to the back and when she noticed you actually weren’t there her blood turned cold. she tried to keep her mind calm as she decided to check the greenhouse, after all you were hanging out there a lot.

as she walked in she spotted you on the ground and with a soft click of her tongue she walked over to you putting a hand on your shoulder. you immediately shook off her hand and rolled you eyes.

rosie burrowed her eyebrows looking at you. “sweetie, are you okay?” she asked as she sat down next to you.

“i don’t know, ask alastor” you scoffed and she rolled her eyes at your tone knowing exactly where this conversation was going.

“and why would i?” she asked tilting her head trying to play dumb. you knew her better than that.

“cause he’s like the most amazing person ever isn’t he?” you huffed and threw your hands up. “he’s oh so charming and oh so marvellous” you said and rosie let out a deep sigh at your attitude.

“doll, can you stop?” she asked and you looked at her with squinted eyes. “just drop the act already i know you’re jealous, always were when he was around so what’s the point?” she asked huffing herself as she was getting annoyed at this point.

“i’m jealous because i know he could take you away from me!” you said tears almost coming to your eyes. rosie laughed at your words not expecting something like that to come out of your mouth. you looked at her in disbelief that she dared to laugh at you.

“doll-“ she started but you interrupted her with your own words.

“no, you’re not going to doll me here” you said scoffing and shaking your head as you get up from the floor, standing up and looking down at her. “i am jealous of him because i feel threatened”

rosie blinked at your words and didn’t laugh this time as she stood up as well and just looked at you with pure worry in her eyes. she reached out for you hand slowly and you didn’t brush her off this time. “alastor couldn’t… and wouldn’t take me away from you in a sense of love” she explained and you just rolled your eyes at her.

“yeah sure” you huffed looking away from her. rosie took both of your hands into hers and pulled you closer to her, uncontrollably making you look up at her.

“he wouldn’t.” she said in a stern voice while rising an eyebrow. “he doesn’t do ‘love’” she said and your eyes widened at her words as it somehow made sense in your head now. he was just… getting on your nerves then. “but i must say the jealousy in your eyes looks hot” she chuckled and you felt your cheeks blush.

“oh yeah?” you asked and moved one of your hands onto her cheek cupping it. “maybe i should be more jealous then” you chuckled.

rosie rolled her eyes at you and then let go of your hands grabbing the one that was holding her cheek at your wrist taking it away from her face and grabbing the other one to hold them both by your wrists. you looked at her a bit surprised but also unconsciously bit your lip. rosie chuckled at your reaction and sighed.

“oh love, you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into” she said and leaned down to your nose so it was touching hers. “i don’t mind putting a pretty lady like you in her place from time to time” she whispered and laughed as you felt the shiver run all over you body.

[lulublack90]

Prompt 31 - Age

@jegulus-microfic July 31, Word count 994

This is the final part of the Apple Core series

Previous part First part

James had been worried that Regulus would struggle to furnish his new flat and had offered to buy him what he needed, no strings attached. But Regulus had been smart. After he’d watched what happened to his brother, left penniless and with nothing but the clothes on his back, he made a contingency plan. Every pound he made went into a separate bank account to which only he had access and now had a healthy little nest egg, albeit a slightly smaller one after their shopping spree. 

James had sweet-talked the assistant in the furniture shop into giving Regulus a nice discount on the pieces he’d picked out. Everything was loaded up onto the truck as Regulus paid and was being unloaded by the time they’d walked the short distance back to the flat. 

“Did you buy the whole shop or something?” Sirius snorted as he waited on the street. 

“Something like that,” Regulus grinned. 

Sirius insisted on helping take the heavy items upstairs. So James suggested that Regulus wait on the street and keep an eye on his things.

It took an age to get everything upstairs. Sirius left them to unpack while he went to help Remus with the café.

“Wow, this sofa’s comfortable,” James said as he bounced up and down on it a few times, settling in.

“Hey, you can sit later, come and help me put the bed together,” Regulus ordered. James didn’t argue. He hopped up and followed Regulus into the bedroom. It was a bit of a squeeze putting it all together but eventually, there was a bed. 

“Now for the best bit,” James waggled his eyebrows suggestively at Regulus. Regulus jumped up and put his hands over the wriggling brows. “I meant unrolling the mattress. Gees Regulus get your head out of the gutter.” That earned him a few huffs and light smacks to his chest. He hauled the heavy box in and upturned it, letting the compressed mattress slowly slide out. “Want to do the honours?” He asked, holding up the little bag opener that came with the mattress. Regulus took it, and with his tongue poking out between his lips as he concentrated, he drew a long straight line down the plastic and watched as the squashy mattress expanded out of its casing. They both flopped onto it side by side. 

“I think I picked the right mattress. Regulus groaned as the memory foam cradled his body.

“I could get used to this,” James sighed, reaching his arms further up the bed until they brushed against the wooden headboard. 

“Oi, you two, if you’re shagging, stop and get down here, it’s barbecue time!” Sirius shouted up the stairs to them. With big sighs, James and Regulus reluctantly left the bed and trudged down the stairs. 

Sirius and Remus lived around the corner in a sweet little ground-floor flat that came with a garden. It was a lot bigger and a lot nicer than the one Regulus now lived in, but they’d put a lot of effort into making it that way. 

James walked straight through and started getting the barbecue set up. Sirius and Remus were useless when it came to getting the thing going and James quite enjoyed watching the fire light. Regulus came up behind him and watched as he piled the coals just right and added the firelighters. He stuck the long lighter in and clicked the button until the flame lit and held it near the firelighters. It didn’t take much and then heat blasted out of the base. 

“Want the tour?” He asked, waving at the flat. 

“Yeah, okay,” Regulus gave a half smile, but followed James back into the flat. He started in the living room. 

“They’ve got a very soft sofa as well,” James grinned, bouncing on it the same way he had on Regulus’s earlier. 

“If you break it, Potter, you’re paying for another one. Remember last time?” Remus poked his head out of the kitchen and raised his brow. James flushed as he remembered their old sofa that had broken in half when he’d had one too many and tried to wrestle it. 

“Er, yeah, sorry, Moony,”

“You broke a sofa?!” Regulus whispered unbelievably to him when Remus was out of sight. 

“Yeah, but it was old and buggered before I tried to put it in a headlock.” He tried to explain. Regulus shook his head in disbelief. 

“Right show me the rest of this flat then,” 

James showed him the bathroom, and they poked their heads into the bedroom. Regulus didn’t linger once he saw what was on the bedside table. They finally went to look in the kitchen. It was tiny but Sirius and Remus had made good use of the small space. Every scrap of counter, however, was full of dishes for their meal. 

“Right start taking this stuff out,” Sirius ordered as he finished mixing some sort of salad dressing. 

James and Remus cooked while Sirius handed out beers, and they sat down in the warm sun to eat. James was stuffed but still had room for a few toasted marshmallows. He looked over at Regulus and Sirius scrolling through TicTok together, laughing at the videos. He felt incredibly happy and lucky and all over a dropped apple core. They might just be starting out, but he could already see the mending relationship between the two brothers, so even if they didn’t work out, he’d always be glad Regulus had that, he’d make sure of it. 

“WHAT THE ACTUAL!!!” Sirius yelled at the phone in his hands. He began furiously scrolling through videos, getting redder and redder. James peeked over his shoulder and paled. Sirius had stumbled onto Wormtail’s account. James grabbed Regulus’s hand and whispered in his ear.

“Scarper?!” The other man nodded. James blew a kiss to Remus and then raced out of the place, Sirius’s ranting following them down the street as they headed back to Regulus's flat. 

Second part of the series (Wolfstar)

[wufflesvetinari]

Preview: "Be My Mirror"

yeah FUCK it i'm excited and i lost my couth 15,000 spreadsheets ago

presenting a full-length multiverse caper fic by 19 (!!) authors in the wyllstarion discord, coming in mid-aug to an ao3 tag near you! we've got fusion AUs, we've got canon divergence, we've got A Very Normal High School AU, we've got......so many AUs, jesus. please understand. wyll's a mouse in one of them

Summary:

Wyll, that sanctimonious bastard, refuses to help Astarion ascend. Astarion leaves the party, hoping they all die screaming.

Ah, but Raphael has an offer: a mirror allowing travel between worlds. Surely there must be a universe where ascension is still on the table? There’s nothing left for Astarion in Baldur’s Gate, after all.

It doesn’t matter that Wyll’s come looking for him. And it certainly doesn’t matter that Wyll follows through the glass, through boundless universes, through their myriad other lives—searching, chasing, never giving up.

-

Prologue preview beneath the cut

“I’m done with this,” Astarion snarls, “and I’m done with you.”

The cavern is massive, the gullet of a creature crouched beneath the palace. The air is warm and dank. Cazador’s body lies butchered, drenched in its own lifeblood. 

It isn’t enough. It isn’t ascension. Now he’ll never be safe.

Wyll’s face is tight with pain, pleading and princely in equal measure. “I couldn’t let you do it, Astarion. All those people—”

Astarion makes an incoherent noise, pure fury. He doesn’t want to think about the seven thousand wretches in their cages—the familiar desolation behind their eyes. Empty of everything but misery. 

(And hope, perhaps. Hope that Astarion was going to save them. It doesn’t bear thinking about.)

“They—they were as good as gone anyway! You put a pile of corpses over me! Gods below, why couldn’t you have just helped me?"

Wyll’s noble shoulders slump. He looks a picture, standing there in his bloodied gambeson: a proud jaw and a gleaming brow, both of which Astarion had kissed with fevered affection just yesterday. 

A warm red eye.

All Wyll had to do was be his eyes. All he had to do was let Astarion carve the damned sigil into Cazador’s back. He didn’t even have to lower himself so far as to hold the knife.

“I couldn’t watch you lose yourself this way,” Wyll pleads, and Astarion remembers—

Drinks by the river. A dance by firelight. A blade flashing in the dark beside his own. Teasing, challenging, spurring him on—but not touching, never pushing, not unless he wanted it. Gentle enough he could’ve cried.

He remembers Wyll’s palm smoothing across his back, checking in after a tough fight. 

Wyll used to have his back. 

He bares his teeth. “I would say good luck out there, but honestly? I hope you die screaming.” 

He storms over the stone bridge. He ignores the raised voices, the way the party calls his name—the way Wyll’s stupid stately baritone sounds so close to breaking. 

Idiots, the lot of them. They’ve taken his choices away. It doesn’t matter what happens to them anymore.

Chains sway over the chasm. Cages in the fog.

What’s left for him now? Skulking through shadows, remembering the glorious weeks he’d walked in the sun? (Remembering a palm on his back, gentle—)

No. He’ll show them all. 

This little tadpoled traipse across Faerûn may have been a waste of a good vendetta, but it’s still earned him a few assets. Friends in low places, for one. 

He makes for Sharess’ Caress and the devil he knows. 

--

It takes two days.

Raphael refuses to give a straight answer: some feeble excuse about time travel being difficult. Some lord of the hells he is. 

It doesn’t feel good, throwing himself on a devil’s mercy. It doesn’t feel good, sleeping alone in flophouses he’d once frequented as Cazador’s lure. It feels, altogether, like he’s rather less in control than Wyll had promised he’d be, once Cazador was dead.

Stupid man. Sweet fool.

He hadn’t looked back, in the palace—hadn’t let himself see whatever big wet cow eyes Wyll was giving him. People never talk about how manipulative the Blade of Frontiers can be. You don’t hear about that, in the stories: the diabolical way he twists you around inside until you forget what’s good for you. Until you get all caught up in stupid fantasies of knights and fairness and respectful conversation. Until you forget how to think for yourself.

The Gate is in chaos. Shapeshifters kill civilians, the Zhent are moving in, and none of this is Astarion’s problem anymore.

On the third day, Raphael shows him a hand mirror.

It’s a gaudy thing: silver and studded with pearls. Look straight on, and the glass is normal. Look from the corner of your eye, and it seems almost to ripple.

“And this trinket will allow me to redo the ascension,” Astarion says, carefully skeptical—pushing down the excitement bleeding through his chest.

“Not exactly. At least, not in the way you mean.”

“By all means, thrill me with riddles. Or you could speak plainly for once and we could skip to the godsdamn deal.”

Raphael stands surrounded by the Caress’ plush comforts: velvet drapes, plates of plums and currants, a warm bath set in the back of the room. He regards Astarion with mild, patrician interest. “Patience, little mouse. Have I steered you wrong yet?”

“I am extremely tired of people steering me anywhere.”

“Mm. Hopefully you’ll have the power to change that very soon.” He shifts the mirror in his hand. It catches the light. “My collection lacks any artifact with the power to turn back time. You’ve missed your chance at ascension. This world marches forward, lockstep.”

Astarion grits his teeth. “Then why are we still talking?”

“Because your efforts hardly have to be confined to this world. Not with this…trinket.”

Astarion peers at the mirror more closely this time. There’s an etching down the handle, but it’s half-hidden by Raphael’s hand. Raphael shifts the mirror away from him—casual enough to be coincidental, though Astarion knows better. It’s one bloody powerplay after the next, with devils.

“Shaundakul’s Mirror,” Raphael says, “will allow you to move between universes. I’m sure there are boundless worlds where ascension is still in your grasp.”

“So just…leave? Ascend somewhere else?”

“As another version of yourself, yes.” Raphael examines his nails. “Or I suppose you could stay a spawn in Baldur’s Gate, scuttling between alleyways as you wait out the dawn.”

A strange ringing starts in Astarion’s ears. He’d never considered—of course there are other worlds. Of course things would be different there. He could steer some pitiful other version of himself toward greatness. He could ascend, then make a life there.

Nothing’s left for him here, after all. Not anymore.

There must be other Wylls, surely. Perhaps some of them are more reasonable about the things desperate people do for power. Perhaps he could find a Wyll who’d never look at him with disappointment, or with pain. 

He squashes down the raw-rubbed feeling in his chest. Ascension must be the priority. Mooning over strange Wylls is in a distant second place.

It’s every fool for himself.

“If the first world doesn’t suit your tastes,” Raphael is saying, “just skip to the next. The mirror will be nearby, in some form or another.”

“What’s in this for you? What’s my end of the bargain?”

“I thought it would be obvious.” He smiles, and Astarion knows a predator when he sees one. “I could make better use of seven thousand souls than Mephistopheles ever could. Just between you and me.”

[itsabouttimex2]

Platonic Yandere Clotted Cream Cookie

You try your best to bear it. You really, really do. But you’ve been locked inside for six months on end, and the boredom and isolation has been getting to you. You had paced the hallways until the the dough of your feet cracked and began to ooze jam, earning you a gentle earful and an order to stay in bed and rest up until your feet had properly healed up.

The books provided to you have been read and reread so many times that they’ve begun to fade and wear out. You’re getting sick of putting puzzles together and then taking them back apart. And you miss going outside. By the Wizards, you miss going outside. What right did your brother have to take that from you?

And speaking of the devil, there’s a gentle rapping on the door. You don’t get a chance to answer before it creaks open, Clotted Cream Cookie peering in at you. He smiles for a brief moment, before it turns into a concerned frown.

“Oh, sister. You’ve been pulling out your hair again, haven’t you? And bits of your own dough…”

His frown deepens. You might’ve felt guilty for worrying him some six months ago, but that well of sympathy has long run dry.

“Hello, Clotted Cream Cookie. Have your affairs as Consul of the Crème Republic been going well?”

The formalities you greet him with leave a bitter taste in his mouth. Once, you had been an escape from the burden of his position as Consul, a way to leave his stressful life behind for just a short while and be himself. It was a temporary reprieve from the expectations of perfection and grace, a short time where he could make mistakes and slip up and fall short.

Now, it seems like you can’t wait to remind him of everything that’s been placed on his shoulders. Can he really blame you for that, though? Good reason or not, he’s locked you up inside and even confined you to your bed. You’re only hurting him the way that he’s hurting you.

You’re both trapped. He by his devotion and dedication to serving the Republic, and you by him. He by his fear of what an enemy of the Republic might do to you, you by the methods he employs to prevent such a thing from occurring.

He’s well-intentioned, sure. After the incident with Custard Cookie, the two of you are more than aware that threats can come from even within the sparkling and opulent Crème Republic that you both call home. But that doesn’t make this situation any more bearable. Yes, it makes sense. But it’s still misery beyond reason, to be kept locked away from your beloved homeland, knowing that it’s only just a few steps out of reach.

Inside, you know your brother hates it too. He’s hurting, doing this to you. You both want to go back those peaceful days of youth and innocence, where you walked side by side, unaware of dangers lurking all around you. Where you held his hand as he walked you along the glimmering streets, eyes wide as you took in every towering building that stood proudly above you, a testament to the strength and prosperity of the Republic.

Clotted Cream Cookie sits beside you and takes your damaged hand into his own, gently rubbing at the cracks running through it.

“Little sister… I would do anything for you. So please… bear with me a little longer. Just until we have Custard Cookie in our custody, I swear. And then we can go back to how things were. Please believe me when I say that all will be well. You need only put your faith in me.”

He smiles down at you, noting that’s your expression lightens just a bit. He gives your hand one last rub, and sets it back on the bed. However, when he rises to leave you in peace, you snag the end of his cloak.

“Please don’t leave just yet. Talk to me for a little bit longer, Clotted Cream Cookie.”

“Anything for you, little sister.”

[thelightsandtheroses]

Between the Shadow and the Soul | Joel Miller x female reader

Pairing: Joel Miller x female!reader, Summary: In the wake of your brothers leaving the QZ, you find yourself drawn back to Joel. What follows is something neither of you can vocalise, you are one thing outside of closed doors and another together. As time goes on, it gets harder and harder to keep this divide this though until something happens that leaves you no other option. Content Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI please and thank you. By continuing to read you affirm you’re over 18, f!reader, smut, drinking, swearing, description of an almost assault that is stopped and fears of walking home alone, with that there are allusions to fear of SA but nothing happens, and there is a blink if you miss it element of PTSD. Author’s Note - This links to Into The Fire but you do not need to have read that to understand or follow this at all. They’re separated but linked and I’m toying with extending this in the future if people are interested as I have some ideas about how this could extend into a series that follows the main plot and then into Jackson either as a chapter fic or interconnected one-shots. Let me know if you have any thoughts here as I’d love to gauge if there’s interest. Also, there’s a little Easter egg for episode one in this fic, so let me know if you catch it. Title is from Pablo Neruda’s sonnet XVII. Word Count: 6k

 Into the Fire | Masterlist

Your brother leaves the QZ on a Wednesday. It’s him, Tommy, and the other Fireflies.

It’s been just 48 hours since he said he was leaving, less than 36 hours since you went to Joel Miller’s apartment to try and get him to join you in stopping this. It’s been 12 hours since you have been able to make some semblance of peace with your brother.

You lied through my teeth when you said that you would support my brother’s decision, blatantly fibbed when you said you respected the fact he felt he needs to go.  You both knew you were lying but we both pretended you were convincing. If the worst happens, you can hang on to that. 

Your older brother squeezes your shoulder and says that he’s proud of you as you watch your baby brother leave and you oscillate between wondering whether you want to cry or punch him hard in the face for not helping you stop our little brother from doing this.

It’s strange to feel both hurt and numb at the same time.  You feel too much and too little and all you know is this feels like an ending.

Days pass without major event. That’s the thing; your world can change in a moment, but the QZ endures and everyone else carries on unaware. There are ration cards to earn, trade or covet, jobs to do. 

You throw yourself into extra shifts of work, into finishing that book you’ve been meaning to. Distraction is your best weapon. Your apartment has never been so clean, your work so exemplary. If you’re not too exhausted to think at the end of the day, then that’s what the pills and alcohol are for.

Joel and Tess went on a supply run the day after that night so you’ve been able to avoid them both. You’re not entirely surprised; you knew he wouldn’t be there when Tommy left. There was enough said and left unsaid that night that told you everything you needed to know about how Joel felt about his brother’s decision.

 They’re gone for nearly a week before you hear that they are back.

You can’t quite articulate what brings you back to Joel’s apartment. You don’t expect anything; you’re curious though; curious about how he’s taken Tommy’s departure, about the supply run and what they’ve found or traded, about him in general.

It isn’t Joel who answers the door though; it’s Tess.

“Huh,” she says before opening the door wider for me to walk through.

Everything in you tells me to turn around, to make your excuses but you don’t. You walk inside instead.

Tess has made her way to the kitchen area, picks up a half-drunk glass of alcohol. It strikes you that she’s so comfortable in Joel’s space doing this, that it’s obvious Joel isn’t here right now, but he trusts Tess enough to let her be here.

You’ve made a mistake. The two of you clearly made a mistake.

Tess takes a gulp of her drink and then leans against the kitchen cabinet. “You’re looking for Joel.” It’s a statement not a question.

You nod slowly. “I can go.”

“Don’t.”

You pause in the hallway, nod and then walk back to the table, toy with taking a seat but instead dig my hands into your worn jean pockets.

Tess doesn’t move from the cabinet but just meets your eyes, an unreadable expression on her face.

Is this where she confronts you? Where she confirms your fear that her and Joel are like that that Joel lied, or you ignored my gut and it’s you, you are the one at fault here.

Will she yell, will she lay down her territory?

“So, was it a good run?” you ask after a moment; you’ve always hated silence. It’s the way that silences feel like a weight above you, keep you anticipating something. Eventually something has to break the silence, right?

“Same old, same old,” Tess says, shrugging insouciantly.

“Oh.”

“I should go, really, please don’t tell Joel I was here. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Look,” Tess begins, her fingers pinching her brow, “you don’t know what you’ve got yourself into.”

“I do,” I protest stubbornly because even if you don’t, if Tess says that you don’t know then you will argue until you’re blue in the face that you do.

“No, you don’t.” Tess looks at the floor for the moment and then meets your eyes. “Don’t put something on him you know he can’t give you, it’s not fair. It’s not fair to either of you. Look, you seem like a good - or maybe an alright person. We’re not.”

It’s not that simple, you think. You know all too well that men who seem charming and nice at the start can be the most heinous of them all - that good and bad don’t feel like binary values in this world anymore. You thought you were good once, but your survival has come at a cost.

You open my mouth to protest her words but she shakes her head at you. Neither of them seems bad; yes, there’s an air of danger, they’re certainly competent and you wouldn’t necessarily want to cross them. They don’t seem actively malicious though. Or is that just the version of them you’ve seen?

"He told you what happened?"

“He didn’t.”

“Then how did you know?”

