#(why do I know this. I have never owned an extensive hair clip collection before this moment.)

[cesium-sheep]

yayayay most of my lolita collective stuff is here! (two items still haven’t shipped yet since they’re coming from other locations.)

the stuff I specifically picked out is super cute, the animal earrings in particular have a nice subtle sparkle to them that doesn’t show up as well on the product photos, and my two different blind packs came with waaay more than they said to expect! (the earrings were supposed to be 6 pairs and I got 11 total of 4 different designs (all different colors, although one of the plastic post ones has been a tragic victim of shipping (which will be easy to repair)), and the hair clips were supposed to be like 15 and I got 34 total of 4 different designs (with groupings of 2-5 per color excepting my one lonely navy blue sequin heart lol).) my favorites of the stuff I didn’t already know I’d get are the blue and the silver star hair clips :>

suuuper good way to quickly start building a base collection to work from, and also seems to be run by very sweet people as they emailed me a week after I put in my order to reassure me it hadn’t been forgotten they just had a big backlog of orders this month. they also make it super easy to contact them if you have any questions, because instead of sending most things through a do-not-reply they note at the end of an email when you can just reply directly to it. and allllll of this together was only $20 before shipping!! amazing!!! (I’ve still got a big set of bows and a little iron-on patch coming at some point, which was another $11, and then shipping was $18 because some stuff comes from overseas and they sent their US warehouse stuff via priority mail.)

[theladyismyshepard]

I’m here to use your interests against you mwahahaha! Could you write something about a reader who like Cass, Dani, and Bela more than their mother, except Lady D. Likes the reader and wants them to herself.

You have me intrigued, anon, and I hope this is what you were looking forward to

Finally Throwing out the polyamorous relationship where the sisters pass you around 😍

Well This is Awkward

You awake easily this morning, and maybe it was because you had slept uninterrupted. The blackout curtains tucked away any sunlight that dared to peer through the windowpane. The natural chill of the castle had you burrowed into the blanket, falling and clinging to sleep. The screams that would haunt the hallways had even paused for the night.

You also supposed it made it easier to wake up when reality seemed better than your dreams. You glanced down at the arm thrown over you and the leg hooked around your own. Your eyes trailed up the body until your gaze connected with a wide grin framed by blazing red hair. You couldn’t help but to smile back.

“Good morning, Daniela,” you said, your voice thick with sleep.

“Finally,” jested Daniela, propping her head up on her hand. “It only took you eight hours to get up.”

Your smile turned lazy as you closed your eyes again. You felt two fingers tap your cheek sharply, and you couldn’t help but to find her clinginess endearing. She looked almost impatient when you opened them, but all you could focus on was the pout she was throwing your way.

“No more sleeping!” She exclaimed, shaking you by the shoulder. “It’s almost Cassandra’s turn!”

You shake your head at the absurdity of her statement. Daniela sounded damn near jealous of her sister, and you couldn’t have that... especially when you knew Daniela’s intense emotions tend to have drastic actions.

You tried to roll her over onto her back, but she resisted, instead choosing to push you down and straddling your hips while pinning your arms down by your side. She was wearing a smirk the whole time her face came closer to yours, her hair falling to curtain your faces from the outside world.

“I don’t like to be kept waiting.” whispered Daniela before she licked the shell of your ear.

“Then why did you let me sleep in?” You countered absently, your mind already occupied.

“Bela told me I had to.” pouted Daniela, sitting upright on your hips and crossing her arms. “She said something about “bags” under your eyes, but I like them!”

You smiled in amusement at both sisters. It made your heart swell that Bela was thoughtful about your sleeping routine and the effect it had on your body. It made you feel kinda special that Daniela enjoyed your company enough to want to disrupt your sleep, not giving a damn about your appearance if denied rest.

“Well, thank you, sweetie, I’m glad I look attractive when I look beat to hell.” you chuckled, grabbing ahold of her hips and drawing small circles there.

“You might be a mess, but you’re a hot mess at least.” she said cheekily, obviously enjoying the banter.

“I was thinking the same about you.” you teased back, unable to hold back a laugh. “What a couple we must make, huh?”

“We make the best couple.” growled Daniela, surging back down to grab either side of your face and pull you towards her mouth.

A sharp knock interrupted the kiss, and Daniela really growled this time, irritation written all over her face when she pulled back in the sitting position again.

“What?!” snapped Daniela, neck craned so she was facing the door, yet already knowing who it was.

“Don’t yell at me, Dani, it’s your fault you picked your turn during bedtime.” came Cassandra’s deadpan, almost sounding bored despite the venom spat right at her through the door.

“I’m sorry,” you couldn’t help but to say sheepishly, averting your eyes.

Daniela’s frustration was no longer evident as she begrudgingly peeled herself from your body. You could lie there all morning with how comfortable the bed was, but you were aware that Cassandra had took it upon herself to come and collect you, so you couldn’t keep her waiting. You sat up with every intention of hurrying, but you also couldn’t leave with Daniela feeling neglected in any sort of way.

“Sometimes having you for the night is my favorite.” said Daniela, giving you a wink to ease the nerves. “Come here and tell me ‘bye’ like you mean it.”

“There are no ‘goodbyes’, but I’ll give you a ‘see you later’.” you chuckled at her eye roll, but that didn’t stop her from leaning forward to meet you halfway.

When you felt her breath on your lips, your eyes fluttered shut of their own accord, and with that you didn’t see Daniela duck her head at the last moment. Your eyes flew open when you felt the sting of her teeth tearing through the top layer of skin on your throat. You hissed, but cradled the back of her neck, holding her still.

Daniela was always leaving you on your toes, unsure of what was to come with how rapid her thoughts skipped to the next. But that was what you loved about her: her spontaneity. She never allowed you to grow bored with her.

“Fuck, Daniela,” you stammered out when you began to feel lightheaded. “Too much, too much,”

Daniela pulled back with her signature crazed giggle, and it had you momentarily forgetting what you were supposed to be doing. Until the knocking on the door increased in volume.

“Hurry up, or it comes out of your next turn!” called Cassandra, and you knew she also was a sister that you couldn’t afford to piss off too much.

“I’d like to see her try,” said Daniela, still giggling at your dazed expression, but finally pulling away from you so you could get up, blood trickling down her lip. “She couldn’t keep me away from you.”

“I wouldn’t let her.” you assured, sending her an earnest smile while getting dressed quickly, and you were thoroughly surprised when you didn’t get a clipped response through the door.

“You’re just too sweet,” she drawled, wiping the corner of her lip with her finger and popping it into her mouth, slowly licking it clean. “You should be going now before Cassandra becomes angry.”

“I love you,”

After one last kiss, you ripped open the door, eyes searching for the brunette who you hoped wasn’t too impatient. The door clicked shut behind you as you observed Cassandra leaning back against the wall across from Daniela’s room. Her scowl morphed smoothly into a smirk that easily had you nervous in a good way.

“Good morning, babe,” you greeted brightly, reaching out for her hand.

“It is now,” Cassandra flirted easily, looking at you through narrowed eyes when she examined the already bruising flesh where Daniela had bit you. “Let’s go, I have plans for today.”

You let her guide you with no hesitation like you always did. Cassandra always had plans, different ones every day, never really asking you if you had any plans for your time together. She took full control but that was what you loved about her. Sometimes you liked to be submissive, and that was what Cassandra liked to prey on.

“What did you have in mind?” You asked as she took the many twists and turns that led you to the kitchens, and the reminder of food had your stomach growling.

“First, I knew Daniela wouldn’t think of breakfast, so I had one of the maids awoken early to prepare something beforehand so it wouldn’t waste our time.”

She spoke it so nonchalantly, as if it meant nothing at all really, but Cassandra showed her affection through ways of her own, and while it took some time to become familiar with her subtle love language, you knew she appreciated quality time together with no one else around to disrupt the two of you.

“Thank you, Cassandra,” You smiled, your eyes catching sight of the platter decorated quite nicely with fruits and cheeses and biscuits and different meats and you couldn’t help but to be touched by the extensiveness of it, to both Cassandra and to the maid who prepared it.

“I can’t have you falling out on us.” chuckled Cassandra, leading you to the table set up just for you.

“So what comes after this?” You questioned, sitting down and smiling when she pushed you in.

“Impatient are we?” Cassandra mused, looking proud with herself.

“Can’t have you wasting time, can we?” you quipped, smiling smugly at her snort.

“Shut it, your smart tongue is only keeping us here longer.”

“I thought you liked my smart tongue.” You countered, arching a brow as you stuck it out teasingly.

“There are many uses to it,” she agreed, shrugging. “But it also grates at my nerves, so I suggest you eat it up now, babe.”

You smirked, knowing you were keeping up quip for quip with Cassandra, and you also knew she couldn’t stand not having the last word in, even with you, so you took your victory before you lost it. You dug into your food quick as Cassandra watched you, nose wrinkling slightly. Did the smell of food disgust her as much as the smell of death disgusted you?

“Where to now?” You asked earnestly, once you were finished and pushed the platter away.

Cassandra giggled and reached over to pat your head, almost like a puppy, before cupping your cheek, her thumb stroking in small circles. You shuddered from the tingle that danced down your spine in response. Her lips were moving, but you had to blink away the haze to focus in.

“... into town,”

“What on earth for?” You questioned, brow furrowed. “The three of you only really go at night, and I don’t think-”

“Calm down,” Cassandra interrupted, standing up and holding a hand out to you. “All you need is a hood and let me do the talking... I can be quite alluring.”

You narrowed your eyes at her suspiciously. You knew she had her hooks in you, but what did she mean by that? She patted your cheek as she smiled at your expression.

“My sisters and I have many tricks up our sleeves.” she winked, explaining no more. “Come,”

You smirk to yourself and your dirty mind, and grabbed her hand, standing with her. As the two of you walk hand-in-hand through the castle towards her bedroom to collect a spare hood for you, you ran into Bela, and you couldn’t help the large smile that took over your face, your arm already up in a wave.

“Bela!” You called happily, also squeezing Cassandra’s hand to let her know her presence was still appreciated too.

Bela’s eyes were alight when she turned to look at you, smirking when she saw the two of you together.

“Hello, my love,” she said, her eyes crinkled by her widened smile when you reached out to grab her hand. “What are you two off doing today?”

“We’re going into town.” answered Cassandra calmly, and Bela’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into her hairline.

“Under an illusion, I presume?” started Bela cautiously, sighing when Cassandra rolled her eyes, bitch fit at the ready. “Of course, why did I even ask?”

“Why did you?” mocked Cassandra, reeling herself in when you squeezed her hand again, reminding her that you were here.

“Don’t be so quick to get defensive.” You scolded so gently that it came across as more of a plea. “We’re gonna have a good day, okay?”

Cassandra frowned deeply, but she refrained herself from spewing out another biting comment. The thumb of her hand that you were holding brushed along your fingers.

“Before you go running off, I think mother wanted to speak with you,” informed Bela, her eyes directed at you.

With me?

The concern was written so plainly all over your face, and you knew it from the two reassuring hands on your body. Cassandra had a hand rubbing soothingly up your back, and Bela was running her fingers through your hair.

“Would you like us to walk with you, my love?” pressed Bela, eyes boring into yours, and you couldn’t look away as you nodded.

“There’s no need to be scared, babe, we’re right here, and she wouldn’t hurt us by taking you away.” assured Cassandra, moving to hold your hand again.

“I know she wouldn’t hurt me.” You insisted... were you trying to assure yourself or them?

You felt the Lady’s eyes on you when she was in the room. She watched the dynamic you had formed with her daughters in interest, and you always wondered what her thoughts on the matter were. You had yet to be completely alone with their mother, but surely nothing too drastic would befall you without the safety of Bela, Cassandra, or Daniela’s presence.

All you could think about on the way to Lady Dimitrescu’s office was how intimidating she was, and how much of a coward you were acting in front of your girlfriends at the mere prospect of talking with their mother. You put on your brave face when you blinked and you were suddenly outside of the door.

“Let’s get this over with, and this doesn’t cut into my time, Bela!” said Cassandra, her voice suddenly taking on an edge.

“Whatever,” Bela rolled her eyes, moving to open the door.

“Wait,” you stopped them, grabbing each by the arm. “I think she wanted to talk alone.”

What are you doing? Of course you want them there!

Bela pursed her lips, but didn’t argue with you, instead leaning towards you to plant a kiss on your cheek. Cassandra was stoic, but the way she crossed her arms over her chest had you believing that she didn’t want to agree with you. They both took a step back to give you an open entrance.

“I’ll be right here, and we’ll go right after.” promised Cassandra, already leaning against the wall to make herself comfortable.

“It’s gonna be a good day, remember?” Bela reminded, giggling as she walked away down the hall.

You sighed, before straightening your shoulders, pumping yourself up. The door was heavy so you had to put some effort into swinging it open to grant yourself access. The loud creak had you cringing but you still pressed on into the room, your eyes falling onto the Lady.

She was seated at the rather large desk, her neck turned down to examine the paperwork before her... a lady never hunches of course. Her hat concealed her eyes from yours, but when she heard the door open, her neck snapped up, zeroing in on you.

You gulped as you were rooted to the spot beneath the heat of her gaze. Her nostrils flared enough for you to catch it, and the smirk that formed on her mouth crept slowly as she leaned back in her chair, her eyes raking over your body.

“Hello, my dear,” her voice was smooth and easy to listen to, and you wondered why you were so afraid.

“Hello, my Lady,” you greeted politely, hands held behind your back, almost as if you were striving to put on the manners.

“Please, call me Alcina,” the Lady insisted, reaching into one of the drawers of her desk.

She withdrew her tobacco smoking pipe and reached for the book of matches on the desktop. She set the tobacco ablaze, the flames dancing in her golden eyes as she stared into your soul it felt. Her cheeks sunk in a bit as she took a drag, blowing it out in your direction, thickening the room.

“Alcina,” you tried, feeling the way it rolled off your tongue. “You wished to speak with me?”

“Straight to the point, I admire that,” Alcina remarked, signaling with her hand for you to take a seat in one of the chairs before the desk.

“I could hardly keep your daughters waiting.” You joked, attempting to take a crack at humor, and deflated when her smile disappeared.

“You’ve found your way into each of my daughters’ hearts, I see.” she commented thoughtfully.

“I don’t know how I did it but... I’d like to think they care for me as much as I care for them, yes.” You supplied, fidgeting in place.

“You are something special, are you not?” Alcina whispered, eyes trailing over your form yet again, and it left you unsure.

“I hardly believe so,” you dismissed, shaking your head, and why were you arguing with this woman who could kill you with no thought whatsoever?

“I see it,” said Alcina, leaning forward, and what you could see was the way her breasts seemed to push forward almost invitingly, and you had to curse yourself for looking at the mother of your girlfriends in such a lewd manner.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” You said, dazed and confused by the way the conversation was going.

“I can smell something different about you, and it has left me intrigued.” Alcina asserted, the smoke swirling and almost obscuring her face from your vision, but those eyes always bore into you.

“What does that mean?” You whispered, almost afraid that too many questions would send her over the edge.

Lady Dimitrescu snuffed out the tobacco so she could tuck away the pipe once more. She then rested her elbows on the desk, her fingers hooking together before she rested her chin atop them. Her eyes glanced from you to the door behind you as she spoke her next words, almost as if she were speaking to Cassandra who was waiting for you in the hall.

“I regret to inform you that some changes are taking place, my dear, and it starts with the relationship you have with my daughters.”

Your face fell and there was no hiding it. You wished you had brought Bela and Cassandra along, and then you thought of Daniela, and how you awoke with her wrapped around your body.

“W-what about it?” You stammered, your chest tightening, and Alcina sighed ruefully, almost as if to show her regret.

“I’m going to have to take you away from them.” she explained, raising a hand to silence you when your mouth dropped open. “This is not a form of punishment and you are not to be harmed... but I must take you for myself.”

You couldn’t move. Here was this woman who left you feeling nervous and intimidated and so very small telling you that she was stealing you away from her own daughters for her own interests.

“What?” You weren’t sure if it was loud enough to even make a sound in your throat, but the clicking of her tongue confirmed it.

“Pay attention from now on, darling, I do not appreciate having to repeat myself.” Alcina warned, though it wasn’t as harsh as it could be.

“But-” were you really still arguing with her?

“Enough,” clipped Alcina, her frustration starting to rear its head. “I am already aware that I will have to fight with all three of my daughters, do not push me anymore.”

You couldn’t wrap your head around what was happening and you felt like you couldn’t keep up, and this wasn’t the place to get left behind in. You weren’t even sure if you were fully aware of what becoming Alcina’s lover entailed. You were happy where you were.

“Please,” you couldn’t help but to choke out, tears blurring your vision.

“I will be the one to inform my daughters of the new arrangements, you need not worry yourself with that.” assured Alcina, pushing up from the chair, and rounding the desk.

She paused at your side, and you looked up, your neck craning at her height. She chuckled before leaning down to place a kiss on your forehead, taking the time to sniff the scent of your shampoo. Your tears spilled over.

“You remain here, my dear, I will come back to collect you myself, and we will have a discussion of what is to come later.” she said easily, as if she wasn’t switching up your entire life without even a thought.

Your mouth opened and closed, leaving you resembling a goldfish as she opened the door and ducked beneath the doorway. You felt frozen, unable to react to the sudden shouting outside of the door. You couldn’t even hear Cassandra going into her full blown tantrum, throwing things and all.

You stared down at your hands, your forehead still tingling from the cool lips that were just pressed there. What the hell was it that had an entire family of vampires juggling you around? Even the matriarch needed her taste.

You wanted the warmth of Bela, the alluring aura of Cassandra, the intensity of Daniela... Surely they would come for you... right? Surely they could go against their mother...

Right?

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

you’re someone i just want around: IV

“I had a few, got drunk on you

And now I’m wasted

And when I sleep, I’m gonna dream of 

How you tasted.”

— Medicine, Harry Styles

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

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

word count: 26.4k

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

///

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why, thank you! 

My pleasure.

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

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

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

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

I wouldn’t want it any other way. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It happens Thursday on two occasions. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re going to regret that. 

Pinky promise?

///

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What...What are these?”

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

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

Then it all clicks. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I just...it’s like…” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, it fucking worked.”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am, I can’t hold—”

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

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

“Do I make myself clear?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mm-mm. What?” 

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

He feels her heartbeat trip. 

“And you know what I do to brats?” 

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

“I fuck them until they break.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me you want it.”

“I want it.”

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

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

“I...I want you to spank me.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yours.” 

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

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

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

“Now beg me to let you cum.”

///

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

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

“You drool in your sleep.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Truly. His dad was hotter.” 

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

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

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

“Couldn’t be me, either.”   

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

She gladly delivers. “Exquisite taste.”

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

“Emmett was pretty hot, as well.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s definitely something.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How chivalrous.”

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

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

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

“I’m just making a point!”

“Yeah, a shitty one.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey!”

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

“You’re a dick, you really are.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What—?”

“And it’s not even ten A.M. yet.”

“What do you—?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Whatever.” 

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

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

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

“Wow. I feel used.” 

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

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

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

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

“We could UberEats some iHop.” 

“Who’s gonna get the door?”

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

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

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

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

“You’re so dumb.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, like you’re any better?” 

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

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

///

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uber for Y/N?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh...my God.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have no idea.

“You underestimated me, Holmes.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The irony of it all. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are those...Are those handcuffs?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

///

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You like Hamilton?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You are vile.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Harry, I’m serious—” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[fascination-street-writing]

Somewhere to Begin | Pannacotta Fugo x Ghirga!Reader

He has always adored you, like the sun and the moon and more - but he had a brilliant way of convincing you otherwise.

- 200 Follower Giveaway Piece iii for @idontlikerisottounlessitsnero​ -

Content Warnings: Not SFW Content, Post Break-Up, Emotional Hurt & Comfort, Regret, & Explicit Sexual Content (Aged-Up Characters)

You had promised your brother Narancia to never involve yourself directly with Passione; even the occasional stay for a meal at Il Libeccio made him antsy, yet you failed to see the harm in sharing a plate of bruschetta with Fugo, or a pot of hot tea with Abbacchio – two of his closest companions. It was only fair that you ought to spend time with the men who gave you unbridled protection at the behest of nothing more than goodwill and magnanimity. Not that you needed such security, but it kept street thieves from picking your pockets, at least.

You had promised him indeed, and now that he lies in the casket before you – clad in the suit from your mother’s funeral that you never thought to see him wear again – you intend to keep it. Giorno had offered to have an outfit tailored for your brother, but you refused him with consternation that your he would not be buried in something from the boy responsible for his death.

“No,” you had told him, cold as the wall of ice that has crept around your heart, while clutching the woolly material to your chest. “This one will do nicely.”

And so, the mortician severed the seam along the back of the jacket and draped a silk sheet over Narancia’s legs so that no one would be wiser to fact that his ankles stick out past the bottom hem of his trousers. It was bad enough that you could not afford the casket on your own. You knew better than to believe it when Mista told you that it and the headstone were paid for with the money yielded from the liquidation of Bucciarati’s assets. If that were true, then why not pay for a new suit, too?

Trish snatches a single white lily from the memorial wreath and tucks it between your brother’s still, clasped fingers. She hides her grief behind a pair of sunglasses that do not match the overcast weather that looms above your heads. You had not wanted to wait so long for the funeral – for two months, Narancia’s body had been left in the morgue to chill on ice, par Giorno’s insistence that the service must wait until his transfer of power over Passione has finished.

Thus, for two months, you had lain awake at night, shuddering at the melancholy and its melody that reminds you how you your brother died without saying farewell – his platonic little soulmate. Giorno may have his victories and suffer for them, but you would not let him entomb Narancia in the mausoleum with Bucciarati and Abbacchio.

“He’ll be buried next to our mother,” you said to the new Don with indignancy. “After everything you’ve taken from me, let me have this. Lascia che mio fratello torni a casa – let my brother come home.”

Your wish was granted, though you suspect it only so because he was growing tired of fighting with you over burial rights and passages. The congregation is kept small, consisting only of yourself, Mista, Trish, a tortoise named Jean-Pierre Polnareff, regrettably Giorno, and a handful of bodyguards, though the latter kept their distance from the immediate service; it would not come as a surprise to you, should you learn that the men in black suits were employed to protect their Don from the mournful sister of the deceased.

The handkerchief clutched in your grasp is damp with past tears. Not even your father had come, despite your pleading that he ought to pay his respects to his only son. Too preoccupied with his floozy of a new wife and her children from two previous marriages than to love his own – you never needed him in your life anyways, because you had Bucciarati. Now, you suppose that you must be a proper orphan.

You do not weep when the casket seals and cleaves the line of sight betwixt you and your brother forever. You do not weep when the mechanical apparatus lowers the coffer made of Osage orange wood into the steel vault that already holds your mother in oak. You do not weep when the gravediggers shovel the dirt mound back over the crest of opened earth.

You do not weep until Mista clasps your trembling hand, pulls you to his chest, and embraces you amidst the anguish that burns you alive. His is the consolation that you needed, but never thought to ask for, though it is not his touch that you long for. One by one, the attendees disperse for the train of luxury cars and you remain alone with the gunslinger who had been courteous enough to come without his oddly patterned beanie hat.

“Why don’t we get going?” Mista urges to coax you away from the gravesite – away from yourself and the suffocating agony. “Giorno’s having dinner for us all, back at the estate.”

You pull away. Rivets of mascara stain his white dress-shirt. “You can go on ahead,” you tell him, not quite liking the way your voice strains in your throat. “I’m not hungry.”

“Then, let’s go grab some coffee or something –”

“I’m fine, Mista.” He frowns and averts his gaze. “I have some things I need to take care of.”

“Oh?”

You tug your cardigan closer to your chest. “I’m going to collect Narancia’s belongings from our dad’s house. Not sure what I’ll do with it all, but I know it can’t stay there.”

Mementos of life, from when things were far simpler and your brother far more alive. Family photographs with tattered edges and holes of where your father should have been, wedged between unread and abused schoolbooks. Worn out blue jeans with patches of fabric scraps from your mother’s old dresses that you had sewn on for him. A collection of empty glass soda bottles. CDs and cassette tapes of Snoop Dog, Tupac, and whatever other American rappers had appealed to his tastes.

“Alright, I guess. Promise me you’ll call when you get there.”

Soon to be packed away in cardboard boxes and to be stacked precariously in the living room of your studio apartment – another gift from Bucciarati – with nowhere else to go. You simply cannot afford to rent a storage unit downtown.

“I will.”

Mista does not offer to help, because he knows you will refuse it. With that, he takes his leave of you in the cemetery. Left to your solitary devices, you clench your fists and stew on hatred and loathing for none other than Giorno Giovanna. You do not blame Narancia for his eagerness to trust the boy so quickly; his charisma, as appealing as it entreats to the willing, is an infectious disease.

If not for Giorno, your brother would have been buried two months ago. If not for Giorno, your brother might still be alive. And perhaps you must resent Fugo too, for what he has done – or rather, the lack thereof of doing; yet for everything, you are incapable of such feelings, as you have always been fond of each other. The optimistic heart within you stands that he has saved you from suffering more – that in his choice to stay behind in Venezia, it only meant you would not have to bury him, too.

Because surely, his unrestrained anger would have gotten him killed – if not before, then certainly after Narancia’s death.

With a quivering sigh, you turn from this dreary place and meet his illegible violet stare. A row of crackling headstones separates you from the boy whom you love more than life itself. Fugo clutches a pretty bouquet of daffodils wrapped with parchment paper and a white-string bow – your favorite flowers, though you wonder whether they are meant for you or your brother’s fresh grave.

You do not know, nor will you ever, as he sets the flowers atop the nearest monument and makes off, as if on sabbatical to you.

And it fills you with nothing more than bitterness.

“Everyone misses you,” Mista confesses between a sip of tea and a bite of strawberry cake. “You should come around sometime soon.”

Nearly a year has passed since the funeral, and you have yet grace anyone from Passione with your presence, with the exception of Mista for weekly sojourns to Il Libeccio to catch up on life – because, as you have learned, much can happen in seven days’ time. With each occasion of crossing the archway’s threshold into the private dining room at the back of the restaurant, you find yourself preening for two heads of black hair – one neatly combed and clipped, the other a sprawl held in place with an orange headband –, taut lips painted in black, and Fugo. And every time, you are left with the kind of disappointment that curdles your soul like sour milk.

“Who misses me, Mista?” you reprimand, pointing your icing-lacquered fork in his direction. “I barely even know Trish, and I have no interest in ever speaking with Don Giovanna again.”

You wish Giorno would call off the bodyguard who trails you every waking hour of the day; it makes you feel like a child who has proven herself untrustworthy to her parent. But you have done nothing deserving of such punishment. You suspect that his intent is an extension of the olive branch treaty that does not exist between you two – a reiteration of Bucciarati’s protection that should not have to be reiterated, because he should not be dead, either.

Or, alternatively, he wants to irk you so far that you might barge into his office one day – fuming with unspent determination to admonish him regarding his dominion over your life – just to trap you in a conversation wherein he might attempt to suspend your animosity towards him. Alas, you are simply not interested; you will scorn him, because it is all you can do.

“Forget I asked . . .” Mista trails off, swirling a dollop of whipped cream with his knife. “So uh, by the way, have you seen Fugo lately?”

Just the utterance of his name has you perking in your seat.

“No.”

“Hm, well, rumor has it, he’s working at the public library. Shaking people down for late fees or something like that.” It is not implausible to imagine Fugo in the position of extorting old ladies and young children for overdue fines – but, you know that it is only a jest. Regardless, he has always been the type of boy to surround himself with books instead of people. “Why not visit him sometime? He’s not affiliated with Passione anymore. Or, not now, at least.”

You stab at a strawberry. It bleeds beneath the weight of your fork.

“I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?”

