#i like to do a metronome tongue clicking thing and i almost always do it in 3/4 help

[skautism]

stims in waltz time

[apocalypticgargoyle]

Ok you amazing person. Demon Sapnap, but the reader is really sick or maybe is in an accident and ends up in hospital. Sapnap and Dream both visit and get jealous of eachother. Eventually Dream leaves and Sapnap is just there like 👁👄👁 And then after a day or two the reader is finally home and Sapnap is like really pent up because he has been jealous Horny and reader has been in hospital and he just rails them, but softly because reader is still weak. Basically jealous soft-dom Demon Sapnap.

This is just an idea- by no means do you have to write it :)

I'm begrudgingly writing Dre as Mr. Steal Your Girl for obvious reasons (/ j), but also I couldn't pass down this idea for incubus 3 ;) I'm also going to include a few other requests I had about Sap's backstory and some smut. enjoy!

𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐒 & 𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐒. ⛧ 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐮𝐛𝐮𝐬!𝐬����𝐩𝐧𝐚𝐩 (𝟏𝟖+)

warnings: smut (18+), spanking, degradation, thigh riding, domination, literally quoting the b!ble

here's a playlist for those of you that were asking for it. i would love to see what the rest of you are listening to :)

previous part

You opened your eyes slowly, the ache in your body fully coming to your attention as you noticed the metronome of beeps coming from the machines connected to the tubes in your arm. You turned your head, squinting as your eyes struggled to focus on the figure beside you. After a few minutes, your brain pieced together his features and your heart eased when you realized it was Sapnap. For some, obviously ungodly reason, his presence brought you a sense of calm.

His feet were kicked up on the edge of your bed, his eyes scanning over a magazine as he chewed on his bottom lip absent-mindedly. He was dressed more casually than he usually was, probably an attempt at blending into the general public. You reached out a hand, fingers brushing against the soft material of his dark crewneck to get his attention. His gaze moved to look at you, a smirk painting across his pink lips.

You cleared your throat, tongue feeling like sandpaper. “What happened?” You grumbled, reaching beside him for the remote to elevate your head.

He watched your movements carefully. “You got a fever and then passed out cold,” he reminded you softly, making you groan. “Dehydration.” You couldn’t remember what he was talking about, only feeling nauseous in the middle of the night.

“How long have I been here?” You asked, rolling your head on your shoulders as your neck cracked, your limbs popping as you moved slightly. The IV pinched your arm as you moved, making you hiss quietly, making his eyes focus on where it was attached.

He hummed in thought. “A few hours. They wanna keep you until tomorrow, just in case you die or something,” he shrugged, tossing the magazine on the couch in the corner of the room.

You rubbed one of your eyes, a yawn rippling through you. “And why are you here?”

He chuckled. “Obvious reasons,” he stated, nodding towards the bite on your shoulder. “Also, Saint Dream was the first on your emergency contact list, so…” You pulled your knees to your chest as you looked at him.

“Even if it’s just because you have a quota to meet, I’m glad you’re here,” you muttered and something flickered behind his eyes, a smug expression tugging at his lips.

He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, feet planted on the ground. “You’re not part of my quota, baby.” Your cheeks flushed at his words but before you could respond, he tensed up, eyes clouding with a darkened gold. They always shifted when something was intruding. You furrowed your brows at him. “Lupus in fabula venit enim ad me,” he mumbled darkly, the venom of sarcasm dripping from his voice as a knock came at your door.

Clay stuck his head through the threshold, eyes softening at you. Sapnap watched him silently as he stepped inside, rambling off how worried he was about you. Clay seemed to ignore Sapnap’s presence as he settled a batch of roses on your nightstand. Sapnap rolled his eyes and once Clay finally acknowledged him, he made a face like he was smelling something rotten. Sapnap looked like he was ready to snap Clay in half if he approached you closer, yet his dark demeanor didn’t dissuade Clay. In fact, it seemed like Clay was hell-bent on ruffling his feathers more, pulling up a chair on the other side of you.

“I didn’t think he would be here,” Clay commented, voice dipping slightly as his sights shifted toward Sapnap, irises flashing brighter. You perked an eyebrow at him.

Sapnap scoffed, leaning back in his seat. “I’m here because she wants me here,” he commented, nearly with a boasting tone. “So, it seems like I’m in the right role to ask what the fuck you think you’re doing.” You kept silent as the two played their game of wits and egos.

Clay smirked at him as if he was in possession of some esoteric knowledge. It dawned on you that you weren’t sure how old either of them actually was. You had dated Clay for god knows how many years, yet you learned more about his past from Sapnap than you had in any of the years you were together. “It’s still in her best interest that she be given options that don’t involve your kind,” he gritted.

Sapnap laughed shortly, a cockiness settling into his appearance. “Oh yeah? In her best interest or in yours, you selfish prick.”

Clay’s jaw tensed, a sigh flooding from his nose. “We can do this more maturely, you know? Like fucking professionals.”

Sapnap shook his head. “I’m not up for negotiating,” the stated bluntly. “Go near her again and I’ll report you,” he assured, his deadpanned stare making your heartbeat quicken.

Clay swallowed, eyes glued to Sapnap’s as the pair of them flexed their dominant personalities. Clay’s eyebrow twitched as if he had thought of something, almost mockingly. “Begone, Satan, inventor and master of all deceit,” he began, making Sapnap roll his eyes again before cutting into Clay’s quote.

“-enemy of man’s salvation. Give place to Christ in Whom you have found none of your works,” he mocked. “Try and exorcise me all you want, feather boy.”

Clay’s hand moved to curl around your wrist and Sapnap leaned against the bed, as if asking Clay to make his next move. “Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour-“

“Resist him, standing firm in the faith, because you know that the family of believers throughout the world is undergoing the same kind of sufferings,” Sapnap cantered without a thought. “It’s not even the right verse for this, stupid bitch,” he grumbled.

You cleared your throat, pulling your arm away from Clay and trying not to look as if you were slinking towards Sapnap. “You should leave,” you stated, Clay’s lips pursing at your words. “I need to rest.” Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Sapnap’s sly expression cutting into Clay.

After spending another night in the hospital, you were finally unlocking your apartment door and letting Sapnap help you out of your coat. You mumbled something about getting yourself a drink and he brushed you off, already doing it himself. Your mind was racing with questions after what you had witnessed between Clay and Sapnap. You hadn’t doubted the authenticity of Sapnap, but your mind still ran with what had happened to him. He handed you a water, sitting down on your couch as you paced slightly.

He broke into your thoughts. “Go on, tell me what you’re thinking,” he stated, unbuttoning his shirt slightly. You wanted to hex him about the fact that he probably already knew what was pounding against your temples to be asked.

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, rolling over your questions to censor some of them. “The bible’s been translated and reprinted so many times, how are you still…” you gestured with your hands, unable to explain where you were going with your statement.

He chuckled, brushing a hand against his chin. “It really doesn’t matter if it’s actually God’s word or not. It’s a guide, like an outline. Rules, I guess. Think about it like the Constitution.”

“I thought demons like… burned up when someone quoted the bible at them…”

His face fell a bit at this. “No, we just can’t read it,” his tone was almost regretful, sending guilt to pulse through your body because you had asked. “It’s like it’s in a completely different language, and each time I look at it, it shifts around the page. When you get dragged into hell, something happens with your eyes.” He huffed slightly, wetting his lips. “It's kind of like an isolation thing. He wants you to be completely aside from him.”

Your mind clicked, eyeing your heirloom display case. “Can I try something?” You asked, popping open one of the doors after he hummed in response. You fished out your grandmother’s rosary, the cross feeling almost heavy in your hands. You turned on your heel, bringing it closer to him before dangling it in front of him. His eyes drifted away from it, his gaze turning up to you. “Does this bug you?” You probed, making him snort. He took it in his hand, thumb caressing over the design.

He shook his head, chewing on his lip. “It’s a shameful thing really. I feel guilty whenever I look at this kind of stuff,” he muttered; you sat on the arm of his chair and looked over his shoulder. He turned, looping it around your neck. “Does it bug you?”

You held it away from your chest. “For different reasons, I guess.” You stood again, putting it back in its spot beside a photo of your grandfather. “Why’d you get kicked out?” You queried softly, peering over your shoulder.

He was watching you. “Maybe another time.”

“What about your childhood?” You asked. “Did you have one?”

“I know more about your childhood than I do my own. Why all the questions?” He countered with a soft laugh.

You shrugged. “I want to get to know you…” You mumbled, your hand drifting up to rest on your shoulder, feeling heat coming off of his scaring bite mark. “How do you know when to show up?”

He sighed, leaning his back against the chair and stretching his legs. “I can feel when you get anxious. Angels have some kind of block though, that’s why it took me so long to realize you needed me when that bastard was over here.” He shook his head almost like a new fire about Dream had been lit. His eyes flickered up to you. “Unless you weren’t scared.” You shook your head quickly at his joke. He chuckled. “How does it make you feel that I’m in your head sometimes?”

You approached him again. “Narcissistic,” you answered plainly, sinking to your knees before him. You ran your hands up his thighs, a smirk growing on his features as he sat up to be closer to you. “What happens after I die? Eternal damnation?” You questioned, as his hand went to brush against your arms.

He pressed his lips to your neck before digging his fingers into your hair as if he’d been waiting to touch you for days. You hummed as he kissed you, the slight scruff of his unshaven face feeling soft against your cheek. “You shouldn’t have to worry about that. I think I’ll make you immortal or something. Being with me should be enough damnation,” he jeered, making you laugh. “Most of my colleagues take the souls of their targets and leave, but I enjoy your company,” he teased.

“But you already have my soul, right?” The line felt strange coming from your mouth.

His lips brushed against yours. “There’s still an innocent piece of you that I haven’t tapped into. Everyone has it; I like it in you.”

Your eyebrows perked at this, fingers digging into his thighs to make him groan. “What do you mean?”

He kissed you briefly, actions getting needier the longer you were between his legs. “It’s completely pure. Untampered by sin or desire. When a demon gets it, they go feral,” he mumbled, nose pressing into the crook of your neck, teeth dragging across your skin.

You tilted your head to the side, fingers tracing over his zipper. “Take it from me,” you breathed, leaning into his touch.

“No,” he answered blatantly.

You moaned as his tongue slipped against your collarbones. “I want you to have it,” you continued, voice uneven. His fingers tugged at your hair.

His breath was warm against your shoulders. “I’ll take it after a few years. I don’t want it now.”

You pushed him away from you, his eyes already blown with lust as you looked into them. “You just said demons want it so badly. Take mine.”

He chuckled, hands dropping to your jaw. “No,” he repeated, voice light.

You sat back on your heels, looking up at him with a tilted expression. “Is mine not good enough for you?”

He wheezed. “No, it’s perfect. I just… After I take it, it’s like you’re dead. You’re not the same. Your humanity is gone.” He pulled you back up towards him. “I’ll take it when I’m ready to escort you to hell.”

You quipped an eyebrow. “Oh, so you just don’t want me to see your place?” You joked, making him roll his eyes. “Maybe Clay was right. What’s the verse about confession?”

His eyes darkened playfully. “For with the heart one believes and is justified, and with the mouth one confesses and is saved.” It was mind boggling how he could probably quote the whole Bible and was as… sinful… as he was. “Bring up Dream again, and I’ll make sure you can’t walk for a week.”

Your eyelashes fluttered. “You bargain for a fun game," you quipped.

He chuckled darkly. "It was more a light-hearted threat, dove," he muttered.

You sat forward and pressed your lips against his hungrily, letting him pull you into his lap as his fingers curled into the loose ends of your hair. Your fingers ripped at the buttons of his shirt, exposing his chest to you as he tugged at your own clothing. Your teeth dragged against his lips as his hips ground up against you, needy for friction.

You pushed your tongue into his mouth, moaning as his hands moved to your thighs, his blunt nails raking against your jeans. You rolled your hips against his lap, feeling him harden beneath you. He spread his legs further, coaxing you to grind against him as his hands pushed you down to rut against his leg.

You were breathless as you pulled away from him, one of his hands fisting in your t-shirt to bring you close to him, lips and tongue pressing against your neck. "I didn't tell you to stop riding my thigh," he commented darkly, bouncing his knee to make you moan.

Your hand wrapped around the wrist of his hand holding you in place, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth as heat spread across your body. He pulled your shirt over your head, your bare chest at his mercy. Your mind blurred at the sensation and the feeling of him sucking his mark into your skin, making it clear who you belonged to.

You moaned, digging your face into his neck as he rolled his hips against your leg. "Please, Sapnap. I need you," you whimpered, voice a soft whisper in his ear. He chuckled darkly, ripping your pants down your legs as you fumbled to unzip his slacks.

He pulled you onto him without warning, a groan leaving your lips as he suddenly filled you up. "Bold of you to beg for me after associating with that bastard," he bit, thrusting up into you. "I should tie you up and let you suffer for that."

You moaned at his dark tone, grinding your hips against him. Your lips ghosted against his as your cheeks began to feel warm from the stimulation. "I might like that," you jested, your sentence breaking with your voice as he harshly grabbed your hips, driving himself into you harder.

"You're lucky you're still weak," he nipped, voice swirling with lust and power. "I'd throw you over my knee for that comment." His fingers dug into your hips, grinding against you as you bounced on top of him. You moaned at his words. His hand snaked up to wrap around your throat, threatening to apply pressure as he continued to direct your movements, thrusting into you at a deep and reserved pace. "Dirty girl. You want me to punish you, don't you?"

When all you could do was mutter a small beg, he pulled you closer to him, lips meeting yours in a mess of hair, teeth, and tongue. He moaned into your mouth, the taste of his breath was addictive and bliss-inducing.

He pulled you off of him and onto the couch beside him, slipping his shirt the rest of the way off. "I'll fuck the angel lover out of you," he joshed, a hand coming down sharply across your ass; the pain making you moan his name, hands gripping the couch as he pressed your shoulders into the cushion.

He dragged your hips into the air, pushing into you again, rocking his hips against yours with a small grunt. His teeth were sharp against your skin as he pounded into you and an animalistic pace, your mind numbing at the feeling. He pushed your knees further apart to pump himself deeper into you.

You moaned as his weight settled on the hand pinning you to the couch, your hair sticking to your sweaty face as he spanked you again, hand gripping your irritated skin. "Good girl. Take it," he nearly growled, making your skin crawl with an added layer of pleasure. While his pace and mannerisms were ruthless, he was definitely holding back, knowingly going easy on you because of your already weak body. That didn't mean he wasn't reminding you of your sour attitude as he pulled your arm behind your back, his hips snapping against your own to firmly instill his name in your mind.

You reached for the arm rest, a grounding element for you as his motions drove you over the edge in a teeth gritting orgasm, boy flushing with goosebumps under his command. You rocked your hips back against him as he pulled out, jerking himself off instead of giving you the satisfaction of finishing him off.

You groaned as you turned to look at him. "Feeling okay?" He asked, pressing his lips to your shoulder blade. You shook your head quickly and his eyebrow quipped ever so slightly. "Good," he stated, pulling you up and onto the ground in front of him again. He grabbed your cheeks. "I still don't think you've learned," he muttered, leaning back into his previous position. "Blow me," he directed, tucking an arm behind his head. "And with the mouth, one confesses and is saved, remember," he taunted.

Your eyes flashed up to his devious expression as he leered at you from his commanding spot.

It was going to be a long night.

And you were ready for it.

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[junicai]

ridin’ n rollin’.

| order no. | 8/21

| summary | When the world is already off kilter, should you not free fall down to meet it? 

| word count | 2.4k

| warnings | injuries

| era | circa. April 2020

Aria stumbled into the changing rooms, fist shoved into her mouth to stop the broken cry from jumping out on the wave of tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. Her free hand was pulling at the mic pack, desperately trying to unwind it from where it was tucked in on the waistband of her trousers. 

A pair of hands joined her, unravelling the wires quickly and efficiently. Once the mic pack was removed, it was handed off to someone else - Aria wasn’t sure who - and she was being spun around to face a concerned Renjun.

“What happened?” He demanded, already searching the rest of her body for injuries. 

Aria didn’t know. 

The day had started off on the wrong foot; like god himself had woken up on the wrong side of the bed. 

Donghyuck had stumbled into the bathroom at six in the morning, and his retching woke up Jisung who was sleeping next door. The maknae had sleepily shuffled into the bathroom to see what was wrong, but when he was greeted with a shivering Donghyuck clutching to the toilet bowl like a lifeline, the tall boy snapped awake. 

Aria had been woken up, and then Jeno, and Renjun and Jaemin woke up soon afterwards from all the noise caused by the commotion. 

It took them two hours, but by eight, Donghyuck was curled miserably into the corner of the couch, pale cheeks contrasted by a bright red flush sitting high on his cheekbones. A waste bin was placed on the floor in front of him, and two fever reducers were all but force-fed to the boy.

At first, Donghyuck had adamantly refused to take them; saying that he wasn’t sick, he had just eaten something that hadn’t agreed with him and he was fine now, see? 

Aria all but scoffed at that. She held it in, because she knew she’d be doing the exact same thing, would she be in his position. The broadcast performance was scheduled to be filmed that evening, and no one liked stepping down. Not even for a day. 

It was only when Aria had fixed him with a pleading look, eyes wide and worried, that Donghyuck caved. The two pills were swallowed, and when he was once again comfortably swaddled in as many blankets as they could salvage from around the dorm did the members return to their own morning routine. 

After all; the world doesn’t stop turning for a sick member, although sometimes Aria wished it did. She hated to leave Donghyuck alone; and she knew he’d never admit it to them, but he hated it to. 

All of them did, really. It was visible in the way that Jeno had put the back of his hand up to Donghyuck’s forehead three times in the last ten minutes; in the way Jisung was hovering anxiously, waiting for an instruction to go get a glass of water or another pillow; the way that Renjun had only rolled his eyes a tiny bit when Donghyuck insisted he was well enough to perform but stumbled backwards onto the couch when he attempted to stand up. Jaemin had lunged for his arm, catching the sick boy before he could do himself some more damage. 

The van had pulled up outside the dorms several hours later; and Donghyuck had waved them a sullen goodbye from his position on the couch. Aria closed the door behind her, but not before reminding him again to take another fever reducer in an hour, and to keep himself hydrated.

Donghyuck had rolled his eyes, and told her to stop worrying. “You’ll turn yourself grey, mom.” 

Aria had narrowed her eyes and stuck out her tongue, swinging the door shut. She relished in the bright burst of laughter that echoed through the hall. 

The journey to the venue was quiet. 

As was the changing room - the only noise coming softly from Chenle’s earbuds that he’d put in the second they’d located their room, and the soft bustling of the stylists as they moved around the members. 

Aria was tensed in her chair, anxiety running up and down her spine at the thought of something happening to Donghyuck while they were gone.

What if his fever spiked again? 

What if he fell and didn’t have the strength to get up? 

What if-

“Noona.” Jisung’s voice dragged Aria out from her own head. His larger hand encircled her smaller one, gently but firmly unravelling the fingers that were digging her nails into her palm. 

She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “Thanks, Sung.” She whispered, patting his hand lightly. 

Jisung made no move to leave, and instead took up the vacant spot beside her on the plastic-covered sofa in the corner of the room. “You’re worried.” He stated. 

Aria turned to look at him. Jisung had lost a lot of the baby fat from his cheeks that year - accentuating his jawline. He looked older, more mature. It suited him, she decided. Maturity was something he wore like it belonged on him; settling like the sun sets comfortably without fail. 

“We all are.” Aria sighed out eventually, taking a glance around the room. Jaemin was laid back in the chair as a stylist worked on fluffing up his hair, keyboard clicking obnoxiously as he typed on his phone. 

Normally the sound would bother Jeno - who was sitting adjacent, in a similar position - was it not for his phone making identical clicks. 

Aria couldn’t blame them; she’d turned her phone off silent the second they’d left the dorms in case Donghyuck called one of them. 

If the boy knew how frazzled the group was without him there, he’d have a fit. He’d never let them live it down. 

“It’s hyung, noona. He’ll be fine.” Jisung said, nodding resolutely. 

“He will, Sung. He’ll be fine, and then we can all go back to complaining about his presence.” Renjun made his presence known as he entered the room, directing his attention towards the pair immediately. 

“Ari, they’re looking for you for mic check.” He said, jerking his head over his shoulder. 

“Right, okay. Thanks, Injunnie.”

The following thirty minutes passed in a smushed blur of costume fittings, foundation brushes and an uncomfortably suffocating amount of hairspray. Aria was coughing by the time the stylist let up, waving a hand to try and disperse the smell. 

“Ari? We gotta go.” Jeno called, already halfway out the door. 

“C-coming,” She choked out, eyes watering slightly but determined not to wipe at them, less she end up with a streak of black across her cheek. 

By the time Aria had met up with the others in the wings, sliding her in-ears in, her breathing had steadied, and a little knot was beginning to form in the bottom of her stomach. She still got nervous before performing - didn’t think it ever really went away completely - but those were normally excited nerves.

This pit that was slowly growing felt foreboding. 

It went ignored, sliding under the radar as her in-ears began the steady metronome click that she’d become so accustomed to. She zoned out, and zoned back in, body moving in time with the others in flawless unity. 

Dancing without a member always felt off - felt empty, but it was nothing the group hadn’t dealt with previously. They knew the formations, knew who took what lines to fill in, and where their positions changed to keep formations looking slick and clean and not like one of them had been knocked over like a bowling pin; out for the count. 

Aria stepped backwards to let Chenle take her place as centre. Her mind was busy, tracking Jaemin’s positioning and making sure she stayed far enough away to give him space; so when a heavy, piercing sound ran through her right ear, she hardly registered it. 

It took her a moment, but her gasp of pain was heard over the microphones, a both hands coming to clap over her ear as the in-ear continued to bleed head-scrambling sounds into her brain. Aria tilted sideways, knees crumbling beneath her as she lost her balance and went crashing to the floor. 

She didn’t hear the gasp that floated up around the room; skimming right over her head that was pounding like a sledgehammer. Her hands scratched at the floor, trying for purchase and finding none.

Jeno, behind her was already half-dancing his way closer to her, and trying to help her back up without completely abandoning the song entirely. Aria’s breath was coming fast; the tech team having enough sense to cut her mic for the time being. 

When a half bar of silence sounded instead of Aria’s vocals, Chenle stepped in, ever the professional, singing her lines for her as the girl tried to regain her balance. 

Despite Jeno’s insistent push towards the wings, Aria shook her head minutely at the boy, rejoining the second last chorus. She could feel the boys’ eyes on her, burning into her back.

The in-ears bounced around her neck on their chords, having unconsciously tugged them out from her ears. 

Per the formation, there was to be a metre and a half gap in between each member, but Jaemin paid no mind to that, coming to stand almost directly beside her in the final few bars of the song; completely prepared to catch her should she take another stumble.

Aria was the first off the stage, stumbling over her own legs.

She stumbled into the changing rooms, fist shoved into her mouth to stop the broken cry from jumping out on the wave of tears that threatened to spill from her eyes.

Her vision swam like she was sea-sick.

With her free hand pulling at the mic pack, desperately trying to unwind it from where it was tucked in on the waistband of the orange trousers, her breath was coming in heavy, shallow gasps.

A pair of hands joined her, unravelling the wires quickly and efficiently. Once the mic pack was removed, it was handed off to someone else - Aria wasn’t sure who - and she was being spun around to face a concerned Renjun.

“What happened?” He demanded, already searching the rest of her body for injuries.

