#i fucking hate that they’re so easy to click on on accident

[jeanmoreaue]

pov your safari tabs after scrolling on tumblr mobile and not being able to avoid clicking on the ads

[elysianslove]

secrets that you keep; iwaizumi hajime 

synopsis; in which his best friend is secretly a camgirl. part 1, part 2 

pairings; iwaizumi hajime x fem!reader

genre; smut

trigger warnings; i highly recommend reading the first two parts before this. they’re only drabbles that introduce everything! anyways, this is absolute filth. don’t read this if any of the stuff mentioned could trigger you, please! masturbation, camgirl stuff, one mention of the word ‘daddy,’ self choking, degradation, humiliation, dacryphilia, unprotected sex, creampie, a lot of choking, accidental breathplay, not proofread unfortunately 

she knows. 

does she? 

it’s an ongoing inner battle he’s been having for weeks now, ever since he’d been directed to that trending video of yours. he sees you in his dreams, hears you loud and clear, moaning and crying for him, and worst of all, he feels you, so perfectly, against his, around him, and it’s overwhelming in the worst way possible. even maintaining eye contact is tiresome at this point. 

but he does wonder whether you know or not, more often than he should— were you deliberately calling out for him, in hopes that he’d find this video somehow? or had you said it because you’d assumed this is your safe place, that there’s no way he’d be able to find these videos? had it been a slip up? or, more accurately, multiple slip ups? what were the chances anyways, that it had been an accident, or unintentional, or intentional and he had been losing sleep over it, or that he wasn’t the hajime you were crying out for? 

his heard hurt. awfully. there’s already the constant worry of regulating his breathing around you and cleansing his thoughts of anything he’d seen of you the moment you meet, but this added dilemma is in no way helping. every day that you text him for a coffee date, or a night out after a rather stressful week, or a night in at your apartment, and he agrees, his mind diverts immediately to where it shouldn’t as soon as he lays eyes on you. and the worst part of it all is how aware he is of how wrong this is. he knows it’s wrong to choose the revealing shirt over the other when you ask him for his opinion, just because he wants that effortless glance at your cleavage. it’s also so wrong of him to give a higher rating to that obscenely short dress than that other, knee length one because of the way your thighs squeeze when you sit. it’s definitely wrong of him to offer clasping your anklet, the one he’d gotten for you, the one that had been the dead giveaway to your secret online persona, just because your legs feel so soft against the rough pads of his fingers, when he resists the urge to trail upwards, upwards, upwards—

it’s fucking ridiculous. 

he can’t believe just how deep of a rabbit hole finding one of your videos is, how it’s impossible to climb out and away, and even worse, how he keeps falling deeper. the one time he decides to jerk off to porn. it’s really ridiculous. 

about a week ago, three weeks after finding that video of yours someone had uploaded— which had been taken down because of copyright, and hajime personally thinks that’s fair, considering there’s a reason you pay people to watch your videos and look through your photos, otherwise you would’ve taken the liberty to post everything for free yourself— hajime gives in, and subscribes to you. it’s with a randomized account name, something he tried his very best to make as anonymous as possible, so that it would in no way lead back to him. he doesn’t check in on your account as often, also having taken the time to turn off notifications and not have anything sent to his email, and it’s mostly out of shame. he already feels dirty enough having seen this much of you, even more that he’s fantasized about you. he’s not about to make it worse for himself.

every once in a while, though, especially days where he’s sure he’s completely free of responsibilities, he logs on, and finds your page. it just so happens that tonight, you’re hosting a live stream. swallowing his pride and shame, literally so, he shifts on his bed, sitting up straighter, and clicks to join. 

he’d been a little late apparently, because you’re already bare, sitting on a chair. your legs are lifted up, knees bent and hooked over the chair’s arms, the camera angled to show everything, from your cute eyes to the flesh of your ass. there’s a vibrator in your hand, buzzing lightly as it hovers by your clit, dipping between your folds, sliding back up again to rub lazily at your clit. beneath you, on the chair, is a small damp spot, leaking from your cunt. hajime stops himself before his jaw falls slack at the sight of you, and instead, he clears his throat, gritting his teeth and watching carefully. 

you’re not so talkative during your videos, just exclamations of pleasure and (the most beautiful of) noises, so he hadn’t expected you to be during your lives. to his surprise, you are, and it’s filthy. 

whimpering lightly, you press the vibrator harsher on your clit, your other hand traveling up to squeeze at your breast. “m’so needy,” you admit with a soft pout, adding, “want you to tell me what to do, mmh.”

he’s assuming the ‘you’ is the audience, whoever’s willing to speak up, and it’s then that he notices the chat option. his eyes flicker curiously to it, hands twitching where they sit fisted at his lap as he sees the chat explode with orders and commands and suggestions for you. 

one writes, stuff urself full, and hajime gapes. 

another commands, wanna see u cry tn, and hajime privately agrees. 

someone else writes, gonna squirt princess? 

hajime’s hands twitch again, and he frowns, digging his nails into his palms. you’re ignoring all the suggestions, and it’s obvious because you’re reading through them, mouthing some of them, giggling at some, curiously gasping, ‘oh,’ at others, eyebrow quirking. the vibrator trails down to your hole again, and you experimentally dip it inside slightly, shivering visibly as the vibrations rush through you, and the moment he hears you moan so loud, he thinks, fuck it, and his hands reach for his keyboard. 

choke yourself. 

fuck, fuck, fuck, he did not just do that. 

his heart is racing embarrassingly fast beneath his ribcage, loud and pathetically deafening in his ears as he watches your eyes read through the rest of the messages, and you’ve stopped mouthing them, your eyes are widening— which one are you at now? are you just going to ignore him? why wouldn’t you? of course you—

“you’d like that, huh?” you teasingly slur, a lazy, cheeky grin painting your lips, your teeth biting down on your lower lip and your hand— your hand— 

it’s trailing upwards, upwards, upwards, until it finds its way around your throat, resting lightly, and just as he sees your fingers squeeze at the sides of your neck slightly, carefully, you pout at the camera, looking straight at him, and asking, “like this, daddy?” 

a low fuck wheezes past his lungs, and his hand quickly presses down at the bulge in his sweatpants, squeezing and rubbing at his clothed dick as he watches you, entranced. people watching you with him have taken to thanking him for the idea, and to praising you, calling you a good girl, cursing, rapidly typing out something along the lines of you’re so hot i wanna fuck you so bad, and god, hajime hates that he relates to something as stupid as that. 

your hips roll and your head falls back, hand not once leaving your throat. if anything, your grip tightens. you click on the vibrator, and the buzzing becomes louder, your moans with it, as if you were competing. you cry and gasp and sob, writhing in your own hold, your thighs tensing and your hole clenching around nothing as you harshly rub the vibrator against your clit. your cunt gushes and drips as you bring yourself closer to your orgasm, as you cry out a string of, “m’gonna cum, so close, so close!” and a mixture of lewd curses, until finally, you cum. you’re sent over the edge, legs swinging on the chair, high pitched squeals falling from your lips— which hajime can’t decide are real or not, or whether he wants them to be or not. you thrash and cry, tears, as promised to some other watcher, dripping down your cheeks. 

the last straw however, is your comedown from your high, sobs hiccuping and muscles twitching, eyes half closed and body limp as you mewl out, “hajime, hajime, hajime,” like you’re not even aware you’re doing it. like it’s subconscious. 

hajime swears again, a deep, low, “fuck,” and looks down to find a damp spot on his lap. he really came from barely any friction, all because of you. this really is as ridiculous as it gets. 

the next time he sees you, there are the faintest of bruises on your neck. it’s not so obvious that just anyone would notice, but ever since becoming hyperaware of everything that is you and everything that you do, it’s hard not to have them be the first thing he sees. to ensure that the atmosphere between the two of you remains easy, he flicks at your neck and tuts with a smirk, asking you jokingly if you were in your hoe phase. 

“so vulgar, hajime,” you sarcastically retort, teasing him. “you like calling me mean things?” and he has to avert eye contact because all his walls crumble so quick. 

it’s just the two of you tonight, in his apartment, all your other mutual friends having cancelled at one point or another. it’s not an unusual occurrence; more often than not, the two of you are alone. however, it’s been a while since you’d been alone, privately. a while meaning ever since hajime had discovered your side hustle of a sort. he hadn’t been purposely avoiding this— no, maybe he has, but to be fair, he’s still yet to recover from the initial shock. 

it also doesn’t help that since today had meant to be a relaxing night in, you’re dressed casual, but in the hottest fucking way possible. he hopes he hadn’t been blushing as hard as he thinks, and feels, he was, when you’d first stepped into his home. on your hips is a short, black skirt, flowing out to your upper thighs, where just above your knees start a pair of dark thigh highs, squeezing at your thighs and accentuating your legs as you strut around his apartment, feet bare of any shoes or slippers. he can’t decide whether it’s cute or just plain hot. somehow, with you, it’s both. your shirt is off the shoulder, a dark, navy blue bardot, and beneath it, peeking out to rest at your collarbones, is a black bralette. he can barely just see the intricate lace designs, but it disappears and dips beneath your shirt before he can see more of it. 

you’re spread out on the couch, laying along it on your stomach, a pillow tucked in your arms and beneath your head, your clothed legs bent and swinging up in the air. he sits right by you, thigh right by your head, his body as tense as ever. it’s impossible not to be you, not with you in such close proximity to him when only a few days ago he’d watched you make yourself cum, and had heard you whimper out his name after. who can blame him, really?

with your eyes trained on the screen, he hadn’t been expecting you to speak up. 

“iwa, what type of porn do you watch?” 

he nearly chokes, eyes widening as he spares you a glance. your legs continue to swing innocently, your eyes unmoving, your voice unwavering. the suddenness of the question certainly threw him off, but it’s your nonchalance that really shocks him. but, considering everything, it really shouldn’t have. 

“uh, what?” he offers weakly, wincing slightly at the barely there crack in his voice. 

you sigh, shifting to sit up. you plant yourself on your knees, spreading them apart slightly to get comfortable, and shrugging at him. “i’m just curious,” you say. “or,” your eyes squint cautiously, your head cocking to the side slightly, “do you not watch porn?” 

challengingly, his arms lift up to cross at his chest, and he doesn’t miss the way your eyes momentarily glance at the way his biceps bulge. it makes his confidence spike slightly, nervousness ebbing away. “what type of porn do you watch?” 

you gasp dramatically, joking, “take a girl out to dinner first, my god.” he laughs, relaxing lightly at the banter, before his eyes fall back to you. you inch forward curiously, cautiously, still on your knees. now closer to him, you ask again, “seriously, i’m really curious! confirm my suspicions for me.” 

“oh?” he quirks an eyebrow. “so you think you know?” 

at this, you offer him a knowing smile, eyes slightly half lidded. you’re somehow even closer now, leaning towards him with your hands resting on the small space between you and him in the couch, helping you in lifting yourself up slightly on your knees as you say in a low voice, “baby, i think everyone knows.” 

at the sight of you by his side, he feels himself shiver, and an idea invades his mind before he can even process it. “oh, do you now?” he’s not sure where this boldness is emerging from, especially with how cautious and shameful he’d been and felt for weeks now, but he accepts it either way, because the way you’re staring at him like that, he never wants to let it go. and although he wants to drag out this intense eye contact even longer, in order to do what he wants to do, he has to break it, reaching for his phone instead. unable to contain your curiosity, you peak over, watching with confusion as he types out a link. 

the blood drains from your face when you recognize your page on his browser, and he’s logged on— he’s subscribed. 

“what type of porn do i like to watch?” he wonders rhetorically. the phone is pushed aside, and he sits up straighter so that even on your knees, he looms over you. his eyes are skimming over you, along your body, up to your neck, to your lips, to your shocked, wide eyes. and just as his hand trails up to your throat, his palm resting at the base and one finger tapping lightly, he says, “the type where my favorite girl cries out my name when she cums for the world to see.” 

the hand around your throat—

“you,” you breathe out, and finally, finally, when your brain makes sense of everything, your body relaxes, sags against him, leaning more into him until his hand’s properly wrapped around your throat. 

with your mind hazing over, you reach over, and kiss him. 

he meets you halfway, as if having expected it, lips pressing harshly against his. his hand tightens as he pulls you closer, lifting you up slightly and bringing you closer to him as his mouth parts, breathing you in, and kissing you deeper, lewder. you shiver and gasp, hands grasping at his wrist and forearm, not to push him away but rather to urge him closer, as you kiss him back just as eagerly. it seems like hours, with his hand around your neck, tight and a daunting reassurance, and your lips wet and hot against his, but eventually, his hand slides down, the other mirroring it, finding their way to your waist, squeezing and bunching at the skirt as he, with complete and utter and shocking ease, lifts you up off the couch. 

you gasp as he stands up with you, your legs quickly wrapping around his waist as he pulls you to him. as he blindly walks the two of you to his bedroom, he breathlessly asks in between your kisses, “is this— you sure this is okay?” 

with a sharp tug at his hair, you jokingly spit out, “iwa shut up.” 

he tosses you onto the bed, allowing you a minute to strip yourself of your shirt while he slips out of his own, before quickly falling above you, caging you in with his arms as he kisses you again. “not iwa,” he quietly asks of you. 

for a moment you’re confused, before everything clicks again— your slip ups— and your legs lift up, wrapping around his waist and pulling his hips closer to yours just as you mewl out, “hajime, please.” 

god, he is way easier than he thought he was. 

his entire body shudders above you, one hand lowering to push at your skirt to grind his hips down against yours until his clothed crotch meets your bare cunt and— holy fuck, holy fuck. 

“fuck, you slut.” 

you gasp at both his words and the feel of his bulge pressing down against your clit, his lips meeting your neck instead. “you do like calling me mean things,” you say, and he scoffs, his hand traveling upwards to squeeze at your breasts instead. 

“you like me calling you mean things,” he notes, and you let out a muffled moan as he pinches at your nipples through the bralette, lips biting and sucking at your neck. 

“i do,” you pant, arching up into him. “i do, i do.” his hands are fumbling at your chest, and god, they’re so large, so big and warm and harsh, it’s fogging up your brain. 

“yeah, yeah, fucking whore,” he growls, pushing himself slightly on his knees, hands tugging at the bralette. his fingers dip past, gripping the fabric tightly, and as he says, “can’t fucking— take this shit— off,” he tears through it, knuckles whitening as he pulls it away from your body, or what’s left of it. the frills of the ruined bra fall off the edge of his bed, and he watches your wide eyes and gaping mouth follow it, so he grabs at your jaw, twisting your gaze away from it and grunting a low, “shut up.” 

you pull away from the kiss, breathing heavily as you say, “that was so fucking hot, hajime,” before kissing him again. he parts his mouth as you lead him to you again, tongue easily meeting yours. 

it’s a messy kiss as he slips himself out of his sweatpants, taking his boxers with it and discarding them somewhere in his room. his cock slaps against his stomach, a single string of precum messily staining his tan abs. your eyes are quick to gaze down, lips painted a dazzling grin as his hand finds his cock, squeezing at the head and smearing his precum along. 

“knew you were fucking big,” you gasp, eyes trained on him as he strokes himself above you, and he is. he’s so big, thick and heavy, and veiny and your mouth waters at how that’s going to feel when inside of you, stretching you out so good, so much better than any of the toys you had at home. “i thought,” a squeal hiccups out of you as both of his hands grab at your hips from beneath your skirt, one sticky and warmer than the other, “about you all the time.” 

your confession draws his attention, and when he’s pulled you close enough, two of his fingers trail to your cunt, quirking an, “oh?” just as he dips his fingers inside. the lack of resistance he’s met with is surprising, and he chokes out, “did you stretch yourself out before coming here? fuck yourself on some fake cock?” 

tightlipped, you moan, brows furrowed and back arched into him. god, his fingers were not enough. “yes, yes,” you gasp, head falling back. despite not needing to, he still fingers you, his thick digits fucking into you slowly, driving you insane by the second. “yes, i— pretended t’was you,” you whine loudly. at your words, he curls his fingers inside of you, twisting his wrist and pressing his palm directly on your clit. 

“do you always?” he lowly asks, dipping closer to you as he fucks his fingers deeper. his fingers were inside of you, the cunt he’d spent over a month marveling at through a screen, the pretty pussy his dick had drooled over for hours. you’re real, as real as ever beneath him falling apart, making a mess of your black skirt, drenching it with your arousal. 

you moan out a hum, nodding dumbly as his fingers vibrate with the intensity of speed inside of you, your toes curling in your thigh highs and face twisting to press into his mattress. “always,” you cry out, like a promise. “always think of you— hajime!”

it’s an unexpected orgasm, hitting you so fast and quick that it’s outright dizzying. it has you lifting your hips up into his fingers and palm, grinding and trembling, your legs falling and spreading open, shaking wildly by your side and above you as he fucks you through the orgasm. 

“hajime, hajime, hajime,” you chant, words trailing off into tiny sobs and shuddering breaths as your hips slowly fall back onto the bed, body still trembling with aftershocks. 

you’re fucked out beyond words already that you genuinely don’t feel a thing until he’s pressing inside of you, the fat head of his cock stretching you out. he’s really no match for your toys, and if seeing him hadn’t been enough confirmation, the feel of him pressing inside of you definitely is. he doesn’t ease himself in slowly, urgently grabbing the back of your thighs with either hand, keeping your legs spread for him as he bottoms out. 

“fuck, fuck, knew you’d feel so good,” he grunts, brows furrowed harshly as he digs his fingers deeper against the flesh of your thighs, forcing your legs closer to your chest, and somehow pushing himself even deeper within you. you whine and mewl, toes curling and uncurling and legs trembling. “knew it the moment i saw your pretty pussy creamin’ around that thick cock.” 

at the reminder that he’s watched and witnessed you, multiple times, that he’s subscribed to you willingly and curiously, you clench down around him. you feel him twitch inside of you, groaning loudly as he falls closer to you, your legs falling to his waist. 

“you like knowing i was watching you?” he sneers, his hand reaching up and gripping at your face, squishing your cheeks and forcing a pout on your lips. your eyes nearly fucking cross as he rams into you, his fingers digging into your jaw. “you like that i fucked my fist every night to you? to your pretty cunt and your pretty noises and your pretty face— yes, good girl, that one.” 

your eyes do cross this time, spurred on by his words, your tongue peaking out through the small gap he allows with how harsh he’s gripping your face. he’s pushing out little mewls and cries from you, but otherwise, you quite honestly feel braindead. 

“fuck, you’re a gorgeous little slut,” he gasps. “all mine to fuck and use.”

you’re quick to nod rapidly, whining and moaning for him as you grip at his biceps. you’re choking on your breath as you struggle to keep up with him while he fucks you into the mattress, so fucking hard and rough that you’re sure there’ll be an indentation of you once you leave. you can feel your cunt gushing, and you can hear it too, squelching loudly with every thrust of his hips, every time his cock fucks into you. your skirt feels sticky and gross, and so does the rest of you, but you’ve never, never, felt this euphoric, this blissed out. 

your stomach tightens impossibly, the tension gradually increasing as your walls tightly squeeze and clench at his cock. slowly and surely, the pressure within you increases, your hands flying to hajime’s arm, the arm whose hand grips your face, which quickly moves to your throat at your simple gasping warning that you were close. 

“gonna cum, gonna cum, hajime, fuck!” 

he tightens his grip, pressing harsher on the sides of your neck as your eyes shut tightly, your head falling back once more. 

“yeah, come on, show me how pretty you look cumming on a real cock,” he whispers by your ear, using the hand that’s around your throat to lift up your head, before roughly pushing it back down, squeezing tighter. “you like it this rough?— shit, shit, you’re tightening.” 

you scream, voice cracking and broken as he slams into you again, his hips grinding against yours momentarily, pelvis hitting your clit— and you’re gone, thrashing in his hold, fat tears streaming down your cheeks as you sob and heave, your body shaking uncontrollably beneath him, hips shaking as your orgasm rocks through you. it’s not a few seconds later that he’s spilling inside of you, accidentally pressing his palm down against your throat as he cums, blocking your airway momentarily. 

“hngh,” he gasps deeply, cock twitching inside of you as he cums, hips barely grinding. you’re gasping, a little painfully, struggling to take in any air as he blinks dazedly, before he finally takes notice. “shit, shit, i’m sorry.” 

his hand flies away from your throat, and you inhale sharply, coughing lightly as air fills your lungs all too suddenly. the strength of this man, holy fuck. 

“i’m so sorry; are you okay?” 

chest still heaving, you fall onto the bed, body relaxing as you try and regulate your breathing. “s’okay, i’m okay,” you reassure him, hands reaching up to pat at his cheeks and comb through his messy, sweaty hair. 

he leans forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead, and it’s so endearing that you nearly forget he’s still inside of you. but you feel the shift of his cock, feel his cum slowly start to ooze out of your cunt, and he winces from the oversensitivity, shifting away to instead pull out of you. his soft cock falls from your cunt, a steady flow of his cum following. hajime has to physically resist from reaching out to fuck it back into you. 

“i’m sorry i wasn’t careful ‘nough with the—“ he makes a gesture with his hands around his neck, “—the choking.” 

you laugh lightly, tiredly, hands slowly caressing at his sweaty biceps. “stop apologizing,” you reassure him again, shrugging with a small smile as you add, “just be more careful next time.” 

his breath gets caught in his chest, and he only softly exhales when he falls on the bed, to your side, carefully repeating, “next time.” 

from beside him, you lift yourself up on your side on your elbow, palm cradling your head, trying your best not to wince in pain. “hajime?” 

he spares you a glance as he mumbles, “hm?” opting to stare at the ceiling and contemplate whether what had just happened was real life or not. 

“do you wanna do a video with me?” 

he all but chokes. 

end note; please this took me like 4+ hours. please please please don’t flop, and more importantly, i really hope i don’t disappoint. i know this has been a long awaited piece, so i’m praying and hoping you guys love it. 

love you all, mwah <3 

[wherethingscomebackx]

Top 25 Larry Fics of 2020

h 2020 was HELLISH. So thank you to all the writers, and I mean ALL of them, who kept us occupied as the world continues to burn.

You may be familiar with these lists:

Top 25 Larry fics of 2016

Top 25 Larry fics of 2017

Top 25 Larry fics of 2018

Top 25 Larry fics of 2019

We’re going on our 5th year!!  As always, I read a lot of fic and the majority of it is Larry. I like making lists and I like Larry so I thought I’d do some minimal research of the top 25 larry fics published/completed in 2020 in order of least to most kudos (with links). All of these fics are top notch so you should all check them out!

25.) a trail of honey through it all by @yvesaintlourent (27k)

The boy in front of him, well really, the man in front of him, was like something out of a confusing wet dream. Built, tall, tan and muscular, his skin glistened with sweat after a long day of working outdoors with his hands. He was wearing a cut up old American football shirt, the bottom hem was torn and the sleeves were cut off to the point where the t-shirt was really just a loose tank top. The shorts he had on had clearly been full length jeans at one point, and were now just crudely cut off above the knee. His white socks were pulled up too high on his calves, and the brown work boots he had on were old as fuck, the leather peeling along the edges of the soles. Curly brown hair stuck out from the edges of his backwards snapback, and there was a smudge of grease wiped along his brow bone. The smattering of hair along his jaw proved that he hadn’t shaved in a week or two, the hair growing in thicker across his upper lip and around his chin. His sinfully bowed mouth was pink and plump, and Louis was suddenly hyper-focused on the way that he chewed at the toothpick stuck between his lips. He looked like he needed a shower. Louis wanted to lick him.

Or, the TPH fic we’ve all been waiting for.

24.) even the best laid plans by @falsegoodnight (25k)

“Anyways,” Louis stresses, narrowing his eyes, “just let me say it and then rate how terrible of an idea it is on a scale from one to ten.”

“Alright,” Zayn agrees, sitting up expectantly.

“I want to ask Harry Styles to take my virginity,” Louis blurts, holding his hands out for emphasis.

The way Zayn’s eyes bulge is almost comical. “Negative infinity,” he says, voice choked. “Negative infinity times negative infinity.”

“Technically, a negative times a negative is -”

“Really negative infinity,” Zayn corrects himself, shaking his head wildly. “Louis, what the fuck?”

-

Or, Louis wants to have sex with someone and decides Harry is the perfect alpha for the job.

23.) A Distant Hazy Light by @greenfeelings (76k)

Life’s pretty ordinary for Harry. He lives with his best friend, got into university just like he’s planned, and manages to support himself just fine for an unbonded omega. If he sustains that lifestyle by getting paid to help alphas through their rut every now and then, that’s nothing to be hung up on. Until he’s hired by an alpha that turns everything upside down.

Or, Harry’s working on taking Louis’ walls down, until he builds his own up.

22.) Ghost Note Symphony by whoknows (96k)

Louis is on tour when he first hears about it. It’s all over the news – Harry Styles Attacked By Fan runs in headlines for days. It’s not even just the gossip rags, either. Actual journalists are covering the story. It would have been impossible to avoid hearing about it. Technically, Oli is the one who tells Louis about it, but it’s not exactly being covered up. Harry doesn’t answer Louis’ text asking if he’s alright, but that’s not really surprising. They haven’t spoken for months, and it’s been a lot longer than that since they’ve had a real conversation. The sting of the text going unanswered is still there, less painful than it might have been a few years ago.

It’s not that it’s easy to forget about, exactly. Louis has a whole life outside of One Direction now, though. So Louis goes on with his life, figuring that if Harry was seriously hurt he would have heard about it by now. He might currently be in the same country as Harry, but being on opposite sides of it puts enough distance between them that putting it in the back of his mind is easy. There’s nothing Louis could do, even if he thought Harry might want him to.

That’s why everything that happens next comes as a complete shock to him.

21.) Until by @allwaswell16 (38k)

Rural Eagle County, Colorado wasn’t the type of place to find a famous musician or actor. At least not until songwriter Louis Tomlinson showed up with pop star Niall Horan to visit his uncle’s horse ranch, and they just happened to find themselves next door to a reclusive former movie star.

20.) Strangers in Love by sweetums (42k)

Louis wakes up to find himself in a marriage with the last man he thought he'd ever end up with.

-

Prompt 51: An amnesia fic where louis and harry were enemies to lovers but after an accident, louis only remembers those memories that him and harry hated each other. now harry has to fix it. I think something like this less dark and less angsty compared to other amnesia fics and it could be funny

19.) A Long Way From The Playground by Pink_Sunsets (170k)

One Direction is broken up. They broke up five years ago. That should be the end of the story, right?

Harry is finished with One Direction. He now has a new life, one with two kids and a successful solo career. And he’s happy.

But a call one night from management flips Harry’s whole new life upside down, and he’s forced to face the life he had left behind.

As well as a certain blue eyed man who had left him behind.

18.) my love’s not simple (it’s fragile) by @falsegoodnight (27k)

“Can I take you out tomorrow?” he asks. “My shift ends at 7 but we can go for dinner at 8.”

Louis is silent for a few seconds and then, “Like… on a date?”

Harry swallows thickly. He hasn’t done this in years, hasn’t ever wanted to. “Yeah.”

He’s worried he’s misread things but then Louis raises his head to kiss Harry’s cheek. “Yeah,” he says easily. “Sure.”

Tension leaves his body swiftly. “Are you sure?” asks Harry. “I know we’re both so busy but I can’t not try with you, Lou.”

“Neither can I,” says Louis. “I think we can figure it out. I care about you a lot Harry. We’ve known each other for a week, but I already like you so much.”

-

Or Harry's new job is threatened by his impending rut. Desperate for a solution, he allows Niall to introduce him to Louis, an omega whose heat begins the same day. They click.

17.) Cocaine for Breakfast by @harryeatsburger (309k)

“It’s an easy job.” He continues, as if Louis wants to listen. “Like I said, a few trips. Parties, students, nothing dramatic.”

Louis gazes over to Harry. He’s looking thoughtful now, eyes on the green like he’s talking more to himself than Louis.

“Clubbing, drinks. Whatever, the business is just a side thing.”

That’s not how Louis remembers it to be, “You lying?” He honestly can’t tell.

Harry shakes his head slowly, meeting Louis' eyes.

“No,” He answers almost toneless. Harry clears his throat, “I won’t put you in any dangerous situation.” His voice is sincere, Louis can tell he means it, his jade green eyes glinting with truth.

or, - Louis Tomlinson is a drug addict, sent away from his beloved party-scene to recover. There, he discovers that small towns have just as much access to drugs as London did, plus something even better that he just can't get enough of. That something is a boy with green eyes and bouncy curls named Harry Styles. -

16.) Tastes like Strawberries by @sadaveniren (4k)

I’m stressed. I’m nesting and demand cuddles. Come over

Harry frowned and double checked who the text was from. Yup, it still said Louis - Grad, which meant it was from Louis from his grad school.

aka Louis texts Harry by mistake. It works out

15.) the way the storm blows by @rbbsbb (21k)

Louis doesn’t have a habit of thinking about Harry’s dick.

That would be weird, seeing as they’re best mates, and they share a flat, and they’ve spent holidays at each other’s family homes. Their friendship hasn’t ever risen to a point where Louis should want to see his mate’s dick, and he’s happy to keep it that way.

Except, all that Louis can think about is exactly that. The size of it. The shape. The amount of people it’s been in.

Maybe it’s the tequila talking, or the fact that Louis’ just recently walked in to an eyeful of Harry taking turns on some slags that he’s never seen before, but. Louis’ mind can’t stop obsessing over the idea.

14.) bruise you like a peach by @falsegoodnight (40k)

There’s two reasons Harry despises Econ.

The first is that it’s boring as fuck. The second reason is a bit more personal, a bit more focused in a way. As in it’s focused on one specific thing, or in his case, person.

His name is Louis Tomlinson.

13.) Watching The World Fall by whoknows (11k)

This segment has been going on long enough that Louis knows what’s coming before James starts in on it, trying to sell him on something he knows that Louis wouldn’t normally be buying. But there’s four cameras surrounding him, and an audience watching him expectantly, so if Louis wants to continue convincing people that he’s doing just fine, he’s going to have to go along with it.

“We have a whole host of single men backstage waiting to meet you, Louis,” James tells him. “We want to help you find love tonight, on Late Late Live Tinder. Is this okay? Do you want to play?”

It actually kind of makes sense that his first date after the break-up is going to be just as public as said break-up. Something like coming full circle.

“Alright, James,” Louis agrees, hopping down off his stool.

“Okay, come down to the stage,” James says. Louis can’t even tell whether the excitement in his voice is genuine or not. “Right now, come on down!”

12.) Quiet People Have the Loudest Minds by @2tiedships2 (38k)

Broadway shows were one of the few things that could keep Louis’ attention for a full two hours without needing to move about. But not tonight.

The alpha next to him was both infuriating him and practically turning him on at the same time. He needed to leave. The alpha, that is. Louis was staying.

Or the one where Louis is a nonverbal omega who has accepted the fact that he will never find an alpha that will treat him as an equal. On the other hand, he’s never met anyone like Harry.

11.) The Wrath of the Emerald Eyes by @purpledandeli0n (85k)

His chin is grabbed harshly, facing the two deep green eyes that have been getting on his nerves for the past ten minutes. The smirk on the man's face does not vanish. The grip of his hand on Louis' chin does not soften, his thumb at the side of his lower lip.

