#( cause guess whose customer called a minute before her day was off? THIS GIRL )

[pexerpan]

pETER AND WENDY pls

                                 which one in your otp

Steals the blankets to create a blanket cocoon, and which one spends the night trying to tug out a corner of it to sleep under? 

     Peter — however, it isn’t as much of a ‘ stealing ‘ as it is him shifting and turning in his sleep until he’s finally managed to free himself off the suffocating blanket. now, sometimes wendy finds herself able to curl up in the entire blanket on her own, but most often, she has to wake up to find it thrown onto the floor and incapable of reaching it; literally incapable. she tried once. in one cold getting night she reached over peter and her fingertips managed just so to reach one corner of the blanket when a jolt ran through the boy and his hand flew up to wrap his fingers around her wrist. still fast asleep he muttered something about a lost left hand she needed to be protected from. wendy didn’t understand, but as peter unexpectedly pulled her closer, she decided she didn’t need to either and the nights without blankets? they suddenly weren’t as bad anymore. especially when she started noticing peter always slept a little longer ( or pretended to ) when she was curled up against him in the morning still.

Takes spontaneous selfies everywhere, and which one always has their eyes closed in them? 

     Wendy — and listen, she has a terrible timing ( not that peter ever actually told her that ), because she always manages to catch him in moments he finds himself distracted in. whether it be when he’s consumed entirely by the role of the lost boys’ leader or all his attention and dedication is, for once, focusing on one thing and one thing alone, wendy’s there and tries to take a picture. you can’t really blame her. in moments like those – when he’s smiling to himself, growing just frustrated enough for his childishness to make its purest appearance – he reminds her most of the boy who stumbled into her bedroom that one night oh so many years ago. his eyes being closed was a coincidence and wendy herself found frustration grow within her at her inability to take a shot in the right moment, until she realised it happened too often to be just that and with time the smile on peter’s lips became a grin of mischief rather than the way he smiled when concentrated.

Calls and makes appointments like a responsible adult, and which one would rather eat dirt than make a phone call?

     Wendy — it’s not because peter doesn’t like to make phonecalls ( he feels quite indifferent about those ), but because peter just doesn’t make appointments. he doesn’t need them, or at least he thinks he doesn’t, and matter of factly, he didn’t. until that one week in august happened, in which peter thanks to tootles’s clumsiness walked around with a slightly swollen hand and everyone’s mind set on him having broken it. it took three days for wendy – two of which she only survived on her mother telling her peter should and would eventually handle his appointments on his own if he had to – until she finally decided teaching peter a lesson wasn’t worth him potentially losing a hand. you can’t have two single handed people in town, can you? especially not when they’re arch-enemies.

Forgets what’s in the oven because their favourite song came on, and which one smells the smoke?

     Wendy — but really, peter is the one to blame for it, because he had the feeling spending valuable minutes just sitting in front of it and waiting was a waste of her life. so, of course, he turned the music up as he watched her already swaying her hips to the rhythm and stole her away, stole her attention away too. thankfully, peter’s on high alert when around her too, ever the protective and his head snapped up as soon as the hint of a smokey smell filled the room. 

Changes their wardrobe with the seasons, and which one has been wearing the same three shirts in rotation for six months?

     Wendy — are we surprised? wendy has a collection of clothes – as she ought to if you ask peter for a girl who looks more stunning in every new dress she puts on should have a million of them – and peter has his favourite sweater, his second favourite and probably three shirts who look all the same to make life easy on him. 

Goes wild in the art supply store, and which one goes wild in the office supply store?

     Peter — but just because he’s had a mischievous thought and did you know you only need thirty two cans of paint to re-colour an entire boat in a bright green? the same colour hook hates, by sheer coincident of course. meanwhile wendy’s disappearing in the office supply store to get a new journal to write her stories in ( and to be completely honest, in order not to be a direct witness to peter’s schemes ).

Journals about their feelings every night before bed, and which one would describe their feelings at any given moment as ’ mad ‘, ‘ sad ‘ or ‘ glad ‘?

     Wendy — because can peter even feel anything but mad, sad or glad?! we don’t know.

Arranges their food to look like a happy face, and which one secretly thinks it’s adorable?

     Peter — although, he is known to eat his food as fast as humanly possible ( and even a little faster than that, he likes to believe ), there is one specific scenario in which peter finds himself incapable to: when he’s uncomfortable. now, you might wonder when was peter ever too uncomfortable to eat around his little bird? in the presence of her father. in an attempt, to ‘ spise him ‘ as peter would call it and in a genuine attempt to finally ‘ get to know the boy ‘ who’d played such massive part in his children’s lives – in his daughter’s life especially – george darling invited him over for family dinner. john was the first to notice the leader of the lost boys was quieter than usual, enduring rather than biting back, and soon john was grinning and attempting to suffocate his giggles at peter’s up til then undiscovered talent to re-create people’s faces in the food on his plate. it was wendy, however, who bursted into laughter first as peter leaned over to her, asking her in a private moment: ‘ is that what your father looks like when he’s smiling? ‘ because peter had, matter of factly, not seen mr darling without an angry frown before.

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

you’re someone i just want around: IV

“I had a few, got drunk on you

And now I’m wasted

And when I sleep, I’m gonna dream of 

How you tasted.”

— Medicine, Harry Styles

A/N: if i said i’m apologizing for the way i left off ch3, yes i did ❤️ no i didn’t ❤️ it was fun ❤️ as always, feedback is greatly appreciated!! and if you enjoy the piece, please reblog it!!! it keeps content creators motivated!! without further delay, hope you enjoy what’s in store for Sherlock and Watson this chapter cause it’s uhhhh quite a bit of uhhhh ~stuff~ 😌

harry’s condo : ysijwa masterlist : andrea’s masterlist : leyla’s masterlist : ysijwa playlist

word count: 26.4k

content/warnings: a mild addiction to sexting, some pretty sparkly lingerie, a very interesting photo, a strange but satisfying gift, rough sex and degradation, pillow talk about the validity of the men in Twilight, the satisfying gift being put to even more good use, Y/N going over to Harry’s apartment for the first time, mild mentions of blood, and an impromptu Hamilton re-enactment amidst more lemon blueberry pancakes

///

For the next three days, the sexting grows more frequent. 

Harry feels somewhat humiliated by it, really. He’s an adult— a full-grown, two hundred and nine year old man— and trading nudes with a simple girl shouldn’t be getting him as worked up as it does. He should know how to handle his hormones better, and the thing is, he usually does. But no one in the last few centuries has made him feel as desperate as Y/N does; he hasn’t felt this helpless for someone since he was alive. The vampire just wasn’t prepared to handle the needy responses she so easily yields from his body and he’s horribly rusty on how to skate this thin sheet of metaphorical ice. It’s like he can feel it cracking and crunching beneath his feet, but he has absolutely no power over how to stop it. Any minute, it’s bound to take him under, and he has no choice but to allow himself to drown in it. 

The following seventy two hours are full of so many dirty promises and explicit images, his phone might as well be a porno hard drive.

After coaxing Y/N into a few orgasms through the phone and receiving just as many in return, a dangerous game is set into motion that Harry knows is probably unhealthy not only for his self-worth, but for the sensitivity of his anatomy. He can only get off so many times before his joints are begging for a break. 

He wakes up Wednesday morning with a stiff ache running along his inner thighs and ebbing across the underside of his balls, but there’s an undeniable contentment stewing behind it. He doesn’t truly mind the throb, comforted by the fact that Y/N is probably facing similar issues at the moment. He finds himself smiling coyly as he flips an omelette onto one of his marble-print platters, recalling the events from the night before. 

According to what he’d heard on the other end of the phone, present throughout the array of shaky gasps, cracked whimpers, and wet sounds of pleasure that had echoed from the speaker, Harry had made Y/N squirt. 

That was a tremendous stroke to his already huge ego. The idea that he’d been able to make her cum so hard that she’d soiled her brand new sheets had been circling around his head for the last couple of hours, fluffing his confidence. It’s a milestone achievement, to be honest. He’d done something that very few men have the skill to achieve in person, meanwhile he’d done it just by using his voice and extensive imagination. The arrogance he’s sporting right now is more than justified. His cheeks are starting to ache from how hard he’s grinning.

The vampire is so lost in his recollections that he nearly misses the chime of his phone, the unique ringtone that beeps out being as welcomed as ever. 

Harry scoops up his device while spooning a piece of his green pepper and mushroom egg dish into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully as he swipes into Y/N’s text conversation. He smoothers the giddiness fluttering in his stomach; he’s not a child. 

As it turns out, he’d killed those butterflies for no solid reason because the instant her message pops up, they come right back to life. 

Morning! Thought I’d show you what I’m planning on wearing to work today. 

Harry roughly swallows down his breakfast at the attachment following the caption, a shiver coiling down his spine. “Fucking hell.”

The photo is a mirror shot, taken in her tiny bathroom. It’s a full body image where she’s clad in a matching set of bra and panties, the material sparkly bright red lace. The bottoms are high-waisted, hugging her tummy and hips in a way he deems perfect, the lace decorating her skin beautifully. The bra is see-through, so he has an unrestrained view of her chest and he doesn’t know why, but he thinks he might love the way her breasts look in lingerie more than without it. Make no mistake, he’ll willingly drool over her no matter what, but there’s just such a refined beauty in seeing her figure in such an elegant piece. She’s like a present set out for him to unwrap, preferably with his teeth. 

Then he notices the garters and the next forkful of food lodges in his throat. They hug around her legs deliciously, the bands settled midway down her thighs as the straps run up the sides and clip onto the hem of her panties. Yeah, he would definitely use his teeth. 

After gawking at the artwork for a minute, Harry finally gathers himself enough to type back a decent reaction.

I’m pretty sure that outfit doesn’t apply to the workspace dress code. 

Y/N shakes her head in amusement at his response, giggling softly as she finishes shimmying into her black skinny jeans, buttoning them over the skimpy lace. 

I’ll cover up for the sake of the customers. But it’s just such a nice set, I figured someone else should get to appreciate it with me.  

Harry sets his utensil down on top of his plate, omelet only half eaten. His appetite has molded into a very different type of hunger. He pads out of the kitchen, feeling the ten AM sunlight filter through the glass wall of his living room and warm his bare chest and back. He heads for the bathroom that branches out of the entrance corridor, coming to a stop right in front of its mirror. He begins to clean up his appearance, combing his bed head into a presentable state (he hadn’t slept, per usual, but rolling around his pillows last night while he indulged fantasies about Y/N had done his curls in something fierce), fixing his royal blue briefs along his hips and dragging the waistband down to show off the dip of his prominent pelvic bones.

Once the immortal is done, he taps back with eager strokes of his thumbs. 

I can’t believe you’ve never worn that for me. That’s a criminal offense. Literally worth capital punishment. 

Oh, really? Capital punishment? And who are you to decide my verdict?

I’m the executioner, obviously. I’m in charge of dispensing the verdict and I promise you, I’ll see to it that you get what you deserve. It’s my civic duty.

Y/N scoffs at his quip, tugging her navy polo shirt over her torso and quickly running a brush through her hair. She puts it up into a neat ponytail, sighing lightly as she stares at her tired reflection. She wishes she could ditch work for the day and entertain more conversation with Harry, but she literally can’t afford to.

Well, you’re gonna have to wait while I go perform my own type of civic duty. Making the world a better place, one grilled panini at a time. 

Harry’s lips jolt. She’s so clever and witty, he doesn’t know how she could possibly be from such a dull, monochrome town. 

I understand. Justice calls. But before you go, can I send you a picture of what I’M wearing today? Could use a few style tips. 

That’s pretty ironic coming from someone whose last name is literally ‘Styles.’

I know, I know. But even fashion icons have their insecurities sometimes. 

Fair point, nobody’s perfect. Lemme see your OOTD, then.

The outfit of the day appears to be no outfit at all, according to Harry’s picture. It’s taken on a mirror, like her own, and it depicts him standing with one hand holding his phone in front of his face while the other seems to be doing jazz hands down his body playfully. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of deep blue briefs (probably because he’d completely ruined the maroon pair he was wearing last night, if his broken moans and heavy panting had been any indication) and they hug his frame flawlessly. The fabric is bunched around his lean thighs, tiger head tattoo peeking out to accompany the rest of the collection, which includes all the inkings running the length of his left arm as well as the butterfly and swallows across his torso. His v-line is evident as ever, dipping below the elastic band teasingly. His chest is broad and his biceps are taut, despite the fact that he’s not even flexing. He looks like a Greek statue and Y/N is positive the higher powers designed Harry with that specific thought in mind.

Y/N doesn’t realize drool is gathering in her mouth until it tickles the inside of her bottom lip. She snaps her jaw closed, clearing her throat sheepishly. Over a minute has passed of her just ogling and she can feel heat layering across her cheeks. She knows Harry probably has the cockiest expression on his face at the moment, obvious in the tone of the next comment he delivers. 

Damn, it’s that bad, huh? Guess I’ll have to change. 

No, it’s perfect. Simple, but effective. Very professional. 

Why, thank you! 

My pleasure.

Here, take this as a token of my appreciation. Hopefully it can help get you through the day. 

This specific photo is taken from an above point of view, as if Y/N were looking down at Harry’s body along with him. His pectorals and stomach muscles appear more defined, tattoos darker and skin more evidently sunkissed. Lower down, there’s the obvious outline of what lies within his boxers, snuggled up against his thick thigh and tempting her to let out a soft whine. Then, resting casually against his abdomen is his free hand, sporting a thumbs-up that gives a purposefully goofy vibe to the risky image. He’s such an idiot. 

The mortal’s answer is just as silly and lighthearted as his gesture. 

Thank you, I’ll keep it locked in my heart forever. 

I wouldn’t want it any other way. 

That’s the first interaction of many that further opens the door to their virtual sex life. Things hardly stay that innocent. 

That night when Y/N gets home from work, they undergo another round of phone sex. It starts off the same: cheeky banter that leads to cheeky pictures that eventually leads to utter filth. 

And that’s how they spend the next few days— taking care of each other’s needs digitally until Friday rolls around. There’s plenty of those encounters, but there’s definitely favorites. 

A session during one of Harry’s self-care baths, when he puts her on speaker and she talks him through tugging one out while the scent of lavender salts— which he’d chosen because they smell like her— leave his heated skin feeling soft and supple. Another instance where he makes her orgasm while she has gotten bored watching a scary movie marathon on her couch, the screams of the horror film mere background noise compared to all the sweet nothings Harry huskily mumbles into her ear, his dominant voice filtering through her headphone and instructing her on how to make herself feel good.

Harry messages her at three A.M. at one point, wide awake as ever, all of his thoughts occupied by the concept of Y/N laying on her tummy between his thighs and sucking him off at a slow pace. He can practically see her small hands wrapped around his girth, stroking up to meet her pretty lips, her tongue lapping at his tip eagerly as she whines around a full mouth. She’s always just so eager. Even at the crack of dawn, she’s awake by some miracle, and happily willing to delve into that fantasy with him. Her soft, timid tone drifts across the shells of his ears, explicitly sketching out how she’d take him all the way down her throat until she gags, and how she’d kiss all over the head of his prick just to smear his precum over her lips to then lick it off, and how she’d rock against his lap fast and hard while he takes her nipples between his teeth. How she wouldn’t stop until he’s dripping down her thighs and groaning into her throat. How she’d let him fuck her as many times as it takes to tire himself out. 

Harry obviously repays her, and it comes in the form of him painting out a scenario where she’s gotten home from a long day at the café. He tells her about how he’d be there waiting for her in nothing but his underwear, sitting back on his elbows in her bed, touching himself over his briefs just at the thought of pleasuring her. About how he’d lay her out and taste every inch of her body with his tongue, and how he’d run his teeth across her inner thighs tenderly while his fingers play with her clit, and how he’d have her ride his face deep and sloppy until she’s shaking and sensitive. How he’d tie her to the bed and toss her legs over his shoulders while he pounds her into the mattress, marking bruises across her neck as she sucks on his fingers and tightens around his cock like “the snug little thing you are.”

They even take their fun out of the confines of their houses and into public settings, just to give it an adrenaline high. Those situations are foreplay; it’s how they prep each other throughout the day for when they’re both finally alone and can truly help one another to the fullest. 

It happens Thursday on two occasions. 

First, to Y/N, who is sitting in the backroom on her lunch break, though she’s barely touched her food. She’s much more interested in what Harry has to say. Much more interested in how he says he wishes he could be there with her right now. That she could sneak him in through the back door of the restaurant and they could lock themselves in that tiny supply room, making sure no one would disturb what he’s about to do to her. That he would drop to his knees and drag her jeans down her legs, pressing damp kisses in the denim’s wake, biting hickies in the areas he knows she loves to receive them. He would mount her knees over his shoulders and bury his face between her thighs, looking up at her through heavy lashes as he licks into her desperately. He would have her grab onto his curls and guide his tongue just the way she likes it, and she’d have to bite into her cheek to keep from getting caught. 

He talks about how he’d take her against the supply shelves, one hand clamped over her mouth while he pants praise into her ear, her body jolting roughly upwards against the surface as she clings to his back. How he’d hold her up with the other arm and slam her down onto his cock, cooing things like, “Gotta keep quiet for me, sweetheart. Can’t make you cum if we get caught.” and “Such a filthy girl, sneaking me in here just to fuck you. Baby just wants to walk around the rest of the day full of me, doesn’t she?” 

That fantasy leaves her in a bothered haze the rest of the work day. It’s bad enough that she almost drops her tray three different times and has to ask multiple customers to repeat their orders. 

Y/N gets back at Harry, though. That revenge is the second occasion. 

The vampire had mentioned that he would be going out with his friends that evening to a bar and she takes full advantage of that. When the picture comes through, Harry nearly spits out his Manhattan drink. 

He’s sitting in a booth surrounded by his entire group and he’d been talking shit with Niall about golf. The vampire doesn’t care for the sport, but Niall loves it, and Harry loves getting on Niall’s nerves, therefore it’s all pretty self-explanatory. Mitch and Adam join in, with Mitch obviously supporting Harry, when he randomly decides to check his notifications. Even in the shrunken little banner, Harry can immediately tell the photo is graphic. Xander asks if he’s alright, telling him he looks freakishly pale and to get his eyes under control because they're in public. Harry blinks the red from his irises, hurriedly excusing himself and clambering up from his seat, jetting across the restaurant towards the restrooms. It’s occupied, much to his luck, so he settles for simply pressing his back against the wall of the corridor, leaning his head against the bricks and taking deep breaths to calm the raging in his stomach. He gingerly opens the message and his knees nearly give out. 

The image is taken from the back, probably using a timer. Y/N is wearing one of her big tees and another pair of cheeky lace panties, but this time around, they’re pastel peach and crotchless. She’s bent over with her ass up and spine arched, knees parted for balance, her shirt bunching downwards due to the angle. Her arms are pulled behind her back and her chest is flushed to the bed, wrists crossed submissively as she gazes at the camera over her shoulder. There’s an unmistakable sparkle in her eyes and he can tell she had sent this now on purpose just to fuck with him, knowing good and well that he was out and occupied.

The shot is more than he can handle and he has to swallow down the urge to stomp out of the bar, get into his car, race to her flat, and make her rethink her decision. Preferably, in the form of harsh spanks and overstimulation. He can see everything— the intentional rip at the crotch of the panties are meant for that sole reason. The closer he looks, he comes to realize that she’s wet, which in turn means she had been touching herself. She’d set this up perfectly, knowing that he’d easily be able to deduce that fact and that it would haunt him for the rest of the night. 

The monster releases a quivering exhale, typing back slowly and carefully, sight bleary. 

You’re going to regret that. 

Pinky promise?

///

When Harry arrives at Y/N’s apartment the next night, as he has for the last three Fridays, he doesn’t saunter up to her door and bang on it angrily. He doesn’t grab her by her hair and drag her into her room, how he’d intended. He doesn’t even have a single cinch in his sculpted brows. 

Instead, he raps softly on the door with one jeweled knuckle and waits calmly. 

The human goes to answer, her stomach twisting in excitement at all the possibilities of what punishment she might face for her antics. A small, sly smile buckles the corners of her lips at the thought, her fingers trembling as they wrap around her cold doorknob. She expects to find a furrow-browed, intense-eyed, red-faced Harry behind the threshold, who would shove past her, nab her by the arm, and throw her onto her bed. She expects him to yank his belt from around his hips while a distinct darkness swallows his emerald irises, his mouth curling into a sinister grin. She expects him to roughly command she get on her hands and knees, his palm finding the back of her head to shove her face-first into the sheets while he rips her panties down her legs and drags the cool leather of his accessory over her backside tauntingly.

What she gets is something— and someone— completely the opposite. 

When her door swings open, Harry is standing standing there, sure. But instead of looming over her with flaring nostrils and cruel intent, he’s decided to lean against the door frame with his arms folded casually. His body is completely empty of tension, his ankles are crossed offhandedly, and a small, bright red paper bag full of sparkly black tissue paper is hanging off his wrist. His expression is a relaxed facade of indifference, lips set into his usual signature smirk, no explosive emotions present whatsoever. 

That startles Y/N. This has to be an act; it feels like the calm before a violent storm and it has her shifting in her socked feet. Did he...Did he forget what she did? 

There’s no way he forgot. It was too brazen a move to dismiss.

Harry steps forward into her home, comfortable enough that he no longer has to wait for an invitation. Y/N moves to the side to let him through, hesitantly closing the entrance behind him, contemplating the man as if he were a ticking bomb. She does a quick sweep of his physique, looking for some other clue as to what he could be plotting, aside from the mysterious gift bag in his hand. He’s wearing a pair of flared denim jeans, a white tee with a royal blue cartoon bee printed in the center along with the words Enjoy health! Eat your honey! surrounding it, his white Vans, and an oversized colorful patch-work cardigan. The outfit is surprisingly domestic compared to his usual taste, but she finds it’s easily one of her favorite fits on him. He just looks so boyish adorable. 

The human comes up with nothing suspicious, glancing back up to lock eyes with her guest. Harry beams at her innocently and she knows for sure he’s planning something, but she can’t place what. 

“I got you this.” The vampire speaks up first, holding out the paper bag towards Y/N with his index finger, bouncing it encouragingly. “Take a peek.” 

The girl accepts the gift gingerly, giving him one more hard look before breaking away to investigate what lies beneath the tissue paper. She pulls out a small cardboard box, her eyes squinting slightly as she reads its print and surveys the label. The image on the surface appears to be of five silicone finger gloves, each about the size of a thumbtack, tiny metal plates embedded into the pads. She’s voicing her curiosity before she’s even finished studying the container. 

“What...What are these?”

Harry rolls his eyes jokingly, tapping the object for emphasis. “Read the fine print, love.” 

Y/N focuses on the region he’d pointed out, reciting aloud. “‘Vibrating silicone finger gloves. For the use of personal pleasure or with partners.’”

Then it all clicks. 

“Oh my God, you got me— what?!” Y/N’s head snaps up in shock, mouth parted and brows creased. “Harry, what?”

The young man laughs airily, gently opening the seal of the box in her hands, which she is now holding as if it were a weapon of mass destruction. It’s such a weird present to give in general, moreso all out of the blue, so she can’t be blamed for her reaction.

He uncaps the packaging, rummaging through its contents and pulling out two of the tiny rubbery gloves. They’re transparent and ribbed, obviously meant to deliver as many sensations as possible, and they’re about two inches in length. He slips them onto his index and middle finger, making scissoring motions for the purpose of symbolism, but mainly just to watch Y/N fidget. “I remember how you said you don’t have sex toys because you’d never really thought about buying any, so I went and picked these up down at my favorite shop. Jessi said they’re good for beginners.”

“Jessi?” Y/N’s voice is tight. She’s not sure how to respond to this; she’s never been in this situation before. No one has ever just given her a sex toy as if a were a candy bar. “Who’s Jessi and why do they need to know about my sex life?”

“She’s the manager.” Harry says matter-of-factly. He doesn’t seem to find anything strange about this encounter. “She helped me pick out my first pocket vag, so I trust her with my soul. Here, look. You just slip them on and—” He makes finger thrusting motions in the air, wiggling his digits playfully. “Big O. Not as good as what I can give you, obviously, but close enough.”

“Harry, you do realize this is a little…odd, right?”

The boy blinks at Y/N blankly. “What? Why? Sex is literally the basis of this whole thing.” He signals back and forth between them with his gloved forefinger. “It’s really not that weird at all, if y’think about it.”

“I just...it’s like…” 

Her argument fizzles to an end the longer she stares at him. He has the most wholesome expression painted across his handsome features, his eyes glossy with excitement. He looks genuinely elated about the present and she can’t find it in herself to question him any further. As unorthodox as this may be, it’s the first true act of kindness anyone has shown Y/N since she had moved to California. It’s the first time anyone has given the girl anything without her having to request it. She comes to the realization that Harry really is the only friend she has at the moment, and she refuses to pick and prod at that, lest he retract from her on the grounds that she’s ungrateful. Yes, this is a little atypical, but so is their whole dynamic. In his own twisted way, this is how Harry shows his friendship. 

The more she ponders on it, she starts to understand that this truly is something she should accept. He went out of his way to get her this gift, which solidifies their acquaintanceship. It’s sweet.

“You know what, never mind. Thank you! I love them.” 

The giddy smile that cracks his face melts her heart. “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

Harry then softly grasps her hand with his, tugging her down the entrance hallway, his intentions set on her bedroom. His voice takes on a deeper sultry twang, the corners of his mouth twitching suggestively. “Because on my way here, I was thinking, yeah? And I figured: who better to teach you how to use these than the person who picked them out.”

“Of fucking course.” Y/N huffs in amusement, shaking her head but allowing herself to be guided forward. “I should’ve known you had an ulterior motive.” 

“Heyyyyy!” Harry’s whine is offended, but the coy simper dimpling his cheeks ruins any defense he could possibly try to spin. “This isn’t an ulterior motive, it’s simply a supporting one.”

“Right.” Y/N states flatly, shuffling forward slowly as he backs down her corridor, momentarily glancing over his shoulder to orient himself. “Buying a fuck buddy a sex toy is totally selfless and mutually exclusive of the agreement.”

Harry takes a turn and crosses the threshold into her bedroom, releasing her arm and instead, he opts for wrapping his fist into the loose material of her large Transformers tee, twisting the fabric around his knuckles and giving it a sharp yank. She stumbles into his chest and almost drops the box. 

The vampire gazes down at her with half-lidded eyes, long lashes tempting and plush lips the color of roses. “I never said it was mutually exclusive. I just said it wasn’t meant to be evidently inclusive.” 

He takes the box from her grip, sliding it onto her nightstand so that any obstacles between them are eliminated. He beckons her closer with a flick of his wrist, feeling heat erupt across his chest as her palms slap down against it to steady herself. She’s always so warm, almost like a furnace. It’s a nice contrast to his ever-present coldness.

Harry’s cupped fingers nurse the slope of her jaw, tilting her chin up to level his, Cupid’s bow ghosting over her own teasingly as a grin threatens to betray him. His accent is thick, heavy with condescension. “Now do you want me to fuck you or not?”

Y/N gulps audibly, the sudden jump in her heart rate causing Harry’s cock to give a foreshadowing twitch in his designer jeans. Her eyes soften with a form of weepy desire, head nodding in his grasp. 

Harry’s top teeth catch on his lower lip as he appraises her from over the crest of his defined cheekbones. “I don’t think I heard you, pet. Must be the AC draft.”

The mortal’s eyes fall shut as she composes herself, a shaky sigh faltering past her nostrils. She tips forward onto her toes, connecting her itching mouth to his. Harry allows it, listing his head to the side to grant her more access, his free arm roping across the dip of her spine and pressing her front flushed to his. The kiss is soft and heated, full of drunken tongues and muffled whimpers. It’s tame compared to most of the others they’ve shared, but Harry likes it. It’s sloppy and intimate; only the beginning of what he knows will be a long night. 

Her words sting the ridges of his lips, hot and bated. “I want you to fuck me.” 

Harry speaks into her mouth, tone gentle but packing a punch. “Get my belt off for me, will you? I’m tying you to the bed tonight.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice, a dark chuckle vibrating across his tongue when her fingers immediately begin to fumble with his belt buckle. 

Once Harry has looped the leather tightly around Y/N’s wrists and has knotted them to one of the wooden railings of her headboard, he sits back on his heels to admire his work. Y/N is splayed out across her mattress with her arms suspended above her head, bare thighs clasped in anticipation as her t-shirt gathers around her waist. Her hands are curled into fists, nails digging into her palms as she watches Harry leisurely shrug off his cardigan, keeping eye contact with her the whole way through. His tattoos stand out against the buttery light of the single lamp on the table, tanned arms flexing sinfully. 

He shifts around, laying down onto his stomach and coasting his palms up her quivering legs, kissing over her kneecaps and along the crease of her inner thighs, bunching her shirt further up her body as he goes. As soon as he spots the first garter, he blacks out for a millisecond, vision washing red. 

“Fuck, wait— did you…?” His voice is strained and desperate as he shoves the rest of her clothes up her torso, pulling her shirt over her head and letting it rest at her elbows. He hums appreciatively when he’s met with the full cherry-colored lingerie set from a few days ago, garters and all. “God, you did.”

Y/N’s gaze falls timidly, a sheepish smile brushing over her face. “I thought you’d want to see it in person, since you seemed to like it so much.” 

“Mm...” Harry struggles to swallow, fingers hooking under the straps that clip to the hem of her underwear, pulling the fabric from her skin and letting them snap back into place. He revels in the tiny noise she lets slip, the pads of his digits now toying across the frilly bands encircling her upper legs. After a thoughtful heartbeat, Harry speaks up, wistful but vehement. “I’m going to make you soil your sheets again.” 

Y/N bucks a tad at his promise, wrists stressing against the leather belt, but Harry’s practiced enough bondage in his lifetime to know she won’t be getting out anytime soon. He parts her knees open with his palms, dragging his silicone-covered fingers down her clothed clit and tutting when she lets out a stuttery gasp. 

“Always so sensitive, aren’t you, angel?” The vampire pets at her core patiently, heat pooling at the base of his abdomen as he feels her panties damped with every stroke of his touch. “Christ, you’re already soaking through.”  

“Want more.” The girl’s plead is strangled as she actively forces herself to keep her legs wide open, knowing that if she were to allow them to snap shut, Harry would only pry them apart again. “I’ve been thinking about this all week. Please.”

“All week?” Harry drags tongue across the inside of her thigh, nipping at the flesh tauntingly, the amber specks in his eyes glittering amidst his lashes. He continues to rub through her underwear, drinking up all the little noises streaming from her throat. “Tread lightly, dove. You’re swelling my ego.”

“I just…” Her hips give another jerk when he wriggles two rubber-clad fingers into the crotch of her bottoms, spreading her open just a bit and grinning against her skin at how wet she’s become. “I just need it hard tonight, Harry. Need you to leave me sore.” 

“I always leave you sore.” The monster reasons mockingly, taking one of the garters between his teeth and tugging, releasing so it stings her like before. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.” 

Y/N trembles out an exhale, gathering herself enough to give him what he wants. “I need you to fuck me like you hate me.”

Harry grabs onto either sides of her panties, slowly peeling them down her legs and then scooting closer forward, planting an open-mouthed kiss right onto her bare clit. She mewls in return, her restraints creaking the bed. He continues pressing messy wet pecks to her cunt, feeling her tense up each time his soft lips suckle her fervently. 

“Is that why you sent that picture?” Harry wonders aloud, pausing his motions and raising one eyebrow at her. “Because you wanted me mad?”

The human nods, face wracked with guilt. It’s cute that she feels bad, especially because Harry had, in actuality, enjoyed her little stunt. Seeing her bent over like that, in a position that shows she couldn’t wait to please him— that she couldn’t wait until Friday came around so he could do to her whatever he deemed fit...It was the best form of edging he’s ever experienced. But for the sake of giving her what she wants, he’ll bite the bait. 

Harry rises up onto his knees, parting her thighs further as he fits himself between them, the pads of his gloved digits dancing across the thick of her damp clit. He bends down until his nose smudges over hers, the breath of his low words hot against her parted mouth. 

“Well, it fucking worked.”  

Harry taps his index and middle fingers against his palm in one quick flick and the tiny metal plates situated along the tips purr to life. He sinks knuckle-deep inside of Y/N, cold rings catching on her folds as he curls upwards to get at that special spot that resides along the pit of her tummy. The moan she releases it so raw and broken, it sends a zip of lightning through his veins. 

He fucks her like that for a while, with his strong chest poised against her heaving own as he marks love bites onto the cleavage spilling from her lace bra, his skilled fingers pumping into her at a harsh pace that has her legs shaking on either sides. He thumbs over her clit messily, the silicone molds sending waves of vibrations through her clenching walls as he relentlessly toys with her g-spot, her arms thrashing against his belt. Fragmented sounds of bliss freely stream from Y/N’s mouth without shame, his name intermingling amongst the whimpers as her head throws back against the headboard. Harry grips her throat in one hand, holding her to the sturdy surface as his other bobs between her thighs roughly, the bed groaning as a result of their intense actions. His wrist begins to ache from how hard he’s going, but the tears trickling out from the corners of Y/N’s eyes and the way she’s panting into his mouth are enough to keep him going.

“Look at me.” Harry squeezes her jugular tighter, garnering attention. She forces her eyelids open, inhales hiccuping when he braces his cool forehead to hers, his irises the color of a forest at midnight, pupils blown out of proportion. His teeth dig into her bottom lip just to feel it swell, a growl stirring the gravel in his chest. “Is this what you wanted?”

“Y-Yes.” Y/N boggles her head feverishly, glimpsing down over her sweaty cheeks to see the way his veins are chiseling along the forearm that is flexing between her drenched thighs. “Fuck, it’s so g-good.”

“Yeah? How about we go a little higher, hm?” Harry scrapes the pads of his fingers against that spongy place inside her, pressing the vibrators down and the motion clicks the toy into a higher level of intensity. 

Y/N writhes in his grasp, back arching off the headboard as deeper, more concentrated rumbles lap throughout her body. “Harry— I— that’s— God, just please!”

Harry takes ahold of her jaw as he continues finger-fucking her without remorse, his short breaths warm against her burning lips. “That’s my girl. Taking it hard and loving every second.” 

Y/N’s eyes lull back into her head. She doesn’t know why, but hearing Harry call her his girl satisfies her in a manner so deep, she didn’t know it existed. Just hearing him recognize her as his— as something he claims for himself, almost like an extension of who he is— stirs a foreign form of fulfillment in the back of her mind. 

“I’m—” The girl chokes on her sentence, finding it difficult to concentrate with so much pleasure coursing through her system, as well as with Harry painting hickies across the side of her strained neck. “I’m gonna cum.”

The immortal’s voice is stern and authoritative. “No, you’re not.” 

“I am, I can’t hold—”

“Yes,” Harry’s grip firms, pace sharpening into unapologetic slams, “you can. And you will. If you cum before I let you, you’re not getting anything else from me for the rest of the night. Do I make myself clear?”

Y/N’s cunt tightens around his fingers, warning him that she’s about to peak. “Harry, I’m sorry—but— but I—”

“Do I make myself clear?” 

Y/N has no hope that she can keep it in, but she adores the darkness swirling in Harry’s eyes at the moment and she’ll do anything if it means getting to witness it for a while longer. “Yes.” 

“Good.” She winces when she feels his teeth skim her earlobe, his whisper dripping with arrogant amusement. “I told you I’d make you regret it.” 

And he really does keep his oath. Minutes simulate hours as Harry continues to flirt her just along the seams of relief, pulling her back every time he sees her about to tip. Whenever he feels her begin to spasm around his slick fingers, he gives her a cautionary quirk of his brows accompanied by a testing, throaty, “Don’t you fucking dare.” or a simple, silent shake of his head. By some miracle, she manages to reign herself in every time, but each ruined orgasm makes it harder and harder to stifle the next. She doesn’t know how many times it happens; she stops counting after four. 

After what feels like decades of torture, Harry finally releases his hold around her jugular, allowing her to properly gulp air for the first time in a while. He sits back against his heels, pulling his hand from between her thighs with a sarcastic sympathetic hiss. “Poor thing.” 

He watches as a trail of her juices strings from his digits to her cunt, eventually snapping in the middle as he lifts his hand to study his work. Her release drips down his knuckles and palm, gleaming in the dim lighting. A mildly sadistic glint washes over Harry’s irises and for a split second, they look almost red, but Y/N dismisses it. Her brain is too fogged to trust right now. 

The boy’s sight flickers past his hand to where Y/N lies limply, wrists bruised from the bonds, arms quivering weakly, and legs trembling in overstimulation. He’s never seen her look more beautiful than now. 

He locks his bright eyes to her exhausted own, watching them shatter to pieces when he pushes his drenched fingers past his pillowy blushed lips. His lashes flutter as her taste washes across his tongue, sweet and decadent as always, a soft groan thrumming deep in his throat. God, he can only imagine how delectable her blood must be at the moment, honeyed by the plethora of endorphins he had repeatedly coaxed into her. He can't wait to feel its warmth fill his mouth later tonight.

Harry removes his fingers with a wet pop, licking across the back of his hand with finality and giving her a daring once-over. “Do you still want my cock? Or are you too sensitive for it, darling?”

He sounds so conceited and self-assured, it causes Y/N’s pride to flare. She wants to make him eat his stupid words.  

The mortal licks her chapped lips, wetting her dry throat and clearing it softly, wiping away the sweat on her forehead with her shoulder. “I still want it.” 

An impressed expression decorates Harry’s features. “You think you can take it?”

Y/N’s jaw clenches with dedication, her thighs spreading open a tad more and she wills herself not to flinch. Her chin cocks upwards. “I know I can.” 

Harry’s brows kink challengingly, a borderline evil smirk sewing onto his face. “Let’s see, then.” 

As it turns out, Y/N can take it. However, she knows for a fact she won’t be able to walk right for at least the next week.

Harry lowers his jeans and kicks them off, reaching into his navy briefs and tugging himself out, giving his length a few pumps for good measure as he shifts forward toward her. He flips the girl onto her belly as easily as he’d turn a sheet of paper, tying one arm around her hips and lifting them up as he slides a pillow below. He situates her accordingly onto the cushion, her ass slightly elevated to give him more range of depth. He pats at her backside lightly, telling her to part her knees and she does so obediently, gripping onto the leather strap around her wrists anxiously when she feels the bed shift with his weight. Harry lowers himself over her body, the tee covering his broad chest soaking up the thin sheet of sweat on her back. He moves all of her tangled hair to the side, burying his fingers into her roots and yanking her head back cheekily. He runs his nose across her damp cheekbone and chuckles when she jumps slightly at the feathery sensation. 

“You’re pretty stubborn, aren’t you?” 

Y/N gnaws on her bottom lip as she struggles to swallow, throat taut from the angle he’s put her in. Her voice carries a confident bite, despite her compromisable position. “I like to think I am, yeah.” 

“Well, you know what that makes you, right?” Harry murmurs as he lines himself up with her entrance. 

“Mm-mm. What?” 

The vampire presses a lingering kiss to the tittering pulse in her temple, feeling it thunder below his skin as he forms his next comment slowly with an ominous edge. “It makes you a brat.” 

He feels her heartbeat trip. 

“And you know what I do to brats?” 

Y/N shakes her head as much as his dominant grasp will allow, body tightening in suspense. 

“I fuck them until they break.” 

Y/N learns that he’s telling the truth. The first thrust Harry delivers is swift, hard, and unbelievably deep; it causes her to let out a choked scream that no one else has ever drawn from her before, except for him. It’s like he can tap into certain aspects of her body she was unaware of; parts of her waiting for the right person to come along and reveal them. She feels that stroke rip into her tummy, but the pain of his size is something she’s become accustomed to in the last three weeks. She hardly feels it anymore; it had molded from a sharp throb to a dull ache, due to how often she’s experienced it. 

Harry doesn’t waste any time, quickly picking up a sloppy, adamant pace that has her hips bouncing against the mattress. He twists her hair around his fist, mouth pressed to the side of her head as his hot pants of exertion send a prickling through her scalp. His other forearm keeps him anchored to the bed as he pounds into her with absolutely no hesitation, the sound of skin slapping, cracked whines, and raspy grunts filling the tense atmosphere of her chilly room. 

“Is this what you were hoping would happen when you sent that slutty picture?” Harry grits out, short nails digging into the comforter beneath. “Wanted to get me all riled up just so I’d do your back in?”

Y/N mewls weakly in response, hands clinging to each other within the makeshift cuffs. 

“If you wanted me to fuck you like I hate you, you could have just asked. I’m more than happy to give you whatever you want. You don’t have to tempt me.” The vampire gives a particularly deep slam, laughing breathily when the girl’s back instinctively arches forward, paired with a watery yelp of, “Oh!”

Harry’s tongue grazes across the shell of her ear, teeth catching the skin. “But since you did, I’ll give it to you just— like—that.” His thrusts match to each word, fingers coiling harder into her locks. “You deserve it. Especially when you had the nerve to act like such a spoiled little brat right to my face.” 

Y/N’s not sure what emboldens her to speak, but her snarky remark is already halfway down her numb tongue before she can stop it. “Don’t pretend you didn’t like it.”

Harry hums tauntingly, circling his hips in long strides that urge a series of fractured whimpers to scrape out of Y/N’s sore throat. “Say it again. Go ahead, say it. I want to see you try.”

She remains silent, spine shuddering as she bites down on her tongue to avoid making any more noises that might condemn her.  

Harry roughly cranes Y/N’s neck to the side, buttoning their lips together in a filthy kiss that has her cheeks boiling. “That’s what I thought. The only thing that sharp tongue is good for is licking down my cock.” 

She gasps against his mouth shakily, tears of sheer bliss gathering along her waterline. “You’re such a fucking asshole.” 

Harry can tell her comment holds no true malice behind it; she’s too sweet on him— too whipped on what he gives her— to ever mean it. She’d only said it to provoke him into a power dynamic struggle. But the thing is, Harry’s dealt with feeling powerless before, so he had spent years teaching himself how to win. How to always win. 

“Am I, now?” His next line dismantles her entire plan. “Would an asshole let you cum?”

And just like that, her whole demeanor crumbles. “I take it back. I’m s-sorry.”

Harry releases her hair and nips at her ear mockingly, beginning to withdraw himself. “Oh, I think it’s a bit too late for that, minx.”

“No, no! Harry, please. I’m sorry. Genuinely. I promise I won’t say it again. Just…” She tugs helplessly at the belt restraints, trying to twist around to look at him directly. Her voice is wringed out. “Just please.”