“I don’t- I can’t- ringing-” Aria gasped, hands coming to clutch at Renjun’s jacket. “My ear, it’s- it’s ringing, I can’t-” 

“Ari, I need you to breath, hold on a second, okay?” Renjun asked, shooting a look at Jaemin, who went to gently pull off Aria’s sweat-soaked jacket. 

She sunk to the ground, knees giving out for a second time. Renjun followed her, Jeno’s arms slipping beneath her armpits to stop her hitting the ground too hard. 

The only sound in the room was Aria’s uneven breathing, coming in irregular pants and choking her. 

The members settled around her, but being mindful to stay a comfortable distance away. Should Aria slip too far into her own mind, too many hands could send her flying into another panic.

“I can’t hear.” Aria whispered eventually, hands still maintaining their tight grip on Renjun’s jacket. He inhaled sharply, turning to face her dead on. 

“What? What do you mean you can’t hear?” He questioned, his own hands moving to gently grip the sides of her face. 

“Ringing,” Was the only explanation that Aria offered, canting sideways in his grip. 

Renjun choked lightly, trying to hold her upright. “No no, Ari, you gotta stay sitting like this, okay? What happened?” 

Chenle and Jeno exchanged a glance. 

“Did she hit her head?” Chenle asked.

Jeno instantly shook his head. “No, I saw her fall. She was clutching at,” he pointed. “Her right ear though.” 

Renjun looked back to him, before returning his focus to Aria. “Hey, Ari? Ari, your ear is ringing, right? Am I right?” 

Aria nodded slowly. 

“Okay, that’s okay. Was the feed too loud, or something?” 

This time, Aria shook her head, lifting a hand to mime an explosion by the ear. “Was like it exploded.” 

Jisung looked frantic. “Did her earpiece blow up?!” 

Jaemin emerged from the doorway, a mic pack clutched in his hand and a dark look on his face. “Feedback.” He grit out. “Mic pack malfunctioned, sent nearly 120 decibels into her right ear.” 

Jaemin held up the offending piece of equipment. “It even fried the voice coils.” 

Renjun was trying to keep Aria from slipping sideways. “What does that mean?” 

“It means, Ari just got blasted with the sound of a fire cracker right in her eardrum. It’ll be ringing for a while.” Jaemin moved to crouch behind Aria, taking some of the weight from him. 

“Permanently?” Jisung asked.

“They don’t know, but probably not. It’s mostly the shock of it, that causes ringing, I think.” 

Jeno swiped a hand over Aria’s forehead, swooping the hair back from her face. She whimpered at the act, nosing her way closer to the hand. Leaning down to her left ear, Jeno lowered his voice to let him whisper gently. 

“Hey, baby,” He began, keeping his voice level. “You’re gonna be okay, alright?” 

Renjun’s arms tightened around Aria’s middle, and it wasn’t long until Jisung and Chenle moved forwards to do the same. 

“The in-ear got a little loud, that’s all,” Jeno continued, hand coming to gently flick at her right ear. “No explosions - your ear is still there. Do you want to try standing up with me?”

At Aria’s mild agreement, Jeno shifted into a crouch and the multiple pairs of arms around her waist loosened minutely.

“You’ll be a bit off balance, baby, but that’s fine. That’s normal, and you’re okay. If you feel like you’re going to fall, then I can carry you, okay?” 

“So, what I’m hearing is, we’re never using in-ears again?” Donghyuck whisper-yelled from his position on the couch; Aria tucked into his chest. 

His fever had broken while they had gone, and their manager suspected it was just a twenty four hour bug.

Aria shifted slightly, whining at the noise, and Donghyuck instantly began crooning at her, whispering soft words of comfort in her left ear to get her to go back to sleep. 

Renjun rolled his eyes. “Jaemin considered it.” 

“Hyung looked like he wanted to murder someone.” 

"I still do."

[ashintheairlikesnow]

okay but can we get more on Oliver Branch playing games, the creep

CW: Stress torture, emotional manipulation, creepy whumper, internalized abliesm, some outright ableism - actually this torture method is actually pretty fucking ableist in and of itself, whump of a minor (character is 17), noncon touching - not sexual

Tagging Chris’s crew:  @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @endless-whump , @whumpfigure , @stxckfxck , @slaintetowhump, @astrobly, @newandfiguringitout, @doveotions

“A little longer, darlin’. Just... a little longer.”

The metronome on Sir’s desk click-click-click-clicks, a constant even ticking as the little wand swipe back and forth, and Baldur stares at it with his entire body quivering to look do think about literally anything else.

The reed mat under his knees digs in, little flashes of pain that he tries desperately to focus on because it’s something else, a different thought, something that isn’t click-click-click-click-click-click-click-

He doesn’t know how long it’s been. He’s never allowed to know what the time limit is, only told if he made it or he didn’t. He kneels in Position Two, hands laid out with fingers spread across his own thighs, resting against the soft fabric of his pants and they twitch constantly, they want to move he wants to move so badly.

He can’t move.

If he moves he loses the game, and the game has high stakes tonight, he can’t lose the game.

The games are always rigged for him to lose, but Baldur has been working so hard to learn how to be still and he knows, he just knows he’s going to win this time, whether Sir wants him to or not.

The rebellious little thought terrifies him, he sends that train right off a cliff into the dark pool of the person that might have been there once before the drugs and the white room and not sleeping and not sleeping and not sleeping-

His knees ache, his legs below the knee have gone numb from kneeling for so long, his mind is racing in horrible anxious circles of click click click-

is that a bird outside the window

not allowed to look that way look at the metronome

click click click

click

Sir had a bad interview today that’s why the game is happening they asked questions he couldn’t answer so he has to be punished

Click click click

because journalists keep asking questions

click

too many questions

Someone is laughing out in the hall maybe Miss Nancy it sounds like her laugh she laughs sometimes a nicer laugh

Click click

pay attention

don’t look away

pay attention pay attention focus be good be still focus focus focus

FOCUS

The more he thinks about focusing, the harder it is to do. Everything else crowds in until he would almost beg for the pill, now, if it meant he could play the game better, if it meant his mind would stop this constant swirl he can’t quiet down.

He wants to rock, just a little - just to get a second of thought out into the motion of muscles instead - and when Sir looks briefly down at the newspaper and holds it up before his face, Baldur hitches in a breath and rocks his body forward and back, soundlessly as he can be. He keeps his eyes locked on the metronome, full of tears, scared of what happens if he’s caught but he doesn’t move something he’s going to lose his mind-

He stops just before Sir looks up.

Baldur’s heart freezes along with his body, staring up into Sir’s eyes, the hint of a smile on his face no giveaway as to his feelings. Sir likes it when Baldur loses the games. He is always smiling when they play. There are little crinkles at the corners, wrinkles growing bit by bit, and Sir says that they’re a sign of a life well-lived because they mean that Sir has always been full of laughter and the laugh from outside the hall comes again and Baldur’s breath comes heavier, harder.

He has to move he has to move he has to move he can’t move.

“The metronome, darlin’,” Sir reminds him, gently. His oil-slick smooth voice and smile a balm, they mean safe, but the game is nearly over and Baldur has very nearly lost. He jerks his eyes back to the metronome, the maddening, boring click click click click click

Please let me stop, he mouths the words but doesn’t dare say them. This isn’t a game where he has to beg. Sir hasn’t said so, anyway, but he’s going to lose his mind, he can’t do this he can’t he’s going to lose he can’t can’t can’t can’t-

“You’re so close, beautiful boy,” Sir soothes without looking up from his paper this time, underlining something. The interview must have been terrible, for the game to take so long. Some kind of scandal about a Senate seat, Baldur barely understands what any of it means because he’s not meant to, he is supposed to be pretty and empty and calm and still, so still, even as his knees ache and he can’t feel his toes and he’s going to, to go insane, to go crazy if he isn’t allowed to move.

Tears sting at his eyes, heat behind them, awful little whimpers he can’t push back building in his throat. 

Click click click click click click

cheep-cheep sings a bird

don’t move don’t move

stillness is better than what you do

silence is better than stammering

remember the rules

the rules keep you safe

the rules keep you still

still is safe being still is safe be still be still be still

click click

miss nancy’s voice in the hallway and a man talking back is it someone who knows he exists or not if he screamed right now would they both ignore him or would someone want to know who was the boy behind the locked office door who is the boy

click

who is he

he doesn’t know

he’s baldur and a number but what was he before that was there a before that was there a

cheep cheep cheep

sing

click click click

if you don’t get glasses but you need them do you think that tree leaves are just one big blob of leaf or do you still know they’re separate if you’re too small to reach the tree and

click

what are the books in Sir’s study what do they say

click click

are there books about boys like him do people write books about box boys are there books

click

has he ever read a book?

He can’t do it anymore. Baldur jerks forward, bending himself nearly entirely in half, and lets out a hoarse cry of frustration as he just can’t be still any longer, beating his hands in fists against his thighs.

Sir looks up from his paper, mildly surprised, his smile widening slightly on his handsome made-for-TV face.

“Oh, no, darlin’,” He says, with a hint of sympathy edging the amusement in his voice. “You broke, hm?”

Baldur nods, miserably. “I, I, I’m sorry,” He whispers, and the tears bubble up and he digs his fingernails into his thighs through his pants until it hurts, letting out a choked-off sob. “I’m sorry, I can’t, I can’t do it, I-I-I, I, I can’t, Sir, I can’t be still for so long, I’m so sorry-”

“Oh, beautiful boy.” Sir clicks his tongue, almost in time with the metronome, and reaches over to turn it off. The clicking goes mercifully silent but it’s no better because now he’s in trouble, he’s lost the game. “You had less than thirty seconds to go, and you lost. How sad.” He lays down the newspaper and stands, walking around his desk to crouch just to Baldur’s side. “Less than thirty seconds, can you believe you held out so long only to lose in the last thirty seconds, Baldur, darlin’?” 

Baldur looks up, tear-streaked face with wide green eyes, and Sir reaches out to cup the side of his face in his palm. Baldur leans into the touch heavily, shuddering.

He was so close.

How could he have lost when he was so so close to winning?

He pushes himself forwards to wrap his arms around his Sir, to find comfort in his scent and the soft rich fabrics of his clothing, only to have Sir chuckle and push him back and away. “No, no, darlin’, I won’t have you tryin’ to manipulate me.” Sir stands, leaving Baldur bereft and untouched, and he turns, watching Sir walk away.

“I, I, I wasn’t manipulating-”

I just need you to remind me that I’m yours, that I’m safe, that you care

“Hush.” Sir snaps his fingers and Baldur’s words cut off mid-sentence. “I know exactly what you’re doing, trying to get out of punishment by bein’ cuddly, hm? Oh, I know you, darlin’. I know what you do to fix things.” There’s a heavy judgement to his words, and Baldur shrinks into himself, feeling the first tingles of pain as blood rushes back to his feet, turning his eyes back to the ground. 

but this is all he is, all he knows how to do

Had he been trying to manipulate? He’d just wanted comfort, but-... but Sir knows him better than anyone else, Sir would know... 

“I’m sorry,” He whispers, to the floor. “I’m, I’m sorry, sorry for, for, for trying to manipulate you-”

He had just wanted comfort but maybe he was wrong, maybe he had been the wrong person, the one trying to be manipulative and Sir would know better than he would, Sir would know... 

Sir hears him, though. A moment later his hand rests on Baldur’s head, carding through the strawberry blond strands, rubbing the softness between his fingers. “It’s not your fault. You can only be what y’are, hm? True of us all. We can only be what we were made for, and that’s all you are, isn’t it, beautiful boy?”

Baldur doesn’t speak. Only nods, keeping his eyes on the floor.

“Well. You’ve lost our little game for today.” Sir pets him a moment longer and then moves back to sit in his padded desk chair, a deep brown leather and wood that Baldur loves to curl up in and nap when Sir is gone on long days. “Too bad. I was really rooting for you, darlin’. But that’s all right.”

He snaps his fingers and Baldur moves immediately, shifting around the desk to sit beside him, breathing fast at the tingles and static of pain in his feet and legs, rubbing at them with his hands to try to get the blood flowing faster. 

“Just think, Baldur,” Sir says, almost idly, as he picks the newspaper up again. “Just thirty more seconds of focus and you couldn’t do it. How disappointing.”

He chuckles, snaps the paper open. He doesn’t see the devastation on Baldur’s face, but he doesn’t have to. He knows it’s there. 

“That means no sleep for you tonight, doesn’t it?”

Baldur is silent, staring towards the window, wistfully listening to the cheep-cheep-cheep outside.

He knows not sleeping and not sleeping and not sleeping. The bone-deep exhaustion and the way his brain melts apart underneath it is something he knows deeper than memory, better than his own thoughts.

Thirty seconds.

“Well, in the end, my sweet boy,” Sir says from behind the paper. “What matters is that you tried your best, hm? That’s all I can really ask of you. But perhaps you can try a little harder when we play again tomorrow.”

Baldur closes his eyes so no more tears will escape.

“Now, beautiful boy.” Sir’s hand rests on the top of his head again. “Let’s try to be still while I finish my paper, hm? No moving. No talking. Stillness-”

“-is better than, than what I do,” Baldur whispers, despair nearly overwhelming him. He forces himself, with every molecule of strength left inside him, to be very, very still.

Again.

[quinn-tessence]

Paint me like one of your French girls

Part 2

This goes out to all the artists in this heart warming Joker community, who still find so much inspiration in our beloved character. Thank you for sharing with us how you see Arthur/Joker through your eyes, your creative vision brings so much joy and comfort through these troubling times! 🙏🤡❤

Summary: you accept Joker's invitation against your better judgement, even after he'd broken into your home and caught you red handed. His rhetoric makes you fall into his degraded sense of civic duty. So does his sly but chivalrous demeanor, a different shade of the Arthur you used to know. You're in for a revelation that seals the deal.

Length: 7k ish, gradual build up

Warnings: a touch of Theodore Twombly, splashes of Arthur and heavy strokes of Joker, mentions of mental conditions, flirty fluff, oh smut, yes, yes, keep readin'

As his scent still lingered, the yellow street lights engulfed the room as you stood naked at the window, facing the portrait you'd painted. Maybe it had only been the light reflecting off its surface, but you could have sworn it was looking right through you.

Did this really happen? You thought to yourself as you stepped down from your high, hoping this had not just been one more of your self induced vivid fantasies. But the flammable cocktail he'd left lingering in your studio was a stark reminder.

Arthur had come at last, even if one year late, but it had been Joker breathing down your neck, intoxicating you with whispers of your most ardent desires. A butterfly in the path of a flame you were, the attraction to him primal, insatiable, frightening. Was this really Arthur? He was surely the Clown Prince of Crime, and that was not something sweet Arthur could have maneuvered while pumping himself full of antidepressants.

‘I'd put my mouth on you’ resounded against your temples, his purring whispers a delicious catalyst for a continuous pulsating sensation throughout the night. 'Cause that's how I imagine you every night' had been the least expected confession, had he lied to just get you hooked, he'd been successful. As you tried to drift away, you'd force yourself to resist the urge and keep yourself untouched for him. Agonizing as that was, how he'd stirred the embers in your mind had made any of your attempts futile. No substitute would do.

Tick, tock. You hadn't heard your bedside clock ticking for years, but today it was thumping, a metronome to steady your breath as you woke. The only sensible action was to take charge and keep yourself busy. He was going to get what he wanted, clearly he had made the alternative impossible with his mischievous schemes. But he had been thinking of you all night as well, and that was one aspect up to be exploited.

A few minutes to 9 PM, a pinup doll you'd never seen before was staring right back at you in the mirror. His spine tingling whispers had made you work on yourself on commission. He had one demand and it was up to you to fill up the rest of the canvas to impress.

The street was empty as you walked out on the dot. Swiftly, 3 SUVs pulled up in front of your alley, and your heart leapt to your throat.

Here comes the devil. Dashing. Elegant. Ravishing in that pristine makeup, green eyes piercing your whole body as he swaggered closer, his body ambling, almost floating on air. Your art made him no justice compared to the original. Any shades of color you might have painted before would pale in comparison to how they contoured him in the flesh, and the makeup uneven, yet always perfect. Smoke fuming from his mouth, his heels screeched the pavement as if to warn you danger is nearing, yet your knees grew weaker with each step he took.

He was… just as slim as you remembered, but somehow a bit taller. Instead of Arthur’s timorous gazes, a devilish smirk crowned his beautiful jawline enough to make you forget even your name. You couldn't help but wonder why the dress as his gaze systematically reduced any fabric covering your skin to irrelevance. The emerald green eyes had already made you whimper in silence, this wasn't going to get any easier.

‘Hi Y/N. Glad you decided to come tonight.’ An eyebrow twitch accompanied his words as a much needed release from hypnosis.

‘Hi, Joker. Not sure if I had a choice in accepting your invitation.’ An unmistakable vibration in your voice immediately made his deep, long dimples contour his well defined face. The sexiest dimples you'd ever seen in a man, you were certain.

‘Of course you did. You had one week to consider, and here you are. I must admit, you are your finest work of art so far. Is all of this for me?’

‘I have a date later and I thought I’d dress to impress. The fella seemed to have some serious intentions.' The thump of your heartbeat could easily be heard by his armed men keeping watch. Thankfully, they minded their business.

‘What a lucky fella. He'd better, or else I know a few guys who can straighten him up'

An eyebrow twitch followed by a tongue in cheek chuckle, he tried to distract your noticing by running a hand through his slick green hair, but his shy gaze fell to his feet. Hi, Arthur…

‘In this case, we'd better be on our way before we get all of us in trouble. A couple precautions before we go. I'll need to wrap this around your eyes to protect the location we're headed to. It'll be a 30 minutes drive. Sadly, I’ll have to jump in another car, for both our protection. If anything happens on the road, I’ll be the main target and my guys are sworn to keep you safe. But we took care of a few things and Gotham should be teeming with crime tonight, enough for us to have a safe journey. Are you ready?’ his hand extended, your primary instincts shameless traitors. As you touched his fingertips, you went all in.

You both hopped into one SUV, his proximity to you nerve wrecking, the warmth of his slender body radiating against your prickled skin. The way he had been staring into your eyes for a few seconds was making you question reality. Shutting your eyes as he wrapped his tie around them didn't help clear the waters.

‘Tell me if it's too tight.’

‘Wouldn't that be the point? Don't untighten it.’

‘Miss Y/L/N... Here you are, blindfolded in the backseat of my SUV, about to drive off with Gotham's most wanted. Knowing your inner circle, I’d have wagered they'd advise you to keep better company. Good thing I’m not a betting man.’

‘Well, a certain gentleman had made a promise last night, if I remember correctly'

‘Indeed he had. I'm not going to hurt you'

‘That was not the promise...' you forced the corners of your mouth to not betray your titillating reaction.

‘Wasn't it?’

An endearing giggle helped cut the tension in your core, but you gently startled at the feel of his fingers caressing your cheek and rushing over your lower lip, the ever present smell of nicotine flooding your nostrils, the lack of eyesight heightening your other senses. Somehow he made this feel like a dream.

‘See you soon'

A 30 minute drive with only the voice of Frank. Thoughtful touch, making you feel close to home even while venturing into a world of batshit crazy. Blindfolding you might have been for protection, but it served another more tantalizing purpose. And processed you did, but not at all did it help with the anxiety. If anything, Joker had poured gasoline on the bonfire he had started the night before.

The cars stopped and the door opened, your hand touched softly, you were descending from the car and carefully directed forward by his arms. You’d been right about his scent, and it drove you mad as he helped you watch your step.

‘Open your eyes'

The venue, a vineyard outside Gotham, with a manor and view of the lake. Breathtakingly elegant and conveniently out of police jurisdiction. A coquette set up on the front terrace in an open space foyer, the breeze rustling the flowers that dangled from it. As beautiful a venue, in reality he was still the center piece of this canvas, the white streaks of makeup, his green hair, the contrasts of his suit, that never ending cigarette. Unethical, dangerous, beautiful. What was he doing to you?

‘Welcome to my summer retreat. Glad you decided to join me, miss Y/L/N.’ He pulled a chair for you, elegantly inviting you to sit.

‘If we’re so intimately acquainted, why are you calling me by my last name?’

‘I like the taste of it on my lips. I like kitten more, but you know, pleasantries and all.’

He'd called you that before. Arthur was there, but Joker was clearly behind that lewd smirk and tantalizing choice of words. Tingles started running up your thighs without warning, in sync with the rhythm of his cues.

‘Pleasantries are for strangers'

‘Oh! Well then. We already see eye to eye' the clicking of glass betrayed a slight tremor in his hands as he poured a little more wine than necessary.

‘Cheers, thank you for having me here. How could I decline the invitation?’

‘I didn't know if you'd accept the invite one year later.’

‘And yet you took the risk'

‘How could I not be intrigued by the artist who paints me as a primary subject? You can imagine my surprise when I found out you were the same Y/N from the pharmacy queue. Why did you move out?’ As gallant as he was, he sure knew how to cut straight to the point.

‘I... I wasn't in a good place, I needed to uproot myself. So I quit the force, moved out, became a full time artist and painted my view of the world. That gives me fulfillment, I had been searching for it in the wrong place, I guess.’

‘Can’t argue with that. Fascinating. Tell me more.’

‘How far back should I go that you don't already know?’ His eyes moved away for a second, then returned with an intensity to freeze one's bones to the core.

‘It would mean so much more if I heard it from your lips rather than my trusted informants’. ’

That sweet white wine was a dangerous catalyst to unleash to him your widest smile, comforted by the verified honesty of his stories and his sharing of turmoil at the world. He'd also been an artist, although his conditions had been a detriment to his success in a comedy career, and support for him nonexistent at best.

You were just as fluent in Arthur's tragic life as he was in your tumultuous one. You’d been reduced to tears in your late nights when processing his fall into madness and how helpless he had been. All alone. That utter feeling of pain and grief had fueled your inspiration through all those months. But now the makeup made him look younger, the furrows of life less visible on his skin, that deep sorrow hidden under a thick layer of overconfidence, and if that was what he wanted to show you tonight, the last thing you'd do was force him otherwise.

A couple hours flew within minutes, the food half nibbled, his elbows on the table, his eyes every shade of the sea amidst a storm, devouring your every twitch as you spoke. Each time you'd meet them, he'd watch you languidly, dissecting your every reaction, the corner of his mouth slowly arching his dimples into existence. You had already sunk deeply in the sight of him chuckling and occasionally strolling his delicate long fingers through his green locks. He was so real and close to the touch, his presence so electrifying, it gave you fever.

And yet he made you feel comfortable. It had been a long time since a man had done so well and so naturally, you had forgotten how sweet the shivers were. And here was Arthur, that once shy, flustering man, igniting fire after fire in your gut with each elegant note of his voice and moves of his slender body. You couldn’t tell if the spark in his eye was his, or a reflection of your flaming self.

‘My turn to share?’

‘Yeah maybe I should stop talking for a while now, sorry, I got a bit carried away.’

‘Nonsense. You're my guest, why would I have brought you here if I didn't want to hear your stories?’

‘Well if you insist, I could think up a few reasons… aaand here I go, I’m so sorry, that was a bad joke, I swear it's the wine speaking…', your hand went straight to your face in a desperate attempt to hide your tipsy embarrassment.

Typical of you to screw this up, atta girl, you thought to yourself, feeling how your cheeks had turned the color of your dress. You weren't lying, the wine had had a woozing effect, but you were drunk on him instead. As you shyly lifted your eyes, a hungry wolf was lurking beneath the painted blue diamonds, eyes as deep as an ocean, eyebrows creasing his forehead in long, deep wrinkles. It wasn't fair how the red razor sharp grin cut through his cheeks like furrows, his crooked teeth exposed enough to make you bite your lip in shame of your sassy comment.