His smile widens as he answers Louis' question, ''My name is Styles, but you will call me Captain."

•

Pirate AU

10.) Canyon Moon by @eeveelou (40k)

For as long as Louis has remembered, he has been promised to be mated to Harry, his best friend and the future pack alpha. But Louis’s heart belonged to the forest and to the hunt more than he could ever imagine it belonging to Harry.

Then Harry’s father dies in a violent accident, and Louis’s future alpha disappears on the wind.

An A/B/O Lion King AU

9.) We Both Got Nothing to Hide by lovelarry10 (43k)

“Talk to me, Lou.”

“I can’t,” Louis mumbled, knowing he genuinely couldn’t say it. He couldn’t admit to what he was doing. “Don’t ask me to say it, because I can’t.”

“Then… I’ll try and guess. You’ve… got some stuff of Harry’s. Something of his to make it smell like him?”

Louis just nodded, eyes fixated on the floor. This was humiliating, but he knew Zayn wouldn’t stop until he found out what was going on.

“Okay. Like… a blanket, or a comforter or something?”

“Kind of…”

//

Omega Louis has a secret nest. Alpha Harry keeps losing his clothes.

8.) sleeping on our problems by @falsegoodnight (67k)

I’m in love with you, Louis thinks. He feels empty, weighed down by his sadness and the loss of Harry inside him just moments ago before his knot finally went down.

There’s moments where he’s sure Harry feels the same. Like now, when he’s gazing down at Louis with so much adoration and tenderness. It’s like they’re both on the cusp of something more, but neither of them ever say a word.

His confession is on the tip of his tongue ready to slide out like honey, and yet he remains silent. They both do, looking at each other and recognizing the reluctance mirrored in each other’s eyes. It’s then that Louis realizes they’re both scared.

-

Or Louis sleeps with Harry and they have more than just catching feelings to worry about.

7.) like it’s a game by @soldouthaz (32k)

there is little harry hates more than truth or dare.

and louis.

6.) before we knew by @falsegoodnight (39k)

“C’mon Lou,” says Zayn after a moment, He sounds even more exasperated than before. Louis sort of has a knack for exasperating people, especially people like Zayn who aren’t usually bothered by his brattiness. “Can’t you give this guy a chance? Harry Styles? Aren’t you curious about him at all?”

Despite his best efforts, Louis still flinches at the name. He really shouldn’t be so affected after all these years. He’s seen the name printed down the curve of his waist in obnoxiously and uncommonly large loopy letters every single day since his sixteenth birthday eight years ago. He’s very familiar with the name Harry Styles.

It sounds pretentious and Louis hates it.

He hates everything about his supposed soulmate.

He hates his large handwriting that stands out like a claim on his skin whenever he’s walking around shirtless. He hates his pretentious name. And now he hates his supposed curls and green eyes and dimples.

-

Or Louis has been skeptical of soulmates for years so it seems like fate when he finally bumps into the owner of the obnoxiously large signature printed into his skin since age sixteen: Harry Styles, a human rights attorney who is firmly against soulmates.

5.) Mine Would Be You by @crinkle-eyed-boo (114k)

Louis blinks his eyes open, his eyelids fluttering as the room swims around him. He takes several gulps of beer once he confirms that he’s definitely not hallucinating, that the very first portrait Harry Styles ever painted of him is hanging on that wall.

Louis stares at the wall, his heart jackrabbiting in his chest as he realizes that there’s not just one painting of him, there’s five, the portraits lined up like they’re some sort of storyboard depicting the rise and fall of his deepest love. His greatest heartache. A pain that cut him so deep that he left the fucking country, severing all ties with his life in New York, now suddenly surrounding him as if he’d never left.

Fucking shit motherfucker fuck.

Louis returns to New York City five years after he left it – and the love of his life – behind. He didn't intend to see Harry again, but fate has a funny way of pulling them together, whether they like it or not. After making a begrudging truce, they both start to wonder: Would it be so bad if history repeated itself?

4.) You’ve Got My Devotion (Hate You Sometimes) by @harryrainbows (95k)

Harry was in the biggest boy band in the world. He was also one half of the best (or worst, depends on who you ask) kept secret relationship in the music industry.

Now, almost five years on, after One Direction has broken up, and Harry and Louis' relationship has as well, a video threatens to put everything at risk.

One determined Irishman, a massive publicity stunt and two begrudging exes are all it takes to bring One Direction back to life and maybe, just maybe, Harry and Louis' mangled love life too.

Or: Harry and Louis are forced to fake-date after an old video from when they were dating emerges.

3.) The Space Between by @lads-laddylads (39k)

Harry Styles is the alpha rockstar who can’t sleep and doesn’t know why.

Louis Tomlinson is the omega PhD student who helps him figure it out.

2.) Nothing But You On My Mind by @absoloutenonsense (83k)

Louis Tomlinson is a PR manager hired to improve the image of royal bad-boy Prince Harry Styles. Unfortunately for him, that means being faced with the Prince's constant innuendos, incessant dirty jokes, and relentless flirting. Louis just wants to make it to Princess Gemma's coronation; once she's crowned Queen, his contract is up and he never has to see the Prince again.

1.) Collision by @tequiladimples (224k)

Mythology/Fairytale!AU in which Louis is a dainty fairy with a temper who wants to be intimidating and Harry hurts people. Naturally, they hate each other.

(Featuring Liam, the big and not-so-bad wolf who’s got a thing for humans, Zayn, a human with supernaturally good looks, and Niall, the cupid who just wants his job to be easier.)

[rhysismydaddy]

An Artful Revenge pt. 3 (Feysand)

Part of the Damnation Series. 

Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2 

~Feyre~

I spend three days figuring out what to do with the phone number. 

On Day 1, I decided I’d text, not call. It was the cowardly thing to do, but the thought of him answering the phone and putting me on the spot made me want to run and hide. 

Day 2 had been plain ole procrastination. I’d gone to the museum on the hope he’d be there, but like he’d said, that really was a horrible way of communicating.

Day 3, I decided, was the day of reckoning. I’d text him today. 

Shit, did billionaires even text? 

Maybe I should send a properly-formatted memo instead. 

And what should I even write? Hey seemed too casual. Hi, maybe? How’s your day going? Wanna make out? 

Gods, I’m bad at this.

After another two hours of staring at a blank screen, I send: Dinner tonight?

Then, because I realize I’m a fucking idiot: It’s Feyre, btw.

I throw my phone across the room in embarrassment, and put my head in my hands like that’ll unsend the message, then jump the couch like a hurdle when I hear a ding. 

And promptly frown when I read: If you’re going to ask me out, you have to call me like an adult.

I can practically hear his the smile in his voice, and I grit my teeth in annoyance.

But I call him anyway. 

“Look who grew up,” he says in lieu of hello, voice gravelly and amused. 

“Oh, shut up. Do you want to buy me dinner or not?”

He laughs at that, the sound making my lips twitch. “I would love to buy you dinner. But only because I can’t bear the thought of you eating Ramen for the third time this week.”

Narrowing my eyes and glancing around like a fugitive, I try to figure out how the hell he knows I’ve been surviving on reheated, soggy noodles for the past week.

I don’t have the chance to ask before he declares, “I’ll pick you up at six. Oh, and check your doorstep.”

The line clicks dead ominously, and I glance suspiciously at my front door. 

Tiptoeing over, I peek outside, eyes going wide when I see a package leaning against the brick side of the building. 

How long has that been here? I got the mail yesterday, so it had to come today, but... how did he know I’d call today? Is he Batman or something?

I grab the package, roll my eyes at the big red bow on top, and put it on the counter. Then I pick it back up and shake it like that’ll tell me what he’s up to. 

But the curiosity starts to kill me, and I rip into the pretty packaging like a feral animal, unable to wait another second. A shiny black box is inside, and I flip the top open, eyebrows flying up when I look inside. 

The dress is blood red and looks fitted and beautiful. But that isn’t what surprises me. It the thin, lacy underwear with a note attached. A note that reads, in Rhysand’s slashy, distinct handwriting, These are optional. 

The feminist in me flares, and I decide right then and there to make him eat those words. 

~

When six o’clock comes around, I’m prepped and ready for battle. 

My hair is done, my makeup pristine, and the dress is hugging every curve and propping my boobs up to sit nicely on my chest. I don’t typically give myself compliments, but I look damn good. And more than that, I feel good. 

I also don’t typically wear bold makeup, but I’ve thrown that rule out the window. 

My lips match the dress, a dark, ruby red that makes my skin look pale in comparison. I’m complete shit at eyeliner, but I put enough mascara on to frame my eyes and make the blue pop against the red of my lips and dress. 

I look like a mix between a pinup girl and a vampire, basically. 

Knowing how punctual he is, as soon as the clock on my phone reads 7:00, I swing the door open and smile broadly. 

Rhysand pauses, fist halfway to where the door was, and uses a long moment to take me in. His eyes linger on my lips, the exposed cleavage, the sweep of my hips. His mouth drops open slightly, but before he can speak, I step out and lock the door behind me. 

“The problem with your chauvinistic little plan to tell me what to wear, Rhysand,” I tell him, slipping the lace he’d gifted me into his pants pocket and accidently feeling him up, “Is that now you know I’m not wearing any underwear.”

“It was a flawed plan, I admit.” He swallows, eyes narrowing on my hips like he can sense if I’m telling the truth. “But the important thing is to not stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reasons for existing.”

I roll my eyes. “Quoting Einstein now to make yourself feel smart?”

He smiles at that. “Stop calling me on my shit, Feyre. Let’s go.”

I take his hand, happy with myself for winning this round, and let him pull me down the street. He stops in front of a dark, speedy looking car. “Beefcakes busy tonight?”

He gives me a strange look, then laughs loudly. “His name is Rolando.”

Still chuckling, he opens the door for me before walking around to his side. The car’s low to the ground and dark inside, and it makes a loud, rumbling sound when he turns it on. 

He grins, almost like he can’t help it, and I laugh. “Boys and their toys.”

Rhysand pulls out of the spot smoothly, driving slowly because of the traffic. He reaches over and puts a hand on my thigh, just below the hem of the dress. 

It’s warm and wonderful and casual enough to not mean anything, but I’ve made it my goal tonight to make him cry like a baby, so I swat it away. “Don’t even start.”

“Start what?”

I look over at him and smile sweetly. “Trying to seduce me.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I link our fingers together and rest them on the center consol. “Where are we going?”

“New York.”

My mouth drops open. “Um, what? That’s like a twelve hour drive.”

“We’re not driving.”

I gesture around us with my free hand. “Yes, we are.”

“You are such a little smartass tonight. We are currently driving, but we aren’t driving to New York. And before you ask, the answer is yes.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “To what question?”

“If it’s my plane.”

I drop his hand and throw both of mine up in frustration. “Okay what gives? Did you stick a chip in my head or something?”

He smiles, pulling onto the interstate smoothly. Even though it’s not as crowded, he still drives slower than I’d expected when I saw the car. “Your face is very easy to read.”

“It is not,” I argue, my face instantly finding insult with that statement.

“Yes, it is. I’ll prove it to you. Tell me two truths and a lie, and I bet I can guess which one is the lie.”

“What’s the bet?”

He takes his eyes off the road to give me a very male look. I narrow my eyes, picking up on the innuendo in his gaze, and he laughs. 

“And if I win?” I ask, taking in his profile while he drives and trying not to sigh at how handsome he is. Such a nice jawline. 

“I’ll answer three of the questions you’re dying to ask.”

Oh, he knows me too well for this. His smile grows because he knows I’m a fish gladly swallowing the hook, but still asks, “Do we have a deal?”

“Deal.”

I take a few minutes to think of facts about myself. 

“I had a pet goat when I was little, my best friend’s a lesbian, and I think Mick Jagger is sexy.”

They’re the three most random things I could think of, things he’d have absolutely no way of knowing.

But the damn bastard still says immediately, “Your best friend isn’t a lesbian.”

My mouth drops open because technically, she’s bi, and I make a strangled sound of disbelief that makes him grin. “I told you. You’re a bad liar. Shame, I could tell you really wanted to ask those questions.”

“I hate you,” I tell him, beyond annoyed myself. 

He pulls off the highway and turns, leading us out to a dusky private airfield I--shockingly--never knew was behind the airport. Rhysand slows to a stop and looks over at me, then leans slowly to press his lips to mine. 

It’s warm and sweet and soft, but I feel it all the way to my toes.

He ruins the moment by murmuring, “I’ll take my reward later, by the way.”

I shove him over to his side of the car and climb out, then realize I don’t know where to go. We’re surrounded by expensive looking planes, one of which is obviously owned by the billionaire trying to get in my pants, but I don’t know which one. 

I glance back over my shoulder at him, and he smirks and points at the one to our right. 

“Are you seriously taking me to New York?”

I kind of thought he’d been joking, but he nods. “My favorite restaurant is there.”

“You're ridiculous.”

“More like hungry,” he argues, holding out a hand to gesture up the open steps leading in the plane.

I stay where I am, casting a curious glance up the stairs. It looks nice and shiny in there, but no matter how nice and shiny, it’s basically a steel death trap. 

Even though I can feel his eyes on me and desperately want to hide this fact about myself, I can’t step up. 

And because he’s an observant little asshole, he notices. “You’re afraid to fly.”

“Um, well, not afraid-”

“You’ve never flown before.” 

I nod, blushing from embarrassment. I mean, it’s obvious he flies all the time if he has his own plane, and I’m small town enough to have never even been in one. 

“Don’t be embarrassed. My first time flying was three years ago, Feyre.”

My face must look doubtful, because he nods. “I’m serious. I never saw the point until a business rivalry made me feel inadequate. I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable. We can go somewhere else.” 

He’s sweet to offer, but... I want to go. I’ve never been to New York, and when am I going to get an offer like this again? 

“I’m... uh... are you sure about this thing?” I reach out and grab the handle of the stairs, shaking it to see if it’ll fall off or something. 

“Yes.”

There’s no argument, no doubt in his voice. And I know it’s irrational, but-

Strong arms wrap around my waist and heft me up, and I yelp as Rhysand flings me over his shoulder and my head comes very close to his ass. “What are you doing?”

“Kidnapping you. You obviously want to go, and I’d hate to miss the reservations.”

“Rhysand, wait, hold on a second.” He ignores me entirely and walks up the stairs and inside the plane, even stopping to shake hands with the pilot. I’m dropped in a plush chair, and before I can object, a seatbelt is around my waist. 

“See?” He gestures around. “Like a living room.”

“In the sky!”

He shrugs like that’s an irrelevant detail, looking back over his shoulder and gesturing again to the pilot. I peek around him to see the door seal closed, then the gentle-looking man disappears in the control room. 

“He’s the one flying this thing?” I mean, he looked competent enough, but... 

I start freaking out.

Rhysand slips his jacket off, throwing it over the back of a seat before sliding into it, gentle grace and luxury lining his every movement. His eyes roam over me slowly, and I can tell he’s about to try and distract me before he even says, “You look beautiful.”

“Thanks,” I pant back, gripping the arms of the seat with white knuckles.

Plan A having failed, he swiftly moves onto B. “Are you really not wearing underwear?”

B, I have to admit, does a decent job of momentarily distracting me from my inevitable death. “I thought you said I’m easy to read.”

He smirks. “Tell me anyway. I won the bet, remember?”

“I remember you never specified the terms, so-”

I cut myself off as the plane starts rolling, and if I had half a mind to care, I’d worry my painted nails are about to bust through the soft leather of his chair. 

I feel like fucking throwing up or stabbing him or running far away or crying.

Rhysand, on the other hand, looks completely relaxed, sprawled casually in the seat across from me.

The plane makes a slow turn, then pauses. Apprehension sweeps over me, and I groan and look at the ceiling. 

“Allow me to rectify that horrible mistake. My prize is... a kiss.”

Despite the nausea, I raise a brow and looks at him suspiciously. “You want to kiss me? That’s it?”

“Mmhm. Right now. Close your eyes.”

“But the plane-”

He shrugs and waves a hand. “Just close your eyes, love.”

I shut up and close my eyes, slightly pursing my lips and waiting patiently. I hear a shuffle, feel the warmth of his body come close to mine. My breath draws shallow in anticipation, goosebumps appearing on my arms.

There’s another pause, and I’m about to open my eyes to see where he went, but then the plane attempts to break the sound barrier and takes off, and I’m thrown back against the seat. 

At the same time, I feel a kiss on the inside of my knee.

My eyes fly open to find Rhysand kneeling in front of me, hands bracketing my thighs. I open my mouth to say something, but he growls, “Close. Your. Eyes.”

The frank demand in his voice gives me no option, and as soon as I do, he kisses my thigh again in reward.

“Now spread your legs.”

The plane goes faster and faster. “Rhysand...”

He sighs, a long-suffering sound that makes me giggle as I once again do what he wants. I mean, really, why was I even hesitating?

It’s obvious what he’s doing, and even though it’s not safe in the slightest, I’m well on board with the idea.

His hands move to my knees, then glide up, pushing the tight hem of the dress up. He’s pressing open-mouth kisses to my thighs as he goes, and then his hands slide up another inch, and my lack of undergarments are revealed. 

“Fuck, Feyre,” he says, like my going commando was my idea, not his.

I’m about to point that out when he leans forward and put his mouth on me. At the same time the plane lifts off the ground. 

I’m torn between panic and ecstasy. The combination makes me light headed, and a rush of adrenaline hits my system, making me gasp.

I try to sit up straighter in the seat, but he’s holding my hips in a death grip and pulls them the other way. I slide down, thighs falling further open. He slips his shoulders under them, completely in control of the situation, and all I can do is grip his hair and enjoy the ride.

His mouth is insistent and confident against me and makes me finally stop thinking about dying in a fiery plane crash.

He slides a hand up my thigh, somehow able to hold me still with just one, then presses a finger inside me. I groan and pull on his hair, squirming underneath his grip, but it’s useless. 

Rhysand holds tight, his strong hands preventing me from moving, as he devours me completely. I make a helpless sound, but he doesn’t take mercy.

I think, instead of the crash, I’ll die from this instead. 

I think I’ll just burn and burn and burn from the fire he’s ignited in my blood.

His name slips past my lips, and he pauses, then becomes even more demanding. I’m being adored, worshipped, eaten like a ice cream sundae.

Another finger slips inside me as his mouth sucks softly, and I come with a cry, practically strangling him with my thighs. 

He keeps moving, kissing me softly, until my thighs go limp and I fall back into the seat with a huff. 

He leans back on his heels, hands braced on my thighs, and runs his tongue across his lower lip in a way that makes me almost come again. Realization of what he just did courses through me, and I blush, well aware that my lady bits are still on display. 

“Flying isn’t so bad after all.”

Rhysand laughs, pressing one last kiss to my knee before gently pulling my dress back into place. Then he sits back in his seat, crosses his legs, and looks me over slowly. 

“Well, that was definitely a faulty plan, because now I don’t even want to go to dinner.”

“No?”

“No.”

The heat in his gaze sends a thrill through me, because suddenly, I don’t even care about New York. I want him to land this plane and take me home and give me a repeat of what just happened. 

But now it’s abundantly clear that if I went home with him, I wouldn’t walk out with my sanity. So, once again a coward, I deflect. “Well, too bad. I’m hungry.”

He says something I can’t quite hear, the way he looks at me tells me not to ask. 

“How long is the flight?”

He checks his watch. “About another half hour.” My mind wanders to very... creative ways we could fill that time, and I blush again. “I’m curious to know what you’re thinking about over there.”

His smile says he knows, so I look him over like he often does me and say softly, “I’m thinking about returning the favor.”

His eyes flare, his mind easily following mine, but he maintains his composure. “A half hour isn’t nearly enough time if we start going down that road.”

It takes me more than a second to figure out how to breathe again. “How much time would we need?”

“Days.”

Oh, holy hell.

I’m about to tell him to keep us in the air that long, but he winks and looks away, then presses a button on a remote I hadn’t noticed he was holding. A classy looking woman in a red skirt and matching blouse comes out of the cockpit, wheeling an ice bucket and holding two glasses. 

“Good evening,” she says quietly, looking at me kindly but avoiding eye contact with Rhysand entirely as she pours us both champagne. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

Then she’s gone. 

I’m about to sip from my glass, but he reaches out and switches his with mine. 

Immediately, I steal my original glass back. “I’m not getting poisoned because you pissed her off.”

“What makes you think I pissed her off?”

“She couldn’t even look at you.”

His lips twitch. “I know you’ll find this strange, but some people find me intimidating.”

I scoff, a very ladylike sound, and take a gulp of the champagne. Noticing he still hasn’t drank any of his, I take his glass and sip from it with a raised brow. “Are you going to let me die alone?”

He rolls his eyes and calls me a smartass but drinks from his glass anyway. 

“Why are you always so sure someone’s trying to kill you, anyway?”

There’s a long pause, and he seems to be debating if he’s actually going to tell me before he responds, “I have a lot of enemies, Feyre.”

He sounds so unusually serious, like he’s just told me something important. 

“I don’t,” I tell him with a sigh, suddenly irritated with my normal life. “I think I’ve grown a bit boring, actually. No one hates me, and I never even have to worry about being poisoned.”

Rhysand chuckles and gives me a strange look. “You’re not boring. And never worrying about being murdered isn’t a terrible thing.”

“I’m boring. I can’t even lie properly.”

“That,” he laughs, “I can’t argue with.”

“New game: I say something, and you guess if it’s a lie. No betting this time.”

He sighs but nods and gives me a get on with it gesture. 

Keeping my face completely neutral and making sure my fingers aren’t twitching or any other obvious give away, I say, “I have two sisters.”

“True.”

I narrow my eyes, but take a deep breath and keep my cool. “I tried to learn Italian last summer.”

“Also true, but I’m willing to bet it went poorly.”

A laugh escapes me at that. “It was horrible. I’m complete shit at the accent.” I try to think of other facts about myself and come up short. Gods, I really am boring, aren’t I? 

“I’ve never been in love.”

His eyes scan my face. “That’s a lie.”

“It is,” I confirm, looking at his chin and wondering why I even said that in the first place. 

He ducks to catch my gaze. “Your ex?”

We’re getting into dangerous territory--even I know you don’t discuss your ex-boyfriend this early in the game--but he doesn’t seem upset or stressed or jealous. He looks... curious. So I shrug and nod. 

“What happened?”

Taking another large gulp of champagne, I say, “He wanted to get married, I didn’t. I loved him, but... he was older and wanted something I just wasn’t ready to give him. And then he moved, and I got over it.”

Rhysand’s silent for a beat, a muscle in his jaw twitching, then nods like he understands. “Older, huh? You have a type.”

I laugh at the thought of the two of them being anything alike. “You couldn’t look more different from my ex. And you refused to actually tell me how old you are. ”

He sighs. “I’m seven years older than you.”

Quick math has never been my strong suit, but I figure it out eventually, my mouth dropping open when I do. “You’re twenty-eight?”

He nods in confirmation, and I proceed to lose my mind.

“Just twenty-eight? As in two eight, twenty-eight?”

Another nod, along with a very strange look. 

I realize I’m acting just a little bizarre, so I shake my head to clear it and say, “You’re... very impressive, Rhysand.”

When I’m twenty-eight, I’ll probably be just another starving artist, looking for a museum to hire me as a curator and begging people to buy my paintings. I’ll be broke and will have developed an allergy to Ramen from how much I’ll be eating it. 

I definitely won’t be a gazillionaire with a private art collection and enough real estate to own half the city of Chicago. 

He shrugs uncomfortably, like my bewilderment isn’t deserved, and I can’t resist the temptation to tease him. “You also suck at taking compliments.”

“Yes,” he admits. “But so do you.”

“What? No, I don’t.”

He smiles and braces his elbows on his knees and immediately proceeds to prove me wrong. “You’re far more impressive than me. You’re gorgeous and talented and have a way of looking at the world that makes me feel like I haven’t lived a day of my life properly.”

I blush furiously and look at the ceiling of our death trap, wildly uncomfortable all of a sudden. “You’ve proved your point.”

Rhysand laughs, then glances at his watch. “We should be on the ground soon.”

Almost like he spoke it into being, the plane dips and a mechanical whirring sound meets my ears. Is that supposed to happen? “Oh, fucking hell, you’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

“You did try to poison me.”

I give him a nasty look and mutter, “So fucking ridiculous, flying to another city for dinner. Next time, we’re going to Taco Bell.”

He rolls his eyes at my antics, unbuckling and moving to sit next to me. His hand slides into mine, warm and comforting, and I grab onto it like child child running from the boogeyman. His thumb runs over the back of my hand, and I sigh, leaning to put my head on his shoulder. 

“Thanks for the dress,” I finally say, remembering my manners. 

“It looks good on you. Like I said, I have excellent taste.”

I smile. “I’m waiting on dinner to confirm or deny that.”

Suddenly, there’s a large sound and a bump, then I’m leaning forward as the plane comes screeching to a halt. I press my eyes shut and squeeze the shit out of his hand, but he just keeps running his thumb along my skin, silently comforting me.

The plane comes to an eventual stop, and I peek open my eyes to see him grinning down at me. “Welcome to New York, Feyre darling.”

~

A week after our soiree to the Big Apple, I decide I have a problem. 

I like Rhysand way too much to have only known him three weeks. 

He’s all I fucking think about. 

Which, I guess, isn’t a problem. Being swept off your feet is every little girl’s dream. But it’s getting harder and harder to resist sleeping with him.

I’ve been wined and dined and given searing kisses that make my toes curl, not to mention the whole incident on the airplane, but we haven’t actually had sex. Honestly, I thought I’d cave on the way back from New York, but I ended up passing out in a food coma before the plane even took off, my head nestled in the happy spot between his shoulder and neck. 

I definitely want to sleep with him, so much so it makes my eyes cross just thinking about it, but it just scares me how much I like him. 

And I know sleeping with him would just make me like him more. 

I need a breather, need to get my distance and keep my head or whatever the saying is. I need to calm the fuck down, basically. 

So I, being a mature adult, decide to avoid him.

I make it five days. 

Five days of missed calls and intentionally unseen smoke signals. 

Then he apparently decides to stoop to my level and figure out how to text, because five days after the most extravagant dinner date of my life, my phone dings. 

If you ignore one more of my calls, I’m going to buy Dancers in Blue and light it on fire.

I spend exactly eighty-three seconds debating if he’s serious. I mean... surely not, right? I know he’s richer than sin, but he wouldn’t just burn fifty million dollars. 

Right?

Rational thought and self preservation be damned, I pick up the phone when it starts to ring. 

“That, Rhysand, was emotional manipulation.”

“Yes, it was.” He’s shameless. “Why are you avoiding me?”

“I’m not.” I don’t know why I bother lying, since I’m apparently such shit at it, but I do. “I’ve been busy.”

Yes, very busy with watching nine movies in the past four days.

“With...?”

Inspiration dawns. “My senior project.”

“Oh, really?” A nervous sweat breaks out across my back at the knowing tone of his voice, and I begin to doubt my genius. “What’s the subject?”

“Uh, well-”

“Now that we’ve reestablished you’re a horrible liar, tell me what’s really going on.”

If he were here, I’d strangle him. 

Or maybe kiss him.

“I need a few days,” I mutter, upset with myself for being an open book. 

“Why?”

His simple question makes me think he doesn’t want space. Is he as into me as I am to him? Is that even possible? 

“Because I like you,” I say honestly, having learned my lesson about lying. 

Rhysand’s quiet for a long moment, then he chuckles. “I see the issue.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do. Answer the door.”

What? “There’s no one at the door.” 

At least there shouldn’t be, because I didn’t invite anyone over. 

“Incorrect.”

Eyes already narrowed, I stomp over and fling the door open, practically ripping it off its hinges in my frustration. He’s leaning against the brick stoop, looking sexier than socks on a rooster in a midnight blue shirt and black slacks, smiling at me. 

“You are not allowed to avoid me just because you like me,” he states, brushing past me without invitation.

“What do you think you’re doing here?”

He kisses my brow. “I like you, too.”

“Okay, but-”

“And I have cake.” He holds up a clear box, allowing me a glimpse of the fluffy chocolate deliciousness inside. 

It’s almost annoying how well he knows me, because chocolate cake is my vice.

I try to think of another protest that won’t que him in to why I’m actually scared, but he cuts me off because of course, he already knows. “I won’t touch you, I promise. Even if you ask.”

My lips twitch. “Even if I ask?”

“Even if you beg,” he states with confidence, strolling into the kitchen like he owns the place. He looks around, face not giving a single detail away as he takes in everything. 

Thankfully, I’m not a slob, so the place isn’t dirty, but it’s definitely not a penthouse apartment. 

It’s a tiny old townhouse, barely big enough to even be called that. The water is lukewarm, never hot, and I had to just take the smoke detector out of the ceiling so it would stop beeping. 

It’s part of my scholarship, and compared to where most college students live, it’s a dream, so I don’t complain. 

His eyes roam over half-done canvases and art supplies, pictures of my sisters, random shit I don’t have the heart to throw away. 

I sigh and bump him aside with a hip so I can grab two forks, then motion for him to follow me. We head into the living room, and I flop onto the couch dramatically, then motion for him to hand me the cake. 

Sitting next to me with far more class, he flips open the lid and hands me a fork. “Chocolate mousse.” 

“I’m going to be three hundred pounds if you keep feeding me,” I warn as I take a bite, not at all concerned with that possibility. 

“I think you’ll be fine.”

I grab the remote and flip through movies, eventually sighing in defeat and putting on Scarface. 

“Seriously?” he asks around a mouthful of cake, fighting a smile. 

“It’s my favorite movie, and nothing good’s on anyway.”

He looks at me like I’m the most amusing thing he’s ever come across, but settles down and flings an arm around me. Fighting the urge to tell him this breaks his whole ‘no touching’ rule, I snuggle into his side. 

Maybe it’s the cake, or the fact that I’m horrible at staying awake through a movie past eight o’clock, but I drift off to sleep, my face pressed into his chest. 

~Rhysand~

I finish the movie--fucking Scarface--even though she fell asleep a while ago. 

She’s soft and warm against me, body relaxed into mine without an ounce of hesitation. 

She tried to hide it, but I know why she didn’t want to see me. 

She’s falling for me. 

Which, technically, is the plan. 

Technically, everything is going great. 

Except she’s fucking worming her way into my heart too. Which is so goddamn annoying, it makes me want to strangle her. Or maybe kiss her. 

Being with her is... a wonderful kind of torture. 

She’s beautiful and charming and doesn’t look at me with an ounce of fear in her bright blue eyes, but it’s also like holding up a mirror that shows me the worst parts of myself. 

I hear her laugh and am reminded of the last time I laughed and loved freely. I see her beautiful soul and compare it to the bleakness of my own.

I look at her blind innocence and force myself to not care that I’ll be the one who robs her of it.

Maybe that’s why I finish the movie. I give myself two hours to sit here and enjoy her company, two hours where she doesn’t hate me or curse the day I was born. 

But then the credits role, and I have to pull my head our of my ass and get on with it, no matter how much I don’t want to.

Moving slowly so she doesn’t stir, I lift her into my arms. She wraps her arms around my neck, fingers playing in the hair at my nape, and sighs happily. 

I wish she wouldn’t do shit like that. 

I wish she was heartless and cruel and cold. 

