#I feel very connected with my tumbler Followers Right now

[teenagefeeling]

Jesus , there are literally like seven of us at work tomorrow help

[star-named-riddle]

Day 8 - Purple

Lord Voldemort watched the room from the shadows. Most people were still talking in small groups, only a few couples had taken to the dance floor. And there was nothing interesting in their minds.

He was bored. Social gatherings served a purpose in his cause, reinforcing the bonds that tethered people to it, acting as recruiting grounds to catch the younger generation early. They often disguised smaller gatherings of his inner circle, but beyond that… he found them boring.

He had no interest in making small talk, and certainly no interest in the young witches being outright paraded in front of him by well-meaning mothers and aunts in hopes he’d take one of them to marry. Nor was he interested in the wizards that occasionally hoped to join him in bed.

He had seldom indulged in the pleasures of the flesh, when he was much younger and forging the right connections. There had always been a purpose for those flings. Even during the years he had spent in the continent, out of everyone’s sight, he had taken a few witches to his bed, a way to sate his body and keep the blade of his charm sharp. It had also always been a pleasurable way to obtain information and knowledge.

His thoughts were interrupted then by a vision in purple.

Wearing a daringly cut gown, and amethyst jewelry that matched the jewel tone of her dress, Bellatrix Lestrange had just stepped in the room on the arm of her husband. Her brother-in-law followed the couple into the room, and several witches followed him.

The Lestranges would always be a good party. Rodolphus might have been taken, but Rabastan remained unmarried and had become a notable bachelor in their circle.

Lord Voldemort hid his smile, noticing how the well-meaning mothers and aunts had turned their attention to him, as well. They had slowly given up on him, understanding that he had no intention to start a family. Very few dared even approach him, now that it was clear he had a paramour.

His Bella searched for him along every wall, and smiled that wicked smile he so enjoyed when she found him.

“I’m glad you’re in a good mood tonight, my lord,” said Abraxas, who had been standing silently by his side. He had taken upon himself the task of shielding his master from unwanted conversations.

As host of the New Year’s Eve party, he should have been mingling with his guests, but he had left Lucius and Narcissa to the task. The youngest of the Black sisters had always a gift with people, and it suited the Dark Lord that she could play the perfect hostess for their people, and Abraxas had nothing to oppose. The two of them knew he adored Narcissa like the daughter he had never had.

“My mood has improved just now, Abraxas. Well done on the party, pass my compliments along to your daughter-in-law, will you?”

“Thank you, my lord. I most certainly will,” he said, swinging the firewhiskey around in the tumbler he held.

Lord Voldemort handed his own tumbler to Abraxas, and took a second to straighten his formal dress robes. Bellatrix stood in the middle of the crowd, talking to her sister and their mother, gathering envious glares from all around. Her hand remained on Rodolphus’ arm, who had said something that made Cygnus laugh.

He moved slowly towards them, nodding to people left and right as several curtsied. Later, he wouldn’t be able to recall a single one as his mind was entirely focused on her.

His Bella knew he enjoyed the sight of her bare back, and had chosen a dress he was sure required sticking spells to remain on her. Upon closer inspection, it had a single strand of silver chain connecting the halves across her back, clasped together by a snake’s head boasting amethyst eyes.

He had a feeling about her smile. His Bella had appointed herself the mission of figuring out his birthday. He didn’t like it, but she had gone about it in such charming ways… and he had to admit to being curious about whatever gift she had procured for him.

“Good evening, my lord,” greeted Cygnus, announcing his presence to the others.

Bellatrix looked over her shoulder and waited for him to be by her side. She kept her grey eyes on his, and curtsied, low and reverent as she always did. In doing so, she offered him a privileged view of her cleavage.

The dress had a sweetheart neckline, and she had chosen to accentuate the soft curve of her breasts above it by cradling an amethyst on them, hanging from an elaborate necklace of silver and smaller amethysts. Her hair, the black curly hair he liked holding and grabbing in his hands, had been gathered up, further exposing her neck and shoulders.

He nodded his head in the general direction of the group, taking the time to look everyone in the eye, acknowledging their presence. Then, he extended his hand, palm up.

“Bella,” he said, leaving everything else hanging in the air between them.

Rodolphus bowed his head to him as his wife extricated her hand from his elbow and placed it on Lord Voldemort’s awaiting one.

He walked to the dance floor, watching the crowd part for them, listening to the thoughts in their heads, finding envy and desire in equal parts.

Above all, he was interested in the images Bella would conjure in her mind for him to see while they danced.

Also on AO3

[searidings]

Kara moving in with her best bud Lena for Reasons (maybe her apartment is temporarily fucked up?) and now Lena has to watch her exercise/weight-lift/do yoga in a sports bra in her apartment

It’s already been a capital D type of Day, full of misogynistic potential investors and minor workplace explosions, when Lena opens her front door to the sight of Kara Danvers in a perfect-form downward facing dog on her living room floor.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she mutters, dropping her keys noisily onto the kitchen counter and making a beeline for the booze cupboard.

“Did you say something?” Kara asks angelically, transitioning smoothly into a cobra that very delightfully and extremely unhelpfully causes her biceps to flex like a Greek goddess. Her eyes, bluer than ever against the vast expanses of smooth golden skin on display above the sinfully tight cerulean sports bra she’s wearing, flutter angelically. She beams beatifically up at Lena from her yoga mat as if there’s any possibility her superhearing didn’t pick up on Lena’s words. As if she isn’t just trying to make Lena repeat herself for her own amusement.

“What are you even doing?” Lena asks a little more sharply than she intends, jaw clenched as she wills herself not to so much as glance in the direction of Kara’s exposed abs. She treats herself to a heavy pour of scotch, pauses to consider, then adds some more. “It’s not like you need to exercise. Like, at all.”

“Surely I get to indulge in whichever recreational activities I choose in my own home,” Kara replies cheerily, avoiding Lena’s carried-home-after-a-shitty-day snark with practiced ease.

“You gave up that privilege when you moved into my home instead,” Lena deadpans, Kara’s irrepressible affability in the face of her own bad moods beginning to chip away at her steely CEO armour. “That’s what you get for letting a flea-infested mongrel into your apartment—”

“Hey, Toto couldn’t help having fleas—”

“And not only that, letting it all over your couch, your bed—”

“He was cold! He just wanted to snuggle—”

Lena shudders. “You snuggled with that monstrous thing? I hope to god you burned the clothes you were wearing. And maybe the whole couch too.”

“Toto was not a thing, he fit perfectly on my—”

“And isn’t Toto usually the name of a small dog?” Lena asks incredulously, throwing back the scotch in one smooth swallow and pouring herself another. “That beast was almost taller than you!”

“Being a lap dog isn’t about size, Lena. It’s a state of mind.”

“A state of mind that’s meant your entire apartment has had to be fumigated. Twice.”

“And I’d do it again,” Kara says resolutely, pushing up into a high plank and inadvertently flexing her shoulders in a way that has Lena’s fingers slipping around the tumbler in her grasp. “Toto was homeless. He needed someone to take him in and love him, and I did.”

She drops to her knees and pushes back into child’s pose, tilting her chin up to gaze at Lena from between her extended arms. “Just like you’ve done with me.”

And Lena curses Kara and every one of her ancestors right back to the dawn of time for how endearing she is in this moment. For how physiologically incapable Lena is of maintaining her façade of annoyance in the face of those earnest eyes. God, when had she gotten so fucking soft?

But any thoughts of the blonde as cute or adorable evaporate into thin air as Kara pushes back up into downward dog, lifting one leg straight above her in a graceful arch. Her forearms flex as long fingers grip into the soft mat and Lena chokes a little on her next sip of scotch, eyes unfortunately, deliciously glued to the jut of Kara’s hipbone through her yoga pants and the toned lines of her tightened thighs.

“Seriously though,” Lena manages, turning away from the sight and congratulating herself on the fact that her voice is only slightly higher than normal. “Why do you even bother? It’s not going to tone you up any. Not that you need it,” she mutters into her scotch glass, tipping out the dregs of the bottle and reaching into the cupboard for a fresh one.

When she turns back to face the living room Kara’s cheeks are flushed, almost as if she’s blushing. Or maybe all the blood is just rushing to her stupid, unfairly attractive head.

“Yoga is about more than just muscle tone, Lena,” the blonde says disapprovingly, her gaze fixed on her mat. “It’s a mind-body connection. Mindfulness. Inner peace. It’s doing wonderful things for my stress levels.”

“It’s doing terrible things for mine,” Lena mutters, knowing Kara will hear her but finding herself increasingly uncaring as the scotch warming her throat begins to course hot through her veins.

“Then maybe you should get down here and join me,” Kara murmurs, voice low as she switches legs.

The blonde’s tone is practically a purr and Lena chokes for real this time, spluttering out the scotch attempting to find its forever home inside her lungs. Kara is behind her in a second, hand hot through the thin material of Lena’s blouse as she rubs gentle circles between her shoulder blades.

The offending appendage doesn’t withdraw, however, even once Lena’s regained full use of her airways and is wiping the tears from her eyes. In fact, it’s joined by a friend, and both of Kara’s hands slip up and over her shoulders quite without Lena’s permission, fingers kneading into the tight muscle.

“Wow, you are tense,” Kara murmurs, thumbs doing something absolutely sinful to the knots in Lena’s neck. The blonde steps closer, bracketing Lena against the cool marble of the kitchen island with her hips and it takes every single shred of self-control Lena possesses not to sag back into the hot body hovering against the length of her own.

Lena shuts her eyes and bites down on her lower lip, hard. Anything to keep from focusing on the warmth radiating off Kara’s oh God partially clothed body like a furnace.

Long dextrous fingers dig delicious into the tense set of Lena’s shoulders and she barely manages to hold back the breathy sounds of pleasure she’s fairly certain she should not be making at her best friend’s touch. Kara, if anything, seems spurred on by Lena’s restraint, fingers slipping inside the collar of Lena’s blouse to press firmly against her bare skin and oh God Lena is not going to survive this.

In fact, she can actively feel herself giving in to the pull, to Kara’s ineffable magnetism. She sways backwards just slightly, and Lena swears she’s not the only one who sucks in a sharp breath when their bodies fully connect. The frame pressed to her back is warm and firm and God, Kara is solid against her in a way that has all the blood in Lena’s body migrating south with pinpoint precision.

“Are you sure you don’t want to join me?” Kara whispers, her breath ghosting the shell of Lena’s ear and making her shiver. “I could walk you through some asanas. Might help loosen you up.”

Jesus fuck.

“Nope!” Lena squeaks, cheeks aflame, pushing away from Kara and snagging the bottle of scotch on the way to her bedroom. “I’m gonna go take a shower. Enjoy your practice.”

The quiet sounds of Kara’s chuckles follow her all the way down the hall.

Lena spends the first five minutes of her shower staring unseeing at the tiled wall, mind blank but for the image of Kara’s washboard abs over the waistband of her yoga pants, the firm press of her body against Lena’s back.

The second five minutes is spent in intense silent conversation with herself, administering an internal pep talk worthy of a high school spirit rally and trying to convince her racing heart to resume its regular rhythm.

The third interval consists of Lena shampooing her hair in mounting despair, trying desperately to foresee a way of surviving the next three days of cohabitation until Kara’s apartment is deemed safe and fume-free if the blonde is going to insist on doing distracting activities and wearing distracting sports bras and just generally being distracting the whole time.

It’s only by minute sixteen of Lena’s long indulgent shower that a plan begins to form in her mind. She steps out onto the bathmat, appraising the various towels slung over the heated rail until she finds one fit for purpose. Tucks it snug round her body and pulls her dripping curls over one shoulder before making her way back out to the living room.

She can pinpoint the exact moment the blonde notices her entrance because the quiet room is suddenly filled with a rubbery tearing sound as Kara, on her hands and knees for a spine stretch, rips the mat beneath her hands clean in two.

Lena bites her lip to hold back a smirk, watching as blue eyes track slowly up the expanse of her bare legs, unimpeded by the towel that only barely reaches to mid-thigh, and then up to follow the droplets of water tracking their way down Lena’s chest until they disappear into the soft fabric.

Kara’s mouth is hanging open, arms and legs splayed wide where they rest on either side of the torn mat, and Lena relishes the thrill of victory that zips up her spine like a firecracker. Two can play at this game, that’s for sure.

“I was going to ask if you were ready to order takeout for dinner,” Lena says, letting her own voice drop low as she quirks an eyebrow. Her gaze falls pointedly to the sad remains of Kara’s yoga mat and this time she can’t hold back her smirk. “But it seems your mind-body connection might still need some work. I’ll leave you to it.”

Satisfied, she turns on her heel and saunters back to the bedroom, Kara’s eyes glued to her swinging hips like a physical weight on her body.

Cheeks pink, heart pounding, she drops onto her bedspread as a heady combination of relief and pleasure courses through her veins. Lena hasn’t had a roommate since boarding school but maybe this cohabitation – temporary as it may be – will end up having a few unanticipated perks.

[toomanystoriessolittletime]

Punishment

Summary: The MI6 knew who to send to find August Walker. And August Walker knew exactly what buttons he had to push to get what he wanted. At least he thought so until he woke up chained to his own bed. Naked.

Pairing: August Walker x nameless OFC (you)

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: Fem-Dom vibes, Dom vibes, Bondage, Smut (dirty talk; unprotected sex; facesitting, oral, Anal Play, Anal), getting drugged 

A/N: I know I say this often but I think this gets on the top 3 on the filthiest things I ever wrote. Thanks to my obsessive better half @ladyreapermc​ for being the best beta ever. Love you x

Masterlist

Taglist in reblog

The way he laughed while he knew you were sitting at the bar watching him was slowly but surely driving you mad. There he sat, his tie loose, his legs spread while the women around him looked at him like he was the single most tempting specimen that walked the Earth.

You felt a tap on your naked shoulder.

You had bought a new little black dress for this little mission specifically. It didn’t leave much to the imagination but still had enough space that you could wear your gun strapped to your upper thigh.

“Is this seat taken?” You looked over your shoulder, seeing a very attractive man with bright green eyes smile at you. You caught August’s gaze as you turned fully on the seat, your attention shifting towards the stranger.

“Be my guest.” You smiled. A little distraction wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

An hour later the stranger called Jim had to leave. By now you knew he was going through a dirty divorce and just wanted to let loose, but you were here for a mission and couldn’t exactly help. Not that you wanted to.

Finishing your drink, you carefully got off your seat, taking your purse as you turned and walked towards August Walker.

“There she is. My favorite agent.” August smirked as you approached him.

You raised your eyebrow at the women in his arms who shared a look and then got up, leaving without a comment. You crossed your arms in front of your chest, noticing his eyes lingering on your cleavage before he met your gaze. His hair was longer, his signature mustache hidden under the overgrown facial hair.

“You aren’t as hard to find as you think, August.”

“Yet, it took you an entire week to actually find me.” He crooked his eyebrow.

You leaned closer, giving him a good view of your breasts as you picked his drink. His eyes remained on your body as you traced the edge of the glass with a finger before you handed it to him. He let his tongue dart out, wetting his lips before he took the glass, his fingers brushing yours before he brought the tumbler up to his lips, emptying it completely.

“I think I need to remind you of the terms of your deal,” you said, your fingers on his cheek. His eyes darkened, his hand grabbed your wrist guiding your finger into his mouth sucking on it. You breathed in deep, feeling the wetness pooling in between your legs.

“I’d like to see you try, agent.” He grinned.

You tilted your head, your hands now on both of his wide shoulders as you leaned down your lips close to his ear.

“Be in your room in 5 minutes and find out.” You winked at him as you turned around to leave the bar. Looking over your shoulder you could see him checking you out. August Walker was in for a good punishment. And if only he knew the game had already started.

When you let yourself into his room 10 minutes later, August lay passed out on his bed. Grinning to yourself, you set your purse down on the table and put the “Do not Disturb” sign on the door of his hotel room before closing and locking it behind you.

You were just putting the finishing touches to your outfit when you heard the rattle of metal followed by a groan. You turned off the lights in the bathroom and opened the door to walk back into the hotel room.

“Ah! You’re awake.” You grinned as you walked towards the bed. There he was, just how you left him. Naked, already half-hard, and chained to the bed. You did think of using rope at first when you imagined this night but quickly decided against it. A strong man like August needed something stronger. Something… colder.

“It was the drink, wasn’t it?” He asked groaning, rolling his eyes. You didn’t know if he was more furious with you or with himself for getting caught in such a basic trick.

“Of course it was.”

“Great. And what are you planning on doing with me chained to the bed?” He asked, testing the handcuffs connected to a chain.

“Tonight, August Walker, you will learn that you have to follow the rules. If not the one’s from the MI6, then at least mine.”

“Or what?” He crooked his eyebrow.

You smiled at him and opened your bathrobe to reveal what you wore underneath, which wasn’t more than a garter belt, stockings and a cord with the keys to the handcuffs around your neck.

He hissed as he took you in, his wrists fighting against the handcuffs, his muscles flexing. Slowly you let the bathrobe fall to the floor as you moved closer. You got on it, kneeling in between his legs, your hands in his crotch as you took the beauty of him in. Biting your lip of all the things you imagined doing to him, you sighed.

“Or I won’t fuck you.” You smiled sweetly at him.

“Like you could say no to my long and thick cock. Look how hard I already am for you.” He flashed you an arrogant grin..

You didn’t have to be told twice, staring down at the hard shaft throbbing right in front of you. The temptation of just sinking around him was strong but you pushed it away, sticking to the plan. You clicked your tongue at him, sitting down in between his legs spreading yours over his.

“Fuck!” He cursed in a low voice since now you wet pussy was in full display but completely out of his reach. He fought against his restraints, his breath picking up speed..

“See Mr. Walker…” You smirked, voice soft and sultry, your hands wandering over your body, ignoring him completely. You pinched your nipple, making yourself gasp, your other hand slowly running down your body letting one finger flick over your clit.

“As much as I would love for you to fuck me senseless like in the past…” You continued to play with your pussy, your hand knowing just what to do to pleasure yourself. “Tonight, you are not in charge. You are going to make me cum over and over again. And maybe if you behave well enough, you get to cum inside of me. Maybe, if you’re a really good boy, I’ll even let you fuck my ass.” You looked at him, seeing sweat form on his forehead as he watched you play with yourself. You whimpered as you pushed two fingers inside while massaging your breast with the other.

“But… I have to be sure if you’ll follow the rules in the future before you get to cum inside of me.” You bit your lip as you began to fuck yourself with your fingers, finding that spot inside of you that made you see stars.

Closing your eyes you forgot about the man in front of you, chasing your orgasm. Moans left your lips and you could hear the handcuffs rattle, his thighs shifting underneath your legs. You ignored him as you felt your orgasm wash over you, his name on your lips.

Panting, you opened your eyes, meeting his dark blue ones.

“You are going to regret this once you unchain me, kitten.” He growled and you grinned wickedly as you crawled over him to straddle his stomach. You pushed your wet fingers in his mouth hearing him moan as he tasted you.

“Who says, I am going to unchain you, August?” You grinned down at him.

“You gonna keep me here as your fuck pet?” He asked, words muffled around your fingers.

“A very nice idea. How about you earn your way to freedom, hm?”

“And how do I do that?”

“What was your record again? 6 times?” You rolled your hips on top of him, drenching his chest hair with your juices. He nodded.

“Then how about this: I’ll unchain you once you make me cum 8 times? And because I’m feeling generous, the one I just had also counts.”

You continued to roll your hips on top of him as he looked up at you.

“Deal.” He grinned with such confidence you almost faltered, but did the best to cover up with a smirk to match his.

“You sure you're up to this, August? Without your magical hands?” You teased, both of your hands on his shoulders, as you rubbed your pussy over his stomach trying to get some friction.

“I think you know my tongue is more than enough.”

“Right. I always wanted to shut you up like this.”

You grinned as you inched forward, your pussy just over his face. You almost screamed in ecstasy when he brought his head up and licked on stripe from back to front, moaning as he tasted you. With one hand on the headboard, the other hand in his curls you let him devour you.

There’s one thing August Walker doesn’t step back from and that is a challenge. After he made you cum for the third time with his tongue, your body was slick with sweat, your chest heaving and your pussy throbbing with overstimulation. All you wanted was for him to fuck you senseless. And he knew it. You got off him, letting yourself fall down beside him as you tried to catch your breath.

“Already tired?” He asked in a mocking tone, despite being slightly out of breath. You turned your head towards him, noticing his face wet with your juices, a shit-eating grin on his swollen lips.

“Just catching my breath, big boy.” You smirked back.

“You know. You could always just give up. Unchain me and I won’t punish you too hard, little kitten.” He said.

“You’re not in charge here, August. I am. Though, I do think you deserve a little reward, don't you?” You asked. He said nothing as you carefully got on your knees, your legs still feeling like jelly and knelt next to his cock.

“I don’t think…” You let one finger run up from his balls to his tip, his skin burning hot and sticky with all the precum that had leaked out. “I have ever seen you this hard.” You looked at him, noticing his clenched jaw as he breathed hard.

“Do you want me to suck your cock, August? Do you want me to gag on your big fat cock?” You asked, leaning down and just kissing the tip. You licked your lips as you straightened up, tasting his precum and moaned pornographically. You didn’t wait for his answer as you parted your lips and took him as deep as you could, hearing him curse. You looked at him as you found a rhythm, your tongue licking the prominent vein on the underside feeling it pulse.

Releasing him with a plop, you closed your fist around him, continuing your torture.

“You wanna cum inside my mouth?” You asked, earning a beast-like growl.

“Once I get free, I’m gonna fill every hole in your body.” He hissed.

“Is that a threat I hear?” You grinned and spat into your hand before you continued to jack him off.

“It’s a promise, kitten.”

You saw his victorious grin a second before you felt his hand on your nape. Alarmed, you reached for the chain around your neck, hand coming up empty as August had already taken them. You had no idea at what point he had managed that and didn’t have much time to think about it as he held your face down and forced his cock in between your lips. He thrust into your mouth, his hand pulling your hair into a ponytail and keeping your head down forcing his cock deeper and deeper making you gag.

“You think you are in charge here, little kitten?”  He tugged on your hair, making you move up his body until he could kiss you hard.

“I am in charge of you. I’m in charge of you every second of the day. Even when you’re fucking your dildo in your shower. I always know what you do.” He hissed, looking deep into your eyes.

“I knew you would be here before you even knew it, kitten. Who do you think gave the MI6 the tip of where I was.” He grinned, making you gasp.

“And now quit the bullshit and fuck my cock before I really punish you.” He kissed you again, his teeth nibbling your upper lip.

Straddling his hips, immediately you took him deep inside of you, biting your lip as he settled inside of you perfectly. Like he always did.

“Fucking made for me.” He groaned, slapping your ass hard, as he thrust up into you, watching you like a hawk as he brought his hand up and unlocked the other cuff, releasing his left hand..

“You must have been really desperate for my pussy if you dislocated your own thumb to get out of the handcuffs.” You moaned, grinding on top of him. One of his hands massaged one of your breasts, while his other was on your ass moving your body on top of him.

“I haven’t had a pussy since the last time we fucked.”

“Liar.” You moaned, crying out loud when he slapped your ass hard.