‘That's… one description, but not the one I’d choose… When you come out from under there, I have a surprise for you. Come with me inside for a minute.’

That red dress suddenly shrunk tightly on your chest, the fabric a suffocating shroud for your skin. Guided through the gliding doors, an elegant galley of your work hung against a red brick wall. You felt a knot in your throat, your eyes watering.

‘This part of the house is my little sanctuary. Where I come to spend time with you, with how you see me through your eyes. I started collecting those the minute I felt alive through your art, immortal, legendary. You’re fueling my ego, you know?’

This was more of a shock than a surprise. A shock at your naivety than at his right to purchase your public art. He had kept all your thank you cards, even if you'd thought you'd written them for different clients. He called them your letters. They were to him, and about him, so he found it appropriate. Was this just incredibly romantic, or was it the schizoid paranoia from his official diagnosis?

Right then, the realization finally struck, and it struck with the sound of a thousand church bells between your temples. You’d shared such intimacy with him for months, and he’d been financing your bohemian lifestyle since you’d left the force. This was his big night, just as much as yours, it was clear as you looked into his eyes to see sweet Arthur from the pharmacy line. Yet his shy gaze betrayed anything but an expectation to cash in that cheque. You were ignoring all the red flags again, the rush of emotion rendering you incapable of clear thought.

And yet, your body was yearning to shed its covers and unravel your latest masterpiece to absorb his reaction through every pore, but you gave into your superficially cautious thoughts. As he stood next to you in admiration, he lit a cigarette and passed it over after puffing almost halfway. You’d never thought the sight of red marks on a cigarette would be the catalyst to set you ablaze in your choice of men, but you'd been ironically wrong. The very close presence of this clown felt nothing like fear and anxiety, even more so as he was fidgeting so sweetly. An adorable irrational fear of a possible rejection had kept a never ending cigarette between his lips, and your heart coiled at seeing a painted Arthur before you.

‘I hope you don't mind. If a fire broke out tomorrow I'd save these first. You saw me when I needed to be seen, and the way I needed to be seen. Your art is breathtaking. Nothing humbles me as admiring it.’

You felt as light as a feather as his hand extended once again, and carried you back to the foyer to pour the last glass of wine.

‘I gotta be honest with you, kitten. I’m not an easy guy to be around. My mind is a twisted place, and past treatments were … debilitating, to say the least. Fate took me off those by force, just to feel much better afterwards, ironically. I switched my treatment for a couple conditions in the meantime. You see, having difficulty distinguishing reality from imagination could be quite inconvenient in my line of business. Else, I'd be back in Arkham by now.’

For a deranged criminal, he was exquisitely refined. His posture, his attire, the cigarette between his fingers were radioactive. This deceitfully feeble man had once bashed in the brains of a man twice his size with a pair of scissors and a wall, the police records had been detailed enough to make your stomach churn. His slim, delicate body was a dangerous trap for those who questioned his ferocity and agility coupled with his multiple mental conditions. The 3 Wall Street guys had had no idea what a catalyst they were about to be. And yet, here he was. Delicate and gentle, maybe even vulnerable.

‘Back? Why back?’ you asked despite knowing every little detail.

‘Not an easily digestible subject, I’m sure you'd agree. That's a conversation for another time, but here I am, flesh and blood, thinking as clearly as daybreak. In most aspects.’

That wine must have had no effect on him, as he continued to control the conversation, steering it with refinement, clearly more cautious than yourself.

‘What aspects are not clear?’

‘Is this an interrogation, kitten?’ his wide gaze from under long eyelashes coupled with the pet name off his lips were utterly debilitating.

‘Not at all, I am intrigued. Please tell me more'

‘If the lady insists. What’s unclear? Well some minor details. Like my future, my life, the next target, evading the police, you.’ His emeralds confidently strolled along the lines of your face, particularly the curve of your lips. Not at all distracting.

‘I can understand the others, but me?’

‘You see me for who I want to be. I’m not always Joker, that's for my men, my criminal nightlife. You knew me before all this, and you paint that man wearing this Joker outfit. Sometimes I wish it were so, but most times I am convinced that it must be otherwise.’

He swallowed hard and emptied his glass.

‘So you see how your artistic depiction of me is what I want to see when I look in the mirror, not what they say on TV. It's kept me from going too far, it gives me a level of restraint that this Joker makeup laughs at, and I really prefer that to any straight jacket. I like this new man I’ve become, but I can't allow him to overwhelm the old me. Whomever that was.’

As he spoke, there was a sweet sadness to his voice that proceeded to melt you from the inside, furthering the utterly irresponsible, delicious plunge. He was forcing himself to smile even through the most painful truths, like a tic developed through years of practice, but his voice faltered here and there, trying to stifle his bouncing knee. All you wanted was to cup his cheek and caress him through the anxiety that had been crippling the body of both his whole life. He reached out for another cigarette before you could fulfill that thought.

‘I… am flattered, to say the least. I wasn't sure what to expect of tonight, but I will have another glass of wine, please. If there's any left in this beautiful vineyard.’

‘Coming right up!’

He danced nimbly into the kitchen, Sinatra serenading an audience of hanging grapes and the two of you.

Impressed was an understatement. Where was that psychopathic, vicious killer clown that all the headlines had been about for the past year, that your friends had tried to warn you of? Joker had been a gentleman so far, none of his known crimes had tainted that opinion of him, not even Murray to be quite frank. He wasn't half as ruthless as he had been demonized to be. How he spoke so caringly about his men, they were not just his goons, he trusted them, and they trusted him. This didn't make your coming here any wiser, not in the eyes of society. But your mind was already made up.

He soon returned with a new bottle, poured a glass and extended his hand.

‘Voulez vous danser avec moi, mademoiselle?’ That pristine makeup and red suit molded him into the most alluring devil coming to claim you. Speaking in French had sealed the deal.

‘Biensur, monsieur.’

Strolling you across the terrace on The Way You Look Tonight, leaning you onto his chest, his palm on the small of your back, gently intrusive. The warmth of his body engulfed yours, his cheek on your temple, he had you craving for a heavy dose. He was such a good dancer, you felt like a feather in his delicate arms as he turned you a few times then leaned you backwards to lift your thigh in a shy attempt to test your responsiveness. The innocence of his smile quickly altered into curiosity as his fingers brushed over your garter. A glimmering spark coated his devilish eyes and an eyebrow twitch marked the epitome of nonverbal cues.

‘Where did you learn French?’

‘From old movies on the telly. Unfortunately, my extensive knowledge of French will end here. I'd always fall asleep through the romantic dancing, so I don't know what comes next.’

‘What a terrible waste of a beautiful evening that would be…’

‘It would… But I've also prepared for tonight, kitten, in many ways.’ You whirled at his directive once again.

‘You did indeed. I appreciate the effort.’

‘Hah, I’m sure you do…' he chuckled to himself mischievously. 'I know I am putting you in an awfully strange position by being here and showing you all this. I'd like to know you're comfortable, all things considered. I wouldn't want to overwhelm you.’

‘Yes, how thoughtful indeed. Especially after how you left me last night.’

‘Ohhh yes, I did that, didn’t I?’

‘My dating rulebook had a few pages torn out, so I had to skip a couple chapters in my preparation. Perhaps you could fill me in on the content of those missing pages…’

He hadn't expected you to make the first move, the surprise in his eyes at seeing you instinctively biting your lip was palpable, but the tension in your core had overstepped any boundaries.

‘… I wouldn't want to drag you down. I'll catch up. What page are you on right now?’

As you spoke, you were dancing him inside the mansion, towards the main art room. Tantalizing him, your lips grazing over his, locking eye contact intensely, then shying away. His intrigue at your little game etched a smirk across his face, his fingers sinking into the flesh of your waist, very gently contouring the girdle holding your stockings.

‘I have an advanced edition. The page that cautions against wearing lace for a long time.’

‘Lace?… oh. Ohhh! I see! Yeah, I remember that. In the missing pages, they strongly advised removing all other clothes for easier access to the lace…'

Your back sensually turned to him, his fingers lowered your back zipper, the feel of burning wet lips on your neck snatched a deep moan from yours as a hum vibrated against your ear. In a swift second, you were in his arms being carried in front of his gallery, and as soon as the stilettos touched the ground, your dress was framing your ankles at his careful directive.

‘Oh... The advanced edition must have a copy of my journal in the writers' room’ his eyes gleaming, he took a step back to revel in the sight of his freshly lace garnished gallery.

‘Not really. Seeing how you wrapped me up in a tight bow, I found another way of adding a… touch… of myself.’

A wide grin across his face, he was visibly panting. His hands straight to the top of his teal shirt in a desperate attempt to get some fresh air. The light emanated from the frames of his portraits contoured your body as he approached with careful steps, as if a predator stalked its prey, strolling hungry eyes all over your curves.

‘And here I was, thinking I’d seen the best of you yesterday. Look at you… you're worth every damn risk in the book. Tell me, have you been a good girl last night?’

He slowly ascended the 3 steps leading to the art wall where you stood in your unholy red lace lingerie, stockings hanging from your girdle insolently. Your pedestal, that was. Colin was right, reality beats fiction every god damn time. If he only knew.

‘I clearly haven't. I should have called the cops on you. Yet you break in and rake me up with your mischievous whispers, you make me dress up for you and bring me here, to all this, and then claim you don't want to overwhelm me. You're acting like a gentleman but you're really a sneaky bastard, aren't you?’

Shamefully you put all the blame for your descent into his madness on him, as if you’d taken no part in this tantalizing game. In his ascent, he had gained the advantage right back, towering over you in all his colorful splendor. In that very moment, he knew you were his. The corners of his mouth arched so intensely that no amount of makeup could cover Arthur's arousing wrinkles any longer. He knew very well that he was the devil coming to claim what was his, and his gentle demeanor had shifted drastically to reflect that and scorch you. His inquisitive eyes onto the soft edges of the red brassiere, his tongue strolling over his lips lusciously, you were soon humming to yourself.

‘I… I am about to fuck you into next month. I hope you cancelled your plans, pussycat.’

His bluntness made it clear that Arthur had left you at the mercy of this clown, yet every atom of your body craved him.

‘How gallant… What about your criminal activities?’

‘I'm taking a small vacation. My men will shake things up enough to keep your buddies doing overtime. As for being a gentleman, I’m done with that for tonight.’

‘What if I say no?’

‘I made sure you wouldn't do that last night’

The moment you felt his ragged breath against your skin, you melted away in his arms, like gold in a fire pit. You gave in completely to his hungry lips trembling as he kissed you, his whole body as tense as a string, savoring you with heavy gulps. The intensity of his grip, the weight of his body, the shivers in his flesh betrayed the end of a painful anticipation that he'd yearned for. The bitterness of his makeup was the first shock, the second was his body weight heavy against you, the third the most unnerving, ohhh la la! If one lit a match you'd both combust in flames.

‘How about we skip the pleasantries, mm?’ he whispered in between heavy gulps of you, far from asking for permission.

The taste of his mouth, a mélange of cigarettes, wine, bitter makeup, each flavor made your limits become optional. Lace was suddenly no longer a threat for your breasts, as his fingers bared your chest for his delight, quickly followed by his painted thin lips. Something about him made you feel like a dangerous woman. Devouring you whole, shoulders, neck, breasts, his makeup brushed faded color tracing his steps, little moans escaping his throat at the taste of your skin. To your left, a full gallery of your ardent attempts to bring him back. You’d been afraid for so long to articulate your feelings for him even to yourself, always denying the possible realization of this moment. But his warm tongue strolling along your navel was a check mate to your insecurities, and now your body was his canvas, painting you in shades of Joker.

As he got on his knees, you felt yours would weaken in an instant, the heels of your stilettos working their way to penetrate yours.

‘I think we should take the advice in the rulebook and avoid exposure to lace for too long, don't you?’ his nimble fingers removed the lace panties and his tongue invaded your core before you could object. As if.

Fuck yesss… you exhaled a touch too loudly.

‘Oh dear, where are your manners, young lady?’ as if he wasn't speaking with a mouthful.

The sight of his green hair falling over the red jacket, his wide eyes pinned on yours, his mouth gobbling at you had been your usual suspects for the past year. But you'd imagined Arthur under the makeup, and these darkened eyes betrayed another beast altogether, a hungry, voracious beast. A surprisingly crafty one, within seconds he'd made you purr uncontrollably.

An outpour of sensation washed over you, body and mind together feeling so sensual and wanted, he was controlling your body with his tongue even as he knelt before you. You’d been intoxicated by the smell of cologne, cigarette and faint gasoline, your finger tips tracing the freshly applied white makeup and green dye on his temples. Soon enough, the slick bastard was maneuvering your clit, exposing and tasting it to his own pleasure. For a second, he moaned as he lost himself in your folds, the sounds of him enjoying what he was doing to you made you pulsate on his tongue. He'd rattled you down to your heels, you were panting so hard you were afraid you would tumble.

‘Joker… I’m gonna fall…’

‘Now now… let me finish this first, then you can fall for me, kitten.’

It hadn't even crossed your mind to make that connection, but you were once again red-handed. You couldn't help but let out a silly school girl giggle as he got up and lifted you in his arms, so much stronger than his slim complexion let see, carrying you to the large sofa, gently laying you in a corner.

‘Is this better?’

Your eyes the size of two full moons, you nodded.

‘Keep those devils on, will you?’ winking at the red soles of the Louboutins you'd chosen for the occasion. You nodded once more with beggar eyes.

‘The taste of you… mmm how I’ve yearned for it… I wasn't joking about your cancelled plans. Don't say you weren't warned' he whispered as he kissed you, his taste and yours mingled on his lips were an aphrodisiac. You nodded obediently one last time.

Kneeling once again between your thighs, he proceeded to unbutton his vest, then his shirt, yet maintaining eye contact. Damn, that new treatment must have been making miracles. You had never been intimate with Arthur before, but you couldn't miss that it was Joker in between your thighs. You’d be shamelessly lying if you said you didn't want him to take you just like this, a painted, deranged clown that had been stalking you for months, the danger an essential part of the thrill.

As he bared his chest, a deep purple covered part of his left ribcage underneath the teal shirt, his nightlife trade in violence etched onto his body, causing you to frown with genuine concern. That must have been why he seemed to flinch and change course at the thought of baring his body to you. In his own time.

You trembled as his warm breath spread over your clit, sinking his tongue in whatever he'd made of you already. The intense eye contact would be enough stimulant to answer your burning curiosities, but he had his to satisfy. Savoring each slurp, he was masterfully tensing you up like a guitar string ready to pop at the next twirl, and those diamonds around his eyes only served to plunge you into the ferocity of his curious gazes. You were a ball of ache to feel his flesh slither inside you, tongue, fingers, cock. The thirst you’d felt for him for so long was strikingly visible in your quivering body and four octave moans, his palms strolling across the red lace all the way up to your breasts. How insatiable he was in his exploration, each touch a stronger confirmation that you were really, finally his.

A soft stroke of his tongue over his lips yanked you out of any distraction, an uncontrolled twitch of your knees betraying a futile instinct of self preservation. Your reflexes had been off by around a year, though. You whined and moaned and shivered under his velvet lips as he strolled them down your breasts, your ribs, your belly button, feeling the jolts in your body and reveling in them as he hummed. Each kiss he carefully peppered onto your prickled skin sent you into a maddening spiral, your core a backdraft aching for him to extinguish. How ironic. You had grown up petrified of those nightmares of a dreadful clown chasing you down to eat you whole. Who would have thought these terrors would develop into consuming yearnings 20 years later?

The high that came with his virtuosity made the fabric of reality feel hazy, your fingers tangled in his green hair an anchor to the real world, where it seemed as if your body had been designed for him to unlock. With each feathery stroke he'd have you yearning for more, contorting in lust as he tasted you for his own pleasure. Your fingers on his white temple, he seemed intrigued by the beggar look staring right at him, so he buried his tongue deeper.

‘This tastes exactly how I imagined it…’

This hungry wolf kept on controlling your whole body through his tongue, slurping each drop of pleasure he brought. The narcissist in him was feeding off each reaction he ignited, reveling in the fact that he was the cause of all this hot mess, and you were falling like rain on a scorching mid summer day.

‘You rascal... Is this your MO, you threaten your prey 24 hours before the inevitable?’

‘I usually take ‘em by surprise'

Fire and ice collided in your core into an outwash of sensation and your eyes drowned in the back of your head as he gentry filled you up with one finger ‘Ohh… right there…’. It was too much to bear as his tongue played with your flushed bud and his finger stroke at your deepest well of intense pleasure. Never would you have thought Arthur capable of pleasuring a woman so exquisitely, but here he was, proving you wrong in the most delicious way you'd never imagined.

He was an artist after all, a nimble dancer who was born with music in his veins. And what is dancing than making love set to music? How he constantly drained you of every drop of pleasure with his skillful tongue, as if he'd finally found his vocation. The tenderness of his touches betrayed a long lasting want for you in his arms, a haunting want that he'd finally captured and was now close enough to taste.

‘Oh God, this is too good, please keep going' your voice had turned into beseeching cries.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yes, please…’

‘Mmm… Right here?’

‘Y… yes… don't stop please', the words poured out as if coming from the sweetest place of ecstasy, the beggar look and pulsating muscles a dead giveaway.

‘Come for me, pussycat, and look at me as you do...’

His command to come for him tipped you off the edge instantly, he had released the hold on the leaning rollercoaster, his tongue twirling and stroking your flushed bud. His piercing eyes gleamed as your skin went aflame and you combusted in his mouth harder than you’d ever had before. Your mind was devoid of thought as you let yourself sink into his fervent caresses. He held you down as you bucked and convulsed in blissful agony pinned onto his finger, he sank his nose and tongue into your cunt, prideful for making you come so soon. You felt flushed, ravaged, trembling from all joints, your eyes in the back of your head unable to contain their fluttering any longer. His starved frenzy had eased into careful strokes with a soft tongue, comforting you through the dwindling climax.

‘Whoa, hello there, pussycat… how I love hearing you purr like this for me’

He climbed up to you gently, the widest, proudest grin imaginable etched on his face as he smacked his lips. The lower half was smudged enough for his mouth to be visible under a glistening coat of you, and there it was. The scar that you'd specifically left out of the composite sketch. It was very old, a part of him, his face branded uniquely. As much as the clown costume spewed fire down your spine, you so badly wanted to see Arthur without it once again.

‘Joker…’

‘Yeah?’

‘I'm gonna…’

‘Come again?’

His nimble fingers were skillfully riding you fast towards another orgasm, your core still highly sensitive after your first one.

‘That's it kitten, give this joker what he wants. You're so damn beautiful, I want all of you'

His savory whispers lifted you to your peak, then his lips kissed you through your implosive ecstasy as your whole body quivered under his. The taste of you on his lips should be his new cologne from then on. After he’d seeded those thoughts the night before, it wasn't at all surprising how your body overreacted to his touches. Murmuring softly in your ear, he slowly released the grip as you descended from the second high. Your palms caressed his jawline, the feel of paint covering his skin a contradiction you'd never felt before. But here he was, teaching you what you didn't know how.

‘There there, I’ll let go now'

‘No, don't, please. Give me more…' You begged, commanding respect as the highly virtuous, dignified lady you were in that moment.

His smile as wide as on Christmas morning, his eyebrows raised, a chuckle exulting his whole body, he clearly hadn't expected that reaction so soon. Cat's out of the bag now.

‘Well well well… Look at you beg!'

‘I didn't beg…!'

‘But you will'

You should have known better than falling into that again, but you were too distracted with unbuttoning his red pants and finding the real culprit for your sleepless nights. If you'd known Joker from so many accounts, this had not been in any police record. But boy, it should have been, you wouldn't have thinned your art exhibitions to avoid being found, what a ridiculous thing to do!

With a swift motion, he was already in between your thighs. Lowering his white briefs and positioning himself at your glistening entrance, he was massaging with the tip, testing your sensitivity. This surely wasn't the same gallant gentleman who'd wooed you so far, this was another animal who was toying with his food, and you had willingly stepped into his lair.

‘Is that a threat or a promise?’

His eyes squinted in the dim light, a smug smile to his ears and your whole body jolted at the feel of him entering you all the way down, groaning with eyes in the back of his head.

‘Knowing me, what’s the difference?’

You molded so well on him as he filled you up and some more, his arms locking you down for his pleasure. Careful and gentle at first, his knees deep in the couch the more he'd bury himself into you, his face immersed in your hair gulping your scent, his tongue nibbling your ear.

‘And now I’m inside you. All the way inside you', his hand caressing your jawline, shyly brushing over your gaping mouth before kissing you.

Releasing yourself to him had been the epitome of the most ardent desires clawing out of you progressively. You‘d craved each and every word he was whispering in your ear as he was having you. His size filled you all the way in, you must have been molded to him or else you could not fathom how you'd never felt so awash as you did with Joker. He was going there, working exquisitely to get his little prize again, and it was terrifying how familiar he had become with your sweet spot in under an hour. Perhaps you'd anticipated this moment for months on end that his slightest touch would just keep you hooked in a state of blissful tension. His slim body felt heavy over you, his sharp pelvis bones grinding against your inner thighs, his protruding ribs over yours.

And yet he was so beautiful, no other man had ever awakened such riveting feelings inside your gut so effortlessly. The amount of torment this man had felt throughout his life, and yet he was still capable of making you feel such heart warming bliss in his arms. As he'd wrapped you around him tight, his palm on your cheek, his forehead to yours, it was clear you weren't just tonight's fuck. He had longed for you, and you were finally his. And his you were.

‘I'd asked myself so many times why you kept painting me, and what would you think about when you did that… Am I on the right track?’

You were a broken record of enticing approvals, your mind and body in ecstatic agony. This was not the same man from Pogo's Comedy Club, or the same man on the police car for that matter. This man was phlegmatic, charismatic and gallant enough to be a dirty flirt, and so goddamn dashing in his suit and makeup. Everything about him was such a contradiction it was driving you rabid.

Getting plowed you screamed and panted heavily, your core soaking him whole. His strokes were taking you to the edge, had they been delicate so far, now they were progressively vicious as he heard you whimper. Your mind was a sweet void, a deep abyss of shivers and tingles shrouding you in free fall, your dry lips pleading him to keep going.

As he bit his lips, his facial features turned aggressive, his eyes dark with lust. You moaned as he laid you down and fucked you hard and deep, hitting your sweet spot rhythmically, your cries fuel to his ego. The sneaky bastard was grinning at the sight of his kitten crumbling under his pleasure, so damn proud of himself.

‘You've been thinking about this for a while, haven’t you?’

Your five senses were invaded by his forehead sweaty onto yours, his eyes a hypnotizing flood of green murky waters, the smell of ammonia and cigarettes filling your nostrils, his husky voice whispering softly as his cock rummaged your sweet spot.

‘You want to be my precious little slut doll, don't you? Come for me.’

Oh god… a new set of pleasure waves rushed through your flesh progressively. Something about the way he cursed sent you into a spiral, how it tipped you over into another outpour of muscle spasms. Under tight grips, he fucked you the way you needed to be fucked, fast and hard, without a pinch of mercy, his cock growing stronger under your spastic contractions, Arthur must have left the building completely. You slowly shed every ounce of ecstasy as he trailed his eyes down your body, his breath ragged, his voice purring little silent curses.

You're here, really here, you're mine, all mine, his voice whispered right before his sea green eyes disappeared in the back of his head and you felt a strong throb rushing through you as he spilled himself into you, shuddering, panting, gasping for air. His moans in pleasure were an aphrodisiac you’d never believed you'd get a taste of. But here it was, and all you wanted was to savor it at your discretion again and again.

