#we love the taste of thinly veiled tension

[khronoes]

@ilvaites FEAT. TYL YEO

the walls around her glittered with the sheen of the decor that had been strung down the length of the hall.    victory day was no small celebration and the leaders of asoron were adamant in pulling all the stops.    she was clad in curator white,   like all other days.    it had become a second skin for the girl.    this time they had given them a new uniform as a gift for their service and protection.    it appeared relatively the same apart from the flowing cape clipped to her shoulders that shone like dew kissed grass after the rain.    it floated weightlessly behind her, a shimmering blanket, as she stationed herself at the perimeter of the grand ballroom.    they were instructed to be there an hour before the festivities commenced to sweep the room for any suspicious tampering.    when the premise was deemed clear the flood gates were opened and what was once a vast dance floor was suddenly packed tight with bodies of all shapes,   sizes and vibrant colours.

as she walked around the room in a calculated pace,    chija bowed her head respectfully at familiar faces.    the chatter had grown louder as drinks had been served and now was the time to keep a stern eye out.   liquid luck spurred morals were the spark that often ignited trouble.    she had all intention to step aside for a breather until her eyes locked with his.    even in a throng of people,   chija would recognize tyl yeo.    something stirred uncomfortably in her chest and she slowed her steps until she stood square in front of him.    ❝   you’re not here to join in the merriment.   ❞    she stated matter-of-factly.    if there was one thing chija knew,    it was the mage renegades and more appropriately,   their leader.     it was no coincidence that he was there and she wondered if being spotted by her was also a part of an elaborate plan.    her eyes flickered briefly around the room before landing back on him.    ❝   where are the rest ? what are you planning this time ?    ❞    it was a known fact that victory day came with untouchable neutrality.    the curators could do nothing to the mage renegades and in return it was understood that the renegades would play a fair game as well.    chija knew that it never panned out that way so it was only to err on the side of caution that she relentlessly interrogated him.    she’d be naive to expect a straight answer but she knew his tells.    she knew him.

[jenosbliss]

pairing. gn!reader x chenle | genre. enemies to lovers | wc. 1.6k | warnings. none | requested. here

Chenle had never been one to dwell on what-ifs.

He lived life with the confidence of someone who always knew the right thing to say, the perfect quip to lighten the mood or deflect attention. That’s what people liked about him—his charm, his humor, his ability to make you feel like the most important person in the room, even if only for a moment.

But with you, it was different.

From the moment you met, there was something about you that knocked him off balance. It wasn’t just your quick wit or the way you always seemed to see through his playful façade. It was the fire in your eyes, the way you met his banter head-on without ever backing down.

He liked you. He’d liked you from the start.

But when he realized you didn’t feel the same, that your heart was already spoken for, he buried those feelings deep. Better to turn his affection into irritation, to let his frustration fuel the constant sparring that had become the foundation of your relationship.

“Chenle’s staring at you again,” Yeri had whispered once, nudging your side during a group study session.

You didn’t even glance up from your notes. “He’s probably plotting my demise.”

“Or,” she teased, “he’s just obsessed with you.”

You rolled your eyes, dismissing the comment with a wave of your hand. Chenle? Obsessed with you? The idea was laughable.

He’d certainly never shown you anything but aggravation. Every interaction between you was laced with sarcasm and thinly veiled insults. He was the Literature major who mocked your essays, and you were the Toxicology student who criticized his lack of scientific knowledge. It was a game you’d been playing since the first week of university, and neither of you seemed willing to call a truce.

But beneath the barbs and jabs, there was something unspoken, something simmering just beneath the surface.

The shift came after your breakup.

Your ex had been toxic in every sense of the word. Manipulative, controlling, the kind of person who made you doubt your worth even as they claimed to love you. The end had been messy, leaving you raw and guarded.

Chenle knew about it, of course. Everyone in your friend group did. But while the others offered you quiet sympathy or avoided the topic altogether, Chenle treated you the same as always.

Or so it seemed.

The café was loud, filled with the hum of chatter and the clinking of cups. Your group of friends occupied a long table in the corner, half-eaten pastries and abandoned cups of coffee scattered across its surface.

You arrived late, sliding into the seat furthest from Chenle, only for him to notice immediately. “Don’t worry,” he said, raising his coffee cup with a smirk. “I’m not contagious.”

“Shame,” you shot back. “Maybe if you were, people would finally avoid you.”Your friends groaned in unison, half amused, half exasperated.

“Here we go again,” muttered Yeri, shaking her head. “Can you two go one day without trying to kill each other?”

“She started it,” Chenle said defensively, leaning back in his chair. “I’m finishing it,” you said, narrowing your eyes at him. His grin widened. “You wish.”

The meeting went on, but the tension between you and Chenle simmered beneath every conversation. At one point, he made a snide comment about your choice of coffee (“Basic, just like your taste in guys”), and you retaliated with a jab about his lack of emotional depth (“Makes sense, considering you’re incapable of forming meaningful connections”).

Your friends had learned to tune you out by now. After a while, the group began to disperse, one by one heading back to their dorms or classes. Soon, it was just you and Chenle left.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” you asked, packing up your things. “Why? Am I ruining your day?” he asked, his smirk never wavering. “You ruin everyone’s day,” you snapped.

He chuckled, standing up and leaning on the table between you. “It’s hot when you talk back, you know that?” You froze, your brain short-circuiting for a moment before you glared at him. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Why not? You’re doing it for me.”

“God, you’re insufferable,” you muttered, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Admit it,” he said, following you toward the exit. “You’d miss me if I weren’t around.”

You turned to face him, your annoyance bubbling over. “Not everything is a joke, Chenle.”

“Not everything has to be serious either,” he shot back, his tone sharper now.

“Why do you always do this?” you demanded. “Why do you always push and push until people can’t stand you?” His jaw tightened, the teasing edge in his eyes replaced by something darker. “Maybe I’m not the only one pushing,” he said.

You scoffed, brushing past him. “Whatever. I don’t have time for this.”

“Still not over him?” he asked, his tone cutting as you stopped in your tracks not turning to face him. “None of your business,” you shot back.

“Just saying,” he continued, his smirk unwavering. “Didn’t know you were this pathetic.” The comment stung, but what hurt more was the look in his eyes—like he wanted to take it back but didn’t know how.

You didn’t see the way his hands clenched into fists under the table, or how his smile faltered as you turned away and left.

The tension between you only grew worse after that. Every interaction felt like a battle, each of you throwing verbal punches that landed harder than you intended. Your friends noticed, but no one dared to intervene.

It all came to a head one night at a party. The party was a mistake.

The music was loud, the room packed with people. You’d come with your friends, hoping for a distraction, but the moment you saw Chenle across the room, you knew peace wasn’t in the cards.

He was leaning against the wall, laughing with someone you vaguely recognized. When his gaze landed on you, his smile faltered for a split second before returning, sharper than ever.

You ignored him, heading to the kitchen for a drink. But of course, he followed. “Thirsty?” he asked, his voice dripping with mock concern. “For alcohol, not your company,” you retorted, pouring yourself a drink.

He leaned against the counter, watching you with a smirk. “How’s life post-red flags?” Your grip on the cup tightened. “Toxicology major and still couldn’t see all those red flags?” he pressed, his tone infuriatingly smug.

You turned to him, your eyes blazing as you hissed. “Literature major and still couldn’t write yourself a happy ending?”

The words hung in the air, sharp and cutting.

Chenle’s smirk disappeared, his jaw tightening. “At least I don’t pretend I’m fine when I’m not,” he said, his voice low. Your breath caught, the weight of his words sinking in.

“Go to hell, Chenle,” you said, your voice shaking as you pushed past him.

He caught up with you in the hallway, his hand wrapping around your wrist as he pulled you into an empty room.

“What the hell is your problem?” you demanded, yanking your arm away. “My problem?” he repeated, his voice rising. “You’re the one who keeps acting like you’re untouchable, like nothing can hurt you.”

“Because I don’t have the luxury of falling apart!” you shot back. “Not everyone can just skate through life without consequences.”

“You think I don’t have consequences?” he asked, stepping closer. “You think I don’t feel things?” You laughed bitterly. “Feel what, Chenle? Annoyance? Pride? What could you possibly care about besides yourself?”

“You,” he said, the word exploding out of him like a confession. The room went silent, the air thick with unspoken tension. “What?” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“All I want,” he said, his voice shaking with frustration, “is for you to look at me the way you look at them. The way you looked at him.” Your heart raced, his words cutting through every wall you’d built around yourself.

You looked away trying to protect those walls from breaking, nibbling down on your bottom lip as you tried to speak “Chenle—”

“If you bite your lip one more time,” he interrupted, his voice low and dangerous, “I’m going to do it for you.” Your breath caught, the electricity between you crackling like a live wire. “Then do it,” you whispered, the challenge slipping out before you could stop it.

He didn’t hesitate.

Chenle closed the distance between you, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was raw, desperate, filled with all the frustration and longing you’d both been too afraid to acknowledge.

His hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer as you tangled your fingers in his hair, each of you pouring months of pent-up emotion into the kiss. His touch was soft unlike the way he kissed you — rough.

And when you finally pulled apart, your foreheads pressed together, the air between you felt charged, like the calm after a storm.

“This doesn’t change anything,” you said, your voice trembling. “Maybe not,” he replied, his lips brushing against yours again. “But it’s a start.”

The tension between you didn’t disappear after that night, but it shifted.

Your arguments were just as sharp, your banter just as biting. But there was something different now—an undercurrent of something deeper, something neither of you could put into words.

And as much as you hated to admit it, you didn’t want it to go away.

navigation.

masterlist. nct dream | nct 127 | wayv

[wiinestories]

Alessio was nothing but pleased, finding Eden a charismatic woman given her age. He hummed in surprise, raising his brows when she mentioned she appreciated his country. "Ah, bella! You have a good taste. Italy has much to offer," he replied with a warm smile, impressed by her appreciation for his homeland. "Charming?" Alessio furrowed his brows at Angelo, then arched a brow. "My son, charming? Ah, my dear. Love has blinded you. This man here is irritable. He learned nothing from me. I have more charm than him, that is why people love me." He winked at her, causing Angelo to scoff. "There he is, bragging about himself," Alessio chuckled heartily at Angelo's reaction and waved his hand in dismissal, clearly enjoying the banter. "You're jealous, figlio mio. You could have been married a long time ago, but that personality of yours is trouble," Alessio was completely unaware of Angelo's activities, yet he did remember his former lover Olivia, but he wouldn't mention her with Eden present.

Alessio took the flowers, a grin spreading upon his lips. "Ohhh, grazie mille bellissima. [thank you so much gorgeous.]" He took his time to examine the flowers before he added, "Oh please, I appreciate the thought of bakery, but I've been trying to take care with food." It was a lie, though. He had intentions to cook something for them.

As Angelo entered his parents' home behind Eden, the air seemed thick with tension, tangible even before Francesca appeared. When she emerged into the living room, her presence was commanding, her posture rigid as she fixed her gaze upon Eden. Her eyes narrowed, studying the unfamiliar visitor with suspicion, her hands finding their way to her hips in a stance of authority. "What are you doing in my house?" Francesca's voice sliced through the air with a sharpness that matched her stern expression. Her Italian accent added an extra layer of intensity to her words, making her question sound more like an accusation. Angelo, observing his mother's reaction, felt a mixture of annoyance and resignation. He stepped forward, his demeanor tinged with a touch of sarcasm as he addressed her. "It's nice to see you too, mother," he quipped, the strained relationship between them evident in his tone.

Francesca's response was swift and uncompromising, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. "A casa mia si parla italiano. [In my house Italian is spoken]" she reiterated firmly, her gaze unwavering as she directed her words at Angelo. But he was not one to back down easily, especially when it came to his mother's rigid rules. "No, we speak English because we have a guest that only speaks English," Angelo countered, the tension increasing between them. "Angelo, metti le regole in casa tua, e rispetti le mie! [You put the rules in your own house, and you respect mine!]" Francesca's voice rose with anger, her words cutting through the air like a sharp blade. But before the situation could escalate further, Alessio intervened, stepping between them with a calming presence. "Francesca, per favore," he pleaded, his voice infused with a sense of urgency as he attempted to defuse the volatile situation. "It's been a while since the last time we had Angelo in here. Please, speak English and greet Eden, she is his girlfriend, and she was sweet enough to bring us flowers for our home," Alessio had grown to be a peaceful man ever since he left the States. The rise in her voice made Angelo's jaw clench, glaring at his mother out of anger. "Don't be fucking disrespectful," He hissed at her, his tone filled with anger. Alessio turned to him, lifting a finger towards him. "Angelo, no cursing in my home."

Francesca's gaze bore into Eden with unmistakable disapproval, her demeanor exuding an air of skepticism and suspicion. "Who are you?" she demanded, her tone sharp and unwelcoming. It was clear that Francesca was not pleased with Eden's presence in her home, and her question carried with it a thinly veiled challenge, as if daring Eden to justify her intrusion and why she was beside Angelo.

When this all started she'd half expected him to be in a different woman's bed every night, that she'd just be a name on a list of options but much to her surprise, Angelo seemed so genuinely.. interested in her. He didn't want people touching her, she'd known that from how possessive he was, and unless she was a fool.. Eden was pretty sure no woman was running their hands all over him too. It was simply nice, to be wanted back. "And what if I'm not careful, Mr Santino?" the way he used her name so formally it always had her heart race a little, like she was walking a dangerous line and she couldn't help but walk that line. She'd continue like that, sly teases, even the hand she'd rested on his thigh in the car, wind blowing in their hair and she truly suited the windswept look, it made her waves look voluminous. "Oh, I know Italian men are troublemakers." she looked him up and down, suddenly giggling. "And even if the women here want your passion, tough, they can't have you." that was the first time Eden had ever let it show verbally, just how much she wanted to keep Angelo near.

"Grazie per avermi ospitato." she repeated back quietly, slowly. Her pronunciation wasn't amazing, she'd work on that in time but.. it was more that she made a conscious effort to both learn for him and speak their language here. "I got that right?" she repeated it again, trying to ensure she'd remember it when it came to saying it. She found Angelo's Father actually.. very nice. He was wholesome in her eyes, a very stark difference to her Father. She listened to their exchange, didn't understand a word of it but politely awaited her introduction. Her heart fluttered to hear him say it, my girl, his girl. She knew he couldn't exactly call her anything else, friend with benefit, situationship, his agreement, but his girl.. she looked so smitten in that moment.

Her smile was angelic enough in that moment. "I'm afraid not, though I've got a deeply growing appreciation for your country." the compliments came and Eden blushed, her hand had moved back to Angelo's arm but she wasn't gripping his palm.. she quite liked his Father, he put her at ease actually. "Oh thank you." she was sweet that way, polite and flattered. "Your son happens to be utterly charming, I'm assuming he learned that from his Father." she served her own flattery but she could've gone on, said how she knew he'd do anything for her, that he let her know in so many ways, just how safe she was with him, even if nobody else was. She could've said that deep down, she knew that she'd found a place she belonged, and it was beside him. "These are for you- for the house. Grazie per avermi ospitato." she repeated it nearly perfectly and handed the flowers she'd brought with her. She'd been so adamant going through that airport that she had to bring something. "I would have normally brought you a whole box of baked goods Mr Santino, but without the joy of my kitchen I'm a little hopeless."

Her arm moved timidly to lean in to the two polite kisses, her hand around his Father. It was movement at least and she was getting braver with using her arm in fluid motions again. They were invited in and of course, ladies first so she stepped in and looked around in appreciation of their home. That's when Eden saw Angelo's Mother and tried to make a good first impressions. "Buongiorno! It's lovely to meet you Mrs Santino."

[fbfh]

steddingrove/three musketeers x reader dynamic hcs

warnings: smut, tripple penetration, fluff, they're all doms, your boys treat you really well, brief optional mention of reader posessing a coochie

as with all nsfw works all characters are aged up to 18+ minors for gods sake dni!!!

a/n: I want to bite all of them also emailing therapists again wish me luck

tags: @yesv01 @hopefullhearts @littlewinter1917 @thatawkwardlittlefangirl  @Sad-brunnettee @ilikemypolarbear @lubsana @cowboylikekelsey @hopefullhearts @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @ilikemypolarbear @Ronnasey @cowboylikekelsey @hxgemxscles @hopefullhearts @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @justbookworm @Sad-brunnettee @ilikemypolarbear @Ronnasey @hxgemxscles @demirunner @hopefullhearts @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @inqueee

Billy and Steve 

We've seen Harringrove in action 

We know what they're like 

Billy is kind of a slut

He's insane

And he brings out ALL of Steve’s competitive side 

They fight all the time with like a grossly sexual overtone to it yk

Steve is a soft, attentive, almost coddling dom 

Billy is a feral, smoldering, stupid horny dom 

They’re both so charming like jfc

They butt heads a lot, a small part of which is thinly veiled sexual tension

But there’s no one better to take out their thinly veiled sexual tension on than you

They work each other up through vaguely erotic competitive bullshit and then once they’re both really fired up, they turn their attention on you

Sometimes they fight over you

Who knows your body better

Who can make you cum faster

Who can make you cum harder

So of course they have to settle it with you in the middle 

All their focus is on making you cum as much and as hard and as many times as they can

And they both have plenty of experience in that area

They’ll also be completely caught up in how good you make them feel

That is the one thing they bond over

The one time they get along is when they’re getting you off

Steve and Eddie

We've also gotten to see steddie in action 

And when I tell you that they are both the flirtiest motherfuckers in existence 

Steve will have you blushing

Eddie will have you giggling 

They'll both have you a total horny mess 

Out of the three other them I think Steve and Eddie have the most opposite personalities 

So as stated in my steddie x reader headcanons they start off also very competitive but in a “wow I kinda hate this guy” way not in a shotgunning beer and seeing who can make you cum the fastest way like Billy and Steve

But oh my god they’ll bond real fucking fast over their mutual love for you 

More likely to tag team or take turns or pass you back and forth than go at you at the same time but they’ll still go at you at the same time once they get bored of that which will happen real fast 

They’re literally so caring too

They’re so attentive

If you are an attention whore they will actually be the death of you

If you’ve had a hard day you better believe Stevie will pull your back to his chest and have you sit all cozy on his cock while Eddie gives you head until you’re SHAKING

Steve might roll his eyes at Eddie’s nerd references and dramatic nature and eccentric tendencies

But he feels a deep camaraderie he knows is reciprocated when he and Eddie are both showering you with praise nonstop, making you squirm and whine and clench at their touch

And Eddie really feels like the playing field is level like this

With him, a social outcast, and Steve, the former king of their highschool working in tandem to make you cum until you’re so fucked out and overstimulated you can’t remember anything but your daddy and dungeon master

Billy and Eddie

HATE each other at first

After the initial "this buffoon is a monument to everything I hate" and "this guy?? I used to bully guys like this" 

I’m sure you can guess who says what

They both realize they actually have a lot of overlap with their taste in music

They start jamming out to metallica and ac/dc and motley crue and kiss

And they bond fast as fuck

They’re both so glad to have someone that they can not only talk to about music, but shares a ton of the same opinions and favorite songs????

