#but perhaps that might be expected of a pair who aren't related but see each other as like siblings!

[tiny-cloud-of-flowers]

Hi there! I hope you’re doing fine! I have a question for one of the siblings.For Felix to be exact! I’m curious… Siblings tease sometimes, don’t they? So who usually does the teasing (in a sibling–like way of course)? And how does the other react? Is it becoming a back and forth or is the other party too flustered to fight back? @nimue-hidden-lake

Felix: "Oh, that's absolutely Catarina. Not that you'd probably call her the type to tease - not when comparing her to some of my friends, at least - but she has certainly got it in her. I don't even know if you'd call it teasing, but.. it's the way she just bites back with some sort of answer, any time you say something that's either wrong or that she can counter somehow. She's so quick to retort with some- cutting response or other, it's kind of ridiculous how perfectly she does it at this point!

And she doesn't even do it all the time, either - only when she can actually prove her point. I admire it about her a lot, don't get me wrong - it's just not always fun to be on the receiving end of if I'm already in a bad mood, you know? At least she knows when to drop it, though.. And quite often, we do end up sending things back-and-forth pretty well. Usually in the middle of training, actually. Her tongue's almost sharper than her sword work, but we're both pretty evenly-matched at this point - in wits as well as blades.

That.. probably wasn't the most concise answer I could have given? So, sorry about that. Still, I hope that it works."

[the-darklings]

╱ together.

pairing: jean & v, implied other v ships

verse: coa, alt post-ch19 timeline

word count: 4.8k

prompt: “We’ll lose.” - “Then we’ll do that together, too.”

notes: so this is a speculative piece looking at how jean might have fit into coa verse & how him and clara v could have fit together. dedicated to that one anon who asked more of them, thank you very much for making my day! 🌿 ✨

“Well, well. Out here all by yourself and in the dark?” a smooth, accented voice calls out and your shoulders jolt, stiff with disuse, your head tipping towards the approaching figure of a man. “Have you been doing much brooding, chérie?”

Jean’s tall, graceful frame casts a shadow across the decking of the penthouse terrace as he saunters closer and you bite back a grin. With the cover of darkness as his partner, he’s a panther, a predator, out for a casual hunt in the shadows. Tonight, his prey is you. But he knows better than that. You both do.

The Frenchman halts beside you and takes a seat on your right without waiting for an invitation. This time a roll of your eyes follows his innate show of arrogance but you don’t impede him. Allow him space next to you which is a privilege very few have ever been granted.

It’s dark up here. Quiet. You didn’t bother with any lights aside from the automatic pool ones. Wind whistles gently across the tranquil surface, causing a ripple to shift across the previously calm body of water. Faintly—from the direction Jean had just come from—you can still hear the rest of your family inside the apartment.

The final touches are being added and prep is being made. Tomorrow…

Tomorrow will either spell the beginning of your victory or utter defeat. One of these scenarios ends with all of you dead, if not worse.

“And here you are bothering me in my final moments of peace,” you note dully.

The man beside you stretches his legs out, inclining back in the comfortable outdoors chair leisurely. Plush and Italian made—as if Santino would ever clad his home in anything that wasn’t authentic or expensive. A taste for finer things in life is something Jean and Santino share in common. Though you’ve long since learned that Jean’s appetite comes from a different place; a place you could always relate to, much to the Italian’s chagrin.

Wind plays with your loose hair—a rare occasion when it’s not pulled out of reach—and it leaves you breathing calmly, counting the thuds of your own heart. It’s not frantic this time though. You savour every beat of your heart now. Relish the moments you still have. However few of those there are still left.

Jean shifts beside you, pulling something out of his pocket and you glance at him briefly. The dark grey of his expensive wool jumper almost makes him blend in with the night, but the icy blue of his eyes stands out with the pool lights reflecting in them. If anything, it makes his attention feel even more intent. Honed.

“Can’t a man enjoy a smoke anymore?” he wonders innocently, a touch of sarcasm clear, and places an unlit cigarette between his lips, lighting it with expert ease a moment later.

He takes a long drag before pulling it away from his mouth and you watch his profile as he exhales slowly, savouring the moment, his head tilting towards the vast sky above you.

Using his momentary distraction, you reach forward, pinching the cigarette between your fingers and placing it between your lips instead. Jean doesn’t offer much resistance. As usual, he only looks mildly amused by your antics, a brief smirk appearing before it’s gone.

“Still greedy.”

Your lips twitch at that, too. “Some things don’t change.”

You inhale deeply, feeling the burning heat of the smoke at the back of your throat before passing the cigarette back to him. The smoke slips like dreamy wisps from between your parted lips and you look towards the open sky as well. Jean’s stare stays on your mouth. You know because you can always feel him. His attention is like silk caressing your skin, kissing little patches of skin, stealing them for himself.

You’re hardly the only greedy one here. He, too, exists in absolutes. More so than he would care to admit at least.

The blinding lights of New York City—even this late—almost drown out the stars but you can still see them. As cold and as distant as the man beside you. You want to ask him why he’s out here in the first place. Why would he bother? He may dress it up as wanting to smoke but everything Jean does is far too deliberate and calculated for this to be a mere coincidence.

Nor does the man beside you believe in such things. Master of his own fate—he always has been.

Jean places the cigarette back between his lips and turns to grab something from beside his chair. You hadn’t even noticed he was carrying something. Are you slipping this much already? Your instincts and body deteriorating even quicker than you calculated?

“May I interest you in a drink?” he offers, his words almost a soft murmur around his cigarette, and raises a bottle of wine and two glasses in the air.