“I came over the morning after - saw you leaving. Also, even if I didn’t, you just confirmed it. You’re not very good at this, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Oh.” You have to say what’s next. “I didn’t - if I - I’m sorry if I stepped into something. I didn’t - I didn’t know if you were together. I’m honestly sorry if you are and I’m sure it didn’t -”

Tess laughs, it’s slightly bitter. “That man can’t be 'together' with anyone, sweetheart, that is the whole goddamn point I am trying to make.”

“It was a one-time thing.”

“Then why are you here, huh?“ She’s got you there.

You shift awkwardly in the kitchen, drag your foot on the floor and try not to look at you. Why are you here? What were you thinking?

“I’ll go,” You repeat, tightening the fist in my pocket.

As you open the front door, you walk straight into a solid weight. It almost takes the breath out of you.

“Crap.”

“What are you doing here?” Joel asks, because of course you would walk into him. Literally.

“I was leaving,” I say. “Sorry I uh -walked into you.” Walked into you, walked into this mess, walked into your apartment in the first place.

He clasps your wrist as you move to leave, he’s surprisingly gentle considering there’s a bruise on his knuckles. It looks fresh. You look down at the discoloured flesh and then back up at him.

“It wasn’t important, it can wait,” you say, swallowing and then looking anywhere but at him or Tess.

Joel doesn’t say anything. He loosens his grip on your wrist and then moves slightly to your side. “The problem’s sorted, Tess,” he says lightly. “Won’t happen again.”

You wonder if there’s a correlation between the problem and his bruised flesh.

“Fucking Robert,” Tess says, a mix of bitterness and almost cheer in her tone that you can’t quite reconcile.

You turn around and look at them both, trying to figure out what to do, whether you should just leave.

He hasn’t even said hello to you.

Joel drops a pack of ration cards on the table and places both hands on the table.  From where you stand you can see the outline of his back, his broad shoulders. It takes you back to the week before, to the way you had kissed the freckles on his shoulders and the way you’d felt beneath him.

There’s some sort of unspoken conversation taking place with him and Tess. She finally finishes the rest of her drink, takes a handful of the ration cards and then walks towards the front door, shaking her head at you and mumbling something you can’t quite decipher.

“Why’d you come?” he asks gruffly.

“No idea,” you say.

“Oh yeah?”

“They left safely, think they’ll try and radio in the next month or so, Tommy said,” you say as though that’s the message you came with, the mission you needed to carry out.

Joel turns and he’s facing you. “Right. Good.”

“Yeah.”

“You uh, doing okay now?”

You’re not sure how to reply to this; you’re surprised he’s asked, that it seems genuine. You’re also not sure what he’s asking; are you okay your brother left, or you okay after hooking up with him?

You nod. That seems an appropriate response.

There’s a protracted silence. It’s not entirely uncomfortable and you’re taken by the way Joel is carefully looking you up and down, calculating, making some sort of assessment.

“Since you’re here, you want a drink?”

“Sure,” you reply as you walk back to the kitchen table.

You know where this is going. You knew from the start after all, didn’t you?

The QZ has a sense of security; it’s strange, there’s comfort in the known, even when it’s corrupt. At least you know who your enemies are most of the time, who’s running the show. There’s a safety in that. It’s when you don’t know who to avoid you find yourself in trouble.

Since Joel came back from the last supply run, you’ve fallen into a new pattern. At least two nights a week you’ll find yourself in his apartment, tangled up together in secret.

You don’t think anyone but Tess knows about this. You haven’t mentioned it to your friends, to your brother. They seem oblivious to it all, each of them ensconced in their own dramas and relationships. Even Maria, who you live with and has been your closest friend for years doesn’t know. However, as she’s a smuggler too, you’re not sure how she’ll react to you being with Joel. They have a loose truce, but in the QZ all connections are fragile.

You’re not even sure how to describe what is happening with Joel and you to them.

There are no words, no platitudes, Joel Miller is not going to hold your hand in public, after all he can’t betray that he has emotions or vulnerabilities to others, can he? How would that work with his reputation? You’ve heard that even some of the FEDRA soldiers are scared of him. Joel Miller is a man whose reputation truly precedes him.

Around others, nothing has changed between the two of you. It’s when it’s the two of you alone that it’s different.

Then it’s kissing against kitchen counters as you pretend the edges aren’t digging into your back, hands entwined as you move to his old bed held up by breeze blocks. It’s fierce, desperate kisses and roaming hands. It’s heat and fire and safety wrapped together.

It reminds of you that Alanis Morrissette song you used to hear on the radio, the one where the only ironic thing about it was the fact that the song wasn’t actually using examples of irony. Outside of these walls, he’s one of the most intimidating men in the QZ, but when it’s just the two of you, well then you feel the safest you have in years.

You wake to a bright apartment. Next to you, Joel is still asleep and radiating heat that as winter sets in is far less unwelcome than before. One arm rests above your head while the other lazily hangs over your waist, his hand loosely entwined with yours. You lie there, listening to the sound of his breathing, the sound of his heart beating. He’s a solid, grounding presence like this.

For a second you allow yourself to indulge. You’re not in Boston, you’re not in a QZ in a ramshackle apartment that doesn’t even have a fridge. You’re in the Before. This is just another lazy Sunday morning and Joel’s here.

You can’t fully picture the man he might have been then, how you and him would have been something different in that world. Just thinking about the Before is strange for anyone who’s survived this long though. It’s hard to remember a time when people would run into a coffee shop after classes ended, when we’d think about supermarkets and buying groceries because there was so much choice. Which of the different tomato types or cheeses did you fancy today, how many types of toilet paper could there be? It’s almost obscene to remember it now.

The reality creeps in too soon.

The problem is moments like this; the ones where you can dream and imagine this is something else. It’s been months and neither of you have defined yourselves, there have been no words, no spoken confessions of feelings. Inside these four walls, there’s something, but outside you feel like he treats like an acquaintance at best.  You haven’t told your friends or your brother about this because you’re not even sure what this is. You don’t know what you mean to Joel. You started out in desperation and shared loneliness, what even can this grow into?

You try and ignore this, to live in the moment, but it eats at you a little. You wonder if it would be the same if you were Tess?

He turns over, removing his hand from your side.

“Hey,’” you say gently.

“Mornin’,” he mumbles, the Southern drawl thicker in his voice as he wakes up.

He props himself up on his elbow, regards you carefully. His gaze is piercing, like he can really see through you even with half-awake eyes and a drowsy expression. You watch how his expression sharpens.

“I’ve got work in a bit,” you say just to fill the silence.

“Okay. Tess and I are going on a supply run later today, might be a couple of days.”

“Bill and Frank?” you ask.

He nods and then shifts himself so he’s hovering over you, meets your lips and skims his hands down your waist.

You hum in approval, slipping your own hands around his neck and pulling him closer.

In these moments, these fleeting quiet moments, things don’t feel so bad.

There’s a louder and louder question in your mind though - what is this? What are we doing? What does it mean to Joel?

It might be sensible, but there’s a weight to whatever has developed between you and Joel. You can justify and understand why things are different outside to when you’re alone, but even when you know the reasons it tugs at old anxieties. Is it you, are you the problem? Maybe if you were more like Tess, maybe if you were different then he wouldn’t keep you a secret.

He’s never even told you how he feels about you. The two of you started in desperation and shared pain - what was you said to him back then? Don’t overthink it? Well, now you are.

 

It’s been a long day; your shift ran long after a clash between Fireflies and FEDRA. It’s strangely familiar; even when the world ends, we all still find a way to fight with one another. Perhaps that’s too reductive though.

Curfew is close, you walk a little faster down the street because you know you’re cutting it fine. FEDRA have been difficult recently; you don’t want to spend any more time in lock up.

 It’s this that motivates you to take the shortcut, to walk down the alley that will take you out closer to Joel’s apartment and mean you probably make curfew. You’re tired, exhausted from a long day of work and all you want is to be with Joel.

You hear the footsteps creeping behind you and your heart sinks.  In the Before you’d walk home with keys between your fingers in a clasped fist in your pocket for just this reason. How could you be so stupid? This is a moment you’ve been actively avoiding since you were a teenager, since before the outbreak. What have you done to save yourself a minute or two?

You’re angry too because why can’t you just walk down a street without this fear? What’s wrong with people?

You can’t berate yourself, not right now. You carefully look around you, try and think of a way out of this. You need to be practical, to swallow the panic that’s rising and get out of this. What would Joel or Tess do?

You’re almost out of the alley when it happens. He grabs at your shoulder, pulls you and then pushes you against the wall.

You don’t recognise him but you recognise the look in his eyes.

Mentally you try and remember the self-defence you’ve learned over the years; you’ve fought more people than this. This is nothing.

It’s just the way he’s so close and the panic and the -

“Let me go,” you say loudly, “You let me go now and we forget about this.”

“But I don’t wanna do that.”

“Let me go.”

“Hey, I’m just sayin’,” the man slurs, his foul breath on your neck. You push him off you and scramble to get away from him. He’s behind you and you manage to grab a loose brick from rubble on the ground and you’re ready. You’ve done this before and you can do it again.

He grabs at you and you raise the brick ready but something holds him back.

“Stop it, stop it! “a man yells, “Jesus, you’ll get yourself killed. Get away, now.”

He shoves the man away and takes a step toward you, hands raised in surrender as you take a step back. The alleyway exit is just ahead of you, you can make it through this.

“Look, you need to tell him what I did, okay? I stopped him, helped you out.”

“I had it covered.”

 “Look, you need to tell your guy that I helped you,” he says firmly.

“My guy?”

“Yeah, now he,” the man points in the direction of the other man who has run in the opposite direction, “he owes me too because I know your guy would have destroyed him.”

“My guy?” you ask again, the adrenaline starting to wear off as you drop the brick to the ground.

  “You tell your guy that Robert -” The name clicks straight away, this is the man who Tess and Joel deal with, who neither of them like. They won’t like owing him.

The QZ is alarmingly similar to high school. Gossip spreads faster than fungus.

You shouldn’t be surprised people know about you and Joel, you shouldn’t be surprised there are rumours.

You are though and you know Joel will hate this if he ever hears about it. About the way Robert already wants to exploit it into something else. A wild thought that this was a set-up immediately comes to mind before you squash it down.

You break into a run back to Joel’s. You won’t tell either of them what’s happened, you can’t.

Joel’s counting out ration cards on the kitchen table when you walk into his apartment. He spins around, a tense expression on his face, fists ready and teeth grit, and then he softens at the sight of you.

“Hey,” you say, walking over to him before getting a glass of water. “So, I take it you and Tess have been able to trade the stuff from your last run then?”

“Yeah.” Joel stands up, his posture stiff and it instantly raises an alarm bell. “So, Robert said some things today,” Joel says in a low voice. “You know him, don’t you?”

You swallow, feel the ground drop a little below you. You finish your water and place it on the counter, taking the time to think through what you say next.

“It was nothing,” you say, moving to him and placing a hand on his side in what you hope is a reassuring way. When you meet his eyes, you realise it though.

There’s some worry there, sure, but more than that, he’s annoyed. He’s annoyed because someone knows about what’s happening with the two of you, that you didn’t deny it or tell him, didn’t warn him.

It stings.

“I didn’t say anything to him.”

“You didn’t have to. Now he knows - or he thinks he knows something and the asshole is looking for a way to use it against me. Are you happy with that?”

“Why are you mad at me? I didn’t confirm it and I -”

“You didn’t tell me. If you’d told me before -”

“I thought you might worry, and I was - I was embarrassed, okay? I took a risk because I thought I’d miss curfew and I almost - it could have been really bad.”

Joel’s face hardens and you’re not entirely sure you’re making the situation any better.

“How bad?” For a second he softens, reaches towards you and cups a hand to your chin. You realise he’s checking for marks, he’s realised what could have happened, his eyes are dark with worry and anger and something else that you can’t identify.

“It was fine, I had it handled.”

“Sure. That’s what Robert said, that’s why he intervened and that's why he now he thinks I owe him.”

“I did have it handled,” you say, angry that Robert would use that moment against you like this. “I didn’t need him to intervene but he did and I didn’t ask him to. Nothing happened to me, okay? I stopped it. I stopped it.”

Joel is so close to you now, hands on your shoulders, eyes heavy. He nods at what you say, more reassured that nothing had happened to you. His head is bowed slightly, leaning against you and you move your hands down his arms to clasp his.

“Who was it?”

“No idea, just some guy -” Even if you knew him, you wouldn’t say his name with that expression on Joel’s face.

You pause before you continue because this will be the contentious part. “When Robert said about us- I didn’t confirm anything - and so what if I did?”

Joel scoffs, takes a step away from you and breaks the moment you start speaking.

“This isn’t fucking high school, sweetheart, we’re not going to announce we’re going steady in the cafeteria.”

“Who on Earth says going steady? Did you ever say that before?”

“No, of course not. It’s an expression. That’s beside the point. The point is - “

“What is the point?” you snap.

”You should have told me.”

“Maybe, maybe I should have. However going off this conversation, I’m pretty sure anyone would understand why I didn’t.”

“You’re impossible. How many people have you told about us, huh? Your friends been spreading it all around Boston?”

“You’re being a jerk,” you say, eyes fixed on the ground. “I’m not asking you to hold my hand and skip along the QZ in unison, Joel, don’t fucking be like this. I don’t know how Robert found out about us. Just please don’t blame me for something that wasn’t even my fault. Do you think I don’t realise that this - us - could put a target on my back? I’ve known that from the start and it’s why I’ve never pushed things.”

He swallows, clenches his fists and you realise that’s his main point. That’s the part that’s worried him. You’re not Tess - you’re not feared, you could be a vulnerability for him to others if it got out. Robert’s realised this, exposed a sensitivity Joel never wanted visible. You are tired though, you’re tired of being a tool for other people’s games.

You have survived too much. You’ve endured things you never can talk about, think about even, to get where you are today. You have fought and you have won some fights and lost the others, but you’re here.

You’re so tired of this though.

“You’re not being fair, Joel.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. You raise your gaze to look over at him again, to take in exactly how he looks, how he’s reacting.

His expression is blank but his body betrays him. He fidgets, how he scrunches and loosens his fist, moving his fingers.

“I know,” he says finally. “I know you didn’t say anything.”

You wait for a moment, hoping for more but he doesn’t say anything.

“Okay then.”

“I just - ‘s not, everything’s complicated.”

“You think I don’t get that? I understand why you want to keep us in here, I get that. It’s just if I don’t even know what we are? How could I say anything to Robert when I don’t know whether there is an us?” Now you’ve started you can’t stop.

He reaches for you, takes a step closer as you step back because if he touches you, if he holds you right now and you swallow these words, you’ll betray yourself. 

“I’m not as weak as you think. I know I came to you and I was upset about my brother but I’m not weak.”

”I don’t think you’re weak,” Joel says, looking up at the ceiling. “I didn’t think it then, I’ve never thought that. We walk in different worlds ‘round here, sweetheart so I have to keep it separate.”

“And I understand that. It’s just that I don’t even know how you feel about me and now we’re talking about it, I can’t not say it, Joel. We’ve been - doing whatever this is for months and I - I - I’m a person, Joel. I have feelings.”

He says your name; all desperation and despair.

“I don’t think this is working for either of us anymore,” you say, taking a deep breath.

You glance over at the breeze blocks below his mattress again, how it sums everything up perfectly.  A makeshift bed for makeshift love.

“I should go.”

You should have gone a long time ago, you should have left when you came to his apartment and spoke to Tess all those months ago and saved both of you this pain.

So this time you do and you ignore whatever Joel says behind you.

It’s for the best.

You scowl as you take in your apartment and listen to rain hitting the window. You are itching to do something different, but you’re not sure what you should do, or even what you have the resources and energy to do.

You can’t talk to your best friend about what has happened with you and Joel because she doesn’t know that you ever even slept with him the first time. It’s the same with your older brother and to be honest, things have been strained between the two of you since he supported your other brother in leaving with the fireflies.

You feel alone. You feel numb.

Hell, the only person you could talk to is Tess and you’re not even sure if she likes you.

There’s a knock at the door. You freeze. It’s past curfew which never means anything good. You quickly look around your living room for any visible contraband in case it’s FEDRA.

Joel’s standing there. You take him in for a moment; the way his six-foot frame dominates the door frame, his wet hair and unreadable facial expression.

“What are you doing here? It’s curfew!”

Joel raises his eyebrows smugly. Like curfew could ever stop him. You bite your lip so you don’t smile like you usually would because no, no you can’t smile at these things anymore.

As you turn away you’re sure you see his face fall slightly.

“Can I come in then?”

“Uh, yeah, sure.”

Since you’ve been together, most of your time has been spent at Joel’s. It’s quieter there, which may be more of an indictment of your own accommodation than a recommendation for his.

Joel stands awkwardly in your living room.  He’s rarely here as you live with your friend so his apartment has always been the choice. You’ve noticed before how every time he has been in your apartment, which has usually been to talk to you friend, he seems to be taking in some of the details, gleaning what he can from the small personal touches. Today is no different.  There are photos on your coffee table; you and your brothers, you and your best friend. Your brother found one of those Polaroid cameras once, it’s long broken now but there are some markers of your life, some semblance of normality.  You notice how he takes in the pile of books stacked next to your sofa, picks one of them up and flips the cover over to read the back. You almost smile at the fact he instinctively knows the books are yours and not your friend’s.

“Is - is it just you?” He asks tentatively.

“Yeah, uh - just me tonight. Maria’s over at Jason’s tonight.”

“Do you want a drink? I have some but it’s not the best quality.” Which is a polite way to say it’s really shitty quality moonshine.

“I’m good.”

“Why are you here, Joel?”

“You said some things.”

“So did you.”

“You said you didn’t even know how I felt.”

“I don’t.”

“You can’t mean that,” he says quietly. “You know, you have to know.”

“Joel, outside of your apartment I barely even exist to you!”

“I wanted to keep you safe, keep you away from what I do.”

“You think I’m safe from all of that? Maria is a smuggler too, I might not be, but I’ve been at risk if their operations fall apart from day one.”

You think about Joel’s words for a second, the ones you’d almost ignored as you launched straight into your planned words and defences.

“How do I have to know? What do I have to know, Joel?”

Joel doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t look like the Joel you see on the streets anymore, he doesn’t even look like the Joel you know from those nights, the one who knows every spot to touch and kiss and makes you feel like someone else entirely.

“ Look, I don’t know how to do this anymore, bein’ with someone, I mean. Reckon I wasn’t much good at it before the world went to shit.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “I think you’re more than adequate -”

He smirks. “Not that,” he whispers, “You know what I mean.”

You do.

“It’s a lot for me too.” It is, there are parts of your history you haven’t shared with Joel, that you’re not sure if you ever will. It isn’t because you don’t trust him, it’s that those memories live locked away and you don’t want to release them, not now, not ever.

Joel closes the gap between you. “I was worried because you didn’t even tell me someone tried to hurt you. How do I keep you safe if. -”

“I could have told you, but I was embarrassed. God, Joel, I’ve known not to cut through alleys in the dark since I was a kid. I’m just mad that I have to think like that.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Joel says, his tone softer.

“I should have told you about Robert, but Joel, I - I didn’t want to lose you.” You laugh bitterly. “Guess that worked out real well though.”

He puts his hand on your chin, guides you to meet his eyes.

“You haven’t, haven’t lost me. I was - you were right,” he mumbles. “I was a jerk. ‘M sorry. ”

You lean in to him and you’re about to say something back when he kisses you and every word you thought fades away. It’s gentle at first but he doesn’t break contact even as he moves you to your bedroom.

You work the buttons of his chambray shirt with your fingers. It’s damp from the rain outside, clings to his skin more as you peel it away, move down to undo his belt.

His kisses are becoming more familiar, more desperate by the second, as though you’ll stop him, you’ll tell him it’s over at a moment’s notice.

He guides you to your bed. 

His fingers skim the bare skin on your hip where your top has risen up with the movement, then  he traces up your waist to the edge of your breasts.

“You okay? This okay?” Are we okay? He’s asking that too you realise.

“More than,” you whisper, nod, and then wrap your arms around his neck to bring him back closer to you because you need him close, you need him.

He pulls you up to ease your shirt off, to unclip and remove your bra, kisses the hollow of your throat and traces a line down to your breasts.

Joel Miller might be terrible with words, but you realise he communicates in other ways.

He moves his right hand down to the edge of your jean, into your underwear and you bite back a groan at the heat building between your legs as he slips a finger inside you.

You moan as he finds the spot he knows turns you into putty.

“Joel -”

“I know,” he says, removing his fingers and making you gasp.

He tugs your jeans and underwear off, places a kiss on the inside of your knee as he uses his hands to prise you open more as he works soft kisses up your thigh to between your legs.

You buck against him as he presses his tongue against you. You grasp his hair as he kisses, sucks and teases you to oblivion. You shudder against him as you come and he eases himself up over you, kisses you so you can taste yourself on him.

“I need you,” you say, “Joel, I need you.”

“I need you too, you get that, right?” he asks before pulling off his own jeans, his boxers. He kisses you fiercely as he lines himself up and sinks into you.

As he moves in you, he wordlessly tells you everything you needed to know. It’s in each thrust, each sound, the way his hands entwine and interlock with yours as he gets even deeper.

Afterwards, after both of you have collapsed into each other, let go completely, he moves so he’s lying next to you.

His body glistens with sweat and you absentmindedly trace a scar on his shoulder. He kisses your hand and then looks at you seriously.

“You know?” he asks, running a finger down your cheek. “You know now, right?”

“Yeah, I do,” you whisper, because you think you’re finally a step closer to figuring this man out. You get it now, you get it.

Tag list: @harriedandharassed @pedrostories

Please let me know if you would like to be added to my tag list.

[wildlife4life]

Seven (+) Sentence Sunday

Tagged by the award winning talents of @hippolotamus, @panbuckley, @forthewolves, and @wikiangela.

Ya'll have spoken! Here is NFL Buck as voted on by my earlier poll (which I ended at 69 votes, bc I'm quirky like that lol) Enjoy!

