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runningfrom2am · 3 months

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cold nights // part fourteen

summary: you showed him colours he knows he can't see with anyone else.

pairing: coriolanus snow x fem!reader

wc: 3.1k

masterlists / nav / requests

tags/warnings: tribute!reader and mentor!coriolanus, r is very sweet (too kind for this world. literally.), sunshine x grumpy trope kinda, he falls first, violence typical for the source material, r is very smart (as she should), district twelve!reader.

a/n: finally reunited ahh!! (also a note from me while i'm trying to find pics for the header: damn this dude does not look happy very often huh) (okay so update we're settling for a flashback photo bc coryo in his curls era does not SMILE bruh)

my asks are also open to talk about this series! (i do have emoji anons open now too!)

send me any and all of your thoughts! here!

series masterlist // playlist

"Just right here." Lucy Gray stops on the gravel road, nodding up to the house in front of them.

"Okay, sweet." Sejanus smiles, already heading for the front porch but she grabs his arm, stopping him as Coryo just stares at the house, going slightly pale.

"Sejanus, how about you and I go figure out where you guys will stay, and come back for Coriolanus in a bit?" She offers, nodding toward him.

"Oh- uh, yes. Yeah. Good idea." He agrees, picking up quickly on what she meant. Coryo still hasn't said a word, just staring at the run-down shack that apparently was your home. It was clear that efforts were made to maintain the home, the fence had been patched in several places and there were flower beds outside. From what he knew about your family, that would make sense.

"Coriolanus?" Lucy Gray draws his attention again. "We're going to go find you a place to stay, and we'll come back for you in a bit. Does that sound okay?"

"Yeah that's... that's perfect. Thank you." He nods, in a trance-like state as he makes his way up to the door through some only slightly overgrown grass, before he has the chance to second-guess himself.

"He didn't even listen, did he?" Lucy Gray says, both of them watching him from the street.

"Not at all, no."

He can hear the two of them chatting as they disappear back down the road, and he looks for a doorbell that doesn't seem to be there, just settling for a knock instead. He waits a few moments after knocking on the wood, about to do it again when he hears a woman's voice come from inside. "One moment, I'll be right there!"

"I got it, Ma!" Comes from right behind the door as footsteps approach and it's swung open, a young boy standing there. "Hi." He says, eyeing Coryo up and down. It must be your brother.

"Uh, hi." He clears his throat. "Is Y/N here?"

"No, not right now." The boy answers. "Can I take a message for her?"

"Oh, well, my name is Coriolanus Snow, and-"

"Hold on! I'm coming!" The woman's voice comes again, much more excited as she rounds the corner from the hall, brushing her hands off on her apron. "You're Coriolanus?" She asks, a polite but delighted grin on her face as she gets closer.

"Yes, Ma'am." He nods in confirmation, a smile growing on his face. You look so much like your mother.

"Oh my goodness, come in, please! I didn't recognize you!" She gently moves her son out of the way, who is still staring at him with something unwelcoming behind his eyes. As soon as Coryo steps into the home, she's wrapping her arms around him in a hug. "Wow, it is so lovely to meet you! You came a very long way!"

"I did." He chuckles, hugging her back with as much politeness as he can muster behind shaking hands and a pale face.

"Come sit, Y/N will be home within the hour. She'll be just thrilled to see you." She pulls away, gesturing for him to follow her into the living area. "Are you hungry? You must be starving. Let me grab you something." Your mother says, mostly to herself as he sits down on the couch.

"That would be great, thank you." He smiles, still nervous as he tries to adjust his posture on the slightly uncomfortable sofa, looking around. In reality, he hadn't been "starving" for some time now. It felt good to have a consistently filled fridge all the time, but he has hardly eaten since they left the Capitol. He was too nervous to even think about it.

"Why did you come here?" Your brother asks, making Coryo look away from the family photos that adorned the walls. Most of the frames were broken, photos blurry, but he could tell that to your family that didn't matter.

"I hadn't heard from her. I wanted to make sure she was doing okay." Coryo answers, stiffened by your brother's somewhat hostile energy and the thought of getting to see you so soon. Had you told him something you didn't tell your mother? Probably that he killed that boy, but it seemed unlike you to leave out the part where he had no choice. Unless Tigris was wrong.

Unless you still didn't see it that way.

Your brother hums, sitting in the chair across from the couch and leaning his elbows on his knees. To Coryo, this felt like an interrogation. Coming from a teenager, it was almost cute.

"Lennox, Honey, can you come help me for just a moment?" His mother calls him from the kitchen and he's shooting up again, glaring at Coryo as he walks away. He was confused, today alone he's gotten so many mixed signals on your feelings.

You stuck out the day at work, even though while you were reshelving returns you had to rush to the bathroom in the back to vomit after reading the back cover of an old book about a man who hunted humans. You were hoping by now this would happen less and less, but leaving the house had only made it worse. Getting a job was a mistake and you knew that, but your family was hardly scraping by before you were torn from your life- but neither of your parents could work the whole time you were gone. They were sick about it. Your mom still couldn't work, and you knew your father rarely ever slept these days.

You tried to hand over the winnings Coryo's Dean had given you as soon as you got home, holding it out to your parents with trembling hands as they opened the locked door for you. They wanted none of it. Not a dollar from your three thousand, which you had spent time counting and recounting on the train. They only wanted you home. You had hoped it would give you something else to talk about- that you could smile and be proud that you won and that now your family could live comfortably, at least for a little while. The idea almost made it worth it. As you counted your prize under the dim lighting in the train car, you had wondered if you would do it again for them. The money didn't make saying hello again any easier, though, and you cried for what must have been hours on the porch of your family home, the four of you tangled together in a hug bound together by tears.

It was hard to let go, but when they had, finally, your mother shoved the money back into your pocket and told you to save it. One day, you could buy your own home with it, and that wasn't a bad idea.

All you could do for them now that your money sat in a jar in your closet, the best you could do, was convince them you were fine enough for you all to move on and forget about it. The additional income of getting your own job helped, too. So, when your boss tried to send you home, you declined, and five o'clock couldn't have come fast enough.

You drink water out of an old jam jar on the way home, washing the taste of bile out of the back of your mouth. The fresh air made a world of difference. As much as you adored the smell of books, it got stuffy in there, especially in the summers. Even with the sun beating down on your shoulders over your button-up shirt, you felt better just making the walk home every day. The breeze blowing through the trees, the familiar paths beneath your feet, it was one of the very few things that could ground you in the reality that now, you were safe. That, and the meadow behind your house at night time. Reading under lantern light with the stars overhead and your family at your side, you never felt more real. It was truly over.

That's what you would do tonight, you decided, after a long nap following an unfortunate day. At the end of every unfortunate day, you still had that, and that meant the world to you.

"Oh! Here's Tybalt." Your mom smiles, now comfortable on the couch next to Coriolanus as the cat saunters into the living room, jumping up into the space between them. "This is Y/N's cat, she calls him Tybs." She explains, tears forming in her eyes as the cat crawls onto her lap and she quickly blinks them away, but he had already noticed by then.

"She told me about him." Coryo says, placing his now empty tea cup on the coffee table in front of them.

"Of course..." She chuckles sadly. "He took real good care of us while she was away. On particularly... hard nights," She clears her throat. "He would come out into the living room with her father and I and sit with us, he can purr like no ones business, you know, and then after a while, he would run over to our room there and meow at us. Made sure we got to bed. Then curl up with us and just made sure we knew that.... she was still with us."

A tear falls as she speaks and she laughs nervously, quickly brushing it away. "Gosh, I am so sorry..." She quickly dismisses it. "We have company and I'm crying like a little girl. Forgive me..."

"No, it's quite alright." Coryo insists, shaking his head. Of course, he was worried about you in the arena and every night up until then, but he never entertained the idea of what it was like for your family even though he knew about them. That under the same sky, they were sitting here in this very home praying that you might return. Now, he could see it, and you were the lucky one who made it home. He hoped he wouldn't have to see Jessup's family while he was here. "It must have been awful for you."

"Indeed." She nods, wiping her cheek again. "But, you know, it means so much to us that she had someone there to look after her." She smiles at him. It's genuine. Sad, but full of gratitude. He would no longer wonder where you got that habit from. "I decided I wouldn't be watching anything, but her father insisted. He was out at a bar in town, the only one with televisions, then came rushing back in the door twenty minutes later and dragged us back there with him to watch. I didn't want to go but he said 'No, you need to see this. She's not alone. She has a friend.' So down we went, and they were playing reruns of the two of you being dropped into that cage. I just... She looked so comfortable with you. The way you looked at her we could see you cared, that she was human to you, and that you were there to help. I remember thinking for the first time that maybe she had a chance." She's accepted her tears now, reaching over from petting Tybalt to grasp the young man's hands in her own as she spoke.

Your brother scoffs as Coryo lets her hold onto his hands, a small smile forming on his face that's quickly torn away by Lennox's reaction. "Yeah, and then that other boy had to be the one to bring her something to eat after days."

"Hey!" Your mother gasps. "Lennox, get-" She prompts him to leave if he isn't going to be nice.

He rolls his eyes, getting up to leave.

"I didn't have anything to bring her besides a flower." Coryo finds himself stating, shocking even himself at the confession which halts your brother in his steps. He had never told anyone about the poverty he faced at home, but with them, he felt safe to. Something about knowing you assured him that they were not judgemental people. He clears his throat before explaining. "My family lost everything after the war. When I first met her, I also hadn't eaten in days. I gave her everything I could."

Lennox hums before leaving, either not convinced or embarrassed that he'd even made such a comment. Coryo couldn't tell.

"Coriolanus... I am so sorry." Your mother is quick to apologize, and he's embarrassed by the look of pity in her eyes. Pity from a woman who had, for almost a month, believed she had lost her child, and was still struggling with it today. He felt nothing but guilt.

"Well, I must tell you, your daughter saved us from that." He tries to lift her spirits as a confused expression paints itself into her features, but he doesn't get the chance to elaborate as they both turn at the sound of the front door opening.

"Ma!" You call out, closing the door behind you and kicking off your shoes, preparing your smile to tell her about the absolutely great day you just had.

Your mother stands quickly, patting the boys thigh gently and wipes her eyes. "Hi, Honey, how was your day?" She asks, smiling at him through red eyes.

"Come what come may, time and the hour runs through the roughest day." Your groaned response comes slightly muffled from the other room, and Coryo can hear you shuffling about.

"Oh, no. What happened?" Immediately your mother's tone shifts to worry, and Coryo wonders how it took her less than a second to understand.

"Nothing, Ma. All is fine." You call back, putting your bag down in the kitchen, and heading for the living room, gluing a smile back on. "Guess what I saw on the walk home! A ladybug, it landed right on my-" You freeze as you walk into the entryway, seeing your mother and your previous mentor just standing up next to her.

"Oh, I should have mentioned, we have company." Your mother smiles, already gathering the used dishes from the coffee table, and brushing past you to bring them into the kitchen. Likely, to give you two a chance to talk.

When Coryo lays his eyes on you for the first time again, he can swear his heart stops. Yours definitely does as nausea comes over you in a wave again, and your calculated smile drops.

You don't say anything, just staring with an expression unreadable to him. "Y/N, hi." He breathes, smiling at you. You look beautiful but tired, still. Still, that girl he watched in the arena, it was hard to believe that every part of you made it out. You weren't the same girl he saw for the first time in the reaping- you were more. More of you, and more of something else; hurt, if he had to guess.

"It's good to see you." He continues, his voice a gentle whisper that cuts through the awkward tension in the room. Your heart races, emotions swirling like a tempest within you. Coriolanus Snow, your mentor and friend who had guided you through your time in that Capitol and the games, is standing in your living room, looking both apologetic and hopeful.

"Coryo," You manage to say, voice barely above a whisper as you swallow the sickness rising in your throat. The memories flood back- everything awful you had gone through. Meeting him for the first time as he handed you a flower, sitting on opposite sides of the bars of your cage and talking long into the nights. Everything you had done, everything he had given you, the people you both hurt in the process. He takes a step closer, cautiously navigating the fragile space between you.

"I... What are you doing here?" You ask quietly, your eyes unable to meet his gaze. The room feels smaller, the walls closing in on you quickly.

He clears his throat, a nervous habit you remember well. "I wanted to see you," he says, his eyes pleading for understanding. "I didn't know what you were up to and how you were adjusting and... I was worried about you."

The weight of unspoken words lingers between you, and for a moment, neither of you knows how to bridge the gap that only a month of time has built. You had been away from him longer than you had known him, and facing him again, you were embarrassed. Scared. Coryo takes a deep breath, summoning the courage to express the weight of what he's carried in his mind for too long.

"I never stopped thinking about you," He confesses, sincerity etched across his face. "I tried sending letters but I didn't get any response."

The vulnerability in his eyes mirrors your own, and the air crackles with a shared sense of everything you want to say but just can't find the words. You can't help it as you feel over and over again the countless hours spent together in the lead-up to the worst days of your life.

Tentatively, he reaches for your hand, a silent plea for connection. As your fingers take his, warmth floods through you, dissolving the distance. "I missed you," he admits, his voice barely audible.

A rush of conflicting emotions surges within you- that same embarrassment, anger, hurt, but also a flicker of the fondness that never truly faded. "I missed you too," You admit, your voice breaking through the emotional dam, built up from fear and trauma and the stacks of books in your bedroom that held it back all this time.

With those words, the barriers crumble, and the room is filled with a pitiful silence. The weight of what you had both done begins to lift, replaced with the realization that he did honestly care for you, the way you did for him. As you look into each other's eyes, the connection is undeniable, evidence of a bond that time could never change. You would always be connected to him.

"Do you remember when I brought you that blanket?" He asks and you take in a sharp breath. The few pleasant memories you had of your time together were so often overthrown by the awful ones, these days. His eyes flicker quickly across your face. He looks as scared as you feel. "And I said I wish I could get to know you as you are, not as a tribute, and you said you would show me the stars."

A small smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you nod, the nausea you felt steadily subsiding. "So you walk softly and look sweetly and say nothing. I am yours for the walk and especially when I walk away."

Coryo tilts his head at you, and smiles. That must have been a yes. "Please, don't walk away again." He whispers, and in that moment, he feels the tightness in his chest that carried him through the last month finally release.

taglist: @soulessjourney , @that-veela-girl , @dreamyysouls, @rockstarbfs , @maysileeewrites , @baybieruth , @kitscutie , @fratboyharrysgf0201 , @totallynotkaibiased , @stelleduarte , @secretsicanthideanymore , @bejeweledreverie , @drewsandsebastianswife , @niicole-87 , @queenofshinigamis , @innercreationflower , @nallasstuff , @scorpiolystoned , @iovemoonyy , @thatmarvelchick19 , @wearemadeofstardust0 , @regulusblackcore , @puredreamagination , @fantasticchaosthing , @becauseseaotters , @secretsicanthideanymore

okay suddenly tumblr isn't letting me tag more people than this so i just made some cuts unfortunately :') i just left the max amount of people i could whose users i recognized and see in my notifs all the time :) if you're not on here and you should be i'm so sorry!

also this taglist is closed now!! if you’d like to get a notification when i update, turn on my post notifications!! i promise i won’t spam y'all :,)

#tbosas #tbosas fic #tbosas x reader #tbosas fanfiction #thg series #hunger games #the hunger games #thg fanfiction #thg #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus x you #coriolanus fanfiction #coryo snow #coryo x reader #coryo x you #snow lands on top

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legitalicat · 3 months

Text

Out of Time

Chapter 2 - "Through the Gardens"

AN: Thank you all so much for the love on chapter 1! It truly was unexpected but I'm so grateful. I hope as the story continues, the love for it does as well! This dedication has been removed.

If you love this header go check out zaldritzosrose for more amazing work! She is tagged on the series masterlist and on my welcome post!

Find the series Master list here!

Summary: From her room, through the gardens, to the Dragon Pit, their route was always the same. Aemond and Y/N walked that path so much when they were younger it was a wonderful there wasn't a permanent foot path burnt into the earth. Between two dragons, everything burns with a deep intensity.

TW: mentions of being forcefully drugged/intoxicated, talks of injury, near palpable grief, reader is AFAB, romantic/sexual tension, first person POV, Aemond giving Ser Erryk the biggest crisis of his life for approximately five seconds

Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon!Reader, talks of Jacaerys Velaryon x Velaryon!Reader, ghost of a thought of Aegon Targaryen ii x Velaryon!Reader.

Word Count: 2.8 k

The Grand Maester and his younger assistant both seemed relieved with what they found. They said my ribs were cracked but were mostly healed at this point. My lip would heal in a few days. There was no evidence of my captors violating me, which caused mother to let out a sigh of relief. I had at one point had a broken wrist but it had been long since healed. The rest of the bruises and any cuts were superficial, the more extreme wounds now being pink scars.

“And her memory?” she asked the men.

“It is highly possible she was kept drunk or under some form of intoxication these last years. If that is the case, she may regain memories but I do not feel comfortable guaranteeing such a thing,” the Grand Maester said to her. I appreciated his honesty as I imagined sitting in his seat, telling the Queen the opposite of what she would want to hear.

When she dismissed them, we sat in front of my fireplace together. There were so many things I wanted to convey, but my brain couldn’t form the words. There was nothing adequate I could say or do to ease her mind, so I just sat with her in silence and watched the flames dance.

The flames seemed redder than normal with a slight shimmer to them. It was something I was certain I had never seen before but the shimmer mesmerized me. In my mind I could see it, having captured the flames in a small vial. There was a glow to the vial as the red shimmery substance flowed along every part of the glass. I imagined it tasting smoky but comfortable and pleasant, leaving me feeling warm as I drift to sleep.

I couldn’t tell you where these thoughts were coming from. All I knew is it felt simultaneously too real to just be my imagination and too ridiculous to be real.

“I think grandsire’s crown suits you,” I commented, smiling over at her. She had been so concerned over her place for years that actually seeing her with the golden crown resting on her head granted me a happiness I had never expected.

She smiled back at me. “It weighs heavily on my head at times,” she told me honestly. “Yet I am grateful it came as it was supposed to.”

Mother didn’t have to explain to me further what she meant. Though I had doubted Aegon’s desire to take the Throne, Otto Hightower was a conniving man. It would’ve been far too easy for him to succeed if Alicent hadn’t put a stop to his plans. I imagine he had planned for Aegon to wear the Conqueror’s Crown, to make people think he was more deserving.

Imagining Aegon adorning the Conqueror’s Crown caused my cheeks to heat up. He was very handsome and always had been. When I was little, I thought Aegon hung the moon and stars, and I followed him around like a lovesick puppy dog. Before I had more of an understanding of what Jace and I were, before Aemond made it clear how he wanted me, I thought Aegon was my future. In fact, he almost was.

I distinctly remember my mother approaching me before she had Joffrey. Jace and I were only seven and were becoming increasingly aware of our place in the world. One of us would be heir once she took the Throne, a decision she allowed us to make. She told me she wanted to suggest a marriage between Aegon and I if I were okay with it, which even at seven I knew would be best for our family. It was a no brainer for me. Even so, it did not come to fruition as Alicent adamantly refused.

“I think I shall go see Vhaela,” I told her, standing slowly. As long as I moved slowly, my ribs did not hurt so much.

“I have assigned Ser Erryk to watch over you, he shall accompany you,” she told me, standing herself.

Just as I was about to protest, I bit my lip and held my tongue when I saw her face. Fear could be seen on her every feature. I wondered if she now felt uneasy as I would be out of her sight for the first time all afternoon. Could she be worried I would disappear again?

“Okay, mama,” I said with a small smile. I hugged her as tightly as I could, wishing I could fix all the holes in her heart my disappearance caused.

After a moment, I pulled away and gave her a small smile before leaving my room. I nodded to Ser Erryk in a greeting as I shut the door behind me.

“Good afternoon, princess,” he said as he smiled. “Where would you like to go?”

I was about to tell him my desired destination when a voice called out to me. I turned to see Aemond quickly approaching which caused my heart to rapidly beat.

He was as perfect as he had always been. His silver hair went to his mid back just as it had for years. He wore a black leather doublet with long sleeves and matching pants with black boots. He wore his eye patch over his left eye, despite how much I had always wished he would allow himself to wander free without it. He looked simple and elegant without being boring.

“Princess,” he said as he slowed to a stop in front of me.

“Prince Aemond,” I said to him, giving him a slight nod of my head. Desperately I tried to steady my heart and slow my mind.

Jace never made me so nervous. I knew him the way one knows their favorite book. Every thought, feeling, or action could be anticipated. With Aemond, I never actually had any idea of what he could possibly be thinking. He kept his feelings and thoughts close to him, not wanting anyone to know him ever.

In fact, it wasn’t until he kissed me the first time that I ever understood his words of marrying me were rooted in feelings for me. I could remember it as clear as though it happened mere hours ago. The way I was sitting in the window of the library, reading the personal journals of Rhaenys Targaryen, when he approached me with a singular red tulip in hand. The way he looked at me as he presented it, telling me it was the only flower worthy of my beauty. What I remembered most was the way his lips felt on mine, the way it made the world go quiet if only for a moment and caused my pulse to somehow quicken yet disappear all at once.

He smiled brightly at me. It was unusual for him to smile but it was a sight that always made my heart try to beat out of my chest. It was something he had always saved only for me. When we were children, when Aegon, Jace, and Luke separated themselves from us because we did not yet have dragons, he gave me sanctuary. He made me feel better than anyone else could.

“Did you find comfort in your bath, byka zaldrīzes?” he asked me, taking my hand in his and pressing it to his lips.

“I did, issa mīsio,” I told him trying to hide my smile.

My protector. It is what I have called him for as long as I could remember. He earned the nickname when I was four and he removed a spider from my room. Luke had alwayss believed that it was something I should’ve reserved only for Jace. Yet he never understood that while Jace would fight for me, Aemond would kill for me.

“Leave us,” he instructed Ser Erryk.

“But the Queen-“ my guard said quickly. He was rather panicked at the idea of leaving me against my mother’s wishes.

“Should understand there is nobody better suited to keep the Princess safe than I am,” Aemond said firmly.

The demanding tone to his voice left no room for further debate. He had always made sure that those around us knew that everyone in the world was insignificant when compared to him in regards to keeping me safe. It didn’t matter if it was his mother, the guards, or even the Gods themselves. He would strike down anyone or anything that dared to threaten me.

I could see that there was an internal debate in his head. Which should he fear more, his Queen or Aemond? Aemond acted more frequently out of anger than Mother did.

“Mother has always trusted that Aemond is a capable swordsman and knows I am safe in his company. If anything is said I will speak to her. Thank you, Ser, for your dedication,” I told him, smiling at him. He nodded quietly and walked away, knowing I would take all responsibility and feeling ease from that.