Hell yeah!!!

They also realize they’re both very intense 

Billy’s is more fiery intensity 

Eddie’s is more passionate joie de vivre 

What do you expect he’s a manic pixie dream boy

And that intensity really solidifies that bond 

So when they team up

It’s less competition and more co conspiring

It’s also very good cop bad cop

Billy is a mean dom and Eddie is much softer

So while Billy is degrading you for taking Eddie’s cock so easily, Eddie is praising you for following Billy’s orders so well

A lot of whiplash

But definitely the good kind

Steve and Billy and Eddie

Aftercare kings

When you’re taking all three of them (which is a real feat)

Usually you have Billy in your mouth, Steve in your coochie/hands, and Eddie in your ass <3

Taking all of them at once is so much

But if you can handle it????

(which you can, they’ve trained you very well)

You will never ever ever want to go back

They are all dominant

They all have breeding kinks 

And they ALL love what a whore you are for them <3

Aftercare with all three of them is elite

They’re all naturally so good at aftercare, especially steve and eddie so they drag billy along with them yk

You have steve and eddie lying on either side of you with billy flopped on top of you pressing kisses to your face

You don’t know who’s kissing you, who’s caressing you, who’s playing with your hair or touching your neck but they’re all soft gentle loving touches from your boys and they fill you with the best feeling ever

You can feel all their hearts beating with yours, and they have you in this cozy little oven of warmth generated from your body heat mixing together 

They work so well together 

In and out of the bedroom

To make sure you feel loved and attended to all the time

You and Eddie go to Steve and Billy’s basketball games

You and Billy and Steve go to Eddie’s shows at the hideout 

You and Eddie and Billy surprise Steve at work

And they will all surprise you at work or your things yk

And jesus fucking christ you had scary dog privelages with one of them

All three???? At once????

You’ve never felt safer

Which is good because they do keep you safe

They’re good at keeping you safe and taking great care of you

And you take just as great care of them just by existing

They really do love you so fucking much

[quandaryqueen]

Harley Quinn, BTAS, and Young justice riddler's

Alr so, hero!reader and riddler's just having this tension around them when they fight???LIKE- THEY BE INSULTING EACH OTHER N SHI AND HOKD STRONG ASS FEELINGS FOR EACH OTHER

And their friends are just tryna to decide if they should break up the arguments since it's like 5x worse than they've seen with other villains n hero's

One day reader just- SNAPS and suddenly riddler is just putty in their hands while the reader just has this flustered n shocked expression cause they never thought he'll return their feelings but here we are

Like after that scenerio the others instantly notice how different they act w each other now and instead of arguing most of the time there's a good half of FLIRTING???? GET A FUCKING ROOM THEY'D SAY 💀

EVEN THE HEROES SAY GET A ROOM NOW AND IT JUST MAKES TGE READER LOOK AT THEM DEAD IN THE EYES AS IF ASKING THEM TO SHUT UP 😭😭

Bitches be crazy

Young Justice + BTAS + Harley Quinn Edward Nygma X Hero Reader

Ah yes, the typical mutual pining thinly-veiled with aggression. I love your style 👀

💚 Young Justice

~ If you can get something out of his mouth that aren't sputters of stuttering and stammering, it means he feels nothing for you. Trust me when I say you'd know if this guy has a crush on you.

~ The tension you'll be getting with dude is the fact that he looks suspiciously happy when you pin him down, holding his wrists to his back, your chest pressed against his back. YJ Eddie is a bottom, you cannot pry that headcanon from my cold, dead hands.

~ When the mutual feelings are made known to one another, the tension and 'flirting' are amped to the max. His fellow rogues are sick, your fellow heroes are screaming, the whole world is groaning "GET A ROOM ALREADY"

~ The Justice League often telling you off with it, because you have to save the world, not pitch a tent on Ed's pants. And they will most certainly not have it if you give them that look, you have the world to save H/N 😤

💚 Batman the animated series

~ Initially annoyed with you because wtf, can't he rob a bank in peace? Making an enemy out of this dude? Easy, done. But has he found enough of a charismaniac who matches his sharp tongue, impeccable wits, and charms? Oh he'll love you.

~ See, the moment you showed him what you're capable of, he is throwing that grudge out of the window. A little, he's still a touch bitter at the fact he can't host a heist in peace.

~ Top tier banter is in effect every damn time you crossed paths with one another that Bruce is hesitant to take you on a mission where there's the Riddler. Add in the fact that Dick Grayson Robin will gag at the obvious tension floating between you and the Riddleman. Bats knows what going on between you, and he isn't going to have it if it is going to render your judgement biased because you love the Riddler.

~ And no, you cannot beat Batman in his game of glaring, no one can. So you have no choice but to stop playing with Edward and arrest him already.

💚 Harley Quinn

~ Again, making an enemy out of this guy is easy. Though he isn't as much of a strong grudge holder such as his BTAS counterpart, he can still be as biting with the teasing. He just knows which buttons to push and you can easily counter him by pushing his buttons back, though it's not that easy as he looks as though he is unaffected by them.

~ Though when the feelings are made known to one another 👀 god helps everybody, this man lacks shame.

~ God help your superhero group, Commissioner Gordon would be agonizingly questioning you about your bad taste in romance, whilst he tries to take advantage of that by asking you about Riddler and his fellow rogues' agendas.

~ I think you can give Gordon the glare, he'd shut up... For now. For Batgirl? Yeah, that'd work. Give the glare to Batman? Oh no honey, he will stand firm.

[celesterunewhisper]

Day 11 - Watch

Tik. Tik. Tik. The slow sounds of an unseen grandfather clock audibly marked the choking silence that engulfed the elaborate living room. On any other day, the room might have felt comforting, perhaps even welcoming; however, the tension that wove itself with that damn ticking almost made sitting in the room unbearable. In the center of the den, two large couches—red and gold in hue, as was the rest of the decor—were set facing each other with an elegant coffee table between them. Next to the couches, an oversized chair sat to meet the entire room, sitting there like a throne; the fireplace flickering behind the high-back chair only served to cast a menacing shadow over any who sat in it. Compared to the rest of the furniture, it was clear the chair was moved deliberately into the room for whatever purpose the mysterious gathering served. The rest of the decorations of artwork and statues were purely there to display the wealth of the Crimsonburn family. Sitting in the throne chair, a middle-aged Quel'dorei man gazed out at the crowd of three with his beady, contemplating blue eyes. His complexion was lined with not only age but experience in the thralls of stressful politics. He wore elaborate robes of red and maroon and had his white-blond hair slicked back for the occasion. Lord Norath Crimsonburn glanced to the two men on the couch to his left. The elder of the two—looking not too much older than Norath—had long straight black hair, partially braided to keep his bangs from his face sporting robes of violet and slate-gray. A younger man sported the same hues in attire and hair; however, he had his short and slicked back similar to the Lord of the house. “You have met my wife, Lady Larae Crimsonburn, Lord Velvetlight?” Norath then glanced to the woman on the opposite couch who was meek in appearance with short, curly red hair and gorgeous robes of crimson. He smirked when her matching blue eyes locked with his, only for her to look to the table with discomfort seconds later. It thrilled him to see her so obediently in her place. The raven-haired gentleman raised a dark brow at the Lord of the house. “Indeed. A fetching catch. However, it is your daughter, my son, and I wish to meet.”

“Her tardiness is unorthodox, I assure you. Perhaps, she is nervous about being among such distinguished companies.” Norath replied, his voice icy and uncomfortably calm. Lord Velvetlight simply sighed before reaching forward towards the coffee table. An array of refreshments rested upon the wooden surface, including snacks, tea, coffee, and wine. The guest Lord helped himself to a glass of the latter. A superb Dalarn red; year 450K.C, much before the wondrous city made its floating charge to Northrend. An expensive taste with the delicate bite of a lingering arcanic crisp. Not enough to quell Lord Velvetlight's patience, unfortunately. As if the swelling distaste was the perfect queue, a young elven woman was politely escorted into the room by a servant of the manor. Her short hair matched both the curliness of her mother's and the pale blonde hues of her father's, and just like her parents, the Crimsonburn colours painted her corsetted, victorian gown. The servant didn't stay long and left the young woman to linger awkwardly at the door; her blue eyes glanced to her father's with an apologetic expression. Norath smiled, yet no humour or kindness touched his eyes. “My daughter; Lady Celeste Crimsonburn. What a pleasure for you to have finally indulged us with your presence.” Celeste winced, immediately curtseying before Norath, with her head low, “My apologies, father,” she spoke carefully, turning her attention to the two guests in their home. “I thank you for your patience, my Lords.” Her politeness was useless at this point; she had already disappointed Norath to irreparable levels that night. But, she still had a role in maintaining, lest she made it worse for herself. “Take a seat, Celeste,” Norath instructed cooly. “You remember Lord Velvetlight, don't you?” Truthfully, Celeste did not. However, she forced herself to dig through her memories in an effort not to embarrass herself further. She took a shot in the dark. “You...were a guest speaker at Sunstrider University. You taught a lecture for my Introduction to Political Theory class.” As she spoke, attempting to sound confident in her answer, she sat beside her silent mother. “Ah, so you do remember. Excellent.” Lord Velvetlight looked pleased. “I also met you in your adolescent years, but I do not expect you to remember something eighty years ago.” There was a momentary pause as the Lord took a sip of his wine. “I would like to introduce to you my son, Lord Zan Velvetlight. A proud Magister of Quel'thalas and Scryer under the ranks of Astalor Bloodsworn's trusted Arcanists.” Zan stood to his feet to bow towards Celeste, “A pleasure, my Lady.” Instinctively, Celeste held her hand towards the expecting man, to which he took and placed a gentlemanly kiss upon it. She was used to such gestures with her family's position in the noble hierarchy; however, she could never bring herself to enjoy that flavour of attention. It took everything in her power not to grimace as Zan retook his seat. “The pleasure is mine, Lord Zan.” “Celeste, why don't you elaborate for Lord Velvetlight more about your education,” Norath commented in a thinly veiled order. “Yes, indeed,” Lord Velvetlight began, “I am very interested in hearing more about the daughter Lord Crimsonburn has been raving about.” Celeste rose a brow at the strangeness of the conversation, and she couldn't help but glance at her mother for answers. However, when Larae met her daughter's gaze, her bright eyes glazed over with sadness. For some reason, the woman could not bring herself to speak out of turn and left her daughter to the thralls of confusion. “Right,” Celeste breathed, now looking to Lord Velvetlight—vividly aware of her father's icy gaze boring down on her while she spoke. “I have been studying the economics of the country primarily. Provincial stabilization, governance, representation through the monarchy, and the delicate balance of power and influence.” She took a deep breath, “I hope to follow in my father's footsteps of becoming a member of King Sunstrider's advocates.” This, of course, was an utter lie. “Ah, such high expectations. So much in common with my son.” Lord Velvetlight hummed with satisfaction. Zan spoke to provide context to his father's statement. “I hope to enlist within the Kirin Tor eventually. Put more experience under my belt to either rise further with the Magisters of Quel'thalas or, perhaps, a cozy seat on the council of the Magus Senate.” Arrogance coated his tongue as he spoke a matter of factly. Celeste forced an interested smile to her face and spoke with perfunctory attentiveness. “How do you not burn yourself out from such strenuous tasks?” Zan's ego predictably inflated as he smirked with bottomless pride towards Celeste. “Because I am superior. Other low-lives let opportunities pass them by, while intellectual men must rise to guide this wayward Kingdom. I intend to learn all I can to do so.” Celeste felt her blood run cold as her smile faltered. “Ah—your...father is right about...sharing high ambitions, then. I suppose.” Another lie. She wanted nothing more than to leave both the conversation and company. Norath spoke up once more, “It is as I said, Lord Velvetlight. It would be a flawless arrangement that will benefit both sides of the political spectrum. We must act upon the traditions of the monarchy's system before the ambitious Prince threatens to change the whole thing. What with that Theron whispering in his ear.” “Father, what are you talking about—” Celeste began. “You will speak when you are spoken to.” Norath snapped. Then turning back to Lord Velvetlight, he continued as if the outburst never happened. “What say you?” “Zan?” Lord Velvetlight glanced to his son, asking a vague question Celeste still did not understand the context of. The younger lord gave Celeste a once-over before smirking. “I find it both an excellent strategy and a rather lovely match. I agree to Lord Crimsonburn's proposition if you are inclined to act upon it, father.” Lord Velvetlight smiled. “Then our deal has been settled. The ceremony will be scheduled for the end of the month as planned.” “Perfect.” Norath grinned. “I have already arranged for their housing, as well. A gift for the new family, hm?” Lord Velvetlight chuckled, “So generous, my Lord.” Zan bowed his head, “I generously accept, Lord Crimsonburn.” Norath stood to his feet, and the other two lords followed suit. “A rather short meeting, but I understand you and your son are rather busy this evening.” “It has been a pleasure, Lord Crimsonburn. Till the ceremony, then.” And soon, Celeste was alone in the den with her father. Her mother couldn't bear to be in the room any longer, and she still didn't understand why. Norath gestured his hand silently towards Celeste, allowing her to speak freely. “What was that all about, father?” “We plan on uniting our causes together, Lord Velvetlight and I. The details are none of your concern, but we came up with an ideal way to permanently seal our partnership. A bargaining chip, if you must.” Norath responded as if Celeste's question was foolish. “What was the bargaining chip?” she asked hesitantly. “You, my dear,” Norath said. “You are.” The silence was almost deafening if it wasn't for that rhythmic ticking. “I beg your pardon?” Her voice was almost inaudible. Norath sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Ignorant girl. You are to wed Lord Zan. What did you think I meant when I said 'ceremony'?” His blue eyes narrowed at his daughter. Celeste's jaw nearly dropped to the floor; however, she closed it quickly before her father sneered. “Wait,” she breathed, “I just met him. I don't even know him!” “Frankly, my dear, I couldn't care less if you loved him or hated him. This is out of your control.” “You can't make me marry a stranger!” she shouted, standing to her feet. Norath was swifter than Celeste anticipated, and as he stood to his feet as well, the back of his ringed hand made contact with his daughter's cheek with an audible slap. Her face jerked to the side from the force, and her hands immediately went to cup the welt with a shaking whimper. “I can.” Norath towered over his trembling daughter. “Just watch.”

@daily-writing-challenge​ @howlingowl-wra​

[putas-in-suffering]

Whew can we just talk about Bishop’s hands 🤤🤤 you know he has a mighty grip. And those veins going up his arms into his hands and that one ring finger 🥵🥵 sorry I’m done being a hoe

Ok, but how did you know we have a super intense hand kink? Seriously tho, hoe points were made and we had no choice but to turn this into a tasty little headcanon for The Beast, himself. 😏

• Bishop is the kind of man that lets his hands do all the taking.

• It could be as simple as grazing your lower back during a casual greeting, his hand lingering a little longer than what’s appropriate, not that you mind.

• His touch is instantly possessive, much like his presence, you wordlessly fall in line like everyone else in his path.

• The man just exudes power, his every move is intentional and dominant.

• It’s intoxicating and before long he has you in his clutches.

• You’re never far from Bishop’s reach, his hands always on you in some capacity.

• In public, his touch is restrained, almost chaste.

• A kiss on the cheek, his arm gently resting over your shoulder, a stroke of his hand over the small of your back.

• In private, there is no place for subtlety, no room for modest touch, not when you’re all his for the taking.

• Bishop loves nothing more than to see the fire flicker in your irises as his hand takes its rightful place over your throat.

• His grip is light at first, testing the waters and your limits.

• What he doesn’t know is that your need for him is boundless, like an unquenchable thirst.

• “Do it,” you challenge, voice sweet like honey, dripping with lust.

• He does nothing at first, says nothing, his body stilled above you, unsure of what he’d heard you say.

• You place your hand over his, taking a shaky breath as you slowly apply pressure, your fingers slipping between his, begging him for more.

• “Do it, Bishop.”

• With a growl, he finally moves.

• His brows furrow, his neck tenses.

• He doesn’t hold back.

• He’s rough and unrelenting, his hips slamming into you with a force unlike any other.

• But it’s his grip on your throat that has you seeing stars.

• You can feel the cool silver of his rings against your delicate skin, taste the burn of passion in his kiss, see the veins in his arm pulsate in time with your bounding heart.

• Every sensation is heightened, electric.

• You’re on the cusp of bliss, the build up of pleasure reaching a blistering peak.

• He capitalizes on the moment, his age and experience making it effortless to read your body’s cry for release.

• His other hand finds its way between your bodies, thick fingers rubbing your clit with reckless abandon while his cock plunges into your depths.