“Howard, we just agreed to stop prying into Eddie’s life.” Hen snaps, cutting of his stream of information. Because Bobby was right, they were never going to earn Eddie’s trust and respect if they keep digging into his life behind his back. “And I will, but everything I’m telling you now is before said agreement.” Trust Howard Han to find a loophole and as long as they didn’t pester Eddie or his kid, they were in the clear…to a degree. But damnit Hen couldn’t stay out of a good mystery, especially one in her workplace.  “Okay.  We share what we’ve each learned and then leave it at that. No more wheedling through his Instagram, asking invasive questions or trying to corner guest that come here for Eddie. Like Cap said, we wait for him to come to us and just listen a little better.  He won’t have those walls up forever.” Chimney bobbles his head up and down eagerly, “No more snooping, share, and listen. Just like the rules of a new relationship.” She quirks an eyebrow stepping into the back of ambulance, “Is that why most of your relationships crash and burn before they really begin? You snoop?” Her best friend gets into the cab right behind her, his right hand raised, “I plead the fifth.” Hen rolls her eyes, Chimney could be a bit of mess, but she loved the man too much and she wanted to know what he gleaned from Christopher, so she wouldn’t call him out on it today.  “So, he has a dog?” Hen prompts, getting them back on track and starting on the ambulance check list. “Yea, a rescue Buck adopted named Jade.  It’s the dog in Buck4life’s profile picture. She’s apparently a bed hog and super smart.  Its Chris’s job to feed and clean up after her.” They both laugh at that because Hen told Chimney all about giving the same responsibilities to Denny with Paisley. “Well Bobby got the fact that Buck is his boyfriend.  They’ve been together almost 10 years, but the subject of marriage is super sensitive. Eddie shut down the moment Ravi brought it up.” Hen shared. Chim shakes his head in disappointment, “Of course probie ruined it all. But damn, 10 years is a long time. How come they aren’t married yet?” He pulls opens the cabinet of saline, counting them.

They so nosy, but now is much more respectful way. But it won't last forever...

If you want to see the other snippets and posts for NFL Buck, just search under the nfl tag on my page.

Tagging (no pressure): @thewolvesof1998, @alyxmastershipper, @transbuck, @911-on-abc, @cowboydiazes, @cowboy-buddie, @brokenribsdiaz, @thekristen999, @lizzybizzyzzz, @shortsighted-owl, @sibylsleaves, @homerforsure, @spaceprincessem, @heartbeatdiaz, @monsterrae1, @jesuisici33, @try-set-me-on-fire, @bekkachaos, @spotsandsocks, @rogerzsteven, @911onabc

[crowfeatherquill]

To Aid and Be Aided, Pt. 1

Astarion does not, generally, put much stock in the idea of the gods. Certainly, the presence of clerics and paladins and their ilk makes it difficult to deny that the gods exist -- the faithful miracles have to come from somewhere -- but they’ve never had so much as the time of day for him, so he’s not entirely sure why he should bother paying them any respect.

That said, the baths at the Elfsong may, somewhat, just a little, be inspiring him to reconsider that stance.

He sinks deeper into the water, letting it lap at his chin and lower lip, and closes his eyes. A good many of the bodily discomforts he incurred in the battle with his sire -- his former sire, he sternly reminds himself -- have faded entirely or are at the very least seeing themselves out. The wounds still sting, certainly, and the scar on his back throbs dully along with a pulse he had sort of forgotten he still had, but the reek of death has more or less vacated his nose, and though he’s sure they’ll all be saying their piece tomorrow morning, the aching in his muscles has, at least for the moment, abated.

Still…his mind reels. There is so much to process -- more than he thinks he may have ever needed to get through in the past, let alone wanted to. And even if he had, it wasn’t as though he'd had ample opportunity up to now anyway. But now…even here, away from that awful crypt and the awful smell, and the stale air still electrified with the immense power of the broken ritual, he can’t seem to stop thinking. No matter how much he scrubs at his skin, he still feels Cazador’s blood on him -- his master finds a way to claw and cling to him even in death. It makes him feel ill. It makes him want to crawl out of his skin. It makes him--

His thoughts stutter to a halt when he hears the doorknob turning and cold terror turns the gentle warmth of the bathwater to ice in his veins. He ducks further into the water, instinct screaming at him to try to hide as though it won’t be obvious as soon as the Master walks in that he’s here when he’s not meant to be -- hasn’t earned it. He very nearly inhales water as his panicked breathing and bone-deep compulsion to make himself small collide at precisely the point where his nose meets the surface of the water. He squeezes his eyes more tightly shut as the door opens, ever-so-slightly. Maybe if he keeps them shut, it’ll be better. Maybe he can go back to that dream he was having where he was free.

“Just me.”

The soft timbre of Tathlyn’s voice settles his racing heart with a gentle caress, and he feels his posture slacken slightly. Not enough to be comfortable -- every muscle in his shoulders and back is screaming at him -- but enough that he can open his eyes and raise the lower half of his face back out of the bath.

“Did you need something, darling?”

The words spill from his lips without thought and his own voice sounds hollow and haunted even to him. Unsurprising, then, that Tathlyn’s head and shoulders come into view past the door in response. What does take him a bit by surprise is the way Tathlyn keeps his eyes averted -- careful not to look where he hasn’t been invited to, despite his obvious expression of concern. It blooms something warm and fond in Astarion’s chest in the same breath that he finds himself worried that Tathlyn may not want to look at him anymore after everything that’s just happened. The tangled mess of bitterness and tenderness only compounds the spinning in his head.

“Ah- no, not…not specifically.” Somehow as he speaks, Tathlyn manages to sound both soothing in that steady way of his and…a touch embarrassed? Ashamed? Astarion can’t quite parse the underlying emotion and it eats at him. “I just…are you alright?”

On instinct, Astarion reaches for humor.

“Fine, darling, you just gave me a bit of a fright. I suppose whatever etiquette lessons they teach in Menzoberranzan don’t have anything to say about knocking.”

The worry in Tathlyn’s expression deepens and suddenly Astarion feels shame stirring in his gut and clawing at his throat. Even absent any evidence of intent on Tathlyn’s part, Astarion still finds that the feeling makes him want to grovel. Beg forgiveness. Before he can, Tathlyn is speaking again.

“Stars…I did. You didn’t answer, so I thought…” he sighs, “I was worried. I didn’t mean to scare you. If…if you’re sure you’re alright, I can leave you be.”

Something small and sharp squeezes at Astarion’s heart when Tathlyn says this -- a desperation he would have considered lost to him not all that long ago. He doesn’t know what exactly he wants but he’s certain he doesn’t want to be alone. Not now that Tathlyn’s here.

“I mean- you could stay. After all, I was perfectly relaxed before you came along and now I’m practically back where I started thanks to you,” the words tumble out of him in a rush, sharper than he means them to be, “The least you could do is help.”

Tathlyn rests his weight against the doorframe a little and that wounded, sorry expression creeps back over his face. It makes Astarion want to shovel his words back into his mouth, no matter how much they might cut his gums.

“I think I can manage that,” Tathlyn says, softly, “As long as that’s actually what you want.”

It’s unnerving and endearing in equal measure the way Tathlyn has become so adept at cutting straight to the heart of Astarion’s words -- no matter how he tries to obfuscate. At first, he worries that Tathlyn’s hesitance has something to do with him. Then it strikes him that Tathlyn has never been all too adept at keeping his feelings off his face. If there were disgust there, he would see it, but all he sees is the way those delicate brows furrow -- the way the gentle mouth pulls off to one side as he tries to decide whether to push back or acquiesce.

Even after everything he's seen and come to know, Astarion realizes, his lover is still trying to protect his privacy. The emotion this elicits in him cannot properly be put into words. For the first time since crossing the threshold of Szarr palace, his mind stills and singular thoughts are able to pull into focus. He realizes, more fully, the weight that Tathlyn is putting on the agreement they made back at Moonrise. That he had genuinely meant it when he’d said ‘as long as you need.’  

That he doesn't know if he can actually bear the thought of never feeling those lips on his skin again.

It almost brings tears to his eyes. Almost.

“I…it is, yes,” he says, softly, for lack of any better response and not trusting himself not to choke if he tries for more words.

Tathlyn nods his understanding and Astarion meets his eyes for the first time as he moves further into the room, closing the door behind him as he does. He looks so tired. And Astarion can hardly blame him. As exhausted as he himself is in the wake of everything that happened to them today, Tathlyn lost three companions, himself included. Even if he was able to bring them all back, it has to have taken a toll.

As Tathlyn draws closer and settles by the edge of the bath, Astarion continues to take in as many details as he can find. It’s better, he thinks, to focus on this than to keep trying to unravel the impossible knot of his own feelings on the matter.

“Where does it hurt?”

It’s a simple question. It should, in theory, have an equally simple answer, but Astarion finds he doesn’t know where to start. Tathlyn fills the time by fussing with the runes that govern the function of the bath. The water clears and Astarion realizes he hadn’t noticed it going cloudy with blood and grime. The temperature rises -- just slightly -- and the warmth starts to sink back into him where its grip had loosened as he sat, lost in thought.

“My…shoulders could use some attention,” he admits, though the words try to catch in his throat. He is unused to this, still -- being offered kindness that isn’t bait; that he’s actually allowed to grab onto and pull close.

Tathlyn shuffles around to sit behind him and strokes the back of one hand up his neck, taking a damp strand of hair at his nape in his fingers and tugging, gently. Affectionately.

“Sit forward,” he instructs, and Astarion feels his body move almost of its own accord.

It’s not like it was with Cazador. He could resist if he wanted to -- dig his heels in and refuse to budge, and Tathlyn wouldn’t force him. It’s almost because he knows Tathlyn won’t push that he can’t imagine ever fighting him on something like this. What would be the point?

He sees one of Tathlyn’s arms appear over his shoulder, reaching past him to take one of the bottles arranged on the far side of the bath, and gives to the impulse to pepper a few kisses up his forearm. He stops at the crook of Tathlyn’s elbow, resting against the soft flesh there, and Tathlyn pauses a moment to let him linger before gently pulling away. He still smells of sweat and hours-old blood. Astarion tries to ignore the dull pang of hunger that stirs at the thought.

It isn’t difficult to put the thought from his mind as the scent is quickly overtaken by whatever perfume must have been in the bottle Tathlyn took. And then there’s the feeling of Tathlyn’s hands across his shoulders, working gently to coax the tension out of the base of his neck, and suddenly there’s no room for anything in Astarion’s brain but the sensation of the warm, steady grip against his skin. And anyway why would he want to think of anything else? This is just fine.

He curls forward to rest his chin against his knees, presenting more of his back to Tathlyn’s reach, and shuts his eyes again. Tries to return to that easy, loose-limbed peace he’d almost found before, where his mind could wander in the absence of any pressing complaints from his body. Tathlyn’s hands continue their work, occasionally inspiring a wince or a sigh but never forcing past the barrier of pain.

Eventually, feeling a forearm slide over one of the larger knots in the meat of his shoulder, Astarion tips his head to the side and opens one eye. The intent is perhaps to catch Tathlyn’s wrist with another kiss before he pulls it back out of reach, but what happens instead shatters whatever peace the quiet moment may have afforded.

There is a long streak of red stretching across his shoulder where Tathlyn’s forearm has just been. It’s fresh, from the look of it, and mixes with the water and whatever oil Tathlyn has been using to avoid friction between their skin, dripping down his chest until it finds the surface of the bath and spreads -- a single drop into a rosy cloud in the water. He stares at it, transfixed, as the smell finally cuts through the aromatic oil, sharper than the trace of old blood that had lingered on Tathlyn’s skin.

This time the hunger is far from dull. It grips him by the throat and turns his stomach, forcing a shiver through him despite the warmth of the water. It shouldn’t feel this real. The phantom cling of Cazador’s cold, ancient blood returns to his legs and he digs his nails in against his upper arms, caught between the unpleasant memory and the equally unbearable present.

Thathlyn’s hands go still against his back.

“Stars…? What’s wrong, what happened?”

“I…” he tries to say it’s nothing. Tries to summon the breezy dismissal that always would’ve worked before, but it doesn’t come. He lets out a pitiful, half-choked sigh -- the only noise of distress he seems capable of producing, “There’s…blood.”

Tathlyn stops a moment, seeming to process, and Astarion hears the shift of fabric on fabric before--

“Ah. Shit. Thought I got that. Sorry, love, one second.”

It’s not the response he’s expecting and that in itself is enough to bring him out of the nose-dive he’s taking inside his own head. He blinks, confused, and turns to look as Tathlyn comes back into view, damp cloth in hand and ready to clean the blood off Astarion’s skin. But that doesn’t make any sense. If it’s real, what he’s seeing, streaked across his shoulder and chest, where could it have come from? It can’t be Cazador’s, surely, or it wouldn’t be this fresh, so how--

His eyes catch on something glistening wet against the skin of Tathlyn’s arm -- the one he’s using for support as he leans in to swipe the cloth across Astarion’s chest. He narrows his eyes and turns to look closer, and finds the source of the blood.

Tathlyn is bleeding.

Most of it runs down his arm to pool on the stone at the edge of the bath, but it’s also begun creeping into the fabric of his rolled-up sleeve. Now that he’s paying attention, Astarion can see a gash in the skin where Tathlyn must have raised an arm to fend off an attack his blades couldn’t catch.

Questions crowd to the front of his mind. Why did no one take care of this? What exactly has Tathlyn been doing all this time that his wounds were left un-tended? Had no one noticed? Had no one cared? Surely Wyll, at least, could have taken it upon himself to say something.

At the same time, though, he finds himself frozen, mesmerized by the presence of fresh blood so close. The smell has him well and truly captivated and he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from the slowly-growing puddle of it by the palm of Tathlyn’s hand. He should lick it from the stone, from Tathlyn’s skin, should drink from the vein -- he finds himself starving all at once.

He can’t remember the last time he fed. Surely Tathlyn wouldn’t mind. He never minds. Always so ready to give whatever’s asked of him.

The arm moves out of his field of view, leaving only the small pool of blood on the stone and Astarion blinks, hard. Tries to force himself back into feeling like he has conscious control of his own limbs. This isn’t good. Whatever is happening to him, he needs to find a way out of this room before he does something he’ll regret.

He glances up at Tathlyn, absently, as he tries to concoct an excuse -- as the hunger threatens to swallow him whole -- and sees the grimace on his face as he presses the cloth to his open wound. Tathlyn meets his gaze and an awkward pass at a reassuring smile flickers across his face. Mostly it just looks like an apologetic wince.

For the briefest moment, the hunger is overtaken by indignation at the thought that Tathlyn would ever feel the need to apologize for being injured. He opens his mouth to say as much and the copper tang of blood ghosts across his tongue before the words can escape. It leaves him reeling. Tathlyn must see it in his face, because he frowns, looks down at his own arm and then at the blood he’s left on the edge of the bath, then back at Astarion in that careful, studying way he sometimes does when he thinks there’s something Astarion isn’t telling him.

“Do you want-”

“Yes.” The word forces its way out of his chest in an unbidden, desperate breath, and instantly Astarion is disgusted with himself.

It’s bad enough he nearly left what little soul he could still claim he had in the ritual circle in Cazador’s crypt. Bad enough that he’d considered ending seven thousand lives to preserve his own at the cost of the only thing that would have made it worth living at all. Bad enough that he’d turned to Tathlyn and piled the burden of that decision onto his shoulders alongside two fresh corpses he could barely lift on his own. Now he can’t even manage a little hunger -- as though all the lessons Cazador imparted with regard to keeping himself well in check were left back there with his corpse.

“No,” he corrects, firmly, “No, I. I-I’ll be fine. I’m…just give me a moment. Please.”

Tathlyn’s frown turns inquisitive and he loosens his grip on his injured arm.

“I mean…it’s fine, really. If I’m going to be spilling blood anyway, better it doesn’t go to waste.” That shocks Astarion fully back into his body -- possibly for the first time since they’d entered Szarr Palace.

[neopuppy]

I did have a dropped ‘idea’ because I never actually turned it into a WIP that was somewhat Mafia AU/Hybrid AU. Mostly dropped because it would’ve been long/is this even something my audience deserves(lets be real, no).

It was crooked cop Johnny/good cop Jeno(The Departed, if you will).

When Jeno was a kid, his parents owed a lotttt of money to a loan shark and they begged for an extension but time was up. Jeno saw them murdered and he managed to escape because his mom knew they were coming to collect their debts, one way or another. He watched them executed from outside of their run down apartment and saw Johnny come in head to toe in his cop uniform- this is when he realized not all cops are good.

Johnny advances to lieutenant over time while still collecting money on the side to manipulate different murder homicide cases and exchange info with the Mafia, and Jeno grows up as a run away.

The day Jeno sees his parents murdered he wanders the streets in tears while searching for a place to hole up for the night with only the rest of the money his parents had left packed in his bag. He finds an empty warehouse and hears a sound of distress coming from outside while trying to sleep, when he goes out to look he stumbles upon a kitten hybrid that can’t be much older than himself. At this time Jeno knows little of Hybrids, but he does know that by law stray Hybrids are to be killed off on site to lower the chance of over-population, especially cat hybrids.

He tries to talk to her and ask if she’s lost but she won’t respond, so Jeno after much convincing gets her inside and offers some of his clothes to warm her up.

Years go by and Jeno takes in this kitten hybrid after learning she was abandoned(but she doesn’t tell him why). He works hard to keep them both housed and fed and their relationship is more like brother/sister after all that since she’s never experienced her first heat.

Jeno graduates from the police academy and he works silently, collecting the names and faces of all the men who participated in ruining his life with his last conquest being Johnny. He correlates Johnny with loss of innocence, because watching him continue to live his life as a corrupt cop changes his perspective of humanity. Jeno’s only solitude after stalking these men is coming home to his kitten hybrid, clueless to how evil and unforgiving the world can be.

Jeno earns a lot of trust and respect in the police academy and he works his way into an undercover cop postion. It’s no easy task but it’s exactly what he wanted, everything goes well until one day Johnny traces back to a data server at that same abandoned warehouse Jeno had shifted into a home over the years and shoots the address off to the bad guys.

It all happens too fast and Jeno catches wind of it too late, arriving after they’ve cleaned out the place and taken his hybrid

plot twist: Johnny found her trying to hide, scared and cornered up somewhere in tears. He instantly fell in love with her and tucked her away, managing to sneak her out. Jeno watches back security footage to see this all unfold and now he’s even more determined to end Johnny and get back his hybrid.

The thing is, through all this trauma and stress, the kitten hybrids heat slams into her for the first time and Johnny is the one to take care of her through it, even though her body initially calls for Jeno. This ends up forming a stronger bond between the two of them despite Johnny essentially being a stranger to her, she sees him as her owner now and through her madness she inadvertently exposes Jeno’s name which leads Johnny to uncovering who the snitch is.

This fic would have ended in major character death😅 I won’t say who tho😘💚

[pennyserenade]

three's company

pairing: dieter bravo x ex-wife!reader x dustin mulray rating: e (explicit) tags/warnings: smut, pinv, protected sex, oral (female receiving) *inserts good for her meme*, oral (male receiving), dirty talk, light voyeurism, talk and use of drugs and alcohol (weed & wine), the weirdest situationship you ever did see, a bit of angst, jealousy, fingering, dubious consent (but like, only a tiny bit dubious. the tiniest bit) word count: 16.k+ (don't ask me what happened there) summary: The world is slowly descending into madness all around you, so you decide to give in and go with Dieter to his latest poor decision: a franchise movie filming in England. One night while there, you both sweep another into this odd half-hearted, life-long tryst you've got. a/n: i don't know how i got here but i hope you enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it. i could dedicate this to a lot of things but mostly i'm going to dedicate it the red shoe diaries. thanks to david and the horny '90s. also to maria (@sweetly-yours-and-mine) who has spent countless nights working through this with me. you are a gem

“I don’t like the idea of you being alone.”

“I’m not alone.”

“Facetime isn’t the same as real people.”

“Those are bad movies, Bravo. I’m not sure I want to be around those who make them for that long.”

“I know.”

“Actors have never been my favorite company.”

“I know.”

“And I just don’t want to go.”

“I know.”

“I’ll learn to stop answering your calls one day, you know? And then you’ll do everything alone, even a global disaster.”

“I knew you’d give in. That's my girl.”

——

The hotel is a converted English Manor - the very stuff of childhood fairytales and honeymoon daydreams with its Italianate architecture and technicolor green grass. It is warm, inviting, with high ceilings and the soft, consistent hum of human activity as workers scurry around to greet the incoming guests. They filter you in through white plastic tents and stick cotton swabs up your nose before giving you the WIFI password and a room with a stunning view of their expansive, manicured grounds. You don’t have any grounds to look in America, and your studio apartment has been eerily quiet as of late. The pulse of life has stopped in Los Angeles, but here it comes back with an unvarying rhythm.

You don’t like to admit it, but Dieter was right: you are not above loneliness.

The room they give you feels anachronistic, too modern and beige, but cozy in the way all four star hotels aim to be. You’ve got a television, a pristine bathroom that hosts a bathtub and a shower, and enough floor space to move around without stubbing any toes. There’s ample furniture too: a reading chair by the large window, the queen bed, and another chair by the door, which looks like it’s meant only for bags and the stray suit jacket. They’ve given you decorative pillows and instructions not to leave for two weeks - not for any reason.

You lay out on the queen bed and Facetime Dieter. The irony of the situation is too good not to tease him for.

“I know,” he gruffs, picking up your call immediately.

You can’t help but laugh at the misery that drips from his voice. “I’ve always been better at being alone. I think it was you who didn’t want to be alone.”

He runs a hand through his unruly hair and frowns. Even if you won’t take it, you like the idea that he’s only a long walk away now. You give in and shuck off your winner’s ego. “It’s only two weeks,” you assure kindly.

“If I’m good, do you think I can earn a sleepover?” There’s mischief in his eyes, flirtation thick on his tongue. You look askance at him and the dimple in his cheek deepens. “I’m only kidding of course.”

“Ha ha,” you deadpan.

“It’ll be nice after two weeks,” he promises. You know that tone, far off and introspective. It’s not good.

“Just Facetime me when you’re losing your mind.”

“You don’t want that. I’ll be on the phone with you all the time.”

You stare down at the phone, frowning. He smiles, coming back to his body. “I’ll be alright, kid. I always am.”

“Two weeks is not so long.”

“No,” he agrees quietly.

——

Two weeks is a prison sentence.

The room they put you in, while spacious, is merely a cell block now, reduced down to its most basic elements: the bathroom with the shower and the tub, which you’ve used so much it's a miracle your skin hasn’t fallen right off; the bedroom area, with the reading chair by the window; the queen bed, which you stopped making after day four and try your damndest not to fall in before 3pm. You’ve paced the floor so many times, feeling the angry itch of loneliness coupled with a newfound, perpetually lurking anxiety.