I make my way up the creaky stairs to her room, then put her on the unmade bed, the covers horribly messy around her. The moonlight coming through the open window illuminates her skin and allows me to see how vulnerable she looks.

She’s in tiny little shorts that shouldn’t be legal, and a thin white shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide what’s underneath. Her hair’s a mess around her, her lips are parted, and there’s a calm, peaceful look on her face.

It’s perfect. 

It’s horrible.

Taking a deep breath and running a hand through my hair, I tell myself not to care. 

But as I take out my phone and snap a picture, my hands still shake. 

And as I type the message I’ve been mentally drafting for years, I feel like I’m going to be sick.

But as much as I hate myself for it, a feeling of victory shoots through me as I hit send. Revenge, it seems, really is sweet. 

And I’m just getting started. 

___________________________________________

Part 4

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[internalsealpanic]

Lesson Learned

summary: Pinning exercises are a lot easier when you ask nicely.

a/n: The backstory to this piece was that I went to the church part of our discord server and told people about me being thirsty about Slade and they collectively went: DO HIM. The reader does have a backstory which boils down to rich girl from a crime family is a little shit because I thought this would have a funny dynamic with Slade.  Special thanks to @batarella and @knightfall05x for proof reading and giving me ideas. Would this count as my one entry for kinktober? 

warnings:  This is straight up smut. Please read responsibly. Brat taming, strength kink, daddy kink, orgasm denial, and hinted size kink. (Hilariously half of these were by complete accident.) There is some injury mentioned but not too graphically. Both characters are assholes.   

masterlist

Slade was on the ground, his head was swimming even as the sharp shriek of sirens rang loud in his ears. His senses were at once too sharp and too unfocused. Whatever drug he'd been hit with had to have targeted the nerves in his muscles too. He couldn't move. Not substantially anyway. Not in a way that would actually help him.  Through the haze he hears the clicking of heels against the floor, then a sharp pain shoots through him when said heel dug into one of his still closing bullet wounds. 

 You stood above him, your shark's smile hidden behind your mask.  "Well old man, I didn't think you would be caught this easy. I might need to rethink this meeting." You hummed tapping your chin as you lean down your heel digging further into his flesh. It's a tactic your sister had taught you. People were less inclined to think clearly when in excruciating pain.  If Deathstroke was this easy to capture, was he really worth your money? 

 He was watching you, blue eyes looking defiant. You whistled low. You liked a hard negotiation. It kept things more interesting. The rapid footsteps of men drew you out of your contemplation much to your annoyance. You debated on just paying them to go away. It would make your life easier but there's a chance these men were truly loyal to the man you had just paid a visit to.

 You weigh your options. His reputation may be enough to keep your siblings away. Maybe just long enough 'til their petty little war is over. "I'm going to hire you-"

 "-this assumes I'm going to say yes"

 You snorted. He noted the confident roll in your shoulders, the kind of cocky self-assured gesture of someone who knows they're going to win.  Every movement, every angling of your form deliberately used to show a difference in power and lack of respect. In short, it made you very punchable.

 "Your statement assumes you have a choice." You chuckled tilting your head to the side in challenge. He scowled at you and you try to keep the sheer delight you feel out of your body language. You weren't sadistic by any means but for one, brutality was practically bred into you, and two, you are, what your darling eldest brother had so kindly put, a  little bitch.  "I'll tell you why you'll say yes to my proposal." You said stepping off of him and pirouetting towards your duffle bag. "One, I'm offering your more than a million dollars in cash for the simple job of training me-" You observed his face as it remains carefully impassive. You expected as much. You heft your bag into your arms and unzip it rummaging through the cache of weapons you had stored just in case plan A through F failed you. "Unless we're associated, I'm the only one walking out of here with any money for their troubles." You said tossing the severed head of his target in front of him. You gave him an all too pleased grin. 

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

 You find yourself pinned down again in the span of 15 minutes, face squished against the training mat, your arms pinned behind you, and most annoyingly your ass raised while your bastard of an instructor laughs in your ear, his lips dangerously close to your ear. You hiss and bristle feeling the fibers in your muscles burn from the uncomfortable angle they've been forced into.  You squirm trying to buck him off but his strength rendered your efforts moot. His enhanced strength keeps your body firmly between the sweat-covered mat and his large, toned body which just made you bite your lip to keep anything vulgar from escaping you. 

 You were 110% sure he was fucking with you at this point but any smart remark you had was either smothered by the mat or died whenever you felt acutely aware of your skin against his.  

 "Get off of me, old man," You snarl, making a futile attempt to kick him off with one of your legs. He chuckles at your weak attempts, the reverberations from his chest pressing against your back sending a thrum of excitement rolling over you concentrating into more distracting areas. You can't see it but you know he's grinning smugly above you and you can't decide whether it's your horniness or your anger that will win out. You sincerely hope it's the latter. 

 "C'mon, kid, you can get out of this," He encourages but you don't miss the playful mockery dancing in his tone. You squirm and wriggle and sigh. "Just let me out," You demand, politely. He doesn't budge. You turn your head to pout petulantly at him. That doesn't do anything either. 

 You sigh again. You hated pinning exercises with a carefully cultivated passion which you would normally direct at whatever instructor was dumb enough to force it upon you. However, that wasn't really possible as of this moment. One of the reasons for this hatred was that you were never pinned down unless you wanted to be, even then they were usually too hesitant to follow through so you never really saw any practical use for the skill. That is until last week when you found yourself being pinned down by the Red Hood which was honestly a fantastic position if you weren't trying to get away from him. Apparently, the large man didn't take too kindly to being shot at even when your very professional self explained that you were in fact a decoy. After you were entirely unable to slip his hold, you begrudgingly agreed to let Slade teach you a few maneuvers. The other reason was that you liked being pinned down. Your body is far too enthusiastic about the feeling of being pinned down. You're pretty sure you've expended more energy into suppressing your thrilled shivers than you have trying to get out of any of the holds he's demonstrated so far.  The fact that he was an attractive asshole with no shirt did not help.    

 "Maybe if you ask nicely, princess" He drawls his teeth grazing your ear, beard bristling against the sensitive skin of your shoulder. You bite back a groan and stop the cant of your hips. "Or are you even capable of that?"

 "I am, sir" You grind out but it sounds too breathy to be threatening. You feel the curve of his lips against your shoulder.

 "Dunno, brat, I've never seen you do it," He taunts pressing closer to you. You're suddenly aware of just how close you two are. You hate how the way he called you brat sent thrills up your spine. You try to even your breath but you're entirely too feverish both body and mind. You had to think of something before you were lost in a haze.

 You nudge your arm one last time before an idea strikes. A familiar shark-like grin spreads like wildfire across your features. Pressing your ass against his crotch, you roll your hips, the movement slow and deliberate and painfully tempting. Sure, it was a dirty trick but 1) he never said anything about using your assets 2) you've been wanting to do that since the first hold. You feel his muscles tense and you can't help but radiate smugness.  Your smile vanishes, however, when he rolls his hips against yours giving you a feel of his hardened length through the thin fabric of your gym shorts. The slow, tantalizing friction against your core draws out a vulgar moan from you. 

 "Do you wanna run that by me again, brat?" He whispers low and husky emphasizing the last word with another grind of his hip. You pant, hips answering back with their own desperate movement. You want to let your hips keep moving, to make him move, to feel his cock against your core but pride flared in your chest. "Make me." You bite out. "I really should teach you some manners."You feel the low rumble of his answer in response seemingly amused by your continued resistance. He rocks his hips against yours drawing out another breathy moan from you. Out of spite you bite your bottom lip and rock your hips in tandem with his. What did you hope to accomplish from this? You don't know but it certainly felt good. Your skin feels hot and oversensitive as your bodies continue to move at this rhythm. The feel of his muscles rippling against you makes you arch your back. You wanted more but you had too much pride. As if spurred on by the movement, he presses a kiss on your shoulder and sucks at your flesh, a rough hand grips your waist tight enough to bruise. "Slade!" You choke out losing your composure.  The cry sounds more like a plea than you would like. You sound so small and needy beneath his ministrations. 

 Distilling your anger into your weakening limbs you try to buck him off again. You make a small noise of triumph when he budges but whine when his grip on you just gets tighter. "Not quite, princess,"  

 He flips you onto your back. A hand pins both your arms above your head as he situates himself between your legs. His lips capture yours in a rough kiss, the type where you feel two bodies fighting each other for dominance. His teeth bite lightly against your bottom lip asking for entrance. You open your lips less in concession and more of a challenge. The wet muscles of your tongues entangle. Your nose is filled with the musk of him. It was overwhelming. You moan into the kiss and you feel him smile into it. Another small victory. 

 Slade ends the kiss having undeniably won the match. You try to move your hand to punch the grin off his face but again your hands don't budge. You curse his enhanced strength halfheartedly as the feeling of the heat coiling in the pit of your stomach takes over. Instead of diving back in for another kiss as you expected, Slade trails kisses down your jawline, your throat, and your collar bone leaving very defined very visible hickeys. There was something oddly possessive in his actions.  The look in his eye was predatory. 

 You, foolishly, let your attention wander to your hands seeing what angle you could possibly force them into so you can slip his grip and maybe turn the tables. Your attention snaps back to him when the pressure around your chest loosens and the distinct sound of a zipper fills your ears. Your eyes widen as you watch as he unzips the front of your sports bra with his teeth. Your breath catches even as your chest fills with the lack of constriction. Your too hot skin is grazed by the training room's cold air. He places a kiss in the valley between your breasts but when you whimper and move slightly urging him to proceed. He moves on to your stomach. "Asshat" You seethe through gritted teeth. You let out a groan of frustration. You were going to kill him. You honestly don't care if you've just wasted half a billion dollars on this asshole. 

 His kisses drift down to your inner thigh drawing a moan from you. Slade chuckles seeing your desire seeping through the thin fabric of your shorts. He isn't entirely surprised considering how unsubtle you are about your interest. A rare moment of embarrassment blankets you. Your legs try to close but rough hands pry them apart placing them on his broad shoulders. You bite your lip when he plants a kiss on your inner thigh. Your lips are puffy and red at this point, looking delicious as you panted. Slade wonders how your lips would feel around his cock but he decides he'll save that for another time. He hooks his fingers on the waistband of your shorts and his eye widens momentarily when he doesn't feel a second layer of fabric underneath it. He looks at you incredulously.

 You shrug trying to keep the mischief off your face looking absolutely unapologetic. "It's laundry day-" You shrug a little amused that this is the detail that caught him off guard. "-I did tell you I had stuff to do~"He also supposedly had stuff to do but, apparently, you were stuff. He chuckled and without dignifying your comment with an actual response, he rips your shorts off with ease and tosses them somewhere behind him.  A complaint or a threat, you weren't entirely sure, died on your lips when his tongue gave your core a nice long lick. A loud, needy keen escapes you. Your hands now free from his grasp dig into his scalp.  Pleased with your reaction he continues. His skilled tongue exploring your core hitting spots you didn't even know were there. Your hips meet to match his pace as he fucks you with his tongue. You whine when he withdraws his tongue but mewl loud and wanton when you feel two rough fingers stretching your insides. His mouth latches onto your sensitive bud, fingers pumping in and out.  You throw your head back not being able to contain your moans.

 "Look at me, brat," The command is deep and resonant. Your whole body buzzes with excitement. Slade can see your eyes dilate as his voice drops an octave. 

 "Yes," Your breath hitches when he doesn't move. "Sir" You add as a concession hoping it was enough. You felt your pride waning from the small piece of power being given away. Thankfully, he rewards you with another long lick before you can dwell on it. Slade watches as your face twists in pleasure trying your best not to throw your head back. You see the smugness on his face even when half of his face is buried between your legs. You don't attempt a threat simply because you don't trust whatever comes out of your mouth to be coherent. You were so close. You rock your hips trying to chase your high. Your skin is flush and glistening with sweat. You were so close. He feels your walls tightening around his fingers. Another needy keen escapes you as you were about to tip over the edge. 

 The motherfucker pulls back. You snarl at him but it comes out sounding more like a needy croon than anything else. He chuckles at you even as he captures your lips for another kiss. His tongue is thick with the taste of you. Your hand tangles itself into his hair while the other tugs at the waistband of his sweatpants.  He pulls away giving your lips one last nip before his body is off of you. It's funny how just moments ago you wanted him off of you badly enough that you'd play any dirty trick you could think of but now your skin is burning for his touch.  He takes off his sweat pants and his engorged cock slaps against his abs. It takes every brain cell at your disposal not to drool at the sight of it. He was BIG. You wonder briefly if he would even fit.  

 He spits on his cock rubbing his head against your thoroughly soaked folds. You mewl. A playful look in his eye does not go unnoticed but you were far too preoccupied with other concerns. Thankfully, so did he. Slade eases into your pussy in slow shallow thrusts. You can physically feel your walls stretching inch by inch as he works his way into your tight pussy. He can feel every bit of resistance your pussy is putting up. It's his turn to hiss when he finally bottoms out. Your walls cling to his member trying to milk it for all its worth. You drag your nails down from his shoulder to his arms. You pout when his skin heals immediately. You wanted to mark him as he did you but apparently, his healing factor was not up to being kinky today.   

 He laughs at your little protest and gives you a quick kiss. He begins to thrust shallow and languid. Your lips are locked in, sensually nibbling at each other's lips. You arch your back pressing your chest against his musculature savoring every bit of stimulation you could get.   You cant your hips against his urging him to go faster. His large hand grips your hips and pins them down. The coil in your stomach grows tighter at the ease at which he stops you. You feel him grin against your hot skin. 

 "Didn't I say I would teach you some manners?" He pulls himself out leaving you feeling hollow and wanting. You're pretty sure if you weren't drunk on your arousal the look in your eyes would be nothing short of murder, however, this was not the case, Whatever venom you had in you vanished in a swirl of neediness that racked your body. Your cant your hips uselessly trying to find friction only to be met with cool air. 

 "Slade pleeeeaaase!"

 You gasp, as a sharp stinging sensation on your pussy knocks the breath out of you. Slade gives you an expectant look. 

 "Sir, plea-"

 Another slap. Your back arches.  You’re panting heavy, mind swirling and searching. 

 "Daddy please!" The words tumble from your lips thoughtlessly. You both freeze. Slade's face is unreadable making you want to shrink away and let the earth swallow you whole. Panic rises in your chest until you feel his hips slam against yours. The force is enough to knock the breath out of you. He manhandles your body to fuck you at a better angle. His grip on your thighs tight and bruising. You whimper when he dips his head down near yours pressing kisses to your jaw and the pulsating flesh of your neck leaving your mouth free to moan his name like a mantra.   A deep resonant growl rumbles in his chest sending thrills through your skin into your spine. Your hardened nipples drag against his chest as they bounce with his pace. His cock pumps in and out of you at an animalistic pace. You were absolutely going mad over his rough pace but it wasn't enough to push you over. You were both so close.

 "Daddy, please! I- I need-" Slade's cock twitches. His pace goes from animalistic to punishing in the space of a heartbeat. He growls into your ear as he reaches down to rub your clit with skilled, calloused fingers. Your walls tighten around him as you go over the edge.  Your orgasm hits you in a flurry of heat and electricity. He fucks you through it as he chases his own. He pulls out his cock. Ropes of cum covering your chest and your stomach. 

 He lays beside you pulling you close. You moan quietly still feeling the aftershocks of your orgasm. He nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, planting an open-mouthed kiss. You ease into his hold and close your eyes. 

 "See how easy your life is when you're a good girl, princess," He whispers mockingly into your ear. You raise a middle finger at him too fucked out to care whether it actually conveyed as much venom as you wanted it to. 

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Thanks for reading! Next week will be our regularly scheduled fluff unless I get possessed by the thirst muses. 

tag list:  Tag list:  @batarella , @anothertimdrakestan , @lucy-roo , @multifandomgirl-us , @idkmanicantenglish ,@birdy-bat-writes ,  @boosyboo9206 , @americasmarauders , @l-horizondepeu , @arestorationofbalance  , @cloudie-skay , @knightfall05x

[michyreadsthenwrites]

Plain Bad Heroines - Let Me Give You My Thoughts On This (Character Analysis)

**major maaaaajor spoilers ahead**

(Here we begin with the handful of characters from Danforth’s sophomore novel that have found their way into my heart and apparently, this Word document. It didn’t hurt that they were all women that love women. And I mean, they really loved women.)

 ·   Merritt Emmons is easily my favorite character. She’s got that dry, sarcastic humor and air around her that makes it really easy to love her and hate her guts all at the same time. (If she were here, she’d tell us that this was a talent, not a flaw.) I felt personally affronted when characters in PBH didn’t like Merritt, like they were overlooking the diamond in the rough right in front of their faces. Then, like most things, it became pretty clear: Merritt Emmons could be one hell of a bitch at times. But it really only made me love her more. I realized that I identified with her. Yes, about being a queer woman that really fucking loves other women, but also because she was a writer that wanted her writing to stay true to how she wrote it, especially with so many people traipsing all over it and trying to make it into something it’s not. That was where I realized I loved her early on; when she pitched a genuine fit over who was to play Clara Broward. It was something so petty and childish, something so very me to throw a fit in a packed room of professionals when you have no idea about that kind of world and what it demands. But she fought for what she believed in, alright. Until she didn’t. This made me love her some more, incidentally. We got to see Merritt’s character development throughout the novel, and more specifically, we got to watch her bounce back and forth between the person she was too scared to be but wanted more than she could ever admit, and the person she spent twenty long years being; the person she was oh-so-tired of introducing to people. This constant shift between new-Merritt and old, crabby, prickly-Merritt was a very raw and vulnerable thing for us to experience as an audience. Merritt was certainly a lot more refreshing than every one of the overdone-Hollywood-types we became acquainted with within the book. She was mean and arrogant and wildly insecure, yet somehow confident and sure of herself, when it came to her work or her knowledge or anything that had to do with any book written, ever. A walking paradox, that one. Merritt was a good way to remember that real people, not built-and-put-together-by-Hollywood-people don’t always have their shit together, and they can’t always get it together by the end of a novel, albeit a long, six-hundred-page one. I think I’ll cut myself off here, friends. Not that I want to, but I feel we have a lot to get to in these pages, and Merritt Emmons can’t be the star of all of them (lord knows I’d let her, though). To sum it up: Merritt Emmons was the star of this book, for me at least. And I hope for you too. (This means go get your ass over to your closest B&N and buy the damn thing).

  ·   Harper Harper is somewhat of a mystery to me. She was a major character in the story, as well as one of our three protagonists, our three heroines, and yet I have trouble finding her as authentic and outlandish as she tries to come across. What I’m still having trouble deciphering is if this is an intentional character flaw created by our Miss Danforth, or if Harper Harper really has nothing to her besides being completely reinvented and marketed by Hollywood. Even in saying this, I know I have to give Harper credit where it’s due. She’s a proud queer woman in the movie industry, as well as openly queer online and really with just anyone and everyone she meets. She’s known for various flings and love-interests of the week, which is still a gross misrepresentation and stereotype of (masc?) lesbians and how they’re emotionally unavailable and unfaithful, which again is a possibility of the author’s intentional writing, something that we can leave for further discussion. We do get a bit of a glimpse into Harper’s life – her real-life – about how her mother is struggling with her sobriety, how her little brother seems to be caught in the middle of her mother’s messy relationships, and how she really has mixed feelings about how she fits into her new movie-star life. That’s about all we get from Harper, though. And it really is almost enough realness to take away from the fact that everyone else in the world sees Harper as the face of Hollywood, as this thing of beauty and money and badassery instead of a real person. But still not enough. And I could be wrong, friends. I could be pulling all of this out of my ass because Harper Harper is a badass queer woman that took over the movie industry with barely any experience under her belt. Harper Harper took every room she walked into by storm, and she made everybody pay attention to her, and she became the character we had a little crush on, simply because she was that big of a deal. But nothing of substance, not really. Not ever. But perhaps she had been her most real self with Merritt Emmons, in between the quiet pages that we didn’t get to read entirely. Merritt, our dry and arrogant and favorite heroine, had been Harper’s favorite, too. The most credit that I find myself giving Harper is her aid in Merritt’s character development. She brought Merritt out of her shell in a massive way, though at times she did have a hand in driving her back into the said shell. It was flawed, their relationship, which is another authentic Harper Harper insight we saw, as little of it there was. They were hot and cold, on and off, but always so enthralled with each other. And while Harper seemed to have had an impact on Merritt (among other factors), it doesn’t seem like Merritt had the same effect on Harper. I could be wrong and do feel free to correct me, friends, but Harper Harper did not come out the other end of PBH a changed woman. She was not burdened with the weight of a life-changing revelation. She was Harper Harper, as she always was, floating and untouchable, the kind of woman you wished to know, maybe to be, but also the kind you see right through. They’re transparent, friends, that’s what I’m trying to get at here. And they tend to stay that way. And I realize as I’m nearing the end of this, that I sound harsh in my critiques and analysis of Harper. I don’t mean to come off that way, friends, I really don’t. The truth is I love Harper, she’s everything we wish we could be. She’s gorgeous and sought after, can land any girl she wants with the bat of her eyelashes and a lazy smile. But you have to remember, she’s everything we’re not. I can only speak for myself, friends, and I encourage you to speak for yourselves if you find you have anything to add. I never related with Harper the way I did with Merritt’s character, but that doesn’t mean that Harper isn’t a beautiful enigma waiting to be unwrapped. I just don’t happen to be the kind of reader that would know where to begin unwrapping her, if that makes sense. And because I’m afraid it doesn’t, I do believe it’s time to stop with the metaphors and wrap this up nicely for you, friends: Harper Harper is number two on my list of favorite characters from PBH, and that is not something done lightly or by accident. She was one of our three heroines, after all. And a proper heroine she was, friends. Don’t you ever forget it.

  ·   Libbie Packard broke my heart more times than I count, friends. You’ll notice I have kept her maiden name, then. This is intentional, friends, for our Libbie never wanted to be a Brookhants, not really. It wasn’t towards the end of PBH that we learned much of what we now know about Libbie, and how it came about that she had been married (to a man no less!), as well as the very young principal of an all-girls school. Throughout their chapters in the book, Libbie and Alex, her Alex, were seemingly at each other’s throats constantly. There seemed to be a mysterious tension that we as an audience weren’t privy to – but it didn’t stop us from speculating. I found myself drawn to Libbie more than I did her counterpart, and I still can’t point my finger as to why. Libbie seemed sad, right from our first introduction, and Alex always seemed angry and cynical (as a queer woman in 1902, is there any other way to seem?). This might serve as a dual character analysis yet, friends. I’m not sure how much I’ll have to say about our Alexandra Trills, but Libbie Packard deserves a long sentence, or two. You know when something finally clicks into place and you can’t help but just let out a long “ooohhhhhhh”? That’s a recreation of how I looked when I read the explanation of how Libbie Packard became Libbie Brookhants. Learning that she had become pregnant with a baby she didn’t want was mind-blowing enough, and it filled in the blanks of how young, gorgeous Libbie had become the wife of a rich, old, old man. Libbie gave up her child was because she didn’t want to be a mother, and she had originally rejected Harold Brookhants offer of marriage because she didn’t want to be a wife, regardless of false the marriage was. And for a while, Libbie’s new life was amazing; she got to live with her Alex in a beautiful house and became the principal of a promising school. This was the life she’d always wanted. Or was that just what we wanted to believe, friends? Only at the end did we learn that Libbie had rejected Harold Brookhants offer (to live a quiet, queer life with her lover and without the child she clearly didn’t want) because she didn’t want to be tied down; not to Harold, not to anyone. If you think about it, friends, this was exactly the life that she had been living for years to come now. The tension with Alex had much to do with the circumstances surrounding them at Brookhants and the evil that was unfolding before them, but it seemingly had even more to do with the fact that Libbie Packard felt smothered. She was hiding secrets from Alex, secrets that she felt could destroy this already fragile relationship that they had between them. How vastly different it was to read and experience their relationship at the beginning of their love; playful and full of joy, both women giddy with the promise of something new and exciting. To compare that kind of love to the broken, tight-lipped, empty vessel of the relationship they now pretend to have is heartbreaking. And yet, completely understandable. Alex had fallen in love with the Libbie she wanted her to be, not the Libbie she was. Our Libbie wanted to be eternally young; playful and happy, bouncing from city to city with Sara Dahlgren in a sea of eligible bachelors (and bachelorettes!). It was almost a shock to discover that this life Libbie tried so hard to defend and protect was not a life she had ever wanted for herself. Despite this, she loved her Alex and her students, and devoted her life to them. There was that whole business with cheating on Alex with Adelaide the housemaid (don’t even get me started on that broad) but I’d like to extend to you, friends, the fact that I won’t comment on this. Queer relationships in 1902 are definitely not what they are now, complete with century-old curses and dead schoolgirls. Libbie Packard became the 1902-lesbian-headmistress version of our stereotypical bored housewife, stuck in a marriage that she secretly wishes she could be free from. And my heart broke for her, friends, it really did. But she was a heroine all on her own. A deeply intelligent and remarkable woman. Make no mistake, friends. Libbie Packard and Libbie Brookhants differ by more than just a surname. Our young, vivacious Libbie disappeared the moment she accepted Harold Brookhants’ offer, and this is indeed the sad truth of it, friends: Libbie Packard was gone before she could ever find herself. But Libbie Brookhants was our gorgeous, brilliant, queer heroine that never got what she deserved. So, friends, let’s all have a moment of silence for our dearly departed Libbie Brookhants… wherever she is.

·   Alexandra Trills is a character that I don’t know where to begin with. Her end is not one that I saw coming, at least not in the gruesome and deranged circumstances that came to surround it. Or maybe, friends, I just didn’t want to acknowledge the clear downwards spiral that our Miss Trills had seemed to be heading towards. Her steadfast and growing obsession with the death of Florence Hartshorn and Clara Broward was apparent in every page we turned, and the following death of Eleanor Faderman did not aid in absolving Alex of her obsession with the one, single copy of a book they had all possessed at one point: The Story of Mary McLane. Alex grew hysterical in her investigation of the novel and whatever evil she believed it had brought to the students of her school. I remember feeling a bit hysterical myself at times, following along with Alex’s scrambled train of thought that never seemed to find a place to stop. She was right, you know, my friends. And now what does she have to show for it? A gruesome death and an eternity of haunting the same grounds, day in and day out? I may not have liked her, and felt like she had been the reason Libbie was so unhappy and stuck in a life that she did not want, but the way Alex’s story had ended really did take me by surprise and break my heart. She deserved a better ending than what she got; she deserved to reconcile and fix her strained relationship with Libbie. Damn it, they deserved to live quiet, happy lives with each other. Neither of them got the endings that they deserved, and God, did they deserve plenty. This, friends, is the hill I choose to die on tonight.

 Alright, friends, this is it for my character analysis of Emily Danforth’s Plain Bad Heroines! I have a special place in my heart for book characters that you can relate with (or characters that just really make you love them). The way that Emily Danforth brought our heroines to life was remarkable and highly impressive (I say this because it’s decidedly been a while since any book character(s) have weaseled their fictional way into my little heart). It’s rare that I give a book five stars (check out my Goodreads reviews) (oh god, please don’t), and yet halfway through PBH, I knew that this book deserved it. Good book characters are the ones that stick with you long after you’ve closed the book on them, and our heroines are stuck with me. And believe me, friends, I’m certainly not complaining. 

[honey-dewey]

Handicapped Parking

Pairing: Javier Peña/disabled Reader

Word Count: 2,992

Warnings: Reader is wheelchair bound, canon-typical violence, nightmares, small bit of angst, one use of (F/N) (L/N).

Permanent Taglist: @phoenixhalliwell @star-wars-hell

Javier could not believe what he was seeing. A handicapped parking spot at the embassy. Who the hell worked at the US embassy and for the DEA that was disabled enough to need handicapped parking? You, that’s who. The brand new recruit and official partner for Steve and Javier, you are about to be hell on wheels for those two boys.

Javier Peña had never seen anything like what he was seeing now. A handicapped spot right in front of the building with a car parked in it. A new car that hadn’t been there yesterday. As Javier parked, he eyed the spot. Who the hell chose a job like this if they were disabled? Best anyone could do was paperwork, and that was mind numbing. 

Javier almost forgot about it as he walked into the building, greeting the same people he did every morning. Steve was at his desk, hunched over some new paperwork, and he looked up when Javier walked in. “Hey, Javi. Check this out. We have a new partner.” 

“Hm?” Javier lit a cigarette. It was too early for this. 

A paper was pushed across the desk. “Yeah. Hired yesterday. Meant to keep us in check.” 

Javier snorted, reading over the papers. “This says,” he said, looking up at Steve. “This says they’re disabled.” 

“So what if I am?” 

You had just come back from a very frustrating bathroom break to find your other new partner standing at his desk. You rolled forward, holding out a hand. “(F/N) (L/N), DEA.” 

Javier shook your hand and introduced himself. You slotted you and your wheelchair into your desk, which was perpendicular to Steve’s and Javier’s. “So, anything new?” 

Steve explained everything they knew and what their current goal was, and you raised an eyebrow.

“He’s in prison,” you pointed out. “Why are we trying to disrupt that.” 

“We want his ass in a real prison,” Javier grumbled without looking up from his typewriter. “Not that palace he calls a jail.”

“Okay,” you said slowly, looking over the terms and conditions of the surrender. “So we prove he’s violating these terms. Easy.” 

Steve shrugged. “Not as easy as it sounds. Cigarette?” 

You wrinkled your nose at the offered cigarette. “I don’t smoke.” 

“Okay. One less person I gotta share with,” Steve said, holding his cigarette out to Javier, who picked up his lighter and lit it all without looking up. 

The three of you worked in silence for a while. You managed to go through four pots of coffee before three PM, which would’ve been only mildly concerning. However, you and Steve each only had maybe a pot and a half between you. Javier drank the other two and a half pots. So it was mildly concerning for you and Steve, and pretty damn concerning for Javier. 

“Jesus I don’t know how your heart hasn’t given out yet,” you said when Javier went back for his seventh or maybe eighth cup of coffee. 

“This is a light day for him,” Steve said, looking up when someone placed a piece of paper on his desk. “Usually he’ll have three pots and I’ll have one. He doesn’t sleep much.” 

You made a face, putting new paper into your typewriter. Javier came back with his coffee cup and immediately groaned upon seeing Steve reading the paper. “Who wants us to do what?” 

Steve chuckled. “You remember that pigeon coup? They want us to stake it out.” 

Another groan, this time a bit louder. You pressed your lips together to keep yourself from laughing while looking expectantly at Steve. “Can I see?” 

Steve handed you the paper and you read it over. “Well. I guess that solves our violating the terms problem.” 

The stakeout was to last as long as it had to, and as you pulled up to the prison before dawn on one warm morning, you immediately knew this would be hell. Steve and Javier took turns waiting outside while you sat in the car, your typewriter in your lap. Your window was open and you occasionally handed the boys whatever they needed from inside the car. 

Finally, when the sun began to crest the hills, you braved the outside. Strapping your crutches to your arms, you swung your legs out and slowly made your way across the grass. 

“I thought you couldn’t walk.” Javier said as soon as you were standing beside him. 

“I can,” you promised. “Car accident. Left me paralyzed, but with lots of therapy, I was able to regain some of my legs. I just prefer the chair because no matter what, my legs won’t support my weight for more than a few steps. When I walk I use crutches and braces to keep my knees, ankles, and waist stable.” 

