#And then I remember that I may or may not have the only recording of a thing (aside from the band)

[hillyroberts]

Pete Wentz and Mikey Way Shared A New Mexico Sunset 20 Years Ago. Why Are We Still Talking About It?

Disclaimer: I do not ship them nor do I claim to know what happened. This is just a compilation of everything that happened between Pete and Mikey (all information that is accessible to the public) and everyone can draw their own conclusions.

This isn't even a completely comprehensive dive into Petekey. This is mostly mostly a written analysis of Pete's blog posts and lyrics and how they can be interpreted in a way that may pertain to Mikey.

"Amazing New Mexico sunset. I'm hanging on a bridge with my friend Mikey Way from My Chem. It's all orange and pink above us. We went to another waterpark again. I love high fives again. Totally back in love." -Pete Wentz, June 28, 2005

PART 1

Warped Tour 2005: Summer of Like

It was the summer of 2005 and Fall Out Boy and My Chemical Romance went on the Vans Warped Tour together. The bassists of the two bands, Pete Wentz and Mikey Way, struck up a close friendship, noted by Pete’s LiveJournal blog posts, online and in person q&a responses, and reports from fans who attended Warped Tour and saw them interact.

Throughout the summer, Pete Wentz’s LiveJournal posts describe a new and passionate love affair. But when the summer ends, his blog posts turn sour, full of sadness, loneliness and regret. He details this whirlwind romance, speaking directly to the person who broke his heart through his LiveJournal from the summer of 2005 and all the way throughout 2006. The content of these blog posts later become lyrics to songs on Fall Out Boy’s 2007 album Infinity on High and more.

It is clear that Pete had an affair during Warped Tour in the summer of 2005 which inspired his song lyrics for years to come. The only question is, why do people believe this affair was with Mikey Way?

Warped Tour 2005: Background

FOB and MCR met for the first time in 2003 and the members became friends. The two bands were under the same record label and both a part of Warped Tour in 2004. In 2005, they shared the Bishop Stage during Warped Tour and even traded members frequently during their performances.

During this time, Pete and Mikey started a “gang” called Sweet Little Dudes. Pete often refers to this gang with Mikey in his q&a’s during this time. It seems like some of the other band members were also in the “gang” initially, but it ended up just being Pete and Mikey. They even had Sweet Little Dudes tee shirts! The two of them also started another two man “gang” that they called The Fraternal Order of the Handsome Boy. (This seems silly but remember it, I promise!)

The two were also reported to be very close by fans. When they weren’t playing together, they would watch each other’s performances from the side stage. There is an infamous story from fans who caught them coming out of a trailer together early in the morning, looking very tired and holding hands, and they asked the fans to not take photos. Pete and Mikey had a security guard after this point who kept fans from getting too close to them and taking photos. There are very few pictures of them together during Warped Tour 2005 because of this (and due to the fact that people had more limited access to cameras than we do today). At the time, fans were very conscious of the closeness between them and rumors of a relationship circulated.

So let's take a look at Pete's LiveJournal posts from the summer of 2005.

Totally back in love…

“Amazing New Mexico sunset. I’m hanging on a bridge with my friend Mikey Way from My Chem. It’s all orange and pink above us. We went to another waterpark again. I love high fives again. Totally back in love. Saw the most amazing movie… I think it’s called Spirited Away. Watch it. Peterpan” June 28, 2005

On June 28th, Pete makes this iconic post, detailing the fun times he is having with Mikey and how much he is enjoying the summer. This is only ten days into Warped Tour, and this is the start of speculation that Pete and Mikey were more than friends.

Fourth of July

“I love the way you have me”“Like a boy loves a boy”“I love your tired eyes trying to keep up with us on stage. I love the way you’re gonna make me an honest man”“I love waking up at 9am. I love the night. I love living forever. I love summer. I am loving this and you and everything”“You can’t miss me, baby boy, we’re doing big things”“Hot and miserable but totally in love.” July 4, 2005

On July 4th, Pete makes several cryptic posts, also detailing how much he is enjoying summer and the people he is with - specifically “you”.

July is when Pete begins directing his posts at the mysterious “you”. Previously, when he was talking about his ex-girlfriend, he used her name and spoke about her with third person pronouns. From now on, his posts are genderless, and directed at “you”.

Remember this... the 4th of July.

Baby, I’ve got it bad for you

“Close your eyes and put the speaker next to your pillow. Dream away. Dream yourself to life. Stop wasting your eyes trying to figure out who is the heart - the smile - the voice - the words. You can't pull them apart. It’s just a mess. How you understand us is so one dimensional. But changes are coming. You won't wrap your head around us so easily. "You're nobody until somebody loves you" at least that's half true. Let's not make it through the night. Come on. You look so wrong but you feel so right. "He tastes like you only sweeter he tastes like you only sweeter he tastes like you only sweeter he tastes like you only sweeter..." and so on until the end. Sometimes I'm just a goddamned lunatic. But I only keep myself this sick in the head cause I know how you get off on these words. Baby, I’ve got it bad for you.” July 12, 2005

Pete has a habit of debuting future FOB lyrics in his cryptic blog posts. His July 12th ramblings contain references to Thnks fr th Mmrs and I’m Like A Lawyer…

Thnks fr th Mmrs (2007):

I noticed that both in the post and the lyrics, "He tastes like you only sweeter" is in quotes. We'll talk more about this song later

I’m Like A Lawyer With The Way I’m Always Trying To Get You Off (Me & You) (2007)

Here we go...

Better off as lovers

“Wrote you a goodbye note (you just wrote me off) on your arm when you passed out. Bestfriends, exfriends - better off as lovers not the other way around. Racing through the city in the back of yellow checkered cars. The takeoffs are the worst but the skin from your shoulder to your ear makes it all worth it. And I’m sorry the way my moods flicker on and off like old light on your porch, but I know you wouldn’t have it any other way. Sneaking in your window instead of out. The way you hold a cigarette cause you don’t know what to do with your hands when we are sitting this close. The way waists of pants feel better at the ankles. The way you were always my best excuse for calling in sick to everyone else. I miss you. Petey” July 19, 2005

Here, (when FOB left Warped Tour to flying out for the Kimmel show for one day) Pete is reflecting on the secret relationship he has embarked on, with someone who is supposed to be just a friend. He admits that this relationship is not perfect, but this affair brings him great thrill, and he has fallen hard. He’s gone for one day and he says “I miss you”.

Bang The Doldrums (2007)

Again... better off as more than just friends.

Fictional Stories

I'm going to break this post down into smaller parts to analyze because it is long! It is from July 21, 2005.

“Lately I’ve been into believing fictional stories like the ones about me and you being happy. They’ve gotta be science fiction because how else can you have a monster fall in love with a boy with no heart? Actually I’m pretty sure you have a heart, but I’m just as certain it’ll never be mine. I can tell you’re willing to be loved somewhere on the inside but that doesn’t do me any good when I’m still seeing things through thick curtains over windows and padlocked doors on the outside."

Who is the monster and who is the boy with no heart? Pete follows it up with “I’m pretty sure you have a heart” which implies Pete is referring to himself as the monster who fell in love with a boy… He does not go on to refer to the other person as a monster, he instead goes on to talk about their heart. He feels like this person is shutting him out, resisting to be loved.

Also, “fictional stories… about me and you being happy”? Like all the rumors that they were dating? When in reality it was more complicated and messier than that?

“Bitter regrets, predictable forfeits. We lit a fire that was nothing but smoke and hot air. Ashes. My hands are empty and you hold all the cards, kind of funny how you don’t even want them/me. The final nail in my coffin stabbed me in the heart - from my back. You once made my heart skip a beat, now you make it want to skip this. You’ve got salty nails ripping my wounds open that you’re telling me to let heal. Love is a mirage, you only think it’s there for so long… til you either wise up or die of hydration. Love is the way to blow your brains out minus the gun, I swear. It’s the stupidest form of suicide cause you don’t die. And whatever doesn’t kill you only laughs at you for coming close enough to."

He fell hard, and now he feels like he is being betrayed and hurt, both by his lover and by his own heart for letting himself fall.

Also, I think he means “dehydration” not “hydration”.

“Sorry, it’s just the bitterness talking. Ignore it/me. I’m just loose words hanging on the ends of your lips, even looser when I’m anywhere near your hips. Poetry written from blistered fingertips and sleep deprived eyes that was better before the ink dried. He said, ‘I should have stayed with her,’ and I should have stayed away."

“He” thinks he should have stayed with a “her” and Pete should have stayed away. Interesting, interesting.

“I tried, I gave it/you my all, but all I can do is give up. I don’t tell you my insecurities so you can use them against me, but help me get over them. Instead you said and did the worst thing you could do. Worse than cheating to me, I hope you know. But whatever I don’t even know, I guess sometimes it takes losing what you had to see what you didn’t. Sooo yeah, this is where I actually admit I’m tired, and I go to bed. Sweet. Goodnight.” July 21, 2005

Pete feels hopeless, close to giving up. This person has really wronged him - with something “worse than cheating” - after he was so vulnerable with them.

Something happened between July 19th, where things were starting to get contentious, and July 21st, where Pete now feels wronged and heartbroken. The person he is talking to knows what they did - “you said and did the worst thing you could do” but we do not know what this means. This post is targeted for the mysterious “you” as the reader.

Some last notes on Warped Tour...

Messages on your arm

“The Warped Tour was fun. Since being home I remembered that showering and sleeping are fun too. My real feelings on the sunburst bass. I loved that thing. But then it started cheating on me in a mikey way. I had to hit it. It’s not my fault- spousal abuse is an ugly thing. I’m in therapy that includes playing lots of warcraft online. Writing messages on your arm for someone to see at a show is the new away message - stealing peoples real diary is the new livejournal.” August 19, 2005

Similar to “wrote a goodbye note on your arm when you passed out”, Pete talks about writing messages on someone’s arm again here. Mikey often appeared with words written on his arm during the tour. These say “EASY” and “FUCKED”.

I <3 Revenge

According to fans, Pete would often dedicate Fall Out Boy songs to “Mikey Revenge” on stage before they played them. Mikey changed his social media handles to “Mikey Revenge” for a while - MCR’s album at the time was called Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge.

 Additionally, during the Warped Tour Pete often wore a custom made shirt that said “I heart Revenge”.  He also often wore a pin with Mikey’s face on it.

Clandestine Industries

Quick side note because I did not know where else to put this: Clandestine Industries is Pete’s clothing brand. Mikey was a big fan and often hung out with Pete at the Clandestine tent on tour.

So... Warped Tour 2005

Pete’s LiveJournal posts during the summer of 2005 paint a clear picture of a relationship he had during this tour that was short lived, sexual, and had a profound impact on him.

His references to Mikey, their close relationship noted by fans, and the fact that language in Pete’s posts point to him speaking about another man begs the question:

If Pete’s Warped Tour lover was not Mikey, then who was it?

Mikey is the only person he was reported to be so close with during this time - he was not rumored to be dating anyone else, man or woman.

During this time, Pete makes references to lots of other people in his posts, mainly William Beckett from The Academy, Patrick Stump, and Frank Iero. He makes a lot of sexual jokes about how much he loves these friends of his, but he does not speak this same way about Mikey - the one person he was actually rumored to be with.

Time to move on from the summer that Pete has never moved on from…

The Fallout After Warped Tour

Me and You

“I always put my money on the longshots. And no matter where my head was in the world I always dreamed of waking up next to the biggest brown eyes I have ever seen/‘me and you underneath the honeymoon’. And you imagine yourself moving deep into the summer and disappearing, and for me it was always with you. And then things got crazy. You stopped calling me back. I stopped trying to call but not in my head. And then you got malicious but I’m guessing only because you learned from the best. Baby boy, you’re gonna be okay. Hearts between our knees sticking to the summer sheets. Are you catching my drift…. it’s gonna be alright. Your love would be hell but it’s just not hot enough, baby.” September 4th, 2005

He’s reminiscing about the summer and his fond, romantic memories with the person he was with. He is upset that “things got crazy” and the person stopped calling him back and started acting malicious once summer ended.

“Waking up next to the biggest brown eyes I have ever seen Me and you underneath the honeymoon”

I’m Like A Lawyer With The Way I’m Always Trying To Get You Off (Me & You) (2007)

We previously talked about the “I only keep myself this sick in the head” line in this song, but the chorus of this song comes from this September 4th blog post.

The song, alternatively titled “Me & You”, was a single on FOB’s 2007 album.

The use of the word “honeymoon” both in the blog post and in the song is interesting, because he says they are “underneath the honeymoon” and “setting in a honeymoon” - it sounds like he might be referring to the actual moon.

Dear world, fuck you

“The reason we never told anyone is because we knew the world would ruin it. And at the end of the day it did. And you were my home. It didn’t matter what was said when our heads were on the sides of the pillows. It’s so hard to find someone who likes me for me and not because I am Pete from Fall Out Boy. And I found them. And then watched it fade. Dear world, fuck you.” September 6th, 2005

Two days later, Pete is very bitter thinking about the love he has lost. It is interesting that he uses gender neutral language when he says he found “them”. It also makes sense that someone who was also a musician in a similarly popular band would see Pete as more than just “Pete from Fall out Boy”.

Because this is only two days after the post where he talked about “imagining yourself moving deep into the summer and disappearing”, it is safe to assume this relationship that was kept a secret is the same as the summer fling he was just talking about.

Duke of Handsomeness

Don’t worry! Pete and Mikey are still friends. On November 13th, 2005 he responds to a fan who asks “how good are you friends with Mikey Way??”

This gang stuff is going somewhere, I promise!

Just something to keep me hanging onto

“I wrote you a letter a few hours ago that I never intended to give you in the first place and then ripped it up and threw it away because it’s much too personal to say on paper. Even over a phone. The words I said in it I need to say to you in person. I guess it felt better to write it all out. It’s easier to say “I only need 5 seconds with you than a lifetime with someone else” than it is to live it. To be honest, I’m dying from it. I’m really not ready for what you want from me, but with how you’re never around it makes me wonder what you really do want from me. Honestly, it sure doesn’t feel like much. I said I’d be fine if you gave me a little note or a call once and a while, once a day even, just something to keep hanging onto, but you can’t even do that so yeah… I don’t know. Am I being ridiculous? It’s just hard for me to keep going like this… my heart is lots easier to fool than me. I think that’s what makes this so hard.” November 23, 2005

The heartbreak and desperate attempt to keep this person in his life is detailed here. He is posting this message to the world, but it is directed towards the one person who he feels is ignoring him, who he is so desperate to talk to on the phone, who he wants to write a letter to, but can’t bear to send it.

You and me are the last hot day of summer

“I love how I thought this was all over and I have to face the same two months replayed for the rest of my life. My head and heart are beating the shit out of me trying to see what hurts worse. Kinda like us. Yep. Summer wasn’t hot enough but I had hoped winter was gonna be the coolest. I obviously thought wrong. You and me are the last hot day in summer. We’re just fading before the fall.” December 22, 2005

Pete is continuing to pine after his summer fling into December. He is plagued with the memories of summer replaying in his mind.

Something surprising happened around Christmas of 2005 - Mikey got engaged to his first wife, Alicia. They only dated for a brief period of time, as she stated they were not together during Warped Tour 2005, although she was a guitar tech on the tour.

Could this be why Mikey began ignoring Pete and his phone calls in the fall of 2005, because he had begun dating the girl he planned on marrying?

Let's look at what happened in 2006 and beyond...

Link to Part 2 - 2006 And Beyond:

https://www.tumblr.com/hillyroberts/787601865437216768/pete-wentz-and-mikey-way-shared-a-new-mexico?source=share

Link to Part 3 - Song Analysis:

https://www.tumblr.com/hillyroberts/787601879691591680/pete-wentz-and-mikey-way-shared-a-new-mexico?source=share

[buckyseternaldoll]

for when you want to disappear

written by me, for me who's battling whatever that eats me from the inside. may you continue to find comfort in bucky barnes.

You weren’t really a positive person. At least, not by default. You tried, though. You’d been making such an effort, especially because you never wanted to overwhelm Bucky with more darkness than he already carried on his own back. He had enough of his own pain, and you’d sworn to yourself you wouldn’t weigh him down with yours.

So you practiced. You learned to sidestep the little things that threatened to ruin your day, biting your tongue, breathing through the frustration, brushing off the small stings. To your credit, you’d been doing well. It felt almost normal to choose quiet acceptance over spiraling.

But it only took one thing to break that balance. Just one careless line you read online about you, some stranger’s words that shouldn’t have mattered. But they hit a target you’d been trying hard to forget existed. They dug into the place in your mind you’d locked away, the one you promised yourself you wouldn’t visit again.

No matter how you whispered your mantras—it’s okay, it’s all in your head—they lost their power. Today, the words dug deeper. You felt yourself crumble under their weight. Every cruel phrase looped in your mind like a broken record: You’re a worthless piece of shit. You’re better off dead. You’re a pretentious bitch.

You tried to hide it from Bucky. God, you tried. When he asked, you brushed him off with clipped answers. You pulled away when he reached for you. You rebuilt the walls you’d torn down only for him. You shut him out.

And when you were finally alone, you let it all hit you. You doubted your worth so completely it hollowed you out. Those voices grew louder in the quiet, screaming over every feeble defense you could muster. In the end, you just curled up, shaking with silent sobs you pressed into your pillow, letting them steal your breath, your thoughts, your hope.

You cried yourself to sleep that way, with your mind replaying every hateful word until it was all you could hear.

—

Usually, Bucky knew when to give you space. He’d learned to respect the way you sometimes needed time to wrestle your thoughts into something manageable. Most days, just knowing he was outside your door, ready to help if you asked, was enough to keep you from falling too far.

But this time was different. Four days had gone by. Four days without you leaving your room. Four days of untouched meals that sat cooling by the door before he replaced them. Four days of silence when he called your name.

You were there physically, but your mind was somewhere far away—and he recognized the danger of that all too well. He remembered that feeling himself: being so lost in your own darkness that you couldn’t find the way back.

He wasn’t going to let you stay there. Not alone.

Bucky unlocked your door slowly. The room was dim and heavy with still air. You hadn’t opened the blinds in days. He spotted you instantly, still bundled tightly under your blanket like you were trying to vanish. Your face was half-buried in the pillow, eyes red and raw from crying.

His chest clenched at the sight.

He didn’t rush you. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed, letting the mattress dip. He reached out, resting a hand softly on the mound of blanket near your shoulder.

“Hey,” he said quietly, voice rasped from worry.

You didn’t answer. Your breathing stuttered, the only sign you’d heard him at all.

“Come on, doll,” he tried again. “Talk to me. Please.”

You squeezed your eyes shut tighter, silent tears leaking out.

He let out a slow, pained breath. He didn’t pull his hand away. Instead, his thumb began to rub slow, deliberate circles on your back, even over the blanket.

“I know you don’t want to let me in right now,” he murmured. “But I’m here anyway. I’m not leaving you like this. Not this time.”

Your lip quivered at that, a tiny tremor running through you.

“Please,” he whispered. His voice cracked just a little. “Please let me help you.”

For a long, heavy moment you didn’t move. Then, slowly, your fingers twitched at the edge of the blanket. You peeled it back just enough to reveal your tear-streaked face, your eyes dull with exhaustion and pain.

Bucky’s face softened instantly. He reached for you with such care, giving you every chance to pull away. When you didn’t, he slipped an arm around you and gently drew you toward him.

The second you felt his chest against yours, you broke. A raw, ugly sob tore out of you as you clung to him with shaking arms.

“That’s it,” he breathed, tightening his hold. “Let it out. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

He pulled you fully onto his lap, cradling you with all the care in the world. He wrapped both arms around you like he was shielding you from everything outside. His metal arm felt cool, unyielding; his flesh arm was warm and solid. Together they formed an unbreakable cage of safety around you.

You buried your face in his chest, soaking his shirt with tears. Your body shook with each sob, ragged and broken. But Bucky didn’t flinch. He just pressed his cheek against the top of your head, eyes closing as he held you tighter.

“I know it hurts,” he murmured against your hair. “I know those words cut you so deep. They always do. Sharper than any knife. But they’re wrong, sweetheart. They’re wrong.”

You let out a choked whimper but couldn’t form any words.

“Shh,” he soothed, rocking you slightly. His thumb traced slow, steady circles on your back, grounding you. “Don’t fight it right now. Just feel it. Cry if you need to. I’m not going anywhere.”

You clung harder, like he was the only thing keeping you from slipping away. And for a while, neither of you said anything.

The silence was long. Heavy. But it wasn’t empty.

He just held you, firm and warm. His hands roamed gently over your back, thumbing circles into your spine. When your breathing hitched, he shushed you softly, forehead pressing to yours, letting his presence be an answer to all your fear.

Little by little, the sobs eased. Your breathing evened out. You felt the weight of everything start to lift—not because it was gone, but because you weren’t carrying it alone anymore.

You drew in a shaky breath and let it out in a long, ragged sigh.