Aemond offered his arm to me. I linked mine in his without a second thought. The year I spent here before my disappearance, this is how we walked anywhere. Arm in arm, like we were a singular entity. He would escort me everywhere, never once being late and always ready for some form of contact. I would be with him every moment I wasn’t with my grandsire.

Many ladies in the court once asked me how long it would be until we were married. I assured them that there was no possibility in that happening, but they were convinced. They said that not even their own husbands doted on them the way Aemond would dote on me. But they were always so ridiculous sounding I never gave them any mind.

We had always considered ourselves just children in a game. We were better, smarter, more talented than other players. Never did something so trivial as the gossip at courts ever stop us. But now I wonder if maybe we should’ve stopped.

“You look beautiful in that color, Y/N,” he told me as we began walking towards the gardens. This was our route every time. From my chambers, through the gardens, past the training yard, then to the Dragon Pit.

“Why am I the only one you speak to with such affection?” I asked him, raising an eyebrow. I tried to ignore the people we passed by who stopped to stare at me.

“Yet you do not respond with even half as much,” he said to me as he pulled me closer into his side. He seemed to also be aware of everyone staring.

“What is the purpose of this, Aem?” I asked him. “No longer are we children playing a game. We cannot continue as though we are only friends.”

“But we are friends,” he pointed out as we stepped out into the gardens where nobody seemed to exist.

This was one place in the Red Keep I always felt I belonged. Surrounded by flowers of brilliant blues, reds, pinks, and yellows dotting the otherwise green landscape here. The pink peonies were always very beloved by Alicent. The yellow hydrangeas were Mother’s favorite. Helaena always preferred looking for the bugs that inhabited the ground, so much so I had once destroyed the stores of garden soil they used to kill the bugs. They stopped using it when they realized It was me.

“You are in love with me,” I reminded him. Aemond chuckled at my words as he picked a purple hyacinth and put it in my hair beside the flower Mother had stuck there earlier.

“And if I remember correctly, our last night together was spent with you telling me the names of our no less than four children and all of their dragons,” he said with a smirk.

He spoke as though it were the simplest thing in the world. As though he and I were able to marry for love rather than duty. His words ignored the fact I was to marry Jace and become his queen, that my place in this world was to support my twin. It had been decided a long time ago.

“We were fooling ourselves thinking we could ever be together,” I whispered as I stopped walking. Though the knot in my throat that formed as I spoke those words made my voice sound weak and unsure.

“You are fooling yourself if you truly believe that you love Jacaerys enough to toss aside what you and I share.”

I let out a huff of annoyance. He was always so sure that he was right. He spoke so absolutely that almost anyone would believe him.

“And you think I love you enough to toss aside my duty?” I asked him.

There wasn’t enough time for me to process what he did before I was in the position. A look to make sure we were truly alone and then I was pulled into an alcove we had discovered long ago, hidden behind bushes that nobody ever looked twice at. It was small and dark, but always held room for the two of us.

“You scream my name in our nights together. You tell me over and over how you love me as you cum around me. You begged for us to go away, find someone to marry us in Valyrian tradition before you could be forced to marry him,” he whispered in my ear. “You cannot act as though you do not love me enough. Time has changed many things, but I can assure you that our love for one another is not one of them.”

“Aemond,” I whispered cautiously when he ran his fingers over the low neckline of my dress. “That was all before I was betrothed formally.”

“I wish for you to be my wife. Do not expect me to give up on that so easily,” he told me.

My heart was pounding so hard against my chest I was sure he could hear it. Maybe my mother had a point. Time had been so cruel, ripping me away from everyone I knew and loved. Maybe I should allow myself some time to play the game the way I wish to.

And Aemond was electrifying in all of the right ways. He was irresistibly handsome, almost intoxicatingly so. There was something about him that assured every bone in my body that no harm would come to me as long as I was with him.

Further than that, I loved him. Put aside the promise of safety that he had always provided and I still loved him. I had known it when he would stay with me all night as I prayed to every god in the world that my egg would finally hatch. I had known it when he pulled me out of bed to come with him the night he claimed Vhagar because I was the only one he wanted to share the moment with. When he lost his eye during the resulting fight with my brothers and cousins, I had cried for the rest of the night because I had failed to protect him the way he always protected me. And when grandsire sent for me to join him at the Red Keep, I jumped at the opportunity simply because I would be with Aemond. I loved Aemond with my entire being.

“I am still betrothed to Jace. Your desire to marry me does not change that,” I whispered even though it broke my heart.

“You can! You think I don’t remember that your mother has always given you a choice? That you got to choose whether she named you heir or Jacaerys? You have a choice, more than anyone else ever has,” he all but shouted.

There was not a doubt in my mind that he would back off if I told him I did not want him. If I made it clear that my reasons for denying him were more about how I felt rather than about duty, he wouldn’t question it for a second. My wants and desires were placed above his in regards to us. It was one of the many ways I was certain he loved me.

While I couldn’t lie to him that I did not want him, I also couldn’t decide anything without speaking to Jace. He deserved that.

“I will speak to Jace. Only after will I decide anything,” I said.

Only after several moments of silence did my words have any sway in him. It seemed that promise was enough for him as he pressed a small kiss to my forehead before exiting the alcove, gesturing me to follow. And while it may have been a better idea to leave his company, there wasn’t anything I could do to avoid taking his arm in mine and walking with him.

#dividers by benkeibear #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #out of time

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hederasgarden · 2 years

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Stand By Me - Part 2

Summary: When a local ranch hand’s attention evolves into something more sinister, Rhett Abbott becomes an unlikely source of comfort and protection for you. Pairing: Rhett Abbott x F!Reader Word Count: 4.3K (SORRY DEAR READERS) Rating: Mature, future chapters will be explicit and 18+ only. Stalking, anxiety, misogyny, inaction by the police and Rhett being protective. Future chapters will include some violence. No spoilers for Outer Range. A/N: This will be a four part series. I cannot thank @mayhem24-7forever, @callsign-phoenix, @whatblogisthis216 and @wildbornsiren enough for their help and support putting this together. Thank you @callsignhurricane for the absolutely gorgeous header.

Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed this story. Your interactions keep me writing and inspired.

Masterlist

In the morning, you find Rhett fast asleep on your couch. Sometime during the night, he removed his boots and placed them side by side under your coffee table. He looks a little uncomfortable crammed on your couch, one sock-covered foot resting on the floor. You take a moment to study him, his face relaxed in slumber. He’s always been handsome, but he's even more so now with his golden lashes resting against his cheek and his long hair mussed. One hand rests on his stomach and you see his long, lean fingers twitch while he sleeps. His other hand is behind his head.

When you take a step forward, the floor creaks and his blue eyes snap open. He shoots up, tension lining his whole body, but it dissipates the moment he sees you. He twists his neck to the side with an audible crack and you feel a rush of guilt thinking of him sleeping out here. You’re about to apologize when he speaks.

"Sleep okay?" He asks. The grizzled tone of his voice makes your stomach swoop and it takes you a minute to respond.

“I did, thank you. Do you, um, want some coffee or something? I was going to make some for myself…"

“That’d be good,” he says with a soft smile. He rakes a hand through his hair to clear it from his face. On the table, his phone buzzes and he bends down to get it, the corner of his lip pulling up briefly. “It’s Ma,” he explains. “Checking in.”

He texts something back before dropping the phone on the couch to follow you into the kitchen. It’s strange to have a man in your space and with the way he follows so closely behind, you’re self-conscious of every little thing. It was silly and maybe a little vain, but you did your hair and make up before coming out this morning, even though you’re still in your pjs.

“I don’t have anything fancy. It’s just Folgers,” you tell Rhett, pulling down the big red tub and scooping out the powder into the coffee filter.

“I’m not a fancy guy,” he says, smiling at you. He leans against the counter and folds his arms across his chest, continuing to watch you.

As the coffee pot gurgles to life, you pull down two coffee mugs, taking the chipped one for yourself. He turns down your offer of milk and sugar, drinking it black while you doctor yours up.

“I can make some breakfast,” you offer. “Least I can do since you had to stay the night.”

He shakes his head. “The sheriff’s station opens at 8 am. We need to talk to Burt about this. See what can be done.”

“Yeah, of course,” you say, feeling silly. This wasn’t a social visit, Rhett was only here because you were in danger, because you’d caught the wrong kind of attention. “You probably have 100 better things to do this morning. I’ll um, go get dressed. Sorry.”

Rhett catches your arm as you walk past. You feel that same jolt of electricity move under your skin, just like last night when he touched you.

“Hey,” he says softly, waiting until you look up at him before continuing. “No need to apologize. I wanted to be here last night and I want to come with you to the station, if you’ll let me.”

It’s a lot, being under his intense stare and you fidget nervously. “I- I want you to come.”

He smiles and pulls away. “Good.”

You leave him to get dressed, surprised to find him lingering in the hallway outside of your bedroom when you emerge. He looks a little sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “Couldn’t find the bathroom,” he explains.

“Oh, these old houses have weird layouts. It’s just, em, through my bedroom,” you tell him, pointing behind you.

You let him pass and move into your room. You see his head turn as he takes in your small, cluttered space and you feel incredibly self-conscious. The bed is only half made and yesterday’s uniform is still in a heap on the floor. Heat burns in your cheeks when you spot the bra hanging off the bathroom door handle. You don’t realize you’re just standing there after he disappears until you hear the toilet flush.

Hurriedly, you turn around and head to the living room only to pace anxiously while you wait for him. You spot Rhett’s hat on the coffee table, the light brown suede material looking soft to the touch. For a split second you think about picking it up but then you hear the old warped flooring of the hallway groan and withdraw your hand guiltily.

“Ready?” He asks, slipping on his hat.

“Yes,” you tell him, grabbing your purse before you suddenly remember. “Wait, I need to get something.”

You dart past him, back down the hallway to the old linen closet and stand up on your tiptoes to feel along the top shelf. You shoved an old shoe box into the very back when you put it there two weeks ago. As if hiding it would make all of this disappear. A small frustrated sound escapes your pressed lips when you come up empty handed. You’re considering dragging out the old step stool when you step back into a solid chest.

“Easy, it’s just me,” Rhett rumbles in response to the startled yelp you let out. His hands settle on your shoulders and you drop your head forward, embarrassed all over again. Of course it was him. “What are you looking for?”

“A shoe box. It should be on the top shelf."

He hums and reaches past your head, snagging the item in question. You hesitate when he offers it to you and there’s a slight tremor in your fingers. Rhett tilts his head in response, brows drawn together in concern. You force yourself to take it from him carefully, an anxious shiver running down your spine.

“What’s in there?”

For a second you don't want to tell him, ashamed. “Things he left me,” you finally say, not needing to expand on who he is.

“Can I see it?” Rhett questions. “I’d like to see it if that’s okay.”

You nod, looking up at him when he takes it from you and lifts the lid. A muscle in his jaw twitches and his nostrils flare as he carefully picks through the items. When he pulls out one of the man's drawings, you look away. They might have once been beautiful, flattering even, but your eyes were scratched out in all of them. The sharp lines of the man’s fury with you were unmistakable.

“This everything he gave you?”

“No," you admit. "I threw most of it out but then I thought maybe I should keep them. In case it got bad enough to show them to the sheriff.”

A tick in Rhett’s jaw jumps and you feel foolish. Of course he thought you should have gone to the Sheriff before now. Maybe if you had, he wouldn't be here wasting his time with you.

“You’re very brave for keeping this,” Rhett says, touching your shoulder. “It couldn’t have been easy, having this close by.”

You look up, surprised. “I should have told someone before this,” you whisper.

“You did. That’s why I’m here.” Your lower lip trembles in response and you reach for the box but he doesn't let you take it. “I got it. Come on.”

Just like last night, Rhett follows closely behind as you make your way to his truck, although now there is no hand on the small of your back to guide you along. You miss it. He opens the passenger side of the truck for you, making sure you’re buckled in before walking around to get in himself. The ride to the station is quiet though not uncomfortable. With Rhett you don’t feel the need to fill the silence like you do with others. You can just be.

Even though you try to distract yourself with the radio, you find your eyes drawn to the box sitting between the two of you. You stare at it, wondering how the Sheriff will respond. Would he believe you now? He’d have to with Rhett by your side and those awful “gifts” as proof – at least you hoped he would.

“Ready?” He asks, drawing you from your thoughts.

When you look up you’re surprised to see you’re parked in front of the police station. You can feel Rhett’s eyes on you, waiting for a response but you can’t make yourself move or even breathe. You don’t want to do this, fear and anxiety curdling the coffee in your stomach.

“It’ll be okay.” he tells you. His touch on your shoulder has you looking into his beautiful blue eyes. “We’re gonna make him listen,” he promises.

“We will,” you agree, even though you don’t quite believe it.

Rhett takes the box, tucking it under his arm and waits for you before heading into the station. He tips his hat at the receptionist, offering her a smile that she returns. You can see she likes him. She sits up straighter and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, paying you no mind. You recognize her from high school, Monica Barlow, one of the varsity cheerleaders and runner up for prom queen. She still looks just as thin and beautiful as you remember. You tug at your work uniform self consciously.

“Morning. We need to see Burt,” Rhett says confidently.

“Hi Rhett,” she chirps, twisting a strand of shiny blonde hair around her finger while she stares up at him. “I’m not sure if he’ll have time to see you but you can wait with me if you want. It’s so boring here, I could use the company.” She giggles and Rhett smiles.

“Come on Monica,” he says, leaning closer to her, his voice dropping lower. “You mean to tell me you don’t run this place yet? Got all those guys at your beck and call?”

She laughs and it’s a light, pretty sound. “Oh, you’re awful,” she tells him, reaching out to slap his arm. “He’s got a pretty booked schedule…” she trails off, glancing behind to Burt’s office. Even though the blinds are partially drawn, you can clearly see him sitting at his desk.

Rhett pushes up his hat with a finger, tilting his head to the side but says nothing. To your surprise, Monica blushes. “Let me get him his morning coffee first,” she says.

When she heads down the hall Rhett stands up straight, his expression falling back into that serious look he’d been wearing most of the car ride. You shift from foot to foot anxiously, only settling when he touches your arm. Even though he doesn’t say anything, it helps and the two of you wait in silence for Monica to return.

“He’ll see you now,” she tells him, glancing at you for the first time. You can tell by her blank, pleasant smile that she doesn’t recognize you.

“Thanks, Monica,” he says, winking at her. She preens and bats her lashes.

Rhett uses the hand still on your arm to urge you to walk with him. On the way to Burt’s office you pass Deputy Joy who seems surprised to see you there, her eyes narrowing at the sight of the man beside you. She looks like she wants to say something but before she can, he’s herding you into the office and shutting the door behind him.

“Well… if this ain't something. Rhett Abbott in my station without handcuffs on.” Sheriff Burt exclaims, leaning back in his chair. The wood of his chair creaks dangerously as he settles his hands on his prominent gut. “What can I do you for?”

He doesn’t even spare you a glance, focused entirely on Rhett. It makes you feel small, inconsequential. Silly. Like the first time you stammered your way through your concerns and he just stared at you with that patronizing look. The one people give small children and dogs. You clench your jaw and stare down at your shoes as Rhett explains why you’ve come. He shows the Sheriff the shoe box and recounts the man’s behavior last night.

“Well, like I told the girl last time, it sounds like she’s got herself an admirer.”

“An admirer?” Rhett asks sharply, taking a step forward. The hand at his side curls into a tight fist. “That’s horseshit.”

“Now Rhett,” the Sheriff starts, hooking his thumbs into his belt, his tone painfully familiar to you. “This sounds like a personal matter best solved between the two of them. Or maybe you. Have a chat with him, man to man. Might be that he doesn’t know she’s got herself a man and he just thinks she’s shy. You know, in need of wooing.” He looks at you then, thin lips drawing up into a smile. “You seem awfully timid, honey.”

“I-I told him I had a boyfriend,” you say. “I said-'' you start but the Sheriff cuts you off with a wave of his hand. His quick dismal makes you feel so little and insignificant.

“You don't think stalking is a police matter?” Rhett asks, the anger in his voice clear. “Threatening a woman isn't serious enough to necessitate getting off your ass?”

“Now listen here, boy,” the Sheriff warns. You flinch when he stands abruptly and his chair scrapes against the linoleum flooring.

“You’re the one who’s not listening,” Rhett interrupts. “How the fuck you got elected is beyond me.”

“Careful, boy. I’d hate to have to call your momma to bail you out again.”

Rhett takes a step forward and you see the Sheriff’s hand move to rest on the butt of his gun. The tension in the room is suffocating and your heart hammers in your chest. You may not know Rhett well, but from the look on his face you think he might lunge across the desk to reach the Sheriff if this continues much longer. The thought of him getting in trouble or hurt on your behalf is too much and you latch onto his arm.

“Rhett,” you plead. “It’s okay. Let’s just go.” He looks at you, working his jaw but the sharpness in his eyes fades a fraction. ”Please.”

“Best listen to your woman, boy,” the Sheriff says, his smug tone enough to make Rhett’s head snap back up.

You say his name again, touching his shoulder.

He breathes out harshly in response and purses his lips. “This ain't finished,” he warns the Sheriff with a pointed finger.

The Sheriff scoffs, unfazed by Rhett’s threat and you feel his muscles tense under your palm. He looks like he’s gonna say something else but then shakes his head and turns to leave, grabbing your hand in his. He pulls you through the station at a fast enough clip that you struggle to keep up. When Monica sees you coming she stands, smiling, but Rhett doesn’t even spare her a glance. He doesn’t stop until you’re outside.

“Fucking useless piece of shit,” Rhett growls, kicking the tire of his truck.

He takes his hat off and runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. There’s a deep red flush up the back of his neck and color in his cheeks. When he turns away from you, you don’t miss the tension in his shoulder and the way he breathes heavily, working to get his anger under control. Were it another man, his behavior might have been frightening but you feel a different emotion, one that makes your chest warm and your skin tingle. You’ve never had someone fight like that for you before.

When Rhett turns around a few moments later he looks almost ashamed. “Sorry,” he says, rubbing his jaw, “Shouldn’t of cursed in front of you like that or reacted like I did. Sorry if I scared you.”

“It’s okay,” you assure him, taking a tentative step closer. You want to touch him but aren’t sure if you should or if he’d even want you too. “You didn’t scare me. I… I trust you, Rhett.”

Something in his face changes, an emotion passing through his blue eyes you’re not familiar with. You watch his lashes flutter and his jaw go slack before his gaze cuts away from you. It’s clear you’ve said something wrong and that thought has you twisting your hands together.

“What time’s your shift start?” Rhett asks abruptly.

You blink, a little taken aback by the sudden change in topic. “Uh, 10 am,” you respond.

He nods. "We got time then, come on. You should eat somethin’. I think Odessa's is open this early."

“Okay.” You agree, surprised when you feel his hand settle on your back.

You walk alongside him and let him lead you north on the main street, even though you’re well aware of where the diner is. It’s been a staple in Wabang since before you were both born. Rhett looks deep in thought so you don’t talk, but you do steal glances at him now and again until he distracts you enough that you miss a divet in the sidewalk. It sends you stumbling, but he catches you easily, an arm around your lower back and a hand on your elbow. Underneath your embarrassment is a strong current of warmth in your gut that has you inhaling sharply.

“Alright?” He asks.

You nod and he lets you go. You continue walking but this time you pay attention until you arrive at the busy diner. You seat yourselves and take one of the peeling menus from the holder on the table. You’ve eaten here enough times to know what you’re getting, but you need something to do with your hands. That only lasts so long before the waitress takes your orders and you’re left with nothing to do but look at Rhett.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out suddenly. Rhett’s eyebrows rise in response and you hurry to keep talking. “It’s just, I mean… I’m sorry you had to waste your time on this.”

“Only one who wasted my time this mornin’ was the Sheriff,” he tells you, lip curling in distaste for the aforementioned man. “You got nothing to be sorry for.”

You know on some level he’s right, that the Sheriff should have listened to you, especially once he’d seen the box. The box…Shit. You left it behind at the station. It was probably at the bottom of a trash can now, long forgotten, along with you and Rhett. You really should return for it, the box was your only physical proof of what was happening, but you’re not sure you have the stomach for it, even with Rhett at your side.

“I suppose the Sheriff did have one good idea,” Rhett says.

He chuckles at your surprised expression

“What’s that?” You question.

“That he might back off if he thought you had a man,” Rhett explains, the look on his face letting you know exactly how he felt about that antiquated statement. “He’s already seen you with me at the store. It wouldn’t be too hard to convince him that I’d make trouble for him if he didn’t knock it off.”

“You mean….pretend we were together?” You ask hesitantly, afraid of misunderstanding what he’s suggesting. It’s a little pathetic how your heart lurches in your chest at the chance to spend more time with him. To have him close.

“Yeah. Don’t think it would take much. You could come watch me ride tomorrow night. I’m sure Ma would love the company. Then maybe… drinks at the Handsome Gambler a few times?” He questions, eyes narrowed in thought. “I know I’ve seen that guy in there before with the other men from the Dustin ranch.”

You don’t respond immediately, overwhelmed by his offer. You weren’t used to having people go to bat for you, at least not since your grandfather passed shortly after you graduated high school. It’s a sobering realization to know Rhett’s probably the first man you’ve felt safe with since he died. That thought dislodges something in your chest that sends a spike of unwanted emotion climbing up your throat and pressing on your eyes.

Rhett seems to take your silence as something else and leans back looking a little uncertain for the first time since he came to your rescue last night. “If you’re not comfortable-”

“No,” you’re quick to assure him. “It’s just…” you trail off, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from crying.

“Hey,” Rhett says quietly, hands settling over your own. God, the soft tone of his voice goes straight to that bundle of fear living under your breastbone, easing it just a little more every time you hear it.

You shake your head, hating how emotional you’re getting again. This was stupid, he was just offering you help. That should be normal, expected. It’s what people did. You weren’t usually someone who fell apart so easily but that seemed to be the only side of yourself you were showing Rhett.

“We can figure something else out,” he says. “Perry and I can pay a visit to the Dustin ranch. Make him understand… it was just a thought.”

“It’s not that, it’s a good idea,” you promise him, trying to find the words you want to use. It takes several moments before you speak, Rhett watching you patiently. “It’s just people always say they want to help but they don’t mean it. They have their own problems and families to care for,” you explain. “I guess what I’m trying to say is I appreciate what you’re doing for me. Not everyone would.”

“Families aren’t all they're cracked up to be,” Rhett promises you cryptically. “And you’re making this sound like a chore when it’s really not. I’ll have a pretty girl cheering me on in the stands and someone to share a beer with on Friday nights instead of sitting alone at the bar like a sad sack.”

Pretty. He called you pretty. A part of you wants to believe him but you know he’s only trying to make you feel better. You saw the kind of woman he went home with, the whole town did and they didn’t look like you.

“Alright,” you agree with a shy smile.