Steve whistled, handing Javier a thermos. “I’ve never seen crutches like that before.” 

“Gutter crutches.” You watched Javier take one sip of the coffee and immediately pour the rest of it out onto the ground. “Mostly for long term work. Is that a pigeon?” 

Steve turned and Javier raised his gun. Three wasted shots later, and you were scoffing. “Damn. You’re a shit shot Peña.” 

“Think you can do better?” 

You took the gun, abandoning your crutches and catching the next pigeon in your sight. Your legs wavered, but you locked your knees and tried to stay steady. “I got it.”

“Shoot.” 

You waited, ignoring Javier. 

“Shoot!” 

Again, you waited until the perfect moment before shooting and killing the pigeon in one shot. 

Steve smiled, taking the gun from you. “Ever been duck hunting?” 

Javier watched him jog after the pigeon. “No, I’ve not been duck hunting you fucking hillbilly.” 

You wavered, falling flat on your ass as your knees gave out. “Damn these legs!” You swore, grabbing your discarded crutches and strapping them to your arms. By the time you’d finally struggled to your feet, Steve was back with the pigeon. 

“Thanks for the help,” you said sourly at Javier, who had simply watched you grapple upright. 

“In my experience,” he said in an equally cool tone. “People like you don’t need much help. I’m sure all I would’ve gotten was a crutch to the knee for my help.” 

You glared at him while he read the small letter tied to the pigeon’s leg. God you hated that man. 

The next few months were odd. You fell into a rhythm with Steve and Javier. Neither underestimated you anymore, and finally, they learned exactly where your boundaries lay with help. Steve had a bruise on his leg for two straight weeks after you whacked him with your crutch when he asked if you needed help shooting a gun (you most definitely did not) and Javier only ever gave you help when he noticed you struggling. Like when some new intern put the coffee mugs too high for you to reach without standing up and Javier had, very kindly, silently handed you your mug. He did a lot of things silently, usually with that scowl on his face. 

“We got a call,” Steve said one day, poking his head into your office space, if it could even be called that. “Let’s go!” 

You groaned, standing and hearing your back pop four times as you followed Steve out, your crutches clicking on the linoleum as you headed to the waiting Jeep. 

“Why’s Javi driving?” You asked as you got into the back. “I get so carsick when he drives!” 

Javier gave you a look in the rearview mirror. “Strap in sugar.” 

You rolled your eyes. None of you wore seatbelts. You just didn’t have time for it. So instead, you simply gripped the back of Steve’s seat while Javier drove like a maniac towards your destination. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you grumbled as you got out of the car, shaking off the car sickness and looking around. Nothing seemed very out of the ordinary aside from the cop cars surrounding a particular building. “Who’s in there?” 

“We don’t know,” Steve said, helping you with your tac vest. “Whoever it is, they’re worth the cavalry.” 

Half of your job was waiting, which was hell. You stood leaned up against Steve, trying to keep your weight off your aching back. As the minutes ticked by, you talked to one of the younger cops who’d been left outside. He was sweet, teaching you a few Spanish phrases and smiling when you butchered them. 

So of course, when the man you were trying to catch raced out of the building, wildly firing his gun, the young cop got a bullet to the back of the head. 

“Shit!” You yelled, looking around as the man raced off. You yanked your crutches off your arms and gestured to Javier. “Come on!” 

Javier was on your heels as you ran, trying to steady your feet and knees. Your hips and lower back screamed, but you just kept going, relying entirely on your braces to support you. 

Eventually, the stress became too much. Two blocks down, your legs stopped working, sending you screaming to the ground, wildly throwing your hands out to catch yourself before you broke your nose on something. Thankfully, the road was long and flat, so as soon as you righted yourself, you raised your gun and shot the guy in the shoulder. 

He went down, clutching his shoulder in pain while you breathed heavy, dragging your limp lower half over to the wall of a building, leaning against the worn down brick. 

“Hey,” Javier said, coming to stand in front of you. “You ran.” 

“I ran,” you agreed, holding your left knee as it twitched. “That’s a week and a half of chair time, straight. Fuck.” 

Javier sat beside you, watching cops run past to grab the man you’d been chasing. “You want help back?” 

You snorted. “Javi, I won’t make it three steps like this.” To demonstrate, you attempted to haul yourself upright and almost immediately hit the pavement, hissing sharply as you came down harder than intended. 

“So.” Javier looked you up and down. “Is that a no?” 

“Yeah that’s a no.” You stared at the sky, feeling your stomach twist. “Y’know what I want? A cup of tea. I haven’t had one in a while.”

Javier shrugged. “I’ve got a really good tea at my apartment,” he said. “My mother mails me some once a month. You’re bleeding.” 

You looked down at your hands, finally noticing the ragged scrapes across your palms from when you’d fallen. “Oh. I didn’t even notice.” 

“How’d you not notice?” Javier asked, taking your hands and digging through his pockets. “We can disinfect it for real back at the office, but for now,” he said, producing a small roll of gauze from his pocket. “This will have to do.” 

You sat still while Javier bandaged your hands. By then, the street had been completely cleared, and you were looking for Steve. 

“He’s probably waiting in the car,” Javier said, finishing up on your hands. “We’re gonna have to go to him.” He looked hesitantly at your legs. They’d stopped twitching, but they were still completely useless. “Got any ideas?” 

“Unless you wanna carry me,” you said with a sigh. “It’d probably be easiest to call Steve.”

Javier stood, crouching down in front of you. “Can you get on?” 

It took some maneuvering and a bit of heavy lifting on Javier’s part, but eventually, you were being carried back to the Jeep, arms slung over Javier’s shoulders and him gripping your legs as he gave you a piggyback ride. 

“Comfy?” He asked, and you chuckled. 

“Mhm. Totally not in horrible pain,” you replied, feeling yet another stab of discomfort hit your back. 

Javier was quiet for a minute before speaking again. “Why’d you come here? No offense, but you’re not exactly fit for the job.” 

“Like I got to pick this,” you said, leaning to cheek against Javier’s shoulder. “I was reassigned. I never asked to come down here.” 

Another long beat of silence, and then, “I’m sorry.” 

“Nah. It’s fine,” you promised. “Just a bit stressful sometimes.” 

Eventually, the car came back into view, and Steve rushed over to meet you, your crutches in his hand. “What were you thinking?” 

“Chase the bad guy,” you said, smiling as Javier turned around and put you down in the car. “Really, I wasn’t. I just went.” 

“Yeah, well,” Steve said, ever the voice of reason. “Don’t do that again. You scared me.” 

The drive back to the office was quiet. Javier had to carry you inside the building, and Steve found a hot water bottle to press against your back. Javier finished properly treating your hands while Steve filled the water bottle with water from the kettle. 

“Really, a hot bath will probably help the most,” you said, putting the hot water bottle in between your back and the chair you used whenever you didn’t need your wheelchair. “But this’ll do for now.” 

Your night was late, as it always was. You weren’t attempting to leave the building until well past ten PM, and when you tried to stand, Javier put a hand on your shoulder. “Nope.” 

“No?” You said, surprised. “Let me up Javi, unless you want a crutch to the ankle.” 

Javier didn’t move. Instead, he scooped you up in a bridal carry, causing you to squeak indignantly. “Javier!” 

“Yes?” 

“Put me down! I am more than capable of walking myself to your car!” 

Javier shrugged as best he could while carrying you. “You had me piggyback you two blocks earlier and you couldn’t get up all day to get your own coffee. I’m carrying you to the car.” 

You pouted, but realized that squirming would only serve to hurt you and probably Javier as well, so you remained still as Javier placed you in his car. 

The drive home was, as with most things Javier did, quiet. When he pulled up to the building, you made him go into your apartment across the hall from his and grab your wheelchair. When he came back, you smacked him away when he tried to help you into it. 

“Oh my god,” you groaned, feeling your back pop painfully. “Fuck.” 

“C’mon,” Javier said softly, handing you back our crutches so you could put them across your lap. “I believe I promised you tea.” 

You sighed. “Javi, I wanna go home.” 

Javier nodded. “I’ll bring it to you. How’s that sound?” 

At the notion that Javier would be coming to your apartment, you sighed and gave in. “Fine. I’ll leave it unlocked.” 

Ten minutes after you’d gotten settled on your couch, Javier came into your apartment, carrying two cups of tea. He set one down on your coffee table and kept the other in his hands. “Feeling better?” 

“Yeah, actually,” you said, reaching and grabbing the mug. “Painkillers are my new best friend.” 

Javier sat down on the couch. “You know you could ask to be sent home,” he said. “They’d probably do it.” 

“Yeah,” you said slowly. “But then I wouldn’t be able to see you or Steve anymore.” 

“That’s what’s keeping you here? Me and Steve?” 

You nodded. “Javi, before this, no one would even look at me. I was disabled and trying to work in law enforcement. You and Steve treat me like a capable adult, and people actually listen to what I have to say now.” 

Javier was quiet. “That sucks.” 

“Yeah, no shit.” You took a sip of your tea, smiling. “This is good.” 

“Custom blend,” Javier said. “Mamá always insisted it could cure anything.” 

You smiled. “You tell her to mail some extra if she can. It’s amazing.” 

You and Javier sat in your living room until midnight, drinking tea and swapping work stories. Finally, when you began to yawn, Javier stood. “I think it’s time for bed.” 

“Aww,” you groaned, pulling your wheelchair closer. “But I was having so much fun.” 

Javier smiled as you sat in your wheelchair and headed towards your bedroom. “Need anything before I go?” 

You nodded. “Yeah, actually. Can you help me into bed? When my back hurts a lot it’s kind of hard to haul myself into bed.” 

“Sure.” 

Between you and Javier, you were able to slide into bed, immediately feeling weary. “Javi?”

“Hm?” Javier turned, standing in your doorway. “What is it?” 

You fidgeted nervously. “Stay? Please? I’ve started having nightmares recently and they really scare me.” 

Javier nodded. “Okay. Let me grab my pyjamas, I’ll be right back.” 

By the time Javier had returned, you were half asleep. He waved to you and settled down on your couch, likely not falling asleep, but you sure as hell did. 

It was early morning, before sunrise but well after midnight, that you woke up, breathing heavy and immediately starting to cry. The shattered pieces of your nightmare were practically gone now, leaving you with nothing but jitters, a looming sense of dread, and the image of blinding headlights in your brain. 

“Hey,” a gentle voice said, and you jumped, heart pounding before you remembered you’d asked Javier to spend the night. “Are you okay?” 

You shook your head. No point in trying to lie to him. He could see you crying. 

Javier slid into the bed with you, pulling you close and letting you cry into his shirt. When you were spent of tears, he continued to rub your back, his warmth seeping into your skin. “Wanna talk about it?” 

“I don’t remember much,” you admitted. “I think.” You had to force your words out, your throat pulling tight. “I think I dreamed I was in the car accident.” 

Javier was quiet. “You’re fine,” he promised after a beat. “Hey, you hear me?” 

You nodded, wondering when you’d begun to shake. 

“You’re safe here,” Javier said. “Safe as can be.” 

“I trust you,” you said softly, still buried in Javier’s shirt. “Trust you a lot,” you mumbled, yawning widely and feeling your eyes blink shut. 

“I think you need more sleep,” Javier said softly, helping you lay back down. “Agent’s orders.” 

You smiled, the sick feeling in your stomach sliding away. “Mhm. Stay with me Agent Peña.” 

Javier lay down beside you, pulling you close. “If you insist.” 

For the first time in a long time, both of you slept fitfully, cradled in each other’s arms.

[agoodgoddamnshot]

Shrike - Geraskier [E]

[Gif isn’t mine]

Warning(s): Smut (Rating E); Mild Violence

Originally posted to my AO3

Mob Boss Geralt is brought to the Rosemary and Thyme Bar, where he meets with an alluring Jaskier; who has a new work proposition.

In hindsight, he should have just punched Lambert in the jaw and left it at that.

But here he is, in the back of his own car, heading towards downtown. Gods only know what time it is, but Geralt’s eyes are already starting to sting. A tight pain runs up the side of his face. He’s clenching his jaw again. There isn’t a moment where he isn’t. But after catching himself going it, he manages to flex his jaw and wring the pain out.

The red-haired man laughs, mostly to himself. He’s sitting in the back of the car with him, letting Coën do all the driving. He can only assume the other man didn’t have much of a say in it, with how grimly he’s glaring back at Lambert stretched out along the backseat. “You work too much,” he lilts, looking out on to the changing cityscape.

Gods alive, he hates downtown. It’s busy and bright and desperately loud, assaulting every sense that he has. Work might lure him down here every so often, but that’s why he has Lambert and Eskel and Coën. If he can send them in place of him, then good. They’ll go. But more often than not, people want to meet the White Wolf personally. Even if it’s the last meeting with him they’ll ever have.

It’s not that he works too much. It’s that there is so much work to do. Vesemir retired and overnight Geralt found himself in charge of all of this. People underneath him who know who he is, knows that the Old Wolf raised him personally to take over. But he still watches those with uncertain eyes. Whispers of a coup have been brushing his ears ever since Vesemir fucked off to the countryside and left the title of boss to him. An argument could be made that they had talked about it. Vesemir was getting greyer, and young bucks were popping up all around the boroughs, crowing and fighting amongst themselves. It was only a matter of time before they ran their antlers through the Old Wolf and took over.

Best to get someone like Geralt in before any of that unpleasantness started. The White Wolf may have been a shy pup, quiet and always keeping to himself, but he could level anyone with a stare, enough to knock them over and have them scampering from the offices. Eskel, gods bless him, is too kind-hearted. Lambert is too much of a prick. Geralt has the perfect temperament; but is easy to anger.

And he can feel that very anger starting to bubble up now, just as downtown’s bright and irritating neon lights stream in through the dimmed windows of the car.

“Stay for an hour,” Lambert reasons, tilting his head to the side. His brother might be a prick and a degenerate, but he knows how to look at the elder in a certain way to get him pliant enough to do whatever he asks. That’s how he got Geralt to fight all of his battles for him when they were boys. Lambert was often the one to get them into trouble, and Geralt got them out. That’s how it worked. And then there was Eskel, wearing an ever-suffering expression on his face wondering why in the name of all of the gods their father put Geralt in charge in the first place.

Lambert splays his hands. “Stay for an hour,” he repeats, “and if you hate it as much as you think you’re going to, then you can leave. I’m sure Coën would drop you back home if you asked. Isn’t that right, Coën?”

There’s an illegible huff from the front of the car. Coën keeps his glowering eyes on the road, muttering something or other under his breath.

It isn’t directed at Geralt, that’s all he knows. So he allows it. If Coën had his way, he would be home in bed too. Geralt’s ache bleeds for them both.

Lambert slaps a hand on to Geralt’s shoulder. He leans over, lowering his voice. “It’s my job to make sure you don’t look so fucking grumpy all of the time,” he lulls, only sitting back when the bar comes into view. Geralt tries not to roll his eyes. Of course. Of course he would bring him here.

The dazzling, irritating lights of Rosemary and Thyme glare at him. A bar and club frequented by just about anyone who can slip in through the small army of security posted to the front doors. Just as Coën parks them in front of the door, Lambert slips out and has a word with the burly men. They nod and stand aside. Lambert looks back at him with a brilliant smile. “Come on, Geralt!” he calls out.

Coën offers him a sympathetic look through the rear-view mirror. “I can hang around, if you like?”

If you want to bolt after a minute.

Geralt grunts. “Might be an idea,” he rumbles, but steps out of the car all the same. He’s used to it; having security come up to meet him. Despite everything, even though they’re contracted by the bar and they could call the police on someone like him, they know to lead him past the queues formed outside and get him into the building as quietly as possible. He catches a few faint whispers, all about the White Wolf. He tries not to let his eyes roll. He’s had enough of it, to be honest. But Lambert laps it up. Sticking close to Geralt’s side, he gets anything he wants. A completely different world to the one he grew up in.

They’ve barely stepped into the bar before a woman meets them. Armed with a clipboard and armoured in a suit, she points to some secluded rooms to the side of the bar. “If you would like to come with me, Mr. Rivia?”

Geralt grunts and follows. Lambert makes idle chatter with the woman; always polite when he wants to be, laughing when he should be keeping the swearing to a minimum. But as soon as they’re shown to the rooms, Lambert turns on his heel and whispers something into her ear. They have a quiet conversation, one that Geralt can’t hear through the din of music.

She nods. “I’ll see if they’re available.”

“They’ll be available,” Lambert says firmly, palming some gold into the woman’s hand. She nods curtly before disappearing.

Geralt watches Lambert stride into the room. It’s a far cry from the main bar; chrome-lined and with a dance floor already heaving with people. Even the booths lining the sides of the room are full, with parties of people keeping to themselves. Curious glances had followed him while they walked through the floor. Now, shielded away, at least he doesn’t have to deal with them anymore.

But he still has Lambert, which is a problem. The man makes himself at home within the room; letting the door click shut behind them and tossing his jacket over the back of an L-shaped couch pushed to the back of the room. A well-stocked bar lines the walls, something that has grabbed Lambert’s attention.

“You work too much,” the man lilts, pulling some bottles from the shelves. “You need to loosen up a bit.”

Geralt grunts, stalking over to the couch. It’s plush and just soft enough for him to sink back into it. He leaves his jacket sprawled beside him, still within an arm’s reach just in case he decides to leave early. He thinks of Coën, driving aimlessly around downtown, or maybe grabbing something to eat while Geralt ponders when it would be an acceptable amount of time passed for him to leave.

“Then let me go home and sleep,” he sighs, burying his face into his hands. Lambert...is a lot. The only reason why Geralt hasn’t flung his body into the nearest river is that he’s family. And Vesemir will come out of hiding or retirement to make sure Geralt’s body joins his.

Not that there haven’t been moments. His fingers itch for the trigger, but not here. If he’s going to kill Lambert, he’ll make it look like a damn accident.

The man plies him with alcohol, setting a familiar drink down in front of him. Geralt’s glare softens slightly, but doesn’t disappear completely. He reaches out, taking a measured sip. It’s strong, whatever he’s concocted, mostly whiskey that burns the back of his throat. But it’s enough to start unwinding the tension from his muscles.

There’s a knock at the door. Lambert, midway through knocking back a shot of something, eyes the door. He sets his glass down and the same hand moves to his waist, to the sheathed gun resting there. Geralt’s eyes narrow. If he’s smart, if he can keep a hold on himself, then that gun will stay where it is.

Lambert cracks the door open just enough to glimpse at who’s outside. Geralt’s ears twitch as the man grunts, stepping outside for a moment.

There’s a short conversation, one that he can’t hear. He reaches for his glass, taking another measured sip of whiskey and letting it sizzle on his tongue. If he’s going to be dragged this far away from home, he’s not going to weather the night sober. He thinks briefly of fishing his phone out of his jacket pocket, dialling Coën’s number and getting the man to come back. He has enough drinks lining the bar in his own home. Who’s to say that he can’t get what he wants at home? At least his ears will be spared from having to endure endless thumping of music beyond the walls.

Lambert steps back into the room before he can make his decision. He’s as comfortable as he can be; his jacket set to the side as he lounges back against the plush couch. His legs drift apart from each other, but only because the day’s work finally starts coiling through his muscles and tensing them.

A devilish smile starts to curl along Lambert’s lip. Another man joins him, and Geralt blinks. He’s not a man he would expect Viola to have in her employ. He’s certainly not dressed like it. Hair that sweeps over and dusts his eyes, a luring smile that rounds his cheeks and highlights the faint flush of colour. Geralt’s eyes wander. His visitor is made up in tight-fitting pants – leather, if he were to guess – and a shirt that dips low enough into the middle of his chest.

Lambert just about manages to swallow a delighted laugh. “My dear brother works too much,” he lilts, nodding to the other side of the room. He turns his eyes back to the man. “He’s been terribly stressed lately. Be a good lad and make sure he enjoys himself tonight. He’s an awful bastard when he’s pent up.”

He’s going to fucking kill Lambert. Screw making it look like an accident. He might just have Coën drive by one of the biggest rivers in town just so he can hurl Lambert over the bridge and into it. So fucking what if Vesemir appears at his door tomorrow, glaring daggers at him.

But it’s either the whiskey or the man’s eyes slowly drifting over him, the urge to kill his brother is slowly fading. Geralt grunts.

He eyes his brother, watching the mop of red, curly hair try and disappear around the corner. Despite that, Lambert is loud enough for him to keep track of, even when the door clicks closed and he’s left alone with his guest. He turns to the man. “How much did he pay you?” he rumbles.

The man tilts his head, his eyes narrowing. Scrutinising whatever words perch on the tip of his tongue. If he’s one of Viola’s, which Geralt doesn’t think is likely with the more he stares at him, he’ll hold that tongue.

Geralt sighs. “I’ll pay you twice as much to turn around and leave me alone.”

The man’s face lightens. A delighted smile suddenly stretches over his lips, and just for a moment Geralt thinks that he might be free. There aren’t many things he can’t worm out of with money.

But this doesn’t seem to be one of them. Geralt notices the man holding a drink in one hand. He brings it up to his lips, resting them against the rim. “That’s a shame. If you don’t want me to do anything, fine,” he lilts, taking a measured sip. It’s bright and shines slightly when it catches the lights. Geralt can practically taste how sweet it must be. The man hums. “But company is free. We can talk. Or sit here in silence, since you don’t seem to be the talking type.”

Geralt stares at the man. “It’s bad manners to refuse a boss’ offer.”

“It’s bad manners to come into a whore’s bar and turn him down,” he replies just as easily, tilting his head again.

Geralt isn’t unused to having people try and read him. Ever since a grubby-faced, shaggy-haired pup appeared at Vesemir’s side one day, he’s had eyes watch and regard him. He’s learned how to shake them all off; to keep himself measured and in control, unreadable. Even when his temper flares, he can keep it to himself. He’s used to people trying to burrow under his skin.

But this man, with eyes the colour of oceans and a smile as bright as the sun, burns right through his skin and reaches into his muscles and bones. Geralt sighs. He grabs his drink and takes a mouthful, not even wincing at how the whiskey burns and stings the back of his mouth and his throat as he swallows it.

It’s suddenly not enough. He could pad over to the bar, down the whole bottle of whiskey sitting on one of the shelves. Or he could get his company to do it. He seems to know his way around a bar and its bottles.

Geralt’s jaw tightens. “Listen, you don’t want me for company,” he grounds out. It’s more words than he would normally gift anyone. Usually, if his patience starts to wear thin, or people annoy him just enough, he leaves. No reason to give any excuses. But his company is the responsibility of someone else, and if they see Geralt leaving as quickly as he plans to, words might have to be said to the man.

He has a certain soft spot in his heart for those who find their work in sex.

The man lifts his chin. “I know who you are. You don’t work here long before you start picking up names.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “And who is trading those names?” It’s all well and good having the right kind of people knowing your name in the boroughs; but it’s dangerous to pick up on whispers. People can be talking about you for all the wrong reasons.

“Everybody.” The man lifts a shoulder. “Everyone wants to be the White Wolf. Or in his pack.” The man’s eyes venture down. Brave things that linger on the open folds of Geralt’s shirt. His neck bobs as he swallows, taking a measured breath. He can feel his skin starting to flush from the scrutiny. “A few want to be in his bed.”

“And what about you?” Geralt’s voice rumbles out of the centre of his chest. “Do you fall into any of those groups of people?”

“I didn’t give it much thought, to be honest,” the man replies, lowering his voice to match, “until now.”

It’s almost lost to the thump of music. Even through the walls of the secluded rooms, broken off from the main bar where wandering eyes stop, it still worms into him. Before long, his heart matches the beat of the music, thumping in his chest and rattling his ribcage. Geralt swallows the last of his drink before setting his glass away. The couch underneath him is just plush enough to let him sink into it.

The moment he sits back against the couch, splaying an arm out to the side, sure fingers suddenly explore his chest. The fabric of his shirt is pulled at and scrutinised. A nice paying job means nice things. And even though he spent most of his life preferring to keep to simple clothes, Vesemir insisted on looking the part of the head of a pack. Pressed black slacks and a crisp white shirt, the top buttons always undone to reveal a portion of his chest. A simple silver chain sits around his neck, pooling in the hollow. Blue eyes investigate, spanning over everything fingers map out. “I knew you were the White Wolf the moment you walked in,” he lulls. Blue eyes glance up at Geralt’s hair. A tell-tale shade of white. “And not because of the obvious. But you hold yourself in a certain way. You want to walk a head higher than everyone, because that’s what someone taught you to do. But you want to blend into the walls, too.”

The man tilts his head, his gaze softening. “Have I caught myself a shy wolf?”

Geralt narrows his eyes. “Are you a therapist?” he asks, not helping the small smile that quirks the corner of his lip. This one...this one is peculiar.

The man laughs. It’s a light thing, and the smile that stretches over his lips rounds his cheeks and crinkles his eyes. Too many strangers have batted their eyelashes and dazzled him with sweet smiles, while none of it was at all genuine. This man, though, Geralt likes. His smile lures a small one out of him, and he’d very much like to hear that laugh again.

Inquisitive fingers only get braver as they catch one of his shirt’s buttons, fidgeting with it. The man hums. Within seconds, Geralt’s lap is full.

The man moves surely, slinging his leg over Geralt’s thighs and perching himself on Geralt’s lap. Arms slowly wind around his shoulders, crossing at his nape.

Geralt’s hands go to the man’s hips, settling over the arches and feeling the soft swell of muscle underneath. He’s dressed just as well as Geralt; in a soft blue shirt that brings out the colour of his eyes, slacks that ride up and bunch around his thighs, showing off the muscle gathered there. He isn’t a small or lithe man by any means. Not in the way Viola’s people usually are. His fingers are sure in what they’re doing, as are his lips.

Geralt grunts as he’s caught in a kiss. The man dips down and the arms around Geralt’s shoulders tighten and draw him closer. The man’s lips are warm and plush and flavoured with tequila and something searingly sweet. Below it all, Geralt can taste him.

The hands on the man’s thighs tighten, with his fingers delving into any bit of muscle he can find. They eventually travel, slipping around and kneading the globes of the man’s ass. A cut-off groan is muffled against his lips. With that, hips roll and grind and the arms around his shoulders gather him closer—

There’s a firm knock at the door. It cuts through everything and almost scalds the both of them. The arms slung over his shoulders tighten, drawing Geralt closer, and the hands he has on the man’s hips firm too.

Geralt parts from those plush, reddening lips, barely swallowing down a growl. “What?” he calls out. It could be someone from the bar, it could be Lambert. Though, Lambert would just barge in and make himself known. He wouldn’t bother with doing something as polite as knocking.

He keeps his jacket in the corner of his eye. One hand parts from the man’s thigh, resting just beside his jacket, ready to draw his gun if he needs to. The man stiffens against him, probably seeing the movement too.

A woman’s voice cuts through the door. “Apologies, Mr. Rivia,” she calls in through the door. She doesn’t come in, and it’s probably from the sharpness of Geralt’s voice. That’s fine. The fact that she’s even here, taking him away from the body on top of him, annoys him to no end. But she continues on nonetheless. “None of our regulars are available. I’m afraid I don’t have anyone for you.”

The words take a moment to settle with him. He remembers Lambert palming gold into her hand, the mutterings of someone being available. He isn’t stupid. And he knows what his brother is like.

The body on top of him doesn’t even stiffen. But a small sigh is puffed against his lips. Blue eyes blink open, watching his, scrutinising. Waiting for Geralt to say something, either to him or the woman outside.

He muses over his words for a moment. Sly thing, he thinks, regarding the man on top of him.

“That’s fine,” he grunts, sitting up a bit. He moves them both, letting the man lay back slightly. The arms loosen from his shoulders, but still sling over them as if they always belonged there. And he finds himself loath to actually part with the warm body perched on him.

But the warm body isn’t meant to be there at all.

At Geralt’s quirked eyebrow, the man sighs. “I saw you come in,” he says, reaching up to brush some of Geralt’s hair back from his face. He curls it around his ear. “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

Geralt grunts. “You’re not one of Viola’s, are you?”

“I’m a whore, among other things,” the man corrects, but he muses over his words for a moment. Whatever he says next could earn him a death sentence. When he’s decided on what he’s going to say, his hips move. A slow roll over Geralt, keeping his attention. As if Geralt could focus on anything else but the enigma on top of him. “But I don’t work for Viola.”

Geralt hums, lifting his chin. “Who do you work for?”

“Myself,” the man replies. The same fingers that explored his chest now skim over the ridge of his jaw, sending slight shivers through Geralt as his skin scalds. The man’s touch is too much, even now. “Though, I’m currently looking for some new business ventures.”

Geralt huffs a short laugh. People have asked things of him in the past. And he has had certain people be more forward than others. This isn’t the first time he’s been straddled and kissed and plied with gentle touches, and suddenly a business plan is placed in front of him.

But this man may be the only one Geralt hasn’t shoved off of him yet. His hands settle back on the man’s thighs, feeling a gentle tremor shiver through them.

The man perched on Geralt’s lap straightens, pulling himself just out of kissing range. Brave little thing, Geralt things. “I heard a rumour that you’re looking for a new hitman,” the man lulls, letting his arms fall from Geralt’s shoulders. Sure hands map down his chest, lingering slightly over every swell of muscle they can find.

Geralt blinks. Letho’s death isn’t public knowledge. His own people haven’t been told yet, just because Geralt can’t be bothered dealing with the fallout just yet. He needs to gather everything he has, resource-wise, just because the Vipers might not be too pleased one of their own has fallen. He’s been keeping an eye on Lambert. One more outburst and Geralt will have run out of rivers to dump bodies in.

The man’s dexterous fingers linger on the buttons of Geralt’s shirt. He plucks one open, revealing more of his chest. It stops there, though. Geralt wonders vaguely if the man can feel how his heart hammers in his chest. He’s caught. And he could very easily shove the man off and go home. But this man knows about a vacancy in his house. How he knows about Letho’s death, that’s another matter.

For now, the man has his attention.

The man tilts his head. “I want to be a member of your house,” he murmurs, his gaze flickering up to meet Geralt’s. “I’m done with working by myself.”

Having the man within his house would keep him close. Wolves could keep their eyes on him; and tear him apart if he became too brave. Geralt hums, musing. “You know your way around a gun, I suppose?” Even though he doesn’t work for the woman, he knows that Viola teaches those on her payroll how to use one and a blade, if it ever calls for it.

The man nods. “I’ve known how to kill someone longer than how to pleasure them,” he counters.

Geralt’s chest tightens. He lifts his chin. “What’s your name?” he rasps.

“Jaskier,” the man replies.

A single name shouldn’t mean much, but when it’s Jaskier—

A slow smile slowly curls along Geralt’s lips. Of course. “The same Jaskier who dealt with one of my irritating problems in Cidaris?”

Jaskier laughs. The same laugh Geralt wants to hear more of. “I didn’t know that you considered Valdo Marx an irritating problem, but he was certainly irritating to me, and causing problems.”

“Well, I guess I owe you a thank you.” Without the pompous bastard strutting around like a peacock, making far too much noise about anything and everything, Geralt’s men can work a lot easier within the streets without being bothered by a man who’s far too brave for his own good.