“Do not call me a liar. I never lie.” He growled. You swallowed hard, looking down at him. His beautiful eyes staring back at you. Against your better judgement, you actually believed him.

“Okay.” You whispered, leaning down and crossing your arms around his neck as you kissed him. He began to thrust into you, slow and deep both of his hands on your ass, one of his fingers teasing your asshole.

“You really want me to fuck your ass?” He asked, smirking up at you.

“I want you to cum in my ass, August.” You whispered, biting his earlobe.

“You must be really desperate for my cock, huh?” He grinned, thrusting faster, holding you close against him. Your breathing got heavier, the familiar sparks in your lower belly returning.

“I missed you, August.” You whimpered, crying out as he fucked you into your fifth orgasm.  He kissed you almost tenderly as his hands pushed your hair out of your face. He looked at you as if he was seeing you for the first time.

“I want you on all fours.” He whispered. Still breathing heavily, you followed his command and weakly got yourself in position and turned your head to watch him.

August rubbed his chafed wrists before popping his thumb back in place like it was nothing, before he set the keys on the bedside table, flashing you a quick smirk.

“I really want to chain you up sometime,” He commented as he pulled a drawer open, fishing something out.

“The last time we did this, I had to carry you to the bathtub.” He said as you watched him stroke himself with a lot of lube, before you felt something cold on your ass. His finger played with your asshole, slowly forcing it in as his other hand played with your pussy.

“I’m gonna fuck you until you pass out under me, kitten.” He chuckled darkly as he shifted behind you, one of his hands on your hip as you felt the tip of his cock.

“Ready or not…” He said before he slowly pushed inside.

Before you met August 6 years ago you weren’t into anything kinky. You were freshly recruited into the MI6 and most of all, a virgin. You fell in love with him. All of him. In all of his wicked ways.

You both groaned loudly when he was fully inside. A sensation you probably would never get used to. And you never wanted to. He played with your clit as he fucked your ass.

“Always so fucking tight and ready for me.” He moaned as he began to thrust faster. You grabbed the bedsheet, meeting his thrusts.

“I want you to come away with me.” He groaned, fucking you harder.

“I want you to leave the shitshow of the MI6 and stay with me.”

He abandoned your clit only to pump two fingers into your pussy, his other hand on your stomach, pulling you with your back against his chest. You were a sobbing mess high on pleasure as you brought one of your hands behind you to his neck, holding onto him.

“Come away with me, kitten.” He whispered against your ear. Adding a third finger as he fingerfucked your pussy. You felt his movements become harder and even faster, finding yourself close to orgasm again.

“Come away with me and help me cleanse this planet.” He moaned against your ear.

Moaning his name you nodded, your other hand finding your clit, screaming when you came hard. You were shaking in his grip, holding on to him as he pushed you down on the matress, fucking you deeper as he finally reached his own orgasm, spilling his seed as deep as possible. You whimpered as he lay on top of you, still hard inside your ass.

“I’ll go with you, August.” You said quietly, still trying to get back to breathing properly.

“I was hoping you would say that.” He kissed you shoulder, pulling out of you and getting off the bed. You heard water running and turned around to look at him coming out of the bathroom, rubbing a washcloth over his cock. Parting your legs as he got back to bed, he settled still hard on top of you. You raised your eyebrow.

“I promised to fill all your holes, didn’t I?”

[nothing-but-dreamy]

THE NIGHT UNFURLS

Characters: Leon Kennedy x fem!Reader

Warnings: erotical language

Words: 2.616

As yn entered the hotel bar, she caught all the attention of all men in the room. She was dressed in a long, well-fitting, black dress with a cutout back. It got closed in her neck with long, silk ribbons. The open back gave a perfect view of her soft, naked skin down to the small of her back.

Her curled hair fell over her shoulders in loose strands. The bright eyes were rimmed with smokey eyes make up and her lips were glowing red. All in all, she was a jaw dropper and Leon had spotted her the second she entered the room.

Leon played with his whiskey tumbler and let his index finger slowly sliding along the rim while he watched the mysterious woman. Her black leather high heels with ribbons around her ankle and calf were making soft sounds on the parquet on her way through the room as she aimed for the bar.

With an elegant move, she sat on a free bar stool, crossed one leg over the other and revealed more skin as the dress slid upwards. Her black painted nails clattered over the mahogany surface while she waited for the bar keeper to take her order.

Leon was fixated on her appearance. Everything on her screamed beauty and he got distracted more and more by her long legs and how she presented herself. Now and then, her eyes met his and Leon knew that her moves were just for him to give him a small show of herself.

The bar keeper served her drink, a Vodka on the rocks. While looking at Leon, she raised her glass to him with a small sexy smile and a small nod before she took a sip of her drink, still connecting their glances.

From the outside, Leon seemed to be calm but on the inside, his mind was already running wild with fantasies he had about this sensual woman. He imagined how her skin would feel under his hands. How her full lips would taste and how it would feel if these bright eyes would bore into his while he was inside her...

Leon's unleashed imagination stopped suddenly as a guy, tall, broad shoulders and with black hair appeared in his line of view. The unknown man walked over to the beauty, leaning against the bar to talk with her in a low voice.

Leon was able to watch the scene just for five minutes before he had enough. She faked a laugh about something the guy said and Leon noticed it didn't sound right. The whole scene between them didn't look right and he wanted to change what was wrong. Mostly, because she still searched his eyes no matter how close the guy came to her.

Leon cleared his glass, walked over to the two and tapped the guy on the shoulder, "Excuse me, but-"

"Don't you see that I'm talking with this woman? So, go away."

"Yes, I've noticed that. That's the reason why I came over. You might not see it but she's not interested in you.", Leon said serious with a stern expression.

The guy turned around to face Leon to the fullest. He straightened himself but was still a bit smaller than Leon. The guy was not amused to be interrupted, "Listen, buddy, I was here first and you're an intruder in this very nice conversation we have."

"First, I'm not your buddy.", Leon said and stepped forward. He looked serious at the man in front of him and drew his brows together, "And now, I would advise you to go away, letting this lady alone.", Leon said with a dark and threatening voice.

The guy looked at Leon, considering his next best move but as he stared at Leon and saw his stern expression and the determination in his eyes, the guy accepted the fact that he had no chance against Leon. Without another word, the guy left to search for the next victim.

"A white knight. That's very rare these days.", Yn purred with a honey like voice, looking at Leon through her long, black lashes.

"I can't stand it if men don't know when they're unwelcome."

"That's true. But, luckily, you were there to help me."

"Leon Kennedy at your service.", he said with a small bow and a smirk.

"Nice to meet you, Leon. I'm yn. But please, take a seat. Have a drink with me. I have to thank you."

Leon agreed more than willingly. His imagination was back in charge.

*

Thirty minutes and an incredible conversation later, Leon escorted her to the elevator. With his hand on the small of her bare back, he guided her through the bar. The whole time, he couldn't take his eyes off her. The way she moved, talked and laughed made him nervous and excited at the same time.

Patiently, both waited for the elevator to arrive and as the door opened, they both were relieved to see it empty. Leon let yn enter it first and she went to the mirrored wall opposite the entrance. He followed and the moment the doors closed, Leon stepped in front of her.

Yn and Leon didn't have to talk anymore. They knew what they wanted. It was exactly the same. Like a starving man, Leon cupped yn's face with one hand while he brought her close with his other arm. She rested her hands on his chest before they kissed like never before.

There was a bond between their lips that was unbreakable. A promise for the night which connected them. Leon deepened the kiss even more. He wanted to feel everything of this woman. He was desperate to have her as close as possible. With his hands, he roamed over her body, appreciating every single curve, never stopping on one spot too long.

Yn wanted the same. Deep in her body, she felt a heat rising she barely experienced before. His hands on her bare skin let her shudder with sexual excitement. His lips knew what they had to do to take her breath away. And even through the fabric of his black suit shirt, yn felt his body heat and muscles.

Leon left her lips and stared into her eyes, "Where have you been my whole life?", he breathed against her lips.

Her eyes flickered back and forth between his clear, bright ones. Even after this short time, she couldn't get enough of these endless oceans of mirrored emotions, "I was out there just waiting for you.", she breathed with a low voice.

The sound of the opening elevator door distracted both of them but Leon was the first who reacted, "Spend the night me, yn.", Leon asked, stepped back and offered her his hand as an invitation to follow him.

Yn didn't need a second to consider her next step. Of course, she would follow this mysterious looking man with the brooding expression that told her he had seen a lot of things. She was already addicted to his masculine scent. She wanted more of the way he let her feel. And she was already a slave for his lips.

As yn placed her hand into Leon's, his heart skipped a beat. He was sure she would follow but then as she did it, his excitement got kindled once again. He lead yn to his room. And as he opened the thick wooden door, yn found herself in a huge, luxury suite. The view was incredible as well as the interior but she was sure nothing of this would matter for one moment.

As if Leon was reading her mind, he approached her from behind and let his hands roam over her curves while he kissed slowly over her bare shoulders up to her neck. Yn closed her eyes just to focus on him. His lips left a trail of goosebumps. His fringes tickled her bare skin and as he reached her sensitive spot underneath her ear, he bit softly into it which caused her to moan.

The low sound was music for Leon's ears and he hoped he would hear it again and again in this night. With the back of his right hand, Leon let his fingers slide over her bare back. From the lowest part, along her spine, carefully tickling the tiny hairs, up to her neck to the knot of the ribbons where he waited for her permission.

Yn turned her head to the side and met Leon's darkened eyes. They were filled with hunger and lust. His fingers were lying around her neck, playing with the ribbons. She knew what he wanted. But to tease him, she stared into his eyes, gnawed lasciviously on her lower lip and leant forward to stop inches in front of his face, "Do it.", she whispered and swiftly, she noticed the knot opening. As the knot was out of the way, the silky fabric slid slowly down her frame.

Leon was amazed by the view. This incredibly beautiful woman stood almost naked in front of him. She was just dressed in some black lace slip. Slowly, she turned around and snaked her arms around his neck. Her naked frame melted against his solid body and while she kissed him desperately, Leon stroked over her soft skin to make her shudder.

Carefully, yn pushed Leon into the direction of the edge of the bed while slowly opening the buttons of his suit shirt. As he hit the bed, Leon sat down and looked up at yn. She stepped between his legs and stroked the fabric over his shoulders to expose his perfect chiseled figure.

Leon watched yn admiring him. With the nail of her index finger, she slid along his torso and grabbed his shoulders with both hands as support as she climbed on top of his crotch. Straddling him, she cupped his face softly, tracing his facial features with her thumbs, "I'm already addicted to you, Leon.", she purred low against his lips.

Leon hugged her strongly and brought her even closer, "You're not alone with this feeling.", he whispered back. Smoothly and with a swift move, Leon got up and placed yn on the bed to hover over her.

Yn snaked her legs around his waist to keep him close while she immediately started to roll her hips, already feeling his erection against her core. Leon was eager to kiss her again. He needed to feel her and so, he crashed his lips on hers for a hungry kiss.

And then, very quickly, Leon had undressed himself not wanting to miss one second with this goddess while yn did the same with her slip before she reached for her high heels. Leon stopped her, "Keep them on, please.", he asked and smirked.

She obeyed and waited for Leon to join her. But Leon wanted his own way with her. He stared at her naked body as if she was an expensive painting, painted in Leon's favorite colors. He approached the bed and stroked his fingers over the leather of the highheels. Carefully, he took one of yn's feet in his hands and slid along the soft curve of her calf, admiring every single inch.

Leon leant down and kissed his way along her legs. Prepping kisses on the inside what let yn shudder whenever his stubbles scratched over her skin. He worked his way up to her core and played her like an instrument to let her sing the song of the night. The way yn squirmed and cried out his name was the melody that let Leon's blood boil. That she clawed her fingers into his hair was the fuel to continue what he had started.

Only as he was pleased with the result, that she resembled more a sweaty, heavy breathing mess, he crawled on top of her. Yn's darkened eyes looked hungrily at him. It was the way he had hoped she would look at him. Without a word, yn pulled Leon down for a deep kiss and at the same time, Leon used the moment to enter her teasingly slow which left her gasping for air.

Yn snaked her legs around Leon's waist and rolled with her hips into his to increase the friction even more. Leon left her lips for some air and supported himself with his arms to create some space. Yn let her eyes roam over his handsome features. The fringes were falling into it and between the strands were his bright eyes shining like gems. With her hands, she explored his strong, muscled chest, his abs and his back where she clawed her nails into his muscles as he rolled into her once again.

Yn arched her back up in ecstasy and closed her eyes. Her head fell back, deeper into the pillow under Leon's observing glance, "I want to hear you cry out my name again, yn.", he breathed.

She opened her eyes with a sensual smirk, "Then make me."

Leon didn't have to hear more and within a few more moments, yn closed her eyes and cried out his name as she relished the exploding sensation of the rhythmically waves of the orgasm. This was the second song of the soundtrack of their night.

*

As the sun slowly began to rise into the dark blue velvet sky, the last song of the two got played. A duett. And for yn and Leon, it was their best song of the whole night. Happy and exhausted, both laid on their backs with an erratic pulse and covered in sweat.

Leon turned his head to yn. He watched her chest rising up and down. As she noticed that he stared at her, she turned around on her side and placed her hand on his cheek. Leon placed his own hand on top of hers and smiled, "This was an excellent idea, babe."

"I thought you would like it to seduce me once again.", yn said with a soft smile, glad about the fact that her idea had worked out.

"Yeah. First, I was sceptical about this whole roleplay thing but it was fun. Just... This guy at the bar? Was he part of your game?", Leon asked and she saw true jealousy sparkling in his eyes.

"No. Actually, he really was hitting on me. And I have to admit, he had charme.", she said and watched amused how Leon rolled on his side to face her.

Possessively, he placed his hand on her hip and pulled her close to his chest, "Charme, huh? Babe, I know exactly what you like and that's nothing this guy had to offer. What you want is rather something like this.", Leon breathed low, leant in and kissed her deeply until she was breathless.

"You know, baby, you're so damn sexy when you're jealous. Even after five years, a random guy is able to make you nervous? Good to know.", she chuckled.

Leon smirked and pushed her back on the mattress to hover over her.

"Sexy, huh? Speaking of, these shoes...can you keep them?", Leon asked and looked at her feet.

Yn moved one of her feet in the rays of sunlight that fell through the curtains of the window, "You like them? I never expected you to be a fan of shoes."

Leon looked back into her eyes, "They suit you. And I'm a really big fan of you, sweetheart. Since day one. What shall I say, you turn me on so fucking much.", he whispered low before he kissed her deeply and before yn could react, Leon S. Kennedy, her boyfriend, best friend and partner, laid between her legs again, already prepared for the next round.

[beatricethecat2]

"This is nice," Myka says, sipping her beer while surveying the bar.

"Consuming alcohol in a public house?" Helena asks.

"Yeah," Myka says, eyes angling down as she picks at her label. "Working with Pete...this wasn't a thing I could do much. Then Steve and I had a drink here, and I remembered what it was like. I used to go on my own in DC just to unwind. Feels like a lifetime ago."

“In many ways it was," Helena says, idly stiring the ice left in her drink. "Could you ever have imagined the company you now keep?"

"I don't think so," Myka says, shifting closer to Helena. "But I like it, a lot. Doing this with you feels...normal. Two people, spending time together, not a care in the world."

"You care for nought?" Helena says, fingers tracing a line from Myka's thumb to her wrist where her hand rests on her thigh.

"Ok, one care," Myka says, eyes flicking up to meet Helena's. "Hey, I know that look. We said we'd stay for the band tonight, not just hole up in our room."

"Is there not another band tomorrow?"

"Yeah, but we said we'd stay for this one." Myka slips her hand from Helena's.

"As you wish," Helena says, settling back on her stool, frustration evident in her tone.

"More drinks, ladies?" the bartender says. "The band's about to start."

"I shall need one," Helena grouses.

"Stop being dramatic," Myka snips.

"Fine," Helena snaps. "Bourbon. Neat. Top shelf, please," she instructs the bartender.

"Comin' right up." The bartender steps away to complete the order.

"Oh, we're getting drunk now, are we?" Myka quips.

"When in Rome..."

"I'd actually like to see that, a drunk H.G. Wells," Myka says, poking Helena in the arm.

Helena flinches. "You may very well if you keep behaving as such."

"Seriously though, when's the last time you drank enough to let your guard down, even a little."

"In the company of others? Not in recent memory. And you?"

"Same."

"Here you go," the bartender interrupts, setting the tumbler on a napkin in front of Helena. "Another beer?" she asks Myka.

"You know what? I'll have the same." Myka waves her bottle at Helena's drink.

"Cavalier, Ms. Bering."

"We'll keep each other in check. We deserve to get super tipsy, at least."

"Color me intrigued."

The band strikes its first cord just as Myka's drink arrives. She tugs Helena's arm, and they relocate to a table near the stage.

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

The Adventures of Bering and Wells ("Warehouse 13" Season 5 replacement) Season 1: Episode 4 Title: New Orleans: Laissez les bon temps rouler!

Summary: Myka and Helena follow whim rather than duty, driving south, detouring around Washington DC, avoiding a second emotional rabbit hole so early on. After a wi-fi-free week in a cabin, deep in the Blue Ridge Mountains, they feel ready to tackle urban density again. ("The Rockies are better," Myka declares. "We'll go there, too.) Vowing to stay as touristy as possible, the pair head towards history-filled New Orleans. But far too soon their carefree trip hits a snag and they're in need of Warehouse help.

Previously: Episode 1, Episode 2, Episode 3

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

***BONUS SCENE***

"Exactly how touristy have you been?" Abigail asks.

"Pretty touristy," Myka answers.

"Practically flâneurs," Helena says, grinning as Myka looks up at her with sparkly eyes.

"Well, that narrows it down," Steve mutters, typing into the keyboard. "Let's start with your hotel. Why'd you pick the carriage house?"

"The lack of adjoining suite and the king-sized bed."

"Helena!" Myka smacks Helena on the arm. "Because it's cute and charming."

"So this ghost isn't listed on their website? Wedding dress woman, Civil War soldier, dancing patio woman?" Steve asks.

"No. And the manager hadn't recognized the description I gave," Helena explains.

"So not all ghosts," Abigail says.

"If seeing them is normal," Myka says.

"Let's say the ones on their website are but H.G.'s isn't," Steve says.

"Are we to assume I've been 'whammied' then?" Helena says.

"You freeze in place. I have to shake you out of it," Myka explains.

"Perhaps I'm studying the phenomenon."

"You're never that still. It's creepy."

"Then I think we should consider it," Abigail says.

"Where else have you been?" Steve asks.

"Um, everywhere?" Myka answers. "That blacksmith's bar you and I went to. And The Gas and Lights Museum--"

"Such memories. So many details wrong," Helena gibes.

"On a carriage ride--"

"Highway robbery! Sixty-five dollars for a turn around the park. And not in the least authentic."

"You said it was nice!"

"I said it was familiar. The sound of it took me back," Helena says.

"I thought you'd like it." Myka leans back and looks up at Helena questioningly.

"I enjoyed the company quite thoroughly," Helena says, laying her hands on Myka's shoulders and grinning down at her fondly.

"Aww," Steve coos.

"Did anything about the carriage ride scream 'lady ghost will now appear at will?" Abigail asks.

"Not to my knowledge," Helena says.

"We also went to the Pharmacy Museum. And on a steamboat ride," Myka adds.

"Not that I'd have stepped foot on that death trap without proof of modern safety precautions. In my day, they exploded frequently," Helena explains.

"Ok...let's start with the Pharmacy Museum," Abigail says as Steve types. "Could this woman have afforded a doctor?"

"She often appears in her Sunday best, but also in, shall we say...less. She didn't strike me as particularly monied."

"Did she look sort of vampire-ish?" Steve asks. "I'm reading that people with consumption were rumored to be vampires due to how the disease aged them."

"I'm familiar with that premise, and no, this woman was not withering away."

"Could she have died on a steamboat?" Abigail asks.

"She doesn't give off that sense. There's a calm about her. She's not in danger."

"Let's try another angle. The neighborhood you're staying in, Storyville, claims to be the birthplace of jazz," Abigail says, reading over Steve's shoulder. "Maybe she's related to that?"

"Myka took me to hear this 'jazz,' and I can't say I was at all impressed."

"I like it. Steve does, too. You really hated it?" Myka asks.

"The bleat of the saxophone evokes vaudeville for me."

"Play her some Charlie Parker. Or John Coltrane. That might change her mind," Steve suggests.

"Does this relate to our ghost?" Abigail presses.

"I don't see a connection," Helena answers. "Her dress is previous to that of jazz, of an age closer to my own."

"Storyville was once a legal bordello district," Steve explains. "The whole neighborhood was shut down in 1917. So maybe she's from then?"

"That makes sense," Myka says.

"Do you see her inside or outside?" Abigail asks.

"Thus far, outside."

"But," Myka protests, "last night, when we were...t-the blindfold, you said 'just in case.'"

"Did that not heighten our activities?"

"That's not the point. I can't believe you--"

"Punish me later, darling--"

"Why don't you two hash this out, and we'll get back to you," Abigail suggests.

"Wait, is this her?" Steve asks.

Steve shares a black and white photo of a woman, seated outdoors, in front of a makeshift white backdrop, her hair styled into a modest, shoulder-length coif. Her linen top, trimmed with lace, hangs off one shoulder, and a string of pearls adorns her neck. Her lipstick, rendered as a middle grey, matches the kohl lining her eyes, giving her a soft, silent movie-era look.

"Hm, possibly."

"Here's another."

Helena leans further over Myka's shoulder, looking closely at the image. "Yes, I believe that is her."

"That's, um, really off the shoulder. Shoulders..." Myka says. "Isn't that kind of racy for the time?"

"Quite tame compared to some. Her expression is unusual, contemplative almost, recalling solemn greek statues rather than the usual fodder meant to titillate men's desires."

"How would you know?"

"One encounters all sorts of materials as a Warehouse agent," Helena says with a smirk.

"As an agent. Uh-huh."

"Listen to this," Steve interrupts, "these prints were made from a stash of glass negatives found locked in a desk drawer years after the photographer died. Many are of Adele, the woman you're seeing, but there are other women, too. They were shot in the 1910s, but these prints were made in the '60s. If there were any original prints, they were never found."

"May I see the images again?"

Steve cycles through and adds a few more, one depicting a roll-down desk with a shrine of photos arranged above, all of women, vignetted portraits and romantic depictions of the female form more typical for the time.

"Not sure if that last one is related. But it says it's by the same photographer."

"Could you send that one over? I'd like to look more closely."

"Sure."

Myka trades places with Helena, and Helena clicks the link. She enlarges the photo and inspects the array of images.

"I vaguely recall flicking through a basket in a shop with ephemera such as this. Perhaps this ghost woman was amongst it, but printed in a manner such as the images depicted here."

"So you're saying the photo in the shop might be a photo from this photo?"

"That is what I'm hypothesizing."

"So when you see her, you freeze like you're her photograph trapped in this photograph."

"Or perhaps I am her, caught in the decisive moment of the image being captured."

"That's really meta," Steve says.