You take comfort from the feel of his fingertips on the back of your hand and the two of you stay like that until the food arrives. The waitress eyes you curiously. You expect Rhett Abbott taking a girl out to breakfast wasn’t a sight she’s ever seen. It might be your imagination but she seems to linger a few minutes longer than necessary after dropping off your plates before heading back behind the counter. You catch her whispering to another waitress, both of them watching you. Rhett notices and smirks, shoving a piece of bacon in his mouth.

“That didn’t take long. See, this is gonna be easy,” he promises you with a grin. “Though, I’ll apologize in advance for dragging down your reputation.”

“Don't think I really have one,” you tell him. The only reason people seemed to remember your name half the time was because you wore a name badge.

“Nah, you were always a good girl in school,” he tells you with a grin. “I don’t think that’s changed.”

Your cheeks heat at his flirty tone. You don’t respond, taking a bite of your pancakes instead. While you continue to eat, Rhett lays out his plan. It’ll start that night when he picks you up after your shift to go to the bar for a few drinks and be seen. Tomorrow, you’ll join his parents at the rodeo to watch him ride. If the man shows up anytime in the future, Rhett wants you to call him immediately.

When the check comes, he pays before you can offer. You thank him but he brushes you off, his hand returning to your back once you’re outside on the street. It’s a quick walk to the hardware store. You can see your boss and another employee inside already, preparing to open. Rhett’s hand on your back drags up to rest on your shoulder and he turns you to face him.

“They’re watching us,” he says. You try to look behind you but he stops you with two fingertips along your jaw and a shake of his head. “Should probably do a little more than wave goodbye,” he suggests.

“Oh, good point,” you agree, anxious anticipation for what he might suggest making your voice shake. “Whatever you think, Rhett. I trust you.”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he whispers, looking concerned.

“I don’t mind you touching me. It… it makes me feel safe,” you admit in a rush, skin hot.

That same look from outside the station earlier passes over his face and he inhales quietly. You worry you've said the wrong thing again.

“Alright, c’mere,” he directs, a hand on your hip pulling you in for a tight hug.

His hat bumps into your head when he tucks his face into the side of your neck. The feel of his warm breath against your skin sends a rush of butterflies to your stomach. You make a soft sound when he drags the flat of his palm up and down your back comfortingly. He pulls back a fraction but is still close enough that you’re partially shielded by the brim of his hat. He smiles and you’re quick to return it, chest warming at how handsome he looks.

“I’ll pick you up at 5,” he promises, leaning in to brush his lips over your cheek. “Call me if you need anything.”

“Okay,” you agree.

Rhett doesn’t move again until you’re safe inside the store, offering you a sweet little wave that you return before watching him climb into his truck. Today didn’t go as well as you hoped, the Sheriff still doesn’t believe you even with Rhett, but you don’t feel as anxious or scared as you expect.

For the first time since this all started, you’re no longer alone. You have Rhett and a plan.

#rhett abbott x reader #rhett abbott x female reader #rhett abbott x you #rhett abbott imagine #rhett abbott fanfiction #outer range #outer range fan fic #outer range fanfic

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callmewrinkles3 · 1 year

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Come Back, Be Here - DR3 x Fem!OC

Masterlist

Summary: One race until the end of the season, and one race until Dan gets to go home for New Years and six weeks of family time. But he and Emmy are facing their longest separation since 2018, and neither of them are facing the truth of what it means.

Words: 7.2k

Warnings: Abu Dhabi 2021, angst (it’s this series what do you expect), explicit smut (18+ only pls!), mentions of breaking laws in Middle Eastern countries.

AN: We had to share something for the DannyRic GP, and why not the moment that started the downward spiral for these two? We are aware that they probably wouldn’t get in trouble for being physically affectionate in public, but Em sticks to the rules and is a worst case scenario person so here we are. We hope you enjoy! Alex and Cíara xx

December, 2021

This leg of the race calendar was punishing. It didn’t give you a moment to breathe, three double headers in a row. And hardest of all for Dan, the last three races were in the Middle East.

He’d learned more about the human rights side of things, but he’d never consider himself well educated on it. He’d talked to other drivers, looked online, all of that. But on a purely selfish level Middle Eastern races meant that he and Em were back to their old pattern of separate hotel rooms, one of them slipping out of the others at the crack of dawn so they weren’t caught sharing. It was stupid and illogical and he missed the feeling of getting to wake up slowly with her half sprawled across him, of soft kisses and slow sex to get ready for the day.

Instead it was mumbled goodbyes and kisses on her forehead. Qatar wasn’t too bad, they finished the race and got to head back to Europe. He spent more time on the sim, trying to get to grips with how the car reacted and bring back some of the magic from Monza. And then he’d go home and open up the door of that little flat to see Em on the couch still working away, or she’d arrive in just after him from Blake’s with a smile and a “I was asked to remind you the walls are thin, please don’t make me scream tonight again.” She always blushed and he grinned, kissing it away and wrapping her in a hug to put aside the mixed feelings he had about McLaren.

But they were in Saudi Arabia and he fucking hated it here. He hated that for the next two months he couldn’t hold Em’s hand. He couldn’t wake up beside her in bed. That he’d get on the plane to Perth and she’d be left behind because she was going back to London and he didn’t want to do it.

Originally how late the calendar ran because of covid was perfect. They would arrive into Perth just as the major restrictions would be lifted, the hotel was booked for two weeks, they’d be home just after Christmas. It would work. And then the rules changed and it was citizens and spouses of citizens only and there was no way around it. They were in Austin when they got the news, cancelling the flight for Em with tears.

It was just after the race in Saudi, sitting in his driver room and wanting to head back to the hotel when Michael walked in. Everything was ready and he stood, but one look from Michael made him sit and stay quiet.

“Are you gonna ask Em to marry you so she can come home with us?”

He thought he was about to laugh at the question, but Michael’s face was sincere.

“Mate, no. God I wish I could. But no. I have a plan, and her thinking that I’m only asking her so she can come is not in it. I wouldn’t do that to her.”

“You have a plan? Shouldn’t you at least go on a couple of dates? Have dinner out like a couple? Work out if it’s what’s gonna happen?”

He could see the surprise on his best mate’s face, watching as Dan took a deep breath and stretched out his back. He’d had the plan since the four of them were in lockdown together on the farm, when Em got off the wooden lounger she was sharing with him to get four more beers. He sat there, took the last gulp out of his bottle, and said “I’m going to marry her some day. Emmy’s the one. She’s it.”

Emmy had come back and curled on his chest again before they could say anything else, sitting there in the cooling night air while he ran his hand up and down her arm. It was perfect and he knew that was it, she was the one. The ring was sitting in his bag waiting for the right moment.

“Mate I know it will. We live together. We do dates when we have our Italy trips, and she still hasn’t forgotten I owe her for Lake Como last year because I won Monza instead. We don’t need dates.”

“Just take her on one. Mate, seriously, take her out. Do it properly.” The insistence was weird, it was never how Mike usually was. In fairness he and Blake usually stayed out of whatever he and Emmy were doing, unless it interrupted Blake’s sleep and he got an angry text. They’d gotten a lot better at not doing that though.

“Did she tell you something? Why are you making a big deal about this? I know what I’m doing.”

“She hasn’t said anything, but just…I see the way the two of you look at each other. You’re not gonna see her for six weeks, and I’m pretty sure the last time the two of you went that long without seeing each other was that gap between her coming to Monaco and whatever the race she went to after in 2018. Take your girl on a date and make sure she’s your girl.”

“I fucking can’t!” He was louder than he meant to be, opening and closing his hand and standing up. The fucking “cultural norms” and rules that meant they couldn’t do it. If they were just tourists then yeah, maybe. But there’d be cameras and people would see and he wouldn’t put it past a government to make an example of them.

“Why not? It’s easy. “Hey Em I’m in love with you and have been probably since I brought you to Perth for the first time, lets go for dinner before we spend six weeks apart.” That’s all you have to say. She’ll say yes.”

“Because we’re in the Middle fucking East. I’m not even supposed to get in a car with her, let alone be in public with her alone. And it’s pretty public that we’re not married so we can’t risk it. And don’t remind me that it’s gonna be fifty one days without her. That’s how long it’ll be till I see her once we get on that plane.”

“Dan…” But he was on a roll, finally able to explain everything that had been so painful to think about.

“We break so many rules in so many countries just to be able to sit at each others sides. I can get in trouble for sitting by her side in the car, holding her hand. It’s my thing every single day to be with her in the car. It’s our thing to go on ride to get to be alone for a minute before the rest of the world gets me. I can’t even stay in the same room as her if there isn’t someone there. I’m not supposed to go to bed hugging the girl of my dreams. Do you know the risk that I take every single time I sneak out of her room? The danger she’s in? There’s literal fucking morality police here. And every night we decide fuck it, it’s worth it and I just hug her tighter because it could turn into a living nightmare for her. So please. Don’t ask me “why not” like it’s some simple question because it’s not. There’s nothing I want more than that.”

It was quiet as Dan took a breath, the reminders of last year and the way they worried as he got back into the car after watching Romain escape the flames hit him again.

“Remember Bahrain last year? The way I hid in my drivers room with her?” Michael nodded. “That could have gotten us arrested for just being alone together and all that happened was she held onto me and stopped me from wanting to scream. The fact that we’re here so we have to do this? We have to pretend that it’s ok not to even get to hug each other? I’d kill for a podium, or even imagine a win, but then she couldn’t hug me. It’s backwards and it’s fucked and yeah I’m rich and white so we’d probably be fine but it’s not worth the risk. We do it anyway. Because we have to.”

“Mate. I’m sorry.”

“Just please. I have a plan. When we move into the new place I’m gonna talk to her about admitting everything. And next time she’s able to come to the farm I’m gonna propose. I’ve had the ring for a year. A little longer isn’t going to hurt.”

“As long as you know what you’re doing. I trust you, but don’t hurt her. Don’t hurt yourself.”

“I won’t. We’ll be good. She knows me better than I know myself.”

They nodded at each other and left the room, Blake and Em standing outside the hospitality with a few feet between them. Instead the four walked out to a car available for them to go back to the hotel. Ten days till the flight to Perth. He had to make the most of them.

—

Once they arrived in Abu Dhabi Em was counting down. They got in on Monday ahead of most of the rest of McLaren, checking into the hotel and getting their rooms. She had the emails and went to the counter, getting the keys and pointing out the boys across the lobby and the ridiculous amount of luggage they all travelled with. Travelling light was not a thing Formula One did.

The four envelopes were slid over, Em taking them and checking the keys. The little printed labels with their names were the same as in nearly any other Hilton, but seeing Dan’s on his own and hers on her own made her so frustrated.

She knew she’d been putting off thinking about the flight home after the race. Until they got to the airport she could pretend they were getting on the same plane, holding hands over the little divider like they did so often, curling up in bed and look at new apartments. They had months left on their self imposed timeline of the summer break, her lease was month to month, but they wanted this. A place that was theirs felt right for once.

“You ok?” Dan asked when Blake and Michael had gone up to their rooms. They were sitting on opposite sides of a coffee table, each fiddling with the envelope in their hands. The evening was a free one before the chaos of the final race of the season began. Both titles coming down to one race? It wasn’t going to be pretty.

“Yeah. Just…yeah.”

“It sucks.”

“It really sucks.” She smiled wistfully, trying to get herself together. They still had time. They weren’t leaving till Tuesday night, Lando agreeing to do the final day of tyre testing so Dan could make it home. The offer was there for Em to fly home early, as if that would happen. She hadn’t let them book her on an earlier flight to London. It wasn’t worth having a little less time with her boys.

“I just hate being apart. I hate not getting to share a room with you. Not even getting to give you a hug in public. I know it’s stupid, but this week?”

“It’s not forever.” Dan sounded different and she looked up at him, watching him search for his words. “After we move, y’know? Next year. We find the apartment and we move in and then we can figure out the rest.”

“That sounds really good.”

Their rooms were at least on the same floor, and she handed Dan the spare card for her room, watching him grin as she did. She went in and did her usual unpacking routine - toiletries in the bathroom, her planned clothes for the circuit hanging up neatly, checking the locks worked and the mirrors were real after one too many TikTok’s that terrified her. Her final step was putting her pillow on the bed, the habit Michael had made her pick up after one too many complaints about her awful sleeping habits. It didn’t particularly help, but she did it anyway.

They’d gotten in late, but there was only a one hour time difference. The room service menu looked good, a lamb kofta and lemon tart for dinner. The food arrived not long after she ordered and she settled at the desk to eat.

Three minutes later there was a knock at the door and it opened, Dan coming in with his own plate. A kiss to her head before he sat down with his steak, Em watching as he cut in and smiled at how it was cut.

“You’re a simple boy, eh Dimples?” She asked, enjoying how the first nickname she gave him that drunken night had stuck.

“I’ve got you and a steak, what else could I possibly want Emmy?”

“You know you don’t need to charm me, right?” He held out a forkful of peppers for her, in return she gave him some fries.

“But if I want to?”

“Then by all means, but don’t expect magic. I didn’t bring anything fancy considering what customs here is like.” The last time she’d brought anything involving what she considered her nice underwear was in 2019 when her luggage had been searched. She wasn’t doing that again.

They ate in mostly silence, Dan leaving only to put his room service cart outside his door and hang the do not disturb sign on it. Once he was back they got ready for bed, another episode of Criminal Minds on TV as they cuddled and got comfy. Em couldn’t tell you what happened, instead lulled to sleep by Dan’s fingers in her hair and a kiss against her forehead every few minutes.

The next few days passed, and she could see the seething rivalry between Red Bull and Mercedes was going to spill over. Thing were tense in the paddock, she’d never felt an atmosphere like it. Her first two years were a party mode, people glad a season was over, relaxing and looking forward to the break. Last year was covid and weird. But this felt strange.

She was sitting having coffee with Britta on Thursday morning before media really kicked off and asked her the magic question.

“Has a final race been like this before? It feels…weird.” The other woman laughed, checking her watch and taking a sip before answering.

“2016. 2012 a little, but we won so I kind of forget it. Things didn’t feel as poisonous then. Everyone knew unless Sebastian didn’t finish he’d probably win, so that was the aim. But 2016 was rough, and we weren’t near Mercedes then. It’s going to be interesting.”

“Definitely.” She wanted to see Dan at the top of the standings, wanted to see him race and race well. But this felt weird. She’d known Max just out of his teens, focused and sure and cocky. Lewis had become a friend. It was weird calling him that, but it was how things were.

Seeing Dan finish out of the points wasn’t great, but it was over and the season was done. The safety car finish that wasn’t a safety car finish, the way it all ended up left a weird taste in her mouth. Em had no loyalty to any team despite the friendships she’d made with people across both of them. Splitting the trophies felt just. But it was still strange. That night they all went to a party held by someone, drinking and dancing. In the rented out room it felt safe to be near Dan, but as soon as they were leaving for the hotel it was that gap between them. Into the provided car and through the lobby and up to her room, Dan stepping in behind her and pinning her against the wall. The sex was fierce and frantic and desperate, both of them putting everything they had into it. Dan rubbing against her, filthy words falling out of his mouth about how she looked, how she felt, how good she was as she begged him for more and more until they were seeing stars and clutched together.

Monday was promo. Em sat at the side of the garage with her iPad, already slotting in dates for the following season. Her earplugs were carefully in her ears as she watched the filming happen, content for the off season between Lando and Dan. It was exhausting, but the season was over. So many flights and hotels and this and that and the other. They’d done the maths and realised they spent more time in hotels than their bedroom during the season. She wanted to go home.

But she didn’t. She didn’t want to be in the cold London apartment alone. She didn’t want to sit on their couch and hit her leg off the coffee table Dan hated. She didn’t want to put his helmet on the shelf alone. They had a ceremony for it, Dan’s arms around her as she slid it into its new home. But their time together was ticking away shorter and shorter and she didn’t want to think about it. So she pulled up the latest apartment listings he’d sent to see if any of them suited. And then frowned when she realised he was looking in his rental bracket, not hers.

“Penny for them?” Blake asked, slipping into the chair across from her. She made herself smile up, hitting the lock button on the iPad and closing the case.

“Not a lot. Looking at apartments, wondering what the hell Danny is thinking of with some of them. I told him my budget.”

“And you know Dan. He wants the perfect place. You two doing ok?”

“There’s no us two, Blake.” Her words were short but she’d had enough of everyone saying they were together.

“Tamothy you’re either being wilfully or deliberately blind. He worships the ground you walk on. You’re moving in together. I live beside you, I hear too much.”

“We’re moving into a two bedroom.” She took a breath before continuing, letting that sink in. “Dan and I are…we are complicated and messy but he is my best friend. He knows me better than anybody else does. And whatever is going on with us is between us. You know I love you, you know you’re my brother, but you have to let this be between us. Ok?”

She took a sip of the iced tea beside her, stretching out her shoulders and arms the way Michael had instructed her to every half hour she was typing away. Blake looked like he was going to say something but Dan arrived over, grinning and wearing yet another OKX shirt.

“Did you take a look at the listings? I really like the SE1 one, it’s got balcony views over the Thames. If you can view when you’re back we can do the deposit?” He took her bottle and half emptied it, handing it back to Em who took another sip before looking up at him.

“I saw, except it’s five times the budget we said. Dan, seriously.”

“Emmy we can afford it. If we decide to do a budget by income like we should it’s me covering most of the expenses. Have a look at it?” He tried widening his eyes but she was immune from them. Mostly.

“No. We’re looking in the price range you and I set. Then if we can’t find anything that suits we’ll go higher. Understood?” He nodded. “This shoot is only supposed to be another twenty minutes, how’s it going?”

“My part’s nearly done. What’s next?”

“You get a full thirty minutes for lunch if you’re on time. Then it’s a couple of Android ads. I got them to give Blake a Pixel phone and tablet so you can look like you use them all the time instead of being the Apple geek we know you are. Once that’s done it’s a Gulf Oil pre-tape, a couple of holiday messages to record - Christmas, New Years, Lunar New Year because that’s before you’re back from Australia - and then you’re mostly done for the day. Apart from the Pirelli test meeting at five. That’s just going over the tires for tomorrow, the aim, introduce you to how the mule cars will work. That kind of thing.”

“You are my calendar countess, thank you Emmy! Going back to work now, are you both getting lunch then?”

“I’ll drag her from her desk!” Dan grinned at Blake’s response before jogging back. Once he was gone Blake stared at Em with wide eyes. “You drank from your bottle.”

“And?” She waved her hand at the papaya insulated metal bottle she carried with her everywhere. Water usually, but in hotter places it was iced tea with ice cubes carefully prodded through the lid. Everyone regularly in the garages had one.

“You never do that. I saw you nearly slap Michaels hand away for doing it. But you let Dan who was sweaty from being under huge lights all morning drink out of it and you drank out of it straight away.”

“So? It’s not a big deal.” It wasn’t. She was sanitary, that was all. Dan’s tongue was in her mouth most days, it wasn’t a big deal to share a water bottle. She forced Blake’s words out of her mouth as she started planning the 2022 Ric3 release schedule, only interrupted by going for lunch before spending the rest of her day on it. That night she didn’t do her usual day before checkout routine, instead curling up in bed with Dan for a lazy make out session before they went to sleep.

The next morning Em stopped packing and looked up at Daniel, watching him pace around the hotel room that he hadn’t left that morning, needing the extra time with her. He was more anxious than usual before getting in the car.

“Hey, hey, look at me.” She pulled his chin down so he stared at her before getting on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. “You’re going to be fine. I promise.”

“I just wish you were going to be in Perth with us. The kids miss you and want to see you, Mum and Dad keep bugging me that I have to be able to do something to get you in. We could do Melbourne or Sydney and spend it—“

“And you’d spend it away from your family when the entire reason you’re going back to Oz and spending fifteen days in a very small hotel room with Mikey is to see them. It sucks. It completely sucks that we’re going to be apart for two months. It sucks that we’re not spending Christmas together when we’ve spent almost every day of the last two years together. But you need to see them.” She couldn’t help the tears falling at her words, the realisation that she had to spend so much time away from her boys hitting her. They’d been her entire life, but they needed to see the other people who loved them even though she couldn’t go. She and Dan had poured over the regulations but had come to the same conclusion. She wasn’t Australian, she wasn’t married to an Australian, so she couldn’t enter Western Australia. None of Dan’s connections could get the restrictions lifted, even though she’d asked him not to try. He still had because of course he had.

“Emmy, don’t cry.” He sat on the bed and pulled her close, cradling her the same way they’d curl up on a jet together. Mike would be at the door any minute telling him to get his ass downstairs, testing was starting soon, but he didn’t care. She came first.

“I’m sorry. I just…ugh. I want to be there. I miss everyone. I want my big hug from everyone and the reminder to eat up because we don’t settle down in one place enough. I want to spend a day cooking with Grace and Michelle and getting shown the recipes she doesn’t trust you with. It’s just not fucking fair.” Dan’s hand ran through her hair, pushing kisses to her forehead as he soothed her. Seven fucking weeks. Fifty one days. It was the longest they’d spent apart since she’d gone to Barcelona in 2018.

“None of this is fair. I’ll come back to London, we can spend Christmas in the flat and start looking for our new place. I don’t want you alone for it or having to get the train to Liverpool.”

“You’re going to Perth. You already paid the stupid amount of money for hotel quarantine, we both know you don’t have a choice. I’ll be fine.”

She nearly convinced herself as she got off his lap the moment before Mike came into their room, wiping her eyes and picking up her tablet before joining them in the car. Blake had told her to take the day off, but there was already dates for sponsor videos and the next car launch, and some stupid OKX campaign involving Dan as a magician that she thought was ridiculous but she’d seen how much money they were personally paying him so it had to happen. While Dan drove laps around Yas Marina to put the season that had the highest highs and the lowest lows behind them she worked, tapping away at the keyboard with more force than she intended.

“What did the poor machine do to you?” She turned at the American accent, Zak Brown standing behind her looking her up and down. Emmy shook her head and put her press smile on.

“Decided to push more things onto a schedule than there’s hours in the day. What can I do for you, Mr Brown?” The older man’s expression was smarmy and she dreaded what he was about to say.

“We need Daniel to drive tom—“

“No.”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“You want Daniel to drive tomorrow morning instead of doing the full run today. That’s not going to work. He’s booked on a flight to Perth at three in the morning and is booked into his hotel quarantine for when he arrives in Australia. This is non negotiable.” She wasn’t afraid to stand up to Brown anymore, not after the rumour Carmen had slipped her he’d spread.

“Lando can’t drive in the morning, he’s booked on a flight then.”

“I don’t care.” She stared at him, taking a breath before speaking. “Lando’s family is in England and he was able to spend most of 2020 and basically all of 2021 with them. They were able to be at races with him. Dan hasn’t seen his family since April last year apart from FaceTime, and thanks to the season running so late this year he’s already missing Christmas and Boxing Day with them. He’s not delaying seeing them by extra time. Plus, there’s flights to London nearly every hour, Lando can get any one of them. Dan’s flight isn’t changing. Don’t ask again.”

