#both series are tagged because we drug in everyone

[lotusbxtch]

SoCal to NorCal: Chapter 2

Series Masterlist Chapter 1: Malibu

Series Pairing: husband!Joel Miller x f!Reader x boyfriend!Frankie Morales Series Summary: Joel is your rock, and Frankie is your ocean. So what happens when you bring the three of you together? - or - you and Frankie roadtrip up from Southern California to Northern California so he can meet Joel. A polyamory fic. This series exists in the Triple Frontier universe and is a Joel Miller AU/Triple Frontier AU. Series Rating: Explicit, 18+ only, MDNI

Chapter 2: Highway 101 & Beyond

Chapter Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!Reader x Joel Miller

Chapter Summary: As you road trip north, you and Frankie struggle to voice your growing feelings for each other. Joel suggests something surprising, and the three of you unexpectedly explore new territory together.

Word Count: 8.7k

Rating: Explicit, 18+ only, MDNI

Chapter Warnings/Tags: polyamory, phone sex, video sex, masturbation (f and m), fingering (f receiving), oral (f receiving), unprotected P in V (wrap it up pls!), multiple orgasms, creampie, cum kink, cum eating, there’s a lot of cum lol i’m sorry in advance if that’s not your thing, squirting, slight size kink, mentions of food, mentions of Frankie’s young daughter named Isabella, mentions of drug addiction and recovery, gratuitous descriptions of male and female anatomy, she/her pussy pronouns, heavy use of Spanish pet names/nicknames, Frankie the PEK, Joel’s filthy mouth is absolutely its own warning, idiots in love, a splash of angst, soft!Joel but also menace!Joel because we love a man with duality, Reader uses she/her pronouns, Reader is able-bodied, has breasts, and has hair that can be pulled, otherwise no description of Reader's skin color, size, body shape, hair color, eye color, or ethnicity, no use of y/n. Everyone is testing negative for STDs and Reader is on birth control.

a/n: The road trip continues! I’m so excited to dive more into Frankie and Reader’s relationship, and I KNOW you all have been waiting for Joel to get into the mix. Well, buckle up buttercups, because he is about to be THE BIGGEST MENACE lmao. A deeply grateful thank you to my darling @for-a-longlongtime, who encourages me every day, helped me massively flesh out some of the more emotional aspects of the chapter, and who I talk to almost every day, in addition to being my beta reader. Thank you @mountainsandmayhem, @alltheirdamn , and @mermaidgirl30 for screaming with me about these three when I shared excerpts with you. And thank you to everyone for being patient with me while I got this written up between huge life events (both good and bad)! Dividers & banners by the amazing @saradika-graphics, thank you. (Please note that the chapter graphic is NOT meant to be accurate to Reader — vibes only!)

If you enjoy my writing, please leave a comment, feedback or reblog! It would mean the world to me. Thank you!

You’re so happy.

After your short but memorable stay with Santiago, you and Frankie have been on the road, spending the last few days leisurely meandering up Highway 1 towards San Francisco. You take turns driving, playing car DJ, and sightseeing as you travel north. Tanned feet on the dash, chaste kisses to the back of hands while driving, a shifting playlist between your differing musical tastes. Nights spent snuggled up in a rental or hotel room, playing 20 Questions or “Would You Rather”, kisses turning into intertwining of limbs, labored breath and fingers gripping bed sheets, the murmuring of each other’s names like prayers. 

In Ojai, you drank a little too much wine at the tasting room and biked back to the hotel with wobbly legs. Hearst Castle landed on your list for the formerly-captive-now-wild zebras (you) and to gawk at “ridiculously rich people shit” (Frankie). Ocean kayaking amongst the sea otters and sea lions in Morro Bay filled both of you with wonder. Frankie let you lead him into every little boutique shop that called your name, contentedly trailing behind you while you browsed.

Wherever you were, Frankie indulged your sweet tooth by sniffing out the best artisan ice cream shops. One time during a playful debate, you bopped your frozen treat to Frankie’s nose, giggling at his surprised expression and kissing the sticky-sweet remnants off of him before he picked you up over his shoulder. Your shrieks of joy ricocheted off the small town street until he tossed you in the backseat of his Jeep and crawled in after you, demanding a taste of something sweeter. Before you knew it, you were moaning and sighing under Frankie’s ministrations in an abandoned parking lot. The sight of his messy curls between your thighs as he lapped at your core propelled you into a stratosphere of pleasure. 

The next morning, you continued your road trip north and stopped in Santa Cruz to experience the boardwalk since Frankie had never been. Sun-drenched wood slats under your feet, the crisp, briny breeze cooling your exposed skin. You and Frankie meander slowly, eating chocolate dipped soft serve cones and curly fries, hopping onto the slightly rickety carnival rides, including the famous wooden (and creaky) Giant Dipper roller coaster. (“This thing can’t be structurally sound if it’s making all that noise,” Frankie muttered, but you still got him to get on.)

Adrenaline trickling through your veins, giddy with endorphins from the coaster, you and Frankie debate who had the best strategy for the carousel’s metal ring toss game. “You can’t just huck it like a ninja star,” he gripes about your approach, shaking his head with a smile. “You have to finesse and time it, and throw it like a frisbee so it floats in.”

“I swear, I was way closer than you were,” you shoot back. “I’ve had my whole life to perfect my technique. One of my rings hit the clown’s mouth! More than I can say about your attempts.” You stick your tongue out at Frankie, and he rolls his eyes playfully. Neither of you had set off the lights and buzzers that indicated a successful throw. He’s about to point this out when his phone trills.

Pulling it out of his pocket, his eyebrows knit together a bit before answering. “Mamá,” Frankie says into the phone, “Que pasa? Is something wrong?” He had dropped off Isabella with her for the duration of the road trip, his mother always eager to have “girl time” with her only grandchild. 

“No, no, mijo,” she responds, “Estámos bien. Isa is napping. I just wanted to call you and see how your vacation is going. You work so hard, you deserve to have this time to yourself!”

Frankie breaths a small sigh of relief. “Oh, okay, good. Well, I’ve gotta keep it short. We’re out here on the pier.”

“ ‘WE?’ ” you suddenly hear screeching out of the phone, her tone ecstatic. “Who are you with? Oh my goodness, are you with that girl?” 

Frankie winces, holding the phone away from his ear as you chuckle. “Yes, mamá,” Frankie responds, “the woman I told you about. You don’t need to yell.” He looks at you, a blush slowly creeping up his face, a sheepish smile on his lips. He mouths “five minutes” while walking towards the side of the walkway. Nodding your head with a smile, you whisper, “take your time,” and kiss his cheek, settling on a bench nearby but out of earshot of the conversation, allowing Frankie his privacy. 

“Oh, mijo, that’s wonderful!” his mother exclaims. “When do I get to meet her?”

Frankie huffs out a laugh. “Mamá, relax. You will get to meet her in time. We’re not quite there yet.”

“What are you waiting for? Haven’t you been together for a few months now?”

“Yes, but…” Frankie trails off, not quite sure his mother can handle a full explanation of your situation. Honestly, as he thinks about it, he isn’t even 100% sure what to call the two of you anymore. “It’s complicated,” he says simply.

The both of you agreed to enjoy what you had with no expectations. But “no expectations” changed over the days, weeks, months to become a desire to be around each other more days than not. Visits in the dead of night became dates during the day, morphing into waking up in each other’s arms, eating breakfast together over the weekends, bedhead and sleepy eyes and warm smiles. He thinks about the way you make him laugh, head thrown back, with his whole chest. He thinks about your playful debates, the way you tease him when he loses to you in Mario Kart. He thinks about the way you writhe under, on top of, beside him as he draws pleasure from your body again and again, your moans and gasps creating the prettiest song he’s ever heard. Frankie thinks about your soul, your heart, your innate goodness, and then he thinks about how he can’t possibly deserve any more than you already give him, despite him realizing more every day that he can’t imagine his life without you.

Frankie’s mother clears her throat on the other end of the line, and he snaps back to the present moment.

“Francisco,” she says softly. “It doesn’t have to be complicated. Just tell her how you feel, and see where it takes you. If she's as special as you say she is, you're going to regret not saying anything.”

Frankie looks down at his boots, and then back at you. You smile at him from the bench, your sundress fluttering slightly in the breeze. “Mamá, I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“If you want something, Francisco, go for it. I always told you that you need to be more confident in yourself.” Frankie’s mother sighs affectionately. “You have done so much for your career, for Isabella… you have more than made up for your transgressions, mijito. Do this one thing for yourself. Take the risk.”

He thinks back to the beginning of your relationship, when he said he didn’t want anything serious because he was focusing on his career and his daughter. Not only was he in a stable job with room for upward movement, and becoming the father that Isabella deserved, it was because of you that he was able to achieve his goals. You’ve always supported him, encouraged him, and given him reality checks when he needed it. Not once have you asked for more in the relationship, but he never felt like you had to. He was willing to give you that and so much more. He was nearly certain that you felt the same way about having each other as a more permanent part of your lives, but without ever asking the question directly, he couldn’t be certain that it wasn’t just all in his head.

Frankie swallows thickly. “You’re right,” he acquiesces. “I’ll talk to her soon, when the moment is right. I don’t want to lose her.”

His mother coos sweetly at him. “Now that’s the son I know and love! I’ll let you go have fun with your lady. I love you, Frankie.”

“I love you too, Mamá,” Frankie whispers, and then ends the call. 

You’re people watching at the boardwalk as Frankie approaches you from behind, wrapping his arms around your shoulders. There’s no surprise triggered by his arms around you, just a calm ease and warmth. He presses kisses into your hair and sighs deeply. Tipping your head to the side, you return the kisses up his arm and rub his knuckles with your thumbs.

“How’s your mamá?” you ask. 

“Good,” Frankie responds, “just checking in to make sure I was having fun on my vacation.” A sheepish grin blooms on his face. “Sorry you had to hear her scream about you.”

You snicker as you stand up from the bench. “Nah, it wasn’t my ear she yelled into… But I didn’t mind at all. It’s sweet how she checks up on you.”

He grins, lifting his cap briefly to run his fingers through his hair. “She knows how hard I’ve been working to make things right with my job, and with Isabella, and she’s been pushing me to take some time off.” He sighs, looking off into the distance, and you know him well enough to know he’s doubtful of his progress.

“You deserve it, Frankie,” you murmur to him, lacing your fingers with his. You both start strolling along the boardwalk again, Frankie looking deeply in thought. “You’re always so hard on yourself, and at the very least, you deserve some time off.”

Glancing over at him, your breath catches. Frankie’s already staring at you, curls wild in the sea breeze, brown eyes warm and sparkling. Suddenly your chest feels like it’s cracked open, warm and aching. You feel the spark in your heart, and you realize that your feelings may be more than a simple affection. You search Frankie’s eyes and you can see a steady hidden layer under the warmth of his gaze as he lifts your joined hands to his lips, kissing them softly. It makes your heart do somersaults, the deeper unspoken emotions that flickered across his irises. A deep devotion that tugs at your soul.

He deserves the world.

Frankie huffs a laugh, dropping his gaze. “Everyone seems to tell me that. Guess I should stop being so damn stubborn and start believing them.” You continue walking, Frankie swinging your hands between the two of you as you settle into comfortable silence.

This is more than lust and companionship, you think to yourself. The way he looks at you, touches you with such reverence. It goes deeper than respect and fondness. Only Joel had ever given you butterflies and yet here you are, a fluttering in your gut, foreign but familiar. But what does that mean for you and Joel? 

Can your heart love two people at once?

Whoa…. wait, “love”??

You push the thoughts away with a shake of your head, determined to be present in the moment with Frankie. Bumping gently into his shoulder to get his attention, you flash him a smile.

“Wanna see which one of us can win first at the dime toss game?” you ask Frankie, and his eyes crinkle at the corners the way you love so much when he smiles in return, his competitive streak flaring.

“Sweetness, I thought you’d never ask. Prepare to lose.”

After you absolutely demolish Frankie at the dime toss (he swears they rigged the bowls he was aiming for), you and Frankie hit the road towards the cute cottage you’d booked for the night. Among the draws was its proximity to good food while being simultaneously off the beaten path. You were dying to try the seafood restaurant nearby, which was recommended to Frankie by one of his coworkers.

Per usual for the northern California coast, the fog began to roll in from the beach, casting ghostly tendrils across the road. Fog was one of the things you missed most about home while in SoCal, where it was a rarity. You roll up the windows and flip on your seat heater with a content sigh, then drape your body over the center console to grab your oversized cardigan from the back. The move makes your short dress hike further up your thighs as you reach for the soft knit. Frankie glances in the rearview mirror, spotting a flash of the curve of your ass where it peeks out of your panties. The sight has him already hardening in his pants. A quiet groan rises from his throat involuntarily, and you smirk, knowing exactly what he’s reacting to. 

“God, hermosa, that fucking dress,” Frankie grits. “I’ve been half hard all day seeing you in it.” You say nothing, but look over at him, your smirk growing bigger as you recline the seat a bit more and stretch your body just so, making the light blue eyelet lace material ride higher up your thighs, which you spread lasciviously. 

“Oh?” you tease. “What are you going to do about it?” You see Frankie’s eyes flash with desire for a moment, but he works hard to keep his cool.

His hand inches up your inner thigh while he drives, teasing swirls with his fingertips across your soft skin. You pant quietly, your breasts heaving gently against the low, curved neckline, and bite back a whimper as more arousal pools in your cotton underwear. “Take off your panties,” Frankie gently commands.

Dragging the material down your hips and legs, you let your thighs part for him, inviting his touch. Frankie keeps his eyes on the road, calmly navigating towards a quiet backroad. His focused demeanor is a lie though; his increasingly rapid breathing is a dead giveaway. When his fingers brush against your drenched folds, he groans and grips the wheel tighter with his driving hand.

“Fuck, baby,” Frankie grits out. “You’re so fucking wet for me already.” His nimble fingers explore you, spreading the slick around, swiping a soft circle around the pearl of your clit. He plays with you, and you start to writhe. A smirk blooms on his face as he clocks your movement. Frankie loves teasing you like this, drawing things out until you buckle under the pressure of your mounting desires. But the throbbing of his cock and your soft mewling sounds are making him desperate. 

Frankie pulls the car over to a small lot connected to an overlook, its parking spaces empty since the vista point is shrouded in fog. Trees block the view of your parking spot to traffic on the road. He throws the car in park, ripping his seatbelt off, and pulls your face to his for a passionate kiss. Swallowing your moans with his lips, Frankie tangles his tongue with yours while his fingers grip the base of your skull. 

“You’re killing me with this slutty little sundress,” he pants, sliding his hand down to cup your naked sex. 

You let out a strangled cry. “Frankie, I need you.”

Frankie shushes you gently. “Get in the back, nenita. I’ve got you.” You comply, scrambling over the center console and pushing your back up against the door, legs spreading wide and fingers tracing your glistening folds. He feels like he’s going to lose his mind if he doesn’t get his mouth on you in the next twenty seconds. He gets out of the front seat, yanking open the driver’s side back door and shutting it behind him after he slides in towards you.

“Gonna suck on that sweet little clit of yours ‘til you scream,” Frankie growls as he crawls towards your body, pushing your knees further towards your torso so you’re opened up lewdly for him. He slides his middle and ring fingers into his mouth to wet them, slipping them out and immediately burying them to the second knuckle in your soft cunt. A high-pitched whine is ripped from your throat.

“Frankie!” you whine, eyebrows furrowing together as you lock eyes with him. The mocha richness of his eyes has given way to pits of nearly black desire, and he keeps them on you while he presses his tongue flat to your swollen clit. Your eyes roll back and you nearly scream in pleasure. 

“That’s it, baby, I’m gonna make you come so hard,” he murmurs into your drenched folds, and then buries his face into you. You weave your fingers into his fluffy curls, opening your eyes to watch him at work.

Frankie’s eyes slip closed as he rhythmically pumps his thick fingers in and out of your pussy, curving them slightly up to hit that magical spot you can never quite reach the same way as he does. He sucks your hardened clit into his mouth, nestling it between the cleft of his lower lip and an almost imperceptible divot in the center of his tongue. That sweet, talented tongue swirls in precise tiny circles with the perfect pressure, while continuing to suckle exactly how you like it. Joel may go down on you like nobody’s business, but Frankie has cunnilingus nearly down to a science. At this point, he knows the exact series of moves to bring you to orgasm, and how long it takes really just depends on how long he feels like eating pussy that day. Sometimes, he’ll lay with his face between your legs for hours.

And right now? Frankie seems to want to break his own record for how fast he can get you to come.

Within seconds, you feel your orgasm gathering in your muscles. The tight shimmer of pleasure reverberates across your skin, in your bones, through every cell in your body, suspended in time, just waiting for a release. Frankie feels you tightening on his fingers, and you swear you feel him smirk against your slick folds. He keeps going, never faltering his movements, as the feeling inside you builds.

“Frankie,” you whine again, your body starting to shake. It shouldn't be physically possible for him to get you there so fast, and yet you feel that bowstring drawing impossibly tense in your body. “Frankie, I’m gonna… I’m so….” you keen, high-pitched, your chest heaving fast. Frankie moans against your folds, pressing just a bit harder with his fingers, crooking them just right, and sucks your clit hard.

You’re lucky that the area is truly secluded, because the scream tearing out of your throat as you shatter in ecstasy is loud. Your thighs lock around Frankie’s head as he moans deeply into your pussy, drawing out your orgasm expertly. Slick weeps from your cunt, soaking his lips and chin, and he slurps down every drop. He slows and gentles his ministrations on your core until he feels your thighs relax. Pulling back, he gives your folds one last kiss before he moves up your body to hover over your face, admiring the flush lighting up your features. Frankie kisses you gently, and you cup his face with both hands.

“Sweetest cunt I’ve ever tasted,” Frankie slurs, pussydrunk on you.

“God, you’re incredible,” you murmur against his lips, kissing him deeper, the taste of your own essence making you clench involuntarily. You can feel the thick, hard line of him against your thigh. Moaning, you press yourself into him. “Let me ride you, Francisco.” 

Frankie lets out a groan as he pulls you up. You rest your knees on the backseat, littering kisses over his face as he unbuttons and shoves his jeans and boxers down. His cock smacks his belly, precum smearing on his skin. Leaning over, you lick it off, his salty taste invading your senses. Frankie groans again when you suck him into your mouth. You gently lick his foreskin and pull it down to reveal his ruddy head, the tip leaking. Slurping and suckling, you sneak a hand between your thighs to rub your clit, the action not going unnoticed by Frankie. It seems to snap him out of his trance.

“I need to be inside you so badly,” he grits out, pulling you onto his lap. The skirt of your sundress flares over the both of you. Reaching down, he brushes his tip against your folds, making you both whine. Swirling it through your combined slick and spit, Frankie presses his head into you slowly. You take over, grabbing his hand to place it over your hip, and grind down on him, letting his length slip further and further into you. Your breath hitches as he spreads your walls, always a stretch no matter how many times you’ve taken him.

Frankie drops his head back against the headrest, his hands gripping you tightly. “You’re always so fucking tight for me, querida,” he pants, his eyes glazing over with lust. His words prompt another wave of slick to leak out of you, aiding your descent down his shaft as you swirl your cunt around him. Both of you moan, and soon enough you’re fully seated on him. You lean down, kissing him passionately, and he responds in kind, slipping his tongue into your mouth to massage against yours. Your hips begin to roll and Frankie breaks the kiss, a deep rumble of satisfaction vibrating through his chest.

“Fuck, baby, your pussy’s like hot velvet,” he grits out, grabbing your hips to buck up into you. He trails kisses down your jaw and leaves little love bites as he goes. The car is filled with the slap of flesh, the squelch of your cunt as you fuck yourself on his cock, your shared gasps and panted breaths. Frankie slips the straps of your dress down, pulling down the cups with it, your breasts spilling out of their confines. He ducks his head down and sucks a nipple into his mouth. You whimper.

“God, Francisco,” you whine, riding him harder, spurred on by the way he laves his tongue over your pebbled nipple, gently catching and pulling it between his teeth. He switches to your other breast, his other hand anchored to your hip to guide your motions. His cock kisses that spot deep in you that only Frankie and Joel have ever found, and the feeling rips another moan from you. 

“That’s it, fucking ride my cock,” Frankie pants. You lean forward, changing the angle a bit until your clit catches on his belly, which triggers your pussy to clench in pleasure. 

“Oh god, you feel so fucking good in me,” you moan, grinding down harder onto him, massaging your walls with his thick shaft and your clit with the friction of his course hairs. “You fill me up so well.”

“Softest, wettest pussy I’ve ever fucked, I swear,” Frankie slurs, losing himself in the feeling of you wrapped around his length. “You feel like silk on me, nenita.”

Your clit swells with the stimulation of every roll of your hips, making your cunt clench around Frankie. He lets out a whine. Your brows furrow in concentration as you seat his length in you as far as it will go, and he nearly chokes when he feels his tip kiss your cervix.

“You’re so deep in me,” you moan, working yourself on his shaft. “Tell me how good this pussy feels.” You’re desperate to hear him lose it.

“You feel amazing,” he whines, his dick hardening and swelling even more as he approaches his high. It feels like he’s lighting up every nerve ending inside of you. At this point, Frankie’s lap is dripping with your arousal, slick squelching and slapping sounds as thick in the air as the smell of sex. Both of you are covered in a sheen of sweat. You can tell he’s getting closer, so you start fucking him harder, driving his cock deeply into you, to the point where you feel like you’re beginning to meld together, a writhing, wet, hot mess of pleasure.

“Yeah?” you ask rhetorically, riding him harder and harder. “Are you going to come for me, Francisco?” You continue to use his full name, knowing how much it turns him on when you say it. “I want you to fuck me so full of your cum; I wanna be dripping for days. I want you to fill me up so bad.”

“Oh fuck, nenita,” Frankie whines as he loses himself in your heat. “I’m gonna fuck you so full. Gonna give you all of my cum. Gonna put it right where it belongs, deep in this cunt.” You roll your hips harder, your tits bouncing with the effort, and Frankie fucking whimpers. Your pussy tightens at the sound. It always turns you on so much when he loses control.

“Do it, Francisco. Fill me up,” you pant, your own orgasm barrelling towards you. Frankie’s thighs begin to quiver under you, and you know he’s almost there, too. You grip the base of his skull with one hand while the other steadies yourself on his shoulder, and then you lean down, nipping his earlobe. He whimpers again, completely fucked out.

“Come for me, now,” you beg in a whisper.

Frankie shouts as his grip on you turns to steel, and at the first hot spurt of his cum inside of you, your orgasm rips through you. Your cunt clenches, prolonging his pleasure, as your release soaks Frankie’s lap and his cum paints your insides. You both cry out at the feeling, foreheads pressed together. Frankie leans in and latches his lips to yours in a sloppy kiss.

As you both come down from your highs, you lean into Frankie, and he rubs his hands along your back soothingly. The softest kisses pepper your face, your sweat cooling down your skin while you both heave breaths, trying to recover. You weave your fingers into Frankie’s damp curls and scratch his scalp.

“Couldn’t wait ‘til we got to the rental, huh?” you quip.

Frankie huffs a laugh and hums in pleasure at your ministrations on his scalp. “Not when you tempt me with those dresses, baby. You know what flashing me a peek under your skirt does to me.”

“Oh, so now it’s my fault?” you tease, nipping his ear.

He jerks away at the ticklish sensation, then gently bites your shoulder in retribution. “Such a tease, hermosa,” he tuts. You both begin to untangle your sweat-slick limbs, and you slip yourself off of Frankie’s cock, groaning quietly in contentment as you stem the flow of his spend from your pussy with your fingers, shuffling around, seeking your panties. Finding them in the front seat, you slip them on, pressing the fabric into your cunt to keep yourself full of Frankie. Both of you get back into the front seats.

You fix your hair as you settle back in but pause, looking up to see your boyfriend staring at you, an achingly soft expression painting his whole face. Amber eyes, golden flecked irises, striking deep to your soul.

Breath catching in your throat, vulnerability rolling through your nerves. That flutter in your heart once again.

Before you can process anything, Frankie shakes his head slightly, as if emerging from a daze. “Well I’ve certainly worked up an appetite,” he quips, squeezing your knee gently. “Let’s get some of that clam chowder.” You nod, breathing deeply and shoot him a crooked little smile. He intertwines his fingers with yours, and then puts the Jeep into gear.

A couple hours later, you arrive at the rental, Frankie bringing both of your bags in. You close the door behind the two of you, kicking off your shoes, and survey the place. A small kitchenette to the left, cute velour loveseat to the right, and through adorable French doors, the king size bed, dressed in the fluffiest looking bedding. A dresser and full-length gilded mirror complete the decor in the bedroom, everything fitting perfectly into a cottagecore dream aesthetic. The last of the natural lighting filters through the windows.

Frankie drops a quick kiss to your forehead. “I need to scrub off the road,” he says in passing while stripping off his clothes. “Why don’t you relax a bit before we decide what we’re doing for the rest of the night?”

You snort out a laugh. “Frankie, it’s not like we’re on the Oregon Trail in a covered wagon. We’ve been driving in an air-conditioned car, Mr. Drama Queen.” He laughs and tosses his hat at you, disappearing into the en suite bathroom and closing the door behind him.

Settling into the plush bed, you set Frankie’s hat on the dresser and grab your phone to catch up on messages missed during the drive, when suddenly your phone starts buzzing. Joel’s name flashes onto the screen, and you hit the green button to accept the video call.

“Hey, baby,” you coo, grinning widely as Joel’s handsome tan face appears on your screen. His umber & silver hair is damp and slicked back, likely fresh out of the shower just like Frankie will be in a few minutes. The headboard of the bed you share with Joel sits behind him. “To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you?”

Joel chuckles. “What, can’t a man call his pretty wife just to see her face and tell her that he loves her?”

You giggle. “I suppose that’s a good enough reason.” His eyes soften, and then flick down the screen.

“I see you’re wearing that sundress I like so much,” Joel muses. 

You smile, extending the arm holding your phone so he can see more of your body. “Oh, this little number?” You shift onto your knees, spreading them wide and running your other hand teasingly slow from your collarbone, down the slope of your breast, across your waist, and then down your thigh, retracing your path slightly to lift the hem of the skirt. “Frankie hadn’t seen it before, and he likes it just as much as you do.” Your cheeks flush at the memory of Frankie taking you in the car, and Joel hums lowly when you break eye contact with him.

“Did you and Frankie get up to some fun earlier, baby?” You pause, unsure of where this is going, and then nod your head.

“Words, sweetheart,” Joel reminds you.

“Yes, Joel,” you whisper breathlessly. 

He nods approvingly, a small smirk gracing his plush lips. “I could tell, you got that faraway look in your eyes like you do when you’re thinking about me fucking you.” Joel shifts his seat on the bed, and you recognize the movement as a sign that he’s getting turned on. This is a new development, you think to yourself. He’s rarely asked about sex with Frankie before. 

“Did Frankie treat your pussy right? Did he fill you up?” You nod again, your core beginning to pulse as you affirm with your words, and Joel groans.

“Let me see it.”

You choke on your breath. “What?”

This was not something Joel had ever asked before.

“You heard me, darlin’,” Joel asserts, his eyes darkening. “Let me see that pretty pussy full of Frankie’s cum.”

A full-body shiver ripples through you. “Yes, Joel,” you murmur obediently, sliding off the bed to retrieve the phone stand you use often when you’re away from Joel. You set it up on the dresser near the bed, the front-facing camera angled advantageously for him while allowing you to see him as well. Coming back into frame, you slowly unzip your dress, letting it fall to the floor. You slide your damp panties down, the heady scent of Frankie’s cum wafting up from your heated core. Joel leans back and lets out a low groan. 

You climb back onto the bed once naked, noticing Joel’s espresso brown eyes have deepened to the color of a moonless night, his pupils dilated in desire. Putting your back to the camera, you get onto your hands and knees, canting your hips forward and ass back. You rest your forearms on the bed, looking back at the camera, and snake one hand between your legs to spread your pussy open with your fingers. Joel moans unabashedly at the view, your glazed pussy glinting in the light, Frankie’s milky spend coating it and gathering at your opening. He watches as your cunt clenches at the sound.

“Fuuuuuck, darlin’, that little pussy always looks so fuckin’ good when it’s covered in cum, don’t it?” Joel asks rhetorically, running one hand down his chin through his greying scruff. You whimper in response, the movement of your contracting walls pushing a thin stream of Frankie’s cum out from deep in you, dripping onto the bed sheets. This feels so debauched, filthy, and you are incredibly turned on by Joel’s response to the sight of another man’s cum decorating your most intimate parts. 

“God, if I was there I would be rubbin’ that cream all over your swollen little clit,” Joel drawls. “Can see her peekin’ out at me. Can you flip over? Wanna see you touch her for me.” You oblige, gathering the pillows to prop yourself up, and lean back against them as you butterfly your thighs open for your husband. Holding his gaze, you slowly trace your outer lips with your fingers, feeling the slide of Frankie’s spend lubricate your movements. You swirl your fingertips through the mess of slick and cum at your entrance, then glide them up to the pearl of your clit, throbbing in anticipation. At the first touch, your breath catches on the edge of a jagged little moan. 

“So sensitive already?” Joel teases, and you see him shift in his seat at the same time that the rustle of his pants tells you he’s pulling them down. The thought of him needing to touch himself at the sight of your messy cunt makes a pang of need course through your core. 

“Let me see it, baby,” you whisper hoarsely towards the phone, desperate to see the physical proof of his desire for you, for the sight of Frankie’s desire for you. The frame jostles a bit as Joel sets his phone up on the phone stand you have in your bedroom for times like these. It’s not the first time you have had video sex while apart and it certainly won’t be the last. 

And as Joel walks backwards toward the bed again and into frame, you barely stifle a gasp.

His cock is an absolute marvel, still is after a decade of being together. Thick, long, and uncut, the sight of him always makes your mouth water and your pussy slick. Joel sits on the edge of the bed, stroking his length languidly, the gleaming cockhead a flushed pink, disappearing and reappearing from under his foreskin. His gray, worn sweatpants are pulled just under his ass. Heavy, sizable balls drape over the waistband. You’ll never get tired of the sight.

“See somethin’ y’like, angel?”’Joel teases, his Texas twang always thicker when he’s aroused. His thick thighs are spread wide as he sits on the bed.

“Yes… everything,” you breathe, starting to rub your pussy again. 

“Nuh-uh,” Joel tuts, and your fingers immediately stop. “I didn’t tell you that you could touch yourself. Let’s wait until Frankie can join us to have fun.” Your body flushes with more arousal; Joel’s never asked to include Frankie before. But then again, you’d never asked if he wanted to.

As if on cue, the bathroom door squeaks open and Frankie appears, freshly showered, dark curls dripping a bit onto his broad, golden shoulders. A white towel is wrapped around his narrow waist, and he takes a moment to assess what he’s walked into.

“Babygirl, are you getting started without me?” Frankie purrs as he strides towards you, then pauses when he realizes your phone is on the stand and positioned right at your dripping cunt.

“Hey, Frankie,” Joel’s voice floats warmly into the room. “I figured you’d want to watch our girl play with herself, so I made her wait.”

Our girl.

You shiver in arousal — and something else — at the moniker. Your eyes flick to Frankie, a smirk beginning to grace his lips but a bit of hesitation in his eyes. This was all new to him, too.

Frankie moves towards the armchair situated in the corner of the room, behind where you had your phone set up. He was already adjusting himself, clearly aroused, which you took as a good sign.

“Frankie, are you okay with this?” you inquire, trying to gauge his consent to what was unfolding. “If not, I can —“

“Yes,” Frankie grits out hoarsely. “I want to watch you with Joel.” His tone sets off another wave of pleasure through your nerves.

Joel chuckles, his voice smooth and deep as whiskey. “Well, darlin’, give us a show. Go on ‘n pet that pretty lil’ pussy for us.” Planting your heels on the bed, you use your fingers to spread yourself open as another trickle of Frankie’s previous release leaks its way out of you. Both men groan at the sight. Scooping it up, you glide your way up to your throbbing clit, starting to circle it just the way you like. A moan leaves your parted lips; you tilt your head back while you work yourself. Your other hand moves to pinch and thumb a nipple, drawing it into a tight bud.

“Mmm, good girl,” Joel praises you. His hand starts pumping his cock once again at the same time Frankie palms himself through the fluffy towel. Frankie’s eyes flick from you to the phone, still trying to feel out the dynamics of the three of you. But both men can’t keep their eyes away from your soft pussy and swollen clit, glazed in your arousal and Frankie’s cum. Holding both of them in rapture while seeking your own pleasure is a heady power trip that wraps its silken claws into your brain. 

You feel like a goddess.

“Joel,” you moan, writhing in pleasure on the bed, but not quite where you want to be. “I need more.”

“Tell me what you want, darlin’,” Joel croons through the phone, the soft fapping sound of him working his cock audible. 

“I want… more,” you whine, mind so hazy with pleasure that you can’t even articulate your desires. “Please.”

“Hmmm,” Joel responds, slowing down to consider his options. You look up in impatience just as a wicked smirk crosses his face.

That look always means trouble. 

“Y’told me how good Frankie is at goin’ down on you,” Joel continues, “so why don’t you let him show me?” You hear Frankie’s breath choke in his throat in surprise as a whimper escapes your lips at Joel’s words. Frankie’s eyes dart from yours to the phone and back. 

“Frankie?” you hear Joel say while your eyes remain on your boyfriend. “Would you be okay with that? Would you show me how hard you make our girl come with that tongue’a yours?” You let out a little moan at Joel’s filthy words, and Frankie groans involuntarily at the sight of another dribble of his cum escaping your pussy.

“Oh, baby, you’re still drippin’?” Joel coos at you. “Frankie must’a stuffed you so full’a his cum. Do you like eating yourself outta her sweet cunt, Frankie?”

In a flash, Frankie enters the frame as he spreads your legs further apart and wedges his shoulders between them, leaving enough space for Joel to watch the action behind him. “I fucking love it,” Frankie growls in response, immediately running his tongue in a broad stripe from the bottom of your slit to your clit, tasting himself and you as he swallows every drop of cum and slick you released. You throw your head back, keening.

“Damn,” you hear Joel choke out, his hand moving faster on his cock at the sight of Frankie diving headfirst into your cunt. Eager to prove his skills, Frankie works you up rapidly to your orgasm, your moans pitching higher and higher within a minute. He swirls his tongue over your clit, then slides two of his fingers inside to the last knuckle, aided by your copious slick and the remnants of his cum. Your back arches off the bed from the sensation as you cry out his name.

“Oh fuck, angel,” Joel grits out, his breath coming faster. “He eatin’ you good?”

“Yessss, Joel,” you whimper, your hand holding Frankie’s head firmly to your center. “I’m gonna fucking cum!”

Frankie moans encouragingly, reverberating across your cunt, and the tether inside your core snaps. You stutter out a groan, punctuated each time your pussy spasms with your release on Frankie’s fingers. The man between your thighs laps it all up, moaning in delight. He pulls back, kissing the inside of each thigh, and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Good fucking girl,” Joel purrs at you as you catch your breath. You hear a slightly pained groan, and look at the screen to see Joel gripping the base of his cock to stave off his orgasm. Hmm, that’s odd, you think. Joel usually comes when he’s decided he’s done making me come.

The realization hits you a split second before Joel’s deep, commanding voice spits out, “Again, Morales.”

Ohhhh, fuck.

You whip your head around when you hear Frankie suck in a breath as he stares at the phone, his chest heaving. Looking down, you see his cock achingly hard under his towel, his neck flushed with arousal. Frankie turns to you, his onyx eyes shimmering ferally. You know following orders gets him going, but you’re surprised that Joel clocked that about him instinctively.

In a split second, Frankie’s spread both of your legs again, pinning you open obscenely wide by your thighs. His tongue immediately begins to fuck into your pussy, the strong muscle prodding and curling just right. Your head slams into the soft mattress, a squeal leaving your lips at the sudden pleasure. With every thrust of his tongue, you feel Frankie grinding desperately into the bed, trying to stem the intense arousal building below his waist.

“Talk to me, darlin’,” Joel’s voice floats in your ear, pulling you out of the cloud of intense pleasure momentarily. “Tell me how good Frankie feels.”

“He’s so good,” you moan, alternating playing with your nipples and curling your fingers in the bedding. “His tongue feels so good in my pussy.”

“Is he as good as me?” Joel asks, his voice dropping an octave. There’s not a hint of jealousy, just charged curiosity.

“Yes, baby,” you coo, gasping as Frankie moves his tongue back to your clit and slides his fingers back into you, reaching that spot deep in you that makes your eyes roll back. “So good. Just… different.”

Joel lets out a quiet growl, his voice dripping with sex. “Good. Your pussy deserves the best.”

“Frankie,” Joel commands. Frankie lifts his head from your center, moving his thumb to replace his tongue on your clit, making your back arch again. “Have you made her squirt before?”

“Yeah,” Frankie breathes, looking back at you. “She’s so beautiful when she does it.”

“Good,” Joel rumbles. “Make her squirt for us.”