Jaskier hums. His fingers pluck at the buttons of Geralt’s shirt, seemingly struggling between undoing them and revealing more of his chest, or leaving them be. Geralt hopes for the former. “I can think of a few ways to repay me,” Jaskier lulls. Those fingers venture further down, deftly catching and undoing Geralt’s belt.

At the clink of the buckle, a low moan slips out of Geralt’s throat. He reaches up, catching Jaskier’s chin between his fingers. “Careful, little lark,” he rumbles, delighting in how the man’s eyes shimmer. His attention is solely Geralt’s, already wrapped around him. The voice that rumbles out of him is deep and rasping. “Wolves are dangerous.”

A shiver shakes up Jaskier’s spine. “Good,” he replies, dipping down to lure a kiss out of Geralt. He hums against his lips, breath hitching when Geralt snags his bottom lip in his teeth and tugs.

A clever and sure hand slips down the front of his pants, reaching into his briefs and curling around his cock. He’s already half-hard. The man peaked his interests. Fingers coil around it, slowly pumping up and down. Geralt’s breath catches in his throat when Jaskier twists his hand around his head, gathering a bead of precum in his palm to slick his way back down. It’s dry, but the pressure and coil of the man’s fingers around him is just enough to keep his interest. And the squirming thing in his lap, plying him with kisses and luring words, has him very interested.

Geralt slides his hands into Jaskier’s pants, kneading the globes of his ass and rolling their hips together. A thrum of pleasure rumbles through him. A lithe groan slips out of the other man.

He pauses when he feels metal.

Geralt quirks an eyebrow.

Jaskier, for the first time all night, actually blushes. Though, he smiles his way through it. He pushes his hips back against Geralt’s hands, wanting them to keep going in their explorations. He’s a hopeful thing, if he expected Geralt to say yes. Or an incredibly self-assured one. Geralt isn’t sure which one he’d appreciate more.

Geralt’s finger traces around the man’s rim, following the edges of what he can only expect is a plug. He leans up, plucking a gentle kiss from Jaskier’s lips. “Stretched out already?” he hums, lounging in the way his lips tingle after kissing Jaskier’s.

The man doesn’t answer. It could be the blush that’s warming his cheeks giving him all the answers he needs, but Geralt delights in any sounds he manages to lure out of the man. He grabs the end of the plug and tugs it gently. The body on top of him shivers.

He sets up a gentle rhythm, delving the plug in and out of Jaskier’s hole. He can feel how wet the man is, and the images that flash in front of Geralt almost catch his breath. He might have spotted Geralt coming into the bar, or known that he would have come this way. To be as bold as to assure himself of a night with the White Wolf, to go into a bathroom stall or the back rooms of the bar, lube and plug in hand, readying himself.

Geralt’s growl rumbles through his chest. “Has anyone else had you today?”

Jaskier’s mouth falls open, a moan slipping out. “No,” he manages to breathe.

Geralt nips at his jaw. “Good,” he mutters against the skin. “Because you belong to me now.”

Jaskier’s moan is a gorgeous thing, just as beautiful as his laugh.

He isn’t a possessive person. He sees other masters of their guilds hoard people in their beds, and while these people walk around the boroughs draped in silks and gold, people know who they belong to and wouldn’t dare look in their direction, let alone touch them. He’s never been like that. Those who have fallen into his bed have had their time and have gone with the changing wind.

And then there’s Jaskier, who he’s known for all of thirty minutes now, and he wants to keep him forever. He slowly works the plug in and out of Jaskier, languishing in every small choked-off sound that he wrings out of the man. Eventually, the man’s hand tightens around his cock. If he can tease him, then Jaskier can tease right back.

Geralt sets his teeth to the ridge of Jaskier’s jaw, slowly working the plug out of the man’s hole. There’s a broken attempt at Geralt’s name, followed by a high-pitched whine when the plug slips out of him. As soon as it’s gone, and Geralt sets it on to the couch to be forgotten about, he delves in with two fingers.

Jaskier did a good job of stretching himself, but he still tightens and clamps around Geralt’s fingers. He curls just enough to search out that spot inside of the man, and when he brushes it with the pads of his fingers, one of Jaskier’s arms coils around his shoulders and hauls them flush against each other. “Geralt,” he breathes.

The heat around him is hot and warm and wet. Geralt’s tongue sits heavy in his mouth at the thought of burying himself into it. His cock twitches in Jaskier’s hand. He nips at Jaskier’s jaw. “Get us both ready,” he rumbles.

Hand scramble and pull off what they can. He’s desperate, Geralt can tell that. And he is too. The more time Jaskier spends squirming in his lap, bunching their slacks down as far as he’s able too before perching back on his lap, the more fidgety he becomes. When Jaskier is close enough, he winds a firm arm around the man’s waist and holds him in place.

It shouldn’t sear his blood as much as it does. He’s lost count of the number of people falling in and out of his bed. Some appear more often than most, while others are gone by the time the sun decides to peer over the horizon. But this one...

Geralt reaches down, guiding the man’s hand on his cock. It’s tight and quick, and if he’s not careful then this will all be over with too soon. Jaskier’s hand eventually falls away. He squirms on Geralt’s lap, trying to roll back on to the other man. The noises that slip out of him Geralt will commit to memory. If he’s as serious about this new proposition as he thinks he is, Geralt will be hearing those noises for many nights to come.

He sets the head of his cock against the man’s hole. A small chuckle escapes him as Jaskier whines and tries to roll his hips back. Geralt tights his old on him. “I’ll give you everything, darling,” he rumbles, delighting in the shiver that shakes through the man’s body. He sets his lips to the ridge of Jaskier’s jaw, hints of teeth scraping, as he slowly pushes himself into the man.

He struggles to keep his breath. Jaskier might have stretched himself out, and Geralt might have played with him for as long as he could have, but the heat that surrounds him is hot and tight and already lures depraved sounds out of him. Jaskier’s moan is choked and stuttering as he lets his hips fall flush against Geralt.

He’s perfect. Geralt moans against Jaskier’s jaw. Short puffs of hot breath ghost the man’s ear, making him shiver and tremble against him.

Jaskier’s arms coil around his shoulders, tightening their hold on him and bringing him closer. “Fuck me,” he sighs, half into the air above them. He lets himself feel Geralt for a moment. He’s big, and there isn’t a lot of space inside of Jaskier that he isn’t flush against. Every twitch of his hips has the tip of the man’s cock brushing his prostate. And this could all be over too soon.

Geralt has his hips trapped. He might allow the small quivers and rolls of movement, but he can’t lift himself. The hands around him tighten and fingers dig into the arches of his hips. Jaskier whines against Geralt’s lips. It’s too much and not enough. His cock leaks between them, the first few drops of precum already beading around his tip. He needs a hand on it. Or the man below him needs to move. Or something.

The man laughs, mostly to himself. It’s a rumbling thing that comes from the depths of his chest. Geralt leans back against the couch. His hands don’t part with Jaskier’s hips, but his hold loosens, just a touch. Lain out in front of him, Jaskier’s eyes wander over any stretch of bared skin he can find. “Come on, little songbird,” Geralt rumbles. “Take what you want.”

Jaskier’s moan is the only thing he can hear. The thump of music worming in through the walls, the shitty fluorescent lighting overhead, the hum of alcohol buzzing in his veins. It all slips away the moment the man’s hips roll and lift and fuck down on to him. Jaskier’s breath hitches and his eyelids droop. There’s a struggle in him. To close his eyes and lean back, languishing in how Geralt feels inside of him. Or to watch the man underneath him, make those golden eyes meet his and see what he’s doing to him.

Geralt bites the edge of his tongue. The same war starts to unfurl within his own mind.

His hands do nothing more than guide. Jaskier’s thighs work and warm as he lifts himself up and down, slowly riding Geralt. The heat around him tightens and quivers. One of Geralt’s hand slips down to his thigh, feeling the muscle work. He pets skin and mumbles sweet, worshipping words. “That’s it,” he tries to steady his own voice. “Look at you, little bird. Taking my cock so well. You were made to be there, hmm?”

Jaskier’s eyelids flutter closed as a moan slips out of him. One of his hands moves, curling into the hair at the back of Geralt’s head. He grunts as the man’s hold on him tightens. He might be enjoying himself, but he isn’t as naive to lose himself completely. Surely he must know what kind of effect he’s having on the man beneath him.

And he does – if the smirk curling along his lips is anything to by. Geralt tries to keep his breath. In and out. Settle.

Jaskier leans down, setting his forehead against Geralt’s. Their noses brush and warm air is shared between them. The smirk doesn’t budge. “Do you say that to all of your whores?”

Geralt pushes back. They’re close. The man’s lips are just there. He could lift his chin and steal a kiss. And he’s sure the other man is betting on it. His lips are plump and bitten already, luring him closer. “No,” he hums. “Though my hitmen tend to have excellent bed-manners.”

A laugh lilts out of the man. That’s it settled then. Jaskier works for him. And if he has his way – and if the other man is amenable – he’ll litter marks all over Jaskier’s skin so people get the message. Having a bird-like Jaskier perched on his shoulder, ready to go and hunt those undesirables he has out in the other boroughs, it tightens the coil in his core.

His hips lift and fuck up into him. He meets Jaskier thrust for thrust, and it lures the most divine of noises out of him. The smirk slips off of his lips as they stretch around moans and half-formed attempts at Geralt’s name.

Sweat starts to bead on both of them. Eventually, Jaskier’s thighs warm and give out, and he’s moved along with each of Geralt’s thrusts. He sags against the man’s chest, tightening the hold he has around his shoulders. “Fuck me,” he breathes against Geralt’s ear. “I want to feel you for days.”

He grabs the backs of Jaskier’s thighs and stands. The man’s arms tighten around his shoulders as he’s lifted and carried and eventually set down along the length of the couch. With the firm cushions underneath him, he rolls his head back. Blearily blue eyes watch Geralt; hovering above him and setting a hand next to his head.

His hips roll, driving himself deeper and deeper into the body below him. Jaskier’s breath thins and his whines grow higher and wisp. Every thrust fucks out one more sound Geralt can’t get enough of. He wants to hear more. He wants his name falling from the man’s bitten, plump lips. He wants to see what those hands can do; in his bed and for him out on assignments.

The people he hates most in life won’t know what hit them when he lets the songbird out of its cage.

Well-toned legs move, hooking around Geralt’s waist. Feet cross and heels dig into the small of his back. “Come on then, White Wolf,” Jaskier lulls, stretching his arms up and over his head. “Thank me properly.”

Geralt grabs his hips in a sure grip. Even through the shitty lighting, he can see the beginnings of marks form. He’ll leave more, when there’s time. When he has his little bird at home and in his bed, he’ll mark every stretch of skin he can find. And from the way the man watches him, his lips curling into a satisfied smile, he’s sure he feels the same.

Jaskier’s moans thin as Geralt snaps his hips. He’s close. He can feel beads of sweat starting to trail down his back. He fucks into the body beneath him with all he has, chasing down the edge that he can see in the distance. Jaskier’s legs splay around him, hips opening up, inviting him to delve deeper. If he could get any deeper, he would. The heat around him trembles and tightens, and it’s so wet and hot Geralt wonders if it has truly just been him to fuck the man tonight. He’s so spread open and inviting.

One of Jaskier’s hands moves. He watches it trail down, palming over his chest for a moment before it ventures downwards. Geralt quirks an eyebrow. “Did I say you could touch yourself?”

Jaskier holds his gaze. Fiendish thing, Geralt thinks, watching a small smile curl the corner of his lip. “You can take your time with me later,” he wisps, not bothering to hide the moan that slips out of him when Geralt’s cock brushes his prostate. His hand curls around his cock and gives a slow pump. The heat around Geralt tightens. His pumps start to match Geralt’s quickening thrusts. “When I’m in your bed – fuck – you can do what you like. Your mouth, fingers, hands, cock. Whatever you like, darling. And when you wake up tomorrow, you’ll have a few less problems to deal with.”

His words rasp as he stumbles closer to the edge, but they lure the more depraved of sounds out of Geralt. His hold on the man tightens as his hips start to stutter. Jaskier lifts his chin. His breathing thins and he moans Geralt’s name better than any of Viola’s whores. “Are you close, darling? That’s it, oh gods. Fuck it into me, Geralt. Harder, good—Geralt—”

The man’s breath catches as Geralt thrusts deeply into him, his hold on him turning white-knuckled, as he comes. Bowing over the man, he catches the first splattering of cum across Jaskier’s abdomen. Geralt moans at the sight. He trembles around him, hole fluttering, as come starts to pool around his cock and spill out.

Jaskier’s chest lifts and falls, every breath heaving.

Geralt has danced with enough of Viola’s payroll to know when they’re genuine or not. And though this little songbird might not be one of hers, he’s sure that he’s been in enough beds to know how to play people to his advantage. And Geralt has been careful. This bird might be his, but he’ll keep an eye on him. Any creature can turn against their masters; especially when a better offer comes along.

But he watches the man below him, fingers slowly trailing up Geralt’s abdomen and chest, feeling his sweat-beaded skin. Hooded eyes follow where his fingers go, slowly taking him in. Even through the shitty lighting overhead, he can make out just enough of him to hum. Geralt’s breath threatens to hitch when blue eyes blink up and meet his.

He’s too soft to stay in the man. He bites down on a small whine as he slips out of him, already missing the warmth. Jaskier’s brow twitches in a small frown, but it’s gone within moments. Geralt sets a hand on the outside of the man’s thigh. “Did I hurt you?” he asks.

Jaskier blinks. “No,” he says, after a time. “No, no. Just...You were good.”

Geralt meets his gaze for a moment, holding it. He hums. “Well,” he rasps, “as you said; I can take my time with you next time.”

It lures a smile out of the little bird. Jaskier stretches out, lounging in how his muscles groan and protest the movement.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been. Geralt manages to gather enough energy to slip away from the couch, fixing his trousers up and around his hips and doing up his belt. Sweat starts to cool and he just about manages to clamp down on a shiver. His jacket lies nearby, tumbled to the floor after he had placed Jaskier along the length of the couch.

Geralt fishes his phone out of his jacket pocket. Numbed fingers are barely able to tap out Coën’s number. The man answers on the second ring. “Bring the car back,” Geralt grunts, glancing over to the man still stretched out on the couch. He’s brought a leg up, splaying it to the back of the couch. Geralt’s breath threatens to hitch at the sight: the man reaching down and trailing a finger around his hole, feeling wet heat slowly trail out of him.

Coën hums. “Are you alone?”

“No,” Geralt replies, lowering his voice. He leaves it at that, because he’s sure that even if he doesn’t say anything, Coën will take one look at them both in the backseat and know everything he needs to know. He can already feel colour start to warm his cheeks.

Lambert will be given a wide berth. Gods forbid if he knew that his plan for the night worked – in a way. He’s sure this isn’t what the man planned, but he’ll lord it over Geralt for weeks on end if he finds out that Geralt did in fact have a good night.

He hangs up with the knowledge that Coën will be here in moments. His ears twitch at the sound of clothes shuffling.

Jaskier pulls down his shirt, and Geralt mourns the loss of a bare chest to look at.  He’s managed to fix himself back into something more or less presentable; though his hair is distinctly out of place and a colour flushes along the heights of his cheeks. He doesn’t look much better, he guesses. He can feel wisps of hair dusting his face, fallen out of his ponytail. He should fix it, try and run his hands through his hair and fix it back into something normal. But blue eyes flicker up to his face. Jaskier smiles, reaching up to curl a stray strand of hair behind Geralt’s ear. “Ready to go?” he asks. His voice is still rasped and nothing but a gentle rumble. His hand gentles down the side of his face, trailing gooseflesh in its wake.

Geralt hums.

Jaskier’s smile is a devastating thing. He lifts his chin. A silent request.

Geralt bows, brushing a light kiss on to his lips. Jaskier moans into it, trying to chase it even as Geralt pulls away. A sure, firm arm coils around the man’s waist. “We have a lot to discuss,” he rumbles, already leading them both out of the room. No one waits outside for them. Lambert will have taken up a space at the bar, probably having lured someone into his lap. He already made his promise to Geralt to keep himself out of trouble and make his own way home. And Geralt, knowing better, knows that at least one of those things is true.

Rosemary and Thyme has secret, more shielding, exits for certain patrons. Viola, catching Geralt’s eye just as he passes her, blinks at the man curled around him. Jaskier buries his laugh into Geralt’s shoulder, but winks at the woman all the same.

Coën and their car sit out in the alley. The man is still in the driver’s seat. He isn’t their driver, but often finds himself there because Lambert drives too recklessly and Eskel is never around enough. And if Geralt could drive himself, he would. But with a certain man starting to paw at him again, he clambers into the back of the car and shuts the door behind them without a word.

CHAPTER II

[kewltie]

A mr and mrs smith au where heroes and villains' identity are kept super top secret from the public and their friends and family bc it’s a dangerous world out there. So bakudeku are a happily married couple and are fiercely in love with each other, with katsuki working as an everyday office salesman and izuku is a househusband except neither of that is true. it's just a facade they put up to fool each other from what they really do. katsuki moonlights as the hero ground zero, the great defender of the city, and izuku is the precious son and heir of the supervillain AFO though izuku maintains he's not in the business of crime... just have a habit of breaking laws to get his way in what he sees is right lol :P.

when they're wearing their hero/villain suit, bakudeku often clash against each other because of their respective side but,,,, it's not all bloody confrontation really. more like izuku keeping his dear old dad back from the fray and being his voice of reason like, "no, you absolutely cannot blow up midtown." izuku intentions are always good even if they're a little uh loose. he hates rapists and abusers and had bloodied his hands more than once because of these scums. he thinks politics is a dumpster fire so it just easier to install a puppet regime to make sweeping progressive changes. Izuku upholds rule when they serve him, but otherwise? Fuck it.  katsuki doesnt think izuku's villain persona is necessary vile as his villain dad but katsuki is firm in his moral fiber and though he's belligerent at times he respects the law enough to not actively and persistently break them like izuku so he doesn’t hates what izuku stands for but doesn't like him either

it also doesnt help that katsuki doesnt know the villain he's fighting almost every week is also his beloved hubby and neither does izuku who actually admires and adores zero even though they're on diff side bc katsuki is sticks to his convictions and won’t be sway no matter what especially when AFO has been trying to recruit him and zero KEPT REJECTING HIM. izuku thinks that's hilarious as fuck because zero is more /anti/hero than a proper hero but he's staunch in where he stand and will never cave to being a criminal so izuku finds that intensely attractive... once upon a time okkk. IT WAS JUST A CRUSH BUT NOW HE'S HAPPILY MARRIED!!

Bakudeku were childhood friends when inko took izuku into hiding because AFO’s enemies were creeping around his families. So for most of their childhood, katsuki was playing with this mysterious and awkward boy next door who got home school and wasn’t allow to go outside unless under strict supervision. He assumed somewhat correctly that izuku and inko was hiding from some big villain or something. then one day izuku disappeared and katsuki has been looking for him ever since, it’s one of the reason he got into vigilantism because he never want to another person to feel what it’s like to lose someone close to them. The found each other again when they’re older and in their civilian identity :P and refuse to let the other go once more. Simple love story of childhood friends, or so they think.

so bakudeku lives their dual life, both keeping their secret side gig close to their chest until one incident where izuku and katsuki was kidnapped another villain who is v v much not part of the LoV so they hates AFO and heroes equally, taking their two best and brightest as an example. he dumps them on an abandoned island that have like carnivorous plants, clone dinos, murderous monkey, boiling spring, etc that is all out to kill them so bakudeku have to work together to get out of it alive! and it is there that they see how easy they move around each other like they knew each other their whole life. the familiar ease in which they just clicked in a way is downright creepy and suspicious also wow, you sounds just like my husband right now when he complained and THEY'RE STILL MASKED SO--ALL IT TAKE IS A SLIPPED, AN ACCIDENT so then of course it happened. a plant thingy spit out some kind of liquid that melt fabric and skin on contact so they have to remove their gear quickly and izuku's eyes widen at the stabbed wound on zero's shoulder that sit in the same place as his katsuki?? HE KNOWS THAT WOUND!!! and every other wounds on his husband (even though it should ping him why the fuck an office person get into so many 'work accidents'). while katsuki stares at izuku's bare ass and thighs and is like, i know that fucking ass because i fuck it every night... lmao

they stare at each other, horrified and then katsuki steps forward and ripped down Izuku's hood and mask. "fuck," he says, staring into the familiar eyes of his husband, "that explains why your dad keep trying to kill me. i always knew he was a fucking psycho for a reason." LOL

[brianc521]

Red Light | CEO Peter

Everyone knows now. 

It wasn’t totally your intention to tell his whole family and your parents, but with the situation it was inevitable.  

**

// 3 Hours Earlier // 

You were headed to the DMV, excited about why you were going. Sure it meant a lot of paperwork, but in the end it would make everything officially Mendes. Your ID, your passport, the likes of things Peter requires you have so he can whisk you away whenever he feels the need too. 

It was such a nice day outside, it was a bit chilly, but the sun was out and there weren’t that many clouds in the sky blocking out the gorgeous blue. 

Everything stopped. There was sudden white noise ringing in your ears. The ringing was loud, and disorienting. Everything was blurry and it took forever for your eyes to focus. Blinking helped but also made it worse. 

“Mrs. Mendes!” 

You wanted to tell Bailey to stop yelling so much. When did you have a headache? Why hadn’t you noticed it before you left the house? You're so good about keeping your headaches in check. 

“Mrs. Mendes!” 

Bailey was waving his hands in front of you, and your eyes physically widened when you noticed the blood trailing down the side of his face from his forehead. 

“Ba-” You coughed, reaching out for him. Your body ached, everything felt like it was being weighed down. In slow motion almost, like you were running through water. 

You flinch when someone grabs your head, holding it still. Something was then strapped over your body. You could hear someone crying, repeatedly saying sorry, and again Bailey called your name. 

What in the hell was going on right now? 

“Mrs. Mendes?” A soft feminine voice called. 

It was bright, white bright. But the noise stopped, and the throbbing in your head had you wincing. 

“Mrs. Mendes can you hear me?” 

You nodded slowly, trying to ease your head out of the dull throb. 

“Good that’s good. Does your head hurt?” 

“Yes.” You hiss, trying to reach for your head, stopping short when your arm hits the strap they’ve fastened around your arms. 

“Okay, they’ll take a look at that when we get to the hospital.” 

“Hospital?” You stare at her, taking in her soft features. She’s got gorgeous brown hair, hazel eyes, and a freckle on her left cheek.

“Do you remember what happened?” She asks softly, applying more pressure to your leg. It was then that you noticed the sharp pain in your leg. 

“No. It was so nice out, we were headed to the DMV.” 

“Mrs. Mendes, the car driving you was hit by a truck that ran a red light. The truck hit your side directly, and we had to cut you out of the car.” 

You stare at her in horror, and look around, finally taking in your surroundings.

“You’re in an ambulance with me and my partner Dean, we’re taking you to the hospital.” 

“Bailey? Where’s Bailey?” 

“Is Bailey your husband?” 

“No he’s my husband's driver.” 

“The man with you is fine, and being checked up at the scene. We need his statement for the accident.” 

“Peter?” You look at her. Her eyes snap to you and she raises an eyebrow. 

“Who’s Peter?”

“My husband, where is he? Is he coming?”

“The man you were with told me to tell Peter as soon as possible, I’ll contact him when we get you checked in.” 

**

“Mr. Mendes office, this is Stan, how may I direct your call?” 

“I need to speak with Peter Mendes please.”

“May I ask who’s calling?” 

“This is Sarah Paulsen, EMT, with truck 6, I need to speak to Peter Mendes regarding his wife Y/n Mendes.” 

Stan just about drops the phone. “Let me transfer you.” 

He transfers the call, then proceeds to storm Peter’s office. Peter looks up with a hard glare at the disturbance. He’s in the middle of a meeting with a potential client, one that’s really on the fence. 

“Stan!” Peter stands up, hands going to his hips. “Someone best be dead.” 

Stan gulps, tears stinging his eyes. “Don’t say that Sir.” 

“Stan,” Peter warns. 

“Line one, Sarah Paulsen needs to speak to you.” 

“Who is Sarah Paulsen?” 

“She’s an EMT, needs to speak to you about Y/n.”

His whole world crumbles. He physically feels the blood drain down to his feet. He looks at the phone, at that damn blinking light. His client looks up in worry, and watches as Peter sinks into his chair and grabs the phone with a shaking hand. 

“Peter Mendes.” He answers.

“Hello Peter Mendes, I’m Sarah Paulsen an EMT with truck 6. I’m calling to inform you that your wife Y/n Mendes was in an accident this morning.” 

“Oh my god.” 

“She’s conscious, and asking for you.”

“Where is she?” He stands, snapping at Stan then pointing to his keys on the hook by his door. 

“Sacred Heart Medical.” 

“Thank you.” He slams the phone back on the cradle and sprints out the door, snagging his keys from Stan on his way out. 

**

His office is a solid hour away from the hospital. He curses lunch hour traffic as he weaves in and out of lanes. His dash lights up with a call from his mother as he stops at yet another red light. 

“Mom?” He croaks out. 

“Oh Pete,” She sighs.

“What?” He barks. 

“She’s okay.” 

“Fuck Mom! Don’t do that.” He breathes easy. 

“Don’t you curse at me Peter Manuel.” 

“You just went ‘Oh Pete’ the same way you did when Papa passed when I was 10. You scared me. Don’t do that.” 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. You just sound so afraid.” 

“I’m sorry for cursing.” He mumbles. “She’s okay?” 

“She’s getting a CT to check for brain bleeds, but they’re not worried about them.” 

“If they’re not worried about it, then why are they checking?” 

The cackles and suddenly it’s quiet around his mother. “Bailey requested them.”

He sighs, foot on the gas as he revs into the parking garage. “It’s not his fault.” 

He’s already been told the story, Raul was on his way out the door from suffering a cut during his shift when he heard her name in the ER. He called when they were transferring her up into a room. Told Peter everything he knew. 

Bailey accelerated at a green when a dark green toyota truck blew through a red and hit the back passenger door. Right where you had been sitting. 

“He’s scared Honey, he was driving.” 

“Hold on Mom, I’ve gotta park, I’ll be up in minutes.” 

**

The sight of him is the sight of a desperate man. He’s still in his work clothes, light blue button up, black suit slacks, dark blue tie. His dress shoes slip on the tile as he runs down hallways towards your room. 

When he made it to the check in counter in front of the waiting room he was stopped by a security guard. “Name and room number.” 

“Y/n, 2307.” He pants, trying to catch his breath.

“Your name?” The guard looks up. 

“Peter.” 

The man blinks at him twice before looking back at the screen and slowly clicks the mouse. 

“Listen dude,” Peter leans forward. “My wife was in a car accident and she’s back behind those doors so you’re going to open them with your keys and you’re gonna let me through.” 

“Wife?” His mother stands, followed by his brothers. 

“I don’t have time for this, take me to my wife!” He slams his hand on the counter. 

The door opens and your mom walks out, “Oh Peter, thank god. She won’t stop asking for you.” 

“Where is she? Is she okay?” He follows your mother, ignoring the calls from the security guard telling him he can’t go back there without a tag. 

He just about falls through the door of your room when he pushes the door open. His whole heart shatters at the sight of you. You’re laid up in bed, cast over your left foot, bandage on your forehead, bruising running along the length of your left cheek. 

“Baby.” He sighs, walking to your bed. 

“Peter.” You cry, reaching out for him.

“I’m here Baby.” He sits at the edge of your bed, hugging you close to his chest, being careful not to put too much pressure on you.

“I was so scared.” 

“I’m so sorry it took me so long to get here. Fucking traffic slowed me up.” 

“It’s okay.”

“Are you okay?” He asks, pulling back to inspect you again. 

“Yeah, they just took a CT of my head. They said they didn’t need to but someone urged them to do it just in case, I thought it was you.” 

“No,” Peter shakes his head. “Although it would’ve been if I’d been here. But Bailey requested it.” 

“Peter you can’t fire him!” You whine as you look up at him. “It wasn’t his fault, the poor man is beating himself up. I overheard him tell your father that he was ready to hand in his keys when you arrived.” 

“He won’t be doing such a thing. I can not believe that’s what you're worried about right now. That I’m gonna fire him.” 

“He was in the accident too Peter. He’s just as scraped up as I am.” 

“He’ll get medical leave, but he’ll be back when he’s healed.” 

**

After the read of your scans and some pain meds for your leg it’s been settled that you’ll go home tomorrow. Peter’s laying with you on the bed, holding you close as you snuggle into his chest. 

“Feeling okay?” He asks, kissing the top of your head. 

“Yeah.” 

“Good enough for my family to come in?” 

“They’re still out there?” You ask, sitting up, but being pulled back into his chest.

“They wanted to see you before they left.” 

“Bring them in.” 

He presses a few things on his phone and then there’s a quiet knock on the door followed by Karen and Manny poking, Shawn, Raul and Aaliyah shuffling in behind their parents. 

“Hey Fighter, how are you doing?” Manny asks, standing at the foot of your bed.

“Better since they finally gave me some ibuprofen.” 

They all chuckle and find places to take a seat next to your bed. 

“I hate to do this when you’re in here, but does someone want to tell me what the hell you meant when you said Wife this afternoon?” Karen gives a pointed look to Peter. 

He sighs, hiding his face in your hair. You giggle, looking up at him. He suffered telling your parents, guess it's your turn to tell his family. 

“We got married a month ago.” 

“Peter Manuel-”

“No,” He looks to his mom. “You used my middle name earlier, you don’t get to use it twice.” 

“Like hell I can’t. What do you mean you got married?” 

“We’re still doing the big wedding we’re planning.” You tell Karen, getting her to look at you. “We just, we just couldn’t wait that long to actually be married. So we had our own wedding, the intimate one for just us that we’ve always talked about.” 

“Then what’s the point of the one we’re planning?” She asks. 

“Because I still want my dad to walk me down the aisle. I still want Aaliyah to be a bridesmaid, and we still want to promise ourselves to each other in front of all of you. We just wanted to have our own first.” 

You explain it all, telling them how Peter planned it. How it was a dream come true and showed you how you truly wanted one with everyone else too. By the end of the conversation Peter was more in love with you then he has ever been before, and his mother was talked down from her rage. 

When they left the room for the night, leaving the two of you alone for the first time since morning, Peter kissed you fiercely. 

“I love you so much.” 

You grin, “I love you too.” 

“I mean, fuck, you’re in a hospital bed and you’re still protecting me.” 

“She wasn’t about to beraid you for marrying me when she didn’t fully understand it all.” You shrug, snuggling deeper into his chest.

“You scared me today Mrs. Mendes.” He whispers, hitting the button on your remote to turn the lights down. 

“I was scared too.” You respond sorely. “I just remember it being so nice out, and thinking that I could not be happier with my life, and the next I know I’m in an ambulance.”

Peter shuts his eyes, hiding himself in your hair and breathing in your scent deeply. 

“I didn’t like getting call saying you were here. I mean I think I totally lost my shit when Stan walked in the office almost crying.” 

“Stan was crying?” 

“He was scared too. You mean so much to mean and to everyone in my life. Today was a scary day.” 

“I’m okay.”

“I know, but the thought of you not being with me anymore, is the most scary thought I think I could ever have.” 

“Stop.” You lean up, wiping at the lone tear that dropped to his cheek. 