The boy pushes a few stringy curls out of his eyes, pressing his tongue into his cheek coyly as he glances down, suggestively smoothing one hand over her ass. He gives it a firm squeeze, lifting his palm teasingly and feeling her tense in anticipation. “Do you want it?”

Y/N glimpses at his bejeweled hand with hunger, then back at his eyes. “Yes.”

“Tell me you want it.”

“I want it.”

“Sorry, I seem to have forgotten what ‘it’ was, exactly. Jog my memory, will you? What is it you want?”

Her irises harden in spite at his shit-eating comment. He’s well aware of how shy she can be when it comes to admitting she wants a spanking, and he’s playing that to his advantage. He’s swimming in the way she squirms. 

“I...I want you to spank me.”

He tsks, shaking his head as he twists his HS rings around to face inwards. “You forgot something.” 

Y/N’s fingers tighten into begrudging fists. “I want you to spank me, please.”

“There’s a good girl.” His low, accented purr sends electricity through her nerves. “You’re so cute when you beg.”

Harry’s hand comes down swiftly, digits fanned out so that all of his rings print across her backside. It’s not hard enough to hurt, but strong enough to leave a satisfying sting. He loves the way she jolts forward with a hushed curse of surprise, and he adores seeing the shape of his initials marked across her clammy skin. It’s poetic, almost.

“So pretty.” His mumble is wistful as he massages deeply over the region he had just bruised, but it holds unyielding authority. “Whose is it, doll?”

“Yours.” 

“And don’t you fucking forget it.” The creature lifts one palm to do it again, pausing once more just to rev her further. He reaches forward with the other, shoving her face-first into the mattress to get her back to straighten out. “Look forward and don’t make a single sound.”

Y/N obeys, but manages to sneak a peek at his reflection through the waxy wooden surface of her aged bedframe. He looks so good perched behind her with bare heaving shoulders, looking down at her exposed figure over the crests of his sharp cheekbones, brows furrowed into a starved expression that gives away he’s enjoying this probably more than she is. Her voice comes out small and weak. “Yes, sir.”

Harry’s entire face tightens at the word and she feels him throb against her backside. 

“Now beg me to let you cum.”

///

The next morning when Y/N’s eyes flutter open to the grey light streaking in through her curtains, the first thing she senses is a pair of eyes staring at the side of her face. 

She turns her stiff body over toward where the sensation stems and sure enough, she’s met with a pair of sea glass irises filled to the brim with humor. Harry’s laying on his side with his hands tucked below one of her pillows, tousled ringlets sticking up in wild tuffs (thanks to the activities they’d engaged yesterday), he’s completely bare since he likes sleeping nude (though he’d had the decency to cover himself with sheets from the waist down), and his voice is slower and raspier than usual (a result of being dormant for the last eight or so hours). 

“You drool in your sleep.” 

Y/N tucks her hands against Harry’s cold pectorals, snuggling deeper into his chest and pinching at one of his nipples in playful revenge. “No, I don’t.” 

“Yes,” he reaches up and shoos her hand away, proceeding to wipe at the side of her mouth, where dried spit had accumulated. He makes a theatrical gagging face, cleaning his thumb off across the collar of her t-shirt. “You do.”

Y/N sighs in exasperation, making a bold leap to a different topic to avoid talking about her embarrassing sleep habits. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you staring at people while they sleep is weird? Like, serial killer weird?” 

Harry tucks a few matted strands of hair behind the human’s ear, thumbing over her cheekbone tenderly. He hardly ever indulges in such actions, simply because they’re typically reserved for actual couples, which he and Y/N are definitely not. But last night— after he had finally finished being a prick and allowed her cum along with him, and after she had fallen into the bed with exhaustion taking her under, and after he’d had his greedy fill of her blood for the week— he’d gotten bored of playing on his phone. He’d burned through three cold case documentaries on Netflix and played enough Mario Kart to memorize the race charts; it had grown old quickly, and he eventually just locked the device and placed it on her nightstand. He spent the next hour staring at her hideous ceiling, and the one after that fantasizing about taking down her tapestry and burning it in the oven. And finally, after hours of mindless daydreams and letting his eyes chase the city lights dancing across the walls of her room, he had settled onto his side and watched her sleep. 

Harry did it simply because he had nothing else to distract him. He figured it would eventually bore him enough that maybe— just maybe, if he was lucky— he would fall asleep alongside her. But he didn’t, so he just ended up gazing at her slumbering face until dawn. He had been surprised by how oddly beautiful Y/N looked sleeping— how relaxed and tranquil, with her features soft and skin seemingly made of flawless porcelain. That intrigue had bled into the moment they share now, resulting in his touch drifting down the curve of her jaw and across the faint dimple on her chin. He follows the slope of her neck and admires the smoothness of her flesh with the ridges of his fingertips, hearing her breathing stutter ever so slightly. His heightened senses make it feel as if he’s running his digits over velvet and the only concept he can compare it to is touching forbidden artwork at an exhibit. It’s exciting, but he knows that if he keeps going, he could end up getting himself into a crock of shit. 

When the pads of his fingers land on two prominent purple bruises he’d forgotten existed, he’s broken from his soft stupor. He retracts his touch as if she were made of iron, forcing himself to ignore the pout that automatically plumps her delicate lips. 

He clears his throat awkwardly, a tight chuckle stringing his vocal chords. “Staring at someone in their sleep seemed to work just fine for Edward Cullen, though.” 

Y/N snorts sharply, rolling her eyes up towards her headboard. When she sees his belt is still hanging off of it from the night prior, she hurriedly glances back down, pretending not to have seen it. 

“It’s funny you say that because as I recall, he literally admitted to being a murderer. I believe his exact words were,” she exaggerates her voice into an angsty cry, grasping at her chest dramatically, “‘This is the skin of a killer, Bella!’”

Harry bursts into boyish giggles, falling fully onto his back and swiping his palm up his face, fingers remaining perched over his closed eyes as he laughs. He sighs airily, shaking his head as an afterthought. “What a moron.” 

“Truly. His dad was hotter.” 

“Way hotter.” Harry agrees passionately, burying his hand into his messy curls, attempting to comb out some of the tangles. “And he was a doctor. What a man.” 

“Bella really fucked that one up. She had a midlife crisis over choosing between a sad vampire who looked like he had chronic constipation, and a yappy dog with a shirt phobia. All when Carlisle was right there. Brain damage, honestly.” 

“A moment of prayer for the mentally incapacitated. Couldn't be me!”

“Couldn’t be me, either.”   

“Fuck, yeah.” Harry throws his hand up, inviting Y/N to give him a high five. “To good taste.”

She gladly delivers. “Exquisite taste.”

An instance of comfortable silence suspends between the pair of lovers, filled with the soft thrum of the air vent and the distant chirping of birds outside Y/N’s windowpane. She traces her index nail over the wings of the swallow tattoos along Harry’s collarbones, seeming to be deep in thought. She then speaks up once again.

“Emmett was pretty hot, as well.” 

“You know what? I’m happy you mentioned that ‘cause— full disclosure here— I’d ride him like a fucking bull.” 

Now it’s Y/N’s turn to explode in a fit of giggles, nose scrunching and eyes crinkling shut as she loses herself at Harry’s graphic confession. 

“Why are you laughing?!” The fact that he sounds genuinely appalled only spurs her sounds of glee. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t take that chance if you got it. Like, okay, he’s an airhead, yeah? I’m aware. But fuck’s sake, look at his body. I’d happily let him beat me at arm wrestling if it means I get that celebratory dick afterwards.”

The mortal manages to calm down a handful of heartbeats later and Harry feels strangely proud of how he’d made her pulse spike. 

“You’re valid for that, don’t worry. I couldn’t have said it—” A single giggle interupts her sentence, but she reigns it in before it can spiral. “I couldn’t have said it better myself. Literally. There’s no way to express it better than exactly how you stated it.” 

Harry smirks softly up at the ceiling, folding his free arm behind his head as the other wraps securely down Y/N’s back, absentmindedly rubbing in gentle soothing circles. “My mind. It’s amazing, innit?”

“It’s definitely something.” 

Another span of cozy quietness fills the atmosphere of the room, longer than the last. Harry doesn’t mind. He finds it appeasing, and he continues to delight himself with running his touch up and down Y/N’s spine. He’s not sure how much time passes, but he’s aware that it’s probably a bit. His theory is supported by how he witnesses the beam of watery light that filters over the duvet gradually fade from silver to a sunflower yellow, indicating full daybreak. 

Even then, he doesn’t say a word, too caught up in this innocent bubble of domestic bliss to pop it so suddenly. He just lays there and listens. Listens to the birds harmonizing with each other across the branches of the tree outside. To the steady breaths that fill Y/N’s lungs with cool air, faltering past her nostrils in the same manner and fogging the metal of his cross necklace. To the faint sound of footsteps trotting down the staircase outside her apartment, and to the vague spritz of the sprinkler system going off at the front of the complex. To the distant honking of car horns in traffic, and to a random conversation between two friends as they walk past the pavement just under Y/N’s balcony. He hasn’t felt this at ease in eons. 

Harry just allows himself to grow in tune with the world around him— a world he’d been convinced was against him for the longest time. A world he was convinced stole his happiness and replaced it with the shackles of a blood-driven afterlife, for no other reason than because he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time and met the wrong person. But now, he feels like he’s in the right place, at the right time, spending it with the right person— or at least a half-decent person— and he doesn’t want to let it slip between his fingers so soon. He wants to bask in it, even if he knows it’ll pass. 

And eventually, it does pass, and Y/N is the one who brings it to an end. 

The girl slowly peels away from Harry’s side, his lips dipping downwards slightly at the loss of the warmth she radiates. He thinks she’s about to get up to probably go use the bathroom or to make breakfast, but instead, she just bends her upper body over the edge of her bed to retrieve something from the floor. She comes back up with the box he’d brought her the evening before (which had ended up on the ground as a result of her bed rocking violently), setting it in the small space between their laps. She then returns to her place cuddled into his torso, looking up at him with an expression that Harry can only interpret as expecting. 

The vampire glances down at the container and then back up to Y/N’s face, raising his eyebrows curiously, voice tinged with comedy. “What did I say about bringing sex toys to the dinner table?”

Y/N stares up at him flatly for a second, fighting off a smile. “I just wanted to thank you again. It’s nice of you to bring me a present, even as strange as this one.” 

Harry sucks at his teeth, waving a hand dismissively, blinking down at her with slyness sparkling around his pupils. “What are friends for, if not for buying you vibrating finger gloves and then fucking you with them until you cry?”

Despite having been acquainted with Harry’s crude humor for three weeks now, it still manages to make Y/N’s cheeks sizzle. It could also be the fact that this is the first time Harry has openly accepted Y/N as a friend. It’s the first time he’s ever mentioned her name and that word in the same sentence, meaning that she can now shake a weight off her shoulders— a weight that had insisted he was only using her for sex, that he would eventually grow bored of her, and that he would throw her away once he was done. It’s good to know that’s not the case, and that the friendship aspect of their agreement is true to its name. 

“Right.” Y/N’s smile is full of so much genuine warmth, Harry feels like she could outshine the sun. “What are friends for, if not that. Thanks, Harry.” 

He wonders what she’s thinking, and he finds himself wishing that he had the one valid trait that idiot Edward Cullen possesses: mind-reading. But he doesn’t have it, so he simply returns her gesture and skates the conversation how he best deems fit. “You don’t have to call me ‘Harry’ all the time, you know?” 

Y/N’s brows cinch in entertained confusion. “What would I call you, then? Sherlock?” 

Harry scoffs lightly at the inside joke, shrugging one shoulder casually. “I mean, you could, if you want to. It might take some getting used to, but I think I can shoulder a full-time second identity. Just for you.” 

“How chivalrous.”

“You ain’t ever met a man like me, sweetheart.” He boasts in an over-the-top American southern accent, prying another round of laughter from Y/N, similar to the one before. “But you could also just call me ‘H.’ It’s what most of my other friends use.” 

“H.” Y/N repeats, getting a taste for the new nickname. It’s simple, unlike him, but it somehow fits. She then recalls something from a show she’d watched when she was younger and she can’t help but bring it up. “So, like, just your first initial? Like in Gossip Girl?”

Harry’s face immediately drops at the comparison she makes to the cringey teenage soap opera. “You know what, I take it back. You’re not allowed to use it. Illegal. Banned. By an official court. Gavel and all.”

“I’m just making a point!”

“Yeah, a shitty one.” 

“Oh, whatever. You’re just mad I debunked your little hipster alter ego. ‘That’s a secret I’ll never tell. Xoxo, H.’”

“Restraining order.” Harry pinches at one of her love handles, an evil grin dimpling his cheeks when she squeals. “Actually, nevermind. We’re going straight to the electric chair. Immediately.” 

“You don’t get to decide my punishment, remember?” Y/N slaps at his wrists, trying to ward off his attacks but failing miserably. “You’re just the—stop!— just the executioner.” 

“That’s right. I get to strap you to the chair.” Harry finally lets up on the tickling, his lighthearted grin taking on a slightly seductive hue as he momentarily glimpses upwards towards where his belt is hanging. “Though you’d probably like that, wouldn’t you?” 

“Fuck off.” Y/N smothers her palm against his face, breaking eye contact as she feels her ears bristle with heat.  

“Mm, exactly.” Harry gnashes at her hand playfully, but she manages to yank it away before he gets a bite in. “You can’t even admit you like being called a whore.” 

“Hey!”

“What?” The vampire gives her a cocky look, wagging his head knowingly and then mimicking her voice in a higher pitch. “‘I’m just making a point!’”

“You’re a dick, you really are.” 

“And yet you still ride mine, so who’s the one with the real issues here? Specifically, daddy issues.”

“I’m done with this conversation.” Y/N huffs, returning her attention to the box beside her thigh, muffling the twitching across her lips. 

She takes the cardboard into her hands, tracing over the small flap used to pry the top open. Harry watches her with interest, pondering as to what could possibly be scurrying around her skull that she seems so caught up with the context of the gift. He’d gotten it because he knew they would both benefit from it. It’s as simple as that. 

“You know,” she starts, but her gaze remains glued to the box, “I feel kinda bad ‘cause, like...You got me this gift, I have nothing to give you in return.” 

Harry’s face contorts into a silly frown for a moment, tone humorous. “It’s fine, Y/N. You don’t have to give me anything back. I got it ‘cause I knew we’d enjoy using it together, and because this way, you have something to play with when I’m not around. And you can send me videos of said instances. It’s truly a win-win. A double-ended gift.” 

“I suppose.” She mumbles softly, continuing to pick at the lip of cardboard sticking out. “But I feel like it’s only fair that you get to use it, too, don’t you think?”

And then the reason she’s insistent about this dawns on Harry. The way she’s avoiding looking at him directly, how her heart rate is slowly ebbing upwards, how she is gradually scooting closer to his body, how he can feel her thighs are clasped tightly below the comforter. How the scent of honey and lavender has intensified. How she keeps glancing towards where the sheets are crumpled messily around his hips in a haphazard attempt to remain civil. 

When the monster speaks, it carries all the arrogance brought forward by his discovery. “If you wanna give me a handjob with the toy on, just say so.” 

The human’s head snaps upwards, her expression one of utter alarm at his lewd comment, but he can see right through her act. It’s obvious that was her intention all along— the desire in her eyes is poorly masked. She looks so adorable, pretending not to know what he’s referring to, her palms gripping the box slightly tighter than before. 

Harry twirls a strand of her hair around his finger nonchalantly, giving it a jesting tug. “I just find it funny how much of a horny menace you can be.”

“What—?”

“And it’s not even ten A.M. yet.”

“What do you—?” 

“Y/N,” Harry sighs tiredly, giving her an omniscient look, “I’ve slept with you enough times to know when you want something. It’s written all over your body language and you’re pretty shit at hiding it in your eyes. Just admit you want to and I’ll let you.” 

The faux shock slowly melts off her face, replaced by sheepish humiliation at being so easily sussed out. She chews on her bottom lip pensively, struggling to sew together the appropriate words to communicate the very inappropriate activity she wants to engage in. Harry has to withhold from leaning down and taking a bite from her tempting mouth.  

She inhales a deep breath through her nose, puffing it out slowly and tapping her fingers across the box nervously. Her voice pipes up so softly, it’s almost inaudible. “I want to give you a handjob with the toy.”

Harry gently cards his fingers into the mussed roots along the back of her head, using that hold to guide her sight upwards until it meets his. He leans down, smearing his lips over her own, feeling static pass through the ridges of their skin. “That’s all you had to say, darling. Go ahead, then. Make me cum.” 

Y/N swallows thickly, lashes fluttering bashfully as she pastes her mouth to his in a soft kiss. It’s a simple action with just their lips and nothing else. No tongue, no teeth, no sucking, nothing sloppy or desperate— not yet, anyways. He can tell she does it as a way to ease herself into this. She wants to, that much is arousingly obvious, but for some crazy reason unbeknownst to him, she’s still shy about it. That’s what happens when you come from a conservative raising: you get intimacy issues. He of all people— with his Victorian era background— would know. 

The hand Harry has cupping the nape of her neck shifts over a smidge, ending up splayed across the side of her face. His palm rests on her cheekbone and his fingers in her locks, his wrist cradling the back of her skull as he patiently deepens the kiss. His chest begins to heave slightly, a familiar sensation already frothing at the trench of his stomach. Harry can feel Y/N’s clumsy movements as she unboxes the vibrators, digging through the packaging and trying to slip them on blindly, not wanting to break away from his embrace. The way he’s flirting his tongue along the inside of her top lip is just too consuming to leave. 

After a few seconds of grappling and a string of annoyed curse words, Harry giggles lightly into her mouth, nudging the tip of his nose across the bridge of hers. The jade tint in his irises is waltzing with amusement, all at her expense. “Sometime today, love.” 

“I know, I’m sorry, I just— I can’t— they won’t—” The mortal releases an irritated growl into their kiss, reluctantly splitting away when it becomes clear she won’t be able to get the rubber gloves on without giving the task her full attention. “God, I’m such a...Sorry.” 

Harry rolls his eyes in mirth, pecking sweetly along the angry creases present over her forehead and between her brows. He thumbs over her cheek affectionately to soothe her nerves, his other hand scratching distractedly at the back of his neck. He filters curls through his fingers as he waits, bicep jolting in the process. “It’s fine, I’m just teasing. I’m not going anywhere, babe.”

“Thanks. Just give me—” The girl pauses her actions for a second, jutting her chin back up towards him and locking the vampire into another quick kiss, solely for the purpose of keeping him interested while she figures herself out. She breaks away again, returning to her mission. “Just give me a minute.” 

Now that she can see, Y/N successfully wriggles all five of her fingers into their designated molds. She prods at them gingerly, copying Harry’s actions from the night prior, using that experience as a manual. The mini-vibrators purr to life, a buzzing sensation trickling down her fingers. She glances back up at an awaiting Harry, who gives her such an easy, good-natured smile, she instantly reaches up and glues their mouths together again. 

“You’re so eager.” The boy grins into the kiss, jumping a bit when he feels her tittering fingers duck beneath the covers around his lower torso. “It’s hot.” 

“I just want to make you feel good.” Y/N mumbles, one palm braced to his strong shoulder as the other rides down his bare abdomen. She can feel his grip on her hair tightening the closer she gets to his cock. “That’s all.” 

“Guess I’m just the luckiest— shit.” Harry’s quip is interrupted when Y/N wraps her digits around his length, giving it one slow, testing pump. His jaw drops open and he begins panting into her mouth, the corners of his lips ticking upwards into a smirk as an intense pleasure swells between his thick thighs. “Jesus fucking Christ, that feels— fuck, that’s incredible, oh my God.”

“Yeah?” The human asks timidly, gazing up at him dreamily from below her lashes as his eyes lull back into his head. “Not too much?” 

Harry loves how attentive she is— how she’s checking to make sure he’s alright before continuing. If he had a heart, it would surely be glowing right now. 

Harry gulps down the lump in his throat, voice more strained and needy than she’s ever heard it. “No, I’m good, I’m good. Keep going.” 

Y/N gradually sinks her palm back down to his base, feeling his cock twitch desperately as the vibrators work their magic. She slowly slinks back up to his tip, thumbing over it carefully, pressing the toy on her thumb pad right over his slit. The garbled moan that emits from Harry is a sound her ears will never forget. It’s a sound she wishes she could record and listen to on a loop. 

“Fucking hell, don’t— please, just— oh—” Harry stutters through a plead, voice bleeding, naked chest now heaving wildly against her own. His hips buck forward into her hand, but she maintains a steady grip, keeping the vibrator pressed to the center of his cock’s head. 

“Don’t what?” She whispers into his mouth, suckling at his Cupid’s bow and reveling in the little broken noises he pours onto her tongue. 

Harry’s breaths are shallow and pained, the grip on her hair stronger than she thought possible as the fingers of his opposite hand yank at his own feverishly. He’s barely able to choke out his next sentence. “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t.” Y/N begins to fish for a solid rhythm, her strokes setting into medium pace and gauging the receiver's reaction. “How’s that?” 

Bright colors web across Harry’s eyelids and he feels like his soul is being torn from his body. “Y-Yeah, that’s perfect, baby. It’s so good— you’re so good.” 

“I am?” Y/N swipes her thumb over his tip again, and when he whimpers brokenly against her lips, she does it again. It urges the same exact reaction, but more shattered. So she does it again. And again, and again, and again. And each time it happens, his hips jerk more violently, chasing her intoxicating touch. She can feel Harry’s precum drip down his length and leak between the cracks of her fingers. 

“You are, you’re just so fucking good to me.” Harry’s spewing words at this point, brain half conscious, half floating in bliss. Whatever dam of common sense holds his mind together crumbles, all of his thoughts rushing out in the form of jumbled phrases and cracked whines. “You get me going like nothing else, pet. You get me going so easily, it’s embarrassing. You make me cum so hard, it feels like I’m touching h-heaven. And your mouth— God, y-your mouth. It’s the best I’ve ever had. It’s so soft and warm, and your lips are so pretty and silky. I could kiss you for hours. And your tongue— you know how to use it so well. You lick me once and I’m already on edge. And every time you get down on your knees, I think I’m gonna pass out.”

Y/N sighs shakily at Harry’s string of confessions, staring up at him with wide eyes as his own stay shut loosely, long lashes perched on his rosy cheekbones, handsome features slack with euphoria. She doesn’t halt her motions, continuing to pump him excitedly. The girl passes her thumb over his tip every time she gets to the top, and gives a hard squeeze every time she thunks down against his base, twisting her wrist as she glides back and forth between the two points of reference. That combination seems to work well, evident in the steady stream of vulgarities falling from Harry’s swollen lips as he thrusts upwards to match her pace. His groans splash across her tongue, traveling down her throat and burning into her stomach. She wants him to cum probably more than he does.

Y/N glimpses down, watching her sheets tent as she works Harry over, the outline of her knuckles pressing into the turquoise fabric. It’s such an erotic scene and she knows it’ll be branded across the front of her brain for years to come. She cranes her neck back up to look at the vampire, her breath catching in her lungs. He looks so pretty with his dark pink lips parted in pleasure, his damp ringlets matting along his sweaty hairline, his structured jaw ticking, and his usually sharp traits softened by ecstasy. She’ll do anything to make that image last.  

“Tell me more.” Y/N murmurs, swimming in the praise he is so willing to dish out. 

His eyes flicker for a heartbeat and in that instance, they look oddly darker than normal. Almost crimson, but she knows it’s due to the shadow of his lashes. The words that spill from his mouth next make her forget all about that occurrence, his voice melodic and dark, sticky against her wet lips. 

“Your hands are one of my favorite things about you, I think. They’re smaller than mine and I love how your fingers don’t touch when you wrap them around my cock. I love how they leave my back raw with scratches, and I love how they look tied to the bedpost. I love it when they press flat against my chest when you ride me, and how you lean back on them when I’m on my knees with my head between your thighs. I love how they yank at my hair when you’re about to cum, and how they grip my upper arms when we make-out. I love how your nails dig into my thighs when you're going down on me, and how they look fisting at the sheets when I’m taking you from behind. And I love how they feel tugging me off, like you’re doing now. I just love how perfect they are— how perfect you are.” 

Y/N is left speechless, Harry’s monologue ringing in her heated ears as he gazes at her intensely amidst heavy, barely-cracked eyelashes. His broad chest gasps for air and he takes it upon himself— despite his wrecked appearance— to smush their mouths deeper together, pooling moans across the roof of her own.  

“I’m—” His breathing throttles, voice coming out softer than she’s heard it in the last three weeks. “I’m gonna cum.”

Y/N nods her head numbly, strokes becoming lazy and fast, eager for him to finish. “I want you to. I want you to cum for me so bad. Please?” 

Harry’s hips writhe in a tell-tale sign that he’s about to tip. His whimper tastes sweet on her tongue, the meaning behind it pure syrup to her ego. “You’re the only one who makes me feel this good.”

The mortal whines gently in return, eyes falling shut as she feels him grow heavier in her palm. “You’re the only one I want to make feel this good.” 

The knot of white hot pleasure in his belly begins to unravel, his entire spine shuddering as a result, all strain beginning to wash out of his system in spurts if blissful electricity. He can feel his orgasm racing up his prick, pulling his composure along with it. He gives one last jerk against Y/N’s cupped fingers, feeling her press her vibrating thumb over his slit one more time for good measure. When the first milky ribbon spurts out, that’s when he feels it. 

Harry’s eyelids fly open in alarm as black veins protrude along the whites of his eyes, all his muscles contracting at once, defense mode activated. Y/N’s lips are on his neck. 

His first instinct is to do what he always does and guide her away from that sensitive, highly forbidden area. His fist tightens in her hair and he’s about to yank her back up to his mouth when suddenly, the icy tension present in his veins disappears. It’s replaced by a soothing warmth, which travels through every crevice in his body and kindles his climax, his impulsive hatred for being touched in that specific region funneling away completely. He can’t remember a time where this has happened before. 

Harry’s grip loosens hesitantly as he treads into this unexplored territory, allowing her to continue suckling along his throat. The sensation would usually garner a reaction similar to that of a molten metal brand being placed on his skin, but now— for some startling reason— he doesn’t feel any contempt. He just feels relaxed and cradled in the best way imaginable. The impact is pleasant this time around, and he finds himself wanting more of it. So, he lets her give him more. He lets this strange girl kiss and gasp and lick against his jugular while she finishes getting him off, his own desperate sounds of need bouncing around the brick walls of her bedroom. He lets her coax wave after wave of cum out of him, feeling it splatter against her bedspread and coat over her hand. He whines and grunts into the hair along the crown of her head, tears blearing his eyes as her scent of sugar and flowers clouds his mind. And when his release finally sputters to an end, he lets out an elongated groan so deep, it makes his chest ache.

“Fuck. You’re...You’re an absolute angel.”

Y/N draws her hand out from beneath the bed sheets, turning off the vibrating finger pads by pressing them against her palm. She looks down at the milky substance covering the toys and before Harry can make even a sound of encouragement, she’s already licking it off each individual piece. The girl looks up at the vampire as she cleans every trace of him off her fingers, swallowing it all down with a doe-like tint across her hazy gaze and murmuring a soft, “You taste good.” over a full mouth. Harry just watches silently, heavy breathing slowly starting to even out. God, she really is such a fucking godsend.

The next couple of minutes list by in a blur, all of his focus taken up by the feeling of unsettlement pricking at the back of his brain. Why had he let her touch him there? Why had he let her touch him in a place no one has since before his death?

Y/N puts the toys back in their box, putting them off to the side to thoroughly clean later. She reaches down, bunching up her bedspread in her hand and wiping Harry’s pelvis, thighs, and tummy down until he’s decently clean, as well as whatever is left on her hand. She then snuggles up to his side once again, laying her head into the crook between his arm and pectoral muscles, staring up at the ceiling thoughtfully along with him. The irritating red tint across Harry’s chest, stomach, and neck gradually fades away, and he barely flinches when he feels her sponge her lips against his Adam’s Apple. She lulls the tip of her middle finger up along the vein of his cock one more time for finality, smiling slyly when he hisses in sensitivity.

The immortal tilts his head down to appraise her, sniffling lightly and allowing a weak, watery smile across his raw lips. His tone is feathery and detached. “That was…Christ.”

Y/N giggles softly, nodding along to his unspoken opinion. “It was fun. Really fun. We should do it again sometime.” 

Harry splutters into a drunken laugh, mind still floating around the room. “I don’t think I could survive that again.”

Y/N grins up at him cheekily. “Pussy.” 

Her friend breaks into an expression of utter offense, cheeks still slightly rosy. He shoves her head roughly as vengeance. “Hey! Piss off. Don’t blame it on me, blame it on the male anatomy.” 

The girl shakes her head up at him, eyebrows shrugging mockingly. “Excuses, excuses.” 

“Whatever.” 

A moment passes, and then Y/N speaks up again, her index finger poking playfully into the center of his bare chest, right over the butterfly tattoo. “Also, you’re washing my sheets. Your mess, you clean it up.”

Harry grins against her forehead, scratching lightly at the back of her scalp. “Fair enough…Wait, is that why you wanted to do this? ‘Cause you knew I’d soil your sheets and you could force me to do your laundry?”

That hadn’t been her motive at all, and Harry knows that, but she plays along anyways for the hell of the joke. “Perhaps.” 

“Wow. I feel used.” 

“Too bad. Go do it. Now. Before it stains.”

Harry stares at her like she’s sprouted a second head. “I literally can’t walk right now! I can’t feel anything below my waist.”

Y/N lifts the comforter off her body, symbolically showing off the bruises his fingertips and rings had left the night before. “Well, neither can I!” 

Harry reaches down and touches the marks, chuckling to himself. “How unfortunate. Who’s gonna make breakfast, then, if neither of us can even stand?”

“We could UberEats some iHop.” 

“Who’s gonna get the door?”

“Well, I can’t solve everything on my own, now can I?!” Y/N slaps his hand away from her body. “Contribute! You’re the lead detective, after all.” 

“I am, aren’t I?” Harry cocks his head to the side in recollection, remembering his role in their imaginary dynamic duo scenario. “And because I’m the lead, I say…” He ropes his lean arms around the human and buries his face into her warm neck, pulling her close and intertwining their legs together, trapping her to the mattress along with him. “I say we just bum around for a bit longer. Just until one of us can actually muster up the strength to leave the bed.” 

Y/N makes an exasperated noise in the back of her throat, but makes no apparent attempt to leave his embrace. “Fine.” 

“Mystery solved, then! Elementary, my dear Watson.”

“You’re so dumb.” 

The pair stay cuddled for a bit, with Y/N’s hands loosely gripping Harry’s forearms, tracing across his mermaid tattoo absently. She wanders in her thoughts for a period of time, lost in the sensation of Harry’s warm breath fanning down her neck, his hot lips pressing small kisses behind her ear every once in a while. She likes their morning after routine; it’s innocent and fun and sharing moments like this makes it easy to forget her troubles. She wants more of this, and she finds herself trying to come up with ways to convince Harry to spend the night more often. This is only the fourth time he’s stayed until morning and she wants that number to grow. 

An idea dawns on her and she’s voicing it before her inhibitions can kill it off.

“Do you...Do you maybe wanna stay over the rest of the weekend?”

Harry draws his face from the alcove of her soft neck, eyebrows poised in curiosity. “The rest of the weekend?”

“Yeah!” Y/N shifts her gaze up to look at him, hope swirling around her pupils. “Like, spend the rest of today and tomorrow over, and then leave tomorrow night ‘cause I have work on Monday. Does that, like...Does that make sense?” 

“Yeah.” Harry says slowly, mulling over her offer, thinking back to his schedule. He doesn’t think he has any commitments this weekend that would require him being home— none he can’t cancel easily, anyways. He’d told Mitch he’d go see him play again at the pub later today, but it’s the same set as last time, so he doesn’t think his best friend would mind if he missed it just this once. Niall was planning a barbecue at his place on Sunday, but the Irish bloke does one almost every other week so it’s nothing Harry can’t make up. Plus, what type of idiot would pass up two day’s worth of amazing sex? The more, the merrier.

Y/N watches the vampire’s expression carefully, trying to interpret whether her request was out of their boundaries. She doesn’t want to make him feel like she’s trying to tie him down or suffocate him, she just wants to spend a bit more time in his presence, rather than through a phone screen. Her tone comes out dismissive, with just the tiniest hint of panic. “It’s okay if you can’t, though. Like, if you have other plans and stuff, I totally get it. Or if you just don’t want to, that’s fine, too! I just thought it’d be a fun little thing we can do since we already talk so much on the phone and everything, so I guess I just kinda figured you wouldn’t mind—”

“I get it, Y/N.” Harry interrupts Y/N’s unhinged word vomit, voice amused and nonchalant. “I think I’d like that, yeah.”

Y/N blinks in giddy surprise. “Really?” 

“Well, don’t sound so shocked.” Harry laughs lightly, fingers toying with the pearls laying across his clavicle. “The sex is pretty fucking good and I’m more than happy to have it at my disposal.” 

“Right.” Y/N gives him a deadpan look, shaking her head at his bluntness, reaching forward to fiddle with the chain of his cross necklace for the sake of having something to distract her from smiling like a fool. “Great, then. I have some old boxers that I know will probably fit you and an unopened pack of toothbrushes under the sink, so I think you’re set.” 

Harry’s lips purse at the mention of the men’s underwear, brows creasing a tad. “You just casually have men’s boxers laying around?” 

“They were my ex’s and I kept them out of spite. But don’t tell anyone, I don’t wanna get locked up for robbery.” 

The tightness in his chest— which he hadn’t even realized had formed— melts away. “My lips are sealed.”

“Good, or else I’d have to kill you.” The girl states darkly, a theatrical seriousness to her appearance. 

“Oh no.” Harry wails sarcastically, knotting a fist into her oversized tee and pulling her closer, connecting their lips and grinning into the kiss. “I’m shaking in fear.” 

Y/N gives in without much of a fight, hands still clinging to his forearms, a smile of her own creeping across her cheeks. “Asshole.”

“The only thing I’m relatively afraid of is my dick falling off. You have the sexual drive of a rabbit.” 

“Oh, like you’re any better?” 

“I’m innocent in all this! You’re usually the one instigating. I’m just a mere pawn— a poor, unsuspecting nun led astray.”

“God, I can’t believe I let you fuck me.” 

///

The following weekend, Harry officially invites Y/N over to his house. 

It had been talked about in passing a while back, and he figures it's only fair considering all the time they’ve ever spent together has been solely at her place. Plus, he could tell she was curious to see what his living situation is like, which is valid. You can tell a lot about people through their home, and when you’re sleeping with someone on the regular, you want to learn as much about them as possible. It’s important to know who you’re getting into bed with. Literally. 

Harry’s proud of his condo. He keeps it clean, he keeps it organized, and he keeps it styled in a manner that combines his Victorian gothic roots with modern day aesthetics. The floorboards of the apartment are made of waxed light-wash wood, most of the expanse of his living room covered in a furry dark grey rug. The lightness of the ground is contrasted by the matte mahogany walls, of which the largest is covered in Harry’s collection of first edition artwork. He had picked out every single piece himself throughout the span of the last two centuries, ranging from modern digital technique canvases to nineteenth century oil paintings, all arranged in neat alternating rows from oldest to newest. He can’t help that he’s such a stickler; his mom had raised him so. 

Though his art wall is his pride and joy, the glass wall that overlooks the city skyline comes in at a close second. Harry loves the city, despite the fact that he was born in a seemingly irrelevant town whose only redeeming quality was the bustling public market. Urban regions are just full of so much life, excitement, and potential, which are all concepts he never really got to explore before he transitioned. Cities represent everything he wanted as a young man, when he thought he had prosperous years ahead of him and an entire life left to build; they represent diversity, unique experiences, and endless possibilities. When that was stripped from him, he began to bounce around different countries and cities all over the world, seeking a place that would fill the hole his dreams had left behind. Los Angeles fit that space like a puzzle piece. 

That glorified window just means more to him than anyone could possibly know. Sometimes at night, he’ll just stand by it with his arms relaxed across his chest, watching the city gleam and glitter as individuals from all different backgrounds go about their business, blissfully ignorant to the beautiful concept that they all contribute to something much bigger— a concept that only centuries of wisdom could reveal. When he’s not wracked with jealousy and spite, looking out that window and witnessing the world change and evolve is therapeutic, in a way. It allows Harry to live vicariously through others who get to have what he never did. 

Aside from his art collection and the glass wall, the chandeliers that hang from his cavernous ceiling are third on his list of treasured possessions. They’re special and no one on this earth owns anything like them; Harry made sure of that. They were created by a Swedish interior designer Harry commissioned about ten years ago, so they are custom-made in every aspect of the term. They took months to construct and finalize, which is hardly difficult to believe, given their grandeur. Each chandelier is made of two extensive layers of delicate golden chains, all arranged around a wire center, connected by light bulbs at each peak. It gives his home a chic, avant-garde atmosphere that mirrors his personality down to the last chain link. 

The rest of his flat is tailored to compliment these three major determining factors. The wood paneling all around his apartment is carved with intricate, loopy designs, his two rounded coffee tables are made of the same marble that resides across his kitchen counters, and his kitchen sits directly under the second story ledge with elongated fluorescent poles embedded into the room’s ceiling, eloquently highlighting the creme walls and polished detailings of all his appliances. His sectional couches are made of an off-brown leather, covered in large rectangular couch cushions with a checkered print embroidered across the pillow cases, and weighted fleece blankets litter some areas of the elegant sofas. A wide staircase leads up to the second floor, made of grey glass steps and metal railings. 

The top story of his condo is less Victorian era, more modern composition. The ground is dark maroon carpeting, and the ledge leads to one singular corridor that splits into two seperate rooms at either ends. One is the master bedroom, and the other is an accompanying bedroom which he uses for storage. His room isn’t anything extravagant, per se. It’s big, but his decor is minimalistic, covered in all different muted shades of blacks and greys, from the comforter on his king-sized bed to the tall dresser. A fifty inch flat-screen is mounted on the wall, but he hardly uses it since the one in his living room is larger; it’s only really there as an ornament. Starburst lights hang from his ceiling— smaller, downplayed versions of his chandeliers— and his walk-in closet stands parallel to the entrance of his bathroom. 

The humongous bathroom was meant for two people, pretty obvious in the double-sink set up, but he doesn’t dwell on it much. He isn’t one for dating, and he’s just happy to have that luxury because it comes in handy the morning after one night stands. He has a jacuzzi-like bathtub, lined with water jets and all, and a big walk-in shower with a large overhead panel instead of a regular showerhead. The whole room is made of dark marble and porcelain, and he couldn’t possibly adore it more. Some of his best experiences had happened in this room, explicit and otherwise. 

In the end, Harry has every right to be arrogantly proud of his apartment. It had taken him months to decorate, years to fill with fond memories, and an immortal lifetime to find. He loves it with every trace of his soul, even when others disagree. Namely, Niall, who had mocked his sophisticated relics and old-timey architecture from the first time he’d set foot past the threshold; “You went the dark gothic route? Really? Way to feed into the stereotype, Dracula.” 

But no matter what anyone says, this is who he is, and he couldn’t be happier. After decades of migrating and aimlessly searching the globe, he’d finally found a place he could call home, and absolutely no one could take that from him. Especially not some Irish moron who doesn’t even know the definition of “foyer.”

How Harry manages to afford his flat is a whole other intriguing tale.

It had come up in a pillow talk conversation with Y/N once, and he had told her the story he feeds to any human who asks. He’s a regional manager for an offshore company and it’s mainly a lot of online work. Handling duties through business emails, videochat meetings, job portals, and things of the such. It paints a valid image as to why he’s home all the time. He also claims to be the company’s lone contact stationed in California, so he handles all of the responsibilities that would normally be bestowed upon three or four people. This paints a valid explanation as to how his imaginary position would tether such a high pay grade, which justifies his luxurious living arrangement.

That story is part of the truth. Harry does indeed have ties with corporate businesses. That is, ties to their CEOs’ pockets. It’s surprisingly easy to get past secretaries and security dressed in a nice suit and thousand dollar leather shoes, especially with the help of compulsion and Harry’s golden charisma. Thanks to those tools, he has managed to convince some of the biggest leaders in corporate California to quietly deposit generous sums of money into his bank account once a month. And with his persuasive supernatural abilities, he convinces them to write it off as regularly scheduled charity donations in their minds. That’s how he makes a living for himself— by scamming the rich. Xander likes to take the piss and call him a sugar baby, but Harry sees himself as more of a modern day Robin Hood, instead. 

Mitch says his charade is unlawful, but considering how corrupt the business world already is, the vampire feels next to no guilt. The one percent have always taken advantage of those poorer than them— that was obvious even back in Harry’s time— and he doesn’t see anything wrong with taking advantage of them right back, now that he has the means to. How’s that saying go? “Fuck the bourgeoisie” and all that. 

Everything taken into consideration, Harry’s pretty excited to show Y/N his condo. Watching people’s faces break into awe the second he turns the lights on always gives him such a deep surge of satisfaction. It makes all the hassle worth it.  

The immortal is currently sitting in his vintage car, flicking through his Spotify playlist to find something to entertain him while he waits for Y/N to finish her shift. He had offered to pick her up, knowing that it’s what any courteous host would do, and she had appreciatively accepted, telling him she’d be out by eight P.M. It’s seven fifty-three now and Harry had arrived around seven fifty, taking the slot right in front of the cafe’s entrance so she can spot him as soon as she walks out. These ten minutes are the longest he’s ever had to endure, which says a lot considering he’s endured tons of patience-testing moments in his two hundred years.

Harry swipes his thumb down the glass screen of his phone, sampling songs left and right to see what will stick. After listening to the first few chords of an array of forties dance music, seventies rock and roll, and twenty-first century bubblegum pop, he settles for Rodeo by Lil Nas X. Harry has a very intricate taste in music— it’s one of the traits he’s most proud of— and Mitch often tells him he’s too snotty when it comes to his preferences. He’ll admit it freely that, yes, he can be a piece of work musically, but just because he thinks the industry peaked in the seventies doesn’t mean he hates modern music. He likes most of it, including rap, and Lil Nas X happens to be one of his favorites, much to everyone’s surprise. Most of the artist’s songs are eccentric not only lyrically but also instrumentally, to the point where it’s almost comical— who names a song Panini, of all things?— but the music is catchy and Harry can let loose to it easily. 

The vampire also happened to meet the musician, on one occasion. He ran into him at a club and after a few drinks and some banter, somehow ended up getting invited over to a party at the celebrity’s Malibu mansion. That night is a blur, definitely due to the copious amounts of alcohol and psychedelics, but Harry remembers they had fun and that the guy was worth a listen. In fact, he was the genius that came up with the theme for the rapper’s Rodeo music video. 

