#(and then back to >:( when his first attempt looks bad. it's okay Clip first tries always suck)

[lavenoon]

@naffeclipse Someone tell him to try fiber crafts or something. My vote is for needle felting <3

og detective au by sunnys-aesthetic!

[earlysunshines]

like you used to

minatozaki sana x fem!reader ; angst

synopsis: it’s raining it’s pouring no old man is snoring and you've run into your ex-girlfriend (aka the love of your life) after a year.

warnings: reader used to have bad habits (smoking, alcohol) ; sana is a sweetheart ; reader is avoidant ; ex's to...? ; my attempt at angst, not my forte... ; anything else I didn't mention

a/n: hey! so all i do is lie (change my mind too often) anyways this one is short I just had a random burst of motivation :-p feeling edgy, don’t expect more this is spontaneous;-;

one thing about where you live is that there’s always unexpected surprises — in this case, the weather went from partly cloudy at 5pm to sudden thunder and lightning.

great.

no umbrella, a drenched shoulder bag, and soaked clothes cling to you as you dash for cover. when you finally find refuge at the bus stop, there’s another surprise waiting for you.

light brown hair dampened by the rain, a side profile more beautiful than flowers in bloom, and a soft smile that could captivate you for centuries: minatozaki sana.

“shit,” you mutter under your breath, running under the roof of the stop. 

patting down your blazer and pleated pants, sana turns and widens her eyes slightly. you meet her halfway, meeting her gaze and shrinking despite being a few centimeters taller. 

she gasps – almost. “y/n?”

“sana,” you tighten your jaw, feeling a knot in your stomach. “hi.”

“you’re drenched.” she points out the obvious, rushing to pull out a handkerchief in her purse. “come here.” she says, stepping closer. 

you flinch, stepping back a bit and sana frowns.

“it’s fine, it’s nothing.” you assure, feeling stiff in your place. “use it for yourself.”

“i’m not as soaked as you are.”

“it’s fine, sana.” you add firmly, clutching the strap of your bag and wiping water off your cheeks. 

even when you turn back to face the road, attempting to dry yourself with your wet blazer, sana continues to stare. you feel her eyes piercing through you, the same sweet eyes that would look at you like you were her world before you messed up. you want to shrivel up and disappear, every second beside her is grueling.

you make the mistake of glancing back at her again, she’s somehow prettier than two seconds ago – and after a year of avoiding her. 

sana’s wearing a white dress with a white cardigan on top; everything she has on is pretty damp, so you assume she got luckier and found cover quicker than you. she has on light makeup, nothing too crazy, but either way, she’d still have you staring. her hair – now slightly wet – is clipped up with a bow, making her look like some sort of princess. a small sigh leaves your lips as you break away from her.

“the rain won’t stop anytime soon, how will you get home?” she asks you, voice sweet and careful. 

“bus.”

“i heard they’re delayed for thirty minutes.”

“i can wait.” you reply, staring at the ground. “it’s nothing.”

she sighs, then steps closer to you and holds your wrist. she grabs your attention again, both your eyes meeting in eye contact that makes your heartache; she has that effect.

“y/n,” she stays sternly, “i called an uber ten minutes ago, you’re coming with me.”

“no i’m not sana.”

“yes you are.” her grip on your forearm tightens, making you gulp lightly. 

you stare at her through your overgrown, wet bangs that cling to your forehead, sighing softly. the handkerchief she had in her hand now draws closer to your face. she gently uses it to wipe away the water from your forehead, cheeks, and nose. her touch is tender, and her eyes focus intently on you, making your heart flutter in your chest.

surrender is your first option – your only option. 

“okay.”

–

sana’s apartment is as homey as you remember, the same couch you’d talk and makeout for hours on is still clean and fresh. 

she steps in first, kicking off her loafers and walking towards the kitchen island. 

“come.” she says, and you follow without a word, taking off your own shoes and hanging your bag up on the rack you used to.

you follow and sit down at the chair she’d used to sit at when you cooked for her, playing chef and cracking stupid jokes as you fixed her a simple pasta. her place used to be a haven from whatever you had going on, but now it’s dissolving you with every second passing by.

sana disappears for a moment, giving you a brief respite. you take this time to try and recompose yourself, staring at the marble counter in front of you. despite your efforts to push them down, memories you tried so hard to lock away from the light resurface, flooding your mind and making your heart ache with their intensity.

“here,” you jump at the soft sound of sana’s voice, looking up to see her handing you a towel – your towel.

“thank you.” grabbing it, you pat yourself down. sana hands you shorts and a t-shirt, also yours. 

“you never came back to get them.” she mumbles, sitting down next to you and searching for something in your eyes. “you know that?”

“i do.”

“mhm.” she looks even deeper, twisting you from the inside and out. “you should change.”

you nod.

–

by the time you finish changing, you find yourself staring at your reflection in the mirror for a moment too long, lost in a brief moment of reminiscing. shaking off the memories, you finally return to the kitchen, feeling all too much at once.

there’s a candle lit and hot ginger tea on the counter in sana’s favorite mug. she’s leaning against the counter near the stove, staring at her own cup.

you sit down and place both hands on either side of the mug. sana hums softly, “you should drink some, you’ll get sick.”

“it’s fine, i’ll get going soon anyway.”

“no you won’t.”

“and you’re the one who’s in charge of that?”

“stay the night, it’s not like you haven’t before y/n.” she sighs, looking at you with hurt in her features. “besides, i won’t let you go back. if you do, i know just seeing me will prompt you to drink and drink, maybe you’ll even light a cigarette or two if you’re sober enough to pull them out the pack.” she spits, sending a dagger through your chest.

you try to respond, but your throat dries up in the process. instead, you take a sip of the tea, not uttering a single word.

the air is weighed down with a palpable tension, like the elephant in the room sits on top of you two.

she sets her mug down, then walks over to lean against the counter in front of you, watching your head hang lower and hands run to the back of your neck.

“i’m sorry.”

“you should be.”

leaving with nothing but a note, a text, and then blocking her? sana deserves more than a sorry, but she’s grateful that you’re muttering it at all.

“i couldn’t face you.” you feel your throat closing in on itself again. “i don’t want you to be stuck on me.”

“y/n, i love you, nothing is ever going to change that even after you ghosted me.”

the whole reason you did all of that was simple: you’re an insecure, avoidant coward.

sana was and still is set up on a pedestal, one that would take lightyears to climb. she's beautiful, cunning, charming, and caring. you had never known anyone as loving as her. it was dangerous having a person so cozy and warm jump into your life when you've always been so cold and uneasy.

two years with sana were enough to create memories that would make you smile just thinking about them, but they could also send you into a spiral.

lingering in your mind were thoughts screaming for you to leave her, insisting you weren't enough and that she would be better off without you. it wasn’t jealousy of anyone else, you were too clouded with your flaws to care about that; it was the belief that you should dig yourself into a ditch so sana would realize she shouldn’t waste her time on someone like you.

she witnessed your moments of weakness. once a month, you'd drink until you couldn’t formulate a thought, and smoke to avoid confronting your problems and the personal hassles you hid from her. the monthly occurrence turned into a bimonthly thing, and then weekly nearing the end of your relationship. and still, sana would be by your side each time, making sure you were okay.

you were an asshole, and you had to pry yourself away from her somehow.

“just give up sana.”

“y/n,” you feel hands on your cheeks, cupping them and tilting your head up to meet her face sculpted by the angels above. “stop that.”

your brows upturn. “you stop that.”

“i’m not doing anything.”

“that’s the problem.”

sana rubs your cheeks like she used to, her long nail just barely grazing your skin in the process. you sink in your place, eyes avoiding hers.

“we don’t have to talk about it now, but stay. i want you safe, even if it’s just for tonight.”

“don’t do this to yourself, you’ll only hurt more.”

“there’s nothing that hurts more than knowing you’ll have a fever, it’s okay.”

without warning, she leans in, hugging you softly. sana’s warmth and softness envelop you, and you feel like you’ll freeze her, turning her rigid with your coldness.

sana feels your body go stiff, but when she rubs her back, you’re already sinking into her. she’s spent time to take care of herself, but nothing beats the way she cares for you, or just the feeling of being with you.

you had your flaws, but sana saw right past them and into your heart.

even if you didn’t think it, you were sana’s rock. sweet and caring, a sight for sore eyes, and the warmth she needed after a long day. she could talk to you about anything, and you’d be there to listen and soothe her worries, your smile easily easing the tension in her shoulders.

after countless tries (well, two, because sana couldn’t see anyone but you after that setup with momo’s friend on a whim), she had accepted that no one else could fill your spot in her life.

she feels tears soaking the material of her t-shirt, hearing you sniffle lightly into her.

sana pulls away, holding your face again. she looks at you with a mix of pity, regret, anger, and sorrow, maybe a little relief too. you’re back with her, she’s unsure of whether or not you’re still as vulnerable, but it doesn’t matter.

“it’s okay.”

“i’m an asshole.”

“you are,” she agrees, then wipes a tear from your eye. “but everyone has their reasons.”

she lets you stain her shirt with a few more tears before gently coaxing you to join her on the couch. it will take a long time to rebuild what you once had, but sana is willing to try, and you are too—especially when she holds you close, her hand rubbing your back comfortingly.

you’ve always thought you didn’t deserve her. 

but sana won’t let you let go so easily. she refuses to back down without a fight, and neither will you – not this time.

[kaylopolis]

Alastor's Shadow (18+) Chapter Three

Alastor x F!Reader, Alias: Thestral

Synopsis: There’s a new Overlord in town and it isn’t the Radio Demon. Six years after you fell into Hell, you have finally earned your seat at the table as Pentagram City’s newest and baddest and with the Extermination coming six months sooner than planned, it is now time to implement your ultimate endgame. Afterall, who doesn’t love a bit of power and chaos? Your plans brings you to the doorstep of the Hazbin Hotel as Charlie’s newest Redeemer, but who you find waiting for you will not only turn your entire plan upside down, but also challenge your grab for power… 

Tags: Slow burn, rivals to lovers, eventual smut 

Masterlist Link: Masterlist

____________________________________________

Author note: Okay Hoteliers, this was my first attempt at some spice. I'm open to constructive criticism! I am a published author but spice is something I am new to and not confident in. Any suggestions are welcome :)

<3 Stay smutty.

Chapter Three - Care for a Drink?

Content warning: mentions of blood, mentions of abuse

You were late. 

“Not me! I have to go home and study!" Sir Pentious’ voice echoed through the foyer as you stepped in, nearly missing the first few drops of acid rain. 

You were at the Clocktower when the clouds rolled in and threatened to melt your skin off. Unclipping your Mary Jane’s, you took off down the street, doing your best to avoid the trash piling outside the Doomsday District. Out of breath and, with mere seconds to spare, you finally rolled up to the Hotel only to find that Charlie had started without you. 

Well, you did say one and it was now twenty minutes past. 

“Come on kid, it'll make you cool like me …the crackhead." Angel did not sound amused. 

You rounded the corner to find Angel and Sir Pentious reading from scripts and dressed in… Costumes? 

"The only cool thing here is to say no to drugs! Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to not have sexual intercourse before marriage!" Sir Pentious chimed. 

You snorted into your hand at the sight of Sir Pentious in his sailor-like child costume, complete with large lollipop in hand. 

“Hey, Hair clip,” Angel frowned, clearly irritated with his current situation. 

You couldn’t blame him. If these were the exercises Charlie had in mind, you don’t know how long you would last either. 

Then he eyed your feet and your dress. “What the fuck happened to you?” 

“Huh! You made it!” Charlie jumped to her feet and slammed into you with a hug so powerful it knocked you backwards. 

“Ouch!” You rolled back on your heels, pushing your blisters into the hardwood flooring. 

“Oh, no! I’m so sorry! What’s wrong! I didn’t… I didn’t mean to hurt you. Did I hurt you?” Her eyes begin to fill with tears, her pupils growing big. 

Before you had a chance to deny vehemently, Vaggie cut in. “I think it’s her feet, babe.” 

She took a step back, giving everyone a view of your blistered toes. Your feet were normal - human shaped, that is - and although you had the same ashen complexion as Charlie, your limbs blackened at the ends, beginning at your elbows and knees. The dark fur hid the grime now encasing your toes, but not the blisters rubbed raw and bleeding red.

“Yeah, that doesn’t look so good, toots,” Angel frowned. 

It had to be the heels. Rosie was right, you did need new shoes. 

“It’s not that bad,” you waved them off, heading for the stools at the bar. 

“Your wincing,” Charlie motioned to you. “She’s wincing.” 

“Oh no! You are in pain,” Sir Pentious cried. 

“Guys, seriously. I don’t… Ah!” Angel scooped you up into his arms, carrying you to the stairs. 

You tried to protest but he interrupted you. “I got a first aid kit in my room. It’s not a big deal.” His voice was stern, his jaw set. You took this not as a rescue for yourself but a rescue for him. He needed an excuse to get away. 

“Wait! Wait!” Nifty sprinted around, taking a photo of the two of you before heading back for the couch. 

“What the fuck was that?” You asked Angel.

“Charlie put Nifty in charge of the Hotel’s Sinstagram,” the spider demon rolled his eyes. “Don’t look at it. It’s a clusterfuck of a whole lot of nothin’. Mostly bugs and shit she’s found around the joint.”

“Great,” you mumbled, letting the spider demon whisk you away. 

____________________________________________

“I seriously don’t know how you walk in shoes like that every day!” You motioned to his ridiculously high heeled boots. 

“Practice, toots. You don’t get as good as me by lyin’ on your back… Wait.” 

You laughed as you pulled your other sock on, careful not to ruin the bandages Angel oh-so delicately wrapped around your feet. For a Porn Star he sure knew his first aide. You knew it was because of Val, of course, but he didn’t know that you knew… 

Never in your years of working have you ever thought about the victim. At least not with sympathy. You enjoyed the chaos, you enjoyed the killing, you enjoyed the fear. Now, something in your chest was twisting itself at the thought of Val placing his hands on Angel. 

Angel was such a soft and adorable person, you couldn't fathom Val hurting…

Stop! 

You flinched, covering up the action with a cough. You got to your feet, testing their durability. “You, uh, wanna head back down?” 

His smile faded. “Nah, I’m gonna lay low for a bit.” Turning to the pig, he collected him in his arms, side glancing the pink phone laying on the bed. “I’m sure Charlie is just dyin’ to dress you up next.” 

You paused. “Okay.” That thing in your chest twisted again, rooting you in place before the door.

You sighed. 

Fuck. 

“I have to change before I head to the bar, but I have some lemon sweets in my room that I know Fat Nuggets would love if you wanna join me.” You ran your hand down the pig’s snout, earning a squeal from the little ball of squish. 

You could tell he was debating it by the look on his face, but wasn’t convinced. 

“And chocolate,” you sang.

That caught his attention. 

“Alright,” you helped him off the bed. “But only a piece, Fat Nuggets is watching his figure.” 

You laughed as you headed for the room next to his humble abode, pulling the door wide and gesturing to the couch for him to take a seat. 

“Wow, nice place ya’ got here,” he let the pig loose to sniff about the room. 

It was. Your room was almost double the size of Angel’s and included a small sitting area. Wonder why he got the short end of the stick? 

Then you wondered who else might have seen your room… perhaps without you knowing? You set a mental reminder to place some runes later - keep Alastor and his shadow out. Not that you had anything alarming in here. All the important stuff was kept in your personal Void. 

You grabbed the leftovers from the club you got stuck with and moved them to the coffee table. Grabbing a lemon square, you let Fat Nuggets crawl onto your lap as you sat cross-legged on the ground. The small creature squirmed in your lap till you finally handed him the sweet. 

Angel helped himself to your pile of chocolates - you hated chocolate, but didn’t want them to go to waste. Thankfully, he left his phone in his room. 

“You know,” you started, unsure of where you were going with this. “I’m new here, but sometimes new people observe things others might not notice - a third party perspective if you will.” 

“A-ha,” he eyes you suspiciously. 

“Sometimes they notice things others may be trying to hide…” You were hoping he would get the point and pick up where you were leading him.

“What are you tryin’ to say, Hair clip?” He ignores the chocolates completely, turning to you with irritation sprawled across his face. 

“Ugh,” you huff. “I’m sorry I’m not good at this stuff - feelings and trying to comfort others.” You clear your throat, resisting the urge to rub the back of your neck. “It seems like something is wrong and I was wondering if you wanted to talk about it?” You avoided eye contact, this was uncomfortable enough. 

“I’m fine,” he shot you down, tossing a chocolate into the air and catching it in his mouth. 

“I know what it’s like to come from a place of… neglect.” You continue anyway. “To be trapped in a situation you cannot control. To be a victim with no power, forced to do things you didn’t wanna do…” Your voice cracked. When had you started tearing up? “And when you try to speak up, to refuse to do something that would harm others…”

“Hey, hey,” Angel was on his knees before you, cupping your cheeks, soothing you with shushes. He smiled when you finally looked up at him. 

“You’re gonna ruin all your beautiful makeup, Hair clip.” 

You giggled into his hands, your heart warming just a bit. 

God, what was it about this Hotel that made you so emotional? 

“Look,” Angel huffed. “My boss has just been gettin’ on my nerves lately. He doesn’t like that I moved out. He’s pissed actually. Been blowing up my phone for days, but it’s nothing that I can’t handle.” He rubbed your cheek with his thumb. “I’m managing, I just need some time to work through some things ‘tis all. Alright, toots?” 

You knew it wasn’t alright. You’ve heard some pretty infamous stories of the moth demon - yet another reason you have steered clear of the Vees - but Angel was at a point that if you kept prodding, he’d most likely just flip you off and disappear for the rest of the day. Pushing him would be a step back and you needed to take a step forward. 

“Okay,” you pouted, wiping your face with your sleeves. God this dress needed to be thrown away.

“Now let’s get changed because I need a drink!” He pulls you to your feet before heading for your clothes. Pulling open your closet door he was shocked to find it empty. Your drawers were no better. 

“Seriously?” He waved to the black abyss. 

“I’ve been low on cash lately… but I just got paid and new clothes are on the way.” 

He held up a pair of black slacks. “Please tell me they’re from this century?” 

You ripped the pants from his hands. “I happen to like my clothes, okay.”

“Okay, grandma,” he shrugs. “One of these days, you gotta let me take you shopping. Your closet is an insult to closets.” 

“Ha, ha very funny.” You grab a blouse and head for the bathroom. 

“Do you even own a pair of sweatpants?” He asks through the door. 

“I have silk pajama bottoms?” 

He pauses. “Okay, actually impressed by that, but I think I’ve made my point.” 

“Whatever,” you emerge from the bathroom, shoving the gray blouse into your pants, giving you that hourglass figure. 

Actually, now that you had Angel’s attention maybe he could help with some of your wardrobe problems. Starting with your feet. 

“Do you know where I can get a new set of heels?”

————————————————————————

“Hey, whiskers! Pour me something strong, daddy needs a drink!” Angel took the stool next to you. 

Husk huffed, rolling his eyes, the bar cat grabbed a random bottle and just started pouring. “Feeling better?” He asked you.

You nodded, twirling in circles on the barstool. You dangled your toes as you spun, smiling at the fact that your feet didn’t touch the ground. 

That was probably the one thing you got from Dad you didn’t mind - your height. You and your brothers were short as fuck, but mightier than you looked: fierce beings in tiny packages. Yet, despite the roughhousing between siblings, you were always obedient - Dad wouldn’t have it any other way. 

As for Mom? Well, you didn’t have one. You and your siblings never did. You didn’t know the story but then again you never asked. It didn’t seem like something you asked your father. He wasn’t the type to… share certain things with you. He wasn’t closed off, he just didn’t treat you like kids. Dad treated you like soldiers. He commanded and you obeyed. 

And at one point in time you were okay with it. Dad said jump, you said how high? Now… After everything that happened on Earth, you promised yourself you’d never let anyone tell you what to do again. 

“You wouldn’t happen to have a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon behind that bar of yours would you? It’s my favorite.” You beamed. 

“Wine?” Angel scoffs. “Come on toots, I thought you were a lot harder than that.” The spider demon downed half his drink before Husk had even finished pouring it. 

“Watch it!” Husk snaps. 

“I’m not a hard liquor kinda gal,” you shrugged, watching Husk wipe up the spilled alcohol. “I like to sip and enjoy.”

“Fuck that,” Angel scoffed, examining the new stain on his shirt. “Damn, this is my favorite top.” He grumbled, getting to his feet. “I’ll be back. I gotta spray it before it sets.” The spider demon made his way back upstairs. 

Husk waited till Angel was gone before he made your drink next. A glass of red wine in a metal red wine glass - how on the nose. Maybe your lipstick smear won't look as gross.

“I thought I’d give you a heads up, the Princess and her girlfriend went out shopping this morning and got ya’ a little something. Syrups and flavoring for the coffee machine. She’s gonna surprise you at breakfast. Just thought I’d let ya know. You don’t seem the kind who enjoys surprises,” he finishes pouring your glass. 

You sniffed before you tasted, letting the smell of currants and oak swim in your nostrils. It was smokier than you expected, but the tannins made your taste buds sing. 

God, you missed the wine from before Hell, before your entire world flipped on end… 

“Thanks, Husk.” 

He leans back against the counter behind the bar, a look of hesitancy on his face that said he wasn’t done talking yet. You sensed giving you a heads up about breakfast tomorrow wasn’t the reason why he asked to speak with you. 

“What?” You asked, after his silent gaze became uncomfortable. 

“Look. No one gives a shit what you did before you got down here. You’re down here, same as the rest of us, but you gotta watch what you say in… mixed company.” 

“What does that mean?” You scrunched your nose in confusion. 

“This mornin’, at breakfast.” 

He was referring to your small nugget of honesty at the table - your slip of suggested murderer status topside. He was referring to Alastor. 

Rosie told you the stories - things only she knew about the Radio Demon. He was a serial killer turned cannibal during his days amongst the living - wasn’t caught either. He died in some sort of hunting accident - explains the deer form. After his death, he rose to power faster than anyone had ever seen, took down some big important Overlords too, projecting their screams over his radio broadcasts. 

God, what a sight that would have been.

He showed up out the blue a few weeks ago after disappearing for seven years. Uprooted Husk and Nifty and planted them at the Hotel - he owned their souls, they had to obey. 

He had business with the Princess, but no one knew what - mere rumors, but nothing good. Whatever it was, you needed to find out. 

If his plans got in the way of yours, you were going to need to do something. You didn’t know what it was you were going to do, but eliminating him wasn’t going to be simple. 

“So?” You took a longer sip, needing the alcohol for yet another emotional conversation. 

“You’re not stupid kid.” He crosses his arms over his chest, ignoring the glass of whiskey before him. That’s how you knew he was serious. 

“Look,” you took the stem of the metal cup between your first two fingers and twirled it about. The glass danced on the edge of its base, twirling like a ballerina on a stage. Husk watched the movement, eyeing the liquid as it spun. “This place is about redemption, correct? So, shouldn’t I be a little honest about my sins, that way I can atone for what I’ve done?” 

His eyes were glued to the glass as he responded, “There’s a difference between honesty and painting a target on your back.” 

“You mean painting a target on my back in front of him,” you corrected. 

He finally met your eyeline, “He’s dangerous, kid…”

You hold up a hand, interrupting him, “You can save your lecture, Husk. I already got it from Rosie this morning.”

His eyes grow a few sizes. “Rosie? The Overlord?” 

“No, Rosie the tailor. It seems the Radio Demon and I have similar tastes in fashion.” Another sip - no, a gulp. The glass was practically empty already. You continued your twirl. 

So much for slowly enjoying it…

Husk drained his glass, “I’m not gonna bullshit you, kid.” He pours himself another. “He asked me to keep an eye on you.”

You freeze, the hair on the back of your neck standing on end. “What?” You bite. 

“I suspect it’s not because he’s concerned for your well-being, either.” The cat demon adds. 

So, Alastor the Overlord had his suspicions - going not only to Rosie but Husk as well. It appears poking and prodding during his battle with Sir Pentious was enough to raise his alarms. You were going to have to be very careful from here on out. Alastor was a ticking time bomb without a timer and you were going to have to do something to prevent him from exploding. 

Perhaps you should do something to throw him off. Make yourself appear weaker than he expects. Get into a fight which you lose on purpose to a demon far weaker than yourself. Would that be enough or would he know Husk had warned you? Would he expect you to do something to completely negate his suspicions only to make him look at you even more closely? 

Fuck - you didn’t know what to do. 

“So, he didn’t say why,” you finished the glass, gritting your teeth in frustration. 

Husk laughs. “He doesn’t explain anything to me and he ain’t about to start.” 

Great, so Rosie was going to be your only insight into the red demon. 

Unless… 

Unless, you befriended him yourself. Now that would really throw him for a loop.

“Hey, where did you learn to do that with the glass…?” Husk begins to ask but is interrupted. 

“Get your aggressively average body OFF OF ME!” Sir Pentious’ scream echoes throughout the foyer. 

You and Husk fly to the library to find Angel wrestling the snake demon to the ground. Charlie and Vaggie followed soon after. 

“What’s going on?” Charlie asks, concern flitting between the two demons. 

“This little bitch is a traitor!” Angel moves aside a pile of books to reveal a video camera.

Vox.

Sir Pentious flies into a panic, summoning the media demon on his watch, demanding evacuation.

Pathetic honestly. You’re not sure you would have responded any better to the snake demon than Vox had. Not that you wanted to agree on anything with the leader of the Vees, you detested the sore excuse for an Overlord and wanted nothing to do with him.

Yes, you fixed his bowtie earlier today, but he looked so… pathetic standing in that alleyway. It actually kind of irritated you now that you think of it. A demon of that caliber throwing tantrums in a random back alley? Come on man, get yourself together.  

Vaggie pulls out her spear, prepared to skewer the snake, before Charlie interrupts. “It starts with sorry…”

Ah, fucking kill me. Little Ms. Bleeding Heart everyone. 

As you watched the events unfold, you felt static zip down your spine. Almost as if you were being watched. 

You spun and searched the shadows but there was no one there. Wait, no one you could see. Rosie told you of Alastor’s shadow, how it could hide him in darkness, how it could detach from his form and do his bidding elsewhere. You were going to have to take that into account when sneaking out at night - double check every shadow and second guess every dark corner. 

“Good first day! Let’s get some rest.” Charlie guided him back to his room. 

You waited until the hallways were empty before taking a step towards the abandoned watch. 

“Would you like to do the honors or shall I?” You ask the darkness. 

There’s a pop of static before the Overlord melts from the floor, scooping up the electronic device. He crushes it beneath his fingers in a burst of electricity. You watch as Vox’s image blurs before dying. 

Alastor drops the plastic and metal to the floor before addressing you. “You knew I was there,” he purrs, his radio a silent static, his back to you. 

“Saw the shadows move,” you answer coolly. Technically a lie, but you weren’t about to tell him that you could feel his presence before he entered a room, that you could feel his shadow follow you. 

Alastor spun, his eyes narrowing on your form, kicking the butterflies in your stomach into a flurry. God, his eyes. They glowed red, like crystals in a fire. A fire that ignited something foreign within you.

The double doors behind you slammed shut causing you to jump.

And then they locked. 

You were alone, alone, and trapped with the Radio Demon and one of Hell’s finest Overlords. 

He takes a step towards you, his microphone slipping into the Void as his eyes, half-lidded, slowly slide over your form. The gesture, so simple, had you frozen in place where you stood. His pupils constricted, his smile curling, you watched as Alastor transformed into the predator he was born to be. Like a prey before its kill, he honed in on you, identifying you as prey.

You pull your hands behind your back, threading your fingers so he doesn’t see them shake so he can’t see just how much power his gaze alone had over you.

He takes another step, still ten feet away yet so, so close. 

You take an imperceptibly small step back.

Why are you so nervous right now? It’s just the Radio Demon. This man is not a threat. He’s just a Human Sinner. 

He takes another. 

Shit. 

His smile deepens, sensing the hesitation, the worry, the anxiety building in your chest. 

Was it getting harder to breathe in here? 

You force your lips into a thin line, force your body to stand ramrod straight. You will not back down. Overlord or not, you will not let him win this game of intimidation. You were a fucking god down here in Hell. The Radio Demon didn’t know it, couldn’t know it, your entire plan rode on him never knowing it, so why was every instinct in your body screaming at you to not back down? To not play the powerless victim you were supposed to be?

Alastor thought you a mouse and he a cat, but he was oh-so wrong. You were a fucking lion. You were an…

In one breath the Radio Demon closes the distance, stopping a foot away from you, your toes barely brushing his shoes. The demon was close enough that you could smell the rye on his breath; the liquor washed over you and made your toes curl. Of course, he drank something so sophisticated. Not vodka; not rum; but a dark liquor that burned on the way down. Like the fire in your veins.

He wasn’t drunk, perhaps just a nightcap? He didn’t seem like the type who ever got drunk. Getting drunk would leave one vulnerable and would leave one weak. Alastor would never allow that. He cared too much for his appearance. 

You go very very still as he reaches a hand out to you, his eyes suddenly captivated with your cheek. The tip of his claw tickles your skin, drawing a gasp from your lips, sucking the breath from your lungs and kicking your heart into a beat so loud you couldn’t hear anything else but its pounding in your ears. 

Crimson fire ignites behind Alastor’s eyes, his smile curling at the tips as his hand dances to a stray strand of hair. Shivers explode down your spine as he tucks it behind your ear, pausing to appreciate your neck. His eyes hone in on your jugular, almost as if he could see the blood rushing through your veins, almost as if he could taste it.  

The demon licks his lips drawing your eyes to his perfectly shaped mouth, to the sharp teeth behind it. What would it feel like to have those razor-sharp canines sink into your flesh? To allow Alastor a taste of the blood pumping through your veins?

A moment of clarity suddenly hit you at the sudden realization of just how much control you had lost. To allow Alastor to taste you? What were you doing? 

Swat his hand away. Bite his head off. Stab him in the gut. Eviscerate him where he stands. Kill...

The demon pulls you away from your thoughts as his finger moves south to your collarbone, eliciting a blush across your cheeks and igniting a warmth in your belly that traveled down, pooling between your legs. 

There it was again, that scent wafting through the room. The same scent you smelled off of Vox in the alley. You had never smelled something so sweet from a demon before - like warm vanilla heating on a stove. Yet now, it was coming from you.  

Something at the periphery of your power shifts. Like a second presence has joined yours, you try to think but your mind grows numb as Alastor’s dances across your collarbone. Delicately, so as not to draw blood, he follows it to the dip at the base of your neck. You swallow dryly and watch as Alastor’s eyes follow your throat’s bob. 

The demon pauses, a question swimming behind his eyes before he slowly - oh-so painfully slowly - wraps his hand around your throat. 

God-be-damned, you have never had another creature’s hand at your throat, and God-be-damned if you didn’t enjoy it. 

