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taestefully-in-luv · 3 years ago

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The Island | KTH (Seven)

Summary: You’re just two strangers waking up in a room on a lonely island where a company in the business of love has placed you. They believe that thanks to their in depth research you two are destined soulmates. What happens when your ‘soulmate’ and you want nothing to do with each other but falling in love is the only way to leave?

Pairing: Taehyung x Female reader

Genre: strangers to lovers, very slight enemies to lovers, soulmates au, roommate au, slow burn, fluff, smut, angst, slight crack, and drama.

Word Count: 10.6k

Warnings: swearing, sexual tension (?) maid outfit, spanking, vaginal fingering, panty sniffing, pussy slapping, Oc’s ex is an ass, use of a vibrator, mirror sex, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, multiple positions, rougher sex, choking, sad oc, vulnerable Tae,

Notes: Ch7 is here! A lot goes on but I hope you guys like this chapter. I would say the second part of the story is truly beginning. ;) Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist, or send an ask if just want to chat about the stories!:)

Taglist: @ggukkieland @707sblog @peacedreamer14 @dopedreamfireparty @everythingnamjoon @taebae19 @typicalgenzworld @mooniyooni @getmemyfries @helenazbmrskai @justinetingball @jpeachytaev @marplest @calling-dips-on-j-hope @lecavivien @fancycollectormoon

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Month 7

“I believe you missed a spot.” You glance over your shoulder to see Taehyung pointing down at some random spot on the lower shelf of the bookcase. His expression is dark, his eyes half lidded as he gazes at you. You turn around to face him, your breasts pushed out thanks to the…outfit…you are wearing. You reach forward with the white duster in hand and lightly sweep it across his chest.

“Where?” You tease. “Here?” You slide the duster lower until it barely grazes over his crotch.

Taehyung slightly moves his head to the side as he pushes a short breath of air out, he looks up as a sly smile draws itself on his perfect lips.

“Finish dusting the bookshelf,” he sounds amused, “Down there, I want you bent over, making sure it’s perfectly cleaned.” He points low again.

You raise your brows and say ‘Ah’, turning back around to face the shelves again. “Yes, Taehyung.” You whisper out and he smirks.

Your maid outfit is quite short on you, the material tight around your body. It’s very low cut giving Taehyung the perfect view of your pushed up breasts that he basically drools at the sight. But now he is getting the view of your ass. The way you are bent over, dusting the shelf has his pants getting tighter and tighter around his cock.

Taehyung walks forward until his crotch is directly pushed up against your cheeks, and his hands are gripping at your waist.

“Lower, clean lower.” He instructs and you begin to bend lower, your ass on fuller display now, the black lacey thong doing little to cover you and leaving nothing to the imagination. Taehyung’s eyes slowly skim down your back until they are settling at your cheeks being pushed up against him.

“Am I doing a good job?” you wiggle your ass and he bites down on his bottom lip. Hard. His plump flesh stuck between his teeth as he continues to stare down at you. You start moving your ass side to side, up and down. Circling your hips into his crotch and Taehyung sighs out, his eyes rolling to the back of his head.

“Don’t make me fuck you right here.” He warns, his voice is tight and strained. You can’t help but push back harder, feeling his hardening cock grow against your cheeks. Taehyung steps back from you, his hands sliding from your waist to your ass. He squeezes the cheek and gives one side a generous spank.

“Keep moving your hips.” He commands, “Fuck yourself onto my fingers.” And then his hand slides down until his fingers are at your wet folds, the material of your thong barely covering you. With his other hand he begins to slip your underwear off of you, he squats behind you dragging them down your legs, slowly…very slowly. You whine when he takes his time, he is always taking his fucking time. It drives you absolutely nuts.

“For fucks sake, woman.” He breathes out, “You are so fucking wet. You like dressing up this much? You like teasing me this much?” he lifts one foot at a time as he takes the underwear off of you. He brings the panties to his nose and sniffs the soaked material.

“Mm.” He throws the thong to the ground, and gets closer to your bare pussy.

You wiggle your ass again and he darkly chuckles, he brings his hand forward and lightly slaps your wet cunt.

“Taehyung!” You moan, you voice shaking as your arousal begins dripping down your pussy and onto your inner thighs. “Please touch me again.”

“My fingers.” He says, “That’s all you get.”

His fingers play at your folds again, they slide between them, gathering your juices. His fingers are so intimidatingly beautiful and long and you anticipate the feel of them entering you. But he doesn’t quite yet, he just continues to slide them between your folds. The tips of his fingers brushing against your clit, leaving you whining.

“I only have one rule for you baby girl.” Taehyung leans forward to kiss your right ass cheek. “You have to be loud. I want every microphone in this place picking up your moans.” He finally dips a finger into your hole and you cry out.

“That’s it. But louder.” He leaves another kiss as he enters another finger. The high pitched moan that leaves your lips should be illegal, it is such a cry in pleasure that it is obvious that his fingers bring you a feeling of euphoria.

“Taehyung, Taehyung.” You start chanting his name, in hopes he will enter another long finger but instead he starts to slowly, very fucking slowly, thrust his fingers in and out of you. He curls them in a way that brushes against your most sensitive fucking spot that has you rocking your hips along with his movements.

“That’s it baby.” He stops moving his hand, but continues to curl and scissor his fingers in you as you fuck his fingers. You rock your hips back and forth, choosing a quick pace as you fuck his long, delicious fingers. Your long, dragged out moans fills his ears and he just smiles as he stares at your pussy. His cock is aching. He wants to fuck you so bad. But as said before, he is a man of self-control. His ability to refrain from fucking you rough and quick astonishes even him.

“Taehyung!” you whine, “Oh god!”

His fingers continue to hit that spot inside you that has you tensing so hard, you clench around his fingers and moan loudly, so fucking loudly that you don’t even recognize yourself.

“That’s it…that’s it.” His other hand sneaks its way around your body until his fingers find your swollen clit. He starts rubbing tight circles, your knees shaking and your body starting to give out.

“I’m gonna—I’m gonna…” you pant, “Can I come? Please?” you move against him faster.

Taehyung licks his lips, he watches at your juices run down your legs and he feels so fucking pleased with himself. He finally starts thrusting his fingers into you once again, at a brutal pace while his other fingers still work themselves on your clit. Your shaky legs give out on you and you fall to all fours on the floor. Your face smooshed in the carpet as you raise your ass higher in the air.

“You can come.” He gives his permission and you groan out loudly, “Now.” He says with a low voice. You feel the wave of your orgasm hit you, it washes over you wave after wave, drowning you in pleasure. Your body is about to fall completely to the floor when Taehyung’s fingers leave your body to catch you.

“That’s it baby.” He whispers, “You did so fucking well.” He starts rubbing your back as he pulls you into his chest. “You put on quite the show. I bet these fuckers watching are creaming their fucking pants right now.” He chuckles. You breathe heavily into his chest, a small laugh leaving your mouth.

“How about we shower?” he offers, his hand still on your back. “Clean you up.”

“I want…I want you to come too…” you say between harsh breaths, “Not fair that I—”

“Oh baby.” Taehyung squeezes his eyes shut and laughs. “You think I wouldn’t come at the sight of you? You think my cock stayed good? Stayed pure? You think I didn’t explode in my pants watching you fuck my fingers? Watching you on all fours in this fucking outfit?”

You lift your head from him with a confused expression until a smirk plays at your lips.

“You came? Just watching me? Without touching yourself?”

Taehyung opens his eyes to gaze at you, his licks his lips and brings your hand to dip inside his pants. The feeling is wet and sticky and your eyes widen.

“You’re just too fucking sexy.” He admits with a dark chuckle, “Sometimes I allow myself to lose a little control, you know?”

Dear Lord, this man drives you fucking nuts. You lean in to find his lips…you don’t think you will ever get used to this. The feeling of his lips on yours…the feeling of this.

But something is off. You feel it deep within your bones. And nothing makes you more afraid.

~~~~~~

“W-What do you mean?” you feel your lip tremble. “What are you talking about?”

“This has gone on too long, y/n. I had to do something about it.” Ben’s lips are set in a firm line. “You are crossing too many boundaries.”

“Boundaries? I just told them we—”

“We what?” he snaps. “You blabbed and lied to the whole office.”

“L-Lied?” you feel your body get really warm, slowly filling with rage. “What are you talking about? Lied?”

“Saying we are in some sort of romantic relationship? How delusional are you?” he grits out, “So I was nice to you a few times, but you become so delirious and imagine we are in some sort of relationship?” he scoffs, “It’s truly sick.”

You pull your eyebrows together, completely confused and shocked at his words. What is he fucking saying? What is he going on about?

“I filed a complaint about you to HR. They will deal with this legally.”

“L-Legally?” You’re speechless. “What the fuck are you talking about Ben?” you glance towards his cracked open office door, you know at the volume you two are speaking at you can be heard.

“You told me you loved me!” you cry out. “You have fucked on this very desk!” you point at his office desk and look at him incredulously.

“Christ’s sake, y/n. I will call security.”

You feel tears bubble in your eyes and they begin streaming down your face.

“Ben? What is this about? Why are you doing this?”

“This is truly unprofessional.” He walks closer to you then leans down to whisper in your ear. “If I were you, I would just go.” Then leans away with a dark smirk on his face.

“Fuck you.” You spit out, “Go to fucking Hell.” You turn towards his office door and swing it open, walk through, and slamming it shut.

You wipe at your face, walking to your cubicle to gather your things. Layla stares at you from her seat and shakes her head disapprovingly.

“You’re so pathetic.” She snarls, “Making all this shit up.”

You whip your head in her direction, not believing your ears. Sure, you kept your relationship a secret for a while and maybe she has a hard time believing that but—

“Did you do all this because you were jealous?” Layal spits out, “That he would flirt with me? Did you want it to be you?”

“Layla—”

“Get out of here.”

You feel weak. Too weak to respond, too weak to defend yourself. You gather your things and make your way out of the buildings floor, to the elevators. You cry the entire way down to the ground floor. Not believing a thing that just happened to you. The man you have been with for over 6 moths just betrayed the fuck out of you, just embarrassed you in front of the entire office. He ruined you. You will never recover from this. How could you?

“So she…chose him over you?” Taehyung’s deep voice crawls all over your skin as he asks the question that depresses you further.

“I guess…” you bring a cracker to your lips, sticking it between them but not eating it. You stare blankly at the couch cushion beneath you, not entirely wanting to have this conversation.

“But you two were friends…” Taehyung scrunches his face in displeasure, he’s starting to get peeved, you can tell.

“It’s fine, Tae.” You finally open your mouth and take a bite of the cracker and swallow the dry food in one go. The crackers slowly making its way down your throat, a lump is formed and you reach towards the coffee table a gulp down some water.

“It’s not fine y/n.” he huffs out, “These people hurt you. Makes me wanna—”

“I said it’s fine.” You try again, setting the water back down. “It’s in the past.”

“Babe…” Taehyung’s hand finds yours, he wraps his fingers around yours tightly and strokes his thumb over your soft skin. “I know you don’t want to remember this…I understand. Talking about your past can be hard—”

“What about you?” you snap your head up, looking into his eyes with a somewhat hard stare. “Should we talk about your past?”

“I’m an open book, y/n.” he whispers softly, “You can ask me whatever and I will gladly tell you…” he squeezes your hand but you continue to stare at him coldly.

“What about Hana? In her eyes you guys are practically together.” You grit your teeth, “I kind of feel like the other woman here.” You admit. Taehyung’s eyes widen just slightly before they fill with something similar to guilt.

“But we weren’t together. And I doubt she is waiting for me all this time…”

“You claimed to be so in love with her Taehyung, and now you just aren’t?” you snap, making Taehyung flinch. His lips turn downwards as a frowns decorates his face, he then looks at you narrowing his eyes.

“Careful, y/n.” he warns. “I understand you’re feeling—”

“Oh? And how am I feeling?” you pull your hand away from his, setting it into your lap, joining your other hand.

“Insecure.” He says bluntly. “But it’s okay. I will say what I have to say to reassure you.”

“Oh? So you are just saying whatever you think will help me feel better? Whatever it takes, right?”

“y/n…” Taehyung can’t help but rolls his eyes. “Everything I say will be the truth. I would never…I will never lie to you.”

You stare at him with pinched brows, your breathing harsher than before. You grit your teeth in frustration and tear your eyes away from his.

“Sure, Taehyung. So what? You just suddenly don’t feel anything for her?”

Taehyung breathes in and out a few times, trying to gather his patience.

“A long time ago I asked you if it really seemed like a had feelings for her…everyone was right. I don’t. I just wanted to. I wanted something, someone…but now—”

“How do I know you just aren’t transferring those same feelings to me?”

“For fucks sake, woman.” Taehyung runs a hand down his face. “I am literally falling in love with you!”

Your eyes quickly dart across the room, you try to find something to focus on—anything but Taehyung.

“Look at me.” He demands of you. “Now.” And then you are feeling his fingers at your jaw as he softly guides you to face him. “I am going to make sure this works no matter what. And that will take a lot of fucking communication. So talk.”

“I…” your eyes finally find his, they’re like a pool of chocolate and you find yourself wanting to take a dip. “I don’t know if I am ready.” You breathe out, the admission making you feel small.

Taehyung gulps, his hands coming together to rest in his lap.

“Ready for what?” he asks, the nervousness evident in his voice.

“You.”

Taehyung’s hands are sweaty as he holds onto himself, bracing himself if you are to continue but you don’t. You stay silent as you search his eyes.

“Tae?”

Taehyung blinks at you, clearing his throat.

“I…” he begins, “I understand.”

“I do like you Taehyung.” You clarify before he can overthink. “I just—”

“I said I understand.” He reminds you softly. “And trust me, I know you like me, I would be blind to think you didn’t. I don’t play games y/n. I don’t want you to either. Be real with me, be honest.” He releases a shaky breath. “You’re still going through a lot, you probably don’t have closure…you probably have a lot to work out when you get back home.” He says quickly, “Love is the last thing on your mind—”

“That’s not true!” you cut in. “God, Taehyung you make me…you make me want to forget everything. You make me want to stay on this island with you for forever.”

Taehyung blinks at you again before he offers you a small smile.

“But that’s not real life y/n.” he looks down at his hands, “I want to experience real life with you.” He finds your eyes again, “And you aren’t ready for that.”

“I want to be.” Your eyes begin to wet with tears. “I really, really want to be.”

“I know baby.”

“Slow.” You scoot closer to him, “I still want to be in this. Just slow.” You say, not believing yourself. Your trauma isn’t your only problem here. It’s this whole damn company.

“You still want me?” Taehyung whispers softly and you begin to feel yourself melt into liquid, your body puddling on the couch.

“Tae…” you lean into his space, pecking his lips lightly. “Yes, of course.” You lean back and smile. “You mean so much to me…” you look down at his tense hands. You want to comfort him now. “You are such a light in my life.” You fingers cover his hands and your squeeze lightly. “I feel so strongly for you.” You admit. Hating yourself for being so drawn to him.

“Yeah?” he releases some of the tension in his body through a long, shaky breath.

“Yeah.”

“Then we have to communicate. I know it’s hard. But y/n, I am quite literally desperate to make this work.” He sighs, “I will do whatever it takes. And I just want to know if you will do the same.” His dark eyes pierce into yours and you find yourself being even more drawn to him, leaning closer and closer like he has you under some sort of spell.

“Yes, Taehyung. But…”

“She quit her job out of nowhere! Came back home? This isn’t damn suspicious to you honey?” Your moms voice is loud enough for you to hear from the living room.

“She said she has her reasons sweetheart. Let’s just trust her, be there for her.”

“Do you think this has anything to do with that boyfriend she had? You think they broke up?” you mother pries further, making your father roll his eyes.

“You think our daughter would move to another town just because of a break up?” he groans and you bite your bottom lip as you eavesdrop.

You hear your mother scoff, “Wouldn’t be that surprised. She’s known for running away when shit hits that fan.” She reminds your dad and you feel your eyes gloss over and the slight burn of your throat.

“Sweetheart…” you father warns, “Let’s just be there for her for now, she will come to us eventually.”

But will you? Even your father isn’t sure.

You feel the tightness in your chest only intensify as you recall your memories. Taehyung watches you with careful eyes as he thinks of your life and the things you’ve been through. He grabs you by the wrist and pulls you into his chest, your head getting buried into his shoulder and he starts to soothingly rub your back.

“You can cry if you need to.” His voice is soft, softer than you have ever heard it. This only pushes you to listen to him…you cry. You cry just as hard as you did in the elevator that first day. He rubs circles into your back and whispers sweet words into your hair. You hate this. You feel pathetic. But somehow you feel yourself getting freed with every tear that drops and soaks into his t shirt. You finally…finally after all this time, for the first time, feel someone’s support. You feel someone understand you, believe you.

“Taehyung…” you cry into his shirt harder as that realization hits you. “Taehyung…”

He slams his eyes shut and inhales you. The scent of your shampoo filling his senses and he goes dizzy.

“I’m here baby. I’m here.”

But he won’t always be here, you think. Once he goes home why wouldn’t he just continue to live his normal life? Why wouldn’t Hana wait for him? He’s amazing. He’s absolutely the best thing that has happened to you in the last year. Why wouldn’t someone wait for him?

This only makes you cry harder. He pulls you into his lap and continues to stroke your back. He is terrified. He won’t say that out loud, but he is. He is falling for you harder and harder with every moment he spends with you, good or bad. He just wants to protect you, to be there for you, to make you safe and happy.

“y/n?” he leans back to get a look at your crying face, but you only shove your face deeper onto his shoulder, refusing to be seen right now.

“Will you look at me?” he softly pleads. “Please.”

You hesitate for a moment but finally lift your head, showing him your swollen eyes and puffy lips.

“Still think you are falling in love with me?” you joke pathetically and Taehyung smiles sadly.

“I think I already am.”

Month 8

It’s been 8 months…stuck on this island for 8 months. You know the day to return home is coming at any moment. The anticipation quite literally kills you. Every day that passes you want to believe that Taehyung’s feelings are real. You want to believe it so badly. But something deep within you, stops you. You have these heavy ass doubts that weigh you down.

Taehyung isn’t blind…of course he has noticed. He has known you for 8 months, you and only you so of course he has noticed—he knows you—he hates how well he knows you. Taehyung doesn’t give up though, he gives you space when you obviously need it and he is there for you when you also obviously need it. This makes you feel like a mess. Mostly just makes you feel as pathetic as you probably are.

You lay in bed with Taehyung snoozing next to you, his arm draped lazily around your hips. Did this company win? They forced you two together…and he probably only thinks he’s in love with you. You are the only one he knows…what other choice did he have? You blink back growing tears and huff out loudly.

“You okay?” you hear Taehyung whisper from beside you, startling you.

“Y-Yes.” You lie. “Just—”

“Just stressed? You have been really stressed the last month…” he awkwardly chuckles.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know how to distress I guess.” You awkwardly laugh back and he stays silent for a moment.

“I could think of a few ways…”

It’s been a while since the two of you had sex. Maybe a few weeks? You’ve just been so into your head that you just can’t get into it. But Taehyung’s touch sounds so warm and inviting right now.

“And…what are those ways?” you turn to lay on your side, inching closer to him.

“What ways will make you most comfortable?” Taehyung asks slowly and carefully. His hand reaches up to caress you cheek and you automatically lean into his touch for the first time in what feels like forever.

“Anything you can come up with Tae.” You breathe out, you words hitting his plush lips.

“I think I know how to relax you.” He tests the waters by leaning in to kiss you. The sigh of relief that pushes past his lips when you kiss him back is almost comical, almost sad.

“Come with me.” He says pulling away from you, only confusing you.

“W-Where?” you ask as he rises from the sheets and steps out onto the floor. You follow his lead though, leaving the bed to join him. He takes your hand and leads you out of the bedroom, walking you through the hallway until you reach another bedroom door. This room?!

“Tae…” you softly say his name and he squeezes your hand.

“Just trust me.” He opens the bedroom door and switches on the soft, low lighting.

You both walk through the room and he leads you in front of the bed.

“Undress.” He tells you, his voice a little lower than usual. “Now.”

You release a long breath before lifting your tank top of your head and shoving your shorts down your legs. You stand here in just a purple bralette and some black panties and Taehyung raises a brow at you.

“All the way.” He says, “All your clothes.”

He crosses his arms over his chest as he waits expectantly. His dark gaze making you feel nervous so suddenly.

“D-Don’t stare.” You reach behind you to unclasp your bra, the purple material dropping to the floor, exposing your breasts.

“Panties next.” He commands, licking his lips as he gazes at you.

“Taehyung.” You whine, feeling so exposed. Taehyung walks closer to you until he’s standing inches away, his hand reaches forward until his fingers are playing with the band of your underwear. He lifts the band up and slaps it against your skin.

“I said panties next.” Then he’s stepping away from you as he smirks.

You gulp, trying not to roll your eyes as you feel the sting on your hips from the panties being slapped against you.

“Yes Taehyung.” You listen, dragging the panties down one leg at a time, they pool at your ankles and you kick them away.

“Good job baby girl.” He says, turning around to walk towards one of the drawers. He rummages through it until he finds what he is looking for.

“Perfect.” He says, holding something small in his hands. You don’t know what it is specifically, but you have an idea considering you know what’s in that drawer.

“Taehyung.” You whine again and he keeps what’s in his hand hidden as he walks towards you. He sits on the edge of the bed, scotting back just a bit and spreading his legs.

“Sit between my legs.” He orders. “Facing the mirror.”

You raise a brow at him and he smiles. “Just trust me.” He says.

“Okay…” you walk forward and turn around, sitting on the bed and scooting between his legs until your bare back in flush against his chest.

“Take your shirt off…I want to feel your skin on my skin.” You quietly beg. Taehyung takes a moment to think before he’s nodding his head at you, his eyes catching yours in the mirror.

“Sure baby.” He lifts his shirt over his head and throws it off to the side and you lean back to feel his warn skin on your back.

You stare at him through the mirror, his breaths hitting the side of your neck and you begin to close your eyes. What does he have in mind?

“Spread your legs. Put your legs on either side of mine…bend your knees…just like that, yes.” Taehyung praises you as you do as he instructs. You watch in the mirror as Taehyung guides your legs apart, his eyes on your pussy in the mirror as you expose yourself to him.

“Perfect.” Suddenly, you hear a low buzzing sound. Your eyes shoot open and you catch his gaze.

“Tae…”

He shows you the small bullet vibrator to you in the mirror, his smile growing as he watches your eye lids get heavier. You nod your head to him, and roll it back until it hits his shoulder.

“Oh baby, you’re the one doing it, I’m just here for support.” He takes your hand and wraps your fingers around the small vibrator. You eye him in the mirror and breathe out roughly, you feel yourself getting wet at just the thought.

“I’m getting myself off?” your shaky voice makes Taehyung chuckle.

“That’s the idea.” He gestures for you to begin. “Go ahead.”

You lick your dry lips and stare at yourself in the mirror. You slowly bring the vibrator closer to your body, your eyes scan your body until you get the idea to start at top. You bring the vibrator and circle it around your left nipple. You sigh out when it first makes contact, the vibrations making your bud harden. Taehyung watches in amusement, he bites down on his plump bottom lip and moves his hips upwards.

You can feel his cock getting hard at the top of your ass cheeks, between your crack. He must like what he sees. You slowly glide the small vibrator down the valley of your breasts until its dragging down to your lower belly. You sigh out again, drawing pictures over your sensitive stomach. You then glide the vibrator to your inner thigh, moving it closer and closer to your dampening folds. You sigh out a little louder this time, making Taehyung gulp as he watches you.

You feel his hard cock twitch in his shorts, the thin material doing little to hide his raging erection.

“You’re so fucking sexy.” He whispers in your ear, his eyes never leaving yours now.

You finally take the vibrator and put it at your center…you start low. The toy at your hole until you slowly, very slowly drag it upwards…you press the button and raise the speed a setting. You swallow hard when you drag it even higher, and the buzzing toy finally meets your clit. You don’t intend for this—but the moan that leaves your mouth is long, and loud. You slowly close your eyes as you circle the vibrator over your bundle of nerves, pressing the button again and it begins to vibrate faster. You move your hips up and down, the feeling so fucking good that you cannot help the way you squirm between his legs.

“Open your eyes. Look at me.” His hands go from your hips to your thighs and he squeezes them. You open your eyes and get a look at yourself first. Your expression is so fucked out as you continue to run the vibrator against your clit, the loud buzzing not doing much to drown out your moans. Then your eyes find his…his eyes are terrifyingly dark, filled with the most lust you can imagine. He heaving chest only pushes you to buck your hips harder onto the vibrator.

You press the button once more, the setting changing into a pulsing vibration and you cry out, pressing the button again, building the tension. Taehyung catches his bottom lip between his teeth again, he swears he can taste blood from how hard he is biting. You squirm harder between his legs, beginning to slide down his chest as you start to chase your high that is soon approaching. You are leaving a fucking mess…your inner thighs are drenched and you are leaving a big soak spot on the sheets from how dripping wet you are.

“You’re doing so good baby. Can I touch you?” Taehyung’s voice is deep and strained and you frantically nod your head yes.

You lean your head back on his shoulder again, your half lidded eyes watching as his hand moves closer to your pussy. He uses his other hand to spread your legs further apart and then his eyes bore into your pussy as his fingers dive into your neglected hole. He starts thrusting his fingers in and out as quickly as he can as you raise the speed on the vibrator. You clit is begging you to come. You watch Taehyung’s fingers fuck your hole in the mirror, his eyes focused on this as well. You whimper when you feel your orgasm coming to hit you like a fucking truck, it hits so hard. Taehyung’s free hand grabs a hold of your hand that holds the vibrator and pushes it down on your clit harder, making you see fucking stars as this orgasm washes over you with the most intense wave possible. You shake between his legs, squirming once more when you finish climaxing. But Taehyung keeps the vibrator on you and you cry out, loud and whiny.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” you grab a hold of his thighs and squeeze them tightly. “Taehyung!” you pant out.

“Come again.” He adds pressure on your clit, and raises the speed.

You feel the buzzing toy make you go into overdrive. Taehyungs fingers still thrusting in and out of you, curling inside your pussy making you overwhelmed. The toy works its magic though, making you feel a crash of waves, multiple waves drown you repeatedly. You ride them out, as he slows the vibrations down and his fingers leave your hole. You breathe out roughly, crying in pleasure.

“Good girl, good girl.” You lean back on Taehyung and shut your eyes, trying to even out your breathing.

After several long moments of composing yourself you begin to slowly turn in Taehyung’s lap, on your knees, facing him. His eyes stay on the mirror, they travel down your back until they land on your ass. His hands find their way to it, and squeezes it roughly. His eyes finally leave the mirror and meet your gaze.

“What is it baby?” one hand leaves your ass to caress your cheek, “What is it?”

“Will you fuck me? Right here?” you lower yourself onto his crotch, your dripping wet pussy leaking onto his shorts. You can feel how rock hard his is. How is he able to control himself this well?

“Is that what you want? Me?” He narrows his dark eyes at you and smirks.

“Yes.”

“Get on all fours.” He commands, lifting you off his body as he stands to take his shorts and briefs off. His member springs free and you have never seen it so angry, so swollen, so needy, so ready. You listen to what he says, getting on all fours, facing the mirror once more.

“I want you to be rough with me.” You say confidently. “Don’t wanna walk tomorrow.”

“Be careful what you wish for here babe.” Taehyung warns with amusement in his voice.

Taehyung gets on his knees on the bed and positions himself behind you, without much warning he quickly thrusts his cock into your hole. You gasp out, your body pushed forward from the force. Suddenly, he’s grabbing a handful of hair and pulling it up to lift your body to his. You are flush against his chest as he whispers in your ear.

“I’m going to fuck you as hard as I want then?”

“Yes.” You moan out when you feel him starting to slowly thrust in and out of you. He yanks your head to the side and starts placing hot, wet kisses down your neck. One hand on your hip and the other crawls up your stomach, squeezes a tit and then is at you throat. He starts to lightly choke you as he thrusts harder and harder, his grip on your throat getting tighter as well.

“All mine.” He growls into your ear. He pushes your upper body down until you are on all fours again, his eyes meet yours in the mirror and he bites his lips. He begins rolling his hips into your pussy, fucking you deeper. You hear him groan, he watches you in the mirror the entire time as you roll your eyes back. Your loud moans, whiny and desperate.

“Please, harder!” you beg. Taehyung smirks at you…he raises a hand and it comes down on your ass. Then his hips slap into your ass cheeks with such force that you shake, his thrusts so fucking powerful. His skin slapping against your skin, the squelching sound of your pussy and both of your moans fill the room.

“Fuck, fuuuuuuck.” You scream out, his dick reaching so far into you, hitting your fucking g spot over and over.

Taehyung lifts you up again by the hair and once you are on your knees his cock leaves your hole and he pushes you to the mattress. He positions you so you are on your side facing the mirror once again, then he lays behind you and quickly inserts his member into your pussy again.

“Aaagghh.” You groan out when you feel him start to fuck into you, his cock doing wonders. His hand makes its way back to your throat as he starts to choke you again, he leans down until his mouth is latched onto yours and his tongue is down your throat.

You kiss him back with passion, your tongues tangling and dancing. Its wet and sloppy and god, you couldn’t have asked for anything more.

Taehyung slaps his hips into you, and he squeezes his eyes shut as he feels himself getting closer and closer. His hand creeps up your pussy and his fingers find your clit, he rubs on it so deliciously quick that you feel the tension begin to build uncontrollably.

“Faster, faster.” You chant and he grits his teeth in frustration. He’s about to blow, he wants you to come first though but god, if he goes faster he’s going to come all inside you.

“I’m so close Tae, faster!” you plead. He breathes out roughly as he thrusts into you quickly, his fingers pushing down harder on your clit. You feel your orgasm so fucking close, it’s about to explode.

“Fuuuucckk.” Taehyung whines, “I’m gonna come y/n.” he warns. “Where should i—”

“Inside me!” you beg, “Please, please. I need to feel you come inside me, I want all of your cum…” you continue to beg and he throws his head back as he fucks your harder.

His fingers don’t stop their assault on your clit and that is it. That is all you need because you are coming, creaming all over his aching cock. He finally still his hips and shoots his load inside you, painting your walls a milky white. His chest heaves as he holds on to you, bringing you closer to his chest.

“Let me stay inside you.” He doesn’t ask. He tells. You nod your head and look at him through the mirror.

“Taehyung.” You moan, “You feel so good inside me.”

“You absolutely feel amazing.” He assures you, brushing a strand of hair away from your sweaty forehead. “Always do.”

After a few moments, Taehyung begins to softly thrust into you again, pushing his cum even deeper within you with his long, thick length. You wince at the feeling but you meet him half way, shoving your ass further into him.

“Again?” you ask in a moan.

“Can’t get enough of you.” He admits between bated breaths.

His head falls on to your shoulder as he slowly fucks you again, his breathing is as unsteady as can be. He groans when he feels your ass push back, making him fuck you faster.

“Slow baby.” He warns, “Just want to enjoy being inside you.” He takes one of your legs and lifts it over his, “Deeper?” he asks.

“Yes, this is good.” You moan, “So good.” The slow drag of his cock brushing against your most sensitive spots again has you melting.

He fucks you like this for a long while, your long, loud moans in competition with his groans and grunts. You swear you can die like this. His cock is sliding in and out of you so slowly and so accurately hitting your g spot that you clench around him so tightly causing him to slam his eyes shut and fuck you just a bit faster.

“Let’s come.” He orders and that is honestly what it takes for you. You feel your orgasm hit you and you ride it out as he comes inside you again, he whines when he finishes.

“God, you feel so amazing.” He whimpers out and you love the sound of him being the whiny one for once.

“You too babe.” You say, your eyes catching his in the mirror. His hand grips your waist and begins to turn you over in his embrace.

Taehyung smiles softly towards you and leans forward to catch your lips in a sweet kiss. He pulls back just as quickly and smirks.

“feeling a little less stressed?”

You feel your heart pinch in your chest…right…your stress. You feel guilt bubble over but you try to smile for him anyway. “Yes babe.” You whisper. “Yes.”

~~~~~~

It’s late, you know that much. You and Taehyung are laid in bed in the master, he’s all snuggled up against you, his soft breaths hitting the side of your neck. You hate yourself. You hate all this overthinking.

The company won. They fucking won. You were never supposed to fall for this, fall for him. Not actually, no, not really. But in pretend, yes. But now they won for real.

You feel lost right now. You briefly felt amazing, but now your overthinking has taken over and now you are left feeling anxious. And you have your biggest fear. Does Taehyung only think he’s in love with you? This company forced you two to be together, to “fall in love” and of course, after spending everyday with you he might think he feels something. That scares you, because it could be true. Your heart just breaks into pieces thinking about it. How do you know that the reason you have feelings for Taehyung isn’t because this company tricked you into it and it’s not real? That thought breaks your heart into even more pieces.

You lay here, your breaking heart pounding in your chest. You could cry. Well, of course you could fucking cry—it’s you. But you could really cry. The type of cry session where you release heart wrenching sobs that break your body.

“Why are you awake?” Taehyung’s voice has you jumping in place. He knits his brows together, concern is laced in his voice.

“Can’t sleep.” you reply plainly. Taehyung smiles, pinching your arm.

“Too happy?” he asks.

You can’t do this. Your bottom lip begins to tremble and you open your mouth to speak but no words come out. Taehyung’s smile fades as the seconds tick by.

“What’s wrong?” he rushes, his hand gripping your arm gently.

You can’t do this. Your eyes start glossing over and you try your hardest to blink back any building tears. Taehyung rubs his hand up and down your arm, trying his best to soothe you.

“y/n, talk to me.” His eyes are wide and round and beautiful.

“Please talk to me, please.” He begs. Yes, Taehyung fucking begs. The tone of his voice is soft and low and pleading. And this just pushes your tears further. Taehyung pulls you into his chest as you begin crying. Those heart wrenching sobs that break your body.

“It’s okay baby, shh, shh.” He pats your head, his fingers tangling in your hair.

“I’m here. You’re just…you’re just overwhelmed, that’s all.” He tries to reason for you. You just cry even harder. Taehyung clears his throat, “Yeah, just overwhelmed.” It sounds like he is convincing himself rather than you.

“Tae…” You cry out softly, trying to calm your tears. When you are able to form coherent sentences you lean back from him and look into his eyes.

“We should talk.” You whisper, for once in your life handling some confrontation.