Mista’s question is one that you ought to be asking yourself, as you sit here at the scratched pine desk of the library – pretending to study for an upcoming exam on the history of art in Pompeii – though you look up from your scrawl of notes every few minutes to see if Fugo should pass you by; perhaps pushing a cart of books to be put away, or branding return cards with a plush red stamp to mark the date in two weeks’ time.

You have seen him only once more since his implied attempt of reconciliation at your brother’s funeral. It was by chance that you should wander into the same café as him that day; and by extended odds that – while you stood over his table with a sad smile and a cup of coffee – he stood abruptly and left without finishing his own drink. He had not even bothered to wish you well.

Today, you catch him on your way to the reference section. The look of hurt in his eyes – like salt instead of sugar on the tongue – brings a scowl to your face. “Please, Panni,” you plead, and though your fingers ache to catch his hand with your own, you refrain for you know the gesture is a crossing of the line between you two. “Can’t we just talk?”

“No,” he says, so dry and unrecognizable. “I’m not getting paid to do that. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Panni, I – Please, don’t do this. I already lost my brother: don’t make me lose you, too.”

A fuse switches in his head, and you have been the one to flip it. He clutches the encyclopedia in his hands with such fervor that his knuckles pale, and for a moment, you wonder if he means to hit you with it. And maybe he thinks it too, but he drops it atop the ground as soon as the thought crosses his mind. He takes a step back, as if you have scorned him – maybe, after all, you have.

The cover spills open, and the pages bend against the hardwood floor. You wish he would do the same to you – to disclose his grievances and let you in. Instead, it is the toxicity of acrimony “Don’t ever come near me again,” Fugo warns. “Haven’t you realized by now that I never want to see you again? Get out of my life – get out of my dreams – and leave me alone.”

You will save the tears for when you stand in front of the bathroom mirror tonight before bed to wash away your makeup from the day, amongst other regrets. But you will never understand the guilt that suffocates him – a noose that is just taut enough to keep him breathing – each time he looks at you, and even when he does not. You are everything he has ever wanted and more.

And you are the emblem of everything he has ever done wrong.

“I still care about you,” you tell him with an affirmation that will not fix the desolation. “Doesn’t that mean anything?”

He bites his lip and looks away.

“I know you’re hurting. I am too. So, can’t we heal together?”

“Are you stupid?” You grimace at his words. “I told you to go.”

There is no chance to dispute it, nor to bid him an aggrieved adieu, because he is gone again. Burying him might have been easier, after all; a corpse cannot remind you of what a fool you have become.

And so it seems to you that dying dreams are the best ones.

Adulthood is – as you have found in your years of treading its waters – a dreadful inevitability. You and your brother’s boxes have outgrown that compact studio apartment, though for years, you had made it work perfectly fine. When Giorno pulled the strings to terminate your lease and forcefully relocate you into a sizeable townhouse in the Chiaia district, you wanted to hate him for it – for his reminder that you cannot sever your connection to Passione. Yet, boggled down with university loans, you were in no position to turn down his assistance.

And he knew it, well.

A pretty townhouse located in one of the nicest regions of Napoli cannot bring Narancia back, nor can it attune for every bit of suffering incurred since his death; but if it is a strain upon the aging Don’s wallet, then it is all the better.

On the day of your fourth birthday spent in solitude, you treat yourself to a tub of gelato and a dress from the costly boutique across the street that you will never wear because you have no need to. It will hang in your closest amongst other unworn gowns, still pinched with price tags, that you have impulsively accumulated over the years – a hereditary habit of your mother’s that had caused more than a few spats between she and your father. You know your vice, but there is something so gratifying about it.

You sink into the tweed couch that does not quite match the architect’s vision for the living room – with its crown-mould white walls and hardwood floors the color of wenge; too clean and proper for what furniture you have kept from your former residence. Silver spoon clenched between your teeth as you page through television channel after channel, you balance that melting gelato on your lap. Perhaps you should have grabbed a straw from the kitchen as well.

The evening passes by, uneventfully so. You have spent it spoiling yourself and replying with fabricated enthusiasm to incoming text messages from study mates, who wish you well on this happy day – as if you have a reason to remember your twenty-first beyond the accomplishment of finishing the entire tub of would-be-frozen lemon curd without incurring a single regret or twinge a of brain-freeze. You have gotten rather good at knocking back shots without needing to stop for breaths, too.

At the ringing of the doorbell, you are torn from the real estate program that you have invested so much time these past few hours. Mista, no doubt – come to deliver a gift and takeout because he knows you have not eaten properly tonight. You have no room left in your belly, but whatever he brings will make for a decent meal tomorrow.

You do not bother to tidy up, and when you open the door, you wish you had. Illuminated only by the balcony light stands Fugo with a bouquet of daffodils, a bottle of sauvignon blanc, and a remorseful, sheepish smile upon his handsome face.

Get out of my life – get out of my dreams – and leave me alone.

“Uh . . . “ He trails off before he has even begun, perhaps taken aback by the widening of your eyes and the disheveled appearance that, despite your own judgement, he thinks to be the most beautiful vulnerability in life. He speaks your name with the kind of tenderness that you have not felt since you were teenagers. “Buon compleanno.”

You need not ask how he found you, because you know without question that either Mista or Giorno had told him. “Why are you here?” you ask.

He clutches the flowers a bit tighter. You do not move to take them; however, you have already decided on which vase you will place them in. “I wanted to wish you a happy birthday. And give you these.”

The bottle of wine feels far too heavy in your arms – and the daffodils, as if they might float off in an unforeseen gust of wind. “And, to apologize. For too many things that I can’t ever make right; although, if you’ll let me, I’d like to try.”

“Fugo, I . . . I don’t know.”

“Please, [Y/N]. That day in the library, all those years ago . . . I never stop thinking about the horrible things I said to you. It killed me – it ate me alive; I thought for all this time and before that you hated me, because of what happened to Narancia. Because I wasn’t there to save him.”

“It hurt when you told me to get out of your life, but I listened, and I did it.”

He brings the heel of his hand to swipe at the tears in his eyes. The curling of his other fist is a gesture that terrifies you – although, not for your own sake. “I couldn’t face you. I was scared to look you in the eye, because I thought you hated me,” he mutters like a broken record as his voice cracks with agony. “I thought you hated me, because of him.”

He stops, throwing his head back with a groan. The apple of his throat bobs up and down as he chokes down a sob. He refuses to look at you when he speaks again – too afraid to come undone before he has made his peace with you, his greatest loss. “We were young. Probably too young to even understand what love really meant. But, dio dannazione, you were the most important thing to me, and I understood that more than love.”

His words have always held the capacity for swaying you, as if they replenish the empty spaces within. It is why, as you open the door wider, you let him fill you once again. Fugo contemplates the crannies of your living room, hovering above the couch that you insisted he take a seat upon – he remembers when you bought it, because you had dragged him to the furniture outlet that day. He pretended to be annoyed, though in truth, he was beyond elated that you had chosen him over Mista, or even your brother.

“I guess I should put these in a vase,” you say about the bouquet of flowers. “They’re beautiful, Fugo. Thank you.”

He nods, suddenly entranced by a photograph of Narancia that sits atop the fireplace mantel. You do not notice his unease.

“I’ll grab us some glasses, too.”

You find your vase in the kitchen cabinet niched into the alcove above the refrigerator. Its emerald swirls glisten under the twine of the recessed lights that add no character to the room. So much for a birthday spent in reclusion, you chide alone. Deep within you sits a fire that longs to ignite – to send Fugo away in some thwarted act of retribution for the very loneliness he inflicted upon you years ago; as if to say that the rejection suits you well.

Of course, you cannot deny that your heart leapt into your throat when you saw him standing before the front door, a vision of a man who still held those inklings of boyish charm that you fell for in your adolescence. They say you should not dote over the first person beyond your mother and father to call you pretty; it is weakness to complacency. Your life has never been one of convention – and so by that right, who there is to insist that you must abide?

Bearing a content grin, you trim the stems one-by-one to better fit the vase. In synchronous rhythm to the next, the green stalks bounce from the cluttered countertop to the floor. You have only just stuffed the flowers back into the vase when the shattering of glass resonates its way into the kitchen.

The photograph of Narancia lies amongst bits of broken frame and wreckage. Face buried in his palms, Fugo crumples until his knees meet the ground; he shakes, as if smothered by a chill. When his hands fall to smack the coffee table – baring his grief, in all its pandemonium – you catch them and force his arms around your waist instead; his fingers lock together, holding you in place. He whimpers against your stomach. Already, you can feel the wetness of tears through the fabric of your overstretched shirt.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry, [Y/N]. I’m sorry.”

Your own fingers curl through his strawberry blonde hair – a means of stability as you too have begun to cry. “It’s just a picture frame,” you promise, and it is the grandest thing he has ever heard. But it is more than a box made of wood and glass – it is an impossible longing. “I’m not upset at you.”

“I . . . Okay.”

Mindful of the mess, you rock him backwards until he is lying down. You join at his side, take his hand into your own, and wait in silence for the moment when his misery will dissipate for clarity. Regardless of the circumstances that have brought him here tonight, you are grateful for it – even if your birthday is spent wallowing in irrevocable regret.

Above all else, you know that he has always adored you, like the sun and moon and more – but he had a brilliant way of convincing you otherwise.

Your thumb coaxes over the back of his knuckles. “There’s a crack in your ceiling,” Fugo announces, nonchalant and monotone.

“Where? I don’t see one.”

He raises an unoccupied finger, and you follow its gesture to the corner of the ceiling, just above where the moulding meets. It is no longer than the length of hair from his head, and quite honestly, not an underlying issue of foundational complications. Still, you indulge him. “Oh, wow. I never noticed.”

In this hasty repertoire of patterns, you fall into stillness again. “Panni,” you whisper with the utterance of his endearing name. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He squeezes your hand.

“But it’s getting late. Why don’t you stay the night?”

Truthfully so, you cannot send him on his way in such a state of disarray.

“I can make up the couch for you, if you’d like.”

“Yes, please,” he murmurs.

However, you do not make it far because he has – inspired by a need to express his devotion and apologia – pulled you atop himself, hands braced on your hips as you balance on bent knees and grasp his shoulders. Tenderness is becoming of the boy – no, the man – who looks up at you as if you are the embodiment of everything good that exists in one life to the next. It is a side that he has never shown to anyone other than you.

You covet it like a piece of cherry-flavored candy, even when you lean down to capture his lips and nip at his tongue that likewise explores the long-forgotten caverns of your mouth. It is a distraction of meaning and not; from the broken frame, loss, and perhaps everything in between. Every attempt to catch a breath of air is met with resilient protests of needier touches and not before long, you lie on the couch – shedding your clothing like the skin of the woman you no longer wish to be – and let him in.

Bare chest to bare chest, you cup his hardness as he places his fingers to your untouched folds. You mean to tell him that you love him, but the penetration of unpracticed digits to your core stifles the very thought from your scattering mind. In dark closets and empty rooms, you two have had your share of imprudent experimentation with one another’s bodies in the past – and nothing more than warm, tentative touches that lead to girlish giggles and boyish huffs.

Fugo pinches your nipple, drawing a plush gasp from you; it urges him to do it again until at last you are throbbing with need from your lower half, your pelvis jerking upwards to meet his for the stimulation of wanting. His breath ghosts your face, and you think you smell wine – a drink for good luck, you think, because despite the distress manifesting in his soul, his mannerisms are otherwise as habitual as you might recall from moments of normalcy.

It feels wrong – to be filled with such wanton, salacious desire within the very hour that you have both spent in mourning of your brother and everything else that has been discarded to the wind, to be picked up by someone else. Yet tonight, you will not sleep with Fugo to forget your blue heart, nor for celebration’s sake as you embark upon another year of being – you will sleep with him, because you have grown tired of learning how to end your days without him.

“I haven’t . . .” You trail off, mesmerized by the way his violet eyes look at you; though puffy and stained red from crying, you take them in as he cocks a brow, imploring you to finish your thought. “I haven’t been with anyone else since you.”

“Good,” he sighs, and you think he is trying to hide a smile. “Me neither.”

Braced by his arms, you are flipped onto your stomach. The tweed upholstery bites into the soft flesh of your breasts with each jostle elicited by the curling of a finger within you. You push backwards until you swear you can feel his fingers against your cervix.

“Oh my god,” he groans, flexing out as if to move deeper. “Ti senti così bene.”

“If it feels good, then do something,” you whine, hands dug between the cushions for support.

But, to your chagrin, he takes his time to admire the way your folds pulsate around just two fingers. You glisten like a gem – his gem. Indignant with petty annoyance, you pull away and straddle the lithe, albeit toned, legs that dangle off the edge of the couch. Arms thrown around his neck, you sink down until you have reached your fill of his manhood.

“I did tell you to do something,” you sigh at Fugo’s displeasure, biting your lip as you adjust to the size of his shaft. “Didn’t I?”

He kisses you once and moves grasp your backend. You savor the feeling of him ingulfing you. “I was distracted.”

You would laugh if not for the anticipated bulging inside you as Fugo buckles into your heat. The sight of your jostling breasts with each bounce of you on his cock is a page of some heavenly doctrine – one that he should study and commit to forever. He moves with strength that he reserves for moments of rage, and even his fingers dig into your skin hard enough to leave bruises for the days to come. You do not mind; they will help you to remember the best night you have had in years.

With a cry that blossoms into a moan that tells him that he has treated you well, you ride out your orgasm and slump against his chest in your own exhaustion. When he reaches his peak, he slides out; you reach for him – dampened with your slick – and finish him until white pearls bead at the tip and trickle over your working fingers.

Foreheads pressed together, you flash tired grins before settling against the cushions, your head pressed to his chest and his arm braced around the small of your back while his fingers trace shapes against your perspired skin.

Panting, his heart skips every few beats – like a song, sung only for you. Content with that which has returned itself to you, you fall asleep to the sound of this lovely little love affair.

| 4966 Words |

[youarejesting]

The Bomb

[Masterlist]

Beta: @juniethebug​ Rating: 16+  Pairing: Namjoon x Reader Genre: Mafia, enemies2lovers.  Trigger Warnings: mentions of Violence, Gore, Torture, Drinking and wetting yourself in public from fear and a full bladder during a gun fight. Character death. Words: 9.4k

Summary: The leader of a mafia should be calm collected and poised. He should live meticulously and know what he needs to do. Namjoon was that man, he had rules that kept his business running smoothly and nothing can get in the way of that. Can it?

[Part 2]

Kim Namjoon, the leader of the biggest mafia in Seoul, lived his life by many rules. His first rule, a man should only cry three times in his life. The first time is when a man loses his mother, the one who raises a man to be who they are worth mourning. 

The second when a man marries the love of his life and he shall weep tears of joy. The third and final time a man is allowed to cry is when he sees his first child born.

Pathetically sobbing against the dirty concrete while getting the life beaten out of you is not one of those three incidences. “I will ask you again, where is the payment I was promised?”

“He gave it to his daughter, used the money he was supposed to pay you, on his daughter; a beautiful emerald necklace. Something about it being her birthday and wanting to gift her with something as pretty as she is.” Yoongi scoffed, spinning the knife around his fingers a habit he had developed to keep his dexterous fingers busy.“Or at least that is what Hobi had to say after tailing the man all day. Just take the necklace from her pretty little neck; she doesn’t have to come with it.”

“The birthday party is tonight, a lavish affair for their daughter, every man, woman, and child from rich backgrounds were invited to the ball held at their Manor.” Jimin sighed, rolling some scotch in his glass.

“Be ready to leave in ten minutes.” Namjoon walked to the door, Jungkook opening it for him. A reminder of rule number fourteen; a powerful man never moves unnecessarily, which includes opening doors and stepping aside from someone.

Pulling on a black on black suit he fastened his Platinum Rolex to his wrist, in his classiest polished pair of dress shoes. Walking towards the front door, he stopped by the front door and Yoongi pulled open the suitcase, graced with the sight of two pistols both with a shiny custom nickel finish with gold filigree on the handle and barrel.

These were gifted to him by Taehyung, a man with an eye for the finest of arts. Just like the weapons he provided he was a beautiful young man with an innocent face. But he was a dangerous man and rule number ten. Never give the man who provides you with your weapons the chance to provide them for anyone else. Of course, naturally, that meant Namjoon hired him in an instant, not willing to let his enemies use his weapons dealer.

The boys were heading to the car; Seokjin was going to drive as he was the most sensible behind the wheel. Each piling in Namjoon looked at his watch and over the five individuals in the car.

“Should I tell Jimin to hurry up?” Taehyung said reaching for his phone, he was in the middle of texting when Namjoon placed his hand on the phone pushing it to his lap. 

“No need we leave without him, he knows the rules-”

“Rule number fifteen, a man is never late,” Jungkook nodded; he lived by Namjoon’s word and his rules. Knew them better than Namjoon did himself, wrote them down, and numbered them as the leader taught him each one.

The car door was shut by Seokjin who situated himself into the driver's seat and pulled away from the house. House may be a bit of an understatement even Namjoon thought so, officially titled the Kim Manor with four stories complete with east and west wings, staff quarters, elaborate gardens, and land. 

It was the picturesque home with lavish rooms headed to the front gates, a motorbike raced past and pulled up. Jimin climbed into the car with the others, grumbling about how the wind destroyed his hair. 

He ran his fingers through his hair trying to return it to its former perfection, once the gates spread open they headed on their way to the party. 

Each stepping out at the foot of the manor, fixing their hair and suits one last time before heading up the steps. “Your invitation, sir?”

Yoongi pulled out a gun and tapped it against the clipboard pushing it down so he could read it. “That's us there unchecked, sorry we are late, traffic is horrible at this time of the day,” the man swallowed thickly. 

“Of course Mr. and Mrs. Le pomme, you don’t look French?”

“It’s Ms. Actually,” Yoongi poked the man's chest with his gun. 

Namjoon turned speaking immaculate French to the young man and patted his shoulder. “Jungkook always learns a language, a man should never miss an opportunity to learn new things.”

Jungkook was writing the new rule down following behind them, Yoongi pushed the gun into his waistband and the group entered the manor. Walking the floor as a small unit they began analyzing the ballroom. 

Jimin had disappeared and Jungkook smiled gesturing to the young woman who was mingling a beautiful emerald necklace delicately nestled against her decolletage. Namjoon looked her over. She was stunning with her smooth skin and gentle curls. 

She was nothing like he expected, Namjoon thought she would have a dark tan and bleach blonde hair, with extensions and the latest trending nails and jewelry and shoes. 

But this woman. This gorgeous woman had pale skin with sun-kissed freckles, her lips were a soft velvety crimson. She wore a simple black dress but somehow managed to still be the most beautiful person in the room. He could gaze at her forever and never get tired.

You smiled feeling proud of your outfit, it was such an elegant and complicated piece, a sweetheart bodice with off the shoulder lace straps it was a thin and long dress that fell to your ankles showing off a pair of thin heels. 

It wasn’t a famous brand designer, no, you made this yourself there were many little fun hidden details. You were speaking with your friends when he approached. 

He was handsome, his profile was strong one you would remember easily he had a small scar on his eyebrow but it added so much character to his image. 

“Ladies,” he greeted the small group with a short bow, his eyes flicking up and meeting yours full of confidence and you gave a small friendly smile back. 

“Shall we dance?” He asked, and you, never to be overdone, agreed. You had never been asked to dance before. Especially not by someone this handsome.

“My name is y/n. You?”

“You may call me Namjoon,” he smiled and you blushed, looking at his dimples, he was so charming and cute. But there was something about him he took the lead and guided you through a slow waltz. Something you couldn’t put a nail on. Something… sinister..?

You gasped clutching his bicep gently. He saw the emerald necklace secure around your delicate neck. Your breasts strained against your dress with every breath. 

“You seem to be out of breath miss y/n?” His fingertips brushing gently across your décolletage. He too was breathing heavily from the physical activity of dancing. 

“A testament to your dance skills,” you tried to laugh back. 

“Perhaps we should get something to drink,” he took your hand and weaved it so your arm wrapped around his, “we can chat while you relax but I do apologize for being too enthusiastic.” 

“No, really, it is okay,” you protested, not wanting to seem too affected honestly it was embarrassing to get tired after one vigorous dance. 

“Indulge me,” Namjoon’s raspy voice reverberated so low you could have almost mistaken it for a purr, “I would very much like to steal a few extra moments with you” 

“Well then, I shan’t protest,” you gestured towards the refreshment table where he handed you a champagne flute. The two of you drank slowly his eyes locked on yours. 

“Sir,” a voice called politely, you were both pulled from your intense eye contact to see Your father flanked by two young and very handsome men. 

“Thank you for inviting me to your party tonight, sir.” Namjoon shook his hand firmly, his voice made you shiver, it wasn’t as light as it had been before, there was something clipped in his tone. Your former suspicions returned to you. Hard.

“Ah, Mr. Kim, I am glad you could make it, I didn’t think you would come to such a small affair?” Your father smiled, he was sweating a sign he was nervous but trying to hold his cool. 

“Dad is everything okay?” You took your father's pocket-handkerchief and dabbed his forehead. 

“Darling I would like for you to get some pictures with your mother. It is your birthday after all,” you looked at him curiously and almost yielded to his request when a firm hand caught your wrist. 

“Just a moment I would like to give you your birthday gift,” Namjoon smiled reaching into his pocket, his next statement seemed to cause the young man beside your father to scribble in a notebook. “A man must never come to a party empty-handed, especially not a birthday party.”

“Oh it’s okay, I don’t usually get presents anyway,” you were flustered by the prospect you always requested not to get presents to spare people the trouble of spending their money on material things. 

“That is a shame a pretty young lady like yourself should be spoiled daily,” a hot flush pinked your skin and it crept up your neck. 

He handed you a box wrapped in a small ribbon. She opened it to reveal an emerald bracelet just like the necklace she wore and he helped secure it to the wrist and smiled. 

“Emerald looks brilliant on you?”

Namjoon looked your father directly in the eyes watching the man sweat. Would he sell out his own daughter for his own safety? “Well darling, mister Kim and I are just going to do a quick spot of business”

“Okay,” you nodded, Namjoon looked over his shoulder and made a gesture to Jungkook and Yoongi to keep an eye on you. While following your weasel-like father to his study.

“I know why you are here and I am sorry, I had the money ready to give you but it was my daughter’s birthday and I couldn’t turn up empty-handed,” Your father said “I will get you the money by the end of the week.”

“You will as I will have collateral just in case your daughter will leave with me.” Namjoon threatened before adding an afterthought “tonight”.

“Please don’t hurt her, I will get you the money, I promise. Please.” He pleaded, dropping onto his knees. Namjoon felt his eye twitch in disgust. 

“You will give me the money, otherwise you will never see your daughter again.” 

You were feeling kind of awkward, the two young men accompanying you weren’t awful company, they just weren’t very talkative. 

“So you work with Namjoon?” you asked 

“Mmm…” one so graciously grunted in response

“What do you do?” you swayed from foot to foot trying to strike up some sort of conversation.

“Mister Kim is an entrepreneur,” The taller man said excitedly. You nodded; he very obviously liked his boss.

“You seem to enjoy working for him then,” You asked happily and the two nodded going back to standing around.

“Ah, you must be the birthday girl?” A sweet voice called your attention, “Wah, You are so beautiful miss y/n?”

“Have we met?” Already knowing you hadn’t met any of these men they were way too handsome for you to just forget. He had long legs accentuated by his high waisted trousers, his feet moved one in front of the other with all the grace and caution like a model in a field of landmines. He scooped your hand into his grasp and kissed your knuckle’s eyes searching your person and the room. “Park Jimin.”

Beside him was a taller young man who was boyish with big rounded ears that added so much youth to his face. “I do not believe we have ma’am and that is a shame” He also kissed your knuckles politely and threw you a grin. “Kim Taehyung at your service.”

“Tell me, miss Y/n. Do you like Painting?” Taehyung asked with a grin and you nodded 

“Though I am not good at it, yes.” You sighed while playing with your lace sleeve, you were currently surrounded by these very tall and intimidating men. “Do you like painting?”

“I enjoy it greatly my dear, would you be interested in painting with me?” He smiled brightly and you grinned feeling more relaxed.

“I would love to,” you grinned and they all got a text to their apple watches that they read and quickly dismissed from view.

“Miss y/n, we would like to hold a toast,” Jimin grinned, handing you a champagne flute. You nodded and Jimin led a toast celebrating your birthday, ending his short speech with. “You have to all drink it in one shot for the best of wishes for the birthday girl” 

You drank heartedly watching them all drink as well, the conversation continued and you were happily chatting about all different things when you started to feel rather drowsy. “I think I drank too much.” You giggled, feeling tired, a warm coat was draped over your shoulders it was super roomy and you felt yourself drift off.

There were strange sounds and lights passing over you periodically, though it stirred you it wasn’t enough to wake you fully. Only when your body had fought the immense fatigue did you wake. 

Everything was stale, the air, the room, life, for a moment you didn’t move. Your body was heavy and your head clouded. Taking a deep breath you sat up the lush blankets in their covers making noise against the soft satin sheet. 

The room wasn’t yours, the furniture was all a dark almost black lacquered wood, the bedding was also all black. It was a dark room with thick heavy curtains. 

Swinging your legs over the side of the bed you gripped the fourposter frame and stood upright nursing a slight ache behind your temples. 

The floor was a white marble, searingly cold against your feet. You looked down at the sweet emerald négligée, your jewellery was placed on the bedside table. 

Where you saw a glass of water, taking the glass you took a few sips quenching your thirst and pushing the bile rising in your throat back down. 

Crossing the room, trying to find a bathroom you opened the first set of double doors and found a walk-in wardrobe. There were many suits inside and a door caught your eye, perhaps it led to the bathroom. 

Opening the door you saw for the first time in your life real guns and weapons on display, wherever you are it mustn’t be safe. You picked up a small handgun like the ones you had seen in movies. 

You moved on to the bathroom, your bladder was urgently requesting relief. 

Opening the next doors you came across a bathroom like no other. It was all the same white marble, the feature was a round shower located in the middle of the room. With two curved sliding doors one on either side of the shower. 

Between curved glass panels were stone pillars one which had been carved into as to create shelves with built-in product dispensers. 

You saw a control panel on the outside of the shower and you wondered where the water came from but looking up at the hanging gold shower head that was almost as wide as the shower. 

You could imagine how it would feel, like warm rain falling against your skin. On your right as you stepped in was a beautiful counter with his and her basins in front of a finely detailed gold framed mirror. 

On the opposite wall to your left were shelves of fresh towels and a few cabinets and a seated area with a lady might do her makeup

Walking around the shower along the walls of towels you saw the toilet the door was made of frosted glass and you at this point didn’t care if you were quick you wouldn’t be seen. 

You flushed and paused waiting for any signs of people coming to get you but you heard nothing. 

You stepped out and circled the shower the back wall had a brilliant window and four short steps to a lifted square seating area with a cushioned window seat that lined the three of the square walls. 

There was a small coffee table in the middle and continuing on the last corner of the room just between the sitting areas and the counter was a square bath fit for perhaps four people. 

“Shit, where is she?” The sound made your pulse skyrocket, you needed to hide. You stood behind one of the big thick pillars on the outside of the shower. Hoping they would glance over the room. 

You froze the gun behind your back and you waited. “Is she in here?” A voice said, “doesn’t look like it,” another said

“Where is she?” A raspy voice spoke. 

“We don’t know, sir, Yoongi was posted outside and swears she didn’t leave so she has to be in here.” 

“Y/n?” He called, “are you okay, you are a guest here I promise.”

You snorted, “that’s funny, I don’t remember being invited.” 

“You don’t remember what happened last night do you?” He asked and you saw movement in the mirror. You grabbed the shower door and opened it stepping inside and pressing your back against a pillar. 

The problem was opening one door opened both, you used your free hand to reach beside you and slowly close the glass door. 

He smirked, grabbing the opposite glass door with his hand, stopping it from closing and pulling the door back open. “You won’t shoot me, baby, you are too gentle, hand it over and we can talk.”