• It’s almost too much to bear.

• “Fucking cum for me, baby,” his demand is spoken through clenched teeth, like a thinly veiled threat.

• You obey as his hand releases its hold on your throat, oxygen rushing your system with every gasping breath.

• He never falters, fucking you through your orgasm, swallowing your pleas for mercy.

• “On your knees,” another command, though this time the urgency in his tone is palpable.

• You do as your told, rising to your knees as he works his cock over in his hand.

• You stare in awe as he strokes himself, the contours of his body hard, the tension he’s holding on the verge of release.

• “Open.”

• You smirk up at him as you lean in, mouth open and tongue deviously darting out.

• He grips your jaw, lining you up with his cock, his touch rough, desperate.

• He cums hard, his eyes fixed on you the entire time, watching greedily as your tongue catches every spurt, your lips curving into a smile.

• He stares for as long as he can until his head falls back with a satisfied groan.

• You bask in the afterglow, held firmly in Bishop’s arms.

• His touch is soothing, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your spine, the steady rise and fall of his breathing lulling you to sleep.

• It’s in these peaceful moments that his guard comes down, the need to be the man in charge no longer necessary.

• In an act of gentility and gratitude, he plants a soft kiss to your forehead, his eyes closing as he inhales your sweet scent, drifting off to sleep with you pressed to his chest.

[abizarreyodelingincident]

Our Nightly Confidant 4

War Games

Warriors needs fresh air.

The hand resting in the crook of his elbow is soft, but its grip is threatening to cut off the blood circulation to his hand. The pain has steadily numbed as the ladies exchange thinly veiled insults about this or that province and this or that financial ruin.

He used to like this.

The attention, the admiration, the glory! When did it start to taste like ash in his mouth?

If his queen heard that thought, she'd have another one of her brutal truths for him. 'When war stopped being a game and became a duty.'

When he realized that not even being the Chosen Hero of Courage would shield him from the game. That it made him twice the target every other soldier was. When the bodies of fallen comrades couldn't go past the numb exhaustion that took him every evening.

“Lady Farosh, Lady Ordonas, if you'll excuse me for a second...” he says, flashing them his flashiest smile.

Lady Ordonas brings out her fan to hide her rosy cheeks and agrees with an obvious giggle. Lady Farosh, whose fingernails are on the verge of piercing skin, delays her reply by the barely polite amount of time.

“Oh, Captain Link, you cannot abandon me so swiftly,” she tries, eyes flickering to her father, an esteemed general in discussion with Impa.

“But of course not, only a second to freshen up.”

The instant she releases him, he pulls away and bows. Though, despite his instincts screaming at him, he doesn't run a straight line for the glass doors of the Queen's ballroom. Lady Farosh would take it as an insult. He weaves through conversations, dropping the minimum expected of him here and there, snarks at a Legend that looks ready to murder Lord Lonnayru (and Warriors wishes him to succeed), never touches a drink or bite offered that he did not pick for himself, and eventually reaches freedom.

The cool night air is a balm on his skin as it strokes his hair and face.

Even the small, military tents he's slept in during the campaign didn't feel half as stifling as that ballroom. And some of the tents, he couldn't even stand up inside!

Above, the moon shines its silvery glow down to the garden's fountain. With the ball in full swing inside, no one walks the peaceful path of stone amidst the roses and the arches. Shame. It's a beautiful place. His first stroll there had been a pleasant experience, though not his first conversation with his queen. Impa had chased away the rest of the escort and glared the patrolling guards into submission. Any attempt to bargain had been met with stony silence and a dare to prove themselves worthier of the Queen's protection than her Sheikah general and mentor.

Warriors stops by the hedgerow. If he focuses, he can see the spot where Zelda sat down, where she picked a rose for him, and pinned it on his breastplate.

They had had hopes for the future. Have. He still has hopes. Don't get him wrong. But he's a little more tired than he used to be. Where had the time gone?

'Captain Link, I must introduce you to my daughter.'

Must. Must. Must. Always a 'must', never a 'may'. Duty traps him and the wild beasts know it. They sniffed his blood long ago, and he can only ever bandage the wound so much before it becomes infected.

Traipsing around with the heroes of previous eras is a blessing and a reward that Hylia offered him. A thank you, he feels, and perhaps the beginning of an apology.

“You shouldn't be out there on your own, Captain Link.”

Those are normal words, spoken with careful reverence. Nothing about them should bring his walls up this quickly. But Warriors is no longer accosted by the common soldiers. Hasn't in a long time.

The cracks on his heart spread just a little further. Deeper.

“Someone might try to hurt you, sir.”

The reverence is gone.

And the spear points straight at his chest.

He doesn't have time to bring out his sword.

A snarling mass of fur tackles the traitor, and by the time Warriors can react, the cry of fear stops abruptly. In its stead is a steady gurgle, a fading wheeze. A limb that thuds against the garden grounds.

Warriors doesn't flinch. He's seen worse.

Once his prey has been deemed sufficiently mauled, Wolfie turns to him, muzzle dark with blood, and worry clear in his eyes.

“Good boy,” he says, absentminded, a hand ruffling through the beast's sinfully soft fur.

It's a testament to his companion's state of mind that no warning growl responds to the familiarity. Warriors doubt he would hear it anyway. He's staring at the dead body.

The guard was young. Maybe... Hyrule's age. He must have hated the war, if he'd gone to the front lines. Hell is hardly enough of a description for the dance of bodies and hacked limbs. He had probably lost a brother or a father or a cousin to the fighting, if he was earning his keep in the Queen's castle at that age. Maybe Impa had taken pity on him.

“Simple-minded fools who can't resist basic mind magic,” Warriors repeats, a wobbly chuckle in his voice.

Wolfie noses his hand, and the little shock of cold and wet jolts enough that he can avert his eyes from the traitor. Defeated, the events of the night all playing on loop, he drags himself to a secluded spot by the hedgerow. One from which he can see people coming, with his back to the branches. Wolfie plops down next to him.

“Mind magic. What I wouldn't give for that to be the case,” he confesses to the wolf-like companion. “Hylia. I'd take cowards over this. I'm not asking them to fight my battles for me. Not even fight by me. Just...”

His fingers curl into his scarf. Holds onto the lifeline.

“I just want to be able to turn my back on the people I protect. Is that really so much to ask for?”

Soft fur fills his sight. He ought to resist the urge. An officer must be strong. Cannot let the soldiers down. Fear spreads like wildfire. One spark, and the whole army goes up in flame.

He knows this.

He knows, and he sobs anyway. Farore, please, just for an instant, allow him to be weak.

He buries his face in Wolfie's shoulder, relishes the warmth and protection that comes from the sacred beast. It doesn't matter that some blood splatters might stain his official knight armors. It doesn't matter that for a split second, he doesn't scan his surroundings for exits, potential ambushes and traps. He gives the taut ropes of tension inside him just enough relief.

Until he pulls back.

Sniffs twice, wipes his face once and plasters the charmer smile.

“I'm alright, Wolfie... I'm alright.”

Wolfie doesn't buy it. Makes an inquisitive little whine. A question.

His hand trembles in the fur. “I am. I will be.”

Wolfie turns, quick not to notice one's tears. Strange for a wolf, but he doesn't pounce on their weaknesses. They trust he never will.

Silly as it sounds, there's more than a few noble daughters in that ballroom that could take lessons in civility from Wolfie. At least, in his presence, he doesn't feel like a bloody piece of meat dangling in front of a pack of wolves. Now, that's irony.

“You know... you kind of make me miss Midna.”

Warriors jumped back when Wolfie suddenly straightened, his eyes laser focused.

“Yeah, I know her,” he said, feeling a hint of a real smile. “We have a statue for her in the Temple of Souls. Hell of a woman.”

His hands went to his sword the second his ears picked up a low growling noise, only to realize it had come from Wolfie. Was... was their canine companion protective of the Twilight Princess? Or, Hylia forbid, jealous? Goddess, that was too cute.

“Shh, don't alert the others,” Warriors said, hands held in front of him in mock surrender.

Wolfie, with very Hylian-like intelligence, puts a paw first on his muzzle, then scratches one of his ears. It's a good point. He'd know first.

Warriors relents before Wolfie starts nipping. He remembers Time's mud bath. “She mentioned you too. Called you her favorite pet.”

He hadn't know what disgruntled looked like on a wolf before, but now he had the perfect picture. No wonder Midna had loved to tease him.

“She went into battle with this shadow spell. Wolf-companions.”

Wolfie's interest shifts into disguised wariness. There are hints that he might like to pull back a bit, but Warriors' hand remains firm on the back of the wolf's neck.

“Called her main one Rinku,” he adds, waggling his eyebrows. “Reminds you of something, huh?”

Wolfie blinks. Then blinks some more. He's almost completely frozen, like he has no clue what to make of that information. Or is trying to choose the right way to react. And when he does, Warriors bites down on a burst of laughter.

The puppy eyes. The good boy smile. It's worrying how they almost work.

Almost.

Warriors keeps a sly grin on his face and waits. He's in no hurry to return inside the palace.

It takes another change of beat in the music coming from the ballroom before Wolfie gives, and shadows swallow him.

“Since when?” Twilight says, sighing.

Warriors' smirk is immensely punchable, he's aware. He loves to live dangerously.

“Are you implying that I would deliberately play dumb so that one of my fellow Hero of Courage would act like a dog when he doesn't need to? That I knew from the very beginning and asked Wild to take pictures for posterity? For shame, Twilight.”

A vein twitched under Twilight's jaw. “No, I wasn't implying that. I was saying you're an asshole, Wars!”

Warriors fails to dodge the lunge, half-paralyzed by muffled chuckles. The momentum throws them on the grass, and there's a split second of disorientation before his back hits the ground, and a weight lands on his chest. A heavy weight. Goddesses be good, the farmer lifestyle paid, huh?

“Twilight, move your fat ass.”

The mullish expression on his brother's face would have made a raging moblin sweat. “No. We're still doing this. I have a great track record, and I'm not letting you narcissistic goatfiddler break it by being your usual self. Talk.”

His eyes widen in alarm. “Really? This is the setup? Me, suffocating, and you, thinking of a place to hide my body. What is this, a deathbed confession?”

“You could have had the amazing emotional support of everyone's favorite wolf. But noooo, you're too good for that, so spill. Better be fast, because I had double serving of Wild's chili. Gives me gaz like thunder.”

“You. Wouldn't. Dare.”

The silent glare he receives is all Time.

Warriors squirming renews. “Farmhand, I will skewer you on the Master Sword myself if you don't-”

“Why would you go off on your own like that? We were all in the ballroom. You could have gotten any of us.”

“Let's not reverse the roles here,” Warriors hisses, one eyebrow raised. “I'm not the one playing double-life around our group. You can't talk about trust when you constantly hide in plain sight. You want trust? You tell me why.”

The boyish, almost light air between them breaks. Guilt blooms on Twilight's face. He can't meet Warriors' gaze and doesn't even try.

“... It's Dark Magic.”

“I couldn't care less. I've fought amongst noble fighters with dark magic and against monsters with the opposite. Next.”

Twilight's ears droop slightly. It's dog-like, and amusingly fitting for a moment of hesitation. Every second that passes without a word hammer the fact that 'dark magic' is the surface excuse for Twilight's shifty dealings about their group. Warriors tries not to be angry. Twilight did just save his life with that very secret.

“I've had...” Lips mull the words for a few seconds. “Mixed reactions.”

Warriors feels himself frown. “Mixed how?”

“You know me, the country boy, raised in the small farmer village lost in the woods. Country bumpkins, the lot of us... You ever heard what they think of wolves?”

His breath hitches. Slow dread creeps on him. He hates the ease with which images come to him. He's never seen Twilight's hometown, never met any of his family, but he's suddenly overwhelmed by the idea of a mob of pitchforks and pickaxes held high, of dogs barking through the woods as a grey wolf scampers. Narrowly avoids a bear trap snapping its deadly maw on thin air instead of a limb. Overhears angry grumbling about making a pelt out of his skin.

They should be farmers, but he sees old faces instead. Soldiers. Commanders. Officers. Brothers-in-arms he's long trusted. Thought he could trust.

“W-what do they know about those majestic beasts?” he says, jokingly because he's afraid to let the mask slip an inch. (It'd fall a mile, shatter too hard for him to ever glue back the pieces.)

“My father threatened to skewer me,” comes the quiet admission, less than a whisper.

Warriors' heart squeezes. “Twilight.”

“Didn't know it was me though,” Twilight adds, failing at even a small smile. “To him, I was just this wild animal circling the village right after most of the children had been stolen. He... he only threatened me. Just words. Nothing like what you had to deal with.”

“The words are the worst part for me,” Warriors hears himself say. “I hear them in my nightmares, even if I forget what they tried to do. Couldn't tell you who came at me with a spear, with a sword, with a dagger. But I see their eyes in the mirror, the hate as they died.”

“The fear. The 'Get back, beast!' and the screams.”

“'It's your fault!'” Warriors repeat, the same tone that echoed in his head. “'You should have died instead!'”

Twilight's face twists, and there's a split second when Warriors thinks his heart will give out. Even the shadows of Twili magic can't compare to the darkness that covers the blue of his eyes. But Twilight turns his head to the side and spits in disgust.

It hits the traitor's cooling corpse.

“Bastards,” he says, venom lacing his tongue. “Should have made that last.”

He says, with blood all over his face , Warriors thinks dryly.

It's a sharp contrast, that violence on him. Twilight has always had that air of earnest, straightforward honesty. One look at him and strangers will put their trust in him without hesitation. He lacks the battleworn scars (at least where it's visible), is old enough to be taken seriously and his bumpkin accent breeds familiarity with most commoners they meet. Warriors himself has to deploy all his charms to get the same results, and he's still being glared at by a lot of the men.

They peg him a charmer, and not without reason.

“I don't like it either,” Warriors says, quiet.

“What?” Twilight replies, an eyebrow raised.

“The knight act, you know.” And before Twilight's mouth can drop – “At least, some of it. The game. The doublespeak. The mask. It all feels pointless sometimes.”

“I... really?” Twilight's baffled words hurt, just a little.

Warriors scoffs. “Yes, really. I'm not meant to play knaves and daggers. I'm a soldier. An officer. I'm meant to be out there, defending the kingdom I love. Inspiring the people to fight back against darkness, to stand up for their lives. To be at the front of an army, to lead as one amongst the great... it's incredible. It's what I was born to do, I know it in my bones. The act is necessary. But by the Goddesses do I wish I could live without it.”

He sees the way his meaning worms itself past Twilight's gaze, understanding dawning on him. “No matter where one goes, huh?” Sheepish ruffle of his own hair. “Is it something in the water?”

“Like they'd lower themselves to drinking water,” Warriors sneers, a smirk hidden underneath. “Wine only, my good sir. And only the finest year, from the finest yard. Vintage, my good peasant, it's all the vintage that shows breeding.”

“They do know that for everyone else, breeding is something you check for your horses and your dogs, right?”

“I... couldn't tell. I've stopped listening a while ago. I just nod and play my handsome part. It is the only use for a Hero once the King of Evil has been defeated, it looks like. I don't know if I even should call myself a knight anymore.”

“Wild was touched, y'know?” Twilight says, looking up to the moon. “When you called him an honorable knight,” he adds with a sigh. “He's always associated his life before the Calamity to knighthood, to that incredible soldier that had trained for a decade before facing his destiny. Someone whose shadow he chased for months, not realizing it's his own. You might have been the first to call his current self a knight.”

“He is!” Warriors near jumps to his feet. “Wild may be unorthodox, but he is a loyal, devoted man that served Hyrule to the best of his ability despite having lost everything but his life to the cause. Most generals in my army could not even measure up to his standard.”

“Should have seen the look in his eyes when I mentioned it.” There's a hint of sadness beyond the pride and joy of this memory.

He hates the curdling feeling that brings forth. “Remind me to knock a couple of heads together next time we visit his Hyrule, would you?”

Twilight's chuckle is fond, gentle. “Yeah, that's what I meant. I never thought to tell him in those words. To me, he was always good enough. But you saw that side of him too. You know what it's like to want it. I can't relate that well to this, but... well, anyone under your command has to look up to a guy like you.”

Hands ball into fists. Eyes drift to the corpse. “Not everyone does. Obviously.”

Twilight bumps shoulders with him. “I'm sorry, pretty boy. I'm sorry these assholes think they have any right to blame you. To resent you. You're an amazing leader. Much better than me. I... I honestly admire you and your skill.”

Warmth settles in his stomach. He can't... For a second, he needs to blink away tears.

“So he admits it.”

There's a wry, wolfish quality to Twilight's grin. “You speak a word of it, and you'll meet an unfortunate fate, Captain.”

“As if anyone but my Queen could make me fall in battle,” he laughs, pushing Twilight's shoulder, hard.

“Careful there.” His brother's grin sharpens, and the returning shove almost sends Warriors crashing into a bush. “You might touch my cursed stone, and then you'd be stuck as your true self. What would your queen think if she saw a plague-ridden rat try to command her armies?”

Laughter bubbles in his chest. “Be happy to send the rat to infect the goat-loving hillbillies before they spread out of their mudholes! Imagine the half-goat, half-hylians that would invade Hyrule!”

Twilight's gauntlets fall to the ground. Knuckles are cracked. “A'right. Someone needs an asswhooping.”

He could not stop smirking if the Goddesses ordered him to. “Bring it, dog-boy. I'll put a collar on you.”

Taunts, past this point, become superfluous. The breath they would waste could be better utilized trying not to die (lose) against this moblin (his brother) and his freakish strength (no, really, he pushes giant metal crates on ice, the goron-born idiot). The honor of Hyrule rests on his victory.

At some point, they roll over in the fountain.

This does not, in fact, stop their roughhousing.

                                                    ***

 “Should I ask why you both have black eyes and split lips when no one noticed any monster for miles?” Time wonders at his seconds-in-command. “While we were attending a ball?”