“No.” Taehyung says, surprising you. “We can-we can talk tomorrow.” You can see the hurt in his eyes. He knows. He knows where this conversation is headed. Because of fucking course he would know, his mind has had to wander there too. Because it’s your reality. “Let’s-let’s just sleep.” And he pulls you in his arms again but you pull away. He looks pained by your action. Your heart drops.

“No Tae—”

“Please.” You both just stare at each other. Silence lingers in the air at your lack of response. Then you are scooting closer to his warm body, wrapping an arm over his chest, you hear him sigh in relief. He then holds you the tightest he has ever held you. His breaths are shaky and you want to cry again. But you don’t.

“I love you.” You barely hear him from how softly he whispers it. But you do hear him and it makes you want to bawl. But once again, you don’t.

You exhale deeply into his chest and close your eyes. You love him too. But you don’t say it. You let the silence swallow you both whole and you swear you can feel his body tremble for a moment and him sniffling above your head.

“Goodnight Taehyung.” And off to sleep you go, no matter how broken you feel.

~~~~~~~~

“Good morning sunshine!” Taehyung is bouncing on the bed slightly as he hovers over you. His smile is big and bright like a kid who just received candy. You want to smile but your heart is heavy. Why is he so happy?

“I made breakfast! Pancakes, your favorite…although I don’t make them as good as you,” He looks all over the room as he speaks, “But I have to say, they’re pretty damn good. I had to test try them of course, make sure they’re safe to eat.” He laughs at himself. “Why don’t you wash up? Then come downstairs.” He smiles at you, his bright eyes shining down at you.

Why is he acting like last night didn’t happen? Well, he’s acting like the good parts of last night happened but not the rest of the night.

“y/n?” he looks down at you, big puppy dog eyes.

“Huh?” You blink up at him.

“Come on!” then he leans down and kisses you on the lips. It’s quick, really quick. But it happens. He lifts himself back up, he nervously nibbles on his bottom lip and his eyes slide to the door. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.” Then he’s jumping out of bed and making his way out of the room.

What the fuck is happening? Why is he pretending you two aren’t necessarily in the best place right now? Like, you don’t have to have a serious conversation? But your confidence to confront him has wavered quite a bit, and you hate yourself for being so weak. You knew you should of done it last night but you let him win. You just couldn’t stand the sight of him being so sad. Today he is super happy! Fake happy. He’s forcing himself and it breaks your heart. Jesus fucking Christ. But his fake smile is better than his real frown.

You force yourself out of bed and drag your feet across the room to the bathroom. You wash your face and brush your teeth but you really need a shower. Especially after last night, you are sure you smell like sweat and sex. Taehyung didn’t seem to mind. He smelled clean. He smelled like soap and his musk, an intoxicating combination. After you’re through with the bathroom you make your way downstairs, the house smells like bacon and you groan at how good it smells.

“Hi.” Taehyung chirps, his smile grows as you walk closer.

“Hi,” You reply slowly, walking up to the dining table. Taehyung slides a plate of pancakes over to the spot in front of him.

“For you.”

The plate has 2 pancakes with strawberry slices covering the top and scrambled eggs and bacon on the side.

“Syrup.” He offers, sliding that across too.

“You didn’t have to…” You mumble under your breath. Taehyung continues smiling brightly at you, grabbing his fork and knife ready to dig into his own food. He really waited for you.

You walk closer to the table, your eyes downcast as you find your seat.

“Thanks…” You whisper. You look down at your food but how can you fucking eat? Your heart is in pain right now, you are in pain right now. You were tricked into these feelings, feelings you are not even sure are real. And he’s looking like the fucking sun right now.

“Aren’t cha gonna eat?” he says, mouth full. Good thing you speak mouth full Taehyung, or else you wouldn’t have understood that.

“Not that hungry.” you admit, not looking at him.

“Come on baby,” his tone is less happily forced and instead softer. “Please eat.” He sets his fork down, you can feel his eyes on you.

“Fine.” you give in quickly, not wanting to worry him. You hear him say ‘good’ in the most chipper voice and it makes you nauseas.

You eat slowly, mostly just picking at your food. You never look up from your plate, but you can feel Taehyung’s gaze, you can sense how worried he is. You know him. You don’t need to look at him to know.

“I was thinking we could paint today.” He says, breaking the silence. He stuffs some bacon into his mouth, chewing loudly. “Whaddya think?” You can hear the smile in his voice.

“Taehyung…” You begin to speak but he cuts you off.

“Great!” the sound of the chair screeching across the floor startles you, you look up from your food to see Taehyung standing, his bright smile even brighter. Yup, just like the fucking sun.

“I’ll clean up, you’re done right?” you only nod. “Why don’t you go to the art room and start setting up. I’ll be there in a minute.” He shines so brightly, you are forced to look away. You nod again.

You stand from your chair and walk towards the entry way into the hall but before you can get too far away you hear Taehyung at the sink cursing under his breath. Your heart drops. You turn around and peak into the kitchen to see him standing there, his hands at the kitchen sink with his head low.

“Fuck.” You hear the pain in his voice and you scurry off to the art room, not able to handle this right now.

After several minutes of setting up yours and Taehyung’s easel’s and placing down the paper, you search for what colors you want to use. Maybe sticking with blues since blue is how you fucking feel. You are grabbing for a few when you hear Taehyung enter the room. You turn to face him.

“Hi.” He says with that chipper tone but his eyes are glossy. Had he been crying? Fuck, you can’t handle this.

“Taehyung…” you start again, determined to confront this situation. But he cuts you off again with a pained smile.

“Thanks for setting up for me babe.” He ruffles your hair, like he just needed to touch you in some shape or form.

“R-right.”

You two paint in silence. Complete fucking silence. The tension in the room is absolutely suffocating, it’s hitting you in strong waves, pushing you around, drowning you. You can’t take this anymore, You have to say something.

“Taehyung—”

“Wanna know when I knew that I was in love with you?” He speaks up, his voice not laced in that fake joy. His eyes are focused on the painting in front of him, his fingers wrapped around the brush as he strokes the paper in beautiful color. You frown, not really wanting to know.

“Taehyung—”

“I fell in love with you when you made me realize I could be loved. Really loved.” He dips the brush into a cup of water, wiping it clean on the edge of the cup. “That I could love too.” He adds, still not looking at you, only focusing on his work.

“…Taehyung.” You just sound sad, the tone of your voice is depressing.

“You made me realize I don’t have to force any feelings…they could just be.” He pauses his hand before his paint brush is hitting the paper. “And I thought, ‘wait why do I feel this way?’” he lowers his head, chuckling to himself. “Then it was so fucking obvious.” He continues his work on the paper, dabbing the green paint in different spots.

You are left stunned. Speechless. Completely silenced. He just sits there, not even sparing you a glance as he paints his work of art. Like he didn’t just confess something so utterly beautiful to you. He must really think he loves you and it crushes you that he probably does not. You can’t let this go on any longer. He paints in green but you are about to turn his whole world blue.

“Your feelings aren’t real Taehyung.” you say in one breath. He stills his hand for a moment then continues to paint. “Don’t you see we’ve been tricked into these, these ‘feelings’” you use your fingers to quote the word for emphasis. “You just think you love me but you probably don’t. You’ve just spent enough time with me that you think you love me. You have no one else to love, why not me?” You see his body go tense and he stops his hand from painting. He lowers it and sets the brush down and turns in his seat to face you.

“How fucking dare you?” he grits out, his teeth are clenched and his eyes are narrowed. You jump at his exclamation.

“How fucking dare you try and tell me how genuine my feelings are?” He’s angry. His fists are balled up and his knuckles are turning white. So yeah, angry.

“Tae—”

“No! you let me fucking speak.” He grits again, “If I say I love you because I do then fucking believe me!” He’s shaking. His voice is loud and booming and it startles you.

“Please just listen to me—”

“No you listen.” He stands up from the chair and walks toward you, “Why are you doing this, huh? Things were so perfect.” He stops in front of you and pulls you up by the arms. Your chests almost touch from how close you are. “Unless…” he looks down at his feet, “You’re saying all of this because that’s how you feel. You’re the one unsure of your feelings. You’re the one who only likes me—loves me—because there’s no one else.” He looks into your eyes, searching for an answer.

“Maybe.” You finally say. And you wish you didn’t because Taehyung releases a shaky breath and his brows crease together as he forms the saddest smile you have ever seen. The canvas of his life is full of beautiful bright colors but you continue to splatter blue and grey paint all over it. The paint mixes together and drips down, a gloomy mess.

“Oh.” He steps back. “I see.” He takes another step back, carding his fingers through his hair. He looks into your eyes as his gloss over, “I’ll leave you alone then.” And he turns around and walks out of the room, leaving you behind. And being left behind is probably what you deserve. Your heart has fucking shattered. You don’t want him to leave you alone. You don’t want him to leave. You want this to be real, you want this to be real so fucking bad. But how can you be sure that it is? And of course cry baby y/n makes her appearance because you are back on your chair, letting a stream of tears fall down your cheeks. You cry. And cry. Loudly. You know Taehyung hears it but he does as he says—he leaves you alone. Just as you fucking deserve. Your body is shaking from your sobs and you enter a full on panic attack. Your breathing picks up and your chest tightens and you feel like you are being choked. Like someone wants you dead.

“If I say I love you because I do then fucking believe me!” His words echo in your mind. Right. He’s asking you to trust him. You want to…but you are now just debating on trusting yourself. You want to believe your feelings are real. You still believe the company tricked you both, they could of grabbed any two strangers and they would probably “fall in love” with given time. But thinking that feels wrong because your relationship with Taehyung is deeper than that. You know that. He…is your best friend. And you…you…

You wipe at your face as fresh tears slide down the warmth of your cheek. Your throat burns as you choke on a sob. You have fallen in love with him. Genuinely. And you have to trust your feelings. You have to trust his feelings. But it is so, so hard.

The rest of the day drags on slowly, you hole up in your room until night time finally approaches. You have cried enough today for the next 5 years. Your eyes are swollen and so, so puffy. You look at yourself in your bathroom mirror, and wince at the sight. You look rough, you won’t lie. You finally decide it’s time to try to sleep.

You slip between the sheets and slide down far into them, letting the soft material hug you closely. You’ll be sleeping without Taehyung tonight and the thought makes you feel oh so lonely. You close your eyes and think of him. You can’t help but chuckle when you recall meeting him at first…you thought he was some closed off asshole. He even made a big deal that he would not fall in love with you. Then your smile fades…you recall the first time you cuddled with him, first time you saw him naked, first time you kissed him…you think of the first time he was inside you…his long, beautiful fingers. You think of the first time he was really inside you.

You start to feel so lonely and lost without him. But sleep finally starts to take over, your limbs feeling heavy, your eyes refusing to stay open. You know you two will have to really talk this out. There’s still so much you have to discuss because you are just so confused and unsure at the moment, but you have a feeling Taehyung will somehow make you feel okay. Finally, after a long day…the world goes dark and you’re asleep.

The sun is shining extra brightly this morning…your dark drapes doing little to cover the offending light like it usually does. You keep your eyes closed though, not wanting to get up quite yet. Your mind automatically goes to Taehyung again…you wish you were feeling yourself wrapped up in his arms this morning much like other mornings. You wish you could feel his breaths fanning against your neck, you wish you could feel his limbs draped over your own.

You start to feel that familiar heartbreak…you really, like really need to talk to him. Maybe he can sort out your messy, mushy brain, maybe he has the answers. Or maybe you just want to see him. Even if you are feeling as uneasy as you are. You just want to make sure he is okay.

You finally begin to open your eyes, one lid at a time. The sun making the room glow in whites and yellows. You start to sit up and rub the sleep that crusts your eyes and soak in your surroundings.

That’s exactly when you feel the panic set in. This isn’t your bedroom. This is a small bed, there’s none of Taehyung’s painting on the walls and your sheets in your bed are much softer. Then it hits you. You do recognize this room. It’s your room at your parents’ house. You start to sit up straighter, your entire body shaking. Your hands tremble as you pull the blanket on the bed back and try to stand from the bed. But your knees are weak, your legs shaking. You feel like someone has drained all the energy from your body as you stand here, you are sure you are as pale as a ghost. Your mouth is agape and your eyes wide. You slowly look around the room, there’s things in here that weren’t before…like this place has become a place for storage.

You hear fainting humming coming from the other side of the house, your head whips up in that direction and you recognize that voice. Mom? You blink repeatedly, not believing your ears. You slowly take a few steps forward toward the door and slowly reach for the knob, your weak, trembling hand trying to twist it so you can open the door. Once the door is opened you smell bacon…but unlike yesterday the smell of bacon is making you nauseas. You walk with shaky legs, small steps at a time as you walk through the hallway to make your way to the kitchen. The humming more clear and becoming louder the closer you get.

You finally walk into the kitchen and see your mothers back, she is at the stove cooking. Your breathing is sharp as you stare at her and you feel yourself become dizzy and lightheaded.

“Mom?” you stutter out quietly. Your mother freezes her actions at the stove. She slowly turns around and once she spots you she drops the tongs she was holding on the tiled floor. She is maybe even paler than you, she looks like she legitimately saw a ghost.

“y-y/n?”

“Hey what happened, I thought I heard you drop some—” your father is cut off when he walks in from the living room as he sees you. He blinks at you over and over until his eyes are wet with tears and he’s rushing to hug you.

You are in a state of shock that you don’t process that your mother has also finally raced over to hug you as well. Your parents embracing you tightly as they sob.

What’s happening? Why are you here? Where’s Taehyung?

It’s been two weeks and fuck. He has no way of contacting you. You don’t have any social media and you two never exchanged numbers…the only way for you to talk to him is if you reach out. And you…you aren’t sure you want to just yet. You’re sure he’s settling back into life just like you are, you don’t want to intrude. He has family, he has friends. You’re sure he hasn’t even thought about you yet…you’re sure he’s doing okay.

It’s been two weeks and you have mostly been in and out of intelligence offices for your country. You have had to describe the island over and over to strangers, they have been on the search for you for the last 8 months. Your parents were starting to give up. The love company kept them updated on your island life though, sending them pictures of you and Taehyung during your 8 month stay. You are creeped out all over again.

You’re sure Taehyung is going through something similar in Korea. Time keeps passing and every day you lose the spark and motivation to reach out to him. You stalk his social media but he has not posted anything until finally, 2 months into your real lives again you see he has posted a picture of him and his friends. He looks happy. And that’s how you let a total of 6 months pass you by without reaching out to Taehyung. 6 months without the man you without a doubt love. 6 months of absolute loneliness, even when you are surrounded by people. 6 months and you are sure he has probably moved on. But you have not. Even with these last 6 months…Taehyung is all you can think about. 6 fucking months.

#bts #bts fanfic #bts smut #bts fluff #bts angst #kim taehyung #taehyung x reader #taehyung smut #taehyung fluff #taehyung angst #the island chapter 7

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leonhardt-simp · 3 years ago

Text

AOT girls + Hange reacting to ‘deez nuts’ jokes.

[modern AU]

this isn’t a request but it’s funny so, here you go as my first post. Requests are open ! reblogs are okay ! this is a repost since I moved acc !

cw/ kind of suggestive on yelena’s

Annie Leonhardt: She would look at you with a whole lot of judgment for making such a joke in the first place. Expect a light punch in the arm or a pillow thrown to your face after said joke.

“what do you want to eat?” Annie asked, looking down at her phone as she proceeded to scroll through her phone. You both had been out all day and had both arrived at her house bit late.

Just as you were gonna answer, you suddenly had a grand thought come to mind.

you moved your body back to rest against the back of the couch, crossing your arms over your chest as you let out a light hum.

“hmm, how about DN?” you smiled at her, her expression suddenly turning into one of confusion as she looked up from her phone.

“what’s DN?”

“DEEZ NUTS ! HAH !” You laughed in victory.

Annie wouldn’t even respond. She just looked at you, her eyes squinting and eyebrows furrowed down.

She even tilted her head a bit, trying to understand how the joke was funny.

“Really-?”

“Sheesh, tough crowd.”

Mikasa Ackerman: she would be genuinely confused at first because she didn’t understand who candice was. poor girl would actually think someone named candice was an actual person in your life. you would have to explain the joke.

Mikasa and you both would be hanging out at the library with connie and sasha when the opportunity had risen.

Connie had been joking around with you and sasha as Mikasa had been studying with the small chaos, using it a background noise.

it was actually also Connie telling you to make the joke in the first place, he had been getting everyone else with it but he hadn’t had the opportunity to catch mikasa off guard yet.

So, you did. “Mikasa.” you leaned over to her side, Connie and Sasha were already laughing and giggling like idiots across the table.

“hmm?” she asked, looking up from her laptop and over to you with a the most genuine expression. “what is it?”

You couldn’t back down yet !

“Do you know candice?” Her expression faltered a bit and look a bit confused.

“You never spoke of a candice to me before- Who’s candice?-“

“CANDICE DIC-“

“Lower your voice-“ Mikasa would interrupt you, your confidence almost instantly dissipating in the little pause between you both.

“Now, who’s Candice-? Is she someone from your class-?”

Connie and Sasha bursted out into laughter when the joke couldn’t even come out of your mouth. How could you continue now?

Sasha Braus: You can’t outplay her in these jokes, she knows them like the back of her hand. She always manages to flip the joke onto you. almost always ends up with her laughing at you.

You both had gone to go out to eat so you both had been just sitting in her truck, her hand resting in yours as you both waited in the drive-thru line.

You had been trying for a good minute to catch her in these jokes. It’s not like you would do it all the time but, you knew you were getting close to getting her back. So you found your chance.

Casually, you began to start up on another conversation. hoping, you could catch her finally.

“Sasha, You never really did tell me. Do you prefer tapes or cds?” you asked as you turned to her, playing with the wristbands she wore. Sasha didn’t take the bait.

“Oh? I thought I told you on our first date. Remember? I even told you I was huge fan of D.” She responded casually.

This was what suddenly caught you off guard.

“I never even heard of a singer named Dee-“

“DEEZ NUTS”

“god fucking damn it, sasha-“

Historia Reiss: She would just let out the biggest groan and just be like “Reaaaaally?” it’s funny. She later try to get you back but she would fumble on her joke and say it wrong. Eventually, she would get frustrated and just go “Man, whatever-“

it was an easy opportunity with Historia, especially now. She was more focused on playing animal crossing than anything else really at the moment.

She was resting comfortably in between your legs, the back of her head just resting against your abdomen as she ran around her virtual island.

“Hisu.” You couldn’t help but start laughing at your girlfriend’s impending doom.

Her hand movements paused slightly to tilt her head up to look at you. “hmm?”

“I heard you had a little crush on Venessa Paradis?” you questioned.

“I- what-?” Historia immediately sat up at the sudden accusation. “who the hell said that? who the fuck is Vanessa?”

“Pair a deez nuts !” You caught her and with that, you suddenly got a pillow to the face.

“REALLY? THAT’S LIKE THE THIRD TIME THIS WEEK-“

“YOU SHOULD’VE LEARNED FROM YOUR MISTAKES, DARLING-“

Ymir: Ymir doesn’t even give you the satisfaction of even answering questions. it’s usually gonna be like “If it’s another deez nuts joke, I swear-“ sometimes she will just tease you for the fact you still make those jokes.

Ymir often took you out for lil drives at night, since usually during exam season you both barely get to see each other. Just some light music playing and you both just enjoying each other’s company.

Of course, though during your usual catch-up conversations. You decided to pull another joke on her.

“Connie has been telling me you’ve been into imagine dragons lately? what’s up with that?” you questioned.

Ymir just looked at you, she let her lips press together in a little thin line as she just let the silence grow between you. she just looked at you as if you already knew the answer.

“you know, I’ve laughed at funnier jokes hisu’s niece had told me.” she said, looking back at the road ahead.

“low blow, ymir.”

“blow on deez nuts.”

“YMIR-!”

Pieck Finger: She just kinda looks at you with a lil doe eyes. Sometimes she conflicted between saying “wow, you really said that.” and “wow, that was actually kind of a good one.” isn’t one to ruin your fun but doesn’t mean she can’t judge.

Pieck had just gotten out from her exhausting classes. She wanted nothing more than to just visit you and lay on you, let you just hold her as she napped for a bit of the day.

When she had arrived to your dorm, you could easily see that the day had taken a toll on her energy.

After tossing her bag to the ground, Pieck made her way on over to your side of the dorm room and crawled onto your bed to take her spot on top of you.

“Pieck, my love, darling. move a bit, I’m watching the Yankees vs Expoz game.” You asked, finding a more comfortable position. You would let your hand rest on Pieck’s lower back as your eyes turned back to the small tv you had.

Pieck’s head lifted up to look at the tv, somewhat interested. “Who are the Expoz?”

“EXPOZ DEEZ NUTS.” Without saying, she would just get off of you and go take her nap with her back turned to you.

“I- babe I’m joking-“

“nope- lost your chance.”

Yelena: Yelena doesn’t really care for these kinds of jokes. Sometimes they will just kinda fly over her head or she will just roll her eyes and continue on with what she was saying or doing.

Yelena and you had been getting both getting ready for a small gathering that she wanted to go to. Just her, you and some friends. It was to celebrate for finishing off exam season strong or something like that.

“Do you think this top would look nice with these pants?” she asked, holding up a white and blue stripped button up and some black pants.

“it’s just casual wear, right? then definitely, but make sure you don’t leave it unbuttoned like you usually do. I’m tired of seeing waitress ladies look at you.” You answered. You stepped closer to her, letting your arms wrap around her waist.

“Ah- is that jealousy I hear in your tone, babe?” she asked, her tone teasing as she leaned down to gently press her lips against the corner of your mouth.

“I don’t know, maybe it’s Ligma.”

“Well, whatever it is. I kind of like how it looks on your face.” she whispered against your lips, her hand dropping the button up onto her bathroom counter before letting it hold your jaw.

“I- ahaha- We have a gathering to go to, love.”

“hmm.. we have some time before then.”

Hange Zoë: They finds them absolutely hilarious. Kinda like Sasha, sometimes they will turn the joke onto you. Won’t actively make them but they will catch you sometimes.

You both were at the grocery store. Hange had a always had grown into a habit of forgetting to buy groceries so, when you came over to their house and saw that their fridge was borderline empty- you had to pull them to do some shopping.

“Ah- WHY IS MILK SO EXPENSIVE NOWADAYS?” They would groan out loud as you stayed by the grocery cart.

You watched them come back with a gallon, putting it in the cart with the other produce you both had gathered.

You knew hange didn’t like shopping so, to lighten the mood, you decided to joke around with them a bit.

“Milk is expensive but have you seen the price of fermented succondese?” you asked, leaning on the bar of the cart.

“What the hell is that?”

“SUCK ON DEEZ NUTZ !”

It was always pleasant to see Hange’s face go from surprised to laughing after the joke finally processed through their brain.

“AHAHAHAHA, THAT’S A GOOD ONE, Y/N. HAVE YOU HEARD THE ONE ABOUT GOBLINS THOUGH?”

#annie leonhardt x reader #annie x reader #mikasa ackerman x reader #mikasa x reader #sasha braus x reader #sasha x reader #historia x reader #historia reiss x reader #ymir x reader #yelena x reader #pieck finger x reader #pieck x reader #hange zoe x reader #hange x reader #aot x reader

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solradguy · 2 years ago

Note

What’s your opinion on Ram? Or if you’d rather, Sin? I like both a lot so I couldn’t quite narrow it down…

I like Ram, but I don't like fighting against her, to be honest haha She can get a wall-splat in 5 hits in Strive against Sol and it drives me NUTS

🍀 Overall opinion of them:

I like her Strive design a lot and she's had some really good character development since her introduction in Xrd too. It almost feels like they might be lining her up to be the next "main" character if they retire Sol, which would be interesting. Luv her giant laser swords

🍀 Gender/sexuality headcanons:

Hmmm... I know she's like a mature adult despite being a flesh golem crafted by a personification of the information that holds the universe together only, like, 4 years ago by Strive's story, but Ram is like a daughter to me and I don't want to think about her having sex hahaha

🍀 Favorite moment in canon:

In Xrd when she wants to kill everything and Sin is like "ok but what about puppies and hamburger" and somehow it works. Iconic video game moment of all time

🍀 Favorite line, in canon or otherwise:

A smile can count as a quote

🍀 Characters I love seeing them interact with:

SIN and Elphelt. I want them to get matching friendship bracelets

🍀 Last thing before sleeping headcanons:

Kissies for... Ok I gotta come clean here. My friend group and I started calling her puppy Pogchamp and I typed that out before I remembered that her puppy doesn't actually have a canon name and, if it did, it absolutely is not Pogchamp. Uh, so... Good night kissies for... the puppy... I'm sure either Sin or Elphelt introduced Ram to kigurumi too and got her a puppy one to match her lil buddy. Or maybe a cat one. Ram has some really subtle cat themes in her design that could be taken to imply that she likes cats as well as dogs.

🍀 Sleeping habits headcanons:

I want to believe that Ram sleeps standing like a complete freak but she probably has her own bed. If her puppy doesn't sleep on her bed with her, she's got a little plush version of them.

🍀 First thing after waking up headcanons:

Hugs for puppy <3 There seems to be some kind of magic in GG that can clean/repair stuff (Sol uses it near the beginning of Strive's story) so she probably does that on her teeth and hair and then gets ready for the day in an incredibly unremarkable way, other than the teeth-brushing magic part.

🍀 Favorite locations headcanon:

Puppy park :^) There's so much about the world Ram doesn't know about yet. I think she'd enjoy being wherever Sin or Elphelt want to take/show her, especially if it's a place where she can learn a lot about something. Like the zoo or an art museum. Science centers don't seem like something that would interest her much though, since all of the Valentine's appear to come pre-programmed with knowledge about how the universe itself functions. Ram would already know just about everything a science center could teach her.

#ask memes #nottoxicfr

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buckybarnesdollface · 4 years ago

Text

First One Loses

Summary: Bucky and Reader have to make everything a competition, to the point where it drives the rest of the team nuts. But can their competitiveness lead to something more than the sexual tension between two frenemies?

Warnings: Smut, Female reader

“Ha! I win!” I exclaimed, jumping up from the couch excitedly as the Penguins scored the winning goal against the Rangers in overtime. The scowl on Bucky’s face was dark, and the others rolled their eyes. I grinned as I held out my hand to Bucky. “C’mon, Barnes, pay up. My team beat yours, you owe me.”

“I hate you,” he grumbled as he dropped a crumpled twenty-dollar bill into my palm. I stuck my tongue out at him as I pocketed it, and his glare intensified.

“Do you two have to make everything into a competition?” Steve sighed.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “We can’t enjoy anything anymore without you two turning it into a game that turns into a fight. We’re just gonna start excluding you from things.”

I shrugged. “Maybe if Barnes wasn’t such a sore loser…” I pointed out, and Bucky shot up from his armchair.

“You know what, (Y/N) –” he started, but Steve hopped up and placed himself between us before it could escalate.

“Enough!” he ordered, using his authoritative Captain America voice. “Now, we were going to watch a movie, but if you two can’t grow up long enough to do that then you can find somewhere else to act like children.”

Bucky scowled. “I can behave, it’s her you should be concerned about,” he muttered, and I rolled my eyes.

“Oh, shut it, Barnes,” I snapped, and then I turned to Steve with a sugary-sweet smile on my face. “We’ll be on our best behaviour, Stevie, I promise. I’m just gonna go grab some snacks and drinks while you boys pick out a movie.”

With one last smile I headed out to the kitchen. I had just emptied a bag of tortilla chips into a bowl when Bucky stalked into the kitchen, blue eyes narrowed into slits.

“Next game, fifty bucks,” he snapped, and I snorted.

“Oh, honey, when are you gonna learn that your team never beats mine?” I taunted as I pulled a jar of salsa out of the cupboard. “If you want to win at something, maybe pick a different game.”

“I’ve beat you at plenty of things,” Bucky shot back. “For instance, you’d never win in a one-on-one with me.”

“The hell I wouldn’t!” I cried. “I’d kick your ass, old man.”

“In what universe, doll? The only reason I’m not proving I could beat you is because maybe I’d feel slightly guilty if I hurt you.”

I barked out a laugh. “The only reason I’m not proving to you that I’d win is because I don’t want to embarrass you in front of the guys. Imagine how it would look if the Winter Soldier got his ass handed to him by a girl.”

“Don’t call me that,” Bucky snarled, eyes dark as he fixed them on me intensely. I bit my lip, meeting his eyes with a challenging gaze.

“Or what…James?”

What happened next happened in a blur. Suddenly, Bucky’s vibranium hand was around my throat as his large body trapped me against the counter. His grip was neither tight enough to cut off my air supply nor leave bruises, but it was enough to remind me that he could very easily crush my windpipe if he wanted to. For a split second I was paralyzed, afraid that maybe I had finally pushed him too far. Ever since we’d met our relationship had consisted of trying to best each other at almost everything while getting under each other’s skin, but it had never resulted in anything more than banter. But now, as my breaths quickened and my heart hammered against my ribcage, I feared I’d crossed a line.

So when Bucky’s lips crashed against mine, my eyes widened in shock. He tasted of iced tea and his hand on my throat was cool, and it took a moment before I could gather my senses enough to shove him away from me. He released his grip on my throat but didn’t step back, his body still dangerously close to mine.

“Barnes, wh-what are you doing?” I stuttered. His eyes were still intense as they continued to hold mine.

“What’s wrong, (Y/N)? Did you think I was actually going to hurt you?”

“Of course not,” I scoffed, but Bucky shook his head with a smirk.

“I could feel your pulse, doll; your heart rate spiked,” he murmured. “So either you were scared, or you’re a lot filthier than everyone thinks you are. Which one is it?”

Bucky’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t do something to me. I shouldn’t have even entertained the thought; I should have pushed past him and taken the snacks to the common room so we could watch the movie with Steve and Sam. But ever since I’d met Bucky there had been unresolved sexual tension between us, and my curiosity to see how he planned to resolve it outweighed my ability to make good decisions.

“You don’t scare me, Barnes,” I said defiantly, and with a grin Bucky’s lips were back on mine. His hands found my hips as mine clenched at the front of his black t-shirt, backing me up against the counter, and when my teeth grazed his bottom lip he growled into my mouth.

“I had a feeling you were the type of girl to like it rough,” he breathed, hands on my hips tightening. I tugged at his shirt to pull him closer to me.

“Are you telling me you’ve given this some thought, Barnes?” I taunted. His lips were hot on my throat as I spoke. “Do you think about me at night while you’re lying in bed and can’t sleep?”

“You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it, (Y/N),” Bucky replied as he nipped playfully at the shell of my ear. “I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.”

“Oh, you mean the disgust?”

Bucky laughed. “You can use sass to deflect all you want, doll; doesn’t change the fact that you’ve thought about this as much as I have.”

He wasn’t wrong. I’d thought about what it would be like more often than I’d like to admit even to myself – Surely with a body like that, it wouldn’t disappoint. I only smiled demurely, though, fingers closing around Bucky’s belt buckle to pull him closer to me.

“A lady never tells,” I murmured. Bucky’s smirk was wicked.

“I don’t see any ladies here.”

I rolled my eyes as my fingers undid his belt buckle and then popped the button of his jeans. “Shut up for once, Barnes,” I growled, “so we can do this before Steve and Sam come looking for us.”

Before I could get my hand in his pants, Bucky was lifting me and sitting me on the cool marble countertop and standing between my legs, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “You’re such a romantic,” he taunted as his hands rubbed up and down my thighs. I huffed.

“Fuck you, Barnes.”

“That’s the plan.”

Then his mouth was back on mine, hands exploring skin under shirts as tongues fought for dominance. When we broke apart to catch our breaths, I grinned mischievously.

“How about we make this interesting,” I suggested, and Bucky cocked a dark eyebrow.

“More interesting than us hooking up in the kitchen where anyone could walk in on us?” he said, fingertips grazing the skin just below the cup of my bra. I suppressed a soft moan and flashed him my brightest smile.

“First one to make a noise loses.”

I watched as Bucky’s eyes went from widening in shock to narrowing as a slow grin spread across his face. “(Y/N)…” he murmured, squeezing my hips playfully. “What will the stakes be, though?”

“If I win,” I said, “you have to do all my paperwork for a month.”

“Deal,” he said, more quickly than I had expected. I arched an eyebrow.

“That easy? Wow,” I said, almost cautiously.

Bucky’s smile was a mile wide. “And if I win,” he murmured, “you go on a date with me.”

I blinked, thinking maybe I had heard him wrong. But his smile never faltered, bordering on smug as he watched what was sure to be an entire rollercoaster of emotions on my face. Finally, I shook my head, confused.

“I’m sorry, did you say a date?” I asked incredulously. “Barnes, are you messing with me?”

“Not at all, doll,” he replied. “If I win, we go out on a date. I get to pick the time and place. Do we have a deal?”

“A date.” My head was still reeling. Bucky’s hands on me had stilled, and although his smile was still playful his eyes were serious. I pursed my lips, unsure of what game he was playing at, but finally I exhaled a sigh and nodded. “Fine. Deal. Game on, but only because I know I’ll win and I won’t have to worry about it.”

Blue eyes sparkling, Bucky captured my lips in another hungry kiss. My hands were back at the waistband of his jeans, fingertips dancing along the skin of his abdomen and as his muscles clenched under my touch I grinned into the kiss. Tugging down his zipper, I slipped my hand into the denim and palmed him through his underwear, delighted with how large and solid he was. I could feel his sharp intake of breath as his lips briefly stilled against mine, but no noise came out and my brows furrowed together in frustration. Hand slipping past the cotton of his boxer briefs, I gripped him in my hand, marvelling briefly at how hot and heavy and velvety-soft yet rock-hard he was, and then gave a few experimental pumps.

Bucky’s breath came out ragged and his hands on my waist tightened in a bruising grip, but still no noise. When I pulled back to meet his eyes, though, he looked absolutely wrecked and I could feel the arousal pooling in my panties. His hands found the waistband of my leggings and tugged lightly, and I lifted my hips so he could slide them and my underwear from my body to be discarded on the floor at his feet. My fingers were still wrapped around his throbbing member, but when Bucky’s flesh hand snaked between my thighs to swipe lightly through my folds, I had to bite down on my bottom lip to keep from moaning, my grip on him tightening involuntarily.

Bucky’s teeth clenched, but then he pulled his hand away from me and I was about to glare at him until I watched him lift his fingers, glistening with my arousal, to his mouth to suck them clean, his eyes holding mine the entire time.

Fuck, if that wasn’t the hottest, most sinful thing I had ever seen before. Unable to wait a second longer, I hooked my legs around Bucky’s waist to pull him closer, my hand guiding his length to my entrance. With sparkling eyes he took over, sliding his member through my slick folds before sliding home in one powerful thrust.