The demon squeezed, not enough to cut off your air supply, but just enough to send your mind spinning. A small moan escapes your lips. Alastor’s eyes shot to yours, a look of surprise filled them before they darkened. His smile shifted into that of a lopsided grin, a smirk of satisfaction. 

And then you feel it. 

You shove Alastor away from you, your mind sobering at the realization of what the Radio Demon was trying to do. 

You both pause for a moment, trying to catch your breath, before the demon takes a bow. “Goodnight, Ms. Thestral.” The shadows swallow him whole. 

You wait until you can't feel his presence anymore before you bang your head against the wall and scream. “Fuck!” 

It was all a big FUCKING distraction! He was prodding you to read your soul - to read your power. Just like you had tried to do that day he battled Sir Pentious. And you had caught him. He didn’t get far, but your reaction confirmed everything for him. 

He knew you had power. 

He knew you were a threat. 

And he knew you wouldn’t back down easily. 

You were fucked.

Link to Chapter Four

Masterlist Link: Masterlist

[jawllines]

But how could she voice this? Nobody else had made her request it explicitly, so she really wasn’t sure what to request. Any version of her saying it just sounds more and more pathetic, to speak the words aloud would be embarrassing. 

“You want me to stay?” Harry offered, after some time, and she was grateful for it as she nodded, “Just in the room?” 

Her face feels warm as her eyes glance over to the other side of her bed, “It’s. . .it’s a big bed,” she told him, swallowing thickly, “You can lay down if you're tired.” 

Harry’s lips quirk into a tiny, halfway smile, and Y/N had seen that look enough to know some form of a taunt typically follows it, “Oh I see,” he began, lifting himself up onto her bed and crawling over her body to get to the side she offered, “Was this a ploy to get me into your bed? You could have just asked, Sweetheart, but I would have asked for dinner first.” 

or

Y/N finds out a secret and Harry finds a rat 

part 1

part 2

iii.

Y/N has never been so embarrassed.

The hike was her idea; granted, she’s not a big hiker to begin with, and she hardly believes the sneakers she wore were meant for more than casual ambling in a park — but she thought it could be fun. After being cooped up in her flat for a little over a week, she was desperate just to breathe in the fresh air and feel the sun on her skin. It was one thing to be locked away when the weather was bitter and uninhabitable, but it was finally getting warmer, and whispers of Spring were carried in the wind. An open window could only preclude her feelings of claustrophobia for so long before she needed to go outside.  

Since Harry could typically get Thomas to agree to things she’d never thought he might agree to before, he was the one she asked. However, due to the recent attempted kidnapping, even he seemed reluctant to the proposal and Y/N had imagined her plans had fallen through before they’d even truly been constructed. At least she did until Harry sent her a message a little past midnight the following night, with a link that directed her to a trail’s website. Would this be okay? His message read, and Y/N grinned so hard her cheeks were sore as she replied with “Yes!” ten times. 

Y/N is not one who would find joy in exerting herself but she was filled to the brim and gushing with an eagerness she hasn’t felt since being a child, the night before visiting a zoo. She did not for a second consider how sore she’d probably be, especially from the number of hills this trail included along the side of what wasn’t big enough to be a mountain but was certainly large enough to give the illusion. All she could focus on was the thought of the wind kissing her face and the sound of morning birds singing. Aching muscles be damned, she could just take a hot bath when they got back, and maybe she could persuade Harry to massage her feet if it was that bad. 

By the time Y/N woke up Friday morning, Harry was already in her kitchen preparing breakfast but that was hardly shocking. It was her second time witnessing him outside of a pressed suit and she couldn’t say that she was disappointed; Harry looked awfully cute in his hiking clothes. A hoodie that swallowed him up, athletic shorts pulled over black leggings, and a pair of bright red shoes that she could not imagine him plucking out of a store. A beanie was nestled over his head, but he had a hair clip locked around the edge of it, almost like he had it on standby in case he got too warm. 

He turned to face her, smiling warmly as he flipped a pancake, “I didn’t know if you had a water bottle, so I brought an extra one,” he greeted her, “And I bought some of those warm packs you activate by shaking in case it’s chillier than we anticipated.” 

“We need to get a stroller for your kitties so they can come too,” Y/N told him, as she hiked herself up on the barstool beside the counter, Harry working on the side adjacent to her. She rested her face against her fist, watching him putter around putting together the meal. There was something imminently gratifying about putting a man to work in her kitchen while she swung her legs and waited patiently to be fed, so she reveled in that feeling while he answered. 

“I actually do have a stroller,” he told her, “But since this is our first time, I thought it would be better to see the trail before bringing them.” 

With a sigh, Y/N agreed. Harry has brought them over three times since the first and Y/N enjoyed every second of it – he’d explained to her that as long as she doesn’t mind, he’ll bring them over often. This way he gets to spend extra time with them while he’s working and Y/N gets her animal fill as they meander throughout her flat, making it their second home. He’s even left them there overnight once, when he would be returning the following morning but wasn’t necessarily going home (their schedules make no sense to her, not even a little, and she wondered when the hell they ever slept), and Y/N really liked that. She woke up to Gremlin at her feet and Goose nestled against her breast beneath the blankets (and if she hadn’t been so sure that moving would stir them both, she would have taken a picture to send to him). 

They ate breakfast and Y/N pulled on an outfit she hoped would be multifunctional no matter what weather they would face or how much exerting herself would make her sweat. Even the walk to the parking garage lifts her with excitement, happy to finally be leaving the flat. 

“You’re awful chipper,” Harry remarked, following close behind her, his fingers looped around his keys, “Normally for this early in the morning, you’ve grumbled about something by now.” 

Y/N rolled her eyes, “Of course I’m chipper,” she walked around to the passenger seat of the car, “I’m free for a little while! You forget that I’m fucking stuck in there until someone breaks me out, while you can come and go as you see fit, really.” She smiled at the thought of the sun hitting her face, “It’s going to be so nice today too – I can’t wait.” 

“Mm, it is going to be nice,” he agreed mildly, “I’ll keep you out for as long as I can, yeah? But I’m sure Thomas will be blowing my phone up.” He smiled gently, “Things are still. . .fresh.” 

Y/N buckled herself in, brows dipped, “Hm? Did you guys not catch the guy? I thought you did and that’s the only reason I’m being uncaged.” 

“We did,” Harry’s lips straightened out, a dubious glint flickered past his gaze before he snuffs it out, “For the most part.” 

“For the most part?” She repeated with a small sigh – she wasn’t in the mood for twenty questions, she just wanted him to be straightforward.

Harry hummed, “Yes, they found the “mugger” –  it was his son,” Y/N’s brows raised, “Both have been dealt with appropriately for now but of course, everyone is still concerned that this wasn’t just an isolated incident. Things are going to be. . .a little tighter lately, so I was surprised Thomas agreed to this in the first place, but I did push pretty hard.” 

She smiled and nudged his shoulder, “That’s why I like you,” she told him, “Dunno’ what you’re doing to bewitch him but keep doing it, I like doing things.” 

The day had started out so well; Y/N isn’t sure how Harry had found this trail but it was pretty. It started out as a gravel patch of parking lot with a big wooden sign that read Green Haven Trail in big, bold letters, and to the left of it, a small brick building housing a restroom. It had rained last night, so the air smelled of moist earth and morning dew, and it’s a scent that she believes she normally takes for granted. Right now she isn’t though – right now she feels it slip through her nares, down to her lungs. She was more than pleased that it isn’t humid or else each breath would feel wet, and her skin would feel sticky, and she thinks that would have made her sad. Her first time out of the flat in how long, only to be accosted by unpleasant weather? Surely, she’d just lock herself in her room at that point. 

Most of the trail was paved but there were clear sections deeper in, where people had broken off from the designated path and wore down the grass and foliage to create a new route. If she couldn’t see where this off-path trail led, then she wouldn’t have suggested they go near it, but she could make out that it guided them to a mini waterfall from a creak. And after the rain, she knew it would be overflowing and beautiful, so she suggested they go toward it with the best pleading gaze she could give him (though it certainly wasn’t necessary – she believes Harry is a man of strong will typically, but if she asks him for something he typically gives in pretty easy). 

For a moment he seemed hesitant but eventually agreed, so they went toward it, and Y/N marveled at the rocks, the surfaces altering from smooth to rough and jagged, how the water toppled over them dropping down into the large well of the creek. If the weather was just a little warmer she would suggest sticking her feet in but it was still a little too brisk for it. So she made a mental note of this place for mid-June when the hike would undoubtedly be miserable in the summer heat, but the best part of it would be sinking their feet into this well of cold water and kicking them as they cooled down and ate a snack. Y/N assumed she would be with Harry again because. . .well, she usually is with him, isn’t she? 

They stayed there for a while for a short break, since they’d been walking for about thirty minutes uphill at that point. Y/N’s legs were already tired and she was in the middle of trying to find an excuse for them to turn around and start making their way back before she was really tired – but there was no need. No, why would she need a reason for them to turn around when she unwittingly gives them one? 

They had to trek down a small hill to get within closer visual distance of the waterfall and search the creek with their gazes for any potential fish or tadpoles swimming around in the greenish water. Going downhill to get there, meant going uphill to return, and while it wasn’t steep there was a decent-sized slope. Several jutted pieces of stone and rock and root should have made it a relatively easy way back up. Yet somehow, when Y/N tries to balance the sole of her shoe against the curve of a rock, she loses her footing. Her body rocks face first into the dirt, and she knocks her knee against a stone and cuts up her palm from the tree root she’d been gripping onto. Before she could tumble all the way down to the creek, Harry placed his hands on her to keep her steady, one at her hip and the other between her shoulder blades, “Holy shit!” He cried out, his voice echoing in the empty woods, “Are you alright?” 

So now, they definitely had to turn back, because Y/N had dirt smudged on her face, a few leaves in her hair (though Harry did pluck those out for her while they walked), her knee was sore, and her palm was cut up. Y/N doesn’t cry but she wants to, not just because her knee aches, or her hand throbs, or the dirt makes her face feel gross and grimy. All of that she could deal with well enough. 

What she couldn’t deal with, was the fact that she fell in the first place, in front of Harry of all people. How embarrassing – god, she couldn’t stop thinking about it but she wanted to wipe it from her brain entirely and pretend it never happened. But Harry is Harry, there is no way that he would ever let this go without making a sly comment about it every now and then. Especially once she’s all patched up and he knew for sure she was okay. 

She kept replaying the moment in her head: the squawky sound that left her mouth, how dumb she must have looked as she scrambled to stop herself only for Harry to be the one to halt her movement. He probably thought she looked like an idiot – no, she knows he did because why wouldn’t he? If it had happened to anyone but her, Y/N would have found some humor in it, and maybe she was just a bad person but there were compilations of people falling on the internet for a reason. 

Under different circumstances, Y/N would avoid the bathroom at all costs because it seemed like a staff infection waiting to happen but she tried to get into this one, only to find it locked. So not only did she embarrass herself in front of Harry, she had to sit in the car for forty minutes, uncomfortable, her knee aching and her face dirty. At the realization, she felt like she really could cry then, but the only thing that stopped her was the potential for further embarrassment.

“It could have been worse,” Harry tried to soothe her once they were back in the car, “Had I not been there to save your life, you could be in the creek right now.” 

“Shut up, or I’ll shove you in a creek,” she grumbled, brows furrowed at him, “Didn’t you promise to return me unscathed? This is coming out of your paycheck.” He only chuckles at her. 

The drive home was uneventful, and so was the walk up to her flat. As soon as they get through the doors, Harry directs her to the bathroom and says he’d be in there in a moment with a first aid kit, and Y/N has no fight left to argue. She went in, avoided looking at her face, and plopped down right on the toilet seat, waiting patiently for him. Harry appeared, looking a little too cute out of his leggings, now only in shorts that rode up pretty high on his thigh. He’s got nice legs – Y/N’s been thinking about them often lately. 

First, he tends to her palm, flipping it over and pouting at the sight of it, “Your poor hand,” he muttered sympathetically, caressing the flesh just below her thumb, “Does it hurt?” 

Y/N is unsure if he’s mocking her with how sweet his voice was, but she doesn’t fuss over it – honestly, she kind of likes it, “Yeah, a little.” She replied and he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. 

“Poor thing,” he reached inside the kit, “We’ll get you sorted.” 

After he cleaned it, then slathered it in the antibiotic ointment, and wrapped it up with gauze and a bandage, he got a washcloth wet. It took her a second to realize what he was about to do, until he was suddenly closer to her face than she expected, tenderly swiping away at the dirt smudged over her face. Y/N has trouble keeping her breathing even then. 

This is the closest she and Harry had been since the night they kissed, and she couldn’t keep her brain from conjuring memories of it. Especially when his lips were looking particularly soft today, and slick from whatever chapstick he was using, almost like they were begging for another mouth to press against them. The gentle curve of his cupid’s bow and the pout of his mouth supplicates for her lips to trap it between them. To relive last week, how eagerly he’d kissed her, how his hands had slid to her waist, how he squeezed her –

Honestly, Y/N couldn’t stop thinking about it. She was skilled at acting indifferent to things like this and she’s certain Harry didn’t notice it was dawdling within her thoughts because he would have brought it up – but that didn’t mean it wasn’t. Every day, a few times a day, Y/N is suddenly accosted with a slew of images, all of which involve Harry's puckered mouth. 

Because she’d like to do it again – she wanted to do it again, but there was no way to just ask for it, was there? Not without being weird about it. At least that night they had been drinking, and if they really wanted to they could blame it on liquid loosening prior inhibitions. If Y/N was asking for it completely sober, then there was no turning back from that – then it was something they had to talk about and that’s difficult. Not to mention, she shouldn’t be canoodling with her bodyguards anyway. The time with Niall was a one-off, and she’d never had the urge or desire to do it again (well, maybe once or twice, but that was neither here nor there) – but she wanted it again with Harry. Honestly, she thinks she wants more than just the kiss with Harry. 

And they hadn’t even really discussed the first one yet! Why would they tack on a second kiss? 

With Niall, it was much easier; she sucked him off, and he came in her mouth, they laughed about it and then tried to finish the movie they were watching before both of them promptly fell asleep. When they woke up there was no awkward tension lingering in the air, she swatted him with a pillow so that he would get off the couch and go with her to a new cookie place as he’d promised. Life settled back in as normal, Y/N barely remembered what his cum tasted like after eating an iced sugar cookie, and that was that. 

But with Harry, the whole night persists in her memories. How he admitted to being jealous thinking about her with Niall, and how he wants to be her favorite guard. The taste of his tongue and the impression of his mouth pushed against hers. How he pressed his thumb into her chin and pulled her lips open wider for himself, how heady the feeling was, the caress of his fingers on her hips, her wrists, her jaw. Her cheeks warm when she thinks about crawling into his lap, how she felt him hard beneath her before he pulled away – before he stopped it from going any further. 

Y/N couldn’t help but wonder just how far it would have gone had he not withdrawn from her. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” Harry murmured, and only then does Y/N realize that she’d been staring directly at him as he still carefully wiped away the dirt, “I’m getting shy.” 

Brows pinching toward each other, Y/N frowns at him, “You’re like three centimeters from my face, where the hell else am I supposed to look?” She praises herself for willing the words so quickly from her mouth, instead of floundering how she wanted to when she’d been caught gawking (Harry always teased her that she reverted to her extreme “brat-ish tendencies” once cornered and she continuously proved him right). 

Harry has a knowing smile that Y/N wants to flick off his face like he could read her mind through each of her pores. He always kind of had that look on him though, that would suggest he knew what Y/N was thinking and feeling before maybe even she did. It annoyed her more than anything. 

“You’re being rather rude to someone who saved a clumsy little thing like you from drowning in a creek.” He murmured, standing up from the spot he’d been kneeling before her and tossing the wet cloth into the sink with a wet slap. He holds one finger out to her, a silent command to stay put, and Y/N finds herself listening to him until he returns with a bottle of water. With that in one hand, he pulled open her medicine cabinet and retrieved the paracetamol, popping the cap open and shaking two into his palm, “You need to take these or your knee is going to be sore. Say ahhh,” he held them in his fingers, hovering them over her mouth. 

She scoffed, “My knee is already sore. Give me that, you dick,” she clasps her hands around his, swiping the pills and pushing them past her lips before grabbing for the bottle of water. 

“There you go,” he ignored her insult, “That’s a good girl – y’know, you’re a brat, but you listen well when you want to. Kind of like a fussy cat.” 

A flush of warmth ran from her face, down her throat, and across her chest – the praise, no matter how backhanded, was still praise and Y/N felt her veins twinkle with it. Harry doesn’t seem to notice how it affects her, and if he does, then he is kind enough not to be a pest for once and keep it to himself. He held out his hand for her to take, helping her lift off the seat, “You aren’t limping, which is good, but we’ll still ice it. If you show up to your parent’s house with a bruised knee and scratched-up hand, I’m sure it wouldn’t be appreciated.” 

The reminder makes her grimace – she’d almost forgotten about that. Adam was the first to tell her about it weeks and weeks ago, and then her father reminded her just last week, yet she let it slip her mind again. Willfully she lets it slip from her mind, neglecting the thought – it was always a little awkward meeting with everyone. When she was little, they would coo over her and how cute she was which she had enjoyed at the time, but she had long since passed the age of being cooed at because she was in a pretty dress. And when she was little, she could fuck off and play pretend somewhere with her cousins or by herself and nobody questioned anything because she was like 7 years old and barely knew how to divide numbers. 

Y/N longs for the solace of being little and not needing to be socially present during family events; life was much easier when she could check out and nobody cared. 

“Are you going with me?” Y/N inquired as she followed him out of the bathroom, tugging down the zipper of her jacket and wiggling it off her arms. 

“Hm?” 

“To the family thing,” she dropped the jacket in her hamper, leaving her in a sports bra but she thinks nothing of it while she waits for his response, “Were you the one going with me?” 

Harry pauses, if only for a brief second, and Y/N sees a look she’s never seen before flicker through his face before he’s smiling again, “Aw, cute! You want me to be there with you?” 

She did, for some reason, she felt like it would be better with him there. Adam and Niall always get pulled off at things like this, but Y/N felt like Harry might stay by her side for it. She had nothing to base this feeling on beyond just knowing it in her gut. 

And when she doesn’t grumble or call him an asshole for teasing her, Harry must realize she’s serious, because the gleam in his eyes softens to one that is gentle and pitying, “It won’t be me accompanying you, though I would love to,” he told her, “I’m wanted elsewhere that day.” 

She frowned at him, already feeling the whine bubble in her chest before he could finish his sentence, “Just tell them that you don’t want to do that and you want to do this instead.” 

“As much as the princess’s word is considered –” 

“Eat shit.” 

“ – I believe that request would be denied. Thomas wants me for a more delicate and potentially violent matter, so that’s where I’ll be.” He sighed, thumbing over his eyebrow, “Though you do manage to be delicate and violent as well, maybe I could ask for a trade.” 

Y/N flipped him off before plopping down on the couch, watching as he began to kick off his shoes at the doorway now that they were settling inside. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if the reason Harry wasn’t going was more than him being needed elsewhere but she couldn’t come up with good enough logic to back the claim. Unless he was the Harry from her childhood, and he was desperately trying to avoid a situation where that fact may be found out, but even that doesn’t seem like his speed. He was much too casual and unconcerned for her to think he’d go to that level just to keep up some weird little secret. 

That doesn’t mean she’s a hundred percent convinced, but she just dwells on it a little less. 

“It’ll be okay, you know,” Harry says after a while, as he’s opening up her windows, pulling the curtains open to let sunlight pour into her room; it glitters off her coffee table and places a glare over her tv, and the sweet chirp of birds still singing early in the morning fills her flat (along with the sound of cars driving below them but the morning traffic had slowed considerably by that point), “Just a few hours of family shit, and then you’ll be done. Can come home and take a shower and relax afterward.” Y/N follows him around the room as he goes to her other window, “It won’t be so bad. Maybe you’ll even have a little fun.” 

She doesn’t have it in her to fight him, “Yeah, maybe,” she offered quietly in return, leaning her head back and letting her eyes flutter closed, trying to ignore the throbbing in her knee, “It just feels weird to see them is all, and having nothing to show for the years that have passed since I’ve seen them last. Like. . .I dunno, I have to sit and listen to everyone else and their successes and I’m happy for them but I can’t help but. . .wish that I had something too. But all I’ve got is attempted kidnappings and a hobby that I haven’t perfected when I’ve got nothing but time to perfect it.” Y/N puffs a mirthless laugh. 

“Self-depreciation doesn’t look good on you,” he clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth and he sounds closer than he was before but she keeps her eyes shut, “Why don’t you start selling your art?” 

That does make her peek an eye at him, “Listen, I know I’m having a little pity party, but I don’t need you being mean and adding to it.” 

“I’m not being mean,” he retrieved a package of frozen vegetables from her freezer before he made his way to sit down beside her, body turned so he faced her directly, “I’m giving you an idea. Your art is good, and all the comments people have made on it in class tell you how cute the things you draw are. So yeah, maybe they wouldn’t sell in some smarmy art gallery, but they would definitely make a cute sticker on a water bottle or a laptop case. And what’d you get your degree in, wasn’t it business related? Marketing?” Y/N’s face pinches up. 

“So?” 

“So put two and two together, Darling, you’re smart,” he told her, “You make cute stickers and you have some understanding of marketing – start selling them online!” 

It. . .wasn’t the worst idea she’s ever heard. The people in the class had called her drawings cute, even the instructor had told her they were charming in a cutesy way. If other people liked them – if Harry really thought that other people would like them enough to stick them somewhere they had to look often – that would give her something to do, wouldn’t it? Something to focus on. . .something that could entirely be her own, and didn’t have to be a question of her safety, with no worry about getting her from point A to point B, and her name wouldn’t be out there. She could do it all under a different name! Loads of Etsy shops and the like don’t have the artist’s real name at all. 

It could just be her own little thing, and if it didn’t work, she could scrap the idea and pretend it never happened. But it was something. . .it could be hers. 

“Hm.” That is all she replied, despite the cogs clicking and turning in her brain. 

Harry sighed, plopping down in the space beside her, “I reckon you just like being difficult,” he told her, stretching one long leg out so it was sitting beneath the table, “Hm? I think you like trying to rile me up.” 

“Maybe.” 

                                                           .                                .                            .

Y/N has been having nightmares. 

As a child, she used to get them a lot. Sometimes they could be vivid; feel as real as a memory and Y/N would have trouble separating what was real and what was a dream. It was an unfortunate byproduct of a burdened subconscious, or at least that’s what the child psychologist told Thomas. And he then took a far more strict and tender approach to isolate her from the world of her parent’s work, which Y/N never really understood. Why wait until a child begins to show emotional distress before keeping them from something potentially emotionally distressing? 

They come and go, depending on the current state and status of her life. Times of stress brought them prolonged and heavy, bogging down her brain like waterlogged branches in a typically dry terrain. A monsoon of shadowy figures, hushed low voices, and crimson puddles. Trying to close her eyes but they’re being held open, trying to move through dense air with gelatinous limbs, trying to scream but her voice just barely leaves her throat. It’s nothing but frustration bubbling to her boil through her veins in the worst way, and when she finally does wake up, it lingers for a few minutes as she acclimates to being conscious.  

Once she has one, she’ll have them almost nightly until the problem is addressed or they eventually wither away. She doesn’t bring them up much – Niall and Adam know about them, but Thomas isn’t aware, though she doesn’t think he’d actually care. And she isn’t sure if her parents were even aware of her first round of them when they had concerned the nannies and guards enough to report them to Thomas. If they did know, they never brought it up. 

So she guesses it made sense that nobody alerted Harry to their existence if they were to ever occur while he was there.

They had started happening two weeks ago, shortly after the attempted kidnapping. It was scary, though it didn’t get very far, knowing that someone could find her location so easily was worrisome for future endeavors. And had this guy been more tactful and maybe a touch more forceful, then the situation could have gone horrendously bad – she could have been in a lot of trouble, and when her mind starts wandering to what could have been waiting for her. . .it’s awful. 

For the most part, they had been pretty tame. Y/N wakes up disoriented and groggy around 4 AM, she wanders out to the living room to find whoever was there that night, and if they were awake she’d make them both tea and stay up for a while. Niall was there the first night, and when she suddenly appeared in front of him with her hand stretched out, holding a mug to him, he gave her a knowing look, “Hm? Nightmare?” She nodded, and he made room for her on the couch, moving his computer, his iPad, or whatever he had brought over to keep himself busy for the night, “Do you want to talk about it?” She shook her head, “Fine, then you’re g’na have to listen to me rant about this fucking series I’m watching because. . . .” 

Adam asks fewer questions and most of the time is asleep when she wanders out but when her door clicks open he’s pulled from his sleep with a snort, “You okay?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Mm,” he would hum, “Go back to bed then, I’m not ready to socialize.” 

“I’ll just be up for a little, you can stay asleep,” she’d assure him, but she didn’t want to be alone, so she would make her tea and then sit on her feather blue recliner (that she was surprised he isn’t inhabiting) with her phone. Adam would say he’d stay up with her but make no move to change his position, so he always ended up back to sleep anyway. 

Bill and Martha were usually asleep too when she wandered out, but they were never ones for much conversation anyway. They would open their eyes, see she is in no imminent danger, then go right back to bed and that was that (nothing and nobody could make her feel more like a little kid than those two, and Thomas when she does see him). She would putter around her kitchen quietly, but take her tea into her room, wrapped up in her blankets and clicking through Youtube videos on her telly, comforted by the knowledge she isn’t alone in the flat. 

Some days there is nobody there with her at night, maybe an extra guard lingering outside the building, but no one inhabits her living room. Those nights Y/N is suddenly confronted with the harsh reminder that she lives in a constant state of fear, gnawing at her lip, jumping at every creak or click that echoed against the walls. It makes her feel like an idiot so she doesn’t bring it up to anybody, that on a regular night being alone can be weird, but on a night she’s had a bad dream it could be weird and long. It was stupid and made her feel like a child.

Tonight, for whatever reason, the dream was a lot rougher than it had been. While the prior nightmares were more nondescript things and hazy situations that she could just tell were bad but did not have comprehensible images of – this was much more lucid. Every touch felt like a burn against her skin, the hand cupped over her mouth and squeezed her nose shut stealing her breath away, the heart racing panic struck her fast, and her fingertips felt numb. She was thrashing, her throat sore from screaming, she needed help – she needed it right then, but there was nobody there. She was alone, she’s always been alone, she’s never safe, never, never, never –

“Y/N!” 

Her eyes split open, the beat of her heart pounding through her chest and ringing through her ears, and her trembling hands stay still at her sides. It took her a few silent, panicked moments before she realized she’d been woken up from a dream, staring at the figure who slowly, but surely, becomes Harry through her bleary gaze. Almost instantaneously relief floods through her, and icy spikes that dotted her vessels are now replaced with warmth, melting them. Y/N isn’t sure if the comfort is brought by the fact that she knows she’s awake so much as it is brought by seeing Harry – he usually showed up in her dream, and dream her was always reassured by his presence. His face usually meant whatever was plaguing her was finished – whatever shadowy, dark figure digging their nails into her arm dissipated. 

It was not until Harry spoke her name again that Y/N finally realized she’d been dreaming but she was awake now. Her eyes burn and her cheeks are wet – she’d been crying? Her bones feel stiff and creaky as she pushes herself from the mattress, pressing her knuckles against her eyes to try and rub the sleep from them. “You were having a bad dream?” Harry’s voice is low, his tone gentle, like he was creeping up on a resting bear and was worried to startle it. 

Y/N nodded wordlessly. The most he gets from her is a small hum as she tries to organize herself and her thoughts; she isn’t used to someone being here as she wakes up, staring at her warily, so she tries to force herself to speed it up. She didn’t want to worry him. And now that she thinks about it, when was the last time he’d spent the night here? He probably didn’t even know she had dreams like this to begin with. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Harry pressed carefully, and there was a small thud of four feet landing on the bed. She looked over to see Goose pad over to her, rubbing up against her torso and finding a spot in her lap before a low rumble of purrs overcame her. 

“What time is it?” Y/N inquired. 

Harry looks at his watch, “2 AM.” 

“Too late to talk about it,” she murmured, though she still felt shaken up. Her hands tremble as she smoothes them down Goose’s back, searching for more comfort in the soft fur, a wobbly rise and fall of each breath from her chest, “Was I being loud?” 

Harry gave her a small, empathetic smile, “Just a little,” he told her, “We could hear you,” it took her a second to realize we meant him and the cats, “And Goose was sitting outside of your door. At first I thought maybe you were awake, talking on the phone or something but you started yelling for help.” 

Grimacing, she frowns, at the image of Harry clambering to get up and burst through her door, overwrought with worry and his adrenalin spiking. His job – the whole reason he is here – is to keep her safe. So how horrifying is it to hear that one objective may be compromised in the middle of the night, on a floor way too high for someone to have snuck through a window?  “I’m sorry, that was – that’s probably scary.” 

“Yeah, it definitely wasn’t my favorite experience,” he agreed, “But I’m glad I could wake you up from it.” She scratched between Goose’s ears, feeling warm that the cat was concerned enough to sit outside her door once she heard her. She’s sure Gremlin is still blissfully sleeping wherever he was originally. “Well, I’ll let you go back to sleep. Call me if you need anything.” 

Y/N had thought that she was feeling better – she was awake, and she knew she was awake, so there was no reason for the same rimy panic that had been suffocating her to return at the mention of Harry leaving. Nor was there a reason for her to reach out and grab his wrist before he could get too far, a pitiful refusal pulled from her lips that feel sore and dry, she’s sure from her own teeth. Harry was safe – he couldn’t leave this soon after she’d woken up, she still needed a little bit – still wanted to be near him, and to hear him talk or even just sit silently at his side. 

But how could she voice this? Nobody else had made her request it explicitly, so she really wasn’t sure what to request. Any version of her saying it just sounds more and more pathetic, to speak the words aloud would be embarrassing. 

“You want me to stay?” Harry offered, after some time, and she was grateful for it as she nodded, “Just in the room?” 

Her face feels warm as her eyes glance over to the other side of her bed, “It’s. . .it’s a big bed,” she told him, swallowing thickly, “You can lay down if you're tired.” 

Harry’s lips quirk into a tiny, halfway smile, and Y/N had seen that look enough to know some form of a taunt typically follows it, “Oh I see,” he began, lifting himself up onto her bed and crawling over her body to get to the side she offered, “Was this a ploy to get me into your bed? You could have just asked, Sweetheart, but I would have asked for dinner first.” 

“Fuck off,” she grumbled, but it held little spite to it. Y/N wiggles back down beneath her covers, and Goose – disturbed but never grouchy – walks to the side, waits for Y/N to find a position she’s content in, and then returns. Y/N lays on her side so Goose tucks herself along her belly as she likes to, curling her face into her paws. Gremlin, who must have finally roused from his own blissful slumber, appeared on the bed at Harry’s feet before taking a seat, his tail undulating behind himself, waiting patiently for Harry to snuggle beneath the blankets. 