“I love you Y/n Mendes, please don’t scare me like that again.” He whispered, blinking the tears from his eyes.

[abraxos-is-toothless]

Surprises (15)

There are a few of you who have changed urls so please do check previous chapters first if you have!! Lucien is back in this, I had thought he had a part like two chapters ago? But going back I might have deleted his scene😬

Warnings: There will be swearing, mature themes, mentions of alcohol at times, and mentions of sex. I will update warnings as I go if needed.

Surprises Masterlist.

Full Masterlist.

Enjoy a Captain Swan gif because it fits I guess?:)

—————

Everything was white, why the fuck was everything so white?

Azriel felt blinded by being in such a bright room and there was an annoying beeping that he wished would just stop. His whole body ached and he groaned in pain trying to lift his body but then there was a hand gently pushing his shoulder down, and a voice that sounded like goddamn heaven.

“I don’t think so, mister, you keep your butt where it is.” Blinking a few times, he turned his head to the sound of that beautiful voice and saw Elain standing next to him with tears in her eyes. Panic set in at the thought of her being upset and he wanted nothing more than to hold her.

“W-why are you crying baby? What’s wrong?” There was deep laughter from somewhere across the room and a sharp pain shot through his neck with how fast his head moved. Cassian was sitting on a chair in the corner of the room, one arm in a sling and he now had on a pair of shorts which exposed a thigh wrapped in bandages. Nesta was on his other side, holding the hand of his good arm, gently rubbing her thumb back and forth.

“You were just in a major car accident, you expect your girl to be all sunshine and roses about it?”

Fuck the car accident. It all rushed back to him at once, the laughing and pestering and then a shout and finally darkness. Cass had shouted about a truck just as Rhys was-“Oh god. Rhys where is Rhys?”

“He’s alright. He was allowed to go home, so we sent him back with Feyre to rest. They’re both on the way back now.”

He finally forced himself to sit up, hating the way Elain’s eyes went wide in fear and so he took her hand and squeezed to let her know it was alright, but as his legs shifted, that’s when he felt it. All of the breaths in his lungs left him in one go, and he knew something bad when all of the eyes in the room watched him, so full of pain. Azriel closed his eyes once more as he gripped hid blankets tightly in a fist before flinging them away from him. All he did was stare and stare at that empty space where his lower left leg should be, before finally reaching for it with a hand, letting out a sound that was foreign to his ears. He vaguely recognised the shuffling of chairs and the click of a door as a small gentle hand covered his own. When he turned back to Elain, her lips were curved in a soft and slightly pained smile, pain for him.

“What happened to my leg Ellie?” He said it as a whisper because that’s all he could manage, scared that if he tried to say it louder, say something more, then he’d break down but he was determined not to look weak in her eyes. Her free hand came up and into his hair, nails scratching at his scalp that felt oh so good and comforting.

“The car overturned from the impact and crushed the front of the car. Rhys and Cass managed to get out and they tried to get to you as well but they couldn’t. Your leg had been crushed for too long, the doctors told your mom that there was nothing they could do, other than remove it.” Her hand in his hair never stopped once and for that he was grateful, because no, matter how hard he tried to stop himself, he broke right then and there in that hospital room.

“How can you still stand there and look at me like that? I’m missing a fucking leg Elain, I’m not me anymore. I won’t be able to do certain things anymore and hell, what the fuck is our little girl going to do when she asks daddy to do something and I can’t do it! I didn’t want this life for us! Now you’re going to be stuck with a cripple and a baby, I won’t put you through that.”

Azriel watched as her face turned from gentle and soothing to angry and hateful in a second, taking her hands off and away from him and stepping back from his bedside.

“Screw you, you fucking asshole. How dare you make up my own mind for me? How dare you think that I wouldn’t love you anymore because of how you look? If you don’t want me anymore then fine, I’ll save you the hassle of trying to end it.” No, no, no. Shit, fuck.

“Ellie...” He tried to say something, anything, but the words got stuck in his throat and so he had to watch as she stormed to the door of his hospital room without even looking back. He’d heard the sound of the door clicking earlier but now, now it was an awful sound and he never wanted to hear it again. It was like a dagger to the heart and he fucking hated himself. The best thing to ever happen to him and he blew it, just like he knew he would. He promised he wouldn’t hurt her again, promised her that he’d try harder, that no matter what he’d stay by her side.

Now all there was to do was sit there and wallow in his own self pity, knowing he’d most likely not be able to win her back this time.

oOoOo

Sitting in that waiting room, Cassian had given his story of the crash to the cops, every last detail that he could think of, everything that might be useful. And then it was Rhys’ turn. Nesta, Feyre and himself sat there and listened, Feyre moving straight to Nesta once he had started. He hadn’t a clue why she looked as worried as she did so until he’d heard Rhys’ story. Even now just as his brother was giving the last few key points, he was still in shock. Weylan Archeron, his girlfriend’s fucking father, was the one that had run them off of the road. Nesta had retreated inside herself when she’d heard it, that blank look taking over her face. It had taken him so long to find her under that prickly exterior and he’d be damned if he let her asshole father destroy how far she had managed to come.

The cops were just shaking hands and thanking them for their help when the door to Azriel’s room opened and Elain came storming out, tears streaming down her cheeks and her hand cradling that wonderful little baby bump. Cassian watched as Nesta’s face went from blank to furious and she made to go either after her sister or into his brother’s room to unleash hell, but he put his hand on her arm to stop her. “Easy sweetheart, I’ve got this one.”

He stood on shaky legs and limped down the hall that Elain had run down, asking a few nurses if they had seen where she went and ended up outside where the girl was sitting on a wall with her hands covering her face. Her body shook with barely restrained sobs and she jumped when he sat beside her, bringing his hand over to rub her back. “Hey, what are all these tears for Lainy? Az is alright, you saw him.” She scoffed at that and gave a humourless laugh. Looks like his brother might have been an utter fucking idiot.

“He may be alright but according to him, he’s not good enough now. According to him, I couldn’t possibly want him anymore now that he’s like that. He assumed Cass, that I’m that much of a bitch, that I only like him for his looks. He doesn’t want me because ‘I’m stuck with a cripple and a baby. He won’t put me through that.’ What gives him the right to decide my feelings for me?” She was crying again now, hands shaking and he didn’t know what to do or how to help and so he pulled her into a hug. Her head was smushed into his shoulder and he would no doubt be left with tears and snot, but he didn’t care. Elain could do what she liked as long as it made her happy.

“I’ve got you, Lainy. I’m sure he didn’t mean it; he’s probably just in shock is all. And if he did mean it, then I’ll kick his ass, no one hurts my Lainy or my niece. Uncle Cass has got her, both of you.”

After a while the shaking stopped and her tears turned into sniffles and she tilted her head back to look at him. “Thank you.” It was gentle but broken whisper and Cassian hoped to whatever gods that were listening to make his brother see sense.

“How about I phone Lucien for you? You haven’t really been able to see him for a few days and I’m sure he’d like to see you. I’ll ask him to come get you and take you back to the house and the two of you can hang out there. Besides they want Az to stay overnight just to be sure and keep an eye on his leg.” Elain nodded before burying her head back into his shoulder and before he phoned Vanserra, he sent a quick text off to Nesta.

She’s all good, just a bit overwhelmed. I’m going to get Lucien to come get her and take her to the house. Love you.

-Cass

He and Azriel had been handed bad cards in life, ever since they were born but now, now was when everything was good for them. They both had amazing girlfriends who loved them unconditionally, there was a little one about to be added to the family and they were finally, finally happy. Of course one drunken asshole had to come along and possibly ruin everything his brother had ever hoped to have.

oOoOo

Elain was so tired, so goddamn tired that she felt as though she could sleep for a week. She felt utterly drained as she stepped through the door to Lys’ house. The woman had come out to give her one of the spare keys when she’d heard that Elain was leaving, telling her to eat, drink and do whatever she wanted and that if Lucien wanted to stay overnight to keep her company then he was more than welcome to. Lucien was behind her and she just knew his hands were braced in front of him as if he expected her to crash and drop from exhaustion. She had missed her best friend, truly, but with everything that was going on they just hadn’t had the time to hang out.

 “Okay Lainy bear, Cassian said that his mother would like for me to cook you dinner. What do you feel like, and before you say ‘I’m not hungry’, you’re eating for two so this is me putting my foot down.” She rolled her eyes knowing that yes, she would have predictably said that in the past, but she wouldn’t do that to her little girl. That was the first thing he’d actually said other than the few greetings since he’d picked her up, and that didn’t sit too well with her.

“I’m not going to break you know, we can talk, you don’t have to be silent because you’re scared of saying the wrong thing.” He pushed a hand through those beautiful, long red locks- seriously, why does he get such nice hair and she gets a birds nest? –and gave a very loud sigh.

“I was just waiting for you to decide when you actually wanted to talk that’s all. And you’re also making that face, the one where you are so done with everyone’s shit, so how about we have some dinner and then you can sleep. I’ll stay up and get things ready for when the others come back. Yeah?”

Elain nodded and went into the kitchen with him to search for what to cook. They ended up choosing to do a chicken pasta bake with vegetables, something that would be easy to heat up later. It was effortless to move around each other after a few minutes, having done this a ridiculous amount of times before when they spent whole weekends together. Lucien sat there and watched her when they were done, making sure she finished her plate and then glared at her when she tried to clean up. Her best friend then even went as far as trailing her up the stairs, the overbearing mother hen. “I can walk up the stairs by myself.”

“I know you can.” She rolled her eyes but then froze in her place when they got to the top of the stairs. Lucien bumped into her back at the sudden halt in movement. “Ellie? Why have we stopped?”

“Um, I have to sleep in his room.”

“So? He’s your boyfriend and you’ve slept in the same bed before.”

Her eyes closed at the onslaught of words from their argument earlier hit her. “W-we had a bit of a fight at the hospital and now I don’t know what we are. I said I would save him the hassle of breaking up with me and stormed out, basically.” She tipped her head up to the ceiling, holding the tears at bay; she didn’t want to cry anymore, she was so tired of crying.

“Oh Elain, I’m sure it’ll be alright and he definitely wouldn’t want you to make yourself uncomfortable on the couch. You and the baby need sleep in a proper bed.” He was right, of course he was. She nodded and moved towards his room, she hadn’t actually been here since that party, the night that had changed everything. Images flashed through her mind as she opened the door, them laughing at a movie, her head on his shoulder, soft and warm lips, a painful pinching sensation and then pure bliss. Lucien told her he’d be right downstairs if she needed something and kissed her cheek before leaving again. She stripped out of her clothes, smelling of that too clean hospital smell. She debated what to wear to bed before giving in and pulling on one of Azriel’s t-shirts. Her body sank into that wonderfully soft bed, pulling the covers up and over her shoulders before closing her eyes. Everything smelt of him, comforting and just so fucking good, and her breaths turned ragged thinking about how worried she was that the worst had happened to him.

She loved him for the person he was, his caring and happy personality. Yes, he was beautiful and she’d be blind if she couldn’t see it but he was more than just his looks. If he could love her changing body, the stretch marks that were beginning to appear, the stomach that was no longer flat, then why did he think she wouldn’t love him all the same as he was now?

Eventually her exhaustion was too much, her eyes too heavy and she succumbed to sleep, a hand curved around her stomach. She hoped that Cassian’s was right, that Az was just in shock and that come morning, she wouldn’t have lost the person who meant the world to her and had given her something she hadn’t even known she’d wanted.

—————

Oh the pain, the angst how I love hate to give it to you😏 Want to be added/removed from the tags then just let me know:))

Tags: @bryaxisthefaceofnightmares @starlitfangirl @starsauroras @drunken-starz @myfriendscallmeraba  @thesirenwashere @empress-sei @elrielllll  @stars-falling @elain-shadowsinger @verifiefangirl  @theshadowsinger-and-thefawn @fancyclodpaintercookie @acourtofterrasenandvelaris @silver-flames @queen-of-glass @bamchickawowow @empress-ofbloodshed @sleeping-and-books @kvi-arts @tswaney17 @awkward-avocado-s @courtofjurdan @junkiejosten10 @mu-si-ca-l @agem10 @harmonyindark245 @slightly-sane-fangirl @tanaquilpriscilla @starrynightsbooks @maastrash @kendarbahr @elriel4life @illyriangarbage @b00kworm @thewayshedreamed

[marlahey]

(the devil’s in the details but) you got a friend in me

a little voice fic characters/pairings: sam/bess, prisha being perfect, ella the pupper warnings: minor language episode tags: set between 1.06 and 1.07 notes: this show is so underrated, so if you like sara barellies at all and want to watch very beautiful and talented people make heart eyes at one another constantly, please watch it.  for @creativexdreamer if we gotta carry the samuel love in this tag ourselves, we will. 

He has no idea what time it is when his phone drags him from sleep, but Samuel pulls it to his ear without looking, groggy and disoriented. “Hello?”

Silence. “Benny, I swear to god if you’re about to tell me watch the video again–” There’s a hiccup, then an inhale that he’d know anywhere, least of all because of how long he’s spent with it in his ears in each recorded track and voice note they’ve passed between them. They haven’t spoken in almost a week. He should hang up. He doesn’t hang up. (Cause he’s a lovesick fool.) “Bess?” A long pause. She inhales again, shakily; Samuel sits up straight. “Bess. Is that you?” “Samuel?” She’s been crying, that much is obvious. He jumps out of bed, grabbing the first shirt within reach, struggling into it with one hand. “What happened? Where are you? Are you–” “I’m fine.” Bess is not fine. Is she drunk? “I’m at home. Don’t come over, I’m fine.” His roaring heartbeat slows into something that he can at least swallow over. Samuel blinks until the familiar moonlight angles of his apartment take shape, banishing the extreme panic. He thinks of the regret that had curled in his gut the other night that he’d left her at the bar. He shouldn’t have left. She’d told him to, hadn’t she? “I’m so sorry Samuel. God, I was a total bitch to you and you don’t deserve it…” He doesn’t know how to respond to that. Maybe he’s a little more petty than he thought.  “What happened?” Samuel repeats, softer this time. Bess hiccups again. He reaches for his jeans. (He shouldn’t go. But he refuses to feel that kind of regret again.) “Is Louie okay?” he prompts when Bess doesn’t answer. She hums. “Your dad?” “He’s still super mad that we ruined his birthday.” Samuel winces as he takes the stairs two at a time. “And my dad…” Bess trails off. It takes concentrated effort not to push her again; Sam channels that energy into hailing the first cab he sees, pulling his muted phone away from his ear to give her address. “You can tell me.” He listens to her take several deep breaths. “The asshole at the record store accused him of trying to steal one. I had to go pay him off so he wouldn’t press charges.” Suddenly the cake thing makes so much more sense. “I thought he was just being a dick and didn’t care about Louie calling him all upset, I thought it was just an accident, but then–” Dread pools in the pit of Samuel’s stomach. “It turns out Louie never called him.” He can only swear noiselessly in the back of the cab, shaking his head. Bess’ words ring in his ears. A lot of people have a lot. “Bess–” “Please don’t say anything. I just can’t take pity right now.” Samuel tightens his grip on his phone and wills NYC traffic to move a little faster. “Okay.” It feels like they sit in silence for a long time, but at this point he’s just grateful that she hasn’t panicked and hung up on him.  “I’m such a mess, Samuel. Even Prisha thinks so. She’s out with Ananya just to avoid me.” “I’m sure that’s not what she’s doing. And even if it was...you’re allowed to be a mess sometimes, Bess.” She snorts, then sniffs. He’s made it to her building. Samuel manages to slide through the lobby doors behind someone else. How the hell does her building not have an elevator? “I shouldn’t be dragging everyone into my shit. Listen to me. I’m drunk dialling the one person in New York who probably hates me the most.” “You know that’s not true,” he insists, craning his neck up the three remaining flights of stairs. “I’m sure that the receptionist at Electric Lady has a few choice words for you.” Bess laughs, watery and weak, but it blooms warmth in his chest all the same. “I don’t hate you,” he says. “Promise.” “Where are you? You sound funny.” “Nowhere,” Samuel lies. “How was the rest of Louie’s birthday?” She explains the finer details of their descent into Broadway appreciation as he clears the last landing. Now that he’s finally in front of Bess and Prisha’s door, Samuel’s not sure he can summon the nerve. “He loves you more than one day or an ice cream cake. People don’t skip out on BroadwayCon just for anyone, you know.” Bess doesn’t say anything to that. He knocks before he can chicken out. “I think Prish forgot her keys. I don’t want her to see me like this.” “She doesn’t care.” Samuel knocks again, just for good measure. There’s a series of disjointed noises from behind the door and in his ear, as though Bess has to struggle to her feet and put down her glass. He shouldn’t have done this.   He should still be mad at her. (He isn’t.)

The door swings open. Bess leans on it like she needs the support; Samuel has to rock back on his heels to keep from reaching for her. She squints at him, frowning down at their call still going in her hand. Bess hangs up and Samuel tries to feel nothing over it. Her hair is half pulled up, her t-shirt cropped, her shorts tiny. She has socks with dogs on them. He has to avoid staring and smiling at the same time. (God, he’s so fucked.) “I told you not to come.” Samuel’s heart falls. “I know.” She doesn’t slam the door in his face, which he takes as a good sign. “And if you want me to go away, I will.” Bess’ chin wobbles. Samuel takes a tentative step forward. “I’m sorry for what I said to you.” “Well you were right,” she says, slurring. “I’m fucked up.” He shakes his head. “You’re not fucked up. I shouldn’t have said any of that. You and Ethan–” She flinches and Samuel hates himself a little. “It’s none of my business.” He’s halfway inside her doorway. Bess doesn’t retreat, even though tears are pooling in her eyes. “He told me he was going to leave her,” she whispers. “And then he didn’t.” A white, hot anger sears through his chest. Samuel stops before he can touch her and let his instincts override his reason. “I’m sorry.” Bess shakes her head, almost desperately. Over her shoulder Samuel can see her and Prisha’s apartment, turned upside down as though by a tornado. “What happened tonight?” Her breath trembles on the way in and again on the way out. “My notebook. It’s gone. Must’ve left it on the L and now it’s…”  Up close, he can tell she’s just as drunk as she’d been at the club, if not more. She makes a lackadaisical gesture. “Just like everything else.” Like the final back breaking straw, Bess slips on her floor; Samuel can only spring forward to catch her. She leans into him as though she has no control over her own body and he’s suddenly very aware of his hands on her waist, her arm. The memory of the club burns behind his eyes. “I gotcha,” Samuel says, for lack of anything else. “I’ve got you, Bess.” He thinks about that slimeball producer and has to remind himself not to tighten his grip. They’re alone in her apartment. She’s safe. Keep it together, dude. Bess huffs into his neck, like a choked laugh. Samuel aims a well-placed kick at her front door, and the silence of her empty apartment as it closes feels unbearable. “Had any water yet tonight?” he asks, taking in the apartment with as little curiosity as he can manage. Samuel doesn’t know Prisha very well but he can see where she and Bess overlap in their decor. The open doorway leading to a bedroom can only be Bess’ – fairy lights just like these hang in her storage unit. Her hair tickles as she shakes her head. Bess doesn’t resist as Samuel tugs her gently into the kitchen. There’s a bottle of Jack on the table and a glass on the floor; Ella lifts her head from beside it and looks up at him as if to say, are you going to do something about this? He’s being shamed by a dog. Samuel deposits Bess into a chair, clearing away the glass and the bottle. She doesn’t say anything and he can only be grateful for small blessings as he steps out of his shoes. A drinking glass is easy enough to find and the tap turns cold quickly. He glances over his shoulder to check that Bess is still conscious; Ella’s nails click on the hardwood and she’s smoothing the dog’s ears, staring at nothing as he approaches. “Here.” Samuel crouches down to meet Bess’ eye, waiting until her grip is firm on the glass before he lets go. “Drink slow, okay?” He doesn’t move until she takes three sips and puts her water down on the table.“Wanna lie down?” Before he can stand, Bess’ hand lands on his chest, curling just a little into the collar of his shirt. “Samuel?” She sounds very small. An ache lurches behind his ribs. It’s hard to decide who is more to handle: the livid Bess who spits fire, or this quiet version of her that seems to be drowning in her sadness. Samuel puts his own hand over hers. “ “Yeah, Bess?” Her voice breaks. “What’s wrong with me?” “Hey, nothing.” He’s reaching before he can overthink it, cupping her face so she has to look him in the eye. “Nothing’s wrong with you.” “Then why can’t I stop pushing people away? You said–” “Forget what I said, I was being an asshole.” Samuel shakes his head.   “But you’re right,” she insists, too adamantly for him to feel anything but shame over it. “I don’t let anyone care about me. I push everyone away so they–so they can’t...” Tears spill over her cheeks. Samuel almost doesn’t say it. “What, so they can’t hurt you?” Bess’ face crumples and her shoulders cave in. He can only draw her to the floor with him as her hand on his chest becomes a grip on his collar. Ella whines, circling as Samuel wraps both arms around Bess. He leans on the table, smooths his hand up her spine to the base of her neck, and down again. Bess shudders. “People care about you,” Samuel says firmly. “Prisha, Benny, your brother, your father. I care about you, you know that. None of us want to hurt you. Push me away all you want, but that isn’t going to change.” Her breath hitches, wet and warm over his collarbone. Bess leans into him –more intentional than before– so Samuel just folds her closer, until he can feel her heart hammering beside his. “It’s okay to be a mess. It’s okay to want to do everything yourself because that’s what you’ve had to do forever, but…” He leans back, brushing at Bess’ tear-streaked face with the side of his hand. “It's okay to let people help you, Bess. You can let people in, sometimes.” She’s looking at him in a way that makes him want to hide.  “You’re too nice to me.” Bess says it like an accusation. “Why are you so nice to me?” He has to rearrange his expression into something that hopefully doesn’t read, because I’m sort of in love with you. “C’mon.” “Where are we going?” she asks, unresisting as he pulls her carefully to her feet. “To bed. Well, you’re going to bed.” Her socks slide across the floor. As he leans to steady her, Samuel bangs his head on the underside of the table. “Ow, fuck.” Bess giggles; he has to remind himself not to find her so adorable when she’s plastered out of her mind. “Don’t make me carry you over there.” “Oh you wouldn’t dare.” Bess’ head lolls a little against his shoulder, pointing a finger that’s probably supposed to be at his face but instead points at the ceiling. Samuel just raises an eyebrow. He leans down and sweeps her up into his arms, adjusting his grip with only minor difficulty as Bess laughs. Her skin is very soft. He’s trying not to think about it. “You’re very strong, Samuel. I’m impressed.” “That’s me,” he says as Ella leads them helpfully into Bess’ room. “Very impressive.” She sighs a little into the slope of his neck; it takes everything in Samuel not to blush. Bess’ dog eyes them from her little bed as he studies the colourful duvet, pulled over on one side already. Samuel is expecting gravity to do most of the work as he eases Bess down onto her mattress. What he’s not expecting is her arm still looped around his neck, dragging his weight down with her. They almost crack heads, but Samuel anchors himself with one hand just in time. “That could’ve been bad.” Their faces are alarmingly close. He can see tiny freckles on her cheeks. He’s trying not to think about it.  Bess giggles again, seemingly unfazed. Her hand is still on his shoulder; wandering fingers find the hair curling behind his ear and Samuel has to force himself to stay very, very still. He wonders if she can feel the shiver that’s zipped all the way down to his toes. Bess smiles up at him and he’s struck with the urge to just lean down a mere few inches to kiss her, so suddenly that he has to swallow the feeling. “Are you going to leave me here?”  She still sounds drunk, but there’s a vulnerable undercurrent to the question. He still wants to kiss her. Samuel settles for brushing a piece of hair away from her face instead. “Not if you don’t want me to.” Bess shakes her head. Something close to relief floods his bones. “Let me just get your water, okay?” She’s blinking heavily when he returns. Samuel leans over to pull her duvet up around her shoulders. He’s not even fully turned away from the bed before calloused fingers grab his. “I thought you weren’t leaving me,” Bess says, frowning in a way that’s not stupidly cute. Samuel looks from her face to their hands; her fingers seem so much more delicate when they’re not covered in rings and curved over piano keys. “I’ll just be on the couch.” She just frowns deeper. Bess pulls with a strength he had no idea she possessed, and Samuel is too surprised to do anything but follow, hovering above the covers. “Are you sure?” He glances at Ella, who’s already asleep. “I’m sure.” Bess looks very serious for the first time tonight. He lets out a careful breath and sinks slowly onto the bed on top of the blanket. Seemingly satisfied, she settles herself into her pillow, still blinking very slowly. Her hand goes lax around his. Samuel watches his fingers move almost of their own volition, tracing the edge of her palm, her wrist, stroking gently up her arm. “Okay?” he asks, almost a whisper, because who knows what time it is, if this is alright. She nods. He can’t stop looking at her face. “For what it’s worth,” Samuel says, the words out before he can take them back, “I’m sorry about Ethan. Guy’s a jerk for leading you on like that.” Bess just shrugs. She looks small again. He thinks she might fall asleep, but then: “Samuel?” “Hmm?” “What if I don’t have any more songs?” He has to smother a deeply fond laugh. Samuel touches her temple, if only to prove his point. “They’re up here, Bess. There’s a million other notebooks. You’re the one writing in them.” Bess’ eyes are closing. “Can we write a song tomorrow?” “Sure.” “Promise?” God, he’s so fucked. “Promise.” And just like that, Bess is asleep. Samuel looks at her until he can’t anymore. 

*

He wakes up very warm. Unlike the dramatic jolt from sleep the night before, Samuel is drawn into consciousness very slowly. So much is unfamiliar: the lights, the window, the weight across his chest. Bess’ hair tickles his chin. She’s somehow rolled over, duvet and all, clinging to his shirt with one hand. Even with the blanket between them, Samuel can feel her knee caught between his. He’s holding her. His arm cradling her head, wrapped around her back, keeps Bess against him. Samuel stares at his hand on her shoulder like it doesn’t even belong to him. What is going on with his limbs? But it’s...nice. (It’s nicer than nice, but that’s a train of thought that Samuel’s been trying very hard not to follow.) He should move. He doesn’t want to move.  Samuel looks up at the ceiling as if it’ll give him strength. He catches his fingers trailing up and down Bess’ bare arm, just as unconscious and instinctive as before. But she doesn’t wake. If anything, Bess just presses closer. His face feels very hot, suddenly. Samuel curses silently at no one. There’s a gentle huffing noise and he glances over to realize that Ella’s staring. She’s judging him, he can tell. Get it together. By some miracle, Samuel manages to slide out from underneath Bess without waking her. He tries not to stare, but his chest warms when Bess curls into the space he’d just vacated, like an instinct. Samuel tiptoes out of the room and nearly shouts when he lifts his head to find Prisha sitting at the kitchen table, grinning at him. “Fuck,” he says as quietly as he can manage, glaring as she barely holds down laughter. “You scared the shit out of me!” “Sorry.” Prisha doesn’t sound sorry at all. “I was wondering which one of you would wake up first.” A flush rises up Samuel’s neck. He’d left Bess’ bedroom door open all night. “Nothing happened, I know. God, your face Samuel.” Her roommate is still smiling, but there’s something softer in it now. “You’re very obviously both fully clothed, and you’re clearly not that kind of guy.” His heart jumps uncomfortably. “She call you last night?” He nods. Some of the relief he’d felt earlier must be visible, because Prisha looks it, too.“Good,” she says. “I’m glad. I’ve been really worried about her lately.” Samuel just nods again. “Me too.” She studies him for a moment longer; he feels distinctly like he’s being tested. “Coffee?” Prisha asks, getting up abruptly. “Yeah, that’d be great.”  She offers him a hot mug a minute later, following his unwitting gaze to Bess’ still open doorway. Samuel should be embarrassed probably, but there’s something very safe in Prisha’s understanding expression. “Where’s Ananya?” he asks, desperate for something else to talk about. “Home. Figured we’d let Bess cool off before she came back.” Makes sense, honestly. “You guys play together, right? A band?” Prisha nods. She seems nervous, suddenly. “Yeah.” Samuel isn’t sure what his face is doing, because she blurts, “We’re um, she’s– I’m not...out, really.” He takes a careful sip before he speaks. “That’s cool. No worries.” “Thanks.” Her relief is so much more palpable now.They drink coffee in surprisingly companionable silence. Samuel can’t remember the last time he shared a morning like this with someone else. “There’s extra toothbrushes under the sink,” Prisha says when she finishes. “Help yourself to whatever in the fridge, if you wanna wait for Bess.” “Who’s waiting for me?” Samuel has to fight the urge to whip his head around like he’s been caught. Bess blinks at him, clearly surprised in mid stretch of her arms over her head; he drags his eyes away from the skin of her stomach. “Samuel.” He has to unstick his voice. “Hey sleepyhead,” he says. The familiar, dry sarcasm that always irks her does the trick. Bess’ expression clears from guarded to almost fond. “Glad you finally decided to join the land of the living.” Samuel can feel Prisha’s gaze swinging back and forth like she’s watching a tennis match. The back of his neck warms. “You stayed.”  It’s not quite a question, but the inflection is there in her eyes. He can only hold her stare and hope it’s saying what he wants. “You asked me to.” Bess looks vaguely shocked, the way she had that day in his apartment. When you sing, your soul is all over your face. (He stands by that assessment.) She’s unsure now– he can tell. So Samuel tilts his head, smiling. “Coffee? We’ve got things to do today.” “Things?” Bess echoes. But she sits down, accepts Prisha’s newly offered mug. Her roommate disappears into her room with a wave. “New notebook, new songs. Still want to write?” Samuel can see the wheels turning in her mind. He wonders how Bess feels about last night in the daylight, if she remembers everything. But this is the best out he can give her, if it turns out she can’t– or maybe doesn’t want to. “Yeah.” Bess smiles tentatively over the rim of her mug and he catalogues all its edges, to recall the next time they argue. The air feels heavy with everything they’re not saying, but Samuel can’t bring himself to mind. “I’d love to write with you.” There’s nothing he would rather do. 

[companionjones]

The Mistake

Fandom: Markiplier

Pairing: Markiplier x Reader

Summary: Mark yells at you because you accidentally deleted some footage for his new project. He comes to regret it when he remembers your less than pleasant past.

Warnings: Mentions of physical domestic abuse, cursing, angst (of course).

Author’s Note: This can be taken as either romantic or platonic. Reader is gender neutral. I literally have no idea if Mark and the Reader are together in this. I actually couldn’t decide while writing. It says somewhere in this that they at least used to be friends, but I don’t know if they are still friends or if they’re anything more. I don’t even know if they’re living together or not lol. I put in clues for both platonic and romantic, so I guess you really can look at it either way.

Also, I got the idea for this from a fic called A Past Life by @fatbottombarnes​. I suggest you go read it if you’re a fan of The Witcher and/or Geralt x Reader fics.

One last thing (sorry): Something called Carnal Carnival is mentioned in this. It’s an album by one of Mark’s favorite bands, Here Come The Mummies. You can see a video of him talking about the band here. Time stamp 2:55.

*******

    Besides your deafening heartbeat in your ears, the only sounds in the room was the clicks of Mark’s mouse. You didn’t know what to do, so you just starred suspenseful at him from the side of his desk.

