#brief mention of capital punishment | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

autumnshighlady · 2 months ago

Text

I've Always Liked to Play With Fire (part 30)

NESTA ARCHERON X ERIS VANSERRA X FEMALE!READER

summary: it's three months since you married Nesta and Eris, and it's time for the Autumn Court to change. And the final piece of your plan begins to unfold

warnings: sexism, brief mention of SA

word count: 7.9k

DO NOT REPOST ANYWHERE

a/n: we're coming to the end of this fic, with likely only 2 more chapters left including an epilogue. there will be bonus chapters in the future, but things are beginning to wrap up. i thank you all for your support in this wild journey and hope you like where this ending is headed

part 1 // part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6 / part 7 / part 8 / part 9 / part 10 / part 11 / part 12 / part 13 / part 14 / part 15 / part 16 / part 17 / part 18 / part 19 / part 20 / part 21 / part 22 / part 23 / part 24 / part 25 / part 26 /

read on ao3

✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧✧

THREE MONTHS LATER

You had lost count of how many meetings you had partaken in this month. Not a day went by where some lord or another requested an audience. Luckily, Eris had renovated his father’s old meeting room, knocking down some walls and allowing more light to get into the previous damp, stuffy area. A sweet, chilly breeze cooled the skin on your face, a welcome contrast to the thick green gown you wore. Beside you, Eris wore robes of a similar colour, as did Nesta. The three of you sat at the head of the table, elegant goblets of wine in front of you as the Master of Laws continued his report.

“There have been reports from Crepusculum claiming that Lords Greaves and Bellsbury are leading an underground system of selling females as brides or…. other things… to a select group of nobles.” The Master of Laws said, flipping his parchment to the other side and squinting his wrinkled eyes. “The main buyers are of the families of Danvers, Alden, and Crofton.”

Eris curled his fists angrily beside you. “Ah yes, more of my father’s loyalists. It is unsurprising they wish to continue the Old Ways in secret. And treasonous. How many females have been taken and sold, Master Gallien?”

You sighed. Predictably, many of the Autumn Court resisted the changes implemented. Crepusculum, a rich town North of the capital, was home to many noble Houses who spearheaded resistance to these changes. Within a week of ruling, you, Eris, and Nesta had declared several new laws. These laws forbid the selling of females for marriage, as well as cracked down on harsher punishments for any abuse, rape, or other hateful crimes. Much to the anger of the nobles, your new laws also made room for females having greater claims to inheritance, as well as equal opportunities. Eris had warned you that the first few months would be bloody, with many challenging these laws and their punishment being made a spectacle. It churned your stomach to think of how many executions would happen, but deep down you knew it was necessary, for some of these males would not change.

Master Gallien muttered beneath his breath, searching through the several pieces of parchment in his hands. “It would seem… fourteen, your Grace. Fourteen females have been sold. Several from the noble houses, but apparently they have gone after a few of the lower class females as well.”

“Fourteen…” Eris mumbled. “And you can say for sure who these creatures are that have participated in this?”

The Master of Laws nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“My guards will escort your officers to Crepusculum. Bring forth everyone who has participated in such a scheme. Buyers, sellers, bystanders, all of them. They know the consequences of breaking our laws, and they will all pay the price for it. Death by dragonfire, I think, is suitable for these monsters.”

“Agreed,” said the new Master of Coin, a golden haired female named Joanna who had been appointed after her father, Josef, was kicked off of the council by Nesta for his unsavoury comments. Joanna carried herself with confidence, not batting an eye when Eris had approached her for the position. She was the first female to become a Master at the High Lord’s table in the History of the Autumn Court, a sign of good change.

You glanced towards the far end of the table on your right at the cloaked female, who gave the subtlest of nods, confirming Lord Gallien’s information to be correct. The new Master of Whispers was also one of Eris’s pick – a female named Deirdre who served as Eris’s main spy for over a century. She was a short, thin female with golden brown skin and thick black hair that was always put up in intricate braids. She had piercing yellow eyes that made even the toughest of males shy away from her. She was ever silent and ever watching, only speaking when needed but never failing to miss any details.

The rest of the royal council consisted of Lord Pellham, the Master of Ships and Trade, Lord Tarwel, the Master of War, and several notable advisors, politicians, and courtiers. All had served under Beron, but had bent the knee without question to you, Nesta, and Eris. Doubt had niggled at you at the thought of keeping Beron’s staff on your council, but Eris had reassured you. Deirdre will keep a close eye on them, my love, Eris had said. They won’t make a single move without her knowing. They value their life more than their remaining loyalty to my father.

“This will not be the end of it,” you spoke up, and everyone at the table turned their head towards you. “Crepusculum has been a consistent problem for us, and will continue to be until it is dealt with.”

“Dealt with how, your Grace?” Lord Tarwel spoke up. His tone was respectful and genuine, despite having served Beron for three centuries.

“We need more than just a few officers and guards,” you continued. “That city is infested with corruption. We need to clear it out, root and stem. Make a spectacle of going in and uprooting not just Lord Graves and Bellsbury’s operation, but dragging out the scumbags who partake in it by their hair and showing the others what will happen if we get even a whiff of their involvement in such illegal activities. One of us should go with our dragon, do the executions in the city centre where everyone can see. And assembling a team to go in and rescue not just the females in the operation’s captivity, but any other wives, sisters, daughters, or mothers who feel stuck in their situation and wish for a way out.”

The council was silent for a moment, exchanging glances. You held your breath, awaiting their reactions. Under the table, Eris’s hand gently squeezed your knee.

After several moments, Lady Joanna spoke up. “You speak harshly, but truly, High Lady,” she said strongly. “There are many clinging to the Old Ways who will be using that city as the centre of their web. Simply getting rid of Lord Graves and Bellsbury and their business partners is a short term solution, but you are correct that the problem will persist if we don’t take more drastic actions.”

One of the advisors, an aged man with a long grey beard coughed, voice trembling as he spoke up. “I understand your point, Lady Joanna, as I do yours, Your Grace. But some of those noble houses have been influential for centuries. They have been loyal to the crown for generations–”

“Not so loyal now, it would seem.” Nesta said, her voice cold as ice.

The advisor stuttered before continuing. “The… extermination… of such long standing houses would not be ideal. Their coin is valuable, as is their support–”

“Not if it comes at the expense of terrorising and abusing others,” you cut him off sharply. “We have other ways to generate coin and support. What does it say about us if we create these laws and then do not enforce them just because someone has an important family name?”

“Besides,” Nesta added, fixing a glare at the now trembling advisor. “We are not exterminating their houses, as you so inaccurately put it. These males have wives, no? Children? Siblings? We are not annihilating the bloodline of an entire house for the crimes of a few, Lord Uwen. Only the guilty will face fire and death, not the innocent. Unless you say that the House line can only continue through the male heirs?”

“Not at all, Your Grace…” He said quietly, bowing his head and sitting back in his chair with defeat.

Nesta lifted her chin triumphantly, as if daring others to challenge her. Even after so many countless meetings, it never failed to impress you how good at politics your wife was. “Good, then it is settled. Eris and I will take Athariel and Morgoth, plus a hundred soldiers to Crepusculum and deal with the situation. (Y/N), is the second quarter of Solaris ready to receive more people?”

You nodded. ‘Yes, my love. Zôrzimril will continue to guard the town while Lady Lirilla and I receive the females you escort back. Gwyn and Emerie will help get them settled in.”

After the wedding, Gwyn and Emerie had made the decision to leave the Night Court behind and stay in Autumn. It had pained them to not get to say goodbye to some of the other Valkyries, but the instability of the Night Court was not worth the risk of going back. Plus, Rhysand knew they were close friends to you and Nesta – while you didn’t think he would hurt them, you didn’t want to risk it.

Solaris was a new town that had become a project for you, Nesta, and Eris. Built from the ruins of an old temple, the three of you had decided to make it a safe haven for females not just of the Autumn Court, but of anyone seeking refuge. You wanted them to have somewhere where they could build a life in a safe place, rather than simply being kept within the confines of a safehouse or library, cut off from the normalities of life.

So for the last two months, construction had been taking place in the ruins by the river, transforming it into a small village that would be expanded upon as it grew. You, Nesta, and Eris had done much of the labour yourselves, getting covered in sweat and filth with the workers Eris had hired – workers who had baulked at seeing their High Lord and Ladies in simple trousers ready to get their hands dirty. Lucien dropped in frequently to help wherever he could, whether it be clearing out old bushes to build the foundation for a house or helping lift wooden panels onto the roofs.

Lirilla had also taken up a big role in helping Solaris. She had hired staff to assist the refugees in the main house, providing hot meals, help with cleaning, and counselling if needed. The main house served as a stage one for the females – a communal space with the option for bunking quarters or private rooms. Everything was designed with the help of Lirilla to be as inviting as possible, promoting independence but also providing assistance when needed. The Lady of Autumn constantly bustled around, making sure everything was perfect and talking to the guests in comforting, soothing tones. The main house was being expanded upon, with more and more beds being needed as the number of females fleeing their bad situations increased. Lirilla was also in charge of the trauma team, a group of healers and therapists who acted as the first point of contact for new arrivals to ensure they were not overwhelmed. Many originated from all walks of life – daughters of nobles, former maids, bartenders, all individuals who had known suffering and wanted to help.

Over the span of a few weeks, several houses were built. Some were small individual cottages while others were bigger, shared spaces. Once a female decided she did not need the assistance of the main house, they would be able to move to their own space, thus giving them the beginning of a new life while freeing up more space for others in the main house. It was a system you and Nesta had come up with together, with the help of Gwyn and Emerie. After only two months, Solaris went from a single refugee house to a small town with spaces for females to start their own businesses, supermarkets, activity centres, and more. Females had the option to work if they so choose, but it was not a requirement to maintain their spot in the town.

This had caused much outrage amongst the court, that their tax dollars would be helping fund this project. Eris had quickly squashed the anger, fiercling arguing that it was the least the noble houses could do to compensate for years of suffering inflicted upon their daughters and wives.

“It is settled then,” Eris said, clapping his hands together. “Nesta and I will leave with Athariel and Morgoth and our soldiers tomorrow at dawn. We will interrogate and prosecute those in the business of selling females. Any who are found guilty will be burned and fed to our dragons. (Y/N) will receive them at Solaris, and we will leave behind several guards and officers to make sure we have crushed this beast at its head.”

Nesta nodded, her long hair spilling down her shoulders and glistening in the afternoon light. “We must also not forget the meeting with the High Lords at the end of the month. Ensure we have everything we need ready.”

A murmur of agreements rose from the table, making you breathe a sigh of relief. The meeting was almost over. Your palms itched to get back to Solaris and work on the new stables. As much as you loved contributing to the council discussions, having Eris and Nesta there to take some of the pressure off really helped.

But anxiety began to work its way into your brain at the thought of the next High Lords meeting. Nesta had organised it, inviting every court ruler except for the Night Court. Rumours had quickly spread regarding the turmoil that Rhysand’s court was in. Thanks to Azriel’s spies, word had spread that the High Lord had planned on essentially sacrificing the Hewn City and Illyria to Koschei. While the shadowsinger did not reside in his former court anymore, he still had loyal eyes on the inside reporting every move. Several Illyrian camps were initiating uprisings, while Kier had claimed himself King of the Hewn City in defiance of Rhysand, and refused to let the High Lord enter his mountain.

But with such unrest came great danger to the innocent, that much you knew. To tackle the issue, all of the other High Lords were coming to the Autumn Court in two weeks to finalise a plan to safely get refugees out of the Night Court. With the looming threat of the Death God, every ruler knew that the only way Prythian stood a chance was to be united. Every night you tried not to think about the sick promise Rhys had made – Nesta’s life for Feyre’s. No doubt Koschei would be angry at the broken bargain and come to claim his prize, the Night Court and the Autumn Court being his most likely targets. Helion had been travelling to all of the courts, helping strengthen their wards and weave in intricate spells designed to keep enemies out. Thesan and Tarquin had been researching ways to help their cause, while Kallias and Tamlin worked together to build shelters and strongholds designed to wait out the incoming destruction. This next meeting would be the final runthrough of everyone’s plans, and the thought of it made you shake your leg nervously.

Nesta, having noticed your jitters while Eris droned on about logistics of the plan, spoke into your mind. What’s wrong?

I can’t stop thinking about him. You replied. About Koschei, how he’s coming for you. For all of us. It looms over me like a shadow, and I hate waiting on the edge of a battle I can’t escape.

Don’t do that to yourself. We will survive this, my love. Azriel is bringing the Harp and the Mask, and the Made Swords. We are not caught off guard by this and have time to prepare, time which we have used well. When he comes, we will handle it.

I thought the worst of this would be over.

You felt something tickle your hand. Peeking down under the table, a soft silver flame curled its way around your finger. You smiled.

It is, in a way. Nesta replied. We are facing this challenge as free females, not objects that are locked up until we are of use. Besides, you’re forgetting one very important thing.

And what is that?

You aren’t useless in this, you know. You are the Goddess of Life, the Mother incarnate. You brought someone back from the dead. You’ve already beaten death once, you will do it again. And you’re just now exploring what you can actually do with your magic, who knows what you’ll discover?

You knew Nesta was right. Every day, you tried to understand the powers Estelle had bestowed upon you. It was something you didn’t think you would ever understand, not fully. To consider yourself an incarnate version of Estelle seemed wrong – after all, you felt relatively normal. But deep down, you could tell there was an ancient song engraved in your bones, waiting to make its way to the surface. It felt like your body was but a cave, one that went hundreds of miles deep. And at the top, you could hear the faint trickling of water, carried from far away on a gentle breeze. But the further you fell into the cave, the stronger it became. No longer was the water trickling, but rather thrashing and pounding against the stone with the force of a thousand tidal waves. The gentle breeze became a harsh wind, a storm breaking way with thunder echoing to the ends of the world. So much power, in one body. The thought of it scared you, made you terrified to venture down that cave to face the storm. But you knew that no matter what, your powerful mates would be there holding your hands.

*********************

Grateful for the chilly Autumn breeze, you wiped the sweat off your brow before picking up the hammer to put another nail in the board. Dust and dirt covered your thankfully brown work trousers, made of a thick material that allowed you to kneel on the stone-floor alleyway of the barn without hurting your knees. The white tunic you wore was drenched in sweat, but was blissfully loose and light against your skin. Grunting, you hammered the nail into place, giving the wooden board a shake to check the sturdiness.

Satisfied, you grabbed the goblet of chilled water that an eager servant had brought you, downing the whole thing in one gulp.

“Pace yourself,” came Nesta’s stern voice from the other side of the stall. “We have plenty of staff already working on this barn, you don’t need to do the whole thing yourself.”

“Yes, but I like helping.” You huffed, dragging another large panel of wood off the floor and hoisting it up in line with the other one.

Nesta stood up from where she was measuring and cutting rubber mats for the stalls, resting her elbows on the top of the metal gate. You glanced sheepishly at her, taking a moment to admire her messy bun and dirt-covered face. “You’ll be no use to the females coming from Crepusculum if you’ve worked yourself to death,” Nesta said. “Take a damn break.”

Sighing, you let the wooden board fall to the ground with a clatter before slumping down onto the ground, letting your legs rest and pressing your back against the newly built stall wall. A familiar redheaded servant came scampering from around the corner with a fresh jug of water, smiling and nodding her head as she poured it into your empty cup. “Your Grace,” she said politely.

“Thank you, Adelaide.” You panted, giving her a smile. The female lit up with joy, which warmed your heart. No matter how many times you addressed her by name, it drew out the same elated reaction.

“My pleasure,” She curtseyed. “You’ve done well with the construction, my Lady. Can’t say we’ve ever had a ruler who has been willing to work with us labourers.”

You smiled again reassuringly, and Nesta spoke up. “Adelaide, would you mind getting some fruit and cheese for my wife? She has neglected to eat all afternoon.”

Adelaide’s eyes widened. “Of course, Lady Nesta. Right away.” With one last nod of her head to you, the female scurried away.

You were about to protest, but your stomach growled with hunger.

“That’s what I thought.” Nesta said smugly, coming to sit beside you. “Whatever would you do without me?”

“Die a tragic, lonely death.”

You received a sharp elbow in the side for your remark, and you both chuckled. You didn’t have to add that such a fate was almost met several times. Adelaide returned with a platter of food minutes later, and you suggested she bring a similar offering to Gwyn and Emerie, who were working in the main house with Lirilla. Smoked applewood cheddar, fresh grapes and apples, creamy brie, and red pepper jelly with crackers lined the golden platter, making you salivate.

Nesta slathered a spoonful of the jelly on her cracker with a thick slab of brie before popping it in her mouth. “This is delicious,” she mumbled. “A year ago I wouldn’t have touched any of this. Feels like a lifetime ago.”

You felt the weight of her words hanging in the air. “Things were very different a year ago,” you said quietly. “It’s been a year since my village was destroyed and Lucien took me to the Night Court. Who would have thought that this was where I’d end up?”

Nesta was quiet for a minute, as if a shadow hung over her head. “If you could change anything that happened, would you?” She asked after a while.

You thought about it, the timeline of the last year almost blurry. You hadn’t even realised that it was almost precisely a year ago in May when Hybern came for your village. Your entire life, your hopes and dreams, your plans for the future - all altered forever within that one hour. “Yes and no,” you answered. “I will always wish my parents and friends were still here. That will never go away, I think. But bad things happen, and we cannot change it now. Besides, everything that has happened led me to you and Eris.”

Nesta sighed, resting her head on the smooth wood behind her. She turned to look at you, a hint of sadness swimming in her grey eyes. “And you really think we’re worth that? That every horrible thing you endured was a price worth paying?”

It broke your heart a little to see your mate’s self-doubt. While Nesta had come a long way in her healing, there was still a way to go. The emotional wounds she carried seemed to linger, picking away at her brain and trying to bring her down. You knew the feeling.

“Yes,” you replied with reassurance, grabbing her hand and gently brushing your fingers over the stacked wedding ring set between her knuckles. Nesta smiled softly, picking up a grape and holding it up to your lips. Eagerly, you took it in your mouth.

“Well, aren’t you two a sight.” A familiar quiet voice made you and Nesta jump out of your skins. Whipping your head around to the barn entrance, your gaze landed on Azriel, who was leaning against the wooden beams with his arms crossed.

“Gods, Azriel,” Nesta snapped. “How long have you been standing there?”

He shrugged, hazel eyes flickering with amusement. “I figured I’d let you two finish up your moment.”

“You’re so fucking creepy, you know that, right?” You grumbled, picking the grapes off the floor that your knee had knocked over.

“So I’ve been told,” the Illyrian responded dryly, pushing himself off the beam and standing upright. “I am sorry to interrupt, but Gwyn told me I could find you both here. You’re wanted at the main house, Eris is on his way.”

You scrambled to your feet, brushing the sawdust off of your legs and fixing your hair slightly. Your husband hadn’t mentioned anything about a visit from Azriel today, making you worry.

“Is everything okay?” Nesta asked, echoing your thoughts.

“Generally speaking, yes.” Azriel replied, his tone giving nothing away. “I have news from the Night Court, and a delivery.”

Your breath hitched in your throat, and you exchanged a glance with Nesta. “The Troves and the Made Weapons?”

The male simply nodded stiffly, and you knew there was more but didn’t push it. Whatever it was, Azriel would likely wait until everyone was present to discuss it. Wordlessly, he turned to leave the barn, letting you and Nesta follow him.

It was a fifteen minute walk to the main house, one that was taken in silence. Nerves churned in your gut, unsure of what was to come. As if sensing that, Nesta placed her hand on your lower back, her comforting touch bringing you a moment of peace.

When you climbed the stone steps and reached the arching green doors of the main house, Azriel paused, turning around to face you and Nesta. “There’s also someone I want you to meet,” he said, voice laced with low seriousness. “She may be cautious and afraid, so be nice. Both of you.”

You both nodded, before opening the doors and stepping into the entrance hall. The large grey pillars in the hall were carved to look like trees, vines wrapped around them to create a welcoming environment. A small fire pit in the centre warmed the room, a few females scuttling about in the background under the low light.

But in front of the fire stood Lirilla, russet hair gleaming. Next to her was a small, winged female with long black hair that was braided behind her head. Her face was thin, and her hazel eyes wide like a frightened deer. Lirilla whispered something in her ear, and the female’s shoulders relaxed a little, but there was no mistaking the nervousness emitting from her. You couldn’t help but stare at the nasty scar that ran down her wings in the same spot as Emerie’s.

“My darlings,” Lirilla spoke up with a smile in your direction, her voice like warm honey. “How are the stables coming along? Not working yourselves too hard, I hope.”

“Slow but steady,” Nesta replied politely, pausing her steps a healthy distance away. You did the same. “They should be ready within a week or so.”

“Excellent!” Lirilla cheered.

Azriel stepped forward, and the dark-haired female smiled at him gently. With pride, he held out his hand and the female took it gently, coming up to stand beside him. “This is my mother, Roslyn.” Azriel said. “Mother, meet Nesta and (Y/N) Vanserra, High Ladies of the Autumn Court. Married to Eris, unfortunately.”

“Don’t be rude,” Roslyn scolded her son with a tone only a mother could possess before turning back to you and Nesta. She curtseyed awkwardly.

“There’s no need for such formalities,” Nesta said gently. “Especially here.”

Roslyn smiled shyly, letting go of Azriel’s hand. She stepped forward, straightening her spine and looking between you and Nesta. Her gaze was like fire, those hazel eyes burning with an untold story. She took your hand in her left one, and Nesta’s in her right. “It is an honour to meet you both,” she said firmly. “Azriel has told me so much about you. You poor things, you’ve been through so much…”

Azriel coughed awkwardly, placing a scarred hand on his mother’s shoulder. “Mother, we don’t need to get into this…”

“Hush,” Roslyn scoffed at him, ignoring her son. “I just want you both to know that you’ve done so much for females all across Prythian, and I thank you for it. You’re both so strong.”

Nesta blushed with embarrassment, shrugging modestly. “Well, it’s not hard to enact and enforce new laws in Autumn with two mates and three dragons behind you.”

The Illyrian female shook her head. “Not just in Autumn, darling. Everywhere.”

You frowned in confusion. “Everywhere?”

Roslyn’s hazel eyes lit up as she nodded. “It is not just word of your law changes that have been spreading amongst the courts. Everyone is talking about the High Ladies who are working among the lesser fae building a village for refugees. Even I hear whispers of it, all the way in my remote village in the mountains. You have inspired many.”

“We will discuss the impacts of your reign in our meeting with Eris.” Azriel interrupted her gently. The shadowsinger gave you a look, one that warned you to not continue that topic with his mother. An uneasy feeling stirred in your gut - Roslyn seemed like it was good news that was going to be shared, making you wonder if Azriel was not disclosing all the details with her.

“Of course,” Roslyn said, letting go of your hands and giving you both another small smile. “I must get going, I am helping Lirilla with baking. There’s much to be done, and I look forward to getting to know you both.”

She reached up and gave Azriel a kiss on the cheek before taking Lirilla’s arm, following her down one of the corridors. Once her crippled wings disappeared out of sight, Azriel let out a breath. “She will be dying to spend more time with you once she settles in, I promise. I apologise for the rushed introduction.”

“Is she coming to live here?” Nesta asked.

Azriel nodded. “If you’ll have her, yes. I want her as far away from the Night Court as possible given everything that’s happening. She has already seen enough horrors, and if she can be protected from that here, I swear to you I will be eternally in your debt.”

“There is no debt to be had, Azriel.” Your mate said gently, her eyes softened. “Of course she can stay here.”

The shadowsinger breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, truly.”