Frankie nods once, then pulls his fingers out slightly until he hits the spongy spot near the entrance of your pussy. He starts swirling the tips of his fingers against it, pressing his other hand down gently but firmly on your lower belly above your pubic bone, and then lowers his head to suck your clit back into his mouth. You keen, your body folding in on itself from the intense pleasure. Frankie moans into you, but you hear a growl rip from Joel’s throat.

“Don’t you dare hide that beautiful body,” Joel demands. “Lay back and spread your legs for us.”

You comply, barely able to shift yourself open again before Frankie starts intensifying his ministrations. You hear Joel’s slick fist jerking his cock again while he coos at you and praises you, telling you how good you’re being for him and Frankie, how pretty and strong you are.

“You can take it, angel,” Joel moans with the squelching of his cock in his hand acting as an obscene background track for your pleasure. “You’re close, aren’t ya?”

“Yes, Joel,” you whimper, your cunt making equally debauched sounds with every thrust of Frankie’s fingers. “I’m so close. Feels so fucking good.”

Frankie presses harder on your belly and sucks your clit more fervently, and your cries pitch higher. “Oh god, Frankie, you’re gonna make me come,” you whine, toes curling and thighs beginning to shake. A desperate moan from Frankie’s mouth is muffled by your cunt, making you cry out again.

“Let go for us, darlin’,” Joel grits out, his hand a blur on the screen as he approaches his orgasm as well. 

Frankie peels himself away from your drenched folds just long enough to command, “Come for us, now,” and then latches back onto your clit, sucking hard, and that’s the moment you break, nearly screaming. Frankie works you through the first wave of your orgasm with his mouth, then pulls back, slipping his fingers out of you as your release gushes out, spraying your belly, thighs, and Frankie’s torso. With every pump and slide out of your pussy, Frankie brings forth another spray of release, drenching your body and his. 

You’re barely aware of Joel’s groans of pleasure in the throes of your own, but when you come back down moments later, you can hear the edge of desperation in his sounds. You look over to the phone to see him with his teeth bared, the head of his cock an angry red, his fist slick with precum and spit. More pearly liquid slowly oozes from the slit at the top.

Joel is barely keeping it together.

“Joel, honey,” you moan, “I wanna see you come.”

Joel growls. “Francisco,” he grits out. Frankie, who’s looking at you in amazement and pride, snaps his head to the phone at the sound of his full name. You see his cock twitch under the towel.

“Get our girl messy, Francisco.”

A whimper worms its way out of your throat as Frankie whines. Unashamed and blind with arousal, he whips the towel off his waist and his cock bobs, hard and thick. You hear Joel’s breath hitch. I’ll tuck that reaction away for later, you think. 

Frankie kneels between the damp sheets under your thighs, spitting into his hand and fisting his cock hard and fast. His muscles flex with the intensity of feeling, breathing rapid. His grunts get louder and longer as he swiftly approaches his peak. You hear a long, low moan from the phone, Joel nearly delirious with how worked up he is over the scene playing out.

“Where?” Frankie moans, desperately trying to follow orders before he blows his load. Precum drips onto the sheets.

“Her tits,” Joel pants, “and her pussy. Paint her like a fucking picture, Frankie.”

“Oh fffuuuu—“ Frankie grits out just before he explodes, his release shooting out onto your nipples, the curves of your breasts, and then he’s aiming lower, coating your mound and pussy lips with his seed.

You’re dripping with yourself and Frankie, an absolutely debauched sight.

Suddenly you hear a shout from the phone, and turn just in time to see Joel shoot his load all over his chest, belly, and even some on his neck with how hard he’s coming. Every spurt paired with a moan; one of the prettiest sights you’ve ever seen in your life. 

For a moment all you hear is the shared heavy breathing of yourself, your boyfriend, and your husband, and then Frankie is kissing your forehead, your lips, and then working his way down your body. When he goes to lick off his cum from your tits to clean you up, you groan in protest.

“Too sensitive, baby,” you plead, and Frankie acquiesces, cooing at you. 

“You did so well for us, nenita,” he soothes, stroking your face and planting kisses across your eyelids. “You’re so beautiful. Let me rinse off and get you cleaned up, okay?” With your mind pleasantly fuzzy from what just transpired, you simply nod, and Frankie goes into the bathroom for supplies. You let your head roll to the side, and smile tiredly at Joel, who’s watching you with pride and love while he towels off his release from his body and hands.

“I would have licked up all that cum off you to save you from having to add another towel to the laundry,” you giggle, feeling your own juices and Frankie’s cum cooling on your torso. You run your fingers through the slick release Frankie left on your pussy, teasing your clit with the silky fluid. Your body shudders a bit with overstimulation, and Joel shakes his head.

“You just like makin’ a mess and then cleanin’ it up, you dirty girl,” he chuckles, watching you enjoy the tactile sensations.

“Stop pretending that you don’t like me like that, Joel,” you fire back with a smirk. “What is it you said exactly? Oh, right. ‘Get our girl messy, Francisco.’” You imitate Joel’s baritone, making him bark out a laugh. 

“Fine, I do love seeing you drippin’, darlin’,” Joel admits. “Whether it’s my cum or Frankie’s.” You bite your lip and giggle, basking in the glow of this new era of your relationship with Joel. You didn’t expect he’d be so enthusiastic to see you with Frankie.

The door pops open, Frankie emerging with a warm, damp washcloth for you. Although you reach for it, he tuts and gently pushes your hand away, insisting on wiping you down himself. He gently strokes the cloth across your skin, softly smiling and pressing kisses to your face and body as he does. Joel’s heart warms at the sight before him, seeing how well Frankie takes care of you.

Tossing the cloth back into the bathroom, Frankie gets up from the bed. “I’m going to get some water for us. Do you want cold water to help you cool down, or your usual water cocktail?” Frankie asks, always remembering your quirky penchant for filling your insulated water bottle first with hot water until halfway, and the rest with cold. 

“Water cocktail, please,” you giggle, snuggling further into the bedding.

Frankie grins, then lightly kisses your forehead, grabbing your water bottle off the bedside table in the process. He walks out, and you sigh contentedly.

“Wow, Frankie automatically includes Water Cocktail on his drink menu now, huh?” Joel chuckles.

You nod happily, grinning ear to ear. Laying your head on the pillow, you respond, “Yeah, he caught on fast. I think it was after the third week of seeing each other that he started asking if I wanted it instead of bringing me a glass of cold water. I didn’t even tell him explicitly, he just noticed me doing it.” You pause, brain pleasantly fuzzy in your post-orgasmic state. 

“I… I really like him, Joel,” you whisper, slowly fading as sleep creeps to you. You blink your eyes gently at Joel, who looks at you with the softest smile on his face, like you are the linchpin of his universe. 

“I know, darlin’,” Joel murmurs, his heart flipping in response. “I know.”

When Frankie re-enters the room with a glass of water and your water bottle, he notices how quiet it is. You lay burrowed under the covers, gently snoring, but he notices your phone is the only one on the video call anymore. His nerves zap a bit in concern, but then he replays the recent events back in his head. Joel seemed totally tolerant - nay, enthusiastic, to include Frankie into sex earlier. He doubts Joel left because he was upset; you probably fell asleep and he needed to go. Nonetheless, Frankie pics up your phone and exits the call, tapping around until he finds your message app.

Hey, that was really fun, he types out to Joel, a tiny flutter of nerves alight in his stomach. Excited to meet you tomorrow. Have a good rest of your night. – Frankie 

Staring at the words for a moment, he hits send before he can back out or second guess himself. Frankie then climbs into bed, wrapping himself around you before sleep claims him wholly.

a/n part 2: I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and thank you for your patience! I had so much fun writing it and I’m proud to be able to share it with you. For those of you not familiar with Southern/Central CA, you can view photo references here: the Santa Cruz carousel, Hearst Castle, info on Ojai, and kayaking in Morro Bay.

Have thoughts/thots, feelings, SCREAMS, asks? My inbox is open! 💌

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[asumofwords]

The Sublet - Roommate!AU

Warnings: She/her pronouns, slow burn, angst. Tags will be added as the fic goes along. Angst, death, mourning, funeral, fluff, smut, daddy kink, breath play, spanking, slapping, fingering, face fucking, degradation, gagging, deep throating, dumbification, edging, creampie, crying, dacryphilia, dirty talking, name calling, rough handling, sadomasochist, sadism, spitting, spitplay, squirt, the correct method of choking, drugs (weed), alcohol, smoking.

Pairings: Modern!Aemond x Reader

Summary: Living with Helaena Targaryen was one of the best decisions you had ever made. Meeting at university, the two of you became thick as thieves and quickly best friends, moving into a flat together. But what will happen when Helaena has to leave, and her quiet, brooding, brother moves in?

Notes: Another monstrous chapter sitting at 10+k, because when I said this series was going to only be 15 chapters I meant it hahaha. Goodness, gracious me, here we are. We have come to the end of this series! Thank you so much for all your love and support this whole way through! I hope that you have enjoyed it, and I hope I did the ending some sort of realistic justice. I shall be getting onto my requests now hehehe, anyway, ENJOY! <3

Final Chapter: Stay

Waking that morning, you had not expected to be met with what you were. You had thought that the day would be spent with some awkward, uncertain glances cast Aemond’s way, with the others casting theirs towards you both. Then perhaps you would talk again. 

Or fuck.

Or both.

Your little traitorous brain hoped for both. 

But no, that's not what you woke up to that morning. You woke up to a nightmare come true. And although all had prepared for it for years, and in fact, the reason why all were back at the Red Keep, it still came as a bombshell that shook the family to its very core.

Viserys was dead.

Gone peacefully in his sleep, found by none other than his doting eldest daughter and wife. 

You had woken to the bedroom door shutting, a peak of Criston Cole’s hair in the crack of the door. Helaena stood frozen by it, swaying slightly on her feet before she walked over to the bed and sat down, staring at the far wall.

“Hel?” You sat up, hand coming to touch your best friends shoulder, “What's happened?”

Fear of the unknown settled into your gut. 

Her lavender eyes turned to you.

“He’s dead.”

The Keep was in disarray. 

Rhaenyra and Daemon were in shambles, having lost a father and brother all in one. It was a most terrible thing to witness. You felt grief yourself for your friends, and for the family as a whole as they moved through the motions of his death, his leaving of their worlds. You felt akin to an invasive species as you sat amongst them, foreign, displaced, unfitting in their neat yet disturbed world.

Lucerys and Jacerys were grieving with their mother and step-father, the twins joining them. As for the other children of Viserys? That was another story.

Amongst the four of them, there was not a single tear shed for their father, bar Aegon in the early light of the morning, stained cheeks hidden in the shadows, red rimmed eyes, and a tiredness that no young man should have at his age, pulling down at his shoulders. But he had swallowed it quickly and quietly as he had for his whole life and went outside to smoke.

You couldn’t however account for Aemond, as he was nowhere to be seen. 

Sitting in the gazebo with the three silver haired siblings, you tried to offer condolences, a shoulder to cry on if needed, but all were content to grieve in their own way; Aegon smoking yet another joint, Daeron texting someone animatedly, and Helaena, simply staying quiet and composed beside you. 

It wasn’t what you had expected for people to have just lost their father, but you supposed that everyone grieves in their own ways, theirs being much different to your own.

Helaena stood from where she had sat, dressed in all black, something you had not once seen her wear, a stark change to the bright colours that she usually donned. Perhaps this was her way of showing her grief. Her mourning. 

Her loss.

“Walk with me.” She said quietly, and you nodded, jumping up as you grasped her hand, letting her lead you down the garden to look at the various plants and trees that were in a part of a gated garden entrance. 

Greenery of all sizes, shapes, and colours grew beautifully, small little plaques beneath identifying their scientific name. The Red Keep's garden had some of the rarest of flowers and trees in the whole of the realm. It even had the famed Winter Rose’s from the North in a special greenhouse that kept them in below freezing temperatures. 

It was still early in the day, the sun only just rising to its peak as you walked together in silence, your hand in hers as you followed her lead, looking at the shrubs and immense show of wealth. If it weren’t for the reason of your walk, you would have been more animated upon seeing some rare and beautiful orchids, perfectly potted and healthy.

Your steps crunched along the cobblestoned path, twisting around to an extended part of the estate that you hadn’t been to. There, in front of you, was a most beautiful sight to behold. 

Ruby red leaves sprouted out of ashen branches, twisting upwards towards the sky. 

A Weirwood tree.

And a very old one by the looks of it. 

“The Godswood.” Helaena explained to you, taking you closer to it.

You were so entranced by its incredible beauty, thinking of how Cregan's description of his back home didn't do it justice, that you hadn’t even noticed the man that sat amongst its roots, leant back on the trunk.

Aemond Targaryen sat beneath the branches and leaves of a tree that had been a symbol of the Old Gods to his family for hundreds of years. One leg was stretched out in front of him, whilst the other was bent, his long arms crossed over the top of his knee lazily. 

He watched you as you came towards him, words caught in your throat. 

The light that peaked through the tips of the branches shimmered down on his pale hair, causing it to glimmer with each parting of the leaves from the breeze that rolled through. His face looked flat, emotionless.

Blank.

Helaena’s hand slipped away from yours and you turned to look at her. She gave you a soft smile, before she walked away without a word, leaving you in the small Godswood courtyard with her brother. 

You stood for a moment or two, the both of you watching each other before your legs pulled you towards him. You moved to sit beside the long limbed man, pulling your knees up to your chest as you kept your eyes straight ahead, not wanting to make him feel overcrowded, or as if he was being observed. Instead, you hoped that your presence was, at least, the tiniest bit of comfort if he needed it.

You weren’t sure what to do or say as you sat together, both staring off into the distance as the soft rustling of leaves moved overhead. If not for the death that had occurred in the early hours of the morning, the day would have been beautiful.

It was like that for a while, just the both of you. Basking in each others company silently, and yet you felt the need to do more. To say more. To show him more. To show him that you cared, to try and rebuild that bridge that had been torched between the two of you, in the way he had attempted to last night. 

You felt guilt knowing that he would have woken up to not only an empty bed, but the news of the death of his father in a Keep he didn’t want to be in, surrounded by people he so desperately tried to avoid.

Tendons and veins pulled beneath the skin of Aemond pale hand as he rubbed a thumb and forefinger together atop his knee.

It was always his hands. Something you had learned rather quickly about him. His hands always moved when in thought, when irritated, lost, or angry.

Any strong emotion caused the man to fidget.

It was a habit that he shared with Helaena, no doubt inherited by their mother.

With no other way to convey what you were feeling, you lifted your hand and placed it atop his. His hand was warm, and twitched beneath yours. Aemond, without wasting a second, flipped his over and held onto yours tightly, threading his fingers through yours atop his knee.

Silence stretched forever until-

“I don’t mourn him.” Aemond’s voice moved with the breeze, soft and quiet, gently carried away from the courtyard, and you felt a pull of sorrow for him deep within your chest.

“We weren’t ever close. Cole was more a father to me than him.” There was a hollowness to his words which you would argue was grief, until he continued, “I don’t grieve the man he was, I grieve the father he could have been to me. The father he should have been to me. Something that I never had.”

Tears prickled in your eyes for him.

Gods.

Why had life been so cruel to this man?

A soft chuckle floated from his lips, a stark difference to his demeanour before, “I used to try so hard to impress him when I was young. Studied, learnt our traditional tongue before any of my other siblings did, and even then, it wasn’t enough for him. I was never enough for him. He was sick, yes,” Frustration bled from his shoulders, tense and closed in, “But he had more time for them than us.”

There was the anger.

Sorrow.

Spite.

Aemond Targaryen had felt he had been in his nephews shadow his whole life.

And it showed.

“It was worse for Aegon. First son and all. A shiny new toy for Viserys before his expectations became too high for Egg and he rebelled. Then nothing he would do could impress the man.” 

You squeezed his hand tightly, shuffling across the hard roots of the tree to get closer to him, leaning your shoulder heavily against his, so he could feel your weight, so he could feel the heat of your body. To comfort him, to be there for him, all while not being smothering.

“I’m sorry, Aemond.”

He shook his head, long strand of silver falling over his shoulder as he looked at you, “Don’t be.”

Silence fell over you again, and you watched as a lone red leaf, pointed sides and all, slowly drifted from above the two of you down onto the grassy ground below. It swooped from side to side, spinning gently before soundlessly falling amongst green blades.

You didn’t want him to be alone. 

You didn’t want him to feel isolated.

And in your restless, sleepless night, you had thought about him.

“It’s going to be okay.” You whispered, and watched as he turned his head to look back at you, his lone eye searching your face. 

Your thumb soothed over his gently, your words having more than one meaning.

His bottom lip was pulled into his mouth by his teeth, and then his voice came up and out from deep within his chest as he gazed at you intensely, clouded eye unmoving, and the sun shining down onto his scarred side of his face.

“Stay.” He asked you for the very first time.

A stark opposite to all the times you had uttered that word to him. 

Asked him to stay with you.

It was first time he spoke that four lettered word to you, beneath the crimson leaves of the ancient Godswood in a home that he had grown in.

You heeded his request. 

Together, you sat beneath the branches and looked up through them, side by side in a wordless promise to each other.

Stay.

-

The next few days were a whirlwind. The funeral was held on the grounds of the estate, people from all over flying in to say their goodbyes to the patriarch of House Targaryen.

At first you had asked Helaena if you could go back home, not wanting to intrude on her families grief, but she had insisted, no, begged for you to stay for the funeral.

And so you had.

It was an intense and sad ordeal, but not once did you leave Helaena or Aemond’s side. You stuck by them both, and he always came to you.

Crossing the kitchen to come to you. Crossing the dining table outside to come to you. Crossing the hall to come to Helaena’s room and sit on the bed with the two of you, happy to be just in your presence and not say a thing. 

Aegon had silently cried at the funeral. The only child of Alicent to do so. You had watched as fat tears rolled down his rosy cheeks, eyes cast at the coffin of his father, as his mother stood stoically beside him.

Alicent Hightower had cried softly when she had read the eulogy, then followed by Rhaenyra and Daemon's. It was the only time that you felt you would ever see the pair look out of their usual controlled demeanour. 

After the funeral, there was the service, where all came to Rhaenyra and Alicent to offer their condolences, the two women standing side by side in all black. At one point, you had watched as Alicent’s pinky reached out, searching for Rhaenyra’s hand. It had curled against the other woman’s, and you watched as the other tilted her head slightly in shock, before she made a larger move, and curled her hand directly around the auburn haired woman’s beside her. 

It was days after the funeral before all of you were back together again, side by side.

It had been a long day, longer than the last, and the night had bled into the sky in a deep purple before turning to its deeper shade of blue. Aegon had done rounds, going to each and every room to tell all to meet him down at the pool for some well needed drinks. 

Aemond had been sat at Helaena’s vanity watching the two of you sit on the bed and softly giggle at a message Sara had sent her, your silver haired friend more intent on moving forward than looking back.

Hand in Helaena’s, you led her and Aemond down to the pool, not bothering to put swimmers on. 

It was dark outside, the usual lights strung about the garden having been turned off, the only source of light coming from the moon, the stars, and the smaller lights that edged around the pools perimeter.

The others were already there, you having seemingly been the last pitstop, passing around popped bottles of champagne, wine and beer. There was the sweet, dank smell of Aegon’s weed again in the air, the short haired man leant back on his elbows as he looked up at the sky, bottle of Moët in one hand.

It was awkward at first, what with Jacaerys and Aemond’s outburst the last time you were all together before the funeral, but before long, and with the help of your trusty liquid courage, all seemed to melt into the numb feeling that the alcohol brought them. 

You laid back in one of the armchairs, Helaena, between your legs, head resting on your stomach as you brushed the silver strands away from her face as she looked up at the stars. Aemond watched from beside you, having pulled over one of the other poolside chairs.

The twins, and the brown haired boys were sat at the waters edge with Aegon, their legs dangling into the pool as they swung them softly back and forth, drinking and talking quietly amongst themselves. 

Daeron, having disappeared for a moment, came back with his speaker, softly playing music through it to fill the gentle quiet that surrounded you all.

It was soft, calm, and peaceful enough for such a tumultuous time, and as the night got longer, and bottles of alcohol became drained, blunts were passed, and inhibitions were lowered, smiles and laughter were shared amongst all. 

Even Aemond.

But that stillness was disturbed when the tipsy, brown haired Lucerys stood and faced everyone, bottle of red wine in hand. The smiles dissipated, and a serious energy floated amongst everyone again.

“I want to make a toast.” The young man said with drunken confidence, thrusting out the wine bottle towards Aegon, “To Viserys.”

Jacaerys lifted his beer towards his younger brother, the twins following suit with their cans of fruity mixer.

Lucerys’ eyes fell on Aemond, before his lips pulled down solemnly, turning away to roam his gaze on everyone else, “He wasn’t a perfect man-”

Aemond quietly scoffed beside you.

“-But if it wasn’t for him, none of us would be here.”

Aegon hummed in agreement, sipping deeply from his almost empty bottle of Moët. 

Lucerys’s gaze fell to you as he scratched the back of his neck, “Except you, Y/n. You’d still be here. Well, not here here. But you’d still-“

“-Alright, move it on.” Baela joked lovingly at him as he began to ramble. 

Straightening his posture, Luc thrust his wine up to the sky, “To Viserys.”

All lifted their drinks up to toast, bar Aemond, hands bringing wine to their lips, beer to their mouths, or champagne to their tongues. You offered Aemond a small, sad smile, and he returned it, sipping at his beer in thought. 

It wasn’t a full toast per-say like the others, but he drank in the mans honour regardless.

A large palm opened up towards you, pale fingers lazily spread in offering. You looked at his long digits, signet ring on one.

“Come here.” Aemond hummed, gentle look in his eye. 

Helaena pulled herself from your lap and looked at her brother, “I thought you’d never ask!” She chirped playfully, and he rolled his eye at her. 

A small giggle fell from your lips as you looked at his hand again. Still outstretched towards you in front of everyone.

In front of everyone.

Your heart raced in your chest as you stood, placing your hand in his, the warmth of his palm spreading up your arm as you moved over to Aemond, who pulled you between his long legs in a similar way you had done with Helaena. His legs were bent on either side of you with your back against his chest. You felt his chin dip to rest at the top of your head, and a warmth spread through your chest like wildfire. 

Helaena smiled at your warmly as Aegon craned his neck backwards to look at the two of you.

“How long has this been going on?” He teased, glassy eyes narrowing on the both of you.

Lucerys, who had sat back down beside his brother after his toast, turned around with Jacaerys to observe. And when their heads turned, the others followed.

Heat rose in your cheeks and you felt a sudden shyness at it all. The urge to hide was strong.

But really, what was this?

You didn’t know.

But it was something.

Something more than before.

But still, you didn’t have an answer, so you moved to respond.

“Oh, we’re n-“

“-A while. I was just a dick about it.” Aemond interrupted you, and your heart soared.

Did he -

Did he just-

Did he just confirm your thoughts?

Did he just validate your feelings?

Answer all your burning questions that had kept you awake at night?

A while.

That implied that this was more.

That this had always been more.

That this was solid.

That this was-

“So that’s why you wouldn’t fuck me.” Aegon pouted, smirk pulling at his lips.

Aemond sighed heavily behind you, “That and the fact that you’re utterly repulsive.”

Aegon’s mouth dropped open as he stared at his brother, “You wound me! I’ll have you know that there are plenty of people who haven’t found me repulsive.”

“Too many, if you ask me.” Helaena snickered.

Aegon flicked his joint at his sister, standing straight as he looked down at everyone. 

“Good thing I didn't ask you. I’ll have you know I’m polyglamourous.” Hands on his hips.

“Polyamorous.” Daeron corrected his brother.

Aegon grinned, victory in his cheeks, “I meant what I said.”

Aemond’s hand rubbed up and down your thigh soothingly as the night moved on, goosebumps rising on your flesh with each stroke of his long fingers. His chest was warm against your back, and you felt that you could fall asleep from where you were.

Helaena squealed at her phone loudly, breaking you from your fatigued thoughts.

“What is it?” You turned to face her, watching as a large grin pulled at her lips.

“Sara got us tickets to see the Phantom of the Opera!”

“What!”

“Yes!” She shook her phone in her hand whilst she screamed in excitement, “I can’t believe she remembered!”

Aemond chuckled from behind you, chest vibrating against your back, “Of course she'd remember. She’s in love with you.”

Your best friend suddenly became shy, a blush rising on her cheeks rapidly, turning them a bright red that even in the darkness of the night, you could see, “I know that. I just can’t believe it.”

“I’m jealous. Ask her where my ticket is.” You teased, “So I guess this means I’ll be seeing more of Sara again?”

Helaena gave you a knowing smirk, and you gave her one right back. 

You were happy for her.

Really happy.

They were perfect for each other. And you always knew that they would get back together again. That and Helaena always told you so, and Helaena was never wrong.

Aegon having come round to where you sat, snatched his sisters bottle of Prosecco, downing the remainder in one gulp, a refreshed and exaggerated gasp filling the air as he ruffled her hair, a growl and swat of a hand coming for his arm which he dodged last second.

Aegon giggled, running around the rim of the pool, shoes kicked in one direction, socks thrown in the other, shirt torn from his back in one yank, and then came his pants. Your eyes widened as Aegon stripped himself nude before jumping into the pool with a yell. 

He emerged from the cool water with a flick of his wet hair laughing, sending a hand splashing towards the twins and he smiled, “Come onnnn, live a little! Get in!”

Baela and Rhaena gave each other a shared look before standing, stripping themselves of their clothes before jumping in, hand in hand.

Before you knew it, you were all stripped bare, splashing about in the pool laughing and swimming around. 

Even Aemond.

His cheeks were pulled taut by the grin plastered to his face as he swam towards you, tickling your sides as you screamed for backup from Baela and Rhaena, who swam towards you, a flurry of splashes and squeals until his large palms rose above the water and conceded. 

Aegon pulled another spliff from the side of the pool and passed it around, and although it was dark, and you couldn’t see the details of anyones bodies, you still felt slightly shy in knowing that not only were you naked, but you were naked with a certain someone pressed up against your back.

At one point, you could have sworn you felt his cock twitch against the cheek of your ass, but you shrugged it off, going to the others as they tossed a ball like piggy in the middle back and forth, little Lucerys in the centre trying to jump up to catch it with all his might.

Eventually the water grew cold, and as you swam to sip at some of Baela’s drink, Aemond slid from behind you, hand wrapping around your waist. Heat spread through you as you felt him press up against you, mouth beside your ear.

“I think it's time for bed, don’t you?” He whispered hoarsely.

You bit your lip turning your head to try and sneak a peak at him, but was interrupted by a loud and obnoxious wolf whistle. 

Aegon grinned at you both, “No fucking in mummy’s pool.”

“Ugh, Aegon. What the fuck.” Helaena grimaced.

A laugh exploded from your lips as you turned to look at Aemond, who was chewing the inside of his cheek, desperate to hide the smirk that was rising on his face. 

“Come on.” He urged you, tilting his head to outside of the pool.

You climbed out with his help, getting dressed, all the while Aegon continued to whistle at the two of you and make obscene noises. But it was short lived as Helaena pushed Aegon’s head under water with all her weight, Jacaerys and Luc clapping in laughter.

You saw this as your out and grabbed Aemond’s hand, racing him through the Keep in fits of giggles until you reached his room, anticipation strumming in your gut. You watched as he shut the door behind him, turning to face you. His hair was wet, much like yours, and he advanced on you slowly, energy bouncing around inside of you.

“Come here.” He beckoned you with a finger, soft smirk on his lips.

You shook your head at him cheekily, “Nuh uh.”

His head tilted as he looked at you, “Please.”

Your feet carried you towards him, a magnetic pull dragging your chest to his. He smiled warmly down at you, cupping your cheek with one hand as the other dragged a wet strand of hair away from your face.

“Beautiful.” He praised you, before dipping his head down to kiss you.

Aemond bent slightly as your arms wrapped around his neck, large hands wrapping around your thighs as he hoisted you up into his arms, carrying you towards the bed as you didn’t once break the kiss. 

It wasn’t hurried like the last time.

It wasn’t frenzied.

This time, you took your time with each other. 

Aemond stripped you of your wet clothes and brought you to your peak on his tongue, his name whispered from your mouth like a prayer. He hovered above you as he slid in, watching the way your mouth opened and brows furrowed at the stretch, his lips pressing sweet kisses to the side of your face as he slowly moved through your folds, the tip of his cock rubbing against every point within you.

“So fucking beautiful.” He praised you as you fell apart once again on his cock, walls gripping his length tightly as you keened and whined, hands gripping the sheets for dear life as he smiled sweetly at you.

This was a side of Aemond you hadn’t seen before, and a side you hoped to see more.

He came with a quiet moan of your name, head dipping down into the crux of your neck as he planted kiss after kiss there.

You spent the rest of your night together curled in each others embrace, falling asleep with one word echoing in your mind.

Stay.

-

Waking up in a dark green and black room was disorientating at first, probably exacerbated by the steady strumming of a slight hangover in the back of your mind. But the warmth of two strong arms wrapped around you, and the familiar scent of Aemond that filled the space between, reminded you of where you were, and who you were with. 

Your eyes opened as you looked up at him. His good eye still shut, chest rising and falling slowly.

Everything had happened so fast.

It was as if a match had been lit and set you both ablaze. The two of you burning together hotly, in more ways than one. Your tempers. Your stubbornness, but more importantly, your desire to be with one another. 

It was different with him.

Unlike anyone else before.

Passionate.

Fiery.

All encompassing.

And you relished in it.

Relished in the fact that not only was it real, not only tangible, but Aemond had made it open last night as he had pulled you into his lap in front of everyone, and verbally confirmed what had been happening all along. 

You weren’t ‘Helaena’s roommate’. 

You were more.

You knew that now.

His confession for his love for you however, was something that the two of you would dissect on a later date. But right now? You would be lying if you said you didn’t feel the same way. Didn’t feel the same pull in your heart towards him when he would smile, or laugh, or just look at you. Or how your body would be set alight with even just a touch of his hand.

Aemond Targaryen had you well and truly under his spell.

And there was no other place you’d rather be.

Aemond shifted beside you, eye blinking open sleepily before he looked down at you.

“Morning.” His voice crackled with sleep, mouth opening in a small yawn before he pressed a kiss to the top of your forehead.

Your heart raced in your chest.

“Morning.”

Aemond squeezed you to him tighter as he stretched out the fatigue in his limbs, a whiny grunt escaping his lips.

That was noise you hadn’t heard before.

He sounded content.

Comfortable.

Safe.

But there was still one final thing. 

You wanted to be sure that last night wasn’t just a drunken little display, or a declaration emboldened by the grief around the others tainted by possessiveness against Jacaerys.

“What happens now?” You asked quietly, watching as he blinked at you again.

“Whatever happens, happens.” His voice was deep, lulling you into a calm, “But I know I want to be with you.”

Here it was.

“Are you sure?” Your eyes searched his face.

This was it.

His last chance to back out.

His last chance to say no.

“I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.”

You couldn’t contain the grin that creeped on your face, hands pulling him down into a relieved kiss, pouring your adoration and care for him into it as much as you could.

He returned it equally with fever.

Heat ran through you as you pressed yourself closer to him, gasping into his mouth as you felt his cock twitch against your thigh. Aemond groaned into the kiss but pulled away.

You looked at him in confusion.

“Come on, we got to have breakfast with the others.”

You whined, plopping back into the pillows with a huff, “I don’t want to.”

Aemond chuckled from beside you, sitting up in the bed as he ripped the sheets away from your body, exposing your naked form. You rolled over onto your stomach, hiding your face in the pillow as you whined.

Two light smacks landed on the cheek of your ass, and you cried out in surprise, “Come on, grumpy.” He teased, “I’ll give you what you want after. But first, we need to eat.”

At the promise of getting what you wanted, you rolled out of bed, begrudgingly, looking at your semi wet pile of clothes in disgust.

You could do a run down the hall to Helaena’s room, but you could also be spotted running nude through the estate, which to you, didn’t seem appropriate considering the funeral held there only a few days past.

Aemond must have noticed your predicament, “Here.” He came over to you, handing you one of his black shirts and those grey sweats you loved so much.

You threw them on, the top coming down to your mid thigh. The pants however, didn’t stay up, and kept sliding down your legs no matter how much you tightened the strings or rolled them at your hips. 

Aemond laughed at you as you stepped out of the pants and threw them at him in a huff. 

“I need pants.” You whined, searching his room.

“Would prefer it if you didn’t.” He raised a brow at you.

Your core clenched around nothing as you looked at him, his stance challenging you to obey.

So this is the game he wanted to play.

Smirking, you turned to the door, opening it up, “Come on. We will be late.”

You left without looking back, not getting to see the way Aemond’s tongue poked into his cheek, watching you trot out of his room clad in his shirt.

Only his shirt.

The others were seated at the table outside picking at the spread. They all greeted you both as you moved sit down, except Aegon, who’s head was in his arms atop the table as he groaned dramatically and loudly for all to hear.

“Is he alright?” You asked Helaena, watching as she rolled her eyes at her older brothers antics.

“He’s fine. He’s just a drama Queen.”

“Drama King.” He grumbled back.

You ate together for a while before catching Helaena’s attention, it wasn’t something you wished to do, but it was something you had to nonetheless.

You had to go home, and what was more, you had to go back to work.

“Hel, is Criston around today?” You asked, plopping a sweet piece of watermelon into your mouth.

“I think so. Mum’s home today. Why?” Her head leant against her hand as she twirled one of her dragonfly earrings in between her fingers.

“I have to go back to work. I’ve used far too much of your mothers generosity, and uni starts back up next week.”

Helaena sat up straighter, “Holy shit, that’s next week?”

You nodded, “Yep. Not looking forward to Orwyle’s Citadel History class. Man could bore you to tears. I think I’ve actually cried once or twice.” You joked, rolling around a slice of starfruit on your plate before plopping it into your mouth, enjoying the sweet nectar that coated your tongue.

“Are you going to take Rhaenyra’s offer?” Helaena asked, eyes flitting from you and then to Aemond.

“What offer?” Came the grumbling groan of Aegon, his head lifting momentarily to look at you. 

If he wasn’t speaking and breathing in front of you, you would have mistaken the man for being dead. Dark rings sat beneath his eyes, and his pale skin had a sallow dullness to it that made him look almost grey.

“Rhaenyra offered her a job at her firm.” Helaena confirmed.

Aegon grunted, dropping his head back into his arms.

“I didn’t know she offered you a job.” Aemond looked at you from the side, brows pulling slightly.

Why did you feel a slight stab guilt in not telling him?

But how could you have?

It had been a whirlwind since she spoke to you.

The offer.

Aemond returning.

Your spat.

Your make up.

Viserys’ death.

It didn’t seem like the right thing to bring up at that time, and if you were being truly honest, you hadn’t even thought of it since his arrival.

“I didn’t have the chance to tell you with everything that’s happened.”

Aemond hummed, and so you continued, turning to face Helaena, “I think so. I need to give it a proper thought when I get home though.” 

Helaena nodded at you, “I’ll speak to Cole after breakfast.” She promised, and resumed her eating.

You thanked her with a smile before doing the same.

“You should take it.”

His words came as a surprise.

You placed your fork back onto the plate as you looked at the man at your side. His face was honest and open, there wasn’t a sneer or grimace, or even the straight line that his lips did when he was upset. 

He was being genuine.

You brows twitched as you wordlessly urged him to continue.

“My sister, despite everything, is a hard worker. She’ll look after you and make sure you’re taken care of. Besides, her firm is likely more your style anyway.”

“What do you mean by that?” You probed casually, trying to hide your real intrigue behind another piece of fruit in your mouth.

“More…” Aemond thought for a second, and then it came with a cheeky smirk, “Woman led.”

-

Helaena stayed true to her word and had Cole come to take you home, or at least, back to the private runway where that sleek jet picked you up once again.

You said your goodbyes to all, giving everyone a tight squeeze, especially Alicent Hightower, who you thanked for her endless generosity in having you there at such a tough time. 

However, you wouldn’t be going home alone. Aemond was coming with you, citing the need to be with you, and the need to get away from a place he hated.

When you moved to say your goodbyes to your best friend, you asked her when she would be back with you, mind wondering when you would need to part ways with Aemond's presence. 

“I’m going to stay here for the next month." She told you, "I’ve already emailed uni.”

“The next month?” You felt sadness in your chest. Another month without your best friend.

You were going to miss her.

“Yeah,” She kicked at the gravel at her feet, “Mum needs me here for the solicitors and the Will and Testimony reading.”

“Oh? Are you going to be okay?”

Helaena pulled you in for a hug and whispered into your ear, “I’m going to be taken away in a straight jacket by the end of this.” Before pulling back to smile again, cheekier this time, “Besides, I’m sure Aemond will keep you company.”

His smooth voice came from beside you, “I have no plans on leaving.”

The flight home was quick with his company, and on more than one occasion, you had to swat his hands away from you as he whispered the chance of joining the mile high club in his mothers jet.

-

It felt good to be home as you stepped through the front door, dropping your keys in the empty bowl, followed by the sound of Aemond dropping his in beside it.

