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spark-my-nature · 2 years ago

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It Takes Three to Tango (5) - DRW & SFK

This one's overdue, but it's also dummy thicc, so I hope that makes up for it. I love you all so bad, thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the love you've shown this silly little fic, I can't tell you how much it means to me. As long as y'all keep enjoying it, I'll keep writing, I'm so grateful!

Also, a big thank you to @jake-kiszkas-smirk for the brilliant ideas and the never ending encouragement <3 Do yourself a favor and go check out their incredible writing if you haven't already!

Chapter summary: It's been a couple of days, and you come home early to find something very interesting playing out on your couch. Very smutty, very fluffy (yknow, me and my usual bullshit)

Chapter WC: 12.7K | Pairings: Danny x Reader x Sam (MFM threesome with slash pairings)

Chapter warnings: 18+! Smut (handjobs, unprotected penetrative sex, unprotected anal sex), slash pairings (silly bisexual boys), language (swearing, use of derogatory terms but its all loving and in good nature), spanking if you squint, power play, mentions of infidelity, the briefest, tiniest blink of angst but it's immediately taken care of because I'm incapable of writing anybody suffering

Previous chapter | First chapter

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The sunny beautiful weather kept up into the next several days, and the gentle swishing of the warm breeze through the trees bordering your lawn was already serving to help you decompress as you juggled a few grocery bags around. Digging in your purse for the house keys, you felt the sun beating down on your neck and briefly toyed with the idea of a beach day with your boyfriend, something you were especially hopeful for once you’d seen his car in the driveway. Getting to ogle your gorgeous boyfriend in his short little yellow shorts? Yes please.

The days had been long for the boys, their stubbornness and passion keeping them going at full throttle as of late, and this was the first time in a while that Danny had been home before dusk.

It was now mid week, and after Sam had gone home Saturday afternoon, you’d hadn’t even had a chance to talk to Danny yet about… anything. You’d been working, he’d been recording, and the only time you’d see each other was in the evenings when both of you were too tired for words beyond your usual goodnights and I love yous.

You wouldn’t say it was awkward between you, not by a stretch. But you could sense mild waves of an unidentified tension coming off of Danny when he’d walk through the door each evening, and with both of you too exhausted to have a real discussion about the recent happenings, that unfamiliar restless energy simply simmered on the back burner with a wordless promise to unravel it soon.

Finally jutting the keys in the lock, you pushed inside, humming softly to yourself. You set down the bags and dropped your purse, kicking off your shoes with a pleased sigh. Home at last... no sign of Danny yet, though. He generally met you at the door, welcoming you home with a forehead kiss and a hug, but you supposed you weren’t usually finished work this early. He wouldn’t be expecting you yet, and you felt a prickle of mischievous excitement, hopeful to surprise him.

That excitement was rapidly snuffed out and replaced with a worried confusion, though. From the direction of the living room, you heard it.

A moan.

Not Danny’s moan, no, that was a sound you knew well. You froze, listening closely as your heart drummed uncomfortably, racking your brain for any reasonable explanation or cause for the sound.

Then, again, a soft groan sounded, and this time it was immediately followed by a much more familiar grunt, one from your boyfriend’s chest.

Your heart clenched for a second, seizing with a streak of fear and pain.

No, calm down, you told yourself, Danny wouldn’t cheat, and you knew this (at least you thought), but you couldn’t help the immediate twist of anxious pain that twisted your chest as you kept listening, silent and still in the entryway.

Muffled and drawn out, another moan sounded from within the house, and it clicked into place for you. The most welcome, albeit unexpected cold bucket of relief washed over you as you recognized the source of the next noise.

“F-fucking- mmm, Danny…”

Sam.

...Sam?

In all honesty, you didn’t see that coming, mostly because neither of you had really talked about Friday night’s rendezvous with the bassist aside from a few jokes and reassurances spattered throughout the rest of the weekend. And while you held a tiny shard of confusion, frustration, even a little anger at the lack of communication, the emotion that reigned over them all was this sort of voyeuristic intrigue.

Chasing after those feelings pushed you further into the house, as silently as you could manage, the thrill of catching them off guard confusingly mingling with the remaining embers of anxiety and hurt. For a flash, you felt guilty for sneaking around on them, before you indignantly shook the feeling off when you realized the hypocrisy. If they were gonna sneak around on you, then you were most definitely entitled to do the same, right? And so down the short corridor you went, toward the living room quiet as a mouse. You barely peaked your head around the corner and peered into the living room, and you were instantly knocked on your ass, on the verge of collapsing at the sight.

Shirtless and disheveled, both men lay semi-upright, tangled across the length of the couch. Sam sprawled half on top of Danny, the latter with his hands tangled in the former’s hair and around his shoulders, holding on to him desperately as their lips muffled each other’s moans.

Your eyes traveled hungrily to the movement of their grinding, bucking hips, and you realized each boy’s pants were undone and lazily shoved down beneath their groins.

“God, you’re so fucking hard,” Sam whined under his breath, interrupting nearly every word with a sloppy kiss to Danny’s mouth, unwilling to break apart for longer.

Danny’s forehead pressed to Sam’s as he slipped his hands around to hold both sides of Sam’s face, his jaw slack as he attempted to catch his breath, inhibited by the relentless grinding of Sam’s cock against his own.

“Mmhmm,” he nodded, arching his hips impossibly tighter against Sam’s. “You drive me insane, you know that?”

Sam grunted, his eyelids fluttering heavily as his back muscles flexed and rippled, his shoulders supporting his body as he kept his lithe hips rolling. He sucked in a sharp breath, pushing himself up straighter to watch his cock slide up and down alongside Danny’s.

“Fucking shit,” he groaned, tossing his head back.

Danny’s hands smoothed down his neck, slowly palming down his chest, stopping to tweak his nipples and earning a stuttery gasp in reward. He descended further, finally landing both hands on Sam’s hips, gripping the flesh that was exposed with his jeans hanging around the swell of his ass.

Sam paused his hips and shifted until he was balancing his bodyweight over Danny with one arm. Then with a submissive glance at the drummer’s face through his lashes, he brought the other broad, veiny hand between them and wrapped it around both their cocks together, slowly beginning to stroke them both in tandem.

Danny hissed, eyes locking with Sammy’s as the pleasure rushed through him, the exhilaration apparent on his blissed-out face.

Sam’s jaw hung open, drinking in his best friend’s pleasure-wracked expression. “You are so gorgeous, Daniel,” he whimpered.

Danny cracked a weak smile up at him, too distracted by the friction between his legs for much more. “So’re you, pretty boy.”

As Sam’s hips bucked involuntarily at the pet name, a spasm born of pleasure, he ground deeper into Danny’s purplish, rock-hard length and his fist jerked them both suddenly, sharp and tight. Danny’s head fell back with an almost pained-sounding moan, breaking off from the heated kiss and sending his cry of Sam’s name echoing off the walls.

It was a gorgeous sight, the two of them absolutely lost in each other. No wonder they hadn’t heard you come home. The longer you watched, though, the harder it was becoming to stay still, hidden.

Sam let go of the two of them for a second, sighing needily at the frustrated whine Danny let out, and brought his hand to his mouth. He looked Danny in the eye as he slowly licked the flat of his tongue up his palm, coating it in spit before taking both their twitching cocks in his fist again. He huffed a whiny sound through his nose as he picked up the pace, Danny’s jaw dropping with a long, soft, moan that quivered out of him from the way Sam’s movements trembled his body.

“Shit, Sammy,” he grunted, bucking his hips up, adding his contribution by fucking into Sam’s tight grip.

Sam rolled his hips deeper. With the most submissive doe eyes you’d ever seen, he mumbled, his cheeks pink and breathless with the exertion, “That feel good, Daddy?”

Oh, fuck. Well that’s all you’ll be thinking about for the rest of your life, you thought.

Danny’s tightly furrowed brows tipped up in the middle at his words, a sharp gasp quickly followed with a loud groan. “Jesus christ,” he growled, nodding quickly as his hand behind Sam’s neck brought their foreheads together. As they panted into each other’s mouths, Danny’s low voice rumbled between the soft grunts punched out of him, “So good, uhh- so fucking good for me… such a sweet, pretty boy for Daddy, aren't you?”

Sam whimpered loudly with a particularly delicious pump of their erections, his jaw clenching, flexing his gorgeous jawline. "Yeah," he whined desperately.

You swallowed hard, bracing yourself and stepping out into the open doorway. You leaned against the frame, crossing your arms, and when they still remained oblivious, you cleared your throat softly.

Sam didn’t seem to notice, but Danny’s head jerked towards the sound, his eyes widening comically once they locked on you. He quickly shoved at Sam’s shoulder, hissing in his panic, “Sam, stop- stop,” to which Sam blinked up at him, confused and frustrated as he reluctantly stilled his hips. “What?” he breathed, brows knitting.

“Babe!” Danny croaked, already hurriedly trying to tuck himself back into his pants. Sam’s head whipped to the door, his panicked expression matching Danny’s in an instant.

“Oh fuck-“ he uttered under his breath, then rasped breathlessly, “H-Hey, doll.”

You stepped into the room, eyeing the two of them, holding up a hand to Danny, who reluctantly gave up on his futile attempt at modesty with Sam’s lithe body pinning his jeans in place. Sam, bit by bit realizing the situation at hand, went to climb off your boyfriend, but you shook your head.

“No, no, you two stay put,” you ordered softly.

Danny swallowed hard, his expression guilt ridden and panicked. “Honey, I- we didn’t mean to, I’m so sorry, it just kind of…”

Sam nodded, finishing his sentence, “Just kinda happened, we didn’t- we should’ve told you, I’m sorry, it wasn’t, planned- fuck, I’m sorry, I’ll- I’m gonna go, I’m sorry.”

Danny, for all his panic, seemed just as remorseful to see Sam leave as he was to have been caught with the boy on top of him. “Sam, wait-“

“Stop,” you interrupted, commanding but gentle. “Relax, alright? Both of you. Sam, stay, please?”

He took a breath and relaxed, only slightly, and nodded, shuffling his pants up over his hips as he adjusted to sit beside Danny as he too redressed his lower half.

You shuffled your foot, glancing around the room. “I’m… I’m not mad. I mean, not really,” you told them, licking your lips.

Danny let out a slow breath, and Sam nodded as he studied the rug beneath his feet.

You shifted your weight as you rubbed your arm shyly. “Like, obviously, you guys seriously suck at communication…”

“I know, and I’m so fucking sorry baby, you’re so right, I-“

You cut off your boyfriend’s grovelling with a shake of your head and the hint of a grin. “Shh, let me talk.” He nodded apologetically and sat back into the couch cushion, looking small despite his broad frame.

To your surprise, Sam extended a comforting arm, resting his hand over Danny’s leg and thumbing at the denim.

Your eyes traced the movement, and you took a second to center yourself. "I know we never really set any kind of groundrules? Which is nobody’s fault in particular,” you conceded.

Both boys peered up at you, slowly unfreezing by the minute when you continued to not flip out at them as they’d clearly expected. It was endearing in a strange way, especially with the way Sam still held his hand protectively over Danny’s thigh.

You chewed on your lip and moved towards them, pulling the cushioned footstool that matched your lazyboy over to sit in front of them. Shyly keeping your eyes below their faces, you nodded once as you said, “I think we should… talk.”

Danny quietly agreed, “Yeah, absolutely,” joined by Sam’s tentative, “Okay.”

You swallowed, trying to land on a good place to start. Part of you selfishly wished Sam wasn’t here for this, with so much left unsaid between you and your boyfriend. You felt like you’d been caught unprepared, knowing there were things you would’ve liked to have gotten out in the open with your boyfriend alone first. Now, with Sam thrown in the mix, patiently but expectantly sitting before you, you struggled on the right words.

With your eyes still casted down, you licked your lips again, then Danny’s hand came into view, gently holding his palm open for you. You suspected he was offering his comforting touch as an option for you, rather than just taking your hand as he usually would have done, perhaps out of fear that you were secretly, actually upset with him. You quickly took him up on it, squeezing his hand in comfort to both you and him.

His reassuring touch put an end to the invisible stopper holding you back, and the words poured out of you.

“First of all, um... Sammy, I want you to be aware that Danny and I haven’t really, uh, talked about… you know.”

He nodded, biting his thumbnail as he fixed you with those sweet brown eyes, and you continued.

“So, Danny,” you looked up at him, meeting his gentle gaze, “I’m not… well, I’m not mad that you guys are…” you cracked a little smile, gesturing between them, “You know. Cause if I’m honest, I was hoping it would happen again, what happened Friday, and I think you were too. I mean, clearly,” you giggled quietly.

Danny blushed, resting his cheek bashfully in his hand, his elbow propped on his knee. “I think that’s safe to say...”

Sam smirked to himself, glancing at Danny from the corner of his eye before dropping his gaze to his twiddling thumbs.

You smiled, lifting his knuckles to your lips. You then looked over at Sammy, catching his eyes. He ran his tongue between his lips.

Addressing mostly Sam, but opening the discussion to both of them, you looked down nervously as you quietly started, “I think the only part that’s like, bothering me, is like, y’know, you guys did this without me, and like… maybe I should be, but I’m not really mad about the fact that you didn’t tell me, I’m more just… second guessing where I fit into this. I’m wondering, you know, is this… is this an us thing, or just a Sam and Danny thing…?”

Your question trailed off, and you cursed the pathetic way you asked. Danny was yours, you knew that, and it was stupid to feel like an intruder, but when you really thought about it, that’s how you felt. And the hurt and insecurity that you felt stemmed both from the fact that you loved Danny (and could be very territorial over him when you wanted to be), so the disregard for your feelings stung, especially from him. But it also stemmed from the fact that you wanted to be a part of what they did, to be included.

You didn’t know exactly how you felt about Sam, but there was something there. You liked him, more than you'd realised for sure, and you were certain Danny felt the same. It happened so fast, so fast that you hadn’t had a chance to process it, let alone broach it with your boyfriend, and those feelings scared you enough without the whole, walking in on your boyfriend and mutual best friend on top of each other without telling you, thing.

Sam sat up straighter, more serious than you’d ever seen him, and shook his head quickly.

“No, nonono, it’s… if it’s anything, it’s an all of us thing. You really gotta believe us, dollface, we did not plan for this.”

You blushed and nodded, satisfied with that for now. “So, will you tell me? What- what did happen, then?”

Danny glanced at Sam shyly, and Sam, meeting his eyes, smirked boyishly and fluttered those long eyelashes at him. “You’re a better storyteller than me,” he murmured, nudging Danny with his knee.

You raised an eyebrow at your boy, cracking an expectant smirk as you leaned forward on your hands.

Danny’s lips parted shyly, glancing between the two of you and chuckling softly after a second, “Okay, uh… we were recording, and I guess Jake had to leave, some interview thing? I dunno, but we all just packed up for the day, but somebody’s Tesla hadn’t been charging, so I said I’d drive him home.”

Sam rolled his eyes, loosely pushing air through his lips petulantly, “Yeah, yeah, anyway, we were gonna go do something-“

“-go to the beach,” Danny filled in.

“-Yeah, so we came here first, and…” Sam looked down and giggled, shrugging one shoulder as his cheeks pinked endearingly. “He asked if I wanted a drink. Such a great host, you know,” he glanced up at you, then back down to the safety of his hands, “… and then we…”

Danny rubbed the back of his neck, making you grin wider at how cute they were being, dancing around the subject of their obvious desire for each other.

He mumbled, “Yeah, then we were just…”

Sam finished softly, holding his hands out in awkward offering, “…kissing.”

You snorted, making both of them look up at you, baffled and amused as you laughed at them.

Shaking your head, you giggled out, “That was some intense kissing.”

Sam snickered with a bratty eyeroll, and Danny chuckled awkwardly, running a hand through his curls. “Like he said, it just kinda happened.” Sam nodded his agreement, and Danny squeezed your hand. “I’m so sorry, honey. You know I’d… I’d never…” he shook his head slowly, pleadingly, and you nodded understandingly, squeezing back.

“I know baby,” you assured, leaning forward, smiling softly when Danny immediately met you halfway for a short kiss. He smiled, relieved and loving, whispering as he pulled away reluctantly, “I love you, so so fucking much.”

You smiled back, the last of your insecurities fading away, “I love you, too, Dan.”

Sam shifted on the cushion, and you glanced at him, unable to stop the way your eyes lowered to his pouty lips.

He watched, curious, but too shy to say anything about it so soon after such a peculiar interaction, though he noticeably glanced at yours too. He took a controlled breath through his nose, and you watched his tongue dart between his lips, wetting them with that look of longing he seemed to carry with him whenever you were around. Your heart fluttered, feeling some deja-vu with the tension that suddenly manifested in the air.

Nobody had warned you about what comes after a threesome with your best friend. How could anyone expect you to feel and act completely normal around Sam when you had intimate visuals playing like an NSFW slideshow in your mind’s eye of how his gorgeous face twisted in pleasure as you and Danny absolutely-

Danny softly cleared his throat, and your gaze shot back to him, jarringly broken out of Sam’s spell.

“Um…” he held your gaze, keeping your hand in his tight hold as if expecting you to run away. “Can I just say what I’m thinking, and nobody gets pissed off at me?”

You chuckled, nodding, “Please, babe, you go for it.”

Danny inhaled deeply and blew it out through pursed lips. “I… think… that this,” he gestured vaguely, shutting his eyes as he tented his fingers over the bridge of his nose, speaking into his hands, “…is more than sex for me. A-and I think you feel the same way,” he nodded toward you, then turned to Sam, looking considerably more nervous, “…and I… well, I hope that you feel that way, too.”

Sam stared at Danny, his eyes laser focused, and after a few tense seconds, he slowly nodded. “Yeah,” he admitted in a whisper, sucking his lip between his teeth.

Danny nodded and turned to you, raising his brows. You blushed after glancing quickly at Sam, who sat raptly watching you for your answer. “Me too.”

Danny relaxed slightly, cracking a nervous grin. “So… I dunno, where does that leave us?”

Sam licked his lips, thoughtfully trailing his eyes around the room. “Well, you guys are so disgustingly in love, it’s hard to be in the same room with,” he teased, smirking, lifting his eyes to your face.

Your heart fluttered, smiling shyly at him, and he grinned back, tilting his head to the side. “I like you a lot, doll, I’m not afraid to admit that, I just wasn’t sure if I should.”

You giggled, a hang clutching your imaginary pearls. “What?? The Sammy I know would never hold back on saying something he shouldn’t!”

“Well, actually, I just said it anyway, so point proven.”

You moved your hand to your cheek, hiding your face a little from him as he sat back with that stupid, know-it-all smirk.

“I like you, too.”

Danny chuckled, and when you looked at him curiously, he shrugged, “This is just... so fucking weird.”

You giggled, and Sam shot him a funny look. “The fuck do you mean by that?”

Danny held out his hands in front of him, “Oh, I dunno, my girlfriend admitting she likes another guy right in front of me? Is that not a strange thing to you?”

Sam smirked, elbowing him. “Nothing new, all your ex-girlfriends secretly wanted me, too.”

Danny shoved Sam with a snort of laughter, “Fuck off, you know what I mean.”

Sam snickered, “Yeah, I know what you mean, but I dunno, it doesn’t feel that weird to me.”

You giggled and nodded, shrugging, and Danny grinned at you. “Yeah, that’s the thing, it doesn’t feel, like, wrong,” he agreed.

You smirked at Danny playfully, “Everything is always weird with you guys, maybe we’re just used to it.”

Sam laughed, “Hey! What’s that supposed to mean?”

You giggled innocently, shrugging and sitting up straighter. Danny rolled his eyes playfully, shifting slightly to face Sam more directly. When he had Sam’s attention, his grin turned more serious.

“Do you…” he trailed off, hopeful and expectant. Sam chuckled, growing bashful as he eyed Danny’s face. “Do I what?” he softly teased, “Like you?”

Danny blushed, saying nothing as he blinked at his friend. Sam licked his lips, then placed his hand back on Danny’s thigh.

“Of course I do,” he softly confessed, his eyes tracking his own hand’s movement back and forth.

“I’m no geometry professor, but it seems like that’s a complete triangle to me.”

Both boys laughed softly at your observation, and it fell quiet for a moment. Danny holding your hand, and Sam’s hand on Danny’s thigh, you extended your arm forward to touch Sam’s knee instinctively, closing that triangle.

Your touch made Sam’s breathing catch in his throat, and your eyes locked on each other. Your stomach erupted in butterflies all over again.

“So… where does that leave us?” He pondered, more flirtatious than Danny had been before.

You looked at Danny, and he smiled at you with a raise of his brows, as if to say, ‘You’re running the show, babe.’

Grinning, you looked back to Sam and said, “I mean… should we just see where this goes?”

Sam leaned toward you a little more, “Yeah, fine by me,” he grinned.

Danny nodded, “Should probably have some ground rules, though.”

You smiled as you toyed with the rip in Sam’s jeans. “Probably, yeah, you whores.”

Sam barked out a laugh, and Danny blushed, giggling to himself.

“Kay,” Sam shook his head, amused, “Well, how do we feel about like, fucking without one of us there?”

You smiled wide, shyly giggling at his bluntness as you thought for a minute. You were about to answer when Danny spoke up, “I think I’m okay with that, if you are, sweetheart.”

You grinned shyly, heart fluttering under the suggestive heat of Sam’s smirk. “I’m okay with it too. I mean, I’d like to know about it, preferably, but I know things just happen sometimes. As long as we communicate, I don’t have a problem with it.”

Sam leaned back into the couch cushion, folding his arms behind his head with that self-assured, cocky smirk stretching his lips. “Well then, lucky me,” he purred.

You bit your lip, failing to conceal a bashful smirk as you ignored him. “Are you guys gonna tell Jake and Josh?”

Danny glanced at Sam, who shook his head dismissively. “Those nosy assholes don’t need to know what I do with my dick,” he said bluntly, making you laugh and nod. "I'm not gonna hide it, but I'm not gonna make some weird, confusing announcement."

Danny gave a soft smile and shrugged his indifference. “S’up to you, baby.”

Sam’s eyes widened at the pet name, and you smiled wide, surprised but endeared as you watched Danny’s shoulders stiffen, his lips parting in surprise at himself as his cheeks flushed pink.

Sam blushed even brighter, a crooked grin finding its way across his face. “Oh,” he said quietly, looking absolutely smitten.

Danny broke into an embarrassed smile, chuckling awkwardly, “I- sorry, I-“

Sam shook his head as he leaned forward, lips pressing over Danny’s to shut him up, and Danny let out the cutest little upward-lilted coo of surprise. Sam smiled visibly against his lips, and Danny melted, kissing him back gently, bringing his free hand up to cup Sam’s face.

You squeezed Danny’s hand longingly, and he pulled away with a flustered smile. He beckoned you over, “C’mere, baby,” scooching to the side and patting the space between him and Sam.

You quickly switched seats, turning your head to Danny first once settled. He smiled down at you lovingly, so familiar and gentle, and you felt safe. You leaned forward and met his lips in a soft kiss, melting into the sweet warmth of his mouth as he deepened it with a low hum.