The air was momentarily knocked from my lungs, and my hands gripped Bucky’s arms – one hot flesh and one unyielding metal – to ground myself. He only gave me a few seconds to adjust to his size before he was pulling out and then pushing back in, setting a ruthless pace that had every nerve in my body buzzing with pleasure. I had imagined sex with Bucky would be good, but this – This was on an entirely different level from what I had ever experienced before. I was climbing higher and faster than I’d thought possible, and even though I wanted to be able to drag out this feeling as long as I could, I knew it was only a matter of time before Steve and Sam started getting suspicious.

Bucky’s mouth had been planting sloppy, open-mouthed kisses on my throat, but now his lips had made their way back up to claim mine heatedly. His hands on me were dizzying, bordering on possessive, holding me tight to him as he drove into me with vigor. My legs around him tightened, one hand under his shirt to rake my nails down his back while the other carded through his hair to tug at the ends. It was all tongues and teeth, hot flesh and desperate grasping, and as we climbed higher it felt less like a competition of who could make who cry out first, and more like a need to be as close to each other as humanly possible.

Trying to focus on my original goal, I purposely clenched around Bucky and rolled my hips, but his resolve was iron-strong and the only thing I earned was a particularly hard thrust as his teeth nipped at my jaw. When his vibranium hand snaked down to rub circles on my clit, that was it; I couldn’t stop the low moan that vibrated past my lips. I wanted to be mad at myself for losing our bet, but Bucky’s cock and his hands and lips were playing me like a violin and all I could focus on was how tight the coil in my stomach was.

“Bucky…” I whined, completely succumbing to my defeat, and a growl rumbled in Bucky’s chest as he continued to piston his hips into me.

“Come for me, doll,” he panted, fingers working my clit furiously. He swallowed my moan in a deep kiss and then pulled away, his forehead pressed to mine. “C’mon, (Y/N); you’re close, I can feel it. Come for me, baby girl.”

And just like that, the coil snapped and stars exploded in my eyes. I bit down on Bucky’s shoulder to muffle my cry, and then Bucky’s hips stuttered and he was emptying himself inside me with a quiet groan. For a minute we stayed there, clutching at each other as our breathing slowed, and then Bucky was pulling out of me and I slid off the counter onto unsteady feet.

I coughed, trying to fill the now-awkward silence, and as Bucky handed me my discarded clothes, I mumbled a thanks. As I yanked my leggings back up my legs, I watched Bucky shimmy his hips back into his jeans before buckling his belt. I was waiting for him to say something, but he was being frustratingly silent.

“Steve and Sam are definitely wondering where we are,” he finally said, grabbing some beers from the fridge. “We should get back in there before they ask too many questions.”

“Wait.” I shook my head. “After what just happened, that’s all you have to say?”

“Of course not, doll,” he said, and then he came over and stood so that I was caged between him and the counter. His smile was wicked as he leaned in until his face was centimetres from mine, and I hated the way my body was reacting to being this close to him. “Tomorrow night,” he murmured, hot breath fanning over my face, “wear something pretty for our date.”

With that he pulled away with a wink and turned, heading back to the common room. I glared after him, but it was half-hearted. My stomach was doing flip-flops and I tried to suppress them as I grabbed the chips and salsa and followed Bucky to the common room.

“So what movie did you guys pick?” I asked as I walked in, forcing myself to act as if nothing had happened. I set the chips and salsa on the coffee table and popped a chip into my mouth.

“Top Gun,” Steve replied, and I nodded my approval. I turned to my chair as Sam hit ‘play’ on the remote, but froze when I found Bucky sitting there, grinning up at me like the Cheshire cat.

“Something wrong, doll?” he asked, face smug, and I could feel my neck grow hot.

“You’re in my chair, Barnes.”

His arms swept wide around the room. “There are plenty of seats in here. You can’t claim a chair as yours.”

“Except I always sit there,” I growled, and Bucky shrugged.

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“Fine,” I said, and then I walked over and plopped down into his lap. “If you won’t move, you’ll have to share.”

I could feel Bucky’s muscles tense up beneath me, and Steve and Sam both looked at us with wide eyes. I only adjusted myself in Bucky’s lap, though, making myself more comfortable, and finally Bucky’s arm circled loosely around me as he chuckled.

“I guess I can share,” he teased lightly, and Sam shook his head.

“You two are the worst,” he griped. “Just…keep your hands where we can see them. You’ve already defiled the kitchen; this room is off limits.”

I blanched. “What?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Do you really think we don’t know what was going on out there?” he asked. “I don’t care how quiet you think you were being; you seem to forget that supersoldier hearing is a thing.”

The blush crept up my neck, and Bucky chuckled ruefully. “Sorry, Stevie. We’ll behave.”

“You’d better. Goddamn animals,” Sam grumbled. My embarrassment grew, but as the movie started to play the guys’ attention was diverted. Bucky’s arm around me tightened and his lips were light at my ear.

“How about we make that date tonight instead,” he murmured. “I wanna do this right, but I also don’t think I can wait until tomorrow night to be inside you again.”

I sucked in a sharp breath. “Bucky…”

“Ssh, doll, I told Stevie we’d behave. Watch the movie, and I promise I’ll make tonight a night you’ll never forget.”

A shiver ran down my spine, but I strengthened my resolve and settled in to watch the movie. After all, I was never one to back down from a challenge.

#bucky barnes reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky reader insert #smut #mcu #fluff #frenemies #enemies to lovers #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes #steve rogers #sam wilson #semi-public sex

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sprinklesandshatters · 3 years ago

Text

A Review on NCT 127′s 3rd Album <Sticker>

So NCT 127 just came back with their 3rd Full Album <Sticker> and this is my first 127 comeback since I became a fan last year! Neozone is such a special album for me as it was their first album that I explored entirely. I've known NCT as the group who never fails any expectations so I've kept mine up although I know they'll exceed it anyway. And guess what, they did! I absolutely love their new album hence this review~

This isn't a technical music review—as I am not a musician myself—but rather a listener's honest takes, goofy notes, and interpretation on each of the tracks in the album. I admit I've also struggled to build my own opinions on some of the tracks until I listened to them over and over again.

I have also heard there are mixed opinions on the title track <Sticker> and a lot says it's another acquired taste. But I think it's not just that, as it can be a grower, just like how most of NCT's songs were for me. Maybe after a few listens and a right passage of time, it will grow on those people. The bottom line here is, I like it a lot! 😛

So I listed down the songs according to their respective track numbers and followed each with a bulleted list of my opinions and interpretations.

(Viewer/reader discretion: before you continue, minors, do not interact as there are few 18+ contents under the cut. Thank you.)

1. Sticker

THEY DIDN'T JUST PUNCH A NEW NOTCH ON THE BELT LIKE THAT

THIS SONG SLAPS, LITERALLY SLAPS… AND WHIPS

The recorder at the intro boyyyy I thought something was wrong but then I remember it’s NCT lmao

It already stuck in my head from my first listen from the Instagram audio.

With Taeyong opening the verse with his divine rapping, I knew I'm in for a new ride.

STICK-UH STICK-UGH STICK-UGHGHGH

To those complaining it sounding like noise music, imagine it sounding generic. I don't think it would fit as the title track. Not a b-track or in their repertoire, even. They are called NCT because they define the NEO in the music culture and music technology!

It honestly was an unorthodox, just like all of their title tracks, which I’m inherently here for.

Literally, no one does it like them!

The growls and the vocal flexes and adlibs! (You can tell it has Yoo Youngjin's brand.)

The crisp metronome sound that’s consistently ticking except for the pre-chorus and the dance break adds depth to the soundscape. I love how it’s used instead of the usual snaps.

The production quality blew my mind. Like how can someone think those melodies would sound so exquisite? CAN I CALL THEM GENIUS?

The piano at the back, oh my God—Yes! It adds this mystifying element to the song.

I'm not sure if it's a midi violin at the pre-chorus, but it added thrill to the song. It was a great transition from the bass line in the verses to the combination of the flawless harmony with the same instrumental.

"You treat me like a boy, like a grown-up child chasing a dream" JUNGWOO BABY NO MORE HUH

Taeil, Doyoung, and Haechan—the bridge vocal trinity!

But why the heck are they cowboys? I dig the concept, but why? LMAO

BTW GUNSLINGER MARK I’M ON MY KNEES YEEHAW

This is easily one of my favorite tracks from NCT 127's entire discography 💚

2. Lemonade

(⌐■_■)

Jaehyun starting off this song with his deep voice eee

The song opens to a verse oozing with chill confidence. They're like, yeah you're lurking because we’re cool.

This is such a huge slap to their haters. NCT's not chillin' like a villain, nah they're the main characters!

Well maybe they’re villains, but still ya not cooler than them ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Funny enough how they could have just referred haters as simply lemons whose sour/bitter to the taste, but 127 squad's success is sweeter than all the haters' spiteful remarks so yeah, SIPPY SIPPY LEMONADE 🧃

"WOOF"

I might have just barked too wOW

Yuta’s vocals hooooO his voice just sounds so glamorous mhmm

Also Mark referencing their previous title tracks such as: Firetruck, Cherry Bomb, and Regular (it's Irregular in the lyrics) in his rap part 👌💅

I just love Mark's energy when he raps. HE RESOLUTELY BITES AND STRAIGHT UP EATS EVERY TIME HE DOES.

3. Breakfast

Now breakfast time, oh jeez!

AAAHAHFU—

Summer 127's bestie!

If Summer 127 talks about dancing all night long, Breakfast is the morning after.

You know what it is.

"Even if I gulp and drink you, it's not enough for me." oho Taeyong no you ha—STOP

Sexual innuendos aside, isn't it just sweet if someone tells you they'd want to have breakfast with you every day? Okay maybe I'm melting at the thought 😩🙈💞

And I can see myself dancing to this song as I make breakfast (in the afternoon or at midnight bc I’m crazy)

This was an okay b-track for me at the first skim on the album, but boy it grew on me wildly.

Honestly one of my favorite tracks in this album.

4. Focus

Did I just invade a private call? LMAO

The analog voice filters make it like so.

Dude, this feels intimate in the level of eavesdropping a phone call between seasoned lovers. Then you realize you hear them whispering their kinks over the line and you're ooh, that's sexy! hfgklhfhf

My first listen to this, I almost went feral because,

"I can't wait to eat you…" when it's actually "I can't wait 'til we chill…" aahaha

"Baby call me when you want me." OKAY!

This sounds relaxing and chill. I'd love to play this on a late night drive or just before bed time along with Fly Away With Me, Sun & Moon, My Youth, and Long Flight.

Belongs to ‘make out session’ playlist ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

That was lowkey a playlist recommendation, huh?

I'd be kidding if I don't say I could touch myself while listening to this song AHAHAFGHFJFJ

I didn't know this would grow on me this much lol I love love LOVE THIS!

5. The Rainy Night

Ooh, the holy melancholy!

Piano at the intro—I knew I'd cry to this.

This song isn't just about break-up, but the heartbreak after one.

The yearning; the remnant pieces from the shattering of what was once there.

I think I crumbled from this one.

This hit so hard I felt like I fit in the shoes with the lyrics throughout the entire song.

What’s fascinating is I clearly forgot the title when I mentally said this sounds like a sad rainy day song from the first listen.

Something I’d turn up when it suddenly rains, just because I want to feel the blues.

Taeil and Haechan singing in lower register? I wanna cry :( they’re just one of the best vocalists in K-music industry right now.

Could have been also nice if they added Yuta to the vocals.

"My selfish heart who waits for you to come back," OKAY WHO HURT THEM?

And the fact that they sang it so good that it translated every ounce of the emotions well even before I looked up for English translations is the reason why I love this song too.

6. Far

Hmm… What the hell?! Do I like this? Wait...

Alright!

The jumpy vibe from the first verse to the pre-chorus set the mood for this song. It sounds merry and heavy. It was honestly too much to take until I’ve reached the chorus part.

Honestly, I think this song could fit NCT Dream better, as it gives off a vibe similar to Hello Future's b-tracks. If some credible source say this could have made HF’s track list, I might believe you too fast.

Also Dream’s Deja Vu where they go na nananananana na na na~

Playful yet confident! That’s what I mean!

As usual, the vocals are insane! Vocal flex from left to right!

I swear Jungwoo sounded a bit like Taemin at the second verse that I had to replay it hahaha

I love hearing Johnny as a vocalist! SM, how many signs do you need until you utilize his vocal talent???

Taeil's part where he sings, "go nuts, go nuts, 'til we go bust, go bust" IDEK BUT I SNORTED A LAUGH AT FIRST LISTEN HFCAHKFHK

Not my favorite, but still great though!

But wait it’s actually stuck in my head???

7. Bring The Noize

Yes, they never beat those noise music allegations

HERE'S SOME NOIZE, BITCHES

I love me some noisy percussions. AND THE BASS YO

This screams so much confidence!

The build up from the pre-chorus to the chorus—FIRE!

This song reminds me a lot of SuperM's Super Car, especially with the engine roar samples and the battle cry-like singing at the chorus.

JAEHYUN RAPPING? You mean Jaehyun the visual, the vocalist, the actor, the model, the funny dude, aka my everything?! (markie bb look pls look away for a moment)

THEY DELIVERED IT STRAIGHT FROM NEOCITY THAT'S SOME NCT MUSIC RIGHT THERE NO ONE DOES IT LIKE THEM

When I said I'd play Focus on a late night drive, and if I add this in the playlist, VROOM VROOM SPEED LIMIT WHAT

OUTTA MY WAY

“We got no shame” ouh TAEYONG’S FLOW IS JUST VERY HIM AND HE’S IN A LEAGUE OF HIS OWN

You know what's so clever about this song? It's how it ended with Mark's final rap without any instrumental, leaving you standing there with a doppler effect-like post experience.

A super car on a super speed just whooshed past you and you look its way as it zips through the road. It's gone in an instant but you're floored dumbfounded at a sidewalk. That's how I describe this song.

8. Magic Carpet Ride

This song… Wow. Oh gosh it's so beautiful.

Their harmony in the chorus—it makes me want to kiss someone so passionately that I'd cry.

This makes me want to feel love that transcends the universe. Literally, just please take me on a magic carpet ride :(

The background harmonies too oh my goodness—HEAVENLY.

Jaehyun's voice is so warm and soulful it fits perfectly with songs of this genre.

Okay alright Doyoung Grande!

And Taeil makes me feel like I'm listening to old school R&B.

The first time I heard this from the track video, I can't stop replaying because it's just that great.

This makes me want to love. I think that sums it up.

9. Road Trip

This is such a soothing song for me, especially how I easily become nostalgic thinking about the road trips I've had.

Whenever I listen to this, my brain immediately conjures up thoughts of my ideal getaways. Gazing at the sky through the car window, stirring up from a nap in the middle of the ride, and eventually reaching your destination.

Oh, to travel around anywhere... (curse you covid-19)

Okay that's it. I'M PACKING UP.

But where do I go—

I could also imagine Mark playing this on the guitar and the other members sing along together, something like that.

Just Wholesome™ vibes.

I love how it evokes such a nice emotion within me effortlessly.

This isn't my favorite, but I still love this.

10. Dreamer

Eyyyy such a refreshing song!

This song is so bright it makes me want to dance. I play this first in the shower!

It reminds me so much of Elevator (from Neozone)

The horns make it more lively I think!

Yuta and Jungwoo's voice suits lively songs like this.

The background vocal in low register in Taeyong's part in the first verse is so good ahhfhf

Taeil, the R&B vocal king you are...

There's this part where Doyoung and Johnny harmonized, that at first listen they seemed to clash, but it sounded actually fine after a few listens. Maybe it's just that I've never heard them do it before.

And I think it's Doyoung's laugh at the end of the bridge? Oh my goodness I really love this too!

11. Promise You

MY FIRST LOVE AND MOST FAVORITE SONG IN THE ALBUM!!!

The first time I heard this from their NCIT Sharehouse Sitcom, I fell in love with the song already.

It sounds like something you'd feel from a warm, welcoming hug.

The lyrics are so beautiful and endearing. It's definitely a be-there-for-you type of song that will touch your heart.

It definitely sounds like a promise.

A song about platonic intimacy.

This really fits to be the closing song of the album. It's like the end of it but holds a promise that says “see you soon.”

Because they cherish their fans like that.

It's also like I've watched a movie with a happy ending, where the camera pans up to the clear sky and this song starts playing.

Speaking of ending, I would love to hear them sing this as an encore stage in their concert. You know, that moment just before the stage lights die down at the end of the concert where they send final blows of flying kisses to NCTzens. Then you come home smiling and crying.

This wasn't supposed to be this long since I originally planned to write this with just simple phrases and emojis but I got too engrossed lol. I also meant to include my own ratings but I figured it’s pointless since I can’t really decide about them hahaha

I really enjoyed the whole album and I love how they're progressively defining what NEO means by breaking through standards. It's not NCT music if it doesn't make you say "WHAT THE HECK WAS THAT?" But then you realize it’s stuck in your head and you’re enjoying it already.

✨ OVERALL RATING: 127/10 💚

if you’ve reached until here, thank you for letting me share you a braincell or two 💞

65 notes · View notes

adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy · 4 years ago

Text

you’re someone i just want around: III

“You can have me tonight or never

I thought you understood

Baby, some people are meant to be loved and others just naked

So take what I’m willing to give, love it or hate it.”

—Wrong, Zayn and Kehlani

A/N: alright SO!!!! the original part 3 ended up being at the cusp of 50k words (because i have no self control) and that is a LOT to read in one go so it’s getting split into parts 3 and 4! which means!! double update laidese and germs!!!! part 4 will be posted this SUNDAY, AUGUST 16th at 5PM PST/8PM EST :D we hope you enjoy this chapter, feedback is greatly appreciated, and please please PLEASE!!! if you like it, reblog it!!! and if you want, go nuts in the tags!! every single one is read!!! it keeps content creators motivated 💌leyla @sunflowervolvimp3 took the liberty of making an incredible playlist to go along with our story, so feel free to check it out and see if you can find any clues as to what’s in store for the characters 👀without further delay, here she is...buckle up 👁👁this is gonna be quite the ride

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

word count: 24.2k

content/warnings: cheeky banter over texts, The Crew dragging Niall to shit, more banter over a glass of cheap wine, vampire!harry showing up to “interior design” sessions looking like a runway model, some fwb smut, degradation kink, very mild mentions of blood, and some ugly tapestries that somehow lead to sexting

///

Y/N definitely puts Harry’s number to good use. Very good use.

In fact, during the span of the next month or so, Harry reckons that she pulls up his contact on her phone so often that she probably has him listed on speed dial. The assumption is dramatic and probably incorrect, on behalf of his arrogance, but with how much time they start spending together, it’s hardly a stretch.

It all begins exactly a week after their first time meeting.

Harry still hates clubs.

He hates them more than he did last week. He hates them more than he did yesterday, more than he did this morning, and even more than he did a minute ago. He fucking despises them.

And yet, as Harry stands here before the mirror in his enormous double-sink bathroom, fiddling with his damp hair as his flouncy dress shirt hangs unbuttoned from his broad shoulders, he’s absolutely positive he has never hated clubs more than right now.

Niall got to pick the venue this time. He’d texted his choice in the groupchat (which is respectfully named Dinner Plans) about four hours ago, making sure to get the word out decently early so that everyone could start making their preparations, all in order for the crew to be on the move by nine P.M.

It’s now nine thirty-seven, and everyone is fully set to leave at the agreed upon hour. Everyone except Harry.

This, however, is not uncommon. He’s always the one that takes the longest to get ready, no matter how soon he starts. No one can remember an instance where Harry has ever been ready on time— which says a lot, considering most of the gang has years of memories from which they can pull. Mitch especially. With almost a century of friendship behind them, not once has the older vampire ever seen Harry stick to a deadline. His flare for being fashionably late is less a flare, and moreso an irritating burn. It always throws off their game a bit, but at this point, everyone has gotten used to the seemingly young vampire’s theatrics.

So on this Friday night, there isn’t much more to do other than mold to his habits; Harry answers to no one except himself and it’s been that way for decades now, for a reason he’d rather not reminisce. He doesn’t owe anything to anyone, especially since he’s the one that always takes charge of getting them where they need to go, as well as getting them inside said destination. Complaining about their leader wouldn’t do the gang any good for a number of reasons, especially because Harry rarely ever listens. It is what it is— he’s just the way he is, and they’ve all learned to live with and respect that.

The funny thing? Harry does it on purpose, though his friends aren’t aware of it. He drags out the process of getting prepared simply so he can put off having to step inside one of those circus acts people refer to as clubs. He goes as slow as possible and does as much as possible, spreading seconds into minutes, and maybe— if he’s insistent enough and feeling particularly pesky— an hour. His record is an hour and twenty-eight minutes, which he wears with pride, much to his group’s unamusement.

Harry knows no one will ever say anything about his annoying tendencies, unless they’re willing to volunteer themselves to take the reins for the night. Vampires are alert and productive, but only when they want to be— which is usually only when it benefits them— and only if they can muster up the patience for it. And frankly, none of the creatures he associates with have the patience required to deal with security, driving, and other obstacles the way Harry does. He’s indispensable, and therefore, everyone puts up with his shit. Quid pro quo has never been more effective.

So here Harry stands, now thirty-eight minutes past the original time sorted for departure, carefully combing volumizing mousse into his slightly wet curls and spinning each ringlet around his index finger to give them the definition and bounce he’s so well-known for. Here he is, finishing up his post-shower routine as all of his friends mill around downstairs in his living room, waiting for him to come down so they can pack into his car and head out for the weekly hunt at whatever establishment has been deemed fit for the night. And here he is, taking his sweet time so he can be the signature pain in the ass that everyone hates to love.

Once Harry has thoroughly coated all of his hair with the fluffy white cream, he pulls out his hair-dryer from the cabinet below his sink, snapping its accompanying diffuser into place and flipping his head upside down. He carefully scrunches his curls to his roots with the attachment, moving in thoughtful circles as he hums to the rhythm of a song he can’t be bothered to remember the name of. Staring down at his polished jet black heeled boots, he absentmindedly taps against the porcelain ground to the beat of the music, sighing wistfully as warm air circulates its way across his scalp.

Harry turns his shoes to the side, admiring the detailing along the back of the heel. Across the curved surface is the word SUCKER, bedazzled onto the article with multicolored jewels, glitzing beautifully under the fluorescent lighting of his bathroom. The shoes had been a gift from a friend with connections in high places; more specifically, connections to the man who sits on the throne of the Gucci brand. Harry hadn’t questioned the present when he’d received it— only an idiot would bat a cautious eye at such a luxury. He’d fallen in love with them the second they landed in his palms, decked out in a gorgeous satin box and wrapped with sparkly black tissue paper. The only words that had dared leave his lips were, “Fuck, I think I just got hard.”

The shoes had fit like a charm, and he had wanted to save them for a special occasion. But given that he has hundreds of years worth of special occasions lined up for his future, he’d shrugged off his pickiness and yanked them out the back of his closet for tonight. What better way to show them off than at an overhyped disco hall?

Harry flips his head right-side up once again, ruffling his fingers through his soft, shiny curls to check for any wet patches or stringiness. He rolls up the wire to his styling tool and puts it back in its designated spot, grabbing his favorite paddle brush and attentively filtering it through his hair until he gets the tousled waves that he’s grown so fond of sporting. He musses them until he’s satisfied with his appearance, nodding at himself casually in the mirror as he proceeds to wrap up the last few necessities he has left.

Harry buttons his blouse, admiring it in the fogged mirror. It’s a flowy sheer black piece with holographic threads sewn through its expanse, the fabric continuously shimmering with every shift of his muscles from underneath. He leaves the last three holes empty to better show off the dark butterfly inking on his lean chest and the swallows suspended in flight along his collarbones. He doesn’t really have to leave the shirt open, given that the material is see-through to the point where it leaves very little to the imagination, obvious in how all the tattoos along his arms are clearly visible. But he does it either way— he likes it when people stare. He’s got the assets, he might as well flaunt them.

Harry loosely tucks the hem of the shirt along the brim of his high-waisted beige slacks, which he’d ironed with precision to an ideal fold. He opts out of a belt tonight, wanting to display the array of elegant buttons that line the front of his pleated trousers. The pants hang slightly flared around his ankles, and if someone’s interests were intent enough, they might catch a glimpse of his favorite socks underneath the cusps, the words FUCK IT printed across the dark cotton fabric. He always makes sure to have an aspect in his outfit that could make for neat conversation.

The vampire pulls out one of his drawers, ghosting his fingers over his collection of jewelry before picking out a pearl necklace and his father’s gold-plated cross necklace, as well as a colorful array of rings. He makes sure to retrieve the most significant two, as always— his lionhead amethyst daylight ring and his mother’s opal. He never goes anywhere without them.

After he’s slipped on those accessories, bending and stretching his fingers for good measure and feeling everything settle into place, he picks out the gold cross earring that matches his necklace. It used to be part of a pair that belonged to his sister. As he watches the gold twinkle in the artificial light, he briefly wonders what happened to its twin, but pushes the thought away before it leads him down a path of pessimistic speculations.

Harry loops the dangly piece through his earlobe, sighing through his nose as his gaze jets around his entire look, searching for any possible faults he could tend to that would prolong the inevitable— another night of drunken morons and thick synthetic smoke.

Harry decides to fold the cuffs of his shirt up to his elbows, knowing that it makes his veiny forearms look appealing. He rummages through his selection of colognes before deciding to go with his trusty Tom Ford Tobacco Vanille, spritzing a bit along specific pressure points on his neck where a pulse would otherwise be present, following along with the insides of his wrists. The scent of cloves, sugar-frosted vanilla, and cedar wood envelope him in a warm ambiance. After that task is complete, he fusses with his necklaces for a minute or so, settling the cross between his pectorals and resting the rosey pearls across his clavicle, fingering at their smooth surface in thought. Much to his defeat, everything seems to be in order, down to his freshly lacquered black nails. It’s not his fault he’s nearly flawless. His long— and unfortunate— extension on life had given him a plethora of years to work himself into a state of physical perfection. There’s only so much one can do to their appearance before it becomes superiorly stagnant.

Harry tunes his heightened hearing for a second, listening in to the conversation his friends are entertaining on the first level of his condo. Niall’s voice is the first one that comes through, unsurprisingly. He’s always the loudest and has zero filter, present in how he’s freely ranting about Harry’s exaggerated mannerisms as he paces back and forth across the floor, footsteps heavy. No one seems to be paying him any mind— As usual, Harry thinks to himself, snorting softly— because everyone appears to be caught up in their own personal lives, too lost in gossip and exchanging opinions to give the Irish vampire any thought.

None of his gang seem bothered by his lack of rush, but Harry knows he can’t keep them waiting forever. Fridays are the day they’d all collectively agreed to hunt together and it had been as so for almost twenty years. Being the leader, Harry can’t let his childish distaste for nightlife get in the way of what’s best for the group. He needs to hunker down on his selfish inclinations and be a responsible friend, or else a human might not be the only person Niall sinks his fangs into tonight.

With one final lingering stare at his reflection, Harry goes to retrieve his phone from its face-down position on the dark marble counter, simultaneously reaching for the light switch to begin powering down his apartment for the next couple of hours until he returns. Hopefully with a pretty girl hanging off his arm and less of a burn in the back of his throat. Although Harry may be cynical, he’s also practical; if he’s going to have to spend eternity on this planet, he may as well try to conserve enough energy to make it bearable. After decades of adjusting to electricity, the last thing Harry wants is to return to candlelit rooms and going to bed in time with the sun.

The sudden chime that shrieks from his device causes him to jump a tad, brows furrowing in mild confusion for a few reasons. First, because it’s such an odd coincidence that right as he went to grasp it, his smartphone had gone off; it’s almost spooky. Second, because anyone who would normally dare message him at this hour is currently sequestered downstairs on the cushions of his sectional sofa, waiting for him to emerge from his room. Who else could possibly need to contact him this late, especially at the beginning of the weekend?

Harry flips his red iPhone curiously (yes, he’d bought it in red for the purpose of irony), peering down at the unknown number shining back up at him from the screen.

The text is simple enough: Hey, accompanied by three disco ball emojis.

After a few seconds of blank blinking and adamantly searching through his mind for a clue as to who this could be, the answer smacks him square between the eyes. The memories come to him in quick flashes.

A bald bouncer with a stupid name. A two-story room with seven foot tall speakers and a bar nuzzled in the corner. A group of loud, tipsy girls in stilettos and glittery dresses. One girl, sitting amidst the ruckus looking alone and indifferent while everyone around her gave into inebriated chaos. Mitch urging him to go talk to her. The overwhelming smell of honey and lavender. Gentle caresses placed across the tattoos painting his arms. Pretty lips the color of fresh blood, drained glasses of liquor, and witty banter exchanged between suggestive glances and cheeky grins. Shouldering through a crowded dance floor with the young woman in tow. Settling her into the passenger’s seat of his Cadillac and feeling heat explode across his cold cheeks when she’d yanked him down by his collar, kissing him like his lips were her only source of air.

A quaint apartment complex, flickering lights in a corridor, and a worn couch. A warm mouth, smudged lipstick, teary eyes, and the gentle, shaky echo of, “I want to make you feel good.” High-waisted silk pants discarded on the floor, a cream lace blouse, and pastel pink lingerie. Thighs squeezing his head as her sweet taste spilled across his tongue. The mortal’s bare back pressed to his chest as he worked his hips roughly into her, mumbling dirty promises against her ear. Sugary whimpers and needy pleads. The warm, tangy flavor of her blood filling his mouth and sedating the burning in his throat. Childish giggles shared in a tiny flat, her warm fingers sewing between his icy own and tugging him into her room. A sleepless night full of steady breaths and only one heartbeat. A stupid tapestry and an ugly popcorn ceiling. A late morning strewn with sarcastic jokes mumbled over the rim of a coffee mug. Pulling his favorite t-shirt over his head and inhaling the sweet smell that had been glued to every thread.

Making a drastic decision and typing his information into her phone.

Harry doesn’t mean to speak aloud, but the name slips down his tongue as easily as he’d drawn moans from hers. “Y/N.”

It’s not like he didn’t remember her, because he did. And it’s not like he hadn’t thought of her since, because he had. But it’d been in passing and barely relevant— faint recollections in the form of fleeting seconds.

He’d thought of her a couple days ago, when he’d been wandering around the mall with his friends. They’d passed by a candle shop where, among all the mixed scents, there had been the unmistakable aroma of lavender and honey somewhere inside, smelling vaguely like her. She’d unwillingly made her way to the forefront of his mind when he’d gone to do laundry, picking out his baby blue Marc Jacobs t-shirt from his hamper and feeling his eyes dilate and fangs protrude— a result of animalistic instinct. As it turns out, she had left a bloodstain along the inside of the yellow collar of his tee. It was dried and crusted over by the time he found it, but the effect it had on him remained the same as the night he’d drawn it fresh from one of her arteries. He’d chucked the garment into the wash carelessly with hardly any hesitation.

The girl had even elbowed into his brain during an important self-care session. He’d been sitting in his glorified bathtub— which, in shallow honesty, is just a jacuzzi— with his cock twitching in his palm while his head hung over the edge, an orgasm teetering along the trench of his stomach as he’d repeatedly thumbed over his tip. When he’d finally coaxed himself into a climax, moans running freely across the empty halls of his home, the image he saw in those short moments of pure bliss was of her. It was Y/N, sitting in front of him with her hands clasped between her bare thighs obediently, his prick running along the length of her warm tongue as her eyes pleaded for him to cum.

But, as he’d stated before, the picture had only lasted a handful of seconds. As soon as his high had died down, it had disintegrated to ash, and he’d been left with a slightly startled mental imprint in its wake, which had faded away within minutes. He hadn’t thought of her since.

That is, until now. Until the surface of his jade eyes are reflecting the message his phone had just received at nearly ten P.M., her identity obvious in her choice of emojis.

A disco ball. The exact same character he’d assigned himself beside his name in her contact list. It was an inside joke; a result of the hatred they both shared for clubs, juxtaposed by the fact that they had met in one. It was a cute determining factor in their minimal acquaintanceship, and he’s always a sucker for a good paradox.

Harry continues to stare down at the text message, trying to conjure up some type of answer. She couldn’t have caught him at a better time, quite literally. She could be his saving grace tonight, if he plays his cards right. Maybe if he swoons her enough, she’ll invite him over again, and he can avoid another night full of shit-faced idiots and blinding strobe lights.

After careful consideration, he swipes open into their new text conversation and taps back a reply he deems appropriate, satisfied with how it shows his personality— the same one the mortal girl had been so taken with upon their first encounter.

Well, this is awkward. I don’t remember giving my number to a disco ball.

The vampire waits idly for a response, watching as the message delivers and is immediately marked by a read receipt. He doesn’t know why, but he likes that she has them on.

A swift pause follows— in which he has no doubt she’s probably attempting to come up with some type of witty remark to his— and then the three grey bouncing bubbles pop up, signifying that she’s typing back. His device bloops with her response, vibrating in his large palms.

Funny as ever, I see. It’s Y/N, from the club last Friday.

Harry’s slightly disappointed by her humor-lacking answer, but he’ll keep the interaction going for curiosity’s sake. Some people are fun in person and just not that bright virtually. Can’t always have it all.

Oh, hey, Y/N! So are you translating on behalf of the disco ball that wanted to talk to me or…?

He can practically see her eye rolling up at the grungy ceiling of her room and that notion makes his lips twitch.

Ha. Ha. Hilarious! But no, I’M the one who wants to talk to you, actually.

Harry can feel her sarcastic tone through this specific message and that gives him hope. Maybe she does have social networking skills.

Oh. Well, give the disco ball my best regards then, will you? Don’t want it to think I’m being rude and casting it aside.

The creature can’t see it, but now Y/N’s lips are the ones jolting as she sits on her bed in nothing but a towel, damp hair beading water down her naked shoulders and back.

How caring of you! I’ll pass on the message.

A full grin begins to edge across Harry’s cheeks as she returns his banter just as easily as she would face to face, dimples threatening to indent into place. That’s more like it.

His fingers poise over the keyboard, mind flicking through the different scenarios he could steer this conversation towards. He has to be perceptive and respectful, but also keep her entertained. He figures asking about her intentions is the best route to take, but he’ll do it subtly. Being too direct could come off pushy.

So...what gives me the honor of basking in your presence tonight, hm?

He adds a thinking face emoji to the end of the text as an afterthought. He rarely uses emoticons, but now is as good a time as any to start, especially because he has to seem like someone who belongs to her generation, rather than a Victorian era immortal.

Well, you said if I wanted more interior design advice to shoot you a text so...here I am, seeking your expertise.

Harry allows himself to break into a wide simper at the shrouded compliment. It goes right to his ego, just as he likes it. She’s smart.

My expertise, huh? I take it that my taste in wallpaper left you pretty satisfied last time, then?