You don't bother hiding your chuckle. “Trying to get me drunk on the eve of the battle?’

He, in turn, doesn’t bother denying it. He only bestows you with a knowing twitch of his mouth—all half-secrets and implications; dark and arcane as him, but doesn’t confirm nor deny your words no matter how long you wait.

“Maybe your hangover will be so terrible tomorrow you will abandon your suicidal plan, vipère.”

It’s a mild statement; a test of waters more so than anything, but you know Jean doesn’t speak mindlessly often. If ever. He chooses his words as carefully as he does everything else in his life. He’s methodical; oftentimes ruthlessly so.

You watch curiously as he places one glass next to your feet and one beside his own, opening the bottle with practised, near beguiling ease. He pours half a glass each, a cigarette bit between his teeth now, and you see how he inhales the smoke, still tasting tobacco on your own tongue. Red wine and cigarettes are two flavours you associate with him. With his mouth. The growl of his voice in your ear, the roll of your name on his destructive tongue.

A smudge of dark orange light illuminates his angular, handsome features and dark stubble and you can’t quite help your next words.

“You’re here.”

You hadn’t expected him to linger. His job was done. Yet here he is.

A small sound rumbles from the back of his throat. “I’m here because you asked me to be here,” he reminds you, and you can hear the displeasure—the downright callous edge to his amiable words—when he removes the cigarette from between his lips. Smoke slips from between them as he speaks, his eyes finding yours in the darkness. “Consider yourself very lucky that I owe you, V. After this, however, I’m not sure I’m ever going to bother you with business again. I’m not sure why you bothered inviting me here in the first place.”

Yes. His debt.

He’s tried to weasel out of it for years. Everything from trying to get you into trouble, outright attempting to get rid of you, to downplaying the sheer magnitude of it. He’s never succeeded, however, and has grown fond of comparing you to a viper with seven lives.

A life debt is a life debt though.

“Maybe it’s because I don’t think you’re half as bad as you make yourself out to be.”

Even if others have outright disagreed with your opinion of the man.

Jean snorts under his breath, a cool smile splitting his face, sharper than one of your blades. Shaking his head, he lifts the glass in the air, offering it to you. You take it after a pause, watching him do the same with his glass. “You’re right,” he hums in agreement, and takes a sip of his wine; a slow one because he never rushes these things, and you know it. The cigarette returns to his mouth a moment later and he turns to glance at you again. “I’m much worse.”

“You’re also smart,” you note without missing a beat and take a mouthful, too. It’s red and fruity, and the sweetness of it coats your tongue pleasantly. Though usually you aren't too fond of wine this sweet, Jean has developed a habit of finding things you love. However accidentally. Or perhaps he knows you better than you do. He no doubt believes so. It’s become another game for him over the years. One of his favourite games to play between you on the rare occasion you would run into each other. “And know that if you betray me and my family, death will be the least of your worries.”

You don't bother mincing your words or implying things. Not this time. Not when it comes to this.

If he betrays you, he will die choking on his blood regardless of your past association or lingering fondness for him. You will rip him to shreds with your bare hands if he ever so much as attempts it.

Bringing him in on this has been the biggest risk you ever took. Everyone opposed you. Even John. Winston had been the only one who—no matter how reluctantly—eventually agreed that Jean Laurent could end up becoming a unique and unexpected advantage.

You proved your own suspicion correct. Combining Jean’s web of information with Step’s hacking skills has been as good as striking a goldmine. It’s been invaluable in gathering intel on all the members of the High Table and their weaknesses.

A vicious, clever spider sitting in the middle of his silky web of information, and you have taken advantage of every single thread in it.

You’ve been watching his every move since he joined your side like a hawk. You don't trust him—can’t trust him. You would be a fool to do so, and even though he has stuck by his word so far, you still feel like the moment you glance away from him will be the moment he sells you out.

One leak, one sly suggestion—that’s all it would take for everything you’ve been working towards to fall apart. Everything would be lost, and it would be your fault.

All because you placed some semblance of trust in the last man on earth deserving of it.

“My, my, I do love it when you talk dirty to me, vipère,” he murmurs lightly, his voice unconcerned but the shift in his eyes informs you how your words have been noted. He knows better than to dismiss you.

Jean raises the glass back to his mouth, a smouldering cigarette sitting snugly between his index and middle fingers, and you watch how the wind ruffles his black hair.

This time smoke rolls from his nose. He gazes at the New York skyline silently, pensively. Maybe he did mean his earlier words after all. Maybe he simply joined you because he, too, wants a moment to himself.

Cold nips at your fingertips—you’re not quite sure how long you’ve been sitting out here by yourself—and perhaps that’s the reason why you break the silence between you first.

“You came because I asked,” you begin carefully, still peering at him while he looks out towards the world. Forever looking ahead. You always loved that about him. Jean doesn’t like looking back, only ahead. Often you wished you could shake your past as easily as he seemingly can shake his. How many times has he told you the same? “But you chose to stay. Why?”

His expression remains impassive, not outwardly reacting to your words, and you begin to doubt he will ever offer you a response before he finally speaks up.

“It will never work,” he states frankly. “This plan of yours. It cannot be done. We’ll lose.”

Of course this is what this is about. He’s always been out for himself. The fact that he thinks your plan will fail should not surprise you. He told you as much the moment you finished telling him about it. He point-blank called you an idiot for ever thinking you could take on the High Table and win.

You are many things, V, but foolish is not one of them.