A hand came to rest on your thigh, and you broke from your boyfriend to face its owner, smiling boyishly at you, his eyes hopefully dipping to your lips and back. You nodded almost imperceptibly, and Sam’s smile widened, leaning forward until his lips met yours.

And God, did this feel good. Sandwiched again between them, even better than the first time now that you were all on the same page. Danny’s lips latched onto your exposed neck, and you let a moan of surprise permeate the kiss, the sound egging on Sam. His cute button-tipped nose brushed your cheek as he enthusiastically indulged in your kisses.

He slid his hand further up your lap, bunching the fabric of your flowy shorts up around your hips as he kneaded and pawed at your inner thigh. When he swiped his fingers beneath the hem over your bare skin, you shivered, and he was pulled back to reality, parting from the kiss with a sharp, wet sounding gasp for air. His eyes fluttered open, pupils dilated as they focused.

Danny’s hand mirrored Sam’s, slipping between your legs to squeeze the flesh of your other inner thigh. You bit your lip, a rush of heat making your brain lag for a second, your eyelids fluttering. Danny smirked as he sucked at the delicate skin behind your ear.

“Mmmhhh,” you softly whined, brows knitting as Sam’s nose brushed your cheek, teasing you with his lips millimeters away.

“You want me?” he rasped in a whisper, the corners of his ridiculously attractive lips quirking up when you nodded weakly and whined, “Yeah, Sammy.”

Danny lifted his face from your abused neck, licking a line up your racing jugular as he ascended. You whimpered, struggling to keep your eyes open already, something a very smug Danny seemed to notice.

Murmuring seductively against your cheek, he smirked, “You want me too? You want us both, baby?” He nudged at your cheek with his beautifully arched nose, and Sam’s fingers rubbed gently teasing patterns up and down your inner thigh.

You let out a tortured sigh, losing the fight and closing your eyes. “Oh god… yeah.”

Nimble bass fingers untied the string holding your shorts around your hips as one drumstick calused palm scraped gently down to curl under your knee. Danny waited until Sam had wiggled your shorts past your ass to take over and tug them off, your foot flicking them off to the side. He mouthed his lips along the shell of your ear as he lifted your knee, bending your leg to rest one foot on the cushion.

Sam’s eyes threatened to stare a hole into the damp spot forming through the baby blue cotton between your legs. He licked his lips, placing his hand over your lower abdomen, as he snuck a quick glance at you and Danny. You spread your thighs a little further, smirking as the boys’ eyes met and Danny’s hand slid up your thigh with an inviting nod between your legs.

Gently, locking eyes with you, Sammy smoothed his hand down, tucking his fingers under your panties and grazing his middle fingertip down and back up through your folds. Sam’s eyelids drooped with lust as he sighed out a low groan, “Oh my god, you’re wet.”

Danny purred against your cheek as he watched your underwear stretch over his friend’s knuckles. “Oh yeah? What a good girl, baby, dripping all over his hand.”

Your eyes closed of their own accord, a humiliating whimper slipping unexpectedly past your lips.

A second set of lips evened out Danny’s, tugging at your other earlobe and flicking his tongue against it. Sam’s fingers spread you open, rubbing in loose, lazy circles. The slick noises drew a growl from Danny’s chest, and you fluttered your eyes open weakly, only to catch Danny’s tongue wetting his fingers. His eyes flashed dangerously at you as he closed his lips around them, the light catching the glisten from his saliva as he pulled them out and joined Sam’s party for one in your panties.

You moaned sharply as you felt Danny’s fingers take over circling your clit, switching into tighter, faster circles, while Sam’s middle and ring finger slowly curled into your heat.

Your head rolled against the back cushion, looking up at Sammy as he lifted his face away. Your needy and glazed over expression made his nostrils flare in hunger, and his lips parted absently. “How’s it feel, beautiful girl?” he rasped quietly. “Our fingers feel nice?”

You whimpered, brows tightly knit as you bucked against both their hands, working away at your wet center in incredible synchrony. “So nice, I fucking-“ a deeper curl of his fingers had you keening pathetically. “-shit, like that, yeah,” you mewled.

“Yeah?” he cocked a smug eyebrow, “S’that the spot?” He drug the pads of his fingers against your walls, and gave you a dirty smirk when you jolted and whined. Danny’s fingers paused their languid circles, his pointer and middle finger parting and slipping down along either side of your clit, squeezing together in a slippery hug as he pulled them back up.

Your jaw hung open, your gaze unfocusing as you blinked distantly at the ceiling. You heard Sam’s dark chuckle by your ear as Danny returned to his expert massage to your clit.

Craving more, more friction, more of them, you swallowed dryly. “Fuck me?” you softly pleaded, voice hoarse already.

Danny playfully nipped the apple of your cheek, whispering teasingly, “Who? Me or Sam?”

Sammy echoed, “Yeah doll, who’s cock d’you want?”

As his fingers pumped in and out of you faster, Danny moved his lips back to the shell of your ear, nibbling gently and murmuring with that low, breathy voice. “We both wanna be inside you so bad.”

“So fuckin’ bad, beautiful, you got me addicted to that tight little pussy,” Sam confirmed, a touch of begging in his tone contrasting deliciously with Danny’s domineering rumble.

You whined, reaching your hands up to grab at both boy’s necks, rolling your hips into their talented hands. “Both, I- fucking christ- both of you, take turns, or whatever you want, please?”

Sam’s forehead plopped against your temple as he breathed out a strained whimper. “Shit,” he breathed.

Danny removed his fingers from your clit, his hand rising to your chin. He grabbed your face firmly, his two glistening fingers forcing into your mouth as he turned you to face him. You sucked his fingers, lapping lazily at the pads of them as you slowly focused your eyes on his gorgeous, pleased face. His filthy, challenging grin would’ve had your knees buckling had you been standing.

“Aren’t you just the sweetest little whore,” he grit the last word through his teeth, his grip tightening slightly around your jaw. You inhaled sharply through your nose and nodded around his hand as best you could.

“What a naughty little thing,” came Sam’s voice, far too smug for your liking. “You a little slutty for us, babe?”

Jesus christ.

Danny’s hand suddenly let go, and in a flash, Sam found himself in the same boat that you were just in, locked into your boyfriend’s firm grip.

“Not sure where you’re getting all this attitude from, Sammy,” he all but sneered, Sam’s shuddery inhale threatening to bring a smirk to your face.

“I was just- ah!” Danny slipped his hand around to tighten his fist around Sam’s hair, tugging at the root near the back of the brunette’s head, effectively interrupting his pitiful excuses.

“You what?” Danny smirked, slowly rising to his feet as he leaned over Sam’s face.

Sam’s eyes, wide and submissive, blinked up at him as he licked his lips nervously. “Nothing…!”

Danny cocked his head, arrogantly shaking his head and hovering his lips just out of Sam’s pouted reach. “Good boy,” he purred.

Sam’s eyes flew shut as he bit back a groan.

You curled your fingers sweetly around Danny’s bicep, fixing him with a pleading look. When he met your eyes, you fluttered your eyelashes and asked, “Bedroom?”

Danny grinned at you rather ferally, then gave a quick nod and grabbed both yours and Sam’s hands.

He marched you both down the hall, you and Sam sharing a quick, bashfully excited grin from the corner of your eyes before Danny gently but firmly turned you around to the bed and pushed you down, side by side and equally impatient for his next move.

Danny stepped over you first, brushing a gentle hand along your cheek as he gazed down at you tenderly. “Can you be my sweet girl and sit quiet for a minute, baby?”

You smiled and nodded up at him, pressing a chaste kiss to his wrist. He thumbed once over your cheek and smiled back sweetly, booping your nose just to hear your giggle before he stepped over in front of Sam.

Sam leaned back on his arms, paying close attention as the drummer stood before him. Danny brought a hand to Sam’s cheek, much like yours, and his eyes followed as he trailed his fingers lightly down Sammy’s neck and collarbones.

Sam’s breathing stuttered, licking his lips as he let Danny’s delicate touch brush admiringly across his upper half. “What about me?” he challenged softly, flustered but smirking playfully nonetheless.

Danny raised a brow, lifting his heavy gaze to Sam’s, before placing his palm firmly in the center of Sammy’s chest and shoving him down flat on his back. Sam gasped, the sound choked and ending with a garbled whine as Danny followed, crawling over top of him to hover over his lithe form.

Gripping the bassist’s jaw lightly, Danny brushed his lips ever so faintly against Sam’s as he murmured lowly, “You wanna be a good boy for me, too?”

Sam’s wide eyes blinked up at Danny in a sort of lustful awe, nodding his head and licking his lips. A smirk creeped across Danny’s lips, nodding along teasingly as he brushed their lips together again.

With the most arrogant, shit-eating tone, he rumbled low in his chest, “Yeah? Are you daddy’s good boy?”

Sam’s face flushed wildly as his eyes closed tight, but the moan he tried to conceal was unmistakable. Though as pathetically needy as Sam surely felt, you could swear you had it worse. Arousal coursed through your veins like adrenaline, and it threatened to send you into cardiac arrest, as your boyfriend groaned like he’d tasted the finest wine and his tongue languidly slipped through his parted lips to lick across Sam’s pouted ones.

Sam slunk his arms around Danny’s neck, pulling the man down on top of him into a deep, needy kiss. His long fingers raked through the drummers silken curls, his brows furrowing as he sighed a moan of satisfaction into the kiss. Stealthily, Danny shuffled his knees up around Sam’s hips to balance himself, then smoothed his hands up the wiry arms that held him in place. He then gracefully pried Sam’s hands away, taking them in his own, still slow and sweet, before pinning them above his head and breaking the kiss, biting his lip at Sam’s bratty little whine.

You found the presence of mind, through the absolute brain fog of arousal, to cheekily goad them on. “Little desperate, aren’t we Sammy?”

Sam’s head whipped over to you, jaw dropping as he prepared to retort with a sassy comeback, but Danny eradicated any chance of that with a firm roll of his hips into Sam’s stiff crotch.

“Aht,” he warned, “Don’t make me shut you up, Sammy.”

Instantly, your cheek was forgotten, as the bassist bit his lip. Once again doe-eyed and smirking for Danny, Sam murmured with a shake in his voice, “…and, uh, for curiosity’s sake… how would you do that exactly?”

Raising an eyebrow at him, Danny wordlessly gripped Sam’s jaw in his broad hand, and when Sam’s jaw instinctively fell open between his thumb and fingers, his open mouth was promptly filled with Danny’s pointer and middle fingers. You watched Danny’s eyes droop in lust as Sam’s widened submissively, obediently closing his lips around the callused digits and sucking demurely.

“There’s plenty of ways I can occupy your smart little mouth,” Danny sneered arrogantly, “The only problem is finding one that you won’t fucking like so much.”

You ventured a hand over to lightly rub over Sam’s chest, amusement evident in your cheeky addition, “That’s awful slutty of you, Sammy.”

Danny’s shoulders stiffened, and he kept his eyes on Sam as he warned, “Glass houses, babygirl, glass houses.”

Sam’s smirk became clearer when Danny slipped his fingers out of his mouth. “Yeah, sweetheart, glass houses,” he mocked condescendingly.

You shot him a petulant glare. “I thought you were told to shut up? Or are you not daddy’s good boy?”

Sam tried to sit up indignantly, blushing, but was restricted by your boyfriend still pinning him to the mattress. His mouth opened with another smart ass remark, but a snarl from Danny’s chest stole the words from his tongue.

“Enough! Not another fucking word from either of you,” he barked, shooting Sam a dominant, warning look as he straightened off of him with a final, parting squeeze to his jaw.

You both watched Danny nervously as he loomed over you both, running his tongue over his teeth.

“Up,” he grit, tipping his head back.

You stumbled to your feet, but Sam’s bratty streak flared up full force, and he cocked a sassy eyebrow and eyed up Danny challengingly. “Why?” he huffed.

You rolled your eyes with a knowing smirk, and Danny smoothly articulated, “Because I told you to, Samuel, and you will listen to me, or you won’t like what happens next.”

Sam scoffed but clambered to his feet beside you, and Danny gave him a condescending smile. “Good.” He leaned back on his hands against your shared dresser and eyed you both admiringly. “Now take each other’s clothes off.”

You looked up at Danny as you echoed his command back in your head. He met your eyes and gave you a smug smile, winking at you. You blushed and smiled back, then giggled as you felt Sam’s hand on your shoulder.

Facing him, he fixed you with that butterfly-inducing, boyish smirk of his. He rested his hands at your shoulders and bit his lip. Those hands began roaming, from your shoulders towards the hem of your shirt, as slowly and patiently as his eagerness allowed, taking his time to subtly palm at your tits through the fabric.

“Mmm… he doesn’t have to tell me twice,” Sam softly flirted, lifting his honey brown eyes from your midsection to meet your flustered gaze.

Lopsidedly smiling, you helped him lift your shirt over your head and quickly began working his pants off. “First time for everything, I suppose,” you teased, dropping to your knees to tug his pants down his thighs.

Sam’s breath hitched, his brain rebooting at the sight of you below him like that, and pride bloomed in your chest from his lack of a sassy retort.

His briefs, caught in the bunch of fabric, were pulled down as well, and the tip of his erection grazed your chin as it sprung up. Nearly forgetting about the third party watching silently beside you, you leaned forward instinctively and kitten licked over the delicate slit at the tip of Sammy’s cock.

His resulting hiss of surprise was almost lost under Danny’s softly, but rigid order, “Nope, I said undress, not suck his dick, get up.”

You blinked over at Danny, pouting, “But Danny, I-“

He shifted his weight, cocking an unimpressed brow at you, and you gave up, rising to your feet to level yourself with the boy who was suddenly singing a very different tune.

Sam wordlessly rushed to tug your panties down past your ass, letting them drop to the floor and stepping even closer to you as he reached around behind your ribcage to nimbly unclasp your bra. His fingers slipped under the straps, brushing them off your shoulders and letting it fall to the ground, his hands immediately cupping and squeezing your tits appreciatively. The softest breathy moan breezed past his lips, but now it was Sam’s turn to be interrupted.

“Sam. Bed,” Danny grit, “On your back.”

Sam’s eyes flashed with that same needy, aroused glaze, obeying Danny, even giving him a little nod as he sat at the edge of the bed, swinging his legs up and laying flat, lacing his hands over his stomach as he turned his head to look up at you both patiently.

“Good boy,” Danny purred, sounding pleasantly surprised and pleased, and he tipped his head back to peer at Sam down his nose. You licked your lips, watching Sam’s cock twitch against his flexing stomach with longing.

Danny’s fingers brought you out of your daze, tipping up your chin as he smirked down at you. “Hi, beautiful,” he sweetly brushed the back of his hand over your cheek, and you smiled lovingly up at his gorgeous face, preening under his praise. “Can you do me a favor, my love?”

Your heart fluttered as you rested a hand on his chest and nodded, “Yeah, gorgeous, what do you need?”

He casted a playful glance in Sam’s direction before refocusing on you fondly. “I want you to go sit on his lap, and then do exactly as I tell you. Can you do that?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you replied, seductively playful, thoroughly enjoying the way his jaw clenched subtly through his slow inhale. He shook his head fondly, lightly smacked your ass, and you gave him a cheeky grin and turned on your heel, climbing onto the bed beside Sam’s lithe form.

“Hey,” you flirted, planting your hands on his chest and swinging one leg over his hips to seat yourself atop him, his cock parting your slick lips, pressed between you and his abdomen in a wet hug.

His gasp shuddered out of him and was joined by his hands shooting to hold your hips tightly. His fingers flexed tight, white knuckling the flesh. “Ohh, god, you little devil,” he grinned lazily, struggling to not buck into you.

Smirking down at him, you brought your thumb to your mouth, wetting the pad of it and dropping it down to rub circles gently into the delicate, vulnerable underside of the head of his cock.

Sam whined, wincing in surprised pleasure as his head rolled sideways, face burying into the pillow as he writhed under you. “Shitshitshit-“

“Okay, hands off now.”

You lifted your hand immediately, shooting a proud grin Danny’s way when Sam sighed from either disappointment or relief, you couldn’t be sure.

Pleased with your listening, Danny cocked his head and drank in the sight of you both. Your attention was drawn to the movement below his waist, absently rolling your hips into Sam’s as you watched your boyfriend rubbing over his bulge.

“Mmm- Danny,” Sam choked, swallowing hard, “What now?”

Danny hummed thoughtfully, casually popping open the button of his jeans. “Grind on him, princess.”

Nodding quickly, you started rutting your hips against Sam’s steadily, slipping his length up and down through your folds. Sam hissed, his eyelids fluttering closed as his brows tipped up in the middle. His face the picture of pleasure, he moaned softly, encouraging you with his hands kneading and pulling at your hips. “Fuuuuuck, sweetheart,” he rasped.

Danny grinned, a dangerous gleam in his expression. “Stop.”

You bit your lip hard, reluctantly stilling atop him. Sam huffed, lolling his head impatiently to face Danny, unimpressed and pouting. Danny snickered at his expression, nodding his permission to you to keep going.

You kept your eyes on your boyfriend’s as you wiggled slowly forward and back, your stomach flipping with anticipation as Sam’s cock slipped frictionless through your folds. Danny’s little smirk morphed into something darker, tugging his zipper down as he held the heated eye contact. His fingers slipped beneath the band of his boxers, and he flicked his gaze to where you were soaking his best friend’s cock rhythmically.

“Stop,” he articulated again.

Sam expelled a puff of air beneath you, and you were broken away from Danny’s spell. Glancing down at the man beneath you, you had to bite back a whimper, fighting not to disobey Danny’s instruction. Sam’s face twisted in his growing frustration, his forehead beginning to shine with sweat. It had you suddenly realizing just how hot it had become in the room, three bodies warming the space with the heat of the growing, restless neediness.

Sam swallowed harshly, “Wish you weren’t such a good little girl for him.” His eyes flashed up to meet yours, a teasing glint peeking through his frustration. Danny huffed a smug laugh beside you.

You giggled softly, dropping your gaze to his nipple as you swiped a thumb over it, rolling it against your forefinger. “Oh yeah?”

He sighed and let his head lean to the side as he gazed up at you, fond and needy through those long lashes. “Mhmm. I think you should be my good girl,” he rasped, rolling his hips enticingly, sending the tip of his cock slipping just barely, teasingly, into your clit.

You whined softly, acutely aware of the man leaning against the dresser beside you, watching you both interact quietly.

Sam watched you lick your lips longingly, and he smirked, smoothing his hands up your sides slowly. “Sounds nice, doesn’t it, gorgeous? You wanna listen to me instead? I’ll let you do whatever you want to me,” he finished with a seductive, raspy whisper, punctuating it with a squeeze to your tits as he reached his destination, cupping and massaging them.

Your lips parted with a breathy moan, fighting every urge to give in to the temptation he dangled in front of you.

You met his eyes again, apologetically, regretfully shaking your head.

You could feel Danny’s proud, wide grin without even glancing at him. “Good girl, sweetheart,” he praised, pushing off the dresser and stalking toward the bed. Once he’d reached your side, plastering himself along your body, he purred, “God I love you.” He bit down on the back of your shoulder, earning a shaky whine from you through your smile.

You craned your neck, peering at him through your eyelashes, the way that made his knees weak for you. Danny’s face softened further, taking your face in one hand as the other wrapped around your middle. He captured your lips in a needy kiss, insistently taking another kiss the second each one would end. You melted back against his solid chest, the change in your seating position cruelly dragging your slit against Sam’s neglected length.

A helpless, sweet whine eminating from below you brought both your attentions to Sammy, laid out beautifully unraveled against the sheets. He watched your kiss with longing eyes, and his swollen tip peeking out from between your lips was a dark shade of pink.

Danny rested his chin over your shoulder, hugging you with both arms from behind as he raised a brow at Sam, smirking lightly. “What?” he teased, deliberately clueless.

Sam furrowed his brow and rolled his eyes, centering his focus on Danny’s face. “Oh, nothing,” he retorted sarcastically.

Danny ignored him, turning his face in to tuck into your neck, his breath tickling your neck. You giggled as he brushed his nose against your shoulder. “Okay then,” he smirked. Kissing and loving on your skin and deliberately making you squirm, knowing full well how each wiggle he coerced out of you was driving Sam crazier.

Sam grit his teeth, hissing as you jerked your hips against him suddenly, his grip on your hips stiffening as he growled, “Fucking stop it already!”

Danny raised a brow and emerged from your neck, gazing arrogantly down at the bratty demand. “What was that?” he muttered lowly, warning Sam with his tone.

As usual, Sam ignored the warning and proceeded full throttle. “I said stop it! I need- I need more, just-“ He fought against your weight, grinding weakly into you and making you whimper softly. His voice came out breathless and rough when he pleaded, “C’mon, enough fucking around, let me fuck her.”

If anybody had’ve asked, you wouldn’t have been able to tell them how much you would’ve loved the way Sam bypassed you, going directly to your boyfriend for permission to use your body. It was somehow simultaneously degrading and empowering, and with your affinity for both praise and degradation, the confusing combination worked like a charm for you.

Feeding into both of these kinks, Danny toyed his fingers down your lower abdomen, grazing the tips against your clit and the tip of Sam’s cock as he responded, “Well isn't that just a damn shame, Sammy. You were so close, too.”

Sam furrowed his brow incredulously, “Close? To what? Losing my mind?”

Danny chuckled humorlessly, “To getting what you wanted. You were being so good,” he tsked. “Oh well, you made your bed, now.”

Sam sputtered, and let out a stuttery whine as you ground against Danny’s fingers, and by extension, his aching cock. “Fuuuck, please,” he groaned, “Let me in, let me- oh-“

Danny copied your move, circling his thumb, wet from your soaking pussy, into Sam’s frenulum, smirking evilly when the boy squirmed and jerked beneath you. His anguished bucking hips had you weakly leaning back into Danny’s chest for support, and the two of you falling apart beneath his control had Danny’s cock pounding in his pants.

Finally Danny removed all contact, stepping back from the bed as you fell forward onto Sam’s chest for support. Both of you looked up at him with matching pleading, lost expressions.

Danny’s lips quirked up in a smile as he shoved his pants down and caught onto your needy faces.

“Well god, don’t look so pathetic,” he cooed, “Both of you, breaking my heart over here. Just be patient, I’ll make it worth it.”

He bit his lip as he watched you both closely, pushing his briefs down his thighs, his cock twitching in the air under both your desperate stares.

Taking himself in hand loosely, he instructed, “Roll over, babes. Sammy on top now.”

Sam flushed at the endearment, and you smiled to yourself. You managed to roll off, onto your back, and wiggle into Sam’s place as Sam fit himself between your thighs on his knees. He stared shamelessly at your spread open lips, biting back a soft groan, and your stomach twisted with excited butterflies, opening your thighs wider teasingly.

“God,” he sighed, licking his lips as his eyes lidded heavily. Sam began leaning forward, his face nearing your folds, but instead groaned and rested his forehead against your stomach when Danny barked, “Stop.”

“Whyyyy?” Sam whined, muffled against your tummy. “I want her so fucking bad, Danny,” he lifted his head, begging Danny with his eyes. “Why not? Please, baby,” he whimpered softly.