“One more day,” he reminds you over the telephone, trying to allay your fears. You hear the sound of his tub running in the background, over the static of his voice, and you wonder what he looks like right now. You picture two week’s more worth of beard growth, the slouch of his back as he sits on the edge of the tub, the pudge of his stomach, and the inciting trail of hair below his belly button. And his naked self. At home he was perpetually nude, and you imagine it’s no different now.

You find your own reflection in the mirror over the sink: sunken eyes, with bags underneath and your flesh taking on a slightly gray cast, the color of isolation.The window sun doesn’t seem to be helping much. You frown self consciously, but try to remind yourself he must be in a state himself; he stopped Facetiming you a week ago, opting for the good ol’ telephone call at least once or twice a day since.

“I’m going out of my mind,” you say as you continue to look at yourself. You lower your voice, vulnerability shared in a hushed, confessional tone. You imagine Dieter again: with that soft concentrated look that pulls his eyebrows together, the one that enhances the lines between them. They called him a curious child and now he’s got the lines to show for it. He told you that. The thought makes you smile at yourself, but you still look so tired.

“Just one day,” he supplies again. He sounds vaguely apologetic.

“I know,” you tell him simply.

“What have you been up to today?” he asks. You hear water come to a stop and a gentle splash follows it. He’s gotten in. “Anything fun?”

“I read, watched a movie. You?”

“I got high and jerked off. So, you know, nothing different than the past thirteen days that you’ve called.”

You scan your reflection in the mirror, contemplating your next words. It isn’t a good idea, but nothing is. “What did you think about?” you ask.

“Lots of things.”

He tells you this as casually as if you’ve asked him his name. You are so achingly lonely and this is so embarrassing, but you can’t help it. You know he’ll let you. Hell, he’s probably been waiting weeks for this. Years.

“Do you ever think about me?”

There’s a short, considerate pause. “Do you want the truth or a lie?”

“A lie.” You worry your lip between your teeth.

“Oh, never.”

You laugh, relieved. “I thought you were going to say something different.”

“Hm,” he hums, “I don’t think that’s the truth. I think you worried about what the real truth would be. We’ve got something here and it’s worrisome.”

“You sound like my mother.”

“Mine too. She thinks inviting you was a terrible idea but she wants you to know she’s thinking of you.”

“Mine hates you.”

He grunts. “Suppose I deserve that, don't I?”

“I think this is the first time in history that you diverted phone sex with talk like that.”

“I’m getting older, wiser,” he jokes. Then, “Do you think of me?”

“Do you want a lie or the truth?”

He considers it for a moment. “The truth. Hit me with it hard, baby.”

“Oh, a lot more than I should.”

——

The rapt sound of knuckles against your door incites an excitement in you that you haven’t felt since childhood. You jump from the bed, uncaring of the state of yourself, hungry for the news that awaits on the other side.

A kindly British man tells you that the quarantine has been lifted and that there will be a party and dinner for the cast and crew in a couple of hours. Formal wear is encouraged but not required.mYou spend the next few hours undoing what’s been done by isolation: the bags under your eyes; the unkempt room, with the fetid smell of loneliness wafting over everything; the living out of your suitcase and the wrinkles on your best clothes. You find an iron in the closet and shave your entire body.

Dieter stops by your room while you’re in the middle of getting ready. He sits quietly at the edge of your bed, watching you in the mirror with that dazed look in his eyes. He wears the ugliest goddamn housecoat you’ve ever seen, but he’d smiled so wide at the door that you’ve forgiven him for it.

“You’re excited,” he observes. His fingers fiddle with the sunglasses in his hands. “I thought you hate actors.”

You try to steady your hand as you bring the eyeliner up to your eyelid. “I don’t care what they are, as long as they can hold a conversation,” you mumble.

“I can hold a conversation. Maybe we ought to stay here and celebrate with each other.”

You look at him in the mirror, trying to figure out if he’s serious or not. You can’t tell. “You’re kidding.”

He shrugs. There’s a distant look in his eyes, as if he’s thinking too hard about something.

“Are you high?” you ask him.

“No, but I’m thinking maybe I should be.”

“Cheer up, boy scout. You’re the one who wanted to do this goddamn movie.”

He lets out a defeated sigh and falls back into the mattress with a groan. “I’m going to kill myself.”

———

He doesn’t kill himself, but he looks like he’s still weighing the prospect of it as you take your drink from the bartender.

Dieter suffers no one lightly, and you have a feeling the personable strawberry blonde in front of him isn’t exactly his crowd. You smile over the rim of your drink, enjoying seeing him squirm for once. Everything seems to come easy to him–except this. He’s never been very good at socializing when he doesn’t want to.

“That your boyfriend?”

You turn your head and find Dustin Mulray. You feel a hint of your teenage self come back to you as you look at him, struck wordless. It’s nothing as strong as the love that had you tacking up posters with his face on it to bedroom walls, but something vaguely akin to it. You’re happy to find it manifests itself as a friendly smile instead of love confessions. Perhaps it’s helped by his appearance: In his infinity scarf and beige knitted sweater, he reminds you more of a homely professor than a Hollywood movie star. You think: Movie stars! They’re just like us! while shaking your head in answer.

“No,” you tell him, “He’s my ex-husband.”

“Ah. That’s my ex-wife with him. Marriage is tricky, isn’t it?”

He takes a seat next to you and orders a drink. The bartender sits it on a napkin for him and he turns to you, his blue-green eyes awaiting an answer. You hadn’t thought he would want to talk to you, not really. You’re used to being invisible at events.

“I guess you could say that,” you reply.

“Are you working on the movie?”

You remember what Dieter told you to say if anyone asked: “For legal purposes, yes. Art coordinator #3.”

This amuses him, drawing out a smile. “That title come with pay or would you say it's just an internship?”

“I guess you could call it an internship.” You smile back at him. “Why? You think you could pull some strings and get me a paycheck?”

“I think I’d do you one better and get you a better place of employment. Have you read the script?” This makes you let out a genuine laugh. He brightens, smiling a little wider. “What? It’s the truth! Everyone thinks us Hollywood actors just commit to this shit knowing it’s shit but we don’t! I mean—“ He looks over the crowd, lowering his head closer to yours conspiratorially. “—Not those of us who started at the beginning. We thought it’d be good. Like Jurassic Park, but yanno, we didn’t get Steven Spielberg. We keep getting arthouse fucks. And I like arthouse fucks–don’t get me wrong–but what’s a man with an IPhone know about blockbusters?”

“Ah, I feel you but I can’t quite reach you from here.”

“No, I bet not.”

There’s something simmering in that line. If you didn’t know better, you’d figure it was a light flirtation. Surely not.

“I liked your early stuff better,” you confess.

“Me too. But those were the glory days and now I have alimony and child support to pay. How about him?” he nods in the direction of Dieter. “You get half his ass in court?”

You shake your head. His candor, although surprising, is refreshing. “No, no big payout. We’re amicable.”

He clicks his tongue in awe. “I envy the bastard but I can’t say I didn’t deserve my lot.”

“You haven’t even finished your first drink and you’re already gonna confess your sins?” You raise a curious, teasing eyebrow. He hangs his head and laughs.

“You married an actor. Don’t we all wear our hearts on our sleeves?”

“Mm, not mine,” you shake your head. “It seems he saved his emotions for the silver screen.”

It’s Dustin’s turn to raise his own curious eyebrow.

“How cozy.” You look over your shoulder to see Dieter standing in front of your chair, his fingers reaching out to the back of your chair. He looks…jealous.

“Dustin, this is Dieter,” you introduce them. Dustin sticks his hand out and Dieter plays nice, shaking it with a passing grin.

“Nice to meet you,” Dustin mutters. Dieter nods his head. “Yeah, you too. I was actually coming over here to steal her away for a moment. If she doesn’t mind.” He looks over at you, expectant. There’s a bite to his words you don’t like at all. How fucking rich, you think bitterly, remembering all the times you had to sit by while he shamelessly flirted with half the fucking world.

“She does mind,” you respond. The sharp finality of it makes even Dustin cough awkwardly.

Dieter looks taken aback. “Okay,” he mutters, looking between the two of you. He nods again, as though he’s drawn some conclusion. “Alright.”

You watch as he walks away to the other side of the room. Looking back at Dustin, you give him a rueful grin. “Sorry. And here I was, talking about how amicable we are. Exes of the year.”

He raises his glass. “To us pitiful people and our pitiful crash and burn marriages.”

You clink your glass against his, fighting the urge to cry or kill Dieter. “To us.”

—

The dinner table arrangement is unforgiving for Dieter. He’s sat next to Dustin at the far end of the table, with yet another red headed actress to his left. Unlike the talkative one, this one is in a state of brooding and continually huffing at everything he says. You’re slightly more lucky, sat at the other end, sandwiched between Dustin's ex-wife and the director.

He watches woefully as you chat with the ex-wife, nodding your head along politely. You were always such a good listener, even with the worst people. He frowns. He had changed his outfit between the party and the dinner, opting for a classier open dress shirt. He had seen the look in your eye when you had opened the door for him earlier, and figured he could use all the help he could get now that he’s undoubtedly pissed you off. He had hoped that they would’ve sat him next to you so you could talk. He’s even wearing that cologne you like. Or used to like. He doesn’t know anymore.

“So, like what—you usually get along with her or…?” Dustin asks him, following his eyeline right to you. Dustin brings the cool champagne they’ve served to his lips, his eyes too burningly curious as he gazes at you.

Dieter tries not to be possessive. He saw it in your eyes, heard it in your tone: that sharp, angry disappointment that you’re so used to delivering him. You don’t like when he gets like that. Not that he has much. This is a relatively new side effect he’s required since the divorce. He shrugs lazily, pushing the sunglasses up his nose. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

This earns him an even laugh. He looks over at the older man, frowning. “What?”

“I see magazines with your face all over it, man. C’mon, we all kiss and tell, even if we don’t want to.”

Dieter bites at the side of his cheek and considers him for a moment. “Look you and your wife-“

“Ex-wife-“

Dieter nods, uncaring. “Sure, your ex wife — you both like to talk a lot.”

“I’m just trying to figure out if I can make a pass at her or not. Make it easy for me. I don’t want to have to suffer this entire shoot because you’ve got some weird shitty thing going on between you. I don’t step on kept grounds….Well, not anymore,” he adds.

“How noble,” Dieter says wryly, “She’s not mine to answer for. Besides, it seems like you were already doing a good job at making a pass earlier.”

He fights down the petulant child inside of him, biting at his lip instead of wearing an all out pout. Through the concealed tint of his sunglasses, his eyes soften at the sight of you across the room. He can almost feel the crack in his heart as he considers the fact that you might have actually liked talking to this man.

Dieter knows one day it’ll come, the moment when you find yourself in a serious relationship with someone else. Most of the time he thinks he’ll be okay — that it will affect him like it must but it won’t ruin him entirely — but sometimes, like right now, he worries he’ll get on his knees and beg you not to do it. You don’t deserve that. He hates himself for the greed he feels, how he can’t ever just let you be happy. He doesn’t want to be like this dick, taking and taking from his ex-wife, all while he noses around and wets his dick in anything that will let him. He never wants to embarrass you like that. Not again. Never again.

Chugging the last bits of his drink, Dieter looks over at the man. Dustin looks back at him, nonplussed. It takes herculean strength to say the next words.

“She doesn’t like men who are crude or too direct, but to be frank, I think you can’t really fuck up with her. She likes you and always has.” Dieter casts a glance in your direction again, feeling mischievous. He smirks, letting himself have this one. “Well, since you were last relevant, that is.”

Dustin laughs the burn off, shaking his head. He touches Dieter’s shoulder in a show of faux friendliness. “We’re in the same shitty franchise now, bud, so welcome to the club,” he whispers, just low enough for him to hear.

Dieter raises his empty glass to Dustin with a forced grin. Feeling defeated but comforted by the fact that he’s now got something to separate him from that asshole, he raises his hand to the pretty waitress for another drink. To celebrate.

But he truthfully doubts there will be much to celebrate.

He fucking hates Hollywood.

—-

Truth be told, Dieter didn’t plan on doing this tonight. Getting high. He planned, if he was being honest with himself - and he is trying, at his most introspective more now than ever - to be doing you. Had he invited you on the vacation just to fuck you? No, but ignobility inevitably follows in the tracks of his nobility. It was written between the lines, something you both had hinted at over the past two weeks. But now you’re somewhere else. There's a lot of rooms in this hotel. Maybe you’re in your own. Maybe not. Dustin had looked like he was going to devour you at the bar earlier tonight, so probably, you’re doing him in his room.

Or do you bring men back to your own place now? He doesn’t know.

Dieter would blanch if he wasn’t so high. He sits in the middle of the decorative couch, staring at the ceiling with glazed eyes, and he tries to imagine a different version of your last phone conversation.

When you asked if he ever thought of you when he touched himself, he’d tell you the truth. Because you like the truth. He’d say: all the time. More than he should. Really a sickening, depressing amount because he misses you, especially lately. New York is a terrible place to be these days; death permeates everything and nothing seems as right as it used to. Even loneliness feels worse, no longer poetic or artistic but just lonely. It's less like Al Pacino on the set of the Godfather and more like Michael Corleone, sitting alone at the empty dining room table. Days stretch on and on, and he’s hungry for life that has halted so he paints terribly, insecure of even hobbies. What else is he supposed to do but play with himself and remember poignantly that he had once been married to a lovely sort of woman who would’ve made it all better, if only he hadn’t fucked it up?

Well, he doesn’t think about that last part so much. It doesn’t really make for good masturbating material.

He wasn’t sure he was going to survive the pandemic before they asked him to do this movie. And of course he asked you along when they had. It’s the only way in the world he could ask for your help: through omission of truths and beating around the bush. He wonders if you might take pity on his soul again and let him crash with you for a while, just to wait the rest of this out together after the movie wraps. If you really are fucking Dustin, it might make things tense but not impossible. He’ll learn to live with it. He’ll have to. What else is he going to do? Go back to this moment in time and stop you?

Perversely he wonders if Dustin is not the first man you’ve fucked since the divorce. You’re not his last but he wishes you were a lot. It’s been nearly two years and he’s forgotten what you feel like, what you taste like. It’s miserable. When he touches himself and thinks of you, you’re like an apparition, some Franksteinian woman built of fragmented, hazy memories. All he remembers was that the last time wasn’t nice and that you didn’t cum. He couldn’t make you, something about you being too sad or too angry. It was a shame, because he’d always imagined the two of you would’ve gone out with a bang.

This thought makes him smile, but it doesn’t last for long. There's nothing funny about your divorce, not really. He broke your heart tediously, and now you’ve got to tell people that it wasn’t just one thing but many things. He knows that. An unanswered phone call. That waitress in Vegas who he flirted with so unabashedly your mother thought he was cheating on you - along with half the internet and for a brief moment, yourself too. The apartment in New York he bought and moved into without asking you. That art house opening he missed, the one you’d asked him continually throughout the week to set time aside for. So many things—the seven sins and just a few more to top it off.

He wasn’t really surprised when you had asked him for a divorce over lunch one day. You didn’t even live together at the time - the New York apartment became more permanent than he had originally planned for - and you looked so tired, like you were drained of life, overwrought and quiet. What surprised him was the fact that you hadn’t done it sooner. The knowing that you had tried against hope was not an easy one for him to reconcile with for a long time after that. Even in that moment you had developed a sort of halting lisp as you pushed the statement out, as though your own body protested it. He remembers that better than the sex.

You had waited for him to get better and he never did, so you both took your chicken salads with a side of failed marriage that day, and now here you are. Dieter sighs, feeling the familiar pangs of remorse.

“Whatever drugs you’re on must not be very good because you look miserable.”

Dieter lifts his head off the back of the loveseat, straining his eyes to make out the shape that’s hovering in his doorway. His brain catches up with him before his eyes do, and the distinct mumbling voice of the figure comes to him. Dustin.

Shaking his head, Dieter laughs, relieved. “I was thinking.”

Dustin takes this as an invitation to cross the corridor. As he comes closer, Dieter finds he’s in more casual clothes - perhaps even sleepwear - clutching a bottle of wine in his hand. If this is a peace offering, Dieter will take the olive branch. He’s so goddamn pleased you’re not fucking this guy, he might even kiss him.

“You want a joint?” he asks him, straightening on the couch. Suddenly it’s not so hard to be magnanimous, not with the sheer euphoria of you not having betrayed him (is he allowed to call it that? Probably not, but there’s no word quite so apt). He feels he might even be smiling, but he can’t be sure. He hopes so.

“God, please,” Dustin groans. He sits the bottle of wine on the table and rubs his hands together eagerly as Dieter lights the one he’s been puffing away at.

“I figured you were the one with the goods,” Dustin says around a cloud of smoke. He looks over at the open door, nodding at it. “We should close that, huh?”

Dieter shrugs. He thought he had closed the door, truthfully. “Probably should. I think I saw a kid here,” he says. Neither of them get up.

Dustin passes the joint to Dieter. He takes another hit when he gets it because fuck it, this is a celebration. “What, she didn’t want you?” he can’t help but ask.

Dustin laughs mutedly. “I don’t know. I figured by the way you reacted at dinner that I better not try. And there's that thing with my wife.” He shrugs. “I’m always fucking that one up. I thought I should just wander around and see where the night takes me.”

Dieter rests his head back against the couch again, nodding sympathetically. “Mm, I understand. Me too.”

“What’d you do?”

“The better question would be what didn’t I do.”

“Did you cheat?”

Dieter turns his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t fuck anyone else while we were together but she said I might as well as have. And I guess she’s whose opinion really matters, isn’t it?”

Dustin mumbles an agreement. “I fucked a lot of people,” he confesses. “Even the divorce lawyer.”

“And she still talks to you?” Dieter asks.

“We’ve got a kid.”

“That’s right. She told me that, because she likes to talk.”

“Hey don’t be a dick. Yours does too, you know? That’s what women like to do—talk. And they like to be listened to.”

Dieter narrows his eyes. “Is that what you were doing at the bar? Talking?”

Dustin nods. “Yeah. Listening, too.”

“I listened.”

“But you didn’t like what you heard.”

Dustin says this more as a statement than a question. Dieter looks back to the ceiling and pinches his eyes closed, too high. “Mm,” he mumbles. “I’m just so happy she isn’t fucking you right now. I really thought she would be there for a second and it was making me sick.”

Dustin huffs out a laugh. “I take it you never shared?”

“What do you mean ‘shared’?” Dieter asks. “Like wife swapping? No. We seemed to have left the practice in the sixties.”

“Not necessarily. Threesomes?”

“Have you done that?”

Dustin shrugs, smiling unashamedly. “Before we got married, of course,” he tells Dieter. Then, “And a little after too.”

Even with the high, Dieter can’t help but feel curious about the arrangement. “With men?”

“Sure. It wouldn’t have been fair with just women. That was the rules, anyway. Why? You’ve never been with a man?”

“A few. That’s not what strikes me as odd. You just didn’t strike me as the type.”

“I wouldn’t say I was, but fair is fair. And it can be nice. Interesting.”

Dieter rolls his eyes. “Gay sex is gay sex, no matter how you cut it. If you’re about to tell me it doesn’t count, I’m gonna laugh.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t. I just like there to be a girl there too.”

The information weighs heavily on Dieter’s drug induced state of mind. He finds himself beginning to laugh. “Wait a minute, are you trying to talk me into a threesome? Is that what this is? Are you trying to seduce me, Mrs. Robinson? That’s what the wine is about, isn’t it?” He points to the bottle in question, and everything suddenly seems much too funny.

Dustin begins laughing too. “No! The wine was for something. I just couldn’t figure out what”

Dieter ignores him. “Your…your wife hates me,” he manages to hiccup out, “And mine? She—“ She hates me too. This thought makes the laughing come to a slow halt. That’s right. She hates him too.

“I bet she’d do it,” Dustin supplies, soft chuckles still emitting from him. “They can surprise you like that sometimes.”

Dieter shakes his head, his smile more soft, almost sad. “Not with me. I pissed her off. I was thinking I’d try with that waitress downstairs but she’s young and I’ll for sure hate myself for that later.”

“Don’t do that. Your wife really will hate you for that,” Dustin advises. “Take it from an expert. Just call her. Apologize.”

Dieter shakes his head. “That won’t work. It’ll just make her more mad when she realizes I’m high.”

Dustin considers this. “Maybe. I don’t know. Let’s go to her room. Do it in person.”

“You can’t go,” Dieter tells him evenly. It’s not often he’s the voice of reason — even less so when he’s high — and this dynamic is beginning to make him feel out of sorts. He wants to shut his eyes and sleep this off, but naturally — because he is who he is — he will follow this train of thought through with Dustin.

“Why not?” Dustin smiles widely, catching his stride in the conversation. He speaks more animatedly, bringing his hands into the mix for emphasis. “She doesn’t want to fight with you in front of me! And she can see we’ve made friends. That’s progress! She’ll like that.”

Dieter considers this. He does want to show you he’s sorry — really.

“You just want to fuck her,” he says to Dustin. He’s too high to be angry, even if he really wanted to be, but he is suspicious.

When Dustin doesn’t respond to that, Dieter narrows his eyes. “You do!” he accuses, acutely horrified by the idea.

Dustin looks at him, a smile playing across his lips. “C’mon, aren’t you a little curious to see what it’d be like?”

“No. And besides, even if I was, I don’t think she would. She’s not…I don’t know, I don't know how to explain it.” Dieter pinches up his face, stuck for the right words. “She’s not a prude by any means, but I don’t think she would.”

“Would you? If she did?”

Dieter doesn’t consider the question, only beats around it. “She wouldn’t. I know her.”

He watches as Dustin rises from the couch. “Let’s just go ask her.”

Dieter jumps up, feeling sobriety sneak up on him. “No!” he says, horrified.

But Dustin has snatched up his bottle of wine and began to make his way out into the corridor before Dieter can stop him.

So crumbles the olive branch.

—-

When you see Dustin standing at your door, holding up a bottle of wine with a goofy grin, you think it's a sign from the Heavens above. No more Dieter, that’s what it tells you. He’s ruined your life for a decade now and it’s a cause you’ve got to accept is a lost one. A new man is here and you’re lonely, and you didn’t even have to go search this one out. You smile, open the door a little wider.

But then you see Dieter shuffling down the corridor, brown eyes blown wide. Dustin looks over at him with a grin and you realize with a sinking feeling that this wasn’t what you imagined it was. You don’t know what it is, to be exact, but you’re sure it’s not right.