“And if I ask him to?” She hadn’t realised the car had pulled back into the garage, Dan making a beeline for his manager’s assistant and the CEO speaking in harsh whispers at the back of the garage.

“If you ask me to what?” He swallowed part of the protein smoothie Mike had handed him while waiting for Zak to speak.

“I was telling your little assistant here that Lando needs to go back to London tonight to see family, so I need you to do tomorrow morning’s testing session. She told me you wouldn’t do it, but I know you will, right?” Emmy looked at Dan, dreading his response

“I can’t. I’ve organised hotel quarantine with the WA government, I’ve paid for it. If I’m not on that flight then I miss my quarantine spot and there’s no guarantee I’ll get another one. Lando told me yesterday afternoon he was fine about it, he had plans to spend Thursday golfing in Dubai before flying home. If Emmy says something about my schedule then that’s my schedule, she’s the one who keeps all that.”

They were a united front, and she could feel the heat radiating from his sweaty race suit just behind her. Instead of leaning back like she wanted she stayed still to watch Brown take in Dan’s words.

“Ok. We’ll make it work. Dan, Emmy.” He turned to walk away, but Emmy stopped him.

“Mr Brown?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Emma, if you don’t mind. Only certain people call me Emmy, I’d like to keep it that way.”

They watched him walk out of the garage towards hospitality and it took Dan less than five seconds to grab her hand and pull her back to his drivers room.

“Dan?” She asked once he’d closed the door, pushing her against it.

“That was fucking hot. Making sure I get to go? Standing up to him? Not letting him call you the name I gave you? Hot as hell.”

His lips dropped to her neck, tracing the length of the silver chain she always wore until he reached the number three on it. It was her birthday present from 2018, given to her during the summer break. Just weeks after they’d decided to be friends who slept together.

She hated the word friends.

“You have to eat. And drive. We can’t right now.”

“At the hotel? I want to say goodbye to you properly. Two months is too long.”

“I know, Babe. I know.”

She pressed open mouthed kisses to his jaw before pushing him slightly, pulling her ipad to her as she perched on the little desk before Mike arrived back. They were the picture of professionalism, apart from Dan’s pinkie running up and down her thigh.

When he was back in the car she had her last meeting with Michael, the two of them running through the final plans for the online platform over the winter, the pre recorded information ready to go.

“You doing ok?” Michael asked and she nodded, trying to smile. “Really?”

“I will be. It’s just gonna be weird spending time without the three of you. Dan and I haven’t been apart since we were all in lockdown.”

“Any news about you and Dan?”

“Gossiping, much?!” She tried laughing, not letting her worries show. “He’s my guy, he’s my best friend. Whatever the media or anyone says doesn’t matter. Danny knows more about me than anyone else.”

“You know we’re on your side.”

There was nothing else she could say to that. Fortunately Dan appeared out of the car, changed but unshowered.

“Winter break, here we come! I’m thinking hotel to nap, and then we can get food before we change and head to the airport? Book the restaurant for eight thirty?” Dan’s curls were wild and he still had the balaclava marks on his cheeks that Em loved to kiss off his face. Instead she stood up, adjusting the bright orange shirt as she picked up the last few things she had.

“Yeah, works for us. Make sure we’re all packed up so we can just grab them and go straight to the airport. Who’s driving? Emmy?”

“Nah, not tonight. I’m too tired, and considering the way things are around here a woman driving a car full of men?” She smiled, Blake and Mike realising the excuse she wasn’t saying.

“I’ll drive. Be fine. Let’s head back.” Blake shepherded them out, everyone saying goodbye to the team they’d worked with for the year. Em checked her watch, eleven hours until she’d have said goodbye to her boys for two months, and she wasn’t ready.

The drive back to the Hilton was quick. Mike took the passenger seat without asking leaving her and Dan holding hands in the back. When they were in the garage they waved goodbye, everyone going to their room and agreeing to meet later for dinner. Once the door to their room was closed Dan pulled her close, his hands half lifting her as her legs wrapped around his waist when she jumped.

“Dan,” Em groaned, holding onto his shoulders.

“Ive got you baby girl, I’ve got you. I promise I’ve got you.” His lips moved further down her neck as he pulled the team shirt off her body to reveal a new pink bra. “For me?”

“Wanted to look pretty for you, give you something to remember.”

“You say that like I could ever forget you.”

She was lost in the sensations, both of them shuffling clothing off in a desperate attempt to be closer. Dan’s fingers slid through the matching underwear, long digits brushing through the wet folds.

“Dan I need more. Please?” Her hips bucked up and he laid her on one of the beds in the room, hovering over her.

“I’ve got you, Emmy. I’ve always got you.” Dan’s brown eyes were clear, the depths of emotion starting. She gasped as he entered her fully, filling her to the hilt in that way she knew so, so well. Every single time they slept together it felt right, Dan stretching her perfectly. She rolled her hips and smirked at the groan he let out, taking the hint to move.

Never ask Emmy what he did in those moments, the way he moved and brought her to her first orgasm, and then her second. They were chasing their highs together, lips clashing and his thumb rubbing circles around her clit just above where she was so gloriously full.

“Let me feel you, Emmy. So perfect right like that, let me feel how good you feel.”

“Danny…Danny please babe, just there please.” She couldn’t tell who came first, the two of them hitting their climax at nearly the same time.

The last thing she wanted was for him to pull out and move, to remind her that their time together was getting shorter and shorter and they’d have to say goodbye soon. Dan seemed the same way, pushing kisses to her chest before being forced to move. Getting cleaned up after sex was easy for them now, but instead he lifted her up and carried her into the bathroom, ignoring Emmy’s complaints.

“Dan! Put me down! PUT ME DOWN!! What are you doing?!” She called, trying to wriggle out of his tight grip.

“Bath. If we don’t get one for a while I want a proper one. We don’t have wine, but we can relax for a little while. Please?” She could never say no to his big brown eyes, reaching up to kiss his cheek.

“Sounds perfect.”

The tub in the suite was large enough for both of them, Em leaning back into his arms in the hot water. Every so often she felt Dan push a kiss to her head, smiling at the movement.

“Are you going home for Christmas?” He asked and she fought but failed to stop her body going stiff. “Shit, sorry.”

“It’s fine. London’s as much home as anywhere else, either there or Monaco or Perth. But no, I’m staying away from Liverpool. I didn’t even get a text asking what I was doing for it this year.” The realisation that she hadn’t gotten anything after her happy birthday text in August hurt a little, but she just relaxed into Dan again.

“I’m sorry. It’s not fair.”

“None of it is, but it’ll be fine. I’ll curl up, take care of Blake’s plants, get your schedule for the start of next year done. Who knows, I might use some of the ridiculous salary you pay me and take a holiday. Chloe said she and Scotty are spending New Years in Switzerland. She doesn’t want me to be lonely.”

“They’re good friends. You should go. Don’t spend it all alone in the flat without me. I might look up some places for us? I’ll find some that are in your price range, I promise.” She leaned back against him to relax before she replied.

“That’s the plan Roomie.” The moving in talk gutted her every time he brought it up. As friends. Friends who slept together and were intimate together and who loved each other so much it hurt to be separated.

“I’ll see what I can find. Somewhere with lots of light and a balcony I think.”

“Sounds perfect.”

She could have fallen asleep there but the alarm she’d set went off, making her stand up as Dan ran his fingers down her legs.

“Emmy…”

“No, Danny. We need to get ready. Once we leave here you know what the rules are.” The stupid unmarried couple UAE rules. The reason she insisted she stood between Blake and Mike for most of the time they were outside, because if she and Danny were beside each other holding hands was the least they usually did.

“You know, right?” His voice was plaintive, Em dropping a kiss to the top of his head.

“I know. I know you do but y’know, right?”

A squeeze of her hand was the only response.

Dinner was fun, the four of them at the table, laughing and joking. The time of year and what was about to happen was strictly off limits for discussion, as was the safety car that had fucked up Dan’s chance of points in the last race. Instead they talked about watching other teams do tyre testing, Kimi’s retirement party that the guest of honour had left after twenty minutes, the way teams had shaped up for the next season.

“Yeah I’m surprised Haas kept Mazepin, but I guess money talks.” Blake gestured with his fork as he spoke, Em rolling her eyes.

“Just keep him away from me next year, ok? I…yeah. The rumours are bad enough. He creeps me out.”

“Did he do anything?” Dan put his cutlery down and looked at her, Em shaking her head immediately.

“He didn’t get the chance. But he knows exactly where to go to find certain people, he knows what to do. Nothing I can report and say is inappropriate, but enough that I can tell he knows he’s crossing the line. It fucking sucks. And I can’t prove it but he was spreading the worst of the rumours over the summer.” She twirled spaghetti around her fork, eating it before she could say anything else. Spending time with Mick trying to badly teach her German generally meant Mazepin was around and she hated that.

“If anything happens.” An eyebrow raise told her the rest.

“I know what to do.” She took the chance to run her foot along his calf, making sure he could feel how calm she was. She wasn’t ruining the last part of her day with her boys with crap.

The drive to the airport was fine. Two cars had been ordered because of the law that she wasn’t supposed to be in a car with any of the boys, but instead of her slipping into one of the SUVs alone Dan got in opposite her. The driver was discrete and kept quiet, Em and Dan holding hands for the entire drive to Dubai. The hour passed too quickly, and they arrived ready to go in the dark night.

Check in and security was quick, Em picking up a few things in the duty free shopping. Once they were ready the four of them went to the Emirates lounge, settling into a corner. Mike and Blake took the outer seats so she and Dan could be beside each other, a glass of champagne for everyone on the low table between them.

She couldn’t stop the tears from flowing now, the clock past midnight and the realisation she was saying goodbye to them. Her fingers were linked with Dan’s and they were silent, three occasional squeezes the only form of communication between them. She could tell when Blake and Mike noticed what was happening, their nudges between each other. Em held her breath, but then Dan realised what was happening and pulled her in.

“We can’t,” Em gasped out, worried about what would happen if anyone saw.

“I don’t care. Emmy, you need some comfort. This isn’t…fuck. Fuck it all. I’m done. I’m going up and changing my flight, I’m going to London. How the hell am I supposed to leave you like this? I don’t want you to be alone.”

“You can’t.”

“Watch me.”

“Danny, you can’t.” She looked up at him and made him stare at her, fixing his gaze with her own. “You haven’t seen your family in more than eighteen months. You’ve got your hotel quarantine ready to go. They’re holding Christmas dinner until you’re out of quarantine and can see them all. You have to go.”

“I don’t want you to be alone.” He squeezed her hand three times but she could see his resolve breaking.

“I’ll be ok. We’ll FaceTime every couple of days. But look here.” She lit her phone screen, showing him the photo of her, Isaac, and Isabella from Christmas 2019 when the kids were so much smaller and a pandemic was barely a thought. “Those kids are so excited to see their uncle Dan again. You have a full suitcase of presents waiting to be loaded. Grace is dying to hug her boy and she and Joe just want to congratulate you for Monza. You have to go.”

When Dan pulled her into a hug she knew she’d won, and the two of them stayed curled up in a chair like that together. Mike and Blake moved chairs so nobody could see them as a just in case, but Dan held her and Em breathed in his scent deeply. Fifty one days. She could do this.

“Passengers for Emirates flight EK 420 to Perth, First Class is boarding shortly. Please proceed to the boarding gate for transport to your plane.”

She went to stand at the announcement but Dan didn’t let her go, squeezing her tight.

“Another minute. Please?”

“Ok.”

They got another three before Blake shook Dan’s shoulder to get them to move.

“Mate, we have to go. C’mon.”

Em forced an all too fake smile on her face as she hugged her boys, Michael holding her close for a moment.

“Look after yourself,” she murmured, watching as he nodded seriously.

“And I’ll look after him for you, Wiggle. I’ll email you those new video ideas and we can see what works?”

“Perfect.”

Hugging Blake was the same, arms wrapped around her as he pushed a kiss to the top of her head.

“Wish you were coming back with us. If we could…”

“It’s not your fault. Blame Australia. Gonna miss you Blakey.”

“Miss you too Ems.”

Dan was the final one to grab her and she didn’t want to let go. He pushed the quickest kiss to her lips as he hugged her, Em wanting to deepen it but knowing she couldn’t.

“I’ll change to the London flight. I’ll do it now.”

“And then your family will hate me. I’ll see you soon. You know, right?”

“I know. Y’know, right?”

She kissed his cheek before letting go, stepping back to give distance between them all.

“Go get your flight. I’ll text when I land in London, please let me know when you get into Perth. Good luck with the quarantine.”

She waved as they walked away, tears streaming down her cheeks. Ever since they’d been locked down on the farm she’d spent every single day with at least Dan, if not Blake and Mike right there beside her. But now she was facing fifty one days alone and all Em could do until they announced her flight was cry.

Taglist (let us know if you want to be added!)

@dr3lover @sabrinaselina55 @majx00 @tall-tanned-tattoo @lovingdennishauger @lauehr @msolbesg @f1medlife @idkwtfimdoing2 @leclercsbae @hiphopdancer101universe @mehrmonga @lewispool @saintandrea-droidsmuggler @coldheartedmar @sugarbabygirlofdaddy @nonsensical-nonce @a-distantdreamer @tita010 @leslizzle @javden @mloyer @magical-imagination-kgp @danarysstormborn @kakorrhaphiophobia @g-l-o-b-e-w-h-o-r-e

#daniel ricciardo x reader #Call it what you want fic #ciwyw writing #daniel ricciardo imagine #Daniel ricciardo oneshot #daniel ricciardo fanfic #daniel ricciardo fic #formula one imagine #formula one fanfic #formula one oneshot #f1 fanfic #f1 oneshot #f1 imagine #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 oneshot

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clyches · 10 months

Text

the girls you loved before ୨♡୧ the girls (+ y/n) !

masterlist — ୨♡୧ — piss 4 — ୨♡୧ — act 1; i.

IT was unusual, really — how could have they become so close when they all went to different high schools? well, it’s simple; it’s all-japan youth camp, baby!

IN contrast to her highschool best friend (or rather, annoying neighbor), kageyama tobio, l/n y/n wasn’t really the sportiest... nor had she possessed a passion for sports. but hey! you had to understand her — she wasn’t exactly a fan of physical activities, and sweat, ugh! not sweat, please — since tobio never really did.

ONCE she had heard that tobio had gotten chosen to train in that all-star youth japanese camp — or something, she wasn’t really good with titles, no matter how much her best friend talked about it — y/n, understandably, felt obliged to wait for tobio so they could go home together. besides, it was the only thing she could do, right? y/n barely watched any of tobio’s games because she winces everytime a ball hits something with force, mostly if the latter is any part of the human anatomy. now that she thinks about it, she sounds like a terrible friend.

FURTHERMORE, miya atsumu being annoying as he is, he definitely wouldn’t stop bothering tobio (mainly because how could mr. frowns-a-lot could have any friends?). while sakusa kiyoomi is being dragged into the lot despite feeling exasperated at the thought of having to go with more than 0 people everyday. and about hoshiumi kourai, his friend went home rather early (atsumu and him decided to practice setting and spiking). so by chance, everyone was there.

it was like destiny had pulled them together !

SO now, they’re stuck together, (by chance, not by choice as kiyoomi says) having to tolerate everyone’s different antics!

IN the present day, they’re finally all together in college after being incomplete for 2 years — which felt like an eternity for y/n.

WHILE everyone was seperated a little, almost everyone had developed new hobbies; atsumu loved skateboarding, kiyoomi mildly enjoyed art, while the other two remained the same (still volleyball, forever and always, i guess). it seemed that everybody had changed even a little, besides y/n, of course! she still loved romance, may it be conveyed in books, movies, or a series. (maybe she just really liked the vehemence delusion has given her)

｡⋆ʚ♡⃛ɞ sorta fun facts !

ATSUMU was the mastermind of the gc name.

TWITTER was generally y/n’s influence, hence why everyone has it. though, her account got suspended for inappropriate language on march (she only told atsumu to khs when he posted a meme pic of her?!) and only got back on twitter around september 15.

KIYOOMI refuses to follow atsumu on twitter.

KOURAI doesn’t like using his first name on the internet, that’s why his display name and username is his family name.

TOBIO misses karasuno, his header says it all.

THE “girls” love barging into y/n’s condo, their main reason being that they missed her. (but her empty refrigerator says otherwise :/)

the girls you loved before — a kenma social media au !

sypnosis. you, being the president of the hopeless romantic club (and possibly the only member) of tokyo university, you are an absolute dork for love & adore seeing it in the air. on the other end of the spectrum, kenma has completely given up in love, due to all his failed attempts, and just can’t believe that true love could even exist. when two absolute opposite dispositions suddenly collide, the universe just can't help to make a bittersweet mess!

notes. my tumblr is being bitchy & won’t let me upload pictures, i have to go to the website or on my laptop to get it done (translation: slow updates). hopefully, i can get the other profile chapter ready by later! anyway, i’m very excited and hyped so enjoy readinggg

taglist. OPEN ! — dm or send an ask to be added :D

୨♡୧ @empathum @zephestia @camicocom1a @pauleensstuff @eriiiyoon @princesskakashi @88ksk

#haikyuu #smau #haikyuu smau #kenma x you #kenma x reader #kenma kozume #kozume kenma #haikyu x reader #hq kenma #hq #haikyuu smau series #୨♡୧ clyches #୨♡୧ ; tgylb #hq x you #hq x reader #hq smau #social media au

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deandoesthingstome · 1 year

Text

Night Moves

Chapter 1

Pairing: Walter Marshall x OFC (Alexandra Pierce)

Series Summary: When Walter Marshall is called to investigate a homicide by the railroad tracks, he quickly uncovers an unsettling pattern. Alexandra Pierce just wants someone to find out what happened to her friend. She has some secrets, too. And Walter’s going to uncover them.

Word Count: 1422

Series Warnings: In general, this series will depict assault, murder, stripping, hooking, rough sex, make up sex, fingering, oral (m and F receiving), p in v sex in various positions, self-loathing, failed relationships, smoking, drug use, drug addiction, general violence, and maybe some comfort. +18, Minors DNI

Chapter Warnings: Smoking, mention of stripping, mention of hooking, a dead body, grumpy Walter

Disclaimers: I do not own Walter Marshall, Night Hunter (Nomis), or any other characters from that movie, but I do own this OFC (Alexandra Pierce) and these words. Do not repost as your own. Likes, Reblogs, and Comments are more than welcome. It’s how I get my nourishment.

Header made by me, with pics found from Pexel.com and the internet. Dividers are not mine, but check out the masterlist for credit.

Playlist: I’ll be adding to this Night Moves playlist with each chapter. Songs 1- 3. I really hope you check it out, at least "Low" - Chet Faker. Whatever you think Walter's taste in music might be, these words hit home about him for me. Direct Spotify link here.

Masterlist

Don't look at me

I'm the bus stop boxer

Going down by the railroad tracks, where

People know that they better not relax

I'm the man, baby, I am the man

This is where I can make you understand

“Trixie, wait up!” Sasha called from the club entrance. She was just tucking her stilettos into her shoulder bag and trying to cross the parking lot as quickly and gracefully as she could in her regulation heels, thankful for the unseasonably warm spring evening.

That was just one of the amazingly ridiculous club rules designed to toss women off balance, literally and figuratively. Augie’s Cabaret couldn’t actually tell a dancer what to do outside of work, no matter how much they tried to entice women into extracurricular jobs. But the parking lot was leased to them just like the building. So performers showed up and left in the “outside uniform.” Tight fitting, preferably low cut crop tops and hip hugger minis with as much skin showing in between, above, and below as possible. And though dancing took place in much higher heels on the stage inside, two inches was the minimum height for the lot.

Sasha caught up just at the sidewalk where Trixie had stopped to light a cigarette. She offered the pack and Sasha snagged one gratefully. Everyone’s nerves were stretched tight and if a few smokes could shave off some of the edge, Sasha wasn’t going to feel bad about it.

Trixie smirked and waited while Sasha pulled her flats from her bag, replacing each heel one at a time before nodding they could head off.

“Did you hear about Angel?” Trixie asked.

“No. Oh shit!” Sasha exclaimed, turning to watch Trixie’s face. “She get roughed up, too?”

Trixie took a long drag and nodded, tapping the ash off her cigarette.

“Fuck, that’s like three we know of right? All around here?” Sasha asked.

“I’ve heard of a few over near Glenwood, but yeah. Angel, Sheri, and Magda - all here near Hennepin.”

“Dating?” Sasha asked, using the euphemism the women preferred.

Trixie inhaled and nodded slowly again. Sasha looked away before her face betrayed her concern, just in time to spy the large crack in the sidewalk. She stepped gingerly to be sure her foot didn’t get caught and mentally patted herself for insisting on changing shoes for the walk and bus ride home. If she hadn’t been trying to keep as much info about her personal life from the club owners as possible, she would have just driven. But the shared walks and rides gave her an opportunity to get to know her co-workers better and it kept the bouncers from knowing her license plate number.

“I do not know how the fuck you walk home in those heels,” Sasha said, tossing her butt to the ground and pulling her long windbreaker out of her bag. “Your feet have to be killing you. I saw they scheduled you for two extra stage dances tonight. You okay with that?”

“Girl, I asked for it. I am so far behind with them.” Trixie took another drag and exhaled the smoke slowly. “I still have last month’s rent to work off and the first is coming up again soon. I’m so fucked.”

“Do you know what you’re gonna do? Not…”

“I’ll do what I have to do,” Trixie interrupted.

Sasha knew what that meant and fought every urge she had to remind her how dangerous it was. How there was no security down by the tracks like there was at the club. How anyone buying there wasn’t exactly gonna be rolling in cash, so she couldn’t quote club prices. How even if the club takes a larger cut of that illegal income than they do stage and floor work, at least she wouldn’t be isolated and without security.

But Trixie had already warned her months ago when Sasha had started at the club: Be careful how you talk to the other performers. They aren’t children and they don’t need your judgment.

Trixie knew her from the clinic where Sasha had done some volunteer work and was shocked to see her at amateur night trying to hide behind a bombastic neon pink wig. Sasha recognized Trixie, too, and cornered her afterwards, begging her not to say anything to anyone about who she really was. She just wanted to see if she could actually get up on stage and put her old dance lessons to use before she asked for a job.

Trixie was wary, but liked her from the clinic and gave her the benefit. Sasha explained that she hoped to learn a little more about the circumstances that tended to lend themselves to starting a career in adult entertainment and what, if anything, women who found themselves here might need to either stay safe, both physically and emotionally, or get out altogether. Trixie agreed to help her navigate the waters. But she also made sure Sasha remembered to treat them like human beings. Not that Sasha would have ever intentionally done anything other than that, but when you don’t come from the life, there is always something to learn. Or rather unlearn.