As he descended from his high, his body felt heavy and his heart galloped against your chest, yet his lips still lingered on your skin, peppering it with red traces of himself. Joker had ousted the whole world from your senses, leaving only himself under your skin, his embrace the safest shelter for both.

‘If you only knew…’ he whispered as he lay his face to rest in the nuzzle of your neck ‘… just how many times I’ve played this in my head, kitten… If there's one good thing out of my condition, it's that my imagination can be blissfully vivid.’ His fingers deciphered your face gently, grabbling the warmth of the skin. ‘But every time I’d wake hopeful, you weren't there. And that's when it was most cruel and bitter…’The faltering of his voice played the piano tiles of an innocent, tormented concerto that filled the room despite the windy night.

‘But I am here now, Arthur'

‘You are… yes, you are…’

The sweetness of his soft lips deliciously covering your face until reaching your mouth, he'd been right when predicting your fall for him, and what a rhapsodic fall he'd triggered. The silence of his tight embrace said more than you'd ever dared hope for, but a playful hum lingered in his throat as the words murmured indelibly.

Someday when I’m awfully low, when the world is cold

I will feel a glow just thinking of you, and the way you look tonight

His husky voice gave you shivery prickles, and a chuckle escaped you remembering the direction of Sinatra's lyrics, what a master of anticipation Arthur had become.

*Knock knock*

Arthur's voice froze in an instant, your heart almost bursting into his palm, he placed a finger over your lips to shush you.

A voice with a British accent apologized for the intrusion and set your mind at ease, but had clearly set Arthur on edge. By his puzzled reaction, he had meant his promise of a vacation and an interruption couldn't be a good omen.

‘Ahhhh shit, Gary! He wouldn't bother unless it was important. Stay here, kitten, I'll be right back. COMING!'

Untangling himself from you proved difficult for both as he kissed your lips one last time while tucking himself back into his pants. You'd covered half your face with the first pillow to stifle your giggles as he stumbled putting his shoes on, seemingly willing to greet Gary with his lower face smudged in a most decadent mixture of you both.

‘Arthur… that suit won't cover the lower half of your face, you know?’

An eyebrow twitch stopped him in his haste to ponder at your hint, the realization of it spreading a most endearing smile of the night onto his face. Your heart coiled at his complicit chuckle of needing to put Joker back on as he'd forgotten him for a second.

Two minutes later he bowed gracefully, his makeup shamefully half applied over the initial mess.

‘Gary's my best man, he's seen worse of me. But what’s a valiant knight to do if not protect his sweet damsel's virtue?’

A wink and a quick peck on the lips, so comfortingly as if you'd known each other for ages, and off he went.

As he will, undoubtedly…

[artificialqueens]

All I’ve Got To Keep Myself Sane, 2/8 (Jackie/Widow) - Juno

Chapter summary: Jackie is becoming more and more tense as they journey to New Jersey. Widow tries to get some answers from her, but staying awake in the passenger seat is proving difficult.

A/N: Thank you for your support on this. No CWs but there is a lot of angst in this chapter so… yeah. I hope you enjoy part two.

WIDOW

“Queen of Wands – Fire – feisty woman, confidence, passion

The Tower – upheaval, disgrace, liberation

Five of Cups – Water – loss, abandonment, forgiveness.”

Widow read Dahlia’s spidery handwriting for what felt like the thousandth time since she’d gotten out of the car. The meaning of the final reading that Dahlia had given her was becoming clearer. Widow knew the feisty woman was herself, and the upheaval was this moment, more than likely.

It was the last part that troubled her still.

She was still mentally kicking herself for sleeping the entire way down so far. She hadn’t meant to sleep; she’d just closed her eyes to think and the next thing she knew, she was in the middle of the Tuscarora forest. But she reasoned to herself that as she’d had no sleep at all the night before, it was no wonder the metronomic rhythm of the car had lulled her straight to sleep.

Widow dropped her cigarette into the ashtray at the picnic table, wishing it was something a little stronger maybe.

Speaking of which …

She replaced the notebook with her phone, and sent a text to Crystal.

Widow: Crys! I’m hitting u up girl! Gonna be in AC before 7! Xx

Widow had known Crystal since high school, and she was one of the warmest people that Widow knew, even if she never replied to messages within six hours. Widow was sure she’d let her stay if it came to that. Get a job. Maybe even restart her accounting classes next semester, and finally get her qualification.

She checked her savings on her online banking on her phone, the excited twinge she always felt as they grew and grew providing some comfort even now. She didn’t need much more now to have enough to pay for her final year, even though she’d dipped into it this morning, to bring her to AC.

Jackie was walking back over to her on her perch at the picnic table, an uneasy silhouette. Widow internally cringed at her awkwardness, as if she still couldn’t believe she was taking a woman she’d only just met on a trip.

“Can we – shall we get back on the road?”

“Sure.”

Widow brushed the ash from her skirt as she stood, following Jackie silently back to the car.

Jackie insisted on no music for this round of driving, which didn’t make sense to Widow; the constant silence was more unnerving than the music, she thought. But Jackie was doing her a huge favour, and Widow didn’t want to rock the boat, to disturb this woman.

Especially as she seemed to be running away from something. Her face was grimly fixed on the road, her eyes blank and dull, lips pursed.

The warm weather was starting to get to Widow, even with the window wide open. She kicked off her shoes and busied herself wriggling out of her pantyhose, before balling them up and tossing them to the floor of the car.

“That’s better,” she muttered with a sigh. “Just need one more thing to make it perfect.”

Without asking, wondering she could get away with it, she took her cigarettes from her jacket pocket and popped one into her mouth as fast as she could.

Jackie didn’t notice until Widow clicked the lighter.

“What are you doing?”

“Smoking,” Widow replied simply, leaning out the passenger window to blow the smoke. “See, I won’t harm your precious car.”

Jackie’s mouth opened and closed, before that same strange dullness appeared in her eyes once more. “Alright. Cool.”

Widow turned back to face the front, chewing her bottom lip.

Something was going on with this woman.

Jackie had had a blank look on her face since Widow had asked if she’d give her a ride to AC. In fact, Widow had been almost certain she’d refuse. Hell, Widow herself didn’t think she’d do it for someone she didn’t know. And she definitely expected – hoped for, even – a reaction just then in lighting her cigarette, but nothing.

A theory started to form in Widow’s mind. A theory she hoped she was mistaken on. She resolved to try to establish what was going on in this woman’s head. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it hadn’t hurt Widow much in her twenty five years on this planet.

“So, you liked Pittsburgh then?” Widow asked as nonchalantly as she could.

“No.”

“Why not? It’s a great city.”

“It sucks.” Vitriol dripped like poison from the edges of Jackie’s words.

She was so focused on the road that her filter between her mind and her tongue was loosening. Widow had hoped that would be the case. Some people simply couldn’t drive and tell a lie at the same time. Widow had to keep pushing her a little.

“Alright, it sucks,” Widow nodded. Just as nonchalantly, with a shrug, she added “Man trouble?”

“More like woman trouble.”

“Alright. So, what’s her name?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does if you drove all the way here from New York for her,” Widow smirked. “She must be amazing.”

Jackie’s knuckles tightened at the wheel as Widow mentioned New York.

“Girl, don’t panic, it’s on your fucking license plate!” Widow cackled. “What do you do in New York, then?”

“I work in sales, for an IT software firm. Trying to get new deals, new customers.”

“Oh, cool,” Widow nodded. Jackie didn’t sound too enthused about her job.

“What do you do?” Jackie murmured distractedly, her eyes still on the road ahead.

Widow tried to stop the smile from spreading on her face. “You saw me! I worked at a gas station until about three hours ago!”

“Oh, yeah,” Jackie said with a quiet giggle.

“It’s just for now,” Widow continued, “I was studying to become an accountant. Been saving the last year or so I’ve been in Pittsburgh, for my final year. Then I can qualify and join an accounting firm, or something.”

“Yeah,” Jackie murmured.

Her eyes were fixed on the road, and Widow could tell she wasn’t listening any more.

Crystal had always called her boring for being so into her accounting studies, and Widow had always grinned and agreed with her. Maybe she was a little boring, being an aspiring accountant, but she was just a fully-grown Math nerd at heart, and damn proud of it.

It had been her accountant uncle who had encouraged her to start the course after school, and she’d done the first two years back in Kansas City. But Widow hadn’t felt inclined to study, in the year since her mom had passed away. Since she’d moved to Pennsylvania to live with him.

Hastily she pushed the memory aside. It was still too raw.

Widow finished her cigarette and tossed it away, winding her window back up.

The rhythm of the car, combined with the fact she hadn’t had a proper sleep the night before, just turned into background noise as she curled herself into the seat and closed her eyes, falling back into a doze.

——

Jackie stopped for gas again a little way past Harrisburg, a little over an hour from Philadelphia. Widow woke with a start, freed from another one of those dreams which she never quite remembered, but didn’t seem to let her wake up.

She waved some bills at Jackie, but Jackie ignored her as she got out the car.

That riled Widow up, and as soon as Jackie got back in the car, Widow shoved the notes into Jackie’s hand.

“I don’t mind,” Jackie held them back out. “You don’t have to pay me.”

“Hey, I’m trying to pay my way.” Widow frowned. “You don’t need to be like that with me. I’ve got cash. I can pay you for what you’re doing for me.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Widow’s skin was starting to prickle with anger. “Stop feeling sorry for me. I’m not some fucking sympathy case. I’m a grown woman just like you. We all know money is tight, right? Let me contribute.”

“Look I – I don’t need the money. It’s fine. I –“ Jackie mumbled, pushing her hair out of her face, “I don’t need the cash.”

Widow spluttered with the absurdity. “Bullshit. Now you’re being patronising. I don’t need a fucking pity party.”

“I just – it’s fine!”

Widow reclined for a split second at the frantic cry in Jackie’s voice – not an angry sound, but a perturbed one. Widow’s own anger was already starting to fray a little at the edges, never lasting for long; the heat prickling in her skin starting to simmer down. Jackie, on the other hand, looked slightly hysterical.

“I’m sorry, I’m just …” Jackie’s voice shook with emotion as she trailed off. Widow felt it was worth one more push.

“Just tell me what’s going on. You don’t know me; I can’t judge you!”

Come on, Jackie. Tell me. Talk to me.

But Jackie breathed once, twice, and Widow watched the dull, blank veneer creep back over her face, as she folded the money with one hand and put it into her pocket.

“It doesn’t matter. Thank you for the gas money, Widow. I appreciate it.”

Widow turned back to face the road as Jackie started the engine again, and the car purred back onto the highway. Something was definitely going on. But Widow had barely started to contemplate it before the steady rhythm of the car sent her back to sleep.

——

Widow was glad to be awoken from yet another dream by Jackie leaning on her horn, someone leaning back on theirs in front of them. They were stuck in traffic on a road through Philadelphia. Her throat was dry, but she took out a cigarette and lit it up, blowing smoke rings out the window.

It was just gone five before they cleared Philly, and the roads were still a little congested, but Jackie turned off the turnpike, and into a lay-by next to a service station, trees sat all around them.

“What are you doing?” Widow asked tentatively.

Jackie stopped the engine. “Just hungry. I’m gonna get a sandwich.”

“Alright, sounds like a plan.”

Widow stepped out of the car too, following an exasperated Jackie into the building. She picked up a cheese sandwich and paid the assistant, cringing at the similar uniform to Widow’s own, and was back at the car before Jackie arrived.

The wind was picking up the nearer they got to the coast, and Jackie’s dark hair whipped around her as she approached; she held the sandwich up to try to shield her face from her hair.

They got back in the car, sitting in silence once more. Widow had unwrapped her sandwich and had eaten half of it before she noticed that Jackie was staring at her, expression unreadable, having barely touched her sandwich.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m just … confused!” Jackie said, her voice rising again.

“Why?”

“You’re – you just got in a car with me, today, and you’re fine with me just taking you across the state?”

Honestly, Widow was as surprised as Jackie was, and more surprised it had taken Jackie this long to even bring it up.

She’d fought with the impulse for a few seconds, back at Pittsburgh, somewhere between the gas station and Donegal. She was in a strange car, with a total stranger. An increasingly intriguing stranger, but still a stranger, someone she had never met until ten minutes earlier. She’d just done all the things she’d always advised her cousins back in Missouri not to do.

She barely understood it herself, but Jackie had put herself in danger too, getting her away from that creep earlier. And it wasn’t like she was planning on making this kind of thing a regular occurrence, anyway.

“People still hitch rides from vans and shit,” Widow muttered finally.

“Do you?”

“No.”

“Then tell me why you’re here. Why AC. And why me. Why do you trust meenough to do this? I don’t get it.”

Widow looked at Jackie, whose anxiety was palpable in the air. She sighed, realising that she would have to give Jackie some sort of explanation to ease her mind a little.

“It’s kind of hard to explain. Atlantic City keeps coming up for me at the moment. My friend Crystal, she moved there back in April. And then me and my friend Dahlia, back in Pittsburgh, did some pendulum work for a meaningful location, and it came through. And when you offered me a ride … well, you said you were going there.”

Jackie was frowning slightly.

“It’s too much of a coincidence. Dahlia did a fortune for me last night. She reads Tarot, has done for years. I only asked you about Atlantic City because the rest of the fortune seemed to ring true. When you said you were going there …” Widow shrugged. “It’s crazy, I know, but it almost felt like this was meantto happen.”

Widow watched as Jackie calmed, her breathing starting to calm, her knuckles no longer white against the wheel.

“You’re right,” Jackie muttered finally, “that does sound crazy.”

But she was starting to chuckle. Quietly, but amused rather than frightened. Widow joined her, and soon they were laughing along with each other.

“I’m sorry for being patronising earlier, too,” Jackie said solemnly, gazing at Widow, but she didn’t need to; Widow could feel her sincerity. “I don’t know why I said that to you. It was rude of me.”

“It’s alright,” Widow brushed her off. “It’s done. Gone. So, can you tell me why you came to Pittsburgh in the first place?” She asked tentatively.

“I –“ Jackie turned to face the front, licking her lips. “This isn’t about me right now.”

“It is.”

“What?”

“Why the hell are you doing this, too?” Widow kept the same quiet tone of voice, a vague attempt to calm the frightened woman before her. “This isn’t just about me. We’re both fucked up.”

“I’m not fucked up.” Jackie’s meagre protest wasn’t fooling anyone, and Widow knew that she knew it.

“This woman, the one you came to see,” Widow said quietly, and Jackie’s sharp inhale told her that she’d hit a nerve. Jackie looked out the front, the hand on the wheel clenching again.

Suddenly, all the lines of thought connected in Widow’s mind..

Something had gone wrong with her, and now Jackie was running from her.

“What’s her name?” Widow asked, the same quiet tone.

“Stop it,” Jackie whispered.

“Just say her name.”

“Stop it.” More firmly this time.

“Get it off your chest, girl.”

“Stop IT!” Jackie’s fists came down onto the steering wheel, the horn blaring, a group of birds scattering, taking flight in the fields before them before settling back.  

Widow watched her helplessly. As she watched, the calm veneer returned to Jackie’s face. The only thing that gave her away were her shaking hands, even as she forced a smile back onto her lips.

“Do you – do you want to carry on then?”

“You can’t drive like that,” Widow motioned to her hands. “We’ll be wiggling all over the highway.” She grabbed one of Jackie’s hands from the steering wheel, holding in a gasp at how cold they were. “Just – just calm down. Take a few minutes to calm down.”

“Jan,” Jackie whispered.

“What?” Widow looked up suddenly.

Jackie clenched Widow’s hand as if she were an anchor, keeping her on the ground.

“Her name is Jan.”

And Jackie broke down.

[benscursedkid]

what you make it

aisling casey x badeea ali

words: 882

a/n: okay, so firstly i started this ages ago and i am so sorry it only got finished now. secondly, i apologize again for my lack of content recently but i have been extremely busy as of late but i hope to catch a break soon!

listened to ocean eyes by billie eilish while writing if that helps!! as a thank you to @badeeaswife for her gift fic which you should absolutely read (metronome hearts) and for just being an amazing person. i hope you like it mori and i really hope i got aisling right and if not i apologize in advance!! ✨💙

*alternatively titled: diamond mind*

Something about the black lake always seemed to shimmer.

It’s a shame really, how almost no one seemed to notice. Too appalled by the thick surface color, they never stop to consider the way the light reflects off the top, like a mirror of waves. The sun’s rays spare no mercy as they beat down insessantly on the water, allowing for specks and tiny stars of light to bounce off. It’s just as beautiful as the bluest ocean or golden beach, better even when you take into account just how unique it is.

This is especially true when the gentle afternoon breeze ripples the water, casting a sense of serenity across the field surrounding it.

Badeea closes her eyes, reveling in the way the grass brushes across her cheek as she tries to get the right angle. The Hogwarts castle is a nice touch for the background, the way it sits lonely atop the hill.

Her hands itch for her paintbrush, a snowy white canvas, blank and waiting for her to lavish it in color. However, the canvas sits in her dorm, too big to bring all the way out here. Instead, she makes do with the pencil in her hand, exaggerating every stroke to match reality.

Many people may disagree that the scene of the black lake has masterpiece potential, but Badeea likes to think otherwise. There’s more than seven wonders in the world and she knows because she’s lived thousands. Art isn’t about replicating reality, it’s about shaping it the way you see it so others can see it, too.

Moments are what you make them, so why not make them beautiful?

Just as she’s finishing up some last minute details, a dark head of hair pops up over the hill. Much to her delight, it is exactly who she expected and her heart skips in excitement.

When her companion is finally within hearing distance, Badeea smirks coyly behind her drawing.

“You know,” She says impishly as they set their things down in the grass beside her. “For someone obsessed with time, you’re rather late.”

Aisling pouts from her spot beside her, using her bag as a pillow. “I tried to get here sooner but Snape was being particularly spiteful today, Di.”

Badeea attempted a straight face, but soon exploded into little giggles at the thought of her girlfriend serving a detention for Snape. She’s never experienced such a thing herself, but she can only imagine how tedious it could be for Aisling, much to Snape’s enjoyment.

Clicking her tongue with a poorly veiled grin, she doesn’t catch the way Aisling smiles at her softly. She releases a sigh. “I suppose you’re forgiven.”

Now it’s Aisling turn to grin as they settle into a comfortable silence. The latecomer conjures a book from her bag while Badeea attempts to resume her project.

The two of them never really needed words, anyway. It was never about such things between them. No, it was more like mutual understanding, compassion, companionship. And sometimes, like now, with everything always going on around them, that’s all they really need.

However, it seems that her companion is being extremely distracting...

Without second thought, the Ravenclaw flips to the next empty page in her journal, abandoning her previous attempt. The suns rays and the water’s reflection centers and fractures around Aisling in such a way that makes fingers twitch. The gentle breeze combing through her short curls doesn’t help either.

She doesn’t know what she’s doing, not really. Allowing her hand to simply drift across the page, she decides to let chance take a turn in her journal. However, before she knows it, a familiar face is looking back at her.

By this time Aisling has given up her reading and has decided to just enjoy the sun and her tranquil surroundings. Her eyes have fallen closed, a hand draped leisurely across her forehead as shadows pass overhead, grinning at the way the blades of grass caress her cheeks.

And, really, it’s not fair. Or at least if you asked Badeea it isn’t. She’s never seen anyone so pretty before...

So pretty

Finally looking down to her page, Badeea is pleased to find Aisling dreaming back at her. She’s quite proud of it, actually. She had made sure not to miss a single detail or perfection, right down the the individual freckles on the bridge of her nose.

It was perfect, she thought. Though, she thinks she might want to keep this one for herself. Something about the intimacy squeezed between every curve and pencil stroke just seems for private, something to admire in peace.

“You finished, Di?”

Badeea starts, not having expected her to speak. Quite frankly she thought Aisling was asleep. “Wha–”

“It’s hard to keep your endeavors a secret from students and staff without knowing when you’re being watched.”

The artist splutters, a flush warming her cheeks as Aisling grins satisfactorily. At this, her cheeks puff and she squares her shoulders.

“I had to,” She insists, her pencil lying limp in her grip, her dark eyes trained on her sketch. “For science... and art.”

“I know,” Comes Aisling’s easy reply as she reaches for Badeea’s hand and even dares to lean forward, placing a chaste but oh so soft kiss against her cheek. “I know.”

[beca-mitchell]

if you want it, you can have it 

Summary: (est. relationship) Beca and Chloe go back to Seattle to visit Beca’s mom/visit Beca’s old childhood home. Chloe finds out that Beca can play the piano really well. They have sex. That’s it.

Rated E for Everyone.

No, but seriously, high rating.

Word count: 4,381

Dedicated to @velmster, my bff (bechloe fanfic friend/best friend forever) who headcanons this stuff with me and tolerates my existence online and irl.

“Mom?” Beca’s voice echoes in the foyer. She hears Chloe quietly click the door shut and feels her footsteps behind her. “She did say she was going to be at a friend’s place today helping with some get-together.” Shrugging, she turns to help Chloe with the bags. “I’ll put these in my room,” she says.

Chloe nods absentmindedly, taking in the photos lining the walls. She grins at the sight of Beca as a toddler, posing and grinning cheekily at the camera while wearing the frilliest bathing suit. It’s possibly the most adorable thing she’s ever seen.

Upstairs, Beca takes stock of her room, mostly untouched by her mother over the years. She has tried convincing her mother to turn it into something more useful, like another guest room, but her mother is adamant about preserving this specific point of Beca’s life even though she’s almost a decade past this stage. Seattle will always be home, but lately she’s been thinking about how comfortable she feels in L.A. and how much she’s looking forward to making a home of her own with the one person that matters most.

She eyes the fading posters – various band and concert posters – and the sketches from when she had an art phase in high school. There’s something ethereal about her room, from the double bed – she’ll have to thank her mother for changing her sheets often enough – to the tiny desk where she used to spend hours mixing music that she never thought people would hear.

It reminds her of how there’s a very willing audience member, the person who has always valued her contributions – musical and otherwise – and who loves her through the chaos that has become her life since the fame she never expected.

Chloe’s carefully snapping photos of her favourite photos of baby Beca and grouchy teenage Beca when she hears the sound of Beca’s door closing upstairs. She hears Beca rushing back down the stairs, hair just the slightest bit out of place. She smiles, nudging her shoes to the side just as Beca eagerly grabs her hands and pulls her further into the house.

There’s a very specific warmth that Chloe attributes to the way Beca just lights up at the sight of old photos and the atmosphere of what Chloe knows to be her childhood home.

“I can make you something to eat, if you want. What do you want to do?”

Chloe shrugs, not really caring either way. She follows Beca into the kitchen and hops up on the counter. “I could go for water. We could hold off on food because we’re going out for dinner anyway, right?” Her smile becomes mischievous. “We could do some other things since we’re alone.”

Beca’s eyes dart up from where she’s washing her hands in the sink. “Oh?” she voices, interest colouring her tone. A half-smirk tugs at her lips, making Chloe instinctively clench her hand into a fist on her thigh. “Like what?” she asks, eyes darting to Chloe’s mouth as she nears closer.

Chloe blushes at the way Beca casually nudges her legs apart, moving so she’s standing right in front of Chloe, pressed against her lightly. She looks up, eyes bright and hopeful, of all things. Chloe can’t resist, so she cups the back of Beca’s neck and leans down for a kiss, instantly welcoming Beca’s tongue into her mouth. Beca tastes vaguely of mint and a little bit of the Sprite she had on the plane. It’s intoxicating enough by itself, though Beca’s hand gliding surely up Chloe’s thigh is enough to coax a quiet moan out of her.