"No matter what, neutralizing that photo should do the trick," Abigail suggests. "Heck, neutralize everything in the basket, just in case."

"Do you remember which shop you were in?" Steve asks.

"My recollection is hazy at best due to the copious amount of drink someone encouraged me to consume the evening previously."

Helena looks at Myka and scowls. Myka looks back, endearingly.

"I don't get hangovers."

"Lucky you," Helena quips.

"I hope you find it soon," Steve says, "because being happy looks good on both of you. You should get back to that."

"Thank you, Steve. And thank you, Abigail, for all your help," Helena says.

"Anytime," Abigail says.

"Have a great trip. Send some postcards!" Steve says.

"What a marvelous idea," Helena replies.

"Isn't flicking through postcards how we got here?" Myka warns.

"Shall you pre-screen everything I touch from now on?"

"Maybe I should--"

"We're hanging up now," Abigail says.

The screen goes blank as Myka and Helena devlove further into playful bickering.

*End Scene*

-TBC-

NOTES: "Laissez les bon temps rouler!" is Cajun French for "Let the good times roll." In season four, Steve and Myka go New Orleans and both say they like jazz, so I'm not making that up. I see Myka as more of fan of popular tunes - Billy Holiday, Duke Ellington, Nat King Cole, etc., whereas Steve would know the genre through and through (and try as he might, never gets Claudia quite on board with it all). The photographer is E. J. Bellocq - I was going to incorporate that more, but the politics behind photos I mentioned is...complicated. I want this B&W show to focus on our ladies journey, artifacts are side-plot motivations. But if you're interested, look him up, and I suggest reading both Susan Sontag and Nan Goldin's essays for some clarity on why the images hold the status they do. From the research I've done, his images are plastered all over Storyville businesses, so if you've been there, you've seen at least one. Oh and I had a roommate once who could drink anything and never got a hangover. Some people are lucky like that.

[winchesterwords]

“Don’t Threaten Me With a Good Time” Dean Winchester x F!Reader

Summary: When Sam and Dean need help on a case, they reach out to Rowena who sends you, a hunter, to help them with a ghost problem. Dean however, may have just met his match in more ways than one. 

Word Count: 5265

Warning: None

Song I Wrote To: “Don’t Threaten Me With a Good Time” by Thomas Rhett

Note: Dean Winchester has my heart! Feel free to request! Also, I am not exactly sure where I set this, but it’s before the fall as Cas still has his wings.

---------

“Of all the people we know, Sam, you called Rowena.” 

Dean looked over at his brother in the passenger seat of the Impala with narrowed eyes. Sam sighed, shaking the hair from his face. “You said we needed help and she has connections,” explained Sam. “Besides, she said she was sending someone to help, not that she was coming herself.” 

“Great so we don’t get the Head Bitch Witch, just one of her friends,” Dean said.

“Rowena said she’s a hunter, not a witch,” Sam said as he tapped away on his phone. Dean didn’t bother to respond as he turned his eyes back to the road in front of him.

The Winchesters had gotten word of a case just outside of Omaha. There had been previous witch activity in the area years before so Sam had reached out to Rowena in hopes of getting some insight. However, the woman was currently busy trying to wrangle her son and since she didn’t believe the case had anything to do with witches, she passed along the message to you, a hunter she knew that was in the area. You had told her that you were going to meet the boys at a motel off the highway and Rowena had sent the message along to the Winchesters. 

“I just don’t get it,” Dean said after a few more minutes, “why is she helping us all of a sudden?”

“When it comes to Rowena, she’s probably only doing us this favor so we have to do her one in return.” 

“What? Does she think we’ll be at her beck and call?” 

“Seems like it.” 

“Well if this goes South,” Dean said, “I’m tracking down her broomstick and making her fix it.” 

“Fair enough.” 

-------

When the Winchesters arrived at the motel, the parking lot was nearly empty except for a dark truck in the corner. 

You leaned against it, tapping away on a cell phone. When you heard the rumble of the Impala you looked up and lifted your hand in greeting. “I really don’t like new hunters,” Dean grumbled as he pulled into a spot across from you. 

“I bet they think the same thing about us, Dean,” Sam countered. 

“No, no they don’t,” Dean said with a sly smile at his brother, “because we’re awesome.” Sam rolled his eyes as he shoved open the door and stepped out. Dean followed quickly after. Both men kept their weapons close as they approached you.

You were calm and casual as they walked over. If this was any other night, Dean would have thought you were just a normal girl waiting on a friend, not a hunter with a specialty in ghost possession. 

“Sam and Dean?” you asked. “Though, I don’t know who else would be driving a car like that.” Sam smiled first, moving forward to reach for her hand. “I’m (Y/N),” you said as Sam grasped your hand in his. 

“Nice to meet you,” Sam said pleasantly as you turned to Dean. He gripped your hand tight as well. 

“So, you’re the ghost girl?” Dean asked, trying to get a feel for you. 

“That’s one way to put it,” you said with a small laugh. “I’ve been called worse. Come on, I already got a room.” You nodded your head towards the motel room not too far where you had parked your respective vehicles. The boys followed after you and out of the corner of your eye, you could see that both were keeping their hands near their weapons. You rolled your eyes at the movement. “You know,” you said as you dug the key out of your pocket, “if I was going to kill you, I wouldn’t do it at a motel frequently visited by hunters. That would be a bit too cliche.” Looking over your shoulder you sent them both a wink. 

Dean blinked at you as Sam awkwardly coughed next to him. With another quick laugh, you pushed into the room and tossed the key on the small table by the door. “So,” Sam said as Dean closed the door behind you, “how exactly do you know Rowena?” 

“She and I worked on a problem last year,” you explained, leaning against the wall, observing the two flannel-clad hunters before you. “Rowena was helping out another witch. Some kind of dark versus light turf war, I guess.” You shrugged. “Bystanders were getting caught in the middle and it got pretty messy.” 

“I bet it did,” Dean said, crossing his arms as he stood by the garish partition. He was looking at you as if he was trying to see the tumblers of an unbreakable safe. Every move you made, he clocked. You had heard the stories of the Winchesters.

Sam and Dean, they were legendary within the hunting world. You were surprised to see that they were traveling with just each other as you had heard of a winged companion that tended to tag along at times as well. Regardless of the Angel, these two were some of the best and you were hoping to make a good first impression. As Rowena had said, “it never hurts to have a Winchester owe you one”. 

“She warned me about you,” you said to Dean as you took a seat at the table and kicked your feet up.

“Is that so?” he asked. “And what did the witch say?”  

“That you’re impulsive and have major trust issues while Sam here, is the smart one with a knack for magic and the books,” you said, recalling the last conversation you had had with the Scottish witch. “Though, I am still not sure if she was saying those things out of kindness or annoyance.”

“Knowing Rowena, it was probably the latter,” Sam said as he took a seat across from you. You nodded in agreement. 

“So, show me what you got,” you said. 

“Over the past couple of weeks there has been an increase in drownings in the area,” Sam began, digging his laptop out of his bag and placing it on the table. 

“Accidental?” you asked.

“That’s what the cops think,” Dean said, sitting down on the bed next to you and Sam. “But four people drowning in the same place like this doesn’t seem like an accident to me.” 

“Where did it happen?” 

“A local spot,” Sam said, turning the screen toward you. It showed the front page of the local newspaper. A local fishing hole that apparently had a history of its own. 

“What’s with the creepy statue?” you asked, pointing in the background of the main photo. 

“That was the first thing I noticed too,” Dean said, leaning back on his arms. Sam enlarged the photo and zoomed in. Just behind the main swimming area was an old stone statue of what looked to be an old man reaching towards the murky water. It was a bit too ominous for your liking. 

“We’re not sure,” Sam said. “Apparently it’s just always been there. Some people think it was put there by the first person to own the land, but now it’s all owned by the city.”

“And this is where everyone had been drowning?” you asked and Sam nodded. “Sounds to me like spirit doesn’t want the Living hanging out their spot. What are the details behind the deaths?”

“All strong swimmers and they just calmly walked into the lake and then didn’t come back to the surface until their bodies were discovered.” 

“Does this sound like your kind of thing, Ghost Girl?” Dean asked. You slowly looked over at him and then grinned. Digging into your pocket, you produced your fake FBI Forensic badge and showed it to him. 

“Why do you think I brought this?” 

---------

You elected to ride with the Winchesters over to the crime scene. 

Leaning towards the front seat, you rested your head on your forearms. “Yeah... I could never do the suit,” you commented. Dean looked at you in his mirror with a brow raised. 

“You do realize you’re posing as FBI too, right?” he asked. 

“But I’m a tech,” you clarified. “All I need is my trusty windbreaker,” you said, shaking the collar of the jacket that was wrapped around your shoulders. “I have found that people tend to overlook an extra tech at the scene rather than another agent.” 

“That… is actually very smart,” Sam said, looking back at you. You winked at him and settled back into your seat. You listened to the boys talk about the case and as Dean drove, as you mulled over theories of your own.

The statue was the biggest clue, but you weren’t sure how it all fit. However, Rowena had been right when she realized this wasn’t witchcraft. If a witch wanted to kill someone, drowning wouldn’t be the way to do it. The combination of water and witches never really worked out in history so they tended to avoid it. 

You had perhaps thought it was demon possession, but then it didn’t really fit with the usual motivation behind demonic activities. Also, there weren’t any omens in the area so you were back to your comfort zone, ghosts. Ghost possession was something you had focused on after you, yourself, had become possessed at age sixteen, and then both of your parents years later. You had inked up shortly after discovering the world of hunting and now were impervious to their body jumping, but not everyone was a hunter and so you had to help clean up the messes whenever you could. 

As you went over a strategy in your head, you didn’t even realize Dean was talking to you. “Sorry, what was that?” you asked, leaning forward again. 

“I asked if you needed any weapons,” Dean repeated as he turned down the final street and pulled over by the entrance to the trail that lead to the water. 

“Oh, no, I’m good,” you said, lifting your shotgun that was placed in your bag along with salt rounds and then the iron brass knuckles you kept on an iron chain around your neck. Dean whistled low at the sight of your accessory.

“I gotta get me some of those,” he said with a charming smile and then pulled the key from the ignition and stepped out of the car. You followed after the boys, scanning the area. It was crawling with squad cars and you knew it wouldn’t be long before the press showed up.

While Sam and Dean headed to speak to whoever was in charge, you hiked your bag up on your shoulder and ducked through the branches to get to the water’s edge. Nobody gave you a second glance as you walked the shore of the swimming hole. Divers were still in the water collecting evidence as you made your way towards the statue. That is where Sam and Dean met up with you. 

“Sheriff is clueless,” Dean said as he approached you. 

“As always,” you agreed, walking around the statue, eyeing it closely. 

“A deputy thinks these are all suicides,” Sam revealed. 

“He might not be that far off…” you said as you took out your pen and dragged it along the side of the statue. When you pulled it away, black slime coated it. You held it up for the boys to see. “Ectoplasm.” 

“Great,” Dean sighed. “So spooks are doing this?” 

“Yep,” you said, shaking off the ecto. “For some reason, this ghost is possessing people and drowning them. It explains why they just walked into the water. Somebody really doesn’t want people here.” 

“What was this place before it became party central?” Dean asked, kicking an empty beer bottle. 

“Just old land,” Sam said, “there isn’t much in the county records and when I asked the cops, everyone shut up like it was taboo or something.”

“Oh, I love a good town scandal,” you said with a smile at the boys. As you went to grab your bag, your eye caught something glinting in the sun. Kneeling down, you dug it out of the mud. Holding up to the light, you turned it in your hand. 

“What is it?” Dean asked. 

“I’m not sure,” you said as you held a small locket in your hand. It looked as if someone had dropped it recently, breaking the mechanism on the side. It was tarnished and caked in dirt as if it had been underground. Popping the seal, you nearly gagged. “And I’m not sure I want to know,” you said turning to show the boys. Nestled in between the two metal sides was a tooth, the root still attached. Dean did gag at the sight. 

“Okay, that’s just wrong,” Dean said. “Oh, what are you doing?” 

“It could be evidence,” you said as you slipped into a small bag you kept in your fake forensic kit. 

“Or it could just be someone’s necklace where they keep grandpa’s final tooth,” Dean said. You stowed it away anyways. 

“Look all I know is that a ghost is drowning people and this locket may have something to do with it. Can we continue debating this or can we go get a drink?” That last sentence had Dean grinning. 

“See, Sammy, this is how you solve a case,” he said, clapping his hands and gesturing everyone back to the car.  

---------

The three of you sat in a local dive bar, swapping war stories. 

“You really took out a fully grown skin walker on one of your first hunts?” Sam asked you as he sipped his beer. You laughed.

“Okay, don’t make me sound like some big badass,” you said, swirling the whiskey in your glass. “The guy was drunk off his ass. I just got lucky with him.”

“Still, that’s pretty damn impressive,” Dean said with a smile. You gave him one of your own. At first, you weren’t sure about Dean Winchester, but now? He was definitely one to keep an eye on. “Alright,” he said, trying to steer the conversation back to the task at hand.  “Sam, what did you find?” Sam took out his computer and fired it up. 

“I looked into the tooth locket that (Y/N) found and I think I got something,” Sam said, turning the computer so you and Dean could see. On the screen was a photo of a young woman, dressed in white, and around her neck was the same locket you had found by the statue. 

“Who was she?” you asked.

“Melinda Manns,” Sam explained. “She was the wife of Thomas Manns, the man who owned the land the swimming hole is on. And get this, her grave was recently robbed.” Sam flicked to the news article that reported on a series of grave robbings nearby. “That necklace was one of the things missing.” 

“So then who is our spook? Melinda or Thomas?” Dean asked. 

“I don’t know,” Sam said. 

“How did Melinda die?” you asked. Sam grabbed the computer and began typing away. 

“Oh,” Sam said, “she drowned under mysterious circumstances.” 

“Which in my book means murder,” you said downing the rest of your drink. “My bet? Old Man Manns killed his wife and buried her with that locket of hers. Maybe he felt remorse, maybe he didn’t, but one thing’s for sure, he didn’t want people digging her up.” 

“So, he’s drowning people out of revenge?” Dean asked. 

“Ghosts have had stranger motivation. He’s tied to the swimming hole. Doesn’t know who disturbed the grave so he’s just taking who he can get. Sometimes spirits get confused and a lot of the times they can’t help but possess people to try to get answers.” 

“Well, I scanned for EMF and didn’t get much of a steady reading at the lake,” Sam said with a sigh. 

“Don’t frett, Sammy, we’ll figure it out,” Dean said with a wink and his brother rolled his eyes. 

“Ya’ll want another round?” you asked as you stood up from your seat. 

“You guys go ahead, I’m gonna head back to the room for a bit,” Sam said as he gathered his stuff. 

“Ah, come on, man,” Dean said, but Sam shook his head. 

“I’ll see you two later,” Sam said with a slap on his brother’s shoulder. You waved to him as he slipped out of the bar. 

“What about you, Winchester? You want another beer?” you asked Dean, leaning towards him. 

“Make it a double tequila and you got yourself a deal,” he said with a wink. Shaking your head, you got up to get the next round.

Dean watched after you and he couldn’t help but think of the way you had walked around the crime scene earlier. There was something so...natural about the way you searched for the clues and how you were able to put the pieces together quickly. You were born for this life, but there was also something underneath the surface, something dark that prompted you to become a hunter in the first place. While he was curious, he knew he didn’t want to push. He knew about inner demons and he wasn’t about to force you to reveal yours. 

When you came back to the table, you had a grin on your face. “Flash a smile and a badge and look what you get, free booze!” You handed Dean his tequila and took your seat again, sipping on the smooth whiskey. You smiled as you leaned back in your chair. Dean watched you for a second before placing his drink down and leaning forward. 

“You are an odd one,” he said, narrowing his eyes a bit. 

“Is that bad?” you asked, trying to read the man before you. 

“I’m not sure yet,” he said with another grin. The night went on with many more shots and a whole lot more laughter. You and Dean exchanged more stories and soon, the two of you were leaning against one another in a booth, watching the patrons of the bar stumble around and play pool. Taking off your jacket, you relaxed further into your seat.

Stretching your arms over your head, Dean noticed something on the side of your neck. “What happened there?” he asked gently. Your hand went to the scars on your neck and covered them with your hair. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you...uh, sorry,” he stuttered. 

“It’s fine,” you said. “Just a hazard of the job. I was, uh, possessed by a ghost when I was sixteen,” you explained. “I managed to get control for a few seconds and we had this old iron tool at our farm and I don’t know how I knew to use it, but I just grabbed it and,” you mimed raking something across your neck.

“Damn,” Dean said. “What happened to the ghost?” 

“Local hunter took care of it, I guess,” you said. “Some guy showed up on my doorstep a day later with an obvious fake badge and I never had a problem with it again. Until two more possessed my parents later on. I guess I don’t have the best luck when it comes to spirits.” 

“That’s why you’re the ghost specialist,” Dean figured. 

“We all have our things,” you said. “I know yours is Angels and Demons.” 

“Well, that was not really my choice. When an Angel saves you from Hell, you sort of owe them,” he said with a shrug. 

“You’re not the only one who owes them,” you said with a small smile. Dean’s brows shot up as he caught onto your meaning. “Sorry was that way too forward?” 

“Not at all,” Dean assured you, draping his arm across the seat behind you. “Although, and this may just be the tequila talking, I wasn’t exactly sure about but you when we rolled up.” 

“Because I know Rowena?” you asked, leaning slightly into his arm. 

“She hasn’t always been the most...helpful of people,” he said. “I mean she’s a witch with the King of Hell as a son.” 

“Fair point,” you said with a small laugh, “but Rowena has helped me in the past. Not just the witch turf war, but she has looked out for me for a while. Don’t ask me why because I don’t know, but she’s never let me down. So, when she calls, I answer.”

“There seems a lot to unpack there,” Dean said.

“It’s a story for another time, Winchester,” you said with a smile as you shuffled out of his arm and threw some bills on the table as a tip. “Walk me home?” Dean rolled his eyes, but grabbed his coat and followed you out of the booth. 

You and Dean stumbled from the bar, still quite tipsy from your night of drinking. Sam had taken the Impala back, so you two began the short walk back. Dean slung his arm around your shoulders as you leaned into him. The two of you walked the dark street back towards the neon sign in the distance. He kept you tight to his side as cars rushed past on the street and you didn’t mind the feeling at all of his strong arm wrapped tight around your waist. 

When you finally got back to the room, you leaned against the side of the motel, trying to gain your bearings. Dean stood in front of you, resting his hands on either side of you. As he leaned in, you didn’t object. You smiled as Dean pressed his lips against yours. You leaned into the kiss, enjoying the feeling of his chest against yours, but eventually, you pushed him back.

“Easy, Winchester,” you sighed, “we’re working and I am not sober and neither are you.” Dean smiled, but stepped back, raising his hands in surrender.

“Breakin’ my heart, Darlin’,” he said but kept his hands to himself. 

“I know, I enjoy it,” you said with a small smile. Dean laughed, running a hand through his hair. 

“Now I see it, the reason Rowena likes you so much,” he said and you pursed your lips. 

“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” you said. He winked at you and elicited another laugh from you that brought another smile to his own face. 

“Okay, since we are working, any more theories?” 

“I think it was the maid,” you said with a serious expression. 

“(Y/N), there is no maid,” he said. 

“There isn’t?” you asked, feigning confusion. It was only a few seconds before both of you began laughing. Suddenly, the door to the motel burst open and Sam came out. He stared at the two of you for a second before shaking his head. 

“We have another body,” he announced and you and Dean sobered up quickly. 

“And I was just starting to have fun,” you whined as you pushed off the wall. You approached Dean and patted him on his chest. “Rain check, Winchester,” you said. 

“(Y/N)” Sam said, “Dean and I are going to go to the Coroner’s Office. Can you check the swimming hole? We’ll meet you there in a bit.” 

“Aye, aye, captain,” you said as you headed to the Impala, sliding into the back as you waited for the boys to change into their suits and grab their badges. As soon as Sam slipped into the driver’s seat seeing as he was the only one equipped to drive at the moment, you headed out. 

-------

Sam and Dean dropped you at the entrance to the swimming hole and you crept through the trees. 

Forensics were packing everything up and soon, you were alone with the neon yellow crime scene tape and the light from the moon above. Pulling out an EMF reader you had snagged from the trunk, you turned it on. It lit up immediately as you scanned it back and forth. “I know you’re here somewhere…” you said, slipping on your iron knuckles. Realizing you left your salt gun back at the motel, you hoped that there was actually only a single ghost and not two.

It was another half hour before you finally spotted something. It was flicker at first, but then you made out the full figure of one Thomas Manns. The spirit stood by the statue of himself, watching out over the water. Pulling out your phone, you silently dialed Dean’s number.

“What’s up? We’re on our way already,” Dean said as he answered. 

“Thomas is the ghost,” you whispered into the phone. 

“How do you know?” he asked. 

“Because I am looking right at him, genius,” you said, but then the ghost disappeared. “Dammit, I lost him.” 

“Okay, listen to me, (Y/N),” Dean said. “We finally have a connection for the victims. They’re all suspects in multiple grave robbings. Most likely Melinda’s too. That’s why he’s killing them.” Suddenly, your pocket felt very heavy. You slipped your hand into the pocket of your jeans and felt the cool metal of the locket. 

“I think I screwed up, Dean,” you said and as you spoke, your breath was very visible. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“I still have the necklace. The one from Melinda’s grave.”  

“Get rid of it!” Dean yelled, but it was too late. A coldness swept through you and as you turned over your shoulder, the very angry face of Thomas Manns appeared. He lashed out at you, tossing you through the air. You hit the ground with a grunt, your phone leaving your hand as Dean yelled your name on the other end.

You scrambled for your knuckles, but they were too far from you as you struggled to get to your feet. However, Manns was faster. He took hold of you and fear entered your gut. You knew your warding protected you from being possessed, but nothing could stop him from killing you. 

You fought as Mann threw you into the water. The coldness shocked you immediately as you struggled for breath. Swimming to the surface, phantom hands pulled you back under. You kicked out at nothing as you tried your hardest to break the surface. When you finally got a breath of air, Manns was there. In his hands was a knife that you were positive he used to injure his wife before drowning her in the very lake.

Your brain struggled to remember a banishing spell Rowena had taught you, but it was too cold and the fear was overwhelming. As Manns went for you again, his hands freezing your blood, you finally heard the shouts of Sam and Dean. Manns tried to pull you down again, but Dean arrived at the shore. 

“Hey, Old McDonald!” he shouted. “Hands off!” Dean raised his shotgun and fired. The salt hit Manns and then entered your shoulder. You shouted as the ghost disappeared and then Dean was running through the murky water to get to you. You weakly met him halfway, tossing your arm around him. “I got you,” he said in your ear. 

“Ouch,” you whined as your shoulder bled. Dean hauled you back onto the shore and checked you over, pulling your jacket aside to see the wound. It wasn’t deep and the salt wouldn���t do any permanent damage. 

“Sorry,” he said, “hard to aim from that distance.” 

“Thanks for the save,” you said as Sam wrapped his blazer around your shoulders, “but next time? Let’s make sure that the salt is accompanied by tequila.” Dean smiled down at you and pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” 

--------

The last thing to do was salt and burn the body of Thomas Manns. 