“What exactly is happening in the Night Court?” You asked, unable to hold the question back any further.

A sombre look came over Azriel’s eyes. “We will discuss it once Eris is here. I just didn’t want it brought up with my mother around. She… she doesn’t know just how bad things are, and I’d like to keep it that way until she’s settled.”

“Of course.” You replied. “I’ve never really heard you mention your mother.”

“Few know about her, not even Rhys knows where she has been living. She’s… uneasy around males sometimes. As much as I know you love Eris, it is why I hurried her away before he got here. Please, do not take it personally.”

“We understand,” Nesta said. You nodded in solidarity. With what Azriel had told you about the Illyrians, it was understandable that whatever trauma Roslyn had would make her nervous around males. It reminded you of why you created Solaris in the first place, and made you wonder how long it would take for this village to turn into a city of its own.

The sound of footsteps distracted you from your thoughts. You and Nesta both turned to see Gwyn and Emerie skipping across the room towards you. They each wore a soft chiffon dress with a square neckline and billowy sleeves - Gwyn in white, and Emerie in light green.

“Hey guys!” Gwyn squealed happily, giving you and Nesta a big hug.

“Hey!” You exclaimed through Gwyn’s tight squeeze. “What have you two been up to all morning?”

“Arranging furniture and decorations!” Gwyn said proudly.

“Correction,” Emerie scoffed, coming up behind the priestess and giving her a glare. Sweat dripped from her brow, and her dress had sweat marks on it. “I’ve been arranging the furniture, you’ve just been bossing me around and micromanaging the tiniest details.”

You chuckled, and Gwyn snorted. “It’s not my fault you have no eye for design and I have to tell you what to do.”

Emerie rolled her eyes good naturedly, giving Gwyn a light shove before turning to Nesta and you. “Azriel said we had to come to this meeting. Is it starting soon or can I return to my backbreaking labour?”

You frowned, turning to Azriel for an explanation.

“Just trust me, you’ll see why,” was all he said.

Right as Nesta began chatting with Gwyn and Emerie about the book selection for the library, the mighty doors of the hall creaked open, and that bond in your chest sang as Eris walked in.

“Ah, I see we are all here already. Lovely.” Eris clapped his hands together. “I cancelled an important meeting for this, Azriel. Best make it worth my valuable time.”

You rolled your eyes as Eris planted a quick kiss on your cheek, then Nesta’s. Your face flushed with red, and you avoided Emerie’s mischievous smile that you knew would make you laugh.

“Trust me, it is.” Azriel said. “Is the room secure?”

“Yes, but you already knew that.” Eris said sharply, eyes narrowing. “Why, may I ask?”

Wordlessly, Azriel reached into a pocket of shadows that had formed in the air beside him. In his scarred hand emerged a bundle of objects wrapped in a dark blanket. Instantaneously, the air thickened and grew heavy, an unsettling thrum of power coming from the blanket covered objects. Walking a few steps to a nearby table, Azriel set the objects down, the shadows carefully peeling away the blanket as if the things inside were ticking bombs.

Inside of the thick blanket was a golden mask, a harp, a mighty sword, and a small dagger.

Nesta sucked in a breath, her eyes glowing slightly as a humming sound emitted from the two Dead Troves and the Made blades in front of you. It was like a song of death and eternity, one that sang to the flames in Nesta’s blood. You saw her inch towards it, lured towards the objects like a sailor following the sound of a siren.

You and everyone else on the other hand, took a step back. Every part of you screamed to get away from the objects on the table. Their presence felt like oil on your skin, like lead in your bones - a rotting sickness of power yet a tempting allure at the same time. Beside you, Gwyn had tucked herself behind Azriel, her teal eyes wide with awe. The shadowsinger had an arm extended in front of her slightly, as if ready to shield her from anything the objects might do.

“Holy shit…” Emerie muttered.

“The Troves and Made blades possessed by the Night Court, as promised.” Azriel said.

Nesta blinked, as if breaking a spell between her and the objects on the table. “Rhys really let you just take them? Didn’t try and weasel his way out of our deal?”

Azriel’s face betrayed no emotion as he spoke. “Yes, right before he told me to never come back to his court. And for all his faults, his love for Feyre is enough to make him hand the troves and blades over with no resistance.”

“How is she?” Nesta asked. You could tell her voice was trying to remain neutral, but a hint of worry laced it.

“Recovering. Eris’s healers delivered her son, Nyx, a few days ago. She is in pain and will take a while to recover, but she is alive. As promised.”

Nesta breathed a sigh of relief, closing her eyes. You wondered if at that moment, she wished she could see her sister. Despite all that had happened, you knew a part of Nesta still held love for her family deep down.

“Speaking of bargains,” Eris interrupted, as if to draw the attention away from any emotion Nesta may have towards Feyre. “Any word on how Rhys is handling getting out of his deal with Koschei? I have no intention of letting a death God waltz into my court and steal my wife away because of a stupid deal he made with that bat.”

The spymaster shook his head. “No, he has bigger problems right now. That’s why I called this meeting.” Azriel took a breath, and it was the most hesitant you had ever seen the male. After weeks of him playing both sides, it had finally come for him to pick one. Whatever he was about to say was simply the final nail in the coffin that marked his betrayal to his home court.

“There has been extreme violence and rioting within Illyria and the Hewn City,” He continued. “The Night Court is a ticking time bomb on the brink of a civil war I fear it will never recover from. Everyone knows Rhys is losing control, and many hands are grasping for power and shedding blood over it.”

“We knew this already.” You said.

“My mother mentioned that you and Nesta’s recent changes and activities have influenced the other courts. She is under the impression that they are peacefully protesting for more rights and equality after seeing another High Lord and Ladies actually doing work to hel[ them. But that is only part of the truth. Several groups of females in the Hewn City have banded together, and have begun fighting back against the males. Refusing to consummate marriages, ignoring their husbands orders, things like that. And in Illyria, several females have poisoned generals or slashed their throats while they slept, demanding that if their High Lord and Lady do not fight for them, they will make sure there is no army left for them to use in battle.”

Emerie blanched beside you, looking like she was going to be sick. You felt the same, dreading Azriel’s next words that you knew were coming.

“Such unrest has not been…. met well, shall we say. Many females have died or been beaten as a result of their disobedience. But they keep fighting.” Azriel’s face was laced with sadness as he spoke.

“There’s not nearly enough females in Illyria for their tactic to work,” Emerie blurted out with tears in her eyes. “They will be slaughtered if they keep this up.”

Azriel spoke gently this time towards Emerie. “It seems they are willing to pay that price. They’re willing to die just to shed light on their situation and force their rulers to intervene. With no females, the army will not be sustained.”

“How many?” Emerie asked sternly, her voice thick with emotion. “How many have died or suffered worse fates than death as a result of this?”

“Eighty-two in the Hewn City, a hundred and thirteen in Illyria.”

Gwyn quickly moved out from behind Azriel to wrap her arms around Emerie, who stared blankly into the floor as a tear fell down her face.

“We have to get them out,” Eris spoke up, straightening his shoulders. “Before this escalates.”

“That is why I called this meeting,” Azriel said. “We are running out of time. The females are running out of time. It won’t take long for the males to crush this rebellion, despite the fact they’re fighting on two fronts: one against the females, and one against Rhysand.”

You let out a shaky breath. Just as you had planned all those months ago, the Night Court was in shambles. Rhysand’s rule was finally being questioned, his neglect of two thirds of his citizens finally being addressed – but at what cost?

“How do we get them out without entering the Night Court?” Nesta asked, crossing her arms. “We cannot cross their border to help the females, as good as the intentions are it would be considered an act of war, one we cannot risk invoking. While we have strategies with the other High Lords regarding passage into their courts, we do not have the same for the Night Court, nor have we told them how exactly we plan on ferrying the females out of Night.”

Everyone around the table went silent, the only sound being the crackling of the fire and the hum of the mask, harp, and blades. Every so often, Nesta’s eyes flicked to it, as if trying to ignore its call.

“A whisper network…” Gwyn’s quiet voice broke the silence. She straightened her spine, resting her hands on the table before repeating herself louder. “A whisper network could be the solution. Spread word amongst the females of Illyria in the Hewn City on how to escape and where to go if they want out.”

“That is a big risk, Gwyn,” Eris said carefully. “They could easily be caught, or followed. Many may be too frightened to leave.”

“But at least they’ll have the choice.” Your friend insisted with confidence. “Yes, it is a risk. Many might not make the journey, either by choice or chance. But I see no other way to do this without breaking the law.”

Eris cocked his head, contemplating the priestesses’s words before turning to Azriel. “How many connections do you still have to your spies in the Night Court?”

“Enough,” he answered. “I think Gwyn’s idea could work. If we have a solid plan and a route organised, we have a chance. But like Eris said, there’s a possibility they will be discovered and hunted down on their escape.”

“So we create a distraction,” you said, the idea forming. “Force the armies elsewhere. Even if the armies aren’t listening to Rhys as much anymore, they would still move to defend their home. All we’d have to do would be to draw them out, leaving not many left behind to guard the females.”

Eris shifted on his feet. “They could easily know it’s a trap.”

“Not necessarily,” Nesta piped up. “The Night Court knows it is hated by the other courts, just like they know that any perception of them being weak could be seen as an opportunity for others to invade. If we stage our own army to distract them just outside the borders, it would be believable. Especially if Tamlin’s army was with us.”

The next few minutes were filled with aching silence. You could see Eris’s mind turning, contemplating every outcome of the scenario presented by you, Gwyn, and Nesta. “It could work…” Eris said slowly. “And again, many females may be too afraid to leave. But at least it would be their choice.”

“We can discuss it at the High Lord’s meeting in two weeks.” Nesta insisted.

“It needs to be sooner.” Emerie said boldly. All eyes turned towards the Illyrian female. The tears in her eyes were gone, replaced with steady determination as she continued. “The females don’t have two weeks at this rate. The longer you wait, the more will be killed.”

“We can send out letters right now, requesting the meeting in two days.” You suggested. “Meanwhile, we can plan an escape route that takes them to the Eastern cove in the Day Court, just south of the Hewn City for those in the Court of Nightmares. And to one of the coastlines by the Illyrian Steppes for the Illyrian females - we can have ships waiting there. That way we can launch a distraction on the Western coast by Velaris to get the armies as far away as possible.”

Azriel perked up a bit, as if a flicker of hope was growing in his chest. “That’s doable. The road will be tricky, and difficult to navigate. It is easy to get lost. We’d have to leave some sort of trail, which is impossible.”

Nesta huffed in frustration beside you. With every step forward of your plan to help the females, a new complication arose. Without being able to step foot past the border, finding a way to guide the females would be difficult. Part of you wished you had Estelle for guidance.

Estelle.

An idea formed in your mind, a chilling re-realisation spreading over you. You and Estelle were one in the same – you did not need to seek her guidance, for it was already within you. As was the life-magic you now possessed.

“We may not be able to walk in and lay a trail, but magic could.” You said.

Eris quirked an eyebrow. “Elaborate, my love?”

You stepped back, taking a deep breath and ignored the puzzled looks everyone gave you. For weeks, you had been practising channelling your magic, trying to understand exactly what it was. You began to think of your magic as a light, a light that could be shaped and moulded into whatever you wanted – a sword for battle, a destructive blast, or simply a dust to bring life to a dying flower patch. So you summoned that familiar, warm light into your hands, and Gwyn and Emerie’s eyes widened. Within seconds, the light changed shape, morphing into a small, glowing white fox.

Eris let out a chuckle as the fox crept towards him, circling his feet before bounding down the hall, disappearing into mist before reaching the door.

“Since when could you do that shit?” Emerie asked, slack jawed.

“A few weeks now,” you replied. “I can control it pretty far, and am confident I could use my magic to create something for the females to follow.”

“Incredible.” Azriel muttered. “I could go over a detailed map with you, that way you know the exact route. Emerie, you know some of the Illyrian villages and passages quite well. You could help us out.”

Gwyn coughed, making Azriel turn towards her. You watched in amusement as she raised her chin defiantly and crossed her arms. “And what exactly can I do to help? Surely you won’t just have me sitting here on my ass. If you can get me to the priestesses, I can get them to help spread the word.”

“Absolutely not.” You, Nesta, and Azriel said at the same time.

She scoffed. “I will be helping. I don’t care if you’re my High Ladies, or my… companion. None of you get to stop me from helping see this through. I will find my way into the Library either with or without you.”

Nesta raised an eyebrow, and you knew she’d be grilling Gwyn about her slip up later. But the priestess stood firm, not backing down. Gone was the shy female who was afraid of the outside world. Gwyn would take down anyone who stood in the way of her and helping females avoid the same fate she suffered.

“Lucien can take you,” You finally said. “He’s the least likely to draw attention, and he’s been to the House before. I will get him to take you.”

Gwyn nodded. “Good.”

Azriel opened his mouth to speak, but a sharp look from the priestess shut him up.

“What are we going to do about the Troves and the weapons?” Nesta asked. “The sword and dagger I wish to keep for myself, but the harp and the mask… I have no interest in touching those things again.”

“We could ward them in the dragon cave,” Eris suggested. “Have the dragons guard them. If we need them for anything, you can summon them yourself. But only if absolutely necessary.”

Nesta nodded, her hands clenched. It was clear the mere presence of the Troves was affecting her, urging her to use them and their ancient magic. Your head was beginning to hurt from the thrum of their power. “Let’s get these blasted things away,” you said.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Eris concurred, rubbing his temples. “It is settled, then. Azriel, you will work with my love and Emerie on the escape routes for the females in the Night Court, then take Gwyn and meet with your spies. Once the route and timing is decided and confirmed with us, begin spreading the word. Nesta will send out letters to the other High Lords to move the meeting up, and I will arrange the army's movements to begin the distraction.”

This was it. The next few days would be the final step in the plan you had concocted months ago, the plan you never expected to succeed this far. After everything that had happened, this was the final hurdle you needed to jump. Just one more thing, you kept telling yourself. Just one more thing until you could finally feel at peace.

With a flick of Eris’s wrist, the Troves were gone, and everyone got to work.

taglist (comment if you want to be added): @queercontrarian @kitkat-writes-stuff @moonfawnx @sevikas-whore @weird-and-wise @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet @kingshitonly @ladyofcherries @eerievixen @readingwritingwatching @peacecoffeeandflowers @a-frog-with-a-laptop @shadowqueen25 @lana08 @highladyofillyria @rachelnicolee @ladespedidas @little-darlingo @manonblackbeakquidditchteam13 @demirunner @terorovaerangi @hauntedandhopeful @younxii @microwaveallthedemons @fanfictioniseverything @lovra974 @maddietheshoe @peaceandcrackers @emy1-99 @lostinfantasyworldsbi @issybee0611 @thoughtfulshepherdmongerkid @belledawnidk @whhyyynottt @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @littlebbb @piceous21 @sevendeadlyshins-blog @searchingford @marigold-morelli @thesapphiclibrarian @nikovasbitch @chasing-autumns-chill @the-sweet-psycho @honeysuckle-daydreams13 @red-bees @daughterofthemoons-stuff @bloodicka @blackgirlmagicforever @writeroutoftime @paleidiot @

44 notes · View notes

bloodredfountainpen · 6 months ago

Text

The Gift

Masterlist

My very first official whump piece, I hope it’s not absolute trash lol.

Contains/CW: bbu adjacent, pet whump, institutionalized slavery, caretaker new master, referenced past abuse, mention of noncon body modification, brief mention of whipping and resulting scars, brief nudity (non-sexual), nonhuman whumpee (kinda), self hatred of one’s body, brainwashed whumpee, morally dubious caretaker, accidental bad caretaker (Anthony has no tact), fear of torture/punishment, self dehumanization, self deprecation (both verbal and in thought), begging for mercy (granted)

Ella, if you’re actually reading this, please for the love of God don’t skim over the CWs, they’re really important! Also, and I know you already know this about me, but none of this is a sex thing no matter how bad it looks. I am a sadist, but not that kind of sadist.

I know that’s a lot, but I promise it’s not as bad as its sounds 😭, but lmk if I missed anything.

Premise: Anthony, a young man living alone who is generally ambivalent to the practice of keeping Pets, is suddenly gifted a dog boy that he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

(Pet capital P = a person who has signed away their personhood to ModiPets Inc and is now legally an animal, usually physically modified to take on animal characteristics, hence the ‘modi’ part. pet lowercase p = the standard definition of the word.)

————————————————————————————

Anthony liked living alone. That simple fact frustrated his mother to no end, which, he suspected, was the reason that there were two MP employees at his door asking him to sign for a Pet. Now, Anthony never really knew what to think of the whole Pet thing. Sure, they had their memories wiped and were dumber now, and sure they had consented beforehand, he just still couldn’t see himself ever owning one. Besides that, he didn’t know what he would do with a whole other person in his house. He had the space for it, sure, but as an introvert by nature, the thought exhausted him just thinking about it. Still, he knew that refusing to sign and sending the package back to wherever it came from would earn his mother’s ire and probably prompt a visit, which he wanted to avoid at all cost. And so, he signed. He hoped he would not come to regret it.

The employees helped him drag the box into his living room, and before they took their leave, they handed him a copy of the proof of delivery form. The form specified that the Pet was a hybrid Guard Dog/Platonic type with Level 2 Canine Modification and one previous owner. He hoped whatever was wrong with them to make their previous owner send them back had been fixed. He hoped that the ‘Platonic’ bit meant that the thing wasn’t feral. He hoped that the Pet hadn’t been modified to be too canine, since Anthony rather hated dogs. So many hopes for the Pet; Anthony felt kinda bad for expecting so much when he hadn’t even met them yet.

Also in this form, under the ‘other instructions/messages’ section, there was a note:

Happy belated birthday sweetie! I know this is a bit extravagant, especially along with the rest of your presents, but it was on sale and I couldn’t resist! You know how I worry about your safety, living on your own in the big city. This good little guard doggie aught to keep you safe and keep you company in that lonely apartment of yours.

Just like he thought; his mother’s meddling had once again inconvenienced him. Anthony scrunched the form out of frustration, before gingerly smoothing it out and sticking it in his kitchen junk drawer, reasoning that he might need it later.

Cautiously, he approached the box, and began to open it.

———————————————————————

Light streamed into G-22985’s box. This was it, he thought, this was the moment of truth. He had spent his entire time retraining waiting for the day when he would finally have a new Master to protect, a second chance, and now that was coming true. He couldn’t wait to have nice grass or dirt to sleep on, to be fed again after days in transit. He really hoped that he would be good enough to earn all that. After all, he didn’t deserve anything that he hadn’t earned. More so, he couldn’t wait to defend Master from any and all harm. If I guard Master well, he thought, then Master might keep me around this time.

He knew better than to look at Master’s face, and so he kept his gaze fixed on a point on the wall of the box, even as Master looked him over, scanning his body. Assessing his worth, he assumed. He wanted Master to think well of him, and that was a scary feeling. He knew he wasn’t supposed to want, that’s the reason Master Liam had sent him away, but this was different, because it was for Master’s sake and not his own selfishness.

After what was really only half a second, but seemed like hours to G-22985, Master turned away and exclaimed, “Oh god, you’re naked! Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare, I’ll go grab some clothes. Wait right there,” and with that, Master left. Having received his first order, G-22985 excitedly stayed put in the box, or at least he hoped dearly that that’s what Master had told him to do. He thought he might have heard Master wrong, because he seemed to have apologized to G-22985, and people don’t apologize to Pets. Even so, he stayed where Master had (probably) told him to. If he was wrong, he would be punished, and then he would know.

G-22985’s heart broke that his body was so revolting to Master. Pets don’t wear clothes, so if Master wanted him to, there must have been something really disgusting about him to be covered up. He had the sickening feeling that the whipping scars Master Liam had given him hadn’t faded as much as he thought. He often wished that those scars would disappear altogether, though he knew they never would. He wished he could forget everything about Master Liam, really, every curse ever shouted at him, every bit of pain caused to him. More than that, he wished to be good for New Master, wished so badly it hurt. This body belongs to Master, he reminded himself, whatever Master wants to do to me, he has that absolute right.

———————————————————————

Anthony’s heart was beating out of his chest as he rummaged through his closet looking for something the might fit the Pet. From the split second looked he’d got at him, Anthony estimated that the Pet was maybe a few inches taller than him, but significantly skinnier and yet somehow more muscular. With that in mind, he selected a soft hoodie and pair of sweatpants, his cheecks turning red with guilt at having looked at another man nude without his permission, and also embarrassment that he’d found the Pet attractive. Did that technically make Anthony a zoophile? He didn’t think so.

He hurried back to the Pet, tossing the clothes into the box while turned away, and nearly shouted, “Put these on! It’s ok, I’m not looking.”

He heard the sound of cloth shuffling, which quelled after around a minute. “Are you done? You can come out of the box if you’re done,” Anthony said, throwing the sound over his shoulder. He heard the Pet stumble out of the box, and turned to face him, only to find the Pet kneeling with his head to the ground. Anthony sighed.

“Would you mind standing up? I want to get a look at you,” he asked, trying his best not to let his frustration show. He would rather be doing literally anything else right now, but that wasn’t the pup’s fault. The Pet seemed to tremble for a moment, before scrambling to his feet. Anthony looked him up and down, finding he was correct in his estimation of the Pet’s height. The Pet’s pitch black hair had been buzzed short, and of course, a thin white collar had been fastened around his neck. Sitting atop his head were a pair of fluffy dog ears, those of a German Shepherd, if he were to speculate on breed, and the outline of a tail stuffed down one leg of the pants was visible. The sides of the Pet’s head, where his human ears would normally be, was smoothed over and covered by hair. How intriguing.

It bothered Anthony that the Pet still kept his head bowed, so after taking a moment to gather his courage, he took the Pet by his chin and tilted his head foreword, but the Pet flinched and his eyes remained squeezed shut. Anthony quietly commanded him, “Look me in the eyes.”

———————————————————————

G-22985 flinched as Master grabbed his chin. He knew he wasn’t supposed to react negatively to Master’s touch, so he braced for a strike to correct his error, but no such strike came. He mentally scolded himself, since the Handlers weren’t around to do it: Bad Pet! You’re a worthless excuse for a Pet! You’d better hope Master doesn’t send you back for being so useless! You’re nothing but a defective disappointment!

As much as G-22985 hated to think of himself that way, he knew that he had to remind himself somehow. He always had a hard time remembering his place, thinking he was a person, sometimes even trying to escape. I tried to escape from Master Liam, and look where that got me. Refurbished and resold, like an object. He didn’t know why the thought of being an object made him so mad; that’s what he was, after all. He knew he probably needed more retraining, because even after the Trainers had taught him how to be good again, he had only been at this new place for a little while already been bad! What a disgrace of a Pet he was.

He shut his eyes tight as Master tilted G-22985’s chin upwards, he didn’t want to accidentally look at Master’s face.

“Look me in the eyes,” Master ordered him, but that was bad! He was never to look Master in the face, never mind the eyes! But, Master had commanded, and he had to obey Master’s commands.

Making up his dumb Pet mind, he reluctantly obeyed and looked into Master’s eyes. Instead of the coldness, anger, or blow to the face that he was expecting, he saw an analysis that he recognized. Master was studying him, which was good as far as G-22985 was concerned, it meant that Master hadn’t made up his mind yet. It meant that maybe he still had a chance to be good.

———————————————————————

God, the Pet was even hotter up close. Anthony felt extremely wrong for thinking that, but it was true. The Pet’s deep brown eyes captivated him, so full of fear. He made note of a scar on the Pet’s lips, a small vertical line which started above the top lip and finished below the bottom lip. Considering everything that Pets went through for their training, it was a miracle that that was the only defect. He suddenly didn’t think he could bring himself to treat the Pet like, well, a pet. Which raised the question: what in the world was he going to do with him? He certainly couldn’t send him back, both for fear of his mother, and for fear for the Pet’s safety.