You had hoped these weeks spent planning and working together would have changed his mind. Shown to him that this isn’t a simple pipe dream. That you have the raw skill and the will to follow through with this coup.

You wanted Jean to believe in this goal—this dream—too.

He is, of course, not wrong.

The longer you planned, the more of this plan came together, the easier it became to see what he’d been saying from the start.

You are not only likely to lose, you are near guaranteed to do so.

Unless…

Unless you gamble away everything. Whatever little there is still left of you. The clock is already ticking. It has been for two months now. Every minute of every day the end is nearing. The least you can do…

The least you can do is make it count.

“Then we’ll do that together, too,” you say softly.

And it won’t be such a terrible way to go, you think, keeping them safe.

Jean finally drags his eyes your way. The bitterness creasing his expression cuts deeper than you ever could have expected it to. It’s rare for him to show this much.

“Do not tell me you are this naive, chérie,” he says coldly, his expression emptying of emotions swiftly. He seems to have caught himself in the uncharacteristic slip, exhaling a low, “But it seems like this night is full of disappointments,” he adds quietly with a forced exhale, his eyebrows curving downwards.

Neither of you speaks for a while after that.

You cradle the wine glass between your partially numb fingers, occasionally lifting it to your mouth.

Maybe you should get drunk. Do something reckless. The call of the void has been screaming at you as of late. Seductive whisper after seductive whisper how you could and should do anything you want. With whoever you want.

L'appel du vide, vipère, Jean used to exhale hotly against your ear, it is why you and I are the same. Your days are numbered unless some miracle happens and you find an antidote anyway.

But feeling hopeful after failing for two months straight is not something you can muster up tonight.

You realise, then, that this may very well be the last opportunity to get some answers from the man beside you. Get some rectification on your odd bond over the years. Not your first attempt but what will certainly be your last.

“Do you think…”

You’re suddenly unsure where to even begin. How does one untangle years of tiptoeing around different labels? Enemies that are not quite enemies. Lovers that are not quite lovers. Friends when it suits them, then the cycle repeats, and it’s like they’re back at square one all over again. Constant push and pull.

You’ve never been sure where you stand with Jean. Two years ago everything between you changed but unlike with others, he’s always been every blurred line in your life. An almost-maybe.

“I try to,” comes his dry response from beside you.

You roll your eyes, bobbing your leg up and down as another gust of wind sweeps across the silent terrace.

Jean has finished his cigarette, his shrewd stare now focused on you, expectant.

Go on, then, say it, his unfaltering stare seems to goad.

You’re not nervous. You have nothing left to fear, not anymore. But all the same…

You’re tired of constantly being hurt by someone. Your question opens the door for exactly that.

“Do you think we ever could have worked out?”

Had life gone just a little different. Had you met when you were both less guarded and twisted up inside. You, at least, have managed to find people willing to stand in your corner and fight your fight.

He’s all alone.

And maybe he prefers it that way—he has certainly always been adamant that he does—but you’ve never believed it. Not fully, at least.

A house full of people he could string along and play with, yet the liesmith seeks refuge out here in the dark. With you.

A thoughtful hum, then, “Don’t let your gaggle of boyfriends hear you asking me that.”

You almost splutter.

Your head snaps in his direction, your eyes narrowing, “I don’t have a gaggle of…fuck you,” you spit when you spot his smug expression and a raised brow.

“You have,” he purrs, his accented words a caress of his hot mouth across your fluttering pulse. “Many, many, filthy times, amante. Or am I so easy to forget?”

“You know, for how often you go on about Santino stroking his ego,” you remark dryly, giving him a pointed stare. “You sure do it often yourself.”

Jean clicks his tongue, leaning back in his seat, more irked by the change in the topic than he lets on. You’ve learned to read him as well. To a degree, at least.

“Am I supposed to be impressed by D’Antonio’s drooling?” he scoffs, words bland but tone sharp. “It’s frankly embarrassing. Either he’s atrocious at seducing you and you’re entertaining him out of pity, or he doesn’t understand you at all.”

His words dig into your heart but you don’t let him see it. Quirking an amused brow, you instead stare at him. “At this point, I honestly can’t tell if you hate him because you’re French and he’s Italian or because you don’t like him as a person.”

Jean grins this time; a dark, cruel thing. “Ah, chérie, hatred is too strong of an emotion to waste on someone I don’t care about,” he rebukes smoothly, standing to his feet. He glances in your direction, adding a deliberate, “But D’Antonio hates me because I won the one thing he always wanted but could never have.”

You.

Even if it weren’t for the deliberate, hot dig of Jean’s stare focusing on your face, you know as much already.

Blue depths drag over your still shape, lingering on your neck and lips, and you wonder if he’s thinking back on all the wicked things he’s done with them. Every moan and bruise, every hot drive into your body and mould of your naked skin together. He’s been an escape from everything. A bit of fun, a release, a shadow smearing in and out of your life for years.

Now though, you can’t help but wonder. Can’t help but consider why it’s always been so easy with him when it hasn’t been with others. Why every pursuit of happiness in the past has ended in misery and pain. With Jean, you always got exactly what you signed up for.

Mindblowing sex, thrill, challenge, and an escape without any attachments. No promises of a glowing future or expectations for you. He never made you live under the expectation of you being anything other than yourself. Messy and cracked around the edges but still you.

Jean has never cared for a normal life or demanded it of you, never wanted you to become an apprentice or Lady of anything.

You’ve always been enough to him just as you are, you realise with a dizzying rush. And his awful, seductive, traitorous self has always been enough for you as well. He’s never tried to change you or himself to appease you.