“Good,” he whispered. “That’s it. Breathe. I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.”

Your voice was wrecked when you finally spoke, no more than a hoarse whisper.

“I’m sorry.”

Bucky shook his head immediately, pulling back just enough to see your face. His thumb brushed away your tears.

“Don’t you dare apologize,” he said firmly, but with so much love it almost hurt. “Not for feeling. Not with me. Ever.”

You closed your eyes, more tears spilling over.

“I just… I hate that they get to me. I hate that I let them in.”

“Of course they get to you,” he said softly. “You’re human. Words can cut deeper than any blade. But you’ve survived worse than this, haven’t you?”

You swallowed, nodding shakily.

“That’s right,” he said. “You’re here. After everything. Don’t you see how strong that makes you? Don’t you dare think you’re weak because you feel.”

Your lip trembled, and you let out another quiet sob. He pulled you in again, holding you so tightly you could barely move—but it didn’t feel suffocating. It felt safe.

“You’re not worthless,” he whispered fiercely against your hair. “You’re everything to me. You hear me? Everything.”

You just nodded into his chest, finally letting go of everything you’d held inside. All the cruel words, the self-doubt, the fear—it all spilled out and faded in the warmth of his embrace.

He stayed with you like that for hours, saying little, just holding you and pressing small kisses to your hair and temple. His thumb never stopped its calming circles on your back.

And slowly, you found yourself breathing easier. Your thoughts quieted. The world felt less sharp. Less cruel.

You were still raw, still hurting. But in Bucky’s arms, you didn’t feel alone anymore. You felt safe. And that was enough.

I want to apologize for disappearing from this platform. While I’ve really found love, peace, and a positive community here, I also realize I’ve let myself drift into its more negative side. I’ve been focusing too much on Tumblr and neglecting real-life responsibilities and problems that I need to face.

For now, I’ve turned off anonymous asks for a number of reasons that should be clear from what I shared above. It’s the better choice for my mental health at the moment.

I hope we can meet again here once I’ve taken the time to become a better individual :)

[crownmemes]

Workplace Sentences, Vol. 14

(Sentences from various sources for professional muses and/or muses that work together. Adjust phrasing where needed)

"You're making a lot of sense right now."

"Don't get mad at me; I'm just doing my job."

"I'm trying to be understated when I say that this is a bad idea."

"As per usual, you have no idea what you're talking about."

"I remember your offer, but I do not remember agreeing to it."

"You need to keep your head down. Keep your nose clean, and then maybe - just maybe - there's a way back in."

"Thanks for ignoring everything I said."

"I know what the smart play here is - it's just that I like to do dumb things sometimes."

"Rather than just standing there, why don't you help?"

"This isn't as bad as I thought it was going to be!"

"Just for the record: I don't want to be here right now."

"The reason I picked you is because I thought you were the only one of my team with a decent pair of bollocks. Obviously I was wrong."

"Is this what you spend your spare time doing? Honestly, that explains a lot."

"Hello! I love your work!"

"I'm not even mad at you! To tell the truth, I'm fairly impressed!"

"This job is very important to me, you understand? So don't fuck it up. For your own sake."

"I take my job very seriously."

"I have known you to be absolutely reliable and capable of almost anything. Is that true?"

"Are you doing this because I got the job? You're doing this because I got the job over you?"

"You know that you've fired me roughly every 90 days since we started working together?"

"Things are a little tense between you two, huh?"

"Fuck you! I quit!"

"The way in which you asked that makes me think you don't think its a very good idea."

"You're only making these dumb suggestions because you don't want to admit that you may have fucked up."

"I'm not an idiot; I know all about it. I just don't know that I actually care."

"This may be the first time I've ever agreed with you."

"Why can't I stop kissing you?"

"I really hate that you're making so much sense right now."

"You don't strike me as a man who makes very many mistakes."

"What have I ever done to make you treat me so disrespectfully?"

"I leave you alone for two seconds! You know you're not supposed to do that!"

"Are we entirely sure that this is my doing?"

"Look, I'm smart enough to know what I don't know, and I don't know this."

"I'm only human. Perhaps I made a mistake?"

[daughterofhecata]

@blacky-ermittelt, falls es dich interessiert, ich habe mal kurz einen Blick ins Original geworfen, das hier ist die entsprechende Passage:

Jupiter nodded. "It was a fine replica, but I think the artist made it from photographs only. He didn't copy from the actual statue, probably because he couldn't get at it without raising suspicion, and the pictures he used didn't show all the details clearly. So he made a mistake!" "Mistake?" Mr Clay snapped. "Yes, sir," Jupiter said, and his eyes gleamed. "He couldn't make out the tiny details of the objects on the statue's belt, so he worked from a description of the statue. Maybe the same description we read. You remember that, Records?" Bob thought. "Well, it said the mask had yak horns, and the belt was hung with bells, rattles, grass, corn, roots—" "Yes," Jupiter said. "Grass, roots, and corn! Corn!" Mr Chiang's eyes were wide. " Corn?" "But," Mr Clay said, "he put in the corn all right. I recall you said the ear of corn was still unmelted on the statue's belt, Jupiter." "Yes, sir, and that was his mistake! I should have spotted it at once when we saw the statue in Jason Wilkes's house, but I missed it then. It wasn't until I saw that miniature ear of corn on the melted statue that I realized the truth." Pete groaned. " What truth, First?" "That the real Dancing Devil couldn't have had an ear of corn on its belt! The word corn is used in different parts of the world to mean different grains. To Europeans it means wheat. That art book we saw, fellows, was a British publication. When the author mentioned corn on the Devil's belt, he was actually referring to wheat! The corn we know is called maize by Europeans—because that's the American Indian word for it." "Indians ?" Mr Clay said slowly. "Yes, sir," Jupiter said. "What we call corn is native to America. Europeans and Mongols never saw an ear of corn until Columbus discovered America—almost three hundred years after the Dancing Devil was made in 1240 A.D.! The real Dancing Devil must have a sheaf of wheat on its belt, and the statue we saw destroyed was a fake!"

Ich bin kein Linguist und kenne mich schon gar nicht mit Sprachgeschichte aus, aber potentiell spielt es hier auch eine Rolle, dass der Band 1976 erschienen ist - falls "corn" heute auch im Britischen vorrangig "Mais" bedeuten sollte, war das möglicherweise zu der Zeit noch anders?

erwachsen werden ist zu realisiern, wie brachial falsch englische begriffe bei den drei ??? ausgesprochen werden

[wonder-worker]

Margaret of Anjou’s visit to Coventry [in 1456], which was part of her dower and that of her son, Edward of Lancaster, was much more elaborate. It essentially reasserted Lancastrian power. The presence of Henry and the infant Edward was recognised in the pageantry. The ceremonial route between the Bablake gate and the commercial centre was short, skirting the area controlled by the cathedral priory, but it made up for its brevity with no fewer than fourteen pageants. Since Coventry had an established cycle of mystery plays, there were presumably enough local resources and experience to mount an impressive display; but one John Wetherby was summoned from Leicester to compose verses and stage the scenes. As at Margaret’s coronation the iconography was elaborate, though it built upon earlier developments.

Starting at Bablake gate, next to the Trinity Guild church of St. Michael, Bablake, the party was welcomed with a Tree of Jesse, set up on the gate itself, with the prophets Isaiah and Jeremiah explaining the symbolism. Outside St. Michael’s church the party was greeted by Edward the Confessor and St. John the Evangelist; and proceeding to Smithford Street, they found on the conduit the four Cardinal Virtues—Righteousness (Justice?), Prudence, Temperance, and Fortitude. In Cross Cheaping wine flowed freely, as in London, and angels stood on the cross, censing Margaret as she passed. Beyond the cross was pitched a series of pageants, each displaying one of the Nine Worthies, who offered to serve Margaret. Finally, the queen was shown a pageant of her patron saint, Margaret, slaying the dragon [which 'turned out to be strictly an intercessor on the queen's behalf', as Helen Maurer points out].

The meanings here are complex and have been variously interpreted. An initial reading of the programme found a message of messianic kingship: the Jesse tree equating royal genealogy with that of Christ had been used at the welcome for Henry VI on his return from Paris in 1432. A more recent, feminist view is that the symbolism is essentially Marian, and to be associated with Margaret both as queen and mother of the heir rather than Henry himself. The theme is shared sovereignty, with Margaret equal to her husband and son. Ideal kingship was symbolised by the presence of Edward the Confessor, but Margaret was the person to whom the speeches were specifically addressed and she, not Henry, was seen as the saviour of the house of Lancaster. This reading tips the balance too far the other way: the tableau of Edward the Confessor and St. John was a direct reference to the legend of the Ring and the Pilgrim, one of Henry III’s favourite stories, which was illustrated in Westminster Abbey, several of his houses, and in manuscript. It symbolised royal largesse, and its message at Coventry would certainly have encompassed the reigning king. Again, the presence of allegorical figures, first used for Henry, seems to acknowledge his presence. Yet, while the message of the Coventry pageants was directed at contemporary events it emphasised Margaret’s motherhood and duties as queen; and it was expressed as a traditional spiritual journey from the Old Testament, via the incarnation represented by the cross, to the final triumph over evil, with the help of the Virgin, allegory, and the Worthies. The only true thematic innovation was the commentary by the prophets.

[...] The messages of the pageants firmly reminded the royal women of their place as mothers and mediators, honoured but subordinate. Yet, if passive, these young women were not without significance. It is clear from the pageantry of 1392 and 1426 in London and 1456 in Coventry that when a crisis needed to be resolved, the queen (or regent’s wife) was accorded extra recognition. Her duty as mediator—or the good aspect of a misdirected man—suddenly became more than a pious wish. At Coventry, Margaret of Anjou was even presented as the rock upon which the monarchy rested. [However,] a crisis had to be sensed in order to provoke such emphasis [...].

— Nicola Coldstream, "Roles of Women in Late Medieval Civic Pageantry", Reassessing the Roles of Women as 'Makers' of Medieval Art and Culture

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[dangerliesbeforeyou]

today's rec:

i remember i got my sister's old phone as a kid (not to use as an actual phone, just messing around w/ it lol) and she had a few songs on it including this one and i used to listen to it constantlyyy lol fucked up lyrics and a fun beat were my kinda thing lol

[cursingtoji]

cw: band au, rockstar!geto x groupie!gf, slight manipulation?, car sex, oral. a/n: geto deserves a loser gf too. gojo version nanami version toji version

geto who has a rock band and though they’re quite small they already have a #1 fan: you.

the band is all you talk about, going to the point of making your own shirts and posters, you doodle the bands logo everywhere and, most importantly you don't miss a single concert.

by the end of it you're waiting next to the back door of the pub when the band comes out, as soon as you see suguru you call his name extending your little gift bag.

"woah for me? thanks, doll." he takes your chin and gives your glossy lips a peck that makes your heartbeat spike up and your face warm up. geto fucking suguru just kissed you!

during all that week you were on cloud nine, so distracted and giggly.

of course geto notices you, always in the front row and ready to give the band some gifts, he sees how you try to dress up as one of them before they even realize they have a visual identity.

geto likes having fangirls, if anything that’s the best sign that the band is doing well. till that point he never considered engaging to one in a more intimate level. after all, women were never a problem for him, fans or not.

the problem is when they think more of the relationship than it really is. geto has always made sure they knew that sleeping together and treating them well was not synonymous to committed relationship.

because he already is committed. to his music. so after spending the whole day trying to come up with a new song so the band may finally have a complete album to present to a record, he takes a frustrated break picking up his phone and to his dismay only finding a long message about how he hurt someone’s feelings.

“oh for fucks sake” he lets his phone fall on the couch and take his keys, this is not a good week to quit smoking.

“geto?” he hears a small voice calling him after he leaves the convenience store with a very much needed cigarette on his lips and nicotine in his system.

“oh hey” he recognizes you by name and face.

“you’re using the lighter” you point out enthusiastically, that was a limited edition you bought and gifted him.

“that’s right, you bought me this, did i say thank you?” he’s genuinely wondering, your face heats remembering the kiss.

“i-its no big deal” you brush it off, since he doesn’t seem to be in a rush you start to babble about one specific song and everything you loved about it, knowing he was the composer.

“do wanna go to my place?” he says after quietly listening to your passionate thoughts. you think steam is about to come out of your ears at how hot your face got.

geto throws away what’s left of his cigarette and takes your hand, not really waiting for a response since the heart in your eyes is pretty obvious.

“you’re so cute” he says with his face mushed into your breasts as he guides your movements on his lap. you never guessed when you came out this morning you would be riding your favorite guitarist’s dick a few hours later, if you knew you probably would’ve put a sexier lingerie. not that he would care, by the way he pushed your bottoms down all at once he probably didn’t even know what color your underwear was.

geto pulled your hair tilting your head to meet his mouth, he devoured you so intensely, so overwhelming… you came not even needing your clit to be touched, just by having him inside you and breathing into your mouth like that was enough.

for suguru it was all a power trip, when he saw you after a concert he knew it wouldn’t take you much sweet talking to get you in his car.

he quickly mumbled an excuse to meet the band at the bar later and in just a few minutes he had you bobbing your head down his cock, “just like that, gorgeous, so good” his head is thrown back as he moans softly.

and as the band grew more popular and they had to travel to other cities to perform he would always count on you to meet him at his hotel room.

“geto~” you mewl his name as he eats your pussy from behind so lewdly.

from the very first time you knew it was over for every other guy the moment he touched you. no matter what anyone said about geto, that he was using you, he would never marry you, you didn’t care. you would be his devotee as long as he wanted.

and geto got all he wanted, a pretty little thing that didn’t complain or asked too many questions and best of all: that loved his music and understood his work.

“i know, you have to practice” you kiss him one last time before gathering your clothing from the floor, the hints of him not wanting to stay over were all memorized at this point, so you turn your back at him and make your way to the bathroom to brush your teeth.

but the usual sound of the door opening and closing never came, instead you saw him coming from behind to lace strong arms around your waist, “well maybe just tonight” he smells your hair and through the mirror he sees the tattoo bellow your belly button, just above the hem of your underwear. your prof of love: the logo of the band.

geto touches it and you giggle at the feathery feeling, like a tickle, he likes that sound. he likes you.

“i was thinking you should get another, right here” a finger caress your right ass cheek.

“the same one?” you ask confused.

“no, silly, something else” he gets down hands caressing your hips and kissing the extension of your butt, “my name.”

[unreasonablerobin]

PUCKER UP!

Damian Alg Ghul x Girly!Reader

Synopsis: It's hard to believe this cold, ruthless assassin would let someone even think of putting eyeshadow on him... not after they found out about you.

W.C: 3.0k

Tags: Fluff ♡, some brief mentions of blood/injury, smau

"Damian, are you wearing," Stephanie paused. "Polish?"

Tim looked up from the computer in record speed at the question. His brother, demon child, wearing nail polish? Whatever direction this conversation was about to go he needed to be involved.

"Don't be ridiculous Brown." Damian spat back.

"Very defensive for a supposedly innocent man." Tim quirked a teasing brow. Damian's scowl deepened at the sight

"And the questions have only begun!" Stephanie added with a clasp of her hands. Damian's tormentors took a deep breath in preparation.

"What's with you smelling so good recently?"

"Why do you have specks of glitter on your face?"

"How are your hands soooo soft?"

"I really need you to be honest with me on this one Damian," Stephanie said rather sternly. A serious expression on her face and a finger pointed at Damian.

Okay, that made him a tad nervous. Is something wrong with Stephanie? Did he upset her in some way?

"How are you glowing?"

What.

"You're a vigilante! You barely sleep and spend your days *a"Damian, are you wearing," Stepahine paused. "*Polish?*"

Tim looked up from the batcomputer in record speed at the question. His brother, demon child, wearing nail polish? Whatever direction thus conversation was about to go he *needed* to be involved.

"Don't be ridiculous Brown." Damian spat back.

"Very defensive for a supposedly innocent man." Tim quirked a teasing brow. Damian's scowl deepened at the sight

"And the questions have only begun!" Stephanie added with a clasp of her hands.

"What's with you smelling so good recently?"

"Why do you have specks of glitter on your face?"

"How are your hands *soooo* soft?"

"I really need you to be honest with me on this one Damian." Stephanie said rather sternly. A serious expression on her face and a finger pointed at Damian.

Okay, that made him a tad nervous. Is something wrong with Stephanie? Did je upset her someway?

"How are you glowing?"

What.

"You're a vigilante! You barely sleep and spend your days and nights sparring! You're skin should be awful, you should reak of sweat!"

"Wow, thank you." Damian deadpanned and Tim chuckled.

"But you're not! You're..." She swished her hands around trying to find the word

"Radiant!"

"How'd you do it?" She plopped herself into a desk chair. It skid across the floor a little closer to Tim's from force of impact. She stared in awe waiting fir her answers. Damian sighed, really not wanting to tell them about probably your most common date; spa and makeup nights. Self care nights as you called them.

This morning...

Frantic footsteps echoed through the walls of your home as you scurried around trying to get everything you needed. Picking up makeup products just to drop them remembering that you already had it over at the manor. Your hair was somewhat done, you were dressed and had all your jewelry on. So at the very least you looked presentable.

'What else do I need?' Your eyes scanned the now messy bedroom, you'd have to clean it when you get back. A ring from the doorbell had you rushing down the stairs.

'Doesn't matter haven't the time for anything else." You flopped down onto the bench by the front door and grabbed your favourite shoes, chucking them on as quick as possible. After taking a deep breath you slipped out the door.

"Hello Alfred!"

"Good morning Ms. Y/n," Alfred greeted with a smile. "May I take your bag?"

"Oh, thank you!" He took your bag from you and opened the car door. You always forget that Alfred actually does butler things and isn't just a member of the Wayne family.

The seat belt clicked and you gave it a quick tug to make sure it was secure. Can't risk having anything happen to this pretty face!

The car came to a slow stop at the tall, metal gates leading to the Wayne Manor. You'll never get over how beautiful Damian's home is. The gates opened slowly. The grande and detailed architecture loomed before you as you stepped out at the steps to the front door. Alfred handed you your bag and headed up the steps to open the manor door.

It was a magical feeling everything you came here. The manor always smelt so clean, but rich, and yet cosy.

"Y/n!" A voice boomed from around the corner of the entrance. It was Dick.

"It's nice to see you again." He leaned in a gave you side hug.

"It's nice to see you too!" You reciprocated. "How are you?"

"I've been good, what about yourself?"

"Eh, alright. School has me busy."

"Yeah I imagine. Damian's been swamped with assignments."

"Beloved." Damian called from the top of the stairs before he made his way down. You met him at the last step. He took your bag from you and turned away.

"Come on." He began to head back up the stairs and to his bedroom.

"You're a real romantic, you know that Damian." Dick deadpanned at his little brother's actions. You laughed to yourself as you followed Damian.

Damian sat on his bed, scribbling some notes down, whilst you took up the space at his desk. He has a perfectly good bathroom with a mirror, but you choose to use his desk and your compact mirror. Simply so you can stay in the same room as him. If you hadn't already set yourself and your products up he would've offered to do his work in the bathroom, on the floor beside you. It's inefficient but it's with you.

He looked up and realised you were almost done. You were finishing up your mascara. All that was left was your lips. Remembering he was in possession of one of your lip glosses he reached into his bedside locker.

"You're lips gloss, beloved." He called and stretched his hand out with the clear and silver container rested in his palm.

"Thank you!" You shuffled over in his desk chair. After snatching your lip gloss you took a moment to stare.

"You have very nice lashes." Damian stared back in confused silence for a second before responding.

"Thank you."

"I should do your makeup!" You gasped.

"Absolutely not."

"Oh come on!"

"No."

"Babe please!" You begged as you hopped onto the bed beside him with a pout. He quietly examined your face. Several beats of silence passing before he spoke with a sigh. He was going to regret this.

"Fine."

He just couldn't say no. I mean, how could anyone say no to a smile like yours? That gorgeous toothy, smile that makes him weak in the knees. You could be dripping head to toe in blood and he still wouldn't be able to deny your heart of what it desires. So here he was, hands settled on your thighs, occasionally leaving to grab some sort of product for you. You were working your magic, eyes locked onto his tanned face. One hand was settled under his jaw, hoping his face up and your dominant hand held a small brush coated in concealer. He had learnt that this was possibly your least favourite step, after eyeliner, carving eyebrows. No matter what they just never seemed to be even.

You leaned back and held his face infront of you like it was your newest oil painting.

"Damn, I'm cooking so hard right now." You smirked at the sight. Symmetrical eyebrows.

"You're not cooking beloved, we are not even on the kitchen."

"No! I mean," you cut yourself off laughing. Damian didn't spend much time on social media. He just didn't find any entrainment in it. "It's slang for doing something really well."

You stretched your back and took another moment to simply look at him. My god was he beautiful. You don't know how you managed to bag someone so handsome and so repulsed by everybody.

"Beloved?"

"Hm?"