It made you smile, the familiar scent of your apartment, the soft glow of light, it's tidiness perfect for your arrival home. You turned back, grin tugging on your lips to look at the man behind you, only to see him looking at you hungrily.

You continued forward, butterflied erupting in your stomach as you felt the warmth of his gaze behind you. You dropped your bags in the lounge room and stretched your arms up high, the day dress you were wearing sliding up your thighs.

Aemond watched you with a hooded eye, and the heat you had felt that morning came back tenfold.

And then you remembered.

“You didn’t make do on your promise.” You smirked.

Aemond raised a brow at you as he dropped his bags next to yours, hands flexing at his side, urging you to elaborate.

“You said you’d give me what I want after breakfast." You purred, "It’s past lunch.”

The silver haired man’s lip twitched as he looked at you, tongue in cheek, “Look whose gotten all bratty the moment we get home.”

Home.

The word sent heat straight to your core.

“Not my fault you're a liar.” You teased back, feeling confident to push him now that you knew where you stood. Now that you were home, away from his family, away from it all. It was now just the two of you.

You and him.

“A liar?”

“Uh huh.”

“Did I say when I would?”

You brows furrowed, “After breakfast.”

“And is lunch not after breakfast?”

Your eyes narrowed at him.

“Dick.”

Aemond’s demeanour changed entirely, posture straightening which gave him an extra inch of height. He looked down his nose at you as he watched you take a smirking step back, “Come here.”

You had to push down the flurry of excitement that almost unleashed a giggle into the room, “Make me.”

Your chest rose and fell sharply as you watched Aemond take a slow step towards you, and then another.

“Last chance, baby. Come here.”

"No."

Spinning on your heel you ran towards your room, Aemond's boots beating on the floorboards behind you coming closer. Hands wrapped around your waist and pulled you up, squeal erupting from your chest as you tried to wriggle out of his grip.

“That was very naughty of you.” His voice whispered hoarsely at your ear from behind, hot breath fanning down your neck.

You stifled a whimper as his fingers dug into your skin before he threw you down onto the bed, face first. Your hands flew outwards, catching yourself as your hips hit the end of the bed. Aemond was on you in an instant, pawing at your dress as he ripped it off of you.

“This what you want, huh? Want me to put you in your place? Little brat.”

Your hands moved behind you to tried to slap his arms as he yanked your panties down your legs in one long swoop. Aemond tutted from behind you as he kicked your legs apart, your lip caught in your teeth as you tried not to whimper.

“Look at you. Already soaked. Such a dirty little slut, aren’t you?”

His hand cast down onto the flesh of your ass and you cried out, back arching as the delicious sting spread through your skin. He pulled your cheeks apart roughly and spat onto your dripping entrance.

“Filthy little fuck hole.” Aemond growled, and you mewled as you felt his spit run between your thighs and drip down onto the floor below. 

His fingers smeared his spit into your folds, parting them easily as he looked down at you and cooed, your head craning back to watch him as he chuckled darkly, “What am I going to do with you, hm? You want me to fuck this pretty little pussy, baby?”

Your legs tried to shut so that you could apply pressure with the squeezing of your thighs, but Aemond's legs were in the way, preventing you from getting any release of the tingling that spread through your aching centre. 

“Please.” You murmured, pouting at him the best you could in the hopes that it would entice him to take you right then and there.

Another chuckle rumbled in his chest as he let one long finger circle around your entrance, the tip of it just barely pushing inside before it came back out again, teasing you.

“I don’t think you deserve it.” He hummed.

“Please, Aemond.”

“Not my name, sweetheart.”

A shiver ran down your spine, your eyes sliding shut, “Please daddy.”

The warmth from his body disappeared as he stepped back, your eyes opening to find him looking down at you with a stern face. Your heart raced in your chest, his height towering over you, dominance dripping from his every fibre of his being.

“Kneel.” 

Gods be good.

Your eyes widened as you stared at him, his hands coming to undo his belt buckle slowly, watching as you didn’t move. He pulled the belt slowly from the loops, to soft flipp loud in the room. The belt dropped to the floor with a thud.

“I said,” Aemond moved quicker than you could react, grabbing a fist full of your hair and dragging you off of the bed onto your knees, “Kneel.”

The wooden floor bit into the skin on your knees sharply, but it was dull in comparison to the sheer desire to be ravaged by the man in front of you. 

Long fingers slowly dragged down the zipper of his pants, opening it with languid movements as he kept his eye completely and utterly upon your face. 

“Were you being bratty to get a reaction?”

You watched as he pulled his hard length from his briefs, running his fist from base to top slowly, the tip leaking a drop of precum that he smeared down his shaft.

Aemond hummed, “What? Can’t talk now?”

You shook your head defiantly as he took a step closer, “I’m going to ask you one last time,” His voice grew deeper, darker, and it added to the slick that was settling in the crux of your thighs, “Were you being bratty to get a reaction?”

You shook your head. 

No.

Liar.

Aemond clicked his tongue at you in disappointment before sighing loudly, “Thought you’d say that. I’ve got a better use for that mouth of yours.” One hand in your hair, he tugged you forward, “Open.”

You don’t know what it was about this man, or what he did to you to make you the way you were with him. The way he absolutely ruined every inch of your mind and thoughts, the urge to both please him and defy him coursing through you all at once, but you wouldn’t give in. No, you needed him to react, you needed him to take what he wanted from you with force. 

So biting the insides of your cheeks to keep you from smiling, you defiantly kept your mouth shut as you looked up at him from your knees.

The corner of his lip twitched as he hummed at you.

The sting across your cheek came quickly and stunned you enough to open your mouth in a gasp, exactly as he had planned when he slapped you. He grabbed your jaw with the entirety of his hand and squeezed at the joint meanly, mouth falling open further in pain. 

Aemond slid his cock straight into your open lips, his heady weight sitting upon your tongue as he looked down at you, still holding the base with one hand, your jaw in the other.

“There you go. Far more useful with my cock in your mouth.” He grunted, pulling out slowly as you curled your tongue upwards, running it along the underside of his shaft, pressing into the long vein that travelled along it.

Aemond began to thrust into the back of your throat, letting go of the base so that the whole length of him would slide into your mouth. His cock was salty on your tongue, hot, swollen, and heavy in your mouth as he forced you to take him as deep as it would go. 

You gagged on his length, eyes watering as you shut them tightly.

Two little slaps on your cheek made your eyes open back up, staring at him as he looked down at you, “Eyes on me while I fuck this pretty little mouth of yours.”

You moaned around his length, thighs rubbing together in an attempt to relieve the tension that was building between them. But it was fruitless. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t what you needed, and what you needed was his fingers, his tongue, or his cock inside of you.

The silver haired man thrusted into your mouth the way he would into your cunt, deep, long and hard, his tip beating against the back of your throat as he used you for his own pleasure.

It was exhilarating, intoxicating, and exactly what you had wanted.

You wanted him to use you like this, to get it all out, to get out all the tension that had been hovering over him the minute he stepped into the Keep.

He needed this just as much as you did.

A thick line of saliva ran down your chin, dripping onto your thighs below as both hands wrapped around the sides and back of your skull, dragging your head up and down his length roughly. His brow was furrowed as he watched, mouth agape as he breathed shallowly and grunted.

“Look at you," He cooed down at you, "Just a hole for me to fuck. Just a little slut begging for daddy’s cock, isn’t that right?”

You hummed around his length, sucking your cheeks inwards as much as you could. Aemond hissed at the pressure, eye sliding shut momentarily as his hips stuttered.

It was a glorious sight.

You below him, looking up as his head was thrown back, ecstasy breaking out on his features as his pearly hair cascaded around his shoulders.

Your head was pulled away, length slipping from your lips as you gasped for air, a line of spit connecting you to his tip as he cooed at you.

“Open.”

You opened your mouth wider, tongue poking out for him. His cheeks hollowed and then Aemond spat onto your tongue, its warmth spreading from your mouth, all the way through your body.

You moved to shut your mouth to swallow for him like you thought he wanted, but he stopped you with a finger, pressing down on your tongue as he smeared his spit along the wet, pink muscle messily.

With little care, two fingers slid down to the back of your throat as he looked at you, your mouth still open waiting for a command. Aemond slowly fucked your throat with his fingers, grinning at the small gags that he elicited from the action, before pulling his fingers from your mouth, smearing his spit and yours across your face, the wetness sticking to your heated cheeks.

“Such a messy girl. So dirty.” He purred, lining his cock back up to your mouth which you took with ease, except this time, Aemond didn’t fuck your throat. 

He slid his length all the way down your throat, cock pressing into your gag reflex and blocking off your air. Your nose met his pelvis as he looked down at you, shaking your head slightly side to side on his length. 

“Hold it.” He growled, watching as a tear ran down your cheek as you tried to not cough or splutter on his length, chest heaving as you gagged, no air being able to pass through your nose.

Your head grew dizzy as you looked at him, lungs beginning to burn, but still he didn’t let you pull back. Holding you down onto him by the back of your head.

Your hands flew to his thighs for grip as you tried to pull away, but Aemond kept his cock nestled deeply in your throat. 

“You can do it, pretty girl." He told you, "Five more seconds.”

Another tear slid down your cheek, the weight of him in your throat making your core flutter around nothing. 

“Five.” He began to count down, watching as you squirmed below him.

“Four.” Your nails dug into his flesh harshly as you tried to keep on him, throat swallowing around him tightly in reflex, causing a shiver to roll through his body.

“Three.”

“Two.” He grunted, pulling you down harder on his length causing more tears to fall from your eyes.

“One.”

Aemond pulled you off his length, your lungs burning as you gasped in a lungful of air, spluttering and coughing at his feet. 

“Good girl.” He praised, wiping the tears from your cheeks that had left wet tracks down your face.

You coughed softly, throat aching and head spinning, feeling embarrassed and aroused all in one. The head rush from lack of air was almost as intense as the head rush you got from your desire.

“Open.”

You licked your lips and swallowed doing as you were told, feeling Aemond slide his cock slowly into the back of your throat again, but this time, you inhaled a large lungful of air in preparation. He pulled your head down all the way, nose nestled into the hair at his base as he looked down at you.

“Good girl, baby. Look at you.” You moaned around his length, feeling tears in your eyes again as he nudged your gag reflex.

“Hold it.” His voice cracked, watching a tear slide down your cheek as he brushed hair away from your forehead gently, “You're going to hold it for ten this time.”

Ten.

Oh shit.

You didn't know if you could.

But you wanted to please him.

You wanted to be good for him.

“Ten.” Aemond began to count down again, pushing his hips slightly forward, making his cock go even deeper than you thought it could, throat bulging slightly from his length, your eyes widening as you squirmed below.

“Nine.” 

“Eight.”

“Seven.” Your core clenched as he counted, watching through blurry eyes as he looked at you on your knees before him.

“S-ix.” He moaned, eye sliding shut as he felt your throat closing around him as your body tried to swallow the blockage that was his cock.

“Five.”

The room spun slightly and you began to shift below him, brain controlling you as it tried to pull you away to get air into your lungs instinctually. 

“Four." Heat rose in your cheeks as you squirmed, head trying to move backwards from his grip.

"Stay still." He growled down at you. Despite his command, you still wriggled, slick sliding between your thighs as it began to drip down onto the floor below.

“Almost there, baby. Three.”

Your arms tried to push yourself back, pure instinct taking over, your hands on his thighs, vision in the corner of your eyes going dark. 

Was he purposely counting slow?

Oh Gods.

He was.

“Two.”

You were almost there. Your fingers fisted against his thighs, and despite his face being blurred by your tears above, you couldn’t help but notice the sadistic smile that pulled at his sharp lips.

“Two and three quarters.”

Dick.

Your eyes narrowed at him, causing the man to chuckle.

“One.”

You ripped yourself away with a gasp, falling backwards onto your bum as you coughed and spluttered, drool hanging from your lips as you tried to steady your breathing. 

Aemond knelt in front of you, swiping up the spit on your chin, “Good girl. Such a good girl for me - You did so well.” You keened at his praise, leaning into his hand.

Aemond helped you to stand, pulling you over onto the bed as he stripped himself bare, watching as you still fought to catch your breath, devouring him with lust filled eyes and swollen lips.

“Let's see how wet you are from me using your mouth like that, hm?”

You parted your legs on instinct, giving him view of your glistening folds.

Aemond inhaled sharply, “Look how fucking wet you are. You're dripping all over the bed.”

You nodded your head dumbly, brain feeling light as a feather. You didn’t know if it was from the lack of previous airflow, or if it was the way he was treating you, slowly sinking you down into the comfortable little space you loved to float in with him.

“Are you all dumb, baby?” He meanly cooed at you with a sadistic pout, stroking the hair atop your head.

You nodded again as he chuckled at you, running his fingers through your slick folds, the sound of him parting them obscenely wet.

“Just from being daddy’s little fuck hole?”

You moaned, pushing your centre into his hand as he swirled a digit around your swollen clit, sparks of pleasure flying up inside of you. His finger dipped inside of you, immediately crooking upwards into the spot you needed it most. 

“Look at this needy little pussy sucking me in. Do you need daddy to help you?”

You moaned at him, thrusting your hips downwards onto his hand as he added another finger, beginning to fuck them inside of you.

“Use your words.”

It took whatever remaining braincell that was left inside your head to string together one measly word, “Please.”

Aemond smirked, “Please what, little dummy.”

You whined, shutting your eyes as heat flooded your cheeks.

“Come on. Use your big girl words or you won’t get anything.”

“Please, daddy. P-please fuck me.”

Aemond smiled victoriously, kissing a tear that was drying against your cheek, “There we go. That must have been real hard when you're all dumb, wasn’t it?

You whined at his teasing, and then again when he removed his fingers.

“Shh.” He hushed you, “Daddy’s going to give you just what you need.”

And he did.

Aemond slid into you immediately, aided by how wet and open you were for him. He sighed into the crook of your neck, your legs immediately wrapping around him as he began to fuck into you, slowly building up the pace. 

Your breasts bounced with each thrust, his hips snapping into your own as pleasure bloomed within. You moaned and cried beneath him, his pelvis rubbing against your swollen bud with each deep and rough thrust he gave you.

“You gonna cum already? I can feel you gripping me.” He huffed, watching his length disappear into your folds.

“Please.” You wailed, hands gripping the sheets beside you tightly in your fists as you begged him with your eyes.

Aemond took pity on you and slid a hand down to your pearl, rolling it in time with his thrusts, “Come on then. Cum on my cock.”

It took four sharp thrusts before your eyes screwed shut, stars appearing behind them as you came with an earth shattering cry. Aemond fucked you through it, hips and hand not once still until you were a sobbing and slick mess beneath him.

“Fucked the brat right out of you, didn’t I? Pretty little baby.” He moaned, rutting into your centre as the sound of your arousal surrounded you, the hair at the base of his cock soaked with your release, “Just needed me to fuck you stupid, didn’t you?”

You couldn’t form any words, mouth hanging open as little whines and pants flittered off of your tongue. It was overwhelming, and the pleasure of your first peak was yet to settle, bliss sizzling and burning within your gut in a way that continued to mount as he kept rubbing your pearl. 

It was almost painful.

“Give me another.” Aemond grunted, pressing his fingers against you again harder, watching as you tried to shift your hips and escape his circling digits. 

But it was no use, and Aemond ripped yet another peak from you with precision, your head lulling to the side tiredly as your body was thrust up the bed with his hips. You laid limply beneath him as he continued to fuck you, lip pulled into your mouth by your teeth as you whimpered.

“Fuck.” He gritted out through his teeth, hand releasing your clit out of mercy as he gripped your hips tightly in both hands, fucking into you harder and faster than before, beating the air from your lungs with each thrust.

“Gonna fill up this little pussy.” He moaned, watching as your brows pulled together, walls fluttering around his length.

“You want me to fill this pretty pussy with my cum? Want me to fill you up?”

You nodded your head, tear leaking from the corner of your eye as he continued to rut into you rapidly, hands leaving your hips to wrap around your throat, squeezing the sides to prevent the blood flow to your head whilst allowing for air, amplifying your pleasure and making you float even further.

“Gonna cum in your cunt.” He moaned, using the grip on your neck to pull your weight down onto his cock, spearing you open with each thrust.

It was too much.

It was-

Oh Gods-

You were-

Your brain went blank as ecstasy shot through it, scrambling any thought that you had. You heard his cry as he came deep within you, his warmth filling you up, but there was a second wetness that you noticed, that soaked the sheets below you.

It took a while to come back down to yourself, held in Aemond’s arms as he brushed gentle hands over you, holding you to him. You felt warm, safe, and completely and utterly exhausted. You shifted to look up at him, watching as his eye opened to look down at you.

“Back on earth?” He asked softly, watching as you weakly smiled at him, nuzzling into his bare chest. His chuckle vibrated against your cheek.

“Come on, we got to get you cleaned up.”

You buried your head deeper into his chest, “Don’wanna.”

Lips pressed at the top of your head, “Come on. I need to change the sheets.”

This caught your attention. 

Had you gotten your period?

Were you sweatier than you had thought?

You lifted your head to look at him, to which he gave you a smug little smile.

“You made quite the mess.”

You frowned, embarrassment creeping into your chest.

“Nothing bad.” He reassured you, kissing your forehead, “You ever squirted before?”

Squirted?

“As much as I love watching your mind turn and work, I’m lying in your wet patch.” He chuckled, shifting to lift you out of the bed. 

Low and behold, there it was.

A large wet patch below Aemond that spread out against your sheets, proof of your pleasure and the peaks that Aemond took you too. And despite having no shame, and being roughly and thoroughly fucked not too long ago, heat still flooded your cheeks at the sight.

After lazing in bed for only an allowed moment more, Aemond helped you to the shower, your legs weak like jelly as he washed you and brushed your hair, taking off your makeup with gentle steady hands that made your heart flutter in your chest.

Ever the gentleman, he popped you on the couch as he changed your sheets, remaking your bed before he put on the load of washing. It was entirely domestic, and watching him as he moved, as he doted. on you, as he fluttered around your space which had irrevocably also became his, it only seemed to make the little part of him that had burrowed into your chest go deeper.

-

You ordered in that evening, getting pizza in a strange reminder of what it had been like when he first moved in. The same pizza order, the same pizza place, the same two spots on the couch as you ate.

The two of you had come a long way since then. A very long way, and in many ways, coming to a place that you would not have thought possible or even to have thought to cross your mind.

You watched his favourite movie in comfortable silence after eating your dinner, before suddenly you remembered something. You jumped up from your spot, hissing slightly at the soreness between your thighs as you ran to retrieve two spoons from the drawer, then opening the freezer door to dig around inside.

Ah.

There it was.

The forgotten tub of ice cream you had carelessly thrown inside when a certain person was in your home.

You held it triumphantly as you walked back to the couch, holding it as you would a prized jewel on show for him. Aemond chuckled at your antics as you pulled the lid clean off, offering him a spoon.

“The first dip, My Lord.” You joked, bowing your head to him.

Aemond huffed a laugh, the pressure of him digging into the tub with his spoon pushed into your wrist. 

“Ñuha Riña.”

The accent sent a pulse straight to your core.

Down girl.

You dipped your spoon in after him, lifting it to your lips, “What does that mean?”

“My Lady." Aemond hummed, returning his attention back to the tv.

You savoured the ice cream, the tub becoming half full in no time as you slowly but surely demolished it together. It felt good to be at his side, to know where you both stood. To know what you both wanted, and for it to not be a secret anymore.

But you still couldn't get your mind to stop thinking about the way his tongue had rolled when speaking High Valyrian.

“Aemond?” You turned your head to look at his profile, watching as his tongue darted out to lick at his spoon.

“Hm?”

“Will you teach me?”

His brows furrowed, “Teach you what?”

“High Valyrian.” You asked him shyly, suddenly feeling like perhaps you shouldn’t have asked him that at all. Maybe he wouldn't want to teach you that. Maybe it was a family thing only.

Was that weird of you to ask?

Would it be a reminder of the tension back at home?

A reminder of his father?

Your swirling thoughts of doubt were cut short as a soft smile spread across his shape cheeks.

“Hen rhinka.” Of course.

“What does that mean?”

“You’ll have to find out, won’t you, ñuha jorrāelagon.”

My love.

-

That night you slept in each others embrace, fresh and warm sheets on the bed, surrounded by his scent. It was no wonder that you drifted off to sleep so easily after the romp you had had earlier, not to mention how tumultuous the days before had been.

Yet when you woke the next morning, you felt refreshed, ready for a new start.

A new day.

A new beginning.

With him.

Aemond wasn’t in bed with you, but rather than feeling any sort of panic or anxiety about his absence, you crawled out of bed and went to where you knew he would be. 

Standing tall, leant against the bench, Aemond sleepily sipped from his coffee in the kitchen as he blew the smoke from his cigarette through the open window. He was clad in only black shorts, his silver hair messy and tangled, and the press of his pillow embedded in his cheek. 

Hearing your approach, he turned to you and smiled. 

Your stomach did flips.

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

The familiar sound of porcelain on the bench scraped in your ear.

There, at the base of his fingers, was your steaming mug of tea. 

You took it gratefully from him with a smile before sidling up to his side, leaning your head against his chest as he wrapped one arm around your shoulders pulling you closer.

“What do you want to do today?” You looked up at him, watching as he smiled down at you.

“Anything you want.”

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Taglist:

@mrstargayen09 @iamavailablesstuff @malfoytargaryen @hogwarts1207 @diannnnsss @seni039 @qyburnsghost @anehkael @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @watercolorskyy @skikikikiikhhjuuh @toodlesxcuddles @kaelatargaryen @aemonds-fire @anitazut @melsunshine @persephonerinyes @wintrr13@arcielee @coffedraven @happinessinthebeing @zairishmya @hanula18 @lovejustlovelythings-blog @harryssunflxwer @spinachtz @bellaisasleep @aemshaircare @heavenly1927 @yentroucnagol @snh96 @thedamewithabook @hanula18 @sweethoneyblossom1 @siriusblackrunmeover17 @yentroucnagol @urmomsgirlfriend1 @carriellie @ipostwhtifeel@queenofshinigamis @toodlesxcuddles @the-common-cowgirl@ladymarg0t @deadgirlwalkingtaylorsversion @diiickbrainn @rawrxbexjealous @virtualsweetsqueen @adeliciouslysaltybitch @tsujifreya @boofy1998 @docmartinis @rabbit-reveries @bel-bottoms @padfooteyes @cryingforlife

Bold is who I cannot tag

[badass-queer-couples-battle]

Gay wrongs tournament, quarterfinals of the major bracket

Propaganda:

For House and Wilson:

Literally the most insane couple of all time from medical malpractice the show. They’re best friends, they live together, they’ve drugged eachother, they make stupid bets together, they manipulate each other, they ride off into the sunset together. They’re Sherlock and Watson, they’re the best doctors in their fields and you’d never want them anywhere near your medical care.

Medical malpractice <3

For Will and Hannibal:

Ive previously only heard the term "murder husbands" refer to hannigram so it feels flitting. The whole series culminated with a murder they did together bathing in blood. 

The show and ship that coined murder husbands. It’s in the text in s3 from a journalist side character. They do Many murders either together or as a message to each other. Usually this involves turning the dead body into an art piece. The show ends with them killing a guy together in a slo mo scene backed by porno music.

They're both batshit and manipulative.

ALRIGHT so they're not canonically together but it is HEAVILY implied and they have some sort of fucked up psychosexual obsession with each other. in the later parts of the show they start committing murder and cannibalism together and they're soooo unhinged but it's awesome

kill people for each other. maim each other. kill people together. most batshit insane metaphors. send each other to jail. ruin everyone’s lives. someone can probably say this better than me but these gay people are insane

Literally THE murder husbands. They kill for each other. They've tried to kill each other. They're canon in all but name, like the homoeroticism between these two is the driving force of the show.

one time hannibal folded a guy into an origami human heart

They are in love and they kill and eat people. They are called Murder Husbands in canon.

The original murder husbands (literally, that's not just their ship name, they get called that in canon)

The show begins with Will working for the FBI and trying to catch Hannibal, but because Hannibal is so intrigued by the way Will is able to see the world and the motives behind the killings so easily, it becomes a game of Hannibal isolating Will even more from the people around and seducing him to try and kill. By the time Will starts embracing the side of him that Hannibal sees, he starts oulling back and trying to distance himself so that when the time comes for Will to fully embrace himself and Hannibal, no one really suspects what they have planned. 

hannibal literally does murder as courtship and it works bc will is also a fucked up little guy

I'm actually quite offended they aren't included by default (joke). They are THE murder husbands!!!!!! (mod note: they should have been, but I wanted to see how many submissions they'd get. They got 19, making them a little more than 6% of total submission count).

do i have to say it. they literally get called murder husbands IN THE SHOW

There are 3201 works for Hannibal on ao3 tagged Murder Husbands. They are the ogs, they are the pioneers we owe it all to them.

THEE murder couple. You know it. I know it. They commit crimes at each other as courting and then commit crimes together and then fall off a cliff to wash up somewhere and live on to serve cunt. Get referred to as 'murder husbands' in canon. What more do you need

Hannigram were literally called Murder Husbands in canon, they are the og, they are THE blueprint. They were gay as hell and comitted so much murder so many crimes. THEY RAN OFF TO EUROPE TOGETHER.

[sameschmidtdiffname]

Repentance

Billy x Gender Neutral! Reader

('Burn' gifs are limited and this was hotter. Sue me.)

Summery: You know the phrase 'sleeping angels?' Yeah, not in this fucking house. Pretty soon it's gonna be you or him, but Billy may have a trick or two up his sleeve to provide a happy ending for you both

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specified genitals for Reader, prequel/standalone fic for 'My Ghost' but not required reading to enjoy this fic, ('My Ghost' may even be enhanced if you read this first, I'll be fr.) Porn with plot (if you are only here for plot, the porn is only in the second half and is easily skippable), snoring, Reader is sleep deprived, non-serious threats of violence, mentions of gun violence, banter, make-up sex, drug usage/alcohol consumption, Dom!Billy, Sub!Reader, Reader goes mostly non-verbal after smoking but their thoughts don't, dumbification, Reader gets spoiled and folds like a lawn chair me too bitch me too, massage turning into sex, doggy style, Reader gets that good dick that knocks their head into a wall, vocal! Billy, dirty talk/talking through it, pet names, possessive sex, mentions of wet dreams, happy ending for everyone :)

Other Works in This Series: 'My Ghost' (Original) • 'Lapses' (Sequel to 'My Ghost')

Notes: This was supposed to be a drabble and it was not gonna contain smut. What can I say, when the holy spirit of a short man with big brown eyes compels you, you compel him into your bitch. Anyways, this was inspired by this headcanon written by @g0ry0re0! So if you liked this fic, please thank her as well in the comments and go support her works because this wouldn't exist without it!! They're a fucking great writer as well.

                            -¤°》◇《°¤-

Have you ever killed a man?

I might.

Listen, I'm not a bitch. I'm not unreasonable even though that was a hell of an opening statement. But if you'd dealt with the shit I've put up with for the past few nights, you would understand.

How can a man who's not even that fucking large in stature make such noise? What the fuck is wrong with him?

I kick him to try and hit a reset button. It works for five minutes, which is long enough for me to begin to relax again. Right before his snoring revs up like the engine of that bike he loves parked on our front lawn. Maybe I'll run him over with it. Be poetic, take him out with his own weapon. Don't the reports show just how deadly motorcycles are compared to regular cars? It's bad for your health.

Okay, I'm assuming that bit because I'm tired, I'm cold, and Billy won't shut the fuck up. It was a little cute when he was just spending the night and we were hardly sleeping. But now that he actually lives here?

Kick. Stop. Wait. Snore.

Goddammit.

Billy has the fucking audacity to greet me with a smile this morning. Sitting at my fucking table, smoking from the ashtray I fucking made him. He should be ashamed to look so good with no shirt on, displaying his chest hair for the whole neighborhood to see as he sits near the open window with coffee set in front of him like he owns the damn place.

"Morning beautiful," he says with a smile. What fucking nerve does he have to sit there and act so happy about while I hate him?

"You snore," I growl. His eyebrows shoot into the air, this son of a bitch has the nerve to widen his smile.

"I'm sorry?"

"I said you fucking snore," I repeat.

"Don't think I've heard that complaint before," he says, shifting in his seat to look at me better. I don't like the way he looks in those sweatpants, grey and hugging the wrong areas for my attitude.

"You haven't dated anyone long enough for someone to complain about it," I mutter under my breath. His eyes focus on the oversized shirt I wear that alright, maybe I stole from the drawer I stash his things in that I now claim as mine. We live together, it's inevitable, fucking fight me. Watching me as I walk into the kitchen, taking the coffee pot off the dock and pouring some into my cup.

"Something I can do to make up for it, shirt thief?" He asks, leaning back in his seat and manspreading, his hands on his horribly thick thighs. "I was wondering where that one went," he mutters to himself, amused.

"Yeah. See a fucking doctor."

It's day five. I'm genuinely considering homicide.

Dear God, or Allah, or whoever you are. If I shouldn't suffocate this man, give me a sign.

...does the short snore that escapes Billy's mouth count?

It doesn't matter what I do. If I turn him onto his side, if I kick him, if I shove ear buds in and blast whatever music I can sleep to at max volume, he's louder and I'm on my last straw. It's him or me.

"William," I say, poking my head up from the old pillow.

No response.

Maybe it's safe.

Maybe he's dead.

Maybe he'll stay quiet.

I lay my head down once more.

"...what?"

"You fucking snore."

"I'm sorry baby," he slurs in half baked consciousness, turning to wrap his arm around my waist as he presses hot, open mouthed kisses to the back of my neck. "Can I make it up to you?"

"Yeah, let me sleep."

"Sleep is for the weak."

I am weak. I am very, very weak.

"Put your dick away."

"It isn't out."

"I can still feel it."

With a grumble and his face buried in my hair, he abandons his quest in favor of returning to whatever dreams make him keep me up at night. And I am so close to joining him when he starts back up hardly two minutes later. Right in my ear.

With a final huff, I tear the blanket off of him and stomp my bleary eyed way to the living room. Fucker is too sleepy to even notice. Fuck him.

I'm not amused when I wake up in the ungodly hours of the morning sprawled on the couch, Billy's foot in my face as early morning light peaks through the shitty blinds.

"You followed me," I groan, my voice rough with sleep.

"I followed blanket," he slurs.

"It's mine."

"I was cold."

"You snore."

"I've offered consolation, you should take it."

"William, have you ever shot a man?" I ask, bolting upright as I wipe the crust from my eyes.

"Fucking what?"

"Have you ever shot a man?" I repeat slowly, properly enunciating each word.

Billy's eyes dart to the side, then back to me, wide but still tinted from sleep.

"...no?"

"I've considered it," I tell him. "There's a gun in my nightstand. And if I don't get some sleep soon, I'm going to use it. I haven't before, but I can't imagine it's hard."

Billy presses his lips together in a thin line, knowing I'm not serious but that I'm on the last straw.

"... should I go back to bed?"

"I can go back to bed," I say. "You can stay on the couch."

"That's a great idea."

"I'll take the blanket."

"You do that."

It's only two hours later when I'm woken by the alarm, and the smell of sausage is fresh on the air. Even if it was short, the sleep in solitude feels refreshing, no interruptions from Yellowstone volcano on the other side.

When I wander into the kitchen he's in the midst of finishing his preparations for a feast. And by feast I mean a fuck load of eggs with sriracha on top and plenty of sausages to go with it. There's also a pile of toast, the bottle of homemade cinnamon sugar next to the stick of butter besides it.

"Morning beautiful," Billy tries carefully, eyeing me as I lean against the hallway doorframe. "Coffee's on the table."

Whatever I said earlier- which may or may not be blurry to me at this point -has clearly changed his attitude. He's even set out the hazellenut creamer for me, a treat.

"Did you sleep well?" He asks, setting a heaping plate in front of me. I don't know how to tell him I'm too sleepy to eat.

"Better," I say. I take a slice of cinnamon covered toast, trying to convince my stomach to wake up. "Kinda cold, though."

He smiles softly at that, setting down his own plate to join me. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." I return the smile, taking a small bite of the corner of my toast. He takes a sip of coffee and brushes his foot against mine under the table. The silence is sweet, apart from the radio just ever so quietly playing in the background to add to the calm morning atmosphere Billy has created for me. His hair is ruffled from sleep, his hand nervously fiddling with the thin chain around his neck. He glances at me, smiles apprehensively, then breaks the silence.

"Do you actually own a gun?" He asks, trying so hard to sound casual.

My brows furrow before I realize what he's referencing, letting out a loud laugh and almost dropping my toast in the process.

"I'm not gonna shoot you, Billy," I laugh, trying so hard to maintain my composure.

"Last night you called me William. I did not like that," he laughs nervously.

"William, I will not shoot you."

"My mother calls me that, I don't want you and my mom calling me the same name."

"Willy-"

"Fuck you," he groans, laughing. "You're terrifying."

"When I don't sleep," I add for him. He nods, eyes wide and brows raising in agreement. "Did you seriously make breakfast because you were worried I owned a gun?"

"When you meet the devil, you meet demands," he says. I kick at his foot playfully, giggling.

"The devil doesn't really eat breakfast."

"I know, I packed lunch too."

Fuck free will, I should've done the gun thing a long time ago. When I walk back into the ramshack house that evening fresh off my shift, Billy has dinner, a bowl and a bath prepared for me upon my return.

"I did not take your comments seriously and I'm sorry," he says genuinely, taking my coat. "I should have and you have suffered. Consider this repentance."

"Repentance is nice. You hide the gun too while you were at it?" I ask.

"I'm not answering that."

Billy may be many things, and a cook is one of them. It's simple, fresh, and nice after a long day. The backrub I'm getting while I eat makes the flavors even sweeter.

"I feel an urge to clarify my threat was not serious," I joke between bites, taking a sip of the wine Billy had run out and gotten special for the night.

"I'm well aware, but this is overdue anyways," he says softly. "You're mine and you deserve nice nights." He presses a warm kiss to the spot just under my ear, making me blush. "My baby needs spoiled."

"Well, I certainly feel spoiled," I say contently, finishing the last bite. I lean back in my chair, letting him explore my neck as his gentle hands work their way through my many knots, whispering sweet nothings in my ear all the while.

"Wait until I tell you what kinds of oils I slipped in your bath as well," he whispers in my ear.

If this is repentance, he should snore more often.

I'm stoned, zoned, and completely naked across the bed as Billy carefully massages my legs, phone propped on a spare pillow beside my head as I stare blankly at the show in front of me.

His hands are slick with oil, gliding across my skin with ease as he works at a knot on the back of my calf.

"I've been ignoring you too much," he muses, his voice soft and loving as his thumbs work in small circles. "You're much too tense for my taste."

I am too stupid to respond with English. I will tell him later about the day I've had at work, running around for fifteen different customers and a boss I can hardly stand. But for now a low moan will do, my mind too blurry from substance use and the stimulation that makes me dizzy with want.

"Does that feel good?" Billy asks, pressing a small kiss against my shin. I moan again, eyes fluttering shut. "Wanna make sure my baby sleeps well tonight."

Oh, I'll sleep phenomenally.

His hands abandon me, searching for the bottle of lavender scented oil, coating his hands before reaching for the back of my thighs, right below the curve of my ass.

"How's the show?" He asks me, digging deeply into my tissue in a way that makes me moan, arching my back subconsciously as the stimulation takes over my thoughts. "That good?" He asks, voice deep as he chuckles.

"Very good," I confirm, my voice soft against the freshly washed bedsheets. I have never said a bad thing about this man. I would never curse the provider of relaxation. Any claims otherwise are false and slandering against me and my man.

"You're grinding against the bed, you realize that, right?" Billy asks bemused, his thumbs drawing deep circles against the inside of my thighs, making me gasp in want. "There something else you want?"

Whatever strain he has given me has made me nonverbal, but the squeak I let out is answer enough. For me, anyways.

"I need words, baby. Words. Vague noises are not consent," he says softly.

"Motherfucker that noise was not vague," I snap, lifting my head up briefly before resuming my mindless appreciation against the bed. Billy's laugh echoes throughout the room, his hand lightly smacking my ass before reaching for the small towel and bottle of lube on the nightstand, wiping off his hands before squeezing a generous dollop onto two digits.

His fingers press against my entrance slowly, coating it with the thick, cold lube, making me squirm and gasp against him, my eyes rolling to the back of my head.

"I'm gonna start off slow, okay baby?" He says gently, still stroking my entrance as he positions himself above me. "You let me know if you want me to change something."

I moan in understanding, but it's not enough for him. His voice is low and rumbling by my ear, his lips teasing at my shoulder.

"Say yes if you understand," he says softly, breath hot against my ear.

"Yes," I say just as soft.

"Good," he praises, pressing a soft kiss to the back of my neck. "Good baby."

His cock slowly sinks inside of me, the pot from earlier making the sensations deeper and more vibrant as I feel the sweet stretch even at the top of my head. Billy moves slow, taking his time to enter me as though we had all the time in the world. I can't help but pant against the bed, whining for more intelligibly as Billy sheethes himself to the hilt, pressing himself against my g-spot just perfectly at this angle, no real effort needed when I'm like this. My eyes roll at the touch, my hips bucking in uneven, stupid rhythms against him as he remains still inside of me. Fuck it, he could snore in my ear right now and I'd let him.