“No,” they growl with a ferocity to chill bones.

“Not fair!” Wind protests, to the nodding of most. “Why did they get to have all the fun?”

Ah, youth.

[imaginingsoftly]

For the Love of the Game - Jake DeBrusk

Type: first meetings, mini-rants about hockey culture thinly veiled as plot

Requested: No

Warnings: lots of swearing

A/N: An ending miraculously made an appearance, so the Jake thing is actually a one-shot and not a series. 

Night shifts were the time to work. Y/N sighed as she finally sat on a stool halfway through her shift, the first chance she’d had to sit since the night began. Weekend night shifts, while her favorite, could be demanding. Everyone was out, it seemed like, and they were all drunkenly breaking bones. Not that she’d ever complain about the volume of work. It was lucky, really, that she’d managed to get a radiology tech job in Boston at all. Mass. General was an enormous hospital with some of the best staff in the country, and it wasn’t often they hired new grads without prior work experience. 

Mary, one of her favorite coworkers, slumped onto the chair next to Y/N with a groan. “I just had a 220-pound drunk guy fall on me. I’m gonna feel that for weeks.” Mary rubbed at her back as Y/N laughed. Mary was small, barely five feet tall, and maybe 100 pounds. Her size had been an advantage in college, when she was a flier for one of the cheer teams at a university in Texas, but was a disadvantage now when she had to manhandle people over twice her size. “How many X-rays are you up to tonight?” Mary asked. “I’ve seen you running around non-stop since our shifts started.”

“I lost count about an hour ago,” Y/N chuckled. “I can tell you that it’ll be a new personal record though. I’ve never seen so many random injuries before. Most of the time my people are coming from car accidents this time of night, but now it just seems like a ton of drunken reverie.” Mary made a face in agreement, and they watched in amusement as one of the orderlies hauled another drunken patient back into his room. It was madness in the halls, and Y/N shook her head. “Am I missing something? Is there a holiday I don’t know about?”

Ben, one of the doctors, appeared at Y/N’s side suddenly. “The Bruins played tonight. They won, but it was a really rough game. There were a couple of brawls in the stands, and some in the streets. That’s probably where most of these people are coming from.” Now that he mentioned it, there were a lot of people wearing sports gear. Y/N recognized the black and gold as belonging to the home team, but she didn’t recognize the blue and white the others were wearing. “The Toronto Maple Leafs,” Ben said, before she could ask. “They’ve got a bit of an intense rivalry going the last few years. A lot of tension, on and off the ice. Doesn’t help that Boston tends to come out the victors in playoff games.” 

Sports. Y/N’s mom was never a sports fan, minus Premier League, and even then she was just a casual observer. There had never been any intense feelings about sports in their house, and Y/N would never understand the hatred people felt for each other over teams. Ben squeezed Y/N’s shoulder gently, drawing her back to the present. “You guys need any coffee? Kevin’s making a run for me before he gets in for his shift.” Mary shook her head with a smile, but Y/N nodded. She would never turn down a good cup of coffee. Anything was better than what they’d get in the cafeteria. 

“Black, please. With a shot or two of espresso.” Ben shook his head disapprovingly at her, and Y/N shrugged with a smile. “I know, I know, caffeine is bad. I promise I’ve only had 3 other cups today. I’ve been good.” The coffee addiction was real. Honestly, it wasn’t so much the caffeine most of the time so much as it was the taste, but Y/N knew she shouldn’t be drinking this much of it. A voice sounded over the earpiece Y/N was wearing before Ben or Mary could say any more, and Y/N stood again with a sigh. “Duty calls. We’ve got a transfer from a Pete Asnis?”

“That means it’s an athlete,” Ben said, beginning to walk with Y/N. “I’m going to guess Bruins, since the Red Sox didn’t play tonight.” A nurse handed Y/N a clipboard with the information on her patient as they rounded the corner to the room Y/N was bound for, and Ben stopped. “I hope nothing is broken. They can’t afford another injury.” Seriously? That’s what he was worried about? Not that the guys might have a broken bone? Y/N rolled her eyes, though she slapped on a smile as she slid into the room. 

Said Bruins player was sitting on the hospital bed clearly unhappy to be there, a scowl painting the face she was sure smiled more often than not. He was arguing with an older bald man when Y/N entered, and she knocked on the door once to gain their attention. “Hi there; I was told a,” she stopped to look at the name on the clipboard, “Jake Debrusk needed some x-rays done?” The man on the bed managed to scowl even deeper somehow, and the bald guy sighed heavily. He was clearly a trainer of some sort, dressed in his joggers and team pullover, but he also looked like this routine was far too familiar to him. “He needs a scan on his right clavicle. Took a nasty hit and heard a crack. He can’t lift his right arm past about 45°, and I’m already seeing some swelling.” 

Good. At least the trainer could tell her everything she needed. “Alrighty, let me just check out that swelling and we’ll decide if we can take that picture yet, yes?” Jake softened slightly at her smile and nodded. He had a nice face, though there was a nasty bruise forming over his eye. “I’m Y/N Y/L/N, one of the X-Ray techs here. Hopefully we can get a scan of your shoulder and get you home ASAP.” The trainer reached out a hand, introducing himself as Don Delnegro, the head trainer for the team. Jake barely acknowledged her words, and looked absolutely miserable from his seat on the bed. He began to slide his shirt off so she could get a look at his shoulder, but stopped when he jolted it. “Can I help you?” Y/N reached out her hands slowly, and when Jake nodded began to help him slide the shirt over his head without jostling his arm too much. 

The bruising on his shoulder and torso was spectacular. Of course, they were nothing compared to the muscle they were coloring, and her mouth dried a little at the beauty sitting on the hospital bed. Y/N tried to keep her reaction to a minimum, but Jake clearly caught the slight widening of her eyes. “Toronto always plays us rough. We’ve got a little bit of history.” He grinned at Y/N. “We always come out on top though.” Delnegro scoffed from behind Y/N, and she reached out a hand to feel for swelling before she lost her mind. It was definitely swollen, a bit too much to get a clear scan. 

“I have some okay news, and some bad news.” Jake groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “Please don’t tell me you can’t do the x-ray,” he begged, “I don’t want to stay.” If it weren’t for how childish and dramatic he sounded, Y/N probably would have been a little offended. Hospitals weren’t for everyone, but she liked it here. “So bad news, you’re too swollen for a scan. Okay news, it should only be a few hours before we can scan you. You might be able to go home before morning.” Delnegro sighed and settled in. 

“You don’t have to stay, you can go home.” Jake looked at the older man almost apologetically, like he felt bad about an injury outside his control.

“I don’t trust you to take care of yourself. I’m staying until they discharge you.” Delnegro fixed Jake with a stare that would have had even Ben cringing, and Y/N smirked at the stubbornness of the trainer.

“You’re going to want the company, trust me. It may be a couple of hours before we can get the scan.” Y/N spoke before she could stop herself. It really wasn’t any of her business if he was alone or not. Jake took his turn to glare at someone, though Y/N was completely unimpressed. No matter how threatening he tried to look, the guy just didn’t look mean. Her pager signaled a new patient that needed scanning, and Y/N sighed. No more time for conversation. “A nurse will be in to check on you every hour or so, and when they let me know the swelling is down I’ll come back.” She smiled at the two men one more time and slipped out the door once they nodded. 

Now to find someone to check in on him. If he was a professional athlete, the hospital big-wigs were probably expecting her to give him preferential treatment. They had when one of the Patriots players had hurt himself during a workout. Dealing with the business side of hospitals, the one that didn’t put patients first, was her least favorite part of the job. Mary was power-walking down the hallway when Y/N walked out of the room, and she flagged her down. “I’ve got a possible broken clavicle with a good amount of swelling in this room,” she said when they met halfway, “do you know who’s got him?” Mary looked down at her clipboard and then at the door Y/N came from. 

“I do. You want me to let you know when the swelling is good for a scan?” Y/N smiled. Mary could read her mind. “If you wouldn’t mind,” Y/N said gratefully. Mary nodded her confirmation, and Y/N headed towards her next patient. Broken wrist and a possible concussion. Jesus. The game must have been pretty wild. 

It was yet another hockey fan, this one in blue and white, Toronto’s colors. He was so drunk Y/N could smell the alcohol as he entered the room, and she tried not to gag as she positioned him to get scans of his wrist. “Those motherfuckers think they own us just because they win more often than we do. News flash, we have more cups than they do.” Y/N nodded silently as the man ranted, though she almost wanted to ask him what the hell he was talking about. Cups? Own who? Rivalries made no sense. “And do you know that a whole bunch of those assholes decided it’d be a good idea to start a fight in the middle of the goddamn game? My team was winning and they decide they’re gonna start making jokes about choking? Not on my watch.” These people are crazy, Y/N decided. No sport was worth a broken bone and a concussion. Alcohol and sports don’t mix. 

She finally got the scan, after telling the man several times to stop moving while the machine was working, and it was indeed broken. She gave the scans over to the nurse with the instruction that it was a clean break and then slumped at her desk for a breather. Ben stopped into her space with the coffee she’d ordered, and Y/N jumped up to hug him. He laughed as she sighed heavily into his shoulder. “That guy you just scanned was something else. I could hear him yelling from down the hall.” Y/N sighed again and then stepped back. 

“I appreciate this coffee more than you and Kevin could ever understand.” It was scalding, clearly fresh from the coffee shop across the street, and Y/N drank as much of it as she could. Yes, she needed this. Ben raised his eyebrows. “You know,” he said teasingly, “I’m not going to take it away if you don’t suck it all down right away.” Y/N shoved his shoulder, and they walked together back into the hallway. “How’s our Bruin? Mary said it was too swollen to do anything with so far.” Y/N nodded. She had forgotten Ben was a fan and would want to know how he was holding up. “I’m not asking just as a fan,” he said, almost like he knew what she was thinking. “He’s my patient. Just wanted to see what I was going to be working with.” He bumped Y/N’s shoulder and smiled when she glared up at him. 

Ben was like the big brother she’d never had, and she would never admit how much stupid things like that meant to her. He cared enough to jostle her around or make sure she ate dinner when the shifts got crazy. “The team trainer was with him, and he said that arm movement was limited to lifting below 45°, and he was having a lot of trouble moving. I had to help him take his shirt off.” Ben smirked, and Y/N groaned. He was not about to make a pervy joke. “No, Benjamin, I did not just want his clothes off. It was just as much a test of his range of motion as it was to check on the swelling.” She punched his shoulder. “Get your head out of the damn gutter.” Ben’s laughter followed her all the way down the hall as he left, and Y/N had to bite her lip to keep from laughing too. She may not have wanted his shirt off for that reason, but the muscles underneath definitely hadn’t been a sacrifice to look at.

It took almost 3 hours before the swelling went down enough for Y/N to get a scan of Jake’s shoulder. It was indeed broken, and some muscle was torn. Y/N bit her lip as she scanned the x-ray alongside Ben. It looked bad. He would be out a few weeks at least, more if the tearing didn’t heal properly. Ben sighed heavily. “He’s done for the rest of the season. No way he plays with this.” Y/N felt a sudden rush of sadness for the athlete in the room behind them. She may not have been a sports fan, but this was his livelihood. It would be like telling her she couldn’t come to the hospital for a month. 

Y/N let Ben go so he could break the news to Delnegro and Jake, and she went looking for Mary at the nurse’s station. “A clean break, and some muscle damage.” Mary looked up from the salad she was devouring, her fork freezing halfway up to her mouth. “Ben said he’d be out the rest of the season. Poor guy.” Mary frowned. “Hopefully they don’t let him come back in a week or two,” she said heavily, “it is the playoffs. Sometimes they do that.” There was no way that guy would be skating in a week, let alone playing in a game. Mary took a bite of her salad, chewing thoughtfully.

Ben appeared at Y/N’s side, apparently done giving the diagnosis to Jake. “I know it seems crazy, but he’s actually played through a pretty serious concussion before. And one of his teammates played through a couple of broken ribs and a punctured lung. The lung actually collapsed during a game, and he spent 3 days here.” Y/N stared up at Ben horrified, and she knew Mary was making the same face. “It’s the culture of the game. You pretend you’re not injured until you drop.” What a horrible game. 

Y/N shook her head in disgust. “Thank you for reminding me why I’m not a sports fan. That’s absolutely disgusting. How irresponsible could those doctors be that they let them play like that?” Ben shrugged like he had no idea, and Y/N scoffed. Sports were ridiculous. 

She ran into Jake and Delnegro again as they were discharging, running into one another at the doors. “Thanks for all your help, Ms. Y/L/N,” Jake said sincerely. He held out his left hand for a fist bump, and Y/N chuckled. Delnegro held out a hand for a handshake, and Y/N smiled at him as well.

“It was nice to meet you both,” she said. “Please heal up and don’t do anything stupid.” Delnegro laughed as Jake looked at her in shock. “One of my coworkers mentioned you boys like to pretend you’re not injured. Broken clavicles aren’t anything to mess with.” She nodded at them both with another smile, walking off in the direction of her car while Jake stood there flustered. A wild end to a wild night. 

_______________________________________________________________

Jake did indeed go back early, a little over two-and-a-half weeks later, and Y/N had the game on in the break room just to keep an eye on him. She could only check in for a minute at a time, but those minutes pieced together gave her a new appreciation for the game. The game was so fast, and she had to admit watching them hit each other was a rush. It was all fine until the third period, when he took a hit and went down hard. Ben happened to be in the room with Y/N when it happened and he swore viciously, something about a cheap shot and a dirty player. “That was the bad side,” Y/N said anxiously. Jake stayed down on the ice, and the pain was evident on his face. “Why isn’t he getting up?” Ben swore, shaking his head. 

“You’d better get ready, shorty. Your favorite patient is coming back.” Ben laughed when Y/N punched his shoulder in response. Ben used humor to cope, and he was clearly upset to see a patient and a player on the team he loves injured again. Or still injured. There was no way that clavicle and muscle damage was already healed completely. Y/N sighed heavily and trudged out of the break room. A call for the transfer and scans would be coming any second. 

Sure enough it did, less than ten minutes later, and Y/N was accepting a coffee from Kevin as he came in for his shift. “Heard you got the Bruins player again. Good luck. They lost tonight. He won’t be happy.” Y/N groaned. Not only did she get an idiot that didn’t know how to let himself heal, but she was getting an idiot that was going to be an asshole too. Kevin patted Y/N’s shoulder as the man himself strode past the pair at the nurse’s station, Delnegro by his side again. “Whelp duty calls, shorty. Good luck.” Y/N took off after the pair, intercepting them before they reached a room. 

Y/N touched Jake’s left arm gently, though she stepped back when she saw the intensity and anger in his eyes. He hadn’t looked this threatening a couple of weeks ago. “Why don’t we go ahead and get you scanned real quick, if there isn’t too much swelling.” She shook the anger off. Being intimidated wouldn’t help anyone. Jake’s eyes softened slightly as he took Y/N in, and he reached out his hand awkwardly for a shake. “Welcome back,” she said with a small grin, “I was hoping I wouldn’t see you back here. I told you not to do anything stupid.” Jake barked out a laugh, and Y/N thought she saw a small smile on Delnegro’s face.

“Sorry, Ms. Y/L/N,” Jake said sheepishly, “it’s the playoffs.” Yeah, she’d heard all about it. He remembered where her machines were, and Y/N was kind of unsettled at how normal it was for him to be back in the room getting scanned again. Hopefully he wouldn’t make this a regular occurrence. “So,” Jake began as she moved him into position for the scan, “the doc from a couple of weeks ago said you weren’t a sports fan.” Damn him.

Y/N ignored Jake’s eyes as she finished arranging his arm, though she answered him as she walked across the room for the kevlar apron. “I’m not. My mom wasn’t and it was just her when I was a kid. I never got the appeal.”

Jake groaned. “How can you live in Boston and not like sports? All the teams are good!” He looked so sincere, and for the first time Y/N felt a pang of loneliness for not being a sports fan. It was rare to find someone in the city that didn’t care about at least one of the teams, she knew that. “So look: our season is over after our loss tonight, but the playoffs are still going on. If I promise to be good and not injure my shoulder more, will you watch a game with me? I’ll explain the sport and maybe we can make you into a hockey fan.” Y/N opened her mouth to refuse, probably make some sort of excuse about him being a patient, but Jake hurriedly continued. “I was planning on coming back here once the season was over and asking you out. Since the season is over and I’m already here, I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone. It doesn’t have to be a date if you don’t want it to be, but I’d love for you to see how beautiful the game really is.” 

Well, when he put it that way. “Sure,” Y/N said, surprising herself. “I’d like that.” The smile that lit up Jake’s face made one night of sports well-worth it. Maybe she would become a hockey fan after all. 

[7-wonders]

16/17 for angst or 45? Happy New Year, Claire! I hope this upcoming year is prosperous for you and filled with good things -🥦

I’m not good at angst, but I tried! I just want everybody to be happy :(

Word Count: 1.7k

16. “I’m sorry, but…I don’t remember you.”

17. “I wish I’d never met you.” - “No…you don’t mean that.”

The evening starts as any other boring gala that you’ve attended as Duncan Shepherd’s girlfriend has. Hands are shaken, pleasantries are exchanged, and drinks appear in your grasp almost immediately after you finish them. Duncan talks with the political powerhouses of D.C., always strategizing the Shepherd Freedom Foundation’s next move, while you stand to the side and smile politely. The one time that Duncan had suggested you go and “get to know” the wives and girlfriends of his colleagues and acquaintances, you bit your tongue until you could taste blood in an attempt to not ruin the carefully cultivated relationships that Duncan and his family have spent years developing. A successful attempt, mind you, but still an attempt that Duncan was not willing to chance again.