"What should we do now?" Beca whispers again against her skin, lips gliding languidly along Chloe’s jaw.

Chloe manages a quick exhale, because obviously, but she wants to see everything about what Beca’s life was like before Barden – before Chloe. "Can I have a tour?"

Beca looks like she’s trying to figure out whether to let disappointment or confusion show on her face. “A tour,” she repeats, her eyes darting back to Chloe’s mouth helplessly. “Fine,” Beca grumbles when Chloe arches a brow.

Chloe just grins at her and leaps down, not giving Beca a chance to say anything else. “Where to first?”

Beca considers the question seriously. “How about my room?” Beca suggests. “There’s really not much to show in this house, I promise. I’ll show you my room and then the basement, I guess." She begins leading Chloe out of the kitchen. "There’s a piano down there,” she adds.

Chloe looks at Beca curiously. "A piano? Whose is it?"

Beca eyes her oddly. “Mine,” she admits, though it’s with hesitance.

“I – you can play?” Chloe feels mildly embarrassed even asking the question. Even after years of knowing Beca and just under a year of dating, she still feels like she learns something new about Beca every day. “I mean, I’ve seen your keyboard, the one you use for mixing, but did you…play? Lessons?”

Beca realizes they’re probably not going to start a tour of any kind in her room, so she twists her fingers with Chloe’s and leads her to the basement instead. “Years of lessons,” Beca says. “Dad’s idea.”

The basement is inviting, with a small seating area and comfortable couches. Just off-center, is a piano, standing alone. There are books on top of it, a metronome, and a few pens and pencils, as if the entire scene is just waiting for its owner to return home.

Chloe has loved music all her life – has lived and breathed it, essentially. She has never been particularly well-versed in the piano. She grew up dabbling in the violin because her parents thought it would help shape her character, but she dropped her lessons somewhere around the end of middle school and joined her high school’s choir, glee club, and whatever singing opportunities presented themselves. She reaches out with reverence, holding her breath, even, and traces the cold keys.

It’s an upright piano, nothing too lavish. It has a wooden finish, bronzed wheels, and well-kept keys. Chloe looks up to see a reverent expression on Beca’s face as well, directed at the piano.

Beca steps around the piano, eyes locked on the way Chloe’s fingers trace the keys that she spent so much time labouring over, sometimes even crying over them through the fights her parents would have. It makes her swallow, the duality of seeing her present and past mingling in the midst of everything.

Chloe looks like she doesn’t quite want to pry, so she draws her hand back, holding her wrist with her other hand. She inhales, nodding once, smiling at Beca encouragingly. She can tell that this is something important to Beca, something that defines her very existence, though she knows that prying does little good when it comes to Beca Mitchell.

The light is a little dim in the basement because there’s a bulb that hasn’t yet been replaced. Despite that, Beca can see the eagerness in Chloe’s eyes – the hope. She can’t help it, so she tugs out the bench and sits primly, hands folded in her lap. “What should I play?” Beca asks, offering Chloe the opening she didn’t take.

Chloe sighs. A million songs run through her mind. She settles on “something that you’d play, if you could play anything.”

Beca cracks her knuckles, making Chloe clench her fist again. “I’m going to warn you…I haven’t played in a while, okay? Not like this, anyway. I rarely get time to sit at a piano.”

There’s something about Beca sitting behind the piano, small and demure, that really does something to Chloe. “Take your time,” she rasps.

She expects something classical or formal like Mendelssohn or Mozart, but of course Beca Mitchell wouldn’t bother with that (though she could if she wanted to).

The beginnings of Adele’s “Someone Like You” ring through the basement, echoing beautifully. Beca plays surely, with flourishes and a small crease between her brows. Chloe’s not sure what to do or where to look. She settles on the way Beca’s fingers fly surely across the keys, not making a single misstep.

And, like magic, Beca transitions beautifully into Coldplay’s “Paradise”, lingering only for the first verse and chorus. Beca would choose a mash-up. She seems to breathe with the music, fingers confident and precise. It makes Chloe’s chest tighten. She barely remembers to snap a photo and haphazardly puts her phone away, too enthralled by the way Beca completely commands the piano. She leans on its surface, watching with rapt attention.

Beca glances up at her, smiling a little shyly. “You can…” she half shrugs. “Sing, if you want.” She transitions into “Chasing Cars” with finesse and ease.

Chloe doesn’t need to be told twice.

Together, they carry the song home, through the first verse and chorus, just as before. Chloe thinks that Beca is literally glowing, and Beca can probably say the same.

Beca tries to focus on closing out the song because she can feel tension coiling somewhere in her lower abdomen and an increasing pressure on her chest. Chloe moves to stand beside her, body radiating warmth. They gravitate towards each other, no matter what they’re doing. It’s a by-product of how closely they lived their lives prior to their relationship (as well as the mutual pining that took place over the years).

Beca loves the sound of Chloe’s voice like this – soft and reserved only for her. She has always loved it and now has the privilege to suss out the nuances of Chloe’s moods and emotions based on her voice alone. She likes the sound of Chloe’s voice when she attempts to speak upon just waking up, with its very specific rasp that never fails to get Beca going. She likes the sound of Chloe’s voice when she’s telling a story. 

She likes the sound of Chloe’s voice when she’s trying to control herself - like now - because there’s always just the barest hint of thinly-veiled desperation. Beca clenches her thighs together, feeling the heat of Chloe’s body and the heat of Chloe’s gaze, which is fixated on her hands on the keys.

It’s making music – not just with their mouths – and Chloe eats it up. She tentatively reaches out to place a hand on Beca’s shoulder. There’s a brief moment as Beca tenses, but she relaxes, even going so far to tilt her head slightly into Chloe’s stomach. This – Beca and music – makes Chloe’s mind buzz with the sheer weight of how beautiful this moment is. It’s incredibly special and makes her wish that she could record this. She focuses on committing this to memory.

Fingers sure as ever, Beca wills herself to focus because Chloe’s breathing has quickened considerably.

Chloe watches the way her girlfriend’s fingers stroke softly over the keys until the song tepers out and finally ends altogether.

Beca clenches her hands this time and settles them on her lap, smiling weakly up at Chloe. “Well?” she asks lightly, standing to face Chloe fully, casual tone masking how weak she really feels under Chloe’s scrutiny.

Chloe’s breath comes out in short bursts, not entirely due to singing. Instead of responding, she tilts her head and pushes her mouth to Beca’s insistently. Beca’s hands fly immediately to her cheeks, holding her in place.

They war for dominance for a moment, piano keys clanging loudly in an ugly cacophony as Beca reaches a hand behind her to steady herself. She props a leg up on the piano bench as best as she can, trying to pull Chloe as close as possible.

With a firm grip on Beca’s thigh, Chloe struggles to contain herself for the moment. She can feel heat emanating from every part of Beca, especially from between her legs. The piano bench is too small and the basement is too sparse for either to serve any real purpose to her at the moment. “Show me your bedroom,” Chloe mumbles between kisses.

She’s thinking primarily about those long, talented fingers playing over her body with the same confidence and sureness.

There’s no room for argument, really.

Beca makes quick work of Chloe’s clothes, essentially dumping them all by the door of her bedroom once she kicks it shut with her foot.

“You’re overdressed,” Chloe says immediately, tugging Beca’s sweater over her head and tossing it aside. She notes that Beca’s still wearing clothes and sighs, continuing to undress her girlfriend. “You could help,” Chloe murmurs, tilting her head to the side so Beca can nip at her neck leisurely while she unzips Beca’s jeans. She pushes Beca back, stumbling a bit over the clothes at their feet.

“You were doing such a good job,” Beca replies, tugging Chloe closer. “C’mere,” she mumbles, cupping Chloe’s jaw and tilting her head back towards hers.

Chloe whimpers and lets Beca kiss her again. Her whimper quickly transitions into a moan when she feels Beca’s hand rake down her collarbone to her breast, quickly tightening her hand into a firm grip. It only causes the throbbing between her legs to intensify, causes her to push Beca back onto the bed, finally.

She sinks onto Beca’s lap comfortably once Beca is backed against the headboard of the bed. Beca’s hands rub up her thighs languidly, the memory of seeing those same hands across the piano only turning Chloe on further. She slants her lips over Beca’s, moaning when Beca immediately tugs at her bottom lip before sucking at it slowly 

“Right now,” Chloe mumbles. Beca obliges, gliding a hand between Chloe’s legs, stroking her gently, fingers nudging at a stiff nub. Chloe inhales sharply, moving to rest her forehead against Beca’s shoulders. She shifts her hips impatiently as Beca slides into her slowly, one finger first, then another. “God,” she croaks out, lifting her hips and dropping them back down once, experimentally.

Beca's gaze is dark – darker in the dim light. Chloe tries to take stock of how hungry Beca looks – the kind of hunger that means Chloe’s in for it – the kind of hunger that she saw a spark of downstairs by the piano.

Naked and sitting astride Beca’s lap, Chloe focuses then on the way Beca’s fingers feel inside her, curling slowly. She shifts restlessly, hips rolling experimentally. She whimpers at the sensation and feels Beca’s body shudder as well. Digging her nails into Beca’s shoulders, she tries to remember how Beca had looked, caressing ivory keys with finesse; the way she had moved masterfully.

Her knees dig straight into the slightly stiff mattress. Beca’s hand – the one that’s not currently occupied – comes up to stroke leisurely at her back. Just as Chloe moves her hips again, Beca’s fingers tense and dig right into the middle of her back, holding her close. She leans up, tilting her chin as if asking for a kiss, the delicateness of which makes Chloe’s heart leap straight out of her chest – or at least, attempt to. She slides her lips languidly across Beca’s, taking stock of how soft Beca’s lips always seem to be. Gently, she nips at her girlfriend’s lower lip, tugging as she pulls back. Beca’s mouth parts to accommodate her, and then they’re kissing.

Beca’s fingers move slowly – in, out – as best as they can while Chloe sits on top of her thighs. Chloe moans quietly into her mouth, the sound and vibration making Beca clench her own thighs trying to alleviate some of the pressure between her legs.

“You looked so good,” Chloe says, though she grits her teeth at the end of that sentence, when Beca adds a little more force into her hand’s motions. “The piano,” Chloe says weakly. “At the piano. I-I-“ she stutters, trails off when Beca nips at her jaw, her neck, then finally moving back to her lips to hungrily shove her tongue into her mouth. "I couldn't help it," Chloe moans, trying to figure out what to do with her own hands. She tugs at Beca’s hair, pulling at the back of her head.

At that, Beca moans, uncaring – though she’s briefly thankful that nobody’s home or in the vicinity. "Yeah?" she rasps, though it’s less of a question because she vividly recalls the way Chloe’s eyes had darkened nearly instantaneously when she started playing and how she was already on the verge when she had finished playing.

Chloe’s hips move insistently, grinding down hard into Beca’s palm. The sensation of Chloe on her lap as well as the very telling slick warmth slipping down and around her fingers and hand causes Beca’s own chest to tighten and stomach to coil in anticipation.

"Watching you play,” Chloe whispers, eyes fluttering shut, though she desperately forces them open again so she can see Beca’s wide-eyed, lust-filled gaze locked onto her own. “I got so…” she bites her lip, thrilled by the way Beca’s fingers curl into her surely, almost encouragingly. “I got so fucking wet watching you play that piano," Chloe finishes, breath stuttering. She licks swollen lips, moving to rest her forehead against Beca’s. “Fuck me,” she demands, lips descending for a kiss.

In, out – her fingers slip in and across Chloe insistently – the movement is encouraged by the consistent wetness coating her skin. Coating Chloe’s skin. Beca wonders if Chloe would mind terribly if she opted to use her mouth instead of her fingers, but with the grip Chloe has on her, trapping her in place, she figures she’s going to have to wait.

“Fuck,” she whispers, leaning forward to further mark Chloe’s collarbone with languid nips and open-mouthed kisses.

“Y-you, with that fucking piano,” Chloe pants, using her arm to hook Beca’s head closer to her chest. A loud moan slips through a clenched jaw when Beca’s palm brushes against her just right – “Fuck, right there,” she says stiltedly, back arching.

Beca resists the urge to laugh, though a breathless exhale does escape her. Chloe Beale is probably the only person she’s ever met to get off to music and on music. She kisses up, nipping at the spot on Chloe’s throat – just under her jaw – that she knows drives her girlfriend completely wild. She doesn’t linger, though Chloe’s keening whimper makes her want to stay to draw the same sound out of her again, and again, and again.

She punctuates each thought with a firm thrust, relishing each rock of Chloe’s body; relishing the way skin is sliding smoothly against skin. There’s a desperation in the way Chloe’s pants sound in her ear. She kisses back down, bending slightly so she can bypass Chloe’s neck, the strained tendons in her throat just begging for attention. Instead, she kisses down her chest, taking a stiff nipple in her mouth.

Chloe’s jaw slackens at the feel of Beca’s warm, wet tongue nudging insistently at her nipple. The sensation makes her thighs clench and hips stutter in their rhythm. She slides her hand to cup Beca’s cheek, then her neck. It’s gentle at first, though her fingers clamp down quickly into hair and skin to hold Beca against her chest. "I'm close," she informs Beca belatedly.

Humming in agreement, Beca throws some teeth into the mix, quickly mouthing around her nipple. It makes Chloe jolt. "You're closer,” she says, finally lifting her head.

"I'm close whenever I’m with you,” Chloe admits, tilting Beca’s head up as best as she can. Her vision wavers and she slams her eyes shut at the sensation of Beca’s fingers curling right up into her. “I’m close whenever you just look at me or - or talk to me," Chloe continues with some difficulty, only spurring Beca on further. “Fuck, when you s-sing to me-”

(Her favourite moments are when she reduces Chloe to inarticulate sounds and breathless pants. Less words would be a good sign.)

“Eyes,” Beca says quietly, too enthralled by the way Chloe's hair messily drapes over her shoulders and down her back - God, she could use some mirrors about now. “Look at me,” she tries again, uncaring that she's begging. She gets off on seeing the way Chloe's eyes fucking shine when she's like this, the way she struggles to keep her eyes open at all. “Fuck, Chlo-” She grits her teeth because the strain is getting to her arm, but Chloe feels so damn good around her fingers that she can’t bring herself to even move from this position. She figures it’s a good enough way to die.

Chloe all but sobs, eyes flying open as she clutches at Beca’s shoulders, hands scrabbling to find purchase somewhere. One hand flies into Beca’s hair, pushing her face against her chest, while the other clenches around Beca’s upper arm, holding her in place. Her body stiffens entirely and she whimpers once, a loud, drawn-out moan following immediately.

Beca clenches her thighs together again, biting her lip to stop the helpless whimper that threatens to escape when she takes in how thoroughly defiled Chloe looks at that moment: high flush, hair in complete disarray, swollen lips, and arched back. The deep-seated arousal in Chloe’s eyes only serve to spur Beca on again. She lifts her hand from between Chloe’s legs to slide up to her hip, coaxing Chloe to roll her hips once – twice – against Beca, both women moaning quietly at the sensation.

“I love you,” Beca murmurs, tilting her head to kiss Chloe’s jaw, then her lips. “Fuck,” she murmurs, nipping at Chloe’s bottom lip. “I need you.”

Chloe bites her lip, a soft noise escaping her when Beca parts her own thighs willingly for her. “I love you, too,” she replies. She flexes her fingers around Beca’s thighs before she slides back up Beca’s body, peppering kisses along the way, making sure to pay close attention to pert nipples. She’s desperate to hear Beca’s voice again – to hear the sounds that only she can coax out of Beca with her own brand of expertise.

“Please,” Beca begs quietly. “Chlo, now.” She looks up, eyes locked hazily on the ceiling fan, and wonders vaguely if teenage Beca would have ever thought this would happen.

(She knows the logistics are off: she never knew Chloe back then, but this is so akin to losing it to the most popular girl in school that Beca thinks that she’s probably experiencing something super religious right now.)

Beca almost comes undone immediately the moment Chloe’s fingers slide inside her. It makes her head thump uncomfortably against her wall, and she curses, partly from the sheer pleasure and partly from the slight pain. Chloe removes her fingers, gently tugs Beca into a prone position. She returns to fully hovering over Beca, strands of hair tickling the sides of Beca’s face. She pants out a breath, about to ask Chloe why she stopped, when Chloe’s fingers mercifully slide back inside her, slow, sure strokes causing Beca’s breath to catch.

Chloe is deliberate and careful. Her body thrums with arousal and the vestiges of desire coursing through her, but she carefully thumbs it down, only slightly stoking the embers with each passing moment.

She relishes the feeling of Beca already beginning to come undone around her – hot, wet, and sticky. It makes her already sensitive core just throb in response and she can’t help the whimper that escapes her. She leans down to press a sloppy kiss against Beca’s lips, swallowing the loud moan Beca releases at that moment. Beca’s hand comes to grab at her hair while the other hand rakes down her back roughly and quickly. It makes Chloe thrust a bit harder, eyes rolling back behind her eyelids at the slight sting of Beca’s dual assault on her hair and skin.

“Fuck,” Beca mumbles, swollen lips brushing against Chloe’s. Chloe's fingers curl just right, with a twist of her wrist. It makes Beca’s eyes fly wide open until she’s gasping and panting out Chloe’s name, intermingled with the occasional curse. She grips Chloe’s hair tighter, pulling until Chloe’s forehead comes to rest against hers.  Arousal courses through her entire body, more than she’s ever felt before. It’s almost too much, but Beca welcomes it – has always welcomed these experiences with Chloe because she can’t imagine this happening with anybody else.

Chloe thinks that Beca looks beautiful, flushed, a little sweaty, and eyes bright with the height of her arousal. She pants out a breath across Beca’s cheek, using her nose to nudge at Beca’s chin and jaw until she can nip and suck at that one specific spot on Beca’s neck that drives her crazy. All she can feel is the way Beca’s thighs cradle her hips, the way Beca just fucking clenches around her fingers, and all that wonderful, delicious wet heat against her hand.

“I love you,” Chloe repeats, moving her head back up so she can kiss Beca. "God, I fucking love you like this," she mumbles.

Beca lets her head fall back on the bed, just shy of her pillow. She doesn't care about the uncomfortable arch in her neck because all that matters is that Chloe continues fucking her like this. She had been close when she had been inside Chloe. She's on the verge of exploding, now.

Chloe is conscious of how aroused she is, still, with the way Beca's thigh rubs against her center with each rock of her hips. She stifles her moan into Beca's neck, trying to focus on how close Beca is to her own release.

She stills at Beca's tell-tale whine - the one that rips from Beca’s throat nd sends jolts of pleasure straight through Chloe upon hearing it - and watches  Beca with wide eyes as she comes undone, finally.

The thick air around them blankets over their quiet pants. Chloe moves off Beca, just to her side, and blinks, wondering absently if she can get a recording of Beca playing the piano.

Beca is thinking about whether she can afford to buy a baby grand for her apartment in Los Angeles and why she didn’t think about buying one ages ago.

“So…this is your bedroom, huh?” Chloe asks, once they both catch their breath. Kind of.

Beca laughs, unreserved and completely free, albeit a little breathless. It’s so completely Chloe – Chloe who has likely never mastered the art of pillow talk because she doesn’t bother pretending to be something she’s not, if she doesn’t feel like it.

She should have suggested they visited Seattle sooner.

x / now on ao3

[hypnofur1]

Captivated in Kansas City (Ch.1)

By Hypnofur

Tuesday at 11:30

Hudson Dark had performed before sold out crowds for over twenty three years. At no time during any of those performances had he in any way shape or form flubbed a word, or even misspoke. He was always so eloquent and confident. It was the root of his talent in fact. But now, as he sat across from the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, he found himself completely tongue tied

“It’s the house I live in with my parents” the man in his mid forties told the beautiful woman in front of him. “No, I don’t. I mean, they lived there, we lived there. But now we don’t…” Hudson stammered, for the first time since his teens.

Hailey was trying to look like she wasn’t embarrassed for him. She had seen this before with men. God, she had seen it too many times. She had learned how to be nice about it, but it never became not awkward. Men always became stuttering piles of jelly around her.

“Was this property your child hood home, Mr.Dark?” she asked politely, trying to throw him a lifeline.

“Well, not even. My parents purchased it about twenty years ago. My father died shortly after that, and my mother passed away about five years ago. I only lived here for a year or so after college. Then I got my own place, right away.” He said, trying desperately to make this woman think he didn’t live with his parents for any longer than what was considered normal.

“I see, well, I am sorry for your loss” Hailey said.

“It’s better that she’s dead” Hudson said, before he immediately realized how that sounded. What was wrong with him?!! This had never happened. “I mean, it was a long illness. She’s at peace now” he said, trying desperately to recover.

“Well, Brookside has seen huge growth in the property values over the last ten years.” Hailey said, getting back to business. “We’ve sold six homes in that neighborhood already this year.”

Hudson couldn’t believe she smelled so good too. What was her perfume? It was intoxicating. She was intoxicating.

Hailey was getting annoyed. He was just staring with that lovestruck puppy dog look she had seen so many times since Junior High. She prodded the conversation along “I’d love to see the house?”

Hudson pulled himself together, and arrangements were made for her to come out on the following Thursday. He shook her hand professionally and the meeting ended. By the time he walked out of the door of her Real Estate office, a plan was already forming in Hudson’s mind.

Thursday

“Fuck!” Hudson yelled to himself from inside the house. He watched as a Mercedes SL 500 pulled up his driveway. Yes, the beautiful Hailey was inside, but so was some other guy. He was driving. Hudson was fuming. He figured she would come alone. Who was this guy? Was he going to come in too? That would ruin the entire plan that Hudson had spent the last forty-eight hours carefully concocting. Then he saw the man lean over and give Hailey a kiss on the cheek before only she got out of the car. Hudson’s spirits lifted as he realized that the man was going to stay in the driveway at the very least. He was quite pleased to see the car pull away from the house at the same moment Hailey was ringing the doorbell.

Hudson’s stomach flip flopped, the plan was on!

“Hi Hailey, come on in, it’s open!” Hudson yelled. He knew she would be able to hear him through the glass storm door. The actual front door was left wide open. Hailey entered the house through the living room.

“I’ll be right with you, I’m just changing my shirt. I spilled my lunch on it” Hudson lied from behind the door the down stairs bedroom he was in.

“No problem.” Hailey answered as she looked around the house, judging the bones and envisioning how it could be remodeled and updated. “I’ve had a clumsy morning myself. I drove up on to the curb at The Filling Station Coffee. I damaged my tire. My husband had to give me a ride here. He just went to go check on the car. It’s down the road, he’ll be back in fifteen minutes or so.” She said.

Hudson cursed under his breath. That was not a lot of time. Should he abort? Maybe this whole stupid thing wasn’t meant to be.

“Are you a hypnotist?” he head Hailey ask. She had clearly seen the posters and show memorabilia that filled the house. Of course she did. She was meant to.

“I am, yes” he said, still through the door. He resolved he was going to do this. He could make it work in a shortened time frame. He just needed her to take the bait…

“This piece is beautiful, is it one of those things that musician’s keep time with?” Hailey asked, trying to make conversation as she wondered how long it was going to take this guy to change his shirt.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Hudson celebrated to himself. The three hours he had spent carefully lighting the metronome so that her eyes would be drawn to it had paid off. This was going to work.

“Why yes it is. It is called a metronome. That one is especially precious. It was made by the finest Belgian craftsmen. They are known for making exquisite pieces. The weight on the tip of the pendulam rod is actually encrusted with 24 carrot diamonds. That is why it sparkles like that as the metronome ticks back and forth… back and forth.