A similar grin buckles Y/N’s face at his playful smugness and she bites into the side of her index finger to try and suppress it. After a moment of thought, she releases her digit from between her teeth and taps back.

Very satisfied, yeah. Your help was greatly appreciated.

Harry scoffs coyly, leaning his shoulder against the lightly fogged black marble wall of his bathroom, his friends and plans for the night all but forgotten. He’s having too much fun flirting to pay anything else much mind.

My pleasure, love. I’d be more than happy to give it again, anytime you need it. Just make sure to fill out the customer service survey my boss emailed you. I’m shooting for a raise and could really use the brownie points.

“Cute.” Y/N murmurs to herself in amusement, her chest fluttering as a result of the pet name, alongside how well they’re getting on. It’s almost like no time has passed at all. Almost as if they’re friends.

She’d been nervous to reach out, fearing that he’d see it and ignore her— or worse, leave her on read. Needless to say, this is going way better than she could’ve hoped

Already filled that out. Gave you five stars and everything. Would’ve given you six if it was allowed.

Harry shifts his weight against the surface he’s using for support, chuckling softly as he gnaws along the inside of his cheek. He feels like a teenager with all of this borderline childish back-and-forth. He’s not mad about it, though. It’s pretty enjoyable.

Thank you so much for your input! It’s taken into deep consideration. VERY deep consideration, if I recall correctly.

Warmth pours into Y/N’s cheeks at his innuendo, and she somewhat hates that he can get her all flustered without actually being present. He’s really good at this. A true lucky strike, to put it in his own words.

I’m glad my standards are held so highly, especially since I’m trying to book another advising appointment with you.

Is that so?

Very much so. How about tonight, if you’re free? I’ve got a dire situation with some wood paneling that I just can’t handle alone.

The vampire’s irises flare crimson red in triumph. It looks like he won't have to put himself through another mortifying ordeal tonight, after all.

I’m on a tight schedule, Y/N. These expertise are highly sought after, yanno?

Y/N snorts at his pompous joke. “Moron.”

Another text comes in from Harry before she can even think of a response.

However, I think I might be able to squeeze you in for a help session today. Say in about 10 to 15 minutes?

With newly brightened eyes, Y/N gives the message five repasses to make sure she’d interpreted it correctly. She can’t believe he’d agreed, especially at an hour when most people already have weekend plans cemented for the night. And by the length of time he’d given her to prepare, she’s extremely thankful she’d decided to shower prior to attempting a booty-call.

Sounds perfect. Do you need me to send you my address or do you remember, by some miracle?

Don’t worry about it, pet. I have a pretty good memory of that night. You made it hard to forget.

Another layer of heat crawls up her neck and into her ears. She knows this is a casual thing, at best, but for some reason, the idea that he had deemed her unforgettable makes her entire body feel like it’s glowing. She tries to brush it off, chalking up his compliment to how they’d seen each other barely a week ago so of course he remembered. It was fairly fresh in both their minds.

But Y/N is from an area where she was just another face in the crowd— another timid girl in an ocean of a hundred small-town carbon copies— and she’d certainly never referred to herself as anything particularly special. To have Harry, who is such a refined and attractive person, who most likely has dozens of hook-ups under his belt, call her that? Of all people? It just hits differently.

She shakes herself out of her head, remembering that a very interesting boy is waiting for a response on the other end of her phone.

Alright, then. See you in 10 to 15 minutes, Mr…?

Y/N comes to the realization that she doesn’t even know his last name. She doesn’t know the last name of the guy she’d let into her house and between her legs. God, if her parents could see her now...They’d blow California into a crater.

The name’s Styles. Harry Styles.

She immediately recognizes the reference, chewing at her bottom lip to keep a tab on a girly giggle. It’s probably not healthy how easily he reduces her into such a dopey puddle.

Alright, then, Mr. Harry Styles. See you soon?

Very soon. Can’t wait to show you the wood samples I just found.

With a sly smirk dimpling his cheeks, Harry pushes off the elegant stone wall of his luxury bathroom, locking his device and absentmindedly tapping it along his palm as he does a quick mind-sweep of the interaction he’d just had. He’s going to get his needs taken care of—both intimate and carnal— by a girl with whom he meshes with so well, no less. This night has taken an unexpected turn for the better, and he’s never been more thankful for making such a rash decision the morning after a one night stand.

The shrill boom of an Irish accent breaks Harry out of his flirty stupor, the sound bounding up the stairs of his flat and echoing off the tiles in his bathroom. “Harry, did you fucking desicate up there, you prick?!”

The vampire’s head snaps to the side towards where the sudden intrusion is originating, clearing his throat softly before answering, mostly to anchor himself back into the present. He’d been too busy floating in a daydream bubble to give his friends any proper attention. “I’m on my way down!”

Harry flicks off the light switch to his master bathroom, heading into his dimly lit bedroom and scooping up his wallet from its usual spot on top of the dresser. He tucks it into the wide front pocket of his slacks along with his cell phone, rounding the king-sized mattress at the center of his space, footsteps muffled by the thick maroon carpeting across the ground. He stops under the doorframe, giving his room one last calculating glance to make sure he isn’t leaving anything important behind. Once the creature is sure he’s set, he reaches over and slides the switch meter all the way down until the hanging lamps on the ceiling fade to black.

Harry clambers down the glass and metal staircase, passing the collection of original paintings organized across the expanse of the largest wall in his home. His friends spot him from the huge couch once he’s halfway down the steps, and of course Niall is the first to make his presence audible.

“Fucking finally.” The blue-eyed vampire groans in exasperation, shooting up from his seat beside Xander, arms falling across his lean chest. “I thought you’d died. Really died.”

Harry dismounts the last stair carefully, heeled boots making a soft clicking sound against the polished light-wash wood of his floorboards. He pushes a few rogue curls out of his eyes, the corners of his mouth jilting upwards teasingly as he regards the fellow immortal. “If I have to keep staring at that shitty paisley button-up you’re wearing, I just might.”

Niall’s irritated expression shatters into one of sheer hurt, hands fumbling with the silk fabric of his shirt, lips melting into a pained pout as he contemplates it sadly. His tone comes out whiney and defensive. “Hey! I really like this one!”

Harry side-steps the boy, giving him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Your fashion sense makes me question my friendship with you.”

Niall’s face pinches with anger, thick brows furrowing as he roughly swats the brunette’s wrist away. “And your dickhead attitude makes me question mine.”

Harry’s jade eyes dance with evil glee as he returns his palm to where it had been resting before to give a curt squeeze, his rings playfully digging into the muscle beneath Niall’s top. “And yet here you are, sitting on my couch, waiting to get into my car. Funny how that works, innit? We benefit from one another. Mutualism at its finest.”

The Irish man shrugs himself free of his friend’s hold once again, glaring at him with darkening eyes, but there’s no true malice behind it. “More like parasitism.”

“So are you two gonna kiss now or what?” Mitch’s soft, mocking voice butts in as he drifts up beside Niall, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark denim straight jeans and his long hair tied back into a low ponytail. He’s wearing a light-wash Rolling Stones t-shirt he’d gotten at a concert he and Harry had attended back in the eighties, along with a pair of scuffed up sneakers. Pretty casual for a club— too casual, in Harry’s opinion. “The sexual tension is killing the audience.”

The green-eyed boy cranes his sight back onto Niall, raising his eyebrows in question and puckering his lips. “What d’you say, Ni? Wanna kiss this little disagreement better? I’m down.”

The pale young man makes a gagging noise, stepping away. “Don’t know where your mouth’s been. But if your bed fellows have anything to say about it, it’s nowhere good. I’m going to respectfully decline.”

“There was absolutely nothing respectful in that response.” Adam chimes in, chuckling as he bumps Niall’s shoulder with his own, hands clasped casually behind his back. “You need to work on your people skills.”

“My people skills are fine.” Niall quips back sarcastically. “Harry just isn’t a person, he’s a demon.”

“Technically, we all are.” The curly-haired vampire points out, walking over to his matte leather couch and retrieving a pin-striped, grey-black fitted blazer from its backrest. He tosses the jacket over his shoulders, shrugging it on and fixing the material over his torso, the curves of the piece accentuating the strong muscles of his back and the dip of his slender waist. “I just don’t care to hide it, really. Especially not when it comes to Niall’s taste in clothes. Which is rubbish, by the way. If that wasn’t clear before.”

“It was.” Niall deadpans, gaze half-lidded and petty.

Harry fixes the sleeves of his coat around his forearms, smoothing out any wrinkles and buttoning the cuffs. He momentarily ducks into the kitchen, his enhanced eyesight spotting the small digital time-stamp of the oven even from across the room. He has less than thirteen minutes before he has to be at Y/N’s flat. He should’ve suggested a longer time span.

Harry turns back around to fully face his crew, situating his collar into place by folding it along the back of his neck, appraising their expectant appearances. They’re all waiting for him. He’s the one driving, after all.

The immortal clears his throat, hands dropping to pat at his blazer pocket, making sure that his keys are in his possession. He sighs lightly through his nose, a knowing grin trying to force its way onto his lips but he keeps it at bay, wanting to maintain a straight expression to garner less backlash for the news he’s about to break.

“I’m not going.”

The pause that fills the atmosphere and the blank faces his friends dote are almost comical. Harry bats his eyelashes at them without a single twitch or jerk of his features. He wants them to understand he’s being serious.

After at least ten heartbeats— a guess, considering no one in the room has one to provide an accurate measurement— a raging exclamation explodes from behind the other three vampires in front of him.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

Harry watches in mild amusement as Xander stomps up from behind the group, shouldering between Mitch and Adam and sticking him with a glower dark enough to instill fear in any living being. But Harry is hardly living, and he’s definitely not scared of a vampire who’s practically a newborn. Xander’s the youngest of them in terms of the immortality scale— he’d transitioned back in nineteen ninety-six when he was thirty, which gives the illusion that he’s older when in reality, he isn’t— so Harry’s strength easily outmatches his. Xander is basically the puppy of the circle, and he’s certainly yappy and annoying enough to support that title. His lack of age and wisdom is also probably why he’s the most explosive.

Harry kinks an eyebrow up at the taller, tanned man, looping only one button through its designated hole in the middle of his jacket. That will allow him to show off what lies beneath it while also making sure the article won’t be a pest in the windy California night. “I’m not kidding. Something else came up that...peaked my interest.”

Xander’s fists momentarily clench by his sides and he then folds his arms across his lightly heaving chest, trying to hide his anger away along the insides of his elbows. He spits his words through gritted teeth, attempting to keep his cadence level. “What could have possibly come up so late that you only let use know after we waited for you for over an hour?”

Harry can’t stop himself from smirking this time around, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards with condescension. The statement that he produces is all too familiar to Xander, given that it mirrors the reply he had used on Harry exactly a week ago, when the leader of the group had asked him what his intentions were once they’d gotten inside their club for the night. “I have a date.”

Xander’s entire face flushes a faint shade of cherry red. His forearms tighten across his body, tone more strained than before as he actively wills himself to remain calm. “A date?”

The shorter vampire smiles at him with fake innocence, working his every nerve like it’s his job. Harry doesn’t know why, but pissing Xander off is always such a delectable pastime. “Yup. With a girl I met last week, actually.”

“You don’t go on dates.” Niall pipes up, looking around at the other men in the room in confusion, almost as if his comment should be obvious. “You rarely even spend the night. Said so yourself.”

Harry shrugs one shoulder indifferently, checking his reflection in the closest section of the glass wall that overlooks the city skyline, the lights of the cars and buildings below twinkling otherworldly. “I guess it’s less a date and more a booty-call, to be honest. I only agreed ‘cause it’s easier than having to drag my ass to that horrid club you chose to spend hours trying to find someone. This meal’s already prim, proper, and served. And I know for a fact I’ll enjoy it, so there’s no real harm.”

He turns back to Xander, the man’s peeved reaction tickling him more than he thought it would. “What was that you said last time, Xanny?”

“I told you to stop calling me that.”

“Oh, yeah! I'm just grabbing a to-go box for my already prepped meal.”

Harry’s friend’s cheeks dye a deeper shade of crimson, dark veins webbing across the iridescent whites of his eyes for a flickering second. “You’re a fucking asshole.”

Harry counters the angry expression with a bright smile, his dialect dripping with arrogance. “Girls dig it. And you seemed to dig it, too, if I recall correctly. Remember? You might not. Post-orgasm amnesia and all that.”

Xander takes a measured inhale, releasing it slowly and allowing his anger to ebb away gradually, ignoring Harry’s blast from the past. His next question is physically directed towards their ex-chauffeur, but is truly aimed at the gang as a whole. “Who’s going to take us, then?”

The curly-haired vampire shrugs his shoulders once again, uninterested in the topic that is quickly growing old. “You could take Niall’s car. Problem solved.”

The whole clique lives in the same condo complex, mostly due to convenience. It’s already tricky for vampires to find others of their kind, so it’s a miracle that they’d all managed to end up together in the first place. And it’s an even bigger miracle that they got along well enough to form a tight-knit coven, which is the closest thing any of them now have to family. Living in close proximity is the ideal way of maintaining that rare bond, plus it allows them to help each other in staying safe and keeping their urges in line.

Since they all live in the same building, Niall’s car is in the garage right beside Harry’s, so transportation shouldn’t be an issue. They just always take his vehicle because he’s the only one that actually enjoys driving.

“Are you mental? Like actually, genuinely insane?” Xander sputters in appalled shock. “Niall drives like a lunatic!”

“Oi, piss off! Maybe you should learn to drive then, huh? Instead of having all those guys you shag take you everywhere.”

Xander ignores Niall’s insult, putting his palms up in disgust, backing away. “I refuse to get in a car with him behind the wheel. Dying once was good enough for me.”

“Did I miss the memo?” Niall snaps, glimpsing around at all the monsters standing around him, attitude tight with annoyance. “Y’know, the one where you all just decided to shit on me tonight?”

Harry bursts into an airy cackle, listing his head to the side as he gives Niall a humorous once-over, his dangly cross earring dabbing across the crisp cut of his coat’s shoulder blade. “You don’t necessarily make it hard, love.”

Niall’s jaw clenches as he narrows his icy blue eyes. “Xander’s right— you are an asshole.”

“Yeah, well, he’s also right about you driving like you’re on tranquilizers.” Adam sighs, running a palm up his face, using his index finger and thumb to massage either of his temples, despite the fact that they lack a pulse. “I guess I could drive? I hate it, but Mitch hates it more, so I’m our best bet. Better than Road Runner over here.”

“Yeah, just keep talking about me like I’m not present. That’s fine. I’m spitting venom in all your drinks tonight.”

“Well,” Harry boasts abruptly, interrupting the game of verbal ping-pong happening in front of him, taking a quick peek at his phone for the time. As much as he loves causing some good-natured chaos between his friends, he has less than ten minutes to make it to Y/N’s apartment on time and traffic’s a bitch at this hour. “I have nothing to do with this anymore, so I’m just gonna take my leave. You lot have fun figuring this out.”

He swivels around on his heel, striding away with his usual haughty air straightening his back, heading towards the corridor that leads to the front entrance of the apartment. The softly lit hallway swallows his silhouette and for the first time since he’d left the secluded confines of his bathroom, he allows a giddy smile of excitement to tweak his lips. Just for a second and not a moment longer. If his friends had seen it, they would’ve taken the piss.

Niall’s accent cuts through the air, prickling at his ears as the glossy, cold doorknob comes into contact with his even colder fingers. “I can’t believe you’d abandon us just to get laid!”

“Lock the door on your way out!”

///

When a sharp knock echoes across Y/N’s flat, she nearly screams.

Her nerves have been on edge since the last text she’d received; only after reading that final cheeky message had the reality of the situation hit.

This isn’t her. This isn’t her at all.

Inviting a total stranger into her home and into her bed was something she’d never experienced before last week. One night stands were very few and very far for her— she could count all the ones she’d had on a single hand, and even then they had been with people she had known to some extent— and it was due to the fact that this type of situation is slathered in mystery and unsureness. Giving herself up in such an intimate manner to someone she wasn’t acquainted to in some shape or form…It comes with a certain amount of risk, both physically and emotionally, which is why she hardly ever engaged in such activities before Harry.

It’s not that there’s anything wrong with having that type of exhilarating fun in your life— she praises the women who can go around so confidently and express their sexuality however they please— but she herself had been raised under a roof that was moderate and conservative, and that environment had molded her into the person she had grown up to be. Those traditional concepts ran through the core of her being, and no matter how hard she tried to shake them, they refused to break loose. They weighed on her shoulders, constantly making her second-guess her motives and desires, most of which go against the status quo that had been implemented into her brain from a young age. This— whatever this is— is a huge step for her; it’s the first attempt she’s made to take over her own life and go against the grain she’d been accustomed to her whole existence.

From the second Y/N had arrived here in Los Angeles and set a foot off the plane, she had been alone. Everyone who cared for her was miles and miles away and she was starting a new chapter on a completely blank page, with no one to guide her hand as she wrote. For the two months she’d spent settling in and trying to meld into her new environment, she had gone at it with a sense of emptiness hollowing the pit of her stomach. No one was there to comfort her during the rough patches, and no one cared enough yet to assure her that things would turn out alright. No one had bothered to tell her she was safe and that nothing would hurt her. No one made themselves available the way people did back home.

That is, until she met Harry seven days ago.

Their encounter had been purely for sexual gratification, but during that short time they shared, she vividly remembered him telling her that she could trust him. It was a preposterous statement to make— asking someone to trust you when you didn’t even know their last name— but the gaze in his emerald eyes had seemed so genuine and encouraging, and his voice had been so gentle and soothing, and his touch had been so delicate and consoling...That strange young man— with the pretty curls, intriguing tattoos, and dazzling smile— had somehow managed to untie the knot of unease that had been sitting in her belly for the last couple of weeks. She’s stumped on how he’d managed to wriggle it free; the only thing she can effectively say took a part in it was his eyes. There was just such a glass-like quality to them that reminded her of a mirror. It was like they were reflecting all her emotions back at her, using their familiarity to compel her into a state of mental peace. She’d appreciated it more than she’d let on.

Something tells Y/N that this is the reason she had contacted him. She wanted to feel that safety net he had provided her with once again. She didn’t need an emotional connection from Harry, she just needed a bit of mental relief. She wanted something to take her mind off all her troubles. Something to distract her, even if it was only for a few hours. And with the way Harry had handled her last time, she knows he’s more than capable of helping her reach those goals.

Y/N doesn’t think anyone has ever made her feel how Harry had that semi-drunken Friday night. She’d been with a few other people before, and had even been in a long-term relationship with someone she had once thought would end up being her husband, but none of those men came close to this peculiar stranger.

In the town she was from, it was typical for people to marry their high school sweethearts. It was a small region where everyone either knew one another or knew of one another, so it wasn’t difficult to find someone that could fit into the role that needed to be filled. The person she had found was a boy by the name of Bradley, who she had begun to date their freshman year of high school.

They’d met through mutual friends and he’d invited her to their first ever homecoming dance, where she had felt like everything was falling into place almost like in a movie. He was cute, with hazel eyes, sun-bleached hair, and freckles that jolted every time he laughed. He was polite, funny, and treated her with enough respect and dignity to keep her hooked for a while. Things had gone pretty well the four years they were together in high school; their relationship wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t exciting either. It was just...secure. He was there, and he was willing to give her his attention, and that’s all that really mattered to her at the time. She thought that was all she needed.

Then graduation came and went, and so did Bradley. He left for college, set on the intention that they would make long distance work somehow. To keep a long story short, it hadn’t worked out how they expected. As the months passed, she noticed he started to separate himself from her more and more. The video chats are what disappeared first; what used to be a daily FaceTime call turned into a weekly one and then, if she was lucky, a monthly one. Phone calls followed the same fate. Texting became a chore rather than something to look forward to and she could feel him slipping, which left her feeling helpless because he was in another state, far away and too out of reach to appropriately solve anything. Energized conversations slowly faltered into five-word messages, which eventually teetered into barely any communication at all.

When Y/N heard the news that he’d cheated on her, it didn’t even come from him. It came from his roommate. Things ended swiftly after that, which was the saddest thing of all. Almost five years of her life, completely gone to waste. Handling the pain was a whole other misery she’d had to shoulder, alongside the embarrassment and humiliation, which stemmed from the fact that she was aware her peers had heard about the whole ordeal. With the help of her family and friends, she’d eventually gotten over the heartbreak. The weird thing is, she doesn’t think she loved him. She loved the idea of him— loved that he represented everything she had been raised to seek in a relationship. They’d grown up together, their families knew one another, they shared the same friends, they had common hobbies. It was like a match made in heaven, though after it broke off, she quickly came to the realization that it hadn’t been made in heaven at all. Made in a test tube was a more fitting analogy.

Y/N’s love life after that painfully slow cliche disaster consisted of random boys around town she recognized from school and work. The hook-ups were fleeting and hardly satisfying, but at least they were something. She soon found out that she could do better on her own, but whenever she craved someone else’s touch, she was grateful to have anyone she could get. She’d mainly stuck to the same guys for the sake of consistency; it was easier having people she already knew how to please and vice versa, though she’ll admit it was mostly a one way street. Men can be so clueless sometimes that it’d be funny if it wasn’t so irritating.

Then Y/N had skipped town and closed off sexually for a while. She had stayed shut down until Harry had walked into her life with that stupid sly smirk and his unorthodox— yet surprisingly attractive—fashion sense, sipping straight tequila like a fucking psycho from the cup in his jeweled fingers. He’d waltzed right onto the stool beside her at the bar, right out of the club with her hand in his, and then right past the doorframe of her apartment, kindly gifting her the best sex of her entire life. He’d worked her every desire with a certain skill and awareness she had never experienced (not from any of her past lovers, and definitely not from Bradley’s vanilla tendencies), dismantling her body as if he’d known her for decades, leaving her sore and aching in a way she didn’t know was humanly possible.

And now here Y/N is, pacing back and forth from her small living room to her even smaller kitchen, chewing along the knuckle of her forefinger as she tries to tie down the jitters running amuck in her belly.

She repeatedly smooths down the dress she’s wearing, claiming that it’s to get rid of the wrinkles, but in truth, it’s to wipe the dampness from her palms. The outfit had been a birthday present from her cousin the year before and she’s rarely worn it since the move, which is a direct result of her lack of socializing. She only ever really leaves her home for groceries and to attend work, neither of which call for a pretty sundress and strappy tan sandals. Despite having gone out to the club a few times, the dress doesn’t fit that scene either. LA gets a bit chilly at night and she has yet to grow accustomed to the city’s weather. Wearing this after-hours would surely end with her acquiring a mild case of hypothermia.

The garment is a light blue baby doll design, littered with tiny daffodil prints of varying shapes and colors. It stops about three-fourths down her thigh, fluttering outwards in layered flares, its bandeau-style top held in place by thin straps of the same fabric. She figured she’d deck herself out nicely; from the one interaction she’d had with Harry, she can tell he’s a person of refined taste. It was evident in his expensive clothing and his wide variety of precious rings. She doesn’t know why, but there’s a toiling in the pit of her tummy urging to impress him.

Y/N’s hair has been freshly washed and blow-dried, her legs thoroughly shaved into silk, and she’d applied a light layer of makeup, done in anticipation that anything heavier would likely end up smeared across her face— a result of sweat and Harry’s dominant persona. Simply reflecting on his commanding sensual presence makes her self-pedicured toes curl in her sandals.

Y/N hadn’t been sure on how to prepare for his arrival. She wasn’t versed in advanced hook-up culture— her raunchiest experience was in the backseat of someone's 2004 Toyota Corolla. She doesn’t want to get this wrong. Going overboard would make him feel smothered and awkward, but underselling would give him the impression that she doesn’t have any respect for him, save for what lies between his legs. Those are the last two things she wants him to gather from this.

She’d settled for pulling out a bottle of red wine that had been a house-warming present from the landlord. Not too shabby, but not too loud. And who doesn’t enjoy a cup of half-decent wine on a Friday evening, right?

Y/N had just finished arranging two glasses— which she’d found at the thrift shop down the street for a steal— onto the counter of her kitchen when that swift rapping sound had broken through the tense air of her home, echoing from the front door and causing a yelp to lodge in her throat.

Ice shoots through her veins. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

She takes a handful of penetrating breaths, concentrating on how the cool air feels expanding her lungs. The technique aids in calming some of her nerves, grounding her just enough that she can will herself to move without her knees giving out. Y/N tentatively makes her way down the corridor that leads to her front door, heart hammering against her ribs. She shouldn’t be this riled up— he’s literally already been inside her. There’s pretty much nothing she can hide from him at this point.

On the other side of the door, Harry is blissfully ignorant to the panic attack threatening to overcome Y/N.

The vampire leans his shoulder against the frame of the somewhat raggedy door, arms crossed over his thick chest as his gaze bounces judgmentally around all the patches of peeling paint. He chews at a piece of gum— which he’d popped into his mouth on the drive over to make sure he tastes as delectable as always— in slow, lazy motions, jaw flexing as he unconsciously pops an array of tiny bubbles with his teeth, waiting for Y/N to emerge.

Harry glances up at the flickering light bulb in the hallway of the complex, nose scrunching in distaste at the annoying flashing. She really needs to get a better place, he thinks, reaching up and dragging the pad of his middle finger along the curve of his bottom lip, absentmindedly wiping off a bit of extra chapstick that had colored outside the lines when he’d applied it. He always tries to keep his mouth soft, especially when he knows he’s going to be using it. Plus, the vanilla bean flavor pairs well with mint.

The sound of a seal cracking open yanks his attention, the door before him slowly swinging inwards. Cool air pours from inside, bathing him in a scent that his frenzied instincts had been subconsciously craving the last couple of days. Harry cranes his neck over his shoulder, spitting his gum out and not bothering to watch where it lands. He turns back just as Y/N’s familiar figure comes into view.

The first thing he notices is the dress.

Fuck, the dress.

It’s nothing too fancy, just a casual sundress, but it fits her like it was made specifically for the purpose of testing his restraint. He rakes his gaze up and down her body shamelessly, much like he had on the night they met.

The light blue background and rainbow miniature floral print compliments her skin tone nicely, making it stand out below the dingy light hanging above their heads. The piece lands about halfway down her thigh, fanning around her legs slightly in frilly folds, tempting him with that bit of innocent exposure. An image of him ripping the dress up her thighs races across the forefront of his mind and he can feel his fangs momentarily break through his gums.

As Harry draws his sight upwards, the minimal throbbing between his legs only amplifies. The dress cinches just below her bust, accentuating her chest, and he comes to the painful realization that she’s not wearing a bra underneath; she doesn’t need it due to the bralette-like top. One simple tug of his index finger would leave her completely bare and that conclusion causes a sweltering itch to erupt along the back of his throat.

Harry’s irises finally come to rest on her face, finding that the rest of the human girl’s look appears just as it had last week. Minimal makeup, no accessories, and the smell of chamomile shampoo strung through her hair, though it’s easily smothered by her natural scent of flowers and sugar. He also finds that while he had been blatantly undressing her with his eyes, she had delighted herself in doing the same. Watching her gawk at him hungrily caresses his ego immensely, evident in how the edges of his mouth kink.

Y/N doesn’t mean to ogle, she really doesn’t. But from the instant he’d come into view, standing there propped against her threshold with his ankles crossed and his lean arms folded over his strong chest, she couldn’t control it. He just looks so fucking good— better than last time, which she didn’t think was plausible— and she gets the feeling that he knows he looks borderline godly.

Harry’s clad in what appears to be a sheer mesh flouncy button-up with holographic threads speckled through the material, shimmering under the dim atmosphere of the hallway. The last three holes of the shirt are left open, exposing his tanned pectorals and thoroughly inked chest. Last time they had been together, she’d been too distracted by the aching between her thighs to properly notice the swallow tattoos along his collarbones and the giant butterfly at the crest of his stomach. But now, she stares at them freely as they expand and contract with his easy breaths, her mouth beginning to water.

The blouse is covered by a dark pinstriped blazer, the crisp shoulder blades of the jacket complimenting his broad frame as the curves dip along his waist alluringly. The loose top is tucked in along the brim of yet another pair of high-waisted trousers, though they are creme-colored instead of copper. The ironed pants give way to a pair of glossy black heeled boots, which are bedazzled along the back of the two-inch elevation, the jewels twinkling in the shape of a word that she can’t make out at this angle.

Harry’s collection of luxurious rings and necklaces adorn their usual spots and she gets the impression that he never leaves home without them. His gold cross earring sways back and forth lightly, her warped reflection cast across its surface and staring back at her numbly.

Harry breaks through the haze his physique had cast on her brain.

“Nice to see you again, Disco Ball.”

A shiver slithers down her spine at the deep baritone of his voice, English accent slathered across every syllable and dripping with suggestive teasing. She’d forgotten how sultry he sounds, even when he’s not actively striving for it.

Y/N’s attention jets up from where it had been pasted to his body, the expression across his handsome features one of snarky self-assurance, which tells her she’d been caught. Indents cave into his cheeks, twitching with glee as he bats his lashes slowly, eyes going half-lidded in amusement. He looks so sinful with those shiny ringlets curling around his small ears, framing his sharp jaw and kissing the nape of his neck, alongside those raspberry red lips and the emerald hue sparkling around his pupils. She can’t tear herself away.

After an elongated second of silence on her part, Harry raises one of his sculpted brows expectantly, letting her know he’s waiting for a response. Heat overflows Y/N’s cheeks and buzzes across the shells of her ears.

“H-Hi. Uh— Nice to see you. Too. Nice to see you, too.”

An odd sense of déjà vu flags in the back of her skull and she’s reminded that this is exactly how they’d met the first time around— with her making an utter fool of herself, much to his entertainment.

The crescent above his top lip curves upwards as a result of his grin widening. He taps the tip of his elegant shoe patiently against the cement ground, arms shifting against his chest and she can see the way his biceps strain the fabric of his coat. He’s just so fit.

Harry’s tone comes out playful and lighthearted. He doesn’t need to be invited in again since she’s already explicitly allowed him in before, but he asks anyways, out of courtesy. “Can I come in? Or are you planning on taking me dancing or summat?”

The laugh that escapes Y/N is dense with a nervous edge, but it’s better than a stuttering jumble of incoherent words. She moves out of the way, flushing her back to the wall of the tiny entrance corridor and leaving just enough room for him to squeeze by. “Yes, come on in! Sorry.”

“You’re alright, darling.” The tall vampire steps forward into the mortal’s home, turning sideways as he does so, chest pressing against her own. He glances down at her lips for a flash of a moment, then back to her eyes. “Thank you.”

Y/N’s grip on her doorknob tightens. She looks up at him through her lashes, bottom lip barely trembling. “No problem. Thanks for coming over on such short notice.”

Harry runs his tongue across his teeth, pressing it to the inside of cheek as he absorbs the mildly erotic image of Y/N decked out in a frilly dress, glancing up at him shyly as her chest heaves slightly against his own. “Well, I couldn’t leave you to handle that pesky wood paneling all on your own, now could I?”

A smile ghosts over her delicate lips as she shuts the door and locks it, not breaking eye contact. “How generous of you. My hero.”

Far from it, love.

Y/N slips out from where Harry had wedged her to the wall, beckoning him after her with a gentle turn of her head. The creature tucks his hands into his front pockets, following her down the narrow stretch. They drift past her room (he makes sure not to look in and spare himself the horror of seeing that dumb tapestry) and past her bathroom, into the expanse of her living area. It’s just as small and cozy as he remembers it and he can’t stop himself from scoffing lightly as his sight drifts over the couch. Good memories.

“Would you like some wine?” Y/N’s question carries softly from inside her kitchen. She’s already gripping the glass bottle in her hand, attempting to pull out the cork, and she hadn’t thought of needing a wine-opener until now. Fuck.

Harry makes his way to join her, passing underneath the archway and taking the spot across from the girl. He leans his lower back on the counter, hands remaining perched casually in his slacks. “I’d love some.”

“Great.” She huffs, twisting stubbornly at the spongy cap with all the might she can muster, the rough surface scratching her palm. “Let me just— just get this open.”

Harry’s head lists sideways as he wards off a chuckle. “Want some help?”

Y/N releases an irritated grunt, shoulders slumping a tad as she fails to get the top loose. She holds out the bottle towards her visitor, titling it from side to side in surrender. “Be my guest.”

The immortal pulls his hands out from his pockets, taking the container from her grasp and the human notices how they dwarf the bottle. It shouldn’t be hot, but it is.

Harry wraps his ring-clad digits around the cork, giving it one easy twist and Y/N’s jaw nearly falls off as she hears a pop tinge the air. Harry offers her the wine and cap in return, licking his lips to avoid laughing in her face. Supernatural strength always delivers.

“How…?” Y/N’s owlish eyes flicker back and forth between Harry’s cocky expression and the object in his hands. “How did you even...?”

The brunette gives her a nonchalant shrug. “Guess you loosened it up for me, Thor.”

She gingerly takes the beverage and its accompaniment from his outstretched palms, blinking at him in mild shock. Her slight unease is swiftly phased out, however; a result of his cute banter. It was probably just a lucky coincidence. “I guess so.”