You’ll put up with all of the bad aspects of political galas as long as you have Duncan by your side. While you never thought that you were the type of person to fall head over heels for a person, you would do anything for Duncan. You would follow him into the pits of hell if he asked, but you considered following him to a gala to be pretty close. All of the fake body enhancements and political tension in the world were made tolerable when you caught Duncan’s gaze from across the room and the small smile he would give you to reassure you that this was almost over.

It’s a rare moment where you and Duncan are actually alone, taking your drinks and disappearing to a secluded table near the back of the lavish ballroom. The attention of most other guests in the room is focused on the arrival of President Underwood, whom Annette and Bill are more than happy to rub elbows with if it means they get to throw a few cloaked insults her way, and vice versa. This is the most intimate moment you’ll be able to find with Duncan tonight, so you’re taking advantage of the relative quiet.

“Usher’s looking particularly rat-faced tonight,” you mutter into Duncan’s ear, hiding your smirk into his shoulder as he chuckles into his drink.

“Careful, his rodent ears will pick up on what you’re saying from across the room.” Duncan doesn’t hide his animosity for the Vice President and his mother’s lover, and you have no reason to like him either, so poking fun at him is a common pastime at these events.

“We’re terrible people.”

Duncan shrugs. “And yet, we still manage to be some of the best people in this room.”

Your sentence dies on your lips as you watch a redhead with the longest legs you’ve ever seen approach the table you’re situated at. Duncan stiffens next to you, and you squeeze his forearm comfortingly as you look at him in confusion. You’re certain that you’ve never seen this woman before, which means she’s not one of Duncan’s political enemies. Maybe she’s one of the notorious senators’ daughters that Annette consistently tried to set Duncan up with before you came into his life and her fears that her son would be a perpetual bachelor were assuaged.

“Duncan, hi!” Dammit, even her voice sounds pretty. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

A pained smile is on Duncan’s face as he drums his fingers against the table. “Sorry, have we met before?”

The woman’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, and she laughs. “Uh, yeah? I don’t really know how you can just--”

“I’m sorry, but...I don’t remember you.”

She stares at Duncan for a moment before her eyes land on you. Smiling slowly, her gaze flicks between you and Duncan before she nods. “Uh huh. So you don’t remember six months ago? That weekend we spent together, you know! It was supposed to be just a night, but,” she laughs and shrugs, “I mean, I’m sure your date understands what I mean when I say that you’re very persuasive.”

Your heart jumps into your throat before immediately plunging into your stomach, a Tower of Terror that you did not realize you were in line to ride until you were already strapped in. Even without the thinly veiled innuendos, you would have figured out what this copperhead snake was getting at. You don’t want it to be true and would place all of your trust in Duncan, if only he would vehemently deny what was being said and assure you that he would never do what he was accused of. When you see the look of panic that Duncan gives you, his jaw slack from the shock, you know that your worst fears are now true.

Six months ago, Duncan had learned that he wasn’t actually a Shepherd.

Six months ago, Duncan hadn’t been sure of how to healthily deal with his emotions.

Six months ago, Duncan had broken up with you in the midst of his crisis.

Six months ago, Duncan hadn’t answered your texts for an entire weekend before showing up on your doorstep, tearfully confessing that he couldn’t deal with what was happening without you.

“Duncan,” you mutter, attempting not to cause a scene, “tell me that it’s not true.”

His eyes squeeze shut as he rubs his hand along the stubble on his jaw before minutely shaking his head. “(Y/N), listen to me--”

You’re gone before he can finish his sentence, gathering the hem of your floor-length dress and speed walking across the ballroom. Duncan follows behind you at a pace that doesn’t make it look like he’s chasing you, which works to your advantage. Somehow, Annette notices her son and his girlfriend in their cloud of turmoil, and you can only help that societal conventions keep her from attempting to once again intervene in Duncan’s life.

The courtyard of the venue is as elaborate as the ones that you’ve only read about, with a carefully cultivated orchard and a large fountain serving as the centerpiece. The fountain provides the perfect cover for a soon-to-be quarreling couple, with the water making a makeshift curtain that shields observers from the other side. Duncan grabs your upper arm when you attempt to walk into the orchard to get some space, forcing you to a stop and jerking you around to face him.

“What?” you spit, eyes already burning with tears. “How are you going to explain your way out of this?”

“You have to understand that I was spiraling. I was going through a crisis, and I didn’t know how to deal with everything that was happening...”

“So you broke up with me and then slept with somebody else, what sounds like multiple times over the course of two days?”

“I know my actions are inexcusable. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I’m hoping that I can at least explain to you the reasoning behind my actions. I was alone, and I--”

“I was there for you!” you spit. “I was there, and you told me that you didn’t need me in your life. You were the one who kicked me out, you were the one who refused my support, and you were the sole reason why you were alone. You have nobody to blame but yourself for being in that situation.”

Duncan takes a cautious step towards you, pausing when you put the same amount of distance between you once again. “(Y/N), I hate myself for what I did. For months, I’ve tried to figure out the right way to tell you. I mean, technically we were broken up!”

“Shut the hell up, you Ross Geller wannabe!” Duncan grabs for your arm, but you pull yourself back from him. “No! You don’t get to try and sweet talk me until I’m the one apologizing for the way I feel.”

“I’m sorry for the pain that I have caused you, but you need to know that you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. It was a moment of weakness, and foolishness, and I’ve regretted it since the moment that it happened.” Duncan’s blue eyes are cloudy as tears begin to roll down his face. “I love you, (Y/N). I have nothing else to say other than that I love you, and I’ll continue to love you no matter what. I only hope that you’ll give me that same honor.”

Shaking your head, you close your eyes tightly before taking a deep breath. “I wish I’d never met you,” you finally say.

The words seem to hang in the air, the weight of what you’ve said settling over your shoulders like a weighted blanket. The panicked expression that’s become so familiar to you over the past few minutes is once again visible on Duncan’s face, and his bottom lip quivers as he stutters out, “No...you don’t mean that.”

You’re not sure whether or not you’ll mean it in the morning, but right now, it’s the only thing you’re sure of.

“I can’t be here,” you mutter, turning your back on Duncan and walking towards the parking lot.

“Where are you going?” Duncan calls, knowing better than to follow you.

“Home!”

“But--we arrived together, you don’t have a ride!”

“I’ll get a Lyft, then!” You can feel his eyes on you, and you can hear that Annette’s already asking Duncan what’s happened, but you don’t care. The only thing you care about now is going home, going to sleep, and hopefully waking up from this living nightmare.

[ineffablecolors]

The Wife [23/24]

The Wife || Ch 23 ~ 4k || Ch1 Ch2 Ch3 Ch4 Ch5 Ch6 Ch7 Ch8 Ch9 Ch10 Ch11 C12 Ch13Ch14Ch15Ch16 Ch17 Ch18 Ch19 Ch20 Ch21 Ch22 || FF.NET&AO3

Summary: No one knows all that Emma has been through and certainly no one knows all that Killian has been through and being husband and wife doesn’t make them any less unknown to each other. And really, how can you help someone heal when you don’t even know how hurt they are?

A/N: You all know it’s been 84 years so I just hope this is worth the wait. Just one more after this, which hopefully won't take me another month.

In recent months, Mrs Emma Jones has discovered an extraordinary love for the theatre. This is, in some part, the work of her sister and brother-in-law who first invited her and Killian along to a play – Emma and Elsa both finding Liam’s choice of An Ideal Husband a bit on the nose, much to Killian’s endless amusement. Then there is, of course, Alice and Robyn’s contribution – a rather significant one, considering Alice’s utter fascination with farces and Robyn’s almost cultish dedication to Wilde.

Her husband, however, has been all too willing to sweep all credit for himself, smug and self-congratulatory about the whole affair, and Emma cannot quite comprehend why – or so she says to one and all – it’s not like he invented the stage.

Yes, Killian has rather good taste, an exceptional eye for smaller productions that are about to become everybody’s latest favourite just a week after Captain and Mrs Jones have seen them, and he does know quite a few people – both behind and on stage, though he claims to prefer – and indeed seems to have much better relationships with – the playwrights rather than the actors. Something about men who spend an outrageous amount of their time sequestered in their studies and bent over a small hill of papers flocking together Emma said and received that look from Killian that she so enjoys – part outrage and part amusement, with a thrilling undercurrent of admiration.

Yet, whether or not he deserves credit for her newfound love of the stage, Emma cannot deny enjoying Killian’s unaffected manner of speaking with great playwrights, the lithe way he leads her backstage and introduces her to people that she might have felt inadequate and tongue-tied in front of just a year ago. It’s different now, less nerve-wracking than she would have guessed. Emma is far from the centre of conversation but, when she has an opinion, she puts it forward and the surprise of people listening and considering and sometimes agreeing with her lessens every time. It’s part Killian’s hand – warm and solid on the small of her back, part the atmosphere – a place so out of her old life that she feels unmarred and equal here, and maybe, it’s part her – not afraid to take whatever space her gown requires and voice whatever thought her mind has deemed intelligent enough.

Emma has had more than one rather stimulating and even entertaining discussion in theatre houses in recent months, it’s all rather pleasant and cultured. Most evenings at least. Not that this particular evening is not taking a rather stimulating turn but—

Her back collides with the wall, the sound muted by the plush burgundy curtain that rasps against the hard ridges of her corset’s lacing. Her gasp is also muted by Killian’s tongue sliding over the roof of her mouth and tangling with her own, the rise and fall of her bosom restricted by his proximity and brushing the velvet material of his vest on every deep breath. She is running rather short on those when his mouth slants less than elegantly across her cheek and the cool tip of his nose burrows behind her ear.

“And you were,” Emma takes in a mouthful of air and unconsciously tilts her head and her hips to give him better access to both. “such a gentleman just a minute ago.”

There are voices all around them – audience milling around in the great hall just a flight of small stairs away, actors undressing and bemoaning blunders and missteps and forgotten lines in the dressing rooms a narrow hallway to their left and workers already dismantling the stage décor a few less than solid walls behind.

“I plan to be a gentleman in the minute that follows as well, Mrs Jones.”

She would scoff at the cockiness in his tone – it’s a thrilling discovery when he gets like this sometimes, it’s equally delicious to push back, the smug turn of his mouth that she can now feel against her exposed collarbone. She would, but somehow she must have missed the moment when Killian hitched her skirts up enough to sneak his hand between her legs, so the sound she makes is more of a keen, not quite – she would argue – a wail, and just barely stifled as he presses his wooden hand against her mouth at the same time he slips two fingers inside her.

Emma squeezes her eyes shut and buckles her hips forward and when two fingers become three, she swallows hard and bites down on his leather glove. Killian’s body is like a furnace against hers and she can feel the fine sheen of sweat forming at the back of her neck, under her heavy curls. It takes a minute but when she is sure that she can control the sounds coming out of her mouth, Emma drops her head against the fabric-covered wall behind and makes a valiant attempt to glare at the man who is nosing his way between her breasts and obliterating any hope she might have of looking presentable after this.

“You are a villain, Captain.”

His laughter shakes her whole body and his thumb hits that all-important spot and Emma discovers she doesn’t quite have those sounds under control after all.

“Do you feel wronged, my queen?”

“I feel positively debauched.”

“Debauched, is it? I cannot, in good conscience, say I dislike the sound of that.”

“I— Oh! Killian, please.”

“Please what?”

“Oh! Ooh, you will— you will regret this.”

That makes him pull out of her corset and when his face comes into focus Emma has to admit that she is probably not the only one who looks indecent – Killian’s lips are almost swollen pink, contrasting tantalizingly with his greying beard, and his disheveled hair makes her realize that his sojourn between her breasts was not solely his idea. She doesn’t have precise knowledge of what she looks like herself, beyond that distinct feeling of debauchery, but the flickers in Killian’s eyes tell her that she is a sight indeed.

“No,” he shakes his head and bites his lip as he twists his hand, making Emma bite down on her own bottom lip hard. “No, I don’t believe I will.”

In the end – though this would be merely a precursor rather than an end, if she has any say in the matter – Emma cannot claim she regrets it either. Not when Killian’s hand smooths the layers of her gown over her backside and makes a valiant attempt to brush her hair over her shoulders, not when she presses her lips right against his pulse and steps up close enough to feel the tension he has most definitely not relieved, not when they sneak out of the theatre’s back entrance, laughing and tripping over less than stable limbs.

*****

It’s a thinly veiled ploy – Salome not being to the gentlemen’s taste, Elsa wanting an evening out with the girls before they depart – it’s not a bad ploy, Emma is sure they will have a lovely evening, it just doesn’t do much to divert her attention from the fact that Killian and Liam are staying in for more than brotherly commiserating.

“I don’t think even aunt Elsa wants them to take on more work.”

Emma’s fingers fumble for a second and she extends her pinkie to hook the hairs she dropped and heave them into Alice’s slowly emerging braid. Emma can do her step-daughter’s hair in a few short minutes but it didn’t take long for her to realize that Alice enjoys having her hair combed and twisted into different shapes and styles. Emma still allows her to do her own (she appreciates the time with Alice and the fact that it results in Killian getting to undo it all in the evening) but it’s not hard to convince Alice that they both enjoy this much better.

So, while Robyn is probably already tapping her foot and driving Killian up the wall, Alice and Emma take their time preparing for the outing. Really, Elsa and Liam have yet to arrive so it’s not like they are being particularly inconsiderate.

“Well,” Emma weaves another strand of curly blond hair into the braid circling Alice’s head and bites lightly on her lip. “I do hope she has told him so.”

“Did you tell papa?”

Emma’s lips quirk up.

“Sweetheart, I’m sure your father is in no two minds about how I feel,” Alice tries to twist her head to look at her but Emma keeps her still with a gentle press to her neck. “And you must acknowledge that he has been rather good about it.”

“Oh, yes, of course! I just worry you will be bored while we are away visiting Captain Nemo.”

Belle and Nemo’s wedding just a month prior was a small affair with just over a dozen guests in attendance. It reminded Emma of her own wedding despite the vastly different arrangement between bride and groom. Belle’s wealth and position in society was more than secure and respected and the two had been courting since her and Killian’s visit and, despite the slight sheen of mortification and vulnerability she associates with that time, Emma can’t help feeling somewhat smug for her husband’s sake. Killian can protest all he likes but Emma is now convinced that he has a certain sense about these things and it does not lead him astray.

But while the wedding was quaint, the celebration afterwards is still going a month later. Just last week a letter arrived inviting Alice and Robyn to stay at the Captain’s estate for some time and put their skills with a bow to practical use. Alice is just as eager to see and talk books with Belle again as she is horrified at the idea of hunting with Captain Nemo. The glimmer in Robyn’s eye whenever they talk about it tells Emma that Miss Hood feels somewhat differently about the matter and, frankly, Emma is glad that she will not be around when it all comes to a head.

“While you two have spoiled us for company and entertainment, I’m sure we will find ways to amuse ourselves.”

It’s not exactly sarcastic and it only as the last two words slip out that Emma realizes the less than innocent connotations they might communicate and she reaches quickly for one of the ribbons on the vanity before them.

“But if papa takes on this new—“

“Alice, truly, you needn’t worry about me.”

“Oh, alright. I just meant that… shall you wish to, you’re more than welcome to join us at any time.”

“And leave Killian by himself?”

Touched as Emma is by the offer – they are a particular warmth in her throat, all those little things Alice says and does – she can’t quite manage to temper her outraged tone. She feels Alice’s chuckle in her shoulders.

“God forbid. And that for more than a day apart,” the teasing in Alice’s voice is like a tickle in the air and Emma pulls just a little bit harder than she has to as she secures her braid in place, only making Alice giggle again. “I merely meant that it will give him incentive to not lock himself away for too long.”

“Well, I’m not aiming to “incent”, sweetheart,” Emma leans down and whispers conspiratorially as she finishes off Alice’s hairdo.

“Never?”

Emma considers this with a bemused smile.

“It’s just… Robyn turns such a fetching pink when I’m being difficult.”

Emma laughs so loud that she can hear some impatient grumbling from downstairs.

*****

She enjoys the play immensely, even if a quarter of her mind is always back at home, wondering if Killian and Liam have moved on to the rum and cigars portion of their evening. It’s how they find them an hour later as the girls rush in, chattering endlessly and gesticulating wildly, Alice pulling Robyn before Ruby to illustrate the shape of a gown on one of the actresses that she simply must have (Emma thinks the garment a few notches too risqué but she is amused nonetheless), Granny grumbles and bustles as Elsa asks for a tray of wineglasses and drapes herself over Liam’s shoulders, demanding that he wheedle the best wine from his brother.

Emma just looks at Killian – gently, questioningly, and smiles back when he does. He takes her hand without moving too close, kisses her knuckles and winks over the length of her arm. It’s enough for her to drop bonelessly in the armchair in the corner and enjoy the girls’ antics and Liam’s grumbling about missing all the fun for another hour before Admiral and Mrs Jones take their leave. She even manages to keep her lips pressed firmly together while Killian ushers Alice to bed, promising to go riding with her tomorrow, Granny already prophesying how late breakfast will be.

She makes it all the way to the moment when she slips in bed, watching Killian take off his shirt and his brace, ruffle his hair and down a glass of water, trying to clean out the taste of rum probably. She is more than willing to help him with that as soon as the bed dips under his weight.

“How did Liam’s attack go?”

She feels his laughter as he wraps his arms around her and tugs her close.

“Love, I fear you are still much mistaken about my brother’s position when it comes to business. If we could deal with no one at all and take on as little work as possible, Liam would be most content. Though he probably won’t like balancing the accounts afterwards.”

“Yes, it’s you being the voice of reason that worries me, my heart.”

“Ah,” Killian’s hand slips up the back of her thigh, his fingers spreading to make contact with as much skin as possible. “It seems I’m being quite… unreasonable as well.”

Emma believes that the position she is currently in – with her husband’s leg between her own and his long fingers definitively heading places – justifies the slight delay with which she absorbs his words.

“Y-you are?”