You took a few heavy breaths psyching yourself up before pulling the trigger. Eyes squeezed shut only to hear a click, “shit!”

“You got some guts, I will give you that. I am proud, the weak don’t survive” He grinned, reaching outside the shower to the control panel and grinned “but you didn’t put a magazine in your gun, I could show you how?” 

He pressed a button and cold water poured down, jolting you awake. You tried to avoid the water but you were soaked, he stepped inside and shut the door with his men standing guard either side. 

“When you shoot a gun don’t close your eyes, baby otherwise how will you aim?” His chest pressed against yours and he grinned, taking your hand. “Now let’s get you dressed, and we can have a late breakfast.”

You struggled to pull your hand free, “why am I here?”

“Because your father borrowed five hundred thousand dollars from me and didn’t pay it back in time,” he gently tucked your wet hair behind your ear frowning at how it stuck to your neck, how the small négligée clung to your skin and how your body reacted to the cold. “So I took you as collateral for my money. How very gentlemanly of you.”

He took the gun from your hand and grinned, “you are spirited and I like that, but do not worry my only intentions are my money no harm will come to you, you are actually really interesting I would like to get to know you more.”

“Come let’s have breakfast baby,” he said over his shoulder

You followed him obediently your goal was to play your way out, cooperation until they let their guard down. Stepping out of the Taehyung standing there with a grin, and he held up a bag, “Hoseok and I bought you clothes?”

You nodded while taking the bag pondering a recurring thought, “who changed me last night?”

“I did, love but do not fret, I am a doctor and I assure you I did nothing inappropriate, while you were asleep. I would never, it’s too much work?” the short black-haired man spoke twirling a knife around his fingers. 

“Seriously, I don’t think Yoongi is human, we have taken him to so many brothels and he doesn’t get turned on at all,” you made eye contact with Yoongi who looked away causing you to crease your eyebrows. 

“I respect women and their professions?” Yoongi sighed, and you nodded thoughtfully walking into the bathroom and staring in the mirror. Eventually getting out of the wet garment and into a beautiful sundress. 

Processing your thoughts meticulously. He said you were here until your father paid his debt. He said he wouldn’t harm you. You had many unanswered questions but you felt a little reassured by these factors. You were still scared out of your wits but 

When you stepped out of the bathroom fully dressed you felt much better. The room was empty except Yoongi and you sighed looking at him. “I really didn’t do anything.” 

“I believe you, do not stress,” you patted his shoulder and with a deep breath in, you puffed up your chest, square your shoulders, and strode forward to the door with a firm nod. Yoongi navigated you through the halls behind you trying to keep up but you didn’t slow down. 

“Through to the end room two double doors,” he panted as you lost him down the hall, throwing the doors open, guns were drawn and all your new found confidence dwindled. 

“Ah, my apologies we usually knock.” Namjoon smiled holding his hands out to his men to stand down, “it’s polite.”

“Is kidnapping me polite?” You scoffed stomping towards him. “You said I am here till my father pays his debt and then I am free to leave correct?”

“Yes, that is—”

“So am I a prisoner?”

“You are a guest,” he said.

“So I can leave?”

“No.”

“Do you happen to know the definition of prisoner?”

“I believe you are referring to the noun of a person captured and kept confined by an enemy or criminal” he sighed “listen would you like to see a real prisoner? I can guarantee you are treated better than some of our other guests in this house”

Taken back by his words you looked away and sighed slumping into the empty seat at the other end of the table “who are you really?”

“I am Kim Namjoon, also known as RM,” he looked down the table at you. You were silent while eating, pondering this information biding your time before you could ask some more. 

“Now for business?” Namjoon gestured for his men to start talking. 

“Uh about mister Lee, I have successfully um… spoken?” The word came out as more of a question as Seokjin side-eyed you, “with him and he told me where we can find the um...”

“Hey, whatever it is you can say it, I’m not going to be scared by mere words.” You scoffed, stabbing a piece of cantaloupe. Namjoon nodded, approving Seokjin to talk freely.

“I interrogated him and we found the children he was trafficking returned them to their families,” Seokjin said “He is seriously sick in the head” 

“You are sure he has told you everything?” Namjoon ate his eggs and toast watching them over his cup of coffee. 

“I think so but to make sure I might cut off his remaining fingers and see what he has to say,” Seokjin nodded, “if he says no more well then I guess he is finished.”

“Hoseok what do you know?” Namjoon prompted the next man to speak.

“I know that Mr. y/l/n is accumulating stocks and seems to be on the way to paying his debt,” Hoseok said, your head snapped to him at the mention of your father and he cleared his throat with an awkward twitch of his head. “In other news, there is a young man named David from America is here to discuss a transaction on weapons”

“Anything else?” Namjoon pressed on, studying the man's reactions.

“A few minor gossip aspects from last nights party” you blinked turning to Hoseok who continued, “nothing serious but I will file it away for possible use in the future”

“I took out Mr Roth last night at the party.” Jimin threw the paper down and Namjoon picked it up. “Easily fooled as always.”

“Was there any complications?” Namjoon asked placing the paper down on the table and you walked around picking it up standing beside Namjoon as you read the information on the front page. 

Mob Merrymaking

On the evening of the 13th of July, Y/N was celebrating her 21st Birthday. The night was full of dancing, gifts and esteemed guests. The night which was intended to be a beautiful celebration turned sour when a Local Gang drugged and abducted the young woman. Mr Roth a nobleman of 45 had been found in the bathroom, his death was determined as substance abuse.

Mr. L/n stated “She will be fine wherever she is, she is a smart girl and too pure to get herself hurt” He further implied “...I also have no ill will towards any gangs that would warrant my daughter being taken or our family getting hurt. She is a beautiful woman and I think he must have taken a liking to her which leaves me to believe he won’t hurt her.”

Kim Industries which deals with Construction, real estate, property investments, restaurants bars and even Casinos are implied to be the gang in question. Kim Namjoon, as the owner of Kim Industries, was happy to oblige to the police investigation allowing his home to be thoroughly searched by police for the missing young woman. The residence came up empty of any incriminating evidence.

Where did the young woman go? Who is she with? If you have any information contact the police.

You were told to wait in the house while they all went to meet this American man named David, you refused saying if they left you alone you would either run away or set the place on fire. 

Namjoon grabbed you by the upper arm, “You are a young lady, start acting like one, we have treated you well and you have done nothing but act like a spoilt child.”

You had never been reprimanded so directly and harshly before, you were somewhat sheltered and sensitive to anger. You turned your head away from him as a few tears slipped.

“Sir, would you like me to stay behind with her?” Jungkook asked, watching his leader take out a pocket-handkerchief and take the young woman's chin firmly between his thumb and crooked finger tilting it up.

“She will come along, she must learn the severity of one's actions and the business we dabble in, to know the true weight of her actions,” He sighed, wiping your eyes. “Always carry a handkerchief Jungkook, women cry.”

“Of course! This way Miss,” Jungkook smiled softly, taking out his notebook to write the newest rule as he walked, “Namjoon is never late for a meeting.”

Escorted to the car as they all checked their weapons discussing their plan of attack, the trip took longer than you expected and at least an hour and a half had passed. The large juice you had at breakfast was making itself known. 

“Uh, I have to pee?” You whispered to Yoongi who frowned patting your knee in consolidation. 

“Namjoon doesn’t stop for anyone,” he sighed, “You will have to hold it,”

“What is it?” Namjoon commanded, not liking the whispering you were doing with his doctor.

“Y/n said she has to pee,” Yoongi said, “and I told her she will have to hold it.”

Namjoon nodded unphased “You should have gone before we left. Always pee before leaving the house.”

“I am not a child,” You hissed “I know when I need to pee and when I don’t, I wasn’t told the duration of this trip, to know whether I should go to the bathroom, and if I remember correctly I was ushered to the car before I had a chance to question it.”

“Keep your emotions out of your argument, you really are starting to sound like a child,” Namjoon said turning back to the conversation, there was nothing you could do.

The car pulled up, at a small furniture store, the men walked in lead by Namjoon and you were to stay outside with Yoongi and Seokjin. 

It was supposed to be a peaceful meeting, but you really had to go to the toilet. The two men were leaning on the back of the car, Yoongi smoking slowly and Seokjin complaining that it was bad for his looks to be near smoke. 

“Then fuck off,” Yoongi growled blowing large wisps of smoke purposefully at the other. The two bickered like a father of three and his bratty child. 

You really needed to go, to the point that you were eyeing a couple of bushes and hedges in the area. You, a high-class lady were contemplating urinating in public, that’s how serious this was. 

You looked at the two bickering again, Yoongi smirked, blowing more smoke at Seokjin who started coughing open-mouthed at Yoongi not bothering to cover his mouth. 

“You're nasty!” Yoongi grumbled, you rolled your eyes and snuck into the shop, there had to be an employee bathroom. 

You found a door but when you opened it you were met with men and guns, you immediately froze, all the muscles in your body tensing up.“Darling come here,” Namjoon said, gesturing you over to his side, and slipping you under his arm. “What are you doing here? I told you to wait by the car?”

“I have to pee,” you whimpered.

“Calm your expression,” he held your cheek and brought your eyes to his, “by my side, you don’t need to be scared, no one can hurt you?”

“That’s right darling we are just having a discussion, do you want to wait outside again we don’t want anything to happen to a pretty girl like you?”

You don’t know who said what but shots we fired and Namjoon pushed you across the room behind some big cabinets. When your back hit the tall boy you felt your bladder relax and you looked down warmth spreading down the inseams of your jeans. 

You were shaking in fear as the shots rang around the room, some hitting the furniture near where you hid. But worse than all that you were embarrassed and shocked never in your teen and adult life had you ever wet yourself. 

You stood sobbing, standing in a puddle of your own liquids. You took off your sneakers throwing them aside and you looked at your clothes. 

“Namjoon, we can’t find Miss Y/n?” Seokjin shouted ducking bullets, and brandishing his own gun. The distraction allowed their enemy to escape. 

“She is here you idiots, I asked you to do one job and you couldn’t even do that?” Namjoon said “Jimin, good shooting, David won’t make it home”

“That’s my job,” Jimin said proudly and you had to pluck up the courage to talk to them, but it was easier to hide climbing into a cupboard. 

“Miss Y/n, are you hurt?” Yoongi asked “huh?”

“What is it?” Namjoon said 

“Oh no darling, I am so sorry?” Yoongi’s voice was solemn. 

“If she is dead I am killing you both,” Namjoon growled his boots hitting the cement as he stomped over. 

“Stay there,” Yoongi said with authority, the footsteps stopped “Jimin take off your pants?”

“What why?” Jimin asked confused as to why the conversation shifted to him and his trousers. 

“Just do it?” Yoongi growled snapping his fingers. 

“None of you will step foot over here until I say so, if you do I will happily sedate you all and turn you into eunuchs, and that includes you Namjoon.”

“I am your leader?”

“And I am your elder, go wait outside, all of you?” They all stepped outside and Yoongi sighed walking to the cupboard holding Jimin’s trousers. 

“Come here darling,” he said, taking your hand and guiding you to the bathroom he told you to strip everything off except your bra. you sobbed. “Don’t worry I got more enjoyment out of seeing Jimin undress than redressing you last night, if you understand what I am saying.”

You realized and wiped your eyes, he pushed you to sit on the bench and he washed your legs in the sink and asked you to wash everything else yourself. 

You felt better, he apologized for not having any underwear for you and you slipped on Jimin's pants and fastened the belt. The last thing you would need is to expose everything and Yoongi gave you his undershirt. 

He walked you out and Namjoon looked relieved when he saw you emerge. “Are you okay?”

“No I am horrified, I was in the middle of a shoot out and I quite literally pissed myself,” you shouted. Your eyes stung from the crying you had done, “Never in my coherent life have I disgraced myself like that.”

“I apologize,” he said, holding his shoulder you saw blood seeping through his fingers, you immediately felt bad for yelling and making it about you when he was in pain.

Jimin stood in just his boxer briefs. “I have nothing against the no-pants but can we go home?”

The only rational thing to do after the incident at the furniture store and warehouse was to seclude yourself in your room away from everyone else. Namjoon often visited and brought you your meals talking to you about things with no real substance. Mostly about his loathing of check ups, it seemed he was hiding in your room from Yoongi.

This happened for a number of days until Hoseok got bored, he wanted to gossip with you and Taehyung came along with paints in hand. His excuse was that you had promised him you two could paint together. 

Forcibly removed from your one-person pity party you sat outside painting and chatting about random topics. 

Hoseok wanted to know if you had any suitors and who they were, he asked what type of guy you liked and you hummed. 

“Someone kind and generous who gives back to others” you gushed about your tall dark and handsome and they laughed.

That night Namjoon knocked on your door and requested you come down for dinner, you agreed much to his surprise. He stammered obviously not expecting you to consent to his plan for dinner, he nodded curtly and walked off down the hall. Tripping in his haste on a small lump in the hall carpet and catching himself on the wall.

Wearing a pretty emerald green halter dress the skirts swished as you walked and your modest heels clicked on the timber. You heard hushed talking and slowed down, being so confined the past few days you were almost starved for conversation. 

“He is having dinner tonight, they will all be in the dining hall which will leave his office free, once I get the information I will get out of here before they find out.” The man had a weird moustache and a mole above his eyebrow. 

You tiptoed past holding your skirts from ruffling and keeping your heels from clicking you headed downstairs. 

Pushing open the doors a multitude of guns were pointed at you, “Miss Y/n I was told you were from a moderately high-class family you should know how to knock.”

You raced over to Namjoon and cupped your hand around your mouth leaning down. “I heard someone talking about breaking into your office, to steal information”

“Jimin” Namjoon beckoned him over, he whispered to Jimin who nodded and went out the back door. 

“Where is he going?” You asked and Namjoon stood up and walked you to the other end of the table and you frowned, “I don’t like this?”

“Sit relax, it is time for us to enjoy dinner.”

You sat for the briefest of moments watching Namjoon cross the room and sit at the opposite end of the table before taking your chair and dragging it across the floor slowly. 

You saw his eyebrow twitch as you did so and stopped beside him. “I would prefer not to shout across the table,” you smiled softly

“You are both a blessing and a curse,” Namjoon said, “dinner is now a minute late”

Dinner was unlike anything you had ever had before, you smiled and ate happily, “this is delicious”

“You should try the steak?” Namjoon smiled, you nodded, cutting some of your chicken and stabbed it with a fork. 

“Alright, I will try some of your steak if you try some of this chicken?” You held it out to him and his eyes were wide “it’s a fair trade”

He leaned forward and ate the small piece off your fork and he cut you a piece of steak and held it out to you. 

You leaned forward and took a bite chewing slowly, your eyes going wide. “That is delicious”

Namjoon leaned over wiping your chin with a napkin his thumb, your eyes were locked in a fierce gaze and he gave you a dimpled smile.

“Jin, try some of my chicken?” Taehyung asked, holding out his fork. 

“No, thank you?” Seokjin said, continuing to eat his steak ignoring the pouting young man. 

“But they shared?” He whined. This made you aware of how intimate your action was, your cheeks flushing dark at your forwardness.

After dinner you were being escorted back to your room. Namjoon was quiet the whole time, not for lack of trying. The amount of times you saw him open and close his mouth, as if he was trying to strike up something to say. 

Standing at your door he paused looking at you searching for something, you laughed opening the door, “Would you like to come in for a drink?” 

He seemed grateful for the excuse to stay in your company, after a drink of two you started talking about your most embarrassing stories. He was actually super clumsy for someone in the mafia and a complete goofball.

“And that was my first kiss, I haven’t really had many kisses after that and the few I can remember were just as bad” Your laughter was cut off by Namjoon who had leaned over on the small couch and pressed his lips to yours. Just as you felt your heart flutter he pulled away.

“It is getting late you should sleep” He stood up and placed down the glass, you walked him to the door and he froze. “Was that okay? I hope I didn’t overstep any boundaries, did I?”

“No it was nice really nice, you can do that-” He pressed his lips to yours once more and smiled whispering good night before walking off down the hall. With a sigh you added “Anytime you like.”

You didn’t hear anything strange from anyone or see anyone but you hoped everything worked out and the man who wanted to steal information ran away. 

You were trying to find Namjoon the next day and travelled downstairs looking in random doors. 

You reached the end of the hallway and found a door you heard screaming and knocked hesitantly on the wood, Yoongi stepped out covered in blood and gun in hand. 

“Oh, y/n now isn’t a good time?” Yoongi said, stepping out and shutting the door. “What are you doing down here?”

“I was looking for Namjoon, is everything okay? What are you doing?” You asked, concerned by the amount of blood on Yoongi’s clothes. 

“We are okay, Seokjin and I are just interrogating the mole, hey good spotting by the way no one knew they had snuck in,” your stomach dropped, this blood was from that man and it was all because of you. 

“Namjoon is in his office on the third floor from the ground west wing double doors on the left-right at the end of the corridor.”

You nodded, froze in place and Yoongi sighed “I have to go back in,” he went to pat your shoulder but saw his stained gloves and sighed ripping them off. 

He turned punching in numbers into the code lock. 7276. He slipped inside and you heard screaming, which was silenced immediately as the door sealed shut, you quickly ran feeling sick.

Racing up the stairs and bumping into Jungkook and almost falling, thankfully  he caught you, “hey hey, slow down what’s wrong?”

You were wide-eyed and scared and he frowned. “Did you go downstairs?”

You nodded and he led you down the hall, “you are scared and helpless, but the way to feel better is to get stronger. You won’t feel as scared if you're not so helpless.” Jungkook opened the doors to the gym. 

“Let me teach you how to fight,” Jungkook began teaching the basics and at another point, Jimin entered the two gave you pointers, their fighting styles. Jungkook was all power and strength and Jimin’s was survival. 

“Look all you got to know is how to break free so you can run away,” Jimin instructed. “Even someone like Yoongi can break out of Jungkook's grasp.” 

“That was one time and he refused to give me a rematch,” Jungkook wined. 

You were learning so much, and it was in a sense a little empowering. The two guys were good at what they did and the more you learnt the more you wanted to learn. 

Learning to fight gave you something to take your mind off what you had seen at least for the first two weeks but when you heard them relay information at breakfast you felt sick once more. 

“He refuses to speak,” Seokjin said 

“He will eventually,” Namjoon didn’t bat an eyelash. Two weeks of torture because you outed him. 

This was all your fault. He was suffering because of you. You left the dining hall unable to stomach the thought of food. 

Heading down the stairs you opened the door with the code 7276, you almost vomited, he sat there unrestrained and unconscious. His fingernails were removed and his face broken beyond repair. 

“Hello, sir are you alive?” You asked, he groaned struggling to move his head, coughing up some blood at the effort it took to move. 

“Who are you?”

“I am no one sir,” you breathed, “I can help you.”

He lunged hands gripping your throat and you fell back under the weight of him, you were struggling against him in panic. “Die you bitch, I know who you are, you're that monster's whore. He has never tried to protect anyone in his life and yet his soft spot is you. They are coming to kill you all.”

You struggled less hearing Jimin’s words in your head, “don’t panic” his voice would smooth as he held you in this position. “You want to panic but relax and fight back”

You did what he said, “your legs are your strongest so kick them in the chest” Jungkook would coach from the side, following their instructions you kicked the man off and ducked out the door pulling it closed. 

You were gasping and you ran up the stairs and into the dining hall gasping. Namjoon flew to his seat and scooped you up, sitting you on the side of the table. 

“Yoongi.” He commanded, he gently brushed his fingers over your neck, he looked upset, angry and sad all at once. The emotions were so strong it shocked you. Grabbing his gun, you pressed it into Namjoon's hands. 

“Kill him,” You wheezed, “slowly.”

“You went back down there didn’t you?” Jungkook sighed and before Yoongi could stop him Namjoon cocked the gun and stormed off. Seokjin followed after him and they all watched you trying to help. 

“Your throat will sting for a few days try not to talk it will help it heal,” Yoongi sighed 

“You just don’t want to hear me talk,” you joked, wincing at the pain. “Got it, no talking.”

Namjoon threw the man into the dining hall and dragged him by his hair across the floor, “the lady has requested you die and slowly.” 

Namjoon shot him six times in both legs, one in each foot, calf and thigh, the blood was pooling everywhere. You felt queasy, you wanted this but you weren’t sure you could stomach it. 

“If you can make it back to your people with these wounds I will let you go?” Namjoon put his gun away and the man tried to crawl away, losing strength as he streaked blood across the ground. 

The man was making horrible noises and you didn’t like it, covering your ears and Yoongi warned Namjoon who shot the mole in the back of the head as he reached for the door handle. 

Again the only thing you deemed appropriate after witnessing that sort of horrific event was to seclude yourself in your room. Yoongi visited bringing you soups to soothe your sore throat and his persistence and gentle nature was the only thing that got you to drink some of it.

You laid there alone when it started to rain. You loved the rain, but what surprised you was your new fear of the thunder rumbling in the distance sinister as if it was coming after you. 

You had never been afraid of storms you used to stand out on the patio undercover with your father and watch the lights flash and feel the electricity in the air. But now each flash had shadows in your window and was accompanied by gunshots that shook the ground.

You were a whimpering mess and you wanted to get out, you ran from your room and raced down the stairs and out the front door. You were in the rain running down the long estate driveway and you expected to be followed by Namjoons henchmen and dragged back and punished for what you didn’t expect was for Namjoon to be running after you. 

He grabbed you and pulled you to his chest hugging you gently and he started to sing in your ear, his voice was low and soothing. You found yourself easing into his chest and your erratic sobbing calmed some.

Forever Rain, Forever Rain, Forever Rain, Forever Rain, Forever Rain,

He repeated this phrase slowly singing into your ear holding you desperately and before you knew it, you passed out in his arms.

Namjoon was sweet, you woke up beside him, you were dressed in a button-up and nothing more and he was in his trousers that looked damp, he was sleeping above the blankets holding your hand as if he hadn’t intended to fall asleep beside you but to watch over you.

You brushed his hair off of his face and covered him with a blanket before heading to his closet, taking out some sweatpants and a plain white shirt. He stirred awake when you emerged from the walk-in closet. 

“Good morning,” You said softly

“You haven’t obtained any of my weapons while I was sleeping have you?” He asked, making you laugh behind your hand.

“No, someone hasn’t taught me how to use a gun properly, something about a magazine?” you said, trying to play coy. Namjoon laughed getting out of bed and taking your hand, dragging you into the closet and he began explaining all about guns and you listened he had all these amazing facts from when they were made to how they were made and how they fired and how far.

He demonstrated how to put ammunition into the magazine and the magazine into the gun. He taught you how to take the safety on and off and how to hold the gun being new so as not to accidentally shoot anyone. 

He led you to the balcony and smiled telling you to hold the gun and he corrected your stance and hold and he told you to aim at a tree and you did. 

“Now shoot?” He smiled encouragingly. You turned to him shocked, starting to protest that you weren’t ready. 

“You are just scared I promise nothing will happen?” He smiled talking you through it all again. 

He didn’t rush you and he didn’t laugh, he spoke the whole time about what you would like for breakfast. You fired a shot and bumped into Namjoon, he chuckled, “that was a good start. Did you close your eyes? Try again.”

It took a few goes and the boys busting in the room before you were comfortable with the weapon. Each had pointers and you felt empowered once more. 

“I can make you a pretty handgun,” Taehyung smiled and the group went to breakfast. 

“We have a meeting today, so dress pretty, it’s a good meeting, nothing scary, I think you will like it.” Namjoon smiled, making you nod and run off to get dressed. 

“Something Christmassy!” Taehyung shouted. 

This wasn’t what you expected when you heard mafia, usually you would think things like guns and drugs and women and violence and sure some of those things were true. 

But giving Christmas presents to an orphanage full of children wasn’t what you had in mind. You took a present and handed it out, “are you mister Kim’s wife now?”

You giggled at the children’s naive question and began thinking about what it would be like if you really were Namjoon’s wife. 

“Well, he hasn’t asked me so, no,” you laughed with the children some of the teens heard and began teasing Namjoon. 

“Why haven’t you asked her yet she is so pretty?” They said, “I would ask her.”

“Namjoon is shy, underneath the suit he is just a boy with dimples” Jimin teased earning a wad of wrapping paper at his head from the man in question. You had stepped outside into the snow watching it fall around you, Namjoon was eyeing you through the small glass window.

Excusing himself Namjoon left the children and headed out into the snowy garden, he shrugged off his jacket as he approached and slipped it over your shoulders. Clearing his throat “you shouldn’t be out here, you might catch a cold”

“Not with you here” You elbowed him playfully, he chuckled allowing you to lean against him, he didn’t tell you he was cold but dutifully stood there and kept you company.

“Thank you so much,” The woman said, as you all stepped out the front door, the boys all headed to the car and you were left beside Namjoon who had left his arm around your waist leading you to the car. “For the presents and the donation, the children and I truly appreciate it.”

“Y/n?” Namjoon said as you walked into the dining room to find it empty, the food was set and there were candles. “I wanted to speak with you privately.”

“Okay, what did you want to talk about?” You asked curiously, what was so important that his men whom he confided everything in were not present.

“Since I met you, I have broken so many of my rules, I have been late, I have forgotten what I have wanted to say, I have spoken without purpose, I have even broken the rule to keep speeches short and sweet.” He laughed rubbing the back of the neck. “I have enjoyed your company greatly and you have made me a better man because of it. Ever since I met you, I was enraptured by your brains and beauty. You are fiery and sassy and kind and real.”

“Thank you, I haven’t done that much though.” You weren’t being modest, you hadn’t done anything special to warrant his compliments.

“I wanted to ask if you would do me the greatest honour of marrying me?” He said, “I will keep you safe, you will never go hungry or cold, I will cherish you with every fibre of my being.”

“Yes,” You said in shock, you liked him of course, you had for a while now but the fact that he could get anyone and he chose you. That was what shocked you, you weren’t on the same status level. He was very high class and you were scrapping the lower end of high class.

The celebration was to be held at the grand hotel, the hall was booked and looking spectacular you were announcing your engagement. It was a real lavish affair and you were in the most expensive gown you had ever seen, feeling like a million dollars and wearing a million and a half.

It was all real, the shoes, jewelry, hotel, engagement and you couldn’t believe it. “Is this a dream?” the stylist shook her head.

You were trying to wonder where it had all come together; it was little gestures and actions. When the two of you met and he was charming and poise when dancing with you. The more you got to know him he was meticulous and sassy and strict, he didn’t miss a chance to correct and reprimand you. 

Somewhere along your journey he started to enjoy your company, he became more clumsy, and open to new ideas. He took a chance and started approaching you with his feelings and what blossomed between you was love.

“My lady, if you are ready follow us to take some photos with your fiance on the rooftop.” You were shaken out of your daydream and guided to the elevator headed for the rooftop, the two men were talking into headsets, “Everything is secure” The man said straight-faced, and the other man helped you hold the small train of your dress.

When you stepped out the men guided you across the rooftop and told you to sit in the chair while the cameraman finished setting up. You sat drinking, you only got a short way through it before you fell asleep.

Waking it was dark, you were strapped to the chair and there was something heavy and bulky on your chest. Eyes adjusting to see the glowing numbers on your chest. You started to cry, something was wrong and almost an hour went by before, you heard someone shouting your name.

“Y/N!” it was Jimin.

“Jimin!” You shouted and he raced over to the door but you heard the clanking of chains. You were locked in. 

“Wait here, I will get the others and something to get you out.” He was gone before you could tell him.

You heard more voices and Namjoon came over, you had ten minutes written on the digital clock on your chest, the numbers flickering down consistently. “Y/N?” Namjoon said, “Don’t worry, we will get you out?”

“Namjoon,” You cried from the seat, sobs breaking through your words, “There is a bomb.”