    After what seemed like forever to you, Mark announced, “Everything’s gone.”

    “What?!” You were surprised you could talk after your heart had dropped to the floor. “It can’t just not be there anymore. There has to be some undo button, somewhere it saved, something--” You had unintentionally pushed Mark out of the way while you clicked around in search for anything that could help.

    He moved back in front of his computer screen. The action made you stumble a bit. You weren’t hurt in the slightest, but you could tell what he did wasn’t an accident. “Get off of there before you get rid of anything else.” His voice was different than you had heard it in a long time. That tone had never been directed at you before.

    You didn’t like it. You especially didn’t like the memories it forced into your head. You backed away from Mark and started to apologize, no matter how pathetic you felt. “I’m-I’m so sorry. I was just trying to help edit. Like you taught me. I was doing really well, too. I just clicked the wrong thing--”

    “And now, half a day’s shooting is gone!” Mark exploded. He turned back to his screen. “Just...get out. I don’t feel like dealing with you right now.”

    The sudden rise in his voice made you jump, but it was the last statement that really stung. You shakily moved to the door. You didn’t start crying until the bathroom door was shut behind you. You crouched down against the wall, and hugged your knees to your chest.

    Mark had been friends with you through a very difficult part of your life. He didn’t know at first, but eventually he found out that you were in an abusive relationship. Mark was there for 13 hospital visits. Mark was there when you finally decided to leave your ex. Mark was there when the asshole broke your restraining order, nearly killed you, and landed in prison. You still had the scars. The point was, Mark had seen how bad you had it.

    That was why you were so confused about why Mark was acting the way he was. You started to think that you had just messed up that badly.

    You had no idea how long it had been, but eventually there was a knock on the bathroom door. “Y/n?” Mark called. He was much calmer then, nearly timid. “You in there?”

    Involuntarily, you sniffled.

    There was a dull thump against the door. Mark had dropped his head against it. “You’re crying? Oh, Y/n. I’m so sorry. I should never’ve yelled like that...Especially with what you’ve been through, Jesus.” He said that last part more to himself. It seemed he was hating himself more with each passing second.

    That was enough for you to get your feet under you and open the door.

    When he saw the wet trails down your cheeks, Mark took your face into his big, strong hands and used his thumbs to wipe them away. “Oh, Y/n.”

    “I’m so sorry I fucked up like that. I was so stupid--” you were interrupted again, but not nearly in a negative way.

    Mark shook his head. “No, I’m the one that fucked up. I’m the one who was stupid. It was an easy mistake to make. I overreacted. I’m stressed because of this project, and losing a whole day of shooting like that--”

    You didn’t mean to, but you broke out crying again.

    “--Hey, hey! It’s alright.” Mark pulled you to his chest. “It’s not your fault. I’m not mad, I promise. So, we lost a day. We have time. We can make it up.” He paused for a moment, as if gauging your state. “Come here,” he suggested, and led you to a couch. He sat you down and separated you from him, but Mark didn’t let go of your hands. “How about we push the release date on this back a month or so?”

    Gasping, you argued, “But you’ve been so excited.”

    He shook his head. “I think I’m becoming more panicky than excited. And I want to make sure you’re okay...We are coming up on a year...,” cautioned Mark, referencing the anniversary of the last time your ex attacked you.

    “Don’t postpone this because of me,” you pressed.

    Mark assured, “I’m not. I’m not. But making sure the people I care about are okay physically and mentally is a priority.”

    “But your fans. You already told the members the date of the release,” you opposed.

    The YouTuber squeezed your fingers with his own. “The fans’ll be fine. And the members will understand when I tell them that it’s for personal reasons.” He leaned forward to lock eyes with you. “Let’s just take the weekend. We’ll figure everything else out on Monday or something.”

    How could you say no to Mark? After a moment, you sighed and nodded, “Okay.”

    Mark smiled, “Good.” He got to his feet and stretched. “Now, how about we go for a ride in The Barrel? Listen to the entirety of Carnal Carnival?”

    For the first time in about a week, you smiled. “Yeah,” you agreed, then skipped behind Mark to the vehicle waiting outside.

*******

Author’s Note: Thank you so much for reading! Fill up that heart and reblog if you liked it. I also would love a comment if you have the time. If you would like to read more, I have more fics on Markiplier over on my page. You should check it out. Also, REQUESTS ARE OPEN. I take requests for one-shots, drabbles, multi-chapters, headcannons and preferences. No smut, please. I write for a variety of fandoms. If you’re wondering if I write for a specific fandom, please ask me. Have a nice day, night, or whatever time it is for you.<3

[writethehousedown]

And The Livin's Easy, Chapter Two (Multi) - Zyan

a/n: hello again! here i come with chapter 2, hope you guys are enjoying the lesbian surfers. :) this was fun to write, i hope y'all don’t hate me for *certain* part. you’ll know which one.

TW: alcohol.

“Brooke, if you don’t get that stupid pout off your face, so help me God,” Yvie complains, cocking a sly brow. Brooke groans, tearing off her gaze from her phone she’s been looking on since they sat at the hotel’s cafeteria, scrolling through her ex’s Instagram.

Yvie gets it. They broke up and ended in bad terms last season, so the city brings memories to Brooke she’d rather forget — that, and the fact she’s supposed to compete against Vanessa in a week, puts her in a mood that’s especially annoying Yvie. She hates to see her best friend like this, but it’s been almost a year and all she wants is for Brooke to move the fuck on.

“Would you let me mop around in peace? It really doesn’t help that she’s going to the beach party tonight,” Brooke huffs, putting her phone away.

“And how’d you know she’s going?” Yvie asks, ready to scold Brooke if necessary. Brooke, sensing how pissed off Yvie is, puts up her hands in surrender.

“There’s an Instagram group chat with all the surfers that are participating this year and she’s there — I may not be a genius, but I can put two and two together.” Brooke unlocks her phone again and shows Yvie the chat; she frowns as she scrolls through it.

“Oh, yeah, I’m in this thing too, but I moved it to general. I don’t like group chats,” she comments, giving Brooke her phone back. Before she can say anything, Yvie puts up her index finger and tries to imitate her mother’s tone when scolding her as good as she can. “If you get wasted tonight and end up crying and begging her to take you back, I will rebuke your friend privileges and steal back the surfboard I gifted you for your birthday.”

Brooke gives an over the top gasp and clasps a hand on her chest. “How dare you, Yvette Diane Catherine Bridges! You’ll pry that surfboard from my cold, dead hands.”

Yvie laughs wholeheartedly at Brooke’s empty threat and soon they go back to their usual playful banter, and she’s happy when Brooke has yet to bring Vanessa up and the beach party thing seems to have been swept under the rug.

The day is warm and sunny, perfect for practicing or just hanging out. The cafeteria is right in front of the pool and Yvie has a good view of it; it’s still early in the morning and it’s closed, but there are children running around and chasing each other. Yvie tries to choke back a laugh when she sees how a kid falls to the ground, and Brooke slaps her in the arm when she catches her, telling her to not be rude.

Yvie rolls her eyes and when she goes to see where the kid had been lying, she sees a woman kneeling by their side and helping them up, with a big, kind smile plastered on her face. She helps the kid up and calms them down, sending them off with their mom once she wiped their tears.

She stares at the woman a little too long for it to be considered normal, but with the way her fiery red hair shines under the Sun and her shiny smile adorns her face, she finds it hard not to.

“If you keep staring, the least you can do is woman up and go talk to her,” Brooke playfully says, poking her arm, forcing Yvie to focus back on her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Yvie deadpans, making Brooke chuckle.

Their conversation carries on normally and Yvie still glances at the pool from time to time, hoping to see the redhead woman around.

*

Vanessa blinks twice when she sees what Crystal is wearing for the beach party. Then blinks again, until Crystal notices her staring and explains herself before Vanessa can say anything.

“I have my bikini under this. ‘Sides, Natti Natasha wore something similar in No Lo Trates.”

“Ah.” Crystal shrugs, and Vanessa eyes Crystal up and down one last time. The matching yellow crop top and skirt isn’t what she’d normally wear, like at all. Especially considering the crop top barely covers her breasts.

It clicks when Vanessa opens the group chat and sees a message from Jaida, saying she’s arrived to her hotel. A sneaky smile appears on Vanessa’s face as Crystal puts on her golden hoop earrings.

“So, you got any idea of what Jaida’s wearin’ tonight?” Vanessa inquires nonchalantly, and Crystal almost snaps her neck with the speed she turned to see Vanessa with.

She clears her throat before speaking, clasping the hook of the earring as she does so. Vanessa bites back a laugh.

“I wouldn’t know, no, she hasn’t spoken to me,” Crystal says, and Vanessa cocks an amused brow. Her tone is far too polite and fake, and it makes her want to holler with laughter. “Have you talked with her, though?” She asks, toying with her hands.

Vanessa shakes her head no, and her friend sighs under her breath before going back to her task of putting on the other earring, clearly upset.

It’s not that Crystal and Jaida have some sort of rocky story or something like that — well, they do. But it’s not that deep, or so Crystal swears. It’s just that they sleep around here and there whenever they’re in the same place, they have no strings attached; Jaida has made that very clear.

Crystal respects that, really. She doesn’t have strong feelings for her — but a text every now and then, other than to know if she’s coming over, would be nice.

Vanessa doesn’t bring Jaida up again, because she knows Crystal wouldn’t hesitate to pull the Brooke card yet again. She rolls her eyes when, almost as if on cue, she sees a text from Yvie pop up in the group chat, saying she and Brooke are arriving a little late.

She can already sense the awkwardness in the air, but she tells herself she won’t let Brooke ruin her night. Because she’s over her. Of course she is.

Her thoughts are interrupted with a message from Kameron, and a soft smile appears on her face as she answers it.

*

“Jan, remind me why did we ever listen to you,” Gigi complains with a huff, folding her arms with a childish pout when the tent doesn’t stay up and falls apart after a few seconds.

Jan takes a big breath and goes to help Gigi. She doesn’t understand why she packed one of those tents that are meant for hard ground, knowing they were going camping at the beach. It’s part of her stupid charm, perhaps.

Once they find a way to make Gigi’s tent stand up for more than just seconds, Jan claps satisfied and goes over to steal a snack from one of Jackie’s Tupperware, earning a playful slap on the wrist when Jan tries to pick up a halva.

“That’s for later, be patient,” she scolds her and Jan pouts. “Why don’t you go join Brita and Nicky at beach volley?” Jackie suggests, making the blonde cock a skeptical brow, as she looks over their friends. It’s already dark and the only light they have it’s from the wood fire Jackie is cooking their food on — Brita and Nicky lose the ball a couple of times, but insist on keeping playing.

Jackie nudges her to join them and Jan, almost reluctantly, does so. It’s fun for a moment, until Brita throws the ball too far away and it’s Jan’s turn to go fetch it. The blonde rolls her eyes with a groan, turning on her phone’s flashlight and walking away to find the ball.

It becomes crystal clear that Brita has a heavy hand, because she’s already far from their spot and she still can’t see the ball. Jan hears voices and sees lights not so far away, so she turns around with a huff and starts mentally scolding Brita for throwing the ball too hard.

“Crystal, for fuck’s sake, where did you learn to play beach volley?” She hears a shout behind her and her ears perk up, turning around to see a ball roll up not so far. She points at it with her flashlight and lights up when she sees the purple pattern.

Jan goes to reach for it just when another woman is aiming for it, and they stare at each other for a second as Jan perches the ball on her hip.

“Sis, if you excuse me, that’s my ball,” the woman politely says and Jan cocks a brow.

“Nuh-uh, it’s mine; my friend threw it too far by accident,” Jan declares, holding on tight to the ball.

The other woman gives her a daring look and parts her lips to speak, but before she can say anything else, she hears Gigi calling out for her and turns around, watching as her friend jogs up to meet her and catches her breath before speaking.

“Jan— that’s not— Nicky found the ball tucked in some bushes— that’s not our ball,” Gigi struggles to say, and Jan blushes from head to toe, her mouth agape as the woman gives her an I told you so kinda look. “Shit, I really am out of form,” Gigi comments, straightening up her pose.

Jan licks her lips and meets the woman’s gaze, reluctantly giving the ball back.

“I’m sorry,” she says through gritted teeth. To her surprise, the woman winks at her.

“Don’t worry, mistakes happen. ‘Sides, I couldn’t be mad at a pretty girl like you,” she says sultrily, staying firmly put where she is, not really acknowledging Gigi’s presence.

Jan blinks repeatedly. Is this woman for real flirting with her? She’s a solid twelve out of ten, and the fact she’s standing in front of her wearing a red bikini with just some fabric wrapped around her hips, isn’t helping.

Gigi tugs on her arm and Jan bites the inside of her cheek.

“Oh, uh, thanks?” she manages to say, “You’re, uh, you’re not so bad yourself.” The woman smirks, and Jan awkwardly finger guns. Jan can feel Gigi rolling her eyes.

“I can already hear Nicky saying, ‘non mais en fait t'es juste un gros stéréotype de la lesbienne inutile quoi,’” Gigi mockingly says; her French pronunciation isn’t great, but Jan gets it because, after being friends with Nicky for such a long time, they picked up a decent amount of French thanks to her and her constant nagging.

The woman cocks a brow, confused, as Gigi tugs on Jan’s arm again.

“Jaida, what’s taking you so long?” a high pitched whine comes from behind the woman, Jaida presumably, and Jan doesn’t miss the smirk on her face as she rolls her eyes. Gigi tightens her grip on Jan’s arm and she finds her eyes wandering off to where Gigi is staring.

There’s another woman walking up to them, wearing matching yellow crop top and a skirt, and Jan recognizes her as the woman Gigi was flirting with at the bar two nights ago.

Jan never thought the island could be this small.

Jaida looks back at her briefly before speaking, “On my way,” she simply says, turning around and giving Jan one last look. But it was the look. “See you ‘round, I guess.”

She goes to meet her friend, who’s staring intently at Gigi and snaps out of it when Jaida throws the ball at her. Gigi also snaps out of it, turning around and leaving to the camp without Jan.

Jan awkwardly stands there for a second before following Gigi, wondering what just happened.

*

The night isn’t half as bad as Brooke would’ve expected it, barely acknowledging Vanessa’s presence despite the fact her voice is loud and there’s no way she doesn’t hear what she says.

She strikes up a conversation with April Carrión as a messy beach volley match starts between Crystal and Jaida, with Jaida losing the ball and taking too long to fetch it. April makes a comment about how serious Jaida takes everything as she nudges on her drink.

“I think she’s one to look out for this year,” she says, making a disgusted face when she takes a long sip from her drink. “Girl, who let Monique prepare the drinks? This is pure vodka!” April exclaims with a laugh, and Brooke chuckles.

This ‘beach party’ isn’t organized by the people of the competition at all, so they had to improvise a lot of things — a gazebo with some fairy lights, different chairs sprawled across the place, a couple of speakers with music blasting and a folding table filled with the alcohol they brought, and a single mixer was all they had. Not that they needed much to have fun or that there were that many people, to begin with.

This whole thing had been orchestrated by Monique and Monét, and the only surfers invited had been the ones they were close with. Brooke doesn’t know some of these people that well, but she is sure she’s seen them around — except for the Asian girl with the wavy platinum hair.

Brooke squints, blinking owlishly; it’s been a good three hours and she’s starting to get tipsy, especially considering how much undiluted alcohol Monique’s cocktails have. Though it’s not the alcohol’s fault that she can’t recognize this girl; she truly doesn’t know who she is.

“Hey, April?” Brooke says, April hums, pouring a mixer to her drink. “Who’s that girl? The one in the silver bathing suit.”

April discreetly looks at who she’s pointing and clicks her tongue. “Ah, that’s Plastique Edwards, one of the new surfers.” Brooke cocks a brow, looking back at Plastique.

“Who names their child Plastic and gets away with it?”

“Ay, nena no, that’s not her real name! It’s her nickname. I’m not sure what her real name is, though.” April shrugs with a laugh, and Brooke hums with her lips glued to her cup.

Vanessa is yelling at whoever has the aux cord to play Tusa, and Brooke finds herself cringing. She knows that song  despite it being in Spanish - she has searched up the lyrics in English. Vanessa used to put that song in her Instagram Stories all the time after they broke up. Not that Brooke paid it any mind.

She sees Yvie walking up to talk with Plastique along with Monét, and Brooke chugs her drink in a quick motion just as the first beats of Tusa start playing. Brooke gets up and motions at April to follow her, and though she’s confused, she follows her suit.

They engage in a conversation with Plastique, Monét, and Yvie about the upcoming competition. Yvie glances at her every other minute to check on her, probably because Brooke is starting to stutter when she speaks, and that’s a clear sign that she’s drunk. That or she’s growing progressively intoxicated, anyway.

Vanessa belts the words of the chorus along with Crystal, and April joins them from afar, and Brooke doesn’t know where to hide. She can feel Vanessa’s stare burning on her neck.

“I’d ask for the aux cord to play my favorite Vietnamese songs, but I have a feeling I’m either going to ruin the mood or be the only one that actually knows what they’re saying,” Plastique comments with a wholehearted laugh, and Brooke’s eyebrows shot up.

“Hey, if it’s got a good beat, I may not understand it, but I’ll vibe with you,” Brooke assures her, slurring more than she intends to, and Plastique giggles in response. She decides to focus on Plastique and not on the slight frown Yvie gives her.

“Aw, thank you! That’s nice.” Plastique smiles brightly and gives her arm a squeeze, then squeezes it again when she notices that Brooke actually has a good set of muscles.

Plastique scoops herself closer to Brooke, who decides to block out Vanessa’s stare that’s still trying to burn a hole in her neck, and instead focus on Plastique.

She’s not sure how much time has passed when she hears Yvie ask where Crystal and Jaida are.

*

Gigi decides she isn’t sleeping tonight.

The sea at night is lovely and all, but her bed is awful and she’s pretty sure there’s a rock under her tent. And it’s not as if she can toss and turn, trying to find a better angle, because Nicky is sprawled on her inflatable mattress and takes a lot of space in the stent.

She steps outside to get some fresh air, still wearing her tank top and silk shorts, and finds herself wandering off to the shore. She has to admit, the beach really is pretty at night. Gigi lets the cold water wet her feet, curls up her toes when she feels the sea foam tickle her and stares at the reflection of the stars in the water.

Maybe she owes Jan an apology for being such a pain in the ass.

Gigi feels the breeze hit her on her bare skin and shivers a little, but she doesn’t complain. It’s nice, actually.

She’s not so far, but not so close to their camp anymore, and Gigi startles a little when she sees someone settling by the shore of the beach a few feet away. Gigi has the instinct to turn around and go back to the camp, but she squints a little, noticing it’s just Crystal.

Gigi debates on whether or not she should approach her, before finally deciding that, fuck it, why not? She has bumped into her three times now. That’s too much for a coincidence.

“Hey,” Gigi says awkwardly, catching Crystal’s attention. Her eyes widen, surprised to see her again, apparently.

“Hey,” she says, her voice barely more than a whisper. “What’re you doing here?” Gigi cocks a brow when she notices the slurring, settling besides her, but keeping a fair distance.

“I came camping with my friends,” she replies, motioning behind her. Crystal hums, scratching the back of her neck. “What are you doing here? Weren’t you at some party with that friend of yours, the one that was eyeing Jan up and down?” Gigi asks in a lighthearted tone, but Crystal looks at a far point in the distance, the emotion in her eyes one Gigi can’t put a finger on.

“Uh, kinda. I really don’t wanna talk about it with a stranger,” Crystal whispers, shying away from Gigi’s gaze.

Gigi knits her brows in a frown, aware of her fuck up.

“Oh, uh, that’s okay.” There’s silence for a moment before Gigi finds something else to say, just to not let the conversation die down. “Did you ride any cool waves recently?”

The question makes Crystal meet Gigi’s gaze, her lips quivering in a smile.

“What kind of question is that?” She replies with another question, biting back a laugh. Gigi smiles with a shrug.

“I don’t know, I just didn’t want to stop talking to you,” Gigi admits sheepishly, and Crystal smiles softly.

“Aren’t you too busy hanging out with your friends?” Crystal quips. Gigi feels her cheeks burn when she remembers what she said to her that night at the bar.

“Well, they’re asleep right now, so.”

“Huh.”

There’s silence again, but this time is different. Crystal looks at Gigi from head to toe, scrutinizing her without a word. Until her eyes shamelessly stop on her lips and Gigi feels her heart skip a beat.

When a cold breeze hits Gigi yet again, she presses her knees against her chest and rests her chin on them, staring back at Crystal.

“You’re not a fan of the cold, huh?” Crystal says, smiling a little.

“Normally I am, but that’s when I’m under a blanket with my cat and watching Netflix,” Gigi replies as a shiver goes down her spine, but Crystal seems completely unbothered by the cold air. “I suppose you like cold.”

“I do, actually. You get used to it when you spend entire days at the sea, sometimes nights too. I mean, you get colds and shit all the time, but it’s worth it,” she comments, a genuine smile blooming on her face. Gigi feels something in her stomach give a twist and scoots herself closer to Crystal.

“That’s so cool, like, that you’re so passionate about your sport,” Gigi says, “I’d love to have that kinda passion for something other than fashion.”

“At least you have a passion for something!” Crystal says with a cheery tone, making Gigi laugh. “Honestly though, surfing is fun. You don’t have to ride the waves if you don’t want to; you can just chill with your surfboard and float around.”

Gigi scrunches up her nose, remembering that one time she was just floating around in her donut floatie in her parents’ pool, back in Los Angeles, when she moved less than an inch and ended up close to drowning.

“Yeah, uh, I’m not even good at floating,” she confesses, biting the inside of her cheek. Crystal laughs, but stops when Gigi doesn’t join her.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’ve never been more serious about something in my life.”

Crystal blinks repeatedly before she speaks again.

“I can teach you,” she says.

“Teach me what?”

“To float on a surfboard.”

Now Gigi is the one blinking repeatedly, fighting back a stupid toothy smile.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’ve never been more serious about something in my life,” Crystal repeats her same exact words, and now Gigi can’t fight back the smile spreading across her face. She tries to argue that she’s not that stupid, but Crystal holds up one finger. “I always have my surfboard in the back of my car, ready for anything. You say the magic words and I’d be delighted to teach you,” she says earnestly, and Gigi bites her lower lip.

She thinks about it for a moment, the fact she’s sitting here with her instead of pushing Nicky off her inflatable mattress to have a better sleep is already wild. So she decides to bite the bullet; what’s the worst thing that can happen, anyway?

“You think you could give me a lesson right now?” She asks, and it comes off flirtier than she originally intended to. Crystal cocks a brow.

“For real?” Gigi nods and she scratches her cheek, biting the inside of it. “Uh, I guess I’d have to go look for my surfboard then. If I leave, you promise you won’t run away?” She tries to sound jokey, but Gigi can sense her nervousness.

“I promise,” she merely says. Crystal nods and stands up to go find her car.

*

Crystal holds on tight to her surfboard as she approaches Gigi.

She can’t believe she’s doing this, especially since she barely knows the girl and she should be heading back to the party; Vanessa must be worried for her whereabouts already.

For all she knows, Gigi might be a pathological liar by saying she doesn’t even know how to float — she might kick her off her own surfboard and leave her there to drown. Though she wants to believe she doesn’t have bad intentions; she doesn’t look like that kind of person.

But then again, Crystal finds Gigi incredibly hot, so her good judgment is probably clouded with lust.

She finds Gigi exactly where she left her and sticks her surfboard in the sand, giving her a hand to stand up.

“You sure you wanna do this right now?” She asks gently, and Gigi nods again.

“A hundred percent.”

Crystal smiles, sighing under her breath as she takes off her crop top and skirt in a quick motion that Gigi barely registers. She just stands there, watching as Crystal folds her clothes and lays them on a rock; she can feel her eyes scan every inch of her body, and as much as she’d like to say it creeps her out, it really doesn’t.

Crystal shifts her attention back to her, tying her hair in a bun as she signals her board.

“If you’re still up on my offer, I suggest you get rid of your clothes too.” She shrugs with a cheeky grin and Gigi stammers a little.

“I don’t— I have nothing under this shirt and my clothes are back in the tent,” she admits, blushing from head to toe.

“Oh,” it’s all that Crystal says. Gigi stares at Crystal for a second too long as she gets her surfboard. “Then I hope you don’t mind wetting these clothes.”

Crystal turns around to look at her, this time with a softer smile, holding out her hand for her to take it. Gigi bites her lip before taking it and following her into the water.

[brideofcthulhu10]

Not a story request but just an opinion question for you :) Do you think the guys made a good ‘big brother’ figure to Star? And in which order would you place best to least in terms of treating her?

 See that’s a tricky one. I went ahead and answered this one early just because with these other prompts I intend to make them pretty lengthy. Usually I go in order of who asked first, but I don’t want to starve you guys of content for two days in a row. 

Honestly I think Star’s relationship with the boys probably started off amazing. We have to remember that Star didn’t know about Max, so that means he wasn’t responsible for her turning. I think at some point they met Star along the Santa Carla night life and she clicked rather well with them. Some people theorize that David had some form of feelings for her (even Keifer Sutherland played around with the idea) but David’s behavior towards her doesn’t seem to support that. I don’t think he hated her, but it seems now by this point he’s utterly indifferent to her. I like to think that maybe Star really was a hippy. 

During her walk around with Michael he comments that her name must be due to her parents being ex-hippies. This is entirely speculation, but I like to think that Star WAS a hippy. A flowy, peace and love flower child in maybe the late 70s who got swept up into the vampire world by sheer accident. She’s unwilling to kill, so I’m guessing like Michael, David tricked Star with the fancy bottle of blood. Its a huge reason why she warns Michael (”You don’t have to, Michael. It’s blood.”). That’s also why I think David was sending all those illusions. Well one, just to fuck with Michael the Clueless Wonder. But also I’m sure he knew Star would attempt to dissuade him. Another thing I like to do is take into account the Lost Boys Prequel which, while never made, had a fully written script diving into the origins of the boys that Joel Schumacher and Eric Red had wrote (so technically it is canon, just unreleased canon which breaks my heart). A small spoiler warning in that regards, but in it David loses his love interest in a tragic incident. Afterwards I think he became extremely possessive over his friends, and when Star most likely wanted to leave that’s when they decided to turn Laddie, sort of a gift to her so she’d stay.

I think that boys did really care for her at one point, otherwise they wouldn’t try to turn her in the first place. David to me doesn’t seem like the type of vampire to “build his brood into a massive vampire army”! That’s a huge fucking hassle if you’ll pardon my French. So I dunno as far as big brother goes, but he definitely had enough of an attachment to allow her in. Enough that she rides on David’s motorcycle, in fact, he encourages it. In the book it’s mentioned Paul was one of the only ones who interacted with her on a night to night basis. After all, he’s Paul. He’s goofy, fun loving, an open book. I think one of the biggest reasons the boys started distancing themselves from her is when she rejected their lifestyle, in a way taking it as she was rejecting them. Honestly, she kind of was.

 It was insinuating that by becoming a vampire you were turning into these horrid monsters that she refused to be a part of. 

But to them, being turned is a gift! Sure a few lives were lost, but considering how long ago they were supposed to have been turned, they had most likely dealt with that moral challenge long ago. But, despite that, Paul would certainly be the type to forget about all that drama and just vibe with his cute little hippy sister. I still picture him jumping over to her when the get back from a hunt, talking about his night,  Dwayne and Marko probably took it the most personal when she chose her humanity over them. 

I don’t see Dwayne trusting people easily as it is, and I’m sure he was still apprehensive when Star joined their quartet. But like him, she was very mellow and down to Earth, it was easy to feel at peace. Sure he was a wild man like the other boys, but we can see that Dwayne likes to hover in the background. More of an observer than the one torching the building. He clearly has a gentle side, he obviously took care of Laddie more than once. Even during those little background scenes Laddie is wedged up against Dwayne eating Chinese food, choosing to ride with him, climbing up the fountain to be with Paul and him. I’m sure a few of you noticed, but Dawyne actually sends Laddie over to Star when they’re chanting Michael’s name. I don’t think he wanted him around them when they got wild.

 Marko was probably friendly from the start but he’s a hard one to read. That sweet face hides a lot of darkness. I think he was pretty friendly to start off with. Doting, big smiles, goofing off. But once Star resisted the change, he distanced himself. That’s most likely why they didn’t kill her, there were some feelings remaining and rather than kill her they just wanted to find any way they could to keep her with them. You don’t want to be a vampire? Well, you’ll get eternal youth! You just gotta kill one person, then we’ll handle the rest! Don’t leave, we got a little boy so you won’t be alone. Girls like kids right?? But even still she resisted, and they grew impatient. Why won’t you join us, Star? Do you hate us?

Michael was supposed to be it. I bet you they upped the pressure for Star to turn, maybe even gave her an ultimatum or used her care for Laddie as leverage. But Max intervenes, tells them they can’t kill Michael as planned. So fine, they’ll change Michael! Star likes the guy anyway, all they have to do is make him one of them, then she’ll have no choice but to join them!

So if I were to rate it, I’d say the first to be brotherly towards Star was Paul. Even the novel suggested he was the closest to her. Poking her cheek whenever she’s pouting, even offer a hug when he sees whatever is happening is really weighing heavy on her. He doesn’t understand how she could not want to be a vampire like the rest of them, it probably really hurts him. She’s like his baby sister, doesn’t she want to stay with him? The thoughts are just too gloomy, so he’ll bury it all in an abundance of humor. Talking about his emotions is just too touchy feely for him, he’d rather just give her a noogy and run off elsewhere.

 Next, Dwayne. Sure he���s quiet, but I don’t doubt they’d have common ground with things like chakras, burning sage, she’ll tell him about reading the stars and what that means for the night. I think Star would try to read his palms, maybe Dwayne would find jewelry on a corpse or maybe some fancy rock while out and just toss it her way. Coming home just drenched in blood, seeing Star still moping on her bed and he’ll toss a chunk of quartz her way attached to a leather cord. 

“I found it hanging in that old man’s truck. He uh... doesn’t have much use for it. I don’t want it.”

Next would be David. Honestly he’s indifferent by this point, if she wants to be an indecisive waif that’s on her, not him. But, she’s not about to just leave them. She said yes when they asked her to join, it didn’t matter the context! You don’t just make promises you don’t intend to keep. So whether she likes it or not, she’s stuck with them. I think on a rare occasion he’ll show genuine kindness but he’ll just brush it off as a calculated move. 

Last is Marko. I don’t think he really interacts with Star at all anymore. Before he’d joke around with her, maybe use his chopsticks as fangs when he notices she’s a bit more mopey than usual. I think while friendly, Marko doesn’t REALLY connect with someone for a long time. Before they were turned Marko knew the boys, I wouldn’t be surprised if they grew up together (again if I’m going by Schumacher’s prequel script here) so that’s why he’s that attached to the guys. Marko was probably starting to really warm up to Star, welcoming her to the pack, and then.. she wasn’t feeding. In fact, she was resisting it! Couldn’t she see why this was such an incredible opportunity? Of all the mortals they could’ve changed, they chose her! It’s insulting! So now the most Marko will do is give her a side glance, maybe a smile but it’s always a very unnerving smile, like just underneath he wishes he could stake her himself and save the hunters the trouble. But, so long as she makes Paul happy he’ll just keep himself distanced.