You leaned against a nearby tombstone as Sam and Dean dug up the grave of Manns. “Who knew grave robbing was going to bite us in the ass one day?” Dean asked, tossing his shovel down. 

“It’s technically not grave robbing when we salt and burn bones,” Sam said from inside the grave. “We’re not taking anything.”  

“Oh, well that makes me feel a whole lot better,” Dean said with a roll of his eyes. 

“Sam,” you said, gaining his attention. The younger Winchester looked at you and you tossed him Melinda’s locket. “Better safe than sorry,” you said and he tossed it into the coffin.

Sam had wrapped up your shoulder before heading to the cemetery in your respective vehicles. You watched as they soaked the bones with lighter fluid and then Dean lit the matches and dropped them into the pit. The grave was set ablaze and you finally relaxed.

Sam and Dean stood over the burning bones, watching it with the same calmness as they did with everything. Rowena had said that they were becoming numb to the idea of monsters, but you didn’t think she was right. Sam and Dean weren’t numb, they were just used to the ugliness of the world and knew how to process the emotions that came with it. 

Even in the short amount of time you had known them, you realized there was a reason Angels watched over them. The Winchesters were what the world needed and you had only wished that you had known them when your parents had died. Dean’s eyes flickered to yours over the flames and he nodded to you. You sighed, offering him a nod of your own. Whether you saw him again after this, he was going to be leaving your mind any time soon. 

-------

You said goodbye to the boys at the entrance to the graveyard. Giving Sam a big hug, you said, “Don’t hesitate to call, big guy.” 

“I won’t,” he said, stepping out of your hug. “Tell Rowena thank you for me.”

“I will,” you promised with a smile. He squeezed your shoulder once more before heading to the Impala to wait for his brother. Dean approached you, his hands in his pockets. 

“So, this is goodbye?” 

“For now,” you said. Dean smiled, awkwardly staring down at his boots. You rolled your eyes and grabbed him by his jacket. He fell into you and didn’t waste any time in connecting his lips to yours. His hands went into your hair as you gripped him tight. You sighed into the kiss, trying to memorize every touch and caress from Dean Winchester. 

He pulled back for a second before kissing you again and then once more. You smiled up at him. “Are you gonna call me?” he asked, his thumb stroking your cheek. 

“Maybe,” you said, “only if you need my help.”

“Well, I’ll need something,” he said with a smile. You rolled your eyes but mimicked the smile. 

“Don’t worry, I’m not done with you yet, Winchester,” you said. “I’ll see you around.” You reached up and kissed him one more time, letting your lips linger on his for just a bit longer before pulling away. You waved to him as you got in your car and drove away.

Dean watched after you, feeling like you would keep your word and he would be seeing you very soon. He waited until your taillights were out of sight before joining his brother in the car. “Sammy, I think I just found my future wife.” 

Sam snorted, “Great, maybe Cas can officiate,” he joked. 

“Officiate what?” Sam and Dean jumped at the sudden voice. Turning around, Castiel was sitting in the back seat of the Impala, looking between the brothers. 

“Dammit, Cas!” Dean yelled, trying to get his heart rate down. 

“Sorry,” Cas said and then looked at Sam who just burst out laughing. “Am I missing something?” 

“I’ll fill you in on the way,” Sam said. 

“On the way where?” Castiel asked, confused. Dean revved the engine and hit the gas. 

“We’re going after a girl, I got a date.” 

[7wanderingpaws]

Simply, yours (11) (M)

Pairing: Baekhyun x reader

Genre:  family AU, hapkido teacher AU, PhD AU

Word count: 6.1K

Warnings: cursing, shitty mature content

A/N: Whew, another 6K+ ... The happenings in this chapter were one of the first scenes I had in my mind when I started to write this story, huhu! Hope you like it, and let me know what you thougt. Your comments help me keep writing!  💖 Alright, Im drained.. Imma head back to study. Enjoy sweet readers of mine!

tags: @milky-baek​ @itsbaekhyunsbutt​ @luvhtears​ @shesdreaminginoverdose​ @cynthbee​ @jummyjammy​ @junmyeonnoona @littleflowercrown13​ (if you want to be tagged/untagged please let me know!)

MASTERLIST

1 . 2 . 3 . 4 . 5 . 6 . 7 . 8 . 9 . 10 . 11

It just felt like yesterday you told Baekhyun you wanted to go home, and now here you were, holding his hand while he had a big gym back thrown over his other shoulder as you were making your way towards the platform to catch the KTX home. The crowds were crazy given the time of the year and it was making you anxious just a little bit.

“It's good we booked the tickets early,” murmured Baekhyun as you both stepped on the escalator leading downstairs. He stood in front of you which made you taller than him for a few seconds and he blessed you with a sweet smile. He reached out with his hand and caressed your protruding belly. Unfortunately, wearing a huge and thick winter jacket made it almost impossible to feel his gentle touch.

“You are always well prepared, my boy,” you praised proudly.

He hummed, retreating his hand and quirking his eyebrows at you seductively. “I like that nickname, my girl.”

You let out a snort and Baekhyun took your hand again as you got off the escalator.

“Pff, territorial, are we?” you teased.

This time, it was Baekhyun who let out a snort, squeezing your hand in warning because he knew your little game. He saw right through it. After all, you had been playing these teasing games with him since the beginning of this week and now it was Friday, Korean New Year happening just this weekend.

Once inside the train, Baekhyun let go of your hand to let you sit by the window, while he was taking out necessary things for the ride. One tumbler with hot lemon tea for you, another one with coffee for himself, his sports management book and a notebook, and for you the small knitting kit to finish off the little piece you had been working on. With a thank you, you accepted everything he was handing you and he gave you a smile before placing the bags and winter jackets up in the holder and taking a seat next to you. Reaching over, he hovered his hand over the window pane.

“What?” you asked.

“Checking if it isn't too cold for you,” he murmured and seemingly calmed down when he got a positive result. “Can't have you catching a cold.” He sat back down, making himself comfortable. “You sure you don't want to have your jacket just in case?”

A smile of complete adoration decorated your face as you looked at his worried eyes that were boring into yours. “No, honey, it's okay for now. Don't worry too much.”

He nodded, though commented: “Heard you sneezing this morning while I was in the bathroom.”

You giggled, covering your mouth as people were still finding their places in the car. “I didn't know it was forbidden.”

“I'm just trying to make sure you're fine.”

“I am fine, I really am,” you reassured and wanted to lean in to give him a peck but was too shy since people were all around standing, some unpacking stuff.

He observed you with a gentle smile before nodding and turning to his book that was on his lap when his phone notified him of a message.

You usually didn't pay attention because you honestly aren't the type to do so. You already felt bad that he was constantly around you, and you constantly around him. You were pregnant, too sick and had too much of a high blood pressure, and he was neglecting his friends because of that.

“Don't think I didn't catch up to your little games, by the way,” he said nonchalantly, not looking your way and startling you.

You frowned at him but you sensed what he was referring to.

“If you continue, I can't guarantee what will happen.”

“Is that a threat?” you chirped, intrigued.

He gave you a handsome smile. “Whatever you like to call it.”

You bit your lip, remembering this week's happenings when you kept teasing him and doing everything the exact opposite of his preference or liking. He was just so easy to tease when you knew he couldn't throw you over his shoulder and tickle the living hell out of you, or have you his way as means of punishing you (pregnancy DID have pros). 

This week while teaching the kids at the elementary school, they became too curious about you and your huge stomach. So, whatever Baekhyun said and tried to explain to the kids you passionately opposed to. So much so that the kids ended up giggling and going against Baekhyun's word that day, which really wasn't the best situation, given he was their master they had to respect. It seemed you were much more playful and willing to speak up with kids then his university team and Jiyoung. But he wasn't complaining, despite huffing at the kids' attitude and later at yours. Plus, Baekhyun was very busy with studies in his free time the whole of the past two weeks, so you might have been begging for his attention the entire time, without you knowing it.

Back to the current day, another couple of more notifications later and Baekhyun picked up his phone, scrolling through the messages. Although you were already going through your knitting threads, checking each knot with care, you still saw from your peripheral vision how he shot you a wary glance. He typed up a message and this time put his phone on silent before putting it in the holder in front of him.

Deciding not to comment, you continued, starting on the small gloves just as the train departed. 

Baekhyun leaned in to your side, checking what you had been working on so diligently. When you started on this piece, you had asked him about the colours he liked so that you could use them. “What is this going to be?”

His breath tickled your cheek and you turned your head slightly to have a look at him. He followed you with his eyes. “Little gloves for out little ones.”

Another handsome smile and he pecked your lips, the action ending up with a tad too loud of a smooch for a public space but he enjoyed the reddening of your cheeks as he pressed another kiss to your cheek.

The entirety of the train ride, Baekhyun immersed himself in the book, highlighting important parts, checking his notes and scribbling more information around the paragraphs in the book. He looked handsome even when he was focused, tongue sometimes sticking out between his lips that were otherwise in a tight line. Watching him leaning over the book, you couldn't help but eye his strong jaw and handsome profile. A sight you knew so well; every curve, every plane, that straight nose, the plump lips and the straight chin. He seemed to be all straights and smooths, and you loved every part of it dearly.

“You know, your stare is burning.”

Few seconds later he looked up, catching you but you didn't even make an effort to not stare. He let out a breathy chuckle. “Hope you ain't getting horny here,” he murmured just for you to hear.

At that, you gasped and he laughed, knowing how embarrassed that would make you feel. “You wish! But it's you not getting any anyway,” you retorted in a shushed voice, turning back to your knitting, pretending to be offended.

“Is it really me?” he raised an eyebrow at you, handsome and all.

You ignored him, focusing way too much on the knitting, except you weren't and ended up making a mistake. “Shit.”

“No swearing while being pregnant,” he chastised, now back to his studies.

The way you took in a deep breath through your nose was loud enough for Baekhyun to hear, which ended up making him smile under his nose.

“I am throwing you off the train, Baekhyun.”

He put his pen down and turned to you, a thoughtful look on his face. “I read that our babies are big enough to actually recognize what is being said. They are able hear now. So this is the phase where we should make them listen to classical music and-” he looked at you pointedly, “not swear. Unless you want them as brats.”

When not replying, he added, reaching out to tap at your lips with his index finger. “So watch that mouth of yours.”

“If that's what you want,” you sighed nonchalantly, ignoring the burning of the touch of his fingertips on your lips. “I will comply.”

Retracting his hand, he had a lopsided smile on his face. “That's my girl.”

You rolled your eyes, though not meaning it. “So territorial.”

Baekhyun laughed.

-

Couple of hours later and both of you were in your respective homes welcomed by the typical countryside air filled with animals and hay. Your two homes were literally next to each other connected by one garden between both families.  

Both Baekhyun's and your family were waiting outside together - already acting like one big family - but after twenty minutes of greetings, squealings, belly rubbings (mostly from Baekhyun's family) you made yourself comfortable at home, your legs severely swollen and tiredness taking over you.

Parting with your boyfriend was at first difficult, because you realised Baekhyun was going to his house and you were going to your own. It would be a first in a long time where  you would spend the night away like this from each other, or at least you thought. You were hoping he would sneak in to your room in the middle of the night, or vice versa. You felt like you had the right to demand to sleep next to the father of the children you were carrying.

“I will come see you soon,” Baekhyun had whispered in your ear just before parting and his hot breath was still palpable on your skin now. He was incredible.

Your father calling out your name was what made you snap back to reality, momentarily embarrassed about the dirty thoughts you kept having the whole day. Geez. As weird and annoyed you were towards Baekhyun in the beginning of your pregnancy, where sometimes even his touches were unwelcome, now you were the exact opposite; you were growing guilt feelings towards him for using him for pleasures. But it wasn't like you were doing everything against his will. He was very much to blame, too.

“Yes?”

“What do you crave for dinner? Mum is already heating up late lunch for you,” he stepped into your small room where you were sitting on the heated floor, smiling pleasantly. You noticed the heavy wrinkles around his eyes.

“I'm fine with anything, as long as it's homemade,” you replied and crawled back on your mat that you rolled out earlier to lie down.

You father tsked. “I will bring more mats, it must be uncomfortable now, huh? You got used to sleeping on a soft mattress.”

Before he could turn to leave you called him back, lying down. “It's fine dad. I missed sleeping on the floor like this. I shouldn't have gotten too comfortable anyway.”

He sighed and joined you on the mat, sitting down cross-legged, batting shy eyelashes down on your protruding belly that your thick sweater could barely cover. “So, how are you feeling? Your mother told me something here and there but,” he shrugged, not knowing how to approach the topic, “are you okay?”

You smiled to yourself. Him being the typical father, he always kept distance between you two, not knowing how to approach his daughter, and leaving all the work to his wife. “I'm okay. It isn't easy but it's what I want.”

“I'm sure you two didn't count on three, though.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “No. It was a big shock but by now I am sure this is what it is supposed to be. Sounds cheesy, huh?”

Your father coughed, smiling to himself. “Is Baekhyun taking good care of you?” he asked, not looking your way as he was facing the door.

You melted at his name. “Yeah, dad, he is taking way too much care of me.”

“Good. I always knew he was a good boy and possibly the right one for you.”

At his words, you melted even more because he couldn't have been more right. At first, it was a shock to your parents that Baekhyun was pursuing you out of all the beautiful village girls that were his age. He did see you as a little girl for the longest time until you weren't a little girl, but a beautifully grown high school student, not too far from a full-grown woman. Despite your parents being against you two dating until you would at least finish high school and Baekhyun his military service, you two always stole some alone time.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

Your dad turned his head slightly, not quite looking at you. “For?”

Pressing your lips together, you squeaked: “For allowing me to be with him. For letting me go to Seoul to support him. For accepting me as a pregnant woman with no marriage. For not pushing us. I know it must be hard and gossips in this village are reckless but… you and mum endure it and I just wanted to thank you.”

“I trust Baekhyun. I trust he will do something soon.” He paused for a moment, still not meeting your eye. “Did you talk about marriage, though?”

“Yes, not too long ago.”

“You will get married, right?”

Your heart skipped a beat. “Ye-yeah.”

Now, he looked at you, turning his head properly. After a little while, he murmured again: “I trust Baekhyun.”

-

Sitting down for dinner at the small table, you graciously took gulps of hot vegetable soup, loving the special taste your mother's soup had. 

“Oh my, eat slowly dear,” you mother gasped, “you will have an upset stomach.”

“I missed your cooking so much, mum,” you whined, squirming a bit to try and find a comfortable position. Your back was giving you hard time.

“I missed you, my daughter,” she cooed and added more soup to your bowl. “Eat up, it will make you feel good. Is the heating okay in your room?”

You nodded. Given the house was a traditional one, your parents still used wood for heating up the ondol system. “It's perfect. Nothing can beat the effectiveness of floor heating.”

You mother being satisfied with the answers, smiled and caressed your back. “Did you go for the recent check-up before coming here?”

You nodded and swallowed. “Yeah. I will have to take some classes about correct back posture and some exercises.”

“Well, that is important. You already look like a pregnant lady with one just before giving birth.”

She was right. People were giving you wary glances if you ever walked alone, scared you might give birth right on the place but this was just half-way through your pregnancy. Little did they know it was three little ones inside.

You shrugged and she chuckled, muttering to her husband proudly: “Our little daughter.”

-

It was the first morning where you woke up alone and naturally with the chicks outside. They were chirping happily, eagerly waiting for someone to come and feed them while you heard the cows scoffing in the stables.

Lying on your mat,  you were thinking how much you didn't like waking up alone like this. It was your childhood room, yes, but a person who became the most important human being in your life was not present.

“At least I have you guys,” you murmured, closing your eyes while you rubbed your stomach slowly, enjoying the peaceful atmosphere. Thinking about what could Baekhyun be doing in that moment, your phone vibrated, notifying you of an incoming message. You smiled, reaching for it, already knowing who it was. Yesterday, you both decided to stay at your parents' houses, though you did meet Baekhyun outside for a little bit, just to share little kisses and hugs before bed.

you up yet elephant?

Wow. You weren't expecting this nickname so early on in the day. It reminded you of your little game pretty fast.

Deciding to tease him, you didn't reply. Instead, you got up and greeted your parents who were already getting ready to work.

“It's New year,” you rasped, “how about you don't work today?”

“Oh, didn't someone get too comfortable in Seoul? You know we cannot go a day without work, honey,” answered your mother as she was about to enter the wooden porch to put on her boots. “I warmed up the vegetable porridge for you, so make sure to eat it all, or else Baekhyun will have my neck.”

You scoffed. “Trust me, he is harmless.”

“Good morning, mother! I hear I am being badmouthed since early morning!”

Your mother laughed, looking probably at Baekhyun who you had yet to spot. “Dear, you cannot compete with a pregnant woman's temper.”

“Is she mad?”

You laughed, walking to the door to get a glimpse of him. He was in his sports pants and winter jacket, though his hair was messy, probably also just woken up. “Elephant has been up for a while now and she is not mad.” And you left back inside, not liking the cold breeze coming from outside.

“Go, have breakfast with her, Baekhyun” nudged him your mother and was already going out, not sparing you a glance.  “Me and dad will be outside.”

Baekhyun greeted her one more time before taking off his sneakers and entering the house, closing the door behind him so that the warmth wouldn't leak too much.

You were just about to sit down when you felt his hands on your hips and his breath on your neck, his cold nose digging into your cheek sending chills down your spine. You squealed. “You're cold!”

“And you're hot,” he murmured, not moving at your protest, enjoying your reactions too much. He slid his hands further around your stomach and a bit too low. “You're okay?”

“Yeah,” your breath hitched at his touches, already ignited inside. “Elephant has been wonderful without the bad hunter.”

“Offended?” he asked in a gentle voice, referring to his text earlier.

Letting your head fall on his shoulder, you replied: “Not at all. Not even a bit.”

He chuckled and you realised how much you missed the sound even though it hadn't been that long you two separated. “Alright, I will take that.”

“You want porridge?” you asked, and squeezed his hands on your belly. “It's still fresh.”

“Is there something else?”

“Like what?” you scoffed ready to move forward to sit down, but he pressed your back to his front.

“You?”

Your heart went into a slight overdrive. “Baekhyun.”

“Hm?” he played innocent. “We are alone now.”

You turned around and finally looked at him properly, making sure to pin him down with a stern gaze. “Now there, naughty boy, not in this house. But…” you trailed off, avoiding his stare before finding his hopeful one, “a kiss…?”

He smirked and leaned in right away, pressing his lips to yours in a small, welcoming kiss that wasn't supposed to lead anywhere, only to convey one message: good morning, my love, I missed you. Baekhyun moved his hands from your hips to your face, cradling you carefully as you made one last step towards him to get as much closure as your belly was physically making it possible for you. You stood on your tippy toes, curling your arms around his neck to bring him closer to you, and he let out a low “mhhhm”. Smooching your lips a couple more times, he leaned back, giving you an affectionate smile as he ran his thumb under your eye. “Let's have that fresh porridge, then.”

And so you both moved to sit down and chatter the early morning away, munching on the porridge and drinking fresh tea until Baekhyun's phone let out a ding, notifying the first message of the day. He grabbed it, reading it before typing out a fast message and putting it away quickly.

“Who is writing you during New Year?” you asked, trying not to show too much interest.

He pressed his lips together. “You won't like my answer anyway, so let's not talk about it.”

“What, Jiyoung doesn't have her own family to spend the holidays with?”

He sighed. “She is just worried about the competition-”

“It's in July, Baekhyun,” you emphasized, already exasperated. “It's January now. Plus, she kept messaging you yesterday too!”

He called your name to get your attention and you shut your mouth. “We have a competition in two weeks between the universities!”

You pursed your lips in dissatisfaction and crossed your arms on your chest, just to realize your breasts were aching. Without wincing too obviously, you put your hands back in your lap. “Well, can she chill for at least this weekend?”

“I told her to let it go,” he retorted and grabbed his phone, opening kakaotalk quickly to show you.

Let's deal with this next week. Enjoy your holidays.

You knew his chatting style. He was being official and indifferent when he wrote in capital letters and used diacritics.

“Satisfied?”

Giving him a slight frown, you shrugged and turned to collect the plates when he grabbed your wrist to stop you. “Hey, answer me.”

“It's fine, really. Elephant will now clean up, hm?” you said, giving him a smile.

“I should be the one offended. You didn't even reply to my message this morning,” he pouted, ignoring your attempt to flee from the situation.

“I understand. Sorry for overreacting,” you mumbled, not meeting his eye.

He didn't say anything, instead he turned to collect the dishes and move them to the kitchen. “How about we take a walk in the village? Let's relive some old memories,” said Baekhyun when he reappeared from the kitchen, hands in the pockets of his pants.

“Sure,” you smiled and attempted to get back on your fee. He came quickly to help you, knowing your back must have been hurting. “Thank you, honey.”

He hummed, tapping your back gently before giving you a peck on the lips. “Let's meet outside in ten?”

“I still need to freshen up, let's make it thirty.”

He laughed. “Sure. No rush, okay? We've got the whole weekend, just for ourselves.”

-

After letting your parents know you were heading out, hand in hand you took a stroll around the village, saying hi to the neighbours and old friends. When some of the old high school classmates spotted you two, you were welcomed by howling and claps which made you embarrassed to no ends.

“You guys took it to the next stage, eh?” called one of your old classmates eyeing you up and down, and Baekhyun couldn't help squeezing your hand protectively.

“Shut up, Kim, do you even get paid,” you snapped, recovering from the blush.

He gave you a nervous laugh. “You sure grew a sharp tongue.”

You rolled your eyes but both of you laughed, instead talking about the times you didn't see each other and exchanged the news.

You relieved so many past memories, it left you feeling all nostalgic.

“Did you even have any girlfriends?” rumbled Baekhyun once you separated and moved to the outer fields of the village. “I remember you could barely look at a boy back in the days.”

“What, is the bad hunter jealous?” you teased, an excited skip in your step.

“Sure,” Baekhyun scoffed, “he has nothing on me.”

“Eyyy, self-condent men never appeased me.”

“You, sweet cheeks, are asking for a punishment.” Baekhyun, strangely, didn't have the playful glint in his eyes. He seemed deep in thought for some reason, but you weren't about to go too deep into that, given he would get back to his normal sense soon.

You just let out a hum instead of an actual answer. 

As you walked on, him and you both met lots of old friends, all of them reaching out to touch you - which was fine when it came to your friends, but Baekhyun's girl classmates touching you was a bit off. Despite that, you politely answered.

“Aren't you afraid of the birth? I mean… it's three kids!” said one, with long black hair that shone beautifully even in the gloomy January daylight.

Trying not get triggered with the images of birth and all the possible things that could go wrong, you just smiled. “I can't escape it, can I?” you said, looking up at Baekhyun who gave you a tight-lipped smile.

“You will be fine, I'm sure. Anyone with Baekhyun by their side must be just happy,” she exclaimed, not even glancing at you.

You shifted on your feet uncomfortably, suddenly wanting to go home.

“Oh, please,” pinked Baekhyun, laughing nervously.

