#like uncorking a wine bottle

[ahollowgrave]

-- you'll never get to heaven if you're always backing down.

[khioneee]

simon is one of the girls (sort of)

boyfriend!simon was always invited to girls’ night—not out of obligation, but because everyone genuinely wanted him there. he fit into the group effortlessly, his quiet, protective presence becoming a staple at every gathering. whether it was lounging around in pajamas with face masks on or heading out for a wild night at the club, boyfriend!simon was part of the plan.

if it was girls’ night, boyfriend!simon was there. need someone to open a bottle of wine? he had it uncorked in seconds. carrying heavy bags for a night in? already done. if the group was heading to the club, simon was always the first to volunteer to drive everyone home safely at the end of the night.

boyfriend!simon never overstepped, but he wasn’t a silent bystander, either. when conversations got lively, he’d chime in with the perfect sarcastic remark or sly observation, earning a mix of giggles and mock glares. and when a topic turned to relationship drama, he always gave it to you and your friends straight.

“dump the bloke,” he’d say bluntly, not even looking up from his drink. “if i hear his name one more time, i’m blocking his number myself.”

your friends always groaned, but soon enough, they started messaging him directly for advice.

out on the town, boyfriend!simon was the designated protector. no one had to ask—he was always at the edge of the group, watching for anything suspicious. he made sure no one lingered too close, and if someone tried to chat up one of your friends unwantedly, simon’s presence alone was enough to send them packing. if they didn’t get the hint, simon would step forward, voice low and deadly calm: “you’ve got somewhere else to be, mate.” that always did the trick.

despite his intimidating size, boyfriend!simon never felt out of place during your quiet nights in. he sat comfortably among blankets and pillows, scrolling on his phone as face masks dried and reality tv droned in the background. your friends teased him mercilessly about it, but he didn’t mind.

“you’re basically one of us now, si,” one of them joked once.

he gave a small shrug, not looking up. “just don’t expect me to paint my bloody nails, yeah?”

with boyfriend!simon around, you and your friends could relax fully, knowing he’d take care of everything—from heavy bags to creeps at the bar. he wasn’t just there for you—he was there for everyone you cared about, making sure nothing went wrong on his watch.

one night, after everyone had left and it was just the two of you, you leaned into him, curious. “why are you so sweet to my friends?”

boyfriend!simon didn’t miss a beat, brushing a strand of hair from your face as he answered softly, “because they mean a lot to you—and you mean everything to me.”

an. i desperately need a man like him.

[cursedyuri]

WILL YOU SHUFFLE ME, SPREAD ME APART?

summary: in the slums of zaun, you’ve carved out a life for yourself which not many would envy. you spend your nights in the arms of strangers, trading coin for hasty touches and labored breaths. and since such a line of work isn’t always enough to keep yourself fed and clothed, you have a second service to offer: fortune telling. 

or... two times vi comes knocking, and a third time you let her in.

18+ only! smut below. cw for fingering (r! receiving), cunnilingus, mentions of sex work, brief mentions of blood. 7k words.

The heels of your boots click against damp cobblestone, wet thumps echoing through the dingy alleyway leading to Babette’s brothel. It’s a particularly humid night, even despite the chill in the air - the humidity makes it worse, you think. It feels like the cold is seeping into the very marrow of your bones. 

You pull your cloth coat tighter over your torso, thankful when you rap on the brothel’s wooden door and are allowed in almost instantly. One step through the threshold, and the biting cold melts like early-spring snow. The air is thick here, too, but warm and smoky. Tobacco stings sweet in your nose, a cocktail of too-strong perfumes mixing with ribbons of incense that linger suspended midair. It’s an intoxicating kind of smell, one that makes weak women and weaker men feel more inclined to spend their hard-earned coin on a night with a stranger. 

Part of you is hoping none will choose you tonight. It’s not that you’re opposed to it - gods know you’d be in the wrong line of work if you were. Rather, you’ve got plans to eat the meager dinner you’ve purchased for yourself, sip some red wine, and rifle through your cards for answers about what’s been going on topside lately. You’ve heard murmurs of an attack, rebellion… You’re not exactly sure what to believe, so as you often do, you look to the cards for clarity. 

The deck sits idly by a thicket of half-burnt herbs on your desk, stacked precariously where you’d last used them. You shed your coat and hang it on a brass hook by the desk, then slide into the seat in front of it. Still thawing, you sink into the velvet cushion and reach into your knapsack for the paper-wrapped sandwich inside, also procuring an unmarked bottle of wine from beside it. You’re wiping an iron goblet clean with the fabric of your tiered skirt when a familiar voice calls your name from the doorway. It’s one of the other workers here, Nina. She’s been here just about as long as you.

“You might hate me,” she says, a preface that makes your lips turn downward in a frown. 

You grunt, uncorking your wine and pouring a hearty serving into your goblet. By the sounds of it, you’ll need the liquid courage. “I just sat down, you know.”

Nina’s delicate brows pull together; maybe she’s feeling apologetic, or maybe she’s just laying it on thick so you’ll take a job before you’ve even had dinner. 

“I thought so, but��� I think you’ll like her, peach.” She pauses for a beat. “And if you take her, I may have some chocolate I’d consider parting with.”

“Bribery,” you say, a grin pulling at your lips as you roll your eyes at Nina’s offer. “But fine. Send her in.”

“Will do, peach,” Nina practically squeals, disappearing from your doorway just as quickly as she’d come. 

Cursing under your breath, you take a swig of wine and turn to the tarnished mirror behind your desk, examining yourself. By some stroke of luck, you’d had the sense to put on a layer of makeup before you’d gone out earlier. Blemishes are covered, your eyes are rimmed with kohl, and a smear of rouge emphasizes the pouty shape of your lips. That’s all you ever need, paired with the eye-catching swell of your breasts against the low-cut linen of your blouse. This will be easy enough.

You’ve drained half the wine in your cup by the time your client knocks at the open door. You turn your head to greet her and, before you can get a word out, the door slams closed with a heavy thud. At first, you gawk at the client because of her notable entrance - but then, you gawk because Nina was right. You like her.

This girl looks like the undercity chewed her up, spit her out, then chewed her up again. She’s all sharp edges and leather and lipstick, black makeup smeared from her eyes to her cheeks. Her hair’s black, too, though you can see patches of red exposed from an uneven dye job and a few heavy-handed washes. She’s certainly achieved the menacing look she’s sought out, and though it’s a mighty contrast to her pale complexion and piercing blue eyes, it somehow works for her - she’s the kind of girl you wouldn’t mind getting dirty for. 

“Good evening,” you say, because it’s all you can seem to think of to break the silence. “Would you like a drink?”

The client surveys you up and down with those icy blue eyes, working her jaw. She nods. “What do you have?”

“Wine, whiskey, gin,” you tell her, gesturing to the makeshift bar cart beside a loveseat at the entrance of your suite. Different colored liquors fill antique, mismatched bottles at different levels. The client glances over at them, steps up to the cart and surveys that, too. Then she turns to you, gestures to your goblet.

“I’ll have what you’re having.” 

You nod. “Wine it is, then. Have a seat, I’ll bring it to you.” 

She obliges, lowering herself onto the plum fabric of the loveseat. Her legs are spread just so - enough to make it obvious that this woman is used to taking up space, and unafraid of what that kind of confidence might imply. Your eyes linger on her parted knees, but not long enough to get caught. After you fill up a goblet for her and refill your own, you glide across the room to hand her the drink. She accepts it with a nod of thanks, her fingertips brushing against yours in the process. You take a seat beside her.

“What’s your name?” You regard her behind fluttering lashes, sipping from your freshly filled goblet. The wine is sweet on your tongue, bitter around the edges. You can already feel it loosening your muscles, relaxing your inhibitions. Piquing your curiosity, even. 

The client takes a swig from her own drink and says, “Vi.” 

Vi. Her name is tattooed on her cheekbone, you muse, gaze sweeping over her face once again. There’s a silver hoop pierced through her nose, a scar etched into her upper lip. A healing bruise on her left jaw catches your eye, blooming faint shades of purple, yellow, and green. You’re afflicted with an urge to reach out and touch it - to touch her. But when she catches your gaze with those steely eyes of hers, you’re frozen. Like a child caught with their hand in a cookie jar, your cheeks flush hot. Vi seems amused by your appraisal, cracks a smile that looks somehow natural on her war-torn face. 

She cuts through the tension like a spearhead, one hand reaching forward to readjust the sleeve of your blouse, which had fallen down your shoulder. Her fingertips are cold and calloused, but the touch fills you with uncharacteristic warmth. “What’s your name?” 

You tell her and she repeats it, that sultry voice curling around every syllable of your name as if she were tasting it. 

However intoxicating Vi’s voice might be, it dawns on you again what she’s doing here. She’d paid for your time, paid to sip your wine and touch you with those split-knuckled hands of hers. You have the sense to wonder why - a woman like Vi should have no trouble warming her bed for free, yet here she is.

“Well, Vi,” you say, pausing briefly for another sip of wine, “how do you want me?”

If your straightforwardness bothers her, she doesn’t show it. She brushes dark locks of her out of her eye-line, seemingly considering your answer. Then: “I heard you tell fortunes.”

You quirk a brow at her. “I—yes. Is that what you want?”

Something flashes in her eyes. “Among other things.”

“It’s extra for that,” you clarify. “The fortune-telling, I mean.”

“I have enough.”

And that settles it. You uncross your legs, stand up and move to retrieve your deck of cards from the desk. There’s a table in front of the loveseat where Vi still sits, and that’s where you lay out an ornate silk cloth to spread the cards upon. You gather the thicket of herbs from your desk, too, along with a match. Vi watches you set fire to the sprigs, a stream of smoke billowing upwards and filling the air with a sweet, earthy scent. 

“What questions do you have?” You ask, settling down upon a floor pillow on the opposite side of the table from Vi. After you set down your goblet of wine, you pick up the deck and begin to shuffle; the fluttering sounds of cards fills the silence before Vi can answer.

“Do I need to ask questions?”

“No, I guess not,” you respond, shoulders shrugging. “I can just see what the cards say about you.”

Vi nods her assent, tossing her head back to finish what’s left of her wine. One by one, cards fly out from the deck as you shuffle, some upright, some inverted. When you’ve circulated through the deck once or twice with no other cards presenting themselves, you stop. 

“Five of cups,” you read aloud. The card’s illustration depicts a figure in a black cloak, turned away, three emptied cups at her feet. Behind her are two upright cups, unnoticed. “Loss. Mourning.”

Vi inhales sharply through her nose, and when you look up at her, she’s white-knuckled with her hand around the stem of her now-empty goblet. You lift your brows in a wordless question - should you continue? 

She nods.

“Something didn’t work out as you’d planned it, and you’re too stubborn to let go. Instead, you lament the loss and let it hold you hostage.” 

There’s a sound like Vi humming, a quiet acknowledgement of your words as you move to the next card. 

“Four of wands, reversed - this tells me you’ve been separated from loved ones. This is what didn’t work out as planned, maybe?” 

When you look at Vi this time, she’s leaning forward in her seat, forearms braced against her strong thighs. 

“Maybe,” she echoes. “What else is there?”

You show her the next card, another inverted one. The illustration depicts a man in ornate clothing, a flower plucked between his fingers as he prances confidently towards the edge of a cliff. “The fool, reversed.” 

“That’s me?” Vi asks. “The fool?” 

“Hm, not always. But with the other cards… You are the fool, Vi, I’m sorry to say it.” You hope she catches the tinge of playfulness in your tone, serious as the reading feels. Heavy as the tension feels.

“Well,” she starts, “the cards don’t lie, I guess.”

You hum in agreement. “The fool, reversed this way, tells me that you’re reckless. Lacking caution, you’ve opened yourself up to betrayal.” 

“Fuck’s sake.” Vi laughs without humor, tries to drink the last crimson drops of the wine in her goblet. “Can I get some more?”

You move to get up and fetch her the bottle, but she waves a hand to dismiss you. She’s up and across the room in a flash, refilling her cup and taking a swig before she’s even made it back to the loveseat. 

“But…” You hold up her final card - judgement. The art depicts an angel blaring into a trumpet from the heavens, the humans below rejoicing. Her eyes assessing the card, Vi looks to you for an explanation.

“Judgement tells us that renewal and transformation is possible,” you finish

“Renewal, transformation... Right. What’s the catch?”

Smart woman, you think. There’s always a catch. 

“You have to be willing to let go of what’s held you stagnant. Accept what’s behind you and focus on what’s ahead, because wallowing in misfortune does you no good.”

That seems to resonate, because Vi’s expression turns shadowy, thoughtful. She drinks again, her lips nearly purple from the wine. You take a moment to drink from your own cup, ready to ask Vi if she wants you to undress yourself, or if she’s the kind of client who wants to do it for you. 

Instead, you’re stunned into silence when she polishes off her drink, slams the cup down onto the table, and stands. Her jaw is locked again, tense. 

“Vi?” Your brows lift in question. 

“Thank you,” she says. She moves towards the door, then stops when she seems to remember something. One bandaged hand digs into her jacket pocket, emerging with a handful of coin. She places it on the nearest surface, a small table with a lamp glowing atop it, and only glances back towards you before she vanishes out the door. 

There’s a draft in the room, suddenly. You curl into bed, pull the covers over your goosebump-afflicted skin, and think.

The days following Vi’s visit dawn bleak and cold as ever. Nina asks about your client the following morning, and you let her bask in the satisfaction that you had liked her, but you politely break the news that she’d been nothing particularly special - a white lie to keep the questions at bay. You’re not one to run your mouth; besides, rumors spread through Babette’s brothel like wildfire. 

Some of the latest rumors? There’s a man with magical abilities lurking in the shadows of Zaun, with a touch that heals the sick. There’s a blue-haired revolutionary forming a significant following in the undercity, those of whom claim she’ll free them from Piltover’s brutality. You’re not sure what to believe, but there must be some truth to the rumors, because your cards sense something afoot: the tower, ten of swords, ace of cups. 

Still, business continues as usual. Degenerates and saints alike seek your company, and you need the money to survive, so your bed is always warm. 

Because you’ve had dozens of clients over the years who visit and never return, you don’t expect to see Vi again. Still, your mind keeps returning to her - you wonder why she’d stormed out so suddenly, why she’d paid you for sex without laying a finger on you. The curiosity lingers in the back of your mind, but you counter it with reality: she’d probably chickened out. Heard something too striking in her reading and couldn’t follow through, but decided to pay for your time anyway. At most, it was a kind gesture. 

So why can’t you stop thinking about her? 

Weeks pass, and your routine continues. Tonight’s another late night, and you’re relaxing after several clients in a row. You’d bathed in water treated with salts and oils, the scents still clinging to your skin as you rub salve into your aching muscles. The last few clients had been rough - twisting your limbs, working you into positions that tested your flexibility and endurance as they used their tongues, fingers, and other appendages to chase their pleasure through your body. None of them had made you come, though, so in the momentary solitude of the bath, you’d slipped your hand between your legs until your release pulsated through your tired frame. Now, you’re feeling pleasantly warm and at ease, perfumed and ready if there may be a late-night visitor. You’d be grateful for the extra money, if you’re being honest.

When there’s a steady knock at the door, you saunter over to answer it in nothing but your lingerie, lacy black and surprisingly comfortable. Who knows? They might pay extra for such ease of access - and a nice presentation. 

The flirty smile on your lips disappears when you realize who’s on the other side of the door. 

“Gods—Vi?” You try not to express your shock, schooling your features to the best of your ability. Vi, however, turns a pretty shade of pink when she takes in the sight of you: tits pushed together and decorated in delicate lace, the soft hair over your sex barely obscured with thin fabric. Your thighs are plush and glowy with moisture, hips hugged beautifully by the high-waisted panties that match your elaborate bra. 

Vi’s throat bobs with a hard swallow. “I’m… Sorry to interrupt.”

“You weren’t interrupting,” you assure her, opening the door all the way to allow her entry. You try to ignore the way her gaze first moves to the empty bed, something like relief washing over her features before she turns back to you. The door shuts with a soft click. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, “I thought you were a client.”

After wrapping yourself in the first robe you find by your bedside, you move to the bar cart to pour Vi a drink. She scoffs, an almost-laugh that’s low and soft. “Well, I am a client.”

As the wine sloshes into her goblet, you fix her with an admonishing look. “A client looking for sex, Vi.” 

That shuts her up. Her cheeks are still pink, you notice, as you take in her appearance: most of the dye has faded out of her hair, leaving it a patchy canvas of black, maroon, and fuschia. She’s still sporting a cut and a bruise here and there, but more wounds are covered with bandages than last time. Notably, she’s not drenched in black paint, though there is a ring of liner around her eyes. 

“Thanks,” Vi says when you hand her a cup of wine. She shoots back a mouthful and moves to the loveseat, lowering herself into the same spot as last time.

“So?” You arch a brow at her. “Here for another reading, I take it?”

She nods. “Yeah, sweetheart. If that’s okay.”

“I thought I scared you away last time,” you reply with a smirk. There’s a hint of truth to the statement, though, teasing as you might be - you hadn’t expected to see her back so soon, if at all. 

“Oh, you did,” she admits. “But things have changed, and now… I’m curious what you have to say. I could use some advice.”

“Your wish is my command.” 

Just as it was last time, Vi’s attention is honed in on you. You shuffle the cards with expert precision, and she watches the way your hands dance over the deck, fingers grazing the careful illustrations of each card with easy familiarity. This time, five cards leap from the deck: seven of cups, the chariot, eight of wands, four of wands, eight of pentacles. It’s a story unfolding beneath your fingertips, all the more interesting when you think back to Vi’s last reading.

“You’ve made progress,” you tell her. “But the hard work isn’t over. You’re prone to wishful thinking, which is a good thing, sometimes, because your determination is a powerful force.” 

Glancing up at Vi, you offer her an encouraging smile. “When you fight, I get the sense that you almost always win.”

Vi snorts, wiping a burgundy smear of wine from her mouth with the back of her hand. “That’s what the cards say?”

“Not exactly, but, well… I’ve gathered some things for myself.” You hold up the chariot card. “This one tells me you need an ironclad will to move forward. One I don’t doubt you have.”

Is it just your imagination, or does Vi turn pink again?

“And these,” you say, holding up the two cards from the wand suit, “show me fire. Creation, destruction, volatility. You’re dealing with something that can be useful or detrimental, depending on how you proceed.”

Vi’s eyes are alight, not unlike the fire you’ve just discussed. What you wouldn’t give to know how her life aligns with these cards - what fire is she playing with? What challenges is she facing?

“And the last one?” Vi’s voice cuts through your internal musings as she gestures to the final card on the table. You pick it up and show it to her - the eight of pentacles, depicting a man hard at work, hammer in hand.

“It’s very much in line with the others,” you explain. “Diligence, focus, hard work.”

She hums, nodding. “Got it. So, any chance there's a card that’ll tell me what I should do?”

Her tone drips with sarcasm, but you can tell there’s a glimmer of sincerity in the question - and in those pale blue eyes, swirling with emotion. 

You press your lips into a firm line, setting the eight of pentacles card down. “I wish I could tell you exactly what you want to hear, Vi,” you say honestly. “But that’s not how the cards work.”

“Yeah,” Vi responds, voice bitter around the edges; somber. “I figured as much. Thank you, uh, for the reading.”

In the silence that follows, you imagine a braver version of yourself: one that isn’t too hesitant to ask questions. One that would feel comfortable offering a listening ear to this riot of a woman, whose scars and bruises tell you just as much as the cards you’ve splayed out for her. You wonder where she goes after she leaves here, if that home holds a family, friends, a lover. But all you can do is wonder. You don’t go sniffing for information - like the brothel dweller you are, information finds you. And if it doesn’t, perhaps it’s better to wonder.

Vi rises from the loveseat, readjusting one of the tattered blankets strewn across its surface. She finishes the remainder of her wine and, gently, sets it on the table. 

She says, “I’ve gotta go.”

Her hand dips into her jacket pocket and emerges with far too much coin, which she sets out on the table for you.

“That’s too much,” you counter with a furrowed brow. “We didn’t—you only had your cards read.”

You reach forward to collect the extra cash, ready to push it back into Vi’s palm, but she backs away with her hands in her pockets. 

“Nah, sweetheart,” she replies, ambling towards the door and prying it open. “Keep the change.”

The next time you see Vi, her knuckles are bleeding. 

It’s been weeks, maybe even months, and you’re surprised to find her at your door again, much less in her current state: battered and bruised, her knuckles raw and red. Her shoulders sag, that proud, confident air about her entirely deflated. She’s a shell of the woman you’d first met months ago; all that brazen confidence she’d once had has burnt down to dying embers. 

When she looks at you, her eyes are forlorn, watery. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Oh, Vi…” You open the door further, ushering her in with a gentle hand at the small of her back. 

Inside, you pour her a drink - water, this time - and instruct her to lie down on the bed, draping a thin blanket over her frame. 

“You’re hurt,” you say pointedly, gesturing to her bleeding knuckles. “Can I help?”

Vi’s expression doesn’t change; her eyes are distant, her skin so pale it’s almost grey. But she nods her assent, so you get to work - you swipe a wet cloth over her knuckles to clear away the blood, then cautiously apply a salve to her wounds. Through it all, Vi hardly even winces, a fact that doesn’t exactly surprise you. Even now, with her brazen confidence stripped away to the bone, she’s tougher than most. It’s an attribute that runs through her to the core. 

“Don’t you want to ask what happened?” Vi asks, suddenly. Her voice is raw, and to avoid looking her in the eye, you focus on wrapping her knuckles with layers of soft gauze. “Wanna know how I fucked up this time?”

You frown. “I’m not one to pry.”

There’s a long, pregnant pause before Vi speaks again. “That’s what’s different about you,” she says. “Everyone else just… Wants something from me.”

Brows knitting together, you fix Vi with a look that you hope reads less as pitying and more as understanding. You’re certainly familiar with catering to other’s desires over your own; it’s been this way for longer than you can remember. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, genuinely. Finished dressing her wounds, you let go of her hands, still kneeling at the side of the bed. You stand up with the intention of refilling Vi’s water, but as you reach for the cup, she catches your wrist in one bandaged hand. 

“All those times I saw you,” she starts, “when I had you read my cards… You never asked about my life.”

You nod, wrist burning from her touch. 

“Why? You never wondered?”

“It’s not my job to wonder.” You swallow. “Just to give people what they want.”

Vi’s gaze is intense, holding you in a trance. You’re frozen there, standing at the side of the bed, entirely in her grasp. “But do you ever get what you want?”

Do you?

You’d been working for Babette for years, longer than most - and before that, even as a child, you’d always understood that bending to the will of others is the easiest way to move through life. You can slip through the cracks that way, get enough coin or food or clothing to live another day. You wanted that, you suppose. To live. 

But you’re not sure that’s what Vi’s talking about.

“I have enough,” you say. “There’s not much I want.”

Vi nods. “But there’s something.” 

You smooth your free hand over hers, and she lets go of your wrist. “I’ll get you some water.”

As you refill her cup, you feel her eyes on you, and your mind races. Why does she care about what you want? You’re a stranger to her, a fortune teller living on scraps in an undercity brothel. First, she’d paid you for sex she’d never had, and now she’s in your bed, asking you questions you barely had the wherewithal to ask yourself. Gods, this woman is something else. You wish you could read her mind - crack open that beautiful skull of hers, sift through her thoughts, learn what had led her to you not once, not twice, but three times. You wish you could know everything about her, read her like your favorite book with its pages dog-eared, its cover well-worn.

Maybe that’s what you want, after all.

Returning to the bedside, you hand Vi her cup and stand by as she takes a long drink, then sets it on the nightstand. Her hair has grown a few inches since the first time you’d met her, you muse, and you like it this way - long locks of pink-crimson fall in jagged layers just past her shoulders, her bangs framing her face nicely. You wonder what it would feel like to reach out and run your fingers through that hair, to brush it free of knots, to hold the back of her head in your palm. 

“It’s late,” Vi says, interrupting your train of thought. “I should go - you should get some rest.”

She peels back the blanket you’d settled over her, sitting up. You hesitate, then reach forward to touch her forearm. “You can stay, I don’t mind.”

“I wouldn’t want to keep you up,” Vi says, “or… Keep away any business.”

Something in your chest tightens. “You won’t.”

“I shouldn’t—”

“I want you to stay,” you interrupt. “You need rest, too.”

Vi’s mouth hangs open for a moment, stormy blue eyes assessing you. Then, she settles back into bed, pulling the blanket up over her chest again. There’s a long pause, only the muffled sounds of laughter and salacious moans from other rooms filling the silence. You’re debating setting yourself up on the loveseat when Vi murmurs a quiet hey to capture your attention, then pats the space beside her in bed.

There are candles still burning on desks and tables and dressers throughout the room, lamps shining in shades of yellow and orange. You’ll lie down for only a moment, you tell yourself, long enough for Vi to doze off. Then you’d turn off the lights, blow out the candles, maybe sneak off to find a client looking for a fortune teller. You sense that Vi needs someone beside her for now, though, so you climb into bed, wrapping your frame in a velvety purple blanket. 

Once you’ve settled in next to her, Vi turns on her side to face you. Her lips, rosebud pink, are chapped, and you watch her moisten them with a swipe of her tongue.

“Thank you,” she says, voice hushed. “For letting me stay here.”

I didn’t know where else to go.

You turn over to face her, too, the corners of your lips pulling upwards. “Of course. I’m glad you’re okay, Vi.”

There’s a softness in Vi’s expression, now - one that you hadn’t seen before. The tough facade has melted away, as has the hurt, the pain. All that’s left is her rounded, wide eyes, her relaxed jaw, the curve of her lips. You catch yourself staring too long, and when you look up again, Vi’s already watching you.

She raises a bandaged hand to your face, where it hovers an inch away. Her expression asks for permission, and when you lean into her touch, Vi’s hand cups your cheek with a gentleness you’d never think her capable of. Not with those scars, not with the cuts and bruises that have become a permanent fixture on her skin. Her thumb skates over your cheekbone, and the touch feels electric.

“You’re beautiful, you know.”

Your breath hitches; you hope she doesn’t notice.

“I’m sure you hear that a lot,” Vi adds. And it’s true, you do. 

You hesitate. Then: “Not from anyone who matters.” 

Vi smiles - it’s a soft kind of smile, one that you wish you could take a photo of, frame it and hang it on the wall to return to when you need a reminder of the warmth in this moment. Her hand leaves your cheek and travels down to your arm, then finding your hand beneath the blankets. Your eyes feel heavy, suddenly - so must hers, because she doesn’t speak again. You fall asleep next to her, listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing, her hand warm and heavy in yours.

When you wake up again, the room is a dark, inky blue. 

You sit upright, back straight, memories of the night before slowly filtering into your mind. Half-expecting an empty space where Vi had once been, you glance to the side, finding her sleeping figure curled under the blankets. Chest tightening, you look down at her in the black dark, eyes straining. 

Her eyes open, lashes fluttering, and you gasp.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Did I wake you up?”

“I’m a light sleeper,” she murmurs back to you. One of her arms snakes around your waist, encouraging you to lie back, and you oblige. You’re closer than you were when you fell asleep, Vi’s steady breaths tickling at your shoulder. 

You’re suddenly very aware of her skin on yours; your shirt has ridden up your stomach in your sleep, and Vi’s arm, wrapped around you, burns against you. Your stomach is warm with something delicious, something dangerous.

It doesn’t help when Vi pulls you closer, palm opening against the flesh of your hip. You’re frozen for a moment, wondering if she’s still sleeping, somehow. 

“Vi?”

“Hm?” You feel her draw back, as if waiting for you to turn over, so you do. Eyes finally adjusted to the darkness, you peer up at her. 

“I think I know what I want.” 

Vi’s quiet, her gaze steady on you. You’re about to take it back, whisper never mind and turn to sleep again, when she brings her hand back up to your cheek, cupping it in her hand the same way she had the night before. 

“Tell me,” she whispers in the dark.

“I…” You hesitate. “I want you to touch me.”

There’s a long pause, Vi’s eyes flickering over your face, analyzing your expression. Your body is tense with anticipation, and when she finally, finally leans in to press her lips to yours, the tension seeps out of every muscle.

Like everything about her, Vi’s kiss is different - her touch is different. She holds your face as her lips move against yours, soft and wet and sweet, thumb stroking the soft skin of your cheek as her tongue traces the part of your lips. You open your mouth for her, let her lick into you to deepen the kiss. 