Danny’s face softened in surprise and affection. “Sammy, babe…”

Sam closed his eyes, his cheeks flushed pink as he continued, “I want you both, I wanna fuck her, I want you, I want- just, please, Danny, anything, please, I-“

Danny, in two strides, was back with one knee up on the edge of the bed, crashing his lips against Sam’s desperately. Sam moaned, wrapping an arm around Danny’s strong midsection, the other hand resting on your thigh, gripping and kneading at the flesh, seemingly to feel grounded to both of you.

Danny reluctantly pulled back, pecking Sam’s lips a few times in a drawn out apologetic goodbye. Breathless, he rested his forehead against Sam’s and looked into his eyes as best he could in their proximity.

“Let’s take care of this, yeah?” He murmured, running his hand down Sam’s front smoothly, past his navel, wrapping his broad hand firmly around Sam’s achingly hard, slick-dampened cock.

Sammy nodded, shallow and desperately, rocking himself through Danny’s grip with a sigh of relief that melted his entire body against Danny’s, much like yours had just done. Danny wrapped his free arm around Sam’s waist, supporting him, and used his leverage point there to grind his own erection into the plush of Sam’s ass.

Danny inhaled Sam’s sweet musky scent, burying his nose in the boy’s hair as he groaned under his breath at the relieving contact to his neglected cock. With one more roll of his hips, he straightened out, steadying Sam overtop of you before crawling onto the bed behind him.

Sam craned his head curiously, but Danny placed a soothing hand to his shoulderblades, thumbing reassuringly as he got himself settled comfortably. He positioned himself behind Sam, a sort of vertical big-spoon around the lithe bassist.

You bit your lip in anticipation as the addition of another body atop the bed pushed your thighs open wider to accommodate Danny. Sam’s lips parted in awe as he caught glimpse of the light catching the delicate strings of your wetness decorating your parted lips. His eyes shot closed with a whimper though, as Danny gave a smooth rock of his hips against his ass.

Danny, now firmly plastered skin-to-skin against Sam’s back, reached around Sammy’s front and took his cock in hand. He leaned them both forward, forcing Sam onto his hands and knees above you. Sam gasped, Danny’s cock grinding between his ass cheeks as he loosely jerked Sam off.

You reached down, and Sam fluttered his eyes open at the movement, catching your gaze and locking eyes, electric and intense as you swirled your fingers around your clit. Your jaw fell open a bit, and the relief had your eyes rolling back slightly with a sigh. The sight of it had Sam exhaling through his nose harshly as though the wind had been punched out of him.

Danny lowly rumbled in his ear, “Push forward a bit, sweet boy.”

Sam shivered, obeying and letting his hips droop forward until the tip of him caught against your entrance. Danny kept his eyes locked on the contact of his cock against your pussy from over Sam’s shoulder, angling his jaw to the side to kiss and nip the bottom of Sammy’s jaw. “Good,” he breathed, “You just let me do all the work.”

Sam whined and nodded, blinking sluggishly.

Danny gave his cock a few pumps, twisting loosely at the tip after each pass, the head of him torturously pressing at your entrance. At Sam’s shudder of pleasure, he grinned lightly, slapping Sam’s cock against your clit with a few filthy smacks.

You gasped, whimpering and arching into it, “Danny- Sam-“ Their names rolling off your tongue instinctively was like sexual whiplash, and you panted, lost for words.

Sam weakly chuckled, lifting his head to peer at you through his lashes. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

Danny nipped at the shell of Sam’s ear playfully, using his thumb as leverage to hold Sam’s length close and snug to your folds. He then rocked into Sam’s ass, forcing Sam’s cock through the tight squeeze and causing a feral moan to slip unrestricted past the boy’s lips. You gasped, tossing your head back as the sudden, focused contact to your clit sparked intensely through your body. You cupped and groped at your tits absent-mindedly as Danny continued to second-hand thrust Sam into you.

Both boys locked eyes on you hungrily, but you were oblivious, eyes closed and brows tipped up in pleasure from the steady rubbing of the ridge of Sam's head against your clit. Moaning weakly, you pinched your own nipple, head lolling to the side. “Yes,” you whined, “Fuck yes, oh my god…”

Danny growled near Sam’s ear, abandoning your combined groins. He brought his hand at Sam’s hip up to wrap around the front of Sam’s throat, a sight that stole your breath as you fluttered your eyes open. Sam hoarsely keened as Danny opened his mouth and licked a hot, filthy line from the base of Sam’s neck to his jaw, sealing the move with hot open-mouthed kisses to Sam’s jaw and cheek, finally meeting Sam’s lips hungrily in a sloppy, feral kiss.

Squeezing his throat cautiously, Sam encouraged him with a cut-off groan, sucking on his tongue. Danny moaned, his grip tightening at both sides of his neck, parting from Sam’s lips to mumble, “Want me to fuck your ass?”

Sam’s knees buckled, Danny’s hand shooting from his neck to wrap around his middle again in support, a breathy humorless chuckle at the wanton reaction.

Sam gulped, his eyes wide and dark as he opened them, fixing them on Danny’s face. “Fuck me,” he rasped, “Fuck me right into her pussy, Daddy.”

Danny’s nostrils flared, his jaw falling open, and he breathed so quiet against Sam’s lips, “Oh god-“

With your front row seat to their little show, you felt lightheaded with desire. Equally desperate as Sam to get Danny’s cock in his ass, you took it upon yourself to reach over to the nightstand, fumbling and grasping the bottle of lube and presenting it to Danny like a present.

Danny took it with shaky hands, shooting you a fucked-out smile of thanks. You smiled back, biting your lip as Danny kissed Sam’s shoulder, then guided him forward overtop of you on his hands.

Sam met your eyes as Danny flipped open the cap behind him, giving you a lazy, dirty grin. You smirked, taking one of his hands and using it to grope your breast. Sam’s fingers molded around the curve of it, licking his lips hungrily as Danny began slicking up his own cock. The slick wet noises got your heart racing with arousal, and Sam clearly felt it too, as he dove forward and captured your nipple between his pouted, kiss swollen lips. You gasped, burying your fingers in his silky hair as he sucked at you.

You felt his groan acutely, vibrating sparks of pleasure to your core, as Danny’s lubed up fingers slipped between Sam’s cheeks. He pressed one finger inside Sam’s hole, not wasting any time and slipping in all the way in one smooth motion, and Sam abandoned your boobs as his mouth fell open with a loud, wanton moan, the side of his face smacking bonelessly against your sternum.

Danny grunted lowly, eyes flickering between his finger encased in Sam’s tight heat and your disheveled faces, hair clinging to both your foreheads with sweat.

He pumped his finger slowly in and out, then curled it towards the root of Sam’s cock, and the bassist whined, high-pitched and drawn out against your breast, “Fuuuuuuuuuck, Danny!”

You stroked and pet Sam’s head as Danny slipped a second finger in alongside the first, fingering him a little faster and targeting that sweet little spot inside Sam’s body. High in his throat, Sam let out a choked cry, biting down gently into the flesh of your breast, making you hiss.

Muffled around his mouthful of your boob, Sam weakly pleaded, “Please, baby, fuck me!”

Danny groaned at his begging, his eyes shooting closed as he bit his lip hard, rutting against Sam’s ass cheek.

“You ready for me, pretty boy?” he rumbled.

Sam sobbed out a quiet moan, nodding into your chest as he squeezed your tits in his hands, effectively smothering his blushing face in your cleavage. “Mhmm,” he mumbled. “Do it.”

Danny grasped himself, slapping his own slick cock against Sam’s wet, lubed up entrance a few times, before lining up and pressing his head past the tight ring of Sam’s hole.

They both groaned in sync, Danny’s relieved, deep groan pairing harmoniously with Sam’s whimpered, pathetic, pleading one. The sounds they made, the visual of Danny’s pleasure-wracked face, the sweaty, submissive boy clinging to you like a shaking leaf, all of it reduced you to a feral, desperate mess of arousal. Pinned as you were beneath them both, you felt it as Danny rocked tentatively into Sam, pulling out and pushing in a little further with each thrust. Sam’s soft cries climbed up in register each time, until his voice sounded feminine and so deliciously submissive, you weren’t sure how Danny hadn’t already lost it and coated his walls already. You felt near the precipice of an orgasm as it was, and you’d hardly even been touched yet.

Danny slowed his thrusts, his jaw clenching with restraint as he gripped Sam’s hips. He licked his lips and bent forward, his arm snaking around Sam’s waist again, and taking his leaking erection in hand.

“Baby?” your boyfriend softly called, and you reached down readily, brushing his hand affectionately and helping him guide Sam’s cock to your entrance.

"Okay," you confirmed shakily. You were losing your mind, you felt so ready to be filled.

Danny braced himself, and Sam flexed forward flexibly, allowing Danny to push forward into Sam, which in turn, pushed Sam fully into you, all in one slick smooth motion.

“Sammy, fuck-“ your jaw fell open loosely, panting and bucking into him as Danny retreated them both and fucked back into you exploratively.

Sam’s lips parted with a steady, unintelligible stream of filth, moaning and keening as Danny used him like his own personal toy, pushing and withdrawing from your soaking core in an uncoordinated, but incredibly erotic and nonetheless enjoyable dance.

Slowly, with a bit of fumbling, the three of you found a rhythm that worked, similar to the first night, but instead of Sammy holding himself still and getting fucked from both sides, you and Danny limited your movements to a light rolling motion, and Sam rocked himself back and forth, both fucking himself into you, and back around Danny’s pulsing cock.

“God Sammy- uh- fuck, so tight, babe,” Danny praised, his voice rough and strained through his pants.

Sam whined, his shaking muscles driving his hips forward and back on pure, animal instinct. “Please, please please pleasepleaseplease…”

Danny’s grip on his hips tightened in response, and you and Sam both benefited when he used his leverage to guide Sam’s pelvis faster and harder, jerking his body back and forth between you and Danny like a game of sexual tug of war.

Your mouth hung open loosely, losing your composure quickly as the combined physical pleasure, the angelic view of both god-like men above you, and the filth of the whole situation in general spurred you on.

"I've never felt so fucking good in my life," Sam pathetically whined, "This was-" he gasped, "w-was all I could thing about, since the first time."

Danny moaned, his head tipping back as he drove himself deeper into Sam.

Sam was forced forward onto his elbows, and as he balanced himself, he looked up, making glazed-over eye contact with you. “Baby, I need you to cum, please fucking cum for me,” he choked out, begging you with his eyes, “His cock, it's so fuckin' good- ahh! I’m so fucking-“ he cried out a short jerky wail, “s-so fucking c-close, please.”

You wiggled your arm between your bodies, relieving the ache his words brought on with your fingers, cirling and rubbing frantically over your clit and nodding desperately, staring Sam in the eyes as your orgasm built. “Gonna-“ you gasped, your eyes fluttering shut as Danny’s hips jerked hard against you both, “…gonna cum, you’re so good, such a good boy for us, Sammy, so good, just keep- don’t stop, Sammy, fuck-“

Danny reared back, slamming into Sam harder, earning a loud, unabashed cry of his name from Sam’s chest, and Danny growled animalistically, smacking Sam’s ass hard, twice, in quick succession. The sting of the slaps, and the subsequent tight squeeze to the abused flesh in Danny’s wide, veiny hand, sent you careening over the edge.

Your desperate, high-pitched cries of ecstasy drew groans from both boy’s chests, and your trembling, clenching walls squeezing so tight around Sam’s cock as it was sent pumping unforgivingly into you, sent Sam over the edge right after you, his wet release pooling hot, forbidden and dirty inside you, his own cries washing over you as you rode out the waves of your orgasm.

Danny, despite his dwindling resolve to hold off, lost himself in Sam’s clenching, pulsing heat, and in the hazy chorus of his two lover’s combined sounds of pleasure, he gave into the pleasure and spilled, hard and hot into Sam’s tight wet walls with a groan that shook his chest.

He barely held himself up long enough to slip carefully out of Sam, then collapsed at your side, completely spent. Sammy pulled out next, whimpering at the overstimulating drag against his sensitive, slowly softening cock, and rolled just slightly to the side, laying himself mostly still on top of you.

Danny rolled himself weakly onto his side, not bothering to open his eyes as he panted, curling into your side and wrapping his arm over your tummy, holding you close to him. Sam’s knee hitched up over your hips, his calf resting between your thighs as he, too, caught his breath in the cavern of your neck.

Your eyes drooped closed, your entire body feeling floaty and relaxed, the tension of the day, quite literally, fucked out of you.

Sammy’s arm, draped over your ribcage, blindly groped for Danny’s forearm, curling his long fingers around it, and Danny hummed his appreciation quietly, his arm extending a little further against your stomach to squeeze his hand around Sam’s thigh.

As you laid there, endorphins making your entire body feel light, buzzed, happy and safe, you smiled to yourself, simply existing in the moment, in this space between your favorite boys in the world.

Sam lazily kissed your shoulder, nuzzling further into your skin as he sighed contentedly. Danny’s chin tucked against his chest, his mouth pressed into your hair while his soft, evened out breaths fanned it out gently.

Danny broke the silence first, humming softly, the sound shifting to a soft groan as he stretched his legs down the bed, settling back into place. “That was… incredible.”

You smiled wide, eyes still closed as you hummed your agreement, turning just enough to nuzzle into his sweaty curls that clung to his forehead, pressing a loving kiss there.

Sam remained silent, which, even if you only knew Sam for ten minutes, you’d be acutely aware of how unusual that was. You looked down at him, unable to see his face from where it was buried in your shoulder, so you shifted up on your side, settling down little-spoon style against Danny’s chest as you scooted down to level with his face.

You soothed a hand down his side, admiring the softness of his flawless skin and smiling fondly at his pretty, boyish face, which blinked up at you almost shyly.

“No sassy remark?” you teased quietly, your eyes crinkling fondly as you reached up to cup his cheek.

Sam grinned lopsidedly, lowering his gaze to the sheets beneath you, his fingers fiddling with a wrinkle in them. “Nah… I’m sure one’ll come to me, though.”

You giggled under your breath, nodding lightly. “Good, good.”

His eyes lifted to yours, big and brown and sweet, more innocent than you’d ever seen him. He stole your breath for a moment, so stunningly perfect that you couldn’t quite fathom your own luck, to bask in his beauty.

He smiled faintly under your enveloping, warm gaze, that crooked smile widening. “Hi,” he breathed, a soft chuckle following.

“Hi,” you returned, quiet and affectionate.

Behind you, Danny leaned up on his shoulder, resting the side of his face against your cheek, both of you admiring him.

Sam’s cheeks pinkened as he grinned shyly, “What?”

In an uncharecteristically shy move, Danny tucked his chin into your cheek, keeping his eyes on Sam as he kissed and mumbled against your cheek, “You’re so pretty, Sammy.”

The heat from Danny’s flushed cheeks mirrored Sam’s own blush, and Sam giggled quietly, wrinkling his nose as he lazily dismissed him with a swat of his hand. “Says the literal Greek God."

Danny giggled adorably, blushing harder and making your heart clench with love.

You wedged your hand under Sam’s other cheek, pulling his head toward yours and smiling as you kissed his lips softly. Sam melted into your gentle kiss, your hands on his face, accepting and returning the gentle affection.

The moment you released him from the kiss, Danny leaned over you and tilted his chin up. He smiled, devastatingly sweet and handsome in your side-view of him, and he flickered his eyes from Sam’s curious gaze and his mouth, leaning forward and taking his turn at Sam’s lips. Sam kissed him back readily, his eyes fluttering closed.

You continued to pet his cheek lovingly as they basked in the slow push and pull of each other’s lips, and as soon as they separated, you completed the triangle by capturing your boyfriends mouth, smiling happily against his lips.

Danny pulled away after a moment, slowly blinking his eyes open. He bit his lip, boyishly smiling between you and Sam, and you giggled softly, the laughter catching on as Sam chuckled, and soon the three of you were laying together in a heap of seratonin-high giggles.

Calming down, you sighed happily.

Then Danny’s stomach growled. Loudly.

Any semblance of peace was thrown out the window, all three of you dissolving into laughter again as Danny blushed and rolled onto his back.

“Shut up,” he groaned, chuckling, “I haven’t eaten since nine this morning!”

Sam leaned up on his elbow, giggling at him, “Who’s fault is that, mr. come-in-for-a-drink?”

You snorted and Danny’s jaw dropped playfully at him, “I was literally about to make lunch when you kissed me!”

You pursed your lips in a silent, ‘oooo!’, turning your gaze back to Sam in amusement.

“Hey, nuh-uh, you kissed me first, Wagner,” he poked Danny’s shoulder with a sassy raised eyebrow.

You giggled, and Danny looked at you with wide disbelieving eyes, whispering, “He’s full of shit.” Turning to Sam, he repeated louder, “You’re full of shit!”

Sam snickered, shrugging and rolling on his back, lacing his fingers on his chest. “Whatever you say, kissy-pants.”

You snorted, “Kissy pants?” you rolled your head to face Sam incredulously.

He grinned at you innocently, shrugging.

Danny rolled his eyes and sat up, moving to climb off the bed. “You’re such a dork,” he said, affectionately exasperated as he grabbed a fresh pair of boxers from the dresser. Sam smirked shyly as he eyed Danny’s naked back, and subsequently blushed when you tapped the tip of his nose and winked, letting him know you caught him checking out his ass, then climbed off the bed and walked to the closet.

Sam smiled wide, despite the redness colouring his cheeks, and he kept his heart-eyes on your back as he answered Danny softly, “Yeah, but I’m your dork.”

Your face softened inside the cover of the closet, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt as you pulled a sundress off the hanger.

Danny’s hands paused within the drawer, a goofy smile making its way over his face as he distractedly pawed through shirts. “…Oh yeah?”

Sam hauled his boxers back on, biting his lip as he came up behind Danny, touching a shy hand to his side. Danny turned around, and you watched, smoothing your dress over your head from the doorway of the closet, as Danny pulled Sam’s hips flush to his. Sam grew endearingly flustered, his hands resting tentatively on Danny’s bare chest, as Danny brushed his nose against Sam’s.

“Yeah,” Sammy murmured, looking up into Danny’s eyes, losing his breath.

Danny playfully nipped at Sam’s lip before pecking a gentle kiss to his lips.

He shyly kept his eyes trained on Sam’s mouth as he quietly returned, “Well I’m yours too.”

Sam chewed on his lip, and he turned his head searchingly in your direction, his face relaxing and softening fondly when he saw you, making your heart flush with affection and the reassurance you felt at his clinginess.

He held an arm out to you, and Danny smiled wider, nodding you over. You stepped into their arms, leaning your head on Sam’s shoulder. Out of your sight, Sam blinked down at the crown of your head in surprise, warmth spreading through his chest at how you’d subconsciously come to him just as readily as you came to Danny.

Danny let his forehead lean against Sam’s again, and you straightened, kissing Sam’s cheek sweetly. Sam’s heart fluttered, overwhelmed with the double-teamed touches, and as he looked at you, still leaning the side of his forehead against Danny’s, he said quietly through the close space, “…I’m yours, too.”

You brought your hands up to lace over his shoulder, lifting on your toes to kiss his cheek again, trailing your lips to his jaw and smiling shyly against his skin. “I’m yours too, baby,” you whispered. “I’m yours, just like I’m Danny’s.”

Danny nodded lightly, and Sam sucked on his bottom lip, eyes flickering between you both when he lifted his head straight.

“So… uh,” he swallowed, blushing, then cracking into a bashful smile.

You smiled wide at his shyness, tilting your head encouragingly.

“What is it?” Danny reassuringly asked with a hand on his shoulder, thumbing at both his shoulder and at your hip subconsciously, a rush of warmth swirling in your chest.

Sam rocked from the ball of his foot to his heels, playing off his shyness as his usual goofy playfulness. “Well, if I’m yours, and you’re mine, and I’m yours,” he nodded at you, grinning wider, “and you’re mine…”

You giggled, raising your brows impatiently, “Yeah?”

Sam smirked at the floor, “Well, I was just thinking that, you know, that sounds a lot like I’m your guys’ boyfriend, doesn’t it?”

You felt your heart turning to a mushy puddle as the adorable question registered. “Oh,” you giggled breathlessly, certain your face was the picture of sappy joy.

Danny cooed quietly, nudging his hip sweetly against Sam’s. “It does, huh,” he nodded, matter-of-factly before cracking a wide grin.

Sam shrugged one shoulder, his tongue poking in his cheek as he grinned to himself, nodding at the floor bashfully. When he lifted his gaze, he met your eyes, and your smile stretched even wider, grabbing his face and pulling him into a sweet, enthusiastic kiss. Sam cooed in surprise, immediately falling into the kiss and sighing against your lips. His hand came up to cup your cheek, holding you in place.

Then Danny’s nose brushed against both your cheeks, squishing his way in and making you both separate and burst into giggles, Danny cracking up too.

You giggled, “Wait, lets try, come back.”

Your boys’ smiling faces drew nearer again, and you wrapped your hands around the backs of their heads, pulling them into a short, strange, but cute little three-way kiss, pulling back from it with blushing cheeks and wide, bashful smiles.

“Huh,” Danny nodded, shrugging. Sam’s eyes closed fondly as he dropped his head forward against Danny’s chest, his hand still smoothing back from your cheek into your hair, lacing into it and scratching affectionately.

You leaned your head into Danny’s shoulder, feeling a surge of love when his strong arms wrapped around both you and Sam, holding you both into a tight hug.

Softly, you mumbled into Danny’s upper arm, “Let’s go get some food.”

They hummed their agreement, two low, rumbly tones that felt very right together.

Sam lifted his head then, grinning at the two of you and wiggling his eyebrows. “Our first date!"

-------- ⭐︎☽⭐︎☾⭐︎ --------

>>>Chapter 6 >>>

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wrenhyperfixates · 4 years ago

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Ever Since We Met

Prologue

Pairing: Loki x reader Series Summary: After making a bet with Odin, Loki finally has a chance to prove he is worthy of being heir to the throne. Under mysterious circumstances, you find yourself stranded on Asgard, left with no option but to team up with Loki and help him win the crown. Now posing as visiting royalty, you must be careful of rumors in court that say you’re not who you claim, all while battling your growing feelings for the raven haired king. But some things are easier said than done because secrets, you’ll soon learn, can be deadly. Chapter Summary: Before Odin leaves for Alfheim, Loki makes one final bid for the throne. A bet that has the power to alter his future. Chapter Warnings: none :) A/N: Greetings guys, gals, and non-binary pals! I am beyond excited to share this story with you! It takes place pre-Thor 1 and will update every Friday until we reach the end in about six months. Without further ado, I hope you enjoy!

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Disclaimer: Gif not mine.

Thankfully, the halls outside the throne room were empty, leaving plenty of space for Loki to pace back and forth. He never would have let his anxious energy show in front of others, but right now it was just him. The guards had gone in to announce Loki to his father, gain permission for him to enter. It was ridiculous that he couldn’t just waltz in, the prince thought. Then again, that’s all he was. A prince. Not the king.

See, Loki had been trying his whole life to prove his worth to his father, desperately attempting to show he was deserving of the throne. But nothing had worked, and whispers that Odin was going to announce his heir any day now were common throughout the kingdom. And not a single person was saying it was going to be Loki. Luckily, the younger Odinson didn’t give up so easily.