Like the fact that they aren’t all strung-out coke-whores and very few of them actually have the daddy issues everyone thinks they do. Which Sasha was gradually learning as she made efforts to befriend and chat with all the women she met on her shifts.

And so, against all her better judgments, so many of which she’d willingly pushed aside these past few months, Sasha let Trixie go once they reached her bus stop.

“Be careful. Please. Do you have your cell? Your panic button?” Sasha asked, trying to mask her true concern while she donned the dark coat and covered up for the ride.

“Yes, mom,” Trixie stuck out her tongue. “Look, I get it. I know things have gotten a little scary out there, but I’m stuck, Sasha. I can't borrow anymore from the club and I need to get them paid back. This is my only option.”

Walter Marshall shifts into park and grabs the dark blue windbreaker from the passenger seat before stepping down from his Ford extended cab and heading towards the line of cops and yellow tape marking the scene. He swings the jacket around his shoulders with ease, slipping his arms through the sleeves and marking himself as someone who belongs behind the lines. A few uniformed officers step aside, one picking up the tape to let the Lieutenant pass under as he nods curtly in thanks.

It’s a grizzly mess. Or it would be if the responding units hadn’t already covered the body tossed carelessly a few yards back from the tracks.

Walter makes his way to his new partner, Mick Jonas, nodding towards him with the same grim reserve he showed the rookies. The CSI unit is still snapping photos of the surrounding area and scouring the ground for possible evidence as he squats low and lifts a corner of the police blanket. It takes all his nerve not to drop it again just as quickly.

“Jesus. Fuck.” It never fails to hit him hard.

“Yeah,” Detective Jonas agrees, fidgeting with the cigarette pack in his coat pocket and grateful he hadn’t lit up like he wanted to just as Marshall appeared. He didn’t need another dressing down about preserving the scene.

“Looks like someone went 12 rounds with her and she was on the ropes the whole time. This track with anything you’ve seen lately?” Walter asks.

“Not with bodies, no.”

“Something else then?” Walter questions, standing once again and leading Jonas back over the line.

“My girl, Lila. You know, she’s an ER nurse. Says there’s been a rash of girls coming in, beat up.”

“Girls?” Detective Marshall stiffens, curious about the ages and whether this is something Faye could get caught up in.

“Well, you know … I mean…,” Jonas stammers.

“Right, street workers then. You can just call them women, Mick.” He didn’t like to think about the fact that sometimes they really were girls.

“Okay, yeah. And, well, strippers, too. I mean, that’s what she said.”

“But no police reports filed?” Walter opens the driver’s door and nods toward the passenger side. “You need a lift back to the station?”

“Yeah, I do, thanks.” After climbing in and closing the door, he continues. “And no, yeah, police reports were filed. Want me to see if I can grab ‘em when we get back?”

“You do that.”

Chapter 2

Taglist:

Anything: @kittenofdoomage @mayloma @sillyrabbit81 @fvckinghenrycavill @kebabgirl67 @beck07990 @summersong69 @mollymal (I can’t tag you two, sorry) (Also throwing in a few from the old days for old times sake ;) @littlegreenplasticsoldier @anotherwinchesterfangirl @sebbytrash @feelmyroarrrr)

Night Moves: @luclittlepond (I can’t tag you, sorry) @enchantedbytomandhenry @kingliam2019 @henryownsme @geraltsyenn4eva

#walter marshall #walter marshall x ofc #walter marshall fanfiction #night moves #mine #night hunter fanfic #henry cavill #henry cavill fanfiction

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juletheghoul · 2 years

Text

A Weekend Away

AN: Real talk, the idea for this came to me in a dream. I have reached Stephanie Meyers levels of fandom lmao. None of you should be surprised that this is an au, this Dave never went down the path of The Equalizer, instead he made a decision that made him filthy rich. We're talking big wealth here so I hope you enjoy this incredibly self-indulgent, soft, rich, devoted husband and father. Quick thanks to my girl @wheresarizona for beta-ing this and for the gorgeous moodboard / header, as well as @foli-vora, thank you both for generally being supportive and amazing. Hope you enjoy xox. (I might turn this into a 3 part series depending on the response.)

Pairing; Dave York x f!reader

Warnings; daddy kink 🤡 piv sex (wrap it up), squirting, swearing, dirty talk, oral (f-receiving), let me know if I missed anything. (Should be completed blank-slate female reader, but if there is anything I missed - please let me know!)

Word count; 3K

reblogs are appreciated

Masterlist

----------------------------------

His footsteps were muffled by the thick carpet in your shared bedroom, a clearing of his throat announcing his presence before his hands rest on your hips. His lips quickly descend to adorn your shoulders with kisses.

“We’re taking off soon, baby. Is everything good to go?” Your last few words come out almost as a sigh - his lips have traveled from your shoulders to your neck and now to your ear, where he takes it between his teeth. He hums in the back of his throat in acknowledgment before he answers.

“I’m sure everything is going smoothly. Let's sneak in a quickie before we leave, hm?” His voice is mischievous, and you can’t help but smile to yourself. “Put that down - the housekeeper can pack for us.” His hand wraps around your middle and travels up, holding the weight of your breast in his hand and before you can say anything he’s turning you, spinning you in his hold to devour your mouth with his.

Whatever argument you had in your head, whatever garment you had in your hand drops to the floor by his hunger for you, and then you’re falling, or rather being placed onto your back on your plush bed, and he's surrounding you. Your dress is up around your hips, and he's slotting his in their rightful place - his tongue is thick in your mouth, and you aren’t kissing, you’re being kissed.

“I need you, baby.” He’s pulling down the straps of your dress with an urgency that makes you melt. His frown at the flesh on display for him has you pulling your swollen lower lip between your teeth, and it almost makes you light-headed how he can still make you this desperate this quickly. Your nipple is in his mouth, and your fingers curl into the short crop of his hair, the pained moan that escapes around the bud is almost lewd, but then the door to your room swings open, and she toddles in - your baby girl.

“Is that my princess?” He lifts his head away from your saliva-slicked nipple to smile at her. She lifts her arms to him, and he lets out a resigned sigh - no quickie right now. “You, my lovely—” He speaks to her with a smile in his voice and in his heart, “Have impeccable timing.” He kisses her full cheeks, one then the other, over and over until she laughs.

You lay in the bed, watching them as you right yourself, unable to be too disappointed when you see him like this - his face lit up with her laughs, her chubby little hands on his face in hopes of delaying a tickle attack.

“I’ll finish packing up here. Why don’t you go check in on everything downstairs? Make sure the dogs are packed and see if Nana needs anything for the girls?” You stand up, fixing your skirts before reaching down to pick up the cardigan you’d dropped.

“Fine,” he sighs, the baby laying her head on his shoulder, and he can't help but kiss her halo of hair. “Let's go check the hounds, princess. Mommy said so.” He gives you a quick peck before they’re both out of the room, and with him gone, you can focus on packing for the weekend.

You look over what you’d already grabbed while trying to catch your breath, ignoring the way your underwear sticks to your skin, and with a shake of your head, you’re running through what you remember of your schedule for the next few days.

Alma walks in as you’re coming out of your airy walk-in closet, one of David’s more casual suits in hand.

“Let me do that.” She reaches for the garment bag in your hands, tutting at your momentary refusal. “The girls are packed and ready, the dogs are waiting in the mudroom, and we’re good to leave. Let me help you.” She took no nonsense, and you loved her for it. She’d been in your life since you met David; she’d been in his since childhood, and now she helped watch your girls.

“Alma, this is a weekend away for you as much as it is for us. I don’t want you working, is Richard packed and ready?” Her husband was going to be joining you at your country house, a weekend of doing nothing but enjoying each other's company.

“Yes, he’s downstairs with David. They’re talking about sports or something, who knows.” She waved away your words and started packing things into the open suitcase. “The rest of the staff have already left to get the house ready. After this, we’ll be ready to leave.” She was the sweetest woman you’d ever met; it was obvious why David considered her a second mother.

“Yes, I just need one more thing, something for date night tomorrow.” You spoke over your shoulder, a brisk walk back into the closet to grab something to wear.

“That sounds great - Richard and I will watch the girls.” She called back, an amused sigh at her refusal to take a break.

“You don’t need to!” You called back as your hands carded through the array of dresses that hung before you. David had well and truly spoiled you, and there were absolute confections hanging here, much too formal for a simple date with your husband. You settled on a slinky black number he’d yet to see you in.

“Alma, I have told you, and so has David – this weekend is for rest. You do not have to watch the girls.” You spoke as she helped put your dress into its own garment bag. Once again waving away your concerns.

“They aren’t work for me – they feel like family.” She zipped up the suitcase before turning to you.

“They are. We are your family.” You pulled the heavy suitcase off the bed, smiling at her and meaning every word.

His hand was gripping your thigh, his thumb making a steady pass over the skin in range, raising goosebumps in its wake. He smiles to himself, his other hand curled around the steering wheel, and he knows exactly what a tease he's being. You ignore it.

“Daddy, are we almost there?” Charlotte calls from the backseat of the SUV, her little voice cutting through your tension.

“Yes, baby, we’re almost there, just under an hour, I’d say.” He answers her, his kind eyes looking at her through the rearview.

“Is Nana gonna be there?” She’s playing with a new doll, one he just bought her.

“Yes, baby, Nana is coming.” She smiles at his response. Evie was quiet in her seat beside her sister, her stuffed bunny tucked under her chin. “Evie, honey, you okay?” His hand moved from your thigh, reaching behind to tug on her little foot.

“She’s tired. Missed her nap today.” You turned to smile at her, her big brown eyes – her father’s eyes watching you both.

“Aw, well, at least you’ll sleep tonight.” He focused on the road. “Did you think of where you wanted to go for dinner tomorrow night, honey?” He grabbed your hand and brought it to his lips.

“I didn’t. I’m happy to go anywhere.” You brought his hand back into your lap. “I packed you a nice suit.” He smiled.

“I made a reservation in case you didn’t find a place. Supposed to be a nice place – hope you packed yourself a dress.” His hand gripped your thigh again.

“You’re the best, you know that?” You meant it. He was. He was a wonderful husband and a loving, doting father. And if the way they treated you whenever you stopped by the office was anything to go by, he was a well-liked and respected business owner and boss.

Before you knew it, he was pulling into the long driveway into your summer house. Every time you saw it, you thought about how your marriage had started, how you’d both lived out of a tiny studio apartment while you both worked and worked. He’d come back from his days in the military with a few scars and ideas of starting his own security company.

Years later, you were all reaping the benefits of his discipline, of the hard work, and the lucky breaks he’d gotten. One government contract led to another, and soon his security company was the country's most used and most successful.

“Okay, my lovely ladies, we’re here.” He parked in the gravel, a big smile on his face as one of the staff came out to take your bags and his. “Thank you, Jeffrey. In the room is fine and don’t worry about us this weekend. No hard work, okay?” He clapped the other man on the back before opening the backseat, where Charlie held her arms up. You were both holding onto your children when the dogs came bounding over. It was going to be a great weekend.

The food was served at dusk on the patio, the large table set with a simple but delicious meal. Everyone ate together, you, David and the girls, Alma and Richard, along with the chef and the housekeeper, the driver as well. Everyone was welcome at your table, and they all knew it. There were no awkward smiles, no tentative words – the table was filled with laughter and conversation. The girls were passed from you to David to Alma when they weren’t chasing after the dogs.

“Alma, stop – sit down.” He rose to stop her from chasing after Evie. “Here, have some more wine. I got the one you like. Relax, enjoy,” he said it with a smile, and she reluctantly sat with a slap to his arm. Richard smiled, pulling her in to place a kiss on her temple while the girls enjoyed the fresh air.

Once the plates were cleared, most of the household had gone to bed, and the four of you were sitting in the cozy living room enjoying the peace and quiet of the countryside. He had a book in his hands that he was reading with Charlie while you rocked Evie in your arms. Pretty soon, though, she was asleep.

“I’m going to put her to bed.” You got up slowly, cradling her head against your chest. “Bath time will have to wait until tomorrow.” Charlie was yawning as you walked past.

“Come on, Charlie, it’s bedtime.” He closed the book, following you up the stairs, him going into Charlie’s room while you went into Evies.

By the time he’d finished with Charlie, you were getting out of the shower, laughing at his pout at not having waited for him.

“Go get clean, and then maybe we can finish what you started before we left.” You slid your hand down his stomach, relishing the groan he let out when you palmed the bulge of his crotch. “Go on, get clean for me, daddy.” You smacked his ass before moving towards the bed. You didn’t make it far before he pulled you back, both his hands cradling your face as he licked into your mouth.

“Don’t bother getting dressed. Daddy wants you just like this.” He pulled the towel away, sending you to the bed naked, his palm landing a heavy crack to the meat of your ass.

Your skin crackles with excitement as you wait for him, nestled in the crisp, clean sheets. The sound of the water running ramps up the arousal, a deep anticipation filling every inch of you for the way his cock would soon fill you - for the way he’d surround you, the way his goal always seemed to be to consume whenever he fucked you.

Your heart skipped a beat when the water shut off, kicking the sheets off so he’d find you just how he wanted you.

He came out still dripping, his cock bobbing.

“You ready for me?” Cool water droplets fall from his hair onto your skin as he crawls up from the foot of your bed, a kiss dropped onto your shin, then your knee, your inner thigh before he’s spreading your legs open with the breadth of his shoulders.

“I’m always ready for you.” You reach down, threading through his damp hair, your heartbeat pulsing in your cunt at the way his eyes rake over your pussy, all glossy and ready for him.

“I know, baby.” His molten mouth descends, pressing kisses to your mound before he curls his fingers around the tops of your thighs, pulling you towards him hard enough to pull a gasp from your mouth. “Spread your pretty little pussy open for daddy. I wanna hold you close to my face.” He bites at the meat of your thigh as you bite the plush of your lower lip, complying with an almost delirious ecstasy.

The hand not threaded through his hair snakes down and does as he asks, spreading open the lips of your sex for his mouth. He groans, staring at the ripe berry of your clit.

“That’s my good girl. Keep it nice and open for me.” He dives in, his tongue honing in just where you want it most, and it’s like your whole body is wired with a current only he produces, an electricity that lights up every inch of you with pure want.

Your belly trembles as his tongue strokes at the very heart of you, ramping up higher and higher as he presses himself closer, his mouth surrounding your clit in a steady suck. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream - your eyes almost unfocused at the way he moans obscenely into your skin.

It’s too quick, the way stars burst behind your eyes and at the center of your being, and through the haze of euphoria, you hear him laugh.

“Already?” He places an open-mouthed kiss to your clit, a rumble in the back of his throat at the way your legs try to close around him. “Just a few licks and you’re getting me all wet?” He smiles, his tongue cruel and sweet all at once.

“Fuck me already, David,” You push his hair back slightly, separating his face from your cunt, and his smile widens. “I want it.”

“What do you want? Tell me.” He kisses your thigh before kneeling between your legs. Your mouth almost waters at the sight of his cock, the tip sticky with his own arousal.

“I want you to fuck me. I want you to make me scream.” You all but moan the words, sitting up slightly to rest on your elbows. He reaches for a couple of cushions and taps your hip. When you lift them, he positions them under, elevating you at the perfect angle.

“Perfect, don’t worry, daddy’s got you.” He gets into position, the tops of his thighs pressed up tight against the backs of yours, and he lifts your legs up, so your calves press against his chest, your feet up by his shoulders. “Look how fucking wet you are for me.” He slides the fat head of his cock through your folds, soaking himself in you. “Bet I’m gonna just glide right in aren't I?”

He notches himself, sliding in right to the hilt without resistance, a shared moan filling the air.

“So fucking wet, you always feel so fucking good, baby.” He watches himself disappear into the clutch of your cunt, relishing the way he shines in your arousal.

You can do nothing but pant at the way he’s hitting something sacred, something white-hot that blanks your brain every time he pushes against it.

His hand shifts to your belly, and he presses down. Your brain short circuits, and you cry out almost involuntarily.

“There it is. That’s the spot, huh?” He speeds up, battering against the cosmos in your pussy. “You wanted to scream, so scream for daddy.” He’s railing now, focusing his energy on hitting the bullseye he knows he’s found, and the pressure is building - something that feels too good to breathe is creeping in, flooding your veins, your hands coming up and pressing against his chest. “Come on, goddamn it, give it to me.”

His eyes are black with lust as your pussy leaks with the arousal he is ripping from you, and then it happens, a wet gush around where he keeps up his assault. A scream rips from your throat, and he laughs triumphantly.

“There it fucking is, one more - I want you to do it again.”

Your brain is mush, and he’s soaked, but his thrusts don’t let up. He presses against your belly harder - his hips snapping quicker and quicker, and this time it happens faster. He doesn’t let your body curl in on itself like it wants to; instead, he spreads your legs, slotting his hips between them to kiss you as he chases his own high. One of his hands a reassuring press against your throat while the other palms your breast.

A handful of thrusts is all it takes for him to slow to a grind, coming with a deep groan, the pressure of it against your clit triggers a feather-soft orgasm as he fucks his come as deep as he can.

He collapses on top of you, breathing hard against your neck. Your brain floats in a haze of bliss as you both catch your breath. Your hands raise almost on their own to run along the smooth skin of his back, soothing yourself as much as soothing him.

“I love you, baby.” He lifts his head and presses a kiss to your mouth, sealing his words with it.

“I love you, too.” You run your fingers through his damp hair, pulling him tight against you for a few moments, enjoying the comforting weight of him for a little while longer.

Eventually, you both rise, and together you quickly change the sheets, giddy with laughter, and when you finish, he pulls you close. Whispers his words of devotion in the quiet darkness of your home, the both of you falling asleep-tangled in one another.

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#david york #dave york #dave x reader #dave xf!reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #the equalizer #the equalizer 2 #dave york x you #pedro pascal characters #the equalizer 2 au #husband dave #suburban murder dad

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chronic-ghost · 8 months

Text

Chapter 9 of Recovery Road

chapter rating: E (18+)

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 11845

chapter summary: if you thought you knew the full story of natalie lorraine, you were myth-taken

chapter warnings/tags: non-consensual touching, implied sexual assault, emotionally abusive parents, drug/alcohol use, underaged drug/alcohol use, women existing in the male gaze, putting too much of myself into characters as per yooshg

a/n: Header comes from the “Circe Offering the Cup to Ulysses” by John William Waterhouse. Song for this chapter is Gold Dust Woman by Fleetwood Mac – watch me make a fic playlist after the fact lmao. Bear with me while I wax embarrassingly poetic about my favorite oc blorbo. Remember this does end well!!!

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There are many different types of myth but, essentially, they can be grouped into three: etiological myths, historical myths, psychological myths. Etiological myths can offer explanations for why the world is the way it is. Historical myths retell an event from the past but elevate it with greater meaning than the actual event (if it even happened). [Lastly] psychological myths present one with a journey from the known to the unknown which, according to both Jung and Campbell, represents a psychological need to balance the external world with one's internal consciousness of it. – Mythology, Joshua Mark

“in front of my mother and my sisters,

i pretend love is cheap and vulgar.

i act like it’s a sin–

i pretend that love is for women on a dark path.

but at night i dream of a love so heavy

it makes my spine throb–

i dream up a lover who makes love like he is

separating salt from water.”

— Salma Deera, “salt”

Natalie Lorraine is a myth.

And like in all the great myths, birth is a painful, violent emergence.

Slowly, labored across years and many heartbeats, what remains is the inevitable conclusion of being fucked over, of being lazy and careless, of innocence taken too soon. Careless children grow up to be careless mothers, careless fathers.

The titans of the world leave to make their mark on history and, in doing so, mark their children in a way more powerful, more regretful than any legend could possibly make them out to be.

Medea is brutalized in legends and in verse for the most heinous a mother can commit.

Odysseys forgets what being a father means.

Oedipus Rex curses his children with an unforgivable sin by way of their mother, their grandmother, and that staggering failure is felt through to Antigone, a generation removed. Antigone dies. Haemon and Eurydice die too. Pain and grief are family heirlooms passed through pale fingers at the stroke of midnight.

But despite all that. Before all that.

Myths begin when the heroes are forced to make a choice, choose a direction in the way their lives end up. It might not always be obvious, and the gods might have things in store for them. But there is a choice and the fallen hero always chooses.

But they were all children once. You have to remember that. You have to believe that.

(Aetiologic)

I hate these socks, you think to yourself, they’re itchy and they hurt my toes. Every time you swing your legs over the edge of that leather couch, your legs too short to touch the ground, the toe of your shoe pinches you. You really, really want to take off your shoes, but Mom said you had to keep them on all day, especially in the office. In his office. You think your dress looks like one of your baby dolls and you don’t like it.

So you stop kicking, even though the sound of your heel against the leather made a funny noise. You can move too, and make the leather squeak, and that is pretty fun too. Grinning, you bounce like you aren’t supposed to on your bed back home, the cushions chirping – it sounds like they’re farting – you giggle, rocking back on your hands from left to right, squealing along with the leather as you made it –

“Enough!”

You freeze, tears immediately welling in your eyes, fear almost painful in your chest.

But he’s not talking to you. Your father is still in his office, with the door barely shut, and he’s talking to someone on the phone. Yelling, actually. He’s been in there since the little hand was on the fifteen and now it’s on the thirty. He told you to wait there while he called your mom. You tried to sit still, but it was boring and all the toys were back in the other room.

He never yelled at you, your dad, but he did yell at your mom.

When you talked to the other kids in your preschool class, their mommies and daddies lived in the same house together, slept in the same bed, talked nicely to each other. Yours didn’t.

“Well, what am I supposed to do with her, LeAnne? I told you I have a meeting at four today and she could be here for three hours. I told you! I can’t have her here! You need to come pick up your daughter!”

Your foot kicks up and down. You didn’t like it when they talked about you like you weren’t there.

“Hey there.” A woman with blonde hair and big eyes sits down next to you. She was always around your dad, and always handled his papers and briefcase and sometimes his coffee. She is younger than your mom but way older than you are. You think she’s really, really pretty. None of her dresses look like baby doll dresses. “I’m sorry your dad is taking so long. Do you want something to eat, or drink?”

You shake your head. Your mom said not to talk to strangers, so you didn’t open your mouth.

“Are you bored? Do you wanna watch some TV?”

TVs were everywhere in your dad’s office building. Down near the elevators, and then more when you got out. It always seemed like people were watching a tv and the actors on the tv. Actors were people whose job it was to be on the tv or in the movies, your dad told you. He told you he knew a lot of famous actors, but when you told the kids in your class about it, they said they didn’t know any of those people.

“You’re just making things up!”

“You’re a liar!”

You really wanted your dad to introduce you to an actor, just to prove them wrong. You thought it was pretty cool how everyone was always watching them. Like they couldn’t look away.