Hailey noticed he was right. Her husband’s gifts over the last few years had taught her a lot about diamonds, and she could see from the way those stones caught the light that they were at least 24 carrot.

Hudson continued speaking from the other room. “ I use it in my therapy work. The beauty of a metronome is that not only does it give the subject a motion to follow with their eyes, but the rhythmic sound of the clicks also keeps a perfect, hypnotic beat. The subjects listen to the sound of the metronome as it keeps the perfect beat. This is a special beat. A beat of sleep. The subject focuses on the metronome as it swings back and forth, back and forth. They notice the brilliant twinkle of the beautiful diamonds as the metronome swings back and forth, back and forth. They follow the swinging motion with their eyes, but don’t look away. Never look away. Listening to the beat. The beat is so powerful, because it is the same beat as sleep. Listen to the beat as you follow the swinging motion.” Hudson said to her, slowly changing the POV of his words from that of the theoretical subject, directly to Hailey. By this point, he had slowly and quietly come out of the bedroom and had silently move to the doorway of the room she was in.

He was both delighted and aroused by the sight of Hailey standing in the center of the room, completely transfixed on the swinging metronome in front of her. He could tell it was working.

“With every click of the beat, you begin to notice your eyelids getting heavier and heavier. Heavier and heavier with each click of the beat. Every time you hear the beat, your eyelids feel heavier and heavier. Very good, you are following my instructions and hearing the metronome go back and forth, back and forth. The twinkling lights of the diamond beginning to blur in between the slow blinks of your heavy eyes.”

Hudson noticed her beautiful blue eyes slowly blinking as he suggested. He knew how he wanted to pull her under, there was really only one way…

“Isn’t it pleasant… to sleep…. to sleep… deeper and deeper in sleep.” he said, copying the cadence and tone of his all time favorite movie hypnosis scene, from the “Hypnotic Eye”. In fact, this whole induction, putting her under by focusing on a hypnotic device while he was in another room inducing her was all inspired by the “Hypnotic Eye”. It had been one of Hudson’s greatest fantasies for almost 20 years, since he first found the clip on the internet.

Now he had done it, he had induced the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in the same way that Anton had done it in that movie. Her head was slumped down and she was deep in hypnotic slumber. He felt like a king. He wanted to take her right there, he had never been so hard in his life.

But of course, his victory was short lived, as he heard the Mercedes pull up in the driveway. The husband was back. Hudson held his breath for a moment, so nervous that he may come in. Much to the hypnotist’s joy, he saw the husband pull out an iphone and start checking it. It seemed he was going to be waiting in the car. That bought some time. Not as much as Hudson had originally hoped for, but enough to keep the game alive….

About ten minutes later, Hailey smiled as got into the Mercedes. She gave Henry a kiss on the cheek. “You are the cutest Uber driver in Kansas City.” She joked.

“We Uber drivers don’t accept tips, so you’ll have to buy me lunch instead” Henry quipped to his wife as he backed out of the driveway. “How was the appointment?” he asked.

“Fantastic!” Hailey said exuberantly. “The house is amazing, so much potential. The client is fantastic too. I’m so excited about this transaction!” she oozed.

That surprised Henry a bit. He knew she had been wanting to do less residential work, and more commercial/retail kind of stuff. However, he didn’t pay that weird twist much mind. He was starving, and wanted to get a table at Bella Napoli for lunch.

Thursday evening

“Hey, we don’t have anything tomorrow night, right?” Hailey asked Henry as he was brushing his teeth. She was on their bed, surfing on her laptop. They were always together in the same room when they were home at the same time. They truly enjoyed one another’s company.

“No, I don’t think so. Why?” Henry asked.

“I have a tip on a property that is potentially going to be hitting the in the Power and Light District. It’s one of the venues that hasn’t been updated in the area. It’s a comedy club. Anyway, I was thinking it might be a perfect opportunity for the right investor.”

“And who might be the right investor?” Henry said with a smile.

“Well, he’d have to be handsome…” Hailey said. “And good with wireless technology….”

Henry laughed as he looked in her eyes. God she was gorgeous. Even just sitting there on the bed, she was so beautiful. The slightest look she gave him could get him instantly hard. She noticed now was one of those times. She smiled at him and nodded, as if to say “now is a fine time”.

Henry crawled onto the bed and kissed her. She kissed him back. They both laboriously took off her panties. It wasn’t smooth or easy. He lifted up her skirt a bit, and stuck himself inside her. She gasped a bit, and he started bucking. He came within about 30 seconds.

He instantly apologized. She smiled and kissed him, telling him it “was nice”. He dismounted and laid next to her in the bed, pulling his boxers back up as she got her panties back on. Then they continued their conversation about the property and the plans to check it out on Friday night. This was very typical for the couple.

Friday night

They had a great dinner at Yardhouse, the best of the restaurants in that area. Of course, the young twenty something male waiters were completely infatuated and flustered with Hailey there. Henry and his wife were quite used to this, though it always made them uncomfortable. Hailey hated being the center of attention in a room, despite the fact that she usually was.

After the meal, they strolled around the building a bit, checking it out in detail. Hailey had a fine eye for architecture, and Henry only had eyes for her, so he was perfectly happy watching her do whatever interested her.

It was an older building, probably built in the 1930’s. It needed a tremendous amount of work, but had good bones. There were apartments on the second and third floor, and a theater that was now being used as a comedy club on the ground level. As the couple got around to the entrance, Hailey grabbed Henry’s arm.

“That’s my client!” she said excitedly as she pointed at the poster on the wall.

“Hudson the Hypnotist?” Henry asked.

“Yes, that’s him, the one from the other day in Brookside. Wow, that’s so cool. I can’t believe he is performing tonight. Let’s go watch!” she said excitedly.

Henry was a little taken aback by her sudden exuberance, but he was fine with it. The evening was free. They purchased their tickets and went inside. As they waited for the show to begin, Hailey started going on and on about how much hypnosis had always fascinated her. Henry was quite surprised to hear this, as it had never come up in conversation before, despite her new claims of a lifelong passion for it.

The show began and Hudson came out. He was a very average looking middle aged guy. Balding, slightly pudgy. He explained what hypnosis was, and how it worked. Henry noticed Hailey was on the edge of her seat during this explanation. Hudson then asked for volunteers. It was at this point that Henry became absolutely shocked. Hailey gave him a kiss on the cheek, and then left her seat, heading for the stage.

While Henry had been previously in the dark about Hailey’s interest in hypnotism, he was well aware of her disinterest in being in the spotlight. He couldn’t believe she was going up on stage. This was like her number one fear. What was going on?

Henry could hear the murmers in the crowd as Hailey was taking the stage amongst a bunch of slacker looking twenty somethings. Hudson the Hypnotist of course had his eyes glued to the gorgeous blonde as she took a seat on the stage with her brilliant smile. Henry noticed there wasn’t a hint of nervousness or self consciousness in his wife, even as the dorky guy in the Blink 182 sweatshirt next to her gawked and stared. In fact, Hudson had a hard time getting the attention of the volunteers on stage back to him. Hailey was that distractingly beautiful.

She stuck out like a sore thumb on that stage. Her clothes spoke of wealth, while the t-shirt and jeans of the rest of the volunteers spoke of the awkward years after college. For his part, Hudson knew that he had to regain control of this situation. As a very experienced performer, he knew how to do just that. The spacy, new age music played, and Hudson expertly induced his volunteers into a deep trance. Removing the two or three fakers that were easy to spot, Hudson was left with ten deeply hypnotized volunteers on stage. Not that it mattered, as the show would clearly just be about one of those ten. Most eyes were on Hailey, who was now slumped over onto Mr. Blink 182.

Hudson went through all the standard routines, making the volunteers feel like they were freezing cold, having them talk to Martians, and the whole someone farted routine. Henry was shocked to see his beautiful wife up there on stage, clearly, actually hypnotized. There is no way she would have been going along with this if she hadn’t been.

Henry’s stomach was turning. It was unnerving to see his wife in front of all these people, clearly not in control of herself. His stomach knotted a little more as Hudson asked the crowd if they want to “spice this show up”. Of course, the loud applause confirmed they wanted exactly that. That’s when the hypnotist started describing to the people on stage that they were watching a very sexy porno that was playing in the back of the room. He started saying it was the sexiest porno that they had ever seen, and that they would get so, so turned on watching it.

Henry knew for a fact that Hailey had never watched a porno. She had told him in the past that porno’s creeped her out. And sure enough, as soon as Hudson said this, Henry saw Hailey get all jittery, and try to look away from the back of the room. Hudson noticed it too, and he started saying “the film is too interesting to ignore. Even if you don’t think you want to watch it, the sounds and the visuals are just too interesting. You can’t resist checking it out..”

That was enough to get Hailey to sort of peek over with one eye. Just for a second, then she looked away again. But in another brief moment, she looked towards the screen with one eye again. Then two. Then she watched for a moment. Henry was shocked. Soon she didn’t look nervous, or creeped out by it. She had a look that Henry had never seen before. She had this incredible look of erotic interest on her face as she slowly licked her lips. Then her hand touched her neck. She squirmed a bit in her seat. Henry had never seen it before, but it was the single most beautiful, sexy site he had ever seen. He had never seen Hailey so overtly turned on, so sexual. In fact, he had never seen Hailey turned on at all…

Six years earlier

Breaking into the real estate game had certainly proven to be more difficult than Hailey had intended. In fact, as she sat there, locked in a steam room, she actually had decided to quit real estate and get a job at a retail store or something. She hadn’t realized that the steam room would lock like that.  Her cell phone was getting no service for some weird reason. She was trapped until someone came into the house. The problem with that, was that her showing wasn’t for another 24 hours. She had come to the empty mansion in the hills a day early to do a dry run. Frankly, she was starting to freak out.

That’s when she heard someone in the house. It took a lot for her to decide to alert the other person to her captive presence. Being alone with some stranger in a house when her phone wasn’t working was not a safe idea. However, she was getting really scared being trapped in there. She was finding she was kind of claustrophobic. She finally yelled for a help and a man responded. She had really hoped it was a woman…

“I’m stuck in here and my cell phone isn’t working” she said through the steam room walls.

“Yeah, that’s why I am here. There is a small tower at the base of the hill that provides services to these homes. I overloaded it. I saw your car and came to alert you. I’m really very sorry.” The man said. His voice sounded kind at least.

“Do you do work on the tower?” she asked.

“Well, kind of.” He said.

Ok, she thought, I’m trapped here with a not so good cell tower repair guy. “Can you let me out?” she asked. She heard him trying the door.

He jiggled it and jiggled it, but it just wouldn’t work. “I’m sorry miss, but the door isn’t working. I could go and try to find some tools or something.” He said.

“You don’t have any with you?” she asked in almost a panic. She was really freaking out now that she knew she was really trapped in that room. The teak walls seemed to be closing in on her.

“No, not on me. Umm, I could go drive for some help?” he said. He could tell this lady was losing it.

“NO!” she blurted out. “Please don’t leave!” she heard herself say. She had never had a panic attack like this before.

“It’s ok Miss, I’ll stay with you until help arrives or they fix the tower. My name is Henry.” He said.

And so from there, they started talking. Hailey calmed down. They actually talked for hours and hours. They laughed a lot. They really hit it off. In fact, they started falling for each other.

However, there were two things that were not divulged in those hours of conversation. Hailey did not reveal that she was drop dead gorgeous, and Henry did not reveal that he sold his first wireless amplification company for 30 million dollars, and had since started building another, even more successful amplification system. (The testing of which had blown the tower).

Hailey’s beauty and Henry’s money had always been the most attractive thing about each. Both were fairly shy in their own right. Hailey had been turning down men’s advances for as long as she could remember, and Henry had only been attractive to women once they found he was rich.

But when that steam room finally got opened, and Hailey looked at Henry for the first time, he could tell she liked him for who he was. It didn’t matter to her that he was a little bit scrawny, and clearly about fifteen years older than her. She had gotten to know his kind spirit. He stayed with her, laughed with her, and helped her before he knew what she looked like. This was the first man ever that got to know her for more than just her looks. Hailey knew full well that she benefited from her unique beauty, but for the most part had always seen it more as curse.

Henry’s jaw hit the floor when he saw her. She was clearly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in real life. Or on tv or in a movie for that matter. The locksmith that had opened the door thought so too. Henry, couldn’t believe his luck, until he looked down and saw a wedding band on her finger. His heart fell…

“It’s not real!” she said quickly as she saw him notice it. “I just wear it to keep from having guys…” she started.

“Will you have dinner with me tomorrow night?” Henry blurted out.

“Yes!” Hailey said with a smile.

Henry knew that she had mistakenly assumed he was a cell tower repair guy. He had carefully not lied about that during their conversation through the steam room wall, but had also not corrected the assumption. In fact, it wasn’t until he picked her up the next day in his Ferrari that she started realizing he was more than he seemed.

Dinner that night was not in Kansas City, it was in Paris. Six month later, they were married.

Their love was true, and their love was pure. People of course accused Hailey of being a gold digger. That wasn’t the case. She certainly benefitted from the trappings of wealth, but she truly loved Henry, and he loved her. The suggestion that Henry only was with her for the sex couldn’t have been more off base. In fact, the sex wasn’t that great.

Hailey had always been self-conscious about her looks, ironically. Every guy had wanted to jump in the sack with her for as long as she could remember. That made her a little uncomfortable about the whole concept of sex. She wanted to enjoy it more, she just couldn’t really relax and get into it. She always wondered if she was living up to the fantasy, the expectation. Henry, for his part, was a shy man that never felt comfortable with the ladies. He knew he wasn’t much of a lover, and he always wondered if he could live up to the type of lover Hailey deserved. Their mutual insecurities always made their love making tepid at best.

Friday Night

Henry had never been able to drive Hailey wild with lust as this hypnotist had done on stage in front of him as the participants on stage got “really, really into the porno”. Henry had never been more aroused than he was watching his beautiful wife respond to the erotic, hypnotic commands of the maestro. He was jealous, but also rock hard as he watched it.

After the “watch the porno” bit, Hudson carefully segway’d into a “you are in a porno” bit. He told the participants that they were starring in a porno with the sexiest person they have ever seen, and that this person was on their chair and they were to basically fuck the chair. The people on stage were in such a state of arousal at that point from watching the imagined porno that they got right into it, Hailey included.

However, Hudson sensed an opportunity for both a laugh, and a little something for later. He smiled widely to the crowd, and then put his hand on Bethanny’s shoulder. “And to the woman I am touching right now. You’ll find that the sexiest, most irresistible man you have ever seen or known is… Hudson the Hypnotist!”

The crowd went wild! There was laughter and cheers. Hudson played it off to the crowd like a raunchy showman would. “Can you blame me?” he yelled loudly. “I mean, seriously.. can you blame me!?”

Henry could blame him! And he couldn’t believe that Hudson had said that to her. He also couldn’t believe how Hailey was moving. Her hips were slowly and sensually rolling with a sexual fluidity he had never seen. Her head was tilted back she was grinding on the chair, she was clearly lost in a sexual bliss. It was like nothing he had ever seen, and she looked even hotter than he had imagined while doing it. Part of him wanted to stop this, as it was wrong on so many levels, but he had a raging boner that he was quite sure could be seen through his khakis. He couldn’t exactly stand up and approach the stage like that.

Hudson of course knew who Hailey was with that night. He paid careful notice to the fact that the husband hadn’t stormed the stage when Hudson had told her that he was her new sexiest man alive. The feeling of power over the subjects on stage, and the awareness that Hailey thought that she was currently fucking him on that chair, emboldened the middle age hypnotist. Again, he put his hand on her shoulder, “and to the woman I am touching right now. Not only is Hudson the Hypnotist the sexiest, most irresistible man you have ever seen, but he also has the biggest, most powerful, most perfect cock you have ever come across in your life! And that cock is fucking you now! Fucking you now and making you cum! Hudson the Hypnotist is a sexual god who is fucking you and making you cum like no man has ever done!” he said, to less cheers. Some people in the crowd could see he was going too far, but the majority of the group was so turned on by watching the beautiful Hailey orgasm on the chair that they couldn’t laugh or applaud or anything. They were completely transfixed by the scene in front of them.

Henry was horrified, but his heart was beating a million miles a minute. He was so angry, scared, and turned on. There was nowhere else for the performance to go after Hailey’s show stopping orgasm. Hudson got all the parictipants back in line in to their chairs and dropped them into a deep sleep. He told them they would awake refreshed and happy. He also told them that they would find the experience of being hypnotized by him one of the most wonderful of their lives, and that they would desperately want to be hypnotized by him again in the future. With that, he made a joke to the audience about “job security”

When Hailey heard the phrase “…and wake”, her eyes fluttered open. Her hand instinctively ran through her thick blonde hair as she sat up. Her blue eyes took a second to focus with the bright stage lights in front of her, but she soon saw Hudson looking back at her. It was like a jolt of electricity went through her as she lost her breath for a moment. “He’s so gorgeous” she thought, before immediately chiding herself for being attracted to a man that is not her husband. Unaware of the post hypnotic suggestions that were driving this, she found herself quite surprised at her intense attraction to Hudson. She had never gotten like that over a guy before. They always threw themselves at her, but she had never been so magnetically drawn to a man before.

She smiled at him demurely as she walked by him while exiting the stage. She desperately hoped that was not the last time he would hypnotize her. She had loved the experience so much. Stepping down back into the audience, she could feel most of the eyes in the room on her. She was used to that. As per usual, it made her feel uneasy and nervous. As per usual, she focused on Henry to calm her down. However, this time she noticed that Henry looked uneasy and nervous. He was pale and clammy.

“Babe, what’s up?” she said to him. Henry didn’t know what to say. How could he tell her that she was just up on stage acting like a total slut? What would she do if she knew she had just given every single guy in this room a massive boner as she acted more sexual on stage than she ever, ever had with him in the bedroom? Henry panicked.

For the first time ever, he lied to his wife. “Nothing. Nothing’s up. That was really funny. How are you? How are you feeling?” he said, putting on his best game face.

“Oh my god, it was amazing!” she gushed. “I loved being hypnotized by Hudson!” she almost squealed.

Henry looked around and noticed the room was still very much focused on Hailey. He knew he should get her out of there before she realized the state she had the men in. “Do you want to go get some desert or something?” he asked. Hailey never passed up desert. If other women knew how much she indulged in sweets with that body, they’d hate her even more.

Hailey leaned in close and whispered in her husband’s ear. “I’d rather go home. I need you inside of me.” It was the first time she had ever said anything like that to him.

Henry, who was of course so horny already after watching that show, didn’t need to be asked twice. He raced his beautiful wife home and up to their bed. Within minutes, he was thrusting himself inside her. Ramming as hard as he could. He didn’t last long, having been so turned on by the show. However much to his surprise, Hailey actually orgasmed. She had never orgasmed during their love making before.

Henry loved the sounds she made beneath him. He loved the feel of her convulsing in his arms. What a wonderful experience. He knew her mindset was largely due to the hypnotism. He was actually grateful for Hudson’s hypnotic hijinks. In fact, he wondered if the performer could help him experience this sort of sexual intimacy with his wife again. He decided he needed to pay Hudson a visit.

What Henry didn’t know, was that for the first time in her marriage, Hailey was thinking of another man during sex. She was thinking of Hudson. Sexy, powerful, hypnotic Hudson. The sexual god with the biggest, most powerful cock she had ever come across in her life.

Trouble was ahead….

[norihisahyuga-archived]

the little things

one-sided kuroda yukinari/ashikiba takuto 2k | rated t for language

Kuroda might have a crush. He might also be noticing the smaller details he wishes he was blind to and growing a soft spot for his new ace.

The first time Ashikiba’s laugh makes Kuroda feel warm all the way through, he punches his bedroom wall so hard it leaves bruises stamped across his knuckles.

It is absurdly easy but also difficult to make him laugh like that. For all of his efforts, he is an idiot through and through and though Kuroda finds it almost charming sometimes, he cannot shake the fact that Ashikiba is easily one of the dumbest people he has ever met. More often than not, he finds himself explaining things as simply as possible when faced with those confused violet eyes; something he sees them in his dreams. They put every single gemstone in the world to shame, outshine every star in the sky.

When Kuroda wakes up realizing he’s dreamed of more than just those eyes, he throws himself into a vigorous shower so that what he remembers fades away quickly.

They have to spend time together. They have to find a rhythm together. Fukutomi wants Kuroda to be the ace’s assistant for Ashikiba, wants Ashikiba himself to grow into an ace who can carry the hopes and dreams of his team across the finish line. To become the kind of two-man team that Hakogaku will need when the third years graduate, they have to stay side-by-side.

Kuroda is not sure if this is divine punishment, or a reward he will never be able to earn.

“Yuki-chan,” Ashikiba whines halfway through the set of sit-ups that Kuroda has entrusted him with, looking at him like the most pitiful kicked puppy in the entire world, “can we just call it done for the day? I don’t want to do anymore. I’m sore.”

Even on his back with his long legs folded at the knee, it’s impossible not to notice how tall Ashikiba is, how his height goes through his long legs and into his torso, how noticeable his arms are even bent with his hands tucked behind his head. Kuroda thought he had been Ashikiba’s partner long enough to stop noticing mundane things about him. He’s finding out now just how wrong he was and just how hard it is to get his focus to stay on track.

“I don’t want to hear that. You know we have to train.” Keeping Ashikiba on track has been a chore in and of itself, but Kuroda welcomes it. He knows Ashikiba wants to do his best, after all, and if that means being the one to push him to new heights, then so be it.

He didn’t realize this would mean spotting him while they were doing sit-ups. He didn’t realize this would mean keeping ihs hands on Ashikiba’s feet, counting out the reps in his head while every single “up” brought Ashikiba’s face in closer and closer proximity with his. Close enough to let him see the slight flush in Ashikiba’s cheeks, the stupid curl in his soft orange hair that seemingly begs to be played with, the long strands of his eyelashes and the beauty mark beneath his eye that almost looks like a little heart.

Kuroda thinks he might be learning to hate training more than anything else.

“If you want to get strong enough to carry the team, then you have to strengthen your muscles,” he says over Ashikiba’s pitiful whine. “All of your muscles are connected, remember? Your core muscles are important especially. You’re always done. If you keep wasting time, I’ll add more.”

Ashikiba’s eyes widen. “You wouldn’t do that to me! Would you?”

Of course not, but Ashikiba has no right to make him feel so bad for even joking about it. “What did I just say? Now get it together and get back to work.”

It takes him a minute or so to collect himself, but Ashikiba returns to proper form and Kuroda goes back to counting, trying not to get distracted by the way Ashikiba pouts at him or the way his hair falls into his eyes and sticks to his forehead from the sweat. By the time he finally makes it to his last sit-up, he looks exhausted and falls back on the floor, dramatic as always, half-twisting around so his legs splay out beneath him.

He wraps his arms around his middle and whimpers. “Now I’m even more sore.”

Kuroda squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose, telling himself to take slow and deep breaths even as his breathing trips. He should leave this alone; muscle pain from sit-ups will stop with time and Ashikiba has ridden more fiercely and hurt himself far more than this. Still, he finds himself reaching for him when his eyes are open, shoving his own hands out of the way so he can touch himself. Through the cycling kit, of course.

“You’re being melodramatic for the sake of being melodramatic,” Kuroda tells him, and Ashikiba slowly stretches out, languid like a cat. “Hold still. Don’t squirm around so much.”