“Had I known you slept on a cloud every night, I would have asked for this sooner,” Harry said quietly, breaking through the silence of the room, only previously broken by the whirring of her fan above them, “It smells good in here too.”

Y/N watches him closely, as his head is against her pillow. Nobody else has ever laid in her bed before, and Y/N only ever sleeps on the left side of it, so she’s sure the right feels just as it did when she bought it. It’s weird to see someone there – but it only feels natural that it would be Harry, for whatever reason. Among the cotton, rosy pink duvet cover, in a long sleeve undershirt, his body having disappeared up to his shoulders snuggled beneath the comforter. He looks cute, especially when he turns to face her, and gives her a big closed-mouth smile that she told him in the past made him look like a pleased frog.

“You’re comfortable?” Y/N inquired and once Harry nodded, she finally closed her eyes again, “That’s good.” 

Some time passes. Y/N is unsure how long, but she’s almost certain that she’s fallen asleep until Harry's voice, syrupy and smooth as it always is, slithers into her ear, “I know you don’t want to talk about it and that’s fine,” he murmured, “But I just want you to know, I would never let anything or anyone hurt you. Never.” . 

She falls asleep easily then. 

                                                               .                           .                       .

Y/N used to have nightmares when she was younger, Harry had vague memories of that.

“I had a nightmare that a bad guy tried to kill me again,” she told him casually one day when they were on the swings, like it was the most normal conversation in the world, “It really sucked. They were super mean.” 

“Did you get away?” Harry remembered being concerned, even as a child. Y/N was younger than him, not by much, but enough that he’d felt a sense of responsibility for her. Harry hated his bad dreams, so he empathized with her plight. Whenever he had a bad dream, his mum usually came into his room and comforted him, but Y/N told him once that her mum didn’t like being woken up in the middle of the night for something not urgent. If she had a bad dream and woke up scared but the sun wasn’t out, she would hug her teddy tight and will herself back to sleep – that’s what she had told him, at least. 

With a shrug of her small shoulders, she kicked her legs back and forth in smooth glides, “Dunno’, I woke up before he could.” 

He was concerned then and he was concerned now. 

When Y/N offered him the spot next to her, Harry didn’t hesitate for even a moment. If she was scared enough to stuff away that prideful, bratty side of her to request it, then Harry wouldn’t make her second guess herself. Instead, he tried to make it as normal as possible, with a small tease as he crawled in beside her. He’d resigned himself to the idea of staying awake until he knew for sure she was fast asleep. It took ten minutes or so, but eventually, her measured, even breaths and sleepy sighs lull him into his own slumber. 

Harry wakes two or three hours later, warm. Warmer than he had been when he fell asleep, which he wouldn’t have questioned if not for how icy cold Y/N typically kept her room. For a brief moment, he thinks that maybe her fan shut off and he made the conscious decision to get up and turn it back on for her, but when he moves, he feels a weight on his arm that stopped him. A weight that is different from that of Goose or Gremlin. 

Once he opened his eyes, Harry found that Y/N was snuggled up against him. 

It wasn’t in a sweet, movie-like way as things like this typically went in stories and movies. It was in a very Y/N-like way though – her left leg thrown across his hip, her body flush against him, her face halfway jammed in his chest and her arm stretched over his neck; she’s about one sleepy shuffle away from smothering him with her bicep if she moved just right. Harry thinks it’s very telling that she does not sleep with someone often because she had somehow rolled herself all the way over to his side when there had been a good distance between them to start. 

Carefully, he began to reshape her, moving her arm from over his throat. Harry had been making a conscious effort to be gentle so she stayed asleep, but a small grumble lifted into the air around them that sounds close to “Stop it.” but when Harry says her name, there is no response. Instead, she wiggles her shoulders, her arm finding a place around his waist instead, and scooted closer.

Tch, he rolled his eyes but he could feel a fond smile pulling at his cheeks, She’s even a brat in her sleep. 

Harry lets himself enjoy it for a little while. The warmth of Y/N pressed to his side, the peach-scented lotion still permeating from her skin, the feel of each rise and fall from her chest as she took a breath. His insides feel cotton-soft and melty, he traces circles in the center of her back and waits patiently for her to fall deeper into her head. Once she does, he tries again to carefully remove her from the glued position she’d been in, because while he likes being cuddled close to her, he knew she would be mortified if she woke up. 

This time she goes easily, letting him lie her arm at her side before sliding his hand beneath her thigh, attentively guiding it off of his hip. Y/N stretches, and turned away from him, her arms sliding around a pillow and hugging her face against it. What a cuddly little thing, Harry thinks, she’s probably searching for something (or someone) to put her arms around the whole night. It makes his heart twist in his chest, a weird mix between an ache and a yearning for her. He wondered if these bad dreams would disappear if she always had someone there to cuddle to her body, like an oversized stuffy. 

The idea of it has a pout forming on his lips. Y/N, in the time he’s known her, is driven heavily by physical affection that she is not receiving often. She may grouse when Adam touches her shoulder when he reaches over her head to get in the cabinet, but she leans into his hand. If Niall is around, chances are Y/N is touching him in some way, either with her legs across his lap, or their hips side by side (which. . .Harry has no right to feel an ugly twinge in his chest any time he sees it but that doesn’t stop it from happening). Martha wasn’t the soft type, but Harry had walked in on Y/N leaning against the pillow Martha held to her body while they watched the telly. When Harry had come to her room in a panic, just to see for himself that she was okay (after Otto’s botched kidnapping attempt), she melted against his knuckles that he couldn’t help but stroke against her cheeks. 

Harry had met her parents several times – they were. . .kind as they could be, with what they do, but they were not the nurturing type. They were cool and distant, and even though Harry knows they love their daughter, and talk sweetly, they just didn’t seem like the type to cuddle and coddle. And instead of growing an aversion to touch, she grew too long for it, even in small doses, even from her bodyguards. Where else could she get it? Harry is certain if she went out with her friends she would be touchy and clingy, flopped over them in some way, shape, or form. 

Gremlin moves relatively little with the change in positions, and Goose lets out an annoyed huff before following Y/N’s body, snuggling up against her back. It was almost disgustingly cute how much Goose enjoyed her girl time with Y/N; even though she was the less fickle of the two, she really didn’t warm up that easily to people but with Y/N, it only took a couple of days before she was sleeping in her lap. Harry thinks that not only are cats a good judge of character, but they seek out people who need healing, like little furry psychotherapists that say nothing but do plenty. Where he would normally be a bit jealous, he was glad that Goose had chosen Y/N to snuggle with and love on her. 

Harry sighs to himself. It’s only a matter of time before Y/N realizes that she’s been right all along about knowing him, he was just holding his breath and waiting for it. In his head, when he’d started this, the idea of keeping it all a secret from her seemed easier. There would be no need to go into the details of why he left, to relive any of it, to divulge what he had done, or to break his promise to Thomas, to his father, to her father. He could go on with her like they were two strangers and his past didn’t matter. And Harry doesn’t know why it is so important to him that she didn’t think the sweet boy he was turned into the man he is today; it felt as though it broke the mirage of normalcy his childhood had there for a little while. If the image Y/N held in her head of him was altered, it would pull at his stomach and tug around his heart. The boy she knew was good, not a drop of blood on his hands – the man she knew now had hands covered in the murk and filth of gang politics, rivalries and wars, drugs and guns. 

To keep the two mutually exclusive brought him more comfort. 

But Y/N is perceptive and she recognized him almost immediately. As smart as she was, and as sneaky as she could be, he had a feeling deep in his gut that she would be seeking answers at her parent’s house. It would be easier if Harry wasn’t there too, so she wouldn’t have to sneak around him to do it. And if she finds out. . .well, Harry has accepted that it might happen and he could only hope that she isn’t too angry with him. In the grand scheme, it has changed very little of their dynamic. Harry is a completely different person than he was when he left this place – when he left her. 

His biggest regret, looking back at it, was leaving her alone. Even before this title, when they were just kids playing, he always kind of felt like her unofficial bodyguard. Or even just a companion for her – she didn’t have many other friends, and for whatever reason, both of their parents (or more so his parents and Thomas) thought it was a fine idea to just have them play with one another. Harry thinks it would have been a one-time thing when his father was first getting heavily involved with them, however from what he had heard at the time, Y/N had requested him. 

Or maybe requested was a strong word. He supposes the better way of phrasing it was when Harry's father told him that the little friend he made the week prior asked, “Where is Harry? Is he coming to play?” Which was a request enough for Thomas to invite him to a park that day. They saw each other pretty much weekly after that, depending on what was happening or the state of affairs the organization was in. Actually, Harry doesn’t even think Y/N remembers that much – he had a slightly bigger involvement in her life than he thinks she realizes. But when he speaks to Y/N about her childhood (or more, when she brings up a random anecdote), he finds that she doesn’t recall quite a few things about it. Like her brain had packed it away in storage boxes and stuffed it up in the attic – he’d once read that memory loss was an intrinsic, almost instinctual survival skill. Anything she deemed emotionally traumatic, she may have just conveniently booted from her head, and that. . .well, that might have been most of her years as a kid. 

If he knows anything about her, he knew that she would be upset with him initially but he could only hope she moved past it. Harry would have loved to go with her to her family event, even if she found out with him there, then they could at least discuss it immediately or on the car ride home instead of her stewing over it. But Thomas and Garrison had pulled him aside for different matters – the ones he had described as much more violent than a dinner with a ton of members in a gang, surprisingly. 

There might be a mole. That’s what Garrison had told him privately, that he didn’t trust Otto was in this alone; that nobody just knows where Y/N’s location is, barely anyone knows where she lives and this was an outlet mall 40-ish minutes away. It was just too convenient that Otto would know where she was without there being someone to tell him or some way of knowing. So everyone was under a microscope: Adam, Niall, Martha, Bill, and even some of the new people – Kai, Charlie, Betty, Rebecca. Harry understood why all of these people were on the list, but – 

“Why not me?” He inquired, brows dipped, “I appreciate that I’m not, but I don’t understand why exactly.” 

“You’ve been around since she was a kid,” he’d reminded Harry like he didn’t know, “There will always be a little more trust between us with you than the others. We know you wouldn’t let anything happen to her and you wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize your family.” 

So while Y/N was with her family, he would be preoccupied snooping in places he probably doesn’t belong. It feels wrong to spy on the other bodyguards like this, and even the newbies; he feels guilt trickle through his chest when he is flicking through files of them. But he knew it had to be done. . .that Y/N’s safety was the top priority, even if it meant potentially betraying the trust of his colleagues. 

He’s worried about what he might find. He’s worried about how Y/N would react if it was anyone close to her. 

Worry soaks his brain, weighs it heavy, and drags his eyelids closed so he would stop watching the back of her sleeping head. He needed to sleep – maybe he should have kept her tucked against his side, cozy and warm because he’s sure he could have fallen right back to sleep then. He already knew he would spend at least ten more minutes contemplating what the next few weeks could bring them. The last time he’d had a little bit of trouble falling back asleep in her flat was after they kissed. 

That kiss. . .Harry’s cheeks feel hot thinking about it. He could still feel her against his mouth if he focused hard enough; the taste of her tongue, how soft her lips were, the way she felt in his lap. He could also remember how embarrassing he’d been coming into her room saying he was jealous, which is the only part of the night he wants to forget. They probably needed to talk about it – when he’s speaking, and Y/N’s staring at his mouth, he feels like he should bring it up, but the words always stick to the back of his throat like honey. 

It was inappropriate, Harry shouldn’t have agreed to do it but Y/N was so cute asking him and he’s human, after all. She wanted to kiss and Harry loved kisses and how could he deny her of such a simple pleasure in life? Especially when she said she didn’t get to do it often? It would have been criminal for him to refuse her! And Harry may participate heavily in unlawful, corrupt things, but he was no bloody monster – his job (in part) was to make Y/N happy, and if a kiss was what did that then so be it. 

(At least this is what he convinces himself.) 

Thinking about it either does two things for him: makes him hard, or gives him soft, twinkling feelings in his stomach. Thankfully, tonight it was the latter, so he revels in the sentiment and finds himself drowsy once again (he’d worked himself up enough that he felt wide awake which would not do – they still had a few hours to sleep and he wanted to make use of it). There is comfort in knowing that if Y/N starts to have her nightmares again, he’s right beside her – he wondered if he’d ever be able to be at her flat without wanting to be next to her.

What he said before she fell asleep, he meant – he wouldn’t let anyone or anything hurt her, and that includes a shitty dream. 

                                                              .                          .                          .

The gathering comes quicker than Y/N would have liked, but she figured it was better than the worry of it lingering like a gloomy cloud over her. Y/N had woken up that morning with a sort of weird relief tied into her anxiety; a premature peace was brought on by the fact the day was here and she was one step closer to getting it over with. No matter how unpleasant she would find it, most of these people were family, and if not family, then held a deep-seated, often fear-induced respect for her parents. It wasn’t like anyone would be blatantly mean to her or quiz her too hard on what she was doing, why she was doing it, where she was doing it, because. . .well, wouldn’t that make them look a touch suspicious? These sorts of questions would only be acceptable from her grandparents and that’s if they could talk about something other than how hard it is to use the bathroom the older they get. 

Y/N kept reminding herself of this in the hours leading up to the party and it made her feel much better. They were doing this because her grandparents were coming in from Dublin, where they had settled after passing the torch to her parents (neither was from Ireland, but both were drawn to the lush green hills and a seemingly endless supply of Guinness which is all they could wish for in their old age). Everyone would be much more intrigued by them than they would be by her – she felt silly for getting so worked up over going. Was it not a little self-absorbed to think everyone would want to know what she was doing?  Who gave a shit about what was going on with her besides a handful of other people? 

She had told this line of thinking to Niall who would be accompanying her to the party. “That’s awfully pessimistic but if that’s what makes you feel better then yeah, they’ll probably be focused on what your grandparents are chatting about. They’ve got some brutal fucking stories, but your Nan is so cute, you don’t expect her to be telling them.” 

It’s true; her Nan wears bright-colored cardigans and keeps her hair styled neatly in feather white curls. She knits, sews, and bakes cookies. When she was in town while Y/N was a child, she would take her (bodyguard-less, because “If something goes wrong, I’ll take care of it,”) to feed ducks in the park, or to pick out yarn for a blanket. Very normal, Nan-like things, so you really wouldn’t have guessed that she used to shoot people’s feet if they betrayed the family. 

The weather was much warmer today so Y/N wore a dress – her mum and Nan liked her in dresses, and though Y/N had a love-hate relationship with the garment, she’d like to make them both happy. A light blue, patchwork material that came just above her knees, with loose puffy short sleeves and a square neckline. Niall gave her a mocking gasp when she walked out in it, “I was half expecting to see you in sweats and a tank top, I never see you all dressed up.” 

“Because I’ve been on house arrest, dick,” she retorted, pulling her socks over her feet. 

With a snort, he pulled his phone out, “Harry’s g’na be so fucking jealous he didn’t see you in a dress.” 

“Huh?” Y/N slid her left foot into her shoe (the mary jane like shoe but was lacking the buckle that really made it a mary jane), “Why would he care?” 

“Because you look cute and he’s a sucker for you looking cute,” Niall says it like it’s obvious, confusion reworking his face into a confused frown, “He coos over like every cute thing you do.” 

“He’s just teasing.” 

A scoff leaves him, “Whatever you say – now smile for the camera.”  

Y/N smiled nice, big, and pretty, her head tilted dramatically and her middle finger stuck out toward him. It is the opposite of a deterrent for the blonde, who chortles as he takes rapid-fire pictures from varying angles, muttering something about, “See how you like it when this one goes to your Nan.” After the pictures are taken, she stands and smacks his arm lightheartedly. She wondered if Niall had actually sent it to Harry and her suspicions were confirmed just as soon as they got in the car to leave.

I can’t believe you’ve had such a cute dress and never told me or Goose, you know how much she loves dresses. She’s going to be so hurt.

The memory of Goose rolling around in a few of her dresses (and other various items of clothing but mostly her dresses) when Y/N was going through her closet (in a fit of pure boredom), plants itself into her brain. It makes her smile, even though she knew she’d be removing remnants of tortoiseshell fur off the fabric; she just wanted to scent her and all of her things. Harry told her Goose was in the midst of trying to adopt her but the paperwork is hard for a cat so it’d been taking some time. 

Rolling her eyes, she let her thumbs dart around the keyboard. 

Don’t use the cat as an excuse, pervert

The drive isn’t as awful and damning as she thought it might feel; it’s about 30 or so minutes out from where she stays depending on what traffic is like and Niall is on some soapbox about a drama he’s currently watching. She watches as the cityscape changes to suburbia, and from suburbia closer to the countryside. Not the house on stilts beside a river and a boat beside the car countryside, but the smarmy, affluent kind – where it wasn’t really countryside, but there were acres upon acres of land to own. The trees they pass are a blur of brown branches speckling with green as they shift to Spring, and bushes that never lost their green, to begin with.  

Anxiety still bubbles in her belly but more from the prospect of seeing people she hasn’t seen in a while, than it was from being worried they’d ask how she was doing. Because she realized she could A. Always lie, and B. Harry did give her a good idea the other week about opening some form of online shop. She’d started laying the groundwork for it down, so she could at the very least talk out of her ass about what she was doing. That was if anybody asked – she wouldn’t just bring it up on her own. 

Y/N finds that she just needs to tap into that part of herself she uses with her friends when she is able to go out with them. The part of her that completely erases any possibility that she has a life outside of what they were doing at that moment; narrowly avoiding questions that probe too deeply into her day-to-day, steering the conversations toward the person she was talking to and their life. Everyone likes to talk about themselves if you show you’re willing to listen, Y/N found that out relatively quickly. 

Her parents’ house, much like them, is gaudy and extravagant and too big. It’s a pretty place, but she just doesn’t necessarily see the need for columns lining the stairs leading up to the house, or the large brass lion knocker on the front door. The chandelier in the foyer when you first enter is about a thousand crystals that cast glittering shadows along the slate grey walls. From the foyer, directly in front of the door is a bifurcated staircase, and beneath either set of stairs splitting off from the main row, there was an entryway to the kitchen and a sitting area, both just on the side of too big. She could already see people moving around in the kitchen and could tell that most people were in the backyard where the majority of this would be taking place. 

This wasn’t the house she grew up in so there was no personal attachment to the walls, the floors, or the doorways. She doesn’t stop to linger around a spot on the wall she remembered being measured against when she was little, nor does she see little mirages of a small her running around the halls in a moment of nostalgia. Y/N walks through the foyer, her shoes clicking against the hardwood as she makes her way to the backyard. 

There were a lot of people to greet and she was feeling overwhelmed, but nobody noticed (nor seemed to care) about her arrival. It made it easy to slink around, seeking out her grandma who she knew would be sitting beneath one of the tarps they had set up shielding away the blinding son. She was in the middle of speaking to a group of people, so Y/N was going to stand and wait patiently off to the side, but her eyes flickered over, a smile broke out over her face, and she waved her closer, “Is that who I think it is?” Y/N lowered to hug her, “God, you’re looking like an adult! Where the hell is your grandfather, someone call the lazy sod over.” 

It was easy with her like it always was. Y/N spoke to her for a while, and hugged her granddad when he made his way over, (“Is your hair longer? Looks longer – you know, your mother had long hair when she first met your dad, like down to her bum, it was ridiculous! We used to beg her to get it cut, we thought it’d get trapped in a door.”). She spoke to them both briefly, and they told her they wanted to plan a trip where she came to Ireland for a visit, and she agreed immediately. Her Nan cooed and doted over her for a moment, pinching her cheek and murmuring something about her needing to sleep more, “I can tell you’re tired, you get that same look your dad gets. Why aren’t you sleeping? Is your mattress comfortable?” 

Y/N thinks, if her life was slightly different, these questions might annoy her but she revels in them. No matter how old you get, it’s nice to have someone worry over you a bit; to not see Y/N often but to know when she looks tired, to want to know why she isn’t sleeping, to wonder if it is her mattress. This is the kind of normal worry, about her sleeping habits, or how she’s eating, or if she’s happy – not about rivals and strangers to her that feel contempt for her parents but somehow translate that to hurting her. 

“We’ll talk later,” her Nan promised her, swatting her bum and giving her a small push, “Go mingle with your family, they’re missing you. And find your parents, tell them to stop working and come pamper me, I haven’t seen either of them for more than ten minutes.” 

She listens (her grandma is not someone you ignore orders from) and mingles. Y/N feels increasingly stupider for being so worried because really, nobody cares what she’s doing now, they mostly want to chat and reminisce over memories from years ago. She’s happy to listen, to laugh, to avoid any segues that might lead to delving into her life or opening a door where that might be a topic. Even if it was, she wondered if everyone just knew not to interrogate her – everyone is too worried about upsetting her parents to dig too deep into her shit. For all they know she could be doing under-the-cuff shit for them that nobody but she knew about (she isn’t but she could definitely could be – they aren’t above doing shifty things like that). 

Eventually, she did find her parents and it was. . .as it always was. They almost seemed like they were mid-meeting, which she hadn’t known, but all talked among themselves and the several people sitting beneath the stone gazebo (besides the pond they had built, with fish swimming around in it and a small waterfall because of course they had that) once she appeared, “Hi,” she greets unceremoniously, “Nan says stop working and go dote over her.” 

“Of course she did,” her mom smiled brightly, “Come here and hug me – where’d you get this dress? I love it, I’d be wearing that if I was just a few years younger.” 

“Try a decade,” her father teased, reaching over to squeeze her arm, “How’s my girl, huh? You all,” he turned to the others, “Go ahead and socialize, we’ll spend some time with our daughter.” 

They talk for a while, they’re the only ones inquiring about her life, and what she’s doing, and as she speaks it only then settles in her brain that they’ve got no clue. Y/N always imagines Thomas being puppeteer’d by her parents, doing as they say, but she forgets that for the most part, they do give him a fair amount of autonomy. Only relatively big notions (like her going to university) are discussed as a group. They do know that she’s being confined to her flat and they at least have the decency to  appear like they feel bad. 

“Once things settle,” her mum had patted her knee, “Things will be better, and you’ll be able to go out more. There’s. . .something going on right now, it’s better to air on the side of caution. Especially after what happened.” 

“Yeah, I get it,” she doesn’t. . .she tries her best to though, from their perspective, “Figure it out quick though, I want to go loiter at a mall or something soon.” 

She did end up telling them about her plan with art – after she told them about the art classes, which they seemed only vaguely aware of. Y/N went into it, about the cutesy drawings, about an online store, and they nod and say things like, “That sounds nice, Honey,” which is precisely what she expected. Something gentle, slightly dismissive, like they’re listening to a 12-year-old get overly enthused about her hobby. It was nice to talk about it with someone other than Harry though, even if she was certain they were only half listening. 

Her mother is the one to bring Harry up, sipping from her glass of wine, “Hm? He’s your newest guard is he not? How’s it going?” 

“It’s good,” she shrugged her shoulders, “He’s nice,” I kissed him the other week, “And he’s got two really cute cats that he brings over,” he slept in my bed the other night because I’m having horrible nightmares – do I look tired to you? Nan says I look tired, that’s probably why, “Yeah, it’s fine. Has he said anything?” 

Her father cleared his throat, “From what Thomas has said, he does well at all aspects of his job,” he gave a tight-lipped smile, and there’s. . .a look there, in his face, that caught Y/N’s attention, “Which is always good to hear, when we’re trusting someone with you.” 

“He does kind of remind me of someone,” her lips move before she can really think it through, bringing it up, but her dad’s disposition had changed ever so slightly – something that Y/N wouldn’t have noticed had she not been trying to read them the entire conversation, “I used to spend time with someone when I was little, who was named Harry. He just disappeared one day though.” 

As soon as her mother opened her mouth to respond, her father cut her off, with a smooth, almost immediate precision, “Hm, I think I remember him,” he reached for his drink from the table, “But he and his family moved quite a while ago, I believe. There was a company in Australia I believe, that wanted to hire him. That is if I’m remembering correctly.” 

Y/N thinks if her father had answered any other way, or even just slightly differently, she wouldn’t have questioned it. Maybe she would have finally given up, and let it go because even if she did know Harry from when she was younger he clearly didn’t want her to remember him for a reason. If she had anything else to do with her time, she probably wouldn’t have even cared that much to bring it up past asking Harry if she knew him from somewhere. 

But it was weird how he’d answered her. It was too fast – and how do you think you remember somebody, but go on to explain they moved to Australia? Plus, from what Y/N has gathered through bits and pieces she hears from her guards and from what she remembered when she was little, people don’t just stop working for her parents. They don’t just go on their merry way unless they are exiled, and even then, the offense would have to be pretty minor to come out unscathed. 

Once you’re in this world, you’re in it. There’s no dipping a toe in and deciding it’s too cold; the only option is to sink into it, down to the shoulders, and embrace it when the water lapping at your neck is finally warmer than the air blowing around above it. 

“Ohh, okay,” she plays nice and dumb, smiling gently, “Well that settles that then. I was just wondering.” 

The tension that had risen in his shoulders loosened, and he relaxed back in his chair, “Tell us more about this business you’d like to start – I know someone who specializes in marketing for start-ups and. . .” 

It’s brushed under the rug because of course it is, and Y/N keeps chatting with them a healthy amount before excusing herself to the restroom. This is when her parents make their move to visit with her Nan (“What a joy it is to dote on your mother-in-law,” her mother sighed, grabbing her wine), so they split ways. Y/N does have to piss, that much is true, but she’ll also be taking a detour to the library, where the photo albums were kept. Nobody questions where she’s going or why she’s going there, but she does manage to narrowly avoid Thomas who would have definitely not trusted her when she told him she wasn’t doing anything to rouse suspicion. 

The library, in comparison to the rest of the house, is actually one of the smaller rooms. She wondered if it was actually small or if the towering bookcases made it appear more compact than it was. On either side of the room, the walls were bookshelf-beside-bookshelf, filled to the brim with different novels, titles, hardbacks, and paperbacks (she doesn’t even think her parents are that into reading). Adjacent to the door, the wall is a window that reminded her of Edward’s room in Twilight, only this one was composed of bulletproof, thick glass and had large curtains that could be drawn if it was night. In the center of the room was a small couch, a coffee table, and a lamp (which has a very limited purpose when there’s a huge light fixture hanging from the ceiling that lights up the entire room as soon as it’s flicked on). 

It takes her a moment to skim over different bindings until she finds the odd, large bindings of the photobooks. They aren’t labeled but she remembered that her mother, in all her perfectionist glory, had them color coded by years. Y/N knew that vibrant purples, blues, and greens were from a period starting with her birth so that’s where she starts. She pulled out all of them, bundled them in her arms, and went to the couch. Vaguely does Y/N remember a time when she was always posing for pictures whether she wanted to or not, and while it wasn’t necessarily either of her parents taking the picture – someone was. Thomas, any bodyguard, her Nan, uncles, aunts, and cousins if they were all together. So there are plenty of pictures to sift through, almost an annoying amount. She thinks she’ll be in here for hours. 

Three photo albums in, she begins to lose hope. What was she even looking for? Some proof that Harry existed when she was little? Who was to say anyone had even taken a picture of them together in the first place? And for her parents to keep it, when one of them at the very least, was not interested in her knowing that he had existed in her life before a few months ago when he’d entered her flat, following close behind Niall? It was unlikely. 

She nibbles at her thumbnail, heaving a sigh and almost irately flipping through pages now when she sees it. 

When she sees him. 

If Y/N had looked through it any quicker she would have missed it. A picture at the park, two children stood beside the obnoxiously bright blue tunnel slides: one of them was her, in a frilly pink sundress that had large yellow flowers printed all over the front, and jelly shoes she has a vague memory of regretting because the mulch from the ground kept scratching her. She had a big, front toothless grin, her head over-exaggerated in its tilt and one of her hands were held up like she was waving. Her arm was wrapped around a boy, just a little taller than her, who had awful cargo shorts you could only get away with wearing at 9 and a green shirt with a FIFA logo. His hair was brown, cut short, his eyes were light, she could tell, and he had two dimples just as she remembered. Looking at this photo, she knew for sure. 

It was him. 

That fucking liar. 

She carefully slides the delicate paper from the plastic sheet and presses it off to the side, before continuing to flip through. One picture would be enough, she knew, but she wanted to build an arsenal of proof. He could try to explain away one picture, but not several. Not when she could tell the structure of his face, the way one side of his mouth has always pulled up higher when he smiled, the crinkles beside his eye when he grins. 

Y/N is conflicted, about whether to be happy or upset or whatever she was feeling. She was happy that she had been right this whole time. She was irritated because he’d been lying to her and her dad just lied straight to her face, but she wondered for what reason it was important that she didn’t know. And she was confused, because. . .well, where the fuck had he gone? From at least four of the photo albums, she finds around five photos from each of them, up until she was around 10. 

She’d worried a sore into the inside of her bottom lip biting at it with fretted teeth, and her forehead ached from the deep furrow she’d had the entire time she flicked through the albums. Y/N was ready to go home, but she knew she’d have to stay for a while longer. 

Just as she was sliding the pictures into her purse, zipping it closed, the door of the library opened. She tenses until she realizes it’s Niall, who squints his eyes, “What are you doing in here?” 

“Hiding and going down memory lane.” She dismisses him quickly, collecting the albums and walking them back to where she’d found them, “Have they started serving food yet? I’m fucking starving.” 

“Watch your mouth, your Nan could be around any corner. She’s quiet on her feet,” he playfully scolded her, not probing any further into her reasonings for being in here, “That’s why I came to get you, the caterers finally have everything set up and I knew you’d fuss if I ate without you.” 

She scoffed, “Thanks, and for the record, I don’t fuss, I hit.” 

He pouted his mouth, rubbing his arm where she’d swatted him earlier, “Don’t I know it.” 

                                                                    .                     .                   .

Y/N loses her nerve. 

For a while, she was riled up and ready for an argument (though she doubts Harry would actually argue with her); Harry was supposed to come to see her that night, so she had very little time to mentally prepare. But from that little time she did get, she’d prepared to let him walk in, sit down, then slam the pictures down on the table in front of him and demand answers. Like why he lied before, why her father lied today, and why he left in the first place. Does it matter? No, not necessarily, and she doesn’t think it would change how anything is right now, but at the end of the day, Y/N is nosy and confused and wants to know why everyone else is in on this and not her. Just like everything else in her life, she is kept in the dark, and she’d just been praising Harry for being the only one who ever kept her in the know, telling her more than anyone else. 

And she thinks if it had been anyone else, she probably would have. If she had looked through those albums and seen a photo of Niall with her, she would have immediately thrown it at him and asked him what the fuck it was about. 

Yet as soon as she saw Harry, who smiled brightly at her as he walked in, holding two strawberry shakes with a big grin on his face. . .she just couldn’t. 