It’s been a long, long time since you’ve been kissed like this. You’ve grown accustomed to hasty, messy kisses, foul breath and rough touches, far too many clients eager to skip past the kissing and get to the fucking. But Vi tastes like heaven as she takes her time with you, tongue soft as it pushes against yours. Every kiss leaves you aching for more, the warmth in your lower belly growing hotter with each smack of your lips against Vi’s. You pull back, catching your breath, and Vi peers at you with bleary eyes. 

“You okay?” She asks, thumb still stroking at your cheek. You nod and pull her in for another kiss, drawing a soft moan from the bottom of her throat - one that goes straight to your cunt. 

You’re not sure how long you continue like that, trapped in a heated kiss, bodies moving closer with every languid sigh and pleading moan. But eventually, the layers of clothing between you is a burden you can no longer bear. You pull back to work your shirt up and over your head, tossing it to the floor before Vi tugs you close for another searing kiss. Your hands slip beneath the thin fabric of her tank, and she shivers, a full-body chill that makes you flush impossibly hotter. Once her shirt is discarded, too, Vi gently pushes you to lie flat on your back, climbing over you in nothing but a thin pair of shorts. You realize through the haze of lust clouding your mind that she must’ve woken up before you - she’d turned the lights off, taken off the stiff pair of pants she’d arrived in the night before. 

Hovering over you in the dark, Vi’s an absolute dream. Tattoos decorate her pale complexion, inked into her arms, her shoulders, her neck - you’d already noticed that she’s heavily inked, but it’s more striking when she’s half-naked like this. You don’t have much time to look, though, because Vi leans over to tuck her face into your neck, warm lips latching to the sensitive skin and littering kisses in an imprecise path. You keen high in your throat, leaning the opposite way to grant her more access, your hands finding purchase on her narrow hips. When you dig your nails into her skin, hissing as she parts her lips over your neck and sucks, her hips buck forward, grinding her thinly-clothed heat over your pelvis. You nearly see stars.

There’s always been a cold draft in your room, in the brothel, and in Zaun as a whole. But here, now, you’re on fire. You lift your hips and push Vi down against your pelvis again, encouraging her to find that friction again, and she emits a muffled moan against your neck when she does. It’s heavenly, that sound - you want to hear it again and again and again, until it’s forever etched into your memory. 

“Gods, Vi,” you gasp, her teeth scraping against your neck. She works her way further south, leaving kisses and bites in her wake, until she reaches the peaks of your breasts.

“You’re so pretty, fuck,” she murmurs, dazed. Both hands cup your tits and squeeze, her thumbs playing with the buds of your nipples until they’ve hardened from her touch. She then leans over to take one nipple into her mouth, moaning around the flesh as if she’d been dying for this. Her tongue draws wet circles over the sensitive bud, her cheeks hollowing out when she sucks at it until you’re gasping and writhing. You need her further down, where your cunt throbs and gushes in anticipation, but she takes her time with your other tit before she even considers undressing you further. 

Still straddling your waist, Vi sits up and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She flashes you a wicked smile, eyes twinkling, and lifts her hips to reach for the waistband of your shorts.

“This okay, pretty girl?” 

You nod, biting your lip. Pretty girl.

Vi rolls your shorts down your thighs, pulls them off with ease and sets them to the side. Your panties are next - a simple, cotton pair that wasn’t anything flashy - and she tosses those to the edge of the bed, too distracted by the sight of your naked body to care much about where they landed. 

Typically, you weren’t shy about your body. In your line of work, you couldn’t be shy - you had to know your features and work them to your benefit. But with Vi eyeing you like you’re a meal and she’s a woman starved, your stomach flutters with excitement and, somewhere, a glimmer of insecurity. The need to impress her. 

And gods, does she seem impressed. She curses under her breath, her rough hands smoothing over the curves of your body, squeezing your hips and your thighs and your ass, licking her lips like she’s parched. You realize, as she settles her hands on your knees and works them apart for you, that she’d taken off her bandages, too. The thought evaporates as quickly as it had come, though, because now Vi’s settling between your spread legs, peppering kisses along the inside of your thigh.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” she tells you between kisses. “You gonna let me eat you out, sweetheart?”

The question sends another cascade of butterflies through your stomach. You take in a deep breath, enjoying the sight of Vi between your legs, looking up at you with pleading eyes. You might die if she doesn’t make you come soon.

A whispered “please” from your lips is all Vi needs - her mouth is on you in a moment, tongue splitting through your folds, warm and firm and wet. She licks at you languidly, takes her time spreading your arousal from your hole up to your clit. You’re drenched, you just know it, and Vi moans as if to confirm your suspicions, lapping up your wetness with every flick of her tongue. Just like she’d taken her time with her mouth on your tits, she takes her time with your cunt, sucking on the swollen bead of your clit until you’re whining her name between sharp breaths. It’s all you can manage to say, your hand tangled in her scarlet locks of hair, tugging at her scalp each time she circles your clit with her tongue. After she’s worked you up enough, you’re suddenly so empty - you need more, and you tell her as much, chest heaving.

“Vi, I need—fuck, I need your fingers,” you cry out.

She answers with a gratified hum, and the vibrations have your eyes rolling back into your skull.

Just as you’d asked, though, Vi swipes a finger through your wetness; there’s hardly any resistance when she sinks the digit into your entrance, groaning again at the feeling of your walls around her. 

“So wet for me,” she comments, grinning. “This what you needed?”

You nod, face twisting with pleasure. Vi just chuckles under her breath, working her fingers up to a steady pace. Once she has you moaning again, all high-pitched and needy, she latches her mouth back onto your clit, and you’re gone. You come hard, clamping down on Vi’s fingers and tossing your head back, eyes squeezed shut through every wave of pleasure - it’s only once you’ve come to that you finally open your eyes again, gazing down at Vi starry-eyed.

“Can I be honest, sweetheart?” She sits up on her heels, licking her lips. “That was hot.”

“You think so?” You ask, reaching out for her. She moves closer and kisses you, lets you taste yourself on her lips. 

You pull back only to murmur, under your breath, “I’m not done with you, Vi.”

You’ve had sex with plenty of women in your lifetime, but few have made a real effort to make you come - and none have done it so fast. You’re determined to return the favor. So, with a pointed glance, you instruct Vi to lie back on the pillows, plucking one from behind her to set under her hips.

Vi had called you beautiful, but she’s utterly divine. All sharp edges and lean muscle, she’s a vision, and you’re almost convinced you’re dreaming as your hands smooth over the tattoos inked into her arms. You imagine yourself tracing each of those tattoos with your mouth, sucking bruises into the dark ink - but you’d do that later. Right now, all you want is to bury your face in the patch of red hair between her legs, lose yourself in the taste of her arousal.

Vi’s vocal, you conclude, because as you prod your tongue inside of her, nose bumping against her clit, she won’t shut up. 

“That’s it, fuck, you’re so good,” Vi moans, sitting up enough to allow her to watch as you lap at her pink cunt. An endless chorus of praises and curses leave her lips, punctuated with wanton moans. She’s needy, too - before long, she’s gripping a fistful of your hair and directing you with it, tugging you closer, to the side, to the other side, as she grinds her cunt down against your mouth. You revel in the way she’s using you, pleased when her stomach tenses and your name spills from her lips, warning you of her impending orgasm. She rides it out on your face, and when you finally pull back, you’re wet with her from nose to chin. 

“You’re way too good at that,” Vi tells you when you crawl up beside her, rubbing the wetness off your nose. 

“You’re just as good,” you respond. You move to lie down beside Vi, but when you see her frown, you arch a brow at her.

“Hm?”

“Sweetheart,” she coos, “I’m not done with you.”

She pulls you into her lap, lets you straddle the toned muscle of her pelvis. And after you’ve ground your pussy against her until you’re shaking with another release, she’s still not done. It’s a long night.

At the table in the corner of your bedroom, your deck of tarot cards lies spread face-down. There’s one card upright, though: two of cups.

[sigh-tofm]

the night before they leave for deployment…

… price

- takes you out. you go to an expensive restaurant and eat the best they have. cost is not an issue. price orders two fingers of their finest bourbon and you get a glass of whatever you want. you go for a little walk after, hand in hand, just pretending to be two regular people in a regular relationship. you’re home at a sensible time (price needs to sleep a fair few hours before deploying) and you sit in the bathroom, gazing at him as he trims his moustache with that hard look in his eyes. he’s had last nights like these too many times to be wondering about what is waiting for him in the morning. he knows it won’t be pleasant, so there’s no use in pretending. later, in bed, he pulls you onto his chest and holds you there, knowing the next time it he falls asleep it will be with a cold, hard rifle in his arms. better savour your warm, soft body for as long as he can.

… kyle

- just wants to be intimate with you. not sex, but closeness. you sit him in front of the bathroom mirror and trim his hair, he lays you down on the rug in the living room and works through all your muscle knots. you do facemasks together. you sit side by side on kitchen chairs pulled into the bathroom with your feet in the tub, taking a footbath together. you uncork one of the your fancier bottles of wine (kyle only has a small glass, can’t risk getting hungover the day after) and drink it with your favourite takeout. you go to bed together, holding each other, breathing each other in. if this is the last night, it better be the best night.

… johnny

- has you in his favourite positions. you let him manipulate your body and fulfil his fantasies with you. afterwards you take a long shower together, you touch up is mohawk after, stroke him all over. committing every detail, every scar and mole, to memory. he does the same with you, although you suspect it’s mostly to have wank material for late nights or long watches when he’s deployed. no matter. you order takeout when you’re both dressed again, eat it on the floor in front of the sofa while watching a stupid comedy. anything to take your minds off of the inevitable. you go to bed late and he spoons you. you don’t mind how tightly he holds you, knowing that when you wake up, you will be alone.

… simon

- behaves a little eerie. you don’t know exactly how he changes, how he becomes this ghost-person you have only heard stories of from johnny. you know simon tries to keep you away from it all and never brings work home, least of all his mask. he spends the last night with you on the sofa, him sitting sideways and you on his lap. you’ve ordered good food, and while you eat and watch the movie, he watches you. boring into you with those amber eyes. you don’t comment on it, understanding that this is some kind of ritual for him. knowing that you are real, that you exist, that he needs to come home to you. you speak very little, only pragmatic sentences about passing the pop. the first few times it unnerved you, the way he was so quiet, but now you enjoy getting to be what he needs, however little you understand the process. eventually you both fall asleep on the sofa, and when you wake up you’re tucked neatly into bed, alone.

[frownyalfred]

Okay, another little lesson for fic writers since I see it come up sometimes in fics: wine in restaurants.

When you buy a bottle of wine in a (nicer) restaurant, generally (please note my emphasis there, this is a generalization for most restaurants, but not all restaurants, especially non-US ones) you may see a waiter do a few things when they bring you the bottle.

The waiter presents the bottle to the person who ordered it

The waiter uncorks the bottle in order to serve it

The waiter hands the cork to the person who ordered the bottle

The waiter pours a small portion of the wine (barely a splash) and waits for the person who ordered it to taste it

The waiter then pours glasses for everyone else at the table, and then returns to fill up the initial taster's glass

Now, you might be thinking -- that's all pretty obvious, right? They're bringing you what you ordered, making sure you liked it, and then pouring it for the group. Wrong. It's actually a little bit more complicated than that.

The waiter presents the bottle to the person who ordered it so that they can inspect the label and vintage and make sure it's the bottle they actually ordered off the menu

The waiter uncorks the bottle so that the table can see it was unopened before this moment (i.e., not another wine they poured into an empty bottle) and well-sealed

The waiter hands the cork to the person who ordered the bottle so that they can inspect the label on the cork and determine if it matches up; they can also smell/feel the cork to see if there is any dergradation or mold that might impact the wine itself

The waiter pours a small portion for the person who ordered to taste NOT to see if they liked it -- that's a common misconception. Yes, sometimes when house wine is served by the glass, waiters will pour a portion for people to taste and agree to. But when you order a bottle, the taste isn't for approval -- you've already bought the bottle at this point! You don't get to refuse it if you don't like it. Rather, the tasting is to determine if the wine is "corked", a term that refers to when a wine is contaminated by TCA, a chemical compound that causes a specific taste/flavor. TCA can be caused by mold in corks, and is one of the only reasons you can (generally) refuse a bottle of wine you have already purchased. Most people can taste or smell TCA if they are trained for it; other people might drink the wine for a few minutes before noticing a damp, basement-like smell on the aftertaste. Once you've tasted it, you'll remember it. That first sip is your opportunity to take one for the table and save them from a possibly corked bottle of wine, which is absolutely no fun.

If you've sipped the wine (I generally smell it, I've found it's easier to smell than taste) and determined that it is safe, you then nod to your waiter. The waiter will then pour glasses for everyone else at the table. If the wine is corked, you would refuse the bottle and ask the waiter for a new bottle. If there is no new bottle, you'll either get a refund or they'll ask you to choose another option on their wine list. A good restaurant will understand that corked bottles happen randomly, and will leap at the opportunity to replace it; a bad restaurant or a restaurant with poor training will sometimes try to argue with you about whether or not it's corked. Again, it can be a subtle, subjective taste, so proceed carefully.

In restaurants, this process can happen very quickly! It's elegant and practiced. The waiter will generally uncork the bottle without setting the bottle down or bracing it against themselves. They will remove the cork without breaking it, and they will pour the wine without dripping it down the label or on the table.

[foxtrology]

unchained melody (7)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 14.1k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, angst, fluff, smut, mentions of suicide.

Harry woke up without an alarm. No noise. Just instinct.

His eyes opened to the slow hum of night, the villa wrapped in silence except for the rhythmic pulse of her breath against his ribs. She was still asleep—curled around him like always, one leg slung over his hip, hand resting on his stomach like they’d grown roots there.

He blinked once. Then looked over to the clock.

11:32 PM.

The article had dropped. Thirty-two minutes ago. Or so he thought.

What he didn’t know—what no one had told him—was that Carrie Roth had gone rogue. That the article had been published early. That he had already lost the fight. That her face, her body, the weight of mystery surrounding her name and all the blanks the internet was now trying to fill had been dissected and distributed and devoured long before Harry ever opened his eyes.

But none of that existed in this room. Not yet.

For now, there was just the weight of her sleeping on his chest. Her skin warm. Her hair curled like ink along his collarbone. He hadn’t moved in hours. Hadn’t needed to.

She made stillness feel like something sacred.

Harry slid his hand gently down her spine. Stopped at her waist. Let it rest there. Then, careful not to wake her, he reached over and grabbed her phone and his—both forgotten on the floor, one tangled in the strap of her tote.

He didn’t read the article. Didn’t read the comments. Didn’t scroll. Didn’t need to. Whatever was written didn’t matter.

He knew what came next—lawsuits, statements, narrative control. Danny would have already started calling the legal team and would be on the phone with every editor he had dirt on.

Harry simply slipped both phones into her bag. Out of sight. Away from them. Just for the night.

Then, quietly, he grabbed the landline off the nightstand and called down to the kitchen.

“Dinner,” he murmured, voice low enough not to disturb her. “For two. Whatever’s ready. Wine too.”

He hung up. Laid back. Wrapped his arm around her again.

And let the weight of the day start to bleed in—slow, like dusk.

The knock was too loud. Too sharp. Too sudden. It startled her awake. She gasped softly against his chest, eyes blinking open with a confused sound in her throat. Harry moved instantly—lifting his head, tightening his hold on her like instinct.

The knock came again. He exhaled, already annoyed.

“Stay,” he whispered, brushing his lips over her hair.

He got up in one motion, pulling on the first shirt he found—still rumpled from the afternoon. When he opened the door, the poor villa staff member barely got a word out before Harry’s expression did the talking.

The tray was delivered. The door shut behind him. No thank you. No smile.

When he turned back, she was sitting up in bed, sheets pulled over her chest, hair wild, lips parted.

She blinked slowly. “Was that—?”

“Dinner,” he said. “For us.”

“What time is it?” she mumbled, voice thick.

He checked his watch. “Almost midnight.”

Her brows lifted. “You ordered dinner at midnight?”

“You were asleep. I figured we might want something. Or wine.”

Her lips curled. “You’re not real.”

“I am,” he said, already walking the tray over. “Unfortunately.”

She scooted up against the headboard as he set the tray down on the edge of the bed. There were two covered plates, a bottle of wine already uncorked, and two small glasses.

She reached for one. “You're mad at the poor guy who brought this?”

“He knocked like it was urgent.”

She smirked. “You’re an asshole.”

“You like it.”

She didn’t deny it. They ate in bed. Shoulder to shoulder. Knee to knee.

There was pasta—still warm, tossed in olive oil, garlic, and shaved parmesan. A bowl of roasted vegetables. Bread they didn’t ask for but devoured. The wine was deep red, smooth and heady, and the glasses were barely half-full before she started to feel it.

For a while, they didn’t talk. Just passed bites back and forth. Shared a fork. Ate slowly, deliberately. Letting the quiet sit between them like something earned.

Eventually, she glanced at him.

“You okay?”

Harry looked over. “I am now.”

She didn’t push. Not yet. Instead, she reached for the wine again. Poured them both another splash. Then turned her body to face him more fully—her bare legs tucked under her, his t-shirt hanging off one shoulder like it was made for it.

She studied him.

“You are quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“Not like this.”

He looked down at his glass. Then set it aside. She didn’t speak. Just waited.

And finally—he let it out. Slowly. Like a confession. Since Lucy.

“My mother died when I was seventeen.”

She blinked. Sat straighter. “Harry…”

He shook his head once, like it wasn’t something he wanted sympathy for.

“She was young.”

The room held still.

“She used to sing while she cooked,” he continued. “Even if it was just eggs. She never remembered the words, always made them up. My sister would be right by her side too.”

She stayed silent.

He glanced at her. “I didn’t go back to the house after the funeral. Not once. Haven’t been in it in thirty-five years.”

“Why not?”

He took a breath. “Because she was the only thing in it that made it feel like home. After that…it was just walls.”

She reached out. Touched his hand. He didn’t pull away.

“She would’ve liked you,” he said.

She smiled faintly. “I would’ve liked her.”

Harry looked at her. Really looked.

Then reached for her hand. Brought it to his mouth. Kissed her knuckles once. Gently.

“You never talk about your family,” he said quietly.

And just like that—the air shifted. She pulled her hand back, slowly. And for a moment, he thought she wouldn’t say anything.

But then—

“My brother died too,” she said softly.

Harry froze.

Her voice didn’t waver. But her eyes did.

“He killed himself when we were twenty.”

Harry’s throat tightened. “I’m sorry.”

She nodded, looking down at her lap.

“I haven’t told anyone in years.”

He didn’t interrupt.

She looked up at him. “I know you saw the tattoo. The T.”

He nodded once.

Her voice was steadier now. “It’s for Teddy. He was my twin.”

That stopped him. Cold.

He stared at her. “Twin?”

She nodded. Harry sat back slightly, absorbing it.

“You never told me.”

“I don’t talk about him.”

She didn’t elaborate. And Harry didn’t ask. But it lingered between them now—something heavy and sacred.

She tucked her legs under her. “We were born five minutes apart. He was the loud one. The reckless one.”

Harry watched her. Waited.

“He died on a Tuesday,” she added, voice quieter now. “I still hate Tuesdays.”

Harry reached for her hand again. This time, she let him take it.

“I didn’t know,” he said.

“I didn’t want you to.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then—

“I’m glad I do now.”

She didn’t smile. But her fingers curled around his. And that said more than anything else.

They finished eating slowly. The plates were pushed to the side. The wine was nearly gone. The night curled in around them—quiet and forgiving.

She laid her head on his shoulder, her fingers still tangled with his. He pressed a kiss to her temple. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

And when she whispered, “Thank you,” it was for more than just dinner.

It was for still being here. For not asking more than she could give. For holding the truth gently, like it was something delicate and worth keeping. Harry squeezed her hand once. And they stayed like that—

Long into the night. Not knowing what tomorrow would bring.

But knowing this—

For now, they still had each other. And sometimes, that was enough. But only for the night.

Because the morning arrived with a fist. A very loud, very manicured fist.

It slammed against the villa door just after eight, shattering the silence with a rhythm more fitting for the police than a houseguest.

“Harry! Open this fucking door right now—what the hell did you do?!”

They both jolted upright in bed.

She blinked, disoriented, Harry’s arm still around her waist, breath still warm on her neck. His face was unreadable, but his grip on her tightened instinctively.

Outside the door, Livia screamed again.

“Do you think you can just kill the Wi-Fi like this is a monastery? I have work! I have a fucking following!”

Harry didn’t move.

She sat up slowly, pulling the sheet around herself, hair mussed, voice still hoarse with sleep. “Did she say...Wi-Fi?”

Harry ran a hand down his face. “I had it cut last night.”

She stared. “You what?”

“Just for today.”

“For what reason?”

His jaw ticked.

She blinked. “Wait—is this about the article?”

Before he could answer, Livia banged again, full dramatic rage now.

“I was filming a sponsored review for a blush that melts! I’ve been trying to upload it for hours! I already sent the invoice! This is fucking sabotage.”

Harry swung his legs off the bed. Didn’t bother replying. Didn’t bother dressing either—just pulled on yesterday’s slacks and stalked across the room with the terrifying calm of a man who had throttled Wall Street brokers for fun and been thanked for it.

She wrapped the sheet tighter, following him with her eyes as he opened the door with one swift pull.

Livia stood there, barefoot in kitten heels, her white robe slipping dramatically off one shoulder, a silk headscarf tied haphazardly atop her head like a fashionable war widow, phone clutched in her hands.

Her face fell the second she saw who else was in the room. “Oh,” she said flatly, eyes cutting to her.

She offered a tight smile from the bed, tugging the sheet higher. She knew this open fucking bedroom would cause her problems. 

Harry didn’t react. “You’ve had Wi-Fi your entire life. You’ll survive twelve hours.”

Livia’s voice dropped to a hiss. “We are not in the Hamptons, Harry. We’re in the Tuscan countryside. It takes six weeks to get high-speed here. And I have deliverables.”

He didn’t blink. “Cry about it.”

Livia blinked. “You—did you seriously just say that to me?”

He leaned against the doorframe. “Do you want me to say it again slower?”

She took a half-step forward, daring. “I swear to God, if this is about Lucy—”

The air changed. She stopped. His expression darkened—not with anger, but with something colder. More lethal.

“I’d choose your next sentence very, very carefully.”

The hallway went still. Livia blinked.

Then, like any decent survivor, turned on her heel and muttered, “Fucking tyrant.”

Harry closed the door slowly. Locked it. Turned.

She was staring at him from the bed, wide-eyed.

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly more human again. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. That was...horrifyingly hot.”

That got a tiny smile out of him.

He didn’t leave the room that morning. Not for breakfast. Not for emails. Not even for the 10:00 a.m. meeting Danny had arranged with three investors who had flown in from Zurich.

Danny called twice. Harry didn’t answer. She watched him from the armchair in the corner—barefoot, hair pulled into a bun, wearing nothing but one of his shirts and a pair of sleep shorts, a mug of lemon tea balanced on her knee.

“You’re skipping the meeting?” she asked eventually.

“Yes.”

“Won’t they be mad?”

“They’ll get over it.”

“Will Danny?”

Harry sipped his espresso. “Danny’s already got a lot of shit on his plate.”

That made her laugh.

Harry sat at the edge of the bed, one ankle propped over his knee, flipping through a leather notebook, pen tucked behind his ear like he was sketching out the next version of the world.

He looked completely at ease. Except for the muscle in his jaw.

She tilted her head. “Are you okay?”

He looked up. “Do I not look okay?”

“You look like you’re playing chess with people’s lives in your head.”

He didn’t deny it.

“Do you know what was in the article?” she asked quietly.

“I didn’t read it.”

She blinked. “Seriously?”

“Not interested in anyones narrative.”

He paused. She nodded slowly. But something still itched at the edge of her ribs.

“Will everything be okay?” she asked, barely audible.

Harry looked at her. And for the first time, the cool, coiled stillness broke.

“Yes. Don't worry,” he said. “Danny’s already got people watching the blogs. The subreddits. The gossip accounts. If anything comes up, we kill it before it spreads.”

She swallowed. “But what if it's not?”

He stood. Crossed the room. Stopped in front of her and knelt, one hand resting on her knee.

“Then I'll burn them down.”

She searched his face. And found something terrifying there. Not fear. Not hesitation. Conviction. The kind that doesn’t flinch.

“You’d burn them down?” she whispered.

His voice didn’t change.

“I’d do anything for you.”

She believed him. And that terrified her more than the article ever could.

Meanwhile, in the converted office across the villa, Danny was having the worst morning of his career. He hadn’t slept. Hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t moved from his desk in hours.

The Wi-Fi Harry cut had taken down two printers, a backup router, and a $15,000 digital projector that Lorenzo was now threatening to return to France in protest.

He was fielding calls from six continents. Allegra was ghosting him. And two junior employees had locked themselves in a bathroom over rumors that “Castillo was spiraling.”

He’d already flown out three more team members overnight—Sadie from PR, Robyn from legal, and a fixer named Ben who used to work for Russian oligarchs and didn’t blink.

When Lorenzo asked if Harry was canceling the investor lunch, Danny responded by slamming a folder down and saying, “If Harry wants to picnic in hell today, we’re all going with him.” Nobody asked again.

Back in the villa suite, her and Harry were still in bed. It was noon.

She was braiding a section of her hair absentmindedly, the balcony doors cracked open behind her. The breeze drifted in soft and slow, carrying the scent of rosemary, dust, and something vaguely citrus.

Harry laid beside her. Watching her like he was memorizing every movement.

She looked at him. “You really didn’t read it?”

He shook his head. “The only story that matters is the one we write.”

“That’s a nice line.”

“It’s not a line. It’s a decision.”

She chewed her lip. Then shifted closer.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

She hesitated. Then laid her head on his chest.

“If you ever find out something about me…something I couldn’t say out loud yet… would you still look at me the way you do now?”

His hand moved through her hair.

Slow. Gentle.

“I already know I don’t deserve you.”

She looked up, startled. But he wasn’t finished.

“So whatever it is—whatever you’re afraid of—it doesn’t change what I feel.”

She stared at him. Long and quiet.

Then whispered,

“I believe you.”

And she did.

Even if her chest still burned. Even if the truth still lived behind her ribs like a locked room. Even if the wolves were circling. Because right now? He was here. And the rest of the world could wait.

The hours bled. Through stone. Through linen. Through the brush of her fingers along the lip of a ceramic mug.

She had stayed curled beside him as long as she could bear it. Skin warm. Sheet tangled around her hips like an afterthought. There was honey in the air. And rosemary. And something sour just beneath it—the scent of stillness going stale.

She needed to move.

She didn’t say it out loud at first. Just sat up. Pulled her hair away from her neck. Walked barefoot across the room to where the windows overlooked the orchard, the gravel path, the ache of quiet that clung to the hills like fog.

He was still in bed. Watching her.

She didn’t turn around. Just said, softly, “I can’t stay in here all day.”

A beat passed.

“You said we’d stay in,” he murmured, voice frayed by sleep.

“I know,” she said. “But I feel like I’m losing track of time.”

Silence.

Then, quieter, “Please.”

She turned. And found him already watching her. It was the please that did it. The shower was brief. Not for lack of effort.

Harry, as always, was a saboteur in disguise. She caught the glint in his eye the moment the water hit her collarbone. The slow, deliberate way he pressed her against the tile. His mouth dragged along her shoulder like he was writing something. His hand ghosted down her stomach.

“Don’t,” she whispered, eyes fluttering closed.

“Don’t what?” he asked, too innocent.

“You’re going to distract me.”

He kissed her ribs.

“You always say that.”

“And you always prove me right.”

His tongue moved lower. She grabbed his face with both hands.

“Harry,” she said, laughing now. “Stop trying to ruin the day.”

“I’m improving it.”

She stepped out of the water.

“You’re a menace.”

“You’re wet.”

“I’m leaving you in here.”

He sighed like a man deprived of oxygen. “Fine.”

They dressed quietly.

She wore a cotton sundress with tiny pearl buttons down the front and a pair of old sandals. Her hair was damp and half-tucked into a scarf she found in her bag. He wore black again—short-sleeved linen, slacks rolled slightly at the ankle, sunglasses tucked into his collar like punctuation.

She didn’t ask if he was nervous about being seen. He didn’t ask if she still felt like running. They didn’t have to.