"You're staring." Warmth rushed to your face at the comment. To be fair, you were staring, hard. It's not your fault though! He's just so gorgeous!

...

"It's not fair!" You suddenly shouted.

"What do you need such nice brows and lashes for?" Your hands wildly gestured towards his face. He didn't flinch at any of your antics. Just quirked the corner of his lips up.

"For you to admire, I suppose."

"You better not get them seared off during some misson." You warned.

"I'll cry!"

"Please don't cry over something so miniscule." Damian pleaded with some concern. You actually crying at the sight of him with his eyebrows and lashes seared off is not an impossible scenario.

He sighed in contentment as your train of thoughts slowed and you picked the makeup brush back up. Your hands cupped his face again and he subconsciously leaned into it. He remembers the gallery of texts that had been exchanged that eventually led to these spa and makeup dates.

1 month ago...

He lazily held his phone above his face. His costume was torn up and discarded on the floor of his bedroom. He was lying to you again. Patrol was not fine. He was not fine. A concerningly deep gash was hidden under some already bloody wrapped bandages on his upper left arm. He had not gotten a wink of sleep in two days. He was exhausted, in every possible way. But you sending pictures of your cat in hopes it would cheer him up, really did work. You couldn't make the physical pain of his injury and exhaustion go away but you could always take it off his mind.

The morning sunlight shined through your open window. You squinted reading the texts from your boyfriend. Sighing, you got up to get ready for the day. You didn't know what to do. Damian was always drained from his vigilante activities and there's no way you can persuade him to take more days off than Bruce already forces him to take. The big mirror on the bathroom wall reflected you thinking face, that was also covered in toothpaste. As you spat it out an idea came to mind. Skincare, snacks, and time together. That's what makes you relax, surely it would help Damian out too. You're a genius.

The summer air was warm against your skin. You opted to walk to the corner store since the weather was so nice. You'll grab some of his favourite snacks and some face masks for you both.

Upon entering the shop, a cool breeze from the air-con and the refrigerated section hit you. It was refreshing. You headed for the snack section picking up some crisps and sweets for you both to share. After scanning the whole shelf of food you nodded in satisfaction at the collection in your arms and made your way to the hygiene section. You nabbed some deodorant and two green tea face masks before going to the counter.

$19.50, the economy's gone crazy.

The handles of the paper bag crumpled in your grasp. Damian would've given out to you for texting while walking, but he wasn't here so it was fine. You pulled out your phone, it's charming swinging about, and sent him a text, inviting him over for the night.

That evening...

You forgot to mention that the snacks you got earlier included face masks. He needed a break. A moment to relax. What better way than a night with his amazing girlfriend, a cool and hydrating face mask, surrounded by tasty snacks? That sounds like a dream to you. You had all your usual skincare set out on your bathroom countertop. You swayed back and forward awaiting Damian's arrival. You couldn't exactly continue you're routine without your toner. As you plugged your phone in to charge, the sweet chime of your doorbell rang through your home. You padded down the stairs, nearly slipping in your fluffy slippers. The lock was undone and the door was sung open quickly, like it held the cure to all you're problems on the other side. You'd say it did.

"Hi!" Damian had the bag of shopping tucked to the side before the door was even open. He knew you'd jump straight into his arms. It was routine at this point.

"Hello beloved." His greeting was muffled by your shoulder. Damian stepped inside and gently kicked the door shut. A quiet wince escaped him as he dropped you back onto your feet. Unfortunately for him, the noise didn't escape you, but you held your tongue for the moment.

"I got what you asked for and some popcorn," He handed the bag to you and knelt to remove his shoes. "I know you always forget it."

"I knew I forgot something!" You looked down into the bag to see your favourite popcorn. As much as you love it you never remember to buy it.

"Thank you!" A loving peck was place upon Damian's cheek. He gazed down at you as you took his hand, leading him up the stairs and to your bedroom.

He sat himself down on your plushie-infested bed. The pink duvet dipped beneath him. You hummed to yourself as you continued your skincare routine now that you had your toner.

Damian subtly shifted his arm. That gash from last night (this morning?) still hurt like hell. Alfred had stitched and wrapped it up for him. He removed his hoodie to see the bandages had been soaked through with blood. They really needed to be changed.

'I should've done this before I came here.' He internally groaned as he grabbed a box of bandage wraps from his bag.

'Need to be quick.' Damian used a blade he always carried to slice off the dead bandages. He shoved them into the bandage box and made a mental reminder to toss them out later. He didn't like lying to you but he hated seeing you worried more. As time went on Damian found that wrapping a wound is a lot more difficult with one hand.

You re-emerged from the bathroom to see Damian trying to wrap his arm back up as quickly as possible. Old, bloody bandages discarded somewhere he hoped you wouldn't find. He knew if you saw the quantity of blood he'd lost you freak out. More than you were about to.

"Oh my god, Damian!" You yelped. "You said your patrol went fine!" The face masks were abandoned onto your vanity as you bolted over to him.

"This is no big deal Habibti," He groaned as he accidentally grazed his nails across the gash. "I've dealt with worse."

"Just cause you've dealt with worse doesn't mean this is fine!" Damian didn't have the opportunity to rebuttal. His injured arm was being gently cradled in your hand as you gripped the other and dragged him into the bathroom.

"Sit here." You gestured at the closed toilet seat. You began rummaging through your drawers. A bottle of saline solution was in your grasp. You picked up some cotton pads you typically use to clean off your makeup.

"I use this to clean my piercings when they're new. It should be fine to clean around your stitches." You informed him as you poured some onto the cotton pad and leaned forward.

"This'll sting."

"I'll be fine." His body tensed up at the contact of the cold liquid. It did in fact sting, but he was too busy focusing on the smell of your perfume. As you clean his wound he distracts himself from the irritating feeling by gazing at your perfume collection and trying to figure out which one you were wearing. The bang of your small trash can against the wall as you discarded the cotton pads brought him back. You threw out the bandages that he had begun to wrap around the wound a moment ago and grabbed a box of fresh ones. He watched as you carefully wrapped his arm up. You certainly weren't as familiar with the task as he was, thankfully, but you were doing a better job since you had two hands to work with instead of one.

"And, all done!" You sang with pride as you stuck the end of the bandage with a Sanrio plaster.

"Really?"

"It's my personal touch," you placed your hands on your hips. "A reminder of who's always here to take care of you." You finished softly. He couldn't help but let a little small find its way onto his face.

"Thank you, beloved." Damian stood up and glanced at his left arm. If any of his family saw this he wouldn't hear the end of it.

"Wait here!" You scurried out of the room and returned with two packets of face masks in your hands.

"No."

"Oh come on!" You pleaded.

"It'll feel nice, and it'll be fun!" He stared at you slightly displeased.

"I'll give you a kiss?"

"You'd do that anyway, you are my partner."

"I'll give you a lot of kisses." He took in your swaying figure and tight-lipped smile. You desperately him to relax and have a bit of fun with you.

He sighed, "fine."

You hugged him, leaning into his good arm.

"No pictures though."

"Ugh, fine!" You pushed away and propped yourself onto the sink countertop. You giggled to yourself as you opened one of the packs.

"C'mere!" He situated himself between your legs, his hands holding the edge of the counter.

"Put this on." A colourful headband was shoved into his hands as you put your own on. He glanced at you to see if you were serious. All he saw was your giddy face. Reluctantly he put the headband on, pushing his dark hair out of his face.

"You can't touch your face once this is on, okay?" You held his face as a brush covered in green rubbed along his skin. What has his life come to?

Here you were sitting on a countertop with your boyfriend between your legs. Both are sporting green face masks. You couldn't help but laugh at Damian's serious expression. He was counting down the seconds until he could take the concoction off his face.

"When do you plan on fulfilling your end of the deal?" He asked very seriously. Did I mention he's very serious about this?

"When we take these off."

He exhaled roughly through his nose, like a fire breathing dragon.

"You'll live until then!" Your arms were thrown over his shoulders and your fingers fidgeted with the hair on the nape of his neck.

"Maybe."

"You're lucky I didn't make you wear cucumbers on your eyes." Damian huffed from beside you. The two of you were snuggled under the covers of your bed and surrounded by snacks. It was basically heaven. An action movie Damian had heard Dick talk about with high praise played in the background. He turned to face you, you were rested on his right side, his good arm loosely around your waist.

"What?" You questioned as he stared at you.

"The deal." As interesting as the movie was he had some other priorities. He watched as a grin spread across your face.

"What deal?"

"Oh come on."

"I have no idea what you're talking about!" You shrugged your shoulders theatrically.

"Tch." He clicked his tongue and brought you closer by the arm around your waist. You braced one hand on his chest and the other on the mattress. The bags beneath his eyes were so much more visible from this distance. They made you remember why Damian was here to begin with. So you leaned him and pressed your lips to his.

A/N: So happy I got back the motivation to feed the Girly!Reader fans. Idk what to do cause I've got so many other ideas and fuck all Girly!Reader ideas... I'm not stopping Girly!Reader series, but I don't think I'll be posting any Girly!Reader stuff for a while. Especially since I want to try to write for some non DC characters. (Tim Drake x Slasher!Reader is burning in the background.)

[blackeyen2kisses]

pathetic bf!seunghyun (headcannons)

summary: bf!seunghyun who is incredibly down bad for his girlfriend.

an: hello! this is my first fic on this account, im so excited to share it with you. i hope you enjoy <3 (ALSO, please ignore any spelling/grammar errors i didn’t proofread.)

bf!seunghyun who: didn’t care for love/relationships until he met you.

bf!seunghyun who: swears carless whisper by george micheal played in his head when he laid eyes on you for the first time.

bf!seunghyun who: likes to spend his down time making you playlists and/or writing you songs/raps. he likes to communicate through music.

bf!seunghyun who: calls you sweet girl and thinks it fits perfectly. you are his sweet girl. he thinks youre the sweetest, most angelic being hes ever met.

bf!seunghyun who: will agree to just about anything for your sake (“yeah i dont know, i just dont really feel like going out today” he mummered to jiyong, burying himself further into the fluffy cloud that was his bed, dead set on spending his night curled in bed. until you walked into the room. “seunghyun, lets go out tonight, i need to get out of this house.” seunghyun shot out of bed, unraveling himself from the covers and intertwined your hands, “yeah, sweet girl, lets go.” suddenly alive and full of energy. unaware of jiyong snickering behind him.

bf!seunghyun who: genuinely believes he cant go more than an hour without having his hands on you in someway. wether that be his hand in yours, his arm wrapped around your waist, his fingers curled in your hair, or his fingers inside, yes inside the waist of your jeans, resting against the warmth of your skin.

bf!seunghyun who: when you two sleep has to either be little spoon or lay on top of you (while you scratch his back.)

bf!seunghyun who: is only comfortable with you touching him

bf!seunghyun who: literally calls/texts you every chance he gets. in between recordings, while in the bath, while getting his hair done. he’ll text you every thought that crosses his mind. (itll be three in the morning and youll get a text from him like, “i just realized, nothing is ON fire. fire is on THINGS.”)

bf!seunghyun who: does things for you he knows you can do yourself, such as, brushing and drying your hair after a shower, carrying you from place to place in your shared apartment, brushing your teeth, grabbing things that are just out of reach, tieing your shoes, no matter how much you insist you’re perfectly cable. he cant help it; youre his angel.

bf!seunghyun who: genuinely tears up when you get mad at him (you immediately feel horrible and give in.)

bf!seunghyun who: loves to lay his head in your lap while you run your fingers through his hair (he falls asleep immediately.)

bf!seunghyun who: hangs onto every word you say. he’ll remember something you vaguely told him months later. (“hey, sweet girl, i got you one of those sun…sunny…sonny..angels…whatever you call them,” he said when he came home from the store, placing the sonny angel box on your lap, then, planting gentle kisses onto the corners of your lips, your nose, your temple, your eyelids. you smile, wondering how the hell he knew you wanted one. you giggle, placing your hand on his cheek and rubbing your thumb across his soft skin as he leans into your touch, “how’d you know i wanted one?” he looked at you as though the answer was obvious, “you mentioned it when you saw a tiktok video in..may” may was 8 months ago?)

bf!seunghyun who: apologizes by getting on his knees, putting his head in your lap, and kissing your hands profusely. muttering over and over how sorry he is and how he’ll do better.

bf!seunghyun who: follows you around everywhere like a little cat. always hovering over your shoulder. if you guys are sitting on the couch and you get up to get a glass of water, trust, he’ll get up and go with you with a content smile on his face. he has attachment issues.

bf!seunghyun who: when your making out and you pull away, looks at you, breathing all hard, like he physically needs more.

bf!seunghyun who: when he has to travel for work will send you a poem a day. (“hey, sweet girl, you will never be unloved by me. you are too well tangled in my soul; hello, my sweet girl, my heart is so full of you i can hardly call it my own. love you always.”)

bf!seunghyun who: is completely obsessed with you.

[dokyumms]

seventeen's reaction to you hiding an injury from them !

pairings: ot13 x reader

genre: fluff

word count: 2.2k (lowkey estimated bc word counter isn’t working)

cw: injuries (sprained wrist/ankle, concussions, etc.), blood mentioned but not descriptive (woozi) way too much backstory bc i'm a d1 yapper

a/n: for the record i've never sustained a major injury (thankfully!) besides when i dislocated my shoulder when i was 4 years old so this may not be accurate. SO sorry that this took so long i had a brain fart or smth 😔

scoups - you really didn't think he'd notice immediately, but he does. you accidentally rolled your ankle trying to catch the subway. it wasn't too bad; the doctor said you'd minorly sprained your ankle, but all it needed was a couple weeks in a splint.

so deciding it wasn't that big of a deal (and lowkey a win since you got to skip work), you didn't think of telling seungcheol because one, you didn't feel like listening to him scold you for staying up too late the night before, and two, he'd just gotten off tour. he didn't need to spend the next couple of weeks babying you over an injury that didn't even require surgery. in some attempt to hide it, you put on some sweatpants and slippers and call it a day.

but when he returns home from a day out and catches you instantly put down your leg from where you'd been elevating it on a footstool, he immediately grows suspicious of something. "why were you doing that just now?"

"eh? i think you're being paranoid- oh, um..." you try to play it off, but then he comes closer and inspects your body for a bit before pulling up your pant leg to reveal the splint surrounding your ankle despite your protests.

his eyes widen and he looks up at you from where he's kneeling. "you got hurt? when? why didn't you call me?" he asks rapidly. you sigh, listening to him scold you even more than what he would have if you'd told him earlier, finally promising him to never hide anything from him again.

jeonghan - basically, you slipped in the shower and gave yourself a concussion while jeonghan was at practice. out of pure embarrassment, you didn't tell jeonghan because let's be real, it sounded a little stupid and someone like him would never let you live it down.

and honestly, you thought you'd exceeded. jeonghan had come home and didn't mention anything to you, just complaining about how he hates all his choreography (he says this everytime he has to learn new choreo...). that was until you went to bed.

all is well, but then those massive headaches roll in one by one and now you're stuck with an unbearable migraine. trying not to disturb your boyfriend, you uncurl yourself from him and barely make your way to the kitchen.

the headache only gets worse as you fumble with the advil bottle while cursing your concussion aloud when suddenly a hand takes it and opens it. "here," you turn around, only to find jeonghan offering the bottle with a confused, sleepy look.

"and what were you muttering around? a concussion or something?" you gulp, taking the advil as you try to come up with an excuse. he takes your (literally three second) hesitation as an answer, "wait- you actually got a concussion?" avoiding the question, you attempt to usher him back to bed, but now he's somehow gained consciousness and doesn't back down. "y/n, what happened? and why didn't you tell me?" and when you finally tell him, he's... disappointed?

"baby, you really didn't tell me you got a concussion because you thought i'd make fun of you?" he sighs, shaking his head before putting his hands on your shoulder, "i'm your lover before a jokester or best friend, okay? i care about you more than anything. don't hide things like this from me."

joshua - in this situation, you would say "snitches get stitches" but the only one who actually got stitches was you.

you got a pretty bad arm wound while bike riding with your friend. it hurt and the only thing you really remembered was crying from the pain. anyways, joshua had just gotten off tour, and you'd feel bad for making him worry, so you made your friend promise to not mention it to him.

but the only warning you get when you return home from the hospital is a text from that same friend saying, "sorry y/n...." before you open the door and are greeted by a very worried joshua.

"y/n! i heard about your arm, are you okay?" you try to brush him off, but he doesn't let you. "hey, your friend also said you were going to try to hide it from me. why's that?"

"it's really not a big deal shua-"

"don't lie to me, she said you were crying, babe. why are you trying so hard to keep this from me?"

you don't know what to say and joshua just embraces you, "here, i'll take care of you okay?" and you let him, because it's joshua.

jun - ugh, he's so oblivious yet somehow annoyingly observant that he finds out without trying.

someone ran over your toe with a shopping cart during your grocery trip. it truly didn't hurt that much in the moment, but the hours after that? oh boy were they torturing.

it still didn't seem like enough to tell jun about, so you simply went about your day suffering in silence.

during dinner, however, he asks you through scoops of chinese steamed egg, "did you hurt your foot while shopping?"

taken aback by the accuracy of his question, you literally drop your spoon and he's just like, "what?? you just seem to be lighter on your feet today, that's all."

he takes the whole situation pretty lightly (oblivious i tell you) that he doesn't even believe you when you try to tell him the truth 😭 "okay, okay, you're just trying to make me seem smart now." so then you take off your sock at the dinner table and lift your bruised foot to show him and he looks at you like this: (°ロ°)

hoshi - unlike jun, he does NOT take it lightly. he's almost offended.

yes, you shouldn't be trying to walk around too much with a bad ankle, but you can't help it okay? sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do, like walk hoshi's dog, latte, while he works on his album.

he's been really busy, okay? you never told him about how you tripped around a week ago, so you'd just been living as if it never happened. honestly it's no surprise that you kind of automatically accepted his sister's request without thinking of your ankle (that was praying you'd stop putting pressure on it).

but then you make the grave mistake of posting your walk on instagram with just a sliver of the bandage wrapping up your ankle. he literally hearts the story, removes it, and replies with an angry face.

he calls you, "y/n! what are you doing walking around with an obviously injured leg? and why am i finding out through your instagram story?"

you're not sure what to say, but he talks for you, "i'm leaving practice right now so i can take care of both my babies, don't move. you'll make your ankle worse, babe."

"right, because you'd know-" and he hangs up on you,

wonwoo - silently observant...

you were surprised that you'd been able to go this long with a cast around your wrist, only using hoodies to conceal it, but turns out wonwoo's like those shop employees who wait for people to steal $1000 worth of stuff before dropping that lawsuit on them.

one day, you're both just sitting on the couch when he grabs ahold of your wrist. he literally waits for you to be distracted, doomscrolling on social media, to do it.

but then you feel him roll up your sleeve, and now you're doomed.

"what's this, y/n?" he asks firmly, holding your arm tight enough to where you can't move, but somehow gently as to prevent any discomfort (how cute of him).

"you really didn't think i would notice it? you wearing hoodies when it's 70 degrees, eating with your nondominant hand, taking forever to shower because you have to wash your hair with one arm, why didn't you just let me take care of you?"

you sort of shrink back in shame; wonwoo read you and you were stunned. he simply takes you into his arms, murmuring, "i'm not mad, i just want you to know that you don't have to struggle like that when i'm here. i'll notice either way."

woozi - ouch. you accidentally cut yourself while cleaning up the remnants of a glass cup you dropped. the cut was deep, but somehow still in a sleepy daze, you cleaned it to the best of your ability, slapped some gauze on it, and went back to bed.

whenever jihoon comes home, he follows his normal 2 am schedule, but then notices the blood-stained towel in the hamper. he rushes to your room, only to find you sound asleep.

still, he shakes you awake, "y/n, why's there a towel with blood all over it in the laundry room?" you kind of look at him, confused, before simply lifting your arm to reveal the amateur work you did you bandage it.

at first, he sighs in relief, but then you see his brows furrow. "when did this happen? seems kinda serious..." he inspects it closely as you mumble, "i dunno, couple hours ago? i dropped something."

"what? why didn't you call me? i could've come home earlier to take care of it." he says, feeling guilty about not being there.