“Prince Loki,” one of the guards said with a little bow of his head as they re-emerged from the throne room. Loki immediately stopped his nervous movement and looked him in the eye. “The king will see you now.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Loki replied, regal as ever. “As you were.”

Taking a final gulp of air, he pushed through the heavy golden doors and walked towards Odin. As a child, Loki had always thought his father looked so imposing sitting on the throne, as if he had in his palm the fate of all people. Well, now Loki was grown, and he knew that the old man sitting in that glorified chair did hold someone’s fate. His. And if Loki wasn’t careful, Odin would crush his dreams, his destiny, without so much as batting an eye.

Loki’s heeled boots clicked on the cold floor, as if counting down the steps left before he could make his request. They were, perhaps, a bit more formal than something one might wear on a regular basis, but he figured why not dress to impress? His semi-formal cloak swooshed behind him, and he had to resist anxiously fiddling with the fabric. With his hair slicked back and combed perfectly in place, he thought he looked very princely, but if all went well, he was going to be far more than that.

“Your majesty,” he greeted Odin in the formal way he’d been taught since birth, bowing at his waist. Oh, how he so despised that part; if he had it his way, he’d never bow to anyone again. At least he didn’t have to kneel as most of the lesser nobles and commoners did.

“Rise my son,” Odin said with a wave of his hand. “Why have you felt the need for this audience so close to my departure?”

“Well, father,” Loki began. He summoned all his strength to keep up his nonchalant facade. “It has come to my attention that you have invited Thor to join you and mother on your diplomatic mission to Alfheim. An invitation, I might add, that he has accepted.”

“Yes, yes,” he yawned. “What of it? I hope you are not looking to come. The convoy is already full.”

“On the contrary, I think it best if I stay here.” Loki studied his father’s expression a moment before continuing. “To rule the kingdom.”

It was painfully silent in the near-empty throne room. And then Odin began laughing. Not chuckling, but full on laughing at his son. This was perhaps the most embarrassed Loki had ever felt, and there wasn’t even anyone else in the room. But all he wanted was to show his father he was capable of ruling. That he would make a far more competent king than his oaf of a brother. This was a critical moment, he knew, and he couldn’t let any cracks in his armor show. He kept his face completely neutral as his father slowly ceased his cackling.

“And why should I allow for that. You see, Loki, I have already chosen my successor, and it is not you,” Odin bluntly explained as Loki’s blood began to boil and hopes began to drop. Maybe this was just a nightmare, and he’d wake up to make his plea for real. No such luck. “The official announcement was going to come upon my return, but it seems cruel to keep it from you now.”

All the times Loki played this out in his head, it never went quite this poorly. Never in his wildest dreams had he been expecting Odin to admit what he already knew deep down; he’d lost. But all his training, his preparing, his effort to show that he was the one deserving of the crown, could it really be for nothing?

“Come now, my son,” Odin said when Loki took too long to reply. He wondered if his father was trying to have a comforting tone. If he was, he was failing miserably. “You always knew I would have to pick one of you. That only one of you could take the mighty throne of Asgard.”

Yes, but I should be the victor, Loki thought, ignoring the tears pricking the back of his eyes. The last thing he would do was cry in front of the Allfather. Especially when he still had a chance to make this work in his favor. All he had to do was keep it together for the next fifteen minutes and alter his argument a little. If Odin was taking drastic measures, maybe that’s what he had to do, too.

“I do not think you should act so rashly, father,” Loki spoke up, voice impressively even. “After all, you have yet to hear my proposition.”

“And what might that be? Speak, son, and tell me.”

“Let me rule Asgard while you are gone. If I do well, you wait to make your decision on who will be your heir, allow me to continue to compete for the crown.”

The old king laughed again, not as loudly as before, but just as unkindly. “Why would I do that? I see no way in which this benefits me.”

“On the contrary, as a prince, I would have the right to plead my case to the Allmother if you took me out of the running. It would be a long, tedious process if you had to go through all the right channels to prove my brother is better suited for the kingship. And then again, they might not even find that he is. Or I could even challenge Thor for the crown, if it comes down to it. Such scandal to mark the end of your reign would be a shame, do you not agree?” He paused for dramatic effect, and to let the words sink in. “However, should I do poorly on the throne, I would have no argument to make, and would back down peacefully.”

The tension was so thick, Loki was tempted to whip out one of his daggers to try to cut it, and give himself room to breathe. But even the subtlest of movements would give way to an accusation of weakness, so he stood where he was, his piercing gaze staring into his father’s one eye, waiting for him to speak. Odin tapped his fingers on the arm of his throne, mulling over the very thinly veiled threat. By the time the king was opening his mouth to speak, Loki felt ready to scream.

“Very well,” he finally conceded. “But your success will be according to my terms. There are three things a good king needs. The first is the respect of those he rules. The second, fear and awe of his enemies and allies alike.”

Loki’s eyes flitted down for the briefest of seconds before looking up with renewed confidence. “And the last?”

“Worthiness,” Odin continued, standing up and walking down the steps, “to have the crown on his head.”

More eagerly than he would have liked, Loki nodded. He was certainly clever enough to figure out a way to prove he had each of those. It seemed that his silver tongue had not failed him today. But before he could say he accepted the terms, Odin had one last stipulation to add.

“You may not set foot out of the kingdom. Everything must run smoothly while you are here. Is this understood?”

“Yes, father, it is. And you will not interfere with my reign,” Loki replied, distrusting something about the look in the old man’s eye. “So then, do we have a deal?”

He considered for a moment more. “Yes, we do. From the moment I leave tomorrow until the second I return, you will be acting king of Asgard.”

“Thank you, father. You will not regret this,” Loki said, bowing again before leaving.

Whether he left before his father could say anything or if he never planned to at all, Loki wasn’t sure. It hardly mattered anymore. Now, his future was nearly set, for certainly he was already admired to some degree, right? Or even if he wasn’t, he’d been preparing for this day his whole life, studying his father. He knew how to be king, and he’d be damned if he let anything ruin this opportunity.

After a fitful night of sleep, Loki saw his family and their entourage off at the Bifröst. True, he was more than eager for them to leave already, but he did his best to mask it. After all, his eagerness may be mistaken for arrogance, and that was no way to start his reign.

“Alright, brother. I bid thee well,” Thor said, clapping him on the back. As far as Loki was aware, neither he nor anyone else knew of the specifics of the bet that had been made, save for his mother and Heimdall, who had been tasked with keeping an eye on him. “Do not get too comfortable on the throne, though.”

“Good luck, my son. I have every confidence in you,” Frigga said, cupping his cheeks.

Loki looked to Odin for him to speak some final words of parting. When he didn’t, Loki said, “Thank you, brother, mother. I wish you all safe travels and shall be awaiting your return.”

He waited until they disappeared into the rainbow lights and, with a nod in Heimdall’s direction, headed back towards the palace. The throne. Almost reverently, he circled it once before sitting down. Feeling perfectly pleased with himself, Loki didn’t even notice the bright flash of light in the distance. Nor what came with it.

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cynettic · 4 years ago

Text

♡ lex talionis

summary - Inazuma was a sanctuary with vast terrain that opened itself up to you and your brother, but it was not your home. Home was with your family, and you could only look up to the one who’d torn you away from them. An eye for an eye, you’d make sure the Raiden Shogun got what she deserved.

pairing - f!reader x genshin impact

warnings - swearing, major character death in later chapters, violence/blood

a/n - i’ve been working on this one for a while, i’ve finished all the baseline chapters (8) might continue afterwards with it

taglist - @irethepotato

“Nii-chan!”

Silken clouds of white drifted along the skies of Inazuma, trees nodding along with the breeze that swept by. Morning was brought along by the gentle coax of mother nature, leaves matting gravelled tiles and dirt roads.

“Y/n.”

Your brother always smelt of firewood and the briefest hint of cinnamon. His arms wrapped around you tightly whenever he came home, face nuzzling in the crook of your neck. His comfort, he’d once said. You were the one he came back to.

“Why do you leave in the first place?”

Light grey hair tickled your face when you set your chin atop his head, your smile growing wider when he led you along the streets of Inazuma City. It was always like this, he would return home, scratches on his red jacket and ones you always promised to patch up. After all, even when he gingerly set you up on his shoulders, lighthearted laughter filled your ears when he recounted his experiences and encounters on his ventures…

He still left.

No matter how tightly he held you when he returned, the promises he’d whisper and comforting words he spoke were useless when he departed. Even when you sobbed into the ground, tears continuing to fall long after his leave, he wouldn't budge. Something about the wind, he’d once said. The ocean sang to him, mountains just begging to be travelled.

I beg for you too. I beg you to stay.

Crying made no difference, your brother loved you, dearly. But he loved exploring more, stepping into new terrain and staring down opponents. Feeling adrenaline pump through his body, creating new memories, losing himself somewhere he didn't know, finding his way back.

There was a reason he didn't leave Inazuma.

He’d ventured to every corner of the land, all of the islands head to toe. Even the most dangerous of places, where adventurers paused and ronin refused. Returning to tell you all his secrets, Inazuma’s secrets. You were what kept him tied to all these islands, a curse that had him rooted, watching ships depart with curious eyes. Jealousy.

He loved you, but he loathed you all the same.

You were his responsibility, parents disappearing on you both at just the right moment. He had to raise you, hold you through the steps of your life where he should've had someone's hand to hold. Growing up just to be there for you, kisses to your forehead when you did well, reprimanding when you did badly. He was a perfect caretaker, but in his mission to help you grow up, he’d lost a part of himself too.

He searched all of Inazuma for it.

He hasn't found it yet.

That's why you finally accepted when he departed, waving to his disappearing figure until it was just you and the city of Inazuma. You were not alone of course, and your brother had spent years teaching you how to get around. You were sure you’d survive even in the depths of Inazuma’s electro barriers, knowing the secret to electrogana and just how long they lasted.

In terms of mora, you never had any issues either. Your brother brought along plenty with the treasure he found, and you always helped around the city with commissions or whatever needed to be done just for entertainment. Of course without any parental supervision, you’d escape to the meadows where ronin sat near small streams. But you were young, allowing yourself to poke at them for fun and make a game of running away.

There were times where you didn't get away.

Not quickly enough at least, but you’d learned how to take a beating long ago. Fists curled around your face as you dodged attack after attack. Most of them hit at the beginning, and they were too fast and strong to be any equal partner, but you took pride in the small fact that it was still practice.

“I’m gonna grow up to be just as strong as you Nii-chan!!”

Gently tugging stray locks of hair away from your face, your brother settled with kneeling down to your height, smiling aloof as he said. “I have no doubt you will, you’ll let me teach you a few moves won't you?”

It always ended up with you gesturing to his sword, pouting when he shook his head. He believed you to be quick on your feet, a truth when you dodged attacks from the ronin and jumped along the rocks in the stream. Able to pull yourself up on Inazuman rooftops and climb viscous looking cliffs along the sides of the cities, your brother persisted with you.

“Hand to hand combat, you don't need to learn how to use a sword.”

But you thought differently, running away from him when he attempted to pull you away for lessons. Sprinting along tiled streets and hopping from building roof to roof. No matter how much your brother travelled, he could never compare to your speed, flexibility allowing you to spin around and climb the impossible.

“Dear me… if only you listened to me Y/n. I could make you a formidable opponent.”

“Teach me how to use your sword!!”

“No way.”

You’d eventually get hold of a sword from the ronin, but with no one willing to teach you and barely having the strength to swing it around, it was impossible. It was inevitable that you were unsure how to even get started with it, and you were stuck to doing the usual, running missions and growing closer to the townsfolk.

Until he came.

“Tomo, who’s this?”

Your brother always came back on his adventures alone, exhausted and arms only for you. It was a shock when he came along with a hand around another boy's shoulder, grin wider as he presented you to his companion.

His friend had white hair, tied back in a small ponytail and blotchy red on one side of his bangs. His eyes were unusually wide, taking in every sight he could. It reminded you of your brother when he was younger, curiosity straying him further and further away from you. His clothing was comfortable and baggy on his figure, an adorable smile adorning his face when he turned to face you. He was younger than your brother no doubt, close to your age perhaps…?

“Y/n, meet Kazuha.”

#genshin impact #genshin impact hc #genshin impact headcanons #genshin impact oneshots #genshin impact fanfiction #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact tomo #genshin impact kazuha #genshin impact thoma #genshin impact ayaka #genshin impact yoimiya #kazuha x reader #cynshealthysfw

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anika-ann · 5 years ago

Text

Attached - Pt.3

Words of Filth

Type: (mini)-series, college AU, professor AU (technically)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader Word count: 4200

Summary: Modern-college-professor AU… aka the wrong attachment AU ;)

The words that started it all. Your dirty fantasy that was never supposed to see the light of day, let alone be read by Professor Barnes or Rogers. Why couldn’t you at least go with less obvious professor name?

Warnings: nsfw, 18+, smut and a bit of filth, hints of dom/sub, oral (male receiving), cock warming, unprotected sex, use of the term ‘babygirl’, praise kink, professor kink (kinda?), brief mention of cumplay, potential age gap (? age not specified; just assumed), swearing (always)

A/N: Special thanks to @kayteewritessteve who read over this chapter and convinced me that it’s okay to post it despite my numerous doubts. She was being her amazing self about it, naturally, and I lowkey fell in

A/N.2: Miss Clark is ‘reader’s’ alter ego in the story she wrote

Story masterlist

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You knew that what you were about to do was risky – but hell, you needed to try. Chances were that it wouldn’t even go that far; Professor Roberts was a respected scholar and just because he was the object of your dirty fantasies, it didn’t mean he would treat your request that way. Though the lingering gazes exchanged in the class told you that it might be exactly the case.

He invited you in instantly after you knocked, smiling slightly from behind his desk as he welcomed you and beckoned you to take a seat, scribbling some note on the paper he had been reading through before you entered.

With your teeth worrying over your red-painted lips, you hesitantly obeyed, dropping your backpack by the chair, adjusting your black pencil skirt.

Professor Roberts pouted slightly, pink lips peeking through his absolutely glorious beard and you decided to use the opportunity of his attention being elsewhere to feast your eyes on him. On his sharp jawline softened by the neatly trimmed beard, on his long eyelashes framing his gorgeous blues, on his dark blonde hair combed to side giving him an aura of a serious man, a gentleman from another time.

Your gaze travelled down his neck and arm – he was wearing one of the cardigans you loved on him just making the image in front of you downright panties-dropping –, stopping at the hand he was holding his pen with, still writing whatever complicated thought had been in his head. Seeing his long fingers, you had to close your eyes, your mind instantly filled with unholy images of where these fingers could go.

You had walked in ready to do whatever was necessary to earn your missing credit, but the truth was that should he ask a particular kind of favour, you’d feel blessed and very happy to oblige. Professor Roberts, to put it simply, was sex on legs – long legs emphasized by the dress pants with slightly higher waist he had a habit of wearing – and you would object to very few of things he might suggest.

“Now, Miss Clark, I understand we had some trouble with your final test. It did not paint you in the best light,” he started finally and you snapped your eyes open, trying your best to ignore the surge of desire when your name rolled off of his tongue so easily as if he was saying it every day… whispering it to your ear, groaning it as he-

“Y-yes, Professor. My nerves, unfortunately, got better of me,” you explained softly, looking into his eyes, feeling your stomach twist. God, his eyes.

“Interesting. From what I saw during my classes, you never seemed to be the studying type in the first place… did you study for the test at all? Honestly, please.”

You gulped, unable to hold his gaze. You shook your head and he sighed, leaning his elbows on the desk.

“That is that I was afraid of. Miss Clark, when you do pay attention in my class, you even display a great capacity for seeing matters in a different light, from unusual angles, posing questions that make me wonder too. That is a very precious quality to possess,” he complimented you unexpectedly, and the surprise of it caused your eyes to meet his, intense blue burning – and for the first time, you discovered a drop of green in them, making your heart nearly stop.

Who gave him the damn right to be so hot and be a professor? How was one supposed to focus in the class in the first place with this specimen standing at the front?

You gulped, realizing you should probably express gratitude.

“Thank you, Professor.”

Professor Roberts nodded contentedly that his message was received.

“However, it is not enough.”

“Is there any chance at all that I might earn the credit?” you asked, defeatedly at first sight, slightly suggestively if he dared to truly look.

His back straightened a bit, his already square shoulders growing in size.

“There might be. I don’t usually give second chances, but for you, I might make an exception,” he hummed thoughtfully. “But I truly need to see some effort on your part, Miss Clark. Are you willing to put effort into your work?”

You licked your lips, the fact that his eyes followed the movement before swiftly returning to meet your gaze not escaping your notice.

There was hope after all.

Slowly rising to your feet, feeling almost shocking slickness between your legs at the prospect of pleasing him in any way he asked, you stood up by his desk, determined.

“I am willing to work very hard, Professor Roberts,” you declared, swallowing your jitters and holding his gaze.

A sweet smile spread on his lips, a plush temptation framed by his well-kept facial hair.

“I am pleased to hear that. How do you suggest you show me your genuine endeavour to earn your credit?”

This time without hesitation, you walked around the table, not averting his gaze once. He spun in the chair so his whole body faced you, his head tilted to side, a smile still playing in the corner of his lips. His eyes grew considerably darker and it only added to the heat in your abdomen. He wanted you too.

You unbuttoned the top of your blouse just to show a bit more cleavage than was considered polite.

“Like you said. I am willing to put a lot of effort into… my work.”

Without any verbal response on his part, he moved the chair a bit backwards and spun back to the table again, leaving just enough space for you to fit there.

“I am glad we have an understanding. Unfortunately, I need to grade these papers. I believe we will have to be multitasking.”

You nodded, falling to your knees and moving to fit between the desk and him, right between his legs. You would be ashamed for the saliva already pooling in your mouth, but he was such a fine man that you couldn’t even try to deny that you in fact wanted to do this.

Silently undoing the buckle on his leather belt – and Christ, was the item giving you ideas – you unzipped his pants and slid them a bit lower with his help.

He shifted in the chair when you looked up at him, one of your hands reaching out and palming his growing erection. You shuddered at the sensation of his warmth on your skin and you knew he noticed. Something flashed in his eyes, but he turned his attention to the papers on his desk, seemingly unbothered by your actions.

He grew perfectly hard in your hand quickly and you freed him from his boxers, revelling at the sight of his erect cock as much as feeling slight worry about being able to handle such a challenge. You had felt him in your hand obviously, but seeing him fully ready, quite big and thick and majestic dare to say, you couldn’t but gulp, already feeling your throat burning.

Smearing the precum forming at the tip, you stroked him several times before taking an inch between your lips.

For a briefest moment, it dawned to you that perhaps you should feel dirty for doing this – but you didn’t. All you felt was need and desire – and if the feeling was mutual, then no matter the power imbalance in play, you couldn’t make yourself feel bad about it.

Not when you swirled your tongue around the head of his cock, tasting him, and one of his hands slipped into your hair, encouraging you with a sigh. You sucked lightly before moving on, swallowing more of him and using your hands – one you laid on his thigh for the time being, the other wrapping around his neglected member.

You sucked again and bobbed your head, earning a hiss and a gentle pull on your hair. Not ceasing your movements, you raised your gaze to peek at his face; his jaw clenched, his eyes met yours and you felt him twitch in your mouth, the grip on your hair tightening.

“You look so pretty like that, with my cock in your mouth,” he praised, sending a fresh wave of warmth to your underwear, his appreciation causing your stomach to clench pleasantly. Encouraged, you took more of him and hollowed your cheeks. “Ah, shit- this feels-- you’re doing so good-“

Your hand nearly slipped and went straight to your underwear when he cursed – the nice collected professor falling apart under your hands and mouth, under your spell, that was a turn-on you hadn’t expected. The prove of your power over him was overwhelming as you tasted more of his precum on your tongue, eagerly licking at his shaft, exploring the weight of him, causing his hips to jerk forward.

“Ah, sweetheart-“ he groaned, losing all pretence that he was doing anything but relishing the heat and slickness of your mouth, his irises blown wide as he cupped your jaw with his other hand. You shuddered at both the movement and the pet name sounding so sweet and breathy on his lips.

You hollowed your cheeks again, but to your surprise, he used the grip on you to pull out with a wet pop, drops of drool staining his black pants. Before you could swallow both your saliva and disappointment and ask what you had done wrong, he lifted your chin up, the pad of his thumb brushing your swelled lower lip and the smeared lipstick on it.

Your hurt at his interruption, baffling as he had appeared to be enjoying himself, must have shown on your face, because for a second, something kind appeared in his eyes.

“You were doing great, babygirl, but this isn’t going to work,” he explained gently and his free hand slipped under your arm, hauling you up. “In fact, you were too good, too distracting.”

Reassured and yet confused, you followed his direction and scrambled to your feet. God, that pet name. Babygirl, spoken so softly with an edge of a raspy desire… your panties had been sufficiently ruined already and now... you were sure you must have been dripping down your thighs at this point.

As if he could hear your thoughts, his gaze fell under the cut of your skirt and he frowned, his fingers moving to the redness of your knees.

“And look at that, hurting your knees like that,” he lamented, his gaze trailing up higher along with his hand, solid warmth moving up your inner thigh under your pencil skirt. His eyes flickered up to yours, a wicked smile that caused your heart to beat its way out of your chest painting his lips. “Can’t have you hurting like this, babygirl, less so when you’re wearing a skirt.”

His thumb swept at the sensitive skin of the junction of your thigh and sex and then disappeared altogether, allowing you to release the breath you didn’t realize you had been holding. He tugged at your skirt then, his eyes sparkling.

“Off with this. Come sit with me.”

Sit with- oh. OH.

Your thighs clenched at the premise, your walls quivering when you imagined the fulness he would offer.

He raised an expectant eyebrow, challenging even, and you swiftly moved your fingers to undo the zipper on the back of your skirt, allowing the black material pool at your feet. Roberts spared your lower half an appreciative glance, his cock still standing at attention as you raised your leg to try and balance yourself on his chair.

He watched you hungrily through half-lidded eyes, his tongue darting to wet his pink lips, no doubt so soft in contrast to his rough beard. God, what you wouldn’t give to feel that beard and tongue between your thighs… but his thigh would do too, god, you’d ride it into sunset… or better yet, his cock.

“That’s it, get up here, make yourself comfortable,” he instructed you, placing his wide palms on the back of your thighs as you positioned yourself above him, probably looking awkward as you realized you should have discard your underwear as well.

One of his fingers traced your soaked panties, teasing your entrance, causing your breath to hitch, before a satisfied smile appeared on his lips, pushing the useless material aside.

“So pretty and ready for me, sweetheart,” he praised you again in husky voice, guiding you down to sit on his cock and you couldn’t stop the needy mewling sound erupting from your throat when the head of his thick cock nudged at your weeping cunt, stretching you beyond imaginable.

You could feel his heated gaze on you, revelling at how good he made you feel, how he made you crave his cock. A sigh escaped his parted lips as you descended, feeling every inch of him you took deep within your core, so good, but a little too much, the stretch leaving a considerable burn behind.

“Careful now, don’t hurt yourself, babygirl…. God, you’re so tight-- so wet and warm for me, what a good girl,” he hummed, his hands kneading your ass when you finally seated yourself, so full you could cry, and you whimpered at the words falling from his lips, sparking something inside you which you forgot you lived for. You wanted to be such a good girl for him, just to hear him say it. “Comfortable? Because I need you to sit still until I finish these… can’t have you distracting me wiggling around, sweetheart...”