Billy's voice is breathy, moaning as he brushes my hair with his hand. "Let me know when you want me to move," he moans in my ear.

"I am," I whine. "Fuck me."

He chuckles against me, his voice rough as he continues in a slow, even rhythm. "You don't want to go slow first?" He asks, pressing a kiss to my spine as he slowly slides against my spot again, his cock making me clench tightly around him.

"Uh uh," I moan, still trying to buck rapidly against him. "Want more."

"You usually get so overstimulated if I start fast at this angle," he teases, ignoring the pace of my hips in favor of his. "Can't even finish fucking you if I start out fast, you're so sensitive by the end."

That's a lie. Terrible lie. Slander.

"Do you really want me to go fast?" He asks softly, one hand finding my hip to guide me to a better rhythm.

"Motherfucker, yes," I whine, lifting my head. He chuckles, much to my annoyance. "Fuck me like you own me."

At that he grabs my hips, slamming me against his base before he begins to violently abuse my hole, fucking directly into my g-spot and never missing once as he fucks me hard enough to make the bed slam into the wall, making a painting rattle on the wall behind us.

"Jesus- fuck- wait!" I cry, my hips subconsciously trying to escape his abuse while I clench around him, silently begging for more.

He slows his pace once more, pressing such soft, sweet kisses to my spine as he speaks. "See? You can't handle it like that. You're half fucked out already and that wasn't even five seconds."

He's absolutely right and I should listen to him more. How wise is my man.

"If I was really fucking you like I owned you," he says lowly between slow, long thrusts, his hands guiding my hips gently as I whimper with each move like the bitch I am. "I'd pick the pace. But here you are, telling me what to do and changing your mind the moment I give it to you. So indecisive is my baby." Very indecisive. Go fast again. "And I'll do whatever you want like a good man should."

I will stay home with the kids. I will scrub my permanently stained linoleum floor until it shines like the top of the Chrysler building. I will spend my days barefoot and pregnant if he so requests of me. In Jesus's name, Amen.

Billy moves slow and purposefully against me, grinding his cock and moaning in my ear while he watches me, smacking my ass here and there when he wants to watch it bounce against his hips.

"So pretty," he moans. "Even prettier when you cum. Is there something I can do to help?"

I whine against the bed, feeling edged and whoreish with his thick dick pulsing inside of me, fucking me into blind submission and making me willing to do anything he says.

"Would someone like for me to go faster?" He coos sweetly, slightly speeding up his tempo as he slams more gently into my spot. "Does my baby wanna get fucked?"

I nod stupidly, whining and huffing as he slowly continues to gain speed.

"You gonna cum around me? Take my cock real nice and fast?" He asks, smacking my ass once more. I clench upon impact, making him do it again and again until he laughs.

"Cum in me," I moan. All care has been thrown out the window, my head scrambled and vision blind.

"Yeah? You want that?" He teases. His balls smack loudly against my front, offering additional stimulation and making my eyes roll. "Looks like you're drooling over it." Motherfucker I am, and?

"I'm gonna fuck you so good you sleep for days, sweetheart," he moans in my ear, slamming into me hard enough to make me squeal. "Kept dreaming about you for the past week. Kept getting all nice and hard only to have you wake me up before I could fuck you. Come to find out I was keeping my poor baby up, being my own cockblock."

His cock pistons in and out of me at impressive speed, one of his hands slamming against the bars of the metal headboard to offer him stability while he fucks me, the bed ramming against the wall so loudly it's all I can hear besides him. I think the painting fell.

"Now we can both sleep better at night. My balls empty, your ass nice and full. Think I'll do it again tomorrow," he muses, slamming me against the bed, pushing me higher. "And again." And higher. "And again." Until the top of my head pounds against the ceiling. "Till the fucken cows come home."

Moo, bitch. Moo.

With a pathetic scream, hardly able to make any noise due to the violent climax, I cry his name as I clench around him. His dick pounds my head into the wall absuively as he chants my name like it's the only word ever known to him, his voice raising in volume until he's shouting it so clear it raises above the rocking of the bed, loud enough surely for the neighbors to hear. I'm hardly even aware of when he cums, or really anything at this point, his dick pulsing within me and fucking his admittedly larger than usual load into me so deep you'd think there'd be no chance of it to escape. I'm only aware he came when his cock finally softens, our cum dripping and pooling underneath of me in a mixed puddle when he slips out with a small whimper, his breath so heavy and wheezing I'm almost scared he'll pass out on top of me.

"Wanna go again?" He jokes, his voice worryingly pathetic as he tries to laugh, sounding more like a death rattle than anything. All I respond with is a shaky thumbs down, my head spinning from the possible concussion I may genuinely have.

It's an effective sleep method. Works wonders for both of us.

                              ▪︎》◇《▪︎

After he slips out of the house one winter morning with my gun tucked in the back of his jeans, I can't tell you how much I'd give to hear him snore against our lavender scented bed one last time, feeling his arms that are now ash and bones on the floor of a gas station just outside of town. My only company now being his ghost echoing his bright laughter down the darkened halls of what was once our home.

You like my ending bbgirl? Special just for youuu.

Taglist:

@cassiecasluciluce @gh0u1ishly @joshhutchersons-slut @schmidtsbimbo @sugarevans @wompwompwomp57 . Thank you for your support pookies!!! <3

Masterlist

[veltana]

Mafia AU prequels - Bucky's break-up

✦ Pairing: Stucky/Fem!Reader ✦ Word count: ~1.7k ✦ Rating: Mature ✦ Warnings/tags: hurt/comfort, mild swearing, angst, mentions of alcohol consumption, lots of fluff and feels, platonic cuddling, sharing a bed, Bucky is a dramatic drunk, unrequited love/crush, mention of loki/reader. ✦ Summary: The thing with roommates is that you will hear them during sex occasionally, it can’t be avoided with thin walls in an old building. But since that Wednesday Bucky never once slept alone and the rest of the time he was hardly in the apartment. ✦ Note: This is a prequel to No one as sweet as you set while they were living together in college, which focuses on their growing relationship and how Bucky and Steve started to develop feelings for Sweets as more than just their best friend. You don't need to read No one as sweet as you to get this but I recommend it. (Also posted on AO3)

Series masterlist

Masterlist | AO3

Bucky and Dot broke up on a Wednesday around lunch. On Wednesday night Bucky had a new girl in his bed and you and Steve shrugged, put on your headphones, and waited for it to blow over.

The thing with roommates is that you will hear them during sex occasionally, it can’t be avoided with thin walls in an old building. But since that Wednesday Bucky never once slept alone and the rest of the time he was hardly in the apartment.

With your room right in between Steve and Bucky’s, you took the brunt of the sounds and on Friday morning you decided to take shelter in Steve’s room because the girl was a screamer and you had barely slept for two days.

Now it’s Tuesday, around one am and both Steve and you are awake, listening to the moans and sounds making their way through your room and into Steve’s.

"How does he even do it?" Steve sounds a little amazed as you both lay in bed and stare at the ceiling. "Drugs?" you ask. "Honestly, it has to be, how else is he going at it all the time like that?" "Maybe they're all faking it?" you suggest.

"I've never heard anyone complain about him," Steve shrugs. "But I mean statistically he can’t get it right for everyone every time." "If he does, he is one of a kind," you decide. "Tempted to go for a ride?" You hear the smile in Steve's voice without even looking. "No, not really," you grimace. "We should do something, I’m not sure it’s healthy anymore."

"Yeah I know, Sweets, but if I try and grab him like he did with me when I was sad about Peggy he is probably going to punch me," Steve sounds concerned too.

Sweets, that dorky nickname they both have decided to call you because you happen to like all things sweet. Somehow it had stuck, even though you protested. "I can try and talk to him," you pause before continuing. "If he is ever alone again."

Suddenly the front door slams and you realize that the sounds have stopped. Sharing a look both of you rush out of bed, finding Bucky in the kitchen, downing a gallon of juice.

"Want some?" He holds it out when he sees you. The smell of alcohol on his breath is strong, even when you’re a few feet away, pulling out a chair to sit down across from where he’s standing. "No thank you," you answer while Steve leans against the fridge. "So, who was that?" you ask.

Bucky shrugs. "Don't know, met her at a bar." "Are you using protection?" Steve asks with a raised eyebrow. Bucky straightens up, putting the open juice jug down hard on the counter, making liquid slosh out, looking at Steve with black eyes that you’ve never seen before.

"Of course I am, do you think I'm fucking dumb or somethin'," he snarls. Bucky tends to be a little dramatic when he's drunk. In an effort to calm him down you reach out to him. "Hey, Bucky, it's okay, he wasn't-" The moment your fingers touch his arm, he turns and moves his hand. "Don't fucking touch me," he says and the palm of his hand connects with your underarm.

Out of surprise and not because it hurts, you yelp and look up at Bucky, a little confused because he’s never reacted like that before. He stares back at you with horrified eyes, realization dawning on him. Slowly, without another word, he backs away and hurries over to his room, slamming the door behind him like a teenager in a fit.

Steve moves forward and grabs your arm, turning it over to see if you’re hurt. "What the fuck is wrong with him," he murmurs. "It's nothing, I was just surprised," you shrug. "I've hurt myself worse by bumping into tables." "That is no fucking excuse." Steve lets go and starts towards Bucky's door. Before he can knock, Bucky opens it with a bag over his shoulder. He's changed into new clothes and his cap is pulled down low over his eyes.

Steve blocks the doorway and crosses his arms, asking "Where the fuck are you going?" "Heading out, move," Bucky mumbles and tries to duck past Steve but the other won't let him. "The fuck your not, you're gonna stay here and face whatever it is that you’re feeling," Steve's voice is laced with restrained anger. "And you're gonna apologize to Sweets."

You’re about to protest that you're not really hurt, but Steve shoots a look over his shoulder and you clamp your mouth shut. "We understand that you're sad about Dot," Steve is softer now and he leans on the doorframe, giving Bucky a way out but he doesn't take it, he just stands there, looking at the ground.

"You don't understand shit, Steve," Bucky mutter. "Have you even cried?" Steve asks and that makes Bucky’s head snap up, his mouth a thin line. "Real men don't fucking cry," he hisses. They stare at each other for a long while, then Steve points to you. "Can real men apologize when they're being a fucking ass?" Steve asks with poorly hidden disdain.

This is a sore spot for both of them and has been the grounds for arguments before. Bucky has some views on what it means to be a man that neither Steve nor you share. It has gotten better over the years according to Steve but you have not seen Bucky cry once, not to sad movies or when he’s been injured, or even had his heart broken. It's concerning, but maybe you and Steve can help him with that one day.

The bag lands on the floor with a thump and he walks past Steve to where you're sitting on the chair. Without a word he gets down on his knees in front of you and gently grabs your arm, pressing his lips against your skin murmuring "I'm sorry," repeatedly.

Steve has turned to look at you and you meet his eyes that are still hard and annoyed. You use your free hand to remove the cap and run your fingers through Bucky's hair, whispering, "It's okay."

When you do, Bucky stiffens and stops moving for a moment, then he lets go of your arm and buries his face in your pajama-clad lap, his voice trembling when he says, "I'll move out, I swear. I'm so sorry! I'm sorry, Sweets! I didn’t mean to hurt you! I love you so much."

Steve softens immediately and pushes off the door to settle on the floor beside him, rubbing his back. “No need for that Buck,” he says softly and you echo him. “I don’t want you to leave Bucky,” you grab one of his hands and gently press a kiss to the top of it before placing it back again.

After several minutes of silence, Bucky asks angrily into your legs, "Why the fuck does it have to hurt this much.” "I don't know," you answer truthfully. "I wish I never met her, never fucked her, never fucking loved her,” Bucky continues. "No, you don't," Steve argues. "I know it might feel like you will never be happy again but it will get better." Bucky lifts his head and Steve cups his face and brushes his cheeks, even though there are no tears there.

"We love you, and we will help you with anything you need," you promise. Bucky nods and lays his head down against your legs again with Steve's hand still on his cheek.

Eventually, Steve stands up and Bucky looks at him a little worried. "Not leaving, just gonna get another blanket for the bed," he reassures him. While Steve is gone Bucky says, "I'm sorry I hurt you, I love you, Sweets, more than you could ever know." And you smile because even though you know he’s exaggerating, it’s still nice to hear him say it. "I know Bucky, I know," you whisper.

When Steve comes back he pulls Bucky to his feet and guides him into the bedroom. You check the front door before turning all the lights out, then padding over to Steve's room too. They're cuddled together, Bucky's head pressed into Steve's shoulder and you move to slide in behind Bucky, but he grabs you around the waist and pulls you down between them. It makes you giggle and there is a weak smile answering on Bucky's face before you all settle in.

There is not even a light bruise left behind on your arm the next day, but you've never seen Bucky so remorseful. In the following weeks, he accompanies you around to classes, carries your stuff, and has sworn off drinking. Both you and Steve are skeptical because Bucky is famous for his partying but in the months that follow he often goes out but always comes home sober.

One day when you're having lunch at home together on the couch, you ask him about it.

First, he puts his food down before taking hold of your utensils and placing them on the table. Then he grabs you and pulls you into his lap, hugging you so tightly you can hardly breathe.

"I never want to put you in that situation again," he explains. "What if I get angry and do something worse, to you, or Steve, or anyone else." Hugging him back as best you can you say "Maybe you should talk to a professional about it?" "I'm on a waiting list," he replies.

You cuddle into him, really trying to show him that you mean it when you say, "Bucky I'm not afraid of you, I know you didn't mean to hurt me." "Don't make excuses for me," he says and picks up a strand of your hair, twirling it between his fingers.

The moment is cut off by your phone chiming and you wiggle out of his hold. When you pull it out a smile splits your face. "Have to go," you grab another spoonful of fried rice then get up. "Who was that?" Bucky asks.

Since you’re halfway to the door you don't pick up on his tone. "Just someone I've been seeing," "What's his name?" "Loki, he's from Europe!" You turn around with a smile and throw him a kiss before you're out the door.

Bucky feels his heart break, again, only this time he has no excuse to be sad about it because you aren't his.

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[bullet-prooflove]

Five Years Gone: Neron 'Creeper' Vargas x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @est1887 @anime-weeb-4-life @creativitybeware @mortal--soul @spaghettificationandpretzels @redpoodlern @lexondeck @librarian1002 @thanossexual @justreblogginfics @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @adaydreamaway08 @wnbweasley @skyesthebomb

Brothers!Series:

Brothers - Neron's brother threatens his sobriety.

Wide Awake - Neron regrets his decision.

Out of Sight - Neron asks you a favour.

Slow Burn - Neron and you watch it burn.

Neron lets you sleep in; you usually need the rest after you’ve worked the convention circuit. It’s been three days of solid tattooing, of late nights and early mornings and that’s not including the travel to and from San Diego, the packing and unpacking of your equipment.

Currently you’re splayed out across the bed, tangled up in his sheets. You’re wearing his black wifebeater from last night and boy boxers that hug your ass just right. Your tattoos are on display, that beautiful artwork etched into your skin.

As he leans in the bedroom doorway, his coffee mug in his hand he can’t help but think how lucky he is. His world was dark, barren before he met you and now it’s a sea of colour.

There’s a rap on his front door and he frowns because it’s six in the morning and everyone else he knows it getting ready for work or sleeping. The last person he expects to see is his brother Mateo. He hasn’t spoken to the other man since he’d kicked him out for bringing coke into his home. Something he had vehemently denied until Neron had held up the vial.

His face is a bloody mask, he clutches his ribs as he practically falls through Neron’s door, spilling into the hallway. His palm comes to rest on the cream wall leaving a crimson handprint in its wake.

It’s as Neron cleans up Mateo in the kitchen that the story begins to unfold. Mateo’s in deep with his dealer, he owes 10k after his product got jacked last week and Salvadore Ortiz isn’t feeling forgiving. Neron gets the impression that this isn’t the first time that Mateo’s disappointed the drug lord. If he doesn’t pay up though it’ll be his last.

“I can’t help you.” He tells his brother as he applies the butterfly stitches to the cuts above his brow.

He isn’t lying, the last time he’d fallen off the wagon he’d blew through every single dollar of his savings. He’s just finished paying off Taza and Riz for his last two stints in rehab.

“I can.”

His heart fucking sinks when he lifts his head and sees you standing in the doorway. He doesn’t want you involved in this side of his life, cleaning up Mateo’s messes, having your sobriety challenged.

It comes with conditions; you tell Mateo as you pull on one of Neron’s hoodies and tie your hair back so you can retrieve the money from the safe at the tattoo shop. As soon as he’s paid his dealer, he checks himself into rehab. You’ll set it up but he has to meet you back here later in the day, you’ll walk him in yourself.

In that moment Neron doesn’t think he could love you more, because your compassion, it isn’t just reserved for him, it extends to his fucked-up family as well. As he watches his brother depart with the money, Neron thinks he might just do it this time. That Mateo will finally get himself clear of all the shit he’s involved in, and they can be brothers again.

He hopes for it as the two of you sit in his living room that night, watching the clock and waiting for Mateo to show. By the time midnight comes around Neron knows it’s over, that his brother has taken your money and used it to go on a bender.

“I’m sorry.” He tells you, rubbing his hands over his exhausted features. “He took you money, your trust…”

“We both know how hard it is,” You remind him as you sit down alongside of him. “You have to want to get clean and Mateo, he just doesn’t.”

The worst part is he knows that you did this for him, to give him back some connection to the family that he’s lost through addiction. His parents, his brother, himself, every single one of them has been tainted with it. The guilt cripples him. It eats away at his soul as he lies beside you that night, because you’re so wonderful and pure and he’s poison. He’s the toxin that’s bleeding into your life and you don’t even realise it.

It's the next day that he gets a visit from the police and the news, it devastates him. They found Mateo’s body in a motel outside of Santo Padre, a needle still in his arm. An O.D they tell him.

When he identifies his brother, he feels that numbness creeping in because Neron realises for the first time in his life he’s completely alone. His family is gone, eradicated by the illness that’s plagued them for generations.

The next night he finds himself sitting in a bar near the motel where Mateo died. He orders a vodka, watching as the clear liquid swirls around the glass before he throws his head back and drains it completely.

Five years of sobriety…

Gone, just like that.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[hazshit-hotel-hater]

Since Viv still somehow cannot decide on what Angel overdosed on. I am taking my liberties and doing it my goddamn self. I will also be formatting this into a summary of what I think a good small backstory scene could be like while also giving Angel a safespace and bonding experience.

It’s in the tags but WARNING there is discussion of drug abuse and overdosing in this summary.

Urg, okay, Vague but also kind of not vague angel backstory stuff because ig viv cant make up her mind on her own OCs backstory

Angel is lying in bed with Husk sitting at the edge as per usual, and Angel starts talking about a few mild personal things (mental struggles, work, general issues, etc) and Husk suggests taking something mild to help him relax and sleep so he gets up and gets him a few pills and puts them in Angel’s hand; says its Benadryl just to help him sleep a bit, but notices quickly that Angel is suspiciously reluctant to take or even look at the pills. Obviously, he asks what's up and is met with the answer of, “Nothin’ I just don’t… use that stuff.” It piques Husk’s interest, and asks if it doesn’t work for Angel, who responds with, “It definitely works.” but ultimately, Husk decides not to pry; however, he lets Angel know he’s open to listen if it’s something he feels like he wants to talk about.

Angel, being weirdly stubborn but also becoming a bit more open with Husk by this time, takes a few minutes to actually say something but eventually informs Husk that it was something he used to try and get high off and had some really good and really bad trips with, but it was the drug that ultimately led to him suffering an overdose and never waking up after it. Both of them are quiet for a bit until Husk gets up and searches for something else to help Angel sleep and, once again, places a few small pills in his hand and says he can try these, but if not, he can try something else without pills. Angel is still reluctant but ends up accepting the offer and proceeds to carefully assort the pills into little categories, saying it’s something he ‘needs to do’. Husk doesn’t push further than that and watches Angel take the pills before the other lays down again.

Things once again go silent for a good ten or so minutes until Husk notices Angel uncomfortably folding his hands over his stomach but mentions that pills always make him feel queasy to an extent and that he only takes them with other people around so he’s distracted from the discomfort they give him. In an attempt to calm Angel’s apparent nerves on the topic, he decides to sit with the other until Angel falls asleep. Eventually, Husk follows suit, with both of them waking up the next morning and Angel giving a relieved and grateful, albeit shaky, sigh. The next morning consists of Angel thanking Husk but ends with the two coming to an agreement that next time Angel can't sleep, a liquid medication approach would be better.

I don’t know if I’ll ever do a full fledged writing of this, but the concept of triggers is something I’ve personally yet to see stated in Hazbin Hotel. This would be a good way to discuss clear lingering trauma Angel has while still treating it with the gentleness the character needs and severity the topic needs. Benadryl was also just becoming a thing around the 1940’s so it makes sense for this to be something Angel very likely could’ve overdosed on. The topic of common triggers is something interesting too; I’ve seen that in other media obviously but even though I know we won’t get it, it’d be nice to see the caution around said trigger and very slowly seeing the character become more open to it if it is a common thing like this. Not everyone will get over triggers and I myself also used to have a strained relationship with a certain pill like this, but there is always the chance that you will be able to use it somewhat normally again.

If this were to happen I’d be fine with it if Angel never got over the discomfort of pills, but much later on in the series if we saw him take some kind of antihistamine casually and comfortably it’d be really nice to see that kind of growth. And as for Husk, I’d like to see him be less shame-y with Angel’s struggles like he was in Episode 6. Since we’ve basically lost Cherri Bomb as his safespace from external stressors, I really think Angel will benefit from an actually deeply caring friend, especially one that doesn’t overstep his boundaries and doesn’t encourage self destructive behaviour. The same goes for Angel by the way, I’m really pissed that they didn’t have Angel apologise for harassing Husk and everyone else. It really is not that hard to at least try to have him feel sorry about that sort of thing. Fuck, here’s something I wrote in like 20 minutes.

——————

It’d be really nice to have someone to talk to, honestly, even though he didn’t speak to Husk very much at all prior to this; he was looking forward to it a little more now. Coming home… er… coming back to the hotel after work and chatting casually at a bar was just… something about it sounded so… calm. Sure, he could go to a random bar and flirt with some rando, but talking with an actual acquaintance while having a few drinks seemed so freeing. Not having to worry about someone staring at him from across the room and getting approached about some kind of ‘offer’ outside.

God, he fucking hated that... “Fuck…” Soft smile melding into a grimace, Angel began to chew slower and slower until he eventually stopped altogether and harshly swallowed. He’d probably been making Husk feel gross like that for ages now. Obviously, he’d seen the disgruntled faces he’d get in return for flirting, but he’d never actually thought about it like that until now. He couldn’t even say, ‘for some reason, it made him feel gross’; he knew exactly why; coming to terms with that, on the other hand, was a lot more uncomfortable than he’d imagined. “Hey, uh… Not to damper the mood, but… I…”His chest puffed as he took a deep breath, and each word pulled Angel to avert his gaze further from his food and the cat sitting across from him. “I was gonna say… I’m sorry for bein’ weird and touchin’ your face yesterday…” As he spoke up, his voice lightly cracked near the end of his sentence. “And when we were filmin’ the hotel commercial… And every time I’ve put my legs on ya lap… And any otha time I did somethin’ like that.”

——————

I haven’t even finished this writing yet (I’ll likely add the rest when I do finish it) but you can see that it genuinely is not that hard to fit in an apology.

Anyway I hope you guys enjoyed my little Angel Dust ideas. Be prepared for more eventually

[jasntodds]

Petrichor [19]

Pairing: Jason Todd x Fem!Powered!Reader (little bit of fwb)

Words: 12,542

Chapter Warnings: Swearing, angst, blood, mention of abuse, mention of manipulation, mentions of death, mentions of canon characters deaths, mentions of drug use

Summary: ❝Pylades: I’ll take care of you. Orestes: It’s rotten work. Pylades: Not to me. Not if it’s you.❞

Gotham is home, not just for Jason but for you, too. And now that you’re both finally back home, together, you’re ready to see where this next chapter brings the two of you. He’s your best friend and you’re his. And you both might want a little something more with being back home, the place you both feel most comfortable. Surely, nothing could possibly go wrong now.

A/N: We're almost done with season 3 and I am so excited!! You're all gonna hate me later lmao (again happy ending, promise) I have so many plans lol You can add yourself to the tag list below, ask me to be tagged, or you can follow my library blog @jasntoddslibrary  and turn on notifications if you prefer that!! I love feedback, I swear it keeps me posting on a weekly basis 😭

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You, Gar, and Rachel are sitting around the Lazurus Pit. Rachel has just finished giving Gar a pep talk about how she's able to do what she does out of love. Gar has been feeling a little bit like a letdown, unable to transform into different animals on command like he can as a tiger. The only times it's happened is when he's terrified, as if there's a block of fear in his head keeping him from transforming into anything else. You stay silent. You don't think Rachel is wrong. Gar could definitely change into other animals beyond being scared and maybe the answer is the love he has for all of the Titans and the love everyone has for him because everyone believes him. But, you're still stuck in your head wondering if that's always enough.

Right now, love doesn't seem like the thing that heals all wounds and makes everything better. It wasn't enough to keep Jason safe. It wasn't enough to keep him out of Crane's grasp. It wasn't enough to get Bruce to kill the Joker before he had his chance. It wasn't enough to bring Jason home. It wasn't enough for Rachel to bring Donna back. It wasn't enough for Sam to bring Jason back. It wasn't enough to keep the Titans at the tower. There have been so many things, especially lately, where it's just not been enough. Sometimes it's not enough so instead of being pessimistic about it, you stay quiet, looking at the pit and hoping it spits Dick out.

"You're quiet." Gar states, moving his attention to you.

"Oh, yeah." You shake your head, glancing back at him. "Just...waiting." You look back at Rachel. There's no guarantee this is going to work. You need another plan if it doesn't. You need another plan if it takes too long. "Do you think you could find the other Titans? Like...at some point tonight?"

"Yeah." Rachel nods her head. "I can feel their energy, too." Rachel's voice is soft.

"Well, that's good at least. Kory will know what to do." You let out a sigh, moving your stare back to the Pit.

"You don't think this is gonna work, do you?" Rachel asks.

"I don't know." You shrug. "I'm just trying to think ahead in case it doesn't or in case it takes a while. I mean, for all we know it takes a few days." You state just as the put starts bubbling. "Or...a few hours." You mutter as the three of you get to your feet, looking into the pit just as Dick's fist punches through the surface and he emerges from the thick and glowing liquid.

Dick starts to swim to the edge while you and Gar quickly meet him there to help pull him out. You both grab his arms, pulling at him until he's out of the pit and leaning back on his hands. He coughs up water just as Rachel kneels down beside him, you and Gar getting back to your feet. You and Gar exchange a look of disbelief as hope has the courage to start to fill your chests.

"Dick?" Rachel asks.

Dick manages to look at her, furrowing his brows in confusion before he falls back onto his back and passes out. Rachel looks back to Gar and you, as if one of you will know what just happened.

"What do we do?" Rachel asks.

"Is he breathing?" Gar asks with hesitance.

The three of you see Dick's chest rising and falling. This whole thing has been weird and it almost seemed like he drowned. Is there supposed to be more to do this? Or is he supposed to just...sleep off the effects and then he's just alive again? The three of you are completely confused by the entire situation.

"Yes." Rachel states.

"I guess we wait some more?" You question. "He's breathing so that's better than the alternative." You shrug your shoulders, wishing you would have pressed Jason to get some answers from Crane about him coming back.

But then Dick snaps back out of it, gasping himself awake as he shoots up. You and Gar both jump back slightly at the sudden movement and sound as if Dick is jumpscare in a bad horror movie.

"Rachel?" Dick gasps for breath, looking more confused than ever. "Gar?" Dick rushes, getting onto one knee. "Y/n?" Dick questions looking to you.

The last thing he remembers to be real is you and Jason kneeling above him, looking lost and panicked. Then there was everything in the pit which only leaves him with far more questions than answers, none of which he has time to get answers to right now. The Pit told him everything he needs to know to take down Crane. That's all that can matter right now if you're all going to save Gotham. He can deal with the rest later.

"It's okay now. You're safe." Rachel assures him. "Let us help you."

"Are you...alright?" Gar asks with worry.

"Yeah, dude. You like...died." You state with the scrunch of your nose, earning a light nudge from Gar.

"What...what happened down there?" Gar asks.

Dick breathes heavily, catching his breath and then completely avoids the question. "Crane can be stopped." Dick states, running a hand through his hair. "There's still time." Dick rushes, getting to his feet.

Dick starts to walk towards the exit as Rachel gets to her feet. He cannot possibly be serious. He just died and drowned and now he's just...going to stop Crane. Suddenly he has all the answers and he's going to go off on his own? He can barely even catch his breath.

"Wait. Dick, man, you need to rest." Gar rushes after him, the three of you right on Dick's heels.

Dick turns around, barely facing the three of them. "Anton and First Street. There's an abandoned control room. Find Conner. Make sure he's okay. Unite the Titans." Dick states in a hurry. "Y/n, with me, let's go." Dick rushes before he turns on his heels and starts darting down the hallway.

"Unite the Titans where?" Rachel calls after him.

"Take them to Donna." Dick states, not slowing down or stopping as he makes his way down the tunnel.

The three of you look between each other in confusion, trying to grasp any sort of explanation to no avail. Donna is supposed to be dead, according to Rachel. And he was in a Pit?

Dick calls your name from down the hall, his voice echoing over the bricks.

You shrug at the two of them. "Uh...alright. Good luck with that, I guess? I'll make sure he's not fucking insane." You state quickly, spinning on your heels before you jog down the hall to catch up to Dick.

You catch up to Dick who is walking a steady and quick pace, his head clearly thinking a hundred steps ahead. You eye him as you match his pace, walking right beside him. He just died? And then came back to life? There is no way in hell this man is just...fine with that. Of course, there are a lot of other things you all need to focus on, especially with him somehow knowing Crane can be stopped. There are more pressing matters than Dick's mental state at this exact point in time but that doesn't bring you any type of ease.

No one should die and then just be fine.

Jason sure as shit isn't. So, Dick can't be either.

Sam follows Dick out of the building, keeping up with him.

"We're going to meet Jason." Dick states flatly once the two of you exit the building.

"We're gonna what now?" You question, shaking your head. "And how do you expect we even find him?"

"He'll be here." Dick states, a confidence that should be reassuring consumes his voice.

How is he so sure about everything all of a sudden? The Lazarus Pit brings people back, and heals them, but...it can't possibly predict the future right? But, Dick also just said Donna is alive which means...if that's actually true the pit brings more than life back to someone. It brings some sort of clarity for things they otherwise shouldn't know. But if he's wrong that just means it's made him crazy which also means the pit did have some sort of lasting effect on Jason, too. This can't be good.

"How do you even know that?" You question, trying to figure out what is actually going on. If anything, he needs to slow down.

"He'll always go back to where it happened." Dick states.

What?

Your face scrunches in both annoyance and more confusion. You did this round-and-round question game with Jason, you're not doing it with Dick. He wants you to go and find Jason so damn bad, he can give you some clarity, too.

"What the shit with Donna being alive? How the fuck do you even know that?" You almost demand instead of asking.

"I just do." Dick says simply.

"That's not reassuring whatsoever." You mutter with more annoyance.

Dick glances down to you, seeing you grow frustrated. "The pit..." Dick says.

"Yeah, no I figured that out but you're not exactly giving out details here." You roll your eyes before you grab his arm to bring him to a stop. "Dude, seriously, are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Come on, we can't waste—" Dick starts as he continues walking.

"No, fuck that shit!" You yell, keeping up with him again. "You know, you batboys do that shit all the time. You guys say you're fine when you're not. You literally just fucking died, Dick. You can't just be fine after that. And you know if the three of you would just fucking talk about how not fine all of you are, we probably wouldn't be in this mess to begin with, right? Like that's your guys' entire fucking problem. I hate talking about my shit, too but I'm learning the more I admit how not fine I am the easier it is and I tend to feel a little bit better about it. The three of you are just fucking annoying about it and if you really think that's not your problem, you're being willfully ignorant and we both know that's not a very Nightwing thing to be." You finish with a scoff and the shake of your head.

And maybe a large part of your frustration is that neither of them seem to think they matter. They are sacrifices. Jason always thinks the world is simply better off without him and Dick thinks he's expendable. He can be the sacrifice for the greater good. It's why he's reckless and why he goes off on his own. Jason does the exact same thing. It's fine to them if they die. But, they leave these people in the wake of their deaths with paralyzing grief. This time it wasn't permanent for either of them but what happens when it is? It shouldn't be because they were reckless and decided to sacrifice themselves because they matter to people. The people who love them and they should be considered in all of this.

Dick glances down to you as you keep your eyes straight, jaw clenched tight. Dying is traumatic but you're right. They don't talk about it. Bruce never talked about anything so Dick wouldn't talk about anything and Jason never talked about anything. Batman and Robin could never be scared and they weren't allowed to let their emotions get in the way. Emotions cause blurriness and distractions. On the field, those things get you killed. But, he's not Robin. He's not with Batman. He just died as Nightwing.

"It was a lot." Dick manages to state.

"Yeah..." You say quietly.

"You almost died. I think you know." Dick says, still partially avoiding the question.

"Yeah, it was really scary and traumatizing." You state flatly because even though you were close, you did not die. He saved you. And Jason saved you. Close doesn't count here.

"Yeah." Dick keeps his word short. "I had to face some...challenges." Dick confesses, feeling the very core of his bones ache with guilt over the brutal beating of Jason even though it wasn't real in the pit. "It's hard to explain. It was a test or something." You look at him, seeing the look of distance and remorse dissolve over his face and you don't need to ask what kind of tests. "I understand Jason a little more now, him as Red Hood." Dick lets out a breath. "But I can't focus on what happened if we're going to stop Crane. "

You nod softly. "Right, yeah, got it." You let out a breath. "Your ability to compartmentalize is really something else but you should really deal with it after instead pushing it off." You say quietly, earning a glance from Dick. "Something else will always come up, you're Nightwing. You're a Titan. I'm just saying, look where we stand today like maybe it would have been different if things weren't always compartmentalized. Maybe you need to feel it sometimes."

The words almost catch you off guard. You've been running from your own pain for so long that you think that's your biggest issue. You run and it hurts you and the people that care about you. It's easier to not feel any of it but it makes being a person harder. There is blood on your hands and a part of you wonders if you had just let yourself grieve, maybe there wouldn't be. Maybe most of what happened between you and Jason after wouldn't have happened because you would have grieved. You would have felt all of it. Maybe had you stuck around after your mom died, let yourself just feel it, you wouldn't have ended up with Jerry. Maybe allowing the pain to bleed a little is how people heal from it. Let it scab over and let it mend itself over time with care and attention.

"Are you okay?" Dick asks. "You were there. You found Jason, you were there with Tim. This is a lot for you, too."

"Yeah..." You let out a sigh. "Like...I-I-I don't know. You're like this weird...weird brother I-I never really wanted or asked for and then you died. And that's just...I don't know. I fuck with you but I respect you and ya know?" You look up with honest eyes. "Kind of would suck a lot if you died permanently. You're like good at this and you're important to the Titans." You roll your shoulder, pulling in a heavy breath. "And to me." You mutter so quietly Dick nearly misses it.

"Thank you." Dick says. "I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me." There's the smallest touch of sarcasm in his voice.

You manage to crack a smile. "Eh, don't get used to it, Dickolas. It's cause you died. Gotta be nice to you for at least an hour." Dick shakes his head but you see the subtle hint of a smile on his face. "Why are we going to find Jason anyway?"

"He'll know how to take out Crane and we need him on the inside. He wouldn't tell Crane he's against him, would he?" Dick asks.

"Doubt it." You scoff. "Jason is smart, methodical. He still wants Crane dead for what he did to me so he's not gonna let Crane think they're on different sides just so he can have the upper hand."

"Good. We find Jason and bring him with us. I have a plan." Dick states with urgency but offers no further explanation.

"Yeah...okay. So, uh, where do I come in? The mediator, still?" You almost laugh at the idea. 

"No. You said Jason wanted to talk, let's talk. You're here because I need you with Jason."

While the idea of them talking is definitely enticing, you aren't completely convinced. Jason didn't pull the trigger this time but it is his fault Dick died. And given how Jason has been about Bruce who wasn't even in Gotham when Jason was killed, you can't help but feel a bit uneasy with Dick wanting to find Jason so soon after surviving the Pit. 

"And how do we know you're not gonna kill Jason? I mean, don't get me wrong, I don't want you to kill him and I'd fight like hell to make sure you don't. But...he did kind of just get you killed so you can see why I'm a little confused about you're kind of change of heart, I guess." You explain, eyeing him from the corner of your eye. 

"You'll just have to trust me. I never wanted him dead. He was just giving us no choice." There's something almost sad that trickles into his voice while his expression gives nothing away. 