"it's really nothing, you've been really busy anyway. this isn't something you should worry about-" but he shushs you. "i'm never too busy to help you, y/n. i don't want you thinking like that."

dk - like hoshi, he doesn't take it lightly. you took a heavy fall while rushing to work a couple days ago. it wasn't a big deal until your arm started to bruise pretty badly.

you knew seokmin would freak out at it, so you planned on wearing long sleeve shirts to cover it up, and it'd been working pretty well.

but unfortunately for you, this had to be the time where you forgot to bring a shirt with you to shower, accidentally bringing two pairs of pants instead.

you tried to dash in and out of your room as fast as possible, but seokmin was plopped on your bed, getting a clear view of your arm (you had a towel wrapped around you okay?).

his jaw drops, you grab a shirt, water is dripping everywhere, and you yell “i’ll explain later!” as you run back to the bathroom.

when you come back, his jaw is still in the same position. “seok, it’s really not that bad.” you assure him, but he barely pays attention, just reaching for your arm. “it looks bad though…” he mumbles, poking at the bruise like a little kid, “that didn’t hurt, right?”

ugh, he’s so cute.

mingyu - you somehow manage to slice your hand open while cooking dinner for whenever mingyu comes home.

do you tell him? absolutely not. you definitely do not need him locking you out of the kitchen after you try to cook one time.

you really don’t have time to go to the hospital (which you definitely should’ve done??) so you opt to put some pressure on it with a towel until it stops bleeding, and because you have terrible timing, mingyu enters the apartment.

at first he says “smells pretty good! what are you-“ he strides into the kitchen to see the food you were unable to plate at the dining table (that actually looks pretty good), your distressed face, and then your hand.

“at least i got here on time,” he says, taking your hand and looking at it closely. “don’t worry, i was like trained for this stuff.” he smiles, heading toward what you used to think was an overstuffed medical cabinet.

“you didn’t even call me. were you planning to take care of this yourself?” he asks, wrapping your hand with precision. “i’m here for a reason, you know? you just gotta let me help you, baby.”

the8 - you had a feeling minghao would notice immediately, but there was a very slim chance he’d miss it this time. he’d just got done filming for his survival show, and you knew he’d be tired when he got home.

you’re a pretty clumsy person, and you always felt bad for making a usually calm minghao worried. so, when you tripped and got a concussion the day before, you didn’t tell him.

it was going fine, painkillers acting as your savior, but then you ran out of them. groaning, you decide to wait for minghao to leave the house to go buy more, but he doesn’t?

it’s like his subconscious knew your plan, and eventually you just can’t take it anymore, calling your friend and asking her to drop some off.

then you go to take a nap on the couch as an attempt to sleep off the headache you have, unaware that your friend’s at the door.

minghao gently shakes you awake, bottle of advil in his hand and a concerned look on his face. “i knew something was up with you. you should’ve just told me, y/n.” he says, explaining how your friend gave him a weird face when he asked about the medication and then dropping how you got a concussion like it was obvious.

“we shouldn’t hide things like this, okay? it’s not good for you.”

seungkwan - let’s just say, you may not be cut out for volleyball.

you were just goofing off with your friends, playing volleyball, when you dislocated your shoulder. seungkwan was hosting a variety show, and you didn’t feel like bothering him, so you didn’t mention it, not even when he video called you during his lunch break.

it wasn’t that bad of an injury, the doctor popped it back into its socket and you were sent home with some medication.

a week passes with no problem, but then seungkwan offers to play some badminton (like the LAST sport you should be trying to play during recovery), and thinking it wouldn’t be too bad, you accept.

it’s only till you’re actually swinging the racket that you realize that your shoulder has definitely not healed, let alone healed enough to really be playing a sport. you suddenly pause, “wait- just give me a minute.” he runs over from his side of the court. “hey, what’s going on? you look like you’re in pain.”

trying to get out the fact it’s because you got a dislocated shoulder, you ramble “it’s fine, just a dislocatedshoulderigotaweekagowithouttellingyou 😄”

and he’s like “WHAT? are you crazy?? why are you trying to play on it?” and proceeds to grab that same arm and drag you out of the court. he definitely scolds you for the rest of the day…

vernon - normally he’s chill, but right now he’s lowkey tweaking out.

while he was visiting his sister for her birthday, you broke your leg. you didn’t tell vernon because you wanted him to have a good time with his sister (how nice of you 😊), but when he comes home, he doesn’t think of it as such.

you’re laying on the couch, watching a show, whenever he enters the apartment. there’s a blanket over you, so he doesn’t notice the leg immediately.

“finally, this jet lag has got me *yawn* out of it.” he says, lifting the blanket just enough so he can slide in next to you.

he still doesn’t notice until his leg touches your boot, yelping in surprise. “why are you wearing shoes on the couch?” and then making another surprised noise when you reveal its a medical boot.

“did this happen when i was gone? you should’ve told me…” he gently scolds you, mainly because you made him so surprised, and then just lays back with you on the couch like nothing happened.

dino - you really wanted to tell him, but he just looked so happy in singapore and you really didn’t feel like ruining his time there.

on the way to class, you fractured your wrist while trying to catch yourself. since then, you’ve been struggling trying to do basically anything: changing clothes, showering, cooking, the list goes on.

but you didn’t tell him, just choosing to get through it until he comes home.

“y/n~ i’m home!” he calls out, walking in with his luggage. you’re in the shower, arm sticking out as far as it can away from the water, trash bag wrapped around that arm, and ultimately, just in a bad position.

“um, in here! can you help me?” you holler. you feel bad for making him help you as soon as he got home, but you’re going through hell and back trying to shampoo your hair.

he walks into the bathroom, “you sure you want me in here?” and all he sees is a fogged up shower with a trash bagged arm sticking out of it. surprisingly, he immediately understands what happened.

“babe, you should’ve told me earlier.” he says, helping you wash your hair properly. “i don’t like to think that you’ve been struggling like this without me there.” he frowns, kissing you on the forehead.

[purplecoffee13]

Cross The Line*

Summary: “Harry and Y/N have always had a great professional relationship, all based on one rule; a line they drew the first time they met. But when one day that line accidentally blurs, Harry finds that he doesn’t want it to go back to the way it was…”

Wc: 13k

Tropes: Boss!rry x Secretary!Y/N

Warnings: A LOT of back and forth (this is what Katy Perry wrote hot and cold about), arguing, curse words, smut, dirty talk, degradation, light ch0king, dom/sub dynamics, edging, b0ndage, and recording while… yk��

A/N: I’m terribly sorry to have been testing your patience so much the second half of this year, here is a long one shot to say I’m sorry🥲 and I appreciate all of you and I hope you are happy and healthy and will get everything you want in the new year xx💘💘

General Masterlist

HEADER = POV change

Harry's relationship with his secretary is completely normal.

At least, he’s always thought it is.

Sure, it may have seemed more friendly than the usual boss/secretary relationship, but that was only because Y/N was special. She was one of the kind. Smart, stealthy, and sneaky if need be. She did everything he asked for, sometimes before he even realized he should ask her, and was always ready to do more.

Of course, she was attractive as well. Shit, attractive may have even been an understatement. Y/N was drop dead gorgeous and Harry was entirely aware of it. Her ambition made her even sexier, and it's one of the reasons he hired her in the first place.

When Y/N walked through his office door that first time three years ago, he couldn't believe his eyes.

He remembers it like it was yesterday, those wide eyes staring back at him as she froze a couple feet away from him. She was quick to regain herself, though—he had to give her that. But she was nervous as she sat down, even though her movements were calm and the tone of her voice stern. He saw the slightest shake of those hands of her.

Because that job interview hadn't been the first time Harry and Y/N came across each other. It was actually a Halloween party at some high end secretive club in New York one month prior. A night that ended with them hooking up in one of the private lounges.

Even back then, when he never thought he'd see her again, he knew that he would never forget that night, nor the way her face scrunched up as she clenched around him, or the sounds that she made as he drove into her.

He could see that she remembered it as well as she sat across from him that day, but Y/N had quickly made it clear that she was serious about pursuing a career in the film industry. She said she could prove what a great secretary she could be for him, as long as they could put that Halloween night behind them and pretend it never happened. She wouldn't make him regret it, she had told him. He took the chance.

And she had been absolutely right.

Three years had passed and Harry was still thankful to himself for hiring Y/N. She was the best around; fiercely loyal as well. Y/N had been offered jobs by other companies, but she turned down every last one of them. Harry liked to think their relationship played a bit of a part in that as well.

They had become friends—if that's what you could call it—over the years. They had a playful dynamic filled with flirty jokes and random phone calls and favors that blurred that line they had drawn so carefully during Y/N's job interview.

No matter what, Y/N would be the first Harry would call, every time. Whether it was bad business news or a drunken phone call, her number was most likely to be at the top of his last calls. And she always answered, even though she didn't have to. It was a special bond, and while they always danced on it—especially Harry—they never crossed that one line.

Not that Harry needed to. As a matter of a fact, he had quite the adventurous love life. With plenty of people on speed dial and a charming smile that could make anyone's panties drop, Harry wasn't short on romantic escapades. The one thing they all had in common, though, was that it'd never last longer than a few days, and they were rarely ever repeated.

The same couldn't be said for Y/N. In fact, Harry had never seen her with anyone outside of her work, and he never heard her mentioning anything about it...

He didn't know why, but somehow, that thought popped up into his head last Friday as they sat in his office with a drink, celebrating the outstanding reviews that critics had given the newest produced film that was set to premiere next week. Before Harry knew it, he was asking about it.

"Why are you rubbing your temples?" He questioned, watching Y/N massage the side of her head with her eyes closed. He was leaned back in his seat, whiskey in hand as he observed the woman across from him.

"Tension headache." She groaned in response. Despite her grumpiness, Harry couldn't help but grin. What could he say? She was cute when she was grumpy.

"We are literally celebrating, Y/N. What could you possibly be so tense about right now?" He teased, and felt his stomach swirl as a smile painted her lips. She might have rolled her eyes, but she still thought he was funny.

"Oh you have no idea." She mumbled, grabbing her glass and leaning back into her chair. She took a big gulp, her face pulling at the strong taste of the liquor. Harry chuckled.

"You should relax more. Maybe get a hot date to take care of some of that stress for you." He suggested jokingly. Y/N scoffed at the insinuation.

Shaking her head, she said: "I get taken care of just fine, thank you very much."

The equally teasing tone in which she responded caught Harry seriously off guard. Her slight grin pressed down on his chest, and despite having started this joking banter himself, he suddenly didn't find the topic very funny anymore.

"When?"

Y/N locked eyes with her boss. “What?”

"You're here 24/7, when do you even have time to hook up with someone?"

"You know there's this thing called weekends." She joked, but the amusement faded when Harry's mouth didn't even quirk upwards in the slightest bit. It fell quiet for a second or two, and just when Y/N opened her mouth to say something else, someone knocked on the office door.

"Come in."

Harry had said, and soon enough Robin, one of the managers walked in, telling them everyone was going to the pub down the street to celebrate, and if they wanted to come along.

Harry didn't even have the chance to reject the offer—he'd rather spend his nights with his secretary—before Y/N agreed to go along. Feeling obligated, Harry reluctantly gave in as well.

He ended up going home quite early that night, not even properly saying goodbye to Y/N like he normally would before leaving, and he couldn't get the image of her wrapped around another man out of his head the entire ride home. He didn't know why it bothered him so much. Maybe it was the fact that it shouldn't, and more importantly, couldn't bother him, which made it even less bearable.

Whichever reason there may have been for it, he decided to drown out his thoughts by inviting one of his old hook-ups to his house. But even as he drove himself into her as she kept screaming his name, he couldn't stop thinking of Y/N. When she had reached her climax and he began to chase his own high—Harry was caught off guard by Y/N's face flashing through his mind, and extremely embarrassed when those images triggered his orgasm.

The next week is awkward, to say the least. It started out Monday, when Harry could barely look Y/N in the eye. She had received the sudden cold shoulder pretty well, but Harry still felt horrible about it. His attitude got less stiff throughout the week, but it was still bad.

By the time Thursday rolls around again, Harry still hasn't had the chance to get that weird feeling out of his system. So when he approaches his office and spots Y/N behind her desk smiling at him, a wave of guilt washes over him.

He curses himself as he sinks into his desk chair, absentmindedly turning on his laptop. What is he doing? Y/N is his assistant. He shouldn't let his protectiveness of her get the best of him. He does not want to lose her in any way.

Harry flinches when there is a knock on his door. He looks up, finding Y/N standing in his doorway. Immediately, he signals for her to come in. She seems a bit nervous as she nears him, and considering she's never been nervous around him, his heart sinks at the idea that the cold shoulder he's been giving her the other night might have affected her way more than he thought.

He just doesn't know how to behave instead.

"You have a meeting in conference room C in five minutes. It's the banker's son who's been proposing his script for the past year. I  know your schedule is tight, especially with the premiere coming up, but I thought you might as well get it over with." She says, putting a stack of papers on the table that Harry can only assume is the script. He nods, quirking up the corner of his mouth.

"Thank you, smart thinking." The praise falls from his lips in a casual manner, and he doesn't miss the way she physically relaxes at the positive reinforcement. She nods at him, and turns back to the door. Right before she is about to leave the office, she turns around again. Harry leans back in his seat, waiting to hear what she'll say.

"I'm sorry if I overstepped last week." She says, and Harry frowns at the apology.

"What?"

"I clearly said something that ticked you off." She explains,her shoulders slumping slightly. "I know we joke around, but I was afraid that maybe I'd accidentally crossed a line—“

"Y/N, stop it." Harry interrupts her, getting up from his seat. Her lips are locked within a second, and she stares at her boss with wide eyes. His stomach twists at the sight of it. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"But— if I said something inappropriate then I want to apologize for it." She says, straightening her posture again, biting her bottom lip so he won't see it quiver. As if he doesn't know the way her body works. As if he hasn't known for three years.

Putting his hands inside his pockets, Harry walks around his desk and stands in front of her. A little closer than he needs to, and yet not as close he would like.

"Let me ask you this: How many times have you declined booty calls for me?" He asks, tilting his head a bit. A slight smile appears on Y/N's face, and she pretends to think it over.

"Twenty-seven." Her smile crinkles her eyes, making them even more glassy. Harry quite literally feels his hand itch to touch her face, but he keeps it sternly in his pocket. "I kept track so I could count all the reasons you definitely won't get into heaven."

At that, he lets out a snort. Y/N can't help but chuckle too, and slowly but surely the weirdness dissolves from the room. When the laughter has died down, she speaks up again.

"So... we're good?"

"We're good." Harry smiles at his secretary, and his chest heats up when he spots the faint blush that appears on her cheeks. Jesus Christ, did she become even more beautiful than she was yesterday or was he just too stupid to notice earlier? Probably the latter.

"Well in that case you need to leave because your meeting is like, right now." She reminds him, and he hums in agreement as he gets up from his seat and walks towards the door with Y/N.

"Already gone, love." He winks at her, walking out the door with a lot more confidence in his relationship with Y/N. Maybe everything can go back to normal again. Maybe he was just exaggerating when he couldn't get her out of his head this weekend. Perhaps it was just a glitch, a temporary error in his brain that had come and gone in a flash.

That must've been it, he tells himself as he makes his way to conference room C. He takes a deep breath, musters a polite smile, and opens the door to the room. Harry already knows this guy is going to be wasting his time, but he made a promise to hear him out, so he will.

The guy sitting at the table is the stereotypical spoiled rich son. When John Longwell—a long-time business partner of Harry's— asked him to revise his son's script as a favor, Harry told him he'd do it if he ever found the time. He always hoped John's son would lose interest and forget about the script by the time Harry could find a free space in his agenda, but unfortunately that hadn't been the case.

And although the arc of the story had sounded absolutely horrendous— something about zombies fueled by a brainwashing radio song, which didn't even make sense to Harry because zombies don't have brains—he couldn't back out anymore. So he needs to get it over with, starting now.

Harry loudly shuts the door.

The guy—whose name he can't really remember at the moment—flinches and turns around, a big grin on his face as he gets up from his seat.

"Mr. Styles, it's a pleasure to see you." The man says, extending his hand, which Harry, in turn, takes. He only gives a slight nod before heading over to the other side of the table and sitting down.

"So, where's your script?" Harry asks, eyeing the empty table. The guy looks flustered, opening his mouth to say something, but the opening of the door interrupts that. Harry leans back in his seat when he spots his secretary walk through it, not even eyeing the other guy as she struts over to him and lays the printed out script on the glass table.

"Sorry, you forgot this. It was still on your desk." She says, finally turning to the man to throw him an innocent smile. His sheepish grin satisfies her enough to turn back to her boss and focus all her attention on him. "I also forgot to ask you— do you want to move up lunch today?"

The corner of Harry's mouth tugs up. Over the last three years, the concept of 'moving up lunch' has become a code for 'should I get you out of this early?'. Y/N came up with it a long time ago, and it has stuck ever since.

"Yes, I would very much like that. Thank you, Y/N." He says, and the way a smirk slowly creeps onto her face makes the hairs on his body rise.

"It's my pleasure, Mr. Styles." She gives one final nod before walking out of the room and closing the door behind her. Harry would lie if he said he didn't let his eyes fall onto the way her hips moved as she strolled away.

Unfortunately the fun doesn't last long, and with the slam of the door Harry is reminded that he still has to sit through this meeting a little longer. He looks down at the script.

"A Thousand Zombies

By Jason Longwell."

Right, Jason, that was his name.

"Jesus Christ, if that were my secretary I'd have her bent over my desk all day. How do you get any work done?" Jason breathed out, grinning like a stupid fucking schoolboy. Harry quite literally felt the storm cloud that came floating right above his head the second he heard that incompetent loser say those words. His hands balled up into fists at the suggestive comment, knuckles getting whiter by the second.

"Get out." Harry growls. John raises his eyebrows, looking around him as if Harry couldn't have possibly been addressing it to him.

"W— what?" He stumbles.

"I don't do business with insolent idiots. Get out." Harry repeats, getting up from his seat and buttoning his suit jacket. John follows his movements, anger starting to cloud on his face.

"What the fuck did you just call me?" He exclaims in a failed attempt to sound intimidating. At least, Harry assumes that's what he's trying to do.

"I called you an idiot. Now, get the hell out of my face before I boot your sorry ass right to the front door." With one brow raised, he waits as John tries to muster a response until he eventually gives up and storms out of the room. Harry throws the script into the trash as he walks out of the conference room half a minute later. Y/N is immediately by his side.

"That was quick, I didn't even have time to think of an emergency." She jokes as they walk back to Harry's office together. He raises a brow.

"Yes you did. What was it this time? Food poisoning?" He guesses, holding the door to his office open once they've reached it. Y/N grins as she walks past him and takes a seat at one of the chairs in front of his desk.

"Actually, your car was going to get stolen in about five minutes." She responds, the blush of her cheeks revealing the slight embarrassment of having to voice this excuse out loud. Harry's eyes widen as he walks over to his desk, feeling his assistant watching his every move. He quite likes the feeling.

"No way." He laughs. "You just get more creative by the day."

"What can I say, I'm good at crisis management." She shrugs, crossing her legs and getting into a more comfortable position on the chair. Harry tries his best to not let his eyes float to her legs.

"That you are." He murmurs, the huskier sound of his voice giving a different ambiance to the conversation. As Harry feels the mood switch, he curses himself. Why did he have to ruin it?

Y/N clears her throat. "Anyway— why'd the meeting end early?"

"It ended early because Jason Longwell is a sleazy douchebag." He responds shortly, straightening in his seat in an attempt to gain control of the situation again. He can't let himself slip like this again, and she can't know the real reason he kicked out Jason. But there is no denying the sheer rage that boils his blood when that comment flashes through his memory. He hates that the asshole thought he could just speak about Y/N like that.

"Ooh, what did he say when you kicked him out?" Y/N asks eagerly, still in a playful mood. "You did kick him out right?"

"I don't have time to get into this right now. I need to sign those contracts that were sent in yesterday before I go home." Harry says sternly, avoiding eye contact with Y/N as he speaks, but he still sees the slump in her shoulders at his sudden shift in attitude.

"Right, of course." She immediately returns to the responsible secretary she always is, getting up from her seat. He hears her exit the room, heels clacking against the wooden floor. As soon as the door has shut, Harry throws his head back in frustration.

So much for going back to normal.

Playing into the teasing will only rope him further into that forbidden fantasy, and he clearly won't be able to stop himself from resisting her if he does. But he's the one who started all the playfulness, massively screwing himself over he realizes now. If he shifts his behavior, she's always going to think he's mad at her because of something.  But he's going to have to, because Harry can't go back to normal anymore.

Deciding he needs to clear his head, Harry grabs his coat and heads for the elevators without so much as a word. He pretends not to notice the way people's eyes widen when he walks by, suddenly on their best behavior, and although it used to give him an ego boost back when he started, nowadays he just prefers it if people aren't scared of him.

It turns out to be a particularly nice outside for a winter day in London. Not to get it twisted— it's still freakishly cold. It's just that the sun has replaced the endless rain of this entire month. Harry suppresses a chuckle at the irony of the sun finally being out at the very first moment where he's felt so shitty in a long time.

He doesn't know how long he's outside, so he knows it's not fair to be frustrated when he comes back and Y/N isn't at her desk, but he can't help the slight distress that washes over him at the empty seat.

"It's just a date—"

"Your second date!"

Harry creased brows don't do much to hide his feelings when he turns around to see his secretary with a co-worker. The shy smile on her face—accompanied with that blush on her cheeks she always gets when she's secretly giddy about something—disappears at the sight of her boss looking at her like she just killed a puppy.