Not hearing a response, Jean offers you another striking grin you know has seduced endless numbers to his bed and turns to go.

“Wait!” you call out, jumping to your feet. Your joints protest, groaning and cracking, and stumble a step after him. He’s paused in his tracks, turning back towards you. “You never answered my question. If you think we could have worked out.”

You stand together, breathing, and he gazes at you for a long, charged minute. It’s nigh impossible to tell what’s going on behind his effortless mask of ease and composure. Always in control of himself and his emotions.

You’re about to ask him again but he closes the distance between you in two steps, grabbing you by the neck and yanking you to him. His mouth is hot and consuming as you remember it. His tongue drags over the roof of your mouth, seeking out every edge, every crevice, claiming it entirely. Claiming you. Despite him standing almost a head taller, you snake your hand around his neck, savouring his hiss of breath at the feeling of your cold fingers on his heated neck. Broad shoulders block the wind, block the rest of the world, and you sigh into him. He still tastes of smoky tobacco and sweet wine. A dizzying mix that stirs your body, warming your blood. Your nails drag up his neck and into the strong strands of his midnight hair, scratching all the while. You feel his hold on the back of your neck tighten in response.

The battle between you two never ceases and you can feel him grinning against your mouth, as if he, too, is having the same epiphany.

“Don’t die,” he exhales hotly against your parted lips when you separate with a gasp, still holding you to him, every hard edge of his body cutting into you. “Maybe then we can find out.”

Don’t die.

You almost burst into tears.

I’m dying right now, you want to confess to him. Would he stay if he knew as much? Would he stay until your heart halted inside your chest and you became forever still? Would he be kind if you asked him to be? Just this once?

He’s unaware of your internal struggle, dragging his thumb over the line of your jaw. Lips parted, and eyes hooded—you’ve seen this side of him many times. The sensuous lover with his sultry eyes more sapphire than blue now that he’s gazing down at you. How many times has he stared at you exactly like this? Caught dragging his tongue over every crevice of your body, his favourite being the dip between your thighs and your neck.

Jean nudges backwards, and you read his question there, his body asking what his tongue won’t.

If you’re joining him in bed. If tonight you’re his. Another stolen instance between you.

“I can’t,” you say quietly. He doesn’t appear surprised or angry by your refusal, his hands slipping from your body with a nod. But you don’t let him retreat, grasping his forearm, feeling the coil of muscle where you’re holding onto him. “Wait.”

Reaching into your back pocket, you pull out a familiar, heavy object. Gold gleams in the low light and you turn the circular disk, warmed by your body.

Jean stiffens at the sight of it. You both know what it is.

Opening the Marker with a too quiet click, you release your hold on him, staring at the print of his blood smeared inside.

He helped you only because the High Table would have hunted him if he hadn’t obeyed his Marker, you remind yourself. You silence the voice inside your head that reminds you he could have sold the information to them for immunity if he so wished.

Exhaling, you press your thumb against the tiny needlepoint, not reacting to the bite of pain. Blood wells against your skin and you stare at it for a moment.

You’re not sure if Jean is still breathing but you feel the intensity of his stare searing into your body.

Breathing deeply, you press your thumb harshly against the cool metal. Another second later you pull back, staring at your dual blood prints on the metal plate. Your insides quiver at the sight of it.

This is the way it’s always been between you. Shadows and blood, secrets and hunger.

Sometimes…

Sometimes in between those moments, you could almost pretend he loved you.

“We both know you were going to leave anyway,” you begin tightly, closing the Marker with a grim smile, holding it out to him. “This was just another shitty goodbye. Never thought you’d manage to top Venice. Or Berlin for that matter. But now you’re free. I no longer want you here, so don’t be here tomorrow. Save yourself while you still can.”

He doesn’t deny your words. He at least respects you enough to not dismiss you like he would others. Let them tangle themselves in a web of speculations and doubts. Jean enjoys few things more than people choking on their own words. A rope of their own fashioning is poetic justice, he used to tell you.

He reaches for the Marker, the one damn thing that’s always tied you together, and takes it. A stab pierces your heart to see it in his grasp. Now there’s nothing between you. You don’t doubt his earlier words. It’s unlikely he will want to associate with you in the future after this.

Doesn’t matter now though. You’re likely to be dead by tomorrow, or another few weeks if you’re lucky.

If.

“You knew.”

Your smile is grim. “Of course. I know you better than you think.”

He won’t risk himself for a plan doomed to fail.

You drop your hand but he grabs it before it can fall back to your side. This time his kiss is different. Hungrier, simmering with some desperation you’ve only caught glimpses of a few times in the past. A silent war in him you’ve never been able to decipher. Jean cups one of your cheeks, leaning over your at an angle that’s unlikely to be comfortable with your height difference but you savour it all the same. His heat. His presence. The burn of his stubble scratching against your skin. More, more, more. You want every last bit of him.

You’ve never noticed how safe a man this dangerous makes you feel. After Tokyo, Chicago, after the desert, after everything you’ve been through, you never thought you’d ever feel like this again.

Alive.

For being no better than glaciers, cold and merciless, nothing burns better than him.

His nose nudges against your cheek—it’s too big, you put that nose any closer to me and you might take an eye out—his arm, an iron band around your waist. Jean is never shy about his touches, he knows exactly how every inch of you trembles and shudders. He’s spent endless hours familiarising himself with every inch of you after all. You hate how you feel a silent goodbye in every second of your body curled against his now.

“Come with me,” he says, and it borders on a snarl, a demand. “Arrêter… this stupidity now and come with me. My web goes far and wide. I could hide you.”