"There's always a choice, Dick." You say quietly. "You can't say there isn't a choice when you yelled at me for killing and you're mad at Jason for killing. And you preached about how we can't be judge, jury, and executioner. There is a choice."

"Jason was going to kill all of us." Dick defends his stance, not acknowledging the hypocrisy of it all.

"So? And the ones we want dead will keep trying to kill other people. Or worse. Just because we, specifically, aren't their targets doesn't mean they get a pass. The innocent people that are their targets deserve the same amount of care and protection that we offer each other." You pull in a breath, feeling Dick move his stare to you. "We clearly didn't have to kill him, is my point."

This is the most Dick has gotten out about your motive. It's more than it being about the kids left behind. It's the bigger picture. That there is a choice and sometimes it's a bad choice and a hard choice but one that means, in your head, protecting the greater good in the same way Dick wants to protect the Titans. It doesn't mean he agrees with you, but he does see your point of view for once.

"Do you disagree with going after Jason?"

"No." You answer plainly. "I'm just incredibly loyal to him. If it were anyone else, they'd be dead. And I understand that's a bit hypocritical given what I just said. That's why circumstances and background are important when making the decision to kill someone." You shake your head. "I know him. I know him being a cold-blooded killer isn't him. Background matters."

"You're right it does. I do not want him dead." Dick offers a sincere nod towards you before it falls silent between you.

You finally reach the spot from last night where Dick was killed. Dick finds the Red Hood helmet, picks it up and takes it along with him. There's a puddle of blood still on the pavement that makes your stomach twist. It's as if blood stains everything it touches.

You're still unconvinced Jason will be here like Dick says. He's not psychic all of a sudden. But, you stay with him anyway, hoping you run into Jason and of course, you do. Somehow, Dick is right about this. Jason is yelling that Red Hood is back as he fires a gun into the air.

"Jason...it's okay." Dick calls, getting Jason's attention as he spins around quickly. His face is still covered in blood and cuts from the fight the night before. His eyes nearly bug out of his head, this can't be right. "It's me."

He knows the three of you took Dick to the Pit but there is a part of him that still can't believe it worked. Watching the life literally leave someone's body only for them to be alive the following day, that's more than unsettling. It feels wrong. It's the same wrong feeling Jason gets any time he gets a moment of silence and can hear his own heartbeat in his ears. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

But he is relieved to see Dick walking and alive. The feeling of it being wrong, is just the echo in his own bones. Dick should be the one alive. If the Pit were to work on anyone and offer someone a second chance, it should be Dick.

"It worked?" Jason questions, almost losing the breath from his lungs with the words. His eyes land on you as if you're the only one who can confirm if this is real or not.

You nod once. "Yeah, it did."

"You knew?" Dick asks.

Jason nods. "Rachel said that's where Gar was taking you." Jason explains as his eyes start to grow glassy, the guilt thundering through his bones once more.

"We don't have much time. I need your help." Dick cuts the conversation short, knowing they can't discuss this now but he's getting the idea maybe Jason did just want to talk. He looks hurt and relieved to see him and you.

You, on the other hand, are still uneasy. Dick isn't giving you any indication that this is going to go sideways but you feel yourself grip a knife from your belt anyway. This can't go sideways again. You all working on different teams has not helped fight Crane but working together should. Crane, at the very least, won't see it coming. You just don't want to see anyone else close to you die again.

"You want me to help you?" Jason asks, stretching his arms out at his sides in disbelief. He can't help. Not after what he's become. "I'm a fucking murderer."

"You know how Crane is operating. You know how he thinks." Dick starts. "He needs to be stopped or a lot more people are gonna die." Dick pauses for just a second. "You want redemption?" Dick asks as Jason hangs his head. "Do you?" Dick asks more firmly this time. "This is the first step."

Of course he wants redemption for the harm he's caused but his methods now do not align with Dick's. He's almost gotten them killed and he did kill Hank. He betrayed them. How is he supposed to go back now and help? After everything? After what he's become? It sounds hopeless and he almost lets his pity get the best of him until his eyes meet yours.

"We need your help, Jay." You plead with him.

Jason shakes his head. "You can't stop him." Jason answers with defeat rather than snark. He genuinely believes Gotham is lost to Crane. "He's got everything. The police, the Batcave. He's gonna take the whole fucking city down!"

"How?" Dick asks more in a way that sounds like a demand.

"You think I know?" Jason scoffs. "He doesn't tell me shit."

"Jay? You have to know something. You've been with him this entire time and you wanted to talk to Dick last night. You know something." You urge, practically begging him to just say something.

He told you once that he remembers everything. Crane slipped somewhere and all Jason has to do is remember. Think of whatever the hell Crane said that might be a clue.

Jason hangs his head as tears start to come to his eyes. "It was all crazy shit." Jason pauses for a second. "Like waves of anger and fear. The bright and darkened lands of the Earth. Something about an attack you and Bruce stopped a long time ago." Jason states, looking at Dick with confusion knowing Bruce never told him.

"Years ago, Crane sent a poem to Jim Gordon with clues about an attack on Gotham. A chain of explosives to release his fear toxin. We stopped him before he had the chance to set it off. Bruce took Crane's weapons and put them in the Gotham Armory to study them."

"And Crane's in the Batcave." Jason finishes. "So, he knows where those weapons are."

"And so do we now." Dick states as he extends Jason's helmet out to him. "We need to go."

Jason puts the pistol back in the holster on his leg. "So, I'm a Titan again?" Jason asks.

"No, you'll never be a Titan again." Dick states before he closes the distance between them, offering his helmet. "But, you can help us save Gotham."

Jason eyes the helmet as the feeling of being lost hits him like a ton of bricks. He never really fit in being a Titan anyway but...something about the confirmation that even if he were to change back to who he was before, it's over, really hits him. It's something he can't come back from. That part of his life, Robin, is gone. It's lost to the darkness. The Joker took it from him. Crane took it from him. The one thing he thought made him who he is, is shattered with so many of his hopes. It's lost and gone and Jason can't help but feel alone and lost now.

But, feeling that way got him here in the first place so he takes the helmet from Dick.

"How do I know you're not going to kill me?" Jason asks.

"Because now I know what it's like to die." Dick answers harshly.

Jason's eyes glance to you and then back to the helmet in his hands. It's more guilt. It's always guilt that comes back like the bladed boomerang. Jason knows firsthand what it's like to die, too and that didn't stop him. That was never a reason for him to stop. It doesn't matter that he was drugged and manipulated because, to Jason, Dick's reason should have been enough. It doesn't matter that the drug removed his guilt and his fear and the feeling of being haunted and stalked by something dark and twisted. He should have known better and he put death on Hank anyway. He lead Dick to getting killed.

He should have known better than to go after the people who actually cared about him. He knows what it's like to die and Dick does, too. To Jason, that should give Dick enough reason to kill him and yet...he doesn't and he seems sincere.

"Fine." Jason agrees reluctantly. "How can I help?" Jason asks letting out a steady breath as he nods his head.

"Come on. I've got a car around the block. We're going to break into the vault." Dick says casually as he starts walking past Jason.

Jason looks at you before you roll your eyes, trailing after Dick, Jason falling in line with you. The two of you follow Dick to the car he, for some reason, just has. You and Jason can only assume it's from last night. He had to get to Jason some way. Jason takes the passenger seat while you sit in the back, sitting right in the middle. Dick starts the drive while Jason is stuck in the car with his brother. This is not the ideal situation.

"Do you want to explain any of this?" Dick asks after a few minutes of silence. "How we got here?"

"Not really." Jason quips back with frustration looking out the window. He's not even entirely sure where to start. It all feels like this started so long ago and maybe in a way it did. Maybe it started that day he stole the hubcaps. Maybe he should have listened to Dick and you about Bruce. "After fucking everything, I just can't believe Bruce couldn't fucking kill the Joker." Jason lets out a scoff. "He fucking beat me to death with a fucking crowbar and Bruce just...fucks off somewhere." Jason scoffs again, barely able to hide the crack in his voice.

The car falls dead silent as Dick glances in the rearview mirror at you before you lean forward in between the boys. You and Dick are on the verge of exploding. This really cannot be Jason's entire motive. How the hell doesn't he know? You look at Jason who's giving you a confused and annoyed expression. You look back to Dick who is clearly trying to figure out how he's supposed to burst this bubble without it leading to another fistfight.

"I got it." You state before looking to Jason. "Who exactly do you think killed the Joker?" You blink at him with your brows raised, really hoping Jason's motive is not entirely linked to this little bit of information.

Jason eyes you, looking to the side and then back at you. The look you're giving him with Dick glancing at him has him feeling like Crane may have lied to him about that, too. But, Bruce wouldn't throw his morals away, right? Not for someone like Jason. Not for Jason. Bruce didn't kill the Joker.

"Uh...Crane said it was one of the prisoners who dressed like the Bat?" Jason lets out a scoff, playing it off in hopes this conversation is not going where he thinks it's going.

You look back at Dick who looks like he might have an aneurysm. Jason has been deadset on his new form of justice which you agree with but...if he thinks Bruce didn't kill the Joker for him, maybe that's his motive. You always felt his hatred towards Dick was just some weird rivalry amplified by Crane but if Jason thought no one avenged him...maybe that's it. You almost cringe at the idea of having to burst his bubble.

"You hear it, right?" You ask Jason as you look back at him. "Like..." You pause, scrunching your nose. "Crane, inmate dressing as the Bat."

There is no fucking way Bruce actually killed someone, the Joker, for Jason.

"Did....did Bruce actually do it?" Jason huffs as if he expects you and Dick to be messing with him as some sort of cruel payback or even to get him back on the "good" side.

"Walked into my room with a bloody crowbar." Dick states.

He cannot believe of all lies for Jason to believe from Crane, he had to believe that one. Crane is a manipulative asshole who's had Jason drugged and under his thumb ever since coming back, but how does Jason actually believe this? Even though Bruce has always been completely against murder in any instance, Jason should have known it was a lie. All of Gotham knows it was actually Batman.

"He actually did it?" Jason asks but this time, there's a sense of shock and remorse in his voice.

Every single part of him should feel relieved that Bruce would do this for him. Bruce Wayne, Batman, the same guy who has preached about not being judge, jury, and executioner, killed someone for him. Bruce killed The Joker for beating Jason to death and Jason should feel relieved and thankful but instead, he just feels guilty. Maybe wanting Bruce to avenge his death was never the thing he really wanted.

"Yeah, Jay." You nod your head, your voice quiet and sad. "Fuck Bruce, but I told you he loved you."

"Fuck." Jason lets out a groan, resting his head back on the headrest. "I really fucking thought he wouldn't do it."

Jason always thought Bruce would never break that moral code. He said it would be too easy to keep going. It's always just that one and then there would be another who's just as bad. The lines would start to blur and he wouldn't be able to stop. But, Jason did think if he ever were going to break it, it would have been for Dick, not Jason. He had no idea he actually meant that much to Bruce and now Bruce up and leaving Gotham without a trace makes sense. It wasn't that Crane drove him away or some sort of hideaway until things cooled down after losing his son. It was the grief of it all. The blame Bruce has to feel, knowing he led Jason into the road of Robin.

"Was that your only motivation for this?" Dick questions, almost not wanting to know the answer.

"Of course not." Jason sneers. "But...it didn't help." Jason grits his teeth. "I don't fucking know." Jason crosses his arms, not more aggravated over the whole thing than ever.

Crane took everything from him. And Jason trusted him.

"It's okay if you're mad at him for not saving you and thinking he didn't avenge your death." You state softly. "But now you know."

"I'm not though." Jason states as he nearly cuts you off, catching you both off guard. "I'm not fucking mad at him for not saving me." Jason's voice trails off. "I...fuck it. Forget it, alright? Crane lied to me about that, too and here we are." Jason lets out a scoff as he shakes his head before turning to look out his window.

Dick always felt like Jason was the type to hold a grudge, get unreasonable mad about things beyond his control. But, in the time since the tower, he got to know him better, finding out that wasn't entirely true. Jason's statement just now proves that. It was never about Bruce not saving him or even avenging him. It was him being alone. Thrown to the side the second things started to get messy. It was always about him feeling abandoned and less than, not good enough.

And you can see that, too.

You look to Dick and for once, Dick looks worried. "Don't worry," You start, earning a look from Jason. "I'll kill Crane for you." You offer him a soft smile that almost makes Jason laugh.

"Really?" Dick questions with annoyance.

"Don't pretend like you don't want him dead." You chortle.

"Yeah, right." Jason scoffs. "He's too good for it." Jason nearly chortles with you just to mock Dick.

"Hey!" Dick challenges. "Crane is bad, he just needs to remain locked away."

"No, you want him dead." You nod your head. "He killed your brother, drove your adoptive dad away, almost killed me, killed Hank, has been actively trying to get you killed for two weeks, and turned all of Gotham against the Titans. You want him dead. I can tell."

"You got a fucking sixth sense for right now?" Jason quips, this time actually letting a laugh slip from the bottom of his lungs.

"No." You chortle. "Dick isn't as stern when he talks about not killing Crane. He always has this look about killing being wrong and he always says the same thing, he doesn't do either with Crane."

"He's just a bad person." Dick defends himself, not even wanting to humor your theory behind this.

"No shit, man." Jason huffs. "I fucking died and he probably set the whole thing up."

"So did I." Dick states back.

"Gar died, you both died, Donna died and all of you came back. We all just taking turns? Where should I stand in line?" You quip with the intention of not letting them even start an argument.

"Not funny." Jason and Dick say at the same time, making themselves grimace.

You burst into a fit of laughter. "I told you, Jay. You two--"

"Shut the fuck up." Jason hits his head on the back of the headrest, closing his eyes. The last thing he wants to hear is that him and Dick even have one similarity but his voice isn't harsh and there might even the smallest hint of a smirk on his lips.

You lean back in your seat with the shake of your head and a gentle smile. This is going to eat at him for a while but you hope Bruce will come back. Maybe after you take out Crane, Dick will be able to find him and him and Jason can go get him. Maybe Jason getting to see Bruce after all of this will ease some of his guilt. You've had talks about it. You know him being fooled into thinking Bruce didn't avenge him isn't his entire motive. Jason always felt like Bruce could do more and this is doing more. It doesn't make it easy for him or make him feel better, but you know there's always more to Jason's motives than something surface-level.

Once you get to the armory, the three of you enter with ease. There are no guards this time. There's no one even here, just the three of you which allows you to walk right up to the vault. The entire city is in a bit of chaos, using up any force that might have been here. It's not ideal for everyone else, but it is definitely beneficial to you, Jason, and Dick right about now.

You reach the vault door where Jason takes the lead, lining the door with a sort of liquid that then ignites and breaks the seals of the door, fire almost engulfing the door until it hits the floor. Jason is the first one to step inside, his gun pointed forward with a flashlight on top. You follow right behind him with your own flashlight and then Dick.

"Let's go." Dick says once he gets in front of you and Jason, leading the way to case you need.

Dick opens the case only for nothing to be inside besides a book called Collected Poems by Will Auden.

"I don't get it. There's supposed to be like two hundred ampules." Jason states with frustration. "What the fuck is that?"

Dick reaches forward and grabs the book. "Bright and darkened lands of the Earth." Dick states, looking at the book.

You and Jason look between each other and then back to Dick. Of all things for Dick to understand, a random book of poems is the thing he understands. Of course, he does.

"What are you talking about?" Jason asks.

"Crane's poem." Dick states as he opens the book, flipping to somewhere in the middle. "His war on Gotham."

Jason snatches the book back, you looking over his arm to see the page Dick opened.

"Fuck." Jason groans.

Crane's already beat you here. It has to be some sort of gloat thing he's doing, like he's already two steps ahead of you. He's been two steps ahead this whole time and his war on Gotham is now in full swing. What are you all supposed to do if you can't locate the bombs and disable them? What if Crane is already out there ready to blow up the city?

"What are we supposed to do now?" You ask, looking up to Dick.

Dick pauses for a second, looking to the empty case and then back to you and Jason. "Let's go. I have an idea." Dick says quickly before he turns and heads towards the exit.

The three of you head back to the car, taking back your seats as Dick immediately starts driving. You're watching him and you're fascinated by how quickly Dick can change directions. Not a single part of you is surprised but you are fascinated by it. He was trained by Batman. To be out there, as a vigilante, you have to know how to pivot immediately. Dick is really good at it. So, is Jason. It's something the two of them have in common. The ability to adapt to anything and everything, even when everything is covered in bloody chaos.

"One poem, multiple bombs." Dick starts. "Clues to where the bombs are are placed in the poems."

"What's the plan?" Jason asks, his stare on Dick hoping Dick does actually have some sort of backup plan.

"Find some supers and stop the bombs from going off." Dick says it almost casually as if it's something so simple and easy.

"Titans?" Jason scoffs. "What are they gonna do when they see me?"

Jason knows there is no way the Titans are going to welcome him back with open arms and trust him just because Dick and you say he's safe now. Gar might but Kory, Conner, and Rachel won't. He's been actively targeting them and he killed Hank. They're not just going to forget that and move on like nothing happened. They'll likely try and kill him the second they see him at this point. He got Dick killed.

"They're not." Dick states, revving the engine before pulling over at a curb.

"What's going on?" Jason asks once the car is stopped.

"Get out." Dick states.

"Out?" Jason asks, hurt covering his voice.

"I can't bring you back to the Titans. It'll cause a war." Dick explains. "But I do need you."

"So, I'm your dirty little secret?" Jason quips.

"You want to help us, this is the way it's gonna be. I can only fight one war at a time."

You remain silent, not daring to get in the middle of the two of them. It's the smart decision because there's no way everyone will trust him. Everyone will start fighting and arguing and nothing will get done. Crane will win just because there's a fight between the Titans, which is probably what he wants anyway. It might hurt Jason, but it is the only way this can even work.

"When do you need me?" Jason agrees with a bit of reluctance in his voice.

"If you don't hear from me before, meet me back here in three hours. Got it?" Dick asks.

"Yeah." Jason says quietly.

"You, too." Dick looks back at you.

"Why do I have to get out?" You let out a scoff as Jason quickly looks back at you, wondering what you did this time to piss off the rest of the Titans.

"Safety, precautions, you two work well together." Dick states. "Three hours."

"Got it." You nod your head once before you exit the vehicle with Jason.

Once your doors are shut, Dick drives off. You look over to him and Jason dodges your stare, looking to the side. It's the shame that's eating at him. Falling for all of Crane's lies, getting Dick killed, having to be kept a secret. He was once a Titan and now they can't know he's even helping. Instead, Dick has you here because you work well together, sure, but also to make sure Jason doesn't back out of it. He's not even mad because he'd do the same thing but it hurts and he feels so painfully guilty for everything. He's destroyed everything.

"Come on." Jason jerks his head to the right. "Safe house is close." Jason starts walking, helmet in hand while Sam follows him.

The silence between you builds like a sturdy brick wall. It's in the silence that you have time to process everything. It's always the silence that acts as a marinade for all things fueled with anger and misery. Dick might be alive and Jason might be alive but Jason is the reason Dick died in the first place. He could have stopped. For two seconds, Jason could have called a truce and he didn't and Dick died for it. There never would have been a crowd. The kid with the gun wouldn't have been there and Dick wouldn't have gotten shot. Jason didn't pull the trigger, but he didn't have to. Dick stood there and told Jason the reason Dick won't kill him is because he knows what it's like to die. Well, so does Jason so why the fuck didn't Jason take that into consideration?

You know it was the drug but it bites and gnaws at you anyway because watching everyone you care about die is hacking away at you.

"You alright?" Jason finally asks. You being completely silent never sits quite well with him. There is nothing that sounds more deadly than your silence in moments like these.

"I don't know, Jay. I just watched Dick die and come back to life. What the fuck do you think?" You snap without processing your thought.

"The fuck you mad at me for now?" Jason snaps back. "I didn't pull the fucking trigger. I went there to talk." Jason barks, really not wanting to be reprimanded at the moment. He knows.

"You know what? You might as well have, Jason." You snap, your steps becoming harder against the pavement. "You could have stopped at any point and told him you just wanted to talk and explain it but you didn't. Not one part of you decided to do that. And for the life of me, I can't figure out why. So, Dick was killed because of that. You didn't do it. But that kid thinks he did the right thing to protect you. Dick wasn't even the enemy. So, that's shit." You let your own anger get the best of you, not even to tear him a part for it but just because you need to yell about it.

"It's not my fucking fault." Jason groans. "I didn't ask anyone to do that." Jason defends himself, knowing he's wrong.

"You don't have to!" You finally yell. "People will follow you like a damn cult because you command attention when you walk into a room. You are charismatic and enthralling. They have always been some of your best qualities but in this instance, it wasn't good. They believe in you, Jay." You look back over to him as Jason hangs his head, watching his feet hit the wet pavement. "But, Crane turned the city against the Titans, to follow you." You look forward as you shake your head. "I know I told you to work with him, but it didn't have to get to you and Dick fighting and him dying. It never had to end that way. You could turn them back to the right side." Your voice goes quiet with your last sentence earning you a glance from Jason.

"I didn't think he'd listen, alright? He was the one that set up the flash bang and came in ready for a fight. I didn't think it was any use and I didn't know those fucking people would be there. I..." Jason swallows his own words, not wanting to get into it.

You being willing to die for him is one thing. He hates it. He'd never let you if he could help it, especially having experienced what it's like to die. He would never. But, you love him. You have seen him at his good and bad. You've seen everything in between. Jason has fully exposed all of himself to you in every way anyone possibly could. And you would die for him. You would kill for him. No questions asked because you know Jason Todd better than he knows himself half the time. But these random people? They don't know him. Why the fuck would they kill someone for him? Why would they do that?

"I'm sorry, alright?" Jason's voice comes back down. "I know. I could have fucking done something and I didn't." Jason's saw clenches. "I'm fucking trying." His words are firm but there's a hopelessness in them.

"I know." You say quietly.

"I have a lot to make up for and I don't know if I'm gonna be able to do but I promise, I'm trying. I just...fucked it up." Jason's breath leaves his lips, the fog coming out in a haunting blow.

"I know...I just..." You shake your head. "I'm just really worried about all of you, all the time. You, Gar, Dick. You guys are the closest people to me besides Molly and I just...you're very important to me and this could be something so good and it was." You suck in a breath, the cold air starting to dry out your throat. "And I think we all deserve it. The Titans."

"Yeah..." Jason's shoulders slouch forward. "You do." Jason says quietly, keeping his stare ahead him even as you look over to him.

You've always deserved better than anything Gotham has given you. All this city has done is take everything you care about. And you only even started killing because of him. Even when Jason knows there's more to it, that was your breaking point. You're not shunned from being a Titan and maybe that'd be better for you.

"If you want to be a Titan after all of this, you should." Jason states in his way where he tries to sound really casual to hide his real feelings.

You snap your attention back to him. "Why would I do that?" You nearly scoffs at the very idea, especially coming from him.

"You're good at it and you like it. They like you and you fit in." Jason answers with ease, as if it were something he'd thought about more than a few times. "Why trap yourself here if you don't have to?"

It's as if the air is being pulled from your lungs by rusty hooks. How could he say that? He's here. Home is here. Molly is here. It's not a trap being in Gotham. Coming back, coming home, was a choice you made all on your own and not a single ounce of you even regrets it. You can't regret it. You got to reunite with Molly and while it has been agonizing lately, you had some of your best and favorite moments with Jason here. You got to make a different life again. It felt like home again. Here. Not in San Francisco. Why would he tell you to be a Titan?

"You want me to be a Titan?" You ask, doing your best to hide the hurt in your voice.

"Not up to me." Jason shrugs his shoulders casually, still keeping his stare away from you.

"That's not what I asked." You bite back, keeping your stare on him.

Jason looks back over to you as you reach the building. Jason opens the door for you, leading you in first before he shuts and locks the door behind you. You stand directly in front of him so he can't move once the door is shut. He doesn't get to avoid this conversation when he's the one that brought it up. If he wants you to leave, then he can tell you and then deal with the fact you will not.

"Answer me." You demand.

Jason looks to the right before looking back at you. He always thought you would anyway. After everything, it only makes sense to him for you to leave. You said San Francisco caused you so much pain that you didn't want to be there anymore. But, Gotham has caused you so much pain, you're not even the same person you were a month ago. He doesn't want you to leave but he wants you to be happy and he worries that just won't be here. Not with the track record.

"I always thought you would." Jason shrugs as his voice almost trails off.

"Because?" You search as your brows furrow. "What? I'd get bored of you? Tired of you?" Your eyes scan his face, knowing all of his insecurities. He can't hide from you like he can with everyone else.

Jason looks to the ground and back to you with the shrug of his shoulders. "No." Jason answers. "You didn't come back for me. Thought you'd figure it out and just...go back."

You narrow your eyes. "That's not the full reason." You say softly. "Tell me."

Jason shifts his weight, favoring his bad leg as it starts to ache. He shakes his head with defeat. "Just want you to be happy." Jason says honestly. "This place is fucking shit and you know it. And you hate Bruce but you don't wanna give this up. Bruce doesn't like other vigilantes in the city and..." Jason's heart breaks as he watches your expression fall. "Yeah, I thought you'd leave." Jason nods his head.

"Jay, I told--"

"Because I died." Jason cuts you off with a scoff. "That day on the roof, I fucking destroyed you. I died and it completely destroyed you. When you found out about the drug and Crane, then everything else, I thought you'd fucking leave."

"Yeah," You nod quickly as your eyes turn glassy. "It did destroy me. The whole damn thing hurt but that doesn't mean I want to leave. It doesn't mean I want to be a Titan." Your voice is almost pleading with him to not push without you ever saying it. "This is my home and Molly is here and my mom is buried here and you are here. I don't care if we're not together, you're here. The city is a shitshow so it needs us. It needs us and Batman to help."

"Are you sure?" Jason questions. "I mean, look at this place. I just want you to be happy. I don't fucking know."

You let out a sigh. "You didn't answer the question." You state as Jason opens his mouth. "I asked if you wanted me to. You just said you always thought I'd leave."

Jason shakes his head. "Of course not." Jason lets out a scoff, not even trying to lie or dodge it anymore.

"Good cause I'm not leaving, Jay." You nod your head. "I was always happiest here with you." Your words are barely above a whisper as you look to the floor. "So," You pull in a breath. "You don't have that to worry about. I was gonna stay anyway, no plans to leave again. Tired of running." Your voice turns airy, almost hopeful with your last sentence.

"I don't get you." Jason lets out a laugh that's filled with relief.

"Yeah, you do." You laugh softly. "You're the only one whoever did." You shrug your shoulders, moving past him to the stairs. "You know, you and Dick could probably bond over your whole dying experience now. Probably bring you closer." You offer with sarcasm earning a groan and then a laugh as Jason walks over to you.

"Oh, yeah? We sit down for a family dinner at the manor and tell Bruce all about it? Like a fucking field trip?" Jason quips right back as the two of you make your way upstairs.

"Yeah!" You laugh. "Hear me out, it might freak Bruce out which would be funny."

Jason shakes his head with a soft chuckle. "Us getting along? Yeah, that'll freak Bruce out."

You nudge him lightly. "That'll freak everyone out, actually."

The two of you go upstairs into Jason's makeshift bedroom. You head over to the window to look at the people down below. Everyone is fending for themselves and there are still fires in the streets. There aren't any cars this time. There are always cars.

You lean against the wall and slide down, keeping your head turned towards the window as Jason keeps his distance, watching you closely as he traps himself in his own head again. While you have been on Jason's side, you've also actively been trying to make sure the Titans are at a distance and safe from Jason. You can say you've always been on Jason's side this whole time and maybe that's true, but you also were entirely in the middle. It was never Titans or Jason for you. You were always determined to cut the wire. It was always going to be all of them even if it killed you.

Jason remembers you willing to die for him, how terrifying that was. No one in his entire life was ever willing to do that. Maybe Bruce would have but it's something Jason isn't sure of. He was sure of you. Deathstroke proved that and you confirmed it that night. You would die for him because you love him and Jason always thought that was absurd, even if he'd die for you, too. Dying for you seemed to be the easiest thing he would do if it came to it. But you dying for him? Insane. It had to be insanity but these past two weeks have taught him something else entirely.

You would just die for anyone you loved if that's what it took.

There is not a doubt in Jason's mind that you would put your life in danger for Gar. Of course, you would. He's Gar. Everyone would probably do it. There's Molly and Jason actually feels bad for anyone who would even think of coming after her. You'd die for Tim because of course you would. You care about him and Tim is determined and smart. Krypto is no question. You loved Donna and thought she was the coolest Titan, that's easy. You thought Kory was one of the coolest and most badass people you'd ever met while also being immensely kind. You told Jason once that the Titans need her. So, you'd die for her, too. Jason isn't entirely sure of the big reason you'd save Conner or Dawn or Hank but he knows you would. And then there's Dick. You'd save Dick because he's the leader. Because he saved your life. Because you look up to him. Because he's important to everyone.

It's not that you would die for Jason. It's that you would die for anyone you love if it ever came to it. Jason would be lying if he said he doesn't admire that. Though, he wonders if that's what will be your last straw or if you'll understand one day that you shouldn't have to die for the people you care about. Jason swore he'd die for you. That part was easy but the more time that passes, the more he's realizing he wants to live for you. Living is harder. He hopes you learn that, too. You deserve to want to live for someone and for yourself.

"What's with the symbol?" You snap Jason from his thoughts.

"What?" Jason questions, almost doing a double take.

"The rip off bat symbol. Your idea or Crane's?" You ask bluntly as your eyes dart between his and the red symbol on his chest.

Jason looks down to his chest where the red symbol stares up at him. "Mine." Jason chuckles softly, a devilish grin pushing itself onto his lips. "Why?" He asks and he walks over to the other side of the window from you, sliding down the wall and matching your position.

You let out a soft laugh as you shrug. "Funny that's what you would pick given you thought he didn't kill the Joker for you." You pull in a breath. "Why?"

Jason shrugs. "Fuck Bruce." Jason answers easily as if the answer were so simple anyone could have figured it out, as if he isn't neglecting the entire explanation.

The bat symbol represents Bruce's way of thinking. Inciting fear into the hearts of everyone so they don't do bad things. It works, sometimes. But, it doesn't work enough. The bat symbol represents a certain moral compass where even under the worst of circumstances, killing is still wrong. It represents Bruce. Jason wanted something to almost mock him, a fuck you and watch this to Bruce. Fear doesn't always work. It's not the best way. For Jason, he needed something to spite Bruce, prove his methods will be better because there should never be another Jason. Or Dick. Or any of them. No one should have to suffer the way all of them have. It was to represent everything Bruce refused to do for the greater good.

But Bruce did kill The Joker so Jason feels lost.

But then you offer this warm smile, one that says you understand every single thought in his mind without him ever having to explain.

"Yeah..." You sigh softly. "Fuck Bruce." You laugh softly. "I like it, by the way. Bruce only killed him for you. He never would have under any other circumstances." You pause before you tilt your head to the left quickly, raise your brows. "Well, he might have for Dick, too. But, it would have to be one of you. So...good for you, Jay." You nod your head softly.

"Don't think it's fucked?" Jason chortles.

"Oh, no it definitely is." You nod quickly. "I mean, just when I think I've got some daddy issues, I meet you and Dick. It's definitely fucked. But, like it anyway." You smile but Jason doesn't quite match it. There's a sadness washing itself over his face. "I think Gotham will like it, too." You say quietly.

"Yeah? Why?" Jason repositions, pulling his right leg to his chest. "Because I'm charismatic and enthralling?" A touch of a grin finds itself on his lips.

"Fuck you, no." You laugh softly. "They're brainwashed but...I think it took one video because you've already been out there controlling the drug trade, looking to get into guns. You've taken out some really terrible people and are trying to get this shit under control. They already liked you."

"I also helped get a drug onto the streets and contributed to everything with Crane." Jason points out.

"Yeah, but you've been distancing yourself and you also tried to save Nightwing. I mean, you tried to kill him, too but you just tried to save him and they'll remember that. They'll figure out Crane brainwashed them and see you were also brainwashed."

"I guess we'll see." Jason lets out a scoff. "But, thanks." Jason offers you a nod.

"Just being honest." You pull in a breath as you move your stare back to the window. "You gonna keep Red Hooding after this is over then?" You look back at him with hopeful eyes.

Jason shrugs. "Yeah, maybe." Jason nods his head softly. "Especially with Bruce fucking MIA." Jason gives you a soft smile. "You gonna keep this shit up?"

"Absolutely." You nod with confidence. "You're right, I do like it. The vigilantism, I mean." Your smile turns kind and loving. "You're a good Red Hood. You're gonna help a lot of people, Jay." Your smile is warm and honest, filling Jason's entire chest with hope.

"So are you." Jason matches the smile before the two of you look to the window, falling into a comfortable silence.

You get a text from Dick, apparently, the towers are back and running which is a relief but according to his text, Crane released some of his smoke downtown. He leaves the text with a warning for you and Jason to stay where you are until the smoke dies down or until he says otherwise. So, the two of you seem to be stuck here for the night.

You're safe here, entirely. You don't have to worry about the smoke or anyone coming to kill you. You're safe from it all for the first time in weeks and it's as if, weirdly as it is, you both can breathe freely. It doesn't feel like your very breath can shatter the illusion of peace. You both are allowed to breathe freely and openly.

You let your mind wander anywhere but to the disaster outside. The more you're in these situations, the more you're learning to compartmentalize it. There is no choice in this. It has to be done otherwise it'll eat you. You wonder how Dick is able to do it so well. Surely that's how he's so good at being Nightwing. He isn't heartless, he just shelves what he needs to until after a mission. It's something you need to be better at and so you sit here tonight and try to do it. You focus on anything but the disaster.

And then there's Jason who finds his mind going to your previous conversation a few minutes ago. You think he can be a hero again. He can use Red Hood for good, do it his own way. He lifts his head, looking over at you and how peaceful you look. You really do trust him. You really do just believe in him, after everything, there's something in you that believes in him even when you absolutely should not.

Jason keeps his eyes on you, wondering if you're right. He hopes you are. Jason just wants to help. That's what he wants to do. That's all he's wanted to do. That was supposed to be the plan before Crane showed his true motive. Jason wants to help the innocent people Bruce overlooks. Sex workers, sexual assault victims, domestic violence survivors, children who are put in all of these situations. A lot of them never make it onto Bruce's radar. He's busy dealing with everything else and a lot more of it happens in places like Crime Alley, somewhere Bruce doesn't go unless it's the anniversary of his parents' death. Someone needs to keep them safe, too. He wants to control the crime because he does believe that's the right way. No one can stop crime. That's impossible. But, Jason thinks he can control it. It's worth a shot. Someone needs to try. That's what he wants to do.

Maybe he can do it.

"I can feel you staring at me, Jay." You state as you look back over at him.

"Sorry." Jason mutters, feeling heat rush over his cheeks as he looks back outside.

"What's going inside that head of yours?" You ask.

Jason looks back to you, letting a beat pass before he settles on what to say. "Thanks for believing in me and being here." Jason pulls in a breath.

"Always." You say softly before it goes quiet again.

Time ticks by and it's you that ends up glancing towards Jason. He's holding his bad leg to his chest, seeming to be absentmindedly massaging the muscle of his thigh with his thumbs as he keeps his stare out the window. The white streak reflects off the lights from the window and the bruises are bright red from Dick's fists and enimga sticks. But, he doesn't look stressed this time. He looks content for once. And you always think there's hope for him but his position confirms it.

Which, lets your mind wander back to how you and him were. It wanders back to the night outside Excellent Gotham. It was the right thing to do. There is good, there is bad, and there is all of this grey in between. Something might be the right thing to do, for the greater good, to save someone, but that doesn't always make it fair or just or painless. It was the right thing to do, to save Jason. But, you wonder in the silence of the night, what happens after then. The bell has been rung and you're dealing with it but it doesn't feel good. Being around him feels like you're trying to breathe through water. You don't want to give up on you and him. You're gonna take out Crane, the Titans are going to leave, Bruce will probably come back, and it'll start to fall back into a new normal. And you want to know what kind of new normal that's going to be.

You want the new normal to still be you and him.

But you don't even want to ask about it. You hurt him and it just doesn't feel right to ask even if it'll gnaw at you until you do.

"I can feel you staring." Jason quips, looking at you, saying it on purpose.

You roll your eyes but the smile never reaches your eyes before it falls. "Yeah, yeah, yeah." You mock him, waving a hand haphazardly at him before you get to your feet and stretch before you lean your back against the wall. You look back at Jason and you can tell by the raise of his brows and his wide eyes, he's expecting you to elaborate. You let out a defeated sigh. "Hey, Jay?"

"Yes?" Jason answers expectantly.

"Where do we stand?" You ask bluntly. "I mean....you and me." You nod once. "After all of this and everything. I'll follow your lead." You nod a few times. "Ball's in your court this time."