A light knocking on the passenger’s seat window brings him out of his memories. Y/N stands outside, hugging her arms loosely over her tummy, decked in her usual work uniform of a navy polo and black skinny jeans. When the two lock eye contact, she gives him a soft wave and a tired smile. Harry lifts two fingers in greeting, returning her polite gesture and swiftly lowering the window. He leans forward across the center console, his grin taking on a playful hue, voice carrying the same effect. 

“Uber for Y/N?” 

The girl snorts and rolls her eyes, but plays along, reaching forward and jiggling the handle of his black Cadillac symbolically. “That’s me, yes. Open up.” 

“Eh, eh, eh.” Harry tuts, wagging a finger in her direction and then making a motion that tells her to back away. “I’m gonna have to see some ID. It’s one of our new safe driver policies. Gotta make sure you are who you say you are, miss.” 

Y/N’s expression drops flatly, eyes half-lidded as he smiles up at her brightly, batting his eyelashes innocently. “Open the door before you end up sucking your own dick tonight.” 

Harry’s shit-eating face falls so fast, it causes her to burst into laughter. A soft click vibrates through the handle below her fingers. “I’ll waive the background check. Just this once.”  

“Yeah, I figured as much.” Y/N taunts, yanking the door open and ducking into the shotgun seat, gently tugging it closed behind her. 

Once the human is situated in her spot, she releases a lengthy sigh, sinking down against the cushions as she grabs her seat belt and clicks it into place. 

Harry puts his cell phone down into the cubby hole below the stereo set, setting the car in reverse and slinging an arm behind her headrest to get a better view as he backs out of the parking space. His gaze momentarily flickers to her slumped form as the car retreats slowly, tone curious. “Long day?”

Y/N glimpses over, giving him a quick once-over and taking in his olive green Nike jumper, ripped denim boyfriend jeans, and pastel yellow Vans. He looks so boyishly cute, which is ironic given the premise of tonight’s rendezvous. The shoes (which he had worn the night they’d met all those weeks ago) and the position he’s in (perched above her with his sharp jaw and neck flexing as he cranes his torso to look for oncoming traffic) flashes her back to the first time she had been in his car. They had been way less acquainted, she had been much less relaxed, much more nervous, but the encounter very much carried the same exact intentions. That recollection makes her lips quirk a bit. The pair had grown so comfortable with each other since then, that Friday evening feels like it happened decades ago. 

“Yeah.” Y/N murmurs softly, gladly indulging a deep inhale of the vanilla and tobacco scent she had become familiar with, allowing it to soothe her nerves and wash away the stress of a hard day. “I’m just happy it’s over and that the weekend’s finally started. Wanna forget all about it.” 

“Well, that’s what I’m here for, love!” Harry plops back into his seat, shifting his car into drive and gifting her his famous brilliant smile, dimples winking to life as he taps his ringed fingers across his steering wheel humorously. “I’ve made you forget your name plenty of times before; I’m pretty sure I can erase one shitty work shift just fine.”

Y/N scoffs at his pompous claim, reaching up and prying the hair tie out of her locks, looping it over her wrist and shushing her stiff roots. She tucks strands behind her ears, the corners of her mouth twitching in endearment at the giddiness of his aura. “Just drive, Sherlock.” 

The mortal isn’t surprised to find that building in which the vampire lives is one of the tallest in the city, and that it’s basically smack in the center, as well. One look at Harry and anybody could immediately tell he thrives off being the center of attention, so of course his home is a direct reflection of that. Refined boy, refined personality, refined environment. It’s practically a law of science. 

Once Harry’s car is parked and the ignition rumbles to a smooth stop, Y/N unbuckles her seat belt and goes to unlock the passenger’s side door. Right as her hand is wrapping around the handle bar, the door swings open of its own accord and she just barely manages to stifle a blood-curdling scream full of shocked fear. When her eyes focus, Harry is standing there holding the door open for her, features painted with cocky amusement. 

“How did you—?” The girl whips around to look at the empty driver’s seat, eyebrows cinching in bewilderment as she turns back to face him. “How did you get around so fast?” 

Harry shrugs his shoulders offhandedly, reaching one bejeweled hand down to aid her out of the vehicle. “I did track when I was younger. Made me a fast walker.” 

Y/N hesitantly takes it, body language still slightly tense from the jump scare. With his help, she gradually climbs out, the door shutting behind her as she sweeps her sight around the parking garage in wonder. This is the first time Harry has ever invited her anywhere, let alone to where he spends most of his life. She doesn’t want to miss a thing. Even the simplest aspect can tell you a lot about a person. 

Y/N jerks a tad when she feels her friend’s cold fingers slipping down her palm, sifting between her own. She glances down at their intertwined hands for a second, a warm glow bursting through her chest. She’s always admired how his are so much bigger. 

Harry tugs her forward toward the elevator at the other end of the parking lot, bottom lip caught between his teeth in a sly smirk. “C’mon, Watson. Let me show you around.” 

Y/N stumbles after him, allowing the boy to guide her to where she needs to go as he weeds through cars effortlessly. She suddenly chimes up from behind, asking a random question to fill the leftover silence their footsteps spare. “That car next to yours had such a weird license plate. What the fuck does ‘craic’ mean?” 

Harry chuckles knowingly, perfectly aware of whose car she is referring to. “It’s this odd thing Irish people say. Utter rubbish, honestly.” 

A comfortable quietness fills the air of the elegant elevator as it shoots up towards the twenty-fourth floor of the skyscraper, the only other sound being the gentle lullaby of a nameless tune wafting through the speakers above their heads. Harry finds himself studying Y/N as she looks out at the city through the glass walls, the lights of the exterior buildings casting a beautiful buttery gleam across her relaxed characteristics, along with a radiant glint over the surface of her glossy eyes. Despite the slightly smeared mascara staining her waterline and the inherent frizziness her hair carries after being pulled into a tight ponytail all day, Harry finds that she looks nice. Pretty, even. 

The girl senses him staring, craning her head to return his gaze, the edges of her lips lilting upwards lightheartedly. He returns the gesture, peeling away to focus on something— anything— else. He deems the control panel a worthy replacement.

As the numbers on the dial drag by, Harry finds himself absentmindedly thumbing over Y/N’s knuckles. She doesn’t seem to notice or mind, so he continues doing it, massaging the crest of each bump and pressing down gently along the troughs. He enjoys the sensation of her silky warm skin heating his icy own, and he ponders whether she likes how cold his touch is, or if she hates it as much as he does. He expels that notion from his mind; he refuses to let such a stupid concept upset him. He just keeps caressing her hand, restraining his mind from ambling too far into its meaning. It’s just to pass the time. 

He keeps the movements going until their ride skates to a joltless halt with a sharp ding! and then he steps out, having to give his full attention to leading her down the long corridor to his flat. Y/N is so caught up in drinking up her surroundings, she almost bumps into the creature when he comes to an abrupt stop in front of the entrance of what she can only deduce is his home. Harry drops her hand, much to her disappointment, fishing into his back pocket for his keys. He patiently filters through his keychain, picking out the right one and working it into the lock, a soft click emitting from the mechanism. 

Harry pushes the door open with his palm, standing off to the side just outside the threshold and tilting his head towards it, posture bowing slightly. “Ladies first.” 

Y/N thanks him quietly, taking a cautious step forward into his hallway. She can’t help the way her heart skips a beat at his gentlemanly tendencies; she rarely meets anyone as respectful as Harry seems to be and she finds his old-timey attributes to be refreshing. Helping her out the car, taking her hand to guide her through the parking lot, rubbing at her knuckles innocently, holding the door open for her— it’s all such an archaic form of chivalry she wishes she’d see more often these days. She doesn’t know if it’s a British thing, if he had just been raised like that, or if he simply does it to get laid, but she’s thankful for it either way. 

With one last glance at her friend over her shoulder, she begins wandering down the dark narrow path unsurely. The sound of the door slinking shut behind her and Harry’s footsteps ease her. 

She stops once she senses the corridor open up into a larger space, which she guesses is his living room. A soft gasp escapes her at the sight before her. The whole area is washed in darkness, the only source of light stemming from the large glass pane that stretches from the floor of the apartment to its tall ceiling. Dozens of buildings and cars glimmer below, the breath-taking image of the lively city looking almost like a snapshot from a professional movie. It’s absolutely gorgeous and she feels like she could stare at it for eons. 

A chilly hand suddenly presses along the dip of her spine, ushering her forward an inch or two, Harry’s invisible voice and warm breath hitting the shell of her left ear. “S’cuse me, dove.”   

The boy reaches behind her for the light switch and the condo bursts into radiance with one simple flick of his wrist. 

“Oh...my God.”

Harry’s home is something straight out of a luxury catalogue. The light floorboards and the mahogany panels. The massive leather couches and hand-sewn cushions. The extravagant chandeliers and glass staircase. The marble kitchen and generously packed liquor shelves. The ginormous wall of priceless artwork, littered with pieces from all different eras of history. It feels like stepping into a decor wonderland.

“Not too bad, huh?” Harry pipes up playfully, anchoring her back into reality from the floaty stupor that had consumed her mind. 

“Not too—? Are you kidding?” Y/N sputters incredulously, whizzing her head to the side sharply. “You were keeping an entire Four Seasons royal suite from me?!”

Harry belts out a bundle of childish giggles, the edges of his eyes crinkling and the tip of his button nose twitching. “I never thought of it much, to be honest. I’d grown to like your place.” 

“Right. Because a creaky mattress and a kitchen the size of a broom closet is so much more satisfying than chandeliers and a fucking glass wall.”

The vampire glimpses around his flat indicatively. “Okay, I see your point.”

“Exactly.” 

Y/N drifts forward, running the tips of her fingers across the backrest of the aged leather sofa and along the corners of the throw pillow, doing a slow circle at the middle of his home, taking everything in a second time around to make sure it isn’t a mirage. “Fuck, this is incredible. Is your boss looking for any more regional managers, by any chance?”

Harry follows after her, tucking his hands into the back pockets of his boyfriend jeans, chewing along the inside of his cheek to suppress a proud smile— a result of her explosive reaction. “I’m afraid my position is the one and only, sorry.”

Y/N droops her shoulders in exaggerated contempt, presenting a shitty English accent to tease him. “Bollocks.”

It garners the designated feedback, her tummy somersaulting at Harry’s exorbitant laughter. 

The boy comes to stand before her, cocking his head to the side questioningly towards his kitchen. “Can I offer you a drink?”

Y/N glimpses over at his bar area, eyes dancing over his extensive array of fancy bottles. “Oh, please do.”

Despite only having known Y/N for a few weeks, Harry has gotten quite acquainted with her tastes, even outside of sexual matters. She doesn't like the taste of alcohol, but she likes its effects. And he likes them, too, if he’s being honest. Her blood always begins to smell more appetizing after just a few sips and the way her cheeks heat up so easily when she’s buzzed always makes his breathing trip. 

He works his extensive skills, pulling from his liquor cabinet and mixing flavored liquids and syrups until he comes up with something that he thinks the girl will enjoy. It’s fruity, with hints of peach, lime, and strawberry, but also warm and fulfilling, with a rich whiskey and a few dashes of bitters. He plunks in a couple of ice cubes and mixes it together with a bar spoon, tapping it against the rim with finality and swiping it over his tongue in a quick taste test. He’s pretty happy with his concoction. 

Harry glances up to where Y/N is leaning against the armrest of his couch, her legs crossed before her as she stares at one of the abstract paintings mounted on his wall. It’s an original, as are the rest of them, which he had purchased some odd seventy years ago from a barely known artist whose talent had gone to waste in the world. It’s a deconstructed sunflower, with the color palette inverted and the strokes of the brush uneven and jagged. Odd and complicated, but beautiful, nonetheless. Its complexity is what makes it significant. 

The vampire slowly wanders over from his kitchen, holding her drink in one hand and a cloth napkin in the other. He takes the spot beside her along the armrest, speaking wistfully as if recalling a fond memory. “It’s a flower.”

Y/N nods slowly in recognition, peeling her gaze away with the corners of her lips jilting. “Mmhm, a sunflower.”

Harry’s brows jump in shock. Barely anyone ever guesses the identity correctly. He’s found that as time passes and humanity becomes more reliant on technology rather than cognizant knowledge, society in general has reduced to a more pea-brained state than ever. As a result, the amount of people who can interpret and understand the meaning behind complex artwork has greatly diminished, unfortunately, so he’s pleasantly surprised to find that one of the few who still possesses that talent happens to be the girl he’s shagging. “Wow, that’s a first. It’s so unusual, no one ever really gets it.”

“I guess I just have an affinity for the unusual.” His guest quips, giving him a jesting shrug of her eyebrows and a suggestive grin. 

You have no idea.

“You underestimated me, Holmes.” 

“That I did. My sincerest apologies.” Harry returns her joking simper, proceeding to then dip an index finger inside the stout glass in his grasp, bringing it up before her face. “Taste.”

Without breaking eye contact, Y/N parts her lips and allows him to coax the wet digit in, the tangy flavor of the mixture making her taste buds tingle. She encloses her mouth around his finger, lulling her tongue along it slowly with a mischievous glint shining across her irises. 

Harry’s prominent jaw clenches as he watches the scene unfold, breath bated and a moan threatening to betray him. She truly wastes no time.

He gradually pulls his finger from her tongue, struggling to clear his throat, missing its texture already. “How is it? More syrup? More biters?”

Y/N gazes up at him drunkenly, though it’s definitely not from the liquor. Her lips quirk cheekily as a result of how visibly frazzled she’d gotten him. “It’s perfect. Better than anything I’ve had at a club, that’s for sure.” 

“Yeah?” Harry taps his opal ring against the bottom of the lowball glass, trying to reign in his previous composure. “Think I could be a bartender?” 

“You don’t hit me as the type of person who has the patience for it.” The girl remarks wittily, slinking her head to the side and biting back a giggle when Harry makes a face at her.

“You make a valid point, I suppose.” The vampire responds with an airy sigh, nodding in surrender. “The stupid blabbing from drunk morons and impending fear of being vomited on would be too much for me. I wouldn’t last a day.” 

“You wouldn’t last a single night, let alone a whole day.”

“Alright, pipe down!” Harry deadpans, bumping her shoulder with his vengefully. “You’re bruising my ego.”

“It’s humongous,” Y/N snorts, shoving him in return, “it can take a few hits.”

The pair sit there in silence for a suspended moment, just taking in the expanse of the art before them. Harry then turns his torso towards her once more, bringing the drink in his grip up to her mouth. “Here, have a proper sip. Put my all into it.” 

Y/N obliges, looking up at him with her signature doe-like air of trusting innocence, allowing him to tip the hem of the cup against her mouth. The cool beverage filters through her taste buds and down her throat, the sweet and sour mixture leaving an enjoyable tingle in its wake. A few streams of the liquid bead out of the corners of her lips and Harry impulsively gathers them with the side of his index finger, the napkin in his other hand completely forgotten. 

As he goes to pull back in order to clean up, Y/N leans forward and traps his digit between her lips like before. This time, there’s a more insistent sultry hint sparkling around her pupils. 

“Christ...” Harry pants, watching Y/N work her way down his forefinger with a silent groan hinging on his teeth. 

He doesn’t deny himself from indulging the dirty action this time around. Her mouth is as soft and warm as ever, sending chills racing down his spine despite the sweater hugging his body. His mind slips for a second, reminiscing in all the other ways he’s felt the inside of her mouth before, a faint red tinge splattering across his cheekbones. 

Y/N draws his finger out, kissing messily across its length and over the pad, looking up at him through tension-heavied lashes. She doesn't speak a word, but her intentions are clear in the electricity between them.

He can’t hold back any longer, his next comment coming out as a pained growl. “God, you’re such a filthy little thing.”  

She hums softly in the back of her throat at his explicit compliment, suckling at the center of her bottom lip needily. “I like being your filthy little thing.”

Harry swallows thickly in order to keep himself somewhat tame, fangs suddenly pricking his tongue in warning.

The mortal scoots closer to him, sifting her fingers between his around the drink and bringing it upwards, downing the last couple of inches in one go. She draws the cup from his grasp, reaching over to set it down carefully on the coffee table before turning back and snuggling deeper into his heaving chest. 

Harry scoffs in amusement, but he can feel a certain charring scratching at the back of his throat. “Drinks like that are meant to be savored, darling. You’re not supposed to just pound them.” 

Y/N stretches her neck upwards, taking his earlobe between her teeth, lips wet and cold from the alcohol. His lashes flutter when her warm breath hits his skin, contradicting the sensations from before. 

“Why don’t you let me worry about how I drink, and you can worry about a different kind of pounding.”

And that’s all it takes, really. That’s all it takes for Harry to completely drop any self-control he has left. 

The creature jars his face towards her, large hand shooting upwards to grip her jaw firmly, holding her in place as he crashes their mouths together. It’s all tongue and clacking teeth, desperate whines and stuttered gasps. Y/N’s hands fumble for something to tether to while Harry takes it upon himself to grasp at her opposite hip with his free hand, yanking her onto his lap. She buries her fists in the cotton fabric of his jumper, balancing her knees on either sides of his parted thighs. The boy’s fingers coast from her jaw down to her throat, tightening ever so slightly. The action is minimal, but it reveals that flare of dominance Y/N has become addicted to. 

“Do you want it here?” Harry rasps against her eager tongue, smirking into the kiss when he feels her start to rock along the bulge that is beginning to tent his denim pants. “Do you want me to bend you over the couch and fuck you, baby? With the chandelier making your skin glow? Where we can put on a show for the whole city to see?”

It’s a tempting offer and his words obviously have some form of impact, seen in the way Y/N’s grinding takes on a hungrier, deeper pace against his clothed cock. 

“I want…” Y/N finds it difficult to voice her desires, the responsible party being the manner in which Harry glues cracked mewls onto the roof of her mouth. “I want it in your bed.” 

She doesn’t know why, but she just wants him to take her some place where the moment they share is intimate, unseen by the prying eyes of others. She wants to christen his bed exactly how he had done hers; she craves that strange connection, for some reason. Y/N isn’t naive, she knows she’s not the only person Harry has had in his home and in his sheets. But she wants that experience, nonetheless, even if it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. She knows she’s not his only, but at least she’s one. 

Harry slowly breaks their kiss, brushing the tip of his nose across her own in a small comforting gesture. He blinks at her groggily, the copper specks in his eyes glitzing under the golden hue of the lighting. When he speaks, its soft and low, almost as if he doesn’t want to risk another soul overhearing. “Okay. Whatever you want, it’s yours.” 

Y/N almost doesn’t get anything she wants, given that she nearly kills herself on the trek up the stairs, courtesy of her weakened knees and wobbly ankles. Harry just barely manages to save her, but he finds the occurrence too hilarious to spare her the embarrassment. 

“Stop laughing, it’s not funny!” She exclaims indignantly as he helps her up the last few glass steps, clinging to him like a scared puppy, her hands still shaking with adrenaline. “I could have died!” 

Her shrieking only makes him laugh harder and he nearly keels over, palm clutching his stomach as if to keep it from popping. “I’m sorry, I really am, but it’s just— your face when you— and how you tripped sideways— I—”

Y/N shoves him hard towards the corridor where his bedroom lies, but it’s hard to maintain an angry demeanor when the young man’s giggles sound like bells and when he looks so cute with his curls flopping across his forehead. “Dickhead.” 

They’re almost at his bedroom door when Harry grabs onto her wrist, tugging her roughly so that she lurches forward into his chest. He plants a wet kiss onto the bridge of her nose, expression entertained. “Stop being such a bad sport. It was pretty funny.”

“Yeah, okay.” She huffs begrudgingly, glancing down impatiently at his plump lips as he walks backwards down the hallway with her in tow. “You can invalidate my rage once you have a near death experience yourself.”

The irony of it all. 

Harry kicks the door open, ghosting his mouth over Y/N’s and watching her sight do a quick sweep around the area. “Welcome to my lair.” 

The human likes his aesthetic. The room has different hues of the same color, so it all ties together nicely, and the hanging lights look like miniature versions of the two large ones downstairs. The bed is huge, which is a relief because for once, they won’t have to actively worry about accidentally rolling off the edge mid-fuck. “It’s nice. Very chic.” 

“Thanks.” Harry reaches up and cups either side of her neck with his palms, dragging his damp lips over her chin and down the center of her jugular, smiling against her skin when he feels her shiver. “It doesn't have a bookshelf wall like yours, but I make due.”

“Yeah.” Y/N wisps out weakly, leaning her head back as he speckles his mouth across that sensitive point on her throat he discovered ages ago. “I bet.”

She feels Harry’s touch travel down her torso, cold fingers suddenly smearing across her love handles beneath her work shirt. His grip tightens at the hem with the intention of pulling the polo off, breath hot as it washes over her collarbones. “Wanna find out just how good I make it work?”

Y/N’s arms instinctively raise on command, her reply shaky and fragile. “Yes, please.” 

Harry makes it work. He makes it work so fucking well. He doesn’t need crazy positions or any vibrating toys to make her feel good; he just knows her so thoroughly by now that he’s able to tend to every single one of her needs like it’s his sole purpose. The sex is missionary, with her splayed out across her back upon his mound of feathered pillows, her thighs clamped over his hips as he slams into her at a harsh, curt pace. Her calves are tied around the backs of his thighs, her nails are carving memories into the broad expanse of his shoulders, they’re both panting curse words and encouragement into each other’s mouths, and he’s cradling her to his chest as if he wants to absorb her heartbeat right through her ribs. If only obtaining one were that easy. 

Y/N allows her head to fall back against the cushions, drawing away from the prolonged kiss only because she needs air to continue. Harry’s lips busy themselves elsewhere, running down the valley of her chest and toying with one of her pebbled nipples. Y/N’s back gives a sharp arch the second he brushes across the sensitive nub and the taunting coo he releases goes straight to her core. 

“Liked that, darling? Like it when I kiss you there?”

The girl’s lashes have fallen shut, her eyes lulling around in their sockets as he maintains a steady rhythm between her thighs, ramming into her with so much force, the headboard is knocking into the wall. It’s loud and intense enough that Harry has to fit one of his palms between the railings, bracing the weight of the bed in order to prevent a hole from forming. 

Y/N’s voice fills the dense atmosphere, so shattered and raw, she can hardly understand herself. “It feels so— so good, H.” 

“I love it when you call me that. Sounds so pretty coming from your lips.” The vampire’s tongue flicks over her nipple a handful of times, dark veins momentarily webbing over the whites of his eyes at the cracked whimper she lets loose. “And of course it feels good. I always make you feel good, don’t I? Always make my girl cum so—fucking—hard.” 

Y/N’s trembling fingers card into the curls along the nape of Harry’s neck as he thrusts to his words, twisting them around her knuckles and swimming in the throaty groan he pours over the clammy skin of her breasts. Her whisper sounds distant and dreamy. “Please...Please don’t stop.”

Harry gazes up at her through heavy lashes, lapping at her chest more fervently, accent thick and deep. “I won’t, baby. Not until I have you dripping all over my sheets.”

After a few more minutes of fractured moans bouncing around the panels of the room and the noise of wet skin slapping together, something catches Y/N’s bleary eyes. She wills past the blissful fog in her mind, focusing on the intriguing object hanging from one of the railings of Harry’s bedpost, swaying back and forth wildly due to his strong tempo. 

“Are those...Are those handcuffs?” 

Harry’s attention jumps to where hers is pinned, his powerful stride coming to a gradual stop. He’s heaving and shuddering above her, ringlets matted to his jaw and across his temples, cheeks flushed the prettiest shade of cherry red. His Adam’s Apple bobs once and he gives a short nod. “Y-Yeah. I’ve had them for a while...”

The hope dripping from his voice is practically palpable and Y/N interprets it easily. She glances down at him as he takes quivering inhales against her chest, his eyes bleeding lust. Her mumble is so quiet and soft, he wonders how it’s possible for her to make some of the preposterously loud sounds he’s used to hearing whenever he’s buried this deep. “Use them on me. Please?”

Harry bends to her request without hesitation. He locks her wrists into the restraints, sponging a kiss onto each before giving them one hard tug to check for security. He then regains his rough slams, but with more fervor than before. 

The monster sits back onto his heels, groping her waist roughly and working her against his thighs, watching welts form on her flesh along the pads of his fingers. Y/N unconsciously begins circling her hips to match his speed and the fractured groan that rips out of him makes her walls tighten. He looks incredible looming in front of her, head toppled back between his shoulder blades, bouncing to his every ram. His throat flexes with the weight, jaw taut and inked pectorals glistening with sweat under the dim lights dangling from his ceiling. “That’s it, pet, just like that. Love the way you ride it. You’re so fucking tight and warm and...and just— Christ, just fuck me.”

She wishes she could frame this moment in time and drag it out forever.  

Harry swings his head forward again, blinking the blurriness from his vision to take in the image before him. Y/N just looks so fucking gorgeous like that, tied down at his beck and call, her chest bouncing pertly as her fingers bunch around the chain link, thighs clinging to his waist as she chews her bottom lip raw in an attempt to control her noises. 

The vampire ducks down, connecting their mouths in a sloppy kiss that cajoles her into spilling all the moans she had been withholding. He feels them trickle down his lungs and diffuse into his bones, flames lapping across his insides as their foreheads bump and noses smudge, ragged breaths intermingling. “Let it out for me, hm? Wanna know how I’m making you feel, don’t care who hears.”

As if that isn’t enough, there’s an instance where Harry’s animalistic senses suddenly enhance and he comes to the realization that the metal cuffs have made a tiny laceration along her skin. 

A thin trail of blood travels down her suspended arm, but she doesn’t seem to notice, too lost in the pleasure Harry is pounding into the pit of her stomach. So he simply leans upwards and licks the sweet droplet clean, feeling heat spark across every fiber of his being. He laps up the entire stream and then presses a tender kiss to her palm for good measure, grunting out a gentle, “There’s a good girl.” when she whines at the affectionate gesture. 

The release Harry is getting from between Y/N’s legs mixes with the ecstasy her blood brings, and it shoves him over the edge in a manner he hasn’t experienced since that first time they slept together all those weeks ago. Since the first time he tasted what lies in her veins, while also simultaneously getting to taste the indescribable relief her body so readily brings him.

After all is said and done that night, something peculiar happens. After they both milk their orgasms for everything it’s worth, and after Y/N gives into exhaustion in his arms with her wrists bruised and a content watery smile on her face, and after he gets a heftier drink from her neck and heals the two little puncture wounds with his own blood...The most bizarre, unexpected event occurs. 

Harry falls asleep soundly for the first time in months, and all he dreams about is how Y/N tasted. 

///

Y/N wakes up the next morning to her body covered in Harry’s Nike jumper, to an empty spot beside her in the messy duvet, to a familiar tune tinging her ears from a distance, and to a satisfying ache between her thighs. 

As soon as she cracks the bedroom door open, the smell of pancakes wafts in through the chilled morning air. Specifically, lemon and blueberry pancakes. Her grandmother’s lemon and blueberry pancakes.

A shiver runs down Y/N’s spine the second she sets a toe along the cold glass panels of Harry’s staircase. She takes a deep breath, pulling the extra length of the sweater’s sleeves over her fists and tugging the hem of the article downwards as if she could convince it to cover more than just half her thighs. She carefully works her way down the steps, flinching at the iciness that travels up her legs with every motion. When she finally thunks down emptily onto the light-wash floorboards, her body has grown accustomed to the temperature. As she pads across the furry rug in Harry’s living room, she finds herself wondering why everything connected to him is always so unusually cold— colder than any normal person could withstand. His touch, his lips, the tip of his nose, his forehead, his chest, even his thighs; everything is always freezing, and she doesn’t understand how he can bear it. It’s such an odd affinity to have. 

The human gradually wanders into the vampire’s kitchen, peeking inside the room from behind one of the archway’s walls. What she sees throws her for a loop. 

Harry is cooking breakfast, as she expected from the sweet scent she’d awoken to, but he’s doing it in a manner she never really expected from him. 

Music stems from a portable speaker he has situated at the center of the marble kitchen island, blaring loud enough to fill the entire giant home with high notes, guitar chords, and acapella riffs. The young man is dancing across his kitchen as he cooks, clad in nothing but a set of black Calvin Klein briefs and a pair of fuzzy magenta socks. Y/N rakes down his body, admiring the crimson and purple love bites she had left on his chest and the raspberry red scratches zig-zagging across his back, the marks flexing with the movements of his muscles. They’re strangely faint, for some reason. Practically barely there. 

She chalks it up to the fact that maybe she hadn’t bruised him as much as she’d thought. 

Y/N forces herself to keep her mind from straying onto anymore explicit topics; it’s probably not even ten A.M. yet. She needs to get herself under control.

Grooving while in the kitchen isn’t necessarily weird (she’s guilty of it herself), but Harry’s dancing techniques very much are. The only accurate depiction of it is that for a boy in his twenties, he dances like an old geezer in his eighties. His moves are choppy and old-schooled, almost like what you’d expect to see in a nineteen fifties disco hall, and watching him ebb and flow across the tiled ground to choreography similar to that of Dirty Dancing and Footloose... It would send anybody into a fit of laughter. Especially since Harry is so tall and lanky, so how he manages to move in such a way is beyond her understanding. 

Aside from that, his choice of music is baffling, as well. Not only because she recognizes the soundtrack, but because she would have never expected someone like him— with his cocky behavior and overly-confident caliber— to be into these types of songs at all. She always pegged him for the seventies rock and roll type. 

“You like Hamilton?” 

Harry’s actions creak to a halt and he whips around towards where the disturbance had stemmed, spatula clutched in one hand and a marble plate stacked with pancakes in the other. His face breaks into a bright smile, voice slathered with dramatic friendliness. “Well, look who finally got up! I was starting to think you were dead, Sleeping Beauty.”

Y/N narrows her eyes at him mockingly, walking over to the kitchen counter and propping herself onto her elbows, chin in hand as she watches him set down the platter of food before her. She tips forward onto her toes, taking a deep inhale of the homey, sugary smell, letting it wash over her in flashes of childhood memories. “Are these like the ones I make?”

“Lemon and blueberry, yeah.” Harry bobs his head casually, turning around to place his metal spatula down into the sink, as well as to retrieve a glass bottle of maple syrup from one of his cupboards. “They’re pretty close, I think. I’ve never seen you use a recipe or measuring cups or anything when you make them, so I kinda eyeballed it to the best of my ability. Hope I did your nan justice.”

He pours a decently-sized glop of syrup over the mountain of treats and Y/N watches excitedly as it trickles down all the layers. He then pushes back from the table, pulling open a drawer and rummaging through, continuing to whistle along to the tune of Satisfied as he bops the cabinet closed with his hip and sets down an extra pair of forks and knives beside the plate. 

Harry cuts a neat triangle out of the pancake at the top, pointing at her with his fork as he shrugs his brows nonchalantly. “And to answer your question from before: yes, I do like Hamilton.”

“Hm. Interesting.” Y/N murmurs, going cross-eyed as Harry offers her the forkful of food in his possession, poking at her mouth playfully and getting maple syrup all over her lips. She opens obediently, allowing him to feed her the piece. “You don’t really seem like the type of guy— oh, wow, these are actually really good!”

Harry bites into his lower lip with his two front teeth, a proud smile dimpling his cheeks as the light draft from the air vent ruffles a couple of his sex-mussed ringlets across his forehead. “Yeah? You mean it?”

The mortal nods her head vigorously as she finishes chewing and swallowing, wiping away some of the leftover syrup from her top lip with her middle finger and sucking it clean. “Yeah! You hit it spot on.”

“Aces. I should be on The Great British Bake Off.” Harry makes a small, celebratory fist bump next to his hip and the childish gesture makes Y/N snort softly. 

“Like I was saying, you don’t really strike me as the type of guy who would be into musicals.” The girl comments, watching her friend cut another triangle out of the first pancake and pop it into his own mouth. 

The vampire chews thoughtfully for a second, lifting one shoulder offhandedly and swallowing fully before talking. “I’m really not, to be honest. But this specific musical is pretty good. The songs are catchy.”

He nudges the other pair of utensils across the counter for emphasis, silently inviting her to dig into the dish along with him. She accepts, slicing down the other side of the stack as he leans forward onto his elbows, mimicking her stance. He gives her a curious glance. “What about you? Do you like musicals?” 

Y/N shrugs, poking a few chunks of food onto her fork. “Not really, but I had a major Hamilton phase back in college. That’s why I recognized it.” 

Harry hums in understanding, picking a blueberry off and chewing it slowly, a sly smirk beginning to tweak the corners of his mouth. “So were you, like, a nerd back then?” 

“Well, I wouldn’t say a nerd, but I had decent grades and was pretty quiet.”

He swallows down audibly, blinking impassively. “That’s literally the definition of a nerd.” 

Y/N returns his flat expression. “Fuck off.”

Harry throws his palms up in peaceful surrender, but he still has that shit-eating grin present. “Alright, fine, fine...It’s okay if you were, though. You were probably one of those cute ones, y’know? With the clunky glasses and innocent goody-goody face.” 

“Shut up.”

“Oh, and with one of those short little plaid skirts?” He releases a pained groan, clutching his chest and closing his eyes for a second. She has no doubt he’s sketching some type of graphic image of her in his mind. “God, I bet you looked so good. Do you still have it? Can you wear it for me?”

“I said shut up!” Y/N reaches forward and stabs at his tummy lightly with her fork, ignoring the warmth crawling up her neck and across her cheeks. “Fucking perv.”

Harry smacks her utensil away with his own, giggling lightly as she tries to prick him again, continuing to fight her off. “I’m just asking a question! For science!” 

Y/N twists her fork around his, trying to outmaneuver him into dropping it. “How could my fashion sense in college possibly contribute to science in any way?” 

The vampire easily catches onto her play, slipping himself out of her grasp and trying to trap her makeshift sword down against the tabletop. He purses his lips into a simper, glimpsing up at her through his lashes and quirking his brows cheekily. “Biologically, of course. It contributes to my solo reproductive activities.”

“You are vile.” 

“Really? ‘Cause you seemed pretty happy to help with said activities last night.” 

Y/N drops her fork onto the brim of the platter, reaching up to massage at her temples and keep herself from swatting Harry’s eyeballs out of their sockets. “I’m finished.” 

“Yeah,” the jade of his irises glimmers coyly as he sets down his utensil beside hers in a ceasefire, “you definitely finished.”

Harry chuckles boyishly as Y/N drags her palms down her face, trying to hide away how flustered he’s getting her. She decides to change the subject, not caring to steer the conversation smoothly at all, but rather jumping to another topic right away. “So does this mean you have all the lyrics memorized? Since you like them so much?” 

“I do, yeah.” Harry taps his fingers against the marble counter to the beat of the song currently playing. “Do you?” 

“I was obsessed, so of course I do.” Y/N reasons, her own digits following in tune with the immortal’s. “I think Non-Stop was probably my favorite to sing. It made for a good shower concert.”

“Well, it’s settled then.” Harry quips happily, reaching for his phone and tapping across the screen. “We’re duetting this. Right now. C’mon, Burr.”

Y/N’s motions stop, shyness creeping in from the back of her brain. “Oh, I don’t know, Harry. I never really—”

Her refusal is interrupted by the beginning of the arrangement mentioned, the notes blasting through the speaker as Harry purposefully turns up the volume to drown her out. He taps at his ear symbolically, mouthing, “Sorry, I can't hear you!” and he doesn’t even attempt to ward off the evil grin creeping across his face. 

“Harry, I’m serious—” 

But it’s already too late. Harry juts his hand out in front of him, pointing at his companion with a theatrical edge as he begins to serenade, picking up the slack of her part. 

“After the war I went back to New York. A-After the war I went back to New York. I finished up my studies and I practiced law. I practiced law, Burr worked next door!”

He looks at her expectantly, urging her to jump into the next half as her assigned role. Y/N muscles down her hesitation and recites the lines timidly with her brows creased in hesitation, but at least she’s participating. “Even though we started at the very same time, Alexander Hamilton began to climb. How to account for his rise to the top?”

Harry joins her in the next stanza, grabbing her hand midair in encouragement, trying to shake her out of her rut. “Man, the man is non-stop!”

Y/N is surprised at how well they sound harmonizing together, and she can feel her discomfort slowly begin to melt. She watches as Harry freely boasts his solo with absolutely no remorse, making grand gestures as he slides down the side of the counter, his movements dragging her along. 

“Gentlemen of the jury, I'm curious, bear with me. Are you aware that we're making history?” The boy taps at his chin to symbolize that he’s thinking, acting out the story the lyrics construct. “This is the first murder trial of our brand-new nation, the liberty behind deliberation.”

He points at Y/N once again and she does the supporting vocals, gradually beginning to gain more confidence. “Non-stop!”

“I intend to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt, with my assistant counsel—”

Harry doesn’t even have to cue Y/N this time around; she picks up her half immediately, falling into line with him flawlessly as if they’ve done this a million times before. “Co-counsel. Hamilton, sit down. Our client Levi Weeks is innocent, call your first witness.”

Harry quickly rounds the corner of the kitchen island, giving her body a grand spin as he draws closer, coming to stand right before her. She gives him a fake exasperated look to match the attitude her character depicts, shaking her head in disapproval. “That's all you had to say.”

“Okay…” The creature yanks Y/N forward into his bare chest, leaning down and flirting his lips right over hers tauntingly, eyes half-lidded in amusement. “One more thing—”

“Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room? Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room?” The girl rolls her eyes dramatically, shoving past Harry’s shoulder and she finds it humorous how these lines fit so well, almost as if they were actually directed at him, calling him out on the arrogance he always seems to dote. “Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room? Soon that attitude may be your doom.”

Harry swivels on his heel, following her as she scurries outside the kitchen entrance, running into the living room. 

“Why do you write like you're running out of time?” Y/N grabs onto one of the couch cushions, pretending to scribble over it with a fake pen. “Write day and night, like you're running out of time? Everyday you fight, like you're running out of time.”

Harry swipes at her from across the couch, trying to grasp onto the jumper she’s wearing. “Keep on fighting in the meantime.”

Y/N ducks out of the path of his grabbing hand, chucking the pillow forward and it bonks him square in the face. She sticks her tongue out at him as Harry scowls dully, climbing onto his sofa and scuttling towards her on his hand and knees.

She jumps just out of reach, diving across the other end of the furniture. The vampire throws his weight to try and tackle her to the sofa, but she just barely escapes. He ends up toppling over the backrest due to his over-abundant momentum. 

“Non-stop!” Y/N waves her middle up at him triumphantly as he pushes himself up off the ground, giving her a challenging look as he takes off after her once again. 

The pair continue to sing back and forth, with Harry chasing Y/N around the living room and kitchen as he belts out his part of the song, Y/N always somehow managing to slip from his grasp as soon as her turn hits. They’re a mess of giggles, silly faces, and boisterous actions as they reenact the play and neither can recall a time they had ever had more fun. There’s never been an instance when they felt so comfortable with another soul that they are willing to run around half-naked, screaming lyrics at each other in their underwear, not caring who sees or overhears. It just feels so second-nature.

A section of the song comes up where a woman is singing and Harry immediately takes up the part, placing his hand on his bare hip and standing in the most feminine fashion he can possibly muster, fanning at his face. “I am sailing off to London, I am accompanied by someone who always pays.” 

The exaggeration makes Y/N bend over laughing and her distraction allows Harry to nab her. He pulls her into his embrace by her forearms, cackling through the following stanza as she wriggles and squirms to try and get free. “I have found a wealthy husband who will keep me in comfort for all my days.” 

Y/N finally gives up on trying to thrash herself free, going limp against his chest and glimpsing up at him with begrudged annoyance, but a fond smile is unmistakably buckling her cheeks. Harry leans down, singing right in her face just to flaunt his victory, their noses brushing. “He is not a lot of fun, but…”

And then, there’s a shift in the ambiance between them. 

Harry gazes down at her as she giggles up at him from his arms, full of so much genuine warmth and excitement, she could power the entire city if she wanted. Her shoulders are heaving slightly as a result of all the running, there’s still faint traces of black mascara smeared under her waterline and down her cheeks from the previous evening’s exertions, she has some acne scarring littering her cheekbones that look fairly recent, and her hair looks like it could nest a family of at least ten birds. But despite these imperfections, Harry finds himself feeling oddly endeared by it all. These flaws are all things he’s gotten used to and has grown to treasure in Y/N. They make her who she is. They make her witty, and they make her clever. They make her fun, as well as trusting. They make her likeable, and energetic, and kind. They make her a good friend and a generous lover. They make her... her. Harry gets the feeling that if she didn’t have all of these traits— if even one was missing— this little arrangement they have going wouldn’t have flourished the way it did. 

Yeah, maybe he would have slept with her once or twice more just to scratch an itch, but he most likely would have let it fizzle to an end after the fact. Her personality paired with these small details— albeit, not all entirely attractive— that make up her existence play a key role in the dynamic they share. And he wouldn’t trade them for anything else— wouldn't trade Y/N for anyone else. Not anytime soon. 

A warm surge travels through his chest, filling his veins like kerosine, heating him from the heels of his socked feet to the tips of his ice cold fingers. An unorthodox swelling sensation twists inside his ribs, right where his heart used to beat, and he finds himself reciting the next line in a soft voice packed with more emotion than he’s shown or felt in the last two centuries.

“There’s no one who can match you, for turn of phrase…”

Y/N seems oblivious to all of the unsettling experiences he’s undergoing, her amused expression not changing in the slightest. Harry allows the rest of the song lyrics to pass by, the lump in his throat too heavy to fight. Instead, he just keeps staring down at Y/N with brows frowning in confusion, his breathing coming out bated and shaky, and that knot in his chest continuing to tighten until it becomes painful. He gets the sudden urge to kiss her— to feel her lips press to his and feel her give into him the way she always does. The way she has for the last four weeks. He doesn’t want it to be sloppy or desperate or sexual; he wants it to be intimate, soft, and caring. He wants it to be special. Something they share. Something only they share.

Then, that moment passes. That flicker of weakness that had leaked through vanishes and Harry feels like he can breathe properly again.

He breaks their locked eyes, releasing Y/N from his hold and taking a swift step back, coughing awkwardly to try and rid the tickling sensation in the back of his throat. He scratches at the nape of his neck nervously, fiddling with his baby curls and attempting to piece himself back together after that unexpected and unwelcome intrusion of his innermost feelings. Though, he doesn’t know if that spectacle even files under the category of emotions; from what he remembers, they aren’t supposed to tangibly attack you in such a manner. It felt more like a violation— like someone had gone in and started poking and prodding at his subconscious with a metal skewer. 