They look up to no good, with glazed eyes and Dustin’s too wide grin. You close your door just a smidge when Dieter shoulders to the front. He smiles apologetically, and you instinctively hold out a hand to keep him steady. But he’s steady, in no risk of tumbling forward. He puts his hands over yours before you quickly take it away. He looks stung but you don’t care.

“Hey kid,” he says sheepishly. His eyes seem to be asking you something - saying something - but you’ve long lost that way of communicating. You frown, slumping against the doorway.

“Make friends?” you ask, nodding back to Dustin.

Dustin nods his head, unaware or — more likely — too high to be aware. “He’s being a good boy,” he vouches.

“I’ve been good,” Dieter echoes. He tries another grin and that easy charm of his, but none of it works. You fold your arms over your chest.

“Listen, I’m a little tired and—“

“I’m sorry. I know what I did earlier was shitty. I don’t know why I do things like that. Don’t shut me out. Please.” Dieter pouts. The sincerity of his words punches you in the gut, and makes you angrier somehow. Like it’s mocking, even though you know it’s not. He seems to sense this and he continues talking. “I know I don’t own you like that. I had no right. None at all. And I’ve been meaning to say it to you all night. And I know you’re thinking ‘this prick is high.’ I am. I’m really high, and I can’t deny it, but I’m sorry too. I was sorry even before I got high. That’s why I got high.”

Dustin giggles behind Dieter. You look over, feeling pangs of annoyance for him too. Now that he’s not your knight in shining armor he’s just some asshole in kahoots with this asshole. “That’s terrible,” he huffs out. Dieter glares at him over his shoulder before you’ve got the chance.

“I’m sorry,” Dieter tells you again, pleadingly. You shake your head.

“You’re always sorry. That was always the problem.”

“I know! God, I know.”

“Ask her if she wants some weed,” Dustin whispers.

“And I suppose you smuggled that in?” you ask, straightening yourself up. You feel motherly, glowering at him like this. You want to wring his neck. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed fuck you, make you feel eternal and sexy. But no. Now you’re so matronly, standing there in your PJs, frowning so hard wrinkles are mapping their permanent home in the places your face creases.

He nods guiltily. “But you knew that! I’ve talked about it all week.”

“Yeah but—“ you wave your hands in the air. “It all adds up with you. It’s..”

“The little things,” he finishes sadly. “I know.”

“Why do you know so little if you know so much?”

Dustin coughs suggestively behind Dieter and Dieter turns around swiftly. “No,” he tells him sharply.

You furrow your eyebrows. “No, what?”

Dieter shakes his head dismissively and Dustin shrugs, looking around aimlessly. He’s trying hard to contain a laugh or a grin, you can tell. You hate that Dieter is making you a bitch in front of him. You could be fucking him for God’s sake, but you’re just annoyed.

“Go to bed,” you tell them.

“Well that’s the idea,” Dustin counters, his lips drawing upwards. Dieter looks pallid.

“It wasn’t,” he tells you. “I swear. I came here to stop him from asking!”

“Asking what?” you say, exasperated.

“For a threesome,” Dustin says simply, like it’s nothing at all. “Though I can see now that’s probably not in the cards. And it wasn’t really asking for one, just a hypothetical.”

You look over to Dieter. He looks down at the floor, like a kid in trouble. “Dieter,” you scold.

He shakes his head. “I didn’t want him to ask. I told him—I said you wouldn’t. I didn’t even want to suggest it,” he mumbles helplessly. “That’s not what this was supposed to be at all, kid. I swear. I just wanted to say sorry and…I don’t know.”

You don’t know whether to believe him or not. “But you talked about it?”

“Hm?” Dieter raises an eyebrow.

“The threesome? You were talking about having one?”

“Yeah, but not like—it wasn’t locker room talk. Not really. He just started talking about it and asked if you would and I said no—“

“How do you know I would say no?” you huff. “You don’t know. You don’t know me.”

Dieter frowns. “That’s not true.”

“Yeah it is,” you nod. “I’m different now. I’m not the woman you dragged around all those years.”

“I never thought of you like that.”

“Well, still, yes,” you say, feeling angry and stung and in a desperate need to prove him wrong and spite him all in one go. It’s such an ugly feeling and it’s not right, but you can tell the words take him by surprise.

“Yes?…” he asks. “Listen, I get that you’re angry, but you don’t have to do this.”

“No I want to,” you say. “If that’s what you want, what he wants, I want it too. If that’s what you’ve come for, then you’ll get it.”

He shakes his head. “You’re angry and you’re not thinking straight. You’re…being mean. And you’re only going to piss yourself off more, I think, and then you’re going to be mad at me because I drove you to it.”

You shake your head. “No. I think I’m being quite nice. I’m standing here telling you I want you to fuck me. I want him to watch. I want him to fuck me and you to watch. Whatever perverse things you cooked up together, let’s do them. If you’re going to make me mad, then I’m asking that you have the decency to fuck me too.”

Dieter struggles to compute the information. You do too. You hate him. You love him. You are so high strung and pissed and you’d do anything to be touched. Let him prove himself, goddamnit, or let him be damned jealous. Either way, you get fucked. Everyone's a winner or only you are. You don’t give a shit.

Dustin seems altogether pleased by this, clapping a hand onto Dieter’s shoulder. “I told him you might surprise him.”

“Mm hm,” you hum. You do not break eye contact with Dieter. He nods his head, resolving to trust you—or to go along with it. It doesn’t matter, just so long as he doesn’t question it.

When he steps forward, you put your hand up, blocking him. “First the weed.”

He lets out a soft sigh and stays put for a second, looking as though he wants to say something more. He’s wise enough not to in the end.

As he rounds the corner, heading back to his room, you finally glance back up at Dustin. He smiles softly. “You don’t have to do this,” he tells you. “I really was just to get some fire under his ass. I mean, I’m not against it, but if you’re just doing it because you’re pissed—“

You cut him off with a hard look. “I want to,” you say resolutely. “And I am pissed. So be it. Men start wars for less.” You shrug. He looks amused and you feel something arise in you, up alongside the anger — arousal. Desire. Something. He smiles handsomely. The grayish scruff on his cheeks bodes well with his aged features.

You do want to fuck him. That’s freeing information. Propping the door open wider with the kick of your foot, you nod him in. “C’mon. Get in here before I change my mind.”

The dichotomy between his laughter and the intensity of the fight you just had with Dieter makes you smile despite yourself.

“Wouldn’t want that,” he responds with a wink.

He brushes past you with his body and you fight the urge to suck in a shallow breath at the sudden casual contact. As he moves into the room, he pulls you away from the door with him, gripping at your shoulders. He doesn’t let you stay back and wait for Dieter like some lost puppy.

You look at him, eyes wide, and he hands you the wine in his hand. He is so unserious that it’d be plain endearing if it hadn’t been a source of annoyance a moment before. You watch as he wets his lips and looks down at yours. There seems to be a pregnant pause, eyes searching yours for an answer to an invisible question. You think of Dieter, of all the sex you’ve not had since the divorce, and how hurt he seemed when you pulled back from his touch. You love him so much. It isn’t fair. You will love him your whole life if you don’t stop this. You heed your mother’s warning too late and you kiss Dustin hard on the mouth. He takes some of your grief with a practiced tongue, kissing you deeply until you’re interrupted by a cough in the corner a few blurry moments later.

Dustin smiles, holding your face between his hands. “The weed,” he remarks. Dieter nods. He looks a little hurt, a little angry, a little betrayed—looks like he’s always made you feel, and you are not surprised it doesn’t make you feel any better.

You love him. You fool.

You shake Dustin off and Dieter hands you the joint with a forced grin. “It’s strong,” he warns softly as he lights the end. As you inhale, Dustin comes to stand behind you. Dieter’s eyes watch as his arms snake around you. He plants wet kisses alongside your neck and Dieter worries his bottom lip between his teeth.

Dieter reaches out to you, touches the wrist you’ve risen to put the joint in your mouth. His calloused fingers try to reach across burned bridges and you aid him, handing the joint back and reaching out to him too. His baggy sleep shirt is easy to take between your fingers. He takes a hit and then comes closer to you, pressing into you.

When he kisses you for the first time, you think of an ouroboros. Whole and eternal, destruction and rebirth. Your mother hates him when she once loved him. He knows your birthday and the way you like your coffee in the morning. You don’t know what he did yesterday. He doesn’t know your friend’s old cat died and that you’d been to two weddings before COVID hit. He tastes familiar and feels strange against you, unreal and vivid. You open your mouth and he slides in his tongue. The kiss isn’t like the one with Dustin; he does not explore you as much as he remembers you.

Dustin and Dieter pass the joint between them. When you feel the loss of warmth behind you, you turn curiously, detaching from Dieter’s lips. Dustin goes to abandon the joint on the table by the bed and Dieter’s hot mouth presses kisses alongside your neck. You wrap your fingers in his hair and you can't help but moan when he tongues alongside your jaw. Dustin’s eyes spark with delight at the sound.

You look down at the wine bottle still in your hand and hold it up. Dustin takes it from you, grinning. “I forgot to tell you it was my gift. I’ll open it. It’s good, aged to perfection,” he comments.

He searches your bedside for a glass and finds a crystal one beside the water vase that they gave you earlier that week. He looks down at the bottle in his hand and frowns. “Fuck, I forgot the wine opener.”

“Call the desk,” Dieter says against your skin.

You turn your head back and begin kissing him again, humming an agreement against his lips. Dustin shuffles behind you as you return completely to Dieter, your lips ghosting over his. He licks into your mouth and grasps at the back of your neck, keeping you attached to him as you begin the dance backwards to the bed.

The weed gives you a cloudy feeling, enhancing the warmth of his fingers and lips on your skin, but erasing any inhibition that would make you embarrassed to be doing it in front of another man. You like the idea of it, actually, that there’s some stranger - albeit a familiar one - standing somewhere in the room as Dieter’s fingers lift up your sleep shirt and dip beneath the hem of your underwear. Your ass presses against the edge of the bed and you feel his erection against your thigh. You moan carelessly, tugging at his hair, and he exhales into you, the line between pleasure and pain thin and delicate as he rushes to do what he’s afraid Dustin will get to first if he doesn’t.

Dustin hangs up the phone and looks at the two of you on the bed, a surge of desire filling him as he watches. You’ve got your legs open and Dieter’s got his hands down your underwear and he can see it all from this angle. You’re making delicious, breathy moans and Dieter’s arm muscles flex as he works them out of you. There’s a wet spot on your underwear and he wants nothing more than for Dieter to take them off so he can see more of you.

He watches a while longer, captivated by what makes you tick and what kind of a lover Dieter is. It's kinda like hotel porn that he’s had on repeat the past few days, but live. Before he can get out the request for Dieter to take your underwear off, or wait for the inevitability of it, there’s a knock on the door. He rushes to answer it, holding the door open only enough to take the glasses and the bottle opener. He mumbles a quick thanks before shutting the door on the confused worker.

Dieter enters you with a thick finger and you let out a loud uninhibited moan around his kiss. As Dustin attempts to open the wine he smiles, thinking of the young man who was just outside the door. He likes that you aren’t afraid; he’s always found that attractive in women.

“Here,” he says, pouring the pinkish liquid into three separate glasses. Neither of you look at him, so he repeats it again, this time with more command in his tone. You look so thoroughly kissed when you look up, red lipped and swollen, that it makes him ache, and Dieter’s wild haired annoyance is charming in its own way. He hands you both a glass and you take it with a shy smile. Dieter is less pleased, but takes it anyway with a soft ‘Thanks.’

Dustin watches as Dieter wipes your slick from his fingers with a pang of envy, swallowing down the wine. This isn’t something he’s made a habit of doing often— watching people fuck, threesomes — but he had felt that it wouldn’t have been right to do without Dieter. Truthfully, he had had every intention of going to your room by himself before he had peered into Dieter’s open door. The sight of him sitting there, staring up at the ceiling like he had been doing, inspired sympathy. He hadn’t been entirely truthful about that with Dieter, but what he’s learned over the years about sex is that some little white lies must be told sometimes.

A part of him feels guilty, knowing his own ex-wife lies somewhere in this hotel, probably brewing in her own anger. But he’s leaving her alone. That’s what she asked of him, isn’t it?

“So, any rules?” he asks, abandoning this train of thought before it crashes.

Dieter unwraps himself from you, sitting on the edge of the bed like you are, and shrugs his shoulders. You both look at each other. Dustin feels like an outsider, intruding on something too big and personal, but he doesn’t mind. A bit of self-flagellation mixed in with pleasure was always how he did his sex best, and there’s nothing quite like sleeping with two people very much in love during a pandemic.

“Dieter said you’ve never done this before,” he says, looking at you. “Is that true?”

You nod your head. “What do you mean by ‘rules?’”

“Well, I guess it’s a bit different because no one is with anyone here, but sometimes there will be requests people make to ensure no one gets their feelings hurt. For instance, you might not want me to cum inside of you or enter you at all. They’re for safety too—consent, boundaries.”

“I see.” You look down at your glass of wine, thinking. “I don’t really have any rules. Maybe just use condoms.”

“Are you sure?” Dieter whispers, tugging at your shirt sleeve. He leans in closer, says something Dustin can’t hear. You shake your head. “No, it’s fine. I don’t care if you do that,” you tell him. He seems surprised by your answer.

Dustin can’t help himself. “What’d you ask?”

Dieter shrugs his shoulders. “Just about how she feels about us.”

“Do you have any rules?” he asks.

“Don’t cum in her first.”

You look at Dieter quizzically and all he provides is a shrug that says nothing. Dustin nods his head. “That seems easy enough: condoms, don’t cum first.” He swallows down the rest of his wine and sets the glass aside.

You twirl the liquid around in your own glass, smiling faintly. “I can’t believe I’m gonna do this,” you say.

“Me either,” Dieter replies. He sits his glass, half finished, on the nightstand.

“I’m feeling high,” is your next sentence. Dieter seems to grimace.

“You’re in the wrong state of mind,” he tells you.

You shake your head. “No. I made up my mind before I got high. I want to be fucked,” you tell him, voice plain and even. “If you don’t want to fuck me, I’m sure I’ll be okay with just him.”

Dieter shakes his head adamantly, cheeks beginning to red. “I—I do want to. I always want to. I just want to make sure you’re not doing something you’re going to regret later.”

With a smile, you tell him teasingly, “I won’t regret it later. Not if you do it right.” You offer him a teasing wink that draws out his dimple. He leans forward and presses a chaste kiss on your lips, too romantic and sweet to be good for your soul.

You decide then that this will have to be less Dieter focused if you want to last. “Lay on the bed,” you say to him. He nods his head, prying off his house shoes. You look over to Dustin, who stands awkwardly at the head of the bed. He smiles again with that charming Hollywood grin that age hasn’t dimmed in the slightest, and you grin back. “I want to kiss you again,” you tell him directly.

“That can be arranged,” he says, dipping onto the bed.

Dieter lies back against the heap of pillows at the headboard, his knees spread apart to make a spot for you. Dustin guides you there slowly, his body pressing into yours until there’s nowhere left to go but into Dieter. He kisses you deeply, hands strong and warm and unfamiliar in an entirely exciting way as they bunch up the fabric of your sleep shirt and expand over your skin.

Dieter doesn’t touch you, even though he badly wants to. Part of it is heartbreak and disbelief, and the other part is erotic fascination—watching you come apart like this, at another angle, is undeniably doing something to him. You are so pliable under Dustin, so easy for him, like you’ve waited your entire life to be like this. Maybe you have. Maybe he never paid enough attention—maybe in all your thousand little, subtle ways you had once alluded that you’d like to be this way. Maybe if he hadn’t been such a prick, he could’ve made more rules, one like ‘Don’t enter her at all’ and ‘Don’t kiss him like that because I know once upon a time you kissed me like that and I screwed it up, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t be a better husband. I’ll be a better friend, just don’t kiss him like that.’

But then again maybe not. That’s a mouthful and you’re high and he’s high. Maybe it would be just like this. It’s just that he loves you. It’s an odd kind of love, but it’s real. Dustin has his tongue down your throat, his exploratory fingers beneath the fabric of a sleep shirt, but Dieter loves you. The fool.

Blissfully you are unaware of the pity party Dieter throws for himself behind you. He is a body, a springboard for desire and heat, as you surrender yourself to lust the way you never really have before. You do draw up some comparisons, unable to help yourself.

Dustin is grittier, all command and surrender. He is an electric taste of the illicit, some faraway fantasy made palpable. Dieter is your ground zero, vivid and stormy. He is what yesterday was. You read somewhere once that when you have a child with a man, their genes have the ability to change your own. Though you and Dieter have no children, you feel like something irrevocable like that happened — that you carry a part of him in your genetic makeup. It doesn’t make Dustin worse for it. In fact, it makes him better, an exotic vaccine into your very tired bloodstream. You deserve it. You deserve it so much, and you practically beg for it, mewling as Dustin kisses his way down.

“I bet you taste like heaven,” he mumbles warmly into your skin, licking a teasing strip over your midriff. You watch, mouth agape, heart beating wildly in your chest. Dieter tilts your chin up, directing your attention towards him, feeling impossibly greedy now. He kisses you languidly, tonguing lolling gently against yours, making it lasts forever. Your mind is in a haze, the slow, sensual turn of your tongues lighting a fire in your belly as Dustin uses his own on you. He trails lower and lower, warm and wet, fingers drawing down your underwear and then—

“Fuck,” you say, gasping out the word. You surprise yourself. Dieter captures the word in his mouth and groans in soft appreciation. You glance down your body, your knees hanging loosely over Dustin’s shoulders, watching his warm tongue pressing against your clit. It’s a sight to behold, the way his pink tongue flattens over you. His large hands grip onto your legs, holding you apart as your back presses into Dieter’s front. You feel his semi-erection nudge into your back.

Dustin spends his time with you, teasing you lightly with his tongue at first, learning the careful intricacies of your body. As you run your hands through his unruly bed hair, the tip of his tongue dips into your opening experimentally. He looks up to you, blue-green eyes searching for approval. You buck against his face, desperate, full of want and drugs and something indescribable but undeniably exciting. Ambition. Want. Joy. You used to masturbate to this man. His nose grazes against your clit and he laughs as you struggle. It is warm and bubbly, and you feel it all the way down to your bones.

You tug his hair so hard that he sends another noise vibrating through you: a low, half pained, half aroused groan.

Dustin brings his mouth back to your clit, grazes it gently with his teeth. “Oh,” you say, your head drawing backward, falling into Dieter’s shoulder. He watches you, his dark eyes fixed. He presses his lips onto yours like time hasn’t changed anything. You bask in it, give yourself over to the fantasy with the ease he’s offering it—you kiss like lovers, familiar and intimate, an unformidable duo in sex where you weren’t in marriage.

Dieter doesn’t leave your lips as he says, “I never got to see this sort of thing from this point of view. You’re so goddamn pretty.”

His hands tease up your sides, fingers drawing closer to your chest. “Is he making you soaked? Just like I used to?” he asks, his voice a low drawl. You arch up, bringing your lips up to his. He slots his mouth over yours, pressing into you roughly as his fingers find a pebbled nipple through the cloth of your night shirt. As he scraps over the top of it with the pad of his thumb, you draw your eyes closed. The heady scent of Dieter surrounding you mixed with the intoxicating feel of Dustin pressed against your cunt is almost too much to bear. Almost. You moan against Dieter’s lips again as Dustin’s tongue works you, and Dieter smiles, nodding. “Oh baby, he’s gonna be like me. A pitiful, helpless fool for you. Aren’t you?” he says, looking down the valley of your body to the other man.

Dustin grunts wordlessly against you and your hips fail you again, pressing up into the vibration. Sensing this isn’t the end of lack of control, Dustin presses a hand against them, pinning you down. As he licks you open, spreads your folds with the warmth of his eager tongue, you feel on fire, the sensation reaching every part of your body. He’s good at that. He’s lapping and lapping, his strong nose meeting your clit at just the right time each time he comes up.

“He’s so fucking good,” you say helplessly, uncaring of who hears. The drugs make you uninhibited, looser. You meet Dustin’s eyes as he takes your clit into his mouth again. He is sucking lightly and you try to roll your hips into him, but he presses down, a silent no. “Fuck, you’re so—good at that. Oh my god.”

Dieter pinches your nipple between his fingers, humming softly at the sight before him. “You’re gonna make me jealous, baby.”

Dustin’s mouth grows more focused, intent. You feel your orgasm drawing up, coming closer and closer. You open your eyes, blown wide with desire, and focus on Dieter. He kisses you softly again, bringing his hand up to your other breast. Dustin sucks your clit into his mouth, his fingers digging into your soft flesh, and your hardened nipple scraps against the warmth of Dieter’s palm. It's all so right. You cum then, toes curling into the sheets, body going rigid beneath the touch of them both. Dustin doesn’t stop; he laps up your want greedily and Dieter draws up his head to watch. His eyes darken, full of desire and what you assume is a begrudging respect.

After you’ve ridden out your orgasm on Dustin, Dieter huffs out a soft laugh. “He wants to fuck you,” he tells you, thumb swiping affectionately across your cheek. Dustin, unable to let that one go, presses a kiss to your inner thigh and muffles a laugh against your skin.

“Bravo, you’re so jealous it’s making you stupid. She knows that,” he says, nuzzling his face against your inner thigh. “Of course she knows that.”

“M’not jealous,” Dieter denies evenly. When he looks down at you, brown eyes too kind, you half believe him.

You break the eye contact and smile appreciatively down at the man between your legs. A finger you’d locked in his hair now swipes across the bottom of his shiny lips. He takes it into his mouth, wetting the pad, and you say, “You aren’t a very good team. I think it’s important to be a good team.”

Dieter places a hand on your arm, more of a phantom touch than a grip, but you know it’s a stroke of possessiveness. You glance back up at him, cupping his cheek in your palm. “Dieter likes men,” you tell Dustin, not looking away from Dieter. “He’s not playing nice now and I think it’s a shame because I bet you taste just like me right now. And I know—“ your gaze drops down to Dustin, your voice velvet “—how much this dearest ex-husband of mine likes the taste of me. Have you ever kissed another man, Dustin?”

Dustin bites at your bait, smirk growing wide as his body stalking up yours. “Of course. I looked like a God in the ‘90s. Everyone wanted me and I wanted everyone,” he jokes, his warm hands flattening against your torso. His legs rest behind your thighs as he sits upwards, and you can see the tent of his erection against his sleep shorts. The black of them does little to conceal the full outline, and you thrill at the idea that he’s probably not wearing any underwear beneath the fabric.