As much as you would like to go to the roof and scream your lungs out about how much you want to be with him and how much you love him, you know you can't. None of that is fair to him. Jason Todd was murdered and then came back from the dead. He was used and abused and manipulated. He's not fine and he should be able to learn how to live now, rediscover who he is after all of this if he needs to. You telling him you want to go right back to where you were before he died, sounds cruel. It's as if you won't give him a choice, like you expect him to just be normal and you don't. So, you ask him and you let it be his decision because it should be. It was you that ended things anyway and it was you that betrayed him, more than he betrayed you is the way you see it.

Jason feels his heart in his throat. He hates this but he knows there is no other choice. He swears this one fucking time, he is not doing it to push. He is doing it for himself and for you. He owes you more. He owes you more than he has ever given you. He owes himself more.

You have said it over and over that Jason is loved and he is not alone, at the very least, he has you and he is loved by you. There is not a single day that he is not eternally grateful for you. But, that's not enough. It's not enough because, after everything, Jason still feels like he is not enough. He watches the chaos he has brought on all of these people who he cares about and who care about him. Someone who is enough, doesn't do that. And he died. The trauma of that isn't going to go away because you love him and he loves you. He desperately wishes it were so simple, but it's not.

Jason swore he would never hurt you but he thinks about that night outside of Excellent Gotham and how it looked like it was ripping you to shreds to end things and to give up on him, even if you never meant it. You didn't deserve it. He needs to figure himself out and sort out some of this pain in his chest before it metastasizes more. He needs to just exist for a second and work on who he is after coming back. He owes it to himself and then he owes it to you. It's not fair to continue something if he isn't sure he'll be okay in the end of this. That's not fair to either of you.

So, as much as it physically pains him, he knows where you stand.

"Uh..." Jason pulls in a breath and you know. Jason doesn't stutter often. "I really fucking hurt you." Jason nods his head.

"I hurt you..." You hang your head in shame before looking back to him.

"Yeah, deserved it though." Jason lets out a scoff before he shakes his head. "Look," Jason starts as he pushes himself off the wall and walks over to you, standing in front of you. "I don't want to ever hurt you again." Jason states and you know there is a but coming. This is not going to end the way you dreamed it would. "So, I think-think we need to sort our shit out."

You hang your head, feeling the lump in your throat. It was as if the night you ended things, it wasn't quite real. He was high and you were mad. Then you rescued him and it's been kind of weird ever since. It didn't feel quite like you broke up but it didn't feel like you were together. It has felt like this weird state of in-between where you're tripping over each other trying to find the right footing. And now, it seems you've found it in an unknown territory. It's scary.

It's scary because after being rescued, Jason is one of the only things you know. And you know that it's going to be good for you to find yourself without him, find out who you are outside of Jason and the Titans. It's for the best and you know. But, you also know Jason and Jason Todd has always loved to avoid things that are good for him. Good to him. What if he avoids this forever and this is really it?

"I'm sorry." Jason says quietly.

"It's okay." You nod up at him. "You're, uh, you're right. You died."

As much as you saw it coming, you feel blindsided. You are not together. He is not breaking up with you because you did it first. But, it feels that way anyway. He is right. You need time and space to heal and deal with everything that's happened. Maybe you could do that together but maybe you need to figure out who you are now. You are not the same people you were before he died. Jason Todd died that day and so did you. You need to just exist without each other even if it is the most painful thing either of you will ever do.

Jason nods. "Yeah," He scoffs. "It's not fucking fair to you or me if we jump into this shit again."

You nod softly. "Yeah...you're right." You push off the wall, closing the distance between you. "For what it's worth, I'm still sorry for everything that's happened to you, Jay." You sniffle softly.

"Thanks. I'm sorry for everything that's happened to you, too." Jason lets out a soft sigh, looking to the floor before he looks back to you. He will find his way back to you because you're everything he's ever wanted and he wants to deserve you one day. "Friends?" He asks, sticking out his hand with the quick raise of his brows.

"For now." You take his hand in yours. "We'll find our way back." You say softly but with certainty.

"Hope so." Jason quips right back with a cheeky grin. "I'll miss you being up my ass all the time."

You roll your eyes as a smile starts to fade over your lips. "Shut the fuck up." You groan,  making Jason chuckle softly. "You're my favorite person, ya know?"

"And you're mine." Jason says simply, without hesitance.

The room falls silent, the two of you still holding each other's hand right in the middle of you. It's as if you aren't sure how to backtrack. How do you go back to being friends? You were never meant to be friends. There was always something more there. Something strong and tender, throbbing and beating like a desperate heart pumping blood through an open artery. You have stained each other with every scar and crumb of yours. How do you take it back? How do you cleanse yourselves and try again? Can you even do it?

Jason's grip on your hand tightens and he doesn't want to leave it like that. As friends. The very idea is bitter and stale. He knows it's for the best. For the first time in his life, he is doing something to better himself and protect you. It's not just self-destruction this time. He wants to be better for himself. He never wants to get here again. And to do that, he needs to do it on his own. Jason won't risk dragging you down with him again as he drowns himself. He's not sure if he'll come out the other end alive this time, but he's willing to try for himself. And then for you. But, that doesn't make this whole thing easier. He still loves you. He still wants you.

You feel it, too. You know he wants to reach forward, pull you into him just for old times sake. You're going to defeat Crane tonight, one way or another, and then you'll go your separate ways for a little bit...as friends. But you think about the last time you had a proper kiss, before you knew you'd end up here. He was alive again. It was a kiss of relief. That's not how you want it to end. You fully believe you will come together again but what if you don't?

The idea makes your stomach twist into knots. And you know Jason isn't going to act on it, out of respect for you. It's the way his hand squeezes yours, the way he won't let go and how he has that dark but kind look in his eyes. The way he is intentionally holding his stance just enough away as if he'll walk into a bear trap with one step forward. He'll never act on it out of respect for your space so when Jason finally starts to move away, you pull him back.

Jason eyes you and then the very corner of your mouth twitches up as you squeeze his hand, pulling him just a little closer to you. You move your eyes up with the raise of your brows before looking back to him and then you shrug effortlessly.

Jason shakes his head. "Fuck it." Jason lets out in a single breath before dropping your hand and cupping your face, slamming his lips against yours.

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[italianpersonwithashippersheart]

This isn't a fully formed thought, I am just spitballing. But I was thinking about the movie posters by @lukaherehelp and what @lurkingshan wrote here about DFF being a marvel of mystery writing and I started to think is DFF really a horror?

Let me explain, after 4 episode in the past with no hints of anything suprenatural, I am firmly on cap this was all man made, halluciantions and drugs and tech only by humans. If this was suprenatural I would have expected some type hints, like an entity watching the boys at the cabin. Maybe even following them home, eyes in the shadows, stuff like that.

So if you take that into consideration and everything about the horror was manufactured (except the deaths, I guess) do the rules of horror even apply? Every horror elements has been tied to the movie they made, the posters are horror movies only, the temple expands on the lore they used for the movie, the masked killer is from the movie. If it's all tied to the fake movie and the horror elements are all fake, then this isn't a horror story.

Is it both? Because while I would call some of the stuff that happened to Non horrific. I wouldn't call the past 4 episode an horror, a mystery for sure, a thriller definitely but not a horror.

It feels like both the characters and the story are using the horror elements as dressing a way to scare the boys, to torment them, a way to draw us in, to present the ultimate reaction to the cycles of violence and revenge. But it doesn't feel like we are operating in a horror genre, with the genre rules.

I don't know where I am going with this. Mostly I am just wondering about the finale, and what happens when we go back to the present timeline. Because so far the two genres have not operated on the same level, at the same time. We went horror with a pinch of mystery, then mystery/thriller. Then it stands to reason going back to the present will have to juggle both.

I am not saying the story can't do it, or it's a bad decision or anything. This isn't a critique I have just been thinking about everyone calling this a slasher, and expecting slasher/horror endings and I've been wondering about it. Because I looked it up (and I know MDL barely means anything so take it with a grain of salt)

On MDL, Dead Friend Forever is not described as an horror series.

Genres: Action, Thriller, Drama

Tags: Multiple Mains, LGBTQ+, Suspense, Gay Romance, Filmmaking, Steamy Kiss, Mild Gore, Drinking, Smoking, High School (Vote or add tags)

And I looked it up on iQIYI and these are the tags there:

So, is DFF really an horror??

[slayerkitty]

On Top and Mew and "but there's a perfectly good bed right there!"

After last week's episode of Only Friends had Top and Mew having sex on the couch in Top's room and not on the perfectly good, wonderfully large and comfortable looking bed, I made a post about it, because it felt like the show was trying to say something but I wasn't sure what.

@sunshinechay pointed out that something similar happened in Between Us, with WinTeam. (*spoilers for Between Us so if you haven't seen it, you might wanna avert your eyes, lol*). Win and Team's relationship begins as a situationship where they end up having sex in several places that are not either of their own beds (bed at a resort, locker room, bar bathroom, bed at another resort).

For the bulk of the series, the only thing they do in their own beds with each other is sleep. As @sunshinechay reminded me, it was because of the disconnect between Win and Team and the undefined nature of their relationship that kept them from having sex in one of their own beds. Canonically, the only time we see any kind of sex in one of their beds is on Valentine's Day, near the end of the series. And it's because they have defined their relationship, admitted feelings and are on the same page with each other. The disconnect is gone.

When this was pointed out in regard to Top and Mew, it felt like this concept applied to them too. In episode one, Top and Mew have this really amazing talk over ice cream and when Mew lets Top sleep over, they cuddle in Mew's bed. They were on the same page. There was trust.

In episode two, when Top reveals his sleep issues (and potential PTSD??), Mew isn't sure if he believes him. But he likes Top and feels bad, so he cuddles with Top on the couch. Everyone made the same "but there's a perfectly good bed in the other room?!" comments, myself included. However, since Mew had started to distrust Top (thanks, Boston), the disconnect has started and Mew cannot take Top to sleep in his bed.

The same logic applies to their sex scene. They cannot have sex in Top's bed because narratively, they have never been more disconnected than at that point. Top is lying/hiding his cheating with Boston. Mew was playing hard to get and then rewarding Top "quitting" drugs with sex. It's hard to say if they were lying more to each other or themselves in that moment. I do think they genuinely like each other, and I do think that actual feelings/love is happening between them (well, until episode 6...) but it felt like they were just having sex because they were supposed to? Because that's what you do in a relationship. This disconnect keeps them off the bed.

And then we end up in episode six. We get Mew, who is turning on the seduction the moment he and Top walk through his door. He's lighting candles, putting music on his phone, dissing Ray. He is practically aggressive in the way he (man)handles Top onto the bed and pins him there. They have finally ended up back on a (Mew's) bed and it's because they are finally back on the same page. The disconnect is gone. So is the trust, but they have the truth between them again. Whereas before they cuddled in Mew's bed, now their relationship is falling apart in it.

(also Boston is now both metaphorically and literally in their bed with them in this moment and that is just so good)

Tagging the Ephemerality Squad: @lurkingshan, @waitmyturtles, @wen-kexing-apologist, @chickenstrangers, @ranchthoughts, @twig-tea, @clara-maybe-ontheroad, @distant-screaming

Apologies to anyone I forgot!

[aintgonnatakethis]

Writing Interview Tag!

Big thanks to @moltenwrites for the tag! I've seen this going around and was hoping to be tagged at some point. *rubs hands together* There'll be a readmore at the bottom with the templates for both desktop and mobile.

About me

When did you start writing?

Very young, around 5-6. I remember there was homework where the teacher gave everyone a list of words and asked us to write a sentence with each word. I would turn in a paragraph for each instead 😂 When I was 14 I was writing a lot of Doctor Who fic on FFnet (I can't believe that was 16 years ago 💀) and during the lockdown I started writing again for something to do.

Are there different genres or themes you enjoy reading other than the ones you write?

I don't think so? Sorry, that's a really unsatisfying answer, I know. It's like when you're asked what your favourite book is and you instantly forget every book you've ever read 😂

Is there an author you want to emulate, or are compared to often?

Is this gonna be weird? Probably. Am I gonna fight through the anxiety anyway? Sure, you betcha! @septembriseur is one of the best writers I have ever had the pleasure of reading. Your Telford is second to none. Thank you.

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

Just sitting in my bed cradling my laptop. Despite only being 3 and a half years old it's got a whole host of things wrong with it, the most problematic being a loose connection somewhere inside the charging port. To be able to charge I have to sit in a very specific position and stay still, with a metal water bottle braced against the charging cable to keep it pushed in, another cable tied around it with an elastic band and hooked over the opposite side of the laptop. It's... honestly not the best lol. But it's a gaming laptop so getting it fixed would probably be expensive and I just don't have the money.

What’s your most effective way to muster up a muse?

Am I allowed to say drugs? 😂 I'm prescribed ADHD meds and Pregabalin for anxiety, and they both help me focus enough to get words down on the page. I'd be pretty screwed without them tbh. I had an appointment with a doctor today and am getting an instant release ADHD medication added to my prescription as the extended release wears off by mid-to-late afternoon, so maybe I'll be able to get another daily writing session in when I take that!

Did the place(s) you grew up in influence the people and/or places you write about?

Hn. I want to say not really, but it must have influenced me in some way, right? Kids are sponges and will soak up and mimic the behaviours of the adults around them, and often people will reach adulthood with opinions and ideas that they don't even realise were created by an outside influence.

Are there any reoccurring themes in your writing? If so, do they surprise you?

QUEER! And no, it doesn't surprise me at all. 😂 I love writing about self-discovery, characters figuring out they can grow outside of the box society has built for them.

Characters

Would you please tell me about your current favorite character?

So, uh, I'm just gonna link y'all here, where I ramble on about David Telford from Stargate Universe for fucking ages. He's in my brain spinning plates as we speak. (He never stops.)

Which of your characters would you be friends with in real life?

Well, in real life I wouldn't want to be friends with anyone in the military. While the US military is a special interest of mine because of Stargate, I am very aware that these characters are not realistic when compared to their real life counterparts. Realism in this area is one reason my favourite of the series is Universe, but even then these men aren't... Well, let's just say that - just like in politics - you don't get far in the military if you're a good person.

Which characters would you dislike the most of you met them?

😬😬😬 I mean, the fact they're dislikeable is part of the draw, ya know? I think irl-Young would suck absolute balls. 😂

Tell me about the process of coming up with your characters?

Not super applicable as I'm a solely fandom writer, but the parts of the characters we're not given by the show come to me as I write, like puzzle pieces slotting into place. A good back-and-forth conversation is another excellent way to dig deep into them.

Do you notice any reoccurring themes/traits in your characters?

QUEER! But being serious, I've given both Everett Young (SGU) and John Sheppard (SGA) intrusive thoughts...

My writing

What’s your reason for writing?

Escapism. Creativity. The characters are in my head screaming at me.

Is there any specific comment or type of comment from readers that you find particularly motivating?

Ooh, the long back-and-forth conversations! I'm here to talk endlessly about these little fucking blorbos and I will ramble about them to anyone!

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

Taking this very seriously: a man. I know that fandom is typically a woman-dominated area and I've met quite a few other trans people through Stargate, but yeah. I know there are cultural differences with what are generally considered gender neutral terms around the world, but I do not want to ever be referred to as a girl or with woman-coded terms. I've had to fight hard to be able to be myself: man, dude, bro, there are a lot of choices.

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

Hmm... consistency? I set the New Year's resolution to write something every day in 2022. That year I missed 2 and half weeks because I had top surgery and while beforehand I thought 'awesome, I'll have plenty of time to write!' it turned out that recent wounds almost in my armpits makes it quite painful to move my arms... 🤔 In 2023 I wrote every day and so far I've kept that up in 2024. It's not always a lot of words, but it's always something.

What have you been told is your greatest strength as a writer is by others?

Characterisation. I've been told I've got my SGU boys (Telford, Young, and Rush) down to a tee.

How do you feel about your own writing?

There's a cycle where I look back at stuff I've written and compare it to what I'm currently writing and think 'this new stuff isn't as good', but in 3 months the stuff I'm currently writing will be what I think is good so... There are pieces I'm especially proud of, of course. If you'd allow me to plug for a moment, I think a memory, a distant echo is one of the best things I've ever written. Mind the tags though.

If you were the last person on earth, would you still write?

Yeah sure. I write primarily for myself so I don't see any reason why I'd stop. I wouldn't live long though lmao

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, do you write purely for yourself, or is it a mix of both?

First point of contact has to be with me, always. If something doesn't resonate with me, I can't write it. Forcing things is going to make writing unenjoyable and for me it's one of the most joyous things I do and I want to keep it that way. That said, if there's specific interest in a certain idea I have, that of course does motivate me. Feedback is the nectar of writers!

Tagging: @fortunatetragedy @bagheerita @frostysfrenzy @adriankyte-writes @frostedlemonwriter

@gioiaalbanoart @septembriseur @authorcoledipalo @anonmadsci @the-golden-comet + OPEN

@wolgerrswraith @chaniis-atlantis

About me

When did you start writing?

Are there different genres or themes you enjoy reading other than the ones you write?

Is there an author you want to emulate, or are compared to often?

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

What’s your most effective way to muster up a muse?

Did the place(s) you grew up in influence the people and/or places you write about?

Are there any reoccurring themes in your writing? If so, do they surprise you?

Characters

Would you please tell me about your current favorite character?

Which of your characters would you be friends with in real life?

Which characters would you dislike the most of you met them?

Tell me about the process of coming up with your characters?

Do you notice any reoccurring themes/traits in your characters?

How do you picture your characters?

My writing

What’s your reason for writing?

Is there any specific comment or type of comment from readers that you find particularly motivating?

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

Have you been told is your greatest strength as a writer is by others?

How do you feel about your own writing?

If you were the last person on earth, would you still write?

When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, do you write purely for yourself, or is it a mix of both?

About meWhen did you start writing?Are there different genres or themes you enjoy reading other than the ones you write?Is there an author you want to emulate, or are compared to often?can you tell me a bit about your writing space? What’s your most effective way to muster up a muse?Did the place(s) you grew up in influence the people and/or places you write about?Are there any reoccurring themes in your writing? If so, do they surprise you?Characters: would you please tell me about your current favorite character? Which of your characters would you be friends with in real life?which characters would you dislike the most of you met them?Tell me about the process of coming up with your characters? Do you notice any reoccurring themes/traits in your characters?How do you picture your characters? My writing: what’s your reason for writing?Is there any specific comment or type of comment from readers that you find particularly motivating? How do you want to be thought about by your readers?What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?have you been told is your greatest strength as a writer is by others?How do you feel about your own writing?If you were the last person on earth, would you still write?When you write, are you influenced by what others might enjoy reading, do you write purely for yourself, or is it a mix of both?

[runningfrom2am]

the sea around us; chapter one

In which Rafe Cameron has to choose between his dad and a pogue who's changing his outlook on life more and more every day.

(rafe cameron x f!oc)

(eventual!jj maybank x f!oc)

warnings/tags: violence, drug/alcohol use, smoking, sexual content (if you squint), slowburn, older brother’s best friend, (these tags are obv not exhaustive but regardless it’s pretty PG13)

wc: 1.9k

my masterlist, series masterlist, requests

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

The Outer Banks. Paradise on earth. At least, that is what the giant sign on the bridge described it as, as we drove into the city that has been my home since eighth grade. I remember seeing it for the first time, I was so young, so sad to be leaving my home- and so damn tired after a two-week drive. Seriously, it was like my parents tried to get us as far as humanly possible away from Moose River BC as possible while staying on the same continent. My parents had told me we were moving to paradise, in hindsight I see that they wanted us to be less sad about uprooting our lives so they could get us out of the country without a fuss- because we somehow ended up on The Cut. To be fair, it does remind me of home every day. I missed my friends for a couple of years, but I made new ones and moved on. Never looked back.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

"Snowy- are you seeing this right now? That's like a three story drop." Pope says to me as I shield my eyes with my hand so I can look his way just as he gestures up to John B standing on the roof of the McMansion to be that were hanging out at this afternoon. I sit up slowly from where I'm laying along the railing of the deck, looking up at the curly brunette as he lifted one foot off the edge of the roof.

"Hey, John B, what if you like, didn't risk your life like this right now?" I say, leaning back on my hand that's steadying me. "How'd you even get up there?"

"They're gonna have Japanese toilets with towel warmers." Kie states, walking out of the unfinished patio door onto the porch with us before John B can respond.

"Of course they are, why wouldn't they?" JJ shrugs. Of course, any of us would have that if we could. I'm actually quite certain that Kie herself has heated bathroom floors at her parent's house in Figure Eight. Oh, the Kook life- I'm jealous.

"This used to be a turtle habitat, but who cares about the turtles, right?" Kie sighs just as John B looks like he's losing his balance. "Can you not kill yourself?" She adds, shielding her eyes as well as she looks up at the boy who she just noticed was standing on the edge of the roof.

"Don't drop that beer, I'm not giving you another one." JJ says, and right on cue, John B drops the can in question off the roof as he wobbles on one foot.

"Oh shit! Nooo.." He whined as it hit the ground. Everyone laughs as JJ kicks the can and John B is sulking about it.

Pope and I look over to the temporarily gravel driveway and see a small car pulling in. "Security." I state and Pope picks up his bag.

"Uh, yep let's wrap it up." Pope adds, and John B climbs down from the roof.

"Boys are early today."

I shrug a little at John B's statement as I throw my bag over my back. "Alright Humpty Dumpty, let's roll." JJ says, stepping down the exit ramp he was on with John B close behind.

"Let's go boys." Kie says, joining my side as we pick up a light jog through the construction site. We hear a man's voice behind us, who now seems to be chatting away with JJ like they're friends. If you asked JJ, he'd say that, anyway. "He's asking for it at this point." Kie says as we both glance over at him and giggle.

JJ grabs my hand and laughs as he responds, "Oh am I?" We all pick up the pace to a run through the empty house, down some concrete stairs to ground level. I slip a little on the last step, and JJ half falls with me as we hear the man's voice again just to our left.

"Hey! Stop!"

"Gary! Oh my god, you scared me!" I laugh as JJ pulls me just out of Gary's reach and we run the other way. He yells to the other security guard that we're heading toward him, and I step out of the way right as he reaches for us, and I drop JJ's hand as he gets a hold of him instead. "Not much of a hugger man." JJ says as he instantly slips right out of the man's grasp and runs after me.

I sprint out to the lawn and jump into the back of John B's van, the Twinkie, as he calls it, with Kie right as we see JJ and Pope coming and jumping in behind me. "Come on!" Kie and I shout at the boys, and John B guns it right as they get inside. We keep an eye out the door and back window, as Gary chases after us.

"Check out Gary running for a raise!" Pope laughs as JJ continues a one-sided conversation with the security guard running after us and throwing him a beer- because they couldn't possibly pay him enough.

"You little pricks!" Gary shouts after us as he gives up the chase and we speed away. I climb into the passenger seat next to John B and turn up the music coming from The Twinkie's old speakers.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

We're a glowing example of what everyone in Kildare county knows as the Pogues. Our mission? Have a good time, all the time. Right here, we're cruising Figure Eight- the rich side of the island. Home of the Kooks, where we obviously don't live. Rich folks with vacation homes in two different places, or, Kie put it best, heated towel warmers at the expense of only a few thousand turtle lives lost. The other, superior side of the island, The Cut, is what we call home. Pogues, pogies, the people of the working class, where our people bust their asses to make a living. Lowest members of the Kildare county food chain. So, a downside of being a pogue is that we're ignored and neglected. Upside? We're ignored and neglected, which means we can do whatever we want, whenever we want.

It's two tribes, one island.

Now, for the interesting part, my crew. The people that make my life go 'round. Firstly, there's JJ. Founding member of our club, and the life of every party, the only one who can beat me at a shotgun. It's never a dull moment with him around. He's got a mop of dirty blonde hair, sunkissed skin, and the most beautiful set of blue eyes I've ever seen. I would never live it down if he found out, though. He's about as local as they come- the latest in a long line of fishing, drinking, smuggling, vendetta-holding salt-lifers who make their living off the water. He's also the best surfer I know. Again, don't tell him I said that. Also a ~light~ kleptomaniac and future tax cheat. If we're including that stuff.

Then there's Kie. Kiara. My best girlfriend and platonic soulmate packed into one. She has the prettiest dark curly hair, and when she's not saving turtles, listening to Marley, or getting Dolphin tattoos, she hangs out with us. I don't know why she chose us, but she did and we're all the better for it. She's a rich kid, technically- a foot in both worlds. Her family owns The Wreck, this Outer Banks institution. Total cash cow with the tourists, and actually my first place of employment. Not sure how much her parents love us though, I kind of lost my touch with them after I threw a drink on a customer while I was clocked in. They didn't fire me though, I still work there occasionally when they need the help.

Next in line, there's Pope. Always the brains of the operation and our collective voice of reason. Taller than me by a mile, and a finalist for the Lucas T. Vanderhorst merit scholarship. Definitely the smartest person I know, but often loses his shot with girls when he brings up that he plans on being a coroner. Someone has to do it, I guess. His father's this legendary character, Heyward. Anything you want on the island, Heyward could get it for you. Now I'm not sure what Heyward knew what to make about his son and his friends, but it didn't matter. He's a pogue like us.

Lastly, John B. John Booker, if you want to be technical about it. He's the most loyal person I've ever met, and the other founding member of our club, a true golden retriever boy when you get to know him. You can always rely on JB in a pinch, which happens more often than any of us would care to admit. He's the temporary, not legal, owner of the chateau, our typical hangout and clubhouse. He's the name sake of his dad, and looks just like him. Big John, by now, has been missing at sea for around 9 months. The rest of us have lost hope that he will ever come back, but John B refuses to admit he's gone until his fathers body is found. I understand that. DCS is hot on John B's tail, considering his uncle, his current legal guardian, is quite literally in another state and has been for months.

Then, there's me. Snowy. Snowy Hansley. It's a nickname I never shook from when I first moved to the OBX, being from Canada and all. I'm one to be picked on for using Canadian slang, and an occasional "kick a ginger day" victim. I haven't cut my hair since I moved because my mom says hair holds memories and feelings, so I suppose I'm unintentionally the superstitious type. I was adopted by JJ and John B at a dance a few weeks after I moved to town- my parents wanted me to go and make friends. I held the door for them as they were stepping behind the building to go shotgun before going back in, and JJ asked me to come with them. I'd never drank before, but I supposed I learned to shotgun from the best. Then, the rest is history.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

A/N;

Hi to anyone who's reading this! I hope it's not too cringey, I'm trying to emulate the right vibe.

(EDIT: This first chapter is so shit- I swear it gets so much better so please don't give up on me just yet, I'm going to come back and rewrite this one when I get the chance)

Anyway, thank you for being here and give me your thoughts! I'm not going to give any spoilers but I've got a lot planned for this :).  That being said, please share your ideas and stuff you want to see here with me! Literally I am open to absolutely any suggestions.

Thank you for reading!! It'll get more exciting shortly- I promise. -R

[kinnbig]

Hello!! Do you or your wife (aikinn) have any pathetic Kim/ sub Kim fic recs.....for Reasons

hi omg sorry this took me a whole week to respond to! it turns out Bee and I are both terrible at remembering to bookmark things so we had to do some brainstorming - but we do have a few recs. these are a mixture of fics with pathetic Kim (affectionate) and explicitly D/s sub!Kim fics that I like (in no particular order) -

Want and Need by @bisexualbard-writes (Kim/Chay, 10/10 chapters, explicit)

KimChay reconciliation era fic where Chay starts an OnlyFans, ft. baby dom!Chay and sub!Kim. the Kim PoV counterpart to this fic, The Miserable Art of Finding Your Words and Learning to Use Them is also great and has some excellent pathetic Kim content.

the Train to Failure series by 99_9 (Kim-centric with Kim/Chay, various fic lengths and ratings)

post-canon Kim-centric series mostly focusing on Chan & Kim's friendship/paternal relationship (with lots of Kim being kinda pathetic), with a few KimChay focused sub!Kim fics.

Making Assumptions by @snickerdoodlles (Kim/Chay, 1/? chapters, explicit)

KimChay reconciliation era ft Chay's extensive sex toy collection and an incredibly flustered Kim. only one chapter so far but I'm really excited to see where this one goes

diatribes at dinner by @thewholedamnboulangerie (Kim/Chay, oneshot, gen)

Chay stands up to Korn to defend Kim. not sure if this is exaaactly 'pathetic' Kim, but imo the world needs more Chay defending Kim and being protective over him, and this is so so good.

Freezer Bride by williamshooketh (Kim/Chay, oneshot, mature)

several years post-canon, Kim and Chay open their relationship. this isn't Kim/Chay in the typical sense - they're in a very unhealthy relationship, so heads up for that. it is great though.

not tonight, baby by queerebrum (Vegas/Kim, oneshot, explicit)

Kim is drugged. Vegas takes advantage - kind of. not totally sure if this counts but I'm keeping it in because I love it. (check the tags for content warnings on this one - it's a lot and obviously not for everyone.)

Belonging to Him by @cloudburst-ink (Kim/Chay, oneshot, explicit)

an excellent lil sub!Kim pwp

deep in this sleeplessness by bisexualbard (Kim/Chay, 2/3 chapters, explicit)

KimChay reconciliation era, Kim and Chay are cursed to not be able to sleep unless they're together. I think it counts as pathetic Kim (affectionate)!

there u go!! i hope some of these are what you’re looking for!

[wen-kexing-apologist]

If y'all don't stop tagging me in "list your favorite ________" challenges, I swear.....(kidding)

You know I'm indecisive and that the second I'm asked questions like this everything I have ever known or loved just falls right out of my head :'(

ANYWAY. I was tagged by @colourme-feral to name 9 favorite TV series. Nine? Not ten? Alright, whatever. Now presenting, in no particular order

wen-kexing-apologist's Top Nine Favorite TV Series

I think, much like last time where I listed my ten favorite characters AND THEN LEFT OUT PIKE MOTHERFUCKING DEXTER LIKE A GODDAMN NOOB I can't be certain I am forgetting one that I cherish greatly.

Avatar: The Last Airbender

I'm putting this first because A:TLA was a show I watched live in my youth and I remember running the hating Zuko to loving Zuko gauntlet in real time.

But seriously, you can't give me the single greatest redemption arc written in human history and not expect me to cradle this show close to my chest for the rest of my life.

There are so many shows we grow up with that we remember fondly and that in the grand scheme of things aren't that good, protected by young minds and nostalgia AND THIS ISN'T ONE OF THEM.

Seriously my poor mother has had to listen to hours worth of rambling about the incredibly strong adult themes, three dimensional characters, and conversations around war and the portrayal of no one society as inherently evil from both of her children.

This is my boy and I will love him until the end of time, I'm sorry that I hated you when we first met. In my defense the narrative compelled me to do so.

Sense8

Queer, sex positive, beautifully crafted, orgies as a symbol of human connection, the way the world is so small and that people from all over the world have skills that are valuable, that save lives, that are needed and necessary. Humanity and complexity given to people involved in the drug trade, humanity and complexity given to drug users, humanity and complexity given to gang members, humanity and complexity given to prisoners. Love, loss, tragedy, trauma, trans joy, throuple, couple and whatever the fuck Daniella is doing, one really good weed brownie curing transphobia.

The ending wasn't perfect but that isn't the Wachowski Sister's fault, it was Netflix's fault.

I Told Sunset About You/I Promised You The Moon

This show, especially I Told Sunset About You, may be the single most emotional a show has ever made me. I think I cried four times per episode for ITSAY, the only time I didn't cry four times was Episode 3, where foolishly I made it through 98% of the episode went "this edible ain't shit I don't know why everyone is so emo about Ep 3, it's been the most mild so far" AND THEN FUCKING BAM

Teh with the steel fucking chair!

When I tell you I spent hours, numb, staring up at the ceiling?? It's not an exaggeration.

When I tell you I thought about this scene for more than three and immediately burst into tears??? It's not an exaggeration.

This show altered my brain chemistry, this show altered my DNA, this show was so fucking good and ruined me so thoroughly that I wasn't even able to make my brain come up with things to analyze.

in this show, WHERE THERE IS SO MUCH THERE TO ANALYZE. I am making a friend watch it right now so I'm hoping I will have more to contemplate and talk about as I rewatch it now that the emotional impact has softened.

Moonlight Chicken

Look no further than my Gay Meta Masterpost pinned to my page to understand why I love this show so much. It is gorgeous, it handles the subject of disability well, it's the show that got me to start posting meta and as a result it is the show that got me all the friends I have on tumblr now.

This show is perfect, the acting is spectacular, the inherent queerness that runs through the narrative, THE LIGHTING. Aof knocked it out of the motherfucking park with this one.

The Eclipse

Folks let me tell you what happens when you go from Not Me to The Eclipse...

you fall desperately in love with First Kanaphan Puitrakul and his masterful acting ability. I love this show so much. P'Golf had things to say and she was not afraid to say it. The queer characters got to be complex and messy and wrong sometimes, none of the main characters were morally superior, they all contributed to maintaining the system, they all helped harm other queer people. This show was made with pocket change and a dream and it gave me two of my favorite kisses in BL, one of my favorite stories in BL, and my sweet summer child

my beloved Baby War Criminal who is my favorite character ever in BL. Look at him. He is under so much pressure. GOD I LOVE THIS SHOW. And I love Thua too.

Our Flag Means Death

Setting aside the problematic fans, I watched this show eleven times. It was one of the only shows I'd seen where every couple was queer, I love how gradually the writing team was able to move this show from comedy to something more serious, I love the way Stede returned home only to find that he had been forever changed, I love the way Blackbeard was on his way to grieving and healing with healthy coping mechanisms, and the commentary the show gave on how exposure to toxic masculinity and internalized/externalized homophobia (in the form of Izzy) can alter that course. I love that traditional roles and expectations are subverted in this show. That Pete and Lucius are in love, that Olu gets thrown around by Jim, that the show allows for an older queer person to both realize his sexuality and experience his first queer love.

And also

it introduced me to one of the first nonbinary characters I had seen on screen. Jim Jimenez you can murder me whenever you wish, it would be my absolute honor.

What We Do in The Shadows

For one, it's hilarious

For two, Jackie Daytona exists.

For three

It gave me Guillermo de la Cruz, the sexiest motherfucker alive.

The Owl House

Queer, neurodivergent representation????? In my TV show??????? A main plot point being around the all consuming nature of white supremacy and religious zeal. Hunter? Dear sweet, awkward, traumatized Hunter? RAINE MOTHERFUCKING WHISPERS?!

Listen, I'm a simple bitch, okay? You put an enby in my television and I will be forced to stan.

I mean look at them!

Word of Honor

*points to username*

If I didn't put WoH on here I would have to give up rights to my username.

This is the show that started me on the BL spiral and having read the novel, I have to say that I have never seen a show change a character and expand upon a story as well as Word of Honor has.

The sex appeal, the swagger, and the lowkey unsettling obsession The Scorpion King has in the TV show compared to the book?

Expert execution of fundamentally and fully changing source text. The costumes are gorgeous and the way I was driven to the brink of insanity by how gay this show was despite censorship is truly unmatched. I know censorship can dampen a queer story experience, but damned if i didn't go feral and say "I can't believe they got away with that" at every given opportunity.

And

It gave me my beloved Adult War Criminal, Wen Kexing, who as we all know, has never done anything wrong in his life, ever.

___

Bonus Round:

aka shows that I haven't or that haven't finished yet so I am contractually obligated not to put them on a list.

180 Degree Longitude Passes Through Us

I have two episodes left, it is absolutely killer, and if it continues to be as strong as it is this will be a 10/10 show for me and join the ranks of my favorites. This show is driving me mad with both hands and barriers and I need everyone to know that.

La Pluie

There are three episodes left for this to go wrong which is the only reason why I haven't put it on the list. But similarly to 180 Degrees, if it continues the way it is going now this will be a 10/10 show for me and join the ranks of my favorites. I LOVE what they are doing to subvert the soulmate trope. It is a masterpiece so far and I need more people to be watching this.

Tagging:

@solitaryandwandering, @ranchthoughts, @wanderlust-in-my-soul, @so-much-yet-to-learn, and @neuroticbookworm

Your choice whether to participate or not and apologies if you have already been tagged.

[chronic-ghost]

Chapter 7 of Recovery Road

chapter rating: E (18+)

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 13903

chapter summary: Promotion for the film begins and Chloe comes back to him … again, this time with a request that comes maybe a little too late. Two questions are asked that alter the course of his life forever.

chapter warnings/tags: darker themes, drug-coerced physical aggression (nothing graphic, but a little more intense that in prior chapters), rough sex, casual drug use

a/n: It has to get worse before it gets better . . .

▲ Series Masterlist | Previous | Next

▲ AO3 Link

▲ Taglist Form

ScreenGrab

August, 3rd

13:16:29 PICTURE UP, BEGIN B-ROLL:

CUT TO:

Focuses and unfocuses on DIETER BRAVO as he thumbs through his phone. Someone next to him out of frame says something to him and he laughs. The camera pans out to include NATALIE LORRAINE in the shot. They both sit in black director chairs. 

She mutters something else and strokes a strand of hair off his forehead. The movement is gentle, intimate. His look to her verges on adoration. 

He mouths, thank you.