"Ha— Mr. Styles." She is quick to catch her almost error. Her wide eyes bore into his, filled with confusion and worry. But Harry's frown doesn't give away much, aside. From the fact that he is obviously annoyed.

"I was looking for you." He states stoically, not even acknowledging the employee that is standing next to her. The woman takes the hint and gives Y/N and Harry a small nod before walking away. As soon as she does, Harry turns around and walks towards his own office. He can hear her footsteps following him inside, and with the inconsistent clacking against the floor he can tell she's having a hard time keeping up with his long strides. Still, he doesn't slow his pace.

"I need the papers for the donations printed out and on my desk. And I'll need you to move the meeting with the director of the romance movie to Tuesday evening."

"Yes, of course." The breathy response falls from Y/N's lips the second he finishes his sentence, and by the time he enters his office, she is long gone to do exactly what he asked. Harry shuts the door a little louder than intending to, accidentally shaking the framed artwork on the wall.

Y/N isn't very talkative for the rest of the day, that usual spark of hers seemingly having dimmed. Harry's chest is heavy, knowing his cold attitude was the catalyst for that, but he keeps it up nonetheless. He can't help himself from falling back into it every time he sees her face.

A date. She's going on a date. A second one at that. He can't believe it. Is this who she referred to when she said she gets taken care of? His stomach churns at the possibility.

He tries not to, but Harry still gets warped into the spiral of overthinking about 'date' Y/N has tonight. So much, in fact, that he almost doesn't notice the time flying by until Y/N knocks on his door at 6PM. Harry spots the coat that hangs over her desk chair, and he realizes the work day is over.

"Everything is done for the day and ready for next week. I also sent the papers about the donations with a courier who owed me a favor, so the documents are signed on both parts and the donations will be officially registered by Monday." She explains, hands behind her back. Her new shy behavior—while quite endearing—is excruciating to see. She had always been comfortable around Harry, until now. Until he had to ruin it for the both of them.

"Thank you." Harry gives her a firm nod.

"No problem." She responds a bit awkwardly. "So... I'm going to clock out for the day."

Y/N has already turned around by them time Harry's voice croaks out a 'no'. She whips her head towards her boss, head tilted as she awaited whatever it was that he was going to say.

"I need those contracts for that romance movie." He says before he can even comprehend his words.

"But you won't be negotiating that deal for another two weeks." Y/N retorts, her tone more stern than usual. He can tell she's tired.

"I don't care. I want them on my desk tonight." He holds his head high, despite knowing damn well what he's doing.

He's stalling. Long enough for... he doesn't know actually. For her to cancel her date? It sounds ridiculous now that he really thinks about it.

"Harry, I have an appointment tonight—"

"I said I don't care. I pay you to do as I ask. This is not something you can argue me on." He grumbles. With how Y/N's jaw is clenched, he can't say the same for her attitude. Without another word, she leaves the office.

Harry's worry begins to grow every minute that passes with Y/N out of sight. But when she returns with a stack of papers in her hand after a bit—seven minutes to be exact—that worry evolves into surprise. Walking over to his desk, she plops the papers on them a bit carelessly before speaking up.

"I had them made on Monday because I like to be a few steps ahead." She elaborates. "Now, if that's all, I'm going home."

Y/N doesn't even say goodbye when she grabs her coat and walks to the elevators. Harry sighs to himself, not knowing how the hell he should handle this. It takes him a few seconds before he realizes he really can't do this anymore. He needs to talk to her, if only just to clear the air.

And so, he gets up from his seat and hurries after his assistant.

He catches her just as she walks into an empty elevator, and he joins just before the doors close. Her knitted brows make it clear that she is not in the mood to talk to him.

"I'm sorry... about the documents." Harry confesses, but she doesn't face him. It stays quiet between them for a bit, until the biting sentence falls from Y/N's lips.

"You said we were good."

His heart cracks at her wobbly voice. He can't believe he made her feel this way. If any other person would've brought her to tears, he would've beaten the shit out of them. He reaches for her arm.

"W— we are." He lies. It's the biggest lie he's ever told her, and she knows it, because she immediately turns around.

"No we're not! I said I was sorry if I did something wrong, and you told me it was okay, and now all of a sudden you're being so... cold. I don't understand—" her eyes become glassy. "I don't understand what I did wrong."

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Harry opens his mouth, ready to spout out his apologies, when Y/N's phone starts to ring. It takes them out of their little trance, and Y/N fumbles around her jacket for a bit until she's finally found her phone. He can't see who's calling her, but it can't be an expected call if he has to judge by the expression on her face.

"Marco, why are you—" her eyes widen at whatever the voice on the other side of the line is telling her, and Harry subconsciously finds himself leaning in a bit in the hope to find out what's wrong.

"What?" Y/N breathes. Her voice is small, and it sounds defeated, tired. The elevator dings, signaling they're downstairs, but Y/N doesn't move, so Harry doesn't either. She seems to notice and lets out a huff before storming out of the confined space and pacing around the lobby.

"You said we had a green light! That was months ago, Marco! Did you even—" She growls, clutching at her phone so hard Harry is afraid she's going to break it. "You know what, never mind. Give me his number."

The Marco guy seems to say something that he really shouldn't have said, because with the way Y/N's face twists Harry swears he can see steam coming out of her ears

"I don't care that they're not answering, I'll make them answer. Give me their numbers and then go find them." She orders before ending the call. And although the thought really shouldn't be crossing his mind right now, Harry can't help but notice how attractive Y/N is when she's mad. He shakes off the thought, telling himself that's the last thing he should be paying attention to right now.

Y/N paces around one more time, cursing under her breath, before striding past Harry and pushing the elevator buttons like a maniac.

"What's going on?"

Y/N shakes her head. "N— nothing. Just a little hiccup that could've easily been prevented. I won't be long."

Harry raises a skeptical brow, but she doesn't dare to meet his eye. She's lying through her teeth.

"Y/N—"

"Harry, really, it's nothing. I'm taking care of it." She tries to convince him, but he notices the way her hands are slightly trembling. "I'm sorry I was unprofessional. You're my boss. It's my job to take your orders, not question them."

Wait, no.

That aching feeling fills his stomach. His entire body, for that matter. He doesn't want her to be a silent and compliant assistant. That's not why he hired her. He needs someone to push back, to joke around with. Shit— what has he done?

Harry finds himself speechless as she enters the elevator and pushes the button of the seventh floor; the office. His brain isn't fast enough to think of what to say before the doors shut and the elevator ascends.

His feet stay glued to the ground as he ponders, his mind reeling like a rollercoaster. Frustration fills his body to his every finger tip. Everything has gone wrong, and he has no idea how to make it better.

At least ten minutes must've gone by by the time that a concierge taps Harry on the shoulder to ask him if he's okay. Still a bit wary, he nods before excusing himself and leaving the building.

Everything is going wrong.

Leaning over the desk with her face buried between her arms, Y/N is unable to hold back the tears that glide over her cheeks.

First, her boss gets mad at her, and she has no idea why. Then, just when they seemed to be okay again, he changed his attitude up again. And what does she do instead of letting it go? She starts a fight. And now Marco drops a disastrous bomb in her lap that could entirely ruin the movie premiere on Sunday. And if that wasn't enough—and she really thinks it was—this sudden crisis caused her to cancel her date of tonight.

It wasn't anything special, really. Y/N had met Jamie a few weeks ago, and they went out last week. He was a nice guy, handsome too, and she thought he was perfect for a short lived affair. Besides, her vibrator just couldn't live up to her fantasies. She was human, she needed to get off every now and then too. It was like Y/N had this itch in need of scratching, one she hadn't been able to reach in what felt like years.

But that wasn't going to happen now. In fact, she was risking being fired if she didn't solve this problem as soon as possible.

Damn! She really thought she had kept it all together, despite the extreme business this year. She thought she'd done a good job.

But that was a lie, because if she had done a good job, Marco wouldn't have ever gotten into the position where an artist on the soundtrack could manipulate the contract they signed. Y/N had told Marco to make it airtight, already having been suspicious of the artists' integrity from the moment they became part of the soundtrack. She assumed that they would try something.

'Chain' was an up and coming band known for their indie sound, but Y/N would just describe them as two pricks. Not only had they been subtly demeaning to her when Harry met with them, barely acknowledging her existence, they were arrogant as well. They came in expecting a lot more money than Harry and the rest of the company were willing to give them. It was absurd that they expected such a big number, but their cocky attitude didn't fade throughout the meeting.

It was truly a favor to the director, why Harry worked so hard to compromise with Chain. The director had been so passionate about the movie, and he had really wanted the song. If one thing was important to Harry, it's that there went passion onto the projects he produced and invested in. So, he decided to help, and eventually managed to struck a deal with the singers. It was still way above the pay grade they should've got—in Y/N's opinion—but they agreed.

Having seen first hand how greedy those two were, she had told Marco—the guy who handled all the legal documents—to make that contract airtight. She demanded to look it over, but because of her busy schedule, she let Marco have another lawyer look at it before sending the contract.

And now, because of a lazy mistake Chain's lawyer found, they are demanding more money or they'll waive their rights to the music. Something which would be absolutely detrimental because the entire climax of the movie, the cinematography and timing are all tuned to the song.

If she doesn't find a way to solve this problem, this entire premiere could fall apart, and it would all be her fault. She gave the green light to Harry, who gave it to the director. It's all her fault. 

She should've fucking read that contract herself, then this would've never happened.

Between Harry being mad at her, the fact that she was in her luteal phase, and this sudden disaster, the tears began streaming down her face, and the soft crying only turned into full on sobs the more she tries to calm herself down.

She allows herself the mental breakdown, but when she begins to regain control of her breath again after a few minutes, Y/N decides that it's enough. She has a job to get done, and no one was going to swoop in and save her.

So, she starts making call after call, ringing everyone in the immediate vicinity of the two arrogant bastards. It's crucial she reaches them before the night is over. Only forty minutes have passed by the time she is on the seventh person, but it feels like an eternity nonetheless.

She flinches when, while trying to reach Chain's tour manager, the elevator door dings and a shadow nears. Her tense shoulders sink a little bit at the sight of Harry, glad it's not some creep. Her brows crease as she watches him walk towards her. He's carrying a couple of bags with... is that food? It sure smells like it.

When the call goes to voicemail—for the third time—Y/N puts down the phone and gets up from her seat, hurrying over to her boss and stopping him before he could reach her desk.

"What are you doing here?!" She asks, blocking his way. He lifts the bags, a subtle, apologetic smile on his face.

"I brought food—" He looks up at her, and his eyes darken as soon as he takes in her face. "Have you been crying?"

Y/N raises her hands to her face, quickly glancing at the ground while she wipes her cheeks before meeting his eyes again. Harry puts the bags down, and it feels like her heart skips a beat or two when his thumbs stroke the skin under both her eyes. He leaves his hand around her face, cupping her jaw while he stares at her with such a piercing pain in his eyes that it makes Y/N's eyes water altogether again.

"What's wrong?" His voice is soft, and the feel of his big, warm hands holding her is comforting her in a way she hasn't experienced in a quite some time. Y/N only focused on his chest, afraid that the welled up water in her eyes will spill out again the second she looks at her boss. She told herself the crying was over, so why wasn't she able to control herself?

A few seconds pass, and silence runs between the thick air that makes it nearly impossible to breathe normally. Then, Y/N feels the slight pressure of Harry's hands, inching her head upwards. Automatically, her gaze flicks to that of her boss, and when she sees the worry on his face, a tear escapes her eye. His thumb catches it before it has the chance to roll down all the way down her cheek.

"I messed up." She only says, closing her eyes in shame. Harry says nothing, only letting out a sigh as he continues to caress her cheek.

Suddenly, the phone rings. Y/N reluctantly backs away from Harry's touch, and runs over to her desk to pick up the phone.

"Hello?" She says, her voice laced with such desperation that she internally cringes at it.

"Y/N? It's Marco. I found them, they're at a studio just outside the city."

She hums, grabbing a pen. "Give me the address."

"No, I'm going. This is my mess, Y/N, I'm not going to let you clean it up." Marco croaks from the other side of the line, and Y/N feels his voice tug at her heartstrings.

"Marco, listen to me. This is as much my fault as it is yours. I should've read the damn thing and notice the mistake." She replies, leaning over her desk to grab her coat.

"Y/N, I'll take care of it, okay? I found a fault in their loophole, they're stuck. Let me handle this. You just go home and enjoy what's left of your evening I ruined—" Marco tells her. "Wait, didn't you have a date tonight? Oh my god, did I ruin your date?"

"I did... but it's alright. It probably wouldn't have worked out with him anyway." Y/N chuckled awkwardly and glanced towards Harry, who looked weirdly annoyed at what she said.

"I'm so sorry, I promise I'll make it up to you." Marco shares the desperate plea.

"You can make it up to me by giving me the address of the studio." Y/N tells him cheekily.

"Y/N..." he warns.

"What? I promise I'm going home. It's just so I know where you are." She lies. Y/N is a good liar, except in front of Harry. Having a tendency to get nervous, she always betrays herself. She's lucky that this is a phone call, otherwise Marco would've known she wasn't planning on going home at all.

Hesitantly, he gives her the address, which she immediately writes down on her hand.

"Okay, thank you Marco. Good luck." She says, hanging up the phone with a lot more confidence than ten minutes ago. She can feel Harry staring her down as she puts on her coat, clearly waiting for an explanation for this whiplash-like behavior.

"I really have to go."

Harry shrugs. "I'll give you a ride. You can explain everything to me on the way to your house."

Y/N shakes her head, walking towards her boss. "No, really, you don't have to."

"Yes I do." Harry argues.

"You really don't."

"Do you have a problem with me bringing you home, Y/N?" He asks as if he's dumb, as if he doesn't know she's secretly trying to go to that studio.

"No!" She is quick to protest.

"Or does it have anything to do with the address of that mysterious studio you've written on your hand?" He teases, and Y/N clenches her jaw in frustration.

"I just— I need to make sure it's handled." She sputters. Harry shrugs.

"From what I heard it's being handled just fine." He points out. "You've got to learn to let things go sometimes, Y/N."

She shakes her head, looking the floor. "I can't. Not with this."

Harry lowers his head, trying to get on the same eye-level as her and searching for her eyes. "Why not?"

"I told you; I messed up." Her voice quivers as she tells Harry the truth. "There was a mistake in the contract with Chain. Somehow they found a loophole, and now they want more money or they'll waive the rights to their song."

"What?!" Harry growls, exactly like Y/N anticipated he'd react. God, he's going to fire her any moment.

"It's my fault. It was a reference mistake I could've easily spotted if I had taken the time to revise it." She admits, feeling extremely shameful of her lazy actions.

"What are you talking about? This is the legal team's fault, they should've seen that damned mistake! It's not in your job description to revise a contract, it's not your responsibility. It's not your fault, Y/N." He explains. She sucks in a breath, his words hitting her harder than she expected. Heart aching, the one sentence rings in her head.

It's not your fault.

That couldn't be true, could it? She was responsible for this deal, and for Harry. She should've seen this coming, even though she couldn't have possibly known. Did she not always pride herself in having this sixth sense, in being ahead of everyone else? What was she without that? What was she if not the best at the one thing that made her special, that set her apart from the crowd. What was she worth without that invincibility?

"You revise every contract, don't you?"

Her eyes flick towards her boss. She doesn't say anything, but the answer is hidden in her pupils. And it seems Harry can read them like an open book. "How long have you been doing that?"

"Two years." Y/N stammers, her arms crossed as if it will keep her body from revealing whatever her mouth won't. Harry just lets out a breathy chuckle before pulling her into his arms, taking her into a sweet embrace. With his chin leaning on her head, Y/N takes the opportunity to bury her face in his chest, trying not to bask too much in the heavenly scent of his cologne.

"Remind me to give you a raise." He jokes in a soft whisper, earning a sniff of laughter from Y/N.

For a while it seems like everything that tore her down, including what went down between her and Harry, didn't exist anymore. There was just him and her, their embrace and a distant ticking clock, the only indicator of time passing. Yet it felt like the world stopped, or slowed down at least, being in Harry's arms like that. And suddenly, that itch that she hadn't been able to scratch in so long, it felt like it was soothed by a stroking hand instead, and in a way it fulfilled her. It just so happened to be a way she did not expect.

The initial shock at the realization—this puzzle piece that suddenly clicked—made Y/N back away. She clears her throat, fiddling with her hands.

"They're supposed to be at this studio right outside the city. It's only twenty minutes away by car. I just need to be sure." She announces. Harry grabs the bags of food he put down before placing his hand on her lower back and guiding the both of them back to the elevator.

"We'll take my car." He states, and although Y/N can tell by his tone that Harry expects there to be no talking back, but she just can't help herself.

"Harry, I told you I can take a cab." She suggests as they wait for the elevator door to open. Harry doesn't respond as he guides them both into the small space and pushes the button for the ground floor. When the door closes, he turns to her, looking down at her with such an intimidating stare that Y/N feels like she's shrinking.

"And I told you: we're taking my car." He says sternly, his low voice twisting her stomach in an interesting way. When Y/N goes to open her mouth again, Harry lays his finger on her lips. He hums in disapproval, shaking his head.

"I was being clear, right?" He asks rhetorically. His gaze sweeps over her mouth before settling on her eyes again. Not daring to speak another word, let alone breathe, Y/N only nods in response.

"Good." Harry responds, a cocky smirk framing his face as he strolls out of the elevator, leaving Y/N breathless and in a slight trance. Blinking a few times, she comes back to her sense and hurries after her boss.

Richard has always been a master at reading people, and this time is no exception. The second he began driving, he raised the partition, leaving Harry and Y/N with some privacy.

Harry really has a knack for hiring the right people.

The first few minutes of the car ride are silent, and Harry spends it observing Y/N as she picked at her nail beds, frantically looking at of the window as if it would make the car move faster. She has so much tension inside that little body of hers; she is clearly in need of a distraction.

"I think I'm jealous."

Y/N's head whips to him, brows raised at the sudden confession. Her body turns with her, knees now in Harry's direction as she leans back into the seat, getting comfortable as she lays close attention.

"Of me?" She asks, utterly confused. She seems very lost, not really connecting the dots. Harry doesn't blame her; that confession was quite out of the blue.

"Of whoever gets to take care of you."

Pure silence. Harry swears he could hear a pin drop. Y/N stares at him like a deer in headlights, probably having no idea what to say or do or think. She gulps.

"What?" Her voice is so soft that he almost doesn't hear her, but since all his focus is on her, he doesn't miss it. Letting out a breath, he leans forward, placing a hand on her thigh. His face inches closer and closer until their mouths are mere inches away from each other. Checking for her reaction with every small movement, he can't help but notice how she doesn't stray away from him. In fact, she leans in, causing their lips to brush against each other.

"The idea of another man touching you, having you, it makes my fucking blood boil." He says, voice hoarse. Her eyes frantically search every last inch of his face, looking for something she seemingly can't find. Perhaps she's attempting to find the usual playfulness that always accompanies any conversation that blurs that line between them. In that case, she could keep looking forever and ever, because he is dead serious. Fuck how it used to be and fuck whatever's right or wrong.

And most of all, fuck that line, because he's crossing it.

Harry closes the small gap between them, trying to suppress the moan that threatens to work up his throat at the sole feeling of her lips against his. What a fucking idiot he was for ever agreeing to forget about that Halloween night. Not that he ever truly did forget about it. Besides her obvious competencies, hiring Y/N was a way of keeping her where he seemed to like her best from the moment they met; close to him.

With that thought in mind, he wraps his hand around her face and pulls her closer. She complies, clicking her seatbelt free to move further towards Harry when he slips his tongue inside.

Their mouths move against each other like it's both the first time and the hundredth time they've done this. So familiar and yet it's like nothing he ever felt before. A sensation so different from three years ago, one so heavy and laced with a detail his brain can't quite seem to grasp. Deep down, he knows what it is, he just can't quite lay his finger on it.

But his body can, and it does, and so does Y/N's, because her grinding against him is exactly what he needs. His hand sneaks around her neck, lips curling into a smile at the familiarity of the curves of her neck and the identical moan that falls from her lips just as it did three years ago.

Harry groans when the car suddenly stops and Y/N falls forward a little bit, the friction against his trousers being a bit too much to bear at the moment. Slowly, the partition lowers, and without so much looking at them through the mirror, Richard speaks up.

"We've arrived."

Wrong. Harry clearly hasn't.

Before Harry can catch his breath, Y/N can get off his lap, and either one can even answer, the partition rises again. Immediately, Y/N throws her face into Harry's neck.

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god." She wheezes out in pure, utter shame. Harry shakes his head, a faint grin on his face. He would have been laughing his ass off if he wasn't so painfully hard right now. Instead, he only pats Y/N's back, telling her it's fine. She groans and opens the car door.

"No it's not! God, I will never be able to look him in the eye again!" She says, punching the bridge of her nose. Harry shuts the door and grabs Y/N's waist, pulling her towards him. She stumbles into his chest. He lifts her face with his fingers, forcing her to look up at him.