You’re not one for getting starstruck - not anymore, anyway, a Los Angeles resident for years and the ex-wife of a star - but the fact that you used to masturbate to this man in front of you is something you still can’t shake. It occupies your mind, the way you had rewinded scenes from his raunchy, made for tv erotica over and over. Even now, many years later, you can still picture it: his younger frame pressed behind a blond woman, fucking into her in haste, his hands all over her and his thrusts rough. It was incredible to you back then, placed in some seedy location like an alley. Public and animalistic—the stuff of paperback romance novels. You remember the way he tugged her shirt upwards, how in the heat of the moment he grasped at any part of her he could get. A black bra and a long skirt, the bra pushed askew, going higher and higher with each thrust, and the skirt gripped onto, used for leverage as he pushed into her from behind. The VHS that hosted the scene had been passed from friend to friend in your college days, until someone’s VCR had eaten it. You feel a bit excited to know you’ve got the real thing right here. You think about telling him.

But it’s not about you, not now; it’s about Dieter. You widen your legs, make room for the ‘90s heart throb to slip between your body and come closer to the man you’ve dedicated your life to. In this moment you can admit as much. Dieter’s got his cock pressed against your back, and you know he would do anything - anything - for you if you’d just ask. His love burns like a million suns and you’ll be Icarus in every lifetime. You fool. Kiss another man hard and seek penance in his presence behind you.

Dieter stiffens as Dustin presses closer and closer to him. You shift to accommodate them, moving your body up, guiding Dieter along. He holds you close like a shield but doesn’t protest when Dustin’s lips press into his.

Dustin tastes of earthy vineyards and you—like sweetened strawberry wine and the familiar palette of tangy and acidic that’s blessed Dieter’s tongue many times over. That’s it, he thinks with a smile against Dustin’s generous lips. That’s how you taste. He savors it like a wine connoisseur does his wine, running it over his tongue and thinking too long about how to describe it. It is so utterly you, it makes him yearn for another life.

He plunges his tongue so deeply into Dustin’s mouth, it threatens to gag them both. But it doesn’t. They’ve both got their party tricks, after all. Dieter’s kiss grows hungry and suddenly there’s no space between any of you. You are a perfectly molded puzzle, fingers on skin, in hair, tongues swiping against lips and chests, and there are deep guttural moans exposing what the erections do well to show.

You know Dieter wants this, can feel his evident excitement press into your back. You happily welcome the warmth of Dustin’s firm body pressing impossibly close to yours. Dieter wets his bottom lip and squeezes you reassuringly, a habit from other life slipping into this new one.

You alternate kissing one another, creating a new taste on your warm, eager tongues. It is perfect. Dustin’s hands gingerly fumble over your chest, not focused or intent but curious, and Dieter’s allow it. The possessiveness has translated into something entirely more agreeable, and these men work together like lovers.

Your fingers grip at Dustin’s muscular shoulders, trail lower and lower over the slope of his chest down to the dip above his shorts. The path is slow and arduous to your lust riddled brain. He grunts against your collarbone, his hot breath fanning over you, and you go lower still, taking the shorts with you.

Dieter’s eyes trail the same place yours do, his chin tucked into your neck; you share the same view of Dustin: the red weeping head of his cock as it bops against his toned stomach, eager to be touched and licked and surrounded. Dustin sighs hotly against you as you press against him - against it - and Dieter swipes his tongue behind your ear. It is heaven, the way Dieter and Dustin feel against you, combined like this. You want them both. You need them.

You wrap your hands in Dieter’s curls, let him support your body as it rubs frantically over Dustin’s. Dieter peppers kisses alongside your neck and whispers, “God, you’re so fucking hot. God, I was so fucking lucky—“

The rest of it is lost against the shell of your earlobe. Some things - even the kindest, most genuine things - are better left unsaid.

Dustin emits soft, urgent moans as his cock catches between your bodies. The tempo of your shared thrusts grows quick, more focused, and he is close, on the very brink of letting go. You knit your brows, watch curiously and excitedly as he draws closer. You think of it: A hot spurt, just for you. Dieter holds up your sleep shirt, seeming to expect the same.

But then Dustin stops, his thick fingers rough and tight against your skin as he stills your movements. In the morning you’ll be bruised, a thought that thrills you. “Not yet,” is what he says in explanation, leaning his forehead against yours.

Dieter laughs softly, some terrible joke about bad endurance dying before it rises to be heard. He’s on his best behavior. Dustin tastes of you, of him, and you’re all naked and you’re so happy, so pliant. You lean against him like he’s someone you can lean on, and he swallows the serenity of that thought silently. Dieter is a half guilt, a perpetual bleeding heart, and you are his salvation. He knows it doesn’t work like that, can’t, but sex is not about what is real and logical. That’s why you were always so fucking good at it; it was beyond the both of you, and somehow a language you spoke best together.

He should feel worse about Dustin. Perhaps it’s because you want it so bad, or maybe it’s because he’s so horny, but the inclusion of him feels less intrusive than before. This is not your marriage bed - it’s been lost to the cruel seas of time - but it feels like a union, and Dustin plays a curious part. Not the voyeuristic onlooker, but the active participant, his glistening cock hot and heavy against your beautiful stomach. It should make Dieter sick. It did, thirty minutes ago. But now it makes him hard, wets his mouth. The bastard is good looking.

What can he say - you have always had good taste.

You turn your head and lick into Dieter’s mouth, redirecting your attention. He turns you between their bodies, pressing you into him as he kisses you feverishly. Dustin assists him, holding you against his body like Dieter had been doing before, only upwards. Dieter draws back and lifts the cotton sleep shirt over your head. He takes advantage like Dustin hadn’t been smart enough to, wetting your nipple with his warm mouth and tweaking the other between his fingers. You squirm, pressing your hot cunt against his stomach. He feels too clothed suddenly, having been denied contact because layers. You help him take off his shirt and Dustin helps you take off his pants. You waste no time wrapping your hot hand around him and tugging loosely.

His mouth finds your nipple again and you wrap your fingers into his unruly hair, jerking him off slowly as he kisses and sucks at your bare chest. He knows you’re already dripping, seen it on Dustin’s glossy lips when he got done with you, but this is his body remembering you and he can't stop. He remembers the way you got when he licked at you like you were the last scraps of his final meal on earth. How desperate and needy you became, just as desperate and needy as him. His hand travels down your stomach, straight down to your cunt, and he palms the wet heat of you into his hand. Dieter relishes the way you gasp into his mouth as the heel of his hand finds your clit, a smirk on his lips and a sentence like, “That’s it, baby,” coming out against you.

He fingers your entrance teasingly and finds you devastatingly wet. This is heaven, he thinks, the wet stickiness of you on the pad of his finger and your hot breath on his lips. You dig your nails into his shoulder, shut your eyes against the sensation of one of his fingers entering you. Dieter is ground zero. In your Garden of Eden, Dieter was there, at once Adam and the serpent. This is the apple. How delicious it is to be fucked, how perfectly human. Of course they’d turn on God for this. Cover up with leaves and be terrified of the whole earth later. Bleed and cry. Divorce. Whatever. This is worth turning back on perfection for. Poor Eve. Poor you.

You rub yourself against his hand and Dustin takes one of your breasts into his hand, watching. Dieter is so focused on the squelch of your juices and the way his finger - fingers now, two, and you stretch so perfectly for him - enters you that he doesn’t even mind. You’re no pissing contest, he sees that now—you're the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He swallows your moans and tries his best not to cum. Your grasp on his cock is so loose and it’d be so embarrassing to cum on your stomach when the tugs are nothing, and besides this is about you. So he focuses on trying not to.

“Condom,” you mutter, your lips landing on the side of Dieter’s mouth. Dieter nods his head but doesn’t pull back from you. He watches, enchanted, as your hips move against his hand. He can feel your orgasm build in the way you clench around his fingers, the penultimate pressure too much to bear. When you come, its with a shudder, your body tight and rigid above his as you ride it out. Dieter is so high and so in love with you, and he’s so sick about it that all he can do is laugh earnestly, even though what he wants is to ask you to marry him again.

Dustin is touching you all over with his hands, palming your perfect breasts, and you’re arching farther and farther back. Dieter can hardly bear the sight—not because of the jealousy—but because he’s deathly afraid this is it for him. You’re the best thing he’s ever had, and he knows he can’t think that way. You had a good run—you’re great friends now—but God, you married him in Vegas and you used to sketch his nose with careful affection onto canvases you kept for yourself. Who’s gonna sit in your studio now? Who’s gonna take up space in your heart, make you smile over the canvas as you work? He would weep if you didn’t look so pretty and sated, leaning into Dustin the way you are.

He kisses you hard on the mouth just to get rid of the thoughts, and then he kisses Dustin too, grabbing roughly at the back of his hair the way he hasn’t ever with you. It’s not kind, but Dustin doesn’t seem to mind; he moans gruffly, absorbing nothing but the desire behind it.

Your hands explore Dieter’s exposed skin as they kiss, warm and gentle, unconsciously fingering the scar he got as a child. You know the map of this body. When his hard cock bops against his stomach you take it in your hand again. Before he has time to think, you put him in your mouth.

“Fuck,” he mumbles against Dustin’s lips. They stop kissing, looking between them at the sight of you. Dustin is so considerate, so much better than Dieter has ever been. He moves aside your hair, kisses against the curve of your spine. All Dieter can do is think about not cumming. He feels bad about this, wishes he could gather enough strength to think about your hair and things like that. But your mouth is warm and you take him in with expertise, bobbing in a rhythm he wouldn't dare break. Up, down, the tip of your tongue running alongside a vein, back up again. He’ll cum like this. You look up at him through your eyelashes and he touches the top of your head with unspeakable tenderness. Cum, you beckon, but he won’t. Can’t.

Where is that goddamn condom? How can he make this last forever?

He pulls back from your lips smiling an apologetic grin when you at him, surprised. You seem to understand, a devilish little smirk playing across your glossy lips. He wants to kiss you, but even that feels dangerous right now. He thumbs your lips instead.

“Condoms,” he tells you softly. You nod your head.

“In my bag.” You point over to the corner of the room. Dieter pads off to get them.

Dustin’s hands sneak between your thighs and you sigh when he finds your entrance, the tip of a finger rubbing the spot Dieter abandoned. You’re so wet and you want it so badly. He presses his lips against your shoulder and you feel the heat of his breath against your goose pimpled flesh. As you loll your head against him, he slides a finger in. You scratch the back of his head and nod frantically.

“You’re so tight.” He nips your skin and then licks at you with a desperation you’ve only experienced in Dieter. You like being wanted this badly. You lift your hips and ride his finger, squeezing around him. So tight, right. He laughs and you feel that too. “You like being talked dirty to, don’t you? You’re being so good, riding my finger like this. I can’t wait to fuck you. To feel you around my cock like this. And I bet he’s thinking that too.”

You both look over to Dieter as he unwraps a found foil and takes out the condom. You sigh; Dustin’s thumb finds your swollen clit. “We’ve got to make him cum in you, but I don’t think you’ll find that hard. He wants you so bad. Look—“ You feel Dustin’s grin already across your back. “He’s so fucking hard for you. Just as hard as me.”

Dieter strokes himself through the protective sleeve as he watches the two of you. You feel the familiar sensation of heat spreading low in your belly. When Dustin dares to enter another finger into you, you gasp, feeling full and stretched and yet not full enough. He spreads his fingers inside you, preparing you. You tug at his hair and make eye contact with Dieter.

He smiles lopsidedly, suddenly boyish and more handsome than he’s ever been. You think he looks happy for you—so pleased that you’re pleased, with a glint in his eye. Maybe it’s the drugs. You don’t know. Maybe he is happy that you’re happy. He was always better at saying he loved you than he was at showing it, but you suspect that this is his showing you. Love. Maybe it spills over in divorce, just another cruel thing you’ve got to cope with.

When Dieter comes back, he presses a condom into Dustin’s thigh. You are at the edge of another orgasm, everything perfectly in place — the sensation of Dustin’s thumb, the way his breath hits your skin, the idea that Dieter is watching you—but he denies you it, interrupting. You go to protest, whine, but he doesn’t give you a chance.

Dustin’s fingers are still in you, on you, when Dieter leans down and presses his tongue flat against your clit, greedy with lust. He licks at you around Dustin’s fingers and it feels like too much. They seem to make an agreement, working you at the same time. You cum quickly and this one seems to go on for eternity. You squeeze Dieter’s shoulder. The other condom package falls loosely onto the bed as Dustin uses his hand to keep you steady, your knees weak from the pleasure.

You tug at Dieter’s hair to make him stop. Dustin seems to know instinctively, leaving you feeling empty when he takes his fingers away. His slick covered fingers rest on your hips as you tell them both, breathlessly, “I can’t do another one. It’s too much.”

Dieter shakes his head in protest but Dustin takes the information in stride. He’s too good at this, moves through the motions with ease, improvising quickly. He extends his slicked fingers to Dieter. Dieter, who has been so focused on you, looks at them quizzically, unsure of what they mean. Then he seems to get it, hard features smoothing out in realization.

He looks at Dustin, and it’s not like with you. He's focused, not icy or angry but so intent. It’s not a loveless gaze, per se, but it is devoid of love; filled not with something warm but something hot.

Dustin’s cock presses into the small of your back. As Dieter’s mouth wraps around his fingers, you feel a warm bead of pre-cum drip onto your skin. You bite at your lip. You’ve never seen Dieter with men before, and this new side of him excites you—like unlocking a new door in a house you’ve had for ages. He puts on a show for you, bobbing like you did on him. Dustin’s fingers seem to be an extension of yourself. You shudder as Dieter tongues along them, and Dustin rubs himself helplessly against your backside.

“I want to see what you’re like with men,” you say to Dieter, your voice barely a whisper. But Dieter hears you and his eyebrows perk in interest. This is a long unanswered question to something you’ve never been brave enough to ask. You’ve always known that he’s been interested in men — that he’s had sex with them — but you’ve never really questioned outright about what it was like. It felt equal parts too personal and hurtful; you didn’t want to know what it was like with other people before you. But everything seems different tonight. You want to know badly, like he’s got secrets that could be your salvation hidden in him.

You slip from between them, lying against the pillows. Before filling the space, Dieter looks over at you. His brown eyes implore you for a sign and you nod your head.

He’d asked you earlier, when Dustin asked about rules, if you’d be alright with them touching each other, maybe even entering one another. You hadn’t expected it to get to that, so it had been easy to say you didn’t mind. In fact, you had figured Dieter only said it as a means to scare you away from the idea. And now that the notion is not only on the horizon, but a reality, it comes just as easy to say yes—maybe even more so.

He stalls, hesitating, so you nod again, laughing. He smiles. Your ex-husband is a startlingly beautiful man like this, looking so openly vulnerable. He’s physically and emotionally naked and you’ve waited decades for it.

Dieter and Dustin kiss each other like men do, aggressive and dominating, neither willing to lose the good fight just yet. You feel your interest piqued, watching the way their fingers touch each other. How they tug and grip, search for purchase all over. Dieter is much rougher with Dustin than he’s ever chanced to be with you, with bruising kisses and bruising touches. When he grabs the man’s cock, it is with an ugly dedication, fast dry and quick tugs. Dustin hisses the first time but doesn’t protest. In fact, he thrusts his hips unashamedly into Dieter’s closed fist, licking into his mouth with a degree of delight. They tug at the back of each other’s heads of hair and eventually Dieter gives way, falling back to allow Dustin to mount him.

Dustin searches for the condom on the bed, his chest rising and falling heavily in an attempt to grasp at long denied air. You watch through heavy lids as he slides the latex onto himself. He’s circumcised, pink and swollen at the tip. Drips of pre-cum have made him all glossy and you bite your lip watching him struggle to line himself up. When he gets the latex down to his base, he smiles a satisfied smirk. He doesn’t look at you. If he notices you staring, he doesn’t mind at all. This is his favorite play, and he’s an actor after all.

Dieter’s knees knock apart to accommodate his frame—a body you’ve begun to notice with quiet admiration in your desire. He’s broad, much broader than he’d been in his youth, and he’s got muscle all over now, whereas before he’d been lean and lanky. He’s hard and tight and as he begins to rub himself against Dieter, you’re taken with the way his skin stretches over the plains of his back, his arms, his stomach. Dustin is in impeccable shape, perhaps one of the only men who can claim he’s doing better now than he was in his youth. Gone is the boyishness, replaced with a heady, sure masculinity.

Dieter seems to relinquish his fight happily now, soft growls emitting from his lips. Dustin presses down into him, and while most of what they’re doing is obscured by Dieter’s legs, you can imagine it well enough: the steady, erratic thrusts of Dustin’s cock rubbing against Dieter’s. There’s a sheen of sweat on them both and Dustin buries his head in Dieter’s neck. He licks at the places you had once, and it is nothing but erotic little huffs from them both.

“You’re…” Dustin begins, but falters off. He lifts himself up, repositions, bracketing Dieter’s head between his strong arms. Dieter’s eyes are pressed closed, his dark features etched with pleasure. All they do for a while is rub against each other. You feel like an intruder, like something stopping them from getting where they need to be. Maybe you are.

You dare to speak: “Aren’t you going to touch each other?”

Dieter looks startled. He’s red in the cheeks, the exertion of their movements and the heat of his desire making him flush. He taps Dustin on the arm, making the steady roll of his hips slow until suddenly it’s nothing. It’s all quiet for the first time in minutes.

They both look at you with intent eyes. But Dieter is the first to take charge. “You should fuck her,” he tells Dustin. Dieter looks at you, questioning.

“But—“ you protest. Dieter shakes his head.

“It’s okay,” he says. “Later.”

Dustin has no qualms about the interchanging of you and Dieter. You notice that he's notably gentler with you than he was with him, though. He crawls to you, kisses you chastely—as if testing the waters. There’s nothing necessarily erratic or rough about what he does to you. He looks between your spread legs and fingers at your entrance once more, circling the area teasingly. You groan in anticipation and his head falls to your chest. He takes a taut nipple into his mouth as he plunges his fingers inside of you, pushing them against your front wall. As you sigh heavily, he moves his wet mouth to the other nipple.

You turn your head, catch Dieter’s fixed gaze. He reaches out his hand and you lace your fingers together. He’s touching himself through his condom, stroking softly. You want to devour him.

Dustin takes his fingers from you, and you look back at him. Before you can plead for more he says, “I’m gonna enter you now.” You nod, wordless.

He gathers the slick from his fingers and coats his latex covered cock with it. As you squeeze Dieter’s hand, Dustin lines himself to your entrance. His kiss is soft, barely a kiss at all, and he enters you, inch by careful inch. He feels so overwhelmingly right, snug, puncturing something decidedly primal inside of you when he bottoms out.

“Oh, fuck,” you groan hotly against his shoulder. He manages a small laugh, running his lips against your cheek. “Go hard,” you ask. He hasn’t moved yet, stays still inside of you. You think of the way he was with Dieter.

“I don’t know if I can. I think I’ll…” He swallows. “I know I’ll cum.”

“Please,” you beg. You dig crescent shaped nail marks into ass and he smiles teasingly, running his warm tongue against your sensitive skin. He presses so intimately into you, your nipples scrap against his chest. It feels so good. Everything does.

“He said no,” he answers, looking up to meet your eyes.

“He’ll give me anything I want,” you say. Dieter’s fingers leave yours then, and you look over. You think you’ve made him mad but he’s only repositioning himself, coming closer to your bodies. He doesn’t say anything.

Some things are so true they don’t need to be confirmed. They just are. The sky is blue and people die, and Dieter is a man who will give you everything because he was once a man who gave you nothing.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Dustin mumbles, finally drawing back. You nod your head, encouraging, but he doesn’t go harder. He moves in the same way he did before, experimental and slow. When you look at him, imploring silently, he shakes his head. “But a rule is a rule, baby. ‘Sides, I think he’s making me get you ready. Your husband is a bit of a pervert. He’s touching himself, watching me stretch you open with my cock.” Dustin presses his lips into yours. Against you, he mumbles, “Did ya know he likes to watch? Bet he likes to hear too. You—“ Dustin pushes back into you, stopping himself, and the squelch of your juices adds to the effect. He smirks. “—You’ll get fucked. Just not by me. Not yet. Maybe I’ll fuck him while he fucks you. Maybe we’ll do it..” he grunts, bottoming out again, “We’ll do you together. You’re tight as hell, but I know we can get you wide. Couldn’t we?”

You feel Dieter’s fingers but can’t move your eyes away from Dustin’s. They’re greener like this, up close. Dieter trails a line over your body, and then up to Dustin’s, with a lone finger. Dustin turns to look at him and he smiles, nodding. They seem to work without words.

Dustin reaches down to grip the condom as he pulls out of you. You look over at Dieter, half angry and half amused that he could interrupt. You realize what they’re doing almost immediately. Dieter holds open your legs by pressing his palm against one of your knees, and Dustin shuffles, moving back to let Dieter take his place.

His cock probes against your entrance and he smiles down at you like a fool. “Hey,” he tells you evenly, half sober. You ache for him. You clench around nothing as he licks into your mouth.

“Hey,” you respond, overcome. Your fingers wrap around his arms and you notice that he’s got more muscle than before too.

“You want to be fucked?” Although he attempts to make this a question, it is more of a statement. You nod along anyway. He kisses you hard, rough like with Dustin, and he nearly enters you as he rubs himself greedily against your naked warmth, wetting himself with your slick.

“Yes. Hard, like you do with him,” you tell him. He smiles against your lips. You take his cock in your hand, so much more sure with him than anyone, and he slides into you. It feels like homecoming, wet and warm and familiar, your fingers digging into his skin and the smell of sex in the air. He does what you ask, his thrusts sharp, his hips snapping against your hips.

“Dieter,” you pant out, nodding your head. He kisses the side of your mouth sloppily and you smile the best you can. Where Dustin felt right, Dieter feels perfect. You feel like you touch the hem of eternity as he plunges into you with the intensity you requested, uninhibited and giving in the roughness.

He repositions you both in one expert movement, moving to his knees, pushing your hips farther up. This makes you let out a startled gasp; he hits you far deeper like this, his thumbs digging into the flesh on your hips with bruising intensity. You can’t kiss from this position, but it doesn’t matter. He fucks you. Really fucks you.