You gulped, shifting just once to adjust to his length and thickness, causing both of you to moan in pleasure.

“I said sit still, babygirl, I have work to finish,” he rasped into your ear, grazing your earlobe with his teeth and your core pulsated at the sensation, sending a shiver down your spine.

You were sitting on top of the most attractive man you ever met, his cock buried inside you and you were supposed to not to move? This was fucking torture.

It was like placing your favourite dessert in front of you, close enough for you to smell it, almost taste it on your tongue, but forbidding you to dig in. Worst even.

“Yes, Professor Rogers,” you whispered, feeling his smile against your neck and then the warmth of his breath disappeared from your skin and he indeed went to grade the damn papers.

Your eyes fluttered shut and you put all of your willpower into not moving a muscle, breathing through the sweet torturous sensation. Your mind wandered, images of him fucking you once he finished his stupid work and you felt yourself clench around him on occasion, earning a gruff warning each time.

You had no clue how much time had passed, but it felt like forever before he put his pen down, moving his hands to the back of your thighs, his lips catching the corner of your mouth, his beard scratching your skin pleasantly. You chased after his mouth on instinct and he chuckled, squeezing your flesh, causing your eyes to snap open.

His pupils were blown impossibly wide, only leaving a thin ring of blue for you to see. You could have drowned in it anyway.

“What a good girl you were, being almost still for me…” he hummed, sounding pleased, the praise going straight to your pussy, his hips snapping up to thrust deeper inside you, making you wince in pain and mewl in pleasure. “Let’s move this somewhere else.”

Before you even had a chance to react, he hauled you up in his arms and you instinctively grabbed at his shoulders, wrapping your legs around his waist, the display of strength making you dizzy with desire, the sensation of his flexed muscles under your palms only feeding the flame in your core.

You would let him do anything to you at that moment. Fuck you against a wall, hold you down, tie you up, anything. Just so he let you come because you were this close to reaching the point of insanity. The anticipation was killing you.

He walked you to the couch; it was a miracle that your foot hooked in his pants, preventing him from stepping on the fabric and sending you both to the ground. If that was a miracle though, then the head of his cock hitting just the right spot, as he seated you both on the much more comfortable and stable couch, was divine.

“Oh my God-“ you breathed out, your head falling back and his hand moved to your throat, fingers wrapping around it indulgingly in almost a caress, a stark contrast to the rough thrust of his hips up which hit that spot again.

“So fucking pretty,” he mumbled and then his mouth was on yours, dirty kiss with tongues tangling together, your imagination supplying you with how it would feel in your pussy and you whined into his mouth, nails scratching at his biceps over the cardigan, his own gripping your ass and nape. He withdrew abruptly, leaving you breathless and needing more. “Now show me some real work, babygirl. Ride my cock, take what you need.”

The words struck you like a lightning in your veins, your walls quivering at his request alone. Without needing to be told twice, you gripped his shoulders to brace yourself and begun to fuck yourself on that magnificent cock of his, finding the exact spot you craved to have stimulated.

You could feel him watching you with a grin, broken at the edges with his own pleasure as you rode him, his hands kneading your ass, your breaths over the material of your blouse and bra, clumsy fingers undoing the buttons and slipping it from your shoulders, unclasping the hooks of the last fabric in his way.

“God, such a good girl, so needy, so desperate for my cock- fuck,” he groaned when you undulated your hips in a new way, his fingers suddenly digging into your flesh, your muscles cramping from the strain, but you couldn’t stop, not when you were so close, you had to-- you needed to- “Come for me pretty girl, come on-“

When his fingers moved to dance over your clit, you lost it. You cried out as you felt apart, heat surging through your body, your cunt clenching around his length, sending fresh waves of pleasure into your system. The cramps in your thighs were long forgotten as you rode it out, his finger never ceasing its motions, playing with your clit and sanity.

And then his hand was gone, tearing your panties loose, grabbing you by your hips and thrusting forward, dragging his cock along your oversensitive walls. You winced, gasping at the almost painful sensation. Instinctively, you straightened your elbows, trying to get away, but his hold on you only grew firmer, guiding you to meet his movements.

You felt something in your abdomen twist, a strange sensation, too intense yet pleasant, your arms going limp, uncertain if you wanted to resist it or ask for more. You struggled to remember your own name as he hit a new spot inside you, causing you to see stars, your knees to wobble, your breath to stuck in your lungs.

Too much, this was too much-

“Prof-professor-“ you choked out, once again attempting to get away from the overwhelming knot in your abdomen and his dark eyes met yours, glassy and determined, a wicked greedy glint in them. You realized what he wanted, but you- “I’ve never-- I-I can’t-“

“Oh you can, sweetheart, I know you can,” he opposed in hoarse voice, his cock swelling in you, a breathy sound escaping your mouth at the feeling of insane fulness. His gaze fell on your breasts, bouncing with each snap of his hips and then it moved lower, your own unable to resist and take a peek. You both watched his cock driving into you, glistening with your juices, some running down your thighs.

“Ah, shit, you feel so- look at that, taking my cock so well-“ he muttered, dazzled, and you felt yourself clench around him, causing him to throw his head back. “So wet, squeezing me so tight. You gonna come again? Make a mess for me like the good girl you are?”

You whined, feeling yourself on the verge of something unknown and amazing as his movements got sloppy, his rhythm broken, the wet sound and skin slapping skin filling your ears like cotton, making you deaf to the world around you.

“Touch yourself,” he commanded and you shook your head automatically, just knowing you couldn’t take anything more than this. “Want you to squirt for me, babygirl. Touch that pretty clit for me, right now.”

He worked you like an instrument, one he knew how to play better than yourself. You obeyed with a deep inhale and felt yourself explode with only few circling motions of your finger, vision turning white with searing pleasure, a cry ripped from your throat, core clenching in a steely grip around his length. You barely felt his cum coating your inner walls, too busy fighting for air, for a grasp on any semblance of reality in this heaven and hell aligned.

Your whole body was floating, the pressure in your core slowly easing as you breathed, a distant sensation of fingers threading through your hair.

When your eyes fluttered open, you felt a stray tear running down your cheek, your gaze meeting with an adoring and very much self-satisfied pair of green-blue eyes.

“Told you you could do it,” he whispered, catching the drop of salt water on your skin, his thumb brushing your lips, automatically falling open to take it in.

A grin spread on his lips at that and he pulled out, the warm wetness running down your thighs instantly catching your attention and making you shiver in aftershocks. You could already feel the soreness that would follow you for days, but it was nothing in comparison to the sensation of his fingers tracing your mixed juices on your skin, almost as if painting a picture, a filthy piece of art.

“How long is that skirt of yours, babygirl?” he ruminated, rendering you speechless as his finger left a wet trail down your thigh, stopping just where you knew the hem of your skirt would be. “How far can I go without people noticing what you’ve been you up to, hm?”

Christ, you couldn’t breathe in properly, almost shocked at the fresh wave of desire that surged through you. You went nearly blind with pleasure just minutes ago and your pussy was so fucked out you wouldn’t be able to walk straight, but God, would you let him ravish you all over again. Who knew that Professor Roberts was made of pure filth?

As if wanting to contradict the impression he left – or confirm it – he framed your face with his palms and took your mouth with his in a kiss you felt in your very soul, dirty, but full of unspoken words you could wonder about once your mind cleared enough to form actual thoughts.

He slowly urged you to stand up then, knees wobbly, skin sticky with sweat and proves of pleasure, hair sticking to the back of your neck and your forehead from your efforts. The useless piece of fabric – not in shreds but beyond repair – slid down your legs and you shakily walked to where you discarded your skirt, barely able to slip in on. Your bra was next, then your blouse. Your panties dangled from his finger before landing on his desk, a clear sign that you wouldn’t be wearing them anymore.

Professor Roberts already stood up and made himself presentable, even with a small patch of dampness on his dress pants and a barely-there flush to his face; you could only imagine what a sight you made, sweaty, your make-up running. Grinning at you, he handed you a wet wipe.

You automatically went to bend over to clean the mess you both made, but a hand on your wrist stopped you.

“That’s for your make-up, sweetheart,” he informed you gently, a twinkle in his eye, and you could feel heat rising to your cheeks, your core clenching around nothing once more.

Oh, he’s serious about that. He really wanted you to walk back to your apartment with cum running down your thighs. Well then.

“Of-of course. I’m sorry, Professor,” you stuttered a sweet apology, doing some guesswork as you fixed your face best as you could without a mirror. He gave you a gracious smile, handing you your backpack, tugging a loose strand of your damp hair behind your ear, almost tenderly. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. However, your work isn’t entirely done.” Your heart stopped. What did that mean? “We need to make sure you will start working more consistently. How about you come here next week at the same time?”

A relieved smile found its way to your face, the prospect of this repeating sending a surge of arousal through your veins. You nodded and headed for the door – an unlocked door, you realized for the first time, your heart jumping when you imagined the possible consequences of your sloppiness.

Was it fear of excitement you felt? You couldn’t even tell anymore.

“And Miss Clark?” Professor Roberts called out lowly, causing you to stop in your tracks and look at him. He beckoned to the piece of fabric on his desk. “I don’t want anything in my way next time. We have an understanding, sweetheart?”

“Yes, Professor Roberts.”

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Part 4

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This was way WAY out of my area of expertise and I had no clue what I was doing. So I just hope liked it at least a bit. It got a bit filthy but there was still a tiny piece of sweetness maybe, because it’s me? I don’t even know anymore.

Feedback appreciated, but gosh, please don’t be too harsh, my soul is fragile and condemned to go to hell after writing this. Good news is, I might meet Professor Barnes there, so it’s not entirely bad.

Thank you for reading!

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If anyone wants on the taglist or out, lemme know via DM or an ask :)

Tags:

@scentedsongrebel @patzammit @donutloverxo @annathesillyfriend @orions-nebula @iheartsebastianstan @wxstedhexrt @kayteewritessteve, @pies-writes-and-more, @jessyballet, @chris-evans-indian-fanfic, @marvel-madness, @rainbowkisses31, @marvelous-capsicle, @irepostthingsiwanttoseelater, @thisartemisnevermisses

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johaerys-writes · 4 years ago

Text

Where Blood Roses Bloom

Fandom: Castlevania Pairing: Alucard/Trevor Belmont/Sypha Belnades

Summary:

After Trevor gets grievously injured by a night creature, he and Sypha return to Dracula's castle to seek Alucard's help. The man they find there, however, is but a shadow of the friend they left behind.

Meanwhile, in far Styria, Hector does his best to survive in the vampires' court, a lamb amidst wolves. Little do the wolves know, the lamb has fangs of its own.

Chapter 2: Friends is up! Alucard POV, and a fair bit of introspection as he tries to come to terms with Sypha and Trevor returning after being gone for so long, and what that could mean for their (once) friendship.

Read here or on AO3! Read Chapter 1

Adrian’s footsteps ring hollowly along the empty corridor. He walks without thinking, with swift and purposeful strides that take him as far away from the room where Belmont is lying already half dead, and Sypha is wringing her hands in worry.

There is a stream of light pouring in from one of the windows along the dark hallway. Motes of dust bob and dance, shimmering iridescent in the early morning sun. Adrian walks towards it, presses his palm to the smooth, cold stone of the windowsill. His hand, he notices absently, is shaking.

What on earth just happened? What is he doing? What was he thinking, opening that damned door?

After that night —that dark mark in the series of dark marks that seem to be making up his life now— he swore he would not open that door for anyone ever again, unless it was to end them, swiftly and decisively. While sharpening the stakes that would hold Sumi and Taka’s lifeless bodies, he swore that those two would be the last to ever cross the threshold of this God-forsaken place alive. That he would remain in eternal solitude, feared and reviled, a prisoner in his own home, but at least he would be left in peace.

Barely two weeks later, and not only has he let Sypha and Belmont in, he practically carried them in himself.

Sypha’s frantic banging on the door caught him unawares. He never intended to open, not even when he realised it was them, but her desperate pleas called to him in a visceral, instinctual way. When he saw her red, tired eyes, her haggard appearance; when his eyes fell on Belmont —a miserable pile of blood-stained clothes and hair matted with feverish sweat, bleeding on his doorstep — his mind froze for a moment. There were no thoughts, not really, just shock, worry, and that deep, gut-twisting fear: please don't let him die, not him, not him, too.

And all this for Belmont. Trevor fucking Belmont, who can’t go two seconds without insulting and pushing and prodding him, even when he’s one foot in the grave already.

“Mad,” Adrian whispers under his breath. He had his doubts before, but now he is sure: he is utterly, undeniably mad. He has finally lost whatever is left of his mind.

He shakes his head as he pushes himself upright. For a moment, he wonders what in the seven Hells he’s supposed to do with them, with the mess that has been thrust in his hands. Belmont’s condition is worse than he thought. The wound is deep and ugly and festering, and unlike anything he’s seen before. It’s a miracle how the man is still on his feet; if he weren’t built like a tree Adrian is sure he would have been dead long before.

His feet take him straight to the upper floors, where he had been before Sypha and Belmont showed up. The large, dusty room with the tall floor-to-ceiling windows that his mother once used as her study is the only place he seems to be able to find any sort of peace these days. He has taken to sorting through her old medical journals; a long, painstaking process, but oddly comforting. There are still piles upon piles of leather bound books, notebooks and scrolls that she never took with her to that small cottage she had taken to living in and treating the peasants from the nearby villages during the last few years of her life. Adrian remembers thinking of taking them to her even then, mere months before she was taken, but he never did. Now he’s almost relieved, in a way, that he never did; at least he still has something of hers that the humans -those vultures- never managed to burn. As poor a consolation as that may be.

He walks to the tall cabinet made of elegantly carved dark wood that stands at the far end of the room. It is where his mother kept most of the ingredients for the medicine she used to make. It takes him a moment to find what he needs: dried wormwood and red dead nettle to alleviate pain and slow the course of infection, wild radish powder for the fever, a strange-looking mushroom that, when pounded into a paste, can stop the progression of even advanced gangrene, or so his mother told him once. Adrian takes them all to the work table that hasn’t been used in years, wipes the dust off the mortar and pestle and disinfects them with alcohol, and gets to work.

There is something soothing about mechanical tasks, about using his hands, he thinks, as he grinds the ingredients into a paste. He is so used to drifting aimlessly through the cold, dark corridors, to watching the days pass in a slow, never-ending stream, that moving with such purpose and urgency now is a welcome change, even if the cause for it is anything but.

He has something to do. The almost pleasant buzz of excitement in his stomach while he waits for the brew to boil over the old stove is a surprise.

“You’re back!” Sypha says, hardly a second before he has finished knocking on their door. The dark circles under her eyes still betray her weariness, but her smile is wide and relieved when she looks up at him. The fire that’s crackling in the hearth fills the room with pleasant warmth, and Sypha’s cheeks are flushed and rosy.

Adrian opens his mouth to respond, when a strained groan from the bed cuts him short. “Was about bloody time.”

Belmont is lying on his back, exactly where Adrian left him. He looks paler than death, his cheeks gaunt and sunken, the pillow and sheets drenched in his sweat already, yet he still manages a small, smug smile when he elicits an icy frown from him. “Thought you might have lost your way.”

“Fortunately, not all of us possess your embarrassing navigation skills, Belmont,” Adrian replies smoothly as he makes his way to the bed.

Belmont laughs hoarsely, “Excuse me? I have embarrassing navigation skills?”

“Yes. How would you call getting lost in an abandoned village of approximately ten houses, and ending up ankle deep in pig shit? That wasn’t too long ago now, was it?”

The other man groans and rolls his eyes. “Christ, it was one time. And I didn’t get lost, I was looking for booze.”

Adrian lifts a brow. “In a pig pen. Really. Even for you, that's a first.”

“What fault is it of mine that the storage room was right next to the pen? And part of the wall had collapsed, as you may remember, so I couldn’t get there any other way.” Belmont narrows his blood-shot eyes. “I don’t remember you complaining any when you drank half the wine that night. After scoffing down most of that wheel of cheese I managed to bring back, of course.”

Leaning against the bedpost, Sypha lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Leave it to you two to start bickering about something that happened months ago, and everyone else has forgotten but you.” She shakes her head, but Adrian can see the small, fond smile that tugs at the corner of her lips. It startles him how much he has missed seeing it. The warmth that spreads through him at the sight startles him even more.

It feels odd to be around them. It is odd, certainly, how easy it is to slip back into that familiar rhythm, without even thinking about it. The paradox isn’t lost on him. There was a time, however brief, that he had thought of those people as friends. Or something very close to that, anyway.

What were they now? Could he afford to trust them, like he once had? Could he trust anyone?

He straightens, his amusement dying abruptly. They are both staring at him curiously, unnerved by his sudden silence. The grey light of morning that pours in through the windows highlights the sickly pallor of Belmont’s countenance, casts sharp shadows on the concerned frown that furrows Sypha’s brow.

Adrian hands Belmont the vial, then takes a step back. “Drink it now,” he says flatly, “while it’s warm. It won't be much use, after.” That should stop the man from talking for a while, he hopes. It does something strange to him, when Belmont talks. It makes him feel —almost— human.

Belmont takes the vial he is offered without a word. He tips it over his lips with trembling fingers, winces as he swallows. The medicine is quick to work. His features swiftly relax and he sinks back into the pillow.

“Ah, that’s better,” he sighs. “Sweet, blessed oblivion.” He is fast asleep in seconds.

A tense, uncomfortable silence spreads between Sypha and Adrian after Belmont is asleep. He doesn’t really know what to say to her. He’s not sure whether he wants to say anything at all. Her bright blue eyes on him make him uneasy. They always have, a little. It is like they can see right through him.

“The wound should be cleaned and dressed again,” he says matter-of-factly. “As often as possible. The less chance of infection there is, the better. I’ll bring some fresh water and bandages, you get him out of the rest of his clothes. Can you do that?”

Sypha nods sharply, and pushes her sleeves back.

By the time Adrian returns, she has managed to remove most of Belmont’s travel stained clothes without disturbing his injury. They only exchange the briefest of words as Adrian cleans the wound and applies the antiseptic he brought, then they both dress him in clean clothes. The shirt is one of Adrian’s own, and it is a touch too snug around the shoulders and Belmont's thick arms, but anything other than what he was wearing is a significant improvement.

As he stands back to let Sypha do the rest of the work, he notices the certainty and familiarity with which she handles Belmont. It hasn’t been lost on Adrian that their relationship seems to have changed and grown since they both left the castle. When she pushes a stray lock of hair behind Belmont’s ear, and gently presses a cool, damp cloth on his fevered brow, it leaves Adrian with no doubt.

They are together.

The realisation shouldn’t have made his heart tighten like this. An ugly feeling, something akin to jealousy, something that is eerily close to despair, rises in his chest. Sypha and Belmont are together. He wonders how he didn’t notice straight away. Of course he knew upon first seeing them that, during the months they’ve been away, travelling together, their bond has grown stronger than it was before they left. It was only a natural consequence of their way of life. But this…

He stares without meaning to. He watches as Sypha tends to Belmont, as she wipes the grime and sweat away from his face with so much tenderness, and he knows that she not only cares for him: she loves him. The realisation drives those twisted feelings deeper in his heart, when he wants nothing to do with them. Before he knows it, he’s already trying to imagine what it must feel like, to have someone care about him, so much, so deeply. He imagines what it must feel like, to be with something like this, to sleep next to them every night. He pictures Belmont’s arms coming around her, pulling her against his broad chest; he pictures him smiling at her, kissing her full, rosy lips.

Adrian tries to imagine what it would be like, if it were him.

It is a quick thing, effortless. He can almost see her responding to his touch, leaning into him, resting her head on his shoulder. He imagines her laughing at his jokes, gazing at him with love and adoration, like he’s something precious, something good, and his heart aches with a sort of longing he has long thought he is incapable of feeling.

He swallows thickly and drags his gaze away. What is it to him, if Sypha and Belmont are together? Nothing. Neither of them means anything to him. As she takes her time tending to him, he only wonders idly how she has managed to stay so close to the man, let alone sleep next to him. On the best of days, Belmont smells as if he’s been dipped in stale, sour beer— among other, fouler things that Adrian doesn’t want to think about.

Certainly, the man is quite handsome in a somewhat —or incredibly— rugged sort of way. Adrian can see the appeal, if dimly. That still doesn’t change the fact that Belmont is a boor and an insufferable lout and, frankly, more stupid than mud.

“There,” Sypha says quietly, laying Belmont’s head carefully back on the pillow, as if she were cradling an injured bird in her hands. “That should do it.” She wipes her palms on a clean cloth nearby and turns to him. There is something bright gleaming in her eyes. Hope. Adrian knows that look. “Did you find a cure?”

“I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than that.” He busies himself with cleaning his hands and pushing his shirtsleeves down so that he doesn’t have to see the hope wither on her face. “I have not seen a wound like this before. I need more time to figure out what we’re dealing with.”

“Oh.” He might not be looking at her, but he still hears the wind go out of her sails just a little. “Well. The medicine you gave him buys us time. Doesn’t it?”

“Yes, a little.”

“Good.” She nods and straightens, her jaw set in determination. “What are we waiting for, then? Let’s go.” Adrian blinks at her, and a smile tugs at the corners of her lips. “Did you think I was going to leave you to look for the cure alone? I’m going to help you.”

“That… will not be necessary,” he says, a bit too quick. “I am perfectly capable of—”

“Nonsense.” She walks to the armchair by the window and picks up her cloak. It looks worn and the hems are mud-stained, but the way she throws it over her shoulders with so much grace and purpose makes her look fierce, almost… regal.

Her large, round eyes are on him now, and the intensity of her gaze leaves him breathless. She gestures towards the door.

“Shall we? We have a lot of work ahead of us.”

He finds himself complying readily, without wanting to, and it irks him.

They don’t speak much as they walk through the empty corridors. Sypha follows him quietly- her footfalls are light, probably soundless to anyone not possessing Adrian’s heightened senses. Only the whisper of the fabric of her robes around her ankles as she walks, and the sound of her breathing. It is smooth and calm, and only a little bit heavy. It is not difficult for Adrian to tell that she is keeping herself upright through sheer will and determination. It is admirable, really, and it makes him want to reach out to her, hold her hand perhaps, but he thinks better of it.

“There we are,” he says as the wide doors of his father’s library come into view. The hinges protest loudly when he pushes them open. Adrian hasn’t walked in that place in months— no, years. He has purposefully avoided it all the time he’s been there, yet he is left with little choice now. His father’s collection of books and magical scrolls is impressive; he always had a fascination with medicine. If there is information to be found on how to treat night creature wounds it has to be here, if it is not in the Belmont library. Adrian prepares himself mentally to visit both of the places he least enjoys visiting, if he has to.

He stands at the threshold for a breath, letting his gaze sweep over the expansive room. The neatly stacked shelves, the vials and the oddly shaped instruments his father used to collect are exactly as they used to be, not one of them out of place. There was once a time when Adrian would spend the majority of his spare time there, the countless books and scrolls his only company in that castle when he was growing up. It had been a comfort for him then, yet the sight of them now just makes him feel… hollow.