“And go where?” you wonder softly, leaning into his touch, his thumb stroking your cheek despite the chipped bite of his native tongue. You’re desperate for another few seconds with him.

You never thought you would miss him this much, that you would ache so much at the mere thought of never seeing him again.

“Anywhere, vipère,” he drawls, tugging you closer as if he’s a hair away from throwing you over his shoulder and disappearing into the unknown. For a single second, you want him to. “The world is ours. A beach. You and me, and a whole lot of naked skin,” he continues with a seductive grin you feel against your face.

Seduction—his preferred weapon of choice. You wonder if you’re imagining the harder bite of his voice and meaner grip of his hands, as if he needs to convince you to abandon everything and disappear.

Your closed eyes flutter open, meeting his earnest stare. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him more earnest in all the years you’ve known him.

“I want to,” you tell him, leaning closer to kiss him once, softly. His muscles tighten and you half expect him to flinch away from it because it’s not lust you’re kissing him with, and he knows this. He’s too good not to recognise it. Leaning back, your breaths still mingle, and you inhale his cologne, “But I’m done running, Jean. One way or another. This ends. Now go. I don’t need you anymore.”

He pulls back, his smile cool, caustic. “You’re still a terrible liar, amante.”

The golden Marker disappears inside his pocket. Out of sight.

“I do believe there’s more left for me to teach,” he drawls deliberately, his smile smoothing into something more enticing, crooked as it is sly. “I’ll be seeing you, V.”

There’s no question there. You don’t have the heart to inform him you’re unlikely to ever see each other again.

When no one can locate Jean in his room or reach him over the phone the next morning, you simply tell others to stop looking and focus.

It’s better this way anyway.

At least this way one of you gets to live.

[1dfangirls35]

Voir Dire (N.H.) A fake dating OU about contracts, soulmates and risking it all for love.

Masterlist // Tell Me What You Think!

twenty-eight

As the elevator ticked past each floor of the Capitol Records building, Niall began to wonder if this would be the last time he would ever step foot in this or any place related to music.

He still remembered the first time he stepped foot in the iconic building- fresh off the One Direction hiatus and unsure what he would be as an artist. His dreams for his solo career just within reach. He was a different person back then. A person that was willing to do whatever it took to make it in the music world and to make a name for himself. A person who believed that Capitol Records was the key to paving a career that fit his dreams perfectly. A person who still believed that the music industry wasn't all bad.

But today was the end of that. He would no longer give up his own relationships, hopes and dreams just because of an image that his label wanted him to portray. He would no longer be letting someone else dictate his life; what he sang, what he wore, who he loved. No today, for perhaps the first time in his career, Niall was going to take charge of his own destiny.

A part of Niall was still scared that something could go wrong. He'd asked Kelsey ten times last night whether she was sure she wanted to go through with this, knowing what might happen if their plan didn't quite go off without a hitch.

Each time he'd asked her, she'd nodded and smiled and told him there's nothing she'd ever been more sure about. Niall knew saying those words was hard for her. He also knew that the smile on her face was constructed with just as much fear as Niall had right now.  But he couldn't be happier to finally be at the place where he and Kelsey could have the life together he'd always dreamed of. Free of contracts and fake girlfriends and manipulation.

Niall didn't wait for Alan Michaels's secretary to greet him when he stepped off the elevator, or for her to notify Mr. Michaels that he had a visitor. Instead he headed full speed towards the double-glass doors of the Capitol executive's office and pushed them open, saying in his strongest, gutsiest voice "We need to talk."

Alan Michaels turned from his computer, snapping his head around to look at Niall with surprise. "Mr. Horan did we have a meeting today?"

"We do now." Niall said forcefully, taking a seat in the chair in front of the desk. He tried to ignore the light shake of his hands as he folded them in his lap, instead taking delight in the fact that Alan Michaels had no idea what was coming for him.

"And what can I do for you today Mr. Horan?" Mr. Michaels asked in a long drawn-out voice, shuffling a stack of papers around on his desktop.  

"Whatever you did to make Kelsey Benton break up with me- I want it nullified," Niall doesn't flinch as he says the words, staring straight into Mr. Michaels dark brown eyes as if they aren't the most intimidating pair he's ever seen.

Niall swears it takes five minutes before words leave Mr. Michaels mouth again, his heartbeat rapid in his ear.

"Excuse me?" Mr. Michaels said his face astonished. "I'm sorry Mr. Horan, I have no idea what you are talking about. Have you been in contact with Miss Benton?"

"Not at all." Niall said, his lips staying in a straight line. "And I've begun to realize that perhaps there is a reason why." Niall wondered if this small fib would be enough to convince Alan Michaels that Kelsey hadn't breeched the conditions of her contract, but even if Michaels suspected he did, there was no proof.

"I can assure you Mr. Horan, what Miss Benton chooses to do in her relationship is entirely under her control. Perhaps she simply decided you weren't the one for her," the lies slipped out of Mr. Michaels mouth with ease, and Niall can see why he has this job. He's good at it. The lying, the manipulating, the convincing. Niall wondered how many other artists have sat in this very spot and been convinced that the label was doing everything in their best interest. How many hearts had been broken, families changed, careers altered all under the power of Alan Michaels and his smug smile. That wouldn't be the case today.

Niall had not expected this to be a simple meeting. He knew Alan Michaels wouldn't admit to meddling in his relationship willingly, so Niall had come prepared with his own pretty little piece of blackmail.