You nod at the pretty lady. She smiles and picks up the skinny black tv remote on the table in front of the couch.

The tv in the corner of the room pops on. The size of it doesn’t take up the wall like some of the tvs in the office do, but it’s still bigger than the one you have at home.

The nice lady taps the button a few times, the channels changing, until she comes to the kids channel. It’s a little old for you – all of the shows at preschool are cartoons and this one has real people in it – but you want this woman to like you.

“Do you like this one? Friends in the Family? It’s so funny!”

She turns and leans back against the couch with you. You hear people laughing on the screen, even though you don’t see anyone. There’s a young girl, older than you but younger than this nice lady, and she has a boy with her on her parents’ couch. The boy leans in and kisses her cheek and the invisible people go ‘oooooh’.

“Ooooh!” You mimic and the nice woman laughs, grinning at you. Something warm and tight goes up your chest, and you pinch your lip with your teeth, toes curling in your stupid shoes. You liked making her laugh.

On the screen, a little girl – maybe the other girl’s sister – pushes through the kitchen door. You gasp in surprise. She looks like she could be in your preschool class. She’s all mad and she crosses her arms, pouting.

“Someone’s gonna get it!”

The invisible people laugh and the nice lady giggles so hard she leans forward and you’re giggling too, even though you don’t quite get it. That warm feeling reminds you of when you drink soda too fast, but it’s good.

You frown too, put your hands on your hips, parroting the little girl on tv, “someone’s gonna get it!”

Her pretty mouth opens in surprise, her eyes sparkling.

“Oh my God, that was so good! You sound just like her!” You giggle, your face hot. “Have you ever asked your dad about acting?”

You shake your head. You, an actor? On tv? No way!

“Well, you should! You could be really good!”

You don’t know what to say, you want to keep making the same faces that little girl is, when your dad’s door opens. The young woman next to you lurches forward and shuts off the tv. He comes out and you can’t tell if he’s angry or upset or if that’s just how he looks. You’re not around him enough to know. But he stands in front of you, thinking something.

“Judy, would you get us two juice boxes from the fridge downstairs?”

“Of course, Mr. Milken.”

The young woman leaves and you’re a little afraid. You don’t want him to yell at you for watching that show for older kids. You twist your little fingers.

“That was your mom on the phone. She’s going to be a little late.”

You nod. “Okay.”

“Did you have fun today at my office? Did you like meeting all my friends?”

You nod, this time quicker. “Yes! I would like to meet an actor one day!”

At that, he smiles and you relax. People who are angry don’t smile.

“While we wait for your mom, do you wanna play paper football?”

“What’s that?”

“C’mon. I’ll show you.”

So the myth begins. All it takes is a single idea. A single want. A single desire. An innately human desire. We build myths and we tell stories and we fill them with the things we want to hear.

You’re turning fourteen next month. It’s circled on your calendar in your bedroom. It’s not like it’s that big of a deal, but at least now you could start the emancipation process. If you wanted to. You laid awake at night, thinking about what you’d call yourself if you ever changed your name. Something vaguely French-sounding. European for sure. But they were just fantasies to get you through the day.

It’s early in the morning. You haven’t heard anything from Mom’s room in a while so you figure it’s just the two of you in the house again. You totter out of your room, blinking sleep from your eyes – it was a very late night on set last night and probably would be again, given how the production of this made-for-tv movie was going and especially with the extra homework you’ve been doing to make up for the time off you’ve taken – as you wander across the small, sun-streaked living room, and around the corner to the kitchen. You hear something from the fridge and just as you are about to ask your mom if she’s cooking (which is never a good idea), a man stands up. He’s older than you but younger than your mom and he has the last piece of your sourdough bread in his mouth. He smirks and you unconsciously tug down the hem of your sleep shorts.

This has been happening more and more lately. The way men, older men, look at you, it’s different now. Has been for a while, but now there’s more of them, their gazes sit on your bare skin longer, the light in their eyes changing, the lines around their mouths tightening. You don’t really know what it is they want, but it’s baffling to you that they think looking at you like that will convince you to give anything to them.

It's the way your mom’s new boyfriend is looking at you. Your cheeks heat up without your consent and you hate it.

He’s hungry and he’s scrounging around in the fridge and now he’s looking at you. Still hungry.

“Hey, you must be LeAnne’s daughter,” he says, taking the bread slice out of his mouth and propping his hairy arm on the top of the refrigerator door, his gaze sweeping you from head to toe as if deciding whether or not to make a sandwich out of you. Who likes this kind of shit? Oh, that’s right. Your mom.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Yeah. That’s me. Is she here?”

His eyes follow the backs of your thighs as you walk over to the coffee pot and take out week-old coffee grounds. They’ve turned blue, started to mold, but you dump them out into the trash with three good smacks.

“Uh, she’s still in bed. She said you could get to school on your own.”

Behind you, the fridge door slams shut and you curl your toes, begging yourself not to flinch. There’s something inside of you demanding you to not show weakness. Steadying your own hand, you dig into the jar holding the coffee grounds. It’s halfway empty, you make a note to pick up some later, the thought pressed up against the swell of panic that’s growing at the edge of your awareness.

“I’m Alan.” He leans up against the counter out of the corner of your eye. “I know we just met, but I could take you, to school . . . if you want.”

His thick middle has nothing to do with age, only poor health. Evident further by his off-yellow teeth and bad breath.

“I’m o-okay. Thank you.”

There’s three minutes left on the coffee timer. His gaze is like open palms on your skin. You hate it. He sidles up closer and your nails dig half-moon crescents into your skin. The lovely smell of coffee brewing is overwhelmed by his cheap cologne. He’s big. Bigger than you. Bigger than any of the boys in your class, or any of the men on set. You’ve never really noticed the men on set, they’ve never been this close before, but you’re sure he’s bigger than all of them.

You’ve never felt quite so small.

“You were in that movie, right? ‘Those ain’t your average space-invaders’, that was you right?” You nod, the back of your throat drying out. He chuckles. “You were good. Really good. You were so pretty.”

“I was ten.”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Ten outta ten.”

Your stomach clenches and it’s like he can tell. Alan reaches the two inches across the linoleum and gently strokes your forearm. A light, smelly panic sweat breaks out over your forehead, under your armpits.

You want him away from you, want him gone, to run back to your room, but where would that get you?

Roll over, play dead, show your under belly. You don’t know what else to do to make him go away.

“Well, if you see my mom,” you ease around him, your forearm sliding from his grasp just as his fingers tighten, making sure you don’t seem offended, “tell her I’ve got a ride to–,”

“Hey, wait, where ya going?”

You all but run back to your room, the coffee pot beeping behind you. You throw open your bedroom door and leap inside, locking it behind you. You don’t realize you’re panting until you feel light-headed, dizzy – you feel sticky all of a sudden and rush into your bathroom. Steam pours from the scalding hot water, the red handle all the way to the right, as you stand over it, watching it rush down the drain. With your lips pinched between your teeth, you run your hands under it and muffle a scream. It hurts. It burns but it’s like his touch is evaporating off your skin and there’s relief in that. It’s the first time you realize that the pain you give yourself is different from the pain that they give you.

Not all of them are like that.

Some of them are actually kind of okay.

You’re fifteen and dressed as a pumpkin for the Halloween party hosted by the studio, the suit baggy and oversized, and for once, your mom’s friends don’t stare at you. No one really has all night and it’s nice. You feel like you can ease into the wall and no one would notice. There’s a long black couch on the other side of a plant with glowing lights in the shape of ghosts wrapped around its trunk. You stepside around a few directors, one of your other actors, and head straight for the couch.

You don’t realize Jim, your mom’s current boyfriend is already there until you sit down and groan. He laughs from the opposite end and you jump.

He’s more her age, thankfully, and doesn’t really seem to notice if you’re at home or not. In fact, you can’t really remember another conversation with him that lasted longer than a few minutes.

“You liking the party?” He asks.

You shrug – never show your actual feelings. “It’s kinda late. I’ve got classes on Monday, so I’m hoping to make it an early night.”

He nods, slowly, distracted. There’s something about his eyes that isn’t right. Not in the way that he looks at you, but at everything, like he’s trying to look through a dense fog.

Your mother is nowhere to be found, which isn’t entirely out of the ordinary for this sort of thing. She’d either show up and be the life of the party or show up so trashed she had to be escorted out of the building.

But it is odd for her to just leave one of her toys lying around.

“Do you know where my mom is?” You ask Jim and he shakes his head, as though it takes a considerable amount of effort just to hold himself upright. There’s definitely something wrong with him.

And then you see the smoke coming from his fingers and you finally realize that skunky smell is coming from him.

He sees your gaze fall. “You want a hit?” He asks, either not remembering your question or not wanting to answer.

You’d never tried it before, not really having time between shooting schedules and school and your mom wanting to take you out to meet new casting directors and writers. You sit there, staring and realize Jim is probably one of the only consistent people you see in your life, everyone else a revolving door of names and faces and elbows to rub. A tiredness breaks over you like the push of a wave and you sway, wanting nothing more than to be at home under the covers. You wish you’d brought your walkman, so you could have hid out on the soundstage until the party was over.

You’d grown skinny over the past year. Rewarded and praised for it by producers and studio execs, you saw that people listened to you more, looked you in the eye when you were beautiful, made more beautiful by the thinness of your cheeks, your narrow thighs. Your mother was convinced you were taking pills, but couldn’t find anything in the house. And yet, the real reason behind it all was sometimes you were just too tired to eat. Too tired to move. Happy to curl up wherever you found yourself and sleep until the next person needed something from you.

But this is what you wanted, after all. You asked for a life of movies and revolving doors and fake people and men staring at your ass. You are reminded of this all the time.

You nod at Jim, curiosity getting the better of you and wondering if other girls did this sort of thing in basements or with their friends or boyfriends. You portray a teenage girl on television, but sometimes you don’t feel like one at all.

He reaches out to you and you take it. You’d smoke a cigarette once, with a few of the kids from that one time you guest-starred on that sitcom, so you think this’ll be the same.

“What’s it going to feel like?” You ask, the white paper inches from your lips. Jim looked at you and his eyes sort of crinkled.

“It’s good. Real good. Like there’s a cloud between you and the rest of the world.”

That did sound nice.

You put your lips and inhale – it burns in a way you weren’t expecting – and you cough. Jim laughs in a way that makes you feel like you’ve done something wrong, that you’re silly.

“You’ll get it,” he says, “you’ll get it.”

You try again and remember that he held his breath before exhaling. You do the same, but the scratch makes your eyes water, your chest tighten, but you hold on, until you feel smoke cauterizing the back of your throat close and you cough again, less this time.

Jim laughs again and takes back the skunky cigarette. “Hey, look at that, your first joint and you handled it like a champ.”

He smokes more, losing interest in you, so he turns and watches the party. Your heart beats roughly in your chest, but that might be more of the nerves than anything else. You fidget on the couch, waiting for something to happen, but it never does.

“I think I need another h-hit. I don’t feel anything.”

Jim frowns at you, shaking his head. “Hell no. You took two giant puffs on your first go. I’m not babysitting you when you’re puking in the toilet with the spins.”

“The spins?”

“When you drink while you’re high. Can be a real bad mix.”

You blush, wondering if he saw you take sips from the flask in your purse or he just assumes you’re always drinking because you’re LeAnne’s daughter.

“Just sit back, relax, you’ll feel it. In a bit.”

So you try his approach, nonchalantly watching people dressed in devil costumes, in white vampire fangs and cloaks, little skimpy bunny outfits, as the party rages on. You watch, and slowly, the whole thing feels distant. Like you’re in the far back of a theater and everything in front of you is some sort of stage.

You find you like it in the back row, in the quiet and the darkness. It’s warm, sort of like you’re dizzy but you sway with the movement and you don’t get sick. You find that you are rolling your head back and forth and you giggle.

Jim smirks at you, that joint almost gone. “Yeah, there it is.”

You’d never been high like this before. Buzzed a little bit from the beer in your flask, but this was new. This was . . .

“It’s nice,” you smile widely to the ceiling. “Does it always feel this way?”

“Like I said, you can mix with alcohol and get really fucked up.” Jim shrugs. “And different strains do different things. This is gonna relax your brain, but there’s others that’ll give you a body high.”

Body, this thing you’re in that doesn’t feel like it belongs to you.

“But a mental high from weed and a mental high from glue are like two totally different things.”

Your bones feel like they weigh a thousand pounds and you could just melt into the leather. But you turn your head, dropping it against the back of the couch.

“You can get high from glue?”

“You can get high from just about anything.”

“Oh.”

The needle-like feeling that pricks your heart every time you come to one of these parties is gone. The sloshy oozy feeling in your stomach when you go into public with your mother is gone. There is nothing left inside of you except weight and heat and air that comes in through your nose and out through your mouth.

You giggle again. What if this is how a pumpkin feels all the time?

“Will it always feel like this?”

He doesn’t understand your question, doesn’t care enough to think about it, so he answers the only way he can. “Nah, should only last for a few hours. Then you’re good. No hangover, which is a plus.”

“But I always want it to feel this way.”

He grins again and pulls out a small plastic baggy with some fuzzy brussel-sprout-looking vegetable inside.

“Got twenty bucks on you?”

You’re sixteen and you’ve just started in your first major motion picture. Offers are rolling in, you no longer have to seek them out. The brand new telephone for your brand new house is constantly ringing. You have to unplug it to sleep at night. But that usually makes your mother yell at you.

She wants to answer every call that comes through. As if this house was hers.

You sit cross-legged on your bed, grinding up the weed you bought off a sound-stage guy earlier today in your silver grinder, your headphones in to drown out the noises coming from the other side of the house as well as the ones in your head.

This boyfriend was not so nice and in a drunken stupor grabbed your ass in front of LeAnne. She raged and yelled and blamed you.

Get out, she told you. Leave. Get out. We don’t want you here. Leave.

This is my house, you old bitch.

Licking the paper gently, you finish rolling the joint and press pause on your walkman. Stevie Nicks pauses in her crooning, and is it over now, do you know how? pick up the pieces and go home, and you remind yourself to find a purply drape at the next flee market. Reaching to the end of the bed, you plug in your headphones to the hot pink tv and flip to the right station.

Henry had sent in a new tv for your birthday, and you had that promptly thrown out. You bought this with your first check from residuals.

It’s almost eleven. It’s about to start.

You light the joint, inhaling smoothly, as the credits for Twenty-Three and Fun start up.

The joint quivers at the end of your knee, your toes curling. It wasn’t produced by your father’s company, but it was all anyone talked about at school, in the gossip mags. You thought about buying Tiger Beat just for the pictures . . . of one specific cast member.

You bite your nail as the theme song plays and the credits roll through all the gorgeous, young actors smiling as they go about their perfectly average lives in the big city.

And then his name shows up and you inhale smoke quickly to stifle the thing expanding in your chest.

Dieter Bravo.

His smooth soft hair, dark sweet eyes. God, he is so cute.

Your hand clenches the sheets. You’ve never had a boyfriend, only been kissed once while at dance in between shooting schedules that you’d begged your mom to let you attend. It was bad, it tasted bad, his lips were rubbery and wet, and you didn’t feel anything.

Not like when you imagine what it would be like to be kissed by him.

Twenty-Three and Fun is out of your demographic, but maybe you could convince someone to let you try out for the part of someone’s little sister who comes in for the weekend. You’d just love the chance to meet him. He makes you feel like nothing you’ve ever felt before, nothing you know what to do with, but you tingle all over with it.

You’re at the tail end of sixteen when the spiral starts.

When you don’t know where to put this loneliness that’s been dragging you down.

Men stare at you but not in the way you want. Girls your own age won’t look at you, and women glare at you while their husbands stare. And boys, God, boys your own age –

You wipe the tears from your eyes, the wind snarling through your hair, the heat of the summer night sinking into your skin like wet clay. You know you’re driving too fast, but you don’t care.

Every day you go to work and put on someone else’s skin. Their clothes. Their face. For a while, it’s been freeing, to pretend to have normal problems, a normal family, a normal life. Because you knew even if you had never chosen to go into your father’s industry – which was now just as much yours – you knew your life wasn’t ever going to be normal. Not in the way it mattered anyway.

But there is something there when you step in front of a camera. A feeling that doesn’t come from a dark place, from feelings of abandonment and loneliness – it comes from a place inside of you that still feels like you own, still is yours to hold and keep safe, despite everyone taking things from you without asking. Instead of taking, it gives. It builds. It grows, despite the salted earth of your soul.

You like becoming someone else for a while, thinking as they do. Dancing, laughing, eating, playing as someone other than yourself. You like to create. You crave it. You create life for someone else that doesn’t exist and you love it. It feels right, imagining something if not for you, for someone else. Someone who looks like you but isn’t you. It feels good to dream.

But lately.

Lately, this job is no longer an act of creation. It’s fake smiles and ad campaigns and commercials and it feels rotten. Hollow. Like you’re under the eyes of a thousand leering men instead of just one. It feels cheap. You feel cheap, for wanting it to be something more. This desire for life itself dies in your hands, choked out, aborted before it had the chance to breathe.

Your body, yourself, is being twisted, molded into something you don’t want it to become and the only time, the only time you feel as though you have even some slight control is when you have none at all. When you detach from your corporeal form, so high or drunk you can’t feel your fingers.

It began with the beer your mom’s boyfriends left in the fridge, then the pills in her medicine cabinet. Then the mini bottles of Crown Royal and Jim Beam in the mini-fridges at your dad’s office. No one ever seemed to care when you swiped the whole row into your backpack. Maybe others had done the exact same thing.

You didn’t know how or why these things made you feel better but they did. You didn’t care about the tears on your face, the hot flood of anger beating in your chest, and you didn’t care about the speed limit, not even when you saw the flashing red and blue lights.

But you started to care when they put you in lock up and then you definitely did when your father’s lawyer bailed you out.

You went home and threw up for six hours. No one came to check on you, no one came to find you when you yanked the phone cord out of the wall. You clutched the porcelain basin of the toilet for what felt like days. Years. You aged decades that night.

When you woke up, you showered, ate, and called back your father’s lawyer.

You had decided on a name, a new name to put on the emancipation papers.

You told the lawyer very clearly and seriously over the phone: “I want my name to be Natalie Lorraine.”

It was the emancipation that finally did it. The final chop from the parental vine. The day she kicked you out, you came home from school, in between shoots for a new film with Gerard Butler and in talks for something with Helen Miram, and you find your mother curled up on the kitchen table. At first, you legitimately thought she was dead; the top half of her body was crumpled against the wood, her feet tangled with the rungs of the chair. She faced away from you, her right hand curled around an empty crystal tumbler and a three-fourths empty bottle of Belvedere inches from her fingertips.

You stare, dumb-founded, your heart so slow you could hear it pound like a drum in your ears. And then she twitches.

And then she wails.

“How could you? How could you do this to me? I’m your mother. You owe me. You owe me you owe me you owe me.”

She heaves boneless to the floor, the glass and bottle slipping out of her hand and shattering like droplets of rain. You can’t move, transfixed, as your mother, hands split open, knees carving bloody trails across the tile, drags herself towards your feet, like a freshly dug-up corpse.

She’s muttering, spitting, snarling – she’s a starved, beaten beast, ready to make its last stand.

You were a mistake

You ruined me

You ruined your father for me

Her sentences are blurred, notched together, overlapping, and intertwining. The only thing you remember is the vitriol and hatred more palpable than her own breath.

Someone older, someone more separated from their pink, flushed girlhood would have the callouses to ease the burn, dull the cut. But at sixteen, you didn’t. At sixteen, with a burgeoning substance abuse problem and at the mercy of the first of many instances where adulthood begins to rob you of the small pleasures of life, you watch your mother crumble and it scares you.

In that moment you want nothing more than to be taken care of, in a way that doesn’t feel like it’s asking too much but it clearly is. You want to be safe in a way that is primal, the animal fear of the dark and unknown. You’ve seen your mother drunk before but not this drunk, never heard the sounds she’s making — the wailing, the disappointment, the sorrow and rage. It scares you so badly you want to cry.

The gap between girlhood and womanhood is closed when you understand your mother is only human. Nothing less. And nothing more.

She’s still muttering hateful, horrible things as you take her to her feet and ease her onto the couch.

She’s silent when you throw a blanket over her.

She’s pale, shaking, green.

Go away. I don’t want you here. I don’t want you around me. Leave me alone.

Leave me.

Go away.

You leave her, not knowing if it's serious enough to call 911, if you can actually die from drinking too much, but that fear, that vice-grip around your chest, it’s squeezing your lungs so tightly, tears leak out of the corner of your eyes. But then it sinks. Sinks into your bones, your blood, your muscles. Watching your mother folded up like a broken doll, you experience fear like you’ve never felt before.

Blink and you’re in your room.

Blink and you’re under your bed, curled up, knees to your chin, and you’re crying. You can’t stop crying. It’s the only thing that seems to appease the fear, the sense that nothing is real and everything is going to turn out badly and it makes your stomach twist. You gag on your own spit and you shake and you tremble and you experience your first panic attack without anyone to tell you what’s going on. How to survive something like that. You grow up thinking this is how everyone lives and you’re just too pathetic to take it. You let that shame and embarrassment fester and grow because it has no way of stopping.

Your father is also served with the papers.

Two weeks later, the production for your upcoming movie was suddenly put on hold. The role with Helen Miriam went to someone else.

He never helped you get ahead in the industry, but he absolutely blocked you from it. He never called you again.

Someone, someone else, might have been hurt by the fact that your father cut you off without so much as a goodbye. But it’s not like you could miss what you never had.

You take the hint and enroll in UC Santa Barbara under your new name.

The myth of your maidenhood ended in much of the same way it began: at the behest of someone else and exiled as an afterthought.

You tried the whole sleep-around-to-fill-a-need thing for the freshmen year of college. It didn’t take. You liked sex but you liked the chase more. You liked the hunt, the thrill, the unconscious desire to touch, when the desire to do something first emerges in their heads. You like to watch the basic urge emerge in their darkened eyes before the other shoe drops. Drops and splatters coherent and rational thought like a bug on a windshield.

You liked sex, even if more often you had to get yourself off while your partner had fallen asleep, their needs met. But you liked being wanted more. The drugs helped bridge the gap and given that you had no idea how to make friends because you'd never had one your own age before, the puddles of bodies that dripped onto couches and floors at parties seemed to be as good a social circle as any. They all started to recognize you at parties, in lecture halls, at bars. They nodded, you nodded back, and you sat down.

No longer alone.

But not entirely wanted either.

It was enough though.

By your third year, you were known more for your party provisions (with your old contacts from the industry) than your ex-boyfriends.

You meet Heidi Morgan through one of your production management professors.