CUT TO BLACK

13:18:01 

CUT TO: INTERVIEW WITH DIETER BRAVO AND NATALIE LORRAINE

INTERVIEWER: So tell me, why did you sign onto this project?

DIETER BRAVO: I’d worked with Heidi Morgan in the past and when she approached me with this, I was really taken by the story and Heidi’s direction. There was a lot to work with and I really felt a solid connection to Ben’s character arc. 

INTERVIEWER: Because of your past with drug abuse?

DB: Sure. You could say that.

NATALIE LORRAINE: You told me you liked the role because you got to play the guitar again. 

DB: When they’d let me. But yeah, that was also a big factor. I got to walk around my trailer, strumming my guitar. Too bad for everyone else it wasn’t soundproof. 

INTERVIEWER: What about you, Natalie?

NATALIE LORRAINE: My past history of drug abuse or my guitar? Oh, you mean the role. Yeah, I wanted a challenge and felt like Taylor’s struggle to balance stardom and her own past was something I could do a lot with. 

DB: You just liked the flowy, sheer dresses. 

NL: You are welcome to borrow mine. They’ll change your life. 

INTERVIEWER: What was it like working with someone you’d never met before in such an intense role? Natalie, you first this time.

NL: Oh, um . . . it was great. Dieter is a great scene partner, one of the best. He made me feel very, um, comfortable. I’ve never had a role like this before and he made the experience truly memorable. I can’t ever thank him enough.

INTERVIEWER: That’s a lot of high praise. 

NL: He deserves it.

INTERVIEWER: And you, Dieter, what was it like working with someone so much younger than you?

DB: Ah, wow, way to cut deep there. But, uh, Natalie is one of a kind. She made me feel . . . really good, about the role. I think my life has been made better by knowing her.

NL: Aw. You sap.

INTERVIEWER: The rumors say that early on in shooting you two didn’t like each other. Is that true?

DB: Rumors are always exaggerated, but, uh, yeah, early on, we had some, um, creative differences.

INTERVIEWER: How did you overcome them? 

NL: Same way anyone else does, I guess. Just . . . talked it out. 

INTERVIEWER: My time is almost up, so I gotta ask, is this real?

DB: What do you mean?

INTERVIEWER: The chemistry between you two is palpable. Are you two secretly hooking up? 

NL: No. Why would you ask that?

DB: I’m married.

NL: He’s married. 

INTERVIEWER: Ah, well, had to try. Thanks for your time. 

Movie Burn

August, 3rd

15:20:45 

INTERVIEWER: Did you have any concerns about backsliding, Dieter, after coming out of rehab so quickly? 

DB: No.

INTERVIEWER: Are you guys secretly dating?

DB/NL: NO.

Chatter Media

August, 3rd

17:17:21

INTERVIEWER: Natalie, what was your workout regimen for this film? 

NL: Adderall and American Spirits. 

INTERVIEWER: Really? You look so hot. 

NL: Thanks. I crushed up the pills into my green enema smoothie every morning. 

INTERVIEWER: Are you sleeping with Dieter?

NL: No. 

INTERVIEWER: Are you sleeping with anyone? Got any secret boyfriends?

NL: Yes.

INTERVIEWER: Oh, really? Can you tell me who?

NL: No. 

JemJem News

August, 4th

08:38:01

INTERVIEWER: Have you ever kissed outside of filming?

DB: No. 

INTERVIEWER: Ever thought about it? 

NL: Could have kissed him when he brought me a water bottle today.

INTERVIEWER: Did you?

NL: No.

Bra$h Talk

August, 4th

10:21:23

CUT TO: 

*Off-screen* INTERVIEWER: So, you don’t know where they are?

CAMERA focuses on Mark Bronson. His hands fidget with a water bottle. He’s looking over the sight-line of the camera.

MARK BRONSON: No. I don’t know. They were here earlier. 

INTERVIEWER: Do you have his number? Or –

*unintelligible*

CUT TO:

MARK BRONSON: I’m calling, but she’s not picking up. 

INTERVIEWER: Shit. 

PRODUCER: Alright. Take five. Sorry, Mr. Bronson. Give us a second.

MB: No problem. I–

CUT OFF. 

He breathes in, the powder tickling the inside of his nose, the back of his brain. Burning, like a fire ant bite. The porcelain of the toilet lid is cold against the tip of his nose, his palm. It always makes him a bit dizzy, that first one. He leans back, against the wall, careful to avoid the silver railing, rubbing his nose, and catches your eyes over the rim of the seat. 

Cold tile, stale air. Fluorescent lighting. This public hotel bathroom is not anything like the cottage in New Orleans. But it’ll have to do. You’re the only warm thing in the room. He stretches out his leg to knock his boot against your thigh. You glance at it briefly before inhaling the coke on the lid. 

“Why do they give you all the good questions, huh?” You glower, voice rough.

“Oh, you mean the ones about my stint in rehab or my arrest?”

“Okay, that’s, like, a third of the time. Most of my questions are about my ass or tits.”

Dieter smirks. “Can you blame them, baby?.” 

“And if one more of those shits ask me if I’m fucking you,” you narrow your eyes at him, “I’m taking my Starbucks cup and shoving it up their asses.”

“But you are. A lot and often.” He bends around the toilet and takes your ankle in his hand. He smooths his palm up to the back of your knee, then back down. He never wants to stop touching you. You are so warm. 

“Maybe not enough,” you smirk at him, familiar enough with his every little tell to know that he’s half-hard already. 

The bite in his brain has turned to a simmer, greasy bits crackling in the fire. He tugs on your ankle, pulling you around until you’re in his lap. He settles back against the hotel bathroom wall, smiling, and cups your cheek, rings knocking against your jaw bone. Your arms fold across the back of his shoulders as your nose turns into his.

“You’ll get some good questions, eventually.”

“Yeah, when? How?”

“Just stop being a woman with fantastic tits.”

“Dieter!”

He chuckles and softly bites your jaw. You giggle and squirm, and he lets go, dropping his head back against the tile. He’s quiet. Thinking.

“How did I ever get through these things without you?” He hums, eyes closing and opening slowly. You smell like lilac and cigarettes. 

“You didn’t have to split your coke, for one.” You mutter, playfully, and he pinches your chin. 

“That’s not what I meant.” 

The hand at his shoulder crawls up into his hair. 

“I know, Dieter. I know.” 

He tilts your head down as you press his up and that brush of connection, his mouth folding over yours– it sparks something in his chest. You were wrong. He didn’t need the coke if he had you. You make his skin buzz. You spin his brain around and around until he’s dizzy. He feels awake when you’re underneath him. 

Everything seemed like it had been shifted slightly to the left, since coming back. Everything was the same but nothing at all. He worries it is too plainly written across his face. He worries that the media vultures will see it, that Mark or Heidi would see it too. He worries that you will catch him staring and hate what you see in his eyes. 

The longer he is with you, the more real the shared “pocket universe” feels, the one you shared with him. That this is where he was meant to be and everything before New Orleans was someone else’s life. With you, he isn’t exactly Dieter Bravo but he isn’t himself either. Maybe that was partially because being high off and on for two weeks straight tends to cause feelings of disassociation, but it’s more than that. 

The longer he is around you, he knows he’s building his own funeral pyre higher and higher. But the farther he feels from the ashes of his life, the more he wants you. So, Dieter did what Dieter always does: he follows what feels right.

He pulls back, that ache, that need, to bury himself in you already stretching in his gut, but he has to say this. You have to know. 

“Move in with me.” 

You still. You become immobile, trapped in amber, with your hands still in his hair. You’ve never been meek, never will be, but somehow you’ve shrunk. 

“What did you say?”

His chest surges with affection. This feels right, so it has to be. But he knows you’ll run if you think he’s fucking with you. He wants to cradle you to his chest but he has to wait for the air raid sirens to stop ringing in your ears. 

“You heard me,” he says softly. He ducks his head to lift your gaze and you follow. There’s fear in your eyes. He thumbs the hinge of your jaw. “I want you to move in with me.” 

There’s much more malice in your voice than betrayed by your eyes. You sit back, away from him, on his knees, not his lap. “Move into your house with you? The same one you share with your wife?” 

“No.”

Your mouth twists and panic gets the better of you. You stand up from him and haul yourself across the small bathroom, arms crossed and eyes sharp. “So you want me to be just your dirty secret? In some sleazy apartment up town? A kept fucking woman–,”

“No.” He isn’t going to be patient with you when you’re like this. He overwhelms you in two steps– takes your jaw in his hand and again you stiffen, lips pulled into a snarl like a cornered street cat. He wraps his other hand around your wrist as if to preemptively keep you from scratching him. “Stop talking like that. Just tell me– do you want me?”

Not, do you want to live with me?

Not, do you want a relationship with me?

Not, do you want me to leave my wife for you?

Do you want me?

He doesn’t realize it but the coke is ratcheting up those dark, fringe feelings– his obsession for you, his possessiveness, his near-delirium that he cannot simply have all of you. His hand around your wrist tightens. You try and yank your jaw from his grasp, but he holds on tighter, his fingers digging into your skin. 

“Do you want me?” He hisses. 

You want to snap at him, to yell – does he understand what he’s asking of you – but you’re sleep deprived, coked out, and increasingly raw around him. The unexpected wave of emotion, of unchecked vulnerability, is surprising as it is powerful. Your knees shake. 

Did you want him? 

Did you want to breathe?

Did you want to sleep at night?

Did you want to eat food, to feel nourished and full?

Did you want to be happy?

Your bottom lip trembles. 

“Dieter–,”

“Just say yes.” His grip leaves your wrist and tenses around your waist. His eyelids hover half-closed as he presses you harshly up against the door. It’s the only bare wall that doesn’t have a metal safety bar around the edges. You feel as though you’re being dragged beneath the waves by a hurricane. “Just say you want me. Tell me you don’t want to fuck anyone else—,”

His teeth bite into your neck, as if to suck the words directly from your blood. Your touch is like electricity everywhere on his skin and any semblance of thought is slowly squeezed from his brain as his grip turns rougher and rougher. When his lips find yours, they’re still pulled back into a snarl. 

His deft fingers are tugging your shirt out of your waistband, as your hands slip to his belt, his zipper. One more time, he thinks, one more fuck and then there’ll be some clarity. 

“Say it, Natalie,” he growls and bites your earlobe not at all gently. You gasp and the noise has his cock straining against his pants. His hand rises and slides around your throat. “Say it before I take it from you.” 

“Dieter, I want–,” your voice is high-pitch, yearning, and a bit of him breaks off like an ice pick tearing up glass shards. Snik. Snik. Splinters.

His fingers around your throat tighten. Your flesh gives beneath his touch and you sputter and squirm beneath him.

“Yeah? Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.” He’s not asking nicely, he’s begging. How do I keep you? How do I stop you from leaving me? He’s frantic about it.

Fuck, he took too much coke and now he’s emotional. Bleeding. Vacillating between rational and irrational. Wavering. He wants so much. Too much. It’s the coke and it’s making him want to eat you. 

He yanks you up into his arms, your skirt up around your waist and you gasp, the enormity of what he feels for you pressing down into you. The door shudders as he holds you against it. His warm cock wedges itself against your stomach and your thigh. 

“Baby, please, tell me– I need to know–,” 

He’s worried. God, he’s so worried. He buries his face in your chest. 

You groan, strained and overwhelmed. There might be tears in your eyes. 

“Yes, Dieter, I want you. I want you so fucking badly I can’t breathe right.”

The groan he makes is one of relief and he’s not even inside of you.

“But, please, please, fuck me, Dieter. I need to— you have to–,” 

Fighting with the fabric of your skirt, you pull your underwear to the side. He drags his hips forward, notching the head of his cock against your entrance. It’s wet and warm and he thinks his heart is going to beat out of his chest.

“You’re gonna stay, right? You’re gonna be with me, after this?” He’s already out of breath, out of his mind. You nod and he thinks he might cry.

“I’ll stay.” You swallow, your eyes closed, head against the wooden door. “Yes, I’ll stay.”

One arm wrapped around your low back, and the other holding the both of you against the door, he slides up, breaching you – “fuck, fuck, fuck–,” “I know, baby, I know–,” all the way to the very end of you in a single, hot stroke. The moan you share is harsh, ragged, pained with the force of it. He feels the sound in his chest, your own pressed up against his. You knock your head back against the door, mouth open, as if awestruck that it could feel this good. 

Your knees hitched around his waist pull him closer. “I gotta– I want– more–,” 

“Baby–,” his nose turns your mouth to him and he open-mouth kisses you, tongue licking the inside of your mouth. His hands hitch you higher, cupping your hips to take even more of him, and he starts fucking you. 

That’s what this is. A good, hard, mean fuck.

The door rattles behind you and thankfully is already locked. His thrusts are deep, fast, hips punching into yours. 

“I wanna look. I wanna watch me fuck you.” He murmurs in your neck. Your eyes are closed, mouth twisted in pleasure, as you scratch his back to hold on. “But I don’t wanna drop you.” 

He wants to brand your chest with his own. 

He shouldn’t be fucking you in a public hotel bathroom, he knows, but New Orleans is gone. The light, and the white bed, and the paint, all gone. You are caught in between universes, in between realms, between what is and what should be. He doesn’t want to be here, in this one, if it means he can’t have you. If he has to go back to whatever his life was before you. This can’t be the end. 

Your moans climb higher and higher, your cunt fluttering around him. He knows he should clap a hand over your mouth, but the sounds you make dig under his skin, claw at his blood. They make him feel so good. So wanted. 

“Dieter, you’re so deep. You’re going to bruise me.” 

“Your little pussy likes it when I’m mean to her–,” he shifts his pelvis, adjusting you against the door, and grinds so hard, the tip of his cock brushes against something that has you mewling. 

He wants the leverage of the floor, to hold himself over you, to watch as he splits you apart. But the airlessness, the proximity to you, to that fucked-out look in your eyes, he can’t part with it. 

He doesn’t know how to make love. It’s been too long since he’s tried, unable to conjure the memories or the feeling to do it. He only knows frantic clawing, hot skin. But he wants to learn, for you. He doesn't know how to verbalize it, but he needs you to know. 

He turns his face from the cup between your neck and shoulder, into your cheek and catches your gaze. You lock eyes and he nearly comes right then and there. 

Maybe you already do, know.

“It’s good, Dieter,” you murmur, eyes glassy and cheeks red, “it’s so good.”  

It’s too much. Your cunt is sucking him in, shuddering around him as he pounds up into you. Your whimpers are rubbing his nerve endings raw. He has to come before he burns up. He bites into your shoulder and you wail. 

He lets go, whining– hot spurts filling your insides and his cock throbs, you moan at the sensation, the warmth, and he’s still coming as your cunt contracts, wavering, and then his hips and thighs are soaked in you. 

He wants to fold you into his ribs but instead, presses warm, wet kisses to your cheek, your flushed neck, and then your nose and forehead. Instead of pulling away, setting you down, he pulls you closer, flush against him. He can feel your thighs trembling around him, every breath ragged and heavy.

He’s shaking too.

“Natalie, I–,”

“We should get back.” You won’t look him in the eyes all of a sudden and that hurts, stings something very soft inside of him. He nods, but gives you one more kiss against the plush of your lips, his hand cradling your head, before he slowly, carefully, extracts himself and pulls his softening cock out of you. 

“That’s always the worst part,” you groan, face twisted. 

He wants you to say, that’s always the worst part– when you leave me. 

“Hurts me too,” he mutters quietly as he slowly lowers you to the ground. You wobble, but your grip on his shoulders holds you up right. He lets go of you long enough to take some paper towels from the dispenser and he offers them to you. 

Your eyes are soft as you wipe yourself clean from his sticky cum. “Thanks.”

You toss away the used paper as he turns back to the last bits of coke on the toilet. He gathers as much of it as he can and rubs it on his gums. You’re watching him through the mirror as he wipes off the rest and rubs his hands on his jeans.

“Oh, sorry, did you want any?”

You shake your head, a smile in your eyes not on your lips. 

“What?”

You reach out to him and as though magnetized, he comes to you, hand sliding around your waist and the other cupping the back of your neck. 

“I’ll think about it, okay?” You say, your fingertips rimming his collar. “What you asked before . . . it’s a lot. But I’ll think about it.” 

He nods, heart pounding in his chest. How is he going to make it through three more days of this with you? How can he keep away from you now?

“Take your time. But, uh, don’t take too long.” 

You nod up at him, bright eyes twinkling, and he bends and kisses you again. It’s brief, subtle, but it makes his ribs expand all the same. 

Your hand goes and unlocks the door. “Gimme one second. Gotta check if the coast is clear.” 

He lets you go, and you stick your head through the small crack between the door and the wall. Satisfied that you weren’t about to be tackled by reporters from The Rolling Stone, you wink at him and disappear around the corner. 

You can’t touch her out there. Only here. In the dark.

He follows you and is hit in the face with a painful, bright light from the sun’s reflection on the marble floor. His eyes watering, he walks forward, towards the shadow, the silhouette he presumes is you. 

The lobby is full of people and sounds. No one seems to have heard a single thing, haven’t got a single clue about what just went on in the very public bathroom. His eyes adjust and there you are, in the center of the hustle. You aren’t moving.

“C’mon, we’ve got to get back to the–,”

“Dieter?” 

It’s not you asking. 

It’s her. 

He’d know that voice anywhere, even if he felt like it belonged to a version of himself he had long since abandoned. 

Guests and hotel employees and camera crews weave around the three of you. 

She wasn’t supposed to come back.

Her hair is as straight as her posture, eyes hidden behind round, thick sunglasses. Her cream, wide-brimmed hat matches her pantsuit, with gold accents. In a word, she is stunning. The ideal movie star wife. 

His heart lurches. He half-expects for it to tear out of his chest and slump along the floor like a dying rat, blood splattering on the nice white marble. 

“Dieter, how are you?” Chloe doesn’t take off her glasses to address him. She hasn’t seen you yet, he supposes.

“I-I’m,” he tries to peel his tongue from the roof of his mouth, “I’m fine. Good. What are you doing here?”

It’s more accusatory than he means for it to be, but his heart is still pounding in his chest, an after-effect of fucking you. 

Behind his wife, the revolving door to the hotel glitters in the slanted gold evening light as children play with it, around adults trying to get through. It makes him think of the time his mother took him to the Coney Island pier and put him on the merry-go-round. He was six and nervous because she’d be out of his sight for a minute each time the carousel turned. 

“I’ll be right here waiting,” she said with a smile. “I’ll always come back for you. It’s a promise.” 

Why he is thinking of that memory right now is beyond comprehension so he blinks, trying to claw his way through the mounting agitation. 

His tone makes Chloe stand up straighter.

“We need to talk, Dieter. About our marriage.”

There’s a gurgling sound, something smothered and choked, behind him and her immaculate face turns over his shoulder. 

You’re pale. You’re pale and afraid and he’s ruined you.

“Hello,” Chloe says smoothly. “Do you know Dieter or are you a fan?”

You blink as though she had slapped you. “A fan–?”

“Chloe, this is m-my co-star, Natalie Lorraine. We’re, uh, meant to be at a press junket right now. We got a break . . . and went to get something to eat.”

“Was it good?”

He nearly snaps his neck in half looking back at her. She still hasn’t moved an inch, only her head, her hands clasped neatly across her lap.

“What?”

“Was the food good?” She asks. “You both look a bit ill.” 

“No. Food was terrible. I recommend you avoid it.” As though you had been possessed by the ghost of formality itself, face lit with a brilliant smile, you step forward, hand outstretched. 

Chloe takes it after a moment and you shake. Dieter has to fight the urge to break your hands apart. 

“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Chloe. I think we just missed each other at the party at Scott’s house.” 

She tenses, but not at you. “Yes, well, that was a very busy night, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was.” 

It’s scary, your face. How serene and calm you are. 

“I love this blouse,” you say, gently tugging on the cream silk. “It’s gorgeous on you.”

Chloe smiles genuinely and Dieter’s heart withers to his stomach. “Thanks. It was a gift from my father.”

“The artist, right? Dieter’s told me so much about you. Told all of us. Can’t get him to shut up about it, really.”

Your eyes graze him with the sharpness of a glinting scalpel before smiling back at Chloe.

Her own is stiff. “That’s what I keep hearing.” 

Why are you still talking to her? Why are you still here?

“Are you going to be in town lo–,”

“Natalie, we need to get back to the press.” He wants to haul you over his shoulder. “We’ve delayed them enough as it is.”  

“Oh, c’mon, Dieter, they can wait a few more minutes. Your wife–,”

“Let’s go—,”

Chloe’s shoulders are taught. Stretched thin. 

“I came here to talk, Dieter. When can we do that?” 

“Yeah, you should make your wife a priority, Dieter.” 

He’s losing his grip on everything. You stand by Chloe as if you were sisters. His gaze leaps to her.

“An hour. Alright? Can you wait an hour? I have to tell them something.”

“Or you can just go now. I’ll tell them an emergency’s come up.” You walk past him and pat him on the chest. He thinks your nails sting him for a second. “Nothing should come between you and the woman you love.”

He wants to take you by the wrists. “Natalie–,”

But you slide around him, waving to Chloe as you go. “Wonderful to meet you.” 

You are swallowed up into the crowd of the lobby. No, no, no, no– 

“Dieter.” She calls him back. “I have to check in, so you can have an hour.”

“Thank you.”

And he’s weaving into the crowd after you.

He’s shaking when he bursts through the adjacent private hotel room, meant for refreshments and make-up touch ups. 

It’s not a panic attack, not yet, but something is mounting in him. It’s clawing up his throat, its talons razor sharp and an inch deep. His throat burns as if he had thrown up – did he? Maybe he did? – but he’s not thinking clearly. None of this feels right. 

He’ll come up with some excuse to tell her why he suddenly vanished, but if he doesn’t wrangle back some control, he feels like he’s moments away from walking straight into traffic. 

He doesn’t want to be here right now. He wants to get out.

But half of the cast of his very successful movie is just on the other side of this room, along with cameras and recording phones that would just love to get a glimpse of the Old Dieter. The barely-holding-on Dieter. The fucked up one.

Your compact mirror clatters as it falls from his hand onto the bathroom counter. He flips open the secret compartment in the back and is suddenly overwhelmed by the decisions. It feels like there’s a tornado siren going off in his head.

Are yellows uppers or downers? What did you say about the red ones? No, it’s the one with the T on the back that are uppers. No, wait, it’s – 

He hears the door open behind him, the sharp light from the window catching on the door handle and sparking in the mirror in front of him.

Fuck it. He grabs three of the ones he thinks are right and throws them into the back of his throat and swallows so hard, his teeth grind together. 

“Dieter?” It’s Mark and his gut turns over. “What are you doing–,”

There’s no point in hiding it. He knows Mark saw the open compact of unidentifiable pills. 

So much for that fucking drink among friends.

Dieter unhurriedly shuts the compact and slides it into his pocket. He can’t turn around but instead stills himself for an argument, an accusation, a reaming he really deserves, but it doesn’t come.

Instead, Mark is just . . . shocked. 

“I really didn’t think that. . .” His mouth closes, as if words have failed him. “But she was right. Chloe was right. You are using again.” 

It’s not a question or an accusation. It’s just . . . reality. 

He has them all ready. The lies he tells himself – 

I’ve got it under control 

I can stop when I want

This isn’t a relapse

– but for some reason, he can’t say them outloud. Each time he tries, the words stick themselves against his throat. He can see Mark’s expression devolving into anger over his shoulder in the mirror the longer his words remain, unanswered, unchallenged. He would love it for Mark to hit him.

“I don’t get you, man. I don’t.” Mark shakes his head and puts his hands on his hips. “Everything was going so fuckin’ well. Why are you throwing it all away now? Why didn’t you come to me? Or Heidi? We could have helped you.”

Dieter shrugs. Something goes dark in Mark’s eyes. 

The sun shifts and the light is now permanently blinding his eyes. He closes them and steps out of the bathroom. He swears he can hear the tune of the carousel, the jingle – something starting to give him a headache. Grunting softly, he presses a thumb to the inner corner of his eye. 

I’ll always come back for you

“Have you told Chloe?” 

Dieter shakes his head, dropping onto the edge of the bed. He thinks there’s a black spot in his vision forming in his right eye. Mark is blurry as he stands over him. 

“Are you going to?” 

He can feel something slide off of him, or into him. Either way, it’s clogging up his airways. “She’ll find out eventually. She always does.”

Mark’s mouth drops open in disgust. “That’s fucked up, man.”

The jingle is clear now. The door handle sparks like it’s on fire.

“And it’s not your fucking problem. I don’t care what you think.”

“Well, shit, Dieter, I used to think a lot of you. I really did. I’d heard all the shit you’ve gone through in the past few years and to see you on that set being the best version of yourself, I was so fucking proud of you, man. But now that I know that you’re this . . . You really fucking had me there for a second.” 

Dieter lowers his thumb from the arch of his eyebrow and meets Mark’s glare. “Now, you know.” 

Mark narrows his eyes. “Yeah, now I know.”

Dieter goes back to the bathroom to wash his hands in the sink. They feel sticky for some reason. He has nothing to hold onto. 

“When’s the next session? I know we running late, but–,”

“Nevermind about that. Canceled for the day,” Mark growls, “I’ve got a question for you. Are you fucking Natalie?”

His knees nearly give out. “What?”

Over his shoulder in the mirror, Mark crosses his arms. “I said, are you fucking Natalie?”

“Why do you–,”

“I don’t know if you’ve fucked her yet, but there is something going on,” Mark says slowly as if he hadn’t said anything, his gaze focus on the floor. “I wanted to act like I didn’t see it, but if you’re using again . . .” 

“Just because I’m high, doesn’t mean I’d cheat on my wife.” 

“If you are, just tell her. Leave her. Don’t let it go public.”

Why doesn’t he just tell Mark? Just confess. Just confess that he can’t stand being married to Chloe anymore. That you are unlike anything he’s ever known, ever felt. Sure, Mark’d be mad but maybe, with time, he’d be happy for the both of you– he knows what it feels like to be in love—

Whoa.

Where did that come from? He can’t actually– 

His knees buckle as his head spins faster and faster and he clutches the counter to stay upright. He grinds his teeth. “There’s nothing to go public about.” 

“Just go home to her, Dieter. You can still fix things–,”

“Stop lecturing me.” 

“Don’t go out tonight. We’ll all understand. I’ll tell Roxie you had other things–,”

“Why does Roxie care?” He leaps at the distraction. “Is there something going on?”

Mark clenches his jaw, but Dieter pounces the chance to see you again so soon, even if Chloe comes along. Of course she is, some part of his brain rages, she’s your wife. 

“Great. Chloe wants to meet everyone anyway.” 

“C’mon, man, don’t do this. Don’t do this to Chloe. Don’t do this to yourself. What happened, Dieter?”  He’s pleading. He’s sincere. His brown eyes are deep with concern and it makes Dieter want to vomit. 

He goes to leave – his hands only shake once – when Mark grabs him by the shoulder. 

He is physically blinded by the color red, just for a minute. 

destroy destroy destroy

He can’t even blame the coke. He wants the violence. The pain. The rips in his skin. 

His knuckles collide with Mark’s jaw and every nerve in his body roars in victory. The force of Dieter’s punch sends Mark reeling, stumbling back, and he staggers into the wall. 

more more more more!

Dieter blinks, the spike in adrenaline making him dizzy. Mark clutches his jaw, already swelling, again more shocked than angry. Dieter squeezes his fists, joints cracking, his right hand throbbing.

“This doesn’t concern you.” he says, quietly, empty of anger. “Leave me alone. Leave Natalie alone.”

He had all but admitted to the affair. He has to tear his feet from the floor, Mark’s jaw now purple, and he storms out the door, to go see his wife. 

    Chloe was always beautiful. Always stunning. She walked into a room and people stared. 

When he met her at that cast party, she was modeling for DKNY. Her boyfriend, at the time, was a photographer and given who her father is, he (like many other past relationships) had hopes that international connections would further his career. But it didn’t and the ex-boyfriend was more mad about the loss of potential fame than the end of the relationship.

Dieter hadn’t been like that. He had been successful and good-looking enough that when she told him who she was, her last name didn’t even register. Of course, it helped that he was tripping on shrooms that one of the PAs had given him, but at the time it didn’t matter to her. He looked at her like she – and she alone – hung the moon.

At least, that’s how she remembered it and, more importantly, that’s what she told him that morning in her apartment before he officially checked into court-mandated rehab. They were only six months into dating then, but when she told him, the way she told him, he felt something change. For the first time in his life, he wanted to be sober because someone else wanted him to be sober. And not just anyone, but this someone. This beautiful, smart, patient, sweet woman valued him, for some unfathomable reason. So, impulsively as always, he got down on one knee and proposed to her in that shitty studio apartment. Maybe it said something about her that she said yes– he didn’t even have a ring– but he gave her his earring and a promise. He’d do it right, when he got out, and she believed him.

And, of course, when he proposed, she didn’t know about all the cheating that had gone on while they were dating. It wasn’t like he actually loved, or even liked, any of the people he slept with, but he had done it because he was high and sex felt really, really good on ecstasy. If she had been there, he would have fucked her instead, but she wasn’t and he didn’t and it was someone else and it was one of them who eventually leaked it to the press. 

It was two days after a three week period of withdrawals that she confronted him. She was nice about it, of course. Always nice. And maybe it was because he was ten pounds lighter, his skin waxy and pale, and he could barely walk, but when he confirmed it all, she had just said, “I know you didn’t mean it.” She did cry, though. She cried and he felt like an even bigger asshole than when he threw up twice on the same nurse. She cried and he begged for forgiveness and all that self-hate and loathing metastasized in him. But, most importantly, he wasn’t alone through all of it this time. 

He took the backhanded compliments, the passive aggressive comments, and let himself be molded into what she wanted because quite frankly, he was sick of trying to figure out what he was supposed to be anyways. 

But the more distance he tried to put between his past and his future, she was there to bring it back. She was both a reminder of what he was and what he could be all at once. 

She sits, perched on the end of his bed, back straight and hands in her lap. Her wide brimmed summer hat is by her hip on his untarnished bed— how the hell is going to explain where his luggage is— and she faces the window, looking out into the late Los Angeles evening. 

She is beautiful. Painfully so. And sometimes he thinks that she likes him a little broken.

He never did get her a real engagement ring.

After seeing Mark, he left the hotel and walked until he could feel himself getting a blister, and then turned around again. It felt like it had been days since he went through that golden, twirling revolving door, but it had only been an hour. One hour exactly. The coke doesn’t have its claws so deep into him anymore. He can breathe easier. The scales have somewhat evened out and he feels somewhat like a normal person again. Thankfully, because this isn’t a conversation he really wants to have.

He doesn’t know where to sit or where to put his hands. He picks the chair by the squat desk in the dark corner and lets her bask in the fading light. He’s not sure if he’s overwhelmed by her beauty, or that she’s here and real and not just this name at the top of his phone to whom he’d fire off unanswered texts. 

He picks at his nails and realizes at some point he put his wedding ring back on. When the fuck did he do that?

“I’m sorry I surprised you like this,” Chloe says, again sparing him the scariest part of simply starting the conversation. She turns away from the window and takes off her glasses. She looks pale. “There is just a lot I want to say and I don’t think . . . I didn’t want to say it over the phone.”

“Me too. I mean. Yeah, we have a lot to talk about. I just don’t know why we couldn’t have done it at the house.” 

“You left me at that party, Dieter.”

“I took an Uber. You had the car. Where did you go? Why didn’t you come home for two–,” 

“Are you not happy to see me?” Her eyes are blazing, daring, serious, and wet. What happened that night, he thought it had ended his marriage. He truly believed that if they stayed married, it would only be in name because she wouldn’t want him after a scene like that. He was so willing to give it all up. So easily. 

Too easily.

Maybe she was right to leave. The first tendril of guilt unfurls in his chest. Of course, she was right. And he was so, so wrong. He always was.  

“Of course I’m glad to see you.” Hesitantly, he gets up and goes to sit next to her on the bed. She pulls her hand off the cover and crosses her arms. Up close, he can see she’s more than pale. Her skin is waxy and there are bags under her eyes. She’s got a green tinge to her cheeks like she’s nauseous. “But we’re in the middle of these press junkets and the movie is in post-production and . . . I just wanted more time to do this right.”

“Do what right?”

There’s a tremble of fear in her voice. He makes sure to keep his even.

“To . . . to say . . .” he watches her eyes for some sort of guidance, “to just . . . get back to us.” 

He slides his hand over hers. She doesn’t pull away. But there are tears, pouring down her face. She sniffs. 

“That’s what you want, right? You want us to be together.” 

She nods, furiously, quickly, sighing in relief. “Yes, Dieter, yes. I need us to be together. I can’t do this alone.” 

She pulls him to her and lets out a cry that churns his stomach like black, arctic waves. 

“Oh, Dieter, they’ve released some trailers and you’re so good. So good. I’m so proud of you,” she murmurs wetly into his neck. He feels her tears on the skin above his pulse-point. 

There’s a part of him that wants to curl up into her lap, put his head on her thighs, and let her imagine all the ways he’s succeeded. All the good work he’s done. But he’s fidgeting.

The bump from earlier is still feeding his anxiety to an unbearable level. He bites his tongue and rubs his hand over her shoulder, determined to keep her from looking too closely at him. 

“There’s a lot we have to talk about, Dieter, but do you want to do this with me? What do you want?”

All his life he felt like he had never been whole. As if he was just made up of tatters, just loose bits of thread that popped and unraveled over time. He’s been unraveling his whole life, but this time, with this decision, he might actually tear apart. He still loves his wife, he’s sure of it. He needs the reminder that she offers, that she embodies. Look at what you could have– 

If only he was a fundamentally different person. If only he could be something other than himself. 

It’s a coin flip, right? Only a matter of time . . . before we both fucking lose it

He’s in danger of being overwhelmed by memories.

He told himself he left because that was what she wanted. He hadn’t come to terms with the impossible idea that he wanted to leave in the first place. That he, ridiculously, would ever want to leave her.

He squeezes his eyes shut, wraps his arms around her waist, and pulls her into his lap.

“I want you to tell me what to do,” he whispers to her shoulder. “I’m not a good person without you.” 

She swallows, leans away, and wipes her eyes, runs her hands over his wrists, then the back of his hand. She freezes as she finally notices his bloody knuckles. 

“It doesn’t hurt,” he says quickly as her dainty thumb hovers over the blood, the split skin. And he wasn’t lying. He can barely feel it. He feels disconnected from his own body, like someone else is driving and he’s been locked in the trunk.

“What happened, baby?” She asks, her mouth full of tears. She sounds tired.

“Nothing. Just hit it.” It is so obvious he had been fighting, he feels bad he couldn’t find a better lie. 

But Chloe sighs sympathetically and swallows. She was always so good at picking and choosing what she decided to believe. 

“We’ll bandage it.”

“You always know how to take care of me,” he murmurs as she massages his palm. 

“You’ve come so far, Dieter. You’re an entirely different person,” she says, smiling at the blood on his hand if it isn’t there. “I’ve always known you have a big heart. One I hope you can share.”

Her big eyes damp and, horrifyingly, filled with love, she puts a hand against the back of his neck. He feels feverish, too warm, but she seems to find comfort in it.

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“What if we had a baby, Dieter?” She smiles gently, coyly, easily. She’s thought about this. “You and me. I think it’s time. You’re ready to be a father.” 

It’s quiet. 

He is made up of nothing but tears. He’s spent years trying to stitch himself back together with everything and anything he could get his hands on. But he is still ripped. Still torn. Still unmade. 

He gave away pieces of himself to anyone who asked because he didn’t want them anymore. But giving this tattered, broken thing to a child? To someone who didn’t ask for it?

Can’t I just be fucked up on my own?

Cheers to being fucked up on our own.

“Chloe . . . Chloe, I . . . I have to ask you something.”

She sits up more in his arms and brushes the hair out of his eyes with a stroke of her fingers, her nose pink and cheeks wet. “What is it, baby?”

Why?

Why did you agree to marry me?

Why do you still love me?

What would it take to make you stop?

“Are you happy? Happy with me?” His entire existence no longer hinges on her answer, and he cannot fathom a world where she says yes. He shakes his head, on the verge of something, as he thumbs her cheek, begging for honesty. “Why are you still here?”

For a second, a single moment in time, for the only time, with his hands on her waist, he thinks he sees the real Chloe for the first time. Not the model, or the daughter of an artist. Not the wife of a movie star, or the helpless girlfriend of an addict. He sees her, a woman with her own reality, her own version of the world and history. He sees her in stark vulnerability, an uncomplicated answer, because he’s asking questions she never considered herself. 

Fresh tears spill out of her eyes as she squeezes his wrist. “Because I love you. And you love me. That’s how it’s supposed to work, right?” 

“That’s all?”

She laughs gently, the sound wet and thick. 

“What else is there?” 

She kisses his cheek and her lips are wet with tears. “You don’t have to answer now, about having a baby. Just think about it, please?”

He nods. 

He knows his answer. Well, not cognitively. It’s not there, in his head. But it is there in the pain in his lungs, in the dryness of his mouth, in the erratic heartbeat in his neck. It will be a long time before he can take apart those sensations to understand and identify panic for what it is. But it’s there. It’s there in the sensations that the world is coming apart. 