“Where is the bomb?” Namjoon said 

“It’s here,” Hot tears falling from your eyes stinging, “It’s on me, there is only nine minutes left.”

He swore, “Break this door down now, find another way in?”

They all began struggling and trying their best, but you knew it was useless. Namjoon, go, take everyone and go, there isn’t enough time?”

“No!” Namjoon growled smashing his fists on the door and throwing his shoulder into it, “I will get you out of it.”

“Namjoon, send the boys away don’t get them hurt because of me?” You whispered, “Go!”

“Leave us,” Namjoon said, his voice defeated.

“We won’t leave without you both?” Jungkook said, the timer said three minutes and you wanted to scream at them to go but the sobs took everything out of you.

“A man will follow orders to the letter Jungkook.” Namjoon said, sending the younger man away, “Get out of here.”

“Yeah rule number twenty-two, but what about number thirty-three take a challenge or thirty-nine finish what you start.”

“Jungkook, leave now before I shoot you, your orders are to get everyone out of the building, we will be down soon.”

Jungkook hesitated before running off. You called out to Namjoon begging him to leave but he refused continuing to try to break down the door blinking away the blur in your eyes from the tears you saw the time had only a minute left.

“Namjoon, there is only a minute left, please leave.” You pleaded and you could hear him on the other side of the door. 

“I am not leaving you,” He sniffed, voice watery and shaking with the sounds of his sobs. He broke the number one rule.

[Part 2]

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[bellatrixobsessed1]

Protea (Part 12)

She finds that she can quite effortlessly muster up enthusiasm. The flower shop does bring her a unique brand of delight. A delight that would have probably made Azula happy as well; it has a simple sort of charm that Azula finds relaxing.

Snapdragon strokes her thumb over the pink-purple petal of a foxglove.

“I brought you some snacks.” Mai’s lips quirk into a smile as she arranges a few marigolds upon the counter.

Azula truly does hate to admit it, but she didn’t exactly hate the taste of marigold stems. And Snapdragon finds them quite delectable. So when Mai turns to fetch the sunflowers, Snapdragon takes a single marigold and pops it into her mouth. She lets it dangle between her lips until Mai turns around and grumbles, “it was a joke, you weren’t supposed to eat it again.”

She quirks a brow and takes a bite. Mai ruffles her hair and gives her a kiss on the cheek. Neither Snapdragon nor Azula can seem to get used to the affection. She isn’t sure which part of her the tummy flutters come from.

She finishes eating the marigold as their first customer walks up.

“Mohi!” Snapdragon grins.

“Are ya eatin flowas again?”

She clears her throat and replies, “no” as Mai says, “yes.”

Mohi sighs. “How’s the palace been?”

Snapdragon isn’t sure how to answer this so Azula does it for her, “insightful.” It only occurs to her that this isn’t something that Snapdragon would say after she sees the quizzical look on Mohi’s face.

“They be teachin’ you ta speak like a noble?”

“I picked up on things.”

Mohi nods. “Ya jus’ watch yaself there. ‘N don’t ya go ‘n let ya fingas wanda, that’ll git ya in trouble if ya get caught.”

“We already talked about that.” Mai assures her. “She’s been strictly sticking to things that people don’t want anymore...or things that she was told she could touch; she’s made herself comfortable in Azula’s room.”

“Ya watch ya’self. I can’t protect ya from that one if ya find trouble there.”

A lump forms in her throat. She hadn’t considered how Mohi might take to finding out that she’d been caring for a princess she thought ruthless and cruel. Decidedly she has to be more careful around Mohi, lest she lose her too.

.oOo.

Mai clips at and arranges her flowers as Snapdragon and Mohi catch up. She thinks of inviting the woman and her sons to stay at the palace too, but really the palace isn’t hers to be extending invitations to.

She supposes that all is well enough, Snapdragon will get the best of both worlds. Tonight she is going home with Mohi. It will be drab without her company in the palace. Though it is probably better if she does go back to her own home for a while; Ami hasn’t been taking kindly to her in the slightest.

“The palace is no place for a crude and dirty little cretin.” She’d lamented to Mai. “You had no business bringing her here. You don’t even have a love for your Fire Lord.” She rambles on and on, “or any of the royals, why stay in the palace if you hate the royal family?”

Really, she can’t be bothered to answer the woman. She is there because she needs a place to stay, nothing more and nothing less. Once she gets the shop truly up and running she will get a place of her own and never have to deal with upper ring drama again. Truly, it’s exhausting. Snapdragon is such a refreshing break.

By noon, she doesn’t have much time to dwell upon palace drama; the grand opening of the shop has drawn in a very generous flow of people.

“Can you give me a hand, Snapdragon?”

The woman looks up from her conversation and flashes her a smile and a thumbs up.

“Hold these leaves out of the way while I clip some of the thorns off.”

Snapdragon carefully lifts the petals out of the way and watches Mai pune away the thorns. She sets the clippers aside and Snapdragon lets the leaves fall back in place and set the roses on the window sill.

She sits herself upon the now mostly cleared counter. She reaches for Mai’s hand and Mai takes it.

Mohi clears her throat. “Behave yaself! I’ll be at home waitin’ when the ya shift’s through.”

“M’kay,  Mohi.” Snapdragon answers. She waits until the woman has left to wrap her arms around Mai’s neck and her legs around her waist.

Mai rolls her eyes, “I’m not going to lift you up and carry you if that’s what you’re hoping for.”

Snapdragon shakes her head. Mai is beginning to think that the girl just wants closeness. She pats her back and replies, “we’re going to have to do this after work.” Though she isn’t entirely pleased to have to cut off the woman’s cuddles. Her embrace is warm and pleasant. “Here, have a flower instead.” She takes one of the marigolds and tucks it behind Snapdragon’s ear.

Snapdragon leaps off of the counter. “I can’t believe that your aunt was able to afford this.” She gestures about the store.

“I had Zuko pull a few more strings.” She loathes to admit it.

“He sure helps you out a lot.” She looks almost nervous. “He still loves you don’t he?”

“Well that’s unfortunate for him.” Mai shrugs. “Because I found someone else who is much easier to be around.”

“Who?”

Mai rolls her eyes. “You, Snapdragon.”

Her face flushes. “Oh, yeah. Me.” She tilts her head. “I’m easy to be around?”

“You’re one of the only people I’ve met who isn’t afraid to express yourself.” She wishes that she weren’t so afraid herself. “It’s refreshing, Snapdragon. It feels authentic. Sometimes I think that you’re the only person in the Fire Nation who isn’t full of lies, deceptions, and ulterior motives.”

.oOo.

Snapdragon thinks about it the whole way home. About lies and deceptions. She doesn’t think that she has any ulterior motives. She thinks that she only wants to have an old friend back. She doesn’t think that, that is so terrible and yet it feels all wrong.

She pops into the house to call out that she is heading to her factory. She needs to clear her head. She knows that the factory will help Snapdragon do so and she knows how to clear Azula’s mind.

She is alone in said factory when she tries firebending for the first time in a very long time. It dawns upon her that she likely could have done it this whole time had she not given up so easily after a few failed attempts and some teasing from Zenyul and Kaz.

She lets the fire come to her hands as she has done so many times. It feels right, natural. It curls and laps at the air with fingers of blue and for quite a while Snapdragon only watches it. Mesmerized by that which she created, that which she had grown familiar with and then became a stranger to one more.

She stares at it until the connections are formed in her mind and it becomes an extension of herself once again.

Only then does she take up a stance. This too feels second nature and foreign all the same. She doesn’t exactly recall each and every step in the kata but they come to her as she moves her way through it.

She doesn’t have to think too much. She doesn’t have to think at all. And she is bending.

Bending as she always had in her life before this one.

“Snapdragon?”

She goes completely tense. “Kaz, what are you doing here?”

“It’s gettin’ late ‘n Mohi sent me to git you.” He pauses. “Snapdragon were you…”

She can’t deny it, he had seen it very clearly. Even Azula can’t lie her way out of this one.

“Your fire is…” he sputters. “It’s blue.”

She bites the inside of her cheek. She could accuse him of imagining strange colors where there was only orange. She could accent the accusation by bringing orange fire to her palms. “I just learned to do it.”

“Sure didn’t look like it. It looks like you been doin’ it fer ages.”

She could tell him that Zenyul has been teaching her but she can’t remember the last time that the brothers were apart. She tries to speak but she finds herself at a loss for what to say. The truth is as unbelievable as the lies--perhaps more so even. So she only manages a soft, “don’t tell Mohi.”

She doesn’t think that he is listening. “Blue. Fire.”

She swallows.

“Blue. Fire! Snapdragon, you know who else has blue fire!?”

She knows very well. She knows that there is no ‘who else’, that there is only one person. She just hopes that Kaz won’t arrive at the same conclusion. She doesn’t get to hope for long at all. He stares at with wonder and curiosity. With delight and with hesitance.

She doesn’t expect him to reach out and touch the small scars on her cheek. Doesn’t expect him to run his fingers through her hair, “how’d you do it?”

“How’d I do what?”

He gestures to her face. “I heard rumors that Lady Ursa was able to change her face…”

Her blood runs colder than she thought possible for a firebender. “Kaz…”

“They’s lookin’ for you at the palace ‘n you’ve been there the whole time?”

Perhaps partially so, she had been. “Kaz, I don’t want to go back.”

His brows furrow. “Then why’s you been goin’ back?”

She doesn’t want to go back as Azula. Snapdragon decides that she doesn’t want to be Azula again. Not yet. Snapdragon is happy. Snapdragon is carefree and fun. Azula is not. “Because Mai is there.” But she likes it here. Absently, she takes a step back and leans against the cool metal siding of the building, “I like my factory too.” He wouldn’t take that away from her would he? But, Agni, the bounty reward could buy he and his family a place in the cheaper end of the upper ring.

“Kaz, don’t take me back there.” She doesn’t want to hurt him. She can’t hurt him. She realizes that she is going to lose her family either way; if she lets him run off and tell them who she is Zuzu will come to collect her, Mohi will resent her. If she causes him any sort of harm, Mohi will hate her tenfold.

She takes a deep breath, she will let him run. It occurs to her that they wouldn’t believe him anyways. Snapdragon hasn’t ignited a even a spark, she only has to play ignorant. And it isn’t as though he can simply pry a mask off or wipe away layers of makeup; Snapdragon’s face is her own. She doesn’t have to tell him that no one will believe him. She thinks that he knows. Somehow she thinks that she is being cruel.

“Why would you wanna stay here in this slobby slumtown?” He inquires. She doesn’t think that he wants an answer for he continues, “it isn’t fair; you can leave at any time and you choose to stay here. And I’d like nothing more than to get out of this dump and go somewhere that mama deserves! But I don’t have a choice! We’re stuck in this trash heap ‘cause of you.” He pauses, breathing heavily. “Mama said not to say it because she didn’t want you to blame yerself, but it’s true! We was well off ‘for we took you in.” And in one last burst he adds, “‘n you ain’t even need it!”

But she did need it. She does need it.

She may not need a place to stay, but she needs people to love. The hatred in his eyes only reaffirms what she knows to be true; that she has to be more careful. That Azula can’t come back.  “Please don’t hate me, Kaz.”

[hermannsthumb]

"newt isn’t sleazy and is also too busy wrestling with the ethics of hitting on his hot TA if the guy is 5 months older than him to even notice" pleeeease write this

Anonymous asked: "When I Kissed the Teacher" AU ft professor newt and his hot 5-month-older TA hermann

and coincidentally, this older one

Anonymous asked: i just rewatched mamma mia 2 and was wondering if i could request a "when i kissed the teacher" newmann fic?? love your writing!!!!!!

Ask And Ye Shall Receive. sorry ive been MIA 😔 concept from this post I made earlier this month. idk what class newt teaches that hermann would be qualified to TA for but just like, decide for yourselves

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

Newt’s never been a list-making kind of guy, or--for that matter--even really a planning ahead kind of guy, but certain circumstances have thrown his life more out of wack than usual lately, and he kind of needs the stability the like of things like lists offer. Desperate times and everything. Or, at the very least, Newt is desperate. 

So Newt plans, and plots, and deliberates, and he even agonizes a little, but most of all, he makes a list.

On one half of the page, he writes pros. On the other, he writes cons. On top, he writes--what else?--Hermann.

The problem started in late August. Newt knew for months he was going to be assigned a teaching assistant come that semester--it was him, after all, who’d suggested it to the dean in the first place--but the Hermann Gottlieb of extensive, impressive, overachieving CV and overly-former cover letter was a far cry from Hermann Gottlieb in the flesh. Newt expected a dork, frankly. Someone too socially awkward to feel brave enough to thank someone for holding a door open for him. He expected a PhD student so eager to please he’d cater to Newt’s every whim, whether it was grading horrendous freshman lab reports or fetching him a sandwich from the commissary between class sections. 

They met for the first time at the campus coffee shop. Hermann was dressed in an oversized pair of slacks, a threadbare green sweatervest, and honest-to-God saddle shoes; the buttons of his Oxford were done up all the way, from the collar to the cuffs, and an ornate cane was settled against his thigh. His haircut was tragic. “Dr. Geiszler,” he said, all clipped and English, and held his hand out to Newt. “Hermann Gottlieb. It is a great pleasure to meet you. I’m an admirer of your work.”

"Sup,” Newt said, and tried to bump their fists together.

Newt knew he was in deep shit then. It wasn’t just because Hermann was gorgeous (which he was, in a sort of weird, frumpy, ripped-outta-1945 way), or that the scowl he proceeded to level Newt with made his soul wither and his heart race a little bit too fast, but both of those things in conjunction with a big one: Newt was, and is, so fucking love-starved. It’s an unfortunate byproduct of being made a professor when he was as young as he was and completing a PhD before he completed puberty. His early twenties should’ve been spent dyeing his hair terrible colors and adding to his already impressive tattoo collection and having questionable hookups with other young twentysomethings; unfortunately, the only young twentysomethings Newt ever seems to come across are his students, and he has a very strict code of ethics. Not to mention it wasn’t like he was getting any action before that as a weird, gangly teenager with peers several years his senior. He was bound to latch onto the first genius hottie who crossed his path who wasn’t trying to flirt their way into bumping that B- to a B+. And better yet, Hermann is five whole months his senior!

The shit only got deeper when the semester started. No, Hermann was not the sort to fetch Newt sandwiches, or coffee, or Aspirin from his office, nor was he the sort to handle the dreaded lab reports (at least not unless Newt handled them with him), and he definitely wasn’t eager to please. Newt, anyway. If anything the opposite was true: he seemed to actively derive enjoyment from undermining Newt at every turn.

“Wrong,” he’d mutter during class if Newt screwed something up in a lecture, or “No, Geiszler, you’re doing it wrong again,” or “How in the blazes did you get three bloody PhDs when you can’t even do simple addition?” and snatch Newt’s dry erase marker away to scrawl his own answers on the whiteboard. It was less like having a TA and more like having...well, a bitchy, annoying co-teacher. Or, God help Newt, a colleague. And boy, did he wave those five months over Newt’s head like a fucking flag. Newt was immature; inexperienced; clearly not as serious about his studies--his completed studies--as Hermann. Meanwhile Newt’s class (bright young twenty somethings, taller than Newt, cooler than Newt, with more friends than Newt) would giggle and snicker, and Hermann would look smug.

It drove Newt fucking batty.

It also made him, like, super turned on.

The two can co-exist. Apparently. Hermann Gottlieb is already helping Newt discover new and existing concepts; what a fucking excellent TA he is. Someone give that man a raise.

So Newt draws up a list, and he writes Pros, and he writes Cons, and he writes Hermann. The pros are regrettably easy to come up with, because Hermann is Hermann, and (bitchiness and undermining of Newt aside) it’s unfair how many he has. Hot. Stupid sexy accent. Stupidly smart. This is crossed out and replaced with so smart he makes me feel stupid (in a good way), because it seems like an important distinction. Glasses on chain. Mysterious. (In a tall, dark, and handsome way. Sort of. Average height--which is tall to Newt, pale, and handsome. He still scowls more than he talks, which makes him feel mysterious. In a Bronte sort of way. Newt can picture Hermann drawing a billowing cloak around his shoulders and stalking some desolate moor in the moonlight, though in this case maybe’s more of a puffy parka than a cloak.) In tiniest font of all is makes me laugh, because Hermann does, goddamn it, with his snide asides and cutting remarks and sarcasm, often not even directed at Newt when it’s just the two of them alone in Newt’s office at night.

The placement of “is my TA” on the chart is acting as a particular annoyance to Newt, entirely on account of the fact that he can think of several pros and cons for that as well, and he’s not sure whether to nestle it between dark eyelashes and once called me a moron in front of my class and I got a hard-on or beneath sweaters smell like sweat and mothballs, has annoying tic of clearing throat when lost in thought, and the dick wins 86% of our arguments. Sexy forbidden fling. Abuse of power. Is older than me so it's not as weird as it could be? I’m his boss. The school’s paying Hermann though, not Newt, and it’s not like he’s going to scurry off to the dean and demand Hermann’s funding slashed if Hermann turns him down (which he’d most likely do). But it still feels like a breach of ethics.

On the other hand, Hermann is exactly the sort of guy he’d try to pick up at a bar if he still did things like that. (Tenure, rather than giving Newt breathing space to kick back and relax a little, has only increased his obsession with his work, and now when he gets a Friday night free to himself he mostly switches crap on the TV and falls asleep with his cat on the couch.) It’s about the experience, the impossible task of seducing someone who--by all accounts--is too straight-laced and tight-buttoned to indulge in something that debase. They were always the best in bed. Tension, Newt knows, has to snap at some point.

He’d like to wrap Hermann’s personal piano wire around his thumb and bang away at the keys until it snaps, too. Ethics, Newt thinks (folding up the list and stuffing it out of sight), his ass.

Newt sacrifices a Friday night with his cat and Unsolved Mysteries in favor of working on a solution to his Hermann Problem. Swamped with work, he tells Hermann over the phone, it fucking sucks, dude, I could really use your help in my office, and Hermann grumbles, and snaps that Newt should learn to be better prepared for his own damn classes, but declares he’ll be on campus in half an hour and that Newt will be ordering him takeaway for dinner as an apology.

The door swings open at half past five. Hermann is bundled in that heavy parka and scarf (which, even for a Boston November, still looks a little too warm), and his hair is damp. “Is it raining?” Newt says, perhaps stupidly, because there’s not a single droplet of water anywhere else on Hermann’s body.

Hermann makes a face at him and pushes the door shut with his cane. “No,” he says, tersely.

“Then why...” Newt touches his own hair.

“I was taking a bloody bath,” Hermann snaps. “I don’t work on Fridays, as you well know, Newton.”

The use of his full first name stings Newt oddly even as the notion of Hermann luxuriating in a bathtub excites him. “That’s Dr. Geiszler,” Newt snaps back, because goddamn it, he’s Hermann’s boss, he deserves respect, and then mentally adds a small, depressing tally to the Cons half of the board. Ethics, ethics. 

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Dr. Geiszler,” Hermann says. He throws his scarf and coat viciously at the small couch in the corner of Newt’s office, then takes his usual seat across from Newt. “Well? Where are those papers it’s so crucial we grade?”

Hermann in a bathtub, Newt thinks. Hermann naked. Papers, Newt thinks. “Papers,” Newt says, and he shoves a stack at Hermann with twice as much force as he means to, causing several to flutter to the ground. “We need...to grade them,” he says. Hermann naked, in a bathtub, maybe some candles lit around him, some nice music on, daydreaming about that wretched professor he works for. Damn it. “I have a pen,” he says. “To grade.”

“What on earth are you saying?” Hermann says. “Be quiet. I can’t concentrate with your abominable prattling on.” Then he mumbles something that sounds like incessant, rips the top paper off the stack, and begins to slash at it in red ink. He doesn’t bother gathering the two from the ground.

Why did Newt invite him here, again?

Oh, right. He pushes his glasses up his nose and feigns casualness, pulling out another paper for himself to grade. “A bath,” he says. “Just to, uh, relax? Or...?”

Hermann narrows his eyes. “Or?”

Newt shrugs. “It’s Friday. Were you getting ready for a date or something?”

This time, Hermann’s mouth twists down into a frown. Almost suspicious. “Why do you care?” he says.

“I don’t,” Newt says quickly. “Just making small talk.” God, he could picture some stud of a computer science PhD candidate winning Hermann over with techno babble--or maybe one of his fellow students, ugh, maybe they made a study group together that meets Friday nights, and Hermann was getting all gussied up, goddamn handsome astrophysics grad students--

“I was relaxing,” Hermann says. “You must be aware at this point you cause me a great deal of stress, Dr. Geiszler, on a daily basis.”

“Oh,” Newt says.

He gives up on the small talk after that. Hermann’s promised takeout arrives--a small carton of pad thai--as does Newt’s--a large carton of the spiciest thing they had on the menu--and they eat in silence. They have about three-quarters of the papers to go when Hermann suddenly sits back in his seat with a groan and rubs at his eyes under his granny glasses. “Bugger,” he says. “I can’t fathom this one for the life of me. I’m too tired.”

“It’s getting kinda late,” Newt agrees. “Maybe we should--”

“It’s not that,” Hermann says. “I had a glass of wine earlier, and--oh, it doesn’t matter. Your students need to learn how to write in a way that’s actually bloody legible--it’s like chicken scratch.”

Newt hops up and leans over his shoulder, squinting down at the page. Hermann’s hair smells nice, like something floral, and his skin has a small hint of what could almost be cologne. Why is Hermann wearing cologne? “Okay, let me see it,” Newt says, struggling to keep from getting lightheaded at the close proximity to Hermann. “I’m used to that kind of shit.”

“No,” Hermann says, drawing the paper close to his chest. “I am perfectly capable of managing it on my own.”

“Dude,” Newt says, “let me look at it, seriously. Hermann--”

He manages to tug it away from him. The handwriting is pretty bad, but the math seems to be worse. “Didn’t they do the readings?” Newt mutters under his breath. “That’s not even the right equation for the diameter. I gave them a cheat sheet, man.” They’re junior year engineering students--they should know this shit.

“I know what the equation is,” Hermann snaps. “I can grade it on my own. Give it back.”

“I didn’t say you didn’t know,” Newt says, “I said this kid--”

“It’s the radius squared--”

“Hermann, dude,” Newt says, “I know you’re--”

And that’s when Hermann grabs him by his skinny tie and kisses him, hard. 

They stare at each other afterwards. Hermann’s eyes are as wide as saucers; his mouth is hanging open. Newt’s tie slips from his fingers, which then fall limp to his lap. “Holy shit,” Newt squeaks.

Hermann is gone with a swish of his parka and a loud clack of his cane. And with a stack of papers Newt still has to somehow get through. Figures.

Their next few classes together are subdued. Hermann doesn’t interject any of his biting commentary or corrections, or even offer critiques of Newt’s lack of professionalism (when in the past his skinny jeans were such an easy target), and when the period is over, he practically sprints from the classroom before he and Newt can be alone together for even a second. It’s fine by Newt. Whatever. Maybe Hermann can get over it over Thanksgiving break, and Newt can try to get over the memory of Hermann’s strong fingers tugging him down, Hermann’s floral shampoo, Hermann’s chapped, wide lips against his, the little grunt of shock Hermann made as he did it, like he couldn’t believe his own audacity...

It’s not likely.

It’s December, the last week before finals, and Newt’s in his office bundled up in a sweatshirt (because the heat never seems to fucking work in here), revising a draft of an exam, and dreading the thought of trudging home in the snow, when there’s suddenly a knock at his door. Anticipating some overeager freshman here outside of office hours, he doesn’t look up as he says “Come in.”

A familiar clearing of a throat.

Newt shoots straight up to his feet. He knocks a mug of coffee to the floor in the process. “Hermann,” he says. “Uh. Hi. What--what are you doing here?”

Hermann shuts the door behind him, then takes a careful step forward. He’s back in his big dumb coat and big long scarf. “I thought I ought to tell you myself first,” he says, primly. “I’ve submitted a request to the dean to be reassigned to another professor next semester. Our research interests are far more in line, and I don’t imagine our personalities shall clash as much.”

“Oh,” Newt says, pretending his heart isn't sinking in his chest like a hunk of lead. Was he that bad of a kisser? He feels like he deserves a second shot at it--he wasn’t ready last time, you know, he bets he’d really wow Hermann if he had a fair heads up. “Are.. are those the only reasons why?”

“No,” Hermann admits. “They’re not.”

He crosses the room, and corners Newt against his desk before Newt even realizes what’s happening. “They’re not,” he says again, then adds in a murmur (lifting one hand to brush his fingers against Newt’s hair), “Dr. Geiszler.”

Neither of them talk much, after that.

[tact-and-impulse]

Holiday fic for @shepherds-of-haven! Thanks for the deadline extension. I hope I’m not too late! More under the cut or on AO3.

midwinter depths

It all started with an innocent conversation, Lavinet asking what they were planning to wear for the Wintersun Gala. The confused, collective answer was: what gala? After some back-and-forth, it became apparent that the Diminished-majority members of the newest government agency had not been invited to the illustrious holiday celebration. The reactions were varied, but they eventually came to one conclusion. Couldn’t they host a competing, more inclusive, and most importantly, better party? Certainly not as fancy, but in terms of community outreach, it would be far superior.

Responsibilities were dealt, and by dawn, the Shepherds set out to prepare.

***

The bus was late. Croelle adjusted his hat and clenched his teeth. Another inconvenience, just the latest obstacle to his work. The shelter’s glass panes looked very fragile and tempting at the moment, but ultimately, he didn’t move from his current seat on the metal bench.

A tall woman approached the bus stop, ashen hair pulled into a high ponytail to reveal slightly pointed ears. Her hazel eyes glinted with the iladrin, and one hand carried a bag of groceries. She checked her wristwatch, which sparkled with miniscule gems, and stopped at the other end of the bench. A strong wintry gust blew past, rattling the shelter. Heavy silence descended upon them.

“If you’re waiting for the bus, you might as well walk to your destination.” He intoned.

“Excuse me?” Her polished voice was more amused than affronted.

“It’s been twenty minutes. I hope you don’t have anywhere urgent to be.”

“And why are you still here?” She retorted.

He lifted the brim of his hat, to look at her again. Pale brows, an aquiline nose, a thin mouth colored by dark mauve lipstick. Handsome, he supposed. “Are you a Shepherd?” He had dragged his line of sight away from her face to the embroidered hound on her coat.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Dragged into it, really. Speaking of which...” She handed him a blue and silver flyer, detailing games, raffles, and a potluck dinner. “We’re hosting a party tonight at our headquarters. Ten danars admission, though I’m not sure whether it’ll be enforced. It’s mostly for the rest of the Shepherds, and their friends and families.”

“Is that what your bag is for?” He turned his attention to her purchased items.

“Oh, I don’t cook for groups. But I was assigned to buy ingredients for punch and I’m very good at making vytas.” She rummaged through a variety of fruits, before removing a jar of honey and admiring the color in the weak morning light. “I’m picky about my ingredients. No alcohol though, to be palatable for Mages like us.”

“I’m not a Mage. And I don’t eat fruit.”

She tilted her head, stepping in his direction. He flinched, as her gaze ran over him in obvious scrutiny. “How are you still alive?”

This close, he was able to see her hair clip. Three birds in flight, carved out of lacquered wood. He evaded her question. “For the same reasons anyone else is.”

She didn’t respond to that, still analyzing and trying to puzzle him out. Definitely, this Mage was a strange one. He hadn’t heard of any such figure in the Shepherds, but he could always use his resources to find out. She pivoted away from him, putting her jar back. “So, are you going to attend?”

“I have work. Why? I’m not your friend or family. Are you desperate for my company?”

“No.” She easily replied. He refused to feel a twinge of disappointment. “I only want to make sure that my effort pays off.”

“You hate holidays, don’t you?”

Her slight smile became brittle. “Do you only ask questions and never answer them?”