“You're right,” you agreed a tad too loudly, “and he knows it, too. His self-confidence knows no barriers.” Looking up at his surprised eyes, you gave him a spiteful smirk. “Shall we move on, honey? My feet are killing me.”

“Then Baekhyun didn't change much,” replied the girl, a wide smile on her face.

“Well, it was nice seeing you, Kyunga. I will see you around,” waved Baekhyun, squeezing my hand so that I would move with him.

“I hope so!” shouted the girl at your retreating backs.

Walking in silence for a little bit, Baekhyun finally spoke up: “Wanna tell me what's eating you away?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Liar.”

You sighed, stopping. “Listen. All is good. It's you who threatened me earlier, isn't it? You're being all moody.”

“What, so you can get jealous and I can't?”

You snickered. “You better enjoy it then,” you said, not showing satisfaction that finally, it wasn't just you to get all worked up for nothing,  “because I am not letting it go.”

-

That evening, both of your families were eating together, this time at Baekhyun's house which wasn't much different from your own. The entire time till dinner you kept being just like the whole week. Going against him, sarcastic and mean although you both knew you didn't mean it. Despite that, during dinner he was getting slightly ticked off and ended up glaring at you and staring you down with a stern gaze that said it clearly: stop it or…!

And you wanted to get a taste of that “or…!” part very badly which was why you didn't stop.

“Baekhyun, how is teaching going?” asked your father kindly, the whole family grouped around a dining table on the floor. The dinner was consumed in a pleasant manner, both families enjoying their kids being home. Baekhyun's parents seemed to be extremely protective of you, Baekhyun's mum explaining she wished to have a daughter but instead got a boy. Hence she was careful around you, making sure every wish in your eyes was fulfilled.

While Baekhyun was answering politely, you noticed his phone blowing up again. Honestly, you weren't even sure if it was Jiyoung or not, you had had enough by then. Not entirely sure what you were doing, you stood up as quickly as physically possible and excused yourself for a while, saying you needed some fresh air.

On your way, you caught Baekhyun's eye, but you made sure you were cold before grabbing your winter jacket and leaving the house to put on your shoes on the wooden porch. Deciding the best destination was the stables where warmth was always around, you marched over, meeting the cows in a pleasant coo. The fire was gently sizzling in the corner providing just the perfect temperature for you to stand in your unzipped jacket.

“Ah, I missed milking you, my cows,” you said as you went from one cow to another, greeting them and caressing them between their eyes gently, earning satisfactory nodding from them. They were so cute, you let out another coo until you heard someone clearing their throat at the entrance.

You turned your head to spot Baekhyun watching you carefully. You sighed, turning to face the cows again. “I want to be alone.”

He said your name gently, stepping in and letting the door close shut as he tried to approach you only for you to make two more steps ahead. “What's wrong? Why are you acting like this?”

“I said I want to be alone. Just leave, Baekhyun,” you answered and moved towards the wooden ladder that would lead you up to a small loft where you stored the hay.

“Hey, don't do this,” he said as he saw you walk away. He moved after you, which only prompted you to speed up your pace, quickly grabbing the ladder and climbing up as you tried to lose him. Of course it was silly. There was no way out once you were upstairs in the loft. You would end up being trapped but maybe that was what you wanted.

“Come back, missy!” you heard him and you almost let out a giggle, but instead a squeal left your mouth quickly climbing up as you felt his presence behind you. Once up, you made a little run to the opposite side but he caught up, grabbing you from behind and you let out a scream.

His hand was fast on your mouth. “Shhh, why are you screaming?”

You wiggled, wanting to shake him off but his grip tightened and he turned you around swiftly before pressing his lips to yours fervently in hopes to shut you up. You squealed again against his mouth, trying to fight him until you couldn't fight anymore, completely melting in his arms as he kissed you senseless, opening your mouth and tasting you.

You hummed in satisfaction, eyes closed, bringing your arms around his neck to get a better taste because he was going strong on you. He was pushing you backwards until there was no more space, until he laid you gently in the stack of hay and hovered over you, pushing your legs apart with his knee so he could climb over you comfortably.

“Since when did you become an attention seeker?” he breathed down onto your mouth as both of you were gasping for air. “Constantly teasing me, going against me, and now fighting me, hm?” he asked in a low voice and he pressed his forehead to yours, demanding answers.

“And so the bad hunter caught the elephant,” you murmured and to answer him, you added: “Kids changed me.”

Baekhyun smirked, shaking his head gently before affection took over his gaze again. “Kids, kids, kids. Well, I want to know about you, sweetheart,” he murmured, slowly pecking your lips before moving his lips lower, kissing a trail down your jaw and neck. “Why is mummy this upset with daddy?”

“Oh god, here we go again,” you sighed at the words he used and closed your eyes when he bit down a tad too harshly, “but I think I'm starting to really like it. So don't stop.”

You felt him smile against your skin while his hand slipped under your sweater, caressing your belly before dragging it up, teasing the underside of your bra.

“Take it off,” you sighed. “Take me.”

Baekhyun grabbed your breast over the material, massaging it and you hissed in pain. He leaned back right away, monitoring your face. You smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, they are aching.”

“Ah, baby,” he smiled gently, and pressed his forehead to yours yet again. “I'm sorry you have to go through all of this.” He spoke, but his fingers still pushed down the material off of your breast so he could have access to the skin. You closed your eyes, the smallest of his touches giving you the utmost pleasure. Much gentler, he massaged your breast and nosed your cheek, earning another hum out of you. “I made you like this.”

“Yeah, you did,” you said and mouthed on his cheek that was turned to you. “And I love it. So don't you dare feel guilty, Baekhyun. We still have half of the way ahead.”

“Oh, sweet cheeks, the bad hunter is having very bad thoughts right now. Far, far from guilty,” he rasped as he nibbled on your earlobe. “Your boobs are huge, your belly is huge, your hips and thighs are rounded. I'm salivating over here exactly because I did this to you.”

“Oh my god.”

You don't recall Baekhyun ever talking to you in this manner and you didn't know it would turn you on this much. His hot breath on your skin, his touches, his mind. Jesus. You were a whimpering mess, wiggling your hips for him to get the damn clue to start doing his job.

He leaned back and sat on his knees before he massaged your thighs; first the outer side, then the inner side until he smoothened his hands over the button of your pants, opening it with his expert fingers. His eyes were attentive, checking your reaction but the blush on your cheeks and the blown out pupils told him more than enough.

Slowly pushing down your pants, he followed suit with his. He hovered over you once more while his hand found the sweet spot you needed him at the most, testing it. “Hmm, dirty talk can get you this wet. Baby girl,” he hummed in bliss, mouthing on your neck.

“You haven't got used to it yet?” you laughed quietly and gasped when he pushed two fingers in, letting out a moan.

Baekhyun wordlessly continued his ministrations and you brought him in for a feverish kiss, all tongues and saliva, the need for each other too strong to even care. When the pressure was building up steadily in your tummy, he retreated his fingers.

“Are you comfortable?” he whispered, lining himself up with your center as he grabbed your hand to intertwine your fingers.

“Yeah,” you breathed loudly, “just get in already.”

“We are really doing it in the stables, huh,” he said, chuckling and he entered you slowly, unable to resist any longer. The belly was by then quite the restriction between your bodies but Baekhyun did not mind doing extra work if it meant pleasuring the both of you.

You let out another moan shamelessly, not caring any of your parents could be outside in the quiet evening.

“Does this mean the babies can hear us doing this, too?” you whispered, meeting his focused gaze as he pulled out completely before slamming himself inside, his groan muffled as he hid his face in your neck.

“Fuck,” was what he said, shuddering with the adrenaline rush as he kept sliding in and out of you, none of you hiding how good it felt to finally be connected like this. Baekhyun adored this horny side of you, and he swore sex while you being pregnant was more exciting than ever before.

It was getting immensely hot despite it being a freezing winter outside, the hay keeping the warmth your two bodies created well. Baekhyun kissed you in the last seconds, feeling your walls tightening around him and he himself wasn't far from seeing stars from the overwhelming bliss of you around him and your face that was now shiny with sweat and heat.

“I love you,” you muttered with your eyes closed.

“Look at me, angel,” he gritted through his teeth, heartbeats away from crossing the edge. “Look at me and say it.”

With all your willpower you snapped out of your ecstacy and stared into his fucked out eyes that still gave you reassurance, safety. “I love you, Baekhyun. Too much.”

He managed to smile and heard you scream when you exploded around him. “I love you too, my baby. My only one,” he whispered while panting, and followed you soon.

Helping the both of you ride out the high, he moved around, not wanting to slip out of you just yet, but he had to. His arms were about to go completely numb as he tried to hold himself over your belly, and so hissing quietly at the sensation, he lied down next to you, his clothed chest rising up and down.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, collecting the sweat around your forehead with the back of your hand. “This was mind blowing.”

Baekhyun snickered, turning his head to look at you. “It was. You sounded gorgeous.”

Not bothering to get all embarrassed, you turned on your side and laid your head on his chest, his arm coming to circle around you. Although you were all sticky and wet, you felt like on cloud nine. “So the happenings of the trip - the elephant was caught by the bad hunter. And our babies can now hear us having sex.”

Your boyfriend laughed out loud and pressed a loud kiss to your hairline, as he caressed your shoulder. “That's about right. They might be too wild in the future.” He trailed off before suggesting: “So should we just have a round two then?”

[whump-town]

Route 66

(done right-- welcome to my version of Route 66 with angst and whump because I like to beat Hotch around... cause I love him. Buckle in, fasten your seat belts, and, for the love of God people, remember to keep your hands and feet inside vehicle at all times...)

Aaron Hotchner sits bolt upright in his bed. For a moment, all he knows is the cold sweat drying on his skin and the scent of musky settled dust. Noticeably, this isn’t his house or even his bed. The sheets across his bare legs are scratchy, irritating his skin. He can’t focus on the sensation eating his legs up, too busy trying to keep his measly dinner down. 

His racing heart and nausea tightening his throat are making it a difficult feat.

“Hotch?”

The bed lamp on the nightstand beside the other bed clicks on and slowly, his brain strings together the course of the last few days. Tennessee, three dead kids, and another missing. No cooling-off period. All dead within the first 24 hours. The hotel. 

“Hotch, are you okay?” The other figure-- not Dave, which is weird because he remembers talking to Dave before he fell asleep. The older man had asked something similar to the voice now but inquiring if he needed anything before they went to sleep. “Hotch?”

He snaps out of his thoughts, grounded by the hand placed on his shoulder. 

It’s Prentiss.  

He throws the blankets off of his legs and appreciates when she stumbles out of his way. His knees buckle underneath his feet but he throws a hand out and catches himself on the nightstand. For a moment, Emily reaches out for him. Wanting to allow him to lean into her but she hesitates. He manages to stand on his own even if his knees bow from his weight. 

She gives him space and he manages to get to the bathroom by himself. Sparing her the sight of him falling limply to his knees as he expels the contents of his stomach into the inside of a hotel toilet. She can still hear his weak gags from the other room.

As much as she would like to invade his personal space and smother him with remedies, she has to fight that. Hotch cares about his personal space and while it will make her feel momentarily better that she’s helped him, he’ll carry around the guilt of being weak for a month or better. So, instead, she slips a cardigan over her tank top and waits for him to either stop vomiting or for the knock on their door that signals someone else has heard the noise.

Whichever comes first. 

He falls silent. Too silent. 

Whatever part of her brain that screams for his personal space is overpowered by the intense fear that births itself in the form of panic and a tight uncomfortable feeling in her throat. “Are you okay?” She knocks her fist against the door before peeking her head around. Relief flooding her body as she finds him propped up between the toilet and the bathtub, his head leaning against the cold off-white walls. 

“Do you need anything? Water?” 

At just the mention of putting something near his mouth, his stomach twists bitterly. He shakes his head. 

She leans against the doorframe, “is there anything I can do?”

He shakes his head, unable to trust his voice.

That was Wednesday.

Emily tells Dave, her hands shaking a little as she explains the whole situation. It feels like a betrayal of his trust. People get sick and it’s not like they’re an exception to that. If anything, they sick more often that normal people. Stress suppresses the immune system.

“It’s probably nothing,” she admits, head ducked from his peering eyes. She picks insistently at her nails, which tells Dave all he really needs to know on the matter. It isn’t nothing. Whatever Emily saw, and whatever she hasn’t told him in full, bothered her. Given Emily and Hotch’s strange relationships-- at one another throats and then the best of friends-- he reckon, it is bad. 

“I’ll talk to him,” Dave says with a sigh. His head already hurts just thinking about the loops that boy is going to make him jump through. He chuckles to himself. Boy. Aaron Hotchner isn’t much of a boy anymore. Although, it’s not hard to see that knuckle-headed recruit from twenty some years ago. 

Unfortunately, Dave, also, knows exactly what she’s talking about. Just yesterday he’d followed a nose-diving, clearly distraught Aaron Hotchner into the men’s bathroom.

“Aaron?” Dave gives him a moment. Waits until the gagging stops and he hears the sound of lazily, uncoordinated movement as Hotch tries and fails to pull himself back to his feet. Calling the younger man’s name out again, he pushes the stall open so that he can see in better. “You okay, son?”

Hotch is curled into himself, head tilted back against the cool plastic of the stall wall. His dark hair is haloed out around his head, sticking up in every direction. Slowly his eyes drag up to Dave, surrounded by the dark bags and the light brown of his iris’ accented by the aggravated vessels of his eye. That answers one question: he sure as hell isn’t sleeping.

“Fine,” Hotch rasps, voice cracking around the soreness lodged in his throat. “I’m fine.” He pulls himself upright. With an audience, standing is mandatory. He’s not going to be on his knees in front of anyone. With a muffled cough, he throws out a fumbling hand to connect with the commode handle. Flushing the meager ex-contents of his stomach.

On his feet once again, he leans into the door for a moment. The world attempting to give out from beneath his feet.

Dave reaches out and touches his elbow, wrapping his hand around his arm. He’s a little too worried to leave just yet. “You sure about that,” Dave asks. “You don’t seem alright. “The glare that comes his way is concentrated and while it doesn’t scare Dave into leaving Hotch alone, it does assure him that Hotch is already doing better.

As it turns out, “doing better” was temporary. 

“I told you,” Hotch states calmly, his voice the picture of calm and steady. Controlled. “I’m fine.” He keeps his gaze on the whiskey he’s gently spinning around his glass. 

“You’re getting old,” Dave brushes it off. He pours Hotch another two fingers of the whiskey, not really asking just leaning over and pouring. Hotch doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t validate the statement. “We’re not as young as we once were,” Dave sighs. There’s a melancholy that settles over the room. Dave thinks about that lanky kid he picked up in Seattle. He had no way of knowing that kid would turn into the man in front of him today. A trusted friend. A son.

Dave lets the heavy taste of the whiskey settle on his tongue, shaking his head as he fails to think of anything but the last few years. Of the trouble brought into their lives.

Hotch cups the tumbler in his hands, looking down into the amber liquid. He’s not sure how to say it, really. The thing is, he knows something is wrong. But… he glances at Dave, the older man smirking as he raises his glass to his lips, maybe it’s just in his head. 

He’s having nightmares. Not the usual ones, although, those aren’t all that normal either. The thing is, he’s dreaming of Haley. He hasn’t dreamt of Haley in years. He never dealt with those emotions and that trauma the right way but that typically reflects itself more around the anniversaries of the attacks. Not now. Not without reason.

He’s right. He just doesn’t know that yet.

“You okay, man?” 

Hotch sticks to a very predictable routine. When he deviates from it, it’s still not that crazy. It’s 11:30, and like always, he comes down from his office for his third cup of coffee. Today, his fingers are digging into the pale flesh of his temple. More alarming than the pallor of his skin is the blatant pain etched across his forehead. Completely out of character.

“Hotch?”

It’s like he doesn’t even hear Morgan the first time. Now he startles slightly, flinching as Emily and Morgan both step into the breakroom beside him. Absently, he watches as Emily pulls the mug of coffee from his hands. Nothing more than a grunt of annoyance gracing his lips when she pours it down the sink. 

“You’re going to give yourself an ulcer,” she states, filling it, instead, with cold water from the tap. “Besides, you look like you need a nap.”

Morgan envies the relationships she has with their boss. Dying Hotch wouldn’t let Morgan anywhere near his coffee. “When was the last time you slept anyways,” Morgan asks, tucking his arms against his chest. He’s preparing for a pushback. For shields and that steely look in his friends eyes. 

Because that’s what’s normal.

“Last night,” Hotch says instead, taking his mug of water from Emily with a frown. 

There are no shields. 

“For more than a few hours, man,” Morgan amends. “Seven or eight hours not four.” 

The water still taste like coffee-- so like shit. However, it’s probably better on his empty stomach. Besides, water isn’t as cruel coming back up. As far as Morgan’s question goes, he can’t remember. Not recently, that’s for sure. “Don’t you have work to do,” he grunts, raising an eyebrow.

That’s Hotch. 

Morgan looks him up and down one last time before nodding. 

Emily eyes him a moment to long and Morgan shakes his head, his suspensions confirmed. 

“Drink the water,” Emily states, following Morgan out. 

Wednesday he spaces out during a meeting. 

It’s not pressing even though it’s at the round table. They’re just bored and looking for something interesting to do-- so Dave drags him out of his office. He’s been hiding out there, only coming out when he has to. Secluded to the dark cool space.  

His eyes seemed glassy and if he were anyone else, they might jokingly inquire about his sobriety. It’s insensitive now, wrong. By now, it’s impossible to deny that something’s wrong.

“Hotch?’

Palm pressed into his eye-socket, he’s trying to swallow down the nausea creeping up his throat. “Hmm,” he grunts, clenching his teeth tightly to refrain from wincing.

“Are you alright?” Reid. He’s sitting beside Hotch, leaning close to the larger man. Nearly pressed into his side, his sore side. Reid watches a vein in his forehead jump so he puts some more space between them. Shying away for a moment. “I can…” he clears his throat nervously. “I have, uhm, I have Tylenol.” He stutters, eyes catching the other’s now that the low hum of their voices has cut through the mostly silent room. “If you--If--If you want that.”

Hotch gently reaches down and knocks a knuckle against his thigh. They meet eyes and Reid feels himself calm immediately. “That would--” Hotch has to stop and clear his throat. “Please.” 

Reid nods his head, standing ducking his gaze from the other’s. He’s got a mission, a way he can help, and he’s content for the moment.

Hotch knows the Tylenol isn’t going to help, nothing has, but it’ll make Reid feel good to have something to do. That, within itself, is good enough.

Until it isn’t.

He wakes with a startle. The breath in his lungs effectively knocked out. A whimper leaves his lips, twisting in agony at the pain down his sternum into his abdomen. Slowly, the black of his vision patters out but he’s left covered in a cold sweat and shaking. 

Panting, he sits up, holding his side with his hand as he does so. Shit… and it’s ten o’clock. “J-Jessica?” he’s shaking so bad that he has to lean back against the couch. “Hey,” he rasps. “Is, ugh, is Jack up?”

He’s not but that just leaves more time for Jessica to fret. She’s noticed things are off too and after Hotch promised to be home last night… he’d worried her. He’s still worrying her. 

“I’m okay,” he rasps. “Just…” his lip twitches as he just stares into the carpet of his office. It’s getting so hard to keep up this ruse. To keep lying. He wants to cave. For someone to just take care of him so this madness can end but… he doesn’t want to burden anyone. Not when Jessica already does so much. “I just lost track of time, Jess. I’m sorry. I, ugh, fell asleep on the couch in my office.”

He closes his eyes, head tilted back. He’s still exhausted which is too exhausted to say anything when Jessica lays into him about spending too much time at the office. “It’s gonna be the death of you Aaron,” she whispers, the fear in her voice thick. “You can’t do that to this boy,” she adds. “Not to any of us.”

Us.

He… He hadn’t considered that.

Us.

“I--” he squints at his phone, frowning at the Amber Alert he sees. “I gotta go, Jess.” At least he feels guilty about it. “I’ll talk to you later…”

Thin ice but when isn’t he?

Standing is… it’s really hard. He keeps one hand pressed to the wall as he walks, each step a little too unsteady. Pulling in a deep breath he straightens his back out and walks into the conference room. The other’s glance up but no better than to look for too long.

Mercifully.

He starts to struggle to breath, his body shaking against his will. The room is freezing, leaving his skin tight and pained with the goosebumps raised across his arms. He needs to sit down but if he sits down he won’t be able to get back up. He can’t know for certain, his breathing is labored and his vision is swimming-- he’s got to get out of this room. “E--Excuse me.”

His shoulders slump and his roll back into his head.

“Hotch!”

part 2 is in progress but you can still yell at me about the cliff hanger down below if you’d like :)... I mean, a comment is a comment

[waywardnerd67]

The Queen’s Court - Chap 22 Mouth of Sin

Summary: Dean asks (Y/N) out for a drink bringing up feelings she had been trying to bury deep. Characters: Dean Winchester, Reader Pairing: Dean x Reader Warnings: Fluff/Smut/Dean’s mouth (yes that’s a warning) Word Count: 1188 Squared Filled: Oral Fixation A/N #1: This is for @spnkinkbingo card A/N #2: As always this is unbeta so all mistakes are mine. Likes, comments and reblogs are splendid and I will love you doubly for them! Enjoy!

Check Out: The Queen’s Court Masterlist

Opening the door to her home, (Y/N) set her bag down and kicked off her heels. She had a few meetings with investors and dinner with a city alderman about her business. Really, all he wanted was a deal for his employees to have a discount and was not happy when she said no. Now all she could think about was stripping out of her clothes and crawling in bed. Just as she walked into her bedroom her phone started to buzz.

“Hi pretty boy.” she answered, unzipping her dress.

“Hey pretty girl, was wondering if you wanted to come have a drink with me? Sammy and I are on our way back from a case and stopped here for the night.” She could hear him getting into his beloved Impala.

It was already past eleven and she was exhausted, “You know I do. Meet me at O’Reilly’s on 14th Street in fifteen minutes.”

(Y/N) sighed, getting up to put on a pair of jeans, tank top and her favorite Chuck Taylors. Fifteen minutes later she was walking into her regular bar finding Dean sitting at a table towards the back. His eyes widened as she approached.

“Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in anything but a robe or dress before. Normal clothes looked good on you.” He said sliding over a glass of whiskey towards her.

She sat across from him, “I don’t really get a chance to drop the whole business woman image. Thank you,” she held her glass up to him before downing it.

Over the next hour, they drank and talked about their childhoods, cases, and everything in between. (Y/N) let her guard down around him and the very feelings she had trapped were bubbling up. She sat listening to him go on and on about cases he worked finding it hard to push her feelings away. (Y/N) admired Dean for his strength and compassion.

“Do I have something on my face?” he asked, shaking her out of her thoughts.

(Y/N) shook her head, “No. Sorry, I just love listening to you talk.”

He chuckled drinking the last of his beer. The way he wrapped his lips around the bottle distracted her from the overwhelming flood of emotions clouding her mind. His tongue slipped over his bottom lip before dragging it beneath his teeth. As he continued to talk, she focused on how he always had something in his mouth or pressed against it.