"Let me make myself clear- ALAN," Niall's voice was strong. "I happen to know several journalists who are just a phone call away from releasing an interview with me about my fake relationship with Krystal. I'm sure it would be the talk of LA in a matter of minutes."

Niall watched as Mr. Michaels throat bobbed in a firm swallow, he had his attention now.

"You are under a contract Mr. Horan. These promotional tactics are not to be disclosed to the public."

"And if I chose to tell my fans the truth? That you've hired someone to be my girlfriend over the past year. That the dates, the music video, the "love" was entirely something of your own creation in order to help increase your record sales. That I was forced into this against my will? What would you do then?"

"Well we would have to terminate your contract with Capitol Records. You would no longer be one of our recording artists." The look on Alan Michaels face told Niall that he thought he had given the ultimate threat, but little did Alan Michaels know, that threat was exactly what Niall wanted him to say.

"I bet you'd hate to see that happen wouldn't you? I mean a number one album in 42 countries, a sold-out world tour, some of the most dedicated fans in the universe. There's a lot more where that came from," Niall was taunting him now, and the more Mr. Michaels smug grin transformed into a frown, the more fun Niall was having. He was getting to Alan Michaels, he could tell.

"We would hate to see one of Capitol's best artists leave the label, that's for certain," Mr. Michaels said, his voice now laced with nervousness instead of intimidation.

"So you see the dilemma here? Looks like you are going to have to choose between terminating whatever kind of threat you made with Miss Benton to ensure she didn't ruin your promotional plans or terminating your relationship with one of your most successful artists. I mean if it was me, Alan, I don't think I'd think twice about it. What's the girl to you?" Niall crossed his legs in the chair, staring Mr. Michaels with a soft grin on his face.

Mr. Michaels kept his hand folded. He didn't say anything, Niall thought he was considering it. He didn't even think he'd get this far. He assumed that Alan Michaels would be invincible to manipulation. But today was proof that if you play the right cards, the right threat can convince anyone to change their stance.

Alan Michaels took a deep breath. "Kelsey Benton's contract will be nullified."

"Now," Niall added firmly. He couldn't risk this not going through. Not with what he was about to do next. "You'll let her know now."

Mr. Michaels nodded, picking up his phone. "Samantha, can you get Kelsey Benton on the line for me please?" He hung up, looking Niall in the eyes. The two stare at each other, neither speaking. Until the phone rings again. Niall can only assume its Kelsey on the other line.

"Is this Miss Benton?" Mr. Michaels asked. Niall can't hear Kelsey on the other line, but he pictures her sitting on Niall's couch, still in her pajamas, smiling at the sound of Alan Michaels voice. The thought made a small smile break through Niall's otherwise serious expression.

"This is Alan Michaels with Capitol Records. We've decided to terminate the contract we've signed with you. All I need is your official signature and it's gone forever."

Mr. Michaels hung up the phone, turning to look at Niall expectantly, as if to say 'Happy now'.

"So that's official?" Niall asked, cautious to make any more moves before the pieces were set in place.

"Official as of my signature right now. Miss Benton's signature is mainly a formality. It's as if our agreement never existed."

"Good." Niall nodded, inhaling deeply before saying his next words. "Well now that that's taken care of. I'd like to notify you that I'm officially terminating my contract with Capitol Records."

"But..." Mr. Michaels protested.

"My lawyers have assured me that there is nothing in our current agreement limiting me from telling anyone about what went on here once our contract has been terminated. I'd get your PR team ready, Alan. My fans don't take too lightly to people messing with my life." He stood up, pulling down his charcoal suit jacket and reaching out a hand to shake. "Best of luck with everything."

"But Mr. Horan..." Mr. Michaels seemed to be at a loss for words. "We can work something out, we can come up with a new agreement. I promise you we will not hire anyone for your PR again..." Alan Michaels was stumbling through his words now, but Niall just smiled and made his way towards the office doors.

He walked past Mr. Michaels secretary, who has now stood up, looking towards the office and the still rambling Alan Michaels standing in his office doorway.

"You're going to regret this Mr. Horan!" Mr. Michaels yelled at him as Niall called the elevator.

As the elevator doors dinged open, Niall turned around, facing Alan Michaels one more time. "No Alan, I don't think I will." And with that he stepped inside the elevator, letting the doors close, literally and figuratively, on his time as a Capitol Records recording artist.

Tag List: @awomanindeniall @ihearthemcallingforyou​ , @niall-is-my-dream ,​  @stylishmuser​​​ , @thicksniall

[hartleykeiner]

Hiiii could you one where Betty and jughead are friends with benefits (not sex, but at least they kiss and act like a couple but aren't) and neither wants to confess their feelings so they play games with each other (teasing, flirting, jealousy, etc.)? Thank you :)

notes: this idea is pretty different from the usual stuff i write (i usually love angsting everything up haha) so yay for new things and nay for i’ve never written anything like this so pardon any, y’know, potential cringe (also yikes this was longer than i expected, which is why i added the ‘keep reading’ after the first extract). also since these two aren’t together i assume this is vaguely au.

.

.

Here’s the thing:

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that you’ve always harbored something—be it fondness, the feeling that you’ve encountered a kindred spirit, genuine appreciation, or perhaps simply a juvenile schoolboy crush, whatever so, just something—for her. However you have long made your peace with the fact that a relationship with the merry cheerleader that oversteps the boundaries of platonic waters may never come into fruition.

Here’s the other thing:

You never considered the possibility that long nights spent in the confines of the Blue and Gold offices would eventually lead to moments otherwise few and far in between—endless cups of coffee, the conversation switching from the contents of Wednesday’s chicken pot pie to your familial woes (to which she offers a sympathetic smile and tales of her own Cooper-based troubles)—could open doorways to a very different change in your dynamic with the blonde girl.