It was odd, how a man as transfixed with death and blood as his father went to so much trouble to keep the art of healing alive throughout the centuries. It seems like a farce now, a joke, a twisted image of reality that has no place in that world. Yet here it is before him, staring at him, laughing in his face. It is like looking at his reflection in a broken mirror.

Sypha’s shoulder brushes his own as she takes a step forward and into the room.

“This is amazing,” she says under her breath. She spins in a small circle, gazing around her in awe. “Look at all these things! There must be something here that we could use.” She walks swiftly to one of the low tables filled with the strange apparatuses his father liked to construct. She carefully pokes a brass, bell shaped instrument with the tip of her finger. “What is this?”

“A bloodletting cupping vessel, used by Ancient Roman healers. A long, long time ago.” Adrian drifts near her, coming to stand beside her. She straightens, and as she pushes a lock of hair behind her ear, he catches a hint of peach blossoms, of jasmine. Her soap, he assumes. He takes a deep breath, trying to discern the scents. Jasmine and peach blossoms, a hint of fresh hay, and is that sweet, slightly musky smell hers?

Before he knows it, he’s taken a small, perceptible step closer to her. Yes. That scent is definitely her. Jasmine and peaches, and that faint musk that is her, sweet and sharp like fresh cream—

He stops himself abruptly, drawing back as if stung. What on earth is he doing? He clears his throat discreetly and walks away. “And this is the funnel that goes with it,” he says, feigning disinterest, nodding at another apparatus nearby. “It is to collect blood for tests.”

“Tests?” Her eyes widen and focus. It unnerves him when she does that. Whenever she looks at him like this, it makes him feel like he is the only person in the world just then. “They used to run tests, back then?”

“In a way. Some of their methods are used to this day. Well. By those that don’t believe that sprinkling goat’s blood can cure a wandering eye, or that burning dried nettles can scare away the spirits that cause gout.” He clasps his hands behind his back and looks around. “So. I believe that what we’re dealing with is a sort of hex. We would need to remove that first, before attempting to heal the wound. Any idea where we should start?”

Sypha’s enthusiasm dims only slightly. “I’m… not sure. I can use healing magic, but my inventory of spells is quite small. I could devise a new spell, I suppose… but I would need the right books for that. That could take time. Or—” she glances up at him hopefully, “—we could look for a scroll. It seems your father has quite the collection. There must be something here, some sort of spell that can remove the curse. That was what I was hoping for, in fact.”

Adrian nods, humming in thought. “A scroll would be just what we need. My command of healing magic is rudimentary at best. I doubt I could even use it, but you could certainly try.” He turns around and walks to the far end of the room, towards the bookcases that line the walls. That was where his father kept his scrolls— hundreds, perhaps thousands of them, arranged in neat stacks in alphabetical order. His father was always very particular about the correct way to store books and scrolls.

“This is as good a place as any to start,” he told her, gesturing at the shelf with the scrolls written in Adamic. If there are powerful curse lifting and healing spells to be found anywhere, that is the place.

Sypha blinks, her eyes wide and sparkling as she takes in the sheer amount of carefully rolled up papyruses. She picks one up and opens it, swiftly reading the letters on the page.

“Fascinating,” she whispers under her breath. “This is… this must be at least two centuries old. This form here,” she points at the cluster of elegant shapes written in squid’s ink, “I don’t think it’s been used since the eleventh century. At least.” She walks up to him to show him. That faint, underlying scent tickles his nostrils again; he takes a discreet step to the side.

“Yes,” Adrian says, nodding absently even as his stomach twists in knots. “It is one of the more recent ones in my father’s collection.”

“Recent?” That gaze is on him again: bright, intent, clear like a midsummer’s day sky. Her lips widen in an enthusiastic smile. “There must— oh, there must be centuries worth of wisdom hidden in those shelves! There are scrolls from the ends of the world here. I wonder how your father came by it all.”

“Sacked the towns and villages that kept them. Killed and staked those who’d written them.” He shrugs as he examines elaborate glass vials on a nearby shelf. “Or so the tales go.”

Sypha stares, then looks away."Oh. Yes, I... I suppose you're right."

A cold, awkward silence falls between them. With slow, careful movements, she places the scroll back where it belongs and drifts slowly towards the far end of the bookcase.

They don’t speak much after that.

The hours fly by swiftly, one bleeding into the next in that sunless room, as Adrian and Sypha search through the scrolls. Were it not for the large, mechanical clocks on the wall, Adrian would never know whether it was day or night outside. It was probably late evening when Sypha falls asleep, with her cheek pressed to the desk. He brings her a blanket, some tea and a piece of pie he made the previous day, and continues to work. She barely stirs. Her hears her when she wakes up a few hours later; feels her gaze on his back, but says nothing.

His eyes are dangerously close to falling shut on their own as he reads through a scroll with annoyingly small letters, when an enthusiastic cry from the far side or the room jolts him bolt upright.

“I found it!” Sypha says, walking briskly up to him. She is grinning, her cheeks flushed, “I think I’ve found it. This must be it!”

Adrian blinks the weariness away from his eyes, examining the contents of the scroll that Sypha is holding under his nose. The forms are familiar, an incantation that must be hundreds of years old. It was first written by one Yin Chunhua in a province in Northern China almost three hundred years before, and was translated in Adamic by an Arabian scholar at the end of the twelfth century. Adrian takes it from her hands carefully, brushing the tip of his finger over the dried ink.

“Are you sure?” he asks, glancing up at her. “You think this will work?”

“I think so, yes. We can try.” Her face is glowing with enthusiasm, her eyes sparkling with determination. “If it doesn’t work, we try again. And again. And again. Until Trevor is healed. I know we can do it.”

Adrian holds her gaze for a long moment, a strange warmth creeping up inside him. ‘We’, she said. Them.

“Alright,” he nods. “Let’s do it. No reason to tarry.” He starts walking towards the door, when he is stopped short by Sypha’s hand on his elbow.

He turns around. Sypha’s touch is light, careful. She looks up at him, and, once again, it seems as if everything else has faded into the background, as if there's nothing else in the world but them, gazing at each other.

“Thank you, Alucard,” she says softly. Her blue eyes are earnest and crystal clear; it's like looking at the shimmering waters of a crystalline pool. “Your help means… everything. It really does."

Adrian’s breath grows shallow. The tenderness in her voice is unmistakable. It feels so strange, being directed at him. There is something stirring within him now, stronger the more he gazes at her; something that feels dangerously like hope. Could it be that she still considers him a friend? Could it be that the bond the three of them once had, however brief, is still there? Could it be that perhaps she could… love him?

The thought withers as soon as it blossoms. How foolish, how futile it all is. Sypha and Belmont left months ago to hunt monsters, they moved on with their lives, and he stayed behind, an empty shell of a man drifting endlessly through rooms and hallways that were emptier still, consumed by grief and loneliness. It was that same loneliness that Sumi and Taka had detected, and that they had pounced on, like hounds on blood. He let them. He paid for it, dearly, and so had they. And now, one kind word of thanks from the people that left him behind and he is ready to make the same mistakes all over again.

Adrian clenches his jaw as the familiar sting of shame and anger drives through him. They are not his friends anymore; he doubts they ever truly were. It was a matter of convenience from the start that they came together, and once his father was gone, so were they. What are friends, anyway?

What are friends? He’s never had any, and he never will.

Adrian takes a step back, slipping out of her gasp. His voice is flat and icy, his features schooled to an expressionless mask when he says, “This is wasting time. Let’s go.”

He turns towards the door, leaving her staring after him. The sooner Belmont’s injury is dealt with, the sooner they will both leave.

The sooner he will be on his own again, in peace.

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this chapter, I’d love to hear thoughts! :)

#castlevania #castlevania netflix #alucard #trevor belmont #sypha belnades #alucard x trevor x sypha #adrian fahrenheit tepes #trephacard #alucard/trevor belmont/sypha belnades #castlevania fanfiction #netflix castlevania #where blood roses bloom #johaerys writes

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foursideharmony · 4 years ago

Text

The Cat, the Prince, and the Doorway to Imagination (Chapter 9)

Summary: It's time to end this...

Pairings: Platonic/familial LAMP/CALM, Platonic/familial DLAMPR

Content Warnings: Swordfighting, a wee bit of blood, swearing, total exhaustion

Word Count: 2,738

Read on AO3: here

There was no obvious way to cross. Roman stopped with his toes nearly brushing the surface of the water. “JADIS!” he called across the distance. “Usurper! I, Prince Roman, do hereby challenge you!”

For the briefest instant, a paper-white face appeared in one of the high windows of the castle, displaying a subtle but unmistakable expression of pure disdain before its owner moved out of view again.

Roman was crestfallen, but Virgil moved up alongside him, saying “Pfft, rude.”

“I would have thought she'd be thrilled to take out her vengeance on me.”

“I'm sure she is...but she wants to do it on her terms. Why answer an open challenge when she can wait a while and then ambush you when you least expect it?”

“Well, she's getting an open challenge whether she wants one or not. I just have to figure out how I'm getting to her.”

Logan tossed a pebble out into the water. It made a very satisfying plunk, with rows of even ripples. “The water is at least a few feet deep. I recommend against swimming or wading—immersion in liquid that supports a large quantity of floating ice is almost certain to cause hypothermia.”

“Maybe we can somehow get the ice chunks to line up and form a bridge...?” Roman suggested, but he didn't sound confident.

“Can't you just make a bridge? Or a boat or something?” said Patton. “Now that you're back to being the Creativity we know and love?”

Roman made an exhalation that was halfway to being a sob and said, in a voice with a hairline crack, “I suppose it can't hurt to try...”

He closed his eyes, cupped one hand beside the other as though sheltering a tiny flame, and focused all his power on making something, anything, that would enable them to cross the water. Please...I'll accept anything...a raft...a rope...come on, please!...

He couldn't even say who or what he was begging, but whatever it was...it answered. Roman knew his attempt had worked—more or less—when he heard Patton snicker behind him. He opened his eyes and turned around.

Roman hadn't known what to expect, but he definitely had not expected a buff-colored mushroom the size of a dinner table for eight, with Logan examining it curiously and Remus poking the spongy substance and giggling. Roman blinked at it several times before the irony hit him, at which point he abruptly doubled over with guffaws, bracing his hands on his knees in order to keep from falling over.

“Roman? You...good?” asked Virgil.

“I finally made a mushroom!” Roman wheezed. “After all that angst back there...”

“Roman, what are you talking about?” said Logan.

“I'll tell you guys later,” Roman said, straightening up and rubbing fresh tears from his eyes. “For now...” He unsheathed his sword and severed the mushroom's cap from its stalk almost effortlessly. It landed at the water's edge, floating high. “All aboard who's coming aboard!”

They all fit easily enough, though they had to crowd together to keep their feet from getting wet. Roman took up a perch at the side of the mushroom facing the bank, braced his boot against the earth, and shoved, casting them off. Their peculiar vessel spun gently as it drifted toward the White Witch's castle. Now and again an ice chunk would approach, and whoever was closest to it would kick it away, altering both the spin and the drift in little ways. It took several minutes before the mushroom grounded itself in the far side of the lake.

The portcullis was closed, its iron lattice too tight to admit anything larger than a loaf of bread. But Roman was unfazed. He had made a mushroom. He whipped his sword through the air a few times, and a man-sized section of the bars simply collapsed. He led the other Sides through the courtyard—now empty of statues, as though Aslan's spring had freed the petrified creatures without his direct involvement—and down the corridor to the White Witch's throne room.

They were expected.

Jadis sat enthroned, flanked along the dais by the captains and lieutenants of her armies, a fair sampling of the horror monsters Roman had brought to the Stone Table only that very morning. Many of them carried spears, axes, and clubs. Maugrim paced along the floor in front of the dais in an oddly catlike fashion, his eyes never leaving the party as they entered.

“And here he is!” the Witch declared as though Roman had been the topic of conversation in the room. “I knew you would not be long in returning to me, Prince Roman. And you've brought your fellows with you! Tribute, perhaps? They will look lovely in the courtyard.”

Roman marched to the middle of the hall and leveled an accusing finger at her, eliciting gasps from the assembled creatures. “Usurper! Pretender to the throne of Narnia! Why do you still sit there? You have lost—Aslan has returned, your endless winter has given way to spring, and I...” He swallowed. “...I have purged myself of your malign influence.”

“An influence you welcomed,” Jadis said smoothly. There was the faintest hitch of breath behind him, and her smile broadened. “Why, Roman. Did you not tell them how you came to be the White Warlock?”

“Not yet,” Roman said, trying to sound casual about it. “Don't change the subject. The jig is up, Jadis, and you will quit this castle, take your followers, and leave Narnia forever.”

“Or?” she prompted. Her voice was like a shower of slender icicles pattering down from a shaken branch.

“Or face me in single combat. Me, Jadis. The one who stole your power, stole your very being, into myself, when you were on the brink of victory. Duel me for the right to say what will become of you and your armies.”

Something unprecedented happened.

Jadis laughed.

It was nothing hearty or prolonged, just a quick scoffing exhalation, but it was a laugh. “Or perhaps I shall simply ignore your demand, kill you all, and carry on as I have. Aslan's return means nothing with no candidates to place on the thrones of Cair Paravel.”

“You may find that difficult,” Roman said through gritted teeth, “if I drop the scenario right now and all this vanishes.”

“Oh shit, he's going meta!” Remus stage-whispered.

“Watch your language!” Patton scolded.

“Is that an extreme measure?” Logan asked.

“Are you kidding, Five-Eyes? It's the last resort for a creative type! He's talking about scrapping the story before he gets to the ending!”

“Bollocks!” shouted one of the lieutenants, a goblin-esque creature. “If he has that kind of power, why even offer a duel?”

“My reasons are my own,” said Roman. “The point, Jadis, is that you are being offered a chance. You're a proud woman, but suicidally proud? I don't think so.”

All Narnia held its breath as the Witch considered. After a moment that seemed longer than it was, she rose to her feet. “I accept. We shall duel here, and at once. It begins as soon as I descend to the floor.” She began to walk down the steps of the dais, directly toward Roman.

“Weapons only! No magic from either of us!” Roman said hastily.

“Agreed,” said the Witch with the confidence of someone who is stronger and has longer reach than their opponent. She drew her long stone knife from the sash at her waist.

“No one is to interfere!” Roman added, fighting the urge to back away.

“Agreed.”

Jadis's foot hit the floor, and she charged.

Roman launched into motion himself, and met the charge.

That first blow, stone blade meeting steel, threw up a shower of sparks too bright to look at. The Witch pressed Roman until his boots skidded on the frozen floor, and only by reacting immediately, breaking the blade lock and flinging himself to the side, did he avoid being stabbed then and there.

He rolled onto his back—and she was on him, forcing him to block again, one hand grasping the hilt of his sword, the other awkwardly pincering the blunt edge of the blade. He managed to get his knee up and threw her off, over his head, while ruthless physics sent him slipping in the opposite direction. He scrambled to rise and got as far as a sitting position just in time to see the Witch roll, turning her tumble into a graceful slide, one leg bent under her and the other extended off to the side, her arms counterbalancing.

Elapsed time of the duel so far: perhaps six seconds.

Lewis really undersold her, Roman found himself thinking lightheadedly.

And now the spectators were finding their voices. The prince's spirits lifted when he first heard Patton crow “You can do it, Roman!”...but in the next instant, it was drowned out by the gibbering howls of the Witch's followers from every side of the room. That was all he was able to register before she came at him again, her knife lashing the air in a pattern almost too complex for him to follow.

Almost...Somehow, he managed to parry every strike and even offer a few ripostes. The very end of the sequence gave him an opening to lunge and swipe—she dodged the blow handily, but his sword sheared off a lock of her coal-colored hair. She shrieked with rage.

“Yeah! Shave her bald!” Remus cackled.

“Not helping!” Roman barked.

But it hadn't really hurt either. The prince was getting the hang of fighting on the slick surface; his footing became surer, his movements more confident, his strikes more forceful. The Witch was taller and stronger and had the home-field advantage, but Roman had the superior weapon—two feet of folded steel compared to eight inches of carved stone—and with his insecurities about the arena ironed out, it began to make a real difference. She could lunge at him with inhuman speed and grace, but if he brought up his blade in time, she had to pull her blow lest the knife break on the sword's edge...and that instant of hesitation would give him an opening. The tide of battle turned, and Jadis began to be driven back within her own throne room. The shouts of alarm from her followers were nearly deafening.

(It was at this point that Maugrim, who was nothing if not loyal, began to slink around behind the rows of spectators, looking for a chance to rush to his queen's aid. He thought he found one and tensed to make his move—only to find himself physically stopped by an arc of steel wrapped around his neck exactly as though he were a wayward sheep. He turned to snarl at the interloper and was greeted by a slit-pupilled eye as frightening as any in the White Witch's armies.

“None of that, naughty puppy,” Janus said in silken tones. “No interference, remember? I'm sure your mistress would much rather you strive to keep her honor intact.”

Maugrim's hackles went up and he prepared to overpower Janus through sheer bulk and muscle, but then...)

A gasp went up from Jadis's followers, followed by an immediate hush that blanketed the entire hall. Roman had disarmed her, sending the stone knife tumbling end-over-end across the chamber. She desperately ducked his sword and scrambled to retrieve her weapon, but it struck the wall point-on, digging deep into the frozen surface and sending out cracks that spread rapidly until a section of ice the size of a mattress was sheared off. It barely missed her as it crashed to the floor and shattered, the impact throwing her off her feet.

She looked up into the tip of a blade. “Yield,” Roman said coolly. “You are defeated.”

“You mean to let me live?” Jadis said with a bitter smile. “You know I would not do you the same courtesy.”

Roman winced almost imperceptibly. “I have caused enough death in Narnia. Yield...quit this land forever, and take your creatures with you.” When he got no response, he thrust his sword at her face, drawing a single drop of blood from her chalk-colored cheek.

“I-I yield,” she said, wide-eyed.

Roman half-turned to address the room, keeping his sword trained on his downed opponent. “You have all witnessed her surrender!” he declared. “This regime is at an end!”

One of the monsters raised a keening wail, an acknowledgment of defeat, and was soon joined by others. Those who bore weapons threw them down, and a few made florid obeisances in Roman's direction.

For the first time in days—since he had first begun to feel that he was being steered toward the role of Edmund—Roman felt the tension begin to bleed out of his shoulders. With the wails of the Witch's followers blending into a sort of white noise in his head, he let his eyes slide closed and his sword arm droop, and took a moment just to breathe—

“Roman! Look out!”

—and his eyes snapped back open just in time to see Jadis springing at him with her wand raised (where had she gotten it from?) and there was no time, no time to do anything but drop his sword and bring up his hands to grab—

There was a flash of light, as bright as lightning at the same distance, and a horrible cracking, crunching sound. When it subsided, Roman and the White Witch stood perfectly still, holding her golden wand aloft between them, her face frozen in a snarl of fury, his in understated alarm that hadn't had time to gel...neither one blinking.

Utter silence reigned in the throne room for a long moment. When sound returned, it was in the form of a whimper. “Both of them...both...” Patton muttered, before he broke the stillness and ran up to the twin statues. He lifted a hesitant, trembling hand to touch Roman's shoulder...

Roman blinked, and sighed, and his posture sagged...not stone after all. He let go of the wand as if prying his fingers free of some powerful glue, and as Patton seized one of his hands in a desperately relieved gesture and the other Sides jogged over to the two of them, his knees began to buckle in slow motion. He wound up in a sprawled kneeling position, his legs bent out to the sides, gazing up at the petrified form of his enemy. Her marble complexion was now literal, her hair sculpted waves of obsidian, her lips a scarlet flaw in the surface of the stone, parted to show more white marble behind.

“I did it...” he said in a tiny voice.

“You did do it!” Patton agreed. “Roman, you were amazing!”

“Indeed, I never realized before just how adroit you are at swordsmanship. Well done,” Logan added.

“I defeated the White Warlock...” Roman continued.

“You mean the White Witch,” said Virgil.

“Yes...her too.” Roman closed his eyes again. He was exhausted. “It's time to go home,” he whispered, or maybe just thought. A proper denouement would have been nice, but his energy well had finally run dry. The throne room slowly faded to white around them.

“Uh...” Virgil observed.

“S'all right,” Roman murmured. “Remus, can you...”

“Brilliant idea, giving Remus an open-ended question,” Janus remarked dryly. Curiously enough, however, the other Creative Side was already drawing lines in mid-air in a hurried fashion. Color and texture filled them in, making the image of a miniature door, about half the size of a normal one.

“Whoops, drew it too far away,” said Remus. “Well, come on, it's not going to pound itself until it bursts open!” He set out at a brisk walk.

Virgil and Patton helped Roman to his feet, one arm over each of their shoulders, and more-or-less carried him the short walk to the door.

“Remus, while we have your attention,” said Logan, begging a rather important question, “I have a more defined question for you. Specifically: five eyes?”

“Yep!” Remus replied, arriving at the door and rapping on it in an uneven pattern that had to be a code of some kind. “The two in your eyesockets, your glasses, and the one on the end of your—”

Fortunately, the door opened before he could end the sentence.

#sanders sides #fanfiction #lamp/calm #platonic lamp/calm #dlampr #platonic dlampr #sympathetic janus #sympathetic remus #narnia

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yeojaa · 5 years ago

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SUGAR HIGH, chapter xii. (w. JJK)

You're not entirely sure when it happened, though you'd come to terms with it. You'd counted the days, waiting for the inevitable. You'd truly thought you'd be okay, but by the broken, half-beating thing in your chest - you knew you'd never really been prepared.

alt summary. You thought you’d known real love and maybe you had - it just wasn’t with who you thought.

pairing. jeon jungkook. mentions/involvement of ot7.

tags. angst, break up, post-break up, comfort, OT7, slow burn, friendship, moving on, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, emotional baggage, fluff, canon compliant, jeon jungkook is bad at feelings, jeon jungkook is a good friend, jeon jungkook is a sweetheart.

rating. general (for now?)

word count. ~1900

chapter 12. Who Do You Love?

He feels new and familiar all at once, like he was made for you and you'd never even known it. You want to cry when he does it again, nothing more than a chaste peck. A question in the form of an action. A decade's worth of adoration somehow poured into the sweetest kiss.

"Are you coming?"

The question lingers in the air between you and for the briefest moment, you wish you could take it back.

In the muted glow of streetlights and stardust, you can barely make out your best friend's expression but it's enough that you feel your heart skip a beat, your stomach twisting uncomfortably.

He's watching you carefully, like he's uncertain. It's almost impossible to read the lines of his face, the way his mouth settles into something unfamiliar. You don't like, because it feels like distance stretching between you. It makes him feel a million miles away and your heart sinks right to your toes when he still hasn't moved after what feels like eternity.

Your fingers slot together and you squeeze, as if that'll prompt an apology.

But then he's there and he's so close, you stumble back, shoulder knocking soundlessly into the door frame. Warmth radiates off his body and you have to blink to steady yourself. You're sure you look like Bambi or a deer in the headlights because he laughs, the sound rough and low.

"All you had to do is ask." You tell yourself his words are teasing, coated in sugar crystals that soften the mockery he exhales around you.