He drew symbols on a napkin placing the cap between his lips. His tongue flicked over the tip then pushed it to one side of his mouth. He gently bit down on it concentrating on what he was doing. She found herself squeezing her thighs together. Pleasure knocking away the feelings that had bubbled up. Sex, getting off, fantasizing were all things her heart could handle. Emotions and love were not.

Dean moved over to the chair next to her explaining the drawings, “These were the sigils that were reanimating the corpses. Sam and I had to dig up every stiff to mark this out so the dead would stay dead.”

His eyes connected with hers seeing right through her. He chuckled, folding the napkin into his jacket pocket and grabbed her hand, “Let’s get out of here.”

For once, she was truly thankful for Dean being able to read her like a book, “I don’t live far from here.”

They hopped into Baby making the short trip back to her place. He was kissing her neck making her giggle as she unlocked the door. Stumbling in, Dean shut and locked the door before pulling her back to him.

“You have to tell me, what got you all hot and bothered? Beheadings, zombies, what?” He chuckled as (Y/N) pushed his jacket onto the floor.

She pulled her tank top over her head tossing it behind her, “Honestly, I wasn't listening about all of that. I was so damn distracted by your mouth.”

“My mouth?” He laughed his eyes following her hands as they pushed her jeans and panties down her legs kicking her shoes off along with them.

“Yes, did you know you have this oral fixation?” she asked, pulling him towards her living room.

He shook his head, “Nope, no idea what you’re talking about.”

(Y/N) hopped up onto the breakfast bar that separated her kitchen and living room, “Well, you do. You are constantly putting objects between your lips and moving them with your tongue. The way you drink a beer wrapping your lips around the mouth of the bottle then licking your lips afterward. Don’t even get me started on you biting your lip.”

Dean stood in between her legs purposely biting his lip, “You mean like this?”

“Yes, so I thought it was best if we come back here to give your mouth something to do rather than on the bar table.” She wrapped her legs around his waist pulling him against her.

“I don’t know, that would have been quite the show.” Dean pressed his lips against the base of her throat, “I never realized my mouth could be so distracting.”

He kissed his way between her breasts while his hands gathered them together. Kissing her nipple to a peak before drawing it into his mouth. (Y/N) ran her fingers through his hair tugging on it gently. Kissing his way to her other nipple, Dean repeated what he did then sucked on it gently.

“Oh  god…” she breathed out slowly rolling her hips against him.

(Y/N) pushed softly on his head to move down when he kept switching back and forth between her nipples, “Pretty girl, would you like my mouth somewhere else?”

She nodded, “Please, Dean.”

He left a sloppy trail of kisses down her stomach until he was hovering over her aching mound. He ran his fingers over her slick lips spreading them. She rolled her head back as he toyed with her.

“Dean!” she snapped needy for his mouth on her.

A low chuckle was muffled by his mouth pressing against her. He flattened his tongue against her clit rubbing it up and down against her. Laying back against the cold counter, she gripped the edge grinding herself against his face.

“Needy girl.” he whispered before flicking her clit with the tip of his tongue.

“Oh god yes. Make me come pretty boy.” She let out a yelp as Dean feverishly worked her pussy over, “Fuck Dean, right there.”

He was suckling her clit as he pushed two fingers inside of her. The pressure in the pit of her stomach rapidly building. (Y/N) held the back of his head shamelessly grinding herself against his face. Her body flooded with pleasure as Dean curled his fingers within her and sucked hard on her clit. She cried out his name as she rode out her orgasm.

“Holy mouth of sin, Dean.” she panted as he helped her off the counter and saw his face covered with her juices, “Bedroom. Now. Upstairs.”

Dean chuckled, picking her up over his shoulder, “My thoughts exactly.”

If you enjoyed this story then check out my Masterlist!

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[captcas]

Worth Fighting For (11/?)

WORTH FIGHTING FOR by capthamm

Killian “Hook” Jones is a dominate up and comer in the UFC while Emma “The Savior” Swan’s career was cut short. When Hook’s manager moves up and the office brings in UFC’s youngest legend to keep him in check, will either of them be able to handle it?

read on ao3 // tumblr: ch 1/ ch 2 / ch 3 / ch 4 / ch 5 / ch 6 / ch 7 / ch 8 / ch 9 / ch 10 [Chapter 11/?] 

As fast as her smile faded, Emma’s mask slips back on and she answers for him, “Mr. Jones was unaware of this development and will not be answering any further questions.

She turns away from the reporters, each of them arguing with her decision, but Killian knows better than to question her right now. He gives them all a wink to stay “in character” and turns to follow Emma– scratch that, chase after Emma. She’s practically at a dead sprint, and he’s trying to keep up with her while simultaneously calling them a car. It’s not until she’s out of the stadium that she finally stops, taking a deep breath of fresh air and pacing. He reaches out towards her, words of worry on his tongue when she turns towards him. He drops his hand to his side. “Not here. I will explain, but not here.” He nods, unsure of how else to help excluding pulling her into his arms which he’s not entirely sure would help the situation at all. Luckily the car arrives quickly and they’re on the road without further incident.

Emma doesn’t speak for the entire ride back to the hotel.  

Or for the next forty-five minutes as they nurse seperate tumblers of rum at the dimly lit hotel bar.

Killian is desperately curious as to just who this Neal fellow is, but resists the urge to privately google him. Emma deserves to tell him why she reacted that way— who Neal is to her— if that’s what she wishes. He absent-mindedly watches the recap of the fights on SportsCenter as Emma practically chews a hole through her bottom lip pausing only to take a sip from her glass. He can’t help but stare, even visibly perplexed in horrible lighting Emma is the most radiant woman he’s ever seen. She catches him looking and meets his eye before he can shy away. Emma sighs, finishing the rest of her rum and signaling for another, before turning to Killian, “I suppose I should start at the beginning…”

He can tell she’s nervous and attempts to lighten the mood, “Aye, lass, that’s usually where all tales begin.” He winks and she cracks a small smile disrupted only by a larger sigh than the first.

“I was 18, just started training at the UFC gym on a scholarship for athletics I received in high school. It was technically supposed to go towards college but that wasn’t really my thing. It didn’t take very long for me to realize I was good… really good. Gold wanted me on Contender Series almost immediately and my career jump started before I could say ‘Ultimate Fighting’. Well, the higher ups weren’t the only ones who noticed.” Emma pauses. Killian wants to ask so many questions, but is nervous to break the very thin thread of trust they’re walking right now. He nods slightly so she knows he’s listening and she gives him a tight-lipped smile.

“He was older and already established in the league. He– he took me under his wing and showed me the ropes– media, fight nights, training, all that. Neal was my best friend…” She hesitates again and Killian uses every ounce of willpower not to grab her hand. “...and then he was more than that. We were always so careful but he had just won a huge fight and even got the Fight of the Night bonus. A little drunk– and not just on adrenaline– shit happens.” Emma hangs her head in her hands and Killian starts to put two and two together.

“Henry…” It comes out in a whisper, and entirely by accident. Emma’s eyes meet his and he expects anger but he just sees relief– he understands.

“Nothing gets past you.” She says it half joking and through the sting of rum, but he knows this is further in her story than she would usually dare to  go. “Found out I was pregnant with his kid as his career was gaining momentum and that was that. I also found out he’d been betting on my fights based off what I told him in training and winning a shitload of money. So for whichever reason— maybe a combination of both— he left, blocked my number, and I was left with a positive pregnancy test and an empty apartment. It sucked, but it wasn’t long before I decided I was better without him. I left the sport and the minute I looked into Henry’s eyes, I knew I’d never be back in that ring.”

Killian has never wanted to knock someone out more. He can feel his fist clenching and tries to stop his jaw from tightening. Killian tries to tell himself that it’s not his place to be angry over something that happened to Emma– his heart doesn’t seem to care. “You didn’t deserve that, Swan.”

Emma nods. “I know that– now. I’ve come to terms with it.”

“Pardon my forwardness, love, but if your reaction back there is any indication I’d say that’s not true.” She goes to argue and he raises his hand to continue, “Not that I would blame you. I like a right crack at the bloke…”

Emma bursts out laughing, interrupting him. “Well, it appears you’re going to get your chance, Jones. And I am over it, just… wasn’t expecting the question– or you to be fighting him.”

Killian must give a questioning look because she sighs once more, “He’s been out of the league for awhile, working behind the scenes with his dad I’d imagine…”

“I’m sorry, love, his dad?”

“Gold.” The hair on the back of his neck stands up, realizing how deep Neal Cassidy’s blood runs in the league– clearly the reason he ran.

“Ah. Well, Swan, I promise to give him hell in that octagon.” Killian tries to make a joke but Emma is clearly still weighed down by something.

“Henry doesn’t know.”

There it is.

“He knows his dad is somehow connected to all this but he doesn’t know it’s Neal.”

“Why haven’t you told him?” Killian asks the question before he can second guess himself.

“I signed a NDA when Henry was born. Neal gave up his rights and I gave up child support and the right to tell Henry who his real father was. Once he turns 18, Henry can do whatever he wants, but I can’t— and don’t want to— tell him.”

“I would very much like to meet this Neal outside of the octagon.” She doesn’t need him to protect her, but he’ll gladly kick the arse of a man as despicable as that.

“You and me both.” She ends the conversation with that statement. Ordering one more round for the two of them and turning towards the TV. Killian doesn’t pry; grateful for her trust. They chat about nothing, but Killian doesn’t miss the slight touches of her hand or the way her smile finally reaches her eyes. He can’t be sure, but it’s almost as if sharing her story took some of the weight off her shoulders; her past easier to carry on four shoulders rather than two.

Killian is more than happy to share the burden.

. . .

Emma feels lighter, maybe even happier. She never intended on sharing her story with Killian but now that it’s out in the open she feels like the wall she was so certain would remain between the two of them has crumbled. She finds herself longing for small touches and even stealing small flirtatious glances. She’d have to be an idiot not to notice that Killian was sending them right back at her.

This is uncharted territory.

As they walk back to the hotel room, both slightly tipsy, the energy is reminiscent of the night they shared their first kiss– it scares her that she doesn’t seem to mind. When Killian unlocks the door, holding it open to follow her inside, the brush of his fingers on her back feel like lightning— a quick glance over her shoulder tells her he feels it too. Killian promptly excuses himself to the bathroom and Emma uses the brief moment to try and shake it out.

She’s not sure why she thought that would work.

Killian smiles as he leaves the bathroom, grabbing two bottles of water out of the fridge and handing one to her. If her fingers linger longer than they should have, but so do Killian’s. They sit awkwardly on the edge of the bed, and Emma reaches for the remote to fill the silence that is becoming uncomfortable in its safety.

She catches her breath when Killian speaks up. “For what it’s worth, Emma, I would nev–”

“I know.” It comes out without hesitation or thought. She meets his eyes briefly before inadvertently– yet not regrettably– glancing towards his lips.

She’s shocked to find she misses them.

That’s probably why she leans in a bit… she hopes that’s why he leans in too. Emma feels his fingers entangle in her hair. Their eyes meet and he pauses– it’s up to her.

It’s always been up to her.

Their lips meet and she’s internally kicking herself for waiting so long– and for their forced proximity turning them into a trope in a shitty romance novel.

Man, is he a good kisser.  

They come up for air, Killian’s forehead never leaving hers and his thumb sending shockwaves through the nerves in her cheeks. She feels like she’s on fire in the best way imaginable– it's a new feeling, not one she even felt with Neal. It’s simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying. As he softly kisses her collar bone, she’s positive they could light all of Boston with the energy between them.

She leans in more, suddenly craving as much contact with him as possible. The want is foreign, but in no way uncomfortable. With Neal intimacy was a chore– something she did with as much enthusiasm as washing the dishes, but she’s only kissed Killian twice and ever since her mind has flooded with emotions she’d only seen in movies.

She doesn’t want this feeling to end.

Before she can stop it, Killian’s backing up and she feels the loss. As he rubs his hands over his face, Emma’s heart drops.

She’s made a horrible mistake. Emma assumed she was picking up signals that she’s usually pretty blind to– apparently nothing has changed. “Killian, I–”

“Don’t get me wrong, love. I really–”

“I know, you don’t feel the same way. I shouldn’t have–”

Killian grabs her by either side of her face, leveling with her, “Swan, I’ve been wanting to do that since the moment we met… and even more so since– since last time.”

“But…” Emma knows there’s a but.

“But… I need to know that this is what you want. That you aren’t getting swept up in some moment… I can’t–”

Oh. “Killian, I don’t– I’m not– I just know I feel… something.”

“Aye, love. As do I.” His eyes turn from worry to kindness and she feels herself catch back up with the intensity of her want.

“Can that be enough for now?” It isn’t fair–to either of them– but Emma needs an out. She knows, without one, this will crash and burn before they’ve even started.

“I am quite a patient man.” She isn’t sure if that’s an agreement to the murky terms she so haphazardly laid between them and shoots him a puzzled look. He chuckles softly, “Aye, love. I’ll gladly take whatever you give.” She smiles, finding comfort in moving at her own pace (which is as unknown to her as it is him). Emma leans in again, stealing a chaste kiss from him and he smiles.

They silently agree to move towards the back of the bed, and she settles in tucked beneath Killian’s arm. He mostly comments about the show on TV, some procedural re-run he must’ve seen before. Emma listens intently, each word lighting a new spark inside of her. She’s been told love and intimacy were electric, but until recently she thought it was just an over exaggeration at best– now she’s positive it’s real. Between conversations they make-out like teenagers, but in small moments she feels Killian’s thumb brush across her hip bone or his lips gently kiss her temple and she’s never felt so alive.

When morning comes, Emma finds herself in a similar position to the one she fell asleep in, Killian’s strong arms wrapped around her in a hug like none she’s ever felt before. She feels his breath move steadily against the back of her head and finds peace in his rhythmic nature. It’s probably that which allows her to slip back into sleep for another hour only waking when she feels Killian do so beside her. With a kiss to her shoulder, he promises coffee and gets up to retrieve it.

The bed is cold without him in it.

She can’t possibly be used to that already, can she? Before she has time to contemplate what that really means, she gets up to shower. Killian is back with coffee and donuts by the time she emerges from the bathroom. They’ve not said two words about last night, but Emma kisses him all the same as he hands her the hot cup. He seems surprised at first, most likely expecting her to backtrack on all they’d discussed the previous night, and Emma doesn’t blame him. That kiss is all it took for Killian to brighten up. The entire morning happy and chipper, even as they drive home and get stuck in traffic.

Emma likes having that effect on him.

Emma likes him.

As Killian pulls up to her apartment, Emma is so engaged in heated debate over hard shell vs. soft shell tacos that she doesn’t realize the time. This car ride goes much quicker than the one to the hotel, their conversation flowing easily– so much so she even forgets about Neal. They exit the car, “Killian it is impossible to eat tacos in a hard shell. They practically become nach–”

“MOOOOOOM!”

Emma freezes, the reality of her situation hitting her like a train going full speed.

Emma snaps out of it at the feeling of his head hitting her smack in the stomach. “Hi kid! I missed you!” Emma kisses the top of his head before he pulls back.

She can tell the moment he sees Killian.

“Oh my god. Mom?! That’s Hook!” She hears Killian chuckle and she can’t help the ping of happiness she feels in her gut.

“Aye, lad. In the flesh.” Killian mock bows for Henry and she’s not sure she’s ever seen a smile so wide– on either of them. “You must be Henry?”

She was wrong; that is the widest smile she’s ever seen out of her son. The fear she felt has completely dissipated as she watches Killian interact with Henry. They hit it off immediately, Henry asking at least one hundred questions about the UFC and Killian answering each fully and genuinely. Her stomach flips.

Emma’s so enamored with the scene in front of her that she almost forgets Mary Margaret had to have dropped him off. Emma practically jumps when she appears at her side. “Wow, he’s good with him.”

“Stop.”

Mary Margaret smiles, Emma’s shut down most likely a clear indicator of what’s happening between her and Killian. “Just saying.”

“Thanks for watching him. I owe you a million.”

Ms smiles brightly. “Anytime.” The hidden meaning is not lost on Emma, but she’s not about to humor any of her friend’s shenanigans – at least not yet. “Bye Henry... Hook.” The boys wave and Emma swears her heart doesn’t do another belly flop.

She never meant for Killian to meet Henry this soon, but she also never meant for Killian to happen at all. It’s weird how her life has a tendency to chew her up and spit her out in exactly the spot she needs to be. When she looks at the way he is with her son, and catches Killian’s slight glance towards her– smile bright and full– she’s startled to find she can’t imagine a scenario where this isn’t exactly where he’s meant to be, too.

[arlome]

Drabble Me This

Okay, friends, here be all the prompts I owe you! I apologize in advance, they’re not what I usually provide you with - in order to actually fill them all out I opted for drabble/drabble-adjacent form. I hope you’re happy with them, nonetheless!

 For @bluecityrose:

1. Casual touch, bed, a distraction (Phrack):

There’s blood in his lungs, there’s mud in his eyes, there’s death in his heart. A scream rises in his belly – deep, deep down, pressing on his kidneys, treading on his spleen – and spills as dying gurgles from the ashes of his throat. It goes on and on, he’s shaking, trembling; there’s pressure on his left side, hot, burning –

He wakes gasping to find her pressed to him, her eyes wet and fingers gentle. She touches his arm, she touches his ribs, she kisses his shoulder.

“You’re safe, Jack,” she mumbles into his neck. “You’re safe, darling.”

He lets her distract him.

 2. Bumping shoulders together, piano bench, fun (Phrack):

The number he’s playing is nothing short of bewitching. His fingers are flying on the keys – caressing, kissing, making love to the blacks, romancing the whites – masterful strokes by masterful hands.

She slides onto the bench next to him as his hands still, bumps her shoulder against his.

“What sort of witchcraft is this, Inspector Robinson?” she asks, beyond charmed.

He flushes rather prettily and smiles self-deprecatingly at the keys.

“It’s called “The Crave”,” he says, giving the keys a little wobble. “By Jelly-Roll Morton. My brother and I heard it played by someone who met Jelly-Roll in Chicago last year. And, well, I picked it up.”

Clever, clever man.

She leans into him, her red lips pressed to the spot below his ear.

“Well, I know a little something about craving.”

He smiles.

 3. Speaking against skin, bathroom, happiness (Rosie/Jack):

He stands before the basin wearing nothing but his trousers, the blade gliding down his sharp cheek with immaculate precision. There’s steam rising from the water, clouding the mirror; she can hear the clink of the razor hitting the ceramic bowl as he rinses it out.

Her eyes half-masted, she lounges in bed, still warm from his caresses, but the strong lines of his back beckon.  He’s a masterpiece of strong arms and broad shoulder, of lean musculature and wiry sinews. And the way he moves between her thighs –

She hides her blush between his shoulder blades, wraps her arms around his slender hips. The blade halts in its descent.  

“I’d have you spend the rest of the day in my bed, Constable Robinson,” she sighs against his skin.

He drops the razor in the water and turns in her embrace. Only one side of his face is clean-shaven.

“Time and crime wait for no man, Mrs Robinson,” he replies cheekily, and she rolls her eyes at him. That man and his puns.

But ever the generous lover, he leans to press kisses to her lips, her nose, her ear.

“I shall die in thy lap tonight, Rosie,” he rasps, and the promise sinks low in her belly.

It’s only after he’s gone for the day that she realises there’s shaving cream on the tip of her nose.

 For @whopooh :

4. Tracing fingers over skin, friends or relative’s house, as a distraction (Rosie/Jack):

She’d never thought she’d lose her virginity against the door of her father’s study - during her own engagement party, no less – but here they are.

It all starts innocently enough -she touches his wrist; he’s got his hand on the small of her back – it’s nothing short of chaste and above-board, and she – the epitome of virtue and chastity.  

Until she isn’t.

It takes but a minute to drag him down the corridor when no-one’s looking, another to start fumbling with his crisp suit. And bless him - he tries to be noble - but she burns, and burns for him; she has no use for men of God or magistrates. She’s his and he is hers, and the door is a good place as any to affirm the connection.  

He’s pressing into her with all the eagerness of a man in love and kisses her with tenderness tenfold. And afterwards, they giggle and blush, sharing his now thoroughly soiled handkerchief, and kiss with teeth.

There’re specks of dried blood on her inner thighs for the rest of the evening. She doesn’t give a jot.

 For Anon no’ 1:

5. Scratching back/scalp, kitchen, no reason at all (Phrack):

Mr Butler rises early, even on Sundays. It’s not because of his job – he’s always been an early riser, even in his youth – but rather because he doesn’t like missing time. Besides, Mrs Butler had always been especially fond of mornings.

He enters the kitchen at half-past-six and starts on the eggs; he’s got a feeling they’d be in high demand soon. As will be a pot of tea, and some toast, no doubt. Better add some biscuits, and Dorothy’s scrumptious nut loaf, too; they’d never go to waste.

Sure enough, at quarter-to-seven, he can hear the tell-tale groan of the stairs, and a following “good morning, Mr Butler,” mumbled in a familiar, deep voice, still raspy with sleep. He turns around, smiling amicably, and gestures towards one of the chairs.

“Good morning, Inspector,” he greats the immaculately dressed man. “Would you care for some eggs, and the paper?”

Something lights up behind the still slumbering eyes of the younger man when Mr Butler starts plating the eggs and toast.

“Thank you, Mr Butler,” he says gratefully, and takes a sip of tea, sighing in content at the warmth.

“Is it to the station today, Inspector?” the older man asks, in genuine curiosity. “On a Sunday?”

The man colours a little and lowers his toast.

“I took Detective Herrington’s shift,” he explains, clearing his throat. “His wife is unwell, and I don’t mind, really.”

Mr Butler smiles pleasantly and nods. He really is quite fond of the Inspector.

He excuses himself to his duties after a while - the silver needs a good polish – and retreats to the pantry, to give the younger man his space. He’s right in the midst of polishing a rather stubborn knife when the stairs creak again; a discreet, inquisitive peak reveals Miss Fisher, still sleep-tussled, entering the kitchen.

The paper doesn’t move as she draws closer, but the smile on her face indicates that the reader has noticed her arrival.  She reaches the Inspector’s chair, and leans over his shoulder, stroking her fingers into his coiffed hair and causing him to groan in protest. Her laughter is low and husky and is all too endearing to the man in the chair, if the lowered paper and the soft smile on his face are any indications. When he reaches for Miss Fisher and pulls her into his lap, causing his teacup to rattle on the table, Mr Butler averts his gaze, smiling.

After all, the silver needs a good polish.

 For @firesign23 :

6. Hooking chin over shoulder, hospital, writer’s own idea (Phrack):

There’s a raid and it’s ugly, as these things often tend to be. He knows it, Collins knows it – hell, even Mrs Collins knows is – and yet…

Phryne comes up from behind him, hugs his waist and hooks her chin over his shoulder.

“I ordered Dot to go home and rest,” she murmurs softly, kissing the wool of his suit jacket; he can feel the pressure of her lips through the fabric. “She shouldn’t be running around so close to her time, no matter the circumstances.”

He nods absent-mindedly, his eyes glued to the immobile figure on the bed. This should never have happened. He should never have –

“Jack,” Phryne’s voice is tender and gentle, and he has to physically restrain himself – he mustn’t flinch, he mustn’t – “this isn’t your fault.”

He nods mutely again.