The car into town was old. Beige leather, sticky in the heat. The driver didn’t speak except to nod once when Harry gave him the name of the town. Not the one they had went to the other day with Francesca and Luca. Not the one with influencers and Aperol spritzes and rented designer bags.

The one past it. Where the hills stopped being curated and the people stopped pretending. She leaned her head on the window.

Harry laced their fingers together without looking. She exhaled.

“I need something stupid today,” she said.

He turned to her. “Like what?”

“A book I’ll never finish. A dress I can’t afford. A bag of lemon candy that hurts my teeth.”

“Done.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

The village was empty in the way only real places are—half-shuttered shops with peeling signs, a church bell that rang too loud for no one in particular, a woman sweeping her doorway like she’d been doing it for decades.

No one looked at them. Not once.

They slipped into a bookstore that smelled like thyme and printer ink.

The owner didn’t speak English, but smiled kindly when she held up a copy of La Noia and asked, brokenly, if he had it in English. He did. He pulled it from a low shelf, dusted it off with the sleeve of his cardigan, and handed it over like it was a secret.

Harry watched her leaf through it with that quiet reverence she saved for real things. Books. Cats. Tiny ceramic bowls that held nothing but dust and memory.

They left with three books. One for her. One Harry picked out without telling her. One she grabbed last-minute because the cover reminded her of her brother. He paid for all of them in cash.

The next stop was a boutique tucked into a stone alleyway—no name, no mannequins, just a beaded curtain and the smell of vanilla. Inside, it was chaos.

Lace and linen and buttons made of bone. Dresses that looked like they’d belonged to Italian actresses in the seventies. Shelves lined with scarves dyed the color of bruises and citrus rinds. Jewelry tangled in bowls.

She held up a pair of vintage sunglasses. “Do I look like I sell weed to college students?”

“Yes,” Harry said.

“I like that for me.”

“You’d ruin them in a week.”

She handed them to him anyway. “Good. Then they’ll have character.”

She tried on two dresses. Bought neither. Harry bought her both when she wasn’t looking.

She noticed only when they were halfway down the street and he handed her a wrapped bundle.

She paused. “I said I didn’t want them.”

“You lied.”

“Maybe.”

He didn’t say anything else. But he was smiling.

They passed a café with blue umbrellas and tiny espresso cups. He bought her a lemon granita and a slice of almond cake.

She ate both with her feet up on his lap, a paperback open across her knees, his hand resting low on her thigh like it had always belonged there.

No one took a photo. No one whispered. No one called her anything at all. He felt invisible. And for the first time in days, that was a relief.

They walked back to the car slowly. No rush. No panic. She had a bag of marzipan in one hand. His fingers in the other.

The afternoon had turned amber. The kind of light that only exists when you’re not trying to capture it.

Back at the villa, the gravel was still warm underfoot. They slipped inside without speaking. Up the stairs. Down the hall. The quiet was golden.

Until—

“Harry.”

They both stopped.

Lorenzo.

Standing in the corridor like a painting. Hair too perfect. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest he spent more time in mirrors than the markets.

Harry’s hand clenched slightly. Lorenzo smiled.

“We’re having a farewell dinner tonight,” he said. “My yacht. Final celebration before your flight.”

Harry didn’t respond.

Lorenzo’s gaze flicked to her. Then back to Harry.

“Should be intimate,” he added. “Just the core group. Paolo. Francesca. Luca. Livia. Me.”

Silence.

Then—

“I’ll pass,” Harry said flatly.

Lorenzo didn’t blink. “That wasn’t a question.”

Harry’s jaw twitched. Her stomach turned.

She could feel it happening—the shift. The slow, deliberate slide toward something ancient. Pride. Power. That edge of violence that lived in quiet men who had too much to lose.

She stepped forward. Touched Harry’s hand. Took it in hers. Looked up at Lorenzo with a smile so practiced it hurt.

“We’ll be there,” she said softly.

Lorenzo tilted his head. “Wonderful.”

He turned. Walked away.

Harry didn’t move. She didn’t let go. He looked down at her, the edge still sharp behind his eyes.

She squeezed his hand. “It’s just dinner.”

“It’s a performance.”

“So perform.”

A pause. Then he exhaled through his nose.

“Don’t do that again,” he murmured.

She tilted her head. “Do what?”

“I should be the one protecting you.”

She smiled. “Harry, I can protect you and thats okay.”

He looked at her for a long moment. Then pulled her in. Pressed his forehead to hers.

And in that breathless second between silence and surrender, she knew—

He would do anything for her. Even smile at men he hated. Even go to dinner with ghosts. Even pretend. If it meant she stayed.

They walked the rest of the hallway in silence. Her hand still in his. His body still braced for a fight that had not yet arrived.

But by the time they reached the room, it was already beginning to dissolve. The heat of it. The tension. The echo of Lorenzo’s voice. All of it started to fade the second he opened the door for her, and she stepped back into the space that had briefly felt like a sanctuary.

She let go of his hand only to set her bags down gently on the bed. A scarf slipped out—burnt orange with blue stitching at the edge. Harry caught it before it hit the floor and folded it over the back of the chair.

She toed off her sandals. Turned to him.

“Help me unpack?”

He nodded. Wordless. Of course.

It took longer than it needed to. She did it slowly—like if she stretched each act out long enough, the rest of the evening might somehow never arrive.

She took each thing out of the bags one at a time, smoothing the tissue paper between her fingers, holding things up to the fading light like they might tell her something.

Harry stood behind her, occasionally reaching for the things she handed him—books, scarves, a delicate linen blouse she’d claimed was “too sheer to wear in public,” which of course meant she’d already imagined wearing it the next morning.

He folded everything with surprising precision. Sharp creases. Quiet attention.

“You’re good at this,” she murmured.

“Military school,” he said, without looking up. “You learn fast when your roommate’s a sadist.”

She laughed softly. Set a small paper-wrapped box on the dresser.

He glanced over.

“What’s that?”

She shrugged. “Jewelry. Kind of. I think it was meant to be a choker but it’s made of beads and string and I just liked how it felt in my hands.”

Harry said nothing. Just watched her unwrap it—slowly, delicately, like the beads might break if she breathed too hard.

She held it out.

“Put it on me?”

He took it. Stepped behind her. Lifted her hair. Fastened the string with a quiet gentleness that made her chest ache.

His hands lingered at the base of her neck afterward. Then dropped.

She didn’t turn around. But she reached for his hand. Held it for a second. Then let go.

They sat together on the edge of the bed for a while after that.

Just the long slope of light across the stone floor, the breeze curling through the half-open windows, the sound of forks clinking faintly downstairs where staff had begun prepping for the night.

She rested her head on his shoulder. And for a little while, they didn’t talk. Eventually, he kissed the top of her hair.

And said, “We should get ready.”

The getting ready was not hurried. It was careful. Quiet.

Intimate in a way that had everything to do with knowing someone’s rhythm well enough to match it.

She went first—starting with her hair, standing at the small vanity table with a round mirror and a glass tray filled with little hotel bottles that all smelled faintly of lemon and woodsmoke. She brushed slowly. Methodically. Let her hair fall naturally, then twisted it up in a loose, soft knot at the nape of her neck, securing it with two pins and one of the new scarves.

Harry sat behind her on the bed, silently buttoning his shirt—black again, always, the sleeves rolled to just below his elbows, the collar slightly open. No jacket tonight. No tie. Just quiet confidence and careful rage tucked beneath the surface.

She glanced at him in the mirror. He looked at her reflection. Neither of them smiled. But something passed between them. Something warm. Unspoken.

She turned back to the vanity and touched her fingers to the edge of her mouth. Then leaned forward and pressed on a little lip color—nothing bold. Just enough to look like she’d been kissed recently.

She stood. Slipped into the dress she’d picked out that morning in town. The one she told him was “too much” for a dinner but bought anyway. A pale mauve silk that fell low at the back and clung just enough to make her feel like a poem instead of a person. She hadn’t worn a bra. Didn’t need to.

Harry looked up. His hands stilled. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. He stood. Crossed the room. Touched the strap of the dress like it might fall off if he didn’t anchor it.

“You’re not real,” he said under his breath.

She smiled. “Neither are you.”

He kissed her shoulder. Then stepped back.

She helped him with his cuffs. Folded each one slowly, smoothing the fabric. Buttoned them without looking up.

“You hate him, don’t you?” she asked quietly.

“Lorenzo?”

She nodded.

“I don’t hate him,” Harry said. “I hate what he represents.”

“Which is?”

“Everything I thought I had to become.”

She met his eyes. Didn’t speak. But she squeezed his wrist, gently. He kissed her forehead. They finished dressing in silence.

He found her shoes under the bed. Slid them on for her, one by one. Then stood and straightened his collar, checking her once more.

“You ready?”

He exhaled.

“No.”

He knew it would be sort of a long drive. The closest Marina to them was about an hour away.

All because Lorenzo wanted to throw a send off dinner for him on a yacht. He knew the man did it on purpose. 

“Too late.”

The villa was quiet when they opened the door. The hallway still. The lights warm and low.

Their steps echoed softly against the stone floors as they made their way down toward the main entrance.

Neither of them spoke. She adjusted the strap of her dress once. Harry reached over and fixed it for her before she could.

They were both beautiful. Both calm. Both armed. And neither of them had any idea what they were walking into.

The car Lorenzo sent them was sleek. Black. Clean in that sterilized, soulless way that suggested it was used for too many things—contract signings, last-minute getaways, discreet apologies to mistresses and board members alike.

The driver didn’t speak at first. Just nodded.

They pulled away from the villa in silence. Gravel cracking under the tires. A distant bird scattering somewhere behind the orchard. The roads twisted softly, curling through dusk. Golden hour was gone now.

Everything outside the window had turned that particular shade of blue that felt like the bottom of a swimming pool—hollow, glassy, waiting to hold something heavy.

She had one hand resting on her thigh. Harry’s was on top of it. Not moving. Just there. Like a claim.

She was staring out the window, watching vineyards fall away like memory, when the driver suddenly said—

“You’re her, huh?”

She turned. Harry did not.

The man cleared his throat. “I mean. Sorry. I just—uh. I saw your face earlier. On—on Twitter. Or X. Or—what is it now? Is it still Twitter? I feel like I should call it Twitter but everyone keeps saying X, but that just feels like a fake porn site—”

Harry looked up slowly.

The driver swallowed. “I mean, it’s none of my business, obviously. Just—my cousin in Palermo sent me a screenshot. You’re all over it. Every social media platform actually.”

He was talking too fast now. Trying to recover. Mumbling something about hashtags and name-blind profiles and how “the internet doesn’t sleep” before trailing off entirely.

She had gone still beside Harry. But he hadn’t moved his hand.

She turned her head. Met his eyes. Worried. Quiet. Not panicked. Just quietly terrified.

He looked at her for a long second.

Then, calm as ever, murmured, “You’re safe.”

She nodded once. Didn’t believe it. But needed to hear it.

What she didn’t know—what Harry hadn’t told her, at least not yet—was that while she was in the dressing room two hours ago, trying on a second dress she’d claimed she hated but couldn’t stop looking at, his phone had buzzed in his lap with a call from Danny.

Harry had stepped outside. Shut the boutique's door behind him. And listened.

Danny had been quick.

“Legal’s drafting the suit. We’re going after Carrie for invasion, misrepresentation, defamation—if we can tie in Lorenzo and Livia, we will.”

Harry didn’t interrupt.

Danny continued, “I also pulled Sofia, Ben, and Claudine. Had them flown in early this morning. Sofia’s already doing back-end wipe work. Scrubbing keywords. Dox block protocols. She’s working with two Reddit mods who owe her favors.”

Harry had only said two words,

“Make it clean.”

And Danny had replied,

“We’re trying.”

They reached the marina about an hour later. 

It was quieter than expected. The kind of quiet that made your skin feel too thin.

The sky was dark now. Bruised purple bleeding into navy. The water held the moonlight like a mirror with fingerprints.

Lorenzo’s yacht was docked at the far end. Lit up. Grand. Excessive in a way only old money could justify. The kind of boat people threw parties on just to get photographed walking off of it.

The driver parked. Didn’t say anything this time.

Harry got out first. Opened her door before she could reach for the handle. Offered his hand. She took it.

And the moment their fingers locked, she felt something strange—something subtle and electric and undeniable.

Like the gravity around him had shifted. Protective. Sharp. She didn’t let go.

They walked the length of the dock in silence.

The water lapped softly at the pylons. Distant music drifted from the yacht—something ambient, expensive, designed not to offend or invite too much thought.

They climbed the short flight of stairs onto the deck. And were immediately surprised. They weren’t late. For once.

Livia and Paolo weren't here yet.

Francesca was the first to spot them. She broke into a grin so genuine it made something loosen in her chest.

“There she is,” she said, crossing the deck in sandals and linen like a dream. “I’ve missed you. Were you avoiding me?”

The girl smiles. “Only because you’re too pretty.”

Francesca laughed. Pulled her in for a hug. Held her longer than expected. She let herself sink into it.

When they pulled apart, Francesca smiled again—gentler now. “You look... really good.”

She opened her mouth to thank her.

But then—

“Harry.”

Luca.

Crossing the deck with a glass of scotch in one hand and a suspiciously sincere expression on his face.

Harry didn’t say anything at first. Just nodded once.

Luca grinned. “Still the friendliest man I know.”

Harry said nothing. But his hand stayed on the small of her back.

Francesca looks at her. Her voice softened, slightly. “The way he looks at you, you know.”

Harry’s jaw flexed.

She smiled anyway. “Trust me I know.”

The two girls giggle making their men smile.

Then came Lorenzo. And Marcella. The hosts. Gilded. Chilled. Radiating civility like a fog.

Lorenzo offered a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You made it.”

Harry’s silence was a weapon. Marcella kissed both their cheeks with an efficiency that felt like surgery.

“So lovely,” she said, air-light, to no one in particular.

Then turned to Harry. “You’re glowing.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. Marcella laughed. He didn’t.

They drifted away. Two ghosts in designer linen. The moment they were gone, she turned to Harry.

“Are we...in a play?”

He smirked. “You’re the lead.”

“And you?”

“Supporting role. Best in show.”

“Villain?”

“Obviously.”

She laced their fingers again.

And even in the low light, in the quiet tension of the yacht deck, in the heat of eyes that watched them like they were both flame and fuel—

Harry looked only at her. Like she was the anchor. Like she was the point. And if the world decided to burn that night—

He’d burn it back. With both hands. And her name on his lips.

They didn’t know what was coming. But they were ready for each other. And sometimes, that was enough. Even when it wouldn’t be.

The deck had been transformed.

Somehow, beneath the twilight and the soft groan of waves brushing the yacht’s hull, it looked almost… charming. Tables set in a crescent curve beneath low-strung lights. Linens crisp. Napkins folded like something ceremonial. A long, slender floral arrangement that looked like someone had plucked it from the edge of a dream and fastened it into a centerpiece with gold wire. The chairs were padded, heavy, far too luxurious for sea air.

And the food—

Well, the food hadn’t even arrived yet, but already, the air smelled like butter and salt and whatever it was rich people paid chefs to do with fish and patience.

She sat beside Harry, as always. Not across. Always beside. His hand rested on his thigh, and hers found it without thinking.

There were only eight seats. They were six. So far. And by some small miracle—some twist of fate or calculation—they had not been the last to arrive.

Francesca was already sipping from a wine glass like it was part of her anatomy. Luca had leaned back already annoyed at something Lorenzo had said. Marcella looked like a woman who had never let her face register inconvenience, and Lorenzo had adopted that particular brand of smirk worn only by men whose mistakes were always cleaned up by assistants.

But everyone was…calm.

The tension Harry had expected—the whispers, the glances, the brittle edge of politeness laced with too much curiosity—had not arrived.

Not yet.

The table hummed with that early-dinner politeness. Low voices. Faint laughter. The clink of a fork against an appetizer plate. Her glass was full of something pale and gold that she couldn’t pronounce, and Harry’s was untouched.

He looked around the table with slow, calculated precision.

Nobody mentioned the article. Nobody even looked at her like her face had been on social media all morning.

He leaned closer, voice low. “See? I told you.”

She nodded once. Still unsure. But grateful.

The chef emerged as the sun dipped fully below the waterline. French. Forty, maybe. Hair too perfect to be accidental.

He spoke with his hands. Described the first course like it was a poem about inheritance and garlic.

“Tonight, we begin with a courgette blossom stuffed with a delicate lemon-infused ricotta, resting on a green garlic velouté and finished with a saffron oil.”

The table applauded. Softly.

Francesca clapped once and said, “God, I missed food that tastes like money.”

Harry didn’t react. She just smiled around her wineglass.

The course arrived. Delicate. Precise. The kind of dish that made her feel like she should sit up straighter just to deserve it.

The fork was cold in her hand. But Harry’s hand stayed warm against her thigh.

And for a moment—a full, uninterrupted moment—it felt like maybe it would be fine. Maybe they could laugh. Maybe the wine would dull the edge. Maybe the wolves had gone quiet.

And then—

Footsteps. Hushed talking. A door opening somewhere on the upper deck.

Francesca glanced up.

“Ah,” she said. “The devils arrive.”

Livia. And Paolo. Late. By design.

Livia was wearing red. Her heels were high enough to be violent. Her makeup was severe in the way only expensive things could be. She looked like a warning.

Paolo, by contrast, looked like he’d been woken up from a nap and handed a blazer. They descended onto the deck like they owned the ship.

And immediately—

She felt it. That thing.nThat look. Livia’s eyes found her like it had been practiced.

A flick up and down. A tilt of the head. A curl of the mouth that wasn’t a smile—it was a warning.

Harry’s posture changed immediately. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But something about his silence sharpened. Like he was measuring windspeed.

Paolo clapped Luca's shoulder. Made a joke in Italian that only Lorenzo laughed at. Livia kissed both of Marcella’s cheeks, air only.

Francesca sipped her wine harder.

And then—

Livia made her way around the table. Slow. Like a lion circling the last guest at a garden party.

When she reached them, she didn’t greet Harry first. She turned to her.

Smiled. And said,

“Well. You clean up nice.”

She blinked.

Managed a polite, “Thanks.”

Livia’s gaze lingered a beat too long.

Then turned to Harry.

“Harry,” she said, like she was tasting the name.

He didn’t reply. Didn’t nod. Didn’t breathe.

Livia smiled wider. And sat across from them. Just far enough to seem unbothered. Just close enough to catch her eye every time she looked down at her fork.

The second course hadn’t even been served yet. And already, she felt her stomach shrink.

The chef returned. Oblivious. Radiating joy.

“The second course,” he said proudly, “is a handmade crab agnolotti in a shellfish bisque, garnished with fennel pollen and a whisper of citrus zest.”

She tried to listen. Tried to be polite. Tried to breathe.

But across the table—

Livia was watching her. Not speaking. Not smirking. Just watching. Like she knew something. Like she was waiting.

Harry noticed. Of course he did. He didn’t move. But he reached under the table. Took her hand. Squeezed.

She looked at him. He didn’t look back. His jaw was tight. His mouth set. But he held her hand like a promise.

And even though Livia was still staring still. Still.

Still sitting there in her red dress like a warning wrapped in perfume—

Harry made sure her hand never left his. Not once. Because she was the only reason he’d shown up tonight.

And he’d burn this yacht to the waterline if anyone touched her. Even with a look. Especially then.

As dinner dragged on beneath the strings of warm light and the low hum of the sea, Livia’s silence began to thicken. Not the kind that suggested grace or boredom. The kind that held heat. Calculated. Manufactured. Edging toward combustion.

She didn’t speak. She barely touched her food. But her eyes—

They stayed fixed. Not on the conversation. Not on Lorenzo’s inane commentary about French vintners or Marcella's Cannes Festival experiences.

On her.

Livia watched her like she was decoding something. Studying a painting she didn’t understand but deeply hated. Her gaze moved over her bare shoulders, the scarf tucked into her hair, the way Harry’s hand stayed anchored on her thigh like it lived there.

She felt it. The scrutiny.

The weight of being seen not as a person, but a project. A theory. A problem.

Harry felt it too.

His hand never left hers. But she noticed the change—his fingers tightening slightly. The occasional glance across the table like a warning. The way he reached for his wine glass only to set it back down, untouched.

He was bracing. And she didn’t know for what.

Until Livia finally spoke.

“We almost didn’t make it back in time,” she said breezily, adjusting the strap of her dress like she hadn’t just been sitting in loaded silence for an hour.

The table went still.

Francesca lifted a brow. “Where were you?”

“Portofino,” Livia answered. “Had to post something. You know how it is. Deadlines.”

Marcella made a sound that might’ve been agreement.

“I had to get the posts up somehow,” Livia continued, sipping her wine like it didn’t taste like venom. “Someone decided to turn his villa into a monastery.”

Harry didn’t blink. “You’ll survive.”

Livia smiled at him. “Will I? Because I had to drive three hours just to get a connection. It’s barbaric, really. The Tuscan countryside is beautiful, but I’m not trying to be digitally off-grid in the middle of a media cycle.”

Francesca cut in lightly. “What media cycle?”

Livia turned. Too quickly. Too eagerly.

She smiled. Not kindly.

“Oh, didn’t you hear?”

Her voice was honeyed and fake.

“I passed a newsstand in Portofino.”

Her fingers tapped the base of her wine glass.

“And imagine my surprise when I saw Harry’s face staring back at me.”

Livia's eyes flicked to her.

“And hers.”

The table went quiet.

Francesca’s smile dimmed. Luca stopped mid-cut into his steak. Paolo looked like he was pretending not to listen.

Harry didn’t move. But she felt his hand flex against her thigh.

Livia leaned forward slightly.

“You know it's crazy,”

Harry’s voice was ice. “Drop it.”

“But I mean—” she continued, sweet and sharp, “it’s a stunning photo. Really. I see why you wanted it buried. You look…” Her eyes scanned the girl again. “Domestic.”

Francesca shifted in her seat. “Livia.”

Livia waved her off. “No, it’s fine. It’s just…interesting.”

She sipped her wine again.

“Especially when the article says no one knows her last name. No one can find where she’s from. Or what she does. Or what she’s done.”

Harry set his wine glass down. Hard. The sound echoed.

“I said,” he repeated, voice steady, lethal, “drop it.”

Livia smiled again. But it didn’t reach her eyes.

“Oh, Harry,” she said, laughing faintly, “you’ve always been so dramatic when you’re hiding something.”

And then—

She reached into her purse. Pulled out her phone. Her thumb moved with practiced ease. And she held it up. Face lit up by the screen.

“This,” she said, turning it so the whole table could see, “is why I’m curious.”

The screen showed a headline. Grainy. Dated. But clear.

Daughter & Wife of Convicted Fraudster Vanishes After Twin Brother’s Suicide.

It felt like the world dropped out from under the table. She went still.

Francesca inhaled sharply.

Harry’s hand froze.

Livia swiped. Another image. A courtroom.

Two women seated together—her and her mother.

Her expression was blank in the photo. Empty-eyed. Holding herself together in a dress that didn’t quite fit. A ghost caught on film.

Swipe. A photo of a memorial. Flowers. A framed picture of a boy who looked like her. Same eyes. Same mouth. A candle burned in front of it.

Swipe. The article open again.

Livia’s voice was quiet now. Laced with acid.

“She’s not just a nobody. She’s a disgrace.”

Her words cut through the air like glass.

“She’s not mysterious. She’s a cover story. Her family bankrupted entire counties. North Carolina, South Carolina—ring a bell? Her dad’s in prison for life. Her brother couldn’t handle the fallout, so he fucking shot himself. Her mother? Oh, she left to Europe, leaving behind her only living child. And now she’s here, dressed like an Italian heiress, trying to what? Reclaim the crown?”

She turned the phone back around. Smiled cruelly.

“She’s a gold digger. She doesn’t want you, Harry. She wants her old life back.”

And just like that—

The room detonated.

Harry stood. Fast. Violent. Chair screeching back.

She flinched.

The table went dead quiet.

Livia blinked. Harry didn’t say a word. He reached across the table. Snatched the phone from her hand.

And, without a breath—

Threw it. Hard. Over the railing.

It sailed clean into the dark water. A distant splash. Livia gasped.

Harry turned to her—his.

Took her hand. Didn’t look at anyone else. Didn’t apologize. Didn’t explain. He just pulled her up from the table and walked.

Fast. Sharp. Deliberate.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t look back.

Francesca and Luca called after them. But Harry didn’t stop.

He held her hand like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth. They reached the stairs. The dock. The cool night air hit them like a slap.

She tried to speak once—tried to say his name. But he didn’t respond. Not yet. He was moving too fast. Like if he slowed down, something would shatter.

At the end of the dock, a row of cars idled quietly. Drivers waiting, smoking, checking their phones. Harry found theirs in seconds. The driver startled when he saw him.

Harry opened the door. She slipped inside without a word. He followed. The doors shut. The silence hit like a bell.

The driver turned, cautious. “Would you like…music?”

Harry nodded once.

“Low.”

The man reached for the dial. Turned the volume up just enough to mask the breathless tension. Soft classical music filled the space.

But it didn’t help. Because inside the car, she wasn’t breathing right.

And Harry? Harry hadn’t said a word since the table.

She stared straight ahead, fingers clenched in her lap, the scar from her past bleeding through the fabric of her dress, visible now in ways it never had been.

She didn’t cry. Not yet. But her throat burned. And Harry still hadn’t looked at her.

Still hadn’t said anything. Still hadn’t touched her. She tried again. Quiet.

“Harry.”

Nothing.

She turned her head. He was staring out the window. Jaw clenched. Eyes distant. Like he was trying to kill something in his mind.

She shrank back against the seat. The hour felt like ten. The mountains passed them in slow shadows. The vineyard fences blurred. The stars outside sparkled like they didn’t know what had happened.

When they reached the villa, the driver pulled into the gravel driveway and didn’t speak.

Harry got out first. Came around to her door. Opened it like he always did. But he didn’t meet her eyes. He just offered his hand.

She hesitated. Then took it.

Because it was habit now. Because it was muscle memory. Because it still meant something.

But her chest was splintering. Because Harry hadn’t looked at her. Not really. And she didn’t know if it was because he was protecting her—

Or because now he saw her the way the world did. Like a headline. A scandal. A past that couldn’t be washed away.

They walked into the villa without a word. The door shut behind them.

And the silence returned. Worse now. Thicker. Unspoken.

And she—

She stood in the middle of the room like she didn’t know where to go. Like she didn’t know if she still belonged.

Harry stood at the window. Hands on the sill. Looking out. Like he needed to calm the storm in his chest before he came near her.

She watched his back rise and fall. Once. Twice.

Then whispered.

“I didn’t want you to find out like that.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t turn. Didn’t speak.

So she said it again. Stronger. More desperate.

“Harry. I didn’t want you to find out like that.”

Still, no response. And it broke something in her.

She turned. Walked to the bed. Sat down slowly. Face in her hands.

The shame crawled up her spine like fire. She didn’t know if he hated her now. Didn’t know if he regretted everything. Didn’t know if the silence was grief or fury or both.

But she couldn’t take it anymore.

So she whispered, “Say something.”

And finally—

Finally—

He turned. Crossed the room in three strides. Knelt in front of her. Hands on her knees.

Eyes searching hers like a lifeline.

“I didn’t say anything,” he said hoarsely, “because I didn’t know how to say I’m sorry.”

She blinked. Tears down her cheeks.

“What?”

He reached up. Touched her face.

“I should’ve protected you. I should’ve burned that story to the ground before it ever saw print. I should’ve never let you walk into that dinner.”

Her lip trembled. He leaned forward. Pressed his forehead to hers.

Breathed in like she was oxygen.

“I don’t care about your past,” he said. “I care that you had to live it alone.”

She broke. Right there. In his hands. Tears slid down her cheeks silently. No sobs. Just a collapse.

He wrapped his arms around her. Pulled her onto his lap. Held her like something sacred.

Like she wasn’t broken. Like she was his. And when he kissed her hair, he whispered it again.

“I’m sorry.”

Over. And over. And over.

Until the silence softened. Until her hands clutched his shirt and wouldn’t let go. Until her breath steadied. Until he knew—

She still believed him. Even now. Especially now

Harry didn’t know how long she cried in his arms. But eventually—inevitably—she wore herself out.

Her breath slowed. Her grip on his shirt loosened. The weight of everything—the article, the shame, the dinner, the past she never asked for—tugged her under like sleep was the only mercy the night had left to give.