Y/N pours out two glasses of the dark red liquid, handing one to Harry, feeling her heart skip a beat when he wraps his hold around the stout flute and their fingers brush. He stays like that for a heartbeat, with his icy digits sifted between hers, the amber specks in his irises glittering like diamonds. Then, the moment is over and he pulls away slowly, guiding his drink up to his plush lips. She hates how he can leave her so breathless without a single hitch.

The girl watches as Harry takes a leisurely sip of the alcohol, his gaze dancing around her kitchen curiously as she finishes recapping the bottle and scooting it into the corner of the counter.

A thought dawns on her as soon as she focuses back onto the boy before her. Harry looks weird. He looks so weird standing in her small, dingy kitchen with its worn wooden cabinets and fake marble tabletop. He looks so out of place, dressed head to toe in designer brands and fancy fabrics, hands and neck decorated with posh jewelry, and the unmistakable smell of an expensive cologne wafting from his masculine throat. And he most certainly is out of place when it comes to who he’s associating with. He’s out of Y/N’s league, not only physically, but in his behaviors, as well. It’s so obvious it almost hurts.

Yet here Harry is, looking polished and stylish, while she’s sporting a mere sundress that was probably bought off the clearance rack at Kohl’s. It just doesn’t mix, and she finds herself wondering why he’d chosen her in the first place. When she had voiced similar concerns the day they’d slept together, he had told her it was because she was timid and he wanted to see if he could break through that. But Y/N isn’t stupid. There has to be some other reason. Why else would a rich bachelor pay attention to a small-town runaway in a measly floral—

“I like your dress.”

Y/N glances up at Harry from where her mind had fallen, startled by the sudden interference in her dark thoughts. She’d been tracing across the slope of his structured jaw, mesmerized by how it would grow taut every time he swallowed down a gulp of his beverage.

She had ambled so deep in her head, she barely manages to mutter a passable answer. “Oh, thank you! I’ve had it for a bit, but I barely wear it.”

The edges of the vampire’s mouth quirk around the rim of his glass, creases wrinkling along the corners of his bright eyes. “It suits you nicely. A beautiful dress on a beautiful girl.”

Y/N’s belly somersaults, a sheepish giggle running along the undercurrent of her next mumble, so low it’s hardly audible. “Thank you. Again. Thought I’d bring it out for a special occasion.”

Harry’s eyebrows jump upwards at her comment. He draws his wine glass from between his lips, resting it against his hard stomach and gifting the human a cheeky once-over. “So I’m a special occasion, now, am I?”

Y/N looks down at the straps of her sandals, fighting off a grin. She shrugs one shoulder offhandedly, bringing her cup to her mouth and taking a long drag of the sweet liquor, feeling it wash across her tongue and leave a warm glow in her tummy. “Maybe.”

Harry hums teasingly in his throat, tapping his pinky pensively along the bottom of his glass, opal ring clinking against the crystalline surface. The color of his drink makes the black polish on his nails stand out almost artistically. “I’ll take any compliment I can get, especially from those pretty lips.”

Another wave of heat flushes across the apples of Y/N’s cheeks. “You really know how to flatter a girl, don’t you?”

The monster tips back another swig of wine, savoring the notes of wild cherry and pomegranate in its palate. Not bad, especially for what he can tell is a ten dollar bottle.

He cocks his head to the side, irises glitzing knowingly amidst his long lashes. “I think we’re both aware that I most certainly know how to flatter a girl.”

Y/N’s stare snaps up to lock with his, the faintest whimper stringing her vocal chords. If it wasn’t for Harry’s heightened hearing, he would have never known it’d happened. But he does, and he can feel the throb between his thighs spike as a result. The sounds she makes are just as wonderful as he remembers.

The sexual tension suspending in the room is practically palpable. After a bundle of her heartbeats— which is gradually rising in intensity— echo in his ears, he decides to speak up again.

“I’ve been thinking about you.”

The statement can be taken into so many different contexts and that’s why Harry chose it. She could interpret it as innocent admiration on behalf of a smitten lover, or as another layer of sensual praise. It’s versatile, successful either way.

Y/N blinks at him exactly three times in surprise. “You have?”

She’d been thinking about him, too. Non-stop. And now that she knows it’s mutual, she doesn’t feel so nervous anymore. It reassures her that they’re on the same page of this messy novel written about their undefined association. Or that they are at least within the same chapter.

Harry bobs his head in confirmation, indulging another sip of wine, letting it filter through his taste buds slowly. His glass is almost empty. “Mmhm. Walked past this candle store at the mall the other day and they had one burning that smelled just like you.”

His confession is sweet and it makes the tips of her fingers tingle. Y/N copies his action, taking another gulp of her beverage, attitude airy and inquisitive. “Is that so? And what do I smell like?”

Harry’s response is immediate and confident, almost as if he’s spent time thinking on the subject prior to today. “Honey and lavender.”

Y/N nods her head in wonder, laughing gently. “That’s oddly specific.”

Harry feels like he’s been smacked between the eyes with an iron rod. That was an idiot move. Absolutely moronic.

He just now comes to terms with how intimate the comment he’d made had been. It suggests that he’s pondered on this topic, which gives the impression that he could be more interested in her than he actually is. He doesn’t need this loose connection turning into some type of cliche romantic comedy; he doesn’t have the space, patience, or emotional stability for it. And certainly not with someone he’s only fucked once.

The vampire clears his throat, figuring that he can clean up this metaphorical spill by throwing a bit of crudeness at it. “Then yesterday I had a donut, yeah? One of those cream-filled ones. And when I took a bite of it, all the cream just came oozing out and I was like, ‘hm, this reminds me of someone…’”

The slightly endeared expression on Y/N’s face crumbles to dust, voice shrill and indignant at his lewd analogy. “You fucking perv!”

Harry sputters into a round of boyish cackling, nearly wheezing when her foot reaches over and strikes him on the shin. He clasps over his stomach with his free hand, head falling back in glee as her features pinch in embarrassed disgust. He manages to speak between bursts of giggles, water gathering along his tear ducts due to how hard he’s laughing. “I’m just being honest!”

“No, you’re being a gross little fourteen year old asshole!” Y/N exclaims incredulously, but she can’t keep herself from joining in on his boasts of amusement.

His laughter is contagious. It’s loud and unapologetic in a manner she rarely sees in anyone and he just looks really fucking cute with his dimples jolting and smile lines creasing. It’s hard to stay mad at him, though it’s not like she’d truly been upset in the first place.

Harry reigns himself in, inhaling deep breaths and wiping at his tears with the back of his large hand as a joyful groan rumbles in his chest. A few more giggles sneak out when he sees Y/N’s flat expression, but he manages to stifle the rest. His tone is jesting, poking fun. “If it makes you feel any better, I was respectful enough to wipe the donut down with a napkin, as well.”

“Fuck off.”

Harry grins down snidely at the last inch or so of alcohol left in his glass, bringing it to his mouth and downing it all in one go. He places the cup down carefully on the counter behind him, his arms finding their way across his stomach, fingertips momentarily tapping at his elbows. He appraises a playfully grouchy Y/N, pursing his lips to hide a smirk.

He watches as she takes another small taste from her drink, her pulse lulled by its contents. She’s not drunk by any means— not even buzzed— but it had helped calm the tittering in her throat that Harry had been able to detect earlier. She’s relaxed now, all anxiousness washed away by the small serving of liquor and his inappropriate (and extremely funny, if he does say so himself) jokes.

The creature thinks it’s proper time he gets what he came for.

“I really am glad you reached out, though.” Harry starts, an easygoing smile nudging across his alcohol-swollen mouth. “Truly.”

Y/N snorts sarcastically, attempting to hide how his comment had made her pulse sharpen. He’d heard it anyways. “Oh, are you? Truly?”

Harry pushes himself off the edge of the counter, slowly sauntering over to Y/N, who instinctively draws back further against the tabletop behind her. She ogles at him from below heavy lashes, glass still perched between her tinted lips, excited anticipation written all over her body language. He can practically feel the heat radiating off her, rising a few notches the closer he gets.

“Yeah.” Harry’s arms unfold, one stretching over her shoulder to prop his palm against the cupboard behind her head, the other fiddling with the seam of his blazer. He slides his forefinger and thumb along the single buttoned hole, giving it a rough tug and allowing his jacket to spring open. “I don’t think I’ve ever had that much fun interior designing with anyone. Not for a while.”

Y/N glimpses down at where his coat had parted, drinking up the sight of his lean torso behind the see-through material of his shirt. Now that he’s nearly pressed against her, his scent is stronger than before, burying her under smoky notes of vanilla and seasoned firewood. A familiar heat pools between her clasped thighs.

When she pipes up, it’s shaky and whispered, covered in a dreamy undercurrent. “Yeah, me either. It felt...nice.”

Harry’s irises flash crimson for a millisecond, but she’s too occupied gawking at his tight stomach to notice. His dialect takes on a low, seductive twang, the breath of his words fanning across her face. All she can smell is wine, mint, and...vanilla chapstick?

“It felt really nice.”

Y/N’s view drags up to land on his lips. They look as soft and appetizing as last time, tempting her to just drop her flute onto the floor and replace it with his mouth. “Extremely nice.”

An outside force suddenly tips her glass upwards and she realizes it’s Harry’s fingers. He nudges her cup until the liquid inside funnels towards her mouth, his intentions set on helping her finish it off. She drains the wine obediently, staring up at him dazed and moony, feeling a few drops escape along the sides of her mouth and tickle down her chin. The jade-eyed boy then gently pries the glass from her fingertips, reaching over and placing it inside her sink to be handled later.

Y/N’s hands fall flat against his thick chest, feeling it rise and fall steadily below her grasp as he takes a step forward, their bodies completely flushing together. His palm trails up the exposed sliver of her thigh, diving a couple of inches below her dress and giving the outer area a hard squeeze. He doesn’t go any further; he won’t until she explicitly asks for it. He’s a prick about a lot of things, but never consent.

Harry leans down, running the tip of his cold nose along her clenched jaw, his warm tongue peeking out to collect the streams of wine that had dripped out. The contrast in sensations makes her knees buckle and what he murmurs hotly against her skin doesn’t help in calming those motions at all.

“Wouldn’t mind making you feel that nice again.”

Y/N’s mind stalls, overwhelmed by his touch and smell. She can feel him sponging tender kisses at the corner of her mouth, and she can feel the palm of his hand massaging at her thigh needily. She can feel his breaths quickening in pace the longer he’s around her, and she can feel the foundation of a moan building in his lungs in the form of small vibrations, which run across her palms and twitch her fingers. She can feel everything; she’s never been more hyper-aware of her surroundings than now. And all because of this one mysterious young man.

When Y/N finally speaks, Harry feels relief flood his system, though it is swiftly replaced by intense desire.

“I wouldn’t mind it, either.”

That’s full permission if he’s ever heard it.

Harry’s other hand drops from its spot against the cupboard behind her, joining its partner on her opposite thigh. He coasts his palms fully below her flowy dress onto her hips, a lascivious simper crawling across his cheeks at the lack of extra fabric beneath her clothes. “No panties tonight?”

The human swallows heavily, shaking her head as she leans it back against the wooden cabinets, giving him access to her throat. At the sight, the vampire’s fangs protrude, cutting into the inside of his lower lip as venom fills his mouth. He wills himself to maintain control. It’s difficult, considering his sharp eyes can make out the chiseling of her arteries pumping blood just beneath her delicate skin, but he forces composure into his behavior nonetheless. With all of the lights on and Y/N completely sober, he knows he won’t get away with another mid-fuck stunt like the one he pulled last time they were in this position.

Instead, he distracts himself with what he can draw from her at this very moment— another unbelievable orgasm.

“Such a filthy little fucking thing.” Harry growls, smearing his lips down the center of her jugular, nipping love bites into her flesh but making sure not to split it open. “S’that how bad you wanted it when you texted me? So bad that you didn’t even bother to wear anything underneath?”

Y/N whines softly when he passes over a particularly tender spot along her neck, shuttering against his chest. “Y-Yes.”

A low chuckle rolls from Harry’s wandering tongue as he hones in on the area that had coaxed such a delicious reaction. “Fuck, that was such a pretty noise. Are you sensitive here, baby?”

Y/N nods with fervor, running her touch up his pectorals and over his strong shoulders, diving under his coat and fisting at the mesh that strains across his muscular back. Her eyes roll closed, her next confession coming out in the form of a feathery sigh, legs parting wider for him to comfortably fit in between. “I just...I just need you.”

Harry eagerly accepts the invitation, sifting between her thighs and hiking them up onto his hips. The fact that he can suspend her so effortlessly, almost as if she weighs nothing, makes the pit of her tummy boil. “You need me now, d’you? How much, doll? Want you to tell me how much you missed my cock.”

The young woman winces ever so slightly at the crude word and it amuses him to no end. “So fucking much, Harry.”

He can confidently say his name has never sounded sweeter than when it trickles from Y/N’s tongue.

When he speaks, it’s packed with all the pent up turmoil radiating deep in his abdomen. “Did you think about me the way I thought about you?”

Y/N’s reply falls breathily from her mouth without any hesitation. “Y-Yeah. Couldn’t get you out of my head.”

A cocky hum tinges the air on his behalf. “And why’s that?”

“Because…” The girl struggles to swallow, finding it difficult to match how easily brazen he can be. She pushes through. “Because you fucked me better than anyone else ever has.”

The compliment is one Harry gets often, but for some inexplicable reason, it hits so much deeper coming from Y/N. “Mm. Poor baby just needed to get properly rawed, didn’t you?”

“Had no idea how badly I wanted it until you came along.”

A dark chuckle rolls from the creature’s lips at her bluntness. He repeatedly passes his textured tongue over the pressure point on her throat, flames igniting in his chest when she releases another watery, desperate mewl. “God, look at you. Practically already dripping. Like it when I play with you like that?”

“Fuck, y-yes.”

“Want me to keep going?”

“Please.”

And so Harry keeps going, and he doesn’t stop. Not at her neck, and not anywhere else. Not until she begs him to hours later, when he’s whittled three orgasms out of her trembling body, each one more intense than the last.

The first one takes place right there on top of the kitchen counter. He boosts her up onto the table, bunching her pretty sundress around her quivering thighs— as he’d fantasized prior— while she fumbles with his trousers. He tends to her every breathy whimper as she eases him out of his briefs, marking his teeth all over her throat with the assurance that his blood will fade the bruises by morning. He tears his jacket down his broad shoulders, panting into her mouth as she undoes all the buttons that line his elegant iridescent shirt, moaning softly when she breaks their kiss to paint her hot lips down the expanse of his heaving chest and tight stomach. Y/N ducks down as far as her angle will allow, wanting to taste as much of his skin as she can. She wants to memorize its salty smoothness for as long as she lives.

Harry watches her with bliss-drunken fondness twitching his mouth, head falling back to hang between his shoulders as a low, “Such a good girl.” rumbles from his throat. His ring-clad fingers tangle into her locks and scratch at her scalp lightly, strained exhales encouraging her to keep going as she delights herself with tainting love bites all over him. He yanks the girl back up by her roots, grabbing her hips and roughly scooting her forward towards him, clammy foreheads pressing together as he fixes to fill her up for the first time in what feels like eternity.

The monster’s voice is as dominant and thick as she likes it. “Eyes up here. Want to see you come undone while I fuck you.”

The way he spreads Y/N open makes her choke out a scream like nothing else she’s ever heard. Harry simply clamps one of his palms over her mouth, continuing to ram into her at a harsh stride, gasping against her ear with every thrust as she rakes her nails across his back. “Gotta keep that pretty mouth quiet. Thin walls.”

The human feels like her heart is going to break through her ribs and what she doesn’t know is that with every passing beat, Harry feels it tenfold. And it’s driving him fucking insane— she drives him fucking insane. Especially when she looks at him with that glossy, begging gaze, biting into the mound of his hand as he slams his hips inside her so hard, the glasses in her cupboard shake. “Like it when I give it to you rough? Yeah, I thought so. Just like that? Harder? Say please…Christ, you’re a fucking angel.”

Y/N is dirty. So fucking filthy, and Harry loves every second of it. Loves that anything he throws out, she returns with as much enthusiasm, if not more. Loves that she can take his cock as hard as he’s willing to give it, which says a lot, considering his stamina and strength usually surpasses most humans. He’d met very few mortals who can match his sexual prowess and she happens to be one of them. She not only takes it, but pleads for more. She doesn’t just seek her own pleasure, but insists on delivering his own. And though they’re polars opposites at their core— she’s timid, physically standard, and boringly normal, whereas he’s confident, attractive, and unusually superior in every sense of the phrase— they fit together better than he’d ever care to admit. They’re perfectly compatible, down to their personalities and their intimate needs.

As Harry stands there— fingertips leaving welts across her waist as he grunts brokenly against her throat, stretching her out like she was meant to take him this deep, her moans sounding like classical melodies to his ears— he thinks that maybe...maybe he’ll keep her around. A friends with benefits situation would be the most ideal. And to quote his own clever motto from before, it would be mutualism at its finest.

The alliance would be nothing emotional; simply for the sake of providing each other with requited relief, as well as providing Harry with a convenient feeding arrangement. Neither of them would have to submit themselves to going to those terrible clubs, they both already know what the other enjoys, and the banter they share is pretty fulfilling. Plus, her blood is one of the sweetest he’s ever had. Whatever magic lies in her veins tides over his cravings in a fashion he’s never quite experienced. They both get what they want and don’t have to deal with the disasters of real commitment; neither are in a place in their lives where they can shoulder such a big responsibility. Harry is emotionally unavailable, as he has been for the past two centuries and as he intends to be for the next dozen. Y/N has just started anew in a place where she has so little to give and so much to lose, dating is the last thing on her mind. A casual no-strings-attached arrangement would be a perfect gift, bow and all.

And with the way they make each other cum multiple times that night— once on the counter, and twice on that trusty old couch— there’s not a single doubt in Harry’s mind that this is most definitely mutualism at its peak.

///

During the span of the next few weeks, Harry learns a lot about Y/N. It’s surprising how informational someone’s sex habits can be.

The second week after they had met— and the first since their second very heated, very satisfying encounter— she shoots him a text on Wednesday, of all days.

Harry isn’t doing anything particularly interesting when he receives her message. He had gone to see Mitch play at the bar that had recently booked him as a semi-permanent gig, sitting in the booth furthest in the back from all of the ruckus, fingers tapping along the waxed table to his best friend’s skilled jazzy guitar chords. Mitch always teases Harry about how he doesn’t have a job, which the vampire always waves off. Working for money is stupid and unnecessary; any materialistic wants and needs that plague him, he can get with the help of compulsion. Therefore, what’s the use in condemning himself the horrors of customer service or a constricting office cubicle?

His best friend is halfway through his set when Harry’s device vibrates against the sticky surface before him, tittering fingers coming to an abrupt stop. He flips over his iPhone, eyes flickering over the screen, a coy grin spreading its way across his blushed lips. Y/N’s contact beams up at him in return. He’d set her profile as just her name alongside three disco ball emojis, for the sake of their little inside joke.

I’m getting off work a bit earlier than I thought today and was wondering if you wanted to help me with my ceiling fan.

Harry bites into his bottom lip to muffle a chuckle, shaking his head lightly as he stares down at the comical request.

That’s odd. Last time I was there, you didn’t HAVE a ceiling fan.

Y/N sits on her lunch break in the backroom of the cafe where she’s employed, a veggie wrap halfway suspended towards her mouth when Harry’s text bloops in, pointing out her embarrassing mistake. She blinks at his correction blankly, eyes closing in faint humiliation as her true intentions are now painfully clear.

After a second of recollection, she types back some damage control, though it hardly has an impact. Harry’s already chortling to himself just thinking about how contorted her face must look at the moment.

I’m aware, thank you. I meant I wanted help picking one out. I’ve got a few tabs saved as potentials.

He decides to be a little shit about this whole thing, continuing to mock her.

You could just send me the links right now and I can tell you which one I like. You know that, right?

Y/N knows that. She also knows, by the tone and texture of his response, he’d only mentioned that alternative to be annoying. He knows she’s not talking about ceiling fans, and he just wants her to chase after him. Unfortunately enough for Y/N’s pride, she’s more than willing to.

I just think your opinion would be much more valuable and effective in person, since you’d be able to help me search for other ones at the same time. We’d cover more ground. Two heads are better than one!

We do make quite the team, don’t we?

I personally think so. A dynamic duo for the books, honestly.

A soft round of applause cuts through the air around the vampire, signaling the end of Mitch’s performance. Harry glances up to see his best friend mounting his guitar back into its case, smiling bashfully at the crowd and nodding his head in thanks to all their praise. Harry coins his luck; things couldn’t have wrapped up at a better time.

Alright, Watson. What time will you be home?

Y/N stops mid-chew through a bite of her meal, cheeks puffed as the corners of her mouth twitch at his nerdy reference.

I’m off at 6:45. Should be home by 7.

I’ll see you there, then.

See you there. Also, why do YOU get to be Sherlock? Seems a bit sexist.

Harry rolls his eyes at her quip, smirking to himself as he types out his final response.

Well, first and foremost, I’m literally English. Secondly, last time I checked, I’m always the one in control. And frankly, you seem to like it that way. See you at seven, darling.

And at seven on the dot, Harry’s outside her apartment. His friends would be amazed at his punctuality. He only shows it when it’s worth the trouble.

The creature walks up the steps to the mortal’s complex with his Ray-Ban sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose, keychain tucked into the back pocket of his black skinny jeans, and his tan Chelsea boots clicking against the cement ground. A light wind whips his Keith Harrington Safe Sex t-shirt against the broad muscles of his back, drawing a soothed sigh from his lungs. He loves the California weather.

He gives her door three swift knocks with his ring-clad knuckles, stepping back from the entrance and clasping his large hands behind his back as he waits.

When Y/N answers, Harry tilts his chin down a smidge, looking at her over the brim of his chic black glasses with his signature dazzling smile dimpling his cheeks. He lists his head slightly in a formal greeting. “Detective.”

The girl’s irises flit up to the ceiling as amusement twitches her lips. She plays along. “Nice to see you again. Detective.”

She moves off to the side, beckoning him to come in and he gladly takes the offer, striding into the flat and down the narrow corridor he’s grown quite familiar with. Y/N follows him back into her living room, gaze quickly drinking up his appearance. He’s casual today— less jewelry, more comfortable clothes— and he works the normal fit as effortlessly as he works his fancy brands. Especially with those tight dark jeans. They hug his thighs in a fashion that should be illegal.

Harry twists around on his heel to face her, reaching up to remove his sunglasses and tucking them along the collar of his tee. A handful of curls fall across his forehead, framing his face and sculpting his jaw, as usual. A sweep across Y/N’s physique tells him everything he needs to know.

She’s still in her work clothes, clad in a navy blue polo shirt and a pair of dark skinnies similar to his. Her hair is down, though the strands have a dent that suggests she’d been wearing a ponytail. Her mascara is smudged a tad under her seemingly tired eyes, but her attitude is as bright and lively as always. She appears messy, but he likes it. It’s a type of unconventional beauty that’s natural and genuine, which he can appreciate.

He contemplates her with a certain slyness that makes her shift in her socked feet.

“I got a message earlier. Sounded kinda frantic.” He drifts closer to the human, a sultry tension growing taut between them. He glances upward for an instant, as if recalling a thought. “Something about ceiling fans…?”

Y/N chews into her cheek to keep from giggling, allowing him to press his chest to hers. He slowly begins to back her up towards the shabby couch, which has seen this interaction happen one too many times. “Yeah, I’m thinking of getting one. Figured it’d help. It just gets really hot in here sometimes, y’know?”

“Mmm…” Harry thrums in agreement, deep in the back of his throat. His hands crawl onto her hips and grasps them somewhat roughly, index fingers hooking into the belt loops of her jeans as he leans down to brush his soft lips over her own. She’ll never grow tired of the electricity that passes through them every time their mouths touch. It kindles her needs unlike anything else. “It does get pretty hot in here sometimes. Especially if you’re working up a sweat.”

He pushes her further towards the sofa, movements gradual as she drifts backwards, careful not to trip her. She glimpses down at where their lips are flirting, breath hiccuping when he licks his lightly in anticipation, his tongue just barely grazing her Cupid’s bow. “Absolutely. A fan would definitely help relieve some of that stress.”

“Yeah.” Harry nudges the tip of her nose with his own, feeling her grab at his biceps for security as he continues inching her backwards blindly. “It can work wonders for when you’re all pent up, too. Especially when you’re really tight, which I know for a fact you are.”

The backs of the girl’s knees hit the edge of the couch and she topples into its cushions. She sits up onto her elbows, sheer need inking into her irises as he patiently begins to undo his belt. His long, nimble fingers work with ease and he seems to be in no particular rush, which pricks at her nerves because she feels completely the opposite. She’d been thinking about him since Friday night— or rather, Saturday morning, when he had actually stayed for breakfast that time around.

Y/N had sat on top of her small dining table while he took the seat before her shirtless, leaning forward with his arms crossed nonchalantly over her lap as she fed him bites of lemon blueberry pancakes. The pads of his calloused fingers had drawn random shapes across the warm skin of her thighs, attempting to cheekily slip beneath her pajamas shorts and he’d giggle boyishly around mouthfuls of food every time she would swat his hand away. He looked so fucking pretty that morning, with his curls tangled in tuffs and the vague imprint of her teeth scattered across his grinning mouth, angry red scratches decorating his bare shoulders. That wholesome yet dirty image had left her head spinning for days.

The sound of Harry’s zipper ripping open blinks Y/N back into the present and she nearly gawks as he grabs onto the hem of his graphic t-shirt and yanks it over his head, arms crossing as he does so. He tosses it onto her playfully, laughing as she smacks it away from her face and gives him a deadpan look. Harry leans forward, propping his palms on either sides of her head and bracketing her in, the unmissable scent of his delicious cologne invading her senses as his dark tattoos ripple over the lean tendons of his stomach and arms. His strangely cold forehead flushes against hers and he nips at her top lip, tugging it between his teeth and releasing. His voice comes out as deep and hypnotizing as ever.

“Get undressed for me. Want your thighs wrapped around my head.”

Harry comes to find that for such a reserved girl, Y/N has a pretty intriguing sexual mindset. She’s open to a lot of stuff he’d never expect from a rural-town escapee. Her kinks surprise him, but pleasantly so, considering they cross over with a lot of his own. She’s into choking, which he adores. There’s nothing hotter than feeling her pulse slam against the palm of his hand as his array of rings mark into the delicate skin of her throat. She likes being restrained, which translates into Harry pinning her wrists above her head while he slams between her drenched thighs. It’s difficult to achieve that on the sofa, so they end up rolling across the rug on the floor, her legs tangled around his hips like a vine as he pants into her mouth, damp hair flopping over his forehead and tickling her eyelashes. Ideally, he would have used his belt to tie her hands to a headboard. If they were at his place, he would’ve just reached for the metal cuffs he has hanging casually off the railing of his bed, which he keeps there for easy access. But they’re in her living room, so he makes do with what he can.

The vampire doesn’t stay over that night, not because he doesn’t want to, but because he promised Niall he’d help him out with a car issue. Apparently the motor is making a weird noise and Harry isn’t shocked one bit. Niall barely has the brain cells to be alive, much less to handle the upkeep that comes with owning a vintage vehicle. He thanks Y/N for a good time as he slips into his tight jeans and recovers his sunglasses from the floor, pulling his tee over the already fading hickies littering his collarbones, fitting his accessory into his sweaty curls.

Harry leans down to where she lays limply, splayed over the couch where he had placed her after picking her up off the ground (only after he’d made her cum twice). He plants a nonchalant farewell kiss to her parted lips, thumbing over her bruised nipples jestingly and grinning into her mouth when she whimpers. “I’ll see you later, Watson. Let me know which fan you decide to buy.”

Two days later, Harry’s phone chimes again, this time with the unique ringtone he’d assigned just for her.

He’s relaxing in his bathtub, submerged up to his chest in hot water mixed with Epsom salts and jasmine bubble bath, his locks sudsy with shampoo. He’s in the middle of shaving his face, dragging the straight razor (his time in the nineteen thirties made him picky towards any other tool, especially those simpleton plastic ones) down his jaw carefully, making sure not to nick the little moles under the corner of his mouth. When his device goes off, he halts all his motions, glancing over from the hand mirror he’s holding before his face. He’d changed her contact name to Watson as homage to their funny little dynamic, but he’d kept the disco balls in their place. He respects the roots of their acquaintanceship.

Fan came in. Wanna come check it out?

He had a nagging suspicion he’d hear from her today. It’s another Friday night, after all. He’s just happy she’d texted earlier than last time so he can flake on his friends without forcing them to wait for an hour.

Wow, you chose two day shipping? You must be itching to see me.

Don’t let it go to your head. The only thing I’m itching for is your professional opinion.

Right. Well, me and my professional opinion are washing up at the moment so give me thirty minutes and I’ll be there, yeah?

Sounds good to me, Sherlock.

Harry decides on an outfit that falls at the center of his dressing spectrum— something comfortable but not lazy. Something semi-formal. He doesn’t really have to impress her anymore (not that he had to try that hard in the first place) but he wants to look good, either way. There’s nothing wrong with showing off what he has, both physically and wardrobe-wise. He chooses a horizontal-striped fitted tee made of thick cotton, the lines alternating between brown, beige, and a light caramel. He tucks the shirt into a pair of mid-rise corduroy flared pants that are a dark mustard shade, shrugging on an olive green jacket with red and white stitch detailing along the edges, large images of cacti embroidered along its expanse. His pearls, cross necklace, and he opts out of his earring this time. Rings, vanilla chapstick, mint gum. Keys, wallet, starch white Vans.

Before he knows it, he’s being roughly pulled into her home from his spot just outside her threshold, his cherry-lacquer nails carding into the silky hair along the nape of Y/N’s neck as his teeth skim over the hollow of her throat. The human grapples to push his coat off his wide shoulders, backing further down the small hallway of her flat and kicking the door shut. She holds his head firmly to the sensitive spot in her neck that he’d toyed with a week prior, and he can’t resist the way his eyes blink crimson— a hunting impulse, stemming from the sound of her blood rushing through her carotid artery. He hadn’t fed last time— vampires only need to feed once a week to avoid desiccation— so he surely intends to tonight.

Harry’s hands fit perfectly around the dip of her spine, pulling her body tight to his as he paints sloppy kisses over her jugular. He gets his teasing words out in between desperate gasps and breathy chuckles. “And here I thought this was genuinely going to be about the fan.”

“Shut up.”

Y/N makes a sharp turn, tugging him into her room instead of the living room and it dawns on him that this is the first time they’re going to fuck in her actual bed. All those instances of sleeping together and not once had they done anything on the piece of furniture that was intended for that sole purpose. It’s ironically hilarious and he voices that opinion as they stumble onto her mattress.

“You know,” Harry murmurs into her mouth as she shoves him flat onto the rumpled sheets (she hadn’t made her bed this morning and that’s endearing, for some reason), straddling his lap as she hurriedly pulls his t-shirt out from along the waistband of his trousers. “Out of all the times we’ve done this— which is quite a few— we’ve never done anything on your bed other than sleep.”

That’s a lie. He’s never actually slept in her bed. After staring at the ceiling blankly two weeks ago for about eight hours, he had been smart enough to grab his phone from his pants the second time around. He spent that stretch of time playing Mario Kart and watching Unsolved Mysteries on Netflix with the volume down just out of human earshot, so as to not disturb her slumber.

Y/N ducks in order to drag her wet, pillowy lips down the butterfly inking on his tummy and over the spines of the two ferns on his pelvis, licking across his happy trail. He jerks in response, a soft grunt gurgling in his lungs as she uses her index finger to trace the outline of his hardening cock through the velvet fabric of his slacks. Her voice is distant, giggle breathless. “Yeah, you’re right. How counterintuitive.”

Harry swiftly pops the button of his trousers, helping her coax them down his legs, releasing a stuttery moan when she immediately bends down and mouths at his prick over his briefs. The soiled stain forming around the tip of his cock would be embarrassing if he didn’t know she found it hot.

His tone is tight but humorous as she continues licking at him eagerly through his underwear, nails digging into his inner thighs. “Am I your first?”

Confusion flickers in her eyes for a moment before she realizes the joke. He’s referring to if he’s the first person she’s slept with on her new bed in her new home. “Yes, you are, actually.”

Harry’s juts his bottom lip out into an overly-sweet exaggerated pout, talking in a honeyed drawl. “Aw, I get to christen your bed with you? We’re practically married now. When’s the baby due?”

“God, you’re a moron.” Y/N bursts into a fit of laughter as she mounts back onto his lap, pinching at his torso in fake spite and feeling her insides flutter at the airy giggles that escape him. She gnaws on her bottom lip thoughtfully for a second, watching with hunger as he finishes removing his shirt and momentarily sits up to chuck it onto the ground over her shoulder.

Harry falls back onto the mattress, folding his taut arms behind his neck, biceps flexing with the movements as his strong chest and toned stomach look as appealing as ever. She runs her palms over his tanned skin, feeling the sturdy muscle shift beneath her touch. Shit.

The immortal slinks his head to the side, eyes going half-lidded in suggestive mischief as he sees the way she’s objectifying him. He doesn’t mind; he actually lives for it. “Are you just gonna keep staring or are you gonna fuck me?”

His lewd comment washes warmth across Y/N’s ears and spurs her into action. In less than a minute, she’s fully unclothed, bouncing on his cock with a type of need that boils the pit of Harry’s belly. His fingers are digging bruises into her waist, slamming her down onto his prick with enough force to make the old bed creak wildly. She may be on top, but he’s still the one pulling the strings.

Y/N collapses forward, anchoring herself onto her forearms on either sides of his head, burying her face in his auburn ringlets. She bites onto her tongue, trying to keep a tab on the atrociously loud sounds threatening to spill from her mouth. They come out as broken whines instead, which Harry drinks up like a glass of aged bourbon. She fists at his roots, jolting with every thrust he gives upwards, her knees digging into his love handles to keep balanced. At this point, she’s barely riding him at all. He’s just ramming himself into her from below as he guides her hips and she doesn’t have an issue with that at all. She likes when he leads.

His growl comes out low and raspy, riding on a moan, his warm, choppy exhales pebbling her bare nipples. “How’s that, darling? How’s that cock feel?”

Y/N nods her head frantically, not trusting her tongue to form an appropriate response.

“Tell me.” He grits out through bared teeth, back arching a bit as he feels the knot of white hot pleasure in his stomach twist and turn.

“I— I can’t. I’m—”