“Harry…?” Y/N inches closer to him, concern prevalent in her voice and across her features as she stretches her hand out caringly. “Are you okay? You look like you’re about to be sick.” 

“I-I’m—” His voice comes out higher than usual and quivering, so he coughs once again to get it under control, taking another step back. He's scared that if she touches him, that horrible burning sensation will come back. “I’m fine. Just...Just forgot the lyrics.” 

“Oh, okay…” The girl doesn’t sound convinced with the answer, but she lets the subject falter anyways, her hand dropping back down beside her thigh. “Just checking.” 

“Yeah, I got that. Uh, thanks. But I’m all good now.” He holds up a clenched first and juts out his pinky, wiggling it for significance. “Promise”

Y/N scoffs gently at his playful deed. “Alright, then.” 

Harry eyes her attentively as she returns to her previous spot in front of the plate of pancakes, retrieving her fork and starting to pick at them like before, as if nothing had happened. As if Harry hadn’t just almost had a cardiac arrest, despite the fact that the organ responsible had crumbled to dust ages ago.

“Are you gonna eat anymore?” Y/N signals down at the stack of pastries before her questioningly. “Because if you don’t get some now, I’ll eat them all myself. Don’t think I won’t. They’re better than the ones I make and—”

The vampire suddenly feels like bile is rising up his throat and his words spew out before he can think to stop them, though he’s not so sure he would. 

“Do you want to stay over the rest of the weekend?”

[kitkatd7]

What Could’ve Been; Broken Hearts & Whiskey Pt. 2

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky finally starts trying to get his shit together but when you show up with another man it throws everyone for a loop.

Warnings: Angst! Overprotective Bucky, Pissed reader, Threats, womanizing character who gets what he deserves, Talk of the breakup, Cursing that Steve would be ashamed of, Tiniest bit of fluff but not really.   

Word Count: 3,331

A/N: I’m finally backkk!!! I’ve been wanting to work on this series for some time now and I’m finally getting a bit of motivation to do so! I hope you enjoy it!

A/N 2: Entire paragraphs of italics are flashbacks, single sentences of italics are internal thoughts, Bold italics are song lyrics.  I used lyrics from the song What Could’ve Been by Gone West for this story.  

Masterlist of Masterlists || Marvel Masterlist || Series Masterlist || Part 1

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

**2 Months After Breakup**

Waltzing into the living room of the Avengers tower, you're met with a chorus of greetings from your adopted family. Despite you and Bucky being over you still spend time with everyone else- just when he isn’t around. 

You haven’t seen him since you broke up and you’d like to keep it that way. Seeing him would just be more than you could handle; you already lost him so why remind yourself of it more often than you already do? But at the same time his absence from movie night is just as painful of a reminder- like a puzzle with a lost piece. 

Snapping back to reality you give a halfhearted smile, joining Steve and Sam on the couch as Natasha hits play on ‘John Wick’.

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

2 hours later you’re standing in the kitchen making snacks with Sam before the next movie starts. “That’s ridiculous, Sammy!” You giggle, watching the microwave timer count down until the popcorn is ready. “Bacon does not belong in ice cream.”

You hear him chuckle behind you as he empties M&M’s into bowls. “Bacon belongs in everything, sweetheart. You're gonna try it sometime or else...”

“Or else what, Sa-” You cut off as you turn around, frozen on the spot as you peer over 

Sam’s shoulder.

“Hey, y/n,” Bucky whispers. Your gaze travels up and down the man you used to know, but he’s different. His eyes have bags beneath them from lack of sleep, his hair longer and more unruly than it was the last time you saw him. The stubborn jawline you remembered was replaced by a nervous clenched jaw. His eyes once so bright were now timid and dull; no longer holding the same sparkle that used to make you smile.

In an instant your expression went from a carefree woman with her friends to the girl who’s heart was shattered by the stranger before you whose face you used to know so well. 

“Can we talk?” Bucky asks gently, his expression hopeful yet dreading. 

“What are you doing here, James?” you whisper, wrapping your arms around yourself as Sam looks between you both carefully.

“I live here,” Bucky nearly scoffs. 

“Barnes,” Sam warns, his shoulders tense as he glances at you worriedly.

“I don’t want to talk to you, James. I have nothing to say.”

“All you have to do is listen. Please, doll.” 

Despite your best efforts to appear unbothered, the nickname shatters your false bravado. “Don’t call me that,” your voice breaks as tears cloud your vision.

“Excuse me,” you whisper, rushing past both men, ignoring Bucky’s call of your name and attempt to stop you. 

“Let her go, man. You’ve done enough,” you hear Sam say as you flee down the hallway, slamming the bathroom door behind you. 

Locking the door you turn on the faucet as the tears begin to fall and the suppressed memories rush back:

**2 Months Before Breakup* Flashbacks*

“It’s midnight! Where the hell were you?” You yelled, tears pricking your eyes.

Bucky sighed in defeat, his expression resigned and cold. “Can we do this in the morning?” His tone more of an order than a request as he turns his back on you and begins to walk down the hallway of your apartment. 

“No, we can’t do it in the morning. You owe me an explanation. You were supposed to be here when my parents got here. You promised.” You sniffled as Bucky’s shoulders stiffened. “I’m sorry. I don’t have a good enough reason,” he mumbles before walking away. 

I haven't stopped thinking about you

Has it really been this long?

Two years and an ocean between us

And I don't know where it all went wrong

I know I coulda kissed you harder

And yeah, you coulda followed through

Shoulda talked a little bit softer

But we meant every "I love you"

**1 Month Before Breakup**

Glancing around the restaurant you see no sign of Bucky. Checking your phone for the 8th time in the past 10 minutes, you sigh. Where is he? You’ve been here for an hour; waiting in your new dress for the man who hadn’t bothered to show. You’re getting tired of the pitiful looks the waitress and the other customers are shooting you. Polishing off your second glass of wine you open your phone: no new messages.

You’ve already sent Bucky 5 texts and called him 4 times; you're done.

Paying for the wine quickly you all but flee the restaurant, trying to hold back your tears. If you weren’t so upset you would probably laugh; laugh at yourself for being so naive to think he would keep his word. But you can’t bring yourself to laugh, not while your heart slowly shatters at the hands of the man who swore never to hurt you.

I don't know what this is or what it isn't

But it feels like we've got unfinished business

**2 Months Ago; AKA Week of Breakup**

“Hey this is y/n, I can’t come to the phone right now cuz I’m out livin my life! Leave it at the beep.” He hears your all too familiar voicemail through the speaker. He had helped you come up with it, you hadn’t known what to put on it. He kicks himself, knowing you weren’t actually out living your life, just dodging his calls. Not that he blamed you- He deserved it and he knew it. Calling again, he’s not surprised when he hears your voicemail again.

“Hey… Um, listen, I know I was supposed to be at your place after the mission… I just wanted to unwind with the guys and- Shit. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t think you would mind that much, I’ll be over in a bit to make it up to you, okay?” He leaves the message and ends the call before starting his car and driving towards your apartment, guilt heavy in his stomach.

You listen to his voicemail over and over, a strange mix of rage and sorrow weighing on your heart.

Tears roll slowly down your cheeks silently as you lay curled up in a defensive ball on your bed, trying to block out the unmistakable sound of Bucky begging you to open the front door; “Babe, please open the door,” He says, fist resting gently against the frame. “I’m sorry- really, really sorry. Please let me in and we can talk about it,” He sighs, resting his head against the door in defeat. He could break the lock and go in. You both know that. But he wouldn’t do that to you- All that would do is make you fear him and that’s the last thing he wants. He slides his back down the wall til he’s sitting on the floor next to your door, his elbows on his knees and his hands in his hair; Tears gathering in his lashes. He really messed up this time.

The next day you drag yourself out of bed, trying to forget last night and all the tears you shed. After a shower and breakfast, you head out the door for a coffee run before work. You stop in your tracks when you see Bucky still sitting there, eyes red from lack of sleep and regret written all over his face. He jumps up when you walk out, keys in hand, the door closing behind you. “What are you doing here?” 

“I- I came to apologize,” he murmurs, looking in your eyes.

“I don’t want to hear it,” you bite, moving to step around him but stopping when he steps to block your path.

“Bucky, I’m going to be late for work,” you say coldly, glaring at him. “Move out of the way.”

“Please doll, just let me explain-”

Huffing, you roll your eyes. “I understand perfectly, James.” You watch as he flinches a little at the use of his first name. You only use it when you're really mad or really happy, and it isn’t the latter right now. “You were too busy with your beer buddies to come see your girlfriend after being gone for three weeks, but what’s new? It’s been like this for months. I guess it was naive of me to expect something else this time.” 

'Cause we left blood the on the tracks

Sweat on the saddle

Fire in the hills

A bullet in the barrel

Words never said in a story that didn't end

Looks like you're on the mend and I'm on the bottle

We folded our hands with money on the table

**Present Day**

All the broken promises, nights alone and tears came rushing back as sobs racked your body. Sliding down the door you rest your head between your knees, eyes screwing shut tightly in a useless attempt to stop the bittersweet memories and tears. 

Little do you know that outside the door sat a man with tears clouding his vision as he listened to your muffled sobs on the other side of the door. In that moment he wanted nothing more than to turn back time and undo all of the agony he caused you and hold you like he's been wishing he could for the past 2 months. You were just on the other side of the door, separated from him by a few inches of wood and yet you had never been farther away. What did he do?

Tried moving on, but I keep coming back again

To what could've been

What could've been

Oh, what could've been

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

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

Stumbling into your apartment you all but throw your keys and purse down before shuffling into the bathroom and turning on the hot water for a shower before turning back to the mirror.

The person you see looking back at you in the mirror isn’t who you remember- or at least not who you thought you were. The person you remember was carefree and happy; living in a dream with the love of their life. You don’t recognize the girl in the mirror with swollen, bloodshot eyes and shoulders that hold the weight of the world. What happened to the girl you used to know?

A single tear rolled down your cheek, leaving a mournful trail in its wake. Bucky. Bucky happened to that girl. 

There had always been doubt hidden in the back of your mind; doubt that your beautifully woven reality would become nothing more than a tangled web of what once was and could’ve been, but you never thought it would end like this. You had imagined it being another girl that came between you, or perhaps his self loathing or the inadequacy you felt. Never did you think it would be the unexplainable, cold, unfeeling resentment that had taken over the gentle, sweet man you thought you knew.  Where did it go wrong?

A couple more simple, "I'm sorry's"

A little less tryna be right

I wonder how many good mornings we wasted

'Cause we didn't say goodnight

One touch before we fell asleep

Just before our love was out of reach

Coulda been enough, coulda saved us from this loneliness

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

“Steve?” Bucky calls out as he strides into the training room, the door banging shut behind him. Whirling around Steve clutches a hand to his chest. “Jesus, Buck! You scared the hell out of me!”

“I need your help,” Bucky demands, jaw set in a firm line and his eyes glittering with determination. 

Steve runs a hand over his face, letting out a sigh. “Is this about Y/N and the other night? Because if it is I am not apologizing to the poor girl for you, so you can just-” 

“I want her back.” 

“You what?!” Steve exclaimed, his jaw dropping.

“I want her back- I need her back. And I need you to help me.” 

“Damn it, Bucky. It’s been 2 months and you saw how she still feels about what you did. How are we gonna fix that?”

“I don’t know yet, Steve… But I have to try. Please.”

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

Strolling into Tony’s party happily, you smile up at your date, your arm linked with his.

You greet Tony with a warm smile and a kiss on the cheek before turning towards the sound of Natasha calling your name. Sashaying towards her you give her a hug before turning to give Thor and Steve one as well.

“So, who’s this?” Nat asks, gesturing towards your date who’s eyeing her unabashedly, his gaze dropping to her neckline.

“Oh, sorry! This is Jordan!” 

You roll your eyes as Thor begins lightly interrogating him, but he doesn’t pay much attention, his gaze fixed on Natasha’s retreating form.

“Can we talk?” Steve asks, his hand resting gently on your forearm. Following him into a nearby corridor you give him a puzzled look. “Is something wrong, Steve?”

“Um, not exactly…” he murmurs, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Well, what is it then?”

“It’s about Bucky.” Seeing your irritated expression he holds up his hands innocently. “Wait a minute. Just hear me out, okay?”

“Fine.”

“Look, he’s been spiraling since you guys broke up; not eating, always working and out on missions constantly, and his nightmares are getting worse again.”

“Why should I care?”

“Don’t do that. Don’t pretend like you don’t still love hi- Actually, fine, Y/N. If you want to pretend that you don’t care then that’s your problem. Just know that seeing you the other night? Changed something. He’s trying again, and I don’t want to see him lose that. So even if you want to tell yourself that it doesn’t matter to you, at least think about it for me.” Steve turned away, pausing for a moment. “Oh, and by the way? Seeing you here tonight with someone else isn’t gonna be good for anyone… But why should you care, right?”

Taken aback by Steve’s lack of usual patience, you can only watch as he walks off, disappearing into the crowd and leaving you with mixed emotions and a hard decision ahead of you; what were you gonna do?

No matter how hard you tried to block out thoughts of Bucky they always managed to slip back in between the cracks in your shattered heart. Steve was right; you did care. But what were you supposed to do about it tonight? Especially about Jordan. Were you supposed to walk up to him and say ‘oh, by the way you have to leave because my ex is here and he may or may not rip your arms off? No, that wouldn’t work.

Racking your brain for a solution, you snag a glass of champagne from one of the passing trays, downing it in the hopes of drowning your mixed emotions - it didn’t work. Taking a deep breath, you start weaving between the sea of bodies towards where you left Jordan.

Spotting Thor and Tony you make your way towards them, smirking when you hear Tony arguing with Thor over… something. 

“Where’s Jordan?” you ask, joining their small circle and trying to shake off your conversation with Steve.

“He was here a minute ago… I’m not sure though, kiddo,” Tony says, giving you a puzzled glance. “Speak of the devil, here he is!” Tony exclaims as you look over your shoulder to see a slightly ruffled Jordan walking towards you, his eyes holding an unnatural hazy look.

“Where were you?” You ask lightly, gaze raking his bedraggled form; his shirt slightly untucked, hair mused and lips pink. 

“Oh um, nowhere. Just the bathroom.”  

Accepting another glass of champagne, you push down the fury in your chest. You’d just taken a sip when an all too familiar figure came to stand beside you; a scotch glass in his hand and clad in an unfairly attractive black suit. “Hey Y/N, who’s this?” 

Nearly choking on your drink, your eyes widen. “Bucky! What are you doing here? You hate these parties!” You say before you can stop yourself. Stupid. The offhanded statement would seem innocent to most, but to you- to you it was a reminder that you still knew him better than anyone else did, a reminder that you remembered all the nights alone together instead of at the noisy parties, a reminder that you still cared enough to remember. 

You could see that he was thinking the same thing. “This is Jordan. My…” you faded off, not quite sure what to call him.”

“Date,” Jordan finishes for you, wrapping his left arm around your waist lazily, his hand traveling slightly further than appropriate for the first date. “But we’re keeping things loose, isn’t that right?” Jordan asks, glancing at you but not waiting for an answer. “And who the hell are you?”

Your eyes widen in shock, glancing back and forth between the two men; taking in Jordan’s cocky smirk and Bucky’s knowing look. 

Bucky extended his hand, a malicious smirk on his lips and dark glint in his eyes as he took in the unprofessional state of Jordan- including the lipstick stain on his white button down- and the uncomfortable shift of your weight, leaning away from your sorry excuse of a date. 

Jordan accepted the outstretched hand, wincing visibly and paling at Bucky’s iron grip.  “Bucky Barnes,” Bucky offered, enjoying as the other man wriggled uncomfortably in his grip, his arrogance forgotten. His gaze lighted on Bucky’s metal arm, his eyes lighting with recognition and terror. 

“Holy- you're the Winter Soldier! God man, I’ve heard so much about you-”

“An honor, I’m sure,” Bucky drawls, looking bored, his voice dropping an octave in warning. “Now get lost.” 

You sputter defiantly as Jordan scurries off, his tail between his legs. 

“What was that for?!” you fume,a fire burning in your eyes as you turn on Bucky.

“Oh c’mon. The guys’ been eyeing every other woman in here! He’s a douche! What was I supposed to do? Just let him feel you up after sneaking off with who knows what girl?”

“Who ‘feels me up’ is none of your concern anymore!” 

“Come off it, Y/N! You didn’t even want him touching you! I was protecting you, so your welcome,” he huffed.

“I don’t need protecting, and I sure as hell don’t need you to protect me. So you can go fuck yourself, James. You can’t treat me like shit for months and then get mad when someone else does the same thing!” you snarl, spinning on your heel and storming off as Bucky watches you. 

Bucky stalks across the floor, the crowd parting before him; not willing to get in the way of the 6 foot man on a mission. Locating his target- dancing with another girl no less- he grabs him roughly by the collar before pushing him against a pillar.

“What the hell, dude?” Jordan fumes, eyes locking on Bucky’s before he goes slack, his eyes widening in horror when he recognizes the former assassin.

“Every single thing you’ve ever heard about me is true, so shut up and listen closely,” Bucky growls, his arm braced against Jordans chest forcefully, a murderous glint in his eyes. “I expect you to do exactly what I say, and if you don’t, I’ll know. First, you are going to get your sorry ass out of here, and then you are going to send Y/N an apology text, telling her what an asshole you are, and that you don’t deserve to even look at her. Then, you are not going to get within 1,000 feet of her, and you are not going to text, call, or even think about her ever again, or I swear to God I will hunt you down, cut your balls off and shove them down your goddamn throat, got it? Nod if you understand. Good. Now. Get. Out.” 

Releasing Jordan, Bucky watches as he falls to the floor before scrambling towards the door with the fear of God instilled in him. 

“What the hell did you just do, Bucky?”

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

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[inforapound]

The Devil Inside  -  Part 1

This was written to celebrate @fuchsiagrasshopper​​ 200 followers. Congrats to you. This is not high literature, just a tiny-bop reader insert style romance. 

Warnings -  sexually explicit, hints of dub/con, possessiveness, love

Pairing - Ivar x Reader            Prompt in bold.

There they were. The same unimpressed brilliant blue eyes. It was the second time that week you had seen them in the back parking lot at school.

The student car park was behind the main building where all those who either drove or smoked cigarettes congregated at lunch to sit in their cars, pump music, and yak. You didn’t smoke but had a car so hung out all the same. Students from neighbouring schools occasionally pulled in to visit, always staying in their cars and keeping a distance as these types of schools were full of rules and someone was always watching. That is where he fits it. The dark-haired guy with the cold eyes and the nice flat-black Camaro. Whether or not he was putting on airs, he looked dubious and the kids always hanging about his car were the shadier bunch in the school.

He had been coming around for a couple of months now and you had locked eyes with him once or twice. Maybe more. He always broke the contact first as if looking at you had been in error. Probably dealt drugs or something similar but honestly, you didn’t know. What you did know, with your sharp eighteen-year-old senses, was to keep to your side of the lot. Maintaining your flawless grades was your first priority with socializing a not to distant second. Plus, you had been single for less than six weeks so boys were not exactly a draw.

So… you thought nothing of it when Mark Hasting approached your locker when the end-of-the-day bell rang. Standing with your closest friends, Kim and Amanda, you were deciding on whose house to meet at after supper. Mark was one of those smoking-out-back-leather-jacket-wearing types but he was friendly with everyone so it wasn’t that out of the blue for him to stop by your locker and chat.

“What’s up ladies,” he smiled, looking rather fit for a guy who had never played sports. “Any plans tonight?”

Kim carried on loading her binders into her locker and Amanda gave a breezy ‘not sure’ shrug so you spoke up as Mark was a nice guy.

“Might meet up with some of the others at the beach by my place after dark. What are you up to?”

“Me and some of the guys are going to meet behind Macdonald’s at 9 pm. Go from there. Some boys from Claremont are coming. You should join?”

“Clairemont, eh?”

It was the other private school in the district, prestigious like yours but with the reputation for being wild. Amanda’s brother had transferred there a few years back for their higher-profile basketball program and she had bitched that her parents were playing favourites ever since.

“Yeah, okay, maybe,” you answered not sounding convinced.

“You gonna be driving?” he asked which surprised you as you were the only one with a car. Kim had one that she supposedly shared with her brother but you had maybe seen her with it twice.

“Well, I won’t be getting a driver’s license in the next 6 hours,” Amanda laughed.

“Fair enough,” Mark smiled. “So maybe see you there?”

Hmm. That was interesting and you wondered if Mark or one of the other outbackers were interested in one of your friends. The crowd you ran with were the popular sort; the academics, preps, and jocks. Not the smokers who hit the bong on the weekends but at your school the cliques mixed well. Unlikely hookups weren’t that out of the ordinary but you certainly weren't interested. Hell no.

----

The evening air was a bit sharp so you were glad you wore your white denim coat and blue jeans. It was nearly dark and you were with a group of eight or ten of your friends standing between parked cars at the playground not far from your school. The closest street lamp was out so the only light came from the radios playing in the cars lined up in a row. The music was just loud enough to hear but not grab the attention of the tidy homes across the street.

If you were being honest, you were bored and the night was shaping up to look like the previous few weekends. Deciding to have a drink, you grabbed a cider from the full box in your trunk, passing your keys and responsibility over to Kim. ‘No problem’ was her reply that came in the form of a quick nod. You had been driving her around for years so she didn’t mind.

The headlights of two vehicles rolling past and pulling in made you all turn and look and you immediately recognized both. It was Mark’s white van and the low-slung Camaro tailing close behind. Blue eyes was in there. He had to be and it wasn’t immediately apparent but you had some reaction, nerves maybe or just feeling a bit on the spot for brushing off Mark’s earlier invitation.

“Guess nothing was happening at Macdonald’s,” Kim laughed.

“Shocking,” Amanda added sarcastically, taking a drag of her cigarette and blowing the smoke in the opposite direction.

“Cause hanging out beside the jungle gym is so much cooler,” you droned, squinting at the now parked cars, noticing that the Camaro looked full of people.

Not letting your sights linger, you turned back to your friends, taking a few long pulls of your drink, and heard car doors open and close. The sound of footsteps crunching over gravel came towards you.

“It’s Amanda, right?” a girl’s voice called and in unison, you all spun around.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Amanda answered, in her overly cheerful voice.

Before you was a tall blonde girl, a little older than you with very distinct features; a small narrow nose and the largest eyes you had ever seen.

“I graduated with Lani last year at Claremont,” she explained.

Lani was Amanda’s older brother, a year and half older, popular but a total prick unless he needed something.

“I’m Torvi,” she smiled and you all nodded your hellos.

“Hey, we are headed to my boyfriend’s if you want to come? Have some drinks. Can’t blow the doors wide but you girls are welcome to come.”

“Yeah, sure, okay,” Kim and Amanda’s mixed replies came at the same time.

Knowing the plan was set, you took a few more drinks of your cider, finishing it off, wondering who exactly was in that car.

The tall blonde turned and began to head back but stopped and looked in your direction.

“You’re not driving, I take it?” she glanced at the empty you were returning to the box in your open trunk.

“For once, no,” you replied quietly.

“Ride with us,” she jerked her head in the direction of the Camaro. “The girls can follow,” she smiled and you felt caught-off-guard.

“That’s okay,” you smiled back. “We’ll see you there.”

“No,” her smile widened and she took a step closer, offering her arm for you to link up. “I insist.”

The Camaro was nice. Really nice. Classic with a black leather interior. It had the faintest smell of cigarettes, beer, and leather. A total guy car and not the BMW SUV’s you were used to. You like it far more than those. But the atmosphere was anything but nice. For you at least. A tall, rather serious guy had opened the door, folding the seat forward for you and Torvi to climb in. Her boyfriend, you assumed, by the way he smacked her ass when she slid past.

Mr. Blue-Eyes was the driver and when you settled back in the seat, you realized those nerves earlier had nothing to do with running into Mark. It was him. As your mom would say, ‘trouble with a capital T’ and being that close to him made you feel.....funny.

The ride was quick and the house you were heading to turned out to be only a few minutes away but it felt like a different neighborhood. They were mansions; the original estates in the area before it was all chopped up into lots and sold. The gates on the driveway were open and you drove up a long driveway to a beautiful Tudor style home set well back from the road. It looked about 10,000 square feet from the driveway and if it hadn’t have been for those cold blue eyes glancing up at you in the rearview mirror, you would have turned around to make sure your friends were still following.

Inside the house was equally as amazing; soaring ceilings and a gracious front entry, an incredible kitchen with a large family room off to one side. You settled with Torvi on a large leather couch and from where you were sitting, you saw that the French doors on the other side of the pool table led out to a massive back-lit pool. Homes like this weren’t that uncommon in your world but you still appreciated its elegance.

There wasn’t a parent in sight and no mention of one which struck you as normal. It was always the wealthy and unsupervised doing the most scandalous things. But no one there was doing anything scandalous. You were just there for drinks. Right?

Torvi handed you some type of boozy beverage and you were unsure as to why, yet relieved, that she had taken you under her wing.

Entering the room and walking with the help of some customized crutch, the Camaro driver headed straight for the leather chair on the far side of Torvi. He didn’t make eye contact with you or anyone else but you still felt noticed. The way he hustled made you think that you shouldn’t watch and you wondered if that crutch was the reason he always stayed in his car at school.

Dropping it onto the hardwood floor, he sank into the seat, immediately raising his hand and accepting a bottle from Torvi’s boyfriend who walked in behind, carrying a case of beer.

“I haven't introduced you,” Torvi raised her hand. “This is my boyfriend, Ubbe, and his brother Ivar,” your eyes flitted over to your driver but he was gazing at something, nothing, off in the kitchen. “And their other brother, Hvitserk is just outside having a smoke with his girlfriend, Margrethe.

Your eyes shifted to the French doors and you could see the outlines of two people kissing on the patio.

Okay, realization struck you. They were the Lothbroks! You had heard of them. Definitely. Just couldn’t recall what but you knew it wasn’t good and you probably shouldn’t be there. Where were your friends and why hadn’t Torvi told them your name? As if on cue, Amanda and Kim and the long-lost Mark Hasting strolled in, cheerful and boisterous and thankfully taking the pressure off you from having to talk.  

Someone had turned on music and the other brother and his blonde-haired girlfriend came inside to join. A game of pool begun and you stayed on the couch with your friends and Torvi. Ivar remained slumped in his chair, giving the impression he would have preferred to be anywhere but there.

It was awkward. Torvi and your friends gabbed about the differences in schools and universities and you quietly finished your drink but, in a flash, it was replaced with another.

As always Mark was the most animated in the room, and Ubbe, who then seemed far more at ease, was listening intently to the details of how Mark’s father made so much money selling appliances. Kim was a good sport despite not drinking and joined in the conversation knowing many of the same people as Torvi.

You could have sworn Ivar scoffed when you rolled your eyes at Amanda who went outside to smoke weed with Mark and Hvitserk but when you glanced over, he was back to staring in the opposite direction and picking the label off his beer. It felt strange….. sitting in a room with lively people and you and he were the only ones not joining in. You weren’t anti-social but for whatever reason that night, or in that house, the atmosphere felt… heavy. It wasn’t the alcohol though; you were almost sure it was him. Ivar. Every bit of your focus seemed to be spent on ignoring him and for some strange reason, you felt he was doing the same.

“Whereabouts is the washroom?” you whispered to Torvi and she raised her hand to point down the hall.

“It's just down the...”

“I need another beer,” Ivar interrupted, his voice so much different than what you expected. It was smoother somehow, breathier. “I’ll show her,” his eyes flicked over to you as he grabbed his crutch and pushed himself up out of the chair.

Your instincts from before seemed right as his body language told you he did not enjoy people walking behind him. He moved with a distinct limp but it was still agile in a way, his crutch obviously an extension of his body. But his mood seemed troubled.

Christ, you thought, as you followed, he could have just told you where it was.

Through the kitchen, he moved down a long hallway lined with closed doors and you were almost certain one of them had to have been a bathroom. Just as your feet slowed assessing where you were going, he glanced back and jerked his head for you to keep moving. Ohh-kay……

Opening the door at the very end, he walked in, not looking behind. Stopping on the threshold you surveyed the room and there was no question it was his. It had the same dark wood floors and wood trim, a neatly made bed with navy linens, large windows, fitted with wooden blinds, bordered by matching navy curtains. The room was lined with furniture; a dresser, desk, shelves loaded with books but it was the framed picture hanging above his bed that held your attention. Behind glass was a charcoal drawing of a scraggly, long-haired, bearded man who seemed to be missing an eye. Nice room, you thought, but the art was a touch dramatic.

As he dropped down onto a couch and stretched his legs out onto a low coffee table, he pointed at an open door which you assumed was his private bathroom. Ohh-kay…. you thought as you tiptoed past him and into the bathroom, closing the door.  Again, it struck you how clean everything was, even smelt good like some faint cologne and you hoped the thick wood door with muffle the sound of you peeing.

After washing your hands, and a lip gloss touch-up, you opened the door, not sure he would still be there. He was…. lounging on the couch, watching the tv on the adjacent wall. There was no acknowledgment when you re-emerged so you mumbled some sort of ‘thanks’ and crossed the room, heading for the door.  

“Are you afraid of me?’ he spoke at your back making you stop and turn around. Aside from the glances in the rear-view mirror, it was the first time he had looked at you directly. And holy shit, was it ever direct.

“No,” you lied trying not to sneak a peek at his tight white shirt stretched over his muscular chest and arms. You definitely didn’t want to be caught staring at his perfect hair, styled in that ‘perfect hot guy way.’ Holy god, he was striking, incredibly hot with his square jaw and smooth tanned skin. You hadn’t fully taken it in until then…. when his piercing blue eyes held you frozen in place.

The angle of his chin shifted just slightly, and he subtly squinted making you think he was somehow pleased with himself. A sweep of goosebumps spread over your skin and you crossed your arms as if suddenly feeling a breeze. Was your stomach suddenly upset? Or, maybe it was your nerves clawing out your insides.

“Then sit,” he said casually, as he looked away and you detected the slightest hint of a dare in his tone.

Why? You wanted to ask but didn’t, wondering if he was trying to intimate you. One thing you did suspect was that his aloofness was only to draw you in. Funny, you thought. Wouldn’t work. You had to get back to your friends….

“Okay,” you instead answered and walked over, slowly sitting down, your body sensing the two inches of space between you. Great, it was a love seat.  

Like the force of nature he felt like, he somehow read your thoughts.

“Get me a beer,” he said, nodding in the direction of the bar fridge next to the tv. What teenager had a bar fridge in their bedroom, you wondered, only realizing then that he had ordered you instead of asking.

If your eyes hadn’t scanned his crossed legs extended out on the coffee table, his crutch on the floor below, you might have told him to get his own…. but…you didn’t. Did he not want to get up? Was he in pain? Was it his legs or his back that hurt him? Maybe a knee? Was it from sports? Or, had he been in an accident with his car? The blank one. It looked fast and he looked like he drove fast too.

Slowly but with no attempt to conceal it, he let out a long sigh, snapping you out of your analysis and you realized that perhaps you were a bit drunk. But out of the corner of your eye, you saw him smirk.

“Get a beer for yourself,” he chimed as if offering a token reward for your obedience.

That was likely the extent of his chivalry anyway. Returning with two beers you handed him one not expecting and not getting any sort of thanks. His eyes stayed glued on the tv.

“Do you even like beer?” he asked, and it somehow felt like a dig.

“Yeah,” you answered taking a small sip.

God, you hated beer.

For a few minutes, you both stared at a music video, some ethereal, whining song, about a hunter in the night sung by an emo looking guy. It suited Ivar perfectly and the longer you listened the more uncomfortable you felt being there… alone in his room……essentially two strangers.

Mentally, you cleared your thought. “My name is…”

“I know your name,” he cut you off sounding annoyed.

It was getting even stranger and you wondered if your friends would eventually come find you….

   “Pray to your god, open your heart, whatever you do, don’t be afraid of the dark.”

…the song played on and it felt like the tension was building but what could you say? You didn’t know him and weren’t going to make small talk. Just as the air seemed to be getting sucked out of the room, you shifted on your seat making him look over at you.

“What?” you said sounding defensive.

Without a word, he just stared at you. The skin on your cheeks began to warm and you felt embarrassed.

“Well, this was fun,” you pushed your hands down into the couch to get up but he grabbed your forearm. Gasping, your eyes locked with his blue ones, his brows pinched and his eyes narrowed.

“I thought you weren’t afraid of me,” he whispered and you noticed how much closer he was all of a sudden. Jesus, those eyes…. they were clear and cold yet somehow dark and felt bottomless. You just stared back as if hypnotized but it was the quick flutter of his lashes and a look of uncertainty that flashed across his face that had you come back to the surface.

“My. Arm. Please,” you articulated through clenched teeth, and you knew you sounded scared.

Tilting his head, his lids blinked again and he began to chuckle, flashing a forced smile and releasing your arm. Smoothly, casually, he leaned forward and grabbed the TV remote off the table as if picking it up had been his plan all along. Slamming your beer down, you stood and rushed for the door. You were fucking done with Ivar Lothbrok.

“See you at school, beautiful,” he called in a patronizing voice.

As you rounded the corner, the volume of the tv rose and the last words of the song felt foreboding.

   “Cover your eyes, the devil’s inside.”

Next chapter

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[beautiful-bau-beau]

Could you please write an imagine where the reader is a waitress that Reid has fallen in love with, and he's been trying to keep it a secret from the team but they find out about her and insist on coming to the restaurant with him to meet her and they tease him a lot about it but it's okay cause she's in love with him too and she finds the whole thing hilarious and adorable and they end up together.

Wax Wings

You can read it as a stand-alone, but it’s a part 2 to Couldn’t Help But Melt!

Spencer Reid x gender nuetral!reader

Contains: Fluff

Masterlist

-

After you had given him your number, he had tried his hardest not to call. He knew that if he blew you off you would most likely never speak to him again and therefore, be safe. You would be able to live a life without having to worry about his safety, growing angry at missed dates or appointments, fearing going out in public just in case you ran into a criminal. 

Yet, despite the hard facts, his heart had somehow taken control of his brain and caused him to throw caution to the wind. It had only been a day of resisting temptation before his fingers pressed your number into keypad of his flip phone, and he cursed at how easily he was willing to endanger your life. But as soon as his ears were met with your buttery voice, he knew he was a damn fool not to call you earlier. 

Your first date was one for the books. What you had interpreted as “going to the theatre” turned out to be a reenactment of the 19 century Phantasmagoria. 

“Oh. I thought when you meant theatre it was supposed to be a play of some sort.” You looked around the lobby of the theatre as Spencer handed the teller his tickets.

“Well, technically, it is. It’s a form of horror theatre that projects skeletons, demons, ghosts and other such creatures onto walls, with techniques that make the image easy to move around or to change size. The shows started under the guise of seances in the late 18th century, particularly in Germany but gained popularity in the 19th century all throughout Europe. Some shows even use certain smells, electric shock, fasting, or drugs to enhance the experience for the viewer.” He caught your questioning glance and pinked, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly. “Not that this show practices any of those methods, you are completely safe, I swear.“ 

You started to laugh, covering your mouth with your hands as to not draw too much attention to yourself. Spencer watched you nervously, wondering if he had done something wrong.

“I’m sorry. I should have asked first if this would be something you’re interested in before purchasing the tickets but I was just…. overhasty, I guess, at your request to plan the date. Looking at it now… this seems as if it is not the most romantic gesture I could have planned.” His cheeks pinked and he started to panic. “We can go somewhere else. Anywhere else!” He offered, surprised at you shaking your head.

“Spencer, no one I’ve ever dated has ever brought me to anything quite like this. This seems so much fun! And hey, if I get scared you can do that cheesy thing where you wrap your arm around me, hmm?” You smiled, taking his hand in yours. “Lead the way!”

Spencer’s mouth twitched, heart thumping wildly in his chest. He wanted nothing more than to kiss you right where you stood, but there was time for that. He couldn’t rush. He squeezed your hand softly, tugging you inside the dark theatre to find your seats.

Eventually Spencer had given you that toe-curling, leg-popping, dreamy kiss that he had wanted to, and from then on, your relationship was like a dream. Of course there were the days where you had the late shift and he was out of town, sometimes for weeks at a time, but as soon as the two of you reunited it was as if he never left. 

You had been dating him for quite a few months now, but still had yet to say those three little words. There was the issue of not meeting any of his friends or coworkers, whom he spoke so much about. It made you wonder if he was ashamed of you, a lowly waitress dating a Supervisory Special Agent of the Behavioral Analysis Unit.  

Turns out it was quite the opposite.

-

“Suspect is on the move.” Prentiss whispered to her phone as she stalked the subject in question. “He doesn’t seem to be in any rush. Perhaps we’re mistaken?��

“Prentiss you know as well as I that our margin for error is quite small.” Hotchner replied, irritation lacing his tone. “Garcia, Morgan, you got eyes on the victim?”

“We have eyes.” Derek confirmed. He and Garcia were posing as a couple as to not arouse suspicion. 

“How about you, JJ? Rossi?" 

"We can see Emily, and the suspect.” Rossi replied adjusting his position in the car he and JJ were sitting in. 

“Great, I’m on my way to the rendezvous point. Meet you all there.” Hotchner commanded, effectively ending the call. 

“They’re pretty.” Garcia lowered the menu in front of her to meet Morgan’s eyes. “I am still so frustrated at the fact that Spencer kept the fact that he had a significant other hidden from his very best friends! What are we, just co-workers? The nerve!” She hissed, quieting once she saw you approach the table.

“Are we ready to order?” You plastered on your customer service smile, pen and paper ready to jot down their orders.

“Actually, we’re just waiting on more members of our party.” Morgan explained, craning his neck to eye the door. The pair had chosen a large table near the back of the restaurant to stay out of sight. “But I’ll take a water, please.”

“Me too!” Garcia chimed, trying to take in all the details of your appearance. You nodded, placing your notepad back in your apron.

“No problem! I’ll be back to check on you in a few minutes.” You swiftly turned on your heel, almost bumping in to a tall, broad man. You muttered an apology, heading back to the kitchen.

“Is that them?” Hotchner asked, pulling out a chair next to Morgan.

“It has to be, they’re the only person who’s working that doesn’t have a wedding ring on their finger. Unless Spencer proposed and didn’t tell us that as well!” Garcia fumed.

“Baby girl, I don’t think Spencer would be the type to propose without telling us.” Morgan tried to calm her but she clearly wasn’t having any of it.

“Who knows what he’s capable of hiding? What next, a secret love child?” She whispered, lifting her menu back up.

“JJ and Rossi decided to pass Prentiss, whose ETA is 7 minutes.” Hotchner ignored Garcia’s ramblings, picking up a menu for himself and surveying the options. “They should be here…” The automated doorbell chimed as the pair entered the diner. “Now.”

“Penelope,” JJ approached the group, taking a seat next to the woman and placing a comforting hand on her back. “How are you holding up?”

“I’ve decided he’s uninvited for my Winter Solstice party. And Christmas. And New Years. If I find out he’s lying about anything else he will not be receiving an invitation for my Valentine’s Day Soiree, that’s for damn certain.”

“Don’t be too harsh on the kid.” Rossi chuckled, scanning the perimeter. “So who’s exactly our "victim” here?“ He lifted his fingers, finding the usage of police jargon in this case quite hilarious.

Morgan turned, eyes catching your figure. "2 o'clock. My 2 o'clock." 

"When you turn to face them we both have the same 2 o'clock.” JJ sighed, passing Rossi a menu.

“Good for Spencer.” He whistled, reaching for the booklet when his phone buzzed. “Prentiss says he’s walking through the door.” The chime went off again, prompting the team to quickly pick up their menus to cover their faces.

“Hey!” You greeted, giving him a swift peck on the cheek before he sat on one of the stools at the counter. “It’s a little busy tonight but I should be off in…15 minutes? Then we can head to dinner." 

"That’s alright, I’m in no hurry.” Spencer smiled, leaning his head on his fist, staring at you with that wistful gaze that made your heart melt.

“I’ll be back! If you want anything, let me know.” You ruffled his hair, grabbing a water jug from the counter and heading back to the crowded tables. 

Prentiss came in through the side entrance, not wanting Spencer to spot her accidentally. She shrugged off her coat and took the last empty chair, quickly hiding her face with a menu. 

“2 o'clock.” JJ nudged, tilting her chin in your direction. Prentiss took a moment to eye your figure before nodding to herself. Good for Spence.

“Garcia?” Prentiss mumbled.

“Uninvited from Winter Solstice, Christmas, New Years, and maybe Valentine’s Day.”

“Sound about right.” Prentiss assessed. “He’ll be paying for this for a long time." 

"Hello!” You chirped startling the team, filling Morgan’s and Garcia’s glasses with ice water. “Can I get you started with some drinks?”

While waiting for you, Spencer was lost in thought, wondering exactly how he was going to tell you that he loved you over dinner. Should it be before we order? During the meal? Perhaps he would tell you before you even reached the restaurant, in your apartment while he waited for you to get changed. He wanted it to be perfect.

Of course, he realized, as much as he wanted to tell you, he was aware that something was missing. You had introduced him to all your friends, and he had yet to do the same. He was unsure of how to tell the team after so long. They would be furious if he broke the news he was dating someone after months of being in a relationship, so he kept putting it off. This was only adding to the problem, but he was unsure of what to do. He figured he could tell Morgan soon enough, see how he reacted, and then tell each of the team individually.

Your cheerful voice brought him out of his stupor and he searched to find you. You wore a smile, but were clearly antsy to get off your shift. He was about to turn back to the counter when he observed that a man from the table you were at almost looked like Hotchner.

Wait a minute… that was Hotchner!

What are they doing here?! Spencer thought, leg starting to jiggle against the metal framework of the stool. He waited until after you poured their respective waters, took their orders, and collected their menus before heading over to the table.

“What are you guys doing here?” He hissed, resting his hands on the table.

“Excuse me sir, do we know you?” Prentiss asked, crossing her arms. “You almost look like a friend of ours, but that friend wouldn’t hide the fact that he’s in a relationship, now would he Garcia?”

“Well, our associate is so complicated… who knows what he’s capable of.” Penelope raised her brows, giving him a pointed glance.

“So you guys…”

“We already figured out Y/n is your partner. Morgan brought up your irregular behavior, and Garcia looked through your credit card reports to find that you spend an awful lot of time at this place. Prentiss informed us that you have started exiting the subway at a different stop than usual, not to mention, facial recognition scanners from a social media account one can assume is Y/n’s… it was not that hard to put all the pieces together.” Hotchner explained, taking a sip from his glass.