She fell asleep in his lap. Her face still pressed to his shoulder, lashes damp, fingers curled like a child’s against his ribs. He didn’t move for a long time. Just held her. Let the room breathe again. Let the storm pass through him too.

Then, as gently as possible, he shifted. Lifted her carefully—arms beneath her knees and shoulders like she weighed nothing. She stirred for a second, murmured something against his chest, then went quiet again.

Harry laid her softly on the bed.

Paused. Looked at her for a long moment.

Then he reached for the zipper at the back of her dress. Unfastened it slowly.

Pulled the silk down her body with reverence, like it was something holy. Like she was something holy. And she was. Even now, even like this—her hair clinging to her cheek, her eyes red from crying, her chest still heaving with the remnants of grief—she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

He dressed her in one of his shirts. The soft black one with sleeves too long for her arms. And a pair of drawstring sweats she always claimed were too big but wore anyway when she was cold.

Then he tucked her in. Folded the blankets up to her chin. Brushed her hair off her face. Kissed her cheek.

And when he pulled back, his throat ached. Because you could still tell she’d been crying. Even in sleep. Even with the room quiet again. Even with her tucked safe beneath layers and love and silence.

He stood there for a long time. Staring at her. Hands on his hips. Head bowed. Then he turned. Slipped out of the room.

The hallway was still. The air sharp with Tuscan night.

He didn’t knock on Danny’s door. Just opened it.

Danny was still awake. Still at the desk. Still surrounded by printouts and screens and glowing things that wouldn’t stop blinking. He looked up the second Harry walked in, eyes bloodshot, tie loosened, jaw tight.

“I was about to come find you,” Danny said. “Livia’s phone is at the bottom of the sea and Lorenzo’s been calling since they docked.”

Harry didn’t respond. He stepped inside. Shut the door behind him. Then stood there. For a beat. Two.

And finally, quietly—

“She’s not who they say she is.”

Danny blinked. “Okay.”

Harry stepped closer. Ran a hand down his face. Exhaled.

“She’s not a gold digger. She’s not after anything. She’s…she’s not trying to be anything other than someone who survived.”

Danny leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

Harry stared at the floor. “Her father was a fraud. The worst kind. Bankrupted counties. Destroyed families. Her brother—” he stopped, jaw clenched, then shook his head. “Her brother didn’t make it.”

Danny didn’t speak.

“And her mother?” Harry added. “Vanished. Moved to Europe. Left her with nothing. Not even a phone call.”

Danny’s face softened.

“She was twenty,” Harry said. “Barely twenty. All that chaos, all that press—people stalking her, blaming her, speculating. She left the country. Changed her name. Disappeared. She’s been rebuilding ever since.”

He paused. Looked up.

“I didn’t know until tonight.”

Danny nodded once. Still silent.

Harry walked to the desk. Put his hands flat on the surface.

“I’m canceling the deal.”

Danny blinked. “What—?”

“All of them,” Harry said. “Lorenzo. Paolo. Anyone else tied to this. Anyone who sat at that table and let her be humiliated.”

Danny exhaled.

“You sure?”

Harry looked at him. “They don’t respect me. And they sure as hell don’t respect her.”

Danny leaned back in his chair. Ran a hand through his hair.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll shut it down. Pull the paperwork. Call legal.”

Harry nodded. “Thank you.”

“I’ll handle everything,” Danny added, voice quieter now.

Harry looked at him. Grateful.

Then he stepped back. One hand on the doorknob.

“We’re leaving,” he said. “As soon as she wakes up.”

Danny blinked. “New York?”

Harry nodded. “She needs to be home. Somewhere she can breathe.”

Danny was already typing. “I’ll have the jet ready.”

Harry lingered in the doorway for a second longer. Then left.

Back in the suite, the room was still dim. She hadn’t moved. The covers hadn’t shifted. Her hand was curled near her face, one wrist poking out from the sleeve of his shirt.

He moved slowly. Quietly. Started to pack. Not for the first time. But with a different kind of focus now.

He folded her things one at a time. Smoothed the fabric. Laid them in her suitcase with more care than he’d shown in any boardroom or billion-dollar negotiation. Every scarf. Every book. The dresses he bought her. The choker made of beads and string. Her sandals. Her sunglasses. Her hair pins.

He packed it all. Because she wouldn’t have thought to do it. Because she was still bleeding somewhere inside. Because she was asleep and exhausted and hurting and he loved her so much it ached.

He zipped the suitcase shut gently. Set it by the door.

Then packed his. Less carefully. More rough. He didn't care about his things as much as he cared about hers. He didn’t need much. Just whatever he needed to get her back safely.

When both suitcases were lined up by the door, he paused. Stared at them. His and hers. Side by side. Like they belonged to people who’d been married for ten years. Like this was just another business trip. Another morning. Another moment.

But it wasn’t. This was something else. This was a line in the sand. And he was choosing her. He was choosing her past. Her future. Her name. The shame she had to manage alone. Her silence. All of it.

Harry turned. Looked back at her. Still asleep. Still soft. Still his. And in that moment, something settled inside him. Something final.

She could’ve told him she was a storm. A wreck. A ruin. He still would’ve chosen her. Every time.

Her shame was his shame. He would defend her. Even if she killed somebody. No matter what the world said.

He crossed the room. Turned off the last lamp. Slipped into bed beside her. Didn’t wake her. Just slid his arm around her waist and pulled her close again.

She shifted slightly. Exhaled. Settled against his chest like gravity knew him.

And Harry—

Harry closed his eyes. Held her. And waited for morning. Because soon, they were going home.

It was still dark when she stirred.

No sunlight yet—just the blue of early morning crawling through the windows, brushing the stone floor like a whisper. Outside, the hills slept. The air was thick with silence, the kind that only exists just before dawn, when even the birds hesitate to speak.

Harry hadn’t slept much. He’d laid there, holding her, counting her breaths, his thumb brushing slowly over her ribs like the motion alone might protect her. He’d watched the hours crawl past on the little travel clock near the bed.

3:17. 4:09. 5:01.

He didn’t mind. So when her body tensed in his arms—barely a flinch, just the subtle stiffening of shoulders and the catch of breath—he noticed instantly.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just pressed his lips to her hair and held her tighter. Not enough to trap. Just enough to anchor.

She didn’t open her eyes. But he felt it—the dread blooming beneath her ribs, the way her breathing changed. Not panic. Not fear exactly.

Just pain. Old. Familiar. Worn thin like a favorite shirt.

And then, softly—his voice still rough with sleep, or maybe something gentler—

“Hey.”

She didn’t answer. So he tried again, this time brushing his thumb along her arm, soothing.

“It’s just me.”

A pause.

Then, “You’re safe.”

She shifted slightly. Tucked her face into his chest.

Her voice, when it came, was hoarse. Small. “What time is it?”

He glanced toward the window. “Still early.”

Another pause.

Then—barely audible—

“Did it really happen?”

Harry exhaled.

And nodded against her temple. “Yeah.”

She didn’t cry. Not this time.

She just curled tighter into him, like the confirmation settled something—like she’d needed someone to say it out loud, to mark it real. To make it something they could move past.

He pulled the blankets higher over her shoulder.

Pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.

“We’re leaving,” he said softly. “In a little bit.”

She didn’t ask where. Didn’t ask why. But he told her anyway.

“Back to New York. Jet’s ready. Packed your things.”

That got a tiny flicker of something—a shift in her body. A breath caught between resistance and relief.

“I don’t want you doing all of this,” she said quietly.

Harry pulled back just enough to look at her.

“You don’t get a say.”

Her brows knit.

“I’m taking care of you,” he said. “Because I want to. Because I love you. And because you deserve someone who does it without being asked.”

He loves her. He said he fucking loves her.

She blinked. Soft. Unsure.

He ran a hand down her side, slow. Reassuring. Then he said it—what had been pressing into the base of his throat since last night.

“I don’t care about your past.”

She looked up at him then. Really looked.

Harry’s expression didn’t waver.

“I care that you had to go through it alone,” he said. “I care that no one protected you. That no one stood up for you. That people looked at you and saw the story instead of the person.”

She didn’t respond right away. Just stared at him, heart cracking open again—but slower this time. Less violent. Just a soft, slow unraveling in the face of something so rare it felt sacred.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to fix me,” she whispered.

Harry’s hand moved up to her cheek. “I’m not fixing you. I’m loving you.”

She swallowed hard. And that—somehow—hurt more than anything else.

“People don’t usually stay once they know.”

“I’m not people.”

He said it simply.

Firmly.

Like it was fact.

She blinked, lips parting slightly.

He tilted his head.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah.”

“Your mom.”

A beat passed. She blinked slowly.

Shrugged once. “She’s… she was traditional.”

Harry waited.

“She believed in casseroles and church and southern charm. Makeup on before eight. Hair done for the grocery store.”

He smirked faintly. “A real debutante?”

“Almost.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “She loved my dad. In the old way. Cooked for him. Stayed small so he could feel big. When he went down, she didn’t know how to stand on her own. So she left. Said she had nothing left to give.”

Harry didn’t speak. Just watched her.

“She wasn’t cruel,” she added softly. “She just didn’t know how to stay.”

He brushed her cheekbone with his knuckle.

“You stayed,” he said.

She looked up.

“And that’s why I’m here.”

That silenced her. For a long, quiet second.

Then—

She whispered, “I’m scared.”

Harry shook his head once.

“You don't have to be.” he said.

Then he leaned in.

Pressed his lips to her forehead.

And added, “I got you.”

They laid there a little longer.

Curled together in that fragile pre-dawn quiet, the world outside just beginning to stretch awake. When she finally pulled back and sat up, Harry was already moving—grabbing the hoodie he’d left out for her, slipping it over her shoulders before she could protest.

“I can dress myself,” she mumbled.

He raised an eyebrow. “I know. I just like doing it.”

She rolled her eyes. But let him. Because she could tell. He needed to.

They didn’t talk much as they got ready.

She brushed her teeth slowly. Tied her hair up. Didn’t look in the mirror for too long. Harry moved around the room quietly, efficiently—double checking their bags then zipping them back up, folding a scarf he had forgotten she’d draped over a chair, making sure everything was in place.

He wouldn’t let her carry anything. Not even her tote.

When she reached for it, he shook his head. “No.”

“I can handle a tote.”

He didn’t respond. Just took it gently from her hands, added it to his shoulder. She didn’t argue after that.

Because the look in his eyes wasn’t about control. It was about care. He was holding the weight for both of them because he could. Because he wanted to.

Because after everything, she was still the only thing that mattered.

They left before the sun crested the horizon.

The villa was still half-asleep. Staff lights dimmed. The air thick with rosemary and earth and silence. Gravel crunched under their feet as they walked to the car, her sandals quiet, his steps deliberate.

Danny was already outside. Waiting in a hoodie and slacks, coffee in one hand, phone in the other.

He looked up when he saw them. Gave Harry a nod.

“You’re set,” he said. “Jet’s prepped. Flight plan filed. Pilot’s already on deck.”

Harry nodded. “Thanks.”

Danny looked at her then. Something gentler in his expression.

“If you ever need someone to scream into a void with,” he said, “I’ve got access to a few very satisfying voids.”

She smiled faintly. “Thanks, Danny.”

“I’ll stay back,” he added. “Wrap things up. Pull the plug on the deal. Handle any fallout.”

“You sure?” Harry asked.

Danny nodded once. “They don’t deserve the win. And you’ve got more important things to do.”

Harry clapped him once on the shoulder. Then opened the car door for her. She slid in slowly.

Looked out the window as Harry said a few more words to Danny—quiet, brief. Then he grabbed the suitcases. Loaded them into the back without fanfare. Climbed in beside her.

The driver pulled away without a word. The hills fell behind them. And the world turned pale. The sun hadn’t risen yet. But the sky was warming. That soft, tender blue that lives only between night and day.

She reached for Harry’s hand. Found it already waiting. Their fingers laced. She closed her eyes. And breathed.

Because they were going home. Together.

The word felt heavier now. Heavier than suitcases. Heavier than shame. Heavier than every whisper that tried to reduce her to headlines.

They boarded the jet without a word.

Harry helped her up the narrow staircase, his hand at the small of her back, quiet and unwavering. The stewardess greeted them softly—eyes down, voice respectful—as if she could feel the exhaustion radiating off their bodies like heat.

“We’ll be taking off in fifteen,” The stewardess said. “Can I get you anything before we do?”

“Breakfast,” Harry said, without looking away from her. “For two. And something sweet.”

The woman nodded. “Of course.”

They moved down the corridor, past the leather seats and polished wood and too-perfect lighting. The hum of money was everywhere—but quieter here. Like the jet knew not to interrupt.

When they reached the back, Harry paused.

His hand curled around the gold handle of the last door.

“I’ve never used this room,” he said.

She blinked. “What?”

His eyes flicked to hers. “This room. Never had a reason.”

Then he opened the door. The bedroom was dimly lit. Soft grey walls. A wide bed draped in dark linen. A window near the headboard framed the sky like a painting still in progress.

He let her walk in first. And when she turned to face him— hair messy, still wearing his hoodie and sweats, no bra underneath, eyes red-rimmed but defiant—he saw her.

All of her. Everything she’d tried to bury under silence and shame.

And he wanted her. Not to distract. Not to possess. But to worship. To remind her she was still flesh and hunger and fire—not just a story someone else tried to write.

Harry shut the door. Locked it. Then crossed the room like gravity had lost its patience.

“Take it off,” he said, voice low, rough.

She looked up, breath catching. “What?”

He stepped closer. Fingers already curling beneath the hem of the hoodie. “I want to see you.”

Her heart thudded. Loud. Chaotic. But she lifted her arms.

Let him pull the sweatshirt up, over her head, exposing her bare chest beneath—soft and real and vulnerable in a way that made his throat ache.

He let the hoodie drop to the floor. Ran his hands down her arms slowly. Palms flat. Reverent.

Then he kissed her. Not gently. Not sweetly. He kissed her like he had something to prove. Like he was starving. Like if he didn’t taste her right now he might never breathe again.

She moaned into his mouth. Clutched his shirt. Dragged him closer.

His hands were everywhere. On her back. Her hips. Her ass. Gripping. Claiming.

He walked her back toward the bed without breaking the kiss. Without breaking anything at all except the air between them.

She hit the mattress with a gasp, and he followed—hovering over her, already pushing the sweats down her hips.

“Harry—”

“Lift.”

She did.

He peeled them off, slow and brutal, along with her underwear. Just skin and heat and the ache between her thighs that had been building for days.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice wrecked.

She spread her legs a little. Just enough. His gaze darkened.

He dropped to his knees beside the bed, pulled her to the edge, and buried his face between her thighs like he was trying to erase everything the world had ever said about her.

“Fuck, baby,” he growled. “You taste like fucking heaven.”

She gasped, hands flying to his hair, fingers twisting.

His tongue was filthy. Obsessive. He licked her like he owned her. Like he could solve her. Deep, slow drags that had her legs shaking, her mouth falling open, her body arching off the bed.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Please don’t fucking stop.”

He didn’t. He kept going until she came. Hard. Loud. Her thighs trembling around his face, her hands clawing the sheets, her voice breaking on his name like a prayer turned pornographic.

He didn’t even pull away. Licked her through it. Tasted her like he’d waited his whole life for this exact moment.

And when she finally collapsed back against the mattress, chest heaving, sweat on her lip—he stood.

Unbuckled his belt. Undid his pants. And pulled his cock out—already hard, already leaking, already furious.

He stroked it once. Twice. Then climbed over her.

“Look at me.”

She did.

“Tell me you want this.”

“I want it.”

“Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

He pushed in hard.

One thrust. Deep. All the way. She cried out. Clutched his back. He didn’t stop.

Fucked her deep and slow. Then harder. Faster. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the cabin, obscene and beautiful and raw. She wrapped her legs around him, dragged him in deeper, begged for more.

“Fuck me, Harry. Please.”

“I am, baby,” he panted. “I fucking am.”

He kissed her like he couldn’t stand to be separate. Fucked her like she was his salvation. Every thrust was a promise. Every groan a declaration.

She came again. This time around his cock. Tight. Shaking. Screaming. And he didn’t stop.

He flipped her over. Fucked her from behind. One hand in her hair. The other gripping her hip like a threat. She gasped. Moaned. Took it all.

“Yours,” she kept saying. “I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours.”

Harry lost it. Pulled out. Turned her back over.

Finished between her legs. On her stomach. Chest. Neck. Painted her in it. Marked her. Owned her.

Then collapsed beside her, breathing hard.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “I love you.”

She smiled. Pulled his hand to her mouth. Kissed each finger.

“I love you too.”

The plane hadn’t even taken off yet. But they were already flying.

She laid sprawled against the sheets, hair wild, skin flushed, his breath still soft against her shoulder. The air was thick with them—salt, sweat, sex. That slow, sacred stillness that only came after being devoured and loved in the same breath.

She was half-asleep, cheek turned toward him, lips parted in that way that made his chest ache.

Harry didn’t move at first. Just looked at her. Let himself have the moment. Then, slowly, he sat up.

The room was dim, still gently humming with the lull of ascent. The window behind them glowed faintly with dawn—high above the clouds now, the sky soft and endless and blue.

He reached for the towel folded on the bench at the end of the bed. Not hotel standard—his own. Cashmere. Embroidered. Unused.

He wet it under the small sink in the en-suite, came back, and carefully cleaned her up. She barely stirred, just hummed faintly when the cool cloth passed over her thighs.

“There we go,” he murmured, brushing hair off her cheek. “All clean.”

She blinked once. A lazy, satisfied kind of blink.

He kissed her temple. Then stood, walking to the small built-in drawer beneath the bed. There was a sweater in there he’d forgotten about. Still neatly folded. Still faintly smelling of lavender and something long buried.

He paused. Fingers hovering. Then pulled it out.

A dark navy pullover. Soft. French. Lucy had bought it for him in Marseille—one of the last things she’d given him before the end. They’d fought on the flight home, he remembered. Screaming match over something stupid. She’d told him he was incapable of love. He’d thrown the sweater into this drawer the same night, not even bothering to take it out of the packaging.

He stared at it now. Then exhaled. And walked it back to the bed.

She’s not Lucy, he murmured to himself.

He gently slipped it over her arms. Over her head. Let the soft wool fall around her thighs like armor. Then found his boxers on the floor and tugged them gently up her legs, dressing her like she was a painting he needed to protect from the world.

She stirred faintly.

Eyes half-lidded. “You dressing me again?”

Harry smirked. “Better than leaving you cold.”

She smiled, drowsy and soft.

Then—knock knock. Sharp. Delicate.

Harry turned. The stewardess.

He moved quickly to the door, opening it just enough to keep the bedroom’s warmth from escaping.

“Breakfast,” she said politely, balancing a tray.

Harry nodded, took it from her silently, then shut the door with a finality that left no room for conversation.

He carried the tray to the bed and set it down gently. She was already sitting up, hair a mess, legs tucked beneath the sweater, blinking like she wasn’t quite sure where she was.

Harry handed her a fork.

“French toast,” he said. “Fruit. Coffee. Some kind of lemon tart.”

She blinked. “You ordered sweets?”

“I figured you deserved something sweet.”

That made her smile. They ate on the bed. Quiet. Close.

The toast was still warm, and the butter melted into the corners just right. She made a small sound when she took a bite of the lemon tart, the kind of sound that made his blood stir again.

He just watched her. Coffee in hand. Silent. Soft.

Her head eventually dropped to his shoulder. She sighed once. And passed out. Harry didn’t move. Didn’t shift.

Just sat there while her weight settled against him again, her breath even and deep, the hem of his sweater rising and falling with every exhale.

She was exhausted. Of course she was. She’d cried herself sick. Been exposed. Stripped bare in front of people who didn’t deserve her name in their mouths. Then fucked like a fever broke loose inside her.

He carefully slid her down onto the pillows, adjusted the blankets around her, then sat on the edge of the bed again—watching the sky change outside the window.

Halfway back to New York, his phone buzzed.

Once. Twice. Then again.

Danny.

He declined the call. Not interested.

She was still asleep. Still curled in the sweater he’d forgotten he ever owned. One hand beneath her cheek. One leg tangled in the blankets.

Then—buzz. Text.

Danny: Call me. Urgent.

Harry frowned. Another buzz.

Danny: Her mother is here.

Danny: Screaming at staff. Security is trying to calm her down.

His body went still. Another buzz.

Danny: She showed up at the villa screaming. Wants to see her daughter. She said she saw the article.

Harry stared at the screen. Another text.

Danny: I told them not to let her in. She’s calling your name now. Saying she “just wants to talk.”

Another.

Danny: Harry, what do I do?

Harry stood. Carefully. Walked across the cabin. Set the phone down. Ran a hand through his hair.

Her mother. Her fucking mother.

He’d just listened to her talk about that woman like a ghost—someone who left. Someone who couldn’t love her out loud. And now she wanted to show up like it was convenient? Like her daughter hadn’t built a life from nothing?

Harry clenched his fists.

Everyone always came crawling back when there was something to gain. Exposure. Fame.

A second chance to rewrite their name into someone else's headline.

He walked back to the bed. Looked at her. Still sleeping. Still unaware. Still wrapped in a sweater she didn’t know the history of.

His chest burned. He grabbed his phone again. Typed.

Harry: Keep her out. I don’t care how loud she gets. She doesn’t go near the villa. She doesn’t see staff. She doesn’t speak to anyone.

Another buzz.

Danny: Understood.

Harry stood at the window. Watched the sky darken slightly as they shifted time zones. His jaw set. Because there was no version of this where he let that woman hurt her again. Not now. Not ever.

He turned. Looked back at the bed. She stirred again. Brow furrowed faintly. The way people do when dreams start to turn.

He walked back over.nSat down beside her. Smoothed a hand through her hair.

And whispered, just barely—

“I’ve got you.”

Because she was his now. And anyone who wanted to get to her—

Would have to go through him first.

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, it was early morning in Cape Cod.

The light outside was muted, soft and winter-pale, filtering through the gauzy kitchen curtains with the kind of stillness that came before the wind. The house smelled faintly of salt and last night’s red wine, a half-empty bottle still perched on the edge of the farmhouse table like a leftover guest overstaying its welcome.

Lucy had been awake for hours. Not out of restlessness—but purpose.

Her phone had started buzzing at 5:42 AM. Her friend Chloe, the kind who always found drama before the tabloids did, had sent her a flood of texts with screenshots and breathless voice notes. Chloe didn’t even say good morning.

Chloe: Is this his girl? The one from the article? Because HOLY SHIT...Lucy! Her dad BANKRUPTED SO MANY PEOPLE.

Lucy sat upright in bed before the last text came through.

By six, she was in a robe and socks, laptop open, tea gone cold, eyes bloodshot. The article was everywhere.

Carrie Roth’s expose had detonated overnight. Comments flooded in faster than anyone could moderate. Twitter. Reddit. Instagram. Facebook mom groups. Even Pinterest threads had gotten hold of it. People were sharing old court documents. Yearbook photos. Deep-cut gossip from towns Lucy didn’t even know existed. But one name kept being repeated.

Harry Castillo’s new girlfriend.

And beneath it—

Lucy’s name. Because of course. Because people loved a narrative. Because somehow, Lucy had become the woman he left. The one who "couldn’t hold his attention."

And the new girl? The one with a scandalous past and a messy family? She’d become a headline. A warning. A fascination.

But what made Lucy’s stomach turn was the girl’s past. It was everywhere. Lucy scrolled. And kept scrolling. Until the comments began to turn.

The hate wasn’t just about her anymore. People were dragging Harry now. For being with her. For keeping her hidden. For falling in love with the kind of story that made people feel better about their own.

Lucy leaned back in her chair. Eyes heavy. Jaw tight.

The ocean outside was calm. The wind hadn’t picked up yet. The sky was still a pale bruise.

And then—

John stirred.

From the other room, Lucy heard the soft creak of floorboards as he walked into the kitchen. The sound of the cabinet door opening. The click of the kettle.

She didn’t turn around. Didn’t say a word. John yawned, scratched his chest, and reached for a chipped ceramic mug. Still shirtless, still half-asleep, still painfully unaware.

Lucy stood. “I left my sweater in the bedroom.”

He nodded absently, watching the water start to boil.

When she disappeared down the hall, he looked around—glancing at her laptop only to check the time.

And that’s when he saw it. The image on the screen. The girl. The lobby. The headline.

He froze. Brows furrowing. Not at Harry. Not at the headline.

At her. The girl in the photo. The girl now being dragged by the entire internet.

When Lucy came back, sweater in hand, John didn’t look at her right away. Just pointed toward the screen with a slow, distracted gesture.

“I know her.”

Lucy blinked. “What?”

He finally turned to face her. “The girl. In the photo.”

Lucy frowned. Repeated herself again. “What?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I actually know her.”

Lucy’s spine straightened. “From where?”

John set the mug down.

“I used to work her family’s events.”

Lucy blinked. “What events?”

“Down in South Carolina,” John said, pulling out a chair. “Back when I was just starting out. You know I picked up catering gigs before I moved to Brooklyn.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You served food at parties.”

“Exactly,” he said. “And her family, they threw a lot of them. Fundraisers. Galas. Birthday parties that probably cost more than our rent. She was always there, running around barefoot with a lemonade or hiding from the cameras. She hated being the center of attention.”

Lucy stared at him.

“I didn’t recognize her at first,” he admitted. “But seeing this photo again… yeah. That’s her. I used to help her sneak leftovers into her room because her mom was obsessed with diets. Sweet girl.”

Lucy’s mouth tightened.

“And after everything happened?” he went on. “She disappeared. Everyone thought she left the country. But she didn’t. She showed up in New York. Looking for work.”

He looked at Lucy then. “She reached out to me. Found me through a friend. Said she remembered I was working in restaurants. Needed a job. I helped her get hired at the same spot I was serving at.”

Lucy’s face went cold.

“She was a wreck, Luce. Quiet. Barely ate. Flinched when people raised their voices. But she worked harder than anyone.”

Lucy didn’t speak. Just crossed her arms slowly.

“And when she started getting noticed—when people started looking at her again—it wasn’t because she was chasing it,” John said. “It was because she couldn’t hide anymore.”

Lucy’s lips parted. Then closed again. John turned back to the kettle.

“I hope she makes it to the wedding,” he said simply.

The words struck her like a slap. Lucy blinked.

“I hope she’s okay,” John added. “I hope he takes care of her.”

Lucy didn’t answer. Just stood there, frozen in the doorway, holding onto the sleeves of her sweater like they were reins. She stared at his back.

Then said, flatly—

“You’ve always had a soft spot for stray dogs.”

John paused. Then turned around. His face wasn’t kind anymore. It was steady. And disappointed.

“She was just a kid,” he said. “A kid who lost everything.”

Lucy flinched. And John didn’t soften.

“She didn’t choose what happened to her family. She survived it. There’s a difference.”

Lucy turned away.

John exhaled, voice quieter now.

“Not everyone has parents who can pay half their mortgage, Luce.”

Silence. Lucy walked to the window. Stared out. She didn’t say anything else. Because what could she say?

That the girl Harry had chosen was someone John used to pity? That she couldn’t stand the idea of her being loved by a man who’d once called Lucy his home? That somewhere—buried beneath all the rage and insecurity—she was afraid Harry had found someone real?

Someone soft and haunted and full of the kind of truth Lucy had never had to carry? She didn’t say it.

She just stared out the window. While John sipped his coffee.

And the world, outside, kept burning.

─────

TAGLIST @foxfollowedmehome @glitterspark @sukivenue @hhallefuckinglujahh @wholesomeloneliness @bebop36 @maryfanson @aysilee2018 @msjarvis @snoopyreadstoday @woodxtock @lasocia69 @jakecockley @just-a-harmless-patato @romancherry @southernbe @canyoufallinlove @aomi-recs @ivoryandflame @peelieblue @mstubbs21 @eleganthottubfun @justgonewild @awqwhat @xoprettiestkat @prose-before-hoes @indiegirlunited @catnip987 @thottiewinemom @rainbowsock4 @weareonlygettingolderbabe @hotforpedro @petertingless @lemon-world1 @jasminedragoon @algressman16 @la-120 @totallynotshine @joelmillerpascal @inesbethari @peedrow @escapefromrealitylol @mrsbilicablog @lunpycatavenue @ennvsco @vickie5446 @stormseyer

[iydiamartinx]

THIS MEANS WAR VI

Dick Grayson x Reader x Jason Todd

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 2.7k synopsis: Gotham’s youngest neuroscience lecturer never planned to get tangled up with two of its most eligible bachelors. Both are determined to win her over—without revealing they know each other… or that they’re vigilantes. But when the Joker takes an interest in her, things get a whole lot more complicated. a/n: I'm finally home!! For some reason tumblr was blocked on my laptop there, which was why I wasn't that active but I hope you all enjoyed the other scheduled posts. I wanted to get this one out to y'all as soon as I could, so I hope my jet lagged brain managed to proof read it fine...if not oops. Also, I think the last chapter of this was scheduled so people were missed on the taglist, i should've fixed that for this chapter but let me know if you were missed! I'm sorry about that! Also did anyone catch that supernatural reference?