A short, derisive laugh escaped him. “Part of the job.” Wait, what was he doing? Conversing, letting down his guard, still sitting here instead of headed to his next assignment. He might have suspected she was an Enchanter if it weren’t for the wristwatch. The pearly face bore the symbol of the Shifters, the points and curls in fine etching.

“And what is your job?”

“You’re a nosy woman.”

“I prefer ‘curious’.”

“There’s such a thing as being too curious for your own good.”

“I’m not particularly interested in being good.”

He grabbed her slender hand, and she emitted a startled noise as he pulled her towards him. He lowered his voice, speaking into one tapered ear. “Interested in being bad then?”

She was perfectly still for a moment, her pulse rapid under his fingertips, and then, she roughly pulled away. Her eyes locked him in a deadpan stare. “That’s another question, and for this one, I’ll follow your example and decline to answer.”

“Hmph.” Determinedly looking past her form, he spotted a van turning the corner, the Shepherds’ emblem on the hood to mark its status as a government vehicle. “There’s your ride.”

She followed his line of sight and blinked. “Oh. So it is. Would you like to come along? The driver’s my kin, and he won’t mind.”

“I’d rather not.” He scowled, standing and brushing himself off. “Goodbye.”

“Well, if your work allows it, feel free to stop by tonight’s dinner. I don’t have to remind you to try the vytas.” She pointedly lifted her bag and then laid a hand upon her lapels. “You can ask for me, Zoegea. And you are…?”

He grunted. “Croelle.” And with that, he walked away before the van arrived. Minutes later, he wondered how he could be so foolish to tell her his name. Just for that, he had to pry more information out of her. He crumpled the flyer in his pocket but it stayed there.

***

The smell of baking bread was one of the best things in the world. Trouble knelt down, to peer into the oven. The rolls were puffy and golden-brown, nearly ready to eat. There was something nostalgic about waiting and watching, like he was five again and his mother was cooking in their tiny kitchen.

A rustle of movement caught his attention and he met bright amber eyes as his partner mirrored his position. “Hey, so the mashed potatoes should be done soon. What’s next?”

“We should be good for now. Thanks, Senna.” He grinned.

“No problem! So, what’re you doing?”

“Just checking on the rolls. Best part of being on the team in charge of side dishes.” It was always enjoyable to mold the balls of dough in his floured hands. He splayed his fingers over the warm glass. “It takes me back to when I was a kid. My mum made her own bread.” Right now, the yeasty aroma of the dinner rolls was just like the one that permeated the cozy apartment of his childhood.

“So did mine!” She eagerly shared the similarity. “Not that the Westwood bakery’s was bad, but I always liked hers best.”

“Yeah, that’s how I feel!”

She rocked back on her heels, her tanned face flushed. “I actually remember my mom’s recipe, so I bake now and then. It’s not exactly the same though.”

“But it’s something. I couldn’t read before my own died.” His memory of her was vague. She had pinned her hair when washing other people’s clothes, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her hair had been blond like his, but her eyes were a warm brown. Her voice was sweet though it was harder to recall now. Her scent was the easiest: clean linen and a touch of spiced apples. Other than that, he didn’t even have a photograph. “Wish I knew how she did it.”

“Maybe, we can figure it out. Or at least, get pretty close.” She suggested. “We can bake multiple batches and narrow it down from there, based on what you tell me.”

“Trial and error, huh?” He chuckled. “I like the sound of that! When should we start?”

“Probably sometime in the new year. When are you available?”

“Don’t worry about me; I’ll find the time. Just text me and I’ll be there. Do you have my number?”

“Yup, I saved it when you recruited me.” She flashed a thumbs-up. “I’ve just never had to text you before, because I keep running into you.”

“Hey now, you’re the Diviner.” He joked. “You’re not using magic to find out which bar I go to?”

“Trouble, you always go to The Burning Crown.”

“It’s the free drink Nessa gives me every time. Actually, I think I should probably switch it up. Too many fights break out in there, and uh, I’m trying to follow your advice.” If she hadn’t stopped him, his old gang would have been too glad to bring him down to their level. That wasn’t what a Shepherd did, and having her near was a good reminder.

“That’s great!” Her smile was wide and honest. “I know it’s hard, but I’m really happy you’re trying. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. You can do it, I believe in you.”

He coughed, as an excuse to stop staring. “Well, you’ve shown me that talking out of a brawl is an option.” Then, he winced. “Ah, shit, I gotta stand up again. My legs are killing me.” He stood, his thighs burning, and offered a hand to her. She grasped it, and as soon as she was upright again, she quickly squeezed.

“I don’t think I’ve had a Wintersun like this before. Today’s been so much fun.”

“Me too. It’s always fun spending time with you.”

She looked at him through her dark lashes, and he felt suspended in place. Then, with a sudden draft, Riel stepped in, carrying a clipboard.

“Are we on schedule?”

Trouble noticed she had let go, and he crossed his arms, pressing his empty hand against his body. “For sure, we are. Even though we won’t be serving until six tonight, we’ll be ready by then.”

“Parties usually start late, anyway.” Senna added, with a sparkle in her eyes.

Riel pinched the bridge of his nose. “And guests arrive early. Regardless, if you need anything from the supply team, tell me before five so I can accommodate you accordingly.”

“Understood!” A whistling ringtone began to play, and she removed her phone from her apron pocket. “Oh, good. I was waiting for them to call back. Sorry, this will be just a few minutes. But if not, I’ll see you later. And I’ll text you about our meeting, Trouble!”

“Looking forward to it!” He replied as she sprinted out.

Riel’s cool gaze shifted between Trouble and the swinging door. “A meeting?”

“Yeah, we’re going to bake bread together. Isn’t that nice? She’s a great friend.” In response, he gave such a long sigh, that Trouble demanded. “What’s eatin’ you?”

“Never mind.” He was already walking away.

“Oi! Just tell me!”

***

The knife moved easily in his grasp, as he sliced the parsnips. If the rest of his family could witness what he was doing, they’d be delivering the full brunt of their disapproval. Before today, he also thought he was better suited to security detail, but he had been convinced to join the rest of his friends. His squad insisted they’d be fine, Trouble had extolled the benefits, and a particular pair of deep brown eyes had been disappointed as the owner asked. “Are you not going to cook with us?”

Thus, here he was, preparing roasted vegetables for an impromptu party.

His partner for this task had her own tray, and she carefully sprinkled garlic salt over the halves of looked like miniature cabbages. When he brought over the parsnips, she glanced up at him. “Oh, you’re already done? Thank you, Blade!”

He stiffly nodded. “Do you need any assistance?”

“No, I’m okay. These are ready, so I’ll put them in the oven. You can get a drink.” A quick smile, and she was off to the adjacent kitchen. The storage room wasn’t as warm, and soundlessly, he crept out. He returned before she did, with two water bottles retrieved from the cooler in the hallway.

Wintersun was just another day, or at least, that was what he believed before. Now, far from the place of his upbringing, he was often out of his comfort zone. However, he didn’t mind learning more about the world, outside of the family business. And today had been very pleasant.

When Captain Enris walked past, he held out the extra bottle, nudging it against her hand.

She blinked. “Is this for me?”

“Yes.” He raised his brows. “Take it. You haven’t been hydrating.”

“It slipped my mind.” She admitted but accepted the water. From under her sleeve, her tattoo peeked out, the inky scrawl of Kettish script unconventional but poetic. She removed the lid and drank deeply; her mouth was red and gleaming.

He abruptly dropped his gaze. “You have the tendency to put yourself last. It’s not sustainable, so you should remember to look after yourself as well.”

Her laughter rang out, clear and crisp. “Ultan said something like that, a long time ago.”

She had never mentioned the name before. He tensed, the plastic bottle crackling in his grip. “Who’s Ultan?”

“He owned a little bookshop in Courtshore. I worked for him, after Drummond’s Point was…wiped out. It was my longest job, about two years, and I really enjoyed it. He, um, found some old magic books for me; that’s how I started learning magic.”

“He must have liked you.”

She hummed, considering the possibility. “I think so. He was a Norm but his late wife was a hedgewitch, so he always kept me safe. If anyone was suspicious, he said I was his granddaughter sent to live with him. I’m not sure if they really bought it though…”

He was a tiny bit happier that the connection was familial, although he was unsure how to feel, being compared to someone who was like her grandfather. He decided on tentative compliance. “Would you have stayed with him?”

“I don’t know. He fired me, you see.”

“What? Why would he? You’re…a good worker.” Damn, that sounded utterly inadequate. As if two words could describe how important her presence had become to the Shepherds.

“Well, I’m glad you think so.” She smiled. “But what he thought is still a mystery. He just gave me the week’s wages and told me I wasn’t welcome anymore. So, I just kept moving, and I never heard from him again.”

His anger on her behalf lingered but he kept his response neutral. “It’s his loss and our gain. I’m glad you’re here in Haven. It would not be the same without you.”

He was certainly not as eloquent as she was, but he hoped the Enchanter was more at ease. Her shoulders lowered a fraction, and she rested her back against the wall. “That’s kind of you to say.” Fondness colored her expression.

“Does it surprise you?”

She laughed again, and he welcomed the sound. “No, not at all! You’ve always been kind. Strict, but you truly care. You’ve never led us astray, despite how you’re not a big fan of Wintersun.”

“Was I obvious?”

“Compared to everyone else, just a little bit.” She pinched her fingers together. “But I noticed you’re not frowning as much. Are you having fun?”

“I’ll take the quiet now, before the crowds arrive.” He wryly answered.

“It’s close enough!” She set her half-empty bottle down and clapped. “Let’s finish seasoning the rest. I was thinking of having lunch afterwards; how about you?”

He deliberately paused. “That sounds agreeable. Do you have anywhere in mind?”

“Tallys mentioned a sandwich shop the other day. I can call ahead for pick-up.” She was already pivoting.

“Linaria.”

At the rare use of her given name, she immediately turned, lips parted.

“Let me see the menu first.” He grumbled.

With another giggle, she offered her phone. “The next thing we should work on is your pickiness.”

***

The free chair was inviting, and Chase took it, sliding over to the other person at the raffle table. “Hey, sunshine. How’s the sprain?”

“Better today, but not enough.” The newly incapacitated Battle-Mage scowled reproachfully at her left foot. “So I’m still stuck here.”

“You wanted to cook?”

“Even if I could, that’d be better than tearing up tickets.” She snorted. Her fingers pulled at the paper chain, twisting at the perforated end and depositing a fresh one in his open hand. She kept the other half, flicking it into a large glass jar. Valeriana had let her hair down, which was a first. Wine red and pin straight, it framed her face and grazed her elbows. She seemed more vulnerable, her features relaxed and youthful. He idly wondered who else had seen her like this. She must have sensed his regard, because her gaze shifted to him. “Did you need something else?”

“Nope, just hanging here and watching the rest of the hospitality team. Mostly, it’s Lavinet though.” The heiress had taken charge over the decorating business and she was ordering some of the newbies around to meet her standards. Embroidered white tablecloths, silver streamers, tea lights, and authentic pine trees for ambience. It all sounded magnificently meticulous, and he was trying to avoid her, just in case. “My side’s done with the party games.”

“Yeah? What have you got?”

“Elements, dreadnoughts, pin the tail on the ahfuri for the kids. We dug up some sui boards for the older folk. Anyone with spare change can play intrigue or Angels and Devils. And darts. Bet you’d like that.” As strong as she was, he knew she valued precision most of all. It was also what he liked about her, that she could run rampant on their missions given half a chance but opted for control.

He was interested in what she was like, if she lost it.

She leaned back in her seat, the motion steering him to the present again, and cracked a smile. “That depends on what prizes you have.”

“Ah, and like with all games, your prize is based on your stakes. Anything from chocolate truffles to plushy Shepherd hound toys to gift cards. Or I can always surprise you.”

“The bar is high.” She raised her brows but her eyes glittered at the prospect. Good.

“I’ll do my best, gorgeous. So...what has our dear organization obtained for the raffle prize?”

“You’ll have to win and find out for yourself.”

“Fair enough. Let’s hope this is a lucky one.” With a flourish, he brought the ticket to his lips in a light kiss and pocketed it. Then, he gestured towards the fall of her hair. “No bun or braids today?”

One hand tucked a stray lock behind her ear. “I want less tension for now, I’ll tie it back later.”

“Gotcha.” In the meantime, he’d appreciate the view.

“Caine asked me the same thing too.” The kid was eager to help out, and at the other end of the hall, he was stringing icy blue lights on one of the smaller trees. “He said it was nice.”

“He’s right, it suits you. You look lovely.” And he meant it, not even winking.

She held his gaze, about to bite back, but she paused. The moment stretched, before she quietly replied. “Thanks.”

His skin itched and he rubbed the back of his neck. Huh. She was attractive, it was hard not to notice since the day they met. It was only that she was a lot more so, because of how intimate her appearance was. It was lust, he decided, and he could deal with lust. Yeah.

“Well,” Chase cleared his throat and ruffled her hair. To his pleasant surprise, it was very soft. “I’m off to check on my people. Keep getting stronger, sunshine.”

“Uh…right.” Her dark eyes were wide, and he couldn’t look away.

“I’ll bring you a plate of food at dinner, and then, we can swing by the darts. Sound good?”

“Sure, I guess, mm.” She didn’t blush easily, but she was clearly flustered, blinking rapidly and tripping over her words. Cute. Her long eyelashes fluttered and he was transfixed.

Then, there was a clatter, and they both whipped towards the sound. Caine had dropped a third of his lights. Wincing, he called out. “Sorry!”

“Are you hurt?” Valeriana asked.

“No, I’m okay! How’re you?” He was giving them a trepidatious expression.

Oh. Chase was still touching her head. Slowly, he let go and forced a two-fingered salute. “We’re fine here! You’re doing good, little man!”

“I’ll see if I can help him out.” She muttered.

“You don’t have to, I’ll send a couple of my guys to check on him. Get some rest before tonight, alright?”

She didn’t seem fully appeased but she grabbed her ticket chain and reluctantly nodded, echoing. “See you tonight.”

“It’s a date. Later, Valia.”

If she protested at her shortened name, he didn’t hear it. He strolled along, starting to whistle. After making sure no one else was around, he glanced down at his hand and grinned.

***

The pressure cooker must have disappeared into an adjacent plane of existence. Red sighed as he closed the latest cupboard. “Nope, not here either.”

“Seriously?!” Alcea popped her head up, from behind the counter. Her golden curls bounced, her gray eyes brimming with dismay. “Damn it, where else could it possibly be?”

“At this point, I’m wondering if we should go to the nearest mall and buy another one.”

“Yeah, but we just bought this last week! Riel would throw a fit if we went back. Anyway, it should still be in the box!” She dove again and he smiled, leaning over the granite.

“Or we could always just do it the old-fashioned way. There are plenty of pots that no one else is using.”

“I guess we can.” She grouched. “It’d just be easier to make vegetable curry when we don’t have to be watching the stove the entire time.” She pulled away from the clutter of miscellaneous cooking utensils, and agonizingly rose to her feet. “Augh, my back!”

“Are you alright?” He rushed around to help, but she shook her head.

“Only out of shape, but I’m alive.”

“Good, because I still need you.” He grinned, hiding his relief. “Who else is going to taste test?”

“Uh, nobody, because that’s my job for today? A privilege of being on the entrée team.”

“Just one?”

“One of many.” She smirked. “But I’m not giving up on our missing item! I’ll send a text to the group chat.” She dug out her phone and her thumbs flew across the screen, her charm bracelet jangling with its trio of silver birds. As they walked through the corridors, he kept a close eye, ensuring she wasn’t bumping into anything.

Their allotted kitchen space was looking rather colorful. Onions, garlic, ginger, cauliflower, peas, cans of coconut milk. Jars of spices were lined up on one end, their labels in large print. And in the midst of the ingredients, an open book waited, displaying the pages of the recipe.

He rolled up his sleeves. “So, we’re making two batches: mild and spicy.”

“Yup. Oh! Should we ask Mimir for input on the latter?”

“If she ever shows, and doesn’t she have a high tolerance? Like, she inhales what would kill everyone else?”

“Right…maybe not.”

“It was a nice thought.” He squeezed her shoulder. Years ago in Capra, he wouldn’t have imagined this scenario.

They hadn’t been close then; they shared mutual friends, but he was only aware of her as ‘the other Conjurer who was always in the stacks late at night’. Conversely, she knew him as ‘the guy who tried to descend the university into Hael itself’, but mercifully, she didn’t blame him at all. In fact, the first thing she asked upon their formal introduction was how he did it. The rest was history. The Shepherds had inherited a massive library from a Mage, and on their coinciding off days, the two of them claimed a study room and filled a whiteboard with spell runes and equations. She was bright and vivacious and daring; his younger self had made ignorant mistakes, and now, he could add overlooking her to the list.

After plenty of scrambling and bitten-off curses, some of which were Elvish, their main dish was bubbling. She ladled a spoonful, blew, and sampled. Her eyes shut as she broadly smiled.

“That good, huh?”

“Don’t take my word for it. Come on, try for yourself!” She grabbed a new spoon, taking from the top. Holding the steaming mixture to his mouth, she ordered. “Open wide!”

He chuckled. “Sharing a privilege?” However, he accepted. It was delicious, fragrant with coconut and bold with delayed heat. He ran his tongue across his lips to catch any left.

Her gaze didn’t waver. “Nope, it’s a second to see you eat something I helped make.”

“I hope your expectations were met.”

“Exceeded, for the entire morning actually. I love working with you.” She was incredibly close, her cheeks rosy. He tilted his head-

“Hello?” A timid voice called, and they both spun around to see Shery, standing at the threshold. Her hands shook as she lifted a large, familiar box. “Um…I saw your text to the group. Were you looking for this?”

“That’s it! Thank you sooo much, Shery!” Alcea bounded forward, relieving the other blond of the pressure cooker. “Where did you find it?”

“On our side.” She pushed the nose bridge of her glasses. “It was behind one of the trash cans.”

“We really appreciate it.” Red smiled. “We’ll save a bowl for you later. Mild, of course.”

She seemed very reassured. “I’ll look forward to it, and I’ll hold some fairy bread for you two. See you soon.” Just as silently as she arrived, she hurried off.

He peered at the box. “I’ve never used a pressure cooker before. Have you?”

“Not for curry.” She conceded, lowering it to the floor for unpacking. “But here, let me show you the basics!”

Settling in for the explanation, he watched her animated face with pleasure. This was a privilege he would claim for himself.

***

The van slowed to a stop for the red light, so Ayla propped her feet up on the dashboard. “Think a lot of people are going to show up?” They’d been traversing Haven for a second round, buying additional supplies and plastering the last of the flyers.

“It’s cheap food and entertainment. So, probably a fair amount.” Her companion answered, sliding his hands around the steering wheel. His green gaze didn’t move from the road. “Are you inviting anyone?”

“Who would I invite? You’ve been in Haven longer than I have.”

He huffed. “Sure, I have a head start of six months, but I’ve been away on missions. Some of them were with you.”

“As if I could forget.” The light changed, and the van continued on its path.

She had hoarded every piece of information she learned about him. He was an Elementalist like her, but his skillset was well-rounded, with a preference for ice. The tattoo under his collarbone was of three birds, belonging to a species with a distinctive call, which his clan had taken for their own name as well. That song had not been heard in decades though, and he always shut down when it came to the fate of Vale. He couldn’t join the military because he was Diminished, so he had been a mercenary for a number of years. He liked his khav strong and bitter, and his toast just this side of burnt. Alright, the last bit was extraneous, but it wasn’t like she wanted to make him breakfast or anything.

“Hey, E.”

“Yeah?” He responded in kind.

“What’s eggnog taste like?”

“Did they not have any in the desert?”

“It has raw eggs, right?” She glanced behind her, to the milk jugs and egg cartons they had purchased. The other bags had remained stationary, teeming with chocolate, peppermint sticks, and whipped cream cans. “It would spoil in the heat.”

The corner of his mouth pulled into a half-smile. “True. Did you ever have custard?”

“Something like that, a milk and rice pudding my parents gave me once.” She remembered the little bowl in her hands, how she licked the spoon clean. Her mother and father, grinning as they watched her try the dessert for the first time.

“It’s similar, but more drinkable. You add cinnamon or nutmeg, and sometimes, alcohol. If you don’t like it, you can just stick to the cocoa.”

“I’ll try both.” She countered. “Do you add spices to the cocoa too?”

“Some people do. I like mine with cinnamon and a pinch of chili powder.” Interesting. Another thing she learned.

The car in front suddenly braked, and she swore. The van lurched, Erigeron’s solid arm bracing over her front. As they halted, way too close to be comfortable, his other fist slammed the horn. Up ahead, a couple scurried across the road. Noticeably, there was no pedestrian crossing.

“Tourists.” She scoffed.

“Too busy looking around them to care about anyone else.” He was still touching her, and he slowly pulled away, studying her face. “You okay?”

“I’m good.” Her pulse was elevated from the near hit. The intensity of his stare made her shift in her seat. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He twisted around to examine the back, grimacing. “Hope nothing’s broken.”

“That would really suck.”

They started moving again, and she glanced at the speedometer. He must have caught her wary expression, because his rough baritone added. “Don’t worry. I’ll take it slow.”

Damn, that was really smooth. She fixed her gaze out the window, trying to think of icicles and snowstorms.

It was a matter of minutes before they parked at headquarters. As soon as he removed the key from ignition, a familiar figure entered the garage.

“Oh, wonderful. I was just about to call you, darlings.” Lavinet tossed her hair and marched out to meet them. “Have you procured what’s left on our list?”

“Sure did.” He grunted and removed his seatbelt. “Check for yourself before we bring them in.”

“No need, I trust you two.”

Unloading was going to take longer than expected; they would need multiple trips. Fortunately, nothing seemed to be leaking. Ayla took a few bags, but he stopped her from grabbing the next.

“You can go inside first.”

“I can take more.”

He firmly clasped her shoulder. “Nah, just come back. Everything will be here, and you must be cold.”

She was, but she nudged his side. “Hurry up, won’t you? Elementalists can still get sick.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Nevertheless, he smirked. Stupid, sexy, silver-haired Mage.

Lavinet held the door and joined her for a short distance, eyes glittering. “How was your outing?”

“O-outing?” She spluttered. “We were running an errand, that’s it.”

A lofty laugh escaped the other woman, shielded by a fur-lined glove. “You aren’t fooling me at all. I noticed those little touches. I expect every detail over appetizers, dear.” With a wink and wiggle of her fingers, the heiress glided off to her next task.

“Hey!” Her protest went ignored. Burrowing her face in her scarf, she redirected an air current to cool down. It wasn’t enough.

***

The door opened, and Halek glanced towards the direction of the noise. “You’re late-” He stopped, noticing that while the newcomer also had violet eyes, she wasn’t who he was expecting. Black hair was styled in a braided crown, with a finger’s width of white weaving down the left side. One hand gently closed the door, as she hastily ducked her head.

“Sorry, I’m not Briony. We switched last minute. I’ll be helping you instead.” She went to the sink, quickly scrubbing her hands.

“Well, I’ll take any help right now. What’s your name?”

“Kalmia.” She even pronounced it the way a Hunter would, the first syllable in the back of her throat. But she was a Mage, apparent enough from her eyes, and her hair color automatically disqualified her from being a pure-blooded Hunter.

“Are you a Battle-Mage too?”

“No, I’m a Healer.”

“That’s better. Briony means well, but she tends to break things and I need the stove today.”

The corner of her mouth lifted, as she turned off the faucet. “I read the menu. It does seem like a lot…”

“It’s why we’re the first ones in the kitchen.” The pot roast was going to take most of the day to cook, and the glazed ham was a new addition to his repertoire. But he was excited to try.

She joined him in peeling the carrots and potatoes, introducing herself. She had been adopted by Hunters in Maj; he vaguely recognized the town as a former refugee campsite. After they passed, she slowly made her way to Haven. Meanwhile, this was the first year he spent beyond the largest Hunter city, The Reach. She didn’t fawn over who he was, and perhaps, that could be chalked up to how distant Maj had been. Either way, he was secretly happy.

By five, the pot roast was keeping warm in the slow cooker, and he closed the oven door on the ham. “This will be ready in a couple hours.”

“And what’s next?”

“Next, I’m going to take a nap. You can do what you want in the meantime. I’ll be in the back.”

“Oh. Alright.” She looked around, hesitant. “Um, sleep well?”

His attempt at a nod was more of a head droop. “Later.” The nearest break room had a decent couch and when he stirred awake, he felt a little better.

And the kitchen hadn’t burned down. Kalmia was taking a kettle off the stove and acknowledged his return with a little wave. Her braid had been undone, her hair falling in waves past her shoulders. “I made tea. Would you like some?”

“Sure.” He yawned. When he sat down, a steaming cup was waiting for him. The liquid was a dark gold color, still spinning gently. Used to the blends their quartermaster liked to offer, he expected sugary sweetness. Instead, this herbal tea was surprisingly mellow, like chamomile at first, before giving way to a deeper bittersweet flavor. Complex and refreshing. “This is just what I needed.”

She beamed, hands wrapped around her own cup. “It’s one of my favorites from when I was living in Leore.”

He stared at her for a few moments, before remembering to look away. “You have good taste.” His phone suddenly vibrated and he scowled at the caller ID. He let it ring, watching as the inevitable voicemail notification appeared.

“Is it a spam call?”

“Worse. My fiancé. You know, Hunters and their arranged marriages.”

“You don’t like her.”

“No, I don’t. But the other choice is to condemn everyone at home, depending on more new Hunters.”

Her expression was melancholy, and barely above a whisper, she said. “If you’re trapped, it’s not a choice at all.”

The sentiment warmed him as much as the tea did. But there was also the ring of truth in her words and the strength of memory in her distant gaze. He wondered what had happened to her, who could have hurt her. If he wanted to, he could reach across the table and pat her shoulder. Pushing the thought aside, he refilled their cups. “I have a recipe for almond cookies. It’d go well with this, next time.”

“I’d really like that. Thank you.”

The implicit promise cut through the tension, and he exhaled. “I’m free whenever. In the past, I always liked Wintersun, because I have the time to cook, eat, and sleep. Or because it has ‘sun’ in the name.” Halek dryly noted.

“Oh, that’s right. I like Wintersun too. The hanging laurel especially.” She sounded wistful. “Probably because Kalmia means laurel. But you already know that.” She added, self-conscious.

“Mm. Did your parents want you to fly?”

She laughed, for the first time that day. She seemed almost surprised by it, and tried to answer him but her giggles kept breaking through. “Me, flying? As a baby?”

Happiness suited her better than sorrow, and he started to shake with repressed laughter too, at the mental imagery of a pair frantically running after a dark-haired infant drifting away from a farmhouse. He didn’t have to think of other traditions involving laurel.

***

The icing smeared in a runny white trail, drawing a groan from Briony.

“Come on!” She glared at the sugar cookie she was currently decorating, and then at the rest of the tray she had wreaked havoc on. She thought switching to the dessert team would be more fitting to her skillset and it was, until the baking was done. Somehow, all of her miniature Shepherds appeared awkwardly proportioned at best and hideous at worst.

“Everything okay?” The kind voice meant to comfort but she only felt more ashamed. Gentian’s recreation of Tangriel’s Tower was the most impressive cake she’d ever seen, with its fudgy center and raisin-lined battlements. Also...he was really cute in an apron, with his blue-black hair gathered into a bun for convenience. Really cute, even if she was kind of jealous.

“Oh, it’s just fantastic.” She grumbled. “How do you make everything look so tasty?”

“I don’t know?” He sheepishly shrugged. “How are your-oh. Well...they’re definitely original.”

“That’s one way to put it.” Yeah, her creations stood out, compared to the cake, Tallys’s individual servings of Elvish trifles, and Shery’s traditional fairy bread. “But they should taste okay! I think...”