If this is what she wants, he can’t give it. He just can’t. 

They've been together for almost three years and they still don’t know each other at all. 

The hotel room is hazy, cloudy, weed smoke curling up in the corners. There’s music coming from somewhere, but he can’t really figure out where. Half of these people are strangers, shadows against the walls, and they move in and out of rooms like ghosts. Every moment in time seems longer than the next. He can feel himself crawling out of his own skin. 

It’s near midnight and Mark still hasn’t shown up.

But the downers from the compact mirror worked. Everything exists in limp obscurity. 

Chloe clings to him like she’s stuck a knife in him and if she pulls it out, he’ll bleed to death. A second doesn’t go by where she’s not touching him. This body is unfamiliar, he thinks as he handles her hips, her low back, as she introduces herself to everyone. 

First, there’s Nick and Cooper. They are stoned out of their minds, eyes glassy and red-faced, and react the way all men react when meeting Chloe. Their mouths drop as they take her hand in greeting. Cooper’s gaze slides over her shoulder to Dieter – this is your fucking wife, dude?

It makes him angry, rubs him the wrong way, but not out of jealousy. His mouth twitches as he shrugs. 

“I’ve been listening to your albums for days now! After Dieter told me you play live music.” Chloe says with her hand on Nick’s shoulder. “The Sixers are officially my new favorite band.”

“Oh, uh, wow– that’s–,”

“Do you want anything?” Dieter snaps, stepping back. Chloe’s hand slides off the kid’s shoulder. “I’m going to . . . get some water— what do you want?”

Chloe smiles and he knows he needs to unclench. He feels like the entire stretch of his shoulders is filling up the whole room. 

“Actually,” she says, turning back to the boys, “I’d kind of like something a little . . . green . . .”

Nick is instantly fumbling with his pocket as Chloe laughs. “Totally. Got a few extras right here.” 

He nearly spills his beer, before Cooper takes it from him. Nick finally manages to pull out a blunt and green lighter. Her eyes flicker up to Dieter as Nick lights the end.

“You don’t mind, right, baby?” 

“Not at all.” 

She inhales and goes to ask Cooper something inane, so Dieter flops into the couch behind her. This is going to be a long fucking night.

The blunt between her long fingers is about halfway gone, the room smelling like burnt cheese, and has become so cloudy someone has to turn on a fan, when the door opens to Samuel, Roxie, and Marie, all carrying boxes of alcohol. The crowd, the shadows on the walls, swarms. Cooper does the polite thing and asks if he can get Chloe or Dieter a drink, which Dieter declines and Chloe happily accepts. She curls up onto the couch next to him, sighing happily. 

“God, didn’t you miss this? These parties? The things we used to get up to.” She murmurs into his ear, her tiny hand clutching at his bicep and the other at his forearm. She smells like weed and an incomprehensibly expensive perfume that he can’t begin to describe. 

“Yeah. But, when did you want to lea–,”

The crowd, congregated around the new arrivals and their new drinks, has to shift when the door opens a second time. 

His nails dig into the arm of the couch, stiffening from his head to his toes. 

It’s you. You’ve changed out of your outfit for the interviews– he could venture a guess as to why– but replaced it with a long, black cotton dress, thin straps. You can’t possibly be wearing a bra. You’re barefoot, a beer bottle in your hand, someone at your heels–

“Natalie! You made it!”

You’re surrounded by the Sixers, by the shadows of people, of faces he doesn’t know, or ever remember.

Except for one. 

“Everyone, meet my friend Oliver! He’s visiting, from England. Very posh.” 

That pale face emerges above the crowd and someone wolf-whistles. He smirks. “Settle down, settle down. I’m actually very annoying, but you’ll love me anyway because I have enough ecstasy for you all to see the face of God.”

The crowd cheers.

He can’t move. Can’t turn his head away. 

Beside him, Chloe’s face scrunches up and lifts her head. “Oliver? Don’t you know an Oliver?”

“Honey, hush.” 

He can’t take his eyes off you as Oliver spins you into the center of the room, Marie and Roxie chattering about something as they slide onto the floor. 

This. It’s this moment where he actually might lose his sanity. Either that or tackle Oliver to the ground and pummel his face in until he’s more blood smears than human. 

“Thank you, darling girl. You always know how to make a man feel so welcome.” 

You giggle and collapse into an armchair across the room from the couch. You’re high. Again. Still. Always. 

“Now, you precious thing,” Oliver crouches down and taps your knee. Dieter’s hand twitches. “Where did you say your friend has gotten off to? Because I don’t think he’d like it very much if . . .”

He trails off, catching the intense look in your eye. You’ve made eye contact with Dieter across the room, eyes wide, nipping at a hangnail on your thumb with your teeth and the neck of the beer bottle dangling in your fingers over the edge of the armchair.

You look genuinely scared. Dieter’s nostrils flare. 

Good. 

Oliver stands up, oblivious and smiling through blindly white teeth. “Dieter, old boy, she said you’d be here. How’ve you–,”

His gaze falls to Chloe at his shoulder, instant recognition in his eyes. He glances back to you. Chloe, far too stoned for her own good, jerks and sits up. She gives a hazy, bleary-eyed smile to Oliver. 

“Oh my God, Oliver, it is you. I know you. You’re Dieter’s friend. Who knows the Queen of England. How is she?”

Perhaps for the first and only time in his life, Oliver is speechless. His thin-lipped mouth opens and closes, clearly not sure where to land his eyes. But then something comes over him and that mask of charming smugness returns. He bows slightly to her. 

“You are correct, ma’am. Lovely to see you. And, remind me, your name is . . .”

“Chloe,” she says, sitting up and stretching, her eyelids only half open. She offers her hand and he hesitantly takes it. “I’m Dieter’s wife.”

“Oh, are you now?” 

Oliver glances over at you and Dieter wants to throttle him. His eyes flash with malice as he turns back to Chloe and kisses her knuckles. “Well, isn’t that just a laugh? Can I get you anything? Any of you anything?” 

He’s going to combust right here if he doesn’t get a moment to talk to you. 

“Actually, let me get it. Natalie, help me carry drinks.” 

You scowl. “No, I’m fine, right here–,”

“Now.” This time he will haul you over his shoulder if you don’t listen.

Oliver, for whatever unclear reason, steps in. “I’ll stay here with Ms. Chloe, if that’s easier.”

He oozes– slides– into the cushion on Chloe’s other side as Dieter extracts himself from her arms. He balances her back and she opens one eye at Oliver. 

“You smell like peppermint,” she giggles. 

“Aren’t you frightfully perceptive? Now, tell me, has someone had too much to smoke or to drink?”

Dieter doesn’t hear her answer. He’s snatched you up by the arm– you actually, physically snarl at him– and yanks you through the crowd into the bathroom. 

Two no-names are making out in the dark. He flips on the light without preamble.

“Out.” 

They break apart, mouths sloppy and wet, and scatter like rats in a sewer. He tosses you inside and slams the door shut behind him. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You snap at each other at the same time, glaring, scowling, breathing sharply. Everything that should be said is buried and egos flare, replacing sanity. It’s the kind of argument, an argument so loud and violent, it reeks of bitterness and shame and desperation and that fine, fine line between seething hatred and that thing that scares him more than he can possibly conceptualize. All of this is easier to say than admit it. All of this is mean and nasty and meant to cut deep. 

He couldn’t bear to hear it now, even if you did admit to anything. 

Did you wait a full hour before calling him or was it the second I was out of earshot?

Had a good time with your wife you abandoned? Everything all good now? 

This is a private party for the cast and crew. He shouldn’t even be here!

If you get a plus one, so do I!

Why did you pick him? Why? 

Oh, sorry, I thought you liked surprises– given how you fucking handled today.

What did you promise him, huh? 

They had to reschedule everything because you can’t keep your shit together. Bet your wife loved being sloppy seconds to a TMZ reporter. 

Was he even in the area or did you get on your hands and knees to beg him to come here?

He crowds you up against the sink. His throat feels raw, head still spinning. Your hands are clenched at your sides as if preparing to throw a punch or claw or scratch or bite. Why can’t you just ever be nice?

You’re falling back into old patterns. Your instinct around him is to bite, maim, draw blood. The frustrations of a muzzled, brain-infected dog. 

The back of your hips bump up against the counter and you scowl up at him. He wants to put his hands on you but he can’t tell if it's to kiss you or strangle you. Fuck you or split you apart. How did this happen? How did you end up in the exact same place you were before?

But it’s not the same. Everything is different. He’s different, and so are you. You both know all this rage, this animosity, all this vitriol was misplaced. Undefined. A language not yet translated. You were screaming and screaming, in different tongues, begging to be heard. 

He doesn’t know what he feels when he presses himself up against you, but it is a lot.

“Are you doing this to punish me? Is that it?” Dieter whispers. Your eyes roam his face, unmoored by the sudden quiet, your hand at his chest pressing and pulling. “It’s not my fault.”

Your mouth twists, your breathing stunted. His eyes are pleading, searching your face for answers, to remind him of places where he had put his lips. Your nose, your jaw, your throat–

His heart squeezes in his chest. 

“What’s that?”

There’s a shadow on your neck, colored over by make-up, but this close, he can see the purple rings. Bruises. Your eyes widen as you realize what he’s seen, your hand sliding up your throat to cover them. 

“Did Oliver do this to you? Natalie, I swear to god, if he hurt you at all, tell me and I’ll–,”

You shake your head. “Dieter, he didn’t do this to me.” Your eyes are sad, but the jut of your chin balances your head high. “He didn’t bruise me.”

“Then, who–,”

His stomach plummets. The two of you relive his hand on your throat in the bathroom earlier today. The panting. The pressure. The force he used to fuck you. 

“Holy shit, Natalie, I am so sorry. I–I had no idea, why did you say anything?” 

“I didn’t want you to stop.” You spin one of your rings on your finger. “I didn’t want to leave.” 

Was this not the exact position you found yourselves in hours ago? Clutching each other, nails digging in, mouths open in want– revolving, revolving, revolving. Light swallowing light. Like a carousel. 

Your pupils are almost entirely black. He’s jealous. He wants that freedom. He wants you. 

“But you do now. You’re going to leave.” He steps away from you.

You scoff, a wet shine in your eyes. “You’re here with your wife, Dieter. You’re always with your wife. You beg and plead with me and I, like a fucking idiot, believe you. I think we know exactly who’s doing the leaving.” 

“It’s not that goddamn simple.” 

You sigh and rub the heel of your palm against your forehead. “It is, Dieter. It really is. This is it. This is the end. I can’t take not having you anymore.”

You drop your hands to your side. His heart flutters, as if slowing down.

“What does that mean?”

“It means we can fight and yell and scratch each other into bloody ribbons, but nothing’s going to change. You’re never going to leave her. Nothing’s going to happen.” You close your eyes, briefly, steeling yourself against something, hands tightening into fists. 

He can’t remember the last time he was this afraid. 

“Natalie–,” He’ll take it all back. Take everything back. He wants you in his arms.

“It means I don’t want to be around you anymore.” You open your eyes and there’s nothing there. A different person sits in your head. Someone who doesn’t care about him, at all.

There’s no anger in your voice, no resentment, or disgust. Only defeat. Only strung out, exhaustion, an ache that cannot be soothed. 

“I need you to leave me alone.”

This is not at all where he thought this conversation would go. Never thought you’d say those words. Never imagined this is what you would do. 

“Is that what you want?” He husks. Something is dragging its claws down his chest, his ribs. It gets caught on his heart and tears. “What you really want. Don’t lie to me.” 

Your eyes harden for a moment, reflective and stern. “Dieter, this is killing me . . . So this is the way it has to be. I’m sorry.”

You avoid his outstretched hands, his inevitable pull towards you, and stagger out into the crowd. He hears the music, the laughter, the sounds of chaos and rapture, and then the door closes and he’s alone in the cold, stale air.

“So I’m still skeptical at this point. Yeah, she’s gotten some things right, but hey, that it could just be a really good guess. I think she can tell I’m not really thinking this has been worth my time, so she offers to read my palm.”

He’s pretty sure he’s heard this story from Samuel before, or heard it somewhere else, or remembers it differently. But it’s all just noise to him. 

Chloe sits on the floor between his legs, her head on his knee. He absently strokes her silky hair from time to time, but it’s just something to do with his hands. Eons and ages have passed in this fucking room and Dieter just wants to go to sleep. He’s watched four people run into the bathroom to blow chunks and he thinks he can smell it from here. 

I need you to leave me alone.

I don’t want to be around you.

He tries to listen, to pay attention, tear his thoughts away from this spiral that’s haunting him. 

Leave you alone? For how long? Don’t you get that’s impossible now?

“So she takes my hand and looks at it, really looks at it. And something about this just feels different, you know, like the air has changed. I can’t explain it, but I feel like I’m being seen for the first time.”

His audience is quiet, captive. Dieter can feel Chloe sit up straighter as if fighting off sleep. 

Roxie snorts. “She’s just going to tell you an incredibly vague, possible future so now any time something even remotely resembles that path, you’ll think she’s right. Nevermind all the times she’ll be glaringly wrong.” 

Dieter knows they’ll never be friends but he’s always admired Roxie’s honesty. Her bravery. She’s shrewd and he likes that. 

“Whatever. It was special, alright? Important. I can’t explain it but it felt right.” 

“I believe you,” Marie pipes up, dreamily. “What else did she say?”

Samuel doesn’t quite look at her, picking at his palm as if it is currently under inspection.

“Well, she did say this other thing. She looks down at my palm, and do you know what she says? She says my life line is jagged. Split.”

“What does that mean?” Someone asks in a hushed voice. Dieter struggles not to roll his eyes. It’s not even a good story. The kid lost thirty bucks to a palm reader. Big whoop. 

Samuel roves his electric blue eyes across his captive audience. “Means something colossal is gonna happen to me. Means something’s going to happen to me where I’m not the same person I was. And I just know she’s right. Don’t ask me how, but I can already feel those life lines splitting, you know? You should all go get your palms’ read. It’s spooky.” 

“What did it say about your love line, Samuel?” Marie asks again, who has her head in Roxie’s lap, her feet in Nick’s. All three are so stoned it’s a wonder she can form words at all. Cooper’s been missing for hours.

Dieter isn’t sure anyone else registers the flash of desire he sees across Samuel’s face when he looks at her, but maybe that’s not the point. God, he desperately wants to leave. He doesn’t even care if he looks ashamed, or guilty, or lets everyone down. The coke has been gone from his system for hours and now the scratchy, heavy haze has set in. It makes him irritated when people breathe too loud. He tugs on Chloe’s hair but she doesn’t move. 

Samuel watches Roxie stroke Marie’s face. “She said my love line is strong.”

“So you’re finally admitting to all the bastards you’ve fathered over the years?” Roxie sniggers and a few others laugh. In his lap, Chloe giggles too.  

But Samuel only scowls. “No, asshole, it means I’m going to have a whirlwind romance. The kind of things they write books and poems and love stories about. Means my twin flame and soulmate are the same person.” 

“What’s a twin flame?”

Dieter’s mouth goes dry as his gaze slides across the small circle to the armchair. Oliver is there. And so are you. Curled up in his lap. The strap on your right shoulder has fallen off, away from your head on his chest. Your eyes are open, but you look very small. Oliver’s got his hand on your low back.

He tries to pull his thoughts away from the memory of his teeth in the crook of your neck, but he can’t. 

“Excellent question, lovely Natalie.” Samuel nods his head in a bow to you. Oliver’s finger dips across your bare shoulder and Dieter grinds his teeth so hard, his jaw aches. He rocks his head back against the wall behind him as if to physically keep himself from lunging forward. 

“Everyone knows what a soulmate is, but a twin flame is not something so well known. Because, maybe, it’s a little more difficult to talk about. A twin flame isn’t the person you’re meant to be with because you’re too alike. Too combustible. But you burn. You burn with love for this other person because it’s like looking into a mirror.”

“So it’s like fucking your clone?” Someone asks stupidly.

“No, you moron. It is not like fucking your clone.” Samuel’s face softens as his gaze brushes up against Marie’s forehead. “A twin flame is like finding your other half. The missing link in the universe. The thing that makes everything else make sense. The thing that quiets you, brings you a sense of comfort. Of wholeness. Intimacy without words, or questions, or concerns. There’s no hiding from this person. It’s a promise, a contract, with the universe. When you find your twin flame, it’s knowing peace for the first time.” 

He can’t look up. He can’t. 

He stares, relentlessly, at the back of Chloe’s head. His grip is almost firm in her hair. He cannot look up. 

He really, really, really shouldn’t. 

And yet he does. 

His gaze flickers to the armchair again.

To you.

And you’re not looking at him. Relentlessly not looking. You don’t look up.

Until you do. 

He doesn’t have a name for it.

It’s not peace. It’s not quiet. 

But it does rage. It rages inside of him. It burns him. 

For the first time since meeting you, he sees tears in your eyes. Unrestrained. Open. They race down your pink cheeks and he can’t be there to wipe them away. You’re crying while looking at him and everyone could see, but they don’t. Oliver could turn around and everyone would catch you right here, right now, with his hands on his wife, and there would be no denying anything. Who wouldn’t take a single look in his eyes and not know exactly what he feels for you?

This is the real punishment. The real pain. Why did you think he could ever leave you alone? This thing inside of him almost has a shape, a texture, a taste. It’s alive in him now. Born from denial and fed on bouts of temporary relief and half-measures, he feels it, this almost inhuman want. And he sees it all reflected back at him through your eyes. You, who came out of nowhere but who was always meant to be here, now matters more to him than he ever thought possible, now who has the power to destroy him. It’s beyond ruination, it’s nuclear war. It’s scorched earth and salting the rivers. Perhaps this is why he’s never been whole, why he tears himself on the corners and edges of his own making, because he’s been searching. Unknowingly, aimlessly wandering, hopelessly stumbling into chaos again and again– because the other half of his soul lives in another body. In a body, so much like his own, set on a path of destruction. 

A path of celestial creatures in collision, of universes collapsing into each other. Of neglected bodies seeking out in the dark that which is familiar. 

The spacial gap between the couch and your armchair is infinite, black and yawning, when he could take three steps across the room and kiss you on the mouth. But he doesn’t. 

He holds this thing tighter, lets it burn. He knows you feel it too. You turn from him, the connection overwhelming and wipe your eyes. The hole in his body he calls a chest aches.

God, he’s such a hypocrite. And a fucking fool.

“That’s so romantic,” Marie sighs from the floor. Her eyes flutter shut. Samuel watches her eyelashes against her cheek. “You get that and a soulmate? You’re so lucky.” 

“Not really,” he says quietly.

The hotel the studio rented for the press junkets doesn’t have a pool. But it does have a pretty nice rooftop bar overlooking the city. Disappointingly, it’s not open at four AM, but that’s probably a good thing. Meant to keep idiots from getting black out drunk and falling over the edge. Idiots like him.

Chloe lays asleep, four floors down, curled up in his bed, the sheets still warm from where he laid beside her for hours, white-knuckling the blankets, and staring at the ceiling. An hour after they left the party and two hours after he put her to bed, he got up and left, flinching at the sense the bedroom walls were closing in on him. 

He thought about going to find you, but he couldn’t. 

Finally, when he had managed to drag Chloe out the hotel room door, when everyone else had been so fucked up, their disappearance had gone unannounced, he pulls the door shut behind him and breathes. 

He can still hear the music through the walls, still smell it all, his mouth has been dry and cracked for hours, and the woman in his arms is nearly unconscious. But at least there’s some separation between you and him. It was too much. 

He bends down and pulls Chloe into his arms, carrying her like he did after they got married. But he can’t move. Not just yet. He tips his head back against the wall, trying to get the image of the rush of tears down your face out of his head. 

The movement stirs her and she lifts her groggy head.

“Wher‘re we?” she slurs.

“We’re going to bed, honey. It’s late and you should be asleep.” 

She smiles weakly, laughing to herself. Her feet kick as she taps his cheek with her finger. “You take sush good care o’ me. Always will. Always will love me.” 

Before he can reply, the hotel room door opens again and his black shadow steps out. 

You’ve been crying. He can smell the salt, hear the sniffles, and your red face all but confirms it. He whispers your name, a hush, a prayer and you tense as though transfixed by the shape of a ghost– you weren’t expecting him out here. You turn, eyes brightening when they meet his, but then you see her in his arms and you whimper– out loud– strands of saliva shining as you open your mouth in distress. He thinks he can physically feel his heart break. 

You’re not looking at him, but her, cradled and asleep in his arms. Your expression isn’t one of jealousy, or rage, but total and utter confusion. Why? Why her? Why not me?

“Baby, let me fix this.” He’d do anything to help you stop crying, to change your mind that you in any way have ever been second to any other woman in his life. He turns to you and Chloe’s arm brushes your shoulder. She hovers, oblivious and nearly-unconscious, between the two of you. 

“Fix what, honey?” She mutters up to him and you jerk back, as if burned.

For the third time, the hotel door opens and Oliver nearly runs you over. You swipe at your face rapidly as Dieter takes several steps back down the hall. 

“Sorry, darling, sorry,” he murmurs, nearly tumbling over, would have fallen to the ground if you had not grabbed him at the last second to hold him upright. His eyes are bloodshot and the edge of his right nostril is bright red. “How are you? Are you leaving?” 

You glance at Dieter over his shoulder. “Yeah. It’s late and I’m tired.” 

“Oh, sweet thing, I promised you a good time, didn’t I? And I don’t think I’ve quite done that.” Oliver manages to right himself and presses a thin hand against your cheek. You close your eyes, as if soothed by the warmth, by a presence if not the right one, so terrified of being alone. “Let me make it up to you.” 

Dieter stands, transfixed and silent, as another man leads you down the hallway, away from him. He can’t even make a noise, something to jostle Oliver out of his single-mindedness, something to tell you that this isn’t what he wants – not by a long shot – something to make this feel less like an all-encompassing nightmare. 

But he doesn’t and Oliver pulls you farther and farther away. You look over your shoulder once, tears rimming the soft hairs at the cup of your eyes, and it’s that face, your face of grief and desperation, that kept him awake and eventually dragged him out of bed, long after Chloe had fallen asleep. 

And so, he sits in one of the black and white booths on the rooftop bar and smokes. 

The late summer wind is warm and it plays with his hair– the curls around his forehead, along the backs of his ears, across his neck. His hair is longer than it has been in years and the wind is gentle as it goes. It reminds him of the few fond memories of his mother. When he was young. When his father still loomed so large. 

He wants to lean into it, into the gentle touch of something bigger than himself, of something that promises to protect him, to keep him safe. But when he does, there’s nothing there.

So he goes on. He smokes and he sits and he waits. He waits for the sun and for clarity and for Chloe to wake up. For the day to start all over again. 

For you to come to your senses and run far, far away from him. 

Eight AM. 

Another hotel room, all furniture cleared out. The window curtains pulled shut, no light. 

There’s a rumble, a clutter of sound, as lights and cameras are posted and aimed. The drowsy drabble of crew going through the motions, half-asleep and not yet caffeinated. It’s slow, sleepy, eyes downcast and unfocused. Light will come eventually, with the rising sun, but it’s still dark. Still blue.

The woman powdering your face does one final touch up before closing her kit and leaving. She goes out the hotel room door, another spindle sliding back into its place in the machine. The rumble around you continues. 

He calls your name, gently, softly, quietly. You don’t turn.

He picks up the coffee he got you and approaches you. 

Up close, he can see you got about as much sleep as he did. 

“Thank you.” You say loudly as a PA crosses behind him. 

“You’re welcome.”

“Did you have a good time at the party?”

“Yeah. We did.” It feels like they’re talking in code, in a foreign language that doesn’t sit right in his mouth. He steps closer to you, his heart digging into his ribcage. “Can I talk to you privately, for a minute?”

He runs a fine line; he needs to sound as if he is asking a good friend, a coworker, for a favor, but he wants you to know that your face is shredding him down to his very last atom. You have to come with him.

And maybe, because you feel it too, because you can hear the finality in his voice, because at some point the pain and insanity have to end, you nod. You motion to the interviewer– gimme five – and distracted, he nods.

You’re out the door and into the hallway when he realizes you’ve both left your coffee cups behind. Strange how something so innocuous can feel so transparent. 

He shuts the door to the room used as the make-up room, the same one as his argument with Mark less than twenty-four hours ago. The lock clicks with a snik. 

It’s been days since you both slept well, or at all. Either kept up by each other or by thoughts of each other, plagued by images and daytime dreams of waking up next to the person you actually wanted, you look wrung out. The make-up artist had done well, but he knows you. He can see your exhaustion in a way that only someone who intimately knows you can see. It’s a tiredness that goes beyond sleep, one that cannot be soothed by physical rest. It’s a bruise that refuses to heal.

Still, there has to be some sort of build up, just so he has a chance to try and put everything he wants to say in some sort of coherent order.

“How was your night with Oliver?” He asks without malice, without judgment. He’s absolutely sure he doesn’t want to know, but he doesn’t want to upset you. Ease you into the thing that’s sitting in the back of his mouth. 

But he can’t anticipate just what you’ve been holding back too. Your eyes flood with tears and you shakily sit down on the bed. He immediately sits down next to you, not caring if putting his hand on your back pissed you off, not caring if holding your hand in his lap is the wrong thing. He wanted to hold you in his arms last night in the hallway, this is the concession he makes with himself. 

“Dieter, how can you ask me that?” 

His heart knots up in his throat as his hand at your back goes up to your shoulders, gently massaging your neck. He can show emotional maturity, or at least try to.

“Baby, it’s okay if something happened with him.” He swears he tastes bile. No, it’s not okay. You aren’t to be touched by another man that isn’t him– he closes his eyes for a second, holding back grief and rage. 

With a watery sigh, you admit: “nothing happened with him. He passed out the second we got to my hotel room. But even if he didn’t . . .”

You lift your eyes to him, catching and holding his gaze, before looking back down at your entwined hands on the coverlet. Your makeup is only slightly smeared as though you forced your own desperation back down the well of sadness. 

“I didn’t fuck him, Dieter,” you say slowly, quietly, words warbled from your still-wet mouth. “But I should have . . . I really, really should have because I don’t know why I’m saving myself for you. You’ll never do the same for me.”

He’s shaking his head. No, no, you’re all wrong. You’ve got this all wrong.

“I didn’t touch her.” He focused on the curve of your knuckles. How your fingers manage to slot so perfectly in between his. “After . . . after the party, she was already asleep by the time I got us back to the room.”

“What about this morning? She must have been awake then.”

“She was,” he admits. He takes a deep breath. “But don’t you understand what I’m trying to say? Baby, I couldn’t. Can’t. Won’t ever do it again.”

Your breathing hitches, caught on every single one of your ribs as it lurches up your chest, fresh tears in your eyes. 

“No, Dieter, I don’t understand. What are you saying right now? What do you want from me?”

He slides onto his knees in front of you, palms shaking as they fold over your thighs. 

“She wants to have a baby. With me.” His voice is quiet, and he can only confess to your waist. Those curves he loves to run his fingers over, his nose across. You jerk as if to pull away, a snarl in your mouth, but he holds on. 

“Dieter, you bastard, I–,”

“But I’m going to say no.” 

He looks up at you. To your face so constricted in pain and heartbreak and a delirium that only comes when the days and nights have blurred together. You’re so tired.

And he’s done. At the end of his rope. 

He holds onto you as you struggle, try to fight him, try to fight the inevitable, but he holds on and he’s never letting go. 

“I’m divorcing her.” 

You still. Go slack. Soft in your disbelief. He’s failed you if this comes as a surprise. 

Something sharp and jagged splits apart in his throat, burning him, and he drops his gaze from your face before you have a chance to see the tears well up.

“When all of this is done . . . when everything is safe, I’m asking her for a divorce.” He tips his head into your lap. His voice is sodden, damp. “Natalie, I can’t be without you anymore. Can’t you see that?”

The back of his shirt, between his shoulders, goes wet when you press your face against him. You breathe through half-sobs. 

“Dieter, what are we going to do?” 

He shudders and smooths anxious circles into your hips. He can feel you shake above him. 

“Just wait, baby, just wait. It’ll all be over soon.”

Maybe, the kid was right.

Maybe, just maybe, despite what may come, despite the countless lives that are going to be ruined and the immeasurable pain coming . . .

Maybe, this is peace. 

[satashiiwrites]

Snippet Sunday

I know I’ve been mentioned by a couple of people for a snippet sunday/wip wednesday and other writing things but have been a bit preoccupied by my RT/Nano project (@rosieposiepuddingnpie @outtoshatter and possibly more). Thanks for the tags lovelies—I’m starting to go through my inbox this weekend while procrastinating writing (30k out of 50k down).

Tagging @monsterrae1 @tkwritesdumbassassins @whimsyswastry @outtoshatter @rosieposiepuddingnpie @missanniewhimsy @westernlarch and anyone else who wants to play along.

From my NaNo:

Title:Choices and Regret, Chapter One: Are You Happy With Your Life?

Fandom: 911, Dark Matter (Blake Crouch novel, upcoming tv series)

Pairings: Buddie, other canon pairings

Fic summary:

If you could go back and change the choices in your life, would you?  Would you love the same people, go on the same vacations, have the same career? Or would you have regrets?

After the lightning strike, an unexpected visitor makes Buck question all the choices he’s ever made. From dropping out of the Seals to never making a move on Eddie because the time hasn’t been right. He’s going to get an up close and personal look at what could have been because another version of Buck is focused on taking his choices away from him—including Eddie and Christopher Diaz. 

Tags/warnings: this is a thriller/love story/science fiction. Major character death will occur and there’s a huge element of identity fraud as not everyone is the version of themselves that we think they are. Multiple universes and butterfly effect. Kidnapping, nonconsensual drug use (ie knockout drugs) and dubious consent because of the identity fraud. That being said, I would point out that this author believes in satisfactory/mostly happy endings. This is from the first draft yeeted to RT.

Buck being hit by lightning isn’t what changes things for them. The trauma of having Buck’s heart stop for three minutes and seventeen seconds had caused them both to spend an inordinate amount of time navel-gazing and thinking about their life. Still, it wasn’t the event that caused the unacknowledged friendship stalemate they’d dug themselves into. Both of them are too afraid of losing the other to recognize that the most important person in their lives other than their kid is each other. 

It’s not pining if you don’t admit to it, right? You can be so willfully blind to what’s in front of you that you make choices that seem bizarre in retrospect and have your friends and family doubting your mental capacity. Buck has been clinging to Eddie, looking first to him for so long that he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, much to the frustration of everyone around him. 

Eddie though…. Eddie knows he loves Buck with everything in his soul. Thanks, Frank, for dragging that truth out after he hit rock bottom and could only cling to Buck as his emotions tossed him about like a ship in a hurricane, and Buck is the anchor of his sanity. He knows that he’ll ruin the best relationship he’s ever had by wanting too much and needing too much, despite his therapist constantly giving him judgmental looks for declining to talk to Buck about his feelings.  

He’ll take whatever Buck can give him, which must be enough. It’s enough to have Buck in his life, and he can’t risk that—not when he also has Christopher to think of. 

The night the balance tips and sets off the avalanche of cascading consequences is just another Tuesday night dinner together at the Diaz house.  

The thing about avalanches? The warning signs can all be there, but it only takes seconds to set it off by accident, and you never know when it will happen. 

When is enough, enough?  

Or, does someone set it off on purpose, wanting to change the status quo?

“When’s dinner going to be ready? Chris is almost done with his homework,” Buck asks as he slides into the kitchen, where Eddie is absently stirring a pot with one hand while setting a timer on the oven. 

“I’ve still got an hour on the roast,” Eddie warns, tossing a kitchen towel over his shoulder. “You’ve got time for a game or two.”

“You don’t want to join us?” Buck frowns.  

“I’m almost done with prepping the pie,” Eddie points to the pie crust carefully laid into the tin filled with tart cherries that he’d gotten from the farmers market on his last weekend off. Buck had accompanied the Diaz boys as he wasn’t yet back to work, and they’d made a morning of it going around to the various stands and sampling everything from fresh goat’s cheese to the spicy marinades that Eddie and Buck were both addicted to and couldn’t quite figure out how to make themselves at home. 

Buck hums indecisively, eyeing the texts on his phone from Connor inviting him out to drinks tonight. He knows he should show up and shake Connor’s hand that he managed to get Cameron pregnant without him, but after being in the hospital and everything, it just feels like another disappointment that he couldn’t help them conceive after he’d donated once, and it hadn’t worked. 

“Buck? You in there?” Eddie waves his hand in front of Buck’s face playfully. His best friend is smiling at him, but he’s got that wrinkle between his eyebrows that says Eddie’s noticed his distraction and is worried.  

“Sorry,” he apologizes, putting his phone back in his pocket. 

Wiping his hands, Eddie doesn’t go back to finishing his pie. “Is something going on?”

“It’s nothing—“ 

“It’s something. You keep looking at your phone and chewing on your lip, which will bruise if you keep at it. What’s wrong?”

Buck hasn’t really talked with Eddie about the sperm donation thing. Avoided it, really. He’d chosen to talk about it with Hen mostly. When the whole story came tumbling out, Eddie was noticeably silent, which means he probably has a lot to say about it but isn’t saying it—adding it to the list of things they don’t talk about, along with the shooting and Buck’s breakup with Taylor. 

“Buck?” Eddie presses, voice soft and husky as his hand lands warm and heavy on Buck’s shoulder with a squeeze, the thumb slotting into the groove between muscle and bone to rub soothingly. For a moment, Buck leans into it, taking the offered comfort. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

“Connor invited me out for drinks with a few friends. To celebrate.”

Eddie’s face is carefully neutral, and he doesn’t let Buck go, his fingers curling more firmly into the muscle and pulling Buck toward him so there’s less room between them, glancing out the kitchen door, checking that they’re still alone. “You told Hen they didn’t need you to donate anymore?”

It goes unsaid that Buck hasn’t been telling Eddie anything about this—he’s only found out by overhearing things and station gossip. 

Buck wants to curl into Eddie, but he doesn’t. This is his failure, and he knows Eddie doesn’t like that he agreed in the first place. “Yeah. They got lucky, I guess.”

Eddie frowns, his thumb still stroking Buck’s shoulder maddeningly, dragging the knit fabric of the henley back and forth. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to help them.”

Blinking, Buck moves just enough to make Eddie let him go, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, they wanted a baby.”

“Yeah, but—“

“So they got pregnant the normal way,” he says defensively. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“No, there isn’t,” Eddie agrees, hesitating before continuing.”But you were doing them a huge favor.”

Buck shrugs and deflects. His ‘favor’ is not needed, so it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter or get to help, and that should have been the end of it. “I’m not needed anymore. He’s going to be a dad.”  

“Do you want to meet Connor for drinks?”  

Eddie’s eyes are serious as they bore into Buck, making him want to squirm. He can’t hide anything from Eddie when he’s paying attention like this, and he’d hoped he’d just spend a nice quiet evening in with Eddie and Chris and conveniently forget about the invitation from Connor. 

“Buck,” Eddie repeats, “do you want to meet Connor for drinks?”

“I should, shouldn’t I?” He asks, pained.  

“Only if you want to,” Eddie soothes, attempting to reach for him again, but Buck moves out of the way and starts to pace. “You have time to go for one drink and still be back for dinner.”

“That’s because you got started ridiculously late,” Buck argues, knowing that Eddie picked this slow cooker recipe because his friends from dispatch were all raving about it. Buck had piled on, said it sounded interesting, and had been invited over to try it. 

“Still, if you want, you have time. You could even pick up some ice cream for the pie later,” Eddie adds, motioning towards the almost-ready-for-the-oven pie. 

“A la mode cherry pie…I do like your pie experiments.”

“You didn’t use to,” Eddie admits, cheeks pinking adorably. Buck loves that Eddie’s gotten more confident in his skills and is trying more complicated recipes that don’t have to come from him or Bobby. “You have time—you should go. Shake his hand, say congratulations, and then you’ll be done with them unless you choose to engage.”

Eddie makes it sound so simple, like he can just forget that he almost got to be a dad, something Buck wants more than anything but isn’t. He’s not anyone’s dad—not like Eddie is with Chris, Chim is with Jee or even Bobby with May and Harry. 

He can’t get any woman to stay with him long enough to consider kids, and nobody is promised tomorrow. Buck’s getting older, and everyone else seems to be settling down or already has kids like Eddie. He’s the only single guy with no partner or kids, and it sucks. 

Even if he had helped Connor and Cameron conceive… he still wouldn’t have been the kid’s dad in the ways he yearned for. 

“Buck?” Eddie’s worried call of his name cuts through his circuitous thoughts.

“Sorry. Yeah? Maybe I’ll have one drink and then cut out. I’ll be back probably before the roast is done,” Buck babbles, feeling his pockets for the keys to his jeep. 

He’s halfway out the door when Eddie calls after him, “Don’t forget the ice cream! The old-fashioned vanilla!”

“I won’t. I’ll be home for supper,” he promises Eddie, calling out a ‘be back later’ to Christopher as he all but runs out the door. 

He doesn’t mean to break his promise.