"I did," you retort, nose wrinkling. He's too close. You can't think straight.

With a huff, you turn toward the door, all but throwing the door open and only catching the handle when you realize the noise will wake the others. That's the last thing you needed right now.

Whatever Jungkook's thinking, he says nothing, simply stepping into his bedroom behind you. The blanket you'd brought out to him still drapes across his broad shoulders. You realize, with some amusement, that it barely reaches his shins. He definitely would've been cold if you'd left him out there.

Right, cold. That's why he was in here with you.

"Don't snore." You say it like he ever has, or if it's ever bothered you before, hurtling the words over your shoulder in a hushed whisper. A defense mechanism or something, a shield for your shot nerves that sit just below the surface of your skin, ready to be burnt to a crisp.

He grins easily, nodding once as he pulls back his side of the blanket and notes it's remained wholly untouched. He knows how you sleep, starfished out like a certain pink cartoon companion. It means you've been restless. Why hadn't you been able to sleep? He wants to ask but thinks better of it when you're already burrowing back beneath the covers, back dutifully turned to him.

A sigh, exhaled through his nose. Then he's slipping in beside you, careful to maintain the distance you seem so intent on keeping. "Soomi-ya." You feel a little bad when he speaks, tender and longing. You don't know why you're suddenly like this, why the thought of him is making you see stars.

(You do know - you just won't admit it.)

"Please," he tries again. A little of your resolve crumbles. Then a hand is on your elbow, warm and comforting against where it rests, tight against your sides. "I thought you were going to keep you warm."

You laugh before you can help it, the sound bubbling up like a babbling brook.

He sees his chance and advances before he can tell himself no, stop. Because he wants this so bad, needs it like he needs air. A single arm loops around you and then there's heat against your back, the broad expanse of his chest engulfing you. He's careful not to crowd you otherwise, the length of his arm cradling your own as his hand splays across yours, fingers gently untangling your grip.

It's a position you've taken up a handful of times. Always when you'd been single and more often than not after a night of celebration. This time, it feels different. He wonders if you can feel it, too.

"Jungkook." By the lilt of your voice, usually so light and now hovering above a whisper, he thinks you must.

"It's okay." It could be a reassurance or a promise, you're not sure. But for the first time since he'd joined you in his bed, you let yourself relax. You can't keep holding the tension in your shoulders, instead sagging into the familiar touch. You shift your hips and readjust your legs, one cold foot descending to find his in the darkness. You don't dare make a sound when you hitch your ankle over his, tangling your legs together.

This is normal, you tell yourself. You ignore the flutter in your stomach. He's your best friend.

"I love you." The butterflies in your stomach threaten to burst out of your chest, carrying your timid little heart to the surface. His face is buried against your neck and his words burn constellations into your skin. "You're safe. I'm not going anywhere."

You try to ignore the disappointment that blind sides you. Of course, he's doing this all for you, because he knows how you get. Your sweet, sweet Jungkook. He'd hold you like this forever if he had to.

You wish it were enough.

Warmth draws you inexplicably closer and you never want it to end, your bare cheek seeking out that same feeling. Your fingers curl around cotton and beneath it, heat that radiates into the tips of your fingers and sends electricity through your veins. You edge closer, humming contentedly.

"Good morning, sleepyhead." His voice is incredibly close, dragging you from the throes of half-remembered dreams and tossing you headlong into reality.

"Kook?"

The name makes him grin, the slow spread across his lips felt against your temple. The contact makes your heart flutter, rhythm stuttering when he's pressing a satisfied kiss to your forehead.

You want to question the action, the words on the tip of your tongue, when you're distracted. First, by the way his hands trail like ghosts across your back, tracing patterns over the worn material of your - his - shirt. Then, by fingers at your chin, coaxing and gentle. You think you can hold onto the vestiges of thought before you meet his eyes, heavy-lidded and dark behind sable strands that fall adorably across his forehead.

He's so close you can feel his breath on your face, count the lashes that frame those big doe eyes.

"What am I doing?" You almost think you've uttered the words, but they don't sound like you and you're sure you haven't made a movement, too caught up in the way colour burns across his cheeks. You try to comprehend the question, turning it over and over in your head like it'll unravel if you do it enough times.

Of course, it doesn't work and you're left staring blankly at him. "I don't know."

Jungkook must find that funny, because he laughs, pulling you inexplicably closer. His nose runs the column of your neck, his breath tickling the sensitive skin and raising goose-flesh. Like this, you're trapped beneath him, his mountainous shoulders and sweet embrace.

"Tell me what to do," he breathes like he's torn and you hate it. Your fingers smooth over the expanse of his chest, fumbling over the collar of his shirt in an effort to sooth whatever demons he's fighting. You think it works when his breath hitches, a stutter of an exhale against you. "Please, tell me."

You hadn't realized he was seeking a response so your answer is tentative, filled with uncertainty.

"I don't know what's going on with you, but you'll always make the right choice. I know you." And you do - like the back of your hand. Even in the roughest of times, even when he doesn't see it himself, you'll see that brilliance that streams out of him like sunshine. "You're so good," you coo, touch drifting from his chest to the downy nape of his neck. You run your fingers through the silk, letting your nails just barely drag over his skin.

When he relaxes, you can't help but smile. If nothing else, you can do this for him.

You continue your gentle ministrations, humming quietly as he cradles you like you are porcelain. Your arm is falling asleep beneath you, trapped between your bodies, but he seems far too content so you let the feeling fade from your limb.

It's only when you feel something very peculiar that you move, all of a sudden far too aware of your own skin.

You suck in a sharp breath, waiting for the sensation again.

(You're not sure whether you're hopeful or not. At least, that's what you tell yourself.)

It happens when your count hits five and you can't pretend it was your imagination this time. Because he's doing it again and again, the soft, dry brush of his lips burning you from the inside it. Wherever they land, you're electric. When they brush the sensitive spot just below your ear, you're a mess.

"Jungkook." His name comes out in a voice that you've never heard before, something that tips precariously on the edge of a gasp and is swallowed by him in the next moment.

You're not sure what you thought your first kiss would be like but you know, without a doubt, it could never compare.

When he speaks, lips just barely caressing the corner of your mouth, you want to laugh. "You told me to what I wanted." He says it so nicely, like he's asking for permission to continue.

"I'm not sure I gave good advice. You might have to do it again so I can be sure."

It's all the validation he needs before he's kissing you again.

You realize, for the first time, what it means to be drunk off of someone else. You'd always thought it was just a silly phrase but here and now, you feel like you're weightless, only held to this spatial plane by the hands on your jaw and the intoxicating taste of him. You think you could stay like this forever.

"I love you." The words all but burst forth, deposited against your cheek and your lips and the graceful turn of your neck. "I love you so much." He repeats it like they're the only words he knows how to say and he might die if he doesn't get them out. He peppers each syllable into every inch, careful not to neglect a single sliver of your exposed skin.

You don't comprehend you're crying until he's following the salty trail of tears, whispering those same three words like they're a salve for whatever you're feeling.

You slip into lucidity with a near savage cry, the sobs ripping from your throat like a monster. You can't help the overwhelming emotion that floods you. It had felt so real.

The tears only come harder when Jungkook's sitting up in white-hot panic, pulling you into his chest without a second thought. Your shoulders shudder enough for the both of you, your wails muffled against his neck as he tries to sooth you with words of affirmation and soothing circles over your back.

"I'm so sorry," you apologize around a lungful of air that doesn't feel like enough. You keep pulling in more in big gulping breaths, savouring in the ache in your ribs. It distracts from the misery in your head.

But your best friend is having none of it, the most charming smile he can muster offered up to you. "You have nothing to be sorry about." He's trying to hard to reassure you without knowing why.

You can never tell him, you decide.

notes. i'm sorry this took forever and it ends so abruptly. i've been focusing on my other story (!!) but I will be putting work back into this, i promise. thanks for sticking around! <3

#bts fluff #bts #bts fanfic #bts fic #jeon jungkook #jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fic #jungkook fluff #jungkook x you #jungkook x reader #jungkook x oc #work.zip #bestfriends.zip #sugarhigh.doc #jungkook.doc

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holy-fate-worse-than-death · 6 years ago

Text

We’ll See About That - Ch 1

Warnings: major character death, smoking, swearing

Summary:

Conner Kent is dying. Clark is hell-bent on using Kryptonian technology to find a cure, not yet at the point of desperation that would drive the Big Blue Boy Scout to ask him for help.

But, after watching his own son’s heart break at the prospect of losing his best friend, Bruce realises Conner’s other father figure is the boy’s only hope.

More than that, Bruce thinks, Lex deserves to know.

In which Bruce Wayne fights for Lex Luthor because he knows all too well what it’s like to lose a son. Angst ahoy!

‘The last time we were this quiet was at Jason’s funeral,’ Lex says.

And, for the second time in Bruce’s life, Lex Luthor breaks his heart.

Pairings: Lex Luthor/Bruce Wayne, TimKon

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Lex Luthor, Conner Kent, Tim Drake, Jason Todd

Word Count: 2034

Chapter 1 under the cut >>>

‘What could I have done better?’ Bruce asks quietly.

'This is about Superboy, isn’t it?’ Jason replies sharply, 'You want to tell Luthor.’

His second son has always had a knack for cutting through the bullshit, a trait that Alfred would say is a reflection of Bruce. Were it any other day, it might have made him feel proud. Today, it humbles him.

The sun is rising over Gotham’s bleak skyline as father and son share cigarettes and pointed gazes atop a secluded rooftop ledge, the only terms of the uneasy alliance between them being that neither will tell Nightwing about the cigarettes.

’Lex,’ Bruce replies equally as sharply, 'was the only man brave enough to stand beside me at your funeral.’

If that touches a nerve, Jason doesn’t show it.

His helmet is off, much like Bruce’s cowl is drawn back. Black hair, blue eyes and broad shoulders mirror each other; a subtle challenge evident in the tension in their backs. Who takes the last cigarette? Who gets up to leave first? Do they part ways, or head in the same direction?

The cogs turn in both of their heads, synchronising like clocks without a word being uttered. A plan unfolds in tandem. One ashes their cigarette, then the other.

When Jason finally speaks, Bruce senses the apprehension in his tone, though it’s a near-perfect imitation of apathetic even to his mentor’s ears.

'I’ll keep Tim distracted,’ Jason says.

What goes unsaid is far more powerful, communicated in the briefest of glances Bruce’s way before Jason stands and returns his helmet to his head.

The shiny red thing is a relic of days past. Days when Batman was still the feverish daydream of an angry young boy. Days when the taste of Lex Luthor was still fresh on his lips.

He deserves to know, Jason’s eyes say.

Perhaps Bruce is imagining it, but he thinks they might also say, I wish someone had been there to put us back together.

'You’re here to tell me not to break your son’s heart,’ Conner says.

Bruce is seated next to him on a patch of yellowing grass, somewhere amongst the vast nothingness that spans the width and breadth of rural Kansas.

The cheap two-door he’d rented from a town a few hours north of here is parked behind them on a shoulder lane, shielding them from the prying eyes of truckers on the dusty road.

Bruce had thought better of the expensive suits he normally wore, and now finds himself in ill-fitting jeans and a pale blue polo shirt. He’s wearing a hooded sweatshirt over it all that makes him feel a few decades younger than he is.

It’s cold and foggy; early evening.

'I’m here to tell you to ask your father for help,’ Bruce counters.

The ensuing silence speaks volumes. Bruce notes clinically that at no point does Conner think he might have been talking about Clark, nor does he deny that Lex is his father.

'Your son didn’t really die,’ Conner says eventually, eyes fixed firmly on the horizon.

It’s a deflection tactic, Bruce knows, or perhaps just a low-blow designed to knock Bruce off his game. And it might have worked, had The Joker himself not been employing the same tactic against him for nearly half a decade.

Bruce briefly contemplates telling Conner everything he’s wanted to say since he found out Jason was alive. Perhaps, That’s not my boy, or, The little bird I knew and cherished never came back to the nest.

Instead, he finds himself thinking about the man he’d sat atop a grimy Gotham rooftop with that morning. His son, certainly, but not the one he lost.

So he says what he thinks that man on the rooftop would want him to say:

'I think Jason would be insulted to know he’s still thought of as the boy who died that night.’

Conner doesn’t speak for a long time. When he does, it’s with another protestation, just as half-hearted as the first.

'Lex Luthor is an evil man.’

'Evil,’ Bruce says slowly, chewing on the word, 'is a hyperbole Superman is quite fond of.’

'And you’re the right man to judge that?’ Conner quips back, voice pitching upwards, 'One exploitative billionaire to another?’

Bruce lets out a wry laugh. It comes out sounding more like the type of short bark a dog would make if it felt threatened.

'Certainly not,’ Bruce concedes.

He finally turns towards Conner, his demeanour something approaching friendly.

'I hardly think Lex Luthor’s ex-fiance is the right man to judge the virtue of his past deeds,’ Bruce says boldly, surprising himself not for the first time since this exchange began.

There’s a pause, during which the sun descends fully below the horizon and they are engulfed in near-complete dark.

Bruce waits for Conner to speak, but instead he finds himself speaking. Perhaps it’s the bat in him; emboldened by the dark.

'But perhaps I’m the right man to offer you some insight into your father’s humanity.’

Another long pause. The wind stills as though Mother Nature herself is holding her breath alongside Bruce.

Just as Bruce is starting to frantically cobble together another moving speech, Conner exhales. A long, deep sigh.

'I’m dying,’ he says.

There’s no sadness in it, just a bone-deep resignation that damn near rips Bruce’s heart out.

'You know what your father will say, don’t you?’

Conner responds with a tight nod.

'We’ll see about that,’ they say in unison.

On the way back to the car, Bruce finds himself saying something else that is far too honest for such a young man to bear:

'As for Timothy.’

He hears Conner suck in a pained breath, wonders if it’s the illness plaguing him or the pain of thinking about the boy he loves.

'You Luthors have a certain knack for breaking the hearts of Wayne men,’ Bruce says plainly, 'I doubt I could stop you if I tried.’

In the car, Conner asks the practical questions; the ones that come to mind only after the gravity of the situation has settled on your shoulders:

'How did you find me?’

'Kryptonian scanners are quite good at picking your genetic signatures from amongst the other lifeforms on this planet.’

Bruce’s hands tense on the steering wheel as he braces for the next question, and for the answer he knows he won’t be ashamed of even though he ought to be.

'So Clark sent you?’

The bleak greys of mid-evening Kansas speed by out the window. The moon and the stars are still obscured by cloud cover, though they’re yet to see a drop of rain.

It had felt somehow wrong to do anything but drive from here to Metropolis. A waste of time that Lex would chastise them both for, Bruce was sure. But there was something Bruce couldn’t shake about the notion that every boy ought to experience a cross-country road-trip at least once in his life. Maybe they’d have a greasy breakfast at some non-descript gas station and forget their capes for a few short moments.

Superheroism seemed like a burden too great for a dying boy to bear. Though perhaps not as burdensome as dying itself.

'The Watchtower is equipped with Kryptonian sensors,’ Bruce finally says.

'Partners in crime, then.’

Another dozen miles of road pass.

'Is Dick with Tim?’

'Jason is looking after him.’

'Is that wise?’

'No less wise than letting him date the half-Kryptonian son of Lex Luthor.’

They arrive at LexCorp’s head office a day or so later. The gas station food has been mediocre, and the car rental company has been ringing him off the hook.

Neither of them have slept, and it shows in their eyes.

A nameless Wayne Enterprises employee brings them fresh clothing – a suit for Bruce, something relaxed but fashionable for Conner.

They change in a parking lot that’s entirely too close to the Daily Planet for Bruce’s liking.

It feels a little too much like they’re changing into their costumes for a mission, and Conner looks a little too much like Clark in this light.

He thinks of a hundred missions in Metropolis that started just like this one, long before the Justice League was formed – before they’d even taken on protégés like Conner and Tim.

They waltz into LexCorp fifteen minutes later like they own the place, exiting a top-of-the-line sports car (Bruce would be lying if he said he paid any attention to car manufacturers) that the Wayne Enterprises employee had exchanged for their rental.

Bruce is unsure if the receptionist at the front desk recognises himself or Conner, but by the time they reach the sleek elevator at the opposite end of LexCorp’s glossy atrium, she is chittering into a telephone receiver.

Bruce hears something like, Yes, Mr Luthor, as he guides Conner into elevator first, a tentative hand clasped on the boy’s shoulder.

Lex knows by now, Bruce thinks as he watches the floor numbers tick up one by one. He’ll have these precious seconds to prepare.

What else could it mean, when Batman arrives on your doorstep with your son in tow?

'He knows who I am,’ Bruce thinks to say a few floors before the hundredth.

Conner doesn’t speak, but nods almost imperceptibly. Equally as imperceptibly, he leans closer to Bruce, toward the hand on his shoulder.

The hundred-and-first floor is Lex’s. The gentle ping of the elevator is like shrapnel tearing through their heads. Conner flinches, Bruce squeezes his shoulder.

The doors slide open, and Lex’s face is so pale Bruce is sure his heart stops when he sees it.

Mercifully, however, Lex has eyes only for his son.

They teeter there, the three of them, for a few heartbeats too long. Bruce wonders if this is how people who aren’t bats feel when they stand on the edge of a cliff.

Then, Conner does something that surprises all three men. He leaps into his father’s arms, nearly knocking him off-balance.

Bruce is there to catch Lex’s elbow and keep him right way up. It’s a scorching hot moment of contact; skin-on-skin because Lex’s dress shirt has been hastily rolled up around the elbows.

Bruce swallows it down and turns his back to the father and son, allows them their privacy.

Conner is whispering something like, I’m dying, over and over. In stark contrast to the resignation of yesterday, now Conner sounds terrified. Beneath the anxious fog that has settled over Bruce’s mind, he is faintly aware that Conner’s newfound terror comes from the realisation that this is it. Turning to Lex is the Hail Mary they had all prayed they would never have to make.

Bruce is reminded of Clark in the past, the way he would so callously say things like, Lex Luthor? I wouldn’t go to him if I was dying. Bruce files that away for later; to ruminate on the impression that has left on Conner, to chastise Clark and remind him of his responsibilities as a mentor. If, after this, he still has someone to mentor.

'We’ll see about that, son,’ Lex says.

There is comfort in it – perhaps more than there ought to be. Lex’s confidence is unwavering, even in the face of crisis. Difficult? A few seconds. Impossible? A few minutes. But Bruce is sure he is scared; that any moment the cracks will begin to show.

Bruce glides across the room unnoticed, and finds himself idling awkwardly in the middle of it. Perhaps it is the sleek, futuristic furniture that Lex has decorated his office with. Is that a couch, or a table? Either way, it puts Bruce directly in Lex’s line of fire the moment he spins around, and Bruce supposes the room is designed with these exact moments in mind.

'How did this happen?’ Lex demands, voice booming throughout the sparse, cavernous space.

Bruce takes a moment – selfishly – to breathe deeply. Lex watches him with keen eyes, every muscle in his body going rigid at the thought of Batman needing to steady himself before this conversation.

'Truthfully,’ Bruce says.

He grimaces, because he knows not even the ever-fatalistic Lex Luthor will have prepared for an answer this grim.

'We have no idea.’

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wistfulcynic · 6 years ago

Text

Three Non-Blondes 3 / 4

Sooo, the chapter count has grown yet again because I have no chill. This is the last time, I swear, and also Chapter 4 will contain the best dumb OUAT-related joke that I or anyone else has ever written. So that’s something to look forward to.

Summary: Mary Margaret is certain that her fiancé’s sister Emma and his best friend Killian are perfect for each other. What she doesn’t know is that they think so too. Matchmaking hijinks ensue.

Rating: T

AO3

Chapter 3:

David snuck quietly into his mother’s kitchen and reached for the small cupboard above the refrigerator where he knew she kept her liquor. She didn’t know that he knew —or he didn’t think she did, but then David had never been the sort of teenager to pilfer alcohol and give the secret away via noticeable reductions in bottle volume— and he loved that she hid it in a place she needed a stool to reach but he could access easily. Sometimes it was nice that she still thought he was ten years old. He groped for a moment before withdrawing the bottle of bourbon that was the “secret” ingredient in Ruth’s apple pecan pie. He wasn’t much of a liquor drinker as a rule, generally preferring beer or a nice brown ale. But today, he thought, he’d make an exception.

Grabbing a glass, he poured himself a generous measure and gulped it straight down, managing not to cough too loudly as it burned a trail to his stomach. Before he could think better of it, he poured another shot and tossed that back as well —it went down easier the second time— and was just debating a third when the door opened and Mary Margaret appeared.

“What are you— David! It’s not like you to drink whiskey!”

Gathering his liquid courage, David turned to face her. “Sweetheart, you know I love you more than anything and normally I would never question your judgment,” he began, then took a deep breath. “But are you sure this is a good idea? I just feel like Killian and Emma should be left to make their own choices—”

“No one is saying they can’t make their own choices.” Mary Margaret interrupted firmly. “All we’re doing is nudging them in the direction of the right ones.”

David plunged ahead, heedless of all peril. “Are you sure that’s what we’re doing? Because it feels a lot like playing with people’s lives.” Whew. There. He’d said it.

“If people can’t get their own act together then other people need to step in,” snapped Mary Margaret. “Do you want Emma and Killian to be miserable?”

“But they’re not miser—”

“They will be, if they have to spend their lives alone because they’re too stubborn to see what’s in front of them.”

“Killian’s hardly alone, I’m sure he was in bed with someone when I called him this morning—”

“The wrong someone, David!”

David gave up. Mary Margaret in full battle mode was a force he was not equipped to reckon with. So he kissed her head, promised to be out in a minute, and surreptitiously took a generous swig straight from the bottle before returning it to its hiding spot just as the doorbell rang.

“Here goes nothing,” he muttered, and prepared to herd two people he loved into an ambush set by a third.

—

An hour later, David was… baffled. Nothing seemed to be quite going as he had expected. Which considering he had expected disaster, was… good?

Maybe?

Certainly, Mary Margaret didn’t seem to feel that there was anything wrong. She had introduced Killian to Belle as per the plan, barely restraining her glee as he and the pretty brunette had struck up a lively conversation within minutes of the introduction, then had begun prodding Emma in a way that was not nearly as subtle as she probably thought.

“I’m so glad Killian and Belle are getting along, I knew they would,” she said as she and Emma sat in a corner of the living room, watching the pair in question. “I know Killian gets around a bit but this isn’t like those women he picks up at the pub. He and Belle have actual things in common—”

“What, because he’s a writer and she’s a librarian?” Emma broke in. “There’s a lot more to Killian than just books, Mary Margaret.”

Mary Margaret didn’t even seem to hear her. “—Killian deserves that, you know, he deserves a real relationship with someone who loves him. I think Belle could be it.”

“Do you, now?”

As far as David understood the plan (and if he was perfectly honest, he wasn’t certain he did understand it), Emma was supposed to be jealous hearing that. She was supposed to realise her feelings for Killian in a blinding flash of clarity, some twisted Damascene moment, and resolve then and there not to let Belle take her man.

Or something.

Instead, she just looked amused.