“I brought you a treat,” he told her, kicking the door shut with his foot, “It’s a celebration shake. Do you feel relieved having done it and gotten it over with?” 

It almost felt silly, to think about doing it how she had planned. To show him the photos, like an I told you so! I’m right, you’re wrong, I did know you – it felt like a petulant way to approach the subject. And if there was a good reason that they didn’t want her to know. . .if there was any reason at all, really, why should she have to force his hand in telling her? To shove proof in his face, catch him off guard, guilt him into telling her. . .it just didn’t feel right. She wanted to know, and part of her felt she deserved to know, but maybe not like this. 

She cleared her throat, and smiled gently, “Yeah,” she told him, “It wasn’t too bad.” 

“See! I told you it’d be just fine,” he handed her the shake, “I’ll admit, I am jealous Niall got to go with you in that dress. It was adorable – you look so pretty when you’re all dressed up. Well, you’re pretty always, actually, but I do love dresses.” 

Y/N feels her face warm, mouth pulled into a frown, “Don’t tease me,” she grumbled, pulling the straw of the shake between her lips, but she moves her legs out of the way for him to sit with her on the couch. 

“I’m not teasing,” he defended himself, “Really, I think you’re pretty in whatever you feel comfortable in.” 

Y/N nudged him with her foot, and let the words, I knew you when I was little, I have pictures – fizzle out in her throat. She wants to know – so badly does she want to know, but she just can’t give a reason why she would need to know. And she guesses part of her is a little scared that it might change things between them. There were a lot of things Y/N wanted but that wasn’t one of them; she’d like to keep getting closer to him, to keep looking at him and feeling safe, for that bubble of warmth and comfort to arise in her belly every time he stepped through the door. 

She liked how things were now, so maybe she was okay not knowing. Not yet, at least. . .for a little while. 

“Where’s your head at, hm?” Harry hums low, sweet, and soft; he’s in the usual attire, though the white button-up was loosened by a few buttons and the cuff links were undone. His suit pants were navy blue today, and he treated them with little care, his foot pulled up onto the couch, rolling the leg of the trousers up. He is turned to face her, the hand on his phone lowering so she had his full attention, “You seem far away.” 

“Nowhere,” she lies easily, “I’m just sleepy.” 

Harry gives her a smile – it’s gentle but still big, and she’s suddenly acutely aware of how her heart races when she witnesses it, dimples and all, “Liarrr,” he sing-songs, but uses his free hand to squeeze her calf over the pajama pants she’s wearing, “You can tell me when you’re ready if you want to talk about it,” his voice sinks into her muscles, melts them, “I’ll wait for you. Until then, I reckon we should watch that show. . .the new one with the zombies everyone is talking about?” He would have a good reason, right? Harry wouldn’t just lie to her. . .Harry doesn’t just lie. 

Y/N nodded, her lips twitching up, “So you finally admit you want to see it,” she puffed a laugh from her chest, “After so vehemently denying that you’re interested in zombie shows at all!” 

“To be fair, a lot of them can be shit!” He whined, “But I’ve seen a lot of good reviews, and I heard it’s about some mind-controlling fungus which is a slight deviation from other versions of the story. And legally, you can’t be mean to me because I’m so sweet and brought you a shake.”  

She grabbed the remote, “You’re whiny.” 

“I reckon I deserve to be the whiny one sometimes, you get to be 24/7.” He retorted and Y/N gasped, mouth falling open. 

“I am not whiny!” 

“Oh? Was that a whine I just heard?” When she huffs at him and starts turning her body away from him, he chuckles low, stopping her from twisting her body completely by laying a hand on her bicep, “C’mon, c’mon, I’m kidding.” He scoots to the other end of the couch, “Here, do you want to stretch out? I’m sure your feet must hurt after being in those shoes all day.” 

Her response is to kick her feet up without hesitation, but she wiggles down so that they lay in his lap, “Will you rub them?” Because if he’s going to lie to her about knowing her and then suddenly return to her life as her bodyguard, she thinks she deserves a foot rub out of it at the very, absolute least. 

“Ah,” he places one of her throw pillows in his lap, before delicately laying her foot on top of it, “You just want me here to dote on you.” 

She nodded her head, “Correct.” 

“Brat,” he digs his thumb into the sole of her foot anyway, just above her heel, “Get the show started or I’ll start tickling.” 

Because it’s easy with Harry – it’s always been easy with Harry and that’s what she liked. 

Why make it difficult? 

Why bring it up? 

                                                                 .                             .                           .

The days go on as normal; eventually, they lessen their stringent rules on where she can and cannot go. It’s only a little bit, but she and Harry can finally return to their art classes, where Y/N found the excuse for their absence was they had taken a trip to Spain (she lies about how amazing the rooftop tour of Santiago de Compostela Cathedral is beautiful knowing full well she didn’t even know you could get tours on the rooftop).  They returned just in time for a color theory lesson that goes from a fun grade school color wheel to something that melted her brain. By the end of it, it had turned into something so complex, even Harry seemed genuinely astonished by how deep into it they went. 

“We’ll have to practice later,” he promised, “‘cos I’m going to forget everything she said after the first hour.” 

Y/N goes to a brunch with her Nan, who – albeit reluctantly – lets Harry attend. Thomas was still hyper-aware of any possible danger (as he always is) and thought it would be dangerous for not only Y/N but her Nan (who has made plenty of enemies in her day) to be alone out and about together. Harry offered to sit at a separate table once he noticed her Nan’s displeasure but she waved the idea away, “Why should you be punished because I disagree with how they’re doing things? You’ll sit with us.” 

If Y/N looked back on it, she thinks that Grandma always had a problem with how they raised Y/N. Very, very, very vaguely she has an indistinct and fuzzy memory of her scolding Y/N’s father, “This is no life to live,” she told him, “To force her in this house! To not even let her attend school? She needs friends outside of her cousins and a life. I didn’t raise you to be so stupid.” And Y/N thinks, relatively close to that, she’d been enrolled in a private school (though she moved around quite a bit following that). 

It was nice to spend time with her, and she thinks – even without trying – Harry had managed to woo her Nan in about five minutes. If she let herself indulge, even just for a second, it was like having her boyfriend meet her family but she wipes the thought away as soon as it arises. 

Because she’s been having a lot of thoughts like that; she’d begun labeling them her “senseless, delusional” moments where she even for a second considered having feelings for Harry. They started out infrequently, only every so often (especially when he did something particularly sweet) but with time they grew more recurrent. It seemed, like some sort of sick twist, that they came on stronger once she realized that she knew him from when they were little. 

Which, Y/N thinks if she were more emotionally sound, the opposite would have occurred. She should be put off and repelled, but instead, she finds herself feeling more and more fond. 

Now she notices things that she hadn’t before. All the little idiosyncrasies of hers that he remembered from childhood: how she liked jelly candies and her favorite flavors, the board games she used to play, the stuffies she always liked, the way she hated the sound of nails on a holographic picture, how she thinks the sandwich just tastes better when it’s cut diagonally. They were things that, for whatever reason, she never questioned why he knew before but now that she thought about it, it would be incredibly odd had he known them without knowing her. 

And over time she just realizes that he brings the kind of comfort that only a childhood friend could bring. Familiarity, a tender warmth, the idea that someone still likes you even as you’ve grown and changed into the person you are today. Fundamentally, their relationship was always somewhat forced she guesses – their parents (or his parents and Thomas) probably arranged the first play date. And Thomas definitely arranged for him to be her bodyguard. They were compelled to be in the same space together, but enjoying their time with each other. . .that was them. Harry laughing at her jokes, the feeling that fizzles in her veins when his cheeks get pink, how excited she is to see him when it’s his night with her, the borderline domestic relationship she’s developed with his cats – all of that wasn’t arranged. 

They were friends, Y/N truly believed that. They had been forever now, she guesses, if the decade-long gap in between was dissolved. 

Y/N thumbs through the photos when she’s in her room at night, gnawing at her bottom lip, a zoetrope of memories flickering through her brain. Some things she recalls, some things she doesn’t, and she recalls feelings more than she does conversations or scenarios. She was always happy, she knew that, and she always felt like a normal kid with him. She could tell him things and they could play and things were good and normal.

She found herself wanting to kiss him more every day, which is a bit of a problem. They still hadn’t spoken about the first, logically they should do that before having a second, but the want for it itches beneath her skin. Y/N’s certain he had caught her staring at his mouth several times, probably more than she would like to admit, but he had never really brought it up before. 

Until a random Thursday, at least, when she’d spent most of the day drawing and perfecting different sketches for the first round of stickers (she does a lot of random original cutesy drawings, then some that involve different tv shows and movies – people like to buy cute versions of characters they like, Y/N knows that because she does it all the time). Harry started talking about. . .something, Y/N couldn’t remember, but what she did remember was how his mouth went from forming around the word “apples” to smirking. 

“You stare at my mouth an awful lot,” he taunted her, and Y/N. . .she was feeling more sensitive that day; less fiery than she usually was, so she tilted her head down and murmured an apology, “No, wait,” he clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth, “I was only kidding, Sweetheart, you don’t need to apologize for anything.” 

When she hummed and made no move to look back at him, she felt careful fingers on her chin, guiding her face toward him, “C’mon, Darling, don’t hide. It’s okay! You can look at my mouth all you want, lord knows I’m always looking at yours.” 

Her face feels hot and she swallows thickly, “You’re looking at mine?” 

“Mhm,” he hesitated for a moment, before the pad of his thumb grazed over her bottom lip, “More than I’d like to admit.” 

“We could always,” she spoke against his petting thumb, “We could kiss again then if you want.” 

He leaned in, moments from smearing his mouth against hers, but there was a knock at the door. 

The pizza they ordered had come. 

That was the closest they’d been to kissing again, but once Harry went to answer the door and sign for the food the moment had left them. Y/N is flustered, warm in her face, and has zero nerve to return where they had left off so she nudges him with her foot when he sits back beside her and calls him a wimp when he fusses over it. Things go back to normal – the same as they usually were.

(It was only later that night when she was alone in her bed when she felt inconceivably horny, did she remember that her period was coming. The weeks leading up to it always left her insatiable, sensitive in both her feelings and touch, and if she snuck her hand between her thighs to the thought of kissing him again, well that’s her own problem.) 

The nightmares start to fade too, which is nice, though that means Harry spends less time in her room. He’d made a habit of sleeping beside her, or at least laying down near her until she fell asleep, and she’d always wake up the next morning alone. Though without fail, as soon as a dream seemed to sour, Harry was there at her side to wake her from it, always attentive, squeezing the shoulder he’d just been shaking, “S’just a dream, baby, you’re okay.” He’d calm her down, “Go back to bed.” 

“Thank you, nightmare killer,” she would murmur, tongue feeling heavy in her mouth, and Harry would laugh, and she’d fall back asleep. 

Things were nice, starting to feel a little normal again with the additive closeness she felt with Harry despite knowing what she did. She was starting to feel comfortable again, and not stuck inside all of the time, and she felt like she was getting somewhere with her drawings, growing closer and closer to being able to open her shop. 

And then, one night, Harry is waking her up frantically. 

Harry is not a frantic person – he is usually calm, collected, and measured. Y/N has never truly seen him in action but she’s sure he makes decisions with precision and tact that typically comes from years of experience, though she doesn’t think he’s been at this that long. He’s levelheaded and respectful and acts well under pressure – that makes him deadly. 

So to see him urging her awake, moving quickly, telling her to, “Get up, we need to leave.” Makes her adrenalin spike and panic drip from her ears. 

“What?” She was still foggy, disoriented – what time was it? Her clock says it’s three in the morning. 

“We need to go,” he is reaching beneath her bed, dragging out a bag – her “Go” bag, is what she always called it, something Thomas had instructed her to make even when she was little. It was a duffel of clothes, toiletries, and things that would take too long to grab in the event she needed to leave an area quickly. She’d only ever had to grab it once before when she was younger, but she couldn’t remember why. Though now that she thinks about it, it seemed like it might have been close to the time that Harry had disappeared.

She doesn’t check her go bag often, beyond replacing the toiletries that may have lived past their shelf date, so she was also surprised to see Harry pull a gun from it. A gasp leaves her mouth, she’s still moving too slowly, trying to catch up with what’s happening as he’s fitting it into the holster, “Wait, what? What’s wrong? What’s happening?” 

He’s zipping the bag up, “Bill was fired –” 

“What?” 

“- and it got ugly, he shot at Martha. There’s reason to believe he’s on his way here.” 

“But why –” 

“There’s no time to explain everything,” he threw the duffle over his shoulder, “We need to leave.” 

Her head is spinning, she knows she’s probably annoying him, but she can’t help but search for something to say, for a question to ask, to try and understand what was happening, if she was dreaming or not, if this was another nightmare, “What –” 

This time Harry cuts her off by taking her face in his hands – he was still gentle, but she could sense the urgency, “I will explain as soon as we’re safe, I promise you, baby, but right now we need to leave okay? Get your phone but turn off the location. We’ll go down the back stairwell to the parking garage.” She still seems hesitant, confused, but Harry runs a thumb over her cheek, “Do you trust me?” 

And she does. . .she trusts him implicity, more than she should, probably.   

“Yes.” 

“Good,” he replied quickly, “Come on.” 

[yeoosaangg]

៹ TAP OUT || KINKTOBER ─ DAY 11

➛ PAIRING:: YANG JEONGIN × FEM!READER

➛ NOW PLAYING:: TAP OUT — DANIEL DI ANGELO

⤷ ❝GIRL, I'M GONNA BEAT THAT PUSSY 'TIL YOU BLACKOUT.❞

➛ GENRE:: BROTHER'S!BESTFRIEND, COLLEGE!AU, SMUT

➛ WARNINGS:: SENSORY DEPRIVATION, BREEDING KINK, CHOKING, DEGRADATION, MULTIPLE ORGASMS, NIPPLE PLAY, OVERSTIMULATION, TONGUE FUCKING

── ⋆ ⋆ ── 𔘓 ── ⋆ ⋆ ──

You whine as the rope tightens around your wrists. You were currently bound to a table in your brother's best friend's apartment.

Well, more accurately, bound to his kitchen table.

It started as a joke.

You never expected him to reciprocate your little crush.

Jeongin: Look at you. So helpless with that gag in your mouth.

You initiated the flirting once again when he offered to help you study for your final exams.

Your hands grazed his, leg pressed against him, even hands gently gripping his thighs.

You never expected him to grab you by the neck and kiss you so dominantly and literally take your breath away.

He shoved his hand down your pants and started to play with your pussy until you creamed all over his fingers.

Then he picked you up and placed you on the table, stripping you of your clothes. He asked you if you're open to anything, and you nodded.

Big mistake.

He came back from his room with a box - a wicked smile on his face.

Jeongin: Lay on your back.

You comply, rubbing your thighs together to get some sort of friction. That proved to be useless when he spread your legs open and tied your feet to the legs of the table.

Which brings you to now, gag in your mouth, clips clamping down on your nipples, a blindfold in his hands.

Jeongin: Think you can just flirt with me, get me hard, and get away with it? What would Hyunjin think about his little sister pining after me like a bitch in heat, hm?

You whine again, wanting him to touch you already. You need him to touch you or else you'll go insane.

And for a second, his eyes turn soft as he looks up and down your body.

Jeongin: Think you'll be okay without being able to see?

You nod. He smiles and wraps the blindfold gently around you eyes.

Jeongin: Will it be too much if I take away your hearing? We don't have to do that if it sounds uncomfortable.

You hum, the gag making it difficult for you to speak. You nod, hoping he understands what you mean by the gesture.

Jeongin: You're okay with it, or uncomfortable?

You hold up one finger and he chuckles.

Jeongin: Alright, doll. After I put these in, I'll take good care of you. Snap your fingers twice to let me know if you need me to stop. If you can't snap, pull at the rope twice.

You nod again, feeling him place the earplugs in. You gasp at his small touch. Now that you can't hear, your touch senses have heightened times ten.

You twitch when his hot tongue laps over your folds. You can feel him chuckle against your clit.

Jeongin draws fast circles, sucking harshly to get you to attempt to scream. He shoves his tongue into your dripping cunt, loving the way you squirm under him.

It feels so intense, a knot already forming in your lower stomach. You whimper and moan, struggling against your restraints.

He smirks, tongue flicking your clit as he shoves two fingers into your gummy walls. The gag does nothing to muffle your screams as you cream all over his face and fingers.

Jeongin: So pretty and delicious. Too bad you can't hear me. Oh well!

He tugs at the nipple clips, marveling at the way your body shudders. His hands roam your body, hickeys being decorated all over your neck and chest.

Jeongin: Should've fucked you the first time you flirted with me. I probably would've turned you into my pliant little whore by now.

He pulls the clips off, eliciting a scream from you. His mouth wraps around your nipples so forcefully, his hands squeezing them.

Jeongin: Can't believe he wanted me to stay away from you. Is it so wrong to have you when you were the one following me around like a lovesick puppy?

He knows you can't hear him; that why he's being so vocal. He could say whatever the fuck he wants and you'll never know what it is.

You moan at the painful bite he gives your breasts.

Jeongin: Fuck what Hyunjin thinks. You're mine now. He'll have to accept the fact that you're not a little girl anymore. You're only a year younger than me, fucker acts like I'm 80.

He snakes an arm around you, hand smacking down on one of your ass cheeks. He laughs at your cry, moaning at the sight of your already spent face.

Jeongin: Aww, poor baby. I haven't even fucked you yet.

He lightly drums his fingers on your abdomen before discarding his own clothes. He pumps his leaking cock, climbing onto the table.

He positions himself in front of you, cock sliding in at once. You scream once he bottoms out, staying still at your heavy breathing.

His mouth attaches to your nipples again, thrusting at a brutal pace. The sounds you're making only feeding his ego.

Jeongin: You're doing so well, my pet. Taking my fucking cock like the good bitch you are. I'm going to break you, forge you into my perfect fuckdoll.

You're crying in pleasure, loving the way his cock stretches your tight cunt. You've been wanting him for months.

He knows, without a doubt, that you're going to be his for the rest of your life.

Jeongin: God, you're so good for me. My little cockslut.

You scream, feeling another orgasm building. He grabs your waist and uses you however he likes. The way his tip hits your cervix has you seeing stars.

He feels you squirt all over him, making such a hot and sticky mess. He fucking loves it.

Jeongin: Be a good girl and take my fucking cock. I'm gonna breed you so the whole world knows you're mine. I bet if you could hear me, you'd be begging for me to fill your cunt with my cum.

He uses his thumb to rub your clit, but you're already so exhausted. You lay still, choking on air as he coats your gummy walls with his cum.

You thought that was the end of it, but he continues to abuse your hole. His hips snapping against your ass, loving how he's reduced you to nothing but his personal fucktoy.

Just like how he wanted.

Jeongin: Such a pretty little thing, letting me use you like you mean nothing to me. Letting me ruin any innocence you had left.

He wraps his hand around your throat, squeezing lightly. This was mostly to ground him in the moment. He doesn't want to get too pussy drunk at the thought of corrupting you.

Jeongin: You don't know this, but I've been wanting to fuck you ever since Hyunjin first introduced us. He told me not to even think about it, that asshole.

He growls, kissing your mouth hungrily and biting your lips.

Jeongin: Why has he deprived me of your body, hm? Is it because he knows just how much of an asshole I am? How many girls I've fucked and dropped the next night?

You whimper, feeling so tired but so good.

Everything feels fuzzy, another knot of pressure building inside of you.

Jeongin: Too bad for him because it's not like that with you, sweetheart. You look gorgeous when you're at my mercy. Why would I jeopardize that for some other bitch that can't even suck my cock properly?

His thrusts become sloppy, once again cumming inside your numb pussy. You probably came too, but you couldn't tell anymore.

Everything seemed to feel like a dream.

Jeongin pulls his cock out, watching both of your fluids leak from your cunt, dripping down to your ass and onto the table.

He hums, grabbing a towel and cleaning both of you up. The fabric making you twitch, not used to how powerful the overstimulation can feel this way.

He undoes the ropes, pulling off your blindfold. He smiles down at you, giving you warm kisses as he takes out the earplugs.

Jeongin: You okay, beautiful?

You just stare at him, mind completely blank. He carefully wraps his arms around you and carries you to his bathroom.

You blink slowly, feeling like the world was spinning.

He picks you up, getting into the tub and sitting you on his lap. He massages your body, kissing your wrists when you hiss in pain.

Jeongin: I'm sorry, baby. I'll patch these up for you. The pain will go away soon.

You just lean back against his chest, enjoying his soft and intimate touches.

Jeongin: We'll just sit here for a bit, okay? The warm water will help soothe your muscles.

That was totally fine by you.

But you two forgot about one thing: your brother has your location on at all times.

═══

a/n: well... this is definitely a look into my fucked up mind, but this ain't shit compared to the vile things i've written before... thank you for reading ‹𝟹

[storiesabouteli]

Eli's Gurls // Elijah Hewson X SingleMom!Reader

prompt: Vee (your girl) calling Eli Dad for the first time! Since Lily and Lea said it'd be a great idea 🫶

words: 2,4k

 Eli had spent the morning with Violet. She was always so happy to have him around, and you loved seeing that. Your day, however, had been far less pleasant. El noticed it right away—your slouched shoulders and the hint of a frown gave you away. Without a word, he walked over and kissed your forehead, pulling you into a slightly awkward hug. The familiar warmth of his embrace, his scent, and the soothing strokes of his hand on your back made your chest feel lighter. Somehow, it always felt like everything would be okay when he was there.

 "We made pasta. Are you hungry? Have you eaten, love?" His voice was soft, his accent velvety and as affectionate as always. You let go of him and looked at him briefly, picturing the scene in the small kitchen. Violet must have been asking if she could help while Eli let her spread sauce everywhere, keeping his calm demeanor and gently guiding her in the same sweet tone he now used with you.

 "Did you two already eat?" you asked. He nodded, confirming they had. You planned to sit with them, even though you weren’t really hungry.

 Vee must have heard your voice from her room because soon you heard her little feet padding toward you. She came running into your arms, hugging you tightly. "How was it, Mommy?" she asked, her cheek resting on your shoulder. Her words were slow, her voice sleepy. She smelled freshly bathed and wore her pajamas, and her messy ponytail told you it had been Eli's attempt to fix her hair—it was adorable.

 "It was good, pumpkin," you said with a smile. It hadn’t been good at all, but she didn’t need to know that.

 Eli placed a comforting hand on your back and rubbed it gently. "I bet you did amazing. You’re the best," he said, kissing her head as she wrapped her small arms around you even tighter.

 "Do you want me to read to you before bed?" you asked. It was part of her nightly routine, and skipping it often led to restless nights or bad dreams. Violet had grown accustomed to it, and you always made sure to be decent for this part of her day.

 But tonight, Eli stepped in before she could answer. "Would you mind if I did it tonight instead of Mommy, Vee?" He was low, gentle, but unwavering.

 You glanced at him, your heart swelling with gratitude. You would’ve done it for her without a second thought, but he could see you weren’t in the right headspace. Violet nodded sleepily, and you gave him a small, relieved smile. Eli always knew exactly when to step in and help, and tonight, you couldn’t have been more grateful.

 She stretched her arms toward him, her tired body nestling into his as Eli kissed the top of her head. She let out a muffled laugh and blew you a kiss. You smiled back at her.

"Can we listen to music while we do it, Dad?" Her eyebrow arched slightly, mirroring the way Eli’s eyes lit up and his smile stretched wide. You thought about correcting her, but her words were so soft, her eyes struggling to stay open, and the way she called him that—so deliberate—made you hesitate. She knew he wasn’t her dad in that sense, but there was no denying that Eli had stepped into the role with ease.

 "We can, can’t we?" Eli’s voice was a bit unsteady, his arms tightening around her as his cheeks flushed. The question was directed at you, and you noticed the faint nervousness in his expression as you watched them both. There was a subtle unease within you. Eli was young, just like you, but with different responsibilities and choices. It wasn’t exactly expected for him to be here on a Friday night.

 "Of course," you replied, your tone clipped but not unkind.

 He nodded, brushing her small hand as it clung to his fingers. Then he whispered, "I’ll be back in a bit. Try to eat something, okay?" He was calm, but the way he looked at you—pleading yet warm—made it seem like he understood what was on your mind.

 "Please," he added softly, and you weren’t entirely sure what he was asking for.

…

 It didn’t take you long to shower and slip into one of Eli’s old Bob Marley shirts, the soft fabric bringing a small measure of comfort. Your head was pounding a little. The apartment wasn’t big, and the walls were far from soundproof. It was cozy, though, and you could hear Violet and Eli whispering while Bob Dylan played softly in the background. She liked the music, already familiar with the style since it was similar to what you often listened to, but it made you smile to think of all the new things Eli might introduce her to.

 You stared at the ceiling for a while, letting your thoughts drift, until the whispers faded into silence. A few moments later, Eli appeared at the doorway, smiling cautiously as if he didn’t want to disturb you. You bit your lip, avoiding the obvious topic, though there was no escaping it.

 "Want me to put you to bed too?" he teased, sliding onto the bed beside you. His fingers threaded gently through your hair, coaxing your eyes closed. His touch was soothing, and as the quiet settled between you, his fingers brushed your cheek, tracing the curve of your smile.

 "Does it bother you that she calls me that?" he asked softly, his voice calm but curious. "Is it a problem, lil’ one?"

 He pushed a stray strand of hair away from your face, and when you opened your eyes, you saw his. They were warm and steady, framed by his tousled hair and flushed lips. He looked genuinely happy.

 "Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?" you replied, biting your lip. He smiled, showing his teeth, a gesture more candid than his usual expressions.

 "I don’t mind," he said, his tone light. "I think it’s sweet. Can you believe she trusts me like that?"

 You nodded, the thought bringing you a quiet kind of joy. It was good to see them getting along so well.

 But then reality crept back in. “They picked someone else, Eli. I’m stuck in this awful job.” You pressed your forearm against your forehead, trying to mask the frustration that threatened to spill over. Eli had stayed with Violet so you could attend the interview, but your current job was a drain, both mentally and physically, and it had been keeping you from spending time with her. If it weren’t for him being here, especially during her break, the balancing act would have been impossible.

 "You’ll get it next time," he said confidently, his hand sliding to your waist as he pulled you closer. "It’s okay. I’ll help you look for new jobs." His lips brushed against your cheek, and for a fleeting moment, you wondered if he was always this optimistic or if it came easier for him because his life was so different from yours. The thought stung, and guilt followed quickly, making your throat tighten. You wanted to hide your face, but he kissed it again, soft and deliberate.

 "It’s okay," he murmured. You let him wrap you in a full embrace, his warmth settling over you like a protective blanket. But as your mind grew heavier, the comfort of seeing Eli happy—of hearing Violet call him "Dad"—was overshadowed by the weight of everything else.

 "Does your mom know about me, El?" The question slipped out before you could stop it. There was no discomfort in his response, no hesitation. He looked at you, his expression steady, his eyes still bright.

 "She does," he said simply.

 "And about Vee?"

 He laughed, not unkindly. He might not fully understand the layers of your protectiveness, but he was empathetic. He couldn’t grasp the depth of everything you’d been through, but he admired your strength.

 "She knows. She knows I’m dating a woman who has a daughter, and she’d love to meet you both."

 Your cheeks burned at the thought. You wondered how he’d described you to her. You’d heard plenty about Ali, thought she sounded amazing, and wanted to meet her too. But this felt different.

 "And what does she think?" you asked, turning to face him. As a mother, you understood that you might not be the best for him, even if the decision wasn't yours to make. On some level, you couldn’t help but feel there was a weight to being with you. Your relationship revolved around Violet’s needs and schedule, and she only had you. 

 Your hands rested against his back as he pressed deeper into your chest, his breath catching in a deep sniffle. “I don’t think she believes you’d be a bad experience for me. Besides, I’m an adult.” His grip on your waist stayed firm, grounding. That truth settled uneasily in your mind, drawing a bitter feeling down your throat. It made you realize the problem was more about your own insecurities than any tangible reality—but that didn’t make it easier.

 “Look, I get why you’re worried. I respect it, and I respect you. A lot. But I don’t see what makes you feel like this, you see?” His cheek remained against your chest, his breathing calm. You traced your fingers through his hair, silently reminding yourself that he wasn’t a threat. Avoiding his gaze made it easier.

 “I don’t want you to regret this—me or Vee. I don’t want you to feel like this time spent with us is something you’ll never get back...” Your voice faltered.

 “Like he did, right?” His arms tightened around you, his embrace warm and steady.

 You whispered your agreement. Eli knew about Vee’s father, how he had chosen not to be involved, and how your relationship before the positive test wasn't bad. Life doesn’t always flow fairly.

 “I won’t hurt her,” he said, lifting his face to meet yours. His eyes locked with yours as he took your hand in his, pressing a soft kiss to it. There was care in the gesture, though you could tell he meant it to distract from the weight of his words.

 “El,” you started, needing a moment to steady yourself. When you finally looked at him, you saw the rawness in his gaze. Eli wore his emotions plainly, the edges of his eyes glistening as though his feelings might spill over. He didn’t need to say anything; the unspoken words were there, and you knew how deeply it hurt him to see you like this.

 “I just think I’m not used to this.” You gestured between the two of you, your finger tracing an invisible line. And it was true—you weren’t used to being chosen, let alone prioritized.

 “That’s okay,” he said, ever hopeful. “I’ve never taken care of a kid before either, but you can keep teaching me. We can figure it out together.”

…

 Violet was perched on the marble countertop, nibbling on her scrambled eggs. Interpol played softly in the background, and you found yourself humming along to parts of the song as you rinsed last night's pasta dish—Eli had insisted you eat something before going to bed.

 "He made me eat too. I wasn’t very hungry yesterday," she whispered like she was sharing a secret.

 "That’s just how Eli is," you said, laughing softly. She giggled with you. "I think it’s sweet. I’m glad you ate."

 She nodded thoughtfully, letting the idea settle.      "Do we make the people we love eat?"

 Her words came out a little jumbled, in that endearing way kids sometimes speak, reminding you how small her world still was—and how much of yourself you saw in her. Her conclusion made your heart melt.

 "Maybe we do," you said. "When we love someone, we want them to be okay, healthier, uh, so we do things like that."

 She nodded again, absorbing the answer. "Can we make eggs for him too?"

 Her eyebrows lifted, and you smiled, lifting the lid off the pan so she could see you’d already made extra eggs. You’d eaten some too.

 "Oh!" she exclaimed, her tiny hand flying to her mouth in surprise. "You love him?"

 You laughed, your cheeks warming as you nodded.

 "And you love him too, Vee," you reminded her.

 She agreed easily, her little pause before speaking full of that earnest determination children have when they want to be part of something. "He talks about you," she added, like it was another secret.

 "Does he?" You raised an eyebrow, curious.

 She nodded vigorously. "Last night, he said that you are one of the strongest women he knows and a great mom."