MILO'S APARTMENT

You were fucking panicking.

The second you saw that text on your phone, you were out the door and en route to Milo and Anthony’s apartment like it was a goddamn emergency—and to you, it was. You didn’t even say hello. Just beelined straight for their wine rack and uncorked a bottle like your life depended on it.

Halfway through chugging it, Milo snatched it from your grip.

“Talk or no more wine,” he said flatly. “What the fuck is going on with you?”

You groaned, dragging both hands down your face before collapsing onto the couch. “I fucked up.”

“Okay, well, you better start talking, because I swear to God—was it the match? You never told me how it went. Was he an asshole?”

“No,” you said, sitting up. “No. Dick was great.”

“Okay…” Milo said slowly.

“And so is Jason.”

He blinked. “Who the fuck is Jason?”

You explained. Everything. From the amazing date with Dick to the equally amazing time with Jason—each moment fresh in your mind and impossible to ignore—to the absolute mess you’d found yourself tangled in now.

“And now they both want to go out with me again,” you finished, looking like you might actually pass out from sheer stress. “And I don’t know what to do.”

Milo stared at you.

“I fail to see the problem here.”

You gawked at him. “I can’t date two guys at the same time!”

“Why the fuck not?” he demanded. “You’re hot. You’re single. And you’re exploring your romantic portfolio.”

You hesitated, then exhaled. “I feel bad.”

Milo narrowed his eyes at you like you’d just confessed to murdering someone’s puppy. “You feel bad?”

“Yes!” you groaned, collapsing against the couch cushions like the weight of your sins had finally taken you down. “I went out with Jason. After my date with Dick. Who, by the way, I also really like. And now I’m just… spiralling.”

Anthony, who’d been eavesdropping, finally emerged from the kitchen, casually sipping from his own glass of wine like this was better than anything Netflix could offer. He leaned against the doorway, perfectly at ease. 

“So let me get this straight,” he said, one brow raised. “You went on a date with one hot guy, then met another hot guy who you also went on a date with, and now both of them want more?”

You glared at him, deadpan. “Yes.”

He took another sip. “Girl, if that’s not the universe begging you to experiment, I don’t know what is.”

Milo jabbed a finger in your direction. “Exactly! You’re not cheating. You’re single. You’re exploring. Gathering data.”

“I’m not running a clinical trial,” you snapped, though a laugh escaped despite yourself.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Anthony muttered into his wine. “You’re treating this like a double-blind study with ethical guidelines.”

You covered your face with both hands. “This is a nightmare.”

“No,” Milo corrected, setting down his glass. “A nightmare is getting ghosted by someone who still watches all your stories and likes your dog pics. This? This is a champagne problem.”

You peeked at Milo through your fingers. “So… what do I do?”

“Date both,” he said without missing a beat.

“No.”

“Date. Both,” he repeated, completely undeterred. “No commitment. No promises. Just casual. See who actually fits into your life. Who listens. Who remembers your coffee order. Who quotes Austen and doesn’t flinch when you spiral into a lecture about neurotoxins.”

“Dick could keep up when I went full brainiac mode,” you murmured. “And Jason… Jason quoted Austen. Unprompted.”

Milo clutched his chest like you’d personally wounded him. “Be still my heart.”

“And they’re both so… different and amazing in their own ways,” you added, softer now, more to yourself than to them. “Dick is light. Safe. He makes me feel seen. And Jason is—”

“A walking red flag with a Shakespeare soul and hidden depth,” Anthony chimed in, deadpan.

You laughed despite yourself. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

Milo gave you a pointed look. “Babe. You’re not choosing between a villain and a hero. You’re choosing between two men who see you. Who want to know you. If they’re both worth your time… then take the damn time to find out who you want and get to know them.”

You hesitated. “And if it blows up in my face?”

Milo didn’t blink. Just reached for the wine and refilled your glass. “Then we’ll be right here. With a playlist, ice cream, and a very detailed hit list.”

“Color-coded,” Anthony added with a sage nod. “Naturally.”

You exhaled, dragging a hand through your hair. “I hate how much sense you two make.”

“We’re gay. It’s our burden to carry,” Milo said solemnly, raising his glass. “To emotional clarity and romantic chaos.”

Anthony nodded, raising his own. “And may the best man win.”

You stared at them both like they’d sprouted wings or grown extra heads. “This is still ridiculous.”

“This,” Milo countered, pouring more wine into your glass, “is the golden age of options. You’re allowed to figure it out without pledging your undying love to the first man who makes you laugh.”

“I kissed Jason,” you muttered into your glass.

“And?” Anthony sipped. “Did you enjoy it?”

You hesitated. Then nodded. “Too much.”

“Exactly.” Milo held his glass up. “Right now, you just don’t know what you’re allowed to feel.”

You looked at them—these two chaotic bastards who somehow made emotional turmoil sound like a well-curated spa retreat—and let out a long breath.

“…I know I still feel bad.”

Milo rolled his eyes. “That’s because you’re a good person. You can feel bad and also let two hot guys take you out. Both things can be true.”

Anthony raised his glass. “To moral ambiguity and excellent taste in men.”

You clinked yours against theirs, muttering, “I’m going to hell.”

Milo grinned. “Then take both of them with you, babe.”

BATCAVE

Meanwhile, Jason was still riding the high from earlier. The night air was cool against his skin, the streets quiet beneath the hum of his bike. He was halfway to his apartment when the notification came through.

A case update.

He didn’t hesitate. One hard turn of the throttle, and he was veering off course, heading straight for the manor.

Inside the Batcave, the mood was noticeably different. Dick and Bruce were already suited up, arms crossed in near-identical stances, while Tim was anchored to the console, eyes scanning a rapid stream of data across multiple monitors.

“Took your time,” Dick said lightly, though the usual ease in his voice was dulled.

“I was busy,” Jason shot back, tugging off his gloves. “What’ve we got?”

Bruce turned toward the central screen, the glow casting shadows across his jaw. “We found a breakthrough.”

Jason’s easy mood evaporated.

Tim tapped a key, bringing up a profile. “To cut to the chase—we know who our ghost is.”

“Well, that’s great. Let’s track the son of a bitch down,” Jason said, his voice clipped with impatience as he stepped closer to the screen.

“It’s not that simple,” Tim replied, already typing something in. “There’s been no physical sightings in over four years. No residence, no digital footprint, no bank activity. Nothing directly traceable. We only got a name because of a flagged experiment—an old one that matches his signature. It was buried in an ethics report filed by his only known connection.”

Tim tapped another key.

“B/N L/N,” he said. “And the only person who might be able to help us find him—his younger sister.”

With a soft beep, the next slide loaded on screen.

A profile image appeared.

Jason froze. So did Dick.

“Dr. Y/N L/N,” Tim continued, unfazed. “Lecturer. Neuroscientist. Gotham University. She’s the one who blew the whistle on his unethical research, which caused the rift between them. Records show he’s made multiple attempts to contact her over the years. If he’s on the run from Joker… she might be the only person he trusts enough to go to. Or the only one who knows how he thinks.”

“She’s one of the youngest in her field,” he added, “with two PHDs—”

“Three,” Jason and Dick said at the same time before pausing.

Both men turned slowly, brows raised, staring at each other across the space between.

“How did you know that?” Dick asked, eyes narrowing slightly.

Jason’s gaze snapped to him. “How did you know that?”

Tim looked between them, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. “Okay… do I even want to know what’s happening here?”

Bruce didn’t so much as blink. “Where can we find her?”

Tim cleared his throat, grateful for the shift back to business. “She’s scheduled to appear at the Gotham Futures Gala this weekend. It’s a high-profile event at the Fairmont. She’s a guest speaker. The event’s raising funds for youth science education and mentorship programs—STEM access, early outreach, that kind of thing.”

Bruce nodded, calculating. “Alright. I can go and see if I can—”

“No!” The word rang out in unison. Both Jason and Dick spoke at once, their voices overlapping in sudden urgency.

Bruce’s gaze flicked between them, unimpressed. “No?”

“I’ll go,” Dick said, his voice smooth and easy—too easy. The kind of voice he usually used to charm the high society. “You’re stretched thin with the Joker situation. Let me take this one.”

“Or I can go.” Jason stated. 

“You don’t even like gala’s.” Dick scoffed. 

“And you do?” Jason raised a brow. “You spend half the night dodging donors and sneaking champagne behind the curtains.”

“At least I clean up well.”

Jason crossed his arms. “You need to get back to Blüdhaven.”

“I’m on leave.” Dick snipped back. 

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose like he was already nursing a headache.

“Enough,” he said, tone edged with steel. “I don’t care which one of you goes. Just make contact with her. Find out what she knows.”

And with that, the ever-exhausted father of far too many turned on his heel and left the cave.

The second Bruce left the cave, the tension snapped like a rubber band. Both Jason and Dick turned in perfect sync, glaring at each other with the intensity of a pending brawl.

“I’m going,” they declared at the same time.

Jason scoffed, folding his arms. “How do you even know her?”

“She was my date!” Dick snapped, voice pitching upward as his patience immediately vanished.

Jason blinked. “Wait—the one from that dating app?”

“You signed up for a dating app?!” Tim choked, spinning around so fast in his chair he nearly tipped over. His eyes were wide, scandalized. “You?!”

Dick didn’t even spare him a glance. “Yes. And we hit it off.”  he said, sharp and pointed. “Now, how do you know her?”

“She’s the civilian I pulled out of that alley last week,” he said coolly, voice dipping into something just shy of smug. He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Should’ve walked her home, dickhead.”

Dick’s jaw clenched.

Jason smirked. “We grabbed coffee today.”

Dead silence.

And then—because he never knew when to shut up—Jason kept going. “She even kissed me.”

Dick’s expression shifted like someone had just pulled the rug out from under him. His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing with something sharp and disbelieving.

“You’re lying.”

Jason raised a brow. “Am I? You really think I’d lie about something like that?”

“I think you’d do whatever it takes to piss me off.”

Jason shrugged, unbothered. “That too.”

Tim opened his mouth, then closed it. Slowly wheeled himself back in his chair like he was watching a bomb about to go off.

Dick took a step forward. “She wouldn’t—”

“She did,” Jason cut in. “Not that it’s any of your business now.”

“That’s exactly what makes it my business,” Dick snapped.

“Funny. She didn’t seem to think so.”

“Alright,” Tim said quickly, raising both hands. “Before someone gets thrown into a wall—can we maybe, I don’t know, not have a turf war over a girl who clearly doesn’t belong to either of you?”

Neither of them looked at him.

Dick’s eyes narrowed into slits. “That’s it. I’m going to the gala.”

“Like hell you are!”

Tim raised a hand like a kid in class. “How about… rock, paper, scissors?”

Two sets of eyes pinned him to his seat. He shrank back a little. Then, after a beat, both brothers turned to each other.

There was a long pause.

Then, without a word, they stepped forward, hands balling into fists, resting on their open palms.

“On shoot,” Jason muttered.

“Obviously,” Dick snapped.

And they went.

“Rock, paper, scissors—shoot.”

Scissors. Paper.

Jason cursed under his breath.

“Always with the scissors,” Dick said smugly, shaking his head like an older brother who’d won this game a hundred times before. “You never learn.”

Jason’s glare could’ve peeled paint. But Dick was already sauntering off, throwing over his shoulder, “Better luck next time, Little Wing.”

“Best two out of three!” Jason called, stepping after him.

Dick scoffed. “I won fair and square. No one likes a sore loser.”

Jason grumbled something under his breath—low, unintelligible—but Tim was pretty sure it included cheater, rigged, and next time I’m bringing a taser.

“Fine!” Jason snapped, crossing his arms with a tight huff. “But I want ground rules.”

Dick paused and turned around. He arched a curious brow, arms folded across his chest, then gave a slow nod, signalling Jason to continue. “Go on.”

“First—we don’t tell her we know each other.”

Dick nodded without hesitation. “Agreed.”

Jason took a step forward, the tension between them tightening like a wire. “We stay out of each other’s way. And I don’t think either of us should sleep with her—not until she makes her decision. Things’ll get messy.”

Behind them, Tim mock-gagged. “Ugh. Can we not?” he muttered. He didn’t even want to think about his brothers in that context. He didn’t care that they were adopted—they were still his brothers, and thinking about them doing that was just gross on every possible level.

Dick held Jason’s gaze, steady and unflinching. “Fine.”

Jason’s tone shifted, quieter now—less about pride, more about principle. “And if this starts to mess with the case, or with us, we end it. Doesn’t matter where we’re at.”

Dick’s posture shifted slightly, his jaw tightening. But he nodded. “Done.”

They stared at each other for a beat.

“Whoever she chooses,” Dick said, calm and clear, “the other backs off. No hard feelings.”

Jason’s fingers curled at his sides. A long pause.

Then, he nodded. “May the best man win.”

Dick’s gaze didn’t waver. “For her. The best man for her.”

Meanwhile, Tim watched the entire exchange unfold like a tennis match—head swivelling between brothers, eyes wide. He looked personally offended that no one had handed him popcorn.

“I’ve got to tell the others,” he muttered under his breath, already planning the group chat text.

Dick left for patrol not long after, slipping his domino mask into place with the smug confidence of a man who thought he’d just secured a win.

Jason, who didn’t need to suit up for another hour, turned to Tim with a groan and a scowl. “Alright, nerd. How did you even know where to look for that flagged experiment?”

Tim blinked, caught off guard. “Oh. Uh—it was actually Damian.”

Jason’s eye twitched.

“He said the doctor might be a potential lead. Once we ran her name, we found the connection to her brother and his research. Looked solid.”

Jason exhaled slowly through his nose. Of course it was Damian. The demon spawn never let anything go. And this was exactly what he got for digging into her file on Batcave servers of all places. He might as well have slapped a neon sign across the screen that read I’m hiding something, please investigate. The one girl he was actually interested in—and she was tangled up in one of their ugliest cases to date.

Jason turned to Tim, narrowing his eyes like a man about to drag someone else into his personal war.

“You’re gonna help me.”

Tim blinked. “With… what exactly?”

“Reconning Dick.”

Tim frowned. “Didn’t you two literally just agree not to interfere?”

“I’m not interfering,” Jason said, far too quickly. “I’m making sure he sticks to the rules.”

Tim gave him a long, deadpan look. “Uh-huh.”

Jason just stared.

Tim sighed, resigned. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“Nope.”

Another sigh. Tim rolled his chair back from the console like it was a death march. “I need a vacation. Or a therapist.”

Jason clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a real one, Replacement.”

“Don’t call me that.”

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Taglist: @mei-simp, @sept3mberchild, @a-brilliante-mariposa, @feralwolfkat, @mercuryathens, @beepboopcowboy, @lordbugs, @coffeemin, @nikkeora, @yuyuti02, @oooof-ifellforyou, @neogogori, @thatoneloser8371, @rtyuy1346, @nkryuki, @tinybrie, @smithieandy, @yuhhh03, @kazuuhali

[lusanchromchinnn]

Viago De Riva your Undiagnosed But Extremely Obvious OCD is fascinating and so so revealing of your character and motivations ohh my gosh. Like of course your obsession is poisons and being poisoned! I refuse to believe that growing up adjacent to the royal court wasn’t the driving force behind this because literally where else would someone hear so many stories of people succumbing to assassination by poison. I bet nobles were dropping like flies to the crows every day. I bet he saw his father’s food taster (we know he visited during Viago’s youth) and realised how truly possible it was to die from a bite of food. Bonus points if he actually witnessed a food taster keel over in front of him. Paranoia through the fucking roof as he researches poisons for years on end before he’s ever presented with the option of joining the crows. Maybe he only drank out of clear glasses he could hold up to the light. Maybe he insisted on preparing all of his own meals rather than let servants near his food, much to the chagrin of his mother. AND OH GOD HIS MOTHER.

We know she was an alcoholic, and that Viago hated her drinking, it scared him as a small child. But what if his mind won’t let him watch her sip a glass of wine without the image of it being her last. She could be a target as a mistress of the king, just as he is as a royal bastard. Perhaps he becomes the one who uncorks her bottles and pours her glass after glass, because he’d rather her drunk over dead. Of course, there’s the very real possibility she succumbs to alcohol poisoning, which is so ironic and so fucking sad. He pours her final glass and becomes what he fears most.

It’s a no-brainer that he joined the crows later on. Not only does it give him access to the poisons and antidotes he’s craved for years, but it gives him a sense of control. He’s making himself less of a target than his half-siblings (and it’s more socially acceptable for a crow to wear gloves constantly lmao). He’s so skinny because he refuses to eat unless he’s 100% positive his food is safe, checking and double checking even if he prepares it himself. He knows, logically, that his fears are unfounded, that he (or someone he trusts completely like Teia) made this dish, or poured this drink. But he needs to be sure, or his brain won’t stop screaming that he’s going to die! Right now! God forbid he’s proven right too, like with the adder in the wardrobe that he survived because of his doses of antivenom. I just knowww his compulsions got so much worse for a while after that, it was so cathartic and miserable for him. I understand this freak and his freak ways. What a guy, thank you Courtney Woods.

[willowsnook]

halfway to always pt. 2

quinn hughes x sharks!reader

pt. 1 here

tags: @hockeybabe87 @enjoymyloves @freyathehuntress @onlyreadz @how-what-why-huh @1loverc @stormsies

-------------------------------

It had been a couple of months since your trip out to the lake and you had thrown yourself into work, trying to forget about the oldest Hughes' brother who had left an imprint on your heart. So far it was going well, mostly because Will and Macklin hadn’t been there to harass you about it. They both went home for the rest of summer break and were just now coming back for training camp. 

You had plans to meet them at their place when they both got back, and after finally logging off for the day, you made your way over. 

“Y/N!” Will yelled as he opened the door, quickly pouncing on you. “I missed you so much.” 

“I missed you too,” you said into his chest. “My life has been so boring.”

“Of course it has,” Macklin said, coming from out of his room. “We are the most important people in your life.” 

“I’m about to replace you though,” you teased, setting down your stuff in the kitchen. “I meet the new guys tomorrow.” 

Both of them glared at you, making you giggle. 

"You know I'm kidding," you reassured them, hopping up onto their kitchen counter. "So, tell me everything. How was the rest of your summer?"

They launched into stories about family trips and training regimens, Will showing you pictures on his phone while Macklin demonstrated some new workout move he'd learned. You smiled, realizing how much you'd truly missed their chaotic energy.

"What about you?" Will asked finally. "Did you do anything fun after Michigan?"

You shrugged. "Just work, mostly. Helped with rookie camp prep, went home to see my parents for a weekend."

"That's it?" Macklin frowned. "Please tell me you at least went on a date or something."

You rolled your eyes. "No, I did not go on a date.”

You pulled out a bottle of wine from your bag, uncorking it while Will leaned against the counter, watching you with a suspicious expression. "So... have you talked to Quinn at all?"

Your movements faltered for just a second before you recovered, reaching for glasses in the cabinet. "A little. Just texting here and there."

It wasn't exactly a lie. You and Quinn had exchanged messages sporadically since the lake trip—casual check-ins that carefully avoided any mention of what had happened between you. The last text had been over a week ago, a simple "good luck with training camp" from you, followed by his "thanks, you too" reply.

"Just texting?" Macklin pressed, raising an eyebrow.

You sighed, pouring three generous glasses of wine.

“Look,” you started. “We had fun at the lake. But it was just the lake. I’m back to the real-world again.” 

“But you guys are so perfect together,” Macklin complained. 

“I was with him for less than a week,” you argued back and Will rolled his eyes. 

“Love at first sight,” he said and you snorted, even Macklin letting out a little laugh. 

“I’m busy with work anyways, so it’s going to be okay,” you said firmly. You turned around to grab your phone and both boys shared a look, an idea already forming. 

Step 1: Investigation Time

“Did you see Quinn’s post?” Will asked while you were both out on a morning walk before he had to be at the facility. 

“I did not,” you replied, amused. The boys could not leave the idea of you and Quinn alone which was adorable but like you’d told them earlier: there wasn’t anything to it. You had kissed a lot of boys in your lifetime - it didn’t always have to mean something. There was no reason to even let your mind entertain the idea. 

“You made it,” he said, trying to contain his excitement. “It’s a summer recap.”

Leaning over his shoulder, you looked at this specific picture. It was of Quinn at the grill and you next to him, holding a plate of food. It was a sweet picture, and you made a mental note to screenshot it later to keep for memories. 

“Very nice Will,” you commented and he beamed. 

“You too look so good together,” he said and you snorted. 

“Not giving this up?” You teased and he shook his head. 

“You were so into him on the trip,” he said. “I want to see you happy.”

“I am happy Will,” you said. “I don’t need a man to be happy.” 

"I know," Will said, more serious than you'd expected. "I just think you guys had something real. And maybe it's worth exploring."

You sighed, watching the morning light filter through the trees as you walked. "Even if there was something there, what would be the point? He lives in Vancouver. I live here. Both of us have demanding careers that keep us in those places."

"Long distance?" Will suggested.

You laughed, but it came out hollow. "For what? A connection we felt after knowing each other for a few days? That's not enough to build something on."

Will fell silent for a moment, considering your words. "You know, I've never seen you light up around anyone the way you did with him."

The observation hit you harder than you expected, and you quickened your pace slightly. "I'm not having this conversation anymore."

"Fine," Will conceded, jogging away. “Then I’m not buying you coffee.” 

“You promised,” you complained, jogging after him. 

Meanwhile, Macklin and Jack were working on Quinn.  

“Hey man what’s up?” Quinn said, answering his phone. 

“Just wanted to call before the season started,” Macklin said. 

“Getting a little nervous?” Quinn asked. 

“I feel like the pressure is way up this year for me,” Macklin admitted. 

“It feels like that for everyone their second year,” Quinn told him. “Especially because of how well you did last year. Just stay focused. You have good people supporting you.”

Macklin saw his segway and took it, “Yeah I do. I don’t know what I would do without Will and Y/n. You remember her?”

Quinn rolled his eyes before answering, “I know what you’re doing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Macklin replied, feigning innocence. “Just wondering if you guys had talked since the lake.” 

“I’m sure you can ask her that,” Quinn said, avoiding the question. 

"I'm asking you though," Macklin pressed.

"We've texted a bit," Quinn finally admitted, his voice carefully neutral. "Just checking in."

"That's it? Just checking in?" Macklin asked, clearly disappointed.

Quinn sighed, running a hand through his hair as he paced around his living room. "What do you want me to say, Mack? That I think about her all the time? That I wish things were different? None of that changes the reality."

"Which is?"

"You know which is. She's in San Jose. I'm in Vancouver. We both have careers that keep us in those cities."

"People do long distance all the time," Macklin countered.

Quinn let out a humorless laugh. "Based on what? A week together? A kiss? That's not enough to build something real on."

There was a pause on the other end of the line before Macklin spoke again, his voice sincere. "I know it's none of my business, but Y/n is important to me. And I haven’t seen her act like that around someone literally ever. I’m just floating the idea that maybe you could figure something out.” 

“We’ll see,” Quinn said shortly before hanging up.

Jack and Luke had flown to Vancouver the week before the season started to see their oldest brother. It was a short trip, but they played some rounds of golf and had plenty of time to relax before they wouldn’t see each other for a bit. 

The night before they were heading back to New Jersey, they were out to dinner when Jack started his subtle inquiry, already proud of himself for not bringing up y/n yet this weekend. 

“So, you guys play the Sharks in a couple of weeks?” Jack asked casually and Luke instantly snorted. Quinn looked up from his phone, giving his brother a pointed look. 

“That’s usually how a hockey season works,” Quinn shot back. “Conspiring with Macklin now are you?”

Jack huffed, “I’m just making conversation. Just wondering if you have any plans to see anyone after the game or anything.” 

“Not as of right now,” Quinn replied honestly. “We haven’t really spoken since the beginning of training camp.” 

“Hmm,” Jack replied. 

Quinn paused, setting his fork down and giving his brothers a serious look. "Look, I appreciate that you guys care, but this isn't helping. Y/n and I had a connection, yes. But sometimes timing just doesn't work out."

"But—" Jack started.

"No," Quinn cut him off firmly. "I don't want to talk about this anymore. Not everything has a neat resolution, okay?"

The finality in his tone silenced both his brothers. Luke shot Jack a warning glance, and the subject was dropped for the remainder of dinner.

Step 2: The Setup

Will's phone buzzed with a text from Jack: "Operation reunite stubborn idiots is a go. Quinn just landed in San Jose."

Will nudged Macklin, showing him the message. They shared a conspiratorial smile before turning their attention back to you. You were sitting across from them in the players’ lounge, a few hours before the game tonight. 

“So,” Will cleared his throat and your head snapped up. “What are you doing after the game?” 

Your eyes narrowed, “I was planning on just going home but i’m getting the feeling that you are going to drag em to something.” 

“Toff rented out this bar for his birthday tonight,” Will said. “So you should come because it’s his birthday and you know him.”

You did know Toff, you knew every player but you weren’t really that acquainted with him. “Did he ask that I be there?” 

“Just come y/n,” Macklin said exasperated. “You need to get out of the house.”

“Fine,” you said, rolling your eyes. You missed seeing the boys bump each other’s fists under the table, turning your attention back to your phone. 

The Canucks steamrolled the Sharks, but the boys still had a good game, so you were pleased by that. You had changed in your office from your business clothes to just a plain white tank top and jeans and now were waiting by the players’ entrance. 

“Hey stranger,” a voice called out and you froze. Quinn was giving you a small smile as he walked towards you and you couldn’t help but grin. 

“Hi,” you greeted him, wrapping your arms around his waist. He held on to you for a second too long and your heart was racing at the physical contact. 

“I’m looking for Will and Macklin actually, have you seen them?” Quinn asked he pulled back. 

“Funny, I’m looking for them too,” you said, and the pieces started to click together. Both of your phone buzzed at the same time and you looked down to see what Will had said. 

WS: Sorry guys, we caught a ride with someone else. I’m sure you can carpool to the bar tho. Bye!!!

You groaned as Quinn shook his head. “Relentless,” you muttered. 

“Tell me about it,” Quinn mused. “Guess I’ll follow you.” 

You chatted about the game as you walked to the car, Quinn filling you in on how the team was looking so far and you telling him about the new rookies. The way conversation fell so naturally it was like you were at the lake just last week. 

"So," you finally said as you pulled into the parking lot, "how long are the boys going to keep this up?"

Quinn chuckled, running a hand through his still-damp hair. "Knowing Jack, probably until one of us gets married."

You laughed, though the comment sent an unexpected flutter through your chest. "Will and Macklin are just as bad. They've been not-so-subtly bringing you up for weeks."

"Same with Jack and Luke," Quinn admitted. "I think they're all in a group chat about it."

As you walked toward the bar entrance, Quinn's hand brushed against yours—perhaps accidentally, perhaps not. Neither of you acknowledged it, but seeing how packed the bar was, you slipped your hand into his, not wanting to lose him on the way to wherever Will and Macklin were. His hand tightened around yours and it was the first thing the boys looked at when you emerged from the crowd, both lighting up. 

You dropped Quinn’s hand as you reached the table, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“I waited for you guys for 20 minutes,” you said. 

“Sorry y/n, Eklund insisted we come with him,” Macklin said innocently. Quinn snorted from behind you, shaking his head. 

“Whatever, I’m getting a drink,” you muttered, leaving them all behind for the bar. 

Quinn watched you weave through the crowd toward the bar, then turned to fix Will and Macklin with a stern look. "Subtle, guys. Really subtle."

Macklin shrugged,. "Did it work though?"

"Did what work?" Quinn asked, though he knew exactly what they were getting at.

"Come on," Will groaned. "You two were holding hands!"

"So I wouldn't lose her in the crowd," Quinn explained, though the excuse sounded weak even to his own ears.