One of Harry’s hands coasts down the small of her back and onto her ass, giving it a harsh squeeze. She yelps at the new sensation, pain and bliss intermingling. “Yeah, you fucking can. You will. Use your words. Tell me how much you like it.”

A violent shutter runs through Y/N’s limbs and she instinctively pushes back against his palm. Harry’s eyebrows kink in question as he feels her draw her face back from his hair. One look at her eyes tells the entire narrative: She wants him to spank her.

Harry slowly lifts his hand from her skin, brows raising a bit higher for confirmation. Y/N smears his lips against his forehead and left cheekbone, bobbing her head desperately, whispering a tiny, “Yes, please.” that sends smoky tendrils of hot air cascading down his straining neck.

When the vampire’s hand comes down, it’s fast and hard, his cold rings biting into her flesh and leaving welts, the sound echoing off the glossy walls and tall bookshelf in her room. The cry that betrays her could probably be heard down on the main floor of her complex.

The shattered noise makes Harry sanity slip and he’s lucky she’s too lost in her own bliss to see the way his eyes glow dangerously red. “Fuck, you’re such a slut for it.”

Harry suddenly boosts himself forward, toppling Y/N backwards until she’s the one wedged against the bed. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, nestling her face into the crook of his sweaty collarbones, cracked cries pooling into the junction of his clavicle as he hikes her roughly up his thighs. He sinks further between her legs until he bottoms out with a loud garbled groan, pushing so deep she can feel him in the trench of her belly.

“Oh my God, Harry— I— fuck, just—just— oh!”

His pace rises in intensity, strokes messy and unforgivable as he fucks her into the bed, the cracking of the frame warning him that it might give away. “Oh, so you liked that, did you? Like it when I call you a slut and stretch you out like one?”

Harry feels Y/N’s teeth rip into his shoulder in order to evade a scream; a strong shiver pin-balls down his spine as a result. Her voice is absolutely wrecked as she talks over her muffled mouth. “Loved it. Loved it so much. Want—Want more. Please, please, please.”

Harry holds her down firmly to the sheets, pounding into her with a form of unrestrained force he’s never exhibited. She just drives him to the brink like no one else has in nearly twenty decades. “Can you feel me in your tummy, pet? Can you feel how I fill you up?”

“Yes, yes— it’s so good, Harry. You’re incredible.”

“Such a proper little whore.” He has to actively hold back from digging into her throat with his fangs, his eyes screwing shut in concentration as his orgasm begins to burn through his veins. “Begging me to fuck you like one, over and over. You’ve never had it this good, have you?”

“N-No. You’re the only one who makes me feel like this.”

“Hands off.”

“W-What?”

“Hands off.”

Y/N obeys, throwing her arms above her head and letting them hang off the edge of the bed as he’d instructed. It’s not like he wants her to stop scratching down his back, but he knows that if she continues, he’s going to black out. He’s already teetering, obvious in the black webs he can feel materializing over the whites of his eyes.

“Ask for permission.”

The mortal unclamps her teeth from his bruised shoulder and swallows heavily, her words sputtering out from how hard she’s jerking against the bed. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please—can I—can I cum?”

“‘May I cum.’” The boy corrects, half because he wants to be a cocky ass, and half because it’s automatic. He was raised during an era where intellectual accuracy was of utmost value in society. It’s hard to leave those lessons behind.

Y/N hiccups another mewl, hands curling into loose fists above her head as he continues to fuck her deliberately into the duvet. She repeats his phrase shakily. “May I cum? Please?”

Harry’s lashes flutter open and as soon as he sees her, all doe-eyed, covered in his love marks, with her bottom lip trembling...It’s like a switch flips. When he speaks, it’s soft and encouraging; a drastic contrast from his mood a few seconds ago. “Yeah...Yeah, baby, go ahead. Cum for me.”

That night, as Harry lays there awake staring at that awful popcorn roof with the taste of her blood fresh on his tongue and her steady heartbeat throbbing in his heightened ears, he catches himself smiling in the dark. It doesn't have to do with emotions or feelings or any of that complicated bullshit. It just has to do with the fact that he found some consistency in his life, as unattached and materialistic as it may be. They don’t have a complex bond or a deeper meaning. They simply just coexist. They provide some common stability to each others’ lives and it helps keep an important balance. Stability is so rare to find, especially for an immortal who is condemned to witness the world constantly evolve around them while they remain frozen in time. Society will change, people change, appearances change, alliances change, and though it can be exhilarating, at times, Harry never truly has a say in it. He’s always just strung along for the ride.

This is different. It’s static, and that’s all he really needs it to be. Sex can be so emotionally messy if lines aren’t drawn and boundaries aren’t set. But with Y/N, it’s like they have a silent understanding— an unspoken agreement signed by both parties. It’s a notion that could have spared Harry his life in the past, and it’s an ideal that— even in death— took him centuries to learn:

Some people are meant to be loved, while others are just meant to be naked.

///

The third week is when things escalate for the better.

Specifically, Tuesday night. That’s when the sexting starts.

It’s a pretty calm evening and Harry finds himself with nothing to do. Mitch is out with Sarah, who had come into town two days ago due to the band she’s touring with being on a three week break. She’d said she wasn’t staying for long— maybe a week, because she has plans to visit some other bloodsucker friends in Canada. Even though Mitch tries to hide it, Harry can tell he’s bummed about Sarah’s short visit. The older vampire is good at hiding his emotions, but Harry’s known him for so long that he could read Mitch’s mood even if he was blindfolded and gagged.

The jade-eyed boy had been honest with his best friend, asking him what the point was in continuing to see someone whose depth of interest in the relationship wasn’t as developed as his own. Mitch had simply shrugged one shoulder and told Harry that he wouldn’t understand. He mentioned something about how eventually, the freshblood high would wear off and Sarah would find herself wanting to settle down somewhere with someone she could trust for the rest of eternity. Mitch explained that he cared for her enough to wait until then.

His best mate had been wrong. Harry does understand. He understands the concept of chasing after someone who, in the end, didn’t want anything to do with him. He understands it a little too well, sadly. He figures that’s the same fate Mitch is bound to suffer, just on a less extreme level.

But then again, Harry’s perception of love is majorly skewed, so who is he to judge?

With Mitch tied up with Sarah (probably literally, though Harry doesn’t dwell on that; it’s none of his business), his options dwindle to the rest of the crew. Niall and Xander had invited him to a concert they were attending, but Harry politely declined the offer. The musicians were some wannabe indie band and Harry would rather swallow a nicotine addict’s blood than listen to a couple of morons sing in cursive. Adam had suggested he tag along with him, Ny-Oh, and Charlotte to a new art exhibit that had opened up in the next town over. It was a thirty minute drive, so it wasn’t that bad, but Harry declined that invitation, as well. He loves art, if the giant collection on his wall has anything to say about it, but he doesn’t get on well with Ny or Charlotte. They say he’s “too much of an arrogant dickhead” to be around for an extended period of time. They’re right, of course, but it still hurts. Plus, Ny has a mullet and Harry knows he wouldn’t be able to withhold from making a Billy Ray joke. It’s best he stay away, lest she end up with an achy-breaky heart.

So that leaves him here, all alone at eight P.M. on a Tuesday, plopped on his couch in nothing but a pair of maroon plaid boxers as Hamilton plays on the ninety inch flatscreen mounted on his glass wall. He had left the curtains open, not really caring that he’s practically naked. The sun’s already set and it’s almost pitch black outside; plus, he lives on the twenty-fourth floor of the condominium complex. The only living being risking an eyeful is a peepy pigeon. Even then, Harry’s more than happy to put on a show. He’s confident enough in himself that nudity is practically second nature. His friends can attest to that.

Harry lays across his leather sofa with a large checkered throw cushion snuggled into his side, one of his hands slung across the backrest of the couch as the other remains submerged wrist-deep in a bag of Veggie Straws. His socked feet are propped up on his round marble coffee table, ankles crossed and posture anything but eloquent. The apartment is silent, except for the musical streaming through the speakers of his television set and the gentle pattering of rain just outside his glorified window pane, accompanied by the faint flickering of the city lights below. The atmosphere of the room is relaxed and cozy and it lulls his soul in a manner he can’t put into words.

Harry has always liked the rain. Ever since he was a child, he would sit by the small round window of the attic room he shared with his older sister, watching it fall from the sky in sheets of glittering sapphires, soaking into the dry ground and turning it into a slush of dirt he would later sneak out to play in. When he got older, he would prop his shoulder against the doorframe at the back of his father’s blacksmith shop and gaze at it, mesmerized by how it would trickle down the streets of the public market, washing away all the grime that came with a bustling city’s reputation. Sometimes he would stand in it, feeling its cool touch run down his arms and soak into the back of his sot-covered work shirt. He enjoyed how it would cleanse the sticky sweat from his face and neck, its gentle nature leaving him feeling like he could float through air. Then his father would call him back into the store and playfully scold him for allowing himself to get drenched, warning that his mother would kill him if he caught a cold.

Harry’s changed a lot since then, he knows that, but it comforts him that his love for rain is the one aspect of his personality that two hundred years of Hell had failed to take from him.

The melodies swimming out of his TV reign him back in from memory lane.

Harry’s not really one to enjoy musicals, but back when Hamilton had first hit Broadway, he’d used his persuasive supernatural abilities to sneak into one of the first showings. He’d been curious as to what all the hype was about, and the play did not disappoint. The songs were catchy, the acting was good, and the characters were brought to life through raw emotion and comedy. He respected that. And the plot of the story itself resonated with him deeply, as well. A protagonist that rose from nothing, fell in love with the wrong woman, and made terrible life choices that seemed correct at the time, which would all eventually lead to his death. It hit a bit too close to home.

If he had a dollar for every time he’s seen it since it had come out on Disney+, he could probably pay rent himself instead of compelling others to do it for him.

The play is halfway through one of its most famous ballads when the monster’s phone dings with a familiar tune. A smirk is already etching itself across his face before he even unlocks his device.

I need interior design advice.

I’m still a little sore from our last help session. How’d you bounce back so quick?

Funny, but I need ACTUAL interior design advice this time.

Harry’s brows furrow in mild confusion and slight disappointment. He draws his hand from the junk food container, dusting off the crumbs. Oh.

Genuinely?

Yup!

He guesses he’ll give it a go. He does have pretty exquisite taste; the modern gothic aesthetic of his condo proves that. It’s not like he has anything better to do.

Alright, shoot.

Y/N releases the breath she’d been holding in. Thank God he’s agreed to help. As much as she’s ashamed to admit it, Harry’s really the only person in LA that she deems relatively close to a friend. She hasn’t managed to mesh well with her coworkers much, despite the fact that she’s been trying extremely hard. She just doesn’t wanna force herself into unfulfilling fake friendships for the sake of having people to flaunt. It’s not right and she knows she’d grow to resent it.

So instead, she’d reached out to the one California resident who doesn’t make her skin crawl.

Whew, okay, thanks in advance! So I went out yesterday and got a new bedspread and I wanted some help choosing a new accessory to go with it, which is going on my wall.

Harry’s ears perk up and his back straightens at her statement. Could she finally, by the grace of fucking God, be getting rid of that shitty tapestry?

Well, let me see it, then. Don’t keep a man waiting, I’m dying to play Property Brothers over here.

A picture comes through of the two new accessories Y/N is referring to and the way Harry’s face drops instantly is almost comical.

Which tapestry fits better? I’m thinking the Van Gogh style painting of a lighthouse. The blue goes well with the dark turquoise of the comforter. But then again, the forest canopy has those pretty exotic flowers that compliment the coral stitching. I can’t decide.

The vampire’s face pinches in disgusted horror as he blinks down numbly at the image on his screen. He’s going to be sick. Those Veggie Straws are about to make a hideous comeback.

…two new tapestries? Did the other one rip or…?

What? No!! I just saw these down at the thrift store and thought they were cute. Why? Are they really that bad??

They’re not just bad, they’re worse. He’s going to ask her to blindfold him next time he visits.

They’re…kinda immature, dove. I just thought you’d go for something cooler this time, like a vintage painting or a couple vinyls to mount on the wall.

Immature?

Oops. He should have picked his words more carefully. Now he’s gone and offended her and she’ll probably bite down the next time he puts his—

Another message interrupts his spiraling negative conclusions.

I know you didn’t just call ME immature when you compared me to a cream-filled donut, Harry.

The playful tone in the text delivers a wave of relief that is almost as pleasurable as what lies between Y/N’s legs.

Can I speak freely for a second? Full disclosure, no consequences?

That preface makes me think you’re about to chew me out.

I’ll be gentle, I promise. I know it’s not our usual dynamic, but I’ll give it a go.

Y/N ignores the bristling across her cheeks.

Alright, go head.

I just think tapestries are kinda stupid. They scream “confused teenager trying to find myself.” But that’s just my opinion. I’m only telling you so you know that I’m probably not the best bloke to go to with tapestry inquiries.

Harry watches as a read receipt stares up at him for a few seconds. Just when he thinks he might have truly upset her this time, her message bubble pops up.

So...the one I’ve had hanging in my room the last three times you’ve been over…

I had to actively restrain the urge to strangle myself with it.

Y/N breaks out into laughter. The image of waking up to Harry laying facedown on her bedroom floor, balls naked and mummified within a sunrise tapestry...It’s sending her.

Well, you know what? That’s not fair! You can’t judge my house when I haven’t even had the chance to judge yours.

Harry nods once to himself in surrender, reaching up to finger-comb a few rebellious curls out of his eyes. She makes a valid play.

Fair enough. You’ll have to come over and give me your opinion sometime.

I’d be honored to. Now, would you be so kind as to put your own personal bias aside this once and help me choose which one to put up. I promise I’ll spare you any more tapestry-related problems in the future. I’ll remove it from my customer contract.

Harry sighs defeatedly. He can’t believe he’s giving up his integrity for sex.

Fine. Send me a picture of both of them up on the wall. It’ll give some perspective.

Y/N giddily obliges, deciding to send a video instead. That way, she can get all of the angles in one go rather than having to send multiple pictures.

Harry waits patiently, shoving another handful of chips into his mouth as he taps his foot against the coffee table to the tune of Wait for It, which is playing in the film that has now become the backdrop of his night. When Y/N’s next message comes through, he’s mildly surprised to find it’s a video. He clicks play, watching intently as she circles the two pinned tapestries slowly, making sure to get a proper view from all sides. By the time the thirty second clip is coming to an end, Harry’s leaning more towards the tropical canopy painting. It’s not as loud and she was right about the flowers matching the stitching on the duvet.

He’s about to tap back “the forest one” when something flashes across the screen that makes him choke on his snack, launching him into a coughing fit.

It’s within the last three seconds of the video and if he had cut it off in order to text back, he would have missed it. But he hadn’t, and now it’s burned into the back of his eyelids, causing a buzzing sensation to string right to the area between his thighs.

The last few frames of the video, Y/N had lowered her phone from the position she’d been suspending it, probably thinking she had already stopped filming. She hadn’t. And because of that, Harry gets a full frontal view of her body, covered in nothing except a pair of lace panties and a mid-thigh oversized Avengers t-shirt. The entire screen fills with bare, silky skin and raunchy lace and he can feel his fangs poke into his tongue.

Harry’s not a pre-teen; he’s not going to drool over seeing a pair of legs. What really gets to him is the fact that it appears Y/N still has a few hickies across the inner area of her thighs, which have failed to fade as quickly as the others. They should be gone, given that anytime Harry feeds (like he had the last time they’d slept together), he always gives her a bit of his blood to heal. Meaning, normal bruises like that should be gone. Maybe he just hadn’t given her a high enough dosage, or maybe he’d marked her more than he remembers, but either way, the stains are there.

The vampire ogles at the paused image with a dry throat and wide eyes. Just seeing her like that, dressed in comfy yet effortlessly sensual attire with no bottoms on whatsoever, freely flaunting his love bites around her apartment, probably looking at them in her mirror, thinking about how his teeth had felt grazing her skin…

It’s enough to pop a stiffy into his briefs.

Harry glimpses over the top of his phone, swallowing thickly at the large bulge beginning to tent his boxers. His socked toes curl as he feels a longing throb begin to swell at the pit of his clenching stomach. Great. This is just fucking perfect.

He attempts to tap back a reply, but his hands have started quivering slightly, clumsy thumbs ruining his message to the point where he has to retype it three times.

The forest one. I agree with what you said about the stitching.

Okay, thank you so much! Your input is highly appreciated, as always.

The immortal finds himself gnawing at the inside of his cheek, weighing on whether he should mention the little softcore porn moment she’d unknowingly shot, or if he should just let it slide and go take care of the issue that is literally weighing on him— he can feel it getting heavy against his thigh.

His fingers seem to take on a mind of their own, printing out a quick sentence and hitting the send button before he can rethink his motives.

Did you watch your video before you sent it?

Uh no...It looked pretty okay to me while I took it. Why, do you need a different one? Was the lighting too dark?

The fact that she sent it by accident only adds to the appeal. She’s such a good girl. So fucking innocent and sweet, she could practically give him a toothache.

Do me a quick favor and rewatch it all the way to the end. I think you’ll be surprised with what you find.

Y/N leans back against her bookshelf wall, chewing on her bottom lip as a sly grin ticks the corners. She doesn’t have to rewatch the video. She’s fully aware of what she had done, which had been completely on purpose. She’s only playing dumb to see his reaction, getting off on how flustered he seems to have become. Yes, her intentions for contacting him had originally been purely for his opinion on decor. But when she saw the chance, she decided to jump headfirst and take it. What are friends with benefits for if not for times like these, when you’re too lazy to come over but need a bit of relief?

The human allows a full thirty seconds to pass, simulating that she’s watching the video, and then thoughtfully taps out her response.

Oh, whoops. Sorry for the indecent exposure.

Harry shifts in exasperation against his sofa, the radiating in his abdomen crawling up to his chest and down to his knees. He needs to take care of himself now.

It’s fine, babe. You just might wanna be more careful, cause this time around you got lucky that it was me and it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. Could go south if it were someone else.

Y/N rolls her eyes lightly at his scolding, but continues to play the clueless act, curious to see where it’ll take her.

You’re absolutely right, I’m so sorry.

Harry clears his throat, flinching as he feels a soft twitch run up the length of his cock. He exhales tightly, trying to steer the conversation into a lighter mood. He doesn’t want her to feel bad; it’s not like he’s angry about this. He’s hot and bothered and needy, but not mad.

I just think it’s funny you exposed the fact that you go around your house without pants.

Oh, fuck off! No one ever wears pants around their own house, especially if they’re alone. It’s one of the laws of physics. No human resistance, no pants.

Harry glances down at his body symbolically, where he’s clad in only his underwear, as well.

Touché.

Exactly.

A pause befalls the conversation as both parties fish for something new to say. The situation’s become less lively and more intense now and neither are sure how to navigate without crossing a line. In a surge of courage, Y/N decides to just directly communicate her intentions, praying that he doesn’t take it the wrong way.

I have an idea, just hear me out. For the sake of evening the playing field, I think that since you saw me pantsless, it’s only fair that I see you the same way. It balances out, right?

Harry’s jaw drops in an open-mouthed simper, impressed by her blatant suggestion, but also by how smoothly she had delivered it. He mumbles his next words to himself, voice amused and somewhat awed at how she had managed to spin this to her benefit. “You clever little minx. Bet it wasn’t even an accident.”

You did it on purpose, didn’t you?

Y/N purses her lips, shrugging her brows cheekily.

Maybe.

The vampire scoffs, taken aback not only at the ploy she’d pulled off, but at how unapologetic she is about the whole thing. It’s hot.

Alright, l’ll bite. Tick for tack.

The photo that comes through makes Y/N choke on her spit. It’s not anything too revealing, but it packs a lot. Literally.

It’s a pretty casual picture, and she gets the feeling he took it as so just to be a tease. In the frame, all she sees is a snapshot of Harry’s lap, thighs straining against the flimsy material of a pair of crimson tartan boxers, the large tigerhead tattoo he totes somehow prominent in the low lightning. Of course it stands out, though. That’s to be expected; his thighs are thick in the most satisfying fashion and they’re one of his most defining features. She can also see the bottom half of his lean tummy, the cutoff being the crest of his belly button. His fern inkings are peeking out of from below the waistband of the Calvin Kleins, dark and matte on his lightly bronzed skin, and she spots the nonchalant position of his crossed ankles in the background.

As appetizing as every little detail is, the centerpiece of the portrait is the obvious bulge pressing into the fabric of his briefs. The outline is so prominent, the picture borderlines on graphic. His cock looks pretty as ever, even when it’s covered; the thin underwear leaves very little to the imagination.

Y/N has to bite down on her tongue to keep from making an embarrassing sound.

Wow, okay, well...Your picture was much more explicit than my video. That’s not fair at all. Throws off the equilibrium we were trying to establish.

Harry chuckles aloud, shaking his head in amazement at how well she can bend the game to her will. Three weeks ago, when he’d first laid eyes on that shy girl at the club, he would have never expected her to be so bold. Now, she has him wrapped around her pinky like a string.

You’re absolutely right. My apologies. Maybe you should send one similar so we can even out the stakes.

You read my mind.

Y/N’s next picture causes a hiss to stream through the cracks of Harry’s teeth, eyes glinting red.

It’s a picture taken on top of her bed, the angle set from above. She’s laying on her side, her torso twisted so that her backside is in the shot, her huge tee pulled tight against her waist so it creates an enticing cinching effect. Her thighs are clasped together, the collar of her shirt pulled away just enough that he can see where the valley of her chest begins to curve, and the cheeky lace panties are working utter wonders for her ass. He can’t stop staring. He physically can’t pull himself away, his eyes bouncing across every pixel, attempting to commit the picture to memory to keep it locked in the back of his brain forever.

Y/N awaits anxiously for his reaction, biting into the pad of her thumb as the seconds list by, wondering if he had enjoyed the nude or if he was just sitting there judging all her flaws. It’s been so long since she’s sent a risky photo like that, she can’t help but stress. Sharing your body with someone digitally is almost as intimate as real sex and it comes with similar worries and insecurities. Was the angle good? Are her stretch marks unattractive? Are the dimples along her backside gross? Is he second-guessing their arrangement? Is he wishing they hadn’t met?

She practically drops her phone when it vibrates.

God, you look stunning. Like a proper fucking dream.

All of her concerns immediately disintegrate, replaced by an odd sense of pride. She’s happy that he enjoyed it, and she’s thankful for the caliber of his response. Most men don’t care to comment that nicely, if they comment at all, and Harry’s enthusiasm only excites her further. She wants to keep going.

You look pretty fucking good yourself. Wish I could just kneel between your thighs, take you into my mouth, and make you feel good for hours.

Harry struggles to get saliva down his parched throat, her words bouncing around the inside of his skull, sending a current of bliss directly to where he needs it.

Hours? You want me down your throat for hours?

For hours, Harry. I’d literally just sit between your legs and let you fuck my face again. Let you use me to make yourself cum.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Harry’s broken whine echoes off the tall walls of his home, one of his big hands finding a path to his curls and tugging in desperation. He needs to keep composure.

Harry’s next snapshot comes through and Y/N has to screw her eyes shut for a second to brace the bolt of electricity that zips down to her core.

The boy’s thighs have parted wider, his feet now down from the table, knees hanging off the edge of the sofa. His free hand has delved below his briefs, pulling them up just enough to show a tad of the neatly trimmed area beneath. His fingers are cupped over his cock, hiding it from plain view, but the imprint of his knuckles on the fabric suggest he’s gripping it tightly. The longer she looks, the more she notices— specifically, a dark damp patch spreading at the middle of his boxers and she knows damn well what it is. The fact that she’d got him riled up enough that he’s leaking through like that...She can hardly breathe right.

Shit, you look so good. How do you always look that fucking good? I just want to feel you stretch me out while you moan into my mouth.

Harry slowly starts pumping his palm up and down his cock as he rereads her words, catching his lower lip between his teeth, his naked and flushed chest stuttering. He doesn’t want to be the douche that tells her to send another picture, but he really needs her to. He wants to see what she’s doing, how she’s fairing. Wants to know if he has her as fucked as she has him right now.

It’s almost like they share a telepathic link because not even five seconds later, another beautifully filthy photo is decorating his screen.

This time around, Y/N has decided to fully lay on her back, spreading her legs open and drawing her knees up slightly so that her thighs are not only flexing, but displaying all the love bites he’d left only a few days prior. They’re all different shades of purple and brown, scattered over the satin suppleness of her skin, painting a canvas of the heated night they’d shared. It’s art at its most prestigious, if he’s ever seen it. And she has her hand ducked below her panties, the outline of her fingers situated right over her clit.

Harry’s own hand instinctively tightens around his length, pulling a weak groan from his parted lips. He throws his head back against the backrest of the couch, bucking into his palm and teasing his forefinger over his bubbling tip. He spreads the precum all over the sensitive head, whimpering when the draft from the air conditioning caresses it and sends a quiver toppling over his shoulders.

Fuck, she’s driving him mental. There’s only one way to take care of this effectively, despite their distance.

I’m going to call you.

Y/N gulps heavily, licking over her chapped lips and feeling her pulse jump at the realization that she’ll be getting to hear his throaty voice coax her through an orgasm. Not only that, but she’ll get to hear him cum, too. She’ll get to hear every shattered gasp and needy mewl, almost as if he were pouring all those sounds of pleasure right into her ears in person.

The mortal’s heart hiccups when his contact pops up on the Caller ID, phone vibrating insistently. After a deep breath taken to ground herself, she slides her shaky thumb over the glass, slowly bringing the device up to her ear. Her voice is soft and timid as ever, a tremble running through its undertone. “H-Hello?”

Harry’s words come through the crackling speaker as dark and smoky as whiskey, pouring into her mind and intoxicating her as easily as the real liquor would.

“Flip onto your stomach and take off the lace. Now.”

2K notes · View notes

hansolmates · 4 years ago

Text

jjk; off-league

summary; you decide to do a little boudoir photoshoot for yourself—a little sexy lingerie, some bunny ears, maybe even a little nudity to make you feel more body positive about yourself. that little photoshoot doesn’t end up being for yourself anymore when you accidentally send those sexy pictures to your stupidly hot, stupidly talented childhood friend who you haven’t spoken to since middle school graduation. pairing; photographer!jk x fem!reader genre/warnings; childhood friends to lovers!au, flangst, mutual pining, feelings of insecurity and body image, suggestive language, nudity w.c; 6.2k a/n: i was feeling a lil meh about this fic after finishing it but a month later it finally makes its debut! for @btsghostiewritersnet BGW Bingo Bash! today’s trope is “childhood friends to lovers” which surprisingly isn’t a favorite of mine so it was definitely a challenge to write!

“C’mon, I need your opinion. Deadass. Don’t just say shit to make me feel better.”

“Gimmie those nudes, baby girl,” Johnny makes an impeccable fuckboy impersonation, making you feel a little squirmy to your stomach.

It’s an hour away from being the ass-crack’o-dawn and your impromptu pin-up photoshoot just needs the sexy-star-of-approval from your best friend. Johnny Suh is also up for reasons unmentioned, but you had a feeling his pretty boyfriend is fifty percent of the reason.

You look at yourself in the mirror, smoothing your frame against the black bodice of the sheer teddy. The only parts that are fully concealed are the parts that don’t matter. The sheer bodice reveals your pert nipples concealed by a thin black mesh, coupled with the deep V in the sweetheart neckline, accented by a little black bow in the dive of your highlighted cleavage. The silky a-line raceways to a set of black garters hugging your thighs, barely hanging onto a pair of lace thigh-highs.

It doesn’t leave you butt naked, but enough to make you feel confident about yourself. These pictures are for you, and Johnny. And Johnny’s boyfriend if he’s being nosy.

You tug off the silk bunny ears from your head, flinging it somewhere in your room. The wire started to dig in your brain, giving you a major headache.

“Sending them now,” you hang up and start compiling the pictures in a folder on Google Drive. Once that’s done you copy the shareable link, sending it to Johnny’s number. It happens all so fast, and you feel kind of giddy. As you were posing for the camera, taking your time to find all the right angles, you felt good, you felt sexy in your little get up. Channeling your inner Ariana Grande was one of your childhood dreams, your fifteen year old self would be proud.

Five minutes pass, fifteen, and by the twenty-five minute mark you’re pissed. What’s taking Johnny so long?

Makeup scrubbed clean and face bare, you shuffle in your duvet, far too tired to be waiting up this long. Punching in his number once more, you cry, “Hey! Why haven’t you looked at them yet?”

“What?” your friend’s voice sounds pebbly through the line. Was Johnny sleeping? “You never sent them!” he whines tiredly.

“No, I definitely sent them!” you pull the phone away and keep Johnny on call, ready to prove him wrong.

But to your surprise, the last message you sent to Johnny was this afternoon.

The most recent message is to a person named John Kook.

You scream.

Johnny screams back at you with an equal amount of force, “What the fuck? Did someone break in? Are you being mobbed? See, this is why I wanted to put the baby monitor in your room—”

“Worse!” you’re well prepared for any break in, but not for this. “I sent my pics to the wrong John!”

“Well… is he at least cute?”

“I mean, in the fourth grade he looked pretty cute with that front tooth missing,” you find your output of frustration, your bunny plush, pulling it by the ear and hitting it against the bed. “His name isn’t even John! It was just his English name for a silly project we did in middle school. This is so embarrassing, all I can picture is a twelve-year-old Jungkook mortified from sexual harassment. I basically sent him nudes!”

“Tasteful nudes.”

“I’m gonna die.”

“He’s gonna die, of happiness.”

Jeon Jungkook was a classmate from elementary through middle school. Time and time again was he the object of your affections, from the first grade at the roller rink to the speech he made at graduation. But really, who cares? You’re old and have a job, and it’s not like you’ve communicated with any of your former classmates.

Your horror amplifies when the Delivered receipt is changed to Read 3:41AM.

“Fuck! Fuck me with a fuckin’ fuck nugget he saw it!” you cry, “does he still have my number? What if he deleted my contact, would that be even weirder?”

“Girl, stop.” Johnny sighs, and you can already picture him running his thumb between his brows. “This doesn’t change anything, alright? You two don’t know each other anymore. Block his number and go to sleep.”

Johnny leaves you alone after that, and you’re left alone to mull over the implications of sending Jeon Jungkook your nude photoshoot.

You do block his number, knowing that waiting for a reply would drive you nuts. The one thing that you do which is possibly worse, is look him up on Instagram.

Of course, he’s stupid hot.

He doesn’t seem to like being on the receiving end of the camera however, in favor of his timeline being filled with romantic shots of the beach and city. In between the picturesque views and watercolor sunsets do you see glimpses of him and his current life. You can’t help but smile when you see him with his brother and parents during his college graduation, easily towering over all of them. He looks tall with fluffy cocoa hair, big pearly whites gleaming proudly at the camera. He grew up well.

To torture yourself even more, you even look through his story. Twelve hours ago, he was at the gym lifting weights. Normally, you’d be disgusted by people trying to show off their grunt faces drenched in sweat, but of course Jungkook has to have on a silly smile and pump his fist up after he deadlifts. The sweat clinging to his shirt is also a high plus. His gorgeous display of abs has your hands fluttering over your own belly. Maybe you need to exercise more.

Four hours ago, you see him and a pretty woman with their cheeks squished together, using the puppy filter. Of course he has a girlfriend.

Reluctant, you open up your Google Drive and scroll through your photoshoot. Deflated, you frown at the pictures that once made you beam with pride, picking at every little detail that bothered you. You really can’t believe you sent these to Jeon Jungkook, no longer a fourth grader with one front tooth, but a man way out of your league.

By the time you will yourself to sleep, the sun peeks from the horizon, telling you to move on.

“Hey Gyu,” you tiptoe over to the table much too small for Mingyu’s frame. The string bean is slumped over his iPad pro, drawing intently at some chibi OCs. “Got a plot for that one?” you ask, pointing at the little pink and blue creature decorating the screen.

Mingyu grunts in reply, obviously engrossed. It isn’t until you slide him a matcha frappe from Starbucks that he becomes intelligible, muttering a “thank you” as he blends with his pen.

Sensing that it’s going to be awhile before you get through to him, you take your usual rounds around the front desk and lobby of the cosy photo studio. There’s pretty pictures of Mingyu’s work, along with the other employees Minghao and Hoseok. Each section of the wall features a different taste of each person’s interest. Mingyu is a divine lover of soft bed sheets and hot tea, many of his photographs and paintings featuring cafes or perfectly messy beds you’ve seen on hotel advertisements. Minghao is a tasteful artisan, splotches of color retaliating against neutral backgrounds. Finally, Hoseok manages to find balance in the people, large cityscapes telling both large and small stories.

“Alright,” Mingyu’s deep voice forces you to curl your head, where he’s sipping at his drink with haste. “What’cha here for?”

You frown, “Don’t you remember? I told you last week I’d be stopping by to get my photos developed,” you gesture to the Pentax in your hands, an heirloom from your great-aunt. While you did take digital photos for sending them to Johnny, the ones you wanted developed were taken side-by-side with the film camera. You figured that film would give a little more authenticity to your photoshoot.

“Shit, that’s today?” the camera falls like deadweight, slapping against your sweater as you watch Mingyu frantically look through his digital calendar. He looks at you, dejected. “How many prints?”

“I don’t know, maybe like six. Or eight?”

“That’s gonna take too long, I’m heading down to Hidden Grounds for a vision meeting at two.”

“Alright, I’m free all day. What about after?”

“Nah, you came all this way. I can just let the new guy help you.” and Mingyu makes a show of cupping his hands in the direction of the open hallway, “Yah, Jeon Jungkook! Get your cute ass out here!”

The Pentax around your neck suddenly feels like weight akin to a two-ton boulder, and you surge forward, not caring that the corner of the table is digging into your belly. “Mingyu,” you garble, and Mingyu is shell-shocked by the desperation in your eyes. “Isn’t Minghao around or something? Or I can come back another time? These photos are really personal and I don’t feel comfortable having a stranger see them.”

“What? We’re professionals, don’t belittle us.”

“No, seriously,” you whine, you tug at the collar of his denim jacket, noses practically touching. “These pictures are different. My tits are out and my legs are spread—”

“—interrupting something?”

You hear some shuffling, and you turn around to see Jeon Jungkook’s back, comically turned to face the entrance.