Gentian reached for one of the smaller cookies, intended to be one of the few replicas of herself and topped with light pink frosting and violet sprinkles for her eyes. He took a bite; she held her breath. She tried not to stare at his throat as he swallowed.

“This was your first time making them?”

“Technically, yeah. Shery read the recipe I was using and said it seemed alright. I just followed the instructions and hoped for the best. I mean, I don’t remember baking anything before.” Briony nervously laughed. Beyond the past few months, she only knew her name and the password to her phone, which had been wiped clean. The Shepherds had found her in an underground fighting ring, where he slipped inside to recruit her. The glaring lights had targeted his figure when he stepped forward as her next challenger. Unassuming at first glance, but she immediately recognized he was a skilled fighter, just by how he moved. “Anyway, what do you think?”

He smiled. “I think if the rest of the tray is just like this one, you won’t have any left at the end of tonight. It’s delicious.”

“Really?!”

“Try one for yourself.”

She chose another doughy Shepherd, a navy-colored mess, and chomped it down before he could notice. It was slightly warm, the edges crispy. Vanilla and sweet icing filled her mouth. “Ah, it’s good! I need to save that recipe…it should be in my phone’s history.”

“If you need help tracking it down, I can help.”

“That’d be great! But didn’t you only see it during this morning’s meeting?”

“It was enough.”

Now, she was certainly confused. “You memorized it in less than a minute?”

Hesitantly, he replied. “I have an eidetic memory.”

“Eidetic?” The word was unfamiliar.

“Photographic is another word. I don’t forget anything I’ve seen or experienced once.”

“Wow, that’s amazing! That’s like the opposite of my problem.” That earned her a laugh, which was encouraging. She paused. “But if you don’t forget anything, that includes things you don’t want to remember, right?”

“Yes, that’s true.” He became quiet, his thoughts obviously far away. She’d seen him like this on occasion, especially around the Ket members.

She strode around the table and as his blue gaze drifted to her, she hugged him.

“Briony?” His soft voice had dipped low, and the vibration against her cheek made her heart flutter.

“You look like you needed a hug. And Wintersun is exactly the time for hugs. Well, so is Lovelace Day, but that’s not right now!” Lovelace Day was also a long ways off, and she imagined it would be nice to spend it with him. If he agreed. “Is this okay?”

“It is.” His hand touched between her shoulder blades, with the lightest pressure. She was about to hold him tighter when there was the distinct sound of a throat clearing. Immediately, they let go of each other. Tallys stood at the door, appearing spotless despite the day’s work.

“I was about to ask if you two had finished.” She gave them a very pointed look. “But it looks like you just started. See you around.” As she spun on her heel, she was definitely smirking.

“Oops.” Briony grinned at him. He was even cuter when he blushed. “She crept up on us.”

“I should have noticed though.” He sighed but smiled when he finally met her gaze again. His expression was gentle, without a trace of sadness. “Thank you.”

“No problem. If you’d like any more hugs, just let me know.” She spread her arms in offering.

“I’ll remember.” His tattooed wrist lifted, and he quickly tugged a lock of her pink hair, his fingertips brushing her cheek. While she was still processing that, he cited a need for more powdered sugar and headed out.

Alone, she pressed her hands to her burning face. Maybe, she could pass by him under the hanging laurel later…

***

The party lasted into the late hours of the night, and by the end of it, the Shepherds were exhausted and trudging during the cleanup. The leftover prizes were fought over, though most somehow ended up in Caine’s arms, and there was enough cake remaining to bring home, so no one was going to leave unsatisfied. The laurel branches had been plucked clean, petals stuck to sleeves and clinging to mussed hair. The unanimous consensus was that it had been a success, one final fun celebration together before they began anew. And really, that was what Wintersun was all about.

[eirabach]

Just Like Heaven [The Glow Rewrite] 1/8

Well, here it is kids. Kindly betaed by the beautiful @katie-dub. All remaining errors are absolutely 1000% my fault, and any and all incoherence remains despite her best efforts to kick sense into me. All the love in the world to the CaptainSwanRewriteathon team who helped me get this thing finished, even if I dropped out at the very very last second. I love you all. Very dearly.

Emma Swan always gets her man, why would she let a little thing like death get in the way?

A Captain Swan ‘Just Like Heaven’ Movie AU that takes the AU part and eats it for breakfast. Now with weekly updates! Godspeed, dear reader. Godspeed.

Rated M. Ao3. 2500 / 22000. 

She dreams of the ocean.

The skies are bright blue, and cartoon-fluffy clouds scud overhead as the ship skips over the waves with her at the bow. The wind catches at her hair and she laughs - a wild, bell-like sound she barely recognises - and spreads her arms wide.

Somewhere behind her, someone is calling her name.

Emma!

Emma?

“Emma? Emma!”

She sits bolt upright, the cheap plastic chair creaking alarmingly beneath her weight as she sways backwards. Her half eaten breakfast doughnut rolls sadly across the table and drops to the floor, and she scrubs at the smear of cinnamon frosting it’s left on her cheek.

“Sorry, what,” she mumbles, blinking grit from her eyes. “I was just - ”

“Snoring,” says her boss, lips twitching into a sneer. “So glad you could rejoin us.”

“Sorry,” Emma mutters again, “it won’t - it won’t happen again.”

Zelena lifts one perfectly manicured eyebrow over the file she’s holding out, Emma cringing inwardly as she realises that every person around the rickety old boardroom table is watching her with expressions that range from amused, to pitying, to - in Jefferson’s case - alarmingly hungry.

“Rough night?” he asks, with a lecherous sort of grin. “We could make it… rougher, if you like?”

Emma squeezes her hands into fists and forces her expression into a tight smile.

“Not in any way you’d enjoy, Jefferson. I might, though.”

Ruby scoffs into her hand, covering it up with a cough, and the two of them exchange a swift look. Ruby’s still in last night’s make-up too, but hers is still practically pristine, her lips still devil red as she quirks them briefly at Emma.

Emma’s carefully applied mascara, on the other hand, is smeared under her eyes and down her cheeks from hours spent waiting in the rain, her lipstick long since bled away.

It really had been a rough night.

Her mark had been a particularly nasty piece of work, skipping bail and leaving not only one well-meaning and heavily pregnant girlfriend to foot the bill, but two, and Emma had been warned in advance that he had form for getting nasty when things weren’t going his way.

He also, it seemed, had form for standing up dates. In the rain.

And possibly Varsity Level Track and Field skills.

She could imagine better starts to the day than dealing with Zelena and Jefferson after six hours of extensive wet-weather cross-country running and twenty minutes sleep. She squirms in her seat, her shoulder aching still from where he’d attempted to wrench it from its socket before she’d finally managed to get the drop on him, and meets Zelena’s gaze with a glare of her own.

“I got the mark,didn’t I?” she says. “I just didn’t get much sleep.”

“I hope you enjoyed your little cat nap, then,” says Zelena, sliding the file over to Emma. “Because here’s the next one.”

Emma’s brow furrows as she looks at the golden embossed motif on the front of the file, the heavy cardstock, the six figure reward for bringing this guy in.

Somebody must have been a really, really naughty boy.

“The cops increased their budget lately?”

“Not for the police,” Zelena says smugly, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms. “This is on behalf of a private client.”

“Hey.” Emma drops the file on the table and shakes her head sharply. “We do bailsbonds, not PI work.”

Zelena hums, her eyes going wide. “Is that what it says on my door? Well I never.”

“You don’t have a door,” Emma mutters, but Zelena is leaning over the table now, her eyes sharp, and Emma is forcibly reminded that although she’s good at her job - great, even - Zelena is still very much the boss.

“And you don’t have a choice,” she hisses. “Unless you think I should give the mark to someone else?”

Out of the corner of her eye she sees both Ruby and Jefferson sit up a little straighter, and her eyes drift back down to the file.

She doesn’t know who Mr Gold is, and she has no idea what he wants with the dark-haired man in the grainy CCTV photo - this Killian Jones - but she knows how much money is left for the month. She knows Henry went to school this morning in jeans a half inch too short.

And it’s six figures. Six.

“No,” she says, closing the file and resting her hands on top of it. “I’ve got this.”

--

The office - such as it is - isn’t the sort of place Emma likes to spend much of her time, even at the best of times which, frankly, this sort of isn’t. Ruby’s nice, outgoing enough to spring the honey traps Emma wouldn’t dare and a personable sort of person to have around if you didn’t mind the constant sound of gum smacking, but even she isn’t a generous enough soul to congratulate Emma on being handed a case that might make her rich. And Jefferson had looked ready to murder her before she’d slipped past the splintered remains of what had once been Zelena’s door and settled herself into the only comfy chair in the place - an elderly padded desk chair reserved for clients that always smells faintly of despair.

Zelena could afford to replace it, of course. Emma thinks she just rather likes the scent.

“All right,” she says, crossing her legs and trying not to wince as her knees protest. “Spill.”

Zelena taps her nails on her desk and tosses her hair over her shoulder.

“Afraid I don’t know what you mean,” she says with suspiciously wide eyes. “Is there a problem?”

“You tell me,” Emma snaps back, the file tight in her fingers. “Since when do we take on private clients - since when do private clients want to hire us?” She gestures to the door, it’s smashed glass panel and missing edges a testament to the sort of review Oz Bail Bonds has received in the past. “Something’s up.”

For a moment Zelena’s sneer drops, her fingers still, the confidence she wears like her knock-off suit flickering briefly out of existence.

“That’s none of your business,” she says, eyes narrowing. “Just do your job, Swan.”

“I will,” Emma snaps, “but not if - I have Henry to worry about you know.”

Zelena rolls her eyes in the particularly dismissive manner she reserves for those rare occasions her staff dare to remind her that they have lives outside of the office walls.

“Best make sure you don’t fail, then.” She gestures to the door, her contribution clearly finished. “Although,” she says, “since you’re here…” She reaches into her desk drawer and removes one of the thin, buff coloured files preferred by Portland PD. Clipped to the front is a picture of a red-faced, piggy-eyed man, with slicked back black hair and a smile even a mother would cringe at. “Jefferson didn’t quite bring home the bacon on this one, so to speak. Would you mind?”

Zelena smiles her reptilian smile and Emma thinks of her bed, the three day old take out festering in the fridge. She thinks of Henry’s face as he waits for her to collect him from school only to see Mary Margaret turn up again.

“Would it matter if I did?”

Zelena’s smile almost reaches her eyes.

“Not in the least.”

—

If you were to ask Killian Jones where he’d gone wrong in his life he’d struggle to put his finger on any one event. Too many coincidences. Too little respect for authority. Too much death. Too little faith. Not enough rum.

Well, maybe not that last one, though it is what brings him out tonight.

He stumbles through the night, his collar drawn up against the cold and his hat pulled low against prying eyes. The streets are unfamiliar still, the accents around him notably unlike his own, and it’s a stupid idea, this. Foolish. Idiotic. Risky. Irresponsible. All the things that he’d been, before. All the things that he’d sworn to leave behind, after.

(It seems he’s yet to make a vow he can’t break.)

He’s too sober to be this maudlin. Too sober by far.

Luckily, that’s one of the few things he can do anything about.  

His legal team know nothing of the little dockside hole in the wall joint he’s taken to frequenting when they clock off for the night. He’s spent weeks under their watchful gaze, sitting sweet between the four magnolia walls of the safehouse, and maybe they’re as bored as he is or maybe they secretly agree that he deserves what’s coming to him, but gradually they’ve given him a few tiny tastes of freedom. The disposition is pending, after all. His evidence presented in black and white. So perhaps it doesn’t matter that they’ve left a newspaper here. An open bathroom window there.

And he might be nothing else, but he’s resourceful.

He’s resourceful, and soon, he plans to be drunk.

Liam hated him being drunk.

He hated the dive bars he’d frequent, the women he’d bring home, the friends he’d spend his nights with.

Sometimes - most of the time - he wonders if Liam had just hated him.

He’d have been well within his rights.

He’d been left with a feckless little sod of a younger brother to care for when his career was barely beginning, all those early paychecks dropped on a boy who barely understood the sacrifice and wouldn’t have appreciated it if he had. God only knows, even now, how he’d managed to convince his superiors to allow his delinquent younger brother access to the shipyards.

It’s why he sticks to the docks. The scent of brine and engine oil takes him back to those hazy distant days when Liam had tried to save him from himself, and the ships that almost had.

But then, Liam was gone. And along with him any hope for Killian Jones in the world at large.

The Underworld had taken him, and he’d let it.

The black market, after all, did have better rum.

Better than this place certainly, but he drinks the proffered dross anyway. Needs must. And besides, it stops burning after the fourth shot.

Perhaps if he’d stopped there he’d have stood a chance of noticing the man in the corner of the bar. Most unfortunates who patronise a place like this tend to keep their heads down and their drinks coming, but this one - this one has his eye on Killian.

And he’s been cradling the same pint for an hour.

Killian doesn’t notice him, or the anxious way he shifts his weight. He doesn’t notice the glint of silver in his pocket, nor the sweat that blooms across his brow. He would have, once. Would have cared, once. But now all he cares about are the dribbles of rum that slip down shaking fingers and the goddamn waste of it all.

So he doesn’t notice. Doesn’t care. Not until he’s eight shots deep and the world is spinning, stinking of garbage and vomit, footsteps behind him and it’s too damn late to run.

Too damn late by far.

---

It hadn’t always been like this of course.

It’s sort of surreal this half-life of hers, lived in the shadows of other people’s mistakes. She works mainly when the streets are dark and empty, sleeping the daylight away as best she can in an old recliner swiped from a skip, her son’s third-hand xbox blaring brightly away just beyond the edge of her consciousness. She’s tired, always, and never quite as well off as she ought to be for the hours she puts in - the stain of Zelena’s fingerprints over every pay cheque - but on balance, it’s alright.

It used to be far, far worse.

At least she was sleeping in her car voluntarily nowadays. Not like those early days before, cold and desperate, she’d thrown herself on the mercy of the only friend she could remember having, her worst best mistake wailing in her arms and her prison issue clothes hanging off too thin shoulders.

And Mary Margaret had let her in.

And let her in. And let her in.

Until their brief High School friendship had developed into something almost like family, almost just right.

She’s getting morbid, it’s getting late. The two things might be connected.

It’s been a depressingly long time since she’d backed the bug into the alleyway outside of the mark’s preferred drinking den, and she’d done nothing ever since but squint into the dark - nothing except fire off a quick text to Mary Margaret begging off school pick up and hoping she’d take mercy.

Again.

It’s a theme, of sorts.

(And if she hadn’t answered Mary Margaret’s follow up call, well. She can’t afford to get distracted on a job.

She can’t afford for Mary Margaret to finally say no.)

From somewhere under the pile of cheeseburger wrappers in her passenger footwell she hears the buzz of her phone and winces.

She sort of should have, maybe, called Mary Margaret back.

No time for that now though. At the end of the alleyway she sees the shadow of a man leaving the bar, the tell-tale lurching gait of the heavy drinker giving her time to slip out of the bug, gun in hand, before he’s able to disappear into the shadows.

This is always the riskiest part - the choice. Does she shout, ensuring the guy currently emptying his guts against a dumpster is the one she’s after but possibly setting herself up for another late night cross country session? Or does she lurk in the dark like some sort of comic book vigilante, creeping along with her back to the damp alleyway walls and hope that she’s able to get the drop on him?

(Her knees hurt. Decision made.)

She inches towards the dark figure, wrinkling her nose up as he retches into the gutter, the street lights casting a yellow halo around his unruly hair. He’s mumbling to himself as he wipes his mouth on his sleeve, some sort of half conversation with the demons in his own head, and Emma slides her gun back into her belt. She’s not going to need it.

Somehow, she gets the impression that if she breathes too hard at this one he’ll drop like a leaf.

“Hey,” she says softly, stepping into the glow of the light, her hands open at her sides. “I think you ought to come with me”

He pauses his mumbling, his shoulders heaving slightly from the effort of being sick, and she sees the way his right hand tightens on the edge of the dumpster.

There’s a crack - thunder that isn’t  - a sharp, wet, blooming pain in her stomach. Screeching rubber and her own pulse harsh in her ears as she stumbles forward, grabbing for the edge of the drunk’s jacket as she falls.

She gasps. Henry’s name garbled in blood. Her phone’s in her car. She needs to tell this guy… he needs to tell Henry… she needs…

Help.

He turns, a flash of blue against white, and everything goes dark.

[ellstersmash]

Three: Sixteen

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Solas x f!Lavellan (Modern!AU)

Rating: overall E for Explicit | this chapter T for Teen

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--

Athi moves the rearview mirror a fraction of an inch. Returns it to its original position, then back. Tough to tell if her discomfort is due to a misjudged angle or the fact that it’s been more than a year since she’s driven anything other than her bike. Not as if she could have let him drive, though. Not in his current state.

“Take this to Saelac,” Solas murmurs. 

He has his eyes shut, but his thumb is still softly stroking hers the way it has been since she pulled onto the freeway. She expected him to pass out right away, but then this city’s policy on roadwork seems to be: Not if we can help it. Every street is scarred with what must be two decades’ worth of springtime patches, and if he couldn’t sleep through a little bit of air turbulence, he sure won’t manage it here.

“How was your week?” he asks, words quiet and slurring together. Enunciation is hard work.

So she tells him about the bar. About the missing, well, everything, and the cleaning list, and Tali’s prediction that Seggrit will be getting more involved with the day-to-day operations, and how for all that she gripes about it, his absence is what makes her job mostly tolerable. Solas nods where more or less appropriate, sometimes smiling sleepily at her tale from the passenger seat.

She tells him about the houseplant she bought. Remembers she forgot to water it today. Yesterday, too. Fuck.

And she tells him about Sera. About their argument and Dagna moving in, and how odd that will be. How sudden it all is, and maybe destined to be a disaster but worth a try, right? She gets the sudden urge to retreat. Three steps at least away from this talk of people moving in together, of possible futures that they’re far too brand new to traverse, even in conversation, even unrelated to either of them entirely. And maybe he feels it too, because he perks up only to fixate on the rally. Asks her when and where and what's it for and who's in charge and whether or not they got a permit and has the audacity to frown when she admits she won’t be there.

"How unfortunate," he says.

Athi groans."Not you, too."

"Excuse me?"

"Sera already gave me shit about it, so if that's your angle I don't want to hear it."

"I did not intend to ‘give you shit,’ no. I was hoping to invite myself along."

"Really?"

"Yes, it is a worthy cause. I had no idea Sera was such an advocate for social reform."

“Then you don’t know her very well.”

“Clearly I have misjudged her.”

“Why are you interested?”

“Why would I not be?”

She tries not to twist that into an accusation. "You just don't strike me as that kind of guy."

"The kind who cares, or the kind who takes action?"

Eyes on the road, it’s impossible to tell if he’s as offended as he sounds. She shrugs. "Both? Seems like you'd rather dig up the past than fix the future."

“Perhaps you have misjudged me, for I do not see the two as mutually exclusive. Take this next exit, then left at the light.”

The change in subject is a welcome one, but she needs her hand to downshift. Squeezes his before she lets go. Not an apology, not for that, but a no hard feelings. His house is only a few blocks away from here, but that’s as much as she remembers because the streets in this section are laid out in a grid and the corners are basically identical.

“Third one down, take a right.”

The yellow house with the overgrown garden jogs her memory. The plants are sad and brittle and dying now and the last time she passed it was early spring, so the perennials had not yet bloomed and the rest was only partially planted. But it must be a sight to behold in the throes of summer. The colorful pinwheels and kitschy glass butterflies sticking up from the withering stalks imply a love of whimsy, and there’s a small white bench surrounded by unlit lanterns under a nearby tree. She hopes she gets to sit there one day. Hopes the neighbors are friendly.

He has her park in his driveway, nose to the garage and she wonders if he’s filled it with more piles and boxes of dusty books or if he just doesn’t want to bother with the door.

Solas points out the house key for her, then grabs his luggage. Once she realizes the lock is upside-down and gets it open, she flicks the front hall lights on and it’s jarring. The house has that hush which places sometimes get after a prolonged vacancy—an absence of sound to soak up and spit out, and the jingle of his keys in her hand and the scrape of his suitcase on the doorframe are too loud. Like it forgot it was ever lived in. 

But nothing else has changed. Not the clutter in the office. Not the cobweb high in the corner. Not even the slight skew of the painting hanging in the living room. Maybe if they’d made these plans before he had left, he’d have tidied up . . . or maybe not. She doesn’t know him well enough to guess.

“If you do not mind, I have been looking forward to a shower all day,” he says and leans his bag against the wall. Starts down the hall toward the kitchen, then stops so abruptly she nearly runs into him.

“I haven’t kissed you yet,” he says, half epiphany, half confession.

Athi threads her arms around him, pleased to discover the tension between them is gone. “I’m very aware.”

His gaze rests on her lips and he blinks slow, as if the effort to open them again is monumental. When he lowers his face to kiss her it is terribly gentle and maybe it’s not on purpose. Maybe it’s just because he’s tired, but it makes her melt. 

Without a reason not to, her hands wander. Slide over the row of tiny gray buttons on his shirt, push the boundaries of his collar. They graze along his throat and through the short dark hair on his scalp, barely there but for the way it catches on her fingerprints. She presses closer before they part, her dazed and him borderline delirious.

“Ok, go shower,” she urges him. “And don’t doze off in there. I’ll have to make fun of you.”

“After that? It is unlikely I’ll be able to sleep at all.” But his dopey grin belies the truth. “Though if you are concerned for my well-being, you are more than welcome to join me.”

Gods, she never sees it coming. He slides straight from stumbling and sleep-deprived to smooth insinuation like it’s his default setting and she wants to say yes. But she knows better. 

“See, that sounds sexy right up until you’re trying to get to sleep with my hair dripping cold water all over the both of us. Besides, I have some snooping to do.” Teasing, of course. She doesn’t care where he keeps his linens or what lies hidden under his socks.

“By all means, peek anywhere you like. Except the attic, which is strictly off-limits.”

Her eyes light up. “Why, what’s in the attic?”

But he only laughs and heads up the stairs. Pauses halfway up and calls down, “Do you need anything?”

Right on cue.

“I’m good,” she assures him. “Go.”

A sharp squeak is followed by the rush of water through old pipes as she skims the shit on his refrigerator. A coupon for an oil change and receipt from an art supply store. Nothing interesting in the least. His magnets are a confused but equally unenlightening collection of local restaurants’ takeout info and unused metal clips.

A few books sit on the island. Sundered: The Scientific Renaissance of Post-Veil Thedas; The Fade: Fact or Fiction?; and An Exhaustive Documentation of Suspected Elvhen Artifacts Destroyed in the Divine Age. She lifts the cover of the top one, flips pages until she comes to a black business card serving as a makeshift bookmark, scans a few lines:

After their own dark period, the Qunari appear to have focused their collective efforts toward adjusting to these new laws of nature. Extensive, detailed records show rapid technological advancement through experimentation and invention, much of which laid the foundation for generations’ worth of progress. Indeed, many modern conveniences can be traced back to their early successes.

Not exactly light reading. Though pretty typical for him, she suspects. What unsettles her is not the books or the boring refrigerator door. It’s the fact that in all of these rooms—the entryway, the study, the kitchen, the living room—all these living spaces, there are no pictures. Not of anyone. His home is steeped in history, but not his own. She's good at being alone, but at least when she inevitably uproots she takes the memories with her. He has nothing. No drawer full of snapshots to match hers, like some sort of trail to prove his existence.

Maybe they’re just very different people. Maybe he doesn’t feel the need to prove anything. Maybe he isn’t the type to take pictures. Or to keep them. Maybe his memories are painful. Maybe they were lost in some tragic accident that hasn’t come up in conversation yet.

Or maybe she’s reading into stuff she shouldn’t be. Again.

At the top of the stairs are two doors and two doorways. Bathroom’s straight ahead, shower still running. Next to that is a closed door, presumably the attic. The leftmost room is closed as well, but unlocked; there's nothing inside but a few file cabinets. The door to the right hangs open, revealing another bedroom. It is small and tidy with minimal furniture: a dresser and a full-length mirror, and a large bed flush with the corner, the thick crimson comforter slightly rumpled near the pillows on one side as if slept in, then hastily remade. A singular nightstand bears a simple swing-arm lamp.

She hunts through his dresser until she finds his T-shirts. Picks a white one with a logo on it from the middle, between freshly-washed and never-been-used. Not beloved—in case he cares—but not the crisp got-it-for-free-and-couldn’t-throw-it-out kind either. Sheds her clothes that smell like beer and citrus and bitters, all but her underwear and leaves them folded neatly on top of the dresser. Then she pulls on his shirt and knocks on the bathroom door frame.

“It’s open,” he yells, and she rolls her eyes. “Extra toothbrushes are in the lower right drawer, and the toothpaste is behind the mirror.”

“Uh huh,” she answers, but is beginning to regret turning down his offer. The shower curtain is nothing but a clear liner and with no door to keep it in, the steam does blessedly little to conceal his form. There’s still time; for more than a moment she contemplates stripping back down and slipping in, but then he shuts off the water and stretches a dripping arm out for his towel so she goes for the toothbrush instead.

By the time he emerges with that same towel wrapped around his hips, she’s finished and gives his reflection an appreciative glance.

He returns it and tugs on her sleeve. “The Lothering Museum of History will be thrilled to have your endorsement.”

“Why am I not surprised that you don’t have a real shower curtain?”

“This curtain is perfectly sufficient.”

“Hey.” Athi raises her hands and follows him into the bedroom. “Not complaining.”

She also doesn’t complain about the precious seconds between him losing the towel and gaining a pair of pajama pants. He’s fit. Cut, not bulky. Studying old stuff and reading books and attending conferences can’t possibly be a direct line to muscle definition and she wonders what he does to work out. If they could do it together. He doesn’t strike her as a runner, but he might enjoy climbing.

Solas interrupts her plans with a brief kiss, trades the overhead light for the bedside one. Four in the morning is hardly late by her standards, but she can tell as his head hits the pillow that he feels it. He tucks her hair behind her ear and smiles, sleepy and sideways.

“Thank you for coming over.”

Athi turns her head and kisses his fingers and whispers, “Thank you for getting naked.”

She’ll be the funny one forever if it means his nose will always crinkle like that.

“I am sorry that I am not—”

“No.” She presses a thumb to his lips to cut short his apology. “That’s not what I’m here for. Really enjoyed the view, though.”

His face is shadowed by the same light shining in her eyes, but the expression he wears is warm. He hits the switch and the room goes dark. She scoots in closer. Tangles their legs. Wriggles until she’s comfortable. It doesn’t take long, like a sign, or a nod from the universe.

We just fit.

Solas is asleep before she’s even ready to try. There are freckles scattered across his shoulders, constellations to trace while she waits. Tries to match his languid breathing. Thinks about where his pictures went. Almost there, then hits the last and loudest stop on her train of thought’s meandering track, and she’s jolted awake.

The bookmark. The business card. The cleaning and packing up. The answer has been stuffed into the back pocket of her least-favorite jeans for weeks.

Seggrit is selling the fucking bar.

--

She wakes up alone. Sprawled out in sheets that smell like him but without the him they belong to. Adjusting, she stares into the middle distance and listens to a faraway set of sounds—the fridge opens, then shuts, the clink of dishes and creak of the floor.

Seggrit is selling the bar. She has no idea what to do with that news except to tell Tali, have her check the books to confirm. They’ve been behind by at least a month for as long as Athi’s worked there, usually more, and if he’s really going to get rid of the place he’ll have had to catch up.

She rolls out of bed, digs her toes into the carpet. It could be nine or noon or later for all she knows. The sun here is strange, and there’s no clock in this room to tell her so she goes searching for one downstairs.

A mosaic-faced antique by the sliding door claims it’s noon.

“Good morning,” Solas says from the kitchen.