Macklin and Will exchanged knowing glances. "Right," Macklin drawled. "That's definitely it."

Quinn sighed, leaning against the table. "Look, I appreciate what you guys are trying to do, but it's complicated."

"It's really not," Will argued. "You like her, she likes you. What's complicated about that?"

Quinn ran a hand through his hair. He really was starting to wear down when it came to that question. Seeing you again had reignited what he felt at the lake, and he was running out of excuses to at least not give it a try. 

You came back a little later, wordlessly handing Quinn a beer before sitting down next to Will. Quinn ended up getting pulled away by some other guys he was friends with, and your table was joined by a couple of WAGs that you were somewhat friends with. You didn’t really hang out with most of them, but the ones who sat with you were around the same age as you, so it was an easy friendship. 

A couple of hours went by and you were caught up in a conversation with Carl Berglund when you felt a presence behind you. You looked over your shoulder to see Quinn, looking between you and Carl, his jaw tightening. 

“Hey man, good to see you,” Carl said reaching out his hand, unaware of the tension. 

“You too,” Quinn said shortly, shaking it. Carl looked between the two of you before smirking and raising his beer. 

“Nice talking to you y/n, i’ll see you later,” he said before walking to join another conversation. You turned to Quinn amused. 

“What was that about?” You asked. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said nonchalantly, looking anywhere but you. 

You raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing on your lips. "You're a terrible liar, Quinn Hughes."

He sighed, finally meeting your eyes. "Fine. I didn't like seeing you with him."

"With Carl?" you asked, genuinely surprised. "We were just talking."

"I know," Quinn admitted, taking a swig of his beer. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

The jealousy in his voice sent a thrill through you that you tried to ignore. You stepped closer to him, lowering your voice. "You don't get to be jealous when you won't even admit there's something here."

His eyes darkened as they held yours. "Who says I won't admit it?"

Your heart skipped a beat. "You've had months to do something about it."

"So have you," he countered.

The admission hung between you, charged with everything left unsaid from the summer. You set your drink down, suddenly feeling too warm.

"Want to get some air?" you asked quietly.

Quinn nodded, following as you weaved through the crowd toward the back exit. The cool night air was a relief after the stuffy bar, and you took a deep breath, leaning against the brick wall.

"So," you started, looking up at the stars rather than at him.

"So," he drawled out. “I can’t get you out of my head.” 

You were surprised by the admission, turning to face him fully as he stared into your eyes. 

“I could say the same thing,” you admitted quietly. Neither of you said anything for a bit, just taking in one another’s presence. 

“What do we have to do to make this work?” He asked, breaking the silence. 

You sighed, leaning back against the wall before answering truthfully, “I don’t know.” 

He moved in front of you, bringing one hand to rest on your waist and your breath hitched at the contact. 

"I know it might be ridiculous," Quinn murmured, his thumb tracing small circles on your waist, "to feel this strongly about someone I've spent so little time with. But I can't stop thinking about what could happen if we just... tried."

Your heart raced as he leaned closer, his forehead almost touching yours. "What are you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting we stop making excuses," he said, his voice low and certain. "We play each other four times this season. I have the All-Star break, you have holidays. There are bye weeks and off-days. We have phones. We have FaceTime. Vancouver to San Jose is a two-hour flight."

You closed your eyes, letting his words wash over you. The practical part of your brain wanted to list all the reasons why this was complicated—the distance, your careers, the logistics—but another part of you, the part that had been daydreaming about him for months, was tired of being practical.

“We can try,” you finally said and a small smile broke out across his face. He inched his head closer, pressing his lips against yours in a sweet kiss. Your hand travelled up to his hair, pulling him deeper into you and he pressed you harder against the wall as his mouth moved against yours. When you finally pulled apart, breathless, his eyes were dark with wanting.

"I've been thinking about doing that again since the lake," he admitted, his thumb tracing your lower lip.

You smiled against his touch. "Me too."

The door to the bar swung open suddenly, spilling light and noise into the alleyway. Will stood there, his eyes widening as he took in the scene before him.

"Finally!" he exclaimed, pumping his fist in the air before disappearing back inside, presumably to tell Macklin and you groaned, resting your head against Quinn’s shoulder. 

“I’m sure i’ll get a cryptic text from Jack soon,” Quinn muttered and you giggled, bringing your lips up to his once more. 

“Worth it.”

Pt 3

[eldritchcircus]

This happens to grim sometimes

oh godd oh fuck oh godddddd fuck me

[delirious-donna]

You’ve taken Zayne’s tie hostage, it’s time for the negotiations to begin but things don’t go quite how the good doctor imagined…

an: this is a repost in case anyone finds it familiar, it was originally posted on my LADS blog and I have made it private over there for now <3 Based on the Hostage phone call with Zayne.

pairing: Zayne x female reader

tw: fluff, NSFW, wearing his clothes, suggestive and flirty, very slow fluffy sex, intimacy through the roof, starts teasing and gets deeper, implied unprotected sex, Zayne being the sweetest boy

“… my tie? You’ve taken my tie hostage?”

Zayne’s brow furrowed as he listened to the playful lilt of your voice. No matter how serious you tried to sound, there was no way of keeping the almost laughter at bay the longer you spoke.

“He was left all alone on my couch. Apparently he thought he had been abandoned,” you continued whilst the black silk played between your fingers.

There was a silence, and for a moment you thought he wouldn’t play along with your little charade, but Zayne often surprised you when you least expected it.

“I see. Well, we can’t have him feeling unwanted, can we? Shall we arrange hostage negotiations for tonight? I’ll bring a bottle of wine, perhaps that will help loosen up his captor and lessen their demands.”

You smothered your laughter with a palm, the black tie pressed across your mouth and nose enough for you to inhale Zayne’s cologne and the aroma of coffee.

“It’s a date. Oh, and Zayne?”

“Yes?”

“Negotiations might get rough if you’re not careful,” you teased with a deliberate purr.

Zayne inhaled harshly and the sound of it sent a thrill skittering down your spine. Before he could reply, you disconnected the call and skipped into your bedroom to plan the perfect outfit…

~

“Doors open,” you yelled from the doorway of your bedroom, waiting until you heard the soft snick of the front door opening and closing before turning to give yourself a final glance in the mirror.

Your fingers smoothed down imaginary creases, nerves settling on your shoulders but you were certain that your efforts would not go unappreciated. Zayne was often reserved, guarded in his actions and reactions but you had heard his breathless gasp clear as day when you spoke on the phone this morning.

The longer you stood here worrying, the more your bottle would crash. Throwing your shoulders back, you nodded to your reflection and padded out of the room on bare feet to find the good doctor.

He stood in your small kitchen nook, back to you whilst he worked on uncorking the bottle of wine in his hand. A black shirt stretched across his back and broad shoulders, the sleeves meticulously rolled to his elbows. You caught your lip between your teeth, admiring him with a long lustful rake of your eyes until he froze.

Caught.

“You shouldn’t… stare,” Zayne said, turning to face you. His expression shifted from cool amusement to dumbstruck as he took you in.

You leaned against the wall with a subtle smile, watching as his own gaze slowly descended to your bare, wiggling toes and caressed your body upwards in slow appreciation. You could see his throat working. Not long after, a long finger loosened the tie at his collar and popped open the top buttons.

“Am I to guess that you like what you see, doctor?”

Zayne groaned. A pinched expression creasing his brow whilst he searched for words that would be articulative enough to express the thoughts tumbling through his head. He was not accustomed to feeling this… off balance.

He swallowed and gave a shallow nod—not quite trusting his voice yet.

Your legs were as bare as the feet twisting on the hardwood flooring, smooth and soft, inviting. His fingers twitched against the pocket of his trousers, desire building behind his navel to push those same twitching fingertips into the plush of your skin.

The white dress shirt was clearly one of his from a previous night sleeping over and it hung beautifully on your smaller body. The buttons only done up so much, allowing for one shoulder to peer out and tempt him into closing the distance between you.

Zayne was moving before he became aware of it. Your chin tilted upward, lips open on a noiseless breath. Your jaw tensed for a split second when he cupped your face and lowered his mouth to your ear.

“Like…” he breathed, warmth tickling your skin, “… is a grave understatement.”

The tie that had started all of this caught his attention at long last. Knot loose, midnight silk decorating your décolletage. He was jealous of his tie which was inanely stupid, yet he couldn’t deny the emotion. He fingered the tail to pull it lower between the valley of your breasts.

“The hostage in question. He appears to be suffering Stockholm Syndrome, and I can’t say I blame him.”

“I’ve given him a good home, treated him with kindness and a warm heart,” you cooed, leaning into the strength of his body just to feel something more—more of him.

“Is it ridiculous that I’m jealous?”

“No. Feel your feelings, Zayne. It’s not ridiculous but I can assure you that I’d treat you even better.”

His thumb drew a line from below your ear down the side of your neck and over to the hollow at your throat. You were going to be the death of him, and somehow that thought wasn’t so scary when he imagined the way he’d go.

“Tell me more…”

~

A breadcrumb trail of clothing led from the living room to the bottom of your bed. Each garment carefully discarded like unwrapping a gift with the most exquisite wrappings—beautiful and deserving of the utmost care.

Despite the desire growing hot in your belly, you would savour every inch of his and your skin that was revealed. There was all the time in the world, especially when it was just the two of you. Nothing else mattered.

Zayne’s shoulders were tense when you pushed off his shirt. His stomach dipped when your nimble fingers worked the leather belt free from its buckle. His breathing quickened as you undid the top button on his trousers, and only worsened when the sound of metal teeth peeling apart thundered throughout the room.

Only the tie remained.

Once you had carefully peeled away his clothes, it was his turn to strip you and thankfully there wasn’t much for him to remove to have you completely bare—except for the tie.

The length of black silk dangled towards his body, the very end tickling across the broad expanse of his chest, framed by your flush palms. Your thighs bracketed lean hips, knees subtly squeezing his sides as his hands wandered your naked skin, fingertips dimpling into the yielding softness.

Apple blossom pink stained the high contours of his cheekbones whilst the tips of his ears beat a more vivid red. Zayne’s gaze bounced around your face, meeting your low-lidded eyes only to stray away in a bashfulness that made you tighten all over.

“Should I keep it on?”

“Mm, yes. I like it on you… very much,” Zayne admitted. It was accompanied by a slight buck of his hips that resulted in a quiet squeal and a giggle.

Composing yourself, and leaning in so your face was mere inches from his, you nosed his cheek softly. “Why do you like it, Dr. Zayne?”

He gave a strangled noise of resignation. “Because it’s something of mine on your body. It’s primal, the part of my brain that wants to rub my scent across your skin to ward off everyone else.”

Zayne grasped at your hips and moved you higher so his face was buried in your chest. His warm cheek nuzzled against the valley of your breasts, breath tickling your skin until it rippled with goosebumps and your nipples tightened.

Your fingers carded through the dark forest of his hair, nails lightly scratching at his scalp whilst you effectively cradled his head against you. Cooing sweet nothings until you felt eager lips wrap around your puffy nipple. Zayne moaned into the sensation of worshiping you with his tongue, licking around and over the peak only to come back to suckling gently.

The intimacy was enough to tighten your chest, but it didn’t stop the warm drip of desire low in your belly. You could feel his cock sandwiched between your bodies, you knew when it twitched. Eventually, the need was too much to deny and you reached between you to grasp the base of him gently.

His careful ministrations paused, every muscle tensing whilst he assessed your intention. With a slow roll of your fist, you pumped his cock from base to tip. Your thumb smeared through the pretty pearlescent precum leaking from his tip, working it down his shaft and nudging your knees further apart.

“My love, I—we don’t have to.”

“But do you want to?” You countered, humming when the heat of him licked at your folds and dipped inside to rub your pert little clit.

Zayne groaned low in his throat, unable to resist the urge to rock himself against you over and over—slow, methodical, precise.

“Yes…”

“Good. I want to as well. Now, let me… that’s it.”

With a steady adjustment, you sank down to impale yourself. The stretch was bliss, your walls more than ready to accept him home and bask in the feeling of completion.

You were two puzzle pieces in a box of thousands, but only when you came together did things seem right with the universe.

There was no rush, every roll of your body was taken at leisure to dance alongside the shared kisses and soft touches. Zayne marked a path of kisses from the hollow of your throat to your shoulder then back again.

The tie which started everything became wedged between your chests, almost forgotten, but not really. It complimented your soft yielding figure against the muscled definition of the good doctor—your good doctor.

“Zayne…”

“I know, I’m right there with you,” he replied without needing context. “Let yourself go, beloved. Let yourself go and I will follow you… to the ends of the earth and beyond.”

A crowd of tears gathered behind your eyes at his softly uttered words, knowing that they weighed more than any precious metal because they came directly from his heart. You refused to let them spill, instead, focusing in on the pleasure and the swelling sensation of impending release.

Your hips stalled and Zayne was quick to help you, guiding you up and down until your body spasmed and you flopped, prone, against his chest.

His soft grunts echoed inside your ear, residual twitches of his spent cock causing you to clench and tighten through your blissful flight through orgasm.

Every noise felt amplified and you slowly realised it was the thundering of his heart. Your muscles went lax, your body draping his like a personal weighted blanket whilst his ever gentle fingertips traced your spine.

You might have fallen asleep had he not spoken…

“I no longer wish to negotiate terms for the hostage,” he whispered into the depths of your hair, “I’d like you to keep me too… if you’ll have me?”

He would be yours forevermore, and you couldn’t be more in love.

[thefandomsfervent]

JayVikMel x Reader Four Glasses and a Bottle

minors DNI.

Summary: You aren’t sure how you got here. There had been talks before. Talks. That was all. Talks and imaginings. Ideas that were hidden in drunken conversations. Jokes that lingered in the air too long. Now you’re here, in Jayce’s apartment.

AKA - A fic where Viktor and reader are dating, Jayce and Mel are dating, and everyone likes each other. A lot.

Word Count: +3.4k

There is no plot. Reader is AFAB with female pronouns.

Tags: Slight Overstimulation, Polyamory, Cunnilingus, Plot What Plot, Gratuitous

╔═*✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧-✦-✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧*═╗

Dinner was going well at least, but the energy in the room was tense. Dessert forgotten on the table. A bottle of wine had been uncorked hours ago, sitting in a bucket of ice. You were nursing your glass slowly, it was lukewarm now. Mel had two already. Viktor and Jayce? You weren’t sure how many the two had drank. Not because they had too many to count, but because Mel kept her eyes on you all night. Golden freckles glinting in the low light of the living room.  She was enchanting. Viktor hadn’t really spoken much that night, his hand on the small of your back whenever you were together. Jayce and Mel had kept the conversation flowing for most part, you chiming in on occasion. Viktor offered small hums in acknowledgement, only ever speaking if he disagreed with a statement.

All four of you knew why you were here. You have a feeling that the councilor is enjoying drawing it out. Watching as you swirl your wine for the umpteenth time in this last hour. Watching when you bring it to your lips. The blush that had been creeping up your neck since dessert was definitely to your ears. You could feel the cool breeze of the window on them, on your cheeks. Jayce had been drawing patterns on Mel’s leg, her dress pulled higher and higher. Soft calves, lush thighs, smooth skin. You look away but Jayce catches your eyes. A hungry hazel gaze. You breathe out slowly, quietly. Viktor notices and plays with your free hand. His fingers opening and closing your own. 

“And you?” Mel’s talking to you. Has been for the past couple of minutes it seems. 

“Hmm?” You try to remain nonchalant. It fails, she sees right through you. You know she does. She laughs, a quiet rich sound. Like a bell cleansing the air. 

“Do you want more wine?” She’s getting up, walking towards you. Jayce doesn’t join her but does lean forward to watch. Waiting. 

“Oh! No thank you. This,” You raise your glass,” is plenty.” You sip some partly in show, and partly to quell the sudden dryness in your throat. It doesn’t help. 

Right. It’s a red wine. “Water, maybe, would be nice.” This was going to be a long night. 

“Sure.” Ever the pleasant host, she brings you some. Her hand so warm in contrast to the glass. It lingers there when you grab it. “But some liquid courage might help your nerves.” Fingers ghosting over yours. 

“Viktor?” her voice pulling his attention away from your hand. The fiddling stills. “How do you deal with such a tantalizing pet.” You almost choke on your water. “Easy to tease, I presume?”

The heat on your face multiplies tenfold. Viktor’s hand presses firmly into yours. He keeps his gaze level with hers, waiting until she sits down to answer. 

“The same way you deal with yours.” Oh. Oh it’s happening. It’s happening now. Were you ready for this? You had to be right? You were. He feels you tense, hand moving to your knee. The circles he’s drawing would usually soothe you. Now? They’re lighting a fire. Every inch he’s touching is burning. “Discipline and Reward.” His other hand is on your back now. You regret taking off your coat earlier, despite the heat emanating off your skin. 

“I think we have different rulesets.” You’re looking at Jayce, to see what he’s thinking. But his gaze is on Mel, a lovesick puppy. A man utterly devoted. Her hand is snaking up to his hair, tousling the brown-black locks. He’s leaning back in her touch, humming. Eyes closed. It deepens the swirling in your stomach, and somehow calms your nerves. “Reward and Training.” 

A long night indeed. 

“Well then, how should we start?” She’s standing again, Jayce with her. It’s hard to look at anyone in the room now. You stare at the floor. You feel Viktor pull you up with him and you don’t fight it. Now more than ever you need grounding, direction. And he would give that to you. 

“Perhaps somewhere more comfortable.” Your lover replies. She leads you to Jayce’s room, a couch facing the bed. She gestures for Viktor to take it, it has more room. She wastes no time in starting to disrobe. She was utterly beautiful, all three of them were in their own way. You felt self-conscious. Jayce helps her before shedding his own layers. Viktor’s taking off his shirt, but not his pants. He grabs your face with both hands, looking you in the eyes. Cool thumbs rub circles into your cheekbones, a small smile to soothe you. You reach up and grab his forearms.  It grounds you and he leans closer to kiss your forehead, your nose, your mouth. He pulls away when you sigh, much calmer than before. 

“Koloušek, help me with my belt.” It’s a question and not. It’s a command. You’re nodding, hands moving on their own accord. Muscle memory navigating metal and leather. He leans into your ear. “Are you ready?” You nod. Slowly, but you nod. His amber eyes looking into yours. Lids lowering. “Can they touch you?” You’re nodding again, a little faster. You were ready for this. For them. He turns you around, hands gentle on your shoulders and pulls you into his lap as he sits on the edge of the bed. 

“You are wearing too many clothes. Both of you.” It’s Jayce speaking now. He looks to Mel, who’s naked body is stretched along the couch. Like a goddess amongst people, like she lived like this. She gives him a dip of her head, royal hand gesturing at you. Viktor beckons him forward, and softly pushes you back up to Jayce. You try to stand steady, confidently. He’s holding his arms out. As if he was only expecting a hug. His big arms surround you in warmth. He smells like oil and cinnamon and sweat. “I’m nervous too.” his voice reverberates through your body, his chest muffling the murmur you reply with. “But we’re in good hands aren’t we?” You nod and his hands are undoing the strings of your dress. It pools around your feet and despite the lack of clothes you were still too hot already. No bra tonight. You knew it would get in the way. Yet you still had a pair of underwear on. For posterity if not to show that you had nice lacey sets. To present you as a well groomed package. 

Viktor is standing again too, leaning over your shoulder to kiss his fellow scientist. His hands find your chest, your back, the hem of your underwear. He’s pulling them down, and you widen your stance. Lifting a leg when necessary. You were well-trained. You can hear a whine and it’s not your own. It’s Jayce’s. You can’t move. Not that you want to, you’re caught between the both of them, watching Mel watch the three of you. She had a third glass of wine in her hand. 

“Help him out Jayce.” Is all Mel has to say for him to pull away from you and circle behind Viktor. Scruffy kisses on your lover’s neck. You move to sit with Mel, tentatively taking the seat next to her. She’s looking at you with desire and playfulness. A cat with its toy. She sets her glass down and leans towards you. “Don’t be shy. Come here.” Her arms pull you to her, but just enough that she can push you down onto the couch. Your legs are parted open for her to lean in between. Her pretty arms caging you on either side of your head. “Look at them.” Her nose is nudging you to face Jayce and Viktor. The former had Viktor in the same position as you, his pants had been pulled off at some point, forgotten at the edge of the bed. Jayce was kissing him so softly, like you do. It pulls something in your chest. Something hungry. “They look good don’t they?” Her voice is like honey in your ear, soft bites at the column of your throat. 

“Can I touch you?” You barely get it out as a whisper. You feel her smile into your neck, a hand pulling your arm to her chest. An answer. You’re moving slowly, cataloging every curve and dip. You’re trailing down her stomach when she kisses you. She tastes like wine and salted caramel, the dessert from earlier sweetening her breath. You’re whining against her lips, especially when her hands settle on your waist. Your hips buck into hers and she pulls away.

“Do you want your lover back, Viktor?” You mewl at the loss of contact. You’d never kissed someone so soft before. So sweet. “She seems desperate.” She nips at your bottom lip on the last word. When you chase her lips with your own, she pushes you back down. “Uhn-uh-uh. Behave.” Mel doesn’t miss the way you gasp at that. “Eager to please, aren’t you?” You're nodding dumbly at that. Putty in her hands. You’re leaning into her again when she speaks. “Why don’t you go back to the bed and let the men take care of you. Such a pretty girl.” 

The two perk up at that. Separating. Viktor is sitting up, opening his legs and patting his lap. You feel sluggish, head spinning. So much movement happening in such little time. Mel helps you up, waiting for you to cross over before she lays back down. Watching. 

Viktor is holding your legs open with his own. rubbing soothing circles on your hips as Jayce leans down. His puppy dog demeanor is hard to believe when his eyes hold a sweltering heat in them. He looks at you before looking to his partner. You feel Viktor nod at the crook of your shoulder. He's kissing your neck, nibbling on your ear. And Jayce is leaving small love bites on the inside of your thigh. His breath fanning over your obvious arousal, cool on your hot skin.

He spreads you open, fingers dipping dangerously close to your true center. He doesn't push in, just holds you open and stares like it's the finest meal he'll have in years. Mel is watching from the couch, swirling her wine in one hand. When you catch her green gaze you whimper. She hums in response, eyes narrowing in delight.

“Go on Jayce, don't leave the poor girl waiting.” He dives in, slow circles of his tongue to start. The contact has you leaning into Viktor. His hands on your side, moving slowly up to your chest. You can feel him behind you, straining in his boxers. It's hard to think about anything and you've barely started. So many eyes were on you. Two sets of hands. 

"You taste so good” Jayce is slurring over his words, wet slurps against your core. His voice is deep with want. He's speeding up, still not delving into you more than the occasional slip of his tongue. He's focused on your clit, hands rubbing a ticklish spot behind your knees. 

"Tell us more, let her hear your devotion." Mel is trailing one jewelry adorned hand over her breast, she's laying on the couch. Propped up like the muse of a painting. Kneese barely parted. 

"So fucking good. Needed to be here like this. For you." He looks up at you, chin shining with your slick. 

He's growling against your flesh at the eye contact. Eating like a man starved and you can't hide your gasps any longer. You don't know what to say. You don't know if you're supposed to say anything. Viktor's hands find your breasts. Knuckles slowly dragging on the underside of them as he starts to grab at you. His long fingers kneading, pushing and pulling, letting the weight of them shift in his palms. He's whispering something you can't quite understand. Rutting against you when you push back at a hard suck on your clit. He's biting at your ear and your eyes screw shut. 

You're close, already, you realize this and the moan that leaves you is a high keening sound.

"Please."

"No dear, not yet." You open your eyes at that. Your breath is getting harder to control. It doesn't get any easier when you see Mel lower her hand to between her thighs. Her beautiful hand setting a slow pace for herself. She knows she's asking the impossible and offers you a painful mercy. "Jayce, come here." He doesn't move at first, he's still licking at you and you're breathing heavier as you approach the peak. She calls him again, firmer. Sharper. "Jayce." He pulls away, pupils blown open and eyes apologetic as he leaves you to sit with her. She pulls him towards her by his hand, down for a kiss. It's filthy, mouths open, you hear his groan when she deepens it. Your arousal is shared on both their lips now. 

Viktor taps your hip twice for you to get up. Standing on shaky legs you turn to face him. He's freeing himself from his boxers, lithe hands peeling the fabric away. You can't hide the hungry look in your eyes at how pretty he is. Length springing forward and caught in one hand as he beckons with another. You move to straddle him. 

"Impatient. Kneel." Simple words. Observation and command. You whine but follow his order. He's stroking himself slowly, amber eyes almost hidden by blown pupils. He smirks at you, his bottom lip red like he's been biting it this whole time. You're scooching closer to him. 

"Please” you ask again, voice wavering. He doesn't answer you, just puts his good leg forward. You know what he wants. You sit up, straightening your back as you set yourself on the shiny leather of his shoe. 

"Do not move." He tells you. Your legs are sore from being held open by him and Jayce. He knows that. His half-lidded eyes staring down, daring you to disobey. You do your best to listen. A shake has set in your legs as you sink down slowly. The cold of his shoe helps soothe you some. Not much. Want is growing in you by the second as you hear Jayce and Mel behind you. Mel is laughing at something and when you turn around you see why. Jayce is kissing her neck, his beard tickling her ear as he ruts against her stomach. Her elegant arms playing with his hair. He's whimpering, whispering pleas to be inside her. To be good for her. You clench around nothing.

"Don't look at them, look at me." A hand on your jaw. A thumb in your mouth. You're mumbling apologies around it. Tongue swirling around the digit. You're gently grabbing at Viktor’s wrist. Needing to be anchored, eyes watering at his disapproving tone. 

"Koloušek" his voice softens at the tears welling. "It is okay, you are doing so well."

"You just got distracted. It's okay, come here." He pulls you up. He's kissing your face, trailing his fingertips down your back. "Do you want to watch?" He whispers in your ear. You nod fervently. "They are pretty. Yes?" You're whining again, misdemeanor forgotten as heat settles in your core again. He turns you around like you were earlier, holding himself up in one hand. You've done this before. You sink onto him. Back to his chest. The action is slow, every inch of him stretching you open. You let loose a breath at the feeling, mouth opening. Viktor is groaning at the heat of you. When you're flush against him he wraps his arms around you. "Don't move love. Just watch them" you're so full and you feel like you're going stupid. 

He is so warm. Holding you tightly against him. He curses when he feels you clench around him, your walls fluttering when you see the two lovers before you. 

Mel is smiling at Jayce, he's already spent himself once on her chest and stomach. The contrast obvious on her skin. They are sitting up, and she's rubbing soothing shapes into his arm. He's nuzzling against her neck again, golden shoulders heaving as he takes deep breaths. She looks at you again, sitting on Viktor's cock. Her eyes are dragging over you, past his hold on you. To where you are connected.  He can't help a thrust when you tighten again, or a second when you let out the most pitiful whine that night. 

"Well aren't we lucky," she's looking at you but speaking to the Zaunite. "Such devoted lovers. Such good listeners." Viktor just hums, chest rumbling against your back. she's reaching down, grabbing hold of Jayce's softening erection. He jumps at the contact, leaning further into her touch. "What should we do?" This time the question is directed at you. She's pumping her hand up and down, softly kissing Jayce’s temples as she awaits your answer. 

"Let him fuck you." You're blushing hard, panting. You want to move so badly. You want to feel Viktor go in and out of you. You want Jayce to make Mel feel bliss. You want bliss. 

"Quite the command." An airy laugh before she lays back down. 

"Well?" She's looking to Jayce "Don't disappoint her." he's climbing over her, lifting her waist up with one arm, one hand curled on her hip as the other lines himself up. He's groaning when he pushes inside. Head falling back, mouth open. Hair stuck to his forehead. It's a beautiful sight. Her eyes fluttering shut as she wraps her legs around him. He's rocking slowly at first. Her little sounds of pleasure joining the heavy breathing of the room. Viktor starts moving too, one hand finding your clit and another holding your hand. Fingers intertwined as he begins to quicken his pace, grinding slow circles into your core, rubbing gently on your bud. It's too much, the visuals, the sounds, the sensation. You don't have time to warn him before you're cumming. You're crying out and squeezing his hand hard. He doesnt stop, just flips you on your back and fucks you through it. His balance is off, kneeling on his good leg. Letting his right leg hang off the bed. He's cursing as your back arches, forcing him deeper into you. "Fuck.” It's quiet at first but he repeats the word over and over as he gets closer. You're thrashing against the bed. It's too much.