You’d gone in to speak with your professor, a man notorious for sleeping with his students, and believed you to be next in line (men were so much better at doing what you asked when they thought you’d sleep with them), so you were hoping that you could convince him that it was actually your lab partner who stole the paper from you, not the other way around, when you see him with someone else.

Blonde, small, feisty.

Heidi Morgan takes one look at the grotesque ogling in his eyes and promptly introduces herself.

In her own fire and take-no-shit attitude, you find kindred spirits.

She later asks you out for drinks, you think it’s been too long since you went down on a girl, and you completely misread the situation.

She clears things up and then asks you to read for a part. The whiplash makes your head spin, but given that she’s not calling you a giant slut, it’s probably good news.

She knows who you are. Suspected because you looked familiar and because she has friends in some truly weird places, she confirms her suspicions by the end of the day. So she gives you a call, you show up, flirt too much, and maybe end up with a job.

She gives you the script. It’s good.

Really good.

Why me? You ask her. You graduate in two weeks. You’re turning twenty-two in a few days. There’s nothing you’ve done in recent years to make her have this kind of faith in you. All digital memories of you reflect a knobby-kneed, round-cheeked little girl then that same little girl with tits and a smirk well beyond her years.

She didn’t think she might find her lead in a dingy auditorium, she says, but crazier things have happened. It’s not a guarantee, or a promise, just an offer. Try out, see what happens.

Crazier things have happened.

The rest is less myth and more old history.

(Historic)

The day you meet him is not unlike any other. Except in the little things. Your bra strap breaks when you go to put it on. Your belt loop gets caught in a door handle and nearly shucks your pants to the floor. You somehow get lost on the way to the studio even though you have your phone mapping the route. It takes you around and around and around until you get out and ask a very confused gas station attendant where the fuck the sound stage is.

It’s not momentous. Annoying, perhaps, so annoying that all these little things pester your brain like flies gorging on rotten fruit. You’re distracted, one eye always glancing over your shoulder. Trouble, trouble, trouble, your problems seem to whisper, you’re in trouble.

A PA comes to find you, saying Heidi specifically asked for your presence but she’s gone missing. He thinks he knows where to find her, if you’d come with him. You eye him up from the black leather couch you’re draped across, irritated at the day and at him for his shameless staring. You nod, and immediately he starts running his mouth about his own Hollywood dreams. He’s a writer, you know, maybe you’ve heard of some of his smaller indie work, it’s not very much, but folks who know say it's good so maybe he’ll be able to sell it if –

The door to the back of the lot opens and it’s like god snapped his fingers in your ear. It’s not momentous, or earth-shattering, but holy shit does it fuck you up.

He’s broad. Tall. Forearms, thick and veiny, stocky thumbs and tense fingers. His hair is just on the edge of being long, but combed back in some attempt to tame it, to fold it into submission. His right earlobe is puckered, pierced, but no earring. His beard and mustache are trimmed, clean shaven elsewhere. Despite how he’s built out adult male muscle from his days on Twenty-Three and Fun, he still has those boyish eyes, a dimple that would drive anyone up a wall, and eyelashes you’d pay a thousand dollars for. You knew this was coming but it still feels like a kick in the chest.

That kick burns when you realize something.

He’s fucking pissed. He’s beautiful, carved from your very dreams of what the most gorgeous man on earth would look like, but he’s fucking pissed.

Surprisingly, at you.

Well, that’s disappointing.

He comes at you with his claws drawn and you’ve never, ever been one to back down. You swipe back and hope you draw blood.

You discover other things about Dieter Bravo, the boy who you used to have a heart-stopping crush on when you didn’t know anything better. Fantasy will always be better than reality, and this isn’t exactly how you’d thought your first meeting would go.

And yet, you discover something else, something very, very curious. Something soft and impressionable, bruised purple and green. Something you want to lean on with your entire weight until he chokes. It’s ugly, but it’s amusing. Maybe this is how you hoped your first meeting would go, albeit with some tricky obstacles and a ticking clock.

You want to press and see what spills out.

Dieter Bravo cannot and does not look away from you.

The day you meet Dieter Bravo is also the day you meet The Sixers, the day you meet Marie. She’s small, mousy, but apparently a fucking rock star on the drums. You like the irony; quiet and unassuming until she bangs through your head with percussion. Where the rest of her bandmates are wide-eyed and eager and come with more drugs than a pharmacy, there’s something about Marie that you find so tenderly earnest you kind of wish you didn’t come dressed like you were going out to eat the fleshly hearts of men everywhere. You want to approach her on her level. You don’t want to scare her away. There’s something redemptive about a kind, sweet girl like Marie striking up a friendship with you.

If you could ever figure out how to start one.

“Excited for the filming to start?” You ask her after nearly everyone’s picked up their things and left after the reading. She glances at you, then over her shoulder, as if you were talking to someone else. You instantly feel insanely protective of her.

She blinks a few times before distractedly shaking her head. “No. I’m actually terrified.”

“About being in a movie?”

She cringes, as if it’s the most shameful thing in the world.

“Yeah. I love playing in front of crowds, but something about being on camera scares me.”

You make a note to find out the next time they’re playing live.

“It’s honestly not that bad. It feels a little weird, like some unblinking eye staring at you, but then it just kind of fades away.”

She bites her lip, tucking that short brown hair over her ear. “Have you done this before?”

You’re not exactly hiding your childhood movie star past, but you don’t really want it broadcasted.

“Here and there.”

The rest of her bandmates are chatting amongst themselves, perhaps not yet aware you’re trying to befriend one of them. You’re not quite sure how it’s going.

“If you ever want, we could talk and I could give you some pointers.”

Fuck, why did that sound like a line? It shouldn’t. You didn’t want it to. Where was the line between asking someone to be your friend and asking someone for a fuck?

If she notices your embarrassment, she doesn't show it. She grins brightly, unashamed. “Yes! Oh my god, yes, please. I’d love that!”

Normally, when giving someone your number, you’d grab their hand and write it in Sharpie, giving them a good wink. Now you tear off a corner of the call sheet and write down your number in shaking hands. It’s a small piece of paper, easily lost. That’s okay, if she does lose it. No need to freak out.

She’s grinning, smile expanding across that round face of hers as she takes your number when someone calls her name.

Roxie, the one with bright-red flaming hair and gorgeously thick eyebrows, takes a glance at the piece of paper in Marie’s fingers. One eyebrow arches, and she says nothing.

Roxie looks at you like she wants to devour you whole. You think you’ll let her.

You decide to ignore him.

Whatever his problem with you is, it doesn’t have to be dealt with immediately. Maybe he’ll come around and if not, no skin off your nose. It’s none of your business what happens off camera, what he thinks about you as a person. All that matters is giving a good performance and you know you can do that.

You just sort of wish you had known more about the role before Heidi offered it. You really sort of wish you had known Dieter was going to be your co-star. That night, after approaching him in the parking lot, you had two glasses of wine to settle your trembling nerves, and you flipped through the script.

He was so calm and collected at the table read today. Cool, relaxed, at ease with himself and the world. Everyone knew him, everyone talked about him, either directly to you or in snatches of conversation.

Dieter Bravo – you could not ask for a better scene partner!

Dieter Bravo – he’s so, so nice. He always stops for fans!

Dieter Bravo – this shoot is going to be so much fun with him!

You’d never been particularly star-struck, but for the first time in your life, the idea of working with your co-star was daunting. When you were up against Gerard Butler, you’d been in the game for a while, knew the industry, showed up in the trades. Now, you felt like any other Santa Barbara graduate stumbling out in front of the camera for the first time. Where was that all-knowing smirk you had perfected at fifteen? God, had you always been so transparent?

You felt like you had to prove yourself at that table read. You know you were going a bit overboard, but they watched you, transfixed, and it empowered you. Mark Bronson, Marie, the rest of The Sixers, they watched you like Taylor had possessed your body and you instantly became a rockstar.

Only, he didn’t. He watched you and didn’t look away, but he looked so uninterested in your performance, the tears that filled your eyes were partially real.

And then he touched you and in that moment, you knew he was mocking you. Laughing at you, you fucking child. He was the legendary star here, not you, and to think you ever had a chance was laughable. The heat of disgust in his eyes hurt, more than you wanted to admit.

It was day one and he hated you.

Things escalate.

He caught you high on set and it felt like you were being scolded by your older brother. He didn’t get it. He never did. All that shit about how he knows what it’s like – bullshit. All fucking bullshit. He was somehow always in the corner of your eye, watching you, begging you to fuck up so he could expose you like the fraud you are.

And a pathetic fraud you are at that. He touches you and it’s like algae, hot and dense, spreading across your skin. You fight the feeling that strokes your cunt and you grit your teeth. Stop touching me, go away, stay back – please.

You’re twenty-two and still harboring that fucking crush you had when you were sixteen. It’s embarrassing. It’s pathetic. It’s so, so, so wrong.

You try to ignore him. Try to exorcize him from your every waking thought. It doesn’t take. You get drunk at the pool party and you want his eyes, anyone’s eyes, on you.

Marie is shy, you try to sober up around her, but you’re too far gone and you don’t want her to see you like this.

So you find Roxie. And Samuel. They give you something that makes your pupils dilate to the size of quarters and you feel like you’re made of cosmic dust. When they touch you, beauty and awe and the atoms of the universe bloom across your skin. You like kissing them, you decide. The water dripping off you from the pool feels like bad lovers and broken kingdoms up for sale.

You end up at his door. You don’t mean to. You genuinely forgot what room you were in.

Consciously, you know he’s married. Consciously, you know he hates you. But that doesn’t stop you from asking anyway.

“You could join us, you know.”

You want so badly to be his theatrical equal that it hurts, it burns hotter for a moment than your desire for him, and he just stares at you. Consciousness somewhere in a nearby galaxy, you can’t read the look on his face. And then it blurs, he closes the door, and the entire hallway grows thick, heavy leaves.

Disappointment is a physical object and it burrows into your chest. You think you can feel your ribs moving to make room.

Sam and Roxie fuck on your bed while you’re curled up on the futon. You don’t even change out of your suit. You kick them out as soon as they are done, not wanting their hungry gazes to turn to you.

This is always the worst part. When the emotions and memories that you’ve managed to pry off you as you coat yourself in a protective layer of LSD, finally come back. They wrap around you like a vice and you can feel the beginnings of a panic attack start in the tremble of your fingers. You stay there in the armchair, damp and cold and shivering and trying not to choke on your own throat, until the early hours of the morning. You think you could die like this but you don’t. You never actually do.

He doesn’t bring it up and neither do you. You sort of wish he would, just for a chance to . . . no, that’s fucked up and, if not legally, morally wrong. You can’t wish for anything when it comes to him.

It’s easier to hate him. To pretend like he was some over-involved, self-obsessed diva who stepped on your lines on purpose and flat-out refused to run scenes with you. It was easier as a whole for a while.

Marie started talking to you on her own now and that made you forget Dieter for a bit. The rest of the group was hesitant in their welcome, despite what had almost happened between you, Sam, and Roxie. But they all came around when you gave them the cleanest Molly they’d had in years.

It was like college all over again, but the faces were consistent this time. Five of them. You smoked in their van, fuzzy orange carpet fibers tickling your ear as you looked up at the glow-in-the-dark star stickers on the roof.

“Why are you called The Sixers if there are five of you?” You ask suddenly.

There’s a pause and then a collective chuckle. You watch it like lightning spark between them.

Nick finally speaks up: “Because it sounds like the sex-ers.”

“Sixty-nine n’ feeling fine.”

You laugh with them this time and you feel your breath mix with theirs.

While meeting him wasn’t a particularly momentous occasion, the drive up to his AirBnB was. Maybe it was the lack of air this high up, but around every turn, your chest got a little tighter. The Sixers had shown you The Labyrinth with David Bowie last weekend (“how have you never seen that movie? Did you grow up under a rock?”) and you can’t help but think of the Goblin King coming to whisk you away. At the very least, the amount of rings they wore were the same.

You try desperately to not look at his white-knuckles around the steering wheel and fail tremendously.

The thing is, you don’t really want to fight with him. You don’t want to have to interact with him through this hazy, distant, drugged out wall, but that seems like the only way he’ll talk to you. He’s always scowling at you, like you’d done something wrong, and you hadn’t. Sure, you thought about it and fucked yourself on the biggest dildo you had about it, but you hadn’t actually done anything. You hadn’t even made a move on him, not even bat an eyelash. But it seems like you just breathe in his direction and that sets him off.

You still don’t understand why his past drug problem is now your problem too. In your absence from Hollywood, you’d somehow missed his ups-and-downs as he transitioned out of a teenage heartthrob into a fully adult hot mess. You’d certainly missed his marriage announcement until you googled it in the bathroom after lunch one day to see if what you’d heard the two techs talk about was true.

She’s so fucking hot.

Yeah, she was a model, right? Dude fucking scored big.

Fuck, she was a model. Even if she wasn’t, she certainly looked it, from all the red-carpet photos of the two of them. He looked at her with complete and total adoration.

Hollywood party boy settles down with recent marriage to cubist painter’s daughter

The headline was wordy but got the point across. He was off-limits.

You didn’t know how to make someone like you if you couldn’t offer them sex or drugs. What the fuck were you supposed to do with the sober and married Dieter Bravo?

And yet, there were times. Moments. Fragments. Bursts of light in a mirror, where you thought he looked too long. How his eyes flickered black when you talked about your bra, or your tits, or your ass. But that’s all they were – fleeting instances of your own insanity bleeding into reality. He would never look at you like that. He hated you.

It scared you, the way he expected you to act when you couldn’t hide behind being high, when you couldn’t flirt your way out of a particularly tense situation. He wanted you raw, exposed, your face revealed to the light you had spent years hiding from.

And then he did the darndest thing.

He was nice about it. In the kitchen, and then on the patio, he asked you questions about your start in the industry, what you’d like to do with your life, how you saw your career going. He cooked for you and made you laugh. He invoked the holy saint Sister Heidi as a bargaining chip and it was all the excuse you needed to drop the boxing gloves. You didn’t want to fight with him. You wanted to be his friend. You wanted him to like you.

Scratch that.

You wanted him to fuck you within an inch of your life and, sure, it was stupid to finger-fuck yourself to him, on the same couch as him, but maybe you wanted to get a little caught. Okay, a lot caught because then he’d tell you to fuck off and he’d draw the line in the goddamn sand and, sure, it’d be embarrassing and, sure, it’d hurt like hell but you’d get over it. You’d nurse your heart but you’d get back on that fucking bike because you really, really wanted this movie to work – but –

He fucking doesn’t.

He doesn’t kiss you but he wants to. He looks at you like he wants to suck the marrow from your bones, drink the blood from your heart through your cunt.

Dieter Bravo wants to kiss you desperately, but because he is a good man, he doesn’t. And because you’re a shit person, you make it hard on him. You make it hurt because it hurts you and just for once, for a second, you want someone to understand how you feel. How you hurt. How you ache.

That house in New Mexico changed everything. For you. For him.

Friends didn’t make time with each other because they were trying to plug up the moans in their head. Friends didn’t keep busy to keep their hands off each other. You weren’t friends with him, but you did get along. You learned a lot about him. You’d never had a real friend before but you sure this isn’t how it’s supposed to feel.

Instead of a myth, your relationship is built in handprints. Red blotches on cave walls, their original meaning lost to time, a dead language no one speaks any more. Sometimes the prints overlap, sometimes they don’t. There are no words spoken, but the feeling is there all the same.

You think, if you could just take your aching heart out of your body, you could actually be Dieter Bravo’s friend. He fills in holes you didn’t realize were empty. Chasms for art, for acting, for food that didn’t come in a can or delivered on your front door. He knows about wine, and whiskey, and needs help dressing himself. He never made you feel like your asks were too much, your need to connect too great. He took your hand and told you what you wanted was normal. He’s funny, patient, and loves Shirley MaClaine movies. He did her entire monologue from The Apartment one night after hours of begging and it brought you to tears. You had a scene partner in Dieter Bravo, you had someone to challenge you, to rethink scenes and pull back deeper and deeper character layers. He’d taken a course online about psychology to have a new perspective on analyzing characters and you thought it was fucking genius.

Marie filled certain relationship needs – a girl to talk about drama with, a fellow fan of live music, someone to make you look up to – but Dieter fulfilled more, if not all of them. Despite working in an artistic industry for years, you’d never once talked trade with someone and certainly not someone who knew it so well. You were awestruck by him.

Call it infatuation, call it being horny, but there is a connection, a red through line that connects you both. And for a while, that’s enough.

Until it isn’t.

The mark of his blotchy handprints on your heart stop when you fuck some guy you barely know because Dieter hurt you.

When he won’t look at you while he’s pretending to fuck you, you feel self-conscious again, like he’s going to think you’re some inexperienced little nepo baby. But he does his duty and you do yours and you’ve never felt so empty.

Your handprint stays, while his blurs away.

(Psychologic)

After production ends, you exist in the margins. No more mythologizing. No more cave drawings.

And then Marie shows up.

She takes you to get your nails done like it's the most normal thing in the world. What is wrong with her? Doesn’t she know what you are?

You get smoothies and see some live music and she keeps you from spiraling. There is no possible way she knew about the lines of coke upstairs in your bedroom, but she takes you out into the light all the same.

You go out to shows with The Sixers. They love having a groupie who’s a Hollywood star. Marie seems embarrassed when they show-case you, but you find you don’t mind waving a bit on stage and introducing the band. You think you see a pair of deep brown eyes in the crowd occasionally but you know it’s not. You have to accept your fate. He might not like you and he doesn’t hate you, but he certainly doesn’t want anything to do with you.

Not friends, not lovers, but something else. Something almost.

You and the Sixers swim in the ocean off the Santa Barbara coast. You go to parties and you play the bongo drums in a treehouse in South Los Angeles. You bring the good drugs and everyone loves you.

You don’t want to go to the wrap party, but Marie insists. You think she likes being famous just for all the opportunities to get dressed up and do your make up. She told you once that you are the prettiest girl she’d ever seen without any motive behind it. She wasn’t trying to fuck you or fuck with your head. It was just the truth in her eyes and it made you nauseous.

You go to the wrap party because it’s something better to do than get high on shrooms for the fourth time this week and as a reward, Cooper shares his blunt with you in the car. You laugh easily and often and loudly and Cooper keeps you steady with a hand on your waist. You’re nervous, you want to drink more, but you already feel like you’re carrying too many cups and plates and the noise it’s going to make when you drop them all is going to be deafening.

He’s here. He’s here with his fucking gorgeous wife and you stand behind Cooper so you have something blocking your line of sight.

Just as you are about to order your first vodka soda of the night, Dieter rushes back into the house. The weed and coke in you switch the plugs in your brain and suddenly you are very, very angry.

But the Dieter you find is fragile, beaten down, vulnerable. He talks to you like he did in New Mexico and it dulls the edges around the hole in your chest. He looks at you like you’re his saving grace, his last hope.

Myths lie. They blur the truth to make a better story. They build up a man larger than life, they make goddesses out of women, and they sanctify, canonize love. They make you ache with the wanting of the fantasy of it, and that’s on purpose. Myths are the human experience on fire.

Kissing him, you feel on fucking fire.

Meeting him didn’t feel momentous. But fucking him certainly was.

The settlement of your mythology burns to the ground, flames licking the sky. He has crystalized in your veins and, in an instant, you’re hopelessly addicted.

With Dieter Bravo, you come to like sex. You come to love it actually. It’s an itch, a fluttering, warm feeling that makes you twitch and tense when his hands aren’t on you. There’s some part of you that knows the inherent danger of giving one man, much less this man, that much power over you, but fuck, you can’t help it.

You’re too young, too inexperienced in the world to know the difference between when a man wants you for sex and when a man loves you. In your mind, the two are the same and cannot be separated. You know what it feels like to be wanted to be fucked, but in your nativity you assume that’s how a man looks at you when he wants to love you — and this time you’d welcome it.

There isn’t much to say about New Orleans, except for three things:

One, you’ve successfully confused yourself into thinking this is what being in a relationship with him would be like.

Two, you’ve never felt safer and more wanted and more complete than you ever have when you take drugs with Dieter. (that primal animal fear is gone for the first time in what feels like years)

And three, you’re so fucking in love with him you’re sick with it.

In the sickness, you grow weak. You burn with fever. Your bones ache and your mind races. His touch is simultaneously a balm and a contagion.

You love him. You love him. You love him.

You love him unlike anything or anyone.

Marie is actually the only one who ventures a guess. Who catches you, wings pinned to the corkboard, and asks you point-blank, “are you fucking Dieter Bravo?”

Maybe she’s braver because it’s over text, permanent traces of your infidelity, but you stare at her message for hours. You think about it in the hotel shower after the plane lands in Los Angeles. You haven’t seen her in weeks and you’ve stopped returning her phone calls.

Your high falters at the idea that you might have (and probably did) lose a friend over him. But what did that matter, in the grand scheme of things, your sickness asks you, now that you have him?

Now that he’s the only thing that matters. Now that he is everything.

He goes back to his wife.

After everything. After what you did for him. After what you gave up. How you prostrated yourself for his love, for a moment of his time. He can’t see it, it’s eating you up. You think cancer has kinder teeth than his.

The foundations of the core of your being are rocked. It doesn’t feel real because he’s still in this hotel with you, the same hotel where you fucked in the bathroom, where you flirted with him for the cameras to sell the movie, where he begged you to stay with him, you’re gonna stay, right? you’re gonna be with me, after this? And maybe it isn’t real because he only lasts being apart from you for twelve, maybe fourteen hours. Maybe he’s sick too. Maybe he’s fucked just as much as you are.

In your dark, deep wretched heart, you hope he is. You hope he’d die without you. But you don’t know. You don’t know because he never says it.

This time, it’s real, he promises. This time, he’s never going back. This time he’s going to say he loves you, his kisses pledge to you.

This time he’s not going to leave you.

In the mornings after Chloe leaves and you kiss him E-tablets with your tongue and he fucks you in every way he knows how, he curls up next to you and you tell him. It doesn’t matter he doesn’t seem to hear you.

You tell him you love him, have always loved him. Dieter Bravo turned from an imaginary companion, to a friend you didn’t want, and now to a lover who makes you think you’re special. Something valuable, precious. Something that is worth keeping.

Until you’re not.

Myths serve to answer questions about our place in the natural order of things. To ease tension. To provide guidance.

Why does it rain?

Where do the seasons come from?

What is the sun, and why does it leave and return?

What is heartbreak?

What is grief? What is sorrow? How do we carry them with us?

How do we go on when the world is determined to break us?

When you’ve always had nothing, and now you still have nothing and no one – he doesn’t love you and he’s going back to his pregnant wife – you ask, what’s the fucking point?

Not even the myths can answer that one.

Later, when you wake up under the bright lights of a hospital room, your memory is cracked, broken into terracotta pieces on the ground. There are things missing from you.