"You're going to have to, because I don't want to fire him." He jokes, and Y/N bites her lip to keep her smile from growing too wide. Not wanting to give Harry the satisfaction that he made her laugh, she looks to the side, but her face expression falls quickly.

"This is not my apartment." She notes, looking at the huge building next to her. "This is yours."

Harry nods.

"I can't be at your apartment, I have to—" Y/N stops herself before she can say more. But Harry already knew what she was going to say. Playfully, he raises a brow.

"You have to... what?"

"To... I have to—"

"Sneak out to that studio?" He finishes her sentence, and her eyes widen. She tries to regain herself but her cheeks are flushed and there is nothing she can do anymore. He's got her. "Yeah, that's not going to happen."

With that, he places a hand on her lower back and guides her towards his building. She stumbles a bit, but eventually catches onto the pace. But her body language is apprehensive, looking back at the road where Richard is standing. Or well, was standing. Harry ordered him to drive away as soon as they got out of the car.

Still, she turns around in a quick motion, trying to get to a cab. Harry's arm catches her, however, and he pulls her back against his chest. Along with his other hand, he turns her around, catching sight of her big eyes boring into his.

"Don't try me." He speaks slowly, dipping his head down until he finds himself inches away from Y/N. "You know what happens if you try me."

His voice is lower than before, having flipped a switch now that her mouth has been on his. He got a taste for the first time in years, he wasn't going to let her get away now. Y/N's breath hitches, eyes flicking down to his mouth.

Knowing he's got her right where he wants her, Harry pulls back and strolls toward the entrance of his apartment building. Soon enough, he hears those heels behind him and he smirks.

It's silent when they step in the elevator, and for the first few seconds, as Harry leans agains't the wall and observes his secretary, it stays that way. She eyes him a couple of times, her ears getting redder.

"What?" She breathes out, looking down at her body like there must be something wrong if he's looking at her for so long. He simply shrugs.

"Nothing. Just admiring you."

At that, Y/N vigorously shakes her head and crosses her arms. A soft scoff leaves her mouth, one she didn't think Harry would hear, but he did. He takes a few steps towards Y/N, inching her against the wall.

"You have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?" He asks sincerely, searching for her eyes. When she finally looks up at him, the nervous smile on her face fades a bit.

Harry doesn't like that look on her face. Needing to fix it, he leans forward and plants his lips on hers again, grabbing her face and pulling her into him. It only takes a matter of seconds before her arms are wrapped around his neck and their bodies are impossibly close to each other again.

Tongues delving deeper into each other's mouth, Harry feels himself floating on some sort of feeling. Despite not being able to define it, he is absolutely positive that he doesn't ever want it to stop. And since kissing Y/N causes this specific feeling, the only feasible option is to never stop kissing her. It's the best plan he's had in ages.

It doesn't take long before the situation gets heated, much like it did before, and Harry's hands trail to Y/N's hips to pull her against him. Desperate for any sort of relief, Harry's hips automatically start to move, and Y/N immediately responds. His body feels like it's on fire, and he tries not to let out any sounds as his strained cock rubs against his tight pants.

Harry takes his lips off Y/N's mouth, peppering kisses to her jaw instead. Slowly, he works his way towards her ear, where he stops to whisper in her ear.

"I'm going to remind you how fucking beautiful you are." The hot breath that left his mouth had her shuddering against him, a slight whine escaping her lips. As he leaves sloppy kisses on Y/N's neck, Harry's free hand slowly travels under her shirt, finding her bra.

She gasps softly when his hand starts to massage her breast, the sensitivity of both spots leaving her hot and bothered under Harry. Fuck, she is so fucking stunning, how did she not see it herself?

Suddenly, the elevator stops, and the door opened. Taking a step back, Harry only winks at Y/N before he turns around and strolls out as if it's a casual Friday. As if he doesn't have his secretary, whom he left high and dry, trailing behind him like a lost puppy.

"Would you like something to drink?" He asks when they enter his home, Harry immediately going into the kitchen.

"Absinthe." Y/N breathes out, leaning over the kitchen island. Harry peeks inside his fridge.

"I only have white wine."

Y/N shrugs. "I'm sure it'll have the same effect if I just keep drinking."

Harry chuckles, grabbing the bottle of wine and placing it on the counter. He walks to a cabinet and takes two wine glasses out of it. Placing one in front of Y/N and the other in front of himself, he opens the bottle and starts pouring, not stopping until the glasses are halfway full. Y/N laughs at the ridiculously full wine glass that he pushes her way, but takes it gladly. He doesn't miss the way her breasts nearly spill out of her top as she leans forward a bit further than intended to in order to grab the glass.

"To the unexpected." She says it like it's a dare. Amused, Harry decides to entertain it, and nods his head.

"To the unexpected."

They raise the glasses before both taking a long sip. Y/N rests her arms on the table, giving a perfect view of her tits right in Harry's frame. She smirks when his eyes accidentally fall on it, and Harry's stomach swirls with excitement. She's trying to play.

"Crazy, how fast life can change, isn't it?" She asks rhetorically, and Harry just hums, waiting patiently for her to reveal what she's trying to do. "I mean, I got up today thinking I'd end the day in another man's bed."

There it is.

She's always been smart, and she knows how to push Harry's buttons. Though his fingers grip the kitchen counter tightly, so much that his knuckles turn white, Harry keeps the corners of his mouth lifted.

"And now you're here." He says, head tilting just a bit. She hums in agreement, taking another sip from her wine.

"Yeah, but just crazy to think that I went into the day thinking I'd hook up with someone else." She tells it so innocently, as if she's mostly talking to herself. Harry's jaw clenches as he stalks around the kitchen island and nears Y/N.

"But you're not, though." Harry notes, falling right into the trap. He knows what she's trying to do but he just can't help himself. He doesn't like the idea of her being with another man. He waits for her answer, hearing his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

"I know, but I could have—"

Before the sentence has entirely left Y/N's mouth, Harry's hand flies to her neck. The amused look on Y/N's face tells him enough, but he doesn't care.

"You're not. You're in my bed tonight, and any night after that as far as I'm concerned, so I don't want to hear another fucking word about it."

Her eyes twinkle with amusement as she stares up at him. "You really are jealous."

The corner of his mouth tilts upwards, "And you've gotten feisty over the years."

Y/N bites her bottom lip, humming in agreement to his observation. Harry lets out a soft chuckle, tightening the grip on her neck. Y/N gasps in surprise.

"But do you still like to be put in your place?" He asks, inching his face close to hers. The answer is written in her eyes, and yet Y/N doesn't respond. When it's clear that she won't anytime soon, Harry's free hand sneaks around the waist of her pants. She shivers at the touch.

"Well? Do you?" He repeats himself, and slowly but surely, Y/N nods her head. Harry lets out a disapproving noise. "That's not a proper answer."

Closing her eyes, Y/N lets out a deep breath. "Yes, I like to be put in my place."

"That's what I thought." Harry laughs, taking his hands off of her entirely. She frowns, but her eyes widen when he barks out a demand. "Take off your clothes."

He watches carefully as she follows his orders, and she clearly takes her time stripping down to her underwear. When she has, she looks to him for some sign of approval, but Harry just raises his brows. His hands are sunk into his pockets as Y/N lets out a little breath and takes off her bra and panties.

His eyes trail down her body, his cock hurting at the sight of her. God, she's beautiful. He feels like an absolute idiot for not having fought for her earlier, but he reminds himself that he can't change the past and that she is here now, stark naked in his kitchen. A grin spread across his face.

"Do you remember how you addressed me all those years ago?" He asks. It takes a few seconds before Y/N answers, but she gives him a firm nod.

"I called you sir."

Harry nods. "Rules haven't changed. Now, get on the counter."

Her eyes flick to the marble countertop, shock flashing through her eyes. "But Har—"

His right brow lifts ever so slightly. Catching the hint, Y/N stops herself before she can finish the sentence and hoists herself on to the cold countertop. It must not be very pleasant to lay your naked body on that freezing surface, but it was an uncomfortable temporary obstacle. The results would be great, and in about thirty seconds, she'd forget all about that cold touch against her skin.

Harry pulls out one of the bar stools and sat directly in front of Y/N. Spreading her legs apart, he catches sight of that perfect pussy he has been waiting three years to taste again. Like a starved man sat in front of a feast, the urge to dive right in is almost too strong to bear. But before he has her writhing under him, he wants to make her shiver.

"Can't believe it took us so long to get here." Harry hums, tracing his fingers up her thigh, carefully observing the way Y/N tries to control her breathing. Her fists are balled up into curls, attempting to send her concentration to anything else than Harry. He tries not to let his smugness show too much, but he has to say he likes seeing her struggle a bit. A bit of payback for trying to toy with him just now.

"You've always been stubborn." Y/N jokes, a gasp strangling out of her when Harry's fingers ghost over her clit. He chuckles, the tone of his voice so low that it could almost be considered evil.

"If I remember correctly, you're the one who wanted to forget about that Halloween night." He notes. Y/N hums.

"I also made the condition to act professionally, but we didn't do that either." Her eyes gaze into his, catching the fond smile with which he stares at her. A faint blush erupts on her cheeks.

"You drew the line." Harry retorted, and Y/N scoffed.

"You crossed it about a hundred times." She argues in response. He only hums, that cocky smirk on his face.

"I did, and consider this hundredth and first time to be the last, because I'm not getting behind that line again."

Y/N has never been so turned on her in her entire life. Harry’s words are the epitome of determination, and the way his fingers slip inside her so easily the second he finishes his sentence only solidifies that notion. The gasp that leaves her mouth is cut short and evolves into a low moan as Harry’s lips latch onto her clit.

Sensitive would be an understatement for her current state. She is aching, and the way Harry is ravishing her almost hurt. But any pain dwells in comparison to her desire she was overcome with at the situation she currently finds herself in. She is on Harry's kitchen counter, legs spread wide open and letting him do all the things that slipped into her dreams over the past three years.

Harry sucks in all the ways that made her squirm, moving his fingers with such ease that made it seem like he has fingered her a thousand times already. As if he knows her like the back of his hand, as if he knows all her secrets, even ones she doesn't know herself.

Y/N's hand buries itself in Harry's hair when he begins to kitten lick her clit, and she feels that inevitable climax inching closer and closer. She wonders how she had been able to keep herself composed for so long, because the high that creeps up on her feels like it was long overdue.

Unfortunately, the sensation comes to a grinding halt when Harry backs away from Y/N. Her head shoots up, and finds him leaning over her body, wearing boyish half-smile that is now glimmering with her juices.

Wrapping one arm around her waist and the other one under her legs, he picks her up bridal style. She holds onto his shoulders, burying her face into his neck as he carried her to his bedroom. When she begins unbuttoning his shirt, he throws her on his bed. She lets out a soft yelp, bouncing onto the bed.

"So greedy..." Harry tuts in disapproval, but Y/N doesn't quite care. She wants him, bad, and now that she's had a preview of what's to come she doesn't want to wait any longer. She needs him and she needs that orgasm.

She pulls him closer by his pants and starts to unbuckle his belt. "You're taking too long."

Y/N is about halfway done when Harry's firm hand wraps around her neck and pulls her closer to his face. Inching down, he growls: "You'll take what I give you."

"Then give me something." She spits back, and Harry's eyes turn five shades darker at her invitation to a challenge. He slowly leans back, Y/N watching his every movement in anticipation.

"On your stomach."

Y/N stomach swirls at the command, and she obeys as quick as she can. It stays silent for a little bit, and she awaits his further actions eagerly.

"Hands behind your back."

Again, she does what he says. Y/N doesn't dare to turn her head as she hears Harry walking around his room. When she feels a silky material around her wrists, she knows enough. He's tying her up.

Knowing better than to do otherwise, Y/N keeps her mouth shuts as Harry makes an impenetrable knot with his tie. She moves her wrists, assessing how tight it really is, and gets interrupted by a punishing slap on her ass. The sting remains for a couple of seconds, and she is sure there is now a red print the size of Harry's hand on her right cheek.

"Ass up." He barks out his final order, no doubt smirking as she changes her position, slightly struggling now that her arms are of no use.

Y/N bites her lip in anticipation when Harry's hand grabs onto her hips, steadying himself behind her. She slightly flinches forward when the tip of his cock teases her entrance, and attempts to speed up the process by leaning backwards a bit. She's rewarded with another slap on her ass.

But then Harry finally sinks in, and that dreadful itch that plagued Y/N for such a long time is finally scratched, over and over again as he begins to pound into her with long, slow strokes.

"Fucking hell..." Harry murmurs, his cock suctioning into Y/N's tight, clenching pussy. He is so big, and it bruises her in all the right ways.

"Oh baby... thaaat's it." He groans when Y/N begins to bounce back on his cock, aiming to get it even deeper inside of her. She is ruthless in her movements, groaning at the overwhelming sensations. When Harry gropes her ass— and his nails bite into her skin—she loses control.

Burying her face into the mattress, Y/N screams as she reaches her peak. The sound of Harry's moans at her pussy convulsing around his cock only strengthens her orgasm. Her mind goes entirely blank as the shattering release ripples through her like an earthquake. The only thing she can think of is Harry's name, and it's the only thing she cries out as the dizzying explosion settles all over her body.

"You really are desperate, aren't you?" Harry sneers as he pulls his cock out of Y/N, letting go of her hips. She nearly falls over, her tied up hands making it difficult to catch herself. This orgasm was so intense, she could feel the three years of pent up tension as it washed over her. Her cheeks are burning red and her teary eyes makes her vision somewhat blurry.

Y/N is thrown off when Harry suddenly turns her around and she finds herself lying on her back. The way he towers over her would have been intimidating had it not been extremely hot.

"Came on my cock so fast..." he mumbles cockily, corner of his mouth pulled up like the arrogant bastard he is. "Such a slut for it."

Y/N wants to give him some snappy comeback, but her brain is still fried from the orgasm and she's always liked to be degraded in bed, so she decides to only glare at Harry while he speaks. He catches it, and his grin only widens.

"You know it's true, baby." He tells her, bringing your legs over each of his shoulders. That deviant smirk is the last thing Y/N sees before her eyes roll into the back of her head at the feeling of Harry's cock stretching her out again.

He leans forward, almost folding her in two, and reaches deeper. He stays there for a few seconds—as if he is catching his breath—then slowly backs out of her before slamming right back in. Y/N lets out a screech that, if it hadn't been for the desperation laced in its tone, would've sounded like someone was trying to murder her.

Trying to keep her own moans at a minimum, Y/N closes her eyes and listens to the harsh slaps of Harry's skin against hers, and the groans that escape his mouth with each thrust. The strength behind each movement makes her clench around Harry, who in turn hisses her name as if it were a curse word. It only causes her to clench more. 

"Fuck, such a pretty little whore." Harry praises as he drives into her. Y/N can only whine, her tits bouncing uncontrollably at the impact of his motions. She must look fucking helpless. Opening her eyes, she catches the way Harry looks at her; like she's a dream. Like she's his dream.

"My pretty little whore." He growls, leaning back and holding one of her legs with his arm while the other reaches for her breasts.

"Yes..." Y/N breathes as he begins squeezing her breasts, getting lost in the sensations of him. Somehow it feels like Harry is everywhere. As if he has latched onto a part of her soul and she feels him coming to claim that every time his cock sinks into her.

"Such a tight fucking fit." He groans, taking her nipple between his fingers. "You should see how perfectly your pussy sucks in every inch of my cock..."

Y/N bites her lip as Harry talks, trying not too get too overwhelmed by the filthy things he's telling her as he plunges in and out of her. Her eyes catch the flex of his muscles that occur with every thrust, and she wonders how she got a man so perfect to fuck her stupid like this.

"Should record it... make a little video for just the two of us. What do you think?"

Oh my god.

"Don't you want to see how perfect we fit together?" He taunts, thrusting his hips harsher than before, hitting a spot that had been untouched for quite a while now. Y/N's face scrunches up.

"F—fuck! Yes, yes..." She responds when Harry stills inside of her to await an answer. He chuckles at the apparent hurry in her voice and reaches for—what Y/N assumes to be—his phone, on the bed. His motions are slow and soft, determined to keep Y/N satisfied at least a bit while he logs into his phone and searches for the camera app. She notices the start of his recording by the sudden change of pace and force of his movements.

His camera is pointed right at her pussy as he begins thrusting deep inside of her, and Y/N screams out Harry's name. The concentration on his face as he captures how she takes him proves too much to bear, and she shuts her eyes tightly, head flopping to the side.

She can hear his ragged breathing over all the other sounds that their bodies are making. The small grunts he makes in an effort not to moan too loudly is all she can focus on, and the tension in her belly grows exponentially with each vibrations of his voice that reaches her ears.

Harry slows his pace, putting more emphasis on the impact of his moves. It allows him to bring his free hand down to touch Y/N's clit. Her legs begin to shake the second he does.

"Are you gonna come again for me? I'm so close, baby. I can tell you are too." The softness in the delivery of his words have Y/N's ovaries rattle. She can only nod, a whine that was an attempt at a 'yes' falling from her rosy lips. Harry grins, his eyes flicking from his phone to her face. Everything feels so hazy, much like a daydream.

"Please don't stop." She squeals in such a high pitch that surprises even herself. Y/N had no idea she could go that high. Harry's bringing out an entirely new side of her.

"I'll never stop, baby." Harry rasps, pressing down on her clit in such a way that Y/N becomes cross-eyed for a second. Her nails grip into the bedsheets, the second release rippling through her like a hurricane. She never quite understood the word bliss, until now. This must be it; this feeling of... pure ecstasy.

Like a blank canvas splattered on with all the bright colors that exist in the world; fresh and exciting and psychedelic in a way. Impossible to define yet such a specific feeling. Y/N let all of it tingle from her head down to her toes, wanting to remember it forever.

The continuous pounding Y/N through her orgasm comes to a grinding halt when Harry reaches his own, pulling out just in time for his sperm to coat her puffy clit and swollen tits. His camera is focused on her frame, recording every spurt that paints her. She's the canvas, he's the colors, Y/N realizes. Harry is her definition of bliss.

The words shared between the two are scarce as Harry unties Y/N's hands, picks her up and carries her to the bathroom to clean her up. But the smiles on their faces says enough, both knowing what they feel is rare, and beautiful. Y/N assesses Harry's face, concluding that the soft edges of it makes him look like a proper angel.

When he's dressed her in one of his shirts, he takes her back to the bedroom, where he pulls her against his frame. Y/N wraps one leg around his torso, hugging him from the side with her head buried into his neck. The way his chest rises and lowers fills her with pure ease, and she leaves a few soft kisses in his neck as a silent thank you. Harry only hums in satisfaction, his arm only tightening around you, as if he's afraid you might let go.

"I'm never gonna let you go now." You tell him before you can even fully comprehend your words. Your heart starts racing, afraid that might've been too soon to say.

"Promise?"

Your racing heart is now melting as you turn your head and see Harry holding up his pinky. You are quick to interlock it with your own.

"Promise." You say with a smile.

General taglist: @mema10

[solxamber]

Stake Through the Heart || Rook Hunt

You’re absolutely convinced your neighbor is a vampire. No evidence yet, but your gut—and your deeply flawed instincts—say yes. The investigation is underway. Nothing will stop you. Not even common sense.

You were already suspicious of the building when you signed the lease. The hallway lights had a flicker that could only be described as "threatening," the elevator creaked like it had regrets, and your sink coughed before turning on. But hey—rent was cheap, and you had resigned yourself to coexisting with at least one minor ghost. Maybe two if they were a couple.

What you didn't expect was your upstairs neighbor dragging a human-sized trunk up five flights of stairs at exactly midnight like it was a perfectly normal time to engage in cardio and/or hide a body.

You were brushing your teeth—half-dressed and fully irritated—when you heard the unmistakable sound of wood scraping aggressively against tile. It was the kind of noise that said, "I am absolutely not supposed to be here, but I will make it everyone's problem anyway." You paused, toothbrush in hand, and listened. Another thump. Another scrape. A strained grunt, followed by—

"Ah! The climb is arduous, but so is the ascent of the soul!"

You spit your toothpaste directly into the sink and stared at yourself in the mirror like, Did I just hear a villain monologue in the hallway?

Curiosity won. You opened your front door just enough to peek out—and there he was.

Wide-brimmed hat. Floor-length coat. Boots that definitely cost more than your microwave. And a trunk. A massive trunk. The kind usually reserved for pirates or magicians or suspicious aristocrats who "don't go out during the day."

You watched, transfixed, as he slowly dragged the thing up another step, muttering something about "fate's heavy burden" and "destiny's ever-turning wheel."

Your brain, overworked and overcaffeinated, came to a single, definitive conclusion:

Vampire. 100%. No notes.

No human being talks like that. No one wears a coat that dramatic without drinking blood recreationally. The man radiated "I sleep in a silk-lined coffin and I know all the moons of Jupiter by name."

Still, you tried to play it cool. "Hey, uh… need help?"