“When were you planning on telling us, young man?” Rossi asked, leaning back in his seat.

“Soon! I swear I just… I didn’t know how to tell you guys.” Spencer admitted, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

“ ‘Hey JJ, I have a girlfriend,’ might have been a good place to start.” The blonde female pointed out, sighing.

“It’s not as simple as that I-”

“Spence?” You asked, approaching the table. “Do you uh, know these folks?”

“Oh, Y/n! Hi! Yeah I know these people…” Spencer smiled, clearly caught off guard.

“And how exactly do you know my lovely customers?” You gestured with your hand for him to explain.

“Y/n… um… these are… these are my friends. They were so excited to meet you, they rushed down here without telling me. I know you’ve been asking to meet them… so here they are.” Your expression instantly changed, a genuine smile overtaking your face. Garcia went to interject, when Rossi raised his hand. Play along.

“You work at the BAU with Spence? I’m so happy to meet you guys! I just- We were going to go to dinner… What if we just stayed here? I should be able to get off, and I won’t even have to change!” You gave Spencer a pleading look, and he nodded. At least he hadn’t made reservations… 

The rest of the evening was spent in laughter, you getting to talk to each member of the team and hear work stories that weren’t related to cases. After you had all parted ways, Spencer offered to walk you home.

“And that one story Aaron told about your "science-magic”? Priceless! You looked so embarrassed.“ You laughed into the night sky, breath forming cloudy puffs as you spoke. Your hands were intertwined, and Spencer felt his heart stutter.

"I’m so glad you finally introduced me to your friends! I thought… well, I was wondering why it was taking so long to get a proper introduction.” You mumbled.

“I’m sorry I just… I didn’t tell them we had started to date. At first, you were this secret I wanted to keep all to myself. But then weeks turned to months and then I found myself falling n love with you and it felt so wrong to just spring it on the team that I had met this amazing person and fell in love when they didn’t even realize I was dating yet.” He explained.

“You love me?” You asked, stopping where you stood.

“I uh, what?” He laughed, backpedaling his speech until he realized what you were referring to. “Oh um… I wanted to tell you tonight, over dinner. This is perhaps the opposite of how I wanted to tell you actually, I mean, there were going to be candles, and breadsticks- I know how much you like breadsticks and I- oomph!” Spencer’s ramblings were cut short when you pulled him into your embrace, kissing him softly.

“I love you too, Spencer.” You smiled as you pulled apart. “I love you too.”

—-

buzz buzz

“Hey baby girl what’s-”

“He told them he loved them!” Garcia’s rushed cries echoed throughout the receiver. “He told them he loved them and told me so he could invite them as his plus one to all the parties! Derek, Derek! This is huge.” Morgan softly chuckled on the other end of the line.

“Well… what do you know?”

[emachinescat]

Wind + Water - Tree in the Road

A MacGyver Fan-Fiction

by @emachinescat

@febuwhump day 12 / alt. 5 - hostage situation

Summary: AU of 2x21.  The bank robbers make their escape with Mac, but this time there isn’t a tree in the road to slow them down.  The rest of the team arrive at the marina just in time to see the robbers procuring a boat - and they have every intention of taking their hostage with them.

Characters: Mac, Jack, Riley, Bozer, Matty, the robbers from 2x21 (apparently their names are Booth, Pike, Dean and Ash)

Words: 4,129

Note: The Spanish is a mixture of my own adventure learning the language (I’m getting there) and a more advanced translator than Google.  Hopefully there aren’t any mistakes, if so - I apologize to any Spanish speakers.

Keep reading here, or on AO3!

If you enjoy, please consider liking, commenting, or re-blogging, and you can follow me for more content like this! :)

“So, for the record, this wasn’t part of the deal,” Angus MacGyver informed his captors testily as he carefully steered the stolen Chevrolet down the narrow, debris strewn backroad toward San Juan Marina and Boat Rentals.  Even though his eyes were on the road, he kept the gun pointed at him in his peripheral vision.  He felt the eyes of the four bank robbers on him, so he continued, very aware that no appeal to logic or conscience that he made at this point would have any effect, largely because these men had depleted stores of both.  Plus, they were desperate.  “I said I’d get you out with the money if you left all the hostages behind,” he continued, then added pointedly, “All including me.”  

One of the three robbers in the backseat, Pike, leaned forward to give their hostage a hearty slap on the back, which sent waves of agony shooting through his battered body.  Mac’s sides, stomach, and back felt every kick and weighted punch, and his mouth tasted like blood.  “Guess you shoulda been more specific,” he taunted, and Mac glanced back long enough to see the amusement on the man’s face.

“Honestly,” said the leader – his followers had called him Booth – “After giving us a glimpse of what you’re capable of, you really think we’d just let you go?”  His tone made it clear that it wouldn’t have mattered if Mac had drawn out and made them sign an extensive contract expressly stating that he was to be left behind with the other hostages, nothing about his predicament would have changed.  He’d gotten them out of a seemingly impossible situation, he’d made himself a valuable asset, and if there was one thing Mac understood about desperate people, it was that once they had something they saw as an advantage, they would never let it go.

The realization left a distinctly sour feeling in Mac’s stomach. He’d been seen and used as a tool before – in the army, he was a bomb defuser; for Phoenix, he was a kind of real-life troubleshooter.  But even in the army, he’d still been a person whose life mattered.  And now, he knew he was valued for so much more than just his skill set by his friends.  

Here, though, with these four men who looked at him with a kind of contemptuous greed in their eyes, he was nothing but a tool, something to be used to their advantage, over and over, until his usefulness had run out, and then he would be discarded like a broken drill bit.  To Booth, Pike, and the others, Mac was less than human, and it made him feel dirty and used and caused his chest to tighten anxiously despite his cool demeanor.  He knew he had to find a way to get away, and soon.  Otherwise, one of two equally unfortunate things was going to happen to him: Either he would be used to bargain their way off the island and then, as soon as they were safely away, he’d be shot and tossed overboard, or they would decide to keep and use him, and his life would become a living hell.  Neither option was a possibility that Mac was willing to entertain, so he would keep his eyes out for the first chance of escape.  

Noting once again the scattering of wreckage in and lining the road, Mac found himself hoping for a large piece of debris – perhaps a fallen tree or power line – would end up in their path.  If they ended up having to get out of the car for any reason, that might give him the chance to plan an escape.  Until then, with the five of them in such close quarters, with all but Mac armed, it was too risky to try anything.  He’d wait for his opportunity, and then make his move.

***

Mac’s opportunity for escape never came, and as he reluctantly directed the vehicle into the marina, the knot it his stomach had imploded into a cavernous pit.  Real tendrils of fear radiated through him, and a furious sense of injustice made his knuckles white and his fingers cramp from the grip he maintained on the steering wheel.  Normally when he was out in the field and in a risky situation, he’d end up finding what he needed to make an escape or at the very least to put a significant hitch in the bad guy’s plan.  It was something he’d come to take for granted, he realized, this bit of luck, that he always had something to work with.  This time, he hadn’t been asking for much – just a piece of debris, a block in the road, on an island ravaged by a natural disaster!  Something should have stood in their way.  The statistical probability of the road being blocked at some point in the twenty-minute drive – especially considering the situation in Puerto Rico – was incredibly high.  He’d counted on that blockage.

And while there had been a couple of branches scattered in their path, none were large enough to hold them up for long at all, and at no point had Mac been allowed out of the car.  In the back of his mind, he remembered what Matty had said to him when she had first taken over.  She didn’t want to be there when Mac’s luck ran out.  He’d been quick to assure her that it wasn’t luck, that he was good at what he did, but now he had his doubts.  If he wasn’t given anything to work with at all, how was he supposed to do what he was so good at?

Still, Angus MacGyver had never been one to give up, and he continued to keep his eyes peeled for anything at all he might be able to use to his advantage.  Even if he couldn’t escape here and now, he would find a way to survive and get back to his friends.  He always did.  

“Stop here.”

Mac did as he was told, putting the car in park and waiting for further instructions.  The gun was still trained on him, and he knew that none of his other captors would hesitate to put a bullet in him from behind if he made one move they didn’t like.  “Dean, grab the kid,” Booth snapped, and the youngest of the robbers, the one who had been gearing up to kill all of the hostages and who couldn’t be any older than Mac himself, got out of the car, went around to Mac’s door, pulled the hostage out of the seat and shoved him forward.  Mac forced himself not to fight back, because Dean’s gun was now pressed into the small of his back, and his voice was deadly as he ordered, “Move.”

The marina was fairly deserted, which would have been odd any other time, but it was midday and most people were either already out on the water or further inland, helping with cleanup and rebuilding.  The only person in sight was the young woman working boat rentals.  She had an open, kind face with eyes that had seen their fair share of suffering – it was a look Mac had seen in Carlos’s more vulnerable moments, and in the eyes of everyone he’d met while on the island.

“Hola,” she greeted, a bit flustered at the new arrivals.  “¿Te puedo ayudar?”  Mac thought that she probably didn’t see a lot of business nowadays.  Tourists were the ones who rented boats more often than not – the locals usually had their own – and tourism had plummeted since the hurricane.  Mac noticed that the bank robbers had hidden their weapons, other than the one at Mac’s back, and to the girl it must have looked like Mac and Dean were just walking close together, side by side.  Maybe she thought they were a couple.  Mac made sure his face was neutral, not wanting to give anything away and put this poor girl in danger.  If only the marina had been deserted, with no one else in the crosshairs!  

“Do I look like I speak Spanish?” Booth snapped impatiently.  

The girl blinked, eyes wide, taken aback by the rudeness.  “I – I’m sorry,” she stammered in heavily accented English.  Mac’s heart went out to her even as he felt his revulsion for his captors grow.  It literally would have expended the same amount of energy to treat the girl with an ounce of respect.  These men were assholes just because they could be. 

“We need a boat,” Booth ordered briskly.  “Now.”

“Bien – ah, okay.”  She looked scared that her accidental slip was going to get her yelled at again.  “Our skippers are not on site at the moment, and most of our boats are being repaired.  We do have one –”

“We’ll take it,” Booth growled, and the girl flinched back at the harshness of his tone.  Tears forming in her eyes, she glanced around briefly at the other men in the party, her eyes landing on Mac last.  He offered her a sympathetic half-smile, knowing that the girl – Mia, her name tag said – was probably having her worst day on the job yet.  At least she didn’t know the true colors of the difficult customers she was dealing with.  

As if worried Mac was trying to tip Mia off, Dean tightened his grip on Mac’s arm and rammed the barrel of the gun painfully into his back.  Mac didn’t react other than to break eye contact with their hostess, who abruptly got back to her task.  “Do you have a boating license that I can see?”  Her dark eyes plainly showed she was afraid of the answer – afraid of what would happen if they did not have the proper documentation and she had to tell them no.

“I don’t have a damn license,” Booth answered, impatience rising with his voice.  

“Lo siento – I’m sorry, you can’t rent a boat without a skipper if you don’t have a license.”  At the fury on her tormentors’ faces, her eyes darted desperately to Mac, as if she had sensed he wasn’t like the others and would step out and ask his friends to give it a rest.  Not wanting to risk her life, Mac felt guilt rise in him as he pointedly avoided her gaze.  Her voice thick with emotion, she regrouped and offered, “But I can call and have someone here within the hour to take you out.”

Booth lost his temper completely.  Slamming his fist down on the counter, he leaned over the cowering girl and hissed in a deadly tone that brooked no argument, “You will get us a boat now.”  Mia stood frozen in shock, and Booth glanced back over his shoulder at his three men and their hostage.  Collectively, they came to a silent agreement – obviously, the subtle approach wasn’t working, and they were running out of time.  With deft movement, so seamless it could have been rehearsed, Dean let go of Mac’s arm and shoved him into Booth, who twisted his greedy, filthy hand in Mac’s hair for the second time that day.  Mac grunted in pain as his head was yanked back and stilled his instinctive struggling as the sun-warmed barrel of Booth’s gun found the left carotid artery in Mac’s neck.  “If you don’t,” Booth added grimly, “I’m going to kill him right before your eyes.”  

Mia’s eyes darted to Mac’s once more and he saw the barely controlled terror just beneath the surface.  She hesitated, and the gun jabbed deeper into Mac’s neck as the safety clicked off, and Mac fought the urge to squeeze his eyes shut as his heart jumped into overdrive.  “You’ll be scrubbing his blood off this dock for the next year,” Booth promised, “and you’ll never get it off your pretty little hands.”

Mac thought for a terrifying moment that Mia was going to pass out or break down, as she swayed slightly on the spot, but then she steeled herself, an inner strength that Mac was proud to see flowing into her.  She straightened her spine, offered a small, scared smile that was probably meant to be reassuring at Mac, and nodded curtly.  “Okay,” she said in a thin voice, and it barely shook, though her hand did as she reached for a set of keys hanging on the wall behind her.  “Just… don’t hurt him, please.”

As she slowly moved away from the wooden counter and motioned for the men to follow her along the dock to their new vessel, Booth yanked Mac’s head back fiercely and whispered, “I knew you would come in handy in some way,” and then shoved Mac forward, finally releasing his hair – Mac’s scalp ached and his neck had already developed a painful stiffness from being twisted back in such an uncomfortable position. The gun moved to the back of Mac’s head.  The safety remained off.

Everything moved far too quickly after that.  It seemed that no time had passed until Mac was being forced onto the deck of a small craft barely big enough for the five of them.  Mac graciously offered to stay behind, and received a crack to the back of the head with the pistol butt in response.  At some point, one of the robbers – Ash, Mac thought his name was – had stepped in and tied Mac’s hands behind his back with sturdy nautical rope.  Mac hadn’t had a single opportunity to attempt escape throughout the whole process, as not only was Booth’s gun still at the base of his neck, but Pike’s own weapon was on the helpless Mia who stood on the dock, tears streaming down her face as she watched the men prepare to leave with their hostage.  Mac knew that if he even thought about doing something stupid, she would be killed without a second thought.

And then many things happened at once – a battered orange car swerved into the parking lot, the sound of screaming sirens not far behind.  Mac couldn’t help but grin when he saw who jumped out: his team, Riley, Bozer, and Jack – who had death in his eyes.  Mac had seen that look many times before.  Someone had threatened his partner.  Mac didn’t envy Booth and his goons once Jack Wyatt Dalton got his hands on them.

Jack already had his own gun drawn as he raced onto the dock.  His boots thunked hollowly against the boards as he sprinted for the boat, keen sights already on the bastard who had his paws on his kid.

But Booth had all the power here, with Mac in his clutches, and he knew it. And with the innocent civilian being held at gunpoint, he’d doubly covered his ass.  Mac’s hope at seeing his team faltered when he realized that Jack’s being here really didn’t change a thing.  It would just make this so much worse, because Jack would be forced to watch as Mac was taken, and when he could finally chase after them, it would probably be too late.  As if to solidify this knowledge, Mac felt Booth’s hand twine in his hair, again – what was it with this guy and Mac’s hair, anyway? – and the gun was back beneath his jaw, Mac could feel the artery rapidly pulsing against the unyielding metal.

“You make one more step, and Boy Wonder here dies,” Booth shouted right in Mac’s ear.  Mac locked eyes with Jack, who stuttered obediently to a stop, Riley and Bozer following suit.  Even now, Mac knew that his partner was desperately searching for any opening, any shot he could take to save his friend.

“I’d put that gun down, if I were you,” Ash called out.

Jack glared at him, unrelenting.  “Who invited Papa Smurf to the party?” he joked, but Mac clearly saw the anxiety in every line on his face.  

A shot rang out.  Mia screamed.  A smoking hole had appeared inches from her feet: The bullet had buried itself into the planks.  “He said,” Booth repeated, “put down your gun.”  He punctuated his words with a brutal yank of Mac’s hair.  “Next time, I put a bullet in your friend. No more warnings.”

Loathing poured off of Jack in waves, but he did as he was told and lowered the weapon, though he didn’t put it down.  The sirens drew nearer, and Mac knew his captors were going to have to make their move before the police arrived, or things would get even messier.  “Ash, start the damn boat,” Booth ordered.  

The man did as he was told, inserting the key, and the engine spluttered, coughed, and fell silent.  He tried again.  Nothing.

“What the hell, man?” Dean barked, an edge of panic creeping into his voice.  

“I’m trying!” Ash shot back, making another attempt to start the motor.  

For a split second, Mac felt Booth twist behind him, trying to get a look at what was going on, and in that moment, Pike was distracted as well.  Just one look away from their hostages was all that Mac and Jack needed – maybe the universe was looking out for them, after all.  While Booth was distracted, both his grip on Mac and on the gun momentarily slackened, and Mac inched over and made himself as small as possible to give Jack a better shot at the man behind him.  The gun was far too close to his face for Mac to lash out himself; now was a time to stand aside and let Jack do what he did best.

In the span of five seconds, Jack brought his gun back up and shot both Pike and Booth in quick succession.  He hit Pike first in the gun hand, and the man toppled over the side of the boat, howling in agony.  Booth’s bullet too had been perfectly timed and aimed – it hit him in the side of the head as he turned back around to deal with his hostage.  He dropped, the gun clattering from his hand, dead before he hit the ground.  It had been a tight shot, and quite the gamble considering the gun that had still been at Mac’s throat, but Jack had timed it perfectly, and Mac never doubted him once. 

***

The next half hour was a blur of police sirens – “‘Bout time you got here,” Jack griped testily – painful but welcome hugs from his friends, and a collective promise of painkillers, a four-way lecture, a hasty debrief, and much-needed rest, in that exact order, on their flight to their next op.  

Jack had been livid, insisting that Mac needed more than on-the-go treatment, but Matty was firm – this op couldn’t wait.  Her fierce eyes did soften when she got a good look at the state that her agent was in, though, and assured him that he was getting a thorough check by medical the second they got home.  Until then, she ordered, with no room for argument, he was to rest and recuperate, and so help her God, if he purposefully threw himself into this kind of mess again.... She didn’t actually finish her threat, which made it all the scarier, and Mac had promised to be good on the next mission.  (Nobody really believed him, though.)

Secretly, though, he was glad that he would get a chance to rest on the flight, because every single bruise, cut, ache, and pain called out, vying for his attention.  A cursory check by Jack and a frazzled EMT revealed that though no ribs were broken, he had severe bruising along his back, sides, and torso.  Booth had chipped a tooth when he’d kicked Mac in the mouth, and Mac did not look forward to spending some quality time with the dentist when he got home.  And there was a nasty, bloody welt on the back of his head from where he’d been pistol-whipped.  

Added to that, his entire body, from his scalp to the tips of his toes ached with a bone-deep weariness that came from the physical abuse and stress of his time as a hostage.  As Jack had reminded him on more than one occasion when Mac had tried to brush similar experiences off, just because it wasn’t his first rodeo, it didn’t make it any less traumatic for his mind or his body – he was still human, after all.  Now, Mac found himself reluctantly agreeing – emotionally, mentally, and physically, he felt in that moment every single thing that had been done to him from the second he’d snuck into that bank.

As usual, though, Mac filed away everything he was feeling to deal with – or even more appealingly, to not deal with – later.  

While Matty finalized the details of their flight, Mac tied up a few loose ends of his own.  First, he called Carlos and spoke to him for a few moments, reassuring his friend that he was really okay and getting the same reassurances in return.  Mac wanted to see Carlos and his family one more time before they took off, but Carlos was just now being released from the hospital, and the Phoenix team was on a very tight schedule.  He did promise to come back and visit soon, and was able to reveal the exciting news that Matty was sending another team in their place, to continue to help with rebuilding.

Next, Mac made his way over to Mia, who was sitting on the edge of an ambulance, her sandaled feet dangling off the side and a bottle of water cradled in her hands.  “Hola,” Mac greeted, and she offered him a small smile.  Mac realized that she was even younger than he’d thought – she couldn’t be more than eighteen or nineteen years old.  “I’m, uh, really sorry about everything,” he stammered, feeling that his words were thoroughly inadequate.

“You have nothing to apologize for!” she exclaimed, dark eyebrows furrowing over kind hazel eyes.  

Mac didn’t agree – as always, that incessant feeling that he could have done more reared its ugly head – but he changed the subject anyway, because Riley and Bozer were approaching, and he knew his time was running short.  “Quiero darte las gracias.” It was important to him that he thanked her in her own language, after the way Booth had treated it.  She deserved better.

She tilted her head, dark brown ponytail swinging with the motion, but a soft smile touched her lips at his fluent but accented Spanish.  “¿Para qué?”

Unable to call the exact words to mind in Spanish, courtesy, he knew, of the light concussion he almost certainly had, he switched back to English apologetically, but Mia didn’t seem to mind at all.  “That was a risky play,” he admitted, “giving them the keys to a boat that didn’t work.  But it was brilliant – and it bought my friend enough time to take control of the situation.  Great job thinking ahead.  You saved my life.”

A brilliant blush colored her cheeks at Mac’s praise.

***

Twenty minutes and a couple of painkillers later, Mac found himself curled up in his seat on the Phoenix jet waiting for the inevitable lecture to start.  He know it had been a stupid and dangerous risk, sneaking into the bank and making himself a hostage.  But he knew that his actions had saved lives, and he would make the same choice if anything like it happened again. 

Jack dropped down into the seat beside him.  “You look like hell, brother,” he observed.  Jack Dalton didn’t sugar coat anything.

“Yeah, well,” Mac admitted, too tired to put up his normal unaffected front.  “Feel like it too.”

The lines around Jack’s eyes deepened.  “The kids are already settling in for the flight,” he said.  “Get some sleep?”

“I thought you guys had a lecture all primed and ready,” Mac muttered, already feeling his eyelids dragging themselves down.  He was exhausted, from everything he’d been through, the pain, and the drugs.  

“Aaah,” Jack waved his hand dismissively.  “What’s the point of lecturin’ you if you’re too strung out to actually hear what we’re trying to drill into that big brain of yours?”

Mac quirked a half-smile.  “Or you could just skip the lecture all together.  You know that you would’ve done the exact same thing in my shoes.”

Jack shrugged.  “Maybe, but tryin’ to get you to look after yourself has become a kind of bonding thing for the rest of us.  And it’s fun seeing you squirm.”

Mac groaned.  “You know I never listen.”

A long-suffering sigh.  “And that’s why my hair’s going gray, hoss.”

Letting his eyes fall shut, Mac couldn’t help but squeeze in one last, murmured jab.  “No, it’s definitely an age thing.”

Mac didn’t hear Jack’s indigent retort, or the quiet cackling of Riley and Bozer from the seats behind.  

He was already asleep.

[criticizing-blogger]

Fudge

Pairing: Dean x reader

Warning: cursing, gore

Word count: 3423

In a small, snowy town of Minnesota, a black Chevy impala drives into a motel parking lot and settles into an empty spot up front. Two men, brothers, stepped out. The driver was a shorter man with a crew cut style;  his hair a straight, dark blond, matching his smooth forehead to his strong cheekbones and chiseled jawline. His eyes were hues of a forest, an earthy green that revives grass from the harsh winter. His stature is short, a brown shirt covered with a black and red flannel and that covered by a brown, leather jacket as his pants were blue going over his brown boots.

The passenger was tall, taller than his brother. His hair was shaggy brown and long, shoulder length to be exact but brought wonders to his features. The man’s eyes were the softest of brown, infused with a deep green as if he held a forest inside them. He wore a blue and white flannel with a grey, denim jacket. Pants were a light blue and like the other man, they, too, covered his dark brown boots.

The two looked at each other before walking into the motel. The bell on the entrance door jingled signaling the employees that customers were walking in. A plump, ederly woman who stood behind the check-in counter smiled and greeted them. “Welcome. Bed for one?”

“N-no...we’re not….we’re not together.” The taller man of the two stuttered.

“It’s okay sweetie. No need to be ashamed. We don’t judge here.” .

“Yeah, no need to be ashamed, honey.” The short man spoke as he spanked the taller man, grinning in amusement.

He gave his brother a look of annoyance. She gave them 2 sets of keys and he grabbed one before walking off.

“He's something, isn't he?” He winked and walked away with his key. 

The brothers walk out of the building and towards their shared room. Walking in, the walls are a dark, plain green with brown wood trims and the flooring white carpet. By the door to the room was a mahogany desk with a small, black desk lamp on top, a painting of a forest hung above. A dresser, the same color as the desk, stood against the wall with a small green dining table and matching chairs beside it. Across the table on the other side of the room were two separate beds with an end table in between and a large lamp on top. On the far side of the room across the entryway stood a door to the small bathroom. 

The bathroom, on the other hand, consists of a small, white sink on a grained counter top, the sink cabinet matching the dresser. A white toilet sat on the black and white tile floor, towels neatly folded on a silver rack above.  And next to the toilet was an off colored white bathtub with a few unknowable light brown stains on the sides; white tiles stuck to the walls and a silver showerhead attached above.  The bathroom walls are beige.

Dean slams the door shut and drops his bag onto the bed closest to the entry. He rummages through the bag grabbing out a black and white suit and a gun. Sam does the same before walking into the bathroom to change as his brother changes in the main room.

 “Witnesses first?” Sam shouts.

“You can question witnesses,” Dean spoke, fully decked out in his suit as Sam was when he walked out of the bathroom. “I’ll check out the crime scene.” 

Both men tuck their guns into the back of their pants and the fake FBI badges in their front suit jacket pockets. The same routine they do in almost every case. With their feet covered by white socks with black dress shoes, guns and badges ready, they headed out the door and to the first crime scene.

The small parking lot of the only hardware store in town, had attracted plenty of locals who stood behind yellow tape and two police officers at each end keeping them in line. Police cars and ambulances swarmed the outside, officers questioning witnesses all the while the EMTs checked for injuries. Despite the lot being small, Sam and Dean were able to maneuver around everyone. They found the sheriff talking to the owner of the store. 

“Excuse us, sheriff.” Dean spoke causing the man to look up from his phone.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” he asked, putting his device away.

They pulled out their badges from their front pockets flipping them open. “I’m Agent Page and my partner here is Agent Young. Can we ask what happened here?”

The sheriff squints his eyes at the fake I.D.s and sighs. “According to crazy Doreen-” pointing a finger at an elderly lady with an annoyed officer watching her- “there were small men walking out of the store wearing bloody clothes and holding tools stolen from inside.”

“Mind if I check it out?” Dean asked. The sheriff gestured towards the store.

Sam stayed to talk to the man while Dean went inside to check out the scene. The first thing he noticed was splatters of blood over the walls and counter where the checkout counter is. He carefully leaned over the counter so as to not get blood on his suit or mess up evidence, his eyes roamed over the area to see a man dead, multiple stab wounds to the chest. He leaned back away from the counter to look over it. Smack dead in the middle of the blood splatter was a tiny handprint; as small as a child almost. Dean took out his cell and shot a picture and sent it to Sam.

Turning away he looked down at the floor for any further evidence. The blood hadn’t gone too far as most of it laid where the man is. Less clean up he supposed even though he knew it wasn’t the time to make jokes but does it anyways. Dean kept walking throughout the store. Nothing could be spotted on the floor. Even the shelves didn’t show signs of anything supernatural. They just looked ransacked. 

But something shiny caught the man’s attention from the corner of his eye. A bell. A small, gold bell. He walks towards then bends down to pick the object up. As it sat between his thumb and index finger, he slowly inspected the object. What the hell, he thought. Unfortunately he couldn't think further as his ears picked up the sound of footsteps coming up from behind. Dean quickly stood and turned only to let out a sigh of relief. It was just his brother.

“What did you find?” Sam asked, noticing Dean a little tense.

Dean opened his palm and showed him the bell. Sam’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He picked it up to inspect it. As it is just a bell, nothing more. He pockets it and starts to tell Dean what the elderly lady had said. “According to Doreen, when she was walking past the store, she saw little men walking out with sets of tools covered in blood, the same for their clothes. Apparently they were wearing red and green striped pointed hats that contained bells on top, the shirt and pants matched and the shoes were pointed upwards on the end of them, also with bells on top.”

Dean looked at him like he didn’t believe any of the words that just came out of his mouth. And he doesn’t believe Sam. “So dwarves? You’re saying dwarves. Like Santa’s little elves.”

“I-uh, I mean, I guess,” he shrugs as he rubs the back of his neck realizing the elderly woman might actually be crazy just as the sheriff said.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Does any other witness say anything actually useful?”

Sam shook his head. 

“So no one else saw elves? Not even Rudolph?” Dean sarcastically spoke, making it Sam’s turn to roll his eyes. “Come on, let's go.”

Dean sat in his car parked in front of a small house with the window rolled down talking, no, flirting to a woman while Sam sat inside a house talking to the family of the dead employee from the hardware store. The woman, Dean learned whose name is (y/n), was trying her hardest not to laugh at his failed attempt of flirting with her. Which, he was epically failing and miserably. 

“Okay dude. Look, you’re cute and all but you are literally the walking cliche of James Dean. I’m not interested.” she spoke before walking off just as Sam was coming out of the house having heard everything and chuckling. 

“That was awesome.” he states getting into the impala.

“Oh shut up,” spoke  Dean, annoyed, as he started the car and drove off. “What did they say?”

“According to the mother, nobody told her and her husband that their son is dead. The sheriff said that the guy, whose name was Greg, died sometime around six this morning. And despite it being several hours later, they never got a call.”

“Anything useful?”

“She said that Greg had been seeing little men for about three days and shrugged it off as drinking too much. It seriously sounds like elves.”

“Yeah, no. There is no such thing as elves.” Dean spoke, obviously still not believing Sam.

“Do you remember the case with the girl that was in a coma and her dad was reading her fairy tales?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, so?”

“What if this is something similar except the whole disney sugar coating? Like how the mice were turning into servants and how Cinderella was being abused by her stepmother except this time it's elves.” Sam explains.

“Unless they’re dwarves from Lord of the Rings, I’m not buying it.”

.    .    .    .

Seven in the morning rolled around when a bedside alarm goes off. A hand reaches out and slams the top of it shutting it off. Yawning, (y/n) pulls back the covers and swings her legs over the side of the bed and stretches. She gets up and walks out of the bedroom and into the bathroom to do her business. When finished, she walked back into her room changing into some black leggings with a red sweater and white socks. After changing she walked downstairs putting on her black boots lined with white fur and a dark red double lapel jacket. She grabbed her purse and keys and headed out the door.

The weather outside was freezing causing her to slightly shiver. The ground is covered with pure white snow. Her boots leave small prints in the snow from the front door to her vehicle. She quickly gets into her car and lets it run for a few minutes before turning the heat on and leaving. She was used to the cold weather as she has lived in Minnesota for most of her life so the snow didn’t bother her.

The first place she headed for was the small cafe in town where she had breakfast almost every morning. The owner, Mrs. Smith has lived here for all her life and the cafe was passed down generation to generation. (Y/n) has known her since she moved here with her parents when she was younger. Mrs. Smith used to babysit her when her parents had to work. They were close and still are to this very day. The cafe has changed interior multiple times over the years as to keep up with modern times. But the outside has never changed. 

By the time (y/n) has arrived and walked into the building, her usual breakfast consists of fried egg, bacon and cheese on a toasted bagel, a bowl of maple and brown sugar oatmeal with sliced bananas and black coffee, in her spot she claims as hers in the far corner of the building in the booth. It was her favorite spot as she could watch customers for inspiration for her writings.

While she ate and watched people come and go, two men in black suits came in, taking a seat a couple booths away from her. One of them, the same one she talked to, well, technically watched him fail at flirting with her yesterday, caught her eye. He puts on a charming smile fixing his jacket while he says something to the other guy, who seemed amused to see him fail again, and made his way over to the woman. 

He sits across from her. “Morning.”

“Morning, Agent.” she smiles, leaning back into her seat, waiting to watch him fail for the second time.

“I think there’s something wrong with my eyes. I just can’t seem to take them off of you.” 

She couldn’t help but snort while she took a sip of her hot coffee.

“Boy, that coffee looks hot. Just like,” Dean started before sheepishly saying, “hi.”

That caused her to raise her eyebrows. “Okay, now that was kind of adorable.”

Dean perked up. “So, did it work?”

She stood up, her breakfast finished. “Nope.” And with that, she walked out of the cafe with an amusing grin on her face. Dean’s mouth was open with shock. He’s never been rejected by a woman in years. Especially twice. He lets out a groan before closing his mouth and sitting at the same table Sam currently sat at. Sam was grinning letting out chuckles at his older brother’s failure.

“Oh shut up.” Dean told him as he grabbed a menu covering his red face of embarrassment while he looked for food. “So, what did you find from research last night?”

Sam who already knew what he wanted to eat pulled out his laptop from his computer bag and placed it in front of him. “According to Wikipedia, in Germanic mythology, a dwarf is a human-shaped, usually bearde, entity that dwells in mountains and in the earth and is variously associated with wisdom, smithing, mining, and crafting. But in this case, it's around Christmas time so instead of it being dwarves, we could be dealing with elves.”

Dean deadpanned and looked at the man across from him. “Please for the love of Chuck, you’re joking.”

Sam shook his head.

“I thought elves were supposed to be nice. Not all murdery.”

Sam shrugs. “I think at this point from all the shit we thought wasn’t possible, this goes along with it.”

“But why would elves start killing people and taking hammers and shovels and whatever else?” Dean spoke confused as hell. 

The only thing Sam could come up with is, well, he couldn’t come up with anything as they never went through something even remotely close to this. They didn’t have much to go on since they only talked to very few people and saw one crime scene. He already knew this odd case was gonna take more than a few days unlike most of the ones they have been on. 

“Sam sighed. “I don’t know. We need to look at the other scenes and see what happened there. Like the one lumber yard.” 

Before Dean could say anything, a waitress came up and asked them if they were ready to eat. Dean ordered a large, meaty breakfast, something likely to give you a heart attack if you ate enough of it while Sam got something small and healthy so he could keep his physique up. She wrote it all down, eyes widening when Dean spoke what he wanted and giving Sam a flirty smile as she took the meus from his hand, letting their fingers touch before letting them know she’ll be back with coffee and walks away with an extra sway of her hips. Dean watched her backside as she walked away till he couldn’t no more. He looked at his brother eyebrows raising up and down and smirking at him. “She’s hot.”

He just ignored Dean’s behavior as he was used to it. 

“Dude! You should go for her.” Dean states.

“No thanks.”

“Oh come on, you need to get laid. That’s probably why you’re so tense all the time.”

Sam looked at his brother with annoyance and rolled his eyes. “Last I checked, saving lives is more important than getting some.”

“If you won’t have her, I will,” Dean grins. “What happened at the lumber yard?”

Sam pulled up the local newspaper, called Morning News written on top in huge black letters, on his laptop. Everything that had happened over the last several days here covered a good part of the first page. On the left column showed rebuilding the bridge that connects the two surrounding towns as it was falling apart and unsafe to drive on. It didn’t give an estimate of how much it would cost to demolish it, which Sam knew was gonna be expensive, but to build another was gonna be much, much more. 

On the right column was a ten-year-old boy being awarded for selling the most chocolate in time for the holidays. He won a two hundred and fifty dollar gift card and got to leave school to go to any restaurant for lunch. He remembers middle school used to do that but he was never able to because of his father, John Winchester. He would’ve liked to do normal activities growing up, and still does, but with the line of work they do, he can only do so many normal things every other human gets to do. Otherwise, nothing of importance.

And on the bottom of the page showed the weather for the next seven, cold and snowy. No sun or warmth which of course is normal with it being winter. Before Sam could get off topic in his thoughts, he read the column of the murders until it told him to turn to page nine. The whole entire page, he notices, was covered about the murders of two men but three crime scenes. Sam didn’t bother reading the few paragraphs of the scene at the hardware store. Next, it showed what may have happened at the lumber yard which apparently happened first before the hardware store as the man who chopped wood there was found with an axe in the back of his head.

“So it says here a man, Finn Huckle, was found at three am two days hunched over the tree stump. His legs hacked and an axe stuck in the back of his head as his body laid over the tree stump he was using to shop wood. It looked like a regular murder accoring to the police until they saw Finn holding a pointy hat in his hand. It looked like he tried fighting back because he had skin under his nails. But when the lab tested it, the skin didn’t belong to anybody. Like whoever, or whatever, did this, doesn’t exist. However, at the last scene, at a children's park, in the sand box was a large, gaping hole with what they know is snow, surrounding the area.”

Dean took everything his brother said in. This was definitely something they haven’t dealt with, even heard of. But Sam says he thinks its elves seem to be making more sense, oddly to him, the more they learn what's happening in town. But why elves? Weren’t they supposed to be nice and make presents for good boys and girls? This case seems to be getting odder and odder. 

“Say it is elves, did they lose their mojo or something? Maybe they ran out of alcohol. I’d be all grumpy if I ran out of alcohol and had to deal with shit ton of kids.” Dean spoke gruffly.

Sam suddenly perked up, an idea as to why, if it is elves, acting dangerous. “What if they were hit with some potion making them angry?”

Dean furrowed his eyebrows as he thought. Okay, maybe it is Santa’s little helpers, or logically, it's not. This is definitely something new. Before they can confirm what they think, they would need to see the hole at the park. His thoughts were interrupted with the pretty waitress bringing their food. She gave Sam his first, again, giving him a flirty smile then gave the other man his food, looking at him. Dean winked at her as he gave her his world famous smile he uses on all the ladies causing her to scoff and roll her eyes before walking off. Sam laughed at Dean’s flabbergasted look on his face. “Rejected by two women in one day. Got to be a new record.”

Dean rolled his eyes and flipped Sam off before digging into his food, annoyed.

___________________________________________________

DEAN X READER TAGS:

@akshi8278

[dc41896]

Small Mishaps

Pairing: Chris EvansxBlack Reader

⚠️: All fluff💕

“Da-yee!”

Chris couldn’t help the smile tugging on the corners of his mouth as he heard the shouting of his newest nickname paired with little feet padding closer to his office.

“Yes bae-yee?” As if on cue, he turns to see the dangling plaits and toothy smile of his four year old, Kira, looking like the exact copy of him at that age and even displaying the same seemingly unending energy.

“Spa now?!,” she asks lightly tugging his hand to make him get out of his chair.

“Give me a second, let me make this last note,” he answers lifting her to sit on his lap. With a small huff, she wraps her arms around his neck making him chuckle from her cheek being pressed so closely against his. Ever since early this morning all she wanted to do was play her new game with him, but each time she asked he always said the same thing.

Later.

To anyone else, later might’ve been fine. However to a toddler, later was an unknown answer that just made her antsy as she looked at that ticking thing on the wall wondering when later would come.

“How long’s a second?”

“Well uh mathematically speaking, it’s much shorter than a minute.”

“Oh...what’s mat-tick-catly?” Head tilted back, his laugh echoes throughout the office and into the halls at his daughter’s attempt to repeat the challenging word.

“It’s just a big word for numbers,” he smiles kissing the top of her head. “Nothing you need to worry about until you get older and go to school. But hey guess what?”

“Hmm?!”

“I’m done, which means-,”

“Spa!!! Cmon da-yee you’re gonna look so pretty!,” she excitedly claps, leaping from his lap and pulling an amused Chris behind her.

———

“There, now no touch!,” Kira orders with a pointed finger making Chris hold up his hands in surrender as he chuckled.

“You got it.”

“And what’s going on here?” Back from your run with Dodger, you lean on the doorframe giggling as you take in the sight in front of you. Sat on the tile floor with one leg crossed over the other, white cream speckled with orange dots messily covered his forehead, nose, and cheeks while your daughter squat beside your nighttime bag rummaging through your products.

“Kira wanted to play spa, so I’m her customer.”

“Here you go,” she smiles handing him a single square of tissue paper.

“What’s this?”

“I think that’s your bill honey,” you quietly laugh as your daughter nods her head.

“Five monies please!”

“Kira, you’re gonna make your dear old dad pay? After all the fun we’ve had?” Rocking back and forth on her feet, her eyes roam around the room waiting for her requested payment and making Chris shake his head as he chuckles.

“I’ll give you cookies...”

Smile lighting up her face, she takes the piece of paper from his hands and instead gives it to you leaving you silent with mouth slightly agape. “Your turn mommy!”

“Let’s get this off of daddy’s face first then after I shower we can work on me,” you smile watching her reach for the silver handles of the facet before being placed on the counter by your husband. Slowly tip toeing to your phone, you return pressing record just in time to catch their cute exchange as your daughter dangles her feet back and forth.

“Now you look pretty forever and ever!”

“Forever and ever?! What magic did you use huh?,” he asks tickling her side. Zipping her lips, she shakes her head making her plaits wildly swing around.

“Nope, it’s a secret,” she giggles holding onto his hand and playing with the silver band on his finger.

The following morning, the Evans household started as usual these last couple months. Sunlight peaking through the curtains. Chris groaning as he begrudgingly gets up to use the bathroom leaving you lying in bed snuggling with the comforter until he would return taking its place. Taking over his side of the bed, you smiled to yourself waiting to hear his deep chuckle followed by the feeling of soft hands gently lifting your “sleeping” body and keeping you close to him while you both lied in comfortable silence.

Instead, you felt your arm being frantically shaken by your husband repeatedly beckoning you to wake up.

“Babe. Babe!”

“Hmm what’s wrong?,” you groggily ask rubbing your eyes to help you see clearer. Small red sploches dotting his face, you rise on your knees getting closer to his face making sure what you were seeing was in fact true. “What happened to your face?”

“I don’t know. I just noticed it when I went to the bathroom.”

“Does it itch?”

“A little. Do you think it was the mask?”

“Maybe, do you remember if she used anything else from my bag?” Shrugging his shoulders, there’s a momentary silence before his palm hits his forehead as he silently curses.

“Of course this happens on the day I’m supposed to talk with Jimmy Fallon.”

“Listen it’s okay, we’ll hopefully have you fixed before then. Just let me think of what could help.”

“Mommy! Da-yee!” As if on cue, Kira runs into your bedroom using the bench at the end of the bed to climb in and stand next to you. “Ooh I want face paint too!”

“It’s not face paint honey, daddy might’ve had a reaction to the mask from last night.”

“Reaction?,” she asks slightly tilting her head.

“Yea, like when you ate peaches that one day and your tongue was itchy and cheeks got puffy? That’s a reaction.”

“Ohh...I hurt da-yee?” Frowning with pouted lips, Chris picks her up smoothing the frizz from her hair as he kisses her temple.

“Noo no sweetie you didn’t hurt me. I promise I’m fine, my face just looks a little funny.”

“Mommy’s special tube didn’t work.”

“Special tube?,” you both inquire looking puzzled. Nodding her head, she nervously wrings her hands together afraid of your coming reactions.

“The white one.”

“Ohhh...”