Anthony broke eye contact and removed his hand from the Pet’s chin, causing the Pet to fall back to his prostrated position. Anthony chuckled under his breath at the Pet’s ridiculous display, causing the Pet to flinch, and Anthony to recognize his mistake immediately. “I’m gonna order Pizza for dinner. You can eat Pizza, right?” he asked, making an effort to be gentle.

“Whatever pleases you, Master,” the Pet said automatically. This unnerved Anthony, but he didn’t have the energy to address it right then. Whatever conditioning the Pet was under, Anthony wasn’t even sure it was his place to undo it. The Pet had signed up for it, so clearly he wanted to be like that. Though he supposed that the Pet belonged to him now, so he could do whatever he wanted with him.

That thought sent a pang through Anthony’s chest as he looked down to the Pet, kneeling loyally on the floor before him, not daring to raise his head.

“Listen, you can sit on the couch until the Pizza gets here, ok?” he told the Pet, not really expecting an answer, but surprisingly, the Pet’s trembling voice quietly rose from below. It was a pitiful sound, like a scared dog during a thunderstorm.

Anthony didn’t know what to do, he wanted to comfort the Pet, but how? How in the world does one comfort a person they a) just met, and b) literally own? He supposed that, if the Pet had been trained to act like an animal, maybe petting him would work. And so, as much as he was dying of embarrassment to do so, Anthony crouched down and caressed the Pet across his head, finding his hair (fur?) quite soft and pleasant to the touch.

———————————————————————

G-22985 couldn’t take it anymore. Yet again, Master had ordered him to behave as a person rather than a Pet, and yet again, memories of his time in training flashed through his mind. Memories of electricity coursing through his neck, memories of his Handlers’ voices in his newly sensitive ears. He remembered a lesson he had, one of the first he had ever been taught, that he was never to sit on furniture because furniture is for people, and he was just a lowly Pet. He remembered being beaten within an inch of his worthless life when he had forgotten this rule while serving Master Liam, he could have sworn he could still feel the blows land even months later. He just couldn’t bring himself to break that rule again. But still, Master had ordered him, and he couldn’t disobey. Master Liam had given him double binds like this too, and he hadn’t known what to do then. Now he knew though, he also knew he was being a coward, not able to take a beating like a good Pet should. He just couldn’t bring its body to move, knowing what was coming. He was being so bad! Bad, bad, bad, bad…

G-22985 didn’t realize he had been whimpering until Master crouched down and touched his hair, petting him right between his ears. He was glad, he finally had the opportunity to be good. He leaned into the touch, careful not to deviate from his position while still demonstrating the required level of appreciation for Master’s affection.

He felt good to be touched kindly after his intense refurbishing. He dared to think that maybe he would be ok here, if Master was touching him like that. This meant that Master wanted a pet and not just a guard dog, that maybe Master would give him more of these kind touches, if he was good. There was a reason he was part Platonic, right? But Master was being so confusing, one minute ordering him to cover himself because he couldn’t stand the sight of his repulsive body, the next touching him so gently. Master had given him a trick order, but then when he had been bad, as he was doomed to be, Master had touched him like only a good Pet deserves to be touched.

The horrifying realization struck G-22985 as Master continued to pet him; it hadn’t been a trick order, it had been a test, which he had failed. He had failed by putting on the clothes, he had failed by standing up, and only when he remembered his place and stayed on the ground had Master rewarded him with affection. He had been so caught up in being good and obeying Master, that he had forgotten how to be a proper Pet. He knew that Master knew this too, and he knew he was in for the punishment of a lifetime. Still, Master was touching him so kindly, so maybe if he begged, he had a chance of lessening the inevitable hell.

———————————————————————

Suddenly, the Pet stopped his shaking and completely froze. His whimpering turned to sobs, “I know ah-I’ve b-been bad-d, I have f-failed Master’s tests-ts and n-know I deserve p-punishment. I w-will be a good P-Pet, I pr-promise! I will d-do anything to m-make Master happy, I will f-f-follow-w any order g-given, I will n-never be bad, only good! I will k-keep Master ab-absolutely s-s-safe and ha-happy, I swear. I beg of you to-to h-have mercy on-n this-s pathetic cr-creature!”

Anthony was perplexed. He wondered what in the world he’d done to make the Pet think he was in trouble. Had it been the petting? He wished his mother had warned him before sending him the Pet, at least then he could have read the damn online manual. But no, now he had a crying Pet kneeling at his feet, begging for mercy over some perceived infraction. Anthony sighed, and the Pet flinched and went silent. Anthony couldn’t help it, he sighed again, and predictably, the Pet flinched. He would have to get that habit in check.

“Pet, what do you think you did wrong?” Anthony asked, hoping to get a better idea of what was going on in his head.

The Pet’s voice was quiet and strained, but still he answered, “I p-p-put on clothes, Master, which-ch is bad. I st-stood up on my h-hind paws, Master, w-which is bad. I fl-flinched at your t-t-touch, Master, which i-is bad. I know what I did-d w-was bad an-and I d-d-deserve to be p-punished, yet I b-beg your m-mercy, Master.”

Oh, Anthony realized, this is my fault.

He whispered softly to the Pet, trying his best not to be frustrated, and just now getting the inkling that he might have been in over his head, “Hey hey, it’s alright. You’re not in trouble, I’m not going to punish you. You don’t have to sit on the couch if you don’t want to, I just thought it might be more comfortable than the floor. Just, please stop crying, ok?”

The sobbing abruptly halted, and Anthony resisted the urge to sigh again, as he knew he’d been anything but comforting. Also, his plan of ‘Pizza at the table and talk about what the fuck we’re going to do’ would have to be adjusted, seeing the Pet’s reaction to being invited to sit on the couch. Anthony had the sinking feeling that mealtime would be an even bigger hassle. He had no idea what he could possibly do to get the Pet to, if not trust him, then at least give him the time of day without expecting retribution. He decided to give the Pet some space while he thought things over.

“I’m just going to sit over there and order the pizza, you don’t have to go on the couch, but you don’t have to stay kneeling like that either. Just… sit how you’re comfortable,” Anthony instructed as he slowly got up from the floor.

“I remember my pl-place, Master, a lowly P-Pet like m-me knows not-t to sully the f-f-furniture, I’ll b-be good,” he declared in more of a plea than a statement, his voice barely above a whisper and still clearly choked up from crying.

Anthony shrugged and moved to a nearby armchair. He made a point of not looking at the Pet, even though he really wanted to, but even so, the Pet didn’t dare move a muscle from his position. Well, if the pet didn’t want to move, Anthony wasn’t going to force him. He ordered the pizza, and then went to the MP website and brought up the online Owner’s Manual. What he found was, in one word, sickening.

Anthony didn’t live under a rock; he knew that Pets didn’t have it easy, but this was nothing but gratuitous cruelty. The ethos of the manual seemed to be all stick and no carrot, to put it nicely. The manual specifically advised to punish behaviors which were person like, such as sitting on furniture, which really put the past half hour into perspective. That poor pup. There is no way in hell I’m doing any of that, thought Anthony as he read further and further, but the question remained, what am I going to do then?

#whump #pet whump #bbu adjacent #caretaker new master #noncon body modification #morally dubious caretaker #whump writing

46 notes · View notes

scariercnidaria · 6 months ago

Text

CRIME & PUNISHMENT: THE CULPABILITY OF THE FAMILY, PSYCHIATRY AND THE STATE

before we begin i would like to give a brief trigger warning for discussions of mental health, violence and crime including abuse and sexual assault, and misogyny. I have tried not to linger gratuitously on any one subject but they are mentioned, unavoidably so.

If you are forced (as I am) or otherwise choose to listen to local radio for long enough now, you will eventually hear an advert by my local police. The contents of the advert, it's more like a PSA, but they are something like the following... ohh when you see violent crime, it affects all of us. It affects all of us, it's very bad when violent crime goes on. Please report violent crime to the police, the police who will definitely do something about it. These are *our* streets, and you can help take them back. Report it to the police, who never commit violent crime themselves.

These are our streets. It was that bit that stuck out to me the most. These aren't their streets. The advert positions the listener in opposition to these outsider-criminals. Is inline with the typical conservative view of crime and also criminals being something that spontaneously and inevitably appears in a society, almost as if through abiogenesis, and the only thing to be done is to take a tough stance on law and order. Be tough on crime, whatever that means.

Of course the PSA was explicitly and specifically calling out for action against violent crime. I think most Marxists come to the table already having come to an understanding of the social nature of certain nonviolent crimes. Ask a communist or more broadly an anarchist what their views on shoplifting are and they should say its cool and based-- its not praxis and it's not moral but it doesn't have to be, it's simply a fact of life that not everyone will have the money to pay for things under capital.

Sometimes the liberal-progressive will agree with you up to a point where they hit you with the "no bc actually the companies take it out of their employees wages so youre not actually hurting the man" at which point you hit them back with the "that's illegal for them to do that" to which "yeah they do it anyway" and now the liberal has demonstrated an understanding of the contradictions of bourgeois law, so congratulations, but the crux of the matter is that shoplifting isn't praxis so it doesn't matter.

The tory kind of crime culture is something that must be combatted and sometimes goes overlooked by communists. But it is eminently important to certain layers of the population and must be addressed. Mostly petit bourgeois and their neighbourhood watch it must be said - but for those who are drinking deep from the law and order Kool Aid on lawbreakers/troublemakers/whathaveyou, they really care about it and we need to be able to explain our position in a way that isn't just whatabouting the white collar criminals in the banks and government.

Because while it may be true that wage theft is more impactful to the average person than robbery it still doesn't assuage the fears of those to whom we might propose, for some point far along in the future, to "abolish the prison industrial complex" or "stateless society" and hear "anarchy! anarchy!". The cult of law and order must be dismantled, brick by brick.

So: on violent crime. I want to return to a phrase I mentioned earlier; the "outsider criminal". This is a common distortion of reality, and pure idealism with no material base. Take any category of violent crime and largely you will find that it is far more likely for abuses to have been committed by people known to the victim than by a stranger. Most kidnappings are by one of the parents over custody disputes. Most severe cases of child abuse, torture and exploitation occur in isolated family units. Most rapes are committed by a friend, acquaintance or partner.

Flying in the face of reality, the fearmongering over the unknown emerged in 1979 beginning with the kidnapping of Etan Patz and followed by a spate of high-profile child kidnapping cases. CBS Evening News in 1982 informed the American public that "up to 50000 children were being kidnapped by strangers each year", a number that journalists, social psychologists and government officials had assured the public was highly inflated by the mid 1980s. But a hysterical wave had already overtaken the American people.

There was the perception that society was becoming increasingly unsafe, and something had to be done about it. But in reality by the end of the 1970s the crime rate was already falling. At the same time, deindustrialisation battered New York and some two million white Americans fled the city for the suburbs.

And with the social-cultural backdrop manufactured by the bourgeois news media it was nevertheless responded to with bulked-up policing at the same time as austerity. The Reagan administration gained consent to build a number of new prisons in California the number of prisons doubled in the decade of the 1980s, where previously it had taken 70 years to construct even half of that number).

These prisons did nothing for crime; the most obvious trend observable was that as the number of prisons increases, there are a greater number of prisons. They were an abject failure in their stated mission, but highly lucrative for shareholders.

Of course there are the social impetuses around the experience of being incarcerated that make recidivism more likely; the "networking opportunities" that lead to disorganised, petty criminals coming into contact and making connection with more experienced, organised criminals on the inside.

The skills decay, "gaps in employment" and legal discrimination faced by those with arrest records once they are on the outside. The disenfranchisement of felons. The income lost while incarcerated or stolen by police upon arrest, or spent on legal fees that must be recouped sooner rather than later. But often the psychological effects can be side-stepped by our movement.

There is perhaps a tendency to focus on certain kinds of offender (property crimes, non-violent drug offences), which is easy but tired, and can provide opponents with a "gotcha!" when confronting us with the question, for example, "what do we do about murderers and pedophiles?"

Of course the quick answer is that Leninists are not for the immediate abolishment of all carceral systems (but people did get paid in the gulags, so it isn't slave labour like usamerican prisons). But rhetorically that can feel like backpedalling, and it is useful to be able to explain the full and complex picture of crime in current society.

On the other-hand, there is also a tendency to shoehorn every single violent crime into the category of "mental health concern" while downplaying ideology as a factor. The western individualist petit-bourgeois centre cannot comprehend having a cause that one is willing to die or kill for. This incredulity serves to tourniquet both arms of politics: the courage and conviction of Aaron Bushnell's self-immolation is minimised, the ideology driving it reduced to fine print beside a suicide hotline, and the vile stochastic terrorism of far-right demagogues and incel forums are obscured behind lone-actors reacting to "male loneliness".

The case of right wing terrorism is particularly prevalent, because right wing terrorism itself is particularly prevalent at the moment. Conversely, in the era of the 70s when left-wing terrorism had its day in the sun bourgeois demagogues had no trouble denouncing the dangerous radicalism of the anarchist and Maoist coalitions. Meanwhile at present we see the woobification of mass murderers like Elliot Rodger or Kyle Rittenhouse or the Columbine shooters Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris as misunderstood, victims of bullying, merely suicidal in their pre-actions instead of the fermenting Hitlerites that from their journals it is clear that they were.

It was Sue Klebold, in fact, Dylan Klebold's mother, who was the one to launch a media campaign in the wake to have her son painted as a victim. It was her book-- a NYT Bestseller-- and years later the TED talks too that were major contributors to this brand of disinformation. I don't think I need to tell comrades here that there are plenty of mentally ill people who are not violent, who are violent only against themselves, or who are violent in ways that are not better explained by an ideology that encourages the dehumanisation of other people.

This is not to do a "no true mad person" fallacy on it-- as in certain cases perhaps mental illness will be the framework through which someone's actions are best understood-- but pathologising categories of action as default, far from turning them into something able to be treated, lends itself to helplessness in prevention. In the cases of far-right terrorism, it is the ideology that is the catalyst.

The class instincts of the bourgeoisie will always be to protect their own, over the out-group. Capitalism sublimates other identities below the class-instinct, such that even women become defenders of misogyny, POC of racism, gay people of homophobia; all of whom by this mechanism defenders of capital. It is not necessarily *in*conceivable why; in a survival situation it is much more helpful to be a member of the bourgeoisie than a member of a proletarianised minority group, this ought to be clear.

But dialling the extremity of our cases back some, and revisiting a recent phenomenom in greater depth: what is this so-called epidemic of "male loneliness" but a different expression of capitalist alienation as Marx described all those years ago? If not the very same? Of course the solution to this problem is, in that case not a consolidation of the patriarchy-- expecting women to bear the brunt of violence is itself a kind of interpersonal reformism. Like "oh, if women don't like these men they should enter relationships with them and try to push them left from the ground up". To suggest that would be as ridiculous as suggesting the same for proletarians in collaborationist parties.

In a similar vein, it is clearly nonsense to suggest that it is the bourgeoisie who gets the shortest (or even an equally short) end of the stick under capitalism, as it would be to suggest that men get a shorter or equally short end of the stick under patriarchy.

Alienation does not compare to exploitation. Alienation precludes connection, fulfillment, wellbeing; but such a condition is not the sole burden of the exploiter (the proletariat experiences alienation from their labour far more acutely than the bourgeoisie; the women who the alienated men around them are unable to connect with suffer at least as much from that particular disconnect as the men do. Of course there are unique experiences, and to every party the suffering felt is real-- this is not being said to dismiss it).

But to recognise this fact is not identity politics, it is a recognition of the material realities and contradictions of capitalism and the various compounding and nuanced oppressions that reinforce it in order to create as an accurate a picture as possible of the Hydra we are facing. To deny men the ability for consciousness, on the other hand, to use their own experiences and relate that suffering to the broader ailments of society, and to subsequently divide the struggle on any lines other than class-- the superidentity through which all other forms of oppression express a material form, however, most certainly is.

The exact contradiction faced by working class men which leads to their alienation from each other and the rest of society is the combined experience of having a foot up when it comes to the patriarchy, while simultaneously being crushed under the boot of capitalism in their experience as labourers.

This contradiction will, depending on the man and the environment in which he finds himself, go one of two ways: either a redoubling of the patriarchy, which may compensate his individual lack of control in the professional sphere but represent a concession to bourgeois ideology that can only feed-back into greater alienation from his fellow humans, entitlement to the women around him; a rotting cope that cannot resolve, will not save him and will change nothing for his children. Or in the realisation of his position under capitalism, as in class consciousness. Only the latter is capable of providing a way forward.

Patriarchy serves capitalism historically as the commodification of women and their confinement to the domestic sphere provides a vast well of labour that is able to go unpaid, labour that is vital for the reproduction of the next generation of proletarians and used to be reflected in the wages of the husband.

Then came the proletarianisation of women (which is perhaps a misnomer-- certain layers of women, the poorest, among whom was particularly black and immigrant women, had always been working) and perhaps moreso with the right of women to open up their own bank accounts independent of a husband-- and thus accumulate their own capital, have their own inheritors. This of course was a progressive step as opposed to the formal slavery of women that came before. Now they were free to enter into wage slavery as the men were.

This-- the feminist 2nd wave-- and the rise of what we colloquially think of as liberal ideology (not the classical liberalism of for example Thomas Hobbes or Steven Crowder) was correlated with the decline of the family unit, a pattern that is real, and correctly identified as real by reactionaries but wrongfully attributed to the aforementioned ideological developments. In reality it was the greed of employers at the potentiality of a new and untapped source of labour in women that finally overrode the antiquated prejudices of the bourgeoisie, as they realised they'd be able to pay women less and pit the now even more saturated labour market against each other to drive wages down.

However, it soon became impossible to support a family on a single income as it had been throughout the 50s and 60s.

This, being the precursor to as reactionaries identify it "the degeneration of the family", was not-- as reactionaries identify it-- the fault of women but of manifold factors, including: the deindustrialisation ongoing since the 50s in places such as Detroit as auto manufacturers left or soon to go on in New York state, and the north of England and in Wales under Thatcher here at home-- which was in turn driven by the emigration of these manufacturing jobs to newly open and exploitable markets in the global south, the declawing of the unions, the inevitable slowdown of the post-war boom, and the market organisation of labour in the first place.

These developments were bound to place even more stress on what was already a fundamentally fragile social unit in the first place-- the nuclear family.

Even prior to it's decline and the successes of 1st and 2nd wave feminism, the nuclear family had been a tenuous and unstable building block on which to structure a society. Marx wrote of the flaws of bourgeois marriage-- community of women, union based on accumulation, the consequent alienation-- which had been evident even in his day.

And on the eve of what we may consider the old order overturned, the sunset decades of traditional Americana in the 1950s and early 60s, there was still the stereotype of the valium-addled housewife & mother and the disciplinarian salaryman husband & father.

But such a structure can only ever reflect the conditions of the society in which it exists; this society is of course the dictatorships of the liberal bourgeoisie and all its flaws. The contradictions between the "united front" of the parents over the children, while the mother/wife is exploited in the domestic, and in marriage generally, and finds dominion over the children, the husband/father too is exploited in his work, and finds dominion over the wife.

It is this that was promised implicitly to young men, and this that the more reactionary layers of them wish to RETVRN to, yet is impossible under the current conditions-- even if women were willing to enter into relationships with them. Every "trad" influencer you see online is being kept afloat by egregious generational wealth.

And the structure is one absolutely primed for abuses. "Nuclear" is an apt metaphor, the power struggle between the subatomic forces will necessarily lead to conflict and reckoning, fission and decay. The disenfranchised child is sole property of their parents, the wife property of her husband. Both husband and wife chained by bureaucratic and financial pressures and obligations that may not inherently cause but facillitate and exacerbate abuses, and forces each party to endure past the point when individually and free of constraint they would choose to leave.

When exploitation of a child occurs outside of the immediate family it is usually by trusted adults wielding social (or actual) capital. On the occasion it is perpetrated by a stranger, it is always the lack of agency felt or experienced by the child that is preyed upon and manipulated.

It is with this understanding of the family that we must approach one of the dominant paradigms in contemporaneous psychiatry-- that is, the parental blame game-- and its incompleteness.

It might surprise you now for me to say that I do not believe the family's flaws to be an adequate explainer of mental illness on their own.

Other than the biological approach, this is perhaps the framework of psychotherapy one is most likely to encounter. Not for no reason-- it is inarguable that the actions of caregivers during developmental years have a profound effect on later wellbeing. It just so happens that under capitalism and especially western individualism (which is an ideological cornerstone of capitalism itself) the purview of "caregiver" is reduced to the role of primary and secondary, of most commonly mother and father. That the onus for raising a whole human being-- multiple, even-- should fall on just two individuals is not a natural law but a result of current cultural conditions. It takes a village to raise a child, after all.

A child that is unisolated, is listened to and taken seriously, who is and has always been free to leave a situation in which they are uncomfortable, and who has a wide network of support that is simply not feasible under capitalist alienised-atomised living, is far more difficult if not impossible to victimise. There is a reason that Engels included childcare and early childhood education in his Principles of Communism, there is a reason the Bolsheviks instituted those, as well as freedom of divorce and abortion, almost as soon as they came to power.

That the blame should be placed entirely on one or both of the parental unit is not just a convenient scapegoat for the bourgeois influences out of the parents' control, but a fundamentally unhelpful tactic especially in reaching certain layers of the proletariat who come to the table with an understanding that their parents had done the best that they could in raising them, given the circumstances, and will not hear badly against them.

In a not insignificant number of cases this is not an incorrect one-- they may not consciously realise it but those circumstances of course are capitalism. "Man makes his own choices but does not do so in conditions of his choosing" - this was Marx's conception of human nature. It is the pedestal on which nuclear parenthood is placed which lends itself to disappointment.

But think as well of the bourgeois child, who grows up with all the advantages of wealth and none of the traumas of poverty. They are sooner raised by a nanny or governess than their own family, with the influence of the parents elevated to a non-presence hanging over the entire childhood. What does the child learn but that love and care is a commodity to be bought and sold, hired from the underclass?

Capital is substitute for connection. Perhaps in this way-- and in the simultaneous recognition of the lie of meritocracy-- it can be understood that capitalism does not merely reward sociopathy (which would imply that individual traits have any bearing of the makeup of executive boards), but *breeds* it.

It is not necessary for us to distinguish between whether or not an individual member of the bourgeoisie is "really" ASPD (the clinical term for sociopathy) or NPD (Narcissitic Personality Disorder). It is also not necessary to particularly worry about the stigmatising effects of "mis"-using such labels in such a way, as these labels were invented in the first place to stigmatise people displaying certain groups of behaviour.

(The technique for remembering which PD cluster is which is still "Mad, *Bad*, Sad", after all. It is difficult, knowing this, to believe the puported scientific non-bias of psychiatry as a practise, given the sweeping moral condemnation of some of its most vulnerable patients. It is impossible to destigmatise the word "narcissist"; it's like naming it "Irredeemable Abusive Asshole Disorder" and then being surprised when people throw it around as a pejorative against anyone they don't like. If they gave a shit they would have called it what it is, which is "essentially CPTSD but we don't like your coping mechanisms and we would rather discard you as a person entirely than attempt to understand the nuances". But I digress:).