She mumbles something resembling words. Seven more steps and she hugs him from behind and they fit so well and his heart is beating fast and he stops whisking eggs to stand there with her all quiet and it’s not morning anymore and he should have stayed in bed and she needs to text Tali and—

“I want coffee,” she whines. Doesn’t mean to whine, but there it is. What if he doesn’t have any? What if he’s one of those people that doesn’t keep coffee in their house?

She might cry.

“There is a bag in the cupboard at the end there, next to the mugs. I was going to make it for you, but—”

“Say no more.”

Gods, she’s glad he didn’t. No one makes it strong enough, and he’s too cute to disappoint so she would have had to drink it anyway. Pretend that pisswater was fine.

Cupboard on the end, right where he said. She slides it off the shelf and can’t help but flutter as she examines the packaging. It’s the same as the ones she bought—or tried to buy then he bought for her—at the coffee shop last year. Or maybe he just asked for “something strong” at the shop and this happened to be what they gave him, but regardless, he thought of her and that feels good all on its own. Her butterflies settle as she opens the bag, breathes in deep. Pours a generous pile into a fresh filter and fills the reservoir with water.

“Roast date on this is yesterday. Did you really leave me sleeping alone in your house?” she teases and pushes the button to start the brew cycle. “What if I had woken up and you were gone?”

“I did consider that possibility, but weighed against the certainty of the alternative, it seemed the wisest course of action.” He arches an eyebrow. “Was I wrong?”

“No.” Athi revisits the cupboard to shuffle through his assortment of mismatched mugs. “And thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

She selects one of the mugs, a pleasantly rounded stoneware dip-painted in orange and teal and gray. Her unofficial favorite. There is a newspaper, folded twice, laying on the counter between a plate covered in foil and two clean ones. Solas is reading rather than cooking. Maybe he’s fine with rubbery eggs, but she’s not so she leaves her mug to watch the coffee brew, plucks the spatula from his hand, takes over.

“Seggrit’s selling the bar,” she blurts out as she gently stirs, then scoops a heaping golden spoonful onto each plate. “I think.”

To his credit, Solas looks up from the article he’s so engrossed in. “Really?”

She nods.

“How do we feel about that?”

She shrugs.

“Perhaps you should buy it,” he says and moves his plate and his paper to the island. Yanks open the silverware drawer and hands her a fork. “You wanted to put your name on something, right?”

She snorts. “Didn’t mean literally.”

They eat breakfast right there in the kitchen. Hip to hip, or as close as she can get. Sausage from under the foil and rich maple syrup and toast and almost-perfect scrambled eggs and coffee he bought and didn’t make just for her.

Not a bad morning, truth be told.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Solas asks out of nowhere.

“Hmm?”

He is watching her intently and it occurs to her that she’s been grinning at empty space this whole time.

“Oh,” she says, “it’s nothing,” but her face won’t cooperate and Solas doesn’t buy it.

“It must be quite a pleasant piece of nothing to warrant such a smile. Are you sure it’s not something?” His voice drops low and he leans closer. “Perhaps even something you want to share with me?”

“They say 'bits' here, by the way. ‘Two bits for your thoughts.’ Just so you know.”

“Fascinating.” He doesn’t even pretend to sound sincere.

Oh, she wants to be brave. She makes him work a little harder for it. Keeps it locked up tight until he says please, then she scrunches her nose up where the honesty tickles, and spills even though it’s scary.

“I just . . . it’s nice waking up with you, and”—damn her burning cheeks—“I could get used to it. That’s all.”

Meeting his eyes afterward is a rush. Risk and reward all wrapped up in one because he is beaming right back at her.

“Funny. I was thinking the exact same thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Fuck it. Athi polishes off her coffee. Slides her plate away and faces him fully. Fills her chest with air and bravado. “So what do you want?”

He looks at her quizzically.

“Yeah, context. Before we kissed—at my place, like for real—you asked what I wanted. I said I wanted you, which, I mean, I’ve wanted you since . . . ” She wants to say since the beginning but that’s so fucking cheesy. “Gods, since the coffee shop, I think. But when I asked what I meant to you, you deflected.”

Solas pauses. His gaze drifts, then snaps back. “You are right. I apologize.”

“Also not an answer.”

A full minute, or maybe an hour, passes as he percolates. She can almost see him directing his thoughts this way and that, organizing a response that shouldn’t be this complicated while her own mind skitters from one unsavory possibility to the next. 

“Should’ve sent my questions in ahead of time,” she jokes.

A brief, self-deprecating chuckle as he folds his fingers around hers. “In all fairness, your answer to the same question was efficient, but also vague. Is it so wrong of me to consider my own more carefully?”

“Got me there.”

“I was not trying to win. This conversation is an important one, and I feel it must be approached with both candor and subtlety.”

Candor and subtlety? Athi sighs. New tactic. “Listen, did you avoid the question on purpose?” 

She takes a steady breath—

“No.”

—and lets it out. “Well then, to be honest, I was kind of hoping we could make out at some point today so . . . how about we put the heavy conversation on hold, just for now, and I return the favor and make this easy for you?”

Solas’ smile is indulgent, if a bit weary. “That would be fine.”

“Good. Ok.” She leans her chin on one hand. “Do you want to be with me?”

“Yes, very much.”

“Like, not just sleeping over and having breakfast, even though we’re obviously really good at that. The whole deal.”

He smirks. “Yes.”

“Only me?”

“Yes.”

Athi claps her hands together. “Good! Excellent response time,” she says, satisfied. Stacks their dishes while she speaks. “Anything else to add?”

“That’s it? That is all you want to know?” A mixture of relief and disappointment is plain on his face.

“Ha! Cute. No, see, I want to hear that elaborate answer of yours, I do. I want to know absolutely every single thought you’ve had about me since day one. Also why you stopped coming to the bar”—she starts counting off on her fingers—“and how long you’ve felt this way, what you and Bull get up to at your secret little club meetings, about a zillion other things . . . But as I said,” and she shrugs, “I have plans.”

“I stopped coming to the bar because I already felt this way. Not”—he gestures between them—“exactly this way, of course, but the first stirrings of it. I had been alone a long time, and it frightened me. Next question.”

“Hold on. Same question. You’ve liked me that long?”

“Yes, though I find it hard to believe that you, of all people, did not notice. If anything, I have been too demonstrative of my feelings this past year. Given the circumstances, that is.”

“Too demonstra— Seriously?” Athi is at a loss. Frozen mid-bewildered-flailing, mouth agape like he’s just grown another pair of eyes right in front of her. “Maybe I, of all people, didn’t notice because we spent all that time together and you never said shit, and then—and then!— you invited me over to ask for dating advice which kind of cancelled out any prior feelings you may have demonstrated. I mean, what the fuck?”

“Ah, that’s right.” Solas sighs heavily. “I suppose we may as well sort this out now.”

“Yeah,” she hisses. “Let’s.” She props one elbow on the counter, rests her chin on her fist. Waits for an explanation.

“Athi,” and he scratches his jaw. “I do not know exactly how you remember that conversation going, but the subject of my inquiry—the woman I mentioned meeting—was you.”

Three beats to process, then: “What!?”

He winces—fair, it was piercing—and he half-hides his face in his hands before continuing. “I was attempting to casually express my interest and it did not occur to me that you’d misunderstood my meaning until recently. At the time, I assumed that you were simply not as interested as I had allowed myself to believe and therefore left before the situation became uncomfortable.”

“Well, I did do that.”

“Then, while I was away, I became convinced that a misunderstanding was possible if not probable, so I resolved to try again once I returned.”

“Oh no . . . ” she trails off and grimaces, and Solas just nods.

Such a mess, and for no fucking reason. They stand there in a dazed silence for a while, looking at anything but each other. Finally, Athi peeks over and Solas has his head hanging low like a puppy shamed for eating from the garbage. It’s so sad and so stupid and she can’t keep from laughing. First a little, then a lot, then he’s laughing right along with her.

“So you’re telling me,” she wheezes out between giggles. “We could have been banging for no less than six months already?”

“I’m afraid so.”

She’s swept away by another wave of laughter. When it finally subsides, she’s left with aching cheeks and tears in her eyes.

“Come on,” she says and grabs his hand, squeezes it tight, pulls him toward the stairs.

“What? Where are we going?”

“To make up for lost time.”

[cruelzy]

legolas; prompt: mercy in a meeting

Dawn warned none.

It was there on the back of your neck, pocketed warm between your fingers. Daylight split through the shutters of the leaves; shine increasingly heavied with the drag of time. This forest was different. You darted to and fro redwood, melting into the long shadows they cast.

The trees sounded like hushed rumours on a summer day: freshly buzzed and lilting. Vines and thistles and greenery sang welcome, but the animal life, prone to hover, was unnaturally avoidant.

You should not be here, whispered the soil.

Your rapid ascent faltered, stopped to crouch you stilted over a raised root. The skin of an apricot blemished: bruised and weeping under the hard press of your grasp. Frigid, trembling fingers dug into the underside of the fruit to tear the soft belly apart straight down the middle.

“Please,” you touched it to your mouth. “Come home.”

Above, the crows went quiet.

You swallowed around the sharp taste and craned your head, catching the silhouettes of the birds flitting through the squares of sun. They were leaving, you thought. Without you. You rested your face in your hands, bowed, aching. If you did not hurry, you would be left behind. (He would leave you behind. He already had.) Your palms smelled like ripe pulp.

Behind you, the air displaced faintly.

Your eyes widened.

THWISH.

Your ankles screamed in protest as they twisted and pushed to the side, body too late to catch up with your sudden movement. Tree bark shattered violently where you had just stood.

A breath punched through your teeth–half a millisecond of stillness–then you were moving: again, again, without reprieve. Three arrows pierced the earth just a hair’s edge away from your heel. The world swarmed.

“Wait!” You barked. You crouched low behind dead logs, scanning the arrows frantically before snapping your eyes up.

Amongst the slopes and ebony patches of the trees, a man stood atop the highest branch. He watched you from his perch, face half concealed from the white-fire waterfall cascading past his peaked ears, over his shoulders–a single pale eye glowing beneath.

(Elf.)

“Trespasser.” His voice was a pulling thing, a low wisp everywhere and nowhere at once. Not once did his stance slacken. It stretched just as taut as the arrow he held firm drawn back on your figure. “These are not your woods.”

Your heartbeat lodged inside your throat.

Breathe.

You flexed your hands. Courage bore a savage grin as you straightened, drawing upon all of your strength. “I am merely travelling by.”

His head tilted owlishly to the side, considering. Your fingers twitched at your side. By your feet, a rabbit stilled and scampered quickly into its burrow at the commotion. Every cell within you was bound, hummed with potential energy as you calculated your chances.

You needed to run.

His mouth twisted.

“Be still.”

In one smooth motion, he sprung from the tree, landing impossibly effortless on the ground from the height. You startled back at the sudden proximity. He was nearer now, a pace or two infront, and you saw him far more clearly in the light.

(An elf. This was an elf.)

Dread ran hot on your skin.

He stepped forward in an almost glide above the earth. It was the way he moved, the complete absence of sound; that perfectly honed navigation of his surroundings–as though the entire ecosystem was an extra limb, as though he knew every creature, every stone, every divot as extensively as the immortal blood in his own veins. Intense unease settled in your stomach.

A long moment, and then, quietly, holding your stare, he spoke, “what are you searching for?”

You,

( You are nine years old, and winter has devoured your village whole.

Rough hands thread through your hair, scraping down your scalp. Your face is stung cold, flushed and stinging, but behind, your mother is a furnace. The heat of her chest seeps into your back, warm and steady.

Take care never to look into elvhen eyes, my child, she whispers, a gentle brush of sound on the crown of your scalp. They are starlight.

You will burn. )

You averted your gaze. 

“Searching?”

The angles of his face were too young, too disarming for the bottomless age you saw within his eyes. Said eyes narrowed, feline and bright lined.

“Yes. Searching.” Something almost like disappointment crossed his features. “The signs are clear, if you know how to look for them. No human would willingly come to this territory. Speak.”

Fear deserted you all at once, frustration surging in its place at the reminder of his words. Searching. Yes.

Yes, you were searching and you did not have time for this.

“I do not think,” you bared your teeth, drawing up to full height, “that it is any of your business, elf.”

He frowned.

Then, against any of your expectations, he only sighed.

“You are hurting,” his expression softened. “I am sorry. However you must understand–these are not peaceful times. Death is everywhere.”

Death?

At your obvious confusion, a sad smile dangled at the corner of his lips. “Not now, perhaps.  Not for some time in fact–though soon enough. Can’t you see it?” He stared glassy into the horizon. “Can’t you hear her air changing? Middle earth is preparing for war.”

You swallowed. You could feel the honesty in him.

It clicked something electric between the two of you, turned the situation on its stomach. A current; a longing. Silent wonder–everything soft and cold and holy–but slashed maroon underneath, desire rushing and seceding and mercilessly commanding your attention. It pulled you to inch closer. You wanted.

(But.)

You closed your eyes.

“My little brother has disappeared.”

(But.)

“He is only a child,” you continued. “Untrained. Innocent. I followed his trail this far but–” I cannot track him for much longer, the rains have cleaned his path, why didn’t he talk to me, there are no signs of kidnapping, he left empty handed, I do not know if he is still alive, I do not know if he is still alive “–I have not found him yet.”

“I see.”

Your eyes snapped open at the clipped words, infuriated, only to see him staring at his hands in deep thought.

“I–” he began. “I–I am–”

His voice broke, flowed into a stream of music. Your mouth went dry.

(And music it was, the language, for it clasped your ears tight and made your heart sing.)

“–sorry. I am sorry.” His voice sounded strained. “Apologies. What I wish to share does not translate well in Common.”

He looked away respectfully as you roughly swiped at your wet cheeks. While you collected yourself, he took the opportunity to retrieve his arrows.

You watched him through your fingers as he yanked the arrow that had nearly ended your life from the splintered tree, slipping it back in its quiver. It had been lodged all the way to the edge of the shaft. For a moment, you are dumbstruck at the incomprehensible display of strength.

Right.

Soon enough, he had prophesied earlier. The words had instilled fear deep in your soul, but you had forgotten just who, just what you were talking to. For a creature whose life span was eternal, what exactly was his sense of time?

He spoke, interrupting your thoughts. “Return here later tonight. I cannot aid you any sooner. I am,” his voice bittered, “expected.”

You barely heard his last train of thought. “Wait. Aid?”

“Yes,” he dipped his head. “I am extending my service, if you will accept it.”

The pause stretched. Your mouth opened and closed.

“Why?”

He smiled. “Are you rejecting my offer?”

“No I–”

“–have yet to give me your name.”

Your jaw shut in annoyance. His easy smile deepened, coy and bright.

Hesitantly, you relented.

“And you are?”

“Legolas.”

“Legolas,” you repeated, licking your lips. His eyes followed the action.

“Something is rising, (Name),” he murmured. “A curse. A bringer of death. An all-seeing eye presenting the foreboding of the dark.”  

He flickered, gone.

“If you ever see another elf, fly far from here and do not come back.”

Your head snapped back, breathless, to meet incandescent jade.

“We were instructed to kill on sight.”

[fadinginfluencerblaze]

Fallen Dreams

 Disclaimer~ Art is devised by me and all editorial work is a solo operation. “Fallen,” will be my last publication before my vacation: https://adventvoice.newgrounds.com/news/post/1057611 If you would like commissions or requests for art work done please visit my patreon  account   https://www.patreon.com/AdventVoice  https://adventvoice.newgrounds.com/news/post/1057550      https://adventvoice.newgrounds.com/news/post/1057522

From several authorities of art and creativity, I’ve heard something after completing “Loving My Dragon,” something I’ve not heard since I was sixteen. My ability in the arts is worth more than a few hearts, likes and the endorsements of a few passerbys. It is better than what people have been forced to digest in the past twenty four years. Could be longer really. Depends on your tolerance for main stream media.

Forced to settle, due to never being exposed to minds similar to my own. Which there are a lot of us. I’ve realized as I dig deeper into the internet, blogs, and journals of other dreamers.

There was a study, a social experiment really, given by Facebook and other online platforms, seeking to gauge how to rate worker performance by emoji. Wanting to reward creative minds who earn the most accolades and applause of the people. It can become rather addictive and I find I may be falling into that same trend. Advertising more or less for the approbation of people and not so much for pay.

I explained this to a few supporters and they were shocked. Believing me to be worth far more than the few seconds of increased impressions on twitter and the level of dinner table conversation I can influence with a few well directed bards and illustrations of the latest trending topic.

Now if only I could find a paying sponsor that believes the same thing. Then me and the Dream Weaver would really go places. Here’s the thing about me, that is different from your average ambitious and dedicated creator. I don’t want to go anywhere my friends won’t be invited to reap the benefits.    

I’ve seen too much in this life to believe I can do anything on my own and be a success at it. You know I remember a time when people could have 500+ Facebook friends and no one spend a dollar with or on each other. On anything that could turn a profit. Nearly a thousand people talking, interacting, mingling and no money is made on the effort. Oh there is a lot of sexy talk, a lot of people locked up cause the girl is underage and the guy is enthralled with her pictures. Oh there was a lot of room fo shows like “Cheaters,” to corner a market in tracking people via location recognition devices on the broadband signatures, but for nearly ten years, no one was making any real money that would put them on the Forbes list as the best entrepreneur, besides those buying out all of the larger retail stores and Disney. Could be why I spend so much money on everyone else and not on myself. Makes me feel like I am saving the small business owners world, one click at a time.

The loss of Tina-Raze  on the                                         internet and access to her work has really made me appreciate the gift of visibility attributed to my own work. Sure I desire a physical gallery, but that cost money and you need dedicated staff. An online gallery is a one man show that will last as long as I have material, drive and an interactive audience. But when outside forces wage against one’s output and you are forced to erase everything and the years put into a showcase are no longer accessible; there is something daunting in the realization that everyday I have a chance to present anything, it should not be wasted on the trivial.

That is a sharp word because I highly doubt any of us have the authoritative right to define what is relevant or trivial to a creator. We can choose to interact with a product of not but we can’t say what someone was seeking to share has no value and thus erase them from existence. Not if we have any respect for the sanctity of the culture of art and the freedom in which we universally share this gift.      

~ I can never say enough of how much I appreciate the time we shared and I hope you return to the creative scene soon Tina-Raze.~

 I was reviewing “The Action Bible,” published by David Cook and illustrated by Sergio Cariello. It is an extensive publication that sought to illustrate the entire Bible, without the mistakes seen in previous renditions. It really took that whole group a while to find the best method to bring the Bible to life for young and old readers. I enjoyed their expressive illustrative skills and dedication to keeping to as much as can be had with a book as fantastic as the Bible.

What surprised me was the decision to eliminate the wings of angels and go with the ‘golden locks,’ signature.  For years the wings of angels and demons played a big part in aiding people in separating the two worlds. Without the wings, we are no more than disembodied spirits, ghosts of our formers selves and have a long journey yet to that pinnacle of glory that awaits the faithful. So it was taught to me at least.

There were a lot of ideas shared with me as boy that I spend little time contemplating now, because I am a man and more than assured of where I will be regardless of the mistakes in this life.

Others may doubt. Others may seek to clip my wings as I ascend. Others may project their insecurities and through bitter imaginations suggest that because of the curse of Ham, and Nimrod, the black race will never have a place in heaven. Some may build a whole world of fantastical proportions and place compartments, as zookeepers, locks and doors upon the gates, with signs that say, “If you never drank yourself into oblivion while on earth, you go here, you never loved anyone but God you go here, if you never where tempted to fuck a woman in the ass, though she begged for it, you go here.”

Another sign reads, “Collect your white wings for perfect attendance on the earth, to every Sunday meeting.” In this corner of heaven, you should have received a notice in your casket upon death, we were sure to send Gabriel, who after years of working for God, never got his golden winged promotion.

All who have been the black sheep of the family and have been to prison more than once in their life time be sure to collect your “black wings,” down isle five. Five is the number for grace and that is the only reason you’re hear, so don’t be cute and try to steal the ‘white wings,’ from your betters, who happen to shine a little sharper in hue and have more gold flakes in their hair.  

Those who were on earth and always fought for a righteous cause but failed to achieve any victory and remain angry behind the loss, you will receive your ‘red wings,’ in the dust falcons chamber. Some of you were clumsy on earth. Always bumping into things. Could never walk in heels or win a fashion show. Never turned the heads of men or appealed to women. Had a haunch in you back from never learning poise and posturing. Be sure to pick up your set of ‘spotted owl,’ wings, found in the east gate.

God is a god of order and angles never complain about their lot in heaven. There in whatever state they are in, there, they are to be content. There is a hint of a karmic code in association with the hue and colors of heaven and I was never one to believe in eastern influences when it comes to what my place in heaven would be like. I bend so far on earth, doing what I am told, I will go to heaven with white skin, white wings and all curse will be lifted from my body upon death and the curse of the previous life that marred me and made me black, while I was alive.  

I don’t think so. No, I’ve believed for a long time now that even black angles deserve to fly.   https://avproductionsblog.wordpress.com/2017/11/03/even-black-angels-deserve-to-fly/   https://avproductionsblog.wordpress.com/2017/03/18/you-read-it-here-first-black-amethyst/

I know I am not one to be denied.

Those of you that know how to twirl and twerk and shake your tail feathers, to win the Twerk Team Auditions https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rba9Z0CcWwQ&list=PLxwfHzPeMrG0N0E5Q3hBI_vRjXl-BqJAR or hang out with DJ UNK https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TeLdCPINh6M and earn 15 minutes of fame for being a video vixen with a phat ass, you can gather your eagle wings in the North tower. You should notice the Notorious BIG Smalls in the butlers uniform, set to serve and assist you wonderful ladies in fitting for your wings. He was always so good at zipping up Faith Evans dresses, we thought he’d like doing that for eternity.

Just stand there and zip wings.

He was way too dark and ugly so he never earned his own, but Puff Daddy sand and danced enough to ensure he’d make it in.  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0LHyvFryW2M

What a joke, eh that might have been a cheap shot to bring Puff Daddy and Biggie into this conversation, it’s just, I am so sick of color being a barrier for people I guess. But as long as there are people, it will play a part in the minds of men and women that hold their minds hostage and will build politics and kingdoms centered around it. We will split God into figures of hued stone that resembles us in some fashion and suggest if he looks like me, then he is the one that created me. Odd considering how I can create characters of different races, backgrounds and love each with as much joy as the next. Why would I doubt God would love me less because my hair is not wavy or red and ruddy and my skin is not peached or pinked, but bronzed and red? Why is my tolerance for people and the curves, shapes and hues greater than that of a god and I am a mere man?

King Solomon, black but comely: I am glad I’ve never heard it taught, due to Solomon’s hue of skin the temple came down. Why are we so caught up with color that we would actually base our safety on it, risk our lives for it? When in the middle of turmoil, pain, upheaval, or simply in a moment of benign joy during an annual parade in the city, color should be the last thing discussed.

Ever since I was a boy, I’ve held a rigid position on color talk. I had to be set because all of my friends where white. My first love was a gothic princess, that used to put a cat collar and a leash around my neck. I lived in New Jersey and traveled to upstate New York and Ohio all the time and had so much fun playing video games, poker or reading comics with white people. Lived in Kansas where they tried to make me where a confederate uniform for the JROTC program. I did not know if it was a joke of if they really felt I would be honoring someone’s death by wearing that uniform.

I sought to be above the barriers poised by classification and color because I am an artist.  Because I am a storyteller and find relevance in people and can’t deny anyone based on my insecurities. I would not want someone to look at me and deny me access to anything. A communicable discussion, a forum, anything political, or my own comfort and what I believe to be good for me because of my color, because  their preconceived beliefs  denotes I should be marginalized.

I laughed myself into stitches, when during my junior year of highschool I realized all of the black children expected me to eat my lunch on the wall and away from the ‘preppy-white,’ children because they decided to self-segregate. Because they felt they did not have a life style or come from a family that could afford to play golf at the local country club. That they would not and were not admitted to be  apart of a society setting our grandparents and great grandparents were conditionally denied. I was infuriated by the idea of having to defend my home and right to existence, from people of my own color, if I ever married an Asian, white, Indian, Arab, anything besides a black woman. Especially to look at me, you’d never out right believe I was of African decent until I grew out my hair, which I would wear proudly, long and wild.

Fredrick Douglas had nothing on me in my desire to topple the walls the youth of my generation would build around themselves for the sake of traditions that should have been long dead. I would have loved to ignore this conversation, but it is all over the conservative radio, it is misdirected or used callously on liberal stations and it’s become too easy to degrade someone you might disagree with on a benign social discussion, as a racist.

It is too easy to believe I don’t attribute credibility in the claim when you call me an Uncle Tom because I speak well and try very hard not to curse when it would be so much more convenient to do so.          

https://www.newgrounds.com/portal/view/730095

Honestly in the world of art this should never be a discussion and if life truly imitated art in this dynamic the world would be a better place. At least confrontation and schisms would not be as prevalent as it is today. To me it is like we begin the topic of hues and what is beautiful or seen in heaven, because we don’t have anything else to talk about.

I illustrated “Fallen,” as a response to how ridiculous of an idea of not being accepted by God or anyone would feel that way, because they are black. That someone would use the Bible to teach that and we would stop illustrating wings when talking about angels, in order to unify the spectrum of colors that make up our world into the kingdom of Zion.

Hard to imagine; in some aspects we still can’t agree on a marketable environment that unites black, white, Asian, and Indian dreamers.      

[ofdebris]

5, 15, 24

42 Character Development Questions | Accepting | @cfastralmvses

5. How do they dress? What styles, colors, accessories, and other possessions do they favor? Why? 

I’ve briefly mentioned this on my about page, but she usually goes for kimonos. Both pre and post ruination (especially post), she goes for kimonos. 

For post-ruination Z, it’s a comfort thing. Despite being emotionally numb to the majority of things, the fact that she can still wear a kimono with pride give her some semblance of comfort. It’s also partly about remembering what the city used to be. Before it got destroyed, she used to wear them in all sorts of different colours, styles and patterns and she used to love how they looked and made her look too. While she won’t shy away from brightly coloured kimonos, the brighter the colour and the more patterned they are, the higher the chance it’ll be worn to a festival or a holiday than day-to-day. So things like this, this or this, Z would were to a celebration, but things like this, this or this she might wear day to day. Her day-to-day kimono’s tend to only be one, maybe two colours and maybe with a slightly pattern on them, kinda like this. But post-ruination, she consistently wears a light blue one with some red and white detailing it. She doesn’t feel the need to dress up like that and she sticks to one out of ease, I suppose? 

Sometimes pre-ruination Z would go for something other than a kimono. If it were a ball for example, she’d switch it for a dress instead or if she were doing some massive machina work where her clothes would get dirty, she’d get something a little more comfortable on. Like baggy sweatpants and a tank top in dark colours comfortable. 

She’s never been one for overly accessorising. The most she’ll go for is earrings and maybe a necklace if it goes well with the outfit. She’s not one for rings as they get caught up in things easily and she never quite liked how they sat on her fingers. There aren’t really any other accessories that she favours, not in the standard sense anyway. She might spruce up her kimono a little bit with adornments or perhaps style her up in a new way and add some hairpins and clips, but they’ll usually be simple in nature. The only time her hair adornments might be fancy is if it’s a fancy event, any other time, she’ll keep it simple.

15. What kind of inner life do they have — rich and imaginative? Calculating and practical? Full of doubts and fears? Does it find any sort of outlet in their lives?

I want to lean to rich and imaginative. She’s consistently owned one of the best places in Zanarkand, no matter what the time period. Mostly through her own hard work and skills but sometimes through the fact that she’s gotten close to the right people. If you stepped into her home though, the first thing you’d note is the colour scheme. It is all about rich colours that complement each other and fits very well into Zanarkand’s techno gothic aesthetic. While there’s not a lot of neon colours, it does edge towards it. There’s a lot of reds, greys, purples and blues in there but they all seemingly work together. But then again, she’s had years to perfect where she lives and to try new things. 