You don’t remember calling Oliver, only that he was there and he was high out of his mind and he gave you whatever he had in his pockets. You don’t remember what you took, or if Oliver was kind to you when he watched you swallow pill after pill.

You don’t remember the shower, the ambulance ride, or being admitted.

You aren’t sure exactly what you’ve lost. But you feel the missing edges.

Dieter is missing from you.

If you close your eyes, still the movement of your body, block out the noises of the machines and the hospital around you, you think you remember hearing him say it.

You think he might have said it when he kissed your forehead, but it feels older than that. Like his words and his actions stem from two different memories but you’re so fucked up they blur together. You want to hold onto that new memory, as fabricated as it might be, for as long as you can.

But then sleep over takes you again and it flushes everything out. The next time you wake up, you don’t remember that he ever said, I love you.

When you wake up, you know he’s gone. You don’t know how you know, or why, but it feels like a piece of you has been torn away in a bloody chunk. Like someone had taken pliers to your fingernails and tore them off until blood splattered onto the floor.

Like someone put a knee to your shoulder and wrenched white teeth out of your mouth.

Until you are gummy and dripping.

You open your eyes not to Dieter, not Heidi, but Marie. Mousy, intelligent, thoughtful Marie curled up asleep in the chair next to you.

The sound of your crying wakes her up. Wordless, judgement-less, she crawls into bed with you, takes you into her arms, and lets you sob like the heart-broken mess you’ve become.

God, can you die from pain like this?

She strokes your forehead and tells you, no, you can’t. You might want to, but you can’t.

For the first time in your life, you’re not a myth.

You’re not a story of a little girl whose parents didn’t love her enough.

You are not the story of an actress whose star burned too bright and hot and the cosmos punished her for her hubris.

You’re not the story of a woman who fell in love too hard and too fast with drugs and a man much older than her and got shattered on the rocks.

The book has closed, the final chapter has come. There are no more stories to tell, nothing left to make fantastic.

You are a broken human body.

Natalie Lorraine is a myth.

You were a child once. You have to remember that.

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo x reader #the bubble fanfic #the bubble fic #the bubble fanfiction #the bubble 2016 #dieter bravo/f!reader #dieter bravo/you #dieter bravo/reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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moral-terpitude · 1 year

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Misadventures - Part 5

Open the door you'll see me digging out my getaway · hang the stars who pulled the pin out of my heart · and just because you're screaming for my attention · does not mean I will waste my time · so hold your breath and swim under the ice

I told myself originally that something was going to be added to the header every time, but I only just added to it today! The Gustave Dore engravings are just for reference because they’re all Photoshopped together and its just easier for it to be seen than make y’all picture what they’re like mashed together.

Taglist in comments cause I’m on mobile and lazy

[Series Masterlist] [Previous Part]

Word Count: 4,328

Warnings: mention of infidelity/ adultery/ cheating/ whatever word you want to use.

They had fallen into a routine, unintentionally, over the following weeks. The more Quinn was there, usually three or so nights a week, the more comfortable she found herself around Tommy, in the little bubble of his world that she got to interact with.

His brothers were supposed to be visiting, something to do with business, and she could only guess, in the politest way it was a forewarning that she wouldn’t see much of him until they left.

“How have you never seen the Godfather? Everyone has seen the godfather.”

Quinn looked up from her iPad, across the dining room table where Tommy was perched behind the computer, still in work clothes, sans vest and suit jacket.

They had agreed on Indian food at some point in the day. The containers now discarded in the trash, they had been working mostly in silence, as Tommy fielded a few phone calls and Quinn answered emails.

She shrugged, setting the pencil down and stretching, feet hovering off the floor as she did, stifling a yawn. “I’ve just never watched it.”

“I’ll queue it,” he released the hold he had on the bridge of his nose as he stood, stubbing out the almost gone cigarette in the ashtray on the table, “I need a shower, but there’s popcorn in the cupboard, if you want to make some.”

Quinn had been appalled the first time she had seen him light a cigarette inside, (she noted that his determination that he was quitting had been tossed to the side), It had been a little over a decade since she had seen anyone smoke indoors, but somewhere in the conversation Tommy had informed her, albeit reluctantly, that he owned the building, and would suffer the consequences whenever he was done living there.

She still went out on the balcony to smoke, if she did while she was there, regardless of what he told her was allowed.

“Why are you so insistent that I watch it?”

Ice clanked from the fridge door into the empty glass as Quinn waited for his answer, hand lingering on the door handle.

“It’s a classic at this point.” His tone was final as he retreated to the bedroom, leaving her to rummage through the fridge for the, now last, of the flavored water she had left there.

Quinn found herself staring off into space, the music not really touching her brain even though she could feel herself moving around to the rhythm coming through her headphones, as the residual heat from the dryer hit her legs every time she pulled out another bundle of clothes.

“This article,” he came back not even 10 minutes later, still with wet hair, pushed back off his face and struggling to pull the shirt over his head, “says it’s objectively the best movie ever.”

Quinn almost choked as she rounded the corner, basket propped on her hip. Other than the day at the studio, she had only ever seen him in jeans and tee shirts or dress clothes. Well, except for when he was fully naked that she couldn’t even remember.

She shook away the thought.

She had been doing so good at being, well, normal. Sometimes there would be a joke here or there that would make her blush, but nothing had happened.

She decided that men’s basketball shorts that didn’t come past the knee should be illegal.

So should being a messy pretty boy who looked good in just a white T shirt, clinging to the parts of him that weren’t completely dry yet.

“Love?” And that. Just the way he said it, blue eyes searching her face, “You in there, Quinn?”

She took a deep breath, blinking a few times and feeling the flush that threatened to color her ears and neck, “Sorry, rebooting.”

She dropped her headphones back into the case, putting the dryer sheets in the kitchen trash, “You had to find an article about a movie you already like to convince me to watch it?”

Tommy stood on the other side of the leather sectional, trying to get whatever he was looking for to work.

“Fucking thing.”

“What?”

“It never recognizes the WiFi but the regular cable works just fine.”

“Let me look.” She took the remote, clicking through the menus, tongue peeking out the front of her mouth and brows drawn together the same way they did while she would draw.

“It says it’s connected.”

“It always does.”

“I have no fucking idea then. Bedroom one work?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, well, turn it on in there then I suppose. Since you’re so insistent I watch it.”

“What are you doing?” Tommy questioned, placing the remote back on the table, adjusting the photo of Charlie and Ruby back where it belonged.

Quinn blinked rapidly, staring back at him as she broke open the clear cellophane, “My job was to make the popcorn. Go make the TV do movie things.”

Leaned against the headboard it was like he wasn’t even trying to rile her up. The shorts had no structure to them whatsoever, so while his left leg was still upright and bent at the knee, his right leg was the same, however resting against the mattress, the fabric pooling—

“What the fuck. That’s a fucking Gustave Dore engraving.”

“No, it’s three fucking Gustave Dore engravings,” he seemed rather unfazed as her nimble fingers pushed the hem of the shorts up to his hip, sitting between his spread legs as she did so, “you’re the one who has the degree, Quinn. You should know.”

“Shut up.”

Whoever had done the work was brilliant. It was seamless, as if all the pieces were meant to be together.

The focal point of the three, was The Pale Horse of Death, but the surrounding spiral of angels was composed of an Illustration for Dante’s Paradosio from the Divine Comedy, and beneath it all was The Mouth of Hell.

He was trying to focus on the movie, truly, but the way she looked, so intent while gentle fingers traced line work and her unforgiving shirt letting him see the black lace bra she wore, he found he was becoming rather distracted.

He tried as discreetly as possible to clench the muscles in his right leg, to send the blood flow anywhere else.

“Well, fuck,” she chuckled, “A man after my own heart,” Quinn settled herself back against the pillows once again.”

“When I was younger,” he began, shifting down in the bed some, as if trying to find comfort, trying to find somewhere to hide, “me mom went off, disappeared. When she came back, she had gotten me a white horse as a present for me birthday. Not long after, she drowned herself in the river near where we were living at the time. I was twelve. It was all just a blur. She hated the city.”

“Why move there then?”

He smiled, a sad smile, as she situated herself on her side to listen to him. “My father was an Irish Traveller and my mother was truly a Roma woman. They were never destined for any life with an amount of regularity, it was just in their personalities, always moving, always headed somewhere new.”

“Our aunt raised us, pretty much from the time she was eighteen. My mother was just as wild as the horses were. My father, for the first time in our lives, had finally found consistent work, in Birmingham, where my aunt was living. Before that, we were always on the move, caravans and all, and we traveled the countryside. We weren’t born in hospitals, we didn’t go to school but we learned, our illnesses were cured with tinctures and oils, herbs and fresh air. It was actually fairly common, there was a resurgence in it in the 90s after the Eastern Bloc fell.”

“You weren’t born in a hospital?”

He noted, her tone wasn’t incredulous like most people were, just one of true curiosity. Her eyes were wide, purple strands of hair failing in her face.

“No. My youngest brother only ended up in the hospital as a baby when his color wasn’t right, his eyes were yellow, he had colic, and they worried he wasn’t going to make it.” He remember the urgency after their parents realized what was going on. Jaundice. There was chaos as Ada cried and one of the Lee women watched over them until his father returned.

Not that he had been much help.

“I guess I didn’t realize people still lived that way. It always just seemed like stories.”

“Most stories usually have some stake in reality.”

She hummed, turning her attention to the movie.

“People do it now too, I guess. Buy vans and renovate them and live in them.” Quinn pondered.

Tommy hummed in agreement.

There was silence for a while as Quinn watched the events of the movie unfold.

“I only like the movie because I liked the book.” Tommy admitted, a quiet whisper she would have missed if they hadn’t ended up so close together once she had gotten comfortable.

“He reads.” Quinn joked, bumping him with her shoulder as she tossed another piece of popcorn in her mouth.

“You have my joggers in there?” He questioned, as he stood to look through the clothes that were accumulating at the end of the bed.

“Hey! Get out of there!” Quinn jumped to shield her clothes from him, prying, trying to remove him as he looked for through the pile of darks, “Tommy, you do not need to see my underwear!”

“I’ve seen you without them.”

Quinn huffed, ears going red, pelting him with a rolled up pair of socks before digging in the clothes basket of dried but unfolded clothes.

“You didn’t miss them this long,” came her grumble as she tossed him the pants and the dryer buzzed, signaling her queue to haul herself from the comfort of the bed and out to change over clothes once again.

She had passed out on the other side of the bed, clothes half folded, long before the movie was over, waiting on the last load of laundry to dry.

Tommy had taken a call from John, and hadn’t thought he’d been gone that long, but when he returned, he was surprised that she was curled up on her side on the far side of the bed, glasses askew, wriggled down in the comforter enough that her shirt was bunched around her torso and he could see the floral adornments covering her back.

He stood in the doorway, trying to decide what the plan was now.

She was light enough he could carry, he knew that for a fact from before, but the couch was far from comfortable. He’d discovered that last time Charlie and Ruby had been there and stolen the bed before they had their own room.

Which meant he wasn’t subjecting himself to the likes of the couch either.

She wouldn’t be hurting anything sleeping there for the night and since Finn and Arthur both couldn’t manage to answer him, he assumed their flight wasn’t coming in until morning.

Carefully, Tommy placed the clear plastic frames and her phone on the bedside table before turning off the tv and retreating to the closet for an extra blanket.

“What…the fuck.”

Tommy barely heard her whisper as he muted the alarm. Fumbling for her phone, Quinn blinked through watery eyes to try and focus on the time.

4:45.

4:45?

No, it couldn’t be 4:45. They already had that that day.

It must be 9:45.

She tried to take in her surroundings. She was very clearly still in Tommy’s bed, on top of the blanket but covered with a patchwork quilt she had never seen before.

Gross, she felt overencumbered, realizing she had slept in her clothes from the day before.

With a small groan she felt for her glasses, slipping them on before confirming it was indeed 4:45.

“Your alarm goes off at 4:45 in the morning?”

“Yes.”

“Ugh,” she sighed, rolling to where the freshly vacated, and warm, spot in the bed was, “I only see 4:45 once a day. You’re a monster.”

Her eyes were shut already as Tommy exited and closed the door to the walk in closet, “You don’t even know the half of it.”

She snorted, and he was thankful that she thought it was a joke.

“You probably listen to the news in the morning, too? Don’t you?” She called through the door, stretching back out in the mess of the blankets as the water hissed to life on the other side of the door.

“Yeah. Turn it on the cable, it should be on the news.”

“Ugh, no.” She tossed the glasses on the other table, burrowing further into the pillow, trying to ignore the way her stomach flipped at the smell of his cologne tainting the sheets, “Wake me up when there’s coffee involved though.”

Tommy wasn’t at all surprised to see her fast asleep on his pillow when exited the bathroom at 5:15.

On the other hand, he was very surpsied when he turned the light on in the kitchen to hear a groan that belonged to no other than Arthur.

Tommy looked over the back of the couch to see Finn curled on the shortest part and Arthur stretched out on the longest part of the sectional.

“Arthur,” Tommy whispered, shaking him by the shoulder, hoping to rouse him quickly and quietly, but when one hand wrapped around Tommy’s wrist and the other went for his throat, he determined that wouldn’t be the case.

“Oi!” Tommy pulled, yanking his arm away to stand back up straight and out of arms reach, “Hey, it’s me. It’s fucking me.”

Tommy could see when Arthur’s eyes began to focus, to actually see who he was looking at, and not someone who had snuck up on him through the smell of burning oil and sand to attack him.

“Sorry, brother.” Arthur whispered, pulling himself upright and putting his head in his hands before pushing his hair back out of his face.

Tommy shook his head, disregarding the apology, “When did you get here?”

“Late. Early.” Arthur grumbled, “Finn wanted to wake you, but, I told him let ya be.”

“Well,” Tommy clapped him on the shoulder, “might as well rest. Sleep it off.”

“C‘Mon, Tommy!” Finn stared at her across the kitchen island, trying to think just what Polly would say when she saw this girl. Purple hair and facial piercings are not at all what he would expect of a woman his brother would end up with. Tattoos on her throat and every surface of her skin that he’s seen so far.

Finn was used to women like Grace and Lizzie who were pretty enough that they could be in paintings.

Not women that wore paintings.

Quinn grabbed with the chopsticks, desperately, although Tommy was taller, trying to reclaim the last piece of her sushi roll.

Not the most ideal breakfast, but she had forgotten about the appointment she had scheduled before work, and it was better eaten than left to go to waste.

“You said you were stuffed, eh? Couldn’t eat another bite, and now you want it?”

Finn sniggered as he slid off the stool and he decided that maybe he can see part of the reason why his brother likes her. She moves nimbly as she jumps, the right parts of her body catching his attention.

“Oi!” Quinn misses the in between, but Tommy can tell what his brother is thinking, and Quinn realized as she hoped to catch what Tommy said, that it wasn’t English, and whatever language it was, it wasn’t anything she could take a guess at.

“That’s not fair,” her eyes narrow as she looks between the two of them, taking the opportunity to pull Tommy’s arm closer to her, guiding the final bite of sushi to her mouth, not swallowing the bite fully before speaking, but using her hand to shield her mouth, “cause I don’t know what the fuck you just said.”

Finn rolled his eyes with a shake of his head, before departing the kitchen and a door slamming off in the distance.

“So I might, perhaps, need a favor,” Quinn began, testing the waters with her words as she stared at the black coffee swirling in the mug as she tried to keep herself from being nervous.

Her phone had been going off nonstop the last few days, her family group chat, which between her parents, sisters, and their spouses had 13 people messaging all day every day.

“Okay,” Tommy quirked an eyebrow, already smartly dressed in a suit and tie for a day full of meetings. She has on a mauve rubbed crop top and high waisted leggings, but not high enough that the fabric meets in the middle, and instead it leaves enough of her skin on display for his thoughts to wander before she spoke again.

“My sister is getting married,” she takes a sip of coffee before continuing the thought, “and I need someone to go with me.”

“Say all of the words.” He prodded, not looking up, because he knew as soon as he did he would give up and agree.

Instead, Tommy continued skimming emails on the laptop, trying to find the ones with the spreadsheets that he needed to print.

“What do you mean?” She had to resist rolling her eyes.

“I need to have you say the whole thought out loud.”

“Tommy,” she leaned against the kitchen island as he closed the lid of the computer, giving her his now undivided attention, “will you go to my sisters wedding with me and pretend that we’re dating so I can make them jealous?”

“Well, I have to admit, I’ve never been spitefully invited to a wedding before.”

“First time for everything.” She quipped, drumming her fingers against the countertop.

“Lucky for you, there’s a car in Detroit I want to look at, so yes, I’ll go.”

“A car?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“A 1967 GT500.”

Quinn rolled her eyes, a huff of air coming out her nose as she resisted laughing. “Because it’s a Shelby?”

His smile let her know the answer.

“Well,” she righted herself, stretching before pulling her bag on her shoulder, “we’ll be about 3 hours from Detroit, but that’s probably the closest you’ll get any time soon, so you might as well get a hold of them.”

“Okay. When?”

“Two weeks,” she checked the time, “shit. I’ve got to get going, I have an appointment this morning. I’ll message you more of the details.”

“Do you want me to drop you off?”

“No, that’s okay, it’s not that far of a walk.”

The door clicked closed and Tommy was thankful for the silence before Arthur and Finn returned to the kitchen.

“When are you goin’ to tell her you’re still married, Tommy?” Finn inquired from the doorway, Arthur trailing not far behind him.

He rubbed his temple, “It’s not that simple, eh? It’s nothing like that. If I bring it up, then this,” he gestured to the two coffee cups still on the counter, “all becomes something.”

“Pol would have you by the balls for leading her on like that.” Arthur countered.

“Men and women can be friends, brother. It’s not—“

“Yeah, well, we’re not blind, Tom, she’s sleepin’ in your bed, you was just acting like everything’s normal while—“

“While what, Arthur? Please, enlighten me.” Tommy offered the floor to his brother, leading with the hand holding the now lit cigarette as Finn, wide eyed and unmoving, watched the tension grow between the two of them.

“While I have to wonder if my daughter is mine?” Tommy wouldn’t lie, he could feel himself getting more and more pissed off the longer he kept talking, “While I have to wait for paperwork to go through, because 8 years ago Lizzie started fucking Angel Changretta and apparently never stopped!”

He was yelling, he could feel all of it, the resentment and anger, shame, and every other emotion that he tried desperately to press down bubbling to the surface. Rightfully so, as Arthur just couldn’t resist trying to prove a point.

Arthur hung his head, giving a nod as Finn shifted uncomfortably on the stool, the only noise being the wood groaning and mimicking his discomfort.

“You two, should go find something to do at the office today, eh? Change some fucking lightbulbs. File some fucking papers. Good spot for you.”

He slammed the door to the balcony behind him, blood boiling as he replaced the cigarette and pulled the smoke between his lips.

“Fuck,” Quinn rubbed her eyes as her phone vibrated across the desk, the word Mom staring at her dauntingly, “I don’t have time for this shit today.”

Hannah chuckled, printing off the emails and reference photos that Quinn needed for the new appointments as she answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hi, sweetie, how are you?”

“I’m good, mom. Listen,” she rested the phone between her shoulder and ear, before taking the papers and heading into her portion of the studio and closing the door, “I’m in the middle of the day right now,” her phone vibrated and pinged a text message as she continued talking, “and I’m in between appointments that I’m trying to setup for, so, what’s up?”

“Well, Emily has been busy with the wedding planning, with it getting so close, she hasn’t had much time to call, but she said you never sent her an RSVP. Are you not coming home?”

Quinn pinched the bridge of her nose, sinking down on the uncovered massage table, the envelope clear as day in her minds eye still hanging on the fridge, “Yeah, mom I’m still coming. I put it in the mail a week or two ago, but the mail around here sucks. We usually get the neighbors stuff and, who knows what happened to it. I put down two.”

“Oh, good! Well I’m going over there later, I’ll let her know you’re coming. Can you just give us some warning if Hannah is coming with you, after last time.”

“Opa getting a little testy because I brought a girl with me, who I am not dating, is not my problem. He read between lines that weren’t even there. Besides, she won’t be able to come this time, Dante’s wife just had that baby and I can’t quite ask her to come in and cover for her.”

“Well who’s coming with you then, Quinn?”

Shit. She swallowed thickly, thankful that her mom hadn’t decided to FaceTime her, because as much as she didn’t mind lying, her mom could usually tell when she was, “I’ve been seeing someone. For a few weeks. I just haven’t talked to y’all in a bit and it didn’t seem like something to bring up just yet. You know, the luck I have, I didn’t want to jinx anything.”

“Oh. Well, we’ll looking forward to meeting them then.”

“Him.” Quinn corrected, jaw set as she tried to think of some way to get the conversation over quick. She could feel the anxiety and sweat prickling at the back of her neck.

“What?”

“I’m bringing a guy, shouldn’t be that hard to fathom.”

“Well, sweetie, after Gerard, you always said—“

Quinn could feel her heart pounding in her chest, stomach turning, at even the mention of his name, “After Gerard I said a lot of things, mom. Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

“Okay, I love you, Quinn.”

“I love you, mom. Bye.”

“Holy fuck,” Hannah chirped as she closed the door to the apartment behind her, leaving her purse and shoes at the door, “you’re actually home? In waking hours of the night?”

Quinn rolled her eyes, looking up from the iPad and setting the pencil down as a repeat television show played in the background.

“Yeah,” she rubbed her eyes, stretching as she migrated her belongings to the coffee table.

“Oh, and she sounds dejected.” Hannah narrated as she crossed out of Quinn’s line of vision, to the kitchen, retrieving a bottle of water from the fridge and tucking a chunk of of black hair behind her ear, before flouncing down on the steps, “Listen, I don’t want to take it there, but what’s going on? You fucking slept there last night.”

“Not dejected, just,” she sighed as Hannah sat down opposite her at the other end of the couch, “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just being fucking dense.”

“Y’all fuckin’?”

“No! That’s, no, it’s not even like that. It’s so strange. I literally think we’re just friends. Which is just throwing me for a loop.”

“So why aren’t you over there trying to get laid then?”

“His brothers are visiting.”

“Oh fuck.”

“Yeah, so, I didn’t feel like I needed to get it the way. It’s probably good. I need to actually take some time and be at home and figure out,” she shook her head, “what the fuck my brain is doing, I guess.”

Hannah sat silently for a moment, Quinn waiting for some kind of wisdom from her friend.

“You like him though, don’t you?”

Quinn felt Hannah’s eyes boring into her as she thought.

“I…” she sighed, flinging her head back against the couch cushion, “it would be stupid to say I don’t right, like, I definitely have a type, but,” she shook her head, “I don’t know. I feel like I’m just missing something. Plus he has kids, and, I dunno. I literally just need,” she shrugged, “time to think. I think.”

“Well,” Hannah laughed, “good luck with that.”

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