[let-it-raines]

Catch Me If You Can (36/40)

298 days. That’s how long Killian Jones was away from a baseball field. It’s less than a year, only part of a season for him, but it might as well have lasted a decade as he alternated between physical therapy and spending an excessive amount of time sitting on his couch.

But then he came back and won the World Series.

It’s something no one saw coming, and it’s certainly not something anyone who knows about his arm would predict. Now it’s a new season with new possibilities, and anything could happen. On-field reporter Emma Swan will be there to cover it all even if she is not his biggest fan right now.

Asking her out live on-air will do that.

Rating: Mature

a/n: Whaaaat? Two chapters in two days? What kind of alternate universe are we living in?? 😉 This is totally to make up for the last few chapters taking forever even though they’re literally just sitting on my computer!

Thanks to @imagnifika​ for her awesome art, @resident-of-storybrooke​ for reading these words and so many other words of mine (it’s a lot), and to @wellhellotragic​ who prompted me with the idea that inspired this whole thing all the way back in June!

AO3: Beginning | Current

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-/-

Killian fucking hates Boston.

It’s a great city full of good food, and in another lifetime, he’d mostly likely enjoy living here. Right now, the air is crisp with the scent of fall, and trees are in the middle of losing their leaves, the ones remaining a myriad of oranges and reds that remind Killian of sitting in a park in Cincinnati with his mother raking up leaves and then jumping into the piles before cleaning them up for the city. He had to have been four or five then, but that’s one of the first memories that he has. Looking out the window of his hotel room to a park that looks almost identical reminds him of that.

He should be happy, more than happy really, but when you’re trying to get to the World Series next week and are currently tied 2-2 in the AL Championship Series against the Red Sox on the way to getting there, happiness isn’t exactly the most common feeling.

And they’re playing in Boston tonight, and despite the fact that they won last night, beating both the team and the deafening roar of the crowd, Killian is not entirely convinced that they’re going to win again tonight. They could still come back from it by winning the next two games at home, but he’d really rather win here and then win the sixth game at home when he’s pitching and not have to deal with the nastiness of going to a seventh and deciding game.

Who in the hell wants to play sports for a living? It’s too damn stressful.

Losing won’t kill him, not at all. The fact that he’s having the season he’s having, especially with all of the ups and downs and lay-offs, is incredible and a full-credit to his team. But he got the taste of being the last team standing last year, and he wants it back.

Some players never get their hands on the trophy, and Killian is greedy enough to want it twice both for himself, his teammates, and his family.

And Emma. He wants it for Emma.

So, Killian really hates Boston and the fact that they keep putting them in close situations like this. Close games are often the best ones, the ones that have everyone on the edge of their seat, but Killian would kill for an easy night.

“The city isn’t going to implode just because you’re staring out at it with evil in your eyes.”

“One can hope though.”

“That’s entirely sadistic.”

He huffs and turns from the window to look at where Emma is sitting in bed (they’ve stopped bothering to get different hotel rooms now) with her knees pulled up so that she can rest her laptop there. He woke up this morning to her typing away. Apparently, she didn’t finish her work last night, so she had to wake up early this morning to send in a report before the deadline. Walsh’s firing has ended up having Emma needing to write more on top of her regular work, and even though she says she doesn’t mind – “I like writing,” she keeps saying – he knows that it’s kind of a kick in the teeth for her to have to do some of Walsh’s work.

The man is never fully going to go away, obviously. He and Brennan are like a bug that won’t die no matter how much you squash it.

“Are you almost finished with your report, love?”

“Yep,” she says. “I’m finished with it and have moved onto doing my prep work for today’s game as well as a little bit of online shopping because there are these boots that I really want but can’t decide if I’m going to buy.”

“That’s the hardest decision you’ve ever made.”

“Says the man who spends hours trying to decide which identical blue button-down shirt he wants to buy to ‘update’ his wardrobe.”

Killian scoffs and walks forward to flop down on the bed next to her, shaking the mattress with his movement, until he’s flipping over on his back and spreading out so that he takes up most of the space. Emma always hates when he does that.

“My clothes may not be as varied as yours, my darling, but it does take effort to look as good as I do on a regular basis.”

He turns his head to the side to look at her, a smile on his face, and she simply rakes her eyes up and down his body, very obviously perusing him. “You are currently wearing a pair of sweatpants that have a hole in the ass and a hoodie that I’m pretty sure has a permanent stain from some kind of baking accident. Your fashion sense is amazing.”

“You are literally in a pair of pajama pants with Snoopy’s face on them.”

“You wear the same two uniforms all the time.”

“Sometimes we wear the black ones.”

Emma hums. “Those are my favorite. I’ll stop making fun of you for things if you can convince the owners to let you guys wear the all black uniforms more often.”

“You were particularly fond of those on Players’ Weekend.”

“I’m a fan of a man in all black.”

Killian shifts on the mattress, propping himself up on the pillows until he’s mostly resting against the headboard. He can see Emma’s computer screen now, half of it covered with statistics and the other covered with Nordstrom’s website and a pair of boots. If there’s one thing Emma will splurge on, it’s boots.

“Buy the boots, Swan. Live a little bit.”

Emma arches a brow. “Am I made of money?”

“No,” he sighs, leaning over to kiss her shoulder. “That would be very convenient if you were. I’d never work again.”

“If you’re living off of my salary, you’re screwed because I’m definitely going to buy these super expensive boots. I think they would look really cute with the black suede skirt.”

“Ah, yes, I know the one,” he says sarcastically.

“Shut up,” Emma laughs, half-heartedly reaching over to slap his shoulder. “You do! I wore it when we went to dinner last week, and your eyes practically fell out of your head.”

Killian tries to think of what Emma wore last week, his mind blanking on everything at the moment, but then he’s brought back to a memory of the two of them going to eat at Palma on Cornelia Street last week. She’d looked gorgeous that night, her legs going on for miles aided by the heels, and they’d been late for their reservation because the street one block over was Jones Street and Emma insisted that he take a picture underneath the sign for her to send to Liam and Elsa.

He had not been amused, but in his defense, he really wanted to eat.

“Hmm, I think I do recall that one now that I think about it. You should definitely get those boots to wear with that.”

“I didn’t need your permission, but thank you for the approval. Do we need to be getting ready to go have breakfast with everyone?”

“I’m pretty sure breakfast is over down in the lobby.”

“No,” Emma sighs, clicking a few buttons on her laptop until he sees that she did indeed buy the boots. “We’re meeting everyone for breakfast at the café at the end of the block at ten.”

Killian groans and throws his arm over his eyes like the dramatic ass that he is. “That means I have to get dressed.”

“Well, I would prefer it that way. Your pants show off what you’ve got going on in both the front and the back, and I think you might get arrested for public indecency. That’d put a damper in the whole trying to get to the World Series thing.”

“Would you bail me out?”

Emma shrugs her shoulders and closes her laptop. “Eh, maybe. I might not have the money with the boots I just bought.”

-/-

They win that night.

It’s close, far closer than Killian would like watching from the sidelines, and he chews more gum than he thinks he’s ever chewed during a game. Rum would be preferable, but that’s not exactly the best solution when he’s got two nights until he’s got to pitch in the game that could bring them to the World Series.

Al really has far too much confidence in Killian for putting him in position in the line-up.

-/-

Killian fucking loves New York.

Sure, it’s hot and crowded and sometimes smells absolutely horrendous, but he loves it. He’s lived here for seven years, had his family live here for more than that, and he can’t imagine having to ever live anywhere else.

This is his home.

For awhile, he didn’t have one, not really. Everything changed when his mom died, the house feeling far emptier than any lived-in house should feel, and it only continued to empty as the years went on and Brennan became more and more of a distant figure. And as much as Killian loved Vanderbilt, that was simply a temporary home.

Manhattan? This is home.

One day he may like to move a little outside of the city to a place with a big yard and less traffic, but right now, everything he loves is here.

Everyone.

“Uncle Killian,” Lucy whispers, tugging on the hem of his shirt, “is it time to eat dinner yet?”

“Not quite yet, Luce. We can go ask Anna about it, though, yeah?”

He bends down and picks Lucy up, resting her on his hip while she wraps her arms around his neck so that she doesn’t fall. He’s picked her up thousands of times, had her little head nestled onto his shoulder twice that many times, but there’s something peaceful about it now as they stand in one of the sitting rooms at Liam’s house looking out onto the street in front of them as cars occasionally pass by and the leaves keep falling from the few trees that line the street.

They got in from Boston this morning, immediately went to practice, and then most everyone came to Liam and Elsa’s house for dinner as some kind of pre-game Friday night dinner to get everyone’s minds off of things.

There are more people in this townhome than it has seen in years, and he doesn’t think anyone is complaining.

Killian is a little bit, if only because his mind is very much focused on tomorrow and not screwing up to let everyone he loves down, and that’s why he’d walked away from the crowd in the kitchen and living room and wandered upstairs to the sitting room that no one ever wanders into.

Except for Lucy apparently.

Kids seem to foil all kinds of plans, and Lucy is not going to be having a fun day tomorrow since she’s most definitely up far past her bedtime.

He is officially an old man.

“What are we eating?”

“I think it’s lasagna. You know, like big spaghetti all moved together.”

“I know what lasagogona is.”

Wow, that was a butchering of the word lasagna if he’s ever heard it.

“You certainly don’t know how to pronounce it.”

Lucy scoffs, like she has never been so offended in her very short life, but she doesn’t say anything else as he walks down the staircase with the wood boards groaning beneath him. Immediately, he’s bombarded by people. Will, Belle, and Elsa are sitting on the ground with diagrams of seating charts spread out between them. Killian would have at least twenty-five questions about why they’re doing seating chart arrangements for the wedding tonight, but he already knows that it’s because they’re using Elsa to help figure out where to sit some of the more difficult people.

(He assumes he and Emma don’t count as those difficult people, but it really depends on how Will feels about him that day.)

Robin, Kris, Liam, Roland, and Addison are sitting on the couch in the living watching what Killian knows is Trolls because he’s been forced to watch it exactly seventeen times, and Eric and Ariel are standing in the kitchen with Anna cooking.

And, well, apparently Emma too.

“Are we sure we trust the blonde to cook for us?” Killian teases, putting Lucy down on the barstool. “Because I’ve had her cooking before, and I’m not sure we should allow her to feed so many people at once.”

“I’m blonde,” Lucy interjects.

“Yes, yes you are. Can you cook, little love?”

“Mommy doesn’t let me.”

“Funny,” Emma huffs, her eyes pointedly staring him down, “your uncle doesn’t seem to think I can cook either even though I’m only tossing the salad and am perfectly capable of that.”

“SoSo, we’re just going to forget the entire cucumber you dropped on the ground earlier?” Anna asks as she lays rolls out on a pan.

“What about the nearly slicing your finger open?” Ariel adds.

“What happens in the kitchen is supposed to stay in the kitchen.”

“Technically,” Eric sighs, “it hasn’t left the kitchen.”

“You guys are fu – fun,” Emma stops herself and changes the word, her eyes blowing wide when she remembers Lucy is in the room. “Luce, sweetie, do you want me to get you some carrots so you can take them in the other room to watch the movie with Addy and Roland?”

“Yes please.”

Emma turns around and opens the fridge, quickly grabbing a bag of sliced carrots, and hands them over to him for him to hand to Lucy. She takes them, mumbles a “thank you,” and then is sprinting to the adjoining living room to watch the movie.

“So you’re just bribing children now, Swan?”

“Yeah,” she shrugs, “but with carrots so it’s healthy. Babe, can you check my phone and see where everyone else is? Ruby said they would be here by now, but I haven’t heard anything from them. Or David and Mary Margaret. I guess they’re all in traffic or something, but it’s radio silence on their end.”

Killian bites the inside of his cheek to keep from giving anything away, hoping that his tan keeps his cheeks from flaming red. “Where’s your phone?”

“In my purse on the table.”

He nods his head and turns around, thankful that it’s a little bit out of sight of Emma, before he’s shuffling through her small purse to find her phone hidden behind every small object known to men. There is a string of texts from Ruby about Graham taking forever to get home and her almost leaving without him, and Killian sincerely hopes that Ruby didn’t actually leave without Graham. That would go against the plan.

Mary Margaret and David, though, are legitimately stuck in Friday night traffic, so at least he doesn’t have to lie about that.

“They’re on their way, love,” he tells Emma, putting her phone back in her purse and walking back to the island so that he can prop his forearms against the cool countertop. “Anna, you realize a few of us have to play a game tomorrow, right? I don’t think we can eat all of this.”

She waves a wooden spoon in the air, little bits of sauce splattering on the ground. “It’s called portion control. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

“Killian has. I haven’t,” Eric laughs. “Though, I’m more of a seafood man myself.”

“There’s only so much seafood that you can eat, though, before you become a fish.”

“You only say that because you don’t like it as much as I do.”

Ariel pats her husband’s chest. “Exactly.”

“Oh my God,” Will groans out, and everyone in the kitchen turns to look at him laying out on the floor. “This is impossible. Why do people get married?”

“I think you mean why do people have weddings,” Belle corrects him.

“I’m kind of questioning both at this point.”

Belle flicks a little name card at Will, and Elsa immediately snatches it back and puts it at the little diagrammed table where it’s supposed to be sitting.

“Why have a seating chart in the first place?” Emma asks. “Why not just let people sit where they want to sit?”

“My mother,” Belle sighs, this discussion obviously a frequent one, “is very traditional and specific about how things should be. She grew up in high society, cotillions and things like that, and even though Will and I mostly want this to be one big party, she has opinions. This is a compromise to make her back off until there’s something else she sets her sights on.”

“Huh,” Emma huffs. “Well, as long as I don’t have to sit next to Killian the entire time, I think it’ll be fine.”

“Shit,” Elsa mumbles under her breath even though the words echo throughout the room. “We don’t have cards for Emma and Killian.”

Laughter rumbles through Killian’s stomach as he walks back over to Emma to place his hand on the small of her back over her sweater before taking the strawberries and putting them on the cutting board to slice up. “Swan, it looks like you won’t have to sit with me because we’re apparently been uninvited from the wedding.”

“Damn. I guess we’ll just have to be wedding crashers.”

“I was thinking we could stay home and not wear uncomfortable clothes but still eat incredible food. We could probably dance a little too.”

“He means the horizontal tango, if you know what I mean.”

“We all know what you mean, Will,” Ariel sighs with a shake of her head but laughter on her lips. “But there are people here related to Killian who probably aren’t too inclined to hear about his sex life.”

“I’m not particularly inclined to hear about Emma’s,” David says, and Killian whips his head around to see he, Mary Margaret, and Leo walking thoughthrough the open garage door. “Or Killian’s. Though I hope they’re one and the same.”

“Okay,” Emma hums, dragging out the word, “we need a change in conversation, something like everyone greeting my brother and nixing this conversation entirely.”

“I mean, I’m kind of curious, but Leo is right here.”

“Mary Margaret,” Emma gasps, and Killian misses what has to be an absolutely priceless look on her face in favor of putting his knife down and walking over to Leo so that they can do their secret handshake that seems to change every time they see each other.

“I like you hat, bud,” Killian compliments. He tugs on the bill, and Leo blushes underneath it. “I think there are some other guys here tonight who would sign it for you if you want.”

Leo’s brows furrow together and the smile on his face completely goes away. Shit. What did Killian do wrong?

“Maybe another hat. I don’t want this one to get messed up.”

“Why not?”

“You signed this one,” he whispers, even if it’s not quiet at all, “and you’re my favorite player.”

“I thought it was your favorite because I gave it to you, kid,” Emma protests as she steps around him and leans down to wrap Leo up in a hug, squeezing him too tightly out of some kind of silent protest.

“I only asked for it because Killian is my favorite player.”

“You’re my favorite nephew.”

Leo rolls his eyes, and while he and Emma may not be related, Killian knows that he got that from her. “I’m your only nephew.”

“Which makes me your favorite.” She kisses his cheek, which makes Leo’s cheeks turn as red as the strawberries. “All the other kids are in that room right over there if you want to go hang out with them until dinner is ready.”

Leo runs off, and David and Mary Margaret take his place by stepping in and greeting everyone with a wave or a hug. It’s so many people, all of them from different social circles, and yet it’s amazing how well they’ve all managed to blend together. Killian knows that he started off with more people than Emma simply by the nature of his job, that most of the people in this house would technically be considered “his,” but he likes to think that they’re Emma’s too.

His phone buzzes in his back pocket, and he pulls it out to see a message from Graham just as Emma sits down and picks up a glass of wine.

Graham Humbert: We just pulled up outside. Can you send Emma out? Say something about needing help with the dessert. I think Ruby would like to tell her before she tells everyone inside.

Killian: Yeah, I’ll send her out. Congrats, mate! I’m happy for the two of you!

“Love?”

“Yeah?”

“I think Ruby and Graham just got here. Do you want to go out and see if they need any help?”

“Why don’t you do it?”

Of course she’s going to be stubborn about.

“I’m finishing this salad,” he lies, even though he really should finish the salad since he took it over from Emma. Will lets out another curse having to do with the seating chart, and there’s a reassurance from Mary Margaret that it will all be okay. “Just go help them. They have the dessert. You love dessert.”

Emma’s brows bunch together and her lips snarl, but she puts the glass of wine that she’s drinking down and stands from the barstool she’s sitting on to go walk out of the garage door and down the stairs. She’s going to be pissed at him for the entire walk out there, but he knows that it won’t be long. And curious as Killian is, he leaves the kitchen to walk over to the bay window so that he can look down at the street where Ruby and Graham are getting out of Graham’s squad car with boxes of pies in their hands. Emma quickly appears, her hands moving as she talks, and then Ruby puts her set of boxes on the hood of the car.

And while Killian can’t hear any screaming or squealing – Emma isn’t really the type – he knows that some kind of inhuman noise just came out of her before she launched herself forward to hug Ruby, squeezing so tightly that he imagined Ruby can’t breathe. And then Graham nearly drops all of the pies when Emma hugs him too. Killian chuckles to himself, a smile stretching across his lips, and then David comes up behind him.

“What’s all that about?”

“You’ll find out in a minute, I’m sure.”

“Secrets don’t make friends.”

“Yeah, yeah they do,” Killian laughs, smiling at David. “And I love how casually you’re referring to me as your friend. It really touches a man’s heart, Dave.”

“Watch it, or I’ll take it back.”

By the time Killian looks back out the window, Graham is gone, leaving Emma and Ruby out to talk. Killian is sure that they’ll be out there for awhile, probably far later than they intend to, and he knows he’ll have to go with them when the food gets here. The door opens then to Graham walking inside with the boxes. Ariel immediately rushes to help him, mostly likely because she likes to talk his ear off about all of the cases he can talk about (she’s very into True Crimes oddly enough), but Killian walks over to save him, grabbing Graham’s hand in greeting before pulling him into a hug and patting his back.

“Congratulations, mate.”

“Thank you,” Graham beams, his smile infectious. “I still can’t believe it.” “What can’t you believe?” Ariel asks as she swipes a finger through the whipped cream on a pie only for Eric to slap her hand away.

Killian looks over at Graham, silently asking if he wants to say something, and he nods, that smile still on his face. “I’ve asked Ruby to marry me today, and she said yes.”

“Congratulations!” 

“You did what now?”

“How could you not tell me this?”

“This is so exciting!”

“Whatever you do, don’t do a fucking seating chart for the reception.”

It’s this big, loud chorus of voices and conversations, and it pulls in everyone from the living room too so that it gets so loud that Killian is sure the neighbors can hear. Killian isn’t even entirely sure which legs belong to who for how much movement there is, hugs being exchanged between people who didn’t even get engaged tonight, and it all starts to calm down a bit only for Ruby and Emma walk in the door.

Obviously, things never calm down again.

Ruby and Graham don’t even get to spend much time with this group of people, especially Graham since his schedule never seems to match up with any of theirs, so it’s nice to see the overwhelming joy that’s there for the two of them.

“Congratulations, lass,” he sighs into Ruby’s ear when she finally makes her way to him at the edge of the room, her arms wrapped around her shoulders. “Were you surprised?”

“Yes,” she sighs, her laughter moving through him. “I can’t believe you knew about it.”

Killian rubs his hand up and down her back. “I had to make sure Emma was out of the apartment when it happened because Graham just knew that she would somehow find a way to show up if left to her own devices.”

“I think I could kiss you for doing that.”

“I don’t think that’s very becoming of a newly engaged woman.”

Ruby pulls back and winks at him before leaning forward and kissing his cheek. “You know that I don’t like following the rules.”

“What is this I hear about you knowing about this before it happened?” Emma questions as she saunters up to him, a soft smile on her face and the slightest bit of mascara smudged under her eyes. “I thought we had an agreement about lying to each other, twenty-nine.”

Killian hums and wraps his arms around her back, pulling her closer to him while her arms lazily hang over his neck. “Yeah, well, I was under strict instructions that you weren’t to know because Graham didn’t want you to tell Ruby.”

“I can keep a secret.”

“It wasn’t my secret to tell.”

Her lip quirks to the side before she presses up on her toes and gently guides her mouth over his. “I’m glad you didn’t tell me. I like that Ruby was the one who got to tell me.”

“Me too, love.”

“All of our friends have to stop getting married. This is getting expensive.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have blown all your money on those damn boots.”

Emma slaps the back of his head even as she kisses him, and he wonders exactly where along the way did he do something right to get to have this be his life.

“Okay,” Anna yells over all of the noise, and Killian looks to see her standing on a barstool as if she needs any help commanding attention, “I know everyone is super excited right now, but let’s all be super excited over dinner. It’s time to eat.”

“Thank goodness,” Lucy breathes out. “I thought I was going to perish.”

“Where’d she learn that word?” Emma wonders as everyone starts laughing. 

“I don’t even know.”

The conversation and laughter never diesdie down, not when there’s that many people around, and Killian’s stomach hurts from it all, his face a little too. His nerves about the game tomorrow and all that’s on the line haven’t disappeared, but they’re not at the forefront of his mind either. He has other things to focus on even if his mind is getting a little dizzy at the thought of keeping track of it all, but it becomes easier as the night passes, the light outside fading away into darkness, and as children move off to go to sleep, Addy and Lucy to their rooms and Leo and Roland stretched out in a guest room until their parents are ready to go home, everyone else settles into the living room with a replay of last night’s game in Boston on so that they can all watch some more footage in preparation.

He’s sitting on the floor in between Emma’s legs, and her hands are lulling him to sleep from the way that she keeps playing with his hair.

It’s like magic, her touch, and he’s utterly under her spell.

“I’m freaking the hell out about tomorrow,” Will whispers quietly as they watch him stumble over a catch in yesterday’s game.

“Me too,” Robin adds in. “Honestly, the only thing that’s keeping me calm, especially since I’m not playing, is knowing that not only did we make it to the Series last year, we won the whole damn thing.”

“Here’s the thing, though,” Killian starts as he leans her head further into Emma’s lap so that she can scratch his scalp. Damn, that might be the best feeling in the world. “No one gives a fuck about what happened last year. That trophy on our shelf from last year? It’s old news. All anyone cares about is what’s happening this year. All we should care about is what’s happening this year. Everyone always complains about those guys who can only seem to live in the glory days when the glory days are long since gone, and we’re not going to be those men. We’re not resting on our laurels. We’re going to win tomorrow, and then we’re going to win the next four games to win the whole damn thing.”

“What if we don’t?” Will questions, and for once, Killian can tell that Will is legitimately nervous.  

“We’re going to, Scarlet. I won’t take another option.”

“Look at my little brother being all motivating,” Liam teases.

Killian does raise his hand and his middle finger at that. “Younger, you ass.”

“You’ll always be my little brother. I’ll stop calling you that when you’ve got three World Series championships to your name, yeah?”

“Oi, I know that I’m good, but I don’t know if I can rely on these guys to not only win this year’s but also another one after that?” Emma slaps the back of his head, and he leans back to look up at her. “I’m obviously kidding, my love.”

“Yeah, but that’s not a great way to motivate the guys for tomorrow when you had a pretty good speech going there.”

Robin coughs, something exaggerated and totally on purpose. “Killian saves his best speeches for right before a the game starts. Probably because he doesn’t have his brother and his girlfriend distracting him by making fun of him. Not that I’m complaining or anything. I’m all for taking that piss out of Killian.”

“Someone hand me a pillow,” Killian demands, looking around. “I want to knock the smirk off of Rob’s face.”

“That’s an impossible task,” Ariel starts, a bright, happy smile on her face. “Let’s go back to loving each other and watching game footage. I don’t know about you guys, but I want that trophy back. I get a bonus from both Eric and Killian’s contract for it.”

“I always knew that I liked you,” Ruby adds in, and everyone starts laughing, the long day and late night probably getting to everyone a little bit. “Do you share the bonus with your husband since he earned it? I’m asking the important questions here as someone who is about to get married?”

“Rubes.” Emma curls her fingers in his hair and shakes her head. “Are you about to be one of those people who works in that you’re engaged all the time?”

“For the next two weeks, you bet your ass I am. It would normally only be a week, but since I think all we’re about to talk about now is baseball, I’m asking for two.”

“I would expect nothing less than you.”

Everyone leaves eventually with sleepy smiles on their faces and leftovers in hand, and as nervous as Killian still is, he finds yet again that it’s not at all like last year when he was going through this all. He’s got Emma curled up next to him in bed and a happy life outside of work, and at the end of the day, his life won’t be over if they lose.

He simply doesn’t like losing.

-/-

Killian’s arm feels fine.

Good. Great even. It’s the best it’s felt in months, even if he’s still a little timid with how much he’s using it and the fear of it screwing up again since there is such a risk for that, but he feels good standing out here under the heat of the sun with thousands of people milling in the stands and thousands more sitting at home watching on their television just wondering if today is going to be the day that the Yankees officially cement their spot in the World Series with the Dodgers already waiting there.

It could be a repeat of last year, just like everyone thought it would be, and Killian damn well intends to make those thoughts come true. They’re not resting on the laurelsrelying on what happened  of last year. They’re doing it for themselves once more like it’s all brand new and they don’t know the high of being at the top of the world.

Sweat trickles down Killian’s forehead past his cap, and he reaches up to remove his hat for a second while he wipes the sweat away with his forehead. It’s not hot out today, only around sixty degrees, but Killian’s skin is on fire with the rapid beating of his heart that hasn’t calmed down since this morning.

One. Two. Three.

Strike.

One. Two. Three.

Ball.

One. Two. Three.

Strike.

One. Two. Three.

Strike, he’s out.

Travis is out, the top of the fourth inning is over, Killian has thrown some damn good pitches in tight situations to keep the Sox from scoring, and the Yankees are up 4-0.

There’s still a long game to go, though.

Not for Killian, though. He’s out for the day. He knew going in that Al wouldn’t keep him in for longer than this. Honestly, he’s surprised that he allowed it for this long, but this is all so they’ll stay in the correct pitching order if they make it to the Series.

When.

Not if.

Killian wants to stay in the dugout and watch from out here, but he knows that he has to go inside and get massaged and do his cool-down exercises. He can watch from one of the televisions with everyone else who’s inside and make his way back out toward the end of the game.

It’s like all at once these games are five minutes and then suddenlysuddenly, they’re five hours.

But the time does pass as Killian goes through his routines to make sure that he’s healthy and that his arm is healthy, and by the time that he’s back out in the dugout changed into a pair of clean joggers and a pullover, his hat from earlier long gone, it’s the top of the ninth with two outs, only one man on base, and the score highly in their favor.

If they blow a 9-2 lead, they deserve to have to play it all out in a deciding game tomorrow.

“Come on, Lance,” Killian shouts out, banging his hands against the railing. “Just one more throw. One more strike, and you’re done.”

“He’s going to mess up if you keep yelling at him like that,” Al spits out as he chews on the gum he’s always chewing.

“No, no he’s not. He’s got this. We’ve got this.”

“You have far more optimism than any sideline coach should have.”

Killian turns his head to look at Al, a smile stretching across his lips. “It’s a damn good thing I’m not a coach then.”

And then there’s the sound of Lance’s ball hitting Will’s glove, the yell of the word “strike,” and the roar of the New York crowd as the game finishes.

They’re going to the World Series.

Killian’s heart pounds in his chest, emotion welling up in his throat, and all of the sounds become muted. Every single one of them except for his heart and the blood running through his veins. People yell and shout and scream, but he can’t hear any of it as he rushes out into the field to join his teammates where they’re jumping up and down, arms wrapped around each other as they become a mesh of one instead of twenty different men, those who played today and those who didn’t.

Someone pats his back, and the noises come back, cheers of celebration and curses and familiar voices of the people who he spends his life with.

They’re not resting on their laurels of last year, he thinks to himself once more. They’re achieving new things.

“Jones,” Lance calls out as the pile disperses and everyone starts moving around the field, “your girlfriend wants an interview with us.”

Killian arches a brow, spinning on his heel to try to find Emma, and he sees her standing with a microphone in her hand and Jeff standing with the camera behind her. She’s wearing the damn boots, the ones she just ordered, and if there wasn’t already a smile on his face, that would cause his lips to reach his ears.

He has no idea why Emma wants to interview him when there were five innings played without him, when Lance and Eric and Will are the guys who deserve the attention and the praise, but he knows that a lot of the time Emma isn’t in charge of who she interviews. That’s left up to the people behind the scenes.

Killian wants to kiss Emma and the smile on her face, wants to wrap her up in a hug, but he holds back, stepping up to her with Lance next to him as Frank Sinatra begins to play over the speakers. He’d think that he’d get tired of this song, but it never gets old.

“Congratulations,” Emma starts, her hand reaching up to adjust her earpiece. “That was just an incredible game. How does it feel to be going to the World Series for the second year in a row?”

She holds the microphone out to Lance. “No, no. Let Jones answer first. He usually takes the words right out of my mouth.”

“You sure?”

He nods his head, and Emma moves the microphone over to him. “Well, what do you say twenty-nine? How does it feel?”

Killian reaches up to scratch behind his ear. “I can’t curse, can I?”

“Only if you want to pay a fine.”

“Right then,” he laughs, smiling down at Emma and completely ignoring the camera. “It feels good. Better than good. This season has obviously had its ups and downs, especially for me, and I’m happy that I didn’t let this team down when they deserve so much. I’m – ”

Killian stops talking when all of the sudden Emma starts darting in the other direction, and by the time that he realizes what’s going on, the cool feel of Gatorade is being poured down on top of him so that chill bumps rise on his arms and his clothes cling to his skin. Killian sees Lance first and sees him shaking out the sticky liquid from his uniform, and then he sees Will and Eric running away with the orange container where the Gatorade once was. But then he sees Emma a few feet away absolutely laughing her ass off, and even if it goes against their agreement about how they’re going to act when working, he can’t stop himself from running toward her and immediately wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her to him as her hands push at his chest and laughter passes through her lips.

“You’re covered in Gatorade,” she laughs, still pushing at him even if he knows it’s not a true effort. “It’s sticky.” “And you ran way and let it happen.”

“Which was obviously useless considering I’m going to be covered in it now.”

“Exactly the point,” he chuckles while Emma stops squirming against him and casually wraps her arms around his neck, obviously having accepted that she’s going to be covered in Gatorade too. “We’re going to the World Series, Swan.”

“I know.” And then she kisses him.

-/-

-/-

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