“Aye, terribly unreasonable. Told my brother we should turn down this flush gentleman because my daughter and her lady are going away for a month and I wish to have my wife in every room—“

“Killian!”

“And under every tree in the garden”

“You did not.”

“Mm, not in those precise words but, trust me, my meaning was quite clear.”

“I— Well, then—“

Emma truly – foolishly – believed that the days of being flustered by her husband were behind her.

“Of course,” Killian continues in a nonchalant tone that would annoy her if other things he is currently doing didn’t please her quite so much. “This does not mean that we should let our form slip now.”

His teeth close over the shape of her breast and Emma barely manages to remember that they are not yet alone in the house.

*****

“I’m shamefully happy.”

Killian’s heart lurches and his head snaps around to look at his daughter who is trying to determine how many cherries she can fit in her mouth at once. He knows her record is nine, he also knows he is supposed to scowl and tell her how unladylike the whole thing is. Frankly, he is just still a bit sour that she beat him by one bloody cherry.

“Nothing shameful about it, sweetheart.”

Alice tries to reply around a mouthful of merely five cherries but it’s still enough to be a bit of a disaster. Her eyes widen with a touch of embarrassment and a whole lot of amusement as she pushes her fingers against her lips, chews, spits three pits out, chews, spits another, swallows, squeezes one eye shut in annoyance with the wrong cherries to pits ratio and wipes her hand over mouth.

“It’s shameful, the way having half a dozen cherries at once is,” she says as if this is the most obvious metaphor in the world and Killian grins at her.

“That’s never spotted you before.”

Her grin is cherry-red and awfully smug and he thinks maybe he is shamefully happy as well.

*****

Killian cannot say he doesn’t miss the girls when they set off for Nemo’s estate. There is a certain immutability about the house all of a sudden – a room is always just the same as it was when he last walked out of it now – things actually remaining in their places, no books and bonnets and knickknacks of all sorts appearing seemingly out of nowhere between one moment and the next.

He enjoys the calm to a degree and then his thoughts reel up unexpected – the way Roger does when he feels like he has been confined to a sedate pace for much too long – and rush forward into unexplored territories.

Well, hardly unexplored but certainly tentatively so.

For the first handful of months after Emma convinced him that they should play dice with things Killian would’ve preferred to keep securely within his grasp and control, there was an almost constant hum of tension about him – not quite unwillingness and not just worry but something waiting and anxious and ready to spring. If Emma noticed, she said something by tucking her chin into his collarbone and smoothing her hands over the scars on his side and fitting her knees right behind his and her stomach flat against his back. Emma noticed and she asked if he was certain and then she made good use of his certainty.

And then half a year went by and nothing happened despite their regular and sincere attempts and Killian felt like he could breathe easily again, except for the prickle of guilt at the nape of his neck that he felt like scratching whenever he found Emma curled up before the fire and staring somewhere beyond it.

It wasn’t that he was glad and it wasn’t that he wished for their attempts to amount to nothing. But, when they did, it felt like walking on land again after a turbulent time at sea, when they did, he would sit at the feet of the dying embers and pull her into his lap and tell her that they were alright and maybe this was alright and certainly they could wait and definitely they will remain alright.

And then another two months went by and then another and Emma dug her fingers into his forearms less whenever he sat behind her and wrapped himself around her. There is a certain melancholy about her for a couple of days every month but it doesn’t seem to mount, to build every month, it seems like the tide – coming and going with a regularity, inevitable but not drowning.

It takes almost a year for Killian to start feeling it, the way his thoughts yank the reigns a bit to the side, towards a path that he realizes part of him expected to walk eventually, whether he was prepared or not. It doesn’t change anything outward – he has been steadfast in his decision to trust Emma from the start, it’s just that now – after expectation has been quietly simmering between them without bubbling over for some time, after the girls have reminded him of things he seems better equipped for than he remembers – he is starting to trust himself as well.

Three days after Alice and Robyn depart, he realizes his thoughts have stopped right before that path of wanting and have been trumping their hooves in place for some time now.

*****

It takes a solid hour for Ruby and Killian’s combined forces – Emma sipping her tea on the side and observing their efforts with unmasked glee – to finally prevail over Granny. Eventually, begrudgingly, Mrs Lucas allows Killian to dismiss the whole staff for a week.

The freedom of the empty house is intoxicating and for the first couple of days they behave much like children left to their own devices. They don’t eat a single meal on an actual table and make a complete mess of a number of carpets and sheets, they heat pot after pot of hot chocolate and let the cups pile around the sink, they forget the horses need exercise and lie in the garden with no blanket between them and the damp ground, they break a vase full of red flowers neither of them recognizes while Killian chases her through the drawing room, her hair half down and definitely in need of a wash.

Despite Killian’s daring ambitions, they don’t make love in every room in the house, let alone under every tree in the garden, they just don’t worry about pressing their palms against the other’s mouths quite as often, they rarely bother dressing fully and on one memorable occasion Emma ventures out of their bedroom in her husband’s clothing.

But that’s not what makes her feel drunk on Killian for the entire week – it’s the fact that she spends an unusually warm day with nothing but a shawl over her dressing gown, molding herself against her husband’s side and tucking her feet under his thighs, it’s the fact that, towards the end of the week, Killian’s brace on his nightstand is covered in a fine layer of dust, it’s the fact that they run out of cocoa and, faced with the unthinkable prospect of dressing themselves properly and going to the marker, they start making a horrendous concoction that has too much milk and too much sugar to be called tea anymore, it’s the fact that Killian opens one of the drawers of his heavy, ornate desk and takes out a stack of every drawing she has made and left behind since marrying him.

And then there is an afternoon, a golden hour of utter stillness and the scent of bread not baked quite right, a hushed hour in which she can hear the sound of her fingers counting the vertebrae in Killian’s spine, a muted hour in which she can see the white indentations that remain for three, four, five seconds after Killian’s fingers release her hip, an hour in a very distinct palette of colours against which the black and grey in Killian’s hair stands out sharply, the pink of her nails as she slips her hot hands through it again and again, an hour outside of time in which she feels her spine curve to a point after which there should be no coming back and it’s only Killian’s knees at the small of her back and his stump around her waist that keep her from breaking clean in half, an hour of nothingness in which they only talk against skin and right into each other’s throats, an hour of everything in which she thinks she touches every bit of skin that is Killian’s.

It’s an unremarkable afternoon and an hour the kind of which has ticked away again and again.

But that’s the afternoon she thinks about weeks later, when Ruby comes up with a hot water bottle and cloths and a change of clothes that Emma finds herself not needing.

*****

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[settle-down-frohike]

fic trope mashup: 38, 56

Spoilers: Redux II

Rating: R for language

38. Grief Fic 56. Awful first meeting, fill in the blanks fic

Part 2 of this (sort of a fleshing out of this) Sorry this one took me so long!! Tagging @today-in-fic and @edierone

Two nurses and a very insistent Maggie help him from the floor, huddling and fussing over him appropriately, his ears vaguely registering Scully’s voice in the background insisting that he go down to the ER to get checked out. Christ, but it was good to hear her scolding. He wished he could faint every day of his life from now on if only to hear her bark, “Mulder!!” over and over again. Voice meant breath and breath meant she yet lived. She lived. She was going to live.  Isn’t that what she had meant?

They finally all agreed on allowing him a cup of juice and a cookie to bring his blood sugar to an acceptable level, provided he stay put in a chair keeping his head between his legs, which suited him just fine being that he couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes. He had no intention of making a sobbing spectacle of himself with Bill glowering in the corner like a petulant teenager.

What passed for a cookie was bland and dry but downed easily enough with the “juice” that tasted more like a melted popsicle than an actual orange. Slowly his racing heart began to recede to an acceptable rate and the sweat coating his body began to dry, leaving him sticky and chilled. Daring a glance up, he found Maggie at Scully’s bedside, kissing her daughter’s knuckles and thanking God, oblivious to Scully’s sobering definitions of what remission really meant, that the cancer was not gone in fact but dormant. The Devil would not be defeated, only smothered for the time being. According to their faith, Satan could only truly lose his hold on this world when a Savior had been born and sacrificed to one day resurrect from the dead, eventually claiming the victory in the Last and Holy war on evil. He knew of no such savior. Not yet, not in this story.

Time had been bought nonetheless, and as for Mulder, he could only thank whomever had been listening to his offer of sacrifice in the chapel. He would meet his end in exchange for this charity, of that he was sure. If it be tomorrow, he was ready. Samantha was alive, albeit a stranger to him, and Scully’s beautiful heart was still beating. He could be done with this life in a moment knowing those two things. Til death do we part…his left ring finger faintly tingled, sympathetic nervous system recalling Maggie’s thinly veiled hint at her understanding of the order of things.

He shook his head against maudlin thoughts, reaching desperately within himself to try and find a smile or at least a joke that Bill might find inappropriate given the circumstances. Finding none and feeling suddenly claustrophobic, he mumbled an excuse to use the men’s room, feeling rather than seeing Scully’s attempts to make eye contact. He felt her reaching for him, and he wasn’t yet strong enough to be any sort of tether, so he ran. Ever selfish, and wasn’t that just like him. Maggie was joyously sobbing on her phone to their priest it seemed, blubbering something about miracles and answered prayers. Bill continued to play the part of sullen watchdog, and though he would never admit it to the towering Irishman, Mulder was grateful. However misguided his actions, he loved his sister.  And maybe he was right to protect her from this ominous, looming form dressed in a suit. This fallen angel who seemed to have ushered in a good portion of their family’s sufferings. 

His legs still felt limp and toneless as he searched the hallway for any sign of a restroom, which mercifully ended up being just past the nurse’s station. Before he could truly embarrass himself once again he made it to the sink and began to splash generous amounts of icy tap over his cheeks and around his neck. His heart had begun to thud again suspiciously and he had hoped he could ward off another attack of the vapors. A look into the mirror revealed glassy eyes and ashen skin, and he chastised himself inwardly for his inability to pull it the fuck together. His heart continued to pick up its pace, and yet he could not physically draw in enough oxygen to pacify its need. A sudden painful, unrelenting tension in his chest began to build until he could only collapse back against the outside of a stall, desperately tearing at his collar and tie in search of freedom from a sense of helplessness and terror that had rapidly begun to consume him, making his vision swim and the floor seem to tilt on its axis.

A hand on his shoulder made him flail out reflexively, “DON’T TOUCH ME!!” he yelled at the beige blur hovering over him.

“Dude are you ok?” he could hear it say, barely able to make out shaggy brown hair and a stout form in what looked like a uniform.

“I’m fine…” he gasped, “I just can’t breathe. My chest—“

“I’m gonna get a nurse man hold on—“ 

“NO! No nurse…” Oh God he was dizzy. He was going to be sick. This oaf was probably going to have the calvary with a crash cart in here at any second and Scully had seen enough of his antics for one day. God please, just give her 24 hours of respite. He could die tomorrow he promised but give her today.  

“My chest…I just need to breathe. I can’t….my chest hurts…I just need to breathe…” he pulled futilely on the reigns of his galloping, runaway pulse, unable to command the beast that continued to carry him to a sure and humiliating death. 

“I can’t do this..I can’t do this…I can’t…’ the words tumbled from his mouth, unbidden.  The grip on his shoulder tightened, and he swatted weakly at the offending gesture.  

“Hey man I think it’s a panic attack. I get’m all the time. Listen to me you gotta breathe in your nose, dude. Breathe big. Big breaths. Focus on the floor, man. Look at the tiles. Focus on the still stuff.” 

Infinitesimally, the grout, then the grid like pattern of the floor came into focus, as did the owner of the west coast valley-guy accent. A janitor. Name tag: Todd…Young. No… Not young… Thirties…Flunky..Another wave of nausea washed over him as he watched the other man rise and swing the door open, then closed. 

“I put my sign on the door. Just take a minute man. It’s cool.” 

As the room around him expanded and stilled, the hysteria began to abate. His throat began to close around a heavy lump and stung behind his jaw, his mouth watering. He clenched his teeth and refused to cry on the grimy floor of a public restroom in front of an equally grimy guy who just so happened to have missed his calling as a therapist. With some effort, he swallowed the tears down along with his insulting first impressions. Todd sat cross-legged next to him, and remained otherwise silent for a time, allowing Mulder to finally reach some form of stasis. 

“You ok dude? Man I thought you were having a heart attack. Guess I made the right call, he chuckled soberly, “Shit. I’da lost my job. You aren’t gonna die on me anyway are you?”

Mulder chuffed, “Not today.” He’d managed finally not to gulp down air.  Todd nodded and added distantly, “Cancer ward, man. It happens a lot here.” 

Now Mulder was truly remorseful for his earlier aggression. This guy had probably seen a lot of grief in these halls. He wondered about this Good Samaritan. Probably tossed aside by most, and yet a blessing to the injured who happened along his path. Todd. He would not forget his name.

Feeling sufficiently contrite and knowing his extended absence from Scully’s room would not go unnoticed, he gathered himself from the floor and picked up his tie to tuck in his pocket. Whatever words of thanks he could have formed during another moment when his wits were about him, they weren’t forthcoming right now. Todd heaved himself up as well, and went to retrieve his cart. One job finished, another to start. Mulder understood the feeling. It never really does end. He strode slowly from the restroom, leaving Todd to his duties, and the festering source of his malaise bubbled up like a bratty child, refusing to be ignored. 

Samantha. The feel of her snatching her hand from his had been akin to a slice to his palm. Quickly over and done, leaving a gaping wound destined to scar. He had failed and yet he hadn’t. She was returned to him and yet rejected their reunion. He had her back and yet had lost her all over again. 

Scully. Alive and warm and…incomprehensibly lovely… and doctoring him from a hospital bed. He was so sure that call had meant the end. And yet they had been granted, by some deity or  malevolent force, another chance. A life to live or to barter for some future price, he had still to know. Why can’t he smile? Why can’t he be happy? He’d gotten what he wanted, hadn’t he? The questions presented themselves in his mind in Scully’s voice, not tauntin exactly, but coaxing him into focus on the here and now, on the what is, and not what might be. And wouldn’t that be just like her…Is just like her…because… she’s okay. Today, right now. She’s okay and in the next room to his left. The idea seemed so ridiculously improbable at that moment that he began to giggle, manically at first, then fitfully, finally collapsing into full blown sobs on the bench just outside her door. Hands hiding his face, head between his knees, just as he’d been instructed. For a moment, he had release. 

[swishandflickwit]

Deckerstar — lost without you 1/1

Summary: In which Father Frank hears of Lucifer's return to Hell, follows in Eve's footsteps by visiting the Devil from time to time, and finally establishes the kind of friendship they had been laying the foundations of before they were both so rudely interrupted by his death.

Alternatively: A Priest Walks Into Hell

(...and, quite possibly, doesn't come back out?)

Ratings: General Audiences

Words: 2.5k+

Warnings: Post-S4. Spoilers ahead. Implied Deckerstar. Canon divergence. Seriously, DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVEN’T FINISHED SEASON 4.

AN: This started out as a crack if and evolved into... something more emotional than I had originally intended it to be because why not *sighs* lol.

AN: This started out as a crack fic and evolved into... something more emotional than I had originally intended it to be because why not *sighs* lol. I wrote this way before the IG takeover by Tom, Ildy and Joe so the fact that Tom wishes he could see Father Frank again but that he couldn't because he's in Heaven and Lucifer is in Hell was just bloody kismet!!!

Title, and song referenced below, is by Freya Ridings which is SO DECKERSTAR except you change 'I have to see the world' to 'I've got to save the world' and I cRYYYYYYY.

Also, Father Frank went to Heaven! But if Amenadiel's theory of Free Will is to be believed—and it obviously can because how else was Eve able to escape Heaven, come back to life and in her original, youthful body, if it can't be—then anyone is free to leave Heaven or Hell, which is how Frank can visit Lucifer. Trust me, I had a whole backstory, I'm just... not... strong enough to write it out so, uh.

Roll with it...?

SHOUTOUT to Devil'sMiracle17 for beta reading the SHIT out of this and whipping it into shape better than I ever could. This was fine, but you made it BETTER and I'm so grateful to have met you through this experience! You have my heart!

Also on ff.net | AO3

Other writing

“What song is that?”

Lucifer saunters into the designated music chambers of his hellish castle before seating himself onto the bench next to Frank.

“Sounds positively wretched.”

Although, ‘saunter’ might have been too generous a term… slinks would have been the appropriate description—trudge even more so. Unless he holds court with his demons, the Devil doesn’t much care for appearances these days.

At least not when he’s with him.

Dejection has made a home of his friend’s shoulders, so Frank does what he can to, if not extinguish—then alleviate the insidious homesickness that plagues him by providing his more human company.

Little good it does.

Frank sighs. “Something one of the newer, younger residents of the Silver City keeps blasting on repeat through the courtyard speakers. Apparently he’s having a bit of trouble accepting his newfound… state and so the angels have permitted the coping mechanism, however repetitive,” he grumbles. “The other residents have given the kid a wide berth, but I actually like staying in the courtyard and it’s been weeks,” he feels his face pinch in shame, even as he cannot hold back the admission. “Now the song’s always stuck in my head. I can’t catch a break, not even here!”

(And if he, too, benefits just as greatly from their arrangement then no one else need ever be the wiser)

Lucifer snorts. “It’s always nice to be sought, not for the scintillating conversation but, for your ability to provide refuge from angsty teenagers and shrieking, mainstream bops,” he says, drily. “You sure know how to make a Devil feel wanted, Padre.”

Frank chuckles. “Don’t forget the refreshments,” he quips, raising a goblet of demon-brewed ale to his lips and taking a dainty sip because—as he learned the hard way—the beverage was not for the faint of heart, dead or alive.

He rolls his eyes, but there’s the tiniest hint of a curl to the corner of his lips that exposes his amusement, “Oh, of course,” it widens in mischief. “That is, when you’re not puking your guts out after having partaken a little too much of the libations…”

“That was one time!”