You see Dustin in the hazy peripheral. Lolling your head to the side, you focus on him. He stands at the side of the bed, smiles at you when you catch his eyes. With his cock standing out in front of him like that, he looks a bit unserious. If you weren’t so full of Dieter, perhaps you’d be amused by this. He doesn’t even touch himself. This makes you frown.

“D—Dieter,” you stammer out.

“Huh?” he grunts.

“Dustin.”

“Mm, what—what about him?”

“Let him fuck me too. Please.”

Dieter shakes his head. “No, you’re mine right now. You’re—“ he snaps into you roughly, the bed creaking. “I’ll suck him off. Or maybe—“ Dieter grunts again, “Maybe he’ll be smart and he’ll get behind me. And maybe he’ll—“ his head drops to your neck, and your head the next part through mumbles. “Maybe he’ll rub against me like he was doing before. But it doesn’t matter right now. Just think about you. It’s all for you.”

You close your eyes, nodding. That sounds fine. Great. Dieter’s finger gazes at your clit and you nod, your hand reaching out to hold his wrist. You always liked to feel the way his forearm moved as he did this to you.

“Cum for me and I’ll cum for you,” he says, and you feel it begin, the stirrings of another orgasm. You think of him, of the way he punctures his thrusts with grunts, how good he feels inside of you, bottoming out like this with measured fury. You like how rough he’s being, like never before. You like this side of Dieter. You like that there is more of Dieter to know.

When you cum, you call out his name. He swallows it, pressing his lips to yours. “Fuck, you’re such a good girl for me. You’ve always been.” He fucks faster into you, his own release on the horizon. You squeeze around him once, twice, and that’s it; he’s filling the condom up and he’s gasping earnestly, amazed and so goddamn in love. He kisses you on the mouth and it’s so genuine. You kiss him back, smiling like a newlywed.

“Dustin,” you say against Dieter’s lips, after a moment. Your chests are both heaving and you're drenched in a thin layer of sweat. He presses his forehead against yours and you smile. “Let me take care of him,” you tell him.

Dieter rolls off of you, collapsing into bed with a soft groan and saying nothing. You take a moment to recuperate, breathing in and out, letting the bliss of this moment wash over you.

“Come here,” you say to Dustin, patting the open space of the bed beside you. He listens, the bed dipping beneath his weight. It takes a lot of effort on your part, but you rise to your knees. You guide him onto his back and he helps you straddle him. For a moment, you just sit there on top of him, looking at him.

“I used to masturbate to you,” you finally admit. This makes him grin. Beneath your cunt, his erection jumps a little.

“Thanks,” he says. His hand palms one of your breasts again. “You don’t have to do anything to me. I can finish myself off if you want.”

You shake your head, grinning. “Didn’t you hear me? I used to masturbate to you. This is a dream.”

Another hand comes up to cup your other breasts. “Are you sure you don't feel too sore? He fucked you pretty good.” You begin to glide your cunt alongside his prominent erection. He sucks in a swallow breath. “Guess that’s a no.”

“That’s a no,” you confirm.

“Just let her fuck you,” Dieter tells him quietly. You smile over at him but he doesn’t see it; he’s too busy watching the way you move your hips over Dustin. Even with a flaccid penis and in a state of post-coital peace, you manage to get to him.

You ride Dustin quickly, grabbing onto his strong shoulders as he tongues your alongside chest, finding your nipples. He groans, the sensation vibrating throughout your body as you follow the motion his hands set for you. A fast up and down, your back arching, taking him in completely and then pushing back so far he nearly falls out.

Admittedly he does most of the work, your legs wobbly and your body tired. But it feels good. God, does it feel good. You like this, being with two men back to back, each of them taking turns. Dustin generously tries to get you to cum again, his fingers sliding between your bodies, but you stop him.

“It’s too much. Just this,” you tell him. You grind down on him to make him feel better about it, and he hums sympathetically around a mouthful of your breast.

You ride him less enthusiastically the closer he gets, both of you too tired and worn. He stops aiding you so much, kissing anywhere he can access: your jaw, your neck, the side of your mouth. He lets your body fall forward into his. It’s a sort of lazy fucking that you do, meeting halfway to create the sharp thrusts that push him closer to climax.

“Cum in me,” you tell him, voice silky against his ear. He knows how tired you are, feels it too. He gathers up the last of both of your strengths, rutting up into you with intent. As he cums, you ride him, curious, taking all he can give. Dieter is too sensitive, can’t stand to move when he cums, but Dustin nods, moaning against you. When it’s over, you collapse into him, hugging his sweaty body. He laughs against your warm skin.

“Thank you,” he tells you softly, so only you can hear. You nod. You lie on him like that for a moment, listening to the beat of his heart. Dieter watches you, his expression unreadable. But he doesn’t look faraway.

You reach out to him with your fingers and he smiles, coming to.

Dustin helps you off of him and you fall between them, sated and spent. He slides off his condom and reaches across your body. “You want me to take yours?” he asks Dieter. Dieter, no longer feeling jealous but merely tired, nods. He hands the man his condom and Dustin pads off to the bathroom. Dieter and you watch this, amused.

“I kinda understand what you see in him now,” he confesses, smiling. He interlocks your fingers and you let him.

“Thank you,” you say, ignoring his comment. You look over at him.

He nods, sincere. “Of course. I assume I did it right?”

“You did it right.”

“And you don’t regret it?”

You shake your head. “I don’t seem to regret you. Even though sometimes it’d be better if I did.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I love you.”

You kiss him chastely, even though you know you shouldn’t. “I know,” you tell him softly. “I love you too.”

“Like a friend?”

“No.”

“Like a husband?” he asks, testing the waters. You laugh. Dustin comes back from the bathroom.

“No. Something more than all of that.”

“I can handle that.”

You nod your head. “Me too,” you tell him.

The bed dips from the weight of Dustin once more, and you roll over to your side, cuddling into him. He passes a warm rag to Dieter and he accepts it, cleaning himself. He goes to hand it to you, but you shake your head.

“I’ll take a shower in a little. When I can walk.”

This earns a laugh from them both. Dustin reaches an arm around you, drawing you closer to his body. Dieter, surprisingly, doesn’t mind this; he curls up behind you, too, wrapping an arm around your waist. You’re all so close, and it’s nice. He thinks maybe they might be something to this sharing after all.

“I liked that,” you say to no one in particular.

Dustin hums, fingering trailing over your arm. “Enough to do it again?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I think the opportunity for this kind of thing only happens once in a lifetime, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know about that. This is Hollywood, and they love sequels,” Dieter adds, smiling.

“Yeah,” Dustin nods, “That’s true.”

You close your eyes, smiling faintly. “A sequel, then, maybe,” you say tiredly.

In the morning, you do not regret any of it.

—-

A YEAR LATER.

SUBJECT: THREE’S COMPANY, BUT ONLY SOMETIMES from: dustin.mulray@gmail.com

I was at an art show the other day and I saw a painting with your name on it. The guy in it looked a little familiar (they told me it was an old painting, from nearly a decade ago, before you were both famous. Cute). I bought it, of course. Not that I’m in the habit of buying paintings from people I’ve slept with, but it was for charity and it looked good and I’ve got a new apartment that I’ve got to fill, so I thought why not? It cost a lot (good for you!) and because of that they let me wrangle an email address from them to tell you what a brilliant job you did. You did great. Very Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton of you. Anyway, to the point: You weren’t at the premiere of the documentary with Dieter last month. He told me that it's because you don’t like that scene, and I don’t blame you. Neither do I. But I was wondering how you feel about commissioned paintings? And do you think that Dieter would like to come with you to deliver it if your opinion is positive? (He told me I had to ask you that myself, so I think he’d be happy to accompany you if the canvas is too big to carry by yourself). P.S. I’m asking you for sex–a sequel, as it were–but I really would like a painting, too. I’ll spend a lot (not for the sex, but the art. I guess for the sex too, if you’re into that). Love, D. Mulray.

—-

SUBJECT: HOPEFULLY NOT ROSEMARY’S BABY SITUATION to: david.bravo@gmail.com, dustin.mulray@gmail.com

Sometimes I commission art work for people I like and sometimes I make an exception for those I don’t if they pay enough. I’m sure you fall somewhere in those categories, Dustin. But I must warn you: I won’t do dick drawings. I might do a vagina one if the inspiration strikes. I must admit I’ve never had a man ask me for sex over email. Kind of thrilling, like a retro sext but without any of the sexy parts. I’ve attached Dieter to this email for obvious transparency reasons. He says he’d gladly help me carry your canvas (figuratively and literally). P.S. It will cost you. For tax purposes, I hope you’ll let ‘it’ be the art.

—

from: david.bravo@gmail.com to: you, dustin.mulray@gmail.com

Who said divorce couldn’t be sexy?

[petertingle-yipyip]

MAD AT GOD - MATT MURDOCK

Season Three - I’m Not Sorry

tags: @ironprincessstranger @johnmurphys-sass @dusstory @americaarse @astrobees @mayasaurus--rex @woowwwee // seven // finale // masterlist

Pairing: Matt x Reader

Word Count: 7,735

Summary: Moves and countermoves. The cat and mouse game nearly draws to a close as Nelson and Murdock reunite in a last ditch effort to finish things from the right side of the law.

Truthfully, the reveal went better than you had expected. After a few questions and a bit of yelling, Ray was willing to hear you two out. You explained about getting his wife and son out of the line of fire. Ray suggested they leave New York all together but you knew Fisk would be watching all airports and seaports. You were going to offer to call Natasha, see if her billionaire buddy could spare some space but Matt said he knew someone to ask.

While Matt made his call, you asked Ray to go and get Seema and Sami.

Next thing you knew, you were driving Ray and his frazzled family to your apartment. From there, Brett took them in his car while you and Matt headed upstairs. You were both quick to change into something that would catch little to no attention before rushing back into the streets.

You and Matt walked together, his cane in one hand and the other arm linked through yours. Your body was growing heavy with every step and it almost felt as Matt had to hold you up as the weight of your latest string of endeavors began settling on your shoulders, making your latest collection of wounds thump with a heavy pulse. As if he knew that - which he probably did - he gave you a gentle nudge with his elbow.

“Can I ask you something?” He said suddenly, the rhythmic glide of his cane the only other noise on the street.

“Sure.” You nodded.

“Sister Ma- My mother told me that you look at me like I hung the stars.” He began carefully, measuring your reaction. “Is that true?”

“I mean… Did you?” You tried and he chuckled. “I know you didn’t hang the stars but…” You looked up at the night sky, only able to see pinpricks of light past the yellow glow of street lamps but that was more than what you had seen in months. “They’ve always been brighter when you’re around.” You turned back to the path you were walking. “Even now… Days are warmer. Flowers smell sweeter. It’s like everything quiets down and life isn’t so bad. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah.. I think I do.” He answered softly.

“Alright, alright. Don’t get all mushy on me now.” You joked as you nudged him with your shoulder, earning another small laugh. “I thought you were this whole super dark, brooding vigilante right now.”

“I guess you bring out a better side.” He said honestly. “You bring back Matt Murdock.”

“I thought you were leaving him behind.”

“I thought so, too.”

You two met up with Foggy just as Brett was pulling up with Ray and his family. You thanked Brett’s mom as she welcomed you in and she was as kind as you could’ve expected. Brett helped the family get settled while the rest of you waited in the living room.

There was tension brewing in the bedroom as Ray and Seema talked and you felt bad. You wanted to go and help Ray explain, maybe take some of the blame so their marriage didn’t implode, but that felt like a massive overstep. It was clear that Ray loved Seema and she loved him, but that betrayal would be hard to move past. Instead, you pulled some of that tension into your chest in hopes of them having a rational conversation.

You cleared your throat once it hit you and gave Mrs. Mahoney another thanks before heading outside, claiming to need air. Matt was quick to follow but Foggy stayed behind to talk to her.

“You okay?” Matt asked, putting a hand on your back as you leaned against the bars.

“Huh? Yeah, just… Sometimes it’s harder to block stuff out, especially when I’m tired.” You explained, rubbing your eyes. “I could feel the pain and everything from Ray’s wife. I feel like some of this is my fault..”

“How could it be your fault?”

“I didn’t stop this.” You sighed and turned to lean your back against the railing so you could cross your arms. “You were right. I should’ve just made sure this didn’t happen. Now a perfectly happy marriage is gonna be destroyed because Fisk used Ray.”

“You can’t control everything, sweetheart.”

“What about Sami? That little boy looks up to his father like he lifts the sun every morning. And now, what? He loses that because of a jackass like Fisk? That’s not fair, to either of them.”

“I know.” Matt agreed softly. “But if this works, and we get Fisk put away, Ray’s family will be safe.”

“But Seema won’t trust him again.”

“You trust me?”

“What?”

“After all the lies and the stuff I’ve put you through, everything I’ve said to you recently, do you trust me?”

“With my life.”

He gave a small smile and put a hand on your elbow. “Then I think they can get through this.”

Foggy came out soon after and talked to Matt for a minute. You were glad that you two were able to convince Matt to at least try the legal route. If that fell through, you weren’t exactly sure what would happen next. But that was a bridge you would cross if you got to it.

“So what now?” Ray sighed as he met you guys outside.

“You’re gonna testify against Fisk, after you hire them to represent you.” You answered.

“Represent me?” Ray questioned at the same time Foggy said “Them?”

“Rahul Nadeem, meet the brilliant minds behind Nelson and Murdock, attorneys at law.” You gestured to the boys.

“I thought your old firm packed it up.”

“Everyone loves a comeback story.”

“I don’t know about this, Y/L/N.”

“These two are the best attorneys I know. You’re in good hands.”

“What about you? How do you fit into everything?”

“I can serve as an additional testimony or a character witness, but I’m pretty sure there’s a conflict of interest card to be pulled if I help represent you while still at the bureau. Even for me, there’s limits to what I can get away with.”

“You’re not leaving?”

“Not yet, at least. With Dex still after us, I need to keep an eye on him. There’s no need for guessing what he does or doesn’t know if I can stay close enough.”

“Smart.” He nodded.

“She’s always been the brains of this trio.” Foggy threw an arm over your shoulders. “We won't let you down, Ray.”

“You, Seema, Sami.” You agreed. “We’re gonna do everything we can to help your family.”

“I know… Thank you, Y/N.”

Early the next morning, you and Matt brought Ray to Fogwell’s.

“This is where you went?” You asked him as you walked in, already seeing Karen in there. She gave you a small smile and you waved slightly.

“Nobody knows about this place. We’ll be safe here.” Matt shrugged and headed to the back room.

You patted Ray on the shoulder and gestured to the table Karen was set up at before following Matt down the short hall.

“You alright?” He asked without turning to face you.

“Yeah, just tired.” You leaned back against the wall.  “And those two don’t like each other very much so..” You gave a small smile.

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t wanna.” He offered, putting his hands on your arms. 

“Yeah I do.” You sighed and grabbed onto the material of his shirt. “For a second, can we just… take a moment? Forget about everything out there and between us and just…”

He smiled softly and stepped closer, moving one hand to the side of your head. He leaned down and pressed his forehead gently against yours. You took a deep breath and let go of his shirt so you could wrap your arms around his waist. Your head dropped to his shoulder and he chuckled slightly as he put a hand to the back of your head. His other hand was on your lower back as he pressed a gentle kiss to the side of your head.

As Matt held her close, very few things plagued his mind. Most of them were what he noticed about her. The tension in her muscles. The thrum of her pulse. The rise and fall of her chest. The way her arms were locked together, as if to keep him with her. He wondered how he could ever be so stupid as to walk away from her.

The other thoughts that he could put to words were small, selfish prayers. He prayed that there’d be more to their story, that it was a new first page rather than where it would end. He knew his thoughts echoed her name since he realized he was alive, every day until he saw her again. And then even more after. He left her too soon. He always knew that, whether he’d admit it or not. And now, as she was clinging to him like she was drowning and he was her lifeboat, he prayed that she wasn’t truly in love with someone else. That no one else was waiting for her. 

After taking a minute to enjoy each other’s company and take a breath, you two headed back into the main room. Karen and Ray were wrapping up their previous conversation, punctuating the tension in the room as Matt began talking about getting Ray’s family out of town.

“We were thinking overseas, maybe a friend or a distant relative.” Karen offered tightly, almost instantly snapping into focus.

“My brother’s wife has a cousin in Bihar.” Ray nodded. “I never liked him.”

“I can get them on a flight as early as tonight.” You said plainly. “But I’m guessing Fisk is watching the airports for exactly this so they’d have to fly outta Montreal, but a car is just as easy to get.”

“They’ll be watching my bank accounts.” Ray tried.

“We’ll cover it.” Matt promised and you nodded with a gentle, reassuring smile. You pulled your phone and messaged your old friend Rick, telling him you needed some help.

“Thanks.. But it might be more than I deserve.”

“Look, you… you hurt people.” Karen answered. “But it doesn’t define you.” She took a glance towards you.

“I’ve done worse than you have, believe me.” You offered honestly. “If I can have my life, so can you, Ray.”

Your phone rang in your hands as Matt sent Ray off. You stepped to the far corner and answered, turning your back to your friends as the conversation started.

“Long time, Y/N.” Rick said happily.

“Hasn’t been that long.. I had you help get someone out not too long ago.”

“No, Natasha called me for that.”

“Yeah, but it was for me so potato tomato.”

“I don’t think that’s how it goes.”

“But you knew what I meant.”

“Yeah, yeah. So what do you need this time?”

“Trip to Bihar for a mom and her son.”

He let out a long sigh. “Bihar, huh?”

“But they can’t fly out from New York, so I’ll need a car to Montreal.”

“And a car out of the country? Y/N, this one’ll probably clear out your tab and then some.”

“Yeah, well, if it doesn’t, can you cash out the rest and give it to them?”

“Why are these people important to you?”

“Since when do you ask questions?”

He chuckled slightly. “Tell you what, I still have that little buried airstrip outside New York. They can fly with a friend of mine from there so it’s cheaper and I’ll cover the car.”

“Look at you, going soft.” You teased. “How much does that leave for them?”

“Somewhere around $600.”

“Can you make it $850 and I'll send a check for the rest?”

“I can give them $800 and call it even.”

“You’re the best, Rick. Thank you.”

“I’ll call you when it’s ready. Where am I getting them from?”

“I’ll get you the address when you need it.”

“Seriously?”

“With what I’m getting them away from, I can’t take any chances. It’s nothing personal.”

“Still all business, eh?” He joked and you frowned to yourself. “No worries, Y/N.  We’ll talk soon. And hey?”

“Yeah?”

“Call your cousin.”

“Goodbye, Rick.”

“I’m serious!”

“I know.” You laughed before ending the call and heading back to the table.

You sat beside Matt as Karen stepped out and he turned towards you. He put a hand on your leg and you leaned your head against his shoulder. He huffed a small chuckle before giving your leg a pat. He stood to go change, leaving you in the small room alone. You let out a deep sigh and wondered how you had gotten to that point.

How were you pitted against Fisk again? How had he swooped your partner right out from under you? How had your vigilante persona been dangled over your head as leverage? How was your career at the FBI suddenly dirtier than any work you did for Dreykov?

Maybe your life was going exactly as it was supposed to. Or maybe something diverted it so far off track that it would be nothing but chaos from here on out.

Maybe you should’ve just taken Homeland’s offers to disappear after the carousel.

Ray came back in during your quiet contemplation and paced the small room. Your eyes glanced up, only for a moment, before reverting your soft gaze to the table.

“Can I ask you something?” Ray said tentatively.

“Is it about Exodus?” Your brows raised as you faced him again. You saw the man had stopped walking and was now facing you, fidgeting with his fingers. The uncertainty radiated off him so you gave a small, reassuring smile and waved for him to go ahead.

“How did Dex know? About you?”

“When we got into his apartment, after you left, Matt and I were heading to the roof. Dex threw a piece of glass and it cut the band for my mask. When I grabbed it, he saw me.”

“Did he tell Fisk?”

You chuckled slightly before letting out a loud sigh of amusement. “No.. Fisk already knew. He was trying to intimidate me into working for him by using that secret against me, but Dex was easier to manipulate.”

“Is it true that you can get into peoples heads?”

“I’m not a telepath.” You shook your head. “I’m tele-empathetic. I can read and manipulate emotions.”

“Oh…”

“Speaking of which.” You said as you pulled yourself to sit straighter as Matt came back in and sat at the edge of the boxing ring. “You need to relax a little.” You waved a hand to clear Ray’s nervousness. “Tower’s gonna eat you alive if you don’t get it together.”

“I loved my job.” He reasoned “And I loved being the good guy. I want to be on the right side of the line again.”

“You didn’t love it enough to stop Fisk.” Matt laughed.

“Matt.” You warned as he hopped down and nodded towards Ray.

“Fisk knows how to make people vulnerable. He got my sister-in-law’s health insurance canceled, left my family with bills to pay. Bills that I had to-“

“So you take out a loan, you sell your house, you figure it out. You don’t allow yourself to become an accessory.”

“It wasn’t that easy-“ Ray tried as you argued, “He can’t just sell his house when he has his son to think about!”

“You backed his play, Ray. You moved him into his hotel. You even gave him his toys back, gave him a new one too.”

“He was giving us information that saved lives.”

“Yeah, while he was taking lives. While he was taking over the city.”

“What the hell are you doing?” You grabbed Matt’s arm to turn his focus on you but he yanked his arm away.

“I thought you were my lawyer.” Ray pressed.

“I am your lawyer but I can’t do anything to help you if you can’t answer this one simple question. Why didn’t you blow the whistle when you watched your boss murder an agent?”

“I don’t know.” Ray said quietly.

“Or when you saw Dex walk into that church?”

“Matt.” You tried but he shrugged you off.

“You didn’t say a goddamn word when he murdered a priest.”

“Matt!” You said firmly and turned on him.

“I don’t know.”

“Then why are we here?” Matt yelled.

“Because I took the damn bait!” Ray answered with the same tone. There was a pause while your hand twisted at your side to bring everything back to a calmer level. “Because I didn’t want my son to see me as just an average federal employee… I messed up. I destroyed my life, my family’s life. And I would do anything to take it all back again.”

“Good.” Matt nodded. “You tell that to the DA, and I can help you.”

You smacked his arm as he turned back to the table. You faced Ray and gave an apologetic smile. He gave a small nod before you stepped closer and put an arm over his shoulders. He hesitantly embraced you back and you felt a heavy shudder as that regret toppled against you.