“I’m guessing this white tube is what caused me to look like a Dalmatian with red spots?,” Chris asks slightly rocking Kira back and forth.

“Yea, it’s my acne gel. I call it my special tube because only I can use it sweetie,” you answer lightly rubbing her back.

“Ohh, sorry.”

“It’s okay, let’s not use it anymore though. Especially on daddy’s delicate skin.”

“Delicate?,” he asks raising an eyebrow in amusement making you laugh.

“Babe you even said so yourself that you have sensitive skin, don’t start,” you laugh stepping out of bed. “Now let me go get the rash cream.”

“Wait, rash cream?”

“You have a better idea?” Groaning as he rolls his eyes, Kira places her hands on either side of his beard before kissing his cheek.

“No worry da-yee, mommy can fix it.”

“I hope you’re right bae-yee,” he smiles blowing raspberries on her cheek making her wildly giggle.

———

“Okay first it was poor Dodger’s haircut now this?! What is going on in the Evan’s household during this quarantine?,” Jimmy asks trying to hide his laughter but failing.

Sat at the island in his kitchen, he chuckles to himself while shaking his head at his current predicament. Surprisingly the rash cream did help a bit, but the red spots were still evident on his face although a bit lighter in color.

Especially now currently being in the room with the best lighting.

“Well uh as you can see it’s been a bit eventful,” he laughs as he runs a hand through his brown locs. “Kira’s been watching her mom do her nighttime routine so now her favorite game to play is Spa. Long story short some things didn’t agree with my skin when we played yesterday.”

“Ohh noo,” he laughs covering his mouth with his hands. “Are you okay though? How did she react when she saw you?”

“Yea I’m fine. It was a bit itchy but now it’s starting to fade away, and at first she thought it was face paint, but after telling her what happened she felt bad because she thought she hurt me. So now she’s been checking on me and making sure I’m okay.”

“And speaking of, looks like she’s here to check on you now.” Turning around, he smiles seeing his little girl in her jean overalls raised on her tip toes trying to get a look at Chris. Waving her over, she nervously steps to her father before he sits her on his lap.

“Hi Kira! How are you?”

“Good,” she shyly replies playing with her braid.

You tried to keep her occupied during his time away with his interview, but your sneaky little one took advantage of your lapse of judgement when distracted by your phone. She said she was going to the bathroom and by the time you thought you should walk with her, you could hear feet scurrying down the hall towards the kitchen.

Catching the corner of his eye, you mouth “sorry” before he smiles mouthing back “it’s okay” and giving you a quick thumbs up.

“And how do you like being home with your parents this whole time?”

“I-I like it. We get to play a lot!,” she smiles making both men lightly chuckle.

“So your dad tells me you like to play a game called Spa. Is that something you’d want to do when you get older?” Nodding her head, she giggles looking up at her father as he kisses the top of her head.

“Well I already know you’ll do such a good job with your own spa one day from this video from a little birdie’s instagram.” As he plays the short clip of Chris and Kira talking in the bathroom while he washes off his mask, he meets your eyes shaking his head as you innocently shrug your shoulders as if you didn’t know anything.

“Hmm I wonder whose Instagram you got that from?”

“You know I can’t reveal my sources,” Jimmy laughs. “The adventures of being a girl dad though right?”

“Yea, and I wouldn’t change a thing about it,” Chris smiles holding onto his baby girl as she latches around his neck.

Taglist: @fumbling-fanfics @honeychicanawrites @honeychicana @lady-olive-oil @themyscxiras @melinda-january @lovelymari4 @literaturefeen @damnitaa @curlyhairclub @renfrewscorner @fullofmelaninsarcasmandepression @nunubug99 @felicity-x0 @ellixthea @jojolu @jnk-812 @brwn-sgr @captainsamwlsn @wildfirecracker @nina-sj @iammyownlover @chaneajoyyy @secretmysteriousperson @plokyu23

If anybody wants to be tagged, has asked to be tagged but don’t see your name, only wants to be tagged for certain people I write for, or no longer wish to be tagged just let me know🤓!

[rpmemesbyarat]

RP meme from Scream Queens Ep 6 "Seven Minutes in Hell" (Note: Offensive content, use at own discretion)

Everyone would immediately assume the killer is me.

Are you one of those idiot savants who's heavy on the idiot, light on the savant?

I am simply a victim of my times.

Are you aware your pants are on backwards?

Then whose fault is it?

I am never talking about anything ever again!

Yeah, super sorry about what happened down there.

Why are you laughing?

What about that fit you threw down there?

You're not mad at me?

Oh, I meant everything I said about you.

I still think you're useless. I'm just not sad about it.

You never, ever want to be the boss in a time of extreme crisis.

As soon as you become the boss, you get a target on your back, from the feds, the other families, ambitious underlings.

Sure, seems like you have all the power, but you also take on the most risk.

Oh, don't judge me for trying to stay alive.

Do not give an inch.

What's your game here?

I trust you about as far as I can throw you.

I know we don't know who the killer is, but we know it traces back to this house.

There are two things that always happen at a slumber party; someone experiments with lesbianism and secrets are revealed.

We can create situations and scenarios to really prime the pump.

We'll lock everybody up overnight, and we're bound to find out something.

A slumber party sounds fun.

Let's play spin the bottle.

Someone always goes lesbian.

We're playing spin the damn bottle.

Why spin the bottle?

That is not a nasty rumor. That is a true rumor.

So I propose a panty raid.

You taste like wax.

I guess we have to kiss.

You're a great kisser.

Was I interrupting you?

I was just practicing looking disinterested.

I'm pretty sure I was born without that part of the brain that actually feels stuff.

We have so much in common.

I'm starting to think we have something very important and specific in common.

My sex life up until this point is what you'd call unusual.

I think the only way to be sure of your feelings is if you let me gently rub your uterus right now.

When I love someone, it drives them insane.

Believe me when I say that if it was possible for me to feel anything I would totally be crying right now.

That doesn't seem healthy.

All the doors are locked solid. Windows, too. Upstairs and down.

I decided to have the whole house turned into a panic room.

But wait, doesn't that mean that there's some sort of switch somewhere to deactivate it?

I hate being trapped in small places.

There's only one reason why the killer would do something like this-- to pick us off one by one.

Guess it's just a matter of time before one of us or all of us ends up dead.

You have to help us.

Look, I'm prepared to say I'm sorry I did that.

What I'm not prepared to do is say the sex was bad.

Yeah. I'm not gonna apologize for that one.

I'm about to get murdered, so can you please just hang up and get over here?

How on earth are we supposed to get in if all the doors and windows are locked?

Dude, we climb up the ladder, break the windows upstairs, save all the girls, climb back down, then it's vagina city for all of us.

Why would you bomb-proof upstairs windows? For what, like, a flying bomb?

Don't be an idiot.

It's hero time.

Save me and I'm yours forever.

I'm not really sure I'm ready for that level of commitment.

Break the glass!

Stand back, fair maiden.

Give him the dignity of watching him die.

Someone in this house definitely knows who the killer is.

It's truth or dare time.

Whatever it takes to stop the douche that's trying to kill everybody.

I mean, do you ever just stop and ask yourself if we can actually pull this off?

Maybe we all just need to get out of here.

The best way to avoid a shark attack is to not go in the water.

We all have a crisis of faith sometimes.

Maybe you're hiding something.

I'd pick truth and then just lie.

If you want to lie, you can just pick dare.

That's the whole point of truth or dare. You can't lie.

Does your vagina have teeth?

I'm not lying.

My vagina doesn't have teeth.

Does your vagina still have teeth?

So it used to have teeth, but you got them removed?

So your vagina still has teeth.

Sounds like you're trapped in a web of lies.

You're forfeiting your turn, bitch.

Okay, I guess it's my turn, then.

You promised you wouldn't tell.

Sorry. I had to tell the truth.

Of course you're the killer.

I propose we take a little break, You know, take a whiz, get a refill.

You know what? I'm sorry. I'm sorry I ever trusted you.

I wanted to talk about the other thing you said, about how you thought you had feelings for me.

The only feelings I have for you now are rage and pissed offedness.

Now go sit in that bathtub and think about what you've done. And try not to rub one out, okay?

Come on! I said I was sorry!

If anybody's down here, please don't jump out at me.

Is that blood?

Wait. If you're gonna kill me, at least show me who you are first.

I knew it. I knew it was you.

Please. You don't have to do this. I could help you.

There's never any food in there. Just laxatives.

I got the impression that you and I are on the verge of being the next "it" couple.

See, this is the problem with texting, you know? You can't hear the context.

Even though I decided to not wear a bra, you haven't been staring at my shirt raisins once.

Okay, look, I was waiting to talk to you about this 'cause secretly I was hoping you'd be killed and I wouldn't have to hurt your feelings.

I just don't think it would work out with us.

You're nuts, and not like a typical crazy-eyes co-ed, but wake-up-with-my penis-in-a-jar lunatic.

I love space mountain. Best ride at Disneyland. But I love my penis more.

Number one-- I never take second place. And number two-- I don't stop till I get what I want.

Was that salad spinner hitting on you?

I am super turned on from her, and I need some sweet release.

Is there any, like, Crisco or cooking oil here? Just, like, dry handies bum me out.

I propose we treat ourselves to a little heaven. Seven minutes in heaven.

Whatever your plan was, it isn't working.

Would you like to pat the little man in the canoe?

I want to take our relationship to the next level.

I want us to be together, but I want it to mean something.

I love boning girls all over this great land. But really, at the end of the day, I just kind of want to bone one girl. Like, that one special girl.

I just didn't think that girl was you. Because, obviously, there's so much wrong with you.

Will you get back together with me?

I would consider taking you back under one condition.

You have to pinky-pledge that you will be monogamous to me.

You will not have sex with anyone else. Do you understand me?

Dude, she looks like prepackaged meat from the supermarket.

Oh, god, has someone checked on the kids?

Pretty convenient that you're the one who found the body.

You're the darkest bitch of them all.

Those are some serious accusations, and they make no sense.

I would be opening myself up to a lot of trouble if I were to turn you in to the authorities.

It doesn't do any of us any good to start accusing each other with no evidence.

I suggest that we just have someone stand guard and watch me for the rest of the night, or until someone else dies, therefore proving that I am not the killer.

This feels so good.

I tried to scream, but nothing came out!

Interesting. That's all I'm gonna say. Interesting.

There is a trapdoor with, like, a tunnel system.

But wait, there are secret tunnels in this house perfect for a killer to use, and you neglected to tell us?

That's a little suspicious.

We are losing sight of the big picture here.

I'm not going down there. I do not dig on cobwebs, and I'm guessing there are loads of cobwebs down there.

If you get murdered in those tunnels, I promise I will never bang anyone harder than I banged you.

You're so rich and hot.

These are the nicest secret tunnels I've ever seen.

Wow. What amazing legacies they all have. What do you think ours will be?

If we can get through this year without everyone getting killed, I think we'll go down as the greatest of them all.

You came back for me.

Purely selfish.

You are probably the worst cop ever.

Wait, where are we going?

I won't go!

In three seconds, I'm gonna pick you up and carry you out of here.

I just kind of came over here because I farted over there and it smelled bad.

Wait, you're a lesbian?

Basically, I'm in love with love.

The next time I feel love for someone, I'm going to tell them. Right away. Just in case they're murdered before I can.

I just feel like I'm never gonna find a guy who likes me.

I'm a freak.

Nobody actually likes me.

You are totally gonna find another guy.

They're custom-made pink nunchaku.

Thank you for making that announcement that no one cared about.

No slumber party is finished without a kickass dance party.

This is so wonderfully random.

What a great way to pretend all these people we know weren't brutally murdered.

[iya5rt]

Kalopsia Project [Bakugo Katsuki x Reader – Tokyo Ghoul AU]

Chapter 7 – Cold Villains and Villainous Colds

Chapter Summary: A creeping cold, an unexpected savior, and yet another day of trouble after trouble.

Kalopsia Project Masterpost

***

“No, no, no – this time I will get it right, I promise!”

“You sure, [Y/N]-chan? You’ve been saying that for the past three days.”

“W-well… I… I’ll try my best today!!”

“Hmm, I’m sure Recovery Girl-san will be pleased to hear that!”

“Huh? Recovery Girl?”

“Oh, yeah – I forgot you probably didn’t know,” Uraraka chuckled, motioning for you to come inside, as the two of you finally finished cleaning the outside tables. Opening time was soon, but you seemed to be ahead with the routine preparation today, so you had a few minutes left to simply chat away.

You both moved to put on the aprons of your standard Yuuei uniforms, and sat on two of the bar stools, as you excitedly awaited Uraraka’s story.

“You see, the old lady whose order you’ve been messing up for the past few days-” The remark made you blush a little but Uraraka only giggled and patted your shoulder. “It’s okay – she said she didn’t mind, remember? Anyway, you know how the CCG gives ghouls nicknames? Well, hers was Recovery Girl!”

You paused, trying to connect the dots in your head. You failed though. That old lady with that name? You’d heard of a handful of ghouls from your parents, but Recovery Girl was an unfamiliar name to you. It didn’t sound all that threatening, so perhaps that was the reason why.

“Yeah! And you know why she was called that?” Midoriya chimed in, emerging from the back room. “Her regenerative abilities were crazy fast! Like, the fastest we’ve ever seen! Of course, that was back in her prime.” He paused to stack a few trays on the counter. “Now she mostly avoids hunting by herself. This is why we help ghouls like her here at Yuuei by providing food!”

“I see… Hey, have you guys been given fancy nicknames by the CCG too?” you perked up, curiously glancing at Midoriya and Uraraka. The two looked at each other, but laughed and shook their heads.

“Nah, we’re pretty careful with not drawing attention to ourselves. A lot of ghouls at Yuuei are. We’re just trying to blend in with society – we don’t wanna have some hunters on our tails all the time.” She briefly paused, and looked around the room, as though to make sure someone wasn’t within earshot. Then she leaned in, lowering her voice to a whisper. “You know who here does have a nickname though? Aizawa-san!”

“He does!?” you exclaimed, but Uraraka motioned for you to keep quiet. You cleared your throat and asked again, this time lowering your voice like she had done. “He does? What is it?” Uraraka grinned.

“Eraser Head! And they called him that because-”

“The people he attacked always seemed to vanish without a trace, almost like they’d been completely “erased” out of existence,” a new voice interrupted, and both of you turned to see Bakugo walking through the front door. He moved to close it and looked at you. “Ya know, you’re not quiet at all. Be grateful Aizawa ain’t around.”

“Ah, sorry,” you mumbled, and, seeing as how the time had passed by pretty quickly, you stood up and went to turn around the front door’s sign, officially signaling the start of the work day. With that, you opened the door and the chilly air that suddenly hit you made you sneeze a few times.

When you turned around, you found all eyes were on you.

“What? The weather’s been all weird lately, I’m fairly certain I’ve caught a cold…” Bakugo cocked an eyebrow.

“You should just take the day off then?” Though you only shrugged.

“I’m fine and I promise not to get anyone else sick. I’ll manage for today. I can always rest tonight and take it easy for the next few days, I guess.” Bakugo didn’t look convinced, though before he could retort anything back, the sound of someone making their way down the stairs caused all eyes to snap in its direction.

He probably knew everyone was staring at him, not to mention the sudden awkward silence that had come along with his arrival, but he seemingly pretended not to notice.

You honestly couldn’t believe you had to go along with this. No one really asked you if you agreed or not but…

The moment Monoma’s eyes briefly glanced at you, you immediately looked away. No way were you going to get caught staring at him. He let out a chuckle.

“What? Is that the warm welcome of Yuuei’s staff? I’m not so sure about this idea anymore.” You could practically hear Bakugo gritting his teeth beside you.

“I never agreed either so here’s what I say – let’s just settle this here and now, huh?” The two took a step towards each other, twisted snarls on their faces. They were just about ready to throw hands.

“You act all high and mighty but a surprise entrance is a cheat, you know? If you wanna beat me, do it fair and square, Bakugo.”

“You wanna go? I still think we should have just killed you in the first place so let me do that real quick, hm? Asshole.”

The two continued arguing for a few more minutes, until the first customers walked in and they were forced to settle for murderous glares instead.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad everyone else is also here this time but… it still doesn’t feel right.

For the remainder of your shift, you remained wary.

He’d gotten the better of you twice, and you weren’t about to let him do so a third time.

***

You mentally cursed the weather and whatever was going on with it these days. Wrapping the jacket tightly around your shivering body, you clutched the small plastic bag of medicine closer.

If you were so insistent on me getting some meds, you should have just come with me, Bakugo-kun, jeez. I am freezing, ugh.

“I hate being sick,” you muttered under your nose, sneezing not long after. You were starting to feel worse and worse by the hour, and at this rate you wouldn’t have been able to get out of bed tomorrow.

I guess I’m pushing myself a bit too much. A lot has happened these past few days, so my body’s probably taking some time to cope. Maybe being around ghouls makes you more prone to colds?

You gasped.

What if every time you get a cold, that’s because you’ve had close contact with a ghoul!? …

You shook your head, chuckling a little.

That’s ridiculous. Seems like the cold’s making me delusional. I promise to take it easy starting tomorrow! I don’t feel like worsening my suffering…

Your thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of whispering, alongside hurried footsteps, coming from somewhere not too far behind you. Upon rounding a corner, you managed to briefly spot the source of it too, and your heart almost stopped.

Great, someone’s following me now? Gosh, how do I keep getting myself in these awful situations!? Okay, okay, calm down – just find a more crowded street to get to Yuuei and you’ll be fine!

I.. hope…

Although, as fate would have it, perhaps you were a tad more screwed than you thought you were. You glanced around, only to realize that there was no way to get to the cafe without passing through some weird dark alleyways from where you stood right now.

Great. If I get myself killed by weird stalkers instead of ghouls, at least that would be a change. Haha, look at me, joking about this stuff…

Your furrowed your brows. Despite playing it as a joke, you were actually scared. It was kind of becoming the norm for you lately, so you weren’t nearly as scared as you had been that first time you’d been attacked by Monoma but… death was still something you feared. You couldn’t die just yet. Or let yourself be attacked by weird creeps following you out of nowhere, for that matter.

You almost screamed when a hand was placed on your shoulder. You could swear the men had been too far away from you to reach you in such a short time, you should have had longer, you would have been fine, you-

“Well, hello there!”

You froze, though the hand on your shoulder ushered you to continue moving forward, forcing you to only gulp as you were lead ahead. He must have noticed how your shoulders tensed up however, and he faked a pout.

“Aw, not happy to see me, hm?” Monoma joked. You weren’t in the mood for jokes though. Or in the mood to see him at all in the first place. Despite his words however, he leaned down and lowered his voice, whispering in your ear. “There are two weird guys following you, you know that?”

You growled quietly and turned to shoot him a glare. Meanwhile, he only looked back with a raised brow. You could swear he was just trying to hide his smirk though. It was almost like he was expecting you to be grateful.

Well, sucks for him.

“Yeah, I know,” you retorted, trying your best to stress how ungrateful and unimpressed you were. “As a matter of fact, I was trying to avoid them.” You made an attempt to shake him off. “Now would you mind getting your hands off me!?”

Monoma shrugged but complied anyway. Even so, it’s not like you could have just run off either. He would easily catch up to you, not to mention that you’d have to deal with three people on your trail in that case. You did have a slight suspicion as to why he was acting the way he was though.

“What, you’re just keeping your prey to yourself then…?” you frowned, turning to look anywhere but him. This time, Monoma remained quiet for a few seconds. You almost had a heart attack, thinking that he was mad now. A single chuckle followed, then he leaned in closer. Only now did you notice the two men were walking dangerously close to the both of you.

“Are you crazy? If that Bakugo guy found out that something happened to you while I was nearby, he might just kill me for real this time.” When the two of you were forced to a stop while waiting at a red light, Monoma turned to look back. Not long after, you heard hurried footsteps rushing away.

Did… did he chase them off?

“If they see you’re with another ghoul, they probably won’t attack you.” Your eyes widened.

“Ghoul? How would they know?” Monoma laughed.

“Aw, come on – I’ll have you know, I’m quite famous around here. This was my feeding ground before I moved to the Second Ward. Anyway.” The light turned green and you crossed the street. Monoma had let go of your shoulder, though he was still walking practically beside you and casting you frequent glances to make sure you wouldn’t run. “Don’t flatter yourself like that – I just don’t feel like dying quite yet, so we’re heading straight for Yuuei. You can thank me later.” That annoying smirk was back on his face. You scoffed.

“As if.”

The remainder of your walk to Yuuei, however short it may have been, was… awkward. To put it mildly. And who could blame you – getting along with the one who almost murdered you twice in the span of a single week wasn’t exactly possible. You still couldn’t quite place his motives for chasing away the two men from earlier, though you would think twice before easily believing him again. Not after what happened last time anyway.

Even so, he did get me out of potential trouble… However selfish his motivations may have been.

You glanced at Monoma, trying to discern what his reasons were. Before you could look away though, he caught your stare and raised an eyebrow, at which you promptly pouted and looked away.

Walking into Yuuei was not something you were exactly looking forward to either. Especially if Monoma planned to come in with you side by side.

And true enough, your worries turned out to be quite reasonable. Lunch break was going to end soon (you cursed your weird stalkers for slowing you down), and upon opening the door, all eyes in the cafe turned to stare at you. Most took a second to process everything and remained still. You didn’t dare look up to see their reactions. One person however, didn’t even give you time to explain.

In the blink of an eye, he had rushed past you and was gripping Monoma’s collar.

“Oi, you really have a death wish, huh!? The hell were you doing!? Answer me, asshole!!” Bakugo growled, not actually giving Monoma any time to answer.

See, normally you would have rushed inside the cafe and let him handle this. It’s not like you felt sorry for Monoma. But…

Damn it, I’m becoming such a softie…

You cleared your throat and a pair of crimson eyes suddenly looked at you. At least, you assumed they did, since the profanities spilling from Bakugo’s mouth also stopped, though you yourself were looking somewhere off to the side.

“Bakugo-kun, it’s… it’s okay… I- He, um...” You glanced at Monoma, then turned to look at Bakugo, whose eyes were wide and trained on you. “He, uh, kinda helped me? I-I think?” The ash blond stood frozen for a moment, then took to frantically looking back and forth between you and Monoma.

“He did!? You sure!?” he raised his brows. You slowly nodded, first at Bakugo, then an Monoma (this was the best expression of gratitude he was getting from you). Seems like it wasn’t enough for him though, as you watched him stick his tongue out at Bakugo, who in turn pushed him, making him hit his back in the door.

Surprisingly enough however, even as Monoma was busy grunting from the small pain and rubbing at his back, Bakugo stepped back and drove a hand through his hair. You took that as your cue and walked to the counter, finally dropping the bag of medicine and digging through it to find the first vitamins you were taking for the day.

After you fetched a glass of water and swallowed them, Bakugo leaned back on the counter beside you, shooting you a curious look, at which you only shrugged.

“Don’t ask me,” you said, clearly noticing all the questions on his face, though he refused to speak them out loud. “I was just coming back and some weird guys started following me. He showed up out of nowhere, saying you would get mad if I got hurt? I’m sorry, I’m sure that’s probably all too much.”

“You bet it is.” He leaned his head even further back, staring at the ceiling lost in thought for a bit. “Guess we gotta make sure you’re not going out on your own until we figure out what’s up with those stalkers of yours, huh?”

“They’re probably just some random creeps from the streets, don’t worry about it. I’ll be more careful from now on anyway.” The teasing thought of Bakugo being worried about you crossed your mind, though, noticing you going to change into your uniform again, he stopped you, speaking up before you could even bring it up.

“You’re not gonna eat something? It’s your lunch break, you know?”

You shook your head and sighed, frowning.

“This stupid cold seems to have killed my appetite too.” With that, Bakugo watched you with furrowed brows, as you disappeared upstairs.

There was a weird sinking sensation in his stomach. Something was wrong. Something had been wrong for a while now. Yet he had no idea what was causing him such worry.

Too bad he was going to find out, whether he liked it or not.

***

The day had been pretty slow, perhaps the slowest you’d experienced in your short time working at Yuuei. There were barely any customers, yet most of the staff was there. You mentally blamed it on the weather, convincing yourself that you weren’t the only fool who got sick at such a weird time. Then again, maybe people just had better things to do.

You know who apparently didn’t have better things to do though? Kirishima, Ashido, Kaminari, and Sero. A mere half an hour or so after your “lunch break” (which, let’s be real, had been anything but a break, not to mention that you didn’t even have lunch during it), the four had walked in with wide smiles and taken the same table they’d chosen when you’d first encountered them a few days prior. The inside of the cafe was empty, so it seemed like that was just their preferred place.

You waved them hello and went to fetch their drinks. Much like Midoriya, you already had them memorized. With one last look around the place, you decided you weren’t needed anymore and sat beside the four.

That’s exactly what I need right now. I feel like crap, so hopefully this will distract me enough.

You spent the next few minutes catching up on everything that had happened over the past few days, and, at long last, began making plans to meet up soon. Ashido had mentioned how cool their arcade night had been (of course not neglecting to say how she had been the sharpest shooter out of the bunch, only for Kirishima to lean in and whisper that she had actually been the worst at it), and the thought of going out with them resurfaced in your mind. Even though you had to insist on putting it off a bit, so your cold could pass by then, you were already trying to figure out where you wanted to go.

“[F/N/-san, the hot cocoa is ready!” Midoriya called out, quickly disappearing into the back room yet again.

“Oh, excuse me then, I’m gonna have to bring that over real quick,” you smiled, and walked over to the counter, raising a brow at Bakugo, who seemed to be frowning an awful lot tonight.

Waving a hand in front of his eyes, you called out.

“Hey, you okay? You look more grumpy than usual,” a small smirk rose to your lips. Bakugo’s frown deepened even further and he waved you off.

“It’s nothing, go back to the loud dumbasses.” Your smirk fell in concern. Something wasn’t right with Bakugo, but you knew you had no right to pry. With a sigh, you turned your back to him.

“If you say so. But,” you turned to give him one final look. “If there’s something wrong, please don’t hesitate to tell someone, okay?” He mumbled a small “Whatever”, as you took your first few steps towards the table.

A loud crash came next. Accompanied by the sound of breaking glass.

In the blink of an eye, your vision went pitch black. Your knees gave out a mere moment after and you fell to the floor.

You were vaguely aware of the frantic cries that suddenly seemed to come from everywhere around you. Though even those went quiet in another second or two.

Or so it sounded like to you. After that, you lost consciousness.

***

[CLASSIFIED INFORMATION]

Protocol K78152112

Subject #35

Real Name: Bubaigawara Jin

Background: Volunteered as a subject; Left an orphan after parents were killed by ghouls.

Results: Subject suffered almost unbearable headaches; Personality seems to have been affected – borderline bipolar.

Full sync with the kakuhou was achieved in a few hours. Subject lived and showed no further signs of deterioration.

(scribbled in pen) Two in a row? We’re on a roll this months, aren’t we? This one had severe mental damage, so perhaps we should try and avoid that in the future.

***

Author’s Note: An early update today because I have other things that need to get done during my usual update time! Though I doubt anyone’s going to complain, haha!

Hmm, to those who guessed Monoma was going to join Yuuei – you were right! Aizawa’s much softer than he’d like to think, so they decided to give him another chance! Hope you’re excited to see where this is going to go!

And it’s official now – the real plot begins! I can’t wait, aaah!! Anyway, the Classified Information files are becoming very easy to guess, though a lot of you got last week’s correct too! Thank you guys so, so much for reading! Your support on this story means the world to me, please drop a comment with more predictions or just shocked gasps (I had to make up for the lack of a cliffhanger from last week, after all), I’d really appreciate it! I love you all so much and I’ll see you all next Wednesday! Bye~

(Psst, @afuckingunicornn  @creativedogs  @chims-kookies  - you know the drill by now - thank you for the support and here is the next part!)

[carol-effing-danvers]

where we grew up

this is part two of the series “run long, roam far, return soon” part one: “knock me the fuck out (i dare ya, babe)” (cont.) (fin.) part three: “push me, pull you” 

(click here if you’d prefer to read this in AO3′s format)

Steve assures her that he’s done all the right things, followed all the right procedures. He’s calm, he looks…not relaxed because no one could possibly be relaxed in this situation, but he looks like someone who is collected and has control of the situation.

But Robin knows him, and she can see in his eyes that some piece of him has quietly died – maybe not forever, but this day has wounded him deeply.

So, she tells him he’s got this and when their lunchbreak is over, she goes back to the high school building and immediately goes to the main office. Impatiently, she dials and waits for someone to answer, anxiously hugging herself with one arm.

“This is the 11th Hour,” El answers in her best ‘customer service’ voice. “I’m Jane. How can I help you today?”

“I need you…” Robin sighs, closes her eyes, and puts a hand over her face. “Is Hargrove there with you?”

“Yeah, Robbie, hold on.”

There’s a clattering in the background before Billy’s gruff tone says “Buckley. What’s up?”

“You…you need to pick up Steve from work, today.”

“Car break down? Didn’t sound like it was in bad shape, last I heard,” Billy observes cautiously.

“No, Billy,” she says with quiet pain. “He’s-he might be there late. But he’s going to need you, when it’s finished.”

“Okay, Rob, you need to back up here. What’s going on?”

“Steve had to call CPS, Billy,” she whispers, “One of his kids came in with belt marks all over him, and while the school nurse was looking him over, Steve brought his older sister up and started asking her some questions, and he and the nurse realized very quickly that someone has been beating her around, too.”

Billy’s stomach drops. “But they’re-they’re five year olds,” he says numbly. “Little kindergarteners…”

“Yeah.” It’s amazing how much pain and anguish can be packed into a single word. “They are.”

He is, at this very moment, imagining anyone attempting to do that to his sweet little Lulu and the blind fury that left him for so long suddenly comes back with a fiery vengeance. “What kind of monster beats a five year old with a belt?!”

But the thing is…he-he knows. He was raised by that same kind of monster – Neil Hargrove absolutely beat Billy with a belt, more than once throughout his childhood.  He has no idea how Robin is managing her side of this conversation so calmly.

“Their mom is an addict, and it seems she doesn’t pay a whole lot of attention to how her boyfriend treats her kids. Steve mentioned a couple of times throughout the year that he’d noticed both of them looking a little…unkept, but Rosie is a single mom and times are hard, so he gave her the benefit of a doubt,” Robin says grimly. “Turns out, they were looking unkept because the sister was the one trying to do the laundry and making sure they both got a bath and she wasn’t always so great at it. Not surprising, since she’s only nine.”

Swallowing past the sick feeling in his guts, Billy asks “Okay, so what do you need me to do?”

“I need you to be there when he lets himself freak out. He was acting super calm when I saw him because he has to finish class and wait with them until CPS can contact their aunt, but I’ve known him for a decade – the moment a child doesn’t need him, he’s gonna fucking lose it, Hargrove, and I know you’re the person he wants the most right now.”

Billy’s eyes go wide. “I’ll be there.”

“I know.”

Even with Robin's helpful warning, Billy doesn't really know what to expect when he walks down the Grade K hall. There are no children left in the classrooms here - school let out twenty minutes ago and these kids are too little for extracurricular activities.

He is expecting what he sees in Steve’s classroom least of all.

Steve and the other kindergarten teacher, Melanie Dohr, have rooms that mirror each other – boxy spaces slightly wider than they are long, with a doorway at one end that faces the children’s cubby stations, except that Melanie’s desk and chairs are to the left of the classroom door and Steve’s are to the right. At the very end of this room is a little sofa and an open space where they do story time and nap time and when he leans his head in to check on Steve, this is where he is sitting.

Squished right up against him on that sofa is a little girl with brown hair in two long braids. She’s a little girl, but she’s still too old to be someone Steve teaches. As Steve reads aloud, one arm around her, she listens intently as she leans into his side, a tissue clutched in her fist that she holds near her mouth as she silently cries. She’s heartbreaking and what’s worse – Billy actually recognizes her.

“Something that for lack of any other name might be called friendship existed and always had existed between Marilla Cuthbert and Mrs. Rachel, in spite of – or perhaps because of – their dissimilarity...”

This is Marcy Roberts, Martin’s big sister. He’s seen her many times, because Marcy walks her brother down to the kindergarten hall every morning before she goes back to Mrs. Webster in the third grade hall.

On their very first date, Billy had overheard Steve having a talk with Martin outside the classroom when he hit a classmate who called him names, and it reminded Billy so vividly of himself it was nearly painful. Of course Martin was the boy who’d taken a beating with a belt. He didn’t know why he hadn’t guessed it was Martin in the first place.

Silently, Billy makes his way into the room – he knows when Marcy spots him, because the fourth-grader immediately becomes tenser and tries to shrink into Steve’s side, her big blue eyes watching him wearily. Steve’s arm tightens around her, eyes briefly flicking upward before he serenely continues with his reading.

Old Billy would’ve been furious that Steve was deliberately choosing to ignore him – Old Billy was furious when Steve ignored him. New Billy slowly crept his way around to Steve’s desk while being watched by a little girl, settling back into the teacher’s chair and trying to look as innocent and nonthreatening as possible.

He wouldn’t consider himself a natural with kids, not like Steve was, and he’s definitely never had to interact with a child whose been treated…well, the way he’d been treated, he supposed. Lulu has never been afraid of him, but she also doesn’t really know any better. Uncle Billy is Uncle Billy, and he’s always been Uncle Billy in her eyes. And Justin is a worthless father, but he’s never actively tried to cause his daughter physical pain or mental anguish – though his complete disregard for her existence could hardly be called any better.

Steve is beloved by all of his students, of course, but for Marcy, he may literally be the only adult that she trusts. Marcy and Martin need him and that will hold his entire focus until they can be settled.

For a while, Billy wonders what happened to Martin, and then realizes that he probably had to stay in the nurse’s office. He knows from hard experience that sitting was likely painful and difficult at the moment if Martin got the belt. With any luck, the nurse has given him a light sedative, something to put him to sleep or even just make him a little more comfortable.

When Marcy’s focus is no longer dedicated to waiting for Billy to suddenly attack her, he takes the time to really look at her. Has she always been so small and thin? Is he only really noticing this now because he has some idea of what her home life is like? There’s a wrapping of gauze around her right forearm hinting that Marcy didn’t entirely escape the mercies laid upon Martin. Her hair – brown to her younger brother’s toe-headed blonde – is looking a bit unkempt and her clothes aren’t dirty but they are also certainly not new and Billy knows he wouldn’t have noticed any of this if Robin hadn’t already told him that their mother has been neglecting them.

But Steve had noticed.

Steve has been noticing, maybe the entire year, probably watching with helpless dismay as Marcy and Martin’s condition deteriorated right before his eyes as their home situation got more and more unhappy. Billy wonders what finally led him to the proof he needed to get CPS involved.

In hindsight, Billy now realizes that more than one of his own teachers had tried to get him to open up to them about the way Neil treated him at home, but he had been a scared and angry child and in early childhood, he hadn’t understood what they were asking for. And later on, he hadn’t trusted any adult enough to do that, until he’d become a sullen and violent teenager that everybody wanted to write off instead of an energetic and overeager child.

Marcy is still half hiding against Steve’s side, listening to him read – or maybe just letting the sound of his voice wash over her the way Billy is doing. Her hand is up near her face, fingers reflexively curling but she doesn’t actually put any of her fingers in her mouth. It’s not normal, is it, for a nine year old to still have the urge to suck her thumb?  

He loses track of time, letting the murmur of Steve’s voice soothe him into something like a doze, though his eyes are still open, when there is suddenly a knock on the classroom doorframe. A slim blonde woman with a briefcase wearing a navy blue pantsuit stood in the hall, standing beside a brunette woman with her hair cut into a short bob. “Hello, you must be Marcy!” the blonde says, just a little too bright to be entirely natural. “I’m Mrs. Rhodes, but you can call me Vicki.”

“Uh…okay,” Marcy says nervously, still glued to Steve’s side.

Steve gives Vicki a very charming smile – though now that Billy knows him so well, he can see that it’s a bit insincere. “Can I talk to Marcy for a just a second? Nurse Downing’s office is just down the hall and to the right if you’d like to check in on Martin. He might still be asleep, though.”

“Alright!” Vicki said, though the brunette looked like thrilled about this, she followed her back down the hall to the nurse’s office.

As soon as the woman’s footsteps had dwindled down the hall, Steve gave Marcy the worn down copy of Anne of Green Gables. “Keep that with you,” he tells her quietly. “It has my address and phone number inside. I think your Aunt Rachel will take good care of you, but if someone hurts you again, if you don’t feel safe, or if you just want to talk to me, call me, okay? Even if it’s really late at night, even if it’s not a school day, even if it’s the middle of summer, alright, Marcy? Any time you want to talk to me, call me. Alright?”

“Okay.” Marcy repeats, louder this time but with a wobble in her chin. She clutches the book to her chest like a shield, fingers tightening on the spine now that she knew the truth of its importance.

She surged forward, embracing Steve desperately, which he returns before plucking up her faded purple bookbag. “Let’s go find Mrs. Rhodes and Aunt Rachel. We’ll see how Martin is doing.”

---

The hand off was just as hard as he knew it would be. Martin was emotional and weepy, throwing something like tantrum – or Steve would’ve called it a tantrum if he didn’t know how scared and confused and traumatized he was – but Helen handled it pretty well and managed to calm him down. Marcy practically had a panic attack as they were leaving but Steve could almost see her reminding herself to be the responsible big sister.

Fuck.

Steve has to remind himself for the hundredth time that the state won’t let a single man with his history and his salary have one child, never mind two. No matter how much he loves them. No matter how torn up he is to watch them leave.

Rachel will do a good job, he tells himself firmly. Truthfully, Rachel couldn’t do much worse to them then her younger sister already had. Even after his gentle question of Marcy – something Vicki and Rachel will probably follow up on in more depth later – Steve isn’t exactly sure when Rosie checked out on her job as a mother. What little Marcy had admitted to, beyond the evidence directly on her and Martin’s bodies, left him believing that the real problem had been that Rosie was never checked in.

Rachel had looked unhappy with the development of this whole situation – unhappy, but not at all surprised. Steve thinks that maybe Rachel has long harbored some suspicions of her own.

Steve walks back to his classroom like a sleepwalker. He feels drained, like some kind of vampire has been sucking on his neck all afternoon.

Billy leaning against a corner of the hall, waiting for Steve to return. His eyes, so stark and vividly blue, remind him painfully of Martin and Marcy. Reminds him of a hospital bed, and a monster made of a mountain of corpses and carnage. Reminds him of the way Billy had looked against the starched white linens, and how for the longest time, that was the last image Steve ever had of him.

Deep in himself, he feels sick down to his soul. With time and practice, he’s gotten the hang of dealing with other people’s pain, but Steve has never quite gotten the knack of looking directly at his own. His voice crawls from his throat, falsely bright and without any warmth. “Picked a wild time to surprise me.”

“Wasn’t a surprise,” Billy grunted, watching him closely. The way he always seemed to be watching him. The way, Steve now realizes, the way Billy literally always had watched him. “Buckley asked me to take you back home.”

“I don’t know why,” Steve says, frowning at his desk as he idly tidies up before reaching to shut the lights off. “You don’t have to. I can drive, it’s not like I’m impaired or something.”  

“Humor me,” Billy replies shortly, in a way that tells Steve he won’t be taking ‘no’ for an answer. Not that he ever really takes ‘no’ for an answer. Steve finds it both aggravating and charming, and he knows that combination is going to get him into some serious trouble one day.

Steve shrugs, though even that’s half-hearted. “Fine, I guess.”

Maybe Billy and Robin are right – he doesn’t really remember the drive back to his apartment and he’s sure that he opened the door at some point, but Steve finds himself in the kitchen, just…staring at the cabinets, and he can’t quite recall how he got here. Standing there, with no Billy in sight.

“Billy?!” His voice cracks, his voice going shrill with the same panic that’s making his palms sweat.

“What, what’s wrong?!” Billy shouts from the bedroom. His bedroom. Their bedroom? “Stevie?”

“I-nothing.” Relief suddenly makes his legs so weak that he nearly just collapses right down to the ugly linoleum floor. “Nothing!”

Come back. Come back and hold me and don’t leave me – not now and not ever. Tell you love me and tell me you’re okay. Tell me everything is gonna be okay.

Steve slid down the side of fridge and on to the floor, breathing deeply in and out.

Back when they first began living together, Robin had very quickly caught on to the fact that sometimes Steve was…not okay, so she made him get some time with an anxiety specialist – paid for by the US government, because part of the cause of this condition was a secret interdimensional hole under the town that occasionally produced violent alien entities that killed and ate people, which Steve and Robin were both not allowed to talk about with the outside world. They taught him breathing exercises, meditation techniques for moments like this one.

When he can get his legs beneath him again, Steve hauls himself off of the ground and searches around for the cast iron skillet. They have the ingredients for cornbread around here somewhere.

It will probably still taste like sawdust to him, but the activity will occupy his mind, at least for a little while.

He feels bad that he can’t pretend cheerfulness, even to Billy. Beyond the aching numbness that has penetrated into his very bones, Steve’s anxiety is shrieking at him, telling him that if he keeps acting this way, Billy will leave. A voice in his head that sounds like Robin warns him that his inability to give a shit about even that isn’t a good sign.

They eat dinner, and Steve tries to answer like a normal person would, but he can tell by the way Billy doesn’t quite meet his eyes that he’s not doing a good job. A much less helpful and comforting voice – one that sounds more like his mother or his father – tells him not to be so sensitive. To stop overreacting.

That other voice, his Robin/common sense/better angel voice, won’t shut up. Won’t leave him alone. Tell him. If you don’t tell him, you’re always gonna feel like shit about this. Tell him, dingus.

In the end, it’s Billy himself that breaks that final barrier on his silence.

---

Billy knows how to solve this – or at least he knew how Henry solved this when he found Billy wandering around fucking Silver Lake in the rain. But he doesn’t really want to put Steve in a bath of ice cold water and pour whiskey down his throat until he gags. Lost white boy. Hey, lost white boy! Why you walkin’ round lookin’ like somebody whipped yo dog? Huh?

He never did give him a real answer. What could he have possibly said?

Part of the problem is that if Billy didn’t know him so well, Steve would seem almost normal. But he seems a little extra vacant throughout dinner, while watching television, even while brushing his teeth. Like somebody replaced his boyfriend with a friggin’ Stepford Wife or something.

As gently as he can, Billy removes the remote from Steve’s nearly limp fingers. Steve barely blinks at him – though it would usually garner at least an indignant squawk from him. He tries to think of a way to say it diplomatically. Fail, because he’s Billy Hargrove and he has no diplomacy – and says: “Are you going to talk to me about this or do I have to torture it out of you?”