If it was anyone else, he would have left well enough alone and went on with their training schedule, but Ashikiba smiles gratefully up at him and relaxes under his touch. He doesn’t have masseuse skills despite his various sports-related skills but he knows enough how to soothe sore muscles after a workout and from the way Ashikiba sighs softly, it must be working.

He would never have done this for anyone else. Never would have extended this gentle touch to any other member of the team; in fact he would likely have told them to suck it up and get back to work if they really want to win the upcoming Inter-High now that the third years are leaving.

Ashikiba finally stretches underneath him, then blinks open bright purple eyes. “I feel better now, Yuki-chan. Thanks so much.”

“You gotta learn to build up endurance better at this rate,” Kuroda tells him, taking his hands back with more effort than he should have to flex. “Come on. We’re going to ride up the mountain for a bit now.”

There are no complaints about that. Kuroda has learned to read Ashikiba well and he does so during the climb, watching for the moment when his good mood clicks into place, when the music swells in his head. A different piece each time, and though Kuroda wants to ask after what this piece is (not to listen to it before he falls asleep, and Kuroda has never liked classical music anyway) he stays silent and keeps his eyes on Ashikiba.

This is normal, right? Watching after your teammate, your partner and your ace, is normal.

The next shift catches his attention, when Ashikiba sways his body back and forth, slowly and first and then more fiercely the more speed he gains, the more confident he grows. The Metronome Dancing Kuroda has watched and memorized a thousand times, the swing of his long lean body from side to side to the tune of the music in his head.

Kuroda might as well not even be here at this point.

He could easily pace himself and outmatch Ashikiba, show him that he still has plenty of work to do and is not even close to where he should be yet. It would be easy, and Kuroda would not feel bad doing it, either.

Well, he might feel bad. He doesn’t like being the cause of Ashikiba’s soft sad eyes and downtrodden mood if he can avoid the worst of it.

He permits a break when they reach the peak and watches Ashikiba sip from his water bottle, watches his Adam’s apple bob with each long swallow until Kuroda feels his tongue grow heavy in his mouth and his own throat tighten, dry and dusty. Water only chases away a little of that sensation; if Manami were here, he would have implied Kuroda might be thirsty for something other than water, which only infuriates him that much more.

It’s easy to get mad at Manami, even when he isn’t here, and it is a far easier direction to send his frustration without Ashikiba realizing it. “Fucking goddamn winged asshole.”

“Yuki-chan?” Ashikiba cocks his head at him. “Is something wrong? Are you angry with Manami?”

“Hell yes, I am.” He doesn’t elaborate, and Ashikiba seems content not to ask.

The ride back is far easier on a downhill slope and Kuroda feels slightly better when he takes his helmet off and runs a hand through his sweaty hair. Ashikiba hums softly to himself, most likely whatever piece he had been listening to in his head, and once again his eyes meet Kuroda’s, soft and warm and happy. The earlier issue with sit-ups has no doubt faded from his mind even as Kuroda’s eyes dart back down to his stomach. Is he still sore? He must be.

"Riding with you is always so much fun. I’m glad we’re able to ride together so much.” Ashikiba beams at him and Kuroda feels like a deer caught in headlights, staring down his inevitable demise.

He white knuckles his bike handles and grits his teeth together. “Yeah, it uh. Was a good ride.”

“I know I complained earlier about sit-ups and I apologize for that. You’re right when you said I have to keep working hard to win.” Ashikiba smiles and it makes the setting sun look dull and ugly in comparison; the light of the setting sun plays on his hair, a sunset forming a halo around his face. “I’m going to keep working hard, I promise. Even when it hurts. That way, we can win this year! We’re going to make everyone so proud, aren’t we?”

“Uh, yeah.” Kuroda pinches the bridge of his nose, telling himself to go slow. Inhale, exhale, stay calm. “We’ll win this year because I didn’t come this far not to win. We’re going to win this time.”

He wants Hakogaku’s title back. He wants everyone to have to realize that their team is strong enough even without the third years to carry them. Most importantly, he wants to feel the rush of adrenaline that comes when he puts his hand on his ace’s back and pushes all of his power and hope into Ashikiba’s body, propelling him with it across the finish line.

“Right. You have been working hard. You’re doing a really good job!” Ashikiba smiles at him and Kuroda looks away, not sure he can take the intensity of such an expression.

“Yeah.” He walks his bike over to where he’s left his schoolbag, shouldering it before he mounts his bike once more, ready to head home for the evening and try to figure out what he wants to do about these unwanted feelings. “So don’t let me down. If that means doing sit-ups until your midsection gets ready to break, then that’s what it means. Put your all into it and the team.”

A large hand lights on his shoulder as light and gentle as a butterfly, almost uncertain as though Ashikiba thinks he might not be able to do this as he wants. “I will. I won’t let you down. I’m tired of letting the people who put their faith into me down.”

The memory is sharp and sudden, the sight of Ashikiba getting turned around in a race and riding backward, the crestfallen expression on his face when Fukutomi had taken away his right to ride. He remembers the panic in those bright eyes when the anxiety had choked logic and reason out of him, and for some reason this makes him angrier than the full weight of his tumultuous emotions concerning Ashikiba combined. Kuroda never wants to see that again.

“You won’t, Takuto,” he says, setting his feet on the pedals of his bike, ignoring the flash of hope in those beautiful eyes. “You couldn’t ever. I’ll see you tomorrow, same time.”

He rides hard and fast back home until the strain in his legs threatens to overpower him. Easier to handle that than the very heavy reality that he might be falling in love with Ashikiba Takuto.

[welllpthisishappening]

Out of the Frying Pan (4/?)

“What about pleading for you to get on set? Is that allowed?”

Emma made a noise in the back of her throat, tugging on her dress again self-consciously. “Look who doesn’t want to do this whole thing now,” she said, letting Ruby push her bodily towards the prep kitchen.

“Look who was spotted away from the group, flirting with Killian Jones. Again.”

“You promised you weren’t going to say a single word.”

“I’m a great, big, giant liar.”

AN: This is like 8.5K words of talking and quasi-flirting and I will never have any concept of word count ever. I am perpetually screaming from the rooftops over how fantastic @laurnorder is for her beta skillz and for general delightful-ness. 

As always, also up on Ao3 and tagg’ed up on Tumblr.

Emma’s face felt heavy.

It was gross.

God, she hated sitting in this chair. She hated being poked and prodded and curled. She could do all of this herself. She learned how to use eyeliner when she was 14 – courtesy of a very excited Mrs. Nolan who thought she’d never have the chance with just David in the house – and she didn’t need someone leaning two inches away from her face at God knows what time in the morning to do it for her.

But she’d also promised Ruby.

She’d play the game and she’d smile and she’d pose for the promotional stuff they were set to film that day and then she’d win the fucking money.

And get her timeslot back.

“Which one?” Ruby asked, stepping into the makeup artist’s space and brushing her off without a single word.

Emma opened her eyes slowly to find her producer standing in front of her with two outfits in her hand, holding them up like she was a model on The Price is Right. “What?” Emma mumbled, sitting up straighter in the chair.

“Which one do you like?”

Emma eyed the choices – she didn’t really like either of them. She couldn’t tell Ruby that, of course, but if Emma had her choice she’d be doing this commercial in jeans and a t-shirt and the boots that were dangerously thin on the soles because of how often she wore them.

“You’ve got to pick, Emma,” Ruby pressed, shaking the dresses to prove her point.

Emma sighed and rolled her head, shaking her hair off her shoulders and earning a groan from the tech a few feet away. “Red, obviously,” she said, pointing at the dress on the left. She tried not to sigh at the look of it – themed perfectly to match her over-the-top kitchen with a full skirt and crew-neck and three-quarter sleeves. God, there was a bow on it.

“I should have figured,” Ruby muttered, tossing the other dress in the unoccupied makeup chair next to Emma. “You always pick the red one.“

“Well, I’m nothing if not consistent.”

“And stubborn.”

Emma ignored that particular jab and glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She looked like a celebrity. She felt like one too if the several pounds of makeup she was wearing were any indication of what a celebrity was supposed to feel like.

It made her nervous – like there was some sort of expectation she had to live up to.

Emma wasn’t good at that. She was good at failing to live up to expectations, her criminal record was proof of that. Of course, the other, slightly more reasonable side of her brain argued, David and Mary Margaret hadn’t ever walked away, even after the criminal record. Neither had Mrs. Nolan. And Henry might actually be the most supportive 12-year-old on the face of the entire planet.

She could do this.

She needed to do this.

“I don’t have to cook in that thing do I?” Emma asked, eyeing the dress with trepidation. Ruby sighed, leaning against the makeup counter behind her and shrugged. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re not actually going to make anything. But you’ve got to fake making something. You know, like for the camera. Chop things. Look official.”

“Chop things?”

“Officially.”

Emma laughed under her breath and jumped out of the chair, rubbing off a bit of the makeup caked on her cheeks as she went. She pulled the dress out of Ruby’s hands – with maybe a bit more force than absolutely necessary – and turned towards the dressing room down the hallway.

“There better not be onions involved in this,” Emma muttered, the sound of her sneakers squeaking down the hallway filling her ears. She heard Ruby’s laughter behind her and focused on the tap of her producer’s heels like it was some kind of metronome that was keeping her steadied.

“We’ll make Killian cut the onions. Do something Iron Chef-y.”

“Deal,” Emma said emphatically, closing the door behind her and taking a deep breath. It was time to be a celebrity.

Emma swung open the door five minutes later – careful not to mess up her perfectly constructed low ponytail and heavily-hairsprayed curls – and walked back down the hallway towards the network’s main prep kitchen.

It was full of people and noise and, possibly, a small tower of cupcakes in the corner. Emma tugged on the waist of her dress and took a deep breath before walking into the metaphorical lion’s den, squinting her eyes slightly when the lights from the half a dozen cameras hit her.

“It’s all a bit much isn’t it?”

She spun on the spot, coming face-to-face with Iron Chef Killian Jones who was, of course, smirking at her again.

Emma made a face, ignoring the way his eyes lingered on the cinched waist of her dress, and crossed her arms tightly across her chest, sinking her weight into her heels. He smiled at her, the movement spreading across his face slowly and reaching his eyes and, God, they were blue and Emma knew he realized what she was doing – battle stance.

“The network’s never been known for keeping things simple,” Emma muttered, pulling her gaze away from his. And landing right on his still-smiling mouth. That was a mistake.

She pressed her nails into the palm of her hand, leaving tiny crescent-shaped indents in her skin when it finally started to hurt, and did her best to play the role. She was a celebrity. She was a good chef. She didn’t get overwhelmed by anything.

Least of all some part-time Iron Chef.

“That is true,” he laughed, running his hand through his hair.

And that was when she saw it and something clicked – she could practically feel the sound of it in her brain. He didn’t have a left hand. Or, rather, he had a very convincing fake left hand. No wonder he kept it trained behind his back the first time they met.

She was staring. She knew it. He knew. And he knew that she knew it.

A million and two questions danced along the tip of her tongue, but mostly she was just impressed. Emma had a hard time cooking on her own sometimes and she had all ten fingers. And if Mary Margaret was right and Killian did own a ridiculously successful restaurant and regularly won Iron Chef, then Emma was certainly impressed.

He coughed pointedly, ducking his head a bit to get into her line of vision. “Still with me, love?” he asked.

“Still with you and still not all that interested in your nicknames.”

He chuckled softly, rocking back on his heels and wiggling his eyebrows. “You look nice, by the way,” he said, not meeting her gaze when he spoke.

It caught her by surprise – not the compliment, Emma was positive a man that called near-strangers love with ease regularly doled out compliments to get what he wanted – but his tone of voice nearly made her breath catch in her throat.

He sounded honest and earnest and, maybe, a bit nervous.

Emma chanced a glance at him and he had his hand in his hair again, tugging on a piece of it just behind his ear. “Thanks,” she said softly. “It’s supposed to match my theme or something.”

“You have a theme?”

“Yeah, you know, like on the show? I don’t even know how we landed on it. I think it mostly happened because the network didn’t want to buy us new appliances so we repurposed old stuff to look retro and kitschy or something. And it just kind of stuck.”

He nodded like this was the most serious conversation that either one of them had ever had, smile still on his face. “They’re big on themes here,” Killian said, pointing towards the other two celebrities in their midst. “Rumor has it they’re going to get Graham to skin something alive for his promo.”

Emma laughed loudly, the sound escaping her lips before she could stop herself. And if it didn’t sound so completely foreign, it probably wouldn’t have bothered her as much as it did. “He probably could do it you know,” she added, glancing at Killian out of the corner of her eye.

“I’ve got no doubt he could, just not so sure we should be promoting that kind of thing on this family show.”

“You’ve got a family to worry about?” Emma asked. She saw Killian’s shoulders tense immediately and squeezed her eyes shut tightly, biting her lip at the inane stupidity of the question. He ran his right hand over his left before bringing his fingers up to rub at the back of his neck.

“No,” he said simply.

Emma’s lip was bleeding, she was biting down so hard on it. She rubbed her hands nervously over the front of her dress, flattening out wrinkles that weren’t there, and swallowed so loudly she could hear it in her ears.

“You think Belle baked all of those cupcakes this morning just to show off or you think they’re from last week’s show?” Emma asked.

Killian let out a deep breath and his eyes shut lightly. The smile inched back along his face as he, finally, turned towards Emma, taking a step to his right until he was standing in front of her. “Better be from last week or we look like totally unprepared celebrity chefs,” he said and the tension from the previous moment was almost entirely gone.

“The worst,” Emma agreed.

He grinned at her and Emma swore she saw something flash across his eyes, but then she blinked – or maybe he blinked – and it was gone. She wasn’t positive what it could have been, something that maybe, almost, resembled longing or want or that interest she was positive she’d seen in the elevator lobby the week before.

They were staring at each other when Ruby skidded to a stop next to Emma, heels scratching across the linoleum floor. Emma and Killian’s heads both snapped towards the frantic looking producer, eyes wide with whatever had just happened.

“Where have you been?” Ruby asked to no one in particular.

“I was here,” Emma answered evasively, shrugging at the area around her.

“You’re not my producer, so I don’t have to answer that,” Killian added, smirk back on his face and eyes darting between Ruby and Emma quickly.

Emma rolled her eyes, finding herself charmed despite her best efforts not to be, and Ruby sighed. “Regina is on the warpath trying to find you,” she said, staring down Killian, who looked a bit nervous again. “So you should probably go talk to your producer and then maybe we can get this whole thing over with.”

Killian nodded, tugging on that piece of hair again and his hand brushed over Emma’s arm when he walked by her. “I’ll see you in the kitchen, Swan,” he said before walking away.

Emma didn’t answer, but she knew her mouth was hanging open a bit and she didn’t even have to look at Ruby to know she was beaming at her like she’d just won an Emmy. “Don’t start,” Emma muttered.

“I didn’t say a single word.”

“You were thinking them. I know you were.”

“Pleading the fifth.”

“You’ve got me confused with David. I’m not the cop. You don’t get to plead anything with me.”

“What about pleading for you to get on set? Is that allowed?”

Emma made a noise in the back of her throat, tugging on her dress again self-consciously. “Look who doesn’t want to do this whole thing now,” she said, letting Ruby push her bodily towards the prep kitchen.

“Look who was spotted away from the group, flirting with Killian Jones. Again.”

“You promised you weren’t going to say a single word.”

“I’m a great, big, giant liar.”

Emma groaned again, but plastered a smile on her face as soon as she was within striking distance of the cameras, falling into the role with relative ease. She was, as per usual, the last one of the group to arrive and Zelena didn’t even bother to glare at her when she made her way into the kitchen, almost looking resigned to being five minutes behind schedule.

“Alright,” she said, voice rife with authority. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You all are going to showcase some sort of skill for the promo. Belle, stir batter. Graham, cut meat or something. Emma can chop some kind of vegetable. And Killian, do something vaguely Iron Chefy-y.”

Killian’s eyes caught Emma’s over the top of Belle’s head and he smiled at her, mouthing the words Iron Chef-y with the kind of serious look that nearly had her laughing in the middle of this semi-important meeting.

Zelena didn’t notice – or if she did, she ignored it completely. “We’ll do some one-on-one shots of each of you, the skill ones and then pans that are just body shots. Emma make sure you’re not wearing those gross sneakers,” she muttered as an aside and Emma’s eyes widened a bit in surprise and embarrassment.

Ruby appeared out of seemingly nowhere with a pair of heels that matched her dress perfectly and Emma didn’t even a chance to wonder where they came from before Killian was by her side, holding his right arm out to her.

“What are you doing?” Emma muttered, keeping her voice low as Zelena continued to talk.

“Making sure you don’t fall over and kill yourself before you even get to do your body shots.” His voice dropped low with the innuendo he was purposely using and Emma rolled her eyes at him. “And, trust me, you don’t want to put your bare feet on this floor.”

Emma stared at him for a beat, trying to figure out exactly what was going on and how she got back in control of it. He shook his arm slightly to bring her focus back to him and he wasn’t smirking at her when she looked back up. He was smiling – genuinely again – and Emma could feel almost the whiplash between the cocky Iron Chef and this other guy who just seemed like he wanted to help.

She sighed softly, but put her left hand on his forearm, fingers wrapping around his skin and, God, he was warm. Emma ignored that, lifting one foot up to pull her sneaker off and slide into the provided heels. “So, what?” she asked, talking mostly so she didn’t do something stupid like start to think. “You’re a gentleman now?”

She slid her other foot into the heel and kicked the sneakers out of the camera’s frame – Ruby would pick them up eventually, or someone would – and pulled her fingers away from his arm. He didn’t move.

He didn’t even blink.

He just kept smiling and dropped his arm back to his side.

“I’m always a gentleman,” Killian said softly and the sound of his voice seemed to pierce every single muscle in Emma’s body. She was fairly positive she was still standing, but she wasn’t entirely convinced she hadn’t melted just a bit under his gaze.

“Emma!” Zelena yelled. “If you’re done with your wardrobe and using Killian as some kind of prop, can you get back here so we can finish this?”

Emma nodded quickly, looking away from Killian and walking back to the group before he could say anything else. She could feel him standing behind her – the heat of him practically radiating off his body and his ridiculously white Iron Chef jacket – but Emma kept her eyes trained ahead, avoiding everything except the sound of Zelena’s voice.

“As I was saying,” Zelena said pointedly, shooting a look Emma’s way and she shrunk a bit at the sound. “Single shots, body shots and then a group shot where you’re all going to look vaguely competitive, but nice. Got it? Competitive, but nice. That’s the theme we’re working with here. You guys are going up against each other, but you’re also friends and you love being on the network together. That drives ratings. Everyone clear?”

There was a murmur of agreement around the group and Zelena smiled – the effect leaving her looking more determined than ever – as Emma walked towards her designated area of the prep kitchen. Belle was next to her, reorganizing her tower of cupcakes. Killian and Graham were on the other side of the room, with a large, kitchen island in the middle chock full of supplies and pots and pans that they would, undoubtedly, be forced to use as props when they filmed the group shots later that afternoon.

“You want a cupcake?” Belle asked.

“What?” Emma choked out, leaning against the counter.

“Cupcake,” she repeated. “I made them this morning. There’s a ton. I’m sure Zelena won’t miss them if we split one. I promise they’re delicious.”

“I’ve got no doubt,” Emma said, reaching her hand out to take a piece of the offered dessert.

It was delicious. She chewed on it slowly, wondering where Belle possibly found the time and silently reminded herself to tell Killian later. She stopped chewing immediately, swallowing the cupcake awkwardly as she wondered how exactly she’d stumbled into a situation where she was telling Killian Jones anything.

Nearly three hours later and Emma wouldn’t say she had fun exactly, but it hadn’t been nearly as bad as she’d imagined it would be.

That may have been because Killian refused to take anything seriously and there were few things Emma enjoyed more than frustrated network bosses.

“What do you think, Swan?” he called from across the kitchen at one point. “Does this look Iron Chef-y enough?” he flipped something in a pan, the food landing back on the sizzling surface easily and tossed her a grin.

Emma shook her head, still sitting on top of the counter – per instructions from Ruby who told her “you always sit up there after the show, it’s very you, it’s perfect for the body shots.”

“I still have no idea what the phrase Iron Chef-y actually means,” she yelled back, crossing her ankle over the other and leaning back on her palms, doing her best to keep anything off her unquestionably expensive dress. “So I’m afraid, I’m not qualified to answer your question.”

Killian sighed dramatically and put the pan back on the stove, throwing in something that looked vaguely like cheddar cheese. “Thoughts Ms. French?” he continued, unperturbed by Emma’s refusal to answer. “What do you think qualifies as Iron Chef-y?”

Belle laughed, the sound so sweet it probably could have been used to help frost her freshly made cupcakes, and she stirred her batter, propping the bowl on her hip so it rested against her bright blue apron.

“I think the jacket might help,” Belle said. “Seems like a pretty good hint.”

“Ah, but isn’t being an Iron Chef more than just your outfit?” he said seriously. “It’s like a state of mind or something.”

“Or something,” Emma muttered, hopping off the counter to grab one of the vegetables piled on her station.

“Something to add, Swan?” Killian asked, not taking his eyes off the pan in his hand. It smelled delicious.

“I didn’t think we were actually supposed to be cooking,” she answered, glancing over her shoulder at him, reaching to grab a knife. She started chopping without even looking at the pepper she was holding in her left hand.

He shrugged and scoffed a bit. “Ah, well, I can’t seem to help myself,” he said, voice laced with that same innuendo from before. Emma raised her eyebrows and she thought she saw Belle flush slightly next to her.

“I think you just like to show off,” Emma said, pulling the diced up pepper closer to her with her knife and going over the pieces once more for good measure. She could feel the camera on her, practically boring a hole in the side of her body, and did her best not to look up.

“If you all could stop talking while we’re supposed to be filming silent promos, that would be fantastic,” Regina said sharply from her spot next to Elsa’s camera. Zelena hadn’t stuck around long after delivering her directives and, somehow, it appeared Killian’s producer had taken over the reigns of the operation.

“Aye aye, your majesty,” Killian said without a trace of sarcasm in his voice. Emma got the distinct impression it wasn’t the first time he called her that and was, suddenly, struck with the very real curiosity of what Killian’s relationship was with the woman.

They seemed as close as she and Ruby were – something that wasn’t particularly normal at the network and certainly not for a show like Iron Chef that had more than a dozen chefs to its name.

Maybe they were friends.

Or, another, slightly more traitorous voice in the back of her head said, maybe they were dating.

There was a ring on Regina’s finger – Emma could have been blind and she still would have been able to see that ring – and, well, stranger things had happened than a chef falling for their producer.

Like Emma wanting to tell Killian Jones something after they finished filming.

She heard the footsteps in her station before she saw him and spun around to find Killian standing a few inches away from her, that stupid smirk on his face again. “You’re going to get me in trouble,” she hissed, grabbing a second pepper and attacking it on the cutting board.

“And you’re going to chop several fingers off.”

“Please,” Emma muttered, not entirely certain what she was so upset about. “I could do this in my sleep.”

“Confidence is key in all things,” he said softly, but his voice shook slightly with the laughter he was trying to hold in.

“Is that how you ended up on Iron Chef? Just bluffed your way through with confidence?”

She knew it wasn’t true – knew Mary Margaret and Ruby had told her several times how talented he was over the last few days. She could even see it. He was talented. The food still on his stovetop smelled so good Emma was nervous her stomach was actually going to growl in the middle of the prep kitchen.

So, she wasn’t sure why she was saying it. Maybe it was a test. For him or for her – she wasn’t entirely positive.