Then why does it feel like it is?

  For @aurora-australis-tumbles:

7. Hooking chin over shoulder, floor, habit (Rosie/Jack):

They lie on the rug before the hearth, sated and bested.

He’s flat on his belly, eyes closed, and she traces the scars on his back in heart-breaking finality, her fingers trembling over the puckered flesh.

It cannot go on, she knows it, and she suspects he does, as well. This – the frenzied joining of bodies, the heated kissing of skin – is all they have left of their crumbling marriage; nothing to show for but a quiet house and a few fleeting moments of ecstasy.

“Jack,” her voice shakes as she presses a kiss to his shoulder. “I want a divorce.”

He stiffens, doesn’t turn, but his voice is soft and tender when he answers, “whatever you want, Rosie.”

She hooks her chin over his shoulder, years of habit coming to her aid, and kisses his cheek. She’s not the least bit surprised to find it as wet as hers.

“I love you still,” she mutters against his jawline, feels the slight spasm in the muscles.

“And I, you, Rosie,” he answers, his voice hoarse with feeling. “Always.”

They lie entwined for hours until the night is out.

 8. Playing with hair, sofa, for the first time (Phrack):

The bottle of Italian wine is consumed rather swiftly, followed by two cocktails and quite a few tumblers of her best single malt. Jack and Phryne, a little past tipsy, abandon all pretence at properness and decorum, and sit so close on the chase, that they all but appear fused together.

His hand traces the strands of her raven hair very softly, and she wonders whether he’s aware of the action at all.

“Do you regret it, Jack?”

He turns to look at her upturned face. Her eyes are a little moist and worried, the clear emotion shining through; her intoxicated mind is bringing down the walls, brick by brick.

His lips still tingle from that kiss, from being pressed to foreign lips, from tasting a mouth that wasn’t hers. He knows his own heart now; there’s no more doubt.

“Not a thing,” he vows, fingers dancing down the nape of her neck.

She sighs into his shoulder, finally at ease.

 For @thewillowbends:

9. Holding hands, train compartment, nostalgia (Phrack):

The train ride is as uneventful as they come, which – frankly – comes as quite the shock.

She flips the pages of her book in clear boredom, not paying the slightest attention to the words.

From across the table, her partner glances at her fondly over his newspaper.

“Getting bored with the quiet life, Miss Fisher?” he asks cheekily, to which she sighs quite dramatically and harrumphs in a rather unladylike manner.

“You’d think they’d at least supply us with a juicy murder or two!”

“I wasn’t aware the option was included in the train fare,” he deadpans and folds the paper.

She rolls her eyes at him, supposedly unimpressed, but the slight curl of her lips tells a different story.

He reaches for her hands.

“Do you remember our previous train ride together, Miss Fisher?”

“I remember there wasn’t much riding involved, Inspector.”

The glint in his eyes borders on wicked.

“I reckon it’s high time we remedied that.”

She can’t discard her book fast enough.

 For @dssculpture:

10. Sitting close enough to press knees together, work, no reason at all (Phrack):

There’s a case, and there’s supper.

They sit to a feast of succulent duck and very good wine. Mr Butler has outdone himself once more.

They talk and laugh and flirt as they discuss the case. There’s light in her eyes, and freedom in his.

Once the food is cleared away, they spread papers and files and evidence all over the dining room table, and huddle close to inspect the facts.

The hours pass, the whisky flows, and facts turn a little blurry. He can smell the sharp scent of her perfume, underlined with just a tinge of sweat; she can feel his warm breath on her neck. Their knees press together.

There’s too much whisky, and too much everything else. He rises to excuse himself; she follows to escort him to the door. The files are left scattered on her table.

He walks home to clear his head.

 11.Tracing fingers over skin, Aunt P’s, Mischief (Phrack):

He’s being wicked again.

Hand slipping under her dress, fingers dancing over sensitive skin – up, up, up; just above her garter, tracing the borders of her French silk – stroke after stroke after stroke. When one daft finger decides to declare war on France, she nearly chokes on the Asparagus Aunt P is so fond of serving at luncheon.

It’s another dreadfully dull affair at the old battle-axe’s – fundraising for this or that cause; she’s there solely to charm – and the poor Inspector is amusing himself in a way that should frankly lead to his arrest. And hers as well, for that matter. She casts a glance in his direction and finds him thoroughly engrossed in his food; below the desk, his finger traces her clit.

She clamps her thighs hard on his hand.

He lifts his head from the plate and raises his eyebrows in challenge.

Why, the smug bastard!

She turns to her aunt in false brightness, determined to take him down a peg.

“Aunt P,” she calls across the table, “did you know, Jack here is eager to hear all about your collection of miniature zebras! About each and every one of them, in fact!”

To her left, she hears Jack try to stifle a horrified groan unsuccessfully, and she smirks in triumph.

After all, two can play this game.

 For Anon no’ 2:

12. Rub arms/back for warmth, rain, stubbornness (Phrack):

The police car breaks down just a few kilometres shy of Melbourne. The rain begins to fall quite heavily precisely four minutes after. Inside the car, the rather miffed pair of passengers sit with their arms crossed and their brows furrowed.

“This wouldn’t have happened if we took my car, Jack!” protests the lady of the two. Her clothes are elegant and expertly tailored, but hardly right for being stranded in the middle of nowhere with a storm brewing.

“On police business, I drive the police motorcar, Miss Fisher,” mutters the man called ‘Jack’, his tone indicating that this is an often-repeated mantra of his. “Besides, none of this would have happened, if – “

“If what, Inspector?”

“You know what, Miss Fisher!”

“Oh! So this is all somehow my fault?”

Thunderous silence descends upon the vehicle in a manner quite resembling the storm outside, and the pair turn to their respective windows. The unwelcome reticence yawns and stretches, engulfing many minutes and impatient little huffs, until it is disturbed by the faint sound of chattering teeth.

The man turns from the window.

“Are you cold, Phryne?” he asks, and his deep voice is now layers softer than it was. There’s caring in that voice, and not a small amount of longing.

“…no.”

“I can hear your teeth chattering, Miss Fisher, and your fingernails are turning blue. Here, take my coat.”

“I don’t need your coat, Jack. I’m perfectly fine as I am.”

“Of course you are,” he answers indulgently, “but take it anyway.”

“I told you, I don’t –“

“Just take the bloody coat, Phryne!”

“…..”

“…..”

“…Jack?”

“Yes, Miss Fisher?”

“I’m still cold.”

He reaches out and rubs her back with great care. She glides closer, huddling for warmth.

“Better?”

“Better.”

Outside, the storm rages.

[eryiscrye]

for zootopia: even if you write just one scene, I would love to read it. why not the scene where they meet? Brienne finds herself putting almonds in the street despite herself. She sees Jaime, helps her, then realizes that she was tricked. He then tells her that she will never be a real policeman. even if you don't write it, thanks for your answer, i love the way you write

Sorry this took so long. It isn’t quite their first meeting, but I think it was a fun scenario and definitely follows what you suggested happened above :D. Tried to sneak in little rabbit and fox terminology in too to tie it back to Zootopia cause why not? :p I was originally going to also include the next scene where Jaime would drag Brienne into a brothel to find Tyrion and she would be mortified, but I thought this would be a better ending point for now

Brienne clenched her jaw as she pulled the old, beat up, and wheezing unmarked car up against the curb. Tarly had probably issued the decrepit thing to her in the hope that it would blow up while she was still in it, that bastard. She knew that she stuck out like a sore thumb in the ritzy part of King’s Landing, where BMW’s, Mercedes’, and the occasional Aston Martin dominated the streets. But she had a reason for being here, and that reason had taken note of her arrival. 

Jaime Lannister, golden haired, green eyed, and still as handsome as they came, was seated at a table on the edge of the terrace of King’s Landing most lavish whiskey bar. A tumbler filled with amber liquid was cradled in one of his hands, and just the way that he sat, all casual dominance, made him look like he owned part of the world. But that was the snag; he didn’t, his father did.

Brienne threw open the car door with some effort, the hinge screeching with rust, and unfolded herself. She could feel Jaime’s eyes appraising her and when she turned back to look at him, a smirk was indeed on his lips. She wasn’t wearing her uniform, but she knew that she stuck out just as much as her car did in her boot cut jeans, ratty T-shirt, and baggy leather jacket. She closed the door with a slam and rounded the car, taking the several strides needed to reach him. Although she stood and he continued to sit, the rise of the terrace brought them face-to-face. He leaned towards her, his eyes predatory, “Well, if it isn’t Doe-Eyes, the meter maid from Tarth.” 

Brienne’s eye twitched, but she held her composure by biting the inside of her cheek. Catelyn Stark and her missing daughter were more important than this obnoxious asshole. “My name is Brienne Tarth, not Doe-Eyes,” she managed without sneering.

Jaime leaned back, pleased, “What brings you to my part of town, Doe-Eyes?”

“I’m looking for Tyrion Lannister.”

Jaime’s eyebrows pulled together before they quickly smoothed out again. It seemed there was some truth to the rumour that Jaime Lannister actually cared about someone. She still didn’t really believe it. “And why is that?”

“I need to talk to him.”

“I still don’t hear a why,” Jaime replied smoothly. 

Brienne’s eyes narrowed. She tried to assess whether or not he knew what she was going to say, but it seemed he was genuinely curious why she would be interested in his disinherited, dwarf brother. “I’ve found a connection between him and a missing girl.”

Jaime huffed in laughter, “I can’t help you even if I wanted to.”

She noted the tightening of his hand around his crystal tumbler. She had always thought the rich and terrible would be better liars. “I think you can.”

“Even if I could, why would I, Doe-Eyes?”

Jaime was obviously expecting her to be vexed, and she really did enjoy the expression of shock and then suspicion that washed over his face when instead she rounded towards the stairs to the terrace and then took a seat in front of him. Brienne leaned in, and pulled out from inside her leather jacket, flashing her gun and badge at him all the while, a folder packed nearly to bursting. “I think you’ll find, that you’ll have no choice.”

Jaime’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the nondescript manila folder. Brienne pulled out a pen, clicked it, and Jaime’s eyes came back up to meet hers.

“You see Jaime, your father covers his tracks astoundingly well. The country knows that he’s complicit in illegal dealings, but not a single person has ever and I’m sure will ever be able to pin him for it,” Brienne paused and then the corner of her lip tugged upward as she gestured at him, “You though. You think you’re just as a conniving tod as your old man, but you’re not. I found your tracks easily and with just a little bit more work I could put a crack in the Lannister empire using the Lannister heir. Wouldn’t that be embarrassing?”

Brienne watched as Jaime’s nostrils flared. “I don’t believe you have a single shred of proof, Doe-Eyes.”

“You sure about that?”

Jaime sneered, “At best, you’ll get me for embezzlement.”

Brienne’s whole body relaxed as she clicked her pen. “You’re right. And at worst I have you saying it.”

Jaime’s eyes widened as his eyes flashed towards the instrument in her hand. He shifted forwards as though to grab it from her hand.

Brienne slid backwards, and kept him out of reach, “Unless you’re willing to kill me, which would be highly illegal and would very easily be traced back to you no matter who you hire, this is mine. You can have it back in 48 hours.”

Jaime gritted his teeth and Brienne wondered if killing her had even crossed his mind, “Why 48 hours?”

Brienne couldn’t help the slight fall of her shoulders, “Well… after that… I guess I’ll just be the maid back on Tarth.”

[duckbeater]

Courtship, pt. 2

Writing about happiness is very difficult and boring. The below are some small attempts I’ve made to write through my happiness. My small, important readership deserves an update, says my brother, whose sensibilities have only rarely steered me catastrophically wrong.

I AM BUYING CHAMPAGNE TO CELEBRATE MY LOVER

Today’s the last day of his job and he’s throwing himself a little party. In September he begins med school and in the next month he’ll put his affairs in order, readying for the big move. I have the sense that tonight begins our diminuendo, despite his staying over last night and spit-fucking me, and I’ll surely stay over tonight, after the many champagne toasts to his prosperous life ahead. 

We’ve started sleeping as two spoons embracing chest to chest, with our faces tucked awkwardly in a neck or an armpit. Of course I wake up gasping, my mouth sucking after a less hot pocket of air, and turn, and enjoy that he pulls me tightly back to him. He’s a heavy sleeper and I’m a light sleeper, and our bedding situation resembles something like a rock in a tumbler with my rolling over and over and over again, arising too early, wildly underslept, shining with sweat, but ecstatic that we’ve touched all night long. I’m attending his celebration in a sleep deficit that I’ve covered with caffeine and a long, soulful run beside the lake. I’ve been thinking about us a lot. 

He wouldn’t call himself my lover, I think, but I’m hoping the expensiveness of the champagne I’m bringing will convince friends in attendance that that’s what we are. I’m hoping my largesse goes noticed and commented on—that it’s interpreted as my being in love with him, and that his peers compel him, by either fretting over my largesse, or pitying me for it, or anyway finding it impressive or amusing or tender or charming—that they tell this young man I’m adoring him and I’m adoring him well. That my adoration seems steadfast and considered. And despite the riskiness of the circumstances (our differences in age, the widening gulf in distance, a sometimes depleting lack of shared cultural references), when we are together I feel comfort and joy. This must be obvious to him without the expensive champagne. I’m always saying it out loud, or anyway variants on the theme of “comfort and joy,” like a seasonal blessing, a profusion of blessings, needing remarked upon. I’m seriously afraid I mother him.

“Let us take in the scene,” I have said before, “let us only observe for the moment my sitting in your lap, your hands on my neck, my constant kisses. What joy!”

He’s done something to my sense of my proportion, and also my prose style. I can’t seem to describe our relationship without slipping into the sardonic, recursive, mildly-institutionalized voice of Robert Walser, a writer I find too cute by half. I’m finding my life too cute by half, I fear. If this is what happiness feels like, I don’t really want much more of it. It’s making me stupid. “People will think that pain has made you stupid,” wrote Walser, a statement that comes back to me when I can’t distinguish between the good times and bad times making me an idiot.

AFTER THE SPIT-FUCKING

We stayed up late talking about what it means to say goodbye to people who don’t know you’ve cared for them. I don’t pretend this conversation had subtext. For the last two years, he’s worked with profoundly disabled people, first as a case worker and then, after the pandemic closed the campus and made that job “nonessential,” as a nursing assistant on the same floor. 

He spent months feeding, changing, bathing and bedding non-ambulatory children and adults. Most cannot speak, a few cannot see, and none can walk, of course. It is a world I’ve rarely thought about—indeed, a world many of us rarely consider, because in its theater of human need are scenes of unremitting hopelessness. It is a languageless suffering and it perdures. I can become very mystified, very shallow-breathed thinking about his care for these souls, however quick he’s been to dissuade me from romanticizing or elevating his ministrations. “One of my verbal residents tells me to fuck myself all the time,” he’s noted. Still, I would point out that birth defects and accidents account for a small percentage of his caseloads’ impairments, and that active neglect and abuse perpetrated intentionally by former guardians (or unwittingly by the American healthcare complex) have hobbled his charges for life. I don’t like hearing stories about choked babies and toddlers left so long in beds their soft bones grow slab-wise, so I’ve asked him, coward that I am, to please skip origins if he’s entering an otherwise benign workaday anecdote.  

His most patient complaint: using his iPhone to FaceTime parents who want to see their son, then listening to one-sided conversations, burbling, giggles, tears, even story-time. His campus closed to all guardians—a devastating precaution. “Don’t send anything xrated today,” he’d text, and I’d know he was hosting a reunion. So I’d keep my clothes on. And he’d answer the phone from an immediately weeping seventy-year-old mother saying, to her forty-year-old son, “Why good evening, Max, good evening. This is your mother. Hi, baby. Hi. I love you. I am your mother. I will always be your mother. I am sorry I cannot touch you, I cannot hold you, I cannot be with you in this time, but you are my Max, and I am your mother. And I love you always. You can hear me and I’m gonna tell you all about my week, okay? And then I’m gonna ask Scotty here how you’ve spent your week, okay?” He said he usually cries on these calls and when I asked why, he said, “Because it seems polite?” And I pressed harder and he said, “Because I get to—I get to connect these people who have missed each other so much, and it’s so sad. They haven’t touched in months. They might not touch this year. My phone sometimes runs out of battery. It’s so weird.”

I’ve asked him whether families are happy to be rid of their incredible dependents and he said that by and large families are miserable to give over members to the institution: that age arbitrates the giving. “A mother and father have a baby at twenty-five. They can care for him well into their fifties—their twenty-five-year-old, their thirty-year-old son. But when these parents enter their sixties? Their seventies? They can’t lift an adult male. They can’t bathe him or change him. Even basic nutrition gets hard. Meal prep is tiring. It’s long. They start to lose track of medications, and they have medications themselves, you know? So the situation gets very difficult and if they want to live, and if they want him to live, they feel like they have to give him up.”

We’re at the point now where intimacy is a given. He doesn’t swallow, but brings me to orgasm, taking me in his mouth and then dribbles it, I guess, my cum, back onto my stomach, apologizing with a flushed red smirk. “I hate that,” he says, “I really hate it.”

“Go ahead, eat it,” I say, joking.

He gives me dark eyes and showily palms the wad into the black pillowcase behind my head.

“Holy Christ!” I yell. “The nerve! The pluck! The audacity!”

There must be a phase in relationships when extracting intimacies—not only of the “terrible things I did in high school”-vein, or the “times I cheated”-vein, or the “unwittingly right wing ideologies I support”-vein—that close couples endeavor. Where you’re always compulsively revelatory, to seem as interesting as you did in early courtship, as erotically forward and emotionally captivating. We’re in that moment and we surprise one another with small tributes as befits that level of affection.

One of the intimacies I proffered is that I’m going through a religious re-awakening, a need for ritual and sacraments. He finds this funny. (I find it embarrassing.) Yet one of his duties has been wheeling charges to his building’s Tuesday Mass, and then helping to administer the Eucharist. I don’t think he in fact touches the host (I don’t think many in his care can safely take of the host; “I’m mostly there in case anyone seizes,” he said), but he did slip a large wafer away for me and now it’s in my apartment, among my candles, possibly growing mold. He asks me when I’m going to eat it and I tell him around Christmas. 

(That was a lie. I’ll eat it when our romance is over, to consecrate the time we had.)

“I eat it,” I say, and he glowers.

I TOLD HIM ABOUT A MYSTERY SURROUNDING MY FAVORITE AUTHOR

Norman Rush. For a decade and better I’ve wondered about the long dedication in Mating, whose last lines read, “...and to the memory of my father, and to my lost child, Liza.” The novel, set in Botswana and borrowing heavily from Rush’s time there as director in the Peace Corps, suggests that perhaps Liza died in Africa or was born still. She goes unmentioned in his Paris Review interview, in subsequent novels, short stories, and reviews. There’s no hint of Liza’s fate. (As I edit this, I recall a phrase in Mortals, the narrator’s idea that “children exposed you to hellmouth, which was the opening of the mouth of hell right in front of you.” Explaining further: “[I]t was the grandmother, the daughter, the granddaughter tumbling through the air, blown out of the airplane by a bomb, the three generations falling and seeing one another fall, down, down, onto the Argolid mountains. With children you created more thin places in the world for hellmouth to break through.” And then, in Subtle Bodies, Rush describes a wayward teen boy, whose angry and aggressive behavior corresponds exactly to Rush’s own troubled teen son. In fact, Subtle Bodies is about the decision to have children at all. Nina follows Ned to a funeral, to fuck him. So, Rush has indeed remarked on children and strife, as he has lived it. Anyhow—) Yet by accident I listened to an old Fresh Air interview where Rush is asked to comment on the aspect of family in his novels, and to clarify that inscription. 

“I have a daughter who is now thirty,” he says, “who was born with diffuse brain atrophy and has been institutionalized for many years. Um. But I think the rest is pretty self-explanatory.”

“What was her condition?” presses his interlocutor.

“She is uh profoundly retarded,” pauses, “and will be so.”

“So you feel she is lost to you?”

“Yes. There is no recognition possible between her and us.”

I reproduced this exchange from notes on my phone. Scotty replied, “I don’t think that’s right, actually. Maybe between her and—who—who was it?”

“Norman Rush and his daughter Liza.”

He said, “Maybe between Liza and her dad—yeah, maybe she was so disabled she couldn’t recognize him. I take care of men like that. But I recognize them.”

We were talking about important books at all (I mean that semi-seriously) because his co-worker had gifted him three works, including a volume of Yeats’ complete poetry.

“Why did Paco give you Yeats?” I asked.

“He thinks I need more poetry,” said Scotty.

(Frankly I have felt and still feel sexual jealousy against Paco, who recently got brilliant red and black knee tattoos of spider webs. Like, Spider-Man spiderwebs, covering both kneecaps. Every few weeks he cooks a large meal for Scotty, and they talk about life until 4 A.M. drunk on bourbon, immobilized by edibles, full and warm and caring, and it makes me mad. It makes me mad, because I can’t really see the point of staying up until the uncomfortable small hours between 2 and 5 unless there is sex involved, but Paco is straight, a father, an excellent chef, a dedicated friend, and so my grousing is a kind of unwarranted possession that baffles me into silence on the matter.)

I didn’t have anything intelligent left to say about Norman Rush. I groped along a narrow thought, however, a thin ledge. “You know—a novelist, especially a novelist as concerned with language and comprehension as Norman Rush, would feel particularly devastated by the condition of his daughter. He would see it as ironic and then as punitive and again as senseless—supporting his comforting regime of a militant atheism.”

Although very sober, I recited the first stanza of The Second Coming, tripping over two lines (but the best lines), saying, “The worst lack all conviction, while the best/Are full of passionate intensity.”

“What?” said Scotty.

“I just—that was Yeats.”

“Who?”

“Go ahead and tell your boy Paco that your hot fuck gave you a teach on William. Butler. Yeats.”

“What?” said Scotty. He grinned at me. He got up and ate a yogurt.

[soundwavereporting]

day 4 of @prowlweek! today’s prompt was ‘sensory’. 

it’s pre-cosmos/prowl/soundwave! if you’re inclined to read everything preceding this, you can do so here. if you don’t want to? the tl;dr is that prowl ended up on sanctuary station and he, cosmos, and soundwave are in the maddeningly slow process of getting together. 

this fic features absolutely terrible decisions, the most important of which is trying to make important life choices while drinking. anyone still uses the citrus scale, this fic is the cybertronian equivalent of a lime.

five half-lies and one full truth

1. 

If anyone asked (and he were inclined to actually answer) Soundwave would report that he didn’t remember who made the first move. He supposed, lying in a tangle of cables and the scent of ozone, he would have to tell Cosmos the truth. They both would. 

The truth was Prowl, optic bright with copper-infused engex and a sudden burst of bravery that would have put Optimus Prime to shame, had leaned over the desk and kissed him square on the mouth.

“Do you think…”

Soundwave had been in the process of taking another sip of engex, but as Prowl spoke, he paused leaving the glass frozen halfway between the desk and his mouth.

Prowl’s mind was…duller than usual. Toned down. And a little muddled.

But Soundwave still liked it.

Soundwave waited as Prowl mulled over his next words. It wasn’t impolite to take a drink when someone was thinking, was it?