For the members of the bourgeoisie whose actions may be described as sociopathic from the outside, they are functionally the same and might as well be called as much. I would indeed suspect, however, that a significant proportion of "sociopaths" among high level executives may not be so in the strictly clinical sense; diagnostic criteria and treatment for personality disorders still tend to operate off the assumption that once personality has developed it becomes intrinsic and unable to be meaningfully improved-- such was the original conceit of the distinction between Axis I and Axis II (major psychiatric VS personality disorders) in the DSM-- but more recent findings challenge this assumption. Through the dialectic-- the process of development of human thought-- we also understand that the self as everything is constantly in motion.

These informal sociopaths in executive positions, therefore, may better have their condition (and "condition" here as in the non-clinical sense) explained by various "ism"s-- classism that allows them to dehumanise their employees, sexism that allows them to dehumanise their wives and pay women employees less for the same work, racism that allows them to dehumanise their constituents or, in the case of redlining bankers, hopeful borrowers. Their own bourgeois ideology above all that allows them to justify it all to themselves: through meritocracy, through bootstraps-isms, through trickle-down economics, through American and broader western exceptionalism, through plain straight denial-- this particular magical thinking, *this* disconnect from reality, is not termed psychotic by the status quo.

Culturally we see certain allowances made for yet more aspects of bourgeois ideology too. Believing in aliens, or ghosts, or angel-number universal energy is considered cause for psychiatric concern. Believing in God is not. As Marxists we understand that all of these are idealism, but liberal ideology is unable to reconcile the contradiction.

With the pathologisation of discrete actions, which had started with suicide (of which there is still declared to never be a logical reasoning behind, even in the wake of Aaron Bushnell's protest, even in less clear cases where the Samaritans themselves recognise something called "Shit Life Syndrome", from which suicide could be construed a protest against the conditions of capitalism itself) and which has not yet extended to religiosity in general, it has yet diffused across all manner of behaviour-- some perhaps genuinely useful as markers of psychological processes that are more difficult to measure, as in sensory avoidance for one. But increasingly many others rendered completely meaningless by pop-psych content farms, according to whom for example sleeping in the foetal position is a potential sign of autism.

This is formal logic. That one or even several peripheral or correlationary traits makes a disorder. In reality, even mental illness adheres to at least one part of the dialectic. Many symptoms are common across disorders and many symptoms express themselves subclinically (in a non-disordered way). It is the presence of a sufficient quantity of symptoms that turns into the quality of "having" a "disorder".

It is the formal logician that sees their friend's breakup and instantly diagnoses the other party as a narcissist, no matter how small the action given as evidence. And it is the formal logician who is unable to see that this "narcissist" in reality suffers very little in his other interpersonal relationships, and it is simply the misogyny he has learned throughout his life that is the cause of conflict in his romantic relationships.

Look through the DSM and the ICD and you will not find a single disorder for which misogyny, or racism, or homophobia, or transphobia, or any other kind of bigotry is a symptom. They are, however, symptoms of capitalism-- and of class society generally.

You will, however, find disorders of which anti-authoritarianism are symptoms-- as in Oppositional Defiance Disorder, or ODD, which is varyingly just either ADHD or PTSD, primarily applied to black children or other children more likely to be considered aggressive, and attempting to challenge the diagnosis in any way is considered yet another symptom.

The Cluster B personality disorders also tend to get slapped on the record of patients that are considered difficult. A major consequence of psychotic disorders are that you de-facto lose the ability to argue for your own experiences (you are, after all, delusional). Genuine concerns over their own safety and desire to have locks on the door in the (real) case of a schizophrenic rape survivor in a women's shelter are brushed off as paranoia.

Any Marxist considering "Anti-Social Personality Disorder" must take into account exactly *which* society the personality is deemed to be "anti", especially given that the diagnostic criteria requires "disregard for the law-" *bourgeois* law "-and repeated criminal behaviour prior to the age of 18".

People with Narcissitic Personality Disorder are generally unlikely to seek treatment for it and it instead tends to be identified during treatment for comorbidities-- most commonly Substance Use Disorders, which itself straddles the line between crime and illness.

Crime for the homeless addict, or the single mother caught with a gram of weed in her nightstand, or the line cook on their eighth 10-hour shift in a row. Illness for the celebrity at private rehab, or the white suburban mother on enough Prozac to kill a horse, or the rich partyboy on college track. "Irrational", perhaps, in all cases; never a thought given to the conditions that make constant intoxication preferable to the throbbing mental illness of capitalism.

The line between crime and mental illness is, generally, less distinct than you might think. Treatment for psychotic disorders differs very little from incarceration. Institutionalisation is functionally the same as arrest-- except it is generally even more traumatising ("oh you believe that people are plotting to come get you and take you away, so we've arranged for a group of people to come get you and take you away")−− and you don't even have the right to a trial.

Science under capitalism is and always will be subject to the hegemony of the bourgeoisie. It is for that reason that treatment is restricted to that which will get you back to work the quickest. This is usually drug therapy instead of talking therapies, which require greater skill (and therefore are more expensive to train and produce) and take longer to show effects. In USAmerica at least it is also the case that doctors essentially receive sponsorships from pharmaceutical companies in exchange for prescribing a quota of a specific drug, whether or not it is in the patient's best interest.

I feel obligated to include The Mark Fisher Quote in here somewhere, but I won't dwell on it; "If it is true that low levels of serotonin cause depression, it still has to be determined *what causes low levels of serotonin*?"

The cases of depression and anxiety have been repeated ad nauseum. Schizophrenia is often thrown out as a counterargument by those championing what is essentially biological determinism, but even schizophrenia expresses itself less severely and less violently in less individualistic societies.

Schizophrenia at present requires family therapy anyway, for the people around the sufferer to adjust their behaviour and learn how to approach delusions. The most humane treatment for schizophrenia is still a wide support network such that interpersonal conflict can be spread out and it does not become a trigger. People should not have to endure neurological damage and seizures from taking enough meds to be productive in order to have the right to life. In all cases it is the alienation that kills you. The bid for human connection that is rejected or dismissed that leads to self-destruction.

What would persecutory delusions look like under a dictatorship of the proletariat? Without special bodies of armed men that *do* have the power to take you away? Of religious persecution in a society that has moved past the need for religion? Of grandiosity in a world where the category of celebrity does not exist?

When the punishment for doing worse is not unemployment and homelessess, perhaps suddenly recovery is not so impossible.

Liberal ideologues through their flattening of the entire scope of criminality, including and especially violent crime, into "mental illness", and mental illness onto the family, fail to see the forest for the trees. This is unsurprising, and par for the course with liberalism.

Right wing ideologues, on the other hand, blame crime and criminality on "not enough family", or "not the right kind of family". They believe that all that is necessary is for the correct values to be instilled in a child. But poverty is as with all things the great exacerbater. In reality it is not some metaphysical human need for a present father that makes a two-parent household superior, but the advantages of *two* potential streams of income, of *two* extended families, of greater options for childcare. This could be achieved as easily by two women or two men as by one man and one woman, but we need not stop there; it would be achieved even easier with proper social support, with the abolition of poverty, with a shorter working day, with communism.

#What tags do i use to make the tepid DNC “leftie” libs on this site download this fucking post into their brains #antipsych #anti family #youth liberation #marxism #essay #postingposting #communism #read lenin

19 notes · View notes

ask-the-hws-immigrants · 11 months ago

Note

To Lovino and Tolys:

Any Saints you guys have a particular devotion to?

Tolys: I'm not terribly religious, but there is a certain comfort in having someone looking out for you.

**Contextual Note, TW for brief mention of sexual assault and torture:

Just a brief overview of the saints Lovino and Tolys mentioned. St. Agatha of Sicily was a Christian noblewoman who was killed during the Decian persecutions. She made a religious vow of chastity that a Roman prefect attempted to break. As punishment for rejecting him she was imprisoned and forced to "work" in a brothel. When this did not break her, she was tortured, most notably by having her breasts ripped off with hot tongs. This is why she is often depicted in art with tongs or presenting her breasts. A miraculous earthquake prevented her execution and supposedly St. Peter appeared to her and healed her wounds, but she eventually died in prison of unknown causes. Among other things, she is the patron saint of victims of torture, rape victims, breast cancer patients, fires, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions (particularly from Mt. Etna). As Lovino mentioned, she is the patron of Sicily, as well as the Sicilian city of Catania.

St. Christopher was also killed during the Decian persecutions. According to legend, he traveled to find a king who claimed great power, only to find he feared the devil. When he found a marauder who claimed to be the devil, he found that this criminal feared Christ. Learning this, he chose to become Christian and serve people by helping them cross a dangerous river. In doing this, he helped a small child across the river who was much heavier than he anticipated, and almost died in the process. After crossing, the child revealed himself to be an apparition of Christ, pleased with his work. Christopher was eventually beheaded after travelling to Lycia to help his fellow Christians. Among other things, he is the patron saint of travelers, transportation, bachelors, athletics, and storms. As Tolys mentioned, he is the patron of Vilnius, Lithuania's capital (Riga as well!)

#hetalia #historical hetalia #hws romano #hws lithuania #aph romano #aph lithuania #hetalia ask blog #ask #cw religion #i chose st christopher for tolys bc lithuania's patron saint (st casimir) is just not someone i would see him choosing for himself #similar thing for lovino st francis is cool but also he'd probably go for someone more regionally specific #esp bc unification was so recent at this point and st francis seems more feliciano's vibe #plus who doesn't love st agatha she's a badass

47 notes · View notes

rubyraine-macmillon · 14 days ago

Text

[cis woman and she/her] Welcome to Aurora Bay, [RUBY RAINE MACMILLON]! I couldn’t help but notice you look an awful lot like [KENNEDY MCMANN]. You must be the [TWENTY-NINE] year old [GLOBAL HISTORY TEACHER AT AURORA BAY HIGH SCHOOL/INDEPENDENT FASHION BLOGGER]. Word is you’re [KIND HEARTED] but can also be a bit [EMOTIONALLY DISTANT] and your favorite song is [DREAMER BY LAUFEY]. I also heard you’ll be staying in [SEABROOK QUARTER]. I’m sure you’ll love it!

@aurorabayaesthetic

Full Name: Ruby Raine Faye MacMillon Nickname(s): Ruby, Rue, Ru-ru, Rubes Age: 29 Birthday: May 12th, 1995 Astrological Sign: Taurus Place of Birth: Mount Pearl, Newfoundland Parents: Clark & Margaret Grace MacMillon (61 & 54) Siblings: N/A Children: Zelda Young (3) & Penelope MacMillon (18 months) Pets: Hank (4 year old mutt) *Relationships: Forrest Young (29) - Late Husband - deceased Scars: A large one down the majority of her left leg Tattoos: A small heart behind her right ear Other Physical Distinctions: Slightly larger “bunny-like” teeth Sexual Orientation & Gender: Bisexual and Biromantic ;; Ciswoman Occupation: Global History Teacher @ Aurora Bay High School & Writer for 'HERstorical fashions' *subject to change as roles are taken

bullet points

tw: very brief mentions of - domestic violence/marital SA/emotional abuse, death, violence, talk of murder, talk of capital punishment

○ the story of ruby raine macmillon starts before she even graced this world with her parents stories. clarkson "clark" macmillon was born in tennessee to a very impoverished family. a charming yet conniving boy, he grew up always getting into trouble. a traditional job was never for him and his tricky ways landed him in mount pearl, newfoundland as he was hiding out from some guys he had ripped off when he was thirty-two. that's where he met margaret grace rosewood: a young up-and-coming singer who was a part of a very affluent family and happened to be seven years his junior. their romance was quick and passionate and resulted in a pregnancy. however, this was one shotgun wedding that would last as clark and maggie-grace truly were each other's soulmates (even if her parents disowned her and she lost her record deal (causing her to just be another one-hit wonder)). nine months later, on a mild spring afternoon in may, ruby raine faye macmillon was welcomed into their newly formed family.

○ ruby raine's first name is technically ruby raine (not just ruby). it comes from the song her mother got her fifteen minutes of fame from, in which a lyric reads "[our love] would be as magical, as unique as ruby rain". her middle name is to honor the only family member clark ever kept in touch with: his aunt faye. ruby is well aware her full name is a mouthful and prefers to just shorten it to ruby or rue.

○ her childhood in newfoundland was nothing special, but it was also the kind of childhood she would still look back fondly on. her mother went back to school to get her master's in music theory as she wanted to focus more on arranging scores than becoming a manufactured pop singer anyway. she would eventually settle into music education. her father? well, though he did settle down for margaret grace, he still wasn't one to keep down a job. ruby is pretty sure her father has had every minimum-wage, entry-level job you could have. but she never minded. it usually meant more time with dad anyway. he would eventually find that he was very skilled and absolutely enamored with woodworking which eventually became is vocation.

○ with a mother who prioritized educational vacations over purely entertainment-focused vacations, ruby would soon fall in love with the history of the world around her. especially the fashion and beauty regimes of yesteryear. she was that girl in middle school/high school who wore thrifted clothes, pin curls, and a bold red lip to every class.

○ ruby is a certified 'daddy's girl'. she loves her mother dearly, but her father is truly her kindred spirit. maggie grace would always joke that she just gave birth to his 'little mini girl' and she was the odd man out. but she was thankful for their close relationship (it meant mom could actually get some rest for once!).

○ the macmillon's moved to arbor mill, texas in 2009 when ruby was a freshman in high school. her mother had been offered a job at the local college that was far too good and made far too much to pass up. the move was a bit jarring to the young girl but she soon got over the 'new kid blues' and found a solid group of friends. one of which was the middle son of the young family: a very wealthy, very powerful founding family in arbor mill who owned the lumber mill that had created arbor mill back in the 1900's.

○ through her friend hunter young, she met his older brother forrest young (yes, they're that type of family). he was arbor mill's golden child: the lacrosse and track star, homecoming king, and an mvp intern at the titular arbor mill. and ruby was soon enamored with him. though he'd never fall for the little history nerd, right?

○ somehow, the eldest young child noticed her and immediately took a liking to her. their romance reminded her of her parents (though they were much younger and much closer in age), and she couldn't have been happier. yes, her father used to not make the best choices before he met her mother but their love story and the love they had for each other was so inspiring to ruby. so, this whirlwind, passionate teenage love was even more welcome. she swore forrest was her soulmate. isn't this how a story like this always starts?

○ forrest's true nature started coming out subtly: snide comments, disapproving looks, and stern grabs became common occurrences. it would continue to escalate over the years.

○ when she graduated from high school, her and forrest immediately married. he wanted to start a family right away, but ruby wanted to continue her education. she knew she wanted to do something in history and that usually came with a masters. forrest only agreed to the idea if she did online classes and they continued trying to grow their family. this was fine with ruby and she would later get her BA in education and her MA in both world history and fashion.

○ being married to forrest would slowly turn into a nightmare. month and months of trying had not proved successful and no amount of explanations would be enough for him. emotional abuse turned into physical abuse. physical abuse turned into more extreme, more dangerous physical abuse. he assaulted her in every way imaginable. but if forrest young was anything: it was a manipulator. he was able to cut her off from her family (unless he was okay with them seeing her), convince everyone everything was perfect, and keep ruby scared into silence. for almost ten arduous years, ruby lived in hell.

○ in december of 2020, ruby delivered the long awaited baby forrest had demanded of her for so long. though he soon became disinterested when they found out she was a girl. ruby named her zelda (after zelda fitzgerald). her daughter is her absolute world. she counts herself lucky that she didn't have to witness much abuse in her little life.

○ after a few months of suffering in silence and with her first phase of her escape plan in place, ruby finally told her parents what she had endured over the years. they, of course, were heartbroken. their first concern was getting her out of the house. so, one night when forrest went out, her father picked her and zelda up with their few bags of things and rode off. clark sent maggie grace, ruby and zelda to aurora bay for a while with his aunt faye until this 'all blew over', as he said. though, he had a different plan.

○ clark, per usual, decided to take the law into his own hands. one december night in 2022, he lured forrest to an abandoned warehouse. once he had forrest in the building, no one knows exactly what happened. clark swears he only 'roughed forrest up' then threatened him with more violence unless he turned himself in. that's when forrest, who did have a history of stress-induced asthma, had a major bronchial event in which he couldn't breathe. clark says then he fell to the ground before hitting his head on a brick, killing him instantly. however, the young family is convinced clark went there to murder him that night.

○ clark macmillon was arrested that night after calling 911. in the months ahead, the young's connections would prove detrimental as the DA would officially charge him with first-degree murder and the death penalty was on the table due to his multiple run-ins with the law and the brutality of the scene. his checkered past was no match for the skilled lawyers and overbearing judge (who all happened to be friends with or monetarily connected to the young's) and he was convicted. months later, he was handed the death sentence. clark macmillon is still on death row in huntsville as of 2024 with a 2041 execution date.

○ during the trial, to ruby's absolute horror, she found out she was pregnant again. she was absolutely devastated and didn't know what to do. but something told her to go through with this pregnancy. and she did. thankfully, she was able to hide it throughout the majority of the trial and was quickly whisked away to her great aunt faye's old house in aurora bay (that she had left in clark's possession when she required a nursing home). her daughter penelope grace macmillon was born on april 29th, 2023 (named after her mother, who was always called "maggie grace", so this child would be "penny grace")

○ after taking a few months of unofficial maternity leave (and to try to regain some of her sanity), ruby was offered a job at aurora bay high school as their global history teacher as the other one was retiring. she jumped at the chance as this was truly always what she wanted to do. she also finally had the courage to restart a blog she had started in high school (forrest had deleted all of it in a fit of anger one night and locked her out of all the accounts) and has been pleasantly surprised at how fast it has taken off.

○ ruby is broken and she knows it. she's trying to raise two girls, deal with the complicated feelings of her late husband's death, and attempting to help her father get an appeal on his conviction in any way he can. believe me, her therapy schedule is seventy miles long. but she knows that this is her only life to live. the only direction is forward. can she find her way through the storm clouds?

specific wanted connections / plots

○ aunt faye's family ;; aunt faye split from the macmillon clan pretty early in her life. heck, her last name wasn't even macmillon! she settled down in aurora bay later in her life. maybe she had honorary kids. maybe she had friends. but they would know clark and ruby. after all, they're the ones who would have had to welcome her here. ○ forrest young's family/friends ;; they could be out here in aurora bay. life is weird like that, after all. how will they react to her? how will she react to them?

generic wanted connections / plots

platonic ○ her new best friend(s) ○ close friends ○ neighbor ○ drinking buddies ○ mom friends ○ co-workers ○ found family ○ book club friends ○ influencer friends ○ blog fans romantic ○ failed? blind date ○ slow burn

#((history of her ;; about))#aurorabay.intro #domestic violence mention tw #death tw #violence tw #capital punishment tw #murder mention tw

1 note · View note

glass-needles-and-futurisms · 1 year ago

Text

#Thoughts Musers?#Mine are a bit mixed: apprehensive yes and also totally understanding that#(as someone FROM Asia—where they NEVER usually tour—they would want to avoid a situation where they stopped from playing)#along with bits of ‘shame that Muse feel the need to comply; just seems so un-Muse-like’#Muse band#musers#wotp tour#Muse Kuala Lumpur#Muse#muse band#2023#muse live#Wonder which song too

So full disclosure: I am in Kuala Lumpur right now because this is probably my best and only chance to see Muse live. And it's not just because I'm Asian; I'm from a very specific nationality whose movement in and out of the country is very tightly regulated and monitored (unless you're rich). We have one of the weakest passports in the world, and western countries like the US and UK are extremely strict about who they give visas to. You could be financially independent, acclaimed and successful in your field and still not get a visa for even a brief 3-day work conference in Cleveland. I spent the last couple weeks an anxious wreck because I have no idea if I could even make it to Malaysia... all because I have no idea whether the immigration officer I'll run into at the airport is gonna be a power-tripping douchebag or not.

I mention this because I'm bothered by the mismatch of privilege whenever these kinds of issues come up. It's not just this show or the 1975 incident; it came up back when Muse toured China in the Drones era too.

It's easy to lean back and boycott Band X when you have the luxury to pick and choose which artists are worth your time, or won't go against your principles. Is it a hypocritical money grab to agree to a gig even if it goes against the messages you espouse in your music? Sure. Is it bad to capitulate to the demands of controlling governments just for the sake of putting on a show? Sure. But do Malaysians who enjoy Muse deserved to be punished for the conservative values of a government/culture they didn't choose to be born into? Well...

Inevitably all this circles back to the kind of "no ethical consumption under capitalism"- style moral accounting The Good Place exists to dissect. We all make compromises when it comes to the things we consume or patronize, and we have different thresholds for what our personal values can and can't tolerate. People still buy smartphones and Shein clothes. They still listen to Chris Brown and Marilyn Manson and a whole ton of "problematic" musicians. They still look the other way when a celebrity they like does something horrible.

Policing every single thing other people like based on how moral or "problematic" it is may seem noble, but it is both an exhausting way to live and a gateway to a ton of insane gatekeeping/purity culture logic. And that goes double when your lived reality exists on a different plane from someone else's.

The Muse fandom is not a monolith. Not everyone holds the same values and principles... nor the same freedom to actually exercise them. We can argue 'til we're blue in the face about whether they're morally compromised by virtue of being an international stadium act beholden to higher powers. Or we can argue over whether role-playing political ambiguity deserves to be punished to the degree of, say, domestic abuse or sexual assault or open racism. Either way there's still gonna be some random kid who can't watch his favorite band for reasons completely unrelated to these culture wars.

Because unless all this Matty Healy discourse is actually going to uplift Malaysia's marginalized LGBT community through direct activism, all of this is just posturing by privileged white people and their enablers in an ethical pissing contest. Unless you're working to fight world injustices in a way that's not just "getting angry on the internet", you're not a better person for saying Muse are hypocrites for performing in a shitty country full of people who never asked to live there (or in the case of Southeast Asians, probably can't leave even if they wanted to). "Let he among us without sin" and all that.

I don't really know what my point is here. If you think one censored song is worth cancelling Muse over, that's up to you. Maybe if I could actually afford to go to more shows I'll even agree.

Muse have “pulled one song from their planned KL setlist owing to its title” following Matty Healy in Malaysia-gate. Huh.

#venting because this shit has been bothering me for days now #and everyone I've talked about this with so far don't even live anywhere near Southeast Asia #my kl adventure

26 notes · View notes

runwithwolvcs · 2 years ago

Text

You Know I'm No Good --forty three

I Got In

*** Authors Note: This chapter contains a hint for the sequel, can you guess what it is?

Dear. Miss Tallulah Forrester, we are pleased to inform you….

Holy Shit, she thought, rereading the letter over and over as she sat at the kitchen table slowly making her way through a bowl of grapes while absentmindedly doodling in an old sketchbook she had found at her moms.

Her father had dropped by earlier, dropping off some mail he had collected at her moms for her. She was shocked at how cordial they were being with each other considering the many years they went without speaking.

She dropped the letter on the table, holding in the scream that was begging to be released. She knew Paul had been exhausted from double rounds all week, his punishment from Sam for ditching a patrol midway through to spend the night in her drunken arms. Tallulah was considerate of that fact, so she decided if she found him asleep, she would wait to tell him.

Finding him lying on the couch, focused on his phone as the tv plays a football game between two teams she could not name even if she tried. Tallulah practically skipped to him, climbing on top of him, each knee on either side of his waist. She grinned excitedly.

“What are you..” He trailed off as she pressed her lips to his feverishly , putting his phone down so that the screen wasn't viewable.

“Celebrating.” She mumbles excitedly against his skin as she kisses along his unshaven jawline. One hand working on getting his cutoff shorts off.

“What are we celebrating exactly?” Paul asked, bringing his hand up her back and into her hair. He didn’t stop her as her hand travelled into the waistband of his briefs, finding his already hardening member.