“And my hellions are still wiping your vile, regurgitations from the side of my castle, you little weakling!”

The pair of them dissolve into giggles as they recall the events that currently fuel their mirth; Lucifer challenging the priest and he, against his better judgement, indulging him in some petty motivation to prove him wrong. Suffice to say—they both lost that night.

Much, much later, when their nostalgia trails off and their chortles fade, Frank plays the piece in its entirety, complete with its lyrics because he’s heard it so many times it’s that embedded into his mind. Lucifer doesn’t do anything as innocuous as applaud, but Frank can sense his appreciation—recognizes it in the easiness of his breaths and the slackening of his shoulders (however minuscule, tension never truly leaving him, not even in his slumber, in the few times Frank has caught him unaware).

“Sounds like something dear Ella would have listened to.”

It’s mumbled out of the corner of his mouth in evident mockery, a derisive tilt to his articulations. Except it’s lost in the soft lines about his mouth and the brightening of his eyes as he becomes swept in the current of his memories.

So he waits, always waits… happy to let Lucifer dictate the pace of their interactions, the weight of their conversations. He learned early on when they’d reunited that Lucifer suffered through good days and bad days like the best of them, that the good days were often outweighed by the bad, and the one method to temper them that didn’t involve isolating himself on his throne for days at a time, or going on a manic bender, or some crazed combination of both, was when he reminisced of his time on Earth. Or more specifically—

The people that made his time there all the more meaningful.

Though he’d been witness to the Devil’s subtle but present humanity in the all too abrupt time they spent together topside, it is never more apparent than when he speaks of the Earthly family he’d found himself, reluctant maybe but ultimately, belonging to.

Sure, the bulk of his tales involve complaining about the notorious righteousness oozing from Amenadiel’s brawny form (“Never fails to bring up he’s the Favorite Son like, alright! We get it, yeesh!”), and the deviousness with which his newborn nephew commands the adults around him with a mere sniffle… ranting about Maze's betrayal (“Twice, Father. Twice! The audacity of that little demon!”) by teaming up with Cain (“I’m going to need a drink for this, aren’t I?” Lucifer cackles. “Or ten!”), and Linda's maddening advice during his therapy sessions (“She can never just give me the answers, honestly, what else am I paying her for?”), before recounting the whole debacle with Eve—after which he upchucked the contents of his stomach over the side of Lucifer’s balcony.

Yet even amidst the palpable, if thinly veiled, vexation of his intonation, there is that undercurrent of affection that one would have to be blind not to notice... but Frank does, and he is happy. Truly. And everyone he knows, and wouldn’t have known if not for Lucifer’s divulging moods, who is significant to Lucifer has made an appearance in all his, sometimes hurtful but mostly fond, chronicles… save for one.

Arguably, the most important one.

Yes, it doesn’t escape his notice that Lucifer hardly ever speaks of the detective that spearheaded Frank’s investigation when he had been alive. His friend is in the middle of narrating his experience in a nudist sanctuary, when he cuts himself off in that manner that tells him Chloe is a part of the story.

This is what he does, every time, and it happens so often that it becomes impossible to not discern that she—his partner in every sense of the word—is so deeply interwoven within his past, his present. One need only be in their presence for more than a second to confirm, there was no mistaking the connection between them, whether it is platonic or otherwise. And so Frank is of the firm belief that it would take more than a couple of short-lived dalliances with third parties to crack, what more break, their relationship.

So, he prods. Not hard. Not pressing enough to warrant his anger or, worse, aggravate his sadness. But a little hint here, a nudge there. He can see the strain in Lucifer's muscles and the melancholy that darkens his all ready too dark orbs… and he's aching.

He can sense the fight brewing in his soul—to speak of her, to bury her memory deep inside himself, to feel her, to wrap her in his darkness, to bring her to the light, to forget her, to remember her. So Frank tells him as much as he can without actually saying the necessary confabulations that he's here, that it's okay. Lucifer can cast his burdens onto him because this is what friends (for this is what they are and yes, his celestial best friend, for all intents and purposes, is the Devil and strange as it is, he wouldn’t have it any other way) do, they listen and they protect and they share the load of your despair as well as they can ‘til finally.

Finally, it spills out of Lucifer like a break in a dam and he is crashing, crashing and all Frank can do is hold him through the tidal wave so he doesn’t drown.

“She loves me,” Lucifer admits openly, softly, even as rivulets stream silently into the collar of his ever-impeccable suit. “She wanted me to stay, and I could not give her even that. I couldn't give her what she desired.”

“Why?”

“That damned prophecy,” he snarls, and his eyes flash red before altogether receding to their natural umber as he further expands on this foretelling, Frank's grimace deepening as a new, priestly, player is introduced and revealed to have preyed on both Lucifer and Chloe’s insecurities through his dastardly manipulations, which resulted in the deaths of a hefty number of innocents.

“And Hell must always have a ruler—a celestial one at that,” Lucifer concludes in muted, hopeless tones.

“Forget the prophecy!” Frank roars, an unexpected heat that tastes of indignation at the awful circumstances that seem to follow Lucifer no matter how undeserving he is of them, coursing through his veins. “Do you love her?”

And the despondency lifts for even just a fraction, replaced by a familiar exasperation.

“Haven't you been listening? First love equals destruction upon humanity? I don't really know how much clearer than the risk of an apocalyptic threat I can get.”

Frank raises an eyebrow. “I've yet to hear you actually declare your love in relation to her name, Lucifer.”

“Ah,” he breathes, and fiddles with a cufflink, which only gives away his unease. “Funny, that—I've also yet to say them to her. Really say them. I just keep calling her my First Love, which, not a lie! Still,” he shrugs but the nonchalance is misplaced in the tremble of his hands, as he lifts his own goblet to his lips for a particularly long gulp before he, mingled with an uncharacteristic sheepishness, huffily continues, “I do adore you, Frank, but if it’s all the same to you, I would much prefer that the first time I say them, properly, it would be to her, yeah? We both know how awful I am at communication and at this point in the game, I wouldn't want any wires getting crossed and all...”

Frank takes pity on the poor creature and halts his rambling with a steady hand to his shoulder. “So, tell her.”

Lucifer gapes. "Sure, because it's as easy as fluffing my wings out and landing at the foot of her bed. Silly me, why hadn't I thought of this before? Oh, that's right! Something to do with Evil being unleashed upon the whole of humankind? Ring any bells? We were literally just talking about this. Am I doing something wrong? Wait, what am I saying. I'm perfect.” Lucifer shoots him a look so pitying, Frank must restrain himself from cuffing him in the back of his head out of annoyance.

“Heaven really does make the lot of you dull, doesn't it?”

The things he puts up with…

“There's always gonna be something, Lucifer,” he entreats (ignoring his last statement). “In any relationship. Sometimes it's fear of commitment, other times it’s disagreements on expenses or the number of kids you want. In your case, it just so happens to be the possibility of the end of the world.”

“Is that all?” he growls, voice dripping with disdain.

“The point is—would you rather face it alone? Or take the risk together? Come on, Lucifer,” he wants to weep.

Frank doesn’t understand where this vehemence stems from, but it seizes his body with an urgency that feels as natural as his phantom heartbeat. Because he’s caught tendrils of this peculiarity before, but never so glaring as now—this fire in his chest and a carillon in his brain that blares, Lucifer does not belong here. Lucifer ruling Hell reeks of all kinds of wrong. But what he’s coaxing him to do… it feels right. Because Chloe and Lucifer feel right.

They are true.

So he asks him, though he can surmise the answer, “Are you willing to fight for that love?”

And Lucifer doesn't hesitate, not for a second. Not for a heartbeat. He doesn't even take a breath before his assent spills forth from his mouth.

“Yes,” he whispers. Then, firmer—louder, “Yes. I want to fight. For her. For us.”

Because of course he would, the rebel son of God. He would.

“Then what are you standing around here talking to me for? Go!”

“And what of Hell? What's to stop the demons from coming after me again. It would really help against whatever's coming if I wasn’t worrying about a possession epidemic on top of the apocalypse.”

And Frank thinks about those scant seconds before he died. How fleeting but impactful his last words had been. “Maybe he put me in yours,” he had said. “Your Father has a plan.” He thinks about how easily the words had slipped out, almost of their own volition.

He thought dying meant the cold. But—in that transitory precipice of life and death, the sanguine fluid that fueled his essence leaking from his body and staining his cassock, and Lucifer’s hands, red—held in the arms of the Devil, all he felt was warmth… a glowing fireplace after a day in the snow, the fiery embers of a bonfire, the comforting flame of an inimitable presence scoring across his heart, engulfing his soul. It was magnificent.

One might even say divine.

And in that moment, he knew.

“I'll do it,” he says. “I will rule Hell in your stead.”

And he can see Lucifer gunning for a laugh ‘til he notices the steely glint in Frank's eyes, the resolve firming the lines of his figure, making him seem taller. Stately. Royal.

“Have I ever told you,” he starts, a smirk burgeoning on his lips, “that my full name is Frankiel?”

“Spear of God,” Lucifer translates, slowly.

“Your Father has a plan,” he repeats.

Understanding dawns in Lucifer's eyes.

“Doesn't mean it's always a good one,” he ripostes, weakly.

“And yet,” Frank chuckles, surety making him bold, excited even, as he gathers him into his arms. “I’m certain that in this, we can both agree—it is. It works.” He nods onto the taller man’s stiff shoulder. “It has to.”

Because this is what he endured the pain of living for—so that in death, he could give another a chance to be reborn, to return the love which had been so lost to him before. Because God may work in mysterious ways, but He used him as a vessel and revealed the truth of Lucifer to him, so that he could use his final breaths to bestow a glimmer of hope into His son.

He would accept no other explanation apart from this miracle unfolding before him—all the cogs and wheels that made up his life, and afterlife, shifting into perfect gear.

He says as much to Lucifer, and though he shakes his head as if in denial, he gradually returns the embrace. Frank closes his eyes—and knows that same hope that tethered him in those final, critical, beautiful moments of his life, is now a living, breathing entity in Lucifer’s own soul because—when he opens them, the Devil is gone.

There is much to work out—the insurgence of the demons that will surely reignite at Lucifer’s once more, and final, departure, arranging visits with his daughter, how to get up on that damned throne, perhaps begin forging a new one in its stead, figure out whatever his freshly-anointed status truly entails. There will be time for all of that, eons of it, even. But for now…

The priest walks out onto the edge of the balcony that overlooks his newfound domain—Hell is a sprawling, ebony terrain before him.

And this, quite naturally, is how Father Frank ends up ruling it.

AN: Honestly, I wrote this because I just really miss Father Frank. Even after S4 'A Priest Walks into a Bar' is still hands down one of my most favorite episodes in all four seasons.

And, just as Father Frank, I too would sacrifice my spot in Heaven if it meant Deckerstar could be together. LET THEM BE HAPPY!!!

Speaking of, I got some bigger stuff in the works. This came to me at a 4am, sleep-deprived yet frenzy, haze and wouldn't leave me alone till it was written. I know, the lack of Chloe in this is abysmal XD but rest assured, the Deckerstar program should resume soon so, stay tuned!

[tehyon]

the taste of you part 1 (m)

Marrying Jungkook for the sake of the family business was going great until he started talking about making babies.

Characters; jjk x you

Genre; angst, romance, drama, smut

prologue • one • ....

//////

Stark sunlight filled your vision as you felt someone stir next to you. It took you a couple seconds before you realised who that person was.

“Urgh” you groaned, a familiar ache reminding you of what you had done. Or rather who you’d done.

You’d only managed to dragged half of your body out of the bed, legs still entwined in the duvet covers when you felt a hand on your right ass cheek.

“Jeon Jungkook, I will personally saw that hand off with a rusty piece of metal if you do not remove it from my ass in five seconds”

“I’m just savouring the moment babe” He replied, voice husky having just woken up.

As he traced a crude outline of a penis into the buttcheek you felt your wits snap and slapped his hand away, the position causing you to tumble out of the bed sheets, and landing on your backside.

“I can’t deal with you right now, we have to meet with the shareholders today, Min Yoongi is out for our blood; he’s already prepared a buyout if I don’t have Jeon family spawn swelling my ankles by the end of the month”

Making your way to the dressers you pulled out of some of his clothes, flinging them behind you somewhat in his direction, slipping on one of his shirts in the process.

You heard the bed sheets ruffling until feet planted themselves on the floor,   tingles racing up your limbs as you felt his gaze trace your body.

“You know, you would be so hot if you weren’t such a bitch”

Raising an eyebrow, meetings his eyes you could only laugh, “Ditto babe“

////

Skin tight satin enveloped your body, blood red heels, and diamonds dripping from your ears, you were ready for battle.

Min Yoongi had been the assumed heir to the company before you’d married Jungkook. He’d been in the same classes, gotten the same grades as your husband, the only difference being his surname. Not that he ever let the resentment show, they were friends after all; he preferred his own special form of mind games.

As much of a little shit that he could be at times, you couldn’t deny the fact that the man was gorgeous. He’d recently bleached his hair to a platinum blonde for some reason, and you could feel his effect on you down to your core.

Why did the good-looking men around you all have to be assholes?

You dismissed the staff around the table, leaving only the three relevant people at a standstill around the mahogany table. Two vs one.

“Yoongi, it’s been a while” You smiled, although you weren’t sure if it wasn’t more of a grimace.

“Likewise” He let his eyes linger on your neckline before extending his hand out to Jungkook.

The silence hung in the room, nobody wanting to be the first to back down. The sunlight beaming in from the wall length windows caused the light to glimmer off the expensive prisms dangling from your ears, dancing around the barren office.

“So…” You began.

“I have the majority of shareholders in agreement with me, that without you two fulfilling the requirements of the contract, I will supersede the position of CEO”

You could only chuckle at the thinly veiled threat, gesturing for the three of you to sit, “Now, I’m sure you don’t want to rush into things Yoongi, you can have CEO, but Chairman is always going to be our’s”

His eyes settled on your own, although this time you weren’t sure if you wanted to slap the smirk off his face or kiss it.

A beat passed, you felt a hand land on top of your own, squeezing hard down on your fingers, silencing the rest of your attack.

“Hyung, relax. Give me a couple days and we’ll send the test to you in the mail, free of charge”

Although he joked, Jungkook’s eyes seemed to glower at his opposition, not entirely happy with the tension that lingered in the room.

With his hands up, faux surrendering, Yoongi chuckled to himself, “I’m just making sure you could step up to the mark Kook”

His hand moved under the table, you felt Jungkook’s hand latch onto your thigh, his thumb rubbing small circles into your skin, “We’re working on it”

You moved to remove his hand, trying to cross your leg over the other, only to have him hold it in place, his wedding ring burning a promise on your skin.

“Oh really? Because I’ve been hearing certain rumours-“

You cut him off, “-false of course. There are so many people out there talking rubbish, surely you’re not falling for that?”

“But you have to admit that it is quite alarming to hear that our esteemed Mr Jeon CEO big shot can’t get it up“

It was Jungkook’s turn to chuckle this time, his grip tightening on your thigh.  “Are you saying that you want to watch?”

It was clear now that the conversation had turned into a battle of who’s dick was bigger, so you moved to rise, brushing his hand off your thigh. Cursing the slight hand mark left on your skin you shuffled the front of your dress to hide the incriminating mark.

Standing across each other in such an empty room seemed almost childish, so making your way towards the man waiting to destroy your entire world, you plastered the fakest smile you could muster.

Only you didn’t expect him to wind his arm around your waist, pulling you into a close hug. You felt his warm breath on your neck as he bent slightly to whisper.

“I’m always a call away”

A burning feeling spread through your body, your hands itching to run through his hair, now that you were close enough. Your gaze trailed his hair and landed on his eyes, now focused solely on you.

Someone else coughed in the room, wrenching your attention to your husband.

“You know the way out Hyung, I’m sure I don’t need to escort you”

Yoongi only nodded in his direction, surmising. Hands now resting in his pockets, he made his way out of the room.

Jungkook waited a couple of minutes before following him out, his silence speaking volumes. Half storming to the elevators, you could only snort at him. He was such a child sometimes. Sadly you now had to endure fifty floors with him.

As the doors to the executive elevator closed, shutting you in an enclosed space with the man-child, his eyes whipped to yours.

“What the hell was that?”

You shrugged, “I have no idea what you are talking about”

“You’re unbelievable”

“Thank you”

“No, you don’t get it” He closed in on you, hand slamming on the alarm button, causing the elevator to shudder to a halt.

You felt his hand snake around to the back of your dress, cupping your behind and squeezing, “I don’t like it when people say I don’t take care of my things”

His lips descended on your own, engulfing you in his world. You liked the hint of possession that dripped from his words, but you’d never let him know. Too engrossed in letting him introduce his tongue to your to mouth you only managed whimpers, you never heard the ripping until you felt a hand there.  

“Do I need to remind you again who’s pussy this is?” He growled into your neck, laboured breaths fanning over your exposed skin.

You let one of your hands loose from behind his neck so it could latch onto his tie, dragging his head lower, to where he should be. Beneath you; where he belonged.

“I didn’t take you for the jealous kind, hubby”

“And I didn’t realise how much of a good dicking you needed” He replied, placing a small kiss above your clit, so close yet so fucking far.

He ran a finger down your slit, a smirk growing as he licked the result of your desire, “Is someone wet for me already?”

“Just fucking do something already” You hissed, hating the teasing.

“Nuh uh, use your manners Y/N, I don’t play with bad girls”

He’d moved back up, so his nose bumped yours as you ground your hips into his. “Fuck me, please”, you whispered, groaning as his hardness caressed you through his silk blend suit. You were staining him through and through.

“That’s better”

You didn’t wait for him to move after that, hands already sliding past his undone belt, pulling out his member urgently.