“I know he’s a dick right now-“ You explained as you pulled away. “-but he’s a good lawyer. He’s gonna help you.”

“Thanks, Y/N.” He nodded. “And thank you for helping my family. I don’t know how I can repay you.”

“Consider it my apology.” You shrugged. “It never should’ve got to this point.”

“Yeah..”

“I’ve gotta get to work. Call me if you need anything.” You said quickly. “Oh, and Matt? Fisk nearly had me when he showed me that prison fight. If you hadn’t come back that night, it probably would’ve been me instead of Dex.. I would’ve done whatever I had to so I could protect you and your secret, even in death... Think about that.”

“I never would’ve asked you to do that.” He reasoned.

“You wouldn’t have had to and you know it. I didn’t ask you to stay at Midland but you did because you thought it was right. You thought I’d be safe, right?”

He nodded silently.

“Ray didn’t ask to be stuck in the middle of this bullshit either. Just help him do right by Sami, alright?”

As you were turning to leave, you nearly ran into Tower and Foggy. Foggy gave you a quick hug and you greeted Tower in a hurry before rushing out and to the hotel for

work. 

When you got in, you greeted the few agents that were left. All people you could no longer trust, even though most were nice enough. People that you knew would try to kill you if they were told to, whether they wanted to or not. People that weren’t on your side and may end up paying with their own lives. You set your shoulders as you walked down the hall and followed behind Dex as he entered the suite with the lunch tray.

“Can I get you anything else, Sir?” Dex asked, to which he was ignored.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry about Karen Page. She would be dead if Agents Nadeem and Y/L/N hadn’t interfered.”

Again, he was met with silence and you almost felt bad for him. Dex needed reassurance, needed confirmation that he was doing right by someone. And to deprive him of that was what would truly break whatever was left in him. Whether or not that break would work in your favor was still up in the air so you couldn’t afford it. Not yet, at least.

“After everything you’ve done for me, I… I just wanted

to tell you that I’ll keep my word. I will find her and when I do, I am going-“

“No.” Fisk said simply and even you were surprised. “The matter will be handled but not by you.”

“I can handle Nadeem and Y/N.”

“Do nothing… It’s clear that I have put too great a burden on your shoulders. Your relationship with Agent Y/L/N, it was too sentimental for you to finish the job. You let her beat you.”

“I don’t care about Y/N, alright? I don’t. I can make this right.”

“I see it, the way you look at her.” Fisk nodded slightly as he caught sight of you. “It’s admirable that you want to protect her but it needs to end. She wouldn’t do the same for you.”

“That’s enough.” You spoke finally, earning a quick turnaround from Dex. “Let’s go, Dex.”

You could see the heavy movements of his chest as he breathed deeply. You offered a small nod and held a hand out for him to take. He looked between you and Fisk before taking your hand and letting you guide him out.

The small action was in no way a show of solidarity. It was nowhere near you two being on the same side again. All it was, to you, was a stand against Fisk. You very clearly had already chosen Matt’s side since Dex attacked the Bulletin, and even before that. You wouldn’t turn on the man you loved - and the man who still loved you - for a man who was dead set on killing your friend.

For the time being, you would use that soft spot to your advantage for as long as you had it.

And it showed Fisk that you could still take Dex away.

“You can’t protect them both.” Fisk called as you began to leave. “You’ll have to choose.”

“So will you.” You glanced up and saw Vanessa standing near the top of the stairs. “Who will you protect?”

Back at Fogwell’s, Matt and Foggy were well into their conversation with DA Tower about what Ray knew. The back and forth finally settled on five years jail time for Ray, on all felony accounts. Tower promised to have a grand jury together by 4pm, so all that was left was securing immunity for Y/N.

“We have another agent who’s willing to testify alongside Ray, a character witness in his favor but also a witness to some of these crimes.” Matt began calmly, though if Y/N was there, she’d tell him he was practically vibrating.

“So where are they?” Tower shrugged.

“We’re not bringing her in until she’s guaranteed full immunity.” Foggy continued and Matt knew his friend was feeling that same surge, given how his heart was steadily beating faster.

No matter how many times they’d defended someone, how many times they went tit for tat against their oppositions in court. It was different when their friends were on the line. It always meant that much more.

“She…” Tower repeated with a nod. “It’s Y/L/N, isn’t it?”

“Immunity.” Foggy repeated calmly.

“If she’s as involved and knowledgeable as you say, then she’d be in deep shit. She’d lose her position at the FBI and there’d have to be jail time… What about an anonymous witness?”

“That’s hardly ever used in the US.” Foggy replied with furrowed brows.

“I’m sure I can make it work..”

“If you can’t….” Matt tried, waving his hand expectantly.

“How about… No jail time if she just peacefully retires from the FBI.” Tower shrugged.

“She won’t go for that.” Matt countered. “She loves that job.”

“I don’t care. I mean, don’t you guys see that she is just as much to blame as he is?” Tower insisted, pointing to Ray. “She didn’t stop anything either.”

“No, but she warned you from the start, didn’t she?” Matt answered smoothly, to which Tower sighed heavily. “She told you it was a bad idea but you all went along with it anyway.”

The DA cursed quietly before running a frustrated hand down his face. “If she can’t testify anonymously, then I guess she just has to deal with repercussions from the bureau.”

“Thank you. I’m sure we can get her to agree to that.” Foggy nodded with a proud smile before Tower left. He then turned to Matt and patted his friend on the shoulder. “You’re calling her.”

“What?” Matt’s jaw dropped. “She’s not gonna answer me!”

“She’s not gonna answer me!” Foggy reasoned. “And I thought you guys were patching things up. What happened to that?”

“C’mon, man.”

“When has she ever not answered when you called?” Foggy mumbled as he pulled out his phone and dialed Y/N, putting it on speaker. “But hey, feels good, right?” He grinned.

“What? Letting Ray serve five years?”

“Any other lawyers, he would’ve gone away a lot longer. But I meant working together, you and me.”

Foggy was so caught up in his own words that he didn’t realize Y/N had answered. Even Matt barely heard the shift from dial tone to active call.

“Doing what we’re supposed to be doing the way we’re supposed to be doing it.”

“Yeah..” Matt gave a small chuckle. “It felt good.”

“Right? I miss this. Working together, giving a shit about my clients.”

Y/N laughed quietly on the other end of the call.

“Not just billing midtown jackholes in six minute increments.”

“Bet those jackholes pay well though, huh?” Y/N laughed through the phone. “Matt make fun of the new shoes yet?”

“No, I was getting to it though.” Matt continued the joke and Foggy mocked the laughter. “I don’t know, Y/N/N. He might’ve gotten used to the money.”

“It suits him.” She agreed, and Matt knew there was a smile on her face.

“So I’ll get un-used to it.” Foggy countered happily. “We should do this again. All of us.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. We’re not there yet.”

“But we’re getting there.”

Matt let out a small sigh but nodded, begrudgingly agreeing.

“Guys.. As much as I love this reconciliation, did you call me just so I’d be included?” Y/N asked with a light chuckle.

“No, actually, we have an update.” Foggy answered. “When do you get off?”

“I can probably leave around three for lunch or just take a half day if I need it. Why?”

“Tower can get the grand jury at four and you can get added to testify.”

There was a brief silence in the conversation, filled with the sounds of shuffling feet as Y/N was likely moving further away from her colleagues.

“Okay… What’s at stake for me?”

“You should be able to testify anonymously.” Matt explained. “And then you only have to take whatever backlash comes from the bureau.”

“You mean from Fisk through the bureau.” She scoffed.

“It was either that or an early retirement.” Foggy added. “I think it’s a solid plan, Y/N. And I’m pretty sure we’re gonna need you to sell this thing.”

She sighed and allowed a small silence to pass. Matt could only imagine the thoughts running through her head. She had to be worried about repercussions from Fisk. She’d been taunting him, challenging him since she’d met him, and now she’d be taking yet another stand against him. She had to know that every stand was potentially another nail in her coffin.

But how many times had she cheated death? Matt had started to think she was immortal, though not invulnerable. And they both knew Fisk knew what cards to play to expose her vulnerabilities.

Matt hated and loved that he was one of them.

“Okay.” Was all she said. “I’ll meet you guys where I left you and we can head together.”

“No, we should split.” Matt argued.

“No, we just go unmarked. Maybe a couple switches if it gets tense. I’m not losing this like we lost Jasper.”

“I really think-“

“And I think you need to stop questioning me.” She said firmly. “I’ve done stuff like this more than either of you. I think I should- Oh, shit. I gotta go.”

“Wait, Y/N.” Foggy tried but she was already gone.

“There you are.” Dex said as he approached you with an unusually welcoming smile. “Who you talking to?”

“Friend from college.” You shrugged and shoved your phone away. “Why are you in such a good mood?”

“You’ll see.” He nodded towards the door and began backing away, turning to walk straight once you began following him.

When you two walked in, you were met with two other agents attempting to maneuver a large white painting with a wooden frame.

Rabbit in a snowstorm.

“I thought she wouldn’t sell…” You spoke softly, in mild disbelief that Fisk’s most sentimental possession that he was denied had found its way back to him. “Something about the Nazis and her family being the rightful owners.”

“Just took some extra persuasion.” He shrugged.

That sentence didn’t sit right in your stomach as Vanessa joined you.

“This is from Wilson.” Dex told her and you stepped aside to let her stand between you two.

“I was wondering where it had gone.” Vanessa said, looking at the painting she too adored.

“It was home.” You mumbled and wiped a hand down your face to cover it.

“Y/N, wasn’t it?” She smiled at you. “Y/N Vostokoff.”

“Well, no. Y/L/N, actually.” You admitted.

Her brows raised slightly and she nodded. “Wilson has spoken very highly of you. He respects you a great deal.”

You saw in her eyes a knowing spark. Fisk told her who you were and she was letting you know. She was using her words from the last conversation you had with her as Exodus as a lure to flaunt her knowledge of your truth in front of you.

“The feelings aren’t mutual.” You lifted your chin slightly.

“Tell me, do you still have the painting?”

“Vibrant and loud, but also gentle and vulnerable… Yeah, I do. But it’s not hung anymore. Too many painful memories. The guy I was with when I bought it? We didn’t work out.”

“I see.” She nodded slightly. “Art is wonderful that way, isn’t it? Something so simple-“ She turned to face the large, seemingly blank canvas. “-can be so influential.”

“A bit unnerving as well.”

“As all powerful things are.” She looked over her shoulder to you again. “On either end of the spectrum.”

You looked at the simple painting again and while you remained unimpressed by the creation, your eyes snagged on the new pop of color on the side. A brief splatter of blood that almost no one would notice, but it stood out like neon to you. You then realized that the woman didn’t change her mind. Of course she didn’t. Of course Dex went off and did something terrible to an innocent woman who had suffered her fair share.

“We haven’t formally met yet.” Dex said and took a step to be more in front of Vanessa. Your brows raised slightly but you said nothing. “I’m Agent Poindexter.. Dex. And if you need anything at all, just think of me as the new James Wesley.”

You sucked in a breath between your teeth and tilted your head, earning the attention of both Vanessa and Dex.

“It’s a shame what happened to old Wesley, isn’t it? A whole clip on his chest… And an unrecognizable burn through his sternum. Now, I’d hate to see something like that happen to you.” You said with fake concern lacing your words. It earned you a confused expression that quickly shifted to a glare from your partner.

Vanessa offered you a slight smirk before returning to the previous conversation. “It’s a pleasure to meet you… Vanessa Marianna.” She moved to sit on one of the sofas and Dex shot you a warning look, to which you shrugged.

“I’ve always told Wilson that he has great taste in art.” Dex continued and you rolled your eyes.

“He does love to put beautiful things on display.” She agreed, but there seemed to be something else she was hinting at. “Where’d you find it?”

“Some lady had it. Wilson couldn’t get her to sell it.”

“Well, that must’ve been very disappointing for him. It’s the painting in his collection that means the most to us.”

“I figured as much, so I thought I’d ask her one last time.”

Vanessa scanned the painting again and you saw her attention catch on the slightly bloodied corner as well. You felt a brief uncertainty from her but it shifted to a strange sense of comfort. You wondered if she found peace in violence, in chaos, and maybe that’s why she liked Fisk.

If that was her, a seemingly innocent and unsuspecting woman, what did that mean for you? But when you thought about the violent men you attracted, you were genuinely thankful you were still alive.

The rest of your day was uneventful and you left for lunch right on time. Dex tried to get you to stay, to go with him and “get things back to normal” but you refused. He tried to reason that he was just off from Julie ghosting him and you had half a mind to scream that she was probably dead. Only reasons you didn’t were because you didn’t want to cause a scene when you were drastically outnumbered and if someone threw Matt’s death at you like that, you would’ve gone on a massacre that rivaled your escape from the Red Room.

“Courthouse. No stops.” Matt told the van driver before ushering Ray to the back. You hurried over and watched the relief cross Ray’s face as you got to them. “Nice of you to join us.” Matt smiled gently.

“Yeah, well.” You shrugged with a smile. “It’s not like I have a reason not to.”

“None of this bothers you, does it?” Ray asked a nervous chuckle as you climbed into the back of the van.

“Y’know, with the company of my esteemed attorney here, I have to tell you.” You began dramatically, watching Matt try to hold back a smile. “Rahul Nadeem, I’ve been through so much worse.. Fisk doesn’t scare me.”

“You ever think maybe he should?” He tried as the van took off, just trying to keep his mind distracted so as to not lose his nerve.

You cleared your throat slightly to break up the tension between you all. With a small flick of your fingers, you cleared his uncertainty and let trust fill its place. Trust in you and in Matt. He looked at you and then to Matt, who offered an interested head tilt in return, before he nodded to himself.

“I thought about it… But then who would do this?” You gestured to the van and he broke a small smile.

“You’re nuts, yknow that?” He laughed.

“So I’ve been told.” You nodded with a grin.

After a bit of silence, Ray turned to Matt.

“I’ve gotta ask you something.” He said simply.

“You wanna know about Daredevil.” Matt sighed and you tilted your head, quietly acknowledging that it was a fair thing to wonder.

“I stepped off the path for a few weeks and it destroyed my life… But your life, both of you, you step on and off all the time.”

“It complicates our life, too.” Matt said, seemingly thinking of just how that lifestyle affected him. “Trying to have it both ways.”

“Does it?” Ray scoffed slightly. “I mean, your friends know who you are, what you do. Your girl-“ He gestured to you. “-is right there with you.”

“My life almost got them killed.” Matt countered. “And not for the first time.”

“Not to mention what I drag them into.” You confessed and gave a small lift of your hand. “Everything he puts at risk, so do I. Problem is that I tend to make more rash decisions because I’m the one who’s stepped off the path… He talks about what he’s done and all this but he’s never gone far from the path, y’know? He’s always just walking next to it and finds his way back. Every time, I still try to do the right thing and stay on the straight and narrow but… There’s blood on my hands, Ray. A lot. And there’s always going to be blood on my hands. But if it keeps my friends safe and it helps someone else sleep at night, if a little girl can go home to her parents instead of becoming something like me, I’ll do it again.. We don’t get it both ways. We each sacrifice a lot because we continue to choose this. We give up certain things and..” Your eyes turned to Matt. “Even certain people.”

“Yeah, I don’t see how we could.” Matt sighed, his head turning to the floor as if disappointed. That feeling flashed, only for a moment, before disappearing and being replaced. You felt bad as you understood it was what you said.

Ray insinuated that you could have the people you loved and the lifestyle you continued to choose. And your words implied that you didn’t believe that or didn’t want it. But it wasn’t that you didn’t want it. It was that, at every opportunity, life seemed to not let you. You didn’t believe you were meant to have everything you wanted, so you sacrificed your relationship with Matt because just having him as a friend was better than him dead.

“You guys already do.” Ray said gently, meeting your eyes and offering a small nod towards Matt to which you frowned slightly. “I messed up, and no matter what happens today, I don’t know if my wife’s ever coming back.”

“She loves you, Ray.” You offered honestly, earning a small smile from him. “You’re the father of her child, for crying out loud. It might take time but you’re not gonna lose her. You won’t lose your family.”

“And your friends, they keep coming back.. How do you hold on to them?”

You turned to Matt and he sighed to himself. You leaned back and crossed your arms with slightly raised brows, interested in what Matt would say.

“It’s not me.. It’s them.” He nodded towards you. “They hold on to me.”

You noticed Matt’s attention shift, but all you could hear was the honking. You pushed yourself up quickly and climbed to a kneel as you ditched your blazer. You reached for your gun as Matt motioned for you to get down. Seconds later, he grabbed Ray and your trio dropped to your stomachs. When the bullets finally stopped, you got up quickly and gripped your weapon. You turned over your shoulder and felt a fading sensation from the front seat.

“Driver’s dead.” You said quickly before waving a hand to Ray’s attention “Get your gun out. Matt?”

“Uh..” Matt said before grabbing your hands and showing where to shoot. “There’s a guy right here.”

“Y/L/N, we can’t shoot blind.” Ray tried.

“They’re reloading. Fire your weapon!” Matt insisted.

You groaned in mild annoyance and fired two quick shots. Matt gave you a new target and you fired again. Ray took the third so you hopped out of the van.

You felt a hand trying to close around your arm as you landed but you were quick to move out of reach. You kept your gun raised as you crept around the stopped vehicles. You came across a man on the floor, gripping his bleeding leg, so you came up and pressed your foot against the wound. He yelled in pain so you fired a shot through his forehead. A loud shatter drew your attention and you saw Matt diving through the windshield.

You rolled your eyes slightly at his dramatics before meeting with him and Ray.

“We need to stick together.” Matt scolded as he repositioned his glasses.

“If we did what I said, we wouldn’t be here.” You mumbled as you took position in front of them. “Just follow me.”

“Y/N, just stop and listen.” He grabbed your arm and yanked your back. You pulled out of his grip and used your other hand to press him back against the nearest car. “Trust me, alright? You two pretend to lead me and do what I say.”

“Мне не нужна твоя помощь.” You sneered, pushing off him and moving forward again. (I don’t need your help.)

You moved to the other side of the cars and got to the side of the next two. While they were distracted firing at Ray, you moved quickly. You ran at them and let yourself collide with the first man, hooking an arm around his shoulders. Using the first man as leverage, you slammed your feet against the second one. The impact made him fall back and hit the back of his head against the car.

As your momentum shifted to push you backwards, you moved your leg until you felt your foot against the car. You hooked the toe of your shoe into the wheel well. That allowed you somewhere to steady yourself and pull, which forced the first man to slam back against the hood. You climbed up so one knee was against his chest as you slammed your gun against his temple.

You watched as Matt and Ray made their way forward but you were distracted by a heavy hit of fear. You quickly looked around the cars before seeing the familiar yellow fog leaking from a sedan a few feet away. At the same time you were making your way to her, one of Fisk’s gunmen was heading that way.

You acted fast, firing a shot into the man’s leg. He buckled almost instantly, which allowed Matt time to pick him up and slam him into the vehicle. You opened her door and got her attention while Matt fell into his helpless blind man routine. Flashing your badge was enough to get her to trust you and run as fast as she could in the other direction.

When you found the guys again, they were stuck in a fistfight on a bus. You climbed to the hood of the closet car, knelt as you lined your shot at the man that had Ray, and fired. The bullet landed in the side of the man’s head, causing him to fall limp. You slid down and hurried across as Matt kicked a man out of the bus. When he tried to get up, you slammed your heel down to finish it.

“Oh shit.” Matt groaned.

“What?” Your brows furrowed.

“It’s a cab.”

“Who cares? Just get in. Ray, you drive.”

You climbed into the backseat and shoved your gun back into place. You wiped the blood splatters from your hands and face but could do nothing about the splotches on your clothes.

At least you had evidence of the attack.

Ray made it a quick drive to the courthouse and the three of you were quickly ushered into the building. You met with Foggy and Karen, who didn’t bother to hide their concerned expressions. You offered a small smile for reassurance but that seemed to only deepen Foggy’s frown. Tower rushed your group through the halls, which allowed for Foggy to give a rundown on what would happen next.

“What about my family?” Ray asked, turning to you.

“My guy is taking care of it. They should be out by tonight, early morning at the latest. Karen, can you get the details to Seema?” You leaned around the group to see her on the far end.

“Yeah, yeah I can.” She nodded quickly. 

You pulled a folded envelope from your back pocket and passed it over, with all the details of where they were going and what you were able to give them, along with the number to text her address to once you said it was good. You explained that you’d tell them once you heard back.

“Right after I do this.” She gestured outside.

“Well, wait.” You stepped behind the guys to move closer. “What are you trying to do?”

“Press conference.”

“Are you insane?”

“Look, it’ll keep the majority of eyes off you guys for a minute. I’m pretty sure he’s gonna be pretty interested in what I’m gonna have to say.”

“Karen…”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Be careful.” You sighed and she patted your arm before hurrying off.

Tower led you and Ray into the courtroom and the small room had an entirely different atmosphere. It was suffocatingly tense and the fear hung heavy in the room. You cleared your throat slightly to try and break it up, but it seemed to swell right back together. You tilted your head slightly with a quick brow raise to admit to yourself that it wouldn’t change.

“Before we begin, I should make it known that your petition for an anonymous witness has been declined. Given the severity of this case, any and all federal agents need to be identified and held responsible. Will both witnesses proceed?” The judge explained as you all approached the bench.

Ray’s hand found yours and you shivered slightly. It was no different, to testify anonymously or not. You stood against Fisk before and survived. You took on Dex multiple times and survived. The Hand. Yakuza. Red Room. Billy Russo. You wouldn’t turn and cower because your name was going to be attached to your words.

You would stand against Fisk, mask or no mask and taunt his retaliations yet again.

Let him come. Let him try.

“Yes, I will.” You nodded.

They took Ray’s testimony first while you sat beside Tower. It seemed to drag on, every word raking across your nerves. Your own body felt electric, thrumming heavily with every second that ticked by. At first, you assumed it was your own jitters but you had gone through worse. You were raised to withstand worse, so why were you so rattled?

You realized then it was coming from somewhere else. You turned the jury and saw the faintest buzzing around them. Understandably, it was a huge case to be a part of so it made sense they’ll have some anxiety. But one juror in particular stood out. One seemed to be vibrating in his seat.

Something else was weighing on him.

He looked quickly between you and Ray, fidgeting with his hands as his leg bounced hard enough to rock him in his seat.

Your eyes closed and you sighed to yourself as you understood. Fisk had a man on the grand jury. Nothing you said would matter.

You’d already lost.