Tallulah pulled her lips away from his neck, grinning, “I got in.”

“You got in?” Paul's confusion to what she is referring to is clear as day. She furrowed her eyebrows, she had mentioned acceptances were coming out this week, what else could she be talking about?

“To Parsons, Duckie, keep up.”

“Shit, I forgot about that.” His eyes slightly widened at the mention of the only school she had applied to.

Tallulah halted her actions, pulling her hand out from his pants as her smile dropped from her face. That was not the reaction she was expecting, or wanted.

“Yeah, it’s not like it was a big deal for me or anything.” She mentioned bitterly, climbing off his lap and unbuttoning her own jeans.

He reaches for her, and she takes a step back. Further away from him out of annoyance. “Woah, I’m happy for you, babe. I’ve just had a lot going on, you know that.” Paul justified.

Tallulah nodded absentmindedly, that's been his excuse for everything recently. Though he has yet to mention what it is that is keeping his mind so preoccupied. It’s been nearly a month since the leech has crossed into their territory and he hasn’t brought up whether or not they had lost the scent again. She had just assumed they had now that she didn’t have to stay at her dads on lockdown anymore. She bites her lip in an attempt to keep her mouth shut and not start an argument. This was supposed to be a happy moment, and all she could think about was the anger that was simmering, “I’ll be right back.”

She practically flew up the stairs, taking two at a time before pulling out her phone and texting the one person she knew would give her the response she craved, Lenna.

And boy does she not disappoint, her response is an array of emojis and capital letters that has Tallulah grinning at the tiny screen, asking her little sister if she wanted to hang out, which was responded to immediately with a yes.

She changed quickly, putting on cotton shorts and one of Paul's large sweaters; she had come to see them as hugs from him if he wasn’t around. Wearing his clothes and smelling his cologne made her feel closer to him while he was out doing whatever wolves do when they arent at home.

Returning to the living room, Paul was back in the position she had found him in, only this time, he was rapidly texting on his phone. Sliding her shoes onto her feet, she muttered,“I’m going to hang out with Lenna, I’ll be back later.”

“Thought you wanted to celebrate?” He asked, though he didn’t look up at her. Her eyes narrowed at him, and the walls felt like they were closing in on her. Taking a deep breath, she sarcastically mentioned, “You’ve got a lot going on right now.”

“Lu.” Paul said her name with annoyance, like she was being an inconvenience to his limited time that they could currently spend together.

“What?”She mimmicked his tone,“I don’t feel like getting fucked and then left alone for the rest of the night, so I’m going to see my sister.”

She checked her phone to see a message from Lenna, announcing her arrival and looked back at Paul looking at her in a way he never had before. She couldn’t pinpoint the emotion but she was long past caring how he felt in this moment, “We can do that tomorrow.”

“Hey, that's not fair.” He said, moving to stand up and she rolled her eyes like a child.

“Lifes not fair, babe. Gotta go.” Tallulah quipped before making a quick escape out the front door.

---

“He didn’t even remember that acceptances were getting sent out this week.”Tallulah grumbled, stabbing her pie slice with her fork.

Lenna had wrapped her in a bone crushing hug as soon as they had stepped out of the car at the diner, praising her and telling her how happy she was. Her own soulmate couldn’t even spare a smile. A pang in her chest caused her to grimace, and sadistically, she hoped he felt it too.

“Boys are dumb at all ages then, huh?” Lenna joked and she nodded in agreeance, even imprints are dumb. She gets that Paul is tired, but she has been more than patient with him. Sure, she got him in trouble for skipping the rest of the patrol shift the night Lina slept over, but she never asked him to. He decided on his own to do that, which she was grateful for but she's been talking about going to art school since they met, she's worked hard for this and he couldn’t even pretend to show enthusiasm.

“Tal?” Lenna asked, bringing her back to reality.

“Yeah, Le?” She asked, continuing to make a mess of her plate. Her appetite completely gone.

“I want a tattoo.” Lenna said with assurance. Maybe I am rubbing off on her, Tallulah thought to herself.

She looked at her sister surprised, “Okay?”

Sheepishly Lenna asked, “Will you come with me? You’re eighteen you can sign off for it.”

“Dads going to kill me.” she groaned, but agreed nonetheless. There was a tattoo that she had been wanting to get herself, one she knew Paul would love.

---

“Have fun?” Was the first thing she heard walking into the house. It wasn’t a genuine question, it was laced with hostility that she couldn’t place a reason for

Paul was leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen, a tea towel they used for drying dishes in his hands. Good, she thought, I’m tired of being the only one who does the damn dishes.

“Loads.” She snorted, kicking off her shoes.

“We need to talk about New York.”

Raising an eyebrow, she looks at him warily, “What's there to talk about?”

“Well for one, I need you to be honest with me.”

“Honest with you? What the hell does that mean?” she asked, putting her hands on her hips.

“Did you really go see Lenna?”Paul asked, his eyes hard as they flickered over her face, clearly looking for a tell that she would be lying to him. The anger she had left with was no longer simmering, it was brewing and if he asked one more stupid question it was going to blow.

“You’re joking.” she said, walking past him to the stairs that led to their shared room. He followed like a puppy, throwing out another accusation as he did.

“I know Lenna, she's not the kind of girl to walk in to a tattoo parlour,”

“How’d you..” She started to question how he knew where they went, but the imprint bond forcing them to endure one another's pain must have given it away. There goes that surprise, she thought to herself, before stating, “Then clearly you don’t know her that well.”

“Don’t believe me? Call her yourself.” She turned on her heels, holding her phone out to him. She was not going to play this game with him. Not when she could easily throw it back in his face, she trusted him, and couldn't understand why he refused do the same with her.

“I believe you.” His voice now soft.

She scoffed at him, his response irked her, she didn't want to have this conversation. nOt when she had just gotten the best news of her life, but she asked anyways, “What does that have to do with me going to New York for school?”

“Just don’t want you to fall back into bad habits, it hasn't been that long since you’ve left Seattle and when Lina was here…” he started, but she didn’t let him finish.

She felt hot with anger as she spat out, “Fuck you.”

“Tallulah,” Paul tried, but she continued on her rampage.

“No! You don’t get to hold that against me!” She shouted at him, “Things were different then they are now!”

“If something happens there, I won't be able to protect you.” He argued, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

She clenched her fingers around her phone hard enough that it hurt. This wasn’t about protecting her, this was him being selfish.

“You’re not trying to protect me, you’re trying to control me.” She fumed, adding angrily, “I’m sorry that I didn’t get the gene that forces me to waste my life here like you did, but I’m going..”

Tallulah let out a small gasp as instant regret filled her senses and she dropped her phone to the floor, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have..”

She didn’t know when he had started shaking, blinded by her own rage but she knew he was on the brink of losing it, “Move, Tallulah.”

“No. We can talk about New York and I’ll listen to anything you have to say, but you have to listen to me too.” She pleaded with him. Paul scrunches his eyes closed trying to control himself but is failing miserably, “Back up. Now.”

“Paul.” Tallulah said his name with need. She needed him to get it together, to not run away from this problem. From her.

“TALLULAH!” he bellows and she flinches at the volume of his voice. She makes a split second decision, rushing forward and pressing her lips to his. He doesn’t immediately respond, his fist still clenched at his side. But when he does it's rough and needy.

He's the first to pull away, “That was the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, you think putting yourself in danger like that is going to make me trust you in New York?”

She frowns, now he’s even angrier with her. She was starting to feel like a little kid, not his partner.

“I--” she starts and he shakes his head, his dark eyes focused intently on her. Pulling her forward, causing her to stumble, her hands landing on his chest to steady herself.

“You’re lucky it worked,” he breathed out heavily, “On your knees.”

She nods, dropping down to her knees without hesitation.

Looking up with doe eyes, she can still see his chest heaving. As if he's still trying to control his anger. She tried not to grimace at the fact that of all the months she knew him, that her words were the ones to set him off the most. She knew of his temper, shes heard about from everyone, even Paul himself. But she hasn't really seen it, not like this.

Tallulah makes the first move. Unbutton his shorts, pulling them and his briefs down just enough for his member to spring out. Shes quick to place little kitten kisses along his the underside before sucking on the tip gently. Hearing him suck in a breath of pleasure as he wraps his fist in her hair.

She takes him as deep as she can go without gagging over and over, licking up the precum as it flows out the tip. As she goes to push him down her throat again, he wordlessly stops her.

Laying her on the floor, so they he could lay over top of her before pushing the sweater she wore up her chest. She promptly removed it, catching him staring at her chest. Or, just below her chest.

The tattoo of the little baby duck, just over her heart is still red with the clear bandage over top, “A baby duck? That's what you got?”

She nods, “For my baby duck.” Reaching up, she strokes his cheek and he closes his eyes, leaning into her touch. Paul's hand reached for her cotton shorts, wordlessly ripping them down her legs so that he could neatly fit between her legs without any barriers.

He didn’t remove his shorts completely, he didn’t need to. Paul didn’t waste any time, his member still slick with her saliva as he checked to see if she was ready for him. She always is.

He bottomed out in one stroke, letting out a low groan as he did. Tallulah gasped sharply, clenching around him at the sudden movement. It was clear to her that he was still very much upset, though there were worse ways he could take it out other than fucking her sensless.

Paul moved at his own pace, the small whimpers and moans of pleasure leaving the teens lips as she watched from below as his eyebrows furrowed in concentration while he fucked her.

It wasn’t long before the familiar sensation tightened in her core causing her to moan out his name, gripping the arm that he had placed by her head, tilting her head back as she let go blissfully whining beneath him. Pauls grunts turned to small moans and she knew he was close to his high as she pulsated around him, but when he pulled out and tugged himself to a release over her stomach, she splayed beneath him in disappointment.

“Let's go take shower, “He murmured before helping her up, walking her to their bathroom. His sticky mess sliding down her abdomen. Tallulah let him take control, his anger for her will subside, she reminds herself. Even if it didn't feel like it, she knew it was true.

He turns the shower on, finally discarding his shorts and helps her in first, before stepping in behind her. Making her stand under the flow of water, he grabbed the shampoo he had gotten for her to keep at his place and lathered it into her long hair. She watched his facial features as he did, the pit in her stomach growing as he worked silently. Paul tilted her head back to rinse the shampoo before grabbing the conditioner and repeating the process.

With her wet hands, she began to wipe off the mess he left on her. He grabbed her wrist, stopping her from doing so and as she looked up at him again, he placed a petal soft kiss to her lips, before he continued rinsing her hair.

He was giving her mixed emotions and she didn’t know how to feel or what to do. Her mind is racing all sorts of things.

Grabbing her body wash, he soaped up her body, paying particular attention to her breasts and shoulders, massaging the soap into. Her lips parted at the feeling. Once she was clean, he switched positions with her and quickly washed himself up as she leaned against the class wall and watched like a little kid not allowed to play with her favourite toy.

As soon as he turned off the water she was quick to step out of the shower wordlessly grabbing a towel, the pit in her stomach had grown and she could feel the onslaught of tears forming.

Paul grabbed the towel from her, and carefully dried her off before wrapping her in and helping her up on to the bathroom counter where she always sits to brush through her hair and braid it.

“I won't go.” Tallulah whispers, ruining the silence.

“Lu.” He warns, and she doesn’t understand why. Why can't he talk about this with her?

“No, if it upsets you so much that you won’t talk to me, I'm not going. It's not worth it.” She pushed as she watched him dry off himself, wrapping the towel around his waist.

“I want you to go.”

“You’re just saying that,” she argued back, trying to keep her composure.

“I’m not,” Paul gave her a pointed look, moving to stand between her legs.

“You're still mad at me, and I get it. I shouldn't have said what I said, but I’m serious, I’ll stay if you want me to.” She was practically giving away her future for him to forgive her. It's not worth fighting over, if it came down to it, she would choose him over Parson anyday. She just didn’t want it to come to her choosing. She wanted him to be excited for her, she wanted him to want her to live the life she had dreamed of.

“I’m not mad, I can never stay mad at you for long…and I would never ask you to stay here with me.” he murmurs, his hands slipping under her towel to hold her waist. The small touch settled the pit in her stomach just a little bit. Tallulah wanted to believe him but the way he reacted earlier had put some doubt into her mind.

“Paul,” she whispers, leaning her forehead on his shoulder. Tallulah knows he would never ask her to stay in La Push. He’s known from the start that La Push was not a place she would be stuck to for the rest of her life, the only real thing keeping her here was him. Because he was the only real thing worth staying for, or at least that's what their ancestors have told them.

But she was willing to stay, it might be the easier path to choose for the both of them. They haven't been apart for more than a couple of days for the six months they’ve been tethered together.

“I love you, Lu.” He stressed to her, bringing one of his hands up to hold the nape of her neck, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Go wait for me in bed, I just need to shave and I’ll be there.”

“I like your stubble.” Tallulah said, pulling back slightly, rubbing the stubble on his jaw. She whispers,“Feels good”

Paul kisses her deeply one last time, before stepping back completely depriving her of his touch, “Go pick a movie for us to watch, yeah?.”

She nods, leaving the bathroom naked after dropping her towel to the floor and picking up the remote off the dresser in their room, hopping into bed with just the throw blanket, knowing he gets too hot. She will be too with him sleeping in the same bed, so she only keeps her legs covered, her personal heater only a few metres away.

She watches as he enters the bedroom and begins sifting through his top drawer, “You have patrol?” Tallulah asks. She doesn’t hide her disappointment. She thought that snide comment she had made earlier about him fucking then leaving her every night would’ve been enough for him to realize she wasn’t fond of the experience she come to know as a habit.

Paul shook his head no, “Swapped with Embry,”

He turns and comes back to sit beside her, his back against the new headboard after he had broken the last. A small rectangular box in his hand, wrapped in brown kraft paper. “I got you something. Well, I got it a while ago..I knew you were going to get in.”

“This doesn’t look like an engagement ring box.” she teased while shaking the box gently, and he chuckled, replying, “Not yet,”

Tallulah takes her time unwrapping it, but as soon as her eyes find the familiar logo on the box her eyes light up.

He found them.

The pens she deemed special all because of her grandma, the pens she had a near heartattack over when she thought she had lost her last one.

“You remembered,” she beamed up at him and he nodded, giving her a soft smile.

“They were hard to find but I got a hook up now.” He joked, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, tucking her into his side comfortably, proudly saying, “Can’t have my girl going to art school without her favourite pens.”

#paul lahote fanfic #you know im no good #paul lahote #paul lahote imagine #paul lahote x oc #twilight wolf pack #twilight wolves #paul lahote smut

35 notes · View notes

spectre-fivee · 4 years ago

Text

Over the Moon: Obi Wan Kenobi x Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 8081 (wtf this is so close to Anakin’s secret password or whatever, also WOW this is easily the longest piece I’ve ever written)

Warnings: HEAVY smut, both male and female receiving oral, unprotected sex, lots and lots of dirty talk, heavy use of the word ‘master’, dom/sub play, slight brat taming, praise and humiliation kink, edging, slight force play & restraint

A/N: Hey yalllll I’m back with another smut LMAO this is a prequel to let me take care of you, my first obi-wan smut :DD this is LONG asf and includes a small backstory but I promise the majority of it includes smut scenes lol. I hope you guys enjoy and I love your feedback!! much love <3

******************

You were over the moon when you found out that you would be accompanied by General Obi Wan Kenobi on your next business trip.

Literally. Quite literally, you were over the moon. You had just coincidentally flown over Centax-3 and were now in pursuit to Coruscant's surface in preparation for your oncoming journey, and you were so beyond excited that you found it hard to contain yourself around your personal guards. Just as you entered the planet’s atmosphere, you decided you had enough of the automated briefing and muted the transmitter on your arm. You were too focused on the fact that you were going to be alone with General Kenobi for an entire day.

Well, night really. You had managed to catch that part of the briefing.

You could watch it later. As you packed, perhaps. It was fine.

Feeling like a little girl as you basically pranced back to your quarters, you lugged a small bag out of your closet and began to fill it with necessities.

Being a senator for so many years had forced you into countless situations with General Kenobi, but never such as this one. When you met the Jedi Knight in the beginning of your career, the two of you clicked almost instantly. Over time, your admiration of the man blossomed into something...different.

Oftentimes the general would escort you from the Senate Chamber itself all the way to your office on the third floor. He had always been so well spoken and full to the brim with witty charm, enough to make you feel like a total schoolgirl when you locked yourself in your office, squealing and jumping up and down after your encounters with him. Sometimes, you would accompany Obi Wan on walks both inside and outside the building. One time, he was kind enough to show you the gardens outside the Jedi temple on Coruscant. Other times, you were simply by his side in the senate halls, holding your stomach as you just about died of laughter. It was all you could do to keep yourself from absolutely melting when he looked at you with those glittering blue eyes, his lips curved up into a smirk.

Butterflies swarmed in a vicious frenzy as you packed your bag, your cheeks so hot you thought you might explode just at the thought of General Kenobi. You looked up when you heard a soft knock at your door. “Come in,” You had said before a guard stepped inside and informed you that you were leaving earlier than the time scheduled. You nodded and rose to your feet swiftly with a polite smile.

“That’s alright, I’m already prepared.”

***************

The only thing you had forgotten was to finish watching the automated briefing.

Which, arguably, should have been at the top of your list. But somehow it had just slipped from your mind. Now, you were positioned in between General Kenobi and his commander, CC-2224, but you knew him as Cody. The two men remained quiet and Obi Wan tapped through the data pad in his hand. When you glanced at Cody, you couldn’t tell what exactly he was looking at or if he even had his eyes open under his helmet, he was so quiet. Either way, you cast him a polite smile when you glanced his way.

You felt kind of awful, really. This was, on your part, a mission regarding humanitarian aid, and you were the Galactic Republic’s representative in this instance. You didn’t know anything about this planet you were traveling to, only its name - Lelroth. You didn’t know the people’s conditions nor how much territory the Separatists occupied, that is, unless the citizens had decided to stand their ground.

A clone trooper’s voice came over the intercom of the transporter. “We’ll be arriving shortly.”

You tried to peek at Obi Wan’s data pad in hopes of receiving any information. “Have you ever been to Lelroth?” You asked.

He glanced up at you. “No. Frankly, I have no idea what to expect.”

“Well, that makes two of us.” You muttered quietly. His eyebrows quirked up as he stared at you.

“What?” You asked.

“You...received the briefing, correct?” He asked, and immediately your palms began to sweat.

“Of course I received the briefing.” You responded a little too defensively. He gave you a small grin before looking back down at the tablet in his hands.

You glanced over at Cody nervously as if expecting a response. You felt stupid after your eyes fell onto his yellow helmet, hearing Obi Wan step away and enter the pilot’s cabin.

“You didn’t watch the briefing, did you?” Cody asked, his voice hushed and amused.

“No.” You said. “No, I did not.”

You heard his chuckle through the moderator in his helmet as heat rose to your cheeks. You couldn’t help but smile and punch him playfully, giggling slightly. He leaned closer and began to fill you in quietly, and all jokes fell aside when you learned of the planet’s condition.

Few months prior, Lelroth had fallen under separatist control after the population had been forced under Count Dooku’s submission. The Republic Senate had been receiving reports of just about anything you could think of to describe a humanitarian crisis. You stumbled into Cody a bit as the ship landed.

“We’re here.” The pilot announced as the hatch lowered with a loud, steaming noise.

You squinted as bright sunlight poured into the cabin, raising a hand up to block the sun as Obi Wan stepped out. Lelroth’s atmosphere was thick and humid as you followed him, listening to the dirt crumble beneath your feet as you stepped out. You gazed around the enclosing woods with a small smile, the saturation taking you by surprise after being stuck on Coruscant’s smoggy surface for so long. Though it was muggy, the air felt clean and fresh as you took in a deep breath. You swore you could almost taste the moisture on your tongue.

“Preferably tomorrow morning, yes. I’ll be contacting the council tonight and…” The general’s voice came in and out of earshot as you glanced over at the assault carrier you arrived on. You watched as the clones nodded swiftly at the Jedi’s words, saluting him one last time before the hatch closed and the ship descended through the trees. It was gone almost as quickly as it had arrived.

Obi Wan sighed and pulled the data pad back out of the abyss of his dark cloak before tapping at the screen again. “Let’s make this quick, shall we?” He murmured.

You laughed slightly. “Is my presence such a bother?” The tablet still held his attention as he flashed you a grin.

“Oh, yes. That’s definitely the reason.” He joked.

A sickening feeling started to grab at your stomach after hearing Cody describe the condition on Lelroth. You were unnerved, and regardless of the fact that you had a Jedi Knight as your company, you two were members of the Galactic Republic isolated on separatist territory.

“We should get going.” You murmured. “They’ll be expecting us soon.” you watched Obi Wan pull his large hood over his head as he murmured something under his breath, stepping forward and heading deep into the thick forest with you on his tail.

****************

The Lelrothians were a kind people. Their reaction to your arrival with the general was rather pleasant - they went so far as to throw a feast in you and the general’s honor. After meeting with the chief of the village you would reside in, you finally got a real understanding of the Lelrothians’ situation. You and Kenobi shared a grimaced glance as the chief went on to describe the state of his village alone.

He explained how a large percentage of the newfound members in his village were forced to flee the capital city after falling under a dark hand. You assumed the state of the capital was even worse than this small village as he reported substantial amounts of depleted resources. Running water had been cut off to many families and citizens could no longer supply food on their tables. The chief even mentioned the punishments some experienced for resisting - you weren’t surprised in the nearest after hearing tales of the wicked actions of General Grievous and his clanker army, but still...it was hard to hear.

“We were neutral ground,” You gazed over the chief’s descending head tails as he spoke. Dinek Kev was a twi’lek himself, his account thick and common amongst most of his species. When you glanced around the table, there had to be over fifteen different species in just the room alone. Sullustans, Ithorians, even a few Gungans and a Wookiee occupied a seat at the table. You smiled to yourself and returned your attention to the orange skin of Chief Dinek as he spoke.

“A peaceful people. Nearly everyone in this room is an immigrant or comes from one, somebody who was seeking peace. Other pacifist planets such as Mandalore seem to have been fine as they’ve remained neutral.”

“Believe me, Chief - Mandalore has been experiencing a great deal of their own internal conflict.” General Kenobi spoke.

“Forgive me, Jedi.” Dinek murmured quickly. “I’m just...desperate. I would have never taken the role of chief if it weren’t for Grievous and his army - I only want to protect my family and my home.”

You reached out and took Dinek’s hand, staring into his eyes sympathetically. “I’ll open it up for discussion in the senate as soon as I return to Coruscant. I promise you, Chief Dinek, we’re going to provide Lelroth with humanitarian aid and drive the separatists out of here.”

“I’ll speak with the council tonight.” The hood of Obi Wan’s cloak hung lazily around his neck as he murmured, stroking his beard in his typical fashion. His delicate blue eyes were glued onto his empty plate. Dinek squeezed your hand and began to thank the two of you profusely. You bit your lip, hesitant to discuss the requirements in order for any agreement to come through within the senate.

“Chief Dinek,” You started. “The villagers are going to have to learn to defend themselves.”

All you got from him in response was a simple blink, a common reaction among those the Jedi come to aid. Most planets that fall under separatist control hold peaceful populations, those who don’t believe in waging war and therefore seeing no need for a military. You desperately wished it didn’t have to be this way. It was heartbreaking seeing simple, innocent lives dragged into the Clone Wars, and one day, you hoped that the galaxy would evolve into one where war could be completely evaded.

“Defend ourselves? You mean train us to fight?” Dinek asked.

“Yes.” You replied.