Till, well.

Perhaps you could blame it on caffeine-induced vision leading to impaired judgment, or the fact that all common sense tends to fly out the window once the clock strikes past midnight, but it’s dark and the only source of light is the luminescence from your laptop and she’s halfway through scribbling feverishly on her notebook when she looks up and meets your gaze. Her ponytail is loose, there are flinging sunshine tendrils framing her face.

“Hey,” she says, prodding your sleeve as she leans closer. A curtain of blonde hair falls against her cheek. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m… great.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, you don’t look great.”

“You always do.”

The words leave your mouth before you realize and, when you do, you inhale a sharp take of breath and she clucks her tongue before her face blossoms to a darker shade of crimson as she retreats from your gaze. And your heartbeat soars.

So you kiss her.

And she hooks her arms around your neck.

Which leads you to develop a new-found appreciation for the school staff’s blatant lack of after-school supervision.

.

.

It’s a simple concept, really—no strings attached.

That’s what you two agree on.

Never mind that if you learned anything from the plethora of ‘chick flicks’ (as Archie likes to call it) that the Cooper girl herself made you watch with her throughout the years, it was that assuming mainly platonic relations with several non-platonic benefits isn’t the ideal way to sustain a promising friendship.

In fact, it seems to be the quickest way to end it.

Not that either of you are particularly bent on listening to reason at this point.

Perhaps it’s because you’ve always been the voice of reason, and so has she, so swimming in shark-filled territories does spark something you wish to salvage, above all.

“Really,” she tells you, gathering her self-made pie-charts as she displays the evidence on the acorn-colored table. “This way, we can have—”

“Some ounce of normalcy in the midst of all the chaos.”

“Yeah,” she responds. Pauses. “Also, we don’t need to worry our friends with this.. arrangement.”

“Although Archie could certainly use some songwriting inspiration,” you state, which incurs a half-smile from the blonde.

So that’s what the two of you settle for—stolen kisses in the shadows after football games, quiet nights over takeaways while editing the Blue and Gold (which soon becomes your favorite pastime), brief brushing of hands when you’re around company (stealth is the key, you quickly learn), and high-pitched “we’re just friends!” whenever anyone dares to suggest otherwise.

A good system, if you do say so yourself.

That is, until—

“My cousin Vince is in town for the weekend,” the Lodge girl declares. “He’s visiting from New York and he wants to hang out on Friday, but Reggie and I already have plans. Which I have no intention of cancelling. So long story short, Betty are you free Friday night? After the game, that is.”

So she pauses, clearly stumbled. “You mean like a blind date?”

“A double date,” clarifies Veronica. “And blind on your part, yes.”

Therein lies the silent killer.

“Come on, Betts,” insists the raven-haired girl. “The only thing you ever seem to do nowadays is spend your very valuable time cooped up editing the school newspaper after hours, might I add.” When her remark is met with silence, Veronica sighs deeply and turns to you. “Holden Caulfield, some help?”

You focus on your bag of chips, “The Blue and Gold needs all the help it can get.”

She raises not one, but two groomed eyebrows. “Well,” she eventually says, crossing her arms slowly. “Suit yourselves.”

.

.

“Does it worry you that our arrangement includes, and often requires, us lying to our friends?”

“Very much, so.”

“Are we not seeing other people?”

“Maybe not for the time being.”

“But we’re not together.”

“No, no we’re not.”

“But we’re still sneaking around?”

“Well we are hiding from our friends in the janitor’s closet so yes, yes we are.”

“So,” you gesture to the little space between the two of you, tapping rhythmically on her arm. “That’s that.”

She nods, leaning in. “That’s that.”

. 

.

You wonder if this is what hell feels like.

Kevin brings peaches to lunch and distributes it at the table, clearly unaware that you’re notoriously allergic to the brightly-colored fruit. Which you don’t initially mind; it was simply an honest mistake made by the Keller boy. You spend your time enjoying your bag of chips, instead.

That is, until, the Cooper girl arrives and quickly indulges in the supply, starkly reminding you of one grave fact.

Betty loved peaches.

It always seemed like she was mocking you whenever she would eat them in your presence, but today the fact rang clear as bluebells. She sat across you at the table and placed the bowl right between the two of you.

And she chose to sport red lipstick that day.

Go figure.

So while the others spend their fleeting minutes of freedom animatedly discussing the contents of a certain television show that aired the day before (and you’re thankful for the shift in attention), she raises an eyebrow at you and smirks as she continues nibbling.

You sigh deeply.

She’s taunting you, really—for many reasons, you figure, the top being because you can’t really do anything about it. The newly peach-ified aura reeks of saccharinity. Then she takes another bite.

“You okay, Jug?” she asks, voice coated with merriment (and she’s not even trying to hide her amusement, at this point). 

“Just peachy,” you blankly state, to which she replies with a bright grin.

So when the bell rings and everyone promptly retreats to class, you snake your hand into hers and lead her to the supply closet because, damn it, you need to kiss her and if rash breakouts were the price to pay then so be it.

And so it was, when you excuse yourself from Biology class to visit the nurse (which you were twenty minutes late for, anyway).

.

.

You don’t quite know how you ended up here, trying your best not to seethe on the bleachers during halftime.

You can speculate, however.