Jungkook stepped forward closing the already impossible distance between the two of you, an arm scooping you up so you were perched on the bar in the elevator lining him up to your entrance.

Mewling at the touch of him at your entrance you wiggled your hips trying to get more of him in until one of his hands clutched your chin, forcing your eyes to stare back into his own.

“Look at me, look into the eyes of the only one who can fuck you like this” He growled, grip tightening around your waist.

You nodded, too impatient to argue. He eased himself into you, your own slickness helping him slowly bury himself deeper and deeper until you felt him bottom out. The head almost kissing your cervix. He moaned, feeling you clench around him like a vice as you tried to get used to him.

But greedy as you were, you let your legs curl behind him, opening up more, pushing him further, “Ngh” you managed almost sweating at the pain and pleasure.

“Getting moving then pretty boy” You hissed, feeling the itch that needed to be scratched deep within.

Releasing your chin he moved to grab your hair, a fistful pulling you back so he could lean forward and nip you on the neck. “What- did- I- fucking- say-“ said in between each love bite.

“Fuck me please, Daddy“

It was like a flicking a switch, his eyes seemed to gleam as he moved all the way out, leaving you like a mess before slamming back into you.

Grabbing his glossy strands, ignoring the brushed back style he’d gone for today you wrenched him to your mouth, needing to taste him as he pumped more and more of himself into you.

“Fuck, you like this kinda thing right?” He hissed, ignoring the lewd sounds of the two of your smacking against each other, echoing around the metal container, “I saw how you were looking at Yoongi, as if he can make you like this” He only seemed to speed up after, more determined to ensure you couldn’t walk for a week.

“Only you,” you managed, “ngh- Jungkook”

“Mine, and mine only” He whispered almost darkly, feeling you becoming more and more undone around him, “Come for me baby”

You hadn’t even noticed his other hand moving until you felt the pressure building up as his thumb pressed down on your clit, moving just the way you like, wet from your combined slickness.

“Fucking Jeon Jungkook, fuck” Seemed to be the only words you could manage.

“Who’s pretty little cunt is this?” As he slowed to long and languish strokes.

“Yours” You screamed, feeling the rush of endorphins almost blind you, nails scratching into the back of his suit.

He seemed to be not far behind, a vein appearing in his forehead as he gritted his teeth together, almost shaking the elevator with the strength that he was pounding into you.

“You ready to cum in your pussy?”

He only grunted in return, strokes now sloppy, his movements too eager, “Get me pregnant Kook” You whispered.

That seemed to be the trigger for him, as you felt his warmth fill you up inside, his length not letting any escape. His strength seemed to leave him for a moment, as you felt him lean forward into you, resting his face on your exposed cleavage.

You two stayed like that for maybe a minute, just riding out the waves of pleasure, until you could stand somewhat again.

As he disengaged from you, you felt the telltale wetness leak down your leg, slowly moving down the tender skin on your inner thigh, as you watch Jungkook tuck the torn panties into his inner suit pocket.

He moved to redo his clothing as hands frantically smoothed his own hair down, both looking into opposite panels of the mirrored elevator, smoothing and readjusting.

Only when he pressed the emergency button again, did the elevator come back to life, making its way down towards the ground floor.

[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

[rynne311]

300 Follower Sentence Starters

Hi all! I decided to put the sentence starters in one post, linking to each individual one.  That way this can serve as a mini master list for those prompts!

“God!! Even Alfred could do better than that!!”

“God!! Even Alfred could do better than that!!” Dick teased as he sat in his dress shirt and boxers watching you press his pants.

“I’m sure Alfred could, but could you?” You quipped.  “You’re a grown man, Dick.  There’s no reason I should have to iron your pants for you. Besides if you keep it up, I’ll use extra starch.”

As you set the iron upright on the ironing board and moved to unplug it, you felt strong arms wrap themselves around your waist.  You had a feeling where this was going, but you wanted to see how far Dick was willing to go.  When you felt his lips on your neck, you knew it was time to put an end to it.

“If you wrinkle my dress before Damian’s award ceremony, you are ironing everything,” you threatened.

You heard Dick whine a bit as he released your waist to get his freshly pressed pants.  He tried to sound like he was joking as he pulled his pants on, but you knew he was was serious when he said, “Alfred tried teaching me how to iron, I just kept accidentally starting small fires before I was banned.”

“Glad to know you have friends…” - Alfred to batboy

“Glad to know you have friends, Master Jason,” Alfred quipped from the open bedroom door as you tried to sink as far down into the mattress and sheets as was physically possible.

You felt like you were a teenager again, about to be reprimanded for having a relationship.  If there weren’t a man you only knew through stories standing in the room you’d laugh at how ridiculous it was that you felt like this while lying in bed next to your fiance.

“I was sent to fetch Master Jason, but I’m sure Master Bruce will wish to speak to both of you in the study,” Alfred informed you both, you didn’t know him well enough yet to tell if there was a thinly veiled judgement in his voice. “I do recommend you both put clothes on before you go in there.”

You waited until the door closed to slip out of bed to get dressed.  This was not how you had imagined meeting your future in-laws, but very little in your life had turned out the way you had planned.

“Don’t worry about meeting him, Y/N,” Jason assured you.  You swore sometimes that man seemed to be able to read your mind. “He’s going to love you, especially since I snuck you in here, I haven’t been complaining about being confined to the manor.”

“I can’t believe I scaled a trellis for this,” you said as you rolled your eyes.  You wanted the moment you met your in-laws to be on your terms, not after you snuck into their house and got called out for it.

“I mean you did it for this,” Jason retorted, gesturing to his body.

“Oh! Do you hear that?” you quipped, voice laden with sarcasm,  “Everyone wants you to shut up!”

Opening the door to face the music and get this first meeting over with, you were surprised to find Jason’s brothers listening in on the other side of the door.  Not bothering to introduce themselves, the youngest spoke up, “She wasn’t wrong, Todd.”

“Right now, I don’t know if I want to kiss you or shove you off a bridge.” -Jason

“Right now, I don’t know if I want to kiss you or shove you off a bridge,” said between spoonfuls of ice cream.

“Well I did already die once, but not from being propelled off a bridge.  It would be a different way for me to go,” Jason shot back, jokingly.  Even without being serious, he wanted to say something that would pack a punch.

He knew joking about his death would set you off further.  You were both beyond frustrated, and he knew you were uncomfortable.  Trying to hide the tears welling up in your eyes, you told him, “Now I’m really leaning towards the bridge.”

“All because I grabbed myself a beer when I got you your ice cream?” He asked, exasperated. “You’re ridiculous and I don’t even know

“No, I’m pregnant,” you spat. “ You’re the one who’s ridiculous.”

Now he understood why you were upset in the first place.  You were partners and your partner had just left you behind for a little of his own fun when he knew you couldn’t partake.  You were hurt, even if you didn’t already have an agreement that he wouldn’t indulge in a drink while you couldn’t.

“Fine I’m a ridiculous idiot who should know to have my beer in the kitchen instead of tauntingly in front of my pregnant wife who can’t have one with me,” he conceded. “Happy?”

“Mostly,” you hummed, scooping the last spoonful of ice cream into your mouth.

“Good,” he said, pulling you into his side. “Now let’s get this movie started.”

If he played his cards right, he just might earn that kiss from you before the night was over.

“Let me take care of you.” - older!Damian

“Let me take care of you,” Damian pleaded through clenched teeth.  It was an incredible blow to his pride that he was being bested while trying to change a toddler’s diaper.

“I can’t say that I’m disappointed that you’re getting a taste of your own medicine now,” you chuckled from the doorway.  During your time with the League, you had taken care of Damian when he was the same age as your daughter wriggling away from him, but a lot had changed since then.  Sometimes you found it hard to believe that the young man in front of you was the same child you had taken care of.  Looking back, you were so young to have been given that responsibility, but now in many ways you still felt like Damian was a son to you, and you knew he felt the same way.

“I was not this defiant,” he argued as you knelt down to make quick work of diapering.

“No, you were worse,” you joked as you stood up with your daughter on your hip.  “Besides this, how was she tonight?”

“She was perfect.  This was our only incident,” he assured you before asking, “How was your evening with Todd?”

“Jason and I had a very nice evening, thank you,” you answered, as you walked Damian down to the front door.

Once he wished you a goodnight, you called out, “Hey Damian, next time you want to have your girlfriend over while you babysit, just ask instead of sneaking her in.  This is the third time the poor girl has pulled a Cinderella and left one of her shoes behind while trying to sneak back out as we get home.”

You could hear the laughter from your bedroom as Jason saw Damian’s reaction in the front walkway, making any awkwardness of the situation more than worth it for you.

“So what are we going to do about all this sexual tension between us?” - Bruce

“So what are we going to do about all this sexual tension between us?” He asked.  You wondered how he even thought that would work as a pick up line, but still you went with it.

“You should be careful, Mr. Malone. I’m a married woman,” you replied in a sultry tone as you leaned in close to his face. You thoroughly enjoyed the soft sound of his breath hitching as slowly pulled away.

“What that stuffy husband of yours doesn’t know won’t kill him,” he coaxed, gently pulling you from the bar to the dancefloor. “Besides a woman as beautiful as you deserves to be the center of attention.”

“And what about your wife, Mr. Malone?” you asked.  “Don’t think I didn’t notice the wedding band on your finger.”

You didn’t think you’d ever be able to catch him off guard, but still he seemed to pause to reflect on the best answer to give you.  Finally he whispered in your ear, “When I see you, no one else seems to exist.”

You never knew pretending to be strangers with your husband would be so fun, but now you wanted your husband to be just that, your husband not Matches Malone.  Kissing his cheek, you started to pull him to the exit. “C’mon Bruce, let’s get out of here. Just Bruce and Y/N, the way it’s always been.”

“I never thought I would hear Alfred curse that much and for that long.”

“I never thought I would hear Alfred curse that much and for that long,” Bruce leaned over and whispered.  He probably thought he was disarming the situation for you, but he didn’t realize how much Alfred’s colorful tirade made you feel right at home.

“Mr. Martin across the hall from Mom and me would give him a run for his money,” you said with a laugh. “But there’s no way he’d win if Mr. Martin had gone to the bar that night.”

The look of confusion on his face nearly made you burst out laughing all over again.  It’d been a rocky few weeks since Bruce discovered your existence and you’d moved in.  There was still so much that he didn’t know about you, and he’d only just heard you laugh for the first time.

“Wait, you consider this normal?” he asked incredulously.

“Normal? I consider this tame!” Again, you had to resist the urge to just laugh in his face. “I mean Mom never yelled or cursed like that, but a lot of the neighbors did and the walls were thin enough you could hear everything.”

With that, Bruce began to think he might have to start paying the boys to cause enough trouble to get Alfred that worked up on a more regular basis.  Your normal was so different from his, but if he had the chance to give you a little more of what you were used to, he was going to seize that opportunity.

“We’re not just friends and you fucking know it.” - Jason

“We’re not just friends and you fucking know it,” he seethed as you got into the stairwell to some semblance of privacy.

“Then what are we, Jason?” you pleaded. “Because you never wanted to put any sort of label on what we’re doing, and frankly, I’m sick of it.  I want to know what we are.”

“Well I don’t know what to tell you, Y/N. I love you too much to let you get hurt,” he blurted out in frustration.

“What did you just say?” you asked as the realization hit you.  His own words seemed to sink in as a look of sheer panic washed over him.

“I didn’t mean to say that…” he tried to backpedal.  

“Yes you did,” you argued. “I’ve known you long enough to know you don’t say things you don’t mean.”

“Fine!” he exclaimed. “I love you! I love you and it terrifies me because you’re damn near perfect and I am the farthest thing from perfect.  I’m scared that you’re going to realized that and leave! I’m scared that you’re going to get hurt because of me, and I can’t stand to see you go through that.”

You tried to process everything he had just said.  Silently, you reached up and wipe away the tears that had forced their way to the surface before wrapping yourself around his strong torso.  Within seconds, he responded to hold you as close as he could.  You always loved that he held you like you were going to vanish.

Looking up at him, you confessed, “I love you too, and that scares me too.  But I’m ready to work at this if you are.”

He leaned down to kiss you, and said, “I think I am too.  Let’s get back to your place where we don’t have to worry about random people hearing us.”

“While unnecessary, the double flip was amazing.”

“While unnecessary, the double flip was amazing,” you praised.  Dick’s face was begging for an answer, not for praise on his abilities. “Yes Dick, I will marry you!”

You barely had a moment to blink before you were wrapped up in Dick’s arms as he kissed all   over your face.  It wasn’t until you steadied him enough to kiss him properly that his brain started working again. After a moment of thought, he pulled away and asked, “So you would’ve really said yes if I hadn’t thrown the double flip in there?”

“Of course,” you assured, kissing him again.  Part of you couldn’t believe you were going to get to start calling him your fiance.

“I draw the line at tutu’s.” - Jason

“I draw the line at tutus,” Jason resisted.  He had the scowl on his face that you always thought looked kind of adorable.

“Well without the tutu, you’ll just look silly wearing your fairy wings,” you reasoned, “besides, you made a promise to your daughter that you’d dress up however she wants for Halloween.  Are you trying to teach her that you can’t be trusted to keep your word?”

The scowl deepened, but you knew he was coming around. Finally, he said, “Fine. I’ll wear the tutu, but just try to talk her out of the glittery makeup.  I really don’t need to be finding glitter in my helmet until Valentine’s Day.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Fairy King,” you promised, planting a kiss to his cheek.

“And I thought I had problems with Damian.”

“And I thought I had problems with Damian,” Jason muttered under his breath.

You knew he was joking, but it still stung.  Bits and pieces of your adult memories stayed with you when you got changed into a child, but you were still mostly starting fresh.  You were the child neither Jason nor his brothers ever got to be.  No matter how much he loved you and loved seeing you carefree, Jason wanted his girlfriend back the way he was used to.

“When does she change back into an adult? I can’t take this much longer,” Jason said in defeat to no one in particular. Knowing he wasn’t winning this battle, he called down the hallway, “Fine, Y/N you don’t need to take a bath, but it’s getting late so we need to stop running around the apartment.”

“I hate my nose.”

“I hate my nose,” Dick complained between sneezes.

“I think you’re just projecting your hatred, babe,” you retorted.  “Your nose, like the rest of you is beautiful, and if you don’t love it then I’ll just have to love it enough for the both of us.  It’s just allergy season and you’re getting hit harder than usual.”

You pushed some of the hair back off of his forehead, leaning over the couch to kiss him.  You were just as disappointed that Dick’s allergies were hitting him this hard, but there wasn’t much you could do about it.

“I still don’t have to be happy about it,” he shot back with a pout on his face.

Moving to sit with him, you cuddle up close to him. Once you were settled, you comforted, “No you don’t have to be happy about it, but I hope you’re happy that we can use it as an excuse to stay here cuddled up together all day.”

“I am always happy about that.” Pulling you closer, Dick placed a kiss to your temple.

You were both happy and content until he went to give you another kiss and he sneezed in your hair.  Maybe today you could hate his nose just a little bit too.

“Now hold on, I would much rather go on a date with Scarecrow than Clayface.”

“Now hold on, I would much rather go on a date with Scarecrow than Clayface,” you interjected, earning a room full of disbelieving looks, including your very worried looking husband.

“I’m just saying that if I had to go to dinner with one of them, I’d rather go with someone I can talk to.  Like it or not, but Dr. Crane is very intelligent and would be able to hold a quality conversation,” you explained.

The boys seemed to just accept your answer and moved on with their game of villain would you rather.  Bruce, however used your answer to reflect upon the beginning of your relationship.  Pulling you aside, he asked, “Is that why you kept putting off going on a date with me when we met? Because you thought I wouldn’t be able to hold a conversation with you?”

“It would seem that way now wouldn’t it?” you teased. “But no, I was afraid of becoming just another notch on your belt while I got my heart broken.  Knowing what I know now, I’m glad I took that chance because you have given me way more than just an intelligent conversation over dinner.”

“How long do we have before they find out we’re not in the reception hall?” “I don’t know, but if we get caught then Dick’s going to make us Cha Cha Slide and I don’t know if I can handle that.” - Jason

“How long do we have before they find out we’re not in the reception hall?” you asked in a hushed voice.

Jason listened for any sign of movement before answering just as quietly, “I don’t know, but if we get caught, then Dick’s going to make us Cha Cha Slide and I don’t know if I can handle that.”

The thought of Jason doing the Cha Cha Slide in his tux made you giggle until he gently placed his hand over your mouth, listening again for any movement near the coat closet you were hiding in.  You knew once someone notice you were missing, the coat closet would be the first place they would check.

Satisfied that no one was coming, Jason finally moved his hands to cup your cheeks.  You always loved when he got that lovestruck look in his eyes, making you feel like you were the only people in the world.  

“You look beautiful,” he whispered, barely audible as he pulled you in for a kiss.

When you imagined your wedding as a little girl, you never thought you’d spend the reception hiding in a closet with your new husband to avoid a dance neither one of you wanted to perform.  Hiding in a closet or not, you didn’t want this moment to end.

“You little bitch.”

“You little bitch,” you shrieked, waving a broom around the small kitchen.  You were jumping around, broom in hand, trying desperately to destroy the small mouse you’d seen.

You kept a clean home, and an even cleaner kitchen.  You hated the thought that there would possibly be any vermin in the same space you kept your food.  Like clockwork, Jason came running into the kitchen ready to kill whatever had caused your shriek.

Surveying the kitchen, it seemed out of order that you were jumping around with a broom and the meat sauce you’d spent all day making was spilled all over the floor.  Confused, he asked, “What’s going on?”

You could feel the blood rushing to your face.  Having taken a moment to process what had happened, you felt absolutely ridiculous.  Sheepishly you answered, “There was a mouse.”

“Babe, it’s Gotham, that’s to be expected.  I thought there was actually something terrifying in here,” he joked, earning himself the fiercest glare you could muster.