“That is why we’re here.” Obi Wan explained. The chief finally slid his hand from yours and seemed to recoil at the words spoken. “The Jedi can only aid so much, Chief. The Lelrothians need to learn to defend themselves in order to be sure of complete safety from the separatists.”

After a moment of watching the chief calculate in silence, he looked up at you two with an entirely different expression on his face. He glanced around the dim room and gazed over his people with a small smile curved upon his lips. His eyes darted to yours before Obi Wan’s as he spoke.

“You’re right. The Lelrothians are never going to evade this if we don’t take matters into our own hands.” You smiled at Dinek’s words.

“Good.” Obi Wan stroked his beard again.

“I’ll leave for Coruscant at dawn and begin discussion in the senate.” You announced.

“Yes, and that is when training will begin. Tonight I will get an idea of when reinforcements will arrive on Lelroth. We’ll have a very short timespan to train, I suspect.” The general uttered.

“General Kenobi and I will stay in contact and you’ll be the first to know the senate’s decision.” You concluded. Dinek took your hand again and smiled/

“Thank you. Thank you so much.” As he spoke, music began to sound from the instruments held by those up on a small, makeshift stage. The villagers began to cheer and rose to their feet, clapping along to the tune that billowed out from various horns. You grinned as the chief stood and joined his people, taking a woman’s hand delicately and spinning her in delight.

You looked over at Obi Wan with a smile. He looked up at you and met your gaze with the rise of an eyebrow. “What?” He asked.

“Wanna dance?” You giggled. He merely scoffed.

“That would seem a bit unprofessional.” You rolled your eyes with a smile.

“Oh, lighten up, General. They threw an entire feast in our honor, surely we can dance with them.”

He smiled at you sarcastically. “I’ll pass.”

“C’mon. You know you want to.” You pressed, nudging him playfully.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He answered simply.

“Just relax. It’s not like you’ll get kicked out of the order or whatever. It’s just dancing!” He glanced up at you in his seat as you stood, grinning down at him.

“You can be very nagging, did you know that?” He asked. You offered your hand, the same stupid grin plastered onto your lips. He scoffed again and reluctantly took it, rising to his feet slowly.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He muttered with a grin as you pulled him over to the crowd and were instantly submerged by cheers, laughter, and celebration, having the time of your life with Obi Wan at your side.

**********************

The celebration soon came to an end and after a brief escort from Chief Dinek and a few of his men, you and General Kenobi arrived at the motel you would come to stay at briefly. The neon lights of the vacancy sign cast a bleached hot pink color onto the gravel beneath your feet. It crunched and crumbled as you stepped, tuning out of Obi Wan and Dinek’s conversation as you were led into the cramped lobby.

The wallpaper was faded and chipping in the room surrounding the front desk. A small Sullustan woman sat in an organically shaped velvet chair with a book open in front of her. Dinek stepped forward and quickly informed her that you and Kenobi were the reinforcements sent from Coruscant. You listened as she told the chief that there was only one room available, in which you and Obi Wan shrugged off. She thanked the two of you, passed over the room key and sent you on your way. As you trudged up the wooden stairs that led to the second floor, you heard Obi Wan sigh.

“Tired from all that dancing, General?” You chuckled. “You sure know how to get down.”

“Yes, but you on the other hand…” He trailed off, and when you looked back at him with a dramatic expression on your face, he chuckled.

You smiled and swiped the key card through the slot outside the door. “Whatever.”

The two of you didn’t think much of the fact that there was only one room available. It didn’t matter to either of you, because all motel rooms generally contain two separate beds, right?

Wrong. Apparently, all hotel rooms except this one contained two separate beds. Your jaw wanted to hang open at the sight of it, really. Obi Wan froze in his tracks when he entered the compact room.

“Not even a sofa?” you commented. The door still hung open behind you when Obi Wan turned and met your gaze almost frantically.

“There has to be a mistake.” He said.

“She said this was the only room available. Dinek said this was the only lodge in the village.” You mumbled, finally shutting the door.

“Right, well.” The general uttered and stroked his beard once again, beginning to pace as he did so. “I guess I’ll sleep on the floor.”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. I’ll sleep on the floor, you have to train in the morning.” You watched as he traveled over to the chairs seated at a tiny round table in front of the window. They were a brilliant orange in contrast to the faded, once flamboyant green walls.

“No. The chair will do.” He said as he sunk into the cushion. “See?” He planted his feet onto the stem of the table, pushing it back so it allowed him to stretch his ankles over the surface. You only stared at him with your eyebrows raised.

“It beats the floor.” Obi Wan shrugged. You shook your head, smiling as you sat on the edge of the bed. You were facing forward, looking at the painting that hung on the wall before you. The sheets on the mattress were an ugly plaid that was laced with oranges, reds, greens and browns. It was very dated, but at the same time it almost felt...homey.

“We’re adults, aren’t we?” You chuckled. “This is only a business trip, General. Stars, if we have to we can just build a pillow wall between the two of us.”

When you didn’t get an immediate response, you glanced over at him only to see the amused expression on his face. But it was the kind of amused look that nearly belittles you and makes you feel completely and utterly ridiculous.

“Yes, and a business trip it will remain.” He uttered. “I do hope you’re joking.”

Your cheeks grew hot in flustered embarrassment. “Uh - I mean, yeah. Totally kidding.” You darted your eyes to your feet and began to swing them back and forth childishly. You heard chuckling from the general’s end but didn’t dare look over at him. You didn’t need to, you already knew he was sitting back and staring at the data pad again.

Moments passed and you had nothing else better to do than sift through the dusty magazines that sat below the bedside table. The lamp atop the metal surface cast a warm, dim yellow light through the room. It made you feel almost cozy as you flipped through the old pages, reading the articles and gazing at some of the most beautiful alien models you had ever laid eyes on. “Wish they had a holonet in here.” You muttered, bored and wishing for some kind of noise instead of this awkward silence that hung in the air.

Time continued to drag on and it grew late enough for you to decide to head into the bathroom to change your clothes. You turned the handle and listened as the faucet began to run while staring at yourself in the mirror. The general seemed grumpy after your comment, and you weren’t sure why. It was easily played off as a joke, you thought...besides, you only wanted to save him from a little back pain and stiffness in the morning.

You were only trying to be polite. And, well...you were secretly hoping for a little more than that.

As you splashed warm water onto your face, you heard Obi Wan’s voice from the other side of the door and watched as his figure cast shadows across the tile you stood on. The automated voice of Master Yoda and Master Mace Windu echoed around the small room as the general began to discuss with the council.

When you stepped out of the bathroom and crawled under the covers, you tried your best not to eavesdrop on his conversation. You stared at the magazine in your lap blankly.

All he was doing was pacing, it was rather distracting. You wished this place had a radio or something, or that it was safe enough to take a short walk. The meeting between Obi Wan and the other Jedi Masters seemed to last eons as you found your eyelids growing heavy. You stared at the cover of the magazine, it showcased a twi’lek woman posing in front of a ship. You yawned, cast it aside and allowed sleep to take over completely.

******************

When you woke up, it was still dark outside. The lamp beside your bed had been shut off by Obi Wan, but the one hanging above the chair he sat in remained lit as he set down the data pad with a sigh. You weren’t sure what had woken you up, and as you gazed at the general while you laid on your side, you didn’t really care.

You could tell he was weary as he blinked slowly and ran his fingers through his hair. Glancing away, you felt slightly creepy as you stared at him for so long. But, I mean, could you really blame yourself?

After moments of silence, Obi Wan was the one to break it. “My apologies. I didn’t realize that the meeting would take so long.” His voice was deep and a bit croaky as it came out.

“It’s okay.” Was all you said as he reached for the light above him.

“Get some sleep,” he murmured.

“Are you sure you don’t want to share the bed?” You made sure it was apparent that you were joking as you smiled and chuckled, gazing at him as you did so. He paused for a moment, staring at you before his lips curved up into a grin.

“I see that pillow wall is still up for discussion?” He teased, and you laughed again.

“C’mon, it won’t bite. Besides, I’m only trying to save you from a little back pain.”

“Senator, are you implying that I’m old?” He chuckled.

“No, but I do understand that the dancing was already a step over the line for you.” You giggled, smirking. “Hurry up with that decision making please, I’m tired.”

Obi Wan laughed slightly before reaching up and turning off the light. To your disappointment, he didn’t stand up from his chair. You sighed softly and shut your eyes, letting go of the situation as you focused on falling asleep again.

Just as your mind began to wander, you felt a weight sink into the mattress beside you. Your eyes flew open as Obi Wan climbed into bed next to you, only to stare at the complete darkness that surrounded.

You grinned. “Did you change your mind?”

He sighed as he settled in. You could feel him, mere inches away from you as he relaxed. “Don’t make me regret it, Senator.”

You chuckled as darker thoughts began to consume you, reminding yourself that this was a business trip - strictly business. You wondered if Obi Wan thought the same, but you shot that down with another reality check as well.

You wanted to say something, but you didn’t. You couldn’t. You were worried that Obi Wan was actually trying to sleep, and you didn’t want to disturb him, or worse - make things even more awkward like earlier. Now, more than ever, you knew you were never going to fall asleep with Obi Wan Kenobi lying next to you.

“Are you alright?”

“Hm?”

“I can practically feel how restless you are at the moment.” He murmured.

“Am I moving too much or is it your spooky voodoo magic?” You asked. He began to chuckle softly.

“Do you mean the Force?”

“Yeah, that.”

“It doesn’t take a Jedi to feel you staring at me.” The grin in his voice made you feel even more embarrassed as you rolled over onto your opposite side, your eyes squeezed shut.

Obi Wan hesitated for a moment before murmuring, “I never said stop, darling. I don’t mind.” His words ignited a spark that released trillions of butterflies swarming in your stomach, and you couldn’t stop the gigantic smile that was forming on your lips.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” As you responded, you felt the general’s weight shift behind you.

His voice came from above you now. “Oh, you didn’t hear me clearly?” You felt his hot breath against your ear as he spoke his next sentence. “I said, I don’t mind your staring. I just wish you would stare at me when I could see you doing it.” His mumbling spiraled into your ear and descended down your body, pausing right in between your legs. You crossed them tight in instinct, nearly gasping.

“I thought you said this trip was strictly business, General.” You breathed.

“Like you said, I already crossed the line when you forced me to dance.” He joked. “Besides, I think we’ve both waited long enough for this moment.” His voice was hushed and gravelly and Stars, sexy as it rumbled into your ear. You turned until you felt his lips were hovering over yours in the darkness, the mattress creaking as you did so.

“You didn’t seem to think that way earlier.” You mumbled, a fat smirk on your face as you teased him. He sunk himself closer to you and you swore you felt his lips brush against yours for a second.

“Nobody needs to know,” He whispered. A moment of silence passed before he dove his lips into yours, drawing out a small sound of surprise from you. You felt his forearm come down beside your head and he let out the tiniest of groans. You knew this was coming judging by your previous dialogue, but you were still in shock. For a moment, you seemed to be dead weight as Obi Wan crawled on top of you. The only thing that moved was your lips against his until realization finally kicked in.

It started with your hands, which rose up swiftly to grab the sides of his face. His beard felt scratchy beneath your fingers in the best way as you hooked your legs around his waist. You had always wanted to touch him like this, to feel and move with him as your mouths were connected and one was on top of the other. It was something you could only fantasize about for the longest time until you had to tell yourself it was never going to happen. But now, it was happening.

His lips were as soft and welcoming as the pillows beneath your head as he kissed you. It was deep and passionate and almost aggressive, and that alone confirmed to you that Kenobi wanted you just as much as you wanted him.

Following your hands came your tongue as you pressed it between his lips gently, silently asking for entrance into the warm cave of his mouth. He granted permission and you felt his hand entangle in your hair when your tongues met. You sat up slightly, pushing yourself into him further as you dragged your teeth across the pink valley of his bottom lip. The grip nestled in your hair tightened in reaction and you giggled softly into him.

He tasted of fresh mint, and you found yourself wondering if he had brushed his teeth mere moments before this. He was dominating and absolutely thrilling as he rolled over, allowing you to straddle his waist and dip your chin down to his neck to leave a series of pecks down his flesh.

“Someone’s eager,” he commented, and in response you bit down slightly into his skin. He made a small startled noise in response before chuckling, abruptly flipping you onto your back. He left you breathless as his lips collided into yours again, and he groaned when you arched into him. His hands were absolutely everywhere. They ran from your jaw to your neck and then down to your forearms, back up to your shoulders and down to your breasts, down to your waist to grab at your hips...seemingly all at once.

He squeezed his fingers into the meat of your thighs and you groaned, raking your own through his hair. You felt like his touch was all you needed as your tongue slid against his.

Darkness still engulfed the two of you. Obi Wan’s skin was on fire when he caressed you, the heat between your legs was set ablaze as he dipped his chin down, his lips traveling down your neck slowly. You wanted to see him, his face when he looked down at you, his blue eyes clouded with lust. You wanted to look into his eyes and absolutely moan his name, you wanted to -

Obi Wan’s lips left your skin just above the hem of your shirt. He paused for a moment, holding himself before you and panting. “What is it?” You asked.

“Take off your clothes.” He commanded. You felt him lean to the side and squinted when the lamp was switched on. You didn’t respond as your eyes adjusted to the light, you only peered at him rather dumbly. You watched when he dragged his tongue across his lower lip. His eyelids looked heavy when he stared down at you.

“Did I stutter?” He asked. Your heart picked up pace and you grinned when you grabbed the neckline of his robes and yanked him forward.

“Why don’t you take it off for me?” You mumbled, blinking innocently. You felt your wrists fly above your head, elbows bent slightly as they tied together under an invisible grasp. You were confused for a moment as the general began to run his hands underneath your shirt, caressing your sides and traveling over your breasts briefly. It took a moment before it finally dawned on you that he was using the Force as your restraint.

He slid the fabric up ever so slowly and stared at your stomach when it was slowly revealed. He continued, his big warm hands sliding up your skin and pausing just as your breasts were revealed. He murmured something inaudible before tightening his grip around your waist and pulling you down on the mattress so his lips were level with your nipples. You moaned quietly, biting your lip as he began to kiss them. Your cunt was throbbing at this point and the muscles in your arms grew tired from being in such an unfamiliar position. You shut your eyes, but all at once the sensation on your breasts was removed as Obi Wan straightened his posture and finished ripping off your shirt. It came over your head quickly and was tossed to the side as if it were nothing.

“Can I have my hands back?” You giggled, breathless as he gazed at you.

He left soft, sweet kisses on the inside of your arms, his eyes twinkling as he had you paralyzed by the Force. “Not yet.” He said, and you didn’t have time to read the expression on your face before his lips were on your breasts again. You pushed your hips up against his chest as he continued, whining as he bit down gently onto your nipples. His lips descended down the center of your stomach, leaving slow, wet kisses on your skin before pausing just above the waistline of your pants. His blue eyes finally blinked up at you, and he was smirking.

Your cunt was throbbing so damn hard you wondered if he could feel it at this point. “Please,” You breathed. “I want to touch you.”

“Not yet,” Obi Wan repeated before curling his fingertips around the hem of the fabric and dragging it down your thighs.

“This...isn’t fair.” You grunted as you tried to pull your wrists from their restraint. It was no use, it felt like your arms were paralyzed in this position. Your pajama pants were now being thrown to the side just as your shirt was, and the general was leaving small pecks up the length of your legs whilst holding strong eye contact.

“Please, general - “ your cunt felt like it was on fire when he lifted his chin to look at you.

“Did you...seriously just call me ‘general’ in this setting?” He paused, chuckling.

“Well, I - “ you were flustered and frustrated at this point. “I don’t know, what should I call you?!” You had snapped. He only grinned with a shrug before he continued, pulling at your skin with his teeth.

He dug his fingers into your sides, and in between slow kisses, he said, “Doesn’t matter...whatever feels...most...comfortable.”

You thought about it for a moment. Yeah, you supposed referring to him as General Kenobi was a bit strange as he was actively stripping you of your clothing. But it still didn’t feel right calling him Obi Wan, either. You weren’t sure why.

Your wrists were finally released as his lips reached the corner of your inner thigh just below your flaming heat. Your panties still hugged your hips when Kenobi glanced up at you, seeming like he had forgotten to hold your arms in place.

Without giving him any chance of reaction, you slid out from under him and pounced on him like a fucking animal. You giggled and he shared your smile as you sat on him and began to rid him of his robes.

Once they were off and you finally got to shower every possible centimeter of his skin with kisses, but he was quick to flip you back over so you were trapped beneath him again. You struggled to get atop of him with a grunt, but it was useless. He was already pinning your wrists to the sheets again and barricading you with his own weight.

“Behave.” Again, his voice rumbled right into your ear, hot and thick as he nipped at your earlobe. In response you arched your back into him and whined, digging your fingernails into his back.

“Let me touch you - “ you grunted. “I want to...to make you feel good. I can make you feel so good, Master.” You moaned, letting the words fall from your mouth without even a second thought. In an instant, his fingers were around your chin and you were being forced to look into his pretty eyes.

“What did you call me?” He asked.

You giggled. “You heard me.”

A minute went by before he moved his hand from your chin downwards, slowly tightening around your neck. “Say it again.” You smiled and tilted your head back, shutting your eyes and moaning the word again.

“Master.”

He let out a sound similar to a growl before he rolled over, positioning yourself on top of his lap. You could feel his large erection beneath you, and it was in the perfect spot as you rolled your hips forward and crouched down, allowing your lips to meet his.

He kissed you aggressively, placed one hand on the back of your head and forced you into him while the other snaked underneath the fabric of your panties, finding your clit almost instantly. You whimpered against his lips and continued to grind against his cock before using your own hands to remove yourself from the barricading fabric.

You were so desperate to feel him inside of you. He grabbed your chin again and forced your lips to part, staring at you with dark eyes and a wicked grin as he pressed the pad of his thumb to your lower lip. “So desperate for it, aren’t you?” He mumbled.

You huffed and tossed your underwear to the side before pressing your lips against his ear and murmuring, “Can you feel how wet I am for you, Master?”

He grunted and moved his hands to your hips, forcing them down onto his cock. You rocked them forward, letting the tip slide over your clit and through your slick folds with a moan. Fuck, this felt good. You lapped at his earlobe and giggled before continuing. “Just imagine how good it’ll feel when you put it in, so warm and wet and tight - “

“You’ll want to shut that pretty little mouth before I put it to work.” He growled, and a wild grin spread over your face before you positioned him below your entrance.

You took him in slowly with a long moan and straightened you back, your breasts high and prominent for him to see. “Fuck,” you moaned. Your eyebrows furrowed as he filled you up.

Obi Wan grunted. “Stars, can’t you go any quicker?” He was frustrated as you giggled again.

“I think this feels fucking good.” You moaned again. “Your cock is so - “ you were cut off by his hand on your throat, forcing him down to his own face. He didn’t say anything, just silently forced your lips against his. It made you lose control of your pace, plunging down onto his entire length at once, drawing moans from both of you as you kissed.

“That’s better.” He mumbled against you. “Now do it again.”

You brought your hips up once more and slithered your tongue into his mouth, allowing them to fall back down, your cunt swallowing him whole in one stroke. Just as you started to kiss his neck again, you were flipped onto your back for what felt like the thousandth time.

“Would you just let me - “ The familiar grip on your chin cut you off, and your eyes were forced into his. With his other hand, he brought your knees to your chest and positioned himself at your entrance. He absolutely rammed himself inside of you without any issues, and your eyes widened when you gasped.

“I thought...I told you...to behave.” Obi Wan grunted in between his thrusts. Your fingers found their grip in the sheets beside you. Your back arched and you moaned while he pumped himself in and out of your wet cunt.

“If this is what I get for misbehaving…” you panted, tears pricking at your eyes from them being shut so tight. “...then I guess I’ll have to do it more often.”

General Kenobi let out a low groan as he continued thrusting into you, remaining his quick, hard rhythm. Your eyes met his as the two of you moaned, and his hand found its way back into the roots of your hair as he muttered, “Say it.”

“Master,” you mewled as he tugged on your hair, his cock hitting the perfect spot as he thrusted into you. “Master, your cock feels so good - “ his thumb was on your lip again when he interrupted you.

“Such filthy words coming from this pretty little face,” he murmured. “You like being dirty, don’t you? You enjoy being choked when you misbehave, hmm?”

You didn’t respond, your eyebrows only curved up when you moaned. His hips rolled forward and his cock was still sliding in and out of your folds. “Answer me,” he demanded.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Yes, Master.” Your hand released its grip on the sheets and traveled down in between your legs to gently play with your clit, but Obi Wan stopped you, removing your wrist sharply.

“If you want it, beg for it.” He said slowly.

“Fuck,” you gasped. “Please play with it - Master, please just touch my clit and…” you trailed off with whine as you felt his thumb slowly circling around it, agonizingly slow and so, so hot. You whimpered and rolled your head back into the pillow, tangling your hair against the cotton.

“Does that feel good, darling? Tell me how it feels.”

“Yes, fuck, it feels so good,” You panted, your eyes squeezing shut again. “It feels so fucking good, I might...I might cum,” you continued in between whimpers and moans. “Master - please let me cum.”

“Good girl.” He rasped before removing his thumb completely. You let out a sob as he pulled his length out from you, watching as he began to stroke himself when he lowered his head between your legs. “Such a good girl, asking for my permission.” He murmured before sliding his tongue up your heat ever so slowly, stopping at your clit to circle around it.

You whined, bucking your hips against him, grinding on his face as you babbled. “Fuck...this feels so good, your tongue, shit, I want your cock again - “

“You’ll have to wait for it,” he mumbled against you. Whining, you sat up and propped yourself on your elbows as you panted. You were a mess, and you continued to plead with him until he had enough of it and grabbed you by your shoulders. He forced you onto the floor, sitting on your knees as he sat on the mattress in front of you.

“If you won’t shut your mouth, I’ll just have to do it for you.” He muttered before pushing your head down onto his large cock. You let out a satisfied moan and made sure he was staring at you, remaining eye contact. You lifted a hand to stroke the base as your tongue swirled slowly around the tip, bobbing your head back and forth steadily.

Obi Wan moaned and shut his eyes. “Stars.” He murmured.

You released the tip with an audible pop, allowing a string of drool to fall from the edge of your lower lip. “It feels good, doesn’t it Master?” You planted your tongue to the base of his shaft and slooooowly dragged it up prior to rolling it over the tip and taking him into your mouth again. His breath hitched in his throat.

“You’re so filthy, do you know that? You’re so...good at this, you must have...had - practice...Stars, pretty girl...how are you so good at this?” He mumbled, grunting and moaning between the words that spilled from his mouth.

Again, his shaft left your mouth and you spit on your palm before using it to stroke him up and down. You blinked at him all innocent and doe-like. “I like it when you talk to me like that. Will you cum on my face, Master?”

Obi Wan blinked and grunted, thrusting his hips up into your palm. “You’re obscene.”

“But you like it, don’t you?” You planted a kiss on his tip before gliding your hands along his thighs and rising to your feet. You leaned forward and lifted his chin using your index and middle finger, smiling. “You like seeing me like this. You like making me your dirty little slut, don’t you, Master?” You blinked again and smiled sweetly before swinging your leg around his lap, straddling him.

He was absolutely mesmerized. “Don’t give me that look.”

You did it again, smiled softly. “Or what?” You challenged.

Just as your cunt was about to swallow his length again, you were thrown onto your back strongly and the general’s hand was once again tightened around your neck. His lips were on your ear and his fingers were dancing around your clit as he rammed himself inside of you. Your eyes filled with tears when you cried out, savoring the sudden sensations engulfing you. You moaned, feeling your voice vibrate against his hand.