He turned. Slowly. He reminded you of an NPC about to issue a side quest.

"Ah," he said, bowing slightly. "A kind spirit in the veil of night. May the stars illuminate your path, trésor."

You blinked.

He smiled. Too many teeth.

"…Right," you said. "I'm gonna go back inside now and pretend this conversation didn't happen."

You shut the door. Locked it. Double locked it. Briefly considered salting the threshold but remembered you were out of salt.

You pressed your back to the door and exhaled. That was fine. Everything was fine. You didn't need to know what was in the trunk. You weren't the main character. You had a day job and seasonal allergies and no time for undead drama. You were going to mind your business.

Until the next morning, when he knocked on your door holding a fruit basket, a poetry book, and a glass bottle that may or may not have been full of suspiciously thick, red liquid.

"Good morrow," he said with the confidence of a man who still used words like morrow. "I have brought tokens of neighborly goodwill."

You stared at him.

He stared back. Smiling.

"I, Rook Hunt, am most pleased to meet you."

You took the basket. You nodded. You said thank you like a hostage in a movie.

And in your heart, you knew.

You were absolutely going to get involved in whatever this man's dramatic, possibly blood-soaked nonsense was. Whether you liked it or not.

You did not, for the record.

You didn't want to be that person. The kind who built conspiracy boards out of half-baked assumptions and circumstantial evidence. The kind who said things like "I just think it's weird that…" before launching into a theory involving aliens, lizard people, secret societies, or in this case, your neighbor being a vampire with a flair for the theatrical.

But then came The Curtain Incident.

It was the next evening. You had gone to the store for boring mortal things—dish soap, batteries, a very specific type of screwdriver that only existed in legend and IKEA manuals. You were minding your own business. You were trying to pick out lightbulbs that didn't hum when you tried turning them on.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw it: the hat.

Wide-brimmed. Looming. Definitely not weather-appropriate.

You whipped around so fast you almost knocked over a display of lawn flamingos. And there he was, in all his nocturnal glory: Rook Hunt, your neighbor, standing in the middle of aisle seven like it was a catwalk at fashion week. Long coat. Gloves. That same calm, vaguely predatory smile. And in his cart?

Blackout curtains. Three sets. Jet black. Extra thick.

You stared. He made eye contact like a man who knew. Knew he was being watched. Knew he was being suspected. Knew that this was not how humans typically purchase home decor unless they were trying to turn their living space into a vampire's safehouse slash crime scene.

You tried to act casual. Failed immediately.

"Heyyy," you said, voice cracking like a out of tune violin. "Doing a little… home improvement?"

He inclined his head. "Mais oui. The sun—ah, how she burns with such cruel passion, non? I find her embrace a touch too… insistent." He lifted a curtain panel with one gloved hand. "To cocoon oneself in shadow, to drift in velvety darkness… c'est magnifique."

You nodded, as if that explained literally anything.

"That's cool," you said, backing toward the paint swatches like they could protect you. "Totally normal. Curtains. Love that for you."

His smile widened.

You were spiraling.

Because listen: you're not completely irrational. You know some people are just weird. You know blackout curtains are a thing. Maybe he works nights. Maybe he's just allergic to joy. But also?? His shopping cart contained no other regular item. No food. No tools. Just three sets of blackout curtains, a single red candle, and—swear to God—a hand mirror.

Why would a vampire buy a mirror?! Was it a decoy? A flex? A prop for when he practiced brooding dramatically at an empty reflection?!

You left the store in a daze, carrying a pack of AA batteries and a sense of unease. As you walked home under the streetlights, you made a mental list:

Never seen him in daylight.

Talks like he's auditioning for a Shakespeare reboot no one asked for, but with more French vowels.

Dragged a suspiciously heavy trunk into his apartment at midnight.

Blackout curtains.

Keeps bringing you gifts that feel like offerings before a blood pact.

Smiles like he knows how you die.

By the time you got home, you were pacing your kitchen whispering, "He's definitely a vampire," like it was going to summon help from the garlic gods.

You considered texting a friend, but how do you even phrase that?

hey quick question if ur neighbor owns a cape and possibly a coffin do u call the cops or the local priest or like, what's the protocol here

Instead, you sat on your couch, stared at the wall, and decided you had two choices: move out, or commit to this bit like your life depended on it.

Because if your neighbor was a vampire, then you were either going to die horribly or end up in some kind of ancient blood soulmate contract by accident—and if it was going to be the second one, you were at least going to get a dramatic entrance line out of it.

You were having what could generously be described as a trainwreck of a day.

Your boss had decided to hold a mandatory team-building exercise that involved trust falls and absolutely no regard for personal space. Your lunch had been mysteriously replaced by someone else's aggressively spicy quinoa salad (you were not emotionally prepared for that level of chilli oil). And your phone had spent the entire afternoon at 3% like a drama queen begging for a charger and attention.

All you wanted—all you wanted—was to drag your exhausted corpse up five flights of stairs, collapse into your lumpy couch, and watch garbage reality TV until your brain leaked out of your ears.

But fate—unrelenting, nosy fate—had other plans.

You hit the third floor landing. Your eyes were on your phone, trying to Google "can you die from inhaling someone else's quinoa," when you looked up—and there he was.

Rook. Your neighbor. The cryptid. The probable vampire.

He was just casually coming down the stairs, like he wasn't the most suspicious person in a ten-mile radius. Still wearing a long coat, still dressed like a brooding poet about to duel someone over honor and a baguette. But this time…

This time he had a sunburn.

Just a little one. Right on the tip of his nose. Faint. Pink. But real. You squinted to make sure it wasn't some kind of trick of the hallway light—but no. It was there. Angry and tender.

Your brain slammed the panic button.

OH MY GOD.

IT BURNS HIM PHYSICALLY.

I KNEW IT.

The conspiracy board in your head lit up. Thumbtacks connected by red string. Newspaper clippings. Grainy surveillance footage of your neighbor dramatically pulling blackout curtains shut while whispering about "la nuit éternelle." It all fit. The signs. The trunk. The curtains. The sunburn. The French.

He caught you staring and—like a man who had just stepped into a spotlight and loved it—tilted his head, utterly unbothered.

"Ah! Bonsoir, my dear neighbor. I fear I was… overzealous in my ambitions today." He gestured vaguely toward the window at the end of the hall, where the last rays of the sun were beginning to fade. "Even the mightiest hunter is humbled by the cruelty of Sól."

Sól. He named dropped the sun like it personally betrayed him. You were one step away from calling the Vatican.

You cleared your throat. "So… you got burned? By the sun?"

"Indeed," he said gravely, touching the red spot like it was a war wound. "A careless moment. I was enthralled by a flock of birds and lost track of time." He smiled. "Still, I find the sting to be a reminder—ah, how fragile the flesh, how divine the dusk."

You nodded slowly. "Yup. Happens to the best of us. Just, you know. Skin melting in the light of day. Totally normal."

He laughed. Laughed. A rich, delighted sound like he'd just watched someone walk into a trap he set.

"Your wit is ever sharp," he said, and then—because of course he did—he pulled a tiny glass vial from his coat pocket and dabbed something that might have been cream onto the burn.

You turned and bolted upstairs before he could hand you an invite to a midnight blood tasting.

In your apartment, you slammed the door, leaned against it, and let your bag slide to the floor.

It was real.

He was burned by the sun.

This was no longer a hunch. This was evidence. This was Exhibit A in your vampire trial. You didn't know what you were going to do yet—alert the supernatural authorities? Start a blog? Join him in eternal night as his dramatic, overly caffeinated familiar?—but you did know one thing:

Your neighbor was a vampire.

And that burn was your smoking gun.

The plan was simple.

Invite him over. Offer pasta. Load said pasta with enough garlic to stun a horse. Smile innocently. Observe. Wait for spontaneous combustion, bat transformation, or dramatic gasping followed by a monologue about curses, betrayal, and forbidden cravings.

It was a flawless trap. A garlic-scented bear trap of domestic hospitality.

You set the table. You dimmed the lights to a level you assumed would make him comfortable. You even lit a candle—not romantic, just for ambience. Everything smelled like garlic. The sauce, the bread, the air. You yourself smelled like you had crawled out of a room full of garlic-scented incense.

When he knocked on your door at eight o'clock sharp, you opened it with your most casual expression.

"Bonsoir, mon ami," Rook greeted, bowing slightly, because of course he did. "The moonlight suits you so exquisitely tonight."

You smiled like someone who absolutely was not trying to expose their possibly immortal neighbor through the power of garlic. "Thanks. I guess."

He stepped inside, gave a pleased hum at your lighting choices, and then—froze.

His eyes, usually sparkling with strange poetic menace, locked onto the garlic bread.

You watched in silence as his entire body tensed ever so slightly, like the baguette had just challenged him to a duel. Slowly, reverently, he walked up to the plate and looked down at it like it had personally wronged him in a past life.

"A classic," he murmured. "So bold. So… persistent."

"It's garlic bread," you said flatly.

He gave a tight smile, like a man at war with his own immune system. "Indeed. It is… not to my taste. The scent tends to cling, comme un souvenir unwelcome. It is difficult to hunt the wind when one's coat reeks of crushed cloves."

You blinked. "You don't like garlic?"

"I find it… overwhelming." He sniffed delicately. "Like a song sung off-key, but shouted."

Oh. OH.

He hates garlic.

He fears garlic.

He is one garlic knot away from bursting into flames and ascending to the underworld.

You knew it.

You were a genius. Sherlock Holmes WISHES.

But then—

He sat down.

And without flinching—he ate the garlic bread.

The entire world went silent.

You watched, slack-jawed, as he took a bite, chewed like a man contemplating the duality of pain and pleasure, and swallowed without so much as a grimace. Then he sipped the wine he'd brought—red for the record—and turned to you with a serene expression.

"Your cooking is divine," he said. "The flavor lingers like a haunting melody."

You stared at him, heart racing, mind screaming.

HE ATE IT

HE. ATE. THE. GARLIC.

WHAT DOES IT MEAN????

Was he lying? Was he in pain but hiding it because his honor wouldn't allow him to show weakness in front of a mortal? Was he so ancient, so powerful, so unknowable, that garlic simply didn't affect him anymore? Had he built up a resistance? Were you dealing with some next-level Nosferatu Final Boss?

Or.

Oh no.

What if he's a half-vampire?

What if he was born of both worlds? Doomed to walk the line between the night and the garlic aisle? Too vampire to bask in the sun, too human to fully reject pasta?

You looked at his elegant profile, the way he sipped his drink, the slight wrinkle in his nose that said he still hated the garlic but was choosing not to comment on it. The duality. The mystery. The drama. The tragedy.

You were spiraling again.

You tried to speak, but what came out was, "So… you're definitely not allergic?"

He tilted his head, smiling. "Non. I simply dislike being followed by the scent of someone's kitchen for a week."

You nodded. Sure. Totally. Not suspicious at all. Definitely something a normal human person would say. The whole garlic-aversion-due-to-personal-aesthetic thing was definitely not code for "I will turn into mist if I touch raw cloves."

He took another bite of garlic bread and made a soft noise of appreciation.

You were absolutely losing it.

Because you had no idea if you were in the presence of a man… a monster… or a fashion-forward night creature of immeasurable strength who had conquered his natural aversions through sheer will and seasoning tolerance.

And you still weren't ruling out the bat thing.

You chewed your pasta slowly, cautiously. He was either about to compliment your sauce again or turn into a cloud of smoke and vanish into the air vent.

Frankly, at this point, you weren't sure which option was more terrifying.

You'd been holding it together for weeks. Weeks of tiptoeing around your extremely suspicious, extremely courteous neighbor who may or may not be a vampire, a demon, a historical reenactor, or some kind of poetry professor. You were normal about it. Chill. Totally fine. You only Googled "can vampires enroll in rent-controlled housing" once.

But today? Today broke you.

Because today, Rook complimented your socks.

"Exquisite pattern," he had said, eyes lingering on the tiny frogs doing ballet across your ankles. "Such expression upon so small a canvas. You are, as always, a delight of aesthetic paradoxes."

You blacked out for at least four seconds trying to interpret that.

And then, without waiting, he took your grocery bags. Both of them. Including the one you packed with canned goods like an idiot. Just carried them effortlessly up the stairs, whistling some baroque little tune under his breath like he wasn't actively enabling your spiral into conspiracy madness.

And so now here you are, pacing a cracked sidewalk outside the convenience store, holding an emergency slushy and waving your arms like you're about to summon lightning bolts. Ace and Deuce are sitting on a bench watching you with the exact expressions of two people who have absolutely heard this before and regret returning your texts.

"He complimented my socks," you repeat, wild-eyed. "Who even sees socks? Who notices frogs doing ballet unless they're training themselves to observe every detail of their next victim?"

Ace slurps obnoxiously from his ice cream cone. "Dunno, sounds like you just have a weird crush."

You point at him like you're about to smite him. "I will take that cone out of your hands and launch it into traffic. Try me."

He raises both hands. "Okay, okay, chill! Just saying. You're the one who keeps inviting him to pasta night and analyzing his cutlery use like it's a crime scene."

Deuce, bless his concerned little heart, tries to play diplomat. "Maybe he's just… a polite guy? Some people are like that. Maybe he was raised well."

You whirl on him. "No, Deuce. He's not just nice. That's vampire hospitality. They're known for being strangely polite before draining your life force."

"…Is that a thing?" Deuce asks, already regretting it.

"YES," you shout. "It's part of the psychological warfare. They lure you in with compliments and help carrying your bulk baked bean purchases, and then bam—next thing you know, you're waking up with two holes in your neck and an allergy to garlic."

Ace is now straight up cackling. "Oh my God. You think he's grooming you. For blood reasons."

"I'm not saying he's gonna drain me tomorrow," you mutter, offended but also a little flattered at the thought. "But I am saying I've been watched like a fine wine and I feel it. He called me a 'treasure of contradictions.' Who says that? No one normal. That's Dracula-core."

Ace, still wheezing, gestures with his cone. "You're insane. I love it. I'm not helping, but I'm definitely watching you go down in flames."

Deuce pats your shoulder gently. "I mean… if he tries anything weird, I'll beat him up?"

"That's sweet, Deuce. But he'll probably just evaporate into mist before you can land a punch."

At the end of the emergency meeting, which concludes with you scribbling "suspiciously aware of frog socks" under Rook's name in your increasingly unhinged spiral notebook, you realize something tragic.

You are no closer to solving the mystery.

Rook remains an enigma. A poetic, shadow-wearing, door-holding enigma.

He may be a vampire. He may just be French.

He may, horrifyingly, be both.

And so, you slurp your slushy. You stare into the distance. You prepare yourself for another sleepless night of Googling "can half-vampires enter your apartment without an invite if you leave the door cracked."

This was for research. Pure. Intellectual. Unbiased. Definitely not emotionally compromised in any way. You had a theory to prove and a public duty to fulfill. You were a lone academic on the brink of a supernatural breakthrough.

This had nothing—nothing—to do with the fact that Rook Hunt had the kind of smile that made your lungs forget how to function, or that he said things like "Ah, your laughter—it rings like wind chimes in spring rain," and then meant it.

You were a serious investigator. You were hunting the hunter.

That's why, when he asked if you'd accompany him to an "exhibition of twilight-themed oil paintings" this Friday, you agreed.

Not because he looked like he belonged in an oil painting.

Not because he bowed slightly when he said "It would be my honor."

But because, scientifically, museums are great places to see if a person casts a reflection in glass.

"Consider this a field study," you muttered to yourself in the bathroom mirror, fixing your hair for the fourth time. "Not a date. A field study."

The "not-dates" kept stacking up after that.

A sunset walk through the botanical gardens ("Ah, the dying light brings out the golden undertones of your soul," he said, and you nearly tripped into a decorative pond).

A late-night jazz café, where he sipped his wine and you absolutely did not spend the entire evening imagining what he'd look like with his hair down and a dagger in his teeth.

A poetry reading. Where the poet stopped mid-verse because Rook was clapping too emotionally.

He always paid. He always pulled your chair out. He always smelled like cedarwood and wind.

He called them dates.

You called it recon.

You brought a tiny hand mirror to dinner once. "Oh this? I just… use it for checking my eyeliner. And your reflection. No reason."

He didn't even blink. "Ah, how clever. But perhaps you'd see more clearly if you looked into my eyes instead?"

You choked on your breadstick.

Every time you tried to interrogate him—"So, what's your opinion on eternal life?" or "Ever wake up craving plasma?"—he'd laugh, then dodge the question with something outrageous like, "Only a fool seeks eternity when each moment with you is already infinite," and you'd have to physically reboot your brain like a crashed laptop.

You were flailing.

You kept trying to stay professional. Collected. Objective.

But it was hard when he looked at you like he was composing a sonnet in real time.

When he held your hand like you were made of porcelain.

When he picked a flower off a tree and tucked it behind your ear without asking and whispered, "Even the moon must envy you, mon chèr."

You were on high alert. Not because you liked him. No.

You were vampire watching.

That's why you kept a notebook titled "Behavioral Observations of Suspected Night Creature." Not because you were doodling little hearts around his name. That was for decoration. To, um, throw off suspicion.

And yes, you did Google "can you date a vampire if it's for science," and yes, you did find three different Reddit threads about people claiming their immortal lovers left bite marks shaped like the Eiffel Tower.

But that was research.

Totally. Entirely. Academic.

And if your heart skipped a little when he kissed the back of your hand and called you his "bravest flame in this dim world"—that was probably just heartburn.

You were on a mission.

You were not falling for him.

You were simply… emotionally compromised by how obscenely attractive his collarbones looked in candlelight.

It could happen to anyone.

Dinner had been amazing. Which was kind of the problem.

You weren't supposed to be this charmed. You were supposed to be investigating. Your whole deal—the entire point of this increasingly suspicious series of encounters—was that you were gathering evidence. You were the lone voice of reason in a world of garlic apologists. You were the slayer. You were—

"You have a beautiful way of smiling when you're trying not to laugh," Rook had said tonight, eyes soft, head tilted like he was trying to memorize the way you looked with your mouth half-full of food and trying to hide it behind your napkin.

And you had smiled wider. Like an idiot. Like a fool. Like someone who was no longer on the hunt but absolutely being hunted.

He had pulled out your chair. Tipped the waiter. Paid the bill while you were in the bathroom. Walked you home under the glow of warm street lamps and murmured poetry under his breath when he thought you couldn't hear. He held your hand when you almost tripped on the curb like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You let him. 

You had, in fact, squeezed his hand back.

What the hell was happening to you.

When you finally got back home and closed the door behind you, still glowing with post-date buzz and clutching the flower he'd picked out of someone's garden "because it matched your joy," you stood in your dark living room and had a single, terrifying realization.

You hadn't looked for a single vampire sign tonight.

You hadn't tried to check his reflection in the restaurant windows.

You hadn't counted how many times he blinked per minute.

You hadn't casually brought up crosses or holy water in conversation.

You hadn't even offered him garlic bread as a passive-aggressive test.

In fact—

Oh god.

You had leaned in. You had laughed. You had flirted back. You had let him compliment your soul's timbre and hadn't even made a joke about bloodlust once.

You had been on a normal date. Like a normal person. With a man you liked. Who may or may not have been literally undead.

You slowly sat down on your couch, holding the flower like it was damning evidence and also maybe your new favorite thing. You stared blankly at the wall for a full minute before whispering, with great horror:

"Oh no. I'm into it."

You, the world's most paranoid supernatural truther, had let your guard down. You weren't even wearing your emergency clove of garlic necklace. You had become everything you swore to destroy.

Worse—you hadn't even noticed.

And now you were spiraling.

Because he was so weird. And so poetic. And so suspiciously strong when lifting heavy objects with no visible strain. And he knew so many historical references and always seemed to know when the moon was full and probably didn't even own a full length mirror, and yet—

He made you feel like you were the center of the universe.

You buried your face in a pillow and screamed for three seconds.

Then you picked up your notebook of vampire observations, stared at it, and quietly flipped it closed.

For now.

Not forever. You were still reasonable. You were still observant.

But maybe… maybe you could let yourself enjoy this.

Maybe, just for tonight, you didn't need to know if he slept in a coffin.

Maybe he was a vampire.

Maybe he wasn't.

But tonight he kissed your knuckles like you were made of starlight and promised to write you a poem, and honestly?

That felt a lot more dangerous.

It started with a cough. A sniffle. A minor ache in your bones that you absolutely ignored, because you were a functioning adult with deadlines and a very real fear of your boss showing up in your nightmares wielding a spreadsheet.

You told yourself it was fine. You were fine. You could survive on four hours of sleep, three cups of coffee, and the sheer force of spite.

By day three, you were half-delirious, wearing two mismatched socks, and attempting to microwave a cold compress while muttering "this'll fix it" like some kind of cursed wizard. You were not, in fact, fine.

And that was when Rook showed up at your door.

Unannounced.

With soup.