 The rehearsed way she repeated it made you sure Eli had used those exact words. The thought warmed your chest, a little glow settling there.

 "Am I?" you asked her.

 Her grin widened as she stretched her arms out toward you, waiting for a hug. You pulled her close, smiling into her hair.

 She quickly switched gears, singing along to the music in the background. Even the lyrics with swear words slipped out, but you'd agreed she could say them in songs. Your mind stayed on her earlier words, though.

 "Dad, Mom made scrambled eggs for you too," she called brightly when she spotted Eli, his hair messy, face flushed, and freckles more pronounced.

 In her own way, you thought, she was shouting to the world how much you loved him. And he seemed to hear it, his eyes lighting up as his smile spread across his face. Vee had used the word "Dad" again.

 He scooped her up into a hug, holding her tightly while she beamed, his kiss landing on her head.

 "There’s black coffee too, Dad," you teased, leaning in as he pulled you into his arms, your mouth near his ear.

 He squeezed you tighter, his gaze locking onto yours for a quick kiss.

 “It’ll be okay,” he whispered.

 And you knew it would.

 Vee and Eli fell into an easy conversation, her excitement matching his as they got caught up in the music. He kept glancing at you, his fingers brushing your arm or pulling you closer whenever he could. Vee watched it all, the happiness radiating from her.

 She was content—content with you both by her side. And you let yourself think that you really were a family. Because you were.

[skzdarlings]

part iii: bodyguard!felix x reader

masterlist.

PART I ; PART II ; PART III ; PART IV ; PART V ; PART VI ; PART VII ; PART VIII ; PART IX ; FINAL PART.

( READ ON AO3. )

Your father hires an inconspicuous bodyguard to accompany you at school and supervise you at home. What seems like an innocuous change in routine eventually spirals into a forbidden romance that grows more passionate over the years.

pairing: lee felix/reader content info: eventual smut. violence. parental abuse. situations of intense peril overall. forced proximity. enemies2lovers. angst with eventual happy ending. (word count; 4800)

warning for this chapter: more explicit violence, physical abuse directed at felix.

-

When his dark roots start to show, Felix attempts to bleach his own hair.  You ask why the aesthetic choice is so important. 

“I just don’t like the dark,” he says with a toothy, too-casual smile. 

You watch from the open bathroom door as he accidentally turns himself into a red-head.   He fingers a vibrant red-orange strand, cocks his head, shrugs, and smiles. 

His hair is a shifting mess of yellow-orange-red over the next two years.  The nightmares start halfway through.

The first one frightens you awake as Felix shoots upright in a sweaty panic.  A startled shriek claws up your throat and comes out raspy, your sleepy eyes darting around in the dark for an intruder only to realize the room is empty. 

Felix slumps against the headboard, wiping his forehead.  The fiery strands of his bangs are sticking to his face and his hands are shaking so uncharacteristically.  Felix only occasionally loses his cool and even then, his retorts are curt and sarcastic rather than emotional.   It is the first time you have ever see him like this, so small and so very human, and all you can do is stare until he gets his breathing under control. 

“Are you okay?” you ask each other at the same time. 

“Me?” you croak.  “You were the one who just—” 

“It was just a dream,” he says, in that clipped tone when his patience runs out.  His breathing is still a little shaky.  He goes to the bathroom then makes his rounds to check the security system, even though it is close to four in the morning.  Your own adrenaline is still dwindling so you are awake when he gets back in bed. 

You don’t know how to comfort someone.  No one has ever comforted you in a substantial way.  Even if they tried, you would probably rebuff it in confusion.   You are certain Felix will do the same thing.  He does not like focussing on himself. 

But he is radiating so much stress and tension that you can feel it burning off him like a heat wave.  He lays stiffly on his back and closes his eyes, pretending to sleep.   You know if you say anything about it, he will ignore you. 

You look at him thoughtfully, then you say in the smallest voice you can, “Felix, I’m scared.” 

His eyes pop open, his brow immediately furrowed in concern.  He looks at you and offers a hand. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, like nothing was amiss with him.   

“Bad dreams too,” you say.  Your nightmares have never caused you to wake so violently, but you do occasionally have them.  You are in the habit of burrowing deep in your blankets and staring at Felix until you fall asleep, calmed by his presence. 

Somehow, some way, you have found comfort in that silent company. 

“Can you hold me, please?” you say. 

You say it because his hand is clammy and cold in yours, despite all the heat of his anxiety.  You say it because his forehead is still damp and his breathing is a little laboured.   You say it because if you offer a hug, he will say he doesn’t need it, but he does. 

Maybe he falls for it, knowing you have a good reason to have nightmares too.  Maybe he sees through your ruse and doesn’t care right now.  But he nods and tugs you closer. 

A year of sharing a bed, not to mention every minute of the day, has made you a little thoughtless in regards to easy proximity, but this embrace is much more deliberate.  You feel very aware of the way he fits around you. His arm loops around your shoulders and you hug his waist, your head fitting perfectly in the crook under his chin. 

You realize you have never hugged anyone like this.  You initiated contact for his sake, but the cradle of his arms and the warmth of his body relaxes your own tension.  It feels like a great exhale, both of you releasing a breath you had been holding for a long time. 

A part of you wants to shove him away.�� You think it would be very easy to find his embrace addicting and that is a weakness you cannot afford to have.   You know this, he must know this, but you’re tired, so you fall asleep wrapped around him. 

The next time he wakes with a nightmare, you don’t have to say anything.   He pulls you close and you fall asleep with your head on his chest.  By now you are used to him – behind you in class, beside you in the car, across the kitchen counter, standing at the bathroom sink, laying on the other side of your shared bed – so you let yourself drift, caught in the undertow of his comfortable presence, and you fall asleep like that.   

Again and again. 

His nightmares get worse before they get better.  For a few months, Felix wakes every other night with a startled burst.  He never talks about it.  Sometimes he grounds himself and plasters on a bad smile, but it never fools you.  

He always checks the security system after.  One night he doesn’t return and you imagine the worst, plagued by fears that will seem nonsensical in daylight but pose a very real threat in the darkness.  You turn on every light as you stumble down the corridor, a blanket around your shoulders, too frightened to shout his name as you shuffle along.   

You find him in the gym.  Felix is as strict with his daily regimen as every other protocol, from diet to exercise and back, so the sight of him sweating buckets in the house gym is not unusual.   But it being three in the morning, coupled with the nightmares and your anxiety, makes you erupt with feelings you cannot articulate.

You are relieved he is here.  You hate that you are relieved.  You hate that you were afraid at all.  You hate that you wanted him beside you when you should be relieved in his absence.  When did it all get so backwards?  He still reports to your father.  You should still hate his presence.  You shouldn’t be here, shaking, furious that he abandoned you. 

You throw the blanket on the floor and the motion catches his eye.  He turns, pushing his sweaty red hair off his forehead.  His face contorts in funny ways before he forces himself to smile. 

“Come back to bed,” you say before he can voice a stupid platitude.  “Now.” 

His smile disappears.  He stands there for a moment, breathing hard, just looking at you.  Then he nods. 

He showers and gets back in bed.  You are wide awake, but you stubbornly lay with your back to him.  You say and do nothing when he slides up behind you, crossing the vast space of that big bed to curl himself around you. 

“You’re safe in the house,” he says.  “You don’t have to worry.” 

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” you say before you can stop yourself. 

He is silent for a long moment.  He shifts behind you then exhales, his warm breath fluttering over your neck. 

“You don’t need to worry about me,” he says.  That’s not your job, is the unspoken addition your brain supplies.  Because Felix shouldn’t care about you either.  This is just a job.  You have no real obligation to each other.   

His arm is around your waist.  He breathes out again. 

“The nightmares,” he finally says.  “It’s not… I think it’s just… Before this, everyday, there was a lot going in my life, yeah?  And not… not good things.  But now things are… calm… compared to that so I think it’s just… catching up to me.  Um.  I was going too fast before but now I’m… I’m just here.” 

You know he won’t tell you what those nightmares entail.  If you ask me, I’ll tell you, I will never lie to you, he once said. 

You are too afraid to ask.  It is scary enough, laying in his arms, at once adrift and secure.  Scarier still to turn around and hide your face in his neck.   You do anyway. 

He strokes your back, a feather-soft touch, up and down.   It becomes a familiar pattern, absent-minded.  One night he touches you with that lazy caress while talking about nothing particular.  Neither of you can sleep, but his low voice and gentle touch lulls you into a hazy in-between world.     

You grab his hand and put it up the back of your shirt, not really thinking.  You do not mean to be suggestive and realize too late it could be misconstrued.  You are too embarrassed to apologize, laying there with a warm face pressed against his chest, his hand on your back.  He stops talking and his hand freezes, fingers splayed on your bare spine. 

You have never spoken aloud about how this kind of hugging is too intimate, even if it is innocent, considering what you are supposed to be to each other. 

After a moment, he continues, his touch still gentle.  You almost forget he is not a gentle boy, that he wouldn’t be here if he was.  You fall asleep soon after.   

-

You see your father less these days, no longer in trouble with the same frequency.  It makes you understand Felix, the way he spoke about nightmares catching up to him.   Over the years, your wounds have seldom had time to heal before they re-opened, both literally and emotionally.  Now you have time to scab.  

Those poorly stitched wounds start to fester. 

One night, you and Felix have an argument.  It is a petty, inconsequential quarrel in the greater scheme of things, and it ends with him rolling his eyes. 

Irritation is an itch under your skin, worsened by your ongoing state of aggravation.  When he goes to the gym for his work-out, trusting you to keep your own routine, you simply walk out the front door.  You know he will track you down but it’s the principle of the thing. 

Your act of petty retribution spirals out of control when your father gets home at the same time you are trying to leave.  One of his men literally snatches you in the driveway.  Your adrenaline was already running high from the argument, so you are a thrashing bundle of limbs as they carry you into the house. 

Your father is frighteningly quiet on the walk to his home office.  All at once you recognize this countenance.  It has nothing to do with you, but his business.  Something went wrong today, however menial or substantial, and his rage is an icy current.  You slipped and tumbled headfirst into the flood. 

You stop fighting.  You try to muster the same icy resolve as he seats himself on the couch in the office. 

In a way, you are almost relieved.  It has been so long since you last stood here, but you knew it would eventually happen.  Now it isn’t hanging over you.  Now your wounds aren’t festering.  Now you can rip the messy scab right off and finally just bleed. 

Your father pats the seat beside him on the couch.  You have only just sat when he says to his own guard, “Find me Felix.” 

Felix is waiting right outside the door like the dutiful little soldier he is.  He is in his work-out clothes, baggy basketball shorts and a t-shirt, running shoes, his hair messy from exertion.  There is a flush to his complexion and it makes him look his age, sixteen and bright-eyed.  He is a stark contrast to your father’s guard, a grown man with a hardened face as stern and full as a pit-bull. 

Felix looks at you, a momentary flicker of eye contact before he half-bows for your father.   Then he straightens, robotic.  He clasps his hands behind his back in the same pose as the adult guard. 

The dramatic pageantry makes you huff.   You know your father will mete out punishment regardless of what Felix has to say.  You do not know what Felix includes his daily reports, only that he has kept you out of trouble, but his cleverness will not save you now.  It never could, you remind yourself.  The hugs, the intimacy, the careful threads of friendship unspooling strand by strand, day by day – it was never going to save you. 

“My daughter is headstrong to a fault, isn’t she?” your father says.

Felix glances at you then averts his gaze entirely.   He nods sharply, just once.   “Sir,” he says, an acknowledgement.

“Mm.”  Your father sits back in his seat, his casual posture denoting apathy.  He is staring into space, rubbing his chin.  You realize he has not spoken to you directly when he says, “You know what happens now, don’t you?”  It seems like it should finally be directed at you, but his gaze is still on Felix.   

Felix says nothing, though his brow is furrowed with some consternation.  You stay quiet.  Felix has seen your father punish you more than once now, and you cannot find it in yourself to feel embarrassed about it.  Maybe Felix needs a reminder too.  Or maybe he has known all along there was no real substance to your connection, that you would always end up here and he would always betray you with his professional stoicism.   

“Sir,” Felix says again, as expected. 

You roll your eyes and look away from them all.  You hear the tell-tale clink of a belt.  A frisson is already scratching down your spine, a phantom laceration of its own.  

You have this script memorized, having played out this scene time and again.  Your father’s guard will hand him a belt, the room will be emptied so you are alone with your father, and he will remove the disobedience and weakness from your body – and the frustration and weakness from his – one stroke at a time.  You will leave, contrite and penitent in the freshness of pain and humiliation.  It will fade with your scars.  You will be back here again. 

Your father grabs your face and jerks it back to him.  As if reading your thoughts, he says, “It never sticks with you, does it?  Not one single lesson.”  He lets go with a sharp snap, your chin smarting.  You refrain from touching it.  “Felix brought this to my attention on his report.  You know, you could learn a lesson on reflection from him.” 

You roll your eyes and cross your arms.  You feel sick in an unusual way, more affected than you want to be.  Your father does not know or care if you have ever sought Felix for comfort, so he does not know or care if it hurts for Felix to betray you.  Felix is doing his job and playing his part.  Your father is playing his.  He will make sure you learn to play yours. 

And then your father says, “I agreed with his assertion.  Punishing you like a child does nothing to teach you true consequences.   Being my daughter puts you in a certain position in this world.   Thanks to the work I have done, your place will always be above subordinate persons.  When you make a mistake, when you step out of line, there will be consequences, and those consequences will not only affect you, but all those other people too.”   He waves a hand and the motion draws your eye.   “Felix,” he says. 

The other guard approaches at your father’s gesture.  The belt is folded over in his hand.  Felix glances at it, his expression inscrutable, as if a shadow has fallen over his brow.   He does not look at you again, even when your attention focusses on him. 

Your stomach turns over then seems to drop right out of you, a sharp plummet in your gut when Felix removes his shirt with a swift tug.  His motions are choppy and automatic, his face set.  He faces the large desk and puts his hands on it, his back to the guard.   

“What is this?” you say, looking at your father and his impassive countenance.  “What are you doing?  What is—”

You flinch at the crack of the belt, a full body shudder as if you were struck.  But the hit was not for you.  You whip around to look at Felix, his mouth pressed tightly shut and his gaze on the wall ahead.  When he is struck again, his instinctive recoil is smaller than yours, merely an eye twitch and hard exhale through his nose. 

You start to stand but your father yanks you down again. 

“Consequences,” your father says. 

The blood freezes in your veins.  Sardonic, you think about how moments ago you were wishing for that icy reserve.   Now it locks you in places like a cold shackle.  You watch with a bemused sort of detachment, like this can’t really be happening, and only when Felix’s arm shakes and his elbow caves, doubling him over the desk, do you snap out of it.  The ice melts and water runs, your eyes filling with tears as your voice claws its way up your throat, fighting, fighting, fighting until you rasp, “Enough.  Stop it.  Stop it!” 

You have yelled at your father many times, but this scream is so loud that it reverberates in the large room.  A painting shakes.  The guard actually stops. 

Felix lifts his head and looks at you.  His expression is pinched with fury, a barrier guarding the escape of any other emotion. 

You know your own face is open with all that emotion.  Felix has told you before that he can read you like a book, but right now anyone could.  Your masks crack and you look at him then your father with terror. 

“I’m sorry,” you say.  “Lesson learned, I—”  

Your father waves a hand.  A frantic, “No!” has scarcely your left mouth before the guard hits Felix with a ferocity never once directed at you.  You throw a hand over your mouth, horrified as Felix loses composure, face screwed up with pain as he collapses on the desk.  A bit of skin is torn right off his back and you look away, sick, before everything goes quiet. 

The guard steps back.  Felix is breathing loudly.  Your hand is shaking when your father pries it off your mouth. 

“Thank you, Felix,” your father says.  “I’ll send someone to administer first aid.”  Like this is a casual workplace injury.  Like he didn’t just—because of you—and—

You can’t look at Felix.  You stare at the ground, still shaking, your breathing as ragged as his.

“That’s all right,” Felix says in a remarkably steady voice.  He clears his throat.  “I can take care of myself.” 

Whatever happens next is a blur.   The room empties and your father administers a lecture, looking very self-satisfied.  When other things transpire out of his control, it is clearly reassuring to exert power where he can.  He just as clearly believes he has finally got the permanent best of you.   He might not be wrong. 

You walk in a hazy shuffle, out the door, up the stairs.  Near the top step, your pace quickens.   You find yourself crashing through the bedroom doorway, only snapping out of your stunned trance when you see Felix.  He is laying facedown on the bed, his bare and bleeding back a red canvas of pain. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles into the pillow, “I’ll get up.  Just… give me a sec—”

You shove the door closed and approach the bed, your hands hovering with no where to go.  You stare at his bare backside, the angry red lines and the long stripe where he is bleeding.  You reach, your fingers shaking, then you withdraw.   

“I know, I know, I’m crazy,” he says dryly.  “In my defense, it wasn’t supposed to happen like that.”

“That,” you say.  “What was—”

Your voice cracks and disappears.  You cannot find it again.  Felix finally turns his head, somehow looking more composed than you despite the pain he must be in.  Surprise is his most prominent emotion, deepening to confusion as he stares at you in your state.  Then he exhales and closes his eyes, finally scrunching his face in pain. 

“I didn’t think…” he says.  He takes another deep breath.  “I told your father I would… volunteer… for this…  But that’s because I… I thought you didn’t…”

Your eyes meet.  You stare at each other with equal intensity, your stare still rife with terror and his wet with grief. 

“They would have stopped sooner,” Felix says, his voice low, barely above a whisper.  “If they thought you didn’t care, it would have stopped sooner.  I thought it would—I thought you didn’t—”

“Be quiet,” you finally say.  You wipe the tears when they fall, then shake your head like you are scolding yourself.   Your voice is shaky when you say, “Just don’t speak.” 

I thought you didn’t care about me, was undoubtedly what he meant to say.   He thought he could volunteer to take a beating for you and that you would be so stone-faced and indifferent, maybe even happy to see him suffering, that your father would not waste time with a prolonged punishment. 

But you did care.  Your father saw and your father acted accordingly. 

I’m sorry, does not suffice as a reply.  Sorry for running just to win an argument?  Sorry for sitting there and watching them hit you? 

Sorry I care about you. I wish I just hated you.

“I can take care of it,” Felix says when you fetch a first aid kit and sit on the bed.  He says that, but he hisses when he tries to move.  His arms shake with uncharacteristic weakness when he pushes himself up. 

“Lay down, stupid,” you say, laying a clean cloth over the wound to soak up the blood.    

He laughs.  It is a little breathless, but it is that familiar deep rumble of mostly happy sound.  Your face feels hot and your stomach rolls over with a topsy-turvy mess of feelings. 

You quietly clean and apply medicinal ointment to his back.  He lays with his chin on the back of his hands, staring for a while at the headboard, then looking at you.  You can feel him looking, his gaze like a touch as it wanders your face, but you do not look away from your task. 

When you are done, the injury still looks vicious.  You know it will get worse before it gets better, the marked skin already darkening, but it will heal.  You tenderly brush your fingertips over a line, gathering excess salve.  

“I don’t remember what we were fighting about,” he says, “but I think won now, yeah?” 

You suck in a breath to stop yourself from laughing.  He laughs, still deep but more boisterous.  It ends with a hiss of pain as he moves too much.  You shake your head, biting your lip. 

“Serves you right,” you say.  “None of this is funny.”

“Uh-huuuh.”  The weirdo is still chuckling. 

“Well, don’t worry about the future.”  You busy yourself with packing up the first aid kit so you don’t have to meet his eye when you say, “It won’t happen again.  I’ll hate you and I’ll make sure he knows it.” 

“Mm.”  He watches you fold the cloth, over and over, his freckled cheek squished into the pillow.  “I’d say you should offer to do it yourself, but I’ve seen you on a rampage, kicking a vending machine for not giving you your change, sooo… I think I’ll take my chances with them.” 

“Keep up the jokes and I really will hit you,” you say with no animosity. 

“Right,” Felix says, smirking into the bedsheets, “because you hate me.” 

“Yes,” you say, still not meeting his eye.  It convinces no one when you say, “Because I hate you.” 

That night Felix is restless, forced to lay on his front.  He shifts and twitches and groans, tugging a pillow of his head to whine into the sheets.   He can’t get comfortable. 

You open your arms to him.  You think he might reject you.  Though Felix is trusted with his work and they never intrude, there are other people in the house tonight, so it is a little reckless. 

Usually, he would be careful, but you think he might feel a certain resignation.  A dam has been broken, a wall torn down.   The worst has happened and you’re still here. 

He looks at you thoughtfully then slides across the bed.  You realize too late his shirtlessness adds another level of intimacy.  Your face and neck and chest all feel hot, plus there is a sensation like butterfly wings fluttering in your belly, but you swallow it down and stare at the ceiling as Felix carefully lays against you.   He also seems to realize the awkwardness, the tips of his ears red hot with embarrassment when he puts his head on your chest.  

You both lay there, stiff as boards, awkward and young and ridiculous. 

Eventually, your nervousness bubbles out of you in the form of a strangled laugh.  Your emotions are swinging on a rapid-moving pendulum and all that terror and sadness turns to a random euphoric burst of laughter.  Felix lifts his head and looks at you, laughing just because you are.  It goes on for a while, Felix the first to recover. 

“Shh,” he finally says, stifling himself.  He props himself up on an elbow, leaning over you, and puts a hand over your lips to keep you quiet.  

Your heart stutters, stops, starts, and you stare at him through the blue dark of your room.   His mouth opens but he doesn’t say anything.  He slowly slides his hand off your mouth.  Neither of you move, the newfound silence covering you like a fuzzy blanket.  

He flicks his head to toss his shaggy bangs out of his eyes.  The red is vibrant even in the dark.  You are touching his hair before you can think about why you shouldn’t touch him at all. 

He looks his age again, wide-eyed and nervous.  Apparently bracing himself for a beating is not a daunting task, but you touching his hair is petrifying. 

You twist a dyed lock around your finger.  After some consideration, you ask, “Do you like the red?”

“Uhh… I preferred the, uh, the blonde, but, uh, yeah, I guess…”  His voice sounds a little lower.  He clears his throat.  “I just can’t figure it out.  Ha.” 

“Hmm,” you say, letting him go.  “Maybe we can figure it out together.”  That sounds like a heavy promise, implicitly about more than just a hair colour.  It registers with him, his brow furrowing.  You quickly deflect by adding, “Because we’re gonna be seniors soon.  You can’t spend your last year of high school with bad hair.” 

He snorts and rolls his eyes, smiling. 

“Not like I’m a real student,” he says, “but suuure.  Sounds good.  Thanks.”  

You look down the length of his back.  You think about how he described his life now as calm, compared to whatever came before.   This is the lesser of two evils, this shoving and hitting and dehumanizing.   The pendulum swings back and your throat clogs with a sob.  You manage to swallow it down but you have to look away from him.  Your hand blindly settles in his hair, absently feathering strands between your fingers. 

“You don’t need to say it like that,” you say.  “You’re still a real person.” 

You look at him only because he does not answer.  He is staring at you, lips drawn into a line and brows knit together. 

“Some people might disagree,” he says in a very low, soft voice, almost conspiratorially. 

Your heart skips a beat.  You roll your eyes.  “Like my father?” you ask. “Well.  I never agree with him on anything.  You know that.” 

“Yeah,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips again.  “Uh, yeah, I definitely know that.”  A joking tone returns and he pulls a sarcastic face, like that much should be obvious. 

“Be quiet,” you say, lightly teasing.  “Just go to sleep.” 

Your hand is still in his hair so you yank him down.  You stifle a laugh when he hits your chest with a squeak.  He clears his throat, forcing a stern expression as he turns his face so he is not completely planted in your cleavage. 

“Good night, Felix,” you say. 

“All right,” he says.  “Good night.” 

You fall asleep first.  He is sensible enough to slide back to his side of the bed before properly sleeping.  The motion stirs you and you instinctively reach for him.  Your hand falls open between you.  He takes it and holds it, palm to palm, and you fall asleep once more. 

[itsnevercasual]

RISK PART III

pairing: mafia!harry styles x singer!reader

summary: Harry is in town for some.. less than legal business, and you're a local singer trying to get your foot in the door, and also planning your wedding. And maybe Harry is a little too interested in you.

warnings: mentions of death & blood, mentions of abuse, cursing, that should be it!!

-

Almost immediately, his browser was flooded.

Y/N L/N and Mason L/N: The Internets Favorite Siblings

Y/N L/N - Youtube

Mason L/N - Youtube

Mason & Y/N - Youtube

#prayfory/n on Twitter

Y/N and Mason L/N’s Incredible Work with Band ‘The Diamonds’

Well, you two certainly had an online presence. He sighed and clicked on the first article.

Mason L/N (20) and little sister, Y/N L/N (15) have quickly become the internet’s favorite dynamic sibling duo! The duo rose to fame in 2012 when Mason began vlogging their adventures living alone in Miami.

After a near-death incident with her mother read article here, Y/N was put into her brother’s care. The two grew up in Wimberley, Texas, on a farm. Mason’s earliest videos on YouTube were in 2010, when he posted videos of 11-year-old Y/N singing onstage somewhere.

Since moving to Miami, Florida in 2012, at age 13 and 18, they formed a band called The Diamonds and started a successful YouTube career. Most of the videos, now posted on a shared account entitled Mason & Y/N, they show their day-to-day lives, backstage previews, clips of the songwriting process, and more.

Mason is the producer of his sister’s band— in which she is both the songwriter and lead singer. The band, though not as successful as their YouTube, has a decent following on both Instagram and YouTube.

Also featured on their accounts is Y/N’s childhood best friend— Jodie. There is nothing of Jodie online, so we aren’t sure of her last name. We only know the story of how Jodie moved right before Y/N’s near-death experience, and the siblings moved to Miami to see her again.

We look forward to seeing more of the iconic duo! Best of luck, L/N siblings!

Well, that gave him next to nothing.

Read More:

Smalltown Tragedy: Violet L/N attempts to murder daughter, Y/N L/N.

Jesus fucking Christ, Niall wasn’t joking about shitty.

He skimmed through the article.

Coming home from school—

Walked through the door—

Stabbed—

Authorities were quickly contacted by brother—

Violet pleads innocent in court case—

Y/N and Mason attest to their mother’s innocence—

Guilty verdict—

Sentenced to life in prison without bail or parole—

Added charges of child abuse after bruises found on both children—

Siblings go on news after the verdict was given—

Claim it was their father—

Well. He was starting to regret looking you up.

He sighed, running a hand over his face. After how nice you were tonight, he felt incredibly bad knowing this is what the result of invading your privacy was.

Yet, he didn’t shut the laptop.

He clicked back to the original search tab.

Mason & Y/N - Youtube

He pulled up the page, and his eyes widened.

925.4K Thousand Subscribers. 493 Videos.

Holy shit.

He scrolled to the last updated video—

BACKSTAGE AT THE DIAMONDS: LIVE AT DAYTONA BEACH BANDSHELL. June 1, 2016.

He didn’t want to watch it. He didn’t want to intrude anymore than he already had. That’d be wrong.

But Harry also never claimed to be a good person.

As he tapped on the video, your brother’s face filled the screen. Or.. he assumed, it was your brother. He looked similar to the articles of the two of you, only older.

“Hello, lovely people! We’re back! We are currently backstage at the biggest show yet of the best band ever—“

“Oh, my God, you’re so stupid,” a voice laughed. It was slightly familiar.

The camera turned, and he realized why. It was you.

“Y/N tries to be rude, but we all know I’m her favorite here.”

“Uh, no, bitch. I’m her favorite. Back off.”

Jodie.

“Dude, you have a boyfriend. You back off!”

“Yeah, but Ni’s not here yet, so… I win.”

“How does that even— okay. Anyway, my lovely sister is currently shoving food down her face—“

“Mason! Shut up, oh, my God! I’m literally curling my hair, you ass!”

“Hey, language!”

“Oh, boo-hoo. You taught me how to cuss when I was, like… seven.”

“.. Yeah, I did do that. Alright. Whatever. We’re gonna give the camera to Y/N so she can give y’all a sneak peak at the set list!”

The camera was now sitting in front of you. Younger you.

“Hello! It’s the better sibling—“

“Hey!”

You grinned at him, “And this is the setlist for tonight, which is super-duper top secret. So… shh! Okay! We’re opening with my personal favorite, Girl I’ve Always Been! And then we’re gonna transition that… somehow… into Vicious. And then.. I Should Hate You, little break to introduce the other Diamonds, Should’ve Said No, Picture to Burn, All-American Bitch, Stranger, another little.. break thingy.. Florida, Happier Than Ever, and then we close with.. Better than Revenge! But we have an encore, so we come back for one song, which is Nothing You Can Take!”

He skipped ahead in the video.

“Jodie, where are we?”

“Backstage!”

“Ni, what are we about to do?”

“You’re about to kill it onstage!”

He skipped a bit.

It was a circle of you and a bunch of girls, and one of two guys, that he recognized. The same people who’d played with you tonight.

“We worked our asses of for this, and we’re gonna make it count, right?”

“Fuck yeah!”

“Okay, Diamonds on three. On.. two.. three.. Diamonds!”

Skip.

“Y/N, how you feelin’?”

Harry could hear the crowd and music in the background, and he assumed that you were about to run onstage.

“I’m gonna puke!” You laughed.

“Ew. Don’t.”

“Gee, thanks. Real supportive.”

“I’m being honest—“

“Y/N, you got ten seconds.”

You screamed.

He skimmed the rest of the video. Some of it was clips of the show, some of it was after.

Well, that didn’t do anything except make him feel shitty. One, because he knew he shouldn’t be watching, and two… because you and your brother seemed close, and he, obviously, was dead.

He went back and clicked on the Twitter link.

#prayfory/n on Twitter.

Daytona News: Internet Star Mason L/N Fatally Shot in Robbery.

thediamondsupdates: OMG. GUYS IM ACTUALLY SOBBING WTF I FEEL SO BAD FOR Y/N. SHE WAS THERE😭😭 #prayfory/n

Bingo.

He clicked on the article.

Late last night, after The Diamond’s Only Night Only on Main Street, the internet star siblings Y/N and Mason went to a gas station for celebratory snacks. Unfortunately, while they were checking out, the gas station got robbed.

Y/N told Daytona Police that the robber had aimed for her when he shot, but her brother shoved her at the last second. Both Mason L/N and the store clerk, who is yet to be identified, died. Y/N came out with only a few scratches. Witnesses say she tried to keep her brother alive while waiting for police.

The siblings were swarmed by paparazzi as they got hauled into the ambulance, where Mason unfortunately died on the way.

Harry clicked back to the hashtag.

user001: omfg guys someone got a video of the store after the robbery where mason l/n died. ONE VIDEO LINKED.

He clicked play, knowing he’d regret it.

“Oh, my fucking God,” the person recording spoke.