“I like punishing you, you know.” His voice was low, and you moaned as he licked your ear. “You’re such a good girl when you want to be.”

“This isn’t...much of a punishment.” You grunted. He bit down onto your earlobe and you whimpered.

“Oh, we haven’t gotten to that part yet.” He rasped into your ear. His pace quickened and his fingers felt glorious against your clit. Your movements synced with his perfectly. You could feel yourself quickly approaching your climax as he kissed the skin on your neck, hitting all the perfect places when he pumped into you. It was as if he knew exactly what you wanted and how you wanted it.

You felt yourself caving in and desire dripped from your tongue as you moaned, “I’m gonna cum.” Just as the words fell, everything stopped. Obi Wan’s fingers and his cock left your cunt all at once, and you let out a cry just before his eyes met yours.

“Like I said before,” his lips brushed against your own as he purred into your mouth. “We hadn’t gotten there yet.”

You already had come down almost completely from your previous euphoric state when his fingers glided inside of you. You writhed and moaned under his touch and Stars, this man sure knew who to put his hands to work. When he lowered his lips back down to your clit, you thought you would just about lose your mind. “Fuck.” You moaned. “Please, Master. Let me finish.” You pleaded.

“Quiet.” He muttered before continuing. You obeyed and only continued to moan under his force, biting your lip and rocking your hips against his face as he pleasured you. His free hand slithered up your body and intertwined his fingers with your own as he worked in between your legs. You squeezed his hand so hard that you thought it would just about snap off. Obi Wan finally paused, blinking up at you from in between your legs.

“Are you going to behave now, darling?” He asked, still slowly working his fingers in and out of your cunt as he spoke. You nodded quickly.

“Say it.”

“Y-yes. I’m going to behave, I-I’ll be a good girl for you.” You said then added, “Master.” The general chuckled before instructing you to get on your elbows and knees, to which you obliged and rested your front end onto a cushy pillow. You arched your back, ass raised, and giggled when you received a slap on your ass before Kenobi positioned himself.

He grabbed at and pulled your hair, raising your head so you could see him out of the corner of your eye. He planted a kiss onto your temple before murmuring,

“Pretty, pretty girl.”

Then, he rammed into you so hard and unexpectedly that you gasp and cry out his name. He clearly doesn’t catch it, and you shut your eyes as a single tear falls, continuing to cry out and whimper beneath him. Fuck, it’s amazing, and it’s everything you had ever fantasized it would be. You swear you see stars as he continues, pumping in and out of you again, again, and again...this position seems so much better than before, you thought. His grip is so tight on your hips that you think it may leave bruises, but hell, you love it. You want him to leave marks on you.

You think of all the times before that were filled with nothing but harmless flirting and charm. Now, everything will be different. You giggled at the thought of changing in the morning and seeing the bruises he left on your skin. You could feel yourself approaching your climax just at the thought of knowing that in this moment, you were his.

You almost didn’t want it to end, but you were so desperate to finish after having it ripped from you at the very edge. You were sweating, panting, and groaning the word “Master,” over and over again. “I’m gonna cum,” you said heavily.

“Go ahead.” Obi Wan seemed to gasp. Another tear fell down your cheek and you cried out louder than ever before as you crashed down onto him, all around him, everywhere. Absolutely fucking everywhere, and if it weren’t for the Jedi’s weight holding you up, you would’ve collapsed down into the mattress already. It hit like a fucking train wreck, and he remained his steady pace as your walls closed in onto his cock. You assumed he could feel your shaking, and when your breath heaved in and out of your lungs as you slumped against the pillow beneath you, you smiled a lazy smile.

The sound of Obi Wan Kenobi grunting and letting out a long, high-pitched moan as he came undone inside of you was just about the sexiest thing in the entire galaxy. He collided into the bed beside you, panting as he stared at the ceiling. You finally allowed your hips to fall and rested on your stomach, you head turned to face him. Beads of sweat rolled across his skin when he looked at you, and your thighs still quivered against the sheets.

He dragged two of his fingers softly underneath your chin. “Beautiful,” was all he could make out as he huffed beside you. You shut your eyes, that lazy smile still plastered to your face.

“Do you...think anybody heard us?” You asked, opening your eyes again. You gazed over his beard and his strong features as he peered at you.

“Oh, without a doubt.” He began to chuckle.

“Whoops.” You giggled. He rolled over and pressed his lips to yours briefly before responding.

“If I’m being honest, I really couldn’t care any less.” His voice was husky when he smiled as you pulled him back down, kissing him again and again until you fell asleep in your blissful state.

****************

Tags: @ifvckedurmom @thingsistan @lizajane3

-please let me know if you’d like to be added to my taglist! I’m new to tumblr and everything to I don’t know who to add and stuff LMFAO so just let me know! <3

#obi wan x y/n #obi wan x you #obi wan x reader #obi wan smut #obi wan kenobi smut #obi wan kenobi x you #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi wan kenobi x y/n #clone wars smut #tcw #tcw smut #star wars smut #star wars imagine #clone wars imagine #tcw imagine #smut

2K notes · View notes

1kook · 4 years ago

Text

A COLLECTION [ updated: 8 . 23 . 21 ]

—NETFLIX & CHILL.

summary If you planned things right, you could rain down your raging displeasure on Jeon Jungkook right after the meal but before this proposed ‘Netflix and chilling,’ maybe dramatically throw your glass of wine at him, before storming out of his place and reporting him to the authorities (Namjoon) for his douchebag personality. warnings smut in the forms of grinding, oral (f), cum eating, vanilla unprotected sex, dirty talk misc use of the oldest trick in the book (“your hands are sooo big”), shy oblivious AND gentleman jk? pick a struggle, brief ment of app developer kook, evil and conniving oc word count 10.2k posted june 12, 2020

—HULU & WOOHOO.

summary But there’s more important matters to attend to than Jungkook’s Jersey Shore boner. warnings slight feelings of insecurity, smut in the forms of fingering, cunnilingus, cum eating, squirting, hand jobs, unprotected sex, riding, slight praise kink misc if you’re not a Jersey shore fan honestly GET OUT, mentions of capitalism😡, more kind/understanding kook, basically a “what are we?” fic but silly, irresponsible emailing habits, its so dumb just read word count 6.3k posted july 4, 2020

—IMAX & CLIMAX.

summary The occasional dark horse candidate among Barbie movie binges— Jungkook gets weirdly horny and fucks you to the tune of a classic Barbie movie soundtrack. warnings smut in the form of blowjobs, tit play, praise kink, standing sex, unprotected sex, reverse cowgirl (? kinda), daddy kink that morphs into ily kink misc jk is an avid history channel viewer, jk hates Barbie movies ik we took an L today girls 😔, jk goes thru like 4 personality changes (commanding > soft > mean > in love), honestly idk what to tag it’s a mess, he’s still cheesy and romantic but also 👀 just read word count 9.8k posted august 5, 2020

—KISSANIME & FOREPLAY.

summary You get a glimpse of the KissAnime screen for a good two seconds before about seven ads pop up. Another tab to a raunchy hentai website opens, and Jungkook groans. warnings mentions of hentai, smut in the forms of cunnilingus, masturbation (f), oral (f), use of a sex toy, fingering, nipple play, face sitting/fucking/riding idk (f), praise kink, hints of dumbification, cum eating, jk is like passive aggressive in this one, 4 (f) orgasms, this is the kicker: sub kook at the end😳, like 2 sec of dom yn lol, & u get 0.002 sec of adams apple kink misc more dumb story lines, made up sex stores bc my creativity knows no bounds, Jungkook plays nice but is actually mean for the majority of it, once again doyeon plays a pivotal role in the furthering of women empowerment, internal love monologues about jk best boy<3 word count 8.2k posted september 1, 2020

—DISNEY+ & BUST.

summary There’s a pounding on your door a little past noon, so hard and rough, that you almost think it’s the police finally coming to catch you for all your years of illegally pirating Phineas and Ferb. It’s not. It’s just a really drunk boyfriend wailing for your forgiveness at the door. warnings arguments, feelings of insecurity, bit of asshole jk, smut in the forms of humiliation, dumbification, choking, fingering, spit kink, self punishment (? idk lol), unprotected but [ passionate ] sex, jk losing his cool, the return of mean jk, desperate jk, he is actually an emotional mess in this one wtf misc angst, anniversaries, the L word😳, app developer kook, rip ‘pretty girl’ </3, we all become phineas and ferb stans word count 13k posted september 9, 2020

—ESPN & BDSM.

summary You would like to personally thank every loud-mouthed, ESPN commentator out there for saving you from Jungkook’s dangerous seduction skills. warnings smut in the forms of brief femdom, handcuffs, nipple clamps, blindfolding, flogging/use of a riding crop, soft dom kook, cunnilingus, spitting, unprotected but passionate, degradation, as always it starts horny n then turns into I love u kink misc kook has a swollen ankle so idk how he did all this, jk abuses the fuck outta pet names part 7, revenge gone wrong tbh, this was honestly a beginner’s intro to vanilla bdsm word count 12.7k posted september 14, 2020

—YOUTUBE & USE LUBE.

summary You can’t believe this is Jungkook’s preferred sick day treatment; YouTube, cuddles, and an ugly amount of lube. warnings smut in the forms of nipple play, handjobs, spit kink, face riding, unprotected, flavored warming lube, riding, praise kink, soft femdom, missionary bc his eyes are pretty, tit sucking, tit fucking, more jk has an impreg kink, oh and this is all subby kook misc domesticity baby!! fluff, soft scenes /.\, jk is sick:((, doyeon is A Doctor, yn sees an opportunity and she grabs it, surprise ending <3 word count 8.7k posted september 30, 2020

—VIKI & HICKEYS.

summary Just like in those Viki dramas Jungkook likes, the world around you is enveloped in shades of pink and red, kisses and hearts, so many goddamn roses it makes you sneeze. It’s absolutely perfect— nothing could possibly go wrong when there’s so much love in the air. warnings a little hurt + a lot of comfort, mentions of cheating!villain!jin, insecure!kook, emotional breakdowns, mentions of jk’s lonely past, jk cries :( smut in the forms of making out, eating out, fingering, clit play, hickeys, jk likes cum, double orgasm, squirting, tiny praise kink, blindfolding, rough + unprotected sex, doggy style, choking!!!, breeding/impreg kink, JEALOUS KOOK, mini hand kink, a lil bit of spanking, degradation, he gets progressively meaner lol oc cries, jk is a good boy n I want him to be happy misc there’s a lot of fuckin plot omfg -_-, it’s Valentine’s Eve!, doyeon makes Some Points, mentions of park seojoon juicy ass, they go on a d8 😳, oc like rlly wants to marry him, oc commits double phone homicide word count 16.3k posted january 14, 2021

—PEACOCK & SWEET TALK.

summary “I wanna watch Solange in Bring It On,” Jungkook smiles, and you have to wonder who exactly this blond man is and what he did with your teen-movie-hating boyfriend. warnings smut in the forms of kissing, cunnilingus (eating out + fingering), light praise, a lil body worship, jk fat cawk, brief nipple play, playful jk, unprotected sex, riding and missionary, the jk hand kink, I love you kink, jk wants nudes, jk’s cheerleader fantasies mentioned, spit kink, light choking, jk has like a scent kink (?), mention of collars and pet play misc app developer jk becomes even MORE app developer-y, oc is anti-google, there's plot, a 2 year anniversary, Solange knowles appreciation, BLOND JK!!!, gets sappy for a sec, seahorse marriage mention, doyeon x joon side pairing, jk is disgustingly dreamy and oc is threatened by that fact word count 10.7k posted march 23, 2021

— CRUNCHYROLL & RAIL.

summary Never mind the fact you really like Sailor Moon, or that you really want to pay attention to every little detail; the moment becomes Jungkook and his big smile and his red cheeks and the tiny box he produces from within his pocket. warnings smut in the forms of making out, jk nipple play, some 69 action, cunnilingus, blowjobs, brief choking, jk trying his best to listen to oc but he doesn’t rlly :/, fingering, missionary bc his eyes are pretty, unprotected fuckin raw, its romantic but when is it not… misc fluffy and domestic <3, weekend getaway <3, the Big Question, shy jk, sailor moon supremacy, jk makes this big elaborate speech about the sun and moon, mentions of 240p YouTube quality word count 8.7k posted may 21, 2021

—FUNIMATION & PROCREATION.

summary Never mind your upcoming wedding, this was perhaps the greatest moment of your life— the day Jungkook sought out an anime on his own. warnings kissing, smut in the forms of cunnilingus, cum eating, mentions of anal, doggy style, unprotected sex with the intention of pregnancy, spitting, hand holding<3 misc the wedding night, Doyeon strikes again, jjk watches jjk, oh no not twins word count 9.1k posted july 31, 2021

—BOOMERANG AND BANG.

coming soon

—COOKIES & CREAM.

summary Jungkook will watch a thousand cheesy Christmas movies if it meant making you happy. (And maybe having his dick sucked.) warnings smut in the form of blowjobs, face fucking, cum facials, fingering, overstim, double orgasm, r*mantic sex, riding, unprotected, cream pies, jk does this weird thing where he licks her face yeah idk, jk loves seeing his gf cry, jk has an obsession with jizz misc jk pov !!, eggnog slander, jk hates xmas movies, oc dresses like a sexy mrs claus, Elf !!, jk is in loooove word count 7.1k posted december 23, 2020

— TUTUS & TIARAS.

summary your first pregnancy through the lens of your husband warnings smut in the forms of penetrative sex, sex while pregnant, unprotected sex, tit play, cunnilingus, mutual masturbation, sticking the tip in and jacking off/cockwarming?, creampies, nose kink (? like she grinds against his nose), infatuation with scent, frottage/grinding, lactation kink, titluvr jk [bass boosted] misc married ncouple <3, domesticity, jk pov, mood swings, pregnancy, GIRLDAD!JK, DILF!JK, pregnant!reader, jk’s kids are virgos its true word count 10k posted august 23, 2021

— one.

summary Maybe Jungkook wasn’t always as cool and composed as you initially believed. But that’s okay, because you love him all the same. word count 1.3k posted September 10, 2020

—two.

summary Even after all these years, all these doubts, and all this solitude that was really no one’s fault but his own, he still finds himself hoping that maybe you’ll be the one. word count 1k posted september 11, 2020

—three.

summary But Jungkook loves the sun. word count 1.5k posted september 12th, 2020

—four.

summary For the last ten minutes or so his mind has been bothered by one thing and one thing only— the hair that hung in his face. word count 800 words posted september 22, 2020

—five.

summary Startled and inexperienced, he can’t do anything but rub his hands over your back. “It’s fine, it’s fine,” he murmurs, even though it’s not. word count 1.3k posted september 22, 2020

—six.

SUMMARY Jungkook enjoyed pushing you down, indulging you in all your little fantasies, but he too had some he wanted to live out. WC 1.8k POSTED september 25, 2020

—seven.

summary And lastly, Jungkook will bring it full circle by indulging you two in some good old fashion spooky sex where he nuts inside you because the only thing scarier than a scary movie is a pregnancy scare. It’s a perfect plan. word count 2k posted october 30, 2020

—eight.

summary You always do this— always ask for more. You take and you take until there’s nothing left for Jungkook to give. But Jungkook is the same. word count 1.9k posted december 28, 2020

—nine.

summary “I think that, like— me and you? We’re like, totally destined,” you ramble, “you should, like, take my number! And maybe we can, like— Netflix and chill one of these days?” word count 2.2k posted january 8 2021

—ten.

summary See, there’s no one in this world who ignores his house rules more than you. Even worse, there’s no one on this planet who can make Jungkook ignore his own rules like you do. word count 1.4k posted february 14, 2021

—eleven.

summary You’re too bright, too… there. His shell is too small. word count 1.2k posted may 3, 2021

—twelve.

summary Anyway, if it was up to Jungkook, Kim Doyeon would not be a member of the Engagement Ring Committee. word count 1.4k posted may 8th, 2021

—thirteen.

summary Because for as much shit as you let him get away with, Jungkook is certain you’ll draw the line today. word count 1k posted june 13, 2021

—fourteen.

summary Jungkook needs you to know that you can always count on him. word count 1.3k posted july 6, 2021

—fifteen.

summary It’s Jungkook’s teenage fantasy— being pushed down by a cheerleader. word count 3.1k posted august 9, 2021

— sixteen.

summary Your skin is warm and smells like sunshine. Jungkook can’t really explain it. (And also like the sunscreen you had doused him in earlier, but that isn’t as romantic.) word count 1.9K posted august 11, 2021

—seventeen.

summary She looks his way and suddenly Jungkook is nineteen again, in his dorm, listening to the first person he ever thought he loved telling him he’s too much to handle. word count 1.6k posted august 18, 2021

beautiful banners made for series!

cute and cozy gif by the lovely @ladyartemesia

LASTLY:

#jungkook smut #jeon jungkook smut #jjk smut #jungkook fic #jeon jungkook fic #ncml #mine

7K notes · View notes

seal-writes-stuff · 3 years ago

Note

omg what about connie having a baby with his s/o 🥺

Connie Nikas having a child with his S/O would include…

Word count: 1.2k

Warnings: F!Reader, pregnancy, brief mentions of violence

Summary: all in the title

A/N: Hey anon, thank you so much for the request! I don’t have a lot of experience with writing parenting stuff, so it was an interesting experience. Hope you enjoy!

When you tell him you're pregnant, Connie's freaking out with a capital F, even if it’s entirely planned. There’s never enough money, he has no idea how to raise kids, what if something goes wrong OH GOD OH FU-

Even then, he’s going to die before he shows any of that. He wants you to feel calm and secure, sure that he always, always has your back. You still know Connie’s nervous – as if you haven’t learned all of his little expressions by heart already – but you aren’t worried for a second. You know there’s nothing you can’t go through together.

While you’re expecting, Connie gets any work he can get a hold of – more or less stable jobs, odd jobs, borderline illegal jobs, anything. More often than not you find him home in the dead of the night, knocked out cold still in his clothes. You’d kiss him a million times right there and then, but you don’t want to wake him up.

Tries to stir clear from the criminal stuff for the first time in his life. Before he met you, the reward has always been greater than any punishment he could get in Connie’s mind, but not this time. He pretty much grew up without parents and it has taken a toll, no matter how well he hides it. He wants to be there for his child, whatever happens.

He’s absolutely sure you’ll be a great mom, so if you have even the slightest doubts about that, Connie’s there for you. Whether it’s hormones, cravings or just fears, he does what he can to make you feel better.

Of course, he has his own fears that keep him up way more than they should. Connie thinks he’s been a pretty horrible brother to Nick for a long time – what if this makes him a horrible father? What if his past will somehow catch up to him – or even worse, what if it hurts you or the baby? What if there’s something he can’t even think of right now? Connie tries to bottle everything up for your sake, but ends up just blurting it all out one night, feeling terrible the entire time. You spend the night cuddling as you whisper soft reassurances in his ear – there’s no doubt in your mind that he’ll be a great dad.

When Connie sees the baby for the first time he’s overjoyed. But he also has zero experience with kids, so he’s awkward, but tries his best. Pretty much along the lines of: “Hey there. How are you so small, explain that”.

Wakes up to put the baby back to sleep at night almost every time. Most of his life happens after dark anyways so he doesn’t really mind; besides, it allows you to sleep for a few extra hours. Half of the time you get up from an empty bed only to find Connie asleep sitting with his back to the wall, still holding the baby tight. You feel almost guilty when you wake him up.

Talks to them all the time. About things that happened today, about his philosophical ideas, about birds chirping outside – whatever comes to his mind. More than once you’ve caught Connie gushing about you, telling your kid how amazing their mom is, how much he loves her and how lucky he is to have her. He completely denies it when you ask him later, but you still tease him forever between kisses.

By the way, he never uses baby talk – it always sounds like he’s chatting with a friend, even if all he’s met with are babbling noises. You bite your lip to hold your giggles; it’s so cute you can barely contain yourself.

Secretly tries to get them to say “mama” when he thinks you’re out of earshot. One day he accidentally overhears you encouraging them to say “daddy” and can’t stop smiling for the rest of the day. You’re really made for each other, aren’t you?

Connie’s not very emotional, but he definitely sheds a tear when your child calls him a dad for the first time. He can’t even put it into words at first, he’s just so overwhelmed by all the love he feels – for them and for you.

Takes your kid to see “uncle Nick” as soon as he can. Seriously, Connie’s never been more sure of something in his life: he loves Nick and wants him to meet the baby. He’s also convinced they’ll have a perfect understanding immediately (and he’s right).

Your baby is the only person, apart from you, who’s allowed to touch his face and mess with his hair as much as they want. Connie always looks at them with a mix of affection and fascination when they do it, like it’s the most captivating thing in the world.

Pretty much zero parental control when it comes to the stuff on TV. If the kid wants to join him on some R-rated movie, they can do it no problem – to the point where you have to intervene. He’s not malicious with it, he just genuinely doesn’t understand why “Saw” might not be the best choice for a toddler.

Amazingly calm when it comes to tantrums. His response is pretty much: “Okay, are we done?” before talking with them through it without missing a beat. You aren’t sure how he manages to do that, but you’re extremely grateful.

Saves every present your kid gives him – every drawing and every craft. He even keeps some of them in his pockets as “lucky charms”, as if it’s not the softest thing you’ve ever seen.

As your kid grows up, Connie shows up for them every time he can – parent-teacher conferences, sport games, school plays, everything. He wants to be present for them when it counts.

Supports all of your kid’s dreams. They want to be an artist or “a dinosaur builder”, whatever that means? Hell yeah, they should go for it. Connie wants them to feel supported and safe at home, to have something he didn’t have for a long time.

Pretty much the definition of a chill parent. Jumping in the puddle? Alright, we can always change clothes later. Going to the friend’s house for a sleepover? Alright, call when you want to go home. Not because he doesn’t care – he really, really does – but because he wants them to make their own choices. He knows he wouldn’t listen at their age anyway.

At the same time, he can and probably will literally fight for your kid unless you stop him. He’s perfectly aware that it’s not the best solution for the problems in your kid’s life, but it’s always in the back of his mind that there’re just… Easiersolutions than simply talking. He restrains himself for your and their sake though.

Loves you and your kid more than anything. He’s spent so much time wandering from place to place, thing to thing, but only now, with you, he truly feels at home.

#connie nikas #connie nikas x reader #connie nikas imagine #robert pattinson x reader #robert pattinson imagine #good time #seal writes

126 notes · View notes

leiawritesstories · 3 years ago

Text

As I Am, 18

Summary: London, England, 1816, early spring. The opening of the Season is every year’s most anticipated event in high society, especially among the young ladies. This Season has been predicted to be one of the most promising yet, given that the debutantes include Miss Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, Misses Nesta, Elain, and Feyre Archeron, Miss Elisa Selvari, Miss Elide Lochan, and many more. Not to mention that His Grace Rowan Whitethorn, the newly ascended Duke of Doranelle, shall be in town with his companions. Where shall the Season lead? We have yet to find out, but as with all Seasons, there will be parties, promenades, dancing and dining, a profusion of flowers in each young lady’s parlour, and of course, scandal.

STORY WARNINGS: language, arranged marriages and other 19th-century problems, eventual fighting, eventual smut

Inspired quite a lot by Bridgerton and Pride and Prejudice. Unknown chapter count. Characters are from Throne of Glass and ACOTAR, as well as various other characters from various other authors. I’ll credit them as they appear, and if anyone is unfamiliar, please go check out their books!