Mel is egging Jayce on. You hear the couch start to creak. Telling him he's doing so good, that he feels so good. He's between cries and growling, obviously pushed over the edge too. You can hear his rough sob as he cums, and her gentle groan at the feeling of being filled by him.

Its’ too much. Viktor hasn't stopped either. His thrusts were getting sloppier but he hasn't stopped, you don't know how long you're like that. Dangling over another edge as he pumps into you. You feel a cool hand on your face, brushing hair out of your eyes. You know you must look a mess right now, fucked out of your mind. Someone is kissing you gently, the sensation opposite from how rough Viktor is going. Wine. You taste wine. Mel is kissing your face, telling you how good you're doing. "Do you know how fun it is to see you like this? Behaving so well for us." Jayce is behind her, holding on like he can't bear a second without her. He's eyes are on you. Still dark but soft. Tired and content. He's holding one of your hands rubbing a thumb into your palm. A second, softer orgasm rushes through you, your eyes are watering again.

Viktor's hips stutter at the feeling. He pulls out and strokes himself. Once. Twice. And paints your stomach in his release. He leans back, hands on your thighs as he collects his breath. He looks down at you, covered in him. At Mel cooing over your face. And Jayce pressing himself into both of you. Jayce looks at him, his other arm raised for him to join. He's sore. Exhaustion setting quickly in the room. Talks of everyone bathing later fading as he settles on the bed next to you.

Despite the stickiness of everyone's skin, it's a comfortable piling that happens. A tender silence that fills the room. Breaths even out, soft caresses for everyone’s come down. The first of many nights like this. 

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[moongirlcleo]

Defying Gravity

❤︎  tags and content: evol use, slightly dubcon because alcohol, f!reader, oral, face riding ❤︎  author note: check out all my fics by searching #moongirlcleo or on AO3

🔞NSFW content - Minors DNI 🔞 Dividers: @cafekitsune  Fic: @moongirlcleo 

You were just trying to cook dinner. Caleb was just stopping by.

One glass of wine later, and suddenly you’re pinned to the wall, floating in midair, and realizing that his Evol isn’t just good for combat.

Turns out, telekinetic boyfriends have very creative ways to ruin you.

And he’s not letting you go until he’s had his fill.

The aroma of simmering spices fills your apartment as you stir the pot on the stove, humming softly to your favorite tune. The evening is calm, the city lights casting a warm glow through your kitchen window.

A familiar series of knocks echoes from your front door—Caleb's signature rhythm. Your heart skips a beat, a smile tugging at your lips.

"Come in, it's open!" you call out, wiping your hands on a towel.

The door creaks open, and Caleb steps inside, his presence commanding as always. He shrugs off his jacket, revealing the silver necklace with the apple charm you gave him years ago, resting against his chest.

"Something smells amazing," he remarks, his deep voice sending a pleasant shiver down your spine.

You chuckle, turning back to the stove. "Just trying out a new recipe. Hope you're hungry."

He moves closer, the warmth of his body radiating as he stands beside you. "Starving," he murmurs, but the way his eyes trace over you suggests he's not just talking about the food.

As you reach for a spice jar on the top shelf, you find it just out of your grasp. Before you can stretch further, you feel a subtle shift in the air. The jar lifts gently off the shelf, floating down into your hand.

You glance at Caleb, who smirks, his fingers twitching slightly—a telltale sign of his gravity manipulation at work.

"Show-off," you tease, but your voice is breathier than you intended.

He steps closer, his chest brushing against your back, his breath warm against your ear. "Just making things easier for you," he murmurs, his hands settling on your hips.

The simmering tension lingers between you, but for now, you refocus on the meal, stirring the pot with a determined effort to steady your hands. Caleb doesn’t make it easy, though—his presence is a gravitational force of its own, pulling your awareness toward him even as you try to act normal.

“Alright, pilot boy, if you’re so ‘starving,’ set the table,” you say, tossing him a playful smirk.

He chuckles, stepping back just enough to let you breathe again, but there’s something in his gaze—something amused, something knowing. “Yes, ma’am,” he teases, rolling up his sleeves before moving to grab the plates.

As you finish plating the food, Caleb uncorks the bottle of wine you had chilling on the counter. You arch a brow as he pours two glasses, lifting one toward you with a smirk. “A little celebration? For what?” you ask, tilting your head.

He clinks his glass against yours with a lazy grin. “For new recipes and good company.”

You huff a laugh, but there’s warmth in your chest as you take a sip. The wine is smooth, just enough to start loosening the edges of your thoughts, making the already potent chemistry between you and Caleb feel even more electrified.

The conversation flows easily—old memories, inside jokes, teasing remarks that toe the line between playful and suggestive. He watches you with that signature smirk, light violet eyes gleaming whenever you get flustered under his attention.

Somewhere between the second glass of wine and the last bites of dinner, Caleb leans back in his chair, stretching lazily, his gaze heavy on you. “Didn’t think I’d ever get to see you all domestic like this,” he muses, voice dipping into something lower, something indulgent.

You scoff, but your stomach flutters at the way he’s looking at you. “I can be domestic and still kick your ass, you know.”

He chuckles, swirling the wine in his glass before setting it down. “Oh, I believe it.” Then, leaning forward, elbows on the table, he tilts his head. “But I do wonder… do you always look this good when you cook?”

Your breath catches.

The air shifts again, and this time, you know it’s not just the wine.

You wet your lips, heartbeat thrumming faster. “Are you flirting with me, Colonel?”

His smirk deepens. “That depends,” he murmurs, voice smooth as silk. “Is it working?”

The heat in the room has nothing to do with the stove anymore.

You take another slow sip of your wine, eyes locked on Caleb over the rim of your glass. The warmth from the alcohol has settled deep in your veins, dulling the hesitation that might’ve held you back before. Your mind feels looser, freer—your body humming with a delicious awareness of him.

You set your glass down, tilting your head as you watch him, your own smirk playing at your lips. “You know, for all that confidence, I don’t see you making a move,” you muse, resting your chin in your hand. “What’s the matter, Colonel? Scared?”

Caleb’s brows lift slightly, but his smirk doesn’t waver. In fact, it deepens. “Oh, pipsqueak,” he drawls, his voice smooth like honey, but laced with something sharper, something dangerous. “You’re playing a risky game.”

You shift in your seat, leaning forward slightly, your hand trailing over the stem of your wine glass absentmindedly. “Am I?” you challenge, voice just a little too sweet. “Or are you just all talk?”

The moment the words leave your lips, his violet eyes darken, and the air between you tightens like a wire pulled taut. Caleb lets out a soft, amused huff, running his tongue over his teeth as he watches you with barely concealed intrigue.

“You really want to test me, huh?” he murmurs, his voice dipping lower.

You shrug, feigning nonchalance, though your pulse betrays you with how fast it’s beating. “What can I say? I like a challenge.”

The scrape of Caleb’s chair against the floor is the only warning you get before he’s moving. One moment, he’s across the table—the next, he’s right in front of you, bracing his hands on either side of your seat, caging you in. The heat of him seeps into your skin, his scent—a mix of leather, something faintly smoky, and a hint of the wine—flooding your senses.

Your breath hitches, but you refuse to back down, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze.

Caleb’s smirk softens into something slower, something more deliberate. “Careful what you wish for, pipsqueak,” he murmurs, his voice a whisper against your lips. “I don’t do half-measures.”

Your fingers twitch against the table, aching to close the remaining space between you.

You meet his gaze, lips curling in challenge. “Then don’t hold back.”

Caleb’s smirk deepens, his violet gaze flickering with something dark and unreadable. Without another word, he takes your wrist, his grip firm but unhurried as he pulls you up from your seat. The wine glass clinks softly against the table as you abandon it, but you barely register the sound—your whole world narrows to the man leading you down the hall, his presence searing into your skin like a live wire.

The moment you cross the threshold into your room, Caleb moves.

You're barely aware of your back hitting the wall, breath catching as he cages you in with his body. His hands land on either side of your head, his heat overwhelming, his scent invading every breath.

"You like playing with fire, don’t you?" he murmurs, voice low, teasing, dangerous. His eyes trace the curve of your lips, the way your chest rises and falls with each shallow breath. "Thing is, pipsqueak…"

Your body suddenly feels weightless.

The realization hits you at the same time your feet leave the ground—Caleb’s Evol wraps around you, a phantom force pressing into your limbs, holding you effortlessly against the wall as if gravity itself had no claim on you anymore. Your hands instinctively reach for him, but they find only air, your body suspended, restrained, at his mercy.

A startled gasp escapes you, but the rush of heat curling low in your stomach betrays just how much you like this.

Caleb chuckles, dragging his fingers down your exposed throat, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the way your pulse flutters under his touch. "You're not so bold now," he muses, his smirk widening. "That’s cute."

Your breath shudders, heat blooming across your skin as he trails his fingers lower, playing with the hem of your top.

“You had a lot to say back at the table,” he murmurs, voice like silk, pulling the fabric up inch by inch. "So tell me, pipsqueak—"

His lips brush your ear, his breath warm, teasing.

"Should I take my time with you? Or are you too impatient for that?"

Your pulse thrums beneath your skin, the weightlessness of your body amplifying every sensation. Suspended against the wall, your breath comes in shallow, heated gasps as Caleb’s fingers ghost up your sides, teasing, barely there. The smirk never leaves his lips, his violet gaze heavy with intent.

Your voice wavers, but you manage, “W-What are you gonna do to me?”

Caleb chuckles lowly, the sound rich and amused, yet dripping with promise. He leans in, his nose brushing along the curve of your jaw, making you shiver beneath his touch.

“I’ll show you,” he murmurs.

The moment hangs between you, electric, before his hands slip under the fabric of your shirt, gliding up your stomach, his touch setting fire to your skin. With agonizing slowness, he pushes the material up, his fingers dragging against you in a way that’s entirely deliberate, entirely teasing. His Evol keeps you aloft, completely at his mercy, and the realization sends another jolt of heat through your core.

One arm lifts your shirt over your head before he makes quick work of unclasping your bra, tossing it aside with a smirk. His gaze flickers over your exposed form, his pupils dilating as he drinks you in. You squirm, but there’s nowhere to go—his power holds you firmly in place, a reminder of just how easily he controls the space between you.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, dragging his knuckles down your ribs before settling them on your hips. “Already breathless, and I haven’t even started.”

Your thighs clench, anticipation coiling tight in your stomach. Caleb notices, of course he does, and his smirk turns downright sinful. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your pants, peeling them down inch by inch until they fall to the floor, pooling around your ankles. Your panties follow, slow and torturous, leaving you utterly bare before him.

He steps back just enough to admire his work, his Evol keeping you suspended as he runs a hand through his tousled brunette hair. “You’re perfect,” he murmurs, his voice dipping into something dangerously smooth, reverent even. “And all mine.”

Before you can even process the words, he’s dropping to his knees.

The sight alone makes your breath hitch, but it’s the first brush of his lips against your inner thigh that sends a tremor through you. He takes his time, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin, dragging his teeth ever so slightly, just enough to make you whimper.

Caleb groans, as if your reaction fuels him, and then—oh.

His mouth is on you.

The first flick of his tongue is slow, testing, before he delves in properly, devouring you like a man starved. The strength keeping you weightless wavers just slightly, like even his concentration is slipping, but it only makes the moment feel even more raw, more desperate.

He groans against you, the vibration sending white-hot pleasure straight through your core. His grip tightens around your thighs, keeping you spread for him as he drinks in every gasp, every shuddering moan, every delicious sound that falls from your lips.

You have no choice but to take it.

Caleb hums against your heat, the vibrations making your whole body jolt. His grip tightens against your thighs, keeping you exactly where he wants you—where he needs you. He’s still kneeling, still devouring you like he has all the time in the world, but there’s something shifting in his energy now. Something hungrier.

Then, without warning, his Evol pulses through the room.

A weightless sensation overtakes you again, but this time, it’s different. You’re being lifted, his power adjusting your position until your legs are slung over his shoulders, your body hovering just above him. His hands leave your thighs, and you realize—he’s not even holding you anymore. He doesn’t need to.

He leans back against the wall, exhaling like he’s pleased with himself, his violet gaze locked on you as he settles in. A slow, lazy smirk stretches across his lips, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths.

Then he spreads his arms, completely relaxed, completely in control.

“Go on, pipsqueak,” he purrs, voice low, sultry, dripping with wicked amusement. “Ride my face.”

Your stomach flips, heat pooling between your legs at the sheer audacity of his words. Your mouth parts to say something—anything—but before you can, the pressure of his Evol shifts again, pulling you down, guiding you onto his waiting mouth.

Your gasp shatters through the room.

His tongue is relentless, moving against you with precision, with purpose. He tilts his head slightly, angling himself just right to drag his tongue over your most sensitive spot, flicking, circling, devouring. Your fingers grasp at nothing, searching for something to hold onto, but all you have is the weightless suspension of his power keeping you exactly where he wants you.

And Caleb?

Caleb is enjoying every second of it.

One of his hands drifts down his own body, slipping under the waistband of his pants, palming himself with a low, satisfied groan. The sound sends a shiver through you, your legs threatening to tremble around his head, but his power keeps you steady, keeps you moving.

He’s making you ride his face—without even touching you.

The way he moans against you, the way his hips roll up into his own hand, the way his violet eyes flicker up to watch your expression through the mess of his golden hair—it’s sinful. He’s lost in it, lost in the pleasure of pleasing you, lost in the taste of you, lost in the raw, electric tension that crackles between you both.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he groans, breaking away just enough to rasp the words against your skin before diving back in.

Your whole body clenches, the pleasure overwhelming, the weightlessness making it all the more intense. He’s pushing you higher, pulling you deeper into the sensation, making sure you have nowhere to go except exactly where he wants to take you.

And the way he’s touching himself, the way he’s teasing his own release while dragging you closer to yours—

It’s utterly, devastatingly unfair.

And you love it.

Caleb’s grip on you—his Evol—tightens, keeping you suspended above him as his mouth works you over like a man possessed. The way he’s touching himself, the way his breath shudders against your skin every time he groans, it’s intoxicating.

His violet gaze flicks up, watching you from beneath thick lashes, pupils blown wide with need. He loves this. Loves seeing you helpless under his control, loves the way your body twitches when he sucks your clit between his lips and flicks his tongue just right.

"Caleb—" your voice breaks on his name, a plea, a warning, a desperate cry for more.

His smirk is filthy against you. “More?” His voice is muffled, but the teasing lilt is undeniable. “I thought you wanted to take your time, pipsqueak.” His Evol tugs your hips, grinding you down against his mouth, dragging another sharp cry from your lips. “But you’re so needy now. What happened?”

Your head tilts back, mouth falling open as he devours you, his tongue rolling slow and deep, alternating between torturous licks and sharp, focused flicks. He wants you to fall apart, wants to unravel you piece by piece. And the worst part? He’s not even touching you with his hands anymore. They’re still wrapped around himself, stroking with lazy, deliberate motions, hips bucking ever so slightly as he moans against you.

That sound—that sound—sends you spiraling.

The sheer audacity of him, pleasuring himself while pleasuring you, basking in the taste of you like he’s getting off on it. Like he’s so incredibly into this that he doesn’t need anything else.

You claw at the air, searching for purchase, but there’s nothing—only the delicious weightlessness of his power keeping you exactly where he wants you. He owns this moment, owns you, and he knows it.

His pace quickens, his tongue working you with ruthless precision, his own hand pumping faster. His grip on you tightens, guiding your movements, making you rock against his face until you’re gasping, until you’re right on the edge, until all you can hear is the slick sounds of his mouth against you, his breathless groans vibrating against your core.

“Caleb—” your voice is strangled, desperate.

His Evol tugs—one last push, one last command—and you’re gone.

Your body seizes, the pleasure crashing over you in waves so intense you almost sob. Your back arches, your hands flying to your own body as if trying to ground yourself, but there’s nothing, just sensation, just him controlling every second of it.

Caleb groans deep in his throat, savoring every shudder, every clench of your body around nothing, every choked moan of his name. His hips jerk into his own grip, his pace turning frantic.

"Fuck, look at you," he rasps, his voice wrecked. "You’re so beautiful like this."

Then, with a final, guttural groan, he comes hard, his body tensing beneath you, his breath catching as he spills over his hand. His Evol flickers, tightening around you just slightly before releasing you, letting you sink down onto him, boneless and wrecked.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of heavy breathing, of your bodies coming down from the high, of the soft hum of his power still lingering in the air.

As the haze of pleasure slowly lifts, you find yourself sinking onto Caleb’s lap, completely spent. His arms move instantly, catching you with ease, his Evol dissipating as he gathers you against his chest. His breathing is still uneven, his body still warm from exertion, but there’s something softer in his touch now—something careful, reverent.

“You good, pipsqueak?” His voice is lower now, husky but gentle, a quiet contrast to the raw dominance from moments before. One of his hands slides up your spine, fingers tracing soothing circles between your shoulder blades, grounding you. “I didn’t push too hard, did I?”

You hum against him, still too blissed out to form a proper sentence. Instead, you nuzzle into his neck, inhaling the faint, lingering scent of cologne and something so unmistakably Caleb—something safe.

His chuckle rumbles through you, the vibration making you smile. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He shifts slightly, his free hand reaching for a nearby throw blanket. In one fluid motion, he drapes it over you both, tucking you in like you’re something precious.

“Didn’t know you were such a cuddler,” you tease, your voice coming out softer than you expected.

Caleb scoffs, but there’s no real bite to it. “I just blew your mind, and that’s what you’re focusing on?”

You smirk, though you’re sure it’s lazy, content. “Mm. Maybe.”

His hand moves to your hair, his fingers combing through it in slow, rhythmic motions. “Well, don’t go telling everyone,” he murmurs, lips pressing the faintest kiss to your temple. “Can’t have people thinking I’m soft.”

You lift your head just enough to meet his gaze, catching the slight glint of amusement in his violet eyes. “Oh, you’re definitely soft right now.” Your teasing glance flickers downward, and he groans dramatically, rolling his eyes.

“You’re lucky I love you.”

You grin, pressing your forehead against his as a contented sigh slips from your lips. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I think I am.”

For a while, there’s nothing but the steady sound of his heartbeat, the warmth of his body against yours, the quiet way he holds you like he’s afraid to let go. It’s a stark contrast to the way he’d claimed you earlier, but somehow, this feels just as intense.

His fingers skim down your arm, tracing light patterns into your skin. “Let me stay the night,” he murmurs, almost absentmindedly. But then he clears his throat, adding quickly, “Not because I don’t think I can make it home or anything—just, y’know… no rush.”

You bite back a smile, nestling closer. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you don’t want  to leave.”

He exhales a quiet laugh, his fingers still playing with your hair. “Maybe.”

And with the way he’s holding you now, you think maybe you don’t want him to leave either.

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Ludos Imperiales 12

A/N: Me posting on schedule for once?? And finally adding a Cassian moment??

Content Warning: Descriptions of Injuries, Mentions of Blood/Torture/Slavery

Previous Chapter/Masterlist

-----------------

Cassian’s sitting up when I return in the late afternoon the next morning with enough mirthroot to get half the city high, his eyes bloodshot, rimmed with circles so dark I’m not convinced they aren’t bruises. 

“You haven’t slept,” I say by way of greeting. 

A shadow of stubble already crawls across his dirt streaked face, as if time is passing faster for him than for the others. Azriel’s wounds are the worst. They’d taken that flagrum to his already broken wings and I’m shit out of luck with how to treat such delicate limbs. I’d bandaged them best I could last night, and have come back this morning with enough coin to bribe the Arena’s healer into doing what I can’t, the least I can do is ease the other’s pain while they wait for their turn to be properly looked at. 

Cassian’s gaze drags to me like his eyes are made of lead. He’d let me touch his wings last night out of necessity, the bandages I’d set in place barely clinging on now. Sometime in the last couple of hours he’d managed to crawl into an upright position so he could watch the door, a fresh wave of blood dribbling down his sides to form a small puddle in the mud beneath him. “‘M fine.”

I approach slowly. He hadn’t said a word other than “fuck me” from the pressure of the bandages last night, had just gritted his teeth and accepted that I was the only one coming to help ensure he kept his wings. It was abundantly clear he’d allowed it out of necessity. Now that he can hear the healer making a fuss in Azriel’s cell, I’m unsure how necessary he’ll think I am.

“I brought something to help with the pain,” I say as I kneel in front of him. 

He watches me like I’m a snake coiled to strike. “Give it to Az.”

I place a worn leather satchel between us, the lip falling away to reveal a bottle of temetum and the multiple packs of mirthroot I’d acquired. His hazel eyes flick briefly to the bottle of undiluted wine before coming back to me. A move that would have been harder to track if he wasn’t so exhausted.

“I’ve got plenty to share. Take your pick.”

“Wine would be nice, I guess.”

At least he’s speaking to me. I uncork the bottle and hold it out to him. Finding cups was too time consuming, I’d figured they’d need a lot anyway, the three of them could easily finish off the bottle. 

He tries to take it, arm muscles so tight they’re shaking, but he can’t lift his arm very high off the floor before his face twists in pain. The whip had torn through both his wings and his back, it must have hit muscle somewhere. 

I move despite my better judgement, a hand on his bicep to steady him as he bites down on his lip to keep quiet. “Shit, here, let me help you.” I bring the bottle to his lips and tip it back, letting the crimson colored liquid slip slowly over the top.

I’ve never been more aware of him. The underlying scent of snow-chilled wind and crackling embers, heavy even under the coppery scent of blood and sweat clinging to his skin. The sheer size of him, every bit of him hard and sculpted for battle. I knew it; I’d seen it in action, but I was practically in his lap, watching every swallow he took as he drank the wine down like it might be his last chance at tasting it, and I realized I’d never been so close.

When I pull the bottle away from his cracked lips to let him catch his breath, his head falls forward just enough that for the briefest of moments, our foreheads touch. A breath shakes out of him, labored and heavy, and pained. 

Instinctively, the hand not holding the bottle reaches up to push a loose strand of sweat slicked hair off his cheek, where it falls in his eyes. His stubble is rough against the smooth skin of my palm, my fingertips gently tracing the swell of his cheek as I tuck it behind his ear. He doesn’t protest my touch like I expect him to.

“Thank you,” he whispers before pulling away. 

I want more. Damn me! Now that I’ve had a taste I can’t stop myself from wanting to trace more of him with my fingertips. I want to feel those damaged lips on mine, chasing the taste of wine away with my tongue. 

I lean back on my heels instead. “Do you want the mirthroot?”

Azriel screams from his cell, reality chasing away any lingering fantasies about what we can do down here. The bond echoes with his pain as the Healer calls for the Guard to help hold Azriel down so he can work. 

“Go help him,” Cassian says instead. “Please.”

Having them all in one place would make this so much easier, but I doubt we’ll ever be that lucky again. The odds are leaning towards individual matches in the future, I doubt the Emperor will ever let the mistake of letting them save each other happen again. 

Azriel’s screaming is getting more intense by the second and Cassian looks like he might try to stand and go to him if I don’t, so I make quick work of shouldering my way into Azriel’s quickly crowding cell. Two Guards have come to hold him down by the shoulders; his thrashing has knocked off most of the bandages I’d placed last night, blood flowing freely from the tattered membrane. His wings look like an old, tattered piece of cloth.

Between the three males, they’ve managed to get Azriel off the floor and onto the iron bunk welded to the wall, but the movement must have been excruciating because there’s a fresh puddle of vomit on the floor. I have to skirt around it to crouch in front of Az, where his chin sits against the edge of the bunk. 

I take his face in my hands. “Look at me.” His skin is hot to the touch, sweat dripping down his forehead as his body tries to fight off an infection.

He drags his eyes open, scarred hands fumbling to take hold of my wrists. “Make it stop. Make them stop.” He begs.

My heart clenches painfully tight in my chest. “They’re going to help you.”

His grip on my wrists is a vice as he tries to shake his head, the chain around his throat rattling. It has effectively cut him off from his shadows, the little creatures nowhere to be found now. The loss of their ever constant presence must feel like losing a limb. “Don’t let them take my wings!”

The fever’s making him delirious, but his panic is very much a real, thrashing thing down the bond. “They’re not going to take your wings, I promise.”

“I need to get to work-” the Healer starts.

“Shut up,” I hiss. “You didn’t even try to give him something for the pain first!” A bit of my darkness seeps out of my heels, hissing along the floor like their appearance might make up for my mate’s lack of shadows. 

The cell trembles around us, dust raining down from the ceiling. I don’t try to reign it in this time. The Guard will tell the Emperor about this, and I will tell him it’s all part of my plan. 

With some bullying of the guard I get my hands on some hot rocks in order to diffuse some of the mirthroot faster, letting the vapor rise like incense off the edge of the bunk. The smoke clouds the area around Azriel’s head, the high almost immediate. His hazel eyes glaze over, body relaxing as he slumps on the bunk.

I drift my fingers through his hair. “You’re going to be ok.” This is not the time to cry. The amount of things shooting down my bond with all three of them is a lot when they’re in this state, it’s taking everything I have to keep my own emotions in check, to not be swept away in the tidal wave of pain and fear that threatens to drag me under. 

I give myself a little shake. I have to be strong for them. “The Healer will help.”

Azriel groans, scarred hand reaching up to brush absent patterns along my wrist. “Hurts,” he slurs against the effects of the mirthroot.

“I know. It’ll be over soon.” I motion the Healer back over with my chin and the male has the good sense to look a little hesitant in getting so close to me.

I reign my darkness back in, little by little until it’s gone. The Guards share a look and I know this will get back to my Father eventually. I’ll have to be clever in my explanation; better yet, I should save myself the headache and go over to the Palace once I’m done here. It’ll keep me ahead, let me spin the narrative in a way that doesn’t make me look so bad in his eyes.

The Healer starts working and I instinctively intertwine my fingers with my mate, letting him squeeze as hard as he needs as the male starts dripping oils down his raw back. When Azriel whimpers in pain again, I set more mirthroot over the hot rocks. Everyone in the cell’s going to be high as hell by the time it’s all said and done, but it keeps Azriel from screaming, his breathing even as he drifts in and out of consciousness. 

Even as he starts to doze off, he doesn’t let go of my hand, his grip still firm and steady. I use my free hand to trace the grooves and ridges of his scars, the pattern like a map of valleys and hills. I wonder if he can even feel my touch, or if his nerves are permanently fried. I’d never thought to ask.

“Such delicate things, wings,” the Healer muses as he works. “You’d think something meant to carry a body this large would be less fragile.”

I tear my gaze away from Azriel’s hands to glare at him. “You will save them.” There is no room for debate here. 

The Healer rolls his eyes at me. “Sound like your Father.”

“Then you know what’s at stake if you mess this up,” I hiss in return. I won’t let the sting of the insult land. If that’s the monster I have to make myself out to be to ensure they are healed, so be it. There is no depth in Hel I won’t descend to to ensure their survival.

Azriel’s fully dozing now, his breathing even, body relaxed. I genuinely don’t know how he has the strength to still be holding my hand. 

The Guards leave when they see they’re not needed, I can hear them tormenting the other gladiators down the hall. 

The Healer makes slow work, between weaving strands of glittering magic along the frayed ends of Azriel’s wings and applying oils and antiseptics and bandages afterwards. Time becomes a steady unfurling of white bandages and blood. I keep myself busy by combing the knots out of my mate’s hair with my fingers; anything I can to ensure he knows, even in sleep that I’m here. I wish I could do more.

The Healer’s eyes are rimmed with dark circles by the time he’s done, the strain of that much magic clearly taking a toll. 

White bandages cover every inch of Azriel’s wings, and there’s more along his back, sticky from the oils. There’s not enough skin left to be stitched back together, the wounds will have to be cleaned and dressed over and over until they can heal on their own. A thought that makes me shutter. They need to be somewhere clean to avoid infection at all costs. It’ll be months before they’re able to fight again. Months before they’re able to be up and moving at all. And I know that it’s months we don’t have. 

I have to find a way to buy them time.

I toss the Healer the first round of coin. He’ll get the full amount once he’s done with each of them, to ensure he’ll properly comply with my many demands. I’m going to need a lot more to bribe him to do this daily if I can’t find a way to get them back to the River House. 

“This is a whole lot of work for a couple of slaves,” the Healer grumbles. 

It takes everything in me not to blow the roof off the place. 