You and Mason were covered in blood. You were in hysterics, holding your brother on your lap.

“Mason! Mason!” you were shouting. “Someone call an ambulance! Oh, my God! There’s so much blood— why is there so much blood? Mason, answer me! Are you okay? You have to be okay—“

The video panned away from you as you screamed, showing the store that’d been ransacked.

It ended.

Harry shut the computer and went to bed, feeling sick to his stomach.

-

When you woke up the next morning, it was to a weight on your chest.

“What the— Jodie, get the fuck off of me. I’m gonna die,” you grumble, shoving her.

She falls off the bed with a thud. She gasps, “Are you calling me fat?”

“No, you called yourself fat.”

“You’re so mean in the mornings,” she pouts.

“I’m only mean when you wake me up at ungodly hours by sitting on me.”

She shrugs, “Oh. Yeah. Well… come on, get up.”

You whine. The bed was comfy.

“Up!”

“No, I’m tired.”

She stands up and yanks your arm. You, too, fall off the bed.

“Ow! What the fuck?”

“I didn’t really think that one through,” she admits.

“Clearly. Alright, I’m up now, I guess. What did you want?”

“We’re going to brunch with Harry and Ni. Get ready.”

“Brunch? Harry doesn’t seem like a brunch guy.”

“What do you mean?” her brows furrow.

“He just.. is very intimidating—“

“He was nice to you, though, right? He better have been, or I swear—“

“No, he was,” you quickly cut her off. “He just… seems like he’d rather gouge his own eyes out before her went to brunch.”

She sighs in relief, “Thank God. I like him, so I didn’t wanna kill him for being rude to you. But, yeah.. probably. But he basically does whatever I say because, as he admitted once and only once, I’m like his little sister and he feels bad saying no. That, and I’m annoying when I don’t get my way.”

You snort, “That’s… yeah, that seems more likely.”

“But.. Niall also said he likes you, too. Maybe not in the, y’know, little sister way, but you’re right. He is usually an asshole, but he was extremely friendly yesterday. Kinda threw me off, to be honest.”

“Dude, I thought he was gonna bite my head off.”

She laughs, “Yeah.. oh, well. Get dressed and dress slutty!”

“Why slutty?”

“Because we invited Asshole of the Year, and if he shows up, he’s gonna wish he was Angel of the Year.”

“Jodie..” you sigh.

“I know. You don’t wanna piss him off. But.. if you just happened to grab a slutty dress… what’s the harm?”

“Get out,” you laugh.

-

You don't wear the slutty outfit Jodie wanted you to wear, mainly because the brunch spot was a nice restaurant and you don't want the looks from grandmas.

Instead, you wear a white dress with small, green leaves. You throw on heels that were slightly dressy, but comfortable and also barely make you any taller. You put a green ribbon in your hair after tying half of it back.

You haphazardly do your makeup once Jodie began spamming your phone, urging you to hurry up.

You rush out of the room, sighing once you saw the other three sitting at the kitchen island.

"Sorry I took so long. We can go, now, though!"

“Took you long enough,” Niall teases.

“Shut up. This is why you don’t have any friends.”

“I have friends!” he protests quickly. “You! And— Harry!”

“Mhm. Got any more?” you laugh. “I don’t count because I’m friends because of association. You get one point for Harry, though. I guess.”

“No point from me,” Harry spoke up. “We’re work friends.”

“I knew I liked you.”

Harry smirks at you.

Niall glares at the two of you. “I hate you both.”

You grin, “Aw. Love you, too.”

“Aright, children. We’re gonna be late,” Jodie reminds you.

The three of you chorus agreements and head to the car. Niall drove, Jodie sat in the passenger seat, and you and Harry got into the back.

“You know, you look crazy familiar.”

“Who, me?”

“No, the ghost sitting in between us. Yes, you.”

He pauses before shrugging, “Probably just got one of those faces. I don’t remember meeting you before.”

“Yeah, that’s what’s weird. I swear I know you, but I’d remember if I met you.”

He smirks, and you regret phrasing it like that. “Oh, really? What’s that supposed to mean, lovie?”

Lovie? What the hell? Is he a psycho? Are you a psycho?

Connor. Engaged to Connor. Can’t break up with him.

“Nothing. I just meant I have, like, a good memory,” you huff. “You’re right. You’ve probably just got one of those faces.”

One of those faces.

One of those faces.

One of those faces you know you recognize.

-

Brunch was short, but sweet. The food was good, and it was fun. Connor didn’t show.

You and Jodie made Niall and Harry wait in the car while the two of you ran into Sephora to restock your respective makeup collections.

“I kinda wanna try a new perfume..”

“I thought you always got that.. whatever one it is, because it’s Connor’s favorite?”

“I do. But.. the smell has been giving me migraines. Plus, he’ll get over it. He can hardly stand to be around me for longer than, like, twenty seconds, so… I doubt he’ll even notice.”

“Seriously, I still don’t get why you’re getting married. To him, of all people.”

“Because. I do love him, even if he’s an ass. And it’s.. safe. He’s safe.”

“Safe from what?”

You huff, “If music doesn’t take off. He has a good, stable job.”

“The band will never take off if you get married, babe. He hates the band. He’ll make you quit, and you know it.”

“Then maybe it wasn’t mean to be,” you shrug.

Jodie stops in her tracks. “How can you— no. Absolutely not. I do not care if you love him or if you wanna marry him. You are not throwing away your dream for some guy! Any guy! If it was— fuckin’, I dunno, Harry, who was like this—“

“Harry? Ew! I just met him—“

“He was the first person that came to mind! The point is, if anyone you dated pulled that, I’d say the same thing. It isn’t just because I don’t particularly like Connor.”

“Jodie—“ you sigh.

“No,” she cut you off. “You’ve been singing and writing songs since as long as I can remember. That was all you wanted. Since we were six, you’d tell people you’d be a singer when you’re older! You and Mason planned this for years! You can’t just quit because some stupid, no-good, ugly guy tells you to! Music is who you are. If not for yourself, then for me. For Mason. The band was meant to be, but maybe you and Connor weren’t.”

“Jodie.”

“I know. I know. But I’m serious. If Niall treated me like this, you would’ve roundhouse kicked him by now.”

“It’s complicated—“

“But it doesn’t have to be,” she argues.

“.. I don’t wanna talk about it. I don’t, okay? I won’t quit music whenever we get married, okay? He’ll get over it eventually.”

-

When the four of you return home, Connor is on the couch. He's fuming.

You roll your eyes as you walk through the door, ignoring him. The others seem to follow your lead, both not acknowledging his presence.

“Where the hell have you been?” he asks, storming over to you as you set the Sephora bag on the kitchen counter.

“You’d know where I was if you bothered to show up.”

“I wasn’t invited.”

You gave him a deadpan look, turning to Jodie, Harry, and Niall.

“I did invite you, dumbass,” Jodie scoffs.

“Yep. Invited,” Niall nods.

“.. Invited,” Harry echoes, visibly confused but still going along.

“Well, excuse me if I didn’t feel welcome after my own girlfriend told me to leave my own house when she was gone—“

“Not your own house. Your name isn’t on the lease. And why is that? Oh, right. Because you don’t pay fucking rent like a grown adult.”

“I don’t got a job right now, babe. I’m not stable—“

“Oh, and I am? I sing for a living. You think that’s stable? No. But I do it because I want to, and when I’m not making enough there, I have another job. Jesus, you act like you can’t problem solve.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“Then what is your point, Connor?” you sigh, crossing your arms and leaning against the kitchen island.

“My point is that you care more about your career than me!"

"Connor, babe, that isn't true, I just-"

"It sure seems like it."

"I just.. I really love it, and it's-- it's what I wanna do with my life, y'know? I don't mean to make you feel that way. I invite you to every show, you just.. don't show up, and-- and that's fine, but I try to include you."

"Yeah, whatever. I guess I forgive you."

You smile, "I love you."

"Love you, too."

The two of you retreat to the bedroom, and it was silent for a moment.

"What the fuck?"

"Welcome to a normal day for us, Harry. Havin' fun yet?" Jodie sighs, patting his shoulder as she walks past him.

-

The next day, you and Jodie went out to look at wedding and bridesmaids dresses.

"So, what are we looking for here,?" Jodie asks you as the two of you stop for coffee in between hitting dress stores. You'd been aimlessly trying on dresses for the better half of the day, and none of them felt right. "I feel like you were just trying on everything, but you weren't happy with a lot of them. So, when you envision your wedding, what is the exact dress you want?"

"I want.. like.. flowery lace with a decent neckline. I want it tight, but kind of flowy once it hits my legs. And.. bell bottom sleeves. The rest I could adjust, but bell bottom sleeves are a must."

"Flower lace, tight top flowy bottom, halter neckline. Got it," Jodie grins. The barista calls your name and you run to go grab the drinks and snacks. The two of you began walking down the street.

"So.. how does Ni know Harry, anyhow?"

"Uh... work, I think? I can't even remember, it's been so long! I think they met before Ni moved here, and then reconnected through work. I could be wrong, though. Ni only told me once when I first met Harry, and that was years ago," she laughs. "But I think it's work, mostly. You don't mind him staying, right? Because, he's sweet, don't get me wrong, but he's also kind of... promiscuous, I guess? Not that he's.. pushy about it! He just is extremely flirty and doesn't really have boundaries sometimes."

"No! No, God, no, he's perfectly fine. I like him. I was just wondering, because I can't remember either of you mentioning him ever," you explained.

"I'm sure we have once or twice, you've just got the memory of a goldfish."

"Shut up! I do not!" you giggle as the two of you walk into the next dress shop of the day.

"Hello! How may I help you?" a woman greets the two of you.

"Hi! My friend here is getting married, and she has a very specific dress in mind! She wants flowery lace, halter top neckline... kind of tight at the top and slightly flowy at the legs? Oh, and bell bottom sleeves. That's the only ones that are non-negotiable."

The woman nods and glances at you.

"I'm pretty sure we've got something exactly like that in your size. I'll bring you a few options."

"Thank you so much!" you tell her and Jodie and you set your things down and sit on the couches by the changing rooms. The two of you talk idly about plans for the band until the woman reappears.

"Alright, love, here's a few similar to what you want. But I think this one is closest to what you want," she smiles kindly as she hands you a stack of dresses, and then one singular one.

"Oh, it's beautiful!" you gush.

"Try it on!" Jodie tells you. You laugh and walk into one of the changing rooms. Obviously, the first dress you try on is the one closest to what you'd envisioned. You couldn't help the smile on your face as you looked at yourself in the mirror.

"Hurry up!" Jodie urges.

"Calm down, woman, I'm coming!" you huff as you push the curtain aside and step onto the pedestal.

"Oh, Y/N/N... I think this one might be the one. It's gorgeous!"

"It fits you like a glove," the woman grins.

"I love it!" you squeal. "Here, get a video of me in it. I wanna show Ni whenever we get home."

"Okay. And.. recording!" Jodie tells you.

You spin around in the dress, and it has just enough train to spin with you a tiny bit. You squeal in excitement and jump up and down. "I love it! Bury me in it, honestly."

"I won't send it now just in case he's with Connor, so we'll show him when we get home. But.. and this isn't me saying don't get the dress, I think you should, but I thought Connor didn't want you to get a... revealing dress, I guess is the words?"

You pause and your smile fades, "Yeah, he doesn't. He likes the ballgown ones more, but.. it's my wedding, too, right? I should be able to get my own dress. Besides, he won't see until the day of, and then it'll be too late to be mad. And he can't be mad on our wedding day," you shrug.

"Fair enough. How much is this dress, again?"

"Oh, I forget. Turn and let me check that tag, dear."

You turn so your back is to the store owner.

"It is... three thousand dollars."

You and Jodie both pause. Three thousand? You weren't sure you had that type of money. Not yet, anyway.

"Y/N, I can-"

"Jodie, absolutely not. You can't pay for my wedding dress."

The woman looks between the two of you awkwardly.

"Um.. is it possible to put the dress on hold?" you ask after a beat. "It's just.. I wanna make sure that price is good with my fiancé."

"Oh, of course, love. What's your name?"

"Y/N L/N."

She grabs a sticky note and scribbles it down.

"It'll be on hold for about.. two weeks, does that sound good?"

"Yes, please. Thank you so much."

-

"'Eyyyy, they're back!" Niall cheers as you and Jodie walk in through the door. He and Harry were both on the couch drinking beers, watching something on the TV. "C'mon, I wanna see the dress!"

You and Jodie both laugh and move to the couch. Jodie sits between Harry and Niall while you perch on the armrest as she pulls the video of you in the dress up on her phone.

"Awwe, Y/N/N, you look gorgeous," Niall grins.

"Thank you! Took us forever, but we finally found one that is exactly what I wanted."

"Where is it? I wanna see it in person!"

You and Jodie both hesitate. "Uh.. we.. didn't get it."

"What?" Niall furrows his brows in confusion.

Harry finally chimes into the conversation, "Why the hell not?"

"It was.. um... three thousand dollars. We put it on hold, but.."

"Y/N, how many times do I have to tell you to just use our card? You know I have enough money-"

"I know. Jodie offered, but I feel bad using your money. I don't even know if Connor would like the dress, so maybe-"

"Fuck Connor. Sorry," Harry suddenly says, "excuse me if this isn't my place, but you're the one wearing the dress. If you like the dress, get the fuckin' dress, Y/N. You look great in it."

".. Thank you. I just- I don't really have three thousand dollars," you sigh.

-

At damn near four in the morning, Jodie and Niall prefer to be asleep. However, Harry didn't really seem to care all that much when he came barging in.

"What's the name of the shop?"

"What?" Jodie asks harshly.

"The dress shop. The one Y/N found that dress she likes. What's it called?"

"It's... fuck, it's, like, Wedding Dreams or some stupid shit like that."

"Why are you even asking, Harry? It's fucking four in the morning, go to sleep," Niall grumbles.

"I have to buy a three thousand dollar fucking dress."

"What?"

-

a/n: when he buys ur wedding dress cause ur broke how cute

taglist: @angeldavis777

[aithusarosekiller]

Trans Reggie black brothers fic:

NOT EDITED (will be before it goes onto ao3)

Words: 2239

Warnings: outing (sort of, Sirius figures it out and asks him about it but nobody is told against reg's will), reference to bigoted parents

-

The light twittering of birds was silenced as Regulus strode across his room and pulled the window shut with a slight thud. If he wanted to get any work done before he was due to return to school he would have to do it now, or he would put it off until the last minute. It was a bad habit picked up from Dorcas but one he had come to keep under control for the most part. So long as nothing else disrupted him, he should be okay to continue. His parents were at some important function and Kreacher was out collecting shopping so there wasn't too much that could distract him.

He had managed to sit down at his desk and unscrew the lid of his inkwell by the time his bedroom door slammed open behind him. He heard the unmistakable sound of his brother's heavy-footed stomps come up behind him and had to force himself not to snap right then and there.

“Yes?” His tone was clipped but Sirius either didn't notice or actively chose to ignore it.

“Are you busy?” Without waiting for an answer he attempted to sit down on Regulus’ desk, only stopping when he received a murderous glare and shark smack to the arm; he narrowed his eyes petulantly and tried to hide his irritating grin. “Move and I'll sit in your chair then, my legs are tired.”

Regulus pretended to have not heard him and returned to the introduction of his Defense essay. After a few moments Sirius stood and walked over to the bed, sitting down silently and waiting for a few minutes to see if Regulus was going to say anything. Nothing happened.

“Turn around, you little brat.” Nothing. “Please.”

“Don't call me that,” The reply was quiet but Sirius still heard it.”

“Merlin, I try to be nice once,” He grumbled under his breath, trying to keep his composure and her to the point. “I want to talk to you about something.”

Regulus looked at him as if to say ‘go on’ so he did.

“Look, can you just come here? I'm trying to be nice to you and do sibling bonding or some shit so the least you can do one nice thing and not stare at me from across the room? I'll distract Father so you can visit your friends on Sunday if you let me have this.” He let the suggestion sink in for a moment, then watched as Regulus pushed away from his desk, stretching out the time it took to close the ink and place down the quill, then made his way over to his bed to sit at the opposite end to Sirius, his posture perfect and his hands clasped in his lap.

“Posho.”

“Sorry, do you or do you not have a pair of 35 galleon shoes in your wardrobe as we speak?”

“First of all, I got them in muggle London so technically they were £170, not galleons. And secondly, that is a very good price for a well-made, hand crafted, long-lasting product you intend to use frequently.”

Regulus couldn't help but laugh at that. “You sound like Narcissa.”

He didn't stop laughing when he was slapped on the arm or when Sirius snapped at him to shut up, it was only when Sirius attempted to redirect the conversation that his face fell back to his typical moody stare.

“I wanted to talk about school.” He managed to ignore Regulus’ sigh, having grown fairly immune to the constant dismissals by now, even if it still made him feel a little hurt when he thought about it late at night. “Over the summer term and a little bit before that, I've heard-”

“Oh for Salazar’s sake, if this is going to become one of your anti-Slytherin, ‘you're all evil' rants, I really want nothing to do with-”

“It isn't that!” He hissed, almost laughing at Regulus’ affronted reaction to being cut off halfway through his sentence as if he had not just done the exact same thing mere seconds ago. “Stop coming for my throat and give me a change to finish my sentence before you assume you know what I'm going to say.” He took a deep breath and started again. “I have recently been hearing your friends talk to you while you're in the corridor and then again while they're alone. And I noticed a few things.”

It was then that Regulus finally picked up on what the conversation was going to be about.

“Oh, for-”

“Shush, let me finish. I heard you and your friends talking quite a few times and I heard that they called you a different name.” He looked at Regulus knowingly. “You might disagree but I'm not stupid. I mean my grades speak for themselves really, I don't think I did any revision before the day of for my exams and I still…anyway. Your friends were calling you Regulus and they were calling you he and I'm no idiot. I know what that means.”

“You understand names, well done. Maybe you aren't a complete imbecile after all.”

“Alright, you're being rude because you're nervous so I'll let that slide. I know that it means you don't want to be a girl anymore. And that's great! That's okay. I just wanted to give you the chance to talk about it. With me. If you want.”

Regulus looked at him blankly for a while. He opened his mouth to speak at least four times before closing it. Eventually he picked up the courage to actually say something.

“I'm not a girl.” Sirius nodded along. “Your eavesdropping was right there.” Sirius frowned in disapproval but did not get the chance to interject. “I am a boy. My name is Regulus. Yes, like the star. My friends are okay with it because they aren't completely despicable people despite what you Gryffindors may like to think. And you didn't have to interrupt my homework to talk to me about this, you haven't spoken to me besides polite greetings since November.”

“Actually, it was your birthday.”

“December, then. My point still stands, Sirius.”

“Is it rude to ask when you knew?”

“A little bit, yes.” Regulus snapped. “I didn't always know.” He seems to consider telling the story for a second, then decided not to. “I don't want to talk about it.”

“Okay.” Sirius nodded. Maybe if the rest of the conversation went well he would tell him another time. “It's a nice name. Bit long but not bad.”

“Thank you.” It was robotic and almost cold but Sirius was not deterred.

“I might shorten it to Regs. I've heard your annoying friend call you Reggie but you'd probably kill me if I called you that to Regs it is. It's short, efficient, and probably won't get my ears cut off and fed to Kreacher.” Regulus couldn't help a smile like that, which seemed to get Sirius out of his tentative, unnaturally calculated state and make him grin himself. “I'll take that as a yes.”

“Sure.”

“I have a brother,” He mused to himself. Whether it was with shock or glee neither of them could say.

“You can't tell anybody.”

“I won't! I'm great with secrets. Really, name one secret I haven't been able to keep.” He took in Regulus’ meaningful look and recalculated. “Yeah, alright, but I won't tell anyone this. I promise.” He attempted to look as sincere as possible. When he looked down at the sight of movement, he saw that his brother’s hand was extended, palm up and waiting.

Sirius couldn't help but smile when he was it, moving his own hand to place on top before taping each of their fingers together as he muttered the words 'I swear on my life’. It was a silly way of making a promise that Andromeda had taught them when they were younger and caught her writing to her muggleborn boyfriend. They knew not that she had just made it up to get them to stay hushed but they had never really grown out of it. Without a word, they both retracted their hands, but Sirius was now smiling and Regulus seemed at least somewhat more relaxed so it was worth it even if it was a kids thing.

“I just wanted to say that I am glad you were honest with me,” Sirius began the little speech he had prepared in his head. He had gone over it time and time again, attempting to eradicate any signs of his usual self to form a kind, welcoming speech that would soften the situation. “And I am glad that you have been able to find yourself like this.” Regulus groaned into his hands and swore under his breath. “I am here if you want to talk about…this and I would be really happy if you trusted me to talk about you being….a guy now.”

“Oh Merlin, this is humiliating. Stop. Stop. Sirius, stop.” He waited for him to trail off awkwardly before letting out a relieved sigh and beginning his own explanation.

“Okay; thank you but I really don't need a lecture on my ‘validity’. I am aware of it. And I didn't not tell you because I was scared, it was because we haven't spoken properly in months and I doubted that you'd even care. It would be weird, that's why.” He grasped around for another point to make while he had the silence to be able to get a word in. “And don't you think I should have been able to tell you this in my own time instead of just barging in and asking me about it.”

“When would that have been?” He wasn't expecting an apology, but the bluntness of the reply still caught Regulus off guard. “Would you have told me? Would you really? Hm?” He got no answer. “Reggie.”

“The point is that I should've gotten the choice.”

“Well I admit I didn't think it through that much!”

“That's new.” Regulus drawled.

“I was just shocked when you didn't tell me. I was shocked that they knew basic crap about you that I apparently don't. Call me selfish but I care quite a lot about that. You used to tell me everything.” The anger in his voice was barely-veiled. “We used to be best friends but I feel like I don't know anything shoot you anymore.”

“And who's fault is that?”

“Yours! You are the one who got all those amazing Slytherin friends and decided I was the shit on your damn shoe, Regulus.”

“I don't want to do this right now.”

They fell back into relative silence. The sound of the wind against the old, thin window was all they could focus on for a few minutes. Eventually, siris cleared his throat and reached out his hand, patting his brother on the shoulder a few times like he was a delicate animal.

“What are you doing?”

Sirius blinked. “I'm comforting you.”

“Don't do that.”

“Fine, I won't.” He looked away again and waited.

“I can tell you want to ask something else.”

Sirius shrugged noncommittally, then gave in and asked what he had wanted to know the entire time. “Who else knows?” The hint of desperation in his voice was embarrassing but he hoped Regulus hadn't picked up on it.

“My friends,” He provided. “That's all really."

“And…” He didn't need to say it for the implication to be obvious. They both looked towards the doorway despite knowing the house was empty, as if anticipating their arrival. Regulus slouched slightly, seemingly having given up on acting properly.

“Do you think I'd still be here telling you about it if they knew?”

“Don't say that.” Whispering was uncharacteristic for Sirius but he didn't exactly want to say the words that left his mouth, they just sort of did. Giving away the card he held for his brother's wellbeing even after all this time.

“It’s not exactly a shock, is it? The perfect angel of the black family ends up being a man with a woman’s features, guess what happens next.”

“Regulus, stop.”

“...Sorry.” The apology sounded almost forced out but it was better than none at all in Sirius' opinion.

Sirius shook his head lightly. “It's fine. It's not like it's your fault. Hey, uh, if you wanted to, we could go shopping together at some point. Get you some stuff that makes you feel less, y'know.” ‘Girly’ was the obvious end to that sentence. Regulus frowned and turned to face him again.

“I can go shopping with my friends, thank you.” Sirius waited. And waited. Then, “When would you want to go?”

“Why, do you can be conveniently busy that day?” He suggested; Regulus stared silently. “Next Saturday?”

“Okay.”

“Yeah, good, alright. Cool. You're paying for your shit though.” He added as an afterthought.

“What? Why one earth to would you invite me shopping if you're not paying for anything?”

“I'm not your Mum Reggie.”

“You're uglier than her, that's for sure.”

Taking it as the natural lull to the conversation, Sirius pulled a face and turned to leave, spinning back around one step out of the door so he could confirm their agreement.

“Next Saturday, yes?”

“Yes, that is what I said.”

With that Sirius nodded silently and left, leaving the door wide open and Regulus sat on the bed wondering where in the name all of that had come from.

[sophie-hatter-jenkins]

Hair

Written for @hinnymicrofic November 2023 - Prompt 10

School year 96/97, told through the medium of Hair

He first noticed Ginny’s hair in October, at Quidditch practice. Well, not so much noticed, because of course he had noticed before that she had hair in a general sense. She obviously wasn’t bald, was she? No, it was more like he paid particular attention to her hair, specifically. It happened when she dived sharply for a loose quaffle, twisting as she went, and whatever she’d used to clip it up to her head came loose. Suddenly, her hair was tumbling behind her, first as she hurtled towards the grass, then as she soared upwards, aiming for the hoops. It caught the late afternoon sun, and almost seemed to glow, like flames streaking through the air behind her. Ron saved her shot (with his face. Classic.), and as she pulled up in front of him, face alight with laughter, her hair fell forward, like a cloud around her shoulders. Harry decided the odd feeling in his stomach was hunger - must be time to head back up for dinner.

-----------

Ginny was grateful to Dean, checking over her Charms essay, really she was, but honestly, it was a bit dull, just sat there in the common room, waiting. Her gaze fell idly on the table in the corner, where Harry, Ron and Hermione were sitting, deep in conversation. Harry had his back to her, and, for want of anything better to do, she traced the line of his hair with her eyes, where it fell, curling just slightly towards his collar. She imagined running her finger there, feeling where his hairline met the pale skin of his neck, and she shivered slightly. 

“It’s pretty good, Ginny. You just need to add a bit more about the Substantive charm’s practical uses and then I think you’ve covered everything.”

Ginny jumped at the sound of Dean’s voice, suddenly feeling very guilty about the direction of her thoughts, and more than a little surprised. I mean, where the fuck did that even come from?

-----------

The Slug Club Christmas party was every bit as appalling as Harry had feared. Luna’s company helped to make it just about bearable, as did the amusing spectacle of Hermione attempting to avoid McLaggan. The biggest problem was that no matter how many utterly terrifying/incredibly dull/undoubtedly influential (delete as applicable) people Slughorn seemed determined to introduce him to, Harry found his attention constantly drawn to the flashes of long, red hair from across the room, everytime it caught the candlelight. It was impossible to miss, a beacon that always drew his gaze. But as always, Ginny remained just out of his reach.

-----------

At breakfast, before the Hufflepuff match, Ginny watched Harry carefully. Sure enough, she quickly picked up the signs that he was stressed. Losing Katie was bad enough, but Ron’s (ahem) mishap and Cormac’s subsequent recruitment was significantly more concerning. It seemed like every few seconds, he’d run his fingers through his hair. Long, slender, strong fingers, oddly delicate despite the callouses from his wand and the handle of his firebolt, though why her stupid brain insisted on noticing that, she had no idea. Well okay, maybe she had a bit of an idea. But anyway, the constant agitation made his hair stick up in spiky black tufts, even more unruly than usual - which was really saying something, wasn’t it? 

Maybe it would be neater if he cut it shorter? she thought - but he wouldn’t like that, would he? Because if it was shorter, it wouldn’t flop down over his forehead, covering his scar. And, now she came to think about it, she wouldn’t like it either. There was something strangely hot about he always looked so dishevelled, like he had perennially just got out of bed. She wondered, not for the first time, whether it was as soft as it appeared? She imagined running her own fingers through it, the feeling of it against the delicate skin between her fingers and… oh crap, she didn’t just sigh out loud, did she?

“Everything okay, Ginny?” enquired Hermione, her tone solicitous, but her expression irritatingly knowing. “You look a bit… flushed.” 

“Yes, fine,” she answered, smoothly, returning Hermione’s arched eyebrow with one of her own. “Just a bit warm in here, isn’t it?”

-----------

By the time Harry arrived at The Burrow at Easter, he knew he was in real trouble. Being in such close proximity to Ginny was… problematic. Everything about her was just so bloody attractive, and it did things to him. Case in point: when Hermione was finally persuaded to make up the numbers for two-aside Quidditch. Harry honestly didn’t expect this to be an issue - after all, he’d played Quidditch with Ginny countless times, and okay it was often a bit distracting, but this was something else. Obviously, her lips didn’t help, pink and slightly parted as she concentrated on stealing the quaffle from under his nose, but the main difference was the way she was dressed, in the unseasonably warm weather. Those  unnecessarily short shorts, and the way her t-shirt stretched over her chest… well, anyway. He needed something else to focus on, and fast. Ron! Yes, genius. Thinking of Ron, instant mood killer. Ron with his ginger hair. It was the exact same shade as Ginny’s ginger hair, wasn’t it? Ron’s ginger hair, which was cut short, and not at all like Ginny’s which was long and thick and shiny, and currently braided into a thick plait, hanging down her back towards… Oh Merlin! This isn’t helping AT ALL! 

“Harry! Look out!”

Unfortunately, Hermione’s warning came way too late, but at least sorting out the minor cuts and bruises from his collision with the tree branch and subsequent tumble to the ground gave him something else to think about. 

-----------

The moment they stepped through the portrait hole, Harry pressed her against the wall, his mouth on hers. With only a moment of hesitation, Ginny allowed her hands to slip up his back, feeling his shoulders tense at her touch, before sliding them through his hair. 

Yeah, I was right, she thought to herself, it really is as soft as it looks.

After that, she really didn’t do much in the way of thinking at all.

[f0xgl0v3]

How does one Elias Bouchard hold his Pipe/The overall murder scene

Tw this like entire post is about the proper way to hold a pipe if you wanna effectively hit someone with it several times repeatedly :3 also spoilers for MAG 80

Guys I am simply a writer and this is just for writing and thought experiment purposes, none of this shall or should be applied to real life and it’s just for the haha extended sounds of brutal pipe murder-

What has come to my life-? I’m talking about Elias Bouchard and how he holds the Pipe to murder people- I, there will be actual Percy Jackson stuff soon. Maybe talking about Camp Jupiter and armor and gear and stuff or something however,

Everyone draws Elias with really weird hand positions on the pipe-? That’s a weird thing to say and the art is fantastic but if your beating someone with a Pipe then there seems to be a way I always thought in my head-

Let’s, for the sake that I’m halfway through season 4 consider the only Pipe murder I am currently aware of would be Jurgen Leitner’s, we can work with this. Elias is standing over him at the other side of a desk while Jurgen is seated I believe-? There are a couple ways we can go about this,

1) Elias hits him while they both are in the neutral position at the desk

2) Elias walks over to Jurgen’s side during the conversation and hits him then

3) Jurgen stands up from his chair and then Elias hits him.