And damn, he did have a cute ass. Nothing is going to hide the glory in those jeans, absolutely nothing.

“Hilarious,” Mingyu drawls, and you push him away. “Forget it, Kook. She doesn’t feel comfortable letting a stranger develop her photos.”

Sensing that it’s safe to turn around, you watch as his black bangs flutter as he faces you. You hope your body language doesn’t betray how you’re really feeling, because you are a mere mortal and you’re weak in the presence of god-like figures.

“Oh, what a relief then,” he smiles at you, and his voice sounds like honey. If there was malice or surprise in his tone, his good-natured expression betrays it. “Because I’ve known this friend since elementary school. We go way back.”

You ignore the burn in the back of your head, as you are positive Mingyu knows you’re hiding something.

“Really, what a coincidence.” Mingyu replies carefully, and you feel utterly stuck between these men and their banter, locked up like cream in an Oreo cookie.

Nothing argues against Jungkook as he easily weaves through the thick wave of awkwardness, hands reaching out to touch your camera. “Wow,” he marvels, holding the object in his hands, “my dad has one of these.”

“A-ha,” you take a step back, only to bump into the corner of the table, again. Ouch. “It’s okay, Jungkook. I’m actually busy today so I can come when Mingyu’s free–”

“Oh, I thought you were free all day,” Mingyu drawls, looking up through his lashes as he sips languidly at his drink.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jungkook says good-naturedly, as if Mingyu just didn’t out you. “We got a lot of catching up to do anyway, c’mon.”

Jungkook moves to place a hand in the small of your back and that’s enough to get you to rev up. Refusing to let any contact get between the two of you, you zip ahead down the familiar hallway, turning your head to catch Mingyu grinning with all canines, shooing you with his fingers like a puppy.

You send Mingyu a stream of “fuck yous” into his inbox for later, unwilling to settle with this curse. Busying yourself with your phone, you avoid eye contact with Jungkook until you reach the dark room. The red light turned off at the top of the doorhenge signals that the room is not in use. Jungkook makes a move to open the door and that’s when you pounce, blocking the doorway with your small body. It’s comical, really.

Jungkook raises a brow at you, but says nothing.

“I really can wait, Jungkook,” you steel yourself, forcing a sympathetic smile. “I’m sure your girlfriend wouldn’t like you developing my pictures—”

It’s then that his pretty cupid’s bow unfurls into a full-fledged grin. “Girlfriend... you’ve been keeping tabs on me?”

“Fuck, well I had to!” your face is as red as the dark room’s alert light, now on because Jungkook flicked the switch and he’s between your arm to unlock the door. Your hand brushes his as you both reach the knob. “I’m really really sorry I sent those pictures. They were for Johnny—you remember Johnny Suh from English class? And I saved you in my contacts as “John Kook” so it was an honest mess up.”

Jungkook hums, so light that the breathiness in his chords flutters your grip on the knob. He forces the door ajar, and you’re left to follow him in the dark room, cluttered with solutions and fancy equipment.

“Thought so,” Jungkook shrugged, giving a one-over at the materials in the room, mulling over his next steps in developing your film.

You’re still petrified at the doorway, holding your Pentax between both hands like a lifeline. Jungkook’s head lols to you, and you get a pretty view of the way his bangs brush over his forehead, Adam’s Apple bobbing. His expression is a little tired, but overall unreadable. He sighs your name, lethargic.

“We’re already here, so might as well get this done,” he gestures to the camera in your vice grip. “Do you wanna pick the shots or do you want me to?”

He’s already seen the digitals, what’s so different about getting a couple prints? With a slight pout you drag your feet over to him, relinquishing your camera. “I’m thinking you have a better eye for this than I do.”

“You think right.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. Cocky, but what you’ve seen on Instagram definitely justifies his sentiment. Jungkook pays no mind to you, busying his hands with the various containers in front of him, measuring the solutions for the developer, stopper, and fixer. You were always entranced by the process of developing film, especially in highschool where their photography club holed themselves in the darkroom like a secret lair.

“Alright,” he pops open the canister, carefully laying out sections of the film in groups of four. “Want me to pick a random one for a tester?”

You frown, “At least put some thought into it.”

“Always,” it looks like he already decided way before he popped the question, immediately taking a negative and placing it in the carrier.

His fingers are nimble as he takes the time to clean off the dust and any debris that could potentially ruin the image. Then he turns off the lights and begins the process. You dive around him, trying to keep your distance but still too curious to leave his side. If he’s annoyed he fails to show it, in favor of humming whatever song comes from his Echo Dot.

You always got the solos in choir. You wanted to reminisce, but you’re too nervous to say it out loud.

Even though it’s his job and he’s being a professional, you romanticize the experience, watching as he carefully puts the print in each liquid process. Your image blooms to life, and you feel your stomach churn as the photo develops before your eyes.

After a final dip in the solution stopper, he places the first product in a bath of water. Even though you are mere centimeters away, you can clearly see the image of you swimming around the container.

“Alright!” Jungkook hangs the finished picture on a pastel pink clothespin, tacking it in place. “Whaddya think?”

Your breath catches in your throat, feeling heavy as you look at the image of you reflected in the glossy paper. You’re perched on your bed, a hand splaying between your legs as the other hand toys with the silk bunny ears. You’re leaned slightly, giving an ample view of your cleavage. However, the image of you is definitely different from being blown up in comparison to the negatives, and you squirm uncomfortably at your full display.

“I look,” you bite your tongue, internally debating whether you like it or not. Not to spare Jungkook the theatrics you shrug, “It’s good.”

The lack of enthusiasm seems to dissatisfy Jungkook however, as he has to take a double take and look back and forth between the image and the real thing. “What’s wrong with it, do you think Johnny’ll not like it?”

“What?” you furrow your brows, breaking into a nervous laugh. “Johnny has a boyfriend. I just wanted his opinion. This photoshoot is for me, y’know? Just something to make me feel good about myself.”

Jungkook’s lips morph into a little ‘o’, and you see a little bit of the child you once knew in the way he’s mulling over the situation.

“Then can I give you my honest opinion?” Jungkook clips off the half-dried photo, holding it between you two. “Stop thinking so hard about every little thing you don’t like about yourself. If I was your boyfriend and you gifted this to me, I’d be creaming my pants. You look fucking sexy, all grown up since you cried in the fourth grade.”

You’ve just been flung a litany of words you have no brain capacity to digest. Along with that, the immense heat you didn’t know you’ve been suppressing surges to your belly, low and simmering. Jungkook stares at you in earnest, despite his sudden gush of honesty, you don’t know what to say. There’s a dash of pink staining his cheeks, betraying the confidence he previously displayed. He stiffens when you don’t reply immediately and moves to clean his materials, his sudden bout of bold honesty quickly shrinking.

“Y-you know,” you look down at your feet, “the only reason why I cried in the fourth grade was because you told me Santa wasn’t real.”

Jungkook softens, tilting his head. “Sorry about that.”

“Thanks though,” you gently reach for the photo in Jungkook’s grasp, looking at it without contempt. “But won’t your girlfriend be upset if she knew you were saying things like this about someone else?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Well, if you looked through the rest of my Instagram story,” Jungkooks cards a hand through his already mussed hair, splitting the ends. “You would see that she’s not my girlfriend, but my tattoo artist.”

For added measure, he wiggles his fingers in front of you, revealing pretty ink and silver bands across his knuckles.

“Oh,” your voice is feather light, and you’re sure you’re drooling as you stare far too long at the letters that mark his hands, curious as to what they symbolize.

“So, as a singleton telling another singleton,” he continues, “I know it’s meaningless if you don’t believe it yourself, but I’m telling you, you’re attractive.”

“Thanks,” you hold the picture tightly in your grasp, eyes flickering to the negatives in the room ready to be galvanized into a full-fledged picture. “Why don’t we wrap this up, huh? We can continue another time.”

If he notices how much the paper wilts in your grasp, he doesn’t comment on it. “Are you sure? I know it takes a lot of time, but I don’t mind.”

“I’m sure,” you force a smile, one hand on the lightswitch. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready, okay?”

Jungkook swallows, nodding mechanically. “Okay.”

“It was really nice seeing you, Kook.” you blurt before you could chicken out, letting the room bask in darkness a little longer so he can’t see your flustered state. “I’m not even going to downplay it, you look great.”

You half-expect a cocky remark, or a little chest pumping from the compliment. At the sound of his nickname however, 4th grade Jeon Jungkook resurfaces and he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Like I said, so do you,” he replies easily, sending you a soft smile and opening the door for you.

The door closes shut behind you and you exhale, patting your cheeks and willing for the chilly air to calm you down.

When you get home that day, you shuck off all your clothes and crawl into bed. You cry out when the metal framing of your bunny ears stabs you in the back, and you fling it to some unmentionable part of the room. You reach for a bag of half-opened sour gummy worms, flipping open your MacBook to continue streaming the soft magical girl anime you’ve been hooked on these past few weeks.

Not even Sailor Uranus can distract you; however, by the time it’s dark and you’ve run out of distractions, you finally pull the plug and unblock Jungkook from your list of contacts.

Your phone buzzes, the incessant vibration relaying all the messages you’ve missed.

[March 12th, 3:53AM]

You: https://drive.google.com/drive/u/1/folders/0343…

John Kook: ???

John Kook: you probably sent this to me by accident… sorry i clicked on it

John Kook: is it weird if i said you’ve done a massive glow up since the middle school dance?

[March 12th, 12:02 PM]

John Kook: are u mad

John Kook: you’re mad

John Kook: am i makin this weird by continuing to text you

John Kook: im making it weird.

[March 31st, 6:24 PM]

John Kook: https://drive.google.com/drive/u/1/folders/049…

You tilt your head at the folder link, it was sent only a few hours ago. With a click, you’re enlightened to a set of digital photos. Your photos from your photoshoot, but not quite. They’ve been expertly edited, not too much to distort your looks, but only to enhance your features. A small, barely there smile creeps from your subconscious, ultimately touched by the gesture.

John Kook: sorry if i pushed too hard today.

Guilt overrides your nerves, prompting you to immediately press the call button on his contact. Not to your surprise, Jungkook’s light voice calls your name through the line after the second ring.

“Don’t be sorry,” you blurt, forgoing the hellos. “It was the right amount of push, I feel better, really. If anything, I’m sorry. I blocked your number because I was scared to read your reaction.”

You hear him sigh along the line, and you feel that breath ripple through your nerves, as if he’s right next to you. “It’s fine, I would’ve done the same thing.”

“The pictures you just sent, they’re really beautiful. You did a good job.”

“Thanks, I had a bit of help. I didn’t have to do much.”

“Oh, did Mingyu come back from his meeting?”

"No, I uh," Jungkook chuckles, and while you don't really know why, the sound is nonetheless pleasant. “It was mostly the lighting and coloring I fixed up. Didn’t need to do much since you already looked so pretty as it is.”

You choke on your saliva.

“You okay?”

“Y-yeah,” you cough, “just choked on a snack I was eating.” he hums in reply, and you pray he doesn’t hear your stomach fervently retort that you haven’t eaten since lunch. “So, I think I’m up for developing more of the film. When can I drop by?”

“I’m free Saturday,” Jungkook chirps, “I have a shoot until noon but you can come anytime after that.”

“Sounds good, I’ll be there,” you clutch the phone with both hands. “I can bring lunch. What do you like to eat?”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that.”

“I’m already buying for Minghao,” you lie, “do you like burgers?”

“I can’t say no to a good burger,” Jungkook’s smile feels almost palpable against the line, “do you remember our field trip to the national museum of history? We had burgers on the street!”

“Oh, those were so good,” you moan, fuzzy memories of a middle grade field trip resurfacing to clarity, “but you ate like, ten of them!”

“I still get nightmares,” he warns, “don’t let me go to bed like this.”

You giggle, letting your body meld further into your warm mattress. “Maybe I’ll just show up with ten burgers for you tomorrow.”

“I’ll throw up on you, try me.”

Minghao’s adjusting the frames on their display wall by the centimeter, and it’s pissing him off.

“Ah, it’s off,” he mutters to himself when you walk in, indicated by the electronic bell. He turns to you briefly, pulling a leveler out of his overall pocket. “Doesn’t this look off?”

“Uh,” you look towards Mingyu at the front desk, who is paying no mind as he continues scribbling on his iPad. You tilt your head towards your former college classmate. “It doesn’t look off from over here?”

Tacking the leveler on one of the frames, he whines, “It’s five degrees off.”

Mingyu puts his pen down to reach over the counter and grab the paper from your hands, steaming with the scent of fast food, “He’s been like this for hours, don’t mind him.”

He doesn’t even ask whether the food is his, Mingyu sees grease and he claims. Reaching for an oil-wrapped parchment, he unfolds the paper to reveal a handsome burger with all the fix-ens.

Barely satisfied, Minghao steps away from the art display. There is a sizable gap in the display, now divided between four artists instead of three. You wonder how Jungkook’s work will look amongst the other artists.

“Cute ‘fit.” Minghao mumbles, nodding approvingly at your clothes as he digs into the bag for his own burger.

You send a half-smile his way. If an outfit is Minghao-approved, that means you’ve gone above and beyond. At least, you tried to play it off like you didn’t try to look cute. It’s not like you’re intimidated by Jungkook, living with a major fifteen-year glow up. After all, he’s already seen more than you can imagine.

Mingyu takes notice, eyes going south to where your white blouse meets your cleavage. You hurl a fry at his face, “Eyes up here, perv.”

He scrunches his nose, lifting a greasy thumb to slide a manila envelope over to you. “Here’s the developed pictures. Intercepted Kook and I finished them this morning.”

You frown, “Jungkook’s not done with his photoshoot yet?”

“Oh, he’s been done.” Mingyu’s eyes roll back to one of the studios. “But I’m saying is, you got what you needed. So you can leave if you want,” but he grins at you, canines so sharp you feel his stare jabbing you in the proverbial neck. “Unlesssss you want to go in and say hi.”

If he has any inkling of what’s going on in your head, it’s definitely confirmed when your face turns hot. Damn body, you’re betraying me! With a flourish you grab the fries from under Mingyu’s nose, along with whatever’s left in the fast food bag.

Minghao’s smiling through his burger, knowing if he pulls any type of savagery his lunch would certainly be pulled from under his chin.

“Whatever you’re thinking, drop it or the burger will be going in your ass instead of out.” You mean to sound menacing, but the Min-squared and their boisterous laughter follow you down the hallway and into the occupied studio.

“Hey Jungkoo—wow.”

You’re sure you look like Alice, enthralled by the little wonderland she just stepped into. The set is beautiful, right out of a fairytale. It has a very old-romance vibe, like Morticia and Gomez Addams. There lay a couch made of the darkest, richest wood, with velvet red cushions covering the body. Across the floor laid hundreds of black rose petals, blanketing the floor in a sea of ebony.

“It’s for a wedding, gothic themed.” Jungkook supplies helpfully, still fiddling with whatever he was looking on his digital camera. He’s looking utterly soft in a matching grey sweat combination, something that would easily disgust you during high school, but unfairly works with him.

“The shoot must’ve been beautiful.”

“It was.”

“I uh, got this for you.” Your fingers start to sweat from clutching the bag so hard, and you place it on his work table.

He finally looks up from his camera, giving you a wan smile. “I thought you got those for Minghao.”

You mentally slap your cheeks, trying to ignore the way his smile made your stomach do somersaults. “He got his own. Your portion has a cookie in it, so.”

His cute teeth unveil themselves at the mention of sweets, and you can’t help but smile back at the familiarity.

The two of you take your time in enjoying your lunch, not meaning to stay but the very back of your mind hoping he’d like to share a meal with you. After all, Mingyu and Minghao are probably at the front relishing in your very obvious attraction. What can you say, first crushes never die.

Between sips of your milkshake, you’ve taken to flipping through Jungkook’s portfolio. There’s a myriad of different subjects: beaches, people, the occasional squirrel. Each section of the portfolio feels like you’re being transported to a new side of Jungkook and his artistry, and you ached to know more.

“Wow,” you point at an action shot of two girls in a dance studio, “this duo looks like Chungha and Hyoyeon.”

He swallows his (second) burger, having the audacity to sink sheepishly in his sweater. “It is Chungha and Hyoyeon.”

You nearly choke on your cookie. “That’s amazing.” you say breathlessly, looking closer at the image. In fact, the beautiful women photographed are famed hip-hop choreographers Chungha and Hyoyeon. You can’t imagine how good Jungkook must be to manage a photoshoot with them.

As proud as you are of Jungkook, it reminds you that since middle school you two have lived completely different lives. You wonder if Jungkook gets these kinds of gigs all the time, hanging around with gorgeous, talented people like himself.

Jungkook says your name once, twice. He looks at you concerned, and you’re melting in his large carmine eyes. If he notices your usual overthinking, he doesn’t say anything, and gestures to the section at the end of his portfolio. “This isn’t my best work, but it’s one of my favorites.”

There’s something familiar about this set. A playground with a busted swing set. Children riding on bikes and colorful class shirts. Ice cream melting on fists.

Thirteen-year-old you hanging on top of your middle school’s leafless tree, clutching your baseball cap as you shade yourself from the sunset.

“Was this the first time you took pictures?” you ask, thumbing the picture of yourself.

“Yeah. It’s when I decided it’s what I wanted to do the rest of my life.”

“I know we didn’t know each other that well and we’ve only recently connected but,” you give him a shy smile, “I’m really proud of what you’ve grown up to be, Jungkook.”

He looks like you’ve hung him the moon and stars, his half-eaten burger loosening in his grasp. His lips are parted cutely, like a kitten who’s just been offered a fresh glass of milk. You cough at the sudden pause in conversation, feeling self-conscious of your impulse confession. You don’t even have it in you to be disgusted when Jungkook hastily shoves the second half of his burger down his throat, tips of his ears pink.

Leaving him be, you press a palm to your cheek, looking at the wedding set.

Jungkook downs half a water bottle before he speaks again. “Y’know, it would be a shame to clean up this set already. It was kind of expensive.”

“Yeah,” you echo, standing up and kicking off your slippers. You kick your feet in the air, watching the black petals kiss across your ankles.

“I have an idea,” he wipes his hands on his sweats, “why don’t you go back home and get an outfit you really like. Lingerie, a cute outfit, whatever. Let me give you a photoshoot you’d love.”

You look up from your petal dance, balking. “Jungkook! That’s not necessary, I told you the photos I took were okay.”

“Yeah but, you didn’t seem entirely happy. C’mon, I got a camera and a beautiful set. Why waste it?” his hands naturally gravitate towards his charging camera, already turning it on. “I can do lighting, I know all your good angles. What’s stopping us?”

Really, what’s stopping you? Your hands fiddle with your open flannel, the soft material comforting you as you look across the set. You try to imagine yourself, your body draped across the velvet pillows and black petals. Would it look good? Would you feel good? You think back to how you felt the first time, how scared you were when someone other than Johnny would be looking at your photos. You remember how something weird and sour contorted in your stomach when you scrolled through Jeon Jungkook’s Instagram, no longer the little boy you knew but a man who could have everything he wanted—

“Stop thinking about it.” Jungkook suddenly snaps, and you break from your reverie to catch him looking upset. It’s been awhile since you’ve seen him like that.

“Thinking about what?”

“Thinking that you’re out of my league.”

“Excuse me?”

“You were like this the other day too,” and he looks sad, and puts his camera down to come closer to you. “Why are you feeling this way. Is it me?”

“Not necessarily,” you huff, hugging yourself.

“Do you not feel beautiful? Do you not like your body?”

“No, I do.” you say to yourself, and you mean it. Even though there will inevitably be days where you may not feel one-hundred percent positive about yourself, you know at the end of the day, you love you and all its parts. “I don’t know, Jungkook. I had no problem letting Mingyu develop the photos originally, because he knew me in college and I was already sure of myself back then. But I guess when I sent them to you, I felt like I did when I was a little girl, y’know? Going through puberty, and worrying about what other people think.”

And it’s not like Jungkook teased you or made you feel lesser of yourself. In fact, Jungkook was the student you wanted to be when you were younger. Someone sweet and caring, and unabashedly confident about himself.

“I guess seeing you so successful and the fact that my stupid childhood crush came back from a time where I always felt low, made me feel a little insecure again.”

Something sinks in and you feel hyper aware of how crushed Jungkook looks at your declaration. “There’s no leagues, you got that?” he says quietly, walking so close that he’s hovering over you, sneakers brushing. “I get it. I get unsure and insecure just like you. Hell, I was nervous this morning, wondering if you’d really come. We may not feel insecure over the same things, but middle school wasn’t that great for me either.” He makes a funny face, and you feel a smile twitch across your lips. “But it’s okay. Because we’re human and we grow. But now, you are successful. You’ve grown from your time growing up and you’re a wonderful, powerful person. I’m proud of you too.”

“I know,” you mumble, leaning your forehead against his chest. His arms wrap around you in response, holding you snug.

“And for the record, I thought you were the most beautiful person in the world in fourth grade. Even though my world was pretty small back then, I can say now that what I thought back then still stands true.”

You look up from his embrace, where he’s leaning down to press a slow, cotton soft kiss to your forehead. He backs up a little to read your face, and you give a tiny nod in response to signal it’s okay. Jungkook exhales in contentment, relaxing against your frame.

“Thanks, Kook,” you crack a smile, feeling your insecurities slowly evaporate. You feel better, light, knowing that these negative feelings are only temporary, and you’re not alone. Being in Jungkook’s arms, an honest boy turned man you’ve known all your life, it feels almost like home.

You two stay like this for a while. Exchanging feather-like kisses, feeling irrevocably young and hopeful. Suddenly feeling emboldened, you tug him by the strings of his hoodie to press a long, hot kiss to his lips. There’s a stutter, and you’re pretty sure Jungkook choked on his saliva at the sudden change of pace but you continue, letting Jungkook catch up and follow your lead.

“Wow,” Jungkook pulls away and his lips are shiny and flushed. Adorable. You think 7th grade Jungkook would be rolling in his Naruto sheets if he knew you two would inevitably end up together. Conversely, 7th grade you would be squealing in your kitten plushie, proud that you managed to nab your childhood crush to live out all the fantasies you’ve imagined since the 4th grade.

“Jungkook,” you let your flannel fall to the floor in a heap, only leaving your baby blue top in a thin ruched camisole. “I think I want to do the photoshoot. Can’t pass up these pretty petals, y’know?”

He runs a hand through his hair, gaping. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you press a wet kiss to his neck, “anyway you want me, baby. Full creative control. I want you to like this as much as I do, okay?”

With the permission to hold the wheel, Jungkook’s lightheaded and spinning. His eyes rake up and down your gorgeous form, wondering how many good deeds he’s done in his past life to earn a right just as this.

“In that case,” he presses a palm to your shoulder, pushing you to sit along the velvet cushion, “strip for me.”

#jungkook fic #btsghostiebingo #goldenclosetnet #jungkook fluff #jungkook smut #bts fic #bts scenarios #jungkook scenarios #jungkook x reader

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babyboy-cody · 4 years ago

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unrequited (PART THREE)

PAIRING: Michael/Fem!Reader, Roman/Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: When Michael leaves for a business meeting, Y/N finds comfort in Roman’s presence.

WARNINGS: michael being an absolutel dick, roman being an absolute sweetheart, subtle flirting, bad thoughts, brief anxiety attack

WORD COUNT: 1.7k

“What do you mean you’re leaving? It’s our anniversary this week, Michael. You expect me to celebrate alone?” You weakly protested as he hurriedly packed his bags without sparing you a glance. “I made plans for us..”

“I don’t know what you want me to do, Y/N. This is a very important business trip and I need to leave in ten minutes. I’m not going to coddle you and have you change my mind, sweetheart. It’s not that big a deal,” he huffs and rolls his eyes. “Where the hell did you put my ties?”

You sighed softly and went into the walk-in closet that had Michael’s clothes on one side and yours on the other. You reached into a box and opened the lid to show him the neatly folded ties. “They’re where they’ve always been, Michael,” you quietly told him. You crossed your arms over your stomach as a defense mechanism when he stalked closer to look inside the box. He never once laid a hand on you or Aurora, but just his presence makes you uneasy. You had never felt this way before until now when he stood a few inches away from you.

“You know I hate when you touch my shit, Y/N,” he snapped and grabbed more of his things and went back out to the bedroom to continue packing. “From now on, leave my things alone. Got it?” He stared you down, nearly burning a hole into your soul when you meekly nodded.

Almost on cue, Aurora started whimpering in the little monitor you kept on the dresser. You breathed out a sigh of relief and hurried out into the hall, walking down a few doors away and into the little angel’s room. She’s holding onto the bars of her crib, bouncing happily when she sees you. You cooed gently and picked her up, cradling her in your arms as you breathe in that baby scent.

“Hello, my love,” you gently told her and kissed her cheeks, relishing her quiet giggles as she grips onto your necklace. “Did you have a good rest, hm? Mama’s got some new fruits waiting for you.”

“I’m leaving,” you hear Michael’s voice from behind you, causing you to gasp and hold onto Aurora tightly as you turn to look at the emotionless man. “I’ll.. walk you out then.”

You both walked down the long spiral staircase while Aurora babbled incoherently, mumbling “mama” every now and then. You hushed her softly and kissed her head, loving the smell of the faint shampoo you used on her this morning. Michael opened the front door and sat his suitcases on the top step.

“I should be home on the 23rd. I expect everything to be the way I left it. Do not go into my office. I will find out, okay?” He stared at you with such intimidation that it made you feel uneasy. You hesitatingly nodded and leaned up to give his lips a kiss, but he subtly turned his head so your lips would kiss his cheek. You felt a pang in your heart and sucked in a shaky breath. Michael’s motion almost felt like a punch in your gut.

“Let me know when you land,” you softly told him and took back into your home, not looking at him as you hold onto the knob. “I love you, Michael.”

“Don’t do anything stupid, Y/N,” he tells you before picking up his suitcases and walking down the steps to the car waiting for him outside the gate.

You swallowed down a whimper as your eyes instantly filled with tears. Aurora whined quietly and looked up at you with a distressed look at the sight of seeing her mother so distraught and sad. You sniffled and shut the door gently, making sure it was locked before you pressed your back against it and finally letting the dam break. You’re not sure why it hurt so much after being so used to Michael’s actions. But not heating those words you so desperately needed from him was like a stab to your heart.

“Why?” You blubbered and shook your head at yourself. “W-Why?”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:

It was almost midnight when you had put Aurora down for her sleep. You watched her for a few moments, not having the heart to leave her just yet. She was the only good thing out of your marriage. She keeps you busy - keeps you on your toes. With her rosy cheeks and soft eyelashes, you’re almost glad that she looks like a mini vision of yourself rather than Michael. With one last brush of your fingers on her stomach, you left the room with the baby monitor in your hand. Now, you were left in a house of silence.

You can hear your heart thumping loudly in your ears as you shallowly breathed in and out. You shakily walked down the steps while grasping tightly onto the banister. You went into the kitchen, your vision blurry from the overflowing of tears filling your eyes. You grasped onto the counter and slow sunk down to your knees, desperately pressing your back onto the cupboards behind you. There was a faint ringing in your ear and your hands trembled so viciously that it was hard for you to grasp onto your knees to keep you grounded.

“No, no, no, no,” you whispered to yourself and covered your ears as you rocked back and forth. Your fingers gripped onto your strands of hair. The burning pain of your roots being pulled was enough ot bring you back to a sense of calmness. You hiccuped and struggled to take in a steady breath. You counted to ten in your head and finally became aware of your senses. Five things you can see, four things you can physically feel, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, one thing you can taste.

Five things you can see - the smoky maroon cuboards, the freshly watered plants on the windowsill, the hanging kitchen lights, your bright red painted toenails, and the little pile of notes on the counter.

Four things you can physically feel - the cold tiled floor under your thighs, your hair tickling your shoulders, your fingers interlocked with each other, and a small tear rolling down your flushed cheek.

Three things you can hear - the kitchen clock quietly ticking, Aurora’s soft snores on the baby monitor, and the neighbor’s dog faintly barking across the street.

Two things you can smell - your rose water facial spray and the cleaning spray you used to wipe down the counters.

One thing you can taste - your strawberry lip balm.

Your frantic heartbeat steadied and you were able to breath again. Your rest your head back and breathed in through your nose and out through your mouth a few times. The tears have now dried and your hands were no longer shaky. Aurora’s snores still sounded on the monitor and you had a small smile as you imagiend her lips to be parted with a small dribble of spit on them. But then, that feeling of loneliness soon hit harder than before. You stood up with a small groan, an ache in your joints after sitting on the hard ground for a few minutes. You opened the drawer next to the fridge that held notepads, pens, tape, scissors, takeout menus, and written notes. Rifling deeper and further inside, you pulled out the familiar napkin that Roman had written his number on a few weeks ago.

You looked around the kitchen to find your phone, letting out a small noise of triumphwhen you spotted it amongst the numerous books you laid out. You nervously bit your lip and played with the locket around your neck. After dialing the numbers, you listened as it rung. You felt the nerves again in the pit of your stomach. You swallowed and was about to hang up when you heard his voice.

“Hello?” He asked on the other line.

“Um, is this Roman Godfrey?” You softly asked him.

“Who’s speaking?” He sternly asked, now more alert than before. “How did you get this number?”

Completely caught off guard, you choked up a response. “Um.. this is Y/N.. from the coffee shop? We met a few weeks ago, I’m so sorry for calling you this late.”

“Oh!” He eased up again, and you can almost hear his smile through the phone. “I apologize, Y/N. I’ve been receiving a lot of spam calls and it’s been driving me nuts.”

“It’s alright,” you laughed smile. “Again, I’m sorry for calling you so late. I just.. had nothing better do to and you popped into my head.”

“Oh yeah? You been thinking about me?” He cheekily asked you, causing you to snort and roll your eyes as you felt a blush creep up on your cheeks. “I had nothing better to do either. I’m trying to find a good show to binge watch on Netflix.”

“Oh really? I have a few suggestions if you’d like?” You told him excitedly and grabbed the baby monitor before hurrying over to your comfy couch, grabbing the remote and immediately turning the tv on. “I think you’ll my wide variety of movies and shows.”

“Oh yewh? We’ll see about that,” Roman laughs quietly, smiling wide in the other line when he hears your laugh. “I like that laugh... hehehehe.”

“Oh God, please do not imitate that Justin Bieber meme,” you covered your mouth to hide your laugh. “You’re really funny, Roman. I never thought of you to be a man of humor.”

“I am incredibly insulted,” he gasped mock offended. “What kind of man did you think I was, hm?”

You shrugged to yourself, remembering that he couldn’t see you. “I don’t know.. a man of serious business.”

“A man of serious business,” he repeats softly. “Well if by serious business, you mean making you laugh and smile, then yes, I am a man of serious business.”

“Oh hush, Godfrey,” you sucked your teeth and blushed. “But thank you. I haven’t laughed like this in.. a while. It feels good.”

“I’m glad,” he quietly told you. “They say laughter is the best medicine.”

“I heard,” you laughed quietly and looked at the red Netflix logo on the television. “Okay, now the Netflix recommendations.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:

TAG LIST: Let me know if you’d like to be added or removed <3

@lathraios @heda-mikaelson @queencocoakimmie @hecohansen31 @masterlaluri @bluebirdbts @kaetastic @midrunner3202 @henrysqueen @duncvns

#i really missed this series 🥺🥺#michael langdon is a certified PRICK #but it gets really good later on 😏#michael langdon x reader #roman godfrey x reader #michael langdon imagine #roman godfrey imagine

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welllpthisishappening · 3 years ago

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Emma Swan, Olympian is not a phrase Emma Swan, totally normal person, ever expected to hear.

But she never expected one night at a party hosted by her college's baseball team to change her entire life, either. So, it should really come as no surprise that Emma Swan, Olympian, is now something of international sensation. Or that her husband has become a bit of a social media star.

——— Rating: Teen with sports feelings Word Count: 7.5K AN: As promised and because of who I am as a person, I wrote Olympic fic. I can neither confirm nor deny that there is an actual plot here, but there is a surplus of fluff and sports-based feelings. So, that’s something. Thanks to the Detroit Lions, specifically, for posting this Tweet and to my husband who is very much aware of what content I want the internet to provide me. Operation: Make Killian a New York Yankee as often as possible continues.

|| Read on Ao3 if that’s your jam ||

———

No one told her the questions would start to blur together.

That would require media training, Emma imagines. And no one is giving a first-time Olympian in a sport that only a handful of people marginally believe warrants notice from the IOC any sort of media training. She got, like, an orientation packet. With a lopsided staple in the top left corner. On her commercial flight. That she booked herself.

Twenty-plus hours crammed into a seat that she’s only a little concerned did permanent damage to her right knee, with a meal that was so chewy Emma was about four seconds and one exasperated, entirely exhausted exhale from asking if it was, in fact, made of plastic.

Mostly, the staple is what’s still managing to frustrate her. As frustrated as she can be at the Olympics. No one is supposed to be frustrated at the Olympics. Not really. Not while experiencing the pinnacle of athletic achievement, the calluses on Emma’s fingertips some sort of badge of honor that she’s wearing with at least a modicum of national pride, and everything is fine.

Her qualifying time was absurd. Where absurd is a compliment and very close to a record she’s suddenly determined to shatter.

So, she’s alone.

Big deal. So is everyone else. This Olympics, at least. Plus, Killian wouldn’t have been able to come no matter what the state of the world was. Even so, the quiet stands are admittedly weird. All these empty arenas with empty seats, the distinct lack of a roaring crowd no more obvious than when the world’s best athletes step to the line. Staring at the climbing wall in front of her four hours earlier, Emma swore she could hear every single beat of her heart echo between her ears.

And that’s—well, solitude is par for the course with an adolescence like hers, half-filled suitcases and brand-new faces in brand-new towns, but she’d gotten used to one town, and the town is actually a city, and the city has long since felt like home, and her fingers reach for the rings dangling above her Team USA t-shirt. They did give her an absolute shit ton of t-shirts, so that was nice.

Except—

Something keeps tugging. Nagging at the back of Emma’s consciousness, almost like she’s forgotten her keys on that flea market table they found in Park Slope two weeks after they moved into the apartment. Because for as well-versed Emma may be in that singular sort of existence, she’s also well-removed from wanting it, and at least three of her knuckles crack. Curling around her rings.

Muscles in her cheeks stretch, another nod and quick blink to avoid the threat of blinding via camera flashes. Someone really should have told her about this. She probably should have assumed. Human interest is the driving force of at least three-quarters of the stories in sports, and Emma’s not used to being the story, per se, but even she has to admit most of hers makes for a good one and they are still asking her questions.