CHARACTER LIST MASTERLIST

Word count: 3.6k

Warnings: language, brief Arobynn, implied capital punishment, mentions of prostitution, a guy with a fake French accent

Surprise! Happy Wednesday! Enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Not only a wasteful drunkard, but an illicit brothel-owner as well?” Evalin gasped, snapping the Society Papers down onto the breakfast table. “Whatever has our world come to?”

“Do not forget that he is also a murderer, Mamma,” Aelin added, finding herself unable to stomach any breakfast at the moment.

Evalin shuddered delicately. “We do not speak of such topics at table, Fireheart.”

Aelin raised an eyebrow. “Then how are we to discuss these topics at all, Mamma? I am forbidden to speak of anything ‘indelicate’ outside my home; if I cannot speak freely in my house, how am I to properly learn?”

“Behind closed doors, like all women do.” Evalin shook her head when Aelin opened her mouth to retort. “Please, Fireheart, leave it at that.” We can talk later, she mouthed.

Aelin found her way up to the attic later that day, found herself spending a good chunk of time alone with only the rhythmic thwack of her wrapped fists against the worn leather punching bag to break the silence.

A knock on the attic door. “Ae? You in here?”

Aelin crossed the room and opened the door. “Care to join, Elli?”

Elide efficiently slipped out of her skirt, revealing a pair of fitted trousers, wrapped her hands, and took a stance on the other side of the punching bag. “I’d love to.”

“You were at the opera that night, were you not, Elli?” Aelin ventured after a few moments.

Elide grunted, throwing an especially forceful punch. “I was.”

“And?”

“And I shall not rest until that man is rotting in hell where he belongs.” Her eyes burned with rage. “I do not give a shit how ‘proper’ it is for me to be involved in the proceedings; he murdered my--erm, Miss Essar, and he deserves to hang for that, let alone the list of his other crimes.”

“Your Essar?” Aelin had certainly not missed that part.

“We were friends,” Elide admitted, “though I kept it secret for fear of what Society would say.”

“Ah.” Aelin nodded. “Wise of you, as the mammas would certainly have plenty of gossip to spread.” She launched the punching bag back at Elide. “So what are your plans?”

“Right now?” Elide sighed. “I have an outline of a plan, little more. I intend to speak to Essar’s sister, Vassa, and have her agree to testify, as well as any other singers she can rally up. Firsthand accounts of Hamel’s pimping ought to convince the judge of his guilt.”

“But would you pay Vassa a visit? Or send a letter or something?”

“You…have a point,” Elide admitted. “I suppose I shall have to either send a letter or…” She trailed off. “Or, I could enlist Lorcan’s assistance.”

“Lorcan?” Aelin wiggled her eyebrows. “We are on a first-name basis?”

“Shut up,” Elide grumbled, “that is not going the way you and His Grace want it to go.”

“Who said anything about Rowan?” Aelin inquired innocently, batting her lashes.

“If you think I am not aware that you schemed to get the two of us to dance together, you are quite mistaken,” Elide sniffed primly. “Yes, we are on a first-name basis. I should think that catching Essar as she fell would do that.”

Aelin stood stunned, her jaw slacking open. “Lorcan was there as well?” she gasped.

“Indeed. He was Essar’s lover, Ae.”

“Holy hell.” Aelin was incredulous. “So.” She shook her head, clearing her mind. “So he knows Vassa and could be seen going to her house and Society would not spread evil rumors, is what you’re saying.”

“Yes. Sadly, if I were to visit Vassa, the town would soon believe that I am running off to join the opera, and I should never be able to convince the gossipmongers otherwise.”

From her seat between her parents in the gallery, Aelin scanned the courtroom, quite packed to the brim with the fine spectators ready to witness Herr Hamel’s trial. Darting her gaze down to the witness bench, she met Elide’s eye and tossed her a reassuring smile. Elide nodded back, flashing a tight little smile.

Judge Kallias Invier entered the room, and everyone gathered therein stood in his presence. He took his seat, rapped his gavel on his desk. “This court is now in session.” Everyone settled back into their seats. The swarm of reporters standing in the back of the floor inked up their pens, poised to record every scathing detail.

“Bring forth the accused,” Judge Invier declared.

Two burly bailiffs pulled a rather beaten-up Herr Arobynn Hamel into the courtroom and placed him at the stand.

“Arobynn Hamel, you are charged with the murder of Miss Essar Ild, one of your employees, running an illicit brothel, public drunkenness, and causing a public disturbance. How do you plead?”

“Innocent of all charges,” Arobynn growled, “and you damn well know it.”

“Lest you seek to add contempt of court to the charges, Herr Hamel, I would suggest containing your replies to proper English,” Lord Invier drawled. He pounded his gavel twice. “The defendant pleads innocent. Let the proceedings begin.”

Arobynn was escorted to his seat, the bailiffs flanking him. He cast his surly eye at the witness bench, finding multiple sets of unforgiving stares directed back at him.

“The prosecution calls Captain Lorcan Salvaterre to the stand.”

Lorcan rose and went to the stand, was sworn in, and delivered a brief testimony. “Yes, Your Honor, I was in attendance the night Miss Ild was murdered. I caught her as she fell. I was at her side in her last moments.”

“Were you familiar with the lady, Captain?”

“I was.”

“Will you tell us of your relationship to her?”

“I was her lover for a brief time. Herr Hamel approached me some seven months ago and offered Miss Ild’s ‘services,’ I believe he called them, to me. Rather than engage in prostitution, I chose to seek out her company on my own. We did have relations, it is true, but I never paid her for any of our time.” The reporters avidly scribbled down each of Lorcan’s words. “I was her lover, never her owner or her master.”

Following a brief cross-examination, which yielded nothing more than he had already said, Lorcan returned to the witness bench.

“The prosecution calls Miss Vassa Ild!”

Vassa rose, was sworn in, and delivered her own testimony. “Essar is--was--like my older sister. We were only a year and a half apart, and very close. We are not related by blood, but we have known each other since childhood. When she joined the opera, I followed, at first just to keep our house, but I too joined the troupe some time later. And I have been trying to leave it ever since.”

“Why is that, Miss Ild?”

“Because Hamel treats his troupe little better than slaves, Your Honor. We are paid a sham of a wage, most of which we must pay him back for whatever costs he invents, and he sells our bodies to whatever gentleman with a wad of money approaches him and asks for a night with a singer.” The prosecution stepped down, nodding that the defense might cross-examine.

Gasps and murmurs rippled throughout the courtroom. The reporters’ pens practically flew over their pads, recording this latest bit of juicy news. Kallias pounded his gavel. “Order!”

“Miss Ild, can you prove any of these claims?” the defense inquired.

“Yes.” Vassa produced her small leather-bound ledger. “These are my wage records. I always kept the books for my family, even when that family was just Essar and myself.” She passed the book to the defense, who handed it to the jury, who looked over the columns and murmured in shock amongst themselves.

“The jury finds these records legitimate,” the head juror announced.

“Thank you, Miss Ild. No further questions.”

Vassa returned to her seat. The prosecution called the handful of other singers she had managed to rally, who each delivered another piece of the sordid tale of Arobynn’s whoremongering.

“The prosecution calls Lady Elide Lochan!”

Her face impassive, Elide took the witness stand and was sworn in.

“Lady Lochan, you were present on the night of Miss Essar Ild’s murder?”

“I was, Your Honor. In fact, I found myself at the side of Miss Essar, along with Captain Salvaterre.”

“How did this occur, my lady?”

“I was nearby, having paid Miss Ild my compliments after her performance, as I am a patron of the opera and it is my custom to congratulate each singer after a concert. I witnessed Herr Hamel’s display of drunken rage, and I witnessed him call Miss Ild a whore and shoot her. While Captain Salvaterre attempted to stop the bleeding, I sat with Miss Ild, offering whatever comfort I could.”

“Rather noble of you, Lady Lochan.”

“I saw it as my duty, both as a human and as a patron of the opera.”

The defense cross-examined Elide, again revealing nothing more than she had already said, and she returned to her seat, tossing Aelin a tiny, elated grin.

“The defense calls Arobynn Hamel to the stand!”

Arobynn was sworn in and asked for his defense.

“My singers are my property, Your Honor,” he spat, “and I may do with them as I wish.”

“Employees are not property, Hamel, despite the outdated notions you obviously hold,” Lord Invier replied, staring coldly down at him.

“Like hell they’re not,” Arobynn sneered. “Yes, I privately arranged for my singers to keep certain people company. And yes, some may call that prostitution. I prefer to call it side profit.” Shocked gasps from the crowd. “I fail to see how that is illegal.”

“All prostitution is illegal, Hamel,” the prosecution said coldly. “What have you to say for the murder of Miss Essar Ild?”

“It was deserved,” Arobynn growled. “She was leaving my theater, taking my profit.”

“So you admit you killed her?”

“Was I supposed to just let her leave?” he scoffed.

Waves of utter shock and horror rippled over the courtroom. Lord Invier pounded his gavel again. “Order! Order in this court!” He turned to Arobynn. “I believe you have spoken your piece. I release the jury to deliberate.”

The jurors filed out of the room. Arobynn was once again escorted out, fire in his eyes. The witnesses and the crowd filed out the doors, dispersing around the courthouse to await the jury’s verdict.

The jury did not deliberate for long. Barely two hours later, the court pages hurried around the building, calling everyone back inside. “The jury has returned!”

Assembled once more, Lord Invier summoned Arobynn to witness his sentencing.

“We, the jury, unanimously find the accused, Herr Arobynn Hamel, guilty of all charges.”

“Very well then.” Kallias turned his steel gaze back to Arobynn. “Arobynn Hamel, you have been found guilty on all counts. For the charges of public drunkenness and causing a public disturbance, you are fined thirty shillings in total. For the charge of running an illicit brothel, you are relieved of your position as director, though I believe none of that sentencing will ultimately matter. For the charge of murder, you are hereby sentenced to be hanged by the neck until dead.” He banged his gavel with finality. “This court is adjourned.”

The bailiffs dragged a cursing, kicking Arobynn away.

As she waited for Aelin’s family to come out of the courthouse, Elide sensed Lorcan coming to her side.

“Yes?”

“We did it,” he said softly, half in disbelief. “Elide, we did it.”

“It would not have been possible without you speaking to Vassa,” she returned, resting a hand on his forearm. “Thank you, Lorcan.”

“Of course.” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Look, Elide, about Essar--”

“I would really rather not bring that up just yet.” A bright pink flush crept across her cheekbones.

Lorcan nodded his assent, trying to control his own blush. “I understand.”

Aelin came down the courthouse steps. “Elide?”

Dropping Lorcan’s arm, Elide went to join her cousin.

The next week, as the news of Arobynn Hamel’s demise slowly became less of a fresh scandal, Feyre Archeron began her wedding dress fittings. Father had contracted “the finest tailor in all of London,” according to him, to prepare her dress.

Feyre was less than impressed with the tailor, a pompous little man with greasy mustachios.

“Ah, oui oui, mademoiselle, and you shall be the finest bride to grace the Society this season, eh?” he purred as he took her measurements, his tape flicking efficiently around her body. At least he was efficient, else Feyre feared she might actually go insane listening to his obviously contrived French accent. She smiled politely and nodded along to his stream of chatter, anything but interested in actually conversing.

When he’d taken her measurements, he took his leave with great flourishing, promising to return the next week with “zee greatest beautiful wedding-dress for la belle mademoiselle.” Feyre barely kept from rolling her eyes.

The next week, he was back, this time armed with an easel and a sketchpad and an assistant carrying quite as many bolts of fabric as he was tall. He snapped the easel into place and flicked the pages of his sketchpad out for Feyre and her family’s viewing pleasure.

Feyre almost lost her lunch.

The man was trying to drown her in ruffles. The design he’d created featured a simple enough bodice with yards and yards of skirts, poofing out into great wads of ruffles that made the feminine silhouette in the sketches look like an over-groomed poodle.

Without waiting to hear any opinions, the tailor clapped his pudgy little hands. “Allons! Out, out! I have the magics to work!”

Feyre threw an imploring glance at her sisters. Save me, her eyes begged, before I actually kill this man.

She spent the next hour in utter fashion hell, standing still on a small raised platform while the tailor and his assistant wrapped layer upon layer of white, cream, silver, and pastel-pink silks around her waist, creating a pile of layers that vaguely resembled a confectionery Feyre had seen in a bakery window. It was all she could do to keep from shuddering as the tailor pinned and marked the fabrics and declared her “très belle.”

A knock at the door.

“Come in!” Feyre called, thinking it would probably be one of her sisters.

Elain poked her head into the room. “How is everything going, Fey? Do you need anything?”

“My sanity,” Feyre grumbled under her breath. “It’s…going,” she replied, screwing up her face at her sister.

Elain snickered. “I see. Well, I believe we are having company shortly, so if you were able to attend, we would much appreciate it.” She winked slyly and popped back out.

The tailor carefully unwound the massive poof of skirts from Feyre’s waist. “We shall be basting the skirts together, my lady. I will bring the piece again next week.” Bowing, he too withdrew, barking orders at his assistant in rapid French.

Feyre huffed a massive sigh of relief, stepping back into her day dress. Elain slipped back into the room, giggling behind her hand.

“Goodness, I almost lost it when I popped in earlier.”

“Gods,” Feyre groaned, “I feel as though the man is actively trying to make me look like a simpering, stupid little girl.”

“Well, we can fix that,” Elain reassured her. “Lysandra is on her way over as we speak.”

Feyre grinned. “So that’s the company you mentioned.”

“Indeed.” Elain winked. “’Twould have been most indelicate to say outright that we were having a different seamstress make your wedding gown.”

“I doubt his ego would have survived that blow,” Feyre snorted.

“Touché,” Elain crooned in her very best impression of the tailor’s bad French accent. Feyre cackled, doubling over.

“Gods, Lainy,” she wheezed, “you are far too good at accents.”

Elain swept her a little curtsy and headed out. “Let’s go welcome Lysandra, Fey.”

Lysandra took one look at the sketches the tailor had left and almost spewed her tea all over the room. “Good lord!” she exclaimed, “does he think you are a child’s doll?”

“No, but he does think I ought to look like confectionery,” Feyre scoffed.

“This ought to be illegal,” Lysandra scorned, whipping out her own sketchpad. “At least he left your measurements written on the page; that will help me greatly.” She smirked, her pencil flying as she traced a dress form onto her page. “We shall start from here.” Turning her sketchpad around, she showed Feyre the simple, elegant gown structure she’d designed.

“It actually looks like a dress!” Feyre marveled, eyes roving over the silhouette.

Lysandra snickered. “It is supposed to, Miss Archeron. I believe this silhouette will flatter you best, drawing attention to your figure and your proportions rather than drowning you in ruffles.” She indicated the fitted bodice, the slightly puffed cap sleeves. “The sleeves will hit about halfway down your upper arm, leaving you the freedom to wear longer gloves.”

Feyre nodded. “Clever. And the veil?”

Lysandra flipped the page over and sketched out a few veil variations. “With your height, you would be best suited to have a chapel-length veil; I envision it flowing just past the skirts of the gown.”

Feyre nodded. “So no overly long train, then?”

Lysandra actually shuddered. “Gods, no. You are not tall enough to pull off trailing skirts, milady, forgive me for saying so.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Feyre grinned, “you are just being refreshingly honest, as always.”

“I do aim to please,” Lysandra smirked. “The skirts will pool around your feet, like so”--she constructed the skirts in the drawing to march her words--“and with the veil falling like this, every bit of your beauty shall be properly accentuated.” She turned the sketchpad around once more. “Well?”

Feyre was speechless. “I absolutely adore it,” she breathed, staring.

“In that case, stand up and take your dress off, and we shall get to creating the wedding gown of your dreams.” Lysandra clicked her tongue. “I shall be as swift as possible.”

“Oh, do take your time, Lysandra,” Feyre countered, standing once more on the platform, “as I am sure you have much you’d like to share with us.”

Lysandra winked, grinning with a touch of wickedness. “I do indeed.”

Rose tapped on Feyre’s door late that night, just as she was about to snuff her candle. “Miss? Are you awake?”

Yawning, Feyre went to the door. “Barely, but yes. What is it, Rose?”

“Note for you, miss.” She handed over the small, sealed envelope.

“Thank you,” Feyre whispered. “Do go and sleep, Rose, you need it far more than I do.” Waving a goodnight to her maid, she closed her door again and opened the note.

Feyre,

I have a bit of a conundrum and do not know to whom else I can speak. If you were deeply in love with a man of whom your elder brother disapproved for some trivial, idiotic reason, what would you do? Try as I might to persuade Rhysand to see the truth, he remains obstinate in his belief, refusing to see my side. I do not know what to do, Feyre. I am hopelessly in love, and I know mine loves me as ardently as I love him. Please, can you offer me some solution?

Your sister-to-be,

Elisa

Smiling a giddy little smile at “sister-to-be,” Feyre grabbed a sheet of notepaper and composed a quick response, hoping she was coherent.

Elisa,

To be perfectly frank, there is not much you can do to persuade your stubborn brother to change his mind. However, if your beloved pleads his suit to Rhys, he might be willing to listen, to have a man-to-man conversation. Men are like that sometimes, stubborn to idiocy. If that does not work, remember that it is your love that matters the most, not someone’s opinions. Love conquers all, Lis, no matter what it takes.

Your almost-sister-in-law,

Feyre

She wrapped herself in her dressing gown and slipped downstairs, tapping one of the footmen on the shoulder. “Pardon, William, could you do me a favor?”

“What is it, milady?”

“Could you please deliver this to House Selvari?”

“Of course, milady.” William tipped his hat at her.

“Thank you ever so much.” Feyre smiled and returned inside, watching through the window as the young footman crossed the square and delivered her note to House Selvari, where a maid answered the door and took it.

A dim light flickered on in Elisa’s bedroom some minutes later. Obviously, Elisa had stayed up, awaiting Feyre’s response. Feyre watched covertly from her bedroom window as Elisa’s shadow crossed the room and her curtain moved aside. Her lantern appeared in the window, flickered twice, and disappeared.

Code for thank you.

Grinning, Feyre flicked her curtains open and closed three times. You’re welcome. She snuffed her candle and tucked herself into bed, drifting off to thoughts, some of them naughtier than others, of her fiancé.

Lady Esther Selvari rang her little bell as the clock ticked towards ten. A maid appeared in the parlor within a minute.

“Yes, milady?”

“Anna, would you please check on Miss Elisa? I believe she has overslept this morning.” Anna bobbed a curtsy and headed upstairs.

Not five minutes later, a banshee-like shriek echoed through the house. Lady Selvari nearly dropped her teacup in shock.

Anna came flying down the stairs and into the parlor. “Begging your pardon, milady, but…I found this in Miss Elisa’s room. And her bed was untouched.”

Hand shaking, Lady Selvari snatched the envelope from Anna’s hand. Mother, read the simple inscription on the front. She broke the seal and unfolded the single page, scanning her daughter’s words.

And fainted dead away.

Anna and the housekeeper revived her with smelling salts and a cold compress. Lady Selvari breathed deeply, shaking as she came to.

“Whatever has happened, ma’am?” the housekeeper inquired, gently.

“It is my daughter,” the dowager countess breathed, her voice quivering.

“What about her, milady?”

“Elisa has eloped.”

~~~~~~

TAGS:

please lmk if you want to be added/removed!

@charlizeed @cretaceous-therapod @loudphantomdragon @ingrid1234 @morganofthewildfire @rowanaelinn @story-scribbler @nicolivesinbooks @flora-shadowshine @wesupremeginger @mackenzieclutt @stardelia @maeclin @pen-paper-and-ink @nerdperson524 @claralady @fireheartwhitethorn4ever @julialovebooks @nesgoddessofdeath @gracie-rosee @autumnbabylon @clea-nightingale

#as i am #my writing #regency au #shit went DOWN

30 notes · View notes

clandestinegardenias · 2 years ago

Note

the social theory anon again, thank you so much for taking your time to answer my ask!!! i got a little impatient right after i sent it and combed your blog in hopes of maybe you mentioning some books and whatnot and found some of your thoughts and analysis on supernatural. you talk about “the presentation of self in everyday life” and “discipline and punish” in some of them and i bought them right away. have already read through foucault’s book twice 😭😭 it’s so fascinating. i’ll definitely check out your other recommendations!!

WOW, anon you are SERIOUS about this, I LOVE IT.

In that case, I also recommend picking up:

Doors of Perception by Aldous Huxley

Huxley takes mescaline and can't stop talking about drapery, absolutely wild meditation on what reality actually means

2. Distinction by Pierre Bourdieu

Theoretical musings on what marks class differences above and beyond simple economics; suggests replication of status occurs through culture, social networks, etc. For a brief intro, see: https://www.marxists.org/reference/subject/philosophy/works/fr/bourdieu-forms-capital.htm

3. Enchanting a Disenchanted World: Continuity and Change in the Cathedrals of Consumption and/or The McDonaldization of Society, both by George Ritzer

Posit consumption and capitalism as the new dominant 'religion', which constantly has to be repackaged in new and 'exciting' ways in order to keep us complacent

4. Second Thoughts on Paradigms by Thomas Kuhn

I had to read this in undergrad and then come up with my own definition of a paradigm. Broke my brain in a good way. Available here: https://mail.uomustansiriyah.edu.iq/media/lectures/10/10_2019_02_17!07_45_06_PM.pdf

5. Kinsey - PBS

Okay this one is actually a documentary ON a theorist. Alfred Kinsey is debatably even a theorist, but he's responsible for a lot of our modern understanding of sexuality and his research and life were WILD. This documentary is 100% worth the watch. https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/americanexperience/films/kinsey/

6. Capital by Karl Marx

Reading this will not help you understand Marx any better than reading what others have written about him. But it WILL give you street cred and deliver some of the most batshit insane sentences you will ever read.

#social theory #just doing away with any relevance to kinnporsche this go around #this is just for anon who read Discipline and Punish TWICE in like 2 weeks???#asks

15 notes · View notes

adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy · 4 years ago

Text

you’re someone i just want around: IV

“I had a few, got drunk on you

And now I’m wasted

And when I sleep, I’m gonna dream of

How you tasted.”

— Medicine, Harry Styles

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

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

word count: 26.4k

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

///

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why, thank you!

My pleasure.

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

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

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

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

I wouldn’t want it any other way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It happens Thursday on two occasions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re going to regret that.

Pinky promise?

///

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What...What are these?”

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

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

Then it all clicks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I just...it’s like…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, it fucking worked.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am, I can’t hold—”

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

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

“Do I make myself clear?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re pretty stubborn, aren’t you?”

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

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

“Mm-mm. What?”

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

He feels her heartbeat trip.

“And you know what I do to brats?”

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

“I fuck them until they break.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me you want it.”

“I want it.”

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

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

“I...I want you to spank me.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yours.”

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

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

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

“Now beg me to let you cum.”

///

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

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

“You drool in your sleep.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Truly. His dad was hotter.”

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

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

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

“Couldn’t be me, either.”

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

She gladly delivers. “Exquisite taste.”

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

“Emmett was pretty hot, as well.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s definitely something.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How chivalrous.”

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

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

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

“I’m just making a point!”

“Yeah, a shitty one.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey!”

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

“You’re a dick, you really are.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What—?”

“And it’s not even ten A.M. yet.”

“What do you—?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Whatever.”

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

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

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

“Wow. I feel used.”

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

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

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

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

“We could UberEats some iHop.”

“Who’s gonna get the door?”

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

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

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

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

“You’re so dumb.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, like you’re any better?”

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

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

///

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uber for Y/N?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh...my God.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have no idea.

“You underestimated me, Holmes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The irony of it all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are those...Are those handcuffs?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

///

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You like Hamilton?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You are vile.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Harry, I’m serious—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2K notes · View notes