Killian’s smirk faltered for half a second and he lowered one of his eyebrows in a way that was quickly becoming familiar. He blinked once and his face settled back into place as he crossed his arms over his still-pristine white jacket.

“Quite the opposite, love,” he said. “Regina had to more or less drag me on set kicking and screaming.”

“What?” She spoke before she thought, drowning in curiosity and questions and, if she were a more sentimental person, possibly his eyes as well.

He smiled softly – both of them ignoring Graham’s slightly frustrated groan as a camera moved around his station – and leaned against the side of her counter, sliding up next to her until there were only a few inches in between their arms.

“Is that surprising?”

“Maybe a little bit,” Emma answered honestly.

“You can ask Regina for confirmation if you want, but I promise, it wasn’t exactly on the top of my list of lifetime achievements. It’s good now and it helps the restaurant a lot, exposure and all of that, but I wasn’t exactly sitting around waiting for her to ask me to be on her TV show.”

“She asked you?”

“So many questions, Swan, I almost feel like I’m being interviewed.”

“No, no, you’re not,” she sputtered. “Sorry. I’m just...curious.”

He turned his head slowly, glancing at her and doing that serious thing with his eyes again and, for a moment, Emma forgot where she was. Then Regina started yelling again and the sound of her heels on the prep kitchen floor made Emma jump to attention.

“Killian,” she said softly, but with enough acid in her voice to make Emma take a step away from him. “I swear to God, I will kill you if you do not stay at your station and film this promo and stop ruining my life.”

Killian shot her a look as if they’d done this several times before and glanced at Emma like they were conspiring about something. She moved another step away, returning her focus to the peppers, and did her best not to involve herself in the conversation.

He groaned loudly – like he’d been betrayed or something – and then turned back to Regina. “Yeah, but if you kill me your son is going to be fairly put out and then you’ll have to explain that to him and that’s just a mess I know you don’t want to deal with.”

Emma nearly did cut her fingers off.

She had no idea Regina had a son – she tried to rack her brain for memories of some kind of announcement or Ruby mentioning that Regina had been pregnant or anything. Nothing. She couldn’t remember any of it.

And now she had several dozen other questions about Killian Jones were sitting on the tip of her tongue.

“Roland would get over it,” Regina mumbled.

“You and I both know that’s not true. A first mate never really gets over losing his captain.”

Regina’s eyes flashed and Emma saw something shift in the conversation – her shoulders sagged and Killian’s smile almost looked sad. “You’re a jerk,” she said softly, tapping her finger on his right wrist for emphasis.

“Yeah, well, your son loves me.”

“Can you go back to your station now? Your food’s going to burn.”

“Please, my food would never burn.”

“It smells really good,” Emma added, deciding if she was going to stand awkwardly on the edge of the conversation, she was at least going to awkwardly take part in it.

“Was that a compliment, Swan?” Killian stared at her, eyes wide.

“Might have been.”

“Huh.”

“Can you please go back to your station now?” Regina asked again, face impossible to read. “We’ve got to do the group shots and Zelena wants you all walking to the center and looking menacing or something like that.”

“Menacing?” Emma laughed and Regina just shrugged.

“I’ll go back to my station and work on my menacing face,” Killian promised, moving his eyebrows up and down quickly at Emma before turning and walking back to the other side of the kitchen.

He absolutely did – narrowing his eyes and playing to the camera when they finally got around to filming the group shots – and Emma had to bite back her laughter the entire time. He was absolutely in his element, controlling the tempo and setting the tone of the entire afternoon and Regina looked like she was going to pull her hair out.

Killian seemed to enjoy that too.

Elsa, finally, called cut on the entire operation around 2:30 and Emma heaved an audible sigh of relief that it was over.

“Tired?”

She glanced to her side, almost expecting to see Killian there and trying to school the surprise on her face when she realized it was Graham. “A little bit,” she said. “Long day and all that. The lights always drain me a bit.”

He nodded at her, wrapping up the knives on his station quickly and pushing them towards the corner of the counter. “It’s nice to see you again,” he continued, voice soft so as not to attract the attention of the crew still around them.

“You too,” Emma said honestly.

“I, uh, I thought you might have called or something.”

Emma felt a wave of guilt wash over her and she bit her lip before trying to come up with some sort of response that made sense in any kind of adult world. She felt bad – she should have at least called, but she was Emma and she’d freaked out and she didn’t call and she probably shouldn’t have ever agreed to the coffee-date setup in the first place.

It was Ruby’s fault anyway. She’d pressed and prodded and explained all the reasons Graham was so nice for weeks before Emma had finally given in and let her set something up. She should have known it was doomed from the start – you shouldn’t go out with someone you work with at the network, let alone someone you work with at the network who, at some point, kissed your producer.

It had been nice and the kiss at the end of the night had been good, but it hadn’t been much more than that. And Emma wasn’t willing to wait around and see if it could become anything more than that. So she didn’t call and, nine months later, Graham was standing in the prep kitchen with her asking why she hadn’t.

“Yeah,” Emma said slowly, drawing out the words as she desperately tried to figure out what she was trying to say. “Sorry about that.”

Lame.

What an absolutely lame excuse. She would have grimaced or groaned or sighed dramatically if she didn’t think Graham would ask about that too.

Instead he smiled – because of course he did. “Ah, well,” Graham said and he sighed slightly. “That’s ok. For what it’s worth, I did have a good time.”

“I did too,” Emma said. It almost wasn’t a complete lie.

Graham smiled again and nodded, tugging on the rolled-up ends of his flannel shirt. “You pick out your charity, yet?”

“Yup.”

“And?”

“And you’ll find out just like everyone else when we film next week.”

Graham’s eyes widened slightly, but his smile didn’t falter at all and he nodded again at Emma. His shirt stretched over the muscles in his arms when he flexed them out, stuffing them into his pockets. “Well,” he said, “I look forward to it.”

Emma didn’t say anything else, just tried to smile and not feel guilty anymore as she turned back towards her station – somehow there were peppers everywhere and she wasn’t entirely sure how that had happened either.

The day had kind of gotten away from her.

She heard Graham’s shoes retreating towards the hallway door and realized, quite suddenly, that there wasn’t anyone else in the studio anymore. Well, she thought, they’d all run out of there quickly.

Emma relished the silence for a moment, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath as she pushed the chopped up bits of peppers into a small pile. She yanked the pile closer to her, drawing the side of her hand along the countertop and kicking a trash can closer to the edge of the station so she could push the food into it.

“You know you don’t actually have to clean up after yourself. They pay people to do that.”

Emma pushed the trash can out of the way before she turned around, Killian leaning against the doorframe Graham had just walked through with his ankles crossed over each other and that stupid, genuine smile on his face again.

“I thought you left,” she said.

He stuck his lip out slightly and shook his head, walking back into the kitchen. He’d changed. The jacket was gone – he was wearing a t-shirt and jeans again and he ran his hand through his hair as he walked towards her, trying to push the longer pieces away from his forehead.

“Nah,” he said, as if his presence in front of her wasn’t proof enough that he hadn’t left. “Just had to talk to Regina.”

“About?” Emma asked, eyes darting towards him quickly when she realized how not any of her business that was.

He took it in stride – literally – walking towards her and leaning up against the counter the same way he had before, leaving only a few inches of space between them. “Not all of us have a consistent filming schedule, love,” he said. “I show up when Regina tells me to and stay at the restaurant when she tells me I don’t have to be here.”

“So that’s true then?”

“What is?”

“You really have your own restaurant?”

Killian turned his head to look at her and the interest was practically written on his face again. “I do,” he said simply.

“And it’s really in Tribeca?”

“It really is. Leonard and Church or at least close enough to the intersection that we can put that on our website.”

“There’s a website?”

Killian laughed loudly and the sound seemed to seep into Emma’s veins. “It’s 2017, Swan, of course there’s a website,” he said, voice shaking as he tried to control his breathing long enough to actually speak. “Why the 20 questions?”

“I live there.”

“At my restaurant?”

“No,” Emma sighed. “In Tribeca. Like three blocks away from your restaurant.”

“Really?”

“Look who’s playing 20 questions now.”

“Sorry,” he muttered quickly, shaking his head. “I wasn’t trying to, honestly. I was mostly just trying to keep up with you and the stream of information you’re giving off.”

“It’s not that much information,” Emma said, doing her best to rationalize it to herself as much as Killian.

“It’s any information, which, in the short time I’ve known you, Swan, seems to be a wealth of information.”

“You’ve known me for like four days.”

“Exactly.”

“So,” Emma said pointedly, doing her best to steer the conversation away from divulging information and Killian picking up on character traits far too quickly than he should. “You spend a lot of time in the restaurant?”

“The one I own? Yeah, I do.”

“I can’t believe you own a restaurant.”

“Why?”

Emma shrugged – she hadn’t done a good job steering this conversation at all. “Just doesn’t seem like you.”

“And you know me so well then? Correct me if I’m wrong, Swan, but I think you’ve only known me for, what was it, ‘like four days’ as well.”

She felt her face flush quickly and made a noise in the back of her throat, turning back towards her station and flipping up the handle on the sink.

“You know,” Killian said, not moving an inch as he spoke. “I wasn’t kidding before, you really don’t have to clean this yourself. That’s not part of the deal.”

Emma shrugged, rinsing her knives off under the water. “I realize that,” she said. “But I always feel kind of weird just leaving my stuff for other people to take care of. And, anyway, these are my knives.”

“You brought your own knives to a promotional shoot that you didn’t even think you were going to cook at?”

“I like to be prepared.”

“Apparently.” Killian finally turned back around, reaching around Emma’s back to grab the dish towel off the counter. He stood at attention next to her, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye every few seconds and, apparently, waiting for further instructions.

“What are you doing?” Emma asked.

“I’m going to dry your dishes,” he said, as if it was obvious. He shook the dish towel in his hand for good measure.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to clean up after yourself either. And yet here we are anyway. C’mon, Swan, it’ll make it all go faster.”

Emma sighed – but it was more out of acquiesce than any sort of real frustration and returned her focus to the dishes in the sink.

They worked in companionable silence for a few minutes and Emma’s mind drifted as she fell into the task, muscle memory taking over slightly. When she first started working her way through the New York City culinary world, Emma was one of the few employees at any restaurant who would actually volunteer to do the dishes.

It was boring, sometimes disgusting, work and Emma loved it. She loved the control she had over it, making sure each dish and glass and piece of silverware was pristine before it went back into the restaurant. She appreciated the chance to make everything right and while she knew it was absolutely insane to talk about dishes that way, she also knew that if a meal could have a solid – incredibly clean – foundation, then the rest would all just settle into place.

She thought the same way about the rest of her life.

Everything had a spot, everything had a place and everything got, metaphorically, polished clean.

Because the one time she hadn’t followed that plan, it had all blown up in her face.

They were nearly finished – Killian a, surprisingly, good dish-dryer – and Emma was just about to hand him the last knife in the sink when it slipped against her fingers, slicing along her palm with a sharp shot of pain that took her by surprise.

“Swan,” Killian said quickly, snapping his head towards her and pulling the knife away from her. He tossed it back in the sink without a second look and tugged on her wrist, holding her hand up and walking her away her station. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine,” she mumbled.

It wasn’t. It hurt like hell – but she absolutely was not going to tell him that.

“Swan,” he repeated, voice coming out like a sigh. “Look at your hand.” She glanced up at the offending limb and had to stifle back a groan – a small trail of blood was slinking down her palm, pooling in the wrinkles where her wrist bent. Emma squeezed her eyes closed and wrinkled her nose, earning a small laugh from Killian.

She felt his fingers unwrap from her wrist and she opened her eyes a fraction of an inch to see him staring worriedly at her. “Stay here,” he instructed. “And keep your hand in the air. I’ll be right back.”

Emma had no idea where he was going, but she did as she was told, keeping her eyes on anything except her disgusting hand as Killian jogged towards the back of the room. He was back less than a minute later, a box in his hand. He tossed it on the counter, flipping the counter open and pulling out a roll of gauze.

She watched him with something bordering dangerously close to awe – he didn’t say a word, just falling into a rhythm that made it seem as if this was something he’d done several times before. Killian unlooped the gauze quickly, flicking his wrist until the end came loose and ripped it off, balling it up and putting it on Emma’s palm.

“Make a fist,” he said and the authority in his voice made Emma press her lips together tightly. He reached behind him, pulling something that actually looked like a flask out of the back pocket of his jeans, pressing it into the crook of his elbow so he could unscrew the top.

“Hand,” he muttered and Emma stuck it out in front of her. He pulled the gauze off, tossing the pile into the garbage, and then, without much ceremony, poured whatever was in the flask on Emma’s palm.

She yanked it back quickly, eyebrows drawing low as she bit her lip tightly, hoping that pain would be worse than the one in her hand. It wasn’t.

“Jesus Christ, Killian,” she snapped. “What the hell was that?”

“Rum,” he said. “And a damn waste of it too. Can you believe this nationally-broadcast TV station doesn’t have a first aid kit with alcohol in it?”

“And you just carry rum around with you, regularly?”

Killian shrugged. “This was on Belle’s station,” he said and Emma widened her eyes again. “Which begs the question of what exactly she’s putting in those cupcakes of hers.”

“You know she told me she made them this morning?” Emma said, momentarily forgetting the dull pain in her hand.

“Really?”

Emma nodded. “They were good though, so I guess there’s that.”

“You were copping desserts before, Swan?”

“Hey,” she said sharply and Killian’s smile nearly made her take a step back. “They were offered. She offered me a cupcake. No theft or copping involved.”

He made a face that seemed to say he almost believed her and clicked his tongue to signal he wanted her hand back. Emma groaned, but put her hand out anyway. The gauze was back and Killian wrapped it tightly around Emma’s palm, circling it around her hand several times before tugging up to get her to lift it up. He tucked the edge underneath one of the layers and pulled it through with his hand before pulling Emma’s hand even farther up and ripping off the end – with his teeth.

It shouldn’t have caught her by surprise.

He did only have one hand to use and it made sense that he wouldn’t have been able to get enough leverage or whatever between his fingers to actually pull it off. Emma was rationalizing. She knew it and that was dangerous because if Emma was rationalizing that meant she liked it and couldn’t – needed to put an immediate stop to this flirting and bantering thing they were doing.

Emma didn’t say anything.

“You alright, love?” Killian asked and it sounded like he was shouting the question in the empty kitchen. The water was still on at the sink and Emma nodded once before racing towards the faucet and flicking it down.

“I’m fine,” Emma promised.

Killian scoffed softly – a vocal, flashing neon sign that he didn’t believe her – and he walked forward, washing off the knife and drying it off without another word, adding it to the small pile of cutlery Emma had kept on the side so she knew it was hers.

“Thanks,” she said softly, not specifying on the knife or the dishes or bandaging her hand. He knew she meant all three.

“No problem.”

“You bandage up a lot of people?” Emma asked, trying to keep her voice light. His eyes darkened for a moment before his face settled into impassivity and for a moment Emma considered stopping her questions. But she was curious and he was interested and interesting and she wanted to know. “You’re pretty good at it.” “I’ve got some experience,” he said quickly and Emma got the distinct impression the conversation was over. So she took a different approach.

“Who’s Milah?” she asked, almost positive that it was an innocent question.

“What?” “On the tattoo.”

And, suddenly, everything changed.

The simple, easy pace they’d worked at over the last 20 minutes evaporated in two words and ten letters and Killian rolled his shoulders as the words seemed to sink into his skin. A muscle in his jaw ticked and Emma twisted her lips, wondering what exactly she’d done wrong.

She glanced back down at the tattoo on his forearm – the red of the heart practically flashing in her eyes and the letters plastered on top clear even when Emma shut her eyes.

Killian took a deep breath before he answered, wrapping his hand around the back of his neck – so Emma couldn’t see the tattoo – and damn , this is why she shouldn’t have said anything.

She should have thanked him for fixing her hand and walked out the door and not looked back – everything in its place and nothing blowing up or disappointing or walking away.

Emma half expected him to do just that – he was right, she didn’t know him at all – but he took her by surprise again and walked back towards her, eyes trained on the heels she still inexplicably had on. He didn’t look up at her until they were practically toe to toe and when he did his eyes were so open and honest and full of something Emma couldn’t quite put her finger on – it might have been loss.

He looked lost.

“Someone from a long time ago,” he answered softly.

“And she’s…” “Gone.”

Emma opened her mouth, not entirely sure what she was going to say, but certain she needed to say something when a pair of sneakers pounded into kitchen and forced her attention away from Killian.

“Mom!” Henry yelled, sprinting across the kitchen floor and colliding forcefully with the side of the station Belle had been using earlier that afternoon.

Killian stepped back as if he’d been shocked and Emma tried to cover up her disappointment. She didn’t have any right to be. And maybe she wasn’t really. Maybe it was more surprise that out of all the things that had been thrown at them over the course of the day, a 12-year-old barrelling into the network prep kitchen calling her “mom” was enough to make him step back.

“Slow down, kid,” Emma said, reaching out to grab Henry by the shoulder and pull him against her side.

“What happened to your hand?” Henry asked, eyes going wide as he leaned back to look at the gauze wrapped around her palm.

“Nothing.” He sighed and made a face. “Seriously.” “Your mom just dropped something,” Killian said, jumping into the conversation. Emma and Henry’s heads snapped towards him and he smiled in response, that momentary step-back seemingly forgotten.

“Who are you?” Henry asked.

“Hey,” Emma cut in. “Nuh uh. Polite. Be more polite.” Henry rolled his head and Killian laughed softly, crossing his arms over his chest. Emma saw her son’s eyes fall on the prosthetic, but he didn’t say anything and she silently thanked every single religious figure she could think of that she’d somehow succeeded in knocking some manners into Henry.

“Sorry,” Henry mumbled. “I’m Henry, it’s nice to meet you. And you are?” Killian glanced at Emma, eyes flashing with amusement, and she smiled, shrugging quickly. “Killian Jones,” he said, sticking his hand out and waiting for Henry to shake it. “It’s nice to meet you too.” “Are you a chef like my mom?” “I am.” “And you’re going to do this all-star thing with her too?” “I am,” Killian repeated. He kept looking at Emma, eyes darting over with every other word and that smile on his face was doing something to her ability to maintain a normal breathing level.

“She’s totally going to beat you,” Henry said.

“Henry!” Emma cried, but Killian was practically hysterical at the sentence.

He brushed her off quickly and grinned at Henry seriously. “That’s alright, Swan,” he said. “I appreciate a healthy dose of confidence. A son should be confident in his mother.” Emma bit her lip tightly and wrung her hands together – a nervous habit she’d picked up when she was a kid, before David had found her. This was too much. This wasn’t supposed to happen. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone in the kitchen when Henry got there, let alone Killian Jones bandaging hands and helping her dry dishes.

Emma lived in two different worlds and she was certain that Killian Jones solely existed the celebrity world – but then he was standing there and he was smiling at her kid and hyping up Henry for the all-star competition and Emma wasn’t sure what belonged anywhere.

Henry was firing off questions a mile a minute, asking about Killian’s restaurant and what he cooked and what his favorite food on Iron Chef was and Emma tried her best to keep up when she got distracted by the sound of another set of shoes jogging down the hallway.

“I’m so so sorry!” Mary Margaret yelled, moving into the kitchen as fast as she possibly could, gaze falling on Emma immediately. “He just took off as soon as we got through security and he was on the elevator before I’d even realized he’d pressed the button and…” Mary Margaret cut off her explanation as quickly as she started it, eyes darting between Emma and Killian. They, eventually, landed on Emma and Mary Margaret’s face said everything she was thinking.

“It’s ok,” Emma said quickly, trying to get Mary Margaret to stop making that face. “You shouldn’t be running around anyway. David will kill me if he knows you moved at any sort of speed that was faster than snail-like.” “David worries too much.” “I’d still rather not get yelled at if I don’t have to.” “Mom,” Henry interrupted, not interested at all in the speed at which Mary Margaret was walking. “Mom did you know Killian’s restaurant is three blocks from our apartment? He said we could come for dinner sometimes. He makes really good cheeseburgers.” “That so?” Emma asked, directing her question more at Killian than at Henry.

He nodded seriously. “The best in the city. We ran out on Friday night, although that may have had more to do with the cheese choice than anything else.” “What kind of cheese?” Henry asked, bobbing on the balls of his feet slightly. There was, it appeared, nothing more exciting in the world to a 12-year-old boy than a well-made cheeseburger.

“Cheddar,” Killian answered. “To be fair though, I did have some help though, Regina’s son picked it out for me.” “Regina’s son?” Emma asked quickly, head snapping up.

Killian nodded. “For all intents and purposes. I think she and Robin were talking about her adopting him officially once they got married.” Oh.

Regina was engaged – to someone who was not Killian. To someone named Robin who had a son that she was thinking about adopting.

Emma tried not to let her thoughts show on her face, the words open book flashing across her line of vision, and nodded silently. That didn’t appear to help – Killian smiled at her and she was positive he could read her mind.

“I’ve been wanting to go to your restaurant for ages,” Mary Margaret said, breaking into the silent conversation without realizing. “It’s always packed though. I mean, good for you, but it makes it tough to get a reservation.” Killian laughed loudly again, grinning and sticking his hands into his pockets. “I might be able to help with that.” “Really?” “Yeah,” he said confidently. “I know a guy.”

“That would be awesome.” “Just figure out when you want to go,” he said easily. “You’ll let me know, won’t you, Swan?”

“Sure,” Emma said quickly, the sound of the nickname settling into the space between her ribs like he’d been calling that since the dawn of time and not just a few days ago.

“Can we go too, mom?” Henry asked earnestly.

“We’ll see, kid,” Emma said, purposely not answering and avoiding Killian’s face when she responded. She didn’t want to see the possible disappointment there. “Come on, we’ve got to get out of here. I’m sure you’ve got homework and we owe Mary Margaret something for making her chase you through this building.” “Ice cream?”

“Maybe.” “We’re totally going to get ice cream,” Henry said seriously, moving back towards the door quickly. He only turned for a moment, glancing over his shoulder to shout, “Bye, Killian!”

“Bye,” he yelled back, smiling slowly and eyes moving towards Emma.

“I’ll go get him,” Mary Margaret volunteered. “And I’m totally getting a waffle cone.” “That seems fair.” Mary Margaret nodded and followed Henry back into the hallway, leaving Emma and Killian alone in the prep kitchen again, silence crashing down on both of them quickly. “Thanks again for helping with my hand,” Emma muttered after what felt like several sunlit-days of quiet. “And the dishes.” “No problem,” he said. “Like I said, I’ve got some experience with both.” “Bottom rung of the restaurant ladder?” “That,” Killian agreed, “and also the Navy.” “What?” “Of the United States,” he clarified, voice thick with sarcasm.

“No, I figured that, I’m just confused.” “About?” “Your relationship with the United States Navy.” “I was part of it,” Killian said simply, seemingly unaware of the information he’d just deposited at Emma’s feet. “For awhile anyway. That’s how I know how to deal with your hand and the dishes. Mostly the dishes if we’re being honest.” Emma gaped at him, stunned slightly – he just kept smiling, rolling back on his heels. “Well, you were good at both. If we’re being honest.” “Thanks.” Emma nodded, raising her eyebrows as she chewed on the inside of her lip. “I better get going. I’ve got an ice cream request to fill.” “Of course. Make sure you change that gauze tomorrow morning.”

“Aye aye,” Emma said, drawing a smile out of Killian, one side of his mouth tilting up. Emma ignored the way her stomach flipped slightly at that and shot him her own smile in response, wondering how the sky had managed not to fall when she let Killian Jones into the other side of her life.