Soundwave wasn’t sure. He could count the number of times he’d been a social drinker on one servo, and each and every instance he had been expected to sit on the other side of a desk and agree with whenever Ratbat said. That kind of social drinking wasn’t particularly conducive to actually drinking.

Hm.

“Things could have ended up differently, if I were you and you were me?”

“Yes.” A simple answer, though he knew that wasn’t the question Prowl meant to ask.

Prowl groaned and took another swig of engex. Soundwave could see the engex crackling in his mind. Watching it was…

Soundwave looked away.  

“If I were a Decepticon…” Prowl glared at his engex. “The war would’ve been over four million years ago.”

Soundwave nodded. He didn’t think Prowl actually wanted him to agree: calling someone like Prowl a Decepticon was a surefire way to get a punch in the face.

“That’s all I wanted to do,” Prowl muttered. “End the war. Save lives. Preferably both.”

Before Soundwave could respond, Prowl started talking again.

“Sorry. I’m not good company when I’m overcharged, am I.”

It wasn’t a question.

Soundwave looked up to watch the stormy clouds circling his head. Prowl frowned, and the scar on the bridge of his nose—

Soundwave heard his fans click on.

He looked away.

“I do not mind. Your—”

“My mind is nice,” Prowl said, though there was no malice in his words. He sounded confused, as though he had never heard those words applied to him before. That was strange—Soundwave knew for a fact that during their time as a gestalt, the Constructicons paid his mind compliments. Vocally and often.

Prowl finished off the glass and set it on Soundwave’s desk.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“My mind.” Prowl rested his elbows on the desk and leaned forward. Soundwave forced himself to meet Prowl’s optic. “Why do you like it so much?”

“I cannot tell you,” Soundwave said. “You know that.”

“But you can show me.”

2.

Prowl was the one who made the first move, but it was Soundwave who knocked the desk over. He had a moment to feel equal parts stupidly embarrassed and foolishly emotional, but any misgivings were quickly quashed by the feeling of Prowl’s mouth on his own.

They fell, tangled, to the floor. Prowl’s engine kicked up a notch, drowning out the sound of Soundwave’s gasp.

And now he was thinking about the desk. Soundwave pulled away to follow Prowl’s gaze—he was looking at the overturned furniture, thinking about flipping tables of all things, how Tumbler used to joke about bolting his desk down except Prowl was never sure if it was a joke or not and—

Soundwave kissed him again.

The distraction worked, but now Prowl was thinking about him, which was a wholly intimidating thought. Without a direct connection (which Soundwave really, really wanted, and was beginning to suspect Prowl really, really wanted as well) the beautiful lines and angles were fuzzy, muddled by noise and engex.

Soundwave loved them

He canceled the battle protocols that had activated when Prowl lunged and was treated to the sight of Prowl perched on top of him. One hand traced the edges of his tape deck—did he know it was sensitive, or was it just something to touch?

Soundwave imagined Prowl’s hand in him. Touching circuits no mech outside of his cassettes were supposed to see, much less touch, tracing the contours of his docking ports.

He shuddered, and sat up to mouth the cabling on Prowl’s neck and was rewarded with a gasp that felt…oddly deliberate. Genuine, but unsurprised.

He blinked.

Number cruncher floated across both their minds.

Were it not for the hot flash of red embarrassment that followed the phrase, Soundwave would never have considered it an insult.

Oh.

“You know what I am going to do,” Soundwave mumbled into Prowl’s neck. “You can predict it.”

“Within a—” Prowl yelped. He hadn’t seen Soundwave lift a hand to caress the sensory panels affixed to his back, Soundwave realized. “Reasonable margin of error.”

“If you can see it.”Soundwave felt the paneling twitch under his hand. Prowl nodded, and Soundwave tasted the sensation of being touched in the back of his throat. “What am I going to do next?”

“Uh.” Again, Soundwave felt the weight of Prowl’s stare come to rest on his frame.

Soundwave hoped he would remember this in the morning. The line between lowered inhibitions and stupid drunk was a thin one, but neither he nor Prowl had ingested enough engex to cross it.

Probably.

“Um.”

Soundwave traced the length of the sensors on Prowl’s back, an action that elicited a hastily-silenced moan. “Do you really want a comprehensive breakdown of your potential actions?”

“Maybe later.” Soundwave drank in the sharp certainty of Prowl’s mind. He’d never given Soundwave explicit permission to snoop, but at this particular moment…Prowl didn’t seem to care. He wondered, for a moment, if Prowl could become to his anchor.

His Ravage.

His Megatron.

He had hoped Cosmos might be willing to accept that role, but Cosmos was…ubiquitous. Cosmos was everywhere, and nowhere, too easily able to slip between Soundwave’s fingers.  

Prowl was clarity in a sea of static. And Cosmos was the static, cocooning him and caressing his spark, fierce and gentle and—

Cosmos was going to hate them.

Or worse…he would be hurt.

Soundwave kissed the edge of Prowl’s jaw and wished could stop thinking. Just for a moment.

They should stop. Right now. Stop and pull away and come back to this when Cosmos was around, and then they could be sensible about this.

Whatever was going on between them, Soundwave didn’t want to ruin it. Prowl didn’t want to ruin it.

None of them wanted to ruin it, and Soundwave and Prowl were about to do just that.

3.

“My turn,” Prowl whispered, and raised a brow as Soundwave obediently leaned back, feeling the chill of unheated metal against his plating.

“Told you to stay out of my head,” Prowl muttered, though his optic widened when Soundwave smiled.

“You don’t mean it. Not now.”

“Tomorrow, when I do,” Prowl leaned forward until their breaths came together in a dizzying, tantalizing mix of near-sensory overload. “What then?”

“Your thoughts will be your own.”

Prowl was far too heavy for Soundwave to even consider attempting to sit up, but he had no real inclination to try.

“We should—”

Soundwave heard a click and realized with a jolt of embarrassment that it had been his own interface protocols coming online. Prowl blinked, but didn’t seem particularly dissuaded.

He tried again.

“We should stop?”

Prowl froze.

“Cosmos,” was all Soundwave said, and Prowl nodded. But he didn’t move to get up, and Soundwave didn’t push the issue. Soundwave manually canceled the protocols and thanked the stars his cables hadn’t already unspooled—manually coaxing them back into his frame might have been slightly more embarrassment than he could handle.

“If you are willing,” Prowl said slowly. “I would still like to know how you see things.”

A little too quickly, Soundwave nodded.

4.

“…oh.”

Soundwave felt his lips twitch. Prowl had gone still on top of him as his mind struggled to process the new wave of sensory data. Soundwave didn’t dare move or touch Prowl for fear of eliciting more sensation than his processor could comfortably handle.

“It’s a lot.”

Prowl steadied himself on Soundwave’s chassis, and nodded. Soundwave peeled back another layer of firewalls.

“It is.”  

The tenuous connection between them was just enough for Soundwave to get a glance at the blurry lines and numbers. Idly, Soundwave tugged at the cable connecting him to Prowl—as much as he would have relished the chance to be invited into Prowl’s mind and spend a few blissful minutes immersed in angles and pure data, this was for Prowl.

The very notion of someone (Prowl) wanting to see in his mind had Soundwave feeling a unique mixture of elation and nauseating anxiety. His fuel tank cramped painfully at the mere notion of rejection, but Prowl—

“Shh.” More gently than he thought Prowl—anyone, save for perhaps Ravage—capable of, Prowl touched the spot on his armor just above his fuel tank. “I understand. I think.”

Immediately, Soundwave relaxed. Several layers of stress-induced color that Soundwave had forgotten about faded. As he looked up at Prowl, the world became dizzyingly clear. Soundwave allowed Prowl to bypass every firewall save for the ones keeping guard over his vital functions. Mentally, he lay back and watched Prowl peruse his datafiles. Amusement zipped across their connection as he realized Prowl was going through his most recent memories, lingering over his reaction to Prowl predicting Soundwave’s movements.

Prowl frowned.

The colors snapped back into existence.

“I’m not going to be Megatron,” Prowl snapped.

5.

“It is not like that.” But Prowl knew that, didn’t he. He was in Soundwave’s head. At that moment, Prowl knew him better than any mech ever had. Except—

“Stop thinking about him.”

“Apologies.” But he hadn’t yanked Soundwave’s cable out of his waist port. Desperately, Soundwave clung to that fact.

“I’m not here to be your leader,” Prowl snapped, saying the word leader like someone might say the word incurable, late-stage cosmic rust. “No. Full stop.”

“Not like that.” But they all had been leaders, hadn’t they? Ravage had led him from the Dead End, showed him a new way of existing that wasn’t just survival. And Megatron had led him far, far beyond what he once would have deemed acceptable. “It helps,” Soundwave offered. “To have someone to focus on. Someone strong. Unique.”

“You said you would stay out of my head.” Prowl’s voice was quiet.

“And I will.”

To Soundwave, the truth smelled like ozone. And Prowl knew it.

Prowl snorted.

“You really like my mind, don’t you.”

Dumbly, Soundwave nodded.

+1

Soundwave felt Prowl give in.

He watched as Prowl leaned forward to rest his elbows on the glass of Soundwave’s chest. Not for the first time, Soundwave was glad the cassettes were out for the night and wouldn’t be expecting him back at the habsuite.

“We shouldn’t have done this.” Prowl made no move to get up. Soundwave watched as he wrapped the cable around his finger, then let it unwind. “Not without…”

Prowl gave up all pretense of respectability and slumped against Soundwave.

“This is hard,”  Prowl mumbled into Soundwave’s shoulder. Soundwave hummed an acknowledgement. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Neither do I.”

He didn’t feel particularly better after admitting it. Enough of the engex had worn off that they were beginning to feel tired—and more than a little awkward.

He wondered how many times they would have to do this dance of engex and lowered inhibitions, only to be countered by the uncomfortable reality of sobriety. It wasn’t that getting drunk with Prowl wasn’t nice (in more ways than one) but…

Soundwave moved to sit up. Prowl groaned his assent and began to slide off, but Soundwave shook his head.

Prowl was very nearly too big to comfortably sit in Soundwave’s lap.

He didn’t mind.

“Tell me,” Soundwave said, and Prowl looked up. “What am I going to do next?”

“Oh.” Prowl blinked, registering the question Soundwave had pushed over their connection. “Oh. Er, yes. I suppose.”

He tasted like gritty engex.

But Prowl liked gritty engex, and Soundwave liked Prowl, so Soundwave supposed it was alright.

[fic-ya-later]

Not Gonna Die: Chapter 1

Summary: Castiel is depressed, however he has to return to work even if he doesn’t want too. 

Warnings: Mentions of death and depression. 

A/N: Hey guys! I am so excited to post this here! If you like what you see send me a message; I’d love to hear your thoughts! My request and taglist are OPEN so let me know if you’d like to join it or like something written! I’m working on honing my writing process and style to work on an original piece I’ve had ideas for so if you are a fellow writer send me a message and we can chat about ideas and processes! I hope you enjoy this work!

Series Masterlist

Chapter One | Chapter Two 

Castiel couldn’t tell how many times he had played Clair de Lune, but it was more than the number of whiskey tumblers he had drained in the last two hours of playing. He couldn’t seem to find the end; cadence would lead to cadence and he’d find himself resolving back to the beginning of the piece each time. Each pass through the melody something was different, Castiel’s fingers hesitated on a note, or he dampered a run’s end to cause the chord to linger in his ears. No, Castiel did not like endings. In his small apartment the baby grand echoed with grace. The rain on the glass wall of his apartment created a soft backdrop for the otherwise barren expanse of the room. 

A pause in the music filled the air as Castiel reached for the fifth to refill his tumbler, only to find it, to his surprise, empty. What time was it? 11? 12? He couldn't tell any more. He set the bottle on the floor and looked up, running his hands down his face when he saw it. The only picture in the whole house sat on the small table in the corner. The soft hazel eyes smiled at him, and Castiel started another melody as tears swelled in his. This time the melancholy was more than a subtext to the music. He let his fingers linger on each note, the vibrations filling him as Gymnopedie No. 1 filled the room. He would’ve continued like this for hours just as he did the last night, and the night before last, and the one before that, but the vibrating of his phone across the room put an end to his thoughts. 

GABE CALLING

With a sigh Castiel silenced the phone. He didn’t need yet another worried sibling bothering him during his self-loathing sabbatical. Not that it mattered. Most of them didn’t care what he was doing, as long as he wasn’t tarnishing the family’s name. Novak. He cursed his father’s last name for the weight it carried. So many knew the Novak technology empire that when they found out Castiel was a part of the family there was a look people would give him which accompanied the customary “why didn’t you follow your dad’s footsteps”. Castiel hated that question. At first he tried explaining that humans are just so interesting, and he felt it was his mission to protect and save them. After he changed his last name people asked why he didn’t capitalise on the familial fortune; he grew tired of explaining that he had all he needed and then some. After he moved away from Boston they would ask what he was running from. Now he had no answer. The past? The future? His family? He didn’t know, but there was something about the beauty of Colorado that just drew him in. There is a real connection to the Earth here. Castiel knew it was where he needed to be the first time he flew out to interview for Boulder City General; if he hadn’t been welcomed to their surgical team, well, he would have flown out to this very house no matter what and become a hermit. 

GABE CALLING

Again his brother tried and failed to reach Castiel. The ringtone fell on deaf ears as Castiel was asleep on his sofa, completely dead to the world. 

Most of Castiel’s dreams held little power over him. There was the odd dream of his mother which gifted him with comfort and peace. The dreams of wings that left him feeling assured and powerful. Then there were the dreams of forests, forests filled with green which left him waking with the constant uneasy edge of something invisible being out of place. These were the only dreams he cared for; the rest of them he chalked them up to subconscious ramblings of an overworked surgeon. These were the dreams of before. Now mostly he dreamed of red and the whine of equipment. 

Blue eyes snapped open. Another of those dreams. With a groan Castiel rolled to his side. 4:12 flashed too brightly into his eyes. He blinked and refocused. May 12. With a sigh Castiel decided the best thing he could do would be to roll himself out of bed and clean up. He returned to work today and the scruff growing down his face and neck simply wouldn’t do. “What have I become?” Steam filled the room and doubt filled his head. “She was just a child.” “You did everything you could” “There had to be something you missed.” Thoughts spiralled through his head as he showered. 

Two weeks ago Castiel met a new patient. A girl of only 12 named Claire. One week ago she went into the OR for a routine valve transplant. One week ago Claire died as Castiel stood over her with his decades, it seemed like centuries actually, of knowledge failing him. The operation was supposed to be straightforward, Castiel had accomplished successful surgeries in far worse circumstances, but when she flatlined he was completely at a loss. Nothing in his past hurt worse that the look on her mother’s face as he walked solemnly into the waiting room. Castiel walked out of the hospital that day fully intending on never walking back in. A stranger was the one who convinced him to take a sabbatical rather than retire a whole career early. 

GABE CALLING

“Gabe.”

“Hello to you too Castiel.” The silence between the two stretched through the room. “You know what day it is today, right Cassy?” 

“Yes. The days don’t change each week Gabriel. I know when Monday is.”

“And we know what happens today. Right?”

“You don’t need to talk to me like I'm a child. I'm trying not to think about it.”

“You’re going to do amazing!”

“Will you bring me lunch?”

“Of course. The usual right?” Cas smiles and hums in response. “Thought so. Don’t stress too much Cassie, I’ll be right down stairs if you need anything.”

“You can do so much better than janitor Gabriel if you ju-”

“Don’t start with me. I’ll work on my life as soon as I can stop worrying about yours little brother. Now get dressed, give Chevy a kiss for me and get your perky ass to the hospital before I have to drag it there myself.” 

Gabe hung up before Cas could even retort by inquiring how his older brother knew the shape and lift of his rear, but he did leave a smile on the surgeon's face. As if on cue, knowing her being was mentioned, a meow cut through the empty apartment and the ashen coloured creature wrapped herself around Cas’s legs, her otherworldly eyes staring up at her human with mild disdain. Chevy was a rescue, Castiel took her in after she was dropped off at the clinic Gabe was working at at the time. They all assumed she was blind, her eyes wouldn’t open for weeks, and that she had been hit by a car. The gruff older man who dropped her off had said he would come back for her if she improved, a gift for a family member he said, but then he never came. So Chevy became Castiel’s. After weeks of nursing her wounds and staying up all night to ensure her health, she finally opened her eyes and looked at her new human with mild affection. Upon seeing her eyes Castiel knew she was meant for him, one stark, pure blue eye, and one warm, deep green eye had blinked at him and she decided that he’d do. 

“I see you little lady. Let’s get you some food before dad goes to work.” While Castiel was never fond of people in general, he had a soft spot for animals and especially for Chevy. She always was so intune with him, and he wanted the best for her. After her water was freshened and a delicate mix of chicken and cat food mix was placed in her dish up on the counter in the bathroom, Castiel continued to ready himself for work. He showered and shaved quickly, trying not to glance at the scars on his back or on his wrists before dressing in freshly pressed trousers and a white button up.

“You get a kiss from Uncle Gabe this morning.” He scratches the cat’s chin before looking in the mirror one last time, face solemn and firm. “You can do this.”

-------

The hospital was as busy as ever, it was like Castiel had never left, that is until director of surgery Zachariah Adler made himself known. The snivelling man was everything that Castiel considered himself not to be: slimy, greedy, an overall pushover if it meant keeping his image and status, and worst of all he had very little regard for others or the lives that fell into his care--just as long as his numbers look good at the end of the quarter. 

“Good to see you back Dr. Allen. I trust your week was...productive?” The director’s tone signalled to Castiel that he had to tread very carefully within the brief conversation.

“Yes Director, very productive. I spent much time focusing on updating my reading on surgical advancements made in the treatment of Abdominal Aortic Aneurysms. It proved quite provoking and has led me to belie…” 

“Yes, yes. Very good. I trust we won’t have any more issues then?”

“No sir.”

“Very good.” The director turned on his heel and left as swiftly as he came, and with not so much a nod in Castiel’s direction. 

“Good morning to you too.” Cas grumbled as he made his way to his office. Not much had changed, but there was a small layer of dust coating most surfaces he would have to wipe off on his lunch today. The tiny office was perfect for the surgeon’s needs. The north and east walls were adorned with meticulously organised and cared for bookshelves. The south wall held a bulletin board next to the door, and the west wall was nothing but glass. That overlooked Boulder City and the mountain range beyond. His desk was always kept neat, the only clutter taking the form of an organiser for his active case files and his in/out box, which had far more in it that he would’ve liked at this point, but that is the life of a surgeon. 

Just as he’d settled in there was a tap on the door.

“Come in.” Cas absentmindedly called out as he remained buried in a case file that required some attention. 

“Dr. Allen?”

“Mhhh.”

“Doctor Bradbury needs you for a consultation.” The voice was firm but cautious.

“Is it urgent or shall I schedule her in?” Castiel still had yet to look up from his case file, consultations were often needed when a surgery or procedure could potentially have adverse effects on a patient beyond the single issue.

“She already has requested you for a 10 am. If that’s amenable of course.”

“Mhhhm. That will do, please tell her I will be in my office Dr….” Blue eyes meet deep green.

“Nurse. Uh, Winchester.” 

“Yes, thank you Winchester. Have you worked for Dr. Bradbury long?” The tanned face was not among the carefully catalogued members of staff within Castiel’s brain. 

“First day. I will let her know you’re available. Thank you Dr. Allen.” As quickly as he came he was gone and Cas was left staring blankly at the empty doorway, wondering why those eyes captivated him so. There was a faint smell of leather lingering throughout the room that continued to mildly distract him for the remainder of his boring morning of answering emails and setting up appointments for referred clients. Just before he had his meeting with Dr. Bradbury, he was tempted to look up the new nurse in the directory, but stopped himself out of habit. New people often intrigued him, and he knew he could come on quite strong to the ‘uninitiated’ as Gabe called it. Perhaps he would be able to run into him at some point, it would seem those green eyes captivated Cas in a way he was unfamiliar with.

Another knock on the door. This one he was expecting, so he rose and greeted his friend and colleague warmly. 

“Cas!” Once the door was shut OBGYN and friend Charlie Bradbury has her arms wrapped snuggly around Cas’s shoulders, he could feel the grin through his lab coat.

“Hello Charlie, it’s good to see you.”

“You too! How are you doing? You cant just ignore me like this; I didn’t know where you were for a whole week! You even missed theme night at the Roadhouse!” The bubbling redhead would go on forever if he let her.

“Charlie.” She quiets. “I’m okay, and yes I will be going to the Roadhouse tonight, and yes I know it’s cowboy night” --- “and girl” --- “Cowperson night. And I wasn't ignoring you, I was taking a brief leave of absence to deal with personal matters. If you wish, we can arrange lunch this week and I can fill you in.” She eagerly nods. “What did you need to see me for?”

“There's the Dr. Castiel Novak I know.” The resulting glare from the blue eyes makes her shiver. “Sorry Castiel. It's a habit. I’ve known you too long.”

“I know, please just be careful. I do not wish for certain members of faculty to know my upbringing or history. I've been passing as human for this long; I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Of course,” She nods sympathetically. While most people were open and accepting to the supernatural since the fall of heaven and closing of hell, many people were still quite superstitious and prejudiced against any nonhumans. “Well, to business. I've got a case that's really troubling me. It’s quite delicate, as the case is slightly personal to one of my staff members. I have a patient. Jessica Moore. She just came in for her routine prenatal and I discovered a heart murmur. I think we might have a tricuspid atresia. To make matters worse Ms Moore is having a difficult pregnancy to say the least. Her attachment is weak and she’s beginning to show signs of preeclampsia.” 

“That is quite a combination.”

“Yes it seems that childbearing does not become her. She's the girlfriend of the brother of one of my nurses. I was hoping I could get you in for her next scan, she's due to have another ultrasound at 26 weeks. I’m worried we are going to end up having to either induce her or order a cesarean to maintain both of their healths.” Charlie’s face contorted with sadness at that. Castiel always admired the care she had for her patients. 

“When would this be?” He opened his diary.

“Two weeks, Monday.”

“Yes I can be there. Have someone drop by the details later in the week so I can ensure I am up to date on the case.”

“I’ll have Dean drop them off to you tomorrow them.” 

“Dean... that’s not a name you’ve used before.”

Charlie smiled at Cas cheekily. “Nothing gets by you Cas. Dean is a new midwife in my department. Came to me straight from the military believe it or not. He’s well over qualified for working with me, but I’m not complaining that I have the most capable, attractive, nerdiest midwife in the west at my fingertips.” She flashed a grin.

“How do those last two make him an effective nurse?” 

“They don’t but I wanted to see your reaction. You met him this morning right?”

“Ah so that was the mystery nurse.”

“Yes. Now you can’t go scaring him away. He's already been invited to join the Roadhouse gang. Garth asked him this morning. The two are becoming rather fast friends I’d like to think. I’ll see you tonight?”

“Yes Charlie, I’ll be there with spurs on.”

“Kinky…” She winks as she leaves the room, and leaves Castiel to his thoughts.

As the day drug on, Castiel became so busy he barely noticed when his lunch hour came up. Jumping out of his chair he swapped his lab coat for a cardigan and went to meet his brother for the lunch he was promised.