He’s entirely joking, but Billy flinches when Steve absently replies, “I doubt you’ll have any better luck than the Russians,” blinks, and then says: “What?”

Swallowing down his queasiness – Max has passionately defended Steve’s bravery at Starcourt before he ever even returned to Hawkins – he sweeps back the bangs hanging into his eyes. “Your kids,” he says, still clumsily attempting gentleness. “Do you want to talk about that? What happened?”

Steve smiles weakly, giving Billy a hug that held maybe a tenth of the strength he normally possesses. “No,” he whispers, face hidden away against Billy’s neck. “No, I really don’t want to talk about it.”

Billy swallows again, wondering why he feels so disappointed. He doesn’t really want to hear the grisly details – he’s probably got firsthand knowledge of most of it already – but at the same time, it feels like part of Steve doesn’t fully trust him. Though that idea should sound ridiculous, an insecure part of himself – mostly the part that still remembers his dad calling him a fuck-up all the time – wonder if Steve is actually as serious about them as Billy is.

Because Billy is like…insanely serious about them. A hundred times more serious than a heart attack, serious.

If a single pastor in Indiana woulda let him, Billy would put a ring on the long white second finger of Steve’s left hand tomorrow. That’s how serious he is. They’ve been together less than a month, but a part of him has belonged to Steve, with Steve, for more than ten years now.

Beyond even his own paranoia and insecurity though, is just…plain old worry.

He’s pretty much always known that Steve has a heart of hold, but it’s starting to look like maybe this day has hammered it to pieces. He watches Steve brush his teeth mechanically, unaccompanied by any of his usual chatter, moving like someone twice their age.

At bedtime, they usually trade off being the big spoon and little spoon, but this time, Billy stays facing Steve, gently strokes his cheek. A part of him feels a flair of love and hope when Steve leans into the touch. “Take it easy, heartbreaker,” he whispers, sweeping back Steve’s bangs again. “I’ve got your back tonight.”

The streetlights outside spread across their bed in a warm orange glow, allowing Billy to watch Steve blinking in a heartsick daze. Faintly, Billy hears him say “He was just crying. Just crying the whole morning, and I couldn’t understand why. By the time I took him to the nurse’s office, I-I think I already knew.”

Steve is the one crying now – crying and hangin’ on to Billy like he’ll disappear.

Billy’s just stunned, stunned and heartbroken by how utterly devastating this has been for Steve. He’s speechless, and the only thing he can do is hang on and be here for him. So he does.

---

The next morning is one in which Steve is allowed to sleep in, both because it’s Saturday and also because it seems that Billy has already gotten up to feed Angie for him. Normally she wakes him up whether his alarm goes off or not. He felt the mattress move just before dawn, but Billy is in bed with him now, wrapped around Steve’s back. He’s got a lowkey headache from all the crying – or trying not to cry – that he did yesterday, but he feels calmer about the world today. Marcy and Martin are safe, and Rachel will make sure they stay that way. Billy is here.

Relaxing back into the pillows, Steve finds Billy’s hand resting against his belly and laces their fingers together. He can tell that he’s already awake – his fingers squeeze back at his own too readily.

“I thought about you,” he admits quietly, tracing over Billy’s knuckles – rougher than his own, belonging to fingers shorter and thicker than his own. “The head nurse probably thought that I was going crazy. He was just…staring at me, on the bed. And I kept thinking about the last time I’d seen you before you left town.”

“What happened to me…it’s all in the past,” Billy says simply, and the ways his arms tighten around Steve’s body is comforting but the words don’t soothe him.

It’s all in the past.

But it wasn’t. Not for Steve.

“I use to wonder where you were,” he whispers, lifting Billy’s fingers to trace his lips over the scars on those knuckles. “No…not wonder. I use to worry. About you – where you were, what had happened to you.”

And now that the words had were finally coming out, Steve couldn’t hold anything back. “I’d worry myself sick, because the last two times I’d seen you-” He chokes, surprised anew that even with Billy right beside him, those images held just as much power over him as they had before. “-the last times I’d seen you, you were dying or you were-you looked so hurt and lost…”

“I’d wonder if you were even still alive – were you okay? I used to have these-these really vivid night terrors about that night in the mall…” He closes his eyes and swallows past the hard lump sitting in his throat. “Robin made me see a doctor, it got so bad – she didn’t know the specifics, but she did know that it wasn’t getting better.”

And for ten years, he hadn’t been able to say the name of his crush out loud, like there was a terrible curse placed on Steve. He laughs weakly. “I-I remember nearly fainting when El sad she’d seen you at Max’s wedding, and you looked well. You were happier. Calmer. It seemed so silly after that – though I still wondered what happened to you.”

“That’s not silly at all,” Billy murmurs, and he sounds thought, squeezing Steve around the middle and warming him right through. “Was I okay? I wasn’t. Not for what felt like a long, long time.”

To Steve’s surprise, Billy hooks his chin over Steve’s shoulder and continues speaking. “After I tried going back to my mom’s – I was kinda homeless. I mean, I had the truck, but I’d just got out of the hospital and I could barely sleep for more than an hour or two at a time and every little noise made me wanna crawl outta my skin. I didn’t really notice much back then, but I’m sure anybody who walked down the street crossed to the opposite side when they saw me coming toward them.”

“This guy – this random black dude named Henry found me walking around Silver Lake, just wandering around by myself in the rain. I’m still surprised nobody called the cops on me. Anyway, Henry took me back to his apartment, poured whiskey in me until I gagged and threw a bucket of ice water over my head.” Billy chuckles slightly. “Miguel was so mad at him for that.”

“Miguel?” Steve repeats in a whisper, terrified that Billy will stop talking.

“Yeah, Henry’s boyfriend, Miguel. He was a nurse. I called them Harold and Maude just because it drove him crazy. They, um,” Billy took a deep breath in, held it, then exhaled hot air down Steve’s neck. He shivers and Billy cuddles closer, Steve’s heart thump, thump, thumping for him. “They were part of the group of volunteers who like…took care of people with AIDS. A lot of their families just kind of…abandoned them.”

Thrown them away, Steve thought, heart sinking. Just like Billy’s mother had (repeatedly) done to him.

Quietly, Billy says “For my first couple years, that’s what I was doing. Helping Henry and Miguel and the other volunteers. Looking back on it, they probably thought I’d lost someone to it. Most of us had, it seemed to be everywhere.”

He’s silent for so long that maybe Steve thinks that this is it, these tantalizing hints are all he will get of Billy’s past for right now, and Steve continues obviously stroking at his knuckles. He aches at the idea of Billy, still injured and hurting from the rejection of his mother, wandering through California all alone, until a good Samaritan was kind enough to take care of him.

Then Billy says, “Sometimes, I wished…I wished that had it.”

And Steve can’t breathe, he can’t move, he can’t think. With five short words, Billy had wrecked his whole thinking brain. “You…that you had…”

“Yeah,” Billy says, very softly. “I didn’t want to die, I didn’t even want to be sick. But HIV was a concept Henry and Miguel would’ve known how to understand. I know that they saw the bandages, that first night, and the scars later on. I think I spent the first year there wishing that I were sick instead, just so that I would be able to tell someone what had happened to me.”

Steve can’t stand doing this without seeing Billy anymore and rolls to face him. “You shouldn’t have had to do that by yourself,” he says, nose trailing down Billy’s neck. “Nobody should have to do something like that by themselves.”

Willing his anxious stomach to settle, he adds “I hate that you went through that and that you were in such obvious pain that a literal stranger could see it. I hate that it took meeting two complete strangers for someone to finally care about when you were hurting. But more than anything, I hate that I wasn’t there for you when you needed someone.”

Billy’s freckles show in the morning sun, and the light makes his eyes bluer. He leans into the touch as Steve holds his cheeks in both palms. And what he says next makes Steve love him just that little bit more: “Maybe not. But I used to be a little boy, just like Martin Roberts. And you were there when he needed you, when Marcy needed you.” Softly, painfully gently, Billy kisses his mouth. “Because of you, Martin doesn’t have to grow up into me someday.”

Steve caresses down Billy’s cheeks with his thumbs, palms tickled by all the bristle. He whispers, “I don’t see growing into you as a bad thing, Billy.”

Billy huffs out a laugh, long eyelashes falling to his cheeks. Just the lightest of flushes touching the tips of his ears. “You were there, y’know.”

“Hm?” Steve murmurs dreamily, caught in the spell of those freckles and lashes.

“Every pair of big brown eyes were your eyes. Every lanky brunette with a sweet smile was you. I saw you everywhere I went. Trust me, even if you didn’t know it – you were there, heartbreaker.” His eyes devour Steve’s face, gaze lingering at the curve of his lips. “You're here with me right now."

When Steve cuddles closer, he rests his head right above the scars that mark the place where the Mindflayer pierced his chest. He has never been more owned, more possessed by anything than the feeling of his bare hand on Billy's chest. "Wild horses couldn't drag me off."

[unfortunate-stranger-losers]

Right-Side Up AU, Part Three: It’s the End of the World {AO3} {tumblr} {Part One} {Part Two}

Chapter One → The Theater

“Jane Eleanor Hopper!” Max pounded on the door. “If you and Mike are making out in there, I swear to God I’m gonna kill you!” 

El pulled away from her and Mike’s kiss, her hair hitting against her face as she sharply turned to face the door. “Uh-huh,” she called, as Mike giggled, “And how is that any of your business?” 

“You’ve been sucking face in there all day and we have to go!” 

El groaned and turned the radio up. “Never Surrender” was playing on the mixtape Jonathan had taught her how to slap together, and she wasn’t going to let Max ruin everything right now. 

“We’ve got, like, five minutes.” El shrugged. 

Mike laughed, pushing a curl behind his ear- his hair had started to get curly recently, which both he and El thought was the coolest thing they’d ever seen. “Five minutes.” he nodded. 

Max pounded on the door again. “El! El, the boys are gonna explode!” 

“Sorry, can’t hear you!” El called, and Mike happily helped her by holding out his hand and using his powers to turn the volume up even farther. El giggled, and then stared as Mike started to dramatically sing along, grabbing her hands and bouncing on the cot. 

He’d moved into a spare room in the Byers’ house until Nancy could get her temporary custody- even though she was eighteen now, it was apparently taking Owens a while to process the papers or some shit. Thankfully it wasn’t too hard on the Byers- Nancy had taken a job to help support Mike, even though Joyce tried multiple times to refuse her offers of money until Jonathan finally told her, “Mom, there’s no stopping Nancy, just let her take care of her little brother.” Jonathan and Nancy both got jobs at the Hawkins Post as interns, which seemed to be helping things a bit, even with the new mall driving away a lot of the customers at Joyce’s store- a lot of customers, really, so since Hopper was pretty busy breaking up riots and protests, the girls tended to spend all day with the Byers and the boys, which worked out perfect for them. 

The room wasn’t really all Mike’s yet- for his own safety, he rarely went into town, and he didn’t want to bother the Byers by asking for trinkets or decorations. But Will had helped him put some drawings and art on the wall, and he had a corkboard from Nancy that he used to hang pictures and scraps. His favorite books were piled at the end of the cot, and El had made sure to bring him extra blankets and books and stuffed animals that she could smuggle out to him or force on him during holidays. (For his part, he liked to give her little doodles or used books he thought she’d like, which was probably the most adorable thing in the world.) 

“Mike, Mike, stop!” El laughed as Mike continued singing and bouncing. 

“What?” He stopped, cocking his head to the side. “You don’t like it?” 

“No!” 

They heard what sounded like a kick from the door. “El, open it or I’m telling Hopper it wasn’t open three inches!” 

El groaned and turned the radio down. “Hell’s sake, Max, Dad can’t do shit about it!” 

“He and Nancy-” 

“What are they gonna do?” El called, as Mike leaned onto her shoulder, still laughing. “Split us up for a year again? Mike’s got freaking superpowers.” 

“So do these three very impatient boys who wanna see a damn movie! Card games aren’t gonna cut it forever!” 

Mike’s eyes widened. “They’re doing card games out there? El, can we do card games?” 

El leaned over, flicking the radio off. “Sounds like we better head to the theater. Guess we’ll just have to make out in the back row during the exciting bits.” 

“Is that allowed?” Mike asked, shocked that this was a possibility. “Isn’t it against the rules?” 

El grabbed his hand, helping him to his feet. “Something Max taught me, bud; I make my own rules. And speaking of Max, she’s gonna murder us.” 

“I’ll protect you.” Mike said, beaming. 

“We’re coming out!” El shouted at the door. 

“Finally!” Max groaned. “I’ll get the boys!” 

“We’re finally moving out, dorks!” Max said, opening the door to Will’s room. 

Will and the boys were spread out on the floor, three cards in the middle of their circle. Lucas cheered and started to get up, until Dustin said, “Wait, wait! One more!” 

“Come on, we finally got Mike and El to move!” Lucas said. 

“We’re almost done!” 

“Steve’s not gonna be on shift forever!” 

“Sure seems like it!” 

“Just hurry up.” Max groaned, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe. 

Will nodded and turned to the cards. He pointed at the one in the center, and Dustin shut his eyes. “That’s…” he thought long and hard, and then said, “Ace of diamonds?” 

“Color?” Lucas asked. 

“Red, dipshit, diamonds are always red.” 

Will flipped over the card, and then he and Dustin cheered as they saw the solitary diamond on the front. 

“Three in a row!” Dustin chanted, and Will joined in after a second. “Three in a row! Three in a row! Three in a row!” 

“Great. We know you can predict playing cards.” Max smiled slightly. “Remind me to have you on my team for poker.” 

“What’s poker?” Lucas asked, narrowing his eyes in confusion. 

“Maybe I can show you later.” Max said, smirking at him. 

“Or you could tell me now.” 

Max took a deep breath, just as El and Mike came out, holding hands. “Alright, are we going or not?” El said. 

“Sure, lovebirds.” Max groaned. “Alright, team. Move out.” 

They turned into the hall, with El and Mike leaning on each others’ arms and giggling as they walked, and Will stuffing extra drawing paper into his jacket pocket, careful not to jostle his headphones- for if the theater got too loud- and Dustin and Lucas bickering over whose turn it was to take out the trash when they got home. 

“Hey, hey, wait!” As they passed the kitchen, Joyce stopped in the doorway, pushing her hair out of her face. “When are you getting back again?” 

“Won’t be later than Mike.” Max said, which caused Mike and Will to burst into laughter; lately, her and El had taken to referring to certain numbers as the boys’ names, which they thought was the funniest thing she’d ever done. “And it’s a safe movie, Ms Byers, I’ve seen it before.” 

“And you’ll stay together?” 

“Of course, Ms Byers.” El said. “Nobody’s getting lost.” 

“You don’t want a chaperone?” 

“Steve’ll be there.” Dustin said. 

“Steve’s nineteen and has never once won a fight.” 

“And I can throw things with my mind.” Mike reminded her. “And Lucas can use light as a projectile weapon.” 

“Boom!” Lucas said. 

Joyce sighed. “Okay. But if you need anything, I’m here, Jonathan and Nancy will be here in about an hour-” 

“We know all the numbers,” Will nodded, “And Hopper’s on duty.” 

“He’s not at that time of night, so you’ll have to either-” 

“Call home or use the walkie.” Lucas nodded. 

“We’ve got this covered, Mom.” Will grinned, giving her a quick hug. “This isn’t the first time we’ve gone out.” 

“I know, but…” Joyce sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “The crowds keep getting bigger, and you’re not even supposed to be seen that much yet.” 

“We won’t be.” El assured her. “The bigger the crowd, the more we blend in. Now we gotta go, or Steve won’t be able to take us to the theater.” 

Joyce sighed. “Alright. You all have fun, okay?” 

“Got it, Ms Byers!” Max nodded, and she grabbed a surprised Lucas’s hand and dragged him towards the door. “Thank you!” 

“I don’t see why you don’t bring your own bike.” Lucas said as he chained their transportation to the bikerack, the way El had shown him. 

“Well, I ride with El, and then I can go with you on the way back.” Max shrugged, crossing her arms. “It’s free bike rides.” 

“You can ride a bike, though.” 

“Lucas, sweetie,” El sighed, patting his shoulder, “She likes you.” 

“Max likes all of us.” 

“Jesus Christ, Lucas.” 

“Come on!” Dustin said, tapping his foot and gesturing at the people going inside. “We don’t wanna get split up in the crowd or your Dad and Will’s mom and Nancy are going to kill us!” 

“They won’t kill us.” Will said jovially, sliding his headphones on. “Just El and Max.” 

“I’d rather not die by the hand of an angry parent,” El said, “When I’ve survived goddamn demogorgons. Now, come on, let’s hurry it up.” 

They ran into the mall, grabbing hands and giggling as they pushed past crowds, ducking by people and trying to make their way to the ice cream shop on the lower level. People glared at them on occasion for pushing past or moving too fast, but they didn’t really care until El slid to a sudden stop, pushing the group back. 

“Oh, shit!” El had recognized a face. “I think she saw us!” 

“Who?” Lucas asked. 

“Into the store!” El pushed Mike through the door, and the boys quickly followed. El and Max linked arms, just as Karen Wheeler walked by, hand-in-hand with little Holly, who was holding a dripping ice cream cone. 

“Hello, girls.” Karen said warmly. 

“Hi, Ms Wheeler.” the girls said in unison. “How’s Nancy?” El asked. 

Karen smiled. “She’s fine. How are you?” 

“We’re good.” Max knelt down and waved at the little girl. “Hello, Holly.” She gestured to the ice cream. “Did you see Steve?” 

Holly shook her head. “Robin! She’s not as nice.” 

“Holly, be polite.” Karen chided. 

“You’re doing great at remembering names, Hol.” El complimented. “Max and I are just heading to the movies. You going?” 

“Oh, no, Holly and I are heading home. It’s getting late.” 

“Well, we’ll see you around!” El waved, hoping that wasn’t as obvious a plea for her to leave as it felt. Thankfully, Karen just waved and walked off with her youngest. 

Lucas stumbled out the door once Karen was gone and said, “That store’s weird, they just sell underwear.” 

“Shit.” Max opened the door, and saw with relief that the boys hadn’t wandered far. Dustin and Will walked by her, chatting about something, while Mike, his face quite blank, simply walked over to El and grabbed her hand. 

“Hey. Do you want to say hi?” El asked, glancing back at the disappearing Karen and Holly. 

Mike, refusing to look around, shook his head. “Not yet. I… I still don’t…” 

“It’s okay.” El squeezed his hand. “Not ready, I get it. Let’s go see that movie, huh?” 

“Yeah.” 

After pushing their way down an escalator, they managed to duck into Scoops Ahoy, lit up with a bright fluorescence. The group rushed past the tables, ignoring the occasional glance from other customers, and Dustin ran to the counter and pounded on the bell, ignoring the fact that Robin was standing precisely half a foot from him. 

“Hey, dingus!” Robin called, rolling her eyes, “Your children are here!” 

Steve swung open the back window, saying, “Dustin, Lucas, how many times, you can’t be coming out this much, Will and Mike-” 

Robin started. “Wait, are they actually your kids?” 

“Long story.” Lucas said with a smile, as he grabbed Will’s hand and directed them towards their temporary guardian. 

“Thanks, Robin!” Dustin said cheerily as they ducked into the Staff Only room. 

Steve sighed and moved to the back, opening the back door that led to the maintenance hallways. As the children moved past him, he said, “We will talk about this!” 

“Okay!” Dustin shrugged. 

“And if anybody hears about this-!” 

“We’re dead!” all six of them replied. 

They walked a few feet, and then El pushed open the right door, gave a few quick glances, and said, “All clear!” 

They ran out into the hallway of the mall’s movie theater, and made a beeline for Day of the Dead. “This is way better than buying tickets.” Max grinned. 

“Is it?” asked Lucas, who hadn’t yet had the opportunity to buy a movie ticket. 

“Come on, it’ll be crowded!” El said, as she once again leaned onto Mike’s shoulder. “Do we wanna sit together or not?” 

“Not if you and Mike are gonna be gross!” 

El flipped her off as they raced in, ducking through the aisles and thankfully spotting six empty seats in the middle of a row. 

“Lucas, sit by me!” Max whispered, grabbing his hand. 

Lucas blinked. “Um, okay. Why?” 

“Because I like sitting by you, you’re fun!” 

“So are Will and Dustin-?” 

“Is he serious?” El asked Mike, as they carefully made their way past the other people seated in the row. 

“Lucas is always serious.” Mike informed her. 

“We’ve been dating for six months, he’s gotta pick up on crushes by now.” 

“Not likely.” Mike giggled. 

They found their seats, and Max unfortunately found herself next to Mike and El. She groaned and turned to Lucas, whispering something about how they were gonna be gross the whole time, while Will sat beside Lucas and pulled his headphones down slightly. 

“We missed previews.” Dustin seemed a bit upset. 

“Still made it.” El said, leaning over and shooting him a grin. “See? We weren’t that late, Max.” 

“Shut up.” Max said, pulling out her backpack and passing out drinks they’d smuggled in. 

The movie began, then, with a shot of a woman sitting alone in a white room. The boys’ eyes widened, entranced; no matter how many times the girls had snuck them into a theater, they still found movies on such a huge screen to be the most incredible thing. Probably a side-effect of not having films for twelve years, and then suddenly being tossed into the world and able to see whatever they wanted, whenever they could. 

The woman was staring at a calendar, and just then, the screen flickered. They all groaned as the projector shuttered out behind them, and the lights shut down. Will shoved his headphones back on as everyone started shouting. 

“Another power outage? Can’t Starcourt Mall get its shit together?” Lucas huffed. 

“It’s not gonna be dark for long, is it?” Mike asked, and El quickly shook her head. 

“It’s not the mall, it’s the whole town. Power grid’s been busted for the last month or so.” El explained. “Dad says the rioters like to blame the mall, but it’s just some faulty wiring, it’ll get fixed soon-” 

Just then, the lights and projector flickered back on, and the movie continued. Everyone cheered, and Will lowered his headphones once people stopped clapping. 

Max, meanwhile, felt her face fall. There was something… wrong. She shivered slightly, some sort of tingle spreading over her as the film continued. It wasn’t the movie itself, it was… was it the power outage? She’d never been spooked by power outages before. 

It took her a second to realize how vaguely familiar the shiver was. She’d felt it, all last year, whenever… 

El grabbed her hand. “Hey. You okay?” 

Max jumped, startled, but nodded quickly. “Yeah.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah, of course.” Max slowly grabbed her coke, opening the bottle with a fizz. “Shut up. Movie’s starting.” 

El shrugged and leaned over to whisper something in Mike’s ear. And as she did, Max tried her best not to look frightened. Lucas glanced at her worriedly, too, and she really hoped he couldn’t tell exactly why she was freaked out. 

The Mind Flayer is not back, Max. It was just a weird power outage. 

You’re fine. Everything’s fine. Nothing will go wrong. Nothing will go wrong at all.

[zdbztumble]

“Jewel of the Seven Pokemon!” Chapter III

As a huge fan of both Tim Burton and Sir Christopher Lee, writing from the POV of characters who weren’t impressed with their Pokeverse equivalents was quite the challenge.

Chapter I Chapter II

FF.Net

AO3

---

The drawing room set was perfect. Everything Misty had ever imagined while reading Jewel of the Seven Pokémon was here. The dark aquamarine walls with white molding and filigree, the silver-plated gaslights, the deep crimson velvet of the chairs and sofa, a fireplace so big it could fit a Blastoise; even the prop for the professor’s custom phonograph had the Aerodactyl teeth lining two sides. And with all the light and sound equipment gone, there was hardly anything that gave away this was a set; except for one camera in the corner, it seemed so real.

It all would have looked even more beautiful under the proper lighting, of course, instead of the harsh florescent work lights, but Misty loved it all the same. The one costume left on set – the heroine’s dressing gown, with colors and patterns inspired by Milotic – was so wonderful that the only way Misty could keep herself from trying it on was to link arms with Ash and make him look at everything too.

“We’re here to help save this movie, y’know,” he muttered; apparently, the fineness and shimmer of the gown’s silk didn’t mean anything to him. “And Cilan’s doing his interviews right now.”

“I’m listening!” Misty hissed. Was it so hard to believe a girl could multi-task? “Besides, that director’s not gonna have anything useful to say anyway.”

Will Hampton wasn’t what Misty expected of a film director. He was a short, spindly man, with black curly hair, black scraggly beard, black baggy suit, black-rimmed blue shades, and a sickly pallor. A real weirdo – that’s what he was. He also didn’t same capable of forming a complete sentence.

“But you really have no idea where the Cofagrigus were brought from?” Cilan asked him.

“Nah,” said Hampton. His hands never stopped moving when he talked. “The producers…from what their…I think they…wasn’t important.”

Cilan looked stumped by that answer, and Misty couldn’t make any sense of it either. But Hampton apparently knew what he was doing with movies; Sir Bela called him his favorite director. “Knows exactly what he wants,” he’d said, and he could somehow make out what exactly that was; he was the only one nodding along.

“Hmm…” Cilan started to pace, his magnifying glass held to his chin. “And you had no signs of trouble from them until the jewel appeared on set? They weren’t hostile to direction, in other words?”

Hampton shook his head. “Nah. They were…did the thing…yeah.”

“And what about Bisharp?” Cilan asked Sir Bela. “Was there any sign he might be under a definite influence – Hypnosis, perhaps, or Psychic? Or even an indication he might have had a problem with the production?”

“No, but it’s funny you should say that,” said Sir Bela. “Because Bisharp is quite attentive to my feelings on our films. And he has heard me, many times, say about the Blasko series – well, they made far too many of them, of course. And they did not use Hunter’s lines, they did not portray Hunter’s character, and –”

“Who’s Hunter?” asked Ash.

“Saul Hunter, Ash,” Misty groaned. “The author of Blasko – The Un-dead and Jewel of the Seven Pokémon.” Honestly, why did she have to go and like such an uncultured boy? It was exasperating.

Sir Bela went on without any mind to the interruption. “I do seem to recall saying to Bisharp on the plane that having a prince’s jewel instead of a princess’s worried me, that it was a sign of another poor script from Hunter’s work. All in jest, of course. Naturally, I’d already read the script – it’s superb. Superb. And given over to one of the great directors of our age.” He swept a hand to indicate Hampton, who giggled nervously and tugged at his hair. Misty shared a skeptical look with Ash.

“And you said that to Bisharp too?” asked Cilan.

“Of course.”

“Do you remember your exact words?”

“…I do, and now that you mention it – I never did say explicitly that I was joking on the plane. And between takes on the first day of filming, I may have said ‘I’ve never seen a director like this.’ Meant as a compliment, of course, but…”

“Are we getting somewhere with this?” Iris moaned. She was hanging upside-down from an empty line set by her legs, rocking impatiently. What a kid, Misty thought. Of course, from what Ash had said about Iris, Misty guessed she was thinking the same thing. What was it that made some people their age act so much more mature than they really were? And they never realize it, either…

“I think I know where you’re going with this, Cilan,” Misty said, drawing herself up tall. “Bisharp got the wrong idea from what Sir Bela said, and thought he wasn’t happy with this movie. And that’s why he’s disappeared – he didn’t want to be in a film he thought his Trainer didn’t like!”

“You think so?” said Ash, sounding impressed.

“Pika?” concurred Pikachu, still on Misty’s shoulder.

“Osha!” Oshawott, still in Misty’s right arm, clapped approvingly and nuzzled her shoulder with his cheeks.

Cilan, however, shook his head. “That doesn’t explain what’s happened here.”

“Huh? Why not?” Misty frowned. What else could he have been driving at, with those questions?

“Elementary, my dear Misty.” It was a standard line of the Mycroft Abode character; Misty suspected Cilan had been itching for an excuse to say it. “The unusual behavior started with the Cofagrigus, not Bisharp. And any misgivings Bisharp may have had about the production shouldn’t have mattered to the other Pokémon in the cast and crew. They may have made him more susceptible to whatever’s causing this mystery, but they don’t explain it.”

“Hmm…he’s right,” said Ash. Misty tightened her grip on his arm until he winced. “Whose side are you on anyway?” she hissed.

“That wouldn’t account for the missing equipment either,” said Cilan.

“Or the missing producers,” added Sir Bela. “They left for the front office after informing us about the suspension. I expected them back by now.”

“Well, that’s…I bet they…executives…lunch meeting…all day.” Hampton shrugged.

“…Yes. Er – are there any Pokémon left at all?” Cilan asked. “If so, they could have some insight. Ash’s Pikachu could question them and report – Ash is quite gifted at divining what Pikachu means.”

“Hey – yeah!” Ash said, with a snap of his fingers. It did seem like a good idea – not that Misty was about to admit it, after hers was shot down like that.

“There are no Pokémon left that were directly involved in the production, I’m afraid,” said Sir Bela. “None that I’m aware of, anyway. But I do have two more on me – they never took to filmmaking, but they travel with Bisharp and I and know him well. They haven’t been out since we’ve arrived here, but they may know something about his state of mind.” He reached into his jacket and drew out a Dusk Ball and a Luxury Ball. The Dusk Ball went out first, flashing as it opened to reveal –

“SHEDINJA!” Pikachu and Oshawott went flying. Iris and Cilan winced at the scream. Misty sprang onto Ash’s back, wrapped her arms and legs around him, and pulled and twisted until he was a complete shield between her and that horrible buggy ghost.

“Is there something wrong?” Sir Bela asked.

“Misty’s got – ack! – problems with Bug-types,” Ash wheezed. Pikachu moaned in agreement; he and Oshawott had landed in a pile on one of the chairs. Misty was about to apologize when the Shedinja floated closer. She tightened her grip and buried her head into Ash’s shoulder instead.

“Really now,” Cilan said crossly. “There’s no time for this. We have a mystery to solve, and there’s no need to be upset by a friendly Pokémon that means us no harm and –”

POP! Misty dared a look up to see what came out of the Luxury Ball. It wasn’t another bug, thankfully; it was actually kind of cute. A feline Pokémon, with a violet and cream coat and sleepy green eyes –

“PURRLOIN!” she heard Cilan shriek, and saw the green blur of his mad dash for cover behind the sofa.

***

This movie can’t be worth it, Iris thought. She ran her hands down her face and bit back a groan as the clock made one tick closer to a full hour since they’d come into this set. The time would be easier to take if anything were actually happening, but…

The first hang-up was that this Bela Christopher guy’s Purrloin was really offended by Cilan freaking out around it, and it took forever to convince it to help out. Then Purrloin and Shedinja had to go in the corner with Ash and Pikachu, a “safe” distance from Cilan and Misty. Cilan would shout his questions across the set, Pikachu would give them to the Pokémon, they would answer, and Ash would try and figure out from Pikachu what the answers were before shouting them back to Cilan. A process that had told them nothing so far, because Shedinja and Purrloin didn’t seem to know anything about why Bisharp would disappear. Not that we need it anyway, Iris thought. My sixth sense is going off like crazy in this place, but of course the Detective Connoisseur wouldn’t trust that…

Meanwhile, Iris was stuck with creepy Christopher and his fan club. The director just sat in his chair doodling, but Misty and Cilan were gathered around Mr. Christopher as he told story after story after story. Apparently, he remembered every second of his long film career, and had no problem talking about all of it.

“…I had no idea what it was going to look like. Had no idea! And of course, the effects were very primitive in those days. We had Scorbunnies casting Flamethrower at odd angles to create the animation of the shadows…”

They just went on and on, and he never let any interruptions get in the way. And Cilan and Misty were eating it all up! Sure, Cilan gave Ash a new question every few minutes, and Misty gushed over Oshawott now and then, but for the most part, they were completely under the guy’s spell.

“…nearly severed my finger clean off. It’s still bent out – you see, here. But that was the first sword fight I had in a film. There were many, many more. I think the most difficult one was…”

It was a weird combination of boring stories and creepy storyteller. Iris liked scary movies, but a guy who was in them all the time sent out bad vibes. And those eyes…Cilan told her once that red eyes were “fetching,” but to Iris, they were nothing but bad news.

“…and he finally said to me, ‘you’re too tall to ever be an actor.’ A ridiculous thing to say to somebody. Of course, this was near the end of the war, when I was stationed in Azure Bay. I’d been seconded to the Dragon Squad as a liaison, and –”

“‘Dragon Squad?’” Iris inched closer to Mr. Christopher’s chair. “What ‘Dragon Squad?’”

It was Cilan who answered. “It’s a famous unit of the Galar Air Force, Iris. They ride Dragon-types instead of planes and serve as a special attack squadron.”

“And you…you were in that?” Iris asked Mr. Christopher. And these two were asking you about movies!?

“Well, I was an officer in the GAF. I was attached to the Dragon Squad from time to time –”

“Axew! Axew!”

“Huh? What is it, Axew?” Iris asked. Axew’s head and arms were poking out of her hair. He pointed up towards the catwalks above them. With the work lights on, it was hard to make much out, but Iris saw it too – a big, boxy shadow in an open doorway.

“What is it?” Misty asked, but Iris didn’t answer. Instead, she ran over to the fly system, shimmied up one of the ropes, jumped onto a high line rail, and swung herself up onto the catwalk. Axew gave a little cheer, and Iris gave him a little pat on the head. Now about that shadow…

Shadows seemed to be all that was up here. The work lights were all hung below the catwalks, so only a little of their light came up from below. Everything was painted or plated black. But the doorway Iris and Axew saw was filled with a dim blue glow. Inside the room, a small square closet, was light after light after light – all turned off, along with microphones and boom poles and cables.

“Hey, guys!” Iris called over her shoulder. “I found the missing film equipment! It’s all – um, Axew? Do you hear that too?” Axew nodded and slunk down into Iris’s hair. It was a faint, muffled whirring sound, hard to place. There was something mechanical to it, and it seemed to be coming from more than one spot. It’s like it’s in the walls or something. I wonder if –

The boxy shadow reappeared on the wall; a few seconds later, its source materialized. Its four arms spread wide, its red eyes lit up below the mask on its forehead, and its gold and jade body took on a horrible shine in the blue light.

“AUGH! I found a Cofagrigus too!” Iris yelled. “And I don’t think it’s friendly!” As if to confirm that, the Cofagrigus reached out with two of its hands, blue and violet flames surrounding the long fingers. From the set below, Iris heard a crash, a shout, and a menacing cry of “Cofa!”

And there’s supposed to be seven of these things…great. Battling them would be much easier with help, if only she could get away. “Axew, Dragon Rage!” Her Pokémon popped out of her hair just long enough to fire the blast, which struck the Cofagrigus right between the eyes. As soon as it reeled back, Iris dashed for the exit. She jumped over the catwalk railing, grabbed at the closest rope, and slid all the way down to the set, just in time to see Purrloin, Shedinja, and Pikachu chasing another Cofagrigus out the open side door to the stage. Ash was sprawled out on the ground with his head and shoulders on Misty’s knees, inches away from the ruins of the sofa; it looked as though it had been flung at the ground, and Misty had pulled Ash out of the way. Mr. Christopher was leaning heavily on his cane, with Cilan at his elbow for support. And the director was still doodling, as if nothing had happened at all.

“Iris, what’s going on up there?” asked Cilan.

“It’s a Cofagrigus!” Iris pointed up toward the catwalk. “There! It – it just passed through the walls! I don’t know where it’s going, but it was guarding a closet with all the film equipment that’s gone missing.”

“The one down here just jumped us,” said Ash, with a slight tremor to his voice. “There was this sound – whhhrrrr – all over, and then – boo! – and – crash!”

“So you heard that noise too.” At least it had gone; the only sound left in the room was the director’s pen scratching on paper. Strange noises before ghost attacks…strange behavior and disappearances with no explanation…yep, my sixth sense doesn’t lie about things like this. Iris put a hand to her chin. “Well, you know what I think?”

Cilan scowled. “Iris, please. This is no time for superstitious –”

“I think there’s a curse going on here!” cried Misty. She stood up so fast that she knocked Ash off to the side.

“You what!?” Cilan and Iris gasped together – Cilan in horror, Iris in delight.

“Think about it,” said Misty. “This only started when those Cofagrigus saw that authentic jewel. Jewel of the Seven Pokémon was based on real legends; maybe jewels from that ancient civilization really can hold lost souls, and the one in the jewel Sir Bela brought is possessing the Cofagrigus and the other Pokémon on the set!”

“Exactly what I was thinking!” Iris hopped over to stand side by side with Misty. “I’ve had a premonition of something like this ever since we came in here! You know –” she leaned in closer to Misty – “you might just be alright, kid.”

“Well, I’m surprised at you, Misty,” Cilan tutted. “Any supernatural occurrence has a scientific explanation, and this is no exception. Surely you recall The Houndoom of Harkershire, where the haunted moor turns out to be just a thief and his Pokémon?” He nudged Mr. Christopher with his elbow and winked at him; it must have been another of his movies.

Misty scowled and put her hands on her hips. “Well, what about The Night Train to Snowpoint, when all the clues turned out to be wrong, and it really was a ghost channeling the Froslass?” She advanced on Cilan; Iris stayed back and slapped a hand over her face. Not another one of these…

“But you recall Mark of the Golbat, where the supernatural events were a tool of the investigation to wrest a confession from the murderer?” said Cilan, not backing down.

“And Kiss of the Golbat has the vampires use a ‘rational’ explanation to fool the heroes until it’s too late! I wish you could have played the head vampire in that film, Sir Bela…”

“Bah! You’re forgetting Galar after Midnight, where –”

“ENOUGH!” Iris shouted. “No more movie talk! We have two Cofagrigus to worry about, and one of them might still be in here!”

Pikachu and Mr. Christopher’s Pokémon came back over from the door. Pikachu hopped onto Ash’s knee and gave a few chirps and gestures. “The other one went to the stage next door,” Ash reported.

“The cave sets are in that stage,” said Mr. Christopher.

“Then it looks like we need to split up,” Iris declared. It was about time someone took charge. “Half of us will stay in here to try and find that Cofagrigus, and the other half will go next door. And I’m going with Ash and Mr. Christopher.”

“What?” Cilan and Misty looked like they’d both been slapped, but they were just going to have to deal with it.

“I told you,” Iris said, “I’m done with the movie talk! And I’m sure you’re driving Ash and this poor old guy nuts.”

“Now, really!” Mr. Christopher snapped.

“I don’t care, Iris…” Ash started; Iris silenced him with a wave. She linked arms with him, then with Mr. Christopher, and marched toward the side door.

“We’ll take the cave,” she said over Cilan and Misty’s sputtering. “You two and the director check out the rest of this place.” Of course, Iris was the one who had seen the Cofagrigus in this set, but she just wanted to get out for a while. It was hard to do, though, when her companions were resisting.

“I really must protest –”

“Iris, our Pokémon!” Ash dragged his feet so that Pikachu could catch up and jump onto his shoulder, and Mr. Christopher recalled his two Pokémon. But when Ash drew out Oshawott’s ball, the Water-type shook his head frantically and waddled over to Misty, latching onto her leg as hearts lit up his eyes again.

“…Fine,” Ash sighed. “But if she needs you to battle, you’d better do it.”

“Wait, what’s that supposed to mean?” said Misty.

“You’ll find out,” Iris snapped. “Now meet us outside in an hour!” She pushed her two partners ahead and started shoving them from the back to get them to the door faster.

“Young lady,” grumbled Mr. Christopher. “I do not need shielding from fan inquiries.”

“You don’t need to be nice about it, sir,” said Iris. “It’s got to be annoying, all those silly movie questions. Now – about that Dragon Squad…”

[edream93]

Come With Me and Take The Ride (This Is Where You Wanna Be)

Okay so like a month or so ago, someone in the Descendants fandom posted a post asking for someone to write a Huma Greatest Showman AU. I unfortunately didn’t write down or remember who so I can’t tag them and this might not even be what they had in mind but...I hope they enjoy this oneshot if they read it!

You can also find it here on AO3 or FF.net. Please like, reblog, and/or leave a comment!

She watched as three young children played across the busy city street. Their patch worked clothes hung limply on too thin bodies and she knew without a doubt that they probably hadn’t had a decent meal in days and more than likely wouldn’t have one tonight. And yet, their smiles shined brightly, like they had no worries or fears in the world. The two older siblings danced with laughter out of the small grabby hands of their toddler younger sister, their moves exaggerated and deliberately slower to give the giggling young girl a chance.

Even dirty, starving, and probably with very little to call their own, they had each other.

Her stomach twisted at that thought. She blamed the slightly moldy bread she had earlier.

“CJ!”

She sighed turning her attention back to her growing irritated companion. “I’m listening, Fred.”

“Really?”Freddie Facilier arched an unconvinced brow, hands stubbornly on her hips. “Then what I just say?”

Calista Jane Hook, rolled her eyes. “Something along the lines of ‘blah, blah, blah, CJ is the best. I wanna take my pretty little lips and-”

A netted fingerless glove covered CJ’s mouth, hiding the satisfied smirk that grew on CJ’s lips at the minute but telling way that Freddie’s cheeks darkened. “Hush, you brat, before I make you sleep on the floor tonight,” Freddie growled.

Moving Freddie’s hand from her face with one hand, her other hand using their close proximity to creep slowly up the outside of Freddie’s thigh. Freddie’s cheeks darkened further, a glint in her amber eyes that promised much pain in the near future for CJ (or perhaps it was pleasure, it was always hard to tell with Freddie sometimes).

Before CJ could say something that she thought would sound very much sauve and get her out of trouble with her adorably grumpy maybe-something-more-than-a-friend, a familiar tailored red coat caught CJ’s eyes, immediately causing her to suddenly push away from Freddie to get a better look. Freddie squeaked enraged but CJ ignored her as she watched a familiar red leather clad back slip through one of the nicer bar establishments of Auradon City.

Freddie quickly caught sight of him too, demeanor quickly changing from enragement to concern hidden behind a disinterested facade.

“You need me to go with you?”

“No,” CJ tugged on her own red jacket, well worn but easily one of the nicest things she owned. “I can handle him,” she paused taking in Freddie’s darker skin and the three short white marks under each eye that seemed to glow eerily in tandem with her breathing, announcing her non-fairy magical lineage for all the world to see.

Though frilly flowery words were never part of this longtime...thing with Freddie, in the quietest moments of the night, when CJ’s mind was buzzing with wondrous ideas while everyone else slept on, she would turn on her side in the bed that they shared, taking in Freddie’s relaxed features. Within the depths of her heart, CJ knew that Freddie was one of the best things in her life, even if the hierarchical system around them thought differently.  

Looking from CJ’s face to the sign in the bar window, CJ shook her head. ‘No Non-Fairy mages or creatures allowed!’ it read in glittery fairy ink.