I have had to listen to the sound clip so many times for this- I- okay. So, the beginning of the murder still is Jurgen talking, I think audibly a bit worried. I’d like to make the assumption that while Elias is like “bird stuff always a risk about death” that is when the pipe is revealed, Jurgen is taking the moment to try and reason with him and I think 2 and 3 are the most viable due to the sound they use. In 1’s scenario Elias wouldn’t get enough strength in that first swing (due to the desk being in the way, and Elias most likely having to lean over the desk to try and get a strong strike.

Then, the sound- I believe Elias initially hits Jurgen from the side of the head, think like the same ‘row’ that your temples are on, that vague side of the head. Jurgen is heard with a grunt by the first hit; we don’t hear him fall or anything (which makes me suspect it could be a situation of Elias walking over to the other side of the table) and it doesn’t really sound like Elias moves where he hits very much- continuing to strike that original spot; otherwise we’d likely hear the crunch of bone. Am I making the assumption that the sound design would include the crunch and that I would know what hitting a skull with a metal pipe is, oh yeah totally.

Now, that settles how I think this entire thing played out, Elias revealing the pipe as he walks over to the side, Jurgen looks up in old sad man still seated and is trying to reason with Elias, maybe he even attempts to get up and that is when Elias strikes in the right side of his head (just what makes sense to me, it could be the left either it wouldn’t matter much) and repeatedly hits there 11 times (yes I counted the strikes we hear, no I don’t have anything better to do with my time because I’m putting off writing a script) before like dipping or whatever.

Now, the pipe posture if you will. I see so many drawings of Elias’s hands like this,

Raised, and for all intents and purposes from an art sense it’s rad. It’s a dynamic pose and stuff, and of course this is not a critique on artists (who are way better than me) and how they want to draw this fictional man hold his pipe. However this is my brainrot talking on the ‘hey I think this is how he’d get the most effective swing’ because I’ve listened to two seasons back to back and I no longer have a brain.

But; Elias Bouchard wants the most bang for his buck so to speak. I think holding the Pipe like the tried and true baseball bat would provide this. Elias holding it like in my very bad diagram is good if he’d want to poke or stab someone with the pipe, but it’s really effective if you can get that swing in. So yeah, baseball style; hands together near the end of the pipe and over a shoulder or even over his head if you want to be silly with his posing.

Uh, haha okay. I’m sorry but the rot is all consuming and I’ve been thinking about him a lot, also like Peter Lukas and a bunch of the other sillies but this kinda- forced itself out while I was looking at art of the scene. I, uh, :3 that’s all. I like thinking about the mapping and layout and planning of scenes like these and how the visuals might’ve looked if there were visuals. I promise I probably won’t make any more posts like this for a solid while (however, talking about Bryce Lawerence and my thing in SoN are-imagining that he was the one to kill Gwen… maybe.)

[eriexplosion]

Bad Batch Season 3 Episode Title Predictions

Okay, so I've poked at the trailer enough that I think I can do a series of predictions that is likely to topple like a house of cards immediately but hey what else is this month of waiting for? Here is my very rough outline of what I'd love to see in season 3 based on nothing but the trailer and Vibes.

Episodes 1-3, "Confined" "Paths Unknown" & "Shadows of Tantiss"

These three seem pretty obvious, we'll likely catch up with Omega and Crosshair first in Confined, which is likely where we'll see these clips from the trailer:

As well as probably the (SAD AS HELL) discussion between Omega and Crosshair shown in the Celebrations trailer. Mix their scenes in with catching up on Hunter, Wrecker, & Echo - I'm actually really attached to the idea that Echo is searching for Tech, having not given up on him. This also parallels to Omega talking to Crosshair, about not giving up - I think that's going to be a theme this season. Can't run away, can't give up. But if Echo is searching for Tech then it might just be Hunter and Wrecker right now, likely giving us a few of their action shots together.

I do think that Omega and Crosshair's escape attempt is going to be relatively early in the season - either at the end of Paths Unknown or the very beginning of Shadows of Tantiss. I went into it more in this post and paired up a few shots of Tantiss' defense systems as well as the crashed ship with Omega and Crosshair. From the look of it, they likely don't make it off planet due to the damage and crash land and have to try to escape and, in the process, are split up and lose each other. Possibly they are able to contact the batch, who are on the way to try and get them when things go wrong.

My guess is that by the end of this three parter we'll have Crosshair reunited with the batch, or about to be, Omega on her own trying to evade Hemlock and his men, and somewhere along the line our reveal that Tech is alive because at this point I can't see them not aiming at a comeback with how hard they're trying to keep his 'death' on all our minds.

Episode 4 - "A Different Approach"

If Crosshair didn't meet up with the batch by the end of the previous three, then probably he does it here, I just get the sense that he's been gone for so long that we need to get him zipped up with the others early in the season, especially since we'll have several reunions to get to by the end of the series.

With Omega still separated but hopefully out of Tantiss at this point, they have to adjust how they plan to find her. She's now a moving target, because she's on the run still and likely unable to contact them. Echo will meet back up with them here, I think, maybe with info on wherever Tech is (my prediction: still on Eriadu in some fashion, either held with the good old pirates & smugglers or possibly by Tarkin himself, but I'm hoping the pirates & smugglers) and Rex will likely come too. I do think that they have their exchange about losing brothers here but rather than being about Tech, as the trailer implied, it's about Nemec or Fireball (or both) who possibly died getting the information. I just feel like those two are not long for this world, unfortunately.

We'll also follow Omega here, now completely alone for the first time. Previously she always had the batch, then she at the very least had Crosshair. Now she has neither and she has to try and figure out what to do. The title does dual work here, both the batch and Omega have to find a different approach in order to try and reunite.

Episode 5 - "The Return"

I feel like this is going to be a mostly Omega centered episode. Where is she returning to is the question, I still think that this refers to a place rather than a person returning. Pet theory - Cid put out several bounties on her to try and get her tracked down and rescued and she gets a blast from the past when she's grabbed by Bane a second time and taken to Ord Mantell. She of course is Not trusting Grandma Crimes anymore, but Cid is trying to redeem herself and fix what she broke.

While this is going on, the parallel return is the batch getting to Eriadu in order to set up the two parter.

Episode 6 & 7 - "Infiltration" & "Extraction

With the batch set up, they're ready to go get Tech from wherever he's been stuck! These two are likely more action oriented, with a little bit of Difficulty between Crosshair and the others after so long apart, but they find their footing well enough and begin to work together in order to get Tech out. They're 5/6ths of the way to a full family, they just have one more to get a hold of!

Episode 8 - "Bad Territory"

Getting fully into Pet Theories here but I think that this shot from the trailer

is Batuu - going mostly from the distinctive looking spires here. Another possible Omega focused episode, Cid is taking her to Batuu to cash in a favor. Not one owed to her - one owed to Omega, by Roland Durand. (LISTEN HERE'S HOW INFESTED BEING RELEVANT CAN STILL WIN-)

Anyway the focus here is on Roland trying to link her up with the batch. This might be a good place for Fennec to make her reappearance too, working from the Batch's end.

Episode 9 - "The Harbinger"

I'll be real I have no idea, my ideas started getting thin right about here, but I will say the title sounds like a great place for Ventress and the Teth monastery to make their appearance (I'm assuming they'll be together) but how they would actually play into the plot if they appeared here is unclear. I do think that we'll finally get everyone together though or at least be on our way to it, in order to bring us to our next two parter.

Episode 10 & 11 - "Identity Crisis" & "Point of No Return

The team is back together and all is not well, because everyone is still suffering a severe case of the Issues. No one can agree on what to do, where to go, with the identity crisis being the batch unsure of how to move forward together. Omega of course gets immediately stressed out by it all because it seems like she finally got her family back together only for it to immediately start falling apart. Wrecker is probably right there with her. Tech & Phee have their moment together, Echo still thinks they need to fight and I think that Crosshair is going to tend towards that too. Hunter at least absolutely wants to retire to Pabu right now immediately, but as the show has been trying to demonstrate, avoiding things won't be an option because-

Point of No Return is the dreaded invasion of Pabu. The Empire followed them here in order to retrieve Omega, and they barely escape, evacuating as many of Pabu's residents as possible. Shep doesn't make it out and is imprisoned.

Episode 12 - "Juggernaut"

This is where like a full quarter of the trailer comes from because they can show us several exterior tank shots without showing who's in the damn tank. I think the point of this one will be to get Shep back, since it does look like him that Wrecker is carrying. We know that Crosshair, Hunter, and Wrecker at a minimum will go in, but I think likely Omega and Echo are there (likely together thus being why we don't see much of Echo in the trailer) and Tech might be with Phee.

Episodes 13-15 - "Into the Breach" "Flash Strike" "The Calvary Has Arrived"

Grouping these three together because I have no idea what happens here except that we're likely going to be mounting an attack to take down Hemlock and, hopefully, free all of the clones that he's been experimenting on. The time for hiding is over, they have to take a stand against the Empire. Not because they're soldiers, but because they're a family, and the other clones are still their brothers.

For the first time, we don't leave our own behind can get followed and they're going in.

The Calvary Has Arrived is not a title I can see going dark to be quite honest, it's more of a full circle moment, it's the Batch becoming who they're meant to be, a family that fights for each other and for the other clones, I will cling to the idea of a happy ending (hopefully one that sets up a continuation that might focus more on Rex and his clone rebellion) until it's ripped from my cold dead hands thank you very much. I think that after the family has spent two seasons absolutely torn apart, becoming increasingly fractured, the best ending is one that has them finally united, all six of them, for the first time.

Like Omega said. They're more than soldiers. They're a family.

[tiresomeimagination]

Wait (707 x Reader)

Word Count: 1k

Warning: Spoilers for Seven’s route!

Author’s Note: So basically, I was thinking of how easy it’d be to freak Saeyoung out if you didn’t cope with the whole situation as perfectly as his good end MC is portrayed to lolol. So I wanted to do a little something with how he might react to something like that ^^ 