---

Joining my Father for dinner is surely a mistake, but I don’t see what other choice I have. Besides, it’s not like I can go home. Not without being drugged again. 

The Emperor lounges on plush pillows, propped up by scantly dressed servants and fanned with palm fronds by others. There’s a feast large enough to feed the city spread out before them, barely touched as he focuses all his attention on a plate of roasted chicken and a never ending supply of wine. 

My cousins join him today, on his left, reclining against each other. Brannagh eyes me with enough contempt to remind me that the last we’d spoken directly, I’d accused her of sleeping with Dagdan. The fact that his throat is littered with hickeys does nothing to prove me wrong. 

Amarantha arrives after we’ve started, huffing an excuse about dealing with a prison riot.

The five of us make a sorry excuse for company. Dagdan won’t stop rambling one nonsense story after the other, most of which annoy Amarantha so badly she has no choice but to dispute his claims. There’s little room for the rest of us to get a word in.

I have not missed these. 

The food sits heavy in my stomach; all I can think about is how I had to bribe the Guard to ensure my mates even got a meal, should they wake up to eat it after the amount of mirthroot it took to get them comfortable. Rhys had finished off the bottle of wine before the Healer was done. 

“I tell you the male ripped the beast a part with his bare hands!” Dagdan finishes. I don’t know what the rest of the story was, I’d tuned him out, filling the noise in my skull with my second wine glass of the evening. 

The Emperor seemed surprised by my visit, but he hasn’t said a word about it yet, despite the way those slate gray eyes watch my every move.

“I can assure you, he didn’t,” Amarantha counters. “Leon has got to be the worst Gladiator Beron has ever produced in those grimy little Pits he runs in Autumn.”

“You haven’t been to those Pits in some time,” Dagdan refutes. “They are much better run than they used to be.”

“You sink too much money into false hopes, boy,” the Emperor chastises, but his gaze remains fixed on me when he speaks. 

“None as much as my dear cousin,” Dagdan sneers. 

“I’m sure you’ve nearly drained your purse on those brutes by now,” Brannagh says with a laugh.

Amarantha eyes me curiously. 

“My purse is fine,” I say dismissively, hoping to end this conversation here and now.

“How are your little pets?” Amarantha presses. 

I absently stab at a piece of roasted vegetable. Telling her their actual condition might leave room for her to try and do something to them; lying might send someone down to confirm my story. “Recovering,” I say, trying to find a middle ground between the two. “I’ll be lucky if the Shadowsinger can fly after this.”

“Wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t cheated,” Father says as one of his serving girls wipes a bit of wine out of his greying beard.

“It’s going to cost me a lot to fix, is all,” I say, using the excuse of biting my food to hide the way my jaw tenses. 

“I heard you were down there with them this morning,” he inquires.

Amarantha places her elbows on the table as she leans forward like she might miss this new bit of gossip.

Beside me, Dagdan frowns about being forgotten so quickly.

“I was.” I take another sip of wine to hide how dry my mouth suddenly feels. “It was fairly easy in the state they were in to convince them I had defied you to see them. I’d say their trust in me is fully cemented. They’ll start telling me things soon enough.”

“I want to know what Rhysand had planned after taking Illyria from me,” the Emperor says. It’s by far the closest he’s ever come to trusting me with political matters. “Surely he couldn’t have intended to push us out of the territory alone. His fighting men are strong, but it’s not enough of an army. He had to have been planning on aid from somewhere.”

I nod as I chew on another bite of food, pretending to think it over.

“His men have revealed nothing,” Amarantha sighs as she stabs at her plate with more force than necessary. “We’ve had to get creative with our methods to get them to talk and even under duress their… loyalty,” she spits out the word like its poison, “has won out.”

My chest constricts. Were the crucifixions not creative enough? Was making them walk here, chained and naked and beaten from Illyria not enough? We were torturing them now too?

“I can always put my talents to use,” Brannagh offers, tapping a manicured nail against her forehead. 

“Maybe they don’t know,” I offer. “Rhysand is secretive, allusive even to me. Maybe he held that card close to the vest for their protection.” I don’t like putting him directly in the line of fire, but I know what he would do if he was here, what he would offer to keep Brannagh’s hands off his men. All of them would offer themselves as a target to keep them safe. I can act for them in this.

“Give me a few more days, let me see what I can get out of him before you resort to that.”

“Awfully protective of these Illyrians, aren’t we?” Amarantha accuses.

“I’m merely thinking of the losses,” I counter. 

What was it my Father had always said? “A slave is more expensive to replace than to keep alive.”

To which the male raises his cup in salute before downing it in one gulp. The wine is quickly refilled.

“For once you were paying attention,” he praises.

The food sits heavier in my stomach. For so long that was all I’d ever wanted, for him to be proud of me, for him to see that I was trying my hardest to be the daughter he needed to me. I’d craved the faintest scrap of his attention for so long it had nearly destroyed me. To hear it now, to see what I would have had to become to earn it…

This whole Empire is a poison. It ruins everything it touches. 

“Brannagh, Dagdan, you may leave us.”

The twins look surprised by the sudden shift in conversation. Surely they thought they were going to be given an opportunity.

“But-”

He waves a hand at them. “We have matters to discuss that don’t concern you. Go. I’ll send for you if I need you.”

Brannagh grits her teeth as she stands, her eyes, the same shade as my Father’s narrowed in on me as if this is my fault. I supposed, in my absence, she’s gotten used to standing in my place, to being recognized. With me here now, there’s not as much room. The admiration of the Empire can only hold so many people. I fear I’ve made a bigger enemy out of her than I meant to.

Dagdan’s mouth opens and closes like he might say something, then thinks better of it. After his drunken outburst yesterday he knows he doesn’t have the sway he needs to be here.

They leave with their arms linked together, like the weight of the dismissal is too much for them to carry alone.

The glare Brannagh throws over her shoulder as the doors start to close tells me I need to be aware of just how many enemies I’m making these days.

“I need to make sure you are prepared for this task you’ve set out to do,” Father says once they’re gone.

My heart stutters in my chest. “What do you mean?”

“This information will not just come to you, if you intend to appeal to this bond they think they have with you and get the information we need, you need to make some… adjustments.”

Amarantha watches me over the rim of her glass.

“What are you suggesting?”

“Torture clearly won’t work,” he explains. “And it would ruin this trust they have in you. You need to be more persuasive in your approach, I think.”

“The faster we have results, the easier to deal with this mess will be,” Amarantha adds.

“And you’re in a… unique position.”

I don’t rub my temples like I want to. “Speak plainly, please.”

“Seduce them.”

I accidentally drop my fork, the clang of it hitting the plate deafening in the wide space.

“It's what they want from you anyway, what a mating bond demands happen. If you can convince them that you’re as desperate to be with them as they are you, they’ll tell you more readily. More secrets have been spilled in bed chambers than in temples.”

“Plenty of sponsors reap the benefits of their champions anyway, it would not be out of the norm,” Amarantha shrugs.

Bile rises in my throat. “Aren’t you still in the process of marrying me off?” 

“Romulus is intrigued by you, but he will not ask for your hand while you are tied to them. You ruined that chance.” He takes another long drink of wine, clearly displeased with that fact. “Tamlin and Eris are still competing, but what they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

I take another long drink of wine. “I’ll need them returned to my care at the River House. Attempting to do anything in the Arena barracks could lend ear to gossip and that could poorly affect a marriage proposal.”

“You can take Rhysand back, not all three of them.”

Any sort of excitement that I’d managed to actually pull this off fades in an instant. 

“They’ve proven that being together is dangerous.”

“They are not fools, they will see through this arrangement,” I try to argue, but he cuts me off with a raised hand.

“You have proven to be equally as unpredictable and I need assurances that you are not playing me just as you are them. I know what a bond is capable of, I have seen plenty of children turn on their parents for a mate. Prove yourself useful with Rhysand and then perhaps I will find a usefulness for the others. Until that time, they stay with the other gladiators.”

“They need a clean environment to heal if you are to keep them as gladiators.”

“This is not a debate. It is a test. You’ve revealed a weakness in yourself. Show me it isn’t one.”

“There are plenty of other ways for us to get results if you’re incapable,” Amarantha says with a shrug. “I don’t personally think you’re capable of separating your feelings on the matter, but I’m eager to sit back and watch it burn.”

My cheeks burn but I bite my tongue.

“I’ll get the results we need when you fail.”

“I won’t fail,” I say through my teeth. 

But it’s certainly going to take a lot more than I’d anticipated to play this Game, and play it correctly. Hell, I still have to find a way to get this to work around Anise! And manage to go back and forth between the House and here to ensure Azriel and Cassian are safe.

I don’t rub the tension headache building in my temples. I don’t let the mask slip. I raise my glass in mock toast to my Father. “Here’s to ensuring the safety of the Empire.” The wine helps the unease lodged in my throat go down a little easier. I’m going to need a lot more before this is done.

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Sorry this chapter is so short, I was debating on the direction I was headed, so I just needed to set some things up. As always, let me know if you want to be added to the tag list and thank you all for sticking with me this far! <3

[torpublishinggroup]

This advertisement is for Swordcrossed by Freya Marske.

WHAT’S IT ABOUT

Mattinesh Jay is the chronically responsible eldest son and dutiful heir striving to keep his family’s business running. Luca Piere is a menace of a con artist desperately trying to escape his past by taking up the blade. When the pair meet, swords clash, and sparks fly. Soon, they’re entangled in a conspiracy that may bring Matti’s house to ruin if they don’t work together.

Want to see if it’s to your liking? We’ve included an excerpt from chapter one below.

Chapter 1 Matti laid his fingers on the polished edge of the bar’s wooden surface and forced himself to stop counting sheep. And yards of twill. And looms in need of repair, and outstanding debts.

Instead, he counted today’s collection of ink smudges, bruise-black on the brown skin of his hands: six. He counted the number of blue dyes that would have been used in the fabric of the bartender’s layered skirt: four, possibly five if the palest shade was true dimflower and not just the result of fading.

The tense throb of pain like a fist clenched in his hair eased, grudgingly, to a quiet ache. Bearable. Normal.

It was busy in the drinking house, the post-dinner hour that usually found Matti heading back to his study to finish the paperwork that a member of his family had tugged him away from in order to eat. Matti counted the number of flavoured jenever bottles on the shelf behind the bar—fifteen—in the time it took Audry to finish serving her current customer and sweep her sky-coloured skirts to stand in front of Matti. “And here’s a face we haven’t seen in a while! Something tells me you’re here for a celebration, Mr. Jay.”

Matti hoped the smile he’d pulled onto his face wasn’t the wrong size, or the wrong shade of abashed. “News travels fast.”

“Mattinesh Jay and Sofia Cooper. A match surprising exactly no one.”

Matti kept the smile going. There was a silence in which Audry politely didn’t say, Pity she’s in love with someone else, and so Matti didn’t have to say, Yes, isn’t it?Audry said, “Wait here a moment. I’ve got something in the back that I think will do nicely.”

Matti cast a glance over the room as Audry disappeared. His cousin Roland made an extravagant sighing motion and pretended to check his watch when Matti’s eyes landed on their table. A burst of laughter came from a dark-skinned woman nearby; she was wearing a dress that rode high at the knee to reveal a fall of lace like frothing water, a northern style of garment that Matti’s own northerner mother seldom wore these days.

At the closest table the Mason Guildmaster, Lysbette Martens, was deep in conversation with a senior member of the Guild of Engineers. Martens met Matti’s gaze with her own and nodded brief acknowledgement. He was sure she was weighing his presence as consciously as he was weighing hers. This was a place to be seen, after all.

“Here you are. Red wine for young lovers.”

Matti turned around again. Audry named the price for the bottle as she uncorked it and set it on the bar. Matti paid her, ignoring the lurch like a fishhook in his stomach at the amount on the credit notes he was so casually handing over. Mattinesh Jay, firstborn of his distinguished House, had no reason not to indulge in one of the finest bottles of wine that money could buy.

No reason that anyone here would know about, anyway.

Matti took the bottle in one hand and hooked three glasses with the other. Making his way over to the table, his mind circled back to dwell on the wrong sort of numbers. The money in Matti’s purse was painstakingly calculated: enough for the first round of engagement drinks, and enough for him to hire a top-of-the-range duellist who would step forward in the awkwardly likely event of someone challenging for Sofia’s hand at the wedding itself.

Matti’s skin prickled cold at the very thought of what might happen if Adrean Vane challenged against Matti’s marriage to Sofia and won. His family’s last hope would be gone. Matti would have failed them in this, the most useful thing he could do for them.

He was so caught up in this uneasy imagining as he wove through the room that he collided, hard, with another person’s shoulder. Matti was both tall and broad, not easily unbalanced; the unfortunate other member of the collision made a grab for Matti’s coat, couldn’t get a good grip, and tripped to the ground with a caught-back “Fu—”

Matti tried to step backwards. They were crammed into a small space between tables and there were people moving around them. His first panicked instinct had been to keep the wine bottle upright and the glasses safe, so he didn’t have a hand free to steady himself on a chair.

He wasn’t quite sure what happened next, except that he ended up wobbling and stepping forward instead, and he felt his boot come down on something that was not the floorboards. A small, pathetic, grinding mechanical sound crawled up Matti’s nerves, heel to head, and reached his ears even amidst the noise of the busy room.

“Sorry!” he said at once. “I’m sorry. Was that—Oh, Huna’s teeth.”

The man on the floor jerked his head up, staring at Matti, and Matti stared back.

For a moment all that Matti could see was the wide, straight line of the man’s mouth, set beneath an equally straight nose, and the frame that set off the whole: the dark, luminous copper-red hair that seemed to be trying to grow in about ten different directions.

The man’s tongue darted out in a nervous mannerism, wetting his lower lip. Something in Matti’s own mouth tried to happen in a yearning echo.

“Would you please lift,” the man said precisely, “your godsdamned foot?” Heat flooded Matti’s face. He snatched his foot backwards with enough force that his heel collided with a chair leg.

The redheaded man stood, his fingers closed convulsively tight around a small velvet bag. His brown coat was shabby and made of a coarsely woven fabric, though his shirt was good and his trousers had probably been equally so before they’d been overwashed into a patchy shine.

“Fuck fuck shitting—fuck,” the man said in tones of despair, with a lilt to his accent that placed him at least one city-state farther east: Cienne, or possibly Sanoy. He shook the contents of the bag into his palm and ventured into new realms of inappropriate language as he did so.

Enough people had witnessed their collision, or had their heads turned by the stream of expletives, that there were a fair few necks craning to see what was in the man’s hand. Matti, at whom the shaking fingers of this hand were pointed most directly, couldn’t help seeing for himself the ragged, glinting pile of cogs and jewels and glass. Only the intact cover—monogrammed in a swirling, engraved H—spoke of this pile’s previous existence as a pocket watch. A very expensive pocket watch, by the look of it.

The man’s breath hissed out through his teeth. “Guildmaster Havelot is going to use my arm bones as a fucking lathe. He only had it made to order, and he only trusted me to pick it up, didn’t he? Two hundred gold. Fucking fuck.”

“I’m so sorry,” Matti said again. He recognised the name: Havelot was the Woodworker Guildmaster in Cienne. “Truly. I can—” He stopped. The abrupt lack of his words created a silence that seemed to suck noise into itself, as conversations died to murmurs and the onlookers sensed something interesting.

The man looked straight at Matti with a stubborn lift of his chin. His brows, the same absurd colour as the rest of his hair, had sprung up into the beginnings of hope; as Matti’s silence grew longer, they lowered again. And then lowered farther. He swept a look down and then slowly up Matti’s own outfit, and now pride warred with scorn in the way those maddening lips pressed together.

Matti felt sick. His own coat was made of the finest wool, a midnight blue cut perfectly to his figure, and the rest of his clothes were of the same quality. He was holding a bottle of extremely good wine. Anybody looking at him would make immediate assumptions about the amount of ready money that Matti might have, and the ease with which he would be able to reimburse a poor clerk, if he’d just ruined a pricey piece of artificer’s skill that the man’s employer had trusted him to travel all the way to Glassport to collect.

Of course they would make these assumptions. That was the point.

Matti swallowed and felt the burning heaviness of his purse redouble. He’d be left with enough to a hire a duellist, yes, but not one of the highest skill. It wouldn’t buy himself and his family the absolute security they needed.

His friends were looking at him. It seemed like every pair of eyes in the drinking house was looking, and in another moment the murmurs of curiosity would turn to murmurs of disapprobation. I thought Matti Jay had more honour than that, they would say. What’s two hundred gold to someone like him?

Besides, the plain fact of the matter was that Matti had broken the watch. And he couldn’t pretend that he and this man with his proud mouth and poor coat, patched at one elbow, were on an equal footing. Even if he were left without a bronze, Matti would still have influence, connections, the weight of his family’s name. That was still worth something. For now.

So that was that.

“I—I really am sorry.” Matti set the wine and glasses down on the corner of the nearest table and pulled his purse from inside his coat. He kept his gaze on the man’s face, on a pair of eyes that were either grey or brown—impossible to tell from this angle—and urgently willed them not to look away. To a degree that seemed irrational, he wanted to banish the judgemental expression from the man’s face. “Of course I’ll cover the cost. Two hundred gold. Who did the work?”

The man glanced down at the metal scraps in his hand, as though the answer might be hidden in the pile. “Speck,” he said at last. “Frans Speck, in Amber Lane.”

“He’s a fair man. Tell him what happened and he’ll rush through the repair job,” Matti said. He held out the century notes.

The man tipped the wreckage of the watch back into the bag and closed his hand around the money, slow and wary. His fingertips had rough patches that scraped against Matti’s own, sending a tingle up Matti’s arm.

“I appreciate it,” the man said. He looked less cold now, though still nowhere near warm. “You’ve saved my life. Really.”

Matti forced himself to smile. Forced himself to say, “It’s nothing,” as though it really were nothing.

The man nodded awkwardly at Matti and tucked both money and bag into a pocket. Then he turned and was gone, headed for the door.

Matti somehow made his way to his table and sat down. His heart was pounding so loudly that he could barely hear anything else, and he wanted to shout at his own blood to be quiet and let him think. He needed to be alone in his study. He needed to contemplate his options, and make lists, and pore over the accounts for the thousandth time, in case they transmuted themselves into a picture of prosperity instead of the ugly, desperate reality that nobody outside of Matti’s immediate family knew about.

“Two hundred gold,” he said, before he could stop himself. “Two hundred.”

“We saw. Hard luck,” his cousin Roland said, making a face.

Perhaps it was stretching the term to call Roland and Wynn his friends, but they were the closest thing Matti had to members of that category, and the only people he’d been able to think of to form his wedding party. At least the three of them never found it too hard to pick up their acquaintanceship again, even if it had been months since their last conversation.

Wynn turned the bottle of wine to inspect the yellow butterfly on the label. “How appropriate that we’re drinking wine from your betrothed’s own winery.”

“Audry’s idea of a joke, I think,” Matti said. The word betrothed had landed in his ears like a piece of music played in an unfamiliar key; his mind was still turning it over, trying to decide how it felt about the melody. His hand was shaking as he poured the first glass, sending the stream of dark wine shivering and slipping. He’d steadied it by the time he poured the second.

“Huna smile,” he said, opening the toasts by lifting his own glass. “Thanks for agreeing to stand up with me, you two.”

“Drown your sorrows in this one, and by the time we hit the next bottle you’ll remember that you’re here to celebrate. And that once you’re married to Sofia Cooper,” Roland went on, lowering his voice sympathetically, “Jay House will be rolling in enough money to replace a hundred watches.”

Except that Matti had to get himself successfully married in the first place. And he’d just lost his best guarantee of doing so.

He let the old, gorgeous wine flood down his throat until a good third of his glass had vanished. He felt lightheaded; it had to be panic, because the wine couldn’t be working that fast. Panic and a sense of becoming unmoored. And the image of the man’s face, pale and sharply beautiful, gazing up from where he was kneeling at Matti’s feet.

“A fair effort,” Wynn said, when Matti put the glass down. “But I’ll show you children of Huna how it’s done.” He raised his own glass. “Agar fill your plates and cups.”

Matti smiled and drank again, accepting the toast. Maybe the wine was working after all. He could still feel his panic, the wound-up watch of his worry, but he shoved it away into a recess of his mind: its own small, dark velvet bag. It would be safe enough there. It would last until tomorrow. Matti’s ability to worry was shatterproof.

For now, he was going to drink.

[whereubeenloca]

Grilled Cheese

Part 8 of the Neighbor! Reader series: Table of contents

Summary: You and Carmy have dinner together.

Pairing: Carmy x Reader

Tags: Slow burn, Awkward

Word Count: 1592

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Tag List: 

@criesinlies @marchsfreakshow @leminjelly @amberpanda99 @johnmurphys-sass @j23r23 @areyoutheregoditsmecelia @nicksolemnlyswears @saik-k

It happened once.

And then, it happened again. 

And again, and again. 

Before you knew it, Carmy was coming over once a week for dinner. He usually took the lead, bringing fancy ingredients from the farmer’s market and doing preparation methods that involved equipment that looked like it belonged in a lab rather than a kitchen. Tonight, however, was your night. Tonight’s menu: Salmon, rice, and mixed veggies, simple enough. 

Carmy arrived early, a bottle of red wine in hand. He goes to help, but you quickly usher him to the table in the center of your small kitchen. 

He uncorks the wine while the food cooks. You sit next to Carmy, he presents the label to you before pouring a small amount into your glasses. 

“You know how to taste it?” Carmy asks. You try not to be insulted. 

“You swallow it…?” You ask back, inspecting the glass. He rolls his eyes.

“Har, har, you’re hilarious. There’s like- a process to it.” He picks up his glass and tilts it forward.

“First, you have to look at it. Make sure there’s nothing in it.” He explains. 

You copy the motion and look into your glass. He didn’t pour a lot, a small spot of red swirls at the bottom as you tilt the glass forward. The red liquid pools at the sides, a deep crimson in the center that becomes more translucent as it radiates towards the edges. It looks brighter than other wines you’ve had. 

“What, like poison?” 

“Like cork, Jesus Christ.” He laughs, lips quirked up into a smile. “Next step, swirl.” 

He gently swirls his glass, you do the same. 

“What does this do?” 

“Aerates it- wakes everything up. Then you smell…” He explains, bringing the glass to his nose. 

You copy, making a face at him from across the table. The kitchen is filled with the scent of lemon and garlic from the salmon, you tilt the glass forward and inhale. The wine smells sweeter than you expected, notes of cherry and raspberry sit at the top. You breathe in deeply as the warm undertones of clove shine through. 

“Finally, you sip and swish.” Carmy finishes, taking a small sip and swishing the wine in his mouth. 

You take a moment before humoring him, taking a small sip and sloshing it around your mouth. You squint your eyes and nod. The wine feels thick between your teeth as you swish. It doesn’t taste as sweet as it smells. Instead, it leads with a pleasant, earthy kick. Not too dry but not too sweet, the perfect wine to pair with a meal. 

“Yeah, that’s wine.” You say, finally. 

“You just don’t appreciate fine dining.” He smiles. 

“I just don’t appreciate bullshit.” You quip back before taking another sip. “What is this anyway?”

“Pinot noir, 2020, from France- none of that California shit.” He rattles off. You hum, nodding along. 

“I thought you drank white wine with fish.” You ask, topping off your glass. He shrugs. 

“You can. Salmon is a little different, though. It works with red or white.” He flicks the bottle, and the glass dings. “This is a really good one, though.” 

You hum in agreement, tracing your finger around the rim of the glass. You dip your finger down the side before settling onto the stem in a loose grasp. 

“You just have this sitting around?” You ask tentatively, bringing the glass to your lips.

“Like I’m gonna tell you.” He scoffs, leaning forward and picking up the bottle to refill his glass.

Your cheeks go pink at the idea of him buying wine specifically for tonight, something he thought would go with the food you made. 

“You really didn’t have to. It’s my night, you know.” You bite back a smile, tracing your index up and down the stem of the glass. 

“I can’t just show up empty-handed.” He smiles back. 

The wine warms your cheeks, or maybe it’s him- no, definitely the wine. A smile spreads across your face as your eyes roam up his arms. You look at the tattoos on his knuckles, you know he has more, you’ve seen them on his arms but you can’t help but wonder… nope not going there. Look somewhere else. Your eyes flick to his neck, then his face before you give up and decide to just look at your wine glass. 

“Still…” You trail off, pressing your lip into the rim of the glass.

He’s leaning closer now, forearms sprawled across the table. His eyes bore into yours as his fingers fiddle with the edge of the placemats in front of your seats. It’s quiet, you rack your brain for something else to say but draw a blank. His eyes bounce around your face and you feel the panic bubbling into your chest, you gulp down more wine to bide some time. The air suddenly feels thick and you take a deep breath to calm yourself. The smell of burning assaults your senses- shit, wait, burning? 

You stand suddenly, spinning around and opening the oven in one move. A plume of smoke billows out and the fire alarm follows behind. 

“Fuck-” You wince, fanning away some of the smoke and pulling out the trays. 

Carmy is on his feet, hands on your waist as he pulls you away from the oven and quickly shuts the door before turning it off. He moves through your apartment, opening the windows and fanning the alarm while you stay frozen in place. You lean over the food to inspect the damage. The veggies are burnt to a crisp and beyond unsalvageable. The salmon isn’t much better, a thick, black layer coats the top of each fillet and the inside is completely dried out. You attempt a bite, your shoulders slump at the chalky taste. Your rice cooker beeps- at least that’s okay. 

“Maybe we can still eat it?” He asks over your shoulder, picking the fork out of your hand. 

“No, no you don’t have to.” You shake your head as he pokes at the overcooked fish. 

He takes a bite and his face scrunches. You watch as he chews, brows tightly knit together as he forces it down. “It’s… good. Nice.” Carmy clears his throat before looking over to you. You smile at the gesture, shaking your head.

“Carmy, you really don’t have to. I know it tastes bad.” You sigh, slumping your shoulders and opening your fridge. 

“I don’t have a lot…” You click your tongue, scanning your fridge. He comes up behind you and peeks into the appliance. 

“Yeesh- I thought I was bad.” He sighs.

You make a face at him, and he holds up his hands. You roll your eyes and pull out a packet of Kraft singles.

—

Twenty minutes and half a bottle of wine later, dinner is finally ready. The two of you had retired to the living room, tucked into the couch as you finished your grilled cheese sandwiches. 

“I’m so sorry.” You frown, picking at the crust. 

Carmy rolls his eyes as he pours you another drink. “Stop apologizing, it happens.” 

“It was gonna be so good too.” You sigh, gulping down more wine. “I had this planned for like- a week. I grocery-shopped specifically for this.” 

“It smelled good.” He smiles, cheeks full of food. “Maybe we can give it another try next week.” 

You smile at that, electing to take another bite of your sandwich instead of talking. His knee presses into yours, and you don’t move away. It’s quiet. Things are usually quiet with Carmy. You usually hate that. 

“Maybe I’ll leave the cooking to you.” You say with your mouth full. 

You lean forward, set your empty plate onto the coffee table, and scoot closer on your way down. Carmy doesn’t seem to mind. 

“Once, when I was uh- staging, I was in charge of making family.” He starts, “The meal before service for all the staff, so the pressure was on, you know?”

You nod along, leaning into the plush of the couch. Heat radiates in the space between you, your body feels slack as the wine buzzes through your head. Carmy’s eyes bounce around as he speaks, only maintaining eye contact for a few moments before looking away. 

“And I wanted to impress these people so bad. So, I decided to do this roast thing, totally messed it up. The seasoning was bland, it was dry, texture wasn’t great- horrible first impression.” He laughs softly, shaking his head as he recounts the memory. 

Carmy’s body slots next to yours as he slings his arm over the back of the couch, an invitation to move closer. You take it. 

“What’d you do?” 

“Made an au jus, cut up some bread, and called them sandwiches.” 

His palm closes over your shoulder. He’s warm, you feel his heat seep into your arm through his chest. You hum in acknowledgement, head pressing into his shoulder. 

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” You whisper. 

“Maybe. Do you feel better?” He whispers back. 

“Eh.” 

He smiles at your flat remark. Your eyes dart to his lips as they quirk up. 

“What would make you feel better?” 

He’s so close you can feel his words against your skin. You take a beat, pulling back to look at him. Despite your heart pounding in your ears, your body is calm as your hand trails up his chest. You close the gap, lips grazing against his. Maybe it’s the wine, but you swear you feel him kiss you back.