“I can definitely handle this,” she said once again, not completely certain if it was for Freddie’s sake or hers. “Besides, I’ll need you to pay my bail if things go bottoms up.”

Freddie stared back at her with an unreadable look before she snorted, leaning back with practice casualness against the brick wall behind her, arms crossed. “I guess we’ll see if I like you enough to do that, chere,” she smirked before the corner of her lips turned down in a deep frown. “Just make sure you don’t get into any mischief with them spirits. We got a show later tonight and we can’t have our charismatic leader puking her guts in a paid customer’s hat again!”

“When you say no mischief with spirits,” CJ grinned already halfway across the street, walking backwards, “are you talking about drinks or…” she wiggled her fingers making a groaning sound. “Because you know they might have both here!”

“Figure it out Hook!” Freddie laughed, the sound crisp and clear like fresh fallen autumn leaves. It was a drastic difference from the much more muted atmosphere of the bar that CJ walked into.

The room was dark, windows covered with thick dark materials that blocked out the early afternoon light. Only the wall of bottled liquid behind the bar counter, some sparkling, some glowing, provided the only source of color in the otherwise dull room. Seven older men sat in a dark corner, a few of them already looking like they had fallen halfway into their glasses, looked up at her entrance, bloodshot eyes staring a bit too long at the red leather of her coat in drunken recognition. Thankfully, they lost interest in her quickly, one starting to sing an old mining tune, the ones still conscious enough joining in.

The smell of pixie dust, rolled and smoked in big cigars by some of the one of the patrons, a fuzzy looking...blue being with droopy but intelligent eyes, hung heavy in the air, the smoke curling from their dark blue lips and into the air in magenta and lavender colored ringlets of smoke. The smell alone burned CJ’s throat and she wondered idly if the contents of the cigars had been cut with iron as she sat down unceremoniously at the bar next to the familiar red clad frame.

“Whatever yer doing here, I want no part of it Calista Jane.”

Pouting at the use of her full name, CJ made a small hand movement in front of her and a glass of shimmery brown liquid, flecks of gold with streaks of iridescent blue shimmered at the top. A small ball of light hovered expectantly over the drink, hindering CJ from taking it before she tossed a handful of coins and a few old thimbles onto the counter in payment.

Once the little fairy barkeep had moved onto another customer down the way, CJ took a long sip before speaking. “Can’t a girl want to see her dear old big brother without there being some ulterior motive?”

“Not when she’s a grubby little half pixie that likes to cause more mischief than she can handle, like ye, she can’t,” he murmured refilling his shot glass with an already half empty bottle of unassuming clear liquid that was probably the strongest drink the bar had, hitting it back with little reaction, refilling the glass again like clockwork. “Also, ye must not know the meaning of being disowned if ye think anyone here wants to see ye show yer face around here again.”

CJ took another sip of her drink, ignoring the way her hand clutched tightly around the glass at his last comment. At least some things hadn’t changed, she thought as she took in his appearance. Perhaps she was just a sentimental sucker but she found herself grounded in the familiarity of her brother, Harry Hook.

His dark hair was messy as always as if the wind had ran her fingers through it and the usual kohl around his eyes was smudged much to thick for this time of day, indicating her probably hadn’t slept in his bed last night. (CJ internally frowned, not wanting to know whose bed he had slept in.) Nicely tailored paints were tucked into nicely buffed black boots. His shirt had a few buttons undone and looked wrinkled, but in a way that she knew had the noble ladies and gentlemen he often surrounded himself with yearning to rip it off him. CJ knew with just a look that it was probably made with the softest material imaginable, its worth more money than she had seen in the last year or so. The only piece of clothing that wasn’t new and definitely not from one of his many admirers was the familiar and almost identical to her own red leather trench coat that seemed to clash in just the right way with Harry’s much finer clothes.

He’s still a sentimental sap. CJ observed. I can work with that.

She finished the rest of her drink, ignoring Harry’s impressed whistle as she downed most of the glass in one go. It burned down her throat in a devastatingly delightful way and she had to remember Freddie’s earlier warnings about not getting sloshed before a show. But was it really her fault that Harry was so irritating that he drove her to drink?

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Hook family drinking habits!” he giggled self deprecating around his own drink before tossing it down just as fast as CJ had done.

“Well then I’ll get straight to the point. I want you to be my business partner, Harry.”

He paused, hand holding his refilled shot glass, frozen half way at his lips.

Good. Caught him off guard.

“I need someone with your flair for dramatics, eye for detail, and who I can trust will at least yell before trying to stab me in the back.” She watched him unfreeze, throwing the shot back easily as if there hadn’t been an introduction. “The show is good,” she continued. “More than good, but it can be better! It will be better. With your help.”

Harry snorted. “Ye don’t want my help. Just my influence. Influence that brings a lot of heavy pockets with it.”

Smiling innocently, CJ batted her eyes. “Well you said it, not me, but since you’re offering, that kind of influence would be extremely beneficial for my-”

“No,” Harry cut her off, raising the bottle to pour himself another shot only to see that the bottle was empty.

“No?”

“Uh huh,” Harry frowned, looking up and down the counter for their fairy barkeep only to not see the telltale ball of light. “In this context, I believe it means, ‘to deny’,” he jumped over the counter, eyes glued to the bottles of lined spirits - some pixie, some regular, all worth more than CJ had ever made even during their most successful shows so far. “‘To put an end to before it even begins’,” he waved his hand in a dramatic dismissive fashion before seemingly picking a bottle indiscriminately and reaching somewhere under the counter for a clean shot glass with little searching. He was familiar with this bar apparently. No surprise there.

“Trying to follow old Da to an early grave?” CJ sneered when after two times of refilling his shot glass he pushed it away and drank directly from the bottle. The fairy barkeep finally appeared, chiming angrily at him before seemingly giving up and going back to their other customers as if this wasn’t that unusual of an occurrence. Harry sprawled himself across the counter in that disheveled but pretty way that he could always pull off, bottle dangling precariously from his ringed fingers.

“Awa’ an bile yer heid!” he drunkenly whined. “Who gave ye the right to start meddlin’ in my life again? Haven’t seen hide nor hair of ye since ye shucked off old Da’s inheritance, like ye were too good for it. And now ye think ye can just waltz back into my life?” He leaned towards her, his eyes bright and focus despite his obvious inebriation. “I said no,” he said firmly. Blue eyes hard like glass. “I don’t want anythin’ to do with yer silly little freak show or with you.”

CJ pouted, pulling out her final card.

“Harriet would have helped me.”

It was a testament to how long she hadn’t seen her brother, to how their paths had greatly diverged that she found herself caught off guard when his hands darted out quickly and grabbed her forcefully by the collar. Harry dragged her so that she was half on the bar counter, her face close to his, all previous tired drunken irritation gone and replaced by pure 100% Harold James Hook fury.

Her mind flickered back to the children she had seen playing outside and realized what the feeling she had tried to hide actually was: jealousy. Those children had never been the Hook siblings. They probably actually got along.

Harry’s grip tightened on her collar, his eyes sobering until all she could see in his two blue pools were anger, shame, and sadness swirling together until all that was left was rage.

“Harriet. Is. Dead,” Harry seethed, “And it’s because of you.”

They glared at each other before he released her with a none too gentle shove.

Harry turned back to the bar, grabbing another random bottle, uncorking it sharply with his teeth, and drinking straight from it.

At that point they were obviously drawing attention from most of the other patrons but CJ didn’t care. Her hands clenched at her side. Harry wasn’t the only Hook sibling with anger issues.

“How long are you going to keep blaming me?” she seethed quietly before jumping onto the counter and forcefully tugging the bottle out of his hands and throwing it onto the ground. “HUH?!” she shouted. “Don’t you think I tried? She was my sister too, you know! I tried to stop her! But Harriet Hook always did what Harriet Hook wanted to.”

She jumped down in front of him and shoved his back none gently against the wall of alcohol, bottles rattling, crashing down around them. Neither of them paid the other bar goers that quickly got up and left or the poor barkeep fairy that dropped dejectedly in the air at the mess any attention.

“At least she died doing what she loved. She was fearless! She would never hide behind the fancy skirts of the highborn faes and noble killjoys and their rules on ‘appropriate’ forms of magic. All magic was beautiful to her and she wanted to show that to everyone and Harriet was the only one who believed that I had the imagination and vision to make that happen.”

CJ brought herself closer to Harry, so that their noses squished together bruisingly, tears growing but never falling from her eyes.

“You’re just as guilty as me for her death, Harry. We needed a third for the spell and you didn’t show up because you were too afraid of Daddy Dearest.”

Again, Harry shoved her away. Instead of retaliating with rage, he turned from her and moved with tired steps to sprawl back on top of the counter. “The spell would have have been shite either way,” he murmured into the wood. “Fairy blood doesn’t run through me veins like it does with you...like it did with ‘Ettie.”

CJ stepped over the shards of broken glass, stepping closer to him. Her own rage, just as quickly as it had come, had cooled into something less intense but just as driven. “Three is always a powerful number. You just being there would have been enough, Harry. Spells always worked out better for Ettie and me when you were there.”

Harry snorted, a wet sound that he tried to cover with a weak laugh. “Power of three,” he muttered, using the back of his arm to to wipe under his nose quickly glancing at CJ, all the hot air blown out of him. “Not so powerful with only two fuck ups left.”

Sighing, CJ rolled her eyes. Obviously this was a waste of time. She hopped back over the bar counter, ready to leave when she heard Harry sigh, calling out to her.

“C’mon. Let’s take a look at this circus of yers and see if it’s worth my time.”

Pausing, CJ allowed herself to smirk before she smoothed her features out and turned back to him.

“Oh, once you see it you’ll never want to return to your drab old life again.”

Harry rolled his eyes at her confidence from where he was still sprawled along the counter before heaving himself up and jumping down to his feet, reaching for the top hat he had sat on the bar stool next to him.

CJ grinned ecstatically, rushing out the door.

Already grumbling to himself, Harry made to follow her but was stopped short by one peeved fairy barkeep chiming angrily in his face.

“Alright! Alright,” he hissed, not even bothering to count the bills and coins and thimbles that he tossed onto the counter. “If that doesn’t cover all it, send the rest of the bill to…” he paused in thought before a squished up dissatisfied face came to mind. “Lady Mal. If she asks, it was her associate, Jay made this mess,” he winked before rushing out into the street, hat firmly on his head as he searched the crowded streets before a distinctive head of always knotted looking blonde hair.

“Come on!” CJ crowed, appearing at his side. She grabbed onto his arm and moved them through the crowd with such speed and dexterity that only someone who had fairy blood in their veins could manage. It was like their feet barely touched the ground, and with the excited buzz and chime that was unconsciously being emitted from his sister, Harry wouldn’t be surprised if that was true, CJ bursting with enough happy thoughts for the both of them.  

It wasn’t long before they appeared before a tall brick building with banners proclaiming “The Greatest Show on Earth!” and many different depictions of what Harry assumed were each of the acts.

He didn’t have time to take in the banners as CJ quickly tugged him to the side and back of the building, entering through the back door and into a space where there was a flurry of motion and movement of people and animals rushing back and forth, either preparing for their acts or helping others get ready for theirs.

“Wow, you actually managed to get him.”

Harry looked up to see Freddie Facilier looking down at them from her perch on a railing of the backstage stairs that led up to what Harry assumed was where some of the circus members handled the above lights. It had been awhile since he had seen her and she looked just as smug and mischievous as she did as a young child all those years ago when CJ had first snuck her into the house when their father hadn’t been sober enough to be aware. The top half of her face was painted into a white skull, covering her natural facial marks and she wore a dress of greens and golds and purples that would have looked gaudy on anyone else but made Freddie look every part like the shadow bayou queens she descended from, a small worn black top hat with a red trim and a purple feather perched on top of her head.

Though he had grown up with her long enough to think of her as another bratty younger sister, when he made eye contact with Freddie, Harry felt as if his shadow was crawling up his back, squeezing his neck slightly in warning. He blinked and the feeling instantly disappeared. When he looked down, his shadow moved on it’s own, making a slow slashing motion along its throat.

Freddie smirked innocently when he glared back up at her, her message clear: Break her heart again and I’ll have my friends on the other side hurt you.

“I told you I would, Fred!” CJ grinned as she bounced on her toes, a slight golden glow around her, completely unaware of what just happened before tugging Harry suddenly up the stairs, pass Freddie who hopped off her railing, shuffling her cards as she made her way to the stage entrance. Harry used his free hand to rub his neck as words continued to bubble from her CJ’s mouth in excited little squeals that verged just on the edge of sounding like chiming bells.

Harry was just about to tell her that he couldn’t understand half of what she was saying when she got excited like this when she suddenly stopped them on one of the highest platforms of the stairs, pulling aside a curtain that led to a balcony.

For a moment, as he stepped forward, all Harry was aware of was the bright glow of the stage lights and the sound of the decent but small crowd below. Up along the catwalk several of the stage hands worked in unison to turn over a large bucket that was designed to rain down water on the center stage. The whole building seemed to quiet as the sound of rain falling and the smell of sea salt filled the space. Even though Harry could see from his position that the stage hands had poured all the water that had been in pail out, it still rained down below onto the stage, a soft rumble of thunder accompanying the noise.

Suddenly, one of the stage lights fell on a built platform perpendicular to the one Harry and CJ stood on. Harry watched as a strong looking blonde man dressed as if he were sunshine personified in loose fitting gold pants and a tight sleeveless matching vest stepped until he was just at the edge.

“Is he one of them flying acrobatics, I’ve heard about?” Harry looked curiously to CJ.

“He is trained in that,” she grinned, still at her spot by the balcony entrance. “But that’s the later half of the act.”

And with that, the blonde man jumped off the platform with no ropes or nets to catch him, audience letting back shocked screams and yelps below.

Harry rushed to the edge of the balcony, sure that he was going to see a blonde pancake on the ground but instead he was able to see just as the magic sustained rain stopped, all the water coming to the center to create a pool shape, the blonde diver diving safely in with a splash that had the children of the audience squealing with delight and the adults grumbling in their soaked clothes.

“Here comes the main star of the act,” CJ grinned appearing next to him.

The blonde diver waved at the audience before swimming to the top of the pool, the water only rippling slightly as his head broke through the top. The water began to warp around him, breaking its shape and twisting until the blonde man was no longer in the water but sitting on top of it, the magical liquid taking the shape of a giant seahorse under him.

The children in the audience laughed and a few of the adults cheered as the blonde rode the water seahorse like a cowboy around the stage at a lively pace, sometimes almost looking like he was about to be bucked off but not quite.

“What is he?” Harry questioned. “Part merfolk?”

“No. Watch.” CJ’s grin grew as if she knew the best secret that he didn’t.

Frown set deeply, Harry continued to watch as the water seahorse and its blonde rider continued to float around the stage.

Suddenly, the seahorse began to float higher and higher, it’s bucking getting slightly more erratic the higher it got. The audience gasped as it looked like the blonde was loosing what little grip he had, if had any grip at all with the water. He was just about eye level with Harry when the water of the seahorse under him suddenly fell out, breaking its form. Gravity only took a second before it had the blonde hurtling to the ground.

Again, the audience gasped and Harry found his heart in his throat as the blonde flailed in his descent, growing closer to the ground...until he wasn’t because the water that had fallen back to the ground already shot back up underneath him. Instead of catching him and turning back into the seahorse as Harry assumed it would, the water and the blonde continued their trajectory upwards, a rope swinging towards them that the blonde caught with practiced ease, reaching out towards the floating water with one hand just as an arm formed from the liquid. Within seconds the water was no longer an amorphous blob but a fully fleshed young woman.

Harry watched with rapt attention as the blonde grinned, allowing the direction of the rope he was holding onto give him the necessary momentum to toss his partner impossibly high into the air until she was just above the height of the balcony.

The girl seemed to hover as she flipped and spun with precise movements in the air, knocking the breath out of Harry as if a wave had crashed on top of him. He took in her teal and white partially braided updo that wrapped and swirled around her head like a windswept crown and the way that the blues and greens and golds of her outfit caught the light like the rising sun bleeding into the sea. It was only when she arched her back, preparing to dive through the air before her decent that her brown eyes caught his. In that second, she grinned, a mischievous mesmerizing little tilt upwards of her lips that felt like she was sharing a secret just with him and would have him dreaming about those sparkling teal painted lips pressing against his skin for weeks to come.

And then she was descending, falling with such control that she had to be using magic, catching the bottom half of a swinging hoop that the blonde was now standing on the top half of. In tandem, they both swung their hips causing the hoop to swing in a large circle above the stage. The girl laughed delightedly, a full and confident sound, as the hoop as it circled around also began to spin quickly as she pulled herself up on the hoop only by her arms her legs together, toes pointed down.

The sound of thunder cracking shook the building just before what looked like lightning seemed to hit the hoop. Just at that moment, all the stage lights flickered off and the girl’s laughter were abruptly silenced, causing the audience to gasp again as they were plunged into darkness. Surely no one could survive being hit by lightning like that.

Put only a second passed before the stage lights turned back on with the blonde boy and the teal haired girl standing safely in the center of the stage, both smiling proudly hand in hand as they took their bows to the enthusiastic clapping of the audience.

Harry was glad he was leaning against the balcony railing. CJ would never stop laugh if she knew how weak his legs felt.

“W-who is she? I mean,” Harry coughed, trying to cover up his mistake. “Who are they?”

“Uma and Gil. One of our most daring acts, as you can see,” CJ said proudly as if it had been her act that he had just witnessed. “Those two were amongst the first to join. Ettie,” she paused losing slightly before continuing. “Ettie picked them out herself. Once they joined in, a handful or two others followed immediately after them,” she said snapping her fingers. “Just like that. Like they were waiting to see what would happen with those two.”

Harry nodded, his gaze still watching as Uma and Gil took another bow before turning and making their way backstage. He tapped his finger thoughtfully against the wood of the balcony, mind already filled with brown eyes and matching wicked little smirks.

“I’ll join ye for eighteen percent.”

“Eighteen percent? Of my show?,” CJ scoffed as if insulted. “I’ll give ya seven, and that’s being generous.”

“Fifteen,” Harry fired back turning towards her.

“Eight,” Cj growled.

Harry tutted, wagging his finger as he pulled a flask out of the inner pocket of his jacket, taking a long sip that seemed to make CJ fume more. “Twelve,” he burped.

Red bleeding into her face, CJ stomped her foot with an angry chime. “Maybe nine!”

“Ten!”

“Fine!” CJ shot out her hand. Harry took a moment to grin to himself. He reached out, giving her hand a hard shake.

“No need to frown, Callie. Ninety percent is still a lot for ya,” he patted her on the head.

Crossing her arms, CJ muttered something under her breath.

“What was that?” Harry frowned.

“I said I only have eighty now.”

“What happened to the other ten?”

“That belongs to me.”

Harry turned to see Uma in all her teal and blue and green and gold glory leaning against the entrance of the balcony, her gaze sharp and appraising as she looked him over, taking in everything. From this close, Harry could see that an actual crown made from woven nets and starfish and shells and a few beads was securely tucked into her hair. Dramatic gold eye shadow was slightly smudged and a layer of sweat shined across her skin.

Harry fought the urge to bow down and kiss her feet.

After what felt like a long moment Uma looked away from him, apparently bored with her appraisal of him and either not seeing or ignoring the way Harry deflated.

“So this is your brother? The infamous Paramore of Auradon?” Uma said to CJ. “Didn’t know that those snarky fairies and snobby gentle stiffs liked to share their beds with a guy who looked,” she paused to sniff the air delicately before frowning, “and smelled like he was impersonating a dead skunk.”

“I’m sure I can persuade you differently, darlin’,” Harry dragged his own gaze teasingly up and down her body, lingering on her lips as he bit his own in a way that had Lady Audrey nearly ripping off his pants after the concert he performed at the other night before her husband Lord Chad Charming had pulled her away with a huff, a flirty wink thrown over his shoulder at Harry when his wife wasn’t looking. “That is, if you give me a chance and maybe somewhere a little more...private to make my case.”

Uma growled, and Harry found her anger just as much of a turn on as her smirk. He could only imagine what his body would do if she ever gave him an uninhibited smile.

“How about you give me a chance to drown you?” she snapped back.

CJ rolled her eyes before moving pass them, yelling over her shoulder for them to find a room as she made her way down, to prepare to close the show. This made Uma’s face squish up in a way that Harry found adorable before she stomped away, muttering curses and promises of his death under her breath.

It was at that moment that Harry decided that maybe he would like this circus of CJ’s after all.

[mymariahcarey]

Ready Baby? Will You Be My Man?

**a/n: **It took forever to write this one. Writing Patrick is not nearly as easy as writing David, for me anyway. It’s not beta’d. This is the second part of a series on AO3 called Cuz They Love Lizzo. The first part can be found on my Tumblr or on AO3.

**summary: **While listening to Lizzo, Patrick reflects on how much his life has changed since meeting David.

word count: ~1.9k

rating: T for language

It wasn’t his fault, he swears. He honestly blames Alexis. A few months ago on his morning jog and ran, nearly literally, into Alexis. He was shocked to see any of the Rose’s out of bed before 9 a.m, let alone as early a 7a.m. Apparently every now and then, which Patrick has now learned is at least once a week, Alexis has trouble sleeping and goes for early jogs.

She started joining Patrick on these mornings, and thus Patrick heard Lizzo for the first time. He’s normally more of an Alternative Rock guy. He’s insistent on the fact the 90’s has the best music, but there’s something special about these songs. 

Patrick thinks it has something to do with the sincerity wrapped in fun lyrics and a good beat. It reminds him a lot of his boyfriend. David, though quirky and hilarious, is someone that loves deeply and can be incredibly sincere all wrapped up in one very dramatic man.

So he likes Lizzo, he likes her so much he takes to playing her in the store instead of their normal soft jazz when there aren’t very many customers or when they’re doing inventory after closing. David protested a bit when he first started playing her, saying it didn’t go with the general aesthetic of the store but Patrick knew he liked it too. He would catch David occasionally mouthing the words to the lyrics and shimming his hips during one of the more upbeat songs. 

If asked, Patrick is pretty sure he has a favorite song. It’s the one that, when it plays he can’t help but think about how much his life has changed in the past two years. How much his boyfriend had a hand in that change.

Never been in love before, what the fuck are fucking feelings for?

It isn’t that Patrick would say he’s never been in love. He genuinely loved Rachel, he still does just not in the was she deserves, in the way he felt he was supposed to.

Being with Rachel, and the handful of other girls, had never felt right. At different points in his life Patrick had wondered if maybe he was gay, he definitely spent his fair share of time looking at men, much more than he spent looking at women. He always wrote it off, surely if he was gay he’d have known earlier in life.

Patrick grew up in a rather small town and wasn’t exposed to different walks of life other than middle america middle class until he went off to college. He didn’t really know there were other options.

Patrick rolls his eyes as he places the page turners on his fingers. David tells him constantly they don’t in fact help him turn pages faster but he is still in denial. Surely they serve a purpose.

He looks up and watches his boyfriend as he moves items around on the countertop, turning all the bottles so they’re facing the right direction, moving things to fill in gaps left by sales they’d made earlier in the day.

God Patrick loves this man. It’s a bit surreal. After all the years of wondering all it took was meeting this raven haired, snarky man, and he knew. He just knew. Though doubt was his worst enemy, never completely disappearing until things with David became too real to ignore.

Patrick was so thankful David had taken a risk, kissing him in the car after David’s birthday dinner. He’d wanted to kiss him for weeks at that point. He knew he was attracted to David, but he was worried it would turn into something fleeting, or he’d change his mind, or hell, he’d been wrong about himself.

He came to realize he was just scared. He cared a great deal about his business partner at that point, and was hesitant to do anything to jeopardize that. But when David had kissed him, that was the end of the doubts, and the end worrying about whether getting involved with his business partner was a good idea. It was clearly the best idea he’d ever had.

There was no turning back for Patrick after that. He wanted David. He also wanted to start out slow. While his doubts had faded, his insecurities hadn’t. He was new to this, to being with a man… especially a man as experienced as David seemed to be.

After many conversations and several makeout sessions, Patrick decided maybe the slow approach was overrated. In the rest of his life he was normally very straight forward and confident, he decided not to let the fact he was inexperienced stop him. Now, more often than not he took control of their physical relationship. He got a thrill out of making David weak in the knees. 

Tryna open up a little more, sorry if my heart a little slow.

Patrick could tell David was disappointed when he told him the apartment was just for him. They’d found a pretty great grove for their relationship and Patrick wasn’t sure he was ready to upset it. 

He also wasn’t sure where David stood with that amount of commitment. He knew without a doubt he wanted to spend forever with David, but after everything that had happened with Rachel it seemed so quick to go back to sharing a living space full time with someone.

They’ve also never spoken about the future of their relationship in detail. They make plans for the future as far as whose family they’ll spend holidays with, and a lot of decisions for the business, but neither one of them have brought up the fact there’s more steps their relationship can take.

Patrick wondered if this is why things had become more strained between them since he moved into his apartment. He also knew part of it was certainly to do with the fact that his parents had been calling a bit more regularly. Keeping David a secret was torturous, he so wanted to tell them. The anxiety about their reaction and David’s reaction when they found out caused his temper to be shorter, his decision making to be a little more cloudy than usual.

He knew it had affected David as well, but he stuck by his side through it all. Most importantly through his parents coming to town and him finally having the talk with them.

It’s after that, that Patrick figured out what his next step was. Knowing David was willing to move in with him told him he was ready for the commitment, and now that Patrick’s family knows everything about his new life, he knows he wants to ask David to marry him.

He is going to ask him. Tomorrow.

He’s been planning it ever since and he’s pretty certain he’s figured out the perfect way to do it. He just hopes David cooperates. 

I thought that I didn’t care, I thought I was love impaired.

Patrick looks over at his boyfriend again, seeing his mouth tick up in the corner, revealing the small smile he’s grown to love so much. The smile he’s come to know as the one he sees when David is trying to hide the full extent of his happiness or amusement.

He can’t imagine a world where he’d never come to Schitt’s Creek. A world where David had never kissed him in the car. A world where Patrick had never learned what love really was, what to love someone unconditionally meant. 

Loving David had taught him all the things he’d felt he’s been missing, all the things that made him broken. Sometimes he’d look at David and his felt fit to burst. 

…Now I’m crazy bout to tat your name.

When David chuckles, Patrick realizes he may have been listening to the song a little more closely than it seemed.

“What’s so amusing about healing crystals?” he asks, finally ready to give David part of the details about what he has planned for tomorrow.

Waving his hands in an awkward gesture and then shrugging David replies, “Maybe I was… getting healed. You did leave a bit of a, how would you put it, disgusting bruise on my lower back this morning.”

It’s his turn to chuckle now, unable to control the subtle blush he feels spread across his cheeks.

“Speaking of mornings… I was thinking maybe we could close the store tomorrow. I know it’s a bit last minute but it’s been awhile since we’ve been out. I was hoping to take you on a picnic,” Patrick suggests removing the rubber fingertips.

“Well, you know you don’t have to convince me to close the store. You do however have to convince me to eat outside with bugs and dirt,” David answers, his nose scrunching up like it does when Patrick tries to convince him to do anything that may mess up one of sweaters.

Moving around the counter Patrick makes his way towards his boyfriend and smirks, “alright, how about we leave around 11. Not too early. Maybe I’ll pack some of the fancy cheese,” he finishes, leaning his hip against the counter David has been working at. He reaches his hand out and it lands on David’s wonderful love handle.

“Mmm… I guess maybe that sounds fun,” he breathes. Patrick can see how distracted he’s making David. Not only is he suggesting they do something spontaneous, he also gets a little dazed when Patrick gets handsy at work.

David leans forward, his lips an inch from his, “Make it noon, and you have a deal.”

Closing the distance and kissing his boyfriend softly before retreating, Patrick nods, “then it’s a date.”

But baby, I don’t know what I’m gonna do, I’m crying cuz I love you.

This lyric of course, pops in his head after a very stressful and taxing hike he makes his boyfriend take the next afternoon. Everything that can go wrong is going wrong. He’s ready to turn around and take his boy home. He’s so ready to throw in the towel because surely at this point there’s no way in hell David is going to say yes.

It pops in his head after his boyfriend carries him on his back for the last leg of their journey, after David assures he does indeed want to spend this time with him, no matter how much he may hate the activity.

He’s still not sure he’s going to go ahead with the plans until he sees David standing where he stood on so many mornings. He stood in the spot day after day thinking about this beautiful man he wanted to badly to kiss. 

It pops in his head again as David insists on setting up the picnic despite his protests. So, Patrick tells him where the blanket is, where the cheese is. 

When David pulls the champagne out he’s certain he can hear Lizzo singing that damn line in his head. He can write the champagne off, of course he can, but he doesn’t want to. 

It pops in his head as he slides off the rock he’s perched on and onto one knee. He tells David the story of this spot, he tells him he is the love of his life. Tears stream down his face at the look of shock and then joy on his boyfriend’s handsome face. He’s assures David he’s never been more sure of anything in his life.

He’s certain his heart explodes when he hears David utter the words, “It’s a yes. I love you.”

[alargebear]

Long Distance

Summary: A bit of distance wasn’t anything to worry about. Was what Riko told herself.

Pairing: ChikaRiko

Word count:2.9k

Link: AO3

Note: I wrote this for the ChikaRiko secret valentine for @starluck40 on twitter. Super sorry this is so late but work has been a lot lately.

The apartment's balcony was different. Riko looked out and saw the sprawl of a large city, a skyline littered with different, bright lights, and streets that bustled with all the commotion she’d thought to have left behind. Two years since the view had been something she saw every day of her life. A view that she wanted nothing more than to forget about when leaving Tokyo for the first time was back as it had never left.

Different from the gentle sounds of a small seaside town that she hoped to never leave, but life wouldn’t allow that. High school had to come to an end, which meant that a future that Riko once felt was so far off was upon her. Numazu didn’t have a school with the music program she’d always imagined herself in. Which meant leaving behind the place that became her home.

Leaving behind a school that she felt comfortable in. Leaving behind a group of friends that she found hope and acceptance in. Leaving behind a town that became home. Maybe worst of all leaving behind a simple, shining girl who changed her life forever.

It was a decision made on her own, and with the support of everyone whose opinion she cared for. A dream was meant to run toward, that was something Chika would always make sure she knew. So there was never any regret. No looking back thinking and wondering if it was the right decision to leave behind everything that became so dear.

There was never regret, it was a decision made with confidence, but that couldn’t fight back that budding loneliness. Even in classes filled to the brim with young, talented musicians, and streets packed with passersby shoulder to shoulder, there was a hope to see eight girls she missed. One more than the others.

“So, how was the first day?”

Riko sighed into the phone held against her cheek, even so far away, Chika’s voice was a balm that could soothe any anxiety.

“It was good,” Riko said.

“Just good?” Chika chuckled. “Isn’t this the school of your dreams? Shouldn’t the first day be shiny and magical.”

Riko laughed for the first time that day. “We didn’t really do anything. Just went over what we were going to do for the rest of the year, talked about everyone's interests and instruments, and stupid icebreakers that just made things more awkward.”

“I bet you’re awful at those.”

“Very funny.” Riko rolled her eyes at nobody. “Not everyone makes friends with the whole class on the first day, you know?”

“Maybe you should just try harder.” There was a playful mocking to Chika’s voice.

“No, icebreakers are stupid, and I don’t care if I am bad at them.”

“So, you are bad at them?”

“Shut up.” Riko leaned her elbows on the balconies railing, resting the phone against her shoulder. “Did you call me just to make fun of me?”

“Of course not.” Chika scoffed. “I haven’t talked to you in a week. I missed hearing your voice.”

Riko blushed, Chika’s blunt affection hitting her just as hard through the phone as it did in person. “I missed talking to you, too.”

A brief silence took hold, and Riko wondered how things would go. Only a week of no Chika that seemed so much longer. Sweaty palms gripped at the cool metal of the rail. She would need to get used to the distance that she knew was coming. It wasn’t a surprise, but that didn’t make it any easier. Seeing Chika every day had become the norm. Having to wait months between visits was weird, and just a bit scary.

“How are things at the inn?” Riko broke the silence, fearing thinking too much.

“Fine.” Chika’s voice was indifferent. “I’m mostly just cleaning and helping customers with luggage and stuff. My mom and sisters said I’d get more responsibilities when I’ve worked more.”

“Sounds like you’re working hard.” Riko smiled, soft and to nobody in particular.

“You should tell that to Mito.” Chika sighed. “I’ve gotta go soon. There’s this family coming in a little bit and we need to get some stuff ready for them.”

“Alright.” Riko’s smile dropped. “You’re going to call me more than once a week, right?”

“Duh. Since I don’t see you every day anymore how else am I going to get my dose of Riko?” Chika asked, but didn’t leave anytime for an answer. “I love you, Riko.”

Riko took in a sharp breath, the three words setting her heart aflutter. “I love you, too, Chika.”

A subtle click and Riko was once again left to the sounds of the busy streets below. She relished in the warmth in her stomach and flutter of her heart as her talk with Chika ended. The distance something new after two years of getting so lost in each other. A distance that would take time to acclimate to.

A sharp breeze brought with it a shiver despite it being late summer. With a deep breath, Riko turned, opening the sliding door and stepping into her apartment. The content warmth in her stomach replaced by a chill not yet cold enough to worry about.

The weeks passed, but the phone calls stayed the same. Like clockwork at the same time at the end of her day. A time that Riko found solace in amongst the hustle and bustle of a new, frightening, and exciting college life. The calls were moments she could lose herself in with the person she wanted to see more than any other.

Chika’s voice was still the same. Lovely and bubbly in a way that set Riko’s heart pounding. Warm enough, loving enough, that Riko could continue to bear the brunt of the feelings their new distance caused. They’d talked about this move, they knew the distance was coming. Riko couldn’t let that small seed of doubt take root. It would be unfair to Chika who cheered her on, whose encouragement lead her to chase a dream she’d had since childhood.

A bit of distance wouldn’t be enough to break what they had, Riko hoped.

“Sorry, I can’t talk very long tonight.”

Chika’s voice was frantic and stuttered over the phone. A sound that didn’t put Riko at ease.

“It’s alright, Chika,” Riko said, staring out over the city lights. She knew better than to lie, but she couldn’t bring herself to put more pressure on Chika. “You did say you were going to be busier lately.”

“I know, but I didn’t want it to cut into my time talking to you.”

Riko didn’t know how to respond, opting to stay quiet and bask in the sentiment. Always aware that Chika loved her, but hearing it put so plainly never failing to make her fall further.

“I’m sorry, Riko,” Chika said again. “We’re just getting so many new customers all the time, and my sisters are trying to teach me a whole bunch of stuff, too.”

“Don’t worry,” Riko answered without thinking. “I know you’re doing your best.”

“I love you a whole bunch.”

Riko blushed, not able to dwell on the sweetness too long, hearing familiar yelling that she’d come to learn was usually Mito. It meant things were coming to an end, and she gnawed on her bottom lip at the realization.  Bitting back a selfish urge to ask for Chika’s voice for a few minutes longer. Selfish and childlike, she thought, so she wouldn’t. Even if it wouldn’t help quell the twisting of her heart.

“It sounds like they need you to get back to work.” It was all Riko could find in herself to say.

“I guess,” Chika yelled something unintelligible back before returning, voice faster than before. “I’ll try and call tomorrow. Bye.”

“Bye, Chika.”

Riko hung up, staring at her phone with an unreadable expression. Inklings of doubt seeped into a mind that would have never questioned love before. Small enough that they were fought off with a simple shake of the head and reaffirming thoughts, but their presence scary altogether. She didn’t head back inside, choosing to bask in the crisp air of coming autumn. The chill offering comfort that never fit before, used to finding that comfort in the warmth of Chika.

It was already past the usual time. Riko checked down at her phone for the umpteenth time that night, standing out on her balcony once again in anticipation. Waiting for a call that she was becoming more and more sure was never going to come.

Not calling at all was new. Scary, and Riko dreaded anything that it meant, but new all the same. Chika had become incredibly busy with training to take up the mantle of her new life, the rational part of Riko understood that fact. Knowing that even if she wouldn’t be able to hear the voice of the girl she loved that things would be okay. They’d still be together, and the temporary distance wouldn’t wear that away. Chika wouldn’t let any of that happen, and deep down, Riko knew she wouldn’t either.

That wouldn’t make it easier. From becoming accustomed to seeing Chika every day, spending every possible moment together without wondering where the other was. To whatever it was they were dealing with now. Not even able to set up a routine phone call without those plans falling through.

Riko learned her wandering thoughts were no good. Dwelling on fears that once could be pushed out with the melodic sound of Chika’s voice. That comfort being gone only allowed those ugly, intruding thoughts to fester. Festering into an irrational fear that maybe, and only just maybe, things wouldn’t be alright.

Before sinking too far, her phone buzzed. Looking down at her hand, she saw the name she wanted.

I’m super sorry I can’t call you. We’re crazy busy again and Mito would kill me if she caught me slacking off. It’s gonna be like this all week so idk if I’ll be able to call or not. Sorry but I love you so so so so so much.

It wasn’t a phone call. The words on a screen only a band-aid fix to deepening trouble. Riko mulled it over, reading each line over and over and over. Trying, and with little success, to get that same reassurance that Chika could always bring. It wasn’t there. The comfort brought on by such a blunt love not conveyed in the same way in text. Missing a bubbly exuberance that Riko loved more than ever once thought possible.

It’s ok. I’ve got tons of homework anyway so it’s not a big deal. I love you too Chika.

A sigh as Riko pressed send. None of it a lie, but she knew none of it the full truth either. There was always homework, but there was never enough time talking to Chika. She couldn’t say that. Not if their many talks before graduation meant what she thought. All that time telling each other they’d be fine despite the distance, and they would, if Riko thought hard about it, but the new doubt was unexpected.

Over a year into a relationship where nothing ever had to be questioned. Where each other's love was always enough to quell even the biggest issue or patch over their biggest fights, but what happened when they couldn’t see each other? A question that Riko was learning she might not want the answer to.

Riko didn’t bother waiting for the phone calls the rest of the week, knowing full well it would be useless. Chika had been more than happy to keep her bombarded with text after text. Trying so obviously to make up for something that was out of her own control. The messages were sweet, just as anything from Chika tended to be, but they were texts.

The piano in front of her didn’t want to cooperate, and the dim light of her room made it all the more worse. Stuck in a way she hadn't been in well over two years. Fingers that grew accustomed to moving freely, uninhibited by fears of a distant past, sat frozen above the keys. Mind occupied with what she knew were senseless worries. Though senseless worries were still worries that chipped away at love once thought untouchable.

Running a hand through her loose hair, Riko sighed. Frustrated at her inability to focus, frustrated at how quick those past anxieties could come back, frustrated that even a hint of doubt could seep into her mind.

It wasn’t late, sometime in the midafternoon after finishing the day's classes, but Riko was done for the day. No hope in getting anything finished with a mind that couldn’t focus on anything but a need to see Chika. That need to reaffirm something she shouldn’t be doubting in the first place.

She thought of calling. Maybe hearing that voice would be enough to get her through another month as it did before, but that was selfish. Chika was busy, and Riko knew. It wasn’t her place to get in the way of that, and what would Chika think anyway? What would she think of these doubts of a love that Riko knew Chika never questioned? Would things still be the same if she told Chika she was scared of the unknown future they shared? That it only took a couple months apart for doubts, no matter how small, to seep in?

The knocking stopped Riko from spiraling too deep into her thoughts. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Ignoring the sound, she leaned forward over her piano, head down.

The knocking wouldn’t stop, only getting louder. Resigning herself to the fate of an awkward talk with some stranger, Riko got up and tiptoed toward the front door. Hoping if she took enough time they’d just go away on their own.

She was wrong. The knocking turned to banging and wondered what type of weirdo goes up to some strangers door and started beating. Hand on the handle she took in deep breaths. Getting better with these types of interactions over the years, but strangers were still scary, and this one too loud for her own good.

A click and the door was open. Riko stared, processing the orange hair and braid that were unmistakable.

“Riko!”

There wasn’t a wasted second. Arms were around Riko’s waist and she was pulled in tight by a girl she hadn’t seen in some months. Her hands were glued to her side as she processed. Chika was at her apartment in the big city holding her like they were still in Uchiura.

“What?” It was the only response Riko could find, still frozen in place.

“I came to see you.” Chika backed off, hands still on Riko’s side as she pressed a kiss to her girlfriend's cheek.

Riko floundered, opening and closing her mouth, trying for any words. Chika was with her, hugging her. Gone were pestering fears brought on by irrational doubt, replaced with the girl who held her close.

“Aren’t you happy to see me?” Chika smiled as wide as she could, teeth on full display.

Riko nodded, swallowing down a growing lump in her throat as she stared into Chika’s bright eyes. Another kiss to the cheek, forcing them a dark shade of red. The burst of affection too much.

“It was a good surprise, wasn’t it?” Chika asked, Riko again nodded. “I had to beg Mito to let me have this weekend off, but even then she wouldn’t let me. Shima had to tell her I deserved a break because I’ve been working so hard.”

Riko still stared, quiet. The entryway cool but Chika beyond warm as she was held in close. Overwhelmed she bit her lip, meeting your girlfriend face to face again for the first time in months wasn’t the time to cry, so she fought it back. It meant her voice couldn’t be trusted.

“What’s up?” Chika tiled her head, never letting go of Riko’s waist.  “You’re so quiet. I expected you to be all like ‘oh my god Chika you came to visit me you’re the best girlfriend ever’.”

Riko chuckled, covering her face with her hands to hide the embarrassment. “I just missed you so much.”

“So did I.”

Riko took a deep breath, face still hidden behind her fingers. “I’ve been so scared since we haven’t talked a lot lately, and I haven’t gotten to see you since I moved. I just didn’t know anymore. I love you so much and it’s hard not seeing you every day anymore.”

Quieter as things were laid bare. Riko quivered behind her makeshift defense her hands provided. Feeling silly trying to keep any of it hidden. Chika would notice if given enough time, it was just the type of girl she was, but being open about it scary. Even if she knew Chika would never judge her for it.

“Well.” Chika’s hands went from Riko’s waist up to her wrists, tugging down to reveal a deep red face with shimmering eyes. “I’m here now, and I’m going to try and come even more.”

At a loss again, Riko nodded. Fears driven off by a look in Chika’s eyes that wouldn’t leave any room for doubt.

The short distance between their faces closed before Riko could react. Lips on hers that she’d missed. Comfort found in the way Chika’s thumbs rubbed small circles on the underside of her wrist held with such care.

Riko pulled back first, mind only able to form a few words.

“I love you, Chika.”