The other thing you’d probably notice is either the paintings (she likes to have some paintings dotted in each room) or the minimalist of it all. Despite the fact that she does live in one of the best places in Spira, she actually tries to keep her home free of clutter. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t have a drawer or a cupboard stuffed with useless shit she’s collected over the year, cause she does, but her home is clean and presentable. Which is how she presents herself as the personification of the city. If the city is clean and presentable, so is she and by extension; her home too. If the city became a disorganised mess and felt unstable, that’s how she’d present herself and by extension; her home. 

That’s not to say she doesn’t have doubts and fears, because that’s natural for anybody. It’s natural for her to be worried about her city and the direction it’s going in. It’s natural for her to be worried about fiends attacking the city, from both the mountain and the sea. Both have happened before. It’s natural for her to be worried about other cities wanting to attack Zanarkand or there being an uprising within it. But it’s why there’s the High Summoner, it’s why there are advisers and people that know how to counter these worries that she’s not become an anxious mess half the time. That’s not to say there haven’t been people who have screwed things up (because there have), but they’ve always gotten fixed. She’s always been able to regain control over the city to ensure the people’s safety.

And for outlets? Machina’s one. Concert’s are another. Summoning, magic, infusing machina with magic, watching blitzball, communing with the aeons are all things in place to help her deal with these worries. Sometimes she does go off the deep end and throw herself into anything that she’s doing, but her being anxious over something isn’t the only reason she’ll do that. 

24. How do they present themselves socially? What distinguishes their “persona” from their “true self”, and what causes that difference? 

Pre-ruination, she’ll present herself as a happy, carefree sort of person when she first meets someone. While that is part of her, the other part is a lot more serious. That’s the side of her that comes out when she’s a) threatened by someone, b) in a meeting with someone in a position of power (like Yu Yevon, the other advisers, a CEO of a company, etc) or c) when the situation calls for it.

I do think her ‘true personality’ is a combination of both though? She’s a lot more calm and relaxed, though she’s more than capable of throwing a joke out there and busting out a grin, but she feels a lot more down to earth. The happy, go lucky, carefree side of her is there if she wants to make a good impression or to sometimes hide her true feelings. However, that’s not to say that there aren’t times when it’s genuine, cause there are, but if she wants to make people believe that everything’s fine, that attitude will come out. If someone calls her out on it and Z thinks they can handle the truth, she’ll drop it. 

People do have a tendency to see her one way and then see her another way and be weirded out, but that doesn’t bother her too much. Socially, she’ll always present herself either really happy or totally serious depending on the situation. For example, if she’s hosting a concert, she’ll be all smiles, really friendly and bubbly but announcing the next High Summoner or a new head of district, she’ll be serious and professional. While in the latter she might crack a joke or something to ease tensions, she’ll be totally professional.

Now, post-ruination, that’s a different story. Z after the war is only a husk of what she used to be. She’s emotionally numb, she can be quite distant and there can be times when it seems like she doesn’t care. And it’s not that she wants to be like this but after 1000+ years of seeing her city in ruins, seeing summoners and their guardians come to their deaths and having to live in it, she can’t be the same person as she was before. It hurt too much and she hasn’t got an outlet for it, so she became emotionally closed off. 

In truth, she does want to feel things again and Yuna’s defeat of Sin and then her transformation during X-2 made that very evident to Z. However, the fact is, she doesn’t know how to start. She’s been emotionally cut off for so long that feeling something again might actually destroy her. She worries that if she feels something again, she’ll feel it so strongly that it’ll tear her apart.

[ateitems]

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Source: Best African American Wig 2020-Buyer’s Guide

[freedom-shamrock]

Role Model

Also on AO3 This Hugdrien story is a direct sequel to “Zip-Line” from June.  It includes a little emotional hurt (because Gabriel is a jerk) but it doesn’t fall into angst.

Now with art by SketchyPam!

Marinette noticed that Adrien seemed a bit out of sorts when he first entered the classroom after lunch.  He was wearing the model smile, which she'd long ago learned meant he was hiding how he really felt.  She wasn't sure if it was because he didn't want to be a bother to his friends, or if it was his father's social conditioning about the Agreste family image.  She suspected it was a little of both.  He was genuinely so resilient, and their deeper friendship was still new enough she'd been hesitant to pursue an answer.

He made a brief detour to Ms. Bustier's desk, so she took the opportunity to look at Nino.  He was frowning slightly at his best friend's back, as he bent to speak to the teacher.  Alya leaned forward and tapped Nino's shoulder, and he briefly met Marinette's eyes as his gaze turned to his girlfriend.  He shook his head and shrugged, indicating whatever was wrong was new enough he wasn't in on the details.

Adrien's, "good afternoon," was quieter than usual, as he reached his seat and gracefully tossed himself into the chair.

Nino leaned in, one hand on his beast friend shoulder to murmur something.

Adrien let out a sigh and shook his head.  "I'm okay, I promise."  His reply was barely audible and struck Marinette as an utter lie.

As the afternoon passed, Adrien's mood didn't lift.  He appeared to be attentive in class, but Marinette could see that his notes were much sketchier than usual.  She missed his light energy and the quick smile that had earned him the nickname Sunshine Boy.  For their last subject of the day, they were given the class period to continue researching independent projects that were due early the following week.  Adrien had gone to the library with a pathetic wave to his friends as he left.

"He didn't want me to come with," Nino muttered to Alya.  "Do you think I should go anyway?"  His expression was tight and concerned.

"Could you tell if he was just being polite, or did he really need space?" Alya asked, leaning forward on her desk.

Nino let out a helpless shrug.  "He's so hard to read when he gets like this."

Chloe suddenly appeared on the stairs beside Adrien's empty seat.  "Marinette will go," she said firmly.  "If anyone can fix it, she can."  She gathered up Marinette's belongings and tucked them into her messenger bag, oblivious or unperturbed by the stares of Alya and Nino.

"Never thought I'd be saying this," Alya said, her face uncertain.  "But I agree with Chloe."

"Chop, chop, Marinette," Chloe said briskly.  "None of us want an akumatized Adrien."

Marinette gasped.  That hadn't even occurred to her.  "Thanks Chloe."  She grabbed her bag and dashed out of the classroom.  As she jogged toward the library, she chanced a peek in her purse, meeting Tikki's huge blue eyes.  "How much of a risk do you think that is?"

Tikki shook her little head.  "It's hard to say.  He didn't seem upset enough, but Nino's right that he's hard to read at times.  Better safe than sorry."

When she got there, she found Adrien alone at a table in a back corner.  It was a slightly hidden nook, well lit, but out of view from the door.  "Mind if I join you?" she whispered, pulling her bag's strap over her head.

"Sure," Adrien replied, gesturing to the seat across from him.  He'd barely glanced up, but it was enough for her to see that his eyes were much wetter than usual.

"Oh, Adrien," she said sadly, depositing her bag but making to move to sit down.  "You're not okay at all."  She lightly placed her hand on his shoulder, gently rubbing it down his back when he leaned toward her instead of away.  It had been two weeks since she'd told him he could ask for hugs.  He usually worked in a request or two over the course of the school day, but they were always tinged with silliness and possible flirting.  Here he was, miserable, and in need of a hug, and he hadn't asked.

He looked down at his hands, fisted in his lap, and shrugged, but still didn't pull away.

"May I hug you?" she asked, rubbing his back.  "I think you need it."

He finally moved, pulling away briefly in the process of turning his chair toward her.  One moment, she was trying to get him to accept some comfort, and the next, she'd been tugged forward to stand between his thighs, her body flush against his, and his face buried in her chest.

She let out a sad breathy, "oh," as she felt his arms snake around her back.  She wrapped her own around his shoulders, eager to reassure him that this was allowed and welcome.  "Oh, Adrien," she whispered again.  "I don't know what's wrong, and you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but I'm here for you."

His fingertips dug into her back as he tightened his hold on her.  Anyone else might have called it too tight, but she was Ladybug.  And she could feel desperation in his grip and the uneven heaving of his chest.  She wasn't sure if he was crying or trying not to.

She slipped the fingers of one hand into his hair.  Chat had always found it soothing, and she hoped it would help Adrien.  After several long minutes, his breathing evened out and his grip on her relaxed.

"Feel a little better?" she asked, running her hand over his head.

He nodded.  "Sorry, Mari," he mumbled.

"No," she said firmly.

"No?"  He pulled away just enough to look up at her.

"I will not accept an apology, because you've done nothing to apologize for."  She rubbed her fingers against his scalp, smiling encouragingly when it prompted a contented sigh.  "How about you pack up your stuff and come home with me," she suggested.  "Text Nathalie and let her know we're working on a research project."

"Are you sure?" he asked, finally letting go of her.

She gave him another squeeze before stepping back.  "Of course I am."

Much as Chloe had done for her, she started collecting his things.  While she was packing up for him, Adrien pulled out his phone.  By the time he was done, Marinette was pulling his bag over her shoulder.  Before she could put on her own bag, he'd taken it, giving her a lopsided smile.  "I look fabulous in pink, you know."

"This is true," she smiled up at him.  "Didn't you wear it at fashion week two years ago?"

"You have a great memory Mari."  He reached for her hand.  "Is this okay?  It's not as nice as a hug, but it's like a hug extension."

If he didn't still look so sad, she would have giggled.  "It's always okay.  Just like hugs, okay.  You're one of my most important people, and you can always, always come to me for anything.  And if you're ever feeling bad, and need someone to keep an eye out for nasty purple butterflies, I'll be there.  Okay?"

He nodded and followed when she gently pulled him with her.

She settled Adrien in her room before heading downstairs for snacks.  On her way down the last set of steps, she texted Alya and Nino so they wouldn't be looking for her or Adrien later.  Tucking her phone away, she prepared to face her parents.  She'd seen the way her mother's eyes took in her and Adrien's clasped hands, and the way her smile brightened up.

Fortunately the bakery was empty for the moment.  "Is it okay if I bring up some snacks for me and Adrien?" she called into the kitchen.

Her mother came out, beaming.  "You and Adrien, then?" she asked knowingly.

Marinette shook her head.  "It's not what you think."  She held up one hand.  "He came back from lunch really upset, and I'm trying to help him feel better."

Her mother shook her head.  "Does he hold hands with everyone who tries to cheer him up?" she asked.

Marinette stared at her.  On the surface it was absurd, but as she thought about it, she felt a the heat of a blush in her cheeks.  Other than in photo shoots, she'd never seen Adrien hold hands with anyone.  Chloe linked arms with him sometimes, but that was the closest she'd ever seen.  "Not the point, mama."

Her mother grinned.  "Very much the point, precious daughter."  She took out a plate and started piling it with what they'd both learned were Adrien's favorite pastries.  "Why do you suppose you're the only person he holds hands with?"

"Just lucky, I guess," Marinette said brightly.  "Thank you."  She took the tray and turned to head upstairs.

"Be sure to invite him to dinner," her mother called after her.

When she got back up to her room, Adrien was apparently staring at the collage of photos that had long since replaced her clippings of him.  He'd probably started out looking at the pictures of their mutual friends, before his mind wandered off.  "I'm back," she said, hoping not to startle him.  She slid the plate of baked treats onto the desk.  "Maman gave me more than we could possibly eat.  She wanted to include all your favorites."

He sighed, a small wistful smile on his face.  "Your parents are awesome."

"She invited you to dinner, so if you can stay, you'd be welcome here," she said.

"That would be great."  He snorted.  "It's nice someone actually wants to have dinner with me."

Marinette's eye stung at the subtle message.  "Are you home alone again?"

Adrien nodded sharply.

"You don't have to talk to me about it, but… is that what upset you?"  She gently brushed her hand over the back of his.

In a move that was almost too fast to track, he'd captured her hand in his, weaving their fingers together, all without looking at her.  "I was supposed to interview my father tonight for Ms. Bustier's project.  I was using him as my role model."  He shook his head.  "He's a terrible father and an even worse role model.  I don't know why I thought he'd be a good choice."  He bit his lip and she noticed a slight tremble in his chin.  "I found out at lunch that he left this morning for two weeks, even though we had a meeting scheduled for this afternoon."  He looked at her.  "What kid has to schedule a meeting with their father in order to discuss a school project?  What kind of father bails on their kid repeatedly as if they don't matter?"  His shoulders drooped.  "It kind of sends a message, you know?"

"Oh."  It was more a dismayed gasp than a real world, and Marinette leaped to her feet and wrapped her free arm around him.  "I'm so sorry.  You don't deserve this."  

His face was warm, burrowed into her neck, and he let go of her hand to hold her close, though less firmly than he had in the library.  "I should be used to it," he muttered.  "He always does this."

"No," Marinette said firmly.  "You should not have to get used to this."  She ran one hand into his hair at the base of his skull.  "I hate to tell you this, Adrien, but your father is a colossal dick."

Adrien shook in her arms, and at first she thought he was crying, but then he leaned back to look up at her and she saw he was silently laughing.  It was probably equally cathartic.

"Oh dear," she said quietly, smirking at him.  "I shouldn't have said that.  It's an insult to the physiology of half the planet."  She shook her head.  "I need to come up with an insult that doesn't cast aspersions on anyone's body."

Adrien pushed away to lean forward, his hands on the floor as he continued to giggle.

"Are you going to make friends with my floor?" she asked, smiling as she recognized his position for what it was.  "It's a very nice floor."  He slid from the chair, to his hands and knees.  She sat down, moving to cradle his head in her lap as he finished his gradual collapse.  She ran her fingers through his hair while she waited for his giggles to slow and eventually cease.

His smile, though uneven, was more genuine, when he rolled over to look at her.  "Thank you, Mari."

"That's better."  She lightly patted his cheek.  "So you're staying for dinner tonight.  And you're welcome back for any meals that work for you while you're home alone."  She hated thinking of him being all alone in that huge cold house.  "I guess next up, what can I do to help you with your research project?  Do you still want to do it on your father."

He shook his head and sat up across from her.  "It sucks because I've already done a ton of research… couldn't even get my father's education background from him.  I guess that should've been a sign."  He shrugged.  "I gave Ms Bustier the short summary of what happened and told her I'd do my best to have it done on time, but it might be a little lighter than my usual work because I basically have this weekend to do the research and any interviews."  He sighed.  "I have no idea who to do it on."

"So maybe we should start with brainstorming," Marinette suggested.  "And you can help me with my project as we come up with ideas.  After dinner, you should narrow down to one you really like, and a backup.  What's your schedule like?  I can help you with the research tomorrow and Sunday, if you want."

He nodded.  "That's a good plan.  Thanks Mari."

She leaned in and have him a quick hug.  "I'm happy to help."

"So who's your role model?" he asked, finally reaching for a cream cheese filled croissant.

Marinette beamed at him.  "Chat Noir."

He gawked, seemingly speechless.

She tilted he head a bit. "I know Alya is doing Ladybug, and it reminded me that our resident black cat doesn't get the credit he deserves sometimes."

"Well, Ladybug is an obvious choice," Adrien started, hesitating when Marinette held up one hand to stop him.

"I think I know where you're going, and I need to stop you before you say something you can't take back."  She'd gotten fairly defensive of her Chaton in the last two years.  He was one of her very best friends, one she trusted in everything.  She'd been trying to convince Tikki to let her reveal herself to him.  "He's brave and loyal.  He does what's needed, even though he doesn't really get anything in return.  We don't pay him.  He can't claim Chat's actions in his civilian form.  He is always willing to sacrifice himself for others, not just Ladybug.  He's so, so smart.  I mean, he has this crazy innate understanding of physics.  And he's so kind."  She closed her mouth abruptly, realizing she'd been ranting.  Adrien's green eyes were wide, and for some reason there was a hint of pink in his cheeks.  "Uh… sorry.  I kind of go overboard when I care about something."

"I'd never noticed."  Adrien's delightful real smile was back, and she had no idea why.  "Actually, it's really nice to see.  Emotion is… not encouraged at my house, and I love seeing someone passionate about something.  You have a lot of that enthusiasm.  We see it in your design work and stuff like this."

At dinner, Adrien surprised her by picking a role model that wasn't on his brainstorming list.

"Has Marinette told you about our research projects?" he asked, looking at her dad.

Her dad nodded.  "Something about role models."  He smiled.  "Not the kind of models you usually work with."

Adrien grinned.  "Well, I was partway through my project, and I've had to scrap it, and start over."

Her dad nodded.  "That's unfortunate.  Do you have something else in mind?"

Adrien nodded, looking a little nervous.  "I was wondering if you'd be willing to be the focus of my project."

Her dad looked first at Adrien in surprise, then glanced at Marinette, clearly pleased  "Me?"

Adrien nodded.  "You and Sabine have obviously set a great example for Marinette, and I think I maybe need some new role models."

Next in series > Disorientation

@miraculousfluffmonth prompt 4, please stay.

[cupnoodle-queen]

CHASING SUNS: Chapter 13 Blame

2,230 words THE PLOT THICKENS. dun dun dunnnn Tagging some peeps: @blindbae​ @nifwrites​ @thegoddesseos​ @themissimmortal​

Cam gripped the steering wheel with damp hands, trailing behind Gladio’s Jeep on the drive back to HQ. Her entire body was feeling the after effects of their connection, sparks on her skin and her brain going a mile a minute, yet inside her gut she felt ill. Dave wanted to speak with her, and the way Gladio just, looked away from her….What happened?

Her wipers were struggling to keep up with clearing the rain, the downpour coming in sheets and a low rumble of thunder reverberated through the frame of the vehicle. As they entered the first winding turn before the tunnel, Cam could just make out the rough patches of dirt and terrain uplifted from the behemoth, ominous flashbacks rapid firing through her mind. She still couldn’t believe she’d assisted in downing the beast, surprised at how quickly the plan to blind it lightbulbed in her mind. How she managed to pull it off on the other hand, she couldn’t explain.

Sure she’d trained with Gladio and Greyson plenty, but something gnawed at her sense of reason. She’d overheard the hushed whispers of other hunters and veterans, how she was most likely feigning the stroke of greatness persona, coming from nothing and rubbing shoulders with the higher ranks in no time flat. Someone who’d been mediocre at best in physical education throughout high school, someone who hadn’t touched a firearm before several short weeks ago…

As they exited the tunnel and approached HQ territory, Gladio slowed down his Jeep faster than Cam anticipated and she broke hard, though immediately understood the reason for his abrupt halt; a thick puddle of blood was accumulating outside the tunnel, dripping from above where the behemoth corpse was slung by the edge of the rock shelf. An iron tang hit the back of her throat; she could smell it. Great. They’d probably called a meeting to bump priority of getting rid of the body…

They pulled up beside the main office and headed inside, one after the other without another word. It was a full house; Greyson, Prompto and Cor were seated against the far wall, Dave was pacing the room with a look of contempt on his typically relaxed face. Two of the highest ranking hunters nodded to greet them as they entered, while off in the furthest corner Steph stood, fixated on her phone, thumbs tapping the screen at lightning speed.

“Alright, she’s here,” Dave announced and every head in the room rose to look at Cam. She felt microscopic in seconds flat, leaning against the wall opposite the door, Gladio behind her. What did he mean, ‘she’s here’…

“Got a couple things to go over before the main topic of this meeting,” Dave continued, grabbing a folder from the metal desk and flipping through the paperwork. “That behemoth was no coincidence; infrared readings have doubled since the scout’s last reports from Sunday, only five days ago. We think given that it was headed due northwest when Greyson and Co happened upon it, there’s a high chance it was attracted to the infrared energy being omitted nearby.”

“How are the sightings in the area, boss?” one of the veteran hunters asked, looking over Dave’s shoulder to read the report.

Dave rubbed his forehead. “Rising. Snipers use to only hold two clips of ammo per shift, but recently they’ve been requesting double, and what’s even more concerning is just how close they’re reaching the outskirts of HQ.” He sighed, leaning against a support beam. “Might need to invest in more spotlights-”

“It’s not in the budget,” Steph interjected, all heads whipping in her direction at the back of the room. Her expression was blank. “And you know we can’t work it in as well. I’ve scoured it top to bottom and pinched enough pennies to be certain of that.”

Dave’s eyes flicked to Cam and her gut cramped. “Which brings me to the reason for our meeting. Reynolds?”

Her head snapped up, undivided attention. “Yes?”

“Where were you at approximately 4:35 this afternoon?”

Cam frowned, knitting her dark eyebrows in confusion. “Beg pardon, sir?”

“Answer the question, Reynolds,” Cor’s voice was like a serrated blade across her face.

“I was…” She thought back to it, around that time she was - “in the showers.”

Dave eyed her suspiciously until she shrugged her shoulders. He backed up towards a flat cabinet, sliding the door open to reveal a flat screen TV, a grid of closed-circuit feeds on display in small boxes. He cycled through some views with the remote until he landed on a specific one, enlarging the view, and Cam recognized it as the side wall adjacent to the back entrance of the armory...

She tensed, realizing what everyone was about to witness. Without forethought Cam’s head snapped back to Steph, but she was focused intently on the television, expression indecipherable.

Cam turned back in time to see a pre-recorded version of herself, crouched and sneaking behind the back of the armory. Much to her displeasure however, the angle of the camera only captured the side of the building, not the back, so when Cam’s recorded form ducked behind the armory she was in the blind spot.

She knew what would happen next, how a few seconds later she’d come tiptoeing back the same way she came, pocketing her cell phone...Except, she didn’t. Nearly a minute went by of zero activity on the monitor. There was no way Cam had spent that long behind the armory; She’d followed Steph and the initiate, saw them through the gap in the door, snapped some pics, and left. The entire series of events may have taken twenty seconds at best…

Also, why hadn’t they shown…”Dave,” Cam interrupted their viewing and he paused playback, “Can you rewind to a few seconds before I show up on screen?”

Wordlessly, he fulfilled her request and hit play about a minute before Cam’s appearance. Nothing, and then...Cam sneaking into view.

What the hell? “Okay, something’s not right-”

“Why’d you break into the armory, Reynolds?” Dave’s voice was firm and low, avoiding eye contact; authoritative, but lacking confidence.

Cam stepped away from the wall, taking a few strides forward. “That footage is all wrong, I-I didn’t go back there of my own volition.”

“Then explain,” Cor rose from his seat, pacing around to Cam, “what sent you back there in the first place.”

“I-I saw-”

Steph’s arms flung around the initiate’s neck, the cream and roses of her bare breasts jostling with his thrusts as he pistioned in and out of her, his bare ass flexing with the push of his hips. Their labored breathing with the speed of their fucking-

“...something.”

Her mouth dropped a fraction, nerves getting the better of her composure. She dared a glance at Steph, who to Cam’s surprise remained the pinnacle of ease, twirling a lock of crimson hair between long, slender fingers.

It drove Cam insane. She either didn’t know, or didn’t care that she was about to be exposed. She was hyper-aware of Gladio standing barely two feet behind her. Alright then, she thought to herself, pulling out her phone. “Look, I have proof that I...wasn’t alone. Just let me find-”

The pictures of Steph weren’t showing up in her gallery. They were gone.

“Wait, what the hell?” She tried with trembling hands to close the application and reopen it, hoping with despair that it was...Nope, not a glitch. The photos had disappeared.

Cam’s heart hit the back of her throat and double-timed as she caught a glimpse of Steph standing in the back of the room, one corner of her mouth barely turned up into a snide smirk.

Something happened to Cam then, that she never experienced before in twenty five years of life. For two  seconds of unwarranted eternity, her vision tinted red. Undiluted fury in its purest form.

Anger, absolute.

Behind her Gladio took a step back, startled and uncertain as to how he just felt that.

Cam regained her sobriety, sighing. “I had pictures on my phone, however it seems they’ve been deleted.” She gritted her teeth. The bitch must have taken her phone while she was in the shower-

“Well unfortunately, Reynolds,” The Marshal was holding back his full potential for a raised voice, “the entirety of gil in the retain cash was just stolen, approximately two grand in total.” He stopped in front of Cam, his head cocked to the side. “Until otherwise proven innocent, I have no choice but to suspend you from active hunter status. Had we not been in dire need of personnel we’d be having a different conversation altogether. Turn in your weapons tonight, we’ll get you started on a job tomorrow-”

“That’s not fair, I didn’t-”

“Reynolds,” Dave’s voice was restrained. “No one else went back there tonight except you. Camera doesn’t lie.”

Altered recordings do, Cam thought to herself. She exhaled in defeat. No use fighting it for now, evidently Steph had gone to extensive lengths to cover up her little rendezvous with the rookie hunter; She’d just have to find another means of proving her guilt. “Whatever, then. Fine. Can I go?”

A long pause, silence that made the air feel thick. Someone coughed, and then, “Meeting adjourned.”

The attendees rose, but as they began to file out of the office Dave spoke up. “Actually, Greyson and Steph, stick back for a few minutes...”

Cam’s hands balled into fists and she made for the barracks to collect her weapons. It wasn’t right, but she had to roll with the punches on this. There had to be a way she could gain access to the recordings, or perhaps there was a witness around that could provide a statement...

A hand grabbed her arm and swung her around to face the opposite direction. It was Gladio. “Talk to me.”

“What do you want me to say?” her sun was humming below her skin. Try as she did to deny it, she liked looking at him.

He frowned though his eyes were warm. “What happened?”

“I didn’t break into the armory, if that’s where you’re going with this.” Cam’s voice had a grit to it, though she tried to be sincere...She could tell him, right? What she saw? Would he react well to it or get upset? Given the unknown state of their relationship (could it even be called that? The questions were unyielding tonight) She couldn’t be certain, instead she tiptoed at the precipice and brushed over what occurred. “I saw...Steph, inside.”

Gladio’s eyebrows jumped a bit. “In the armory? That’s impossible. She’s not that kind of person.”

“Are you sure?” Cam took an involuntary step towards him, halting mid second. “Gladio, I-I know what I saw. Honest to Astrals, I saw her…”

He exhaled a deep breath, checked his six and took Cam’s hand leading her inside the barracks. It was too early for anyone to be asleep so he knew they’d have some privacy. Cam’s heart hammered when he pulled her into the dark foyer of the sleeping quarters. After ensuring they were alone he whispered, the tenor in his voice like an engine. “Look, I don’t know what happened but...just, don’t mess around with her. She’s got a mean streak a mile wide and gets what she wants, no matter what the cost.”

“Why go out with her in the first place, then?” Cam whispered back, though instantly regretted her abrasive tone. He was still holding her hand; She had no intention of letting go at that moment. “I mean, if she’s not that nice of a person...”

Gladio pulled Cam close, their torsos touching and her marking reacted with renewed heat. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his facial hair brushing her head in a comforting way before he wrapped his arms around her. “I did what I had to...to get by.”

Confusion clawed at her sense of reason and she wanted to question his response but he was surrounding her, radiating warmth and intoxicating allure. They stood still for countless seconds, their breathing synched and hearts linked, both overwhelmed at the effects of one another’s proximity. Two addicts tapped at the vein; Two ships that sailed in the night for far too long.

Gladio’s hand stroked her jaw line and pulled her face upwards, planting the softest kiss of a lifetime on Cam’s lips. With barely any pressure and only the feel of his mouth against hers, melding between them in perfect symmetry and balance, they gave each other what the other had desperately needed all their life without being aware of doing so.

Cam’s phone buzzed abruptly and Gladio pulled away, much sooner than both of them had anticipated so she could answer. She didn't recognize the number.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” Gladio slipped past her and back outside, and just like that she was alone.

Cam answered the call. “Hello?”

“Hey, Cam?” A young female’s voice greeted her, one Cam couldn’t place to a face.

“Yes, this is she. Who’s this?”

“It’s Iris,” she replied, her voice unnaturally formal. “I got your number from Prompto, I hope that’s okay.”

Cam was surprised to hear from her. “No, that’s alright. Is there something you need?”

She hesitated, but continued after some last minute deliberation.

“Yes. I have a big favor to ask.”