"You did not reply to my messages," he said, like that explained how he somehow knew you were dying. "I feared you had succumbed to some terrible affliction of the soul. Or perhaps a particularly villainous flu strain."

You tried to smile and failed. It came out looking like a grimace. "It's not that bad," you croaked, clutching the doorframe for stability like gravity had become an optional setting that you'd accidentally toggled off.

He gave you a look. One of those devastatingly fond ones. The kind that made your insides do cartwheels despite the fever.

"Mon pauvre cœur," he murmured, brushing hair off your forehead with all the delicacy of a man who absolutely did not know what personal space was, "even your aura looks congested."

You were too weak to argue. Too feverish to care. You let him in.

He floated around your apartment like a very helpful, very beautiful hallucination. He made tea. He changed your blanket. He hummed something suspiciously like an 18th century lullaby while rearranging your cluttered living room into a sickbed worthy of a fever-ridden noble, which you had definitely not asked for, but you were too busy dying and blushing to stop him.

And then he brought the soup.

It was… soup. Probably. You couldn't taste it. You could've been drinking warm mop water for all you knew. But he was feeding it to you with this maddening look of gentle amusement, like he was taking care of a wounded dove he'd found by a pond and had already named and written a sonnet about.

He knelt next to you on the couch, one hand holding the bowl, the other carefully tilting the spoon toward your mouth. His voice was low and tender.

"You must eat. Even if only to give your immune system the dramatic support it deserves."

And you—

You just looked at him.

Hair pulled back, those ridiculously green eyes crinkled with worry, coat sleeves rolled and he was feeding you soup and calling you mon cœur and—

Oh.

Oh no.

You were in love with him.

It hit you like a falling anvil. Right in the heart. The full Looney Tunes experience.

You were in love with Rook Hunt.

Weird, dramatic, possibly-a-vampire Rook Hunt.

Who once described your laugh as "a forest waking in spring."

Who carried around obscure herbal tinctures and had once given you a bouquet that included a flower used to curse kings in the 1400s.

And you did not care.

You were flushed from fever and feelings, you looked like a raccoon that had been hit by a truck, you hadn't washed your hair in a shameful number of days, and yet this man was looking at you like you were the embodiment of a love ballad—and for once, you believed it.

Garlic, sunlight, potential bat transformation—none of it mattered anymore.

You'd fallen. Hard. Unrecoverably. Irreparably. Ridiculously.

You swallowed the next spoonful of soup with the gravity of someone accepting their fate, and Rook smiled so warmly it was unfair.

"…Can I ask something?" you mumbled, voice a little hoarse.

"But of course," he said, setting the bowl down gently.

You looked into his eyes. "If I die from this fever… will you write me an epic poem and read it dramatically at my funeral?"

He blinked. And then laughed. Soft and breathless, it felt like sunlight through curtains.

"Mon amour," he said, like that was a thing you both had agreed on, "I would do so even if you were merely five minutes late to brunch."

You sighed. Leaned back. Let yourself fall fully into the pillows and into this moment. Feverish, exhausted, helplessly enamored.

Vampire or not.

You were doomed.

You woke up to warmth. You shifted under your blanket, eyes squinting against the morning light filtering through your curtains, and that was when you noticed it:

Rook was sitting beside you.

Still holding your hand.

You blinked at him, groggy and confused and still crusted in the aftermath of a full immune system breakdown, and the first thing your brain offered up was:

He was warm.

Which, scientifically speaking, meant he wasn't technically a full vampire.

You lay there, fever-free but still dumbstruck, staring at his hand in yours. He wasn't wearing gloves. His palm was pressed to yours like it belonged there, fingers curled so gently it was like he was afraid you'd vanish. And his hand was warm.

Your inner conspiracy theorist made a brief, tired attempt at logic:

"He's warm. That means he probably has a functioning circulatory system. Which means he probably doesn't sleep in a crypt or consume Type O-Negative on toast. Probably. Probably."

But the part of you that still had soup breath and eye gunk and emotions just went, Shut up. He stayed.

Because he did. He had stayed. All night. Sat by your couch with his coat thrown over the chair and a book he never got around to reading and a cup of tea that went cold. And he was still there now, sleep-rumpled and beautiful, watching you like you were more fascinating than the rise and fall of empires.

When he noticed you were awake, he smiled, slow and soft.

"Ah, bonjour, petit trésor," he murmured. "You look slightly less haunted. A triumph."

You made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a dying toad. "How long…?"

"All night," he said, like it wasn't a big deal. "I could not leave while you burned like that. It would be a crime against romance."

You tried to sit up.

Your body politely declined the request.

Rook tsked like a disapproving aunt and pressed you back down with one hand—still gentle, still infuriatingly poetic about everything.

Then he placed the back of his other hand against your forehead, checking your temperature.

"Much improved," he said, beaming. "Your internal sun begins to rise again."

And in that exact moment, with his hand on your face and his eyes glowing like the sunset in a prose-heavy novella, you realized something extremely stupid.

If he leaned down right then, bared fangs, and whispered "May I bite thee, my precious bloom?"—you would have said yes.

You would have said yes so fast.

You would've thrown your neck back and exposed the vulnerable curve of your throat like you were in a Twilight reboot. You absolutely would have gone down in history as the idiot who looked at their maybe-vampire crush and thought, Take a nibble, king, I trust you.

He wasn't even doing anything. Just sitting there. Holding your gross, clammy hand and looking at you like you hung the stars.

And somehow, that was worse. That was so much worse.

You'd completely lost. He could be a vampire. He could be a wizard. He could be a really enthusiastic barista. You did not care.

Because last night, you had been miserable and messy and borderline incoherent, and he had stayed. He made soup. He hummed lullabies. He called you his heart's ember and meant it.

You were in love.

Utterly, helplessly, stupidly in love.

And as Rook gently brushed your hair off your face and offered you a glass of water with all the reverence of a man presenting the Holy Grail, you decided you'd deal with the vampire thing later.

Preferably after he kissed you.

Or after you asked if he was free for dinner again next week.

You know.

For research.

You ended up taking another nap. 

You were floating somewhere between sleep and soup-induced delirium, the kind of half-conscious state where time didn't exist and the laws of physics didn't exist either. Vaguely, you were aware of warmth—sunlight, probably, or maybe just the lingering fever turning your body into a baked potato. But then movement caught your eye. A silhouette crossed your blurry vision, elegant, composed, and way too vertical for this hour.

Rook. He'd stayed again.

Then he did the unthinkable.

He walked to the window.

He reached for the curtain.

You blinked. Once. Twice.

He said, casually, as if it were normal behavior, "You must receive a little sun, mon trésor. Even a flower must bloom."

You made a sound. It was supposed to be words. It came out more like a blender choking on gravel.

Because no.

NO.

You watched his fingers brush the curtain, and something in your barely-functioning brain screamed, "HE'S GOING TO COMBUST."

You didn't even think.

You launched.

With the coordination of a squirrel on Nyquil, you hurled yourself across the couch, staggered upright, and threw your full weight into him just as the sunlight began to stream in. "NO—YOU'LL BURN," you shouted, with the certainty of someone who'd done zero research but had watched two vampire movies once in high school.

The two of you hit the floor in a pile of limbs, your fevered body sprawled dramatically across his chest like you were shielding him from a grenade.

There was a pause.

A long one.

Rook blinked up at you.

Then—like you'd just told him the funniest knock-knock joke in history—he started laughing.

Loudly. Joyfully. Like a man who had just been tackled by his crush and decided it was the best day of his life.

You were still clinging to him like a paranoid marsupial, blinking in confusion. "What? Why are you—? You were in the sun!"

He wheezed. "You thought—mon dieu—you thought the sunlight would incinerate me?"

"Yes???" you said, still on top of him, still wildly unsure about the rules of nature. "You—midnight moving, blackout curtain buying, garlic bread dodging—you showed so many signs!"

He laughed harder. "Oh, mon trésor, I gave you those signs. You were so adorably suspicious."

You froze. "You what."

"I knew from the first moment you side-eyed my coat like it was made of coffin lining," he said, beaming. "You were so serious. So intense. So endearing. I could not help myself—I wanted to see how far you'd go."

You stared down at him, horrified. "You knew I thought you were a vampire and you played into it?!"

"Mais oui," he said cheerfully. "You were like a curious little owl—staring, theorizing, leaving garlic on your balcony. I was enchanted."

You felt your soul attempt to leave your body via cringe teleportation. "Oh my god. I'm an idiot. I'm an idiot raccoon caught with both hands in the garbage bag."

"You're delightful," he corrected. "And very creative."

You groaned and flopped forward until your face was smushed into the side of his neck, which, to your horror, was warm and pulse-having and distinctly not vampire in nature. You could feel your dignity dissolve molecule by molecule.

"So you're human," you muttered.

"Yes," he said, "Entirely human."

You made another noise of despair. It sounded like a dying fax machine. "I tackled you."

"You did. With great passion."

"I thought I was saving your life."

He tried very hard not to laugh again. "You were magnificent."

You sighed into his neck. "This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me."

"It's one of the best things that's ever happened to me," he said brightly. "I got tackled by someone who cares. How very romantic."

You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"And yet," he said, cupping your cheek with a hand full of laughter, "I did stay all night with you. Even made you soup."

"…You did do that."

"And if I had been a vampire," he added,  "I assure you, you'd be one by now."

You groaned again. And then stayed where you were, because honestly? You were still kind of in love. Vampire or not.

Even if he was the most dramatic man you'd ever accidentally tackled.

You told them over milkshakes.

Because if you were going to admit to wildly misdiagnosing a man as a nocturnal bloodsucker and then also falling stupidly in love with him, it needed to be over something cold and full of sugar. Preferably in public, so they wouldn't scream.

Ace was halfway through slurping his chocolate shake like it owed him money when you said, in your best casual voice, "So… turns out Rook's not a vampire. He's just French."

Deuce blinked slowly. "What?"

"Yes," you sighed. "Like baguette and poetry and politely opens doors French. Not sleeps-in-a-coffin French."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Ace let out the longest, most dramatic groan known to man, dragging his hands down his face like you personally had caused his suffering. "Oh my god, DUDE."

Deuce, meanwhile, turned to Ace and, with the unshakable calm of someone who had been waiting for this moment, said, "Pay up."

"What," You snapped, "you bet on this?!"

"Yeah," Deuce said, deadpan. "I bet you'd fall in love with him. Ace thought you'd just spiral into full conspiracy and get arrested trying to break into his basement."

You squinted. "Rook doesn't have a basement."

Ace gestured wildly. "AND YET YOU WOULD HAVE FOUND ONE."

You groaned and covered your face. "This is the worst."

"No," Ace said. "The worst was you texting us at two in the morning like 'what if he's half vampire and garlic only makes him stronger.'"

"I was being thorough!" you cried.

Deuce helpfully added, "You also asked if vampire sunscreen exists."

"I WAS SICK," you yelled. "ON MEDICATION. MY BRAIN WAS BARELY FUNCTIONING."

"And yet," Ace said, sipping his drink loudly, "you tackled him. You physically tackled a man because he tried to open a curtain."

You made a noise that could only be described as internal combustion.

"Oh," Deuce said suddenly, "by the way—I almost called an actual mold inspector? Like, to check your house? Because your vampire theory was so intense I thought you might be hallucinating from spores."

You gawked at him. "You thought I had mold poisoning and your solution was not telling me and just… calling a guy?!"

Deuce shrugged. "I was trying to help."

Ace pointed at your milkshake. "You don't deserve that."

You flipped him off.

"Anyway," you grumbled, "I love him."

Ace choked on his drink.

Deuce blinked. "Wait. You what?"

You sank lower in your chair, hands over your face. "I said I love him. Okay? Because he took care of me when I was dying and he's warm and nice and has cheekbones like a fantasy novel villain and I'd let him bite me even though I know now he has a working circulatory system."

They both stared.

Then Ace said, "You are so weird."

And Deuce, bless his heart, just patted your shoulder and said, "That's kind of romantic. In a fever-dream, garlic-bread, public-health-incident kind of way."

You sighed into your straw.

Ace, of course, was already texting someone. "I'm telling Rook he better marry you before you accuse him of being a merman next."

You scowled. "That was one time and he was very wet."

"You were following him around with a seashell, bro."

You groaned and started googling "how to fake your own death with dignity."

Somehow, they still paid for your milkshake.

Rook had taken you out to some quaint little garden bistro.

He'd spent the entire evening being charming in that completely effortless way he had—holding the door open like it was an art form, ordering in lilting French, complimenting your laugh like it was a rare wine, and absolutely ruining your ability to think straight.

And you—foolish, once-misguided, now-fully-delirious you—had melted for all of it.

You'd laughed, and blushed, and kicked his foot under the table like someone who hadn't once sincerely believed he was going to transform into a bat mid-conversation.

Now, you stood outside your apartment under the stars, the night cool and still. Rook faced you, hands behind his back like he was either about to recite a sonnet or present you with a rare bird. You were prepared for either. What you were not prepared for was what came next.

"Mon cœur," he said, gently, "would you allow me the honour of calling you my partner?"

Your brain static'd. Just—flatlined.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Stared at him like he'd asked you to solve a riddle in a collapsing building. And then you did the only logical thing your brain could come up with.

You kissed him.

You kissed him like your life depended on it, like you'd never get another chance to make up for all the garlic bread and wild accusations and crime-scene-level suspicion. He made a quiet noise of surprise—pleased, delighted—and kissed you back, one hand moving to cradle your cheek like he was holding something deeply precious.

When he pulled away, he was smiling.

The smile was resplendent. The kind of smile people wrote poems about. The kind of smile that had absolutely no business being that sweet or that bright or that heart-wrenchingly warm.

It didn't matter that he wasn't a vampire.

Because with that smile?

He drove a stake through your heart anyway.

You stood there, dizzy, in love, fully emotionally slain.

He tilted his head, as if waiting for you to say something, but all you could manage was a breathless, "Yeah. Yes. I'd—yeah."

"Ah," he said, eyes twinkling. "Alors, it is official."

He twirled you like a ballroom dancer in the middle of the sidewalk.

You let it happen.

Because honestly? Your first impression may have been unhinged. You may have staged an entire fake investigation and tackled him in broad daylight. But this?

This was it.

He was your person.

Not a vampire. Just tragically French. And unfortunately perfect.

Masterlist

[starboye]

bsf!rafe cameron who fucks you way better than anyone ever could and he's the only one that fucks you, yes you may have a boyfriend but you told him you were celibate, waiting for marriage first before giving yourself (more like your hole) up to him but little did he know rafe was railing your ass every night

he had you under him as his hips worked his cock into your for the umpteenth time this night, he was gonna leave your legs shaking by the end of this "y'like that huh" he wrapped his hand around your throat "y'like having your best friend fuck you because your boyfriends to much of a pussy" he spits out

to be honest you did fuck your boyfriend once but the sex was mediocre t best, he was just to weak and bed and after one round he was out like a light so you lied to him and said that you wanted to wait until marriage and that's when rafe shot his shot

he fucked you so good that night you still remember every part of it like it was yesterday, but back to now your boyfriend just believed that you and rafe were going out to watch a new movie that came out and he wasn't wrong, you and rafe were going to see a movie until rafe saw how good you looked and dragged you to his room

he had your clothes off in record time and was fucking you so deep and rough you were seeing stars "please fuck me harder" you gasped out and rafe obliged, restricting your hands above your head and slamming his hips into your ass until it was red and you had cum for the fifth or sixth time

your legs instinctively wrapped around him pulling him deeper into your for more of that sweet cock you so desperately pawed at him for, rafe leaned down to kiss you before moving his lips to nip at your neck "wait rafe no hickeys" you moaned pulling your neck away from him

"what you dont want your little bitch boyfriend to see how much better i fuck you than his shrimp dick" he laughed and leaned back in to continue his assault to your neck and you didn't mind at that point, his dick was fucking you s good you just wanted him to do whatever to you

by the end of the night you were to tired to even get out of rafes bed, your boyfriend calling your phone to see how the movie went but you were sleep so rafe answered it "yeah" he unenthusiastically answered the call "oh hey rafe where's y/n, i was just calling to see how the movie went" your boyfriend asked and rafe rolled his eyes at the wimp sounding man

"y/n fell asleep after all the fun we had" rafe smirked as he ran a hand over your exposed ass "oh well just tell him i called and i'll be their to get him in the morning" he said "yeah sure whatever" rafe hung up the call and threw your phone onto the nightstand, you have no idea how bad rafe wanted to text your boyfriend a picture of his cum flowing out of your ass

[temptresstitania]

bored, mean girl college cheerleader giving a handjob to the loser geek virgin goonette in the private study room. cheerleader looking away, scrolling on their phone, talking a mile a minute about anything and everything but what they're doing.

"yeah, so i think I'm going to go with the pink top tonight. the one that i showed you earlier. you remember, right? i texted it to you this morning."

soft hands stroking her under the table to a steady rhythm. the geek covers her mouth with her hand and nods, thinking about the photo the cheerleader had sent. low cut top with a lacy black bra peeking through, the way it clung tightly to their waist.

"ugh, Taylor keeps asking me what I think about her new boyfriend. I could never understand dating someone like that; he's so boring."

she doesn't even remember who Taylor is. It seems like they're maybe friends? or fake friends? or former roommates? she holds in a gasping moan. the cheerleader's tits are bouncing a little from the jerking motion. it's making their top ride up, enough to just barely see the underwire of their bra.

"should I get the mauve or blush lip? nevermind, it's not like you'd know the difference."

she leans in a little to see. both colors look laughably similar. either one would look great on the cheerleader, though. the image of a trail of light pink kiss marks along the underside of her dick...she thrusts into the cheerleader's hand.

she's taller than them. she could probably overpower them if she tried hard enough. force them to their knees, hook her thumbs in their mouth and hold it open, just slide it in...get them to finally shut up for once. she's sure their throat feels much better than the stroker at home. but maybe that isn't enough.

the cheerleader's pencil skirt is one of those extra tight kinds, short enough that it could pass for a belt. the door to the study room is locked. students rarely come up to this floor.

she could probably tip the cheerleader's chair over, get them on the floor. pull up the skirt...move the thong to the side. always thongs. they may as well ditch underwear altogether at this point.

what a wonderful way to lose it. while they're kicking and thrashing, regretting every passive-aggressive, annoying, vapid thing they've ever said, while their mascara smears and their hair gets mussed by the cheap carpet. it has to be missionary. mating press. she would have to see their face. definitely would have to record it. maybe even post it online later.

the geek leans in even more, contemplating. she's already so close. if she put it in, she'd probably finish after only two or three thrusts.

"are you about to come?" asks the cheerleader, finally looking her way. "you wish you were inside me, don't you?"

she can't take it anymore. she lets out a strained groan. she comes. it gets on the cheerleader's thigh. they roll their eyes and reach in their purse for a napkin. their phone buzzes. it's Taylor.

"oh, my god, heyyy, girl! no i'm not busy, i'm just studying with my tutor...yeah..."

her chest heaves. she swallows, exhales, and then cleans herself up.

next time, she'll go through with it. ❂

[ms-demeanor]

Reading your post about safe anonymous leaking and nodding along and then going "well fuck I hope I can remember this later because if I ever consider it this is a bit incriminating to save in any way, huh"

The more people who use Tor, the less incriminating it is to use Tor.

The more you use things like Tor, the less weird it is for you to use signal and encrypted email services.

The more you use things like Tor and signal and encrypted email, the less weird it is for you to turn off the location on your devices and leave your phone at home when you go out.

It's suspicious as hell if you make a signal account the week before documents get leaked from your workplace. But it's not suspicious to have a signal account.

It's suspicious if you try to delete your google maps history the week after a protest. It's not suspicious if you don't have a google maps history because you don't use google maps.

All of which is to say: I don't think it's incriminating to check in on that post or bookmark it or start doing the things that it recommends because people should be doing the things on that post anyway. We should be using Tor casually. You should have a half dozen or so proton accounts just for convenience's sake. You should have signal, you should have your location turned off on your devices. You should be doing those things because they are good things to do, but doing those things also sets up an environment in which certain behaviors are less likely to be incriminating, or are less likely to be effective correlative evidence.

But also it has probably been a while since we talked about security nihilism around here; the deal is we live in a surviellance state and all of us are burned in some way. You sent an anon ask, but unless you sent it logged out and through an anonymizing tool, someone knows the originating IP address. If you sent it logged in, you may as well bookmark the post because you have already "contacted a security activist" in a way that can be subpoenaed (anon is only anon to the recipient! it is not anonymous to tumblr and courts can demand their records! that is why I said in the post that nobody who wanted to do any kind of leaking should say anything to me off or on anon!)

But also, consider your source: I have a bookmarks folder called "anarchist resources" that I had to remove from the toolbar because clients kept commenting on it during work calls. There is no way I'm beating the allegations.

But! Nihilism! If they want to charge you bad enough they won't need evidence to make it stick! So you might as well bookmark the post and install signal anyway. At least you can see if you can reduce your chances of getting caught!