(Not sure how common this is, but I know squirreling away is a thing that I can be prone to do, and I realized that’d probably freak him out pretty bad hhh I’m sorry Saeyoung)

~~~~~

Seven wasn't sure how long he'd been typing away on his laptop. Fifteen minutes? Thirty? He was just in such a hurry to fix the apartment's security that he hadn't looked up from his screen in a while. When he did, the color drained from his face and his stomach dropped.

Where did you go? You were sitting over on the bed not too long ago. He hadn't heard you leave…but then again he was trying to ignore you.

Auugghhh, why did you do this to him? You managed to steal his attention without even being in the room. With a huff of frustration, he set down his computer and other hacking equipment and hurried out of the room. He looked in the kitchen first, but you weren't in there grabbing a snack like he figured you'd be. He looked around the whole apartment, growing increasingly anxious as he went longer with no sign of you. Did you try going outside again? He rushed back to his computer to check the CCTV…but you weren't there either.

He was starting to panic. He pulled out his phone, getting ready to call you, when he remembered the tracker he slipped into your pocket after the last time you wandered off while he wasn’t looking. He hurriedly checked it and breathed a sigh of relief as he saw that you were still in the apartment. You were…still in the same room?

Confused, Seven looked to the only logical last place to check.

You were huddled in the closet while you scrolled through your phone. Seven had been ignoring all your attempts at communicating. You knew he had important work to focus on and needed space to figure out…whatever it was that happened between him and the hacker…who is actually his long lost brother? It was all a lot for you to process. You just needed a little space of your own. Small, dark, and quiet, was just how you liked it when you felt overwhelmed.

Suddenly, the closet door was yanked open. You looked up to see Seven frowning down at you.

"What are you doing?" He asked in a clipped and frustrated tone.

"Nothing…" You responded quietly, instinctively shrinking in on yourself. Great. You made him upset again.

"You're doing nothing…in a closet?" He asked incredulously before he paused, sighing as he tried to keep his whirlwind of emotions at bay. "You should tell me before you disappear like that," he scolded. He wasn't sure whether to feel relieved you were okay or aggravated that he panicked so quickly for nothing.

"Well…I tried, but you were busy…" You muttered, playing awkwardly with your hands.

That made him freeze. If he didn't already feel like a big enough jerk, he did now. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't keep the look of worry off his face as he knelt down beside you. You looked so pitiful all curled up like that and Seven could feel his heart clenching painfully at the thought of you sitting alone in obvious distress.

He let out a heavy sigh before speaking again. "I'm sorry. I just have a lot to do to fix the security system…" He explained. Although it was true he did have a lot of work to do, it was also a good excuse to avoid focusing on just how jumbled and overwhelming his own emotions were right now.

"I understand, Seven…"

"No, you don't, I just- can you come out of here…please? You can be mad at me if you want, but don’t just disappear. I can't focus when I can't see you," he said, his voice still a bit strained, but softer than before.

You let out a sigh of your own and nodded. "Okay…"

You pocketed your phone and crawled out of the cozy darkness of the closet, pulling yourself back to your feet.

Seven stayed close, placing a tentative hand on your arm as he guided you over to the bed. “Come sit down…” He urged gently. You were a bit confused, but you relented and sat on the bed as he directed. He moved quickly, pulling a blanket over your shoulders before disappearing from the room. He returned a couple minutes later with a sandwich on a small plate.

You gave him a surprised look which only encouraged him to avoid your gaze as he pushed the plate into your hands.

“You’ve been through a traumatic experience and you haven’t eaten anything all day. You need to take care of yourself,” He explained, trying to keep his tone as clinical and unaffected as possible.

You smiled up at him. For the first time since Seven got here and began pushing you away, you didn’t feel so alone. “Thank you, Seven.”

His face heat up at the sight of your expression and he frowned deeply. “D-Don’t take this the wrong way or anything! I just can’t get any work done if I have to worry about whether you're okay or not," he grumbled, turning away and heading back toward his corner of the room.

"What about you? You haven't eaten in a while either," you pointed out, hoping that maybe he would eat with you.

However, Seven had already returned to his computer. "...It's fine. You just eat. I'll eat later. Now, I've got to get back to work, so…don't bother me…but…stay where I can see you…"

You frowned, still confused by this whiplash of behavioral switches. "Um…but-" You started to protest, but he simply slid his headphones back on. You sighed instead, turning your attention back to your meal.

He still didn't seem to have any interest in talking with you right now. But as much as he tried to discourage you from interacting with him…it couldn't be clearer now that he cared. No matter how much he insisted he wasn’t the man you thought he was…he was still just as kind. You were sure of it now that you had seen a glimpse past his cold front.

You smiled softly as you watched him feverishly tap away on his keyboard. If he needed time, you could wait. You would wait for him.

[rosewaterandivy]

Part 4. all fired up

Summary: Rumor has it, that hometown hero-turned-teacher Steve Harrington is hot for teacher. The English teacher next door to him at Hawkins High, who also happens to be his childhood friend, that is.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x chaotic!dumbass reader

Warnings: No use of y/n - reader goes by Trouble instead, depictions of drinking & drinking games, cursing, Eddie being shockingly graceful, and laundry room confessions

A/N: Modern!Teacher AU, English teacher reader, History teacher Steve, slow burn, friends to lovers, romance. Here’s 3.8K of multi-perspective tension, sexual and otherwise, and timeline fuckery; feedback and reblogs are appreciated, enjoy!

series masterlist | playlist

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Now - Spring break, March

Steve asking you to move into the loft was the last thing you’d expected. Not that the house hunt had been going so hot, to be fair. And you found yourself back on the couch of 4B more often than not. 

He’d broached the topic with you a few weeks ago before school started. Seated at your desk and hastily applying your makeup using the mirror from a compact. Steve hung out with you most mornings before first period, shooting the shit and gossiping about students. Eddie and Robin would join you when they could, but usually it was just the two of you.

“Are we aligned for quarter 3?” You ask, attempting to curl your eyelashes without pinching yourself. “I’m doing Night just as you roll into WWII with AP World, yeah?”

Steve nods, “Right, we have the field trip to the Holocaust Memorial Museum before spring break, so that tracks.”

“Good,” you swipe mascara through your lashes. “We should send out the permission slips this week then. I’ll send out an email to parents if they wanna volunteer as chaperones.”

He goes quiet, as if he’s lost in thought while you begin the same meticulous process with your other eye. 

“Y’know Nance is moving out soon,” he says casually, his loafer toeing the tile on the floor. “Her and Jonathan finally found a place; she’s thinking she’ll be out in time for spring break.”

“Ugh, finally,” you comment, setting the lash curler down. “Thought the day would never come.”

He laughs at your flippant response, watching as you continue your routine. And just as you were going to consider your makeup application for the day ‘mission accomplished,’ Steve says, “The room’s yours, if you want it.”

Shocked, you nearly stab yourself in the eye with the mascara wand, tears beading at your lash line, “Fuck!” 

Dropping the wand and compact, you screw your eye shut in pain thus ruining your mascara. May as well accept you’d walk around looking like a raccoon again. It’d be funny if it wasn’t so ridiculous.

“Are you okay?”

“Considering that I nearly put my own eye out? Yeah, I’m just peachy.”

He cringes watching as you blink, “Sorry, that was probably my bad.”

“How,” you laugh, pain dissipating slightly, “I don’t recall asking you to do my makeup today.”

“No,” he huffs, “I mean with the whole asking you to move in thing. Shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that.”

Surveying the damage in the mirror, you admit defeat and grab for the makeup removing towelettes. “Mmhm, really missed an opportunity to wine and dine me there, big guy.”

The joke lands like a lead balloon. Ba dum tss!

You scrub the towelette across your face, paying special attention to your overly mascara’d eye, and pop open your moisturizer. “It’s not a big deal Steve, and you’re not wrong to bring it up.”

“Yeah, how you figure?”

Your shrug dotting on your moisturizer, “Solves two problems, doesn’t it? You need a roommate and I need a place to live.” 

He stays quiet as you finish your ablutions, omitting the fact that they don’t necessarily need another roommate to make rent since his trust fund kicked in. But then again, Eddie and Robin don’t know that either.

“I guess,” he says, checking his watch. “Well, no pressure, either way. But I gotta bounce, I have hall duty.”

“Sure,” your voice is a clip as you zip the makeup bag shut, “See ya later.”

He gives you a small smile and wave as he leaves. The door closes behind him; the silence left in his absence deafening.

“It’s too soon, Nance,” Robin says, voice a crackle in the slow, calm of the morning. 

Nancy considers her words, taking a sip of coffee from her travel mug. And true, Robin knows Steve well and is understandably protective over him. But Nancy knows you and Steve, and that you’re both chickenshit.

“Maybe so,” she breathes, eyes glancing out the window and settling on Steve helping you to unload a few boxes from your car. A half-hearted shrug, “But then again, maybe not.”

She had made quick work of moving out, room packed in an orderly fashion and boxes labeled appropriately. The moving company arrived promptly and Nancy had successfully moved out of the loft before you had arrived that morning.

Jonathan and Argyle would meet the movers at the house, and she’d head out then. For now, she observed the debacle unfolding on the street outside of the loft. You had packed your car in typical fashion, which was …chaotic, to say the least. When you and Steve couldn’t free a box wedged against the window of the backseat, you hollered from the street for Eddie until he woke up.

Understandably pissed, he trudged out of the loft in his sweatpants and a crop top that had to have been Robin’s at one point (a goldenrod yellow shirt with red text reading ‘Lasagna Del Rey’), muttering something about you being a dumbass. And now, Steve and Eddie eyed the boxes warily, debating how best to wrest them from the backseat and trunk.

“Sup, bitches?” You greet, having successfully snuck away from the boys downstairs, and drop your purse and a box by the door. “Ooh, are the girls fighting yet?” 

Joining them at the window, you spy Steve yelling something at Eddie, who has taken it upon himself to open the sunroof of your car, thinking that the best way to unload the ridiculous amount of boxes in the backseat. He’s laid himself partially out on the roof and trunk, shoving an arm in through the opening, like a human claw machine.

“For fuck’s sake,” Nancy says with a shake of her head, “They don’t have a brain cell to rub together between to two of them.”

Robin snorts, phone out and already recording for posterity’s sake. “You can say that again.”

The boys, only somewhat successful in unpacking the car, badger the group of you in the loft until you’re annoyed enough to come downstairs and help. By the time the movers had arrived and placed the furniture in your new bedroom, your car had been unpacked, boxes organized by Nancy in the kitchen for the time being.

“The end of an era,” you say, hugging her goodbye. “Can’t believe the great Nancy Wheeler is shipping out to war.”

Robin and Eddie laugh from the living room, where they’re currently preoccupied laying out beers some semblance of a shape, a bottle of whiskey at the center of the coffee table.

She hits your shoulder playfully, “It won’t be that bad,” she tells you, “S’not like I’m dying over here.”

“Sorry, what was that?” You turn to Steve, stubbornly ignoring her presence, “I swear, it’s like she’s in the room with us.”

“Spooky,” Robin agrees, with a waggle of her brows, “I can’t remember the last time I saw Nancy Wheeler.”

She scoffs behind you, “Okay punks, I can take a hint,” and places her key on the counter. 

Steve pulls her into a bearhug and says, “Oh, y’think you’re getting out of here without a rematch?”

Nancy pushes back, eyeing him warily. “You wanna go toe to toe with the reigning champ?” 

“Hey, hey, hey,” you cut in, strolling casually to the living room and catching the beer Eddie tosses your way. “We’re all adults here.” Your voice is eerily calm and reserved, “We can do this with dignity, self-restraint, and, dare I say, honor.”

Robin grins, “The name of the game is True American,” tosses two beers Steve’s way.

Eddie counts it down, “One, two, three, four. JFK!”

“FDR!” is chorused in return. 

Beers are cracked open and shotgunned with abandon.

“Steve, you’re in the lava!” you shout from your perch on the dining table, “Get outta there man.”

He stops drinking his beer and looks at you, puzzled, “I thought this was Nancy Reagan’s gun closet.”

“George Washington, Abe Lincoln,” Eddie croons, as you reach out to haul Steve on the table with you.

“Cherry tree!”

Robin whistles, swaying precariously on the windowsill, “All right Americans, ya ready? Let’s do the count.”

“One, two, three.”

You slap the back of your hand to your forehead, one finger raised and inspect everyone else’s numbers; Nance and Robin both had threes, while Eddie came at a close second with a two, Steve was dead last with a four. 

Squinting, you smile and call out, “That’s me!” Moving unilaterally from the tabletop and stepping across a chair and stool to take your new position.

Steadying yourself on the countertop, you signal for their attention. “The only thing we have to fear–”

“Is fear itself!” they call back in response, “Drink!”

_

An hour or so later finds you several beers in and slung across Eddie’s back in a piggyback ride as he steps precariously across blankets and pillows.

“Jimmy Carter atop Grover Cleveland,” you say softly as he takes his turn, well both your turns since it’s turned into a team game now.  

He stops and looks from left to right, “What now?”

Untangling an arm from where you’d wrapped it around his shoulders, you point to the right. “Over here.”

“Huh,” he grunts swaying slightly, “M’over here,” and moves another space to the right.

“I gotta get to the castle!” Nancy yells, hopping toward the coffee table with the help of an overturned barstool.

“Go, Nance, go!” you cheer her on, safely deposited on an armchair near the couch.

“JFK!”

“FDR,” you chant, taking another swig of beer, watching as Steve and Robin intertwine arms to pour beer into the other’s mouth. Most of Seve’s spilling out and onto his shirt as Robin laughs.

_

“Y’know,” Steve sighs, running a hand through his hair, “You’re pretty good at this Nance.”

She smiles, toasts him with her beer can, and takes a bow.

He thumbs his lip, eyes glinting dangerously. 

“But not good enough.”

Slowly, you meandered from the armchair to the coffee table while Steve was distracted and grab the handle of whisky; check mate. You wave to Eddie from where he’s stood next to Steve. 

“D-does this–” he blinks at you, dazed.

Steve turns quickly from Eddie to you and back again. “What–No!”

“Is it–” Eddie continues, treading carefully across the floor to the coffee table. “This means we win?!”

“Yes,” you crow loudly, “This means we won! Suck it Steve–who’s the King now!?” 

Eddie picks you up and swings you around in victory chanting, “U.S.A., U.S.A.!” Your bright laughter rings out amidst Steve’s groans of defeat. 

The next morning finds you all piled on your bed, groaning as the spring sun lances through the windows. Your brain is mush, leaking from your ears it feels like. You turn to get out of bed, cursing the sloshing of your stomach. Still reeling from your celebration after winning True American, you flop on the floor with an audible thunk and belly crawl toward the door.

“You okay?” a low rasp, followed by the rustling of sheets.

You grunt as someone scoops you from the floor, dragging you upwards. Body limp as a ragdoll’s you allow yourself to be carried out of the room, hazarding a glance behind to see Robin, Nancy, and Eddie still passed out on the bed.

Mmm, must be Steve then. 

He was always quick to rally after nights spent barhopping in college, kept his liquor better than you ever could. Hands scrabbling for something to hold on to, you settle for the threadbare fabric of his shirt. He shifts you in his grasp, readjusting the grip he has on you and sighs.

“You’re…freakishly…quiet,” he whispers as he deposits you on the couch, leaning forward to get a better look at you, hair falling in his face. 

Batting your hand at him blearily, you burrow down into the couch hugging a pillow for good measure. Steve leaves you, starting the coffeemaker in the kitchen and mumbling about the moving boxes cluttering the counters.

“Everything is shit.” You whine, “Fucking True American… Fucking whiskey. My bones hurt. I feel like I’m dying. My sweat is sweating. Did I even fall asleep in my own bedroom?”

Steve snorts because at least he wasn’t that sloppy. He doesn’t remember a lot from last night, but something like clarity returns to him, a chorus of cheers and something being tossed. “Was that before or after you took off your panties?”

You whimper and bury your forehead into the pillow beneath you, cheeks coloring in embarrassment. “You remember that? S’last time I rock a lace thong, felt like my ass was eating it.”

He shuts his eyes at the image, tries not comment on anything involving your ass. Instead he asks, “So how do we want the coffee this morning? Regular strength or trying to vibrate yourself out of existence?”

“Jus’ wanna feel normal again. Remember? Bones hurt.”

Steve hums in the affirmative, pouring the coffee into two mugs and adding a splash of creamer to one. He pads over to you, sets both mugs on the table and lets you choose. Opting for the black coffee, you take a bitter sip hoping to feel something other than remorse.

“Mmm, s’gonna be that kinda day I see.”

“All due respect, which is none,” you grouse, “You can fuck all the way off, Steve.”

He sputters the next mouthful at your response, and it catches in his nose, makes him choke and cough all over the coffee table. You suddenly follow suit, except it’s on your own spit and the two of you look like complete morons to Eddie, who is sauntering in, completely fine.

“Told you to lay off the whiskey last night, Trouble,” he says reproachingly. He pauses by the hallway entrance before walking out into the living room, stepping on the back of the armchair with the grace of a prima ballerina. You and Steve gape at how he balances on the back of it, reaching up toward the ceiling.

With a thump he lands back down, arm pulling back before a tiny purple thong quietly smacks Steve in the face.

“What the fuck!?” You shove Steve off of the couch in a poor effort to retrieve your unmentionables. He grunts and shakes it loose, one hand pushing your face back as the other grips your thong. He opens his mouth to cuss out Eddie but the look on his face shuts you both up.

Eddie looks like a dog with a bone. The cat who caught the canary. Smug and casual as he leans against the counter, arms crossed as he looks from your pink face to Steve’s, to the triangle of fabric in your hand. Eddie waggles his brows, sucks on his teeth, and grins– shit-eatingly proud.

“Thought you’d want those back, Stevie. You’re the one who took ’em off her last night.”

The rest of the day slips by lazily. Jonathan collecting Nancy around noon or so, offended at having missed a rousing game of True American. They say their goodbyes and head off to the new house, leaving the rest of you to clean up from last night and unpack the boxes in the kitchen.

Steve is trying to do laundry. He prefers to do it himself, though Robin always offers to throw it in with her stuff. That’s fine though, he’s got a system, one he’s perfected over years of uninterrupted Sundays doing laundry. 

Anyway, he’s trying to do laundry when you saunter in.

On top of an empty dryer, you swing your legs uselessly. “Harrington,” you instruct seriously, “Don’t put the red sock in with the white stuff.”

“Yeah, no shit,” he retorts sifting through his hamper. Separating out the darks from the lights, whites elsewhere—it’s a system. 

You tilt your head, amused, and stare at him. It’s midafternoon now, the boxes had been unpacked and your own items absorbed into the communal drawers and spaces of the loft. Robin and Eddie busied themselves with their usual activities, whatever those were, and the loft had been quiet save for the a/c kicking on.

“D’ya wanna talk about it?”

Your hesitant to ask, voice soft as you bite your lip. He stops sorting the clothes to look at you, brow furrowed. 

“Talk about what?”

It’s only then that he notices you’re wearing his shirt. He shouldn’t be surprised, not really, you’re like a raccoon, always rifling through his shit and stealing his stuff. As if he wouldn’t notice.

An old white t-shirt from some vintage store or another that read ‘Stanley Cup.’ It swallows you, the white dips and stretches over your chest, and drops as its hem reaches the tops of your thighs. Your bare legs stick out, bottoms obscured by its larger size. You’re distracted by the material and fit, fingers tugging at the collar and adjusting the sleeves.

Something feels weird. Kind of funny like how a jab to the side hurts and tickles at the same time. Shock? Relief? Confusion, at the very least. He catches himself staring.

“Y’know,” you say after a while, hand stroking at your sternum languidly, “Christmas? We should get it out in the open.”

That snaps him out of it.

“Don’t you mean Thanksgiving?” 

He goes back to sorting the clothes, anything to distract himself in the moment.

“What do you mean? Thanksgiving?”

If he had to pinpoint it, the moment this whole thing was set off for him, it was that first night in the cabin over Thanksgiving break. He couldn’t keep his eyes off of you, could barely keep his hands to himself.

He sighs, brushing away the hair that had fallen into his eyes frustratedly, “Yeah. When the idiots conned us into a one-bed-short situation? You got drunk, and I had to take care of you?”

He just stops himself from saying, like always. Just barley, but he does it. Steve knows this has been difficult for you, doesn’t want to belabor the point.

“Oh,” you say. It’s soft, maybe a little dejected, too. Your legs stop their idle swinging. “Sorry, I didn’t know—”

“S’fine,” he says with a wave of his hand, tosses in a load of dark clothes to the washer. “I mean, we probably should discuss it. Just for like, ground rules or something.”

He eyeballs the amount of laundry detergent and shuts the machine, turning the dial and pressing ‘start.’ As the washer begins its cycle, he leans back against it, arms crossed. 

You take a deep breath in, “I didn’t want you to be that guy,” you admit, voice catching. “I couldn’t— I wouldn’t do that to you, Steve.”

“Then why did you–” he responds after a second, pausing to make eye contact, watches your wavering expression, wincing as you recall the events of last December.

“Jesus, Stevie,” you say gently, “You’re--my best friend.”

The door of the loft bursts open as he begins to reply. He takes you aside in the hallway, further from the laundry and closer to your bedroom. Hears Robin shout something about take-out orders, but dismisses it for the time being.

This isn’t for anyone except you and him. You can’t even articulate it to yourself, much less anyone else, so Steve nudges you into your room and shuts the door. You turn to him and the look in your eyes makes his breath stick to his throat. Jesus.

This is worse than sympathy and he wishes it were that simple. But this is heartbreak— and you’re the type of person who feels heartbreak in unimaginable ways. Steve shakes his head, doesn’t know how to navigate this part.

The first time this happened, he joked for your sake, and you laughed back for his. You both were younger then, inexperienced and wary; fumbling hands and lips after the Homecoming dance. The last time this happened, the glances were more pointed, the touches were measured and precise.

He’s thought about that night more than he’d care to admit.

Your mouth falls open in a hoarse whisper, “Sorry— I’m—”

“Hey, none of that,” he chides taking a step closer. “S’nothing to worry about.”

“But I—” you choke up, “I hurt you, Steve. I hurt you so much.”

He sucks a breath in. It was a lifetime ago. It was nothing. He was young and dumb and interested in Nancy, your best friend, and not the girl next door. And then, when he had realized his mistake, you were in love with somebody else— wearing his ring and planning to take his name.

Idiot.

He wishes he had a similar excuse for Christmas, but god knows he doesn’t. No excuse whatsoever, just raw feeling and need. He shakes the thought loose before it can take hold. Steve’s hands find purchase along your arms, his weight the only thing tethering you to the ground.

“But I’m okay. I’m good now. I got you with me. I’m okay.” All his rambling rushes out through a harried stream-of-consciousness. His thumbs running smooth circles against your skin, “You— You gotta stop cryin’. It’s killin’ me, honey.”

You blink your eyes, not recognizing the tears beading along your lashes. You press your palms into your eyes, take a deep breath in and out. “Okay.”

You keep to yourself for the rest of the day, only coming out for food when the take-out arrives. And even then, you eat quickly and make some excuse about needing to organize your room before leaving the table. 

Robin eyes Steve suspiciously, “You two alright?”

He leaves the table rather than respond and follows you down the hall. Your door is cracked open, laptop playing some sitcom or other on the desk as you fold clothes on your bed. You pause hearing the groan of an old floorboard, “That you Steve?”

“Yeah, s’just me.” 

Not turning from your task, you wave him in over your shoulder and continue pairing socks. He helps you return the clothes to their respective drawers and flops on your bed, exhausted, while you shut your laptop closed.

“Guess you’re staying then.”

“Guess so,” his voice is muffled by your impossibly comfortable duvet. Like clouds or some shit, Steve wonders passingly where you got it from.

Half-heartedly, you shove him to the side and turn down the sheets. You pat the side next to you and fluff up some pillows. He lays down next to you on the bed, propped up against a pillow or two, settling down for the night.

Steve watches as you burrow down in the sheets, mumble something incomprehensibly, body sliding briefly until you’re completely pressed against him. He tugs the blanket up and shifts so he can lie down comfortably, grabs your phone from the center of the bed.

He’s looking at your background wallpaper when you mumble something unintelligible in your sleep again. It’s a picture of him from a Zoom faculty meeting during the pandemic, brows raised at something some dumbass had said, you’d texted him a moment earlier saying ‘this idiot saying the quiet part out loud’ and he had to cover his laugh with a cough; you’d isolated his cell on the call and posed next to his face as it filled the screen of your monitor, a cheeky grin and thumbs up as Eddie snapped the photo.

A short sigh followed by a deeper one. “Yeah, you know.”

“Uh huh,” Steve smirks, entertaining your babbling. “Is that right?”

“Yeah.” A grunt, a huff of breath before you flip on your side, dreaming now. “Yeah. I love you.”

Steve fumbles and drops the phone on the floor, its screen going dark. He stares wordlessly at the deep blue of your ceiling, sleep-drunk words sinking to the bottom of his swollen heart.

[lovelyladyabsinthewrites]

Love Song for a Vampire Pt.35

Pairing(s):Edward Cullen x Wolf!Reader, Jacob Black x Witch!OC

Warnings: none

Words: 2494

Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 4  Part 5  Part 6  Part 7 Part 8  Part 9  Part 10  Part 11  Part 12  Part 13  Part 14  Part 15  Part 16  Part 17  Part 18  Part 19  Part 20  Part 21  Part 22  Part 23   Part 24  Part 25  Part 26  Part 27  Part 28 Part 29  Part 30  Part 31  Part 32  Part 33 Part 34 Part 36 Part 37 Part 38 Part 39

Seth was blowing up Leah's phone. He wanted her to go over to Sam's where all the witches were, mesmerizing the wolves with their magic. Actual, physical magic. Leah couldn't bring herself to answer them or head over. She feared if she saw Dieufel, someone would pick up on it that she had imprinted on him. It was annoying and she didn't need the other's sympathies for another wolf imprinting on a witch. The other pack members could still be caught murmuring about Jacob who had been kept from Evita.

Walking past her door, Sue Clearwater back tracks to peek into her daughter's room. "I thought you would be at Sam's. Seth couldn't stop talking about Evita's friends."

Leah scrunches up her nose like she'd smelled something terrible. If she were in her wolf form, her ears would have been pinned to the side of her head in irritation. That didn't translate to her human form. "I'll pass."

Sue stares at her in an attempt to read her. Leah hated that. Bad enough that everyone could hear her thoughts when she was a wolf. Like nothing was personal for her to keep to herself. "Are you okay? You've been cooped up in here all day. Sam doesn't need you on patrol?"

Not for the first time, Leah resented still living at home. Everyone was always in her business. All she wanted was peace and quiet and to be left alone. Honestly, she didn't know who was on patrol at the moment. After the fifth ring from Seth, Leah had shoved her phone underneath her pillow to muffle the noise. She could tell that her packmates must be squabbling to decide who would go out on guard and who would get to stay and watch Dieufel and his cousin make the wards. "I'm fine."

She doesn't buy that. Sue knew her kids. Maybe not as of late, but she knew when something was not right. Putting down the laundry basket she'd been transporting to her room, Sue enters Leah's room hesitantly. "I know I may not understand a lot of things concerning wolves and the pack, but I'm always here for you, Leah. Whether you want to talk or hang out-"

Her eyes flick up and Sue clips her sentence short. "I'm fine." Leah again repeated.

After a moment, Sue lets out a forlorn sigh and nods. "Okay. If you don't want my company then, maybe you should go over to the Black's instead of staying in here all day."

"Why?"

Sue purses her lips. "Jacob is having a tough time. He's been by himself since imprinting on Evita. Billy told me that even the Swan girl has stopped coming around to their house. He must have told her. He could use some company though."

That was the last thing Leah wanted to do. It would be the most pathetic hang out session. She didn't want to connect with him over this. Didn't want anyone to know. Especially not Jacob. He'd think they'd have some sort of camaraderie because of this shared experience. Leah just desired nothing more than to sweep this whole mess under the rug and forget about it. A few days ago, she'd had hope that maybe things were looking up for her. A tentative friendship sprung up between Leah and Evita that the she-wolf appreciated. Evita didn't pity her. Didn't even know what had happened between her, Sam and Emily. The girl was easy to talk to and was not spurned by Leah's surly attitude that was more or less her built in defense mechanism.

When Leah doesn't respond, she hears her mom sigh again before picking her laundry basket back up and continuing on her previous path to her room to sort through her clothes. Leah focuses on the sound of shuffling fabric being pulled out and the creaking of the whicker basket Sue liked to use. Leah huffs and leans back in her computer chair. Before Sue had come in, she'd been researching scholarships for college. Well, she'd been trying to but kept getting distracted by the ringing of her phone. College was the last thing on her mind, but it had taken her mind off of her supernatural life if only for a little bit.

Without thinking, Leah's hand pulls at the drawer in her desk and pulls out a picture that had been placed face down. A picture she hadn't looked at since Harry's death. Printed on the glossy paper was the smiling face of Harry, Seth and Leah. Father and son were decked out in fishing gear while Leah merely wore a baseball cap that once belonged to Harry. Grief that she had done been dealing well with bubbles in her chest to the point where she instantly throws the photo back into the drawer and slams it closed. Her skin trembled. Home wasn't safe for her either.

Having already been wearing her sneakers, Leah leaves the Clearwater household without another word.

She didn't like what she was about to do, but Leah couldn't help herself when she came upon Jacob Black's garage where she heard music streaming out of and the clanking of whatever metal he was tinkering with. His shirt was off, like many of the male wolves preferred, and Leah could see the muscles of his back move as he's elbow deep in the car's engine. At least Jacob was engulfed in a hobby. Leah didn't have many hobbies. Perhaps hiking and fishing, but there was little time nowadays for her to indulge in activities like that.

Sneakers scuffing against the pebbles that lead up to the entrance of his garage, Jacob's body freezes for a moment before he turned around and registered it was Leah. He arched an eyebrow, asking his question without having to open his mouth.

Heat floods her cheeks as she tells him the secret she was hiding from everyone. She just couldn't refrain the words spilling out of her mouth like a great force, unable to be pushed back in. Leah didn't intentionally go there to spill her guts out to Jacob Black but it happened anyway. There was no plugging it up. The dam was broken.

At her admissions, Jacob very slowly left his car to stand in front of her. He's unsure of what Leah needed in that moment. Not many people saw her this vulnerable, Leah made sure of that.

By the time she's done, her whole body is wracked with tremors. The hood to the car's engine was closed and both now had their butts pressing against it, facing out of the garage. Being soft like this had Leah's skin itching uncomfortably. "You probably think I'm pathetic."

"Pathetic? Why?"

Her face screws up in a scowl. "Because I am pathetic. Acting like this just because I. . . I imprinted." In frustration, her fingers card through her short, black hair. "And of course I had to imprint on a witch too."

"Well, technically he's not a witch. What's the guy version?" Jacob manages to pull a snort from Leah. "You know how imprinting works. It's out of our hands. We just drew the short straws. After this whole Volturi thing blows over we can tell them. For now we just have to be patient." He omits where he'd actually snapped at (y/n) the other day due to him being unable to control the hormones that imprinting caused to escalate. When he came down from the burst of aggression that seized him, Jacob accepted that he was in the wrong. Regretted yelling at one of his best friends.

"When have either of us been patient?" Leah scoffs and Jacob chuckles dryly. Certainly the most stubborn wolves in the entire pack.

Things had worked out for (y/n). She'd been lucky. Edward was with her now and they were exploring their new relationship and the dynamics it brought with it. And despite her frostiness toward the blood suckers, Leah was happy for her. They were pack-sisters after all. The only ones. Oddities among a pack full of guys. Somehow, she found it appropriate that their mates would be just as odd.

In her short life, luck had not been on Leah's side. Not with Sam, or her dad and possibly not even with Dieufel.

Bella and Evita were holed up in Sam's living room even as the sun started to go down. They had to relocate in order for Dieufel to make the second ward. Finally, you were able to bear witness to their magic firsthand. According to Sam, even when Evita made the first ward, there had been a lot of ceremony that went along with it. Dieufel followed it to the exact detail. That same tangy scent of magic pulsates around you. His gaze was fixated on a river stone, smooth and weathered, cradled in the palm of his hand. Its surface seemed to pulse with an ancient rhythm, as if it held the whispered secrets of generations past. A small bowl of herbs are slowly catching ablaze in front of him. He hadn't even used a match to light it. Only a few words and the hovering of his hand had summoned the smallest of flames required. Each syllable he uttered seemed to invoke forgotten forces, calling upon the spirits that held sway over the elements. The room responded in kind. Shadows seemed to dance along the walls, and a gentle breeze, though the windows remained closed, ruffle at your hair and kiss your face. You felt a shiver of something profound – the thinning of the veil between the mundane and the mystical. As if the stone itself was awakening, attuning itself to the currents of magic being woven around it, in crumbles into dozens of small pieces until it was but swirling dust particles. Working with magic made Dieufel's veins glow from under his dark skin. Long rivers of light run up his arms and down his neck. The protective ward Dieufel was crafting was not merely a barrier, but a conduit for their intentions, a manifestation of their collective will that the Volturi will not come to harm anyone.

When it was all done, Dieufel places it in your hand. You didn't think it would be this small. Even for your naturally blazing skin, the ward sat hot in your palm. The emerald the color the ward possessed seemed to ebb and flow, shifting in intensity as if it were a living entity. Intricate designs, etched with the precision of magic itself, adorned the surface. Carved into the emerald-like material were patterns that seemed to dance and intertwine, an intricate tapestry of symbols representing protection and connection. Symbols pulsed softly, a rhythm in harmony with the heartbeat of the universe.

"Wow." You breath is shaky. Bella was right. This was. . . Your brain struggled to come up with the most fitting words to describe it, but there was nothing that would do the experience justice.

Dieufel collapses onto the couch and closes his eyes for a moment. Embry asked if he was okay and the warlock merely nods. "Yes. I'll need to take a breather."

Nadege cleans up after her cousin and begins to make her ward. The bowl that Dieufel had burned miscellaneous herbs was refreshed by Nadege's quick hands. She hummed as she reset everything.

The other boys pawed at you to see the ward and you pass it to them so they can gawk over it although Sam has to stress to them to handle it with the utmost care. Even Quil and Paul duck their heads down to examine it closer.

Evita emerges from the kitchen to check in on Dieufel. "Do you want me to make you a tonic?"

He chuckles and pats the top of her dark curls. "I'll be fine. No need for worries. How is your apranti(apprentice)?"

That drew up everyone's attention. Embry and Seth in particular straighten up and crane their heads to see around Evita and into the kitchen. They were interested in the training, but Evita was strict on having it be just her and Bella so she didn't feel flustered. One had to learn magic in comfort.

Admittedly, Evita was no teacher. She was still young and learning her own power. It wasn't a position for her to teach. Fundamentals of magic, maybe. But not hands on training. That required a more skilled mentor.

Nadege sets aside what she had been doing and hops up onto her feet. "Well, if you are not opposed and if you're feeling better, I can teach Bella."

From the couch, Dieufel scoffs "You just want to show off."

Well, she didn't disagree but ignored him as she hands Evita a box of matches and passes through everyone to go into the kitchen. You and Embry exchange looks and follow her. Paul stops the younger boys and shoos them away. They just wanted to follow after Nadege.

Bella sat at the kitchen table, loose sheets of paper were in front of her. You can see the scribbling of words and bullet notes. Her pen taps against her temple before she looks up to see the three new people in her presence. She sets down her pen and sits up in her seat. Nadege briefly met Bella before Evita dove in on the lessons. Nadege's smile is blinding and catches Bella off guard. The witch's dark hand picks up some of the notes that Bella and Evita had been working on. Her green eyes skim over the surface and nods.

"Good, she's covered the foundations." Her eyes dash as she reads the rest of it, getting a grasp of where Evita had left off. You and Embry have to get on your tippy toes in order to read over Nadege's shoulder. She was so tall!Bella's cheeks turn pink in front of the enigmatic Nadege who glances at a few more notes before pulling out a chair for herself.

Shyly, Bella's gaze flicks over to you and Embry. Quickly, you smile over at her and subtly nudge Embry in the side. He's fast to take the hint and moves back into the living room where the air has picked up once more in a magical buzz.

Vibrations coming from your back pocket notify you of a text from Edward. You grin and excuse yourself quietly to pop outside. The air sang in your ears as you make your way deeper into the woods. Edward met you half-way out of habit. His gold pools sparkle with anticipation. "What's it like?"

He wouldn't go inside of Sam's house as long as he knew Bella was there, not wanting to make this awkward for her. It itched at him though to get a visual of what witnessing real magic was like. Also he was curious as to how Bella would fit in with the witches. Stunned was an understatement to how he felt when he learned of Bella's magical potential.

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[dani-says-stuff]

heyyy

Okay so .... You have a massive crush on Nate and nobody knows but Nate somehow finds out so you, Nate ,colby and sam are all sitting watching a movie, but colby and sam go out to get food which just leaves you and ethan alone. You tell ethan your gonna take a quick shower. He then asks if he can ask you something, he starts to back you up into a corner and starts to say stuff like "i heard you have a crush on me " ( all that flirty stuff, glides his hand up your hip trying to touch you ) he says it almost wispering he starts to kiss your jaw like ever so slightly .but you deny the whole thing ( stunned inside of what you have just heard) sam and colby come back with food and you have had your shower you sit next to Nate he starts to trail his fingers up and down your back ( kinda sexually)

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the next day Nate teases you when you two are alone or when nobody is looking ( sexually) ( rubbin your thigh and rubbing himself against you breathing down your neck , jaw kisses ) about it all day.

Disasters to Desires

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❥ Back to the Control Center

❥ Nate Hardy Masterlist

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Light smut, 18+, be aware of what you read

Nate Hardy x fem!reader

request!

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: extreme awkwardness, shower mishaps, light smut, shower smut(?), fingering, probably bad writing, possible inconsistent capitalization, an absolutely obscene water bill incoming for y/n, so she should probably be on the look out for that.

this literally took me so long because i never felt like it was good- but whatever. this as good as its going to get i fear. i hope this is what you were looking for, i didnt end up doing everything bc it didn’t fit with the direction i was going, sorry for the wait tho! this is also my first smut/semi smut guys so... be gentle pls

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It was later in the afternoon, the plan for the day had originally been to go to this old abandoned house in the woods behind your house. You could barley see it through the trees when standing on the back porch. Faint glimpses of discolored wood and chipping paint just visible through the thick branches if you turned the right way. 

The boys had been trying to convince you to let them take a look at it ever since you moved in a couple months ago. That it would be a cool way to do a call back on their channel. You, the boys, and Nate hopping over fences and creeping around abandoned places like you had years ago. 

An intro and a couple failed attempts at scaling your back fence rather than going through the gate—“for old times sake!” Colby had called briefly, soon falling flat on his face, his ankle catching the top of the fence—was about as far as the group got before the video became an obvious bust. 

It wasn’t a house after all, in reality, it was just someone’s old dilapidated tool shed. Only one level with a thrown together attic space where one may store spare buckets or trays. It wasn’t enough to warrant a video, maybe the more interesting clips would make their way onto xplore club later, but that was as far as the footage would go. 

But the energy was running high, the group was back together, and no one was quite ready to leave just yet.

So, the three boys—with your permission of course—decided to crash at your place, a movie night and popcorn provided by yours truly as long as the boys got the food. 

It was some trilogy that Sam and Colby had been raving about, offended that neither you nor Nate had any clue what they meant when referencing it earlier that day. They forced the two of you onto the couch, insistant on finding the movies on Netflix and binge watching them all that night. 

One movie out of the three down and you could say with absolute certainty, you had no clue what was going on. Hell, you weren’t even sure what the title was. It wasn’t that it was a bad movie either, in fact, you were sure it had to be good, Colby had never steered you wrong before in his recommendations and Nate seemed to be enjoying it… but that was the issue, Nate. 

He was seated next to you on your dingy couch. You’d never realized just how small the piece of furniture was until he plopped down next to you, thigh pressed against your own and an arm slung across the top of the cushions behind you. 

You could hardly breathe, let alone focus on the stupid movie, with your long time crush and the love of your life squishing himself up next to you.

Unintentionally, you were sure. He’d never shown real interest in you in the past and you’d like to think you’d made your feelings clear enough over the years, but nope. Everytime you tried subtly bringing up relationship status around him, he began raving about this mystery girl. His eyes would shine and cheeks would strain under the bright smile when he spoke of her. You couldn’t tell him how you felt when he loved her so strongly. 

So you stayed silent, bottling up the love you harbored for him, forcing yourself to be as platonic with him as you could. 

You thought you had it under control, but you were quickly proven wrong at the heat which flooded your cheeks when his hand fell down, twirling the strands of your hair between his fingers during the more plot-heavy scenes. Running his fingers through your hair and leaning closer and closer to your side through the movie. 

Your daze finally broke during the end credits, Sam slumping forward off his chair with an over exaggerated groan, “I’m starving” he whined, “I totally forgot how long that first one is man” 

“Hey!” Colby cut in, immediately defensive, “You’ve gotta introduce all the main shit dude!” 

The blonde snorts, picking himself up from the ground and opening his phone to an ordering app, “I’m not complaining man, just hungry.” 

Nate nods eagerly, moving forward to the edge of the seat, out of his previous lounged position. His arm slipping down off the couch completely, falling to rest around your shoulders. You tried your best not to jump at the action, your muscles tightening and straining under the pressure to remain unphased.

The words this is normal. act cool. an endless mantra, repeating over and over in your head as you struggled to breathe properly. 

“Yeah!” he spoke, gaze flicking between the two boys, “can we get the food now?” he looks down at you, your heart seizing in your chest, “You cool with that? A brief intermission before we continue the saga?” 

You looked up at him, heart beating so erratically you could feel it in your skull and your breath catching in your lungs under the intensity of his gaze. All you could give him, and in turn the other two boys as well, was a jerky nod of your head.

God, why is this so much more awkward than usual. 

Before long, Sam and Colby had left, going to pick up some order from some restaurant. If your brain had been working properly and not hyper focused on Nate’s fingers brushing up and down your arm, you may actually know what it was you had agreed to ordering. Welp, a surprise it is, you’d been best friends with the boys for long enough that you all knew each other's orders by heart— so at least you knew it wouldn't be something gross. 

The two of you remained on the couch after the boys left, Nate soon becoming occupied by something on his phone to pass the time and you remaining awkwardly stiff under his arm.

You shifted, stretching your body to the side table and grabbing your own phone—maybe that would help you get your mind off of his warm skin pressing against your own. The movement however, brought the brunette out of his doom scroll, warm brown eyes now stuck gazing at your side profile with such an intensity you could swear you felt it burning your skin.  

You tried to ignore it at first, assuming he was only curious at what you were doing and would soon return to his own phone. After three strange instagram reels, you found that would not be the case. You spoke, eyes still trained on your screen, knowing the words would fail you if you met his gaze, “Can I help you with something?”

Rather than answer, he quickly shoots back his own question, his voice lost and far away as he speaks, “Can I ask you something?” 

Your brows furrowed and lips purse together in confusion, “Yeah,” you answer almost immediately, clicking off your phone to give him your full attention now, “of course, what’s up?”

You weren’t quite sure what the question was going to be, maybe something about filming or some weird article he just saw, but you knew you were definitely not expecting this. 

His body moved, inching even closer to you than before, now able to feel his breath tickling your eyelashes as he spoke. Your heart beating faster and faster at every inch evaporating between you. 

“I heard,” he trailed off, the tension so thick that it forced his voice to a hoarse whisper, his gaze switching steadily between your eyes, ready to back off at any signs of discomfort, “I heard so I just had to ask… do you have feelings for me?” 

Your eyes widened comically large, fear seizing your body and throwing you into overdrive. You were imaging things, you had to be. There was no way this was happening right now. “W-what?” 

He moved closer, leaning entirely over you now, your back pressed into the arm rest, “Do you have feelings for me?” 

Yep. It was happening. 

You didn’t know who told him that or how he found out, but his words gave no indication that he was into you as well. Or at least that's what you thought in your panicked state despite the fact Nate was currently hovering over you, eyes trailing down to your lips every once in a while despite his attempts to keep them from doing so. 

You laughed nervously, squirming out from underneath him and fumbling to the floor, “Y-you know what?” you rushed, stuttering over your words and completely ignoring his question, “Sam and Colby are probably going to be a little bit, so I’m gonna go. I’m just gonna run upstairs and take a shower real fast. I can, uh, I can practically still feel the cobwebs on my skin from earlier.”

That was half true. You walked straight into the biggest spider web you’d ever seen at the stupid shed and made the boys pick through your hair for at least fifteen minutes just to make sure there weren't any bugs or spiders hiding in there. The shower would also get you out of this complete and utter nightmare. 

You quickly stood, stumbling over your own limbs as you did, “So, yeah. Um, help yourself to whatever I guess, I’ll be back.” You rushed up the stairs, leaving Nate completely stunned and alone in the livingroom.

━─━────༺✧༻────━─━

You were not looking forward to your water bill at the end of this month.

In an attempt to save yourself from further humiliation and awkwardness, you’d decided to camp out in the shower until Sam and Colby came back. Your phone propped up on the back of the toilet so you could check the status of the order and gauge how long it would take them to get back. 

You reached out from the curtain, checking for the fourth time since you finished actually cleaning yourself off. They were still at the place and the order was yet to be completed.

You groaned, throwing your head back “What the hell did we order? Why is it taking so long?” you whined, slumping down on the floor of the tub, warm water cascading over your body. 

Your fingers were beginning to prune. You didn’t know exactly how long it had been, but it had to be at least thirty minutes by now. 

You’d begun to disassociate slightly, watching blindly as the drops raced down the wall before you, the flow of water massaging your back further numbing your mind. 

At least until a light knock sounded from the bathroom door. “N/N?” Nate called out through the wood, concern resting on his words despite the playful tone he always seemed to carry around you, “N/N you alright in there?”

“Y-yeah” you squeak, “All good!” startled by the sudden person, you shoot to stand up, forgetting about the slippery soap residue coating the tub and slipping back down with a loud crash. Several bottles—soaps, conditioner, and shampoo—falling down with you.

Could this get any worse?

Yes. Yes it could.

And it did get worse. 

So. Much. Worse.

You didn’t fully realize he had entered the bathroom, the sound of the door slamming open deaf on your ears as the bottles came crashing down, until he ripped open the shower curtain with wide concerned eyes. 

“Are you ok?” 

“What the fuck!”

Both of your words reached a similar pitch, his tone taking on more concerned while yours remained completely horrified. 

Nate, bless his soul, too preoccupied by the loud, painful sounding fall to completely register how insane his actions were. Especially not as he reached down, hands already pulling you up. He was more focused on injury than your embarrassment, his hands finding purchase on your hips, firmly keeping you in place so you didn’t slip again. 

You tried to push his hands off, shrinking back and ripping the curtain back in place but his grip remained strong. 

“Hey hey hey, stop” he spoke, soft and concerned as his gaze trailed over your face, one hand moving to inspect the back of your head, “Are you ok?” he pressed softly, fingers searching for any sore areas from smacking it against the hard ground.

“M’ fine.” you squeaked, eyes trailing to the floor, completely mortified while your arms wrapped around yourself, “Can you go now?” 

He stopped, brows crinkling and head tilting to the side, “Why?”

Your eyes snap up to his, your jaw opening and closing repeatedly like a gaping fish, “Wha– I’m in the shower?” 

“I know? You just took a fall in the shower,” he winced, resuming his inspection of your scalp, “a pretty nasty one from what it sounded like.”

“Can we do this later?”

“And risk overlooking a concussion?” he scoffed, "No. Are you insane?"

“Nate,” you spoke, voice stern despite the heat flooding into your cheeks and neck, “I’m naked.”

For some reason, that’s what got him. All his movement stopped, “Oh.” he whispered, voice breathless and eyes wide as his gaze swept over your bare body. 

The seconds seemed to last centuries, Nate stunlocked as he looked over your form, and you too embarrassed to do anything but stay completely frozen, eyes anywhere but on him. 

“Do I have to?” he finally speaks, breaking the silence. You look at him, mortification and confusion washing over your face. Or at least you were mortified until you caught his eyes, pupils blown and gaze soft as it roamed your skin. 

That's when you finally realized his question wasn’t meant to pick on you earlier. He was being genuine, and he has feelings for you too, very deep ones if his current actions are anything to go by. 

“Do you have to what?” 

His eyes finally make their way back up to yours, locking steadily in place and searching for any sign you want him to back off, “Do I have to leave?” 

You melt, you were certain you’d be a puddle under his intense heated gaze if not for his hands keeping you steady. You allow your eyes to trail down to his lips, “No.” 

That’s all it takes for him to lunge forward, lips eagerly rushing to find yours. He’s uncaring of his clothes, still on and becoming soaked from the steady stream of water. All that matters, is after years he’s finally able to kiss you. 

He pushes you backwards, your body quickly coming in contact with the cool tile behind you, the temperature a delicious contrast to the warmth of his touch trailing over your body. Hands trailing up and down, massaging over any skin he can. Your arms, waist, hips, chest, no part of you is forgotten by him as he continues to kiss you. Your own hands clinging to his quickly dampening hair and across the back of his neck, holding on tight as he continues to explore your body with fervor.

Your lungs begin to burn, the need for air overwhelming, but neither of you want to give up this moment. Reluctantly you pull away, head resting back against the wall, chest rapidly moving up and down, quick shallow breaths escaping your mouth. 

It didn't seem Nate was as ready to quit as you were though, his lips— much like his hands, now moving to capture more of your skin. Kisses moving from the corner of your mouth, down your chin, across your jaw, anywhere he could reach. 

His arms moved, spurred on by the choked wimpers leaving your lips at the alternation of kisses and small bruises he was peppering on the tender parts of your neck. One hand resting firmly against your hip and pressing you securely against the wall while the other trailed between your thighs. 

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this.” he breathes against your skin quickly before returning to his previous actions. Any moment he spent talking rather than have his lips on you, was a moment wasted. 

You moaned, gripping tight to his hair at a particularly harsh pull, him biting softly upon your skin, “I think I have an idea.” 

He only muffled a small laugh, refusing to abandon the warm smooth skin he was currently painting in a swath of dark purple and red bruises. 

His hand moved, lithe finger exploring the inviting velvet folds of your center. Stroking up and down, exploring you, gauging what you liked and didn’t like by the soft sounds escaping your swollen lips. He finally found a smooth rhythm, stroking the pearl at the apex with his thumb while his fingers prodded around your center, pumping in and out at a methodical pace. 

You clung to his hair, his ministrations refusing to let up even as your legs began to quake, unable to support your weight fully anymore. Rather than slow, he simply pushed you further into the wall, moving closer to take more of your weight on himself, keeping you steady and upright as he continued. Moving faster and faster as your pleasured moans grew louder and louder, echoing off the walls of the small bathroom.

Your skin felt as if it was on fire, as if you were burning alive, consumed by the fires of passion held back behind his gaze, and you wished it would never stop. If you could pause this moment and live here forever you would. 

A coil pulled tighter and tighter in your gut, legs shaking beneath you as it did. Tighter at each drag of his fingers over your skin, tighter at each suck and kiss he placed upon your collarbone, until it finally snapped. Moaning his name loud and unrestrained at the release, a tremor ran through his own body at the beautiful sound, before falling limp against him, clinging desperately to his shoulders as the aftershocks racked your frame. 

He traced his fingers up and down your back now, loving kisses placed against your temple while you regain your composure. 

He was about to ask if you’d like to take it to the bedroom, some flirty remark passing through his lips once you finally found the strength to pick up your head and meet his gaze. But then the front door opened, followed by the loud calls of Sam and Colby back with the food. 

He shook his head, a slight smile on his lips, before leaning down. Placing a soft, loving kiss against your lips.

“I guess we’ll just have to finish this later, huh?” 

“Oh absolutely.”

once again, sorry for the wait @serendipity432 ! hope it's what you were thinking! :)