“Yeah, I’m not sure she’s really Killian’s type,” said Emma. She was, David noticed, holding her face very straight. Unnaturally straight. It was, in fact, exactly the same face she’d worn that year she found all the Christmas presents before Ruth managed to wrap them and had held it over David’s head for weeks. It was the face she had when she was trying not to laugh with glee.

“No offence, Emma, but you’re hardly the best person to judge what Killian’s type is,” said Mary Margaret.

“No, you’re probably right,” said Emma’s mouth, but her eyes glinted with mischief. “I mean, I hardly know the guy.”

“Well, exactly.”

Mary Margaret smiled sweetly.

Emma smiled sweetly.

David’s head began to hurt. There was definitely something fishy going on here.

—

Things had become no less piscine by the time they made it to the dinner table. Mary Margaret managed to ensure that Killian and Belle sat next to each other with Emma across from them, and her smile as she watched Belle ask insightful questions about Killian’s latest book was decidedly smug.

“Look at Emma,” she mouthed at David, whose angle on his sister was better than hers. “What’s her face doing?”

David watched Emma as the conversation died down while people helped themselves to food. She looked like she always did when she was about to tuck into their mom’s cooking, practically dancing with anticipation, and also… just for a moment, just the briefest flash… she smiled. At Killian. A small, secret smile, of the sort people only exchanged with those they knew intimately. Intimately in a very specific way.

David’s eyes shot to Killian. Who was smiling the exact same smile.

Holy fuck, thought David in a blinding flash of clarity, a twisted Damascene moment. They’re fucking.

—

“Well, I think that went very well,” said Mary Margaret, some time later after everyone else had gone and she and David were cleaning up the kitchen.

“Mmmmm,” said David.

“Phase Two launches next Saturday. Have you called August?”

David decided to give it one last try. “Yes, but I really think that—”

“No, David, this will work, I’m sure of it. We’ve already made a great start.”

David sighed. “Okay,” he said.

—

“Phase Two” as Mary Margaret called it was scheduled to get underway as soon as both Emma and Killian arrived at the pub for their usual Saturday evening meet up. All the troops —by which term Mary Margaret meant David, Regina, and Robin— had been marshalled early, and at ten minutes before the anticipated arrivals she and Regina had their heads together at a small corner table leaving David and Robin to drink alone.

“So I’m told Phase One was a huge success,” said Robin.

“Hmmm.”

“You don’t agree? Regina said that Mary Margaret was ecstatic.”

David chose his words carefully. “It pains me to say this, and if she ever found out it might actually pain me, but I think Mary Margaret may be wrong.”

“About what?”

“I think,” David leaned in closely to be sure they weren’t overheard, even though the women were deep in conversation and paying no attention to them at all, “I think Emma and Killian are already together.”

“What?”

“Look at the facts,” said David, and proceeded to tell his friend everything he’d observed at the dinner plus all the evidence he’d spent the past week carefully collecting. He had, he flattered himself, built a case that was meticulous and thorough. David was a good detective after all, even if his beloved did sometimes imply that he needed to be more observant in his personal life. Once he’d identified a mystery and applied his skills to it he usually solved it. This one hadn’t even been that difficult to crack. Once you actually looked at the signs, it was so obvious, like they were barely even trying to be subtle. David wondered if he should be insulted that they’d put so little effort into deceiving him.

“Do you realise,” he said to Robin, “that we haven’t seen Emma and Killian together in the same room for at least six months? Every other weekend one of them has an excuse for why they can’t come out with us, while the one who does come out only stays for a few drinks then pleads some commitment or other and makes an early exit.”

“Huh,” said Robin. “Now that you mention it, yeah, I can’t remember the last time I saw them together. But that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re together, er... together.”

“Not by itself, no, but combined with how they acted at dinner it’s a pretty compelling case. But we need to keep a close eye on them tonight, see if we can find the smoking gun. You in?”

“To find evidence that two of my friends are secret lovers and thereby foil the matchmaking scheme masterminded in part by my girlfriend? Hell yes I’m in.”

Just then Emma arrived, a fashionable three minutes late. When she was followed precisely two minutes later by Killian, whose hair looked mussed and his cheeks pink, like he’d been, just as a for-instance, standing outside a pub on a brisk, breezy April evening for precisely two minutes before following his secret girlfriend inside, David’s lips curled into a grin previously only observed by those he’d interrogated and he subtly fist-bumped Robin.

Gotcha, he thought. You two are so busted.

“Emma,” Mary Margaret was saying, her face the picture of innocence as she steered her friend towards a dark-haired man sitting in a nearby booth and Regina distracted Killian. “You remember David’s old college roommate August.”

“Um, sure,” said Emma, shaking August’s hand.

“August’s just got back from Japan,” said Mary Margaret. “Emma, you’ve always wanted to go to Japan, haven’t you?”

“Uh, yeah, I have,” said Emma on a note of surprise as her eyes flitted over to Killian. David was also surprised by this angle of attack. Didn’t Mary Margaret remember…

“Why don’t you tell Emma all about your trip?” Mary Margaret pushed Emma at the booth where August was sitting. “None of us has ever been to Japan, and—”

“I have, actually.”

They all turned to look at Killian, who had extracted himself from Regina and returned to the group.

“Er, what?” Mary Margaret forced a smile.

“I’ve been to Japan. Don’t you remember, Mary Margaret, I taught English there for a year after I finished university? I’m sure I must have told you.”

“Um, no, I don’t remember you ever saying—” Mary Margaret shot Regina a look of alarm, but her stepsister only shrugged.

“Oh, aye, I loved it there,” said Killian cheerfully, subtly manoeuvring himself through the crowd and rearranging everyone so that when they slid into the booth Emma was across from August and he was next to her. “Some of the best food I’ve ever eaten and a fascinating culture, don’t you agree, er, August, was it? Curious name.” He barely allowed August a moment to answer before launching into a discussion ranging from the comparative merits of okonomiyaki from Osaka versus the Hiroshima version to whether it was preferable to visit Kyoto in the spring to see the cherry blossoms or the autumn to see the maple leaves, commandeering the other man’s attention completely and leaving the rest of the group gaping at them with various expressions of consternation, dismay, indignation, and amusement on their faces.

“Of course, I was there for just over a year so I was able to do both,” he said, “but what do you think, Julian?”

“It’s August—”

“Oh, yes, of course it is, I always did get my Roman emperors mixed up.”

“— and I was there in the summer.”

“Strangely appropriate for a man named after a summer month,” remarked Killian with a look of such contrived innocence that David couldn’t believe Mary Margaret and Regina didn’t see what he was up to. “Well, if you ever get back…”

“What the hell does he think he’s doing?” Regina hissed in Mary Margaret’s ear, just loudly enough for David to hear.

He wanted to reply that it looked to him very much as though Killian were saving Emma from having to spend an evening feigning interest in August’s tedious travel stories —he remembered all too well the pain he himself had suffered after August spent spring break in Thailand that one year, if only he’d had a Killian of his own to rescue him back then— and enjoying the hell out of himself in the process. As for Emma, she had the Christmas present look on her face again.

Realisation dawned. (That had been happening a lot lately.) Just then Robin returned with a round of drinks and when he’d finished handing them out to everyone David grabbed his arm and pulled him aside. “They’re playing us,” he said, half indignant, half impressed. ‘They know what’s going on and they’re freaking playing us.”

“I think you’re right,” Robin replied. “They’re holding hands under the table.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I saw when I gave them their drinks just now.”

“God, it’s like they’re trying to get caught.”

“Or they just have no chill.”

“Or they think we’re too dumb to notice.”

“Well, they might not be far wrong there,” said Robin, just as their respective partners came over to join them. Mary Margaret’s mouth was moving, but no words were coming out and Regina looked pissed. “How did this happen?” she asked as they approached.

“How did you two not know that Killian lived in Japan?” retorted David “He’s got Japanese art all over his house—”

“I thought he just liked that aesthetic—” began Mary Margaret.

“—and one of his novels was partly set there!”

“Naturally I assumed he simply researched that book on the internet!” scoffed Regina.

David stared at them. “His first professional writing job was a series of travel articles about Okinawa!”

“Well I didn’t know that, did I?” cried Mary Margaret. “I never thought he’d actually been there, I just thought—”

“Oh, I see,” said David, understanding in yet another bright flash. “You thought he’d be jealous because August’s been where he wanted to go and would enthral Emma with stories about it, was that the plan?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, it’s backfired but good now, hasn’t it?”

“No,” said Mary Margaret. “Not yet. I have one more ace up my sleeve.”

She marched back over to the booth. “Killian,” she said sweetly, interrupting what seemed to be a rapidly heating argument over whether fugu was overpriced claptrap or a valid cultural experience that justified the price, “I was just wondering, did you call Belle yet?”

“Aye, a few days ago.”

Mary Margaret’s eyes lit with triumph. “And?”

“And I introduced her to my friend’s cousin Will, you remember he’s here visiting for a month or two. I thought they might hit it off.”

Mary Margaret’s face fell like a deflated soufflé.

“Did they?” asked David, twisting the metaphorical knife in his dear one’s gut even though he knew he probably shouldn’t.

“Very much so. They’re out together right now, if I’m not mistaken,” said Killian.

Mary Margaret pulled herself together, smiled the right smile and spoke the right platitude, but when she pulled David, Regina, and Robin back into their huddle she was glowering darkly, the light of battle glinting in her eyes.

“We’ll get them in Phase Three,” she said.

#cs ff #cs ff au #cs fic #captain swan #matchmaking #matchmaking fail #secret relationship #David is the only smart one here #except Emma and Killian #best friend's sister trope #never play a player son

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lets-talk-appella · 6 years ago

Text

i’m nobody’s but yours

Chapter 2/25 - Chloe’s Prologue

Summary: Beca is straight as an arrow. 100%, totally, completely straight. Except for one problem that 100%, totally, completely changes everything: Chloe Beale.

Title borrowed from Calum Scott’s “If Our Love Is Wrong.”

Word Count: 3k

Rating: M (for dark themes, homophobia, masturbation, and eventual smut in later chapters)

AO3 and FFN and below the cut

Chloe has no idea how many people she’s crushed on. It feels like a lot. It is a lot.

There are both boys and girls in elementary school. Eric Sutherland, D’Shawn Johnson, Tyler Robinsdale, Chi Lor. Kayla Henn, Veronica Applegate, Meghan Corothers. She remembers each of them; holding hands with the boys, even “dating” D’Shawn for a while in the second grade. She mostly admired the girls from a distance, but she knows what she felt for them.

She tells her parents and her older brother, Chris, about each and every one of them, which makes them laugh and smile. Her dad calls her a “heartbreaker” even at that young age. She doesn’t quite know what that means, but he smiles when he says it, so she knows it can’t be a bad thing.

Middle school passes much the same way. Ryan Gabour, Eric Sutherland (again), Jerome Zettler. Kylie Brenna, Courtney Johnson, Kendra Fink, Cady Morgan. Each hold a special place in her heart. She has classes with Ryan, Jerome, Kylie, and Courtney; she joins volleyball with Kendra and Cady. Everything is very simple.

She doesn’t care that she has feelings for both boys and girls. For her, that’s how it’s always been. She sometimes wonders why she never hears other girls talking about their crushes on girls, or why she doesn’t see it in movies or on TV, but she doesn’t let it bother her. All Chloe knows is that she likes both boys and girls, and that’s okay. She figures that she’ll fall in love with a person’s mind, personality, and soul, rather than the body they happen to come in.

She says this – that she’ll love a person, not their body – to her parents and Chris one night at dinner. A small pause comes over the table, during which her parents exchange the briefest of glances. The moment passes quickly, though, and her mom nods like she’s said something glaringly obvious (which, maybe she has). Her dad smiles at her crookedly and tells her that’s a wonderful way to fall in love. Chris, ever the teenager, continues eating his peas, utterly indifferent to his little sister’s proclamation.

She’s pretty sheltered, so it’s not until she’s almost a teenager that the word “gay” even enters her vocabulary. When it does, it’s jeered by Vincent Stridenger at two boys hugging in the hallway. It makes everyone around them turn and look, laughing and jeering. The boys break apart, red-faced and awkward.

Chloe asks Chris about it after school that night, figuring that at 16, he’d understand. His face twists when she asks, transforming into a mask of distaste she’s rarely seen before. He tells her what it means, but she still doesn’t understand why someone would use that term as an insult meant to embarrass others. Chris only pulls her close (she’s amazed; hugs from her teenage brother are becoming few and far in between) and tells her, “It’s okay that you don’t understand why. It just means you wouldn’t do something like that.”

Chloe’s first kiss happens when she’s 13, with Danny Nuck at the local burger place. He’d asked her there on a date and she’d happily agreed. It had gone well; they had a lot of shared interests in books, music, and movies. He even paid for their dinner, then had walked her outside. Because they were both too young to drive, their moms sat in their respective cars in the lot to pick them up.

Before Chloe goes to her mom’s car, though, Danny nervously asks if he can kiss her. Butterflies (the good kind) erupt in Chloe’s stomach and she nods. Danny closes the space between them and places a very small, quick peck on her lips. It’s nothing groundbreaking, but she likes how warm and happy it makes her feel.

Her second kiss is with Emily Kosma. She’s 14 and at her first high school party with actual alcohol. She doesn’t drink very much, only two cups of UV Blue mixed with lemonade, but it’s enough to fill her with a happy buzz.

Emily Kosma is in choir with her and she’s very pretty. She winks at Chloe from across the room as Chloe refills her second cup, and it draws Chloe over to her like a magnet. They talk for a bit about classes, then music, then books they both like. Chloe notices that Emily doesn’t mention boys, which is a good thing; it seems like all the other girls their age talk nonstop about boys, and that gets boring.

They end up dancing together when the music starts. It’s all innocent, until suddenly Emily’s face is close to hers – so close, that she can feel warm puffs of air against her lips. That, Emily’s looks, and the second cup of alcohol spurs Chloe to lean in and kiss Emily on the lips. She thinks about how soft Emily’s mouth is against her own, and how nice her shampoo smells.

They break apart to wolf-whistles and cheers from their tipsy peers. Chloe ignores them in favor of looking into Emily’s eyes, making sure she hadn’t embarrassed her. As it turns out, she doesn’t need to worry; Emily grins at her before reaching to pull her into their second kiss, and their last.

She doesn’t really keep track of who she kisses after that. A few different people, both boys and girls, like always. She’s not overzealous with it; she knows what high schoolers say about girls who kiss (and more than kiss) too many people. But whenever Chloe likes someone, she makes a point to kiss them, as long as they want to kiss her, too.

At 15, she realizes she should probably formally come out to her parents and to Chris. She waits until Thanksgiving, so that Chris is home from college. She’s only a little nervous to tell them because she knows they’ll love her no matter what, but she also doesn’t want them to treat her any differently because of who she dates.

She eventually squeaks it out over the dinner table in a voice that only quivers just the slightest bit. As soon as the words are out, her mom’s brow furrows. Chloe’s stomach drops, only for her mom to ask, confused, “Didn’t you already tell us that?”

Her dad shakes his head and answers for her, “Kinda, but this is the real deal, Cheryl.”

“Oh. Okay,” her mom answers, then adds, “We’re thrilled for you, honey. We want you to be happy. Right, Eric?”

“Of course,” Chloe’s dad smiles at her.

It’s that simple. Chloe grins her thanks and returns to her dinner. She’s lighter than air, filled with love for the people she cares for most in the world and their unerring acceptance of who she is.

As always, Chris continues eating, totally unfazed.

Chloe’s grandparents on her dad’s side both pass away when she’s 16. Her grandma from cancer, and her grandpa three days later from a broken heart (at least, that’s what her dad says). Chloe struggles with it; she’d loved her grandparents very much, having been especially close to her grandmother.

Their funeral is hard, and it’s the first time she can remember feeling so miserable that it actually makes her chest ache. It’s utterly appalling to her, that she can feel something like that.

She talks to her dad about it, though, and that helps. He wipes her tears and tells her that’s what love feels like, and that she’s lucky to be able to feel so deeply. Her mom and Chris help too; they hug her, hold her, bring her Kleenexes when she cries. With every day that passes after that, she can feel the ache in her chest lessening. She knows it’ll never go away completely, but she believes that it makes her a stronger, better person.

She finishes high school ranked 3rd in her class, proud of her accomplishments and full of excitement for her future. She’ll miss her friends desperately, but she already can’t wait for what Barden University will have in store for her.

Moving out is hard, but her parents and Chris (though he’s going to be a senior at his own university) help her get settled into Baker Hall. She meets her random roommate, Rachel, who seems nice, even if she is a math major (Chloe doesn’t trust people who like math that much). Chloe’s family part after countless hugs and what feels like a gallon of tears, but Chloe can’t remember ever feeling so happy and excited for the future.

Joining the Barden Bellas is the best decision she’s ever made, she’s sure of it. Well, she’s sure about her passion for singing and team bonding. She’s less sure about joining a group whose sophomore leader – Alice – is constantly rude to her and the other freshman member, Aubrey Posen.

Chloe is desperate to get to know Aubrey. The blonde is quiet, closed off, and serious in demeanor, but the occasional smile she sends Chloe’s way makes her think she’s not all stone. Still, it’s not until almost a month into Bellas rehearsals that she finally breaks through that hard exterior.

Feeling encouraged by an unusually good rehearsal, Chloe cracks her favorite joke for the group at large.

“Hey, guys,” she starts, getting their attention. “What did the janitor say when he jumped out of the closet?”

She’s met with several blank stares. Alice looks like she’s chewing the inside of her lip to keep from saying anything.

“Supplies!” Chloe cries happily, raising her arms for emphasis. “Get it?”

Only one person laughs: Aubrey. Chloe latches onto that instantly, sending her a beaming smile that Aubrey tentatively returns. She ignores the indifferent looks Alice and the other Bellas send her way in favor of moving to stand next to Aubrey while she gathers her things. They walk out of the auditorium together and Chloe practically forces her phone number into Aubrey’s reluctant hand because, damn it, she wants at least one friend among the Bellas.

Aubrey texts her that night to set up a time to hang out outside of rehearsal. In her dorm room, Chloe breaks into her happy dance in full sight of Rachel.

Alice’s rudeness turns out to be a blessing in disguise. She and Aubrey bond over it, though Aubrey has a hard time speaking against Alice’s authority at first. Chloe learns that Aubrey comes from a military family that is filled with both love and discipline. She learns that Aubrey is capable of feeling just as much as she is, but isn’t always able to express it.

They spend many nights talking over large cheese pizzas they have delivered either to Aubrey’s room in Kennedy Hall or to Chloe’s in Baker. Friendship has always come easily to Chloe, and what she has with Aubrey is no different. It’s not long until, during a goodbye hug after one of their pizza nights, Aubrey whispers in her ear, “You’re my best friend.”

Chloe dates in college, though not often seriously, as her classes and her Bellas schedule keeps her busier than she’d like. She goes on dates with both men and women, which seems to bother Alice. Chloe doesn’t see why it should bother anyone; it’s her life, she should be able to be happy with whomever she wants. Alice doesn’t get that message, though, and near the end of Chloe’s freshman year, she tries to kick Chloe out of the Bellas. They’re all sitting down in the auditorium, Alice standing at her whiteboards when she says crudely and in front of everyone, “Chloe, if you’re going to be such a fucking slutbag, you can leave the Bellas.”

When that happens, Aubrey immediately stands up for her – literally. She rises from her chair and gets right in Alice’s face, actually forcing her back a step. Chloe can only stare in shock and awe as Aubrey snarls, “Don’t you dare say that to her. It’s none of your business if she dates girls. And you can’t kick her out. That’s discrimination, and I. Will. Tear. You. Down.”

Alice glares back but doesn’t say anything. Chloe’s not sure whether she should cry or cheer; Alice’s words had cut deep (she’s never been called a slut before) but Aubrey’s support of her means the world.

With one final huff in Alice’s direction, Aubrey moves stiffly back to her chair next to Chloe. Chloe glances over to say thanks, but Aubrey seems too angry to notice. Her hands are shaking pretty badly, with one resting on her stomach and the other gripping the side of the seat of her chair.

They never really talk about it beyond Chloe’s whispered, “Thank you,” following the rehearsal. Aubrey acknowledges it with a nod, and that’s that. Alice doesn’t bring it up again, but Chloe notices that Alice doesn’t make eye contact with her anymore after that.

Chloe falls in love with Tom Martineau at the start of her junior year. They’ve been dating for almost six months by that point, so she’s not surprised when she realizes she loves him. He’s kind to people and animals, loves music, books, and travel. He holds doors for her and always walks between her and the road. He’s considerate and good in bed (not that she has anyone to compare him to) and he loves it when she sings to him.

She loves him. That’s why it’s hard to acknowledge that their time together is drawing to a close. He’s set to graduate, while she has one year left at Barden. Even though he promises to visit during her senior year, she knows things won’t really be the same. More than that, they want different things out of life. Chloe isn’t really sure what she’s doing after college, but Tom has his next 20 years planned out. He’s planning on joining the Peace Corps and will probably spend the next five years across the world helping underprivileged kids. After that, he wants to work toward an environmental law degree, then settle down and have four kids of his own. While that all sounds amazing for him, Chloe doesn’t see herself in that picture.

They mutually break up about a week before the Bellas finals at the end of that year. Chloe needs to focus on their performance; Tom on graduation. They both cry when it ends, but they agree it’s for the best.

Chloe’s more upset than she lets on; again, she feels more than she maybe should. Tom is the first person she’s been in love with, and while they part on good terms, it still stings to know she won’t wake up with his arms around her anymore. She calls her mom that night and cries into the phone. From the next room, Aubrey hears her and brings her a pint of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream to make her feel better.

Chloe feels so, so loved that night.

The finals are a disaster. They lost the Bella win, but more than that, it feels like she’s lost her best friend. Aubrey is inconsolable, even though it isn’t really her fault. Chloe spends almost a week after the incident smoothing her hand between Aubrey’s shoulder blades as she dry-heaves into a toilet from the stress.

It’s easier once Alice moves out of the Bella house, leaving them with the keys and a cruel, “You two slutbags can’t fuck things up more than you already have, so you’re captains now.”

Chloe isn’t sorry to see the last of her.

Unfortunately, Aubrey takes Alice’s parting message to heart. She stops heaving only long enough to look up and say, “We need to win next year. We have to.” Chloe tries not to let it bother her, tries to remember that that’s Aubrey trapped in the body of some possessed, angry, and ashamed girl. She hopes the summer helps.

It doesn’t. If anything, Aubrey’s thrown herself into co-captaincy with a renewed vengeance. It’s a little scary.

Chloe knows her senior year is going to be a hard one. With the combined stresses of her classes, finding and training new Bellas, making sure Aubrey doesn’t lose her lunch, and her still relatively recently-ended relationship (though Tom still says he’d like to visit for the occasional hook-up), Chloe decides not to date anyone for a little while. Maybe even for the rest of her college career.

Then, at 21, against Aubrey’s will and recovering from a Bellas failure, Chloe meets Beca Mitchell.

#bechloe #bechloe fic #my writing #beca mitchell #chloe beale #pitch perfect fanfic #i'm nobody's but yours #chapter 2 #little bit of aubrey posen in there too #switching to Chloe's POV

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