Perhaps it has everything to do with the golden-haired girl donned in navy cheer, and your lack of emotional restraint, who is all bright-eyed and buoyant as she stops to glance in your direction and raise a neat eyebrow. Which is Betty Cooper speak for this is a challenge, (and after half a decade of being in her life, you are now fully aware of the hidden mischievous nature that juxtaposes her otherwise candy-coated exterior). So you narrow your eyes which is your speak for I’m above and beyond this—this, you’re betting, she already knows. Which is probably why she responds by turning and redirecting her attention to the raven-haired Lodge boy once more. You momentarily wonder whether football games or pretty cheerleaders were Vince’s forte and when he links his fingers with Betty’s in one swift, fluid motion you swallow the lump in your throat and redirect your attention to the luminous screen when you feel two dainty fingers tap your shoulder.

“Working hard?” presumes Ethel, gesturing to your laptop. “Of course you’d be reading during halftime.” Her smile broadens. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” is your response and she promptly sits down, glancing over your shoulder.

“The Beautiful and the Damned?” she remarks. “I always did peg you as an F. Scott Fitzgerald fan.”

You continue observing the situation and watching it unfold; Betty’s doing that thing where she half-smiles while she tilts her head to the left and lets her damp ponytail swing in the air and it always works damn it (on you, anyways) and apparently Vince too because he grins once he takes her cue and leans in further. “If anything, I’m the Damned,” you deadpan, which incurs a laugh from Ethel.

“I think you may be luckier than you realize.”

“I sure hope so.”

“I have a hunch.”

You feel a pair of eyes on you, so when you turn to the football field, you meet the Cooper girl’s marine gaze. Which leads you to turn back to Ethel, who only half-smirks, and this spurs something akin to a power shift in the atmosphere and you, dare you say it, relish it.

“Wanna add fuel to the fire?” she adds, a playful glint glimmering in her eye.

“What do you mean?”

Without warning, Ethel leans in and captures your lips in a quick kiss. It stuns you, defers you and leaves you frozen for a good split second, but you manage to gather your thoughts and break apart from her when you do. She’s undeterred, however, and simply responds with a small smile.

“I think that did the trick,” she remarks, as Betty retreats from the football field in what appears to be a quick hurry. You pack your things and go after her.

.

.

“I should have known you’d find me here,” she deadpans, when you open the door to the Blue and Gold office. “First place you’d look.”

“You were always the worst at Hide and Seek parties during middle school,” you state lamely, closing the door as you walk in. “Sometimes I wonder if you simply wanted to be found.” She doesn’t respond to this, which tells you that you’ve struck a chord. With a deep breath, you begin. “Betty—”

"I saw you with Ethel."

"Well, I saw you with Vince."

And so a silence ensues between the two of you. Regardless, one thing overwhelming fact is clear—the both of you are on even playing fields, the waters are equally turbulant, yet neither of you feel like you've won anything in particular. So you sigh and gulp before you turn around and cross your arms.

"Clearly," you say. "This isn't working."

“So does this mean you want to end whatever this,” she gestures between the two of you, “is.”

“No.” Then, you step towards her. “I don’t want this to end. What happened out there, I, well, frankly I don’t quite understand it myself.”

She nods slowly. “I don’t really understand what’s been happening, either.” She looks up to meet your gaze. “Guess the only thing I really know is that I don’t want to stop spending time with you, I don’t want to date Veronica’s cousin,” you pause to laugh and so does she. “I don’t want to keep this a secret, either. Whatever it is.”

And so you follow her lead, walking towards her. “I don’t know what it is that we have, but maybe we can figure it out. Together.”

This makes her smile. It reaches the tip of her marine eyes and she bites her lower lip to restrain it, slowly linking her fingers with yours. “I like the sound of that.”

And so you brush a golden strand from the corner of her face, and she embeds her lips onto yours. 

It feels like coming home.

.

.

“We’re together.” 

These are the words Betty utters, her hand intertwined with yours, on the couch within the confines of the student lounge. You nod concurrently. Every so often, she turns to meet your gaze, so you tighten your grip on her hand as you turn to face your group of friends.

This proclamation is met with stone-cold glances from Archie, Veronica and Kevin.

“We know,” they state in unison. 

“How,” you begin, frazzled. “How did you—”

“Choosing to spend your Friday night with Broody over here instead of a fun night out with a fellow Lodge?” deadpans Veronica, her bright almond gaze locked with Betty’s marine ones. “I put the pieces together pretty quickly.”

“Then your peach show added to our already-heavy suspicions,” adds Kevin, half-chuckling. “Also I figured it out by Jug’s allergic reaction and the both of your uncharacteristic tardiness that followed soon after.”

“And next time, you might wanna lower the blinds in the Blue and Gold office and janitor closets,” finishes Archie, voice blank. “They’re there for a reason, y’know.”

“We did inquire the help of Ethel to knock some sense into you two,” states the Lodge girl, smilingly. “I think she did a pretty good job.”

“Excuse—”

“She always had a thing for you, so getting her on board was relatively easy.”

“Well,” is all you say, which is all you can say really, as you take in the newly-distributed information. The Cooper girl follows suit, clearly stunned as she leans over to take a slow swing of her coffee. You draw out a long breath and turn to face your friends once again. You quietly wonder if your friends were involved in other intense, intricate conspiracies.

“We’re not mad,” clarifies Veronica, voice gentle. “We just want to know if you’re happy. Are you?”

And so, you turn to face the blonde beside you, who is already looking back at you with a tentative smile. And so you return it, slowly but surely.

“Yeah,” you say. “We’re happy.”

“With all the strings attached,” she adds.

And it is enough.

.

.