Emma blinks again. Hopes she doesn’t look like a serial killer or the weird blonde, slightly sweaty cousin of the Joker, her smile starting to feel as if it’s painted on her face. She nods. Hums. Listens to questions that are startling in their tonal similarity to Charlie Brown’s teacher, and Emma wonders if Charlie Brown ever got a different teacher or what the school structure of the Peanuts’ universe is and, God, how old was Charlie Brown, even? To withstand that sort of consistent bullying. Was Linus the same age as him? No, right? How long did he carry the blanket around? Was Linus the same age as Sally? Why didn’t the red-headed girl with curly hair get a name?

She nearly falls out of her chair.

That might make the front page of several blogs. Possibly even the back page of a New York tab.

Careful to keep her feet on the ground, Emma lifts her head, directing her eyes toward the source of a question that must have been asked several times if the note of amusement mixing with deadline-based exasperation is anything to go by. Her smile definitely makes her look like a serial killer.

“Sorry, sorry,” Emma mumbles, and none of the oxygen she does her best to inhales makes it even close to her lungs. “I, uh—what was the question?”

The reporter grimaces.

“I wanted to know if you’d seen the video of your husband yet.”

Ice runs down her spine. Every single drop of wholly disgusting sweat falling in rivulets down either one of her cheeks freezes. Oxygen disappears from the room. Or so Emma assumes, what with the crushing feeling pushing down on her lungs and whatnot.

Her mind whirs. Races through possibilities and pitfalls with a speed that would be impressive if Emma weren’t already so close to that record, and she is going to break that record. Somehow she manages not to fall, though. From her chair or the metaphorical climbing wall in her brain, ignoring the sudden dryness of her mouth and the increasing size of her tongue.

Her nails are going to leave little half-moon creases in her palm.

“I don’t—” she starts, and eventually she will wish she was more articulate. For what turns out to be a very nice story.

Standing up, the reporter’s seat creaks as she moves toward the desk they deposited Emma behind after even. Several Olympic officials move to block her, but Emma shakes her head again, and she’s not exactly high-priority on the list of defensible athletes, anyway. So, none of them flinch when the reporter slides a phone closer to Emma, her crazed thoughts briefly lingering on how many phones a reporter could possibly need, but then her eyes drop, and she’s not sure if her ears can actually perk, but Emma certainly tries because she hears him yelling before she sees him.

Her smile shifts.

And the cameras flash again.

It starts, as with most things in Emma’s collegiate life, because Anna demands it.

She’s only half-listening, so Emma can never be entirely sure what it was, exactly, she was agreeing to, but in her experience, the agreement doesn’t matter so much as the action, and her roommate’s younger sister is unstoppable when it comes to action. So, Emma is dimly aware of a plan. Something about the baseball house and that one left fielder is in a handful of her classes.

David—something.

He’s got a girlfriend, too. A nice one. Who always smells like sugar when she slides into the seat next to David whatever his last name is, sitting in the row in front of Emma during their Tuesday-Thursday statistics class.

Emma hates statistics.

She doesn’t hate Anna, though. Or her roommate, one of the better college-based surprises, and either Anna has magic or Elsa is an enormous pushover because somehow all three of them are ready at the same time, and the walk to the baseball house isn’t far.

First-year players guard the door — passing out color-coded wristbands that absolutely do not do their job because it takes about six seconds of well-meaning flirting and batted eyelashes between Anna and a mountain of muscle masquerading as the team’s starting catcher to get them inside. With purple wristbands and two tickets for jungle juice instead of the keg.

“Victory,” Anna cries, twisting through the crowd. Half of it is already teetering on the edge of drunk, the rest free-falling into the pit of imminent hangovers, and Emma isn’t sure she’d classify their drinks as a victory, but it’s definitely better than watered-down beer.

And it doesn’t take long, really. By Emma’s shaky count, it’s not even a half-hour before the muscle — who introduces himself as Kristoff, and really is pretty cute, actually — returns, standing unnaturally close to Anna’s left shoulder, furtive glances shared out of the corners of their eyes. Emma rolls hers. Elsa’s appear perpetually stuck to the ceiling. It looks oddly sticky up there.

“Go,” Elsa says, and it’s not an instruction. Barely counts as more than a whisper, really. Anna lights up all the same. Like an alcohol-fueled Christmas tree.

Who does not need telling more than once.

Hands reach and smiles widen, Kristoff mumbling something that sounds like it was nice to meet you before he’s following Anna back to the beer pong table, leaving Elsa and Emma standing in the middle of a sea of raging hormones. All of which want to be there way more than either one of them does.

“Well,” Elsa mutters, “that was polite.”

Emma snickers into her glass. A mostly empty glass. That’s surprising. “Got that going for him.” “Plus, his on-base is nuts this year.”

“Say that again.” “On-base percentage,” Elsa repeats, making sure to do it slowly for maximum sarcastic emphasis. Emma’s eyes are going to fall out. That won’t end well. There are too many shuffling feet in this room.

“What does that mean?” “How often he gets on base.” Opening her mouth does nothing. Closing it does even less. Elsa looks overjoyed. “I know things,” she shrugs, “and I’m pretty positive Anna and Kristoff have been not-so-secretly dating since the start of the semester, so—” “You stalked your sister’s secret boyfriend?” “Stalk’s a very dirty word, don’t you think? No, no, there was no stalking. There was light research. One Google search and a single click to the team’s roster, and now I know he’s from Minnesota, too.” “Awfully convenient for the romance of the century.” Humming, Elsa takes a larger-than-usual sip before scrunching her nose in displeasure. At her empty cup. Emma has no idea how they ended up with empty cups so quickly. Suddenly the baseball house feels a bit like a time warp. Enter and drink and find the love of your life. Or something like that.

“I got next,” Emma says, ignoring Elsa’s laugh because she is not the sort of person who says things like that. It’s this house. This place. With its music and its happiness, and she’s not really a sports person. Can only marginally understand the joy of watching other people accomplish something. She has no idea what on-base percentage is.

Still.

Her feet move. Fingers curl over the rim of red solo cups, like the most cliché version of her college self. Her drinks get refilled. And it’s just as Emma’s about to let herself wonder if, maybe, sports aren’t all that bad and might even possess a bit of inherent romanticism, she slams into something.

Someone, more like.

Taller than her, he has to peer down his nose to glare at Emma. That’s fair. They’re both far more damp than they were ten seconds before. Some of that moisture ensures that the hem of his shirt sticks to his stomach. A very flat stomach. That draws Emma’s eyes because she’s human and slightly intoxicated, and it takes quite a lot more than she’s willing to admit to lift her chin, but then she’s glad she does. Even with the understandable glare.

“Shit,” she breathes, “your eyes are stupid blue.”

He narrows them. She hates that. Which is about all it takes for her to get royally pissed off, too.

“Can you pay attention to where you’re walking?”

The stupidly blue eyes blink. Darken a shade, like all his frustration is centered directly around his pupils, and the shirt he’s wearing is team-branded. Another baseball player, then.

“You ran into me!” Oh, Oh. Well, that sucks. He’s got a good voice, too. Eyes and voice and the few strands of hair that fall toward those eyes when he continues to glare at Emma likely aren’t supposed to make her stomach flip.

It’s the alcohol’s fault.

Or sports. Like, in general.

“Because you take up so much space,” Emma snarls He leans forward. Looms, really. Over her and around her, smelling like punch and body wash. It’s gross and absolutely wonderful. “Gotta pick a lane, love. Either I ran into you, or I was in the way.”

“It can definitely be both and there is nothing resembling love here.”

“So I can see. You have a name, wrecking ball?” “My shoes are never going to unstick from this floor.” To his credit, he does waver. His lips twist — which makes it all too obvious how much Emma is staring at his lips, but, seriously, the alcohol. Plus, it’s so hot in this house she can barely think straight. She wonders where he buys his body wash. He smells better than he should in this house. So, it's clear he considers. Ponders, even. Until his hands dart out and those hands are somehow warmer than every person in this house combined, heat scorching through Emma’s t-shirt as he lifts her off the ground.

Only to deposit her approximately fourteen inches to her left.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” “Look,” he grins, “you’re unstuck.” “Bastard!” “Eh, not technically.” “What?” “Not technically a bastard. Orphan, I suppose. But that’s kind of a mood ruiner, don’t you think?”

Emma’s fish impression is really going great. The grin becomes a smirk. Her stomach refuses to stay still. “Is there a mood to ruin?” “Might be if you tell me your name.”

Emma wavers, that time. Considers and ponders. Weighs the pros and cons while laughter drifts past her ears, consummate collegiate experiences that she’s only ever let herself be passably jealous of. A dark-haired girl’s talking to Elsa in the opposite corner.

And the hand hanging in front of her wiggles its fingers.

It’s still ridiculously warm when she grabs it. “Emma Swan.” “Killian Jones.”

Anna’s secret relationship becomes a real relationship no less than sixteen hours following what Elsa begins to call the Drink Incident.

And they become—

Baseball people.

Becoming baseball people is not bad. Not really. Emma likes the baseball team. She understands what WHIP is, now. Kristoff adores Anna, so that’s good. David, who does, in fact, have a last name, continues to be as nice as assumed, and his girlfriend sort of quasi adopts Emma. Mary Margaret Blanchard brims with positivity and an innate sort of joy that would usually annoy Emma, but most of that joy also serves as a direct counter to the snark that Killian Jones appears flush with. So, it’s something of a wash, really.

Plus, he’s a very sore Monopoly loser.

And Emma finds it endlessly entertaining.

“Stop that,” he grunts, glaring at the board with the sort of force Emma’s become accustomed to in the last few months, while she taps on the space in front of her, “I know how many spots it is.” Emma smiles. “So move, then.” “I’ll be bankrupt.” “Capitalism does that.” “Tell me more about capitalism, Swan.”

She doesn’t startle, so there’s that. Not much else, though. Not when a noticeable bit of equally familiar heat skitters down her spine. Her head tilts. His head remains frustratingly still, staring at the board like the spaces will change or Mary Margaret will tear down some of her hotels on Marvin Gardens.

Neither thing happens.

The heat pools. At the small of her back, inching dangerously close to that space between her hips, like it’s trying to tether her to this spot and this moment and its people. Baseball people. People who so clearly care about everything so much that even the cynic in Emma can appreciate it. Plus, they’re all ridiculously competitive.

David had to take a walk when Mary Margaret bankrupt him earlier.

“That’s about the extent of my capitalism knowledge,” Emma admits with a shrug, “I sucked at economics.” Pulling his gaze away from the board, Emma’s less prepared for the force behind Killian’s eyes than she was for the appearance of a nickname that might not warrant the title. It’s just her name, after all. But it sounds like more than that. Sinks under her skin with alarming ease, the precise tone of it wrapping its way around a variety of internal organs until they’re all beating at the same tempo and— “Move my piece for me.”

Kristoff groans. Mary Margaret chuckles. Elsa looks far too sure of herself. Knows everything, indeed.

And it’s not really a command, but there’s that same sense of something that found its way into the sound of Emma’s name and Killian’s voice, and he catches her by surprise. On a variety of levels. His fingers jump the moment hers reach out, all heat and an alarming size difference, his brows lifting when she turns her head.

“You’re taking this game way too seriously, you know,” Emma says. What she doesn’t say is more important, though. Because they’re not friends, really. They’re—acquaintances. Some kind of appropriate metaphor regarding a planet’s many moons and the tendency of those moons to orbit something far bigger than them. But they like each other, too. As much as they dance and twist, do their best to avoid getting hit in the batter’s box, Emma’s more comfortable bantering with him than just about anyone she’s ever met, a challenge in every conversation, and she’s rather loath to realize she’s memorized the different ways the blue in his eyes flash.

Now it feels a bit like a spotlight.

“Matter of pride, Swan.” “Is it just?” If there are other people laying on their stomachs in that living room, half-empty glasses by their hands and equipment stacked in various corners, Emma forgets about them. Quickly. Immediately. Killian doesn’t move his fingers.

He nods.

And Mary Marget only kind of gloats when she bankrupts him.

She dances when she wins, though.

It’s embarrassing. It’s absolutely, goddamn wonderful.

Realizing that baseball is a game of statistics ruins kind of Emma’s day. It makes Killian laugh. Her favorite sort of laugh. Where he throws his head back, an arm around his middle, and his shoulders shaking. Those same strands of hair she noticed that first night fall back toward lidded eyes, the corners of his mouth lifting in an angle Emma is sure she could determine if she just didn’t hate math so much, and it takes about four seconds, her head tilting back and forth twice and one swipe of her tongue to lean forward on the couch they're sharing, tilt her head up and press her lips to his.

Press is a vast understatement.

Crash, more like.

A bases-clearing double into the left-field gap.

She knows so many baseball terms now, it’s ridiculous.

It’s because she keeps going to games. With Anna. Without Anna. With Elsa. Without Elsa. With Mary Margaret every single time. And it creeps on so slowly, she’s practically a Jane Austen heroine, but then Emma finds she cares as much as everyone else. Screams herself hoarse at every crack of the bat. Jumps and fist bumps with startling regularity. Experiences the flutter of butterflies in her flip-prone stomach before ninth-inning rallies.

She memorizes statistics. Killian’s statistics, especially.

Because the Draft is a week away, and the nerves rolling off him are even more potent than his body wash. Bought in bulk from a locally-owned company, she learns.

Killian hates capitalism, too.

Which is only part of the reason she likes him, but right now all of the reason is centered around how it feels as if the world is shifting on its axis and what, precisely, he is capable of with his tongue. Quite a lot if this first time at bat is anything to believe.

Emma laughs.

Joy bubbles from the very center of her, pushing at the seam of her lips, and it’s not much of a seam when her mouth is open to accommodate tongue, but it’s enough of a sound that Killian pulls back. No glare. Definitely eyebrow movement, though.

“That’s not the best confidence boost, you know.” “I’m straddling you,” Emma counters, nodding toward the knees on either side of his, and she has no idea when her fingers found his hair. It’s very soft.

“How did that happen?” “What was that about confidence?”

Dropping his head, she gets a different sort of laugh, one that’s just as potent in its ability to settle into her bloodstream and the empty spaces around her heart, and sports have turned her into a sap. “I like you a lot,” Killian murmurs. Emma’s heart explodes. Metaphorically speaking.

“Good.” “Expand on that, for me.” She pinches his side, almost prepared for the way it leaves him bucking beneath her. Less prepared for the mutual groan it causes. Killian’s eyes widen. “I like you a lot,” Emma repeats, and his arms tighten, and her heart knits itself back together, and the second time through the kissing order is even better.

It starts, as with most things in Emma’s nearly-adult life, because Anna demands it.

“I just think it’ll be fun,” Anna says, not for the first time. And, not for the first time, she ignores the pointed look Emma and Elsa exchange. Elsa’s lips have all but disappeared behind her teeth “Think about it,” Anna continues, “we need something to do before the game, anyway. This way we’re—you know, staying active.” Emma’s eyebrows jump. Fly. Soar into her hairline where the level of her disbelief sits, all too aware of the ring hanging around her neck.

A Draft Day gift. As much as a family heirloom can be a gift. But Killian claimed it was good luck, his brother’s ring, because turns out that snark is at least a partial product of a wholly depressing childhood, and Emma supposes there’s something to be said for common ground. Understanding, too. Stories shared over weeks that turned to months that turned to years and seasons in the minors, and it absolutely figures Killian’s Major League debut is happening in Cincinnati. Where Kristoff plays.

It’s ridiculous how in love with him she is.

Killian. Not Kristoff.

Anna is still talking. “There’s nothing else to do in Cincinnati,” she reasons, which seems unfair to the city itself but not entirely untrue, and even the concept of chili on spaghetti grosses Emma out. “Also,” Anna adds, sounding as if she’s reached the final bullet point on her list of possible arguments, “I’ve got a Groupon deal for this place.”

Elsa blinks. “I didn’t realize Groupon was even still a thing.” “Surprise!”

Emma’s laugh isn’t entirely honest, but her sigh of acceptance is and—

Turns out she’s pretty good at it.

Goddamn fantastic, actually.

At rock climbing. Indoor rock climbing. Her feet push her up the wall with ease, the steady ache in her arms welcome and wonderful and a slew of other alliterative adjectives. That leave Killian grinning like a maniac, but it’s been a weird and equally wonderful day, without a hit, but two walks, so that ups the on-base, and Emma’s really, seriously in love with him.

“I don’t know what it was,” she says, preening just a bit under Killian’s stare. Hotel lighting casts shadows on his cheeks, slumped as he is against every pillow they could find. Even the ones in the closet. He’s not supposed to be in here for much longer, both of them aware of the team-ordained curfew hanging over them, but the pre-game nerves are long gone. Replaced instead with exhilaration and endorphins, the kind that could win Elle Woods a headline-making case. “But,” Emma continues, “I just kept moving, and the guy said it was, like, a course record. Is course the right word, you think?” Killian lifts a shoulder. Even as it’s covered in ice and tape. The play he made at third is going to show on loop. On TV. In Emma’s memory. She’s never yelled that loud before.

People took pictures.

And then she cried. Like a giant sap.

“This is your show, Swan,” Killian chuckles, pride infusing the words. As if she’s the one who deserves the pride today. It’s entirely possible she cried for multiple minutes after that play. They definitely showed that on the YES Network. Mary Margaret texted her no less than forty-seven times.

“I was really fast.” Killian hums, fingers fluttering enough to make it clear he wants her closer. Emma doesn’t argue. They’re a mess of limbs and mouths and that tongue thing they’ve collectively gotten better at giving and receiving over the years, hands that warm with the sort of confidence borne of repetition. Some joke about BP and finding your swing.

“Plus,” he says, a soft laugh at Emma’s noise of displeasure when talking means far less kissing, “becoming a rock climbing savant means more upper-body work, and you know how I love your arms.” Guffawing the way Emma does is not particularly romantic. Doesn’t matter. The sound comes, and the joy remains, a steady stream pumping through all her extremities and clouding her thoughts. In the best way possible. Before Killian, Emma didn’t know this could be that. Fun and easy, not quite simple, but something she’s willing to work for. Athletes are notoriously determined, after all.

Part of her wonders if a proclivity to rock climbing makes her an athlete, too.

“Please,” she says, laughter clinging to the letters even as she finds herself moved directly over Killian’s outstretched legs, “provide, in detail, everything you enjoy about my arms.” “I didn’t say enjoy.” “Were you misquoted, Jones?” His eyes flash. Glow, honestly. At her and because of her and athletes also know how to work their opponents. Goad them into making mistakes. Something about a pitcher’s duel and a battle in the box. Where the box is this bed. And Emma’s winning.

“I love your arms,” Killian says. Dragging his mouth against the column of her throat leaves goosebumps on Emma’s skin. Her back arches. His hand flattens. The compliments continue. Turn into promises. Guarantees. Of a future that’s spread out at their feet now, if only they reach for it.

Turns out Emma’s pretty good at reaching for things. When she wants them.

“This isn’t, like, free-scale, though, is it?”

Her heart cannot be expected to handle much more of this.

“Don’t worry,” Emma says, “all proper safety precautions were taken. Plus, I wouldn’t fall off the wall.”

Killian’s expression shutters. Not in any of that frustration Emma so clearly understood when his shirt was damp, and her shoes were unsalvagable despite his best efforts to get the school’s equipment manager to dry-clean them. No, it’s—it’s something big and important and unspoken, and Emma pulls his hand up. To rest directly over the rink that’s still tucked beneath her t-shirt.

His t-shirt.

It’s got his last number on it, at least.

“Would you catch me if I fell off the wall?” He doesn’t answer at first. Doesn’t mention the absurdity of a question that does not make sense, but those literal and metaphorical clock hands are ticking, and if they don’t replace his ice soon, they’re going to destroy these sheets. “Every single time, Swan.” “Right back at you.”

Killian doesn’t miss curfew, but it’s pretty close.

And Emma wakes up to twelve texts with links for indoor rock climbing gyms in the greater New York City area.

“Holy shit, this is hard.”

Grunting more than laughing, Emma’s fingers curl around the rock in front of her. Chalk cakes itself on the pads of those fingers, stuck beneath her nails and, somehow, the bend of her elbow. “Are you not an All-Star?” she asks, glancing at Killian.

“I do not see how that factors into this at all.”

“Huh, weird.” “Suspiciously sounds like an accusation.” “Weird,” Emma repeats. They’re halfway up a wall only one of them is really supposed to be on, but the other person several feet below them is faring far worse than the pair of them combined, so, that takes precedence in her mind. “He knows a lot more curse words than I realized.” “He’s showing off,” Killian grumbles, forehead resting against the wall.

Will Scarlet hasn’t moved in five minutes. Possibly six. Maybe a round ten. He's much better at second base.

“I cannot feel my arms,” he calls, and Emma’s laugh is better that time. Purer, somehow. As if happiness can actually have a sound. Even happiness that comes with sweat on her temple and a noticeable ache in her triceps and she sort of loves this.

Sort of is a vast understatement.

“Showing off, huh?” Emma asks. She finds her next footfall with ease, happiness blooming into confidence that’s become nearly consistent these days and weeks and years. It does not take her long to feel the stare that’s lingering on her. On her ass, specifically.

She glances over her shoulder. To find her fiancé smiling at her. And staring at her ass.

“Can I help you, love?” “Whatcha doing?” “Ogling you, obviously.” “Forearms feeling good?” He nods. Sort of. There’s a distinct slope to the back of his neck and more sweat on his brown than Emma’s. Not as much as Scarlet’s, probably. “Fantastic,” Killian drawls, “keep going, Swan, someone’s got to show us how to do it.” “Try not to fall off the wall, huh? Last thing we need is the might of the Yankees front office coming after us.” “I don’t think I can move my hands,” Will shouts. Killian doesn’t move. It’s impressive forearm strength. Blushing on the wall is not usually how Emma’s days go.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Killian promises, and Emma moves. He follows her. Up the wall and to the top, a quick brush of his lips against her shoulder that leaves Scarlet cursing even more, despite his presence on the floor, but then there’s lemon-flavored water and exceptionally soft towels and Emma’s caught a bit off guard by the question.

“Are there leagues for this?” Will asks. “Because you should probably be winning things for this.” Emma blinks. Considers. Wonders. Turns to Killian.

He’s still smiling. Broadly, in fact.

“We could look.” They do. They fill out paperwork. Buy fancy climbing shoes that Emma claims cost too much, but Killian’s a pushover and even more stubborn and she wins the first race she signs up for.

Plus, ten more after that.

Emma climbs indoor rock walls. Killian hits home runs. Occasionally they do these things simultaneously, and it usually leads to her nearly falling off the wall because everyone in her Tribeca gym knows what it means when WFAN is playing on the speakers.

Sometimes they shout out John Sterling’s home run call with him.

She gets better. He gets better.

They do end up destroying sheets in various hotels across the country. For various reasons. Not all of them post-game or ice related. There are games and events. Wins and losses. Back page spreads that Emma frames and hangs on their apartment walls, right next to other, smaller frames, with the same smiling faces who, once upon a time, called a sticky-floored baseball house home, and Killian’s fingers are warm in hers when the tears prick her eyes at Anna and Kristoff’s wedding.

There are stories. Think pieces and hot takes on a variety of drive-time radio shows. Those are all about Killian, though. He’s the athlete. The true one, some stories say. It’s impressive what Emma does, they admit, but it’s a hobby, and she’s got a grown-up career, anyway. So, she’s got more climbing records than she knew ever existed, but she’s not doing it for press, and both Mary Margaret and Anna weep at her and Killian’s wedding.

She wears her ring on a chain next to her other one when she climbs.

Every time Killian notices them hanging there, Emma swears, his eyes brighten. It’s her favorite thing in the whole, goddamn world.

“What is this?” He doesn’t answer. Just holds the sheet of paper he must have printed out in the clubhouse because they certainly don’t have a printer at home, and one of the edges is bent. Like he had to fit it in his back pocket.

“Going the stoic route, huh?” Emma quips, but there’s a noticeable hitch in her pulse. One that’s been there for weeks. Since the rumblings started, and the rumors began, whispers of possibility, and first-ever has a very nice ring to it. One side of Killian’s mouth tugs up. “Oh, that’s not fair.” “I’d like the record to show, that the only reason I didn’t know immediately was because I was in the trainer’s room, so—” “What were you in the trainer’s room for?” Killian ignores her. Well, sort of. His eyes shift, and his gaze holds, and Emma knows. Right down in the marrow of her. What the paper is and how Scarlet is the one who printed it out, but she’s even more confident Killian carried it home, and that does something funny to her entire worldview. Widens it and minimizes it at the same time, focusing on this and them and the possibility that creates.

In an athletic sort of way.

“My shoulder’s kind of sore.” Emma scoffs. “Oh, that’s pointed.” “I’m sure your shoulders are fine. Golden, even.’ “This is not your best work, you know that?” “Look at the paper.” “Did you fold it yourself?” “And then took a car back home. You really didn’t see yet?” Emma shakes her head. He knows the answer, too. He’s the one with the Google alert, after all. Because she’s still a bit of a pessimist at heart and an adult with a real job, and this is too much and abjectly terrifying, and the last thing she expects is for Killian to crouch in front of her.

One of his knees cracks.

“Don’t,” he warns, even as Emma does her best to swallow her laugh. Warm hands land on her thighs, a quiet steadiness that helps the state of her pulse and makes the possibility of the unknown a little less overwhelming. The lines crossing the center of the paper are absurdly straight. “You’re going to go.” “Oh, that sounded like a decree.” “A suggestion.” “A strong one.” “Mmhm, with the utmost confidence.” Emma makes an impressive sound. “Who’s doing your media training? What an impressive vocabulary you’ve got on you.” “Ready and willing to use it in a persuasive manner.” “Keep talking like that, and you won’t have to.” The smirk disappears. Evolves into a grin that is only Emma’s and only appears in moments like this, support clinging to air molecules and the ends of hair that constantly seems determined to fall into Killian’s eyes. “Passed, huh? All cool with the IOC.” “Decidedly cool. Officially an Olympic sport, now. Although the name could use some work. Sport climbing lacks a little oomph, don’t you think?”

“What would you call it?” “Emma Swan wins Olympic gold.” “Kinda wordy.” “Prophetic,” Killian corrects, hands shifting and pulling, and Emma has to widen her legs. His head’s at a very good kissing angle. “You’ve already got the qualifying numbers.” “You looked at the qualifying numbers?” “Don’t insult me like that. What do you think I did in the backseat?” “Planned the entire 2020 Olympics, apparently.” “Not the entire Olympics,” Killian counters, "just the part involving you. And maybe my individual expectations regarding the United States baseball team, but that’s another conversation altogether.”

“Naturally.”

“You’re using that voice.”

Widening her eyes does nothing. Emma didn’t expect it to. Not after years and games and events because rock climbing has events, and one time Mary Margaret made her a sign. Killian held it. He’s taller, that’s why.

“Don’t,” Killian repeats, “this is happening.” “Yuh-huh?” “You heard me. It’s your turn, now.” Melting is an impossibility. Like, for a human. Even so. Emma feels like she’s melting. Some of that pessimism evaporating under the warmth of Killian’s gaze and his hands and the determination in the precise angle of his chin. Same one he uses when he steps into the box with runners in scoring position.

Lumping herself into that group isn’t as insulting as Emma once believed it would be.

“God,” Emma groans, “that’s romantic.” “You’re really selling it, love.”

“This is supposed to be a hobby.” “One you’re exceedingly good it. World record good at it.” “I like you.” “That’s my end game, yeah.” She laughs. Smiles. Continues melting. Which is easier once they get rid of their clothing, and their bed is way more comfortable than any hotel they’ve encountered. And she falls asleep with Killian’s lips against her ear, Emma Swan, Olympic gold medalist whispered on loop like it’s a mantra he’s been practicing.

They postpone the Olympics.

It sucks. Everything sucks. Baseball sucks. Gyms are closed. Emma gets creative, and Killian gets research-prone. They build a makeshift wall. She tosses him BP.

People write stories about it.

It doesn’t help.

Until—

Time passes. Some things change. Others don’t. Their wall stands up to the elements of their building’s courtyard, and Killian’s hitting better than ever this season, a victory Emma’s going to claim as at least partially hers. And then the Olympics are back, and it’s qualifying and racing and a record that’s just out of reach, but she’s good enough even without it, and, this time, she’s the one packing a suitcase.

He kisses her.

Does the tongue thing.

Holds onto her like he’s only a little afraid she’s going to fall off the wall, but now the wall is international competition, and Emma’s freaking out a little.

“I love you,” she says into the crook of his neck.

His arms tighten. “I love you too.” “Gold medal?” “Gold medal.” “Hit some home runs while I’m gone, huh?” Lips graze her temple. Her forehead. The bridge of her nose. Emma might be crying, and Mary Margaret’s definitely recording, a small mob of red white, and blue surrounding them. “I’ll see what I can do,” Killian promises.

“Good.”

He hits three before her first qualifying round. So, Emma takes that as a challenge. She’s an athlete now.

It’s why, she figures, her fingers don’t slip on her first run.

Her feet are sure. Her breathing is steady. There’s no one cheering her name, but she’s long since memorized the exact way Killian’s voice lifts above a crowd. How he pushes up on his toes to watch, as if standing up taller makes sure he’s closer to her. Should she need him when she falls off the wall. Only, Emma doesn’t fall, and she’s got no intention of ever falling and—

Her laugh shudders out of her in a watery sort of way that makes the journalist still standing in front of her flinch ever so slightly. Twitter makes sure the video starts playing again as soon as it finishes, which is somehow the best and worst thing that has ever happened to her. Best because, well, Emma’s honestly not sure she’s ever seen her husband like this.

Worst because she’s very nearly goddamn crying. Again.

Bobbing on the balls of his feet in front of his locker, whoever’s recording the video — it’s Scarlet, obviously — is practically frenzied behind the camera, barely able to contain their laughter. Killian doesn’t notice. He’s holding his own phone, all five of his free fingers firmly entrenched in the back of his hair. It’s gotten softer with age, Emma thinks.

She can’t stop watching him.

Every inhale is a clear struggle, the bobbing turning into pacing and quiet mumbling she can hear perfectly. As if she’s standing right in front of him.

Or at least slightly to the side. So as not to stand on the logo in the middle of the clubhouse.

Athletes are notoriously superstitious, too.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Killian chants, another noticeable snicker from Scarlet, “right there, right there, and pull, pull—Swan, pull up!”

“I did pull up there,” Emma mumbles. To the reporter, maybe. Or the world. Possibly her husband. Who was definitely more nervous about the first run than her.

God, that’s romantic.

Killian’s still talking. Shouting, more like. It’s a miracle Scarlet hasn’t fallen over yet.

“Faster, faster, you can go faster than that, Swan—” Emma clicks her tongue. “That’s kind of insulting.”

There’s an appropriate titter of laughter from the peanut gallery, which is a joke she was not trying to make, but she’s also dangerously close to swooning in the middle of press and she should have asked the Yankees for media training. Someone would have made sure she didn’t make a total ass of herself.

“Show me the time,” Killian yells, another demand that isn’t that. It’s too wobbly a string of words to hold any real power, just the supportive sort of desperation Emma’s felt in a variety of ninth innings and series-clinching moments. “Faster! Faster!” “Talking to the time or the judges or your wife?” Scarlet asks.

Killian nearly snarls.

Emma blinks. Hyperactively. Crying is not usually her shtick. More camera flashes...flash, Emma barely noticing them with her eyes glued to a phone screen that isn’t hers because she at least knows not to bring her phone to a press conference, and she can only imagine how many text messages she’s gotten.

Even on the other side of the world.

They post the times.

She knows because Killian gets some rather impressive height on his celebratory vertical. Fingers abandoning his hair, his fist pumps the air, and Scarlet’s not laughing so much as he’s whooping, a steady stream of yeah, yeah, yeah in the background. And for about half a breath, Emma’s worried Killian may turn one of his ankles on his landing, but he’d think that was insulting, and she’s really just full-on swooning now.

“How many people have seen this?’ she asks the reporter, already knowing the answer.

The reporter smiles anyway. Emma should learn her name.

“Pretty much the whole world.” When Emma was a kid — the sort of kid who believed alone was better, and there was strength in singularity, that would have terrified her. Bowled her over, really. Left her running without looking back, desperate to shed any sort of notoriety because notoriety meant attention, and attention meant inevitable disappointment.

Maybe that’s why she was never much of a sports person.

Sports disappoint you. They build you up and let you down, a sharp and sudden fall without a safety net. But sometimes. Sometimes, every so often, something wonderful happens. Sports lift you. Right up an indoor wall. Because, she knows, sports’ power comes from belief, from surrendering yourself to something bigger and better, and she’s back on that alliterative kick, but the tears are barely clinging to her eyelashes now and Emma herself is bigger and better, now.

In an international, decidedly romantic sort of way.

The video’s playing away.

“Let’s go,” Killian cries, and there it is. Her sound and their sound, cheering across an ocean and time zones that are still kind of messing with her sleep schedule.

Emma’s smile stretches.

“Let’s go,” she repeats.

It ends, as with most things in Emma’s gold-medal-winning life, because Anna plans it.

Stepping out of the terminal, it takes less than a full breath for the cheers to start. For the banners to lift and the tears to flow, a small platoon of support covered in the sort of patriotic gear they definitely got from the Old Navy in Herald Square.

Flashes burst behind Emma’s eyelids because she’s got to blink or she’ll definitely fall over. Her legs wobble beneath her, contending against a wave of triumph and jubilation, which is sort of the same word, but they’ve got a game at the Stadium tonight, so she doesn’t expect, she just hopes and reaches, and he has to twist around both Anna and Mary Margaret.

It’s wonderfully cyclical.

As is the way Emma slams herself against him. On purpose, this time. Killian’s arms tighten, more cheers and shouts, and people a few feet away start chanting USA over and over. Emma barely hears them. Her feet aren’t touching the ground, so she’s kind of preoccupied.

They’re all arms and mouths, and her legs wrapped securely around a body that probably shouldn’t be supporting hers when she knows he slid into second two nights ago, but Killian clearly has no intention of letting her down, and the medal around her neck bumps against her rings.

“You’re a very good cheerleader; you know that?” He hisses. In what, Emma can’t imagine. Embarrassment, if the red tips of his ears are anything to go by, and she’s got ideas as to why that is and how long the conversation about social media with Scarlet went, so Emma does the only reasonable thing.

She slams her lips against her home-run hitting husband’s, doing her best to make sure the gold medal doesn’t mistakenly impale either one of them, and the world tilts again. With victory and sports-based support and the sort of love that comes from believing in something bigger.

And better than Emma could have ever imagined.

“I didn’t want to steal your thunder.”

“Please,” Emma scoffs, “don’t insult me like that. Plus, I’m claiming every one of those home runs as my own, so comparatively—” He kisses her before she can say anything else.

That’s for the best, probably.

“Your arms looked ridiculously good the whole time.”

Her laugh doesn’t even sound like her when Emma hears it played back — another video that someone tells her goes viral, only she doesn’t care about hits or site traffic, just about the particular shade of blue in Killian’s eyes, and she wears her medal to the game that night.

Because they’re a sports power couple, now.

Or so the New York Post back page claims the next day.

Emma frames it.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #hook heel #this is also apparently my 50th work on ao3 #which is just patently nuts #so if you guys have been clicking and reading all these words know that i am a little in love with you

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